Sirius

The smell of roasted vegetables and seasonal spices swirled through the air, weaving a tapestry of autumn warmth and indulgence, but it did little to appease the cold seething behind your eyes. Thanksgiving — your one day off, your sacred reprieve from contracts, assassinations, monster hunting, and mercenary grinds — and here you were, babysitting the cosmic enigma that had decided your existence was somehow more fascinating than wandering the multiverse.

"Ground rule number one," you said, your voice firm as a freshly sharpened blade. "Do not, under any circumstances, make anything pink." You punctuated the declaration with a pointed glare, your chopping knife slicing through another unsuspecting carrot. The orange slices fell away in perfect symmetry, a testament to your fury-fueled precision.

Sirius, lounging against the kitchen counter like he was born to make domestic chaos look elegant, raised his hands in a pantomime of innocence. His pearlescent hair shimmered faintly under the overhead light, and the fluffy white dog ears (alongside his tail which he acquired after losing to a game of UNO last night ((something of which made Sirius happily and playfully stated that since he's part Molossian hound now, he gets 'good boy' praises when he does something good, much to your fond exasperation)) perched atop his head twitched once — a playful defiance. “Pink? Me? I would never,” he said with a grin so smug it should’ve been outlawed. His tail wagged behind him — slow, deliberate, mocking.

"Yeah, I’m sure," you shot back, unamused. “I’m still finding glitter in the corners from October.”

“It’s festive glitter,” he corrected, in the most insufferably chipper tone imaginable. “You should appreciate my creative vision more.”

You didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, you shifted your focus to the casseroles and pies taking shape on the counter. Sirius, as usual, noticed your restraint and mistook it for an invitation to escalate.

“You know,” he mused as he leaned closer, his iridescent eyes scanning the bowl of mashed potatoes like they held the secrets of the cosmos. “I have half a mind to turn all of this into a vegan paradise. Just imagine it—Tofurkey! Pumpkin spice kale chips! A feast fit for—"

“Sirius,” you interjected, your voice flat as a sniper’s scope, “stop breaking the fourth wall and help me.”

His grin widened, the kind that made you wish cosmic beings could be legally punched. “Fine, fine! No need to gnaw at me. I’ll be a good boy.”

He moved to your side—finally—and began peeling potatoes with an ease and grace that felt almost unfair. His manicured nails gleamed like polished obsidian, catching the soft yellow light as he worked. It was uncanny how he could make even a mundane task like peeling spuds look like performance art. The dog ears atop his head twitched with every casual movement, and his fluffy tail swayed behind him, entirely too pleased with itself.

"Good boy," you muttered under your breath, tone laced with sarcasm — but of course Sirius caught it.

“Oh?” He straightened up suddenly, turning to you with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. The potatoes, temporarily forgotten, sat limply in his left hand. “Did I just get a good boy from you? My, my, finally some gratitude for my efforts.”

You glanced at him, deadpan. "Don't make it weird."

He grinned wolfishly. "Too late. It’s already weird. I feel validated, appreciated, even. Do it again.”

“Peel. The. Damn. Potatoes.”

“Say it again, and I’ll peel faster.”

Your head dropped toward the counter with a groan, forehead resting against the cool surface. Any hope for a peaceful Thanksgiving had long since evaporated.

“Look at you,” Sirius purred, leaning even closer—so close you could feel the faint warmth radiating off his perpetually perfect skin. “A hard-working host, slaving away for moi. I should reward you for your dedication.”

You turned your head halfway, lifting one brow. “Reward me by shutting up.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” The dog ears twitched again, and his expression shifted—not just mischief now, but something sharper, something that danced on the edge of seduction. “You know, if you’re offering, I could go for some meat right about now. I’d be more than happy to eat whatever you’re willing to feed me.”

There was an audible crack as the knife in your hand embedded itself, tip-first, into the cutting board. Sirius’s smile never faltered.

“Vegetables,” you said, slowly, deliberately, as if addressing a particularly dense toddler with godlike powers. “We’re having a vegetarian Thanksgiving. End of discussion.”

Sirius tilted his head, his ears flopping slightly like a curious pup. “End of discussion?” he echoed, feigning wounded disbelief. “Why must you be so cruel? 'Tis the season for giving, not depriving me of protein.”

“You’re a cosmic being,” you shot back. “You don’t need protein.”

“Perhaps not,” he conceded with a dramatic sigh, “but it’s about the principle of the thing.”

This was your life now, apparently. Thanksgiving, with a shapeshifting celestial hound-man who had firmly planted himself in your world and, by some cruel twist of fate, your kitchen. You were fully prepared to endure the teasing, the pranking, and even the fourth-wall-breaking commentary that Sirius seemed to delight in — but the innuendos? Those were going to get someone killed.

And it wasn’t going to be you.