The Weight Upon Your Kiss Ambiguous

~900 words :: Hary Potter :: Lily/James, James/Sirius :: 2/5/08
Pregnancy hasn’t made her a delicate flower; she’s never been a delicate flower. Why can’t James see that?


James is snoring. That’s what wakes her up. She stares into the darkness, not quite able to make him out, and wishes she could roll over and get comfortable. She always used to sleep on her stomach; it had taken weeks of insomnia and sleeping spells before she could manage even this fitful sleep on her side.

She sighs and prods his shoulder, wishing she’d thought to cast a silencing charm before bed. Her wand is on the bedside table behind her, but reaching for it is no longer an easy task. She feels like a beached whale. She pushes harder, shaking him, and with a mumbled “Lily?” he turns towards her, one hand coming up to cup her breast through her nightie.

He squirms closer, pressing sleepy, open-mouthed kisses, to her neck, her jaw, his stubble rough against her skin. He’s hard already, cock poking into her hip, and God, it’s been so long. His fingers are rough and she shudders, turning her head to kiss him; her nipples were never this sensitive before. Taking his hand, she moves it down, over her distended belly, wanting to show him, wanting, and then he freezes, inhaling sharply as the baby kicks, and she knows it’s over before she hears his soft “We shouldn’t…”

His lips on her temple are soft and he kisses her like she’s the baby and ignores her “James, don’t”.

“Love you, baby,” he whispers, petting her belly, and she pretends not to notice how he’s angled his hips away so his cock isn’t touching her.

“Love you, too.”

He rolls over then, moving as far away as possible, and he must know she can hear him, hear the unmistakable sound of his hand on his cock and the way he starts breathing through his nose when he gets close. She thinks she should say something, offer to get him off. She used to give him handjobs all the time, fumbling under his school robes in dark corridors.

He doesn’t take long. He’s done in the time it took to wonder if she should.

She must fall asleep after that, because the next thing she knows, she’s waking up again. It’s still the middle of the night, maybe not that much later; she didn’t look at the clock the first time round.

It’s her bladder this time. Why isn’t there a spell for that? She finds magic peculiarly lacking sometimes. If she were a man, she wouldn’t have to haul herself out of bed. She could pee into the empty water glass on the bedside table.

If she were a man she wouldn’t be pregnant in the first place. She’d pay good money for a spell like that. A spell that would make her James and James her until after the baby is born. Maybe longer. She’s not looking forward to nursing. Let him do it.

This is what she’s thinking on the way to the bathroom, and once she’s sat on the toilet she doesn’t want to get up. She could just stay here. It’s not too cold, not this time of year. She’ll have to pee again soon enough. Who thought it was a good idea for babies to press down on your bladder?

The walk back to the bedroom is slow and she’s not thinking of anything this time, already half-asleep on her feet. She’s halfway down the hallway when she hears a noise.

She’s immediately alert, tense. Her wand is still on the bedside table. Of course it is. It’s that sort of night. Her fingers curl around the absence of it.

There’s the noise again. A voice. It’s coming from down the hallway, from the guest bedroom, and then she remembers: Sirius, too drunk to Apparate home.

She pads down the hallway, pauses in front of the half-closed door. Go back to bed, she tells herself as she pushes the door open. Moonlight shines in through the window and she blinks. It takes a moment to register what she’s seeing. Legs flung up in the air. A pale arse and the curve of a back. There’s grunting and the sound of skin slapping against skin, the creak of the bedsprings.

Was James in bed next to her when she got up? He was, wasn’t he? Suddenly she can’t remember.

She takes a step inside and her foot tangles up in something. Pyjama bottoms. Red and gold striped like James’s. Someone growls, too low for her to make out the words. She glances up again to see Sirius watching her from underneath her husband. “James,” he groans, and for the first time she can see his hands are bound above his head.

“Come for me.”

She’s already turned away, hurrying as fast as she can down the hallway. She thinks of the way James is with her, the way he’s always been with her, so gentle she could scream. She crawls into bed, reaches under her nightgown. There’s no knickers to push out of the way, a futile hope that he would touch her.

Her clit is slick and swollen under her fingers. Her head is a jumble of things she’s never dared to ask for and she comes in no time at all.

She wipes her fingers on the sheet, lies there with her heart racing. When James comes in, he rolls towards her and presses a kiss to her cheek.

She pretends to be asleep.