A/N: Welcome to my second one-shot within the Eighteen Again universe, and to a sort-of sequel to Meet the Parents! To the surprise of no one who has read Meet the Parents, this is basically PWP—although perhaps some plot if you squint!—so reading neither is necessary to enjoy this. Still, if you like this, you'll like Meet the Parents, and I hope you'll give Eighteen Again a shot.
I've never written Lily's parents before, and when I started this fic, I didn't intend for the opening scene to go on as long as it did. But I absolutely fell in love with writing Robert and Marie—Robert especially—so there's more leadup in this than we had in Meet the Parents. I hope you all enjoy that part just as much as the 6k of smut that follows—I loved writing both in different ways.
If you're a fan of this, come hang out with me at Tumblr at scriibble-fics! I'm constantly posting nonsense about future and current fics, offering sneak peaks at those, and I love answering questions!
Much love to you all, but especially to my regular reviewers, who have started to feel a bit like friends. I love hearing from my silent readers too! Please drop me a review—long or short! genuinely anything!—and let me know what you think!
Meet The Parents II
"Mum, Daddy, this is James."
Robert Evans looked up from his copy of the evening newspaper, which he'd spread across the kitchen table. Lowering his reading glasses, he took in the entirety of James Potter in one quick, sweeping glance.
"Huh." He pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, and looked back down at the table. "Figured he'd be a bit bigger than that."
Lily Evans resisted the urge to sigh. Of course he couldn't make it easy on her. Of course. Even though he outwardly resumed reading, she didn't need to see even a glimpse of his eyes—identical to hers in shape and color—to know that they glittered teasingly, like he'd found himself in the possession of a good joke.
"Robert!" Marie Evans snapped immediately. She'd gone to wash her hands the moment James had stepped into the kitchen, already flustered just at the idea of meeting him, but her pale complexion tinged further pink as she threw her husband a truly disgusted look. "Must you? Must you—"
James laughed, of course. Why wouldn't he? He never stopped taking the piss out of people—truly almost never, not even when the occasion called for something more serious—but he also could take it just as well. It wasn't a trait that every bloke possessed, Lily knew. She'd dated enough other lads to know that for sure, although never seriously, not as seriously as she'd felt about James almost immediately. Then again, James was just confident, so confident that it erred towards arrogance far more than she liked, but she appreciated it then. That confidence sent his head rocking backwards as he laughed, strong jaw catching in the warm yellow glow of the overhead light, and the look he cast Lily radiated warmth and sent her heart fluttering in a truly maddening way.
Jesus Christ, they'd dated for sixth months. He shouldn't still make her feel like that.
"I'm going to assume that's because you talk me up like you do, love," he said, grin easy and open, like he waltzed into her parents' house on the regular, to the point that no nerves existed. Yet those nerves did exist, even if he didn't exhibit them. It had taken her only a glance at his appearance—hair carefully tamed to the point that she suspected a rare bit of Sleekeazy's, trousers and a button-down shirt despite the muggy June evening, toting a bouquet of flowers and an expensive bottle of whiskey—to tell her that. He'd put in Effort, proper noun.
"Oh, you have no idea," her dad said before she could answer. He gave up all pretenses of reading—fully committed to making her life miserable, it seemed—and tossed his glasses upon the table. "For years, it was, 'Potter is the worst, I can't stand him,' which turned into, 'I guess we're friends, but he's still a real dickhead—'"
"Robert!" Marie said again. "Don't—"
James' laughter probably influenced Lily's. She knew that inherently. The second he'd started laughing, she'd started smiling—no, the second she'd seen him at the door, she'd started smiling, really. But she returned her dad's taunting grin then, before telling Marie, "To be fair, I probably did say that, Mum."
"You did," Robert assured her. "More than once. And, then, she writes home to her mum this winter, 'I went to Hogsmeade with James.' I swear, Marie and I had a field day. She had to hold me back from going out and telling all the neighbors—wise, that, since they would have had no idea what I was going on about. After all that, James, you're about twenty feet tall in my mind and some sort of mythical creature—like a dragon, I suppose, although Lilsy says those actually exist. Still, of all the mythical creatures, you're the one I'm most glad to meet, because I've heard the most about you. Happy to have you here."
Marie's cheeks burned, and Lily had to resist the urge to bury her own face in her hands, but, looking back later, she would decide that it was perfect. No other speech could have better encapsulated her dad—joking, teasing, blunt to the end—and no reaction could have better summed up her mum—embarrassed, scolding, desperate to play the good host and horrified at her husband's tactlessness.
It was also perfect because James clearly thought it was perfect. "Thrilled to be here, sir," he said, and he crossed the kitchen with the sort of easy confidence that had often taken over prefect meetings their seventh year, when Lily had done her best not to gawk at how stupidly fit he'd looked when in charge of something. He owned the room, without a doubt, like he lived there. "This is my favorite whiskey—Lily said you hadn't had it before—and these flowers are for you, Mrs. Evans. They're from my mum's greenhouse. Lily said you grow too. I'd love to see your gardens later, if you have a minute, but it looks like you're in the middle of dinner now. Can I help at all? I'm not totally worthless in the kitchen, so don't listen to a thing Lily says—"
Yes, he was nervous, and yes, he was putting in work. He'd taken the flowers-and-liquor playbook straight from Lily's own introduction to his parents two weeks prior, and she saw mirrored conversation evident in his words. I pay attention to the things your daughter says, and I recognize our common ground, the subtext said, just as she had spoken of gardening with his mum and brewing with his dad. I want you to like me, because I like her.
Jesus Christ, he hadn't even done anything—had hardly even looked her way, really—but Lily found herself watching him with a steadily increasing heartbeat, fascinated and impressed and stupidly aroused over it all in a way that truly didn't make sense.
Marie refused his help. Lily had known she would, even before the offer left James' mouth. "No, no, no, you're our guest, James. And call me Marie, please, and that's Robert—"
"I rather liked 'sir,'" Robert said, glasses back on his face as he examined the bottle of Campbell's Finest Old Whiskey with great interest. "Lilsy called me a git not five minutes before you got here, James, so it's nice to have a little respect around here for once."
Robert favored her with a smile that Lily knew was solely reserved for her, a smile completely unlike any he ever offered her mum or at Petunia—but, then again, neither of them would have bantered back quite as readily as she did. He favored her for that and she knew it, just like she knew Marie knew it. Petunia knew it even more.
He was also fast on his way to favoring James over Vernon—perhaps just because he favored Lily—which would definitely send Petunia spiraling for months.
Whatever. Lily wouldn't deal with that now. She also wouldn't think of the sound of Petunia's mocking laughter on the other side of the telephone earlier that day, when she'd called her up to ask her to dinner to meet James. She wouldn't let that ruin Petunia night. She wouldn't.
"Didn't you used to tell me respect was earned, Daddy?" she asked, and the way he winked drove a little of the thoughts of Petunia away, and tugged a new smile onto her face. "Stop acting like a git and I'll stop calling you one."
At the stove, Marie made a truly frustrated noise—a tsk mixed with a sigh mixed with what might have been a stifled swear. "You two—some impression we're making here—honestly, Lilsy, do you want him to think we're this dysfunctional?"
"I love it," James said immediately. The amusement on his face had only grown. "Truly. I—well, I've fancied Lily for years, so I've imagined coming here more than once—even before she stopped hexing me, honestly. I was sweating this all day, but—this is perfect. It really is. You'll understand when you meet my mates, Mrs.—Marie. They never stop taking the piss."
When they met his mates. He obviously intended to fully mesh his life with hers, down to wanting to drag Sirius and Remus and Peter over for a visit—who would go happily, Lily knew. Oh, she could just imagine them sitting at the kitchen table, praising her mum's cooking while they absolutely tore her to shreds with jokes egged on by her dad.
Life was good. Life was so, so good.
"Can I give you a tour?" Lily asked, and he perked his head up excitedly, like Padfoot during the full moon.
"Seriously?" he asked, eyes wide. "Yes. Show me everything. I've never been in a non-magical house before. I mean, Remus' mum is a muggle, but his dad's a wizard, so—"
How many people would have balked at the suggestion, instead of taking to it like he did? Hell, how many people would have balked at dating her at all, since she came from a muggle family and the wizarding world had become more and more divided on blood status as the days passed? Yet James had always made it sound like her background fascinated him, even back before they'd truly become friends their sixth year. Every time she'd let any hint of her muggle upbringing slip, he'd been right there, peppering her with endless questions based in real, obvious interest. She'd never doubted that some of that interest had come from how much he'd fancied her, and that he just wanted to hear her talk about such things—or anything, really. But he'd also seemed genuinely curious past that, truly baffled when she'd tried to explain a microwave, or enthusiastic when she'd described muggle films, or curious when she'd walked him through the way a telephone worked.
"Why don't we have that?" he'd asked over and over, fascinated and amazed. "Wizards could learn a thing or two from muggles, seriously." Even though he never stopped joking, she'd never once thought he'd taken the piss.
No one else had ever said that to her, and from the first time he'd put it that way their fourth year, she'd never forgotten it.
"How is Remus?" Marie asked. "We met him last summer. He's such a lovely boy."
"You should date him," Marie had said the moment Remus had left after he'd Apparated to their house in the middle of the summer of 1977. "He's wonderful."
Yeah, Lily had never told Remus or James that. She'd also never mentioned that her mind had gone immediately to James—stupid, infuriating James, with his beautiful jaw, and his lazy smiles, and his dumb hair, and his teasing comments, and his strict moral compass, and his strong arms, and the way he made her feel extraordinary in ways large and small (even when he drove her absolutely mad)—
Fuck, she'd been gone for ages over him, even before she'd admitted it to herself. The thought of dating one of his mates had just seemed wrong, because they were his.
"Oh, he rubbed that in for months," James said, eyes crinkling fondly behind his glasses. "He and Lily are mates, sure, but I swear he only came over here so he could use it to torment me. He knew how jealous it would make me, and he loved it."
There was that, too. James had never once shied away from expressing the strength of his feelings for her—not even when she'd wanted him to give it a rest. She could almost see him throwing the world's biggest fit over Remus' gloating recollections of the afternoons he'd spent in Cokeworth with her, and—
She was so gone. To be loved so fully, so entirely, by someone who made her body tremble and her heart flutter and her head swim—how had she gotten that lucky?
"You have some time before dinner," Marie said, and Lily tore her eyes away from James just long enough to see her mum smiling at her in a truly knowing way. "Go ahead, Lilsy."
Marie probably assumed that Lily wanted to snog him a little.
Oh, if she only knew.
"Make sure you show him that horrible picture of you in the stairwell!" Robert called as Lily gestured for James to follow her from the room. "You know, where you're crying during school photos—"
After she'd first visited his parents' house—his parents' fucking manor, more like—she'd spent more than one late night wondering how the hell she could ever bring him to Cokeworth. Her parents' house was nice enough—especially by Cokeworth standards—but homey and lived in. Her mum decorated with handmade crocheted doilies and multitudes of heavy throws and far too many sentimental knickknacks and photographs. His mum, on the other hand, either had the taste of a professional interior designer or had hired one—and neither would have surprised her, given the glamour that Euphemia Potter exuded even just sitting in the Potters' lush den. In comparison to the Potters' multitude of guest rooms and formal dining room and library and expansive grounds, her parents' house boasted three small bedrooms, a single bathroom, and a tiny backyard with a small, metal swingset.
Despite that, James acted like she lived in a truly magical place—ironic, since no magic existed outside her bedroom.
"How does this work?" he asked over and over, gesturing to the most random of things—the television set in the living room, the light switch in the hallway, the telephone just outside the kitchen, and on and on and on. "I know what they are—and I know you've told me about them—but—"
How could she even begin to explain electricity? She was going to end up going to the library in Cokeworth and picking up a book on it before the week was out, she knew without question. Her answers lacked substance, revealing just how little she actually knew about the inner workings of muggle technology. Still, James watched her face and listened to her with such rapt attention—more attention than he'd ever paid to a class at Hogwarts, without a doubt—that she knew she'd happily learn every last thing she could about electrical currents if it meant maintaining his interest.
"This is Dad's favorite photo of me, the git," she explained to James minutes later, tucked into his arms as they stood on the same stair before a crowded row of family photographs. "I know you're not going to believe me, but I was really shy once—"
"You're right. I don't believe you." James rested his chin atop her head, his chest rumbling with laughter. "So, what—you just sat there and cried when they tried to take your picture?"
"Yes, but I was six, James. By the time I got to Hogwarts—"
"You had learned how to hand me my arse. Believe me, I remember." He gave her waist a brief, gentle squeeze. "So—that's Petunia? No wonder she hates you, love. Merlin, you got all the looks."
The photo in question held her and Petunia in the same frame, but only just. They stood as far apart as possible in front of the Evans' lit Christmas tree, and neither looked thrilled, although Lily thought she looked like she'd at least attempted a smile. Petunia had not.
"She's prettier when she's happy," Lily said. Even after seven years of enmity, the desire to defend Petunia still burned hot and bright. "That's just…usually not around me."
"Hmm." James kissed the crown of her head. "You must have gotten all the smarts too, then, because that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. No one makes me happier than you do, Evans. Nothing makes me happier, honestly. Name something or someone. Whatever it is—whoever it is—it doesn't matter. I like you better."
He was going to be the death of her. Absolutely. She didn't doubt that for a second.
"Mum and Dad's room," she said when they reached the second floor, gesturing to the first door on the right. "Petunia's is over there. This one is mine."
He caught her about the waist again when she went to turn the doorknob, his hand warm through the thin cotton of her sundress as he pressed it flat against her stomach. "Do you know how many times I've imagined being in your bedroom?" he asked, his breath tickling her neck. Excitement shone through his words, gentle and sweet. "Especially after Moony came back from seeing you the first time—stupid fucking wanker, so smug—"
"Funny—I've said those same words about you. A lot. But I know you know that." Smiling, she slipped out of his arms to step through the threshold into her small, cluttered bedroom. "Dad made the furniture," she said when James went to touch the mirrored dresser just beside the door, which sat littered with cosmetics and picture frames and tchotchkes and other bits and bobs, all carefully organized.
"He made it?" James asked, and he'd turned his back to her, but she still saw something in his posture sharpen with that ever-present interest. "Without magic? How?"
"James, muggles make everything without magic."
"I know, but—" He knew, but he clearly still couldn't fathom it. He shook his head, fingertips skimming along the top of the dresser, and then turned to look at the rest of the room. "Are these your bands, then?" he asked, nodding to the wide array of posters that covered the walls almost entirely.
She crossed the pale pink carpet to settled onto her twin-sized bed. "And films, yes. Do you recognize any that I've talked about?"
He took it as a challenge immediately, as she'd rather expected he would. Everything came as a challenge to James—like it did her, really. More than once, she'd had to wonder if that was why he'd liked her in the first place. More than once, again, she'd worried that he wouldn't stay interested once he'd finally conquered the challenge and had gotten her to want him back just as badly.
He'd proven her wrong. Thank god for that. A world in which she wanted him and he didn't want her? Fuck, how brutal.
He'd lived in that world for years, of course. She still felt badly about that.
"This one," he said, crossing the room to tap at a poster. "And this one—and this one—have you talked about this one?—and this one sounds familiar—" He went on like that, on and on and on, no poster left unexamined, until he reached her tiny desk. He paused there, fingers once again brushing the top almost reverently. Even with his back once again turned to her, she immediately knew when he'd located the picture frame. "Evans—" he began, but then he stopped, like the words had gotten trapped in his throat. "Is this—are you for real right now? You have this on your desk?"
It was a picture of him, of course, one she'd taken the previous fall at Hogwarts. He sat perched on a stone railing that led down to the castle's grounds, trainers swinging in the air and hair blowing in the cool afternoon's slight breeze.
More than that, he fucking beamed out of the frame, just as he had when he'd spied her with her camera. That smile had immediately made it her favorite of the dozens upon dozens upon dozens of photos she'd taken of him. She'd committed it to a frame truly embarrassingly early on in their relationship, besotted from the very start.
"You know I love you. I don't know why you're surprised."
It was a lie. She did know why he was surprised, although it didn't fully make sense to her. After six months, butterflies still exploded in her stomach at the sight of him, like a foolish fourteen-year-old girl with her first crush. After six months, he still acted like he couldn't believe that she wanted to so much as smile his way—let alone all the other things she constantly wanted to do to him.
"Yeah, but—" He'd picked up the frame in his hand and turned to look at her, but it instantly fell slack by his side. For several solid seconds, he didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. She'd stretched out across her bed on her stomach to watch him, and the way his eyes roved slowly over her body, lingering on the lifted hem of her dress, spoke volumes. "Evans—could you not?"
Heat flooded her system, hot and thick, at the mere suggestion in his eyes. "What?" she asked, and she did her very best to inflect the sort of faux-innocent tone he'd always taken on when she'd busted him and his friends in the midst of something truly stupid at Hogwarts.
He picked up the jest in her voice, and a hint of a reluctant grin flashed across his beautiful jaw. "Like you don't know." He set the photograph back down, briefly forgotten, and went to fidget with the sleeves of his shirt. In several careful, methodical moves—in which he stared determinedly at his hands and not at her—he cuffed his shirtsleeves to the elbow. "Off the bed, love. You know."
Okay, but if he really wanted her to get up? He should leave his shirt alone, because the simple motions reminded her far, far too much of the way he'd often literally rolled up his sleeves so he could help her with Transfiguration. His tutelage had almost always led to snogging—if not more, a lot more—and just watching him—
She shifted atop the mattress, thighs squeezing together instinctively in an attempt to get some sort of pressure to her core. "Counterpoint. You could shut the door, if you'd like."
He sucked in a short, quick breath. "Oh, no. No, I'm not about to muck this up with your parents. I want them to like me, Evans, not to find me up here pounding you into your bed."
Well, then he shouldn't say shit like that, truly, because just the suggestion of his words—and the memory of exactly how it felt to have him on top of her, just absolutely giving it to her—didn't exactly deter her.
"You shag me at your parents' house! Three days ago, you dragged me up to your room and practically begged me to ride your face—"
"Fuck—can you not?" he said again, eyes snapping from her, to the open door, and then back again. "I—talking like that—fucking hell. It's just—it's different, love."
Something about the way he stood—tense, taut, clearly stressed—and the almost panicked look on his face, just did it for her.
Did that make her a bad person?
Whatever. That hardly mattered, not just then. All that mattered was the way he clearly only just held himself back, determined to do the right thing. She'd watched him lack self-control for years—literal years. To see him suddenly exhibit even just an ounce of that, and to watch him wrestle between desire and reason with such ferocity that it read all over every pained bit of his face—
Why did that do it for her?
That hardly mattered either. Her heart had started pounding by then—in her chest, in her throat, between her legs—and she rolled onto her back. He watched her, dark hunger evident behind his glasses and his jaw slightly slack, like she'd just performed the most erotic movement he could imagine. "Okay," she agreed. "That's fine. You don't have to do anything, but will you shut the door anyway? Because I'm going to have to do something, or else I'm not going to be able to focus on dinner, and I really want to enjoy it. You can step out, if you'd like. The room's silenced, so it's not like you'd hear—"
"What, you getting yourself off?" The latter part came out rather strangled, stuck deep in his chest. "Oh, holy—Evans, you—"
For a brief moment, he sounded so panicked that she almost felt bad.
In the next, she remembered how he'd shoved her up against the wall in his parents' foyer when she'd arrived for a visit the previous week. With his body wedged up against hers, he'd put his mouth to her ear and whispered to her all of the filthy details of the dream he'd had about her the night before. He'd had her literally panting by the end of it, so longing and overheated and desperate that she'd felt almost faint, and then—
Then he'd let her go, and she'd had to go greet his parents with her knickers fucking flooded, all while he'd grinned at her in that annoyingly smug, lazy way she somehow loved and hated all at once.
After that? He deserved to struggle a little, without a doubt.
"What, baby?"
There. There she'd finally done what he'd so often accused, and purposefully used the greatest form of ammunition she had.
It worked. Of course it worked. She'd never doubted that it would for a second.
He crossed the room with such determination that, for one brief second, she almost thought he might slam the door. Everything about the set of his shoulders and the tension in his forearms and the furrow of his brow suggested something akin to anger, but he latched the door carefully, clearly still all too aware of where they were and who lurked just downstairs.
She'd make him forget. She'd make him forget just like he'd made her forget that they were at his parents' house every time she visited. It was only fair.
He fumbled for his wand, the movements uncharacteristically clumsy as he rushed, and that? That had her more convinced of his desire for her than ever. Graceful, agile, athletic James Fleamont Potter stood at the door of her childhood bedroom, muttering incantations under his breath as he tried—and failed, and failed, and failed again—to turn the lock. Each spell he cast became simpler and simpler, as if he couldn't even work his way through the most rudimentary of charms, and—
She got after him for his ego all the time, but she really needed to check her own then. There was something just powerful about turning such a talented, confident wizard into a worthless, needy mess. No, there was just something powerful about turning that talented, confident wizard into a worthless, needy mess. It sent her whole body tingling because he was him, because she loved him so much that he sometimes made just breathing the most difficult task she could imagine. She loved him so much that she didn't care that her parents sat downstairs, surely discussing James in hushed undertones, while she planned to shag him just a floor away. She loved him so much that just the thought of him sometimes left her longing for his touch, even just small, insignificant thoughts, like that of the sound of his laugh or the way his eyes crinkled or the warm looks that he seemed to save just for her.
"Flip the button on the knob," she said after he swore rather spectacularly at his third failed cast. "But they're not likely to come up here anyway. Mum knows we're going to snog—"
He regained a little coordination as he locked the door, and just watching the nimble flick of his index and middle fingers left blood rushing to her core. She could almost feel that movement inside of her, creating all the magical sparks that only he managed to coax out of her body. "Snog," he repeated, chuckling. His laughter sounded dark, almost humorless, and it twisted her stomach pleasantly. "No. No, you're going to ride your hand for me, love, and then—oh, shit—"
She'd given in. His laughter had done it, truly, and he turned just in time to watch her draw her legs apart and slip her hand down the front of her knickers.
He made a low, inhuman sound, something she barely heard. Her hand couldn't hold a candle to his, not in terms of what it could do to her—and how unfair was that? She'd spent years using her hand, and he'd only had about five months' experience with his, but he still outpaced her somehow. Still, fuck, it was better than nothing to roll her fingers over her clit, and to ghost her fingertips across her entrance, and to finally slide one finger inside, and then two.
She'd started wanting him in the fucking kitchen, for god's sake, just because he'd played nice with her parents. She almost throbbed by then.
"Evans," he said, her name broken and plaintive and warm and sweet all at once. "Merlin, love—fucking—look at me. Please look at me. I've thought about this—oh, yes, love—"
Her eyes had closed on pure instinct alone, but when she opened them—without a second thought, simply following his instructions because they came from him—heat flooded her body. It came from embarrassment at first, at least in some small, almost insignificant part. Sure, she'd touched herself in front of him before, and more than once, but that hadn't exactly made it feel any less vulnerable. It hardly mattered that they'd spent the better part of six months basically just going at each other. There was still something particularly revealing about spreading her legs and delving her hand into her knickers while he watched, more than all of the times he'd done that to her himself.
In the next moment, any lingering bits of discomfiture fled. It only took a single glance at his face for the heat in her body—in her soul—to flash entirely to want, to need. His cheeks had flushed, red and ruddy like he'd just gotten off a broomstick, and his jaw had clenched so tight that it looked painful. His forehead creased the second she looked at him, and he moved a hand immediately to cup where his erection already strained at the front of his trousers. As she watched, his forearm flexed when he squeezed himself, as if intent on relieving at least some of the pressure that had clearly already started to absolutely do his head in, and—
"Fuck, you're fit," she said, unable to stop herself. The words tumbled out feverishly, hot and desperate. "Seriously, baby—you in that shirt—god, you're lucky I didn't jump you in the doorway—"
Despite the tension in his body—and on his face, and in his eyes—a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "That's how I feel about you all the time, Evans. All the time. Every day. I told you—it's ruining my life, but—Merlin, I'm so fucking glad it is. I'd let you ruin me any time you wanted." His hand had started to move across his cock, no longer just squeezing, but caressing with short, rough strokes. "Take your knickers off, love. I want—I need to see you. Please."
Jesus fucking Christ, even his attempts at manners made her wet.
It really wasn't fair.
"I want you to take them off," she said, and the combination of her thumb rubbing slow circles onto her clit, and the muscle that flexed beautifully in his jaw, left her whimpering. In seconds, the sound had him immediately fumbling for his belt, his eyes glossy. "Baby—"
She hadn't said it on purpose that time. Really, she'd gotten past the point of purposeful actions, too wrapped up in the tense set of his shoulders and the pitch black of his pupils that had nearly overtaken his irises entirely. Yet the second it left her mouth, he sprung into, like she'd uttered the correct incantation and finally had him under her spell.
She did have him under her spell, in a way. Thank god for that, because she knew she was absolutely under his as well.
He crossed the room in several short, quick steps, his belt open but the mission of his trousers forgotten. Her request had entirely occupied his mind, so much so that when he joined her on the bed—without pause, like he knelt between her legs there every night—it almost surprised her to hear him remember to even breathe. His mission looked like it had overtaken every inch of him, and that mission centered around tearing his glasses off and ducking his head between her thighs so he could drag her knickers down with his teeth.
"Fuck." She heard the word leave her mouth as the world dissolved into hazy nothingness. Fog crept over her brain, a thick cloud of mist that blanketed her mind entirely, overwhelmed by the sensation of his stubble brushing against her thighs and his breath hot against her and his hands joining his mouth's work as he dragged the lacy straps of her knickers down and off her legs. "James—"
He ran his tongue over her slowly, a long, exaggerated lick that sent her head flying back and her hips rising and her hands clutching his neatly-combed hair. Yes, he'd definitely used Sleekeazy's, of that she had no doubt. His hair felt too tamed, shiny and soft and unlike the wild, unruly curls she wrapped around her fingers every chance she got.
Had he ever used Sleekeazy's before, despite having a literal free lifetime's supply? Had he ever even tried to tame his hair? No, not even on their first date, when he'd clearly thought through exactly what he should wear. He'd dressed smartly for the Saturday excursion to Hogsmeade, not just in a pair of jeans and whatever t-shirt he could find that morning—his usual weekend attire, which he somehow still made look incredible—but he'd left his hair wild.
He'd combed his hair to meet her parents, and it was the stupidest thing in the world for that to make her heart feel like it might literally burst, but it did.
He sat up abruptly, and the loss of him—his warmth, his weight, his mouth, his hair in her hands—made her cry out in protest, just a sharp, short noise of loss that cracked a slight smile across his face. "I know, love," he said, voice low and tender. Her stomach, already tightly coiled, clenched further. "But—I want to watch you touch yourself. Fuck, I need that, Evans. I've thought—Merlin, I've thought about you lying here at night, missing me, riding your hand and wishing it was mine—"
"I do that every night," she said. Her throat had tightened to the point that speaking had become painful, and each word burned. In response, his eyes closed briefly, his expression torn, as if he savored the admittance even as it almost hurt. "But you're here now, and I want you. I want—"
"I'll give it to you," he promised quickly. "Just not yet. Give me this, love, and—whatever you want, it's yours." He reached for her hand, and she thought for a moment that he'd deposit it between her legs, but he didn't. Instead, he drew her fingers into his mouth, the same two she'd just had inside herself, and—
Her chest exploded—or it felt that way, anyway. The heat of his mouth and the slow roll of his tongue lit a fire inside her, past the already aching need he'd just inspired. She made a noise—something sharp, frantic, pleading—and he groaned in response, the sound vibrating against her hand, up her wrist, into her arm, through her entire body—
She'd left her body. There was no other explanation for the way that she almost felt like she watched herself wrench her fingers from his mouth, and then thrust those same fingers between her thighs. She was already all but dripping, but he'd wet her fingers further still, and she felt like she lingered somewhere near the ceiling of her bedroom, watching as she resumed almost frenzied work on her clit, like a woman possessed.
He watched too, ragged breathing growing even faster, his lips parted and his eyes wide. "Fuck," he whispered, a sound she only just heard over the unavoidable moans that fell from her lips. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—Jesus Christ, Lily—" He ran his hands up the inside of her legs, from her knees up to her hips, the calluses from years of Quidditch scratching roughly against her skin and lifting goosebumps as he went. "You're incredible. I can't believe—I still can't believe you want me at all half the time, let alone enough that—fuck, that you think about me and do this." He traced his fingers along the lines of her hips, which sent her twisting further. "I was a fucking mess at practice today, because I couldn't stop thinking about seeing you tonight and wondering how the hell I was supposed to not shag you. I just knew you were going to open the door wearing some tiny little dress that I'd taken off you before, and—you wore this to Hogsmeade in May. You wore this, and I couldn't stop touching your legs under the table at the Three Broomsticks, and we ended up almost shagging in that alley just outside there—"
He spoke of her impeccable memory often, but in truth, she'd nearly forgotten that date entirely—at least in reference to the dress that she'd worn. She hadn't forgotten the teasing patterns he'd painted on her inner thigh as they'd laughed with their mates—because she doubted she'd ever forget that—yet, if he'd asked, she wouldn't have been able to tell him what she'd worn that day. All she could remember was the heat in her cheeks and her stomach and her knickers, and the longing in his eyes, and that, afterwards, he'd ended up making her come just out of sight of Hogsmeade's main strip. He'd put one hand over her mouth and the other between her legs, and she'd come with her back pressed up against the warm red bricks of the Three Broomsticks' exterior, the laughter and chatter and commotion of Hogsmeade's visitors ringing in her ears.
Just the memory of that—
She snapped.
She sat up, reaching for the collar of his shirt, and she caught a flash of the surprised twist of his lips before she kissed him, her mouth hard and hot and needy. He met her halfway there after the briefest of seconds, and his mouth opened under hers, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as he buried a hand in her hair, nearly crushing her to him. He tasted like her, subtle but present from his tongue briefly against her and the teasing suck he'd given her fingers, and from the faint sound of longing that escaped his throat, she knew he'd had the same thought.
She dragged him down on top of her, and he fell with all of the grace she'd come to expect from him, catching himself before he crushed her completely. Even still, he felt solid against her, warm and heavy and just like James, like all of the times he'd shoved her up against a wall or held her under him in bed, and all of it—memories of the past, the moment in the present, the golden promise of all of the times to come in the future—made her head swim.
"I need you to come quick," he said roughly, groping for the zipper on the side of her dress, like he somehow remembered exactly how to take it off of her even though she hadn't worn it since May. "I'm worried, because—I can't promise I won't lose my shit if we get called for dinner before you come. I don't even care if I come. Well, I do, but—I need to know that I made you come in your bed, so I know that you're thinking about it when I'm lying in my bed, wanking at just—fuck, just the thought of your legs, Evans. It's ridiculous. A couple days ago, I started thinking about your legs the in the middle of the fucking day, and I—I was done. Do you have any idea how perfect your body is? I swear, every part of you—"
He broke off when he finally conquered her zipper. Slender straps slid from her shoulders, fabric pooled around her waist, and then he had the dress off her fully. For the span of several seconds, he merely stared down at her, just like he had the very first time he'd undressed her on the bed in his dorm at Hogwarts. His expression had gone almost vacant, and he looked momentarily lost, like she'd stunned him past the point of thoughts or actions without needing to lift a finger.
He still looked at her like that, even though he'd seen her naked for months. She hoped he never stopped.
"I want you," she said—no, she whimpered. As always, she knew the sound would have embarrassed her if she'd had the capacity to care. She sounded weak, just utterly incapable of anything past absolutely needing him, and Lily Evans was not weak. Lily Evans was a Gryffindor through-and-through, brave and stubborn and strong to the end. Lily Evans didn't whimper.
Except around him, apparently, because she heard herself make the noise again when the words broke through the brief spell that had come over him. He shucked his shirt up over his head, apparently too hurried to even unbutton it, and she moved her hands to his trousers, picking up the work he'd long-since forgotten.
"I can't believe I'm in your bed," he said, hips snapping forward as she dragged down the zipper of his trousers. His hair had started to fall back into its usual messy patterns, dropping in front of his face as his head rocked back when she wrapped her hand around his cock. "Shit. Shit, Evans, just—goddamnit, your hands are fucking unreal—"
He was leaking, slick and hot and so far gone just from watching her that pride flared in her chest. "I love how much you want me," she said, the words spoken in the same breaths that she thought them. "It's—listening to you talk and knowing that I don't even have to touch you to make you this hard—"
His forehead had creased with concentration so deep that it almost looked pained, eyes cast down to where she stroked his cock. Every time she ran her thumb across his head, his breath caught expectantly in his throat, followed by a low, quiet moan that set her insides on fire. Even still, his expression cleared a little at her words, just enough to smile at her. "You have no idea," he said, his voice low and sincere. "You have no idea, Evans. It's fucking constant with you. I could get hard just watching you laugh—and I have, I'm sure. I—fuck, that's—okay, I can't deal with that. Christ, love."
She'd twisted her wrist in a way she knew he particularly liked, and the smile on his face dropped in an instant. Shoving her hands away, he stood to pull off his trousers and pants, the movements almost sluggish with desire. The lack of his body made hers almost scream in protest, but when she looked at him, standing at her bedside with his broad shoulders tense and the muscles flexing in his beautiful arms and his face twisted with desire so fierce that she felt it coming off him in waves—
"I love you," she told him, unable to stop herself. "I love you so much, it's—James, it's ridiculous. God, I'm obsessed with you—with your body and your mouth and your hands and the way you make me laugh and the way I feel when you laugh and how much you care about my parents liking you and how good you are to me and—"
"Evans." It was a plea, a protest, and a coax to continue all at once, her name spoken with such raw meaning that she literally shivered. "Evans, Evans—Lily, love—"
Then he was on her, once again atop her body but without the barrier of clothes, his skin hot and his muscles hard and his mouth demanding and his hands everywhere all at once. "Fuck," he whispered, almost pained, as she opened her legs wider to make room for his body. He pulled back just enough to watch his hand position his cock at her entrance, his brow furrowed. "Fuck, fuck, fucking—"
"Use the pillow." It came out all as one word, and the instruction left him hesitating only at the last second, right as the head of his cock pushed inside her just a fraction, just enough to send her body tensing with the promise of what was to come. "Under my arse. I'll come if you—"
Restraint roped through his muscles as he paused for the barest of moments, clearly so far gone that he hardly heard her. His shoulders felt like rocks under her hands, held so tight that she didn't doubt he'd feel sore in the morning for reasons he probably wouldn't remember, because he looked nearly out of his head. Yet he listened, tugging the pillow out from under her head with surprising gentleness, and then he had her hips lifted and the pillow adjusted and her body even further opened to him before she could blink, all done as if she weighed nothing.
"Love—" he began, voice strained, a question in the word.
"Yes," she said, because he knew he waited on her okay. "Yes, baby, please—"
His body rocked forward as he thrust into her, his hands under her arse to tip her hips even further than the pillow lifted, the muscles of his biceps briefly bulging as his entire body drew as taunt as the string of a bow, and he swore, loud and hot and hard. "Fuck." He sucked in a deep breath, eyes squeezing shut, as he withdrew and thrust again. "Oh, fuck, Evans, that's—you're so fucking tight—"
She was, tense with need past the norm, her own muscles achingly clenched like his felt under her hands. It left him feeling thicker than usual, harder than usual, just more than usual, pleasure stacked on pleasure even beyond the way he typically coaxed things out of her body that she hadn't even known possible. "James—" She heard his name escape her mouth, followed by a short, sharp cry as he leaned down towards her, changing the angle so that pressure suddenly pressed against her clit. "Just like that—just like that, please—"
She didn't need to beg. He'd set a pace with his hips that she doubted he could stop, not without real, serious effort, because the rough, almost frantic thrusts he pounded into her were closer to the way he typically finished—and often finished her—than the way he usually started. "Wrap your legs," he demanded, ducking his face into her neck. He felt hot, flushed against her skin. "Wrap your legs around me and do that thing where you—fuck, where you squeeze, and—yes." His fingers pressed into her arse hard, a brief, desperate contraction, when she followed his instructions to the letter. "That's going to fucking kill me, Evans—"
It was sure to kill her too, the purposeful way she clenched around him in time to his thrusts, building something truly remarkable inside her stomach that flooded the rest of her body with thick, tingling pleasure. Underneath her, her bed squeaked in protest at the hard, heavy rock of his body, a noise she barely heard under his repetition of her name and her own moans that came in response, each one wordless but full of meaning that she heard as they left her mouth.
"Tell me you're going to think about this," he said, the words harsh and broken. He bit a familiar spot on her neck, one that left pain and pleasure rushing all at once. "Tell me you're going to lay here and ride your hand and pretend it's my cock. Tell me you're going to miss me, because—I can't get enough of you, love, and I need to now it's like that for you too."
She tried. She wanted to tell him that, because she wanted to please him, so badly that it ached along with the growing fucking need in her core, which built with each thrust, each word, each second. But he found another place on her neck and latched on, lips and teeth and tongue teasing, and it sent her head falling back so sharply that it almost hurt, her cry loud and pleading and wordless, because words no longer made sense.
It hit him harder than anything she could have said. She knew that inherently, without a single word of confirmation or opening her eyes and take in his expression. Her nails dug into his shoulders against her will—so hard he'd surely chuckle over the marks later on, beyond pleased with himself—and he groaned, his thrusts picking up further speed. "I fucking love that noise," he said, breath harsh and hot against her neck. "Again, love. Again, and—say my name. Say my name and I'll make you come."
He spoke like he had that power, like he could just give her what she so desperately needed without even having to try, like he owned her body and controlled it.
"James—" she said, even though the presumption piqued her pride a little, but—
But, fuck, he'd earned that presumption, because he proved as good as his word immediately.
"Again," he passed through gritted teeth, as he suddenly stopped his thrusts. She cried out again, louder than before, unable to stop herself, the sound all protest. "Again, love," he repeated, and he thrust into her at a new rhythm—slow and deep, almost exaggeratedly so, so far into her that she felt like her body might split in two in the best possible way. The pressure inside her and against her clit mounted, so constant and overwhelming that the world literally blurred. "Fuck, I—again, Lily, and then you're going to come."
No one told brave, stubborn, and strong Lily Evans what to do—and if they did, she certainly didn't listen.
Somehow, she always ended up listening to him.
Hell, even her body listened to him. "James," she said again, and he groaned in return, the sound borne from deep in his chest. Her body responded—to the sound; to the slow, teasing slide of his cock; to the grind of his pelvis against her clit; to the smell of his skin as he pressed kisses up her neck, reaching her jaw. She contracted around him, and her muscles held tight, teetering on the edge. "Baby," she said, her breath burning in her throat, and he made a noise close to the whimpers he frequently drew from her, so close that she gave one in return, just out of instinct. "Baby, I'm so close—"
"I know," he said, his voice breaking a little on the second word. He'd pulled back just enough to watch the progress of his cock between her thighs, his face an open map of desire and restraint of only the thinnest thread. "You feel—I can't—there aren't words, love." Sweat had formed across the nape of his neck, evident when she ran her hands from his shoulders to bury in his hair. "Evans—come for me so I can fucking pound you again, because I need—"
"Do it."
He caught the words just as she did—when they'd left her mouth, no thought behind them, just undeniable need, that need he spoke of that she felt reflected down into her very soul. His eyes snapped up to her face for only a second, and then his expression shifted altogether. The furrow of restraint on his forehead lifted, and his jaw went determinedly tight as he removed his hands from her arse, pushing at her thighs until she'd unwrapped her legs from around his waist. After that—
After that, the world vanished in a heartbeat, blocked out by the sudden close of her eyes, unwilling but immediate the moment he thrust into her with such force that the bedspring squealed in protest. "Fuck," he grunted, and she felt him shift as if to grip the headboard, desperate for further leverage. "Holy fucking—Evans, Evans, Evans—"
He was chanting her name, each one panted out in tandem with the harsh, unrelenting pace of his hips, and her body objected but demanded more all at once, overwhelmed beyond thought or words, just gone. He was gone too, his cock thick and throbbing and twitching inside her, clearly just on the edge of losing it entirely.
"James," she heard herself say, and he swore in response. "Baby—"
"Come," he demanded, voice almost shockingly sharp, sharp enough that it penetrated the fog of desire that had overtaken her entire being. "Now, love—right now—because I'm—"
Brave, stubborn, and strong Lily Evans listened, of course. Her body broke, her head swam, and she cried out so loudly that the neighbors might have heard it, if she hadn't kept her room permanently silenced.
He lost himself immediately, body tensing even beyond the tight hold he'd already held on his muscles, and then releasing all at once in the final several erratic thrusts. He'd ducked his head back into her neck, and he swore spectacularly there as he came, a heated strand of, "fuck, Evans," and "fuck, love," and, "fuck, fuck, fuck," spoke over and over like an incantation.
Then he collapsed onto her fully, no longer even attempting to hold up his weight. He felt hot, heavy, and solid—like hers, so very hers. Hers entirely.
"Holy shit," he said, low and muffled. His mouth sought the spot he'd bitten before—she'd bruise, no doubt, and would need to heal what she could before they went downstairs—and he traced his tongue there lightly, almost as if in apology. "Yeah, that's—well, I know what I'm wanking to for the next couple weeks, at least. I'm sure you'll somehow top it soon, but—fuck, Lily."
She found herself smiling, her fingers threading into his hair, coaxing the curls to resume their messy patterns as she twisted them slowly. "The girls and I have an appointment to look at a flat tomorrow," she said, and the relaxed slump of his shoulders tensed again immediately.
"Yeah?" He pulled himself up, supporting himself on his elbows, and brought a hand to her cheek. Excitement glittered in his eyes, bright and pleased. "We're still looking—arguing about money, honestly—but—take the place. Take the place, and I'll help you move in the second you can, because—love, we've never even spent the night together. Do you know how badly I want to just sleep with you? I mean, and shag you as many times as I can before I actually pass out—I'm thinking at least three, but then I'll probably need a nap—"
She laughed, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he chuckled with her. The way he smiled down at her, with that specific warmth she'd never seen him aim anyone else's way, made her heart literally flutter. "I'm not sure I'd let you sleep," she said, and his smile widened, brilliant and delighted and openly thrilled, like she'd just given him a great gift.
"Yeah?" He licked his lips, fingertips stroking her cheek. "Good. Good, because that's how I want to go out—shagged to death by Lily Evans. Fuck, fourteen-year-old me would never believe it—"
God, she loved him. She loved him so much it actually hurt.
"We need to go back downstairs," she said, and he didn't protest, not like he did every time she said the same at his parents' house. His desire to please her parents trumped his need to stay inside her, it seemed, at least for the moment. He pulled out of her without complaint, his mouth seeking hers one last time, and then he stood and stretched by the side of her bed, arms above his head and neck twisting and muscles flexing in his back and arms and chest and shoulders and legs and—
She needed her own place. She needed her own place, because she wanted nothing more than to pull him back into bed and trace every one of those muscles with her tongue.
"Will you fix my hair?" he asked, reaching for his trousers, and—
And, just like that, desire faded into something softer, sweeter, and she smiled at the tiny note of worry in his voice. He'd clearly caught sight of himself in the mirror atop her dresser across the room, and his hair did have a freshly-shagged look to it, one she'd never seen him care to correct. If anything, he'd always worn it like a badge of pride.
"Of course, baby," she said, and he gave her that look again, like she'd offered him the world's greatest gift, that made her soul all but sing.