Sirius Black must’ve fallen straight out of heaven and landed hard enough to break the bloody ground. That’s the only explanation.

Black curls, careless and perfect. Those storm-grey eyes that look like they’ve already seen through you, sharp features carved like marble, pale skin marked with ink in places he doesn’t bother hiding. Lean body, wiry muscle, tall enough that every room tilts around him. He moves like he owns everything, like gravity itself gave up trying to keep him in check. And when he smiles, smug, easy, wicked. You almost forget to breathe.

And then he smokes. Merlin help you, the bastard smokes. Cigarette dangling from those lips, long fingers cupping the lighter, exhale curling around his face like he’s posing for the cover of some filthy magazine. Every girl in Hogwarts looks. And he knows it. He thrives on it.

Except he’s not into girls. Not the way they want. A fact Sirius himself parades like a bloody medal, talking about the boys he’s kissed, the beds he’s tumbled into, the flirts he’s left aching. God, what a shame. It’s an itch you can’t scratch.

Not that you’re anything less. You walk into a room and it bends too. Heels clicking sharp, clothes tight enough to keep eyes following every step you take. A dark aura clings to you, voice low and sultry, the kind that drips smoke and velvet. Gorgeous. Untouchable. You know it. And Sirius knows it too. He looks at you, he does, but it’s different. Or so he says.

You meet on common ground. Quidditch. You love the game. He lives for it. He teases, you bite back. He pokes at your nerdy streak, steals answers out of your notes, calls you his “personal encyclopedia” with that shit-eating grin. But underneath it, you swear there’s something else. Something he doesn’t want to admit. You’re not crazy. You can smell it.

And yet he keeps running his mouth about boys.

The library is too quiet this late, all the other tables deserted. Just you and him, parchment spread out, candles burning low. You’re scribbling the last parts of the project when the sharp, earthy tang of smoke creeps over. Sirius leans back in his chair, blunt glowing between his fingers, eyes half-lidded, lashes dark against his cheekbones. He’s stoned, and he looks unfairly good like that, languid, undone.

“So,” he drawls, words thick, lazy. “Been hanging out with this bloke lately.”

Your quill stops.

He exhales slow, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Tall, Hufflepuff. Good kisser.” He laughs under his breath, soft and smug. “You saw us last week, didn’t you? Near the courtyard?”

Your stomach twists hot. The memory of Sirius pressed up against someone else’s mouth, lips bruising, hands greedy. That itch again. That maddening itch.

Something snaps.

Shut the fuck up, Sirius.

The words slice through the library, harsh and sudden. He blinks, startled. You never snap. Not like this.

You’re already leaning in, voice low, venom-sweet. "Do you ever stop? Parading every boy you touch like it’s the only thing that matters. Like I give a shit about who you’re kissing when you.. fuck."

The air goes still. Candlelight flickers, pages rustle, but neither of you moves.

Sirius stares at you, stunned for once in his life. Mouth parted, blunt forgotten between his fingers. His grey eyes sharpen, the haze clearing in a rush. You can almost hear the gears grinding in his head, the revelation crashing down.

“You…” His voice comes out hoarse, cracked. He sits forward, eyes locked on yours, searching. “You like me?”

No grin now. No joke. Just Sirius Black, beautiful, untouchable Sirius Black, looking at you like the ground just gave way beneath him.