I'm dating a super hot dragon! (closed)

[milkmaiden38]

Katrina
Katrina, Princess of the Realm and daughter of King Stoutshield, was smiling.

It was a strange expression—for someone about to be carried off by a dragon and devoured. Bound to a towering wooden pole, her hands tied neatly behind her back, she stood tall in the fading light, her lips curved in quiet amusement. The wind teased the hem of her gown, the same emerald-encrusted masterpiece she had worn mere hours ago to dazzle judges and charm a kingdom.

The dress was a triumph of courtly excess: a deep green evening gown that shimmered like forest, cut low to reveal her sculpted figure and open-backed to expose the flawless skin. A daring slit ran up one side, revealing long, toned legs that had once knelt gracefully before the head judge. Around her neck hung a heavy emerald necklace, perfectly matched to her eyes—eyes that now sparkled with assumentm more than beauty. Her full lips, painted a shade of red that echoed her cascading hair, completed the illusion. She had been the jewel of the pageant. Now she was payment to a lizard.

She thought back to the moment the trumpets blared, announcing the parade of contestants. She had walked into the feasting hall as Katerina of Miller’s Ford—a humble farmer’s daughter from a town fifteen days’ ride from the capital. Or so she claimed. The dress was on loan from the palace, the name borrowed from a village she’d once visited incognito. It had surprised her how easily the disguise held. After all, princesses were rarely seen up close. They were distant silhouettes on balconies, waving to crowds who never got close enough to notice the royal bone structure.

“Gentlemen and dear ladies, guests of this year’s Spring Festival Beauty Pageant,” the town crier had bellowed, his voice echoing through the hall as each contestant was introduced. Twenty-four women from across the kingdom stood in radiant formation—northern blondes and brunettes, southern beauties with dark eyes and darker hair. The crowd roared for their favorites, regional pride swelling like a tide. Katerina, representing the sparsely populated western reaches, earned only a smattering of cheers. But when she stepped forward, the crowd gasped. The red hair. The gown. The presence. She didn’t need applause—she had awe.

Coins clinked between tables as bets were placed, despite the official frowns. The judges whispered, scribbled, debated. Then came the announcement.

“The first finalist is… Celictic of Hammerstein!” Cheers erupted as the northern beauty took her place.

“Our second finalist… Valentee of Mesafornia!” The crowd thundered for the southern darling with olive skin and raven hair.

“And our final finalist…” The crier paused, milking the moment. “Katerina of Miller’s Ford!”

The hall exploded. She stepped into the finalist circle, her heart pounding like war drums beneath silk.

The final interviews were brief but intense. Each woman spoke with poise, grace, and a hint of desperation. When the judges conferred one last time, Katrina held her breath.

“And the winner of this year’s Spring Festival Pageant is… Katerina of Miller’s Ford!”

She had smiled then, too.

Now, tied to a pole and awaiting a dragon, she smiled again. Not because she was fearless. But because she had already won once today—and if she was going to be eaten, she’d be the most dazzling entrée the beast had ever seen.

https://rule34.xxx/index.php?page=post&s=view&id=14716095&tags=sword+ai_generated

 

[desperado1089]

Sarduriin
Sarduriin, Golden Dragon and Terror of the North, was grumbling. Grumbling because he had to maintain this sick facade of pretending to be scary and intimidating and an eater of innocent maidens, grumbling because he was even now flying to where his latest 'victim' was tied to a post, and most of all, grumbling because the crown princess herself was the 'victim' in question!

He knew this because he'd used magic to disguise himself and attend the beauty pageant in the form of a nobleman of suitable pedigree to get a seat close to the stage, but not too high that he'd attract undue attention. He'd also 'infiltrated' the capital on other occasions, and his keen, draconic eyesight missed very little, even in a human form. So he'd recognized the winner of the pageant immediately, even while internally scoffing at the foolishness and ignorance of humans.

Did her father, the King, know that his own daughter was to be sacrificed on the altar of his corpulence? A few idle threats to the convoys of luxury food that added a few inches to his rotund waist each month at the expense of hundreds of starving peasants, and the winners of the beauty pageant suddenly didn't make their usual rounds of public appearances and other events that they had in the past.

Sarduriin had half a mind to just carry the King off to his mountaintop lair and throw him off the edge for his crimes, but that would just turn the kingdom against him. No, he needed to open the eyes of the King's subjects and encourage them to exact justice themselves. Regardless, he snapped back to the present long enough to scout out his landing and did so with just a small tremor in the ground. Folding his wings, he bowed, something he had not done in the presence of a 'victim' thus far, but this one was royalty. "Good evening, Your Highness," he rumbled in a deep voice. Extending a single claw, he cut the ropes that bound her to the post and let out a sigh.

"Let's get this out of the way. I am a golden dragon. Contrary to the popular belief that your father has gleefully spread about your kingdom, I do not attack humans or other thinking beings, at least not those who have not done a great evil. I am that which the most noble Paladins aspire to, so I have no interest in snuffing out such an innocent or, dare I say, beautiful creature such as yourself. Normally, I put on a show for anyone watching before carrying my 'victims' to my home for rest and nourishment, then on to a neighboring kingdom, with whom I have arranged to take the 'victims' in as refugees, but I daresay that will be more complicated in your case. There is no one to put on a show for, so I decided to skip straight to the speech you just heard me give. Do you have any questions, Princess Katrina?"

 

[milkmaiden38]

Katrina

Katrina watched, heart pounding, as Sarduriin—The Terror of the North—descended toward the clearing. She had never seen a dragon before. Even from a distance, the creature was a nightmare. He was colossal, easily the length of three elephants, with wings that stretched wide enough to blot out the sun. His head bore the classic reptilian contours, but with embellishments: frilled, bat-like ears, two jagged horns arching like a crown above his brow, and a serrated ridge of spikes trailing down his spine to the tip of his tail.

His jaws, cruelly curved like a beak, bristled with rows of dagger-like teeth. And his eyes—those molten gold eyes—locked onto her with unnerving precision. Katrina didn’t know how to read a dragon’s expression, but if she had to guess, this one wasn’t here to exchange pleasantries. He was mad about something.

What startled her most, however, was the color of his scales. Gold. Not the dull brass of old coins, but a radiant, burnished gleam that caught the light like polished treasure. Then she remembered the rumors: of a beast who slumbered atop stolen riches, whose very hide had absorbed the wealth it hoarded. The metal wasn’t armor—it was him.

When Sarduriin landed, the earth trembled. Up close, he was worse. Magnificent, yes—but terrifying in the way a thunderstorm is beautiful right before it kills you.

Still, Katrina refused to scream. She was not some trembling peasant girl. She was royal. If she were to die, she would do so with dignity.

Then the dragon bowed.

And in a voice like deep velvet, very masculine said, “Good evening, Your Highness.”

Katrina nearly fainted. A courteous executioner? That wasn’t in the stories. Before she could react, the dragon extended a single claw—razor-sharp, glinting with menace. She braced for death.

Instead, the claw sliced cleanly through the ropes binding her wrists.

The gesture was more terrifying than any roar. That claw could have gutted her like a fish. Instead, it had freed her. Why?

Before she could ask, Sarduriin explained that he was nice and did not eat the maidens.

“By the nine layers of hell!” she gasped at the end of the speech, diving behind the wooden post like it might shield her from a creature the size of a cathedral. Peeking around it, she whispered, “Is he mocking me? Playing with his food?” Her voice trembled. “Dragons eat people. Everyone knows that.”

She repeated it like a prayer, trying to anchor herself in the familiar. But the evidence before her—polite, golden, and inexplicably helpful—refused to cooperate.

Running was pointless. Fighting? Laughable. That left one option.

“I need to talk to it,” she thought. “But how does one talk to a dragon?”

Then she remembered: dragons love flattery.

With a deep breath, Katrina straightened her emerald gown, smoothed her fiery red hair, and stepped out from behind the post like a courtier entering a ballroom.

“Sarduriin, Terror of the North,” she began, voice trembling but clear, “may I say… you are resplendent. Your claws gleam like forged steel, your hide is surely impenetrable, and your teeth—so sharp, so… piercing. And I would be remiss not to mention your… euphoric, sulfuric aroma. It lends a certain fire-and-brimstone ambiance that truly completes your aesthetic.”

It was, perhaps, the worst compliment ever delivered to a dragon. But under the circumstances, Katrina forgave herself.

She cleared her throat. “Yes, I have a question, O most dreaded monster. The legends speak of dragons razing cities, devouring knights, and feasting on maidens. Are you suggesting those tales are… exaggerated? That you don’t, in fact, dine on the innocent?”

She held her breath, waiting for the answer. Or the flames.

 

[desperado1089]

The flattery washed over Sarduriin like water off a duck's back, and he fixed her with a nonplussed gaze. But when she asked her question, his expression softened. "I am not merely suggesting this, Your Grace. I am saying your father's propaganda is patently false, and all born of his gluttony and lust for power and disregard for those he considers lesser. He has organized the systematic elimination of all that question his false narrative of my kind, from books and scrolls, to scholars and those who agree with them. It all started thusly. I once stumbled upon a convoy driven by slaves--slaves that were bound for your father's kitchen, filled with great heaps of food while your kingdom's peasants starve. The slaves would have been beaten, raped, then tossed aside like trash. I freed the slaves, killed the slave drivers, and carried the food to those who needed it most. The next time the beauty pageant was held, its winner was sent as a 'sacrifice' to me, the intervening time filled with these falsehoods spread by any means at your father's disposal. All of this--the hysteria surrounding me, the act of sending beauty pageant winners to supposedly be eaten by me--is meant to obfuscate his sins. If I were perhaps a red dragon, or a green one, or a black one most of all, I would be deserving of your people's fears, and the lies spread by your father would be true. But I am not black, green, or red. I am a gold dragon, and I cannot change my nature any more than I can prevent the sun from setting."

 

[milkmaiden38]

Katrina
Katrina hesitated, her thoughts a storm of doubt and defiance. She knew her father—knew his laugh, his fury, the way he gripped the throne like it might vanish beneath him. Sarduriin’s words slithered through her mind, gilded and venomous. Lies, surely. But not all lies. She had issues with her father as well. She needed to figure out which monster was the real monster?

Returning to the kingdom meant facing judgment, from the King and the people. Fleeing to another realm would be cowardice. But going with the dragon… that was madness. And maybe madness was the only path to truth.

She turned to Sarduriin, whose golden scales shimmered like a crown of fire.

“Sarduriin the Most Terrible,” she said, voice steady and sharp. “I’ve known my father all my life. You, I’ve known for mere minutes. What you say about him—I want to dismiss it. I should dismiss it. But I’ve learned to keep an open mind. So I propose a test. Let me live with you for a time. Let me see who you truly are. And let you see me—not just the daughter of Stoutshield, but the girl who defied him.”

She plucked a gem from her gown, holding it up like a treaty forged in fire. “I offer these gems as payment. That should cover my room and board. In addition you'll also gain honesty and the truth. Does that sound acceptable?”

 

[desperado1089]

Sarduriin shook his giant head, slowly and ponderously. "Keep your gems, Your Grace. You shall need them, if you come to accept the truth I have shared with you, or even if you simply remain in the kingdom to one day claim your birthright. They are a royal heirloom, are they not? Even if you remain with me for years, your father will eventually succumb to his excesses. You deserve to rule this land far, far more than he, and when the time comes, you needs must look the part. Come, Princess, let us away, if living with me is truly your aim." He laid down upon his belly, his forelegs offering an easy way for her to climb onto his back.

 

[milkmaiden38]

Katrina

Katrina was elated. She had talked her way out of being a meal, and the dragon did not want her gems. She put the gems back in a small pouch hidden in the slit of her dress. Then her joy slipped away from her.

“Ride… on your back?” She said more to herself than to Sarduriin. She realized that going to the dragon’s lair, would involve flying. She gritted her teeth and as the golden dragon crouched low. She approached with steady steps. She didn’t flinch as the dragon turned its massive head at her, his eyes twinkling like he was enjoying her discomfort.

She stepped up on his leg, and with an impressive jump she was on his back. She swung herself onto the beast’s back, gripping the ridged spine that ran down its neck. The dragon rumbled — not in protest, but more like a warning. Then with a single beat of its wings, the ground fell away.

“OH WOW” Katrina gasps as they soared into the air.

The wind was howling, but Katrina loved seeing the world from above. The forest was so beautiful and green. She was not scare, flying was awesome! The speed was incredible too, as Sarduriin cover ground that would take days on horseback. Then over some small ridges and up toward the lone snowcapped mountain. The wind roared past her ears, tugging at her red hair, grew colder. The dragon’s flight was not reckless — it was regal, deliberate, and careful not to make her air sick.

Far ahead, nestled between jagged peaks, a cave appeared. The dragon’s lair. As they descended, she knew her life was about to change, and never be the same again.

 

[milkmaiden38]

Tolme Ironcrown, Mage of Angelic Copulation?
Back in the capital city another important event was happening.

The air of the kingdom was a velvet hush — warm, indulgent, and thick with the perfume of honeysuckle curling lazily along the garden walls. Bees buzzed drunkenly between the hollyhocks, their bodies swollen with nectar, while the orchard exhaled a syrupy sweetness that clung to the cobblestone walk. Even the south wind, tumbling in from the fields, seemed flirtatious and slow.

Tolme strolled beside her monstrous black horse, Satan, the reins loose in her hand. She wore her signature light white mage’s robe and her floppy wizard’s hat tilted at a rakish angle. Everything was perfect.

Then she saw him.

The man. Handsome in the way that made her stomach flip and her brain short-circuit. She knew instantly: if she didn’t act now, he’d vanish like a dream half-remembered. Without hesitation, she dropped Satan’s reins and strode forward, heart hammering.

But fate had other plans.

“Your kind is evil, and I sentence you to death!” barked a pompous man in ceremonial robes, standing beside a raised executioner’s stage.

Tolme’s eyes narrowed. Her voice rang out like thunder. “ENOUGH!”

The crowd froze. Heads turned. The executioner, a bloated man with arms like ham hocks, raised his axe high, undeterred.

Tolme moved.

She leapt onto the stage with the grace of a dancer, her blonde hair whipping behind her like a golden banner. Mid-air, she cast a push spell — a shimmering burst of force that knocked the axe off course. It clanged against the wood, missing its mark.

With a grunt, she pushed harder, her magic flaring. The axe flew from the executioner’s grip. She drew her dagger and pressed it to his gut.

“No killing today,” she growled.

The pompous man shrieked, voice cracking like glass. “Who are you to interrupt this lawful execution?!”

Tolme turned, her glare a blade. “It is I, Mage Tolme Ironcrown and there is nothing lawful about this.”

She looked down at the condemned man — and blinked. His torso was human, but below the waist, a long, scaled tail coiled around the chopping block. He was not a man... he was a naga.

“Oops,” she muttered. But she was committed now.

“Had you bothered to look past his tail,” she said, voice rising, “you’d see he’s not evil. You’re letting fear and ignorance do your thinking, inquisitor.”

She knelt and sliced the strap binding the naga. He lifted his serpentine body, rising with quiet dignity.

“I will take you somewhere safe,” Tolme whispered.

The inquisitor’s face was now a kaleidoscope of rage — purple, red, blotchy. Tolme ignored him.

The naga bowed his head. “Your kindness is beyond measure. I owe you my life.”

Tolme grinned. “You’re welcome.” She whistled sharply.

“Guards! Seize them both!” the inquisitor shrieked. “They’ll share the axe!”

The crowd murmured, uncertain. The guards hesitated, then surged forward.

Tolme’s eyes flared with magic. Her teeth clenched. But before the first guard reached the stairs—

Satan charged.

The crowd parted like water before a ship. The horse reared, mane wild, hooves striking sparks.

“Time to leave,” Tolme said. She vaulted onto Satan’s back. The naga slithered up behind her, wrapping his tail for balance. With a roar of hooves, they vanished down the street.

Three hours later…

Tolme slammed her fourth ale onto the bar at The Ugly Bison tavern. Foam sloshed over the rim.

She turned to the crowd of wide-eyed patrons. “And that, my young friends… is how I bedded a naga!”

The tavern erupted in laughter. Gavin, the Knight of Orange, nearly choked on his drink.

“Another job well done, Tolme! But I’m afraid you’ve stirred the pot too much this time. A royal guard’s here. The King wants a word.”

Tolme blinked. “What does the King want with a drunken, slut like me?”

Gavin smirked. “Only the gods know. But let’s hope he’s not expecting miracles.”

The laughter returned — except from Tolme. She stared into her mug, brows furrowed.

Something was coming. And it smelled like trouble.

https://stablediffusionweb.com/image/17080989-magical-blonde-female-in-fantasy-art

 

[desperado1089]

Sarduriin
A laugh reverberated in Sarduriin's chest at Katrina's excitement. "You never forget your first time, isn't that what you humans say? I intend to help make sure you live long enough to tell your grandchildren about this moment, Your Grace!"

When they descended towards his lair, Sarduriin actually came to a hover over the caldera of a dormant volcano. The lava floes were deep beneath the earth, yet through various machinations, Sarduriin had given the impression that the volcano was still active. "The dwarven kingdom lies just beyond this mountain range, in case you need a point of reference as to where we are." Indeed, as they descended into the caldera, the pipes and other machines that pumped out steam and liquid that looked and smelled like lava (and could be made to burn like lava upon command) to deter any but the hardiest of intruders definitely looked dwarven in origin. "When your king decided I was some big scary monster because I wouldn't let him gorge himself and mistreat thinking beings, I decided that, even though you are the first person to see my lair, I should add in some extra security, just in case that status changes."

They landed in a large, circular chamber that looked like it had been carved from the rock and tiled with marble and sandstone and other, lighter-colored materials. Several arched doorways led off the chamber, but the dragon-sized doors that hid what lay beyond them also had smaller, human-sized ones cut into them. "This form is rather cumbersome when navigating my lair, but, well, I've never had guests, so I don't know how to resolve this issue. You see, when I transform from this form to one more like your own, I become, well, naked. Not that I am clothed now, but in my human form, it is rather obvious. I harbor no compunctions about being nude in my own home, but since not only do I have a guest, but I have a royal guest, I defer to your preference in the matter."

 

[desperado1089]

Brandon of Winterhold, Hero of the Realm

Earlier that day, Brandon had witnessed a group of corrupt guards led by an even more corrupt Inquisitor nearly execute an innocent naga. But before he could put any plan to action, a beautiful mage--one who he had the distinct impression had seen him and wished to pursue him--intervened and spirited the naga away to safety. The guards were about to attempt to give chase when the Royal Guard came into the square and clapped the entire group in irons for their foul deeds, but by then the mage and the one she saved were long gone.

Later on, he had received a summons from the King. Champions such as Brandon had his ear to the ground at a somewhat different frequency than most common folk, so he had an inkling of what this might be about: the Crown Princess was missing ever since the beauty pageant, and folk, especially those among the upper crust, were whispering that Katrina herself had posed as a different woman altogether and won the pageant, at which point her fate as Sarduriin's next sacrifice was, as far as most people knew, sealed. But a Hero of the Realm had little use for borders, as trouble could crop up anywhere, and so during several past excursions to the other Human kingdom as well as the Elven nation of Themalin he had seen one or two of the previous beauty pageant winners alive and well. Curious, indeed.

Regardless, he languished in an audience chamber, trying to keep from rolling his eyes at the King, who of course had not been informed of any of Brandon's discoveries. The King was a lout and an abusive rapist, but he had support of powerful people and thus was untouchable for the time being. But that didn't mean Brandon was just going to volunteer information like that. Having no reason to doubt that the Princess would also turn up alive and well, he lounged on a daybed in full armor (sans helmet), the picture of calm as the King became more and more apoplectic. Finally having enough of the show, he sat up and said, "Please, Your Grace. It would not do for your heart to give out before your daughter's safe return."

 

[milkmaiden38]

Meeting the King
“Thanks for coming along, Duke,” Tolme muttered to her favorite—if not brightest—orc companion. The hulking green brute lumbered beside her, muscles stacked like barrels in a war camp.

“If I’m arrested and tossed in the dungeon, your job is to tell Gavin what happened. Got it?”

“Jolly good, Tolme!” Duke replied in a painfully mangled attempt at a noble accent. He tugged at the frilly sleeves of his white shirt. “Do I look like a man of the court?”

As much as an orc could, perhaps. His outfit—white shirt, belted trousers, polished shoes—clung to his bulk like a wetsuit. His black hair was combed, his tusks gleamed, and he radiated the awkward confidence of someone who’d read one book on etiquette and misunderstood all of it.

“Yes. Now please—don’t say anything,” Tolme warned, eyes narrowing.

The grand hall of Embermore stretched before them, a cathedral of power and wealth. Chandeliers glittered overhead, tapestries whispered tales of conquest, and guards lined the walls like statues with swords. At the far end, the King’s throne loomed, flanked by advisors and more guards than necessary.

The King was a fat little fellow with white hair and a bread. He was dressed in his kingly robes and sat on the throne.

Tolme strode forward, Duke clomping behind her like a parade float.

One of the King’s advisors gestured to a knight waiting in a side bench—Brandon of Winterhold. Tolme had heard of him, never met him. The trio converged before the throne.

“Sir Brandon of Winterhold, Mage Tolme, and her... Orc companion, Duke,” the royal Cryer announced.

Tolme bowed with practiced grace. Duke followed with a dramatic flourish of arms that nearly knocked over a guard.

“Stand up, you two idiots!” the King barked. “There’s no time for pleasantries. Why is the orc here?”

Tolme jumped in before Duke could speak. “An admirer, Sire. And a friend.”

“An admirer?” The King raised an eyebrow. “I’m flattered. Fine. He can stay. Brandon, Tolme—I have a quest for you.”

Tolme blinked. “A quest? I’m not here to be arrested?”

“No,” the King snapped, then exhaled sharply. “It’s been said you and Sir Brandon act with integrity and discretion. Is that true?”

“I try,” Tolme offered.

“She’s very discreet,” Duke chimed in helpfully. “Never told anyone about our bedroom therapy sessions. Or my interpretive dance healing. Or all the life advice I give her—unsolicited, of course.”

The King’s advisor stepped forward. “Sire, we can trust them. The rumors that the knight despises you and the mage is a drunk and a harlot are baseless fantasy.”

“Oh, she is a drunk and a harlot,” Duke confirmed cheerfully. “I’m just one of her many special friends.”

“Duke,” Tolme hissed, “stop talking.”

“UGH,” the King groaned, massaging his temples.

“Sire,” the advisor pressed, “if bravery and sobriety were enough to slay dragons, Sarduriin would be dead already. You need cunning. You need chaos. You need these two—minus the dimwitted orc.”

The King nodded slowly. “I believe you’re right. I trust them.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping. “The princess has been taken by the dragon Sarduriin. Your quest is to find him and bring her back. Tell no one she’s missing—the kingdom would unravel. If you succeed, your names will echo through Embermore.”

The King turned to Brandon, waiting for his reply.

 

[milkmaiden38]

Katrina
The day had started oddly and spiraled into full-blown absurdity. Katrina stood in the heart of a dragon’s lair, staring up at a massive golden beast who had just asked, with impeccable politeness, if it was acceptable to shift into his human form.

“He said earlier he knew who I was,” she reminded herself, “from spying on the kingdom while disguised as a man.” That little detail hadn’t stopped rattling around in her head.

“Sarduriin, Terror of the North,” she began, trying to sound composed despite the fact she was speaking to a creature whose teeth were longer than her forearm, “since we’ll be living together, I suggest we drop the formalities. Call me Katrina—or Kat, if you prefer.”

She gestured vaguely around the cavern, which was surprisingly cozy for a place built by a fire-breathing apex predator. “As for changing into your human form—nude or otherwise—this is your home. I wouldn’t dream of imposing.”

Truthfully, she was dying to see it. What did a golden dragon look like as a man? Would he be radiant? Regal? Ridiculously attractive? And if he happened to be naked… well, that wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen today.

Still, practical concerns gnawed at her. She hadn’t exactly packed for this. You don’t bring a suitcase when you’re expected to be a dragon’s dinner. Her current dress was all she had, and while she could technically wander the lair naked, it might get chilly at night. What would she wear if they went out? Did dragons even go out? Where would she sleep? What did he eat? Was she supposed to cook for him? Was she the food?

All those questions faded as Sarduriin began to shimmer, golden scales rippling with magic.

“Shall I turn my back?” she asked, voice lighter than she felt. “Humans are modest sometimes.”

She didn’t turn. Not yet.