Theme: Water.
There are times where Lily wonders sometimes why on earth she ever thought it would be a good idea to marry James Potter. Times when he said things like 'Oh Merlin' in front of Muggles or when she is reminded once again of how badly he snores and moves in his sleep were prime examples of these instances of questioning. He was too cuddly and too grabby; he’d constantly want to hold her hand or have an arm around her waist and he would never let her just read. No really: never. She’d sit down as quietly as she could so she could have some peace and James would come bounding in.
“Lily!” he’d say. “There you are!”
And then he’d throw his legs in her lap or pick her up in a bridal style and lead her away so she was forced to spend time with him, like a possessive owner with a reluctant pet. It’s not that she didn’t love him, but more that she didn’t like him sometimes; or that he didn’t understand certain things.
“Lily, love,” he whispers softly to her when they’re in bed and she’s reading before falling asleep, “I do believe you’re misusing this bed at this moment in time.”
James, with his devilish grin could make her dazedly allow him to close her book and put it down. Bam, he would kiss her slowly and she would not even remember the title of the novel she was reading. Thanks to James, she had left countless books unfinished because by the time she picked them up again she couldn’t remember where she was or what it was about. She always put the book down with a sigh and went to start another, with the intention of perhaps going back to the book later.
But something that irks her to no end is how much of a man he is; this is shown by his complete disregard for organisation and the fact that he was living with a woman now. James left the toilet seat up, thought it better to le the dishes soak til morning rather than get them over done with and used a wet spoon in the sugar pot.
For some reason that morning she wakes up especially bitter and as she goes downstairs to get her cup of tea, she sees the sugar clumped together in its pot and throws down her spoon in frustration and marches upstairs. She viciously raps on the door.
“James! Come out here right –”
“What? What’s going on?” The door is swung over. Lily just stands there.
“Nothing,” she says and walks away. As she does, the image in her mind is James with a towel wrapped around his waist, the water so hot that it made his cheeks flushed and the tips of his ears red; she smiles as she sees the worried look in his eyes and how he was squinting because he did not have his glasses; most of all she remembers the blood rushing to her face as her eyes went to his glossy dark hair and fell upon his bare, perfectly chiseled chest. All the factors add up in her mind and she thinks to herself,
‘Oh yes, that’s why.’
I like your "shitty" stories. because they're not shit.
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