dreams, come true

The grand cathedral is reserved for royal weddings and events sponsored by the royal family; as such, your wedding to the Lord Marshal Nabil is considered to be of high enough standing that the polished steps would be graced by you and yours on the day of the formal ceremony.

Standing by Nabil, you find yourself holding his arm tightly, fingers curled around the thick muscle of his forearm as the attendant speaks with your grandparents, laying out the nature of the event and the structure that will be followed on the day. Each word and dedication that will be required of the two of you grows more and more daunting, the ceremony at the grand gates, the mass in the main hall, and a smaller more ritual calling of blessings for the marriage with only the families of both the betrothed, the whole affair will last from early morning well into the evening, only to be followed by a feast at the newlyweds home to close the event.

There are names, families, stations, and select groups being mentioned, delegated, or declined for your wedding right before your very eyes.

The most you can offer is a smile and nod before the conversation swims past you; only partway through do you catch that your mother and father will come to the capital to give you away in proper fashion, drawing a small smile from Nabil as he feels your grip relax slightly, clearly the idea of having your parents by your side is more comforting than you'd expected.

Nabil cuts through the chatter with the ease of a man who had done so many times before, gently requesting to tour the grounds of the cathedral with you, promising to only walk the gardens and not disturb the old guard or the angel knights that may be tending to their duties inside.

Every step away from your grandparents feels lighter; the weight of your grandmother's gaze eases as the attendant of the cathedral calls for her to decide on the flowers to be present on the steps. Walking slowly as Nabil guides you, the talon caps he wears today match the pearls beaded onto the hairpiece you wear; the slow rhythmic brush of them along your arm is comforting, drawing you out of the nervous spiral this looming wedding was drawing you into.

"Not even in the moments we first shared alone have I seen you so shaken, nest mate mine. Does this event truly scare you so?" The feathers along Nabil's face ruffle and twitch as he leans down to speak to you; the soft brush of them draws a small burst of laughter from you. "I want this day to be about you and how I adore you. Not some useless show for the capital. Say the word, and I will end this now."

You can't help the fluster his words cause in you, the idea that he would exert his position and power to stop you from having to attend a wedding your grandparents had been planning, that he would act in defiance of his own family and cut the human tradition from this union. It warms you in a way you can only express through a longing gaze up at him; the gentle moment is met with a soft trill, like this single action would tide him over come hunger or thirst.

His voice is softer this time, a sweet whisper much like the way he had spoken to you the night he first kissed you, "Oh, what a kind nest mate I have; she braves the worries and woes of the social world for me…"

Standing amidst the cathedral gardens, shaded by trees grown for saints long since passed, he slips his talons under the edge of the lace gloves you wear. Dainty things that are all decoration, thin white material that casts interesting patterns against your skin; the glove he slips free is tucked into the breast pocket of his vest, kept safe as he presses delicate kisses to your knuckles, cooing to himself as he looks to you, violet eyes warm and bewitched.

"The things that I want for you, my sweet, and the things I am permitted are only so kept so far by this wedding-" pulling back, he slips the taken glove back into place, talons tracing the intricate details with such gentle attention, "-once the social world has been satisfied, I will keep you for a week and a day in my nest. Not a soul will take you from my attentions."

Such words being a heat to your face, and shamefully to your cunt.

The preparation for this human part of your betrothal is painfully delicate.

Each invite is a social test, a dance of words that paints you to certain types of nobles in one light but shadows you to another. Gifts are sent and received; your wrists ache as you pen thank you after thank you to those sending well wishes and small gifts for your coming wedding day.

Most curious is the small collection of preserves and wines from the same area as your parents' land titles come from; the bottles are neatly labelled and the jars sealed tight. The note tucked inside was all the same as the others on the surface, but reading the small addition hidden under the usual platitudes, you find yourself smiling. The sender was the spouse of the Treasury Guard Knight Commander; they had written about a taste of home and remembering the world outside of the capital. You remember a card coming from their estate not long after your marriage was announced, something that had the Knight Commander's signature on it; the card was on the mantle in your grandfather's study, something about a moment of great honour coming from such a card arriving.

The note you pen back is more personal, a true thank you and an open offer for tea if the sender was ever seeking company or if they ever held a curiosity about the flavours of your home territory through the gifts they had given.

Once the slew of thank-you notes and invitation cards were dealt with, came the dress fitting, a gift from Nabil's grandmother and matriarch of his family; she was adamant about the dress colour and the jewels that would be sewn onto the dress. Leaving your own grandmother to scramble to find ways to worm into the booking, trying to sneak peeks at the dress being tailored to flatter and flaunt your full figure.

The dress was far from human tradition in the capital: the usual white with an accessory to match the couple's new family heraldry was ignored in favour of dressing you in the same beautiful deep blue, violet colour Nabil's feathers take. Across the lines of the bodice sit pearls, beautiful deep grey and black patterns that draw the eye and flatter the colours you wear; the hem is strewn with lace, hand-woven into feather patterns that drag up the full skirts and end at the same place the pearls begin.

In all the dresses and outfits you have worn in the capital, none had made you feel quite as beautiful as this gown had.

Nabil's grandmother was very pleased with the way the fabric settled and clung to your body, making sure to cut off the attempts to add a corset or needless tightening to the dress. She knew her grandson loved you and your plush figure; he'd waxed on about it to her as they selected the small stones and pearls for your dress months before the gown was even done being designed. She'd make sure you looked as perfect as she could for her little bird.

Your grandmother had other ideas; she laid eyes on the gown and nearly fainted, screaming as if her words could change the already completed gown and magically change it into something she deemed appropriate for you to marry in.

The tailor who oversaw your dress was not impressed; even with the social standing your grandmother had, there was little she could do in the way of changing the dress colour, or attempting to add a corset to the gown so late into the preparation. Never mind the difference in power between her and Nabil's grandmother; the two women would simply have to disagree on the matter of your dress and the delicate crystal-lined veil that was made to match the gown you have come to love.

The day your parents arrived in the capital, you had been amidst the slow and arduous task of planning your vows, meaning that the moment you caught wind of their carriage arriving, you made quick work of crossing the estate and hurrying to the grand doors.

Stepping out onto the gravel of the carriage way, you almost cry at the sight of your parents; the warmth of your mother and father embracing you is long-missed. The afternoon is filled with chatter and laughter between you and your mother; the piece you couldn't write in the letter home is spoken between sips of sweet tea and huffs from your father as the two important women in his life chat away in the fading sunlight.

The evening meal would be the first time your parents were formally introduced to the harpy you were to be wed to, so you can't help but feel the immense rush of nerves take you as the dinner table is set with the finer porcelain pieces your grandparents own. The gold leaf sparkles under the lamplight, casting glittering shadows as the scattered candles on the table burn steadily; you'd not even eaten on these plates the night of your social debut; truly, your parents' impression of Lord Nabil is important to your grandparents; they had put much work into the appearance of aiding your relationship.

His entrance was announced by the head butler, the full calling of his title and name followed by that now familiar click of his talons on polished marble floors. Looking up from where you stand by your seat at the table, you can't help but smile.

Dressed in the same formal wear of your social debut, the moonstone-capped covers of hair talons extend gracefully as he greets your father first, then, with all the humility and honour one with the title of Lord Marshal should have, he bows to your mother, thanking her for blessing him with the chance of finding such a perfect partner in her daughter. The laughter that leaves your mother is joyful and blessed; she approves of his affectionate words about you, stepping to the side and letting him walk around the long dining table to your side for your own greeting.

The kiss to the back of your gloved hand hides the sharp look that crosses his face as he notes the set you are wearing, the same thin ones he had gifted to you and had you wear the day he feasted on you in the carriage to the tea house. This choice seems to pull a trill that you'd never heard from him before, a deeper rumbling sound that barely reaches any other ears than your own before he speaks.

"My nest mate bears my gifts well, a blessing indeed on this particular evening." Another gentle kiss is pressed to your fingertips before he pulls back, pulling your chair out and acting every bit the gentleman he was told to be.

You have high hopes for this first meeting. If the way your parents chat kindly with Nabil is anything to go by, hopefully the knot of tension that had settled behind your ribs should ease soon enough.

For a moment, he stills, and you think he might’ve taken pity on your devastated form: your skin—glossy with sweat—marked with the imprints of his touch. Your quivering legs that persevere and fight, all in the effort to keep your ass up in the air… And of course your swollen pussy lips, glistening and wet and pulsing; so pliantly enveloped around the base of his cock as if you were made to take him full. He thumps a foot on instinct, excitement surging as he attempts to catch your attention again. Pity? No — for a hare like him, who's burrowed right to the door of your womb, Lohen believes he's struck gold.

"This'll be the one," he swears, grabbing you by the base of your tail before giving you a good tug, effectively pressing you harder against his tip. Your head falls back in a broken wail as you convulse and gush around him, your body unable to cope with this unfamiliar stimulation, save for the way an orgasm rips through you again.

At least your rabbit knight still has the decency in him to whisper hushed nothings as you come down, delirious now as you may be. Yet as you turn your cheek at him through cloudy, half-lidded eyes, you can't help but shiver in blissed anticipation at the ferocious, wild eyes of the rutting hare. You feel him shift again inside you. "Just hold out for one more," he coos. "This'll be the one to take. I know it."

A capital tourney is less an open melee like the usual bouts knights attend, and more a refined selection process to join certain regiments.

And you'd finally gained enough renown and wins to be invited.

You'd sailed to the capital after earning your knighthood; the tabard you wear is very basic, barely even recognised as a knight's regiment, and you like it that way. Your time as a squire was spent on the fringes of the nation, with less time serving as a weapon fetcher and armour polisher and more active combatant, meaning your etiquette is less refined in comparison to the other knights around you, their own tabards with gilded coats of arms from noble families or designs designating them as knights of certain cities.

Yours is nothing more than coloured cloth.

The lower streets of the capital are like every other city; the closer to the docks you get, the more weathered things appear. Mostly warehouses, shipyards, fisheries, and bunk houses for the sailors coming and going; occasionally, main streets are more tended and patched than the others, but as you begin the slow cart ride further into the city the streets gain a little more flash and glamour.

Thick cobbled streets, markets in squares dedicated to certain products or produce, brothels tucked into slim streets hung with red lanterns, taverns and halls for the common people, all standard for the few cities you'd been in for tourneys before this one.

The cart you're in is filled with knights like you, independent combatants that aren't as noble or shiny as the ones on their horses far ahead of you, but unlike the refined 'proper' knights you knew the common people and enjoyed waving to the children running around the lower streets, flexing and letting the sun catch your chainmail as they call out to the knights passing by. You were a child like them once, and now you're a knight, so you can only hope one of them gets the courage to try to follow the same path you have and earn themselves some valour, honour, and glory.

As the procession rolls forward through the city, headed for the tourney grounds on the outskirts of the noble quarters, far above, in the royal estates, the queen and crown prince are preparing for the event in their own way.

Unlike her son, the queen mother of the nation is sitting on a padded bench, waiting quietly as her ladies-in-waiting do her makeup and pin her hair into a more appropriate style for a day overseeing a knight's tourney. The crown prince, however, is lying sprawled on his mother's bed, boots abandoned as his wings splay out across the full breadth of the mattress, eyes closed but mouth running a mile a minute as he speaks about the noble families that had been writing to him as of late.

"-and no matter how kindly I turn them away, there is always another son, or daughter, cousin, niece or nephew for them to try and offer up to me!" A muffled thud breaks up the prince's words, "No matter how I try to make it clear I am not taking a consort or bride from their family, they will not stop…"

Before her son can continue his ranting, she cuts him off, "Shall I send a letter for you? Tell them that the crown has no need for their attempts to woo my son?" Even just sneaking a look towards her son, she knows he will look chastised and scolded despite her words being genuine. She'd happily tell the nobles of the capital to leave her son alone if he wanted, but he shakes his head and pulls himself from her bed. Wings folded neatly behind him, and his tail barely made a sound as it glided behind him. He stood by her side at the vanity, looking down at the mating scar his mother had from his father, the obvious dragon's bite always on display when she graced the public with her attendance.

"No, I will endeavour to be clearer with this particular family." Adjusting the heavy gold bracers he'd chosen for today, double-checking the fastenings, "I think a letter from the Queen Mother of the nation may be a touch too far… this time at least."

As his father and mother still hold the regency, he cannot afford to insult or ostracise the current noble families. At least not till his position as king is secure. He has high hopes for this tourney; there are spaces he needs filled and knights that need removing from the palace guard, so many moving parts to change and switch out before he takes the throne.

And so little time to do it all.

The carriage they ride in has an open top, a display of the capital's safety and the respect the crown has from the people. Far overhead, the roar of his father can be heard as well, the shape of the massive silver-blue dragon, a well-known part of the capital's skyline.

It's not jealousy that makes Xander glare up at the passing shadow his father casts; it's something much harder to explain. Envy and jealousy are part of it, but there is anger, a quiet resentment, and the long-simmering pride of a dragon pushed into a semi-human form. Looking away from the glimmer of his father's wings, the capital familiarly swims past.

He and his mother reach the tourney grounds early to greet the royal knights and wish them well, a standard he had implemented with the new Lord Marshal, who is currently fussing over his bride-to-be in the reserved box below the royal stand.

Cute.

The long hall for knights is loud; squires run to and fro, serfs chase items, and there are simply too many different types of people, far too many to keep track of the actual division of monsters to human knights.

For you, however, this is familiar, like the forward camps of your days as a squire, so you simply snag a free hand and get your chainmail latched and secure before handling the rest of your armour and weapons. The roster for your particular style of swordplay is short; only eight of you made it to this level of display, and from the looks of your competitors, you can tell why. Three of the eight are peacock hybrids, and the other four are mixed bird hybrids or harpies that seem like they only chose to compete in this bracket due to not being chosen for the aerial round.

Not that it changes what you're here for; it's victory or bust for you.

Skipping the last of your armour and favouring a quick rush to the tourney grounds, you hardly care as the royal procession passes by, too enamoured by getting to see the area you will be fighting in. Doing a quick check of the grounds before jogging around the perimeter, taking in where there are dips, rises, and stones peaking from the terrain, everything you can see is an advantage or hazard you need to work around; knowing them now will help when your match comes up.

Looking up at the stands, you can already see the gathered nobles in your mind; they'll sit and clap when appropriate, not like the tourney you're used to, where common folk cheer and scream for the winning knights of the event.

Standing in the centre of the grounds, you feel a little sad; you can't showboat here, can't win your bout and pull your tabard off and fling it into the crowd to some cute face watching as you conquer your opponent. The walls of the grounds are too high for you to climb and sit on as you get a handkerchief or two tied around your belts, it's all proper conduct and ethical standards for knights of the capital, huffing loudly as you adjust the ties of your leather breastplate, casting a wayward glance towards the Marshals box and royal stand, you're caught off guard by the flash of colourful scale and horn.

The purple and blues are perfectly accented with gold embellishments that glint in the sun. As you squint to see more clearly, the owner of said horns and scales turns to look down into the tourney grounds.

You squirm with embarrassment, but all that does is rub your sensitive pussy against his shaft. He purrs at the sensation, giving your hips a lazy tug back and forth, grinding you against him. It's not just his cock that's big. He's almost twice your size, with hands that can manipulate you into any position he wants.

"Come on, princess. Ride me," he coaxes, giving your nipples a flick.

"S-stop." You shiver.

"Why? Are you embarrassed that I'm all you dream about? That every night you welcome me into your dreams just so I can fuck a couple orgasms out of you?" His voice is mocking, tender, and amused all at once.

You start moving to shut him up, bracing your hand on his belly to give yourself the leverage to rock your hips the way you want. He swallows hard, staring up at you.

"Am I the only one you come to?" You ask, panting.

"Why? Want to make this exclusive?" He smirks, the tip of his tail caressing your arm, then sneaking up to gently circle your neck.

You throw your head back, baring your neck to him.

"Yes, I'll sign a contract."

He growls at that. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I do. I like the way you make me cum, so I want to keep you forever."

His cock throbs inside you, and now you're the one teasing him.

"You'll do anything for me, won't you?" you coo. "Look at you, soft as putty in my hands."

The next sharp thrust of his hips reminds you that he's not all soft, and you topple bonelessly onto his chest.

"Fuck me," you moan, and he does. He knows exactly how to make you cry and beg.

The dream ends the way it always does, with you startling awake in the middle of the night with a mess between your legs. No matter how many nights in a row it happens, you always wake up feeling refreshed. Today is no different. After breakfast, you're getting ready for a morning walk when there's a knock at your door. You open it to find a familiar figure standing outside. He looks so normal in jeans and a cozy-looking sweater that you can almost overlook the horns and claws and sweeping tail. It's him. Your incubus.

Your eyes grow wide.

"Oh my–"

He scoops you into a hug and spins you in a circle.

"I brought the contract," he says.