( Prompt: princess diaries style “I grew up not knowing I was royal and suddenly my royal grandparent showed up out of nowhere and told me I was so now I guess I’m the heir to the throne and you’re my crush from my pre-royal days but I still have a crush on you” AU )
A/N: Yeah, okay, I have had this fantasy playing out in my head. Picture it: me, a princess of some small and obscure island, and my long-lost grandmother tells me I’m a princess and I get married to Tom Holland AND WE ALL LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER. Okay, on a serious note - Princess diaries AU anyone? I watched the movie and it was great.
You drop your backpack on the floor inside your
front door. It’s the area that your mum not-so-fondly refers to as the ‘shoe
graveyard’ where everyone who comes in leaves their coats, shoes, umbrellas,
and in this case, a backpack and a soggy cherry-printed umbrella.
That you?” Your mum calls from the kitchen.
That’s odd. Mum doesn’t usually get home from
work until six o’clock. Shaking out your rain damp hair, you head down the
shadowy hallway and into the sleek, modern kitchen of steel and chrome. What
you see there makes you gasp.
Mum’s gotten out her best china, gold-rimmed and
floral, the ones she’d gotten as a wedding gift. She’s sitting and having tea
and fancy pastries with the strangest-looking woman you’ve ever seen. She has
pale skin, ruby red lips and hair piled up on her head in an elaborate bun.
Small and bird-like, with a stern expression on her wrinkled face, she’s
sitting ramrod straight, staring and assessing your every move. She’s dressed
in a black cashmere cardigan, and flowing jersey pants, her legs crossed
delicately at the ankles. On her feet are black Chanel ballet slippers.
“This is her?”
“Yes,” Your mum answers, glancing up at you with
a too-big smile. “This is my daughter, (Y/n).”
“Um,” You say intelligently, glancing at mum for
help. You want to ask the woman, Who are
you? But you think that might come across as being a little rude. “Um?”
“This is your Grandmother,” Your mother says,
waving you forwards. “Your father’s mother.”
“I thought he died.”
“He did, but now his
mother – your grandmother – wants to see you.”
“What, after years of total radio silence?” You snort, flinging
yourself down into an empty chair. You grab a small finger sandwich, making a
face when you realise you’ve grabbed a cucumber one. “What does she want from
us? Money? My left kidney?”
Lips pursed, voice clipped, the old lady says, “I can assure you,
I have no need for such frivolities.”
“Frivolities? Really? Who even says that anymore?”
“(M/n), if you do not
tell her, I shall,” Your grandmother says sharply, brandishing a butter knife
and heaping a large dollop of clotted cream onto a scone. “There is much to be
“(Y/n), the thing is .
. .” Your mum’s tripping over her words, and you tilt your head to the side as
you always do, saying nothing but willing her to continue. “You’re a princess, (Y/n).”
And grandmother nods sombrely along to every word, as though she has to give up her left kidney.
As for you? You take the news remarkably well.
You faint dead away, right then and there.
The worst part about this whole ‘princess’ thing, you think grimly
to yourself as you stomp down the hallway of Midtown High, is that you’ve been
forbidden from telling anyone. Not Ned Leeds, not Michelle Gonzales, and most
certainly not even your best friend, Peter Parker. You’ve just become princess
of a small island called Serangoon, have a queen for a grandmother, basically
have unlimited power and resources at your fingertips, and you’re not allowed
to talk about it. Grandmother had explained – rather impatiently, in your
opinion – that if you told your friends, the information would spread like
wildfire. You could – and would – be compromised,
assassinated like a character in Game of
Thrones. This was for your safety, she’d assured you.
You don’t even get a makeover like Taylor Swift in her You Belong With Me music video. You’re
still the same old (Y/n), with your frizzy
hair, less-than-ideal clothes and the acne scars on your face.
What you do get are
princess classes – Mondays to Fridays, 3pm to 7pm. History classes, etiquette lessons,
and basically whatever your grandmother saw fit to throw at you. You’d seen the
disdainful way she’d looked at you. Because of
course princesses had to be charming
and graceful, with impeccable manners.
You’d tried to tell her that you had homework, a social life, but
your pleas for mercy had fallen on deaf ears.
How is it that a freaking princess can be invisible, you think
grouchily, slamming your locker with a little more force than is strictly
necessary. The metal trembles violently, then stills, and you glower angrily at
“What did that locker ever do to you?” Peter demands laughingly, sidling
up to you, a soft, sweet smile on his face.
Instantly, your mind goes fuzzy, a big useless snowstorm. Your
mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and you gulp. That crush on Peter
hasn’t disappeared at all, has it? It’s almost amazing to consider – you’re a
princess, who will likely be married off to a prince/duke/king to provide heirs
to both kingdoms ( or maybe this is your Game of Thrones obsession shining through
), but you still feel awkward and small around a boy you’ve known ( and liked )
since middle school.
Of course, the only way he’d ever notice you was if you became as gorgeous and as popular as Liz Allen.
If only you could tell the press …
“Earth to (Y/n)!” Peter’s laughing now, waving a
hand in front of your face, his eyes bright and happy. “Did you hear what I
“Um. Um?” You shake your head to clear away the
fog. Your face feels far too warm for your liking. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Movie night? My place or yours? A new episode
of Star Wars came out, and you agreed that we’d watch it tonight.”
“Thanks a lot, grandmother,” You mutter, cursing
your grandmother out in your mind for scheduling princess classes on a Friday. “I
can’t, Peter. Not tonight. I’m sorry.”
Peter’s face falls, and you’re kicking yourself
for having to flake out on him and this time honoured tradition. For a moment,
you think about just caving and telling him – but the resulting earful you’ll
get from your grandmother is not
“I’ll make it up to you,” You say instead. “Promise.”
You glance anxiously at your watch. 3.12 pm. You’d
asked Stanley – your chauffer cum body guard – to pick you up three blocks away
from school, outside Hunan Kitchen, a dingy Chinese place, and you can
practically picture his stern, youthful face as he waits, the engine of the
Rolls Royce idling.
“Okay.” Peter’s smiling a little now, and that’s
worth something, at least. “As long as you promise.”
Iron and Mild Steel: Protection, permanence, opposition to nature, urban magic, influence, destruction, curses, strength, blood magic, health
*Lead: (Caution, Lead is quite toxic. Do not touch it. in case of contact or possibility of contamination, wash the affected area rigorously): Curses, hexes and maledictions, and (maybe) their reversal
Magnesium: Impermanence, fire magic, energy
Pewter and Tin: Protection from wear-and-tear, home and family, every-day magic, utilitarian magic, illumination, knowledge and divination, softening
Silver: Boosting energy, warding illness (but not necessarily healing), good price-to-beauty ratio, domesticity, offensive magic (like the silver bullet)
Stainless Steel, Chrome, and Nickel: Permanence, glamour, greed, urban magic, brittleness, the home, opening doors
Zinc: Protection (Specifically from light-based magic or being seen in divination), warding, invisibility
Of course, in my practice, these properties change drastically according to how the metals are used. I’m a strong believer in ‘active’ casting- that is to say that i don’t just put things in a circle and speak a few words. My magic is typically cast by altering the objects or materials in some way. A hand-forged iron nail makes a better taglock when designated as a target during its making than a store-bought nail with a metaphysical nametag. Just my two cents.
This is what I take when I’m heading out for a day that might be made up of typical office work, meetings, brief outings, social media or mainstream-media appearances, equipment maintenance or stepping out for a quick nature recharge while keeping connected and ready.
This is my actual everyday carry. Occasionally some items get swapped out for something smaller, or more appropriate for a known task, or just to mix things up. But for whatever the day might throw at me, this is what I carry.
Everything gets used as some point. Even the redundancies. E.g. in a meeting, got my stylus/pen for notes, and someone else needs a pen; space pen.
And I just realized, its all black and grey!
I love colours, but it just so happens that what I go out with most often is mostly black and grey.
Most items are grouped of course.
The Inova Xs, the leatherman Charge AL & bit drivers, and the space pen all ride in the Leatherman pouch nicely and compactly horizontally orientated on my belt. That’s my favourite setup.
Then there’s the keychain “tools” and “gadgets”. That includes the the Victorinox (which sometimes is replaced with the Signature Lite), the Nitecore TUBE, the pillbox, the micro USB and the Sandisk OTG.
I don’t carry fidget items, because I do. Both my fake “Benchmade” butterfly comb, and my Kershaw Nerve are excellent fidget items.
This was my first submission here. I look forward to submitting some of my more specialized EDCs at a later date. Love this platform. Thanks everydaycarry.com
Finally decided to get my own gun for defense/fun at the range. I’ve always been fond of the M1911 style so I went with the nicest one I could find at the shop, which happens to be more uncommon. Stainless steel chrome finish Springfield 1911 with adjustable target sights and converted to 9mm (instead of .45ACP). The conversion means it’ll have a little less stopping power, but more velocity and less recoil, plus the ammo is half the price.
I’ve been shooting a handful of times but I’ve learned a lot more about guns by going through the whole selection/buying process myself; and I know I’ll research a buuunch more of things too for care. I think it’ll be a fun and interesting little hobby to start up :) My apologies if you don’t like guns and I showed this on your dash, just felt like writing my feelings 😅
They built a secret machine under City Hall to make the city run, built it in the 1950s out of brick and iron and steam. They feed it promises and money, and that’s not such a price to pay, to keep the machine running, to make the city run. It only devours its own keepers. It only gets that hungry once in a while. Everybody knows it’s the machine that makes the city run. Nobody knows how to turn it off.
You know somebody who knows somebody who knows where Al Capone is buried. There are mobster mansions and legends of old shoot-outs everywhere, if you know where to look, but you don’t go looking. Ghosts are for tourists. You know where to look and you don’t go looking. You don’t ever look.
You can’t trust the weather. You check every morning to find out what season it is. Yesterday, an enormous snowman melted in the eighty degree heat. Today the flowers are all caked in three inches of frost. In January, dead leaves skitter before autumn winds and spring crocuses bloom. In April, you walk around in shorts in the middle of a blizzard. You hold out hope for August. Everybody says that snow in August is a myth, like the ghosts. You’ll wear shorts in August in the snow anyway.
The river flows backwards now, most of the time, because we made it. In August when it doesn’t snow, it rains, enormous clattering thunderstorms with lightning that strikes the tops of buildings again and again and again, fit to flood, and the river remembers what it used to be. It flows backwards into the lake, just for a little while. The lake always remembers.
The top six floors of that building are seventy years old, gray crenelated stone and brick. The ground floor was only just built last week. The elevators are new, but the stairwells are old, with pipes that creak like the old factory machines that used to make bread and fabric and paper. Nobody takes the stairs.
You’ve never gone down to where the stockyards used to be. They say the screams still linger in the air. You wouldn’t know. You don’t want to know.
This city burned to the ground once. It was a sacrifice, a cleansing of all the history before. They slaughtered thousands of animals a week and the streets ran with blood. The mob spread blood and alcohol all around, but in the 1950′s, they built a machine under city hall to run the city and everybody pretends that at least, at least the machine keeps the city from needing blood. When you hear a gunshot, you turn your head and don’t read the paper tomorrow morning.
You’ve never seen the monsters, so they must not exist. They mustn’t. If they do, then they’re down on Lower Wacker Drive or in the dark shadow-areas beneath the L tracks, bound by iron on all sides, or in the old post office, staring out and watching as hundreds, as thousands of cars go by.
You can’t trust the weather. On foggy days, the clouds close in on all sides and disappear the tops of all the new chrome-and-steel skyscrapers. On good days, they all come back when the fog lifts away.
This is the only real city. New York is a story and all the people are made of metal and grime. Los Angeles is a snowglobe fairyland and the people are plastic and suntan lotion covered in shine. Chicago is real. Everything that happens here is real. Chicago is made of blood and cattle meat and stone. Especially blood.
Super rare early 1900′s American medical desk , all in chromed metal with see through thick glass top and attached gooseneck lamp. If you were looking for a true one of a kind desk , look no more this is it !. Two drawers one with glass front and old sterilizer lettering on it , originally used in a doctor’s office . Desk also has a side inkwell and space where medicine bottles used to stack. Base reads manufacturer’s name. Industrial yet Art-deco at the same time. Light is in excellent working shape , has been rewired with twisted fabric wire.
Item No. E4411
Dimensions: 30″ wide ( 25″ desk portion only ) x 29 3/4″ tall x 14″ deep
List Price: $ 1800
Please contact LBNO for further information or trade consideration.