summary the golden boy of pop rock is on a spiral to hell, will the intern at his record label succeed in saving him?
pairing singer!james potter x fem!manager!reader
warning no use of Y/n, and no description of reader, cursing
The thing about famous people is that they’re never supposed to look lost.
That doesn’t stop this one from looking exactly that.
He’s hunched over a chipped café table like it might swallow him whole, baseball cap pulled low enough to shadow his glasses-covered eyes. His fingers worry the cardboard sleeve of his coffee as if it’s the only thing tethering him to the room. The place smells like burnt espresso and rain-soaked coats—the kind of café interns haunt because it’s cheap, anonymous, and no one asks questions.
It helps that it’s only a two-minute walk from where you work.
You don’t recognize him at first. Not at all, in fact.
You’re waiting on the coffee Lila from accounting demanded when your eyes drift to the wall-mounted TV. A talk show host smiles brightly onscreen, mug in hand, poised to deliver the latest dirt from the fame machine.
“…It’s no secret a certain wild child of pop rock has been naughty with a capital N. But don’t take my word for it— see for yourselves.”
The footage cuts to paparazzi shots of james potter showing off his sunglasses and… not much else.
The host laughs. “That’s right! The James Potter was spotted baring all on a yacht ahead of his upcoming tour. And honestly— after all his stunts, Blackwood records must be sick of bleeding money every time he flaunts his ass. Am I right, or am I right?”
The studio audience erupts in applause just as the barista returns with your drinks.
“Thanks, John.”
“‘Course.” He nods toward the screen, frowning. “Shame, really. He’s on a hell of a downward spiral. I used to like James Potter.”
You glance between the TV and John. “Honestly? With the right PR plan and a dedicated manager, he could recover. People love a comeback. Besides, he’s got the right label for it.”
John’s grey beard frames his grin. “Can’t be that great. They’ve got their best employee fetching coffee.”
You smile, adding the last cup to the carrier, but as you turn toward the door, your thoughts lag behind.
You’ve spent three months fetching lattes for executives who say his name like it’s already past tense.
Potter’s numbers are tanking.
Potter’s brand is… unfocused.
His image is ruined.
You shake your head willing yourself to focus— and then you see it.
A black SUV parked just a little too casually. A man pretending to text. The glint of a camera lens, sharp as a threat.
Your gaze follows his line of sight to a hunched figure at a corner table. The bell over the door rings as someone enters, and the figure lifts his head just enough for you to see his face before he ducks it again.
You scan the café. No security. No handlers.
Your stomach drops.
Shit.
James Potter. Former golden boy. Two platinum records before twenty-three. Stadium tours. Tabloid girlfriends. A voice that once sounded like summer nights and cigarette smoke and the promise of something better.
Now he’s alone—jaw clenched, shoulders heavy.
And if anything happens to him here, it’d be a huge issue for the label.
You don’t think, you just move.
You slide into the empty chair across from him, set a coffee down, and say brightly— like you’ve known him forever— “You’re early. I told you one o’clock, James.”
His head snaps up.
Hazel eyes—brighter than they ever look on stage—flick from your face to the window. He spots the paparazzi instantly. You can almost see the math running behind his eyes. The exhaustion, the not again settling into his bones.
“You’re—” he starts.
You kick his shin under the table.
Hard enough to hurt. Not enough to forgive.
“Ow— what the hell—”
“Play along,” you murmur through a smile, leaning in like you’re mid-gossip. “He’s onto you. If you bolt, he’ll chase you.”
His jaw tightens. “Who are you?”
“Someone who doesn’t want you splashed across Page Six looking like a kicked puppy.”
That earns a ghost of a laugh. Barely there, but real.
You keep talking—about nothing, about everything. Loud enough to sell it, but soft enough to keep it private.
“So my boss says if I don’t finish the bridge by Friday, they’re scrapping the whole thing,” he says, rolling his eyes like he’s talking about some faceless third party.
You watch him, then slowly mirror his posture. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Sounds like him.”
Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.
The paparazzi gets bored. Drifts off like a vulture realizing the body isn’t dying fast enough.
Only then does James exhale.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, rubbing his face.
You shrug. “Kind of did.”
“Why?”
This is where you should stand up. Walk away. Go back to being an intern with a half-functioning keycard and a boss who doesn’t know your name.
But you don’t.
Because he looks like someone standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting for gravity to make the choice.
“I work at Blackwood Records,” you say.
His mouth twists. “Ah.”
“I’m an intern,” you add quickly. “So don’t panic. I’m not here to spy on you.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He stands, irritation flashing.
“I’ve heard the meetings,” you say quietly. “The way they talk about you.”
He stops.
“Then you know I’m on thin ice.”
“Yes.”
“And you still helped me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You meet his gaze and hold it. “Because they’re wrong,” you say. “And because you don’t need a label right now. You need someone who actually gives a damn.”
He studies you like you might be a hallucination brought on by too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
“You’re brave,” he says at last. “Or stupid.”
“Depends on the day.”
He huffs a laugh and sits back down.
“I don’t know how to fix it,” he admits. “I’ve done everything they told me to. Changed producers. Changed my sound. My look. Who I’m allowed to be seen with.” His voice cracks. “Nothing works.”
You lean forward. “What do you want to make?”
That stops him cold.
“I want my songs to sound like me,” ne says finally. “Messy. Honest. I don’t care about charts anymore. I just want to feel something again.”
Your chest tightens. “There,” you say softly. “That’s the James Potter people loved.”
He shakes his head. “That guy doesn’t sell anymore.”
“That guy built your career once,” you counter. “Let him do it again.”
Silence hums between you.
“You don’t even know me,” he says.
“I know your demos never get released. I know your best lyrics are buried because they’re ‘too raw.’ I know you’re exhausted and still showing up.”
His throat bobs.
“You shouldn’t know any of that.”
“I listen,” you say simply.
Another beat.
“What would you do,” he asks quietly, “if you were in charge?”
“I’d dim the spotlight,” you say without hesitation. “Get you into a studio with musicians who don’t care about numbers. Rebuild your sound from the bones up. And I’d fight the label like hell until they either back off or let you walk.”
He stares. “You’re an intern.”
“Yes.”
“You’d ruin your career.”
You finally smile. “I don’t have one yet.” And for once, that feels like freedom.
He laughs—warm and surprised.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
He looks down at his coffee. Then back up at you.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
You tell him.
He nods, committing it to memory like it matters.
“Take a chance on me,” you say. “Use me, I’m yours. Let me be your manager.”
He smirks, his eyes darkening. It’s clear he’s imagining doing just that. “Really?”
You clear your throat. “Why not?” you press. “You’ve tried everything else.”
After a long moment, he extends his hand across the table. “One condition.”
You take it, his grip is warm.
“If this blows up in my face,” he says, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, “we go down together.”
You squeeze his hand.
“Deal.”
Outside, the clouds begin to break.
And for the first time in a long while, James Potter doesn’t feel like the end of something.
It feels like the start.
Convincing James Potter to trust you had been the easy part.
Convincing the people who owned him?
That was an entirely different war.
Blackwood Records looks exactly the way it wants you to feel—small.
Towering glass walls. Polished floors that echo beneath every step. Offices that smell faintly of money and judgment. You’ve walked these halls a hundred times with coffee cups balanced in your arms, head held high, trying not to look invisible.
Today, James walks beside you.
No cap, no sunglasses, hair slightly too long, jacket worn soft at the elbows. He looks quieter than the version splashed across magazines.
You feel the stares immediately. Whispers ripple between assistants and A&R reps like static.
That’s him.
What’s he doing here?
Didn’t he punch someone again?
James’s jaw tightens.
You lean closer, lowering your voice. “Don’t look at them.”
“They’re gonna look anyway.”
“Let them,” you say. “This isn’t about them.”
It’s about Minerva McGonagall.
Founder of Blackwood. Industry legend. The woman who built the label from a two-room office and the radical belief that artists mattered more than algorithms—at least, that’s the myth. You’ve only seen her twice, both times from across a room, sharp-eyed and terrifyingly calm.
And today, you’re asking her to gamble.
Footsteps approach fast.
Dumbledore barrels down the hallway toward you, face flushed, glasses sliding down his nose as if they’d slipped in his haste.
“James,” he snaps, voice edged with steel. “Do you have any idea what that little stunt out there cost us?”
“Sir, I know it looks bad, but it didn’t happen the way they’re saying it did. I just need—“
Dumbledore doesn’t stop. He breezes past you as if you don’t exist, gripping James’s arm and hauling him forward.
“Guess I won’t be late to my own execution,” James mutters.
Dumbledore exhales sharply. “This attitude is precisely—”
“Why he’s here,” you cut in before you can stop yourself.
Both men turn.
Dumbledore’s brows lift. “And you are…?”
You straighten instinctively, and tell him your name. “I work in artist development.”
James shoots you a look. You ignore it.
“Intern,” Dumbledore corrects mildly.
“Yes,” you say. “For now.”
There’s a beat. Dumbledore studies you like a chessboard, already ten moves ahead.
He drags James the rest of the way down a hall and into an office marked ‘CEO’.
There, Minerva McGonagall sits behind the desk.
The room shifts.
Silver hair pulled back neatly. A tailored suit sharp enough to cut. She looks up, eyes cool and assessing, gaze flicking to James—then to you, lingering just a second longer than comfortable.
“Minerva,” Dumbledore begins.
She ignores him. “My assistant tells me James Potter requested a meeting. I was curious.”
James clears his throat. “I’m not here to beg.”
One brow arches. “Good. I despise begging.”
Dumbledore jumps in, voice tight. “Regardless, we’ve been getting calls from venues along your tour route. They’re canceling dates left and right.”
“Okay,” James says evenly. “Then book different venues. Isn’t that what I pay you for?”
You shoot him a look. Now, it’s his turn to ignore it.
McGonagall speaks before you can. “You pay us because your scandals keep multiplying, and the label keeps footing the bill to clean them up.”
Dumbledore nods. “This tour was meant to recover losses from your last crisis. Now it won’t. We believe it’s time James Potter and Blackwood Records part ways.”
You open your mouth before caution can stop you, this is your chance. “With all due respect—can't all of this be resolved with an optics clause added to James's contract?”
Silence crashes down.
Every eye turns to you. Dumbledore’s glare could shatter glass. You don’t look away.
“All of our standard contracts include one,” you continue. “If James pulls another stunt, you’d have clear grounds for termination.”
“We already have grounds,” Dumbledore snaps. “And my team is stretched too thin. Rebooking a tour on such short notice isn’t feasible.”
“I’ll do it,” you say quickly. “I’ll rebook the venues. I’ll manage the first appearances. That’s why we asked for this meeting—to propose a plan.”
Dumbledore turns fully toward you now. “This is not your place.”
Your pulse roars in your ears. “It is if it works.”
Another silence.
James looks at you, something like awe flickering across his face. He hadn’t expected you to step forward. But you do.
“The problem isn’t James’s talent,” you say steadily. “It’s his narrative.”
McGonagall taps a single finger against the desk. “Go on.”
“The press paints him as reckless. Violent. Unprofessional,” you say. “But no one asks why. They run clips without context. Headlines without truth. He’s reacting to pressure instead of being supported through it.”
“He started a fight at an afterparty.” Dumbledore cuts in.
“He stopped one,” you reply immediately. “Security footage confirms it. The articles don’t.”
“I asked,” you say simply. “People talk when you listen.”
A corner of McGonagall’s mouth twitches— not quite a smile, but close.
“And what are you suggesting?” she asks.
You square your shoulders. “We change the picture.”
Dumbledore scoffs. “With what money?”
“I'll leverage the buzz,” you say. “Brand deals. Strategic partnerships. Enough to drown out the paparazzi. Then I'll secure venues willing to take the risk.”
“Manirva, you can't be serious,” Dumbledore says sharply, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “She's untested—and James is practically feral.”
“Give us until the start of summer,” you press. “No forced appearances. No tabloid bait. Controlled access. Intimate performances. One charity event. One stripped-down release that reminds people why they fell in love with him.”
“This is reckless.” Dumbledore says.
“So is dropping me,” James says quietly.
That lands.
McGonagall leans back. “And your role in all this?” she asks you.
“I manage him,” you say. “Fully.”
“She’s untested,” Dumbledore insists.
“So was I,” McGonagall replies coolly. “Once.”
Dumbledore opens his mouth again. “James has a history of—”
“Being human?” you interject, sharper than intended—then soften. “Being pushed too hard, too fast, without anyone in his corner?”
James swallows.
McGonagall studies you for a long moment. Then she turns to James.
“Do you want to hire her?”
Yes,” he says without hesitation.
Dumbledore closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience.
“James needs to knock the rust off before we send him on tour,” McGonagall says at last. “Book him a show tonight. If you get through it without another incident, the tour proceeds—with you as his manager. And I’ll consider the optics clause.”
Relief tightens your chest. “Thank you, ma’am. I won’t let you down.”
McGonagall smiles then— sharp and dangerous. “Good. Because the clock is ticking. We’ll be in touch.”
The meeting ends quickly after that.
Out in the hallway, James stops.
“You were incredible,” he says quietly.
You let out a shaky laugh. “I think I just talked myself into a very public disaster.”
He steps closer. Too close. His voice drops, breath uneven.
“Hey,” he says softly. “They already think I’m trouble.” His gaze softens. “But you? You’re about to change everything.”
You meet his eyes, pulse racing. “Then let’s give them something worth talking about.”
I uh, came here from the stepbro!Siri with a corruption kink... I was wondering if you could do more stepbro!Siri? But uhm maybe like "stepbro!Siri x reader +best friend mooney" ? If you're uncomfortable with this request, you can just ignore this... I also wanted to know if I could be Anon ✨?
Omg I’m so sorry this took me so long and of course you can be an anon if you want to lovely
Also this is unfinished so ask for another part if u want :)
Smut below the cut
—
“Hey there sweetheart,” your step brother calls to you, spreading his legs further across the sofa and patting his knee in invitation, “why don’t you come n’ sit with me and Moony for a bit, hey?”
You try to move towards them as confidently as possible, but your trembling hands and adverted gaze betrays you. You fall gracelessly into the arms of the shaggy-haired man, holding back a surprises giggle at the way his nose tickles against your neck.
“Isn’t she just the cutest, Moons?” You can feel the smirk of your step brother widen against your warmed cheeks, your embarrassment heightened by how he speaks about you like you’re not even in the room.
“She’s really something,” comes the drawl of the other man, his hand creeping up your exposed thigh, exploring the skin with languid strokes. Your body instinctively leans into his touch as his nimble fingers reach toward the hem of your skirt, simultaneously pushing up and shying away from his touch, “a shy one though, huh?”
“She’ll warm up to her soon enough, mate,” Sirius assures, one hand moving to boldly rest on your right breast, almost a show of his ownership of you, “only took her two days before she started crawling into my bed ‘nd begging for it,”
Remus makes a humming sound of approval at that, finally garnering eye contact with you and raising an eyebrow and tapping your thigh, waiting for your approval before diving his hand beneath your skirt, stroking his cold fingers up and down your uncovered pussy lips.
“No panties?” The grin on his face usurpes the disappointment in his tone. Sirius let’s out an incredulous scoff.
“Please, she hasn’t worn panties since the first day I fucked her,” his hand slips beneath your shirt and his fingers start flicking over your nipples, “always wants to be fucked now, the poor thing. She’ll probably get even more greedy now she’s got two of us,”
“Siri?” You crane your neck to finally make eye contact with him. Both boys cease their movements to watch you, intrigued by what you’d say while speaking for the first time in the night, “what- what do you mean two of us?”
“Well darling,” he smooths a kiss to the crown of your head, “moony over here needs someone to take care of him, doesn’t he? You don’t want him to get lonely, do you?”
You don’t even have to think about it; you shake your head with a pout. Remus seems nice, and his fingers are working wonders on your clit, his movements now resumed as Sirius talks.
“Well, I said that moony can fuck you sometimes, y’know, to help us all out,” he shrugs, spreading your legs further out on his lap so he can get a good glimpse of your pussy as Remus works it over.
“I promise I’ll be good to you, pretty girl,” the taller boy adjusts himself until his cheek rests against the inside of your thigh, so close to your cunt that his tongue scrapes across your clit with every word from his mouth, “so long as you follow my rules,”
“that’s not canon tho!!” okay well regulus black was mentioned like one time and we know like nothing abt him so who’s to say he wasn’t dating james potter
