Warnings: sexual situations, swearing, gratuitous use of em dashes
A/N: One-shot written for LJ's Lily/James Games Expecto Patronum round, based on the prompt provided.
Kissing James feels like flying—complete with the violent lurch of the stomach at take-off, which simultaneously means This is so brilliant! and What the fuck I have gotten myself into?. The amazing part is that it feels like this every time she kisses him.
His lips—chapped and firm—mold around hers with the elegance of familiarity that they've achieved in these past ten days. Before it was dreadful—the first time? Nightmarish, with knocking teeth and fumbling lips—but decidedly interesting. Now it's transcended to something that's like sinking—slow, torturous, desperate.
Like sinking, and flying, and which way is up?
James' calloused hands slide up her smooth thighs, firm and imposing, but not unwelcome. Lily pretends she's readjusting because of discomfort—her legs perhaps stiff from straddling him on this tucked away stone bench—when in reality she's actually giving him better access to her.
If she's honest with herself—and she usually isn't because she's not quite ready to accept this— there is some pleasant discomfort. Discomfort blooming from between her legs, steady and throbbing and robbing her of all focus. But, this is not unfamiliar to her. Not when James has been inducing this reaction from her since before they could exchange civil words. Not when she's spent nights frustrated and irate and damning his existence yet slipping her hand into her knickers, imagining it was his. No, Lily is quite familiar with swelling of her sex.
Perhaps compelled by it, she lowers herself against him. Perhaps she seeks out the hardness of his cock intentionally. Perhaps she even grinds down when she finds it, her insides tingling and clenching up simultaneously.
Perhaps.
She swallows his rugged moan, swallows her sweet victory. But all too soon he is claiming his own, grabbing the bottom of her arse as the tips of his long fingers just brush against her folds. Lily feels a desire, a desperation seize her. Ten days and he's reduced her to this. Ten days of kissing in empty classrooms, of exploring each other through the veil of their uniforms, and they're pushing this further still.
Push, he does—fingers grazing her wet knickers. Lily lowers herself for more of his touch, spreading her legs. Their long kiss breaks, James pulling back to look at her. He presses tentatively against her, and she shivers with a God, yes. When she finds the courage to look at him, she finds nervousness in place of the arrogance she expects. Unable to bear such a vulnerability, Lily wraps her arms around his neck, nose buried against his unruly hair.
James teases, touches, feels with abandon. Lily relishes, moans, finds her breath catching. As he sheathes to fingers into her warm wetness—pumping and twisting his wrist just right, just how she imagined—Lily breaks. Her insides spasm, sensation painting her entirety.
"I hate you so much, James Potter," she whimpers as the waves wrack her.
"Feeling's mutual," he whispers back before kissing her temple.