Alright, Evans?

"How did they get together? She hated James, from what we’ve seen" "Did she really? You’re a woman, you know what I’m saying"

[blvnk-art]

After their first kiss.

“Oh, I was forgetting my book.” “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to lose books right now. With NEWTs and all.” “Exactly. There.” “Great. I hope you’re not forgetting something else.” “I think it was just the book.” “Evans. Why did you kiss me yesterday?” “I don’t know.”

[efkgirldetective]

make it up to me

*peeks out from behind a curtain* ummmm hi hello i know it's been forever since i've posted anything jily & i know y'all are waiting so so patiently on earthquake drills—but here's just a sexy little drabble that's been wasting away in my drafts that i hope makes up for how absent i've been okayyyy goodbye

rated E [ bit explicit past the keep reading ]

Fingers slip my shoulders, never content with one place; her mouth a measured, undulant press. Every kiss preceded and followed by slow blinking eyes. She is trying something strange, and unhurried—unendurably good.

What devastates quickest is her breath, the wide and airy sound of it, the way it eddies toward a whimper but shies away at the last second; loitering, instead, at the very edge of pleasure.

I am right there with her.

I have to be on the Quidditch pitch in fifteen minutes.

The first Lily Evans kissed me I was sure it was just the proving of a point: To herself, or—and far more likely—to me. Look: I can kiss you and leave. Look: You’re not so irresistible as you think. Look: We’re just two mouths kissing, and we’re unchanged.

But—

Then she paused, and pulled off, and looked at me, openly: her body pressed against the arch of a tower window, her hands gone still where they twisted up in my robes, the impulse to prove seeming to dissolve quite swiftly with just one quick breath, with a hand sliding up my neck (warm, careful)—with another, slower kiss; soft and unassuming and new.

There was that afternoon, autumn sunlight nestled in her hair—and then there were anxious eyes finding me from across the common room; and fingers brushing mine in a crowded hallway; and notes, little notes, little burn after readings; and always her irritation, sweet and tangy as she tugs me along, off into various broom closets; into hidden curves of corridors; into the dusty Prefect office after long, tedious meetings—and then her mouth, oh her mouth: ever quick and chiding and breathless; slipped over mine in spite of itself.

And the secrecy doesn’t vex me, not like I thought it might; because it’s Lily, it’s Evans, it’s her quick anger and her implacable moxie and her cheeks getting hot each time she falls into me, over me, irritated with how long it takes to pull our bodies from their mortal confines and press together till the going gets good—then good, then great, then holy fucking hell, Potter, where’d you learn to use your tongue like that? Actually—no, no, I don’t want to know, don’t answer, just keep—sweet Merlin and all his earthly offspring, don’t you dare think of stopping.

I am used to her speed, her demand; the hard yearning. But this—Lily tucked between my legs where I lean on a desk in a fourth-floor classroom—this, I am unaccustomed to.

A slow, specific temptation. Pushing in just to pull away.

My hands flip underneath her skirt, impatient; find hips like flower petals, just as soft. “I have to go.”

“Then go,” she says placidly, kissing cheek and jaw; earlobe taken gently between teeth. My hands sweep up bare skin; she moves into my body. Kisses me tenderly. There is growing precedence, in my trousers, for the immediate cancellation of practice. Hands slipping, slipping, till one unjoins in favor of a most secret place and Lily gasps.

“Potter.”

“I have to go,” I groan, throat undone with a lethargic, irritated exhale, two fingers pinned to the heat of her. Her hips roll over the site; tongue ruthless at my earlobe, flicking and sucking and brutish.

“Then why the fuck,” she growls, “are you touching me like that?”

“I don’t want to have to go,” I answer, pathetically, pressing my palm up into her till her hips roll hard, once, and her face falls into my neck, open-mouthed.

“Oh, fuck me,” she whimpers—and I want to, I do, and I ease one finger inside of her and fingernails dig straight into my shoulders, gripping so tight it’s painful. I arch my neck and find hers, press a hot, insistent tongue to her pulse, sucking. Add another finger and press the pair insistently; feel hips writhing, feel her breath rush out in a wail that pivots immediately to laughter, unbelieving, caught between teeth. “Oh, fuck you.”

And then she’s pushing my fingers and hands off of her, backing away recklessly till she hits the edge of another desk, skin flushed all the way up her neck, flushed where her collar lay open.

Lungs heaving for air.

My own pulse, chaotic; cock completely aggrieved, straining stupidly against trouser zips.

My palms empty without her.

“You arsehole.”

“Lily—”

“Don’t Lily me.”

And so I’m left—wretched, hot—to watch the pretty blush persist, to watch shaky fingers fly up through the mess of her hair, down the skirt I creased with such eagerness—such misdirected urgency.

She closes her eyes. Shakes her head, minutely. Inhales, sharply. Curls her fingers into fists.

I so wish she would scream—so wish she would shove me, or slap me, or demand something like repentance, to atone for these sins. Leave me wasted. Leave me wanting, like I have her.

But she just sighs, heavy. Opens her eyes. Tilts her chin with new clarity. Says, calmly, “Suppose I’ll just have to take care of myself, then.”

As if the damage isn’t already done. As if I’m not sitting here, two fingers stained in her.

I swallow hard. Bow my head, briefly. Resist the urge to groan. Loudly. She knows what I’ve done to her—done to myself.

“Think I’ll do it right here.”

I look up.

Lily shifts her hips backward and up, hands propped on the edge of the desk till she’s sitting, leaning slightly back—thighs spread.

My fingers dig brutally into the wood below. I stare at the places where her skirt slips up, at the tormenting swathe of upper-thigh. Pinkened—I’m horrified to find—by my own recent touch.

“Maybe I’ll think of the first time we fucked.”

I cut my head to the side, instantly—as if to say please, I can’t handle that right now.

A plea she ignores. “I’m sure you remember.”

She knows—and I know she knows, eyes darkening, lips parting—that should I be Obliviated to such a degree of forgetting even my own name, my own history, I would still remember the cataclysm I suffered, body and soul, as she had asked me, so gently, in all seriousness, in all earnestness, to shag her—in a musty closet off a second floor corridor, silencioed to an absolute fore, her green eyes wide and blown out as she slipped a hand down my pants and touched me; ruined me—for then, and forever.

I want to go to her, now; she knows. I want to blow off practice. I want to make her scream.

“And maybe I’ll think of you sitting right there, watching me.” She tilts her head, just barely to one side, and a river of red falls over one shoulder. “I know you like it best when I’m wearing nothing but skirt and stockings.”

I dip my chin to my chest in the name of self-preservation. If I think of the image, now, I will forsake aerial sport for the rest of my life.

“Maybe,” she murmurs. “I’ll think about the look in your eyes when you come.”

I can’t stand it. “Fucking—”

“Yes, that’s generally when it happens.” My head snaps up and she is all elusive light, all bravado and pink cheeks and slowly-blinking lashes.

“Really, Potter—don’t you have somewhere to be?”

I do. I do.

My fingers push off the desk and I sway forward where I stand, drawn to her, watching as she watches me, carefully, a piece of hair—rebellious, scarlet—falling along one cheek. Her legs swung so carelessly over the edge.

I smooth my hands down the front of my shirt and call upon every ounce of self-will to regain some—any—modicum of composure. I ought to flee. I ought to turn my face from her and march directly out of the classroom without so much as a backward glance, without a single thought to how she felt, writhing over my hand.

But—I am weak. I make another mistake.

I step right up against her and hear the quick inhale—from her, from me? from both?—and close my eyes and lean down to her ear and kiss the skin just below it and say, “I’ll make it up to you.”

When I pull back, find her flush, I see her jaw working. I repeat, earnestly. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“When?”

“After practice.”

She stares at me a moment—and something plays over her, something separate from our little dance; something real. I want to chase that; want to say, I would do anything for you, Lily. Anything at all.

But maybe—maybe she already knows.

“You know where I’ll be.”

I look at her just a second longer, just long enough to see her start to smile—and then I turn and leave the classroom for good, a sorry shell for a boy.

Prepared, entirely, to be an absolutely useless captain.

[shinychopshopwizar]

ncjsdkncjsd ginny is objectively the better quidditch player between her and harry. i mean harry definitely has skills, he has a natural talent for flying and all. but ginny’s been training herself to fly and play since she was six, and had only been improving since then. not to mention, she was able to substitute harry “greatest seeker at the time” potter’s quidditch position, win a match in his place, and can play both chaser AND seeker, which are two completely different playing positions. ginny also went on to play professionally, which means her body and mind has spent years playing intense quidditch, maybe even internationally. point is that, maybe if it was by raw talent, harry would win. but being a quidditch player takes more than talent, it takes constant training and developed instincts to be the better one, and ginny has all of those. harry is the better flyer, but ginny is the better quidditch player. goodnight

[mythologicalmango]

Harry Potter, who taught you how to use tumblr?

[naireides]

My Spellbound Heart

I actually finished it! Soulmate AU for the first day of trope week @jilyfest

word count: 5.2k 

ffnet | ao3

“What kind of person could they be if our shared mark is a pair of antlers on my arse?” asks Lily, craning her neck to stare at the ink, stark against her pale skin. No matter how hard she glares at it, it remains there.

Behind her, Marlene snickers. “It’s not on your arse,” she says, barely managing to keep the laughter out of her voice, “It’s right above your arse.”

She directs her glare to the blonde who still had tear tracks down her cheek from the initial bout of laughter. “Because that makes things so much better,” she snaps, “Who the fuck thinks ‘hey a pair of antlers as a tramp stamp is great idea for a soulmark’?”

“Maybe it’s a symbol for something,” she says, winding a lock of hair around her finger before prodding the mark once more. Lily squawks and jumps away from her while the other girl just grins wickedly. “Maybe you’re soulmate likes it up-”

“If you don’t want me to cut off your tongue you’ll stop right there,” she warns. Lily glances back at the mirror, bemoaning the appearance of the mark. “If I ever meet this fucker I’m punching him in the dick.”

“Or the tit,” Marlene chirps, “Don’t let heteronormativity rule your life.”

“Shut up Marlene.”

-

Soulmarks weren’t rare, but they also weren’t exactly common. It was like a sunshower, a blue moon, a six petal flower on a four petal bush. Different, unexpected, but not rare.

It’s a topic tied into all their subjects; historians told the stories of those who shared the bond, the power they held when stood side by side, waging war and ruling men, the poets spoke about the special brand of intimacy shared only between lovers of the kind, a bond that ran deeper than anything else, while science tried to prove it with fact, a genetic anomaly, perhaps natural selection taking place, making it easier to find a desirable mate. For centuries they’ve been attempts to explain them- platonic, romantic and in between- but no one can ever agree and soon it just became a thing, accepted just like that.

(It falls in between questions of why do you taste like heartbreak and ash? how does a person manage to have galaxies in their eyes? what is that pain in my chest when you leave me?)

(There’re no answers and one answer. Love, the most dangerous thing of them all.)

They all learn about it, but learning and experiencing are two completely different things. They never tell you that you feel the pain of it appearing, like a million needles pressed into your skin at the same time, the place where it grows warm and irritated, and it leaves you feeling as though there’s a gaping wound in your chest for days.

They never tell you that remain hurting and raw, craving something that you never had in the first place. A kind of want that drives you mad.

It happened while she was in class, carrying out a chem lab with Marlene and the wave of pain hit so hard, so intense, that she dropped a beaker of sulphuric acid and felt like her spine was being cleaved in two, from the base up. She told a lie about cramps through clenched teeth, and Marlene helped her hobble out of class, almost collapsing on the cool bathroom tile as another wave of pain passes.

Keep reading

[padfootpatrol]

Based on this post which I couldn’t delete from my brain

[asktheboywholived]

“We’ve all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That’s who we really are.”

[blvnk-art]

The Potter Family, 1981.

[instagram @potterbyblvnk]

Inspired by the movie’s photographs.

[blvnk-art]

Shiver.

[instagram @potterbyblvnk]

[blvnk-art]

They were NOT used to James dating Lily Evans.

[instagram @potterbyblvnk]

[blvnk-art]

Things words couldn’t explain.

[instagram @potterbyblvnk] 

[sabrinas-spellsman]

“You’ve been so brave.”

“You are nearly there,” “Very close. We are … so proud of you.”

[jilylicious]

headcanon that Mr. James Potter had a lot of beauty marks and Ms. Lily Evans loved drawing shapes between them. Her favourite was on James’ left arm where 5 spots revolved around a single spot like a flower and it’s leaves. 

[alessiajontrunfio]

Remus: What part of : “I’m studying, do not bother me.” did not you understand?

James: No, Moony. You said : “disturb me, only in case of extreme emergency”

Remus: And What’s the emergency now?!

Sirius:  Extreme boredom emergency!

Remus: …… I hate you.

————

ps:this is a special thanks for everyone of you…I passed 1k followers yesterday!! a big thank to everyone who’s supported my art!♥♥♥  that’s so incredible!!you’re incredible! THANK YOU! ♥♥♥

[hurrypotter-blog1]

JK ROWLING HAS SAID THAT TEDDY LUPIN IS THIS YEAR’S HUFFLEPUFF HEADBOY

TEDDY LUPIN ESCORTING THE NEW HUFFLEPUFFS TO THEIR DORMS

TEDDY LUPIN TELLING THE NEW HUFFLEPUFFS THAT PROFESSOR LONNGBOTTOM IS THE “CHILL” AND “TRUSTWORTHY” TEACHER

TEDDY LUPIN MAKING SURE EVERYONE GETS ACCEPTED AND NOONE GETS KNOCKED DOWN

[ghost-roads]

has this been done yet

[hairlikehisblush]

sirius black, after holding baby harry for the first time: I've only had him for a few seconds but if anything happened to him, i would kill everyone in this room and then myself.

[mrbarnes]

From Pottermore [x]

Harry’s relatives have always advocated for muggle rights, his grandfather was called Fleamont and invented a potion for unruly hair that Hermione used for the Yule ball, and Harry was named after his great-grandfather and this just makes me so emotional. 

[snogmehardy-blog]

 I FUCKING KNEW IT. ‘His outspokenness on behalf of the Muggle community was also a strong contributing factor in the family’s exclusion from the ‘Sacred Twenty-Eight’ 

I HONESTLY FUCKING KNEW IT I AM SO VERKLEMPT