A/N: Smut. Unadulterated smut. I'm trying to stretch my writing muscles and write outside my comfort zone, so this is what you get apparently. Back out now if you require a plot in your fiction.
Based on this Tumblr post: "Imagine your OTP lying next to each other in bed, staring at the ceiling, embarrassed and slightly alarmed by the wild, intense, filthy sex they just had."
So this is AU, in which Lily and James don't know each other very well from Hogwarts (and I haven't bothered to come up with a reason why) but they are both in the Order.
I don't own Harry Potter or any of the associated characters etc, etc, you know the drill.
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…He was pressed up tight against her, holding her up against the wall as those long legs wrapped around his waist, her feet kicking her trousers the rest of the way off before her heels dug into his bare arse. His fingers were tugging at her knickers, a scanty swatch of lace that nonetheless was his greatest enemy right now; giving up on finesse, he wrapped his fist in the fabric and pulled until it tore and there was nothing stopping his hand from dipping in between them to stroke at her. He needed to feel her, to touch, to find the source of all that liquid heat, and when his fingers brushed that little bundle of nerves and she arched against the wall and pushed her still-clothed breasts into his chest, he felt like he was going to explode and he rushed to sheath himself in her with a sort of desperation he'd never felt before…
There was a large crack in the plaster of his bedroom ceiling.
James was sure it had always been there, he just hadn't paid attention to it before. Then again, he'd never stared so intently at his bedroom ceiling before.
His hand was tangled in the duvet as it rested on his stomach, his other arm thrown above his head as his breathing slowed and the light sheen of sweat cooled on his body. He wasn't entirely sure how all that had just happened, but it had, and damned if he knew what he ought to do now. His emotions were a mess, a roiling pit in his stomach, and embarrassment fought elation and disbelief in an attempt to become the dominant reaction. He'd never been that…exposed, that bare, with anyone before; in the figurative sense obviously.
If he just looked to his right, just plucked up the courage, he'd be able to see Lily stretched out alongside him in the bed, maintaining a careful distance between them, red hair spread across his pillow and a flush on her pale, perfect skin. If he closed his eyes his mind could conjure up the image of her, pupils dilated and dark as he pressed her hard against the wall, her legs lifting to wrap around his waist as he ripped her lacy knickers with one hand and littered her neck with hard, bruising kisses while his questing fingers found their destination and made her gasp and quake against him with smooth, teasing strokes.
So what if they hadn't actually made it to the bed the first time; she didn't seem to care that he'd had her against the hallway wall, and it hadn't mattered to him, not even the tiniest little bit, because his hands and mouth had been on her skin, and her hands had been wound in his hair and he'd felt her tremble around him and fall apart in his arms, and he'd never felt anything so extraordinary in his life. They'd managed to actually get into his bedroom for the second round – and he was never going to be able to look at his chest of drawers the same way now, without seeing her draped across it, her hands gripping the sides as his hands held her hips in place – and finally collapsed onto the bed for the third and fourth times. If he had even an ounce of energy left, they'd probably be going for a fifth innings right now, because if there was something he was sure of it was that he wanted to do all that again; wanted to make her back arch and her body rise up off the bed as she moved her hips more frantically to meet his, and he wanted to do it a million more times in his lifetime.
He'd just spent several hours crawling over every inch of her body, had heard her say his name in a dozen different ways; she'd sighed it, giggled it, moaned it, and - his personal favourite - cried it desperately, interspersed with a few dozen "please's". He knew how every inch of her smelled, tasted, felt, and how was he ever supposed to look at her through those old eyes again now he knew? And the thought of everything they'd just done, combined with the thought of saying or doing the wrong thing and ensuring that he'd never get to do it again, had him paralysed in bed next to her, his heart rate calming and his body slowly unwinding.
He wanted to touch her; not even sexually, just…he wanted to just rest a hand on her skin, but he had no idea if she'd be okay with that, which was ridiculous given what they'd been doing these past few hours; he didn't really know her that well, though he thought he knew her a lot better now than he had a few hours earlier, and not just in the physical sense. But what he wanted more than anything else was for this new feeling of uncertainty to go away, for them to laugh again and for everything to be okay, because it wasn't until he'd stopped touching her that he'd realised that what they'd ended up doing together had become so much more than he'd expected when he was tearing her clothes off in his hallway.
He'd try and order his thoughts in the morning; for now, she was here in his bed, and maybe tomorrow he'd be able to think of a way to convince her that she should come to it again. And again. And maybe a few thousand times after that.
…Now her hair was springing loose from its tie, wild tendrils of red around her face and hanging down her neck, and he reached up and tugged the tie the rest of the way out with one sharp pull so that it all fell loose as she bowed over him, and her neck drooped as if it was boneless, her forehead moving down to press against his as her hips rocked smoothly and their entwined hands kept her balanced above him; and it felt like there was a piece of string all twisted and coiled inside of him that was tied to her hips, her mouth, her hands, and everything would be fine as long as she kept moving like that, plucking at that string - as long as she stayed there, hovering over him, and she was so fucking perfect…
…She tripped over a discarded shoe as she moved backwards through his bedroom door, eyes locked on his, and his arms reached to steady her but he wasn't quick enough, and she crashed into his chest of drawers and braced herself there for a moment, legs unsteady as she giggled, before she glanced over her shoulder and saw his eyes darken, the hazel disappearing into black. He moved towards her, quick, predatory steps, and then she was pressed down onto the grainy surface of the offending piece of furniture, gripping the sides of it, the wood cool against her breasts and belly in sharp contrast to the wandering heat of his hands as they trailed patterns over her back, as his tongue traced the outline of her spine and then his hands moved to pin her hips down, all his hot skin pressing against her back and the back of her thighs…
Lily couldn't tear her eyes away from the ceiling, didn't dare flick them to one side to look at him. Her hands held the duvet up over her breasts, though why she was bothering to cover them was a mystery, since he'd nipped, touched, licked every damn inch of them. His tongue had run up and down her bare back, his teeth had left marks on her inner thighs, he'd kissed his way up her legs, ankle to hip. He'd been over her, under her, behind her, and really there was no point in pretending modesty had anything to do with why she was gripping the sheets so tightly.
Merlin, what had she done? Well, she knew exactly what she'd done; she'd wrapped her lips around him, her fingers had probably left bruises on his arse and thighs, her nails had left scratches down his back, her teeth had sunk into his neck, his shoulders. She'd let him put hands on every part of her, let him scatter marks across her skin, let him sink into her in a desperate fall that she'd been only too glad to rise up and meet with her own need. She'd sucked his Adam's apple, nipped his earlobe and run her hands over all of his weather-toughened skin. All of it. Oh God. On the one hand, it had been incredible, amazing; but on the other, she couldn't help the bubbling embarrassment that came from having been laid so bare in front of – because of – someone she barely knew.
When she walked back into Order Headquarters tomorrow - because they were bloody well going in separately - all she was going to see when she looked at him was the flush on his face as he pushed into her for the first time, she was going to relive him tugging her bra down so he could close that unbelievably hot mouth over her nipple, she was going to remember what it was like to shout his name while his pelvis rocked frantically against hers.
When she'd gone to the pub after tonight's meeting – and a bloody depressing one it had been too – she'd intended to drown her sorrows on her own for a little while before going home and collapsing with a book. Her last mission had been tiring, and she'd felt the need for something to take the edge off the strain that was knotting up her shoulders. She hadn't expected James Potter to come wandering through the door, slide up on the bar stool next to her and order them both more drinks. Perhaps it had been strange, for two people who didn't exactly know each other well to drink together, especially in times like these, but he'd just come back from a mission too, and they'd sat together for a while, talking and laughing and letting all the tension go, until eventually – and she couldn't clearly recall now how they came to the decision – they'd decided to come back to his place and ended up unwinding in an entirely different, though extremely effective, way.
They'd barely made it through the door before they'd leapt at each other, sending clothes flying and digging fingernails into skin and pulling at hair. She couldn't recall now who'd moved first; perhaps they'd both surged towards each other at the same time, driven by…well, driven by who knew what, but the point was that they'd had ridiculous, intense, blow-the-damn-roof-off sex, and now here they were, lying next to each other with no idea what to say because they didn't know each other well enough to know what to say, and she couldn't speak for him, but she was frozen in place for fear of saying something wrong.
She wanted to curl up into him, just slide her body into the crook of his arm, but she had no idea if that would bother him, so here she was, lying alongside him but feeling a million miles away, knowing that they should talk about it but also being terrified of ruining it. She didn't want to let go of these moments. Not yet. And that was insane, because technically there was nothing to ruin; but it felt like there was something, and whatever he'd made her feel she wanted to hold onto it with both hands.
She'd just try and get some sleep; maybe they could talk in the morning, maybe some of the embarrassment and nervousness would have faded and they would be able to look at each other without that edge of alarm and panic creeping in. No matter what the outcome of the morning, no matter how much unease she felt churning low in her belly now she had the presence of mind to think clearly about the night's events, this had been wonderful and she couldn't bring herself to regret it.
…She thinks that this might have become something entirely different now, because his weight is pushing her down into his mattress, and it's both thrilling and comforting to feel him pressed against the whole length of her body, and they're both moving with a calmness now that wasn't there before; slow, gentle thrusts that are soft and somehow sweet. His lips find hers, and this kiss isn't bruising, it isn't hard and desperate, it's…loving. She can't think of a better word, though she's sure there must be one, because there's no way that particular one should apply to this, but the tenderness he shows her now is beyond anything she could have imagined.
And that's terrifying, because it's not like she was ever planning any of this, but if she had thought about it she would have said it wasn't possible to forge a connection like this over the space of a few hours, but they had. They'd touched each and every part of each other and neither of them had realised that was what they were doing until it was too late and they were entwined, wrapped up in each other, defying the world and the odds and pushing higher and further than either of them could ever have managed alone, in any sense.
And he was kissing her eyelashes and touching her soul, and she was pressing a hand against his beating heart and feeling every muscle in his body moving with hers.
And they were both in trouble, so, so much trouble.
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A/N: So...I could do with some feedback to be honest guys, since this isn't the kind of thing I usually write; all comments are welcome. You can also find me on Tumblr as scared-of-clouds, so come chat if you like.
