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sombernstarless · 1 year ago

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Simmer #1

CH1. Home Style | The Menu [3.7K] Eddie Munson x shy fem!reader: a line cook au.

Jim’s Midnight Grill wasn’t the magical place the name made it sound like.

In fact, it was worse at night. Hawkins' only diner sat on the outskirts of town, just before the road that took you out alongside the cornfields. In the height of a sunny day, the water tower cast a shadow over the old building and the gas station next door only had one working pump.

The leather booths were constantly sticky, the table tops grainy with spilled salt, but if you made your visit on a Thursday night after nine, milkshakes were two for one. The back alley was littered with cigarette butts, graffiti on the walls telling you who to call for a good time— and someone called King Steve used Farah Fawcett hairspray? The regulars were permanent fixtures on the bar stools, coffee stains on the counter in front of them, stolen sugar packets in their pockets, frowns on their faces.

The staff didn’t want to be there, the owner refused to replace the flickering lights and the cook had a bad attitude and liked to communicate with heavy sighs and eye rolls. But he made a mean grilled cheese. The walk in freezer was reserved for the pitiful weekly deliveries and breakdowns, a stolen kiss or two. Or three, or four. But no one liked to tackle the clogged sink and god forbid anyone change the TV channel— Mr Creel always had something to say about it.

—————

Honestly, Hawkins wasn’t your first choice when you decided to move to a smaller place. The idea of a big city was all fine and well until you lived a year in Chicago, the dream of a brownstone apartment quickly disappearing when you realised jobs were hard to come by and finding friends was even harder. Living alone wasn’t all that fun, especially when your landlord hinted at sexual favours to justify late payments and he didn’t care to fix the leaking radiator in your bedroom. The nights were never quiet and the city hardly slept, but instead of neon lights and late night bodega runs, you lay awake on the broken spring in your bed and flinched at the sound of backfiring cars and people arguing on the street below.

It was lonely, living somewhere so big and busy and always eating dinner by yourself. So you sold the old car you didn’t really use and cried enough that your landlord eventually gave in and ripped up your lease that still had four months to go. Packing your stuff was an easy enough job, hardly enough belongings to fill the duffel bag you’d dragged with you. You dug into the back of your freezer for the wad of cash your grandma gave you, threw it into the bag and grabbed your greyhound ticket and decided you’d get off the bus when the skyline turned a little more green. When the buildings shrunk, when the smog lifted and when wildflowers sprouted from between the cracks in the sidewalk.

So you rolled into Hawkins before the day broke, way before the sun crept up over the quarry, before the small town came alive. The apartment you’d found was the same tiny size as the one you’d had in Chicago but it was cleaner and the carpet was new. Nothing leaked. Nothing smelled weird. The parking lot was filled with cars and none of them had bullet holes in the side, your trash can wasn’t on fire and god, god, the first neighbour you saw - an elderly woman who was walking with a yorkie on a leash - smiled at you.

She smiled at you.

So despite the lack of twenty four hour stores and pizza parlours, Hawkins was already looking up. There wasn’t much on the Main Street, a library, a tiny bakery run by a couple who offered you a free croissant as a welcome to town gift. There was an outdoor pool with sun bleached bunting across its chain link fence, an arcade next to a video store, a high school that was derelict due to the summer months. The larger houses across from the park were lined with cherry trees, neat lawns with white mailboxes and flowers under the windows and suddenly Hawkins was a million miles away from Chicago and the buzz of traffic and car horns.

The librarian let you print out some resumes the day after you’d settled in, and you found your way around town by asking kind strangers, buying a coffee and a breakfast sandwich in exchange for directions out of your neighbourhood. It was easy to stroll along the sidewalk with an iced latte and your headphones around your neck, blue skies above you and the sound of sprinklers in their yards, breathing in air that didn’t smell like diesel. You found a man by a rundown garage, white haired and tired looking, mechanic scrubs tied around his waist as he smoked a cigarette.

You took a deep breath, and then another one, smiling politely - warily - as you approached. The man lifted a brow at you, a little suspicious, but he held the burning stub away from you, smoke billowing in the opposite direction.

“You lost, kid?”

You were. Just a little.

“I’m looking for Jim’s, uh,” you glanced down at the pink flyer that had been pinned on the library's notice board. “Jim’s Midnight Grill? I got told it was out this way, but—”

You looked around, noting that there wasn’t much out this way. The busiest part of Hawkins was behind you, tidy sidewalks giving way to long roads out of town, a lone bus stop by the garage, a farm in the distance across the street. You squinted against the sun and shrugged.

“You wanna keep going for ‘nother mile or so, it’s just before the town sign,” the man pointed further out where the cornfields were overgrown and the sun faded billboard told everyone ‘thanks for visiting Hawkins!’ You weren’t sure the bus ran that far out. “Jim should be there, but if he’s not, jus’ ask for Eddie, he’ll sort you out.”

“Eddie,” you nodded, peering into the distance. You couldn’t see another building, but this man didn’t seem like he was lying. “Right, okay. Just keep to the road?”

The man nodded and he cracked a smile, small but soft. He stubbed out the end of his cigarette and gestured to an old pick up that looked like it had seen better days. “You needin’ a ride?”

The urge to say yes was strong, especially after walking all the way from your apartment as the heat soared. It snuck up on you like a slow roll, going from pleasant to warm to too hot, far too quickly. Beads of sweat clung to your skin underneath your sundress but you shook your head, shyness crawling up the back of your neck. Accepting a ride from a stranger didn’t seem the wisest idea, no matter how kind he seemed.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “Thank you, though. I appreciate the help.”

The man smiled again, a little bigger this time, crows feet crinkling, the sunlight catching the white of his five o’clock shadow. “That’s alright, kid. Jus’ tell ‘em Wayne sent you, yeah? Follow the road, you’ll see Forest Hills - the trailer park - keep going a lil’ ways and it’s right across the road.”

It turned out Wayne was right.

You kept walking, the heat soaring, the fields on either side of you growing taller but you bit back a smile at the sight of the wildflowers that snuck through the cracks in the concrete. Eventually they gave way to a trailer park, just as Wayne side, a quaint place that hummed with generators and had lines of laundry between each mobile home. Across the road sat a sandy lot, a diner in the middle, a neon sign letting passer-bys know they’d arrived at Jim’s Midnight Grill. Except the ‘r’ was loose, hanging from its wire and buzzing blue and purple.

Cats patrolled along the roadside, going from trailer doorsteps to the back alley of the diner, hoping and waiting for a free meal that they all knew would eventually come. You stopped to pet an orange kitten, a little scruffy looking thing but cute all the same, your CV clutched in one hand as you peered suspiciously at the front of the restaurant. It looked too quiet, like it wasn’t open yet. But there was a black van parked along the side of the building and some steam leaked from a vent on the roof, so you opened the front door.

The bell jingled but the patrons at the dining bar who sat on their stools didn’t move, didn’t turn to look. The place was nearly empty, some people nursing a coffee, some staring blankly at the buzzing television screen that was mounted in the corner. No one stood at the host desk, the menus stacked messily, the phone off the hook. In fact, there wasn’t a server to be seen as you made your way to the counter. You grimaced as you leaned on the surface, elbows sticky, avoiding spilled coffee the best you could. You waited, resume still in your hand, patience on your features.

No one came.

So you rang the bell that was on the bar top for the very purpose of gaining attention, but the man beside you glared at the noise. Still, no one came. The fans overhead squeaked and whirred, the TV fizzed with bad signal and from somewhere behind the open serving hatch, you heard the clatter of pots and pans. You tried to crane your neck to see through the window, steam and smoke billowing from it, the slight shadow of maybe a person moving through it.

The person swore, dropped a skillet and swore again.

You leaned in further, elbows on spilled salt grains and drops of ketchup, trying to gain a better view into the kitchen from the bar top. “Hey, ‘scuse me? Can I— can someone—”

You huffed as the figure moved out of sight, falling back onto the stool that squeaked and the man next to you snorted into his coffee cup. You frowned and took further action, sundress falling back around your thighs as you hopped off the chair and made your way to the side of the counter that lifted up. No one paid you any mind, no one at all, but you still hesitated before ducking under the bar and hovering by the hatch. You could smell garlic and sage and something a little sweet now you were closer, the scents of the kitchen winning over the stale coffee, cigarette smoke and engine oil that clung to the patrons clothes behind you.

You peered into the kitchen, your paperwork still clutched to your chest. It wasn’t much cooler in here than it was outside, the AC unit broken and the fans working overtime to combat the heat. The kitchen seemed empty now, a stovetop still on despite no one to supervise it, flames licking high up the sides of a steel pot, big enough for you to fit both feet in. There was something inside bubbling, foam rising to the top and chopped courgette and red onions sat on the workbench beside it, abandoned. A radio played, staticky and fuzzy, an old sixties tune floating out to mix with the smoke.

“Come a little bit closer, you’re my kind of man. So big and so strong, come a little bit closer, I’m all alone.”

“H-hello?” You cleared your throat and braced yourself to speak a little louder. Stronger. Braver. “Hello?”

No one answered. In fact, it seemed like the entire diner was run by ghosts, no waiting staff, hosts or cooks to be seen. Maybe you’d imagined the silhouette in the smoke, maybe the heat was finally getting to you.

“No customers back here, what d’you think you’re doin’?”

You startled, jumping back a little only to knock an elbow into a half filled coffee pot, the brown liquid thankfully lukewarm but it still spilled across the countertop, soaking into stray packets of sugar and scattered napkins.

“Oh, fuck, uh—” you grabbed at whatever dry napkins were left, hurriedly mopping up the spill before it dripped to the floor. Old coffee dotted the red and cream tiles, into the gaps between your sandals. You grimaced and looked up, only half paying attention. “Shit, I’m really sorry, I just— there was no one there and—”

You stopped, swallowing hard, cheeks hot, eyes wide. The person in front of you was half hidden behind the serving hatch, but he was scowling through the window with a ladle in his hand. Big brown eyes, unnervingly expressive and dark hair to match, unruly looking curls that were pulled back with an elastic band in a bun that wouldn’t have passed a health inspection.

A boy, unfairly pretty, and annoyed looking with tattoos peeking out from his chef whites, a black paisley printed bandana knotted around his neck. There was a furrow between his brow, lines etched there so deep that it made you think they were a permanent fixture on his handsome face.

“—no customers behind the cash desk, sweetheart, you look bright enough to understand that.”

Your mouth fell open, a burn creeping across your cheeks. Annoyance settled in your chest but you realised you weren’t quite brave enough to do anything about it. So you lifted your resume and slapped it on the hot steel ledge that separated the kitchen from the coffee bar. “No one’s working,” you tried to explain, gesturing with one hand to the empty diner behind you. “I rang the bell—”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” The boy scoffed, raising a tattooed forearm to wipe away the sheer layer of sweat from his brow. “Havin’ a spa day? Shit, no one rings the damn bell, don’t you know that?”

You scrambled for a response, the burn on your face growing hotter, an awful clawing feeling coming across your chest. You swallowed, your throat tight, but you pointed at your CV once more. “I’m here for the job opening. I need to speak to Jim? About the kitchen porter role?”

The stranger laughed, a breathy thing that you didn’t think was supposed to come across as mean as it did, but it stung all the same. You shrunk a little, a hardly seen thing as the boy turned his head to check on whatever was bubbling in the big pot. “Look, sweetheart, I don’t wanna be a dick about it, but uh, I don’t think you’re cut out for the kitchen - sorry.” He turned back to you, a slightly more apologetic look on his face instead of the frown. “You understand, right?”

You were speechless, just for a second. Blinking away the confusion, you made noise of protest as the boy started to move away. Your hand touched his bicep and he swivelled back, scowling once more. You snatched your hand away, glancing at your fingertips as if the ink from his tattoos would have stained them black.

“Sorry— it’s just, I, I need a job.” You swallowed, hoping none of the customers could hear your desperate plea. “I just moved into town and honestly, I’ll take anything, like anything. I’m supposed to talk to Jim— or Eddie?”

The boy seemed to mull over your words for a second or two, a passing of sympathy or something just as kind coming over his features. He sighed and shrugged, turning away to stir the pot before it boiled over and he shouted at you through the smoke and steam. Not meanly, just enough for his voice to be heard over the music, the hissing of the stove, the hum of the freezer. “I dunno where Jim is, sorry.”

You deflated, sliding your stack of papers off of the ledge and back to your chest. You tried not to appear too frustrated as you asked, “what about Eddie? Someone - a guy, at the garage - he told me to ask for Eddie.”

The ladle clanged against the pot, some soup - or maybe stew - spilling out the sides. The boy frowned at the mess, dragging a rag over the spots before he glanced up at you. You tried to smile, tried to tamp down the watery doe eyes you knew you couldn’t help but have on show, but you felt desperate. Leaving Chicago with nothing more than the bag on your back and no plans was suddenly seeming like an awful idea.

“Sorry,” the stranger said again. “I dunno an Eddie.”

—————

Sitting in a sticky leather booth in the corner of Jim’s Midnight Grill for another hour turned out to be worth it.

Just before two o’clock, a man walked in, greeting the same customers who were still nursing their coffees with a muttered ‘hello,’ a familiar thing that everyone grunted back at. He was a tall man, broad shouldered with a moustache and a shaved head that was covered with a battered wide brimmed hat. He looked more cowboy than business owner, checked shirt dirt covered boots and all, but you heard someone call him Jim and you were up and running after him.

Your sneakers stuck to the linoleum tiles, the ‘shtick shtick shtick’ of your soles pattering between the aisles of empty tables until you caught up with the man just before he disappeared into the kitchen. He raised his brows at your sudden appearance at his elbow, wide eyed and hopeful as you clutched the same resume you’d tried to hand the cook, the pieces of paper stained with coffee now.

The man lifted his chin to a small table before you could speak, gesturing to two chairs by the window. You startled, wondering what was happening as he pulled out a seat and pointed at you to sit in the other one.

“You’re new, right?” The man - Jim - fumbled with a packet of cigarettes, most of them crushed and bent, but he found a good one to lift to his lips. He lit it and blew smoke upwards, staining the already yellowing ceiling. “Here, in town?”

You nodded, unsure how he knew that. You guessed that news travelled fast in a place as small as Hawkins, so you decided to elaborate for the sake of talking. “Uh, yeah. From Chicago. I’m inquiring about the, um, the porter job?”

“What’s your name?” Jim leaned forward in his chair and poked gently at your forearms. “You don’t got a lot of scars, you done soft jobs? No kitchen stuff before?”

The AC unit kicked in and rattled a vent above you as you stared at the man, trying to work out what he meant. Stammering, you told him your name and passed over a resume, pointing out your last few jobs, doing your best to try and make them sound more professional than they actually were.

Librarian's assistant.

Barista. For two weeks.

Cashier at a knock off Chuck E. Cheese.

“I guess they’re what you could call, uh,” you squinted Jim, floundering for the word he’d used, “soft jobs. But I’ve got a scar on my knee from pulling a kid out of the ball pit. He’d come straight from little league, he still had his spikes on and there was a considerable amount of blood even th—”

Jim stopped your spiel by jamming a thumb back towards the kitchen hatch. You could still see the boy there, pretty and scowling all the same, a dark curl falling from his hair band to fall over his cheek. You watched him blow it away and flip something in a skillet, the sizzle of it just heard over the music, the bad TV in the corner of the bar.

“You ever worked a kitchen?”

You shook your head, stomach sinking. ‘Fake it til’ you make it,’ failed you once before, and the owner of the coffee shop in Lincoln Park quickly realised you were wasting both your times when she discovered you didn’t know the difference between a mocha and a latte. “No, sir.”

“Our line cook is real particular ‘bout who we put in his kitchen with him,” Jim pointed to the boy, who’d now been joined by someone else. Another male, one with even longer hair, sleek and dark and they seemed to be arguing over blocks of cheese. “Now I don’t think it’s a good idea to throw you in there—”

Dread bubbled in your stomach. If you didn’t manage to land this job, you weren’t sure where else to look. A small town brought on few opportunities, and you’d already exhausted most of the businesses on Main Street. “Sir, please, I—”

“—but there is a waitressing gig available.” Jim frowned as he tried to remember the details. “Full time, forty odd hours if you don’t mind doing lates.”

“Yes!” You blurted out the answer too loud, loud enough for the customers to turn away from the TV screen for a second or two. The boys in the kitchen peered out the hatch, one curious, one annoyed. “Yes, sorry, yes. I’ll take it, thank you.”

Jim nodded and stubbed out the amber end of his cigarette in an ashtray beside the sauce bottles. “Easy enough job, minimum wage, you keep any tips you make.” He listed off each point on his fingers. “You start tomorrow.”

You could only nod back, eager and grateful. “Of course, yeah, sure. Uh— do I need—?”

Jim waved you off, already standing as he lit up another cigarette. “Just come by for eight, Eddie’ll sort you out with a uniform, locker, that kinda stuff.”

You frowned, confused. Looking around the quiet diner, you wondered if there was someone you hadn’t noticed before, but the number of visible staff members remained the same. The two boys in the kitchen, the pretty cool who you’d spoken to back at the stove, tasting its contents with a teaspoon.

“Uh,” you coughed awkwardly, feeling stupid. “I thought— I thought there wasn’t an Eddie who worked here?” You pointed warily to the boy with the messy curls, the black tattoos across his exposed forearms, he was staring at you, like he knew you were talking about him. He was scowling. “He said there wasn’t.”

The noise and heat of the diner and the summer outside didn’t do anything to diminish the embarrassment you felt at Jim’s next words. His gaze followed to where you were pointing and snorted. “Kid, that is Eddie.”

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sombernstarless · 2 years ago

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I’m going through something….

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sombernstarless · 2 years ago

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I have been gone a LONG time I know, college is tough but the semester is coming to an end and I’ve been feeling so motivated to write :$$$

I’ve been doing some writing but I spend majority of my time on school work, praying I don’t fail my math course

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sombernstarless · 2 years ago

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Hellooooo, she won’t shoot part 3 is up rn!!!!

I’m so sorry if you’ve requested to be on the tag last before and weren’t tagged, two of the usernames would not work for the life of me but hopefully there are no problems with part 4

Xoxo, Jada⭐️

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sombernstarless · 2 years ago

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It’s just dinner

Frank Castle x f!reader

Word count: 4,619

Rate: Mature

Warnings: mentions of death in a family, mentions of masturbation, lots of tension ;)

Frank stuck around and has no intention of leaving you alone, you just wish he would let his guard down a little more

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Taking care of a dog was hard. They needed to be walked, fed, and given lots of attention otherwise, they become a nuisance. Bubba, a name you insisted on but Frank despised, wasn’t necessarily high maintenance. In fact, he’s probably the dog every owner wishes for, but you weren’t exactly used to having to care for another living breathing thing. You’d trip over him on your way to the bathroom if he slept a little too close to your bed at night. Anytime you unlocked the door after a long day at work, Bubba barked bloody murder until he realized it was you and not another strange man trying to break in again.

And a strange man Frank Castle was.

Though he finally listened to you about the parking spot, he almost always refused your advances whenever you invited him inside. Part of you thinks he felt bad for spooking you those first two encounters, but the other part wasn’t quite sure what his problem was. He claimed now that he knew he hadn’t put you in any imminent danger and he had someplace to keep watch in case someone had seen the two of you together, he didn’t want to do any more damage. You almost believed it, but Frank was more complicated than that.

He could have easily decided to be done with you. Nothing was stopping him from getting lost in the big city and never contacting you again. You pegged Frank as the kind of man who preferred solitude, especially after the hand he’d been dealt, but he proved to be a mystery once again. After the first time you attempted to invite him inside for dinner, which more or less ended in you clutching your chest after seeing the pistol in his hand and him scolding you for being “careless”, the two of you created a code.

“I could’ve shot you dead, Ace.”

It took everything in you not to blush at the nickname, especially since the look on Frank’s face was nothing short of deadly serious. You would be lying if you said you didn’t feel some sort of attraction toward the man, but those were very dangerous waters you were treading. You’ve had some questionable taste in the past, but “vigilante” should be nowhere near your list. Still, you tremble a little when he brushes your arm leaving your apartment, or calls you “Ace” when he’s locking himself in his van at night.

It crossed your mind a few times to offer up your couch, but the idea of sleeping in the same room made your imagination run too wild. You tried not to think about it any further.

Except you couldn’t.

One night, when you dressed in a pair of underwear and a large t-shirt after a hot shower, you finally let your mind wander as you absently stroked at your inner thighs. You weren’t skinny; you thought of the way your large thighs ripped holes on every pair of jeans you’ve ever owned and how your stomach was rounded with soft, supple flesh that made high-waisted pants feel like hell. Still, frank had pushed you against the wall like you weighed nothing.

You thought of the duality of his hands, how they were battered and bruised from fights yet held onto your mugs like they were the most expensive things on the planet. You shuddered as you remembered the way he massaged his own neck, the way he clenched and unclenched his fists when he talked.

Breathing deeply, your hand inches closer to the damp fabric that covered your aching cunt. You knew you were done for when you imagined they were his dexterous fingers ghosting your clothed clit. It didn’t take much longer for you to come apart in quiet whimpers, then feel a wave of embarrassment wash over you after coming down from your high.

You were screwed beyond repair.

It was now Friday afternoon again and you scolded yourself for how excited you were to see Bubba and Frank. Frank began to take it upon himself to walk bubba in those early mornings you’d leave for work and let him lounge in the van all day long. Your stomach flipped as you approached the rusted hunk of metal.

As for the code the two of you created, seven knocks with pauses in between two, four, six, and seven. What it signified? You had no idea, but you were glad the two of you now had a system. It wouldn’t have made a difference for you, but you could tell Frank needed it for his own peace of mind.

Your fist rattled the steel door and moments later, Bubba was leaping at you from the carpeted interior. He panted ferociously and began lapping at the side of your face as you scratched his sides. Frank sat on the bench inside, watching Bubba greet you.

You’d made it a habit not to get into Frank’s head whenever the two of you were together. A part of whatever twisted relationship the two of you had created was respecting his boundaries. You only listened to people’s thoughts when you didn’t trust them, and for whatever odd reason you’ve created for yourself, you trusted Frank. When you saw the look on his face when Bubba’s advances finally ceased, you wished you weren’t such a trusting person.

“How was he?” you asked.

Frank had a grin so faint on his lips you’d miss it if you blinked. He wiped at his overgrown beard and huffed out a breathy laugh. Today he had on his usual jeans and boots with what looked like a grey t-shirt and a black zip-up hoodie overtop.

“Mutt’s got some nerve, but he was alright,” he replied.

“How was the walk?”

He shrugged.

“It was fine, tried sniffing on some people but nothing too bad.”

You nodded and tried not to make your relief too obvious. Now that Bubba has grown comfortable with both of you, you’ve learned that he’s actually quite social. It’s good that he gets along with people and other dogs, but it’s not always so convenient when Frank is trying to keep a low profile.

“You know you don’t have to stay out here when I’m gone,” you start, looking down at Bubba so Frank couldn’t see your face. “You’re more than welcome to go into my apartment and help yourself.”

“That’s alright Ace, I’m fine where I’m at,” he replied.

You knew he’d say it, but you persist.

“Frank it’s freezing out here and you’ll kill your van if you keep running the heat like you do.”

Frank sighs, leaning his body back against the wall of the van and pushing his jacket sleeves up to his elbows. His legs were spread in a way that made your head swim, but you pushed past the thoughts that started plaguing you.

“Ace-” he started, but you had none of it.

“If not for yourself then for my poor dog.”

He chuckled, shaking his head at your statement as you wrap Bubba’s leash around your hand. There was a brief silence before he finally answered.

“Alright, fine,” he caves.

You grinned at your small victory. Then, you tested the waters.

“Come inside for dinner? I bought some stuff for grilled chicken and tortellini. You can’t say no because I already bought it and it’ll be rude.”

Frank’s smile faltered and you tried pretending like it didn’t break your heart. You knew it was a reach, especially since he’d gotten so used to you bringing things down before you got ready for bed, but it killed you knowing he was eating alone.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea…” he trailed.

You shifted on your feet, remembering how sore they were in your too-small tennis shoes.

“It’s just dinner, Frank…Please?”

Frank became a puddle on the van floor when the word left your mouth.

It was embarrassing, how easy it was for you to convince him. You were all cutely disheveled after a long day of work and watching the smile appear on your face as Bubba greeted you was enough to fight the cold that began seeping into the vehicle. Your hair was braided back into two ponytails that were worn from the day, but Frank cared little about the difference. Even in your all-black scrubs, he was enamored of you.

There was little pushback after you said please. He was pulling his sleeves down and tugging his black skull cap on before following you into the building’s back entrance. He hardly had time to process the way you beamed at him

Frank couldn’t—he shouldn’t—be so fond of you. You were a sweet innocent thing that didn’t belong in his world. Anyone who knew Frank knew of the death and destruction that followed soon after, so why was he so willing to risk another letdown with you?

He tried to keep his distance. You had no idea how much it pained him to see your face drop whenever he rejected your offerings. He’d love nothing more than to sit with you on your small couch and watch one of the many DVDs on a stand next to your tv, sipping on tea because it was starting to grow on him. He’d love it, even more, to crash on your couch and watch over you because staying in his van at night and waiting on your arrival in the morning was beginning to stress him. He’d love it all, but there was a part of his brain still screaming at him to steer clear and save you the trouble. Frank tried to push the thoughts to the back of his mind as the two of you entered your apartment.

It always felt strange coming into your space.

You never turned on your overhead lights, always opting for lamps evenly distributed around the whole place. It made it all the more welcome, Frank thought. It made it easier to talk to you, easier to relax. He kicked his boots off at the door with you and he watched relief wash over your face. Bubba was let off his leash to roam around the small space.

Frank happened to be more focused on you though, or how your hips swayed in your tight-fitting scrubs as you rummaged through your drawers across the room. He scolded himself and took a seat at the kitchen table.

“How was your day? Aside from keeping Bubba from licking innocent pedestrians,” you joked.

“Still think Bubba is a stupid name,” he replied, leaning back in his chair.

“Don’t say that, he’ll hear you!”

Frank jostled with laughter as you tugged a few items free from your drawers, a smile plastered on your face. He could tell you just stuffed them in there to get rid of the mess. Oddly enough, it gave him pleasure knowing you cared about what he thought of your place. It made him feel like less of a charity case.

“The same as yesterday, and the day before.”

His answer made your smile falter a bit, but you were still glowing with joy.

“One sec, make yourself comfortable,” you said, padding over to the bathroom and shutting the door behind you. A moment later, he heard the shower faucet hiss.

Frank took the moment alone to exhale a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.

He stood from his spot on the chair and began to wander. He wasn’t really sure why he got the sudden urge to look around, but he also wondered why it never dawned on him before. You had access to the most sensitive parts of his brain, a look around your apartment wasn’t a crime, was it?

He scanned his eyes over to a table up against the wall behind your couch. Frank had noticed the frame before, but never cared to look at the pictures that occupied them. Now that he was standing at arm’s length, he saw what he assumed was your family.

The frame in the middle was a picture of a young you with an older man and woman he presumed were your parents. You were smiling brightly as the woman kissed your cheek and the man had a hand atop your head. What looked like a birthday cake sat in front of you and the flash of the camera had you squinting your eyes.

On the left of it was a photo of you again, slightly older, and this time with a boy around the same age. He looked similar to you which made Frank believe it was a sibling of some sort. You never talked about having siblings—or any of your family for that matter—but he figured the less he knew about you the better. A selfish part of him wished for the opposite.

For a moment, Frank thought of your life. Or, more specifically, how it was probably relatively normal before you met him. He barely let you do anything for him, he knew that, but he still felt like a burden to you. Looking at photos of you, seemingly happy with your family, made a wave of discomfort wash over him like a harsh reality check.

He didn’t belong here.

Frank nearly jumped out of his skin when the bathroom door opened. Luckily you were more focused on getting your clothes put away to notice the shock on his face. He tried to play it cool as you tossed the black scrubs into your dirty clothes basket in the corner by your bed.

“What sauce would you prefer?” you asked. “I’ve got vodka and alfredo.”

The man stared blankly for a moment before answering. You had changed into a pair of grey yoga pants and a sage green oversized sweater. Your socked feet shuffled across the room as you moved swiftly past him. A cloud of whatever vanilla lotion or perfume you had on wafted past his nose. You smelled so good it almost made him hum. Your hair was now wetly brushed back into a bun, probably so it would stay out of your way as you cooked.

“I’ve been eating beans out of a can for a while, Ace,” he replied gruffly. “I’ll eat whichever you prefer.”

“Vodka it is.”

Frank was amazed as you floated around the kitchen. He hadn’t cooked in ages, but he was sure he was never as graceful as the way you were before him. Granted, he was a shitty cook, but you cooked like you’d been born chopping onions.

Frank took notice of the pre-seasoned chicken and already laid out ingredients. He didn’t let himself think too hard about how you would have been sadly storing the extra chicken in the fridge had he not agreed to dine with you.

He offered to help, but you insisted he stay out of the way and relax with Bubba. He felt a little awkward sitting on the couch, watching you grill chicken and stir boiling tortellini every so often. Bubba took some of the tension away by giving him something to do with his hands, but he couldn’t help sneaking glances at you in between belly pats.

Your drying hair curled at the nape of your neck as you hummed a song playing on your phone. Your back was turned to him and he took the moment to admire your figure.

A part of the reason Frank never fully lets himself relax around you is that he feels something almost primal when he sees you. He was attracted to you and he hated to admit it. You had a figure that made him want to scream and it almost felt like teasing the way your sweater just barely covered your round ass. He was awarded a sliver of your midriff every so often when you had to reach for something on the top shelf.

Frank knew it was a line he couldn’t cross. It would be too messy to get involved with you. He knew it was bad even to entertain the idea, yet he would catch himself dozing off in his van imagining the day he finally stays the entire night. What would you let him do?

“Frank?’ you called, startling him out of his daydream.

“Hm?” he replied. He blinked rapidly, glancing at his hands and then back to your face.

“What to drink?... I’ve got water, lemonade, or ginger ale.”

You looked at him a bit puzzled, but didn’t question him about it.

“I-um-water, please.”

You and Frank had moved to the couch after your meal. Since you hadn’t allowed him to help cook, he insisted on doing the dishes while you relaxed on the sofa. You usually despised cleaning after cooking, so you didn’t put up much of a fight when he started shooing you out of the kitchen.

Partially, you believed he just needed something to do with his hands because he felt a little guilty about watching you make him a meal. If only you could somehow subtly tell him you didn’t mind at all.

He had asked you about your family while the two of you ate. You weren’t shy with the details while he shoveled forkfuls of pasta into his mouth.

You told him about your parents and brother and sister. You told him about what it was like growing up and how your dad was the one to tell you about guns. If he was bored at all by your talking, he didn’t show it on his face. Somewhere in between words, you began to realize it had been a while since you had a full conversation about your personal life.

You had coworkers and casual interactions over social media with people you hadn’t seen since you left your hometown, but nothing as intimate as dinner and stories from your childhood. He was only giving you more reasons to let your guard down and it scared you more than anything.

Now, you were watching the man in your kitchen—elbows deep in the stainless steel sink—clean the dishes as his jaw worked in concentration.

Bubba had turned into his cage for the night, so you were forced to pick at your nails as you tried not to let your gaze linger. At least with bubba by your side, you wouldn’t have looked like a lunatic.

When Frank sat the final dish on the drying rack, you had adjusted in trying to rid your posture of any evidence that you were staring. He took a seat next to you on the couch with a small grunt.

This was usually the part where he made up some excuse to leave and bid you goodnight, but he made no move for his combat boots. You were a little anxious that he would want to leave, but tension left your body when you saw the way he got comfortable. As if he were letting the couch consume him and preparing to actually enjoy your company.

“I have a question,” he said.

You nodded, signaling him to continue. Anything to get rid of the awkward silence.

“Thanksgiving is in what…two days?” he asked, “shouldn’t you be home with your family?”

“Usually I would be, but the rates on our building just went up. I wouldn’t have been able to afford next month if I took the time off.”

He hummed in response, but it wasn’t exactly out of understanding. He had a frown on his face and couldn’t look you in the eye.

“What, you don’t believe me?” you teased.

“I don’t know, you don’t really seem upset by it is all,” he responded, his eyes flickering to you momentarily.

You shrugged your shoulders a little before averting your eyes to the coffee table in front of you. He wasn’t exactly wrong, and it wasn’t a topic you could avoid for much longer. Frank hasn’t known a lick of privacy since his trial, so the least you could do is make him feel more comfortable in his grief.

“My dad um…” your voice trailed.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shift to face you completely. The arm he had propped up on the couch’s armrest fell to his lap before he crossed both of them over his chest.

“He died a couple of years ago, a pretty bad car crash,” you finished, clearing your throat at the end.

Frank nodded in understanding, if anyone would understand it was sure to be him.

“There were no other cars involved and the coroner’s report said he was pretty intoxicated. The car was um–it wrapped around a pole.”

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to uh-”

“It’s fine, really,” you interrupted, shaking yourself out of your momentary trance. “If anything we should talk about it more. My mom and I, I mean.”

The time after your father’s passing was bleak. Your two siblings had come up to help with the arrangements because your mother was still in shock. For the entire time your brother and sister were home, you all danced around her and avoided saying his name.

She slept in his flannels and had his favorite Johnny Cash CD on replay for hours. When she wasn’t listening to “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues”, she was out in his workshed with a thick blanket and a space heater, staring out the window at the falling December snow. It was only after you all felt comfortable enough to leave her alone that you finally started looking at jobs and apartments in the city.

“After the whole funeral ordeal, my mom and I sort of drifted apart. My sister and her husband had moved back to my hometown to be closer to her so I decided to leave.”

Your voice hadn’t faltered once. You wondered what he may have thought of you for leaving her. It took you a while to stop feeling guilty.

“I think I just reminded her too much of him.”

When you dared a look at him, his features were the softest you’ve ever seen them. It was a sad kind of look that made you feel sick and like you wanted to cry, but you bit back the tears that threatened to fall.

“What are you thinking?” you asked.

“Can’t you see for yourself?” he asked, seldom humor in his voice.

Witty banter had left you both.

“I don’t do that with you anymore.”

He quirked an eyebrow at your response. You decided to take it a step further

“For some reason I can’t explain, I seem to trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I do, you’ve never given me a reason not to.”

His tongue poked at the inside of his cheek as you turned to face him fully. Your knee was brushing against his thigh, but he did nothing despite usually averting your touch. He radiated a certain warmth that sent a jolt through your body, but you kept your composure.

“I know you probably think I see you as some charity case because you never want to accept anything I try to give you, but I actually enjoy your company, Frank,” you said. Your stomach dropped when he flinched at your words.

“I know you think that’s true-”

“It is true, Frank! I care about you and I care about your safety.”

You wanted to touch him, to uncross his arms and have them feel your beating heart so he’d understand just how much.

“How can you worry about me when me just being here puts you at risk?” he asks, his eyebrows drawn together like he couldn’t even fathom it.

“I don’t know, and I wish I did.”

After a few more moments of trying to catch his gaze, you stood from your spot and began to walk to the kitchen before you felt a hand grab at your wrist. You whipped your head to Frank who was now towering over your smaller figure. His chest rose and fell and he still had a look on his face that could kill.

He spun you so you would be facing him. His grip on your wrist loosened but never left. Your heart was beating out of your chest and you should’ve been scared for your life, but you let him pull you closer.

You could see his face clearly now. His eyes were a stormy brown, all accusing but guilty at the same time. He’d been hiding before, and now he was looking ready to confess. You didn’t make it any easier for him as you reached your trapped hand up to brush a loose strand of hair from his eye.

“I can barely sleep in that goddamn van without thinking something is happening to you… because of me.”

You pursed your lips and let your hand linger on his beard-lined cheek. The hair was a bit rough there, but his skin was soft and warm. His eyes closed momentarily as he leaned into your touch.

“If it weren’t for that mutt I’d probably let it consume me whenever you leave for work.”

“I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.”

He shook his head and let his hand drop from your wrist. You only let yours slide to his neck, not ready to break contact.

“Besides, everyone thinks you’re dead and you have a new identity now, right?” you tried reasoning with him. “No one knows you’re here and I’m a nobody in this city. The most danger I face daily is the possum that’s always digging in our dumpster.”

He huffed something close to a laugh and rolled his eyes at your attempted joke.

“You could start walking me? I know you’ve got this incognito thing going on but it’s only a few blocks away and I hate the subway. Plus, I doubt anyone is on the lookout for a deceased vigilante.”

You smiled brightly when he nodded in agreement. You nearly forgot you had a hold on his neck before he latched his hand back onto your wrist. His touch was soft and made you shiver before you looked down at your socked feet sheepishly.

It reminded you of the night before when you touched yourself and imagined it was him. Your face burned in embarrassment and you cursed yourself for thinking of it now.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he said, barely above a whisper. You struggled to maintain eye contact when a look of realization finally hit him. He was no longer frowning, but he still looked at you a bit puzzled.

Frank squinted at you as you cleared your throat and finally let go of his neck.

“Is there another reason you keep me around, Ace?”

For a moment you thought you were busted. He could probably see right through you, but you decided to play it cool before showing your hand. You weren’t ready for the awkwardness that came after a confession. Yet.

“Is there another reason you came back after the night at the diner?” you challenged.

The smirk that followed nearly had you swooning. You tried not to watch his mouth as his tongue swiped over his bottom lip. He then poked the inside of his cheek with it as he took a step away from you, breaking whatever barrier he had built around the two of you. The tension in the air was palpable as you wrapped your arms around your waist, shifting uncomfortably on your feet.

You cleared your throat and finally spun to walk toward the kitchen. You instinctively pulled out two mugs and your kettle to start a pot of tea.

“Lemon and honey?” you asked.

You held the kettle under the faucet and turned on the water, letting it fill to the Max line.

“Sure, Ace.”

Taglist:

@operation-spot

@coolkidsread

@exhaustedfangirl

@lemon-world1

@baron-zemo-trash

@itsalwaysgay

Comment if you’d like to be added in the future!

#frank castle x female reader #frank castle x f!reader #punisher #punisher fic #marvel #Daredevil #somber n starless

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sombernstarless · 2 years ago

Text

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

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, shy!reader, princess diaries au (sort of), all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance james isn't flirty this chapter i lied but he will be <3

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You're in the process of ruining your pyjama bottoms with willow charcoal when your father dies.

The charcoal is fragile, unhoused, and it snaps with too much pressure. An uneven half falls between the sheets of your sketchbook, marring the artwork it rolls over indiscriminately.

You sigh without thinking and rub your tired eyes, spreading a line of smudgy black under your brow. Squinting, you peek at the portrait you'd been drawing. A young woman with deep, dark skin, her cheek shaded by the leaves of a sycamore tree. The branches arc over her skin in shadowed lines, sunlight dappling illustrated by sparse triangles of the white paper underneath.

It had been an okay sketch. The snapped charcoal distracts from what you'd originally set out to do — a dynamic, revealing portrait — and instead replaces it with a more abstract feel.

You sigh again, this time with a melodrama you'd only ever feel comfortable displaying alone. Thankfully, that's the case more often than not. You live by yourself, no partner, no pets, nobody around to see you drop your sketchbook onto the floor beside your bed, kick out your feet toward the rug, and moan. Your socks slide against the hardwood. You kick them like a child as you slip down the side of the bed, shirt caught behind you, soft middle exposed.

You swear to yourself quietly, pressing the backs of your hands to your eyes.

A sharp trilling sound chimes. On the nightstand, your phone vibrates hard, and the water in the glass next to it crests against the sides like tiny shockwaves.

You pull it into your lap and stare at the number. It goes to voicemail, and then it rings again. Again, again, and again.

You consider turning your phone off. Five phone calls and counting indicates an emergency, but every cell begs to avoid whatever it is on the other side.

You can't avoid everything, no matter how much you want to. You answer the phone.

"Hello," you greet.

The muffled echo of a cheerful voice responds.

"Yeah, that's me… Okay. Yeah, now is fine."

More chattering. Less cheerful, diplomatic.

"My father?" you ask.

You are told two impossible truths.

"Oh," you say. The walls spin. "Right."

—

"I hate flying," Sirius mutters.

James hums, noncommittal.

"You know, my good looks are wasted if we end up lost in the middle of the Atlantic ocean."

"It's not the middle of the Atlantic ocean," Remus says, sounding about as interested in Sirius' whining as James is currently. "It's an arm."

"It's the fucking English channel," James says. It's barely the ocean. "How much do you reckon a pair of in flight headphones will cost?"

Sirius, despite his anxiety, has the bandwidth to appreciate James' bad mood. "What crawled up your arse?"

James sinks down into his seat, knees immediately pressed into the hard plastic of the chair in front, back aching and head heavy from a lack of rest he won't make up anytime soon.

"He's agitated," Remus says.

"Helpful, Moony. Super helpful."

"Fuck yourself, then," Remus says, pulling his sleep mask over his eyes and plugging in his earbuds.

The tannoy dings. The seatbelt light flashes.

A flight attendant raises his voice from the start of the aisle. "If everybody could take their seats and buckle in, we'll be taking off in less than two minutes. Please turn all electronics to aeroplane mode. Thanks so much."

"Is your phone off?" Sirius asks.

"No, I actually want us to drown in the channel, but thanks for asking."

A dark shock of curls lands against his shoulder. Sirius drapes himself unabashedly across James lap, hand on his friend's thigh, ankle crossing over ankle. Genovian through and through, Sirius doles out affection wantonly, smelling ridiculously nice as he does: a heady smell like browned sugar and citrus blossoms coalescing tickles the inside of James' nose.

"Are you still cranky that you got demoted?" Sirius asks, smooth tones pitched into bubbly baby talk.

"I didn't get demoted," James argues.

James had, in fact, been demoted.

"No, of course not. You've fallen from third guard to the Royal Prince of Genovia, may he rest in peace, to glorified babysitter of said Prince's illegitimate, forgotten child. Sounds the same to me."

"Then we agree," James says, wanting to close his eyes.

He'd pretend to sleep if he thought Sirius would believe it. Growing up together erases any semblance of privacy. Sirius knows James as James knows Sirius, and as they know Remus. Remus likely knows them all better than he'd ever admit, the youngest of the trio and the smartest, most perceptive man James has ever met.

Sirius isn't perceptive, he's vigilant. He can read even the smallest signs of unrest, and it makes him uneasy. There will likely always be a shadow cast over him from a rough childhood, and while James is in a god awful mood, he reaches out to alleviate Sirius' anxiety.

"I'm fine," James assures him, "just tired." Not mad at you goes unsaid.

"It won't be as bad as you're thinking."

"I'm fine. I'm not worried. Didn't sleep last night, and," —he grins as Sirius clasps his arm, their seats shaking underneath them, the plane beginning its race across tarmac— "some scrawny git is squeezing fuck out of my arm."

Sirius flinches away from him. "You're annoying."

James presses his shoe up to the side of Sirius' and leans back in his chair, wincing at the rattling carriage as they take off, and again when he remembers where they're going. You wait in London, though nobody in the task force assigned to your assimilation or the advisement team could come to explain how you'd ended up there. Your Genovian citizenship is unacknowledged on your passport, your birth certificate, even, and as far as Lily had been able to suss, you have little understanding of who you are.

"She sounded tired, mostly," Lily had said when pressed for details about the new princess' personality. "In shock. Slightly disbelieving, but could you believe it?"

Lily, James'... friend, and work colleague at a stretch, is an ambassador for the UK and full-time genovian resident. Along with a handful of other representatives and officials, she’d been responsible for opening the talks between Genovia and yourself. That is to say, she'd broken the news.

Surprise! Your dad just died! Double surprise, you're a princess. And, no pressure or anything, but we kind of need you to come back to Genovia to maintain the royal lineage before your grandmother abdicates the throne (unwillingly).

"Did you mention the tiara?" he'd asked Lily. The Princess' diadem, a master craftsmanship of silver-gold with a diamond the size of an apple.

"Weirdly, Potter, I didn’t mention the jewellery."

He supposes there hadn't been time to weasel that tidbit in between condolences and recruitment.

You haven't promised anything in ways of returning to Genova or taking up the mantle. James understands. If he were in your shoes, he likely would've laughed down the line and blocked the number. You’d shown incredible promise as a future leader, agreeing to meet with Lily and her team at the Genovian embassy. Then, a day later, they'd modified the plan and asked if you'd be okay meeting somewhere more private.

You'd said yes.

As someone who may be very involved in your bodily safety in the near future, James thinks you're an idiot. Somebody calls you, claiming that you're a princess, though nobody has ever bothered telling you this before because you were never heir apparent, and that they'll tell you more should you deign to meet with them in a place with meagre surveillance, and you say yes to this?

How you've survived as long as you have is a mystery.

He hopes you won't make his job difficult. Isn't that what everyone hopes? He feels guilty for judging you without meeting you, promising in his head to be nicer to you in actuality. You're probably grieving and definitely confused. He shouldn't be worrying about his job.

Redetermined, James lets the anxiety of his new assignment water down.

Sirius is thinking along the same lines: how easy will you make his particular occupation. "Bets are on. Scruffy or sweet?"

"Huh?" James asks, pretending he doesn't understand in hopes of rectifying Sirius' attitude.

"Slovenly or love-nly?"

"I'm sure she's fine."

"You should hope so, you'll be looking at the back of her head for a while."

James rolls his eyes.

"I'll manage, pretty or not."

His confidence draws Sirius' curiosity. "How're you so sure?" Sirius asks, chin-lifted, light eyes narrowed in bemusement. His expression dances with the surety of somebody well-raised. He could wear a potato sack and his regal air would endeavour, deep-seeded and neat like the trim stitching of his expensive clothes.

"Look at my face right now. Do I seem affected?"

Sirius laughs much too loudly at the implication. "Don't act like I'm not handsome, Prongs."

"Years of practice." James schools his features into an unaffected mask. "Uggos have no effect on me."

"How else would you look in the mirror?" Sirius drawls.

When Remus wakes afterward, he finds they haven't quite killed each other, though James has threatened it twice. With one hand, Black.

"Far are we?" he asks.

Sleep has made little difference to him. He’s the kind of fatigued that can't be improved with an afternoon nap, and the kind of unwell that can't be fixed. Medicated, diminished, but never fully healed. He rolls his neck and makes three separate, unfortunate sounds, stretching his tight hands out flat over his thighs.

"Landing any minute now is my guess," Sirius answers. "How are you feeling?"

He waves his hand around, tired eyes locking onto James' lasting frown. "Sorry for leaving you alone with him."

Sirius gasps his indignation. The three of them all smile in tandem, James in a rush to add to the joke.

"You should be, fucker, I don't care how sick you are. You're sick in the mind if you think it's acceptable to-"

"You're sick for acting like I'm some misbehaved child you've been pandering to. You're bullies, and as soon as we're in the airport I'm ditching you both in favour of a Great British Burger King."

"One," James says, still smiling widely, "I have your per diem, so unless you brought your wallet, you're sunk." Sirius frowns. "Two, I'd love it if you would repeat that little moniker you gave me a minute before he woke up. Seriously. Shed some light on the real bully."

Sirius pulls his sunglasses from his jacket pocket and places them over the bridge of his nose delicately. "Unnecessary."

"I wouldn't mind Burger King," Remus says.

"We have to be quick," James says.

Sirius is so incensed he actually spits a bit as he scathes, "You fuckers. I want food and it's lorded over my head, but Moons wants something and your only limitation is how fast he can eat it?"

He's not truly as angry as he appears. He's joking, and he's fallen into a familiarity that can only come with years of ragging on one another relentlessly. Still Remus pats his tight shoulder and smiles.

"I'm a slow chewer."

"He's a slow chewer, Sirius. Have some compassion."

“How fast could he chew missing a few teeth, I wonder?” Sirius asks.

James gasps, delighted at his friend's casual threat. Remus does a better job at hiding his amusement, tamping back a smile as he reaches over the armrest between their seats and slapping a hand into Sirius’ seatbelt. The mechanism unlatches, the ‘Fasten Your Seatbelts’ sign flashes, and a shaming beeping sound rings overhead.

Sirius squeaks.

—

What do you wear to meet a British ambassador? A Genovian ambassador? Any sort of diplomat? You aren't too sure what an ambassador even is, only that every word Lily Evans has said to you sounds shockingly official.

"Your citizenship has been reinstated whether you choose to move forward or not. We want to stress that you have choices," Lily says. Call me Lily, please. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"We also want to stress," says Emmeline, the Genovian ambassador, "that your presence in Genovia is greatly desired. For the funeral."

"The funeral," you say softly.

"It will be a… very, very big event. We don't have to talk about all of the logistics now. Or ever, if you're not interested."

Emmeline clears her throat. "The family would appreciate it."

The family. The royal family. The Queen of Genovia, your grandmother, and her… unfortunate younger sister, who's behaviour (according to the Internet) has been less than ideal. Her sisters son, who might take the throne if you refuse it. Or, so you've come to understand.

All this lineage and politics has been hard to navigate by yourself, though rest assured, you've been assigned two personal assistants of a sort. One for appearances of the physical, and one for appearances of the mind.

A stylist and a tutor.

"And a bodyguard," Lily says, "your safety is the most important thing."

You grip the end of your dress in your hands and squeeze the skirts tightly. Safety? You'd rather not embarrass yourself by asking.

"We actually want you to meet them now," Emmeline says.

"Whenever they show up," Lily adds. She sounds embarrassed but unsurprised, like this has happened before.

There's a small silence. You pull your bag into your lap and squeeze it, hoping it hides the curve of your stomach. You aren't sure what you're supposed to wear to occasions like this, and so you'd worn the nicest thing you owned, a pretty, simplistic dress ruched under the chest, and a cardigan overtop.

You catch yourself frowning and quirk your lips up into a practised smile. Gentle, amicable, the kind you'd offer a passing stranger.

"Well," Lily says, filling the awkwardness, "I'm sure they'll come around soon. Maybe we should talk about inheritance."

"Legally, you're entitled to an inheritance. You could think of it like a pension, an allowance you'd be given from the age of eighteen. You've already passed that, and so you'll be given the years upto, and then the rest in annual increments," Emmeline says. "There's a team of people who can and will explain it better at a later date, or whenever you want to discuss it, once you've agreed to a paternity test."

"A paternity test?" you ask.

You feel rather useless. All you've done is ask for explanations since you sat down, your head a spinning mill. Information goes around and around with no time to sink in.

Emmeline opens her mouth to continue and is interrupted by three sharp knocks.

"Come in," Lily calls. She turns her gaze to you, orange hair moving over her shoulder in a silken sheet, and raises her eyebrows.

You don't know what it means.

First to enter the room is a modestly dressed man with straight, sandy hair. It's long enough to peek out from under his ears, where it curls. He steps into the light, illuminating a shock of shiny scars clawed over the bridge of his nose and teasing up into one thick eyebrow.

"Sorry," he says, not quietly but certainly not loudly. "We had trouble finding the room."

Behind him immediately stands a man with dark hair to his shoulders, white but tanned. He wears slacks, in which a shirt has been tucked on one side and not the other, a purposeful dishevelment.

"And the building," adds the second.

Last to enter is the biggest of the three. You'd hazard a guess that he's six foot or taller, not the tallest of his companions but the most imposing, with a monotone outfit of pristine blacks that he fills too well, his shirt clinging to the muscle underneath it. His skin is a warm brown that soaks up the big light overhead and shines golden, his hair black and thick, laying in mussed ringlets stroked back from his face.

He is the most handsome person you've ever seen in real life. It startles you. Worse, when he meets your eyes.

You smile carefully. He smiles back.

Lily stands to gesture toward each man in turn. The first, "Remus Lupin," she says, "your tutor on all things Genovia." The second, "Sirius Black, stylist and your guide on media presence."

The third.

"James Potter," Lily says, not looking at him. "Bodyguard. James will be with you for the foreseeable future, even if you decide on– Well. You should get to know one another, at any rate." You must wear your worries on your face, as she continues, "You're in safe hands. James was third in command in the protection of His Highness."

"Hello," you say.

Sirius' eyes widen in tandem with his smile. "Hello."

"It's nice to meet you. We're sorry for your loss," Remus says.

"No," you say, head tilted toward your shoulder as you frown at James sympathetically, "I should be sorry, you actually knew him. I can't imagine how this feels for you."

"Thank you. But don't be," James says. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Princess."

You look to Emmeline, almost like you're waiting for her to correct him.

She smiles at you hopefully. "Shall we talk arrangements for your departure?"

—

James is trying not to look at you too much, though if he is he can write it off as purely protective. You're sitting in your seat like you're worried about touching a seat mate who doesn't exist, arms wrapped around your middle and face pointed to the floor.

"I'll rent a car," he says.

You curl into yourself a little more. "What for?"

"It's much safer."

"I don't want you to– I mean, you aren't a chauffer."

"I'm not." He bends at the knees to speak directly to you. "There are seven other people on this bus. One is elderly. Three are younger than sixteen. All seven could potentially harm you."

You look to the left without turning your head, toward the sound of young laughter. He'd bet money on your thoughts. Even the children?

"The driver could have an aneurysm. He could be paid off. He could be carrying a concealed weapon." James smiles at you placatingly. "Understand? If I drive, the potential danger goes down to one."

"Me?"

"No. Me." He tries very hard not to wink and look like a dickhead. "But I'm not going to hurt you. Not really my perogative."

"Oh, good."

James recall what Lily had said, rightfully. You and James will be in each other's company for the foreseeable future, and while he has a job to do, there's room for friendliness. Sort of.

He splits his attention between you and the front of the bus, where a small family carts a pushchair.

"What do you do?" he asks.

He knows you attend classes for a degree equivalent at your local college. He knows you're a waitress. He knows you moved to central London when you were very young, and that your estranged mother had been the cause of all this confusion. He asks you because he wants to know how you'll frame it. In your own eyes, what is your life?

"I'm a waitress."

He nods. "Local?"

"Mm. At a pub called The Morgan."

"You have a shift today?"

"Not today. I took the day off." You stand up and click the STOP call button on the rail James is holding. Your arm brushes against his. "It's this stop."

James trails behind you, off of the bus and straight into a busy street.

"How far is it to your house?" he asks, loud to be heard over the hubbub and the roadworks.

"Not long. Are you okay to walk?"

James finds himself oddly charmed by your question. "I'm just fine."

You squeeze through the crowded pavements lining the street, folded in, keeping your arms close, and you apologise every time you touch someone, even if it's the other person's fault. James keeps close to your back, moving to your side when he worries you might sprain your neck trying to check that you're following. He had some height on you, which is a good thing for security purposes — he can see uninterrupted over the top of your head when he stands this close.

The day is cool, the last dregs of an end of summer heat lingering in the air and encouraged by so many bodies in one place. James wonders if you're too warm, dressed as you are in tights, but the thought fades when you trip.

James grabs the top of your arm, fingers sliding between your arm and your chest. Closer than he wants to be, crueller than he means to be as he keeps you steady.

To his surprise, you laugh. A really nice sound, sudden but sweet.

"Sorry, Princess," he says.

"You saved me," you say, a hint of breathlessness in your tone. "Thank you. My flat's in the next building over."

"Brilliant." His bag is fucking heavy, a weight between his shoulders that aches when he lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as it sets. You've got a long, long night ahead of doing nothing. "What's your address?"

You tell it to him. "Why?"

"For the rest of your security detail."

He slows as you come to the main door of your building. It's quieter here, the loudest sounds a symphony of barking dogs, car engines revving, and the jangle of your keys as you unlock the door and bump it with your hip.

"More people?" you ask. "Is that really necessary?"

"You always do that?"

"It gets stuck," you explain.

He hums. "It's necessary. The media's been paid handsomely to keep our operation to themselves for now, but there's always pressure to be the first to break a story."

"And I'm the story?" you ask, nodding toward the stairs in the centre of the room.

He steps over a bundle of scattered letters. The building is mostly clean, but mail bulges from cubbies, and an old mattress has been left propped against a wall.

"You're the story," he says, head up to analyse the atrium. There's a skylight spotted with green moss above.

You take the stairs up to the first floor, where your flat is the first he comes across. That increases your risk of a break in, rapists or robbers. He asks you to wait at the door while he clears each room, knowing it's an unecessary precaution but taking it anyway. It's not worth saving the half a minute it costs on the off-chance you've been infiltrated.

He snorts at his own train of thought and returns to you, where you're sliding a special locking mechanism between the door latch and the frame. You shake the lock.

"Did you get that recently?"

You look up at him and smile. "Since I moved in. I'm first on the floor. Don't want to get murdered in my sleep."

"Good girl," he says absentmindedly, crossing the room to secure your window.

He moves into your room again and secures the larger window over your bed. Then, because he's awful and curious, he catalogues your things.

"You're an artist," he says, head listed toward the doorway.

You stop by the dresser, hastily stuffing clothes left aside back into the top drawer. "Not– not really."

The room is a crammed collection of things. It's clear you've attempted to keep it clean. You were doomed to fail, an outpouring of your heart stuffed into a matchbox; books, sketchbooks, notebooks are stacked against the leftmost wall between your bed and your dresser, while paints and pencils take up two thirds of your desk. A small sketchbook rests closed in the mess of your unmade bed, dark bed sheets disrupted by a pair of white pyjamas discarded at the end. Soot or something similar stains the fabric.

He averts his gaze from your dirty hamper and faces you.

"At 8PM, one of my team will swap duty with me. His name is Frank, and I've worked with him before, but if you aren't comfortable with anything he does while I'm not working, you can tell me. If I do something that makes you uncomfortable, you can tell Lily. You can tell me, of course," he amends. "I can take the couch."

"You sleep at eight?"

"I sleep at nine."

"You don't mind sleeping on the couch?"

"Not at all."

You walk to your dresser and pull open the bottom drawer. Inside is a layer of linens, and you pull them out neatly.

"You don't have to, uh, put on a show for me," you say with a wince.

"Sorry?"

"I'm not a princess. I'm not the princess."

"You don't think so?"

You look sweet, kneeling on the floor, hair in pretty disarray from the walk home. You move it out of your face and offer a folded square to him with both hands.

"It's a misunderstanding. But…" You take a pillowcase into your hand and stand up, closing the drawer with your ankle. "Even if I were, I don't think you need to be so formal, you know?"

You move past him, a wave of nice smells.

"It's my job."

Again, you surprise him by laughing, climbing on top of your unmade sheets to grab one of your pillows. "Right," you say, stripping it of its pillowcase and shaking it into a new one. The tip of your tongue makes a brief appearance as you plump up the corners.

You climb off of the bed. "Here," you say, taking the sheet he's holding to press the pillow into his hands.

"Oh," he says, looking down at the pillowcase. It's covered in small pink flowers. "I don't need this."

"My settee isn't comfortable."

"Half of my job is being able to sleep anywhere."

You smile at him. His words don't discourage you, and he stands in the doorway between your bedroom and your living room as you lay down an old quilt over the settee and tuck a sheet around it and under the sofa cushions.

"I know it's strange, but you could take my bed, if you wanted to. You're so tall, I don't think-"

James cuts you off, not unkindly. "Thank you, but I couldn't." He lets the side of his chest rest against the doorway, arms crossed. Your back is straight, tense with anxiety. "I have something for you."

You blink at him. "For me?"

He grins, his first proper smile all day, and pulls his bag onto the freshly made settee to unzip the front compartment. He pulls out a small jewellery box, pulling the lid off to hold between his arm and chest.

The tennis bracelet inside is thin but strong, made up of gold-silver links with sapphire-coloured gemstone. He assumes them to be real sapphire or something similar, like blue-hued ruby.

"This is a panic button."

You seem more anxious than when he'd pulled out the box.

"Don't worry about losing it. I'm sure the Genovian coffers will recover."

"It's not that. Do you think it will fit?" you ask.

He hadn't thought about it. Luckily, Mary had.

"There are spare links hidden under the velvet."

James puts the box on your coffee table and clicks the links into place, handling the bracelet with less care than he ought to. Firmly snapped into place, he offers the lengthened bracelet to you unlatched.

"Here," he says, pointing toward one link in particular. "If you squeeze this tightly, the heat sensor will alert me."

"It won't feel the heat of my wrist?"

"It will. It's sophisticated, it'll disregard anything that isn't a sudden spike. That's your panic button. You squeeze that–" He pinches it in demonstration. The small radio clipped discreetly to his shoulder starts to beep, a circling alarm. He removes his fingers from the bracelet and it stops. "Okay?"

"I haven't even passed the paternity test yet."

"My being here indicates that you're of special interest. We don't know if you're the Princess for certain, and neither do the newspapers. You're still in danger either way."

You press your lips together and hold out your wrist.

James steps close to you, enough to see details and lines he's missed. The longer he stays in your company, the more endeared he is to your shy smile, and your kindness, and he thinks you're the type of person who's outsides reflect the insides. You smile.

Either side of your wrist glows with heat as he drapes the bracelet over your skin and clicks it closed, wary of pinching you.

The room is quiet. The clock over your small kitchen table ticks.

"There," James murmurs, taking back his hands.

"Thank you."

He disregards it completely. "No worries."

His informality gets you, and you smile, your own first and proper smile since you'd been introduced.

By the time Frank arrives for turnover, James is confident that his assignment to your protection won't be nearly as awful as he'd thought. You'd insisted on making him something to eat, which he'd been sincerely grateful for, as a man can't run on Burger King alone, and then you'd practically showered him in an awkward but entirely genuine hospitality, offering your bathroom and all its contents, every blanket you owned, the TV remote, and a tin of biscuits.

He introduces you to Frank, and for an hour you make yourself busy in the kitchen, cleaning dishes you'd refused his help with and wiping down the counters.

He senses your unease at being outnumbered in your own home. Unfortunately, there isn't much he can do to make you feel better, besides appoint Frank to door duty and try to offer some words of comfort.

James tries not to look as imposing as he feels, clearing his throat to draw your attention as you leave the kitchenette.

"Listen," he says softly, a mirror of you now that you're both changed into lounge clothes and damp-haired from the shower, "I want to reassure you— I'm here to protect you from any and every threat. I know this is unconventional, but I promise to do my best to make this easy for you."

You look down at your trainer socks. "Sorry."

"Can you do me a favour?"

"Yeah, of course," you say, raising your chin.

"No more apologies. This is hard, and I know that, you don't have to say sorry for anything. I'll promise you whatever you need me to if that will make you feel more comfortable."

Princess or no princess, you're confused, and you're unhappy in your own home. James wouldn't want that for anybody.

"Do you think someone's going to kill me?" you ask.

James softens. "No. Nobody is going to kill you." His smile melds slowly to mischief, dark lashes kissing in the corners of his eyes as he squints. "I'm a brilliant bodyguard, okay? Don't doubt my skills. And Frank's alright."

You laugh under your breath, relieved. "I'm not doubting your skills."

"Good. I'm not just a pretty face, Princess."

You sober at the title. The flicker of camaraderie between you fizzles, and you shake it off.

"Can I get you anything?" you ask.

He hopes that in a month, or a year, when you're living the high life in Genovia with a hundred serfs and lavish goods beyond your wildest dreams, you'll keep your earnest smile, and your good heart. He's seen exactly what court politics can do to timid young women like you.

"No," he says, matching your volume, "nothing."

"Okay. You can wake me if you need anything."

He absolutely won't. "Thank you... Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

You disappear behind your bedroom door. James lays down over the small sofa, alarm set for a dry-eyed 4:30AM, and listens to your flat as it cools. You close the blinds, sharpen a pencil, and for a period of time, he's lulled by the mild shushing of a pencil over paper.

He falls asleep. He must. A silence settles, thick and uninterrupted as poured molasses.

A splintering crash pulls him back to consciousness, and every nerve-ending sings as a weight falls to the floor. A thump sounds from behind your closed door. James practically leaps over the settee's arm to your door, Frank hot on his heels.

He throws open the door, braced for impact.

You aren't anywhere to be seen.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

thanks for reading!! i hope you enjoyed this first part, and if you did and you have the time please consider reblogging, it makes a difference! plus i'd love to know what u think or what you'd love to see in future<3

the fics title is adapted from a line in piedra del sol by octavio paz

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