Not very long ago I was sure I would never write a Harry Potter fanfic, just because it didn't really inspire me fanfiction-wise, and while I was obsessed with it at one point, I haven't been at all for a few years now. But I was conquered by the James x Lily pairing, probably because it's just exactly the kind of romance I have a weakness for - a guy who's too cocky and charming for his own good but genuinely cares for a girl, and a girl who hates his guts (or has convinced herself that she does, at least). I mean, you get two people like that and you just know they're meant to be together. At least in fiction.
Warnings: some swearing, and a pathetically failed attempt at trying to narrate in a British manner - the Americanisms are all over the place.
Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter. Anyway, it's kinda more fun just to steal the odd character here and there. :)
Don't tell anyone, but I have a thing for glasses.
Just a little thing. A teeny-tiny thing. Like, the only thing that can completely perfect a face is if it has glasses. I mean, obviously the face has got to be pretty near-perfect anyway, but the glasses just...well, they just add something. They have to be decent glasses, though - horn-rims are definitely out.
While a glasses fetish is kind of weird, normally I wouldn't be so bothered about hushing it up, and I'm not, really. There's just one person that I want to keep it from, and since that one person is awfully, stalkerishly good at finding things out about me, I have to be careful. Who is this one person?
Why would I be especially against him knowing? Well, aside from the obvious, that I don't want him knowing more about me than is absolutely necessary, there is the fact that James Potter wears glasses. And if he found out that I had a thing for glasses, he'd probably somehow get it into his big head that I find his glasses attractive, or even worse, that his glasses were the ones that started my fetish. And all right, while it's true that I didn't become aware of my liking for spectacles until after starting at Hogwarts and therefore after meeting him, it in no way had anything to do with him. It's just that the teenage years are when healthy teenagers start getting hormones and noticing physical preferences. (And James Potter plays no role whatsoever in my hormones or my physical preferences, thank you very much. He's an arrogant, thick-headed git, and even glasses can't change that.)
I suppose it's ironic that just as I'm mulling this over, none other than that complete prat Potter struts into my line of vision. Yes, he does strut - quite often, actually. Just another unbearable habit of his to add to the list. And of course, just as I start to look at him, he looks over at me. I immediately drop my eyes and pretend he doesn't exist, something I've gotten better and better at over the years with lots of practice, but it's too late. The only thing I hate more than catching him watching me is him catching me watching him.
Let's just say that this is not the sort of irony that I'm particularly partial to.
Please say he's not walking over here. Please tell me he hasn't, in his usual twisted way, interpreted my looking at him as a sign that I find him even slightly tolerable and therefore an invitation to come casually lounging over.
All right fine, then at least tell me he's going to leave soon.
"Go out with me?"
Make that very soon.
He doesn't even ask it seriously. He just grins that cocky, dumb grin that he obviously thinks is charming and tosses the words out lazily like you toss a penny into a fountain. He barely even phrases it as a question. Then again, he doesn't have to, since he knows what the answer will be every time. Or by now he certainly ought to.
"Get lost, Potter," I say shortly. Preferably in some deep, dark hole where no one will ever find you again.
I don't look up from the book I'm currently taking notes out of, but I hear the chair squeal and the thud of him plopping himself down in it, and I swear I can hear his stupid grin broadening too.
"Aw, have a heart, Evans," he drawls. Does he intentionally make his voice extra-irritating when he's speaking to me? Because he honestly doesn't have to, I find it irritating enough in its usual state, thanks.
Suddenly a big, calloused hand smacks itself down on the book I'm reading, right on top of the paragraph I was at. I gasp in outrage. He found that section of the page on purpose! I don't know how, but I know he did! And how does he have the gall to still be talking? "Not even a 'better luck next time'?" he inquires, the smirk invading his tone. "Show some mercy."
I glare at his hand, resisting the temptation to spit on it, and then slam the book shut with all my might on top of his fingers. I get a satisfactory hiss of pain - it's a nice, fat encyclopedia - before he snatches it away. Then I look up at him with a vengeance, rising to my feet and snapping, "I show mercy every time I refrain from jinxing you into next Thursday, Potter."
My original mission was to grab my book and storm out of the library to study somewhere where he isn't, but now that I'm looking at him, something in me just...freezes. Like the bomb that goes off every time James Potter decides to approach has stopped ticking. It's just...his glasses.
It's not like I haven't seen them before. But there's just something about them right now. They're almost exactly at my eye level (because he's sitting down), a rare occurrence since he's taller than me, and he's still grinning faintly, and a strand of messy black hair is curling down his forehead, just a few millimetres away from touching the rims, and he's got the glasses. They're square, and I can't help but notice, just the right size for his eyes - they don't have that bug-like magnifying effect, and they frame his sockets with no more and no less than the required space on every side.
I'm telling you, James Potter does not have anything close to a near-perfect face, all right? So there's no way the glasses could ever be a proper finishing touch. But even I'll admit that James Potter's face is very...James Potter-ish, and those glasses, well, they complete James Potter.
A second ago he was looking like he was on the verge of protesting in that injured way, as if he doesn't deserve what I gave him (yeah, right!), but apparently he sees something in my expression that shuts him up. First his mouth opens and his eyes widen curiously, and then he leans forward, almost earnestly.
"So...Lily," he says, a little more slowly, a little more cautiously than usual, like he's testing to see how far he can push. The difference does make his voice a bit less irritating. A bit.
But then I realize that he's just hoping he'll get lucky because I'm staring at his glasses with a gaze that, if you're a misguided, egotistical jerk like Potter, could possibly be misconstrued as one of admiration. That brings me back to reality. And reality clearly states that James Potter is insufferably loathsome.
"Don't call me Lily,...Potter!" For a moment there, I almost called him James. How horrible would that be? Since when is he James to me? It was probably just some kind of instinctive defensive reflex in response to his calling me Lily.
I don't want to glare at him in case that glasses-admiring (I mean, not that I was really admiring them) thing happens again, so I just sweep out of the library without so much as a second glance at him, which I'm sure was just as impressive, if not more so. I hope.
I should probably get one thing straight. I don't like Potter's glasses. At best, I might, maybe, like them better than any other part of him. But that's only because they're the one part of him that don't contribute in some way to his ability to speak.
However impossible James Potter may be on his own, he's twice as bad when with his friends - particularly one Sirius Black. Actually I take that back; he's worse on his own, because when he's alone with me he gets even more persistent and obnoxious about asking me out and making perverted comments. But Sirius Black keeps up with Potter in every negative area the two dabble in - and there are many. In fact, maybe Black's influence helped shape the conceited, womanizing Potter we know today.
Never mind - while a there is a ridiculously long list of misfortunes that can be rightfully blamed on Sirius Black, Potter's unbearable attitude is not on it. If there's really anyone out there who was "just born that way", it's James Potter.
I guess I have to admit that I'm feeling more pissed off than usual at the two partners in pranksterhood who work at the desk next to me in Potions, which may be responsible in part for my rant. But that in itself is still entirely their fault, because they're discussing some new scheme in voices that might be intended as undertones, letting their potion bubble away dangerously in front of them, and sniggering like children.
I consider telling them to shut up, since I don't want their ignored concoction to suddenly explode and go all over me too. Then I decide that edging away will do the job just as well, and will probably have equal success in actually making them quiet down and concentrate; that is to say, none.
It appears that I thought of this not a moment too soon, as suddenly their cauldron gives a huge, sucking burp which ranks as one of the grossest sounds I have ever heard, froths furiously for the blink of an eye and then, suddenly (well, not suddenly, there were about ten minutes of warning in there that those two idiots didn't notice) the potion surges up like some vomited tidal wave and spews all over them. And - are those little stones mixed in with their so-called "potion"? Just what have they been doing to that poor mixture?
My first reaction, although I hate to say it, is concern - minor concern. I mean, who knows what wrong ingredients they could have stuck in there to make it toxic or acidic or whatever, and I am feeling just a bit guilty about not having at least made an attempt to warn them. But that doesn't last long, because while Sirius is spitting out green-tinted saliva (in the middle of the classroom floor, disgusting) and Potter is frantically trying to brush the goop out of his precious hair (I mean, honestly), neither of them seem to be dying in convulsions or shrieking in agony as their skin melts away.
So I'm all prepared to turn away and treat their mishap like the juvenile carelessness that it is, when I hear Potter mutter something that sounds suspiciously like a swear word. I pause and look over, and spot him holding his glasses in his muck-encrusted hands, staring down at what looks exactly like a crack in one of the lenses. A fairly thick crack, too - those rocks must have been bigger than I'd thought. And it makes no sense, but all of a sudden I'm transported back to that incident in the library a couple of days ago, and all I can think is, not the glasses!
While I'm still under the influence of this crazy impulse, I reach out with my wand until the tip almost grazes the glasses lens and say quietly, "Reparo." The crack fades away as if it was never there, replaced with transparent, intact glass.
Potter jumps and almost drops the glasses (that's right, Potter, just go and break them, will you, right after I fixed them), and gawks at me like he's suddenly found out that Lily Evans is an alien. He looks even stupider than usual, covered in potion mess and gaping. But then I feel stupider than usual, because I just repaired the git's glasses, on some kind of bizarre spectacles-fetish-induced whim. And I also feel kind of offended, because I just did something nice for him, and he's staring like he expects pigs to fly now. It's not that shocking that I'd do something nice, even for someone like Potter. I mean, is it?
"Uh..." He swallows, then grimaces, probably tasting the potion. "...Thanks, Evans." He looks doubtfully down at his glasses, as if he thinks I've put some kind of charm on them that will cause them to crack all over again in a few seconds.
This gets me mad. His shock and his doubt and his stupid potion-exploding are so annoying. He's so annoying. "Just shut up, would you, Potter," I hiss scathingly. "And you, too, Black," I shoot at the second-biggest idiot in the room, just for good measure.
Potter looks confused, but also defensive. "It's not like I asked you to do me a favour, Evans! I could've repaired it myself."
"Well, why didn't you then?" I snipe back. I'm pointedly no longer looking at him, calmly stirring my own potion, which is coming along nicely if I do say so myself. No, I said calmly - why is the ladle trembling?
"What - well - " he splutters, then glares at me. I have the insane thought that maybe I'm rubbing off on him. "Because you did, that's why!"
"Just say thank you and leave me alone, Potter," I growl.
"I already said thank you!" he snarls in response. I've really got him riled up now.
Oh, right, he has. "Well then, you're welcome," I say with acid brusqueness, brushing him off.
For the rest of Potions, after a hasty clean-up job, Potter and Black work in a simmering, furious silence next to me. Well, the silence is mostly Potter's initiative, I think, and the furious simmering is definitely all him, judging from his murderous expression. To tell the truth, I almost preferred it when they were being loud and disruptive. The tense, infuriated aura emanating from Potter is about as distracting as their chatting was.
I dare to dart a sideways glance at him, though, and I'm satisfied to see those glasses perched neatly back on his nose. His face just doesn't look right without them. I mean, not that it looks especially great under any circumstances, but the glasses just improve everything.
As I walk out of the classroom behind Potter and Black, I hear Potter mutter under his breath, "What was up with her, randomly fixing my glasses like that and then being so odd about it?" Then he speaks up to Black. "Think she did it 'cause she's finally starting to like me?"
Not a chance, Potter, I think, but I find myself actually blushing - lightly - at the hopefulness that I heard in his tone with that last query. There must be something wrong with me.
Black says it for me. "I dunno, mate," he replies flippantly, "maybe she just likes your glasses."
Black will never know how accurate he is. Still, Potter should be grateful anyway; his face would never be the same without those glasses.
Either Potter's actually staring to seriously study, or he just enjoys making me want to strangle him several times a day. Either way, he's spending a lot of time in the library. For instance, I'm in the process of getting a book down from the shelf when a long, muscled arm extends into my peripheral vision, resting against the bookcase beside me. Is it freaky that I can actually recognize him by his arms by now? Then again, even if I couldn't, it's not like it'd be anyone else.
"No, I will not go out with you, Potter," I say loudly to head off the inevitable question, momentarily forgetting that we're in a library. "I'm glad we had this conversation. Now, if you'll excuse me." I turn around, ready to push past him and ignore him with all my might, only to find that he's got me trapped, one arm caging me in on either side. Isn't this sexual harassment? Physical intimidation? A criminal combination of both?
"What if I won't?" he asks, his voice playful and a bit breathy in its unnatural hushed state. I start to panic slightly, because whenever he's playful it means he intends to be especially irritating, but I don't show it.
"Then I'll have to make you," I say, more bravely than I really feel. I mean, I'm not scared of him, not at all, but he is a lot taller and bigger and fitter than I am...you can really tell from all that hard sinew standing out on his chiseled biceps, and the way his shirt curves over his - all right, time to stomp on that line of thought.
He just laughs, a low, soft chuckle that makes me shiver. It's not a shiver of fear (obviously), but then that makes me wonder just what kind of shiver it is. And that's not a reassuring question. "If I cracked my glasses, would you fix them like last time, Evans?" he asks, still toying with me. Wait, he's always toying with me; that's why I can't stand him.
I grit my teeth. "And why, pray tell, wouldn't you be able to do it yourself?"
"Uh, because you'd do it first?" he jibes, grinning and rubbing my insanity from the other day in his face. Well, at least he's not mad about it anymore. Not that I care if he's mad - I mean, clearly I don't care what he's feeling towards me, ever. When I just set my jaw and say nothing, he tries again with, "Then how about because you look sexy when you pucker up your forehead like that and concentrate on a spell?"
I'm really getting sick of his little innuendo-compliments. He doesn't even mean them. "Keep on in that thread and I'll take special pains to ensure that you can never concentrate on a spell again," I threaten.
He laughs maddeningly again. "By all means take special pains with me, Lily."
I cringe. I'm already so furious that him calling me Lily barely registers. Why does he turn everything I say into some sick, perverted scenario? And why do I say things that can be turned into sick, perverted scenarios by the likes of James Potter?
He seems to notice how angry I am, and he gives me a little smile as if he thinks that it will somehow melt my heart (in your dreams, Potter.) But it looks fairly genuine, and even somewhat less teasing than usual, and the glint of his pretty - wait, no, I didn't just call them pretty - glasses makes the yellowy library lights look good. Against all reason I find myself just a bit pacified; at least my urge to throttle him isn't quite so strong as before. Those stupid glasses; they're my weakness, they really are.
"Would you prefer beautiful over sexy, then, Lily?" he asks, lowering his voice. Oh, so he does possess the ability to speak at a volume designed for privacy - he'd probably just gotten out of the habit with all of the bragging. He lifts his hand to my face and I feel the brush of his fingers through the wisps of hair over my temple.
"All right then, you're beautiful when you concentrate," he says in a voice so quiet I have to strain my ears to hear it, and he's not smiling cockily anymore, which makes me think that maybe he's not just toying with me. But that's impossible. Right?
I'm blushing, and I knock his hand away from my face, pressing myself back against the shelf. But he just replaces his arm on the other side of my body and murmurs, "Beautiful..." I'm starting to get really uncomfortable here. Maybe just a tiny bit flattered (a tiny bit), but uncomfortable all the same.
Then the world stops. I mean, not literally. But when I make the mistake of looking up at him it definitely feels like it, because Potter is leaning his head down towards me, his eyes closing behind those glasses - those gorgeous glasses - no, they're not gorgeous, what am I thinking, they're glasses for Merlin's sake, and his lips - no, just shut up, Lily, don't look at his lips, don't think about them, no, anything but them - just turn your head away - but those glasses, they just complement his face in every way, his forehead, his eyes, his nose, his lips - no, no, Lily, not the lips!
So flustered I have no idea what I'm doing, I reach up and tear his glasses off his face like someone might rip off a Band-aid. I have this irrational notion that as soon as I get those glasses off him, I'll stop being mesmerized by him. After all, they're the only part of him that's remotely attractive. Not that anything about him is remotely attractive to me - it's just the least un-remotely attractive thing about him. Yes, that's right. No, what? Arrrrgh!
At least it has the desired effect of making him draw his head back in bewilderment. "Lily, what - ?" he starts, staring from me to the glasses and back again. He blinks, and I realize that I've never actually seen him without his glasses on. I mean, not up close - I'm sure he's taken them off in my sight for a few brief instances, but it's not the same as now, with his gaze boring right into me. I guess I was always too busy with his glasses to really notice what's looking out from under them. But now I totally forget about his glasses, because now there's nothing between me and his eyes.
His eyes are...they're rich hazel, with all these flecks of various browns and golds, and I find that it's not the glasses frames that are the right size, but the eyes themselves. Not too wide, not too narrow, but just right, oval-shaped and clear and deep and so hazel...and when he's squinting a little at me like that, it seems to squeeze even more colour into them.
This can't be happening.
I let out a muffled half-shriek, half-squeal of "Ja - Potter!", bodily ram his arm out of the way and flat-out run away. And I don't stop until I'm in the girls' dormitory. Which isn't, come to think of it, very close to the library. At all.
I repeat to myself, This can't be happening. Because it can't be that after admiring his glasses (oh, all right fine, I was admiring them!), seeing what's behind them has made me see that...see that...
I don't think I have a glasses fetish anymore. No, now I have a thing for eyes. Which wouldn't be a problem, if they weren't James Potter's eyes. Exclusively his eyes.
And after that bombshell, it hits me that I'm still holding his glasses.
I'm currently sprawled on the common room sofa on my back, seriously debating smothering myself with a cushion. The main problem with that idea is that James Potter's stupid gorgeous-but-not-as-gorgeous-as-his-eyes glasses are lying on top of the cushion, where I carefully deposited them earlier this evening. I've been carrying them everywhere at my side since I took them from him - only a hour or so ago, although it feels like years since then. I have this irrational fear that if I leave them in the dormitory or anywhere else, someone might come in and, I don't know, steal them or something.
Wait, that's absurd. Even if it didn't require sneaking into a girls' dormitory and rooting around in someone's stuff, why would anyone steal James Potter's glasses?
Then again, that's approximately what I just did. But that was an accident!
Unfortunately, accident or not, it still means that I'm going to have to confront him sometime, if only to return the blasted things. Maybe I could just hand them to Remus Lupin, the most halfway decent member of Potter's lot, and ask him to give them to Potter and tell him that I'd rather never look at, speak to or otherwise interact with him ever again in my life, if it's convenient for him.
Then a light goes on. In my head, I mean - the lights are already on in the common room, of course. Anyway, while I may have a new, horrible thing for James Potter's eyes, the important part is that he doesn't know it, right? He must think I'm crazy for ripping off his glasses and sprinting away like that, but I can deal with that as long as he hasn't got an inkling about the other, worse thing. All Potter knows is that he tried to kiss me and got a somewhat screwy response! Yes! I can do this.
I'm just letting out a sigh of relief when someone nearby says, "Evans."
"Yes, what is it?" I ask quite amiably, in a good enough mood to help anyone out who needs it. Then the familiarity of that voice gets through to me, and I leap up from the sofa with an actual scream. Then I feel like a dork for screaming like that right there in the common room. But that mortification is second to the one I feel when I find myself face-to-face with a notably glasses-free James Potter.
He's frowning - his frown has much more of an effect on me when he's not wearing glasses, I realize all of a sudden - and he starts to frown even harder as I stare at him in complete terror. By this time I've forgotten everything about my previous "I can do this" confidence.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Evans," he says, enunciating slowly and unmistakably as if he's trying to calm some wild animal. I'm puzzled at his tone until I hit the wall with an unexpected thud and become aware that I was backing away from him. That would explain it. Nonetheless, his assurance does nothing to make me sweat less. So not only am I confronting Potter while scared out of my mind and after recently having internally acknowledged my new obsession with his eyes, I'm also gross and sweaty. Oh, this is simply such a wonderful day.
"What do you want, Potter?" I demand, my voice giving new meaning to the adjective "breathless". Smooth, Lily, smooth.
"To talk," he says after a pause. I don't think I've ever seen him this serious before. It certainly is a novelty. "Just talk. To talk with you."
I hesitate. His sincerity almost makes me reluctant to refuse, but I ask in my cowardice, "Is this really necessary, Potter?" I mean to sound sharp and impatient, like the only reason I don't want to talk is that I haven't got time to waste on him, but instead I sound desperate and pleading. Pathetic.
"It is to me," he says heavily, and suddenly sits down hard on the sofa. He's off-guard! A part of me cries out. Run while you can! But his shoulders are slumped, his mouth thinned in a very un-Potter-ish way, and I suddenly feel bad not just for this time, but for all the times that I've turned my back on him without hearing him out. By now he probably expects me to do just that.
Not without some trepidation, I come forward again and perch awkwardly on the other side of the sofa, beside him but with more than a foot of space between us. The cushion is still there, undisturbed, glasses intact. For some reason this soothes me immensely.
He looks vaguely surprised that I'm next to him, and also unsure, like he never believed he'd get this far and isn't entirely decided on where to go from here.
"James?" I say softly. I don't know why, but using his first name seems like the thing to do; I suppose I feel like maybe it'll make him a bit more comfortable about talking about whatever he wants to discuss. He gives a jolt of surprise, but before he can say anything, I go on so as not to lose my nerve. "I'm...I guess I...well...I'm sorry," I finish, staring rigidly down at my knees.
As soon as I've said the all-important words, I know I can't just leave it there, not after all this agonizing that somehow feels totally needless right now. So I rush on. "I mean, I just want to apologize. I know I always reject you so - point-blank, I guess, and that's partly because your constant asking me out is really, really annoying, but that's not exactly an excuse for being mean to you in return, and it's not that I want to hurt your feelings or anything, but the truth is I'm kind of afraid of your feelings, because I always get confused about how you feel about me and how I feel about you and I try to just ignore it and push it all away, and then it seems like you're just making fun of me but sometimes you seem serious, and so I get angry, but I shouldn't have acted so weird about the glasses, and I'm sorry for grabbing them off you like that, by the way. They're not damaged or anything, though, they're right here, I made sure to take good care of them. And I'm not sure exactly what was going on in the library, but it was kind of traumatizing for me, so - "
"All right, Evans," he cuts me off quickly, for which I am more grateful than I have ever been grateful to Potter at any point in my life up until now. Then, more gently, "It's all right, Evans."
I feel a flutter of disappointment at how impersonal he's being with me - he's not calling me Lily even though I called him James. Wait, I'm not disappointed about that - there's no reason to be disappointed about it - I mean, I even told him he shouldn't use my first name. So really, this is a good thing.
Oh, sod it. I'm disappointed.
"Evans," James goes on, sounding genuinely curious, but slightly nervous about what my answer will be, "why exactly did you take my glasses?"
There's no way I can tell him that. Ever. "N-none of your business, Potter," I say defensively, but I actually stutter, I'm so mortified at the thought of explaining.
"Oh, come on, Evans!" he protests, incredulous. "You can at least tell me that, can't you? I mean, after how outrageously you've been acting lately -"
I can't help it, I'm just so used to getting fired up at him. And besides, who is he to call my behaviour outrageous? He's Potter, for Merlin's sake! "How outrageously I've been acting? How outrageously I've been acting? What about you, with your little I-bloody-don't-know-what in the library today? That was sexual harassment, you know, not to mention totally revolting! I mean, if that's how you go about trying to snog a girl - "
He's on his feet now, and the other Gryffindors in the common room are hurriedly exiting, or at least backing away to a safe distance. "Well, Miss Evans, at least trying to 'snog a girl' in the library is normal behaviour, whereas you snatching my glasses and running off is ridiculous and insane, and you can't even explain why - "
Yes, and the reason why I can't explain why is you, you prat! It's the last straw (especially him calling me "Miss Evans"), and I jump up, steaming, grab the cushion and hurl it as hard as I can at his big, fat head. But I've forgototten one vital thing - his glasses are sitting on that exact same cushion, which I remember less than a second too late.
He ducks the projectile thanks to those Quidditch-honed reflexes, and the cushion - and the glasses with it - flies into the metal bar of the lamp behind him. There's an ominous snapping sound, like his glasses have just cracked a lot more badly than they did last time.
For a moment, we just stand there stock-still in silence. My mind slowly unfreezes enough for me to think, Oops. Oops oops oops oops oops.
All of a sudden, I feel like a terrible person. I just broke his glasses! By throwing them at his head! I'm desperate to fix them, and I fall to my knees by his feet, picking up the spectacles, which are miraculously still all in one piece, although both lenses are splintered with multiple cracked lines and I'm pretty sure the rim is dented. Feeling like I've done something unforgivable, even though they can be easily repaired with magic, obviously, I slowly stand and hold out the damaged goods to him.
"I am...I'm so, so sorry," I say meekly, practically whispering. I think my eyes are actually watering as I raise them to his. Am I actually going to start crying over James Potter's glasses?
I'm scared to check his expression, but he doesn't seem particularly furious when I look at his face. More like - resigned, and a bit annoyed. Then he lets out this dramatic, gushing sigh, and takes the glasses from me. Then he says, "You know what, Lily? To hell with my glasses." And just like that, under my disbelieving gaze, he tosses them carelessly over his shoulder.
"To hell with it all, actually," he declares with finality, and I think I see a flash of that cocky Potter grin for just a moment before he places both hands on my upper arms, yanks me in towards him and plants a kiss on my lips.
His kiss is rough, almost needy, hungrily going over every inch of my mouth. He doesn't try any tongue, though, thankfully, since I might just faint if he did. This is enough of a shock to my system as it is. But it's kind of a...pleasant shock, I might say. I mean, his lips are smooth and warm and press in all the right places, and my eyes sort of close of their own accord as my own lips respond to his. I didn't know that I actually wanted to kiss Potter until this very moment, but now that I am...I don't really want to stop.
We do stop, though, and James breaks away grinning like he just won the All-Universe Quidditch Cup. And while his grin is cocky, and stupid, and all right, a bit charming, it's kind of adorable. His eyes are just as hypnotically, addictively hazel as they were last time, and I realize that James Potter's face is perfectly fine even without the glasses.
He is squinting a bit, though. "Damn," he says, although still grinning, "I do wish I had my glasses right now, so that I could properly see you blushing, Lily."
He's right, I am blushing - my face is all but in flames, actually. But he makes it sound it like a compliment, and I'm secretly pleased. Maybe not so secretly; I can feel myself smiling at him. "Forget about the glasses, James," I order, and then I pull him down to kiss him again.
I think he does forget about them. I know that I, at least, am a little preoccupied with more pressing matters.
A/N: So, it's a little screwbally as writing generally is with me, and I'm not really satisfied with either my James or my Lily. Well. That's not so good, is it, now that I think of it. :P
But I stayed up really late writing it (actually, more like really early - the next morning, I mean), which is worth some points, right?
Reviews, anyone? Please? And thank you? Actually, I'm already thankful to anyone who just reads this and derives some amusement from it, however small, because that's why I write, I guess. But I'm extra thankful to reviewers!