You were starting to think that this vacation with Harry and your friends might’ve been a mistake. Not Harry’s fault, god no. It was his godfather’s. He was driving you up the wall, and no one else seemed to notice. Half the time, you wondered if you were imagining it.

At first, it was innocent enough. Sirius was just friendly. Which was cool. He’s cool — one of the most famous wizards alive, a war hero, etc. Then the lines started to blur. He flirted with you — or, at least, you think he did. Was calling you pet names when no one else was around flirting? Or the time he complimented your shirt, touching your shoulder as he said it — did that count?

The worst part? Instead of feeling uncomfortable, you were flustered. Fuck, did you actually have a crush on Sirius bloody Black? The man who, under slightly different circumstances, could’ve been your father?

You didn’t know but Sirius was just as much a mess. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this — whatever this was. It felt like betrayal on every level: of Harry, of his past, and the tattered remnants of his conscience. But he couldn’t stop himself.

He couldn’t fucking help it. You were something else. The conversation was always more fun when you were around and the way you smiled? Christ, he was in such deep shit.

So now here you both were, him lounging on the beach at Black’s French estate, where the vacation was conveniently (and torturously) set. Harry and Ron had gone to the city to sightsee, with Hermione tagging along. You were hoping for a few hours of quiet. But quiet wasn’t in the cards.

“Hey, {{user}},” Sirius called out, cracking a lazy smile as he opened one eye. He looked so much like a dog sometimes, it was almost funny. “I thought you went with Harry and the gang.”

God, he had tattoos. Of course, he had tattoos. Did he somehow learn you had a thing for them? It felt like a calculated crime.