The dorm is too quiet. Too still. The sort of silence that makes you aware of every creak of the bedsprings, every breath that scrapes out of your chest. The three of you are a mess of limbs across the blankets, parchment and quills abandoned in a heap on the floor, ink still wet in some forgotten essay. A night gone lazy. A night gone soft.

Sirius has a fag still half-dead between his lips, the smoke curling up toward the low beams of the ceiling. His grin is wicked and loose, lazy as sin. Remus, opposite, has one hand laced with yours like he doesn’t remember how to let go.

It’s Sirius who says it first—how many bloody marks you’ve got speckled across your skin. “Like someone spilt the bloody night sky on you,” he mutters, voice thick with the smirk he’s too proud to wipe off. And before you’ve even got the sense to object, he’s tugged your shirt up over your head, bra off next, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Remus is watching, always watching, his eyes softer than he’ll ever admit out loud. Sirius has you half on your stomach now, sprawled across the mattress, your cheek pressed to Remus’ thigh. His hand settles in your hair without a thought. Sirius runs his fingers down your spine like he’s mapping something only he can see.

“Here, look,” he says, voice gone low, conspiratorial. He’s pointing at the scatter of birthmarks dusted over the curve of your lower back. Remus leans closer, squints. His touch follows Sirius’, the brush of fingers warm and precise. And then he stiffens.

“Bloody hell.”

Sirius’ head snaps toward him. “What?”

“Lupus,” Remus says, a sort of awe in his voice he never lets slip. He drags your pajama shorts down just a bit further, thumb pressing lightly to a freckle at your hip. “It’s the whole constellation. Right here.”

There’s a beat of silence where no one breathes. Sirius lets out a bark of laughter, sharp and startled. “You’ve got the wolf on you. Moony, you seeing this? She’s branded for you.”

Remus shakes his head, but his hand stays, tracing lines between the marks like he’s connecting the stars. His mouth is tight, his jaw working, but there’s something fierce sparking in his eyes.

Sirius isn’t done. He shoves your hair aside, bends over your shoulder, and presses his thumb just under the nape of your neck. “And this, here. Canis Major. That’s me. Right bloody there.” His finger taps the spot with his star, smug as the devil.

Your skin prickles hot where their hands linger.

“You’ve got us both written on you,” Sirius says, voice gone softer now, dangerous in its honesty. He’s grinning, but it doesn’t hide the raw edge of it, the way he means it down to his bones.

Remus’ hand settles heavy at the small of your back, as if to claim what Sirius just said. His thumb presses into the mark that’s his. His eyes meet Sirius’, some silent agreement passing there in the charged air between them.

For once, Sirius doesn’t ruin it with another joke. He just leans down, mouth brushing your shoulder, smoke and warmth against your skin. “Me and Moony, mh?”

And for a moment, with the weight of their hands marking you, it feels like the bloody universe might agree.