Sight
Her hair was red. Thick, luxurious red, red that catches every facet of the light and throws the color back out at you, red that can only be loved by someone who loves a redhead. He loved a redhead.
Her eyes were green. Pure, lush, verdant green, like shining emeralds or vibrant grass, or the color of leaves when spring first appears and every little leaf is emerging in perfect spring green. He'd never seen green take so many forms, so many wonderful transformations from mood to mood and moment to moment, as it did in her eyes.
Her skin was pale. Ivory pale, like the color of cream being poured into a steaming cup of tea, the kind of pale that's healthy and glowing, the kind of pale that's inviting, making the skin look cool and soft. He found himself reaching for her every time she got close.
Her body was his. From her pretty face to the velvety slope of her neck to the sculpted plane of her collarbone, to the swell of her breasts, over her soft stomach and round hips, past her coarse knees to her thin ankles all the way to her plump little toes. He never tired of admiring each and every inch.
Smell
He smelled like soap. In the mornings, when she would creep down into the Common Room early and curl up on the couch next to him, and his hair would be wet, and she'd bury her nose in his neck, and she'd smell soap, strong and spicy and clean.
He smelled like sweat. After a game of Quidditch or a footy match on the grounds, he would slide by her, not wanting to draw attention to them, but she could never resist reaching out for him, pulling him close for just a moment, for just a chance to breathe in the hot smell of sweat and competition, a smell so masculine yet still just his and no one else's.
He smelled like sugar. On her birthday, with the two of them flitting around the kitchen like mad birds, making a cake, and the powdered confectioner's stuff had ended up on his nose and she had licked it off, and even after his shower later, she could still see it in his hair and smell it on his skin.
He smelled like sex. Every night afterwards, when they'd lay there, tangled in sheets, hot and desperate and in love, the scent had been pungent and earthy and carnal, pure and dirty all at once, indistinguishable, like a mix of every scent she loved about him and every scent she'd never been able to identify all rolled into one.
Taste
She wasn't like anything he had ever had before. The first time he kissed her, he'd been swept up in the sweetness, the dizzying sweetness of her mouth, of her lips at the mercy of his, at the tastes of their mouths mingling and mixing. It was like nothing he had ever experienced and would never experience again. It was more than a first kiss; it was his first taste of her.
She was never the same. Some mornings, she would come down, mouth minty as she wrapped up against him; some mornings, her mouth was hot cinnamon; some mornings, she was even cool vanilla, tickling his throat, tickling his tongue. Never predictable, never simple, he found himself drawn in, desperate for another taste of her, another bite of something amazing.
She was incomparable. So many girls had flitted in and out of his life, a montage of flavors, like sampling hundreds of desserts for a chef. Some sugary sweet, some spicy sweet, some not quite finished, not quite the right taste… most flavors, tastes, samplings faded from mind quickly, but one always managed to stay on your tongue. She was the one dessert whose taste, its reality and its memory, were too delightful to forget, even in the swirls of so many others.
She was exactly what he wanted in any one moment. Like cravings for foods vary, from wanting soft chocolate ice cream, decadent and rich, to wanting warm bread and melting butter, soothing and inviting, to wanting crisp, cool salad, bright and refreshing, his cravings for her would vary, but always be satisfied
Sound
He had made her laugh, a rolling, musical sound, rising up and down, up and down, over and over, as if she could never stop. Sometimes her breath would come a little short afterwards, almost like a wheeze, and he'd find himself laughing, too, laughing with her, on and on as if they were meant to laugh and be happy, just the two of them, forever.
He had made her cry, quiet and painful, sniffling as she buried her face in her arms. Every muffled sound, like a lost little girl, not sure if anyone was listening and perhaps hoping that they weren't, seemed to sneak out just for him, so that he would always catch the sound and reach out to comfort her.
He had made her sob. It was horrible, the way the sound was pushed out of her as if an ugly beast inside were ripping at her, just to cause her to make those awful, tortured sounds, as if the part of her heart that was his was bleeding and the only way to bear the pain was to make as much noise as painful and awful as possible to wound the ears of the listener as much as she was wounded.
He had made her scream, loud and long, sometimes with words and sometimes with deep, throaty moans, sometimes in a way that had made him scream, too, mingling their voices like a symphony dedicated to the pleasures and delights and noises of forbidden love, forbidden passions. He'd heard her screams, and even when they'd said nothing, they'd still said "This is love," whether they'd meant it or not.
Touch
Sometimes he was rough. She would feel his fingerprints on her arms, her back, her breasts, for days afterwards, as if he had pressed himself into her every way possible, leaving her claimed and permanently stamped by him. His strong hands would close on her, or rest at her hips, or push her back into the grainy, stone of a corridor wall.
Sometimes he was slow. She would revel in how long he could take to do the smallest thing, like the days they sat in class and his hand would trace circles on her leg under the table, fingers moving in languid, ever-so-taunting circles on her knee, or when he would catch her hand and slowly slide their fingers together, pulling them close, or the times when he looked down at her, through half-lidded eyes, dropping gentle kisses along the line of her jaw.
Sometimes he was gentle. Taking care not to rush her, like their first time, he would cradle her in his arms, gently guide her, kiss her and love her as if she were breakable, a porcelain doll that he would take great care not to shatter, or like those moments, when she would trip as they strolled the grounds at night, and his hand would catch her, hardly felt, but still strong enough to support her.
Sometimes he was perfect. The fast, the slow, the rough, the gentle… would all roll in and over her and around them at one time, as if everything could happen without changing the other, a beautiful contradiction, hot cold and desperate satisfaction. Their bodies would play every role they could, and still be just themselves, exactly as they were, exactly as they had been, exactly as they could be forever.
Author's Note: So, this is a little Sirius/Lily bit that I wrote up while under the influence of high dosages of prescription narcotics. I could hardly walk, so the fact that I managed to write anything is amazing. It's not fantastic, but something about it, so raw and unedited and abstract, made me want to post it, even if it was induced by my medication. xD Let me know what you think of it, and of course, let me know what sense you liked the best.