Jily oneshots

Lost In Symphony

"So impatient," he teases, nose brushing over hers as his right hand climbs slowly up her side, over the curve of her waist and breast to the sticky skin of her nape.

It's just as his lower lip slides between both of hers that someone knocks right into her from behind, sending her head bumping into James's, mouths pulling back with identical winces marring their expressions. But beyond the hormonal frustration she undergoes at that moment, the concern that feels more pressing is the sensation of cold liquid slipping down the back of her top, trickling lower and lower until she's certain it's seeping into the waistband of her shorts.

A horrified shriek escapes her when she quickly jumps through all the possibilities of what could have been dropped over her in a party as crazed as this one. People continue dancing around them, not bothered in the least by the fact that drinks are being toppled into her person. The detachment of the inebriated mind is proven so impressive, in fact, that the culprit of the situation doesn't even take the time to stop and apologize to her before continuing on their merry way.

"You alright, Evans?" James yells over the cacophony, worry and amusement mixing in his eyes as he brushes knuckles over her cheek.

But she can only grimace. A quick swipe of her hand along the small of her back, and she pulls back to find fingers coated in some light pink liquid. For some reason, her brain seems to think it's a good idea to sniff and check what she's touched.

It's not a good idea.

At all.

The concentrated stench of a thoroughly spiked punch seems to call to the vodka still gurgling in her stomach and throat like a siren, and before she can think through the actions, her hand is shoving James away, waist bending forward as nausea clambers to her mouth.

"Evans—" He's trying to fight her hold, stepping forward to rub her back. "Fuck, you okay?"

She clamps a hand to her mouth, eyes squeezing shut. Jesus fucking Christ, this cannot be happening right now!

"Lily?" Mary's voice, yelling over the music; slender arms wrapping around her middle. "Oh, babe, you're going to be sick. Come on, come on, let's get you out—"

James's fingers brush over hers as Mary pulls her along. "Wait—"

"It's okay, Potter. I've got her!"

Had she not been otherwise preoccupied with wanting to hurl out her guts at this precise moment, she might've kissed Mary for dragging her out of the suffocating wave of bodies, and more importantly, away from James. The quickest way to get a bloke to stop fancying you, in her expert opinion, is to puke at his feet right after you were about to snog him for the first time. And this thing between them—whatever taste she'd gotten, pressed up against him, back there—it isn't something she's keen to let go anytime soon.

They make it farther than she expects; several feet away from the pitch, but it's still a good distance from the toilets lined up at the end of the campsite when she's hunching forward and emptying her stomach into a neatly trimmed bush, unable to hold on any longer. Mary's fingers are instantly pulling back hair from her face, and the light breeze that kisses over the sweat-laden skin of her neck feels heavenly, even if nothing else does.

As the retching starts to subside, she's alerted to the full extent of Mary's own level of inebriation, for the brunette seems to be murmuring the lyrics to Summertime Sadness—in a tone that is nowhere near a twin to Lana Del Ray's smoky timbre—with a purely glazed smile on her face. There's no time to laugh at her friend's expression, however, because another wave of nausea crashes over her as soon as she opens her mouth.

"Ah, Lil," Mary sighs. "Don't you just love these young nights?"

She grimaces, bent at the waist. "I can't—feel my tongue. It's like... it's not mine."