You didn’t bother casting your eyes around the dimly lit outdoor space, the heat that prickled along the base of your neck was confirmation enough. You could never really narrow it down as to why his presence was consuming, a pulse in the centre of the room that needled under your skin, ran you hot, every time.
Your personal running theory was that his big-headed “too cool for every room” attitude was so intensely repulsive that you could physically feel it, like a thick breeze, or more accurately, a bad smell in the air.
You wrinkled your nose at the thought of his smug stance, hands in pockets and skimming gaze that never regarded anyone properly (he wouldn’t stoop so low as to make eye contact unless he had some biting remark to make to you). You lifted your champagne glass to your lips, letting the bubbled burn that kissed your throat and chest to distract you from the thought.
Based loosely on the prompt: “alternatively, they’re in a room full of people and somehow only register each other’s presence… one character sneaks away and the other follows and after a little banter they kiss in seclusion” for Dylan please?"
Carmen found a way to use DocuSign to say "I have had a dream my entire life. I've only really ever shared it with one other person who is now gone. It is my creative soul and personality made physical. It was birthed because you saw these things in me and could understand and speak to them. I struggle to make space and you gave me it on our literal fucking menus. I am giving you the most important thing I've ever done, the best thing I've ever done. I look at this beautiful thing and do not feel worthy to touch it, so I am putting it into your hands because they are good and skilled and better than mine could ever be."
do you move to a brand new city and teach yourself how to die? have you moved to a brand new city and taught yourself how to die? will you move to a brand new city and teach yourself how to die? when will you move to a brand new city and teach yourself how to die?
do you move to a brand new city and teach yourself how to die? have you moved to a brand new city and taught yourself how to die? will you move to a brand new city and teach yourself how to die? when will you move to a brand new city and teach yourself how to die?
horrible news. came home and there isn’t a grumpy man in my bed who was a little worried about me but won’t admit it outright so he tried to stay up but he’s falling asleep with his glasses on. what am i supposed to do now
hi just wanted to thank u for writing the GOLD that is like blood and a lemon!!! i’ve read it a half dozen times, it proudly sits in my ao3 bookmarks, and it’s my favorite fic to re-read time and time again <3 i hope u keep choosing to share ur art with us all, i love it so much
Oh omg you’ve made my whole day??????
That’s so bloody sweet- I really kinda just tossed that into the void and kinda dipped hahah I do want to get back into writing again it’s just finding an idea that sparks it! Honestly I’ve been wanting to start writing for James Potter I’ve been tossing up the idea as I’ve been reading him a lot for ages now… something to think about- I’d love to hear what you might wanna read if I was to write something again? But wow just thank you thank you thank you means so much to know someone enjoyed it even re reads it 🥺🥺🥺 I’d never imagine! Love you lots 💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜
me before watching the bear: oh fun, a show about hot line cooks
me after: every single character exists to portray the different ways humans handle grief. grief and having a passion for something are the two things that propel us forward. every action and word we produce is backed up by grief, and the needing to talk it out. our found family becomes others who have lost people.
Hey! Can you do something for rockstar!james x photographer!reader??
for you!!
You're standing behind a barricade and it's so fucking cold you could cry, but you have a job to do and no time to go back and get your jacket. Your arms are tired with the fatigue that comes with carrying your camera and its expensive lens around all day.
At least you'll be paid well. And you get to see celebrities for the evening, picture perfect, handsome and gorgeous and famous enough that your breath catches when they stop for photos no matter how many times you've photographed some of them before.
"Sirius!" The photographer next to you calls. "This way! Smile for us!"
You follow the shouting and wait for the face connected to the name to smile. Sirius Black, front man of potentially the most famous indie band in Britain currently, poses without really posing. He's effortless.
James Potter walks beside him. He seems more genuine, which isn't to say Sirius Black is fake, but James smiles at the photographers like he knows them. His gaze locks in on you for a second and you can't help the schoolgirl chills that race down your spine. He's breathtakingly handsome, brown skin glowing under the bright lights above, his hair glossy and curled as if each individual ringlet has been held and twisted in the hand of an angel. He's ridiculous in how pretty he is, truly.
Without thinking, you say something unlike yourself. Photographers are allowed to compliment the people they're shooting, but it feels clumsy on your tongue. "Hey, James," you call, not too loudly, almost hoping it'll get lost in the crowd, "smile for Getty, handsome."
James doesn't hesitate to turn to you and smile. You take a photo, not your best, and drop your camera away from your eye. You give him your most genuine smile, hoping he thinks you're pretty (stupidly) while knowing you look ragged.
"Thank you," you say.
"You're welcome," James says, making a small hand gesture to Sirius. He approaches you, to the annoyance of the other photographers. "Hey, we've met before, haven't we?"
"Yeah, we have, I take photos at all the events like this one. Where's Mr. Lupin?"
"Mr. Lupin?" he asks, smiling. "Mr. Lupin's ill. He'll be alright."
"It feels strange to call you by your first name, not knowing you."
"You just called me James. And handsome, if I heard correctly."
Your heart amps suddenly into racing speeds, as though only now realising that you're having a conversation with James Potter, and that he's grinning at you like you're friends, or better. "Sorry," you say.
"So you take it back?" he asks, smile wavering.
"Of course not, you're more than handsome, I– but I– I'm not trying to cat-call you."
James' pretty smile moves back into place. He pushes his glasses back up the length of his strong nose with his marriage finger, and the blazer he wears bulges against his arm muscles from the movement. Your hands start to shake —you're a photographer, meant to take photos, not interview the talent. You have no idea what to say to him, worse, you've no idea why he's talking to you.
"Are you cold?" he asks worriedly.
"Wha– no, not really," you say.
"Are you sure? You can have my jacket, shortcake, it's no trouble."
"It is trouble? You're about to be on TV," you say.
James shoves his hands into his pockets. "I can sacrifice my TV appearances for the sake of a very cold looking, very pretty girl. It's selfish, really," he reassures you, "I like being complimented. I want you at the next event to do that again, not in hospital recovering from hypothermia."
"James, can you stop flirting for five minutes?" Sirius asks.
James nods at you apologetically and you take it for a farewell, catching up with his bandmate to ascend the stairs into the venue. The night moves forward slowly, taking photos of more celebrities, none as handsome and flirty. You're stopped short by a man in a tuxedo who looks like the servers from inside the show.
"Hi, this is for you," he says.
You frown. "Are you sure?"
"I was told to give it to the cold-looking photographer with a blue lanyard. You look cold."
It's a hoodie. It's Marauders merchandise, a black hoodie in your size with a monogrammed drum set over the breast. You slip into it and worry it's a consolation present; maybe he'd thought you were a fan.
It's not until you slip your icy fingers into the pockets and pull out a slip of paper you realise otherwise.
Gorgeous, shivering photographer,
Please ring me. I'm not above begging. I'd really like to see that photo. Love, James.
P.S. I'm not kidding, (unless you don't really think I'm handsome and were extending some professional chivalry as Sirius thinks, then please ignore this) call me! :3 <3
Your hands shake for the rest of the evening, despite the warmth of your new hoodie.
hey pookie bear❤️❤️ i was wondering if u could do james x reader but enemies to lovers/one bed troupe, i can’t find enemies to lovers with james very often and my mind is craving it. thank you ily❤️❤️
hey!! ily tysm for requesting!!! —you and co-worker!james share a hotel room for the night. fem!reader, 1.5k
James Potter is the most insufferable, arrogant, suffocating boy you've ever met in your entire life, so when you hear you'll be sharing a room with him tonight, you shut down. Total icy silence. If he wants conversation, he can ring one of his irritating mates.
It feels borderline illegal to have your workplace make you share a room considering, but you're adults, and the trip was supposedly all inclusive. Not even the most luxurious per diem could make this worth it, though.
James lays in the middle of the bed, arms behind his head, skin awash by lamplight and hair a dark halo against the crisp white linens. He grins at you and you despise how handsome he is. Handsome, and such a fucking prick of a man.
"Won't you join me?" he teases.
You've kept your vow to ignore him until that point. "Please don't lie on my side of the bed."
He moves over, looking startlingly apologetic. You'd believe he was repentant, but he asks, "What's the point? You'll be in my arms sooner or later."
You nibble the inside of your lip. He agitates you, he irks you, but you know James is a good guy. His irritating mates are the same. When you joined the office, he made sure they all remembered to celebrate your birthday though it'd only been a few weeks. When you fell up the icy steps on the way in one morning, James didn't take the piss. He helped you up into the doorway and frowned at your bloody knees and ripped tights like they physically pained him.
"Do you want to shower first?" you ask.
"I shower in the mornings. Thank you. But I can strip down now if you'd like."
"James, please," you say, rubbing your eyes. You'd usually have something much more biting to say, but you're tired. At the last second, you summon the energy. "No one wants to see that."
He glares at you like he's remembered he doesn't like you.
"Cruel."
He leans over the edge of the bed and pulls a book out of his suitcase where it lays in arm's reach.
"I didn't know you could read," you add.
"Points off for awfulness. Put your jammies on, shortcake, I wanna see what you packed."
He's being a creep to annoy you. It's working. You grab your pyjamas and a change of underwear and leave his presence to the small bathroom for a quick shower. You take your time to dry off. It's too big a wish to have him be sleeping when you emerge, and sure enough, he's wide awake but changed into his own pyjamas, plaid bottoms and a white t-shirt.
"Now I know you're obsessed with me," he says, raising his eyebrows over the pages of his book.
You cross your arms self consciously over your near identical pyjamas, the bathroom door closing behind you.
James waits for you to put your dirty clothes in your suitcase before piping up again. "You look adorable."
"Fuck off, please."
He snorts and kicks the sheets down the length of the bed. Stretching with a groan that makes your stomach hurt, he puts his novel tented down on the nightstand. His glasses are next. He looks different without them but no less handsome. If anything, the eagle shape of his nose is more pronounced without them, as is the little pink scar on his cheek, stark against his brown skin.
"You're an awful roommate," he says decisively, "you use all the hot water, you leave the windows open, as now you're ogling me. I feel rather objectified."
You avert your eyes guiltily. "You might want to take your temperature. You likely have a fever, considering how delusional you're acting."
"Ooh, burn."
Face hot with spite, you push back the sheets on your side of the bed and turn off your lamp. After a second, James turns off his.
"You're not brushing your teeth?" you ask. Your voice lacks a specific bite, fatigue kicking in.
"Did while you were in the bathroom."
"What'd you do with the toothpaste spit?"
"Swallowed it."
You laugh. It sounds much too friendly, and you hate it. "You're disgusting," you mutter.
You slide down flat on your back and pull the sheets over your legs and stomach, more than aware of his nearness and the heat of his body already waiting for you under the thin quilt. He smells nice, this close. Like deodorant, mint, but something else that snags your attention.
You hate him so much sometimes —he steals your pens constantly from your desk, he never offers you a cup of coffee even when he's making them for everyone else, and he's lazy. He doesn't do his third of the finances on time. He nudges his desk into yours to make your small figurines fall over and calls it 'earthquake training'. They're fucking plastic. James Potter drives you up the goddamn wall, and being close to someone like this couldn't be more awkward. You're stiff as a board.
"I was only kidding earlier," James says. He's quiet, but so is the room. He might as well yell. "I wouldn't lay a finger on you if you didn't want me to."
"You gave me a snakebite three days ago."
"I thought you had a bug on you," he says furiously, having had this argument already. "That's not the point. If you want me to sleep on the floor, I'll do that. I have no intention of making you uncomfortable."
"You've already failed, then."
He sighs. "I can go sleep on the floor in Sirius and Remus' room."
"They wouldn't have you in the bed?" you joke lightly. They have a close friendship. It's nice, even though you might pretend they're a throuple whenever single girls visit the office to ruin his chances.
"Oh, they probably would."
"It's fine. Don't… don't bother. It's not a big deal for me if it isn't for you. I know you wouldn't try anything."
"Yeah?"
"Of course. You're a bitch, but I don't believe you're that kind."
James laughs loudly, his chuckles shaking the mattress. You swear you can feel his eyes on your face, though the room is bathed in darkness and the strings of scarce red light blinking from the alarm clock.
"Good. I'm not that kind of bitch," he agrees.
"Well. Goodnight."
"Yeah, goodnight, shortcake."
You roll your eyes at his nickname. Whether your short or tall isn't his concern, James calls you shortcake because he's very tall, and he holds that against you often like a schoolyard tease, papers held out of reach, your figurines hidden in alcoves or on top of cabinets.
You turn onto your favoured side and try not to care that you're facing him. James falls asleep first, his breath slowing until a snore emerges, his weight dipping the cheap mattress. Combined with your own, you start to slide toward one another.
Fucks sake, you think, edging back.
Space reestablished between you, you close your eyes and try not to think about what he looks like when he sleeps. As you nod off, you feel the soft skin of a hand curling around your forearm. A quarter circle rubbed into your pulse.
—
James wakes first, and he is Oh so thankful. He isn't a pervert, he swears, he has no idea why he's curled around you like this. Hugging your arm to his chest like a teddy, his face curved downward, his nose pressed to your forehead, he wakes and he panics hard.
You aren't touching him back. Sunlight filters in through shitty translucent blinds and kisses your unassuming face, your lashes lightened, your lips pointed down in sleep. He worries something's upsetting you while you doze. He bites his tongue.
It's none of his business. None of his business why you're having a restless morning.
James twists and lets your arm fall naturally back onto the sheets, squinting in the sun at the alarm clock. It's barely five AM. You needn't wake for another two hours but you will, if you keep frowning.
James holds his breath. Carefully, he settles back onto his side facing you and cups your face. It feels too intimate, too much. He pulls his hand away after half of a second, opting to take your hand again instead.
He's seen you cry before. Bloody hands and knees, humiliated and cold, you'd sniffled on the steps leading into the office and asked him not to tell anyone. Remus and Sirius know everything there is to know about James. His genuine but waning dislike for you, his budding crush. And yet, after pretty much a lifetime telling them every secret he'd ever come into contact with, James didn't tell them about that. He gave you the packet of tissues from his pocket, and he told you a lie about falling in the exact same place a year before you started working with them.
The expression you gave him then is the same you wear now as he rubs the palm of your hand with his index fingers. You're comforted. Your unseen unhappiness abates.
James falls asleep like that, drawing shapes into your hand.
—
i love him i want him to be my office frenemy. ty for reading!! pls reblog if u enjoyed it means so much to me!
Based on this ask request: can I request this “alternatively, they’re in a room full of people and somehow only register each other’s presence… one character sneaks away and the other follows and after a little banter they kiss in seclusion” for dylan please?
Um so! here have a whole entire mess of a big old fic? This got SO out of hand y'all, blame Dyl’s slut era and my inability to be concise. My first smut in a long while so… Hope it’s not too rusty? feedback would mean the world to me ❤️ I really really really hope you enjoy! AHhh 💗😊 also thank you @theinternetisfulloftrash and @dobrienwrites for the help with idea’s/ encouragement and editing 😊😊😊😊😊
