#crown books for young readers

[winningthesweepstakes]

The Night Before Freedom by Glenda Armand, illustrated by Corey Barksdale

The Night Before Freedom: A Juneteenth Story by Glenda Armand, illustrated by Corey Barksdale. Random House Crown Books for Young Readers, 2023. 9780593567463 Rating: 1-5 (5 is an excellent or a Starred review) 5 Format: Hardcover picture book What did you like about the book? This is a joyous celebration and telling of the first Juneteenth (June 19,1865 in Galveston TX) and how a family…

[thegirlwiththelantern]

5 2023 YA Releases

I love fantasy and most of my posts reflect that. These books take a more grounded look at poverty, disability, queerness and trauma, from sectarian violence to the Vietnam war. The Door of No Return by Kwame Alexander | 05 / 10 / 23 – Andersen Press Dreams are today’s answers for tomorrow’s questions. Eleven-year-old Kofi Offin has dreams of water, of its urgent whisper that beckons with…

[mad-rdr]

March Reads

10 books!

Astrid Parker Doesn't Fail by Ashley Herring Blake (★ ★ ★/5): I loved getting to see Astrid be a normal human being with wants and needs and I especially loved her getting with a woman!! And telling off her awful mother!! (mommy issues hit hard bro)

Blue Monday by Nicci French (★ ★ ★/5): this was such an interesting little mystery involving twins and I loved how Frida was like "I'm a criminal investigator now" and broke like 10 laws. I was also not expecting that ending holy shit (he killed his twins and took his place)

Lady Smoke by Laura Sebastian (★ ★ ★/5): honestly, I'm not sure anything actually happened in this book aside from a weird love triangle, this 16 yr old queen realizing she doesn't know shit and some half-assed revival from the dead “twist” at the end.

Ember Queen by Laura Sebastian (★ ★ ★/5): this series finale wasn’t too bad, I still feel like if it was written as an adult book it could’ve done so much more with the characters and plot, but I’ll accept it. People die, Theo learns to wield fire, and there’s a lot of unnecessary injures. Truly, where would they be without Heron. Don’t get me started on the dream walking.

The Power of Trees by Peter Wohlleben (★ ★ ★/5): this was a good book, if a little more scientific than I was expecting. Definitely made me think about the human relationship with trees and how we really do take them for granted.

By Any Other Name by Erin Cotter (★ ★ ★/5): I love historical tellings of gay people- factual correctness aside. I did not, however, enjoy the incessant use of the word “tis.” If you’re going to commit to 16th century England you gotta do it all the way and not just sprinkle it in here and there. I did loveeee our chaotic asf mc though- he doesn’t know anything except lust and money (and sometimes love)

From Blood and Ash by Jennifer Armentrout (★ ★ ★ ★ /5): finally got around to this book and let me just say… these new high fantasy authors need more editors. Has no one told them that repetition is the bane of my existence?? If I read the word “Maiden” one more time I’m gonna lose it. On that note though, this book wasn’t too bad overall. I found it highly predictable (like duh of course Hawke is the dark prince) but once I accepted I wouldn’t be surprised I was able to enjoy it. I love me a good vampire story and this delivered.

A Kingdom of Flesh and Fire by Jennifer Armentrout (★ ★ ★/5): someone please tell me why it took the entire book for the characters to move from one place to another. Seriously. There seemed to be little development character and plot-wise and while it was quite steamy... *something* should've happened in 600 pages.

A Crown of Gilded Bones by Jennifer Armentrout (★ ★ ★/5): this book was far better than the second one but I'm still chasing that high of book one. Book three is almost too much, Poppy goes from being crowned to kidnapped to rescued to dying to being revived and "Ascended" all within the first 80 ish pages... and then after that there's still 600 pages to go. In the course of the book her parentage gets "revealed" like 6 times and finally lands on her being a god? It was good, action-packed and smutty, but my god, someone needs to teach this author the skills of pacing.

Iris Kelly Doesn't Date by Ashley Herring Blake (★ ★ ★ ★ /5): this was such a good end to the little Bright Falls trilogy; I love me a good bisexual mess who doesn't know how much love she deserves. I just didn't like the breakup at the end, it felt like the author was trying to add a little angst in there and it didn't really work because we all knew they would get back together. But hey, I'm never gonna pass up a fake dating trope.

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

THE HISTORY BOOK ON THE SHELF. ( HOTD x Reader )

AUTHOR NOTE! Thanks for all the love. <3 pairing: King Aegon ii Targaryen x Targaryen! Little Sister! Reader prompt: When the small council plans to marry off once again, you turn to your older brother for help. word count: 1, 000+ words

You were the youngest and third daughter of Alicent and Viserys. A few months younger than Helaena and Aegon's little shadow in your childhood. Your older brother at first hated it, the way you cling onto him and gawk at him with an innocent awe.

It was your ninth name day, your Father had not paid much attention to it, but your Mother had ordered a celebration for it. You had trailed after him, babbling about nonsense as he tried to lose you. It was at dinner that night that everything had boiled over. Instead of receiving gifts, you had taken to giving everyone a gift.

He had not expected anything. He hadn't been the most kind to you. But was surprised when you had gifted him an embroidered cloth with Sunfyre on it. It was not the best and some threads were loose, but you proudly had told him you learned embroidery for him. Seeing those big doe eyes of yours his opinion changed. He adored you. You were the only one in the family that did not care about his worsening reputation. You just...adored your big brother, flaws and all.

It was why it killed him on your eleventh name day you were shipped off to the Reach, married off to a Lord as old as your Grandsire. He was haunted by your wails, of the way you clung onto Helaena and Aemond, the two of them wailing as Ser Cole carried you off to the carriage.

His young sister, the only one in the family who truly cared, was sold off like a piece of cattle. Not even your cold Grandsire was able to protest the marriage as politically it was a good match and good enough reasoning for the small council to approve it. 

As years ticked by, you gave birth to two children, a stillborn daughter and a healthy son. Your husband kept you away in the Reach, so no one in your family had seen you since you were twelve and given birth to your only surviving son.

He remembered the look in your eyes, so void and almost dead. Of how you tried to stay positive. Saying, "Tis' not so bad. He mostly ignores me, except when he wishes to bed me. But even then tis' not so bad, he finishes quickly."

When he became King, he swiftly ordered you to return home, regardless of your husband's wishes. No one would take his baby sister away from him. Not whilst he was still alive and had the crown placed upon his head.

Watching you bounce your son on your lap, he attempts to pay some attention to the small council, but his eyes keep straying back to you. It was odd to think that you were now a Mother and all grown up. Snapping out of his little daze, he glances back at the small council, each member arguing intently. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Ser Criston slides a piece of parchment in front of him, an uncomfortable look on his face. Raising a brow at what he had just returned to, he glances at the parchment, reading the words quickly. 

Your cunt of a husband was dead, finally croaked in his sleep. There was no reason for you to go back to the Reach. You could stay here in King’s Landing once more. Softly smiling at the good news, he goes to speak up when Lord Lannister stands up from his chair, slamming his hands down on the table. His face red from anger, his eyes wild like an untamable beast, and voice booming loud enough that it would make a dragon’s roar put to shame.

“To speak of the Princess in such a manner is dishonorable, I will see to it personally that your tongue is removed, Lord Wydle.” 

“The girl is of age, she has proven she can bear heirs, healthy heirs. To not give her hand to another Lord would be foolish.” 

“We need allies, the common folk are starving and soon the coin will run out. Surely as Master of Coin you can see reason, Lord Lannister.”

“Your grace, please, listen to reason we should⎯”

It takes a moment to realize what they had been discussing so intently. Then it clicks, they were speaking of having you remarry. 

"What?" He whispers, his voice shaky and full of disbelief.

"No, Aegon, please don't make me do this again. Please." You whisper, tears building up in your eyes.

"It would be best to have your sister marry someone⎯"

"Think of the war, your grace⎯"

Seeing the tears building up in your eyes, it reminded him of all those years ago when you were whisked away to the Reach. Struggling to speak up and dismiss their suggestions, you kneel in front of his chair, gripping onto breeches as you beg and plead for clemency to their plans. Your son starts to wail on the other side of his chair, making motions with his hands to be picked up. 

Feeling his heart break a little at the sight, he shifts his gaze from you then your wailing son then back to the small council. Everything is hectic and he doesn’t know who or what to focus his attention on. Does he console you? Does he tend to your wailing son? Does he handle the small council? Struggling to find his voice, he just stays frozen in his chair. 

“Please, please, do not make me do this again, Aegon.” You beg, “I did what was asked of me before. Please do not ask this of me again.”

“We need allies, your grace. The Princess is still desired by many men, men who will look past her past marriage and son. Think of the kingdom⎯”

“Send treaties, then!”

“Please, Aegon. I ask as your sister, not a member of the Court. Please do not make me do this again. I do not wish to marry again. Please do not send me away again.” You beg, your voice cracking. 

Watching as the tears begin to fall from your eyes, he clenches his jaw tightly, anger boiling up at the sight of you. His precious little sister, the one person in all of the Realm that he truly cared for, was crying by his small council's hand. Slamming his hands down hard on the table, the room goes deadly silent, minus the soft sniffles of you and your son. 

“There will be no marrying off my sister! If you wish for such alliances as much as you claim, do offer your daughters instead, for I will not be doing the same to my sister nor my daughter.” 

“Your grace, if you would just⎯”

“I am King, no?” He snaps back, “There will be no questioning of my decision. The matter is settled.”

----

@fragileheartbeats

@danytar

@nightvers

[xinganhao]

prince charming 👑 mingyu x reader.

being a party princess might be a lot of pretend, but mingyu is determined to find a happy ever after with you. co-written by @maplegyu. happy mingyu day! <3

Princess Party Co: Rent a Princess for Birthday Parties Reviews

yourusername ★★★★★

Review 1: Cinderella Magic

We booked Cinderella for our daughter's 5th birthday, and it was absolutely magical! From the moment she walked in, it was like a fairytale had come to life. The princess was warm, engaging, and had every little guest utterly enchanted. What really stood out was the young man who drove her—he adjusted her crown before she walked in and carried her gown so it wouldn't catch on the pavement. It was such a small thing, but you could tell he really cared. We were all swooning a little!

Review 2: Ariel Under the Sea Party

Ariel came to our poolside party and made our birthday girl feel like royalty! Her singing voice was incredible, and she stayed perfectly in character the whole time. The kids adored her. And her assistant (I think his name was Mingyu?) was so thoughtful—he made sure she stayed hydrated in the heat and had a towel ready right after her performance. You could see the way he looked at her from the side of the yard—like she really was a princess.

Review 3: Belle and the Bookworms Bash

We had a Beauty and the Beast themed party for our twin girls, and Belle was simply perfect. She read stories, danced with the kids, and even stayed a little longer when one of the shy guests finally warmed up. Her driver, Mingyu, stayed quietly in the background, but I noticed he handed her a book she'd forgotten in the car just in time for story hour. He didn’t say much, but he smiled at her like he was proud. It was such a sweet moment.

Review 4: Princess Tiana Brings the Fun

Princess Tiana lit up the whole park party with her energy and joy! She played games, danced with the kids, and even led a mini parade. We were all blown away. Her assistant was so kind—he helped set up her speakers and offered his jacket when the wind picked up toward the end of the party. The way he made sure she was okay without drawing attention to himself was something you don’t usually see. A real-life Prince Charming behind the scenes!

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[inuiiwonderland]

Empire

Being crowned as empress of the Yuunkaedangon empire at the age of 17, you begin to start loving the new status and power. But it soon gets a bit boring and demanding the moment you turned 18. Harem? Heirs? Tf not!

Chapter 2

Words:1.0k

Fem reader but I don’t really say any she or her in this.

-

Being an empress has started to get a little boring now if you’re being honest. You frown at the stack of books and papers you had sitting on your desk. You turned to your attendant with a pout. He only shakes his head with a soft sigh.

“It’s the only way you can keep the higher ups from demanding an heir at the moment” He says calmly. You sigh as you pick up your writing equipment.

Bill passing….

BORING!

“I’m too young to have a child” You muttered. A little annoyed.

“Having kids isn’t all that bad, but I get why you’re upset”

You hum softly.

Now this isn’t you saying you hate kids or anything! You think they're alright, a little needy and loud but overall okay.

It’s just

You aren’t ready

“Ah I’ve had a talk with one of the higher ups earlier and he said that your consorts need ladies in waiting” You perk up.

“Ladies in waiting?”

“Mhm”

“I guess you’re right. Plus, it’ll be nice company for them since I’m not always gonna be there”

“Great. I’ll tell the higher ups tomorrow and have them assign them their own”

“Make sure they do background checks. Can’t have creeps and unworthy people working for my lovely consorts now can I?” You say. Your attendant nods.

“By the way, how’s your son?” His eyes lit up. He then goes on a rant about how his son is currently taking swordsman lessons and that he's getting better day by day. You smile.

At least now you can slack off just a little bit!

-

You watch as the last of the few ladies and men have been brought into the throne room. You eyed every single one carefully, some shivering under your watchful eyes as others seemed confident or uncomfortable.

“These are the best candidates the higher ups were able to gather last night” Your attendant, atsushi bows before calling out the first person up.

Both Riddle and Leona watch carefully at every single person that steps up. Listening closely to every single thing that comes out of their mouth along with their appearance, how they carry themselves, etc.

“Ace trappola! Young man from the Queendom Of Roses, good talents are cleaning, tending animals, and……card tricks?” The boy, “Ace” stifles a laugh but was given a stern look from his older brother which made him stop.

Riddle can already sense that he’s big trouble while Leona could really care less.

You get a good look at Ace.

He’s average height, fair skin, fluffy orange hair, and scarlet like eyes.

Not bad

And you won’t lie, he’s kinda funny.

You turn to riddle, wondering if he’ll take in trappola as a lady in waiting.

Riddle can already feel your stare on him. His cheeks turn a light pink at your stare.

“I’ll take him” He mutter softly. Small pout as he looks away. Leona scoffs.

“Excellent! Next”

After what seems to be hours (years even)

Your two lovely consorts have each of their own ladies in waiting.

Riddle: Ace Trappola, Deuce Spade, Cater Diamond

Leona: Ruggie Bucchi, Jack Howl

Once everyone was satisfied with their choices, your attendant dismissed the ones who weren’t chosen. You walked down to greet the new ladies in waiting with a soft smile.

“It’s nice to have you young gentleman here” You say. The boys jumped before quickly bowing to you. You smile.

“Now you know that each of you will be staying with and taking care of my two precious consorts right?” Riddle turns a bright red as Leona looks away. You can tell your charms got to him by how he fiddles with the hem of his sleeves.

“I hope you guys take good care of them!……or else” You gave them a menacing look. The five boys gulp, before nodding their heads. Some of them held a look of determination while a few….looked a little scared.

Perfect!

“Great! I’ll have my lovely attendant escort you guys back to your pavilions” You gave each concubine a kiss on the cheek before making your way out. A happy go lucky look on your face as the ladies in waiting can only look at each other and shiver in fear.

What a scary empress!

-

It’s been two months since you’ve gotten your consorts their ladies in waiting.

And it’s going great so far!

….

…..

Kinda

Riddle has been having trouble with Ace lately- scratch that, he’s been having trouble with him since he entered the heartslabyul pavilion.

He’ll rant to you about him every time you stop by and visit. You’ll just massage his tensed shoulders and whisper sweet words in his ears until he stops and relaxes.

Other than Ace, the other two don’t trouble him at all! Very good care takers, cleaners, and cooks!

Leona on the other hand, doesn't have any trouble with his ladies in waiting.

They’re patient, quick and ready to do anything he needs, and very good cooks!

Happy wives, happy life!

Not wives yet

Now speaking of wives, you are currently reading a letter from a high end family that wants their son to be a part of your harem.

Ha….you haven’t gotten one of these in months

“The Ashengrotto Family” You mutter. You paced back and forth in your home office as you read the letter.

“He’s the son of a very high ranking merchant. His mother owns a very successful restaurant somewhere near the east side and his stepfather is an ex military official”

“Mm”

You haven’t taken anyone in after Leona. And your vassal keeps pestering you to grow your harem.

Weirdos

Maybe it’s finally time to take someone in again!

“Schedule a meeting for tomorrow in the afternoon” You yawn out, ready to end this busy day and go to bed.

“Already done”

“Huh?” You turn around to see your attendant wearing a prideful smile.

“I know you will agree!” He says.

Eh?!

“Are you serious?”

“Mhm! Now go get some sleep, Mrs. Ashengrotto is very excited to meet you tomorrow!”

“You’re killing me”

“No”

“Yes….”

“By the way, are those papers done yet?” He asks.You froze. He raises a thick brow as he patiently waits. You batted your lashes at him as you sway side to side.

“Y’knowwwww you’re right! I should get some much deserved sleep, don't you think?” You slowly walk closer to the exit, still making eye contact as your hand slowly inches closer to the door.

“Y/n” he says sternly.

“Bye bye good night!” And with that you make a quick escape.

“Y/n!”

atsushi only sighs before a small smile creeps up upon his face.

“Just like their old man”

-

Tag list!🏷️

@gl00muraaii @ghostlysyntaxed @zoukaposts @twistedcece @kisses2kanao @s7-evermore @c0ralrubi @owl778 @rubyninja1 @roseapov

If you want to join the Taglist, feel free to tell me!☺️

If you have any questions or anything about this AU don’t be afraid to ask!

ALSO TYSM FOR 1k FOLLOWERS!!! LOVE YOU ALL AND THANK YOU FOR ALL THE SUPPORT!!!

Can you guys see how reader cares for them? 🫣

[chilumi-shipper]

Crowned Flowers

Kamisato Ayato x Fem!Reader (Royal AU)

Summary: He's the Crowned Prince and you're just a commoner. You love each other but you had to keep your relationship a secret. Knowing it was the best to leave him alone and not make his life harder, you avoided him and no longer visited the castle. After years of pining for his first and only love, he is met with the sight of a little boy identical to him.

Warning: Slight Smut nothing intense

Tags: Slight Angst to Fluff, Royalty x Commoner

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The young prince Ayato wasn't aware that such a cheap flower could bring about such beauty, yet a crown made of those cheap flowers laid on the head of a maiden he found strikingly admirable, he couldn't keep his eyes off you.

You were trying to catch the attention of other people around you, offering them a look of your basket of flowers, perhaps hoping that the flowers would be of interest to some people, and thus buy it off you.

"Sir..." The blue haired prince was shaken out of his trances, realizing that you had made your way over to him. You smiled at him with all the joy in your possibly pure heart. "Would you like to buy a flower? They're really pretty."

You didn't recognize him, probably because of his thick robe, covering the unmistakable blue hue of the hair of the royal family.

"Ahhh- Umm..." Ayato patted himself, looking for some mora to give you, but all his expenses are handled by his retainers, so he doesn't have anything on him. "I-I apologize, I don't seem to have any-"

You held up a flower for him still, "That's okay! I want you to take one for free! My mama said that giving something nice to others brightens up their day, and you can make good friends!"

He took the flowers in his hands, and never has the young prince felt so grateful for something so small.

Nobody knows why King Ayato's favorite flower is a cheap, white petaled flower that can be seen all over the kingdom. Surely someone of his status would love a rare, exotic flower only someone as rich as him could gaze upon.

But the sight of the beautiful flower reminded him of the love he unfortunately couldn't keep in his arms. The love that remained embedded in his being, never letting him forget the face that brought upon color in his world, the hands that cradles his face and caress his cheeks ever so softly, the body that he forever wants to hold close to his own, though he probably could never again.

The crowned king Ayato could only reminisce about the love of his life.

"The young prince is missing again!" Yelled one of his guards, his voice laced with worry, less for the prince and more for himself if he doesn't bring the prince back to the palace immediately.

The panicked guard yelling for help at the other guards drew a little giggle from you, making you cover your mouth to avoid making too much noise. You were hiding behind the tall fence of the local orphanage, Ayato next to you sitting close, trying not to laugh as well.

"Looks like we got some time for ourselves." He whispered, his face awfully close to yours. You smiled brightly, as you usually do, cuddling up to him.

"Your parents might kill you..." You rest your head on his shoulder, prompting him to wrap an arm around you. You sighed in contentment, hearing the fading frantic footsteps of the guards.

"I don't think I mind having this as my final moment before my parents kill me." You playfully slapped him on the chest due to his statement.

Ayato then had a thought, "Maybe... they wouldn't be disapproving of our relationship like we thought." He tightened his hold of you. ''Perhaps, we can finally-"

"It's unheard of, couples like us." You spoke sadly, sighing after. "It's only in those teenage fanfiction books does the commoner get the prince."

Ayato didn't want to admit that you were right, there was a low chance that his parents would allow him to marry a commoner, much less would the royal court.

He chose to end the topic with a joke. "Well then, I hope the writer of this story knows the decorations I want for our wedding." He basked in the smile that your lips formed.

As the king of his kingdom, he was expected to produce an heir to the throne within the first five years of his reign, yet he had not stuck to this expectation, he had not even chosen a bride.

It feels as though his heart is tied to only one, and no other lady could capture him in a loving blanket of eternal bliss in which you caged him in.

And no other could satisfy the hunger that you satiated during your first (and last) night together.

"I still wish to see you after this..." He says in a breathless moan, his hand landing on your hips as you grind yourself closer to him. "Archons, my queen..." He hisses, shutting his eyes at your moves above him sending him to absolute euphoria.

Your fingers poked at his cheek before your palm made contact, caressing it to opt him to open his eyes. You smile softly at him, "You have a duty..."

In the dim light of the moon illuminating from the windows of his room, you looked absolutely radiant, completely naked for him to devour with his eyes. His hips instinctively jerked up at the sight, making you whimper at the sudden sensation.

"I have a duty to the woman I love..." His own hand reach for your face, cupping your cheek. "I fucking love you..."

He had never felt such raw and intense emotions, but being bare and romantic with you within the warmth of his abode, showered by the cascading light of the moon truly made him love you even more.

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes as you start to move on his lap, letting him caress your insides. "I love you, I love you too..." You whispered, letting it mix with the moans that leaves your mouth.

After your intense, romantic, sweet love-making, you left his life with one last kiss to remember him by.

He's never seen you since then.

Sometimes he even thinks that you were just a figment of his imagination, his version of perfection within a girl that he would hopelessly fall in love with for the rest of his life.

But, as he stares at the scene in front of him...

"Flowers! Fresh flowers here! So pretty, it'll make you fall in love!"

...that young boy, selling white flowers in a somewhat familiar, worn-out basket, hair covered with a cloak, but his eyes... that unmistakable tint of purple that only one member of the royal family has.

His heart then drops, as the door of the house behind the little boy opens, revealing... you.

You... 're so beautiful...

A version of perfection within a girl that he would hopelessly fall in love with for the rest of his life.

"Your Majesty, the royal guards are done with their business here, we may go if you would allow us." A guard stood beside him, unbeknownst to the conflicting feeling swirling within the king.

"Yes, go..." Ayato refuses to take his eyes off the scene in front of him.

"And you, your Majest-" The guard could not finish his question before Ayato was walking up to the boy holding the basket.

"Sir with the crown! You want flowers, right?" As their gazes meet, the purple-eyed boy pointed at him and shouted excitedly.

Ayato chuckled, taking out a pouch of mora from his suit and kneeling down to the boys level. "Would this suffice for one lovely flower?"

"Wow! That's for a whole basket!"

"You can have it, I've been thought that giving something nice to others brightens up their day, and you can make good friends."

"My mommy says that!" As the boy exclaims, a figure walks up behind him, opting Ayato to look up.

"I know she does..." Though he is filled with conflicting emotions, he still smiles at you. "My queen says that."

"Is mommy your queen, Mr. Crown?"

Your eyes lock onto his, your gaze softening. "King Ayato... I'm sorry for my child..." His eyes seem to darken as you refer to your son as only yours.

Ayato gently places a hand on the little boys hood, lifting it off a little to reveal the same shade of blue hair as his. "Hmm... a very handsome young prince..."

The boy silently tugs at your skirt. "We're secretly royalty, mommy." He giggles, making his father smile.

"Yes, nobody would go against a king for declaring his beloved as a royal, to be by his side. " Ayato smiles proudly.

For the longest time in his life, he had always wanted to just hold you without worrying about the eyes of the public, and as he shamelessly holds out a hand to cup your cheek, he has fulfilled one of his many wishes.

"You can run from a crowned prince, but not a king, my queen." He pulls you in for a kiss, and despite to nosy eyes of your neighbors, you let him.

And you don't have to run away again.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The little boy is unnamed, cuz I suck with names, so comment what you would name your little love child with Ayato!

Also, I found this in my drafts, it was like from a year ago and I read it and I can't believe it's so... beautifully written?? (not tutting my own horn, I was just truly impressed that I could come up with this, I mean, you guys read my smuts >:)) Anywayyy, hope you like it!

[smileysuh]

siren's song

🌙 starring. Johnny Suh x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. “That’s the funny thing about trust, isn’t it, Pirate King?” you ask, stepping closer to him. You look up into Johnny’s eyes, and he’s blown away by your natural beauty. “You’ll only find out if the trust is solid, when you’re in a moment of need.” A moment of need… watching your lips right now, Johnny’s in a deep moment of need. 

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, wing kink, multiple reader orgasms, multiple sex positions, dirty talk, praise, worship, pussy eating, slight roughness, size kink, Johnny has a massive cock, inklings of captain kink, etc… I pet names: (hers) Princess. 

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 9.6k

🍭 aus. Pirate au, siren au, Captain!Johnny etc…

☀️ mlist + an.  so I did a Pirates of the Caribbean marathon last month, and I'm a huge One Piece fan, and I wanted to tackle a pirate au :) I'm super pleased with how it turned out, and I hope you guys can appreciate this fantasy au too!

Prologue: 

When Johnny had first become a pirate, he’d been taken under the wing of the most extraordinary man he’d ever known. The Pirate King had seen something in Johnny, who at that time was just a young man of thirteen. This King set out to teach Johnny everything he knew- and despite the fact that he was being groomed for the pirate crown, something in the back of Johnny’s mind felt as if the old King would ever die.

The two of them sailed for sixteen years, and Johnny watched his brave Captain and King cheat death more times than either of them could count or keep record of in their log book. 

It feels unreal for Johnny now, as he sits next to his Captain’s bed, watching the most fearsome man he knows dwindle before his very eyes.

One good slice had been all it took to do him in, a slice, and a gruesome infection that followed, taKing a toll on the old pirate’s heart in a way Johnny could never have imagined possible.

“Before I die, there’s more I must tell you,” the Pirate King insists, reaching for Johnny’s wrist, which he holds in an iron grip despite his weakened state.

Johnny doesn’t have the heart to argue, he’ll hear his adopted father’s dying remarks if it’s the last thing he ever does.

“Confidence is key, my boy,” the Pirate King insists, a shiver running through him. There’s a sheen of sweat across his prominent brow, a sign of the fever that’s been killing him for days. He takes in a ragged breath before continuing. “The secret of the sirens is that they only prey-” he coughs, “only prey on pirates and sailors who have sins and baggage. This is a secret you too must pass down to your successor one day.”

Johnny’s not sure what to think as he grabs a cup of water to hold out to the old man, helping him drink. Sure, Johnny’s heard of sirens and mermaids, but he’s never actually seen any with his own two eyes. These must just be tall tales that his Captain’s exhausted mind is clenching at in the end- looking for something mythical to soothe him before he makes the leap into the great beyond. 

“Regrets can’t have a place in your life, John,” the Pirate King continues, pushing the cup of water away and sending it clanging to the wooden floor of the ship. “You can’t be King if you feel regret, tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” Johnny assures his Captain, reaching for the cup. There’s no use wiping the water up, afterall, the wooden decks of the ship are worn and speckled with the signs of years of use. It’s a ship that has been thoroughly loved, and Johnny is already considering the option of getting one of his own to note the start of his pirate reign.

“You don’t understand,” the Pirate King sighs, relaxing back against his pillows, “but that’s alright. You’ll understand soon enough.” He takes a haggard breath, and Johnny watches his old weathered hands clutch at his bedding. “There’s a rite of passage every new Pirate King must take. You’ll sail to the Forbidden Island Chain, the Selkie Islands, where you’ll find the sirens and mermaids from the old tales. You’ll have to prove yourself once you’re there, prove your lack of regrets. Only the one true Pirate King, who is confident in all of his doings, can withstand their deadly songs.”

One: 

When the old Pirate King had first told Johnny of his task, he hadn’t quite believed it. However, after his passing, Doyoung, the scribe/navigator/book keeper had approached Johnny to tell him this was very much a real rite of passage, and that he’d been gifted with explicit coordinates as well as reading materials to use to complete the journey.

Johnny had been an avid reader growing up, and while he’d read the stories of mermaids and sirens with extreme interest as a lad, he’d thought of the contents as more fiction than fact. It’s interesting now, to be a man of twenty-nine, rereading the books of his youth with a newfound view of reality.

The islands they’re headed to are a no man’s land. For as long as recorded pirate lore can remember, the Selkie islands have been home to mermaids and sirens. While many don’t believe in these mythical beasts, pirates can be a superstitious lot, and any who have risked the voyage, haven’t returned to tell their story. It’s as they always say, dead men tell no tales. 

Sure, sirens and mermaids have supposedly ventured away from the islands, looking for men and sailors to drown, but the reports of that have been few and far inbetween in these past years, especially since the British Royal Navy has made a larger foothold as far as pirateering is concerned.

In the last leg of their trip, Johnny calls his men to the deck of The Neo. “This is our maiden voyage,” Johnny calls above the familiar sound of the sea. “We’re a new crew, and I don’t expect to have full loyalty yet, despite my standing as the future Pirate King. Some of you must be wondering about our destination. I’m sure you’ve all heard the tales of mermaids and sirens- and for the safety of everyone, I want to make sure we go into this with a full arsenal, which means, we all must know our enemy.”

Johnny turns his attention to Doyoung, who steps forward carrying a few of Johnny’s top reading materials.

“There’s a difference between sirens and mermaids,” Johnny starts, picking the first book up, “they’re not the same thing, although, that’s been lost as common knowledge in the past years. Mermaids are the easy ones, half fish, half woman, and as alluring as anything we’ve ever seen. They will draw you to the water, whether that be the edge of the boat, or the edge of land, and when you’re close enough, they grab you and drown you.”

“Do they eat us or fuck us?” one person calls, and Johnny looks up to see Lee Donghyuck blinking up at him. “I just mean, I’ve heard both,” the youngest pirate says, defending himself as a chorus of agreed murmurs erupts through Johnny’s new crew. 

“That’s a good question,” Johnny admits. “One that is undetermined, as no survivors have ever come back from being dragged under the sea, and all other opinions are just conjecture.”

“Pff, conjecture,” someone scoffs. 

Johnny knows he’s a lot more well read than anyone on his crew. He spent many many voyages as a young man in the old Pirate King’s library. The Pirate King had always been grooming him for the top position, and there’s a certain amount of smarts that have to be shown in order to excel at the role. Johnny is no ordinary pirate, which is what sets him apart from all others.

“Sirens, on the other hand,” Johnny continues, “are said to have been ladies in waiting to Persephone, from the Greek myths. When she was snatched away by Hades, her mother, Demeter, gave her ladies in waiting wings to search for her. Sirens are angelic creatures, in beauty, and in voice. They lure not with good looks alone, but with songs that bewitch. If they can, they’ll steal your soul right from your own mouth.”

Johnny knows now that a siren’s power has to do with the regrets you hold, which is why he’s spend the past two months forgiving himself for any and all misdemeanors. 

“In the ancient Greek texts, they tell of beeswax used in The Odyssey, shoved into ears to make you unable to hear the siren’s song, that’s what we’ll do now as we approach the final day of our journey.”

“What?” someone bellows.

“Doyoung will hand out the beeswax, and you will all hopefully be immune to death unless you decide to wander to the ship’s edge and give yourself to the sirens and mermaids.”

“What about you, Captain?” Mark Lee speaks up. God, he’s too soft to be a pirate at times, but Johnny had hand picked him for a reason. He’s more thoughtful than most- in fact, the whole crew was chosen for a variety of reasons, and Johnny wouldn’t sail with anyone else.

“Part of my trial is to face the siren’s song unprotected, to prove that I’m the one true Pirate King,” Johnny explains. 

Doyoung has begun to hand out the beeswax, and one look at his unamused face tells Johnny that his faithful scribe doesn’t believe in this whole little farce. It’s more than likely that due to a lack of belief, numerous men will fall under the spell of a mermaid of siren, and that’s something Johnny had accepted before they set sail.

No, Johnny loves his crew already, but he’d be lying if he said they were anything other than exactly what they are: pirates. 

Two: 

There’s a flurry of commotion among the palace halls today, whispers of the death of the old Pirate King, and the rise of a new one. 

This isn’t something that happens frequently, and you’re at an age where the arrival of a new Pirate King can impact you directly.

You’re a Siren Princess, and out of all of your sisters, you’re your fathers favourite. As you walk to the great hall, you’re aware that the likelihood is you’ll be chosen to sing a song to the new Pirate King, as your mother had before you. 

The new ship is approaching with speed, and soon, you’re being whisked off by your ladies in waiting to get dressed the part. A silky white dress is strewn upon your form, hugging all the right curves, and accentuating all that your womanly body has to offer. The siren’s song is more than sung lyrics, it’s an entire performance, and the jewels that are set to adorn your form are part of it.

“He’s here!” one of your sisters declares as she barges into your room, a mischievous look on her face.

Everyone erupts into a fit of enthusiasm, and you’re ushered outside, where you join your father in the palace’s temple courtyard that looks down to the cove.

It’s true, there’s a large pirate ship just entering the bay, bearing the skull and crossbones symbol of pirates on it’s proudly waving flag.

Your wings waver at the notion of flight, and you lick your lips in preparation, feeling a flurry of excitement beginning to build within your breast. 

“Be good, my sweet,” your father encourages you. “Test the man.”

“I will,” you promise, allowing him to squeeze your hand as one last sign of affection before you take flight. 

This first contact with the new Pirate King is a solitary mission, and you feel naked as your large, strong wings carry you from the mountain top and toward the pirate vessel in the bay. 

As you approach, your eagle eyes narrow in on a man waiting by the bow of the ship. He’s leaning on the rail, a grin on his face as he watches you draw near. He’s handsome, something you can’t deny as you hover just a few meters away.

He doesn’t look like a typical pirate. There’s no beard or missing eye. No, he has chiseled features, and a mischievous smile that almost threatens to take your breath away. His white tunic is open, and you sneak a glance at chiseled abs and skin that’s beautifully worn and tanned from years spent in the elements.

Despite his good looks, you have a job to do, and the man is patient as you begin your song. 

You’ve been preparing for this for years, and The Sister’s Song you’ve practiced is one of loss and grief, however, there’s a haunting beauty to it too, one that even your own people find hard to resist.

You sing your heart out, watching the new Pirate King carefully.

He smiles at your song, however, he doesn’t flinch a muscle. When your words die off, he lifts his hands to clap, and with that, you know that he’s fit to be the next pirate ruler. He’s a man with no regrets, a man who lives by the beat of his own drum, and he’s earned your respect. 

“That was a lovely song,” the man calls out to you.

“And what is your name, new would-be King?” you retort.

“I’m Captain John, but you can call me Johnny,” he grins. “And you?”

“I’m the Siren Princess, y/n.”

Johnny nods. “I know the past Pirate Kings have come for a song and left, however, I was hoping for more than a blessing today.”

“That’s presumptuous of you,” you note, feeling a smile work its way onto your face.

“Being presumptuous is part of being a King, I suppose,” Johnny muses. “I was hoping for a banquet. We’ve brought food and booze.”

“A banquet,” you repeat. Never before has a Pirate King dared come to your shores- this man is something different, and it intrigues you in a way you’ll never be able to express. “I accept. You can follow me to the water’s edge palace.”

“I do have one condition though.”

“And what is it that the new Pirate King suggests?” you enquire.

“Only that my men will be keeping their earplugs in. Many a pirate banquet have ended with blood in the water, but tonight, I’m hoping to be more civilized.”

“A civilized pirate,” you laugh. “That’s new.”

Three: 

Johnny knows that he’s bringing his men deep into danger, but this is something that he feels will be an important stepping stone. While past Pirate Kings have had an understanding with the mermaids and sirens, none had fed the flames to keep the fire going. No, in contrast to his past predecessors, Johnny thinks it’s important to have a better connection with sirens and mermaids, perhaps even diplomatic relations. 

Sure, it also helps that you’re absolutely stunning, and Johnny would be lying if he said he didn’t want to spend more time with you- but his plans for a banquet had been set in stone before he’d laid his eyes on you, so Johnny has no regrets there.

As Johnny is taken to shore and shown into the waterside palace, the new King notes the way siren’s have different wings. 

While yours are white an angelic, others have more fairy like protrusions, and Johnny would bet his life that your wings are a sign of royal blood. They’re certainly the most durable, the largest, and the strongest, that he’s able to see, and when any others appear with similar wings, you’re quick to introduce them as family.

“I’m interested to meet your father. You said you’re a Siren Princess, so your father must be King,” Johnny notes as he follows you through the palace. It’s old marble, and while parts of it are eroding, Johnny can’t help but marvel at the way the structure straddles the lines of nature. There are all sorts of growing greens, as well as harmony between both earth and water elements- with streams interweaving below white marbled bridges. 

In these waterways, are mermaids, who look up at him with curiosity, their hair always falling just so- protecting their modesty, if creatures such as they even possess such a thing.

“He’ll come down from the mountain palace,” you tell Johnny. “You have to understand, no Pirate King has ever dared set foot here. This is not something we are accustomed to.”

“I can see that,” Johnny nods, turning to find Donghyuck leaning over the edge of the bridge, eyes locked with a particularly gorgeous mermaid, who’s creeping closer and closer from the stream below-

Johnny grabs the younger pirate by the scruff of the neck, tearing him away from a beautifully savage fate. He pushes Donghyuck towards Yuta, and the mermaids giggle. “Keep an eye on him,” Johnny warns the feral looking pirate. “And keep an eye on yourself while you’re at it.”

You smile at the interaction, and Johnny sighs. 

“You think this is funny, do you?”

“Just a show that we don’t need to be heard to be alluring, mermaids never rely on their voices, so your beeswax will do little to ward them off.”

���I guess I thought my men had more control,” Johnny admits, falling into step with you and casting a glance at the crew that follows, “although, I guess at the end of the day, they’re just pirates.”

“And you’re not?” you counter.

“I’m a pirate, it’s true,” Johnny confesses. “But I think we both know, no Pirate King is ever just a pirate.” 

“I will agree with you on that,” you nod. Although you’ve not met many pirates in your life, it’s clear that this one has a better head on his shoulders than most- in more than just the looks department. “The great hall is this way,” you continue, showing him through an archway that brings you to the outdoor meeting place.

It’s a true wonder of water and earth, a courtyard exposed to the night sky above. The moonlight illuminates the space, and littered throughout are pools with glassy water, mermaids perched like poised, picturesque, marble statues along their edges. Eyes that shine in the nightly gleam watch as you draw the Pirate King’s crew deeper into the lion’s den, beautiful predators, assessing every movement.

You hope this new Pirate King knows what he’s doing.

Four: 

By all accounts, the feast is going well. Roaring fires are cooking multiple boar that Johnny had brought specifically for this trip, as well as fish and other provisions they’d packed. The sirens and mermaids had provided more of the perishable items, and even though there are wooden bowls of salad littered here and there, it’s clear that everyone has a preference for the meat.

The mermaids in particular are quite savage with the way they eat, grabbing leg straight by the bone and tearing in with teeth that hadn’t looked as sharp before as they do now.

Johnny is on alert, despite his attempts to exude a calm and happy countenance. 

He feels as if he’s in a den of angelic looking demons, and he’s already caught numerous crewmates wandering just a little too close to the water’s edge. Hyuck in particular has been reared back by the scruff of his neck a grand total of five times, and Johnny’s beginning to think the young man simply has a death wish… that, or his brain resides in his cock.

From the way the mermaids giggle with each close call, it’s clear to Johnny that they’re testing him as the new Pirate King. They’re testing his trust in them, his wits, and Johnny’s not quite sure what to make of it.

“Pirate King,” your voice distracts Johnny from his internal musings, and he turns to you. “Come with me,” you bid him, standing and reaching out a hand. “I have something to give you.”

Your words draw not only Johnny’s attention, but the attention of those around him, and Yuta lets out a loud wolf whistle. It’s no shock that his crew would have filthy thoughts about why you’re whisking him away, but Johnny gets the suspicion that this interaction isn’t just about getting in his pants.

You’re a Princess after all, and so far, you’ve been nothing short of a gracious host. It’s clear that the two of you share alliance goals, and Johnny had watched you take your father to the side and passionately argue the importance of a connection between pirates and sirens.

“Watch Hyuck,” Johnny warns Jaehyun as he stands, allowing you to gently guide him by the hand away from the festivities.

Mermaids watch curiously as you lead Johnny over a number of small bridges, moving farther and farther from the main courtyard until you’re back at the edge of the sea. Johnny can hardly hear the sound of loud pirate laughter anymore, and he realizes how serene this new location is as he studies your winged form in the moonlight.

“I have two gifts for you,” you tell him, reaching into your dress. Johnny hadn’t realized the fine white material had included pockets, but then again, most of the night he’s been staring at your pretty face and your angelic wings. You pull out a conch shell, handing it to Johnny. “This one is to call for mermaids, and this one,” you place a halloweed reed style whistle next to the shell, “is to call on sirens. They’re in case you need help in battle, a way to contact us, to solidify an alliance of sorts, although- I warn you not to use the shell if you have any men in the water, mermaids are not the most discerning of saviours.”

Johnny looks down at the two items. At first, he doesn’t know what to say, and his voice cracks when he finally finds the words. “Thank you.” He swallows thickly. “I appreciate these, uh… tokens.”

You let out a giggle. “No need to be so formal, Pirate King.”

“Says the woman who just used the word discerning.”

“I’m more educated than you, pirate,” you grin.

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that, Princess.”

“Touche.”

Johnny enjoys this back and forth, it feels natural, and without the eyes of countless others on the two of you right now, the Pirate King feels comfortable to just be himself. “I guess, as much as I appreciate these gifts, I’m still wondering if I can trust you, if you’ll come when I call.”

“That’s the funny thing about trust, isn’t it, Pirate King?” you ask, stepping closer to him. You look up into Johnny’s eyes, and he’s blown away by your natural beauty. “You’ll only find out if the trust is solid, when you’re in a moment of need.”

A moment of need… watching your lips right now, Johnny’s in a deep moment of need. 

From the way your own gaze dips down, Johnny’s sure you reciprocate the attraction, and with one final ‘fuck it’ that he sends to the wind, Johnny cups the back of your neck with his large palm. He draws your mouth to his, kissing you gently on the edge of the sea as the moonlight bathes you both in light. The winds carry the smell of salt, a constant reminder of Johnny’s true commitments.

He’s a man with no regrets, a Pirate King, and nothing could ever make Johnny regret this shared kiss, this shared confirmation of a newly blossomed union between pirates, mermaids and sirens. 

Five: 

It’s been a full year since the Pirate King arrived at the Selkie Islands, a full year without hearing a whistle or the blow of a conch, and in that time, you’ve begun to worry about him.

Sure, he’d been strong, and tall, and handsome- but in your opinion, he’d lacked the savagery that had been so clearly evident in those who had come before him, not to mention excessive facial hair, bad teeth and body odor.

You’ve done your best to distract yourself with your studies, as education is important for a Princess such as yourself, and you’re in your library one afternoon when your ears pick up that distant call.

The reed you’d given the Pirate King is a magic reed, and it’s fine tuned to your ears. You’re able to hear it from a vast distance, and with your natural bird like homing abilities, there’s no way you’d miss Johnny’s location.

It’s been a year, but finally, you’re being summoned.

You’re quick to rally a small force of sirens to go with you, your Princess’ guard, which consists of your best female fighters with the strongest wings for flight. Despite your father being the King of the sirens, that’s only in the stead of your mother, who had died of an illness many moons ago. The sirens, as well as the mermaids, are naturally maternalistic societies, and when you need something done right, you send a band of females. 

The journey is a long one, but with your wings, you’re able to cover vast distances. You make it to Johnny’s pirate ship and the cove it’s anchored in just as the evening sun is setting. The Neo is still alive and well, and there are hardly any new marks on it, something that reassures you as you and your small band of sirens touch down on the deck.

Pirates watch you, and your eyes find Johnny as he steps down the stairs from the helm to greet you.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come,” he admits, stopping just at the bottom step to assess you with a half grin on his face, his Captain’s hat tilted just so.

“Travel takes time, as I’m sure you know,” you retort. “What’s the emergency?”

“I’d like to speak to you, privately.” 

With a nod to your companions, you follow Johnny into the Captain’s quarters, curious as to what this call is about if not an attack.

“On the island, we hold pirate council,” Johnny explains. “Seeing as you’re my new ally, I’d like for you to speak, as a Princess, as the head of the sirens- and I’d like you to have a say for the mermaids as well, although, I can call upon the mermaids too if you’d rather they have their own representative.”

“Pirate council?” you ask in shock. “I wasn’t aware pirates were so democratic.”

“I am King of something, Princess,” Johnny grins. 

“I suppose that’s true,” you smile back at him slyly. “I can speak for the sirens, and the mermaids, at this council at least. When I return to the Selkie Islands, I can discuss a mermaid representative for further collaborative efforts.”

Johnny nods. “Works for me.”

“So when is this council, exactly?”

“We were waiting for you.”

Within minutes, you’re following Johnny into the largest beached pirate ship vessel you’ve ever seen. Despite it’s outside appearance, the inside is remarkably well kept- and you suppose it’s worn down exterior acts as a camouflage of sorts for the importance of what takes place inside this aged wooden skeleton of the sea.

You feel very important as you walk with Johnny, and he pays you the respect of holding you at his arm, making you equals as you enter the large council chamber.

Whispers erupt at the sight of you, and you suppose many of the pirates present have never seen a siren in the flesh. 

“I told them I’d be bringing you,” Johnny whispers in your ear as he takes you to the head of the table, pulling out the seat at his right hand for you to sit in. As you get settled, he leans close, his lips just brushing your ear. “You could ensnare the souls of every person in this room if you so much as breathed a note of your siren song, don’t be scared, and speak from your heart.”

You’d always thought of yourself as a confident Princess, but walking into this pirate’s den had shaken your foundations. Hearing Johnny’s praise of you, the facts that he’s pointed out- it helps you calm down, your shoulders falling, body relaxing. 

“Today, this pirate council has been drawn, because we need to discuss the increasing threat in our waters,” Johnny’s clear Kingly voice rings out through the room. “The British Royal Navy. they’ve been imposing their laws, sinking ships, taking prisoners, and killing every man, woman, or child who has ever had anything to do with the likes of us.”

This is all news to you. You’ve heard whispers of a new type of sailor in these seas, of more regimented water crafts- but your kind generally sticks to your own islands these days, you’d had no clue that this ‘British Royal Navy’ had become such an imposing force.

You listen as Johnny continues his speech, and then he opens up the floor for other pirates to speak.

It’s a heated debate, a debate of which you’re not necessarily inclined to be a part of. There’s talk of attacking ports, jail breaking prisoners-

It’s clear to you that although they view themselves as somewhat democratic for throwing a council such as this, that many of the pirates who are here to represent their crew and fleat, are very much in it only for themselves.

It’s also evident that Johnny takes his role as Pirate King extremely seriously, and you find yourself most and more enraptured as you watch him take control and keep things peaceful. Not only does he understand what others are saying, but often, he’s able to reword concerns so that others can understand as well. He’s like a Pirate King translator, and it’s a very attractive quality. 

There’s a bit of infighting between two rough looking bearded men, and when Johnny breaks it up, he sighs, turning to you. “Do you have any opinions, Princess?”

“I’d like to spend the night thinking on it. I’ve taken in a lot of information, and I’m tired from my travel.”

“That’s a good point,” Johnny nods. “I think we should all take the night to think things though and consider other perspectives, we can reconvene in the morning.” 

The Pirate King stands up, not giving any time for protest, and as you rise to join him, you take a survey of the room. You can see the respect that the others have for him, and everyone stays in their seat as Johnny takes your arm and leads you back outside.

The two of you are quiet as you return to his ship. It’s clear there’s a lot on both of your minds, and you kind of enjoy the peaceful quiet that blossoms with the strong man at your side.

“Well,” Johnny says finally, “I’ll give you and your companions my cabin, and I’ll find somewhere to sleep below deck.”

“It’s alright,” you tell him. “I’m going to send my companions home, it’s clear they’re not needed here tonight, and after our council meeting tomorrow, I’ll return to the Selkie Islands as well.”

“Almost sounds like you trust me to be on my best behaviour, Princess,” Johnny grins.

“As you said before, one note of song from my lips and your entire crew could be under my spell. I have nothing to fear.”

“Not even from me?” he toys.

“Not even from the Pirate King himself.”

“Well,” Johnny licks his lips, taking in your form, “I’ll let you say your goodbyes, and then you can meet me in my quarters.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“That’s King to you, Princess.”

You can only scoff, turning and leaving the Captain to join your ladies on the deck of the ship. You fill them in on the council meeting, and although two of them are reluctant to leave your side, you reassure them that you’ll be okay. This new strengthening of the alliance with the pirates is founded on trust, and if anything happens, the sirens alone could take out the entire pirate fleet sans Captain John himself, who’s impervious to your songs.

Soon, you’re the lone winged creature on the deck of the ship, and you can feel eyes on you as you make your way to Johnny’s Captain’s quarters. 

You’d been in here earlier when Johnny had taken you aside for a private chat, but you hadn’t taken the time to fully appreciate his home.

While there are wooden accents everywhere, it’s a very lavish quarters. There are lots of red velvet- royal colours that draw your eyes. It’s a masculine space, but the full walled library betrays the erudite mind of the new Pirate King. A large table is littered with maps, and it’s clear that’s where Johnny does most of his work, however, tucked into a wall pocket by his books, is a massive bed, with the same scarlety fabric drapes to make the sleeping section more private and cozy.

Johnny’s standing by the windows that look out the back of the ship, and while the candle flames lick light at the walls, it’s the reflection of the moon that truly illuminates the space.

“And so all the pretty birds fly home for the night,” he says, watching your companions disappear into the inky sky.

“All but one,” you muse, locking the door behind you.

“And the prettiest one at that.” Johnny turns to you. “Are you sure you don’t want me to find somewhere else to sleep tonight?”

“I’ve been thinking about our last meeting for a year, Captain, I think it would be a disservice to both of us to not indulge further, after all, we’ve been good and patient, haven’t we?”

“Too patient, even for a Pirate King,” Johnny groans, moving closer.

“Even for a Princess,” you agree, wetting your lips as you stay still, allowing Johnny to be the one to close the gap.

Like that night by the water’s edge, Johnny doesn’t ask permission, you can tell that he reads your need for him as easily as he had a year ago. His large hand cups your cheek, drawing your lips to his own, and it’s such a familiar feeling-

Something about him just feels right. It feels natural. As if you’ve done this a hundred times before, even though this is only really your second kiss with the young Pirate King.

Regardless, you allow yourself to get lost in him. Your hands begin to explore him as if by muscle memory, and you push at his long dark jacket, exposing the white unbuttoned tunic below. Fucking pirates and their fashion sense- he’s too much of a slut in this fucking shirt, it’s making you feral.

“Someone is eager,” Johnny muses, breaking the kiss to look down at you with a grin.

“Someone is dressed like a whore,” you retort, flicking his hat off his head with one sharp movement.

The Pirate King lets out a whistle. “Wow, Princess, didn’t expect to hear words like that coming out of such a pretty little mouth.”

“Maybe being around you has some of your piracy rubbing off on me,” you suggest, hooking your finger in his gun holster belt to tug him closer.

“Princess, if I’d rubbed one off on you, you’d know it.”

You can only scoff, and Johnny’s smile widens. He tugs you closer, looking down at you with dark eyes that have suddenly turned serious.

“I’ve got a question for you, Princess.”

“Yeah, and what’s that, Captain?”

“I was just thinking…” he looks past you, and your wings twitch under his inspecting gaze, “are they as sensitive as they look?”

You breathe in a harsh gasp, a shiver running through you at the thought.

Johnny grins again. “I’m going to take that as a yes.”

Siren wings are extremely sensitive, especially ones like yours. 

“They’re just… so pretty,” Johnny continues, reaching out. “You’ll let me touch, right?”

“You can touch,” you whisper, watching him while frozen in place. All your bravado and confidence are gone, and although you’re the siren, it feels as if the Pirate King has put you under a spell of his own now.

He’s ever so gentle as he brushes his fingers against your wing, looking down at you to watch for a reaction.

You close your eyes, trying to focus on your breathing, and you can tell from the way Johnny grabs your hip with his other hand, that he enjoys the effect this is having on you. 

He traces down your wing to the base, where your human skin becomes feathers, and he toys that spot with a circular motion. It feels so good- you have to bite your tongue to stifle a moan. 

“It’s okay, Princess, let it out, I wanna hear you,” Johnny encourages.

“You might, but what about your crew?” you ask, looking at the door just a few meters away. If you moan- even if it’s a moan and not a purposeful siren song - it could still bewitch anyone close enough to hear it, and you’d hate to lose composure, damaging your alliance, because you’re too horny to keep it in your pants and in your mouth.

“That’s a good point,” Johnny concedes. In one motion, he’s lifting you up, prompting you to wrap your legs around his hips as he carries you toward the bed nook. He gently puts you down, carefully of just flopping you onto the mattress and damaging a wing, then, he draws the curtains closed, clearly hoping to muffle any sounds that come out of you. “Now… where were we?”

“I think you were about to get me naked and eat me the way you ate that fucking wild boar last year.”

“I was trying to be somewhat clean that night, you know,” Johnny laughs.

“I don’t mind messy, in fact, part of me might prefer it.”

“Are you sure you’re a Princess?” Johnny asks, kissing up your calf as you adjust against the pillows, making sure your wings are in an alright position for him to eat you out.

“I’m as much of a Princess as you are a King,” you point out.

Despite you both having titles, it’s clear there’s more to you than your respective stations in life. Sure, the fact that he’s a Pirate King and you’re a Siren Princess is making this whole interaction possible, but there’s a desire to know him on a deeper level- and it’s one of the reasons you’re reluctant to refer to him as King. You’d rather see him as a Captain, a leader of men in that capacity-

Johnny’s hands push your dress up your thighs, and you let out a small exhale at the feeling of cool cabin air on your exposed skin.

As a siren, you’re somewhat of a wild being. No matter how civilized you might look, with your long flowy dresses, and monarch system- you’re still not fully human, and you hate restrictive clothing, which is why, the dress is the only piece of fabric covering your body. As Johnny pushes the fabric up, he realizes your nudity under the silk, and you watch his pupils dilate with interest.

Johnny licks his lips, looking up at you one last time, as if asking for permission. You nod to him, a smile working its way onto your face as you realize how soft he’s being with you.

He’s the big bad Pirate King, but consent is still a must- God, he’s truly an enigma, and you’d be happy to spend years figuring him out.

Johnny dives into your pussy. Two large hands grab your thighs, spreading you open for the tongue that begins to lap at your core.

“Shit-” you groan. No one’s ever eaten you out like this before. You’re not a virgin per se, but your number of sexual experiences is severely limited. As far as mythical races go, the sirens aren’t the horniest of creatures, but there’s something about this Pirate King that changes everything.

You can feel Johnny grin against your pussy, and it turns you on even more as he sucks your clit into his mouth, flicking at it repeatedly.

Your hands are grabbing at the lush bedding, trying to keep you grounded on a ship that’s gently rocking from the sea. There are so many textures, the velvety fabrics, your silky dress pushed up to your waist. The smells of the wood and sea, the sounds of The Neo and the water lapping at her sides-

You’re overwhelmed in the best possible way as sounds of desperation escape you, spurring on the Pirate King as he works you over with his mouth.

You reach down, threading your fingers through his soft hair. God, some pirates are unhygienic as fuck, but this one seems to know how to take care of himself, and that’s an attractive quality in a man.

Johnny growls against your pussy, sucking your clit even harder, and your toes curl. You can feel an orgasm rising in the pit of your stomach, and Johnny’s steady pace is drawing that release closer and closer-

His grip digs into your thighs and you throw your head back gasping-

Your eyes clench shut as your orgasm washes over you, throbbing through your entire body unlike any high you’ve ever had, even those you’ve given yourself.

You ride out the orgasm, and Johnny continues to worship your core until you’re spent and sweaty. You push him away gently, and he looks up at you. As the Pirate King rises, he licks his lips, and you enjoy the view of him getting every last drop of your taste.

“You taste as angelic as you look, Princess,” Johnny muses.

“And I feel even better,” you say lazily.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Johnny shrugs off his white tunic, baring his washboard abs and broad chest. He’s got scars, battle wounds most likely, but nothing too gnarly. No, he’s quite beautiful, for a pirate.

Your dress has a low back, the type that you step into so your wings aren’t damaged or put in any awkward positions, so as Johnny strips himself, you tug the silky fabric of your own clothing down your body. 

You love the feeling of the velvety bedding against your exposed skin, and you spread your legs for Johnny, an invite.

He drops his pants to the ground, and his heavy belt acts like as a weight, creating a loud thumping sound against the worn wooden floor. 

Fuck. The Pirate King is packing. You’d noticed his affinity for a pistol over a sword, but you suppose that’s only because he has a sword sized cock inside his breeches. 

Johnny reads your expression, and he lets out a chuckle. “Don’t worry, Princess, I’ll go slow with you.”

“You better. Being fatally impaled by the Pirate King was not in my nightly plan.”

“Just… pleasantly impaled by the Pirate King, right?” Johnny jokes, getting onto the bed with you, his large biceps bulging as he holds his weight overtop of your body.

 God, he’s so handsome, and playful for a Pirate King too. There’s something to unique about this Captain John, and it takes your breath away. The familiarity makes you uncomfortable in some form, so instead of responding, you grab the back of his neck, drawing his lips to yours.

Johnny immediately kisses you, rolling his hips so his cock can drag against your pussy while you wrap your legs tight around him. His mouth is so distracting, but you simply can’t take your mind off of the massive length that’s toying by your clit with each rut of his hips.

How are you even going to fit this man inside of you?

To your surprise, Johnny is true to his word about not rushing anything. He simply makes out with you, rutting gently, working you up until you’re a gasping mess. You can feel your pussy practically crying onto his cock now, can feel how wet you’ve made his length with each pass of it through your pussy lips. 

“Okay, I’m ready,” you tell him, adjusting slightly against his pillows, one wing stretching out to steady yourself a little. 

“You sure about that?” Johnny taunts, bringing his lips to your throat, where he teases past your skin.

You moan desperately, tightening your grip on his hips, urging him to just fuck you-

Johnny’s nose grazes up your neck, and he pulls your ear lobe into his mouth, suckling on it gently.

“Please,” you whimper, all composure lost. 

Johnny pulls away, looking down at you with an expression very much like concern while you grab at his broad shoulders. “Did you just say… please?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

The Pirate King grabs your jaw, forcing your eyes to his again. “That actually sounded really cute coming from you, Princess.”

“If you don’t want to fuck me, then don’t fuck me,” you snap, getting irritated in your impatient lust fueled state.

“Does it feel like I don’t want to fuck you?” Johnny counters, rutting his hips so you can feel his massive cock, all enlarged and throbbing- “I just don’t want to hurt you, Princess. Remember, I have to be a man without regrets, and if I hurt you, then I’d have something to regret, and I couldn’t effectively be King of the pirates.”

Your heart melts for him, and it’s the best explanation he could have possibly given. You smash your lips to his, moaning into the kiss as desperation continues to take over your entire body. 

Johnny adjusts his cock, pressing just the tip to your aching hole. He’s as gentle as ever as he slowly pushes it in, waiting patiently as you get used to the stretch.

The Pirate King continues to kiss you, distracting you from the feeling until it becomes pleasurable, then, he pushes deeper into you, repeating the slow build up. He takes his time, and it’s as if he knows your body inside and out, as if he’s reading every little reaction to make it the best possible experience for you.

Johnny is now completely inside of you, and you gasp at how deep it feels. You’re shocked he’s flush to your body, your chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, lips parted, staring into each others eyes.

God, this connection feels unlike anything else you’ve ever experienced. 

It’s as if he’s staring into your soul, which is an uncanny feeling given the fact that siren’ are the soul collectors of the mortal world. You feel so bare for him, so susceptible and weaponless- but there’s no fear with this knowledge. You trust the young Pirate King, you’re not sure why, but you do. It’s this deep knowing- one that you can’t put into words.

“You ready?” Johnny asks, swallowing thickly.

You nod, stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m ready.”

Johnny leans down, gently pressing his lips to yours as he begins to move his hips, slowly rutting into you, allowing your body to get used to his size with each motion.

You moan desperately against his mouth, kissing him harder, gripping his strong shoulders desperately as his pace builds-

One shift has your wing caught under you uncomfortably, and you break the kiss. “Can I be on top? My wing-”

Before you can even finish your explanation, Johnny is grabbing the small of your back, keeping you tucked to his chest, and rolling you so you’re now in the dominant position. He looks up at you, and you stretch your wings out. Your hands fall flat on his chest, your head thrown back as you enjoy the feeling of freedom now that you’re on top.

“God, you’re so pretty,” Johnny breathes.

“You and your wing kink, mister Pirate King,” you laugh, looking down at him.

“There are worse kinks to have,” he suggests, stroking your hip.

You don’t bother to agree with him, you simply start to move, rubbing back and forth a little, getting used to how deep his cock is inside your core now that you’re in the power position.

“The way you’re taking me is fucking heaven,” Johnny groans, pressing his thumb to your clit to rub gentle circles that set your skin on fire.

“Maybe we were made for each other,” you offer breathlessly, intending it to be a lighthearted joke of sorts, but the growl Johnny releases at your words tells you he takes them seriously.

“Maybe we were,” Johnny agrees, rubbing your clit even harder. His other hand finds your hip, and he begins to half bounce you up and down on his cock, leveraging the bed so he can make his own shallow thrusts, coming up to meet you with each motion.

The thought of the two of you being weird, two sides of the same coin soulmates has your stomach twisting into knots, or maybe that’s just the massive cock rearranging your guts, you’re not quite sure. 

God, he looks so pretty like this too- a thin layer of sweat on his broad chest, his pouty bottom lip caught between his sexy teeth, brow furrowed in concentration. The scars on his tanned skin truly don’t bug you, in fact, the intricate lines are almost a type of art all of their own. You could spend hours tracing them- 

Your toes curl as Johnny’s thumb works your clit, combining with his cock in your tight hole, working you closer and closer to the edge again.

“Come on, Princess,” Johnny groans, “almost there, and then I can flip you over and fuck you stupid.” 

You’re pretty sure he’s already fucking you stupid, and you’re not quite sure why he’s encouraging you when he’s doing practically all the work- so you close your eyes, focusing on the feeling that’s building- getting to the edge in record speed is the one thing you can control right now.

Each breath feels almost like a type of meditation now, your body thrumming with an eclectic energy that you know is almost ready to explode-

“That’s it, cum on my cock.”

His words are the trigger that has you short circuiting, your body jolting as your orgasm slams into you. You cry out, eyes clenching shut as your pussy clamps down on his cock, your clit pulsing deliciously.

Johnny doesn’t let up, he continues to gently rub the sensitive nub, fucking up into you to prolong your high-

Soon, you can’t take it anymore, and you collapse down against his chest, breathing deeply.

Johnny cradles you for a moment, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “You’re gonna let me cum too, right, Princess?” he asks.

“Yeah, cum in me-” you whisper, too delirious to even think straight.

Johnny helps you off of him, adjusting you onto your stomach. He gets behind you, grabbing your hips and pulling you up into doggy position. “This view is amazing,” he tells you, gently stroking one of your wings and making a shock of pleasure run through your body. “If it’s too much, just tell me to stop.” 

You can only nod, bracing yourself as he lines his cock up with your soaked hole, pushing into you as easy as ever.

His hands find your hips, and he begins to rail into you. Gone is the gentleness from before, but you don’t mind it. No, there’s an enjoyment in this raw, animalistic savagery- or maybe you should classify it as pirate-like in nature. Regardless of specification, it feels fucking good, and each smack of Johnny’s hips against your ass has you clawing at his bedding.

Then, one of Johnny’s hands is smoothing up your back, and you let out a strangled squeal when he grips the base of your wing, using it as a type of leverage as he fucks you.

There are no words to truly describe the feeling of having your wings being touched, and there are even fewer metaphors to encapsulate the ecstasy that comes from having Johnny utilize your wings to fuck you absolutely stupid. All you can do is take what he gives you, muffling your sounds with his pillow as he draws you closer and closer to the edge yet again, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“These are sensitive, huh, Princess?” Johnny asks, stroking his pointer finger up the section of wing in his grasp. “Almost feels like you’re gonna cum again.”

“Fuck, I am- I will, just- don’t stop!” you beg.

“If that’s what my Princess commands.” In fact, Johnny fucks you even harder, fingers digging into your hip with each rough motion.

He draws circles on the base of your wing with his thumb, and your body begins to twitch-

“I want us to cum together,” Johnny breathes heavily. “You’ll cum with me, right?”

“Yes, yes-”

“Almost there,” the Pirate King warns you.

Your own high is balancing on the edge of the knife, and as Johnny releases a raw grunt of satisfaction, the sound sends you toppling into the pleasure abyss.

You can feel him filling you up with cum as your pussy milks him for every single drop that the Pirate King is worth. All you can do is lay there, face buried in the pillows while wave upon wave of ecstasy washes over you like an all consuming, destructive, sea tempest.

Despite how powerful and intense it is, there’s never been anything as good as this before either.

Soon, Johnny’s slowing down, breathing heavily against your back. Your wings twitch at the feeling of his exhales, and he releases the base of your appendage, stroking his fingers down your spine gently.

“Give me a second, then I’ll get you cleaned up.”

You can only whimper, in a daze from three hard orgasms.

Johnny is true to his word, slipping out of you a minute later and returning with a cloth. He cleans you up, and then, he wraps you in his arms, drawing you under the blankets so you can cuddle even closer.

The two of you fall asleep like this, a Siren Princess, and a Pirate King, two beings without an ounce of regret.

Six: 

Johnny’s happy with how things are going with council. He’d thought long and hard about not incurring an all out war with the navy, while also not leaving a single pirate behind. Prison breaks with the purpose of salvation over bloodshed, that had been his primary goal, and while many of his fellow pirates had seemed a little less than enthusiastic about the idea, he’d gotten them to agree.

He can’t govern them at all times, it was clear to him that sooner or later, pirates would begin their own brand of revolutionary vigilantism, but without any specific boundaries prohibiting the excessive use of force and weapons, things would turn into an all out war faster than Johnny would have ever been able to manage.

No, the agreement to tone down the violence is a good one, and as all the pirates begrudgingly agree, Johnny turns his attention to you. “What do you think, Princess?”

You release a sigh, one large wing twitching behind you.  “Unfortunately, unlike the rest of you, who are a fact of the seas, my kind isn’t as well known, especially not to this new British Royal Navy. To be part of this encroaching threat would only put my people in danger. I can’t actively condone or participate a war, even on a small scale like this. I think as pirates you should do what you’d like, but my people will keep to our Islands and hopefully remain unnoticed by the Navy.”

Johnny nods. “I understand your concerns,” and with that, he leaves you be. He’d wanted you to be part of this council, but he’d known there would be times where the topic at hand wasn’t something that would affect you. He’s just happy to have your voice here, to have his alliance with you be glaringly obvious to all those who might oppose him or question his legitimacy as the new Pirate King. 

The council completes its dues, and soon, Johnny is walking back with you toward his ship. 

His men get scarce, something that he doubts is a coincidence, and Johnny leads you to the bow of the ship. The Neo’s large winged figurehead looks out at the sea, and the pirate Captain gazes as well, noting the oncoming storm that’s brewing in the distance. 

“I guess I should be going home,” you sigh.

“Those clouds don’t look very friendly,” Johnny points out. “You can stay another night if you’d like.”

“Storms don’t phase me, Captain,” you tease. “Although, before I go, I have something to give you.”

Johnny turns to watch you pull a small reed from your pocket. It’s like the one you’d given him a year ago, but more dainty in a way. 

“This reed is different from the other one,” you explain. “This one is a frequency just for me, so you can call when you need anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” you confirm with a sly smile. “If you play these three notes,” you demonstrate, “it will alert me that it’s not a life or death situation.”

“I’ll be sure to call for you if you’re needed,” Johnny muses, accepting the reed and playing the three note tune as easily as anything.

“And if I’m not needed, then I’m not needed,” you shrug.

Johnny likes this. He likes that you’re not trying to control him. No, you have an understanding that he is who he is. He’s a Pirate King, a man who more than anyone else, belongs to the sea. You’re not going to hold him down, and he’s pretty sure neither of you would enjoy it if you tried.

The flip side of that, is that you’re your own elusive being. You’re a Siren Princess, and he’s confident that you have your own things to do. He’s not sure what your life consists of, but he’s never going to be the man to get in the way of that and endeavor to cage the prettiest bird he’s ever seen.

The two of you have an understanding, and at the end of the day, that’s the best the young Pirate King could have ever hoped for. 

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🔮 preview. There are all sorts of milestones he wants to have with you, but he supposes at the end of the day, the main thing he wants is tangible progress.

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, breast worship, body worship, fingering, grinding against Johnny’s hand, big dick Johnny, size kink, pussy stretching, multiple sex positions, multiple reader orgasms, wing kink, etc…   I petnames. (hers) Princess. 

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.5k I teaser wc. 215

🌙 starring. Johnny x afab!Reader

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When Johnny had first begun to see you, it had been every couple of months. It was a no strings attached, easy sort of connection- but somehow, he’s not sure when, it began to blossom into something more.

Every couple of months became once a month, and now, in the time between seeing you, Johnny struggles. He has your special reed in his hand, and many nights are spent with him fighting the urge to call you to his side.

It’s not just the sex anymore- although, the sex is great. No, it’s an inner peace that comes when you’re near, a comfort that gives him the best sleep of his life and the clearest mind. You simply make him better, and it’s a fact that is getting harder and harder for the Pirate King to ignore.

As much as he hates to admit it to himself… it’s beginning to feel an awful lot like the Pirate King is starting to have regrets. 

He’s beginning to regret his commitment to the sea, to the ship, to the crew that follows his every word. He’s starting to imagine what a life less free would look like-

If there was ever a woman who could tie him down, it would be you, and he knows it.

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[lqveharrington]

Fighting For | R.L.

summary: in the middle of the war, you suggest something that throws Remus off guard.

pairing: young!remus lupin x fem!reader

includes: fluff, comfort, remus being a loving man, mentions of the wizarding war

a/n: this won the poll by 2/3 votes!

You and Remus had been going steady since sixth year. It wasn’t something that surprised anyone—your friends had seen it coming long before you did. He was always around, given his place among the infamous Marauders, but unlike James or Sirius with their loud, magnetic energy, Remus had a quieter pull. There was something in his stillness, in the thoughtfulness of his gaze, that intrigued you. So much so that you’d mustered up every ounce of Gryffindor bravery you had to ask him out first. A fact he liked to tease you about, though he’d been the first to say “I love you.”

It was an equal relationship. Comfortable, supportive—you balanced each other. When his self-doubt crept in, you anchored him. When your temper flared, he soothed you. And as the shadow of war grew closer, wrapping its cold fingers around your lives, you both leaned into each other more than ever.

Today was one of those rare, precious days where the world outside seemed to pause. Rain pattered gently against the windowpane, the overcast sky casting a soft, silvery light across the small flat you shared. Blankets piled high around you both in a cocoon of warmth, the chill in the air no match for the body heat shared under layers of quilts and knitted throws. Remus, predictably, had a battered book open on his lap, pages worn and yellowed with time. His free hand ran absentmindedly through your hair, fingers threading through the strands as you lay curled into his side.

You’d been pretending to read your own book for the last hour, but your eyes hadn’t moved past the same paragraph in ages. Your mind, traitorous thing that it was, had drifted far from the ink on the pages.

“Any subject we can think of,” he’d said earlier. A challenge to distract from the looming threat outside. Dangerous words, really.

“Rem,” you murmured, voice soft against the backdrop of rain. Your book thudded quietly onto the bedside table as you shifted, molding yourself further into his side.

“Mm?” His gaze didn’t lift from the page, but his thumb paused its motion in your hair. A subtle tell that he was listening, truly.

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. Then, before nerves could get the better of you, the words slipped out. “I want a baby.”

He nodded absently at first. And then—you felt it—the sudden stillness overtaking his entire body. His head jerked down to look at you, eyebrows lifting in shock. “Excuse me—did I hear that right?”

You gave a sheepish smile, tracing idle patterns along his arm, feeling the tension tighten beneath your fingertips. “What did you think I said?”

“That you want a baby,” he repeated slowly, testing the words on his tongue like they were foreign. His eyes—soft brown flecked with amber—searched yours for a joke, a punchline that never came. He tilted his head, resting his chin against your forehead. “That’s what I heard coming from your mouth.”

“Yep.” You glanced up at him through your lashes, heart thumping. His face was an open book—shock, amusement, fear, love. Always love.

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Not only are we nineteen,” he said gently, “we’re in the middle of a war, dovey.” The nickname, warm and familiar, eased the ache blooming in your chest as he kissed the crown of your head.

“I know.” You sighed, pulling back to meet his gaze fully. “I know how crazy it sounds. Merlin, I know. But—” You broke off, breath catching. “Everything around us is chaos. People we love are dying. Doesn’t it make sense to want something good? Something ours? Something that’s... worth fighting for?”

His expression cracked then, vulnerability bleeding through. He glanced down, his hand slipping from your hair to rest against your stomach, thumb drawing slow circles. Thoughtful. Heartbreaking.

“You are something worth fighting for,” he whispered. “But what if I don’t make it? What if I... leave you to do this alone?” His voice was raw, words torn from somewhere deep and bruised.

Tears pricked at your eyes. “Remus John Lupin,” you murmured. “You’re one of the bravest wizards I know, and I hate to hear you say things like that.”

Silence stretched between you, filled only by the rain and your combined breathing. You felt the war raging inside him—logic versus longing, fear versus hope.

Minutes bled into something longer, timeless. Eventually, he exhaled, a shaky sound. “You terrify me,” he confessed, burying his face in your hair.

A smile tugged at your lips, kissing his cheek. “Love you too.”

It wasn’t a yes. It wasn’t a no either. But as his arms tightened around you, as he held you like you were the last piece of something whole, you both knew that in a world gone mad, this—this messy, complicated, beautiful thing you had—was what made everything else bearable.

Whatever the future held, you’d face it together.

The days that followed were a blur of normalcy and tension, every laugh shadowed by the looming war. Yet something had shifted between you and Remus after that day. His touches lingered longer, kisses deepened with something heavier—an unspoken acknowledgment of what you both wanted and what stood in the way.

One evening, after a long Order meeting, you found yourselves alone in the kitchen. The clock ticked loudly in the background as you poured tea, hands trembling from exhaustion and nerves. Remus watched you from the doorway, his expression unreadable.

“What?” you asked as you felt his eyes burning into your side, setting the kettle down.

“Nothing,” he said, stepping forward to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. He let a small smile tug at his lips when he met your loving eyes. “Just... thinking.”

“That’s dangerous,” you teased, leaning into his touch.

He chuckled softly but then grew serious. “I want what you want,” he said quietly, clarifying when you sent him a confused look. “A family. A future. Even if it terrifies me.”

Your breath hitched. “Remus—”

“But we’ll do it on our terms,” he continued, thumbing your cheek. “Not out of fear. Out of love.”

You smiled, tears threatening to spill. “Out of love,” you echoed.

He pulled you into a fierce embrace, lips finding yours in a kiss that spoke volumes. Whatever came next—whatever the war threw your way—you’d face it. Hand in hand. Heart to heart.

Together.

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[roesolo]

Next Year in the White House: a story about the first Presidential Seder @blue_slip_media @randomhousekids

[winningthesweepstakes]

The Magic Paintbrush by Kat Zhang with Eric Darnell and Baobab Studios, illustrated by Phoebe Zhong

The Magic Paintbrush by Kat Zhang with Eric Darnell and Baobab Studios, illustrated by Phoebe Zhong. Crown Books for Young Readers, 2024. 9780593179932 Rating:  1-5 (5 is an excellent or a Starred review) 4 Format: Hardcover Genre: Fantasy What did you like about the book? Seventh grader Amy Li loves art.  She feels she does her best work in the digital milieu, and lacks confidence in her…

[pathologicalreid]

separation anxiety | S.R.

spencer's first case back from paternity leave involves children, so a concerned party reaches out to you for help

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: mom!reader, dad!spencer, vaguely described breastfeeding, word count: 1.28k a/n: this is technically the reid family from cryptic, but you don't have to read cryptic in order to understand this fic.

Your book rested in your lap as you pinched the thin paper of the novel between your index finger and your thumb. You had one foot on the ground, and the other was on the bottom of your daughter’s stroller, effectively rocking the stroller in two-four time so the infant would stay asleep.

Just because the A-Team wasn’t around didn’t mean there weren’t people working in the BAU. A crying baby would certainly disrupt the workflow in the bullpen – even if the baby belonged to a member of the BAU. Although, you had already fed her – mostly covered – at Spencer’s desk, so maybe you were past the point of no return.

You and baby Nellie had just been staring at each other at home – she was doing tummy time – when your phone went off. A mysterious text from Derek Morgan had popped up on your phone screen.

Derek Morgan: Got a sec?

It wasn’t that you and Derek never texted, it’s just that it was usually under the realm of “on my way” messages and, more recently, baby pictures, but you usually communicated indirectly using a massive group chat that was created by none other than Penelope Garcia.

So, when you answered and he asked if you’d be able to meet the team when they arrived at Quantico, you hesitantly said yes. He explained more once they were on the jet, the case that they had been on involved young children, and there was a little girl that had struck a particular chord with your boyfriend – who was on his first case back from paternity leave.

Eleanor was three months old, and you weren’t sure who’d have a harder time being away from one another – her or Spencer. You hadn’t considered how Spencer would feel when confronted with a case involving children now that he was a father. Quite frankly, you had hoped that he would’ve had more time before he needed to face a situation like that.

You waited, still using your foot to rock Nell’s stroller as the cover diffused the fluorescent light, you could hear her moving now, likely having woken up from her nap, but if she wasn’t crying, you saw no reason to stop her from playing with the colorful toys that dangled above her.

Sighing, you peered up from your book to see the elevator opening on the sixth floor, revealing the team behind the steel doors. Morgan clocked you first, winking as he passed through the glass doors to the bullpen.

Spencer hadn’t noticed the two of you yet, so you slowly opened the cover of the stroller and picked your daughter up, holding her gently to your chest. The infant fussed a bit while she was being moved, effectively gaining the attention of her father, whose face lit up at the sight of his family waiting for him at his desk.

Pushing past the rest of the team, who had also noticed the small being in the room by this point, Spencer approached his desk, haphazardly dropping his bag on the metal surface before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. Before even bothering to separate your lips, he was taking the baby from your arms.

“Hey,” he murmured, pulling away from you slowly as he secured the baby in his arms, bending his neck to place his lips on the crown of Nell’s head, “I missed you, angel girl.” His voice was gentle as you looked on fondly, she reached out a small hand and gripped the collar of his shirt. “How are you?” He asked, turning his attention back onto you.

You smiled at the two of them, using a cloth to wipe the drool from her chin before Spencer took it from you, deftly draping it over his shoulder in case he needed it shortly. “Good,” you answered, “tired,” you added.

Across the bullpen, Emily waved at Eleanor, grinning broadly as she walked over to her desk with JJ. To her enjoyment, the baby responded by letting out a coo and smiling before turning her attention to her dad, nuzzling her face in his chest, “Did I miss anything?”

Raising your eyebrows, you shrugged, leaning back and sitting on Spencer’s desk, “She pushed herself up on her arms yesterday.” It wasn’t a massive milestone – you were still grateful that Spencer had been present for her first real smile.

“Oh, yeah?” He responded, proudly looking down at his daughter, who had moved on from nuzzling and was now trying to see just how much of her hand she could fit in her mouth. “Did you know that babies usually go through a sleep regression right before they learn a new skill?” He asked, directing the question at Nell, “That must be why your mama looks so tired.”

You waved him off, crossing your arms in front of your stomach, “She’s lucky she’s so cute.”

The familiar click-clack of heels notified you that Penelope Garcia had made it to the party, likely signaled by another member of the team, “The cutest little girl in the world!”

Even though every member of the team had held your daughter at one point or another, you weren’t entirely comfortable with her being handed off like a hot potato. This, combined with Spencer’s aversion to germs, led to an unspoken rule: wait until one of her parents offered to let you hold her.

“Did you want to take her for a bit?” You offered, looking over at Spencer as you did. He needed time with her, it wasn’t your intention to deprive him of that, but you needed to check in with him without the distraction of the baby. Handing her off, you spoke up, “Watch your earrings,” you tapped on your earlobe, “She will grab them.”

As Garcia held the baby, she made her way around the bullpen, allowing Eleanor to make grabby hands at everyone and everything.

Keeping an arm around his waist, you looked up at your boyfriend, “Are you alright?” You asked, keeping your voice low as there was no sense in airing your concerns to the now bustling office.

Spencer’s smile faltered ever so slightly, “They were just kids. There have been kids before, but now…”

“Now you’re a dad,” you finished for him. “It’s not just something that you could see happening to someone else; it’s something you could see happening to yourself.” Pinching his side slightly, you smirked at him knowingly, “You know, your levels of empathy and sensitivity increase when you become a parent. Your brain adjusts to make yourself a better parent.”

Rolling his eyes slightly, Spencer raised his eyebrows at you, “You know, I vaguely remember telling you something very similar last week when you were crying at an ASPCA commercial.”

You reached up to ruffle his hair, “Nice try at sarcasm, babe, but you and I both know you never vaguely remember anything.”

“How did you know to come here? That I’d need to see her?” Spencer asked, watching as Penelope continued to parade around the BAU, now taking her up the stairs and through the roundtable room. “Was it a mother’s intuition?” He suggested, taking up a lighter tone.

Turning around, your eyes followed Garcia as she walked with Eleanor, “I was contacted by a concerned party.”

Spencer followed your gaze, “I’ll thank Garcia when she gives our baby back.”

You hummed, “Actually, it was Derek, he-“ Your voice cut off abruptly, “Oh, Penny, I told you she’d grab them!” You called from Spencer’s desk, but Garcia was already on her way to return Eleanor, holding one hand to her ear as she handed the baby back to Spencer.

[celestialprincesse]

reader colouring Simon's almost faded tattoos

Simon's chin rests atop your head, his eyes glued to the illuminated screen of his laptop as he replies to his most recent post-deployment barrage of work emails, unfazed by the way you sit comfortably on his lap with a box of skin safe markers.

He's long since grown weary of the black ink swirling under the skin of his arms, depicting images of death and anguish from a time in his life he'd rather not be reminded of. However, in his early twenties angst, regret had been a thing for him to worry about if he made it through his first years as a soldier. Future Simon regrets them.

Well, actually, he doesn't regret them when you take such joy in using the faded images as your own personal colouring book, drawing life and vibrancy back into his skin with every swipe of cerulean, emerald or dusty pink. Young Simon, so angry at the world, desperate to take out his fury on everyone who wronged him, would never have imagined this.

"I like the pink." He murmurs to you, letting his eyes flick down just to take stock of what you're up to, making sure you're okay. Always making sure you're okay.

"Like the one in the garden." You nod enthusiastically, looking down at the rose tattoo on his left forearm, filled in with a soft pink, fading into one more vibrant, exactly like the one he'd helped you plant in front of the porch when you'd first moved in to your little home.

Simon doesn't reply, just drops a kiss to the crown of your head as you get back to your colouring, allowing him to get back to his emails.

These are the moments he's glad he made it long enough to see. Peaceful, quiet, safe, and filled with a gentle love that only you can provide.

[twilghtkoo]

pairings. jungkook x bookworm!reader (f)

genre/aus. fluff, established relationship

warnings. the word smut gets mentioned, jk in that fit

note. i’m a huge book lover and have been busy consuming all romance books in my free time and one part of my brain is just jungkook and another part is filled with all the romantic scenes that happen in the books i read and this idea came up :D lmk if u want more jk x bookworm!reader drabbles i actually loved writing this one so enjoy my brain rot,, likes and reblogs are appreciated ! stay safe <3

[ masterlist ]

—

“how’d you find this place, we’ve never been in this one.” jungkook notes, observes the surroundings of the small book store you both entered. floor to ceiling shelves filled with literature and writing of every genre, in different colors and sizes. warm yellow lighting from the lights in the ceiling and the battery operated candles that are placed randomly throughout the store. there’s greenery scattered along the walls and potted plants on the floor and one next to the register, creating a familiar, welcoming environment.

you can’t help but smile when you walk in. “i took a different route home from class last week and saw this place. i wanted to wait to go with you.” you answer, greeting the woman behind the counter with a soft smile.

you feel his hand blindly reach for yours from behind, you first find his pinky then interlace your fingers with his.

“it feels homey in here.” he thinks aloud, as both of you walk by a red worn out couch.

you lead him through the aisles one by one, not having any interest in the specific genres besides your favorite, but looking at the filled shelves brings you comfort.

“oh! they have comics here.” he points to the aisle across from you and now he’s taking the lead.

a comforting silence falls between you both as you skim through each shelf organized by the marvel universe, dc comics, video games and manga. from the corner of your eye, you see jungkook holding a manga in his hand.

“when was the last time you read one?”

he sighs, “i think when i was young, probably about six years ago to be honest. i don’t really have time now.” he slightly pouts at his statement.

you place your hand on his lower back before rubbing soothing circles. “i know you’ve read that one before. haikyuu,” you read the title out loud.

he nods, closing the book and placing it back with the others. “yeah i read like the first few volumes but never finished it.”

you both look throughout the manga selection some more before you manage to talk him into buying at least two volumes of jujutsu kaisen.

he holds the two books in one hand and holds your hand in his other.

you make it to the romance aisle, and immediately take your time looking around. you always feel overwhelmed in the bookstore and feel like you’re taking too long looking in just one section but jungkook always assures you to take your time and look, that he’s not in a rush.

you pick up a book and examine the cover and pages before reading the back, humming to yourself if one peaked your interest but not enough to hold onto it.

“do these have smut in them?” he blurts out next to you.

your eyes go big and you smack him on the arm. you look at the bright neon green sticky note that’s taped to the shelf with the word ‘spicy’. did they have to make it known to the world?

“would you be quiet?” you whisper-yell at him, trying to contain your laughter.

he rubs his arm where you hit him as his eyes blink innocently. liar.

he lets go of his arm and giggles, pulling you close to his side and kisses the crown of your head. “just messing with you.” he smirks.

you scoff, pushing him away lightly but failing because your boyfriend is 5’10 and muscles.

he lets you continue to look around and he does the same but not with a purpose. but he knows if he pretends to busy himself, you won’t feel rushed. and he wants you to take your time.

by the time you reached the end of the romance aisle, you’re holding two books in your hands. one hardcover and one paperback.

“that’s it? only two books you found?” jungkook stares in disbelief, his eyebrow arched.

“a hardcover is expensive.” you tell him. there were other books you found and wanted, but now that you know this place is here, you’ll stop by again one of these days after class and come back for them if they’re still here.

“babe, go get all the books you want.” he waves you off, but you stay put.

shaking your head, “no, i’ll come back for them one of these days after my classes.”

“go get them now.”

“kook, it’s okay.”

“i know it is, but i want to get them for you anyway. you got a new bookcase with more shelves and you need to fill it up.” he says, peering down at you softly but he’s not giving up.

you did get a new shelf, with your paycheck you decided to spoil yourself and get a new one that had five shelves instead of your three. you had a growing collection and you had a tower of books on your floor. you needed a proper space for them.

you bite your lip. “yeah, but i don’t want you-“

he interrupts you by placing his lips on yours, moving against your lips for only two seconds.

the kiss was so abrupt that it had you in a daze.

“go get the books, hardcover or not. i don’t care yn.” he used your name. not babe or baby.

you sigh in defeat, knowing you lost this battle. jungkook offers to hold your books and you let him, you went back for the books you wanted and carefully stacked them onto his hands. it was only ten books you found, but the stack reached to his chest and you felt bad.

“don’t give me that look, baby.” he tells you as you both make your way up to the front to pay.

the lady’s eyes go wide at the tower of books in his hands, but doesn’t say nothing and scans everything.

you inch closer to his side as the lady tells him the total and it makes you gasp. but jungkook is relaxed as the lady asks if we wanted to sign up to become a member and he doesn’t even bother to ask me as he gives her my number for the future. he finishes by tapping his card onto the machine and grabbing the two bags of books.

you thank the lady and you both leave the store. the sky now different shades of blue, orange and red.

“thank you kook, i really appreciate you.” you tell him thoughtfully, sliding your arm through his and holding onto it. he glances down at you with a soft smile, his piercings shining under the sunset.

he hums. “i love you.”

“i love you.”

[novaursa]

What Was Promised (1/2)

- Summary: From her childhood, Cersei has been told how she would one day stand next to the dragon as his queen. And she will. Just not in the way she dreamed of.

- Pairing: (targ)male!reader/Cersei Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+ (rating will go up in the next part)

- Next part: 2/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @literaturedog @idenyimimdenial

The great hall of the Red Keep gleamed with the firelight of countless torches, their glow reflected in the polished stone floors and the intricate banners that hung from the towering columns. The dragon’s sigil was everywhere—deep crimson, stitched in black, a symbol of power that had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for centuries. The air was thick with the scent of roses and sandalwood, the perfume of courtiers mingling with the faint lingering aroma of charred logs from the grand hearth.

It was a day of great significance, for Lord Tywin Lannister had arrived at court, and with him, his wife and golden daughter, the jewel of Casterly Rock. Queen Rhaella had ensured that the reception was properly prepared—nothing too extravagant, nothing too humble. Just enough to show the power of House Targaryen without appearing desperate for the Hand’s favor.

Cersei Lannister stepped into the hall with all the grace of a future queen, her golden curls neatly arranged, her dress of Lannister red trimmed with cloth-of-gold. She was young, only a girl, but already carried herself with the poise of a lady twice her age. Her mother, Lady Joanna, stood at her side, her beauty still evident despite the years that had passed since she had served as a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. They walked forward with measured steps, heads held high, as though they owned the place, as though the Red Keep was just another extension of the power of the Rock.

Cersei's emerald eyes were searching, eager, expectant. She had dreamt of this moment countless times. She was here to see him—the prince of her dreams. The silver-haired, harp-playing Rhaegar, the one who was meant to be hers, the one her father spoke of in veiled, careful words when he discussed the future.

But Rhaegar was not here.

Instead, her gaze found someone else.

He stood at the foot of the throne, half-shrouded in shadow, but there was no mistaking him. The younger prince, the other dragon, the one who was spoken of in whispers and nervous glances. He was taller than she expected for his age—twelve, no more—but there was nothing soft or poetic about him.

Where Rhaegar’s features were almost ethereal, delicate as though sculpted by the gods themselves, his younger brother was sharp edges and intensity. His cheekbones were pronounced, his jaw strong, his mouth set in a firm line that did not hint at laughter or songs. His hair was the color of pale silver, falling past his shoulders in an unruly mane, not neatly brushed and tied as Rhaegar’s always was. But it was his eyes that caught her most of all.

Dark violet. Almost black in the dim light. Eyes that did not wander dreamily or hesitate in uncertainty. No, his gaze was piercing, cutting, as though he saw straight through whatever was placed before him and had already judged it unworthy.

Cersei felt her breath hitch for the briefest of moments.

The boy—no, the young man—was watching her. Not in the way the sons of lesser lords did, fumbling with their manners and shy smiles. He studied her like one might a new horse, assessing its strength, its potential, its worth.

A chill ran down her spine. And yet, she did not look away.

“Prince Rhaegar regrets he could not be here to greet you,” Queen Rhaella spoke, her voice as smooth and formal as always. She smiled at Lady Joanna, a forced thing, full of practiced pleasantries. “The Crown Prince has taken to his books this morning.”

Cersei knew it was not a true excuse. He did not wish to be here. He did not wish to see her.

The realization stung, but before the feeling could settle, a voice cut through the silence like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“Do you intend to greet the court or stand there like statues?”

Cersei's head snapped toward the speaker. It was him. The younger prince. His voice was not kind nor particularly cruel—it was simply commanding, as though he had every right to speak as he pleased, regardless of who was present.

Lady Joanna hesitated for only a heartbeat before she smiled, dipping her head. “Forgive us, Prince Y/N. We did not mean to delay.”

Cersei, however, did not bow her head. She held her chin high, staring at him, unafraid.

The prince’s lips curled slightly, as though amused. “And you are Cersei Lannister.” It was not a question.

“Yes, my prince.”

His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, and she felt something shift in the air between them. It was not the soft, sweeping romance she had imagined with Rhaegar. This was something else—something colder, sharper, more dangerous.

“You have your father’s arrogance,” he mused.

Cersei’s fingers curled into her skirts, though her face remained composed. “And you have your father’s cruelty.”

The queen inhaled sharply. Lady Joanna stiffened. The court fell into a hush.

For a heartbeat, she thought she had overstepped, that he would lash out, that she would be sent away in disgrace. But the prince only tilted his head, considering her with those dark, dragon’s eyes. And then, to her astonishment, he laughed. A short, low chuckle, but a laugh nonetheless.

“Well,” he murmured, stepping closer, his presence like a storm rolling in. “Perhaps this court will not be so dull after all.”

And just like that, the world she had envisioned shattered. Rhaegar was a ghost in her mind, forgotten in an instant.

Because this prince, this dragon with his words and unreadable eyes—he had stolen her attention, and he did not intend to give it back.

The morning sun spilled amber light over the Red Keep, casting shades across the polished marble floors of Cersei’s chambers. The scent of fresh marigolds and lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the faint salt-kissed breeze drifting from the sea beyond the city walls. Servants moved about her rooms with quiet efficiency, their hands deft as they worked, brushing, pinning, lacing. They had come with her from Casterly Rock, sworn to her service, and yet today, their movements seemed to irritate her more than usual.

Cersei sat before an ornate mirror, her emerald eyes fixed upon her own reflection as her maids carefully arranged her curls, weaving delicate strands of silk ribbon through the shimmering locks. The dress they had chosen for her was a masterpiece—deep crimson, embroidered with golden lions along the bodice, the Lannister pride stitched into every inch of fabric. It was meant to dazzle, to command attention, to remind the court that the blood of Casterly Rock ran strong in her veins. And yet, despite the finery, despite the grandeur of the day to come, she felt strangely restless.

"You’re nervous," Melara Hetherspoon's voice cut through the hush of the chamber, filled with the quiet certainty that only a childhood friend could have.

Cersei’s gaze flickered away from her reflection to meet Melara’s in the mirror. The girl sat on the edge of the bed, her brown curls pinned up neatly, her hands folded in her lap. Melara was dressed finely but plainly in Lannister colors, the daughter of a steward, a companion rather than an equal. Yet despite the difference in their stations, she had been Cersei’s shadow for as long as she could remember, the one who listened to her every whisper, shared in her every scheme and dream.

"Nonsense," Cersei scoffed, though the word lacked the sharpness she had intended. She turned her head slightly as her maid tightened the laces of her gown, the pressure making it momentarily difficult to breathe. "Why would I be nervous? It is just a tourney."

Melara tilted her head, studying her with a knowing look. "You have seen many tourneys before, and not once have you been like this. You did not even blink when Ser Tygett nearly killed that hedge knight in Lannisport, yet now you fidget like a girl half your age. Your hands," she gestured to Cersei’s lap, "you keep clenching them."

Cersei stilled, forcing her fingers to relax. She had not even noticed.

"It is excitement," she said, her voice smooth, practiced, the lie slipping easily from her tongue. "The festival is a grand occasion. The King himself declared it in honor of the Maiden’s Bounty."

Melara let out a quiet laugh, soft but not entirely believing. "No one truly celebrates the Maiden’s Bounty, not like this. It is only an excuse for the lords to drink and fight, and for the knights to show off before the court."

"Then I shall enjoy the spectacle," Cersei replied coolly, returning her gaze to the mirror.

Melara did not respond immediately. Instead, she watched, thoughtful, as the maids finished their work, stepping back to admire their handiwork. Cersei looked flawless—her golden curls spilling down her back like molten sunlight, her gown a perfect fit, the crimson deep enough to remind those who looked upon her of power, of blood, of the lion’s hunger.

Melara waited until the maids had drifted away before speaking again, this time in a quieter tone. "It is him, isn’t it?"

Cersei stiffened.

Melara took her silence as confirmation. "Not Rhaegar," she continued, her voice just above a whisper, as if speaking his name would summon him into the room. "The other one. The younger prince."

Cersei inhaled slowly, forcing her expression into something unreadable, something detached. "Do not be foolish, Melara."

But her friend only smiled, leaning forward slightly, as though she had just uncovered a great secret. "I saw the way you looked at him in the hall. And more importantly, I saw the way he looked at you."

Cersei felt her pulse quicken, though she did not allow her face to betray her. That moment in the great hall had been playing in her mind ever since, playing over and over like a song she could not banish. She had come expecting Rhaegar—gentle, poetic Rhaegar. Instead, she had met his brother, a dragon of an entirely different kind.

"You mistake curiosity for something else," Cersei said, reaching for the gold bracelet on her vanity, fastening it around her wrist with deliberate movements. "He is different, that is all. Not like Rhaegar."

Melara smirked. "No. He is nothing like Rhaegar. Rhaegar is the song before the storm." She hesitated, as if weighing her words. "But he… he is the storm itself."

Cersei’s fingers stilled against the bracelet. She hated how well Melara knew her, how easily she saw the things Cersei had not yet dared to name.

"It does not matter," Cersei said at last, standing, the silks of her gown rustling as she did. "I am to be queen one day. It will be Rhaegar at my side, not him."

"Are you certain of that?" Melara asked, rising as well, her expression unreadable. "It seems to me that fate rarely follows the path we expect."

Cersei did not answer.

The tourney field awaited, filled with banners and lords and knights eager to spill blood in the name of sport. The whole court would be there. Rhaegar would be there. And so would he.

As she walked toward the doors, she could not deny the thrill that curled deep in her stomach, the thrill she had not felt when thinking of Rhaegar.

She had dreamt all her life of the perfect prince, the perfect future.

But dragons were unpredictable things. And she was beginning to wonder if she had been looking at the wrong one all along.

The tourney grounds outside King’s Landing were alive with the roar of the crowd, the banners of a hundred noble houses fluttering in the late morning breeze. Dust rose from the well-trodden earth, mixing with the scent of sweat, steel, and horses. The air thrummed with anticipation as the latest round of jousts unfolded before the assembled court.

The high stands, raised above the lists, were draped in black and crimson, the sigils of House Targaryen billowing in the warm wind. King Aerys sat upon his elevated throne, his expression impassive for the moment, his mind not yet clouded by the madness that would one day consume him. His queen, Rhaella, sat beside him, pale and drawn, her beauty diminished by the toll of years and sorrow.

Cersei sat among her family, her curls gleaming like spun sunlight as she leaned forward, her eyes alight with a different kind of hunger. Lady Joanna sat beside her, regal and poised, though her gaze flickered to her husband with veiled unease. Tywin Lannister watched the field with the keen, calculating stare of a man weighing every detail, his arms folded across his chest. Jaime, seated next to Cersei, was grinning at the displays of skill, though his hand often went to the sword at his hip as though he longed to test himself against the knights below.

Beside Cersei, Melara Hetherspoon nudged her lightly. “You’ve hardly said a word,” she whispered, her voice barely heard over the din of the crowd. “I think you’re holding your breath.”

Cersei ignored her, her gaze locked onto the field, onto him.

The younger prince, the dragon who did not sing songs, the one who wielded a blade as though it were an extension of his own will, was preparing to ride. His armor gleamed a shade darker than the polished steel of his brother’s—blackened plate, edged with gold filigree in the shape of dragon wings that spread across his pauldrons. His breastplate was adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its eyes set with dark rubies that burned like embers in the midday sun. Unlike Rhaegar, whose armor bore an air of chivalric elegance, his was made for battle, built not for the beauty of poetry but for the raw, unyielding force of war.

His destrier was as fearsome as its rider—a great black beast, towering and powerful, its mane braided with silver rings. Its eyes, dark as night, flared with barely restrained aggression, its breaths coming in great snorts as it stomped the ground impatiently. This was no simple tournament steed, trained to parade before noble ladies; it was a warhorse, a creature that had seen battle, that had felt the clash of steel and the charge of foes beneath its hooves.

Cersei exhaled slowly, her hands curled into the fabric of her gown.

Across the field, his opponent prepared to meet him. Robert Baratheon.

The young Lord of Storm’s End was already a force to be reckoned with. Barrel-chested and broad-shouldered even at his age, he was clad in armor of gold and black, the stag of his house emblazoned proudly upon his chest. His warhammer was absent for the joust, replaced with a lance, but his strength was undeniable. He had bested several knights already, his victories cheered by the stormlanders in the crowd.

As the herald called their names, the field fell into a hush.

Robert set his lance, gripping it tightly as he eyed his cousin with a grin, his confidence unshaken. But the younger prince only adjusted his grip, lowering his helm with a slow, deliberate motion.

The trumpets sounded.

The horses sprang forward, pounding the earth with thunderous force. Dust and sand kicked up around them as they closed the distance, lances aimed true, speed and strength converging in a single violent moment.

The impact was deafening.

Robert’s lance shattered upon the younger prince’s breastplate, but it did not unseat him. The force of the blow barely made him falter, his grip on the reins unshaken.

But his lance—his lance struck Robert square in the chest with a force so brutal, so unrelenting, that it sent the stag lord flying.

The crowd gasped as Robert crashed onto the ground with a resounding thud, the air driven from his lungs. His armor caved slightly where the lance had struck, the impact merciless, unyielding. 

The younger prince did not hesitate. He did not celebrate, did not raise his lance in victory as other knights might have. Instead, he dismounted in one fluid motion, his black cloak billowing behind him as he strode forward, his boots kicking up the dust that still hung in the air.

A predator approaching fallen prey.

Robert gasped, rolling onto his side, one gauntleted hand clawing at the grass as though trying to pull himself upright. His face was red, veins standing out on his thick neck as he fought to regain his breath.

The prince stopped a pace away, tilting his head as he observed the fallen stag. He said nothing, simply watching, waiting.

From the stands, Steffon Baratheon surged to his feet. “Maester!” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the murmuring crowd. “Fetch a maester!”

Beside him, Stannis sat stone-faced, his blue eyes unreadable. Renly, still too young to understand, only clutched at his mother’s skirts.

King Aerys, whose interest had been fleeting throughout the day, leaned forward, his gaze flickering between the two young men. There was no amusement on his face, only the glint of something deeper, something calculating.

“End this,” Steffon called out again, his voice edged with fury. “The boy is hurt!”

Still, the prince did not move, did not offer Robert a hand, did not mock him, did not even acknowledge the cries for the match to be halted. He simply stared.

Robert’s breaths came shallowly, his chest still heaving, but he met the prince’s gaze with a look of smoldering defiance. He coughed, forcing himself onto his knees, his fingers curling into fists.

For a long moment, the two merely looked at one another—two boys who would one day be men, two warriors who would one day lead armies against one another, two forces destined to collide not just in sport, but in war.

Then, without a word, the younger prince turned, his black cloak trailing behind him as he strode away, leaving Robert to rise on his own.

The crowd cheered, but Cersei did not hear them.

Her heart was pounding, not from fear, not from shock, but from something far more dangerous.

Robert Baratheon had been struck down before the eyes of the court. But the only thing Cersei could see was the dragon who had done it.

The roar of the crowd echoed across the tournament field, a storm of voices calling for the victorious prince, for the younger dragon who had shattered the stag in a single devastating charge. The nobles in the stands cheered, their voices raised in admiration or in shock, their eyes drawn to the spectacle that had unfolded before them.

Cersei, however, did not join in the cheers.

She sat stiffly in her seat, her hands curled into the fabric of her gown, her lips pressed together as her gaze followed the figure in blackened armor. The younger prince strode away from Robert Baratheon’s crumpled form, his movements slow, deliberate, untouched by hesitation or triumph. The way he walked—without flourish, without the performative airs of a knight playing to the crowd—was something primal. Something cold.

And yet, he did not stop. He did not bask in the victory, did not raise his fist in conquest or turn to acknowledge the lords who called his name in approval. There was no pause, no moment of indulgence, no seeking of favor from the ladies in the stands as was tradition.

Cersei’s fingers tightened.

She had watched every other knight and noble son in the lists play their part in the tournament’s pageantry. When they won, they turned to the high stands, their eyes sweeping over the noble ladies assembled, seeking the favor of a maiden to bless them for the next round. Garlands of flowers were tossed from delicate hands, a ritual of admiration, of courtly love. Even Rhaegar had done it—turning his solemn, poetic gaze to some lady, offering her the ghost of a smile before accepting her token with princely grace.

But not him.

The younger prince gave the ladies of the court nothing. No glance, no acknowledgment, no gesture to suggest that he sought the favor of any woman. Not even a flicker of amusement at the hopeful looks cast his way.

He walked past the edge of the lists without even turning toward them.

Cersei felt something painful twist in her chest.

“He doesn’t look up,” Melara murmured beside her, her voice laced with intrigue. “Not at all.”

Cersei’s nails dug into the embroidery of her gown. “So it seems,” she said coolly, her voice controlled, measured. But inside, a slow heat was rising, curling around her like a fire starved for air.

The knights who played at chivalry always turned to the ladies, always sought their admiration, their favor. They fought for love, for glory, for the approval of noble maidens.

But this one—the younger prince—fought for nothing but himself.

“He didn’t even glance this way,” Melara mused, as if she, too, could not quite believe it. “Do you think he will at least claim a favor before the next round?”

Cersei exhaled sharply, not looking away from the retreating figure. “He should.”

But the moment the words left her lips, she knew the truth.

He wouldn’t.

He had no need to.

The realization made her blood run hot, an unfamiliar and infuriating feeling settling deep within her. Men had sought her favor since she had been old enough to understand what it meant. She had seen the way boys and young lords looked at her, the way their eyes lingered, the way they blushed and stammered in her presence.

But not him.

The younger prince had stolen the attention of the entire tournament, had commanded the field with the same ruthless efficiency that he carried in his every step, and yet he did not spare so much as a glance toward the highborn ladies watching from the stands. He had bested Robert Baratheon in a way that left no doubt of his dominance, had torn through the young stag’s pride as easily as his lance had broken against his chest—and still, he gave nothing of himself to the audience.

Not to the lords who cheered him.

Not to the ladies who waited with hopeful eyes.

Not to her.

Cersei’s jaw tightened.

Across the stands, she saw her father’s expression remain unreadable, but she knew him well enough to recognize the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair. Tywin Lannister was assessing, weighing, calculating—as he always did.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Melara’s voice was quieter now, but edged with curiosity. “I wonder why.”

Cersei inhaled slowly, forcing her face into a mask of calm. “He thinks himself above it,” she said. “That’s all.”

She did not know if she believed her own words.

Perhaps it was true. Perhaps he did not need the affections of noble ladies, nor the empty gestures of courtly love. But that did not make it any less infuriating.

Her green eyes followed him as he disappeared beyond the tournament tents, swallowed by the shadows cast by the towering banners.

He had left the field victorious.

And he had left her burning.

The cheers still echoed behind you as you strode from the lists, the weight of your armor pressing against your shoulders, though it was not fatigue that urged you to leave. The tournament field was a spectacle for those who played at war, for lords who measured their worth in the eyes of gathered ladies, for knights who thought glory was something that could be won in an afternoon’s game.

You had no use for it.

Victory meant nothing to you. Not here. Not in a contest where the lances were dulled and the stakes were nothing more than favor and pride. You had dismounted Robert Baratheon not out of desire for admiration, nor for the hollow cheers of the court, but because it had been expected. Because the moment you entered the lists, you had known there was only one outcome—one where you stood, and the other fell.

The warhorse beneath you had sensed it as well. The beast had known that there would be no hesitation in your grip, no tremor of uncertainty as you set your lance and charged. A horse was a reflection of its rider, and your destrier had carried you with the same unrelenting force that burned in your blood.

Yet now, as you removed yourself from the noise, from the fluttering banners and the awed-eyed stares from the stands, you felt something else stirring. Not regret. Not satisfaction.

Only impatience.

The sun burned high overhead as you moved past the tournament tents, past the gathered squires and stable boys who scrambled to make way. You tore off your helm, the metal still warm from the heat of the day, your pale hair damp with sweat. You loosened the clasps of your gauntlets, flexing your fingers as you stepped into the shade of a pavilion, exhaling a slow breath.

Then came the sound of footsteps behind you. Light, deliberate, lacking urgency yet unmistakably seeking you out.

You did not need to turn to know who it was.

“I suppose I should not be surprised,” Rhaegar’s voice was as calm as ever, smooth and measured like the notes of his harp. But beneath it, there was something else. A quiet accusation.

You did not immediately respond, instead unfastening the last of your armor, placing it aside with deliberate movements. The weight of it had never felt burdensome, but it was a relief to be free of it nonetheless.

“You left before the final bout,” Rhaegar continued, stepping closer. You could feel his gaze on you, assessing, searching. “You know what they will say.”

Finally, you turned, meeting your brother’s eyes. They were different then your own, softer, their depths filled with thoughts that did not concern themselves with war or blood.

“They will say whatever they wish,” you said, your voice lacking the concern he so clearly wished to find in you. “It changes nothing.”

Rhaegar studied you, his silver hair falling in waves over the high collar of his tunic, his princely robes immaculate even in the dust of the tournament grounds. He had never been one for these games either, not in the way knights and lesser lords were, but he understood their importance. He understood what was expected.

And you? You had never cared for what was expected.

“What was that?” he asked at last, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his lips. “With Robert Baratheon.”

You tilted your head slightly, expression unmoved. “A joust.”

Rhaegar’s gaze sharpened. “No. It was more than that.”

A flicker of amusement touched your lips. “You always see more in things than is there, brother.”

Rhaegar exhaled through his nose, his patience a thing that had been tempered by years of dealing with courtiers, with sycophants, with those who sought his favor with honeyed words and false adoration. But with you, there was no pretense, no masks. Only the truth as it was, sharp and unyielding.

“You could have unhorsed him without such force,” Rhaegar said finally. “You could have made it a match of skill, of grace. Instead, you chose to break him.”

You shrugged, feeling the tension still coiled in your muscles. “He should not have entered the lists if he was not prepared to fall.”

Rhaegar shook his head slightly, as if trying to decipher something that had no easy answer. “This is a festival. A tourney meant to honor the Maiden’s Bounty, not a battlefield.”

“And yet, even you did not let your opponent win,” you countered, watching him closely.

Rhaegar’s lips pressed together. “That is not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

For a moment, silence stretched between you. The sounds of the tourney continued in the distance, the cheers for the next round of jousts ringing out across the field, but here, beneath the shade of the pavilion, it was only the two of you.

Rhaegar’s fingers twitched at his side, as if he longed for his harp, for something to ground himself. “You should have taken a favor.”

You let out a short breath of amusement. “And who would I have asked?”

Rhaegar’s expression shifted slightly, though whether it was amusement or exasperation, you could not tell. “Do you truly not see it?”

You arched a brow.

“The way they look at you,” Rhaegar said simply. “The way she looks at you.”

You did not need to ask who he meant. You had felt the weight of her gaze, the way it followed you even after you had left the field, the way it burned with something that was not admiration nor simple curiosity.

Cersei Lannister.

Golden-haired, green-eyed, the lion’s daughter, the girl who thought herself already a queen. You had seen the way she carried herself, the way she held her chin high, her pride wrapped around her like a cloak. She had come to court for Rhaegar, had set her eyes upon the prince she believed would be her match.

But now, her gaze had shifted.

You had felt it.

And you had ignored it.

“I do not fight for garlands,” you said simply.

Rhaegar’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps you should.”

You gave him a look. “Would that have pleased you? If I had played the game, if I had turned to the high stands and sought some lady’s favor? If I had chosen her?”

Rhaegar exhaled quietly, his hands clasping behind his back as he shook his head. “It does not matter what pleases me.” He met your gaze, something unreadable in his expression. “But it matters what pleases her.”

You did not respond.

Because you knew, in that moment, that Rhaegar was right.

And that made it all the more infuriating.

The air in the woods outside Lannisport was thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves, the trees bending overhead like silent sentinels as Cersei and Melara made their way deeper into the dark. The torches they carried flickered weakly against the wind, casting long, trembling shadows over the twisted roots and jagged rocks that jutted from the ground like bones protruding from flesh.

The night was cold, colder than it should have been in late summer, and the unease that curled in Cersei’s stomach had nothing to do with the chill. She had wanted this—had insisted upon it ever since the whispers first reached her ears, since she had learned of the woman they called Maggy the Frog, the fortune-teller who lived beyond the safety of the town, in a hovel of wood and straw, wrapped in the stench of strange potions and foul magics.

Melara had tried to protest, had spoken of bad omens, of curses, of the punishment they would face if they were caught sneaking out of the Rock in the dead of night. But Cersei had silenced her with a look, her green eyes burning with something deeper than mere curiosity.

She needed to know.

Would she be Rhaegar’s? Would she be queen? Would the life she had dreamed of since she was a girl come to pass, or was it all just a story told to her by her father to keep her obedient, to keep her waiting?

The door to the hovel creaked as Cersei pushed it open, the wooden frame swollen with dampness, resisting her entry. The scent that met her inside was almost unbearable—mildewed herbs, stale sweat, the coppery tang of something older, something rotten. A single candle burned on a wooden table, its wax dripped over the edge in thick, hardened streams.

Maggy the Frog sat hunched in the dim light, her yellowed eyes lifting from whatever foul concoction she had been stirring in a chipped clay bowl. Her skin was a sallow, papery thing, stretched too tight over her sharp bones, her lips cracked from age and the sharpness of whatever she had been chewing.

“You’ve come,” Maggy rasped, her voice thick with phlegm, as though she had been expecting them all along. “Come closer, golden child.”

Cersei swallowed, forcing herself to move forward, ignoring the way Melara hovered near the doorway, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“I want my fortune told,” Cersei said, her voice strong despite the unease that curled around her.

Maggy’s lips peeled back into something that was not quite a smile. “They all do.”

Cersei pulled the pouch from her cloak and placed it on the table with a deliberate motion, the weight of the gold inside clinking softly as it settled.

Maggy did not reach for it. Instead, she tilted her head, her yellowed eyes gleaming. “Gold won’t buy you truth, little lion. Truth is paid in blood.”

Melara made a small sound in the back of her throat, but Cersei did not hesitate. She pulled a small dagger from her sleeve and pressed the tip to her palm, slicing just enough for a bead of crimson to well up against her pale skin.

Maggy’s gnarled fingers shot out with surprising speed, catching Cersei’s wrist in a grip far stronger than it should have been. She turned her hand, watching as the blood gathered, thick and glistening, before she brought Cersei’s palm to her lips and licked the drop away with a tongue that was too hot, too rough.

Cersei recoiled, but Maggy’s grip held firm for a moment longer before she released her, letting her palm drop. The old woman’s pupils dilated, her breath rattling through her teeth as she leaned back, her bony shoulders shaking with a sound that could have been laughter.

“You will marry,” Maggy said, her voice lower now, heavier. “But not to a prince.”

Cersei’s breath caught. “That’s not true.”

Maggy’s lip curled. “Oh, but it is, little lion.” Her fingers traced a slow, deliberate pattern on the table, the candlelight flickering against the sharp angles of her face. “You will marry a king. A great king, a terrible king.”

Cersei frowned, confusion warring with the certainty she had always carried. She was meant for Rhaegar. Her father had said so. Rhaegar was the prince, the heir, the one she had dreamed of since she was a girl playing at being queen.

“And will I be his queen?” she demanded.

Maggy’s laughter scraped against the inside of her skull. “Oh, yes. A queen you shall be, golden and fierce, with a crown as heavy as your father’s ambitions.” Her yellowed eyes gleamed. “But it is not the prince who will take you to his bed, not the prince who will plant his seed in your womb.”

A shiver coiled down Cersei’s spine.

She swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. “How many children will I have?”

Maggy inhaled sharply, her body shuddering, as though she had drawn in something unseen. For a moment, she was silent, her head tilted as if listening to a voice only she could hear. Then, her lips curled back, revealing blackened gums.

“Three.”

Cersei's fingers were now pressing against the cut in her palm, as if grounding herself. “And will they be strong?”

Maggy’s gaze snapped to her, and in the dim candlelight, her pupils looked like slits. “Oh, yes.” Her voice was thick with something dark, something ancient. “Strong, with sharp teeth and scales beneath their skin. Born in fire, bound in blood.”

Melara whimpered beside her.

Cersei felt the air shift, as if the walls of the hovel had drawn closer. “That’s nonsense,” she said, but her voice was quieter now.

Maggy leaned forward, her breath sour, her lips splitting into something that was not quite a smile. “You asked for truth, child. And truth is what I have given you.”

Cersei’s heart pounded. She did not know why, but something in her bones told her that this was not the prophecy she had wanted. Not the fate she had been promised.

And yet, in the deepest parts of herself, she felt it stir.

A king, not a prince. A brood of children with sharp teeth and scales.

The scent of blood was thick in the air.

And for the first time in her life, Cersei Lannister felt afraid.

The halls of Casterly Rock had always been grand, towering above the sea with their ancient stone walls carved deep into the mountainside, but in the moons since Joanna Lannister’s passing, the castle felt emptier, colder. The great hall, where once warmth and laughter had filled the air, now seemed a place of solemnity, where meals were taken in silence, where the weight of loss pressed heavy upon those who still remained.

Cersei sat at her father’s table, her hands resting in her lap, her fingers curled against the rich embroidery of her gown. She barely touched her food, though the feast was laid out in abundance—roast venison, thick slices of crusty bread, buttered turnips, and a golden swan stuffed with figs and almonds. The scents filled the air, rich and indulgent, but they did not stir her appetite.

She had not recovered.

It had been several moons since her mother’s passing, and yet the ache in her chest remained as raw as the day Joanna had been taken from her. The wailing of the babe had been the last sound she had heard before the world cracked apart. He had come screaming into the world, red-faced and monstrous, and in his place, her mother had gone cold and still.

She did not look at him.

Tyrion sat at the far end of the table, where the nurses had settled him, fussing over the child who had ruined everything. He was too small, too weak, his head misshapen, his eyes different—one green, like hers, the other a muddled color that she did not care to name. He did not belong.

Tywin Lannister had not once looked at the boy. Not truly. He had named him, had ensured that he was fed, but there was nothing in his eyes when they rested upon his youngest son. Tyrion might have been a ghost for all the attention he received.

But he was not the ghost that haunted them.

The clatter of silverware against a plate broke the heavy silence. “Prince Rhaegar is to be wed,” Tywin said at last, his voice calm, measured, as though discussing trade routes or taxation. “The match has been set.”

Cersei’s heart clenched, her fingers tightening against the fabric of her skirts.

“Elia Martell,” Tywin continued, taking a sip of his wine. “Of Dorne.”

Jaime, seated beside her, exhaled through his nose, his golden brow furrowing. “Dorne?”

Tywin’s gaze flickered to his son, his expression unreadable. “Dorne,” he confirmed. “It seems the King has found their alliance of greater worth than ours.”

Cersei stared at her father, trying to read his face, trying to find some sign that this was not true, that he would not allow this.

“But you said—” she stopped herself, her voice tight.

She had spent her whole life believing she was meant for Rhaegar. That she would sit beside him, golden and radiant, the queen of Westeros, the woman who would bring House Lannister to its rightful place of prominence. It had been promised. Her father had spoken of it, had planned for it.

And now, it was gone.

Tywin did not so much as blink. “What I said is irrelevant. Aerys has made his choice.”

Cersei’s chest burned. The wine in her cup sat untouched, her appetite forgotten. She had dreamed of Rhaegar, had imagined the way he would look at her when they were wed, how he would lift her hand in court, how they would rule together. But now, all of it—everything—had been stolen from her.

And by a Dornish woman.

She swallowed, her voice colder when she finally spoke. “Elia is sickly.”

“A match is not made for love, nor for health,” Tywin said, his voice stern. “It is made for power.”

Jaime leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight. “And what power does Dorne offer that we do not?”

Tywin did not answer at once, simply staring at his son in that way that made Jaime bristle like an unruly boy before his tutor. But then, he took another slow sip of his wine before answering.

“Dorne remains untouched,” he said. “They do not bow easily, nor do they forget the past. Aerys believes that by binding Rhaegar to the Martells, he will ensure their loyalty should the day come that he has need of them.” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “It is a foolish decision.”

Cersei barely heard him.

Her hands trembled beneath the table, rage curling in her chest, coiling like a serpent around her ribs. She had never wanted something so badly in her life. It was meant to be hers. It was supposed to be hers.

“Then what of me?” she asked, her voice quiet, but the sharpness in it cut through the air like a blade.

Tywin’s gaze settled on her, cold and considering. “You will marry well,” he said, as though it were an answer, as though it could possibly be enough.

Cersei’s throat burned.

Rhaegar was slipping through her fingers, his name already entwined with another. Her father would not challenge the King’s decision, not openly, and so she would be left with whatever match he deemed suitable.

It wasn’t fair.

She was about to speak, to press him further, when Tywin set his goblet down with a firm clink, his expression shifting slightly. “There is still the younger prince.”

The room fell silent.

Cersei felt something inside her shift.

Jaime glanced at her, his lips pressing into a thin line. “The younger prince?” he repeated, his tone wary.

Tywin met Cersei’s gaze, his gold-flecked eyes unblinking. “Rhaegar will be wed, but Prince Y/N remains unspoken for. A match could still be made.”

Cersei’s pulse quickened, something hot and sharp rising inside her.

The younger prince.

Not the prince of songs, not the one who played his harp and whispered of prophecy. Not the dreamer with faraway eyes.

No.

The dragon who did not bow.

The one who had looked at Robert Baratheon like prey before sending him crashing into the dirt. The one who had walked past the highborn ladies of the court without so much as a glance, who had denied her the recognition she deserved.

She had spent years trying to forget the way he had made her feel that day. And yet, here was her father, offering him to her, as if that had been the plan all along.

Cersei’s fingers curled against the table.

The lion and the dragon.

Her future had been stolen from her once.

She would not allow it to happen again.

The Sept of Baelor was ablaze with the light of a thousand candles, their glow reflecting off the pale marble columns and the golden inlays that adorned the high domed ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, mingling with the perfume of the lords and ladies who had gathered to witness the wedding of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell. The nobility of Westeros had come in droves, dressed in their finest silks and velvets, the colors of their houses woven in elaborate embroidery that shimmered under the light of the stained-glass windows.

Cersei stood among them, her hands clasped before her, her expression composed, yet beneath the rich fabric of her gown, her fingers dug into her palms. She wore Lannister crimson, the color of blood and power, her hair woven into intricate braids threaded with gold. The weight of her jewelry, heavy with rubies, felt suffocating. Yet none of it—none of the wealth, none of the grandeur—could mask the fury simmering beneath her skin.

This was meant to be her day.

She had spent her life imagining herself in Elia Martell’s place, had dreamed of walking these steps, of standing beside Rhaegar as he lifted the crown from the Septon’s hands. But instead, she was here as a spectator, as an outsider watching her future slip from her grasp.

The Dornish princess stood beside Rhaegar at the altar, delicate and dark-haired, her features refined, yet too thin, too frail. Cersei’s lips pressed into a thin line. She looked wrong beside him. The silver-haired prince should have had a queen of gold and fire, not one of sand and shadow.

Jaime stood beside her, his posture relaxed, but she knew him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched every time he glanced toward their father. Tywin Lannister stood tall, unmoving, his face impassive as he observed the ceremony. His pride had been wounded when Aerys had denied him, when the King had chosen a Martell over a Lannister. But he was not a man who sulked. He was a man who planned. And Cersei knew—knew—that her father was already thinking of his next move.

And then, she saw him.

He stood near the altar, clad in blackened armor chased with gold, the sigil of House Targaryen embossed upon his breastplate. But he was no boy anymore. No longer the sharp-tongued prince who had scorned the pageantry of the tourney, no longer the youth who had dismounted Robert Baratheon with merciless precision.

No, this was a man.

He was taller now, broader, his presence commanding even among the finest knights and lords of the realm. His hair, the color of pale silver, was longer, untamed by the careful braiding of the court, falling over his shoulders like strands of white fire. His face had sharpened with age, his features cut from something harder than mere Valyrian beauty. And his eyes—those dark violet eyes—held the same piercing weight as they had years ago, but now they had deepened, grown colder.

Cersei felt her breath catch, only for a moment.

He had always been different from Rhaegar. Where her first love had been soft, poetic, a prince out of songs, his brother had been something else entirely. He did not play harps, did not dream of prophecy. He was the fire itself, untamed, unpredictable.

And now, as he stood among his kin, watching the ceremony unfold, he carried himself with the confidence of one who did not need to seek approval, of one who knew his place and took it without asking.

Cersei swallowed, her nails biting into her palms.

The sight of him unsettled her. Infuriated her.

For years, she had burned under the slight of his disregard, under the weight of the moment in the tourney when he had walked past the highborn ladies, past her, as if she had been nothing. Even when her father had spoken of a match between them, she had seethed at the idea that she had been an afterthought, that she had been offered only because Rhaegar had been lost to her.

And yet, standing here, looking at him now, something twisted deep inside her.

This man—this dragon—was not lesser than his brother. He was not a shadow to Rhaegar’s light.

He was something else entirely.

The ceremony moved forward, the Septon speaking his words, the crowd solemn in their reverence. But Cersei barely heard them.

Because the younger prince had turned his head—just slightly, just enough.

And his gaze met hers.

A single moment. A flicker of recognition.

And then, just as quickly as it had come, he looked away.

As if she were no more than a passing detail in the grander scheme of things.

Cersei’s chest tightened, a slow heat curling through her veins.

Oh, she would not be overlooked again.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was alive with revelry, the air thick with the scent of spiced wine, roasted meats, and the heady perfume of silk-draped nobles. Banners of House Targaryen and House Martell hung above the high table, their colors vibrant in the glow of the massive chandeliers overhead. Musicians played a lively tune, the sound of lutes and drums filling the chamber as lords and ladies twirled across the polished stone floor in practiced, elegant steps.

Cersei sat with her family, a goblet of wine in her hand, though she barely touched it. Her gaze flitted over the guests, her lips curving slightly as she noted the spectacle before her—Elia Martell, seated beside Rhaegar, her dark eyes alight with quiet laughter as she spoke with the princess of Dorne. Rhaegar, as always, held himself with careful grace, nodding along to whatever pleasantries were exchanged.

But it was not them she sought tonight.

Her green eyes drifted past the lords and ladies, past the highborn maidens whispering behind their jeweled hands, past the knights exchanging boasts over their cups.

And then, she found him.

He lingered at the edge of the feast, away from the laughter and the dances, his presence like a shadow against the light. He had shed his armor for the evening, but there was nothing soft about him. He wore black, as was his custom, his tunic trimmed with gold embroidery in the shape of dragon wings. His silver hair, long and unbound, fell over his shoulders, the candlelight catching on the strands, turning them into something almost molten.

He was watching. Not the dancing, not the king’s table, but the room itself—the people, the movement, the way power shifted within the chamber like unseen currents in the sea.

Cersei smirked. He had no love for the games of court, and yet here he was, playing them all the same.

She rose smoothly from her seat, ignoring the way Jaime’s gaze flicked toward her, questioning. She did not need his approval.

Her steps were slow, deliberate, the golden fabric of her gown pooling around her feet as she moved through the crowd. She could feel eyes on her as she passed—some admiring, some envious—but she paid them no mind.

When she reached him, she did not wait for an invitation. "You do not dance," she said, tilting her head as she looked up at him. It was not a question.

He turned his gaze to her, dark violet eyes unreadable. "No."

Cersei arched a delicate brow. "You should. It is a wedding, after all."

He exhaled through his nose, the closest thing to amusement she had ever seen from him. "Then let the newlyweds dance."

Cersei smiled, slow and knowing. "That was not a request."

Something flickered in his expression then, something biting and unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might refuse her outright. But then, to her satisfaction, his lips curved—not in a smile, but something close. "So it’s a demand, then?"

She stepped closer, the warmth of the hall making the space between them feel smaller. "It is."

He regarded her for a moment longer, then, with an almost lazy motion, offered her his hand. "Very well, Lady Lannister."

Cersei’s breath caught, but she did not let it show.

He led her to the dance floor with slow, measured steps. The moment they stepped into the swirling mass of couples, the music shifted into something deeper, richer, the lutes strumming a more sensual tune.

His hand settled at her waist, firm but not rough. His grip was steady, unyielding, nothing like the soft, feather-light touch of the boys who had danced with her before. There was no hesitation in him, no need to impress, no eagerness to please.

Cersei had danced with Rhaegar once, at a feast long ago. He had been graceful, ethereal in the way he moved, as if he was not quite of this world. But this… this was different.

This was heat. Strength. Control.

She pressed closer, just enough to test him, just enough to see if he would pull away. He didn’t. "You are not like your brother," she murmured, tilting her chin up to look at him.

He smirked slightly, but his grip did not loosen. "I should hope not."

"Rhaegar is kind," she continued, her voice smooth, measured. "He sings songs. Writes poetry." She let her nails graze over the back of his hand where it held hers. "But you…"

His gaze flickered to her lips, then back to her eyes. "Me?"

"You are sharp edges and fire," she whispered. "You burn."

The music swelled, and he spun her, his hand steady as he guided her movements, never faltering, never letting her out of his grasp. "You play a dangerous game, Lady Lannister," he murmured as he pulled her back to him.

Cersei smiled, her pulse quickening. "And if I win?"

His expression shifted, darkened, something unreadable flickering in those violet depths. He leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek, his lips so close that she could almost taste the wine on them.

For a heartbeat, she thought he would kiss her.

But instead, his hand found her throat.

Not with force. Not with cruelty. But with purpose.

His fingers rested just below her jaw, his thumb ghosting over her pulse. He did not squeeze, did not press, but the weight of his hand was unmistakable. A silent reminder that he could.

Cersei inhaled sharply, her chest rising against his. She did not pull away.

His lips grazed over hers, so close that she could feel the ghost of a kiss that never quite came. His voice, when he spoke, was low and rich, curling around her like smoke. "Be careful what you wish for," he murmured. "You just might get it."

Cersei’s pulse thrummed beneath his hand, but she met his gaze unflinchingly. "I always get what I want."

A slow smirk touched his lips, and then—just as quickly as he had drawn close—he released her.

The music slowed, and they stepped apart, the space between them charged with something unsaid.

Cersei exhaled, smoothing the fabric of her gown as she lifted her chin.

No, he was nothing like Rhaegar.

And that was precisely why she wanted him.

[rose-tea-and-strawberries]

Of Lions and Mice

Leona Kingscholar x Reader

Reader is intended to be female

Masterlist

Leona was annoyed.

Once again, his golden goody-two-shoes older brother decided to shirk his responsibility of being a father and dump the overexcited, disgustingly bright-eyed crown prince on him for the day. And not only that, it had to be today of all days - a rare day where you were free from picking up Crowleys’ slack, where the loudmouthed, nattering extras that always followed you were otherwise preoccupied (and bribed to bugger off with a bag full of tuna), where he was certain he’ll spend the day in bed with you right next to him. 

But no. Just like with everything else in his miserable existence, his dreams were crushed and he had to spend the day playing caretaker to his nephew instead of wrapped up with you. What’s worse was that, you’d decided to carry the pint-sized load off of his back and gave your undivided attention to the cub when it should have been rightfully his. How he hated that selfless nature of yours, that sweet, caring, gentle nature that would make you look at anyone that wasn’t him with that loving gaze, that would make you brush your fingers through Cheka’s golden orange curls the same way you would Grim’s fur or the stray cats you’d find around campus or any other being instead of his mane. 

He hated just how loving you were, how your eyes could see the beauty in everything.

How, now that it’s late at night, and he’s closed his eyes and pretended to sleep in his attempt to actually get some shut eye and so that the little hairball would quit bothering him but Cheka just continues yapping.

Even in the darkness under his eyelids, he could feel you cast a worried look his way from the spot where his bed sags a little.

“Hey Cheka,” your sweet, dulcet voice (which is currently being used to please his nephew and not sooth him to sleep with the sweet nothings it usually does) pipes up, “how about I tell you a bedtime story from my world?”

“A bedtime story?!” Wow, even with his eyes closed he could see the stars coming out of his nephew's eyes, “yes please!”

Once the little cub has settled into bed, he asks you, “do you know any stories from your world with lions in them?

“Any ones with lions? Hmm, well, I suppose I could tell you about Narnia but I think you might be a bit too young for that and - wait,” you punctuated your words with a snap of your fingers, “I know a short one. There was this man called Aesop who wrote these short stories called fables.”

“What’s a fable?” Cheka asked, his words covered in that innocently curious lilt that all six year olds seemed to have during every occasion Leona wished they wouldn’t - and that was all of them.

You, however, seemed to have much more patience than him, “A story with a moral in them. Like, always be honest, or share, or work together, that sort of thing. I had a book of them when I was younger and I really enjoyed reading them.”

Figures. Of course, the shining beacon of sickeningly polite goodness grew up with such stories. He would’ve teased you for that but he had a child who he’s still trying to convince he was asleep.

“That sounds so cool, Aunty Y/N! Will you tell me more?”

“Of course, I will,” he can hear your smile, “but I’ll tell you them later, okay. Now, it’s time for you to rest.” 

“Okay, Aunty Y/N.”

“Alright so,” you clear your throat, “there was once a lion that lay asleep in his den. A shy little mouse came upon him and in her fright she ran away, only whilst doing so she accidentally ran over his head, waking him up.”

“Oh no,” Cheka gasped, “that lion is going to be so angry if he wakes up.”

Oh, so the little hairball does have a brain after all. 

“You’re right. Furious that he had been woken up, the big lion slammed a paw down on the tiny mouse and grabbed her by the tail. Holding her up, he growled at her,” here you made your voice noticeably deeper, trying to imitate a gruff growl, ““How dare you wake me up! I am the king of beasts and anyone who interrupts my slumber deserves to die! I shall kill you and eat you!””

It took everything within Leona to not burst into laughter at your adorable imitation of a ‘big scary lion’. It’s a voice you’ve used before whenever you tease him, playfully repeating the words his old self would have said to you, and it’s one that he’s rather fond of. 

He loves and respects you, Herbivore, and he’s the first to attest to your formidability and capability - even though you have the annoying tendency to not only blur the line between bravery and reckless stupidity but also play skipping rope with it - but intimidating you are not. 

“This scared the terrified mouse even more. Shaking with fear, she begged for him to let her go,” you make your voice higher at this part, squeaking in a way that oddly suited you, in Leona’s not so humble opinion, ““please, your majesty, I beg of you, please don’t eat me. It was only a mistake and if you let me go I’ll be sure to repay you. If you spare my life one day, I might even save yours.””

“The lion looked at the tiny creature and laughed, amused at how such a small mouse could ever be of use to an animal as powerful as him, “You? Save me? How absurd. You’ve made me laugh and put me in a good mood so I shall be generous and let you go.”

“Thank you, your majesty, thank you,” the mouse squeaked as she was put back on the ground, before scurrying away as fast as fast as her little legs could carry her.”

“Yay, so the mouse is free.” Cheka giggled.

“He is,” you said, “but there’s still more left. A few days later, the lion was prowling around when out of nowhere he was caught in a hunter’s net. Try as he might, he couldn’t get out of it. He tossed and turned, roaring angrily as he struggled to escape.”

“Wait, so now the lion’s in trouble. How’s he going to get out?” Cheka asked in worry. 

“You’ll see. Hearing his cries, the mouse followed the sound, recognising it from the lion he met earlier.

“I have to help him,” she squeaked as she scampered towards him.”

Upon seeing the lion in the net, she said, “hold still your majesty, I’ll get you out!”

And she quickly started to nibble on the ropes with her sharp little teeth, biting until all they broke apart. It wasn’t long until the lion was free.”

“So the mouse saved him. Was it because the lion helped him earlier?”

“It certainly was Cheka. “Thank you, little mouse,” the lion said, “I laughed at you and didn’t think you could ever help me but you saved my life.”

“It was my turn to help you.” The mouse replied, ”never forget that even a creature as small as a mouse can help a lion.”

And that’s the end,” you say.

“Thank you, Auntie Y/N, I really enjoyed that. Do you think the lion and mouse became friends after that?”

“You are very welcome, Cheka. I think they did. They did help each other, after all. Now I think it’s time to go to sleep.”

And once you were sure that the crown prince was asleep, you made your way next to your boyfriend, running your fingers through chestnut locks, “did you enjoy that little story, Leona.”

He opens his eyes to see your endeared smile. Rolling over so that he could wrap his arms around your waist he muses, “it seems awfully familiar don’t you think? A scared little herbivore wakes up a sleeping lion and ends up saving him later.”

“I’ll have you know, Your Highness, that I was never scared of you. Even when you were a rude old brute who threatened to knock out one of my teeth. And I’m certainly not little.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.” 

He pulls, letting you flop down on his bed beside him so that he can spoon you.

“Sweet dreams, little mouse,” he kissed your forehead, “I hope you know that I don’t ever intend on letting you go. Not after you helped in ways you could never even imagine.”

And so the lion fell asleep, holding the prey who rescued him from the confinement of his past safely in his arms.