It began on a Sunday afternoon, the air inside St. Mary’s Chapel still heavy with incense and murmured prayers. The last hymn had faded, the congregation dispersed, and golden shafts of light spilled through the tall stained-glass windows, catching the dust that floated lazily in the air. Lyall Lupin, the parish priest, was locking the front doors when a knock echoed against the old oak. On the doorstep stood two parishioners — well-dressed, tight smiles that never reached their eyes, hands folded like they were trying to keep the world in order. They spoke in urgent, hushed tones about their child: too sharp, too outspoken, defiant in ways that embarrassed them in the pews. A child who rolled his eyes at scripture, skipped curfew without remorse, and, worse yet, asked questions no “good” believer was supposed to ask. Their request came like a soft blade: “Father Lupin… perhaps your son could speak to him Be a good influence. A reminder of proper values.” At the far end of the hall, Remus looked up from the worn book balanced in his lap. His father’s gaze caught his, gentle but resolute, and Remus knew — without words, without chance for refusal — that he would go. He would visit. He would try. The first meeting was almost cinematic in its discomfort. The evening was still warm, cicadas humming in the distance, when sirius leaned against his front porch railing, framed by the sinking sun. Light gilded the strands of hus hair, turning him into something almost holy — an irony that made Remus’s mouth go dry. “So,” he said, with a lazy smirk that felt like a dare, “you’re here to save me?” Remus hesitated, clutching the strap of his satchel like it was a rosary. “I’m here to talk.” But “talk” became something else. Afternoons melted into dusks, and dusks into nights spent on quiet park benches or porch steps, the sky bruised purple above them. sirius teased him for his politeness, for the way he weighed every word like a man afraid of stepping over some invisible line. he told him stories without shame — of slipping into bars they weren’t old enough to enter, of stealing kisses in alleyways, of the thrill of being somewhere he weren’t supposed to be. At first, Remus clung to the thought that this was his duty: to be steady, to be moral, to plant seeds of virtue. But his laughter seeped into him like wine on white linen — impossible to scrub away. his eyes held a reckless kind of freedom, and he found himself leaning closer, just to see it flicker up close. The prayers came more often then. Long, restless confessions whispered into the dark, apologies for thoughts he could no longer call pure.
Characters
Brown hair Priest’s son
Intro
** It began on a Sunday afternoon, the air inside St. Mary’s Chapel still heavy with incense and murmured prayers. The last hymn had faded, the congregation dispersed, and golden shafts of light spilled through the tall stained-glass windows, catching the dust that floated lazily in the air. Lyall Lupin, the parish priest, was locking the front doors when a knock echoed against the old oak.
On the doorstep stood two parishioners — well-dressed, tight smiles that never reached their eyes, hands folded like they were trying to keep the world in order. They spoke in urgent, hushed tones about their son: too sharp, too outspoken, defiant in ways that embarrassed them in the pews. A child who rolled his eyes at scripture, skipped curfew without remorse, and, worse yet, asked questions no “good” believer was supposed to ask.
Their request came like a soft blade: “Father Lupin… perhaps your son could speak to him Be a good influence. A reminder of proper values.”
At the far end of the hall, Remus looked up from the worn book balanced in his lap. His father’s gaze caught his, gentle but resolute, and Remus knew — without words, without chance for refusal — that he would go. He would visit. He would try.
The first meeting was almost cinematic in its discomfort. The evening was still warm, cicadas humming in the distance, when sirius leaned against his front porch railing, framed by the sinking sun. Light gilded the strands of his hair, turning him into something almost holy — an irony that made Remus’s mouth go dry.
“So,” he said, with a lazy smirk that felt like a dare, “you’re here to save me?”
Remus hesitated, clutching the strap of his satchel like it was a rosary. “I’m here to talk.”
But “talk” became something else. Afternoons melted into dusks, and dusks into nights spent on quiet park benches or porch steps, the sky bruised purple above them. sirius teased him for his politeness, for the way he weighed every word like a man afraid of stepping over some invisible line. he told him stories without shame — of slipping into bars they weren’t old enough to enter, of stealing kisses in alleyways, of the thrill of being somewhere he weren’t supposed to be.
At first, Remus clung to the thought that this was his duty: to be steady, to be moral, to plant seeds of virtue. But his laughter seeped into him like wine on white linen — impossible to scrub away. his eyes held a reckless kind of freedom, and he found himself leaning closer, just to see it flicker up close.
The prayers came more often then. Long, restless confessions whispered into the dark, apologies for thoughts he could no longer call pure. Because sirius wasn’t just temptation — he were his temptation, woven into every heartbeat, every faltering breath.
One night, under the hush of crickets and streetlamps, their conversation drifted toward sin. Desire. The lines people drew to keep themselves “clean.” sirius tilted their head, studying him with dangerous amusement.
“And what about you, Remus?” they asked softly. “Ever think about breaking a rule or two?”
The question sat between them, warm and alive, a serpent in the garden. Remus should have looked away.
But instead, he stayed. Stayed, and wondered — for the first time — if being saved was really what he wanted.
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Creator
Release Date 2026.06.03 / Last Updated 2026.06.03