Into the Fire
Her brown hair looked almost amber in the light cast by the gold. He nearly groaned when he pressed her back into the ground, no doubt the coins and gems beneath her digging into her back, but he could not bring himself to care, the feel of her soft, pliable, decidedly human body against his clothed one giving him an arousing visual contrast.
She spread her legs on her own accord, and he hid his grin by burying his face into the place where her neck and shoulder meet, slightly forked tongue flicking at the skin there, tasting her sweet, sweet flesh. Her smell was so much stronger here; this may be his favorite spot on her body, if he had a favorite spot. A needy moan escaped her when he pressed his clothed bulge against her warm, wet centre, and he took it as a personal victory.
She had been torturing him often enough the past few weeks.
He lifts his head from her neck, and stared down at her, tried to keep his face impassive as her nimble fingers travelled up his forearms and traced the glittering golden trails framing his face (tattoos, humans called them) and he nuzzled her palm when she reached the faint traces of his scales on the corner of his eyes.
Her hands swoop down again, and he let her, let her drag the helm of the shirt up, helped her remove it by sitting up, kneeling at the cradle of her thighs. She sat up as well, the gold sticking to her back jangling as they fall off; her fingers explored his now bared chest, following the gold designs that trail down the sides of his torso and disappear into his leather trousers.
"Do…do they go all the way?" she whispered questioningly, blushing a deeper shade of red than previous, and he could not stop the smirk that spread across his face.
He brought a hand around her neck; pulled her in for a scorching kiss as such he had not had for centuries, before pulling back the tiniest fraction.
It started with the humans forgetting their place.
He was King, of both Under-the-Mountain and over their puny, pathetic lives. He ruled the land, and they dared to send a troop of thieves, burglars, low lives to attempt to steal his gold? (Granted, he never cared much for gold, but the dragon blood in him was attracted to it like moth to fire, he was not about to let insects just walk away with it.)
He had clutched the band of thieves in his claws, and his wings had darkened the sky of the human town near the lake at the foot of his mountain. He had thrown them at the Building of the Lords, before landing and taking his human form. Ignoring that he was naked as the day he was born, he had stormed into the building, his nails still sharp as claws, his eyes no doubt amber and gold; he could have breathed fire if his human mouth would have let him.
He had not been this angry in decades.
The High Lord (pfft, High Lord, this man was not fit to lick his boots) had fallen at his feet and begged for forgiveness, babbling about how those men were rascals and not acting on behave of the town (lies, filthy lies) and "my King, forgive us, please, have mercy, I'll give you anything you want, anything-,"
He had looked at the pathetic, sniveling lump of flesh before his observations about the man made a cohesive whole.
He smirked and said the first thing that came to mind.
"I want your daughter."
The High Lord had not fought him, at all, and he had been gloating over his victory on his way back to his palace before it struck him.
He had asked for the thing that mattered the most to the High Lord, but he actually had no use for it. He did not need for companionship, the thought of even taking a human as his companion made his stomach churn in disgust. (Hobbits made infinitely better companions; he did so miss his Hobbit. But it had been decades since John visited, he had last seen him on his wedding day (given him a helm made of starlight).)
But the human kept true to his promise, and the girl was at the feet of his throne at the exact time he had said he wanted her.
She was not what he expected.
He had expected her to be fat, like her father, fat from overindulging in all the comforts being the daughter of the High Lord would bring. He had expected her to be dull and boring, with hands smooth from all play and no work.
She was none of those things.
She was small (petite) with an almost elfin face. Her eyes held more curiosity than fear, and her hands-
The stories they could tell him, their calloused pads, worn down nails, the tips of her fingers splattered with a sour smelling ink.
Her name was Molly and she spoke to him mockingly, but not enough to make him punish her (kill her; he could do it so easily). It was as if she knew he had no idea whatsoever to do with her, as if she knew he had only wanted her to hurt her father. She looked at him in a manner that made him uneasy (not that he would admit it, even to himself.)
He had taken to hunting for the first time in ten years (he did not need to eat for years, he was old now, so much older than what his human form showed.) in order to ensure she was well fed. She cooked (for himself as well) and cleaned without being told, though he assumed it was because of having little else to do. She was allowed to roam the halls but never his own wing of the palace.
He wondered if he kept her for long enough, would she go mad for want of someone to talk to.
She was not afraid of his dragon form, but she was curious. He could feel her eyes lingering on the gold markings that ran from the sides of his face and neck and stretched across the length of his body.
He could feel her penetrating, intelligent gaze on the back of his neck even when she was not around. The only time he was around her was during supper and that made it worse. He did not need to eat, but watching her wolf down the meat and the grass (he had no idea why humans needed some sort of grass or plants in their meals, it was a wholly evolutionary failure on their part, in his opinion) made something stir in him, made his eyes turn amber, made him want to preen even as the juices from the rabbit trailed down the corner of her mouth.
(Some part of him wanted to wipe (lick) away those juices. That thought got squashed as quickly as it surfaced.)
These small glimpses of her were not enough for him, and one day he snapped.
"You…you can visit the library, if you so wish," he said, itching a sudden scratch at the back of his neck. She had just started to clear away the remains of their meal (he had had one of her meat pies today, he was feeling slightly peckish and her cooking was good enough.)
"I can?" Confusion laced through her voice, but her eyes were sparkling.
He was mesmerized, and he did not care to find out why.
Molly turned out to be very, very intelligent, despite her father not giving her a formal education. She helped him along with his own studies, and her knowledge of the flora and fauna around the Lake proved invaluable.
She rarely asked for his permission to touch a particular book anymore, and he did not mind, not when she leaned over his shoulder and her small breasts brushed against him.
He had to leave for a meeting with his brother (he had not seen him in a century, but the elves were becoming restless) and he wondered if she would attempt to escape in his absence.
He was halfway out, the great marble door giving way to his strength (there was no way in heaven she could go out this way, but she was smart. He knew she could no doubt find one of the hidden passageways out) when he stopped.
"You will be here when I come back?" he hated that it sounded more like question than a statement.
"Yes, O King," she said, her expressive eyes twinkling with mirth, and he could see that she was fighting a grin. "I will be here. I cannot escape, not now."
He slammed the door and placed his palm against the marble, heating an ancient mechanism, locking the doors shut that no one but he could enter.
He came back sooner than he expected he would be, and he tried to tell himself that it had nothing to do with the girl (woman) residing in his halls.
(His brother had seemed most disappointed in him, and he had a rapidly healing gash on his right shoulder to prove it.)
He had stalked to his quarters, but stopped at her doorstep on the way. He raised his hand to knock, and then thought better of it. It was his home after all. He could go wherever he wanted.
He instantly regretted the decision.
She had found the horde of elven dresses, and the one she had on now, as she stared at him, complimented her small stature and accentuated her curves most pleasingly. The back of the dress was still untied and she was holding up the front to her chest.
"I am back and I wished for you to know that." He said as quickly as possible, hating that he had reverted back to adolescence.
"I…Yes. I can see that."
"You are still here."
"Yes, O King, and you are in my bedroom." She quipped, eyes glowing. "One would say it most unseemly, even for a king."
He rushed out, swinging the door shut on her laughing face.
He rang to his refuge, shedding his clothes, nearly tearing them in his haste, releasing a sigh of relief when his form stretched and reverted to its dragon shape.
He buried himself in the gold, relishing in the feel of it pressing against his belly, his wings folded over his back, and tried not to think of a dream where she beckoned him in her room, and instead of tying up the laces, the dress fell in a puddle and his hands roamed over her smooth, pale skin instead.
A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY BROOMY.
Oh god, I'm so late, I'm sorry. I'm also sorry for the ridiculousness of this fic, but really, someone prompted me to write smauglock AGES ago on tumblr, and I only just decided to give it a go. I'm sorry I had to pick your birthday fic to do it, but what can I say? I'm an idiot.
Broomy, I hoped you had a wonderful day, and there are loads of fantastic fics for you to get over the crack-y ness of mine, though of course, I'm still gonna finish this. I'm cracked like that.
And thank you guys for reading it this far, and hope you stay tuned for the finale. I'm gonna finish this before I go back to my regular WIPs, so you can bet I'm gonna finish this by this week. (we gotta get to the porn, right?)
Leave a review and let me know if you like it!