AN: Yeah, the 'Fairy Tail – fairy tale' thing has been done before, but I wanted to do one, so there. It's shamelessly fluffy, and I have no regrets.

Disclaimer: I do not own Fairy Tail – Hiro Mashima does.


by Miss Mungoe

That Levy McGarden loved horror novels was common knowledge in Fairy Tail. That she also loved horribly romantic, shamelessly cheesy fairy tales – however more appropriate that was, given who she was – wasn't quite so common knowledge. But she did love them, disproportionately realistic though they were. There was nothing like a sappy, borderline unrealistic yet undeniably squeal-worthy ending to lift her spirits after a trying day. She'd loved them for as long as she could remember – ever since she was a child, long before she'd lost her parents, and long before Makarov had taken her in. For Levy, fairy tales were curling up in overly large armchairs with warm cocoa on cold winter days, and kind, warm voices spinning tales and singing fairy songs as she drifted to sleep. Fairy tales were her dearest memories of her childhood.

But fairy tales were also awkward adolescent dreams of handsome princes rescuing princesses in distress and fighting glorious battles for their honour and love. And so what if she'd not-so-secretly wanted a little something of that for herself? Wasn't she entitled to a little daring rescue by a roguishly handsome prince who could whisk her away to his marble castle and his enormous palace library, where the walls were lined with more books than she could read in a lifetime?

Of course, as all little girls learn on one point or another in their lives, such things only happen in books (some don't even happen there, like the library thing, but a girl could dream, couldn't she?) And Levy's own story, her real life, was a bit more...well, complicated, than the typical fairy tale.

And so began the tale of the fair princess who got her ass handed to her by a perpetually scowling, angry, lonely (although he'd never admit it, the stubborn man), angst-filled dragon with no social skills to speak of.

She snorted softly at the thought, her ball-point pen stilling against the white paper. Yes, that sounded like something that could have come out of her own story. Lucy was the writer, but sometimes, Levy liked indulging in a little story-spinning, herself. A small smile tugging at her lips, she put the pen back down, the words taking shape on paper even as they formed in her mind–

This perpetually angry-looking dragon (who actually wanted people to think he was angrier and meaner than he really was) had taken the princess captive because he'd thought she was a weakling (which she may or may not have been at the time) and nailed her to a tree for all her kingdom to see. He had no remorse, this dragon (or manners) and he swore to destroy the princess' kingdom and all she held dear.

Twirling a lock of her hair around her index finger, the script mage smirked to herself as she leaned back into the armchair she'd snuggled into in the early morning hours. What an ass, her dragon was. The perfect fairy tale villain – unscrupulous, rebellious, and so very, very unpredictable. She put her pen down to the paper again–

Glorious battles followed, but then one sunny afternoon the dragon spontaneously (because he couldn't settle for just being the villain and the dragon of the story) warped into the missing (and reluctant) prince of the tale when he saved the princess from a deadly shot of lightning from an evil wizard. (Well, not really an evil wizard – more like an angry teenager with superiority issues, but that's not very fairy tail-y, is it?)

She giggled softly to herself as she continued to twirl the lock around her finger, not caring that, knowing her hair, it would no doubt leave a nasty knot. Reluctant prince. Fitting, because Gajeel being, well, Gajeel, would vehemently deny any princely associations, no matter how minuscule.

But when all seemed well in the kingdom, there came a time of challenge for the reluctant dragon prince-who-used-to-be-the-villain. And who would be his convenient saviour but the princess herself, with her stunning intellectual prowess? And she was truly nothing short of 'incredible' – as spoken by the reluctant, formerly villainous dragon-prince himself.

Stretching her arms with a languid yawn, the script mage unfurled herself further into the armchair, wiggling her toes and closing her eyes as a smile of contentment settled on her face. A small snort escaped her lips at the tale spinning itself into existence in her mind. Lucy would have a good laugh, when she read it.

But despite his attempted charm, it was not easy for the dragon-prince of a formerly villainous nature to gain the trust of the princess and her court, and his continued attempts at wooing were viciously shot down by her henchmen and self-appointed guardians. But the dragon prince was a stubborn, stubborn man, and possessive enough for the whole kingdom put together, and so it came to be that neither the princess nor her henchmen had any actual say in the matter.

Another snort pulled itself free of her lips as she remembered Gajeel's awkward yet undeniably sweet attempts at wiggling his way into her heart. Or, if she was going to be semantically correct – claiming it for his own like the greedy hoarder he was.

And in the end, after defeating the darkest of wizards and his many minions, saving the kingdom and restoring the peace, the dragon-prince finally told the princess of his undying love...meaning he grabbed her like a sack of potatoes, slung her unceremoniously over his shoulder, growled "You're mine, short stack, so tell your damn accessories to fuck off.", before leaving the amazed court behind and taking her back to his lair to keep for himself for all eternity.

She burst out laughing at that, tears of mirth welling in her eyes as she threw her head back, a grin splitting her face. Her body shook with her humour, so much so that her notebook fell from her lap to land on the floor, but she was too caught up in her own good humour to care over much. So what if her story wasn't a by-the-book stereotype? When dealing with her dragon prince, things didn't go by the book – it just wasn't done.


Opening her eyes, Levy inclined her head to regard the dragonslayer standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest and an amused look on his metal-studded face. "Morning," she chirped, an attempted innocent smile pulling her lips apart as another bout of laughter escaped her. He raised a brow at her display of utter lunacy. "Have you been standing there long?" He looked to have rolled straight out of bed – his hair was more of a mess than usual, and he hadn't bothered to put on a shirt yet – meaning her eyes lingered a little longer than publicly appropriate. But they weren't in public, so she let herself indulge in a little shameless ogling.

Gajeel snorted, uncrossing his arms. "Long enough to hear ya giggling like a psycho. Voices in yer head being particularly funny today?"

She stuck her tongue out playfully as he walked over. "Always. And yours?"

He smirked, leaning down to nudge his nose against her forehead. "I ain't a complete nut, so I don't have voices in my head." Giving her another nudge with his finger, he growled, "C'mon, shortstuff – move yer ass, would ya?"

She crossed her arms over her chest in mock defiance, wiggling down further into the armchair. "I'm sorry, there's no room for normal people in this chair. Only nuts," she grinned, poking his bare stomach. He poked her back, eliciting a squeal when he hit a ticklish spot, before his hands came around her legs and back and he hoisted her up from her seat, earning another peal of laughter before he settled down, placing her in his lap facing him. At her raised brow, he gave her a look.

"My apartment – my chair, meaning I get to sit if I damn well want to."

She stuck her tongue out again, and he caught it in a quick kiss. She giggled, nudging her nose against his. "Possessive, aren't you?" she murmured.

He grinned deviously, his canines flashing. "Dragon."

She smiled at that. "You are, aren't you?" she mused, titling her head to the side. "Ever thought about being a prince?"

He snorted. "Prince?"

She shrugged. "I was just thinking...if my life was a fairy tale, you'd be the prince, wouldn't you? I mean, the prince always gets the princess."

He almost looked offended. "I ain't no damn prince, Shorty."

She raised a brow. "Would you rather someone else was the prince then?" A teasing smile stretched across her face. "I'm sure Jet wouldn't mind–"

"Hell no."

"Then you're the prince."


"Logic, Gajeel – heard of it? I'm the princess, and so-"

"Who the hell said you were the princess?"

Her brows furrowed dangerously. "Are you trying to tell me I'm not the princess of my own story?"

He rolled his eyes. "Ya can be the princess of your own damn story if you want, half-pint, but in this story," he gestured to the both of them, "yer not."

She pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. "Then what am I in this great tale, O' wise one?" she asked. His grin was razor sharp at her question.

"The dragon's treasure, of course."


"Speechless, bookworm?" the grin in his voice was palpable.

She blinked. "What? No, I just...that was..."


She smiled. "Oddly romantic. But very, very you, you strange man."

He shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth before he leaned in to claim hers. Winding her arms around his neck, she tangled her fingers in his hair, melting into his larger form. The fairy tales of her childhood might be a large armchair and hot cocoa, but as his warm hands came to slide up her back, Levy came to the conclusion that her actual tale was a large armchair and a looming dragonslayer with eyes for nothing but her.

And as much as she treasured her childhood memories, she preferred the adult version, thank you.

Breaking away with a pleased hum, she curled into him, snuggling her head beneath his jaw as his arms settled around her, pulling her closer. The first light of early morning was filtering in through the living room window, casting odd, haunting slivers of light across the floor. Outside the snow drifted down, blanketing the city in the white of winter.

"You know what?" she asked after a lull. A tired grunt answered her, and she smiled into the skin of his neck, placing a small kiss there. "I don't need a traditional fairy tale."

He snorted lazily, the sound a rumble through his chest. "Life ain't like that sissy shit, anyways," he muttered, tugging her closer. She grinned into his neck. Her eyelids felt heavy, and a yawn pulled itself free from her lips.

"Nah," she agreed, sleepily. "It's a whole lot stranger. The princess is a treasure and the dragon is a prince." She giggled sleepily.

"Am not."

"Are so."

"And I'm still a princess."

"Keep telling yerself that, Shorty," his voice rumbled in her ear as she drifted off to sleep, content in his embrace. Around them rose piles upon piles of tomes and strangely shaped metal tidbits and oddities – their castle of paper and iron, the lair of their hoard. Because it all came down to the fact that their fairy tale was seriously messed up.

But then, they'd never been ones for traditions, anyway.

AN: The cuteness-potential of these two is mind-boggling.