A/N: Welcome to my first one-shot within the Eighteen Again universe! Eighteen Again is my current long—stupidly long, honestly—Jily fic. It's written exclusively through James' POV, so I wanted to experiment a little with Lily's. Even though this exists within the same world as Eighteen Again, you absolutely don't need to have read it to read this—mainly because this is PWP and doesn't have a plot even if you squint (she says, to the surprise of probably no one who has met her).

The idea for this came from a couple lines in chapter three of Eighteen Again, when James reminisces on the first time Lily came to his parents' house: "Her nerves hadn't faded until after dinner, when his dad had taken her to his study to show her one of the books he'd mentioned as they'd eaten, some nonsense on potion-making that James hadn't cared about enough to commit to memory. But she'd cared, and once in front of his bookshelves, she'd taken off, nerves vanished, suddenly once again the academic James had admired in the classroom, and not the woman he'd quickly shagged before dinner while giving her a tour of the house." I have a handful of other similar ideas rattling around in my brain, so do let me know what you think! Much love to you all.

Meet The Parents

"I don't know what you think you're about to do now that you have me alone, but could you really not have acted a little more tactfully?" Lily demanded as James tucked her hand into his and all but dragged her up the stairs of his parents' house. She'd spoken the words under her breath as they neared the second-floor landing, and he merely laughed in return, the sound almost a little wild.

How often had she heard him laugh similarly while joking around with his mates at Hogwarts? He'd typically laughed like that while in the midst of some truly brilliant or truly awful prank—there had been very little room for anything in between—and she'd hated the sound for years. And yet—

And yet he'd somehow managed to convince her that she loved the way his head rocked back as he laughed, and the way his hazel eyes crinkled behind his glasses as he glanced back at her, and the teasing grin that broke across his handsome face. She'd called herself his girlfriend for six months by that point, but butterflies still broke out across her stomach, as if he somehow made her nervous despite daily exposure to him and his brilliant laughs and his wonderful jaw and his adorable taunts.

"I'm shagging you, Evans," he said as they reached the third floor, and the butterflies in her stomach turned into heat in a flash. Shouldn't she have gotten used to those words by then, or what they promised? At Hogwarts, they'd shagged nearly every day since the very first time, although they'd definitely gone longer periods than the few days that had passed since they'd parted ways at King's Cross after graduation. She should have been long-used to the way his voice dropped a couple of notches, and the way his gaze sharpened with intensity, but she wasn't. Her heart—already beating double-time out of nerves at meeting his parents, then sped up further thanks to the quickness of her steps as he all but dragged her up the stairs—accelerated immediately. "I've missed you—and I've missed making you come, and, fuck, I've really missed coming inside you—"

"James!" She couldn't conjure anything else to say, or even to think, as the heat in her stomach spread through her body—downwards, certainly, pooling in anticipation in her knickers, but also up her spine and into her cheeks, which she knew bloomed with color. "You can't—did you seriously just pull me away from your parents—who you asked me to come here and meet—so you could try to shag me?"

It shouldn't have surprised her—and when she put it that way, it didn't surprise her—but the rest of her still couldn't believe it.

The other part, which made up most of her, was torn somewhere between flattered and longing, although the latter won out almost immediately and entirely.

"Yes." He sounded definitive. "Obviously. Do you really not get it yet, what you do to me? Stop looking like that if you don't want me to try to take your knickers off. I'm always going to try, and I'll do whatever I need to do to succeed, love."

As always, her insides quivered a little at his use of the endearment—and, as always, he looked like he had no idea that her breath caught a little in her throat and her stomach twisted pleasurably at just his use of a single word.

On the topic of things they really didn't get yet—did he not know what he did to her every time he called her 'love'?

"I'm not looking—"

"Oh, I know." They'd reached the third floor, and he took her down the hall without pause as he spoke. "It's not like it's your expression or anything. I mean, stop showing up places looking this fucking fit if you don't want me to get ideas. And before you ask—no, I can't imagine you ever looking any less fit, so you're kind of out of luck there. This one is mine."

He'd thrown open a door on the left side of the hall as he spoke, and he pulled her out of the hall and into the room as he spoke. She had just a few moments to take in the measure of his bedroom—Quidditch posters dominating the walls, a pale blue Appleby Arrows comforter spread across his mattress, a surprisingly neat floor marred only by his trainers tossed carelessly near his bed—before he had the door shut and her back almost slammed up against it.

"I missed you," he said again, quieter than before. Suddenly, he was everything she could see, everything she could feel, everything she could experience, as his body found its way pressed intimately into hers and his hands sought her face and the entirety of her vision was overtaken with the tender warmth of his expression as he looked down at her, his mouth a soft shape of pleasure. "I missed you every second since I saw you last. It's been driving me mad. You're all I can think about, love."

He smelled wonderful—fresh and clean, like he'd just showered, and like him, a scent so unique to him that she'd once had a very confusing day that spring when Sirius had used his soap by mistake. He smelled like pine and boy and James, and she shifted against the thigh he'd pressed between her legs, his skin warm even through the thick layer of his jeans and the thin lace of her knickers. "I missed you too," she said, and she heard the strain in her voice. "Baby—"

She'd spoken the pet name absently, because—even though he'd often accused otherwise—she'd never once used it to try to manipulate him in one way or another. It just slipped out sometimes, drawn forth just by his closeness and the memories of his hands and mouth and body, but she felt the purposeful way his body tensed in response, as if conditioned to the sound. "Holy shit," he muttered, breath warm against her face, and he glanced down at where her dress had ridden up as she'd unwillingly twisted again against his leg. He chuckled, the sound soft in the back of his throat. "Yeah, that's enough to get me hard," he said, voice low, and he smiled at her, eyes once again crinkling behind his glasses. "Keep going, love. I want to hear you talk—and I want to see you use my leg, so just give in and do it. I know you're holding back—"

She absolutely was, although she wasn't sure why—pride, maybe, because she didn't want to admit that all he had to do was invade her space a little and she'd fucking grind out an orgasm on his leg, like they were back at the beginning of the year and once again at that stage in their relationship. Her pride certainly piqued a little at his words, and at the lazy, almost arrogant twist to his smile. Fuck, she hated his arrogance, but—

But, oh, it was completely warranted, because the second he moved his leg, dragging it slowly out from between her thighs, her pride shot out the window.

"Baby," she said again, and maybe she should start manipulating him that way, because he gave her what she wanted almost immediately. He pushed his thigh back between hers, and delicious friction shot pleasure zipping up her body—flooding her stomach, warming her chest, closing her throat, tipping her head back and shutting her eyes. Her hips began to move on instinct, and each slow roll of her clit against his leg had her whimpering in a truly embarrassing way—or it would have been embarrassing, anyway, if she'd had the presence of mind to think as much, and if each whimper hadn't struck him nearly senseless. She didn't even have to open her eyes to catch just how truly gone each sound made him, not when her hands sought the reassuring solidness of his shoulders and she felt the tension there, or when he dropped his own hands from her face to pull at the hemline of her dress so he could watch her progress.

"You're telling me you put these knickers on and didn't plan to shag me?" he demanded immediately, and it took her several long seconds to even comprehend his words. He secured an arm around her waist, and the thick muscles of his arm contracted as he began to pull her against him with greater pressure. "That's it, love," he said, his voice like honey—low and sweet and warm and thick— when an unwilling moan left her lips as fresh sparks shot through her core. "Tell me you missed me. Tell me you thought about shagging me when you put these knickers on, because you know I love these knickers, Evans. Fuck, you better have thought about shagging me, because I swear that's all I think about sometimes. I was seriously getting hard just writing to beg you to come visit, because—Merlin, I can't stop thinking about you. Not just shagging you, but—most days I want you so badly that it's ruining my life, love."

It was so very James—the drama, the feeling, the way he said it like he'd never meant anything more—that she laughed.

He laughed with her for a second, the barest of chuckles, before he kissed her. His mouth was warm against hers—no, hot, hot like the rest of him that she could feel even through his clothes—and wonderfully familiar and wonderfully James. Had they gone a single day without kissing since they'd he'd first taken her to Hogsmeade? Almost certainly not—not when they'd both taken to it immediately, even just the initial chaste kisses of the beginning that hadn't truly progressed into snogging for a couple of weeks. From that very first date, after she'd asked him to kiss her, he'd started doing it simply just because he could, something she saw written all over the sheer elation in his expression every time he cupped her cheek or tipped her chin up or wove his fingers into her hair. For months, he'd looked giddy at the mere thought of kissing her, let alone how giddy he'd often gotten when wrapped up in her arms, his hands in her jumper and his tongue in her mouth and her fingers in his hair, after they'd finally really gotten down to the business of snogging.

He still got giddy, somehow, because he continued to laugh against her mouth, even after she'd nipped his lower lip in the way that typically left him moaning and not chuckling. "I love you," he said, his nose brushing hers. "I love you, and I missed you, and—"

Her words tumbled out unbidden, unthought, unplanned. "I love you too," she said quickly, and he pulled back just enough to look at her. She could feel his eyes on her face even before she opened her own, but when she did, she found him staring at her in a very specific way—dazed, almost, like her declaration had stunned him even though he'd heard it—quite literally—hundreds of times. His mouth hung slightly open and his expression had gone almost slack even before she continued. "Baby, please touch me. I want your hand, I want your mouth, I want your cock—I want you, please—"

"Fuck." His mouth snapped shut, and then his eyes followed, squeezed briefly closed as a muscle worked tantalizingly along his jaw. "Oh, holy shit, Evans—say that again, so I can remember it when I'm thinking about you. I'm definitely going to wank to that."

The thought of him in his nearby bed—so close, temptingly close—with his hand around his cock and his mind on her—

"Have you been?" she asked, unable to stop herself.

It shouldn't have embarrassed her. After all, she'd fucking gotten herself off in front of him before, and not long after he'd first started trying his hand at it. He'd talked her into the prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts, and had gotten her to touch herself while straddled across his lap in the warm water as bubbles popped all around them. He'd fucking gawked at her—mesmerized, tantalized, longing, disbelieving—and she'd blushed more from the heat of the water than from any sort of discomfiture.

Yet she blushed a little then, and she felt the warmth in her face. Beyond that, she saw similar color stain his cheeks—truly a sight to behold, because he so rarely showed an ounce of embarrassment. He grinned just the same, and he brushed his nose against hers again, briefly filling her gaze with nothing but the sight of his face. "Love, I've been wanking to you since I was fourteen. It's only gotten worse since you started snogging me, not better."

"Show me."

She hadn't planned to say that either, and he certainly hadn't expected it. He pulled his head back slightly so he could look at her fully, and a little of the hazy arousal that had dominated his features sharpened into something questioning. "Yeah?" he asked, licking his lips. "You're—next time, okay?" The latter part came out rushed, like she'd probed a weak spot at the very suggestion and broken him suddenly. He yanked impatiently at her knickers, and the transparent white lace—which she absolutely had put on with thoughts of shagging him in mind, even though she hadn't known if they'd get a moment alone—slipped down her thighs and dropped to the ground. "I need to make you come, and then I need to fuck you, because—fuck, the way you look right now, love—" His fingers sought between her legs, and he groaned on contact as he ran his fingers over her in a long, smooth stroke. "Fuck, you're wet. Could you—you could have come against my leg, couldn't you?"

Her body was melting, sliding down into a pool of absolutely nothing but arousal and desire and pure need, all pressed into the palm of his hand. "James—" she said, and she was unable to express anything else for several long moments, as his thumb cleverly sought her clit with caresses that had her opening her legs wider, desperate to have him inside her. "Yes," she managed eventually, and he rewarded her like he'd waited for her to answer. He sunk his fingers inside her, curling as he went, and her whole body rocked forward as heat flooded her system. "Yes—yes, oh—how the fuck do you do that? I've tried, and I can't—"

He groaned, the sound frustrated and needy. "Goddamnit, Evans—" he said, the muggle swear harsh and hot and panted into her neck, where he'd ducked his head. "Jesus Christ, you can't say shit like that—no, you can, and you should, and I want you to, but—fuck, I really wanted to make you come before I got inside you, and you're making that really hard."

"Fuck me."

He sucked in a deep, painful-sounding breath. "Merlin," he breathed, just present under the sharp cry she didn't intend to make as he curled his fingers just right. "Merlin, love—again. Say it again—"

She would have said anything he'd wanted just then, she knew deep in her bones. Had she ever wanted to please him that badly before? Truly, probably every time they'd shagged, but every time felt like the first all over again, at least in terms of how badly she wanted him. Her entire body throbbed with need, unsatisfied even despite the clever work of his fingers, and she rocked against his hand determinedly, pressure building to something promising and remarkable. "Fuck me," she said again, and his teeth scraped her neck in response. "Fuck me, please—I want you, I need you—oh, that right there—"

He'd done something truly extraordinary between her legs, some slither of his fingers inside her that had brushed a bundle of nerves apparently connected to her knees, because they'd buckled instantly. He pushed up into her harder than before, sweat springing to the back of his neck, and used his free hand to grope for her hand in his hair. "Here—" he said, the word passed between gritted teeth, as he deposited her hand along his waistline, and he didn't need to say anything past that. He pulled back just enough to watch the quick work she made of his belt, his brow furrowed behind his glasses. "Shit," he grunted, hips snapping forward, as she slid the zipper down. "Shit—Lily—" He was hot and hard and thick in her hand, and leaking enough to give her the slickness she needed to slide easily. She worked her hand along the head of his cock, pumping him neatly in her closed fist. "How do you want it?" he asked, the question so rushed that it came out almost as one solid word. "Quickly, because—"

She didn't hesitate. "Turn me around."

He didn't hesitate either. "Oh, fuck yes," he groaned, and she caught a single glance at the excitement on his face—eyes brilliant and flashing, breath coming in short and sharp, teeth gleaming in an anticipatory smile—before he'd stepped back from her just far enough to turn her around to face the heavy wooden door. In a series of smooth motions, he had his pants and jeans down, the hem of her dress up, and her body bent just enough that he could thrust into her, sheathed immediately and tightly to the hilt, her muscles drawing tighter around him, desperate to have him deeper and faster and harder. "Thank fuck," he said, the words hot and mindless as he looped an arm around her waist to hold her tighter. His other palm pressed flat against the door beside her, his forearm flexing as he drew out and then slid back into her a second time at a different angle, the angle, the one that made her knees shake and her body quiver and her cry out so loudly that she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Fuck—off—with—that—" he said, the words passed in tandem with his thrusts. He pulled her hand from her mouth. "Room's silenced, because—fuck, no one wants to hear me wank while I'm thinking about you at night. Fuck, fuck, fucking hell, you feel unbelievable, love—"

It all felt unbelievable—the pressure inside her and his arm around her and his body against her, and so overwhelming that the world faded into hazy nothingness, entirely dissolved in the pleasure that his body drew from hers. "God, I missed your cock," she said, pressing her forehead against the arm she'd used to brace herself on the door. He squeezed her waist reflexively, his hips faltering for a moment, as if she'd caught him off-guard. "You know that, baby—or you should. The second one of us has our own place, this is—this is all we're doing. I'm going to make you fuck me over and over and over again, because I can't get enough of you. The way you feel—fuck, the way you makes me feel—oh. Oh—"

He'd dropped the hand at her waist to toy between her legs, his fingers seeking her clit. His own swift conclusion had already started, she knew without asking, evident in the continued flexing of his hand on the door, in the way his body had started to shake a little, in the exerted panting pace of his breath and near-constant moans he pressed between her shoulder blades. It had all left him without his usual finesse, and it took him longer than usual to locate exactly where and then remember exactly how to stroke her. Yet it all came together in the end, and then the world came together. No other descriptor made sense to explain how perfectly right things felt as his cock hit her perfectly while his fingers stroked her clit with the faintest of caresses. It knocked the air right out of her lungs, lefts her knees wobbling unsteadily, sent her eyes closed without the potential of ever opening again—

"Come on, love," he coaxed, the words warm and sweet. "Come. Let go and come for me."

Nearly. So nearly it almost hurt, and she didn't know how to tell him that. The words just wouldn't come, and she had no idea how to even begin forming them.

"That's it," he said, lower than before, like he'd noted something new, something she hadn't yet realized in herself. It all crashed over her a second later, as if brought forth by his voice, rather than his words reacting to something themselves. Her stomach tightened, muscles tensing to join those of her legs and back and arms and self, as every bit of her stood on the precipice. "Let go, Evans," he said, lips pressed behind her ear, words just audible over the cries that had joined her breaths as she exhaled each one. "Come. Come. You're there. You're there, and—yes—"

She was, and his ability to speak shut off all at once, his voice trapped in his throat as a rush of adrenaline coursed so hot and hard that she suddenly could barely even breathe. Electricity ran the length of her body, from her toes to her fingertips, as every part of her seized tight into one ball of tension, and then broke abruptly. Her legs gave out underneath her and she let them go, uncaring if she fell or if she stood or if she landed anywhere in between. Nothing mattered, nothing save for the screaming pleasure in her brain and the way her body tingled and sang and—

He caught her—as she'd probably known he would—his arm strong underneath her, like she weighed next to nothing. "Love—" he choked out, and she felt more than heard him, as her own sounds of pleasure drowned him out. "Yes—oh, fuck yes, Evans—Evans—"

His hips snapped forward harder than before, with such force that he nearly pushed her entirely flush against the door, and she felt him lose himself inside of her, his cock pulsing wildly with release. "Baby—" she said, lifting a hand to weave into his hair, the endearment spoken without real thought, but clearly exactly what he wanted to hear. He whimpered against the back of her neck—actually whimpered, the same sound he so loved coaxing out of her, but made so rarely in return—his thrusts more erratic as he chased the end of his climax. "I love you," she told him, again, the words falling mindlessly, but—

He whimpered again, his lips hot on her hairline. "Oh, shit, love," he groaned, the hand between her thighs stilling, and rising to press flat against her stomach, holding her to him. He laughed, his breath drawing further tingles from the pit of her stomach. "I'm glad you didn't say that right away, because that would have made me come immediately. It's—fuck, it's seriously so hot. The way you sound when you say it—"

She dragged her nails across his hairline, and, of everything she'd yet done, that she did that the most purposefully. She knew exactly how he'd react—whole body shivering, breath catching, arm contracting around her—and he reacted just as she'd anticipated, acting as pleased as a cat receiving a scratch behind the ear. He even nuzzled her neck, cat-like, and she smiled against the wooden grain of the door, soft warmth spreading through her body. It felt like she glowed with happiness, a descriptor she never would have said aloud, but nothing else quite described it.

"So—can I keep your knickers?" he asked, and the warmth exploded into laughter, drawn unexpectedly from her lungs. "It's either that or come back tomorrow, love. Or both. Preferably both. I need something, because you're—"

"I need to actually go talk to your parents if you expect them to even want me to come back to visit."

"Oh, they'll want you to come back." He released her gently, and for a second he let his arm hover around her, as if he waited to make sure that her legs could hold her weight again. When her legs did indeed work, he pulled out of her, a quiet noise of loss pressed against her neck as he did, and he stepped back. She only held back her own disappointed sigh as his solid warmth disappeared from her back, and she heard the jingle of his belt as she turned, catching him just as he righted his pants and jeans with ease, like he regularly shagged her against the door of his bedroom. He smiled at her, an easy grin that made butterflies appear in her stomach yet again, as soft teasing and pleasure and love ran rampant all over his face. "I'm not going to be able to stop smiling after that, and they're just going to be happy I'm happy. Sirius has gotten after me for acting like a real mopey, soppy mess since we got home. I told you—I missed you, love."

He spoke the latter four words with such deep conviction that she swore that her heart might have briefly stopped.

Was there anything she wouldn't do to get him to say that to her over and over again? Anything?

He gathered her swiftly back in his arms the second he had his clothes adjusted, and he painted a familiar path of kisses across her face. He kissed her mouth, each of her cheeks, her forehead, and her nose, and she'd smiled before he'd even started, but she full-on beamed by the end, her cheeks stretched to the point of protest. "I missed you too," she said, and she heard his conviction echoed right back at him, deep and heavy in her tone.

They'd already declared that to each other, so she shouldn't have meant it as deeply as she did, and it therefore shouldn't have struck him quite so hard. Yet, somehow, it felt like the very first time either of them had said it, and it sounded more significant than anything they'd said so far—more important than avowals of love; more meaningful than the teasing that had made them both laugh; more open and honest than the excited greetings they'd exchanged at his parents' door as sexual tension and longing had crackled between them.

All of him softened at once—the smile on his face and the hold of his shoulders and look in his eyes—as he looked at her with such deep knowing that she felt entirely naked under his gaze, more vulnerable than anything anyone else could or ever had inspired in her.

Somehow, that vulnerability didn't bother her. She relished it, just as he looked like he still relished his ability to kiss her just because he wanted to, and because he could.

"You're coming back tomorrow?" he asked, his mouth just removed from hers. Hope rang in his tone, a note that struck that familiar chord inside her that was desperate to please him.

"I'm coming back tomorrow," she agreed, and he rewarded her with a smile so brilliant that she hoped that it never faded.