( 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.”