Fic: The Little Priapus, James/Lily, R
Title: The Little Priapus
Author: La Onza
Pairing: James/Lily
Rating: R
Challenge: 65. James & Lily's "first time"....and more. PWP.
Summary: Valentine's Day at Madam Puddifoot's gets a bit messy.
Warnings: sneaky public getting off.
Word Count: 1500
That afternoon Madam Puddifoot was holding a special cream tea in honour of Valentine’s Day. A tray larger than the tabletops floated amongst the couples that crowded the shop, laden with sticky, oozing pastries as well as scones.
“Rather messy, it seems to me,” Lily said, stirring her coffee. “Particularly if you’re on a date and would like to make a good impression.”
She instantly wondered if he would take this to mean that she was anxious to make an impression on him. She didn’t usually dissect her own words so closely, but by coming here together, today, they were more or less publicly declaring themselves a couple, and she felt self-conscious and conspicuous, in spite of the fact that most of the other patrons in the shop were preoccupied with their own companions.
“Messy isn’t necessarily bad, is it?” James replied. “I think, if you’re living life to the fullest, well, sometimes you get messy.”
She glanced away from his keen attentive expression. She had always felt more comfortable with quiet, appeasing boys, who didn’t argue with her, who battened down and weathered her emotional storms like little ships. She was still growing into a woman who could appreciate someone like James, who constantly surprised her with strange and sometimes alarming currents of his own.
Her eyes happened to fall upon Malvinia Benet and Ernest Kegg, who sat together at a table near the back. Malvinia was holding a long iced éclair, not eating it normally but licking at it perversely, obviously taunting poor Ernest, who sweated as his eyes followed her tongue.
“I suppose that’s what you mean by living to the fullest,” Lily said dryly, with a discreet nod in their direction.
James looked unabashedly, and snorted. “Not exactly,” he said. He looked again, and a sly, secret amusement appeared in his face. “It does put me in mind of something I read about once, though.” He eyed her speculatively, as if wondering how much he dared say.
“Oh, go on,” she said, not wanting to seem unsophisticated. “I can see you’re dying to tell me.”
“Well…there’s an old charm called A Spell to Make the Priapic Proxy.” He broke off as she gasped with surprised laughter, then pulled himself together and continued, “It’s more or less how it sounds. You can transfer, well, sensation, you take my meaning, to something else. Food, a finger, anything. So…” he paused again to contain himself. “So, you could, theoretically, be sitting across from someone in a nice teashop, innocently enjoying a nice pasty, but the other person would be…feeling it.”
Lily felt the stirring of a number of contradictory responses as he spoke, but she replied coolly enough. “It sounds rather sadistic to me, a girl putting a boy in a rather obvious state of excitement in public, while she remains cheerfully immune.”
“What makes you certain you’d be immune?” he asked. “Women have their own … er … little Priapus, don’t they? Not as obvious, perhaps, but not immune, surely.”
“Oh, stop it,” she said, retreating in confusion behind her habitual mask of exasperation. “I don’t believe there is such a spell. You’re making it up. If there were, you men would do nothing but lie in bed sucking your thumbs.”
He grinned in a congratulatory way, and she thought that this was why she liked him so, that he took her flustered blurtings for witty repartee.
“I feel like a character in a film,” she said. “I mean…”
“I know what films are,” he said. He studied her for a moment, his face growing serious.
“Perhaps you don’t know as much about men as you think,” he said. “To me, well, I think that the most amazing thing for a man would be to see a girl, a woman that you were mad for, really lose herself, just come utterly undone.” He said all this with a sort of daft earnestness, at once impassioned and detached, as though he were arguing politics. She wanted to ask him to please lower his voice, but it seemed at odds with the sophisticated role she had chosen to play.
“You doubt,” he said, taking her loss of words for scepticism. “You are a doubter, Evans. You don’t believe that I would much rather see you, you, Lily Evans, in a state of bliss than…have Malvinia lick my éclair.”
“James, stop it, I mean it,” she said, now torn between laughter and a peculiar, quivering sensitivity. Horrifyingly, Madam Puddifoot chose that moment to appear at their table.
“Something from the tray, dear?” She cheerfully asked.
“No. No, thank you.” Lily said. Undismayed by her brusqueness, their hostess turned to James.
“And for you?”
“No, thank you,” James said decisively. “I’d like some strawberries, please. Fresh strawberries, with sweet cream.”
Madam Puddifoot nodded and moved off. When she was far enough away, Lily glared at James and hissed, “You wouldn’t dare.”
His eyes flashed dangerously, then softened as he studied her.
“Look at you,” he said, “You’re always so afraid of giving anything away. But I see through you, Evans.”
Arrogant tosser, she thought reflexively. But she also thought that it was probably true.
Inexplicably, she found herself remembering times when she was a young child, occasions when her magic had spontaneously flowed from her as naturally as tears when she was upset, how shocked and horrified people had been, how shameful it had seemed. She must have looked close to tears now, for he was abashed.
“Look,” he said, almost apologetically, “I didn’t mean anything.”
She summoned a smile, and they were more at ease with each other after that, talking and joking desultorily. Her mood lightened, but she couldn’t have said she was relaxed - her mind kept reverting to the spell he had mentioned, wondering what it would be like.
What would she do if she suddenly felt an unseen touch between her legs? Would she get up and walk out? Or would she defiantly remain seated? What would his lips feel like there - softer than fingers, surely. She imagined herself sitting still and straight in her chair, outwardly controlling her face and body while all the while being beset by secret touches.
As these thoughts began to preoccupy her she began to feel as though she had drunk a potion that had awakened every nerve in her body. Her skin was suddenly intensely aware of her clothes, of the very air, as though they were lips or hands. And “giving herself away,” oh yes, she knew she was, in the excited thrum of her voice, in the way she bit her lip, and what must her eyes look like? Did he see?
By the time Madam Puddifoot set the dish of plump red strawberries in front of James, she felt a bit giddy, reckless even. So she looked him in the eye and with an easy liquid smile said,
”Well?”
He threw himself back in his chair and laughed in his uncontained way, and she wondered why she had never noticed how utterly gorgeous the sound of his laughter was. Playing along, he picked up one of the strawberries and swirled it in the thick cream.
Her eyes followed his hand as he raised it to his lips. He paused for a moment, then instead of putting the berry in his mouth, he blew lightly on the tip. The cream bubbled. Involuntarily, she shivered.
“You’re a monster,” she said, giggling.
He put the strawberry down untouched and reached for her hand.
“I see you,” he said softly. He clasped her fingers gently with one hand and stroked with the other, a long light stroke of his fingertips from wrist to knuckles. In her state of heightened sensitivity she seemed to feel his touch elsewhere, though frustratingly, not where she most needed it. Instead she felt the phantom brush of his hand against her breasts, her belly, the small of her back.
Gradually the sensation that teased the surface of her skin seemed to take root, to coalesce, to gather and build between her legs. Meeting his eyes, without hesitation now, she felt her own eyes grow hot and limpid, focused inward on what she was feeling. Her lips parted. He watched with wonder, and almost tentatively raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers. Then, still holding her gaze, he very softly took the knuckle of her forefinger between his lips.
She squirmed a bit in her chair, and perhaps that was what did it, but at once the ache building inside of her broke into a meltingly sweet pleasure. He watched, dumbstruck, as she arched her back a little, and let out a soft ragged breath. She was no longer aware if anyone but James was watching, but she no longer cared. She felt beautiful.
With a sigh, she slumped back in her chair.
“Well?” she said wickedly, revelling in the power of letting go. “Was it the most amazing thing?”
He stared wordlessly for a moment, and then said with utter sincerity,
“This is the best bloody Valentine’s Day ever.”
She laughed and set to the strawberries, suddenly feeling extremely hungry. A bit of sweet juice dribbled from the corner of her mouth, and she licked at it. It tasted wonderful.
Author: La Onza
Pairing: James/Lily
Rating: R
Challenge: 65. James & Lily's "first time"....and more. PWP.
Summary: Valentine's Day at Madam Puddifoot's gets a bit messy.
Warnings: sneaky public getting off.
Word Count: 1500
That afternoon Madam Puddifoot was holding a special cream tea in honour of Valentine’s Day. A tray larger than the tabletops floated amongst the couples that crowded the shop, laden with sticky, oozing pastries as well as scones.
“Rather messy, it seems to me,” Lily said, stirring her coffee. “Particularly if you’re on a date and would like to make a good impression.”
She instantly wondered if he would take this to mean that she was anxious to make an impression on him. She didn’t usually dissect her own words so closely, but by coming here together, today, they were more or less publicly declaring themselves a couple, and she felt self-conscious and conspicuous, in spite of the fact that most of the other patrons in the shop were preoccupied with their own companions.
“Messy isn’t necessarily bad, is it?” James replied. “I think, if you’re living life to the fullest, well, sometimes you get messy.”
She glanced away from his keen attentive expression. She had always felt more comfortable with quiet, appeasing boys, who didn’t argue with her, who battened down and weathered her emotional storms like little ships. She was still growing into a woman who could appreciate someone like James, who constantly surprised her with strange and sometimes alarming currents of his own.
Her eyes happened to fall upon Malvinia Benet and Ernest Kegg, who sat together at a table near the back. Malvinia was holding a long iced éclair, not eating it normally but licking at it perversely, obviously taunting poor Ernest, who sweated as his eyes followed her tongue.
“I suppose that’s what you mean by living to the fullest,” Lily said dryly, with a discreet nod in their direction.
James looked unabashedly, and snorted. “Not exactly,” he said. He looked again, and a sly, secret amusement appeared in his face. “It does put me in mind of something I read about once, though.” He eyed her speculatively, as if wondering how much he dared say.
“Oh, go on,” she said, not wanting to seem unsophisticated. “I can see you’re dying to tell me.”
“Well…there’s an old charm called A Spell to Make the Priapic Proxy.” He broke off as she gasped with surprised laughter, then pulled himself together and continued, “It’s more or less how it sounds. You can transfer, well, sensation, you take my meaning, to something else. Food, a finger, anything. So…” he paused again to contain himself. “So, you could, theoretically, be sitting across from someone in a nice teashop, innocently enjoying a nice pasty, but the other person would be…feeling it.”
Lily felt the stirring of a number of contradictory responses as he spoke, but she replied coolly enough. “It sounds rather sadistic to me, a girl putting a boy in a rather obvious state of excitement in public, while she remains cheerfully immune.”
“What makes you certain you’d be immune?” he asked. “Women have their own … er … little Priapus, don’t they? Not as obvious, perhaps, but not immune, surely.”
“Oh, stop it,” she said, retreating in confusion behind her habitual mask of exasperation. “I don’t believe there is such a spell. You’re making it up. If there were, you men would do nothing but lie in bed sucking your thumbs.”
He grinned in a congratulatory way, and she thought that this was why she liked him so, that he took her flustered blurtings for witty repartee.
“I feel like a character in a film,” she said. “I mean…”
“I know what films are,” he said. He studied her for a moment, his face growing serious.
“Perhaps you don’t know as much about men as you think,” he said. “To me, well, I think that the most amazing thing for a man would be to see a girl, a woman that you were mad for, really lose herself, just come utterly undone.” He said all this with a sort of daft earnestness, at once impassioned and detached, as though he were arguing politics. She wanted to ask him to please lower his voice, but it seemed at odds with the sophisticated role she had chosen to play.
“You doubt,” he said, taking her loss of words for scepticism. “You are a doubter, Evans. You don’t believe that I would much rather see you, you, Lily Evans, in a state of bliss than…have Malvinia lick my éclair.”
“James, stop it, I mean it,” she said, now torn between laughter and a peculiar, quivering sensitivity. Horrifyingly, Madam Puddifoot chose that moment to appear at their table.
“Something from the tray, dear?” She cheerfully asked.
“No. No, thank you.” Lily said. Undismayed by her brusqueness, their hostess turned to James.
“And for you?”
“No, thank you,” James said decisively. “I’d like some strawberries, please. Fresh strawberries, with sweet cream.”
Madam Puddifoot nodded and moved off. When she was far enough away, Lily glared at James and hissed, “You wouldn’t dare.”
His eyes flashed dangerously, then softened as he studied her.
“Look at you,” he said, “You’re always so afraid of giving anything away. But I see through you, Evans.”
Arrogant tosser, she thought reflexively. But she also thought that it was probably true.
Inexplicably, she found herself remembering times when she was a young child, occasions when her magic had spontaneously flowed from her as naturally as tears when she was upset, how shocked and horrified people had been, how shameful it had seemed. She must have looked close to tears now, for he was abashed.
“Look,” he said, almost apologetically, “I didn’t mean anything.”
She summoned a smile, and they were more at ease with each other after that, talking and joking desultorily. Her mood lightened, but she couldn’t have said she was relaxed - her mind kept reverting to the spell he had mentioned, wondering what it would be like.
What would she do if she suddenly felt an unseen touch between her legs? Would she get up and walk out? Or would she defiantly remain seated? What would his lips feel like there - softer than fingers, surely. She imagined herself sitting still and straight in her chair, outwardly controlling her face and body while all the while being beset by secret touches.
As these thoughts began to preoccupy her she began to feel as though she had drunk a potion that had awakened every nerve in her body. Her skin was suddenly intensely aware of her clothes, of the very air, as though they were lips or hands. And “giving herself away,” oh yes, she knew she was, in the excited thrum of her voice, in the way she bit her lip, and what must her eyes look like? Did he see?
By the time Madam Puddifoot set the dish of plump red strawberries in front of James, she felt a bit giddy, reckless even. So she looked him in the eye and with an easy liquid smile said,
”Well?”
He threw himself back in his chair and laughed in his uncontained way, and she wondered why she had never noticed how utterly gorgeous the sound of his laughter was. Playing along, he picked up one of the strawberries and swirled it in the thick cream.
Her eyes followed his hand as he raised it to his lips. He paused for a moment, then instead of putting the berry in his mouth, he blew lightly on the tip. The cream bubbled. Involuntarily, she shivered.
“You’re a monster,” she said, giggling.
He put the strawberry down untouched and reached for her hand.
“I see you,” he said softly. He clasped her fingers gently with one hand and stroked with the other, a long light stroke of his fingertips from wrist to knuckles. In her state of heightened sensitivity she seemed to feel his touch elsewhere, though frustratingly, not where she most needed it. Instead she felt the phantom brush of his hand against her breasts, her belly, the small of her back.
Gradually the sensation that teased the surface of her skin seemed to take root, to coalesce, to gather and build between her legs. Meeting his eyes, without hesitation now, she felt her own eyes grow hot and limpid, focused inward on what she was feeling. Her lips parted. He watched with wonder, and almost tentatively raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers. Then, still holding her gaze, he very softly took the knuckle of her forefinger between his lips.
She squirmed a bit in her chair, and perhaps that was what did it, but at once the ache building inside of her broke into a meltingly sweet pleasure. He watched, dumbstruck, as she arched her back a little, and let out a soft ragged breath. She was no longer aware if anyone but James was watching, but she no longer cared. She felt beautiful.
With a sigh, she slumped back in her chair.
“Well?” she said wickedly, revelling in the power of letting go. “Was it the most amazing thing?”
He stared wordlessly for a moment, and then said with utter sincerity,
“This is the best bloody Valentine’s Day ever.”
She laughed and set to the strawberries, suddenly feeling extremely hungry. A bit of sweet juice dribbled from the corner of her mouth, and she licked at it. It tasted wonderful.