Hi love your work. I was wondering if you could do a role reversal of the bombshell!reader under anesthesia? One where Aaron woke up and has forgotten he's married to reader so is shocked at her affection (not in a bad way), he just can't believe this beautiful woman is flirting with snd comforting him?
thank you for requesting! fem
Aaron is woken by a soft, displeased hum.
He pries sticky eyes apart to peek at the source, a woman his junior with a tray table wheeled in front of her. You have neat hands, clipped nails painted softest pink, a ring on your marriage finger, and a little pearl necklace that’s fallen free of your collar to swing as you pen a letter. No, not a letter. A case file.
You’re a police officer?
He turns the other way, hoping for a more familiar face, but the only inhabitants of the room are you, him, and his pounding headache. A groan slips past his lips unbidden, Aaron watching in real time as you look up like he’s shocked you. You turn sympathetic and softer, somehow, your face plucking a weird string in his chest. It’s almost like deja vu, but Aaron would remember being looked at like this.
“You okay?” you ask quietly.
He clears his throat. “What happened?” he asks hoarsely. Clearing his throat a second time proves more successful. “What happened?”
“You were struck hard in the back of the head with a rifle. A few times, actually. Luckily nothing broke, but you have a cut and a bruise like nobody’s business. Try not to touch.”
“What about the team?”
He realises with a start that he can’t remember who he means. Were the team actually with him? Dave had been there, right? Derek?
“Reid sprained his wrist. Everyone else is fine.”
Reid, you said, and not Dr. Reid. Aaron frowns deeply, the headache a full, eye-deep pain that worsens when he props himself up on his elbows.
You watch him carefully. After a moment, you push the table away from you and get up, turning to sit on his bed. He doesn’t let his eyes widen, not even as you place your hand on his stomach, imploring in your gentleness, leaning in to see him better. In that moment, you might be the most beautiful woman Aaron has ever seen; his heart does a great whirl, picking up its pace. He has just enough capacity to recognise how lucky he is to be detached from any observational tech.
“What’s worrying you, Aaron?” you ask, thumb rubbing a line into the skin just below his stomach. A butterfly like a hawk beats behind your touch. “You have that strange pinch between your eyebrows.” You draw a line up his stomach, showing him how they’re pulled up. He must look near tears as you go. “You only get that when you’re scared, but everyone’s fine, I promise.”
He must know you. You clearly know him, your tone alone settling his heart while his mind races.
“You won’t be out of the field long, and you know I can do it for you while you’re gone. I’m capable,” you say.
“You are,” he says. He’s telling the truth, though he doesn’t know how.
You shuffle further up the bed. Aaron sits properly, forcing your hand to fall. You clasp his thigh on instinct, and that tumultuous zing of deja vu washes over him again.
“You have the worst luck, handsome,” you murmur, rubbing at his leg, soothing him without thinking.
“I…” He trails off as he catches sight of your wedding band. Silver-gold, a pear-shaped 3.00ct diamond. He chose it on a whim. Aaron nearly swallows his own tongue as he looks up, the memory of it not quite connecting to you. You.
“What?” you ask.
“You’re being so quiet,” he asks.
“Well, you gave me a bad scare,” you say, leaning in further, unafraid to breathe his air. “I thought I lost you. It was terrifying.”
The breathlessness in your confession is a barb. He grabs your hand where it lays and squeezes accordingly. “That won’t happen,” he promises.
You turn your hand into his, slotting your fingers together deftly. “Do you remember me now, Hotchner?” you ask.
He looks you straight in the eye. He doesn’t remember you, not really. But he remembers the size of your fingers threaded through his, and he remembers how nervous he’d tried not to be when he bought that ring, and he remembers your hand warming his thigh in the car every morning.
“Almost,” he says. His breath catches. “You’re beautiful,” he says.
“You said something similar the first time you woke up. I blamed the morphine for your puppy-eyes, but…” You smile at him fondly. “I don’t think you’re drugged enough to say it and not mean it, now.”
“I mean it,” he says, nodding. “Of course I mean it.”
“I know.” You kiss his cheek.
“Will you tell me your name?” he asks.
You do, and Aaron falls in love with you all over again.
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, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
Julianna is a real princess. As the niece of the Queen, her title is official. She’s been a princess all her life, and it’s a detail you can’t miss.
James’ hand is hot but amicable against your shoulder blade. He hasn’t stepped away from you since Julianna arrived, though what threat she poses has yet to be seen. She doesn’t seem particularly volatile. You can’t imagine her in all her dewy skin and fine clothing lifting a finger, let alone her fist.
“Mama says you’re an artist,” she drawls.
“Not really.” How her mother knows anything about you is a mystery. “It’s a hobby, is all.”
“And you didn’t finish university?”
“No.” You don’t owe her anything. You know you don’t. But it’s not just her you want to defend yourself to, not when Remus is sitting by the window of the parlour and James is close enough to hear your heartbeat. “I tried to, obviously, but I couldn’t, uh, afford to not work.”
“Ah.”
You don’t expect her to understand it. You know most people don't. Studying and working, the majority can handle both. You’d been ashamed of yourself for failing, but you’d come to the realisation that it was sink or swim. You could sink —hate yourself for being a little more fragile than others, for needing more time, more space, more accommodation— or you could swim. Accept your ‘shortcomings’. Make the most of what you have.
Find yourself in a foreign country surrounded by the highly educated and the ridiculously wealthy. People who might never comprehend why you’ve struggled, or how.
In that moment, you decide to treat this heart-wrenching trip as nothing more than a holiday. James is nice to you. The food is free and apparently plentiful. The grounds…
Fuck, the grounds. The scenery. The royals aren’t currently living in their most famous residence, Loswell Castle, but are instead mourning the Prince at the more private and more subtle Bellaverden House. Subtle, yet gorgeous. The grass is green and stretches as far as the eye can see in all directions, broken up only by the silhouette of the alps to the east and the shimmering Lake Orlo to the west. The palace itself is nothing like you’d expected, and so far from the capital city of Genovia it is no surprise to find that the royals let their personal tastes bleed into every corner. It’s tasteful, silent wealth, no crystal chandeliers hanging from the eaves but instead a Rembrandt in the hallway. No solid gold cutlery, but instead Noritake porcelain tea cups and their matching exorbitant saucers.
“Loswell is the gaudier of the two houses,” James had said, evidently pleased by your wide-eyed surprise.
A nice boy who’s being paid to spend time with you and his funny friends. All you have to do is survive the paparazzi (check!) and your suspicious possible relatives (less so).
Any hour now, the paternity test will come up negative and they’ll be shepherding you home in search of the actual princess, wherever she may be.
If she exists at all.
“You haven’t eaten anything today,” James says softly, for your ears only. “Should we go down to the kitchens?”
It’s hard to describe the true and daunting scale of the palace, but James’ use of ‘kitchens’ rather than ‘kitchen’ sums it up nicely.
Julianna rolls her shoulders, reaching for a black telephone on the side table. “No need. We’ll have it brought up. What do you like? They have yards of fresh pasta prepared by now. Doesn’t matter, I’ll ask for some of everything.”
“Oh, no,” you say, stepping out of James' reach. “I don’t want to be an imposition while I’m here.”
“That ship has sailed,” she says neatly.
Ouch. You look back to James without intending to, an automatic movement. He’s become your safety net too quickly. His job is to protect you from harm, not your catty maybe-cousin’s mild disdain.
“Sit,” Julianna says. “James, you can take up station in the hallway. Go on.”
Her voice possesses all the snobbish airiness you’d expect it to. She’s regal, elegant, and rude. James’ hand stretches toward yours, but your skin never touches. You think it might be his silent way of saying he won’t be far.
He gives you a reassuring look, not quite smiling. “If you need me,” he says.
“Tutor,” Julianna adds once James is at the door, “you can leave us.”
“Remus, please.” You smile at Julianna appealingly, piping up before she can steal your last lifeline. “I need him to tell me what silverware to use. If I have any hope of catching up, I’ll have to start learning about proper etiquette straight away.”
You look to your tutor to make sure he’s on board. Remus gestures for you to sit and crosses the hardwood floors between you, his soft shoes barely making a sound. Julianna sniffs, your suggestion agreeable but tiresome for her, and pulls the telephone receiver to her ear.
Remus settles into the chair next to yours at the table.
“Don’t worry. We won’t leave you for wolves,” he says.
You’re grateful. You nod to the book in his hands. “What are you reading?”
He turns the book around. A Comprehensive History of Contemporary Genovia.
“I’ve never had to educate someone who didn’t already know a very specific, very intricate history of our country,” he says in his rough voice, the barest hints of his accent peaking through. He says our country like you already belong as he does, not native but citizen anyhow. “Honestly, I provide supplementary education for the well-educated, I… I’m like a second chance for rich slackers. You’re neither, and so I’m unsure how I can make this easy on you.”
You admire his thinking. You’ve been lucky to find yourself in the care of people who put your comfort first. Remus, James, Sirius, even the ambassadors of the country, and the matron you’d been introduced to upon your arrival here, they’ve all been so conscientious.
But it won’t matter.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says.
“You do?”
“You’ve made it clear how much faith you have in the current situation. I believe…” that you’re who we suspect you are, you think he might say, but he parts his legs to bump his knee into yours. “I believe we’re going to be good friends.”
That is… “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
He nods.
“So, what’s with the bruise?” Julianna asks abruptly. “And the bad makeup. Mean boyfriend back home?”
Her cavalier attitude rubs you the wrong way immediately. “I was a little too close to the door when someone opened it.”
“Ah.”
Again with the Ah. Extra syllables must be at cost.
Positivity, you remind yourself. This is a vacation. This inane and insane need to constantly prove yourself to the people around you is going to make you crazy, especially when all of this is temporary. Who cares what princess Julianna thinks of you now when, in a day or two, she’ll remember you as nothing more than the girl who they brought by mistake? And wouldn’t it be nice to just… not care? Who cares what Julianna thinks.
You stand and walk to the door where James is standing, because calling for him would make you feel like an entitled dick. He turns his head to you obligingly.
“Would you come back inside?” you ask. “The painting is giving me the heebies.”
“That’s a portrait of your great great grandmother.”
“She’s scary.”
He claps your shoulder, giving it a tender squeeze. “If the test comes out negative, princess, I’ll happily commit royal espionage for you and fix the results.”
“That is not a joke you should make,” Remus calls mildly.
“Probably not. I’ve made it now. Sit down, princess, the food’s arriving.”
The food they bring up to you is incredible. Genovian cuisine is actually mostly stolen from the Italians, and how fortunate you are for that. You have no clue where to start, surrounded by rich smells of broth and stewed vegetables, the spritely aroma of white wine and tomatoes so fresh their roasted skins split under the gentle bottom of your spoon.
James refuses to eat with you, as he’s on the clock, but Remus sits down at the table as promised to guide you through the fascinatingly awful etiquette of a new royal.
“That’s Cioppino,” Remus says, pointing to a dark red stew bragging large pieces of crab, smaller chunks of a white meat you’re unsure of, and the distinct dark brackets of mussel shells. “It’s actually an Italian-American dish. It’s served with sourdough or french bread, but in our case, where you can’t necessarily use your hands, we’ll go without.”
“Well, there’s nobody here I need to impress, right?” you ask quietly.
You swear you can hear Julianna twitching.
He ignores your comment, but his voice is riddled with amusement when he says, “It’s more common for the crab to be served in its shell, but I don’t suppose they want the royals using crab forks and crackers." He points to a second bowl. “This, from the looks of it, is a variation of stufato di capra e fagioli, Italian for ‘stew of goat meat and beans’. Self explanatory. It’s very popular here in the winter, it’s,” —his voice drops to a lower register— “Sirius’ favourite. Shoulder meat, onions, carrots, celery, white wine and white beans. I don’t suppose I have to tell you what that is.” He nods to a heaping bowl of gnocchi coated in a green, buttery sauce, and its familiar wingman — fettuccine alfredo.
“Now there’s one I know,” you say with a smile.
“I think they’ve gone easy on you,” Remus says. “Given you something they knew would be familiar. The head cooks, Marl and Marsha, hardly ever serve fettuccine without ragù di pollo. Chicken ragù. It’s a sacrament in Marlene’s eyes to separate the two.”
He moves so easily from English to Italian. You wonder if he speaks Genovian. Is there a Genovian language? You’re too embarrassed to ask, and instead pile some unadventurous fettuccine into your bowl.
Julianna picks up the telephone again and you let yourself relax as her conversation begins. She picks at her food and talks in Italian down the line, staring straight at you as she says the word, ‘principessa’. You don’t have to be a linguistics expert to know she’s talking about you. Eventually, her attention fades. Remus relaxes with you.
“This spoon,” he corrects, before opening his book and sagging into his seat.
You're famished, but now all this rich food is making you feel sick. You pick at your fettuccine alfredo and a little of the cioppino. Weirdly, you miss the ordinary smells of your kitchen. You think you might prefer a white bread sandwich and a packet of crisps.
A figure moves behind you, James shadow shifting to cover your hands. “Unladylike it might be,” he says, “but you’ll regret it if you don’t try the bread, princess. Freshly baked, pretty much soaked in pesto, it’s what us peasant folk fight over at the end of a shift.”
You hold your hand to a beautiful sliced baguette, “This one?”
“That’s the one.”
You pull the bread apart and enter a stodgy, olive oily sort of heaven. The only thing better than how it tastes is James' happy sound when you set aside a huge slice in a napkin and usher it behind your back, as inconspicuous as you can possibly be about it. He has no choice but to take it. You don’t look, but a telltale crunch comes quickly and poorly smothered.
Julianna excuses herself, and a maid, maybe, comes to take her plates and dirtied cutler on a silver cart. You lean toward Remus with a hand over your mouth. “What do you call them? The ladies in uniform.”
“Princess, you could call them whatever you wanted to,” James butts in. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and sits in one of the chairs facing the door and windows. He’s always on the alert.
“But what’s nicest? I don’t want to be offensive.”
“You’ll learn their names in time,” Remus says easily. “You’ll be fine. Officially, they’re ‘attendants’. Maids, cleaners. Oh, you’ll have a lady in waiting–”
“A what?”
“A personal assistant,” James says.
Your face heats up like an instant flush, all hot pinpricks and embarrassment, “No,” you beg, standing up, “please, that would be entirely unnecessary, it’s not like I’m some sort of–”
“Princess!” A familiar voice shouts. Sirius has weaselled inside the door and closed it tight, his back pressed against it for a moment like he’s keeping someone out. He wears an exuberant smile and a brilliant dark ensemble with fine pinstripes that mess with your eyes as he approaches. He’s practically running. “I’ve spoken to Delilah who’s spoken to Bella who’s spoken to Lily who’s been in contact with the legal team in charge of Y/N’s care here in Genovia, and they’ve heard from the medical team who have been fighting tooth and nail to be put in talks with you,” —he looks at you now, and there’s something about his expression, part wide-eyed awe, part sympathy, that freezes you to the spot— “because it’s technically your care, and–”
“Sirius, mate, just put her out of her misery,” James says. He’s looking at you in a different way. Like he’s waiting for you to fall over.
“Your father,” Sirius says, promptly deciding to start again. “The paternity test came out positive. Your DNA is a match for the Prince, may he rest in peace. You’re a princess. You’re the princess, by blood. You’re a Thermopolis.”
There’s a stretching silence. You wrap your hand around the back of your chair and stare at the velvet upholstery of the seat.
“Terrible last name,” he adds sympathetically.
You don’t want to be the girl who faints. That would be ridiculous, to fall over and crack your head. So, though you hate to ask for anything, you mumble, “James?”
He wraps a shapely arm behind your back and under your armpit before you lose the feeling in your legs.
“I think I need to sit down again,” you say.
“Reckon you do," he agrees, as he pulls the chair out with his foot and arranges you in it efficiently, the tip of his thumb pushed into the pulse point on your neck. “We’ll get you something cold, princess. You can breathe.” He gives you a little shake, hand spreading wider as it drags down your collar. The pressure is like the safety release of a suction cup. You take in a huge breath. “Breathe. There’s a good girl.”
“I’m fine," you say meekly.
“It’s alright,” he says, with his impossible softness. He’s unafraid to be kind, even when there are people watching.
“I’m fine. I–” You can’t finish your sentence. You’d wanted to say you’ll be okay. That this is just some melodramatic episode, but it isn’t. This is a human reaction to unbelievable news. Because you’re a– you’re a princess.
You cover your face with both hands and curl in toward your thighs. Silence pervades, your ears abuzz with white noise. You aren’t sure how long you sit there paralysed, but soon James’ gentle murmuring and shushing cuts through the ringing. “It’s alright,” he’s saying, his hand at your elbow, “I swear, it’s alright. You take as long as you need.”
“Mickey’s at the door,” Sirius says.
“Good. Tell him to radio in a level two security detail and stay by the door. Who else knows, Sirius?”
“By now? Everybody in the castle. Including government officials.”
“And you’re sure?”
Sure said severely.
“Of course I am.”
You’re trying very hard to keep your pasta down. This can’t be happening. It can’t be right. Their test is wrong. They swabbed the inside of your mouth wrong, or got it mixed up with some other person test, or the doctors are lying. Not once in your whole life has there ever been any indication that you are more than the nothing you’ve always been. All your worst insecurities rip to the surface. Not me. Not me.
“Level two isn’t as bad as it sounds,” James says gently. He’s been talking to you again. “All it means is that I’m not at full attention, and I need someone else to watch the room. That’s all it is.”
“I’m not,” you say.
“You’re okay.”
“I’m not a princess,” you say, peeking at him through your parted fingers.
His hand curves around your arm. He pulls it toward him. Encouraging rather than demanding. You let him.
“Whatever it is that you are,” he says, meeting your eyes, “I’m here to take care of you. Okay? Try to calm down for me.” He nods, hoping you’ll nod back no doubt. You worry at your lip, your teeth scratching delicate skin.
“Sorry,” you say.
“No one’s expecting you to feel a certain way right now,” Sirius says. The urgency in his expression has departed completely. He has an air of regret about him now, an uncomfortable set to his jaw.
It’s not just James in the room witnessing your wobble. You cover your face again and try to become one with the furniture.
James stands off of his knees, having seemingly decided that you aren’t in any mental peril. He stays hovering behind your chair. You think you might’ve found them all at a loss for what to do.
The door opens. You imagine a nightmare, Julianna coming to play nice, but it’s the British ambassador Lily once again. She looks as perfect as she did when you saw her last with an immaculately straightened sheet of hair fluttering behind her, her steps hurried. Despite her speed, she doesn’t look unhappy. She’s smiling. Genovian ambassador (in particular, the ambassador that facilitated your movements between the two countries and the establishment of your dual citizenship status) Emmaline follows behind her.
You try to straighten up.
“We have wonderful news,” Lily says.
“You’re the princess!” Emmaline squeaks, her tiny stature no bounds for her excitement. “Welcome home!”
She begins clapping. It slows when nobody joins in.
“What?” she asks cluelessly. “Has something bad happened?”
That’s what you’re trying to work out.
—
James can hear you sniffling.
He rests his shoulders against the wall by your bedroom door and sighs. You'd held it together for hours now after the announcement, but Sirius' last amendment had toppled you over.
You have to meet your grandmother tomorrow to begin preparing for your father's funeral.
James thinks you might have reached your breaking point. He can't imagine the grief of losing a father you didn't know you had, and the stress of being pulled out of your life so suddenly, carted across Europe and left under the judgemental eyes of royals and officials with little direction. Now that the paternity test has been conclusively positive and checked by many, many professionals, your confirmed identity should hopefully provide a more stable schedule. From James perspective, the days ahead will be easy. For you, they are going to be very, very hard.
You'll meet the Queen tomorrow at breakfast. The plans for your permanent residency in Genovia will be decided. Your entire life is about to change, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
Well… James doesn't really want you to stop it, but it's not entirely true that you can't. You could reject your heritage and go home to your flat, your art, your degree equivalent classes. Maybe you're crying because you're scared you don't have options.
James thinks about knocking on the door to talk to you. He meant it when he said he has a duty to all aspects of your health, the mental as well as the physical, but it's difficult to define the line between professionalism and being friendly. He's already crossed it.
He sighs and rubs his weary head. He's fucking tired. Today has been the longest day ever. You'd slept for an hour in the car from the airport to Bellaverden Castle, and James had watched you half jealous and half enraptured. He won't mind looking after you no matter how you look, but your being easy on the eyes is a brilliant plus. Well, when ignoring the huge bruise staining your cheek.
"Fuck," he says.
He hasn't been doing very well. Honestly, his failure to keep you from harm in your flat (even if the harm had been him) and then his screw up with the paparazzi…
He pulls out his pager. He should swap with one of the night guards now and he trusts them all, having picked them himself, but he wouldn't feel right walking away while you're crying.
He clicks in Remus' code and waits until he hears it back. It's shorthand between them. If he wasn't awake or didn't want to see him, Remus could've ignored James' page and there'd be no hard feelings. But he answered. Tonight, once James has made sure you're okay, he'll crawl into Remus' bed like when they were kids in a cold dormitory and missing home and sleep for a glorious eight hours. He might even tell Remus how stressed he is. He knows his friend will listen.
He'd invite Sirius, of course, (and that's assuming he isn't already there) but it's well past ten. Sirius is definitely asleep.
James hasn't had a proper night's sleep in a week. He feels poorly. He misses his mum. He's hungry. This job is great, he loves what he does; he gets paid to take care of people. It's also too much. It eats at him.
"Fuck," he says again.
"James?"
He flinches hard.
There it is, his third mistake. He's very lucky that the chief of royal security is busy making funeral arrangements, because if Mary were here she'd gut him.
You've crept up on him in his distraction and that is so fucking dangerous. How could he not notice your footsteps across the floor, or your door handle's heavy metallic thunking?
"Princess," he says, biting his tongue when you wince. He'll have to call you something else. "I'm sorry, I–" James squints at your sore eyes.
"It's okay. I just wanted to ask… are you alright?"
His shoulders hunch slightly. "Am I alright?"
You fluster. "I just heard you and I wanted to make sure you were doing okay. You sounded… stressy."
"You don't have to worry about me. That's my job." He frowns at the remnants of your tear stains, dampness shining at the corners of your eyes and your lashes sticking together in darkened triangles. "I was just about to come and see you, actually. I know today's been hard, and I know I haven't helped you. I'm so sorry, again, for your cheek. And at the airport, I know the scuffle with that photographer didn't help your nerves. I know," he stresses, "this is hard. I swear things will be smoother from now on. You have my word."
You rub your elbow wordlessly. He's about to backtrack, or perhaps dig himself a bigger hole, but you look up at him and give him one of the softest smiles anyone's ever given him in all his years.
"It's forgiven. Believe me, James, this is the least of my worries," you say, gesturing to your cheek. It only takes a second for shame to stick its hooks in you, yanking your gaze to the floor. You're wearing an expression he's seen a thousand times on the people closest to him.
He flicks you under the chin gently.
"Things are gonna get easier. I swear it," he says.
You plaster a smile on. James figures he can push it some more and wipes the smudgy shine of old tears off your cheek.
"There. Looking good, angel."
Definitely unprofessional. He keeps getting this weird feeling like you're his friend and not his charge. It's fleeting and it's making him stupid. This and the sleep deprivation. He swears to himself he'll be better tomorrow.
You bid him goodnight. He listens to your night time motions until another guard comes to release him from duty. James rushes to his room for a shower and a cereal bar, giving his teeth a half-hearted brush before setting off for Remus' room halfway across the castle. Remus and the other scarcely employed scholars don't have to sleep in the servants' quarters like he and Sirius do. Schmuck.
He finds the door unlatched. Mercifully, James decides to spare them both the safety related lecture. He tries to be as quiet as he can, but a head of sandy brown hair turns his way.
"James?" Remus asks, his voice thick with fatigue.
"Sorry. You can go back to sleep."
"I was waiting for you. Drifted off."
James scrubs a hand through his damp hair and knocks off the light. He can find his way in the dark.
"Sirius isn't here?"
"James…"
"What, are we still pretending?"
"James."
"I'm sorry. Forgive me, Moony."
"Yeah. Don't lean on my left side. I'll move over."
"What's wrong with your left side?"
"I don't know. Maybe from carrying the bags. Maybe not."
James slides into the warm space Remus has made for him and tries not to go into overprotective mode. Loving someone who's constantly in pain can be confusing. You don't know how much love you're allowed to give before it starts to look patronising.
Remus can take care of himself, but he doesn't need to.
"Anything I can do?" James whispers.
"Tell me what's bothering you."
"Oh, you know… Everything. Nothing. I'm so happy we're all together again, I mean, what are the fucking odds? How long has it been since I could come and see you guys after work without making an appointment? And I didn't love the Prince, but I hate that he's dead, and I…"
Remus turns his head to James. They're a pillow apart. When James looks at him, he can't remember what he looked like when they were young, but he can feel the years of knowing one another stretching out between them. A straining curtain of yellow light from the hallway catches the edges of Remus' features. James can see the corner of an uneven smile.
"Go on," Remus says quietly.
"She's nice. She's really nice. I don't want her to get hurt."
"James, you don't want anyone to get hurt."
"I thought this was a demotion."
"Isn't it?"
"If it is, it's one I deserve. I deserve another one. Once Mary sees the mess I've made…"
Remus reaches across the sheets to pinch James' bicep. "Nobody is good at their new job. Sirius didn't touch up the princess' bruise when we got off the plane, and while they're paid off for now, someone who needs the better payout is going to publish those photos, and soon. Sirius should've been doing his job, but he was too busy looking after me."
"I tried to cover it–"
"I know. You did a good job and I'm not blaming you, Prongs, anyway. My point is that he made a mistake. Does he deserve a demotion?"
"Ew. Hate you."
"And I should've better prepared her for meeting Princess Julianna. It was my fault that she felt embarrassed. I tried my best to fit in some coaching for breakfast tomorrow but the poor girl doesn't know a butter knife from a paring knife."
"That's not true."
"No," Remus agrees. "I'm making her seem less educated than she is to prove my own point… James, she isn't a princess. She has the blood, and soon she'll get the official title, the land and the money and the education and maybe some of the bad bits, as well. But right now, she's new to being a princess, and she's not very good at it."
"I get it."
"Yeah, I know."
Remus readjusts in bed. James almost misses the pain in his friend's exhale under the sound of crunching fresh sheets.
"Are you sure I can't do something for you?"
"I wish," Remus says. He isn't depressed. The opposite, he sounds way too spritely for the time. "You could stop hogging the blankets, for starters."
James feeds Remus some more blanket and sighs. The mattress is heavenly. The quilts and sheets and pillowcases are soft and thick. By all means, James should've fallen asleep the second his head touched anything mildly comfortable.
"You've asked Mickey to look after her tomorrow, right?" Remus asks.
James had radio'd Mikkelson after his shower to put the early morning shift and protocols in his jurisdiction temporarily. That means James will hopefully be able to sleep until his body feels like it can hold itself together again. He doesn't like leaving you to face the Queen by yourself, but it's not as if she'll hurt you, and Sirius will see you bright and early to help you get dressed. James isn't worried.
"I have. How did you know that?"
"You're the only one of us who knows how to properly take care of themselves," Remus explains easily. "Good. I'm glad you did. You haven't been sleeping."
"How do you know that?"
"I love you. I know everything about you."
James smiles at the ceiling. Beams. There is nothing quite as valuable to him than his family. He would do more to keep them all safe and healthy than he should admit on the record, so he keeps it all tucked inside and out of view. It's terrifying and freeing at once to look at someone you love and know you're going to do something awful one day if it means they'll come out on the other side of it alive.
"Not everything," he murmurs.
"Everything, James."
"Yeah? How many fingers am I holding up right now."
"One."
"Which?"
"Middle."
"Lucky guess." James laughs at their childish squabbling. "I love you too. I'm really glad we're in the same place again."
"What did you say? What are the fucking odds?" Remus quotes, so tired now that his words are running together. "I'm not sod enough to do the maths, I think it's gotta be deep in the decimals. Lily's and Mary's involvement definitely helped, but to have someone come along who needs security detail, special education, and a lady in waiting is unfathomable."
James laughs and feels his abdomen shaking. "I'm telling Sirius you called him a lady in waiting."
"Sorry," Remus says, and James knows his friend is genuinely repentant, even though Sirius would've laughed himself if he'd heard the joke. "I'm not trying to put him down. He's worked so hard, he– He's working so hard. He thinks it's easy work because he's good at it. He doesn't realise it's easy because he worked very very hard to be good at it."
James has to chew it over for a moment to understand what Remus is saying. Once he understands, he vehemently agrees. Sirius is skilled in so many areas. He can style both a model and their wardrobe spontaneously. He's a media liaison, a sleuth, a sweet talker. He understands the inner workings of Western media — Sirius can deduce the honesty of a smile from a precursory glance. He may not always trust what he's seeing, but he sees it undeniably.
"He's the best of us," James sighs agreeably, stretching down the length of the bed until his spine pops and his calves burn. "Shit. I need to start working out properly again now we're here."
"Tomorrow. We'll figure it all out tomorrow, James. Go to sleep."
James is obedient. He falls asleep, and doesn’t wake until the sun is warming his cheeks. His hair is still damp and he feels awful in a new way. Better for having slept with someone close by, and catching up on the hours he’s been missing. But his back is stiff.
He goes back to his room. His neck aches as he brushes his teeth. He does a workout in the small space of his room and stretches out his rigid limbs until he feels human again.
The black telephone on his nightstand starts to ring. He hates them. He wishes the royals would go back to bells.
“Hello, sir,” Lily says cheerfully down the line. James can picture her sweet smile. “I couldn’t help but notice your absence this morning.”
“How did it go?” he asks, trying to tug on a new pair of socks one handed.
Lily hums. “It wasn’t awful. It wasn’t good, but it could’ve been worse. Her majesty liked her. Y/N was quiet, she was awkward, but we all know they prefer quiet to mouthy. The last thing they wanted was another Julianna. I felt kind of bad, really. Like I was handing her over.”
“She…” James sighs. “She didn’t seem upset, did she, Lils?”
“No, I actually think she was feeling good. Your boys took good care of her.”
“Brilliant. Oh, and to answer your unasked question, I’m being slovenly. I’ll be back on duty by noon.”
“Slovenly,” she repeats. “I’ve never known you to be any sort of lazy.” She laughs. James is happy that the sound doesn’t break his heart anymore. “Alright, James. I’ll see you later.”
He appreciates what she’s doing, letting him know you’re okay while he’s away. It’s uncanny how fast the people in charge of your care can band together.
James gives himself a minute to wipe away yesterday and prepare for today. He closes his eyes and shakes his head ferociously, his hair flying every which way. He sorts through all his worries one by one, letting that anxiety eat at him methodically —he’s a bad bodyguard, he’s a bad friend, he doesn’t call his mum enough, he’s chicken shit scared of dying alone, the works— and then pushing it away. Today is a new day with new opportunities. He can prove to you and to himself that he’s good at his job, he can make sure his friends are doing alright, he can call his mum tonight before dinner, and dying alone? He isn’t dying today. So that one’s on the back burner.
He makes his way from his room in the quarter and into the main building, wary that he might come upon a duke or duchess. His radio, clipped as it always is against his left shoulder, chirps with chatter. He bites back a scolding about keeping the line clear and looks out the huge glass windows at the grounds below. A marble water fountain spurts proudly at the foot of the stairs, and an elaborate hedgework stands at pruned attention. It’s a nice day. He wonders if you’ll be up for walking.
He looks for you in the secondary parlour, the den, the library, the dining room. He swings by your room, and when you aren’t there he admits defeat and unclamps his radio, cutting through an inappropriate joke unapologetically.
“Afternoon. Location on Princess Y/N?”
He imagines his subordinates scrambling to answer, embarrassed by their unprofessionalism, but it’s likely they just don’t know where you are.
“If I don’t get an answer in the next five seconds, you can all expect to be running laps tonight. That includes you, Mikkelson, I don’t care how much overtime–”
“Sir, this is Daniels. Me and Roma are with the princess in the south wing.”
“Why?”
“She wanted a pencil sharpener.”
James grins to himself. The south wing (or, as James might put it, the guest wing), houses the scholars, the ambassadors, and whatever government official the royals are trying to butter up at the time. He’s feeling positively joyful when he finds you, sketching away with your face pressed to the window. The genovian mountainscapes take shape on your page one confident stroke of graphite at a time, a small leather bound sketchbook pressed flat to your knee.
“Settling in?” he asks.
You raise your head but not your eyes. “You could say that.”
“How was meeting Her Majesty?”
You frown.
“That bad?” he asks.
“No, I mean. You know. She’s a queen. It was terrifying.”
Despite your unhappy mouth, you look as relaxed as you have since the moment he met you. You’re in what’s clearly a casual Genovian dress, what with the subtle but remarkable stitching a shade darker than the dress itself and the squared neckline. Your calves are out and glossy in the daylight. They’re rather distracting.
“You look good,” James says carefully.
“I’ll miss the fancy lotions,” you say. Your pencil scratches away.
James’ hands falter where they’re clasped behind his back. “What?”
You meet his eyes properly. He hadn’t realised you’d been avoiding his gaze until you weren’t, your face ringed with guilt, an explanation slow to come.
“I’m not staying. I can’t be a princess, James.” You shake your head mildly. “I’m going home.”
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
thanks so much for reading! oh no, you want to go home!! rest assured, james and co aren’t letting you go too easily. i hope you enjoyed, reblogs are always appreciated, a thousand kisses for all of you either way <3<3
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˗
Sirius Black smells like winter. The deep and fruity fragrance of cranberries, pomegranate, maybe cinnamon. You aren't certain, and if he weren't currently an inch from your face, you'd ask him what it is.
"You poor thing," he murmurs, dabbing very, very gently against the bruised skin of your cheek.
"It's not–" You hiss at sudden pressure. He immediately recedes. "It's not so bad."
"I've half a mind to rag him around and take up the mantle myself."
"I'd love to see that," Remus says.
"I'd look good in the uniform, right?"
James doesn't look happy at their joking but he's been nothing less than a grovelling puppy since last night, and he breaks his silence to say, "You don't have to wear any make-up if it's going to hurt."
"Uh, yes she does. Imagine the headlines otherwise: Lost Princess Bruised Under the Imbecilic Watch of New Bodyguard," Sirius announces, sharing a not-so-private smile with Remus across the coffee table.
"It doesn't hurt," you say to James.
You're lying. Being smacked in the face with a door isn't just embarrassing, it really fucking hurts. James' biceps aren't for show, that's for sure. He'd swung open the door and you, having tripped seconds beforehand over the cord of your lamp, had been at the perfect height for it to bounce off the highest point of your cheek.
"Princess," he says now, as he'd said last night, "I'm so sorry."
You think of his hands under your arms pulling you up into a standing position, and the way he'd tilted your head back. The barking order he'd given Frank to grab something to use as an ice pack, and the warmth of the pad of his thumb as it stroked the soft line of your jaw.
"It was a freak accident." You smile, careful not to push up your cheeks lest you invite another round of shooting pains. "Please don't feel bad. It's my fault for being up in the first place, I– I couldn't sleep."
"If you want anything for it, let me know," Remus says.
"He's got, like, his own personal pain pharmacy," Sirius says. "You should take him up on it. I beg him everytime we fly for some of the strong stuff and he always says no, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity."
"Let's not start on the co-codamols," James says.
"I have ibuprofen," Remus placates.
"I don't need anything, I promise."
Some ibuprofen would be awesome but you really don't want James to feel guilty. You want to forget it even happened, embarrassed by both your idiocy and your tears.
Getting hit in the face by a metal door handle hurts. Your reaction had been justified, but crying all over your handsome bodyguards nice hands hadn't been something you'd pictured doing. Not 12 hours after meeting him.
"You want me to do your lips?" Sirius asks.
"How do you mean?"
Sirius pulls a metal palette of lip colours out of his small make up bag and shows them to you. He circles two with a disposable brush. "These would suit you. I wasn't sure about your complexion. Now I know, I'll get you more options when we're back in Genovia."
"Oh, um…" You shake your head at him apologetically. "I don't know. You should do what you think is best."
He puts the palette away. "You don't need anything you're unsure of. You don't need any makeup at all, my love, it only enhances what's already there."
"Ten minutes," James says. "Princess, are you sure this is everything you want to take?"
He taps your suitcase with the side of his shoe. You nod.
"You can bring whatever you want. All of your things, if you like." He gestures to your bedroom. "Though we can get you anything you need, and we will, you're welcome to pack everything."
"In a day, you'll know I'm not your princess. Less stuff to carry," you say.
"You're so sure," Remus says.
He speaks quietly but not timidly, laid back in your chair with an air of relaxation you wish you could master. He has a small mass market paperback tucked into one pocket of his jacket, the yellowed pages peeking over the hem, and his hand stuffed into the other. His pose doesn't speak of any arrogance. He looks happy to be here, and it puts you at ease.
"Do I look like a princess?" you ask. You don't mean to put anyone on the spot —you aren't fishing for compliments— so you steamroll your own question. "I just find it strange. Surely I'd know. I would've known before, I mean."
"Like a princess beacon?" Sirius asks.
"No, but… I don't know. I think I'd feel it."
Remus straightens a touch, grinning. "You look like him. The Prince. You have the same nose."
Remus stands up before you can ask him to explain. James offers to take his bag and he shrugs away from his big hand with an annoyed huff.
To your surprise, James only smiles, cooing after him, "You know you love me, Moons."
"Well," Sirius says, zipping his bag closed and clasping his hands on top of it. "You can always have your things sent for once we're home."
Home for them.
Truthfully, deep down, you want to be a princess. Something in you is singing, is ringing, a string plucked, a tuner reverberating. Finally, something is happening. Your life could be more than mistakes.
You're not used to having people around and this entire process has been hard. Getting hit in the face had sucked. But, to have company? This single hour has been one of the best you've had in a really long time. Sirius is sweeter than you'd thought, sarcastic but kind-handed, and Remus' dry humour has caught you off guard enough to laugh aloud multiple times. Even James' grovelling niceties have been shamefully enjoyable. You can't remember the last time you had someone around who wanted to comfort you.
And that's exactly why you're afraid to admit what seems true. You can't be the Princess, because if you are, you get to have this for a little while longer, and that would be too good to be true.
Much, much too good.
"Alright, let's go. Sirius, you have the keys?"
Sirius swings his bag into James’ arms. “Am I driving?”
“What a stupid question.”
Another member of James’ security team meets you at your front door to help carry the bags downstairs and into the back of the SUV. James won’t allow you to help and getting inside while they’re still packing the boot feels spoiled, so you stand at the corner and feel too many eyes on you. James stands beside you, one hand hovering behind your shoulders to shield you, ridiculously, from the hedge behind, the other held aloft in level with his mouth, fingers curled around a small radio you’ve seen clipped to his shoulder. He’s enunciating clear, short instructions. He doesn’t sound as severe as you’d pictured someone in his occupation would sound.
“What’s traffic like?” he asks. The answer buzzes down the line, inaudible to you but obviously understood by James. “Alright, brilliant. We should be on schedule, then. Is the third team on call?”
You can make the next answer out. “Yep, they’re waiting. You want them at the front?”
“Please. I want everyone we have, ideally.”
“Isn’t that overkill?” Sirius shouts from the passenger seat of the car, bent over the handbrake to be heard. “All three teams? That’s twelve men. None of my sources hint at any leaks.”
“I’m being over cautious.” James smiles at you, so suddenly you smile back on instinct. “Security on call get paid either way. Might as well make them work for it.”
He ushers you into the back seat, a cushy leather bench fit for three people. It’s rented, but Sirius is quick to pop a section behind his chair for you to show you the drinks fridge.
“Oh,” you breathe, legs lit and cooled by the light and the chilled air, “cool.”
“You’ll want to drink one before James assesses that they’re poisoned.”
You wince back. “Are they poisoned?”
“Probably not, my love.”
Sirius is a mixture of flirtatious and genuine that you can’t wrap your head around. He’s awfully handsome, too, which makes it worse: he’s tanned, his curls shine, and he has the most perfect Roman nose you’ve ever seen. He’s almost as handsome as James.
“Let me be very clear,” he says gently, turned in his seat to face you, “I’m not an intelligence agent. I don’t know nearly as much as darling Jamie about security, but I have a lot of friends in high places and, as far as I’m aware, nobody outside of the British or Genovian government knows what we’re doing here. And nobody has reason to hurt you just yet.” He grins. “It’s James’ job to be paranoid, but that’s all it is.”
You waver, and his cheerful smile fades.
He lowers his voice, tone sympathetic. “I can always try one first if you’re worried.”
The driver’s door opens and James climbs in. “Try what?” he asks. He moves through a routine quickly of safety checks like a learning driver would. He rolls up the open window and turns in his seat, gaze flitting between you and Sirius suspiciously. “Everything okay?”
“I think the Princess is a little anxious about leaving the country,” Sirius says.
“Yeah?” James asks, eyes back to the windshield. He turns the key, and the car warms to life with a low roar.
“A little.” You nudge the fridge closed with your foot.
“What was that?” James asks. “Is that a fridge? Do me a favour, don’t drink any of that. I'll get you whatever you want at the airport.”
“She can’t have a bottle of water from the fancy jeep but airport drinks are fine?” Sirius laughs.
“Spike one fridge’s worth or the entire supply chain?” James asks.
“What if this assassin is inefficient?”
“Assassin?” you ask.
James glares at Sirius. "There are no assassins, Princess. He's being ridiculous." He looks to you with a smile. "You have everything?"
Your expression, a sickly grimace, has him giving pause. All fake smiles and dramatics fall away, and in its place is the genuineness you'd been met with last night.
"Hypothetically," he says, "there are assassins. In reality, there absolutely are not. You're not in any danger, alright? Sirius is the master of badly timed jokes."
"Okay," you say meekly.
James nods and you buckle in, sitting back in the comfiest car seat you've ever sat in and turning your face to the window. You look up at your flat building, and as the car starts to move, it shrinks. You drive further and further away, until you turn a corner, and your life is out of view.
—
James is worried about you. As an acquaintance, he's starting to think you're a worrying person. There isn't a whole lot of spark behind your eyes — you rival Remus for number of tired smiles.
He wonders why you hadn't packed any of your art supplies. Your room is teeming with them. Even if you're correct and you aren't the Genovian princess after all, there's still a day or more before they can actually confirm that, and factoring in travel time, you won't be home for at least a week. A week without your sketchbooks and paints and pencils.
As your bodyguard, as a bodyguard, James has always taken concern in his charge's overall health, mental and physical. You don't seem ill, but you do seem unhappy.
"Are you afraid of flying?" he asks, hoping that will explain your distance.
He stands less than half a foot from you. He'll allow you some more space just as soon as you're not in an airport.
"I'm not sure," you say.
Another peculiarity, you're a pathological liar.
Okay, that's unfair. You aren't pathological — James is an excellent judge of character, as his job requires, and he's gotten good at profiling a person's motivations. Your motivation is to become the smallest version of yourself that you can be. Any possible imposition is set aside, such as your refusal of painkillers when your cheek can't not hurt. You refuse to inconvenience others.
"Is there something I can do? To help you feel better?"
You smile awkwardly. "Is that your job?" you ask, voice lilting upward with self-consciousness.
"Kind of. You know, as soon as your paternity test is recognised, you could ask for just about anything. An assistant, as many assistants and attendants as you want. Your security will most certainly increase, especially when the Palace makes a statement."
He notes your widening eyes and backtracks. "It's not really my job, but I wouldn't mind. If you think of anything, let me know."
You hide your hands in the pockets of your hoodie. You're dressed as he advised, comfortably and nondescript.
"Do you need anything from me?" you ask.
He hides his surprise, eyes doing another lap of the semi-private waiting room he's ushered you into. He takes in business men, officials, and diplomats for the tenth time in half an hour.
"I don't need anything from you, Princess. Thank you."
"I don't want to make your job any harder than it is."
"You haven't."
"That's not true," you murmur, bruised cheek toward the floor and away from view.
"That was my fault," James says. "Not yours."
He can feel the heat of your tears running down his index finger.
"That was my mistake," he reaffirms.
You don't answer, but James knows it isn't an agreeable silence. Which is fine, he isn't trying to dominate your opinion, would never assume he had the right to police what you're feeling. He wants to reassure you more than he strictly should.
This might be harder than I thought, he thinks.
"The flight is near enough three hours. You're sure you don't want anything to take with you? If you're worried about dietary restrictions, there's a salad bar in the Mastercard lounge. I'm sure we can get someone to make you something up."
"I'm fine… Will you be hungry?"
He laughs. "You really don't understand the employee employer dynamic, do you?" he asks, not unkindly. "You don't have to worry about me."
He says it sweetly, careful to ensure you understand. He isn't telling you off. He's teasing you.
He knows he's done a good job when you lift your head.
"I don't think you can talk about employee employer dynamics," you say, eyes flitting downward to your cheek's bruise.
He chuckles, eyebrows jumping up. "Oh, nice! That was a quick one. We'll make a Genovian of you yet, they're all sarcastic."
"They? You aren't Genovian?"
"Do I look Genovian?" he asks, gesturing to his face. You splutter. "I'm messing with you. No, I'm not originally from Genovia, but my heart is hers."
"You've always lived there?"
"Since I was two."
Your expression dims. It takes James a second to connect the dots.
"There are plenty of people living in Genovia who aren't native. Remus is Welsh, can you tell? His accent hasn't quite survived it."
"You've met before? You all seem familiar."
"We went to the same boarding school. Well, we actually shared a room. We-" He feels heat crest at his unprofessional phrasing. "We're best mates."
"And you all get to be together," you say softly.
"Yeah, we do. We're lucky. Before this, Remus was working as a royal tutor for the young elites, and Sirius was trying to micromanage Julianna. That's your cousin."
"The Princess' cousin," you correct.
"You brought us back together," he says. "You'll have to forgive me for hoping you are who they say you are."
"Lily never really explained, how I- I mean, why they think it's me."
"Well," he says, stepping closer to you still, and lowering his voice, "my assumption is that, because the Prince's passing was a freak accident, they hadn't really planned for any other successors yet."
"Well, what were they going to do? He'd pass on eventually."
"I believe there were hopes he'd marry a Duchess."
"And have a legitimate child."
"Yes. You are, to the majority, a secret. The Prince would have been seventeen at the time of your conception, which is a royal scandal if I've ever heard one."
"Seventeen?" you ask.
"Lily didn't tell you any of this?"
"Honestly, uh, she might have. I wasn't-" You clear your throat mildly. "Wasn't really listening? I had a pretty bad migraine at the time, and I was tired, you know?"
"You were overwhelmed at finding out you're apprincess."
"That I might be a princess."
"Sure. When they told me I might be Prince of Italy, I had the same reaction."
You wrinkle your nose at him, the most forceful thing you've done in his presence. He laughs a storm, only tamping it down when he remembers he's a professional.
Soon, the boys return from their airport traipsing. Remus makes a quiet comment on James' happy smile, and he pretends to zip his lips closed when they both spot Sirius' curious glances. James moves your entourage to a small aircraft, not private but almost, and you board into first class seats, two per each side of the aisle and partitioned by a sheet of frosted plexi-glass.
You and James sit together.
He doesn't subject you to conversation. He's technically working, and so while he relaxes into his seat and stretches out his tired legs, he doesn't cut vigilance.
You look around in awe for some time. Eyes widened just slightly, lips parted, you sit up and sneak glances at everything you can. James knocks on the partition gently.
"You want the fan? The heater?"
"The fan," you say, and he supposes you do look a bit warm at the collar. "Please."
He doesn't bother saying of course, or no worries, or no problem. He's a problem solver. If you're going to be under his watch, he's going to make it as easy on you as he can. That means letting you be thankful without shrugging it off.
Your eyes close quickly. Your eyelashes flutter imperceptibly in the overhead fans slow breeze, and your lips part as you fall into sleep. Last night's disruption had been hard on you no doubt. He stands quietly and eases sideways down the aisle to check on Remus and Sirius inconspicuously.
"Anything for me to read?" he asks Remus.
Remus knows exactly what James is up to. If he appreciates or abhors the extra attention is anyone's guess, until he digs through the bag at his feet and pulls out one of his Russian philosophy novels with a smirk. "This or the newspaper."
James takes the worn paperback with a wry look of defeat and reaches over and across to Sirius head of curls, tugging one cruelly.
Sirius looks up, but is only irritable when he notices that it had been James, and not his seatmate.
"What?" Sirius demands.
"Do you need anything?"
"No. Quit mothering. And maybe get some rest?"
"I can't."
"You most certainly can. Swap out with Frank, or Mickey or someone."
James swaps out with Mickey. Mickelson, please keep an eye on the entryway. Yes boss. He returns, finding you aren't as asleep as he'd thought. You look at him through lashes. You've gone soft, in little regard for your appearance, and he's glad for it. Watching you is like watching a spring stretched tall, and now you've finally snapped into yourself and deflated.
"You alright?" he murmurs.
You nod, and he sits, and when he doesn't get up you fall asleep again, like you'd been waiting for him to get back. You sleep for hours, through turbulence, Sirius' roaring laughter, Remus' answering chuckles, and the flight attendant who scolds them. James wishes he could do the same, reading a mind-numbing forty pages of Russian literature densely translated and sipping on a glass of coke, the ache of an oncoming pressure headache pinching behind his eyes.
The hubbub doesn't wake you. The plane lands, you sleep on.
James whispers your name, quiet, speaking louder when you fail to rouse. Finally, he gives in and squeezes your shoulder. Heat radiates through the thick fabric of your hoodie. You hair is frizzy where it's rubbed against the seat behind you.
You wake with a raspy cough. "James?"
"We're here, Princess, in Genovia."
"That was," —you yawn, turning to hide your face so he can't see— "fast."
You look like you might fall asleep again. His heart does this awful little flip. He ignores it.
"It was hours. You've slept the whole time– A good thing, huh?" He bends down until you're face to face, an amicable gap between you as he squints at your bruise. He's close enough to share your breath. "Bruise is getting worse. Remus will give you painkillers, and I'm gonna get you an ice pack as soon as we're off the plane."
He squeezes your shoulder again. "Up. Come on."
You nod and rub your eyes, stretching in your seat. He averts his gaze and stands as tall as he can, shoulders hunched to avoid clipping his head. Remus has made no efforts to move yet and Sirius is in the aisle, pulling their bags into his arms.
"Are you alright, Moony?" James asks.
Remus has gone ashen.
"He has a migraine."
"Can you see okay?" James asks.
Remus gets blurry, occluded vision when he gets these sudden migraines. He winces, hand over his eyes, and says, "Not really. Can I have your sunglasses?"
"Yeah," James says, holding in the, of course you can, I'd genuinely die for you, that he wants to add.
He slides his rucksack off of his shoulder and takes his sunglasses from the front pocket. He taps them into Remus' hand.
"You'll have to touch up the Princess' bruise for me," Sirius says.
James coughs. "What?"
"It's easy–"
"I'll take Remus," James says.
"You can both go do your jobs, I'll be fine," Remus mutters, flinching at an invisible, biting pain.
"No," they both deny.
Remus doubles over.
"All you have to do is stipple it," Sirius whispers fervently.
"Sirius, I don't know what stippling is."
"Dots of makeup. She knows what shade we chose. Here, take my bag. There's a clean brush."
Sirius smiles at James. Remus hasn't always let them take care of him. His disabilities have often made him the subject of disdain, pity, and misguided attention he has never, ever wanted, and he'd mistaken their friendship for lots of things at first. Nowadays, he accepts the help that he needs, help that his friend's are happy to give, and disregards their smothering overkill otherwise. That being said, Remus has always found it easier to accept help from Sirius than James. They all know it and none of them bother saying why that is aloud.
Flying nearly but not quite privately means they can get off the plane whenever they're ready (within reason), and so James ushers you back into your seat where you'd been standing tentatively in the aisle and presents the little make up bag. He kneels in front of you.
"I'll get the painkillers," he says, remembering his earlier promise, "Sirius is preoccupied, so. You're stuck with me on touch ups."
"Is it bad?"
"No. Does it feel bad?"
Your slow response is telling. "No," you lie, "it's not that bad." You point at one of the colours through the clear case. "I think it was that one."
"Thank you," he says, murmurs, opening the case. There's a brush tucked inside, and he picks it up clumsily.
"Does he have a mirror?" you ask. "I can do it myself, if you want."
"If he does, he didn't give it to me. I promise not to mess you up too badly, Princess."
James presses the brush into your chosen colour and pats. The concealer is harder than he'd thought it would be, tough under the brush. It all looks silly in his hands.
"Lean your head back for me," he says softly.
You tip your chin up. Your eyes close as he begins.
He's too careful. The colour doesn't want to transfer. "Sorry," he murmurs, applying pressure. You wince but say nothing to stop him. "Tell me if it hurts too much."
"It's only a bruise."
"You're allowed to be hurt. And you should be more angry with me."
"It was an accident."
"It was my mistake." He watches the bruise disappear under concealer, but the colour doesn't quite match your skin. He tries his best to blend out the edges. "A professional mistake, which means you're more than allowed to be annoyed."
"I'm starting to think you want me to be mad," you say. You're trying not to move, and so each word is half a whisper.
"I do. I want you to be furious. It's ten times harder to keep someone safe when they have no self-preservation."
He gives up on the brush and uses his pinky, his cleanest finger, to smudge out the blocky colour he's left behind. Your skin is scorching under his touch.
"So if I'm angry with you, that makes your job easier?"
He hums. "Mh-hmm. Much easier."
You hold your breath as he finishes up, a gentle patting motion as he was instructed.
"How some girls do this every day," he mutters.
"It gets easier."
"Yeah?" He drags his pinky down your cheek without thinking. "Hopefully this is my last time. It looks fine. Maybe don't stop in direct sunlight."
He collects all of his things and pulls the makeup bag into his chest, easing his way out into the aisle again. You follow. Everyone else has left, except for a pearly-smiled flight attendant, who's smile grows impossibly wider as they approach.
"Everything okay today folks?" he asks. "How was your flight?"
James offers thank-yous and guides you down the length of the plane to the exit. You're quiet from the plane to the steps, his hand ghosting your shoulder, to the tarmac, where your security entourage awaits. Including James there are eight bodyguards. Two stick close, five form a mock perimeter around you.
"Unfortunately, you might draw attention from the protection detail alone. It's up to you, Princess, but I can hide your face."
"Is that… dramatic?"
"It's completely up to you. I don't think it's dramatic. Just depends on how comfortable you are with your face potentially being used somewhere."
"Can I– Maybe I'll stay close," you say, pulling your hood up.
"Yeah. Tell me if you're uncomfortable."
He takes you by the elbow and you walk. There aren't any paparazzi waiting outside, and James thinks maybe the news of your arrival has escaped them, and you won't be exposed to the madness that is paps with a story like this one, until he sees Sirius and Remus waiting at the glass doors into the airport.
"Can't we go around?" Sirius asks.
"They have to check our passports, idiot," Remus says, with little malice.
"You can fucking see them, mate," he says to James.
James motions for you to stand where you are and crosses the gap to get a better look. Mickey takes his place by your side.
"Fuck," he hisses, "what the fuck is that? Who fucking leaked?"
"Should I be worried?" he hears you ask quietly.
"Mickelson, give the Princess your sunglasses."
"So yes, then," you say.
James props open the door with his foot. "Princess, you're going first. They'll expect you in the middle. Hopefully that'll minimise what they can get." He holds out his arm.
You slot perfectly underneath it.
"Ready?" he asks.
You don't look very ready. You nibble your lip and nod anyhow, tucking your face into his front. James walks you forward, into a storm of white flashes and shouting, the precipice of your new life.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter <3 please consider reblogging if you did, I'd love to know what you thought and what you want to see in the next one! and a happy new year !!!!
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
summary your debut as the marauders’ new guitarist doesn’t exactly go to plan when remus gets handsy with you on stage.
warmings bassist!remus x guitarist!reader, singer!sirius, drummer!james, on stage anxiety, stage fright, remus being hot, light hurt/comfort, completely consensual touching but people get the wrong idea [wc 2.5k]
<3
"What if they don't like me?" you ask.
It's so loud on side stage that you might as well have whispered, but Remus seems to hear you fine.
"They will," he says.
You still can't believe you're here. When Remus had called and said they were opening auditions for a second guitar player now that they'd fobbed off Peter, you hadn't quite believed it.
And then, when your former friends from college had actually been impressed with your playing and asked you to do some test runs, you'd pinched yourself.
But this was unreal.
You can hear the crowd. Marauders, Marauders, Marauders, in your spine, their cheers and screams loud enough to send vibrations through the entire venue. You mess with the tie around your neck.
"Do I look stupid?" you ask.
Remus smiles, the smile you remember from school. "You look awesome," he says.
You aren't so sure, looking down at your black ensemble; a miniskirt with a flaring hem, a satin top that showed a daring amount of cleavage, your silly red tie. You feel like you're playing dress up. You feel stupid.
Remus had made it very clear that you could wear whatever you liked, a black bag, if you fancied it. But you wanted to be cool and you wanted their fans to like you, so you'd let Sirius dress you up.
The boy in question appears with James in tow, the first in his usual rock star get up, the latter missing his shirt. The defined plains of James' dark torso explain why he's a fan-favourite.
You bite your lip and look down at your shoes, a brand new pair of original converse. Simple. Sweet, a gift from Remus. He'd spelled, 'Welcome to the band,' in white paint pen across the side of your left shoe. You take a deep breath.
"It's gonna be fine, jezebel," Sirius says, all shark tooth grin and eyeliner.
"I mean," James begins, "it might not be. People are sexist."
You wince, your worst fear said aloud. Remus rolls his eyes and throws a bare arm over your shoulder, looking a little less punk rock than the rest of you in a cream-toned Metallica t-shirt and olive green trousers that hug his thighs in a way that makes your heart skip.
"Don't listen to him," Remus says, hugging you close so his words float straight into your ear. "I promised everything is gonna be fine, didn't I?"
You nod but can't look at him. He had made you that promise a week ago, before the tour buses and airports, before the first paparazzi pictures and interviews. You'd called him in the middle of the night.
"I don't think I can do this," you'd confessed, staring down at the magazine in your hand. You'd been announced as their new guitarist and people had a lot of opinions. Bad and good, you worried about living up to expectations.
"You can, dove."
You'd laughed bitterly, throat burning. "I'm not a- a rock star."
"And I am?" he'd asked, laughing with much more lightness.
The tears had started then, and you'd covered your mouth. Remus had listened for a moment, and then he'd made his promise. "I know you can do this. I know you can, and better, I know you're gonna love this. Really, dove." You'd taken a ragged exhale and he'd doubled down. "I promise, everything is going to be fine. It's gonna be amazing. You just have to trust me."
"Are we ready?" somebody asks, someone important that you should know but don't.
The three boys look to you. "What?" you ask, startled.
"Are you ready?" Sirius asks.
You can't believe you're making decisions. You can't believe any of it, but you know they're gonna look after you out there. You nod before you can stop yourself.
Remus swings his bass on. You let a pretty girl who smells distracting help you into your guitar. There's so many wires and microphones and packs clipped to you and you're already sweating despite being so scantily dressed.
Sirius runs out first. The crowd is deafening. James is quick to follow, drumsticks already thudding against his thigh. Remus is signalled to make his entrance, but he waits.
"Good evening, London!" Sirius screams.
You look at Remus with wide eyes. "What are you doing? Go!"
"You're after me, yeah? Don't freeze, don't look at the crowd if you don't want to. Find your footing first, and we'll manage everything else after, okay?" he says, a rush of words, his brown eyes lightened by adrenaline.
You nod, a little listless. He grasps your shoulder hard enough to ache and walks on stage, just as Sirius says, "We have a treat for you guys tonight, as you're all well aware by now- no, not him! Fuck that guy. Where's our best girl?"
And that's your cue.
You try to walk exactly as Remus had. Despite his warning, the first thing you do is look out at the crowd – how could you not? It's blinding, thousands of people, cameras and flashing lights and noise, an overwhelming cacophony of screaming and whooping. You smile your best ditzy smile, the one you'd been practicing in the mirror all week, raising your hand to give a little wave. Another roaring of sound.
You go a little deaf for a while, messing with the ear-piece tucked over your ear and then the microphone taped to your cheek.
James sits at the back, hands messing with his cymbals, with foot pedals, back muscles moving as he bends over. Sirius is a ball of energy walking from one side of the stage to the other, then down the small catwalk. Remus stands stationary at the edge of the stage next to an amp the size of you. You don't want to impede on anyone's space and so you hover in the middle ground, pick shaking in your fingers.
"There she is! Everybody, give our girl a warm welcome!"
If you weren't deaf before you are now. Something in the uproar lifts your heart, and you find yourself looking toward the front row, making eye contact with audience members pressed bruisingly into the metal barrier.
"Yeah! Give it up, and if you think she's something now you won't want to wait to hear her play."
The next cue. Remus starts to play and receives another gratuitous uproar of sound. You feel mildly dizzy.
The introduction of their first song is long, slow, allowing you a few seconds to remember that you're supposed to be playing as well.
Sirius continues his chattering when he's supposed to be singing and Remus handles it well. You follow his lead.
"We had a lot of things happen this summer that we never expected," a cascade of boos. James scowls in memory and Sirius laughs at the crowd. "Right, right. We thought, fuck? What the fuck are we gonna do? We need to find someone who can keep up with me, of all people."
James laughs wolfishly, drumsticks beating his leg still. Poor boy.
Remus makes a signal at Sirius to wrap it up. Sirius ignores this, and so Remus clears his throat. "We needed to find someone who fit," he explains.
"Right, someone who fits," Sirius agrees.
"And he almost didn't allow it!" James shouts, mostly joking, to your knowledge.
"Well, I wouldn't-" Sirius starts.
"When we asked Y/N to come on with us, Sirius was reluctant," James talks over him.
"Why?" an audience member shouts.
"Because," Remus says seriously, "now he's not the prettiest girl in the band anymore."
You flush from head to toe and your fingers slip. You don't think anyone besides Remus notices, and he smiles at you apologetically.
"I'm not sure I'd say that," James jokes.
"Fuck everybody except James. Let's play something already, Jesus, Moons, what are you doing?" Sirius asks, mock annoyed.
Everybody laughs, yourself included, and it freaks you out to hear your own giggling projected wide.
It gets easier as you stand there. You know how to play, and what's more, you're good. You can keep up, you can do everything that Peter did and you can do it better. Sirius sings how he talks, erratic, moving from rough to smooth to soothing, jumping when you need to jump; he keeps the crowd enthralled.
It's about halfway through the planned setlist where things start to deviate. You're not as sure of yourself as you thought. You falter. The adrenaline makes your hands shake and you skip over chords you know like the back of your hand, amateurish.
You can feel yourself sinking, wandering over wires and tape and rogue bottles of water to stand by Remus' side. He looks at you, plays the bassline expertly anyways, head inclined. You okay?
You nod. A complicated mess of a solo is coming up, and you're getting jumpy. You focus every bit of energy and attention you command on making it through, chin pressed to your chest, lips pouting, eyebrows creased. Weirdly, you feel like you might die.
You make it through and struggle to catch your breath. The lights grow lower for the next track, a blistering mesh of sounds that you'd practiced over and over and over together in the last few months.
You gasp. Your microphone is off for now, and the only person who can hear it is Remus. You can't seem to catch your breath, leaning back to strum along, so lost that not even his unflinching playing can help you out.
Remus gets this look on his face that you don't know. He finally moves from the spot he'd been standing in all night to slink up behind you.
You feel the hot body of his bass press into your back, feel his breathing on your neck.
"You're okay," he says. "Steady, dove."
You nod mindlessly and play well. The bass line drops out as his hands fall away from his instrument, so hot they're branding. He pushes one over your shoulder and one under your armpit, careful to allow you your range of movement.
He hugs your back to his chest, face pressing into your shoulder.
"Calm down," he says into your skin.
He smells like sweat and amber and woodsmoke. Everypoint of contiguity is alight with chills.
You miss a strut, pick it up, feeling something akin to safety as his arms tighten around you and his hands brush your naked, stagelit skin. His fingers spread and his pinky finger ghosts your breast and everything is white noise and screaming as you let yourself lean back into him. He breathes with you. Long, unending seconds of his skin on your skin and his careful breaths in your ear, hands soothing. He's dizzying.
"You got it?" he asks softly.
"Yeah," you say, eyes shining with tears from the bright lights. Your heartbeat is loud, but you can breathe, and it's enough for him.
He brushes his thumb over your skin and slowly pulls away, lips touching lightly to the nape of your neck. He brings his bass back into his hands and plays like nothing happened.
You look back to where you know James will be with questioning eyes.
"What?" he mouths, confused by your attention.
You shake your head at him, exasperated. What does he mean, what? Didn't he see that?
He smirks. "Do I look hot right now?"
"Boiling!" you mouth back indulgently.
He tips an open bottle of water over his head, pecs and abs shining, black hair dark and sticking to his face.
You're pretty sure someone faints, James is that attractive. Still, for some reason, you find your eyes drifting back to your bass player, find some strange need to stare at the back of his head, how his shoulder blades move under his shirt. Watch his hands slide over strings and flinch back to the minutes before, where his hands had been all over you.
You meet eyes with a girl in the front row. She's sweating and singing her heart out, and she smiles at you like it's the best night of her life. You smile back, and play pretty damn well after that.
"I'm sorry," you say, when it's all done and you're sweaty and aching in line for the tour bus shower. James lies in his bunk, Sirius leans against the bathroom door. "I know I was a mess."
Sirius makes a face of disgust. "Babe, you were fucking amazing."
"I choked."
"Everyone chokes. But let me know if we're taking turns with the on stage fondling," he says, winking, "I have pretty big hands."
You feel heat rise to your face. "Was it bad?"
"The tabloids can't decide whether to paint him as a charlatan or a sexual predator," James informs you, dropping his phone against his chest.
"He barely touched me," you say, shocked, "it was a hug."
"It was a very heavy handed hug," Sirius snorts.
"Lily wants to talk to you about it," James says, a whipped smile on his face at even the mention of your social manager.
"About what?"
Sirius looks at James and shakes his head, and the ever shirtless boy falls quiet. You look between them with a pit in your stomach, glaring daggers. "About what, guys?"
There was a clatter as the basilisk fangs cascaded out of Hermione’s arms. Running at Ron, she flung them around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Ron threw away the fangs and broomstick he was holding and responded with such enthusiasm that he lifted Hermione off her feet.
“Is this the moment?” Harry asked weakly, and when nothing happened except that Ron and Hermione gripped each other still more firmly and swayed on the spot, he raised his voice. “OI! There’s a war going on here!”
the iconic first kiss! i can’t believe it took me so long to draw this ~satisfactorily~
Hi love, i would love to see more of spencer x stripper!reader. Hope u are doing good <3
hi thank u, u too! ♡ fem
You press the heel of your palm to the shower tiles, head hanging and hair soaked to the scalp. Rivulets of hot water and soap suds slick their way down your front.
“You okay?”
Spencer's voice through the door, a better warmth than any luxurious shower. “Sorry, I'm getting out!”
“No! No, stay in there if you want, I'm just wondering.”
You force yourself out of the shower and into a towel. “I'm getting out.”
“I have some clothes for you,” he says, “I can leave them by the door.”
You wrap the towel tightly around your chest and step to the door. Spencer's startled face is on the other side, smiling nervously, a bundle of clothes held to his chest.
“They're my friends. My coworker. Penelope? I asked her first and she said she doesn't mind at all. They might not fit, but…”
“Thank you. You and Penelope.” You hold out one hand. Spencer passes you the clothes through the cracks of the door and you shut it, maybe unnecessarily.
Spencer's seen you in various states of undress, but it isn't privacy that's worrying you tonight. You can't help looking over your shoulder, wondering if someone's watching you for a split second of madness.
You pull on your borrowed pyjamas. A little Japanese cat winks up at you from the pants, the shirt a baseball tee with pink sleeves and a white body. Cute, you think. Penelope must be fun.
Spencer's in the kitchen making two mugs of tea when you emerge. It's the herbal flavour you favour, steam billowing from the rims like clouds in the cold air. Your long walk in the rain is nearly forgotten by your skin if not your pittering pulse.
“You okay?”
“I'm fine.”
“You sure?” He doesn't give you time to answer, carefully placing the two mugs on the coffee table, before tapping a gentle hand to your shoulder. “You wanna sit down?”
“I'm really fine, handsome, it's … it's not the first time someone's followed me home.” You smile falsely.
“That's not okay.”
“I know.” You point at your cup of tea. “Can I?”
“Of course you can,” he says, sitting beside you on the couch, leaving a more than chivalrous gap between you.
It's not a gap you want nor need, and after a few sips you've warmed enough to sidle closer to him, in touching distance, and then touching. Thigh to thigh, you watch the tops of his cheeks turn a pretty, blurry pink. “I was scared,” —your knuckles touch briefly to his knee— “but nothing happened. So don't worry about me, Dr. Reid, please.” You layer your voice with a sweetness that comes with seduction, a playfulness to mete his sudden regression into timidity.
“I worry about you all the time.” He smiles, at least, so it isn't a burden.
“I worry about you, too.”
“I know you can take care of yourself, I just can't help thinking about the statistics. I know exactly how likely it is that something bad could happen to you, and it's not that you should worry, I don't want you to be scared, but– it's like, it plays on repeat in my head. It's– I'm not trying to–”
“Hey, handsome,” you murmur, giving his leg a shy squeeze. “I know. It's dangerous and it's unlikely at the same time. And it feels silly talking about it.”
“But silly not to,” he adds.
“Yeah. I know, Spencer, I swear.”
“I know you know,” he murmurs through a smile.
“I know you know I know,” you joke back, smiling back sunnily. It doesn't take much of him to cheer you up. Ever since the day you met, he's been like a balm for your rampant aching, a brown-eyed, pretty-handed sweetheart. Whether it's sharing a seat on the train, or meeting up for dinner at the Indian restaurant behind his apartment, or just calling each other on the phone, he knows what to say to fix things. You forget your life, and you get to be with him instead.
Spencer puts his mug of tea down to hug you. You'd known he was going to. It always happens like this, the two of you together, drinking tea and showing each other just the smallest fraction of each other's hearts. He presses his nose to your cheek as his hands run down the length of your back, and all you can think about is how he knows nearly everything about you and he holds you voluntarily.
“Love you, Spence,” you mumble into his shoulder.
“I love you too. I'm here for you, okay? I don't care how scared I am, I love being your friend.”
You try not to sigh. Friend isn't necessarily what you want to be, but he'd let you in when you buzzed without asking why you were dropping by, and he'd held your gaze as you explained the man who'd been following you, your dead phone, your superglued shoes fallen apart in the typhoon. Spencer's everything a person could ever need. Dependable, vulnerable, sweet, kind, patient. He's pretty in every facet of the word.
“Is it really that scary?”
“Thinking about guys following you home?” he asks, rubbing your back gently. “It's terrifying. Weren't you terrified?”
You blink back the sudden heat of emotion behind your eyes. “Um,” you say, higher than you mean, “uh, it wasn't–” You shrug, but your hands feel shaky and strange.
You try not to think about what might've happened. When you realised there was someone following you, you didn't think, oh, he'll hurt me, you thought, I need to be faster. I need to get somewhere they can't.
You needed safety and Spencer was the first, safest place.
“I'm sorry for coming here.”
Spencer pushed you away from him without malice, his hands on your arms. Alarm rings his eyes, eyebrows rising, “What? Why would you say that?”
Because you didn't sign up for this. Because I'm me, and you're you, and you didn't have a choice, you were too good to let me be without you.
Because, if you think about it, Spencer is more than safety to you.
He doesn't baulk at your silence. “Hey,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing into the soft skin inside your elbow sweetly, “you like it here, don't you?” You nod. “Then– then who cares why you're here?”
Spencer pulls you into his arms again. “You'll feel better in the morning… I'm gonna get you a new phone.”
“What? Why?”
“Cos that one's always dead. You need to be able to call me when you need me.”
You smile into his shoulder. “You're not buying me a phone.”
“Watch me.”
You don't cry in his arms, but it's a weirdly close call.
Ahh I’m so obsessed with stripper!reader and Spencer!! Do you have any more thoughts about them you’d be willing to share, maybe just a snippet of their life together? So so in love with them and your writing in general
i got a different request for them that I lost about reader struggling to afford essentials and so I thought I’d combine them, I hope that’s ok!! <;3 fem, 1.1k
cw food insecurity/ poverty
You attempt to save money, but the ten dollars you don't spend on shampoo and conditioner gets used on painkillers. You hide fifty dollars in a book and try to forget about it, but your shoes split open on the walk to work, and it takes all afternoon to find it again. You try so hard to stretch your paycheck and something new makes it impossible.
So it's a cold night in late December and you spent all your money for food on the gas bill. Your stomach hurts, but at least your nose isn't that horrible stiff cold that distracts.
It's not just that your stomach hurts, though. You feel miserable about everything, and you know you need to ask someone for help. You've thought about selling something, but you already pawned your watch, and everything else is inconsequential.
I could sell my phone… but how would I talk to Spencer?
It's the stupidest thought you could've had. More importantly, how would you communicate with work? How would you call your electric and gas company, or talk to your landlord?
Spencer would be so sad if he knew you’d sold your phone to pay for food. He’d probably be upset knowing you considered it. And you won’t get paid for another three days, so unless you can somehow live off of olives and cherries from the club bar, you have to ask Spencer for money or get a loan. With your credit score, one situation is more likely than the other.
You bring your phone across the pillow and sigh before clicking on his contact. He’s practically the only number you call.
“Hello?” you ask.
“Hi, Y/N.”
“Hello, handsome,” you murmur, staging an affect of someone who couldn’t be more unbothered by the world.
“Yeah, hi. You okay?”
You don’t want to butter him up. It feels dishonest. You should be straight forward. “Spencer. You know I hate asking you for things.”
“Yes, it’s the only bad thing about you.” He sounds like he’s smiling. You can imagine him on his couch reading something obscure, or watching one of his sci-fi shows, curls in his eyes, grey pyjamas too short for him riding up his calves as they tend to do.
“But I need– um. I don’t have any money?” You don’t mean to phrase it like a question. “Like. Okay, so, I promise you I am not an irresponsible person, just, my gas bill went up and I didn’t know, but it’s so cold I paid it anyways, and now I have three dollars. Um. Total. And I haven’t eaten all day and I’m sorry I’m asking, but I just need like twenty dollars until I get paid on Tuesday. Could you let me borrow twenty dollars, please?”
“Do you want to get takeout?”
You cringe. “No, like, twenty dollars for groceries, Spence.”
“No, I understood. That’s fine, I’ll happily give you twenty dollars. But you said you haven’t eaten today? And I miss you, so it’s an excuse?” Now he’s the one making questions out of statements. “I can get us Thai food.”
Your stomach pangs at the thought. No matter how much you hate this, you know he loves you enough to want to bring you dinner, and you really will pay him back, so he might as well. “Yeah, please. I’d love to see you, Dr. Reid.”
“I’ll be quick,” he promises.
He isn’t. You wonder if he’s forgotten you and your rumbling stomach, curled into a c-shape under the sheets. It’s warm, at least, nearly too warm, the blade of your hunger threatening to drive you mad. It’s not a nice feeling, depending on the kindness of a friend to see you through, nor is it very pleasant to be this hungry. You’ve gone hungry a hundred times, and this is the only time you’ve ever had someone you trusted enough to turn to during that time to ask for help. What if Spencer’s decided he isn’t comfortable with your lending after all and he doesn’t come over tonight?
You’d been looking forward to seeing him again. It’s almost worse than the hunger.
Just as you’re thinking he’s decided he doesn’t want to be your friend anymore, he lets himself in.
Your apartment is small, consisting of three rooms. The bedroom, the bathroom, and the living room kitchen combination. He lets himself into the living room with a cacophony of rustling and a called, “Hello!” followed soon by a muttered swear.
You laugh under your breath.
“Are you coming out here, or do you want to eat dinner in bed?” he asks.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
It’s quiet enough besides his arrival that you’ve no need to shout.
“Well, stay there if you want. Have you been drinking anything? I brought iced tea and some stuff for you to have breakfast tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” You force yourself to sit up. One moment you’re looking at the closed door and the next you’re squinting against the light of the kitchen, Spencer in the doorway like a silhouette against it. “Hey, Spence. You’re taller than last time.”
“I’m the same size as always.”
“You’re still wearing your shoes. That must be it.”
Spencer takes off his shoes and crosses the short distance to you. “Hi,” he says, taking your hand as he sits down. His fingers are freezing. “Sorry I took a while.”
“Sorry for asking you for money.”
“It’s okay. It’s not something to worry about. Everyone has to ask a favour sometime.”
His hair is wind blown, his eyes watery. The cold weather has nipped his pert nose a rosy pink and he’s smiling at you with chapped lips, unaware of or uncaring about his own circumstances in the face of yours. “You okay?” he asks, his pretty brown eyes narrowing, eyebrows pinching together at the starts. “You can’t just not eat all day and not tell me.”
You nod tightly. It’s humiliating to be in this position.
He softens. “Did they tell you the rate was rising? It’s illegal in Virginia–”
You take your hand from his. “They sent me a letter I didn’t open. I knew it would be bad news.”
Spencer looks down at your knees. “I know that you’re used to doing things by yourself, but you don’t have to anymore.”
“‘Cos you look after me,” you say quietly.
“I’m trying to.”
You laugh and jog your joined hands to make him look up. “Okay. Look after me some more then and give me a hug. I’m too warm, and you’re freezing.”
He hugs you tightly, quick to rub your shoulder blade with his thumb. “Stay here, okay? I’ll bring you a plate.”
You cling to him for a few seconds, until hunger wins, and you send him off into the kitchen again.
Girl pls pls write stripper reader and Spencer where she thinks he would never date her bc she’s a stripper and just a sprinkle of angst with lots of comforting fluff and Spencer reassuring
thank u for requesting! ♡ fem, 1.5k
cw mentioned past domestic/workplace abuse, unhealthy eating habits
Someone broke into my apartment. 9:14AM
Spencer reads the message under the table but forgoes discretion when he registers what it says and who it's from. He excuses himself from the round table, something he isn't even sure he's allowed to do, and hurries out onto the landing.
You answer on the second dial. "Hey, did you see my text?" you ask.
"Are you okay?" He squeezes his phone.
"I'm not sure. I'm fine, but my lock is busted and the door won't stay shut."
"Where are you?"
If you're surprised that he's steamrolling, you don't show it. Spencer leaves work to meet you at the coffee shop you've chosen for refuge, your eyes tired, a small bag of your most important possessions hanging on a slumped shoulder. He hugs you straight away.
"I'm fine," you say into his neck.
He hugs you tighter. "That's good," he says, feeling useless, fingers stroking little paths into your shoulders. He pictured the worst from your text, and seeing you in person is the only true mitigator. You'll talk down bruises and black eyes —you have in the past.
He pulls the story from you as you walk back to his apartment, shoulder to shoulder in the cold street. "It was open when I got home, the door, but I did what you asked me to."
"You didn't go in?" he confirms proudly.
"Not at first."
"You really won't call the police?"
"I texted you."
Spencer takes the strap of your bag from you and throws it over his own. "I'm not that kind of cop. I'm not really a cop at all."
"No, you're a fed, which is worse. The girls at work told me to stay away from you." You wipe under your eyes sluggishly. Sleep clings to you like a shadow trailing behind you, ever-present.
He puts his hand behind your back, worried you'll fall up the steps to his apartment building. "They think I'll what, extort you?"
You shake your head, something sad in the slow side to side. "Girls like me have no business around guys like you."
"You probably get too much business from guys like me."
You laugh, but you both know it's not what you meant. Spencers noticed it more and more lately, nothing so obvious until now, this dead set belief you hold that he's one type of person and you're another. He gets that your work isn't what you wanted for yourself when you were growing up. He knows it isn't easy, even on your 'good' nights. It takes a toll to be seen as you are, nothing left private. But you've always said you liked stripping as much as anyone should like their job. "It's a job," you'd said, having barely known him, tired and hungry, curled up on his couch with nowhere else to go. "Only the luckiest get to really enjoy work. S'why it's called work."
He'd hoped, perhaps in a self-absorbed way, that having more support might make you feel better about yourself; he wanted his friendship to give you some confidence, basically. Before you met Spencer there was no one else you could depend on. It's why you stayed working for a man who broke your wrist until Spencer weaselled his way into your life and made you a bed in his living room for the time it took to get you out. His credentials helped, of course, but you survived it because you're resilient. You're awesome. You've done everything you can with what you have and you don't think it's enough.
You and Spencer take the elevator to his floor, and for the twenty seconds it takes to get there, you let your cheek rest on his shoulder. He's just about to drop his head on top of yours when the doors open, and the slice of quiet you'd both savoured slips like sand between his fingers.
"I can go back and get some of your stuff," he offers, guiding you the short walk to his door. He passes you the key rather than struggle with the lock himself.
Your hand shakes as you push down the handle. "There's nothing worth going back for."
"Don't say that, you have all your clothes there, your couch. You have things. I'll take my car."
"You hate driving."
"I'd hate someone robbing you even more."
"Robbing me again," you correct, holding the door for him.
You didn't have anything worth the trouble, it seems. You keep your savings in a locked box hidden in the bathroom that they couldn't find, and though your apartment is clean and bigger than the one you lived in before Spencer met you, it's mostly empty. You don't have a TV, you're not a collector. They took the radio off of the refrigerator, your microwave oven, and a box of cosmetic jewellery worth chapel change.
"But it's your stuff. You deserve to have stuff." Spencer drops your bag gently and his with less care by the door.
"It's only until the locksmith can come tomorrow," you say with a yawn. "Let the junkies lavish in my stuff for the next twenty hours."
"That's not a problem for you?"
"I don't have the luxury of that being a problem for me, Spence. What am I supposed to do? The locksmith can't come–"
"There are a hundred locksmiths."
"Not that I can afford." You shrug out of your jacket. "Spence, listen to me. It's okay. I can't ask you to do that, anyways. You've done more than enough for me already," you say, sitting on the couch. You perch for a moment like you're trying to be polite until fatigue overtakes you, and you sink into the cushions with a relieved sigh.
Spencer crosses the space between you and kneels by your feet to untie your shoelaces.
"Don't do that," you mumble, hand over your mouth as a second yawn in as many minutes catches you.
"Why not?" He slips your shoes off, letting his hand rest on your ankle. "Wanna watch that weird cooking show–"
"Why aren't you at work?"
He climbs onto the couch next to you, unafraid to sit shoulder to shoulder. "You were having an emergency."
You rub your face with both hand. "I knew I shouldn't have called you. You can't just leave work because of me, Spencer, what if you get in trouble?"
"Someone I care about needed my help, and Hotch understands that." Spencer puts on his big boy pants with a wince. "Do you get that?"
"I don't really… I don't…" You falter. "We're never going to work. You'll never…"
"I'll never what?" he asks insistently, voice lilting up with a little incredulity. He can't help it.
You refuse to answer, turning your face from his.
Spencer knows what you're going to say. He's bad with girls but he's good at recognising human emotion; he sees the same insecurity in himself as he does in you. He knows the feeling.
You're not right, is the thing.
Spencer would kiss you if he thought that would change your mind. But tired as you are, angry with yourself, defeated, he knows it's not a good idea. He takes your hand instead, sewing your fingers together with a deliberate slowness. He brings his other hand to them and strokes the back of your index finger with his thumb, careful not to disrupt your press on nails. He knows they have a tendency to come off with too much pressure, and you're always losing your glue.
"If they really need me to go, they'll call me. But I'm staying here." His thumb moves down to your knuckle. You have little calluses and cuts and bruises everywhere from dancing. He's seen the contusions that line your thighs on a semi permanent basis. "When was the last time you had something to eat?"
"Spencer," you murmur.
"Let me take care of you, please," he says, hand curling around your wrist with extreme gentleness. "You need to eat. You need to sleep. Let me worry about everything else for once, I want to."
You still don't look at him, but you sink down an inch at a time until your cheek is on his shoulder again, like it had been in the elevator. Hesitant, you wrap your arm around his stomach.
"I'm so stupid," you say.
He wonders if that's a placeholder for what you really want to say. You think so little of yourself sometimes, but it's like you've told him before. Not everyone has the luxury of enjoying their job.
"You're amazing." Spencer feels like he's on fire everywhere that your skin touches him. Is he saying the right things? "You are. You're the only person who doesn't see that."
"The only person here, maybe."
"You should always be here, then. With me. That way I can remind you."
You sound more like yourself when you answer, though tiredness lines every word, "Thank you, Spencer. I don't deserve you."
"Yes, you do."
Spencer rubs your hand until you fall asleep, and then he buys you a new toaster oven on his phone, and an industrial security lock. He doesn't know what it'll take to convince you that you deserve him, you deserve better, but he's gonna try.
He presses his cheek to your temple and focuses on the softness of your skin where it touches his.
Helllloooo :) if at all possible, could I request a fic for when stripper!reader realizes that Spencer actually like-likes her? Maybe he finally makes a real move or plans a “fancy” date to show her how much she means to him? She definitely wouldn’t believe him at first/think she deserves it, but if it could be a happy ending, I’d appreciate it so much. 🥺🥺
🐈⬛ thank youuuu
ty for requesting <3 fem
He smells like coffee.
"Hi!" you say, bending under the weight of his hug.
"What are you," —he drags his face against your cheek— "doing here, I thought you were," —his hand cups your neck as he pulls away— "going to Moira's for the weekend?"
"You sound so happy," you say, nonplussed.
"Yeah I'm happy. Do you wanna stay over? We can go to the movies, or we can get takeout, we can do both." Spencer beams at you. "Sorry, I'm– I'm rushing. I'm just happy. Is everything okay? What happened to house sitting?"
"Oh, nothing, she missed her flight," you say. "Can I come in?"
Spencer ushers you inside. His apartment is cleaner than usual. He's actually had time to clean, it seems, the faint scent of disinfectant alive in the kitchen and fresh laundry folded on the table behind the couch. He follows your eyes. "I did the stuff you left, last time. But I ended up with like, three pairs of your socks? How did that happen?"
"You didn't have to."
"Why wouldn't I?" He goes to walk off but stops, twisting around to give you another hug from the side. "Tea?"
Your face feels hot. "Yes, please."
Spencer takes to the kitchen to make tea, one of your shared routines. He grabs the kettle from the cabinet, two mugs, and two teabags. You don't know why you stay in the living room as he fills the kettle. He's putting it on the stove when he says, "Oh, hey, I got you, uh– you liked my soap, right? The chamomile? So I got you some. It's in my room, and I got you some of your chocolates from Leaven."
"You did?"
You fail to hide your excitement. Spencer waves you away without looking. "They're with the soap."
You laugh to yourself, leaning down to pull your sneakers off of your heels. You leave them by the couch and slip over the hardwood into his room, where your promised soap and chocolate sit on one of his desks. He calls them your chocolates, but you only ever tried them because he saw you looking at them one time and bought them as a surprise. You've been hooked on them ever since.
You're thinking about what joke you can make to hear him laugh. Something on the nose about him ruining your future career aspirations or a flirty nothing, maybe. You just want me to fall out of shape so I can't work.
The suitcase on the bed distracts you. Open, half packed.
"Are you going somewhere?" you ask him, chocolates and soap held loosely to your stomach.
Spencer takes the kettle off of the heat, bringing it to the two mugs to top them one at a time. "What?"
"Your suitcase?"
His shoulders tighten just so. "Well, there's this convention happening but I hate driving in the dark, so I figured I'd stay up there."
"When, tonight?"
"Yeah." He picks up the mugs and shoots you a smile. "But obviously I'm not going now."
Obviously? Spencer rounds the side of the couch to sit down, murmuring for you to come and sit with him. You follow his order without question, setting yourself on the couch cushion beside him, and find there's little resistance in you to leave space between your thighs. He leans into you as soon as he's able and hands you your mug.
There's something in his eyes. A warmth. A real affection. "I'd definitely rather be with you here than without you there. Even if there's a guest speaker who's actually managed to split shared arteries between conjoined twins while they're still in the womb."
"You're interested in that stuff?"
"Just for fun." He doesn't drink his tea. He probably didn't want any, a coffee mug already on the table, but he always makes two cups. You think it might be so you don't feel like you're an imposition. He's that special brand of thoughtful.
"Can I ask you something?" you ask, your heartbeat a tangible thump under your skin. It's a silly question guided by a stupid thought, but you have to ask. You've always wanted to see other people's hands, so to speak, uncomfortable with the unknown.
"Anything."
You've exposed the most private parts of you and still it's hard to be vulnerable. It's easier knowing you're with Spencer, but not easy. "Do you like me?"
Spencer doesn't do either of you the disservice of pretending he doesn't know what you mean. His voice is measured but shyness creeps in, an almost questioning lilt to his words as he says, "Well, yeah. I thought you already knew that."
"I thought you… appreciated the aesthetic of me."
"I do." He looks at your forehead rather than your eyes. "You know you're pretty, and your dancing, it's– it's pretty too. I think you're beautiful, but that's really not the only thing about you. You've been remarkably easy to fall for."
His cheeks are suddenly red. A blotchy staining under his cheekbones and up over the bridge of his nose. He wouldn't lie, but the blush cements that he's telling the truth. Spencer really, truly likes you, enough to buy you the gifts that sit in your lap and to cancel trips. He'd rather stay home with you and drink tea on the couch than be anywhere else.
"Spence, if you think it was easy for you, you have no idea what it's been like for me," you say quietly. That draws his eyeline back to your face. You smile at him gently. "No idea."
He puts his mug down on the table to hug you. "Careful of your tea," he says, his smile audible.
You hug his arm to your chest with one hand. When he kisses the side of your head, you're pleasantly shocked.
"I didn't realise," you say. "Sorry, Spence, I never–" Never thought you'd like me like that. "I didn't know."
Also what do you think of prison!spencer × Stripper!reader?👀
im not sure if this is what you meant but I hope you like it ♡ fem, 1.2k
"Too much," you murmur to yourself, tilting your head one way and then the other. The bags under your eyes have been dark lately from a severe lack of sleep, but all this makeup won't help make tips. "Way too much."
You lean back to ask one of the girls for a wet wipe but the dressing room is empty. Swearing to yourself, you duck down for your bag. You have tissues, and they'll have to do it.
Things have been hard since Spencer's… event. You don't sleep well without him, worse wondering what it is he's going through right now. His friends don't really know that you're seeing one another, and so being kept in the loop has felt akin to begging for scraps. You miss Agent Hotchner in times like this. He always had a soft spot for you.
You hum a song under your breath as you rub the cakey makeup under your eyes. Washing your face would be nice. Going home would be better. You've been trying to make some extra money in case Spencer never comes home; you won't have his security to fall back on if things fall apart here.
You don't want his security. You just want him to come home. Sighing, you pick up your phone and open the gallery app. It's a second hand thing you got at a pawn shop but it has enough storage to keep as many blurry photos of your boyfriend as you'd like. Pictures of him everywhere and doing everything, his big smile like a beacon.
You stop scrolling when you find the one you want. It's favourited with a red heart at the bottom of the screen. Spencer took it, you remember —you were too busy kissing his cheek to navigate the settings. He looks happy. You could never understand how happy he is to be with you, how through everything, a long time of knowing one another and a hundred thousand acts of a kindness you didn't deserve, he's stayed by your side. He doesn't care that you're a dancer. He's proud of your choices. He loves you for you, even if he does get a little jealous every now and then.
You lay your phone down on the dressing table, cheek flat beside it. "Time to come home, Dr. Reid," you whisper.
Your phone pings and you ignore it. It pings again and you turn off your notifications. It's probably Spencer's nice friend Penelope, or one of the girls wanting to borrow something.
You shed your robe to look yourself over in the mirror. The lingerie you're in tonight's not to your taste but a fan favourite, the bra and underwear both plum in colour with lace and black garters to be clipped. You turn to one side and narrow your gaze at a ladder running up your leg.
You save a bottle of clear nail polish in your bag for this occasion.
You're sitting on the floor with your leg out in front of you when someone knocks on the door. The girls don't knock.
If it's a patron you have a taser, and besides, they don't usually knock either. A bouncer, then.
"Come in, please!" you call lightly.
You don't bother looking up, a creature of habit. It'll be the same thing as usual, insert man wants to buy insert dance from you for insert amount of time. Are you interested?
You hum as you paint the rip in your garter. The nail polish will stop it from ripping any further, but you're going to need new ones.
"You're prettier than when I left. How did you do that?"
You tip the bottle over as you flinch, you don't care, you look up at the compliment and the familiar voice, and find Spencer standing in the doorway.
You've pictured this moment multiple times a day since the day he was arrested, hundreds of reactions. In pretty much all of them you throw yourself into his arms and beg him not to leave again, but all those hours of missing him coalesce on top of you. You want desperately to touch him and you end up crying into your hands instead. Tears quicker than you knew they could arrive, hot and thick as your sob.
"Hey," Spencer says, kneeling down in front of you. He takes your wrists into his hands. "Hey… don't cry."
You can't help it.
He wraps his arms around you and lets you sob. "I thought you'd be happy to see me," he murmurs.
"I missed you," you say, the words dragged from you like agony on a hook.
"I missed you too." He rubs your back. If he cares that you're in your underwear he doesn't have much to say about it. He eventually started making jokes about all of this stuff when he realised you wouldn't be offended, but he's never cruel about anything. He's far from it now, pulling your shoulder into his chest as he pats your arms. "I'm sorry, honey. I'm really sorry. It got out of control. But, on the bright side…"
You sniffle and pull your gaze up to his face. When you see the hollows of his cheeks you almost start crying again. "What?" you ask.
"Well, now I'm cool enough to be your boyfriend."
You push him backwards and crawl into his lap, knees on either side of him, weight against his abdomen. Your arms weave behind his head and you push your cheek into his likely too hard to be painless. He just sighs in relief.
"Do you have something in your pocket?" you whisper, your voice stuffy. "Or was prison very hard?"
He laughs and digs in between you to pull the little box that had been digging into you out of his pocket. "It's for you."
"Don't want it."
"I don't care if you want it. I missed our anniversary."
"I missed you," you say, clinging to him for dear life.
You can't stop hugging him long enough to look.
Eventually, he peels you off of the floor and you get dressed to go home with him. It takes a long time —you keep stopping to hug him between items of clothing, checking that he's real, that's he's him, even if he looks different now. He has to take the reins or you'll never make it home, pulling your coat over your shoulders and zipping it closed.
When he's done, he takes your face into both hands. "You've been safe while I was gone? No trouble?" he asks.
"Nobody messes with me. My boyfriend's in the FBI."
"Well, we're taking a vacation." He blows out a big breath. "Jesus, I'm sorry, but I really need to kiss you right now."
"Even though I look junky?"
"You look perfect." He kisses you before he's finished, his praise smothered by your lips. He kisses you so hard you can't breathe by the end of it. "I'm sorry," he says, pressing a softer one under your eye. "Prison was actually pretty hard." You lean in, lingering nose to nose with him. "I couldn't sleep without you near me."
"You're only saying that 'cos you saw me in my underwear."
"Yeah, that's exactly why." He practically giggles. "No, I just love you."
You couldn't sleep without him either. You get home and sleep for days, tangled with each other in bedraggled sheets.
how about some domestic stuff of post-prison reid and stripper!reader??? that one fic broke my heart in the best way
Prison changes a lot of things about Spencer, so when you get back to his place after a quick run to the grocery store and find him packing away some of his things into boxes, you're not alarmed. “Spring cleaning?” you ask, stepping around him carefully where he's kneeling by the TV stand.
“Making room,” he says.
He must have bought something. You put your tote bag in the crook of your arm and bend a touch to kiss his cheek, his hair brushing your face. “You have so many things, Spence, you need a storage locker. You need two.”
He feels blindly up your arm.
You put the groceries away, wash your hands, and cut some veggies. You season them and put them in the oven to roast, calling Spencer to see what he wants with it. “You could have the leftover chicken, or I can make, like… anything you want, actually. Pork chops, or maybe forget that and we'll have pasta, I can frankenstein the– Hey, Spence? You listening?”
You're not mad. He's always been prone to deep thought, but usually he isn't looking straight at you while you talk. “Spencer?”
“You'll move in with me, right? If I ask?”
You wring your hands. “You've asked me a hundred times.”
“But this time, you'll say yes.” He's staring at you. He already knows.
“You can at least pretend to ask me.”
Spencer closes the box in front of him. “Please, move in with me. I can't spend that long away from you ever again.”
“You see me almost every day when you're not working.”
He shrugs, smiles. “It's not enough.”
You sit on the couch. He leans over his box to hold your leg. Spencer's asked you a bunch of times, first because he worried about your safety, then because he felt it was a good option as his friend, and then again because he loved you. And you always said no because you didn't want to depend on him, and because some nagging voice in the back of your mind kept telling you he'd realise he didn't want you as soon as you got close enough. But it's been a long time since you thought that way, and his stint in prison emphasised how badly you need each other.
“So, it'll be equal?” you ask in answer.
“I'm not saying that. The rent is ridiculous, and you didn't sign up for that, and I have no idea where we'll put all your clothes. But it'll be half yours, absolutely.” He looks especially happy though apprehensive; he hasn't realised you don't need convincing this time.
“I want to bring my pink lamp for the bedroom.”
Spencer's smile changes his entire face. Puppy dog eyes turn thinner, his lips part, his perfect teeth like pearls. “I want you to bring the pink lamp. Bring everything. No one will ever understand our decor.”
You sink down on the floor in front of him and nudge aside his box for a hug. He gives it to you, and, in a slightly uncharacteristic move for him, he cuts the embrace short to kiss you soundly, his hand on your cheek. He kisses you again and again until you're laughing into his mouth.
“Does this mean you'll let me propose?” he asks softly.
Your breath catches. He doesn't sound particularly put together himself, bringing his second hand to your face, holding your forehead to this.
“I don't think it's something I have much choice in,” you say eventually, your smile audible and immovable.
You get to say yes or no, but his wanting to ask is all on him. He's flustered you unexpectedly, and the quiet laugh coming from what feels to be the deepest recess of his chest tips you over. You dip down into his neck slowly, hiding away in the curve of his shoulder as his arms come heavy behind you.
“All I could think was how much stuff I didn't get to say to you, or do with you,” he says. “If they couldn't clear my name, I kept thinking about how much time I wouldn't get back.”
You breathe out in a rush against his neck. “But you're out.”
Could I request stripper reader and post prison Spencer being all domestic? I just think Spencer deserved to have someone take care of him after that
thank you for requesting! ♡ fem
cw spencer makes a weight related joke about reader but he is one hundred percent kidding/is talking about carrying the reader and not her actual body weight, pls don't read if it will upset you
“How's it feel now?” you ask.
Spencer glances down at you from the TV. If he had his way since being released from prison, you would spend the majority of time in his lap, and the TV would not be on, but you're trying not to smother him and he's content to let you do what you want, so long as you're in arm's reach.
“How does what feel?” he asks, frowning.
“Your leg? You know, the one you stabbed yourself in?”
“Fine. Surface wound. Hey, are you almost done?”
“No. I'm making you a mug cosy.”
“Could you not come up here and make me cosy?”
You put your little crochet hook and yarn ball on the floor near the paper pattern you're following. “That's way too cheesy a thing to say for a felon.” You grin at him. “Good for you, I'm awful at this,” —you climb onto your knees, arms out to him as he grabs you and pulls you onto the couch— “and I don't want to do it anymore.”
“Then don't.” He smiles as you settle against him, half on top of him, your pyjamas soft against his bare arms and legs. “I'm not a felon.”
“I'm kidding,” you say gently.
He puts his hand against the top of your head and forces you backwards a touch to meet his eyes. “I know.”
You glare at him. He decides he'd like to play too and glares back.
“Crochet is very difficult.”
Spencer lets you drop back into his chest. “You're good at enough things already,” he says. “Like not going to prison, and being heavy.”
You bear down on him with more weight, a laugh slipping from you unbidden. He loves how startled you sound to have laughed, and how nice you smell as you push your arm under his back to hug him. “That's sick,” you mumble, your free hand toying with the soft neck of his shirt. You pull it down, kissing the skin between his collarbone. “You can't call me heavy. That's so mean.”
“I love you,” he says.
You smile into his chest. “I love you too, even though you said I'm heavy.”
“Relatively, when you're making me carry you to bed at night–”
“I don't do that,” you laugh guiltily. “No, you've got me mixed up with someone else.”
“Well, let's just stay here tonight.” Your phone beeps. “Or not.”
You press yourself into his neck and talk warmth into the curve. “I'm not going anywhere, Spencer. I'm staying right here, forever. And in ten years you'll have huge muscles from carrying me to bed.”
“And your thigh muscles will have atrophied.”
“Like those, do you?”
“As much as I like every part of you. You're the most beautiful girl in the world.”
You snore. Spencer laughs, jostling you on his chest, and you drop the facade to kiss his throat in slow, meandering presses of the lips, no one place in mind, just warm half moons turned a little wider as you go. He breathes out slowly. Kisses like this are the ones that plagued him late at night, when the mind ran out of worry and turned to missing you instead. He would've given anything two weeks ago to have you laying on him like this, and now he has it for nothing. Just ‘cos you love him.
“Are you gonna go back?” he asks quietly.
“To the club?” You draw a short line into his neck with your nose. “Sure, once you're feeling better.”
“I'm alright. I am.”
“Until I'm feeling better, then,” you say, putting your hand on his cheek. You have slightly longer nails than when he went away, and the tips of them tickle his freshly shaven cheek as you turn his face to yours. “I'll go back just as soon as I stop missing you when you're in the bathroom. Or I run out of money.”
“Don't be childish,” he says.
“I'm not, I'm being realistic.”
“Realistically, I'll take care of you.”
You sigh happily and kiss him. That happiness passes between you in shivers, until Spencer's hot under the collar and you're giggling. “What's funny?” he asks.
“Maybe I'll get a job at the grocery store.”
Spencer doesn't know what you'll do, but he'll be there for you like you were there for him. “Good idea. You can be a checkout girl and I'll stay home, looking at pictures of you and crying while you're gone.”
You nudge him. “Don't make fun of me for that! It was a long month and a half without you, Spencer.”
He closes his eyes and rests his forehead on yours. “I'm not making fun of you. It was the same for me, you know? Just didn't have a picture of you.”
Craving a postprison!Spencer x stripper!reader fic, please ma’am.
Maybe she gets a daytime job at a coffee shop or a bookstore - to “supplement her income”/ not have to dance as often (not that she’s ashamed!!) and Spencer is just so proud of her for trying and can’t quit kissing her and praising her because I know in other fics you’ve mentioned she didn’t think anyone would hire her because of her profession/self esteem, plus after prison she didn’t want to dance because she wanted to be with Spencer. 🥺
Or really just anything with a proud Spencer x stripper!reader doing anything.
Your work is fantastic and I’m in love with everything you do!! 💕 thank you and it’s totally okay if you think this request is lame or don’t wanna write it!
thank you angel! —you find a new job while making decisions about your old one after Spencer returns from prison, and Spencer would praise you for breathing, so he’s extremely proud. fem, 1.8k
Statistics differ, but estimates suggest that there are around twenty thousand strippers in Las Vegas. With a population of seven hundred thousand people (estimated up), that means that one in thirty five people living in Las Vegas dances for a living.
It’s more than you’d think. Spencer knew of plenty of women who worked as strippers, exotic dancers, or private entertainers when he was still living at home. And while the numbers are much smaller in Washington DC where he lives now, it’s far from zero. More surprising for the average person to be one, perhaps, but not for Spencer.
It used to make him blush like a steam train, sure, but it never did any of the things you were scared of. He’s never looked down on you for it, never been jealous (well, never acted like a jerk because of it), never positioned it as anything other than work. His only complaints are in your concern. You don’t like the club, most of the time. You feel unsafe often. The risk of femicide is yards higher for you as a sex worker than it would be otherwise, but who is Spencer to talk about danger? He still has stitches in his leg.
Your job used to feel more urgent, a red flashing light above your head, because you’d come around with bruises or cut knees, tear stained cheeks, and you couldn’t make ends meet for all your efforts, but things have changed. You’re reluctant to depend on him, but you’ll accept the help when you need it. Nothing keeps you there if you don’t want to be there, and when you do you’re a marvel. You are beautiful, in Spencer’s eyes. Your dancing when you’re having a good night is one of the prettiest things he’s ever seen —more than pretty, sometimes. A hot coal in his stomach.
But the fact of the matter is that Spencer’s home, and you don’t want to dance. You haven’t been to the club for weeks as far as he’s aware, and he’d consider himself well informed. You spent all your savings and started spending his instead and he couldn’t care less, what’s his is yours, whatever keeps you aloft while you make whatever decision it is you’re working toward. Not that it presented itself that way.
I’ll have to go back.
Spencer on his back, you sitting with your head turned from the TV and toward him, your hand on his hip, just resting. Where?
To work. I have enough money for the next two weeks, and then I’m all out.
Spencer wouldn’t do something as unkind as rolling his eyes, but the point of you moving in was to cement that he’d look after you no matter what. He’d turned his head to you on his pillow and reached for your elbow. You’re still resting.
You’ve been home for two months, Spencer. I’ve rested enough. I… I only managed this long because you haven’t asked me for anything and that’s not fair, we both live here.
I earn more than you, so I pay more, he’d said, confused. It’s not as though it hurt him to continue paying for an apartment he’s been living in for years.
I won’t be your leech.
You’re not my leech, don’t say that.
I can’t just not have money.
Well… he’d said. He’d never discussed it with you so openly before, always stopped at the first suggestion, but there’s a first time for everything. You know you can have whatever you want from me. Anything you want, you don’t have to ask.
Spencer… you’re my boyfriend.
Exactly.
No, you’re my boyfriend. You don’t have to keep me. I don’t want that.
He understood the ‘want’ most heavily. What do you want, angel? he’d asked, dragging your hand up his naked chest to rest over his diaphragm, your arm moving up and down in time with his breathing.
You’d seemed stricken, but not upset. Like the question surprised you in having no answer. Not sure… you’d said eventually. Mostly you.
A week passed, two. A third and you’d asked him to borrow money, just for a little while, and with the vehement promise you’d pay him back.
He’s not expecting it. So soon, either. But here you are standing in front of him with a beaming smile and little book in your hands, unzipping one of the book's inner pockets to count out the money you’d ’borrowed’. “Here you go, my angel, there’s everything.”
Spencer just looks at it. “What is it?”
“The money I owe you.”
He presses his hands to his stomach to stop you from forcing the notes into them. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“No, seriously, please take it.”
He shakes his head. “Seriously. I don’t want anything from you, I love you. That money was for you to do what you wanted, or needed. It was yours as soon as I gave it to you.”
You try regardless to put it in his hands. Your hair was done freshly a week ago, your nails manicured but unpainted, your face adorned with some new makeup he’d seen on his (your) vanity a few days ago. It honestly hadn’t crossed his mind why you’d suddenly given yourself a refresh, and he had no suspicions. You would’ve told him if you went to the club, even just via text, because it’s important he knows you’ve had access to your phone or that you’re coming home. (Plus, he’d notice you leaving at night. You’ve spent the last few evenings laying across his lap.)
“Where did you get this?” he asks, smiling softly, wondering if he’s come to the right conclusion.
You drop the money on his thigh and take a couple of steps back.
“I,” you say, holding your little book to your stomach, “got a job as a barista. They gave me my first paycheck today, a direct deposit. So I took out what I owe you and the rest of it is in here.”
“You what?” he asks.
“I’m working at the coffeehouse by the library,” you say, nodding, parts proud of yourself and parts shy.
“For how long? Why didn’t you tell me?”
You bite your lip. “Just this week. And honestly, I didn’t want you to know if I couldn’t do it.”
Spencer stands up but doesn’t cross the room to you. He could reach out and catch your hand. “How could you work somewhere new all week without me noticing?”
“You weren’t here on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday morning, and they gave me Thursday off, so I just told you a very small lie this morning about going to the store. I knew you’d get distracted by your Persian poetry again.”
He did get distracted, very much so. You’ve been and worked a whole shift without his worrying, which is a bit awful in itself (he really does love you, and he’d like to know where you are), but is also, frankly, a great thing. You should be able to work without worry. You should do anything you want to do.
Still, a whole week at a brand new job without any support, and to stand there with your paycheck as unmistakable waves of satisfaction melt off of you unkissed is insanity. Spencer’s laughing as he ushers you into his arms, as he hugs your shoulders tightly, “Oh my god!” he says, “Wow, congratulations!” He pulls back just a touch to see your face. “Please don’t lie to me about where you’re going, that’s so dangerous. I love you!”
He takes your face into both hands with your arms hanging loosely behind his back and begins a reckoning of kisses. The slope of your cheek, the skin between your nose and lips, Spencer couldn’t care less where the kisses land, he just wants them all over you. You laugh softly as he goes, almost stickily, a sound that comes deep from your chest. “I’m so proud of you,” he says, pressing a quick, mildly rougher kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“I might still strip,” you say.
“Whatever you want,” he says, squeezing your face between his palms. “What’s it like? Do you like it? Is it hard?” He kisses you again. “I wish you’d told me,” he says against your lips.
You’re quieter than he expected, and warm. He pulls away more sternly to see what’s gone wrong. He could’ve asked the wrong questions. Maybe he’s embarrassed you.
“I just wanted to make sure I could do it. I didn’t want to fail and… and have you know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, I get it.” God knows he’s failed a hundred times for you to see it. He wishes he would have hidden a lot of that from you, spared you some heartache, but he also knows how lucky he is to have you near. “That’s what we’re supposed to do, right? We should be together when stuff goes wrong.” He beams. “But it didn’t go wrong.”
“I think I’m pretty good at it.”
“Yeah?”
You hold his wrist. “And I get tips, did you know that? Not as many as before,” —you laugh to yourself loudly— “but still. It’s really cool. They pay me even if nobody wants coffee, and when people want coffee I get extra.”
Spencer kisses the corner of your eye. He kisses up to your eyebrow and down again, all over your cheek before turning your face to the other side to kiss circles into the other. “I,” —kiss— “can’t,” —kiss— “believe it.” Kiss. “Actually, I can, but I still can’t.”
“It’s just a part time job.”
“That you didn’t think you could do,” he says. “But you can do anything, I knew you could. I’m amazed by you.”
He grins and throws his arms over your shoulders.
You squeeze him right back, the two of you swaying, almost falling over. He can feel how proud you are of yourself. You deserve to feel this way no matter what.
“I like dancing,” you say, “I do, I just wish I could do it in a different… world? Is that stupid?”
“No. You’re never stupid.” He smiles as your hand weaves into his hair, fingertips scratching along his scalp, his curls caught between your fingers.
“Do you think you could come on Monday? I can make you a cup of coffee. It’s not as hard as it looks.”
“Please, I’d love for you to make me a cup of coffee.” His smile presses to your shoulder, where he breathes you in briefly, before remembering something very important. “Hey, do you wear an apron?”
“Of course I do.”
Oh my god, he thinks. There are more than half a million baristas in the United States, and Spencer will bet his monthly paycheck that you’re the cutest one to ever exist. You look cute right now in your jeans and your button up shirt, but put an apron on top of that? To see you standing behind a bar mixing drinks and pouring latte art? Monday can’t come quick enough.
cw reader is able to wear hotch's clothes, adult theme mdni
Your hands ache. You have calluses on your palm, unsightly, but if you were to soak them off you'd bleed.
The club is practically dead. You can get away with a low effort routine —old men and day drunks don't care what you're doing so long as they can see your chest. The level of undress is your choice (though the girls willing to dance fully nude get the better slots, obviously), and you've been doing this for long enough that it doesn't really bother you when a patron shouts for you to take your bra off. Your hand is slipping behind your back for the clasp when you notice him near the bar.
Agent Hotchner —you can call me Hotch— usually catches your attention and leaves. A quick nod after he's met your eyes, he'll wait for you to get dressed and meet him out front near his intimidating car. But today he watches even after you smile hello, and someone close by throws a ten at your feet like you'd been smiling for them. He's expressionless.
It's far more difficult to finish your dance knowing he's watching. He doesn't stay for long, ten seconds at most, but those ten seconds are much longer than he's ever watched you perform before.
You finish your dance, collect your tips, and trudge back to the dressing rooms. You would've made more money if you'd stripped down. Not much considering the small audience, but some. You can't explain why seeing Hotch had made you stay your hand, maybe because he's one of the only men you know who treats you like you're fully human. You don't want that to change.
It's colder outside than it was when you arrived. Traffic is picking up as people leave their jobs for the day, and the club will be busier in the night hours. You'll stay, hopefully make enough for food this week.
"Are you warm enough?" he asks immediately.
"I didn't bring my jacket." You shrug. "I'd rather be out here with you." Than go back inside, no matter how cold.
He opens his trunk with a click of the key fob and disappears behind the tail end. You can see his arm move, a bundle of black fabric. His arm flexes as he closes the trunk, and his eyebrows have hooked together when he returns to you.
"Here," he says, "it should fit."
Just a simple charcoal quarter zip. You shrug it on over your clothes and find yourself immediately greeted by the smell of men's cologne. His cologne.
"What can I help you with today, Mr. Hotchner?" you ask. You're flirting in that useless way where it doesn't mean a thing, and he knows that, because, as you've come to find about these special agents, they know everything.
"I wanted to ask you to dinner."
"Oh, I don't… I don't do the escort stuff," you say gently.
"I know." He turns his head away from you. "I realise that it's unprofessional. I know it puts you in an uncomfortable position to say no. But I want to take you out for dinner, if you'd let me."
You stare at him. "I won't sleep with you after one fancy dinner–"
"It's not like that." He speaks so calmly, so quietly.
It doesn't make any sense. He's a professional man in a successful career, with a son if you remember correctly, and a circle of peers his own age and status. If he doesn't want to fuck you, if he really wants to take you out for dinner, that's a date.
"What, you want to be my boyfriend?" you ask, shaking your head, lips pulled down in a frustrated frown.
"I– well, if things went well, I wouldn't be opposed to it." He laughs.
"Are you messing with me?"
"No, I'm sorry. I just wasn't prepared for the question."
He meets you head on. Face to face and eye to eye, he looks at you with, for once, a completely readable expression. It's a bit startling. The slight lift to his brow and his half-smile, it's an expression that says, If you want to. It puts all the choice in your hands.
"I know we don't know one another that well, I," —his eyes soften another shade, tenderness like no one's ever given you— "wanted to make my intentions clear to you. I didn't want to continue our professional relationship and then pull the rug out from under you later."
You know Hotch through car rides, mostly. He's taken you home from a couple of places now, usually after he's asked you questions about someone or something to do with the sex trafficking ring currently being squashed in Virginia. He's nice. You've told him without fretting about the consequences that he's handsome. When you first met, you asked him why gentlemen like him didn't come to see you dance.
You didn't think the answer was that they might grow to have feelings for you.
You wonder if he's just lonely. But lonely Hotch could still have a number of women that aren't you, right?
"Like you'd never get a handle on it?" you ask, subtly teasing.
He reacts to your tone visibly. His smile gets worse, which is to say better, and his voice sounds similarly teasing as he answers, "I tried to. That's exactly what you need, another old man with the wrong idea."
"I don't think you have the wrong idea, Hotch."
"But you don't reject that I'm old?"
You leap to correct him through laughter, surprised at his quick wit, and he leaps to let you know he's kidding through his own. You tell him while things are warm that you'd like to go to dinner with him, if he really means it, and he holds one of your hands like a prince, thumb ghosting over your knuckles, unafraid of the calluses on your hands. He touches you like you're made of glass.
You try to give him back his jacket before he leaves, but he insists you keep it. "If you freeze before I get to take you out, I won't forgive you."
Huh, you think as he drives away, waving, the sleeve of his borrowed jacket falling down your arm. Who knew Special Agent Hotchner was a flirt?
ivory-writes-poetry @ivory-writes-poetry - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
