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jodiariasgroupie · 2 days ago

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Literally. Jodi Arias literally endured uttermost trauma and cruel bullying from the normies throughout the trials T.T

if i was lana del rey i would make a concept album about the jodi arias murder trials

#jodi arias #lana del rey #lizzy grant #girlblogging #bed rotting #hrh collection #daisy randone #lolita1997 #coquette #free jodi arias #hell is a teenage girl

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sincerelybubbles · 3 days ago

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fatigued || james potter x reader

james soothes you like no other, always gentle and easy with you on the days where you can’t manage to be anything other than a puddle.

warnings: none, fluff, reader is bed (couch) rotting, unfinished

//

James finds you on the couch again, curled into the cushions, half-buried under the same throw blanket that’s been draped over you for days now. Your hair’s mussed, cheeks pressed against the pillow, breath steady and quiet in the dim light of the room. It’s the third day in a row he’s come home to this—your body sinking into the sofa as if the weight of the week has pinned you down, leaving you boneless and tired.

“Merlin,” he breathes, so soft it barely stirs the air. His brow furrows as he toes off his shoes, shedding the day at the door before he pads over to you.

James kneels beside the couch first, brushing a strand of hair from your temple, fingertips featherlight against your skin. There’s a warmth in his gaze, a tenderness that swells in his chest, filling every space where worry had settled.

“Still here, dove?” he murmurs, not really expecting an answer, but the corner of your mouth twitches as if the sound of his voice reaches somewhere deep.

And James—James can’t help himself. He climbs onto the couch, carefully molding his body to yours, slotting himself in behind you as if he’s been made to fit this space. One arm drapes over your waist, pulling you close, while his other hand traces gentle circles against your wrist. His nose finds the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, breathing you in like a remedy.

“‘M here now,” he whispers, barely a breath against your skin. “You can rest, yeah? I’ll stay right here.”

His heart beats steady against your back, and somewhere in the haze between sleep and waking, you let yourself sink deeper into the warmth of him.

James presses closer, his body a steady weight behind you, the heat of him sinking into your bones like sunlight after a bitter winter. His chest rises and falls, the rhythm lulling, his breath fanning over the nape of your neck where goosebumps bloom in its wake. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you feel it—all of him—tucking into the spaces where the cold had settled, where the ache of too many long days had made a home.

He’s warmth and honey, sticky and slow, pouring into the cracks you didn’t even know had formed. His hand, broad and calloused in places from gripping a broom and tossing quaffles, smooths over your waist, his thumb brushing back and forth in a lazy pattern, soothing and grounding all at once. It feels like he’s memorizing the shape of you again, mapping out every curve and hollow as if he can press himself into you by touch alone.

“Cold, love?” he murmurs, lips grazing the shell of your ear, his voice thick and low, drowsy with affection.

You hum softly, shifting closer, but there’s no space left between you. He’s everywhere—his thigh warm beneath yours, his chest pressed so tight to your back that you can feel the steady thrum of his heart, a metronome to the stillness that’s settled over the room.

“Not anymore,” you mumble, words slurring as sleep tries to drag you under again, but James—James keeps you tethered with his touch, his thumb brushing lazy arcs against your skin, dipping just beneath the hem of your shirt where the heat of his palm spreads like sunlight.

“Good,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your hair, his lips barely a brush of warmth that lingers long after.

And it’s enough.

The weight in your chest eases, the tightness in your throat loosens, and for the first time in days, you breathe. James is the sun seeping into the coldest parts of you, coaxing warmth from where it had retreated, pulling you back into yourself with every steady, unhurried touch.

“‘M not going anywhere,” he murmurs again, more to himself than to you, his voice barely above a breath, but it wraps around you like a promise.

And this time—this time, you believe it.

Your hand finds his where it rests against your stomach, your fingers slipping between his, lacing together in the quiet. James tightens his hold, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in soft, steady strokes.

“Rest, dove,” he murmurs again, his breath warm against your neck, his body curved protectively around yours. “I’ve got you.”

And he does—he always does.

Time stretches, bending softly around the warmth of James beside you, the steady lull of his voice weaving in and out of your fading consciousness. He’s been murmuring quietly for the past hour, his words threading through the haze of your sleep, talking about his day—how he’d spent half of it helping his dad with a complicated potion that had stubbornly refused to settle, the fumes thick and acrid even after hours of stirring. He tells you how his dad had sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered something about “the bloody inconsistency of powdered moonstone,” before handing James the stirring rod with a look that screamed “you deal with it.”

“Thought I had it under control,” James murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple, his words blending into the warmth of his breath. “But then it started bubbling over like a cauldron in first-year Potions, and my dad just looked at me, all disappointed. Didn’t say a word, just cast Scourgify and walked away.” He sighs, the sound rumbling low in his chest, though there’s a hint of amusement beneath the exasperation. “And then Mum had to spend an hour scrubbing the ceiling.”

You make a soft noise, half a hum, half a sigh, your body sinking deeper into the cocoon of warmth he’s built around you. But then—then—he shifts, untangling himself with a carefulness that’s almost reverent, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he’s afraid to wake you.

“No,” you mumble, your voice heavy with sleep, latching onto his wrist with weak fingers, eyes barely cracking open as he tries to slip away.

“Shh, dove,” James soothes, his lips brushing over your forehead, but you’re already protesting, your grip on him tightening with what little strength you can muster.

“Don’t go.” Your words are slurred, muffled against the worn fabric of his jumper that smells so much like him—like woodsmoke and something sweet, something James. You shift, untangling your limbs just enough to slouch further into the couch, your face buried in the hollow of his shoulder, a sleepy pout tugging at your lips. “Stay.”

James chuckles softly, the sound a low, affectionate thing that makes your heart flutter.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice warm and indulgent, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw as he tries—and fails—to peel himself away. “I’ve got to make us something to eat. You can’t survive on tea and toast forever, you know.”

“Don’t care,” you grumble, burrowing deeper, your nose pressing into his neck where the scent of him lingers the strongest. “Stay.”

James huffs a laugh, and you can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks again.

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Mm,” you hum, a little more awake now but still refusing to loosen your hold. “But you love me.”

“More than anything,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, lingering there as if he can pour every ounce of his affection into the gesture.

But then he pulls back, just enough to look down at you, his hazel eyes warm and filled with that quiet, unwavering devotion that makes your heart ache in the best way.

“Come on, dove,” he coaxes gently, fingers brushing over your cheek before tapping your nose lightly, making you scrunch it up in sleepy protest. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

You pout again, but this time, there’s no real fight left in you.

“Fine,” you mumble, finally loosening your grip, though you don’t move far, still slouched against him, your head tilted up as you gaze at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

James grins, pressing one last lingering kiss to your lips—soft and sweet, a promise and a reassurance all at once—before he finally, finally untangles himself completely, standing up and stretching with a groan.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, already moving toward the kitchen, but not before casting one last glance over his shoulder, his eyes twinkling with affection.

“And if you fall asleep again before I get back,” he teases, a wicked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I’m waking you up with kisses. Everywhere.”

The threat—or promise—has warmth pooling in your stomach, and despite your earlier protest, you can’t help but smile as you watch him disappear into the kitchen, your heart swelling with the kind of love that leaves you breathless.

here’s the unfinished draft i promised <3 if u know me u know pmdd is my biggest opp so i hope you enjoyed self indulgent jamie helping reader out