Hi! I'm Chantelle, a 24-year-old from England who uses she/they pronouns, is autistic and disabled, and I write reader insert fics for various fandoms. I do write for the Marauders, but we're very big 'Fuck JKR' over here. Like don't come near me if you're a terf or think it's okay to financially support her.
My requests are open, and here are my guidelines and please be understanding about the fact that it can take a while to get to requests.
I've also linked my masterlist, but I also have a tag #chantelle writes fic so you can find my fics as I am terrible at keeping my masterlist up to date. I also have a new fic rec blog over at @chantellesficrecs, so follow there to see what I've been reading.
I also write interactive fiction - specifically @summeroflove-if, a Love Island-inspired IF game with an all-bi cast. It's a whole other thing and it has its own page, but if that sounds like your kind of chaos, go take a look.
Finally, my inbox is always open to anyone - I'm terribly shy but happy to chat to anyone and would love to make new friends.
Tagging, titling and summarising. Literally, I hate doing it, it is the worst part, and on bad weeks, is enough to put me off writing.
Then I'd say it's outlining. Once I have an outline, I can follow the outline to get a rough draft, then I can follow the rough draft to edit, but the outline is the starting point. Can't do anything until then. I now use a wheel spinner to at least determine what condition I'm writing for and sometimes what relationship stage (so last week I think, I spun and got 'autism + postpartum'. I was writing an eddie fic, so I did a bit of research and got my idea, then had to write the outline, double check accuracy where possible because I've never had a baby and then away I went).
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Omega!Reader
Summary: A migraine hits hard at work, but Hotch doesn't let you face it alone.
Tags: omega!reader, chronic migraines, sensory overload, depictions of chronic pain, alpha!hotch, hurt/comfort, hotch is steady in a crisis, pre-relationship, reader's body gives out but hotch does not, aboverated tenderness, scent-based comfort, a/b/o au, hotch is already halfway in love, instinctive care, reader has trouble asking for help, reader's chronic illness shows up uninvited, foggy narration for a foggy brain, soft alpha energy, reader gets claimed without being taken, emotional safety, no use of y/n
Word count: 3.2k words
The migraine doesn't announce itself with drama. It doesn't crash in like thunder or give you the courtesy of a countdown. It doesn't even have the decency to be obvious. It sneaks in like a bad mood you can't shake, like the air getting too thick to breathe without noticing when it happened, like someone slowly turning up a dimmer switch inside your skull and waiting for you to realize you're squinting and clenching your jaw and holding yourself too tight. It arrives the way fog does—quiet, patient, and rude—until suddenly you're inside it and there's no horizon anymore.
One second you're answering emails and re‑labeling files and pretending the bullpen isn't chaos wrapped in beige carpeting, the next the light over your desk feels too white, too sharp, like it's leaning in close just to be cruel. The letters on your screen start to swim, not enough to be unreadable, just enough to make your eyes ache from trying to hold them still, like you're gripping something slippery with hands that are already tired. You blink and the cursor leaves a ghost trail behind it. You blink again and the ghost doesn't go away. You blink a third time and the ghost splits in two, and that feels like a personal insult.
You blink. Once. Twice. The pressure behind your eyes answers by blooming wider, deeper, like a bruise being pressed from the inside. It's the familiar kind of wrong, the kind your body recognizes before your brain finishes forming the word migraine, the kind that carries a quiet, unhelpful certainty: this is going to take a while.
Your vision goes fuzzy around the edges first. Not gone—just wrong, like someone smeared grease on the corners of the world or breathed on a mirror and never wiped it away. The noise in the bullpen, which is usually just background weather, starts to stack up in layers: phones, printers, laughter, footsteps, the hum of the vents, the clack of keyboards, chairs scraping, someone coughing too loudly, someone else dropping a file with a sound like a gunshot in your head. All of it piles together until it feels like it's being poured straight into your skull through a funnel, loud and bright and relentless, like the building has decided to sing directly to your nerves.
You press your fingers to your temple and try not to wince. That only makes it pulse harder, a slow, ugly throb that keeps time with your heartbeat, like your head has decided to start its own very personal drumline and you're not allowed to leave the room. The fluorescent lights buzz. Or maybe that's just your ears. Or maybe it's both and your brain is being unhelpful about sorting it out.
"Not now," you mutter, because bargaining with your own body is a bad habit you never quite break, even though it never listens and never has. You tell yourself you can finish this one thing, just this one thing, like you always do, like you're not already losing the argument. You tell yourself you've handled worse. Your body does not care about your résumé.
Your stomach flips, warm and sour, like you swallowed something that doesn't want to stay down. You swallow against it and immediately regret that too, because it just makes the nausea roll higher, heavier, like a tide that didn't get the memo about staying in its lane. The smell of someone's coffee turns sharp and metallic, like pennies and burnt toast. Someone's perfume cuts through the air like a blade. The cleaner they used on the floor smells like citrus and spite. Your shoulders creep up around your ears without permission, your jaw clenches, and you have to remind yourself to breathe instead of just holding air in like that might somehow keep the pain from getting worse.
You save your file because you've learned to do that before things get worse, because future‑you will be grateful even if present‑you is miserable and a little bit scared. You double‑check the save, because your eyes don't trust themselves and your brain is already starting to feel like a bad narrator. Then you push your chair back and immediately regret standing. The floor tilts, just a little. Enough to make your knees go soft and your stomach lurch like you missed a step on the stairs.
You grab the edge of the desk until the room stops trying to slide away from you. Your fingers leave little half‑moon dents in the wood, and for a second you focus on that—on pressure you can measure, on something that doesn't move.
"Okay," you whisper, mostly to keep yourself anchored to something that sounds real. "Okay. Taxi. I just need a taxi." You say it like a plan. You say it like plans are still working today.
You grab your bag, miss the strap the first time, and fumble for it again, irritation flaring too bright for how small the problem is. The lights are too loud. The world is too loud. Even your own breathing sounds like it's echoing inside your head, like you're shouting in a room you didn't mean to enter. Every step toward the elevators feels like walking through water with weights tied to your ankles, like your body has decided gravity is a personal vendetta and you're losing.
You make it maybe three steps before you have to stop, blinking hard and trying to make the double‑vision behave. That's when a shadow falls across your workspace. A familiar one. Solid. Still. It's the kind of presence that doesn't need to announce itself to be felt, the kind your body notices before your brain catches up, the kind that makes the air rearrange itself around it.
"Hey." Aaron Hotchner's voice is low, careful, like he's talking near a sleeping animal or a bomb with a temper. He's got his jacket folded over his arm, tie already loosened, sleeves rolled just enough to look less like a unit chief and more like a man who's been here too long today. His eyes flick over you, not in a casual way, but in that assessing, profiler way that somehow still feels… personal, like he's reading more than posture and pallor. "Come with me. You're not driving like this."
"I was going to—" You stop because the word taxi comes out wrong, thick and slow, like your tongue forgot how to cooperate with the rest of you. You swallow and try again. "I was going to call one."
His jaw tightens, just a fraction. You catch the shift in his scent before he even moves—something deeper, warmer, a low, steady note that cuts through the chemical sting in your nose and makes your chest ease despite yourself. It's not overwhelming. It's just… there. Like a wall at your back you didn't realize you were leaning on until it's suddenly doing all the work of holding you up. Your omega instincts notice before your thoughts do, settle before you tell them to behave.
"You don't have to," he says. "I've got you."
It isn't said like a line. It isn't said like something he's trying to convince you of. It's said like a fact, like gravity, like a locked door you can finally stop checking before you go to sleep. It's said like something that's already been decided.
You don't argue. You don't have it in you. He steps closer, not crowding you, just close enough that the space feels… safer, like the air rearranges itself around him without asking. A hand settles at the small of your back, firm and sure, and your body leans into it before your brain can comment or second‑guess or remember all the reasons you're supposed to be professional and careful and sensible. His thumb presses in just enough to remind you you're not going to tip over, not today.
Garcia looks up, worry all over her face, eyes already too bright. "You okay, sweetie?"
"Migraine," you manage, which is explanation and apology in one word, and also a quiet admission of defeat.
Hotch nods once at her, already guiding you toward the doors. "I've got them." He doesn't say it loud, but it carries, the way some promises do.
The elevator ride is a blur of reflected lights and the soft hum of cables. Your ears feel stuffed, like you're underwater or inside a plane that never quite finished climbing. You focus on breathing because it's easier when he's this close, when his scent is a steady thing instead of a suggestion. He keeps his hand at your back the whole time, like he's afraid if he lets go you'll tip over and disappear into the noise and the light and the too‑much of everything. When the doors open, he shifts so he's between you and the hallway without even thinking about it, like it's muscle memory.
The drive is even hazier. Streetlights smear into long, watery lines across the windshield. Your head feels stuffed with cotton and needles at the same time, heavy and sharp in equal measure. Your stomach rolls every time the car slows or turns, and you keep one hand curled in your lap like you're holding something fragile. At one point you realize your teeth are chattering, not from cold, just from your nervous system throwing a small, useless tantrum. Hotch notices anyway, because of course he does.
He reaches over at a red light and covers your hand with his, warm and solid, a quiet anchor. "Hey," he says softly, not taking his eyes off the road for long. "You're okay. I've got you."
You nod, even though you're not sure what you're agreeing with, or if you're just agreeing with the sound of his voice and the way it seems to hold things together. Your breathing starts to match his without you telling it to.
You don't ask why he brings you to his place instead of yours. Some part of you has already made that decision, long before today, long before the way he's been hovering a little closer lately, bringing you coffee without comment, walking you out to your car like it's the most natural thing in the world, standing just a little too near in doorways and letting his scent linger like a suggestion. Your omega instincts recognize shelter when they see it, even if your brain wants to pretend this is all very normal and very fine and not something that's been quietly shifting for weeks.
His apartment is quiet in a way that feels intentional, like he's built it to keep the world out rather than let it in. The air is cooler, the light softer, the sounds fewer. He keeps the lamps low and moves you inside with the same steady patience, toeing off his shoes, setting your bag down, guiding you like you're something fragile but precious, like both can be true at the same time. He asks where your meds are and waits while you point instead of answering, and he doesn't make a face when you have to sit down halfway there.
"Bedroom's cooler," he murmurs. "Dark, too."
"Thank you," you say, because your mouth keeps needing to say it, like the word might hold you together with thread and hope and very stubborn willpower.
He pulls the comforter back and waits instead of assuming. "Can I?"
You nod. Talking feels like too much work, like every word has to climb a hill before it gets out and you're already out of breath. He helps you out of your jacket, your shoes, your cardigan, moving slowly, checking your face like he's reading weather patterns instead of skin. Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive, like even the air is too much, but his hands are warm and sure and somehow don't hurt. When he steps back, the room spins for a second, and he's immediately there again, steadying you without making a big deal of it, like it's just the most obvious thing in the world.
When you sit, the room wobbles. When you lie down, it steadies, like the bed itself is making a small, merciful decision in your favor. He brings you water and waits until you've taken a few careful sips before setting the glass on the nightstand within reach, then adjusts the curtains another inch because your eyes twitch at the light.
"There," he says quietly. "Easy."
He strips down to his undershirt and boxers without any fuss and slides in behind you, careful not to jostle the bed. His body curves around yours, not pinning you, just… surrounding you. Making a small, safe pocket out of heat and steady breathing and the quiet weight of someone who isn't going anywhere. He tucks the blanket up around your shoulders like it's a habit he's been practicing, like he's done this in his head more than once.
His hand settles on your stomach, warm through the thin fabric of your shirt. His other arm comes around your waist. His mouth brushes the back of your neck, barely a touch, more presence than pressure, and your breath stutters anyway, like your body recognizes something important even through the pain. His Alpha presence presses in, not demanding, just certain, like a door closing softly behind you and finally keeping the weather out.
You let out a shaky breath you didn't realize you were holding, and another one after that, like your lungs are finally getting the memo that it's allowed to stop bracing for impact. Your shoulders sink into the mattress. Your hands unclench.
His scent deepens, rich and grounding, like warm wood and something living underneath, something that hums low and steady instead of sharp and demanding. It fills your lungs, sinks into your skin, seeps into places the pain can't quite reach. Your omega instincts perk up, then soften, then settle, like a cat finally finding the warmest spot in the room and deciding not to move no matter what. You feel claimed in the quiet way, the way that feels like being kept rather than taken.
"You need rest," he whispers.
But his body says more than that. It says stay. It says you're safe. It says I'm here. It says nothing is getting to you without going through me first, and your instincts hear all of it even if the words never come. He shifts just enough to shield your eyes from the faint light under the door and stills again like he's standing guard.
"My head feels like it's full of broken glass," you admit quietly after a moment. "And my stomach's… not great. And my hands won't stop shaking. And the light feels… loud. And my eyes feel like they're buzzing. And my neck hurts like it's been holding up too much."
He answers by holding you a little closer, careful and certain, like he's building a wall out of himself. "Then we're not moving. If you need water, or meds, or a bucket, you tell me. If you need quiet, I can do that too. If you need me to stay right here and not say a word, I can do that. Otherwise, you just breathe. I'll do the rest." His voice is steady enough to lean on.
You huff a weak, almost‑laugh that turns into something like a sigh. "Very romantic."
"Very practical," he corrects, and you can hear the smile in his voice even if you can't quite see it. He presses his mouth to your hair like a promise he doesn't need to explain, like a line he's already drawn and intends to keep.
The pain doesn't vanish, but it dulls at the edges, like someone turned it down from a scream to a stubborn ache. The nausea ebbs and flows like a bad tide instead of a wave about to crash. Your hands eventually stop trembling. Your stomach settles into something tolerable. You focus on his heartbeat, on the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back, on the way his arm never loosens, not even when you shift or flinch. When a spike of pain hits, he murmurs your name until it passes, low and steady, like he's talking you through weather.
At some point your shoulders drop. Your jaw unclenches. Your breathing evens out without you noticing when it happened, like your body finally believes it's allowed to rest, like it's finally letting someone else keep watch.
You fall asleep to the sound of him breathing and wake up to the smell of him everywhere, like it's soaked into you, like your skin decided to keep it. Your mouth is dry. Your head feels bruised instead of broken. Your eyes still ache, but they don't feel like they're on fire anymore. Your limbs are heavy in that good, after‑a‑fever way, like your body did a lot of work while you weren't looking.
You turn carefully, testing the world, and find him already awake, watching you like he's been standing guard the whole night and doesn't regret a second of it. He has one arm still around you, like he fell asleep planning not to move, like he meant it.
"Morning," he says, quiet and warm. "How's the light?"
"Manageable," you say after a second, and that feels like a victory worth celebrating quietly.
His thumb brushes your cheek, testing, gentle, like he's checking for cracks or fever or anything he should worry about. "How bad?"
"Better," you say honestly. "Still… there. But better. Like it's sulking instead of attacking." You blink a few times just to be sure the room stays put.
A corner of his mouth lifts. "I'll take sulking." Then, softer, "Good." The word sounds like relief instead of a report. He reaches for your water before you ask and waits until you've had a few sips, then nudges your meds closer like he's building a small perimeter of care.
He leans in and kisses you, slow and sure, like he's not asking anymore, like he's choosing and letting you feel the choice. It's not rushed. It's not hungry. It's steady. Anchoring. It feels like being claimed without being trapped, like being chosen without being cornered, like waking up and realizing the storm moved on without taking the house with it. You feel his Alpha presence settle around you again, quiet and certain, and your instincts answer without fear.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his hand still warm at your jaw. "We'll take this at your pace. Always."
You nod, because for once, your body and your heart and that quiet, instinctive part of you all agree on the answer. You let yourself breathe him in again, slow and deep, like you're memorizing the way safety feels, like you're letting it write itself into muscle memory.
And in the quiet that follows, wrapped up in his scent and his arms, you understand that this isn't just comfort. It's territory. It's shelter. It's a choice being made in small, steady pieces. It's the beginning of something neither of you is pretending is small anymore, and for once, that doesn't feel like something to brace for—it feels like something to lean into.
Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader
Summary: You visit a sensory-friendly gallery with Remus, where every moment is crafted for comfort. But when the calm is broken, he's exactly what you need to find it again.
Tags: neurodivergent!reader, no use of y/n, sensory overload, anxiety attack, grounding techniques, reader is self-aware and prepared, remus is gentle and steady and knows what you need, museum date vibes, soft hands soft voices soft lighting, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, gentle!remus, safe spaces, tactile stimming, emotional regulation through routine and care, art as therapy, this is what love looks like when it's quiet
Word count: 2k words
Stepping from the cool summer air into the quiet gallery, you're immediately struck by the change in atmosphere. The harsh sunlight fades into soft, warm lighting that seems to wrap itself around every object, every figure, every painting on the walls. Potted ferns dot the entranceway, their leaves shivering slightly as the door closes behind you, cutting off the outside world.
The scent of lavender and something else—old wood, perhaps, or worn leather—lingers in the air. It's a comforting smell, like the hush of a library or the stillness of an attic warmed by the sun. Your eyes begin to adjust to the dimmer light, taking in the high ceilings and the long, polished counter at the far end.
Remus's hand is warm against yours, a familiar and steady presence that grounds you amidst the unfamiliar. His fingers give a gentle squeeze, and when you turn to look at him, he's smiling—a soft, almost shy expression that crinkles the corners of his eyes like the pages of a well-loved book.
"Is this alright?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
You nod, the dimmed lights and hushed environment settling like a welcome blanket over your senses. The quiet is punctuated only by the soft strains of jazz filtering in from somewhere in the distance. You breathe in, out, letting the silence wrap around you.
To the left, a small stand displays noise-cancelling headphones and sensory guides. You reach for a pair, the padding cool and thick under your fingertips, effectively muffling most external sounds. Beside it, a bin offers a variety of fidget items—smooth stones, silicone shapes, calming beads. You pick up a stone, its cool weight familiar and grounding as it slips into your pocket.
Remus doesn't rush you. He never does. Instead, he waits, a steady presence at your side as you study the printed guide once more—the one you'd both gone over at home until the words blurred together. It's folded neatly in your back pocket, the location of this very room circled in red. You don't need to look at it now; you know it by heart. But there's comfort in the routine, in the knowledge that it's there, a lifeline drawn in ink and paper.
The two of you begin to wander, drawn towards the myriad exhibits that beckon with the promise of discovery.
The first room is dedicated to tactile experiences. A long table occupies the centre, draped with a variety of fabrics—velvet, corduroy, linen, sequin-embroidered materials that shift from matte to shiny as your fingers move across them. You trace patterns over each one, revelling in their unique textures. Beside it is a sculpture made entirely of felted wool, twisted and looped around itself like a cloud.
"Looks like a cloud made of sheep," Remus murmurs, leaning closer to inspect the intricate craftsmanship.
A small giggle bubbles up before you can stop it, surprising you both. It's a tiny sound, barely audible over the low murmur of other visitors, but it feels significant—an acknowledgement that, amongst the chaos of your world, there are still moments of levity to be found. Remus looks at you, his eyes widening slightly, and you see a spark of something akin to relief or maybe even joy.
The exhibits are spaced just so, where one can wander without feeling crowded. There's no loud chatter, no blaring lights. The ceilings are high, painted in a soft grey that seems to absorb sound and render the few footsteps and hushed voices almost ethereal. There are seating areas throughout—for contemplation, they say—and you make use of them as your legs demand rest.
The walls bear framed quotes about perception and sensation, carved in raised letters for those who wish to feel the words beneath their fingertips. You trace each letter slowly, like reading a secret language meant only for you. Around a corner, a mirrored installation catches your eye. It's made of fragmented pieces that reflect a distorted image of your face. You turn slowly, watching your reflection multiply and morph under the gentle lighting. The cool surface of the mirror feels soothing, the light kind rather than harsh. Remus is a silent observer behind you, arms loosely crossed over his chest, allowing you this moment of exploration.
In the next room, an entire wall shifts with a subtle motion. It's covered in small, soft rubber domes that glow with a faint light. When pressed, they change color—blue, then green, then yellow—in a rhythm that mimics slow breathing. Curious, you reach out and press one, then another. The colors change at the touch, making it seem as if the wall is alive, responding to your presence. A small giggle draws your attention to the other side, where a child is doing the same, their fingers creating a pattern of light across the surface.
For a moment, you forget where you are, lost in this silent communication with a stranger. You press the domes in response to the child's pattern, a smile tugging at your lips as you play along. The quiet hum of the museum fades into the background, replaced by the rhythmic pulse of color beneath your fingertips. The world outside, with its chaos and noise, seems distant—a forgotten echo against the serenity within these walls.
Time becomes a blur, each moment melting into the next.
You pause before a painting made entirely of sand and crushed glass. It gleams softly in the dim light, its texture rough yet delicate, like ocean spray against sunlit cliffs. Light blues, grays, and gilded hues dance across its surface, evoking memories of the sea. You inhale deeply, your fingers itching to trace the contours of the piece—but a small sign reads "Visual Only," and you nod in silent agreement, despite the yearning in your fingertips.
Remus stands beside you, his head tilted slightly as he waits. "Want to describe it to me?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
You begin slowly, unsure at first, but as you speak, the words flow more freely. You describe the movement within the stillness, the way the grains of sand seem to shift under the gallery lights, how a tiny shard of glass catches the glow just so, aware of its own beauty. He listens, his own breath matching yours, his gaze flickering between your face and the artwork before him. There is a reverence in his silence, an understanding that he is not merely hearing about the art, but experiencing it through you.
"More?" he prompts when you pause, the single word hanging in the air between you, and you do.
The hallway you enter next is lined with wind chimes, each note almost silent, yet their gentle sway catches your attention. You're not alone—others pass by, their footsteps hushed, their voices a low murmur of reverence. A woman glances at you and offers a small smile before moving along, her eyes returning to the artworks lining the walls.
Ahead, a couple stands before a digital display, its surface shifting like water under unseen winds. For a moment, you watch them, how they move in sync, creating ripples on the floor as they approach the display. It's mesmerizing, calming.
Then—
The noise hits.
A group of children rounds the corner, their laughter piercing the air like a sudden thunderclap. They're not misbehaving, only excited, but the abruptness of their arrival feels like a physical blow. Their footsteps echo off the wooden floor, each thump resonating inside your skull. One child lets out a high-pitched giggle, another slaps a hand against the mirrored exhibit you had been admiring, the sound sharp and jarring.
Your vision blurs at the edges.
You catch your breath.
The room tilts as every sensation becomes both too clear and inexplicably fuzzy. Sounds bleed into one another—the soft hum of your headphones no longer drowns out the cacophony. Your fingers curl into your palms, nails digging into the skin. Heat rises in your cheeks while a cold shiver of dread trickles down your spine.
Remus is there, a grounding presence amidst the disarray. His brow knits with concern, but his movements are steady, unrushed. He places one hand lightly on your lower back, a subtle reminder that you're not alone in this. His other hand rests gently on your elbow, ready to guide you when you're able. His voice is a low murmur against the clamour around you.
"Let's go," he suggests, the words barely more than a breath. "The calming room?"
You nod—or think you do—but your body moves before you're certain, coaxed by Remus's sure touch. You close your eyes, letting the pressure of his hand and the lull of his voice steer you through the fog that threatens to consume your thoughts. The world slips past in disjointed fragments: the hallway stretching out, footsteps echoing off the walls. One, two, three, inhale. One, two, three, exhale.
With each step, the noise recedes, replaced by the hush of isolation. Your heart's frantic tattoo slows, matching the rhythm of your measured strides. And then, you're there—a small alcove marked by a blue sign and painted waves that promise respite. The door slides shut behind you, sealing away the chaos.
Dimmed lights cradle the space in soft shadows. Cushions are scattered across the floor, their plush surfaces beckoning. Weighted blankets are folded neatly on a shelf, the promise of their comforting pressure a silent invitation. The faint scent of chamomile and fresh cotton pervades the air, mingling with the quiet notes of instrumental music that drift from a speaker in the corner—unobtrusive and soothing.
Remus hands you one of the blankets, the same one you'd said you liked the look of earlier. It's soft and heavy, just like it looked in the picture. You pull it over your shoulders and let the familiar weight ground you.
"Come on," he says gently, leading you to the beanbag by the bookshelf. "Just sit."
You sink into the plush fabric, the room quiet except for the steady tick of a clock somewhere in the house. The walls are a soothing shade of light green. You find a spot where the paint is textured, little ridges where the brush must have caught. You trace them with your eyes, counting each one, over and over until your heartbeat slows to match the rhythm.
Remus doesn't speak. He sits cross-legged on the floor next to you, his knee brushing against yours. His hand rests lightly on yours, thumb tracing circles on the back of your knuckles. You can feel the steadiness in him, a rock amidst the storm of your thoughts. He breathes in time with you—slow, deep breaths that fill the room with calm.
Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Time has lost its sharp edges here, blurring into something kinder.
Your eyes flutter open, and Remus is there. Not hovering, just present. His gaze is steady but soft, not asking if you're better now. He doesn't have to.
"I'm okay," you whisper, willing the words to be true.
A slow smile spreads across his lips, relief making them tremble ever so slightly. "I know."
You lean into him, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders. No questions asked, no judgments passed. Only warmth that seeps into your bones, a comforting blanket against the chill of reality. His chin rests lightly on your head, and he hums—a low, gentle sound that you barely register, yet it soothes your frayed nerves.
Outside, the gallery waits—silent, expectant.
But for now, this space between breaths is yours alone, filled with the rhythm of Remus's heartbeat and the quiet that speaks volumes. Because this, too, is part of the art.
being sick & miserable objectively sucks, but it has become significantly easier to cope with since learning that “sickness behavior” is a well documented part of the body’s immune response
feeling not only physically but also emotionally like fucking garbage is unfortunately an extremely effective way to force your body to prioritize fighting infection & keeping you alive. i don’t have to like it, but knowing why i get weepy & pathetic when sick does help at least a little
Pairing: Barty Crouch x Disabled!Reader
Summary: After a fight that leaves you both reeling, you return home to find Barty waiting—quiet, broken, but still yours.
Tags: disabled!reader, no use of y/n, fear responses, emotional dysregulation, barty is scared and it makes him cruel, hurt/comfort, post-argument tenderness, slow reconciliation, still choosing each other even when it's hard, heavy emotional intimacy, staying anyway
Word count: 1.3k words.
You don't remember what you screamed at him last. Something about being reckless. Or maybe selfish. Or maybe it was worse than that — something laced with fear, spat through clenched teeth and frayed nerves. Something that left the room shaking. The echo of your voice still feels lodged in your throat, like gravel scraped against raw skin. You hadn't meant it to come out like that. But then, anger rarely waits for precision. It breaks out, wild and sprawling, before you've even registered the hurt beneath it.
You lost count of how long you'd been out. Just wheeling down street after street, letting your rage burn out like a dying star. People looked. Some gave pitying glances. Some didn't look at all. You didn't care. Your muscles ached. Your palms were sore, your head was full, and everything felt like it was hanging by a single, frayed thread. The kind that unravels before you even know you're tugging at it.
It's well past midnight when you wheel up to your front door. The streetlamp flickers above you like it's tired of burning, casting broken shadows across the pavement. A slow wind pushes leaves across the stoop. The cold bites — not sharply, but insistently, the kind of chill that seeps into your sleeves, into your jaw, into your bones. Your hands ache — gripped too tight on the push rims the entire way back, fury burning out into exhaustion and guilt. Every bump in the pavement had felt personal. Every turn a chance to spiral further. You fumble the key at the lock, breath catching. Inhale. Try again. Focus.
The door creaks open. The flat swallows you in stillness.
Too quiet.
No music. No absurd humming from the kitchen. No scent of whatever meal Barty meant to cook before giving up and burning toast instead. No heat. No sound. Just silence — thick, oppressive, like the flat's holding its breath alongside you. It's unsettling. Unnatural. Like stepping into a memory you haven't lived yet, one that already knows the ending.
Then you see him.
Curled up on your couch, like a kicked dog. Boots abandoned by the door, coat half on like he couldn't decide whether to stay or run. His hair's a mess. There's a smudge on his cheek, like he rubbed his face with a dirty sleeve and didn't care. His eyes are half-lidded, but not asleep. Barty looks small. Smaller than you've ever seen him. That ever-present bravado, the smirking confidence, the untouchable chaos — it's gone. Peeled away. What's left is someone raw, someone human, someone broken in ways you recognise because some of those cracks are your fault too. Some are his. Some belong to both of you.
He doesn’t look up. Doesn't even flinch. Just murmurs, voice rough and low like he's been chewing on the words all night. "I don't know how to fix it when I break things."
You stay in the doorway, hands braced against the wheels of your chair, your body caught somewhere between moving forward and fleeing back. Your heart thumps out a rhythm that doesn’t match your breath. It's uneven. Raw. The air crackles. Not with the remnants of your fight — but with everything unsaid since.
You cross the room slowly.
Not with urgency. Not for drama. Just to close the space between you the only way you can — deliberately, steadily. Every roll of the wheels against hardwood is a heartbeat. Every breath feels like a decision. His eyes flicker toward you but don't linger. He's waiting, but not expecting. His posture doesn’t shift. Like he's made peace with whatever version of you might come through that door. Or maybe he's too tired to brace for more.
You park beside him. The edge of your wheel brushes the leg of the couch. Close enough that your sleeve might brush his if you both breathed at the same time. Close enough to feel how far away he still is. He stares at the floor. You stare at him.
Silence stretches between you like a held note. Painful. Fragile.
You open your mouth. Your voice cracks. "I didn't mean—"
"You did." His voice is soft. Not accusing. Just true. Like he's not angry about it anymore — just stating the fact. "And you weren't wrong. I just…"
He struggles. Swallows hard. His knuckles twitch against the fabric of his coat. "I get loud when I'm scared. And I get mean when I feel like I'm losing you. I don't know how to do it quiet. I don't know how to stop myself once it starts."
Your chest tightens. There's no counterargument to offer. Only honesty.
You reach out — not to touch him, not yet. Just to place your hand on the cushion between you. A gesture. A tether. The tiniest bridge between then and now.
He sees it.
And then, slowly, like he's moving through water, he shifts. Barty leans into you, tentative, unsure, until his head drops against your shoulder with a weight that says everything he hasn't. His body slouches into yours like surrender. His breath ghosts along your neck. He smells like cigarettes and mint and something unmistakably Barty — that sharp, reckless warmth that somehow always feels like gravity.
His fingers bunch into your sleeve. Like he's trying to anchor himself. Like he's afraid he'll be pulled under otherwise.
You tilt your head until your cheek rests gently against his hair. And for a while, you both sit like that. The flat remains quiet, but the silence is different now. It's no longer a punishment. It's a lullaby. A ceasefire. An unspoken promise: I'm here. I stayed.
"You didn't lose me," you whisper, finally. "You made me angry. But you didn't lose me."
He exhales, and it's a sound too raw to be relief but close enough. His fingers flex slightly, a silent thank-you or maybe a sorry. He doesn’t speak. Not yet.
"Sometimes I think I'm not built for this," he says into the hollow of your collar. "For being soft. For not ruining everything I get close to. I feel like I'm… splinters. Like anyone who tries to hold me ends up bleeding."
You let your hand move up, threading through his hair. Soft strokes. A rhythm. "You're not ruined. And even if you were, I'd still choose you. Again and again. Bandaged fingers and all."
There's a pause. Then a laugh, weak and cracked but real. "That's the problem with you," he murmurs. "You keep picking me even when I don't deserve it. Even when I'd scream at me too."
You lean back just enough to look at him. His eyes are rimmed red. He doesn’t hide this time. No teasing. No grin. Just vulnerability. Naked and aching.
"I don't pick you because you're easy to love," you tell him. "I pick you because you're worth loving, even when it's hard. Even when we're a mess. Even when we shout and slam doors."
He nods, slowly. A tiny movement, like he's afraid even that might fracture something. He opens his mouth, closes it again. And then, with all the care in the world, he shifts closer.
Barty leans in again. Wraps his arm around your waist this time, tentative but firmer. Like he's testing whether he's allowed to stay. Whether you'll let him be held too. Whether your chest is still home.
You shift to accommodate him without hesitation. Your arms curve around him without question.
The weight of him against you isn't a burden. It's familiar. It's real. It's him. Still imperfect. Still trying. Still yours.
And this time, it's enough. And maybe, for once, enough really is.
Pairing: Poly!Prongsfoot x Disabled!Reader
Summary: It's cold and raining and your body is heavy with pain. But your boys have built a blanket fort, and they're not letting you sit this one out.
Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, fatigue and flare day, james and sirius being impossibly soft, blanket fort date, reader is so loved it's ridiculous, soft kisses and soft boys, feeding you fruit like you're royalty, fluff, comfort, established relationship, no use of y/n, fem!reader, james is the most intuitive person alive, sirius is pure sunshine and chaos, hurt/comfort, rainy day fic, nothing hurts when they're holding you
Word count: 1.7k words.
It starts with the scent of melted chocolate drifting through the flat. That, and the telltale creak of floorboards under someone who absolutely isn't trying to be quiet. The kind of sound Sirius makes when he's trying to act casual, but is secretly giddy about something. He has a way of filling a room without saying a word, a kind of magnetic chaos wrapped in charm. You know the sound well. There's a certain electricity to him—always has been—the kind that makes you feel like something extraordinary is just about to happen.
Rain is painting the windows in fat, steady drops, the kind that blur everything beyond the glass into a watercolour of grey and green. The wind whistles occasionally, brushing leaves up against the glass like fingertips seeking entry. The sky outside is layered in cloud, low and heavy, pressing gently against the city. The soft glow of overcast light leaks through the windows, painting everything in shades of silver-blue. You're on the sofa, knees hugged close to your chest, wrapped in one of James's hoodies that smells like him and a little like the lingering spice of Sirius's cologne. The fabric is worn soft, the cuffs fraying, but it's the best thing you own. The kind of afternoon where your bones feel heavy, not just with pain, but with a deep, dragging tiredness that settles into the quiet spaces of your body. You hadn't planned to move. You didn't really think you'd be needed, or missed, or even noticed.
Then Sirius peeks his head around the doorway.
He's grinning.
"Don't suppose you'd fancy a picnic?" he asks, casual as anything, as if the living room floor isn't already hidden beneath a sea of mismatched pillows and thick blankets. Fairy lights flicker like fireflies strung across the ceiling, casting the room in a soft, golden glow that makes everything feel like a dream just a little too lovely to be real. There's soft music playing from the old record player—something jazzy and low and intimate, velvet saxophone weaving between soft piano, the kind of music that wraps around your spine like silk.
You blink, caught off guard. "Indoors?"
"Rain's not exactly picnic weather," he replies with a wink. "But we improvise. Blanket fort included. James went full engineer on it."
Before you can answer, James appears behind him, balancing a wooden tray stacked with grapes, slices of cheese, strawberries dipped in chocolate, buttery shortbread biscuits, and a couple of tiny sandwiches that look like he cut them with a ruler. There's a steaming mug nestled between the fruit and biscuits—your favourite tea. He flashes you a lopsided smile, the one that always tugs at something warm in your chest and never fails to unravel your walls.
"Come on, love," he says, already moving to set the tray down and cross the room to you. "We've made it proper posh and everything. Even used napkins. Cloth ones. Ironed 'em and everything. Sirius mocked me the whole time."
"He threatened the iron with violence," Sirius adds, grinning.
You hesitate. Not because you don't want to go, but because the thought of shifting from your comfortable little nest feels monumental. James seems to read it before you even speak—he always does. There's never a question in his eyes, only the assurance that whatever you need, he'll help you get there.
"Let me help," he murmurs, already easing an arm around you. He smells like rain and sugar. His touch is warm, steadying, like gravity with a heartbeat. He scoops you into his arms with practiced ease, your body tucked safely against his chest, and you feel every breath he takes as he walks slowly toward the blanket-strewn floor.
You nod, and he lifts you like he's done it a thousand times before—like it doesn't cost him anything. He carries you over to the arrangement with ease, settling you down amidst the cushions like you're something delicate. He folds a soft blanket behind your back and tucks it around you with careful hands, like a craftsman smoothing out the edges of something treasured. Every movement is reverent. He adjusts the pillow under your knees without asking, slipping it into place with a familiarity born from knowing your body better than you do on days like this.
Sirius joins a second later, dropping onto the other side of you and immediately draping an arm around your waist. He presses a kiss to your hair, just above your ear, unthinking and soft. He's warm and solid beside you, always radiating energy even when he's still. He keeps one hand at your waist, the other reaching for a strawberry.
"Now this," he says, snagging the chocolate-dipped fruit from the tray, "is the life."
He holds the fruit up to your lips with a grin so smug you want to roll your eyes, but the strawberry is sweet and cold, and the warmth of their bodies on either side of you is more comforting than you care to admit. Sirius's fingers linger just a little longer when he brushes your cheek, thumb smoothing an invisible line.
You chew slowly, feeling the richness melt on your tongue. "How come you two always get this ridiculous when it rains?" you mumble.
"It's romantic," James says, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple. His lips linger longer than they need to, and when he pulls back, his hand stays resting on your shoulder, thumb brushing in quiet rhythms.
"It's an excuse to stay in and feed you things," Sirius adds, brushing his thumb lightly along your hip. "Also, he gets clingy when the weather's moody."
"And," James says, shooting a sideways glance at Sirius, "because he's hopelessly in love with us and takes every excuse to stare at our faces."
Sirius scoffs, but he's grinning. "You wish. You're just lucky I like kissing you enough to put up with your smugness."
You blink between them. "Are you two flirting or arguing?"
"Both," they say in unison, before laughing.
James leans over you, catching Sirius's mouth in a brief but undeniably warm kiss. It's the kind of kiss that speaks of familiarity and affection, not performance. When he pulls back, he smiles at you like nothing in the world could be simpler.
"Told you," he says.
You let out a quiet huff of laughter, and Sirius rewards you with a grape next. "Open up, sweetheart."
You do. There's something indulgent about it, about letting them spoil you when your body won't let you move freely, when even holding yourself upright feels like it costs too much. They don't fuss, don't make a show of it. They just keep feeding you slowly, trading teasing barbs over who gets the next kiss.
"I think it's my turn," Sirius says, already leaning in.
"You had three turns in a row, love," James says, raising an eyebrow.
"That was a technicality. One of them was on the cheek."
"Still counts. I want my go."
Sirius rolls his eyes but leans back, nudging your thigh affectionately. "Go on then, golden boy."
James grins before leaning in to kiss you, slow and unhurried, hand cupping your jaw with gentle pressure. He tastes faintly like strawberry and something warmer, something familiar. You don't realise how tightly your shoulders have been wound until they begin to loosen. Your whole body sinks a little deeper into the pillows.
Eventually, you shift, legs stretching out until your calves rest across James's lap, head lolling to the side until it finds the warm, steady rise of Sirius's thigh. One of his hands settles immediately on your arm, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles into your skin. He leans down now and then to kiss the top of your head, murmuring something sweet every time he does.
Sirius starts carding his fingers through your hair, featherlight, tender. His other hand, still tangled with James's where they're curled near your thigh, gives a small squeeze. The casual way they touch each other—unconscious, loving—makes you ache with something quiet and grateful. They are so effortlessly connected, their intimacy so ingrained that it doesn't need explanation. You are folded into it, welcomed without hesitation. Even when they tease each other, there's an undercurrent of care so rich it nearly stuns you.
They settle more deeply into the pillows, James reaching for a biscuit and breaking off a piece to offer you. Sirius complains that he wasn't given one first, and James rolls his eyes, feeding him a crumb too. The three of you are warm and close, lost in a slow rhythm where affection replaces speech. Sirius hums to the record, fingers still threading through your hair, while James rubs small circles into your forearm.
"Alright?" James asks softly, again, and now it's not just a check-in, but a kind of promise.
You nod. "Mm. Don't stop."
He chuckles under his breath, and neither of them does.
You drift there, somewhere between sleep and not-sleep, lulled by the heat of their bodies, the quiet rhythm of the rain, the constant touch of hands that never make you feel small for needing this. For needing them. Sirius is humming now, something tuneless but soft, and it sinks into your skin like sunlight through curtains. The rain taps steadily against the windows, metronomic and calming. Time slows down in that way it only does when you feel completely safe.
James murmurs something to Sirius—a joke, probably—and Sirius laughs softly. Then James kisses his hand. It's not a show. It's not for you. It's just real. Just them. And you. All three of you pressed close in a world that doesn't always understand, but in this moment, doesn't need to. The walls seem to hold their breath around you, the flat wrapped up in warmth and quiet adoration.
You don't fall asleep so much as melt, their touches grounding you in the most physical, visceral way. No weight, no pain, no shame. Just this. Just them. Every breath you take feels a little easier, a little softer, like the air itself has bent around their affection. Your body is worn and aching, but wrapped up in them, you don't feel diminished. You feel treasured.
And when you do finally drift off, James's hand still strokes gently over your arm, Sirius still combs through your hair, and their joined hands stay resting against your leg, steady and unmoving.
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Hard of Hearing!Reader
Summary: You take out your hearing aids and let Aaron find you in the silence at the end of the day.
Tags: hard of hearing!reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, domestic intimacy, quiet moments, sign language communication, gentle kisses, soft touching, end of day routine, being seen and understood, comfort, tenderness, fluff, bathroom scene, slice of life, emotional intimacy, some hurt/comfort, soft aaron, communication as love, quiet love, domestic fluff
Word count: 2.6k words
You take your hearing aids out the way other people unpin their hair, a small unthreading, a loosening that lets the day slide off in soft increments, and the bathroom becomes a chamber of padded air where edges blur and the world arrives not as sound but as pressure and light and the faint, domestic argument of water traveling through pipes and bones. There is a moment, always, when the silence is not empty but thick, like wool, like fog you can lean into, like a held breath the room itself seems to be taking with you, and you let yourself stand in it, suspended, as if you've stepped into a photograph that hasn't decided how sharp it wants to be.
Steam ghosts the corners of the mirror from the sink you always let run too hot, because warmth makes the air feel like it is leaning toward you instead of away, like it is choosing you, like it has decided you are something worth gathering around, something worth cupping and keeping. The mirror blurs at the edges, your own face a soft, wavering suggestion, and for a second you think about how much of your life is made of suggestions and approximations, of reading the shape of things rather than their volume, of learning to trust outlines, shadows, the way meaning arrives before it learns how to be loud. Mint blooms and stings and then settles into something almost sweet, something that feels like it is happening behind your eyes as much as in your mouth, a brightness that spreads the way morning does when it hasn't yet decided what kind of day it will be.
The toothbrush traces circles that your jaw answers with a low, interior hum, a vibration that lives behind your teeth, in the hinge of your skull, in the small private architecture of bone, and you follow the rhythm the way you might follow a line drawn on a map, not because you need to get anywhere but because it is comforting to move in a shape you recognize. The light is too bright, an interrogation lamp, a square of insistence, and you squint and think, not for the first time, that you will change it, that you will make the room kinder, that you will remember, and the thought drifts the way thoughts do at night, untethered, already half-forgotten even as you have it, like a note written in steam on glass, like a promise the air makes and then dissolves.
You don't hear him come in. You never do, not when your ears are bare and the night is learning its slow, careful shape, not when your attention is a small, foamy planet orbiting the sink, gravity devoted to mint and glass and the ritual of endings, to the choreography of being done for the day. What you feel is the room tilting, a subtle, internal recalibration, the way a body knows when another body has entered its gravity, the way a door can open without announcing itself and still change the weather, still rearrange the pressure systems inside your chest, still move furniture you didn't know you'd set down. It is not a sound but a shift, not a noise but a re-weighting, like the air has decided to remember a different direction, like your own center of mass has been gently, insistently moved. For a second you think about tides, about how the moon never has to explain itself, about how some influences are only visible in what they leave behind. The mirror keeps more than you in it now; over your shoulder, a familiar outline gathers like a remembered word, like the last line of a poem you've been carrying all day without knowing it was there, like something that has been walking toward you from another room and finally arrives, bringing its own quiet with it, a quiet that fits into the silence you are already wearing.
Aaron stands in the doorway—or just inside it, the frame making a border around him the way photographs do when they forget how to be still—and the look on his face is that particular, unguarded equation that makes your stomach rearrange itself, makes the air in you move, makes your thoughts briefly forget what order they usually come in: want braided with something quieter, something steadier, something that feels like a hand already resting at the small of your back, even before it does, like the promise of weight before the touch, like the certainty of being caught before you lean. The toothbrush slows, pauses, becomes a held breath, becomes a small white flag of surrender, and you realize you are smiling without quite meaning to, the way your body sometimes answers questions before your mind knows they were asked. Your mouth is full of mint and foam and the small domestic comedy of being seen like this, caught mid-ritual, and for a second you exist as reflections watching reflections, a private universe cupped in glass and light, a moment suspended the way a drop of water hesitates before it falls, the way time sometimes forgets which direction it was going and simply stays.
You rinse. The water is a low thunder you feel in your wrists, a rushing that lives more in bone than ear, a reminder that some things announce themselves even when you can't hear them, that some presences are measured in pressure instead of pitch, in the way they rearrange your balance. You set the toothbrush down, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and in the brief pause before you turn you feel the weight of the day shift again, like a coat sliding off your shoulders, like a bag being set down at the door. Then you turn—and the room resolves into him, into the space closing like a thought you finally finish, like a sentence that has been waiting all evening for its period, like an equation finding its answer and resting there.
He crosses it in two strides, and there is no preamble, no careful approach, only his hands lifting to frame your face, thumbs warm at your jaw, fingers finding your hair as if they are confirming a map they have memorized by heart, as if touch is a kind of remembering and he is checking himself against what he already knows. His palms carry the quiet heat of him, the evidence of a day, the echo of places he has been, and then his mouth is on yours, deep and thorough, a kiss that does not ask so much as remember, that moves with the certainty of someone who has been carrying this with him down hallways, through doors, through the long arithmetic of the day, adding and subtracting until this was what remained. A surprised sound leaves you—more breath than voice, more vibration than anything—and it disappears into him, swallowed by the shape of his mouth, because you are already answering, because your body knows this grammar even when the room is quiet and the day has been folded away like a coat you won't need until morning, because some languages are kept in muscle and pulse instead of in sound, written in skin instead of air, stored in the places where thinking can't interfere.
Your hands find his shoulders and hold as if the word for balance is written there, as if steadiness has a texture you can memorize, fabric gathering under your fingers, his familiar breadth a sentence you can lean into, a paragraph you know how to read with your eyes closed, a story you have been learning by heart one line at a time without ever sitting down to study it. He tastes like the end of coffee and the beginning of toothpaste, like hours overlapping, like the hinge between one part of the day and another, like the seam where one life stitches into the next and the thread is invisible but strong. He moves you backward, not roughly, but with intention that feels like a steady tide, like something that has been happening longer than you have noticed it, until the counter meets the backs of your thighs, porcelain cool and real, a line the present draws across your skin, a reminder that you are still in a body, still in a room, still subject to surfaces and edges. He lifts you without breaking the kiss, and there is a brief, floating second where gravity forgets its job, where your body believes entirely in his hands, where trust feels like a physical law instead of a decision, and then he steps between your legs like this is simply how the room has always meant to be arranged, like geometry is a form of affection, like angles are just another way of saying closeness, like space exists to be closed and kept warm.
His mouth leaves yours and finds your jaw, that small bright place where your pulse likes to show itself, where your skin seems to speak even when you don't, and you feel him speak there more than you hear him, the words arriving as warmth and vibration, as the shift of his chest, as the soft architecture of breath shaping air against your skin. The meaning gets to you before the language does; you know there is a sentence, you know it is meant for you, you know it is being said, and that is almost enough, that is already doing something inside you that feels like being steadied, like someone has put a hand on the small of your back while you look out over something tall, something that might be frightening if you were alone.
You tap his shoulder, a small interruption, a gentle edit to the moment, a comma placed where you need it so you can breathe, so the thought doesn't run away from you, and when he pulls back his breathing is a visible thing, something you can count in the rise and fall of him, something you can measure in inches of chest and light. His eyes are darker, softer, like he is both here and still traveling, like part of him is always in motion even when his hands are still, like he carries distance the way some people carry weather and sets it down only in safe places. You sign, What did you say?, and the question lives between you like a bridge you have built so often your hands remember it before you do, like a familiar path worn into the air, like a habit that has become a kind of home, a way back to each other.
His smile goes crooked in that way that belongs only to kitchens and late hours, not to courtrooms or conference tables or the severe, bright places he spends his days, not to rooms where everything has to be sharp and exact and defensible. He signs slowly, deliberately, as if placing each word where you can see it settle, as if language is something you can set down carefully so it won't break: I said I love watching you get ready for bed. The words arrive and rearrange the space inside you, small furniture being moved, a window opened somewhere you hadn't realized was closed, a curtain drawn back from a corner that had always been in shadow, and you feel the room inside you get a little bigger, a little brighter.
You lift an eyebrow, because some things are reflexes and some things are small acts of mercy, because teasing is another kind of touch, a way of keeping things light without letting them float away, and he laughs without sound, a visible laugh, shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling, his mouth opening and closing like he has forgotten for a second that the room is quiet for you, like the joke exists in motion instead of noise, like joy is something you can see ripple through him before it ever becomes a sound. Then he signs again, quicker, surer, like the thought has decided it doesn't want to wait, like it has found the shortest path out of him and into you: I love everything about you.
Something in your chest performs its old, unreliable expansion, the one that makes space where there shouldn't be any, the one that feels like a room being added to a house you thought you already knew by heart, like a hidden door swinging open to reveal more light. The light hums. The mirror keeps you both, a soft double, a slightly blurred proof that you are here together in this small, bright rectangle of night, that this is a real arrangement of bodies and not just a wish you've been carrying. His hands slide to your waist, thumbs finding the places you store your long days, the small knots you pretend aren't there, the quiet accumulations of hours and obligations, and he leans in until his forehead rests against yours, and for a moment the air between you feels like a shared secret, like the room is holding its breath with you, like even the pipes have decided to listen, like the house itself is keeping still so it doesn't miss anything important.
You kiss him again, slower, as if time has agreed to be handled, as if it has become something you can turn over in your palms and examine, cupping his face, your thumbs tracing the line of his jaw, the faint shadow there that he never quite seems to notice and you always do, a detail you have learned the way you learn the shape of a favorite road, by traveling it in different light, in different weather. He sighs into your mouth, and you feel it travel, a small warm current, and the world reduces itself to pressure and cool porcelain and the quiet insistence of his hands and the way mint fades into something that feels like the word home but isn't a word at all, just a temperature, just a steadiness, just a place your body recognizes before your mind does, a place you know how to stand.
When you finally separate, it is because air is a practical necessity and because you want the answer to live where he can see it, because some truths prefer the open space of hands, prefer to be shaped in front of someone instead of kept inside where they echo too loudly. You sign against his chest, your fingers brushing his shirt, anchoring yourself in the steady fact of him, in the way he occupies space, in the way he is undeniably here: I love you too. The words feel less like a statement and more like a recognition, like naming something that has been standing in the room with you for a long time, patient and waiting, something that does not need to be persuaded to stay.
He answers by kissing you again, slower, almost careful, almost reverent, his hands mapping what they already know as if knowledge is a thing you keep earning, as if memorization is a form of devotion practiced quietly, in rooms like this, in light like this, at the soft, forgiving edge of the day where silence is not absence but a kind of shelter, a place you can both stand without needing to explain anything at all, a place that holds you even when nothing is being said.
Pairing: Poly!Prongsfoot x Disabled!Reader
Summary: It starts with a recipe box and ends in culinary chaos, soft laughter, and a kiss.
Tags: disabled!reader, no use of y/n, domestic fluff, established relationship, kitchen chaos, james is competent sirius is not, reader is terrifyingly efficient with one hand, hurt/comfort in a casual everyday way, warm and golden-edged days, fluff, suggestive references, baking as a metaphor for love, the duck turns out fine eventually, sirius should never cook again
Word Count: 2.9k words
The box arrives with a thud and a flurry of excitement—James practically sprints to the kitchen, waving the sleek cooking kit overhead like he's just won a bloody trophy. "Tonight, we feast like kings," he declares, voice alight with grandiosity as he spins theatrically, already flipping through the glossy recipe cards, eyes glittering with dramatic ambition. He plants the box squarely on the counter like it's a sacred offering and reverently opens it, parting the cardboard flaps with a flourish.
You sip your coffee slowly, arm curled around the ceramic mug, the warmth seeping into your palm. There's something about the way he moves—half-grace, half-goof—that makes your chest warm in a way that has nothing to do with the drink. He's barefoot, hair mussed from whatever chaos he and Sirius got up to while you were out. A domestic hurricane in sweatpants. And there's something about days like this, something soft and golden-edged, where time feels suspended and the world narrows to three bodies and a shared kitchen. The light is still dim and amber, filtered through gauzy curtains, and you feel suspended in some quiet magic of your own making.
Speaking of hurricanes—
Sirius slinks in from the living room, shirt untucked, socks mismatched, and hair artfully dishevelled in a way that suggests he either just woke up from an afternoon nap or spent a significant amount of time making it look like he did. Probably both. He's scratching lazily at his stomach, yawning through a crooked grin, eyes scanning the kitchen like he's tracking prey. He spots the box and grins like a cat catching scent of fresh prey, mouth curling up at one corner. The grin widens when he sees James clutching the recipe cards like they're sacred scrolls.
"We don't need instructions," he announces grandly, snatching the main course packet from James's hands with the reckless confidence of a man who once tried to flambé a chicken with a blowtorch and nearly set the curtains on fire.
James groans. "Oh, for Merlin's sake—put that down. You don't even know what half these herbs are."
"That's why they have labels," Sirius says, waving a vacuum-sealed pouch like it's a wand. "This one says thyme. See? I can read."
"Reading doesn't equal comprehension," James mutters.
You arch a brow from your perch on the stool, coffee balanced between your thighs and your good hand cradling the mug. Your empty sleeve hangs loose at your side, soft cotton brushing against the edge of the counter whenever you shift, as you couldn't be bothered to fold it up this morning. It's not heavy, not anymore. Just there. Like anything that becomes familiar over time, present but no longer defining. Most mornings, you forget it until the way Sirius offers a cheeky grin while handing you something—a reflex, now—or when James steadies a cutting board so you can brace it more easily with your elbow. It's become part of the rhythm of your shared life, unnoticed and yet deeply accommodated.
"Do you remember the carbonara incident?" you ask mildly, voice low with amusement. "Or the thing with the prawns?"
"They were fine," Sirius mutters, poking at a package of duck breasts like he's inspecting treasure.
"They were still grey after cooking," James snaps, already preheating the oven with a series of graceful, well-practiced movements that contrast starkly with the sheer chaos that is Sirius. "And you grilled them on a skewer made from a bloody coat hanger."
"It was rustic," Sirius defends. "Punk cuisine. It had an edge."
James snorts. "It had tetanus."
"You're all so dramatic," Sirius says, rolling his eyes.
You exchange a look with James over Sirius's head, the kind of look built from years of shared eye-rolls and midnight laughter and quiet, aching love that settles deep in the bones. You adore them both in different ways. James, with his ceaseless energy and quiet competence, a hearth in human form. Solid, steady, the kind of person who would learn three new recipes just to make sure you never got bored of dinner. Sirius, a wildfire wrapped in silk, chaotic and brilliant and often alarming, who once stayed up all night learning how to tie a one-handed bowline knot just to impress you with a makeshift sling. Love with them is a tangle of absurdity and safety, something fierce and unwavering that hides inside the minutiae—like a perfect cup of tea, or the way James presses a kiss to your temple without looking, or the way Sirius sprawls into your side like he belongs there.
"Alright, then," you say, setting your mug down and bracing your elbow on the countertop, the gesture lopsided but casual. "Let's see what you've got, Black."
James stares at you like you've betrayed him. "You're letting him cook?"
You shrug. "What's the worst that could happen?"
James opens his mouth, then closes it. Sighs deeply. "We both know the answer to that."
Sirius is already rifling through the box, muttering to himself like a man assembling a bomb. Which, to be fair, might be safer than what he's about to do with rosemary and duck fat. He lines up ingredients in a row on the counter like a mad scientist about to begin his masterpiece, occasionally holding things up to the light as if their secrets might reveal themselves under kitchen fluorescents. He squints at a packet of spice, sniffs it, and then nods decisively.
"What the hell is he planning?" James murmurs beside you.
"No one knows. Not even Sirius," you reply.
James chuckles despite himself and rests his chin briefly on your shoulder, his fingers brushing your wrist. You lean into him without thinking, and he presses a kiss to your cheek before moving to grab a towel and wipe the already-clean counter, probably just to keep his hands busy.
"This is going to be brilliant," Sirius says, completely confident.
"This is going to be catastrophic," James says, entirely resigned.
You laugh, rich and warm, and sip your coffee again, letting the heat settle in your chest and unfurl there. Your arm aches a bit in the ghosty way it sometimes does when it's rainy or when you're tired or when Sirius hugs you a little too tightly in his sleep and your shoulder pinches. But it's distant, background noise to the bright, buzzing warmth of the kitchen. The scent of herbs is already wafting out from the box, mingling with the faint citrus tang of James's shampoo and the perpetual trace of smoke Sirius carries like a second skin.
There's music playing faintly in the background now—Sirius must have nudged the old wireless on, and a scratchy jazz tune filters through the air, lazy and soft. The window is cracked open just enough to let in the breeze, carrying with it the smell of wet pavement and fresh leaves.
For a while, you try to stay out of it. You sip your coffee, warm and smooth, and let the chaos unfold around you like some kind of performance art installation. James hovers like a tightly-wound chaperone at a school chemistry lab, offering a thousand subtle corrections Sirius blithely ignores. The recipe card is perched beside a mound of duck, but Sirius isn't reading it so much as gesturing at it occasionally, like it's a stage cue. Every few minutes, he squints at it, nods sagely, and then proceeds to do the exact opposite of what it says.
"Do you want me to flambé the butter first, or start with the brandy?" Sirius asks, holding a small pan in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other, posture full of dangerous confidence.
James blinks. "Neither. You don't flambé butter, Sirius."
"Oh, I do," Sirius replies solemnly, as if this is a sacred rite passed down through generations.
You're halfway through a sip when it happens. A sudden whoosh of heat and a small flash as Sirius tilts the pan just a bit too far and the edge of the oven mitt brushes the flame. It doesn't catch fully—James smacks it away with a tea towel—but the threat is enough. The smell of singed fabric lingers like a warning shot.
You lurch off the stool like you've been shot from a cannon, nearly sloshing coffee across the counter. "Out of the bloody way!" you bark, adrenaline cutting clean through your morning haze. Sirius startles back, pan clanging into the hob, and James blinks like someone's just blown a whistle at the start of a war. You hear Sirius mutter something like "Kitchen tyrant activated," but wisely he steps aside.
And just like that, you take the kitchen.
Your one hand moves with the precision of someone who knows how to make the most of every movement, every angle. You grab a wooden spoon like it's a baton, waving it at Sirius with unspoken orders before pivoting to the recipe card. You scan it quickly, eyes narrowing as you process the instructions faster than James can even read the title. He's good in the kitchen, sure—but you? You are the conductor now, and chaos is your orchestra.
"James, get the duck out of that mess of packaging and pat it dry—properly, mind you. Salt and pepper, then sear. Pan needs to be smoking first," you say, sharp and fast. "Sirius, vegetable peeler. There's carrots and parsnips. Don't talk, just peel."
Sirius grins and salutes you with the peeler. "Aye, commander."
"Don't test me."
You whip around, reorganising the chaos. Ingredients scattered across the bench are re-sorted into neat piles. The duck breasts are rescued from their limbo in a puddle of half-melted ice. A rogue garlic clove rolls toward the edge of the sink and you catch it deftly with your hip. The spoon in your hand becomes an extension of your will, tapping the counter with impatience or pointing sharply at the next step. Within minutes, you've transformed the disaster zone into a functioning workspace. The counters are still cluttered, sure, but now they're cluttered with purpose.
James follows your instructions without hesitation, sliding into a supporting role like muscle memory. You assign him to the tasks that require two hands—steadying the hot pans, checking the temperature on the meat, opening the stubborn jars, holding the tart tin while you mix one-handed. It's smooth, practiced, like a duet played in a new key, one where the rhythm is fast and full of flour and heat.
Sirius, on the other hand—
You glance over just in time to see him staring in befuddled concentration at a parsnip, peeler in one hand, the other somehow coated in butter and cradling a peeled carrot like he's won a prize.
"How?" you demand.
He shrugs. "It slipped."
"In what universe does butter climb up your trousers?"
"I'm a man of mysteries."
"And now I've got butter in my hair," you say, reaching up to swipe a greasy lock out of your face. You fix him with a look that could curdle milk.
"Worth it," Sirius says with a wink, unrepentant.
You shove a bowl of potatoes toward him with more force than strictly necessary.
"Peel those now. And don't talk."
Still, you don't stop. Can't. Not until order has been wrestled from chaos, not until the garlic is browned and fragrant, the duck cooked to a perfect crisp-edged medium, and the vegetables glisten with butter and rosemary (intentionally applied this time). You hover between tasks like a general mid-campaign, making swift decisions, barking commands, adjusting seasoning and sliding hot trays in and out of the oven like you've done it all your life.
James gets the dessert into the fridge to set just in time. You hear him exhale with the kind of tension that belongs in sports films and war zones. Sirius manages not to burn anything, though there is a brief incident involving a mandoline, a lemon, and a very near-miss. By the time it's all plated, the kitchen is a disaster zone—bowls and pans and spice jars everywhere—but it smells divine.
The scent of garlic and duck fat and dark chocolate has saturated the air, clinging to your clothes and hair. Your feet ache. Your arm feels tired in that slow, deep sort of way. There's flour on your elbow and something sticky on your jumper. You wipe your forehead with your wrist and breathe.
James is leaning on the fridge, cheeks pink with heat and effort, sleeves rolled up. There's a smear of something—maybe chocolate?—on his jaw. Sirius has somehow managed to get flour on his elbows and is licking ganache off a spoon like a pleased cat, perched on the edge of the kitchen table like he owns the place.
You stare at them, your boys, their grins matching despite the disaster zone around them. The light hits James's hair just right, golden and mussed. Sirius's sleeve is torn at the seam and his collar's askew and you don't care.
Then James grabs you.
No warning. Just two warm hands and the sudden press of his mouth to yours, his body radiating heat like he's still absorbing the kitchen. You barely have time to register the motion before you're kissing him back, your free hand gripping the front of his shirt, fingers curling in cotton and flour. It's immediate, breathless—a spark igniting dry kindling. The kitchen vanishes, replaced by the solid thrum of heartbeat and heat and want.
Behind you, there's a rustle, a breath, and then Sirius is there. Like gravity. Like stormclouds ready to burst. His hand brushes your hip as he crowds in at your back, his nose nuzzling the curve between neck and shoulder. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. His presence crackles with intention, his touch grounding you even as it sets you ablaze. There's heat in his eyes when you pull away from James's lips to look, palpable and dark, and none of it has anything to do with the oven.
"You," James murmurs, voice low and reverent. "Are ridiculously hot when bossy."
Sirius laughs—a low, warm thing, half amusement, half growl. His hand skims over your waist, fingers slipping just under the hem of your shirt as he breathes, "And terrifying. Absolutely terrifying."
You open your mouth to deliver some sort of retort, something scathing and witty, but Sirius kisses the side of your neck just as James kisses you again and thought disintegrates. Your knees nearly buckle. James's arm wraps around your back to catch you, while Sirius steadies your hips with hands now splayed wide and sure.
It's sudden. Messy. Undeniable.
You're pinned between them and it feels like you've been waiting for this moment for years. James's hands are cradling your jaw, one callused thumb brushing your cheekbone, reverent and hungry all at once, while Sirius is kissing a trail along your neck like he's trying to map the edge of your heartbeat. His lips brush across your pulse point, and you shudder.
You're sweaty. Sticky from steam and stress and spilled flour. Your hair is frizzing around your face, your sleeve still dusted with sugar, and there's a faint splotch of duck jus on your jumper. You should feel ridiculous.
But you don't. You feel alive.
Because the way they're looking at you, like you're brilliant and wild and impossible not to touch—
You glow.
James kisses you again, slower now, deeper, his lips moulding to yours with aching certainty. He tastes like wine and chocolate and salt. Your hand fists in his shirt tighter, dragging him closer, and you tilt your head to catch Sirius's mouth in yours, catching his lower lip between your teeth. He huffs a surprised breath that turns into a groan, his fingers flexing against your waist, then sliding slightly higher to brush your ribs.
Someone bumps the counter. A wooden spoon clatters to the floor with a hollow clink.
No one moves to retrieve it.
James kisses down your jaw, trailing toward your collarbone, while Sirius lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles like he's swearing a vow. Your breath stutters. His eyes are molten when they meet yours, all smoulder and worship and wicked, wicked promise.
"You ran that kitchen like a bloody war general," he murmurs. "I'd follow you into battle."
"Don't encourage me," you say, your voice breathless and frayed around the edges. "I'll put you both on washing up duty."
James grins against your throat. "God, yes, please."
Sirius chuckles, warm and low, and leans in to press a kiss just behind your ear. "We should make you boss us around more often. You're terrifying and brilliant and..." his voice drops to a murmur, "so bloody fit when you're in charge."
You exhale shakily, unable to hide the grin tugging at your mouth. You turn just enough to kiss Sirius again, short and firm, while James's fingers trail lightly along the back of your neck. The intensity simmers, but it doesn't vanish. It pulses, slow and sure, between the three of you like a secret only you share.
It doesn't matter that it was almost a disaster and none of you have eaten yet.
Because right here, in the mess of butter and flour and love so thick it could be sliced and served—
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader
Summary: The deadline won't wait, but Aaron won't let you destroy yourself for it—and somehow, in the dark, that's enough.
Tags: reader has chronic migraines, migraine attack, hurt/comfort, soft!aaron hotchner, reader pushing through pain, overworking, deadline pressure, reader struggling to ask for help, aaron seeing through every excuse, being carried without being lifted, he just knows, tucked into bed with so much care, blackout curtains and warm hands, paracetamol as an act of love, no use of y/n, quiet domesticity, late night, the body wins sometimes and that's okay, letting someone in, you are allowed to stop, fluff, slow tender care, intimacy without sexuality, the kindest firmness, reader's stubbornness meeting its match, sleep as sanctuary
Word count: 3.1k words
The clock on your desk blinks 11:47 PM, and you're still staring at the same sentence you've been trying to write for the better part of four hours—the same seven words, warping and swimming like something seen through heat haze, like letters printed on the surface of deep water that keeps shifting beneath them. You've read it so many times it's stopped meaning anything. The words have become shapes, the shapes have become noise, and still you sit here, shoulders hunched, jaw tight, because the alternative is to stop. And stopping isn't something you can afford.
The migraine that started this afternoon hasn't gone away. It's evolved. It's grown teeth and a personality, made itself at home behind your eyes like something that intends to stay. What was once a dull, familiar throb—the kind you've learned to work around, to half-ignore, to push through on paracetamol and sheer stubbornness—has sharpened itself into something surgical over the course of the evening, a precise and merciless percussion that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Every beat is a small, humiliating reminder that your body has opinions you didn't ask for and isn't interested in negotiating.
The deadline is a cold fist around your throat.
You've missed two already. Two. The first one you managed to explain away—a flare that knocked you out for three days, a sincere apology, a promise that it wouldn't happen again. The second one felt like the beginning of something. Your editor's emails have shifted register over the past month, gone from warm and collegial to professionally polite to, most recently, clipped. Single sentences. No sign-offs. You know what comes after clipped. You've been here before, in other jobs, with other people, and you know how it ends, and you cannot let it end like that. Not this time. Not again.
You can feel the shape of what's coming the way you can feel a storm before it breaks—in the pressure, in the particular stillness of the air, in the way everything holds its breath and waits. You can't afford another miss. You can't afford to stop.
So you don't.
You press the heel of your hand harder against your right temple and lean closer to the screen, as though proximity might force the words into alignment, as though sheer stubbornness might be enough to outwit your own nervous system. The brightness of the monitor is a blade between your eyes. You've turned it down twice already, dropped the colour temperature until the screen glows a dim and jaundiced amber. It's still not enough. Everything is still too much—the hum of the computer fan, the distant sound of traffic two streets over, the faint tick of the hallway radiator that you've never noticed before tonight and now cannot stop hearing.
You reach for your mug without looking at it and find it cold. It's been cold for hours. You drink it anyway.
You don't hear Aaron come in.
You're so far inside the narrow, painful tunnel of trying that the world beyond the screen has essentially ceased to exist, so you only notice him when the light in the room changes—a warm amber bloom spreading from the lamp in the corner, sudden and soft and still somehow, in this moment, far too much. You flinch away from it with a sharp inhale, your palms flying to your temples, your whole body curling slightly inward the way it does when it's had enough and hasn't been listened to—the instinctive, involuntary gesture of someone in real pain, the kind you can't quite manage to hide.
You hear him go still in the doorway.
"What are you still doing up?"
His voice is low. It's always low when he's worried—dropped down into that register that lives just above a murmur, the one that means he's measuring every word carefully, that means he's working hard to keep the alarm from bleeding into his tone and making things worse. You know that voice. You know what it costs him to use it. You don't look at him.
"I have to finish this," you mumble, the words coming out rougher than you intended, sandpaper-edged and thin.
He doesn't respond immediately. That's one of the things about Aaron—he never reacts before he's ready to. You hear him cross the room with that quiet, deliberate tread, the kind that has weight and intention behind it, the kind that means he's already made up his mind about something and is simply walking toward the conclusion. You hear him stop behind your chair. There's a pause, a moment in which you can feel him taking in the cold mug, the darkened screen, the way you're sitting—hunched and rigid and wrong—and then your chair is being gently, firmly pulled back from the desk. His hands settle on your shoulders, and they're warm through the thin fabric of your shirt, and they're steady in a way that makes you suddenly and terribly aware of how unsteady you feel. Like a wall you've been leaning on your whole weight against has just subtly shifted.
"You're not finishing anything like this," he says.
"Aaron—"
"Come to bed."
Three words. Simple, plain, offered without drama. And they shouldn't feel like a lifeline, but they do, and that makes you angrier than you have any right to be, because a lifeline implies you're drowning, and you're not drowning, you're working, you're trying, you're holding the whole thing together with both hands and your teeth and sheer pig-headed refusal to be beaten by your own body again.
"I can't," you say, and you mean for it to come out firm, decisive, the voice of someone who has weighed the options and made a reasonable choice—but the frustration that's been simmering under the surface all evening finally cracks through it, hot and uncontrolled and much bigger than you wanted him to see. "If I don't do this, I'll—"
Your voice breaks.
You hate that it breaks. You hate the way it splinters right down the middle, neat as anything, like something that's been under too much pressure for too long and finally gives at the weakest point. That's exactly what it is, and you know it, and you didn't want him to see it—didn't want him to see any of this, the cold coffee and the unchanged document and the way you've been sitting here all night accomplishing nothing except hurting yourself—and now he has. You bury your face in your hands and the darkness behind your palms is a mercy and a grief all at once, a small cave you can hide inside for just a moment.
"I'll lose everything."
The words come out muffled. Cracked. Smaller than you wanted them to be.
The room is very quiet.
Then he's crouching beside you—you feel the shift in his position, hear the soft sound of it—and his presence beside you is a warm and solid gravity, something that pulls at the most exhausted parts of you the way a tide pulls at sand. You don't look at him. You can't quite make yourself, yet. When he speaks, his voice has shifted entirely, shed every careful professional edge, become something honest and unhurried and almost unbearably gentle, the way it only ever is in rooms like this one, at hours like this one, when it's just the two of you and there's nothing left to perform.
"You're going to lose yourself if you keep going like this."
You don't say anything.
"You're in pain, sweetheart." The word lands somewhere deep and tender, a pebble dropped into still water. "Real pain. And you've been in it all day and you haven't stopped. You can't keep pretending it's not affecting you."
"I know it's affecting me," you say, and it comes out quiet and ugly with something that isn't quite anger and isn't quite grief. "I just don't have the option of letting it."
"That's not true."
"Aaron—"
"It's not true," he says again, gently, without heat. "I know it feels that way. I know the deadline is real and the pressure is real. But you sitting here at midnight unable to read the screen isn't helping you meet it. You know that."
And there it is. The truth of it, said plainly and without cruelty, without even the faintest shadow of I-told-you-so—just laid down in front of you like something he wants you to look at without flinching. You hate that he's right. You hate it the way you hate the migraine itself, deep and reflexive and a little shameful, the way you hate every limitation your body has ever imposed on you when you had somewhere to be and something to prove. The way you hate needing things. Asking for things. Admitting that there are battles you cannot simply white-knuckle your way through, that there are days when the body wins and the to-do list loses and the only thing to do is accept it.
He waits.
He doesn't fill the silence with anything. He's always been good at waiting—patient in a way that doesn't feel like patience so much as it feels like simple presence, like he's not counting the seconds until you come around, like he has no particular destination and is in no hurry to get there. It doesn't feel like pressure. It feels, instead, like he's simply there. Like he'll still be there regardless of what you say next.
Slowly, you let your hands drop from your face.
The room is dim and warm and Aaron is right there beside you, his expression the particular kind of open that he is only ever with you—unguarded, earnest, everything of the professional in him set aside like something he's put down on a table. The competence and the authority and the careful control, all of it stepped out of. Just him. Just this. You look at him and something inside you goes very quiet, like a string that's been wound too tight finally going slack, like the moment a held breath releases and you didn't even know you were holding it.
"Okay," you say.
It's barely a word. More the shape of one.
He doesn't make anything of it. He simply stands, and helps you to your feet, one hand at your elbow and his other arm wrapping around your waist with an ease that speaks of long practice, of knowing the weight and shape of you and taking it on without making you feel like a burden for having it. You lean into him before you've consciously decided to, and he doesn't comment on that either. His arm just tightens slightly around you. Just enough.
"We'll figure this out," he says quietly, guiding you away from the desk and through the doorway, and you don't look back at the blinking cursor, the unchanged document, the cold mug and the impossible sentence. "But not tonight. Not like this."
The hallway is dark and blessedly cool, a relief against the feverish warmth that's gathered behind your eyes and across your forehead. You walk slowly, and he matches your pace without comment.
"I keep thinking," you start, and then stop, because you're not sure how to finish it.
"I know," he says.
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"No," he agrees. "But I know you." A pause. "And I think you were going to say something about how you should be able to manage this. About how other people manage. About how it shouldn't be this hard."
You don't answer, which is its own kind of answer.
"Let me help you," he says, and his voice is steady and unhurried, a current moving deep below still water, something you'd have to go quiet yourself to hear properly. "That's all I'm asking. Let me take some of the weight. You don't have to carry all of it by yourself."
You want to argue. You can feel the argument still sitting at the back of your throat—the reflexive, exhausted resistance, the part of you that has been managing alone for long enough that being helped feels like a kind of defeat, like an admission of something you're not ready to admit. You've spent so long calibrating your life around the migraines, arranging everything in careful configurations that minimise the damage when they come—the blue-light filters and the blackout blinds and the rescue medication lined up in the bathroom cabinet like small soldiers—that somewhere along the way, asking for help stopped feeling like an option and started feeling like a failure.
But you're so tired.
The migraine is a tide that's been coming in since mid-afternoon, and you've been standing against it with your feet in the wet sand and your arms out, bracing yourself, refusing to move, and the tide has come in anyway, the way it always does. That's the thing about tides. They don't care how hard you brace.
The bedroom is dark when he brings you into it. He turns back the duvet with one hand and you lower yourself onto the edge of the bed, and it's only then—in the sudden and total quiet of a room that doesn't demand anything of you, that has no screen, no cursor, no unanswered emails—that you feel the full weight of the day come down onto you like something physical. Like sediment settling after a flood. Like a structure finally allowed to bear the load it's been carrying all along.
"Here," he says, and he's holding out two paracetamol and a glass of water, and you take them without argument, which might be the most telling thing you've done all night.
He tucks the duvet around you with a quiet efficiency that never feels clinical, that feels instead like something practised and deliberate and personal, like a thing he's chosen to learn how to do well. His fingers brush your hair back from your forehead—light as anything, barely there—and then he gets up and crosses to the window and adjusts the blackout curtain until no light gets through at all, and then he goes around to his side of the bed and sits on the edge of it, unlacing his shoes in the dark.
"You should've called me," he says. Not an accusation. Just a fact, offered quietly.
"I didn't want to bother you."
"You're not a bother."
"I know you think that—"
"It's not a matter of what I think." He sets his shoes aside. "You're not a bother. That's just true." Another pause. "Next time, call me."
He turns off the lamp.
The darkness is immediate and total and the relief of it moves through you like warm water, slow and spreading, loosening things that have been held rigid for hours, reaching into the tight and aching places behind your eyes and simply—easing. Not ending. The pain is still there, and you know it'll still be there in the morning, know the migraine doesn't simply dissolve because you've stopped fighting it, because you've put yourself somewhere dark and quiet and safe. But it's different, in the dark. Less urgent. Less like something you're racing. Less like a thing that's chasing you.
Aaron settles beside you, close but not touching—just the warmth of him, the steady sound of his breathing, the particular quality of stillness that he has when he's choosing to be still. It's not the absence of him. It's very much the presence of him, the deliberate and quiet kind.
"Sleep," he says.
Not a command. Not quite. Something softer than that—more like an invitation, the way he extends most things he means with his whole heart. Like he's setting something down in front of you and trusting you to pick it up.
You close your eyes.
The deadline is still there, somewhere at the back of your mind—a small, persistent ember, a distant ache that echoes the one behind your eyes. The emails are still unanswered. The document is still open on the desk in the other room, cursor blinking at the end of that stubborn and unfinished sentence, waiting in the dark. None of that has gone away. None of it will be different in the morning, except that you will be.
That's what he's been saying, you think. That's the whole of it, really.
In the dark, with the duvet heavy and warm and the pain beginning its slow retreat to something more manageable, something that might even let you sleep—in the dark, you let yourself be here. Just here. You let the bedroom be the only room that exists. You let the deadline be something that lives in tomorrow, which is a country you don't have to enter yet.
It's harder than it sounds. You've been so long in the habit of carrying it all with you everywhere, into every room, into sleep itself—the low-grade hum of everything that needs doing, everything you might be falling short of—that putting it down, even temporarily, even just until morning, feels like something you have to actively practise. Like a muscle you've let go weak from disuse.
But right now, in the dark, with Aaron breathing slowly beside you and the weight of the duvet pressing down like a gentle hand, you try.
Aaron's hand finds yours under the duvet. His fingers are loose and warm around your own, unhurried, asking nothing.
"We'll figure it out," he says, softer now, his voice already taking on the slow and slightly blurred quality of someone drifting toward sleep himself. "I promise you. We'll figure it out."
You breathe out.
It's not certainty, what you feel. Not resolution. It's something quieter than that, and more durable—the way a fire banked for the night is still warmth, still presence, still the promise of heat in the morning even when the flame is low. You don't have the answers. The deadline is still real. The pain is still real, still a dull and tired pressure behind your eyes, a reminder that your body requires things from you that you don't always want to give.
But Aaron's hand is warm around yours. The room is dark and still. And somewhere between one breath and the next, you find that you believe him—not because the problems are solved, not because everything is going to be fine in any simple or immediate way, but because he's here, and he means it, and that turns out to be enough to sleep on.
Pairing: James Potter x Disabled!Reader
Summary: James is trying to impress you with a roast dinner. The kitchen is filled with smoke, Motown, and more love than sense.
Tags: disabled!reader, domestic fluff, james being an absolute menace in the kitchen, love languages through food and chaos, cooking together without really cooking together, gentle routine, no use of y/n, soft!james, flirting, established relationship, comfort through familiarity, james absolutely should not be trusted with a blowtorch, the gravy pun should be illegal, kitchen microclimate of love
Word count: 4k words
It's late afternoon, and the kitchen smells like rosemary and burnt onions.
You clock the scent the moment your wheels cross the line between hallway tile and kitchen linoleum—earthy and sharp, rich in the way only an overly confident hand with herbs and heat can make it. Which is a certainty, really. James is already waving his wooden spoon about like he's hosting some sort of rogue cooking show, standing in front of the oven like it's about to give a TED Talk back. His sleeves are pushed up, his brow furrowed in performative concentration, and his entire body radiates chaotic pride, the kind only James Potter could carry like a badge of honour.
"The burnt bits bring depth," he says without turning. "Character, even. You'll see. Michelin-star quality."
"Character," you echo, dry as overcooked toast, shifting your chair so it angles slightly sideways in the doorway—your usual spot. You've long perfected this angle, this vantage point: just enough swivel to watch him fuss over the tray of potatoes while keeping one eye on the telly humming in the next room. Some crime drama rerun plays muted, all dramatic stares and shadowy lighting. You're not paying it much attention. Not with the way Motown is blaring from the speaker like the kitchen's been temporarily relocated to Detroit.
A slow, syrupy Marvin Gaye number spills through the room, thick with brass and longing. It wraps around the sizzle of oil and the crackle of gas, clinging to the steam rising from the stovetop and dancing with the smoke curling along the ceiling. The smell of rosemary—bold and piney—cuts through the haze, fighting for dominance against the more acrid note of something that's definitely singed. The result is a perfume of chaos, oddly comforting. The kind of scent that would probably haunt the walls, if the walls weren't already resigned to your shared culinary disasters. You can practically feel the heat on your face, warm and uneven, like the kitchen has become its own little microclimate.
James, for his part, is in his element. The tea towel over his shoulder is stained, barely clinging to its existence as a once-white cloth. His reading glasses, which he insists he doesn't need, have slid down his nose again, and he hasn't noticed. His curls, damp from the steam and heat, are sticking to his forehead in stubborn spirals. He looks like a man mid-renaissance, part mad scientist, part overexcited Labrador. There's flour on his elbow, a streak of something reddish along his jaw, and the unmistakable gleam in his eyes of someone who absolutely should not be trusted with a blowtorch.
And he's talking. Of course he's talking. He hasn't stopped since he heard you roll in.
"If this doesn't impress you, I don't know what will. I've got rosemary. I've got garlic. I've got—you're not ready for this—duck fat." He turns, spoon raised like he's about to conduct an orchestra.
You raise a brow. "Did you nick that from Sirius?"
"No," he says quickly. Then, after a beat, "Yes. But he wasn't using it. It was just sitting there in his fridge, looking smug."
Your laugh escapes before you can help it. James beams like you've just handed him a medal.
"See?" he says. "That's all I needed. Audience appreciation. Gold star. Validation from the peanut gallery."
He turns back to the tray with an exaggerated flick of the wrist, gently prodding a potato like it might bite. "They're nearly there. Crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside. Just like me."
"You're not crispy," you say.
"I could be. In the right light."
"Only if the light is coming from a toaster."
He gasps, hand over heart. "Cruelty. In my own kitchen."
Another curl of rosemary smoke coils into the air. You wave your hand in front of your face, coughing lightly.
"Oi, it's aromatic," James insists, peering into the oven like it might hold state secrets. "Gordon Ramsay would be quaking."
"In terror?"
"In admiration," he says with mock offence. "Probably both. Maybe he'd cry a little. It'd be touching."
Your gaze drifts past him, taking in the full battlefield he's made of the kitchen. The olive oil is still uncapped on the counter, dripping lazily onto a cookbook that's clearly only there for show. The pepper grinder's lid has vanished entirely. There's a faint splatter of something red on the floor tiles that you sincerely hope is tomato sauce. The butter dish has migrated halfway across the counter and sits like a forgotten relic from a meal that never happened. A glass of wine you don't remember pouring for him sweats next to the sink.
And James is still going.
"I read somewhere—don't ask me where—that slightly charring onions unlocks their full potential. Like, spiritual enlightenment for vegetables."
"You read that nowhere," you say.
"Prove it."
"I don't have to. The smell is evidence enough."
He grins. "You're jealous. Of my technique."
"You mean your inability to use a timer?"
"It's a vibe-based timer," he says, affronted. "I cook with my soul."
"And your soul smells like smoke."
"Smoky depth," he corrects, brandishing the spoon again. "There's a difference."
James glances over his shoulder at you then—really looks. There's a beat where the light catches the edges of his face, turning his profile into a warm, sepia silhouette. The golden hour light pours in from the window above the sink, pooling across the counters, the stained chopping board, the warped spoon resting precariously on the edge of the sink. The world is still, for half a second. Just you, the smoke, the music, and the boy trying to turn dinner into something more than just sustenance.
You can hear your chair creak softly as you shift, the way the rubber wheels hum gently against the tile. It's not an unfamiliar sound. Neither is the rhythm of James moving around the kitchen, his feet scuffing the floor, his hum drifting between lyrics. It's the noise of your days now—soft, patterned, reliably ridiculous. The way he narrates everything he's doing even when you're not in the room. The way he sways a little when he stirs, like music lives in his spine.
Then the speaker shifts into a brassy Supremes track, one that demands to be danced to, and James spins with theatrical flair, narrowly missing the oven door with his hip.
"Right," he says, throwing his arms wide, tea towel flapping. "Basting. Or... flipping. Or stirring. One of the holy verbs."
You smirk. "Clearly."
"I could be naked right now, and it still wouldn't distract from how good this smells."
"That's a lie and you know it."
"Alright, but imagine it. For science."
You roll your eyes. "This is why you set off the fire alarm last week."
He ignores you, opening the oven with a flourish that sends a blast of heat straight into his face. He flinches, squints through the plume of steam and smoke like he's unearthing a fossil.
He coughs. Loudly. Possibly for effect.
"That's not a good sign," you mutter.
"Oh ye of little faith," he says, reaching for the tea towel like it's a weapon of honour. "That's flavour escaping."
"Smells like cremation."
"You're very rude when you're hungry."
"Only because you promised me edible food and a culinary experience."
"And this isn't one?"
You gesture broadly at the chaos. "This is a different experience."
James cackles, fanning the smoke alarm with a dinner plate like it's a sacred ritual. You know he'll end up dragging a chair over and disabling it entirely if it goes off. Again. Like last time.
You laugh—helpless, loud, and entirely unfiltered—as James makes some absolutely dreadful pun involving the gravy boat. Something about "gravy-nating the potatoes" or possibly a full dramatic aside about how he's the "captain of this ship," complete with the gravy boat held aloft like it's the Holy Grail and he's just returned from some ridiculous culinary quest.
"I should be arrested for that one," he says, grinning, proud in that completely shameless way only James Potter can manage. He waggles his eyebrows, clearly waiting for a bigger reaction, as if he's just delivered the most sophisticated joke known to wizardkind.
"You should be exiled," you counter, still laughing, your voice caught somewhere between exasperated and amused, all warmth and fondness woven between your words. The sound of it lingers in the air longer than it should, curling like steam above the roast, softening the edges of the room, the light, the day.
He glances at you then—really looks—and something in his expression changes, softens, tilts toward awe. His grin falters just slightly, not in hesitation but reverence. Like you've just made the sun rise with your laugh. Like every part of him, every cell and bone and breath, just realigned to face you. There's so much love in his eyes it borders on absurd, but you don't flinch from it. You meet it. You always do.
He doesn't say anything about it. Doesn't need to. Instead, he moves past you slowly, deliberately, his hand grazing your shoulder for balance, like it's instinct now. As he passes, he leans down and presses a warm, lingering kiss to your temple. Not rushed. Not performative. Just honest and there, his lips brushing your skin like a promise made a hundred quiet times before.
"Think I've got a pudding in the fridge," he murmurs into your hair, voice low and familiar. "Might've forgotten to actually make one, though."
You hum in mock judgement. "Let me guess. Another one of your vibe-based culinary decisions?"
He pulls back just enough to flash you a wink and immediately steals a roasted parsnip from the tray, popping it into his mouth before you can protest. "They spoke to me," he says around the bite. "Told me they were ready. Whispered, actually."
"Haunted parsnips. That explains so much."
"Better than haunted gravy. That'd be a tragedy."
You roll your eyes, but you're grinning too. That particular kind of grin that starts in your chest and spreads until it tingles at the edges of your fingers. It stays with you even as you roll in beside him, the motion easy and practised. You navigate the narrow space like muscle memory, your body moving in tandem with his. You don't have to think anymore, not here. Not with him.
You pull up next to him, shoulder aligned with his side, elbow to elbow, and the two of you start plating like you've done this a hundred times before. Because you have. Sundays. Rainy days. Tuesdays when neither of you remembered to shop properly but somehow always ended up with root veg and onions. Wednesdays when he forgot he invited Remus over. Fridays when you were too tired to do anything but reheat leftovers and still somehow made it feel like a feast.
There's no need for instruction, no hesitation. Just quiet, practiced closeness—the kind that takes root in routine and blooms in the tiny, invisible spaces between shared moments. The tray clinks softly as you both take hold of it. James hands you the serving spoon automatically, like he knows it belongs in your hand first, and you bump elbows as you scoop a generous pile of crispy potatoes onto one of the chipped, mismatched plates.
The plates are a collection of stories in themselves. Some came from Sirius after a house clear-out. Others you picked up together at charity shops. One plate has a cartoon frog in the centre, and neither of you can remember how it ended up in your cupboard. Another one has a chip shaped like Australia. There's one with a faint burn mark along the rim—James's doing, obviously—and one with a hand-painted forget-me-not that you swear wasn't there last week. Every plate carries a piece of your lives stitched into the ceramic.
James reaches for the carrots, so naturally, you steal a bite of parsnip from the edge of the tray in retribution. Your eyes meet as you chew with exaggerated smugness.
"Oi!" he says, mock-offended. "That's theft!"
"Consider it payback for the gravy pun."
He narrows his eyes, but there's no heat in it. "You're lucky you're cute."
"You're lucky I haven't launched this potato at your head."
You nudge his hip with yours—not hard, but enough to make him stumble dramatically against the counter, clutching at his heart like you've mortally wounded him. He recovers with a grin that's all teeth and mischief.
Maybe it's flirting. Maybe it's just your version of existing. There's no line between the two anymore, not really. Everything you do here—bumping elbows, sharing bites, moving in sync—is layered with affection. The kind that doesn't need declarations to be real. The kind built in overlapping movements and half-finished conversations. You've built something domestic, something sturdy, in the cracks between jokes and roasted parsnips.
The clatter of utensils is familiar music. The scrape of the spoon against the tray, the rustle of napkins, the dull thump of the fridge door as James leans in to grab something fizzy. It's all underscored by the tail end of the Supremes track still playing from the speaker, fading into another Motown beat that neither of you really pay attention to anymore. The music is just there, stitched into the fabric of the evening like thread you never bothered to snip.
The air is thick with the scent of herbs and roasted garlic, warm and full, wrapping around you like a blanket. The steam rises off the tray in lazy spirals, catching the light and making everything feel just a little more golden. The roast is probably over-seasoned. The gravy looks slightly too thick, like it might be approaching jelly status if left to cool. The carrots have gone a little soft. None of it matters. It's not about perfection. It never has been.
James leans over and ladles the gravy with what can only be described as reverence. He pours it in slow circles, careful not to drown the potatoes, like he's icing a cake instead of spooning meat juice onto plates. He glances at you sideways while he works, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, the curl of it confident and unbearably fond.
"There," he says with satisfaction. "Look at that. An entire roast dinner without setting anything fully on fire."
"Except the onions."
He shrugs, unapologetic. "Minor casualties. Necessary sacrifices."
"You always say that."
"It's always true."
You look down at the finished plates—nothing symmetrical, nothing fancy. Slightly messy, slightly burned. But warm. Real. Yours. The kind of meal made by two people who know how to live around each other, not in spite of each other. The kind of dinner where the comfort lives in the chaos. The kind where the stories will outlast the meal.
He hands you your plate like he's handing you something precious. Cradled in both hands, carefully. You take it, your fingers brushing his, and he grabs his own with that same odd sense of reverence. Like dinner matters. Like this moment matters. Like it always has.
No big speeches. No declarations.
Just love, ladled onto mismatched plates.
And James, brushing against you again, nudging your elbow with his like it's just another part of the rhythm you've both fallen into. He's already reaching for the bottle of something fizzy and half-flat and objectively terrible, but perfect in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with flavour. It fizzes dramatically when opened and overflows a little, spilling onto the counter.
"Celebratory splash," he says, grabbing two glasses and wiping the mess with the bottom of his shirt like a completely responsible adult. The shirt is stained, already half-wrinkled from the heat of the oven, but he wears it like he's hosting the wizarding equivalent of MasterChef.
"Very sophisticated," you reply, already sipping from your plate like it's fine china. The gravy leaves a little trail across your fork, and you don't care. Not tonight.
"Think we've earned pudding," he says.
"You mean the imaginary one you didn't make?"
"Exactly. I call it 'air tart.' Very avant-garde."
"What's the texture like?"
He mimes slicing air with a butter knife. "Light. Elusive. A bit pretentious."
You laugh again, too loud, full of warmth, and he grins at you like he wants to bottle the sound. Like it's the only thing worth serving tonight. Like if he has it, he doesn't need dessert at all.
Later, you curl up together on the sofa, full and floppy and just a little wine-sleepy. The plates are abandoned in the sink, half-rinsed, half-forgotten, and the leftover roast has been shuffled into mismatched containers with no clear labelling system whatsoever.
A precariously stacked tower of Tupperware waits on the top shelf of the fridge, dangerously unbalanced, and definitely not sorted by meal type. Some of them are old takeaway containers with warped lids; one is actually a former ice cream tub that now reads "chicken?" in smeared permanent marker. Another has a post-it note that simply says "???" in James's handwriting. It's a problem for tomorrow. Maybe even the day after. If one of you doesn't knock it over looking for milk first. Or juice. Or the last of that weird kombucha Sirius left behind six months ago and swore was good for gut health.
Right now, none of it matters. You're half on James's chest, half tucked against the cushions, limbs tangled in a way that would probably be uncomfortable if you weren't both so completely at ease with each other. The blanket you dragged over from the armchair is twisted around your ankles and trailing off the side of the sofa like it's trying to escape. One of your legs lies across his, the other bent and tucked under, and his socked foot is resting against the coffee table like he owns the place—which he sort of does, technically, but only by about 60 percent. The other 40 belongs to you, and to the plant you rescued from a garden shop discount bin and have kept alive on pure stubbornness and spite. It's sitting in the corner now, slightly lopsided, thriving out of sheer will. James calls it Neville. You call it your greatest domestic victory.
The film on the telly is terrible.
Not in an ironically fun way. Not even in a cult classic, "so bad it's good" way. Just—bad. The plot is a mess. The acting is stiffer than cold Yorkshire pudding. The monster looks like it was made out of papier-mâché and regret, and the soundtrack sounds like it was performed on a haunted kazoo. Every third line is delivered with the emotion of a wet sponge, and the editing cuts so abruptly you keep checking to make sure the telly hasn't glitched. The protagonist has switched accents three times in one scene. You're not sure if it's a creative choice or a cry for help.
You're both treating it like a sport.
"That's not how gravity works," you say, pointing at the screen like you're on a judging panel. "That's not how stairs work either, apparently."
James snorts. "Also, why is she climbing into the haunted wardrobe again? Has she learned nothing?"
"She literally just got chased out of it by a swarm of possessed geese."
"Exactly. And now she's like, 'Oh let me go back in and investigate.'"
"I think it's meant to be brave," you say.
"It's not. It's bird-brained."
You groan at the pun and elbow him half-heartedly, but he only grins wider, smug and self-satisfied. He shifts slightly to reach for the crisps, his movement careful not to jostle you too much. You steal one from his hand before he can bring it to his mouth, which earns you a scandalised glare and a kiss to the top of your head.
"Thief," he mutters.
"Enabler," you counter, popping the crisp in your mouth with all the dignity of a cartoon villain. You offer him a crumb in return. He declines with great theatrical sadness and a very dramatic sigh.
He grumbles something about betrayal but doesn't stop you. His hand drifts back down to your thigh, fingers splayed warm and grounding against the soft fabric of your trousers. He doesn't move it, just rests there—anchored. Like it's enough to touch. Like it's everything.
Your hand finds his easily. He's been playing with your fingers absentmindedly for the last ten minutes, gently tugging at them, tracing the shapes of your knuckles like they're a puzzle he's content to never solve. Every so often, he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to one knuckle, then another, like a rhythm only he can hear. He doesn't stop watching the film, but you feel every bit of his attention, split perfectly between you and whatever nonsense is happening onscreen. Like even his multitasking is affectionate.
The film drones on. A character screams offscreen. James mouths along with the line before the actress even delivers it.
"You've definitely seen this before."
"Once. At Sirius's. We got halfway through and decided it needed a drinking game. I don't remember the second half."
"I envy you," you say solemnly.
James hums, dragging your hand closer to his chest, still playing with your fingers like they're more interesting than anything on the telly. He presses another kiss to the back of your hand. "We could turn it off."
"No," you murmur, nestling closer, cheek pressed against the soft stretch of his jumper. "We have to see if the geese come back."
"They were the only redeeming part."
"They were actors. Real professionals."
"I bet they unionised."
You feel him laugh—chest rising and falling under your cheek—and you let your eyes flutter closed for a moment. Not asleep. Just... settled. The way you do when you know the person beside you has no plans to go anywhere. The kind of closeness that doesn't demand anything of you. The kind that lets you exist exactly as you are, without performance.
The room still smells faintly of burnt onion and rosemary, stubbornly clinging to the cushions and your jumper like the ghost of dinner. The lighting is low, golden from the standing lamp in the corner and the flicker of the television. One of the cushions is digging slightly into your back, but you don't adjust. You'd rather stay where you are, tucked into the shape of him.
Outside, the wind whistles occasionally against the window. Somewhere, a neighbour's dog barks once and is shushed. The film soundtrack swells dramatically as a heroic monologue begins, but James whispers the next lines like he's narrating a bedtime story, turning the absurdity into something unexpectedly sweet.
The roast might've been sub-par. The film is absolutely ridiculous. The monster on the screen is currently being defeated with a vacuum cleaner and what looks like a mop from a petrol station. The wardrobe explodes. The geese never return. Someone delivers a final line so wooden it could be firewood.
But James lifts your hand again, kisses your knuckles like they're precious, like this moment is, and it's all suddenly enough.
Maybe even perfect.
He shifts only to rest his cheek against the top of your head, his breath rustling through your hair, and his voice barely audible over the bad soundtrack and your heartbeat.
"Best Sunday ever," he murmurs.
You smile, eyes still closed. "Even with possessed geese?"
"Especially because of the possessed geese."
You shift your fingers just enough to lace them through his. You can feel him smile into your hair.
The credits roll. The music tries to be dramatic but ends up sounding like a haunted calliope. You stay curled into him as the screen fades to black.
And maybe, just maybe, that's all it ever needed to be.
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Disabled!Reader
Summary: A walk, a thermos, and a notebook full of everything Aaron has been quietly noticing—your anniversary, his way.
Tags: disabled!reader, aphasia, reader has aphasia, hurt/comfort, fluff, anniversary fic, love letter in chapters, aaron hotchner being unbearably tender, he's been keeping everything, the notebook will end you, park walk, cocoa and evening light, soft domesticity, nonsexual intimacy, being known all the way down, love that adapts, silence as its own language, no use of y/n, no grand gestures just the right ones, gentle affirmations, you are so loved here, aaron's quiet devotion, he never once looked at you like something was missing, this one is soft as a bruise
Word Count: 3.5k words
He tells you to dress comfortably, and that's all he gives you—those four words and a look that sits somewhere between warmth and quiet mischief, the kind of look Aaron only lets slip when he thinks he's done something particularly clever and is trying very hard not to show it. You've catalogued that look over three years. You know exactly what it means. It means he's planned something, and he's pleased about it, and he will absolutely not be giving you any further information until he's ready.
You turn the instruction over in your mind the way you turn over most things now—carefully, feeling for the shape of them, checking their edges. Comfortable is easy. Comfortable you can do. You pull on the jumper that's gone at one cuff and jeans worn soft with use, and you stand at the mirror for a moment not looking at yourself but listening to the silence in your own chest, the particular silence that used to feel like a loss and now mostly just feels like weather. Like something you've learned to move through rather than around.
Not knowing what he's planned is harder than the dressing.
You go to the door. You open it.
He's already on the step.
He's holding a thermos—your thermos, the dented blue one you bought at a car boot sale three years ago because you liked the colour and Aaron had gently pointed out it was already dented before you'd even paid for it and you'd said that gave it character and he'd looked at you with an expression you hadn't known how to read yet—and there's a blanket tucked under one arm, thick and soft, and a small notebook under the other. He's dressed softly, too. No tie. No bureau jacket. No version of Aaron that belongs to anyone else. Just him, in a grey jumper with the sleeves pushed up, standing in the afternoon light like something a painter would've kept for themselves rather than put on display.
"I thought we'd take a walk," he says.
His smile is so gentle it almost undoes you on the spot—not a dramatic undoing, not something that sweeps the ground out from under you, but the quieter kind, the kind that feels like setting something heavy down that you hadn't noticed you'd been carrying.
You nod. The word yes lives somewhere behind your teeth these days. It lives behind the aphasia that moved into the parts of your brain where language used to live and rearranged everything—took some things entirely, left others in the wrong rooms, made some words slippery and unreliable in ways that still catch you off guard. You've learned to navigate the new architecture. You've built ramps and workarounds and a whole vocabulary of gesture and expression and the precise calibration of silence. Aaron has spent two years learning to read that vocabulary like a second tongue—sitting with you through the speech therapy appointments, asking questions that weren't about fixing you but about understanding you, learning the difference between the silence that means I'm fine and the one that means I've lost the word I need and the one that means please just give me a moment.
He reads it fluently now. He reads you fluently now, and there is no grief in that—only the quiet, persistent miracle of being known by another person all the way down.
He offers his hand.
You take it.
The park isn't far. You've walked this route enough times that your feet know it without being told—the slight dip in the pavement outside the corner shop, the gate that sticks unless you lift it a little as you push. The air is cool and smells of damp grass and something faintly petrichor-sweet from rain earlier in the week, and you walk close enough that your shoulders brush with every other step, his hand wrapped around yours with a steadiness that has always felt less like a gesture and more like a statement of intent. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.
He doesn't fill the silence unnecessarily. That was one of the first things you loved about him—the way he'd understood, almost instinctively, that silence between two people doesn't have to be a gap that wants filling. He'd been quiet in the same way you were quiet, comfortable in it, and that had felt like the first door opening between you, back when you'd had all your words and simply hadn't wanted to use them on anything that didn't matter. The silence was a choice, then. A preference you'd shared.
It means something different now, and he knows that too. He learned the difference—between the silence that was yours by nature and the silence that the aphasia made—and he never once confused the two or treated them the same.
He slows near the old oak, the wide sprawling one with the roots that buckle the path into a small uprising of tarmac that you have both stepped over a hundred times.
"This is where we had our first picnic," he says.
He says it quietly, like he's offering something he's been holding for a while and isn't entirely sure how it'll land. You look at the tree and let the memory come, let it come in layers the way memories do—first the sensory parts, the warmth of that afternoon and the chequered blanket and the pasta salad that had been, in Aaron's later diplomatic assessment, ambitious—and then the deeper parts, the texture of it. He'd sat across from you and listened with his whole body, forearms on his knees, eyes on your face, not performing attention but simply giving it. You'd had all your words then. They'd come easily, the way they used to, and you'd talked for two hours straight about nothing that particularly mattered and everything that did, and somewhere in the middle of it he'd looked at you like he was quietly deciding something.
You'd asked him later what he'd been thinking, in that look. He'd said: I was thinking I wanted to keep doing this. Talking to you. For a long time.
You'd laughed and told him that was the most Aaron Hotchner thing anyone had ever said to you. He hadn't disagreed.
You squeeze his hand.
He squeezes back.
He leads you further, unhurried, his thumb moving in an absent little arc across your knuckles. The path curves past the old iron bench where you'd sheltered from an unexpected downpour a few months back, the two of you crammed together under the minimal architectural ambition of its little scrolled back, pretending it offered more cover than it did, getting wet anyway and not especially minding. He nods at it as you pass.
"We got absolutely soaked on that bench," he says.
You make a face that communicates your feelings about this clearly. He laughs, and the sound of it opens something in the afternoon air, warm and unguarded, the laugh he doesn't use at work or in public or anywhere that requires him to be Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner. The one that belongs here, to this, to you.
Then he slows again, and stops, and there's already the suggestion of a smile at the corner of his mouth—the corner that always betrays him, the one he can't quite control when he finds something genuinely funny.
"And over there—" He gestures at the path ahead, at the ordinary lumpen rock half-buried in the verge beside it, utterly unremarkable except for its role in a moment of minor personal history. "You tripped over that rock and tried to pretend you meant to do it."
The laugh that leaves you is silent, the way laughter is silent for you now—no sound, but everything else, your shoulders shaking, your free hand coming up to cover your face, your eyes crinkling until they're almost shut. It had been spectacular, that trip. A full-commitment stumble, the kind with real momentum behind it, and you had somehow—in real time, without pausing—decided that the move was to crouch down and examine the gravel with apparent scientific interest, as though you'd planned to stop there all along. Aaron had kept a straight face for approximately four seconds. You'd watched him fight himself and lose.
You give him a nudge with your shoulder. He ducks his head, laughing low under his breath, and the sound of it settles into you like heat from a radiator—ambient, steady, the comfortable warmth of something you've come to rely on.
"I cherish that memory," he says, with the solemnity of someone delivering a eulogy.
You give him a look. He gives it back. Neither of you blinks for a long moment.
You walk on.
He points out the spot near the pond where you'd stood for twenty minutes watching a duck refuse to get out of the way of a pushchair, both of you entertained by this beyond any reasonable explanation. He points out the fork in the path where you'd once gone the wrong way and then refused to admit it for a full ten minutes, the two of you getting progressively further from where you'd meant to go. You remember all of it. The texture of each moment comes back with the ease of things that mattered—the way his hand felt when he'd finally stopped walking and looked at you with quiet amusement and said I think we might be a bit turned around and you'd pointed vigorously in a direction that was in fact correct and he'd followed you without a single word of triumph about the detour.
Each stop feels like a page turned in a book you didn't know was being written—a love letter in chapters, the park rearranged around you into a monument to the particular, ordinary shape of your life together. You hadn't known a place could be held this way, tessellated with meaning until every corner of it has a different texture, a different weight. But Aaron has been watching. He's been keeping everything, you're realising, turning the knowledge over with something that sits between gratitude and wonder. All the small, unheroic, infinitely precious things you'd simply lived through—he's been pressing them like flowers between pages, saving them, and today he's handing them back.
The hill at the park's edge isn't much of a hill. It's the sort of hill that a hill might describe, with some generosity, as a slope. But the view from the top of it is the whole of the sky, wide and open, the kind of sky that makes your chest feel bigger than it usually is—the afternoon light beginning its slow negotiation into evening, layering itself from pale gold at the horizon into something deeper and more considered above. Aaron spreads the blanket out with the particular focused care he brings to everything, smoothing the corners, checking you'll have room, the same hands that have talked down armed suspects and held his son through nightmares taking equal trouble over getting this right.
You sit. He sits beside you, close enough that his knee is warm against yours.
He pours the cocoa. The thermos steams against the cooling air, and he hands you the cup with both hands the way you like it, and you wrap your palms around it and let the warmth move up through your fingers and into your wrists and into the rest of you—a small domestic mercy, a cup of something warm, the simplest possible act of being cared for. You drink. It's good. He remembered the exact amount of sugar.
Then he reaches for the notebook.
He holds it for a moment before he passes it to you. Just a moment—one beat, a single unguarded flicker that crosses his face and is gone, a crack in the composed surface through which you catch a glimpse of something tender and uncertain that Aaron Hotchner keeps on a very short leash and almost never lets out where anyone might see it.
"I've been keeping this for a while," he admits. "I wasn't sure—" He stops. Starts again. "I wanted to get it right."
You take it the way you'd take something fragile—carefully, both hands. When you open it, the pages give under your fingers with the softness of something that's been handled many times, returned to, written in over months. His handwriting fills page after page—small and precise at the tops of entries, the penmanship of someone used to documentation, to accuracy—but looser as you go further down each page, less controlled, as though he'd started writing calmly and then let himself go a little, let the feeling outrun the habit of containment.
The way you laugh with your whole face—you don't hold any of it back.
How you always choose the window seat and then spend ten minutes looking outside before you even open your book. I don't think you notice you do it.
You made Garcia explain her whole filing system to you once. Just because you were curious. You asked her eleven questions. She talked for forty minutes and you listened to every word.
The afternoon you couldn't find the word for "umbrella." I watched you think about it, and then decide—quite deliberately—to simply not need one. You walked out into the rain with your chin up like it was a choice you'd made on purpose.
There are doodles tucked between entries: a rough sketch of the dented blue thermos, a tiny rendering of the oak tree, a cartoon rock with a small arrow underneath it labelled the culprit, drawn with the careful self-consciousness of someone who knows they're not a natural artist but has done it anyway. Inside jokes made visible, small and imperfect and completely full of him. Full of the two of you. Evidence that he has been paying attention to the texture of your life together, not just its broad strokes but its details, its small recurring jokes, the tiny particular things that are nobody's business but yours.
The tears come before you can think to hold them back.
You don't try to. Crying is one of the things the aphasia didn't touch, one of the ways your feeling still has direct passage out of you, unobstructed, and you let it happen—the blur of tears over the page, the catch in your chest, the specific quality of being so loved and so seen that it tips over into something that can't be held inside a body and just has to go somewhere.
You press your lips together. You blink, and the words on the page soften and then come back clear, and you keep reading, even though your vision keeps going blurry at the edges, because you don't want to stop. Because there are more pages and they're all for you.
Aaron's arm comes around you, slow and certain, and he draws you into his side without a word.
You go willingly. You go the way water goes towards low ground—not because you're swept there, but because it's simply where you belong, the place you keep coming back to without having to think about it. He's solid and warm, this man who knew you when language came easily and stayed anyway when it didn't—who learned the new version of you with the same attention he'd given the first one, who never treated the change as a subtraction. He never once looked at you like something was missing. He never once looked at you like you were a problem he was being patient with.
You'd asked him about it, once. Not long after the aphasia had settled into something permanent, when you were both still finding your footing in the new shape of things. You'd managed it in pieces—does it—pause—bother you—and he'd looked at you for a moment with the particular steadiness of someone who is about to say something true and wants to make sure they say it right.
You're not harder to love, he'd said. You're just a different conversation.
He holds you. The sky above has shifted into the deeper register of early evening, the light losing its gold and going softer, more diffuse, the kind of light that flattens shadows and makes everything look like a memory even while it's still happening.
"I wanted you to have something," he murmurs, his voice just low enough not to disturb the quiet that's settled around you. "Something that reminds you how much I love you, even when I'm not here to say it."
You sit with that for a moment. You let it settle over you the way dusk settles—slowly, without announcement, arriving by degrees until it's simply where you are. The notebook is still open in your lap. His words are still there, patient and permanent, waiting to be read again tomorrow and the day after, in the mornings when the aphasia is bad and the evenings when you're tired and every ordinary Tuesday when you just need reminding. He's thought about that. He's built for the long continuity of loving you, not just the good days.
You turn your head. You press a kiss to the line of his jaw, slow and deliberate, just below his ear where the skin is warm. Your lips against him. Your hand moving to cover his where it rests against your arm. The full, unhurried weight of everything you can't say pressing itself into the stillness of the gesture, into the few inches of contact between you, because you've learned—you've learned this together, the two of you, in the chapter of things that came after—that love is not diminished by silence. It finds other architectures. It builds itself new rooms in the spaces where language used to live and fills them with something that doesn't need to be spoken to be completely, irrevocably understood.
He turns his head and presses a kiss to your hair.
You stay like that for a while.
The sky deepens further, the last thread of light at the horizon going from pale to rose to the deep, tender violet of a day fully finished, and the first stars appear at the edges of things—tentative and bright, the way stars always arrive, not all at once but gradually, one and then one and then several, until you look up and there are more than you noticed arriving. You sit with the notebook in your lap and his arm around you and the cooling cup of cocoa between your hands, and the park settles into its evening quiet around you like a creature lying down to sleep, unhurried and familiar and entirely at ease.
"Happy anniversary," he says, eventually. Quietly.
You tilt your head back just enough to look at him. The low light catches the lines at the corners of his eyes, the ones you love best because they're yours—because they deepened in the two years he's spent laughing with you, in all the small accumulated moments of being together that have left their marks on him the way they've left their marks on you. He looks back at you with an expression that's too full for a single word, that would've taken you a paragraph even before the aphasia, and so you don't try to name it. You just hold it.
You lift your cup slightly, a small toast. He touches his thermos lid to it with the gravity of a man performing a ritual, and you both drink, and the cocoa is lukewarm now but it doesn't matter even slightly.
The park is nearly empty. The path below you has gone quiet, just the last few dog-walkers heading home, just the distant sound of the city doing its ordinary evening things beyond the tree line. Up here it's just the two of you and the sky and the notebook and the blanket that's warm enough and the thermos that's almost empty. He hasn't checked his phone once. He won't. Tonight he's nowhere but here, and so are you—the two of you held together inside this particular hour like something pressed between glass, preserved, the way all the best things are preserved: not by being kept from the world, but by being paid attention to.
You breathe, and he breathes, and the evening holds you both in it. The sky is enormous and unhurried overhead. The city hums low at the edges of things. The notebook in your lap holds all its pages, all his words, all the careful and particular evidence of what you've built between you—not in spite of the silence, but around it, and through it, and sometimes because of it. It's enough.
It's more than enough.
It's everything, and it's yours, and it'll still be there in the morning.
hey, you can absolutely ignore this if you don't want to write it. But fir almost a year now I've been dealing with severe joint paint, exhaustion, and brain fog. I keep getting pushed back on appointments and have jo idea what's wrong. Ckukd you just write some Poly marauders fluff about reader going through the same thing? It's been a long several months. :)
I'm answering this because I've had three marauders requests in a week and my request guidelines state they're on hiatus:
I know you mean well and especially dealing with pain and fatigue makes it hard to check, but my guidelines are in my bio for a reason so just a reminder that I am not taking requests for them right now.
Pairing: Poly!Wolfstar x Disabled!Reader
Summary: You were doing fine—until you weren't. But Sirius sees it before you can explain, and Remus always knows what you need.
Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic fatigue, brain fog, mobility challenges, hurt/comfort, established relationship, domestic softness, reader is struggling but trying, remus and sirius in love with you, reader is not okay but they are safe, no use of y/n, fluff, chronic illness is not the focus but it is present, operation nest is a success, soft!sirius, steady!remus, comfort is a serious business
Word count: 2.8k words
You were fine this morning. Tired, sure—bone-deep in that way you've learned to carry like an old jumper, stretched out and a little threadbare but familiar. The kind of tired that lives under your ribs and behind your eyes, a shadow of yesterday that lingers no matter how many hours you sleep. Still, you got up. Brushed your teeth. Pulled on a clean shirt with sleeves that didn't catch on anything. You made toast, buttered it without dropping the knife, answered a few emails. Made it through breakfast without needing to lean on anything. You even managed to make the bed, half-heartedly tugging the duvet straight. Functioning. Not perfect, but close enough to count.
You'd even smiled when Sirius mumbled something cheeky through a yawn and disappeared back under the covers, and you laughed when Remus squinted at the clock and asked if anyone sane was up this early on a Saturday. You rinsed out your mug and put it in the dishwasher. You opened a window to let the autumn breeze in, letting it ruffle the curtains like fingers through hair. It felt like a good start, or something near it.
Now it's past noon and your legs are plotting betrayal.
It's not dramatic, not really. Not even painful. Just a slow, creeping weakness that makes your knees feel like overcooked pasta and the backs of your thighs hum with invisible static. Like the messages from your brain are still sending, but the wires have frayed somewhere between thought and motion. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, then back again, muscles trembling with the effort like you've just finished running—but you haven't. You've been in the kitchen for ten minutes, maybe less. The kettle's still only halfway to boiling.
You'd planned to make tea. Maybe even tidy the lounge a bit. Something simple, something that felt like control. The cushions are still crooked from last night and someone left a pair of socks hanging over the back of the armchair like a flag of surrender. You'd thought: I'll fix that. Put something right. You had plans, small but solid. A to-do list with just enough on it to feel like the day had purpose.
But the air feels heavier now, pressing against your back like a hand trying to push you forward and down at once. The tiles are too cold. Your arms ache though you haven't lifted anything heavier than a mug. Even blinking feels slow. You rub your thumb against the inside of your wrist, grounding yourself, willing your body to just behave. It's like trying to steer a ship that's slowly taking on water—not sinking, not yet, but definitely not floating right either.
Your hand rests on the counter, not so much leaning as... bracing. Your fingertips press into the wood as if it'll stop the floor from tilting under you. Like if you just grip hard enough, you can convince the rest of your body to hold steady. Like you're part of the structure now—fused into place through sheer stubbornness. The surface is cool under your palm. You focus on that—texture, temperature, solidity. Anything to drown out the fuzzy static in your limbs.
You hate this part.
The fatigue isn't the same as tiredness. It's not something a nap can cure. It buzzes under your skin, dull and relentless, like fluorescent lights or the low drone of electricity in the walls. It's the kind of tired that eats away at your thoughts, too—like your mind's wading through treacle just to remember what you were doing. Like someone took the sharpness of your thinking and dulled it with a butter knife. You blink hard and tell yourself you're fine, because you were earlier, and that has to mean something. It should mean something. Otherwise what's the point?
Your jaw clenches. You roll your shoulders once, then regret it. Even that small motion sends a wave of heat prickling down your spine—your body's pathetic attempt to warn you that it's past its limit, even if you've barely done anything. A single step feels like a risk. You're still in your socks, and suddenly the smooth floor feels traitorous. You think about sitting down right there on the tiles but that feels like surrender. And you're not ready to do that.
The clock ticks. The kettle hums. You don't move.
Then Sirius walks in.
You hear him before you see him—bare feet padding across the floor, the soft scuff of denim. There's a tiny jingle of metal from his belt loop, the one with the keyring he refuses to get rid of even though it's held nothing for months. You can hear him yawning around the corner, muttering something about where he left his lighter. When he appears in the doorway, his hair's a mess and his shirt's hanging off one shoulder like he forgot to finish getting dressed. There's still a pillow-crease on his cheek. He blinks once, registers you, and the cocky grin he usually wears first thing in the day never even tries to surface.
"Hey," he says softly.
You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, trying not to let your frustration sour into guilt. "Hey."
He crosses the room in three steps, stopping just close enough that you can smell his cologne—leather and something warm, like amber, grounded with something faintly smoky. His eyes flick down to your hand on the counter, then back up to your face. He doesn't frown. Doesn't question. Just sees.
"C'mon, love," he murmurs, and it's not a command. It's an invitation. Like he's asking you to dance. Like you aren't slowly losing control of your own body. Like none of that changes the way he looks at you.
He leans in and kisses your cheek—gentle, unhurried. The kind of kiss that says nothing needs to be earned. That you don't have to explain. He smells like linen and sleep and something undeniably him. There's no pity in his touch. Just warmth. Presence.
Then his hand finds yours, not pulling, just... there. A presence. A choice. The heat of his palm steady against your knuckles. You feel the light press of his thumb—once, barely a touch—before he lets it rest still again. He shifts his weight like he's ready to move only if you are. No pressure. Just support.
You let him guide you, because standing on your own is no longer a winning game, and because something in the softness of his voice makes the knot in your chest loosen just a little. Not all the way. Not yet. But enough to move.
The living room is only a few steps away, but each one stretches longer than the last. The floor seems more uneven now, or maybe your steps just aren't even. You can feel Sirius watching you—closely, carefully—but he doesn't hover. Doesn't fuss. He just matches your pace, shoulder close to yours, silent except for the occasional murmur that's more vibration than sound.
There's something grounding about it—his nearness, his patience. It keeps you from floating too far into that dark space where resentment breeds. You don't want to resent your own body, but some days, it feels like it's dared you to try. Like you're being gaslit by your own cells. You want to scream and sleep and disappear and be held—all at once.
The edge of the sofa appears like a shoreline. You reach it and don't sit—not yet. Just stand, barely swaying, heart pounding with the effort of so little. The sofa cushion still holds a faint imprint of someone having sprawled there earlier. There's a blanket half-draped over the arm, trailing onto the floor. Familiar, homey, soft.
You've just reached the sofa when you hear the creak of the floorboards upstairs. Footsteps, slow and deliberate. A door opens. Then the stairs.
Remus appears five minutes later, carrying a stack of folded blankets like offerings to some sacred ritual, which, knowing him, it might as well be. Balanced on top is your heated lavender wrap, slightly crooked, like he grabbed it last minute but knew you'd want it, and your favourite jumper. It's the soft one—the one he knows you love, all worn knit and familiar scent. That dusky blue one with the small hole near the hem he never got around to fixing. He must've dug it out from the bottom of the wardrobe. His expression is calm, but his eyes tell a different story. That steady, patient look that says he already knows. He always does.
He doesn't speak, not yet.
The jumper drapes over his arm like an offering. His gaze flicks between you and Sirius, and something unspoken settles in the space between the three of you—quiet, heavy, understood. Like the silence before a storm, or after a truth. His fingers tighten slightly around the jumper's sleeve. His weight shifts like he's about to speak, but he doesn't.
You don't sit so much as sink—knees bending with careful control until the sofa cushions catch you. Sirius stays close, his hand still lightly wrapped around yours, until you're settled into the corner of the couch with one leg folded under the other and your back against the armrest. The movement leaves your muscles buzzing faintly, a reminder of earlier, but here, at least, the world has softened. You let out a quiet breath, almost involuntarily, the kind that comes from being somewhere safe. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere where you're allowed to just exist.
He doesn't ask if you need anything. Doesn't hover or hesitate. He just turns on his heel with a mischievous glint in his eye and announces, "Right. Operation Nest is officially underway."
"Operation what now?" you mumble, still catching your breath, cheek pressed lightly to the cushion.
"You heard the man," Remus says as he enters the room, deadpan but fond. "It's nesting time." His brow furrows as he sets his stack of blankets down beside you, then smooths it flat.
Sirius is already grabbing every cushion in sight. He tosses two from the loveseat onto the floor with exaggerated flair, like he's conducting a symphony of softness. Then he kneels and begins evaluating the firmness of each pillow with theatrical seriousness, pressing them with his palm and shaking his head at the ones that don't meet his mysterious criteria.
"These ones are too flat," he mutters, judging another pair of pillows with dramatic disapproval. "No structural integrity. Shocking. Embarrassing, really. Who approved this?"
Remus rolls his eyes and hands you the jumper. "Put this on, love. You're going to need it."
You do, slowly, the familiar wool sliding over your arms like a hug. It smells like clean laundry and a bit of Remus's aftershave—something warm and woodsy with just a hint of something herbal underneath. The sleeves are a bit too long and the neck has gone loose from years of wear, but it's comforting, like wearing a piece of him. By the time you've wriggled into it, Sirius has already turned the couch into a makeshift fortress of cushions, piling them high at one end and making approving noises as he arranges them just so.
"I feel like I'm in the middle of a domestic wildlife documentary," you say, voice low with amusement, adjusting your position slightly as Sirius tucks a cushion behind your back with delicate precision.
Remus chuckles as he spreads one of the throws across the back of the couch. "Watch as the shaggy-haired Sirius Black gathers nesting materials in preparation for the midday snuggle. Notice the precision. The dedication. He's been known to do this before thunderstorms."
"I heard that," Sirius calls from behind the coffee table, where he's now dragging over two more throws from the blanket basket. "And I'll have you know this is a vital task. Comfort is a serious business. You can't just wing a nest. That's how chaos starts."
"You've never taken anything seriously in your life," Remus replies dryly, though his lips twitch.
Sirius reappears, arms full of blankets, and dumps them dramatically over the back of the sofa. "Lies and slander. I take exactly three things seriously: my hair, our sex life, and nesting."
"Not necessarily in that order," you mutter.
Remus snorts. "He's got a spreadsheet about the blankets."
"There's a column for fluff rating," Sirius confirms solemnly as he begins tucking one throw around the edges of the cushions with surprisingly careful hands. "And another for optimum weight-to-coverage ratio. I have graphs."
"This one's for insulation," he says, draping a thick knitted throw over your legs. "This one's for aesthetics,"—a soft pale grey one laid over the back—"and this one is just because it's stupidly soft."
He flops down on your other side, pressing close without hesitation, his body warm and heavy in a comforting way. You're bracketed now—Remus to your left, Sirius to your right—both of them radiating heat and quiet intention. The blankets are drawn around the three of you like a cocoon.
Remus leans his head against the top of the couch, arm stretched out behind you so your shoulders touch. "So," he says casually, "Doctor Who?"
Sirius groans. "If you say 'We should start from the Ninth Doctor,' I swear to God—"
"Don't be daft," Remus says. "We've seen Nine a hundred times. I vote Four. Proper scarf, proper weirdness."
You let your head tip toward Remus's shoulder. "What's wrong with Nine?"
"Nothing!" Sirius protests, affronted. "Nine's brilliant. But we always start there. I want something with more… teeth."
"Teeth?" Remus raises an eyebrow.
Sirius grins. "You know what I mean."
"No one knows what you mean," Remus mutters, but his tone is affectionate. He shifts slightly so his thigh rests against yours. Grounding.
You glance between them, lips twitching. "You two realise you're cuddling someone with brain fog and fatigue, right? You're not exactly selling the clarity of your choices."
Sirius gasps, clutching his chest. "How dare you suggest our chaotic debate isn't soothing."
"I find it oddly reassuring," you admit. "Like white noise, but sexy."
"That's us," Remus says dryly. "Sexy white noise."
"Put that on a T-shirt," Sirius adds, nudging your knee with his. "We'd sell millions."
Remus leans over to press a kiss to your temple. "You don't have to keep up. You're just here. That's enough."
Sirius presses one to your shoulder a moment later, murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like agreement. You close your eyes for a second and just listen—to their breath, to the soft rustle of blankets, to the sound of a show starting somewhere in the background. It's not about the episode. It never was.
The cushions shift as Sirius wriggles down so his head is next to yours, throwing an arm across your stomach with casual intimacy. He lets out a long, exaggerated sigh like he's finally settled into his natural habitat. His fingers curl slightly against your side, a gentle reassurance.
"I still say we start with Four," Remus says again, reaching for the remote.
"Fine," Sirius relents. "But if it's the one with the giant talking cactus, I reserve the right to complain."
"No one's stopping you, darling," Remus replies, already flicking through the menu. "We'll ignore you as usual."
Sirius's fingers brush yours beneath the blanket, pinkies hooking. He doesn't make a big thing of it. Just holds on. Occasionally, he taps a rhythm against your skin that could almost be a song. One you know, even if you can't name it.
Remus adjusts the blanket over your feet. "Are you warm enough?"
You nod. "More than."
"Good," he says simply. Then, after a pause: "You're safe, you know. Even when your body makes everything harder. Especially then."
You don't answer. Just press your face into Sirius's shoulder and exhale. You don't need to speak to be heard here.
The room is warm. Safe. The flicker of the television screen paints soft blue shadows across the ceiling. One of the blankets slides a little, and Sirius reaches over to tuck it back around your legs without comment. Remus rubs small circles against your knee with his thumb, absent-minded and soothing.
Outside, the afternoon has turned quiet. The world beyond your front door feels miles away. There's no ticking clock in here, no timeline you need to follow. There's just the rise and fall of breath and the rustle of blankets and the low hum of a show no one's really watching. Nothing is expected of you right now—no action, no explanation, no performance. You don't have to justify your body or apologise for its unpredictability. You don't even have to follow the plot.
like i quite literally have never been more passionate about anything than i am about the human race’s invariable desire to tell stories and the fact that we always find a way to do it, through spoken language and written language and body language and visual art and theater and poetry and oral tradition and a million other things. there are so many things we take for granted about the human experience that we never stop to think about but i really want you to take a step back and consider how fucking amazing it is that our need to tell stories transcends all boundaries of time and geography and borders and language. it is one of very few things that is legitimately intrinsic to human nature and i will never stop being completely in awe of humanity for that.
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