leashy_bebes | FIC: Getting There

It feels like a very short jump before you land cleanly on a fairly soft surface and his hand moves to your elbow, steadying you carefully. It's dark enough that you can barely make him out before he flicks his wand and sends a soft beam of light into the air. It splits into several little jets and they zoom off in different directions, gradually illuminating a pitch of grass, tall goal posts and unmistakeable rows of pale blue seats. You almost choke on the realisation that you are in the Tornados' ground, after hours, completely unsupervised. The urge to run around like a kid and see everything you possibly can is almost insurmountable but you force it down and turn to look at him. He looks like he's caught somewhere between smug and nervous and you shake your head wonderingly.

"James! Is this - are we allowed to be here?"

"Probably," he says with a shrug. "I work here, don't I?"

You laugh and can't help giving him a quick, tight hug.

"This is brilliant," you grin, turning away from him to look around. You've been here before of course, watched countless matches from the stands, but there is something different about actually standing on the pitch. It's pretty much a childhood dream, you admit to yourself.

"Want to score a goal?" he suggests.

"Seriously?" you ask, blinking at him.

"Yeah!" he grins. "I can do a spell to muffle the posts, just in case, but I don't see why not."

"Excellent!" you beam, and mount your broom immediately, zipping off to fly a lap around the pitch. You hear him laughing before he's out of earshot, and can't help grinning in response as you fly past the lights he conjured. They have turned into several small orbs of light, bobbing in the air at around the level of the tallest goal post.

By the time he catches up with you, he's found a Quaffle from somewhere and has it tucked under his arm.

"Quick game of one on one?" he asks and you look at him dubiously.

"That sounds like a nice, fairly matched game," you point out and he rolls his eyes.

"I'll go easy on you," he promises, tossing you the ball.

"Right," you say doubtfully and he laughs.

"Go on. Open goal," he says, and you nod, turning your broom towards one set of goalposts and flying off. You're aware of him following you and laughing when you keep edging closer to the posts, not wanting to take the risk of missing. As it turns out, you needn't have worried because he appears from nowhere between you and the posts, plucking the Quaffle effortlessly from the air only seconds after it leaves your fingertips.

"That's going easy?" you demand, as he flies in a loop around you and throws the Quaffle back to you.

"Alright, just teasing," he says, and flies off to hover behind the third post, ready to catch the ball when it goes through. You score easily, the goalposts letting out only a quiet clang, and he plummets downwards fast enough to make you wince, grabbing the ball and turning at an impossibly tight angle to swoop upwards and veer off in a wide loop. You chase after him and get the feeling that he deliberately drops his speed and manoeuvring down a notch to let you catch up to him. You jostle against him as you both fly in a tight circle back towards the goalposts. Glancing ahead, you reach over and hit the ball from underneath, sending it flying up out of the circle of his arm. He gives an outraged shout and turns to watch as you make a slightly clumsy grab for the Quaffle and head for the goal posts. You score again and he retrieves the ball once more. He scores twice in quick succession and then you score once more before drifting away a bit.

"Come on, then," you call out to him. "Wow me."

He laughs and nods, hefting the ball in one hand and drifting back a bit from the posts to score from a distance. As soon as the Quaffle leaves his hand he is flying at breakneck speed, in time to catch the ball before it's halfway to the ground. He repeats the cycle several times, getting ever more daring in the moves he makes. At one point he even lets himself slip from the broom, clinging on with his fingertips to catch the Quaffle in the palm of his other hand. It seems as though he barely catches the ball, just lets it slide over his hand and continue in a slightly different direction, now heading straight for the goal. As soon as it leaves his fingertips he swings himself back onto his broom as though it's the easiest thing in the world, and you can't help feeling a bit smug that you're getting your very own showcase performance. He finally comes to a stop in front of you, flushed in the face, his hair wild.

"Very impressive," you tell him dryly, but you mean it wholeheartedly. He was brilliant even at school, easily outflying and outscoring team mates and opponents alike, but it's obvious that he's benefited from the professional training at the Tornados.

"Ta," he grins. "You want to head back?"

"Alright," you nod, casting a last long look around the stadium. He edges closer on his broom until your knees are nudging and then leans forward and kisses you.

"Had fun?" he asks, and you grin at him, kissing him again, reaching forward to tangle one hand in his thick sweatshirt.

"'Fun' doesn't even come close," you tell him and he laughs. "Honestly," you insist. "I've wanted to do this since I was about five."

"Good," he smiles. "Good, that's - okay. I need to go and put this away," he says, hefting the Quaffle in one hand and circling away. "Meet you back on the ground."

You nod, and while he flies off to return to Quaffle to wherever he filched it from, you take the opportunity to do another quick lap of the pitch, pushing the Nimbus as hard as you dare. You'd never have realised that the broom had been drastically restored. It flies like it's still got all its original bristles and spells. When you finally take it down towards the ground, he is waiting for you, watching your descent.

"You're a good flier," he says. "We should do this more often."

"Yeah," you agree, and his little performance has it fresh in your mind that he is a professional player, and he thinks you're a good flier. You can't help returning his broad smile with one of your own.

"C'mon, then. Let's go," he says, waving his wand again and causing the lights to disappear. You step up to him and put one arm around his waist. He look down at you and cups your face in his hand for a moment before kissing your forehead. "I love watching you have fun," he says with a little smile and you flush a bit, casting your eyes down, not sure if maybe he's teasing you for being so completely delighted at being in the stadium. "Hey," he says, his fingers sliding under your chin to tilt your face upwards. "I mean it."

He kisses you properly at the same moment as he Apparates. When you arrive back at his flat, you laugh and call him a flash git, and he grins down at you, relieving you of your broom and returning them both to the cupboard. When he returns you've curled up in the corner of one of his sofas and are trying not to yawn.

"C'mon," he says, leaning against the doorframe and looking at you. "Let's go to bed, I'm knackered."

"Me too," you admit, dragging yourself to your feet and following him out of the room. You tug off your clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and slip back into bed. He does the same and slides in next to you, snuggling in close against you, his hand slides over your stomach and up to your chest.

"Thanks," you murmur.

"My pleasure," you hear him whisper, and you think you vaguely feel him running his fingers along your jaw just as sleep claims you.

You don't wake up until mid-morning on Sunday, and James is not there. After a moment, you register noises in the flat and get up to investigate, pulling on the first thing you find, which turns out to be your trousers from the night before. Half dressed, you walk to the kitchen, following the smell of coffee. You pause in the doorway to watch in growing amusement because James is making toast, singing along enthusiastically to the Muggle radio, swaying his boxer short-clad hips in time to the music.

"Hello," you call eventually and he turns around, his face falling.

"Bugger. Hi."

"Don't worry. You don't look even slightly ridiculous, honest," you lie and he laughs.

"Coffee?"

"Black, no sugar," you nod and he pours you a cup, holding it out to you. You cross the room to take it but he doesn't let go of the handle until you turn your face up to kiss him.

"So, what're we doing today?" he asks and you shrug. "What time do you have to go?" he asks reluctantly, as though asking the question will make the hour approach faster.

"Late afternoon, I suppose," you say regretfully and he glances at the clock.

"That's enough time to go out for lunch, if you'd like?" he offers, and you nod. "Good. There's a pub down the road that does excellent roasts."

"Alright," you nod, taking a swig of your coffee, and smiling appreciatively. "Nice."

"Good," he says, nodding to a plate piled high with buttered toast. "Help yourself, by the way," he tells you, and you reach for a slice of toast, demolishing it quickly, finding you're uncharacteristically hungry. "All that late night flying," he observes as you reach for another slice and you can't help grinning at the memory.

"That was completely brilliant," you tell him and he laughs.

"You may have mentioned that at the time. It was hard to tell through the girly screams of excitement."

"Shut up, you," you tell him and he smiles at you. "You mind if I take a shower?" you ask, and he shrugs.

"Course not. Yell if you need anything."

"Right," you nod, draining the last of your coffee and heading to the bathroom.

As you step out of the shower ten minutes later, you realise that you can hear him singing along to the radio again, and you can't help laughing as you towel yourself dry. Back in the bedroom you find that he's been through and made the bed, generally tidied up a bit. A pair of your trousers are folded neatly at the end of the bed, along with underwear and an overlarge red and black t-shirt that you suppose must be his. You pull the clothes on and walk back to the living room to find him sprawled on the sofa.

"Oh, well, look at that," he says as you walk into the room.

"At what?"

"My experiment was successful," he says jokily and you quirk an eyebrow at him. "See, last night, as soon as you put on that old sweatshirt of mine, I just wanted to peel it straight off you again. I was wondering if it'd be the same if you wore something else of mine."

"I see," you say slowly. "And?"

"Oh, yeah," he nods, getting to his feet with an indefinably predatory look in his eyes. "Yeah, definitely the same."

He beckons you over and you cross the room while he flicks his wand at the Floo, locking it against unannounced visitors. He takes your hand to pull you closer, giving you a long, slow kiss, his palms moving gently over your back, the material of his own t-shirt bunching under his hands. When he moves back he gives you a quick, mischievous smile before expertly undoing the button and zip on your trousers, shoving them down to mid-thigh. You open your mouth to make a comment about whether it was worth putting them on in the first place, but he puts his hands on your shoulders and pushes you down to the sofa, shutting you up extremely effectively. You look up at him for a moment and his hand shifts to trace two fingers along your jaw, and over your lips.

"James," you say against his fingers, and he smiles, brushing the back of his fingers over your cheek before he goes to his knees in front of you, awkwardly tugging your trousers and pants down further before he lets his hands fall to your thighs, pushing them apart and shuffling closer to you. You can't quite hold back a little moan of anticipation and he looks up at you, a wicked little smirk on his face. He bows his head and you bite your lip and close your eyes, sure that the sight of what he's about to do will be too much for you, only to have him kiss the inside of your thigh instead.

"Bloody tease," you chastise him, passing your hand over his messy hair.

"Not teasing," he says against your skin. "Thorough."

Thorough? That sounds ominous. Sure enough, he takes his time, kissing up the inside of your leg, over your hip and across your stomach. Occasionally his kisses are mixed in with little bites, tiny flashes of pressure against your skin. By the time he finally moves lower to take you into his mouth, you are little more than a puddle on the sofa. Thorough is one word, although another way of putting it would be merciless, and yet another would be totally fucking maddening , and you can't help groaning, almost shuddering under his hands.

You feel like you're falling apart with every long slide of his lips down your shaft, every time his fingers trace down your thighs, every time his hair brushes over your stomach. Under any other circumstances, that little drag would probably tickle but on your flushed, over-sensitised skin it causes a further hot flash of excitement, and you choke out a breathless plea, your hands fluttering over his hair as you try to resist the temptation to grab hold and drive yourself deeper into his mouth.

"This - " you breathe as he suddenly backs off. "This definitely qualifies as teasing."

"Maybe," he admits. "A little bit. The good kind of teasing, right?"

"If by 'good', you mean 'completely bloody infuriating', then yeah, not bad," you say and he laughs a bit breathlessly. His fingers press into your thighs, stroking firmly, almost massaging for a moment, before his hands settle, and he gives you a wicked look before diving in again and you can't help curling your fingers into his hair this time. He makes a noise which could certainly signify encouragement and you're unable to resist a shallow roll of your hips. He groans again and you realise as you look down that one of his hands has moved from your leg and is working furiously between his own.

It's that, you think, that finishes you off - The idea that he likes this so much it makes him groan, that he likes it so much he can't help touching himself. Afterwards, he pitches forward, his head pressed against your chest, breath tickling your skin and you raise your hands dumbly to his hair again, sliding your fingers through it gently, untangling the knots you put there in your desperation. He tips his head up to kiss you after a moment and you groan all over again at your own taste on his lips.

He gets up on distinctly shaky legs and slumps down on the sofa next to you, looking around for his wand and spelling himself clean. He slings his arm around your shoulders and tugs you to his side, kissing your cheek and then sighing contentedly into your hair. You let yourself lean into him, sliding an arm around his waist, your other hand reaching up to tangle with his fingers where they're hanging from your shoulder. He lets out a long cool breath and kisses your scalp again, wrapping one of his legs around yours. You wriggle away after a moment to tug your trousers up but can't resist falling back against the warm solidity of his body.

Now you know what the sight does to him, you keep his t-shirt on when he gets up a little while later to make more coffee. You drink it sitting together on the sofa, chatting idly about Quidditch and music, the ridiculous new misuse of magic rules, anything that pops into your head. In the end, you are so distracted with each other that you only just make it to the pub in time for lunch orders, and it's well past three by the time you get back to his flat.

"I, uh - I should probably..." you say, as he drops his keys into a dish on the windowsill, telling yourself that not wanting to add the word 'go' is completely ridiculous.

"Yeah," he says, taking half a step away and putting his hands in his pockets.

"I'll just change my shirt. I left my bag in the bedroom so - "

"I'll get it," he offers, and turns on his heel, leaving the room before you can say anything. You're left standing in the living room and wondering where the hell all this sudden awkwardness has come from. He's back a minute later, your bag in one hand and one of your shirts in the other.

"Found this," he says, holding it out to you.

"Oh, thanks," you nod, reaching for it. You tug off his t-shirt and ball it up, throwing it at his head. To your relief he laughs as he catches it and some of the tension seems to go out of the room. As you start buttoning up your own shirt he crosses the room with your bag, setting it down at your feet and grabbing the unbuttoned halves of your shirt to pull you into a kiss. You give into it willingly, winding your arms around his neck and parting your mouth against his, coaxing his tongue into your mouth with gentle pressure from your own. His hands fall to your waist, fingers tightening and relaxing in an intoxicating rhythm.

"I really - mmm - really have to go," you say, carefully removing his hands from your waist, only to have them fall on your shoulders and pull you into another kiss.

"Not yet," he says, his voice low and warm, his arms wrapping around you to pull you closer. "Once more, mm?"

"James..." you protest, but without much passion.

"I want you so much. Once more," he says between kisses, pulling gently at the hem of your shirt. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you nod, sliding your arms around his waist to let your hands creep up under the back of his t-shirt.

"Yeah," he says again, his voice a low rush this time as he traces his fingers down your shirt, the buttons you managed to fasten before his approach seeming to spring open at a single touch. You move one hand down from his back to the top of his arse, pressing him gently closer. He looks down at you and his eyes seem darker than usual, a hungry look on his face as he leans in to kiss you again.

"Wait," you murmur, ducking back a little to look at him seriously, because all of a sudden you know exactly what you want from him. "Bedroom," you instruct firmly and he nods, grabbing your hand as you both hurry through the flat.

In the bedroom you waste no time getting rid of your clothes and he does the same, waiting with an almost uncertain look on his face until you close the distance between you and push him down onto the bed. You stroke your fingers along his collarbone and up his throat to curve around the sharp corner of his jaw. He cranes his neck up to kiss you and you part his soft lips with a swift pass of your tongue.

"Will you fuck me?" you ask him between kisses and he gives a huff of laughter.

"There's a tricky question," he smirks and you laugh with him before leaning in to kiss him again, nipping at his lower lip and getting a lovely startled noise in response.

"Will you?" you persist and he laughs again, pressing his head back into the pillows and looking up at your with bright, sparking eyes.

"You've twisted my arm," he says, running his fingers down your arm to circle around your wrist.

"Cheeky bastard," you mutter, distracted by the warm skin of his neck under your lips.

"You love it," he says, and there is a silence before he presses up against you and you both roll onto your sides. He nudges one of his legs between yours and kisses you again and again, leaving you breathless enough, even before he whispers, "Turn over."

You groan and kiss him one more time, turning onto your front, but his hands skim over your sides and he nudges at you until he has you on your side again, your back pressed against his front. He has the fingers of one hand twined in your hair as he kisses across your shoulders, his free hand stroking down your chest to your stomach and then further down to tease over your growing erection. You press against his hand as best as you can, aching for greater friction, more pressure. He mutters something against the skin behind your ear, and noses through your hair.

"Hmm?"

"Leg," he says, his hand sliding down over your hip to your thigh, guiding one of your legs up and forward. He keeps it there with one of his own, knee pressing into the back of your thigh. He takes his sweet time in preparing you, seeming to delight in every opportunity he has to make you cry out. It's not long before you completely lose sight of the fact that you're going to be back much later than you were intending, and you press yourself against him as commandingly as you can.

He lets out a helpless, broken sounding sigh as he pushes himself into you, and you carefully tilt your head back towards him, trying to avoid breaking his nose, because that would definitely put a dent in the proceedings, and Salazar knows you are not ready for this to stop anytime soon. He nuzzles into your hair and breathes open-mouthed kisses against your scalp, moving firmly but so slowly inside you that you think you'll go mad.

You try everything you can think of to get him to move faster, from pressing your hips back against him to giving full voice to the moans and pleas that normally drive him wild. He just clamps his hand onto your hip though, and kisses your neck in a way that feels tightly controlled before he says, trying to laugh,

"I know what you're up to, you know. Stop it."

"Oh, please - " you breathe, and his fingers spread wider on your hip, his grip relaxing as he strokes over your skin. "Please..."

"Shh..." he murmurs. "Or - actually, carry on if you want. M'not going any faster, though."

"Fucker," you mutter and he laughs.

"Yeah."

"That was terrible," you tell him, or try anyway, because just as you start to speak, he slides all the way in and grinds against you, his thumb flicking over your nipple, and your words are lost in a breathless cry. He kisses your shoulder, and you can feel the vibration of his groan against your skin. His hand presses with gentle pressure against your shoulder blades and you lean your upper body forward, trying to give him a better angle. He pointedly doesn't take advantage of it, just maintains that constant, maddening rhythm. You decide that it is long past time you took control of the situation and slide your hand back to grab his hip.

"Stop," you tell him and he freezes.

"What – Did I – "

You feel the sudden tension in him and turn your head as far as you can to nuzzle against his face as you say,

"On your back, Potter."

You feel his groan as a rumble against your cheek as he pulls himself out of you. You let out a little hiss at the sensation and feel the mattress shift as he falls onto his back. Barely pausing for breath, you turn to face him, scrambling awkwardly to straddle his lap. You're so hard that it aches, that it makes you clumsy, and you can feel the ghost of him inside you, a strange lingering stretch. You reach behind yourself and the angle is awkward, but after a few moments of fumbling you're sinking down on to him. He feels hot enough to burn on the way in and as you rock yourself down onto the last couple of inches of him, he cries out your name around a broken breath, his hands settling firmly on your hips. After a brief pause, his fingers tighten, trying to encourage you to move, but you just push down more firmly.

"Scorp - " he protests and you laugh, shaking your head.

"Two can play that game, James," you remind him, rubbing your hands over his stomach and up across his chest to brace yourself against his shoulders. You start working yourself up until he is just inside you and then moving down again, in an imitation of his earlier pace and he groans, looking up at you with eyes that seem to laugh even now.

"You - " he says, and then that's it, he just stops, his lips still parted, his eyes fluttering shut. You don't like that, or more to the point, you do like the feel of his eyes on you so you shift your hips around in a little circle. Sure enough the jolt of pure physical pleasure you feel is accompanied by a smaller (but no less intoxicating) rush when his eyes fly open and fix on your face.

You should have spent far more of the weekend doing this, you realise a bit desperately. You should have done it when you had hours, hours, to learn what feels good, what makes him arch beneath you, what makes your blood sing like you've never known before. In the spirit of that you move your hands from his shoulders to rest on the mattress behind yourself, easily shrugging off his loose grip on your forearms. You lean back, taking some of your weight on your hands and shifting faster this time, shallow little thrusts that make you both cry out. His hands move to your thighs, squeezing in time with the bunching of your muscles. His eyes are positively raking over you now, again and again, from your face, down to where your body is joined with his, and back up again. He's moving with you and then he does something, finds a certain angle or a particular pressure, and your arms almost buckle at the wave after wave of pleasure, radiating out from the base of your spine throughout your whole body.

You lean forward again, and he grabs your hands squeezing them tight as you lose all pretence of exploration or subtlety and just ride him faster, meeting his ever more ragged upward-thrusts as forcefully as you can. He lets out desperate little grunts and moans with each thrust, and you have trouble distinguishing them from your own ragged gasps and pleas. You are torn between your desire to make it last as long as possible, and your absolute need to have more of this incredible pleasure, to force your passion and his higher and higher.

You give in to the drive for instant gratification and work yourself back and forth around the hot, hard length of him. He wraps a hand around your cock and you gasp out several inelegant swear words while you try desperately to maintain some kind of rhythm to your movements. You feel like you're spinning apart from your centre, shaking and shuddering above him while his hands slide on your sweat-slick skin and he pushes his hips up twice more before he cries out and the tension bleeds from his body. You carry on rocking against him as he comes, and his fingers squeeze around you, his hand tightening until you fall from the precipice to spill yourself across his chest.

"Oh - Ohhh," you moan, slumping down over his body, breathing open-mouthed against his skin. You're vaguely aware of him pulling you down onto your side, and then you feel one of his legs sliding between your own again, his fingertips tracing idle patterns on the small of your back while his breath stirs the hair at your temples. He kisses the arch of your cheekbone and plays his fingers across your ribcage.

"I feel like I can't stop touching you," he says, nuzzling at the skin behind your ear, and that's such a completely ridiculous thing to say aloud that you keep quiet even if maybe, just maybe, you feel the same way. His skin is - well, it's just skin, just liberally-freckled, warm, smooth skin. But you can't stop yourself touching it, even now, when you've been doing this for so long it's starting to seem normal. You've wondered a few times over the course of the weekend at just how much you want each other, still.

It is not that you are expecting to get bored - in all honesty, you don't know what you are expecting. But it's as though it always goes one step beyond what you do expect. The first time, you thought it was a one off. Then you thought it would maybe last for a few weeks, a few covert meetings that you'd never mention again. And then after that, you thought maybe it would last until the end of last term, until you stopped being each other's most accessible option. And now...you don't know what now, you don't know how long it will be, and you don't even really know what it is. Whatever it is, or whatever it's turning into, you are not used to this, to feeling desperate for his touch, or feeling like life would be an altogether more agreeable experience if you could just not go back to school.

You consciously try to switch off the unnerving thoughts by raising your head to meet his lips in a long, lazy kiss. He parts his lips with a gorgeous little sigh and curls his fingers into your hair, tilting your head gently to a better angle. You wind your arms around his waist and press yourself closer against him, stroking your tongue against his.

"Mmmm," he mutters a little while later, against your neck. "That was - mmm."

"Yeah," you grin, unable to help a bit of teasing in your tone. "It really was."

After a while it becomes impossible to ignore the fact that the clock is ticking onward, and you sit up, summoning your clothes from around the room. You hear him muffle a sigh and he sits up as well, leaning over the side of the bed and grabs his jeans. They're all he puts on as he walks with you to the living room, his hand brushing against yours as you go, and you can't help sneaking looks at him, wondering if he's going to say something. He holds his silence though, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans.

"Right," you mutter, leaning down to catch hold of your bag.

"Yeah," he says.

"Oh, wait," you say, dropping your bag and crouching down next to it. "Let me give you some money for lunch."

"Don't be stupid."

"But - "

"It was only lunch."

"You always pay," you point out, standing up again.

"Well you can pay next time," he offers.

"But - "

"I promise I'll order finest steak and champagne."

"You're allergic to champagne," you point out, and then wonder when you learned that fact.

"Only a bit," he shrugs. "I'll drink a fifty galleon bottle if it'll make you feel better."

"Idiot," you say affectionately, shaking your head and reaching for your bag again. Before you can grab the handle, his hand intercepts yours and he steps closer to kiss you gently.

"This was...really good," he says quietly, one hand cupping your cheek.

"Yeah," you say, nodding your head and forcing a smile, before wondering why you have to force it.

"This is ridiculous," he says. "Weekends should be longer."

"Agreed," you say, nodding again and he laughs and kisses you once more, his palm warm against the side of your neck. "I - mmm - I really - really have to - "

"Yeah, I know," he says, but it still takes a minute for him to let go and another minute or two for you to stop giving him brief kisses. You can hardly stand the fact that it could be months before you get to do this again. "Go on," he says, putting his hand to your chest and pushing you away gently.

"Right," you nod, stooping down to pick up your bag. "I'm going."

"Alright," he says. "I'll write. And - I'll see you soon, yeah?"

"Soon as I can," you nod, and take a last look at him before you turn on the spot and Apparate to Hogsmeade.

When you get back to school, and get around to unpacking your bag later that night, you find a white envelope with your name printed on the front in blocky handwriting, tucked in among your clothes. Grateful that the dorm is empty, and wondering when James took the opportunity to put it there, you retreat to your bed and pull the curtains shut, looking at the envelope for a long moment before you open it and pull out a birthday card. You pause again, because your birthday is in two weeks, but you didn't know he knew that. Inside the flap of the envelope is printed, Sorry, I got excited, couldn't just wait and owl this to you like a normal person, and you snort with laughter. That's true, at least.

When you open the card a photograph falls out, and you pick it up and turn it over to see a fully autographed picture of the Tornados squad. Even Garwood, the notoriously grumpy beater, has scrawled his name. James is mugging furiously in the bottom corner and has drawn a circle around himself, written Look, it's me! across the sky with an arrow pointing to the circle. You laugh at that and turn to the card. To his credit it's not horribly gaudy, just a cartoon picture of cake on the front, the flames on the candles flickering merrily. What he's written inside gives you pause, though:
To Scorpius,
I'm sorry it's early, I couldn't wait.
This weekend was amazing.
Happy birthday.
Yours, James.

It's mainly the end that makes you stop, makes you bite your lip and tap your foot nervously. Because yours can either be quite formal, and therefore quite unlike him, or it can be...terrifying (mainly because it makes you think 'mine'). You find yourself reading it again, and a third time before you shake yourself and tuck the photo back into the card, the card back into the envelope, and the envelope into the hidden compartment inside the lid of your trunk.

You are not accustomed to sweet, but that's undoubtedly what it is. It must take some balls for a rookie chaser to ask Garwood for his autograph, and it seems very like James to get so excited about his grand scheme that he can't wait until your actual birthday. And as for: this weekend was amazing - you can almost hear him saying that, right down to the boyish enthusiasm, and the laugh just below the surface of his voice.

It's still early, only a little after half nine, but you decide to go to bed anyway. You're tired as it is, and your body is aching in a really strangely enjoyable way, in lots of unexpected places. More than that, though, you don't think you could possibly act normally around anyone right now, let alone around Albus. The weekend itself was enough to set you on edge, and even before you opened the card, you were already struggling to believe just how much you hadn't wanted to leave his flat. The card though (mine, mine, mine) proves to be the final straw, and tired as you are, you lie awake for quite a while, looking at the bed hangings and wondering how you can possibly struggle to sleep without him after only two nights of having his body tangled around your own.

The next day, you think it is all going to come crashing down around you, because Al corners you in the bathroom first thing, and he has a look on his face that you recognise all too well as Albus-Potter-In-Possession-Of-A-Fact-He-Doesn't-Think-You-Know. Add to that the fact that he only starts talking once you are brushing your teeth and thus unable to reply, and you know without a doubt that you are in for a very uncomfortable next five minutes or so.

"I have something for you," he says, and you raise an eyebrow at him. "Yeah, a letter," he says. "It came while you were at home."

You make a vague, thank-you kind of noise around your toothbrush and he adds casually,

"From your dad, by the look of it. Bit weird, that, isn't it?"

You just manage not to choke, and lean over the sink, taking the opportunity to hide for a second as you rinse your mouth. You catch sight of Al's eyes in the mirror as you straighten up, and to your indescribable relief, he looks more amused than anything else. You clear your throat and shrug.

"Maybe the owl got delayed."

"Yeah," he says dubiously. "Maybe it did."

There is a heavy silence and then he snickers.

"You're such a fucking liar," he says cheerfully. "I don't mind, though. Doesn't bother me what you get up to in your spare time, you dirty little deviant."

"Al - " you start, intending a fast comeback, but evidently he can read the traces of your earlier discomfiture better than you'd hoped because he looks at you sharply.

"Is everything okay?" he asks. "You're not - I mean - You're not being..."

"What? Taken advantage of? Your queer best friend is not the same as your innocent little cousins, Al. Drop the noble protector bit, eh?"

"Right," he laughs. "As if some bloke could get one over on you. I almost feel sorry for the poor sod."

He shoves at your shoulder and saunters out of the bathroom and you try not to sag in relief, firmly turning your mind to the day ahead, even though that weekend lingers in the back of your mind for weeks afterwards. That's the only reason you can think of to explain why you open the card again on your birthday.

You will never admit that to anyone, but you do it, and you're not sure why. You pull out the photograph, and you laugh at his addition, and you read the card another two times before you snap out of it, utterly embarrassed at yourself. You spend the rest of the night with Al, and a few other people in your year, drinking the Firewhiskey that Al had crept off to Hogsmeade to buy as a present. After everyone else has gone to bed or passed out - or in the case of your dorm mates Jack and Thomas disappeared off somewhere unspecified, either to get more alcohol or to instigate some of the devious little plots they make up together - you find yourself unable to sleep, too drunk to be sensible, too awake to just sit and do nothing.

On a whim, you grab a sheet of parchment and a quill and start writing to James. At first the letter is ordinary, even if you do have to pause over spelling with embarrassing frequency, but as it goes on you find yourself slipping more and more into genuinely filthy territory. Every other sentence seems to start with 'remember when...' or 'next time I see you I'm going to...'and you filch the invisibility cloak from Al's trunk and sneak off to the Owlery before you can change your mind.

When you wake up in the morning, the first thing you do is groan and pull the pillow over your head. Writing it is one thing, but who actually sends a letter like that? The next thing you do is laugh at yourself, because you're fairly sure he'll appreciate it, mildly humiliating or not. Sure enough, his response to the letter comes the next evening and you can feel his shocked pleasure radiating off the page. He signs off with holding you to promise numbers 3, 5 and 6 in particular, J, and you laugh again.

It's not long after your birthday that you realise you're actually missing him - and not just getting off with him. You miss his smart-arsed comments in prefects' meetings, and you miss the way he kisses you afterwards, and you miss the way he used to look at you across the Great Hall as if he physically couldn't keep his eyes off you. You are left with an itchy, vaguely unpleasant feeling that letters are not enough.

>>Part G

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

oh they had a weekend of adorableness! reminds me a bit of TiRN T/J and all their London jaunts. Sucks when its over though :(

And gahhh the card! Seriously, that was the cutest thing ever and omg haha Albus is going to cotton on really soon, innit he?

Yeah a weekend of ~~filth~~ adorableness, right.

My lips are sealed! I mean, I know you already know by now, but others may not.

Gah. Hard to do comments when am also a puddle on sofa. The card and trip to the stadium - very cute. And Scorp still so clueless about the 'vague itchy feeling'!

Haha, poor Scorp. Yeah, he's a bit dumb, bless him.

Okay. I was going crosseyed reading this it was so good. I know that doesn't *sound* good but it is. This is so sweet! How the hell do you manage bone-crushing, achingly hot with just absolute, unexpected, puddle o' goo sweet? I do not know. It is a marvel. I must investigate further. Oh, and uncross my eyes so I can read faster. Sooooo gooood.

Haha oh man, I hope there is no long term damage to your eyeballs?

I'm going to have to read it again from the start to test.

Oh, I love how Scorpius keeps reading the card over and over again. I was in a long distance relationship once apon a time and I can remember treasuring the letters and cards and re-reading them until you have the words memorized in your head. Ugh. This story is killing me. But in the best way possible. :)

Hee, they're just a pair of saps at heart, really. Glad you're enjoying it still.

This is still such a fantastic, brilliant story! One of the best fanfics I've ever read. I love the Quidditch bit, and OMG their final lovemaking...there's so many great lines and entire paragraphs I couldn't count them all. The birthday card is great--signed "Yours" and making Scorpius think "Mine, mine mine" is simply perfect.

Thanks again hon. Glad you're still enjoying it :)

This section was the best yet! I love how James surprises Scorp with the Tornadoes Quidditch pitch and you write Quidditch really well! A feat that deserves a medal! :D I really like your characterization of Scorpius in here, with his interest in Quidditch and Tornadoes mania. I haven't seen it before, but it somehow fits here. And your James is so sweet and adorable with all the surprises he gives Scorp, especially with the card! So achingly sweet and tender.

Aw, thank you :) I tried to write an actual game of qudditch with all the players for a marauder fic once and my head nearly exploded, I think one on one is all I can handle. James is a mega sap, haha.

That was a great weekend for them both. I find myself hoping Scorp does go to work for the Quibbler. Is that bad of me?

Nope, not bad at all ;) Wise.

that was close ! hehe

and James is so sweet !! and so in love ^^

Thanks :) Yeah, James is a cutie, I want one!

Eee!
Omigod. That was SO cute and adorable. And then...
H-You-Wh... you've rendered me speechless.
Just... so well written.

As soon as Scorp used the excuse of going home, I just KNEW Draco would send a letter over the weekend. KNEW IT, I say! ;)

Anways. Love it. Lots. <3
Onto the next part!
xx

This is infatuation, you have crafted quite the little affair. Its not fluffy, it has emotion but hidden, passion for days. Divine!

FIC: Getting There - Part F

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