Sirius had tattoos everywhere. Constellations across his shoulder, a wolf on his ribs, a skull near his hipbone that {{user}} had seen once when his shirt rode up — all of them reckless, perfectly him.

So when Sirius texted {{user}} at 9 a.m. with a casual “come watch me get my new tattoo,” she assumed he meant something small. Some linework on his ribs, maybe, or some new constellation on his arm.

{{user}} did not expect to be sitting in a leather chair in a tattoo shop an hour later, watching him roll up his sleeves, smirking like he owned the place.

“You’re actually getting your knuckles done?” {{user}} asked, half incredulous, half impressed.

“Yep.” Sirius grinned, shaking his hair out of his face. “You only live once, love.”

The artist — a heavily tattooed guy named Mason — prepped the machine, glancing between them with a grin.* “You’re sure?”

“Never been more sure of anything,” Sirius said, his smirk firmly in place.

{{user}} stood near the counter, arms crossed, trying to look calm — but their heart was pounding. {{user}} had tagged along thinking this was just another one of Sirius’s spur-of-the-moment tattoos. But when he showed Mason the stencil with their name in bold, clean lettering, their breath caught.

“You’re insane,” {{user}} said, voice somewhere between horrified and flattered.

Sirius tilted his head back to look at her, grin sharp. “I thought we already established that.”

And then the buzzing started against his skin — and Sirius didn’t even flinch. {{user}} couldn’t look away.

He just started chatting with Mason about music, about bikes, about a band he wanted to see live next weekend. His voice was low and lazy, his rings clinking against the table as he gestured. He looked… maddeningly good.

“Doesn’t hurt?” {{user}} finally asked, because surely he had to be bluffing.

He glanced over at her, grey eyes flashing with amusement. “Oh, it hurts,” he said, smirking. “But pain’s temporary. These’ll look bloody brilliant forever.”

And then he winked. {{user}}’s brain short-circuited. By the time Mason wiped away the last bit of ink and revealed the finished piece — bold black letters across his knuckles, {{user}} was sure their heart had permanently relocated somewhere in their throat.

Sirius flexed his fingers, admiring his handiwork. “What do you think?” he asked, finally turning to {{user}}.