Impulse Point

Pairing – Sirius/Hermione

Rating – M, just in case.

Warnings – Sex, cursing, mature themes, fluff, AU. Also, it's mostly in Sirius close third, but the perspective changes a little, itty bit to Hermione in close third. Just so you know.

A/N – For those of you interested in Fire Breath I'm working on the second chapter ASAP. This was just a little bunny that caught my attention.

Impulse Point

Surely he hadn't heard her properly. There was no way that those words had slipped from her mouth, the sinfully distracting lilt of superiority complex nowhere the be found, the bold confidence which usually accompanied their conversation, gone from that singular sentence, which Sirius swore he misheard.

"Can you repeat that, Kitten?" He asked her, asked, even though he knew, somewhere deep down, exactly what she had just said, asked, because he wanted to hear the words again, asked because he finally had her groveling, begging, wanting for help, and it wasn't a moment he was going to let slip away.

"I said," Hermione began again, her bottom lip disappearing into her mouth as she chewed on it, a habit, Sirius had come to notice, that she only did when she was nervous or concentrating. He supposed now she was a little bit of both. "Do you have a carburetor rebuilt kit I could borrow?"

Sirius sauntered over to her from where he stood leaning against the sink in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place.

"And what, kitten," he began, "could you possibly need one of those for?" He saw her cheeks flush and her bottom lip disappear back into her mouth, and he hoped he hadn't turned on the charm too much, hadn't let the word carburetor cloud his thinking, as it rolled off the tongue of the woman he last expected to hear say it. He was a sucker for birds he knew their mechanics, always had been.

"Forget I mentioned it," she began, and started to gather up her belongings, "I can just go buy one, I shouldn't have even asked." Sirius was started for a moment. It was so unlike her to hide from things, to not confront, especially when it came to him, any problem with head on logic and rational thinking. When all else failed she had the tendency to simply shout louder. Whatever this shrinking violet thing was it got him curious.

"Hermione, wait," he said, following behind her as she walked towards the door. "I've got one upstairs, you can borrow it." He could see the relief in her eyes and she went to say thank you, but he beat her to the next line.

"If," he began, "You let me see what you need it for." He could see her breath caught in her throat for a moment and he realized that he was about to be privy to one of the very few secrets that Hermione Granger, public war hero, the Wizarding World's favorite bookworm, historic icon, had left.

"Come over tomorrow," she began, "wear clothes you don't mind getting dirty." She was half way out the door when she called from the streets, "And don't forget the rebuild kit." As if he possibly could.

Sirius arrived at Hermione flat sometime the next more. She hadn't specified when he should show up, and she was quite the morning person. If he were being honest with himself Sirius would have admitted that he was desperately curious about the endeavor on which he was about to embark and he was having a hard time simply sitting around.

She had told him to wear something he wouldn't mind getting dirty, but Sirius Black simply didn't own clothes like that, he never had, and so the best he could come up with was a pair of dusty old jeans and a t-shirt he found himself wearing when he worked on his bike, somehow he felt it would be appropriate.

"Hey Sirius," he heard he say before he saw her, as she walked up from the basement of her small new home, setting down an enormous tool box on the floor.

For all intents and purposes Sirius meant to respond, he had the words on the very tip of his tongue, but then she had stood up, and he was caught completely off guard. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that Hermione Granger would own a pair of shorts that looked like that. They were incredibly short, and he found himself trailing the expanse of her legs, and wondering what was just past the hem. Even worse was the cling of her white t-shirt, soaked near see-through with sweat, from what he assumed could only be lugging the enormous toolbox, and tight across her pert chest. He couldn't seem to look away from the vision before him.

"Sirius," she said again and he finally found his voice, searching for a smile.

"Hey, Kitten," he responded, "brought the kit, your turn." She gave him a wide grin and said, "only if you're willing to get that toolbox for me," he raised an eyebrow and muttered about slave labor, but picked it up with little effort, something she, at a head shorter than him, would never have been able to do.

"We're going upstairs," she murmured, "to the roof, come on, then."

There walk up the stairs was a surprisingly quiet one, and to Sirius it felt as though Hermione had something heavy in the front of her mind, as if she were paying respects to something near and dear to her heart with every step she took. They made it to the roof and she pushed open the door and suddenly, when his heart dropped to his knees and his eyes praised the heavens and his skin felt suddenly cold and hot and blasted and burned, he knew why.

"Sirius," she began, "Meet my Lilah." Lilah, what a perfect name. He placed down the toolbox non-too-gracefully and stumbled towards it. Lilah. He almost wanted to reach out and touch, to slide his hand over the – no, he mustn't, it wasn't his, to covet would be – dangerous.

"Tell me," Sirius began, the smell of motor oil, and exhaust and rubber invading and tickling him to the core, "tell me that this is a 1965 Triumph Thruxton Bonneville, tell me that I'm not dreaming."

"Being a war hero has its benefits," Hermione replied, though he could tell by the note in her voice that she was so proud, so very, very proud, of this beauty, this monster, before them. It was like gazing upon something divine.

"How," he began, "There were what, fifty-four made, probably even less are left."

"Fifty-Two," she replied, "And there are only forty-six that still run." She slid her hand down the front console, her delicate fingers resting on the chair for a moment, and looked at the bike as though it were the most beautiful thing in the world. Sirius supposed, that she might have been right, if she weren't standing right next to it. The way her hand played across the console was doing things to his insides he didn't want to explore.

"I burned out the carb by accident yesterday morning," she explained, shaking the haze from her head, though her eyes still glowed bright with pride. She paused for a second, "And I'm going to have to ask you," she looked up to him, "to not tell anyone. You're – you're the only one who knows about her."

Sirius looked down at the young woman before him, the beauty beside the beauty and suddenly all he had racing through his mind were highly inappropriate thoughts about taking her from behind as they rode through the night sky.

He paused for a moment,

"Wait, you burned out the carb," he cocked his head to the side and slide his hand through his hair. "How, exactly, did you burn out the carb?" She bit her lip again, and Sirius found he was having an increasingly difficult time concentrating when she did that.

"I was trying to fix one of the flying mechanisms," she replied, and the bite to her voice, the strong confidence that radiated through the woman before him, was back with full vigor. "I had modified the spell a little bit, since she's over forty years old, and there really aren't any spells of this nature for machines that old." She paused, as if admitting fault was causing strain on her very being, "I may have forgotten to factor in the reaction the spell was going to have to motor oil," her face crossed with a mix of self-admonishment and desire to take all of her words back, "I'm still amazed I could have been so stupid, but long and short of it, I accidentally send a mass of magic through my carburetor." She paused after her tirade and looked at him, pulling her hair out of her eyes and wiping the sweat from her forehead.

"Well, that's not so bad," Sirius said, when she had finished, trying to distract himself from the way the rivulets of sweat slid down the plain of her skin, from the way her hair matted to her neck, and her chest heaved in the unusually warm English summer. "Did I ever tell you about the time I turned my transmission into a solid block of metal and almost fell right out of the sky?"

She shook her head, as he was expecting. For the most part of their relationship Sirius had done everything he could to provoke her, and she, he was sure, did the same. Their conversation could be scintillating, it could be wild, it could be brilliant and intense. On the flip side of the coin they could be seen screaming obscenities from across the hall, Sirius known for calling her a swotty little know it all Princess, and Hermione for retaliating that he was a spoiled aristocrat with his head up his arse. Sirius and Hermione, for as long as they had known each other, had never done anything quietly. Their interactions were mad, they were enormous, they were front-page news.

Sirius racked his brain for a moment considering if there was ever a time when he could have told her an anecdote about his youth, quickly coming to the conclusion that even if there had been he wouldn't have brought up the bike. Until yesterday afternoon he was sure that she could think of almost as many awful things to say about his motorcycle as she could to say about him.

"It was James' fault really," Sirius began, launching into his story as Hermione pulled over the toolbox and the two set to work in a rhythm neither of them could have anticipated. He told her about how he had never driven before, how instead of changing gears he had ridden all the way home in first, she had cringed so blatantly at that, how he had forgotten to push the clutch in and the next thing he knew he was throttling to the ground, the weight of a solid block of transmission, pulling him straight towards earth and a lucky, quick thinking bunch of spells were the only thing that kept him from going straight to the medi-witches.

Hermione listens as she works, he knows she listening because, while she's not taking her eye off of her task at hand, she hasn't interrupted him once, and when a person could get through a story without Hermione Granger adding in her bit, well that meant it was a story she desperately wanted to hear.

"I still fail to see how that was James' fault," she joked, when he was all finished, but smiled at the man before her, as though they were finally speaking the same language, as though they were no longer separated by their personal feelings of right and wrong, and now existed solely for the purpose of fixing the carburetor on one of the most beautiful works of art either of them had ever seen.

"Sirius, could you take a look at this," she asked him, he had been messing around with an oil change, doing a delicate tune-up to her bike, which she hasn't asked him for, but the tone with which she whispered thank-you indicated that she accepted him as one of the few people in the world who she would allow to touch the inner workings of one of her most prized possessions.

He sat up from where he had been adjusting the pedal grip and walked over to her. Jeans slung low on his hips, black t-shirt dusty and form-fitting, hair to match that looks at though it has been through the wind, perfectly, and imperfect, and so much like the smile of the man who wears it with confidence, who wears his walk, and his dirty t-shirt and his grease stains with confidence, and Hermione was struck by the vision of him standing beside her bike.

"Let's see," he replied, sitting beside her, and Hermione was struck, yet again, by this sheer presence of man, who seemed to make her stir on an even more carnal level than the machine she had so fallen in love with.

"You're working with a dual carb, right?" He asked, and nodded, reminding him that that in the 1960s everything came with a dual carb. He laughed, trying to ignore how the sound of her voice, as it tongued the words transmission, and valve and piston turned him on more than any dirty talk he had ever heard.

Sirius took the small rebuild from her hands, inspecting it from a few angles and then turned to her, "Let me guess," he began, "You can't get the pilot jet to line up?" She nodded, trying not to let the feel of his calloused hand affect her, trying not to let their proximity make it harder for her to breathe. This side of him, this gentle, delicate, refined side of him, was in such contrast to the Sirius she thought she knew, and it was growing more and more difficult to deny that she liked the juxtaposition.

"Alright, you just need to catch the line up right here," he told her, "My hands are actually a little too big for it," he gently took her right hand, and she was sure he could feel the magic pulsing through her blood stream, and placed it back on the part she had been fidgeting with.

"Right there," he began, "I'm going to turn it for you, but you need to keep your hand tight on the pilot jet, understand?" She nodded, trying to shake the haze of her mind, trying not to let him get to her. But try as she might she couldn't get his smell from her mind, could seem to forget the cigars and firewhiskey and motor oil, as it burned her from the inside out.

"I think," Sirius began, "That we've got it." There was a small chunk and the piece slid right into place. Hermione grabbed her hand back quickly and Sirius chuckled.

"They're so not gross and sweaty, love," he teased, "No need to be embarrassed." She raised her eyebrow at him, desperate to show her control over the situation, but the snarky remark wouldn't seem to come, and instead she busied herself with the task at hand.

They worked for a while longer, while the sun seemed to slowly disappear over the mountains and the sky settled for a light indigo, opening to a distraction of stars. Hermione could feel the air buzzing, alight with a kindred spirit, and something deeper, more carnal, more desperate, but she didn't dare let herself venture to find what it was. Instead, she worked diligently along side Sirius, passing back tools, trading banter, telling stories of their bikes that she was sure would have surprised any of the people who knew them.

Finally, finally, when the sun had fully pulled from the sky, and above them was a brilliant array of light and deep blue, the bike was fixed. It fell into place with an ungraceful sound and she stood up, brushing her knees and taking a deep sigh as her joints popped.

"Let's see what she does," Sirius said, smiling, and Hermione slid the key in, turning over the engine with a hope and a prayer. She sprung to life, a deep roar resonating across the rooftop, and their hearts were lifted at the sound of their success.

Hermione walked towards Sirius, who was standing at the edge of the roof, looking out over the city.

"Do you want to take her for a ride?" She asked him. He looked at her, his brow furrowed and his mouth slightly pursed.

"You'd let me drive her?" He asked, and she nodded, pausing for a moment, then added,

"You're the only person I'd let drive her." And those words pierced him through the soul.

Hermione slipped downstairs, and when she emerged she was dressed every bit the part. Over the oil-stained shirt she wore a form-fitting leather jacket, and her hair had been pulled into a large braid, Sirius stared.

"I don't let them see me like this," she said, laughing at his expression. "By day I'm goody-goody Granger, bookworm and prude. But by night," she laughed, and climbed onto the motorcycle.

Sirius slid in front of her, his body fitting to the leather seat, his jeans stretched taunt and her chest pressed deliciously against his back. As he moved to comfort they both held their breath, afraid of too much contact, or more so – afraid of not enough.

Sirius revved the engine and they both inhaled deeply as the motorcycle took off from the rooftop and moved towards the blanket of stars over the great expanse of British countryside.

The sky was beautifully open, where it seemed as though the stars were close enough to touch, fingers brushing the faerie dust of Never Never land. Hermione breathed in, content, and closed her eyes, letting her head rest against Sirius' back, and wondering when it got to be like this.

She supposed, when she felt his breath quicken ever so slightly, and a small jump from the bike, that it had been a long time in the making. They'd been engaged in a passionate affair for longer than she could remember, their verbal sparring unmatched in its intellect and quick wit, their blow-outs, in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place and the Burrow's back yard, where obscenities and insults could be heard across the open countryside.

But lately things had gotten different, they hadn't yelled so much, hadn't drawn wands in each others' faces, she hadn't stormed off, in the midst of his arrogant smirking. No, lately they'd be civil. Their sparring had turned into debates, with logical and rational responses, lasting late into the night. They'd even grown to playing Wizard's Chess, when the rest of the house went out to drink or dance.

Sirius sighed into Hermione. The feeling of her very feminine curves against his back was driving him wild and he was having a hard time concentrating, no matter how beautiful the ride was. He drove deeper into the night.

"Where are we," Hermione asked, as the bike touched down. She slid down and he found that he missed the swell of her body against him.

"Turn around, Kitten," he said, and she did. Her face was alight and she let out a small gasp. Before them was the city of Paris, the enormous lit tower was sparkling like the sky and the canals were a deep yellow. She turned, realizing that they were on a rooftop a little ways outside of the city.

"I know the owners," he explained, motioning to the roof on which they stood. "Come, sit." She followed him and they let their legs hang over the side of the roof as they looked out over the city.

"I come here," Sirius began, "when I need to escape." He looked out over the expanse and sighed, "when the nightmares get too loud, or I see too much of James' when I look at Harry, when the darkness is brighter than the light." She wove her hand into his, and he gripped it tightly, "Sometimes I just need to get away from the noise of the Weasleys, or cool off after we've fought." His voice has changed, and when he speaks the last part it's with a distant affection, as though he is treading slowly on discussing them, baby steps.

"Why do we fight?" She asked him, biting her lip, "You don't fight with anyone else."

"You bring out something in me, I guess," he said after a moment. "I can't explain it. You make me feel," he paused, "Vibrant, alive."

"You make me feel alive, too," she replied, and there was quiet, of the comfortable and easy variety. The air smelled like early spring lilacs and nothing had felt more comfortable in the world than the way her head rested on his shoulders.

"'Mione," Sirius said, after a moment, she gave a non-committal response and he continued, "Why do you have your bike, why doesn't anyone know?" She didn't reply for a moment and Sirius could just imagine that she was biting her lip looking out over the Parisian landscape.

"I guess," she began, "I guess I just needed something that gave me excitement, something that made me feel alive. I've always respected," she paused, "I've always respected your bike," she could feel him smile against her and it warmed her, "As for why no one knows, well, I like to have my secrets." She was quiet for a moment, and then added, "And they wouldn't believe it if they rode with me."

Sirius let out a low chuckled and agreed.

"It's certainly out of character," he replied, "But I have to admit," he paused, "I like this part of you."

Neither of them were sure who started it. It was as if they had both been starting it for years, as if ever bit of fighting and insulting and passionate debating was their own kind of foreplay, as if their desperate need to win arguments was really a desperate need to prove themselves to each other. Ever scathing remark or backhanded insult was sheathed in need and intense, unwavering flirtation.

The meeting of their lips was nice sweet. It was every bit as passionate and domineering as the relationship they had been sharing for so long. Hermione's hand fisted in Sirius' dark hair, his own fingers roaming her body, them both panting, needing each other. They found their way back onto the rooftop, where he yanked off her leather jacket and she pulled his black t-shirt from his head, not caring where it landed. They didn't stop contact, not for a moment, as Sirius made work of her t-shirt shirt, that damned white t-shirt that had been teasing him all day, and bit his way down her collarbone, leaving marks at the beautiful base of her cream colored neck.

"Sirius," she mewled against him, and he leaned in, biting towards her beautiful, lace covered breasts.

"Sweet, Kitten," he whispered, kissing around her breasts, through the thin fabric of her bra, torturing her with teasing. Finally, finally her pulled the offending garment from her body and for a moment simply stared.

"You are incredible," he whispered, and in that same sentence he took her right nipple in his mouth and bit.

She was sure that the neighbors could hear her scream, ricocheting off the buildings around them, deep and intense and so wonderfully full of passion. He gave the same unwavering attention to the other nipple, sliding his mouth down her body, taunt and exercised, finding the top of her jeans, and working quickly to disrobe her.

He slid her shorts from her legs, running his calloused hands up the length of her thighs, causing her to whimper under his ministrations and fingering the lace covered apex of her thighs. He spread her legs and she could do nothing more than moan as he tortured her in sweet motions.

He lowered his mouth to her center and licked the lace-covered core, dripping with the obvious evidence of her arousal. She was sure the neighbors had heard that scream. And finally, he pulled her panties off, tossed them aside and slid his mouth onto her. He drank from her body like a man desperate of thirst, and her body writhed underneath him. Then she felt it, the friction of his mouth on her most delicate nerves and she rounded the height and touched the sky, higher, higher, higher, until she touched the moon and exploded in a supernova of passion stronger than she had ever known, and then she slid into a comforting blackness.

"You alright there, Kitten?" She heard Sirius say, after a moment, "I thought I lost you." She blinked awake, realizing that the wonderful release he had given her spent her so much that she had actually passed out. That was certainly one for the books.

"I just – wow," she managed to say, but the look in his eyes already had another passions stirring within her.

"You're beautiful," she murmured into his neck, inhaling his scent, as well as her own. She slid her hands through his hair, pulling slightly, and then looked into his eyes, deep gray, so gray they were almost silver, and she knew she would never be able to let him go.

"Sirius," she whispered in his ear, "I want you to take me, fill me." Her words spurred him on and he kissed her again, passionately, hungrily, with a desire she was again impressed by. He slid out of his jeans, though arse-hugging jeans, and he pulled her body close to his.

"Don't go slow," she begged, and he didn't, though he teased her slit with the head of his cock, "Sirius," she demanded, and he slid into her.

They hissed into each other, pawing, pulling on another closer and closer, as if the need to be one overpowered all physical limitation, and Sirius pushed. And as if they were riding the sweet motorcycle through the sky, as if they were the pounding and drumming of impossible machine, themselves, they pulled power from the night and gave desperate passion to the heart of the other.

And then they both felt it, the tell tale of the beautiful finish, rounding the corner together, mounting the crest of the wave, then closer, as he pushed into her and she pulled into him and they fell, cascading over the great shore, bright and blinding, like desperate and beautiful fireworks and it wasn't until she touched the roof that Hermione realized she had been chanting his name, like the most impossible kind of motto, and she knew it was going to be one she spoke for many, many years.

They lay on the roof, silent for many minutes, close, in their naked bodies.

"You make me feel alive," Sirius murmured into her hair, "And it scares me, but I don't think I can live without you."

"I wasn't planning on letting you go," Hermione replied. She broke into a fit of giggles, "Save a motorcycle, ride a biker." And she dissolved into a fit of laughter.

"Let's get you home, princess," he murmured, getting up. "Before we go for another motorcycle ride on this roof." She got up, giggling still, searching for her clothes. As the two made their way to the bike Hermione hugged him from the back. He looked at her with a bemused smile.

"You're like my motorcycle," she told him, "My powerful, sexy motorcycle, very rare, and all mine."

Sirius had to agree; they were in for the ride of their lives.

A/N: So I really didn't mean for this to be a long story, but I was driving back up to school, (my family was driving, I wasn't driving and writing, I promise.) I know it's not my best work, but drop me a line and let me know what you think. Happy starting school time! Xo- Ruby