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tteokdoroki · 7 months

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ೀ⋆OCT 1ST PRINCESS DIARIES ━━ satoru gojo + breeding !

୨୧ — caution, you are now watching. satoru gojo + breeding. thirty days until you become queen, thirty days to get married and thirty days to stop sneaking around with the man trying to steal your crown… (5.2K)

୨୧ — rated r. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact ! nsfw, heavy smut, royalty!au, enemies to lovers (?), forbidden romance, infidelity and cheating, spit kink, breeding kink, daddy kink, pregnancy kink, breast play, agoraphilia, baby trapping, oral sex (f!recieving), unprotected sex, princess + fem!reader, lord!satoru gojo.

୨୧ — director’s note. woo happy spooky season my loves. welcome back to another tteokdoroki kinktober! im excited for you to see whats in store this year, hope you enjoy this fic to start off mwah! - m.list ⋆ kinktober m.list ⋆ taglist ✧

you have thirty days to get married.

being from a small town, somewhere that’s not even on the map — you never expected your family name to carry much meaning aside from the one you carved out for yourself. let alone expect your name to come from royalty.

if you thought discovering how to be a teenager at sixteen was hard, then try discovering how to be a princess at sixteen on for size. everything you’ve ever done since finding out you were royalty has been for your family. you’ve kept your head down, out of the spotlight aside for the occasional appearance and charitable events. you’ve studied hard, double-majoring in international relations alongside political science and diplomacy.

you’ve prepared yourself thoroughly enough to feel ready to take the mantle of queen — especially with your grandmother planning to step down. all of your accomplishments have been leading up to this very moment — it’s so close that you can practically feel the weight of the crown on your head.

except there’s one itty, bitty, little problem.

you still have to get married in thirty days. otherwise, your family title will be poached from right beneath your nose.

satoru gojo (aka public enemy number one) is the nephew of a member of parliament who just so conveniently knows genovian law better than your grandmother does. since satoru came of age before you did, and he’s lived in genovia for longer than you have, and has some random distant relative in connection to the first king — the men of parliament have decided that he too is in line for the throne.

especially if you, the princess, do not marry before your coronation.

how ridiculous is that?

and not only is this satoru gojo an evil, conniving, crown-stealing bastard. but he’s charming, a silver tongue wrapped around each and every one of his words. charming, like a prince (blegh) he’s also stupidly attractive. with deep sapphire blue eyes that are gorgeous enough to make the crown jewellers weak in the knees and a smile so sweet it feels like a sugar rush whenever he looks at you. there’s something so unique about the frostiness to his soft white hair, matching his unfairly long lashes — the ones you know girls back home would kill for.

it angers you to know that you’d been dancing with your rival at your welcome ball, pains you to know that you’ll never forget his slender fingers splayed out against the small of your back to guide your every movement. if you had been back in college (and had a few litres of hard liquor in your system), perhaps gojo would have been the type of guy you’d have snuck into the dorms for a night of fun and an NDA in the morning — your secret signed away from the paparazzi’s keen eyes.

alas, these are very different circumstances and there’s a lot riding on you being sensible about the situation. yet, satoru proves himself to be a problem every chance that he gets — cornering you in closets with his breath hot against your ear, trapping you against the walls while the ghost of his touch feels like heaven against your skin… on the staircase too, insistent on reminding you of the passionate dance you once shared.

all while you’re set to marry the duke of another country so you can keep your fucking crown (pardon the language, your highness).

suguru geto would be the perfect king consort if you managed not to mess this up. he is warm, where satoru is a flip between disastrously hot and frustratingly cold. he balances you out, a mellowness to your clumsiness whilst understanding your need for a rushed proposal and wedding. raised a gentleman, suguru is mindful of you in every action he takes. he doesn’t stare too long but smiles when you think he’s not looking and he’s a wonder with your grandmother — the parents, too. his family gem (a serpentine, making you feel much like a snake) sits heavy on your ring finger, dazzling under camera flashes at your engagement dinner…. and he recognises duty and honour above anything else too.

if satoru is your enemy, then guilt is your friend. no matter what either of the men in your life do, you find yourself comparing their every move. when you’re with suguru your mind is away chasing the fairies, imagining the touch of another man who sets your heart alight in a cool blaze — like gasoline trickling through your veins waiting for its candle match. when you’re with satoru, all you can think about is how wrong this is. how geto doesn’t deserve this. but you’re an addict without a cure, and your drug is satoru gojo and you don’t see yourself ever quitting him.

you're in desperate need of a wake up call and a nicotine patch, the cocky yet lecherous air about him almost acting like a smog in your healthy and capable lungs. sometimes through the fog, you wonder if satoru knows how much he weighs heavy on your mind— though if he did, you’d never hear the end of it.

the current queen tells you not to worry about the white haired man that’s slowly freezing over the four chambers of your heart. you tell yourself that suguru geto is the only man that you need, one that could help you rule and create a beautiful and better kingdom for many years to come. geto tells you that he loves you, that he can’t wait to marry you in two or three weeks time and you respond with equal (yet, faux) excitement.

perhaps that’s why you find yourself sneaking away from this respectful, loving man to be with the one trying to ruin your life?

why are you following satoru gojo deep into the royal gardens, where the rose bushes are the only witness to your sick and twisted sins?

your back hits the jagged pattern of tree bark before your brain can catch up — causing a little wet whimper to bubble up on your pinky-peach tainted lips. the flutter of pain just beneath your skin only lasts for a second before it’s replaced by the sensation of satoru’s fingers traversing up the dips and curves of your body. he soothes you where it hurts the most, rough fingertips leaving bruising marks made with affection along your thighs and small of your back while he swallows your sweet gasps — licking into the wet cavern of your mouth to taste you.

“you’re not even…” his words spill into you, adding fuel to the spark of lust beginning to form a pit in your stomach. “you’re not even attracted to him,” he spews, surging forward like a storm knocking on your door to press his greedy spit slicked lips to yours. his tongue, syrupy and wet, intertwined with your own, filling you up and giving you something to suck on.

before you can even think of kissing your rival back, he retreats and takes his swollen lips with him — latching onto your neck and weaponizing his teeth against it. you gasp, your angel’s song tipping out into the rose garden while your fingers tangle in silver-moon locks and let him work against you, claiming you just below the neckline of your dress where no one will be able to see.

except for maybe your fiancé and only god knows how you’ll be able to explain the marks to him tonight. ‘oh you know me, suguru. i’m way too clumsy for my own good.’ you’ll say, all while thinking about how the man after your crown blew your back out at your engagement party.

you know why satoru’s acting such a fool — taking risks that he wouldn’t normally. the dress you’re wearing, the colour of his eyes, drives him fucking insane. you can’t say that you didn’t ask for this, like it wasn’t on purpose.

“can’t fucking stand you,” gojo groans against your skin, nose pressed to your collarbone as he inhales the candied notes of your perfume. “been giving me those angel eyes all day. knowing that i can’t take my fucking eyes off of you when you wear that colour, princess.”

he’s insufferable, but here you find yourself at the mercy of his touch — offering up your body to satoru gojo like a sacrificial lamb as your back arches away from the tree and presses your chest into his eager strawberry tongue. it leaves a slimy track over your neck and dips between the cleavage of your dress while gojo makes his descent down to hell — tasting the shimmering crystals of salt on your skin.

satoru gojo belongs on his knees.

kneeling before you with the royal blue tule of your dress between his shaking hands. you can tell he’s trying not to rip it off of you. born to worship you. mirth weighs down his lashes and desire dances between the navy blue flecks in his sapphire eyes — he needs you so bad it might kill him. from this position he can practically smell how turned on you are, he’d recognise the mouth-watering aroma of your drooling cunt anywhere, slick gathering in the crotch of your barely there panties.

there’s a depraved, royal treasure hidden between the string of fabric that runs between your juicy pussy lips — swollen and waiting to be devoured by your enemy. not that you’d ever admit that to him. “i think you should be referring to me as your queen.” you manage between ragged breaths, satoru eyeing the way your chest heaves from beneath the bust of your dress.

instead of responding, his head unceremoniously dips beneath your skirts and he drags a thigh over the width of his broad shoulders. “watch your mouth,” the lord purrs salaciously as he licks up your inner thigh, the vibrations shooting straight to your swollen clit. “let’s remind you of who’s really in charge.” the both of you feel it, the aching throb of your pussy against gojo’s lips as he wedges his face right between your thighs. you can’t help but grind against him in wanton, desperate to be filled up with fingers, tongue whatever your sworn enemy has to offer up to the crown.

but your warmth and wetness does nothing to coax satoru into tongue fucking his way past your clenching, creaming entrance. rather, he draws his head back just a touch and rubs at your cunt like he loves you, dips his fingers just into your quivering hole and then — smack !

juices run down satoru’s arms as if he’s taken a bite into the fruit that tempted eve while he laughs in awe of just how fucking sloppy you are between your thighs. the spank to your puffy folds makes you jolt in surprise, causing you to scratch your back against the jagged tree bark.

“gojo!” you squeak in warning as your thighs close around his veiny hand.

he sticks his tongue into his cheek, smirking in amusement before prying your shaky legs apart. “that’s not quite right, try again for me, princess...” gojo repeats the process, running between your slick folds and spanking you against them when you fail to respond. “you know my name, baby. c’mon it’s easy, i’ll even say it with you. d…d…”

you refuse to stoop so low, to let demeaning words escape from underneath your tongue but not having satoru’s mouth on you is like torture — just his breath against your cunt is akin to dangling a carrot in front of a starving horse. you know what that pleasure is like, you crave it and you’re not above begging no matter how royal you may be.

“f-fuck, daddy!” you whinge defiantly, screwing your eyes shut and letting your head fall back against the tree. satoru wastes no more time then, slotting his hot mouth against the entire length of your silken slit. the first thing he does is moan, the vibrations shooting twinges of ecstasy from your clit through the rest of your body and even reaching your head — making the world around you spin.

the tip of his tongue teases its way past your entrance, squirming around to brush up against pleasure spots your little fingers can’t even reach. “that’s right princess, knew you could do it. you’re not just some stuck up little girl.” the white haired lord praises, drawing back from your quivering hole — connected to you by a string of your glistening slick.

“shut up, just… put your mouth to good use.” you grunt, your hips canterint down onto gojo’s face to keep him quiet. your fingers take root in his silvery moon locks, dragging the man and his pink tongue onto your sex once more. gojo takes the hint, making your cute little clit his next victim as he rolls it between perfect rows of pearly whites and sends your eyes into the dark depths of your skull.

the sinful and salacious sensation provides a welcomed distraction from your responsibilities as the crown princess. if your grandmother could see you now, you know that all she’d feel is disappointment— especially if she knew her granddaughter was fucking the biggest threat to the crown. and suguru, your poor fiancé — he was probably stuck mingling with guests he didn’t even know, looking for your eyes in the crowd like he always did.

shame should be burning through your veins, not the white hot trickle of desire that you’re filled with as satoru slurps your juices from between your fat pussy lips. the needy groans he lets out against you inch down your spine, drown you in stormy waves of lust and you find yourself addicted to the bob of gojo’s head from underneath your tule skirts. you’re just so wet, pouring the royal family’s riches, liquid gold straight into the man’s greedy mouth as he drinks you in.

your nectar glazes his cheeks and chin in a devilish shine, brighter than the crown set to sit atop your head — his mouth barely parts from your ravaged and swollen romping as if he’s married to eating you out, tongue licking you up and down before your juices even have a chance to drip to the ground. you can only imagine what would happen if the press found out, your life would be over and so would satoru’s. but you don’t care, because every second that gojo spends between your thighs dragging you to orgasm is worth it. every single time.

he grips at your ass, pulling you back onto his tongue as it flickers in and out of you. the whole ordeal is disgusting and delightful and you never want it to end. pleasure mounts high within you, evident in the shakiness of your gripes and grouses, lust laden in its tune.

“s-satoru…satoru. i’m gonna… g’na fuckin’ cum!” a high pitch squeal tears in your throat like music to gojo’s ears — now working relentlessly to get you off just like you need. he doesn’t care if he’s suffocating, at least he’ll die a happy man between the thighs of a princess.

he chuckles against your sex. “such a dirty mouth for such a proper lady.” the lord says as if he’s a scolding you.

but you can barely hear him, for static rings in your ears as your body loses the war to your orgasm. your release bubbles up on his tongue like the fresh pop of champagne, while your brain fizzles and clears itself of all logical thought. guilt is replaced by bouts of lust, making you realise that this cycle of avoiding and fucking gojo will never end. you’re too addicted to him and he’s too obsessed with you, as long as things remain that way — sex with him will always be on the agenda.

you can’t promise yourself, your grandmother or suguru that this will be the last time.

dopamine dances across gojo’s brain as he drinks in the tangy-honey flavour of your release, letting it splatter against his puffy lips as they encircle your clit to prolong your orgasm. you gush as if you’re a rushing erotic river, spilling into satoru’s earnest mouth while he licks you clean with wanton.

“look at that… oh look at you. cumming for me already.”

“f-fuck you.”

“fuck me?” he smirks, making your gut lurch with wanton. “fuck you. i’m the one that’s working on it, princess.” satoru slowly rises to his feet, licking a nasty spit-slicked trail from your hole to the cleavage peeking out from underneath your dress. he doesn’t even stand to his full height, his large frame towering over you as he yanks down the front of your dress to lick and suck and play with your breasts until you can’t tell what’s up or down anymore.

his perfect teeth graze a pert nipple which makes you gasp and cry, loosely looping your arms around satoru’s neck while his ravaging mouth works your sensitive breasts, even going as far to swipe his tongue over the spot where each one meets your ribcage. he doesn’t leave any marks, you’re not his to keep. large and rough hands replace the warmth of his mouth on you to toy with your mounds of flesh — pinching and pulling as satoru kisses you senseless. you groan at the taste of your slick on his tongue and salt of your skin as well, tugging him closer so that there’s no space between your heated bodies.

“don’t cry,” satoru comments softly against your swollen, cherry-bitten lips — cupping your face between his fingers. blinking slowly, you allow your frenzied brain the chance to catch up to reality and you don’t realise the tears that wet your cheeks until he points them out. why are you even crying? “you’re too pretty for that.” his compliments do nothing to clear the lustful, confused fog settling over your mind like a dark cloud so you follow your body’s instincts and reach for the metal clasp on his belt.

nimble fingers make their way down the front of gojo’s dress pants and he hisses at the quick pumps of his perfectly hard cock before you’re dragging up your skirts and guiding him towards your entrance. “baby, wait—“

you push his pants down enough to let his erection spring free, pulsing with need and standing at full mast against the cotton blouse covering his tummy. “i need you.” you sniff, dropping your panties to your ankles. “please.”

the thing about sex with satoru is that it never feels like just sex. he tenderly hikes the meat of your thigh over his slender hips, lets his dribbly, sticky cockhead twitch forward and ease past the salaciously slick barriers of your empty hole, and presses your bodies so close together that you think you might forget how to breathe. satoru makes love to you each and every time — and it’s terrible.

like eating too much sugar or indulging in a bad smoking habit. you’re not supposed to be in love with him and the way he fucks up into you, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis even with all of the fabric in the way. “don’t cry for him, f-fuck,” the both of you look down, your pupils dilating at the sight of your pussy swallowing his lengthy shaft whole — catching on the ridges of each blue vein spiralling around him. “cry for me, princess. i’m the one that’s ruining you.”

with his forehead pressed to yours, silver hair matted down by the line of perspiration against it — satoru braces a hand against the tree above your head and sets stream to his passionate thrusts, fluid like water under a bridge. it’s not fair, how wrong this is and how good it feels to have gojo lick over the parts of you he would bite down on if you were his. your pulse point, your neck, the spot just under your ear that’s way too sensitive for your own good. it should be suguru fucking you like this, your fiancé.

yet, there’s no room for self-loathing and despair between the rough tree and satoru gojo above you. nothing aside for the thick curtain of lust that protects you from prying eyes in the rose garden, floral scents twisting with the raw, aphrodisiac-like smell of sex and sweat while he pounds away at your swollen pussy, grinding his cock wetly against the sweet spots dotted along your ribbed walls.

“i should put a baby in you,” he says suddenly, just barely audible over the wet pap, pap, pap of your sexes working together. embarrassment burns bright under the surface of your cheeks because you’re that wet and it’s that loud, the remainders of your previous orgasm making it easier for satoru’s cock to glide in and out of you. “leave you with a little gift. a present — reminder of our time together, yeah?” he knows that he’s not making any sense, leaving his confession behind sex and sultry words. he would never admit to how much he loves you, he’s already ruined you enough. he’s already taken more than enough from you too. “i’ll get to the crown either fuckin’ way.”

satoru talks with his dick and you fucking like it, squeezing the damn daylights out of him. he can barely pull back with you locked down on like that, his seedy tip snug between your ruined folds — clinging into him by viscous ropes of your last orgasm and freshly formed globs of his white hot precum. “you like that, don’t you princess?” he coos down to you condescendingly, picking up the pace of his hips as he rams into you mercilessly. the tree shakes from the force, sprinkling pretty and innocent petals over you both. “you wanna make me a daddy? my queen? give me a little prince or princess.”

“fuck yes, satoru!” nodding your head with wanton, you press yourself into his neck and squeeze him close by the ass cheeks so the only place your lover can go is deeper. you want to be able to feel him in your guts, hot in your womb like an iron rod — anything to forget the trickle of betrayal filling you up like a glass of wine. “i want it, i want it…i want—“

you cut yourself of with an abrasive sob, as you moan your agreements. i want you. you feel the words on the tip of your tongue, drowned out by the slippery sounds of sex and creaking tree trunk. you’ve never wanted anyone as much as you’ve wanted satoru gojo.

but he’s the wrong person, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

“i know you do, i know,” you can feel gojo move to slobber over your chest, pacifying his whistle tone whimpers with your nipples bouncing in his mouth. he looks up at you with vacant cerulean eyes that shimmer like the skies above, the crude mix of your arousals slinging at the point at which your bodies join. “tell me how much you love daddy’s cock, princess.”

he goads because he craves your attention. satoru can feel you slipping from between his fingers, the guilt that rolls off of you in waves as he languidly rams into your cunt. he’s asking a lot of someone who’s too stimulated, too fucked out to speak — your tongue barely staying in your mouth.

“sato—!”

“c’mon… answer me, fuck, there we go.”

that’s when he hikes you up in his arms, lifting you a little to feverishly thrust up into you — dragging you closer to another high. your nails dig deep into his taut ass, nudging his dick against your g-spot. suguru would never be this rough with you, would never want to fuck you so good that the pleasure hurts.

shaking your head, your eyes glisten but the denial doesn’t stop small streams of arousal from squirting out and webbing against gojo’s soft pubes. “i-i can’t! i don’t—“ satoru bites down on your nipple, hard, cutting through your train of blurry thought. “i love…h-him!”

you love your fiancé, but you both know that’s a lie.

“yeah, sure you do. that’s why your pussy’s huggin’ my cock so tight. you don’t wanna let me go, baby.” even while he’s a mess for you, your rival still finds it in him to be such an egotistical prick. you can’t even tell him that he’s wrong, because you never ever want to be without satoru, without this immensely overwhelming feeling of ecstasy fluttering through your entire body. it’s all too much, he’s too much, stretching you wide and filling you with the love (and cum) you should be getting from suguru.

thunder cracks above your head, lightning flashes through the trees as if the higher power up above is bearing witness — growing distraught at your sins. it’s not long before the heavens open up on you both and your sweaty, sex slicked bodies are doused in rain. but it doesn’t stop you, doesn’t stop satoru from dragging down your bottom lip to lovingly spit into your mouth.

he kisses you as if it’s not enough, rocking his hips into you so he can bully your insides and mark them with his pre. “bet he’s lookin’ for you right now, hm? his precious wife to be…drenched in my cum ‘n drenched in the rain.” satoru heaves, letting the patter of the rain drown out the sound of his tightening balls slapping against your ass. “bet he wishes he could fuck you like i do.”

you can’t tell if it’s the tears of guilt and longing or the rain that blurs your vision. “h-he doesn’t get to!” you cry like a dirty porn-star, hardly becoming of a soon to be queen. “o-only you!”

“only me, hm? i’m flattered.” he seems elated, hiding his flushed face and happy smile in the junction between your neck and shoulder. his wet hair tickles your skin. “too bad he doesn’t know his princess comes used and abused between her pretty legs, huh?”

the rain is cold against your skin, seeping through your clothes, ruining your makeup — but the way satoru licks up your hot streaky tears and the droplets of water against your skin as if to sooth you… the way he does it fills you with warmth.

your limbs become heavy from your water-logged clothes and exhaustion, your whole body slumped against satoru’s strength but you still manage to rake your nails down his back as if you can’t be any closer. gojo doesn’t let your hips run from his either. his mind races, stuck on the idea of asking you to run away with him because he can’t just let you go back to geto. not again.

he can’t let you marry someone you’re not in love with.

it would be selfish of him to ask you to stay, even when you wrap your legs around him and have him plug up your tiny little hole with sticky white. he sees it in your eyes how much you care for him, even through the rain. he’s ruining you, from the inside out, knocking the crown from your head and he hates it.

“daddy loves this pussy,” he wishes for the moment to last forever, but you’re already so close — crying from every hole, suffocating his throbbing cock. neither of you can hold back. “he loves you. i love you.”

the confession nearly tears your world in two — but it’s all you need to hear before everything comes crashing down on you. “i-i love you!” you tell him, wailing the words loud and proud as you release on him for a second time, gushing obscene amounts against gojo’s tummy smooshed up on your clit. “sato—! satoru! cum with me, cum inside me!” scratching down his back and screwing your eyes shut, you tilt your head up to capture his lips in a passionate kiss.

the taste of salt on your cupid’s bow throws gojo over the edge too — his cockhead pours viscous white directly into your womb. “fuuuck, you’re so good princess…” and even though you know you should tell him to pull out, you don’t want him too. you want his baby, want his cum, want him always. even if that’s greedy of you.“fuckin’ take it…take all of me. all of that cum’s for you.” he slurs, beyond brainless.

lewd clapping noises echo between your bodies like the thunder up above as satoru fucks you through the rest of your highs, nose nudging your cheeks tenderly to soothe your tears. moaning, and crying against one another’s swollen lip. when his slow grinds come to a stop and your breathing recovers, the white haired lord gently sets you back in the ground — tenderly helping you to fix your drenched clothes back into place.

your thighs are completely bruised and his back is completely torn up. the last marks you’ll ever leave with each other.

“so about—“

“we… we can’t do this anymore, satoru.” you say almost immediately, shaky as if you’re in the verge of panic.

for the first time since you started doing this, sneaking off with one another, gojo notices the glint on your ring finger. and you feel the very same weight of that ring.

he shrugs you off, pulling up his pants and smirking. “that’s what you said last time—

“no satoru, i mean it now. we can’t.” it’s like you’ve come to your senses, realised the gravity of it all and what’s at stake. thirty days to get married, thirty days to become queen. “i’m going to become queen, your queen, in a matter of weeks and to do that i need to be married to him. i can’t mess this up. we have to stop.”

“but you don’t even want him,” he growls like a petulant child, roaring above the rain that cascades down on you both. “you want me. i want you. who gives a fuck about anything else?”

“duty gives a fuck! i have to marry him!”

throwing his hands up in defeat, satoru steps towards you, loud and intimidating, and you step back towards the tree. “you can’t even say his fucking name.”

“his name is suguru geto and i will marry him because you forced me to.” you spit, going toe to toe with him — chest heaving but tight from your heart break. “if you and your stupid higher ups had just stayed out my way. maybe there could have been a chance for us. but they didn’t and here we are and duty freaking calls, gojo.”

you storm off shortly after, be before he can see you cry again (for real this time). from his place hidden in the royal gardens, gojo watches sullenly as you approach your grandmother and fiancé — the elder queen disappointed in your current state and suguru clearly worried that the rain might make you catch a cold.

the perfect alibi to cover up the fact that you’d just fucked satoru gojo.

but the entire time, you never look back.

you don’t even look at gojo — and that’s how he knows you meant it. you always look back, always look for him in the crowd.

the knowledge hits him like a strike of lightning. he’s royally fucked up — you’re marrying for the crown, all because of him. and there’s no room for loving when you’ve got the weight of the nation on your shoulders.

#୨୧ KINKTOBER 23’#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #jjk smut #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x y/n #gojo thirst #jjk thirsts #✧ ₊˚੭ — writing #tteokdoroki #angelshubnetwork

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pucksandpower · 1 year

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Daniel Ricciardo x Queen of Genovia!Reader - Social Media AU

voguemagazine posted a story

danielricciardo

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danielricciardo life update

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f1wagupdates he really just said “life update” as if this isn’t the most chaotic thing to happen since abu dhabi in 2021

maxverstappen1 finally! i was constantly worried that lando would accidentally say something while streaming

landonorris that was uncalled for

maxverstappen1 mate, you literally leaked your own launch date once

metgalaofficial why do we feel like proud parents?

genovianroyalfamily

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genovianroyalfamily Thank you for all the birthday wishes! To mark the occasion, Her Majesty Queen Y/N has shared a collection of photos taken by Mr. Daniel Ricciardo at the royal residence

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lightsoutric daniel3.jpg 🤝 genovianroyalfamily

dr3lvr the fact that daniel took these photos and they’re the ones queen y/n chose to post for the world to see is making me emotional

f1wagupdates she really is the most gorgeous woman on earth 😍

genovianroyalupdates and the kindest and an amazing leader ❤️

danielricciardo posted a story

genovianroyalfamily

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genovianroyalfamily Her Majesty Queen Y/N would like to wish her partner, Mr. Daniel Ricciardo, a very happy birthday. In honor of the celebration, Queen Y/N has released a series of photos taken by her during the couple’s visit to Australia earlier this year

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ricciardoupdates we are getting fed 🙏

f1wagupdates imagine daniel passing on his love for photography to queen y/n

f1wagupdates wait this means they probably visited his family in australia together 🥹

queeny/nfan their relationship is so pure

f1 happy birthday, danny ric 🦡

genovianroyalfamily

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genovianroyalfamily Her Majesty Queen Y/N and His Royal Highness Prince Daniel, Duke of Pyrus are overwhelmed by the love shown for their marriage. They are so incredibly grateful for the warm wishes and support they have received from everyone around the world throughout their relationship and during their wedding. Each of you made this joyful day even more meaningful

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metgalaofficial just call us the royal matchmaker

royalfashion the tiara, the veil, the dress … absolutely magnificent

formulastyle do you know why daniel is wearing an uniform?

royalfashion as prince consort, he has an honorary standing in the genovian military

dreamdriver i just realized that daniel is one of the hosts of the genovian grand prix now and he’s definitely going to be at the race as a full on prince which means that zak brown will have to bow to him 😈

ricciardoupdates karma is wonderful thing

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luveline · 11 months

Text

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

one | two | three | four

Finding out you’re a princess isn’t half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can’t seem to stop flirting with you.

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, implied chubby!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You hadn’t realised moving right along your hemisphere would be enough to change the weather. The UK is cold and often rain-soaked, while Genovia has been nothing but sunny. It's a nice change, and the sun on your skin almost removes the insecurity of wearing a dress that isn’t yours. You feel pretty. You feel as yourself as you have in the days since this whole thing began.

“Sorry,” James says, standing in the sunshine with his hands crossed primly behind his back, “you’re what?”

You sit up properly in the window seat. He deserves every ounce of respect that you can give him, he’s been nothing but caring and kind since you met. You almost regret your decision to leave, if only because you wont get to witness him and his nice friends.

Who will be separated once again, your brain adds helpfully. Thanks to you.

“I'm going home.” Your sketchbook is supple under your hands, a thick and expensive leather bending from the force of your squeeze.

He has the most professional look on his face you've ever seen from him. “If you’ve forgotten something-”

“James,” you say. You'd said quite plainly only moments ago your intentions. “I can't be a princess.” You soften your tone. “I’m sorry.”

“You are a princess. By blood.”

Sleeping on it hasn't made it a truth that’s any easier to accept. You are biologically the daughter of the late Prince of Genovia. He was your father, and now he’s dead. It is agonising to think of, and so you can’t. You look down at the sketchbook pressed flush to your linen skirts, the fabric plain and yet gorgeously rendered. It’s the nicest thing you’ve ever worn. You wonder if they might let you keep it after you renounce your title.

“I can't do this,” you say quietly.

You’re ashamed of yourself, but you really can't do this. You cannot live through your life changing in such a huge way, you aren’t built for it; you've only just learned to function in your tiny flat on your equivalent uni course. You’re finally in a position, as lonely as it might be, where you feel okay with who you are. If you were to accept the task theyre trying to hoist upon you, become a princess, live forever in the limelight surrounded by a better breed of royal, it’ll destroy you.

“You can. Of course you can.”

You look up cautiously. James’ mouth is set in a line. He looked so pleased when he walked in, and he'd given you a compliment subtly and easy as breathing. You worry he wants to take it back now that you’ve thrown in the towel, but he’d never do anything so spiteful. And it’s silly —you’re thinking about a compliment while his life and job are teetering.

It’s just one of the reasons you aren't cut out for this.

“It’s your job to be a good judge of character, right? You read people,” you say tentatively.

He nods. “Yeah. That’s how I know you can do this.”

You set aside your sketchbook and pencil, wringing your hands together as you stand. “You must see it, James. I’m not meant for this, I’m…” Weak, you won't say. There's no use in dramatics. You plaster a smile over your worrying and wear it like you're sure of yourself. “It will be better for everyone if I give up now.”

James looks over his shoulder. Upon his entry, the guard at your side had moved to the doorway to stand with Daniels, and so the room is empty besides the two of you. He takes a step toward you, and he drops his head noticeably. As if he could intimidate you when he's so so sweet.

“It won't be better for everyone,” he says slowly. “Not for the people of Genovia, they need an heir to take the throne.”

“Julianna–”

“Julianna isn't eligible.” He shakes his head. “It’s hard to explain. But Genovia needs a queen, a good queen, someone with a good heart.”

Your heart leaps into your throat at the idea of ruling. “James, you don't even know me. I could ruin everything.”

“You said it yourself, Princess. I’m a good judge of character.”

You fall silent. You don't want to argue with him, you don't have even an ounce of malice for him.

"You're a princess, you– you haven't even tried," he says pleadingly.

You trick yourself into thinking James wants you to stay because he wants to be your friend. You know you're desperate for one. Back home, the closest you have to friends are the people who wait at the same bus stop each morning and each night, or your classmates at the college. James could be your friend, you know he would be if you stayed. He's remarkably kind.

But James wants you to stay for a myriad of reasons. For Genovia. For his friends.

"I just want to go home," you confess weakly.

Heat rises to your cheeks and throat, a lump you can't swallow.

"Okay," James says. "Alright."

He nods at you, a picture of a perfect professional, and turns to leave. You open your mouth to say something, but you don't have a clue as to what, and by the time he's left the room you've drummed up nothing more than a pitiful, "James."

You're part way to unexplainable tears when Remus appears. He looks startled at your expression, and you can't make any sense of it yourself, so you mumble, "Please don't ask."

"Do you want a tissue?" he asks sympathetically.

You shake your head.

Remus looks unhappy again, as he had on the plane. His pale skin is nearly grey. You debate asking if he's doing okay, but you've just told him to leave you alone. You assume from his expression he'd prefer the same.

"Do you want to come have some dinner with me?" he asks.

"That's okay, I don't think I'll be in need of any etiquette training after all," you say.

"As friends," he says. "Please. I don't like going down to the kitchen by myself, Marlene harasses me."

Marlene, a dark haired, dark-eyed girl with a sweetheart shaped face and hands covered in tiny burns, does harass Remus, but not in the way you'd thought.

"Eat up, Moony," she says, placing yet another plate in front of him, bringing the total up to ten.

You sit thigh to thigh with him on a small bench set aside in a room just off the kitchens that says 'Staff Only' on the door. Despite this, no one has objected to your sitting down. At least, not yet.

"Marlene, I physically cannot eat all this."

"Ah, but the Princess will help." Marlene smiles at you. She seems genuine. "She needs to get used to our cuisine."

You can't endure the awkwardness of explaining your situation. You smile 'til your eyes crinkle in the corners and take a big mouthful of some mysterious soup rather than speak.

"Ah, Remus, we've been making bone broth for Her Majesty, it's supposed to do wonders for your heart," Marsha adds. She's the opposite of Marlene but no less beautiful, pale and blonde as cornsilk with fine eyebrows and translucent lashes. In the sun leaking in from the window, she's quite golden. "We can set you some aside whenever we make it for her, love."

Remus smiles. "Thank you."

Marsha and Marlene both sequester themselves again behind the huge silver ovens. You've never seen anything like it, a marvel of modern machinery in the industrial instrumentation that heats the room. The windows have been thrown open to combat the thick and fragrant air, but you're still sweating.

"D'you need a drink?" he asks.

"I can't get them."

"Please, Princess. I don't need another person trying to take care of me." He doesn't say it spitefully, but you're sorry all the same.

"Sorry, I wasn't trying to patronise you–"

"I know," he says, standing up. "Trust me, I know. You're just being polite, because you're nice." He smiles. "I'll get us a carafe, okay?"

A carafe. Of what? Do royals drink only from carafes? Is it weird to ask for a coke? You turn your gaze back to the rich foods that have been laid out in front of you and pick up a fork. Then, upon reflection, you swap the fork for the appropriate one, and finish the small portion of chicken ragù you'd set aside.

"Ah-ha!" a familiar voice calls. "Y/N! Here you are. Is my Remus with you, or are you very hungry?"

You twist on the bench to face him. "Your Remus?"

Your question slipped out, really. Sirius grins and sits down to your right. "We have to talk funeral."

"Oh. Alright."

He clasps your forearm for a gentle second.

"Sorry. Truly. I'm so sorry for your loss. I promise I'll make this as easy for you as I can, okay? You'll be in the public eye, and I want to make sure you do nothing that anyone can fault you for."

He has a strange mouth. Not ugly, a million miles from it, but unexpected. It pulls down into a grimace as he talks, his hand patting yours.

"I won't have to speak, will I?"

He shakes his head firmly. "No. All you have to do is look pretty and dress well. You're already doing the first part beautifully by yourself, and I will make sure you have plenty of options for the second part, yeah?"

"Oh, hi, Sirius," Remus says, back with a carafe and two glasses.

"Hello," Sirius says, "did you get asked about the bone broth yet?"

Remus sits on your other side and huffs. "Yes. Did you put them up to that?"

"The opposite! I told them not to bug you about it because bone broth sounds a little…"

"Old-fashioned?"

"Inhumane."

You laugh and fail to smother it with the back of your hand. It feels weird because it hadn't explicitly been a conversation involving you, but neither tell you off or give you a funny look. Remus laughs at your laughing and pours your drink for you, a pale orange liquid topped by slices of orange, blood orange and white flowers.

You take a cautious sip.

"Have you seen my darling James this morning?" Sirius asks Remus from behind you.

"Not since he left my room."

You choke on your drink. Hands smashed to your mouth, juice drips down your arms and ruins the bodice of your dress, sticky orange and spit everywhere. The boys either side of you splutter in shock, though Sirius begins to laugh as Remus presses a tissue into your hands.

"Are you okay?" Remus asks, patting your back.

"I'm fine," you say hoarsely, wiping yourself down with impressive speed as the heat of embarrassment rises.

"Something go down the wrong pipe?"

You're honest by accident, extremely startled by your choking and the subsequent question, "I didn't know James and Remus– that you were– sorry, I was just surprised–"

"Oh, no," Remus says, sounding almost as embarrassed as you now, "no, we aren't. I mean, he's my best friend. He's like my brother."

"Oh," you say, squeaking, desperately hoping the ground will open up and eat you whole.

"We aren't romantically involved," Remus says, and you get the sense that's where he plans to end this conversation.

"Yet," Sirius whispers in your ear.

Remus shakes his head at you solemnly.

Desperate to get away from an awkward conversation despite Sirius' good humour, you stand up from the bench and duck your head at both of them. "Um, I'll just go get some paper towels. Sorry. For spitting."

"Forgiven," Sirius says easily.

You rush away from them both out of the alcove and into the main body of the kitchen. Heads turn as you walk, and some staff even take the time to incline their heads to you like a small bow, but you ignore them all and head straight for Marlene. She smiles when she senses your approach, full lips cherry red and shiny as she asks, "Is there something I can do for you, Your Highness?"

"I'm so sorry," you begin, "I've made a mess, could I get some kitchen towel? Sorry."

"Of course! Can I have someone come and clean it up for you?"

"No, please, it's my mess, and you've been gracious enough to allow me in your space. I couldn't have anyone else do it."

"It's really no problem," Marlene says, but she walks to the utility cupboard south of the huge pantry and produces a roll of kitchen towels for you.

"Thank you." Then, because you might be leaving soon, and she should know, "I– I've never had so many nice foods at once. I can't cook, at home. Everything I eat is from a jar or a tin," —you cough, worried that was an overshare— "and it's nothing compared to all of this. You guys are amazing."

Marlene's smile softens. You hadn't realised she was being diplomatic until genuineness welled to the surface of her expression, her eyes suddenly brighter, and her smile unrestrained. "We work hard, and we love what we do. Thank you, Your Highness."

You rub your lips together and nod. Spinning on your heel, you navigate out of the kitchen as quickly as you can without running clean into someone and return to the staff alcove, where Remus and Sirius sit with their heads together, in the middle of a conversation you can't hear.

You hesitate a few steps away. Remus smiles widely, so widely his face changes completely, and Sirius' hand drifts to his elbow. His thumb presses into the crook, and they both giggle together like kids. You're paranoid that they're laughing at you, and wondering how you could think for even a second that Remus was sleeping with James, when Sirius tucks his hair behind his ear and says, "I can't believe we're finally in the same place again."

You back away. Not sure what to do with yourself, not sure if what you've already done is the wrong thing. You're guilty, and you're afraid of making the wrong choice, having already made it.

A hand pats your shoulder.

"Sorry, Mikkelson," you say.

It's not Mikkelson. James' hand lingers on your shoulder for a half second before he takes a step back.

"Walk with me?" he asks.

—

James takes you out to the Palace Gardens. You insist on walking side by side, and he agrees for the most part because here is where you're best protected.

"I'm sorry for leaving so suddenly. I had something to do. How are you feeling?"

"How am I feeling?" you ask softly. "I don't…"

"You had some very big news yesterday. So, how are you feeling?"

You squint in the sun. James supposes you aren't used to it, considering you'd been living in one of the rainiest cities in the UK, which is one of the greyest countries in the world.

"I feel fine," you say.

Truth or lie. Probably a lie, but James can't call you out on it, considering your relatively new relationship. A professional relationship at that, the lines of which he has already crossed multiple times.

He can't help it. You're not weak, you aren't in need of his protection for lack of character —you're quite obviously very brave considering the insane pressure of your situation. Brave, but it's James' job anyhow to be your shield.

You get this look on your face like you're deep in thought, he's seen it every day since he met you five days ago, and it reminds him of his melancholy friends. He wonders how he's going to get rid of it.

"I've spoken to our Palace doctor." Even though it is not his job, James seems to have taken on the majority of your care. Your lady in waiting has yet to arrive, and Sirius is rather busy arranging your presence at your father's funeral (and hounding Remus, having missed him dearly). "She would love to have an appointment with you, to assess you, and to adjust for your medical needs. But it's not the physical that I'm concerned about, it's your head."

"My head."

"Yes. I would love for you to talk to a counsellor, or a therapist while you're here."

"What's the point?" you ask sincerely.

"Your father has passed away," he says. "That takes a toll."

"I didn't even really know him." You speak so softly to him, like you're worried your voice will disrupt the summer air.

"I know. That doesn't always make it easier. I want you to experience the compassion and care that you deserve, that's all. If you don't want to talk to anyone, I understand. But if you'll humour me, I'd appreciate it."

"When… do you want me to see her?"

"The doctor?" James winces at his own surprise. "You can see her whenever you want to. She's completely at your discretion."

"Oh, okay. Well, when is best for her?"

James doesn't smile, but he wants to. "I believe she goes home to pick up her son at six. So before then would probably suit her best. But she's on call twenty four hours a day and paid well, I promise."

"Okay. Um. Well, how do I do that? Make an appointment, or?"

"I can make it for you. Or Sirius can."

"I can't make it myself?"

"No, you can. Do you want me to call for someone to get her? Or you can ask the phone to connect you?"

You stop walking at your slow pace and turn your body to the beds of flowers lining the path. Small and dainty flowers much like a Californian wildflower bloom contained to rows.

"Would you mind doing it for me?" you ask. You sound shame-faced.

"No, I wouldn't mind. When do you want to see her?" James asks.

"Not today, please. Maybe tomorrow."

James makes a mental note to ask you about it tomorrow. She really is on call —there's no need to make an appointment. But there's also no need to correct you and no need to worry about it now.

"The Prince, may he rest in peace, will be buried in five days. You're sure you don't mind staying until then?" He doesn't want you to leave, but the memory of your plea twists his guts. I just want to go home.

"I–yes. Of course. I owe it."

James doesn't know about that. But the Prince never did any harm to you, though he never made any efforts to take care of you, and so it won't hurt for you to attend. Still…

"You don't have to go if you don't want to. I know that Lily and Emmeline stressed that your presence was desired, but that's political. It's the image of the country, of our country. And the UK, who's royal family, as you know yourself, are deeply embroiled in scandal and, ah, what's thought to be empty rhetoric."

You're starting to look rather frazzled. James decides to pull back his professionalism a touch.

"Genovia protects the image of the Royal family because they've seen how ire builds in other countries. Deserved ire. They want it to seem as though you are cohesive, cooperative, and not–"

"A secret."

"Yes. If you'd gone to Oxford, they would've lied," —he shouldn't be saying this, for the record— "and said you'd been extradited for your safety. Or spun some tale about a normal childhood."

"But I'm a drop out who lives in a one bedroom flat."

"Yes." He watches the side of your face. Your eyes are glued to the flowers and unwavering. "I don't think there's any shame in that."

"Thanks," you mumble.

You don't believe him. He doesn't mind. He has plenty of time to convince you of your worth.

"Would you like to pick some of the flowers?" he asks.

"I don't want to ruin anyone's hard work."

"They won't mind."

You crouch down, reaching for the flowers. Your fingers weave through the dark stems of gorgeous purple and pink flowers, their colours so marvellously vibrant yet their shapes elegant enough to suit. You choose a purple flower with white edges and pick it gently. After a moment, you pick a second.

You stand, holding the flowers between your thumb and forefinger.

You clutch your flowers like small lifelines as he walks you back into the palace. You worry audibly about the location of your new sketchbook, and don't seem to like it when one of the guards who'd been watching you this morning seamlessly removes himself from a wall with the book in hand.

James asks you what you want to do and you don't know. You aren't hungry, you aren't in the mood for movies or music and it might seem disrespectful for you to be seen at the theatre —not that James thinks you would spend much time there anyhow. You don't want to do anything at all, so James suggests that you retire to your private quarters and have some time to yourself.

He takes up station by the door, listening to the dull scratching of your pencil for a good hour. He wonders if, occasionally, you're talking to yourself: there isn't much to go off of, the suggestion of your voice rather than the reality. You could be humming. You might be clearing your throat.

An hour later and there's silence.

James pulls his radio from his shoulder. Guarding you when you aren't up for talking is, unfortunately, rather dull. And he worries what it is you're upto; quiet is indicative of absence.

"Sirius?" he asks the radio.

Sirius does not often wear a radio, and he has his pager even less. It's a wonder he gets anything done.

"James?" Remus asks, his voice crackling over the channel.

"Hey, is Sirius with you?"

"He's not. He's assembling a potential funeral wardrobe for Her Highness. Do you want me to go look for him?"

James almost laughs. "I have people for that. Mikkelson?"

He can practically hear Mickey's groan at being picked on before the man picks up his radio and says, "Yeah, sir?"

"Find Mr. Black, won't you? Thank you."

Hoping Sirius is on his way, James knocks your door.

He, professionally (and he is trying so hard to be a professional), should call you Princess or Your Highness. But both titles make your skin crawl now that they're fact, so he opts for neither.

"Are you alright in there?" he asks.

You don't answer. James sighs and eases open your door. He wouldn't usually, not every silence is ominous, and your privacy is a right, but your safety is the priority and at the moment you're a high level target whether James agrees with that assessment or not. If he were to ignore protocol, and you were annihilated, he would go to prison for a long, long time.

You're asleep at the desk.

James is honestly surprised. It can't be comfortable, and your bed is probably one of the comfiest in the world with a state of the art orthopaedic mattress and duck-down pillows and quilts. What's worse, your desk chair is solid wood and likely fifty years old. The crick in your neck and the damage to your back will be extraordinary.

And yet, it isn't James' job to wake you up.

Professionally, James should leave. He should go back to his posting at the door. He has no need to wake you.

You're frowning in your sleep. When you wake, he imagines you'll have graphite rubbed into your cheek.

James sighs and leaves the room.

"You wanted to see me?" Sirius asks, sounding spritely as he walks down the hallway toward him.

"Hello," James says, and if they were in school he would stand up from a slouching pose against the wall and collect Sirius into a bear hug, slapping his back, maybe pulling a lock of his hair while saying something flirtatious.

He stands at rigid attention.

"Drop the stance, my love," Sirius says. James snorts. "There's no one here to see you."

"It's not the point."

"I know. What did you want? I'm quite busy."

"Could you start carrying your pager, please? Or better, a radio? Then you wouldn't have to cross the entire building to find me."

"You could've called me?" Sirius suggests.

"I don't have a phone while I'm working."

"Well, that's silly."

"I was…" He lowers his voice. "I'm worried the Princess is lonely."

"Then go talk to her."

"I can't. You know as well as I do that the point of my being here is to protect her to the best of my ability, and that requires an unaffected point of view. I can't give her my full attention while giving her safety my full attention, that doesn't add up."

"Then grab a couple of other men and then go speak to her."

"This is my job, Sirius. I'm paid to do this."

"Not paid to make sure she's in company," Sirius says. He smiles at James like he's won the argument and James, brimming with brotherly affection, wants to chop him in the stomach.

"Her mental health–"

"Yes, I know. Just as important as physical. And while you wear the badge with pride, James, it still isn't your job." Sirius leans against the wall opposite. The hallways here are huge. It is quite the gap. "I was thinking I'd make her an appointment with Cindy."

"She said she'll make one tomorrow."

"Oh, brilliant. You know, Cindy's getting a divorce?"

"I didn't know that," James says. "How do you know that?"

Sirius taps the side of his nose before crossing his arms tightly across his chest, looking smug. "She's very single now, Jamie. And very pretty, she's a redhead."

"Sirius…"

Sirius stands, stretches and meets James at your doorway. "Okay, fine, I can see you're not in the mood."

"It's not because of you."

"I know that, thanks," Sirius says, stepping on James' steel-capped boot as he pushes past him.

"Sirius–"

Sirius pulls his hand back from your door handle. "What?" he asks.

"She's sleeping. Try to wake her nicely."

"If she's sleeping, why does she need company?"

James nods toward your door insistently.

Sirius does as he's being asked because he's a sweetheart with entirely too much time for James, despite also being on the clock. James can't see anything from his position, but he can hear your conversation.

Sirius lets himself into the room. He likely shakes your shoulder with care as he says, "Princess Y/N, poor darling, are you alright?"

"Sorry," you say scratchily. Here James thinks you might've lifted your head and discovered the crick in your neck. "Oh, I'm sorry, am I supposed to be somewhere?"

"No." There's an unmistakable fondness in Sirius tone, hiding just beneath the practised facade that comes with working for Royalty. "Do you want me to help you into bed? Or call for an attendant?"

"No, no, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… Sorry. What did you need?"

"I have some clothes picked out for you to wear to the funeral proceedings. I want your opinion, but I don't need it right now. You can go back to bed if you like."

"No," you say. James feels for you. No, no, no. "I can do whatever you need me to."

"Why don't you freshen up, first? James stole you at dinner, I'll go have him order something sweet to the fitting rooms, alright?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Sirius emerges from your room and gives James an elbowing. "You could've woken her up. You're not heartless."

"I'm technically not allowed in there if she doesn't permit me."

"She doesn't know that, and I'm sure she'd prefer a wake up call than to be left like that." Sirius rubs one of his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Sorry, I'm not shouting at you. But I really don't think you need to worry about permission and not speaking to her. She's not Julianna," his voice drops to a murmur, "she doesn't think she's above us."

"I don't care if she does," James says honestly. Not because he thinks you should feel superior, but because he learned a long time ago that people do, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. "Mary's back tomorrow. If she catches even a whiff of how I've been behaving–"

Sirius holds James' gaze. "Poor girl had pencil on her face."

"Yes."

"They're going to eat her alive."

"Probably."

"But we won't let them," Sirius says.

"Not willingly."

Sirius nods. "Are you coming with us?"

"Yeah." He checks his watch. "Couple hours left yet 'til six. Are you off at the same time?"

"No, are you kidding? I finish at three like a normal person."

"That's not normal. Ever heard the phrase nine to five?"

"Normal compared to the royals, who work never to never."

James shushes him. Sirius shushes James back.

"Are we ready to go?" you ask.

James grins at the shock on Sirius' face, as if to say, What, you didn't hear her? Even though he'd barely heard your approach himself. A picture of politeness, Sirius ushers you down the hallway with him.

You trek down onto the first floor, through the huge foyer and into the main section of the palace hiding behind the grand banquet hall. Here resides the fitting rooms, not too far from the servants quarters in case the tailors or maids are required.

Sirius calls for an attendant despite the horror on your face at the suggestion as he leads you into the biggest fitting room. It's almost like a shop, in that it houses racks upon racks of clothing no doubt loaned in for Sirius' perusal.

He drags a smaller rack to the centre of the room.

"How do you feel about trying things on? Do you need a partition?" Sirius looks at you for a few seconds. "I'll call for one."

You look like you've been slapped.

James clears his throat. "He knows you're shy," he says.

You take that much better. "Yeah. I do want the partition. Please."

James weighs up the possibility of your possible murder and decides the chances are still too high to offer to leave. He truly won't be able to see you behind the partition, and it's not worth the administrative hell in any case. He hates how his job makes him constantly aware of how you might be murdered, but he likes knowing he could protect you with force. It evens out.

"A fancy education may have helped me be where I am today, but it doesn't account for style or taste." Sirius smiles, propping himself on the arm of a suede armchair. "Which is my saying that you don't have to like what I like, and if you hate stuff just say. I won't be offended, Your Highness."

"Please, no Your Highness," you murmur.

"James says I dress like a socialite with too much money and not enough taste."

"I do say that," James says.

You laugh under your breath. "Well, I'm sure you've better taste than me. I've never been to an event like this, I don't want to embarrass myself, so, um, don't let me."

"I won't," Sirius says.

Sirius understands the fashion tastes of the elite even if he doesn't personally enact them. He passes you an outfit, and you disappear behind the propped up partition to change. With the windows closed and the curtains drawn, only the overhead light is in play, and your shadow is reflected onto the floor to the left. James averts his eyes.

You try on a couple of outfits. James tries very hard to look as though he's not paying attention to your squirming unhappiness at the fit and look of your clothes. You get more and more embarrassed as time moves forward. The attendant Sirius summoned, a tailor named Melinda, offers suggestions of alterations and what she thinks would suit your silhouette most.

"Do I have one?" you ask.

"A silhouette?" Melinda asks, a push pin in between her teeth. "Sure you do."

"My stomach–"

"Is that a problem area?" Melinda asks.

"I thought so–"

"If you're worried, we can find something that fits the to the chest and loosens at your abdomen," Sirius says, "but I don't think you need to worry."

James agrees. You aren't skinny and James isn't stupid, he knows the immense stigma surrounding your body type must have battered your self-esteem growing up, but he thinks you're pretty and that you've a lovely shape to you. The idea that you have to hide certain body parts when there's nothing wrong with them in the first place has him biting his tongue, wanting to comment and knowing he definitely should not. You've looked nice in everything you've put on, smart and proper for an unfortunate event.

"I don't know," you mumble.

Sirius has amazing crisis averting senses, having micromanaged a spoiled narcissist for years. You don't require nearly as much petting or fawning, and you aren't throwing a tantrum either way.

"Let's finish for today," he says. "We can look at everything with fresh eyes, and I'm off at three."

James cringes and Melinda looks at him like he's grown a second head; you don't mention the end of a shift in front of the royals. He knows this, and he knows that you don't know this, so Sirius is absolutely pushing his luck. You're a thoughtful girl —you immediately agree.

Though that might be on account of how you look like you've been thrown a life raft. "Okay, thank you," you say, beginning to put clothes back on their hangers.

Sirius waves you away. "Leave some work for the rest of us, Your Sweetness."

Again, second head.

James opens the door and takes you back through the maze of the Palace before Sirius can commit a sackable offence. You're as quiet as you've been all day, your footsteps the only proof that you're present as you climb the steps to the second floor.

Professionalism, James thinks.

"I think you looked nice in everything," he says.

The opposite of professionalism. Oh, he could vault over the bannister.

He just wanted to see you smile today, a real smile, or at least hear something sure in your voice that proves he's made the right decision. That you won't be totally miserable if he convinces you to take on the mantle.

"Yeah?" you say, though you don't give him any time to answer. "I don't– I don't want to look good for a funeral, it's a funeral, but I know it'll be on TV, and maybe in the newspapers, so I don't want to be badly dressed and I don't have a clue what I'm supposed to even like…" You nibble your lip for a while before heaving a big sigh. "Sorry, I'm doing this again, I'm giving you jobs that aren't your job."

"It's relatively easy to tell you that you looked good. It's not a job."

"You don't have to comfort me, is what I mean."

"That's also easy… and it will definitely be in the newspapers. For a long time."

"Oh, sugar."

James holds his hand out as you trip up a short step, but you don't fall, and you don't need his offered help. He tucks his hand behind his back again and follows your lead.

"Newspapers, the news in general, people, they can all be very, very horrible, but I think the focus will be on your DNA, rather than your outfit. I mean, the gossip rags and tabloids will absolutely pick you apart, but they do it everybody, and I won't let you read those."

People are cruel. They don't even realise it.

"Whatever outfit you choose, you'll look good, and people will hate it anyway," he says.

"That sounds awful."

"It is. But… they can't stop you from being you. It's better to do what you want to do without worrying about how it'll look to everyone on the outside. You should do what you think is right."

Okay, he's not exclusively talking about clothes anymore, but his point stands.

"What if I look like an idiot?" you ask him quietly.

"You'll look like an exceedingly well-dressed one."

A sharp veer. Even the word 'professionalism' is starting to annoy him.

"Don't stress, yeah? We'll work it all out tomorrow."

You rub your elbow as the two of you approach your room again. "Thanks, James."

He's on a knife's edge here. Break the rules and face Mary's wrath. Stick to them blindly and drive you further and further from the crown.

James, selfishly, needs you to want this. And if you need a friend, a real friend, to do that, then he can toe the line. He decides it right there on your door jam.

"Princess," he says, "I have to talk to you about something."

"Okay… what is it?"

"When you go home, I'll be coming with you."

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! if you did, I’d love it if you let me know <3 also sry the next part should hopefully be delivered faster lol

#james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter fic #james potter fluff #james potter blurb #james potter drabble #james potter imagine #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #james potter scenario #james potter oneshot #the marauders #marauders era #marauders

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yen-sids-tournament · 2 months

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Snow White: Because it's first--Cinderella: Iconic. Historical.--Mary Poppins: Julie Andrews!! International: England--Freaky Friday: Mother/Daughter relationships--Amy: Inspirational, International: United States--Mulan: Be true to yourself, International; China--Princess Diaries: Julie Andrews & Anne Hathaway! 'International: Genovia'--Brave: International; Scottish--Queen of Katwe: True/Inspirational, International; Uganda--Black Widow: Sisterhood, International; Russia+--Raya and the Last Dragon: Dragons! and Ladies (read: lesbians).--Others?!?!?

#disney #yen sids poll #movies #international women's month #international women's day #snow white #cinderella #queen of katwe #mary poppins #freaky friday #princess diaries #brave #black widow #raya and the last dragon #mulan #the princess and the frog #the little mermaid #the cheetah girls #international womens day

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libraryofgage · 3 months

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The Prince and the Metalhead

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually

Debbie and Fester Addams One | Two | Three | Four Rick and Evelyn O'Connell One | Two | Three Harley Quinn One 10th Doctor and Rose One | Two (on the way!) Scooby Gang (there are plans for this one lmao, so plz be patient with me orz) Jedidiah and Octavius (from Night at the Museum) One Queen Clarisse One (you're here!)

Despite the title, this series will focus a little more on Steve growing up in Genovia for the first few parts. That being said, there will be Steddie because this whole thing was inspired by my desire to write a modern royalty AU.

So, ya know, it's coming lol

For now, just enjoy Steve being raised by our favorite queen.

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't ;)

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Clarisse stares at the two-story house from the driveway. It looks incredibly...American. It's American in a way that Amelia's home and city aren't. This house is the Ideal American Home, the kind people are told is the goal in life, the kind with no personality and no distinguishing features compared to other houses on its street. It's the kind of house she'd never see in Genovia, and she's glad for it.

"Your Majesty," Joe says, pulling her attention from the house to her driver. "If you are nervous, may I suggest returning another day?"

She knows exactly what he's doing. It still works. She still pulls herself together, rolls her shoulders back, and raises her chin. "A queen is never nervous. She is simply calculating her approach."

With that, she opens the door and gracefully (the kind of grace that comes with years of practice) steps out of the car. She smooths down her clothes, takes one more deep breath, and strides to the front door. Joe is just a step behind her, always a step behind her, as she rings the doorbell and waits.

A few moments pass, the blinds in the window next to the door shift, and then the door is pulled open. A young boy, certainly no more than ten, stands before her, looking nervously between Clarisse and Joe.

And could you blame Steve? The only visitors he gets when his parents are gone are secretaries that sweep into the home, make sure he's alive, and leave right after. Nobody rings the doorbell, nobody knocks, and nobody knows he's alone in the big house, just like his parents told him it should be.

"Hello," the lady says, her accent vaguely European and similar to his father's. "Are you Steve Harrington?"

If she knows his name, maybe she's been sent by his parents. She looks fancy enough, and the guy with her looks scary enough. Steve grips the door tighter and nods once. "Yes, ma'am," he says, his voice soft and barely a whisper so he doesn't upset her.

"Good. Is your father home?"

"No, ma'am."

That makes her pause, her lips tugging down in a frown, and Steve wonders if he's already failed whatever test this must be. His father will give them sometimes, in the rare moments he's home, and it's always to measure how polite Steve his, how proper, how cultured. This must be a new kind of test, a way for his father to further measure him. He gathers himself, takes a subtle breath, and asks, "Would you like to come in?"

"You don't know who we are," the man suddenly says. "Why are you inviting us in?"

Oh. He's failing this test already. Steve bites his lip, ducking his head. "It's polite to invite people in," he says. "But, um, could you tell me your names first?"

He glances up to see that frown on the lady's face deepen, and his stomach starts to churn. "Yes, of course," she says, clearing her throat before continuing, "I am Clarisse Renaldi, and this is Joe."

Steve looks between the two of them before slowly nodding. "Please, come in," he says, holding the door open. The two adults are hesitant but enter the home anyway, watching Steve as he shuts the door silently and locks it. "This way, please."

He leads them to the living room, looks at the books and papers spread on the coffee table, and blushes. "I'm sorry for the mess," he says, quickly sweeping everything off the coffee table and holding it close to his chest. "I was doing homework and didn't expect visitors. Please, sit. I'll get some tea."

With that, he turns on his heel and hurries out of the living room. He presses his back against the wall, eyes closed and heart racing as he listens to the man and woman talk. "He's very polite," the woman says, sounding pleased and surprised.

"Too polite," the man replies, "What ten year old says things like expecting visitors and offers to make tea?"

Steve swallows around the lump in his throat and hurries to the kitchen. He puts his papers and books on the small table there, climbs the stool in front of the sink to fill a kettle with water, and then climbs the stool in front of the stove to place it down. He turns on the burner, watching the flames jump before getting cups, a teapot, tea leaves, and a tray to place it all on.

In total, the process from heating the water to pouring it over the leaves in the pot and carrying that to the living room is no more than eight minutes. It still feels like an eternity, though, when Steve knows each second is a mark against him. "I'm sorry for making you wait," he says as he enters the living room, carefully placing the tray on the coffee table. He pours a cup for the woman first, then the man, and then himself, careful not to spill a drop.

"Did you make this yourself?" the woman asks, picking up her teacup and taking a polite sip.

When Steve nods, he gets a tiny smile in return. And then the man says, "Aren't you a little young to do these things?"

Steve has been taught how to answer questions like this, ones that imply his parents aren’t doing enough to raise him. He picks up his teacup, holding it in his hands and letting the warmth transfer to his palms. “I like making tea,” he says, keeping his voice steady, “so Mother taught me how to use the stove safely.”

Joe looks ready to say more, but Clarisse clears her throat. He shuts his mouth, picking up his own cup just to do something. “When should we expect your father, Steve?” Clarisse asks, placing her teacup back on its plate. She’s seated on the edge of the couch, her ankles tucked together so her legs are at a slant and her back perfectly straight.

He can’t lie. If they stay, they’ll know he’s lying when his father doesn’t return. Maybe they just want to see his father, and Steve can let them think his mother will be home soon and convince them to leave before she is. He decides this is a good plan and says the extremely familiar words, “He’s away on a business trip.”

That earns him a frown, but before he can try to fix his mistake, Clarisse nods once and asks, “What about your mother, then?”

Steve tenses, dropping his gaze to his teacup and scrambling to find an answer. He swallows around the nervous lump in his throat, takes a sip of his tea, and feels his stomach twist when he still doesn’t have anything to say in response.

“How long have your parents been gone?” Joe asks.

The question pierces through him so harshly that Steve’s hands twitch, tea splashing over the edges of the cup and onto his fingers. He hisses at the temperature, quickly setting the cup down and getting a tissue to wipe the tea away.

“What do you mean gone?” Clarisse asks.

“There are no cars in the driveway and no adult shoes by the door. We passed the kitchen on the way here, and only one set of dishes is in the drying rack. Stools have been placed wherever a child might need to reach something too high for them otherwise. Dust is on the shelf with adult books, but the smaller shelf with movies appropriate for children is clean, implying regular use. Finally, my men have informed me that Mr. and Mrs. Harrington boarded a plane headed for Hong Kong from London.”

Steve’s eyes widen as Joe speaks, his stomach twisting ever tighter with each word. When Clarisse looks back at him, his eyes begin to sting and he looks down at his lap. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice quiet as he clenches the hem of his shirt.

“What on Earth are you apologizing for?” Clarisse asks, sounding so insulted that Steve shrinks in on himself. “You are not to blame for your parents’ incompetence and negligence. Of all the things your father has done, abandoning you to fend for yourself is unforgivable.”

Oh. She’s…angry for him? Steve looks up, meeting Clarisse’s eyes and wondering why she cares. And then, because he thinks she can’t possibly be any angrier, he takes a risk by asking, “Why are you here?”

Clarisse pauses, blinks twice, and then gathers herself. Her shoulders relax some, but her back remains straight. “I am Clarisse Renaldi, Queen of Genovia, and your grandmother.”

Steve stares at her, glances at Joe to see if this is some kind of joke, and then looks back when all he gets in return is a blank stare. “My…grandmother?” he asks, his voice quiet.

“Yes. Your father, Richard Harrington, is my son. He was…well, he involved himself in troublesome schemes and had to leave Genovia and the line of succession. We keep tabs on him, of course, but all contact is otherwise restricted.”

None of that surprises Steve. He’s heard his father complaining when he has a bit too much whiskey, muttering under his breath about betrayal and being forced from his home and that it was only a few million he took.

“I…still don’t know why you’re here.”

“Yes, well, the Crown Prince of Genovia has recently passed, and you are next in the line of succession. So, I traveled here to meet you and bring you back to Genovia for a proper education befitting a Crown Prince.”

Steve is staring at his lap again, his mind turning. So much information has been given to him, and he can only focus on the part that makes his heart speed up with hesitant hope. “Would…would my parents go with us?” he asks.

“Your father is still barred from Genovia. Your mother is welcome, though.”

“Does she have to go with us?”

He looks up in time to see Clarisse pause, tilting her head as she considers him for a moment. “No, Steve, neither of your parents must accompany us,” she says.

“Will I ever be alone?”

“The royal family employs upwards of 300 staff to keep the palace running smoothly,” Joe says, nodding once to confirm that number when Steve gives him an incredulous look.

“Members of staff will be assigned to you as well,” Clarisse adds, smiling softly when Steve returns his attention to her. “At least three maids, several private tutors, at least one playmate for social development, and a personal team of security to keep you safe.”

Something lifts from Steve’s shoulders then. He’s not stupid. He knows his parents aren’t good. He learned that last year when he realized that other kids’ parents picked them up from school and gave them hugs and surprised them with pizza nights and just smiled at them. Steve looked at those parents, thought of his own, and quietly accepted that they either sucked or he just hasn’t figured out what will make them love him yet.

A tiny part of him knows that nothing will.

“Will you be my new mother, then?” Steve asks.

He watches Clarisse’s surprised expression morph into something unsure. “I will certainly be taking on a parental role,” she says, the words slow.

Steve looks down again, trying to ignore the disappointment that stirs in him when he realizes she’s just trying to spare his feelings. She won’t be a mother; she’ll be like his teacher. She’ll be someone who makes sure he learns what he should, eats when he should, and passes him along to the appropriate person when there’s a problem.

Still, she’s nicer than his own parents, and Steve won’t be alone if he goes to Genovia. If nothing else, it will be better than this empty house and his absent parents. “If I packed right now, can we leave?” he asks.

When Clarisse agrees, Steve excuses himself and goes to his room.

Once he’s out of sight, Clarisse looks at Joe and says, “He’s a very mature child.”

“He shouldn’t be.”

Clarisse nods once in agreement, looking down at the teapot in front of them and wondering if Steve has ever burned himself on it. “I believe he’ll take to being royalty well,” she says.

When she looks up, Joe is frowning. “If I may speak freely, Your Majesty?” he asks. When Clarisse nods, he clears his throat. “Before he can be royalty, he needs to be a child. For his own good, he needs a parent, not someone taking on a parental role. You may not be his mother, Your Majesty, but you are his grandmother. You have the ability to give him the unconditional care and love he’s been deprived of so far.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Clarisse admits, frowning slightly in thought. “I just…”

“You are worried he will be like his father.”

“Yes.”

“He is not his father. You cannot project the wrongdoings of Richard onto Steve. It is unfair to him and you. He deserves a fresh start, one that is not burdened by his father.”

“I will think on it,” Clarisse says, already knowing she’s going to do as Joe has suggested. “In the meantime, look into parenting books. If nothing else, Steve’s maids and tutors can review their contents as he grows.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

--------------

Genovia is small, but the palace is huge. It towers over Steve like something out of a Disney movie, and he almost falls behind during the brief tour through its halls. He manages to catch up, though, meeting Clarisse’s stride just in time for her to gesture at a set of double-doors and say, “Beyond these will be your rooms.”

“Rooms?”

“Yes, more than one,” Clarisse says, smiling down at Steve as she leads him past the doors and into a sitting room. A group of people are already gathered there. Most of them are adults, but a few younger children are playing with a Lego set in the corner and a girl and boy his age are standing with the adults. “These are your personal staff members.”

Before Steve can say anything, one of the women steps forward, her smile warm and her face framed by her brown hair. “It’s nice to meet you, Your Highness. My name is Joyce. I’ll coordinate your schedule and make sure your rooms are taken care of. My husband, Jim, will be the head of your security team, and my eldest son, Jonathan, will be one of your playmates,” she says, pointing to her husband and then the boy his age.

“Feel free to call me Hopper, Your Highness,” her husband says.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Jonathan adds, smiling politely in a way that Steve painfully understands as fake and forced.

Joyce steps back, and a black woman steps forward. “My name is Sue. I’ll be in charge of your education. That means I’ll be arranging your tutors, making sure your lessons match what a child your age should be learning, and overseeing your Royal Education with Her Majesty. My husband, Charles, will be your science tutor.”

Steve glances at Charles when he waves and nods in greeting. His smile, at least, seems more genuine than Jonathan’s was, and Sue is so straightforward that Steve finds it refreshing.

The last woman steps forward. She’s a little heavier than the other two, and she’s wearing an apron that has stains smeared across it. “Wonderful to meet you, Your Highness. I’m Claudia. I’ll be in charge of your diet and medical needs. If you’re allergic to anything or just plain hate certain foods, let me know.”

She steps back, leaving only the young girl. With a grin, she moves to stand in front of Steve and holds her hand out. “Name’s Robin,” she says, “I’m supposed to be your friend, but Her Majesty and I’ve got an agreement that I can ditch you if you suck. If I stick around, I’ll be trained by Hopper to be your personal guard.”

It’s so sudden and blunt that Steve can’t stop his grin as he takes Robin’s hand and shakes once. “To make things fair,” he says, “I should get to ditch you, too.”

Her eyes light up, and Steve thinks he’s done something right, which is an odd but welcome feeling. She lets go of his hand but stays by his side, standing close enough that their shoulders brush as Clarisse gestures for Joyce to take over the tour. He’s introduced to the children playing with Legos first, bombarded with their names (Dustin, Will, El, Lucas, and Erica) and which parents they belong to, before moving on to the rooms.

In total, he has five: the sitting room, a classroom, a small library, an empty room that he can do whatever he’d like with, and his bedroom. The bedroom has its own bathroom with a shower attached, but there are extra bathrooms in the other rooms, too. He’d count his closet as another room entirely, but he’s not ready to admit he really has six rooms.

He’s still too overwhelmed by the giant bed and the rooms that all belong to him and this group of people that will always be around him. He turns to Clarisse, ready to thank her, when she smiles at him and says, “There is one more thing.”

Something else? There’s more? What more could there possibly be? What else could he be given? Steve watches as she walks to the door that leads into the bathroom, steps inside, and comes back out holding something that squirms slightly in her arms.

She quickly deposits the thing in Steve’s arms, and he stares wide-eyed at the Rottweiler puppy that starts sniffing at his hands and neck. “What?” he asks.

“She’s yours, Steve. Rottweilers are very loyal dogs, so she’ll stay by your side. They’re also loyal and protective. Once she’s grown, she’ll keep you safe, too.”

“What am I then, chopped liver?” Robin asks, pouting slightly as she looks at the dog. She leans closer to it and yelps when she gets licked.

Steve can’t help laughing, holding the dog closer to his chest. “Does she have a name?” he asks.

“Yeah! It’s Dart!”

Steve looks over his shoulder at Dustin, meeting his curly hair and slightly gummy smile. Next to him, Claudia flushes slightly and hurriedly says, “You don’t need to listen to him, Your Highness. You can name her whatever you’d like.”

“No, I think Dart is good,” Steve replies, looking down at the dog and gently scratching behind her ears. She perks up, her entire body wiggling with excitement, and Steve feels something hopeful and optimistic settle in his chest.

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Tag List (let me know if you'd like to be added to future parts!)

@y4r3luv

#congrats #stranger things fic #princess diaries crossover #steve harrington #queen clarisse renaldi #future steddie #modern royalty au #robin buckley #the party stranger things #the party's parents too #my writing #Clarisse gives Steve a dog specifically so he'll never be alone btw cuz she doesn't want him to feel alone again #also please imagine dick harrington just getting home to one of Joe's security team being like also you're still banned

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marsprincess889 · 7 months

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THE PRINCESS DIARIES - coming into your power.

Astrological analysis with nakshatras

The princess diaries, 1 and 2, are forever on the list of my favorite movies. Girls all over the world feel for Mia and I'm no exception, I almost always cry during certain scenes and I'm amazed again and again by how relatable and real she is, by how those movies speak to young girls.

I've decided to break down the main themes in the two movies by analyzing nakshatras of the people involved.

A quick recap of what the story is about: Mia is a 15 year old teenager living in San Francisco with her mother. She's clumsy, awkward and has no self esteem. One day, her estranged grandmother comes to visit her from Europe to tell her that she's the only legitimate heir to rule a small country- Genovia.

Director of the movies, Garry Marshall has Ketu in Magha. Magha is about ancestors, bloodlines and it's also associated with royalty (Magha begins the signs of Leo). Ketu in a chart represents a person's primal creative energy. This explains why he was drawn to a story about royalty. One interesting fact to note is that Gary Marshall made two very iconic movies (Pretty Woman and Runaway Bride) starring Julia Roberts who has been a kind of muse to him and who has Magha moon. This is also a pattern with directors and actors, one example I can think of is Kirsten Dunst (Ashlesha moon, Purva Ashadha Ketu) being a muse to Sofia Coppola (Purva Ashadha moon, Ashlesha Ketu).

Anyways, let's get back to The Princess Diaries and analyze the heart of the two movies- the relationship between Mia and her grandmother, queen Clarisse.

Anne Hathaway - Hasta moon, Vishakha sun, Jyeshta rising

Julie Andrews - Vishakha moon, Hasta sun, Uttara Phalguni rising

SPOILER ALERT

Part 1

Hasta- strong females

The second movie's main theme is about female empowerment and independence. When the parliament refuses to let Mia rule without a husband, she has 30 days to arrange a marriage and she's willing to do it, just because she wants to rule so much that's she's ready to make such a sacrifice. At the last second she breaks down at her wedding, unable to be betray herself and finds courage inside her to make the parliament change their minds. She succeds and becomes queen without a husband.

Hasta is all about female empowerment but unlike Bharani, it's in a non-sexual, celibate way. Hasta, as a woman, completely rejects almost all male influence and is capable of being self-reliant, only opening up to rare men who she deems worthy. Hasta is the female that does not need a man and in that way, is a safe and empowering place for women.

There's a scene in the second movie where Mia stops the parade to defend a small girl from boys who were bullying her. She tells her how to be a princess and empowers her, letting her and the other kids join the parade. During the monologue at the end, when Mia is talking to the parliament at her wedding, we see women accross the country intently listening to her on the television, shushing the men . 😆

Part 2

Vishakha - joining opposites

Like Hasta, both Anne Hathaway and Julie Andrews have Vishakha in their luminaries. Vishakha nakshatra is about joining opposites. It begins in the sign of Libra (partnerships, agreements, relationships, compromise) with its last quarter being in Scorpio (death, transformation, occult). Vishakha is ruled by the gods Indra and Agni- the lightning and fire gods. It's about energized ebthuasiasm, cultivating something over time, about using the pent up energy or anger. It's another name is Radha ("the gift", hence the next nakshatra being Anuradha- "after the gift".)

"The gift" is not just good, it can also be unwelcome, like in Mia's case, when she was angered by the revelation that she's a princess. Queen Clarisse and Mia are very different from each other, but neither had a choice but to compromise and agree to a bargain. They learn to appreciate their differences and embrace their similarities, thus, joining opposite forces.

They do have misunderstandings, but that's part of all relationships and eventually they bond deeply as they realize they have the same goal. Vishakha is also connected to anger and the little outbursts they both have definitely show that. One great example is when Mia ruins Lana's (her bully's) outfit and calls her a jerk in front of everyone after always just silently ignoring her remarks.

Joining opposites in this movie is not just about Mia and the Queen, it's also about the two cultures, also about the first movie being a high school drama as well as a fairytale for young girls.

Part 3

Jyeshta - from underdog to the ruler

"Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear."

-Mia's father to her in a letter

To me, Jyeshta is connected to the underdog who succeeds despite all odds. Jyeshta 's power is to "rise, conquer and gain courage in battle". It's the stage of intense competition. Its deity is Indra- lightning god and the king of the gods, like Vishakha. We see other kids bully Mia in the first film but she slowly places herself above it, making her point (by taking her little revenge on Lana) and then not engaging with them anymore, as she realizes her own self- worth.

A major point in the movie is when she decides not to run away despite being scared to speak to the public, showing her true courage.

Besides Indra- the king of the gods, another deity associated with Jyeshta is Dhumavati- the hag goddess who is eternally hungry. Because of this, I think Jyeshta is associated with grandmothers and our relationship to them. I personally have exalted Ketu in Jyeshta and I was practically raised by my father's late mother (unlike my sibling, mind you. I'm the eldest) and I still have a close relationship with my mother's mother. Mia, played by Jyeshta ascendant Anne Hathaway, also has a very special relationship with her grandmother.

So, in the end, the bullied underdog became a princess and eventually- a queen.

Some bonuses:

Uttara Phalguni is associated with gaining wealth and privileges from partnerships. Uttara Phalguni ascendant Julie Andrews playing queen Clarisse, who became a royal by marriage, confirms that.

Heather Mattarazo (Lily) and Anne Hathaway were born only a few days apart, hence their charts being similar and them playing best friends.

So, this is it. If you found this interesting, please, interact with me, like, comment, reblog. Take care 🤍

#the princess diaries #vedic astrology #astrology #nakshatras #astrology observations #hasta #hasta nakshatra #vishakha #vishakha nakshatra #jyeshta #jyestha #jyeshta nakshatra #jyestha nakshatra #astro notes #astrology tumblr #sidereal astrology #Spotify #magha #magha nakshatra

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eldritch-thrumming · 11 months

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i don’t need wings to help me fly, pt. 1

Steve still vividly remembers the day his grandmother had flown in to Indianapolis when he’d turned sixteen years old. He’d never met her before but his constantly-traveling parents weren’t around, so he’d been tasked with airport duty and delivering his grandmother to the best hotel in the city.

His grandmother had turned up her nose and sniffed the minute she’d walked off the plane in head-to-toe pink Chanel.

“Your parents let you live here?” She’d asked in a posh British accent, not a single hair out of place even after an 11 hour flight from Europe.

“Oh, we don’t live in the city,” Steve had told her, smiling and taking her bags from her diamond-encrusted hands. “We live an hour away from here.”

His grandmother had done a double-take at that. “You don’t even live in the city?” She’d sounded so appalled as Steve led her through the airport, her eyes widening as they’d passed the food court and she saw the McDonalds and the Dunkin Donuts. “Is this what you eat here?” She peered at someone’s tray as they’d passed with their Big Mac.

All Steve could do was laugh and accept his grandmother’s invitation to eat dinner with her in her penthouse suite at the hotel, where she’d hired a private chef for her week-long stay in the city. It was actually more of a command than an invitation, anyway.

That night, Steve had laughed as his grandmother had told him he was the Crown Prince of Genovia.

“Shut up,” Steve had laughed, dropping his fork with a clatter on the fancy porcelain of his plate.

“Shut up?” His grandmother had repeated, sounding aghast.

Steve shook his head. “No, I mean, like. Stop pulling my leg. That’s very funny, grandma.”

“I’m not joking, Steven. You are Steven Pierre Harrington Renaldi, Prince of Genovia.”

“Grandma,” Steve had said, still smiling. “I couldn’t even tell you where Genovia is on a map.”

And the rest had, as they say, been history. There had been a few bumps in the road and he’d almost abdicated his throne once or twice, but after spending every summer in Genovia for the past five years, he’d come to love his country and its people. Now, with his twenty-first birthday just one week away, he’s finally moving to Genovia’s Royal Palace full time.

When he’s brought into the palace from the private royal airport, he’s told that his grandmother is in a meeting with representatives from Genovia’s parliament. Since Steve hasn’t been crowned king yet, he’s technically not allowed to sit in on those types of meetings, but when he’d been exploring the palace when he was 17, he’d found a passage that ran directly behind his grandmother’s public state rooms where she met with foreign dignitaries and domestic politicians. After being delivered to his room by palace staff, Steve quickly changed from his airplane clothes and made his way to the passage. As he unlocked the tiny gate that would allow him to see and hear what was happening in the room, he hears his grandmother’s raised voice.

“You cannot possibly be serious!” She says loudly and it’s the first time Steve has ever heard his grandmother come close to yelling. “That piece of legislation is absolutely archaic!”

“Archaic though it may be, it still exists,” the man across from where his grandmother sits says smugly. Steve does not like the condescending way the man looks at his grandmother.

“We’ve never enforced the law before,” his grandmother insists.

“We’ve never needed to,” Prime Minister Motaz concedes reluctantly from Steve’s grandmother’s side. Steve watches as she turns to him in shock.

“And we don’t need to now!” Steve thinks his grandmother might be coming close to slamming her fist down on the table.

“Steven is young. He has no experience,” another voice comes from someplace in the room that Steve can’t see. “It’s not a bad idea to give him as much support as he can possibly have.”

Steve goes hot all over, flushing with indignation. His throat burns. He wants to defend himself, but he’s technically not even supposed to know who’s in this meeting right now.

“And forcing him to marry would be our way of giving him support?” His grandmother sounds incredulous. Steve’s mouth goes dry. Marry? Him? He’d only just graduated college

“No one’s forcing anything,” the smug man across the table from his grandmother says gleefully. “He’s allowed to pick whoever he wants. As it happens, I have the perfect candidate in mind.”

“If you’re talking about your deadbeat, drop out of a son, then this meeting is officially over,” Steve can practically hear the way his grandmother rolls her eyes at the man. He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face as he hears her.

“I’ll have you know that Eddie has returned to school and is currently at the top of his class in the comparative literature program,” the man says haughtily.

“Oh, perfect, his ability to analyze Chaucer will be the perfect addition in running the country to Steve’s expertise in international relations and political science from his accelerated dual masters program,” Steve’s grandmother replies sarcastically.

Steve practically fist pumps in his hiding spot. His grandma is so badass.

“Your Majesty,” the prime minister cuts in reluctantly. “Now that Viscount Mabrey has brought the marriage clause to our attention we have no choice but to bring this to a parliamentary vote. The entire body is meeting tomorrow morning; we’ll cover it then. You are, of course, welcome to attend, but you mustn’t interfere with the vote.” He glances across the table at the smug man who is apparently Viscount Mabrey. “Either of you.”

Steve can tell that the meeting is clearly wrapping up and it’s only a matter of time before his grandmother comes looking for him, so he quickly latches the little window and hurriedly leaves his hiding spot behind. As he’s glancing down at his clothes, brushing dirt and cobwebs from the fabric, he bumps into someone as he rounds the corner of the main hall. The stranger grasps Steve’s elbows, keeping him upright. Steve raises his gaze and meets a set of intense, deeply brown eyes. Pretty, Steve thinks.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” the stranger smiles and Steve registers the rest of his face. He takes in the dimples and the long curling dark hair falling around his shoulders. Pretty, Steve thinks again. “Wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“No, uh—no worries, my fault,” Steve stammers out, before clearing his throat. “I’m Steve.”

The stranger tilts his head. “Yeah, man, I know.” His smile widens. “I’ll see you around, Prince Steven.” And then, without another word, he continues his way down the hall, in the direction Steve had just come from.

~*~

“I don’t get it,” Steve says to his grandmother, running a shaking hand through his hair. “I spent all this time studying and reading and interning and now they’re telling me I can’t be king unless I’m married? What kind of old-fashioned, ancient law is this?”

“Honestly,” his grandmother replies, “the law, sadly, is not even that old. It was ratified only 75 years ago. I’m not sure why, as it’s never been enforced until now. We’ll have to keep a keen eye on Viscount Mabrey and his no good son, though. They’ve got to be up to something.”

“Who’s his son?” Steve asks.

“Oh, I don’t remember his name. He’s completing a degree at Oxford—though between you and me, he’s dropped out twice already, so who knows about all that,” his grandmother waves a dismissive hand through the air.

“Grandma,” Steve says reproachfully, but even he can’t help but laugh a little. These people are trying to steal his crown, after all.

“Oh, Steven, I wanted your birthday week to be perfect for you,” his grandmother turns to him and grasps both his hands in hers, her eyes glassy. “I know this isn’t what you expected to come home to, but there’s nothing we can do until Parliament casts its vote in the morning. So let’s just focus on your birthday ball tonight, shall we?” She squeezes his hands in hers and then let’s them drop. “I’ve flown Paulo in to help you dress for the night.”

Steve groans. The last time he’d seen Paulo, the stylist had leaked his identity as the long lost prince of Genovia to the press. But he’s so good at what he does, his grandmother had apparently found it in herself to forgive him. And honestly, the leak had been somewhat of a blessing in disguise, one that allowed Steve to embrace both sides of himself: the small-town Indiana boy-next-door and the European royal with the world at his fingertips.

“Time to get ready for your ball, Steven,” his grandmother tells him happily.

~*~

Steve always feels strange when he has to dress up for a big event. He doesn’t hate it, exactly—he actually kind of likes it—but he still feels a little like he’s wearing a costume and he knows occasions like this are going to be even more frequent after his coronation in a month and a half.

Steve makes his way into the ballroom and let’s himself be announced to his guests. The ball has already started and he crosses the dance floor to greet his grandmother.

“Ah, Steven,” she greets him, kissing him on each of his cheeks. “You look beautiful, my darling.”

“Thank you, grandma,” Steve responds, glancing down at his tux. “You look gorgeous as ever, of course.” And she does. Her dark hair is curled and piled on top of her head, artfully arranged around her shining diamond and pearl tiara. Her deep violet gown flares out at the waist and brings out the emerald green of her eyes. She’s stunning and regal, all the things a queen should be. Steve’s going to have a hard time filling her shoes when he’s crowned king.

“Happy birthday, my love,” his grandmother says, hugging him to her. “Go have fun. Dance. Eat cake.” She gently pushes him toward the dance floor and Steve can’t help but laugh.

He wanders over toward the buffet table full of cupcakes and cookies, his giant green and gold birthday cake in the center. His mouth waters slightly just looking at the flowers of spun sugar decorating the top. He knows it’s chocolate with vanilla frosting, his favorite. He’s so intent on getting himself a piece of his birthday cake that he misses the person crossing his path.

Steve bumps directly into a hard body for the second time in one day. He’s usually not this clumsy. A large, ringed hand flies out to grasp his bicep, keeping him upright.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” a familiar deep voice says, laughter lacing the words. Steve stares up into now-familiar deep brown eyes.

“Oh, you—sorry,” Steve replies, smoothing his palms down the front of his tuxedo jacket. The stranger from earlier stands in front of him, wearing black on black on black, polished and pressed and just as beautiful as before. His curly hair is tied in a neat low ponytail and his mouth is curved into a smile, once again showing off the dimples Steve hasn’t stopped thinking about since this afternoon. His eyes are sparkling.

“Not at all,” the stranger shakes his head. “My fault entirely, Prince Steven.”

Steve clears his throat. “You don’t have to keep calling me that. You can call me Steve.” He’s glad he doesn’t stutter this time, his voice coming out smooth and clear, regaining some of his Indiana charm.

“Steve, then,” the stranger’s smile widens.

“And you are?” Steve prompts.

“And I… was just about to ask you to dance,”the stranger says, holding out his hand.

Steve is… completely charmed. Sure, he doesn’t know this man’s name, but he’s beautiful and charismatic and Steve only has a few friends his age here in Genovia, so he takes the stranger’s hand and let’s himself be led out on to the dance floor. The stranger must be in the high ranks of Genovian society to have even scored an invite to tonight’s ball and Steve racks his brain to remember if there were any sons of Parliament members he hadn’t met yet. He doesn’t think so.

Once they’re on the dance floor, Steve’s breath catches as a strong hand circles his waist, another entwining their fingers together. Steve feels himself being twirled around the dance floor and it’s dizzying for more reasons than one. The stranger is captivating, his gaze magnetic.

“Okay,” Steve says after a few minutes of dancing. “You have to tell me your name, man.”

The stranger smiles again. “You can call me Eddie.” The song they’ve been dancing to comes to an end. Eddie raises Steve’s hand to his lips, brushing his mouth across Steve’s knuckles. “I hope we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, Steve.” And then he turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving Steve dizzy and blushing on the dance floor.

#here have this thing!!!#steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfiction #steddie fanfic #steddie au #steddie princess diaries 2 au #steve harrington #eddie munson #royal!steddie #like please this dynamic is so perfect #sorry if it's shit please don't hate me lololol

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leonisandmurex · 9 months

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𝑨 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔...

Wears a Tiara, occasionally,

Is the regalest thing you'll ever see,

Who sits on fancy-ass chairs,

Shares a dressmaker,

And expresses herself through a fan, *flirty* // *fed up*

Works diligently & dutifully,

For causes dear to her heart,

Is a ribbon cutter extraordinaire,

And delivers speeches like a pro,

LOVES like there's no tomorrow,

Makes core memories in her STANG,

Pops her foot for reasons no one understands,

Has the loyalist (and fluffiest) of allies,

And good Sisters by her side,

Chooses an eco-friendly mode of transport because it's 1000x more fun,

Has little 🤏 clumsy moments sometimes,

But could take down an ENTIRE Kingdom with one bow and one arrow–meh–if she wanted to,

Is an utter darling,

And the coolest thing,

Yet dances like a DORK who doesn't give a damn,

Oh and has a signature wink ;) ;) ,

Bow down, curtsey and pledge your allegiance for Amelia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldi PRINCESS of Genovia and Victoria Ingrid Alice Désirée Crown PRINCESS of Sweden 🍐♡ 🇸🇪

................................................................................🚋

For @duchessofvolterra ♡ (Your fave irl & fictional Princesses)

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lost-girl-2021 · 2 months

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PRINCESS DIARIES/FIRST DAUGHTER AU (W/ A TWIST)

Spider, who grew up in the city of Pandora with his mom, Paz.

He spent most of his days with his best friend, Lo’ak and his siblings at their apartment. Skateboarding, ditching gym, avoiding the popular kids and drinking their body weight in coffee.

His mom is an artist and they live in an apartment a few blocks down from his friends.

It’s not perfect; they don’t have a lot of extra money to go around, the water pressure is shot, and the piercing he let Lo’ak give him two weeks ago is infected as hell. But, it’s a good life.

Until his father shows up.

The King of Genovia, famous for his heavy military force and trying to start a war against the United States over a decade before, allied with the large country with a name so long it was known worldwide as simply RDA. The small country was controversial for more than one reason, but the King, Miles Quaritch, was making attempts to secure his rule.

That’s where Spider came into the picture.

Spider, with his long, always-messy hair and crooked smile. Spider, who went by a nickname earned in kindergarten and got mostly B’s in school. Spider, plain old Spider.

Spider, the Prince of Genovia.

I'll probably make another part, but I haven't watched Princess Diaries in a hot second, so I'll be back after rewatching 1 and 2.

#princess diaries #atwow fanfiction #avatar #atwow #atwow spider #spider avatar #miles spider socorro #spider #avatar fanfiction

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darushi-chan · 1 year

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HOTD Modern AU where everyones dragons are some kind of reptile or amphibian. Sooo, I finally gathered the courage to add my own stuff to the HOTD fandom, lol. I love reptiles, specifically Komodo dragons, I’ve made like 3 different college projects with them and it was impossible for me to not see Vhagar as one, I’ve seen other really good takes with old grandma V being a snapping turtle, an alligator and so on, and then I decided to imagine my own modern AU were all the Targaryan dragons in HOTD are some kind of reptile pet! -Because Targ shenanigans they do have a special bond with their reptile friend (Thats the only way you get a croc and a Komodo to dont eat you, lol). -The dragon keepers are a special reptile breeder company, the Targs are like one of their most important clients . -To add more lore and stuff I like the idea of them living in a made up european country called Valyria, like Genovia from the princess diaries, or at least just a modern westeros and Valyria being their something something big company where they work. -If they live in Valyria they do have the monarchy problems, but without the murder plis, Aegon ll its like fuck you all and runs away to Italy or France and starts a wine company called “The usurper” xD. -Because I like Jacegon, Jace goes along with him so he doesn’t die from bad decisions and because I think he’ll be more reliable with the new company stuff hahahahaha, Aegon just tests the wine ok 😂? -Lucerys its also like, the crown? No thanks, and goes to college to study literature, also in the some college as Aemond, who’s in a History major, they’re roommates 👀. -Joffrey its even less interested in the crown and decides to help his grampa Corlys with Driftmark. -I’m mexican, I dont know how Dukedoms and all that fancy european stuff works, Driftmark can be one of those or something, I’ll do some research after the reptile drawings ok xD? -That way the crown can go to little Aegon the younger without anybody dying yay. -Rhaenyra its not that ok with this, but she loves her kids, and hopes little Egg doesn’t run away too.... Im just starting with my favorite incest deranged couple, Lucemond 😚. I think its obvious this is not completed at all 😅, but I was really exited about it and wanted to talk about it after being working on it all day 😄.

More stuff about the not dragons! -They can’t live the hundreds of years of the dragons, so lets make them live as long as their owner lives, an average 80-90 years, for this HC sake hahahaha, specially because turtles, komodos and crocs are able to live long lives too! So lets make all the other special Targ reptiles/amphibians live longer too 😝. -This makes Grandma V, Vhagar ll, because Vhagar l was Visenya’s, when Laena dies in some kind of accident Aemond claims Vhagar ll so she doesn’t die, specially because she wasn’t that old then, wiki says Laena dies at 27, I havent thought that much about what happens in the Driftmart incident, but something happens 👀! -Then the Viserys l Balerion it’s Balerion ll too! Vissy T gets to keep his croc and makes him an awesome enclosure, lol. Alicent never goes there 😂, but Viserys likes to see when the servants feed him or to just chat with his friend, he has this really nice enclosure like in the zoos where you can go like underground and see them swim.

-Helaena’s kids can have little geckos or something cute like that, I need to think about it 🤔.

-Im not very sure about Caraxes being a red Tegu, they’re awesome, but I don’t know if I should make him be something else, any thoughs anyone 🤔? If you have any other ideas that are different from the ones I have so far let me know 😉!! The only ones that Im very sure about are Vhagar and Arrax, I’m really in love with the idea, and I also like them all being something different, except for Silverwing and Vermithor uwu.

#lucemond #jacegon #hotd modern au #headcanon #targaryan dragons being pets #lucerys x aemond #its like 2:30 am here #i need to sleep #hahahahahhaa

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asshlyyyy · 1 year

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Fairytale

Series Warnings: Language, fake relationship, lying, drinking, major depressive disorder, mommy issues. Mentions of occasionally sexula interactions/ wording. Maybe eventual smut. Individual chapter warnings will appear as needed.

Masterlist | Next Part

Chapter 1: Maid of Honor

Message from Jess at 10:23 AM Hey, Y/n! The girls and I are getting together for some brunch today! There's a chair with your name on it! Your response at 10:26 AM God, that sounds amazing! Just that my boyfriend and I already have plans for lunch :( Message from Jess at 10:28 AM That's okay! We have to meet up soon! I miss you girly! Your response at 10:30 AM I miss you too :(

Sometimes you felt bad doing all this lying, but it wasn't like it was harming anyone. You just didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings. Truth was... you couldn't find the motive to leave your house. Sure, it seemed unhealthy not to want to leave your home. However, you honestly just... you couldn't bare it. So, you made up the excuse that you had a boyfriend. But Y/n, don't you have a job? Of course, you had a job. You were just lucky enough to work from home.

You often times blamed it on your major depressive disorder. Now, it has calmed down over the years since you were first diagnosed with it. However, every day it still felt like a chain that kept you home. The only times you left were when your sister forced you out of the house. She couldn't always do that though. She lived in a different state, and honestly, you didn't blame her. California could get a bit crazy. Especially with all of these wannabe influencers.

With that being said. You used the boyfriend excuse plenty of times. In fact, you pretty much lost count. Now, this is a very normal excuse, especially when you have plans already with them... So, no one would question it. Yet, the only issue was... it was all a lie. You didn't have a boyfriend. Like hell! You couldn't even leave your damn house. How in hell would you get a boyfriend? Exactly, you couldn't.

Four years ago you hit the darkest moment of your life. The lowest of the low, and you kept it to yourself. You only really felt happy with you were with your family members. Four years is how long you've been using that goddamn excuse. You were diagnosed three and a half years ago. You went to your doctor, who sent you to a therapist who gave you the news. You met with them about once a week. So... once a week for three and a half years. That's... four times a month... which is forty-eight times a year... then 144 for three years... Plus twenty-four... that's... you've met with your therapist so far 168 times.

The major question is... did it help? Yes, for the most part, it did. For the most part, you knew that you had to work on it yourself. Which you have been. Your therapist suggested making a video diary a week. Sitting down and just going over everything that happened that week and how you felt. It was nice, and they held their home on your laptop. You haven't... you haven't reached that sense of content enough to go back and watch them.

As you stepped out of your shower, you wrapped a towel around your body. You had to make a video diary today, and you knew that you should wait till the end of the day... But the start of the week was Sunday, and so was the end of the week. You always recorded these things on Sundays... it just... it just worked. You grabbed a free towel and started to dry your hair, as the familiar tone of your ringer went off.

With curiosity in your mind, you made your way over to your bedroom where your phone rested. Flipping it over you heard your sister's name and smiled. You answered the phone and quickly put it on speaker.

"Is that Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo princess and heir to the throne of Genovia?" You teased as you answered the call. You could hear your sister's laugh from the other end. You smiled and pressed forward with drying your hair.

"Right, Y/n," she continued to laugh, "I have a question for you."

"Hit me," you encouraged her to go on. You looked in the mirror at your messy wet hair and tossed the towel into your bathroom. You'll pick that up once you're off the call.

"So, as you know I'm getting married in a couple of months. Three months exactly, and this may be last minute... But I have a huge huge huge question." She reminded you. Ah yes, your sister met her fiance Nicholas... yes you heard that right. He may very much be Nicholas Deveraux. You were very much all for Mia and Nicholas ending up together in that movie.

"Yes, of course, you would never forgive me if I forgot." You reminded her as you started to dig through your drawers. You just needed your comfy sweats and long-sleeved crewneck.

"I wanted to ask... if you could be my maid of honor...?" You gasped lightly and ran to your phone.

"No way! I would love to!" You heard your sister eeeee at your response. You found yourself joining her as you picked up the phone and pressed it against her ear. "I would be honored."

"This is great news, Y/n! Oh my gosh, oh! And bring your boyfriend! Everyone is dying to meet him, and not to mention... Nic would be very honored if he would be his best man." Your mouth gapped open, and your eyes widened. Did you hear that right? Someone wanted your imaginary boyfriend to be their best man?

"B-best man? I-I mean aren't they supposed to be a relative or a friend? Not a complete stranger?" You struggled to get your words out. Well, you struggled in general. You felt your heart just about to stop at any moment.

"Well, Nic and I talked, and we knew you would find a way to excuse your boyfriend from coming... This way, we knew he would feel bad. So, yes... Nic wants your boyfriend as his best man." She explained. This was that moment you were scared of. The moment that would give out you... This was the moment. FUCK.

"Okay yeah... that works... Yeah... When do we have to be there?" You asked. You were honestly hoping she would say a week before the wedding. Because then that would give you plenty of time to find someone to be your fake boyfriend.

"Well, I want your help during this whole time... And I know you work from home so that's amazing. Maybe in a week or two? Bring your boyfriend as well. We all need to get to know him, and this is the perfect time to do it." With every word that came out of her mouth, the more you felt a weight on your chest. It got harder to breathe and honestly all you wanted to do... was... well... you wanted to disappear.

"R-right well... I will see you then... Bye! Love you!" And you quickly hung up. You placed your phone down and immediately got under your sheets. You pulled them up and over your head and closed your eyes. Think of a better place. A place where you never made the boyfriend excuse. A place where you are happy... Go there... Go there.

Now, your sister always brought you happiness. She never pushed you or even laid out her troubles on you. Your brother was the same way. Your family was a very caring and loving family. They also respected everyone's privacy. So, when it came to them finding out about your boyfriend... They didn't push. They pushed a few times, but that's because you never even gave them a name. You couldn't even think of a name for your imaginary boyfriend! Maybe it was because you knew this would happen.

Yet, every holiday... they would ask you to bring your boyfriend. You would always decline and say that he couldn't make it due to prior engagements... or that he was simply sick. You never shared anything more about your said boyfriend. Sure, it looked a bit suspicious... but they respected you and you appreciated that.

After you found yourself, you got out of your bed. You made your bed and moved over to your desk. You sat down with a huff and lifted open your laptop. You pulled open the video recorder and started to record. You picked at your nails and bit at them, a habit you picked up on. It wasn't that it was out of nerves... it was more or less... it was your fidget.

"I received some bad news today... Well, bad for me..." You let out a breath and turned to look into the camera. You never spoke about your 'boyfriend' on a video before. Your therapist was the only one who would see these, so it wasn't like you were showing it to all your friends and family.

"As you know, my sister Mia got engaged a while back and she asked me to be her maid of honor. I was... well... I was honored," you chuckled lightly at your terrible joke. "Which is great news, don't get me wrong... but... she and her fiance, Nic, have decided to have my boyfriend as the best man."

"I never spoke about him before and it's quite literally because he is a lie. I made him up four years ago as an excuse to get out of things. And, I just kept using that excuse over and over again that everyone thinks I have this mysterious boyfriend that I don't like talking about." You started to ramble on.

"I'm supposed to leave in a week or two with my boyfriend to go back home. The only problem is... I have no boyfriend. So, now what? I ask my male friends, whom I have used the very same excuse on. No. It just wouldn't work. I made this excuse up so that I wouldn't have to explain to my friends why I don't want to hang out." You pulled out your phone and started to look through your contacts.

"Mike is gay... and has had the excuse used on him. Liam, John, Cody, some of these guys are just taken. Yet, I have all used the same excuse on. There's just no way I could ring one up and explain to them why I lied to them and all our friends." You paused as your eyes found a name that you haven't spoken to in a long time.

Austin Butler. You first met him when you first moved to California. He was the absolute kindest man you have ever met. He was actually your neighbor who lived right across the hall. You two haven't spoken in a long time. In fact, over four years ago, so in theory... You have never used the boyfriend excuse on him. Then again... sparking up a conversation with him after so long would be weird... What if he had a girlfriend? He had one when you met him... What makes you think he isn't in that same relationship?

"Austin Butler... he's one I haven't used it on... He's one I haven't talked to in so long... I mean... Hell... I don't even know what happened between us. It wasn't like it was some big falling out. We just got busy, and we stopped texting... stopped calling, and eventually, we stopped hanging out." You started to speak aloud.

"I moved to California a little over six years ago. I was just twenty-one... I had just gotten a job as a physiological criminal analyst. Which, is a job I still have today. I've talked about it a bit, but... I basically analyze people. See, why they have committed the crimes. I listen to tapes, and I read transcripts. All work is easy to do remotely. If there is a big case, then I have to go in person and meet with them personally. You catch the drift."

"Austin lived right across the hall from me. We met the first day I was moving in, and he offered to help carry my things to my apartment. He is such a nice guy. We got everything inside, we had some water and talked. I learned that he is an actor. We exchanged numbers and he left. We started to text continuously, and eventually, I met his girlfriend Vanessa. She seemed very nice, and honestly... God, she was hot. I may be straight, but I can appreciate a woman when I see one."

"He moved out roughly... a year and a half after we met. We still talked after he met, but without that... running into each other in the halls... we talked less and less as time went on. Till we eventually stopped talking. I thought about texting him a bit afterward, but all thought of that left the door soon after. I don't know, it just wouldn't feel right to text him just because I need him for a favor. It just sounds wrong."

You placed your phone down on the desk and looked out your floor-to-ceiling window. You let out a breath and thought about what you could do. Maybe you could just tell the truth... but that would just mess up your sister's wedding. Your fake boyfriend is supposed to be the best man. If there is no fake boyfriend, then there is no best man.

"Do you think someone on Tinder would be willing to go along with it?" You asked no one in particular. You knew the chances of that were very slim unless you somehow found the right guy... but you also knew that you were going to have to kiss this said fake boyfriend. So, it had to be someone you knew and were comfortable with, but goddamn you really did not want to both Austin. You turned back towards the camera and smiled softly.

"Besides this whole deal happening just now... my week was fine, and I need to go. I only have so long until I have to figure this out." You said and ended the recording. You titled it the day's date and sent it off to your therapist. You closed the laptop and picked up your phone once more.

You stood up and pulled up Austin's contact. You took a big gulp and pressed the call button. You placed it against your ear and stood up. You wrapped your arm around yourself and started to walk around the apartment. The pacing was something that... somehow eased you. Yes, quite weird, but you felt that if you kept moving nothing could affect you as much. Not to mention, you felt like curling up in a ball and crying. You didn't even know if Austin still had your number... it is very likely he would've just deleted it and forgotten all about you.

"Y/n?" You heard his voice. You felt your body stiffen. You weren't exactly expecting him to pick up. Let alone remember you!

"Austin... hey."

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