AN: A lighter take on Jily, mostly just fluff inspired by Regina Spektor's "Us". Please read and review!
They'll name a city after us
And later say it's all out fault
We're living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages
We're living in a den of thieves
And it's contagious!
-Regina Spektor
He wonders about you a lot.
For instance, right now you're running up ahead, laughing, twirling your full, foamy skirt in the sun, calling to him. You're a child, a goat, a sunbeam, an earthquake; you are lovely and unexpected and the camera in his hand can't catch you in its shuddery arms.
Right now, he's wondering if he's supposed to be this happy, if Common Sense is going to bring him to his knees for being so stupid.
(But it's wonderwonderwonderful and he can't say he cares at the moment.)
"James!" you call to him, unaware of how you look right now, God, this can't be real…
"C'mon! Stop overthinking it!"
You're right, of course; he is overthinking it. He's committing flutters and sensation and gasping, whispering pumppumppumps of his heart to words and it's coming out smelling like irony.
But he can't help smiling a little because usually it's him that has to tell you not to overthink it, you with your fantastical mind and fatal overanalyzing
(Like a doctor but without the cynicism)
you with your hatred of leaps in the dark.
Usually, he has to force you to turn off, for fuck's sake, Lil, just turn it off for a minute, but not today because today you're in a funny, marvelous mood and he woke to your kiss and your warm strawberry breath and the well of your hair as you leant over him.
"Coming," he says, and he hurries after you and laughs a quiet laugh as it occurs to him that he does this all the time. He's always running after you, half laughing, half bewildered, half intrigued because you two together are three halves of a whole, senseless and hopelessly bizarre.
He comes up behind you and catches your waist and you laugh and say something that gets caught in his mouth when he kisses you.
There's something wild and utopian about you today, and it's contagious.
A few minutes later the two of you are on the grass. He's lying on his back, one arm bent under his head as he looks up at you, still wondering.
(With you, he does it a lot)
You wrinkle your nose at him, pretending you can scrunch your face into something grotesque, sodding moron that you are.
"Whacha looking at?"
"You," he says, wonderfully vague, slightly smirking.
What he means is:
Your hair
Your mouth
Your wide, laughing eyes
The jam smudge on your nose (he thinks it's from breakfast and wants to kiss it off)
The sun on your dress, your part, your shoes, your arms
(Because today you are saturated with sunlight and it's all over your mouth)
And the pieces of your soul that are pirouetting on your tongue
(How do you do that?)
You roll your eyes at him.
"Is there something on my face? Or are you just breathless at my glory?"
Oh, you think you're kidding, you wild, minxish, marvelous person with strawberry jam on the tip of your nose and fey whirling like galaxies in and around and among you.
"Nothing on your face," he lies, because he thinks the smudge is adorable. "I was just finding something out."
"What's your discovery?" you say, taking his glasses as you sometimes do and twirling them in your fingers. They burn and glitter in the light; he, on the other hand, is reduced to dim outlines and shadows. You are now a divine splotch of paint, all cream and orange and blue, blue skirt.
He smiles at what must be you and wishes he could think of a better way to say it.
"I think I love you."
You laugh at him, but it's a bright, delighted laugh and he feels the soft red of your mouth as it skims his forehead.
"You're a slow learner. I already knew that."
"Why didn't you say something?" he murmurs, teasing you. "God, we could have straightened this out ages ago."
"I wanted to let you figure it out," you say. Then you lean down to kiss him and he forgets to be embarrassed and wonder what he tastes like.
(Something dull and musty, he's sure, but he's never found the right moment to ask…
And besides, it couldn't taste anywhere near as good as you)
You collapse onto him, knocking his breath out (whoa) as you sprawl on his chest (fingers splayed on his ribcage, elbows seeking anchorage), making him laugh a little at how stupid this is, him on the ground, you on top of him, dangling his glasses and propped on your elbow.
"This is a good position," you muse, wriggling so that one leg is kinda between his and you're splayed over him.
He nods, squinting at you—you in the sun, crimson edged and frolicsome.
"I can think of a better one," he says, and the movement of his eyebrows is laden with dirty humor.
You laugh a little, laugh at sex like monsters in the dark. Your hand—your naughty naughty naughty hand—scoots down and finds his pants and fucking hell, now he can't breathe.
"Don't start something you can't finish," you tease, your fingers working at his zipper, sliding in.
He's had so, so many naughty fantasies—oh, Merlin, he's such a perv—but never one quite like this, with you giving him a sodding hand job in a park somewhere in the green, wild grass and the white, wild sun and the sun and it's everywhere dancing on your busy fingertips and your lips and your lashes.
Then he laughs—a breathless laugh which bounced off of his lungs and out of his mouth. You pause for a moment. He can hear in your voice that your eyebrows are up.
"Didn't know your sense of humor was so sexual," you quip. You sound amused. He hammers a breath into his (breathlessbreathless) body and tries to explain.
"That kinda…tickled…"
You pause—fuckheblewit—and then thank God you giggle and kiss his grinning mouth.
"It's a hand job, dumbass. You're not supposed to laugh! God, you're such a weirdo."
You're lying on him now; he can feel your breasts and your abdomen and your warmsoftfingers as they slide up his neck and into his hair.
"Sorry," he chuckles (raggedragged sounding, his breath is coming fastfastfast and shallow as fuck). "'snot my fault…y'can't…bloody…do it right…"
"Potter, you arrogant fuck!" you say, and he laughs and you laugh
at the silliness of it all
at your hand in his pants
at the straining erection he has, the one you're helping along
at the sun, dazzling on your hair and your laughter and your teeth and your skin.
You kiss him and he's hard
(harder than the bangthumpfizzlepound of his heart against his ribs and his mouth and his chest)
And you still giggle a little bit and he's grinning like a fucking idiot and he doesn't care because God,
This is fun.
He feels your hand bypassing his boxers now and you're rolling so that he's hovering above you like a cloud or a bizarre dream
And oh,
Wow
He never knew sex could be so…easy.
You're tickling him lightly now and he squeezes your hips—just a little.
There's sunshine in every crevice of you and sunshine glimmering between you and him and your laughter (another kind of sunshine) leaks into his mouth
And it's contagious.