Jily Oneshots (pt2)

Only My Marauder

by o.O.o.Maraudette.o.O.o

"Don't you dare, James."

Sometimes I wonder about my boyfriend's sanity. He – I – what the hell would make him think that wearing canary yellow would be an even remotely good idea?

James frowns. "You don't like it?"

"I'm thinking it's a bit too much like my sister's dead bird to make you approachable to her."

"Point taken," he says, and strips his shirt off, throwing it to the side.

I lean back on his bed and plump the pillow behind my head. I'll never get over how comfortable his mattress is. And for all of you reading this that are thinking the same thing Sirius is thinking, get your mind out of the gutter. We have not.

And if we had I wouldn't tell you.

James turns to face me, still half naked. Good Lord, thank you for Quidditch. My eyes take in every little detail about his torso, his arms – and then travel to the cheeky grin on his face.

"Like what you see, Evans?"

"You wish, Potter," I tease, settling back even farther into his mountain of pillows. (The boy has more pillows than my cat-crazed great-aunt - and let me tell you, that's saying something.) "Just wear – that one." I point to a deep red tee shirt lying crumpled on the floor behind his door. "It's nice. I like it."

He pulls it on, messing his hair up even more than it already is. I think that maybe gravity doesn't apply to his furry head some times. Doesn't mean I don't love it, but it gets a bit much when it's standing perpendicular to his head… like now.

James raises his arms to show it off. "Perfect," I say, getting off the bed and running my hands over his chest to smooth out the wrinkles. He smiles and wraps his arms around me in a hug. I swear to God, when he gives hugs his body is like a radiator. Mmm.

"Ready to go?" he asks, looking down at me. I bury my face against his shirt. It smells like Quidditch without the disgusting amounts of sweat.

"It won't be that bad, love," he says quietly, and I look up at him. I can tell my eyes are wide. "I'm naturally charismatic."

Of course he would ruin such a sweet sentiment with a joke like that. I smile. James plants a chaste little kiss on my lips, takes my hand in his, and turns away from me into the compressing, breathless dark with me right behind.

.o.O.o.

We come up by the park a few blocks from my house. James has never been to my place, so I lead him by the hand, every few feet giving him another direction.

"Only shake Dad's hand if he offers first," I say under my breath, turning right, "or he'll think you're pompous and hate you. Don't hug Mom or she'll think you're touchy-feely and hate you. And whatever you do, don't talk to Petunia more than absolutely necessary. She hates you already."

James opens his mouth. "Not even to call her a horse-face," I say severely. He closes his trap, looking disappointed.

We take the final turn and end up at my house – small and quaint with a thick oak door. I lead him up the steps to it, my heart racing. I have a feeling this is going to end badly. Call me a pessimist if you like – I think I'm more of a face-the-real-facts kind of person.

I take a deep breath and knock on the door.

Straightaway Dad opens it like he was waiting there for us to show up. He smiles at me, but his eyes are hard. "Hello, honey," he says, hugging me. I pull away after a second, and the Dad holds out his hand to James. "Hello, young man."