royal grandparents

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 ) 


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. 

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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.

(Y/n)? 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 discussed.”

(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 it.

Stupid locker, stupid grandmother, stupid, stupid, stupid!

“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 …

But no.

“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 said?”

“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 worth it.

“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.”

honestly thor ragnarok’s take on colonialism was so brilliant and best of all it put everything odin ever said and did into such a harsh light because this guy is literally, canonically a historical revisionist. the way loki talks about frost giants as ‘monsters’ in the first films shows that propaganda and racial superiority was a big fucking thing in asgard and the way odin treats jane in thor 2?? tell me more about how you changed your ways all-father

and the way odin just takes the casket of ancient winters and…keeps it?? every imperialist country ever. it instantly reminded me of how the koh-i-noor, one of the largest cut diamonds in the WORLD, from the INDIAN SUBCONTINENT has sat on the crowns of the british royal family, something my grandparents are still mad about to this day. 

like odin just gives some bs excuse to keep the frost giants subjugated and keep their greatest treasures for his personal vault ffs. for all we know they could have been the heroes of the story but we only hear the story from an asgardian point of view


Royal children and the grandparents → As requested by anonymous

King George V of the United Kingdom’s Silver Jubilee (6 May 1935).
The King lifts his little granddaughter, Princess Margaret of York, onto the edge of Buckingham Palace’s balcony because she’s too small to look over it. Meanwhile, Queen Mary, seemingly a little concerned with her husband’s project, firmly holds Margaret’s arm.

anonymous asked:

you think it was just coincidence that it was peter morgan's daughter's graduation today in vienna and gillian was seen on a plane going to vienna? it's really short flight from the uk too. 2+2=4, sorry. and gillian has been spotted there before since she started seeing morgan.

Anon, do you really think Gillian Anderson would sit in the audience at her BFs daughter’s graduation next to her BFs wife and her BFs four other children and their ROYAL grandparents when she couldn’t be bothered to hold this same BFs hand while on a ‘private’ romantic vacation?
Oh, and he’s in Austria a LOT and we never see G there, weird. 🤔

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 ) 


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.

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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.

anonymous asked:

Hi! I was wondering if you could do the 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 😊thanks! I love your writing!

So we’re going to pretend Maria’s parents totally aren’t dead.

Also, I made them boyfriends.

Excuse me?” Not much caught Nico off guard. But this? This caught Nico completely off guard, sending his tires spinning and his brain into overdrive.

“Nico, please do close your mouth so you don’t look like you’re trying to catch fish with it.” Nico’s father was as cool and distant as he was in every situation. And why shouldn’t he be? They news didn’t affect him, all it did was take another child out of his house. One less mouth to feed.

Nico closed his mouth and looked at the grandmother he didn’t even know existed until this afternoon. “You’re telling me that my mother was a princess? And that you’re a queen?” 

“Nicholas,” Nico tried not to sneer at the name, “I thought you were brighter than this.” The pristine old woman sat in front of him on the pristine old couch that Nico didn’t think had ever actually been used. The short grey hair was cropped close to her head in gently waves, an elegant gold dress complimented the gold crown that sat atop her hair and a pair of familiar brown eyes studied him, betraying the woman’s age with their youth-fullness. Nico knew those brown eyes, they were the ones that stared back at him in the mirror.

“Your mother was next in line for the throne.” She frowned. “That is, until she ran off to be with some man,” Nico saw his father tense slightly, “and get herself killed. Now the king is gone, I am aging, and we have no heir. Obviously, Hades cannot step-up to the throne, so you must come back with me to learn how to rule a country. It is imperative that you leave with me at once.”

Nico looked skeptically at her. “You have got to be shitting me.”



“So… you’re a prince now.” Will Solace sat next to Nico under the pine tree.

Nico huffed out a breath in annoyance. “Apparently. Even though I was never supposed to be born, I’m now the air to a throne in some far off country that I can’t pronounce the name of.” 

“You’re royalty now. Does that mean we can even still be friends?” Nico thought the question was ridiculous, but a glance to Will told him that Will was serious.

“Will,” Nico ran his thumb over the small jewels in the crown his grandmother gave him nervously. “Of course we’re still going to be friends. You’re my boyfriend.”

Will fidgeted. “I know, but,” he huffed, “this isn’t in the boyfriend manual. I have no idea how this whole royal thing works and if our relationship will be ‘bad for the country’ or whatever. I just don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me.” Nico replied softly, moving closer to Will. “We’ll figure out a way to make this work.”

“Promise?” Will’s blue eyes pierced through Nico’s very core.

“I promise.”

Will smiled and gently took the crown out of Nico’s hands, setting it on top of his head. “Well then, long live King Nico.”

Nico couldn’t help it, he reached out and grabbed Will’s face and kissed him.

Aw, that was cute.


sperrypeoplemag: Prince William reveals the five close family members he would go to if he needed help and advice. Wife Catherine, brother Harry, father Prince Charles, and his royal grandparents. And adds cocker spaniel Lupo for good measure. He was taking part in a ‘high five’ anti bullying workshop with charity @DianaAward @antibullyingpro

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 )

A/N: MY BOY MATT MURDOCK SHOWS UP IN, LIKE, 2 MORE CHAPTERS - I HOPE IT’S OKAY THAT I’M DUMPING HIM INTO THE STORY TOO??? BUT HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH READER WILL BE PURELY PLATONIC. I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS DUMPSTER NINJA, SOMEONE SEND HELP. In other news, I am still truly, madly and deeply in love with Tom Holland, and would love whoever manages to get me a date with him. Will write for a date with Tom Holland.

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Your meeting Peter in the library is purely coincidental. You’re paging through a worn and dog-eared copy of The Hunger Games, half-heartedly picking at a soggy cream cheese bagel that you have no intention of eating. The moment you see Peter come through the door, you tense up, your mind no longer in Panem, but now firmly focused on the boy who’s making his way towards you.

He doesn’t look mad, or even hurt. In fact, he looks the same as ever: pale skin and all, with warm brown eyes and hair that sticks up in all directions. Up close, you can feel an air of weariness about him. There are dark half-moons under his eyes, and his lids are pearly with sleeplessness.

You hope it’s not because of you.

The corners of his lips turn upwards in a soft, hesitant smile – the same smile that you’d fallen in love with. You try to ignore the way your heart gallops in your chest, how sweaty your palms seem to become as you clutch onto your book for dear life. You wonder if he’s been missing you as much as you’ve been missing him, and you could kick yourself for harbouring such thoughts.

You’re not ever going to be able to get over Peter, are you?

“Hey,” He says carefully. “Can I sit?”

You wave a hand at the empty chair across from you, not quite trusting yourself to speak.

“I saw you on TV last night,” Peter says. Oh no, you think, closing your eyes on a blinding note of despair. So this is how a friendship ends. On a Monday morning, in a deserted school library. Here it comes. “And … Uh, I still want to be friends with you. I really do, (Y/n).”

You stare.

“I know you’ve been having a hard time lately, with all this … Stuff. We were all surprised that you were a princess, but Ned, Michelle and I have been talking, and we don’t care about any of that. We want to be friends with you, (Y/n).”

This pulls you up short. He’s too nice, you think with a pang. They all are. And that niceness is going to get them all killed. You don’t have to be a genius to know that it’s Peter who’d managed to talk Ned and Michelle into mending the broken threads of friendship. But then Peter and those warm, melted chocolate eyes could probably sell the devil a week’s vacation in the seventh level of hell.

You stand, pushing your chair back, inhaling for strength as you shove your book back into your bag. Breathe, (Y/n). Just breathe.

“We can’t be friends,” Your voice comes all out croaky and weird. “I’m a – We can’t – I can’t –“ You can’t stop shaking, can barely look Peter in the eyes. “You’ll be … I won’t –”

You’re losing it. You have to clamp your lips together to keep from saying anything else. You’ve already said too much. You turn your back to Peter, trying to maintain control of your emotions, trying to keep Peter from seeing that you’re shaking in sorrow and frustration and anger.

Peter’s watching you, his eyes wide and dark, glistening with a mixture of hurt and sympathy. You’d rather he were angry. He raises his hands, as if he wants to touch you. Once upon a time, you would have leapt at the chance, but now you flinch away from his outstretched hands.

“Goodbye, Peter.”

And now you’re more alone than ever before.

Spiderman comes to visit again that night.

Stanley had taught you how to throw a proper punch, had given you tips on how to disarm someone, and, unable to fall asleep, had resorted to practicing the manoeuvres that you’d learnt just hours before. You’re small, but you’re fast, Stanley had said. Your elbows and your knees are your greatest weapons. Go in quickly, and they won’t be able to tell what’s hit them. It feels good to work up a sweat, feels good to pour your anger, the frustration that you feel at being thrust into a situation that’s rapidly getting out of hand.

Despite yourself, you’re glad to see him. You can say with certainty that he’s the one thing good to have come out of this mess. Your new found popularity has placed you on a pedestal – you’re no longer invisible, but while people no longer ignore you, most of them are too awestruck to actually hold a proper conversation with you. So much that you’d resorted to hiding out in the library.

You’d tried to go to sleep, but had found something rough and bristly in your sheets. You’d kicked off the covers to find a dead racoon buried under them, and you’d screamed so loudly that your mother had rushed in from her office to find out if you were being murdered.

She’d called Stanley, and your Grandmother, who’d wanted the two of you to move into her mansion. You’d politely – but firmly – declined, but had compromised by allowing Stanley to conduct a full sweep of the apartment before declaring it all clear. Your sheets had been changed and the racoon removed, but you’re much too keyed up to sleep.

“Hey,” You greet him, breathless and very sweaty in a tank top and a pair of grey sweatpants that sag loosely on your hips. “Done with the heroics? No more helping little old ladies to cross the street?”

“Trust me, they can take care of themselves,” Spiderman grumbles, rubbing at a sore spot on his shoulder. “Leather purses hurt.”

To your surprise, you actually laugh. It’s a foreign sound to your ears, especially since all you seem to do nowadays is cry. “Try sitting through hours of history classes and etiquette lessons. Helping old ladies is way better. Trust me.”

“How’s the princess stuff going, anyway?”


The two of you are dancing around the topic of last night, talking about everything but that. You shut your eyes briefly, pushing away everything but the memories of the boy sitting at the foot of your bed, the warmth of a hand clutched loosely in yours, the ghostly feeling of lips against your forehead.

You wince, but you don’t break down. You’ve calmed down enough that you can actually talk about it, even with the bitter aftertaste that lingers in your mouth. “Awful. I’m pretty sure that someone wants me gone –”

“Did someone threaten you?” And suddenly, all traces of his good humour vanish. You stare at Spiderman, a little worried and a little startled, ice chips crystallising in your veins at how dangerous he sounds. “What happened?”

“I’m fine, but someone really wants me out of the picture,” You say, making a noise that could be a laugh or a whimper. “They don’t have to go through so much trouble,” You add more quietly. “I’d give it up in a heartbeat.”

“Being –” Spiderman, unable to find a suitable word, waves a hand around in the air, “– All of this?”

“All of this,” You repeat on a laugh, grabbing the bottle of water on your bedside. “I’d be a terrible princess. My grandmother thinks as much. I’m terrible at diplomacy, I throw up when I have to give public speeches, I break out in zits every other week … I’m not skinny or pretty enough. I’m not enough.”

“You are,” Spiderman says immediately. “You’re kind. You’re smart, you’re good. You’d do anything for your friends. I think Serangoon is very lucky to have you for a princess.”

It’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to you this week. Slowly, but surely, a smile breaks over your face. It’s a slow and gradual thing, but Spiderman seems relieved to see you smiling.

It’s an impulsive decision on your part, but you’re glad that you hug him anyway. He’s warm and solid in your arms – not to mention awkwardly stiff – but then he relaxes with a soft sigh, pressing his cheek to the crown of your head.

“And New York is very lucky to have you protecting it,” You say just as quietly. “Thank you.”

You’re not just thanking him for being nice; it’s also a thank you for staying with you last night. For staying with you, when so many others hadn’t.

And from the way Spiderman holds you a little tighter, you think he gets the message.

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 ) 


A/N: Two words: Lip-sync battle. SLAY TOM, SLAY. I WAS WEIRDLY TURNED ON BY HIS PERFORMANCE?? LIKE. I WOULD DO HIM IN THE SUIT, AND I WOULD DO HIM IN DRAG, AND I AM CRYING. That being said, if anyone wants to fangirl with me over Tom, please hit me up. I need more friends to fangirl with!! ( I also need a date with him ASAP. ) In other news, this was very heavily influenced by that scene in Catching Fire. Matt Murdock, the dumpster ninja, will be showing up in a few more chapters, and I cannot wait. :)))

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You leave the room – and the after party – without delay. Your walk is more of a stagger as the amount of champagne you’ve consumed just minutes before becomes apparent. Too much. And yet, not nearly enough. You move as calmly as possible towards the archway leading to the hall … To escape.

Or as much of an escape as you can manage with a limitless number of guards keeping watch over your every move.

You press a hand against the wall to steady yourself. Once you find an exit to the balcony, you grasp hold of a railing and try to calm yourself. A sob rises in your throat. You clamp your lips together to force it back.

No one told you the life of a princess would be this hard.

No one told you that you would have to give up your friends.

No one told you that a crown could weigh so heavily upon your head.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?” Light and good-humoured – not to mention vaguely familiar – a voice greets you from the shadows, you jarringly realise that you aren’t alone.

Normally, you would be thrilled – or shocked at the very least – to have New York’s very own Spiderman hanging from the fire escape only several feet away. It’s becoming a trend at school – all the girls are bragging about how Spiderman had saved them from robbers/harassment/bullying, and they’d proceeded to make out with Spiderman in some dark corner to ‘thank’ him.

And now he’s here. Real and alive. You could add on to the flood of wild stories, but you hardly need the added popularity. As it is, you could claim that you’d discovered Atlantis and people would believe you.

You manage a faint smile that comes across as more of a grimace on a pale and strained face that not even M.A.C and Elizabeth Arden can hide.

Willing your voice not to crack, you speak slowly, attempting to compose yourself, “Parties aren’t really my thing.”

“What is your thing, then?”

He’s talking to you like he’s known you all your life. It’s warm and familiar and comforting somehow, to be talked to like a normal human being. No, “Yes, Your Highness”, or “As you wish, My Lady”. No airs, no treading on eggshells. Just … Normal conversation. You could cry. You want to cry.

“I enjoy horseback riding and embroidery.” Your voice sounds dead, even to your ears – it sounds like something you’ve memorised from a textbook. “I volunteer at soup kitchens in my free time, and I donate generously to churches and shelters.”

“I mean the real things.” His gaze is heavy on your face, so piercing that you think he can see all the way down into your soul. “Not the princess things.”

“I like watching movies,” You say, softly, carefully, after making sure that your grandmother isn’t going to jump out of nowhere to chide you for not giving the appropriate response. “I always watched them with my best friend.” There’s a sour taste in your mouth, almost like curdled milk, when you remember that you haven’t been to Peter’s in weeks, and that you haven’t been speaking to him for about as long. Swallowing, you continue, “I like books. Reading. Listening to music. You know. Teenager stuff.”

“Teenager stuff,” He repeats. “So why are you saying that other stuff?”

You let out a half laugh that sounds more like a hysterical hiccup. “Don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

It’s what people want to hear. It’s what they expect from a princess. But your all your lies are piling up, one after another, and you’re afraid that soon they’ll collapse over you and will bury you under, and you won’t be able to climb out of the hole that you’ve dug yourself into.

“There’s always a choice.”

Not for me, you think, both angrily and wistfully. If you had any choice, you would abandon all your duties and run off to Antarctica to chill with the Penguins. You’d turn in your crown immediately. You’d become normal again. A regular girl, in a regular school, with a regular life.

You’d never thought you’d miss normalcy.

“You need a break.” Spiderman says, shaking his head in mock – or is it real? – disappointment. But then, his voice changes, takes on an edge of boyish excitement. “C’mon, let’s go!”

“Go?” You wag your head hysterically. “Oh no no no, I can’t just … Go.”

“It’s not like I’m taking you to Aspen. Just around the city.”

Spiderman’s looking at you hopefully, almost child-like in his excitement. He holds out a hand, and you stare at it, wanting to take it, but still, unable to. What’s the harm? A voice whispers. Tomorrow you’ll have to go back to your life. All the press, the attention, the loneliness …


Your cheeks warm. This is like something from a fairy tale – you the princess, and Spiderman the unconventional knight. You take his hand. It’s surprisingly warm and firm, and your own hand feels like it was made to hold his.

You try to think past these unwanted thoughts.

“Hold on tight. Okay?”

Before you can respond, you feel hands on your waist, and Spiderman’s lifting you up carefully, gently into his arms. He’s skinny, but a lot stronger than he looks. You accidentally slide back against his chest, breathing in the scent that clings to his skin – something warm, like cinnamon, vanilla, and the night air. Your heart inches its way into your throat. You’ll admit that you’re unusually nervous, but you chalk it up to being near to Spiderman. One breath is all you get the chance for though; he runs up to the edge of the roof and leaps right off it.

A loud scream escapes your lips. Your stomach plunges into a freefall, and your arms, once hanging limply at your side, now fly to wrap around Spiderman’s neck. You’re not sure if you’re strangling him with how tight you’re grabbing onto him, but right now, the only thought on your mind is holding on so that you don’t become a spot on the pavement.

You make a mental note to add ‘heights’ to the list of things you aren’t good at.

He has to shout to be heard over the cars honking, and the wind rushing by. “C’mon, open your eyes!”

“You’re crazy!” You squeak, praying that you won’t throw up all over his shiny new suit. “This was a bad idea!”

“I’m not going to drop you. You’ll be safe with me, I promise.”

It’s hard to doubt the sincerity that rings true in his voice, but still, you glare suspiciously at the direction of his voice before opening your eyes.

Your breath catches in your throat. Wow. It looks absolutely stunning. New York at night, from the sky … It looks otherworldly, surreal. To your surprise, a laugh bubbles forth from you. Your hair streams back from your face, and a smile makes its way across your face. You’ve grown used to the strange, but not all together unpleasant feeling, of being weightless and free and infinite, of flying through the air.

You could get used to this.

“I – I, uh, saw the press conference.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Your mood had been rapidly improving, but now, the weight of all your mistakes comes crashing back down, hard, onto your shoulders. You’ve been teetering on the edge of tears all day, and this is all it takes for you to break down completely.

You cry Peter’s name.

And then you just cry.

His name, Ned’s name, Michelle’s name, in one desperate stream of sounds that you can’t separate from one another. You want someone to make things right; you want someone to make you not feel as if you’re constantly being pulled different ways by your heart and your head. Most of all, you want someone to tell you that everything will be alright; to promise that your friends won’t be hating you with every fibre of their beings.

Shit shit shit,” Spiderman’s saying from somewhere far away, panic and fear vibrating through those three words. “I said something wrong.”

Vaguely, you’re aware that the crisp night winds have stopped rifling through your hair, aware that you’re no longer flying through the air, have the vague sensation of being set down gently onto gravel. The cold and the damp press against your legs.

“My friends hate me,” You sob, scrubbing at your streaming eyes with the back of your hand. “My crush hates me. I said some things that I didn’t mean just now.”

Through the tears that blur your vision, Spiderman freezes, goes impossibly still, like a deer caught in the headlights. “Then why did you?” He asks softly.

“Because – Because I wanted to keep them safe,” You confess. Your throat aches as a horrible black ball of fear lodges itself under the roof of your mouth. “This – The Princess job isn’t safe, there are horrible people who want me dead, and if they manage to get to my friends, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

“I get it.” Spiderman says, just as quietly, his voice suddenly sounding heavy and weary. “Believe me, I do.”

“No, you don’t!” You cry. It explodes out of you before you can stop it. You don’t know why you’re suddenly so angry, but you could shake him or cry. “You have no idea – No one does – I thought this would be fun, but it’s not! It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and I’m in over my head, and I just want my friends back, but I can’t have them, and I just … I don’t know what to do anymore.”

The tears come in a flash flood. Exhaustion and self-pity roll over you. You’re sobbing even harder now, hunched over, and trembling in pain and sorrow and grief, with barely a pause to breathe as your frame is racked with the release of so many built-up emotions.

You think Spiderman’s left, but suddenly he’s holding you, warm and reassuring and real. You find yourself with your head buried in his shoulder, sobbing. He lets you cry it out, keeping you pressed tightly to him, and he’s making little noises into your hair, sounding positively pained that you’re miserable and he can’t do anything to help.

“I’ll take you home, okay?” He asks, once you’ve stopped crying.

All you can do is nod, still keeping your face buried into his neck.

He carries you into your room, through the window. He helps you to wash your makeup off, waits as you change out of your dress, helps you into bed, smoothing the covers over your still-trembling frame. Spiderman says goodnight, but you catch his hand and hold him there. You don’t want him to go, especially not when you feel so awful.

“Stay with me,” You whisper plaintively, like a small child. “Stay. Please.”

Fingers ghost through your hair, and you think you feel the brush of lips against your forehead. You think you hear Spiderman whisper a word back, but you’re too far gone to make it out.


Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, and Queen Elizabeth II admiring their great-granddaughter, Princess Charlotte of Cambridge, after her christening in St. Mary Magdalene Church in Sandringham on 5 July 2015