#I made it in PS Express (the bane of my existence)

[cosmonaut775]

I had a dream a couple of months ago that this image was a popular instagram meme I had somehow missed and as soon as I woke up I had to bring it into he waking world

[glitterblazercalum]

OKAY this one made me laugh so “I’m too sober for this.” “You don’t even drink.” “Maybe I should start.” whoever u want xoxo bella ps i did steal that sign off from you thanks love

well, it’s been a Long Time since you sent this. I started off writing something completely different that somehow took an angsty turn so here’s a piece of princess diaries!sos instead: 

On his way up to the 42nd floor of the Waldorf-Astoria, Michael reminisces about how much he used to love Thursday afternoons. He’d had the apartment to himself until at least seven in the evening, so he’d been free to play video games, completely undisturbed, right from the minute he got home from school.

Today, after school, he’d hurried into a town car, fumbled his way through changing into a more ‘princely’ outfit, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean, rushed through as much homework as he could get done on the drive over to Grandmère’s hotel, and hadn’t even had time to grab a snack in between. The last one could probably be remedied fairly easily, if he was willing to subject himself to the ridiculous canapés room service always sent up when he called to request “snacks.” 

The royalty lessons, or whatever Grandmère had taken to calling them, were, without a doubt, the bane of Michael’s existence. Today’s was supposedly being handled by Pytor, Duke of Some Tiny Piece of Land, and Michael couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less than get off of the elevator. 

At least with Grandmère, there was a sense of ease throughout the lesson, the ability to laugh at themselves. Grandmère had grown up like a normal person, so she understood where Michael was coming from. 

Pytor, on the other hand, was the most ridiculous person Michael had ever met and he’d clearly been raised as a royal; there was a sense of superiority and entitlement that lingered in the air around him almost as much as his god-awful cologne did. 

That same cologne is the first thing to greet him as soon as he finally musters the strength to step into the lavish suite that Grandmère is currently calling home. Calum immediately wanders off, apparently deciding that his role as a bodyguard need not apply any longer. He’s not wrong, considering how much security is milling around outside the suite and hotel, but Michael resents the lack of solidarity anyways. 

“Ah, Miguel! Wonderful of you to finally join us!” Pytor trills, sweeping into the room in a billow of floral-patterned silk. 

“It’s Michael. Genovians speak French, so it’d be Michael there, too.” 

Pytor waves a hand around and replies, “You say potato, I say potato.” 

“You just said it the same way both times. You’re literally proving my point.”

Pytor narrows his eyes at him and asks, “Weren’t you told to stop wearing those glasses?”

“I don’t remember anyone saying anything along those lines, actually. Maybe the cologne fumes are making you hallucinate?”

As Pytor indignantly draws himself up to respond, Grandmère’s voice echoes from down the hall, “Boys, get on with the lesson!”

With no shortage of barely concealed glee, Pytor says, “Today, we’ll be covering the art of charm. Charisma, as it’s often referred to, in association with my name. Flirtation. And perhaps… even seduction.”

He decides to ignore Calum’s cackling from the next room over and says, “Oh, hell no. If this gets anywhere near seduction, I’m abdicating and calling the authorities on you. I’m sure someone’ll find some fraud charges somewhere in your past. ” 

Pytor clicks his tongue in disapproval. “You Americans are overly concerned with the law.”

“Just get on with the lesson.”

Calum strolls back into the living room and smirks, “You know, I think I’ll stay and watch this one.” Michael contemplates smashing himself over the head with the physics textbook in his backpack. 

“So, Miguel —” 

“Not my name.”

“Putain, fine, have it your way. Michael, I’m going to use a — how you say… pick-up line on you.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a question. I will use the pick-up line, and you will respond as charmingly as you can, not that I expect much before I teach you my ways.”

“Calum, aren’t you supposed to protect me from danger? This is seriously endangering my emotional wellbeing,” Michael pleads. 

“My contract only covers physical danger. Emotional threats are beyond my paygrade.” 

“Fuck you.”

“You sure about that? Thought you liked that guy As—”

Michael slaps his hands over Calum’s mouth and yells, “Pytor, just get on with it already!”

Pytor’s expression somehow shifts to be even more sleazy than usual and, in a perfect American accent, he drawls, “Hey, baby, are you from Tennessee? Because you’re the only ten I see.” 

Internally, Michael is screaming loud enough to wake the dead, but he refuses to let Pytor know that he’s already gotten to him. “No, I’m from New York. Looks like we have nothing in common, bye!” 

Pytor is utterly unfazed and immediately fires off another one, “Hey, baby, are you from outer space? Because you’re out of this world.” 

“We literally just established that I’m from New York. Are you not even paying attention to what I’m saying? This is a terrible way to get someone to go on a date with you.” 

This time, there’s a tiny bit of irritation in Pytor’s voice when he says, “I thought ‘happiness’ started with ‘h’ but it looks like mine starts with ‘u’.” 

“Have you ever been tested for dyslexia? Many people go their whole lives without knowing they have it.” 

“For fuck’s sake, Michael, just flirt back. I’d like to get out of here before the sun rises tomorrow,” Calum interjects. 

Michael just flips him off in response. Grandmère conveniently happens to be walking by at that moment and gives him a disapproving shake of her head. 

Pytor continues with, “I’m not an electrician, but I can light up your life.” Where is he even getting all of these from? There’s no way real people have ever said these with the intention of flirting and succeeded in getting a date. 

Michael groans and flops fully onto the sofa, posture be damned. “I’m way too sober for this.” 

“You don’t even drink.” 

Michael whirls back around to Pytor and demands, “How would you— oh. Shut up, Cal. You don’t know about everything that I do or don’t do.”

“Knowing that is quite literally my job, so. Wrong, again,” Calum replies, looking infuriatingly calm.

“Well, even if I didn’t drink before, the last hour’ll be what drives me to start.” 

Pytor claps his hands together and says, “What a wonderful idea! I’ll go get some cocktails from the bar downstairs.” 

Before Michael can ask why he needs to go all the way downstairs when there’s a Costco-sized selection within the various rooms of the suite, Pytor has already left. 

Michael turns back to Calum and incredulously asks, “D’you think… I actually made him mad? Is that why he’s left?” 

Grandmère sticks her head back into the room to say, “You’ll have to teach me that trick, mon chéri. God knows how many times I’ve wished for him to leave but suffered through his presence in the name of decorum.” 

Michael shoots her a conspiratorial smile and says, “I bet he’d be even angrier if you let me leave before he comes back.”

Grandmère heaves a long-suffering sigh and decides, “I suppose that’s alright. Though, only for today. And I expect you to arrive exactly on time for Sunday afternoon’s high tea. We’ll be meeting with a baron.” 

“Yep, yep, I’ll be here!” he says, dashing around to gather all of his stuff together before she changes her mind. “Bye, Grandmère!

                                                                                                         -=-=-=-=-

When he gets home, he still has an hour and a half to play Resident Evil 2 and he feels the joy of Thursday afternoons once more.