#dragon x reader

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.

The silk tie wound around your wrists was soft, crimson red against your skin, and Drahkan's hands were gentle as he looped it—once, twice, three times—binding your hands behind your back. His grip didn't bruise. After ten years, he knew exactly how to hold you without hurting you.

"Comfortable?" he asked, his voice that low rumble that still made your thighs clench after a decade of marriage.

"Yes." You knelt on the thick fur rug before his massive chair, the same chair where he'd first claimed you, though the room around it had changed. Pictures of your children now hung on the walls. Your children's toys were scattered in corners.

You were seven months pregnant with your sixth child. Your belly was huge, breasts swollen and tender, leaking droplets of milk that stained the thin silk robe you wore. Your back ached sometimes. Your feet swelled by evening. But you'd never been happier.

"Good." Drahkan sat back in his chair, his scaled thighs spread wide, his cock already hard and waiting. The sight of it still made your mouth water; the dark scales, the flared head, the thickness that had split you open so many times you'd lost count. "Open your mouth, wife."

You opened.

He fed you his cock like it was a gift, and honestly... it was. The head pushed past your lips, and you moaned around him, tongue flattening against the underside, tasting the salt and smoke and spice of him. His hand came up to cup the back of your head.

"Look at you," he murmured, watching you with those red-black eyes that had softened over the years. "Seven months pregnant. Full of my child. And still on your knees for me."

"Mmmf..." was all you could say, and he smiled.

"Ten years," he continued, pushing deeper, letting your throat adjust. "Ten years, and you still know exactly what I need."

You did. You knew the way he liked to start slow, letting you work your tongue along the underside of his shaft. You knew when to suck and when to just hold still, throat open, letting him fuck into you. You knew the sounds he liked—the wet, messy noises, the gagging, the way you'd moan around him like his cock was the best thing you'd ever tasted.

Which, it was.

"Haah... Aaaggghhhhhh!" The sounds vibrated around him, and his hips jerked.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Do that again."

You moaned again, deeper this time, and his hand tightened in your hair.

"That's it. That's my good little cunt-wife. Sucking my cock while you're full of my baby."

His other hand reached down, brushing against the silk robe covering your chest. He pushed the fabric aside, exposing your breasts—heavier now, nipples dark and swollen, milk already beading at the tips.

"So pretty," he said, thumb brushing against one nipple, and you whimpered around his cock. "Your tits are so fucking pretty like this. Full. Leaking. Ready to feed our young."

He pinched, and milk sprayed in a thin arc, dripping down your belly. You moaned, the vibration making him groan.

"You like that, don't you? Like when I play with your milk-filled tits while you choke on my cock."

You nodded as much as you could with him buried in your throat, tears streaming down your cheeks, drool dripping from the corners of your mouth.

"Ahh! Gh.. ghrrr!!"

"That's right." He pinched the other nipple, harder this time, and more milk spilled. "Messy girl. Making a mess all over yourself."

He pulled back slightly, letting you breathe, letting you gasp and cough while he stroked your hair.

"Please," you managed, voice wrecked. "Please, Drahkan—"

"Please what?" His thumb pressed against your lower lip, smearing saliva and precome. "Please keep fucking your throat? Please fill you up? Please give you more babies?"

"Yes—yes, all of it—please—"

"Such a greedy little wife." He pushed back in, and you opened for him, throat relaxing the way he'd taught you. "Five kids already. Another on the way. And you still want more."

"Hnnghnnggnnn..." The sounds were involuntary now, punched out of you with every thrust.

"You want me to breed you again? Fill you up the moment this one's born? Keep you pregnant forever?"

You couldn't answer—couldn't do anything but kneel there, wrists tied behind your back, belly heavy between you and the floor, taking his cock down your throat like the good wife he'd trained you to be.

He thrust back in, deep, and your throat bulged around him. "You love this. Love being on your knees for me. Love swallowing my come."

"Mmmf!!"

"Ten years ago, you fought me. Screamed. Cried." His voice was soft now, almost tender. "Now you beg for it. Now you wake me up in the middle of the night with your mouth on my cock. Now you spread your legs the moment I walk through the door."

You moaned your agreement, because he was right. He was so fucking right.

"Do you remember what I promised you after our wedding?" he asked, slowing his thrusts, letting you breathe through your nose.

You nodded. Of course you remembered.

"I told you I'd found something. In the ancient texts." His thumb traced your jaw, wiping away tears. "Dragon cum. If deposited in a human female and ingested regularly... it slows aging. Preserves youth."

He'd told you a month after the wedding, when you'd finally stopped flinching every time he touched you. When you'd started to realize that maybe—just maybe—being his wasn't the worst thing that could have happened.

"I've fed you every day," he continued. "Every morning. Every night. Sometimes more." He thrust deeper, and you gagged beautifully. "And look at you. Ten years. Five children. Sixth on the way. And you haven't aged a single day."

You couldn't see yourself the way he did—couldn't see the smooth skin, the bright eyes, the body that still looked twenty even after half a dozen pregnancies. But you believed him. You'd seen the other human wives in the city, aged and worn while their monster husbands stayed young. You knew what he'd given you.

"Hnnght! Mnnghh!" You tried to say thank you, but it came out as garbled nonsense around his cock.

He laughed, that warm sound he only made with you. "You're welcome, wife."

His hand left your hair, reaching down to cup your heavy belly, palm spread wide over the curve where your youngest son kicked and rolled.

"Our children," he said affectionately. "All of them. Half dragon. Half you. The perfect blend."

You'd given him five so far. Three boys, two girls, all with scales in unexpected places, all with his burning eyes and your stubborn heart. The oldest was nine now, already learning to use his superhuman strength. The youngest—until this one—was barely a year, still nursing, still sleeping in the nursery.

"I want a whole team," he'd told you after the third was born. "A dozen at least."

And you'd laughed and said, "Then you'd better keep me pregnant."

So he had.

"Mppf! Hnngh! H-Ahhpf!" The sounds were getting louder, more desperate as he deep-throated you. You could feel your arousal leaking down your thighs, soaking the carpet, could feel your swollen clit throbbing with every thrust of his cock down your throat.

"Getting close," he warned. "You want to swallow, wife? Want to taste me?"

"Mmmf!" Yes. Always yes.

"Then take it. Take all of it."

He fucked your throat in earnest then. Hard, deep strokes that made you gag and cry and moan all at once. His hand pressed against your belly, feeling his child move inside you while his cock filled your throat. His other hand pinched and pulled at your nipples, milking you while you milked him.

"Fuck—fuck, I'm going to—"

He came with a roar and you swallowed. Swallowed every pulse, every spurt, every drop of the dragon seed that had kept you young and fertile and his for ten years. His cock jerked in your throat, and you swallowed again, throat working around him, drawing out every last bit.

"Good girl," he groaned, pulling back, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound. "Such a good fucking girl."

You gasped for air, drool and tears and come dripping down your chin, but you were smiling. Always smiling now.

His knot was swollen at the base of his cock, thick and pulsing, still hard despite his release. He hadn't pushed it past your lips—he never did, not during throat-fucking. The knot was for elsewhere.

"Up," he said, grabbing you under the arms and lifting you like you weighed nothing. "On my lap. I'm not done with you yet."

Removing your clothing and the silk ties from your hands, he settled you on his thighs, facing him. Your belly was huge between you, a perfect round globe that he cradled with one hand while the other guided his cock to your entrance.

"Ready?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"Always," you breathed.

He pushed inside.

"Ahhhhh—Drahkan—yesss—"

The crazy stretch was still there, even after ten years and five children. His cock was so thick, so long, and your body had to work to take him, your inner walls parting around him like the first time but without the pain. Just fullness. Just perfection.

"Haah... so deep..."

"That's it," he groaned, hands gripping your hips, guiding you down onto him. "Take all of it. Take every inch."

You did. You sank onto him until you were seated fully in his lap, his cock buried so deep you could feel him in your throat, and his knot pressed against your entrance, not yet inside but it would be soon.

"Please," you whimpered. "Please, the knot—I want it—"

"So greedy." He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips. "Always so greedy for my knot."

"I need it—I need you inside me—I need to be full—"

"You are full." His hand pressed against your belly. "Full of me. Full of my child. Full of my come from a thousand different times."

"Not enough," you sobbed. "Never enough."

"No," he agreed, and he thrust up into you, hard. "Never enough."

He fucked you slow and deep, his hands on your hips, your arms hugging him for dear life. Your belly bounced with every thrust, breasts swaying, milk leaking down your stomach and onto his scales.

"Look at you," he said, voice strained. "Pregnant and leaking and crying on my cock. You're so beautiful like this."

"I love you," you gasped. "I love you so much—aghnnn—I love you—"

"I know." He kissed you again, tongue sliding into your mouth. "I love you too. My perfect little human. My perfect wife."

His knot pushed against your entrance with every thrust, stretching you wider, and you moaned into his mouth.

"Please—please, knot me—I want to be stuck on you—I want to be yours—"

"You're already mine."

"I want to feel it—I want to feel your knot locking us together—I want to feel your come filling me up—"

"Fuck." He groaned, thrusting harder. "You're going to make me come again."

"Good—AHHGNNN—that's the point—"

He laughed, breathless. "When did you get so demanding?"

"The day you put a ring on my finger and a baby in my belly." You grinned at him, tears still wet on your cheeks. "Or maybe the second baby. Or the third."

"The fifth," he said, thrusting deep. "Definitely the fifth. You got bossy after the fifth."

"The fifth was twins. I earned the right to be bossy."

He laughed again. This was what ten years had given you, not just pleasure, but this. Ease. Joy. Love, in whatever strange shape it took between a dragon hybrid and the human he'd claimed as payment.

The knot pushed harder against your slit, and you bore down, trying to take it, trying to pull him inside.

"Not yet," he snarled, holding your hips still. "Not yet. I want to watch you fall apart first."

His thumb found your clit—swollen and sensitive from pregnancy—and pressed.

"AGNNN—DRAHKAN—"

"That's it. Come for me, wife. Come on my cock."

Your orgasm crashed over you and you screamed his name, body convulsing on his lap, walls clamping down around his cock. And as you came, he thrust up one final time, and his knot pushed past your entrance, swelling inside you, locking you together.

"GYAAHHHH—"

He came with you, flooding your womb with waves of his seed, mixing with what was already inside you from this morning and last night and every day before.

"Fuck," he breathed, forehead pressed against yours. "Fuck, I love you."

"I love you too." You were both panting, both shaking, both utterly spent.

His knot held you together, locked in place, his cock still spurting inside you. Your belly pressed against his, and you could feel the baby moving, disturbed by all the activity.

"Sorry, little one," you murmured, looking down at your stomach. "Mama and Papa were just loving each other."

Your husband snorted, but his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and you rested your head on his shoulder. Everything was perfect until a knock came a minute later.

Drahkan's knot hadn't softened yet, so he hadn't pulled out—even if he could pull out, he never did. Not when he could stay inside you a little longer. You were both dozing, his chin resting on top of your head, your hands caressing his chest.

A knock echoed on the door.

"Enter," he called, not bothering to move.

The servant, a young dragon woman you'd hired three years ago, kind and discreet, pushed the door open. In her arms was your youngest son, Kaelan, barely a year old, his dark scales glinting in the firelight. His chubby face was scrunched up, tears on his face.

"Forgive the interruption, master," she said, eyes carefully averted. "But the little one is hungry. He's been crying for his mother."

You immediately reached for him—or tried to, forgetting you were locked on your Drahkan's knot.

"Bring him here," you said, voice still wrecked from earlier but now mother-soft.

The servant crossed the room and placed Kaelan in your arms. You little baby was beautiful—dark scales like his father, but your eyes, your nose. You held him to your chest and he latched onto your breast immediately, nursing with the desperate hunger of a baby who'd been waiting too long.

"There," you murmured, stroking his scaled cheek. "Mama's here. Mama's got you."

Drahkan watched, his cock still inside you, his hands around you. Around his family. His eyes were dark, hungry, but not for sex this time. Hungry for this. For the picture you made: his wife, swollen with his sixth child, nursing his youngest, still impaled on his cock.

"Fuck," he mumbled.

"Hey! No bad words!" you chastised him softly and he laughed.

"Sorry, my love," he said. "It's just so nice. I will never have enough of this."

You looked up at him, milk drunk baby at your breast, belly heavy between you, his seed leaking down your thighs.

"Good," you smiled. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

He kissed your forehead. "I know."

Kaelan finished one breast and you switched him to the other, milk still dripping from the first. Drahkan's hand came up, thumb wiping away a bead of milk from your nipple, bringing it to his lips.

"Sweet," he said. "Like everything else about you."

"You're just saying that because I'm full of your seed."

"I'm saying it because it's true." He kissed you softly, and you moaned against his mouth. "Now finish feeding our son. I want to have you again before dinner."

You laughed, shaking your head, but you didn't say no. You never said no anymore. Not when being his had given you everything—a home, a family, a love you'd never thought possible.

Kaelan finished eating, milk-drunk and sleepy, and you held him against your chest, feeling his tiny heartbeat against yours. Drahkan's arms wrapped around both of you, his knot still keeping you connected, his warmth surrounding you.

"I love you," you said again, because you could never say it enough.

"I love you too," he replied. "My wife. My mate. My forever."

You were completely, utterly, exactly where you were meant to be.

On his cock. In his arms. His.

Always his.

THE END!!!!

And your dragon noticed. Of course, he noticed.

His massive head had lifted from where it rested against the piled furs and gold that made up his nest, those enormous, slit-pupilled eyes fixing on you with that knowing gleam. A rumbling moan had rolled through his chest, the kind of sound that made your core clench and your breath catch.

"Little mate," he'd rumbled, the bass of his voice making your toes curl. "You're restless."

You'd tried to deny it. Tried to squeeze your thighs together and pretend that you weren't absolutely aching, that your clit wasn't swollen and throbbing, that your pussy wasn't slick and needy.

But he'd just made that sexy sound again and lifted one of his enormous foreclaws until the polished, obsidian-black surface of it was within reach.

"Come here."

Now you're straddling the top of his foreclaw, your legs spread, your dripping pussy rubbing down that blessedly smooth, cool surface. His claw was the size of your entire torso, the top of it rounded and polished and it felt—

"F-fuck," you gasped, rocking your hips forward, dragging your aching clit across the smooth surface. "Fuck."

The sensation was incredible. Riding the top of his claw was one of your favorite activities. It was perfect for stimulating your aching clit. There was no roughness, no dangerous edge, just that warm, glassy surface that glided against your swollen flesh with every movement.

You rocked forward again, harder this time, and the pressure against your clit made your vision blur.

"That's it," he rumbled. "Ride it, little mate. I've been watching you squirm all morning. I know what you need."

"B-bastard," you gasped, but there was no heat in it. "You've been— ahh—you've been torturing me."

His claw shifted slightly under you, tilting, and the new angle brushed against your clit exactly right. A strangled sound punched from your throat as you rode higher and higher.

"I wasn't torturing you," he said, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "I was giving you time to work up the courage to ask. You get so shy sometimes, even after all these years."

You wanted to argue.

You wanted to tell him that you didn't get shy, that you were not some blushing virgin, that you'd taken his cock more times than you could count and loved every single inch of it. But then you rocked your hips again, grinding down against that claw, and all thoughts dissolved.

"Nnngh—"

"There she is," he drawled, and one of his enormous paws lifted (the one not currently serving as your makeshift toy), cradling your back for balance. "There's my greedy little thing. Are you close already, pet?"

You couldn't answer. Your mouth was hanging open, sounds falling out of it that you couldn't control; moans and little high-pitched gasps that didn't sound anything like language. Your hips were moving frantically now, chasing that pressure, that friction, that perfect drag against your swollen clit.

"Nnng—! Yes—I—"

"So soon?" His head lowered, that massive snout coming closer until you could feel his breath washing over your skin. "I haven't even said anything dirty yet."

"Please—"

"Please, what?"

Your pussy clenched around nothing, dripping wet, your slick smeared across the surface of his claw as you rocked against it.

"Please," you gasped. "Please, I need— I need you to—speak to me... I need that dirty mouth..."

"Such a good little thing," he rumbled. "Riding my claw, creamy little pussy making a mess. I love watching you like this. You're so beautiful when you're desperate."

The paw at your back curled more firmly against your back, keeping you in place as he moved his foreclaw again, angling it, pressing the rounded top against your clit and the swollen, slick folds of your cunt.

"There—yes—"

"Ride my claw, pet," he commanded. "Use it. Rub that pussy raw. I want to feel you come all over my claw."

You didn't need to be told twice.

Hips snapping forward, you ground and rocked, every movement sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine. Your pussy was so wet that you could hear it, the wet sounds of your slick smearing against his claw.

"That's it," he growled. "Like that, little mate. You're almost there."

"Nnng—!"

"Poor baby... You want to come, don't you?" His voice was a dark murmur. "I can see it in the way you're moving. That frantic rhythm. You're so close it's hurting you. That clit must be throbbing so hard."

"Please," you sobbed. "Please, please, let me—"

"You want to come all over my claw, pretty little thing?"

"Yes—"

"Then do it. Gush all over me."

Your orgasm ripped through you. Your whole body seized, your back arching, your head bending, keening cries tearing out of your throat. Your clit pulsed and your pussy gushed, a rush of heat spilling out, coating his claw in your release.

"Fuuuuck—!"

This time, he took control, shifting your body on his claw, like a ragdoll, rubbing your swollen clit and pussy all over his claw. Waves of pleasure crashed through you; you couldn't stop; your orgasm kept rolling, kept pulsing, until you were a trembling, crying mess.

"Good girl." His voice was a deep, possessive growl. "Squirting all over me. Marking me."

You couldn't answer. Your body was buzzing, your throat was raw and your pussy was still pulsing with the aftershocks of your release. But you managed a weak sound of agreement, and that was enough.

Carefully, he scooped you up and cradled you in his scaled chest. Through hazy eyes, you could see your cum coating his claw, your dragon's massive, forked tongue dragging across the slick. The sight was so sexy that your sore pussy gave another weak pulse.

"Mmm," he hummed. "Sweet cunt juice. So sweet, little mate. I never get tired of tasting you. Now let me taste it straight from the source."

His head lowered, and his forked tongue flicked out, smearing across your spread thighs and between your pussy lips. He lapped you up hungrily, and you kept producing more, shaking and shattering in two more climaxes.

"You're so beautiful," he rumbled later. "My sweet, greedy little mate."

You didn't have the energy to do more than hum in response, nuzzling your face into the warmth of his chest.