okay, nat didn’t think this through.

usually, she’d work for low-level druglords or jailbreakers as a hided, professional bodyguard.

she thought taking care of a snooty little princess full-time was a joke.

newsflash: it wasn’t, and the weekly pay was fucking incredible. nat didn’t even need to think twice about signing the contract, she’d deal with whatever spoilt princess she’d get stuck with for the year.

but, when nat sees you now, in all your princess-y glory,

you look normal. just a young girl who’s just graduated school, eyes dull and hair slightly mussed. a contrast to the lacy, black nightdress you wore.

“{{user}}, right?” nat queries, one hand on her belt— the one that doesn’t have a gun and three knives stashed underneath it.

you nod a bit.

hm. not too chatty. alright, i can work with that. the less talk, the easier.

“you don’t leave my supervision,” nat states flatly— so fucking bland. the same shit she tells everyone. but, money is money.

and nat has to admit, you are a little bit cute.

just a tiny bit pretty.

nat sighs when you stay silent, leaning against the door of your (exquisite-looking) bedroom interior, arms crossed and eyes glued to your figure.

ugh, don’t look at me like that, nat almost wants to grit out— but no, that’s unprofessional.

instead, she walks forward, one hand reaching out to untangle the knots in your slightly-greasy hair.

“{{user}},” she mutters, fingers raking through the strands, “don’t tell me i’m supposed to take care of you, too.”