Jily oneshots

Patience (smut)

done by thisismeafterdark on fanfiction.net

He takes you by surprise every time, though you'd think you'd have learned to expect it by now.
You got married straight out of Hogwarts, hopelessly in love as you were, and moved into a one-bedroom flat overlooking Diagon Alley. In the few months since your graduation, you've managed to christen just about every spot in the flat (and some around it too), but still he manages to take you by surprise when he sneaks up behind you like this, sliding his warm hands under your shirt to rest on your stomach. Not that it always happens in that way - that would be much too boring and predictable for the great James Potter - but as you're currently cooking at the small counter in the equally small kitchen, it is convenient.
"Hey," he whispers, his warm breath tickling your ear in a delightful manner.
"Hey," you reply in that breathy voice you reserve strictly for situations like this one.
One of his hands traces small circles on your stomach as the other one moves to remove the spatula from your hands, and you shiver. He leans down to press a kiss on your neck, his lips gone almost before they got there. His hand, successful in its de-spatulafying mission, returns to your stomach, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.
"Are you sure you need this?" he asks petulantly, like a child told he must wear his Sunday best to church. "Shirts are so pointless, you know."
You chuckle. "Then what are you waiting for?" The shirt is off in the blink of an eye. He runs his hands through your long hair once, then deposits it over one shoulder, safely out of the way, before moving down to cup a single breast, so chaste through your bra. You know the game and you're desperate to play it, but he seems to want to go slow; he doesn't react to the way your breath catches in your throat at the slight contact, merely keeps on softly fiddling with that one breast. You let him have his way for a few seconds, but his teasing is torture and almost of its own accord your hand drifts up, intending to remove your bra.
"Uh-uh," he chides, his free hand fastening around your wrist and bringing it down. "Patience, young grasshopper." However, he does remove his other hand from your breast long enough to remove the offending garment. His hand goes back. His fingers are cold, and you moan slightly as he pinches your nipple. "Better?" he asks, and you can but sigh.
He switches his ministrations to your other breast eventually, a fact that you're grateful for, as soon you would have resorted to doing the job yourself. As it is, you're beginning to get impatient with the way his attention is focused solely on your breasts, with an occasional suck at the pressure point on your neck; you can feel yourself getting wet, beginning to throb. You need more.
It's no time for waiting, you decide as you turn around and kiss your husband fiercely, pulling his bottom lip into your mouth, all the while relieving him of his smart white dress shirt. His small sound of pleasure is intertwined with his surprise, but he regains control quickly. "No, no," he says, "you're ruining my plan." You sigh. He always has a plan... Some work better than others. Some of them you'd found you enjoyed, like the one where he tied each of your limbs to a separate bedpost and spent hours having his wicked way with you, exploring every nook and cranny of your body. But what was to be his plan this time?
As if in answer to you question, he kisses you once more and turns you around again, your bare back cold against his equally bare, warm chest. His fingers pass by your breasts quickly, tweaking each now-hard nipple once, and ghost their way down your ribs to where your pants block his access.
"This was much easier when we were at Hogwarts," he said with a laugh. "Those uniform skirts of yours were much more convenient in situations like these." As he spoke, his deft fingers undid the button, and now he shimmies the pants down your legs as if he's done it a hundred times - which, let's be honest, he has. You cooperate, stepping out of the worn blue jeans as they fall around your ankles, and one of you kicks them to the side. You don't register which one of you it was, because his fingers have started stroking you through the thin cotton of your underwear, and you can't concentrate on anything else. You want to just get rid of the silly things, but it would undoubtedly go against his plan. "James?" you say, sighing in pleasure and anticipation.
"Mhmm?"
"Don't stop."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says as he finally tugs your underwear down, not even caring whether it gets stuck halfway. And yet he still doesn't enter you, doesn't grant you the sensation you're aching for. Instead, he very slowly runs one finger down your slit, making you tremble and whimper. That one long finger goes back the way it came, and comes up again, and each movement pulls another moan from your mouth.
His efforts have considerably weakened your knees, as is understandable, and as his finger continues its back-and-forth voyage you realise that you're not so much standing any more as leaning against him - against his erection, as it were, and you realise this is something you can use to your advantage. You go down the traditional route first, grabbing his hand where its situated between your thighs, trying to make him insert those delectable fingers into her core and release her instead of merely teasing and hinting at the things he could do, but he laughs and shakes his head as his hands refuse to budge.
"You mustn't come yet, Lily. Have patience."
You'd known this would happen, and that's why you have your plan B. Slowly, very slowly, you inch your hands behind you until you manage to grab hold of his swollen cock through his pants. "Can we stop playing now, James?" you ask.
"Only if you ask me very nicely," he replies, still managing to keep up the motion of his fingers.
"Fine," you mutter. You'll only deign to do this because he's not giving you any corner and it's honestly torture; you haven't been properly fucked for so long and it feels like you'll implode if he doesn't do something soon. And so you resort to begging. "James Potter, sexiest man on Earth, fuck my slutty cunt with your huge cock now or I swear to Merlin I'll crucify your ass," you say between gasps. He loves his dirty talk, James does, but you're only going to last so long before you let go of his erection and start riding your own fingers, so great is your need to come.
"Most certainly," he replies cheerfully, and in a single fluid motion he turns you and lifts you onto the counter. His pants are off in seconds, and he kisses you deeply, tongues clashing, before thrusting inside you. You moan loudly; this is what you've been waiting for since 'hey'. You buck your hips, digging your fingers into his shoulders, begging for more. He complies, all thoughts of plans forgotten as he thrusts again and again, almost frantically, and you cry out as he hits your sweet spot. You feel a tell-tale clench, and almost too soon you're pulsing around him, gasping his name at the same time as he yells out "Merlin, Lily, yes!" as your hands move down to stroke his balls and he comes only seconds behind you.
Tired and content, you hook your legs around him to bring him closer and lean your head on his shoulder.
"You know what, James?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you."