In this one:

Characters: Francis, Arthur
Universe: Fairytale AU
Genre: Humour (or at least that's what I was aiming for OTL)

Gallant and strong he was not, nor did he have a suit of armour to his name.

He was, however, blonde and blue-eyed and handsome to a fault. And he was a prince, which people seemed to love. All in all it was a deadly combination, and one Francis could not help but exploit. People just flocked into his arms; men, women, even small children seemed to like him. He couldn't help it. He knew how to charm a crowd.

He had once, actually.

(Although it was really more in a literal sense and hadn't been very pleasant for either party. The villagers had shown up early one morning at his doorstep complete with pitchforks and flaming torches, demanding his head. Something about sleeping with somebody's wife had probably started the whole affair, but it had managed to escalate into an angry mob within the week. Francis had stood at his balcony with a very put-upon sigh, and with a flick of the wrist had transformed the angry mob of peasants into an angry mob of frogs which, while alarming, was not the most intimidating sight. It had not been his fault, really. What was he to do? They had even accused him of being a witch.

He was a witch, but it was the principal of the thing, you understand.

His courts had been teeming with puzzled amphibians all the way till the next morning, until one poor creature had finally mustered up the courage to hop onto his balcony and give him a sheepish croak of apology. He had relented then, and had very graciously agreed to change them all back, as unpleasant as it would be. There were only so many frogs one could kiss before one began to tire of it.

Princely kisses, you see, work just as well on enchanted frogs as princess' ones.)

The matter had been wrapped up with an unspoken warning and a heavy dose of mint, but Francis's father had not been content to let the matter rest, blast the man. King Bonnefoy was convinced that his son would be up to no good in a matter of days, and had so decided that employment of a caretaker would be necessary to keep his only child out of trouble.

That was how Francis found himself under the scaly wing of an uptight, crusty old dragon from Brittania who went by the name of Arthur, in exchange for a part of the kingdom's treasury.

(Arthur. Of all the things for a dragon to be named.)

After his third week of "protection", Prince Bonnefoy was ready to go mad. Locked up in his drafty tower with nobody to talk to but a grumpy, green-eyed, dried-up lizard who sometimes took the form of an equally grumpy, green-eyed young man, who delighted in chasing away his suitors and saviours (he'd nearly roasted that poor handsome knight from the New World, the bastard). Arthur's company and looks left a lot to be desired.

(Or that's what Francis said, at least. He would not till his deathbed admit the existence of envy-coloured eyes so bright and cunning and powerful that they sometimes made his breath hitch in his throat and made him want to stare into them till he was ensnared in the dragon's spell forever.

But to admit to that sort of thing would be ridiculous. Francis was no fair maiden and would not act like one, no matter how agreeable a dragon's eyes may be. )

He swirled a glass of wine in his hand (one of the few luxuries he was still allowed) and regarded the man-shaped serpent in front of him. He had tried all manner of escape in the past, but the dragon was as crafty as the prince was seductive, and every single time had ended in failure. What could one man possibly do against a wyrm?

Arthur leaned against Francis's bedpost and stared out the window, ever-watchful for any sign of rescue. He disappeared sometimes in the middle of the night, Francis knew, to check on the hoarde in his lair. Dragons, or so Francis had read, were famously greedy and would jealously guard their treasure no matter who or what tried to challenge them. Arthur had to be the same. Perhaps Francis could make him an offer he couldn't refuse.

"Tell me about yourself," the prince said suddenly, shattering the comfortable silence and making Arthur blink at him. If it came down to a battle of trickery, perhaps Francis could win this time.

"About myself? Such as what, my history? I am nearly as old as Brittania itself, boy," came the raspy, growling reply. Francis smiled sweetly and leaned forward in his bed.

"No, I want to know about you. How do you pass the time? Where do you like to go? What do you treasure?"

The dragon in a man's skin smiled at this, all teeth and no humour. The firelight played on his features and made his eyes flash. "I treasure valuables, boy, like any other dragon does. Like the things your father gave me, for instance. He paid a pretty penny to keep you out of mischief."

Francis had a bit of trouble hiding the bristle of irritation at Arthur's jab (why did the man know inexplicably how to rile him up?), but he rallied magnificently, letting out a chuckle of mirth instead.

"Yes, but my father's money aside, what kind of valuables do you collect?" he purred. "Gold or jewels or beautiful artwork? Perhaps you like to collect things of antiquity. And I did have a tutor once who taught me that knowledge is valuable."

Arthur seemed taken aback at this. "I agree. Knowledge is a treasure in and of itself," he replied with mild surprise. "Half my collection is of old tomes forgotten by time. I didn't expect you to say such a thing, though. I imagined your head to be empty of everything but frivolity and silliness."

"I'll have you know I resent that," replied the prince loftily, shifting long limbs around. "Knowledge is indeed something I value highly. I have quite a bit of it myself."

Arthur laughed. "Do you really? Knowledge of what, I wonder? How to powder your face like a lady's?"

"No," replied Francis levelly, trying not to scowl. "Nothing like that, although dressing like a woman has served me well before. The knowledge I refer to is… oh, but perhaps you wouldn't understand." He smiled coyly and reclined, resting on one elbow and daring Arthur to move.

The dragon did just that, eyes sharpening in a way that was not entirely human as he leaned forward to follow Francis's movement. "Tell me," he commanded.

The prince smiled again. "Knowledge of, ah, how shall I put it? Of pleasure," he explained, setting his glass on the table with as much of a sultry sigh as he could manage.

Arthur tilted his head at this. "Pleasure?" he asked. The hunger had not yet left his eyes. Francis stretched one leg across the bed and let the other dangle off the edge.

"Pleasure," he said. "In the bedroom."

Arthur's bright green eyes narrowed suspiciously. "That does not sound like knowledge anyone would want," he said cautiously. Francis laughed at him.

"You are mistaken. It is extremely useful, this knowledge that I possess. You do not know what pleasure can do to a person. Yes, valuable knowledge indeed. Knowledge that I would be happy to impart if only there were anyone willing."

Arthur kept leaning forward, eyes open with rapt, animal-like attention. "I could be willing," he said slowly. "If there really is treasure to be had. I could be willing."

"I know you could," replied Francis sweetly, sitting up to bring his lips closer to Arthur's. "Oh, I would simply love to teach you. It's wonderful, this treasure of mine. I'd give it to you…but for a price."

"Not too high. Nothing too high," said the dragon, voice thick as though he were having some trouble hanging on to his humanity. Francis batted his eyes.

"Of course," he whispered soothingly into Arthur's ear. "Nothing too high. I ask for nothing but my freedom. What say you, dragon? Shall I give you my knowledge, my treasure, if you'd agree to set me free?" the last words were nothing more than a murmur against Arthur's cheek.

"Treasure," repeated the dragon, eyes glazed, hypnotized. Francis smiled. He had won.

Two hours and three rounds later had the pair of them lying in bed, satiated and utterly exhausted. Arthur, the fire-breather, amused himself by blowing smoke rings into the air. Francis hummed and stretched languidly, tangling his legs with the dragon's. "I hope you're satisfied with what I've taught you," he said good-naturedly. Not that it had been much. Arthur had turned out to be far more knowledgeable than Francis had anticipated.

"Very," replied Arthur without looking at him. "Don't get ahead of yourself, though. There's always room for improvement."

Francis chuckled softly. "I shall have plenty of time for that once you set me free." Images of liberty flashed across his mind, and he imagined once more the life of luxury he missed so much. He could almost taste the fresh-baked croissants.

Almost immediately, a hand with worryingly sharp fingernails shot out to grab him by the wrist.

"No. Mine," said Arthur calmly, still not looking away from his smoke rings. Francis paled, and then let out a weak laugh.

"Excuse me?"

"Mine," repeated the dragon, finally turning around to face him. The fire in the hearth was dying now, but the embers still reflected in his face, making his eyes look like pure, molten gold. The prince's heart nearly stopped in his chest as Arthur's grip tightened, and suddenly he realized how very much the creature in his bed really wasn't a man.

Arthur smiled. "A dragon never lets go of its treasure."

"I've already given you your treasure," responded Francis evenly, trying to release himself from Arthur's grasp (alas, to no avail; the fellow's grip was like a vice). "New information, right? That was the deal. That was the treasure."

"I've decided I want a new treasure," said the dragon loftily, leaning in closer to Francis. "I've found something more valuable." He stared directly into Francis' face with the same possessive, slightly manic smile. Francis tried to back away. Arthur didn't budge.

"You please me. I've decided to keep you."

"No." It was more of a plea than a statement, and Francis desperately tried to remember if he'd ever learnt a spell that could take down a dragon or at least seriously injure something important. He came up empty.

"Yes," breathed Arthur, bringing Francis onto his back by pressing down with his body weight. "Mine." His head disappeared from sight and Francis felt a mouth attacking his neck, much to his chagrin. Suddenly he felt that his voice had shriveled up and died.

The mouth continued its way down his chest, making him squeak in a decidedly undignified manner, although he would deny this later. Once or twice he thought he heard a muffled "mine" spoken into his skin. Rational thought left him when he felt small claws dig into his back. Unthinkingly, he arched upwards into a waiting embrace as Arthur continued to mark him and cling to him.

A breathless laugh escaped Francis. Perhaps tempting a dragon had not been the best idea, in hindsight. A few short years of debauchery did not do much against a cunning, ruthless old lizard with an eye for shiny things. And now, as much as he'd hate to admit it, he would most definitely be kept out of trouble. All hell would break loose if Francis so much as sneezed at an attractive man or woman while Arthur was around.

He'd never escape, to be honest. He'd belong to the dragon forever. And the King, that old fart, wouldn't do much to fix the situation either. Knowing Francis's luck, his father would bust a gut laughing once he found out what exactly had transpired.

If the Arthur ever let him out of the tower, of course. A dragon never lets go of its treasure, right?

Francis whimpered. "Fuck."

"Alright," said Arthur cheerfully.

I think I've lost all ability to be funny /sobs.