the_debt_of_time

bedroom at Potter Manor, the fifth-floor corridor of Hogwarts, to the copper clawfoot
bathtub they shared at their flat.
But this one... this one was different.
The golden string of their Soul Bond, which was normally alight whenever they
touched, was vibrating, tugging, pulling on her from somewhere deep inside, but it was no
longer the musical equivalent of a fiddle with some invisible force—most likely Fate—
plucking at the string to elicit sound.
Rather, someone had gently, but purposefully, taken a bow and was sliding it across
the string like a properly wielded violin and played, tuning to sound the variety of shades
of grey in Sirius's eyes, the exact scent of grass, parchment, and leather she smelled when
she breathed him in. Somehow, in the back of that song in her soul, she could taste the
lingering burn of a well-aged firewhisky.
"Suddenly, you're gone, and I'm left here all alone."
Somehow her heart was so full that she had almost forgotten where his hands had
travelled. Instead of someone playing the golden string of their Soul Bond, he was
playing her like a Stradivarius—performing Tchaikovsky's "Swan Lake" while
simultaneously whispering punk rock lyrics in her ear, from an all-girl band at that.
His teeth found her lip the very same moment that his fingers brushed against her
clit.
She writhed. He chuckled. She whimpered. He groaned.
"I know you're here, I can feel your presence." He kissed a trail along her jawline to her ear.
"And that sound you're making. It's getting me so hot."
They both hissed when he slid himself inside her, right where he belonged.
Her nerves lit on fire, her body throbbing and aching and still responding with
eagerness to his touch. Every thrust looked to be her complete undoing, and every
withdrawal left her nearly in tears.
"Am I dreaming? Were you really here?"
Music was not needed for his lyrics, though she wondered if the beat to the song
was harder, rougher than the rhythm with which he was currently thrusting. Somehow,
Sirius found just the right line between soft and hard, and he was perfecting it.
"Is it just a fantasy? Or am I dreaming?"