Squeamish
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, I just play with them.
Sex. The word alone makes Lily Evans squeamish. Sex with James Potter? Well, let's not even go there. It's not like she's been thinking about it recently, it's not even like she gets along with him enough to find him attractive in the least. He is not attractive (contrary to what ninety-nine percent of the Hogwarts female population believes). And no matter what things she may or may not hear in the girls lavatories, he is not a sex-god (not that she's done the right… experimentation to prove or disprove said theory, it's just that she has a feeling that he isn't. Well, that is what that feeling is, isn't it?).
She blames the rather vivid dreams she's been having on the aforementioned female gossip. However, she has never, ever heard any member of the Hogwarts student-body talk about dessert toppings (ie caramel, melted chocolate, whipped cream) which seems to be a constant in these recurring… nightmares. And it's not like she can tell anyone about these dreams. Just the idea of that conversation makes her shudder. "Em, can you pass me the butter? Oh, and by the way I've been dreaming about James Potter pleasuring me every night for the past two weeks."
These dreams are also proving to be very detrimental to her usually meticulous study habits. She finds that it has become easier to be distracted by… other members of the class (and no, Sirius Black is not one of them). She wonders why she couldn't have dreams like this about some other boy (particularly that rather good-looking Ravenclaw that she just became acquainted with). She wonders this especially on a particular Thursday when, on leaving Potions, Potter calls out to her. "Oy, Evans, fancy a—" and she's sure she doesn't want to hear the rest of it so she runs out of the classroom as fast as she can. Her friends wonder why she didn't just come up with a witty retort like she used to.
That evening, he doesn't approach her in the Common Room like he usually does. He instead stares at her from his place by the window where he is supposed to be helping his friend Peter Pettigrew beat Remus Lupin at Wizard's Chess (he knows it's a lost cause, but it gives him an excuse to be in the Common Room. Besides, his room is currently occupied by Sirius who's entertaining a very pretty Hufflepuff).
Her friends eventually leave her to finish up a Transfiguration essay which she had uncharacteristically left till the last minute, and she became engrossed in her work almost forgetting that James Potter was staring at her. When she finally finishes, she lets out a cat-like yawn and wonders contemplatively if she shouldn't just sleep on the couch.
"Evans," she grimaces. She knows that voice. How could she have not seen that coming?
"Lily," he grinds out, and she can tell he's trying to be nice. Rubbing the back of her hand against her nose, she wonders how fast she can get out of the room without him noticing the rather unflattering shade of red her face has turned.
"Look, I just wanted to-" she doesn't respond, or even turn around. Before she can congratulate herself on coming up with such a nice plan (ignoring him, that is), he nudges her shoulder so that she's facing him, "apologize for being such a twat this morning," he looks at her, as if waiting for a response. When he doesn't get one, he lets out a long-winded sigh, "right, then," he muttered darkly, "'night," she wonders why his voice sounds to tired and tries not to stare at his retreating back.
"Thank heavens," she mutters, and wonders why she's always such a cow to him. And then she remembers that it doesn't matter because he is James Potter and she is Lily Evans and they will never, ever get along.
She trudges up the stairs (much safer, she decides, than staying down on that couch) and contemplates what fantastic new ideas her subconscious will dream up. She hopes that there's no more melted chocolate, that one rather rattled her and she recalls waking up panting at half-past three. She really must get her sleep tonight.