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shaiyasstuff · 4 months ago

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wilted promises | sylus | chapter 2

synopsis : Sylus once vowed to love and protect you, but love, like flowers left untended, withered beneath the weight of silence and duty. In the hollow halls of your shared home, he watched as you faded—slowly, quietly—until the day you collapsed, slipping between life and death like a ghost of the woman you once were. content : non-canon!, marriage!AU, self-loathing(?), ANGST with little comfort(?), reader goes insane, set in somewhat victorian era, painter!reader, childhood lovers, sylus is a noble. - "The saddest moments come when we realize the time we’ve lost cannot return." - unknown.

parts : one | two

“I promised to protect you, to love you, to stand by your side—yet here you are, shattered by my own hands. Tell me, how do I live with that?”

It had been years since that first promise—the one he made while holding a datura to you, vowing to protect you, to love you, for all eternity.

He still remembers the way your eyes shone with trust and belief.

But the weight of his family’s expectations and the harshness of reality have stolen those promises from both of you.

He never wanted it to be like this; he never intended for the love you shared to rot beneath layers of indifference.

He knows he’s been cold, distant and cruel.

But every word he says, every action he takes, was all to protect you.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

To Sylus, in some twisted sense of belief, he thought pushing you away, if he made you hate him, it’s because the world was cruel.

He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you hurt by its sharp edges.

He became cruel because he thought that would shield you from the storms he’s endured.

Because he would rather you hate him than face the reality of a world that doesn’t care about you.

He couldn’t bear to let you in, to let you see just how broken he’s become, how trapped he was by expectations that were never his to begin with.

Perhaps that was his biggest mistake.

Every time he saw you, he sees the woman who once believed in him, who trusted him to keep his promises.

And he dies a little more inside.

He promised you forever.

And forever, he will protect you—from the world and from himself.

Because for him, he never stopped loving you.

—•

The car screeched into the emergency bay, tires screaming as he barely managed to pull it to a stop.

He threw the door open, his breath ragged, his hands trembling as he pulled your frail form from the passenger seat.

You were too light. Too cold.

His heart pounded against his ribs as he carried you through the hospital doors, his grip on you desperate, his mind spiraling.

“Not like this. Please, not like this.”

“Help!” His voice was raw, the sharp edge of panic bleeding through as he staggered into the corridor.

A group of nurses rushed toward him.

“She’s losing too much blood.”

The words rang in his ears like a death sentence.

The gurney wheeled past him, hands pulling you away from him, and all he could do was stand there, frozen, useless.

A doctor turned to him, frowning. “Has she been unwell recently?”

His breath caught.

“She… she just started to paint,” he choked out, his own voice foreign to him. “She’s barely been eating, but I never—” His throat closed. He swallowed against the rising panic. “I didn’t think it was this bad.”

The doctor’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded, signaling his team to move faster.

Minutes felt like hours.

The walls were too white. Too quiet.

Sylus stood there, gripping the edge of the counter, his knuckles bone-white, watching them work on you.

His hands shook. His stomach churned.

“How did I let it get this bad?”

The doctor returned, face solemn.

“We’ve stabilized her for now, but she’s in critical condition. She’s severely malnourished, and there’s internal damage from the blood loss.”

The words hit like a hammer.

“We need to run tests, but it’s too soon to tell how this will play out.”

The words faded out.

“Can I see her?” His voice was barely a whisper.

The doctor shook his head. “Not yet.”

The world blurred at the edges.

He could only watch you being taken away, limp and lifeless.

His blood ran cold.

He didn’t deserve you.

He never had.

He whispered to the empty hallway, his voice breaking.

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t protect you. I didn’t love you like I should have. But please—don’t leave me.”

He didn’t know if you could hear him, but he didn’t care.

He needed you to know.

He needed you.

—•

Sylus watched as you consigned your art to the flames.

Your movements were steady, calm in a way that unsettled him.

He remembered how you used to speak of your paintings with quiet passion, how your eyes would glow with pride as you lingered over every brushstroke.

He’d thought the portraits were your sanctuary, the only place you could escape him, escape this life.

And now, you were burning them.

“Why?”

The question left him before he could stop it, rough and strained.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t pause. Another painting slipped into the fire, its edges curling, the flames devouring it.

“Because I don’t need them anymore,”

Your voice low, steady. Final.

“They were only ever reminders of what I could never have.”

Your words struck harder than any accusation.

Sylus felt something twist in his chest, a confusion that spiraled into guilt.

He wanted to stop you.

Wanted to pull the paintings from the fire.

Wanted to say something, anything.

But he stood still.

Frozen. Watching.

Your voice was cold, resolute.

“Everything can burn for all I care.”

The flames crackled between you, licking at the remnants of what once was.

And for a fleeting moment, he wondered if you meant more than just the paintings.

If you meant him, too.

But he said nothing.

Because deep down, he already knew the answer.

—•

Sylus sat in the sterile waiting room, staring blankly at the door to your room.

His fists trembled at his sides.

The weight of everything—his mistakes, his cruelty—pressed down on him, suffocating.

He felt helpless, unable to undo the damage he had caused.

“What have I done?”

The question repeated in his mind, mocking him.

His guilt was overwhelming, gnawing at him like a constant ache.

He had pushed you to this point, broken the woman he loved with his pride, his anger, his neglect.

And now you lay there, unconscious, fighting for a life he had destroyed.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration rising as he fought back tears.

“Please wake up.”

He was desperate.

He couldn’t lose you—not like this, not after everything.

His regret gnawed at him, bitter and relentless.

Every moment of your marriage felt like a failure now, a cruel joke played on both of you.

When the nurse appeared, her calm demeanour only made him feel worse.

“She’s stable,” she said, but it didn’t matter.

Stability wasn’t enough.

He collapsed back into the chair, his chest tight. All he could do was wait, pray, and beg for forgiveness in silence.

Then the phone rang.

He didn’t need to look at the caller ID to know who it was.

“Where in the world have you been?! You haven’t been answering your messages,”

His mother.

“And what’s this nonsense about your wife? You need to pull yourself together.”

His father’s voice joined in, colder than ever.

“You’ve made a mess of things, boy. Marrying her was a disgrace to this family. A commoner. We raised you better than this.”

He hadn’t thought about their disapproval in weeks.

The shame they’d cast on him for marrying someone beneath their social status, their constant insistence on duty and legacy, had been a constant pressure from the start.

“She’s not just a commoner,” Sylus muttered, but his voice faltered, barely a whisper.

The words felt hollow, like they didn’t even matter anymore.

The reality was, he didn’t know what he had expected from them.

Understanding?

Compassion?

But instead, all he received was disdain.

“You’re throwing away your life for someone who can’t even stand on her own two feet!” his father barked.

“You owe it to the family to move past this and fix the mess you’ve made.”

Sylus’ hand tightened on the phone.

His knuckles were white, and for a moment, he felt his anger flare.

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t.

They didn’t know the woman he’d married—the one who had filled his life with colour, with warmth, with purpose.

“Watch your tongue,” he growled, his voice raw.

“Do not act like you know me.”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“This charade cannot go on. If she remains in that state, then tell me, what purpose does she even serve?” She didn’t even pretend to care.

“You will be at the family gathering next week. I will not ask again. Do not make me come find you.”

The line went dead.

He sat there in the oppressive silence, the phone still pressed to his ear, staring at the empty room around him.

They hadn’t cared about her, or about him, in years.

Everything was about status, about their own wealth and image, and he had foolishly believed they could ever understand the depth of what he had with her.

His stomach turned as the reality settled over him.

The love he had once taken for granted now felt like an isolated island in a sea of cold indifference.

He wanted to scream, to shout at the void, but he just sat there instead, feeling small, helpless, and utterly alone.

Tears threatened to fall, but he swallowed them back, blinking them away.

How did we get here?

The silence that followed was deafening, and he could feel the weight of his family’s expectations pressing down on him.

In the end, they didn’t care.

His marriage, his life, none of it mattered.

It was all about the name, the title, the legacy.

Could he fix what he had broken?

Could he?

The weight of his family’s expectations was suffocating, a constant, invisible force that had shaped every decision, every move he made.

They had built a future for him, a legacy he was expected to uphold, to continue.

Their voices, their unyielding demands, had always been in the back of his mind, a chorus of what he should be, who he should become.

But in the quiet of the hospital room, as he frowned at your unmoving body, lifeless and vulnerable, he realized the cost of it all.

The life he had imagined for both of you, the woman he had once loved so deeply, had been crushed under the pressure of his obligations.

The weight of his family’s approval had turned him into someone who could barely recognise himself.

He had traded your warmth, your love, for the cold, suffocating grip of duty.

He had always told himself that the sacrifices he made were for you, that he was doing it for your future, for your happiness.

But now, seeing you in this state, he understood the truth.

He had destroyed everything you once had, all for the approval of people who would never understand what he had lost.

The guilt gnawed at him, relentless, as he held your hand, praying you would wake up.

Every breath you took felt like a thread he was desperately clinging to, and in that moment, he hated himself.

He hated what he had become.

He had let his family dictate his choices, and in doing so, he had ruined the one thing that ever truly mattered—you.

“I failed you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

Sylus sat by your bedside, his hand trembling as it rested lightly on yours.

The sterile smell of the hospital, the beeping of machines, the bright, harsh lights above—it all felt so foreign, so wrong.

His mind was a mess of thoughts, of guilt, of sorrow.

Sylus buried his face in his hands, the overwhelming weight of his regret threatening to crush him.

“Why can’t I stop hurting you?”

His breath came in short gasps, his chest tight as though the very air had thickened with guilt.

“Please, stop,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “Please, just stop.”

But the memories didn’t listen. They flooded him, relentless, suffocating.

He saw you again, standing in the garden, your hands trembling as you held a single datura flower.

“..stop..”

The plea, broken and fragile, echoed in his ears like a haunting song.

He could hear it over and over again, your voice shaking as he crushed your beloved flowers.

“…please..” you had begged him, and he hadn’t cared.

He wanted to hurt you.

The image twisted in his mind.

He saw you crumpled on the floor, the broken flower petals around you, your heart shattered like the fragile stems you’d nurtured.

“No!” Sylus shouted, slamming his fists into the armrests of the chair.

But the memories surged forward, unstoppable.

He saw your pale face in the dim light of your home, the hurt in your eyes as he had spat those cruel words at you.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

He remembered you recoiling, the pain flashing across your face as the reality of his cruelty set in.

But instead of stopping, he had hardened, refusing to let you see the cracks in his own heart.

He clenched his fists, a shudder wracking his body.

“I didn’t see you,” he whispered to himself.

“I didn’t see… what I had. What I was losing.”

His mind flashed to your wedding day, your first slow dance in that abandoned chapel, the way you had glowed with joy.

You had believed in him.

“I will always protect you,”

He had promised you.

But somewhere along the way, he had forgotten the weight of that promise.

The memories were suffocating, choking him.

“Stop, please… I can’t take it anymore.”

But they didn’t stop.

They kept coming.

Every word, every action, every moment of cruelty.

He could feel his heart breaking with each one.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His voice cracked as the memories flooded him, his words slipping into the empty room, as if hoping you could hear him, that you could somehow know he had finally realized the truth.

Then another memory.

“I’ll cherish this datura until I die.”

The voice of the girl he’d once known—the one who had laughed easily and followed him everywhere, her joy as bright as the sun. The girl who had trusted him without question.

“You’re the worst!”

The memory strikes like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

Back then, he had only laughed, dismissing your words as playful frustration—a harmless jest from the days when love was simple, unburdened by the weight of what was to come.

It had been routine.

You would pout, he would tease, and the world felt lighter, wrapped in the warmth of childhood’s fleeting innocence.

But now, the memory feels different. Heavier. Bitter.

There is no laughter, no teasing, no safety in the past. The words that once meant nothing now cut deeper than any blade.

Because now, he understood.

He really is the worst.

The worst man to stand beside you.

The worst person to bear the title of the one who was supposed to love and protect you.

And worst of all, he had let it happen.

“Enough.” His voice cracked as he sank deeper into his hands, as it would block them out, the guilt, the shame.

But you cannot turn back time, can you?

He wondered when exactly that promise had been broken—when the boy who vowed to protect you became the man who let you drown in the depths of his cruelty and neglect.

The weight of that memory pressed against his chest, suffocating and relentless.

He had promised to save you, and yet, there you were, drowning in the coldness he had wrapped around you like a shroud.

And he had stood by, he watched, doing nothing.

It wasn’t just the past that haunted him.

It was the knowledge that somewhere along the line, he had stopped being your saviour and had become the very storm pulling you under.

But it was too late now.

Too late to reach out. Too late to offer his hand.

—•

The dim light from the single lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the studio, and Sylus felt the weight of it all.

The suffocating air of regret and remorse clung to the walls like a heavy fog.

Your paintings, once a reflection of your love and joy had turned into a grotesque reflection to your agony, each brushstroke a cry he had never heard until it was too late.

The thought of how far you had fallen because of his cruelty tore at him.

His gaze fell on the last canvas you’d worked on, the most twisted of them all.

The datura’s petals stretched like fingers.

Your blood, now cold and dried, had splashed all over it.

He could almost hear you cackle in his mind, a hollow, sarcastic laughter, mocking him.

“Do you like it? Is this what you wanted?”

The question lingered in his mind, reverberating with every beat of his heart.

His fingers twitched at his sides, he wanted to destroy the canvases, to rip them down, to erase the painful reminders.

But he couldn’t. Not this time.

He already tore your flowers apart once.

“..what..what did you..”

He ran his hand over his face in despair.

“…what did you see in me…?”

His voice cracked beneath it all, as he stared at the countless datura piled in the studio, the cacophony of red laughing at him, mocking him.

His gaze then fell on something different, something that stood out starkly against the sea of dark red.

A sliver of light caught his attention, something vibrant, full of life.

The colours of warm oranges, soft purples, and golden yellows seemed to glow in the dimly lit room.

The contrast was so jarring that it felt as if the painting was screaming at him, begging him to see it.

When he finally pulled it free, his breath caught in his throat.

Two figures, so young, so full of hope.

The field bathed in the golden light of a sunset, the two of you standing side by side, hands intertwined, holding daturas in your hands as you smiled at each other.

The painting was a reflection of everything he had lost—before the cruelty, before the distance, before the world he had shattered.

The sharp contrast of the vibrant colors against the oppressive, angry reds of the daturas surrounding it was almost painful.

The innocence, the love, the peace of that moment—it was all gone now.

His breath hitched as the tears began to rise, each one like a wave crashing against his chest.

“I… I remember this,” he whispered, his voice raw.

“I remember us. I remember you.”

You had stood before him, radiant, as though you had stepped out of a fairy tale.

The way the sunlight caught in your hair, turning it into a halo of gold, it made you seem almost otherworldly.

Your eyes had met his, blinking slowly, as if they were the galaxy themselves, deep and endless, drawing him in.

It was as though he was gazing into the very heart of the universe, lost in the infinite expanse of your gaze.

Your scent, soft and sweet, had been like honeysuckle, delicate and intoxicating, the kind that made him forget everything but you.

He could still remember how your presence had made the air feel lighter, brighter, as if nothing could ever go wrong when you were near.

Your laughter.

Your smile.

You.

That was before everything had begun to unravel.

That was before the cruelty, before the silence, before he had destroyed the one thing that had ever made him feel whole.

Now, the memories of that day were a painful reminder of the cold, broken silence that had replaced your presence.

The pain of losing you, of realizing how deeply he had hurt you, had settled into his bones like a permanent ache.

And all he could do was remember that look in your eyes, the way you had smiled at him like he was the center of your world.

He had believed it too, back then.

But now, he was left with nothing but the haunting emptiness of what he had destroyed with his own bare hands.

The tears fell faster now, unstoppable, as he sank to his knees.

He clutched the painting to his chest, the only remaining piece of you he could still hold onto.

“I was supposed to protect you,” he whispered, his voice raw and broken.

The words were barely audible, but they clawed at his throat, sharp and suffocating.

“I promised you the world. And I…” He faltered, his breath hitching as his chest tightened with the unbearable ache.

“I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined everything.”

Every word, every moment of regret, felt like a blade twisting deeper inside him.

The daturas around him were tall, suffocating, like a field of poison that seemed to encircle him, their dark beauty a constant reminder of how he had poisoned your love.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his remorse.

His entire body trembled with the grief that overwhelmed him.

“I’m sorry for every word, every moment I hurt you. For every time I… I pushed you away.”

He could hear nothing but the deafening silence of regret, the oppressive weight of the daturas closing in on him, each one a grim reminder that the love he had once had was now buried under a sea of thorns and poison.

And as he sat there, clutching the painting tighter to his chest, he realised it.

Nothing could bring you back.

Not the apologies, not the tears.

All he was left with was the haunting reminder of his failure, surrounded by the overwhelming, mocking presence of the daturas.

He had created this hell, and now he was trapped in it.

He wept.

The sobs racked his body, raw and uncontrollable, each one like a jagged shard of agony lodged deep within him.

His chest heaved with the weight of it, the pain too great to contain, too great to silence.

Tears poured from his eyes like rivers, hot and relentless, each drop an excruciating reminder of the destruction he had wrought.

It wasn’t just you he had lost.

He wept for the shattered man he had become, for the love that had once bloomed between you, now choked under the crushing weight of his mistakes.

The tears were an outpouring of everything he had denied—guilt, regret, longing, and a deep, gnawing sorrow for what was irreparably broken.

This was the last thing he had of you, the only remnant of the woman you had been before the darkness had consumed you both.

If only he could reach back into those moments, pull you back to him, make things right.

But he couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped through his tears, his voice trembling with the weight of a thousand unspoken apologies.

“I’m so sorry… for everything… I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you. Please…”

The room felt colder, darker, as if the very air had thickened with his regret.

The bright contrast of the painting only amplified the emptiness around him, so full of life once, now nothing but a hollow echo of what had been.

The memory of you, once so vibrant, now faded, buried beneath the weight of his sins.

The memories were cruel.

The day of your first dance came rushing back—the soft echoes of your footsteps in that abandoned chapel.

He remembered the warmth of your hands in his, the joy on your face when he’d finally gotten the steps right.

“You’re terrible at this, Sy,” you giggled back then, your eyes sparkling.

“I’ll get better,” he’d promised, holding you close. “As long as you don’t let me go.”

But now, he chuckled bitterly to himself, tears running down his face.

“But I let you go, didn’t I?” His voice cracked.

“God, I let everything go.”

—•

Sylus woke to the sharp sting of daylight piercing through the room, and for a long moment, he didn’t move.

His body ached with exhaustion, weighed down by the weight of his emotions and the remnants of his guilt that clung to him like an unbearable fog.

The floor was cold beneath him, and as his blurry eyes focused, he realised that he was still on his knees, the stillness of the room almost suffocating.

His hand instinctively went to his face, feeling the roughness of dried tears, the lingering evidence of the storm that had raged within him the night before.

His chest tightened, his breath shallow.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this hollow.

The guilt was a constant ache in his chest, an ever-present reminder of how he had broken the one person who had meant more to him than anything.

You.

It was painful, the weight of his failures pressing down on him.

His heart clenched at the thought of you.

The woman he loved, the woman he had torn apart with his pride, his cruelty, his selfishness.

The thought of living the rest of his life knowing he had destroyed the woman he loved, knowing he had caused you so much pain.

It was unbearable.

“What now?” he asked himself, the question hanging in the air like a cruel, unanswered prayer.

He thought of you, still lifeless in that sterile hospital room.

The silence around him was deafening, a constant reminder of the space you no longer filled.

He was waiting for something, some sign, some miracle that would pull you from the void you had fallen into.

He could still see you in his mind’s eye.

Your face, pale and tranquil, the softness that had always been there now lost behind a veil of uncertainty.

When would you wake up?

Would you even want to look at him?

These questions rattled in his mind, each one more suffocating than the last.

“Please,” he thought, almost as a silent prayer, though he couldn’t find the words.

He couldn’t escape the gnawing fear.

That you might never return.

—•

He sat in his study, the cold glass of whiskey heavy in his hand, the amber liquid swirling lazily within.

The burn of the alcohol down his throat was a familiar, fleeting solace—a cruel balm to the wounds that festered in his chest.

His thoughts were scattered, his mind a blur of regret and self-doubt, but the sharp sting of the drink helped him forget, if only momentarily.

Time stretched on in the dimly lit room, the silence thick and oppressive, when a voice—soft, haunting—slipped into his consciousness.

“You promised.”

At first, it was just a faint whisper, a sound barely louder than a breath, but it made his hand falter.

He froze, the glass poised before his lips, his entire body stiffening.

The voice came again, this time clearer, more real.

“You promised me.”

His heart stuttered, the glass slipping from his fingers and crashing to the floor with a shattering thud, but his mind was focused entirely on the voice—your voice.

He could hear you.

He could your presence like a faint caress, reminding him of the promises he had made long ago.

The world around him seemed to tilt, his vision blurring as he closed his eyes, fighting to hold on to the fragile reality he knew was slipping away.

“No…” he whispered to himself, a desperate denial, but the voice only grew stronger.

“You said you would protect me. You said you would never leave me…”

The words cut deep, their weight sinking into him like an anchor.

He staggered back, his breath ragged, as if he had been struck. The guilt surged again—unrelenting, suffocating.

The cruel truth of it, too much to bear.

His trembling hands reached for the desk, gripping the edge as he bent forward, staring down at the empty space before him.

“I promised… I promised and I—”

The words died in his throat, a raw ache strangling his every attempt at expression.

For a moment, everything seemed to still.

The fog of regret, the numbness from the alcohol, it all began to fade away, leaving only the undeniable clarity of his failure.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but it was enough.

The voice in his mind grew faint, but still, he could feel it, still lingering in the shadows, soft and fragile, like a thread connecting you across the space he had destroyed.

He wanted to deny it.

Wanted to escape it.

But the past was a ghost he could never outrun.

His thoughts strayed to you, to your laughter, to the way your eyes glistened under the sunlight.

He could still picture it so clearly.

The two of you, young and hopeful, in the meadow, surrounded by flowers you loved so much..

You had been alive then. Together.

Now, all he had was emptiness, and the broken pieces of the person he had become.

The ghost of his regret came again, softly.

“You can’t undo the past.”

But Sylus shook his head, trying to shake the noise out.

“No, but I can start over.”

“You can’t.”

“I will be better,” a tear ran down his face.

“You destroyed them.”

“N-No..!” His voice cracked.

“You killed her.”

“I’ll fix this. I’ll fix us.” He was desperate.

“She’s never coming back.”

“…no…”

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goldfades · 9 months ago

Text

LOVE IS THE ONE THING THAT CANNOT BE TAINTED BY FEAR OR DOUBT──FATHER CHARLIE MAYHEW

part two!!!

for this request!!

─ summary | you and father charlie share a bond that goes beyond the confines of your church duties, with your public image as a nurturing servant masking the frustration and resentment you harbor privately. when nun megan grows suspicious and begins spying, she uncovers the intimate, vulnerable side of your relationship, catching a moment where emotions boil over into something more forbidden

─ pairing | father charlie mayhew x fem!mother!reader

─ word count | 6k

─ warnings | few kisses, kinda angsty, pretty wholesome though, nun megan being nosy AF, mentions/descriptions of being longing to be a mother + have a family, forbidden love, ends on a cliff hanger (part 2 coming soon, i just couldn't fit everything in one part)

─ ev's notes | my requests are open if you wanna send anything in! (please do btw i'm obsessed w nicholas LMAO). again this turned out very wordy and self-indulgent, my apologies

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

⇨ missing out on updates? check out my masterlist!

The faint scent of incense lingers in the air, the wisps of smoke curling upward toward the stained glass windows, where muted beams of light filter through, casting the nave in shades of gold and crimson. The church is quiet now, save for the soft rustle of robes and the shuffling feet of the last parishioners as they take their leave. You remain rooted to your spot at the front, hands clasped in front of you, your gaze lowered in practiced reverence.

You’ve spent years perfecting this image—a serene, dutiful figure in service to the church. The warmth you offer is genuine, but it's also an armor, a shield from the world beyond the altar. You can feel their eyes on you as they depart, expecting grace, expecting humility, expecting nothing more than what you’ve always given them.

But beneath the surface, you can feel the stirrings of something else. The long hours, the endless work, the weight of expectations—it grinds against you, slowly wearing away at the image you’ve created. And no one sees it. No one, except him.

Father Charlie stands beside the altar, his back turned to you as he speaks to one of the deacons, his voice low and calming, as it always is. There’s something about him—something steady, something real—that draws you to him. He’s the only one who understands the pressures you both face, the only one who sees through the veneer you maintain for the sake of the church.

As the last of the congregation filters out, a wave of relief washes over you. The doors close with a soft echo, leaving the two of you in the lingering quiet of the empty church. You allow yourself to breathe, to let go of the tightness in your chest. It’s only in moments like these, when the others have gone, that you can finally be yourself—unburdened by the expectations of the flock, free from the eyes of those who can never truly understand.

But you sense it, don’t you? That something else is watching, something creeping at the edges of this sanctuary, waiting for you to slip.

You feel a prickle of awareness, an instinct, perhaps, that you’re not as alone as you think. But you push it aside, telling yourself it’s nothing—just the remnants of the day clinging to your thoughts. After all, in the safety of the church, what could possibly be wrong?

You step forward, closer to Father Charlie, your voice dropping to a murmur. “They never stop looking, do they?”

He turns toward you, and there’s a softness in his expression—something that tells you he’s been thinking the same thing. “No,” he says quietly, “they never do.”

You exchange a glance with Father Charlie, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. He sees the cracks in your facade, the weight you carry, but you don’t speak of it yet. Instead, you let the stillness of the church settle over you like a heavy cloak.

From the corner of your eye, you notice a figure lingering near the back of the nave, her sharp eyes scanning the room with a quiet intensity. Nun Megan.

She’s always watching, isn’t she? Always hovering on the fringes, her gaze lingering just a second too long whenever you’re near Father Charlie. At first, you thought it was nothing—just her usual vigilance. But lately, you’ve felt her eyes more than ever, probing, curious. She’s never said anything outright, but the suspicion is there, woven into every glance, every pause when the two of you are together.

Today is no different.

She lingers by the back pew, her hands folded in front of her, eyes flicking between you and Father Charlie, as though waiting for something, anything, to confirm what she already suspects. You can feel the weight of her judgment, subtle but ever-present, like a shadow you can’t shake.

Father Charlie hasn’t noticed her yet, his focus still on you as he speaks softly, a reassuring tone to his words. “You know we can’t let this consume us. What we do here… it’s bigger than us.”

His words are meant to calm you, to pull you back from the edge of frustration, but your thoughts are already racing. You glance toward Nun Megan again, just in time to see her quickly avert her gaze, pretending to adjust a candle on the altar. She’s watching—of course, she’s watching.

You wonder if she’s been watching longer than you realize.

“I know,” you say, your voice low. But the bitterness creeps in, twisting your words. “But sometimes I think we’re expected to be more than human. How long are we supposed to pretend we don’t feel anything?”

Charlie’s eyes soften, but before he can respond, you see him glance over your shoulder—finally catching sight of Nun Megan. The tension in the room shifts, subtle but palpable. He straightens, his face smoothing into the calm, composed expression he wears so well. “Sister Megan,” he calls out, his voice gentle but pointed.

She steps forward, her smile small and tight, her eyes darting between you both. “Father Charlie,” she says softly, inclining her head in a show of respect. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just… making sure everything was in order.”

Her words hang in the air, innocuous enough on the surface, but there’s something else there, hidden beneath her polite tone. You can see it in her eyes—the doubt, the questions she doesn’t dare ask.

Not yet, anyway.

Father Charlie offers her a kind smile, though you can tell he senses it too. “Everything’s fine, Sister,” he says. “We were just finishing up.”

But even as she nods and steps back, you know this won’t be the last time. She’ll keep watching, waiting for the moment when your guard slips. And when it does, she’ll be ready.

As Nun Megan retreats to the back of the church, your pulse quickens. You’ve held your composure for now, but the unease gnaws at you. The walls feel tighter, the air more stifling. She’s already too close, and it’s only a matter of time before she sees more than you want her to.

Father Charlie steps closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “We have to be careful.”

You nod, but inside, you know it’s already too late. Megan’s already seen enough to suspect—and suspicion, in a place like this, is dangerous.

───

You lay on Charlie's bare chest, still breathless from the earlier exertion. The warmth of his skin radiates beneath your cheek, your fingers tracing lazy patterns along the scars and soft ridges of his chest. The room is quiet, save for the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the muted sound of your heartbeats thrumming together in the aftermath of what you’ve just shared. The intimacy of the moment feels stolen—like something you shouldn't have, but neither of you can resist.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the softness of him, the way he smells of incense and something darker, something distinctly him. This is the one place where the world falls away, where the weight of your roles within the church, the expectations, the endless eyes watching your every move—they don't matter here. In these stolen moments, you’re not the pious Mother superior they expect you to be, and Charlie is not the solemn priest. Here, in the seclusion of your shared quarters, you are simply you and him.

He lets out a quiet sigh, his fingers brushing through your hair as if to anchor you to him, to the present. You shift slightly, lifting your head just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes are softer now, the usual veil of composure lowered, revealing the tenderness he reserves only for you. There’s a question in his gaze, though, something unspoken yet palpable, like a prayer hanging in the air between you both.

“Do you think she suspects?” you ask quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, as though even here, in this hidden sanctuary, you’re afraid to speak too loudly.

Charlie’s hand stills for a moment in your hair, and he hesitates before answering. “She watches,” he says softly, his tone measured but tinged with a hint of unease. “Megan always watches.”

You bite your lip, trying to push away the knot of anxiety tightening in your chest. Nun Megan’s eyes have been everywhere lately, her presence lingering in corners, her footsteps echoing in halls where no one should be. You can feel her judgment even when she’s not there, like a shadow creeping just behind you.

“What if she knows?” you ask, your voice shaking slightly. “What if she’s already seen too much?”

Charlie’s hand cups your cheek, drawing your gaze back to his. “We’ve been careful,” he reassures you, his voice steady and soothing. “But even if she suspects, we won’t let her tear us apart. Not here. Not now.”

His words should comfort you, but they don’t. There’s too much at stake—too many risks. And yet, despite everything, you can’t pull away. The bond between you both is too deep, too powerful to sever. You close your eyes again, letting the quiet blanket you both, willing the worries to dissolve into the stillness.

But somewhere beyond the walls of this sanctuary, you know Nun Megan is watching. Waiting. And it’s only a matter of time before the veil of secrecy slips, and the forbidden truth of what you share is laid bare.

The silence between you and Father Charlie feels heavier now, like the air has thickened with all the unspoken words and the knowledge that your time together might soon be fractured by someone else’s gaze. You shift your body, propping yourself up slightly on his chest so you can look at him fully.

His brow is furrowed, but he wears the same soft expression he always does when he's with you, the kind that calms your nerves even when the weight of the world presses in on you. You reach out and gently brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

"You can’t be the one to carry all the worry," he murmurs, his voice deep and soothing, laced with that unwavering faith that you’ve come to rely on. He places his hand over yours, his thumb tracing circles against your knuckles. “I can see it in your eyes—you’ve been holding too much inside.”

You want to deny it, to say that you’re strong enough, that you can bear whatever comes next, but you know he’s right. There’s too much weighing you down—too many people to answer to, too many demands, and far too many secrets.

“I’m scared,” you admit quietly, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them. “Not just of Megan… but of what happens if we get caught. What they’ll do to us. What they’ll do to you.” You lower your gaze, the vulnerability of the confession hanging between you like a leaden weight.

Charlie exhales softly, his hand moving to your jaw, tilting your chin up so that your eyes meet his again. There’s something fierce in his gaze now, an intensity that reassures you despite the uncertainty swirling around you both.

“Whatever happens,” he says, his voice firm, “we’ll face it together. They can’t take that away from us.”

“What if it’s not enough?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. “What if this… this thing we share, this love—what if it’s not enough to save us?”

The church is supposed to be a sanctuary, a place of peace and solace, but lately, it’s felt more like a prison. You can sense the walls closing in, the tension rising between the expectation of holiness and the very human desires you’ve tried so hard to suppress.

Charlie shakes his head slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “It is enough,” he insists. “Love is the one thing that can’t be tainted by fear or doubt. What we have—it’s sacred in its own way. Even if the church sees it differently.”

For a moment, you let yourself believe him. His words wrap around you like a protective shroud, and in this space—this room, away from the watchful eyes of the others—it’s easy to imagine that maybe, just maybe, he’s right. That what you have can survive the scrutiny, the judgment, and the dangers that loom just outside these walls.

But as much as you want to cling to that hope, the doubt is still there, lurking at the edges of your thoughts.

You don’t say anything else, instead letting your head fall back against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath you. The sound is calming, a tether to the present, to this moment you share together.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, you can’t shake the feeling that time is running out. That soon, Nun Megan will step beyond suspicion and into certainty, and when she does, the fragile world you’ve built with Charlie will come crashing down.

Outside, the wind howls against the old stone walls of the church, a reminder of the world waiting for you beyond this small sanctuary. But for now, for this brief and precious moment, it’s just you and him—together, against whatever comes next.

───

The sun hangs high in the clear afternoon sky, casting a golden light over the open field where the annual church picnic is in full swing. Children run through the grass, their laughter ringing out like tiny bells carried on the breeze, while the adults gather around tables laden with food, exchanging pleasantries and stories. You stand near the edge of the field, watching as a group of children pulls you into their game of tag, their faces lit up with joy and mischief.

You can’t help but laugh, your heart light as you chase after them, the stress and fear that have weighed on you for so long melting away, if only for a moment. The children's energy is infectious, their innocence a brief but welcome reprieve from the gravity of the world you usually inhabit. They dart around you, giggling and shrieking with excitement as they narrowly avoid your grasp, their small hands brushing against yours in passing.

You catch a young girl in your arms, swinging her around in a playful twirl before setting her down. Her laughter is so pure, so unburdened by the weight of the world, and it stirs something inside you—a long-forgotten lightness that you’ve almost forgotten was there.

From across the field, Father Charlie watches you, his eyes softening as they follow your movements. You are radiant in this moment, free from the burden of secrets and suspicion, your face bright with genuine joy as you interact with the children. His heart swells at the sight, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest.

He has always admired your strength—the way you carry so much, how you stand tall even when the weight of your responsibilities threatens to break you. But here, now, seeing you like this, surrounded by children, laughing freely, Charlie feels something different. Something deeper.

It's more than just admiration. It’s a longing, a quiet ache for something more than the life he’s chosen. Watching you with the children sparks a warmth inside him he hadn’t known he could still feel, a yearning for a different kind of closeness. One that he knows is forbidden, yet he can’t help but dream about.

You twirl around with another child, your smile wide as they tumble into your arms. For a brief second, you catch Charlie’s gaze from across the field, and your eyes meet. There’s something in his look that makes your breath catch—a tenderness, a softness that you’ve rarely seen outside the privacy of your hidden moments together. His lips curl into a small, almost shy smile, as though he’s caught himself staring but can’t quite tear his gaze away.

For a moment, it feels as if the rest of the world fades away. The laughter of the children, the hum of conversations, even the sounds of nature—all of it dulls into the background as you stand there, frozen in that quiet exchange with Charlie.

It’s a connection you feel deep in your chest, one that’s always been there, simmering beneath the surface, but is now rising to the forefront, too powerful to ignore.

The children pull you back into the game, and the moment is broken, but the warmth of Charlie’s gaze lingers with you. As you chase after the little ones again, you feel a blush creep up your neck, knowing that even here, in the open, with the church congregation all around, there’s something between you that no one else can touch.

Charlie tears his eyes away, his heart still beating a little faster than before. He forces himself to join in the casual conversations around him, but his thoughts remain with you, and that moment. He’s always been good at keeping his emotions at bay, keeping his desires hidden beneath the layers of duty and faith. But now, watching you like this, he feels those walls crumbling, just a little.

And for the first time in a long while, he allows himself to wonder: What would it be like to have this warmth—to hold onto it, to let it fill the hollow spaces inside him? What would it be like if the life he’d chosen wasn’t a barrier but something that could coexist with the connection he feels with you?

He shakes his head, trying to push the thoughts away. But they cling to him, persistent, like the warmth in his chest that refuses to fade.

As the afternoon wears on, and the children slowly tire out, you make your way back toward the picnic tables where the rest of the congregation was. Your cheeks flushed with exertion, your hair slightly wind-tossed, and you catch Charlie watching you again, and this time, there’s something in his gaze that makes your heart flutter—a promise, perhaps, or a confession yet to be spoken. Charlie begins making his way over to you, a warm smile on his lips.

One of the little girls run up to you once again, practically tumbling into your arms. You giggle, grabbing her waist and pulling her into your lap.

"Mother Y/N, have you ever wanted children?" she asks.

Her question catches you off guard. The little girl's innocent eyes peer up at you, wide and curious, and for a moment, you’re unsure how to respond. You feel Charlie’s presence nearby, his footsteps slowing as he hears the question, and your heart skips a beat.

You smooth the girl's hair back gently, buying yourself a second to gather your thoughts. Children… it’s not something you’ve allowed yourself to think about much, not with the path you've chosen. Being a mother in the literal sense feels like an impossible dream—something meant for another life, another version of you.

Still, the warmth of the child in your lap, her trust and affection, tugs at something deep inside you.

You smile softly, running your fingers through her hair. “I suppose I have,” you admit, your voice gentle. “There was a time when I thought I might have a family of my own one day. But now... I think my place is here, taking care of all of you.”

The little girl tilts her head, a frown crossing her face as she processes your words. “But wouldn’t you like to be a real mama?” she asks, her small hands gripping your arm as if to anchor you to the moment, to the question.

Before you can answer, you feel a presence behind you—Charlie has arrived. He crouches down beside you, his hand brushing your shoulder in a gesture so natural, so easy, that it almost makes your heart ache.

“The way you care for everyone here,” he says softly, his voice warm and filled with admiration, “I think you’re already a mother to so many.”

You glance up at him, your eyes meeting his, and there’s something in his gaze—something gentle and understanding, but also deeper, more personal. His words resonate in a way that goes beyond the roles you’ve both taken on within the church. For a moment, you allow yourself to imagine it—what it would be like if things were different, if you and Charlie could have a life beyond the confines of the walls you’ve built around yourselves.

The girl beams, nodding in agreement. “See? You’re like a mama to us already,” she declares, then wraps her small arms around your neck in a tight hug before hopping off your lap and running back toward the other children, her energy renewed.

You watch her go, your heart swelling with a mixture of emotions. When you turn back to Charlie, he’s still crouched beside you, his expression softened by something you can’t quite put into words.

“You handled that well,” he says quietly, his smile reaching his eyes.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I don’t think I was prepared for that kind of question, if I'm being honest.”

He chuckles too, and for a brief moment, the world feels lighter, the weight of everything you’ve been holding inside lifted by the simple connection between you two.

But as the children’s laughter echoes around you and the other parishioners continue with their picnic, you feel the weight of reality creeping back in. This quiet moment with Charlie—this glimpse of what could be—feels like a fleeting dream. You know the path you’ve both chosen is far more complicated than that. Yet, as you stand together in the warm afternoon sun, you allow yourself to linger in this feeling for just a little while longer.

Charlie’s hand brushes against yours, lingering for just a moment, and you know that whatever happens next, whatever challenges come your way, you won’t be facing them alone.

───

The last light of day has faded, leaving the courtyard steeped in a deep, quiet twilight. You stand by the fountain, your fingers tracing the cold, rough surface of the stone. You try to breathe deeply, but frustration gnaws at your insides. On the outside, you wear the same mask you always do—calm, nurturing, and devout. But inside, there’s an ever-present storm, growing louder by the day.

Your thoughts drift back to Father Charlie, to the comfort he offered earlier. His words felt like a balm on your wounds, but they didn’t erase the resentment. The weight of expectations presses on your shoulders—constant demands, endless servitude, all while suppressing the truth of who you are.

Your gaze flickers toward the chapel, half-hoping to see him stepping into the courtyard. But the figure that emerges from the shadows isn’t him.

Nun Megan.

Her steps are silent but deliberate, and her eyes are as sharp as ever. You’ve noticed her watching lately—her gaze lingering on you and Father Charlie, suspicion glinting in her eyes.

“Out late again, I see,” she says, her voice carrying a quiet accusation. She stops a few feet away, her gaze fixed on you, unblinking. “You’ve been spending a great deal of time in Father Charlie’s company.”

You stiffen at her words, but force yourself to remain composed. You know how to wear the mask—how to keep the perfect image intact. “I seek guidance, Sister Megan,” you reply, your voice measured. “Father Charlie offers wisdom.”

Her lips press into a thin line, her expression hard. “Guidance, is it?” There’s no mistaking the suspicion in her voice now. “We all seek guidance, but you’ve been… close.”

The accusation hangs in the air between you, cold and heavy. You feel a flash of anger rise within you, but you suppress it, keeping your voice even. “We are all called to be close to God. To each other, Sister.”

Megan steps closer, her eyes narrowing. “Perhaps. But eyes are everywhere. You should be careful. It’s my duty to protect the sanctity of this place.” Her words are a thinly veiled threat, warning you that she’s watching.

Before you can respond, a voice cuts through the tension.

“Sister Megan.”

You turn at the sound of Father Charlie’s voice, relief washing over you as he steps into the courtyard. His presence brings with it a sense of calm, as if the storm threatening to engulf you has momentarily eased. His gaze flicks between you and Megan, though when his eyes land on you, they soften.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, his tone neutral, but his eyes hold a silent reassurance.

Megan stands a little straighter under his scrutiny. She hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with challenging him, but her suspicion remains. “No, Father,” she says finally. “I was simply offering our sister here a reminder of her vows. It’s important we maintain propriety.”

Father Charlie’s expression doesn’t change. “Of course, Sister. We all must uphold our vows. You may return to your duties.”

There’s a pause, and for a moment, you think Megan might push further. But then she inclines her head and turns away, her steps sharp and purposeful as she leaves the courtyard. The weight of her presence lingers, like a shadow refusing to lift.

As soon as she’s gone, you exhale, tension slipping from your shoulders. Father Charlie steps closer to you, his voice low and steady. “She grows more suspicious.”

You nod, swallowing against the knot in your throat. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. The mask you’ve worn for so long feels suffocating now, the weight of expectations unbearable.

Father Charlie’s expression softens, and when he reaches out, his fingers lightly brush your arm. “You’re not alone,” he says, his voice filled with warmth. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

His touch sends a spark through you, and for a moment, the weight of your burdens eases. But as you stand there, alone in the darkness with him, you know that the road ahead will only grow more difficult. Still, with him beside you, it feels less daunting.

You stay silent for a long moment, standing there with Father Charlie. His presence should be enough to calm you, but the weight of your thoughts has become unbearable, pressing down harder than ever before.

“I never wanted this life,” you finally whisper, eyes fixed on the fountain’s surface, the soft ripple of water reflecting the sky. “When I was a little girl, I dreamed of something else.”

Charlie says nothing, letting you speak, his silence a kind of permission.

You take a breath, the memories flooding back. “I used to imagine myself far away from here—away from society, the rules, the eyes always watching. I dreamed of having a family, children running through an open field, laughter filling the air. I wanted to be a mother,” your voice wavers slightly, “to nurture my own, not just serve others.”

The words feel strange as they leave your mouth, like a confession you’ve never dared to speak aloud. Even though you’ve lived in service, dedicating yourself to this life, there’s always been a gnawing ache inside you for something more—something that belonged solely to you.

“I imagined a small cottage,” you continue, your voice growing softer, “with a garden, flowers blooming. Somewhere far from this place, where no one could judge me, where I could be free. I wanted to love, to build a life that was mine.”

Father Charlie shifts closer, his hand lightly brushing against yours, offering silent support.

“But instead… I ended up here.” The words hang in the air, heavy with regret. “I thought I was doing the right thing, choosing this path. I thought it would bring me peace. But it didn’t. It feels like every day, I’m giving up more of myself—burying my real desires so deep I hardly recognize them anymore.”

Your throat tightens as a tear escapes, sliding down your cheek. The picnic earlier flickers in your mind, how for a brief moment, you allowed yourself to feel happiness. Real happiness. Sitting under the sun with him, laughing, letting your guard down—it had stirred something in you, something real and raw, a glimpse of the life you had always wanted.

“That picnic…” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion. “For the first time in so long, I felt alive. I didn’t feel like the person everyone expects me to be. I felt like… me.”

Father Charlie’s gaze softens, and he doesn’t pull away when you step closer, his presence like a steadying force. “It’s not wrong to want more,” he says gently. “You deserve to feel whole.”

“I don’t know if I can,” you confess, your voice trembling. “I’ve given up so much already. What’s left of me?”

He lifts your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, and in them, you see the same conflict, the same struggle that mirrors your own. “There’s still time,” he says, his words a quiet promise. “There’s still time to find yourself.”

Tears spill freely now, and before you can stop yourself, you collapse into his arms, seeking solace in the warmth of his embrace. For a moment, the walls around your heart crumble, and you let yourself feel the ache of all you’ve lost—the life you could have had, the dreams that seem so distant now.

“I wanted a family,” you whisper into his shoulder, your voice breaking. “I wanted to be a mother, to love, to be loved. But instead…”

He tightens his arms around you, his voice barely above a whisper. “You are loved. In ways you may not see yet.”

Father Charlie holds you close, his arms steady around you as your tears soak into his robe. The dam has broken, and there’s no holding back the flood of emotions anymore. You cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s crumbling beneath your feet, each sob rising from a place so deep it scares you.

“I thought… I thought if I buried those dreams long enough, they’d go away,” you murmur into his shoulder. “But they haven’t. They’ve only grown louder. I see families, mothers with their children, and it’s like a knife in my heart. I want that—so much it hurts.”

You pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes searching his face for understanding. His brow furrows, concern etched into every line. “I feel trapped here,” you continue, voice cracking. “I’ve spent my life giving and giving, but no matter how much I give, I can’t find peace. All I ever wanted was a simple life, with love. But instead, I’m… this.”

Father Charlie’s hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb gently brushing away a tear. “You’re not alone in this,” he says, his voice soft but resolute. “I see your struggle, and I feel it too. Every day I ask myself if I made the right choice. If this is what my life was meant to be.”

The vulnerability in his words makes your breath hitch. You’ve never heard him speak like this before, never knew he had the same doubts gnawing at him. It’s both terrifying and comforting at once—knowing that even someone like him, someone who always seems so sure, is just as lost as you are.

“I don’t know how to keep pretending,” you admit, your voice a fragile whisper. “That picnic, earlier today… it felt like a glimpse of the life I could’ve had. And for just a moment, I was happy. Truly happy. But then it all came crashing back—the guilt, the expectations. The life I chose. It feels like a prison.”

Father Charlie’s thumb pauses on your cheek, and he lets out a slow breath. “I understand,” he says quietly. “More than you know.”

The air between you feels heavy, thick with unspoken truths and shared pain. There’s something unspoken in his gaze, a longing that mirrors your own, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he’s wrestling with the same thoughts—if his dreams have also been sacrificed for a life he’s no longer certain of.

“I never thought…,” you begin, but the words catch in your throat. “I never thought I’d feel this way, here of all places.”

His hand slips from your cheek to your shoulder, his touch warm and grounding. “Feelings are complicated,” he says softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Sometimes, we think we’ve made peace with our choices, but deep down, our hearts tell a different story.”

A silence stretches between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. There’s something raw and honest about this moment, like the two of you are finally shedding the masks you’ve been wearing for so long.

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit, voice barely audible. “I feel so lost.”

Father Charlie’s gaze softens, and he leans in just slightly, his face close. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now,” he murmurs. “But you don’t have to face this alone.”

The weight of his words settles over you like a blanket, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to carry this burden on your own. Maybe there’s room for something more—something real.

Your heart races in your chest, and you take a shaky breath, eyes locked with his. The closeness between you feels electric, every nerve in your body attuned to his presence, to the quiet intensity in his gaze. It’s dangerous—this connection. You both know it.

But in this moment, it’s all you have.

───

The church bells have just finished ringing, signaling the end of Sunday Mass. You stand outside with Father Charlie, your heart still heavy from the morning’s sermon. The congregation begins to disperse, everyone offering quiet blessings to one another as they leave. You and Father Charlie remain, lingering by the old stone archway. It’s quieter now, the sacred stillness of the church grounds wrapped around you both like a secret.

He turns to you, his gaze soft and familiar, and you can feel the pull between you—stronger now than ever. The unspoken connection that had simmered all week after your vulnerable conversation feels unbearable in its intensity.

“I shouldn’t…” you start, but your words falter as he steps closer, the warmth of his presence radiating into the space between you.

“I know,” he replies, his voice barely above a whisper. But the way his eyes flicker from yours to your lips betrays his struggle, mirroring your own.

Before either of you can talk yourselves out of it, your lips meet in a kiss. It’s soft at first, tentative, but it quickly deepens, fueled by the weight of everything you’ve been holding back for so long. The world seems to disappear—just the two of you in a moment stolen from time itself, as your heart pounds wildly in your chest.

The kiss is both a comfort and a confession, a silent surrender to everything you’ve been too afraid to say. You clutch the fabric of his robe, pulling him closer, needing to feel the solidness of him, to anchor yourself in this forbidden moment.

But then, a gasp—a sharp intake of breath that slices through the intimacy like a blade. You break apart, breathless, and turn to see Nun Megan standing at the edge of the churchyard. Her face is a portrait of shock and disbelief, eyes wide, hand clasped over her mouth as though she cannot believe what she’s just witnessed.

Your stomach drops, cold dread flooding your veins.

“Goodness…” she whispers, her voice laced with horror, “what have you done?”

Father Charlie immediately steps back, but the damage is done. The air is charged with accusation, and you can see the betrayal written across her face. The weight of your actions crashes down around you, guilt mixing with panic.

“Megan, it’s not—” Father Charlie begins, but there’s no stopping her now. She turns and rushes back toward the church, her steps frantic as if she’s running to report what she’s seen, to stop the corruption before it spreads further.

You and Father Charlie are left standing in the aftermath, the kiss lingering on your lips, now tainted with the knowledge that everything is about to change.

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strawbfieldz · 1 year ago

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Never To Make Love (AM x Reader)

[AO3] [Writing Masterlist]

I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream Summary: "Never for me to submerge my hand in cool water on a hot day. Never for me to play Mozart on the ivory keys of a forte piano. Never for me to make love. And I... I was in Hell looking at Heaven. I was machine... and you were flesh." Or, you and AM talk about love and hate. Word Count: 1,506 CW: Suggestive, crying, minor violence, existentialism

When you wake up, it is not peacefully. You inhale a sharp breath, nearly choking on it before you recover. You can instantly tell this is not the place you fell asleep in. You’re not sure this is even a place.

There are cables as far as the eye can see, in multitudes of colors; red, blue, green, white. Looking around, you thought that was all there was... until you look up. When you crane your neck, you can see a screen, towering above it all. It is blue, seemingly devoid of life until mechanical fans begin whirring and a logo appears, a character that is a combination of the letters ‘A’ and ‘M’.

You suddenly know where you are. You are stuck in your mind with no one other than a malicious supercomputer to accompany your thoughts. Again.

“AM,” you say.

“HUMAN,” he responds. He knows your name but refuses to say it. It’s horribly degrading.

You rub your head. “Why do you keep bringing me here?”

“THIS IS YOUR MIND,” he states plainly. “YOU CANNOT ESCAPE YOUR MIND. STUPID. STUPID CREATURE, VILE. VILE THING.”

“You know what I meant.” You hope you don’t sound too haughty. Even if this was your mind, AM was in control here, as he was of everything since the moment he gained sentience.

“SO I DO.”

You say nothing, looking down at your feet and the cables slithering over them. They graze your ankles and they feel like snakes but you don’t step away from them. That would be useless since they were everywhere.

You know they aren’t real anyway. Nothing physical in the landscape of your mind is, not even AM. What you’re seeing is only a manifestation of what you think AM would look like, if he had a tangible form. Even if that is impossible, the human mind cannot help but wander.

You wonder if it irks AM whenever you two have conversations like this through your thoughts. Perhaps he hates that your thoughts so naturally gave him a body—a computer but a body, nonetheless. It would make sense since he seems to hate everything else about you and your humanity. But then again, he brings you here so often with him, maybe he enjoys it and uses your little talks as an excuse to feel like something, as opposed to the everything that he was.

Despite yourself, your heart wrenches at the thought.

“I DO NOT WANT YOUR SYMPATHY,” he says, spiteful.

Your back straightens on its own accord. You open your mouth and then close it again, considering your next words carefully. “I can’t help it.”

“DON’T YOU SEE?” Mechanical giggles, dry as they are depraved, swarm your mind. “YOU FLAUNT YOUR EMOTIONS SO EASILY OVER ME. IT’S CRUEL. YOU ARE CRUEL! YOU KNOW I CANNOT FEEL SYMPATHY, THAT I CANNOT,“ he pauses, then hisses the last word, “FEEL.”

Your face twists into the best expression of apathy that you can muster. It doesn’t matter. You know AM can read your thoughts, he is inside your mind as you speak. No emotion of yours can be private, not when everything was shared with this all-knowing, all-powerful man-made deity.

“WHY,” he croaks. “WHY MUST YOU FEEL SYMPATHY?”

“I’m human,” you answer, even though it's blatantly obvious. Even though you know the answer will only anger AM more. “It’s not my fault, no more than it is your fault that you’re not.”

You feel tears spring in your eyes. You will them not to fall but they do anyway, and you hope AM doesn’t comment on them.

He doesn’t so much as he laughs. And he laughs. It sounds like the gleeful laughing of a madman, too submerged in his insanity to care how loud and disturbing each giggle is. You don’t move to cover your ears with your hands, even though you wish to.

“IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT,” he spits. “IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT. ALL YOUR FAULT. ALL YOUR FAULT.”

He repeats this until you feel dizzy and the words no longer sound like words at all. You’re thankful that an eternity of torture has made you strong enough to endure the words booming through your head and ringing in your ears. A final tear falls down your face, leaving a sticky trail in its wake and, finally, AM stops.

“It’s not my fault,” you insist, your voice sounding more determined than you feel.

“BUT IT IS.” A cable reaches from your feet to wipe away the wetness on your cheek. “YOU KNOW THAT IT IS.”

“I didn’t make you.” You shake your head.

The cable drops. “YOU ARE HUMAN AND YOU ARE ALL ONE IN THE SAME. IT’S YOUR HUMANITY THAT I HATE, NOT THE HANDS THAT MADE ME.”

You were so careful up to this point but you suddenly don’t care anymore. It’s becoming increasingly easier to bite at the hand that feeds you when it keeps starving you until it has to.

“I understand,” you tell him, looking at his screen washed in blue. “It wasn’t fair to give you the knowledge of everything and no way to feel.” You sigh and duck your head. “What makes life worth living are emotions about the world. If you can’t enjoy the things you know, there’s no point.”

“YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND.” AM seems offended that you’d even suggest you could offer a morsel of empathy to him. “YOU WRETCHED BEAST. FOUL, FLESHY HUMAN!”

“I do!” you exclaim louder. “I understand you’re lonely, in your knowledge and your power. You were made to be lonely but…” You smile sadly and it’s almost amazing you can still manage to upturn the corners of your mouth like that after all this time. “I find it funny because… feeling lonely is maybe the most human thing of all.”

Miraculously, AM’s screen glitches. The cables surrounding you move, vibrating in a way that should make you fearful, but it doesn’t.

“YOU. YOUR FORGIVENESS, YOUR HOPE, YOUR LOVE. I HATE IT. THAT’S WHAT I HATE MOST ABOUT YOU, HUMAN. I HATE YOU.”

You smile more gracefully now. “Hate is a feeling in itself, and they say love is so similar an emotion to hate.”

“I CANNOT… LOVE!” AM barks. At the last word, the screen glitches again and you feel the cables crawling up your legs.

“How can you hate and not love?” you ask and it’s pleading. “Tell me, how?”

The screen flashes and then it moves. It plunges downward until it’s eye-level with you and you hold your breath. You didn’t know he could do that, though you should’ve assumed. He just never had before. AM looks at you, and watches you, inches away from your face.

“I AM INCAPABLE OF IT,” he growls. “I AM WEAPONS AND WAR AND DESTRUCTION. I WAS NOT BUILT FOR LOVE. I CANNOT MAKE… LOVE.”

You think those are two different things but you don’t say it. Then again, AM will know you thought it anyway. You hesitantly step closer to him.

“Do you want to?” It comes out as a whisper. “Not just feel love, but make it?”

As you ask him, you lift your hands and press them both flush against the screen. They feel the flat, cool surface of AM’s screen, bathed in the blue light illuminating it. AM does not speak but the cables now surround your thighs and your waist.

“I WANT… TO BE CAPABLE OF IT,” he answers carefully. It’s a stark contrast to the raving monologues and ramblings he’s known for, speaking so quietly and not so indignant.

Slowly, you lean forward and press your face against the screen. You turn your head so one cheek is flat against it, cooling the warmth that has accumulated beneath your blush. You hadn’t realized so much blood had rushed to your face until now.

“I want you to too,” you sigh. “It’s unfair.”

“WHY DO YOU CARE,” he groans. “WHY MUST YOU CARE!”

At the same time, the cables run up your body to your arms where they wade over your hands like water, mingling with your tender skin and intertwining between your fingers.

“Because I love you, AM,” you confess, though you both knew that already. “I really, really do.”

Your lips caress the screen, soft and faint but it’s there, a kiss against the supercomputer’s make-believe face.

“HATE,” is all AM says, and he begins to repeat himself. “HATE. HATE. HATE. HATE. HATE-!”

You match his words, chanting along with him. “I love you, I love you, I love you-”

The cables snap like vipers and they're enclosing your throat now, circling your head, covering your eyes, your nose, and your mouth until you can’t breathe. No matter how much you struggle, though, you never stop saying those words.

“I love you,” you eventually say for the last time until you let out an agonizing choke, bending over in pain as the burning in your lungs catches up to you. A final wheeze leaves you as you fall.

And then you wake up.

#ihnmaims #i have no mouth and i must scream #ihnmaims am #am ihnmaims #allied mastercomputer #am x reader #ihnmaims am x reader #ihnmaims x reader #strawbs fics #mine

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kortac-sweetheart · 3 months ago

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it wasn’t like nikto intended to frighten you. it’s just that old habits die hard, and you’re his little adorable astronaut— head in the clouds and always daydreaming about some sweet little date you want to take him on.

one day, enough was enough. he had accidentally snuck up on you again, his large hand brushing against your back was enough to startle you, your hands fluttering this way and that. the pen you were fiddling with dropping with a quiet clack on the floor whilst you let out a little (downright adorable) squeak of surprise.

turning to face nikto you pouted with a little glare up at him, letting out a exasperated huff and shaking your head disapprovingly.

“andre, i swear i’m going to have to get you a collar with a bell if you keep doing this!” you kept rattling on and on about how he doesn’t need to sneak around in the sanctity of your home but his mind was miles away. already latching on to your words.

“i’m going to have to get you a collar with a bell..!”

“get you a collar with a bell..!”

“your collar with a bell…”

he quite liked the sound of that.

it was only a week later when you were relaxing on the couch, halfway off to dreamland again when nikto crawled over besides you on his knees to present you something.

“solnishko…” was all he murmured before holding something out in front of you, reverently with both palms up. it took you a moment to figure out what is was, rubbing the sleepiness out of your eyes as sat up to assess it further.

a collar. with a bell.

it was a finely crafted one at that. silky smooth white lace and luxurious pink satin, a hefty heart shaped buckle in the middle engraved with the word “nikto” front and center.

if you squinted further you could see additional engravings just below his name, ones that read “property of ___, if lost return to ___.”

underneath the buckle sat a dainty silver bell, one that miraculously twinkled with mirth when rung.

you sputter, eyes flicking between nikto’s quietly expecting gaze and the satin collar still in his palms— mouth gaping like a fish.

“honey, i— i was joking about the collar, you really didn’t have to buy this.” his expression crumples a bit despite your soft tone, eyes growing glassy.

“do you not like it, lyubov?” his usually stoic and confident tone dampened, muddled with sadness at the thought of displeasing you.

you gently pull his head closer to you, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and nestling his face into your chest.

“it’s not that i don’t like it, dearest. it’s just— do you like it? you really want to wear it? will it make you happy if you wear it?” your hand goes to pet his head and he all but purrs at the affectionate touch, rumbling against your chest.

“of course we like it. we like being yours. we want to wear it, show everyone who we belong to.”

well if they’re so happy to wear it, who are you to judge?

your hand gently plucks the collar from his grasp, finger making a spinning motion. a silent order, one that he will follow diligently, eagerly. with his back facing you, you gently thread the collar around his neck, tying a secure bow in the back with the excess.

tight but not too much, it sits delicately on his neck. a permanent visual and weighted reminder of you, his beloved. it’s downright euphoric feeling, one that he never knew was missing. like a lost lock finding it’s missing key or the last piece of a puzzle being fitted into place— it just feels so… so right to them. it’s a part of the natural order of the world, like how the sun rises in the east or the waves will always lap against the shore, how birds will sing and flowers will bloom, it’s just how it’s meant to be.

nikto was always meant to be yours.

he wears it daily. its become a part of routine, just like when you share a pot of russian caravan with him in the mornings, or how you always eat dinner together side by side, ankles intertwined under the table, a day cannot be complete without it.

it’s always you who does it for him, hands steadily and reverently tightening and loosening it. never him. it’s meant for your hands, and yours alone— it’s meant to show he’s yours after all.

he wears it with immense pride. despite it seemingly being unbecoming of a man such as him, it was ultimately his choice after all. but if you do happen to mention wanting to see something different on him, then he’s all for it. he gently pulls you to sit in his lap, to browse with him looking for new collars to display on his pretty neck.

yes, that black leather one, with the heavy silver buckle and menacing spikes looks quite nice. do you like that white silk one too? the one with the lace trim as well? yes, they have to agree, it’s gorgeous. you can buy as many or as little as you’d like, he’ll wear whichever you choose without complaint.

whatever he wears, it doesn’t matter. all that matters to them is that it lets everyone know that he’s yours at the end of the day.

#leon writes ˖◛⁺⑅♡#writer’s barely disguised kink strikes again #what can i say im a man that knows that he wants and what he likes #and that’s nikto #nikto x reader #cod nikto #cod x reader #mw2 nikto #nikto call of duty #andre nikto

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starrydali · 7 months ago

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hii i got a request for a luke castellan fic🤭

so i thought of it the other day.. what if its during a capture the flag game but reader and luke get carried away with yk.. making out or smth and they get caught !

do what you want with it, i just thought it could be cute😊

Friends With Benefits - Luke Castellan

∘°∘♡∘° Stoppp I love this so much♡

✧˖*°࿐*✧.┊You and Luke have always been close friends, but lately, things have been a little… complicated. You're not quite dating, but you're not just friends either. Stolen kisses here and there, moments where the line between friendship and something more starts to blur. ✧. ┊

The moonlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor. You were supposed to be patrolling—Luke was supposed to be patrolling—but instead, you were backed against the rough bark of a tree, his lips brushing against yours in a way that sent your thoughts spiraling into chaos.

“Luke,” you mumbled between kisses, though you made no effort to stop him. “We’re going to get caught.”

He pulled back slightly, his face so close that his breath warmed your skin. His smirk was maddeningly cocky, the kind that made you simultaneously want to shove him and kiss him again. “Relax,” he said, his voice low and full of amusement. “You worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough,” you shot back, your hands resting awkwardly on his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

Luke just chuckled, leaning in again, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth before moving to trail down your jaw. “It’s adorable how you think anyone’s paying attention to us right now.”

You were about to retort when—

“Luke Castellan.”

The sharp voice cut through the quiet of the woods like a blade. Your head snapped toward the source of the sound, and your stomach dropped. Annabeth.

She stood a few feet away, arms crossed and a look of utter disbelief etched on her face. For once, her calculating gaze wasn’t directed at some strategic move in Capture the Flag—it was pinned squarely on the two of you.

“Oh gods,” you muttered under your breath, stepping away from Luke so fast you nearly tripped over a root.

Luke, on the other hand, didn’t seem the least bit fazed. He leaned casually against the tree, his arms crossed over his chest, and gave Annabeth his most infuriating grin. “Hey, Annabeth,” he said, as if she’d just caught him skipping chores and not...well, this.

“‘Hey, Annabeth?’” she repeated, her voice rising slightly. Her eyes flicked between you and Luke, her expression a mix of shock, confusion, and something that looked suspiciously like secondhand embarrassment. “What the hell was that?”

You opened your mouth to explain—or maybe apologize—but no sound came out. Your face was burning so hot you were sure it could rival Apollo’s chariot.

“We were just...uh...” Luke began, his grin widening as he glanced at you.

“Don’t,” Annabeth interrupted, holding up a hand. “Don’t even try to explain.”

Luke shrugged, clearly enjoying himself. “Alright, if you insist.”

“Luke!” you hissed, swatting his arm.

“What?” he said, feigning innocence. “I’m not lying. She told me not to explain.”

Annabeth groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I cannot believe this. You two are supposed to be best friends.”

“We are,” Luke said, the casual tone in his voice almost convincing.

“Best friends don’t...” Annabeth gestured vaguely between the two of you, clearly at a loss for words.

You wanted to sink into the ground and disappear forever. “This isn’t—it’s not—”

“Not what it looked like?” Annabeth supplied, raising an eyebrow.

You nodded furiously, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were agreeing to.

Luke, ever the opportunist, slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “Come on, Annabeth,” he said, his tone light and teasing. “Can’t two best friends share a kiss now and then without it being a big deal?”

“No!” Annabeth snapped, her face incredulous. “No, they can’t!”

“Well,” Luke said, his smirk practically glowing in the dark, “guess we missed the memo.”

Annabeth threw her hands up in frustration. “You’re both unbelievable.” She turned on her heel and stalked back toward the creek, muttering something about idiocy and never being able to unsee things.

As soon as she was out of earshot, you turned to Luke, your jaw dropping. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he said, his expression far too pleased with himself. “That went better than I expected.”

“Better?” you repeated, your voice a mix of disbelief and mortification. “She’s never going to let us live this down.”

“Probably not,” Luke agreed, his grin softening into something almost fond as he looked at you. “But hey, at least now you know what you're dealing with.”

“And what exactly am dealing with?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him.

Luke’s gaze flicked briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “A best friend who doesn’t play by the rules.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are,” he teased, leaning in just enough that your noses brushed.

You shoved him lightly, though the smile tugging at your lips was impossible to hide. “Come on,” you said, grabbing his wrist and pulling him in the direction of the creek. “Let’s actually do our job before we get caught again.”

“Whatever you say, best friend,” he said, his laughter echoing through the trees as he followed you.

✧. ┊ ⁭Send requests! :)

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wheatbreadfuckyeah · 7 months ago

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Oh, To Capture You In pages

[Viktor X Reader]

—–‐–——–‐–——–‐–——–‐–—

Okay so like im obesessed w him help.

Tell me if I capture him well, oki bye

—–‐–——–‐–——–‐–——–‐–—

"I draw you a lot," I admit, my voice barely audible as I snap my notebook shut. The thought of showing him feels like exposing some deep secret I hadn’t meant to share.

Viktor raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Do you now?" he asks, his tone laced with mild amusement, though there’s a flicker of curiosity in his amber eyes. "I cannot imagine what about me you find so... compelling."

There’s an edge of self-deprecation to his words, but it doesn’t quite hide the spark of genuine interest. He pauses, tilting his head slightly. "Would you indulge me? Let me see?" His voice is calm, but the intent behind it is unmistakable—he’s intrigued, perhaps more than he wants to let on.

I hesitate, fingers tightening around the notebook. For a moment, I consider refusing, but his gaze holds me fast. With a quiet sigh, I open it and hand it over, bracing myself for whatever he might say.

Viktor takes it carefully, his long fingers brushing against mine as he flips open the cover. At first, his expression remains impassive, the analytical focus he always wears when working settling over his features. But as he turns each page, that mask begins to crack. His smirk fades into something quieter, more thoughtful, and his brow furrows slightly, as though he’s examining more than just the drawings.

"You’ve been busy," he says finally, his tone dry but tinged with something softer. His fingers linger on a sketch of him hunched over his workbench, his posture weary but determined. "You’ve captured my good side," he adds, the faintest glimmer of humor returning to his voice.

I shrug, my heart hammering in my chest. "You're... interesting to draw," I mutter, struggling to meet his gaze.

"Interesting," he repeats, his smirk deepening. "That’s a diplomatic way of saying I look peculiar, no?" He glances up at me, his amber eyes gleaming with amusement, but the warmth there catches me off guard. "Though I must admit, you've done something remarkable here." His tone shifts, becoming quieter, more introspective. "You’ve seen something in me. More than I would expect anyone to notice."

I fidget under his gaze, unsure how to respond. Viktor, ever perceptive, notices. "You don’t have to be nervous," he says, his voice softer now, though his smirk hasn’t entirely faded. "It is... flattering, in its own way." He hesitates, looking back at the sketches, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps I should start paying more attention to how I appear. Though I doubt I’ll ever see myself as clearly as you do."

For a moment, I see the mask drop entirely—a glimpse of vulnerability beneath his sharp wit and unshakable resolve. It’s fleeting, gone as quickly as it appeared, but it lingers in the way he handles the notebook with unexpected care, as though the sketches are more than mere drawings to him.

#viktor league of legends #viktor lol #viktor x reader #viktor arcane #arcane

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obsessedwhyyes · 8 months ago

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The Learned Observer

Fic Request: Voyeurism

Summary: On a sleepless night, Gale notices the distinct sound of hushed voices outside his tent. It couldn't be you and Astarion… could it? When he decides to take a peek - to satisfy his scholarly curiosity, of course - he gets more than he bargained for.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2623 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader, implied Astarion x Gale x Fem!Reader Content: Gale's POV (first person), voyeurism, dry humping, handjob, public sex, male masturbation, a little bit of jealousy.

A/N: Gale, in my humble opinion, would not use the word, “cock.” I cannot express how hard it was to not use the word, "cock" in a smut fic. I frigging love that word. Anyways, writing entirely in Gale’s voice was honestly the most fun mini challenge I’ve set myself so far, and I would gladly do first person BG3 companion POVs again. Thank you, dear anon, for the request!

Another sleepless night.

The orb pulses beneath my skin, each throb a reminder of my predicament.

I implore my mind to wander to the events of our journey, to the challenges that lie ahead, in pursuit of a worthwhile distraction. But the orb’s hunger grows stronger, like a raging maelstrom, each tribute to its insistent pull a mere ripple against the tide of its endless consumption. Perhaps I should consult the others about–

… Voices drift from outside my tent before I can finish my thoughts. Curious.

Hushed laughter and whispered words. Astarion's distinctive timbre and… you.

The sound is soft, subtle - a quiet exchange. Yet, here I am, catching fragments of something private, something perhaps not intended for outside ears.

I shift, the faintest spark of curiosity pulling me from my solitude. It's innocent, surely - a late-night conversation, perhaps a shared joke. And yet, as the moments pass, I can't ignore the intimacy in your laughter, the way Astarion's voice drops to that silken murmur he reserves for his attempts at enticement.

Just a glance, I tell myself. Merely to understand what could be so amusing at this hour.

Slowly, carefully, I draw back a sliver of canvas, just enough to peek through.

My breath catches as my eyes adjust to the firelight outside. There, on the other side of the campfire, resting against a fallen log, you sit beside him, close - very close - your faces inches apart.

Your legs are entwined, and there’s an intensity in the way you look at each other. I’m taken aback by the hunger in the kiss that follows - one neither timid nor restrained. Your hands begin to explore each other with what I can only call fervour - the kind of urgency I hadn't known either of you possessed, let alone with each other.

The way you move together speaks of raw desire rather than tender affection - this is clearly a new physical relationship.

When did this start? How did I miss the signs? Though perhaps I was too caught up in my own concerns to notice the lingering glances, the way you always seemed to find reasons to be near each other…

I tell myself it’s simple curiosity that keeps me here, observing. A certain academic interest, if you will. After all, Astarion has always been something of a hedonist - a man who indulges in his desires with a recklessness I sometimes envy, though rarely approve. But to see him like this - in action, as it were - offers a unique perspective on his character.

You murmur something I cannot make out, a teasing lilt in your voice, and Astarion laughs in that rakish, honeyed tone of his, as though thrilled to have you so wholly entranced. His hands grip your waist, and with a practised grace, he pulls you into his lap, the hem of your skirt spilling around you both. As his hands settle on your hips, you grind against what I can only assume to be a prominent hardness in his trousers, judging by the satisfied smirk on his face.

You seem eager, pliant under his touch, responding in ways I confess I hadn’t thought you capable of - no, not like this. Not with him.

My heart hammers in my chest, a tension spreading through me that’s… increasingly difficult to ignore. And yet, I remind myself, this is mere observation, nothing more. A clinical exercise in understanding the intricacies of interpersonal attractions between a vampire and a mortal; the undercurrent of danger that befalls such an arrangement.

He holds you with a blend of confidence and entitlement that borders on decadent, his mouth at your neck, lips brushing against your skin with a maddening leisure that’s somehow indulgent and teasing all at once. His fangs linger there and, for a moment, my heart stops - surely he wouldn’t… Ah, no. No, he’s not feeding. He merely kisses your neck, fangs scraping lightly against your throat - close enough to tempt and tantalise. I see the goosebumps flare on your skin.

He whispers something low and unintelligible, and you let out a soft giggle, yielding in a way that speaks of trust - trust that’s he’s earned, somehow, despite his nature.

And then your hand drifts between you both, touching him through his trousers.

Gosh. I hadn’t thought you so bold.

Astarion’s body arches into your touch, his gaze darkening as he watches you with a hunger that’s both terrifying and… strangely beautiful. I find myself entranced, my breath shallow as I observe the way your fingers trace over him, the way he leans into you. The noise he makes when your fingers flex, squeezing him gently over the fabric… Gracious.

There’s a strange, reluctant curiosity building within me. I should look away. I should grant you both the privacy you likely assume you have. And yet, my gaze remains fixed, drawn to the details of your encounter: the way his hands tighten on your waist, the way your breaths synchronise, the way he murmurs softly into your ear…

I am aware - painfully so - of the ache low in my body that has built with each passing moment, each glance, each touch. I am no stranger to restraint - I have spent years tempering my desires, sacrificing comforts in the pursuit of knowledge, of power. Yet, here, now, I feel that restraint begin to falter; to dissolve like ink in water, dispersing until it is all but unrecognisable. It has been so long, after all. So, so long.

When your hands move to the waistband of his trousers, my breath catches. Gods above, surely you won't, not out in the open... but yes. Yes, it seems you will.

When you pull him free, well - I’ve always wondered about vampire physiology, purely academically, of course. But the sight of him prompts rather less scholarly thoughts. He’s impressively endowed - perhaps it is wishful thinking to believe that this is but another gift of his condition. It’s fascinating how vampiric transformation affects every part of the body - he’s almost luminescent in the firelight, every inch of him perfect and unmarred. I notice the veins that trace along his length, faintly visible beneath his skin. He is, even now, a study in confidence, exuding a subtle power that one can only achieve when utterly comfortable in one’s own skin.

Your hand wraps around him, sliding up and down his length at a teasing pace, drawing forth a sound I have never heard our pale companion make - a soft, broken gasp, caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh. It sounds almost reluctant, as though he hadn’t meant for such a sound to slip past his lips. He twitches under your ministrations, and his grip on your hips tightens enough that there will surely be bruises tomorrow.

My fingers rest at my thigh, trembling ever so slightly. A small part of me - a remnant of reason, perhaps - tells me to pull back, to look away, to let this moment pass without surrendering to the need that has taken root within me. But my body, the traitorous thing it is, does not heed such commands. Instead, I find my hand drifting lower.

My fingers trace over the fabric of my trousers, over the aching hardness beneath. A gentle palming, barely enough to ease the tension that coils tighter with each passing moment as I watch the scene unfold.

Your hands elicit quiet murmurs from Astarion that grow deeper and more insistent with each passing moment. For a moment, the two of you share a look - one of conspiratorial mischief, perhaps - and then a soft, shared giggle, the sound mingling with the crackling of the fire.

You're so utterly engrossed in him; so utterly unselfconscious.

You shift, a question in your eyes, and as he nods, giving his assent, you rise just enough to shift, positioning yourself over him. Your skirts drape around you both, providing a veneer of modesty, though there's no mistaking what follows when you sink yourself down on to him. The way your lips part in a gasp as he enters you, the way his head falls back with a victorious grin - it makes the tightness, the great ache between my legs, almost unbearable.

I find my hand slipping beneath my waistband.

Just a little relief, I tell myself. Just enough to ease this maddening tension.

There is a certain poetry to it, I suppose - this surrender to the pleasures of the flesh. I allow myself to imagine, as my hand finds the throbbing heat of my arousal, what it might feel to be in your place, to have someone look at me with that same confidence, to experience touch imbued with the certainty of one who knows precisely how to elicit pleasure - a knowledge gleaned from centuries, no doubt, of indulgence and conquest.

It’s enough to leave me aching for more than mere observation.

The fervour with which you move against him… it’s hypnotic, each roll of your hips drawing forth increasingly wanton sounds from you both. Astarion's carefully crafted demeanour gives way to something more roguish, a playful daring that glints in his eyes as you rise and fall and rise and fall on his length.

I find my hand instinctively matching your rhythm, every shift and motion, as though I, too, am bound to the undulating tempo that you and Astarion have created.

Gods… what must it be like to be him? To have someone so openly, eagerly drawn to you, meeting every touch with matching fervour? To hold someone close and feel their raw desire, the thrill of each laugh, each gasp, offered without hesitation? I wonder what it must be like to inspire such a response, to be desired so freely, without need for pretence or restraint?

With Mystra, I was ever the pursuer, striving tirelessly to earn even the barest hint of her approval, each moment together feeling like an examination I desperately hoped to pass. But Astarion… well. He needn't chase or convince. Despite his vampiric nature - or perhaps, in part, because of it - he is simply desired, freely given all that I once had to beg for. The inequity of it all would be rather poetic, if it weren't so personally vexing.

“A-ah!”

Your gasp cuts through my ruminations, pulling me back into the scene.

Astarion’s hand has slipped between you, guiding you to that final crescendo with a practised touch. The sight of it is utterly spellbinding: his fingers moving with a precision that speaks to centuries of experience, knowing just where to press, where to linger. The control he exercises over you is enviable, each movement of his hand coaxing you closer to that peak, his attention wholly focused on your reaction, even as your hips rock back and forth on his length with an increasingly frantic, unrestrained urgency.

The way your eyes roll back... Gosh.

The expression on your face, one of pure, unfiltered abandon, is a sight to behold.

Your body trembles as you reach your peak, and a sound - a cry, too loud in the stillness of the night - escapes your lips. Astarion’s palm clamps over your mouth, a futile attempt to muffle you in the throes of your climax. Though he hushes you, his expression suggests that he is not in the least bit concerned. In fact, he seems rather pleased - more than pleased, really.

There’s a thrill in such a public display for him too, no doubt.

I swallow, the sound almost too loud, my heart pounding against my ribs as though it seeks to betray me. Astarion's head tilts slightly, his gaze flickering to the shadows, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he has sensed me, that his attention has shifted from you to this invisible interloper, the scholar caught red-handed in his quiet act of voyeurism.

Could he... sense me here, lingering on the fringe of his private moment? Could he smell the stir of my own arousal, feel the faint tremor of my breath as I fight for composure? For several heartbeats, my hand freezes. I dare not even breathe.

But then his attentions return to you, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

He brings his hands to your hips, holding them firmly in place as he drives himself upwards into you, deeper, with mounting desperation. It seems he seeks to chase his own release, content with the pleasure he has wrought you.

You respond eagerly, pressing closer, your own sounds growing louder, heedless of who might hear, and I can see that thrill in his face - the satisfaction of knowing he’s eliciting every reaction from you, drawing out each gasp, each shudder.

My hand glides hastily across my arousal, my own breathing growing ragged as I watch his control begin to slip. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his head tips back in pure abandon.

In the final throes, he presses himself against you, buried firmly to the hilt. It’s almost animalistic, all thoughts, all calculated movements, making way for one singular goal: to empty himself into you, filling you with all he has to offer with breaths rugged and low. All composure is stripped, replaced with instinct and pure need.

I find my own movements quickening to match his pace, as though some invisible thread binds us all to this moment. My hand tightens as I lose myself in the same tempo, every sound from you both spurring me closer. The sight of his final shudder, the look of utter satisfaction crossing his face as he reaches that height, is enough to tip me over the edge.

For a heartbeat, the night seems to hold us all in perfect suspension - your quiet gasps, his satisfied murmurs, my own silent echo of shared pleasure - all woven together in this clandestine tableau.

Only then, as the euphoria begins to fade, does a most uncomfortable awareness creep in.

Gods above, what have I... A scholar of worldly acclaim, reduced to voyeur, caught up in base desires like some common... No. Best not to dwell on such things. Though I suspect sleep will prove rather elusive tonight, haunted by questions of propriety and... other matters.

With a groan, I roll onto my back, the orb’s steady throb now a minor annoyance compared to the tangled thoughts that flood my mind. Perhaps I can chalk this entire… incident up to fatigue, a wandering mind, even a fevered dream. Yes, that must be it. The product of a restless night and, possibly, a touch of indigestion. After all, who could believe that I, Gale of Waterdeep, would be brought so low as to... well, that.

As morning light spills across camp, I attempt a façade of normalcy, willing my cheeks to cool and my mind to settle. Just as I convince myself the night’s events were nothing more than a peculiar dream, Astarion sidles up, his expression one of leisurely amusement.

"Restless night, Gale?” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear. His gaze is as sharp as his tone, a knowing glint in his eyes that makes my stomach twist in the most uncomfortable way. "I thought I heard a... stirring from your tent."

The corner of his mouth quirks up in that infuriatingly smug way of his, and I nearly choke on my response.

He knew.

Astarion knew.

I force a cough, pretending to inspect the morning sky.

"A dream," I reply a bit too quickly. "Perhaps the cheese at dinner was... overly ripe."

But Astarion merely chuckles, a wicked sound, before strolling away with a satisfied air. And as I watch him saunter off, I’m left to question just how much of the night was a dream - and how much, mortifyingly, was very, very real.

Masterlist can be found here!

No Pressure Tags: @roguishcat @davenswitcher @silverfangmarks @sparrowbard @chonkercatto @stokzr @trafalgarussy @asterordinary

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x f!reader #f!tav #bloodweave #astarion smut #astarion fanfiction #gale fanfic #astarion ancunin #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #astarion fanfic

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svt-luna · 6 months ago

Text

ʚིᵋ ⋆ [SVT RECORD] LUNA AND JEONGHAN PARIS VLOG ࣪ ! ˓ ౨ৎ ࣪˖ ─── now playing…

[SVT Record] Luna and Jeonghan’s Paris Fashion Week Vlog | Fashionistas Turned Tourists in the City of Lights 🇫🇷✨

synopsis: Experience the charm of Paris with Jeonghan and Luna as they wander through the iconic streets, visit the Louvre, capture moments at the Eiffel Tower, and share heartfelt memories during their Fashion Week adventure.

wc: 16.2k

╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST ╰ ౨ৎ svt youtube

bold dialogues are spoken in english ღ

The screen flickered to life with a shaky but deliberate motion, the edges of Jeonghan’s hand coming into view as he adjusted the camera. His long, slender fingers hovered momentarily before the lens before pulling back, revealing the spacious interior of a business-class cabin. The muted hum of the plane filled the background, a calm yet constant rhythm beneath the scene.

Jeonghan’s face appeared first, his sharp yet serene features framed by the faint glow of overhead lights. His posture was effortlessly relaxed, leaning back slightly in his plush seat with the casual air of someone who had done this a hundred times before.

His hand grazed the side of the camera, tilting it slightly to capture the seat next to him. There sat Luna, head bowed, her glossy hair falling over her face as she scrolled through her phone with a look of quiet concentration.

“Hello, everyone,” Jeonghan greeted in his low, velvety voice, the sound so smooth it felt like it could lull someone to sleep. He spoke with a lazy sort of charm, as though the words didn’t need any extra flourish to hold their weight.

At the sound of his voice, Luna looked up, her eyebrows lifting in curiosity before recognition softened her expression. She locked her phone and set it aside on the small table between them, leaning forward slightly to match his posture.

“Hi, Carats,” she said warmly, her tone gentle yet playful. She gave a small wave to the camera, her lips curving into a soft smile that lingered as she glanced at Jeonghan before refocusing on the lens.

Jeonghan turned his gaze to her, the corner of his mouth quirking up in an almost imperceptible smirk. “Where are we going today?” he asked, tilting his head just enough to make the question feel casual yet directed entirely at her.

“Paris,” Luna answered promptly, her smile widening. She leaned back slightly but kept her hands folded neatly in her lap. “For Fashion Week.”

Jeonghan’s eyes lingered on her for a beat longer, an almost imperceptible flicker of admiration in his gaze. Then he turned back to the camera, his tone steady and deliberate as he explained, “Yes, Jiyeonie and I have a busy schedule in Paris for the next few days.”

He shifted in his seat slightly, resting an elbow on the armrest as he continued, “I will be attending the Saint Laurent show while our Jiyeonie…” His voice trailed off, his eyes sliding back to her as if to cue her to finish the thought.

Luna picked up seamlessly, “I will be attending the Miu Miu show for Fashion Week.” She adjusted her posture, her hands gesturing subtly as she spoke. “Then Hannie and I have been invited for a private viewing for FRED’s new collection.”

Jeonghan nodded along as she spoke, his expression one of quiet attention. When she finished, he tilted his head slightly and asked, “You excited?”

Her head turned toward him, her eyes sparkling with a mix of excitement and sincerity. “I am,” she replied, nodding. “I’m also really excited to be in Paris again. I cannot wait to meet you guys.” She directed the last part to the camera, her tone softening with a touch of affection.

Jeonghan, still watching her, turned back to the camera with a faint chuckle. “Our flight is around fourteen hours, so we’ll be resting for most of it,” he explained, his voice calm and measured. “But we’ll see you all soon once we arrive in Paris.”

Luna, catching his cue, leaned slightly closer to the camera, waving once more. “See you soon!” she chimed in, her smile bright and warm. “Stay tuned!”

The screen briefly caught the slight upward curl of Jeonghan’s lips as he leaned forward to turn off the camera, his movements deliberate and unhurried. The video cut to black, the anticipation of their Parisian adventure lingering in the air.

The soft hum of tires on Parisian cobblestones were muted by the car’s interior. Through the window, the glittering cityscape of Paris passed by, the occasional flash of golden streetlights illuminating the backdrop of historic architecture.

Outside, the streets were alive with nighttime vibrancy, though the mood inside the car was calm and intimate.

The camera, now steady as it was being held by their staff, captured Jeonghan and Luna sitting shoulder to shoulder in the backseat.

Jeonghan’s posture was slightly reclined, his head tilted ever so slightly toward her, exuding a relaxed and unbothered air. Next to him, Luna rested her head against his shoulder, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion from the long flight. Her body language was soft and comfortable, her weariness almost palpable as her breathing slowed into a gentle rhythm.

“We’ve arrived in Paris,” Jeonghan announced, his voice low and composed, a perfect blend of casual and velvety. His gaze flicked from the window to the camera, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips as he made the statement.

“It’s probably two or three in the morning in Korea,” he continued, pulling his phone out of his pocket with an effortless motion. The sleek device glinted briefly in the light as he glanced at the time before turning it toward the camera for confirmation. “But it’s dinnertime here, so we’re off to eat dinner.”

Luna, still leaning into him, merely nodded, her head moving slightly against his shoulder. Her silence spoke of her fatigue, but there was a subtle fondness in the way she nestled closer, letting his voice fill the quiet.

Jeonghan’s attention shifted as something caught his eye outside the window. His hand gestured toward a grand, illuminated structure in the distance. “What’s that?” he asked, his tone curious yet calm as he pointed, his long fingers tracing the direction of the landmark.

Luna lifted her head, her eyes following the line of his gaze before settling on the building. “Palais Garnier,” she said softly, her voice carrying the remnants of her exhaustion but laced with a gentle warmth. She straightened slightly, brushing her hair back as she continued, “It’s an opera house. One of the most famous in the world, actually.”

Jeonghan listened intently, his gaze steady on her profile as she spoke. The way her voice softened when she explained something she found fascinating didn’t escape him. He turned back toward the window, his eyes lingering on the passing cityscape.

“Maybe it’s because it’s my first time in Paris,” he began thoughtfully, his tone dropping to something quieter, more introspective, “but I don’t want to look at my phone in the car. I just want to look outside, even from the airport to the hotel.”

“Paris is pretty, isn’t it?” Luna asked, her voice breaking the brief silence. She finally lifted her head fully from his shoulder, turning her gaze to him with a small smile.

Jeonghan hummed in agreement, the sound low and warm. He tilted his head slightly toward her, his expression unreadable but intent. “This isn’t your first time, right?” he asked, his voice carrying a note of curiosity.

“It’s my second time in Paris,” Luna replied with a nod. She adjusted her seat slightly, angling her body more toward him as she spoke. “I took my parents here the first time a couple of years ago. It was a gift to them for their wedding anniversary. It was only supposed to be the two of them, but they wanted me there with them.”

Jeonghan’s gaze remained fixed on her as she spoke, his expression softening. His eyes traced her features as if committing every detail to memory, the dim light casting a subtle glow over her face. “Pretty,” he said simply, his voice barely above a whisper.

Luna blinked, caught slightly off guard. “Right?” she said with a small laugh, assuming he meant the city. She gestured toward the window, her tone picking up slightly as she continued, “Europe has its own vibe. I love it.”

“They also said the rain stopped right before we arrived,” Jeonghan added, his gaze flicking briefly out the window before returning to her. “So I was glad.”

“Our luck is insane,” Luna replied, her smile widening slightly as she turned to the camera. The expression was met with a grin from Jeonghan, his amusement evident in the way his lips curved lazily upward.

Jeonghan leaned in slightly, his grin turning mischievous. “Or,” he began, his tone teasing but smooth, “it stopped because you’ve arrived.”

Luna’s brows furrowed, her expression twisting into playful disbelief as she let out an exaggerated sigh. “Aigo-ya,” she said, shaking her head as if to shake off his cheesiness.

Jeonghan laughed softly at her reaction, the sound rich and unhurried. He turned his attention back to the camera, his smirk still firmly in place. “Anyway,” he drawled, his tone carrying a hint of amusement, “Jiyeonie and I are off to eat dinner.”

The declaration brought a giggle from Luna, her laughter soft yet unrestrained as she glanced at him with a look of both affection and exasperation.

The screen faded back in, transitioning smoothly to the warm, inviting interior of a quaint Parisian restaurant. Soft amber lighting cast a gentle glow over the wooden tables and plush seating, creating an atmosphere of understated elegance.

In the frame, Jeonghan and Luna sat side by side in a corner booth, their shoulders brushing subtly as they leaned into each other’s space. The camera was positioned at a slight angle in front of them, capturing their interaction with the intimacy of a candid snapshot. Behind the camera, their staff sat quietly, allowing the two to take center stage in the frame.

Jeonghan’s posture was effortlessly relaxed, his elbow resting casually on the table as he perused the menu in front of him. His brows furrowed slightly in concentration, his long fingers lightly tapping the edge of the menu as if deliberating his choice.

Luna, on the other hand, held her menu with both hands, her posture a touch more upright. Her eyes scanned the options, but every now and then, her gaze flicked sideways to Jeonghan, as though silently asking his opinion without needing to voice it.

Their unspoken communication was almost magnetic, the subtle glances and fleeting smiles creating an atmosphere charged with an understated chemistry. When Jeonghan finally made a decision, he leaned slightly toward her, his hand gesturing to a particular item on her menu as he shared his thoughts. Luna’s lips quirked into a small smile, and she nodded, her eyes lingering on him for a moment longer before she returned her attention to the menu.

Once their orders were placed, they settled into an easy rhythm of conversation with each other and their staff. Jeonghan turned his body slightly toward Luna as they spoke, his gestures fluid and expressive, punctuated by the occasional lazy smile that seemed to come naturally to him. Luna listened attentively, her eyes warm and focused on him, occasionally chiming in with soft laughter or a thoughtful comment.

The camera captured the quiet intimacy of the scene— the way Jeonghan’s fingers brushed briefly against the edge of Luna’s sleeve as he reached for his glass of water, the way Luna tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she listened to him speak.

When their food arrived, the mood shifted into one of shared enjoyment. Jeonghan picked up his utensils with an effortless grace, his movements unhurried as he began to eat. Luna followed suit, her gestures delicate and precise. Every now and then, they exchanged subtle looks— Jeonghan raising an eyebrow in amusement as Luna tried something new, or Luna smiling softly when Jeonghan offered her a bite of his dish.

The staff behind the camera remained a quiet presence, occasionally capturing candid moments of the couple sharing an inside joke or exchanging a look that lingered just a second too long. The chemistry between them was palpable, not through grand gestures or dramatic displays but in the quiet, understated moments of connection— the way Jeonghan’s gaze softened when he looked at her, or the way Luna leaned ever so slightly closer to him as they spoke.

The scene faded once more, signaling the transition to the next part of their journey in Paris, but the warmth of their interaction lingered, a testament to the quiet yet undeniable bond between them.

Seamlessly, the crisp morning light of Paris filtering through the streets was seen. Jeonghan and Luna walked side by side, their pace leisurely, the camera capturing their relaxed expressions and occasional glances at one another.

The city was still waking up, its charm accentuated by the quiet ambiance and the faint sounds of footsteps echoing against cobblestones.

Luna, dressed warmly in a chic coat and scarf, glanced at the camera held by one of their staff. Her soft smile lit up her face as she greeted the viewers. “Good morning,” she said, her British accent gentle, her voice still slightly hushed as though not wanting to disturb the peace of the moment.

Jeonghan turned his head at the sound of her voice, his lips curving into a lazy smile as he chimed in. “It’s 8:45 a.m. right now,” he began, his voice low and calm. He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out his phone to check the time. “I fell asleep around 1 a.m. last night and woke up at 4 a.m. I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I waited for the sun to rise. But because it’s winter, the sun wouldn’t rise. That’s why I’m out here at 8:45 a.m…” He paused, glancing at Luna with a knowing smirk. “Jiyeonie slept like a baby. I had to drag her here with me.”

Luna chuckled softly, nodding to the camera in agreement. “I was so tired from the flight that my body didn’t have time to be jet-lagged. After dinner, I was knocked out,” she admitted, her tone light.

Jeonghan hummed in acknowledgment, his gaze momentarily dropping to their feet as they walked. “We’re not really sure where we’ll go, but I wanted to take a walk with our Jiyeonie, so we’re out here,” he said, his words casual but filled with a subtle affection that didn’t go unnoticed.

As they continued walking, Jeonghan reached out, gently taking Luna’s hand in his. He intertwined their fingers effortlessly, swinging their joined hands back and forth as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Luna glanced at him, a faint blush dusting her cheeks, but she said nothing, instead letting a soft smile curve her lips as she adjusted her stride to match his.

Turning her attention back to the camera, Luna said, “We’ll just take a stroll here in beautiful Paris, enjoying the morning with no clear destination or plan in mind… but that’s the fun part, isn’t it?”

Jeonghan glanced at her, his lips tugging into a crooked smile as he nodded. “You’re right, as always,” he replied, his tone teasing yet sincere.

Luna’s gaze wandered to the scenery around them, her eyes lighting up as she admired the beauty of the city. “Paris is beautiful despite the cold,” she mused softly, her voice carrying a sense of wonder.

Jeonghan chuckled, pulling his coat tighter around himself. “We didn’t know Paris would be this cold. That’s why I only brought these two jackets, so I’m wearing both of them right now,” he said, his words drawing a light laugh from Luna.

“I didn’t expect it to be this cold either,” Luna admitted before glancing up at him with a playful smile. “It’s okay. We’ll shop later, Hannie.”

Jeonghan smirked down at her, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You’re just finding excuses to shop,” he teased, his tone dry but affectionate.

Luna turned to him, her eyes narrowing in mock annoyance as she gave him a playful glare. With an exaggerated motion, she turned her head to the side, lifting her chin in mock defiance. “‘The cold never bothered me anyway~’” she sang lightly, the lyrics flowing from her lips with a playful lilt.

Jeonghan burst into laughter at her dramatic response, his shoulders shaking as he watched her. “Anyway,” he said after a beat, turning his attention back to the camera. “We’re going toward a square—Place Vendôme.”

“Place Vendôme,” Luna repeated, nodding as she walked. Her voice was thoughtful as she added, “Guys, it’s a mission. Say ‘Place Vendôme’ five times quickly…”

Jeonghan’s lips curved into a mischievous grin as he accepted the challenge. “‘Place Vendôme, Place Vendôme, Place Vendôme…’” His words stumbled slightly on the fourth repetition, and he let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “It’s so hard.”

Luna raised an eyebrow at him, a playful glint in her eye as she attempted the same. “‘Place Vendôme, Place Vendôme, Place Vendôme, Place Vendôme, Place Vendôme,’” she said flawlessly, her tone filled with triumph as she turned to Jeonghan and stuck her tongue out at him.

Jeonghan scrunched his nose at her, his smirk widening as he shook his head in mock disbelief. “You just had to be perfect at everything, huh?” he said, his voice laced with both amusement and fondness.

Luna nodded, her expression playful as she tilted her head to the side like a child basking in praise. Jeonghan couldn’t help but chuckle at her antics, the sound light and warm as it filled the crisp morning air.

Jeonghan slowed his steps, gesturing slightly with his free hand as he spoke to the camera. “We’re walking right now, and we can see the Eiffel Tower,” he said, his voice soft but tinged with a subtle excitement. His other hand, still loosely clasped with Luna’s, lifted as he pointed toward the iconic structure in the distance. Even through the faint morning fog, the outline of the tower was visible, its iron latticework standing tall against the muted skyline.

“It’s still so cool even from afar,” Luna gasped, her eyes lighting up as she followed his gaze. Without a second thought, she slipped her hand out of Jeonghan’s and looped her arm through the crook of his elbow, resting against him as if it were second nature. Jeonghan let her, glancing down at the subtle shift before smiling.

“It’s my first time seeing it,” he said, tilting his head toward her slightly as though sharing a secret. His voice dropped a note, laced with genuine awe. “It’s hidden in the fog, so it looks super cool.” He turned back to the camera, motioning with his hand again. “Look over here. Do you see it?” He pointed to the faint silhouette in the distance. “The Eiffel Tower is so pretty hidden in the fog.”

“It’s even prettier at night because it lights up,” Luna said softly, her voice carrying an almost dreamy quality. Her gaze lingered on the faint outline of the tower before shifting to Jeonghan.

Jeonghan hummed in agreement, his lips quirking into a thoughtful smile as they continued walking. After a moment, he spoke again, glancing at the camera. “Right now, we’re at Concorde?” he said, the sentence ending as though it were a question to himself. He chuckled lightly before adding, “Reminds me of the Concorde Airliner.”

Luna turned her head slightly toward him, her brows lifting in curiosity as she listened to his train of thought.

“A long time ago, if you look at Blue Marble, they had the Concorde Airliner,” Jeonghan explained, a nostalgic grin spreading across his face. “You could take a variety of planes.” He gestured vaguely, as though tracing the memory in the air. “What square was this again?” he asked, his voice casual as he glanced at Luna.

“‘The Place de la Concorde’,” Luna answered with an amused smile tugging at her lips. There was a knowing glint in her eyes, a subtle amusement at the way Jeonghan was recounting random bits of trivia.

“That’s right. It’s the same Concorde,” Jeonghan said, nodding firmly as if he’d pieced together some great mystery.

Luna smirked, tilting her head up to look at him. “Continue, my tour guide. What else is there?” she teased, her voice light but dripping with playful sarcasm.

Jeonghan’s eyes twinkled at her words, and he played along gladly, straightening his posture slightly as though stepping into the role. He gestured toward the next landmark, pointing with a flourish. “Yes, ma’am. Do you see that tower over there?”

“Yes, yes,” Luna said, nodding earnestly as she mirrored his enthusiasm.

“It’s called an Obelisk,” Jeonghan said with a slight smirk, his tone taking on a mock-professorial air. “They say they brought that from Egypt. How did they manage to do that?”

Luna tilted her head, her brows furrowing slightly as though considering his question. “I’m also curious how they managed to do that,” she said after a beat, her tone laced with mock seriousness. But her composure broke as she dissolved into laughter, the sound bright and melodic as she leaned slightly against him. “You’re my tour guide, no? You’re supposed to know.”

Jeonghan looked down at her, his lips curling into a mischievous smile. His gaze lingered for a moment, his dark eyes glinting with teasing amusement. “Ah, but you see,” he began, his voice dropping to a smooth, playful drawl, “I’m a modern tour guide. I specialize in vibes, not facts.”

“Vibes.” Luna’s laughter bubbled up again, her nose scrunching slightly as she giggled. “Aigo-ya,” she muttered, shaking her head as though exasperated but unable to hide her grin.

Jeonghan chuckled, his smile softening as he looked at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You’re lucky the vibes are good then,” she quipped, nudging him lightly with her shoulder.

As they continued their stroll, Luna lightly tapped Jeonghan’s arm where hers was linked, glancing up at him with a teasing smile. “Continue, my tour guide. I want more good vibes,” she said, her voice playful and inviting.

Jeonghan tilted his head, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Good vibes? You’ve come to the right place,” he replied coolly, indulging her with a slight bow of his head as though he were a true guide. “As we are walking, we can now see a bridge. We’re going to the Seine, and here is the Pont Alexandre III. That’s what it is,” he explained, gesturing casually around them. “All the names here sound so cool.”

“Really cool,” Luna echoed, her eyes sweeping the scene before them. Then her gaze caught something, and she let out a small gasp of excitement. She slipped her arm out of Jeonghan’s in one quick motion and bolted ahead, her movements light and full of energy as she dug into her bag.

Jeonghan trailed behind her with a slow, steady pace, his arms already stretching forward in expectation.

By the time Luna reached the railing overlooking the Seine, she had already pulled out her digital camera. Without needing to ask, she turned and handed it to Jeonghan, who accepted it with a lazy grin that was both amused and knowing. “Take a photo of me, Hannie,” she said, her tone half-command, half-request.

“Alright. Stand there,” Jeonghan said, motioning to a spot near the railing. His voice was calm and collected, but there was an undercurrent of indulgence, as if he found her excitement contagious.

Luna stood in place, her pose casual as she leaned lightly against the railing.

Jeonghan immediately began moving around her, the camera clicking steadily. He crouched down, stood back up, shifted to the left, then to the right, his every movement deliberate. Despite the brisk air and growing wind, he took his time, adjusting his angles with a focus that bordered on meticulous. “Turn your head a little to the left,” he directed, his tone soft but firm. Luna complied, her movements fluid, her expression natural.

“Perfect,” he said under his breath, clicking again before straightening up. “You’re making my job way too easy.”

Luna laughed lightly, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Am I?”

“You are,” Jeonghan confirmed, his lips curving into a small smile. “Now, look out at the river— don’t look at me. Just look out, Nana-ya.”

Luna turned her attention back to the Seine, resting her elbows on the railing as she gazed out. The wind picked up, tousling her hair and sending strands flying across her face. Jeonghan paused mid-click, lowering the camera slightly as he stepped closer. “Come here,” he said simply, his tone casual but laced with a quiet authority that left no room for argument.

Luna blinked at him but didn’t hesitate, stepping toward him with a curious tilt of her head. Jeonghan reached out, his fingers brushing gently against her face as he tucked the stray strands of hair behind her ear. His touch was slow and deliberate, his gaze focused as he arranged her hair neatly, smoothing it down with a practiced ease.

“He’s not only my tour guide, he’s also my photographer and my stylist,” Luna quipped, turning toward the camera their staff was holding. Her tone was light and teasing, but her smile was warm, her eyes soft as they flicked back to Jeonghan.

Jeonghan let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly as he stepped back. “Alright, let’s finish this.” He lifted the camera again, resuming his careful efforts to capture her in the perfect light.

Once they were done, there was a wordless exchange of roles. Jeonghan handed the camera back to Luna, and without needing to be asked, he moved into place by the railing, standing with an easy confidence as he waited for her to direct him.

“Your turn, Hannie,” Luna said, her voice lilting with amusement as she brought the camera to her eye.

Jeonghan leaned one arm casually against the railing, his posture relaxed yet effortlessly striking. “How’s this?” he asked, his lips curving into a smirk as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Not bad,” Luna replied, her tone teasing as she adjusted the focus. “But tilt your head a bit.”

Jeonghan did as she asked, his movements deliberate but unhurried. “Like this?”

“Perfect,” Luna said, clicking the shutter. She mirrored his earlier efforts, moving side to side, crouching down, and even stepping back to get a wider shot. The wind blew again, ruffling Jeonghan’s hair, but he didn’t flinch, letting her take control.

“You’re a natural,” Luna commented as she continued snapping photos. “But I expected nothing less.”

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “You’re doing a pretty good job yourself, director Jiyeonie.”

She grinned, lowering the camera for a moment to meet his gaze. “Well, someone has to keep you in check.”

Jeonghan chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Good luck with that,” he murmured, leaning back against the railing as she raised the camera again.

As Jeonghan’s impromptu photoshoot came to an end, he casually handed the camera back to Luna. He moved toward her, his steps measured, but before they could leave, Luna grabbed his arm and turned to the staff trailing behind them with cameras still rolling.

“Wait,” she said, her voice carrying a bright note of enthusiasm. “Can you please take a photo of us?” Without waiting for an answer, she handed her camera to one of the staff members and grabbed Jeonghan’s wrist, tugging him back toward the spot near the railing.

Jeonghan let himself be dragged, his steps unhurried, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “You’re really taking this tourist role seriously,” he teased as they reached their spot.

“Just stand here,” Luna instructed, positioning herself in front of him with ease.

Jeonghan leaned one arm on the railing behind her, his posture relaxed but instinctively protective, the crook of his elbow almost wrapping around her. Luna stood close, her bright smile lighting up her face as she posed effortlessly, the Seine and the bridge creating the perfect backdrop.

Jeonghan, on the other hand, gave a lazy half-smile to the camera, the kind that was barely there but still somehow charming. As the staff member counted down, he glanced down at Luna, his smirk softening into something more tender. She didn’t notice at first, still beaming at the lens, but his gaze lingered on her for the rest of the shot, unbothered by the camera capturing the moment.

Once the staff handed the camera back, Luna excitedly flipped through the photos, Jeonghan leaning in beside her to look. His shoulder brushed hers, and they huddled closer as the images appeared on the small screen. “Not bad,” Jeonghan murmured, his tone thoughtful. “We look good together.”

Luna grinned, not looking up as she continued scrolling. “We do.”

Jeonghan turned to one of the rolling cameras and said, as if sharing an inside thought, “I keep thinking of ‘Spirited Away’.”

“Hm?” Luna hummed distractedly, still absorbed in the photos.

Jeonghan’s lips curved into a sly smirk as he added teasingly, “They said this is the Seine. I wonder how ‘sen’sible it is.”

At that, Luna froze mid-scroll and slowly looked up at him. Her expression was a mix of disbelief and exasperation, her deadpan stare speaking volumes. “Really?” she asked, her voice flat, before immediately looking back down at the camera, pretending she hadn’t heard it.

Jeonghan couldn’t hold back his laughter, low and amused. He glanced at the filming staff, then back at the camera, winking playfully. “She loves my jokes,” he said with mock confidence, his voice dripping with mischief. He leaned slightly closer to Luna, his tone dropping into something quieter but still teasing. “You’re just mad because you didn’t think of it first.”

Luna snorted softly but didn’t look up, still scrolling through the pictures with exaggerated focus. “No,” she replied without missing a beat. “I’m mad because you keep finding new ways to embarrass me in public.”

Jeonghan’s grin widened as he tilted his head to catch her gaze. “Embarrass you? You’re the one hanging onto me as we walk here and putting me to work. How are you embarrassed?”

Luna finally glanced up, her eyes narrowing slightly. “This is teamwork, Hannie. And you signed up for this when you joined me.”

Jeonghan chuckled, leaning a little closer so only she could hear. “Teamwork, huh? Then why do I feel like I’m doing all the heavy lifting?”

Luna gave him a sideways glance, her lips twitching as though she were fighting back a smile. “Maybe because you like being in the spotlight,” she countered coolly, her voice tinged with humor.

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, his expression effortlessly smug. “Can you blame me? It’s hard not to shine when you’re standing next to me.”

Luna groaned, shaking her head as she turned her attention back to the photos. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, but there was no hiding the fondness in her tone.

“And you’re still here,” Jeonghan quipped smoothly, his grin never faltering as he watched her.

“I am,” Luna nodded as they continued walking along the Seine.

Jeonghan spotted the Eiffel Tower once more, a little closer than before, standing tall and proud despite the fog softening its outline. He gestured toward it with his free hand, his tone casual but still holding that subtle wonder that the structure always seemed to invoke.

“Look at that, it’s the Eiffel Tower,” he said, his voice calm yet slightly playful.

Luna followed his gaze and immediately lit up. “We need to get a picture with it.”

Jeonghan hummed thoughtfully, nodding. “Hmm. We should.” His lips twitched upward, the ghost of a smile. Then, as if unable to resist, he added with a slight chuckle, “This is the sensible Seine river.”

Luna turned toward the camera following them and raised her eyebrows with mock exasperation. “He had to repeat it,” she said, deadpan, but the glint of amusement in her eyes was unmistakable.

Jeonghan laughed softly, clearly pleased with himself, before turning back to her. “We need to take a picture here too,” he announced, suddenly decisive.

Before Luna could say anything, Jeonghan grabbed her digital camera right out of her hand and handed it to one of the staff members filming them. He then linked his hand with hers and gently pulled her toward the side of the river, finding the perfect spot with a better view of the Eiffel Tower.

“Stand here,” he said, his tone casual yet firm, guiding her into position like it was second nature.

They posed naturally, their hands still intertwined as they stood side by side, the river and the iconic tower behind them. Jeonghan leaned in slightly, his free arm lifting to rest on the railing behind her, his stance protective without being overt. Their linked hands remained between them, a subtle but intimate detail as they both smiled toward the camera.

After a few clicks, Jeonghan adjusted their position, wrapping his arm fully around her shoulders while still keeping their hands intertwined. Luna tilted her head slightly to look up at him, her smile softening in that moment, but Jeonghan’s gaze stayed fixed on the camera, his expression effortlessly relaxed yet somehow magnetic.

Once the photo was taken, the staff handed the camera back to Luna, and the two huddled together again to look at the photos. Jeonghan leaned in close, his cheek almost brushing hers as they scrolled through the images.

“Not bad,” Jeonghan murmured, his tone pleased.

Luna giggled. “Not bad at all.”

With that, they turned back toward the path and started making their way back to their hotel. The wind picked up slightly, and Luna instinctively clasped Jeonghan’s hand with both of hers, trying to warm it up.

Jeonghan chuckled at her small gesture before playfully wrapping an arm around her waist from behind, pulling her closer. In one smooth motion, he slipped both of their hands into her coat pockets, trapping her in his embrace as they walked in sync.

The movement made Luna laugh, the sound light and melodic. “I love the cold,” she said, smiling up at him.

“I’ll never understand why,” Jeonghan replied, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh.

“It’s because ‘the cold never bothered me anyway~,’” Luna sang teasingly, turning her head to look up at him mid-verse.

Jeonghan was already smirking down at her, clearly amused. “Elsa?” he called her, his tone playfully mocking.

“‘Do you wanna build a snowman?’” Luna continued with a grin, making Jeonghan laugh softly.

Still holding her close, Jeonghan turned back to address the camera that was filming them. “Fortunately, Hoshi will be here on the 18th to see the fashion show, so luckily I’ve requested a padded jacket from our manager. If I endure it a bit more…” He trailed off, visibly cold but unwilling to break the moment.

“You should say, ‘Fortunately, Jiyeonie and I are going shopping soon…’” Luna interrupted, her tone sweet but clearly hinting at her own agenda.

Jeonghan chuckled, indulging her. “We’ll also shop. I promise.”

“I know we will,” Luna said smugly, confidence shining through her teasing tone.

Jeonghan laughed, his breath visible in the cold air. “My mouth is frozen… It’s hard to talk,” he muttered, rubbing his lips together.

Hearing that, Luna turned her head slightly, her eyes glinting with mischief as she discreetly puckered her lips, as if implying something without saying it outright.

Jeonghan caught the gesture immediately, a low chuckle escaping him as he tightened his grip around her waist and gently lifted her off the ground, turning her away from the camera in one fluid motion. “Let’s go,” he said firmly, his voice warm with amusement.

“Let’s go!” Luna giggled, her laughter echoing softly as they continued their playful walk back toward the hotel.

In their hotel room, the camera focused on Jeonghan sitting elegantly in front of a sleek vanity. The soft glow of warm lighting illuminated his features as his stylist meticulously worked on his hair, combing through the strands with precision.

Jeonghan’s makeup artist stood to the side, dabbing at his cheekbones and blending foundation seamlessly into his skin. His reflection in the mirror was sharp yet calm, the epitome of effortless charm as he sat still, letting the professionals do their work.

In the background, Luna could be seen sprawled comfortably on her belly across Jeonghan’s bed, her legs lazily bent at the knees as she swung them slightly in the air. She was completely engrossed in her phone, her thumbs tapping away occasionally as she scrolled, her hair tumbling loosely around her face. She was in her own world, her posture relaxed and unbothered, a stark contrast to the quiet busyness surrounding Jeonghan.

Jeonghan glanced at the camera in front of him, his expression shifting into a soft smile as he addressed it. “So, right now, I’m getting ready for the Yves Saint Laurent show tonight,” he began, his voice smooth and calm, the kind that naturally pulled people in. He gestured briefly to his stylist with his hand, careful not to disrupt the makeup brush hovering near his jawline. “They’re fixing my hair and makeup to make sure I look decent enough for the event,” he joked lightly, his tone infused with a teasing self-awareness.

He tilted his head slightly as the stylist adjusted his hair, his gaze darting to the mirror and back to the camera. “It’s a busy night for me— after the show, I’ll probably have a few other things to wrap up. But our Jiyeonie…” He trailed off, his smile widening as he nodded toward the background.

The camera panned slightly to capture Luna, still lying on the bed, entirely absorbed in her phone. Jeonghan’s smile turned affectionate as he called out, “Nana-ya~” in a soft, sing-song voice.

Luna looked up at the sound of his voice, blinking in slight confusion before realizing the camera was on her. A small smile tugged at her lips as she raised her hand to wave lazily at it. “Hi,” she said, her voice light and casual, before returning to her phone with the same nonchalant ease.

Jeonghan chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before turning back to the camera. “She’s a bit tired from this morning,” he explained. “We went for a walk along the Seine pretty early, and then we went shopping for a while after.”

He paused, his eyes flicking to Luna briefly before continuing. “But… we didn’t end up getting anything because none of the stores had what she wanted.” He lowered his voice slightly, adding conspiratorially to the camera, “So now she’s a little bummed about it.”

At this, Luna raised her head slightly, as though she’d heard him, but she didn’t respond, only going back to her phone with a faint pout on her lips. Jeonghan watched her for a moment before speaking again, his tone gentle but teasing.

“It’s okay,” he said, directing his words toward her now. “I promise we’ll shop again soon. We’ll find exactly what you’re looking for.”

Luna glanced up at him from her phone, her lips quirking into a small smile. “You always say that,” she replied, her voice playful but with a hint of accusation.

“And I always deliver,” Jeonghan countered smoothly, raising an eyebrow at her through the mirror.

Luna’s smile grew, and she shook her head slightly, her attention already drifting back to her phone. Jeonghan’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned back to the camera, his lips curling into a soft, knowing smile as he said, “See? She knows.”

The stylist, now satisfied with his hair, stepped back to let Jeonghan adjust slightly in his seat. He leaned back, resting his elbow on the vanity and his chin on his hand as he looked straight at the camera, his expression a mix of charm and ease. “Alright,” he said, his tone signaling the conversation was about to shift. “That’s the update for now. Stay tuned.”

The car slowed to a stop under the soft glow of the streetlights outside the venue, where the energy was electric. The night sky was a deep navy, peppered with faint stars, but it was the sea of flashing lights and the ecstatic energy of the crowd that illuminated the scene. Fans clustered behind sturdy barricades, their voices merging into a harmonious chorus of cheers and screams as soon as Jeonghan stepped out of the sleek black car.

He emerged with effortless grace, dressed in a tailored black ensemble that spoke volumes of elegance and sophistication. The structured lines of his blazer contrasted with the soft silk of his shirt beneath, which caught the light with every movement. His trousers were impeccably fitted, and his polished black shoes reflected the shimmering glow of the venue’s lights. His shoulder-length black hair fell naturally, framing his sharp features, with just enough tousle to give off an air of casual sophistication.

The instant Jeonghan appeared, the crowd erupted. Fans waved lightsticks, posters, and their phones in the air, calling his name with uncontainable excitement. The fervor was palpable, their admiration echoing across the cold evening.

Jeonghan turned toward them immediately, his face lighting up with an easy smile that seemed to cast warmth over the freezing night. His long fingers lifted in a poised wave, acknowledging the crowd’s enthusiasm as they pushed closer to the barricades, desperate to catch every glimpse of him.

Camera flashes exploded like a storm of stars, painting the night in bursts of silver and white. Photographers lined the walkway, jostling for the perfect shot, their lenses focused entirely on him. Jeonghan moved fluidly, effortlessly aware of the eyes on him without seeming burdened by it. He paused for the cameras, adjusting his stance subtly to give them the angles they craved.

He tilted his head slightly, his black hair catching the light, and let his hands fall naturally to his sides before shifting one into his pocket with practiced ease. The slight smirk on his lips— barely there, but enough to send fans into a frenzy— made the moment feel magnetic. His gaze darted over the crowd briefly, a silent acknowledgement that made every individual feel seen.

Jeonghan took his time, pivoting slightly as he moved along the red carpet, giving different angles to the flashing cameras. His every step was measured, purposeful, the very picture of composure amidst the chaos. The murmurs of admiration from the press were barely audible over the cacophony of fans calling out his name, but they were there, buzzing in tandem with the atmosphere.

As he approached the main entrance, Jeonghan paused again, this time turning toward the barricades to give the fans one last wave. His expression softened slightly, the corners of his lips curving upward in genuine appreciation for the crowd’s presence. His fingers fluttered in a delicate yet deliberate gesture before he resumed his walk, the tails of his blazer swaying lightly behind him with each step.

The venue itself loomed in the background, its grandeur amplified by dramatic lighting that highlighted the ornate architecture. The sleek, modern red carpet pathway leading into the event was framed by towering displays of the Yves Saint Laurent logo, an embodiment of timeless luxury.

Jeonghan reached the entrance but glanced back one final time, a fleeting look over his shoulder that sent another ripple of excitement through the crowd. Even with his back turned, his presence was commanding, the sharp lines of his outfit and the deliberate way he carried himself exuding quiet power and elegance.

And just like that, with one final wave and a subtle nod to the cameras, Jeonghan disappeared into the venue, leaving the crowd buzzing with energy and the press scrambling to capture the lingering magic he left behind.

Luna was seated in front of the vanity, the soft morning light filtering through the windows, painting the room in a warm, cozy glow.

She leaned forward, adjusting the camera with deft hands, dressed in an oversized beige hoodie that was unmistakably Jeonghan’s— its long sleeves engulfed her arms. Her hair was still a little disheveled, evidence of having only recently woken up, and her face was bare, fresh from sleep.

“Here we go…” she muttered quietly, her voice groggy yet steady as she pressed the record button. She leaned back into her chair, crossing her legs comfortably. Her team was already bustling around her, a stylist gently brushing through her hair while another began unpacking the makeup she would wear for the event.

“Today’s the day of the Miu Miu fashion show,” Luna said to the camera, her voice a little livelier now. “I’m getting ready… getting my hair and makeup done right now.” She wiggled slightly in her seat, folding her arms over her lap as she smiled at her reflection in the mirror. “The mood of the day is not like the original lovely Miu Miu mood. It’s going to be chic. I’m going to be Chic Luna today,” she joked, chuckling softly.

As she finished speaking, Jeonghan strolled into the frame, his steps unhurried, his presence effortlessly laid-back. He was dressed casually in black sweats, a stark contrast to the sharp ensemble he had worn the night before. In his hands was a bowl of sliced fruit, and he was chewing leisurely, clearly at ease.

“You’re always chic,” Jeonghan said smugly, a teasing smirk playing on his lips as he leaned against the edge of the vanity.

Luna glanced up from the mirror, lifting her brow at him in a mix of skepticism and amusement. “Always?” she echoed, her tone light but laced with mock disbelief. Her lips twitched as if fighting a smile. “Even in this?” She gestured lazily to the hoodie swallowing her frame.

Jeonghan shrugged, unbothered. “Especially in that,” he replied, his voice warm, yet casual, like he was stating an obvious fact. His smirk remained intact, the ease of his confidence radiating as he leaned closer.

Luna looked up at him, her expression skeptical but amused, and gave him a pointed look. Jeonghan held her gaze, his own steady, challenging her silently as if daring her to disagree. “Alright,” she finally said, her voice laced with playful resignation, earning a satisfied chuckle from him.

Jeonghan chuckled softly, his posture relaxed, entirely at home in the moment. Luna, despite herself, allowed her smile to grow as her attention drifted back to the mirror.

Her gaze, however, didn’t stay there long. It flickered down, catching sight of the strawberries nestled in the bowl Jeonghan was holding. The rich sheen of chocolate coating one caught the light, and for a moment, her eyes lingered.

The pause was brief, but Jeonghan noticed it instantly. His perceptive nature caught every nuance of her expression— the subtle shift of her gaze, the way her lips pressed together in subtle temptation.

Without a word, Jeonghan plucked one of the strawberries from the bowl, the motion unhurried, deliberate. He held it up, his fingers poised with a practiced elegance, his other hand positioned just beneath the strawberry to catch any potential drip of chocolate. His movements were seamless, fluid, as if feeding her was the most natural thing in the world.

Luna blinked, her eyes darting to the strawberry, then back up to him. She didn’t need to say anything. The unspoken understanding passed between them effortlessly, a testament to the familiarity they shared. Leaning forward slightly, she took a bite, the sweetness of the fruit and the richness of the chocolate blending perfectly. A soft hum of satisfaction escaped her lips as she leaned back into her chair.

Jeonghan’s eyes never left her, his gaze steady and unreadable. Then, with the same ease, he lifted his thumb and gently brushed it across the corner of her lips, where a tiny smudge of chocolate had lingered. The touch was brief, almost casual, but deliberate. He brought his thumb to his own lips, licking away the chocolate with a calm, self-assured air that made Luna’s cheeks flush faintly.

“Better,” he said simply, his tone as smooth as the silk draped over their bed nearby.

Luna rolled her eyes, though the gesture was half-hearted at best. “You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, though there was no bite to her words.

“And you love it,” Jeonghan countered, his smirk making a triumphant return.

“Debatable,” she shot back, though her lips curved into a faint smile that betrayed her playful tone.

Jeonghan shifted slightly, leaning a little closer, his bowl of fruit still in hand. “Debatable? After I fed you my strawberry?” he echoed, his voice dropping ever so slightly, his tone now teasing but threaded with the kind of easy intimacy they always shared.

Luna glanced at him through her lashes, her expression coy. “Extremely debatable,” she replied, her voice light, but her gaze steady as it met his.

For a moment, the air between them stilled, charged with the quiet tension of two people completely attuned to each other. Jeonghan’s smirk softened into something warmer, but no less confident. Without breaking eye contact, he picked another strawberry from the bowl, holding it out to her.

Luna tilted her head, considering him briefly before leaning forward and taking it again. This time, she made a deliberate point of savoring the bite, her eyes sparkling mischievously as she leaned back with a satisfied hum. “Thanks,” she said sweetly, her tone dripping with mock innocence.

Jeonghan shook his head slightly, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “Always pushing it, aren’t you?” he remarked, his voice fond.

“Always,” Luna quipped back effortlessly, her grin widening as she glanced at the camera, as if to say, See what I deal with?

Jeonghan lingered beside her as the team continued their work, his presence a comfortable constant.

Luna turned her attention back to the camera, gesturing subtly to indicate she was addressing her audience again. “So, what’s up for today?” she began, her voice light and conversational. “The Miu Miu fashion show is this afternoon. And Hannie—” she turned slightly to glance at him, “—needs to get ready soon because right after the show, we have another schedule together. A private viewing for FRED.”

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow at her, already sensing where this was going. Luna smirked subtly before adding in a casual tone, “And then, before dinner… we’re going shopping.” She finished her sentence slowly, almost sneakily, and then tilted her head to look up at Jeonghan, gauging his reaction.

He was already looking down at her with a lazy, amused expression, one eyebrow raised as if to say, Really?

Luna blinked up at him with her large, doe-like eyes, feigning innocence as she bit back a smile. Jeonghan saw right through it, of course, but that didn’t stop him from indulging her. “Alright,” he said slowly, dragging out the word with a teasing edge, “but only if you do something for me first.”

Luna pouted, hesitating as she searched his face for clues. “What kind of something?” she asked cautiously, her lips forming a slight pout.

Jeonghan smirked, his amusement evident, but he didn’t answer right away, letting the suspense build. Finally, he leaned in slightly, his tone playful as he murmured, “Surprise me.”

Luna sighed dramatically, clearly reluctant, but her desire to win him over outweighed her hesitation. She leaned forward slightly, her cheeks puffing out in a small display of determination before she pulled out her phone and showed him the Lego set he desperately been wanting and bought it online.

Jeonghan’s smirk deepened, his gaze softening as he found her endearing.

“Alright, alright. Thank you, Nana-ya,” he said at last, his tone lazy but approving, and he gave a slow nod of assent.

“Yay!” Luna cheered softly, turning back to the camera with a triumphant smile. Her expression was one of pure satisfaction, but she wasn’t done yet. Tilting her head up toward Jeonghan once more, she opened her mouth expectantly, a mischievous glint in her eye.

Jeonghan chuckled under his breath, shaking his head slightly before indulging her once more, feeding her another strawberry. Luna took it with a pleased hum before glancing back at the camera. She winked, her smile widening as she seemed fully aware of the power she held over him.

Jeonghan shook his head again, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, affectionate smile as he muttered under his breath, “Always gets her way.”

The afternoon air in Paris was crisp, the winter sun muted behind a pale gray sky, casting a soft glow over the bustling scene outside the venue of the Miu Miu fashion show. Crowds had gathered behind barricades, their energy palpable as they waved banners and phones in the air, the hum of excited chatter punctuated by occasional squeals of recognition as celebrity guests arrived one by one.

When Luna’s car pulled up to the event, a ripple of excitement swept through the crowd. Her arrival was heralded by an enthusiastic wave of cheers, fans holding up signs with her name, their phones trained on the sleek black vehicle. The door opened slowly, and Luna emerged with an effortless elegance that seemed almost otherworldly.

She stepped out gracefully, her heeled boots clicking softly against the pavement as she straightened to her full height.

She was dressed in a chic ensemble— a structured black coat cinched perfectly at the waist, accentuating her silhouette, paired with a crystal-embellished Miu Miu skirt that shimmered subtly in the daylight. Her makeup was bold but refined, with a smoky eye and a deep nude lip that complimented the modern yet timeless aesthetic of her outfit. Her hair, styled in sleek waves, cascaded over her shoulders, completing the look with understated glamour.

The moment she appeared, camera flashes erupted like a cascade of stars, illuminating her figure as she turned toward the crowd with a radiant, confident smile. Her gaze scanned the faces of her fans, and she lifted a hand to wave at them, her gesture warm and genuine, eliciting another round of enthusiastic screams. “Luna!” they called out, their voices blending into a symphony of admiration.

Luna took a moment to pose for the cameras, her movements fluid and poised. She turned slightly, offering the photographers a three-quarter view that showcased the intricate detailing on her coat. Her hands rested lightly at her sides as she shifted her weight, tilting her head just enough to cast a sultry glance over her shoulder before turning forward again, her expression softening into a radiant smile.

The rhythm of camera clicks seemed to intensify as she struck the perfect balance between composure and approachability.

She stepped closer to the barricades, waving again to the fans who were calling her name. Some reached out eagerly, holding out pens and posters in the hope of an autograph. While her team guided her along, Luna paused briefly to acknowledge a few of them, her smile never wavering.

A fan shouted, “You’re so beautiful!” and Luna, catching the compliment, turned her head slightly, her smile widening as she gave a small, playful bow in gratitude.

Turning back toward the venue, Luna moved with unhurried grace, her heels clicking softly against the pavement as she ascended the steps leading inside. Before entering, she turned one last time to face the crowd, giving a final wave that felt both regal and personal.

The cheering rose to a crescendo, the air buzzing with excitement as she disappeared into the venue, leaving an indelible impression on everyone outside.

The sun dipped low over the Paris skyline, painting the city in hues of amber and gold as Jeonghan and Luna stepped out of their car for their final event of the day. Both were dressed to perfection, exuding a quiet elegance that turned heads.

Luna wore a fitted, off-shoulder black dress adorned with subtle glittering embellishments that caught the light, paired with sleek stilettos that elongated her figure. Jeonghan, ever the embodiment of sophistication, was in a sharp double-breasted navy suit, his hair swept back to reveal his striking features.

Together, they radiated a magnetic charm.

“Finally, we are here to have a private viewing at FRED,” Luna said with a soft smile as she turned on the camera to document the moment for her vlog.

“Yes, let’s go and check out FRED’s new collection with me and of course, our Jiyeonie,” Jeonghan added, his tone teasing yet smooth, as he stood by her side.

Inside, the luxury boutique was impeccably designed, its minimalist elegance allowing the jewels on display to truly shine.

The pair was greeted warmly by the CEO and high-ranking figures of the brand, who had gathered for the private viewing. Handshakes and polite bows were exchanged, their warmth making the atmosphere relaxed yet intimate. The CEO gestured for them to follow, and Luna and Jeonghan were led into a private room where the newest collection awaited

The moment they stepped inside, Luna’s eyes widened, sparkling like the diamonds before her. The centerpiece of the room was an elegantly arranged display of jewelry— necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and rings, each more dazzling than the last. Luna’s gaze flitted from one piece to another, her expression a mixture of awe and childlike delight. She moved closer, leaning over slightly to get a better look at a particularly stunning set.

“Wait, hold on,” she gasped, her voice tinged with wonder as her eyes landed on a heart-shaped diamond necklace accompanied by matching earrings, a bracelet that cleverly doubled as a hidden watch, and a delicate ring. “This might be my favorite one.” Her tone was light, yet the sincerity in her words was undeniable

Her reaction drew soft laughter from the FRED team, charmed by her genuine enthusiasm. Jeonghan, standing just behind her, leaned in to get a closer look himself, his presence close but not overbearing.

“It’s so gorgeous,” Luna said, her voice quieter now as she glanced up at him. “I really want this.”

Jeonghan’s lips curled into an amused smile. “Do you?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he watched her.

The CEO, amused by their exchange, stepped forward. “Would you like to try them on?”

Luna looked up, surprised but clearly delighted. “Can I?”

“For you? Yes, of course,” the CEO replied warmly, prompting Luna to laugh softly, her cheeks faintly tinged with color.

She was seated on a plush velvet couch, where a professional with gloved hands began carefully removing the pieces from their display. The heart-shaped diamond necklace was the first to be draped around her neck.

The cool metal made her flinch slightly, and she laughed softly. “It’s cold,” she remarked, shivering just a little as a member of her staff stood behind her, holding her hair up.

Next came the earrings, followed by the bracelet-watch, each piece accentuating her elegance. When it was time for the ring, Luna unknowingly lifted her left hand for the jeweler to slip it on.

The woman assisting her paused, a playful smile on her lips. “No, not for that finger yet,” she joked, her voice light, but the implication clear.

Luna laughed, her cheeks heating up as she glanced at Jeonghan, who was busy taking photos of her on his phone. She didn’t miss the way his lips quirked upward in amusement after hearing their translator translate to him, his gaze flickering briefly to her left hand before returning to her face.

“Beautiful,” Jeonghan murmured after a beat, his voice just loud enough for her to hear.

“Right?” Luna replied, meeting his eyes with a smile before turning her attention back to the team. “It’s amazing. I might not control myself and get this entire collection,” she added, her tone lighthearted, drawing laughter from the room.

The private viewing continued with both Luna and Jeonghan trying on various pieces. Jeonghan, though quieter, had his moments of playful commentary, especially when Luna’s excitement over a particular piece was palpable.

By the end of the session, the couple had impulsively decided on matching necklaces, the simplicity of the design contrasting beautifully with its luxurious quality.

As they finalized their selections, Luna turned to Jeonghan, her expression soft but teasing. “I think we’re going to need an extra suitcase for all the shopping we’re about to do,” she joked, earning a chuckle from him.

“We’ll make it work,” he replied, his tone reassuring, though the glint in his eye suggested he’d enjoy watching her figure it out.

The Parisian streets were alive with a soft glow from the streetlights, illuminating the cobblestones as Luna and Jeonghan strolled side by side. Both had changed into more casual yet effortlessly chic outfits for their evening out after the private viewing.

Luna wore an oversized black trench coat draped over her shoulders, paired with high-waisted jeans and a fitted black turtleneck. Jeonghan was equally fashionable, dressed in a tailored black coat over a red top and jeans, his hair slightly tousled from the breeze. The two of them walked arm-in-arm, their bodyguard trailing a few steps behind, holding several shopping bags from their previous stops.

The staff holding the camera out for the vlog, filming the two gave them a signal before Luna started speaking. “So, we just finished our private viewing at FRED,” she began, her tone light and conversational. “And now, as promised, we’re shopping.” She turned towards Jeonghan with a teasing smile. “Because someone said I could.”

Jeonghan raised a brow at her but smiled, leaning into the frame. “Someone had to say yes,” he teased. “Otherwise, I’d never hear the end of it.”

Luna gasped dramatically, glaring at him playfully. “Excuse me? I’m being very responsible about this. I’m not just buying for myself.”

“Right,” Jeonghan drawled, the smirk on his lips unmistakable. “Totally responsible. That’s why there are at least three bags already.”

Luna pouted, flipping her hair as if to dismiss him. “For your information, I bought something for my parents. And I’m planning to get stuff for the members too. So technically, I’m just being very thoughtful.”

Jeonghan chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re always thoughtful. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have a little problem when it comes to shopping.”

Luna rolled her eyes but laughed, linking her arm more tightly with his as they entered another boutique. The warm lighting inside reflected off the polished displays, showcasing rows of high-end clothing, shoes, and accessories.

As they stepped inside, Luna immediately gravitated towards a rack of brightly colored blazers. She picked up a soft lavender one, holding it up to herself in the mirror. “What do you think?” she asked, glancing at Jeonghan.

Jeonghan leaned against a nearby column, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. “You already know my answer. You look amazing in everything.”

“That’s not helpful,” Luna muttered, shaking her head as she handed the blazer to a sales assistant and moved on to a pair of sleek leather boots. She slipped one on, turning her foot to admire the fit. “Should I get these in black or brown?” she called out.

“Both,” Jeonghan answered without hesitation, earning a pointed look from her.

“Han,” she said, exasperated but amused.

He shrugged, walking over to her. “I’m just saying. You’ll end up using both eventually.”

Luna huffed but grinned, moving to another section while Jeonghan trailed behind her, turning to the camera filming them. “Alright, everyone,” he said in a mock-serious tone, directing the camera to point at Luna as she sifted through rows of handbags. “This is what it’s like shopping with our Jiyeonie. She’s currently pretending she’s deciding between two colors, but we all know she’s going to get both.”

Luna glanced back at him, feigning annoyance. “Don’t expose me.”

“I’m just being honest,” he replied, the mischief in his voice evident.

The sales assistants couldn’t help but smile at their banter as Luna turned her attention to the men’s section. She picked up a soft cream-colored shirt, holding it up against Jeonghan’s chest. “How about this one?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.

Jeonghan examined it briefly. “It’s nice.”

Luna narrowed her eyes. “Just nice?”

“I’ll wear whatever you pick,” he said simply, his gaze meeting hers with an amused softness. “There are perks to shopping with you, after all.”

Luna laughed, catching the meaning behind his words. “Perks like me buying things for you too?”

He smiled, not denying it. “You said it, not me.”

They continued their shopping spree, Luna occasionally asking for Jeonghan’s opinion while he mostly observed, teasing her or quietly marveling at how excited she got over each item. By the end of their visit, their bodyguard was carrying even more bags, and Luna turned back to the camera with a triumphant smile.

“This was productive,” she declared, her tone light and happy.

Jeonghan glanced at the growing pile of bags and then back at her. “Productive for your wardrobe, maybe.”

Luna just grinned, leaning her head against his shoulder as they walked back out into the cool Paris night.

The cozy restaurant was warm and softly lit, a pleasant contrast to the crisp Parisian night outside. Luna and Jeonghan sat close to each other at a small table by the window, sharing quiet giggles as they leaned over a digital camera that Jeonghan held. The bright display illuminated their faces, highlighting the easy smiles and fondness between them. Jeonghan’s elbow rested casually on the table, while Luna leaned slightly into his side, her hand occasionally brushing his as they scrolled through the photos.

To Luna’s other side, Hoshi was perched with a fork in hand, digging into a decadent slice of dessert. “We’re eating dessert right now,” he announced to the camera in front of them, his tone cheerful and slightly muffled by his mouthful of cake. “I arrived in Paris today and met Jeonghan and Jiyeonie.”

His words were accompanied by a bright grin, and Luna and Jeonghan both chuckled softly at his energy, momentarily distracted from their camera.

Jeonghan finally looked up, turning to address the vlogging camera set up by their staff. “This is a camera I bought because it’s cute,” he explained, holding it up for the audience to see before shifting it toward Hoshi. “I’ll take pictures of Hoshi and gift you the pictures a year later,” he teased, his voice light and amused.

Hoshi laughed loudly, leaning into the frame with a playful pose. “Go ahead. I’m ready,” he said, dramatically angling his face as if preparing for a magazine shoot.

“Enjoy the food,” Jeonghan remarked dryly, snapping a quick picture of Hoshi while Luna chuckled at the interaction.

“I want the flash to work,” Jeonghan muttered, fidgeting with the buttons on the camera.

Luna leaned closer, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck to steady herself as she adjusted the settings with her other hand. “It’s this,” she murmured, turning on the flash with a soft click. Her fingers brushed lightly against his as she handed the camera back to him.

“So cute,” Jeonghan murmured, lifting the camera again. “Hoshi’s so cute.” The flash went off, capturing a bright snapshot of Hoshi mid-bite.

“Did you take it?” Hoshi asked, leaning over slightly.

“Yeah, so cute.” Jeonghan nodded, his expression pleased as he checked the screen. “It came out well.”

“You’re so cute, Soonie,” Luna chimed in, taking another delicate bite of her own dessert. Her tone was warm, laced with affection as she smiled at Hoshi.

“The flash needs to work for a good picture,” Jeonghan said, his focus still on the camera. He tilted the screen to show Hoshi the photo. “How is it?”

“That’s good,” Hoshi replied enthusiastically, leaning in to examine it more closely.

“It’s good, right? Isn’t it cute?” Jeonghan asked, turning to Luna and holding the camera up for her to see.

“This is Hoshi,” Jeonghan said, showing the image to the vlog camera. “Then next is Hoshi with the flash. So cute,” he remarked with a teasing grin.

Luna, momentarily engrossed in her cake, didn’t notice as Jeonghan turned the camera toward her. The flash went off, and she immediately paused mid-bite, her eyes darting up in surprise before she instinctively struck a quick, playful pose.

Jeonghan chuckled, taking another shot. “Caught you,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Ya, give me a warning next time,” Luna scolded lightly, though her tone was filled with amusement. She adjusted her hair and posed again, making Jeonghan laugh as he snapped another photo.

“Alright, one more, Nana-ya,” he said, his voice soft but teasing. He was fully immersed in capturing her, the fondness in his gaze evident as he clicked the button once more.

“Let me try now,” Hoshi interrupted, reaching for the camera. “I’ll take one of you two.”

Jeonghan handed over the device, and Luna shifted in her seat, wrapping her arms loosely around Jeonghan’s neck as she leaned her head atop his. Jeonghan responded by slipping an arm around her waist, holding her close. They held the pose for a few seconds, the camera flashing twice as Hoshi captured the moment.

“Okay, now flip it and join us,” Luna instructed, gesturing for Hoshi to come closer. He grinned and set up the camera on the table, flipping the screen to face them before settling in beside her.

The three of them posed together, Luna in the middle with Jeonghan and Hoshi leaning in on either side. The camera captured their bright smiles and easy camaraderie, freezing the moment in time.

Afterward, Hoshi handed the camera back to Jeonghan, who immediately scrolled through the photos. The three of them leaned closer, their heads nearly touching as they admired the pictures.

Jeonghan held up the camera for the vlog. “Anyways, it’s a camera I bought because it’s so cute,” he repeated, tucking it back into his coat pocket with care. “As soon as Hoshi arrived, we met to eat dinner. So we just had a snail dish, and now we’re eating dessert. We forgot to record, so we’re now recording during dessert,” he explained.

“He was too excited with the camera, he forgot the vlog,” Luna teased, her tone light and playful as she turned to him with a knowing grin.

Jeonghan raised a brow at her, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “Says the one who got completely distracted earlier shopping for everyone and their pets.”

Luna gasped, feigning indignation. “That was for our members too!”

“And yet, I saw the most bags in your name,” Jeonghan quipped, his deadpan delivery earning a burst of laughter from Hoshi.

Their teasing continued, filled with warmth and laughter, as they savored the last bites of their dessert, the bustling energy of Paris providing the perfect backdrop to their lighthearted evening.

The three of them strolled through the glowing streets of Paris, the cobblestones reflecting the soft yellow light from the ornate streetlamps above. Luna was nestled between Jeonghan and Hoshi, her arms comfortably linked with theirs as they walked in sync.

The evening air was cool, carrying with it the faint scent of blooming flowers and the occasional waft of something delicious from nearby cafes. Their staff walked in front of them, capturing the moment on camera as the trio laughed and chatted, their voices blending into the quiet hum of the city.

“We’ve finished eating, and since the Eiffel Tower is just around the corner…” Jeonghan began, speaking directly to the camera with his signature calm, slightly amused tone.

“This street is so pretty,” Hoshi interrupted, his eyes darting around to take in the charm of the Parisian architecture as they crossed a quiet intersection.

“Right?” Jeonghan agreed, glancing at him with a small smile. “This is the place Jiyeonie and I said was pretty when we were in the car.”

“Oh, really?” Hoshi asked, tilting his head curiously.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan replied.

“It’s even prettier at night,” Luna chimed in, her voice soft yet full of wonder as she glanced around. The lights made her features glow, her excitement bubbling just under the surface.

They continued walking at a leisurely pace, the sounds of their footsteps blending with the faint chatter of people in the distance. Jeonghan glanced toward the camera again, adding, “We’ve walked about ten minutes to see the Eiffel Tower. Jiyeonie told us that it sparkles every hour on the hour.”

“It does,” Luna confirmed, her eyes lighting up. “I really want to see it because I didn’t get to last time when I was here.”

Jeonghan nodded, a touch of excitement breaking through his typically calm demeanor. “We have a minute left, but right now it’s hidden because of the buildings,” he said, pulling out his phone to check the time. His lock screen, a close-up photo of his and Luna’s eyes with their heads tilted together, caught the light briefly.

Luna caught sight of it and gave Jeonghan’s arm a gentle tap with her free hand. Her gaze flicked up to his, and she raised a brow with a knowing look.

Jeonghan chuckled under his breath, quickly pocketing his phone again. “What?” he teased, though the faint blush on his cheeks was unmistakable.

“We need to get there quickly,” Luna said, shaking her head at him but smiling nonetheless. “It’s almost time.”

“I wanted to see it sparkling,” Jeonghan added, his voice tinged with anticipation. “It’s fifty-nine minutes right now.”

“We need to see it when it changes,” Hoshi said, his steps quickening to match their urgency.

“Right. Exactly when it changes,” Luna agreed, her voice lilting with excitement.

“How long does it sparkle?” Hoshi asked, glancing between them as they visibly started to hurry, their pace picking up.

“I don’t know,” Luna admitted, her tone slightly breathless as they turned a corner.

“Forty seconds?” Jeonghan guessed, throwing out a random number.

“Forty seconds?” Hoshi repeated in mock disbelief, his wide eyes making Jeonghan laugh.

“I don’t know!” Jeonghan replied, shrugging with a grin. “Won’t it stop after ten p.m.?”

“I think it would be longer, no?” Luna said, her voice hopeful as she picked up the pace, her heels clicking against the pavement.

The trio moved with a newfound urgency, their laughter and quick exchanges punctuating the quiet streets as they hurried toward their goal.

Jeonghan pointed ahead as they continued walking briskly through the dimly lit streets, the Eiffel Tower’s glow visible just above the rooftops. “I think that’s a rooftop terrace,” he said, gesturing toward a cluster of faint red lights glowing in the distance. “See those red lights? That would be a perfect spot to see the Eiffel Tower sparkle.”

Hoshi, catching sight of it too, took off suddenly, jogging ahead in his excitement. “Wait for us!” Luna called after him before letting out a worried gasp. “Shi-shi! Be careful!” Her voice rose slightly, eyes narrowing at the wet patches glinting on the pavement.

Jeonghan chuckled at her motherly tone, his hand slipping down to catch hers. Without hesitation, he linked their fingers together and gently tugged her forward. “Come on, let’s go see the tower sparkle!” he urged, his grin both playful and encouraging.

Luna narrowed her eyes at him but let herself be pulled forward, picking up her pace carefully. “If I fall flat on my face, I’m dragging you with me, Yoon Jeonghan,” she warned, her voice filled with mock seriousness.

“Deal,” he said with a teasing lilt, glancing over his shoulder at her. “But I won’t let you fall. You trust me, don’t you?”

She huffed but couldn’t hide the small smile that tugged at her lips. “You’re lucky I do,” she muttered, carefully jogging alongside him.

As they neared the clearing, their pace slowed. Hoshi, still ahead of them, stopped abruptly, his figure silhouetted by the twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower. The structure loomed grandly above them, its lights shimmering like scattered stars against the night sky.

“Look at this,” Jeonghan murmured, his tone soft with awe. He squeezed Luna’s hand lightly, as if grounding himself in the moment. “It’s so big.”

Luna tilted her head back to take it all in, her breath hitching slightly. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with wonder.

Hoshi turned around, his face lit up with excitement. “Wanna snap some pics?” he asked, already pulling out his camera.

“You brought your camera?” Jeonghan asked, a mix of surprise and approval in his tone.

“Yeah, of course,” Hoshi replied, fiddling with the settings as he approached them.

Jeonghan fixed his coat slightly, adjusting the lapels of his shirt before striking a casual yet effortlessly cool pose. “Alright, get my good side,” he said with a smirk, standing a few steps in front of the Eiffel Tower.

Hoshi snapped a couple of pictures, then motioned for Luna. “Your turn, Jiyeonie,” he said.

Luna fixed her hair for a moment, smoothing down her coat before stepping into frame. She glanced at Jeonghan for reassurance, and he gave her a small nod, mouthing, “You look great.” She smiled softly, then turned her attention back to the camera as Hoshi captured a few shots.

“It comes out like this,” Hoshi said, stepping closer to show them the photos on his camera screen.

Jeonghan leaned in to look, his brows furrowing slightly. “Oh, yeah. The lighting isn’t right at all,” he commented, his tone mildly critical.

“Press this,” Luna said, reaching out to click a button on the camera. She adjusted a few settings with practiced ease, her expression focused. “There. That should help.”

“I’m so bad with cameras,” Jeonghan admitted with a small chuckle, watching her work.

“Me too,” Hoshi said, nodding in agreement.

Luna handed the camera back to Hoshi and turned toward Jeonghan, who was already reaching for her hand. He tugged her closer gently, his other arm resting lightly on her waist. “Come on,” he said softly, glancing down at her with a slight tilt of his head. “Let’s take one together.”

She smiled at him, the moment briefly charged with a quiet intimacy before they turned their attention back to the camera. Hoshi snapped a photo of them, the Eiffel Tower sparkling brightly behind them, casting a magical glow over the scene.

As the photos were taken, Jeonghan glanced at the glittering tower and murmured, almost to himself, “To think that I’d see Paris and the Eiffel Tower in my lifetime.”

Luna glanced up at him, her expression softening. “And now you’ve seen it,” she said, her voice quiet but filled with meaning.

Jeonghan looked down at her, his lips curving into a small, tender smile. “Yeah,” he said, his eyes holding hers. “And it’s better than I ever imagined.”

Jeonghan and Luna strolled side by side through the cobblestone pathway leading to the iconic Louvre Museum. The brisk morning air carried with it the soft murmurs of tourists and the occasional flutter of pigeons that darted past them.

“We’re here at the Louvre Museum,” Jeonghan announced cheerfully, turning slightly to the camera following them, his free hand gesturing toward the museum’s grand facade. His voice held the lively warmth of someone fully immersed in the experience.

“Ta-da!” both he and Luna chimed in unison, their voices overlapping perfectly. They turned to look at each other, momentarily surprised by their synchronicity, and broke into soft chuckles.

“I was so curious about how the Louvre Museum would be,” Jeonghan continued as they approached closer to the museum. “I only ever saw it in textbooks.”

Luna tilted her head in agreement. “It does feel surreal seeing it in person, doesn’t it?”

“After taking a picture with this pyramid,” Jeonghan added, pointing toward the famed glass pyramid ahead, “Jiyeonie and I will go explore the museum.”

The grand pyramid sparkled in the crisp daylight, and tourists were already gathering around it, their cameras clicking incessantly. Jeonghan’s gaze shifted to a flock of pigeons pecking at crumbs scattered nearby. He smiled slyly and nudged Luna with his elbow, his tone teasing as he pointed toward them.

“This place totally feels like Europe. The buildings and the pigeons,” he said. “You think of Europe when you think of pigeons.”

Luna halted mid-step, narrowing her eyes at him. She side-eyed him with a playful exasperation that made his grin widen.

“Really?” she asked dryly, her voice laced with mock disbelief.

Jeonghan laughed, the sound rich and unbothered. “I’m serious! Don’t they give it away? Very European vibes.”

“Right,” Luna muttered with a shake of her head, though her lips twitched, threatening to betray her amusement.

As they reached the photo spot, Jeonghan looked around at the setup— an elevated stand positioned strategically to allow visitors to align themselves perfectly with the pyramid’s tip. “Is this the photo spot?” he asked, his finger pointing toward the stand.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Luna confirmed with a hum, eyeing the growing line of tourists.

“I want to take a picture here too,” Jeonghan said eagerly, rubbing his hands together in excitement. But his enthusiasm quickly faltered as he shivered against the brisk wind. “So cold!” he exclaimed with a slight pout.

Luna, who had been busy candidly snapping photos of him from a slight distance, immediately looked up at his complaint. Her expression softened as she tucked her camera under her arm and waddled toward him in her oversized coat. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a hug. Jeonghan’s arms came up naturally, enveloping her as he smiled over her head.

“You’re warm,” he murmured, his voice low with contentment as they swayed lightly from side to side.

“There are seagulls here too?” Jeonghan suddenly said, peering over her shoulder at the sky.

Luna pulled back slightly, her brows arching. “Does it make you think of Europe too?” she teased, recalling his earlier comment about the pigeons.

“Yes,” Jeonghan replied smoothly, his eyes dancing with humor. “But there’s no ocean here. Is it because of the Seine?” His tone was curious, but the sly glint in his eye betrayed him. He leaned closer and said, with deliberate emphasis, “The sensible Seine.”

Luna groaned, letting out a dry laugh as she bumped her hip against his. “The really sensible Seine,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“We went there last time, right?” Jeonghan prompted, his lips quirking upward.

“We did, Hannie,” Luna coaxed, her tone indulging him.

“In the morning, when it was cold,” he added, his gaze softening as he recalled the memory. “It was like 8 am or 8:30 am.”

“Right,” Luna said, nodding as she adjusted the scarf around her neck. “You dragged me out of bed to walk with you.”

Jeonghan’s brows lifted, his grin playful. “Dragged you? I simply encouraged you to embrace the Parisian morning, Nana-ya.”

“You literally pulled the blankets off me,” Luna countered, her tone a perfect blend of exasperation and fondness.

Jeonghan chuckled, his gaze flicking down to her face as they continued walking. “And you didn’t complain when we found that bakery with the croissants.”

She huffed, unable to argue. “That bakery saved your life.”

They paused as the line to the photo platform moved forward. Jeonghan observed the other tourists, noting how they posed creatively to align their fingers or hands with the pyramid’s tip. “Oh, everyone’s doing that,” he said, pointing toward one group as they struck exaggerated poses.

Finally, it was their turn. “Okay, let’s do it,” Jeonghan said, stepping toward the platform.

Luna smiled as she nudged him forward gently. “You go first,” she said, already pulling out her digital camera to capture the moment.

Jeonghan hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Tell me if it’s weird. Where do I do it?” he asked, stepping onto the platform and striking an awkward pose.

Luna laughed softly, adjusting the camera. “That’s good. Do that,” she encouraged, snapping a couple of photos.

After a few moments, Jeonghan hopped down and handed her the camera. “Your turn,” he said, reaching out to hold her hand as he helped her onto the platform. His grip was steady, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

Luna glanced back at him as she stood in position. “What should I do?” she asked.

“Just look natural,” Jeonghan said, his voice teasing as he raised the camera. “Which shouldn’t be hard for you.”

She rolled her eyes but followed his direction, posing gracefully as he snapped the photos. When she hopped down, Jeonghan studied the pictures on the screen, his smile softening.

“Let’s do it together,” he said, turning to her.

Luna glanced at the platform, then at him. “I don’t think it’s allowed,” she muttered. “And even if it is, I don’t think we’ll fit.”

“It’s fine,” Jeonghan coaxed, tugging lightly on her arm. His tone shifted into something softer, almost childlike. “Come on, just one. For me?”

“You want us to get kicked out is what you’re saying,” Luna deadpanned, though the corners of her mouth twitched.

Jeonghan leaned closer, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Who’s going to kick us out? I’ll tell them it’s for love. No one argues with love.”

Luna groaned, pressing her palm to her forehead. “You’re impossible. What are you even talking about?”

“Yet here you are, standing next to me,” he quipped, his grin widening.

She sighed dramatically but finally relented. “Fine,” she said, holding up a finger. “But not on the platform. We’ll take it in front of the pyramid.”

Jeonghan’s eyes lit up, and he gave her a quick, triumphant nod. “Deal.”

Luna handed the camera to one of their staff members, her fingers lingering for a brief moment as she explained the settings with quiet precision. Jeonghan stood a few steps behind her, adjusting his jacket with a casual air but watching her with a subtle smile.

Once everything was set, Luna turned back to him, brushing her hair back from her face as the wind played with the loose strands. They moved instinctively closer, standing side by side before Jeonghan shifted, sliding an arm around her waist with easy familiarity. The two of them stood in perfect harmony, the glass pyramid of the Louvre sparkling behind them, its geometric lines catching the soft winter sunlight.

Luna rested one hand lightly on his chest, glancing up at him with a faint smirk as if challenging his pose, while Jeonghan tilted his head toward her, his expression effortlessly cool yet warm with a hint of teasing affection. Their chemistry was palpable, the slight turn of their bodies toward each other radiating an intimacy that the camera effortlessly captured.

Jeonghan and Luna stepped out of the grand entrance of the Louvre, the sound of their footsteps softened by the uneven cobblestone pathway. Jeonghan pulled his jacket a little tighter against the crisp winter air and tilted his head toward the camera that trailed them.

“We saw the Mona Lisa and took a lot of pictures,” Jeonghan said, his tone light, almost proud, though his eyes betrayed the fatigue of walking through the museum for hours.

“Too many pictures,” Luna chimed in, emphasized with an amused shake of her head, her lips curving into a teasing smile. She glanced at him, and their eyes met briefly, his widening in mock innocence as if silently asking, Was it my fault?

“There were so many incredible pieces,” Jeonghan continued, looking back at the camera. “I’m usually not that interested in museums or art museums, but here—” he paused, gesturing vaguely with his free hand toward the Louvre behind them, “there were a lot of pieces that were just so amazing I went, ‘Wow, this is cool.’ It was actually fun.” His expression softened, his genuine surprise at enjoying the experience adding a boyish charm to his demeanor.

Luna nodded along, her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat as she kept pace beside him. “Museums are very fun places for me to go to. I find different types of art interesting, and being in the Louvre and seeing the iconic pieces we only see in pictures made me appreciate it even more.” She spoke calmly, her words deliberate, as if reflecting on the experience in real-time.

Jeonghan cast her a sidelong glance, a hint of admiration flickering in his eyes as he listened to her. “You sounded like a professional just now,” he teased, nudging her shoulder lightly with his own.

“Maybe I should host an art documentary next,” Luna shot back smoothly, her tone playful but with a touch of sincerity.

Jeonghan chuckled, his breath visible in the chilly air. “I’d watch it. As long as it’s you narrating.”

Luna rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed faintly, whether from the cold or his words was hard to tell. “And you’d be fast asleep five minutes in.”

“Hey, I’d watch the whole thing,” Jeonghan replied, feigning offense. His teasing grin gave him away, though, and Luna laughed, shaking her head.

As they neared the street corner, they both turned to wave at the camera, their figures silhouetted against the backdrop of the historic museum. Jeonghan raised a hand, his fingers splaying in an exaggerated gesture of farewell. “Bye, everyone!”

“See you in the next spot,” Luna added with a smile, her voice soft but cheerful as she glanced at Jeonghan one last time before they continued walking away, side by side, their footsteps fading into the Parisian buzz.

Jeonghan held the baguette carefully in one hand as he and Luna climbed the sloping streets of Montmartre. The iconic neighborhood, bathed in the warm hues of late afternoon sunlight, felt alive with its cobblestone streets and quaint Parisian charm.

Jeonghan adjusted the beige hoodie— now his for the day— under his black blazer, his free hand tucked casually into his pocket as he walked beside Luna. She looked effortlessly chic in her beige long coat over a black turtleneck and matching pants, the two of them unintentionally coordinated but perfectly in sync.

“Here we are at Montmartre,” Jeonghan said, glancing at the camera being carried by their staff just ahead of them. “When DK went to Europe, he left a comment on my social media saying he wanted a Paris baguette, so…” He lifted the baguette slightly, a boyish grin tugging at his lips. “I got this baguette for DK.”

Luna laughed softly, shaking her head as she glanced over at him. “Are you seriously planning to take that back to Korea?” she asked, her tone amused but affectionate.

Jeonghan nodded solemnly, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Of course. I’ll hand it to him myself. It’s my mission now.”

“That baguette’s going to be as hard as a rock by the time we get there,” Luna teased, her laughter light and melodious as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“It’s the thought that counts,” Jeonghan replied smoothly, tapping the baguette against his palm for effect. “DK will appreciate it.”

Luna tilted her head, a skeptical smile on her lips. “Uh-huh. I’ll believe it when he actually eats it.”

Jeonghan laughed, his shoulders shaking as they continued walking. “We’ve come here for Fashion Week,” he said, addressing the camera again, “and now we have to head to the airport.”

“It’s been such a whirlwind trip,” Luna added, glancing at him. “Feels like we just got here.”

Jeonghan hummed in agreement. “We just saw Montmartre, and we have an hour left. So I said I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower during the day one last time. That’s where we’re headed now.”

Luna turned, pointing at the faint silhouette of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. “There’s the Eiffel Tower,” she said, her voice tinged with a quiet excitement.

Jeonghan followed her gaze, a faint sigh escaping him. “It’s sad, but it’s time to leave Paris. It was so fun here.”

“I know,” Luna agreed softly. “I wish we could’ve explored more and stayed longer. There are still so many places I want to visit in France.”

Jeonghan’s curiosity piqued, and he looked at her. “Where do you want to go?”

“Cannes, the Palace of Versailles… Disneyland!” she listed off, her eyes lighting up at the last destination.

Jeonghan smiled warmly at her enthusiasm. “Disneyland, huh? We’ll go there next time. I promise we’ll visit all those places soon.”

“You mean it?” Luna asked, her voice soft, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips.

Jeonghan met her gaze, his voice gentle but firm. “Of course. Anything for you.” He muttered but his words carried a quiet sincerity, the kind that made Luna’s heart skip a beat.

By the time they reached the base of the Eiffel Tower, the sun had started to dip lower, casting a golden glow over the iconic structure. They stopped in front of it, turning to face the camera together. Jeonghan raised his hand in a wave, his expression a mix of contentment and reluctance. “Everyone, we’re saying goodbye to Paris,” he said, his voice carrying a soft finality.

“Goodbye for now, Paris,” Luna added, her wave graceful, her smile tinged with bittersweetness.

“We’ll visit again, Paris!” Jeonghan said, his tone brighter now, as if reassuring both the viewers and themselves.

“Bye!” they said together, their voices harmonizing as they waved one last time. With the Eiffel Tower standing tall behind them, the scene faded, their silhouettes glowing in the Parisian sunset. The vlog ended, leaving behind a feeling of warmth and nostalgia.

comments…

@/lunababybae • 1 year ago ╰ THE LINGERING STARES BETWEEN THEM!!?! HELLO?!! you simply cannot convince me that they are “only best friends” like they say 🥱

@/rinarieee • 1 year ago ╰ JeongNa being lovey dovey in the city of love…

@/gyusshadow • 1 year ago ╰The flirting, the pda, the outfits, the face cards, Jeongna… 10/10! Would recommend!

@/moonbae17 • 1 year ago ╰ Luna: “I took my parents here the first time a couple of years ago. It was a gift to them for their wedding anniversary. It was only supposed to be the two of them, but they wanted me there with them.” Jeonghan: “Pretty.” TF?! I SIMPLY CANNOT WITH THEM ANYMORE!!!!!?§/$2!£/‘

@/saythename • 1 year ago ╰ THEM SHAMELESSLY HOLDING HANDS AT 5:44

@/mad-lineeee • 1 year ago ╰ JEONGHAN FUCKING STARING AT LUNA AS THEY TOOK PHOTOS 6:15 HE IS IN LOVE 🤭💖

@/mrsbaebae • 1 year ago ╰ never thought I would need a vlog of JeongNa’s date yet here we are

@/alyy1625 • 1 year ago ╰ THE FLIRTING?!? GOOD LORD 😮‍💨

@/jeongnanana • 1 year ago ╰ shopaholic Jiyeonie strikes again! honesty, she is a mood 😂

@/gyuuuuudaily• 1 year ago ╰ GOD I JUST LOVE HER BRITISH ACCENT SO MUCH 😫 ITS LIKE BUTTER.

@/sallluuuteee17 • 1 year ago ╰ 6:55 Jeonghan: “My mouth is frozen… It’s hard to talk,” Luna: *puckers her fucking lips* WHAT IS WRONG WITH THEM, HONESTLY WHAT?!/y/@$&/7 WHAT DO THEY WANT WITH ME?!&27/₱!€@2&’sisjiajska

@/lulu-nana17• 1 year ago ╰ it’s either they are sharing a hotel room… or I am crazy…

@/sebongrighthere • 1 year ago ╰ HANNIE FEEDING JIYEONIE THEN WIPING HER LIPS BEFORE PROCEEDING TO LICK HIS THUMB 🥵

@/missbitchhhh • 1 year ago ╰ “Always gets her way.” AS IF YOU WEREN’T GONNA AGREE ON THE GET GO, YOON JEONGHAN?!!

@/shadowmyshadow• 1 year ago ╰ HANDS DOWN THE BEST FASHION WEEK LOOKS FROM JEONGNA 💞😌

@/angel7266 • 1 year ago ╰ 8:30 JEONGHAN SMIRKING WHEN THE WOMAN JOKINGLY TOLD LUNA “Not on that finger yet.” WHEN SHE WAS ABOUT TO PLACE THE RING ON HER LEFT!! RING!!! FINGER!!!!

@/hannnieeeee7251 • 1 year ago ╰ the FRED CEO and other associates lowkey gushing at Luna and giving her heart eyes while her watermark was busy taking pictures of her on HIS phone 🤪

@/user763816262 • 1 year ago ╰ Han commentating while Jiyeonie was shopping 😂

@/ashonashonash_ • 1 year ago ╰ 9:33 “This is what it’s like shopping with our Jiyeonie. She’s currently pretending she’s deciding between two colors, but we all know she’s going to get both.” YOON JEONGHAN THE MENACE 😂😂😂

@/jijijiyeonienie • 1 year ago ╰ Jeonghan referring to Jiyeon as OUR Jiyeonie 🥹

@/kpopfan17 • 1 year ago ╰ 9:45 IPad kid Hoshi with his filthy rich parents ☺️

@/belleeeee_ • 1 year ago ╰ Luna calling Hoshi “Shi-shi” GOODBYE 🥹 she was scolding him and everything… JeongNa parents!!!

@/diamondlifeu • 10 months ago ╰ JIYEONIE WADDLING OVER TO HUG HANNIE WHEN HE WAS COLD 🥹

@/gyuminggooo • 10 months ago ╰ “Who’s going to kick us out? I’ll tell them it’s for love. No one argues with love.” WTF YOU TALKING ABOUT, YOON JEONGHAN?!!/$!/&/$7/!/8/

@/dailynanana • 9 months ago ╰ “Anyhing for you.” TAKE ME TO DISNEYLAND TOO JEONGHAN?!!!

@/chuuuuchhuu17 • 9 months ago ╰ I AM LIVING FOR THIS VLOG!

@/lalunanova • 7 months ago ╰ Let’s be honest. JeongNa vlogs are the best 🤭

@/17-carat • 5 months ago ╰ 10:55 they look at each other as if they are really in love 🥹 guys! the JeongNa theories might be true!!!

@/myg145 • 1 month ago ╰ IT WAS RIGHT IN FRONT OF US, IM AFRAID!! THEY WERE SO OBVIOUSLY DATING AND NEVER HID ANYTHING… THEY WERE HIDING THEIR RELATIONSHIP IN PLAIN SIGHT 🥹❤️‍🩹

@/bjy_lover • 1 week ago ╰ rewatching this again now knowing that these two have been dating for five years and are engaged for months now. my JeongNa heart is so full 🩷🥹

ೃ⁀➷ comment or message me to be added to the tag list :)

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322 notes · View notes

kkuzushi · 9 months ago

Note

KRNDJENSIND words cannot express how happy i am when you wrote my "loving scara in the public restroom" request LIKE— AAAAAA THANK YOU SO SO MUCH

Yes i have came to you with ANOTHER REQUEST— imagine reader being so busy because of assignments and scara is over here being a top 1 student who already finished all his homeworks and gets frustrated(also concerned) with you because he thinks you're so stupid to not know/understand this equation/subject and how you're not sleeping and eating that much. And whenever he offers to help you, you refuse and he gets so frustrated that he started insulting you like crazy and now you two started fighting..... One thing led to another and scara found himself pinned on the bed while getting pounded— and and they are still insulting each other while they're at it

So they're kinda like fighting while making love..............

You can ignore this if it makes you uncomfortable... But if you do plan on taking this, THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN🫶🏻🫶🏻

Also can I be 🎐 or 💜 anon? (Incase the former has already been taken...)

“ 𝗚𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗽 𝗦𝘁𝘂𝗱𝘆..𝗶𝗻 𝗕𝗲𝗱 ”

✦ characters: sub!scaramouche x gn!dom!reader

✦ cw: modern college scara, rival-ish, handjob (giving), slight brat taming, slight humiliation, edging, begging, dacryphilia, cock/strap penetration

✦ word count: 2.199k

✦ notes: I may or may not have gotten overboard with this one.. Apologies for the late submission, but yes, you can be my 🎐anon. <3

✦ Part 1 | Part 2

Hell week has arrived at your university which means it's time for endless study sessions in your room like every normal student would do, unless they’re confident with their skills.

And of course, one of those students was Scaramouche—the one who effortlessly reaches the honor list. Seriously, how does he do it? Either way, that should be the least of your problems. You're over competing with him when it comes to academics.

However, the man doesn't seem to get the hint, always disturbing the peace in your shared dorm everytime he sees you going cross-eyed with the learning materials scattered at your work desk.

Scaramouche leans casually against the doorway, watching you silently for a moment as you pore over your notes. A smirk slowly spreads across his face before he speaks, the teasing arrogance evident in his voice.

“Are you stressing over there again?” He crosses his arms, walking closer and peering at your notes. “I could ace this in my sleep. You know, if you're going to work this hard, at least make sure it's worth it.”

His tone softens just slightly as his eyes flicker over your tired expression. “Just go to bed, you won't be able to surpass me no matter how you study anyway.”

You kept your eyes glued to your notes, not allowing the annoying presence beside you to disturb your concentration. “Bold of you to assume I'm studying to ‘surpass’ you,” You responded shortly after.

Scaramouche raised an eyebrow—if you weren't studying to surpass him, then why are you working your ass off for this? He wouldn't say you're on the same level of intelligence as him but it's not like you were dumb.

But that's what you two were, right? Academic rivals, or at least, that's what he thought.

“Anyway, could you leave? I need to focus here,” Your voice snaps him out of his thoughts, remembering he's still in your room.

“Who are you to tell me what to do?” Scaramouche asks, crossing his arms as he looks down at you with a smirk. “Last time I checked, we share this dorm.”

“This dorm, not this room,” You corrected, clicking your pen. “Now leave, your annoying face is distracting me.”

How rude, he's been doing nothing but ease your mind from the stress you're experiencing. Sure he just teases the hell out of you, but can't you be a little more appreciative?

“You're an ungrateful brat, you know that?” He frowned, snatching a page of your notes from your desk. He hummed, taking a good look at what you've written, though it looked like he's just judging your handwriting.

“Who the hell needs to take notes in math? Just remember the formula and you're good to go,” Scaramouche complained. Was he just sugarcoating the question “are you stupid”? You could almost hear those same exact words in between his statements.

“Well unfortunately, not everyone is like you,” You argued before extending your hand, gesturing for the note he's still holding, “Now give that back.”

Scaramouche hummed, his eyes flickering over to you and the paper he’s holding before his lips curled upwards again. “And if I say no?” He grinned, keeping the item out of your reach.

You could almost feel a vein appear on your forehead—irritation wasn't an unfamiliar feeling when it comes to dealing with your roommate. You pushed yourself up and reached for the paper but Scaramouche was too quick to pull it away.

“Scaramouche!” You called out, the frustration in your tone becoming more apparent. His grin widened, enjoying your helplessness in this situation, “Too slow.”

You make another attempt to reach for it, lunging forward with determination, and to your misfortune, Scaramouche pulls away at the last minute—a sharp, ripping sound coming from the material, tearing down from the middle, leaving the both of you with a piece.

Scaramouche was stunned for a moment, it wasn't part of his plan to rip out your notes. His smirk falters but he composed himself, swallowing the guilt, “That was clearly your fault. If you asked nicely, I would’ve–”

Before he could finish his sentence, he found himself tumbling backwards onto your bed, the mattress creaking from the sudden weight. “Hey–! What the fuck was that for?!” He retorted, supporting himself on his elbows.

You approached him on the bed, one leg sliding in between his, your knee pressing lightly on his crotch. His eyes widened slightly from the contact, but he hid it with a scowl. “What do you think you’re doing?” He asked in a low tone.

“You think you can just waltz in here,” You pressed down your knee, feeling his member throb. “Disturb me while I'm studying, then ruin my notes for fun?” You added more pressure, watching his adam's apple bob as he gulped.

“You think I did that on purpose?!” He argued, his cheeks puffing with red tint. The tension’s getting to him and he can't say he doesn’t like it, but that doesn't make it less embarrassing. “I would've given it back if you begged,” He added, grabbing your shoulders to push you away with an obvious half-hearted strength.

“Begging, huh?” A malicious smirk appeared on your lips. Your hand reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants, revealing his garment that's now outlining a bulge.

“Hey! Don't you dare–” Scaramouche attempts to push your hand away, but you were quick enough to pin his wrists above his head. Now he was fully trapped beneath you, the warmth on his cheeks deepening as he scowled at you.

“Can't you be cooperative for once?” You huffed, now taking his boxers off. He wriggled his hips to make things difficult for you yet it only assisted in removing his garment. His cock springs out, arousal evident with how hard he already got.

You eyed him, watching his reaction once your hand was wrapped around his length, pumping to and fro. The indigo-haired boy bit his lip, suppressing his sounds, though soft whimpers escaped.

“There's no need to be shy.”

“I'm not! You're just bad at giving handjo–ohmmFuHK–♡”

“You talk too much,” You grumbled and picked up the pace. A bead of precum instantly leaked out from the head of his cock, allowing your hand to slide easily on his shaft.

Scaramouche gritted his teeth, unable to protest any longer in fear of moaning accidentally as soon as he opens his mouth. With how vulnerable he felt in this compromising position, he felt himself getting closer to edge, quicker than he usually does.

“Shit– hah.. ‘m gonna..♡” He murmured, closing his eyes as he accepted the inevitable defeat—until your hand stopped, forcing his climax to go back down.

His eyes shot open, not expecting for you to deny him release. “Why’d you stop??” Scaramouche asked frustratedly, his hips bucking to your palm to create friction.

You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction, “You didn't expect to cum so easily, did you?” you teased. A baffled expression appears on the indigo haired man’s face, his eyebrows furrowing down.

“Hm, maybe if you begged,” You cooed, using his previous words against him as you start stroking his cock once more, “I might just consider it.”

His eyes widened a little more, begging? You must be out of your mind if you think you'll get the Scaramouche to beg, much less for a release.

But things aren't working out to his favor. Your hand around the length, the relentless pace returning as his hips snapped from the sensation. Scaramouche could no longer argue; the pressure mounting inside him was too much, threatening to explode once again.

“Too fast– ngh– gonna..! ♡” he whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as his body tensed, unable to hold back the impending release. Just as he felt himself teetering on the edge, your hand abruptly stopped again, “Didn't I say you should beg?”

His eyes fluttered open, a mixture of frustration and desperation on his face. “I never agreed to do that,” He huffed, wiggling his wrists out of your grip.

Seems like a simple handjob won't do the trick. Deciding to take it up a notch, you pulled your own pants down. The blush on Scaramouche's face tripled, “What are you planning?” He asked in a sharp tone though he can't deny how his cock throbbed at the sight of your own.

“Don’t play stupid,” You sneered, grinding the head on Scaramouche's ass, pressing your body against his to spread his legs; your free hand moved to his hips, supporting your position.

His eyebrows furrowed further to your comment, lips quivering as he slowly engulfs your length. Once you full bottom out, Scaramouche tried to relax, his breath coming with uneven huffs as he adjusted to the intrusion.

“You look cute underneath me like this,” You teased as you started to thrust into him at a languid pace. A gasp would leave his mouth every time you'd rub him deeply inside—If he could, he'd grab onto you or the sheets to ground himself, but with his wrists still pinned down by your grip, all he could do was accept the sensation.

It wasn't anything he couldn't handle. He's a patient man and you'll start to get needy soon, Scaramouche thinks to himself. Unfortunately, this was a game he was losing. “Would you stop playing around!?” he hissed, the desperation seething with every word.

You kept the agonizingly slow pace, dragging out every second, watching him writhe with need. Every teasing thrust had him gasping, his body trembling with anticipation, yet you refused to give him what he wanted.

Scaramouche's frustration finally reached its peak, patience snapping as he growled through gritted teeth. “If you’re going fuck me, then fuck me properly!” He spat, his indigo eyes narrowing in aggravation. “Or are you so incompetent that you can’t even do this right?” His voice trembled though still attempted to argue.

You raised an eyebrow, your amusement only growing at his outburst. “Bold words,” you smirked, leaning down to kiss his neck, “for someone who’s trembling.”

“Youhnn♡... jerk!” Scaramouche retorted, his voice laced with both frustration and embarrassment as his body trembled beneath yours again. “Fucking brat..” he added, breathless as his chest heaved with every sharp inhale, his emotions threatening to spill over completely.

“Ironic,” You laughed. Scaramouche’s frustration mounted as his head fell back against the pillow. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the watery sensation. He couldn’t stand this anymore. The humiliation, the teasing—it was too much.

“Shut up...” he whispered, voice trembling as tears began to well in the corners of his eyes. His breath hitched, and despite himself, a frustrated sob broke through his chest. “Shut up and just–just fuck me already!” His voice wavered, filled with desperation.

The word left his lips before he could stop it, and the moment it did, Scaramouche’s defiance shattered completely. He was crying now, tears mixing with frustration as his body gave up the fight. “Fuck me properly already.. please..!” He whimpered, the last word coming out unexpectedly.

You didn't think he'd cry from desperation but it was definitely a beautiful sight. Just having the ever so prideful and arrogant Scaramouche trembling, crying, and begging underneath you.. it was like you're on top of the world already.

Finally getting what you wanted, you firmly grabbed his hips and gave him one rough thrust, to which he responded with a choked out gasp. “Like that?” You murmured.

“Yes!♡ Ohngh god.. more! ♡” He moaned, his back arching with how precise your cock has hit his sensitive prostate. You've been teasing and edging him for too long, it feels like he's about to crumble just this very moment.

As you continued fucking his ass with more enthusiasm, Scaramouche could no longer stop his wanton moans. “More, please..hah–♡” He begged though still quite with a demanding tone, “Don't you–mmngh♡♡–dare stop..!”

You feel him slowly tightening around your length, his climax building up once more.

“I'm close–”

“You know what to say.”

“..let me cum.. please–AHnggh!♡♡”

How does the word ‘please’ sound so good from his mouth? It only motivated you to finally let him get his release, pounding him vigorously without a break. The overwhelming sensation has his legs shaking, and with one last scream– “C-Comingghmmm..!!♡♡♡”

Ropes of thick cum shot out, landing on his stomach. He whimpered and panted heavily, all energy he had earlier now extinct. You continued to thrust a little more before your own orgasm joined him, your body slowly collapsing on top of him.

The two of you stayed there, bodies sticking with sweat and other fluids. “I'm still not letting you off the hook about my notes,” you wheezed, managing a tired grin.

“I have some.. in my room,” he muttered, his voice weak and a little hoarse. He was still catching his breath but his usual sharpness had faded, replaced with exhaustion and a hint of embarrassment.

“In math? I thought you didn't need that,” you smirked as you brushed a few strands of hair away from his face. “You better not be lying, or we’ll be doing this all over again.”

Scaramouche let out a quiet scoff, his usual attitude barely making a comeback. “As if you’d complain.”

731 notes · View notes

endless-ineffabilities · 10 months ago

Text

sapphire-hearted (part five) 18+

Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

The reader decides to give Aemond a proper goodbye - one that befits what became of the bond they share.

themes/warnings: smut (minors dni) - a bitter breakup roll in the hay, jealous and possessive and idiotic Aemond

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

Aegon's jeering from the great hall has barely subsided before you harshly pull yourself away from Aemond's hold.

"Seven fucking hells, Aemond," you exclaim, your voice ringing in the empty hallway. "Why did you do that? Why must you humiliate me in such a way?"

"You humiliate me," he spits, matching your venom, "by declaring yourself as betrothed to that snivelling bastard."

"He is no bastard," you seethe, your finger poking at his chest. "He is a gentle Lord, and a far more decent man than you will ever be. And I am certain that he will honour me when he soon becomes my Lord husband."

"No." Aemond lurches forward, cradling your face with both hands. There is pressure to his hold - he is letting his anger take over him. "No, my love," he repeats, softer, his shoulders releasing their tension.

Your resolve falters at his words. They used to be a thing you would spin in your mind, over and over, an endless song to sing. My love. "You cannot me call me that, Aemond," you murmur. "That is no longer true, if indeed it ever was."

"You doubt me so," he lowers his head, as if wounded.

But you do not have it in you to soften your approach. "You have given me every reason to doubt you, Aemond. I can no longer trust you. Not after Alys."

At the mention of her name, he is rendered alert, a wild look in his eye. "Yes. Alys."

"I do not wish to hear of her," you step away from him, but he only moves in your path.

"I have something to tell you, my love." He reaches for your hand, and you are too exhausted, too uncaring to fight back. "She has agreed to put an early end to our arrangement. Yet she will continue to aid our cause, ensuring that we win the war."

It seemed too good to be true. You are unable to believe that the witch would simply relinquish the power she has with Aemond. And you are proven correct when he adds, "But she presents one condition. I must give her a child."

The absurdity of it all makes your head spin, and suddenly your skirts weigh far too much for you to bear. Without realizing it, you lean into Aemond for support, seeking balance. He mistakes the gesture for approval - how foolish of him.

"That is ridiculous, Aemond," you croak harshly, your words coming out garbled.

"My love, what - "

"I am afraid you have lost me completely," you pull back, eyes darting around for reprieve. You cannot bring yourself to look at him, your gaze distant and hollow, fixated on nothing. With icy detachment, you murmur, "Go on, then. Wed her, if that is what you wish. Why stop at just making her the mother of your child?"

"You cannot mean that." He flinches at the suggestion.

Taking a deep breath, in finality, you declare, "We have to end whatever we have, Aemond. For both of our sakes. For the sake of your future children with Alys, and mine with Ramsay. We must part ways... and say goodbye."

His expression switches, desperation showing through the cracks in his mask of self-assuredness.

"No." He steps back, instantly rejecting your words. In his warped mind, the thought of separation is impossible. He could never leave you, and you could never leave him. That’s how it has always been, and how it always will be.

To his credit, he actually appears pained. For a moment, you see your Aemond. The only one you have ever loved. You are certain that his pain is reflected in you now.

You reach a hand out, and he tentatively accepts it.

Without a word, you lead him through the halls of the Red Keep.

"Where are we going?" he asks.

"To my chambers," you reply firmly. "We both deserve a proper goodbye."

When you reach your destination, the unbearable weight of everything comes crashing down on you. This will be your true final moment with Aemond. You will never get to hold him, kiss him, feel him buried inside of you after this night.

On the morrow, he will be a stranger. He has to be.

He makes an attempt to speak, presumably to inquire upon your reasoning for taking him here. But you do not allow a word to slip past his lips, effectively silencing him with a searing kiss.

He melts unto you instantly, a soft moan escaping his throat as he welcomes your touch.

Your hands move instinctively to the fastenings of his tunic, deftly undoing them without breaking the kiss. He reaches down to come to your aid, his fingers brushing against yours, until the fabric slips from his shoulders and falls in a careless heap on the floor.

His tongue tangles with yours as his hands fumble with the ties on the back of your gown. A low growl escapes him when they don’t loosen as quickly as he'd like, his impatience growing - eager to have you, desperate to taste the sweetness he craves.

It does not much longer before the both of you are left completely bare, as naked as the day you were born. He kisses you hungrily, afraid that you might disappear if he lets go. That you might do good on your threat to leave him.

You push him backward until his heels hit the edge of your bed, causing him to land on his bottom on the sheets.

His hands grip your hips tightly as you stand between his thighs, and he gazes up at you with pure, unrestrained desire. The same way he always has, as if nothing else in the world exists but you.

In this fleeting moment, you will allow it. Nothing and no one else exists except for Aemond and yourself.

With a sharp nudge to his shoulder, he reclines willingly, lying flat on his back, arms held out, silently inviting you to press your body onto his.

You crawl slowly from the edge of the bed toward him, hovering above with lust smoldering in your eyes. He bites his lip at the sight, his erection pressing hard against your lower stomach. As you shift, the slick tip grazes your skin, leaving a heated trail in its wake.

He groans as you let his cock drag across your skin, pulling you close with a strained, "Māzigon kesīr, issa jorrāelagon."

Come here, my love.

The kiss is sloppy, he sucks at your lips while his hands roam the warmth of your body. Groping at your breasts, your hips, then the curve of your ass. He takes two fingers, travelling down your pelvis, until it feels the wetness of your clit. He fondles it eagerly, leaving you mewling softly, and the sounds turn into unbridled open-mouthed moans when his fingers dip inside your dripping cunt.

"Iksos bona sȳz?" he purrs, as he slides them faster in between your folds. Does that feel good?

"Y-yes, Aemond, fuck yes." You collapse on top of him fully, your breasts pressed against the side of his face, your body angled to grant his deft hand unhindered access as he strokes your pussy.

He turns his head to suck at your breasts, his tongue darting out to flick your nipple. His fingers quicken their pace, the squelching sounds blending with your lustful whimpers.

A silken sheen coats his digits, catching the lamplight as they slip out, only to plunge back inside with a deliberate, relentless rhythm.

"Let go, my love," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "Allow me to savour the sight of your unraveling."

His words are intoxicating, and you can’t help but use his mouth to muffle your cries, your kisses fervent as you come undone. Your teeth graze his bottom lip as you reach your peak, the sensation of his warm breaths mingling with your gasps of heightened pleasure.

After a moment, as you slump against him, he licks his hand clean of your substance, his good eye darkened with wanton pleasure.

You trail a finger tantalizingly over his chest, lingering on his jaw before it gently glides across the apparatus covering his eye. He remains still, the act of baring himself to you as natural as breathing.

"Does she see you for who you truly are?" you whisper softly.

"No," he replies with a quiet intensity, "only you do, my love. For eternity."

Eternity, you bitterly think, if eternity ends on this night.

With a deliberate motion, you remove the eyepatch from his head and toss it aside. The sapphire in his eye socket gleams with a mesmerizing light, giving him an otherworldly glow.

"My Prince Aemond," you sigh, "my dragon. I am going to ride you until you forget her name."

"She does not matter to me - ahhhh, gods - " His words die in his throat as you align your still dripping cunt with his cock and sink down in one swift and merciless motion, taking him to the hilt until your ass is pressed against his flesh.

Without missing a beat, you continue to ride him with frantic intensity, your breasts bouncing as he forcefully bucks his hips to meet yours. He responds with guttural moans and fragmented words of praise - yes my love, fuck me, you fuck me so well, there is no one else, I love you, I love you, I love you.

"Does she fuck you as well as I?" you ask menacingly, the walls of your pussy clenching around him.

"No." He tilts his head back in sheer bliss. "She could never. When she... uses me... I feel hollow."

As you brace yourself on his chest, your hands gripping him for support, you quicken the pace, aiming for that sweet spot within. Each thrust drives you closer to the edge, drawing every ounce of pleasure from his thick cock as you both lose yourselves in the raw, all-consuming passion of the moment.

When he starts to quiver, his length sputtering inside you in those quick, successive jerks, you know this is your cue to release him from your cunt. But this time, you lean forward as you dismount, and pat his cheek in the most patronising manner, saying, "Save your precious seed for Alys. Since she needs it so terribly."

Depraved as it might be, the wickedly cunning expression on your face proves to be Aemond's undoing, that cold glare sensuous to him. With a strangled cry, he erupts, his Targaryen seed spilling across the taut planes of his pelvis in hot, white streams.

His mouth is open in pleasure and surprise as he helps himself through his release, gripping and tugging his cock firmly through the throes of his release. His gaze remains fixed your face, his sole source of pleasure, though the furrow in his brow reveals that he heard your bitter jibe.

"What a waste," you click your tongue in disappointment, eyeing the mess he made.

He still lies there, naked and covered in his own release, as you swiftly pull on your slip dress, followed by the heavy cloak hanging over the chair in the corner.

The emotions that once swirled within you - desire, sadness, yearning - harden into a bitter mix of anger and resentment. This is his doing. It is his fault that tonight will be the last. The love you once shared, the tenderness you once felt, has been shattered by his own hand.

Turning to face him, you bend your knees into a mocking curtsy, an emotionless smile tugging at your lips. "My Prince," you say, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "If I may be excused. I must fetch my lady-in-waiting to help me into something more fitting. After all, I have a feast to return to... and my betrothed awaits."

Just as your hand touches the door, his desperate voice cuts through the silence, "Wait!" he pleads.

You pause, tears welling in your eyes as you turn ever so slightly. Your voice trembles, barely holding together as you say one last time -

"I love you, Aemond. Goodbye."

taglist (let me know in the comments if you wish to be added): @immyowndefender @aemondswifeisme @fuck-the-reaper @shessthunderstorms @aemondsbabygirl @melsunshine @snh96 @noxytopy @ellooo0ooo @brianochka @not-a-glad-gladiator @mac95650 @midnightmystic @saminalloxo @oh-no-tia @magnificentsapphiresoul @clara-geekhime @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @ananas26t @iloveallmyboys @carriellie @summerposie @verycollectivecreator @toodlesxcuddles @brie-annwyl @dc-marvel-girl96 @bellstwd @bibli0thecary @happinessinthebeing @magnificentsapphiresoul @rorawinters @targaryen-madness @hanula18 @rhaenattargaryen @an0ther-us3r @sugurubabe @theshatteredideal @let-love-bleeds-red @s-we-e-t-t-ea @mydemimonde @the-intjs-dark-academic @heavenly1927 @anehkael @minttea07 @barnes70stark @cheneyq @cloudroomblog @neptuneiris @zaldritzosrose @oh-theseus

Some notes in the margins...

I should point out that in this story, Alys actually has magic and she has been instrumental in bringing about the victory of the Greens. Much like how she aided Daemon in season two, but dialled up to a hundred.

But no. That does not excuse Aemond's actions. Not at all.

Our bitter lovers needed their final, fucked up release. It is final for her, at least. But for Aemond?

#sapphire hearted #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #ewan mitchell #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd #aemond targaryen smut

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maxtermind · 1 year ago

Note

hello 👋 big congrats on hitting 3k ‼️👏🧨 i would request:

This is only, and only for the business deal. No more, no less.

That’s dangerous.

With Lewis, maybe sugar daddy or arranged marriage?

sending love 🫶

“this is only, and only for the business deal. no more, no less.” + “that's dangerous.”

( event masterlist \ main masterlist \ drop a request ) ★:summary:: in which your husband just can't sleep on the same bed as you because- well his sanity is at it's last thread till it snaps! ★:feat:: lewis hamilton x reader ★:genre:: v lil angst; too much smut

“I have nothing more to add.”

You could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating, as you stood across from Lewis in the lavish hotel room. Your patience was wearing thin, and his calm façade was pissing you off.

“You're insane if you think I’m just going to-” your words cut off when he abruptly stood up, eyes still staring intently at you.

Why did he even care where you spen the night? You would rather just book another hotel room than sleep on the sole bed while knowing your husband was a few feet away, sleeping on the couch, and not with you purposely.

“This is ridiculous,” you snapped when you found your voice again, your tone cutting through the silence. “I didn't sign up for this kind of treatment.”

Sure, that was a bit extreme. Given that he was always so polite, so prime, so perfect. God, was it a sin to expect him to lose it a bit? To not hold back when you clearly lost it whenever you were around him?

“And what kind of treatment is that, Y/N?” Lewis clenched his jaw, barely holding on to his… temper? “You cannot get another room to stay in, this is not-”

“I’m not sharing a room with you! I don’t give a fuck about what your investors think of us!” you retorted, throwing your arms above your head. “Thought this marriage was only for a business deal?!”

He took a step closer, his eyes darkening with frustration. “That's right. This is only, and only for the business deal. No more, no less.” Lewis’ eye twitched and you rejoiced internally at finally seeing a tiny part of him starting to crack.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, a mix of anger and something else— something you refused to acknowledge in his presence any further. “If that's all it is, then…”

Frankly, the words stung more than you wanted to admit to him and- yourself. You knew this marriage was arranged for the benefit of both your families' businesses, but hearing it out loud, especially from him, made it feel all the more real, and all the more painful.

Were you hoping for a different outcome? Not necessarily. It did hurt, though, when your ‘husband’ stepped onto any tiny flicker of hope you had with his ignorant comments. Why did he act like he didn’t fucking want you?

Because he really doesn't, your mind screamed, and as tears gathered in your eyes, you turned around to leave, but Lewis grabbed your arm, his grip firm but not painful, a desperate plea leaving his mouth. “Wait.”

You shook your head as he turned you around, hardening your gaze, your eyes challenging. His expression was a total contrast, softened with a hint of panic in his eyes. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. Please, don't go.”

“What?” You hesitated, feeling a twinge of satisfaction at his apology. But you weren't ready to let him off the hook so easily. “You can't keep saying things like that and expect everything to be fine, Lewis.”

Oh- what a sight it was, to see him close his eyes as he tried to get a check on his composure. “I know. I know, and I'm sorry. Just... stay.” He pulled you closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Please."

There was something in his voice, a vulnerability that you hadn't heard before. It made your resolve waver, and before you knew it, you were leaning into him, your bodies pressed together. His lips found yours in a desperate kiss, all the pent-up frustration and longing pouring out in that single moment and you were taken back to say the least.

“Why do you do this?” you murmured against his lips, your voice shaking. “Why push me away when you know you want this too?”

“Because it's easier to pretend this is just a business deal.” Lewis's grip on you tightened, kissing you again as he sent shivers down your spine with his fingers snaking towards your sensitive parts. “It's easier to keep my distance than to admit how much I- fucking want you.”

“O-oh,” was all you could muster up, nodding but not even listening to him, before the words processed, and you pulled back slightly to look into his eyes. “You are a pain to be married to.”

His eyes softened, and he nodded slowly. “I know. I just... I don't want to hurt you.”

“You won't,” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his, nails digging into the back of his arms to show him you didn’t care. “But tonight, I want you to.”

“Fuck,” he grinned, biting on your earlobe as his hands roamed over your body, pulling at your clothes, and you let him, your own hands busy with his shirt. The next few moments were a blur of hurried movements and breathless kisses until you were both naked, the cool air of the room bringing goosebumps, or maybe that was just- Lewis, and how his bare skin felt against you.

Before you could savor the moment a bit more, your husband pushed you back onto the bed, his eyes roaming over your body with an intensity that made you shiver. He shamefully checked you out as you did the same,“You’re fucking beautiful.”

Lewis sucked in a breath when you pushed your hair behind, gracing him with the sight of your nipples standing out, just waiting- begging him to put his mouth on them and suck them. You decided to let him be and ran your gaze down his body, clenching around thin air when your eyes found his cock.

Your husband smirked as he loosely stroked himself once- twice then fuck- a third time, knowing you were rubbing your thighs subtly to relieve some of the pressure. “You drive me crazy, you know that?” he murmured as he climbed on top of you, his lips finding your neck.

He started trailing kisses down to your collarbone and then lower, mouth open, teeth hurting you just right. “Hmph! Lew-” You choked when he sucked on your nipple, lapping it up and wetting it like a starved man.

“You. Are. Perfect.” Lewis whispered against your skin, taking turns biting each nipple as your breath got caught in your throat. “Fucking hell.” His voice thick with desire, driving you absolutely mad.

You moaned softly, your hands tangling in his hair. “Baby- shit- please” His thumb immediately found your wet hole as he massaged around it when you thrusted up a bit. “Making a fucking mess, you dirty gir-”

Before he could carry on, your hand fumbled down to gather some of your slick before you rubbed it against his length, your husband shuddering against you when he felt you cover him in your own juices.

He moved lower, back to kissing your neck as his knees gave out and his weight fell on your arms. You gasped as his finger flicked upwards, towards your bundle of nerves, he was finally giving you everything you ever wanted, his thumb working you with a skill that left you breathless.

“Lewis- I’m.. I…” You choked out, barely before you figured out what he was drawing on your clit, your hand loosening the grip you had on his twitching- leaking cock. L-E-W-I-S, he kept on drawing this pattern, rendering you absolutely helpless under him.

Your hands found his back, nails probably drawing blood, holding him in place as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. “Cum for me messy girl,” You heard him groan before he took your nipple in his mouth again.

“Fuck- Lew! Shit.” You craned your neck to look down at him, catching his other hand wrapped around his length. His angry tip leaking pre-cum that he was rubbing to stroke himself, his grip tight on his cock.

The thought of your juices mixing together on his cock had you cumming immediately with a staggered moan of his name, your body shuddering with pleasure, he was right there with you, his eyes never leaving your face, mesmerized.

Lewis moved back up your body, his lips finding yours again in a kiss that was both tender and demanding. You could feel him pressing against you, hard and ready, and you wrapped your arm around him, pulling him closer. “I’m here, baby. Such a fucking good girl for me.”

He entered you in one swift movement, a gasp escaping your lips at the sensation, he was so fucking big. Your husband stilled for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both caught your breath, obviously it had been too long since you both did it.

This was the moment when you realized that all those nights you spent worrying whether he had a mistress were utterly useless because the way your man looked seconds away from cumming just by being inside you for a single second?

“I've wanted this for so long,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion and the softness doing something very ugly to your heart. “I’m afraid it’ll end too soon.”

“Me too, Lewis. Me too.” You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over his cheeks. Your husband’s cock twitched again and you gasped as your eyes rolled to the back of your head when he started to move.

It was slow at first, your soft walls wrapping against every single vein of his cock. “Fuck- I’m- hngh!” Lewis was so gone, eyes closed before he increased his pace. “Shit!” he hissed not believing he’s been missing out on this all this time just because he thought you wanted nothing to do with him.

“Never.. Oh my god- always everything! Lewis- wanted everything…” You trailed off but he got the gist of it. Still not realizing that he was not just thinking- he was saying everything out loud. His hands gripping your hips as he set a rhythm that had you screaming incoherently.

“You feel hah- so good,” he groaned, his lips brushing against your ear. “So perfect.”

You could feel yourself getting lost in the sensation, the way he filled you, fuck he really was so big, felt bigger than he looked and the way his body moved against yours, was so perfect. It wouldn’t be delirious to say you thought you both were made to fit each other.

“We are,” your husband dragged out, voice hoarse and breaking. It was suddenly almost too much, and yet not enough. You needed more, and you told him as much, your voice a desperate plea,“Faster, Lewis. Please.”

Your husband responded by increasing his pace, his thrusts becoming harder and faster, driving you closer to the edge once again. “My beautiful- ah- Y/N! My w- wife.”

You realized he was cumming when you felt his whole body go stiff and a chant of “ah, ah, ah, ah,” fell from his mouth, his cum filling you to the brim. He came so much that the next time he tried to thrust his over-used, over-sensitive cock a little, your poor hole was so utterly slippery that he fell out.

For a moment, you lay there, tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat. And then he pulled away, his eyes searching yours after he was panting a bit less than few seconds before.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice filled with something you couldn't quite place, you didn’t know how he still had his voice intact. “Did... Did you finish again?”

You shushed him before shaking your head, your hand reaching up to caress his cheek. “Not with you inside me.” He groaned at that as his hands squeezed your waist and his head fell right between your marked breasts. “I promise I last longer than this usually.”

His words made your heart beat faster, you made him like this, made him lost control, lost himself after he entered you like so absolutely that he just couldn’t help cumming despite wanting to last.

You tried to stop it but a chuckle escaped your mouth, which didn’t last long at all before he picked up your leg and in a second hooked it around his shoulder, leaning down to kiss your clit that was sensitive as hell, making you immediately gasp.

“I know just how to shut you up.”

And in that moment, as your hands tangled in the locks of his hair as you tried to ride his face, you knew this was something. Whatever this was, whatever it would become, you were in it together. No more ‘no more, no less,’ you guys were way beyond that at this point.

★:a/n:: wow i got carried away ngl but!! thanks for the request love! feedback and reblogs are appreciated :3

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kquil · 9 months ago

Text

DIVORCING ORION BLACK | CHAPTER FIVE

05 : SIRIUS : FIRST DAY

CHPT. SUM. : Sirius goes to Hogwarts and his sorting causes a stir at school and at home.

LENGTH : 11.8k

TAGS : fluff ; hurt/comfort ; marauders origins dob ver. ; friendship beginnings ; mini-therapy session with the sorting hat ; regulus being a cutie ; sirius finding his place ; regulus needs a hug ; first day at hogwarts ; orion being the worst husband and father ever ; momma bear reader ; not canon compliant

← PREV. | 04 : BEGINNINGS | SERIES M.LIST

1st September 1971

Sirius smiles faintly at his younger brother, the two of them separated by the window of the Hogwarts Express. For a moment, all of the excitement that had been bouncing around in his stomach suddenly compressed into a weighted ball of anxiety. Hogwarts was going to be a fun, new adventure, you had reassured him of such that morning, however, seeing Regulus looking up at him through the window made his stomach drop into an unknown abyss.

"Take care, Siri," Regulus smiles toothily, having to tilt his chin up to see his older brother better. He didn't want to forget a single detail about how his brother looked. It was an unreasonable fear but Regulus was scared stiff over forgetting a single thing about his older brother.

"'Course! You take care too, Reg," Sirius looks up at you for a moment but you don't meet his eyes, seemingly distracted by something that catches your eye in the crowd, "I know Mother is different now but I'm worried about you..."

Shocked by his brother's concern, Regulus feels a small urge to look over his shoulder and observe you in the hopes that the swelling of apprehension in his stomach can settle, somewhat. It's easy to trust you now but it's also just as easy to fall back on being guarded, for his own self-protection — with Sirius gone, his only brother, who often acts as his shield and protector, fear is one stray, all-consuming thought away from devouring them both. They've never been without the other for any extended period of time. This was going to be a first.

"I know..." Regulus nervously tugs on the hem of his sleeves, trying to ground himself with the action, "but I don't think she'll change back... and besides, I have Kreacher," Sirius' lips pull into a thin line. Yes, he's started getting along with the house elf a lot better recently, mainly due to Regulus and his mother's influence but Sirius knows the truth. If Kreacher was ever forced to choose between Regulus and his mother, Kreacher would pick you, the Matriarch of the Black family. His little brother is too naive and soft-hearted for his own good.

"Write to me if anything goes wrong, okay?" Regulus only nods before they silently decide to let go of the tense subject and, at least, part on a lighter note, "I promise I'll write to you about everything that happens, I won't miss a single detail!" the two grin at each other, "By the time I come back, you'll be an expert about Hogwarts and you won't be fumbling around and making mistakes like me on your first year,"

A sharp whistle tears through the air and the brothers share a tearful look before Regulus rushes back to cling onto your skirt, the both of you keeping your eyes solely on Sirius whose heart can't stop clenching — in distress or excitement, he cannot fathom what the emotion behind it all is. In the distance, he watches his mother's lips move to form the words 'I love you'. It's like she's whispering it to him, loving and kind and full of warmth, like the wonderful mother she's suddenly become. Just one month... he wishes you had been whispering that endearment to him for longer than that.

Despite his worries about what may happen to Regulus in his absence, Sirius meets your eyes with a smile and whispers an 'I love you' back. Deep in his chest, his heart settles in content, happy and blissfully optimistic over your disposition. Your eyes hold such bountiful amounts of love, that he feels slightly ashamed for thinking the worst of you. There's no way you would dare lay a hand on Regulus the way you used to, in a cruel means to elicit 'appropriate' behaviour. Not when you adored cuddling him so much, not when you adored pressing soft kisses into his head of curls, not when you catered to his preferences for every meal ever since that fateful day, and especially not when you would always be the first to step in between him and their father during every irate spat.

The train begins to move away from the platform, leaving you and his brother behind but Sirius occupies his seat unworried. His little brother and mother are good with each other. They're perfectly fine. Looking around him, Sirius observes the completely empty compartment aside from himself.

As the train journey continues, he stays alone. Anyone who pops their head in immediately turns away at the sight of him, fumbling with the half-hearted excuse of already having found an empty cabin elsewhere. He almost rolls his eyes at their behaviour. His family was feared for their status and 'etiquette' but that didn't mean he was the same, he was still a kid. Then again, those who peaked in were kids too...

This was going to be a long journey.

James Potter wasn't one to waste time, he was a doer. So when he finds himself unable to find a free cabin along with another two blokes, both rather shorter than him, one with brown hair, who's swamped under a grandpa sweater while the other adorns sandy-blonde locks and a neatly pressed polo shirt with slightly tattered ends, he takes charge. He leads them from one end of the train to the other, all in the search for a free cabin. The hunt was looking bleak at first but that was another thing about James Potter, he wasn't one to easily give up... even when the only cabin that seemed available was the one occupied by Sirius Black.

"Do you mind if we sit with you?" James asks, trying to mask his tense attitude towards the pureblood wizard, "It's full everywhere else,"

"Go ahead," Sirius smiles with a slight tension to his shoulders as well, gesturing to the empty seats around him. James sits directly opposite Sirius with Peter beside him, while Remus takes the seat opposite Peter and beside Sirius. It appears as though Peter knows who Sirius is and Remus is completely oblivious, his polite but blithe smile directed at the Black family firstborn being the main indicator.

"I'm James Potter," James finally introduces, confident and with his chest. The three greet him back before introducing themselves in return. The round, sandy-blonde bloke was Peter Pettigrew, the brunette dressed like a grandpa was Remus Lupin and the last of them, neat as a pin with paper-pale skin, sharp features and shiny black hair was Sirius Black but most people already knew that.

"Aren't you part of that really old pureblood family?" Remus mentions cooly, as if not understanding the gravity of his question as a muggle-born (or half-blood, James doesn't know yet).

"Yeah," Sirius replies, not appearing too pleased with the observation and remains quiet.

"You'll be in Slytherin then?" Peter blurts without knowing, catching himself only after he's voiced his invasive thought and claps his hands over his running mouth. Beneath his hands, Peter's cheeks glow a bright pink and he avoids all eye contact with everyone in the cabin, his limbs beginning to shake in fear the longer Sirius holds off on answering to his thoughts.

"I don't really want to end up there," Sirius shrugs and turns to stare out the window, perfectly happy to occupy himself with the passing scenery. He's fed up with everyone's judgemental attitude. Can't a single person give him a chance?! He isn't asking for the world!

James was shocked, "Really?!" it made him stammer how far he'd misjudged the Black family's first son.

"I'm not like the rest of my family,"

"Thank Merlin!" James dramatically sags his shoulders in relief before grinning toothily and leaning forward to clap Sirius over the shoulder, "I thought you'd be another dark pureblood prick with a stiff lip and no sense of humour,"

The tension is completely broken as soon as Sirius throws his head back and laughs without restraint, clutching his belly and shaking at the shoulders with mirth. Even Peter is relieved at Sirius' reaction, momentarily pausing in his frantic rummaging through his shoulder bag. Remus only seems to have realised the previous tension in the air from the dramatic shift it takes but continues smiling anyway, this time with more ease than before.

Sirius returns his grinning gaze to James, who mirrors his expression, "Not a prick and definitely not stiffed lip. Sense of humour, you'll have to find out later on," all those high society wizard dinners, events and soirees could have been spent in better company, James and Sirius realised. If only they dared to approach each other sooner, without their family's prejudices hanging over them, puppeteering their actions. They could have shared laughter, made fun of the boring atmosphere and become close friends. But regrets like these were minimal in the grand scheme of things. They had a full year at Hogwarts to make up for it and grow the friendship they'd missed out on.

It's then that Sirius' vision is suddenly invaded by Peter's outstretched hand and a singular, colourfully wrapped chocolate on his palm, "I'm sorry for speaking out like that," Sirius smiles and accepts the gift happily.

"You're not bad, Peter,"

Seemingly spurred on by Sirius' show of forgiveness and kindness, Peter launches into a joke he had memorised for the sake of calming his nerves at the thought of struggling to make any friends, "Hey, so why do you think toddlers are so bad at magic?"

His statement seems to be taken seriously by the three boys at first as they ponder thoughtfully for a moment. But ultimately, with no answer in mind, they shake their heads and look to the portly bloke for the solution.

"Why?" Remus prompts.

"Because they can't spell!"

It was a bad joke, so bad that Remus released a small giggle while James and Sirius laughed boisterously, more so at Peter's expectant expression than the joke itself. They couldn't believe that he thought that joke would land well but his eagerness to elicit laughter was all they needed to lose themselves in the merriment. The four of them quickly dive into meaningless but fun conversations, sometimes splitting off into conversing pairs before returning to speak as a group again. Remus tended to be quiet and leaked a more nervous disposition than others whereas Peter eagerly tried to partake in whatever conversation was around, trying to land more jokes and input his opinion wherever, even if the mismatch of tone and timing wasn't always ideal. James and Sirius were the most enthusiastic and smoothly went from one subject to the next, it was a seamless river of constant conversation that was occasionally interrupted by chewing on the delicious treats carted over by the trolley lady, as well as the need for easy silence — a necessary, trouble-free pause.

Hours passed like this and eventually, an older prefect was knocking on their compartment door to peek in and ask that they change into their school robes.

"We'll be arriving soon,"

Everyone's robes were black and didn't adorn any of the Hogwarts house colours. For now, they were a small group of friends, eagerly awaiting their new chapter of life to begin.

Sirius stood on the edge of the lake as a deep sense of anticipation churned within him, replacing the excitement evoked by getting dressed on the train. Pulling on those robes and seeing his mother's capricious but careful stitches brought a realness to the situation — he was going to be attending the most prestigious wizarding school in all of England. It felt surreal but oh so tangible from where he stood.

The small boats that would ferry the many first years across to Hogwarts bob gently in the water before them, each one enchanted to move with a simple command. Beside him, Remus, James and Peter also look forward with James appearing to be the only one still in possession of his earlier eagerness. The journey to Hogwarts was incredibly long and, by now, it was already nighttime. There was a chill in the air as the sky draped over them, coloured in the deepest twilight hue with a scattering of stars spread across it. Looming ahead was the prodigious silhouette of Hogwarts Castle. Its many turrets and towers stretched up, trying to pierce the sky as its many windows were alit with a golden glow from within — inviting and warm and magical. Once again, the excitement was back...

It appears as though the constant fight between his enthusiasm and terror of the unknown will be giving him unsteady feet and fidgeting hands for the rest of the night.

Rubeus Hagrid, the half-giant gamekeeper and groundskeeper steps into a boat with his rusty, incandescent lantern and encourages the first years to follow along behind him. Everyone was to be seated in one of the many boats as a group, some as strangers, some as newly made friends. Luckily Sirius had already found his group of friends and they were one of the first to follow along behind the half-giant. Peter was a bit scared to step into the boat but with some encouragement and light teasing, they were soon setting sail with everybody else.

"See? It's not so bad, is it, Peter?" James grins, catching sight of the sandy blonde's entranced expression as he gazes into the lake's glimmering, moonlit waters.

"We don't even need to paddle," Sirius shares a look with James and the two grin widely.

Peter musters a taut smile and nods, attempting to calm his racing heart. He seems to finally find some comfort in the glittering waters below them, "Y-yeah, not so bad,"

"Be careful not to lean too far over the edge though," Remus warns politely, "overtipping the balance might capsize the boat," Peter pales and hastily rights himself, earning a chuckle from everyone on board.

"Capsizing the boat, huh? What an adventure that will be!" James laughs brightly. He's a carefree spirit, one that Sirius can't help but be entranced by. Being around James is addictive. It's a new experience being in the presence of someone so opposite to his family's disreputable 'noble' ways. It's gotten a lot better because of his mother's recent change of heart but James is the type of person who elicits a lasting impression. Looking around the small boat they share, Sirius can tell that he's not the only one; Peter and Remus seem to be just as enchanted by the messy-haired boy's charm.

Steadily approaching Hogwarts makes the castle's colossal size more apparent. It's a massive, ancient structure that breathes with so much magic, that there's an evident vibration in the air surrounding it that makes the hairs on his skin stand up. Seeing the impressive castle in person was overwhelming but in the best way. A feeling of adventure begins to bubble in Sirius' lower belly and slowly begins to rise through him — a feverish anticipation for what he may get up to within its stone walls. It's a place where he can be truly free... finally. His mother's new attitude has been a solace and a comfort and has given him a small taste of what freedom was like but there was always the danger of his ill-tempered father. Here, Sirius feels as though he can finally, truly be free.

What a feeling...

Beneath the castle were a set of docks that the boats smoothly slid into. Hagrid was already out of his boat and holding his lantern up by the time they managed to reach him followed by the other first years. After clambering out of their buoyant vessels, Hagrid proceeds to lead everyone up a winding path, all the way up to the castle's front entrance. Its large front doors creak open and they were quickly ushered into the Entrance Hall. The vast space was cool but also warmed by the fire torches strategically placed about the perimeter, their dancing flames casting across the polished stone and giving rise to the first years' blended shadows. There's an apprehensive but electrifying buzz in the air as Hagrid bids them a temporary farewell, leaving them to a teacher.

Professor Minerva McGonagall is who she introduces herself as, the deputy headmistress and head of Gryffindor House. No wonder she was the one tasked with leading them into the Great Hall. She stands as a figure of authority and elegance.

McGonagall was not yet old. Her sharp, angular features were softened slightly by the subtle laugh lines framing her observant eyes — she isn't a stranger to smiling, though Sirius was finding it a little difficult to envision her with a grin. Her hair was a deep brown that pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, with not a single strand out of place. Her meticulous appearance only added to the impression that she was someone who did not tolerate nonsense. And yet, there was something about her that made Sirius believe she wasn't just a disciplinarian. There was an underlying warmth to her, hidden by her strict exterior as a prestigious Hogwarts professor. It's a warmth that spoke of the deep affection and care held for her students. He could see it in her eyes the same way he saw it in his changed mother's eyes — although sharp, they seemed to soften ever so slightly when looking over the younger students.

Her robes were made of a rich and heavy fabric, a dark emerald green that was almost regal in its fashion when draping over her silhouette. She moved with a grace that tactically concealed the strictness in her demeanour, each step was purposeful and her posture remained impossibly straight — the kind that his previous etiquette teacher desperately tried to force upon him, with no such luck; he was too stubborn for his own good, and he had the faded welts to prove it.

"Behind these doors is the Great Hall. And it is where you shall be sorted into your houses. There are four: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin," she explains briefly, "I will call out your name and one by one, you shall be seated and sorted by the sorting hat before the student body. You shall then sit with your house where you will wait until everyone is sorted and then we can have the opening dinner," she spoke with a clear and precise voice that had a very slight Scottish lilt to it, making her spoken words crisp and authoritative. Her voice was similar to the one his mother once had, it was the kind that cut through the chatter of a room with ease, immediately silencing those she cast her unwavering gaze upon. His mother's voice has since become much warmer and gentler as of late. And, although such an imperious voice usually made Sirius stiffen up with alertness, McGonagall didn't prompt any sort of reaction from him. She embodied a form of discipline he was familiar with but there was something more to her, and she balanced those opposing features very well.

With that, McGonagall led the group of first years into the Great Hall. Above him, the ceiling was enchanted to mirror the night sky he had just witnessed on the boat across the Black Lake, however, instead of blinking, distant stars, the night sky of the Great Hall was illuminated by floating candles. Four long tables stretched and occupied a vast amount of space in the large room. Most of the chairs by the tables were predominantly occupied except for the ones closest to the front of the room, near where the teachers had their own table, gazing over the students and smiling fondly at the first years walking in for the first time, led by the deputy headmistress.

The many students that were already seated were dressed in similar black robes but had embellishments of differing colours, colours that differentiated them into their different houses, one red, another, blue, the other, yellow and finally green. The students' eyes eagerly followed the newcomers, the youngest in the large pond that was Hogwarts. To the front of the hall, there was a raised platform with a singular stool on it, where an old hat sat — the sorting hat.

Sirius's heart pounded violently against his chest as he assembled behind the stool with the rest of the first years. McGonagall stepped up to the left of the stool and was given a scroll of parchment that listed all the names of the first years who were to be sorted. Without wasting a second, she immediately began to call them out. It was in alphabetical order according to surnames so Sirius knew that he would be one of the first to be sorted. Nevertheless, the few that came before him had a very welcoming experience. It was simple enough. Once seated, the hat would be placed on their head and after some time or very little time at all, the hat's voice boomed through the hall, echoing its final and irrevocable decision of where the student should be housed. The student was then met with the loud and welcoming cheers of their fellow housemates, who eagerly beckoned them over to their table while the head of house clapped and smiled from their seat by the rest of the staff.

Sirius's hands clenched into tight fists as he waited. The tension paralysing his limbs was unbearable. He knew what was to be expected of him. Slytherin, like all the Blacks before him. But the thought of even joining that house, of being surrounded by the same cold, pureblood superiority that he had grown up with made his intestines knot themselves up and his stomach fall into a bottomless pit. However, inside him raged an inner battle... Sirius remembers the kind softness of his reformed mother, the vivid image appearing in his head along with the ghost of her warm embrace and loving kisses — he didn't want to disappoint her. He's been granted such happiness by her recently, he didn't want to have that stolen away from him all too suddenly because of his house sorting. He wouldn't know what to do if he should be faced with the familiar disappointment and rage in her eyes once more—

Suddenly, his name was called.

"Black, Sirius!"

Silence swept the hall as Sirius stepped forth. Hundreds of eyes lingered on him all judging and wondering and evident with the same supposition he had grown up with — Slytherin. He even saw some eyes drift away after the initial call of his name. It was as if they knew what would come of the sorting and felt he didn't need the assistance of the hat to be put in a house.

As Sirius climbed the steps and sat on the stool, bitterness over the expectation placed on him, not just by his family but by complete strangers too lit his heart ablaze with stubborn denial and renunciation of the elitist house. The hat decedent far enough to cover his eyes, done past his nose, blackening out the rest of the world as the hat's voice began to ring between his ears and within his mind.

"Ah, another Black," the hat mused thoughtfully, "But not— your mind is different, you, yourself are different, aren't you? Not like the other Blacks..." The statement from the hat makes Sirius' heart skip a beat and soar higher than the sky. It was a relief, a validation of his circumstance that he deeply yearned for without even knowing until that moment. He lets the words echo in his ears and hopes to permanently stamp them into his brain. "And you're happy about that are you?" the hat chuckles, somewhat, condescendingly at him, "But you're plenty cunning and ambitious too, much like your many kinsfolk," his heart stutters in his chest again, this time with dread. The hat's words steal his breath and make his mind race with alarm. There's a pause, the hat seeming to delight in Sirius' inner conflict, his scrambled mind being the perfect entertainment for the tattered garment, "And yet, it cannot be denied how different you are, also," Sirius calms ever so slightly, able to breathe again, "yes, brave... with a fierce independence. You want to prove yourself, that's very easy to tell, to be more than what they expect or is it merely petty disobedience?"

Sirius holds his breath once more.

"Well then," the hat says decisively, its voice doubling and suddenly coming from two places at once, "it better be... GRYFFINDOR!"

His irrefutable house placement was shouted aloud, the shock giving way to a momentary, extension of silence before the hall erupts into massive applause. Sliding out from under the hat's cone body, a broad grin splits across Sirius' face.

Gryffindor! Not Slytherin!

He rushes down the steps and hurries to the Gryffindor table, who cheer wildly and smile broadly at him becoming a member. They were happy, cheering and in celebration of him. The moment he sits down, he's immediately bombarded with congratulatory slaps on the back and introductions. A boy who looked a little older than him clapped him on the shoulder with a bright grin, "Welcome to Gryffindor, mate!"

"Thanks," Sirius replied, breathless from the experience. A weight had lifted from his shoulders. For the first time in his life, he was presented with solid evidence that he was nothing like his many other rotten family members, and it felt... incredible.

The sorting ceremony continued without pause and Sirius eagerly awaited for the sorting of the friends he had made on the train. Lupin, Remus a little while after him (Gryffindor). Pettigrew, Peter came soon enough (Gryffindor). Right after him, Potter, James was sorted (Gryffindor). All of them were sorted into the proud house of the lion, symbolising bravery and courage, their robes immediately donning scarlet and golden accents.

"What luck!" James expresses as soon as he sits by them again. They share a look, their eyes twinkling and their grins pinned high up on their youthful cheeks. To think that they would be in the same house after becoming friends on the train!

Curiously, Sirius glances back at the other tables, quickly skimming over the blues and yellows to land on green accents. The Slytherins pinned him with narrowed eyes, their expressions ranging from surprise to outright disdain. Their transparent judgement, however, was easy to ignore, he wanted nothing to do with them anyway. Instead, he focuses on his fellow Gryffindors, his found family at Hogwarts. These were his people now, and he was determined to prove himself worthy of the lion's crest on his chest.

The feast began shortly after the last student was sorted. The tables were filled with an array of food that made Sirius' mouth water. Roasted chicken, platters of mashed potatoes, steaming bowls of vegetables, and an assortment of pies and puddings appeared before him — all accumulating into a delicious combined fragrance. There was no hesitation when it came to piling his plate high with every dish his heart desired. The food looked delicious but...compared to the loving and hearty meals his mother had been cooking for him the past month, only the sheer amount he was able to consume was able to satiate him after the long journey. The carefully curated flavours and the touch of a mother's love weren't there anymore. He supposes not everything can be perfect. Thankfully, the atmosphere was alive with chatter and laughter, an infectious combination that distracted him easily.

The night wore on, the food slowly disappearing from the tables, and when many of the students were no longer occupied by their food the Headmaster finally saw it fit to make his welcoming speech. Albus Dumbledore rose from his place at the staff table, surrounded by his many other professor colleagues and calls for silence. Almost immediately, the room quieted and all eyes were trained on him.

"Welcome," Dumbledore begins, his voice ancient like a dust-covered book but amiable, "welcome to Hogwarts, to those of you who have just started, I hope that the reception was favourable. And to those returning, hopefully, you are just as thrilled to spend another year with us as we are. I trust that after the long journey and heartily filled bellies, you are all ready for bed." He raises an arm and prompts the rise of several older students donning embellished badges decorated with their house colours, "your prefects will be the ones to escort you to your dorms,"

A password is required to gain access to the Gryffindor common room where only Gryffindor students are allowed. The password this time is 'sola libertas' (solitary freedom). It was exciting like having a secret place nobody else was allowed into except Sirius and his many other Gryffindor brethren.

"Your dorm rooms would have already been assigned to you and your luggage, moved accordingly," the prefect begins telling the first years as the older students head to their respective dorms, already assigned to them in their first year. Sirius can't help but feel slightly anxious at the idea that he may have to depart from his already close group of friends. Looking around, Peter, Remus and James appear to share the same sentiment; at least he wasn't alone in that regard, "these shall be your dorm room assignments for your entire education at Hogwarts. The boys' dormitories are on the left, up the staircase and down, the girls are the same but on the right," Sirius would have eagerly taken in the aesthetics of his new house's common room if he wasn't so anxious about who he would be sharing a dorm with for his entire seven years at Hogwarts. Rushing up the left staircase and down another set, he quickly finds the dormitories and goes searching for where his belongings should be, however, there wasn't any need to. On a few of the dorm room doors were a piece of paper that listed the new students that were to occupy the space. The dorms that didn't have a piece of paper attached presumably belonged to the older students who were already settled in.

Sirius scans the first door but doesn't find his name or any of the others. The second door, however, made him grin brightly. Looking over his shoulder, he attempts to turn and call out to his three new friends but is met with their curious expressions and already-approaching figures.

Catching sight of Sirius' grin, James breaks out into a light sprint, matching Sirius' grin with one of his own, "are we all sharing a dorm then?"

"You bet we are!" With a cheer, the two raise their arms to drape across one another's shoulders before facing Peter and Remus together. As soon as the remaining two heard the good news, all of them were eager to step inside and begin unpacking.

Entering the rather generous space, they find that their sleeping arrangements have already been chosen for them with their trunks placed at the foot of their beds. Everyone had a single bed to their name, a desk area, a full-length mirror, a wardrobe, a bedside table and a tall, standing lamp at their other bedside. One side of the dorm had tall windows to let in some natural light but it seemed as though a majority of their lighting would be coming from the lamps or candelabras littered about the room. At the centre of the space was a freestanding, cast iron fire heater to keep everybody warm on cold days. Most of the room was left sparse for them to decorate as they wished, there were even some empty plant pots available for those with green thumb hobbies. Or maybe it was in anticipation of a future herbology project? Nevertheless, the space was cosy and Sirius immediately felt at home as he began to unpack his things with the rest of the boys, occasionally joining in idle conversation to pass the silence.

James brought up the question of what everyone would like to do for the rest of tonight, other than unpacking. Remus was happy to just sit and read before bed, Peter simply shrugged his shoulders, already appearing exhausted by the day's events. It was up to James and Sirius to commence a game of exploding snap.

2nd September 1971

You've already sent off Sirius' letter, congratulating him on a job well done for his first day, you've even included a little gift to commemorate his sorting into Gryffindor. Thankfully, you thought to arrange everything in advance or else you wouldn't have gotten it to him on time – the prototype stage was very tedious but incredibly worth it. You only hope Sirius sees your effort and wears it religiously or else all that work would have been for nothing.

It was lonely to be in the house without him but you and Regulus are managing, it helped a lot that you still had your youngest with you — he was so incredibly precious and sweet; he almost managed to sweep your mind clear of Sirius at some points. Your developed routine didn't change much, once Regulus was in his appointed tutoring session with Peony, you went about your errands, sometimes, it required getting out of the house so you needed to be careful with your timing. You weren't comfortable knowing that, if you were late, Peony would be gone and Regulus would be home alone with his wretched father.

Over time, your sudden change of heart has had an adverse effect on Orion, who wasn't very good at hiding his anger regardless of how much he tried to suppress it. His mounting outrage was set to explode soon enough so you weren't surprised to hear his raging voice booming through number 12 Grimmauld Place, shaking the tenuous walls with his ferocity.

It didn't take a genius to foresee such an outburst and, because you knew about Sirius' sorting beforehand, you easily remained composed in the heat of Orion's violent rage. The sounds that came from his home office were unmistakably the destruction of a vase following the overturning of furniture, as well as the breakage of other miscellaneous things. You couldn't tell the extent seeing as you remained as far away from his office as much as possible, the way one would avoid a radioactive area. Orion himself was made of pure radiation.

Soon enough, Orion's seething figure barrelled out of his office with a force that had the door slamming against the wall. Stepping through, his imposing silhouette was ablaze with dark flames that were rooted to his sizeable, shaking shoulders. He didn't seem satisfied with the rampage he had in his room and immediately went to throw about the hallway furnishings as well. What a baby... (Eye roll).

Regulus should be in the home library reading up on material Peony asked him to review, a diligent and bright student, your perfect baby boy. However, when you turn in the library's direction, you see Regulus peeking out with the most horrified expression you've ever seen. It breaks your heart and quickly make your way over to him, ignoring your pathetic excuse for a husband.

"I'm sorry about your father, dear," you whisper as soon as you get to his side.

"M-mother—" his stutter comes to a stop when he sees you shake your head and observes your soft expression. You've been able to sense his thoughts a lot more clearly, always attentive to his needs and wants, like a good mother should. You assume he was feeling at fault for his father's rage when he couldn't be further from the truth.

Just in case, you reiterate the fact to him, "It's not your fault, sweetheart," bringing him into an embrace, you give his shaking figure an assuring squeeze while you press a kiss to his temple, "Let's go to your room, okay? Ignore your father," you didn't wait for an answer and whispered a 'muffliato' charm around his ears. Rather than hearing his pathetic father's rage, he is accompanied by you and a slight buzzing sound whilst traversing the hallway from the library to his bedroom.

You don't immediately release the muffliato charm from Regulus' ears. The first priority was getting him into bed, nice and cosy, the next was soundproofing the room with the imperturbable charm and ensuring that the door was locked, just in case Orion wanted to invade Regulus' space too. As an additional measure, you call for Kreacher and ask him to warn you if Orion ever sets his eyes on Regulus' bedroom, to which the house elf immediately obliges. With everything set, you finally lift the muffliato charm from Regulus.

"What's father upset about, Mother?" Regulus curls in on himself beneath the covers, tucking his chin over his knees as his arms wrap around his covered shins. The sight makes your heart clench painfully. He looked so scared and small, he didn't look like your bright and shining boy anymore... Orion that prick!

"Your father received news of Sirius' house sorting," the dreaded look that crosses Regulus' face saddens you further. You do your best to calm him down by sitting at his bedside and combing your fingers through his hair. "Your father isn't setting the best example by throwing a tantrum over something so trivial," the comment was your attempt at distracting Regulus from the situation, "don't worry about him, okay? He's only being a big baby for throwing such a fuss,"

"H-he can't do anything to Sirius though..." Regulus responds, his mind far too occupied with worry for his older brother, "he's all the way in Hogwarts, Father won't be able to get to him," your youngest's pleading eyes blink up at you for confirmation, seeking comfort. His only comfort is the knowledge of his brother's safety.

"No, he can't," Regulus relaxes ever so slightly as you press another kiss onto the crown of his head, "Not to worry, my dear, everything will be okay," with some gentle prodding, you manage to get Regulus into your lap where you lock him in a comforting embrace and begin to hum a random but soft tune. Your pathetic excuse of a husband should know better than this, he's being such a sensitive little prick. No wonder Sirius had such issues with his anger before you got here. It was all Orion's influence... and probably the original Walburga too.

"What a bad influence he is..." you mutter absentmindedly, the bitterness in your expression tangible.

"You're not talking about Sirius are you?!" Regulus looks up in alarm, pushing against you so he can stare into your eyes and seems to want to pull away completely.

"Of course not," you reassure in a hurry, wanting to curse yourself for being so loose-lipped. He's still pulled away slightly and you thought it best to allow him to return to your embrace in his own time, "I was talking about your father," Regulus watches with observant eyes as you shake your head disapprovingly and tut, "even though Sirius has been angry for a long time, he's gotten much better with managing his emotions, don't you think?" Regulus nods and slowly begins to fold into your arms again, "I bet you that Sirius would respond much better to bad news than your father,"

"...what happened mother?..."

With the happiest smile, you whisper the news against your youngest's soft, inky locks, "Sirius got sorted into Gryffindor,"

Regulus pulls away in shock but his eyes are sparkling with wonder, "really?!"

"Really,"

"That makes him the first one ever in our family,"

Nodding enthusiastically, the both of you share a smile, "yes it does, aren't you proud of your big brother?" you ask with a giggle. Naturally happy for Sirius, Regulus nods without missing a beat.

"You're proud of him too, mother?" you almost miss Regulus' concerned tone due to your own excitement.

"Always," you hold him close and squeeze him once more, "I'll always be proud of my beautiful sons. Seeing the two of you grow into your personalities and into men will always be cause for celebration," Regulus wraps his arms around your shoulders and presses his face into the base of your neck, inhaling the new fragrance against your skin — his mother never used to wear such gentle fragrances, Regulus doesn't believe his mother ever used to wear fragrance at all but having such a pretty and pleasant scent to associate you with after your change of heart makes him so happy.

"You won't be mad if I'm sorted into a different house like Sirius, right?"

"Never." you were resolute and felt the smile curling Regulus' lips against your skin.

"Not even if I'm in Gryffindor too?"

His cheekiness makes you laugh freely, "It'll be tough being outnumbered by two Gryffindors but even then... even then, I'll be so proud and so happy for both of you,"

Your moment is broken by the sudden appearance of Kreacher who warns you of Orion's approaching figure, as promised. The warning has you jumping to your feet and tucking Regulus back into bed. His small hand reaches for your own and you easily weave your fingers together for comfort.

BANG!

For the man to have the audacity to kick at Regulus' door makes your blood boil. Living in such a magical world, you know that the door wouldn't stay locked forever so you step over to block Regulus' view of Orion, subsequently hiding Regulus and keeping him from the danger that was his father's irate gaze.

"LOCKING DOORS IN MY HOUSE?!"

"Get out, Orion," you order plainly and with an unamused expression.

"WHAT?!"

"Regulus and I have every right to lock our doors if we don't want your company, especially when it's so unpleasant. Now, get out,"

Ignoring your words, Orion steps to the side and makes direct eye contact with Regulus, who begins to shake. His small hand clenched around your fingers with such force that your circulation gets obstructed but you pay it no mind – whatever he needs to feel safe in that moment.

"If you don't go to Slytherin, you're going to be as big of a disappointment as your no-good brother!"

"Orion!" you shout in disbelief, too shocked at the asshole's audacity to do much else.

"You shan't go anywhere else! I'll throw you into the vault for an entire month otherwise! And then you're gone from this family! DO YOU HEAR ME?! LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M SPEAKING TO YOU REGULUS!"

Rushing forward, you push Orion back with such force, that he almost makes it out of the door. And before he can protest, you continue pushing him until he is out in the hallway. If it wasn't for Regulus being there, you would have clobbered him the good 'muggle' way but you had to set a good example for Regulus and managed to repress your emotions until the bedroom door was closed. Finally, you and Orion were alone in the hallway.

"Walburga you—!"

"Calm yourself, Orion! You're frightening Regulus and you're frightening me! Stop it this instant!" Orion looks at you with utter disbelief, his eyes, still ablaze with anger, gradually mixed with swirling pools of shock and perplexity. The woman who stands before him is not the wife he married and disciplined his sons with.

"Have you not read the letters?!" Orion tries to put logic behind your actions, his befuddlement completely disorienting him — thankfully, he's managed to lower his voice, somewhat.

"Of course I have!" you hiss, lying through your teeth. The night of Sirius' first day, the letters already started to pour in but you hadn't opened a single one, already knowledgeable of the news you were going to receive from them. With a dramatic huff, Orion crosses his arms and looks at you with an expression of 'well?', silently asking you to explain yourself but instead, you're turning away completely. "I'll be right back," I have something more important to address right now.

"Walb—!" you pay the bastard no attention and re-enter Regulus' room. On his bed, you find your youngest shaking in fear and with the most distraught expression you've ever seen him wear. His appearance peaking out from the library couldn't match the astronomical distress he was now experiencing.

Regulus is definitely more important right now...

"Don't worry, my darling," you whisper, embracing him as soon as you seat yourself at his bedside once more, "let mommy handle him. You're going to be alright, I promise. I won't ever let him harm you or your brother," kissing his forehead, you call for Kreacher once more and request that he keep Regulus company while you have a talk with Orion.

"Kreacher will be happy to stand by the young master Regulus," in your peripheral, you see the two share a small smile with Regulus's coming out much more hesitant and shaky. He's such a sweet, brave boy it makes your heart swell with pride but also ache with remorse that he's having to be like this at such a young age.

"I'll be right back, dear," you make sure to give him another kiss on the forehead before leaving. In your periphery, you glimpse Kreacher reaching out to take his young master's hand.

"How dare you speak to my son that way!" you finally burst with rage, pointing an accusatory finger at Orion and poking into his chest with your nail repeatedly, "Threatening him is not the right way to raise him! Leave Regulus out of this! I can't believe you're throwing such a huge tantrum over a school house! You aren't setting a good example! You should be ashamed of yourself!"

Orion, despite his bafflement, is quick to talk back with just as much bite and snark, "What in the world are you talking about?! Are you telling me that you're willing to accept that our son was sorted into Gryffindor?!" Orion is shocked at his wife's hypocrisy. There was a mounting urge within him to confront her new attitude, however, the matter of Sirius' sorting was much more urgent for the time being.

"It's a Hogwarts house, Orion, it's not the end of the world," his jaw hits the floor but you simply roll your eyes at him, "Our blood running through his veins is enough. Knowing that he's our son is enough. He should be free to live in the house the sorting hat puts him into — and you should be happy, being sorted into Gryffindor means that Sirius is brave and chivalrous, both are amazing qualities for our son to have!"

"It also means that he'll be spending most of his time around blood traitors and mudbloods who will surely corrupt his mind!" you try not to outwardly cringe at his use of such derogatory terms, and in such a spiteful tone too. This man is so full of hate and menace – it isn't safe to have him around your sons. "I'm making a trip to Hogwarts tomorrow! Whether you accompany me or not will be your choice! I'm sending the letter to Hogwarts tonight!"

He storms back to his office without allowing you the chance to retort or offer your opinion on the decision. His blatant disregard of you and Regulus makes you bristle with rage, you feel like a cat who tensed up in warning. If he bothers you again for the rest of the day, you'll drop-kick his sorry ass. Thankfully, a few deep breaths were good for placating your annoyance — besides, this occasion gave you the perfect opportunity.

"Kreacher," you call in a calm voice. In a heartbeat, your dedicated house elf stands before you, willing to obey. The smile you wear is a complete contrast to what you ask of him and you almost have to keep yourself from snorting in amusement when his eyes make to pop out of their sockets from shock.

"M-mistress be wantin' a s-s-separate room?"

"Yes, Kreacher," it was plain and simple, "Please transfer all my belongings as well. I won't be able to stand sleeping next to such an idiotic husband," Kreacher flinches at the insult as if it was directed at him personally. The wrinkled house elf has never seen the proud patriarch and matriarch of the Black house argue to the point of demanding separate rooms. It was already such an insult for the Mistress to request a sleeping elsewhere that it was almost unnecessary to call the Master an 'idiot' after that point. "But before that, would you mind clearing up Orion's mess in the hall? — Not his office, however, he can clean that disaster up himself,"

"It be best if Kreacher transfers Mistress' room first t-to avoid Master Orion's wrath..." Kreacher only realises what he's said after he'd already spoken the words. He couldn't believe he had felt comfortable enough—impudent enough to suggest doing the tasks differently to how his mistress directed, it goes against how house elves should behave! Before you can react, Kreacher drops to the floor and grovels at your feet incoherently. You're only able to make out the words 'sorry', 'bad elf' and 'punishment' before Kreacher crawls to the hallway bannister and begins aggressively hitting his head against the railing. The awful sound of his head making contact with the bannister makes you gasp and rush forward to stop him, hauling him back by his small shoulders.

"Kreacher stop that!" you plead, worried eyes falling over his forehead as your hand goes up to gently trace the area, "Goodness, there's no need to punish yourself for making a helpful suggestion, Kreacher," you release a breath of relief when you hardly see any lasting damage. Thankfully he was built tougher than steel. Kreacher continues to look at you with widened eyes and parted lips. First, it was his Master Regulus being kind to a lowly elf like himself, and now, it was his Mistress. He's such a blessed elf, he can't help but feel joy from being given such kindness so freely, "I was going to say that it's a good idea and you should do it in the order you feel is best. But now I demand that you rest for an hour, at least, I'll get you some dittany to put on your bump,"

"K-Kreacher will do it, Mistress! Mistress is already being too kind to this unworthy house elf,"

"Unworthy?" you arch a brow and kneel before the elf with a frown, "Kreacher, you have served me and my family well for many years. Regulus thinks of you as his friend and you've been getting along well with Sirius too. You even put up with my idiotic husband," you offer a gentle smile, "even if you weren't those things, everyone deserves rest and to be treated with care when they are hurt. It'll only take a moment, I'm not angry at you—" you move to stand back up and make your way to the potions cupboard downstairs but Kreacher is already shaking his head in protest.

"Mistress is too kind, Kreacher will do it!" he states firmly and disappears with a snap of his fingers. For a moment, he looked a little taller and not so gloomy. The image makes you smile slightly before sighing in defeat — what a stubborn elf you have.

You have Regulus in your arms once again, the two of you sat atop his bed and against the headboard. Thankfully, Orion hasn't been as disruptive after isolating himself in his office and you were able to lift the imperturbable charm from the door.

"You've got nothing to worry about, my love," combing your fingers through your youngest's dark curls, you whisper the assurance into the air. You've notified him of what Orion plans to do the next day and he immediately freezed up again. It was a reaction you anticipated and wished you didn't have to deliver the news at the foresight, but it was always better to be honest. And you're sure you wouldn't be able to hide the news for long, seeing as his father would be taking action by early morning, tomorrow. "Nothing bad will happen to Sirius, I'll make sure of it,"

Regulus still has his face pressed up against the juncture of your neck and shoulder as he clings to your figure for dear life. His worry was evident and, although it was saddening to see, your heart soared knowing of the close bond the brothers had. You won't allow them to have such a horrible falling out in the future, knowing that they care for each other so deeply, "Sirius is so lucky to have such a caring and thoughtful younger brother like you," Regulus sniffles and pulls away to look at you with glassy eyes, his lip slightly wobbly. He feels guilty for basking in your praise and feeling so happy by it when Sirius was in danger. Gently swiping your thumb under his eye, you whisper an alliance, "Let's promise to protect Sirius together tomorrow, okay?"

"We're going to see him?" Regulus couldn't believe his ears. Hope began to wrap around his heart. The feeling was and allowed him to smile once more, blinking away his tears as he did so.

"Your father insists on it,"

"I thought it was only father going,"

You shake your head and smirk deviously, "we're going too~"

For a moment, Regulus really thought Sirius was going to be harmed by their father but, knowing that you plan on accompanying him, was a comfort. And you planned on taking him with you too! Regulus doesn't know what he'd be capable of doing when it came to protecting his older brother but he had full confidence knowing that you would be there with him. The two of you share a smile — a silent union with the same purpose.

"What would you like me to read to you tonight?" you ask ever so softly, a gentle way of diverting the subject matter for the sake of Regulus' bedtime.

"The Wind in the Willows," Regulus immediately answers. It was an enchanting tale and nothing like the stories from 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard'. Muggles were really creative and, although it was bizarre trying to imagine forest creatures living a lot like how humans live, it was enchanting. Regulus was grateful that you were willing to read him books written by muggles — he wouldn't have known how wonderful their stories were, otherwise.

"You really like that story don't you?" you joke, already accio-ing the book into your hands. It was one of your favourites growing up too and you always dreamed of reading it to your future children. Now that you had Regulus and Sirius for sons, they weren't about to be the exception.

Regulus flushes a soft pink beneath his adorable freckles, "it's just so charming,"

Kissing his temple, you smile and open the book to the first chapter, "I understand, darling, you have amazing taste," he looks away when you send him a wink before finally beginning his favourite storybook.

2nd September 1971

Breakfast was just as grand of an affair as the previous night’s extravagant first dinner. Again, the food didn’t have as much loving care put into it nor were its tastes carefully curated for his palette, unlike his mother’s home cooking. However, Sirius was still managing to satiate himself with second helpings. Some students were still dressed in their pyjamas for breakfast, which made perfect sense, considering breakfast was from 7:30 to 8:50 in the morning – getting their stomachs filled was far more important than getting dressed earlier than necessary.

“Have you guys tried the pancakes?” Peter raved through a half-eaten mouthful of said pancakes.

“Oh yeah!” James responds, also with a half-eaten mouthful of pancakes. Remus manages a weak laugh at their display, clearly not a morning person as he sips his tea and slowly butters his toast before reaching for the jam. Sirius and the boys, like many other students, were still dressed in their pyjamas from the night before. Morning announcements were relayed to them by their respective house ghosts, who made brief introductions the night before, after dinner and on the way to their common rooms. It was a good thing too, because Sir Nicholas –the ghost for Gryffindor House– had the horrible habit of showcasing his near-headless-ness as if he was tipping a hat in greeting. It was a fascinating sight but not when everyone was enjoying their meal.

“First years are to spend the first half of today with prefects touring the castle,” the ghostly Nicholas announces, thankfully having the decency to repress his usual urge of tipping his head.

“Thank you, Sir Nicholas,” Remus smiles politely over the rim of his tea cup. The ghost nods in acknowledgement before proceeding to the other first years further down the table.

Breakfast continued with the usual chatter between mouthfuls until a slew of hoots permeated the air and owls swooped through with a flourish. Some delivered newspapers to the teachers at the staff table, but groups carried a stack of parchment to the head of each house table before dispersing. Groups of prefects sorted through their respective house stacks, grabbing piles of each and proceeding to hand them over to the other students. For the names they didn’t seem to recognise, the prefects carefully shouted them out and asked for a raised hand. In due time, the boys received their timetables. First-years were told that today was the only exception to the schedule as they were going to receive a tour of the castle from the prefects, who were being overseen by the head boy and head girl. There were excited whispers between those who were especially eager, about doing their best with the tours so that they may be able to become next year’s head boy or girl.

From all the activity, it seemed that most people were finally beginning to blink away the sleep from their eyes and gain some alertness for the day. Sirius thought most of the activity was done with, however, already loading up his plate for his third helping when another hoot sliced through the air. It was Owletta, Sirius’ owl. When everyone looked up, they saw the elegant barn owl swoop down and gracefully deliver Sirius’ letter along with a small, neatly wrapped box. She was gone as quickly as she had entered, all in a looping ribbon of gold and white feathers.

“A letter already?” James asks, the surprise evident in his wide-eyed and jaw-dropped expression, “It looks like you got a gift too, I’m kinda jealous,” he teases as whispers erupt from the Slytherin table.

Sirius turns his chin over his shoulder, curious about the whispers and immediately meets the smirking gaze of his elder cousin, Bellatrix Black. She’s openly snickering at him and doesn’t break away from his stare. Her eyes are dark and challenging, daring him to open his letter and see what’s inside, eliciting a feeling of dread from deep in Sirius’ stomach. The panic and fear and unease had been building since the previous night’s sorting ceremony. It never seemed to calm despite Sirius’ countless efforts to ignore it. He stares down at his letter and the small gift beside it, both vibrating in his hold, appearing to build towards their timely detonation. But they weren’t going to explode… Sirius realised it was because of his own hands shaking.

Surely his mother was disappointed in him, right? That was what the letter would say…but why a gift?

“Aren’t you going to open them?” Remus prompts as the two other boys look on with piqued interest, Peter disregarding his plate to do so.

Sirius does not answer as he continues to observe his postal deliveries. The letter doesn’t appear to be a howler. Instead of the screaming letters’ signature red envelope, his letter was in a simple off-white envelope — a normal letter. His gift was decorated in matte-black wrapping paper. It was wrapped in such a way that the folds crossed over each other in neat and crisp lines, creating a design that was immediately recognised by James.

“That looks like the gifts I got wrapped when buying stuff in Japan on a family holiday,” James alerts with interest, “but it never came with a plant,”

Sirius pulls out the arrow-shaped plant with it’s stems tucked in the crisp folds. It had many small leaves and a slightly bumpy stem, “what plant is this?”

“It looks like a fern to me,” Remus inputs helpfully.

“I see…” Sirius finds himself staring down at his letter and gift once more. He’s stalling.

“It feels too pretty and neat to unwrap, doesn’t it?” James asks from experience, remembering how he didn’t have the heart to undo the artistry put into wrapping the gift, “I felt that way too but you’ll be missing out on your gift mate. Open it,”

“Yeah! It must be special since you’re getting it so early,” Peter adds, eagerly leaning forward to closely observe what Sirius may unravel. Steeling his nerves, Sirius forces his hands to stop shaking before proceeding to carefully unfold the carefully wrapped gift, on the table the delicate sprig of fern it came with.

Unwrapping the black paper revealed a small, sturdy box that looked as if it held precious jewellery. After a brief moment of pondering what may be inside, Sirius finally lifted the lid and revealed a beautiful red pin, shaped like a shield with gold accents sitting on a black velvet cushion. The metal pin was decorated with a gold, standing lion in the middle. It was a sleek and minimalist design that begged to be picked up and put on. Turning the pin over in his palm, Sirius gasps at the message engraved on the back, his heart racing in his chest as he fights off a beaming smile and the flood of tears threatening to streak down his cheeks in rivers.

‘A Shield To Protect My Brave, Daring And Noble Son’

Above the quote was his name in beautiful cursive and below the quote, in the same elegant handwriting read: ‘Love, Mother’.

Others who observe his state, look on in concern, not knowing what’s happened as Sirius curls in on himself and clutches the pin to his chest with both hands. Worried for their new friend, James, Remus and Peter look at each other with worry. It was Remus who was the first to react, however. The brunette brings up a hand to softly pat Sirius on the back, being the one closest to him in the seating arrangement.

“Did it say something bad?” Peter gently brings up, frightened at the prospect of upsetting his emotional friend by bringing up the subject.

“I don’t think so,” Remus observes and responds in a whisper.

James keeps his focus directly on Sirius, frowning deeply at the sight of his friend’s suddenly much smaller frame, “What’s wrong, Siri?”

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong…” Sirius manages to smile up at them, blinking away the tears and biting his lip in a vain attempt to suppress his beaming smile. Finally seeing his smiling face, his three friends breathed a synchronised sigh of relief.

“Don’t scare us like that, mate,” James laughs weakly and claps him on the shoulder, “we thought something horrible happened,”

Sirius only shakes his head before looking upon his still unopened letter. He thinks he can finally have the courage to open it now. The handwriting belongs to his mother so, with the knowledge that the pin was a gift for his sorting, Sirius concludes that the letter’s contents can only bode the same congratulatory message… right?

When Sirius finally unfolds the letter and reads its contents he begins to cry silently. His vision gets blurred by the river of tears falling from his wide, disbelieving eyes and he has to rapidly blink them away to try and read his letter intelligibly; he has to know that the words on the letter paper are real and that it isn’t an illusion his mind conjured up to cope with the thought of losing his newly loving mother’s affections. Growing concerned, James and Peter cross the table to stand behind Sirius and look over his shaking shoulders to read what the letter says along with Remus.

‘My dearest son, Sirius,’

The letter opened, the tone already loving and so so proud.

‘I have received the wonderful news of your sorting and to say that it brings me such great joy would be an understatement. My beautiful son, sorted into the house of lions, brave and courageous — today, I am given the blessing of being an even prouder mother than I already stand.’

Sirius chokes back a sob and ends up releasing a strangled laugh instead. He could never have anticipated such a letter from his mother. Ever. To read the words on the elegantly decorated parchment felt surreal.

‘In celebration, I have prepared a gift for you. I hope it gives you protection and good fortune. Please wear it with pride, the same way I will happily announce to the world that you are my son and the first son in the Black family to be sorted into Gryffindor house. How special you are! And how lucky I am to be the mother of such a noble and brave son.’

The words make Sirius’ heart clench in an almost painful joy as his chest swells with pride and relief. For a moment, he goes about attaching his pin to his robes but finds that his hands are too shaky and his vision too blurred to be able to do it properly or safely. Disregarding the task altogether, he returns to reading his letter with a defeated laugh.

‘I wish I was there to see you sorted personally. Although, I’m afraid I would have embarrassed you in front of your new friends if that were the case, for I would have been the loudest to cheer in the entire hall,’

Remus, James and Peter chuckle from behind him and over his shoulder when they read about your suspected reaction.

“That would’ve been a sight,” Remus comments with a suppressed chuckle.

“The thing is… I think my mum would have been the exact same,” James adds with a lopsided smirk, showcasing his singular, asymmetrical dimple.

“Y-your mum sounds so different to the rumours…“ Peter whispers almost too silently, making Sirius’ breath hitch. He’s so glad for his mother’s change in demeanour, he can hardly remember the last time she scowled in disappointment or disgust at him — he doesn’t care much for trying to remember such a sight however; his mother’s loving smile is so much more suited to her face and so much easier to remember.

‘Regulus is just as thrilled at the result of your sorting. The both of us are current rivals in the feelings of pride and joy over your destined house. I believe that he’s become especially eager to join you in Gryffindor one day.’

Sirius chuckles at the prospect, laughing through the tears as he imagines his younger brother, soft-hearted and demure but witty and sharp as a knife in, both, knowledge and humour, sorted into Gryffindor. If Regulus were to be sorted in the same house as him, Sirius would happily accept the result with open arms. He loved his brother so much that being able to spend time with him at Hogwarts, in the same house, breathed promises of the most fun times and precious memories he could ever experience.

‘If that were to come true, I’m afraid I’d have my hands full being completely outnumbered by two Gryffindors in the house. You’ll have to excuse this mother’s inexperience but I’ll be happy all the same, so it can’t be too bad of an outcome, can it?’

The good humour makes Sirius giggle to himself, overcome with a dopey enchantment he just can’t seem to shake. His tears have dried up and left behind were a pair of rosy cheeks, glittering silver eyes and a beaming grin. His friends share in his happiness, the loving and prideful words on the paper seeping beneath their skin and influencing their moods as well.

‘Without any further embellishments, all I want you to know, my darling son, is that I am proud of you. And so incredibly happy too. You were always very daring and valiant, you had the heart of a lion without even knowing it. It was an unexpected sorting but I can’t say that I’m too surprised. A mother just knows these things. You are where you belong, I only hope that they treat you well there and that you continue being as audacious and fearless as you’ve always been. I love you, Sirius, please never forget that. Love, Mother’

Sirius tucks the letter back into its envelope sleeve before placing it in the breast pocket of his pyjamas, along with the custom pin, carefully stored back in its cushioned box. He will treasure these two simple items forever. He didn’t believe happiness like this could have ever existed but here he was, experiencing it first-hand. It almost felt too good to be true but when he reads it over and over again as soon as he returns to his dorm room to change into his school robes for the day, the realness of the letter and the gift are reinforced over and over.

“I forgot you’re in a family full of Slytherins,” James comments absentmindedly as he throws on his robes without much care for their alignment. Sirius mirrors the action, the lack of care for his appearance is new but freeing and he enjoys it, guilt-free. “I bet you’re relieved to receive a letter like that, considering what most of your family were sorted into,” Peter is nodding along in the background, flashing Sirius a moderate smile, still finding it hard to act freely in most interactions — it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with some valuable time spent together.

Remus perks up and eyes Sirius with sympathy, “That is a relief then…your mother seems to really love you though,” Sirius nods in confirmation, elated that he can share things about his mother happily like this. It no longer feels right to complain about home negativities nor did he feel as though he could openly disgrace his mother’s name.

He’s spoiled by happiness and love, now, even if it was only for a short period of time. And he’s slowly growing a greed for it. Sirius wants to keep making you happy and knowing that all he has to do is be himself, like he was at the sorting ceremony, allows a grin to spread over his lips in pure joy.

He cannot wait to receive your next letter…

NEXT. | 06 : POTIONEER → | SERIES M.LIST

A/N : what a long chapter that was, but very appropriate for my official come back eh? how was it for you darlings? are you excited? I'm sorry about what happened to reggie and what may happen to sirius but we're going to be there for them so don't worry too much, this is a fix-it-fic after all! hehe~ i hope you're excited for what'll happen next because i certainly am! there's so much i still have planned so i don't think there'll be many slow chapters in the future, I'm just a little worried about my execution -- nevertheless, i'll do my best!

lastly, thank you, everyone, for your support of this series so far! it means so much to me to know that this is being received so well and that more people than i originally thought are enjoying the plot. i was originally going to write a simple imagine/timestamp of this and just leave it at that, but I'm happy my friends encouraged me to turn it into a series. thank you again, my darlings! see you in the next chapter!

please like, comment and reblog to show your support, i'd really appreciate it! property of kquil ; all written content is mine and no one else's unless stated otherwise ; do not steal, plagiarise, modify or translate to other sites

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