A/N: Smut really isn't my forte, which is why, in all honesty, this isn't full of lemony goodness. It's just the dirty mind of a teenage James Potter obsessive gone mad, but don't read it if you really dislike intimacy. For the very reason that I can't even write the word cock without giggling, it's not in great detail. More a following them into the bedroom and retreating after foreplay jobbie.
Out of shear worry, I feel I must say that there's the tiniest mention of, ahem, bondage.
December 24th, 1978
.
The lights on the tree twinkle at you, the flickering bulbs illuminating her pale skin. You'd thought the tinsel was garish, over the top, but she'd insisted on it - a remnant of her Muggle Christmas tradition, in contrast to the tasteful candles-and-ornaments tree you remember from childhood.
"What do you want to do about presents?"
You're sprawled on the sofa, her head leaning comfortably on your shoulder, your arm wrapped around her.
"Are yours appropriate for me to open in front of my family?" she asks shrewdly, amused.
"Yes," you protest indignantly. You're off to her Mum's tomorrow after breakfast, and you want to continue the good impression the Evans' family got of you at Petunia's wedding.
"Okay, let's do them tomorrow then," she reasons. There's a moment's pause. "But there's one I'd like to give you now, if that's alright. Kind of personal."
You shrug.
"It's upstairs, though."
You repeat the action and allow her to pull you gleefully up to your bedroom, excitement racing through your veins as she locks the door, even though you're alone in the house (a fact you've both exploited many times).
"Close your eyes."
Dutifully you snap your eyes shut, though you can't help complaining when you hear her movements.
"Okay."
You open your eyes, blinking a couple of times, and your mouth falls open - you then realise that you've turned into a drooling idiot and promptly close it; already you can feel yourself hardening. She's standing before you in a dark green corset, wearing nothing else apart from a black lace garter and a wicked grin.
"I thought, seeing as it's Christmas, you might want to unwrap something. Me."
Her teeth graze her bottom lip and this simple action is all it takes to push you over the edge. You reach forward, tugging her towards you, your hands barely knowing where to touch first, your lips working furiously against hers. You slip your tongue inside her mouth, fingers scrambling for purchase on her soft soft soft skin as you undo the lingerie; she grips your hair and trails butterfly kisses along your jawline, down your neck and across your collarbone. You touch and taste each other blindly, madly, and she pulls you down onto the bed with her.
Amidst your frantic movements, you're both divested of clothes, and she breaks the kiss only to reach for her wand (lying on the bedside table) and conjure silky ribbons like the ones that had previously held her corset together. She ties one around each of your wrists, and then to the headboard.
"I also thought," she murmurs as she works, "that I might wrap you up, you know, to spoil myself. It is that time of year, after all."
"You're utterly depraved," you get out, groaning as her fingers trail down your body.
"It's a disgrace, really, isn't it?" she agrees. "What are you going to do about it?"
Your reply isn't so much a coherent sentence as an altogether more communicative gesture, and after that there is little need for words.
Happy July! Reviews are Eoin Macken referring viewers to Colin Morgan when asked about the homo-eroticism in Merlin (sensing a theme?)