( 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.”
Summary: In which Jeon Jungkook is that friendly neighborhood superhero, you’re the face in the hallway that saved his high school career, and he can’t ever seem to get a grip around you. Even when he makes you scream after a fated accident—not for the reason you may be thinking; get the thought out of your head! Pairing: Jungkook | Reader Genre: Fluff/Smut; Spiderman AU Word Count: 14,838 Author’s Note: Honestly though, it was only a matter of time before I got around to writing a story like this. I am obsessed with Spiderman, so this might just be the foundational guideline for many future Jungkook Spiderman AU drabbles to come in the future.
The story was also heavily inspired by this photo that made me cry for seven days and seven nights. +photo credit !!!!!!!
If Jeon Jungkook is against anything in his life, it’s one’s ability to exaggerate certain situations or problems to make those things seem much bigger than they probably were. Well, actually, take that back. It’s not that he’s against it per say, it’s just that his peer’s daily struggles of pop quizzes and missing the morning bus aren’t exactly headliner news—especially in comparison to what he has to go through.
Jeon Jungkook is against exaggeration, probably because he can’t get away with it himself. It’s not that he doesn’t like to exchange his fair share of embellished stories or fabricated events weaved into true experiences, it’s that he can’t afford to do so. Sharing stories of his nightly routines and dashing superhero adventures may seem great, but only if he could manage the burden of a personal life and a masked life intertwining.
As an 18-year-old boy, he can probably say it’s safe to assume that he cannot. Manage the overwhelming, opposite pressure both of his lives take him, that is. It’s difficult enough being a college freshman, a tiny fish in an ocean of whales and sharks, but throw in his late night Spiderman facade would be too much of a tale to share with other people and peers who probably ask too many questions and know too much about him. He’s never liked the exposure that comes with being in the spotlight, and he can’t hide behind his mask if people knew who he was.
Oh. Right. Speaking of his Spiderman facade, that’s who is he. Haven’t heard of him? You know, the dashing hero of Seoul, red and blue spandex attire with a web shooter, fine tuned senses and amazingly quick reflexes? The boy who swings around the city, volunteering for trouble and always coming out right on top? The boy who constantly maintains that casual, slightly amused tone throughout a majority of his rescues?
...i'm torn between “Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…” and “Tell me a secret.” for ladrien ... u pick :x
“Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…”
Adrien rubbed the back of his neck, watching Ladybug check the edges of the exit. “…Looks like.”
Unless, of course, he wanted to transform and give away his secret identity, something she was abjectly against.
Yyyyyeah, better not. If they were still here in a few hours, he’d consider it, but until then…
Well, might as well make himself cozy.
It took exactly one (1) long, luxurious stretch and soft groan for Ladybug’s head to whip around in his direction.
One, two seconds of blatant staring and Adrien broke the silence with, “…Did you think of something?”
Ladybug’s luminous eyes flickered. “Um.”
Adrien blinked right back.
“…Did you… need something?”
Ladybug opened her mouth, paused for a second, and then said, “Your shirt.”
“…You need my shirt?” Adrien wondered aloud, and then shrugged to himself. It was fair enough, wasn’t it? She didn’t exactly have a shirt of her own to use for whatever she needed it for. “Okay.”
He grabbed the back of the neck and pulled it over his head. The rush of fabric over his ears only half-covered the strangled squawk from across the room, and Adrien shook his hair out of his eyes to give his partner a confused look.
She was staring at him, gaping and red-faced, a daze she only seemed to snap out of when he tossed his shirt over her face. She pulled the fabric away with a frantic scramble and made a funny little gulping noise when she saw him again.
Setting a hand on his hip, Adrien told himself that she probably just wasn’t used to seeing guys shirtless or something, and that this was really nothing to feel flattered over.
“Cat got your tongue, m— Ladybug?”
“Nnnnnn…” said Ladybug, and then looked between him and the shirt in his hands. “I. I, um. Thank you.”
“No problem,” said Adrien easily enough, scrubbing the back of his head as her breathless last two words rather viscerally reminded him that there wasn’t… a whole lot on him to hide any… inappropriate indicators of interest. “What did you need it for?”
Ladybug went a horrified shade of very, very quiet, and then: “…I don’t remember.”
….How did she get so cute?
Adrien bit down a snicker and wandered over, laying a hand on her back and guiding her back over to the exit. “C’mon, I’ll help you think.”
Ladybug emitted a very soft, very squeaky agreement, and let him.
A/N: I AM A FILTHY SINNER. A part 2 of Guilty Kiss was requested, and I have delivered by sinning and writing smut. There’s smut in this one, so I’ve put it under a read-more! Please send in more requests - I love reading all your ideas and penning them down in my book. Please get me a date with Tom Holland too.