i may sob

2

Cheerleader!Mina

Who else is excited for season two?! :D

They Wanna Make Me Their Queen

( 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 ) 

PART 3

A/N: So my crush talked to me today ( it was just a simple hello but I DIED ), and I died again when I saw Tom Holland strip down to his boxers in that new trailer. My friends are probably sick and tired of hearing about me rant about Tom Holland’s abs and my new husband, Matt Murdock.

Taglist (temporary): @theactualscarletwitch | @moonlight53 | @intohook | @alaskayoung-x | @kubby14679 | @clean-and-claire | @fandoms-broke-my-life | @johnmurphys-sass | @queenofthelavalamps

Taglist (permanent): @mainspidey | @x-wing-starwriter | @tomsleftbrow | @tryn25 | @tanglefire |@midnight-memorial | @tiny-friggin-human


As it turns out, you don’t have to worry about keeping secrets from your friends for long.

After about a month of gruelling ‘after-school’ sessions with an endless string of tutors, of having to come up with flimsy excuses for cancelling on outings and get-togethers, of having to tough out the agony of avoiding Peter’s soft and concerned eyes that beg you to tell him what’s wrong, the paparazzi snap pictures of you and your grandmother having afternoon tea in the Hilton. They’d put two and two together, and before you could say, “I have a crush on Peter Parker”, pictures of you are splashed all over the front page.

Your phone’s been buzzing non-stop, but you’ve been ignoring the messages and missed calls – Did you even know fifty people from Midtown High? – too focused on your very furious grandmother, who’s been pacing the room, a wild animal in cage. Peter’s face, coupled with his adorable smile, flashes across your screen for the tenth time; you flip your phone over so that you won’t have to see his picture.

“Grandmother, I’m sorry,” You apologise meekly. “This is my fault.”

Throwing the papers aside with an impatient huff, your grandmother rounds on you, her eyes fierce and piercing. You almost regret having said anything.

“Silly child,” She says, her tone warm and exasperated all at once. “How on earth is it your fault? It’s the damn press –”

You’ve never heard her swear before. It makes you giggle.

“Frankly, I’m surprised that we’ve been able to keep you out of the public eye for so long.” She shakes her head, deep in thought. “But now that the – How do you say – dog’s out of the kennel, we’ll just have to make the most of things.”

“What’s going to happen to my baby?” Your mother demands, going into full mother-bear mode, her voice holding an edge of protectiveness to it. “Is (Y/n) going to be safe?”

(M/n), I assure you that precautions are being taken, even as we speak. There will be increased security –”

You’re sure your face turns pale at the thought of having a team of beefy bodyguards on your heels 24/7.

“– We’ll enroll her in some self-defense classes, we’ll get her a Taser, some pepper spray … Whatever’s necessary. I swear on the Crown of Serangoon that I will do anything and everything in my power to keep (Y/n) safe.” Grandmother sighs then, having gotten it out of her system, and continues. “However, I think a press conference is in order. We’ll have to introduce (Y/n) to the public officially, and the date of Coronation Day will have to be pushed forward –”

Your mother and grandmother launch into a deep and lengthy conversation about banquets, fittings, classes. And all you can do is sit there, your head spinning, a satellite out of orbit.

At least you don’t faint this time. 

It’s progress, at least, you think.


You walk into school the next day, and nearly run out screaming for Stanley to take you back home, press camped outside the school be damned.

Stanley had had to muscle his way through about three feet of screaming paparazzi pressing themselves onto you from all directions, screaming out their questions, the camera flashes blinding and searing themselves into your retinas.

Everyone wants a piece of you, it seems. Kids goggle at you when you walk down the halls; in addition to the news article, there had been a news report filled with pictures of you: From a smiley, gap-toothed, pig-tailed (Y/n) to a teenaged (Y/n), smashing her cheek with Peter, clowning about for the camera. The press had raided your Snapchat, Instagram and Facebook accounts, it seemed. You’d had the misfortune of seeing the report at a diner, but the fortune of having Stanley and his limo nearby; you’d ran out before anyone could identify you.

Kids you barely know, have barely talked to in the past year – nerds, jocks, Queen Bees – all stop to talk to you. A year ago, you wouldn’t have been breathing the same air as them; but now, all everyone wants is to talk to you, to ask for your autograph, to invite you to parties.

Worse, your friends are slipping away. You manage to wave to Michelle only once, in a corridor, surrounded by your new fan club. She doesn’t return it. Her eyes are huge and dark and accusing, all at once. As for Peter – he’s taken to spending time with Ned, and he can’t quite look you in the eyes, even when you try to catch his gaze. 

You know that you have a whole lot of apologizing and explaining to do, but how can you possibly start if your friends have already decided that they want nothing to do with you? To avoid encountering Peter, you bury yourself in your phone and hurry away. Every instance leaves you with a frigid soreness buried so deep inside that no amount of heat could wring it out.

On second thought, you accept that party invitation.


You’re wearing a slim black Costume National sheath dress, a strand of pearls around your neck. Your hair is neat, your face made up with a thick layer of makeup. You look like you’re a famous model – or a princess – and you can feel the press staring at you as you walk into the room with Grandmother.

You’d caved, had tried to dial Peter on your cell phone with trembling fingers, but it’d gone straight to voicemail. You try not to think it’s because he hates you.

Grandmother handles the interview like a pro. Public speaking is not your forte – there had been an unfortunate incident in the fourth grade involving a judging panel at the annual talent show, and the front row of students being covered in vomit. All you have to do is fix a vapid smile onto your glossed lips, sitting stiffly between your mother and grandmother.

“Princess (Y/n),” Someone’s saying your name now, and you immediately glance up, more than a little startled at being addressed. “We’ve received pictures of you and a boy identified as Peter Parker. Is he your boyfriend?”

Your hands are shaking. Your knuckles are white when you ball them up into fists. You might have a security detail, a whole armoury of weapons and weekly self-defense classes, but Peter, Ned and Michelle don’t. If you’re not careful, someone could hurt them to get to you. 

And you don’t think you could live with yourself if it did happen.

Protect your friends, only to lose them … Or disregard their safety for your own selfishness?

It’s not even a choice.

Your mouth is dry. You have to practically force the words out of your mouth. “No. No, they – Peter was just a … He’s not important. None of them are.”

The moment the lie leaves your lips, you want to scream. You want to take all your words back.

But you can’t.

Why make a recap. Why not make an episode where Naoki steals the hotdog truck, goes for a joyride, and gets into a high speed car chase. Or where Aoi fights her landlord with her bare hands over leaky pipes and late rent. Or where Yusaku finds out Roboppy knows he’s Playmaker and is left Dumbstruck for Hours.

Silly fillers are better than recaps.

Dean pushed the motel room door open to find you exactly where he left you. You had refused to participate in the hunt the boys were currently working because it hit too close to home. You also had no fucking desire to talk about it with either of the Winchesters but especially Dean.

“There are locks on motel room doors for a reason, asshats,” you grumbled, turning over in the bed and facing away from the brothers. You caught a glimpse of Sam’s face, and he looked guilty, like he actually felt bad for breaking into your room.

Dean on the other hand just looked angry. You didn’t owe him any kind of an explanation. If you wanted to sit out a hunt, it was your damn prerogative.

“Sammy, I got this,” Dean said through clenched teeth. You could briefly hear Sam protest, but you were sure Dean had given him a look that could kill because you heard the younger Winchester’s response.

“Fine,” he huffed stepping away and heading back to the room the boys were sharing.

Dean closed the door with a thud.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice low and irritated.

“I swear to god, Dean, I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not with you. You push this, and I might literally rip your nut sack off. Right off,” you motioned with your hand without turning to look at him. You felt a tear escape your eye, and you hurried to wipe it away.

“First off all, rude. Second of all, I know you,” he growled low in his throat. “Hunts don’t bother you. Even the awful ones that remind you of how you lost your family. You’re tough as nails. You push everything down and power on. You’re a pro. I’d almost say you’re better at pushing away emotions than I am, and we both know that’s saying something.”

“You got that fucking right,” you huffed as you turned away from him again, tears steadily streaming down your face now. “Did you at least finish off the fucker?” you asked, hoping this hunt was over so that you could move on and get back to yourself without having to talk about it.

He sat down on the bed next to yours and watched you carefully.

“The Djinn is dead,” he stated. “Now are you gonna talk about this or what? You never refuse to go on a hunt. Ever. What the hell is going on?”

You sat up then, throwing your legs over the bed, the tear stains on your face evident. Dean was clearly taken aback. He rubbed his neck and looked away briefly before locking eyes with yours and pushing forward.

“Let’s talk about it. Clearly you need to, sweetheart,” he said, his voice suddenly softer now.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. “Don’t placate me Dean. And don’t call me sweetheart,” you growled, finally meeting his eyes.

“What’s going on?” he pleaded, leaning forward, his forearms on his knees. “Is this about when you were captured by a Djinn, and we couldn’t find you for a few days? You never talked about that, but I had never seen you so scared,” Dean commented. “But you never let a monster getting a hold of you phase you. Ever,” Dean said dismissively.

You swallowed thickly and locked eyes with him. “When that monster takes away the person you love over and over again, you aren’t too keen on facing one of its kind again.” The words stumbled out of your mouth.

“Djinn don’t work like that. I remember. You get your wildest dreams,” Dean stated, confused.

“Not the one that had me. Fear. It fed on fear. And apparently my biggest fear is losing you. I watched you die over and over again those few days I was alone, waiting,” tears fell down your cheeks in earnest.

“Wait. What?” Dean asked, confused. “I don’t understand,” he mumbled, fidgeting with his pants because he didn’t know what else to do.

“I fucking love you, Dean, but don’t figure it out from the context clues or anything,” you huffed, pulling your knees up to your chest and sobbing. “I couldn’t risk getting taken again. Fears or the best dream ever, it would have involved you,” you admitted, looking into his eyes. “I couldn’t lose you over and over again,” you powered on. “And I couldn’t have you in the best way possible only to have it ripped away when you came to my rescue,” you sobbed.

Dean’s legs moved quickly, and he sat down beside you. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, and you fell into him. You cried. You cried for what felt like hours while Dean ran his fingers through your hair and rubbed your back soothingly.

“I didn’t know,” he mumbled. It was then that you realized Dean had been crying too. “I had no fucking clue,” he whispered as you pulled away to look into his eyes. Your eyes met for a brief second before his lips crashed to yours. You clung to him, the kiss desperate and deep, your tears mixing with his. He pulled away finally and whispered, “I’m so, so sorry.”

His hand cupped your face and you didn’t jerk away from his touch.

“I’ve always loved you, but you deserve better than me,” he said.

You laughed as you sobbed. “I may ‘deserve’ better, Dean, but you’re what I want. Obviously. Dreams and fears don’t lie,” you whispered as you looked into his eyes.

His eyes darted back and forth as he searched yours. His lips found yours again, this kiss tender and full of promise. “I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “And I’m going to my best to make sure your dreams aren’t torn away from you again and that your fears are never realized,” he promised, his forehead falling against yours.

“Dean, don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you answered, your hand moving to his neck and pulling him into a kiss. You felt him start to protest, but he melted into your touch.

You didn’t doubt he could make your dreams come true, but staying alive wasn’t exactly Dean Winchester’s forte.

And he had the Mark of Cain.

You knew that couldn’t end well for either of you.