One-shot, birthday smut edition. Only in my wildest and most fanciful dreams do I own Harry Potter; such as it is, all rights go to J. Cover art by viria In honor of James Potter's birthday, I present you with some pure, unadulterated, more-or-less uninterrupted Jily smut.
Enjoy James sure will. Warning for my younger readers: This is probably the most explicit thing I've written, so… Do what you will with that information, but don't say I didn't tell you first. Potter Despite his skill on the Quidditch pitch, James Potter had never been renowned for his observation skills; in fact, one could very well make the argument that James Potter was as blind as the proverbial bat and it had nothing to do with his specs, either.
James hadn't, for instance, noticed that Peter accidentally turned his hair blue in a misguided Transfiguration lesson back in third year. He hadn't noticed the doxies Sirius had hid in his wardrobe the summer after fifth year, nor had he paid any mind to the All-Day Itching Powder that had been sprinkled so generously in his sock drawer just last month.
He hadn't even noticed when Remus — admittedly the kindest of the seventh-year Gryffindor boys — slipped a Filibuster into yesterday afternoon's potion, which had resulted in James's ruined assignment and singed eyebrows. It wasn't only the pranks of his malicious and accident-prone friends that James tended to overlook, though. No, his obliviousness was such that he'd wasted two months of term blissfully unaware that his fellow Head fancied him within an inch of her own life.
The lingering touches, the hair tossing, the flirtatious remarks — they'd all gone more or less unnoticed, as James had trained himself not to get his hopes up when it came to the unattainable Lily Evans. There was no way she fancied him, he told himself over and over, replaying those bloody, blasted words in his head like a mantra, all for the sake of keeping his sanity whenever she smiled at him. It was late October when Remus had had enough of his mutual friends incessantly pining over one another, and decided to take matters into his own hands.
He smacked James upside the head with the heaviest book he could find — An Anciente Historie of Wizarding Genealogy in Britain — and told him to get his act together, or else Remus himself would be forced to ask Lily for a date if it meant getting her confidence back where it usually was. But after all the back-and-forth communication he'd been forced to mediate over the past two months, Remus felt that he was perfectly justified in his temper tantrum.
James's mouth had opened, closed, and opened again, as if he were some kind of mentally addled fish. Remus was personally of the opinion, though, that even a mentally addled fish would have picked up on Lily's not-so-subtle, borderline desperate hints. If it had been Sirius or Peter who relayed this information to him, James was sure he'd be skeptical; those two weren't above toying with their friend's Evans-induced fragility, but this… This was Remus he was dealing with.
You couldn't ask for a more reliable third party. He hadn't wasted any more time after that. He'd abandoned the common room and tore his way through the corridors towards the library where he knew Lily was because she'd told him earlier at this thought, he could have kicked himself, because since when had she seen fit to inform him of her whereabouts? Since two months ago, that's when; he couldn't believe he'd been so dense.
When he found her — about halfway down a staircase between the fifth and sixth floors, as she was on her way back to Gryffindor Tower — James had thrown all his doubts to the wind, grabbed her face, and snogged her thoroughly against the banister, much to the dismay of several austere-looking portraits.
Conservative-minded paintings aside, they'd been dating ever since. Now it was March — more specifically, it was the evening of James's eighteenth birthday, and he was just making his way back up to the boys' dormitory after a particularly grueling Quidditch practice.
As captain, he hadn't thought it appropriate to skip out just because it was his birthday something he hadn't considered when he'd been making up that term's practice schedule , so he'd spent the last three hours down at the pitch, perfecting his team's performance for their upcoming match. Sore, bruised, and a little bit bloody, James was looking forward to at least an hour of uninterrupted respite before dinner.
Sirius had borrowed the Cloak to sneak into Hogsmeade for some firewhiskey for the night's entertainment, and Remus was helping Peter with their latest N. All things considered, James thought it was safe to say he could catch a nap before he was forced to do anything else. Naturally, though, James missed a few key points on his way up to his four-poster: One, Lily wasn't in the common room where she said she'd be; two, Marlene McKinnon had smirked a little too knowingly at him when she'd caught his eye downstairs; and three, his bed hangings — which he always left open — were shut when he entered the dormitory.
Not paying any mind to these otherwise telltale signs, James kicked off his mud-caked boots and shed his practice jersey. He loosened the ties of his Quidditch trousers and his mind wandered to Lily, as it was so wont to do; perhaps it was this, combined with the adrenaline rush of so much athletic activity, but James was just thinking that he had enough alone time for a wank and a nap when he nudged the bed hangings apart, and — "Finally," the object of his unsatisfied sexual fantasies said.
I thought you said practice was done by five? Match next weekend and all. He flopped down on the bed, wrapped his dirt-smudged arms around her and pulled her into him, making sure to catch her mouth with his to stifle any further complaints regarding his tardiness. Besides, he surely wasn't going to alleviate the acquired discomfort in his trousers by continuing to stare at her like some immobilized buffoon. As their mouths opened and tongues tangled and the room filled with the sounds of heavy, steadily harsh breathing, Lily moved her hands over his bare chest, her fingernails tracing lightly over the exposed skin and pinching here and there where she knew James's skin craved roughness.
He moaned into her mouth when her fingertips stroked over his lower abdomen. He rolled over so that she was pinned beneath him and his hands roamed freely, tracing the delicate curve of her shoulder, claiming her breast, memorizing the dips of her waist and the contours of her hipbones. Her foot slid up the length of his still-clothed leg and hitched around his hip, bringing him closer so that she could feel his want pressing insistently against her.
His mouth opened against her skin, pulling it between his teeth and sucking. I like manhandling you. James quit his ministrations long enough to grin wickedly down at her. Really, what sort of naked girlfriend was she, laughing at him while he was trying so desperately hard to seduce her? But if you don't want rough caveman sex, fine, I won't give it to you. Fancy being tied up, hm? Although he got something of a thrill at the idea, he couldn't reconcile himself to the fact that bound hands meant he wouldn't get to touch her; as if to prove this point, he ran those hands possessively over every inch of her he could reach, paying special attention to the area between her legs.
The kiss was rougher this time, faster, more heated in the way their lips parted on contact, the way their tongues devoured the other's taste so feverishly.
One of James's hands found one of Lily's and their fingers tangled together, clinging and clutching, while their free ones busied themselves with their bodies: James slipped a finger inside of her, and five of Lily's wrapped around him, tugging lightly and massaging in circles; her rhythm matched his so that their groans escaped near-simultaneously and were swallowed by the other's mouth.
James used her distraction as leverage to flip their positions so that he was once more on top and just shy of entering her. He nipped at her ear, then traced the shell of it with the tip of his tongue, ruthlessly teasing her for her cheek; he knew it drove her mad when he did things to such delicate parts of her skin.
She could feel him brushing against her, so, so close, torturously near and so teasingly far away. I think you should say it. His mouth trailed down her throat and he paused to lick her pulse point.
She hated giving into him — he was always so damn smug about it later, smarmy git that he was — but want was certainly overriding her good sensibilities at the moment. His hand clutched at her hip, his thumb grazing the line of her upper thigh as his fingerprints implanted into her skin. He bit her, hard, and Lily thought sod the rest of it, she'd deal with his smugness later — "Fuck me," she said, bending to his will well, fine, it was his bloody birthday.
She tugged at his hair to bring his mouth back to hers and she felt that self-indulgent grin on his lips, but she also felt him push his way inside of her, and her short-lived irritation vanished about as quickly as it had come. Her hands roamed his back, her fingernails digging deeper with every thrust. She lifted her hips to his and his grip on her tightened while his strokes became faster but more deliberate, hitting her every corner and sending jolts of pleasure zinging into his own nerves.
He had the fleeting thought that this was so much better than a lonely wank and nap, because who really needed to resort to that when they had a fantastically naked, gorgeous, funny girlfriend waiting for them, longer than she had to because she was brilliant and selfless and just because it was his lousy birthday and he hadn't even showered and she still wanted him, grass-stained and blood-smeared and all — "Harder. Her fingers twisted into his hair, almost painfully but it felt so fucking good that even the idea of pain was rendered obsolete.
After one or two measured, deeper thrusts to test her boundaries, he slammed into her so that the mattress jostled beneath them and the headboard rattled against the stone wall. Over and over and over again… "Told you I could do it," James said roughly through the best grin he could manage while Lily's hips rocked and rubbed against his. His mouth latched onto hers loosely, once, twice, three times, their breath hitched and shallow as it mingled between their mouths.
He buried his face in her neck and murmured into her skin: As if to strengthen his point, Sirius's words were followed by a muffled but nevertheless echoing sound that could be nothing but the sounds of extended shagging.
We're supposed to be drinking. It was his shoes that got ruined as a result, after all, not to mentioned his bedspread. They'd be down here, suitably drunk off their arses like me. At least, we've got James's old coverlet to prove that theory true. What are best mates for, eh? The author would like to thank you for your continued support.
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