Blue Lips, Blue Veins
Blue lips, blue veins, blue, the color of our planet from far, far away…
You're such a damn whore.
He has you pressed against the wall of Hogwarts, and the bricks dig into your back as his erection digs into your hip, proof of his pitiful, aching humanity. It's cold outside, fucking, freezing cold, and he's damp with sweat. You tug his lip between your teeth and the F word, hard and vibrant, is teased out of his crimson mouth by your tarty tongue.
"Fuck, Lily…"
His knee is clumsy and eager as it parts your legs, and you arch and allow it, because he's James Potter and you want to get on your knees and kiss the blue-lined white of his tender wrists. He's all heat and burning and painful innocence, and you are all calculation and desperation and a misplaced hatred that smells like lust.
You allow it because you're Lily Evans, and you marvel at his virginity.
It started simply; three months ago, you stuck your hand out into space and said that you were Lily. You said it because you liked his lopsided spectacles and messy, messy, messy hair, and you adored the knobs of his hands and the way his smirk was only skin-deep.
He smiled, and you caught the glint of his canines.
"I'm James."
"I thought so," you said, and watched him flush a little. He had flirted with girls as a matter of courtesy; winks were his conversational currency, lopsided smirks his greetings. Yet you had seen yourself in the corner of his eye and knew that he only flirted with the ones he didn't give a shit about.
You thought to yourself that you could have him, if you were careful, and your hands clenched avariciously at the thought.
It continued simply; two months ago, you stopped simply staring covetously at the Tree of Knowledge and took the apple, the banal, blushing red apple with the pure white innards.
Two months ago, you looked up at James Potter from beneath your black-smeared lashes and smiled sideways—
He stopped, and his heart banged against his dove-white ribs, fatal like a gunshot—
You, treacherous Eve, reached up and your fingers spread and interlaced in his hair—and slowly, deliberately, you gave Adam his sin.
He kissed you like the instructions had been blurred in the rain, and you sighed and your pink tongue traced the swoop of his bitten red lips as you rewrote them for him, wrote them in swirls of flush-red ink all along his neck, his scalp, his pale, hollowed cheeks.
"Breathe, Potter," you said, detaching from him, feeling vixen and kittenish.
"Sod off, Evans."
But there were still traces of your ink in his cheeks, on his temples and neck, and you felt vindicated.
"You kiss like shit, Potter," you say, because you know he can take it, and you like edging him away from himself, testing him.
"Oh," he said, and he sounded naked and pearlescent and hopelessly young. Then he remembered it was you, and what you were like, are like, and he thrust forward his clavicle.
"You didn't seem to think so a minute ago. Besides," he continued, impudent on the dotted line, "practice makes perfect."
"A hell of a lot of practice," you replied, careless and caressing and cruel.
But you smiled sideways again as you said it, and he knew that he was forgiven for his inexperience.
"I thought you had a lot of girlfriends," you said, because the thought of him rubbing his puppy tongue alone some other girl's lip clenched at your stomach, and under all your tricks and smirking half smiles you were a twisted little masochist.
He shrugged and one hand ran up the back of his neck, up and down and up and down and up and down. Boyish and understated.
"Not really," he said, and you wanted to laugh and cry and clutch yourself at how open he was, how fundamentally earnest and artless. "Just…"
"Things to look at?"
"Yeah. Guess so."
You threaded your clasping, greedy fingers through his, thinking with a buzz that this boy could be yours, yours, yours…
You were a sadist, too, a sadist in love; you wanted to break him apart and force the humanity out of him, this pale, wide-eyed boy with the underlying innocence and simplicity. He was raised on love and privilege and Quidditch; you were raised watching a limp-haired boy cower and hate.
You loved his basic wholeness, and female that you were, that was what you wanted to take from him, because you wanted him down at your level. Love is not in astronomy, and you hate that aching sadness of gazing at the stars—so you wanted him with you, east of Eden.
Because when he saw what you were, he wouldn't be justified in pulling away.
It culminated simply; one month ago, you pushed him against the wall and thrust your open mouth against his, your hands retracing those scarlet instructions on his shoulders, his cheek, his moon-hued abdomen. He shuddered and smoldered and sweated and swore beneath your fingers, pushing hard, breathy imprecations into the pale shadows on the crook of your neck.
So now you're here, arched against Hogwarts, destroying him, shoving out from the cracks his vices, his weak, weak, weak mortality.
It's freezing, fucking, gun-steel cold, and you both have class right now—Potions. You're grasping at his soul with your bluish, acquisitive hands, and you want to smear it with paint.
Sweat in his hair—coating your fingers—his mouth insistent and urgent and almost ashamed against yours—your mouth curls like a scarlet serpent, and you run your hands like fig leaves down his shivering spine.
He's human now, basely so, human and hormonal with snarls of orange hair squeezing from the gaps of his fingers.
Human—yet somehow he's still up there, and you're still down here—or maybe he's down to your level, but you sank a few inches. He's still more than you can stand, young and arrogant and with wide, wide eyes, beautiful in his very humanity.
Human and real, as you always wanted—and you want to throw up.
Standing at the iron gates of Eden, nose pressed flat and unsightly white, you stare in and still marvel at his virginity.
Aching and ravenous and empty, empty, empty, you turn back to the land of Nod.