BETWEEN THE DESIRE AND THE SPASM
Chapter 11: Wind's Singing
“…I thought you said you lived in a flat,” she said in an accusatory tone.
“I do.”
“This is not a flat.”
He shook his head. His hair was militantly tamed; frame clad in trim black Auror robes that hung worshippingly from his shoulders and wallowed in his wake. It was early, though not so early that he hadn’t checked his watch multiple times during this rough-and-ready tour—next was the boiler room and small lavatory used mainly by guests, each found off the landing between the first and second floors.
James could feel Lily’s eye-roll as she fleered: “So not a flat.”
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NAVEL TO NECK
For @jilymicrofics July 2023. Prompt: familiar. Words: 149. Rating: Mature.
This may potentially turn up in BTDATS. Actually I’m pretty confident it will.
The undampenable desire to lick a man navel to neck was an unfamiliar sensation. But there it was. Heavy in her stomach, wet on her tongue.
She had seen James shirtless a handful of times, all of them at Hogwarts, most often after a Quidditch victory when robes became limiters to celebration. And there was that one time in the boys' dormitory. Come to think of it, this was a uniquely similar situation: hair forced back in wet strands of ebony, shoulders freckled with water droplets, towel hung low on the waist, caught expression on the face.
Her eyes dragged past pectorals born of years as an Auror, along inflecting ribs, down taught-skinned abdominals, following the hard line of the hips to where the trail of dark hair dragged the eyes down and disappeared below soft white cotton. She wanted to lick him and she hated herself for it.
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“You looked unbelievably sexy tonight,” James practically growled. His hands found the counter on either side of her. The want in his voice set Lily’s skin alight; hairs rising at his mere proximity.
Her hand stilled on the tap. The other became hyper-aware of the cold countertop pressing into her palm and fingertips. “Is that so?”
He hummed, so close she could practically feel his lips on her neck, atoms begging—preparing to sacrifice one another—for contact.
A MAN OF STAMINA
For @jilymicrofics July 2023. Prompts: sharp, silky, sweet, bitter. Words: 507. Rating: explicit.
To potentially be included in a future chap of BTDATS...
Smut below the cut.
James Potter liked to consider himself a man of stamina. But when, after eight years of sleeping with witches as far removed from redheaded and sharp-tongued as possible, he found himself fully embedded in Lily Evans as she moaned and rocked and shuddered his name down upon his wide-eyed face, any suggestion of stamina flew out the window.
“Gods, Evans,” he hissed as she straightened up a little, sending a fresh surge of bitter pleasure through his veins. His grip on her hips strengthened, aiding her diabolical back-and-forth slant. He grit his teeth. Squeezed his eyes shut to escape the—fucking hell—spattering of freckles atop the soft swells of her chest begging to be lathed by his tongue as they bounced before him. Teasing him. Tempting him.
Eyes flew open again.
“What’s the matter, Potter?” she asked just before tipping her head back, closing her eyes to her own pleasure and humming throatily.
“You’re gonna fucking—” he bit down on a groan “—make me cum if you keep this up.”
“Isn’t that the plan?” she asked, all breath and parted lips. He couldn’t formulate a reply so on she needled, eyes piercing him, nearly bleeding him out there and then, all green and slathered in sweat and pheromones. “Don’t you want to cum?”
“Of course I…” He took a moment to drag her against him and she keeled forward, hot mouth ending up near his ear. “Of course, I do.” His voice was rough. Deep and pinched with the effort of not unravelling inside her. “Just not yet.” He dragged again and she let out a little cry as her teeth captured his earlobe.
She released him. Monolithed his neck with open-mouthed kisses, all the while riding and riding and riding. And then, sitting up a little so she could press her reddened lips to his, she said, in a way that might’ve been commanding if it weren’t for the whimper on the tail end: “You’re going to have to do something about that, then.”
‘Do something’ he did. In one fluid motion: sitting up, one hand finding the hair-stuck base of her neck, twisting, still connected at the waist, and laying her ever so softly into the pillow he had just been inhabiting.
She giggled. He kissed the humour off her lips and her hands found his backside, urging him deeper into her wet warmth, once, twice—fuck. Fingers intertwined with hers, he pulled his hips away from hers with a hiss, saying, “You feel too good, Love.”
“And I suppose that’s a bad thing.”
He shook his head, languorously kissing her mouth before shifting his weight onto his shins, releasing her hand so his fingers could find the spot that made her ‘oh’ and saying, “It’s fucking fantastic.” And then, as he lowered his face down towards her sweet silken centre and she settled into the pillows, lip firmly between her teeth in anticipation, he added, “But we don’t want you missing out on all the fun.”
