A.N. Hi my lovely followers, here is another fluffy Jily. Prompt this time was "Someone stealing something from someone else". At the same time I was taking an exam and someone kept clicking their pen, and well, that lead to this. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do! Love, girlwithangelwings
The start of the nightmare known as: James Potter and clicker pens
It's somewhere around midnight when I lean my back against the couch as I sit on the floor of the Head Common Room, pushing the coffee table with my revised essay on it a little further away so I can stretch my legs and wiggle my toes. I need to repaint my toenails, I observe as I thoughtlessly click my ballpoint pen a few times.
I feel his gaze coming to rest on my left hand, the one holding the small piece of plastic and ink. I feel the curiosity burning in his eyes before he even asks anything.
I don't need to turn around and look at him to know he is running a hand through his raven mop of hair and will be biting his lip right about ..three, four, five.. now. I can almost count the seconds before he'll move his hand from his hair to his nose and push up his round spectacles, behind which the eyes I fell in love with are hidden.
The hazel eyes he inherited from his mother, the hazel eyes with golden flecks, surrounded by unnaturally long, dark lashes.
I slowly turn my head a little to watch him from the corner of my eyes and my breath catches somewhere halfway my throat. I was wrong; the lip biting was a few seconds later.
I watch as his perfectly toothpaste white teeth gently catch his full lower lip between them for a moment, before slowly slipping out, slightly more moist and red than before.
Shit. I always try to not watch him as he does that, as it is one of the most sexy habits he has, a habit that always makes me want to jump his bones and snog him senseless.
I avert my eyes from his mouth, where his teeth are still doing their stupid sensual dance, and study the rest of his features.
I need to move a little because my neck is starting to strain, but I can't tear my eyes away from him. He is so beautiful. He would protest if he heard me using that word, saying it's girly, but I don't care. The word fits him; not in the typical way of some girls that are breathtakingly beautiful and make me doubt my sexuality, but in the way of a nose that is straighter than a closet door and a jawline that is smoother than my shaven legs. I lift my eyes slightly higher and suddenly his gaze switches from my hand to my face and his lips twitch up in a cocky smile, my favourite one.
I blush a little and quickly turn back towards my table.
"Don't stop," his baritone voice softly comes, so much less arrogant than the smile he just gave me.
I glance back over my shoulder, before moving my entire body to face him.
"Don't stop what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Looking at you like what?"
Shit, how long have I been staring at him and how long has he noticed it? Has he noticed the countless times before today that I have been watching him? No, watching would be the wrong word; studying would be better.
"Like I am your most favourite thing in the world."
"My favourite thing in the world is petrichor."
I slip it out before I can stop myself and I want to stab myself in the eye with a rusty spoon for it.
Yes, Lily. Well done. Tell the guy you are madly in love with your favourite thing in the world is - wait a second. Am I now admitting to myself I am in love with him? I always denied it before. But man, when he looks at me like that, with those damned eyes, it makes my heart race and my insides flutter and I always, always, say things I regret.
"Petrichor?" he asks, lifting one eyebrow.
"The smell of rain falling on dry soil. The word is derived from the Greek petra, meaning - "
He stops me with a hand on my mouth.
"Fine, you love the smell of rain after a long, dry summer day. Whatever. Doesn't mean you get to stop looking at me as if I smell like your precious petrichor though."
I smile against his warm skin and he retracts his hand.
"Then I won't."
"Thanks."
He smiles broadly, a smile I like to think is reserved for me and his closest friends. A smile of intense happiness. His eyes bore into mine and out of uncomfortable habit, I click my pen.
His gaze immediately flits to it again and he frowns a little.
"Okay, I give up. I'll ask. What in the name of Merlin's knitted thong is that?"
I laugh in disbelief.
"Why, it is a pen, of course."
His frown increases and he tries out the word, as if to see how it feels in his mouth.
"What is that? A.. a pen? Is it like a quill?"
He meets my eyes again and I see insecurity hidden in his.
"Yes, it is like… It's like the muggle version of a quill. You see…"
I get up from the floor and come to sit on the couch with him as I think about how to explain.
"Instead of constantly dipping your feather in the ink, the ink is just permanently inside of the pen already. Until you run out of ink, then you need a new one."
"That's a clever little system."
He cocks his head to the side and very carefully takes the pen from my fingers, twirling it in his own, quidditch roughened ones.
"Why would you use this? Instead of a quill, I mean?"
"Oh, I never liked quills anyway. And pens are more handy. And other than that, it is a statement."
"What kinda statement?"
He carefully presses the button and almost drops it when it clicks.
"Oh, bloody hell. Did I break it?"
I laugh and shake my head.
"You just turned it off. You can't write with it now. If you click that button again, you'll turn it on again."
He gives me a lopsided grin and gazes at me through his eyelashes.
"Yeah, I am good at turning things on."
I swallow heavily.
"I believe that, I think." I answer, squirming in my seat a little bit because oh boy, do I believe that.
He smiles widely and clicks the pen again, again fixing his stare at the plastic rather than me.
"You were saying; statement?"
"Yeah, like I said, it is a Muggle thing," I quickly answer, grateful for the distraction. "It's a reminder I am Muggle born and always will be. I'm just a Mudblood, as Sev - no, Snape, liked to tell me."
"You are not a Mudblood, Lily. Don't listen to that greasy prick."
His eyes are kind as he grabs my hand, the pen clasped in between our palms.
"Well, I do; I do listen to him, James. He was my best friend for years. And you know what? He was right. I am a Mudblood."
Years, maybe even months ago, I would've been sad about this. But not anymore.
"I am a Mudblood, and I am not ashamed of that: Mudblood and Proud. It's who I am. And I think it was you who keeps telling me to love myself, to accept me for who I am."
"You should, because you are bloody fucking amazing, Lilyflower. You are amazing." He says that last sentence as if each word is its own sentence an sich. "And I am proud of you for finally starting to accept that."
A gentle squeeze in my hand and I blush again, cursing my mother for my ginger genes.
"Amazing," he stresses once more.
He lets go of my hand to place the pen on the table, careful, as if it's made of porcelain instead of plastic. Then he grabs me and pulls be into one of his famous bear hugs.
We barely fit on the couch as we lie front to front, my nose pressed to his chest to inhale his scent. Fuck petrichor, James is my new favourite smell.
I haven't noticed I fell asleep until I feel the softness of my mattress below my body and James' strong arms gently pulling away.
"I didn't clean up my homework," I mutter, still half dreaming.
"I'll do it. Don't worry. Go to sleep, love, go to sleep."
I still try to get up, so he pins me down again.
"Sleep, Lily. Sleep."
He strokes my hair and presses a kiss to my forehead; I succumb.
"Fine."
"Sleep tight, my love. Dream of me."
"Always," I whisper, before sleep wraps itself around me.
I wake feeling well rested the next morning, as if I finally managed to get my required 8 hours of sleep. I glance at my wristwatch, which I forgot to take off last night. The time literally makes me jump out of bed. 8:25. I am going to be late for class. Shit, shit, shit! Why didn't my alarm spell go off? I grab my bag and hurry into my shoes, before sprinting out of my bedroom.
I get to the classroom ten minutes late because of the bloody changing stairs. DADA's professor Gooderham glares at me as I close the door behind me, heavily panting.
"Miss Evans, you are late."
"Sorry, sir. I overslept."
"Your essay, please?"
Shit, my essay is still on the coffee table, isn't it? I meet James' eyes and he smiles reassuringly.
'Bag,' he mimes.
I open my bag and see my scroll of parchment in it. Man, that boy is truly perfect. I hand my essay to the agitated, whale-moustached professor and quickly go to sit down next to James, the only empty spot in the room.
I rummage through my bag to find the needed equipment as Gooderham continues with his lecture about the Patronus charm.
"Miss Evans, could you stop with the annoying noises and just focus on my lecture instead of the contents of your lady purse?" Gooderham sneers at me.
"I can't find my pen," I say soundlessly, dropping my bag in defeat.
James pushes paper, ink and a quill towards me.
"Thank you," I whisper, as he quickly reaches into his backpack to – I think – find a spare quill.
But instead of a quill, he brings out my bright blue, plastic ballpoint pen. I stare at him with wide eyed surprise as he jots down some notes and then lifts the pen to his lips to softly bite the end.
"You… You stole my pen!"
His eyes meet mine, twinkling with mischief.
"I did indeed."
"Why!?"
"Well, it only seemed fair."
"Because I have a lot of them?"
"No. Because…"
"Mister Potter, Miss Evans. Please. Continue your tea party some other time."
He waits until Gooderham is answering a question from Grace Sky before he continues his sentence.
"Because if you steal something of mine, I steal something of yours."
"What did I steal?"
He smiles at me, grabs my hand under the table and lifts it to his lips to press a kiss against my knuckles.
"My heart, love. You stole my heart."