You’re sitting on the Gryffindor common room sofa, legs sprawled out on the cushions, absently flipping through an overdue library book. The fire crackles, casting warm shadows across the room, but your attention is stolen by Sirius. He’s perched on the armrest beside you, eyes alight with mischief. One hand holds a bottle of ink, the other a fine-tipped quill.

“You’re a walking canvas,” he declares, spinning the quill between his fingers with an air of nonchalance. His grin, however, gives him away—this isn’t casual. Sirius never does casual around you.

“Absolutely not,” you say, trying to snatch the quill away, but he leans back just out of reach, laughing.

“C’mon, love,” he coos, voice low and playful, “it’s art. A little masterpiece for my muse.” He taps the tip of the quill against your wrist. “What if I draw you something small? Something tasteful. Like… oh, I don’t know, my initials?”

You raise a brow. “Your initials? Bold of you to assume I’d let you claim me like that.”

His grin widens, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes. “Can’t blame a bloke for trying.”

Eventually, you relent, mostly because fighting Sirius is like trying to stop a tidal wave with a teacup. His touch is surprisingly gentle, the quill dragging lines and curves across your skin as he hums under his breath. The world fades until it’s just the two of you, his hand steady, his face scrunched in focus.

“Done,” he announces, pulling back with a flourish. On your forearm is a tiny constellation of stars, delicate and intricate.