Jily oneshots

Just Stay Here Tonight (smut)

by monroeslittle

My hands are tied, and I've been rollin' the dice.

My legs are broken, and I ain't up for a fight.

I'll make it rain from an empty sky,

If you just stay here tonight.

She is eighteen, and she is ready for her life to start, for something to start.

School finished in May, but she isn't on her way to university, because somebody ran a red light, and her parents were in the car that flipped, spinning off the road, and Lily can't waste time at university when she needs a job now. She needs money now.

"Everything is going to be alright," Petunia says, and Lily wants to believe her.

But her parents are dead, and she uses her savings to help her sister with the debt.

Petunia manages to find Lily a job at the typing pool where she works. In a few boring, frugal years, she will have saved enough to support herself while she goes to university like she planned, but for now summer seems to stretch endlessly before them. Already, temperatures are record high, a drought scorching the grass brown, and the roses in the back yard are wilting. Her father loved those roses. How fitting.

She doesn't want to think about her father, or what's supposed to happen next, how nothing is supposed to happen next. Her friends ply her with drinks, trying to distract her from everything.

They drag her to the pub with them, and that's where everything starts.

It's her pub, or it's the Cokeworth pub, and these boys with their posh accents, their goofy grins, and their funny clothes aren't from Cokeworth. She smirks at his jumper, a lumpy, patterned thing.

He laughs at something his mate says, shoving the boy towards a table.

He looks like a prat, but he's fit. Or, well, he isn't fit. But he carries himself like he is, like being tall, bony, and pale is something to talk about. His hair sticks up in every direction, and the careless way about him seems fitting with that hair. She looks away as he comes to stand beside her stool.

He taps his fingers absently on the bar, glancing around at the same moment she looks back at him.

She smiles, and a grin splits his face. He is definitely a prat; it's always in the grin. He orders a pitcher for his mates, "and, let's see," he glances at her, "what's that?" He nods at her drink. Grins.

She bites her lip. Diana is playing darts with Michael Richardson, Maureen is chatting up Carl Abbott, and Lily is bored. "Whiskey sour," she agrees, and the boy orders a whiskey sour for her.

"Ta," she says, raising the drink to him in salute.

He leans stupidly against the bar, running a hand through his hair. "I'm James."

"Lily." She sips her drink, and he doesn't move to take the pitcher to his mates.

"Are you local?" he asks.

She smirks. "I think you're the only person in this pub who isn't," she replies. But they don't really talk, because Diana starts to twirl her hair around her finger, which is her signal that she wants Lily to rescue her from a bloke. Diana used to date Mike, but her interest in him lately varies depending on the day. This must not be his day. Lily stands, smiling at the boy. "Have a good night, James."

Within an hour, Diana changes her mind.

She starts snogging Mike, and Lily plays darts against herself until George White offers to play a round with her. She trounces him. He laughs at his defeat, his hand resting on her lower back. "I guess I should get you a celebratory drink," he says, squeezing her hip before he heads to the bar.