Summary: His story was an odd sort of story, a story that needn't be written down, but spoken by tongue and shared throughout the land. His story was one that he couldn't express through song and dance, his story was something the world hadn't yet heard, and though he often spoke stories of the dragons of old and how they were a blessed group he never told them his secret. Bilbo Baggins has a secret no one would expect, he isn't a Baggins at all. He is a Dragon, Arandur the Golden, the great Golden Drake of the Western sea. Last of the civilized dragons to roam Middle Earth.

Warnings: Dragon!Bilbo, Mpreg, incest, Slash, Alternate Universe, Nobody dies (except the baddies of course), Implied torture, Sassy!Gandalf, Bickering, Slow Burn, Bilbo has a VERY large back bone, Very sassy!Bilbo, Gandalf doesn't get there before the Dwarrows, Hopefully Bilbo doesn't kill said Dwarrows out of annoyance, The Dwarrows arrive out of order!

Pairings: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Kili/Fili, Dwalin/Ori.

Author's Notes: So, I know most of you are angry that I haven't updated Iridescent, Titanium, or Pressing Flowers, but I've had this idea stuck in my head for so long it has been distracting me from my other stories. This has been blocking my muse and just killing my concentration. I hope you like the idea and the plot; I promised my readers my next story to be Thorin/Bilbo so here it is. I now present to you "Demons" a Hobbit's tale. – CAS

Prologue :

There had once been a time where his kind had all been viewed as kings, they had all been loved and viewed as a blessing upon the earth. Different ones of his kind brought forth different blessings, all of these blessings had been received with open arms for thousands of years. Until Smaug the terrible came forth. It hadn't just been the Dwarrows and the men he had ruined, but his own kind as well. Like Erebor and the folk of Durin he had torn apart the very fabric of Dragon's existence. Smaug attacked settlements for hundreds of years before he had even caught the scent of Erebor, and for that the towns and cities started to forsake dragons. They told stories, making them out to be the horrible beast that only Smaug would ever be.

After his rebellion men, elves, and Dwarrow attacked the dragons with no hesitation, fearful that their homes would be next, that their livelihoods would be ruined like the Dwarrows of Erebor. Many a beast had simply given in to the assault, giving their lives as a form of compensation to the mortals. Some succumbed to the beast and drove themselves mad with grief and self-hatred, while some lived on hiding away from the rest of the world.

They allowed the good deeds and blessings that they had once bestowed be forgotten; no one willing to remember the times that the magnificent dragons had given them. The hurt and despair caused by Smaug was still far too fresh in the memories, though eventually everyone forgot about the good, they forgot about who helped create their kingdoms and their homes. They chose to forget about the creatures who had blessed the land to be forgotten.

But some never would forget the deeds they had done, even as their numbers dwindled, even as their hope failed. They never would forget the ridicule they received in reward for their deeds. They all had contempt deep in their souls, and one fire drake had a large bounty on his rebellious skull that would be paid in due time.

It had been many years since he had stepped into a civilized city without being ridiculed or chased off. So long that he had sworn he had almost lost his humanity in the wild. He had spent his last 10 years scratching his living off of rocks, crying out at the shear horror of it all. He had once been worshiped, treated like a right king. He had been thanked, happy, so very loved throughout the land that with the gift of life that he gave. He had been welcomed in so many courts, both old and knew he had found homes for the lost, saved children from the cold. He was a savior through and through. He had many names from many different cultures, and he had loved every moment of the peace he had gifted the world.

Even in this odd form he needed to be cautious, his rebirthing had to be timed at the right moment, his body needing to morph into the perfect creature that he was living among. It was odd to see what he had been reduced to after all those years as such a king. To see how far the great Arandur the Golden had fallen after his years higher than the sky.

This realm had been the last place he had expected to be dropped. He hadn't expected the white council to spit him in the middle of Gondor, or even in the brightest hall in the Elvish cities of old, but this small village, this little spittle of green in the map that had yet to be claimed was somewhere he hadn't expected to land. To be placed in a small Hobbit settlement far away from the settlements of Man, Elf and Dwarrow in a town so new it hadn't yet been granted a name was highly unexpected. He had used his anonymous nature with ease, once he had gotten to having two legs instead of four that is.

He had built his home with an effort that he hadn't put into anything yet before, he had crafted it in a region that would become known as the Westfarthing, near Tuckborough. Eventually the eccentric and wonderful family that would be known as the Tooks would live there, their family smial that had started with his efforts would sprawl over 3 hillsides and take up quite a few acres of land.

He had been blessed into that family more often than not, allowing himself to be a gift to mothers who couldn't bear fauntlings, a secret watcher and protector of the land that would eventually become known as Hobbiton. Arandur would live his days becoming more well known, spoken of often when he would grow, physical features never differing much from his original hobbit form. As often as he was a Took, he was also blessed into the Baggins family, both families well looked at (as more than once a Thain had sprouted from the lines) though one thought to be more different than the other.

He himself had been born of different names and different times; he had lived happily as he could be trapped in the green land of the Shire. Dreaming of adventure and of the blessings that he had once given, trying to ignore the itch underneath his skin demanding him a change that he knew was coming.

His story was an odd sort of story, a story that needn't be written down, but spoken by tongue and shared throughout the land. His story was one that he couldn't express through song and dance, his story was something the world hadn't yet heard, and though he often spoke stories of the dragons of old and how they were a blessed group he never told them his secret. It was a secret so old, and so unheard by the ears of Middle-Earth that he could hardly bear to speak it. The only creature that even knew about it only visited him once every few hundred years, normally if he needed something, or if he simply wanted to make sure that Faelon was still very much alive.

Yes, Bilbo Baggins had quite the secret, he wasn't Bilbo Baggins at all. He was the great Golden Drake of the Western Sea, protector and caregiver of middle Earth since the ages of old. He was once Arandur the Golden. He was now reduced to living within the skin of a Hobbit, hundreds of years old, hiding away from the world that had once condemned him. He had planned to stay hidden in the land of the Shire until the world had turned to dust around him, until he could stretch his wings in the open instead of hidden away deep within the forests surrounding the Shire, or in the darkness of the night. He was far from content, but until the white council allowed him freedom to move about he had figured he would be stuck in the same town until it, or he, burned.

Little did he know that he would be given the very chance he hadn't expected only weeks later in the form of 13 Dwarrows and a very nosy wizard. He didn't know that he would be tested mentally, physically or emotionally until the very end, nor did he know that he would be forced to choose between love and his own sanity.

TBC