Jily oneshots

Supple Lips and Subjective Quiet

by whimsicallydrifting

Quiet is not a subjective term.

No, really. It isn't. Quiet is defined as the absence of sound, a feeling of peace and silence in a space.

Libraries are supposed to be quiet.

It is not quiet.

Lily clenches her fingers on her quill nearly hard enough to snap it.

Another chorus of moans from the back shelves, just loud enough to reach her and the other random sixth year student stuck studying in the depths of the library on a Friday night.

It is not a place to have sex. Not at all.

And if those two make that sound one more time—

They do.

Ink sprays onto her shirt and she swears, looking down at the frayed fragment of feather atop her essay. She grabs her wand, waving it blindly in the motions of a cleaning charm, trying to expunge her mind while she's at it—

It only partially works, cleaning the stain from her button up but leaving the seams faintly smoking.

The other sixth year boy—someone she vaguely recognizes as being one of those popular Gryffindor boys on the Quidditch team. Being a Ravenclaw, she doesn't interact with that crowd much—lifts his head at the sound of her voice.

"You swore."

Lily's eyes shot to him. "What?"

He sets his book down, eyes—an utterly distracting hazel—widening behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "You swore. You never swear."

Lily frowns, shifting her in her seat and trying to block out the continuing sounds. "Pardon?" She twisted a strand of her hair. Talking with popular kids has never been her forte. "What are you talking about. Everyone swears." The correction doesn't come out befuddled as she'd meant it, but rather uncomfortable and sheepish.

The moans reach a new pitch and she winces. For Merlin's sake, where was Madam Pince when you needed her?

The boy—who she's decided to call Spectacle Boy, since she for the life of her can't remember his name—scoots his chair closer, beginning to gesture with his hands. "Yeah, I know. But you're Lily Evans."

She's surprised he knows her name and it probably shows in her face.

He's paused. "You're a prefect and good in all of your classes, you know? I don't think I've ever heard you say 'fuck' before."

Normally, allusions to her swottish existence would garner a glare or a shriek and a hex, all further promoting her reputation as a prudish know-it-all, but tonight, perhaps because it's late and she's tired and those two seventh years are shagging three shelves back with ridiculous enthusiasm, she doesn't do any of those things.

Instead, she leans back in her chair, crosses her arms over her still ink-stained and smoking blouse and says archly, "Well sometimes a good fuck is necessitated. Though I think Anya and Gil are taking it a bit too literally. I have half a mind to go back there and either hand them an award for best lungs of the year or hex them both senseless."

Spectacle Boy stares at her for a moment, then tilts his head back and laughs.

He has a nice laugh. A nice face too. She tries not to notice these things.

"Nice. I like the way you think. But really," he leans in, looking all conspiratorial, "that's not the way to go about it. That would just encourage them. If you really want to get back at them, I suppose you could just snog me. Let them have a taste of their own medicine" He's grinning as he says it, and she knows he's joking, especially when he adds, "I've heard I have very supple lips."

But Lily tilts her head coyly, biting her lip. "Is that so?" She scoots her chair closer. "Well, Ravenclaws have always been sound researchers. Must make sure your facts are correct."

"I'm quite certain of my sources."

She hums, suddenly quite close to him, despite a good three feet being between their tables. The groans and moans and pants of flesh continued. "And Gryffindor's are known for holding grudges, aren't they?"

His eyes darkened behind his glasses, assignment forgotten as his eyes darted down to her lips. "Yeah," he breathes and then she's kissing him and she's not quite sure who moved in first or how she crossed the distance between the two tables or if she even crossed it at all. There's only the hum of the library, the obscene sound of sex and his lips moving against hers.

Thoughts are fleeting in her mind, the distraction of his kisses—because dear Merlin is he a good kisser. Supple doesn't even begin to cover it—an intoxicating drug as she scoots closer, winding her arms around his neck and pressing into the soft strands of his hair.

Spectacle Boy groans into her mouth, hands sliding from where they're gripping her arms down to her waist, stroking the bare skin between the hem of her skirt and the ridden up bottom of her shirt.

Lily's blood is electric in her veins as she kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.

This is only for fun, she reminds herself sternly. Only to get back at those seventh years.

Only only only.

She doesn't know his name.

They continue kissing for a while longer, that single, heated snog it had started out with fading into a series of shorter, mind-numbingly toxic nips. It's only when there's a muffled giggle and the sound of someone stumbling into a bookshelf that she reopens her eyes, awake again, At some point he's moved to her neck and is quite contentedly sucking at her pulse point, which is driving her mad, but—

They jolt apart from each other as Anya and Gil attempt to sneak past, their clothes hastily buttoned and hair askew. They don't seem to see Lily and Spectacle Boy as they scamper through the shelves, all sex and mischief high.

Lily thinks she might know how they feel.

She and Spectacle Boy stare at each other for a minute, faces flushed and breathing heavy, then she breaks silence—quiet, finally—with a giggle. "Oops?" She's grinning while she says it and it's so uncharacteristic of her, the consummate Prude of Ravenclaw—her mates will never believe this—but she's just been kissed—really kissed. And it was wrong and stupid and wonderful.

And Spectacle Boy laughs a little too, dropping a too-short kiss on her still tingling lips. He smiles at her as she scoots off of his lap and onto her own chair, shirt askew.

He stands, still looking a mite dazed, but smirking nonetheless. "Well, Lily Evans, I think you might have given me a run for my money on the supple lips scale." (She's sure she's blushing.) He winks, almost too fast for her to spot. "I suppose we'll have to conduct further studies. You know, in the name of research." His utterly kissable lips quirk and eyes twinkle. "See you around, foul-mouthed Lily."

And he saunters off, his perfect arse disappearing between the bookshelves after the Seventh Year Shaggers, leaving his books behind at the table because he's Spectacle Boy and he can do things like that, without a care in the world.

And Lily… her heart is pounding, her blood rushing and a smile is threatening to overtake her face, even with a History of Magic assignment due to tomorrow that she'll probably receive no credit for because she was back here snogging a boy she didn't know for a whole hour instead of working on her homework like she should have been…

Suddenly struck with an idea, she stands up on shaky legs and walks over to Spectacle Boy's table, eyes skimming the mess of papers and notes and doodles and—there.

On the inside flap of his Potions textbook.

Property of James T. Potter

Her lips curve.

James T. Potter, ten on the supple lips scale. Yes, she could get used to seeing that name.

And he has to see her again. After all—she stands up, grabbing her things and his as well.

She has his Potions notes.