Treacle Tart

Summary - For the prompt: Sweet + Pink + Satisfaction

She's a goddamned idiot.

A pathetic, dessert-hogging, goddamned idiot.

Lily sighs, staring down at the single slice of treacle tart that remains on the paper napkin in her hand, surrounded by evidence of crumbs that betray the fact that she's devoured the rest. Licking her lips, she redirects her gaze onto the lone figure zipping across the sky, around the Quidditch posts.

Even from the dark distance, the diligence of his movements, the fluidity of his flying, sends something pleasant humming inside her veins, in her stomach.

If only he weren't hell-bent on torturing her.

She'd gone down to the Great Hall for dinner with Mary earlier in the evening, only to find out that James had decided to forgo a meal in exchange for a fly around the pitch. This didn't phase her at first, given that it was a ritual he practised every week before a match, and the upcoming one—between Gryffindor and Slytherin—was certainly a big one.

But she'd just finished her plate and reached for the dessert when the idiocy kicked in. "We have treacle tart today?"

"Brilliant, isn't it?" Sirius had grinned, dripping golden syrup as he bit into his slice.

Lily had looked around at the Marauders with a frown. "Well, yeah, but—it's James's favourite."

"Oh." Remus had set down his glass of pumpkin juice, face blank but eyes dancing with amusement. "Didn't know you still hated him so much, Lily. You can still eat food that's James's favourite, y'know. We won't tell him."

"Shut up," she'd groaned, ignoring the laughter that had tittered around. "I only mean that he's been craving it for ages. And now that the house-elves have finally made them, it'd be a pity for him to miss out."

"Aw, it's sickening how much you care about Potter," Mary had cooed from her left, earning a glare.

"I'm only saying."

"Well, I'm sure Prongs would appreciate it very much if you took some out for him to the pitch, Evans," Sirius had suggested, grin rampant on his face. "He might even give you a snog in exchange."

Before she could've brought her flaming face under control, Peter had piped in. "But can't we just get some from the kitchen later?"

"No, Pete, we can't," Sirius had barked. "Because I'm gonna eat everything that's here, and then there'll be nothing left for Prongs."

And then, as if to prove the truth behind the threat, he'd reached out and starting piling everything onto his plate. Immediate chaos had erupted around the table as multiple hands struggled to stop him, rushing to grab the dessert at a pace faster than the food was able to replenish.

Lily, amongst the shouts of madness, had managed to wrangle a few pieces for James, and hightailed it out of the hall. And even though it'd been evident that Sirius had staged the entire thing to get her to do just that, somehow, none of it'd mattered as she headed out to the Quidditch pitch, thrill lodged in her throat.

That had been over an hour ago.

Now, as she sits, waiting for James to finish his practice, or at least notice her—which he hasn't done due to that laser-focus attention of his—she wonders if she's not making a complete fool of herself. Over the last few weeks, she's been entirely unsubtle in her flirting with him, and James, never one to take anything sitting down, has given back as well as he's gotten.

And yet, they've remained at that stalemate; never really moving forward; never really doing anything.

As the days wear on, Lily's quickly starting to think that James presents her with his charming banter because he's just that—charming, no matter who the recipient of said charm may be.

But when she shows up with bloody treacle tart for him, when he's not even made a move in literal years, that makes her look…well, pathetic.

A sigh drops, and she moves to pinch off another bite—

"Oi, stop right there!"

Lily jolts, both at the voice and at the shadow that falls over her, leaving crumbs to rain over her lap.

James is suddenly hovering in the air in front of the stands, hazel eyes narrowed on the food in her hands. He looks up. "Is that treacle tart?"

"No."

"I don't believe you," he says, and then swiftly hops off from the broom, right next to her. "Give it here, then."

Lily watches him, an eyebrow cocked. He's sweating something atrocious, face pink from the wind, hair the wildest it can get. And yet, the bright hazel of his eyes, the barely suppressed smirk on his lips, and the satisfaction that plays openly on his face send her heart pounding.

"Fine," she says, passes over the napkin with much drama. "But only because I'm very nice."

"Oh, the nicest," he agrees easily, eyelids fluttering shut on a moan with his first bite. Lily feels the sound in places sounds shouldn't be felt, especially not so pleasantly. "Seriously, Evans, you're fucking perfect. Getting me treacle tart all the way out here? You must really love me."

"Firstly, I didn't get that for you," she lies, cheeks instantly warm, pulse mad. "And secondly—did you just inhale the whole thing? There was only one left. You should've savoured it."

"If only someone hadn't eaten the rest."

"What?" she scoffs. "What're you talking about?"

But James doesn't reply, simply stares at her with a look that positively strips off her skin with its intensity. And then he's stepping closer, a grin crawling over his face. "You really wanna know?"

"Um."

He nods, as if she's given an actual answer, and leans down, his mouth a slow drag at the corner of her lips. Lily freezes, eyes wide, completely unmoving, even when she feels him flick his tongue there, even when an unrestrained whimper escapes her at the warm wetness.

"Sweet," he whispers, pulling back, voice strangely husky. Her lips have parted now, heart in her throat. And then she spots it: a strange nervousness in James's glance despite the outward confidence of his words. "You had some leftover there. Thought I'd help out. Couldn't let any go to waste, could I?"

Lily blinks, steps forward, and promptly grabs the front of his robes, dragging him back to her. "Better be thorough," she gets out, before fitting her mouth against his.

Treacle tart has never tasted better.