(no subject)
sing/just edging into over 16
Lily/James
(I own nothing.)
A/N:A tiny bit of Lily and James, loosely based on this scene from A Midsummer Night's Dream...which is funny, in context. And isn't, here. Because I feel like Lily is horribly under-represented in fandom. And, for her, I have much love.
She reminds him of angels, when she's like this - not the floaty, feathery benevolent things, but engines of retribution, fire and self righteous rage. She reminds him that they, the angels in the cemetaries, are iron, be they or be they not winged, things of flight.
Oh, his love is filled with fire.
"On your head be it, James Potter..." On all our foolish bloody heads. I'd have trusted him, James. I'd have trusted him to the bloody end. S'one thing you always could say for him, James...He'd go to the end of the bloody world for you.
There's nothing that he can do for her when she's in a rage like this (it's better to stand back, and let her stalk). She reminds him of angels, when she's like this - not the floaty, feathery benevolent things, but engines of retribution, fire and self righteous rage. She reminds him that they, the angels in the cemetaries, are iron, be they or be they not winged, things of flight.
Oh, his love is filled with fire.
"All of the others are going, Lily...Everybody's running."
"I am not going to be made to look frightened, James." She hefts little Harry's weight against her shoulder, kisses downy dark hair, her hand rubbing comforting circles on his terry-cloth back. "I am not afraid." Brave girl, beautiful girl, twice lived, twice blessed, brave and bold and stupid.
"We have to, Lily. We have to go." He lies there on there, half in the bed, half out it (rose petal duvet, her choice, not his), and watches her stalk in her underwear, beautiful girl, length to her bones and weight to her breasts, mother of his child, love of his life. It's not just the sex (though the sex is phenomenal, heart breaking, never-been-anything-like-it sex, her body above him, leaning the weight of her breasts into his hands. Her smell...her taste. The sounds she makes. He sees heaven when they kiss, if heaven is blurred and hot and smells of roses...if heaven feels a bit like that moment before you start crying). It isn't just the sex...it's the realisation (a few years past now), that he would do anything to make this girl happy.
Anything, except this.
They can't stay. Not here.
He's doing the best that he can.
She's singing again; a lullaby for Harry (supporting hand under him, nappy-fat). She can't sing: she pitches too high and founders on low notes, but she likes to try, and he likes anything that makes her happy.
That, and it's like whistling in the dark. Singing makes Lily Potter feel brave.
And he believes her, when she says she's not afraid.
Lily/James
(I own nothing.)
A/N:A tiny bit of Lily and James, loosely based on this scene from A Midsummer Night's Dream...which is funny, in context. And isn't, here. Because I feel like Lily is horribly under-represented in fandom. And, for her, I have much love.
She reminds him of angels, when she's like this - not the floaty, feathery benevolent things, but engines of retribution, fire and self righteous rage. She reminds him that they, the angels in the cemetaries, are iron, be they or be they not winged, things of flight.
Oh, his love is filled with fire.
"On your head be it, James Potter..." On all our foolish bloody heads. I'd have trusted him, James. I'd have trusted him to the bloody end. S'one thing you always could say for him, James...He'd go to the end of the bloody world for you.
There's nothing that he can do for her when she's in a rage like this (it's better to stand back, and let her stalk). She reminds him of angels, when she's like this - not the floaty, feathery benevolent things, but engines of retribution, fire and self righteous rage. She reminds him that they, the angels in the cemetaries, are iron, be they or be they not winged, things of flight.
Oh, his love is filled with fire.
"All of the others are going, Lily...Everybody's running."
"I am not going to be made to look frightened, James." She hefts little Harry's weight against her shoulder, kisses downy dark hair, her hand rubbing comforting circles on his terry-cloth back. "I am not afraid." Brave girl, beautiful girl, twice lived, twice blessed, brave and bold and stupid.
"We have to, Lily. We have to go." He lies there on there, half in the bed, half out it (rose petal duvet, her choice, not his), and watches her stalk in her underwear, beautiful girl, length to her bones and weight to her breasts, mother of his child, love of his life. It's not just the sex (though the sex is phenomenal, heart breaking, never-been-anything-like-it sex, her body above him, leaning the weight of her breasts into his hands. Her smell...her taste. The sounds she makes. He sees heaven when they kiss, if heaven is blurred and hot and smells of roses...if heaven feels a bit like that moment before you start crying). It isn't just the sex...it's the realisation (a few years past now), that he would do anything to make this girl happy.
Anything, except this.
They can't stay. Not here.
He's doing the best that he can.
She's singing again; a lullaby for Harry (supporting hand under him, nappy-fat). She can't sing: she pitches too high and founders on low notes, but she likes to try, and he likes anything that makes her happy.
That, and it's like whistling in the dark. Singing makes Lily Potter feel brave.
And he believes her, when she says she's not afraid.