James Potter x f!reader, angst, slight mentions of sex, toxic behaviour - 1.3k
You should’ve known when you ran into Euphemia Potter at the grocery store, last week, that you’d be seeing James any day. Nothing could have prepared you for how it would make you feel, though. It’s like digging your nails into a fresh wound and feeling the blood seep out, having him standing there in front of you. He looks ridiculous. Ridiculous and handsome, and somehow caught off guard as if he hadn’t expected you to be here… at your place of work. You’d realised what you’d done the minute you mentioned to his mum that you had a new job at a café book store on Market Street.
Euphemia Potter is a kind woman, even since yours and James’ break up – if you could even call it that. But you know her well enough to know she’d tell James exactly where to find you. She’s a meddler at her core.
“Can you cover me for a couple minutes?” You ask your coworker, already pulling your apron off and making a move to the gap in the counter.
You don’t wait for a response, nor do you tell James to follow you, but he does. All the way out to the alley where none of the customers can overhear. The sun is close enough to setting that the alley is shaded, a chill breeze filtering through.
“Are you out of your mind?” You turn on James the minute the door closes behind him.
He doesn’t look offended by your outburst. He actually looks amused as he gives you a once over, a smirk forming on his lips. He looks sunkissed, probably more muscled than before. You hate how good he looks. He’s grown his hair out a little. It curls around his ears in dark waves, now.
“Mum mentioned she ran into you. Said you looked good. Happy.” James tells you as he crosses his arms across his chest. He leans against the brick wall, head tilted in a way you know means trouble.
Your blood boils. “So, what? You’ve come to ruin it?” You ask.
In all the years you’ve known James, he only comes around when he wants something from you. It usually always comes at the price of your happiness. He’s like a sickness bug you can’t shake, because you give in every single time. Last time was the last, though. You can’t keep waiting for him to take you seriously.
“No. I’ve come to apologise.”
You scoff, disbelieving. “You never apologise, James.”
“I’ve apologised several times.”
“But you never mean it. You never change.”
He grows frustrated with your resistance, pushes himself off of the wall, “What do you want from me? What do I have to do to prove I’m sorry?”
You roll your eyes at him. It’s the same shit every time.
“You showed up at my work, James. I don’t want anything from you, least of all a half arsed apology.”
James blocks you from grabbing the metal door handle. He gives you a rare, earnest look. One that tells you he’s trying. You retreat with a huff.
“I tried to call you.” He tells you, like it will win him brownie points.
“I blocked your number.”
He laughs sardonically, kicks a pebble that scuttles down the alleyway and bumps into the trash can further down. “Of course you did.”
“Yeah, of course I did, James!” Your chest burns, you run a hand through your hair in frustration. It’s so typical of James to show up after months and make this your fault.
“We don’t work,” You start, pacing back and forth in front of him, “we keep trying but it just doesn’t work. You say you’re going to change, that you’re trying, but you’re not quite ready to settle down. And I just lap it up. Every time! It’s not fair, James.”
He at least has the decency to appear guilty. James licks his lips, opens his mouth to retort, but you think for once you’ve silenced him. He knows it’s true. Every time he promises he’ll go out less, come home drunk less, make more of an effort to spend time with you, to treat you right. But it all boils down to one thing: he’s never ready. Not to settle down, not to leave the pub, not to take you or your feelings seriously. And when he ditches you, goes out all night and cancels plans, you retaliate by getting with someone else. It’s not healthy.
“I haven’t drank in weeks.” James offers, like it’s a revelation.
“Oh, shit, well…” You scoff, turning away from him completely. Words fail you.
“I am sorry, okay? I’m always fucking sorry. I don’t know what else to say, I don’t know why I can’t stop letting you down! But I miss you. I miss our friendship” James pleads with you.
Friendship. Your veins itch. You turn, probably quicker than he’d intended. He startles when he notices the tears welling in your eyes. You hate it. Hate the pity he gives you. It makes you feel too hot, embarrassed. You’ve always cared too much about him. Your mouth tastes like bile, throat dry and scratchy. You force yourself to ask, voice shaky, “do you love me?”
His brows furrow in the middle and his lips quiver. He looks up and down the alleyway like the answer might be standing there, waiting for him. He doesn’t say anything.
“Four years, James. Four fucking years and you still can’t tell me you love me. It’s not fair. You have to let me go.” You beg as you swipe angrily at fat, wet tears that fall fast down your cheeks.
“I can’t.” His voice is teary now, too.
You shake your head, sniff. “It’s cruel. I’ve always felt more for you than you have for me. You use it to reel me back in all the time. I can’t do it anymore, James.”
You think about all the times James has shown you his feelings, how minuscule it feels in comparison to yours. He appreciates you. He likes the sex. He likes the companionship and the lack of loneliness. You love James. From the moment you met him. It had felt so exhilarating at first, the flirting, the secrecy, the fling of all flings. James was sweet, respectful. Until you wanted more. Until you told him you’d caught feelings, and he told you he wasn’t ready – couldn’t be a good boyfriend, cared too much about his friends and having fun and not enough about you to make the changes.
“It was a good run, James. But it’s over.”
“I’m trying. I’ll change this time.” James pleads.
“You said that last time. And the time before that. It’s not enough, James.” You tell him. It feels like your heart is splintering inside of your chest. Every muscle in your body begs you not to walk away. But you have to.
James looks like he wants to argue, but he swallows it, nods once.
“Bye, James.” You murmur, slipping through the metal door. It feels like your world is ending, like someone is sitting on your chest, even if you know it’s the right thing to do. The door closes behind you with a resounding thud and it's only then that you let yourself fall apart.
hey! how about james not letting reader go home alone and he's like "i'll see you off it's no problem" but reader doesn't want him to miss out on the party, i feel like he would be so set on walking reader home.
thank you for requesting!
James Potter x reader, fluff - 1.2k
You feel guilty when James appears on Sirius’ front stoop, slinging his jacket on. A puff of condensation appears while he rubs his hands together and he bounces on his toes, smile bright and kind.
“Ready?” He asks.
“Sure.” You mumble, turning to walk down the steps of Sirius’ home.
James seems perfectly happy to be walking you home, had practically bitten off your arm to have the opportunity. But it doesn’t stop the guilt bubbling in your stomach every time you think about the fact that James has left what is still a fully in swing party to see you home. James is the life of every party – talks to everyone, is always up for Sirius’ silly games, has the loudest laugh and the biggest smile. He’s the centre of every room, a bright light that makes everyone ten times more jovial. You wonder if he even really notices or enjoys those facts, considering he was so willing to leave. With you. Your stomach roils.
“Are you warm enough?” James asks as you walk, hands stuffed in his pockets.
It’s not quite spring yet, but it’s fast approaching. Someone might wish to tell mother nature. The night air is cold and thin – your jacket does little to fight the biting cold, but you don’t dare tell James as much. You know him well enough to know he’d give you his own jacket and you already feel guilty enough, you’d simply never recover if he made himself freezing cold just for your own gain.
“Yeah, all good, James.” You assure him, falling into step beside him as you approach the cross walk at the end of Sirius’ street. “Thank you for walking me home. You really don’t have to. You could still turn back, I’m only a couple minutes down the road…”
James makes the same noise of disapproval he did when you’d tried to shut him down the first time, back in Sirius’ kitchen. “Well then it’ll only be a couple minutes on my way back, won’t it?” He grins, turning briefly as he walks to look down at you.
His eyes are so kind, determined in his stead. Your tummy flutters at the thought and you have to remind yourself that that’s just James. Kind, funny, caring.
You roll your eyes good naturedly at him, shoulders bumping as you step down from the curb onto the road. James, without even really realising, places his arm out to halt you, checking there’s no traffic coming before continuing. It’s only once he’s assessed the situation that he talks again.
“How did your presentation go, yesterday?” He asks.
He notices your surprised silence, he adds, “Remus mentioned you were stressed about it.”
You nod, turning into the alleyway that connects your street to the main road. James steps closer to you in the darkness. You become all too aware of how good he smells, how warm he feels. You push on, regardless.
“It went okay, I think. The proposal got approved, so that’s this campaign finished and I’ll be on to the next one, next week.” You tell James, aware that you’ve slowed ever so slightly so you’re just behind him. James doesn’t seem to mind that you’re very obviously offering him up as bait should someone come down the alley.
James doesn’t know the ins and outs of your job, only that you chop and change projects all of the time. You only get the ball rolling on them before passing them on and starting another one. James can’t imagine spending so much time on something only to have someone else see it through. “Well, that’s good, at least. I knew you’d be fine when Remus brought it up.” He compliments.
You’re suddenly glad for the darkness of the alleyway when you feel the heat that creeps up your neck at his kind words. “Thank you.” you mumble, blushing.
“You have much on next week?” James asks.
The streetlights along the front of your house come into view. You feel a little resentment about it, selfishly wishing you could spend a little more time with James.
“Nope. Just the early stages of prep, should be a light week.” You answer.
“Fancy dinner? Wednesday?” James asks.
“Sure, I need to talk about a book we want to promote with Remus, anyway.” You follow James into the light of the street.
James hums, looks like he’s debating saying something, having an internal argument with himself. He stops, dead in his tracks and you almost bump into his back until he turns to face you. He looks down. His hair flops into his eyes, he forces himself to take a breath.
“What if it was just us?” James asks, trying to stuff his hands further into his pockets.
“Like you and me?” You ask dumbly.
James fights a smile, and probably a snide remark about how he couldn’t have meant anyone else. “Yeah.” He breathes.
Your heart stammers. He’s James. Your friend. Who is incredibly sweet, who dotes on you, who flirts and brings you sweet treats and leaves parties to walk you home. It makes sense, suddenly. Perhaps he doesn’t do that for everyone. Shit.
“Like a date?” You’re aware of how silly you sound but you need to be sure.
“Not like a date,” James’ smile is slow to start, but when his teeth peak through, you can tell he’s sure, “a date.”
Your cheeks dimple when you smile, red with both cold and your ridiculous blushing. “I’d like that.” You tell him, honestly.
James nods once, schooling his features, “perfect. Okay, c’mon, let's get you home before you freeze.”
You follow him dumbly, still reeling. Your house comes into view along the street and suddenly, the dread you’d felt at leaving James is gone. You’ll see him in a few days. On your date. God, what a revelation.
When you reach the bottom of the path to your house, James’ hand reaches for yours. It’s warm, soft skin brushing against yours. You turn to him, smile genuine, if a little nervous.
“I’ll see you Wednesday?” He asks.
He’s so handsome.
“Yes.” You tell him, biting back the most ridiculously happy smile.
Turning to walk up the path is hard. Your conversation feels unfinished, you feel reluctant to leave James. You get three steps away from him when your feet stop of their own accord and you turn to look at him. He’s already watching, waiting until you get into the house to leave. If you think twice about what you really want to do, you’ll talk yourself out of it.
James looks amused, if confused, when you approach him at lightning speed. His glasses bump your nose as you stand on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. It’s warm, the scent of cologne filling your nostrils. James looks infinitely happy when you pull away, fingers lifting to touch where you’ve just left a glossy mark on his cheek.
“Thank you for walking me home, Jamie.” You whisper, fingers brushing his when he returns them to his side.
James’ smile is the brightest you’ve ever seen, like the sun, “best decision I’ve ever made, lovely girl. Goodnight.”
You wave, too flustered to say anything, and make to your house, where you pray Lily has left Sirius’ party since your departure so that you can call her and freak out.
hey! how about james not letting reader go home alone and he's like "i'll see you off it's no problem" but reader doesn't want him to miss out on the party, i feel like he would be so set on walking reader home.
thank you for requesting!
James Potter x reader, fluff - 1.2k
You feel guilty when James appears on Sirius’ front stoop, slinging his jacket on. A puff of condensation appears while he rubs his hands together and he bounces on his toes, smile bright and kind.
“Ready?” He asks.
“Sure.” You mumble, turning to walk down the steps of Sirius’ home.
James seems perfectly happy to be walking you home, had practically bitten off your arm to have the opportunity. But it doesn’t stop the guilt bubbling in your stomach every time you think about the fact that James has left what is still a fully in swing party to see you home. James is the life of every party – talks to everyone, is always up for Sirius’ silly games, has the loudest laugh and the biggest smile. He’s the centre of every room, a bright light that makes everyone ten times more jovial. You wonder if he even really notices or enjoys those facts, considering he was so willing to leave. With you. Your stomach roils.
“Are you warm enough?” James asks as you walk, hands stuffed in his pockets.
It’s not quite spring yet, but it’s fast approaching. Someone might wish to tell mother nature. The night air is cold and thin – your jacket does little to fight the biting cold, but you don’t dare tell James as much. You know him well enough to know he’d give you his own jacket and you already feel guilty enough, you’d simply never recover if he made himself freezing cold just for your own gain.
“Yeah, all good, James.” You assure him, falling into step beside him as you approach the cross walk at the end of Sirius’ street. “Thank you for walking me home. You really don’t have to. You could still turn back, I’m only a couple minutes down the road…”
James makes the same noise of disapproval he did when you’d tried to shut him down the first time, back in Sirius’ kitchen. “Well then it’ll only be a couple minutes on my way back, won’t it?” He grins, turning briefly as he walks to look down at you.
His eyes are so kind, determined in his stead. Your tummy flutters at the thought and you have to remind yourself that that’s just James. Kind, funny, caring.
You roll your eyes good naturedly at him, shoulders bumping as you step down from the curb onto the road. James, without even really realising, places his arm out to halt you, checking there’s no traffic coming before continuing. It’s only once he’s assessed the situation that he talks again.
“How did your presentation go, yesterday?” He asks.
He notices your surprised silence, he adds, “Remus mentioned you were stressed about it.”
You nod, turning into the alleyway that connects your street to the main road. James steps closer to you in the darkness. You become all too aware of how good he smells, how warm he feels. You push on, regardless.
“It went okay, I think. The proposal got approved, so that’s this campaign finished and I’ll be on to the next one, next week.” You tell James, aware that you’ve slowed ever so slightly so you’re just behind him. James doesn’t seem to mind that you’re very obviously offering him up as bait should someone come down the alley.
James doesn’t know the ins and outs of your job, only that you chop and change projects all of the time. You only get the ball rolling on them before passing them on and starting another one. James can’t imagine spending so much time on something only to have someone else see it through. “Well, that’s good, at least. I knew you’d be fine when Remus brought it up.” He compliments.
You’re suddenly glad for the darkness of the alleyway when you feel the heat that creeps up your neck at his kind words. “Thank you.” you mumble, blushing.
“You have much on next week?” James asks.
The streetlights along the front of your house come into view. You feel a little resentment about it, selfishly wishing you could spend a little more time with James.
“Nope. Just the early stages of prep, should be a light week.” You answer.
“Fancy dinner? Wednesday?” James asks.
“Sure, I need to talk about a book we want to promote with Remus, anyway.” You follow James into the light of the street.
James hums, looks like he’s debating saying something, having an internal argument with himself. He stops, dead in his tracks and you almost bump into his back until he turns to face you. He looks down. His hair flops into his eyes, he forces himself to take a breath.
“What if it was just us?” James asks, trying to stuff his hands further into his pockets.
“Like you and me?” You ask dumbly.
James fights a smile, and probably a snide remark about how he couldn’t have meant anyone else. “Yeah.” He breathes.
Your heart stammers. He’s James. Your friend. Who is incredibly sweet, who dotes on you, who flirts and brings you sweet treats and leaves parties to walk you home. It makes sense, suddenly. Perhaps he doesn’t do that for everyone. Shit.
“Like a date?” You’re aware of how silly you sound but you need to be sure.
“Not like a date,” James’ smile is slow to start, but when his teeth peak through, you can tell he’s sure, “a date.”
Your cheeks dimple when you smile, red with both cold and your ridiculous blushing. “I’d like that.” You tell him, honestly.
James nods once, schooling his features, “perfect. Okay, c’mon, let's get you home before you freeze.”
You follow him dumbly, still reeling. Your house comes into view along the street and suddenly, the dread you’d felt at leaving James is gone. You’ll see him in a few days. On your date. God, what a revelation.
When you reach the bottom of the path to your house, James’ hand reaches for yours. It’s warm, soft skin brushing against yours. You turn to him, smile genuine, if a little nervous.
“I’ll see you Wednesday?” He asks.
He’s so handsome.
“Yes.” You tell him, biting back the most ridiculously happy smile.
Turning to walk up the path is hard. Your conversation feels unfinished, you feel reluctant to leave James. You get three steps away from him when your feet stop of their own accord and you turn to look at him. He’s already watching, waiting until you get into the house to leave. If you think twice about what you really want to do, you’ll talk yourself out of it.
James looks amused, if confused, when you approach him at lightning speed. His glasses bump your nose as you stand on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. It’s warm, the scent of cologne filling your nostrils. James looks infinitely happy when you pull away, fingers lifting to touch where you’ve just left a glossy mark on his cheek.
“Thank you for walking me home, Jamie.” You whisper, fingers brushing his when he returns them to his side.
James’ smile is the brightest you’ve ever seen, like the sun, “best decision I’ve ever made, lovely girl. Goodnight.”
You wave, too flustered to say anything, and make to your house, where you pray Lily has left Sirius’ party since your departure so that you can call her and freak out.
I love your writing and wanted to ask if you can write Sirius Black X muggleborn Reader where they dating for a while and are really in love with each other but then she finds out that he asked her out first to piss off his family and she gets upset and feels insecure??
it's okay if you can't
or just don't want to
sorry to bother you
love you 💜
bye 👋
thanks for requesting!
sirius black x f!reader, angst, slight mentions of violence - 2.2k words
Things are… frosty, to say the least – and Sirius can’t exactly blame anyone except himself. Maybe, just maybe, if he was feeling so inclined to be particularly petty he might blame Regulus. But, even Sirius knows this is no one’s fault but his own, whether or not Regulus had been the one to tell you how horrible of a person Sirius is – can be. The worst part is Sirius would like to think he’s changed since he met you. But perhaps there’s a part of him – an old, broken part of him, the part of him that makes him a Black through and through – that will always be old and rotted, a predisposition to turn everything he cares about into a flaming, explosive mess. Being a Black is singlehandedly a curse and the entire reason he’s in this mess at the same time.
Sirius would rather face the end of Walburga’s wand than keep picturing the look on your face when he’d blown your relationship to smithereens. His chest physically aches, heart ripping apart just thinking about the sheen of your eyes. Your beautiful eyes, usually filled with light and laughter, the first thing Sirius had ever noticed about you. They showed every emotion you ever felt, and your emotions had been clear as day then, as they are now. Now, they display nothing but ice cold hatred. And Sirius can’t even blame you for it.
The minute the portrait swings open and he steps through, the hairs on the back of Sirius’ neck stand up. You’re sitting in the arm chair with Lily on the floor at your feet and Marlene and Mary on the settee to your left. His heart hammers in his chest as he looks at you. You look tired, dark, sunken circles under your eyes and your skin pale, almost lifeless. He wants to pitch himself off of the astronomy tower at the thought that it’s his fucking fault. The look Lily gives him is pitiful, somewhere between disappointment and sympathy – Sirius bets he doesn’t look much better than you. You look over, only for a second long enough to notice that it’s him standing on the other side of the common room. Your head snaps back to the book in your lap, lips turning in on themselves, a nervous tic.
Sirius can hear his heartbeat in his ears, feels like his heart is about to jump out of his throat. He wants to cross the room and tell you everything. He wants to tell you that he never meant to hurt you, that sure, maybe finding out you were muggle born fuelled his desire to date you, if only to piss of Walburga and Orion, but he’d already been planning on asking you out, and as soon as he knew you – truly knew you – it didn’t even matter to him. His plan of pissing off his parents had gone completely out the window the first time you smiled at him, like, really smiled at him, unguarded and completely happy. He hadn’t thought once about the connection between your bloodline and his between stolen kisses in the dormitory stair wells, or on overly touchy walks to class, or mornings spent trying to make you laugh over breakfast.
Sirius had truly, truly loved you – still does. He never meant to break your heart, and he’d spend the rest of his life making it up to you. But you’d made it perfectly clear – you never want to talk to him again. So, instead of begging you to hear him out and likely embarrassing himself in front of Lily, Marlene, and Mary – which he'd do in an instant for you if he thought it would work – Sirius takes himself to bed. He waits until he’s in the confines of his curtained bed, muffliato spell double cast, and he lets himself break down.
–
You haven’t slept in almost a week. Not since Sirius had confirmed your biggest fear. He’d looked you right in the eyes, his heart visibly breaking, tears streaming from slate grey irises, and promised you he hadn’t meant to hurt you.
It started out as that, yes. But the minute I got to know you – really know you – it didn’t matter anymore.
The truth is, you saw the heartache on his face. You know he loves you. But you can’t stop picturing him, using you as a bargaining chip against his parents. His parents who he hates. He’d used your name, your bloodline, to get a rise out of them. You’re not sure you can forgive that.
The sky is clear, an inky black that swallows the rolling hills in the distance. You can see the twinkling lights of Hogsmeade, not nearly as bright as the stars above. You’re not sure why it feels like torturing yourself, staring at the brightest star in the sky. In a way, it’s the only way you can look at him – a piece of him – without getting the taste of bile in your mouth. For the last couple of days, every time you’ve seen Sirius – the person, of course – your stomach rolls and your chest aches, fingers reaching out to comfort him because, truthfully, he looks like shit. He looks exhausted, broken. Then the anger kicks in, takes over your bones until all you feel is a burning in your stomach and disappointment so heavy it weighs you down, stops you from approaching him.
The astronomy tower in the middle of the night is peaceful. Truthfully, you think you’d come here that first night hoping he’d be here, like he usually would be. Waiting for you with stolen pastries from the kitchens and the warmest blanket from Remus’ collection. Every night he hadn’t come had felt both a relief and a bitter disappointment.
You’re not expecting him now, though. Don’t hear him climb the metal steps, or call your name. Perhaps he hadn’t expected you. He calls your name, your entire body stiffens like a reflex. You used to love the way he said your name, the way it made you feel love in its simplest form. Now, it makes a lump rise in your throat as you turn to face him. He has the map in his hand.
“That’s not fair. I told you I didn’t want to talk to you and you’ve used the map to corner me.” You’re aware of the cold temperate of your voice, how harsh you sound, when Sirius flinches like you’ve struck him. Your mouth tastes bitter.
He looks infinitely more tired than he had mere hours ago in the common room. His face is splotchy, his hair a tangled mess, and his cheek bones are more hollowed than normal – he looks almost as sickly as he does when he returns from Grimmauld Place during the summer. Hasn’t looked like that since he moved in with James. It’s a conflicting feeling, to care for someone so much and have them shatter your heart. Your hands itch to touch him, to soothe the skin of his face with your fingers, but the weight of your disappointment keeps you rooted to the spot.
“I didn’t even look at the map. Just brought it in case I ran into Filch.” Sirius offers. His voice is monotonous, flat. His posh accent comes out more when he’s trying to hide his emotion, a habit of growing up in the environment he did, you assume. You hate that you’re on the receiving end of it.
You nod once, stiff. Sirius sighs, jamming the backs of his wrists into his eye sockets as he takes a calming breath. The map crumples in his fist when he squeezes it tightly.
“I don’t know how to do this.” Sirius tells you. His eyes are honest, vulnerable. He considers taking a step closer to you, out of the shadows and into the moonlight but thinks better of it. He stays rooted to the spot, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I hate seeing you so sad. I hate knowing it's my fault even more.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have used me, then.”
Sirius looks like a kicked puppy, though he nods like he knows he deserves your harsh words.
You bite out a quiet, “sorry.”
“Don’t apologise.” Is his instant response.
Silence befalls you both. Only the gentle breeze can be heard. You don’t know what to say, what to do. You hate the silence between you both, hate how far away he feels.
“I wasn’t fair to you,” Sirius rushes out, almost like he was scared he might not say anything at all if he didn’t practically shout it at you. “I should have told you sooner. From the very beginning, even. But if I’m being honest, the minute you said yes to going out with me, the thought of how being with you could piss off my parents, it just… it vanished.
I was so happy that I had a shot, that I had a chance, I didn’t even think about it again.”
Your heart pounds against what feels like broken ribs, your breath stuck in your throat.
“Then how did Regulus find out?” You ask.
Sirius scoffs at the mention of his younger brother, “Because he’s Regulus. He couldn’t wait to tell Walburga, it was practically the first thing out of his mouth off the train – that you and I were together. As much as it pains me to say it, he’s smart. He told her you were muggle born for his own gain, but he watched as she…” He trails off, eyes cast at the ground. Sirius has never been particularly forthcoming with the details of his life at Grimmauld Place, not with you. He always said your ears were far too pretty to hear such stories. But you could imagine, if the scars on his back were anything to go by.
Your heart clenches at the thought.
“He watched. And I’ve never been one to take a beating without a fight. So I antagonised her. I egged her on and I used your status to do it,” He sounds bitter, self-loathing, “and I will regret that for the rest of my life. I promise you, I never had any intentions of hurting you. I never…”
He’s crying, quiet tears and soft hitches of his breath. You realise, startled, that you’ve followed suit. That’s not how Regulus told you the story, which, of course, makes sense.
“Sirius, I…” You don’t know what to say. Your head is spinning and your heart hurts for him, because of him. He broke your heart, still. Just, maybe not as bad as you’d thought. “I get it. It couldn’t have been easy to grow up there. With them. But you are good. You are not like them. I would like to think I know your heart, if at least a little.”
Sirius shakes his head disbelievingly. “I’m a Black. This is what we do. We darken everything that is good.” He tells you.
A small laugh escapes you, quiet, barely there. But Sirius catches it, head snapping up to look at you. There’s hope there. You wouldn’t dare squash that.
“You always did have a flair for the dramatics, Sirius. You are not them.”
Sirius looks ready to argue that point, but he thinks better of it, afraid of breaking the small spell of peace that has come across you both. So, he nods, a resigned look on his face.
“It’s not fair to ask, but do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?” He looks so childlike, his voice quiet and unsure. You’re reminded of twelve-year-old Sirius. He was brash, bold, and loud. But there were moments where you could tell… he was just a child who came from an unloving home, who had to battle for his mother’s approval. He’s still that boy, deep down. Maybe that will never leave him, even in his adulthood.
You don’t know how to answer him. Don’t know if you’re ready to begin thinking of an answer. Truthfully, you don’t know the answer. Sirius took your most precious possession – your trust, your love – and broke it. He looks at you, his expression growing more solemn the longer you take to answer. Your Sirius, your happy, loud, joyful Sirius. His love had been real, hadn’t it? You’d experienced it, felt it through stolen pastries, soft kisses, silly doodles, ridiculous jokes. You’d relished in the safety he offered you, in his patience, in his doting, his sarcasm, his flirting.
“I think,” You sigh, “perhaps, with time. I care so much for you, Sirius. But I’m not sure it can ever go back to the way it was.”
Sirius looks deflated, but he nods. Understands.
“We can start by being friends.” You tell him, eyes searching.
There’s a spark there, in his eyes. Hope. Relief. It puts a piece of your heart back into place.
“Friends.” He agrees.
Sirius walks you back to the common room, that night, heart in his throat in fear that he’ll do something to push you away again, while simultaneously promising himself to prove to you every day that he deserves your friendship, your forgiveness; and for the first night in almost a week, you sleep soundlessly.
here’s a cute little request for james if ur up to it! could u write smt like reader came from a big family and she cooked and cleaned for them but james was an only child so he’s very confused when reader can’t cook dinner just for them it’s like 5 batches of food bc i just had that happen and my friends were so amused by me
thanks for requesting! sorry this took so long, I'm slowly getting back into writing <3
James Potter x f!reader, r is from a large family, fluff
James is aware that, perhaps, from time to time he can be guilty of forgetting there is a world filled with people, besides him and his family. People who have different experiences, knowledge, lives from him. He wouldn’t call himself self-obsessed. It’s more that James loves his life so much – his parents, his friends, his job, you – so much that he can’t imagine life any other way.
For example, when he met Sirius, brash and chaotic as he may have been, he found it hard to picture Sirius’ life outside Hogwarts. He couldn’t imagine the Black family home, how it felt to grow up there, to live there, to have Walburga and Orion Black as parents, or Regulus Black as a brother. Not because he didn’t want to – no, James is a very empathetic person. Simply because his life was so good, so filled with love, and made him so happy that he hadn’t stopped to consider other people’s weren’t. James knows he is lucky.
What he also knows, is that, perhaps his life has been sheltered. He hasn’t put much thought into the fact that you come from a big family. Hasn’t stopped to think that the fact that he was raised in a home of three – four, when Sirius moved in and five during the summers Remus visited – may be as foreign to you as your extensive family tree is to him. James didn’t have to pitch in, growing up. Sure, he had to keep his room tidy if Remus was to come visit or if he wanted money to go into town on the weekends, but it wasn’t demanded of him. He didn’t have any responsibility as a child or a teen – perhaps, the reason it took him so long to grow into the man he is now. He’s not quite so shallow that he cannot admit that.
So, when you talk of having to make sure the laundry basket is never overflowing, or that you must clean the kitchen before you go to bed, it doesn’t register to James that it's a habit. That you’re not doing these things because you enjoy them, but because you feel you must. These are things James has come to learn since moving in with you. Growing up, your life was vastly different from James’. His house was quiet, peaceful, tidied and kept by his mother. Yours was chaotic, loud, messy, and kept neat only by you and your siblings. James knows now that such facts made your childhood no less happier, only that it was vastly different to James’.
Now, he helps with the cleaning. Tries not to have so many outfit changes in a day that it makes the laundry basket sag with the weight of still-clean clothes. He’s gotten a lot better.
But there are still some things James is not accustomed to.
He can smell the tomato based sauce the minute he opens the front door, can hear you humming to yourself in the kitchen as he slips his shoes off and places his work bag by the entryway table. James finds you exactly where he knew he would, bent over the stove, a wooden spoon in hand. His heart squeezes at the sight of you, in your comfiest clothes, relaxed after a day at work. It is his greatest joy to come home to you after a long day at work. He lets you know as much when he sidles behind you, arms gentle as they wrap around your frame, his lips pressed to the side of your head, “Missed you.”
You hum happily, pushing back into his warm chest, head tilting perfectly so he can kiss you. James lets himself indulge, smiles internally at how, even now, a buzz of excitement jolts through him at the thought of kissing you. You taste like the pasta sauce you’re cooking.
“Missed you, too.” You tell him, turning to add pepper to the sauce.
James looks at the pan, at the amount of pasta simmering in the pot next to it, “I thought Remus and Siruius weren’t coming for dinner until Thursday.”
You frown, checking the calendar taped to the fridge. “They’re not.”
“Then who is?” James asks, huffing a laugh.
He doesn’t want to share your company with anyone else, tonight, even though he knows it's selfish of him.
“No one…” you trail off, equally confused.
“Baby,” James laughs softly. Not at you. Never at you. “Who on earth is all this food for?”
“Us?” You turn to face him, eyebrows pushed together.
James thinks you look wholly adorable and presses a small kiss to the dimple that's formed there. “This could feed a small army.”
You turn to assess the pasta again, shoulders slumping a little in defeat. “I guess I never really got the hang of not cooking enough pasta to feed, like, eighty people.” Your voice sounds resigned, if a little deflated, and for James, that simply won’t do.
He doesn’t try to coddle you. You hate that. So, instead, he brushes his hands up and down your arms, voice cheery as he says, “suits me, lovely girl, now I get to eat your pasta for lunch all week. What a result.”
This pleases you, smile wide and bright as you turn to James, again and ask, “you don’t mind?”
James doesn’t mind at all. He’d eat anything you cook, but your pasta is his favourite.
“Not at all. Thank you for cooking, honey.”
You melt, all sweet and syrupy as you lean up to kiss James again. If it means he gets kisses like this, he’d eat that pasta and only that pasta for the rest of his life.
Omg hi hi hi I’m binging your fics since this morning and I am still not done I’m in love , and let me tell you, your writing is beautiful. I am enthralled by every sentence and feel immediately immersed when reading. (it’s like you just grabbed and plunged me into the story pls). I can’t express how much I love your works, I swear I love your writing I love your ideas I love you?? Simply.
Arfjzidnzdizn I don’t know how to express even more how I feel and how much I adore your blog!! Just know it’s very appreciated!!
(Also when going through your blog I saw your hair color and your picture and omg you’re so so pretty?? Wauw wauw wauw)
Lots of love baby!!🫶🏻🫶🏻
Hi babe! This is so, so sweet thank you so much! (And I’m so sorry you sent this months ago and I’m only just seeing it)
This is one of the best compliments to receive about my writing, thank you so very much🥹
And my hair! It’s still red all these months later lol the upkeep is soooo intense, but thank you Angel!
um, so hi? i’m slowly getting back into writing. here’s a lil drabble, i guess <3
James Potter x Reader | 722 words
cw: none
summary: James thinks he imagined the summer he had with reader all those years ago. He didn’t.
James isn’t sure if he should say something. His brain is short circuiting at the sight of you. There, three feet in front of him. Sitting at a table, in his favourite coffee shop, your attention too taken with whatever’s on your laptop to notice him. He’s rattled, really. Unsure if you being here is a cosmically sick joke, or a sign. He wants to reach out, grab you, hold you to him. But Remus says James has a tendency to romanticise the little things. And really, he’s unsure if that’s the way you remember that summer, the way you remember him. If you’d welcome his embrace the way you once did.
James remembers it as a whirlwind of joy, hope, of love. He remembers the record breaking heatwave, the days spent by the beach, toes between sand and water. He remembers the way your legs wrapped around his waist, perfectly – like they were always meant to be there, the way your lips tasted – like cherries and suncream. He remembers the stories you told him, head on his shoulder, blanket beneath you, pointing at stars. He knew all of the stories, of course. You don’t share a dorm with Sirius Black for the majority of your childhood without learning everything there is to know about stars. But he liked the way your voice sounded; awe stricken, like you couldn’t wrap your brain around the idea of such a magnificent sight.
James can still feel your presence, pressed against his side, see your smile, bright, the way your eyes would crinkle. Your laugh, it rings in his head still. And sure, maybe he romanticises things, too much, but he’d told you he loved you and you’d said it back. You’d meant it. Even if you walked away without looking back, James truly believes you meant it. He’d spent the weeks after wondering if he’d imagined you. If your arrival in his small village was a trick his brain played on him to cope with Lily’s rejection. If he’d dreamt you. If the nights you’d spent wrapped in his bedsheets he’d actually been there alone.
He’d gone to your spot for weeks, the one with the oak tree at the bottom of the meadow in his back garden. He’d waited. Hoped you’d come back. Until September came and he had to go back to school. He spent his final year withdrawn, dreaming of your touch, of your laugh, of the way you spoke so animatedly about the things you loved. He hoped on everything that one day he’d see you again, ask why you didn’t say goodbye. Why you told him you loved him and the next day you were gone.
The barista shouts his name. A lead balloon drops in James’ stomach when your head snaps up, like a reflex. And how utterly stupid does James feel that there’s a shred of hope somewhere deep inside of him that you’ve spent the past three years hoping to find him in all the places you go, too. He takes the coffee, debates on making eye contact with you. On turning so that you can see it’s him. Wonders if you’d have anything to say, if you’d be relieved to see him. If you’d remember him the way he remembers you.
You’ve changed, slightly. Your hairs longer, you’ve grown into your face. You seem more confident. It’s all snap second realisations James made in the second he afforded himself to look at you when he realised who you were. But he’s changed, too, surely. Maybe you wouldn’t notice him.
James turns, decides to let the universe decide. He affords himself one more look at you before he goes, cup clenched dangerously tight in his hand. You’re already staring. Like you’d known it was him just from the sight of the back of his head. Your lips part on a breath, your eyes watering over. Your beautiful eyes. Your kind eyes. It’s like a weight lifts from you, your shoulders dropping, and a knowing look comes across your face. James didn’t imagine you. He didn’t romanticise anything. Because he knows that face. It’s the face you made when he told you he loved you. Thank god.
“Hi.” You say, voice strained. You swallow, try again. “Hi, James.”
He smiles. It’s wide, hurts his cheeks. “Hi, lovely.”
How are ya’ll? I’ve missed this lil community so much you have no idea.
Life’s been a little wild. But I have just over a month til I move to St Andrews for uni (I got in - wild), and thought perhaps I would try write a couple bits and bobs? I’m not promising consistent posting, but I’ve been itching to write for a while, and I thought I might as well dust the cobwebs off of fourmoony.
Anyway! Feel free to update me on what I’ve missed, or even send any requests of stuff you’d wanna see - I’m not promising that I’ll get to them, but I’ll try. 🤍
cw: working out, weight training, pointed out muscle definition
"You've got three more, for sure." James urges you on, looking far too relaxed for your liking where he stands above you, his arms crossed over his chest and his stupidly big muscles bulging against his thermal long sleeve.
Your abdominal muscles feel like they're ripping apart. If you weren't concerned about the ten kilogram kettlebell falling from where it's raised above your head and cracking your skull open, you'd consider throwing it at James' stupidly amused face. You raise your legs, put them back down and James counts, "Two more."
It takes every bit of energy, every morsel of motivation to finish the final set of leg raises, and you allow the kettlebell to tumble out of your grasp and to the left with a loud exhale of pain. You've been attending Personal Training with James long enough to not be embarrassed about the groan that follows, or the way you curl up into a ball. It's nearing the end of your hourly session, and James laughs at your dramatics. "You're not gonna catch your breath with your lungs constricted like that." He chides, and his hands comes into view.
You grumble, hating that you know he's right. Your muscles squeeze uncomfortably as he helps you up, despite you allowing him to take most of your weight. You've seen him workout, before, you know he pulls double your body weight with ease. He smiles wide when you're standing, gives you a little tug until you're stumbling closer to him. He smells like the gym, a little bit of woodsy cologne.
Your cheeks heat and you release his hand with a quiet, "Thanks." It's not like you're blind, James is beautiful. He's ripped and he's tanned, and his hair is stupidly soft. But it doesn't help that he's cheeky and funny, or that he's such a nice guy you always feel guilty for the profanities you spew at him on shoulder and back day. James picks up your abandoned kettlebell with ease and sets it on the bench you've claimed in the small studio gym.
"You good to hit legs for a couple before we finish?" James asks, and you know you don't have much of a choice because he's already turned and is walking towards the barbell weights in the corner.
You hum, reaching for your bottle of water, "Sure."
James lifts two twenty kilogram plates and walks them over to where you're standing. You try not to look at the way his muscles pop with the weights in each hand and James pretends not to notice you growing flustered. He sets them down next to each other and does the same again. By the time he's done, you've caught your breath.
"Elevated Sumo Squats," He gives you a knowing grin. He's fully aware how much you hate these, and he's unapologetic about it. "You know the drill, foot on each set of plates, squat until the kettlebell touches the floor."
You nod, "'Kay."
James holds out a hand as you step onto the weight plates, careful they don't slip out from under you and then hands you the kettlebell. "Try for ten. If you get to ten, we'll go for twelve."
You huff, a smile playing at your lips, "Just say try for twelve, James."
"Okay," James grins, "Go for twelve."
With a petulant eye roll, you start. The first set is never the problem, and James knows this. He watches you closely, an eye on your form at all times. You try not to think about the fact half of his job is staring at your ass, and you definitely try not to wonder if he likes what he sees. Sleeping with your Personal Trainer would be wildly inappropriate. You know James takes his job seriously, but it's hard not to imagine such things when he's standing over you muttering affirmations and praise. It's even harder when he reaches forwards, his fingertips grazing the top of your ass cheek, his voice low as he murmurs, "Keep your head up, back straight. You'll feel it more here."
You nod, mouth dry. "Like this?"
James nods at your corrected form. "That's ten, try two more."
The weight thuds against the ground when you're done and James helps you off of the plates. "How'd that feel?" He asks, fingers gentle as they grasp your wrist, turning it until he can read your heart rate from your smart watch.
"Like I'm gonna be waddling, tomorrow."
James huffs a laugh through his nose, "Well your heart rate is in zone four."
"Gross, so unfit." You snatch your wrist back.
He shakes his head, hands you your water, "Means you're working hard, pushing yourself. And pushing yourself gets results."
You answer with a shrug, swallow the water. James takes it back, nods his head to the plates. "Go again, this time, hold a half squat on the way back up for a couple seconds."
"That's hateful. You're being hateful."
"You got it." James encourages.
James' eyes your form carefully, nods subtly to show he's happy with it. "Working tonight?" He asks.
He has an incredible talent for making conversation at the worst times but you indulge him nonetheless, always willing to talk to him outside of what muscles you're working, and how to correct your form. "Nah. A rare day off."
"Lucky."
You smile, "Yeah, I feel so lucky right now."
James laughs. He laughs like a summer breeze. His eyes light up and his lips twitch. For a guy who looks like he could drop absolutely anyone who came near him, he's incredibly soft-hearted. It always stuns you, how kind and bright he actually is.
"You have clients til' late?" You ask, even though it feels like your lungs might explode.
"Thats eight," James tells you, "No. Just one after you."
You nod, "Early finish. Work harder, Jamie."
James unfolds his arms to point at you, tsking before he orders, "I was gonna have you stop at ten. Go for twelve, now."
It goes on like that through your final set, steady conversation that barely leaves the area of general small talk. You help James put the weights away, even when he tells you not to bother, even though you can only lift one where he lifts two. He checks your watch again, is happy with how hard you've pushed yourself.
"Are we taking progress pictures, this week?" You ask, scooping up your water bottle and car keys.
James shakes his head, "Next week, but I wanna show you something."
He guides you to the mirror against the weight wall where he stands behind you. It's hard to ignore the way he towers over you, almost swallowing you whole, and the inappropriate thoughts that spring to mind, the things you could do in the mirror, the things you'd love to see him do. You swallow. James lifts his hand, his fingertips grazing your shoulder, "You see how your shoulder is more rounded, now, instead of flat?"
You nod, scared to speak.
"That's muscle. It's the same here," His fingertips blaze a burning trail down your arm, "Your biceps, your abs," They skim over your waist, dip around your back, "Your glutes, your thighs, calves," He removes his hand, fingers flexing at his sides as though he's physically straining not to touch you. "All the muscle is growing. You're getting along so well you don't need progress pictures to notice it anymore."
Your face feels like it's on fire, your body leaning back into him until you feel the heat of his body, your shoulder brushing his arm. "So you're worth the money, then?" You ask, voice hoarse.
James smirks, his eyes lighten a little, "Oh, for sure."
Your eyes meet in the mirror, his head tilts a little downwards into a nod. "Same time next week?" He asks.
"That works." It comes out in a breath, your eyes unable to leave his.
You're not sure what normal behaviour is from a PT, but this doesn't seem like it. The thought of him acting like this with other clients makes your tummy twist uncomfortably, and you come to the startling realisation that you may be well and truly fucked. There's a reason you look forward to going to the gym, even though it takes all of your energy, there's a reason you save your nicest gym sets for the days you attend training. There's a reason you find yourself purposefully having the wrong form, if just to feel James' touch. It's wildly inappropriate, you know that. But you can't stop it or change it.
James nods, "Okay, well. You did great today. You should be chuffed."
He's so genuine, so nice, so fucking handsome. His brows hook in the middle at your hesitation, the way you force a smile onto your lips as you step away, turn to face him. "Thanks, James."
"Give me a message if you need anything, but if not, I'll see you next week." His eyes flick to the metal door, which creaks open and his next client comes through.
You hate the way you feel relief at the man who waves at James, the fact it's not some beautiful, toned woman. It makes you feel childish.
"Cool. Bye, James."
He waves, letting you start to walk away before he approaches his next client. The door swings shut behind you after a small smile to the man waiting, the cool air dousing you with a cold, startling reality. Your relationship with James doesn't extend past the gym, past a professional setting where you're paying James to train you. He'll never see past that.
And if James is inside the gym getting shit from his best friend about flirting with his cute client, about being so stupidly infatuated that he's come into work on his day off just because it suited you best, well, that's no ones business but his.
heyyy read you're looking for requests so here's one! james coming from hockey practice (i love hockey player james) and you tell him that a guy from uni has been hitting on you and stuf. he doesn't get mad just queasy, but then he needs reassurance too!
thanks for requesting, angel!
cw: insecurities, language, unwanted advances
1.4k, modern au, ice hockey James
The tell-tale sound of James' bag being abandoned haphazardly by the door alerts you to his presence. The door clicks shut soon after, followed by a heavy sigh. He's likely exhausted - always is after practice, especially if he and Sirius get caught mouthing off and are punished with bag skating.
James rounds the corner into the living room at the same time you pause your show and sit up to greet him. He doesn't acknowledge your abandoned plate from dinner or the pile of unfolded washing on the arm chair to his left. Instead, he gives you a tired smile and collapses into a heap beside you on the sofa. "Hi, bug." He mumbles, chin tucked into the neckline of his hoodie. Exhaustion seeps from his voice.
"Hi, handsome." You soothe, hand reaching out to toy with the curls at the nape of your boyfriend's neck. They're still damp from his post-practice shower, the smell of his body wash sweet and heady in your nose. "How was practice?"
He lets out a long suffering sigh, leans into your touch, "Stressful. The team isn't where we need to be for the playoffs. Coach made sure to let us know how angry he is about it."
You hum softly, scoot closer to James on the sofa until you're practically in his lap. James likes touch, he likes the connection, the intimacy, the weight of your body on top of his. You're happy to indulge him, the flowers that your boyfriend brings about your rib cage blossoming as his arm wraps around your middle, hoists you fully onto his lap. "What does he expect, you know? Half of his team graduated out, last year. He only has a couple of you guys left and the rest are freshmen." You try to justify James, but it seems the reminder only further sours his mood.
"Yeah, try telling him that. He thinks everyone is just born to be in the NHL, that these guys should already be up to standard, that they don't need the same exact training and coaching that we got." James' voice is thick with coiling tension, even if his muscles seem to be relaxing under you.
You smooth the baby hairs under your fingers, tilting your head until his eyes meet yours, "You're their captain, baby," You smile, "I bet they'd listen to it a lot better coming from you. They like you, look up to you. You be their coach if coach isn't going to step up."
Your boyfriend smiles, the sun peeking through storm clouds. A glimpse of your Jamie. He leans forwards, lips soft and gentle as he presses them to yours. He hums into the kiss, hands squeezing your hips. "Thanks."
"Anytime, handsome."
"How was your day?" James asks, feet stretching out to sit atop the coffee table.
You'd scold him if you weren't so busy quelling the beating of your heart. Any kiss from James sends you reeling, has done since the first time in freshman year. You don't think you'll ever get over the fact that he's your boyfriend. That he loves you as you love him, that you'll grow old and grey together. It never quite feels real.
"Good. Productive. We have a project due for McGonagall's class on Wednesday so I just worked on that most of the day." You don't feel the need to mention that you pointedly worked alone on your half of the project, but James frowns at your words and you know he's going to ask.
"You worked alone?"
"Yeah." You should probably say more, but James has a shorter fuse than Sirius does in general when it comes to you and you don't feel like unleashing all two hundred pounds of ice-hockey muscle onto the arrogant asshole who won't leave you alone.
James' thumb rubs steady circles into the fat of your thigh, his brows hooked upward in the middle a blatant sign of his confusion, "Your group have left you to do all the work?"
"No," You shake your head, "It was just easier to do my part on my own."
James doesn't say anything, but it's clear that he's waiting for you to go on. You sigh through your nose, head falling to rest on your boyfriend's shoulder, "One of the guys in my group has been hitting on me pretty regularly."
"What?" James asks around a swallow, voice hoarse. His muscles tense under you, his thumb pausing it's soothing measures on your thigh.
You shrug, "He keeps saying how he'd treat me right, how a 'pretty girl like me' deserves better. It's all bullshit, so I chose to work myself and just send the rest of the group my sections."
"Right."
It's odd, the way your body reacts to a single word as though it were a slap in the face. Your stomach sinks because you realise James isn't angry. He isn't itching to pound the guy's face into the ground and he isn't insisting you allow him to fix the problem, himself. You remove your head from James' shoulder, find him pale faced and distant. He looks lost, nauseous. "Jamie?"
James shrugs, eyes cold, "What?"
"'Right.'? That's all you have to say to that? What's wrong?" You ask, drawing further away the colder the look in James' eyes gets.
"What would you like me to say? That he might be right?" There's a clipped edge to your boyfriend's voice that you've never heard before, that jolts your body into fight or flight mode quicker than you'd care to admit.
You remove yourself from James' lap, confusion evident on your face as you settle to face him on the coffee table. His feet meet the ground with a thud as he moves to stand. Your hand flies out, a firm grip on his knee that begs him not to move. James gives you a sad look as he complies, fidgets with the draw strings on his jogging bottoms. "You think he has a point?" You ask.
James nods, lips pursed, eyes avoiding yours so evidently it angers you.
"Why?"
Your boyfriend shrugs again, tips his head back and lets out a groan, "You know at the end of this year I'm going to be drafted, right? I'm going to have to move across the country, probably, I won't have a choice in the matter and neither will you."
"We've had this argument before, James. I'm going wherever you go. I don't care where it is! It could be fucking Antartica and I'd still go." Your voice sounds less stern than you'd intended, but James softens slightly at your words.
"But you shouldn't have to just pick up your life and move because of me. You deserve someone who can give you stability and all of their time. I can't." James leans forwards until his elbows are resting on his knees, his face so close to yours you can feel his breaths.
It's an age-old argument, one you and James used to have often in the beginning. Before you knew that you wanted James in your life forever, back when he was trying to push you away with everything he had because he didn't want to risk falling in love with you and having to leave you, one day. The argument lessened the longer you were together, decisions made. You'd made up your mind the day James told you he loved you that you'd follow him anywhere, that you'd give up anything and everything to just be with him.
"I don't want anyone else. I don't care where we are in this world, James. I want you. That's all." You reach for him, thumbs swiping under his eyes in steady motions.
He takes a breath, closes his eyes under your touch. "I can't help but feel I'm asking you to sacrifice more than I'm worth."
And that just won't do. You clamber back onto his lap, legs on either side of his hips and chase his eyes. They're dark in the dim light of the living room, a deep brown filled with fear. "You're worth everything, Jamie. Everything." You tell him. And you mean it.
James swallows, nods. His arms wrap around you, pull you to him until he's falling back into the softness of the couch. "I love you." He tells you, vulnerable as you've ever heard him.
Flowers bloom all along the crevices of your rib cage, pull taught until you're so overflowing with love and happiness that all you can think to do is kiss him. He chases your lips when you pull back, a smile toying at the corner of his mouth. "I love you too, Jamie."
"So you're not gonna leave me for that guy in your Psych class?" He asks, a twinkle in his eye that lets you know he's kidding.
You laugh, loud and obnoxious and your boyfriend swallows it with a world-ending kiss.
Just thinking about Sirius trusting reader enough to do his hair :,) or maybe she experiments with putting his hair in curlers/curling it. I could even imagine Sirius owning a Dyson airwrap to have the best blowouts 😭💀
Sirius would 100000% own the dyson air wrap!!! Thanks for requesting, babe!
cw: none
750 words, modern au
You're not sure where Sirius learned his money managing skills from (or if he even has any), but the pleased smile and child-like excitement over his brand new hair dryer is something you refuse to admonish. Though, you're sure even if you tried, you'd fail.
Your boyfriend bounces happily on the balls of his feet, hair sopping wet and plastered to his face. Water droplets seep into his grey shirt but Sirius doesn't seem to care. Not when he's too busy making bedroom eyes at the unopened box on the bathroom counter. He'd been so happy when John Lewis finally had the Dyson Air Wrap back in stock, had dragged you out of bed this morning to drop an easy five hundred quid on it. Your head had spun with the realisation of just how rich your boyfriend actually is.
He's not flashy with his money. Irresponsible, yes. But being there to witness a classic Sirius-Black-Irresponsible-Purchase had really solidified the knowledge that your boyfriend is filthy rich.
"Okay, I'll grab a stool and you set it up." He says, turning to make for the stool that sits under your dressing table.
"Wait, you want me to do it?" You yell after him.
Sirius makes noise everywhere he goes. He's loud and abrasive, jagged around the edges. He loves so loud that it only makes sense his entire personality is the same. There's thumps and grumbles as he bumps into things all the way along the hall, the tell tale sounds of the stool scraping along your freshly painted hallway. "Well who else would do it?" Sirius rounds the corner, flashes his teeth in a wide grin that he knows will make you fold.
"What makes you think I'm qualified?"
Sirius shrugs, "The fact that I'm one hundred percent not. You're good at everything, sweetness."
He knows flattery works like a charm, especially when he pairs it with his best flirty eyes. You sigh, reaching for the box and unravelling all of the corresponding pieces. It's high tech, incredibly high tech. Sirius fidgets on the stool as you watch a video on your phone, lips curled between your teeth in concentration.
It takes a while to get the hang of, and you're sure you'll get better in time. Sirius softens and relaxes as much as he ever allows himself to as your fingers work through his hair, as you brush and comb and dry it. He hums and sighs and even closes his eyes. It's peaceful and intimate and it allows you to come to a startling realisation that Sirius has never asked you to do his hair for him before.
He's not prissy about his hair. He'll let anyone touch it. He actually begs for people to play with his hair. But he's never outright asked you to fix it up for him, prefers to get it sitting perfect by himself because he believes it to be his best asset. You'd have to disagree with him on that. His eyes never fail to amaze you, nor his smile.
"All done." Your voice seems to pull him out of a daydream.
His eyes open and he smiles wide, turning in the stool in an instant until he can take your hands in his. "Bad news, sweetheart, you're going to have to do this every day." He informs you, standing until his hands can reach your hips.
He pulls you into him, a little roughly, but catches you with his own body, lips ducking down to press to your forehead. You resist the urge to tell him you'd be happy to do his hair every day, if only to feel the intimacy and pride of being the one person he trusts to style his hair.
"Such a travesty." You feign indifference, lips pressed to his collar bone where it peeks out of his shirt.
Sirius shivers at the contact. "Easy, sweetness. I know my hair is super hot and stuff, but we have dinner reservations with James and Remus. They'll get pissy if we cancel to have sex."
"Again." He adds after a second.
You scoff, pushing your boyfriend away whilst he barks with laughter. Heat creeps up your neck as you exit the bathroom, ignoring Sirius' shouts down the hallway that he could make an exception for a quickie.
"Thanks, baby!" He calls a moment later.
You can't fight the smile that toys at your lips as you pick out an outfit for dinner.
