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.
Pairing: Poly!Wolfstar x Reader
Summary: You haven't held the baby in days. The walls whisper, the light moves wrong, and your own thoughts turn against you—but Sirius and Remus refuse to leave you alone in it.
Tags: postpartum psychosis, intrusive thoughts, auditory and visual hallucinations, depersonalisation, hurt/comfort, remus and sirius being the safest people alive, gentle parenting themes, slow grounding, eventual hope, no use of y/n, reader written with postpartum mental illness experience, staying through the dark, quiet domestic moment, remus' soft voice, sirius' shaking hands, healing is not linear, comfort without fixing
Word Count: 3.5k words
You haven't held the baby in three days. Seventy-two hours of distance, of space widening between your arms and that impossibly small body, as if the universe is conspiring to keep your hands empty. Your fingertips ache with the absence, as though your bones remember something your mind can no longer hold. The thought alone makes your stomach fold in on itself, like paper curling into flame, blackening at the edges, ready to disappear.
Every time you try—every time you so much as think about reaching out—the air around you becomes a weapon. It slices and whines and presses in from all sides. A thousand invisible needles skittering across your skin. The hum of the house, of the street outside, of the world—it swells until it becomes something monstrous. Too loud. Too bright. Too full. A saturation point. You think if you touch them, if your hands brush their delicate skin, it will all collapse. The ceiling. The floor. The fragile scaffolding holding your body upright. Your mind. Your soul. Everything splintering under the weight of your own presence.
So you sit instead. Folded into yourself like you're trying to disappear. The rocking chair beneath you is unmoving, a cradle of stillness you don't dare disturb. You've begun to believe that motion will invite disaster. Your knees are pulled tight to your chest, arms locked around them like a shield. The soft fabric of your jumper bunches at your elbows, already worn thin at the cuffs. You've been wearing it for days, maybe longer. Time feels warped, stretched into something indistinct and sludgy. The fibres are stiff with dried tears and milk, the stale scent of sweat clinging to your skin like smoke after a fire. You're not sure the fire ever stopped.
The cradle sits across the room, quiet and motionless, bathed in the slant of a late afternoon sun that bleeds through the curtains in golden stripes. The light makes the dust shimmer like falling ash, suspended in air, never quite settling. You watch each particle drift with morbid fascination, as if something inside the dust will spell out an answer—some cosmic instruction for how to be a person again.
Inside the crib, the baby shifts. A minute movement. A flutter of fingers. A breathy little noise, no louder than the creak of a settling floorboard. It shouldn't startle you. It does. Your whole body jerks, just slightly, and the guilt that follows hits hard and fast, like being struck across the face. You glance at the cradle again, terrified you've disturbed them, terrified you haven't. The stillness is worse. Like a pause before something happens. Like the moment before a scream. You can feel it coming, whatever it is.
You can hear your pulse. It pounds in your ears, a low thud that syncs with the twitch of your fingers. It crawls up the sides of your neck like a parasite, persistent and inescapable. You wonder if the baby hears it too. You wonder if they can hear everything—the blood rushing through your veins, the frantic static of your thoughts, the way panic hums between your breaths like a second heartbeat. You imagine it bleeding out of you. Dripping from your fingertips like ink. Poisonous. You imagine it soaking into the carpet, staining the pale pink fibres. And worse—you imagine it reaching them. Creeping up the crib. Slipping beneath the soft blanket. Touching their skin. Soaking into their perfect little bones until it shatters them too.
You imagine them opening their eyes and seeing it—seeing you for what you really are. A thing cracked open. A thing not meant to be near something this small, this clean, this sacred.
The shadows in the nursery aren't shadows anymore. They move. They stretch. They whisper. They gather in corners and cling to the ceiling and curl along the edge of your vision, flickering like candle flames in a windless room. They speak in half-formed words, a chorus of murmurs just low enough to pass as your own voice. You shouldn't be here. You don't belong. You will hurt them. You already have. They'd be safer without you. They'd be better off. The whispers braid together until they become a lullaby of loathing, a hymn sung in your own cadence. You try to shut them out, but they live in your skin now. They know your name. They know what you're afraid of. They remind you.
You hold your breath without realising, lungs burning before you release it in a shaky exhale. Even that feels dangerous. You're afraid to breathe too loud. Afraid to shift in the chair. Afraid to blink wrong and somehow tip the room into chaos. The air is thick. Stale. There's the sharpness of antiseptic, the sweetness of baby powder, the sour tang of milk, and beneath it all, the cold metallic scent of fear. It settles in the back of your throat, bitter and cloying. You taste it when you swallow. You taste it even when you don't.
Above the crib, the toy mobile spins slowly. Moons and stars made of paper and plastic drift in their ghostly orbit, catching the sunlight in fractured flashes. The walls are speckled with soft, warping shadows—a constellation of movement that has nothing to do with the sky. You stare at them, transfixed, your mind trying to draw sense from the chaos. They don't look like stars anymore. They look like eyes. Like mouths. Like open wounds that watch you without blinking.
You watch the baby like you're watching a live wire. Each breath they take is loaded, every twitch a countdown. You imagine a thousand ways it could all go wrong. Their chest might stop rising. They might start crying. They might disappear. They might look at you and see you. You, with your shaking hands and your ragged thoughts and your body that hasn't felt like yours in weeks. You, who is meant to love them. You, who is afraid to touch them.
They make a soft sound—a sigh, or a grunt, or a dream. Your heart seizes. The feeling that rises isn't simple. It isn't maternal. It isn't pure. It's a knot of things: awe and grief and terror and longing. Something primal and broken and too vast to name. You want to go to them. You want to run. You want to disappear. You want to be better. You want to be gone.
Your hands tremble. You tug your jumper sleeve down, wrap it over your knuckles, and press your fist against your mouth. The wool is rough, faintly bitter, something to anchor yourself with. The silence in the room has become something else entirely—it is sentient, maybe. It holds its breath with you. The house groans faintly, wooden beams settling under the weight of something invisible, something ancient. Something watching. You imagine it perching in the corner, its breath synchronised with yours, waiting for you to slip.
You don't rock the chair. You can't. Stillness is safety. Stillness means the edges don't fray further. If you move, something might notice. If you move, something might change. You tell yourself that if you stay like this—curled in, silent, distant—nothing bad will happen. You will not break anything else. You will not shatter what remains. You will not become the reason.
Eventually, the door opens like a breath.
Slow, careful. As if the hinges might snap under too much sound. As if the quiet in this room is sacred, or brittle, or both. You don't turn to look. Can't. Your body is still a fortress, your knees a barrier between you and the rest of the world. But you feel him before you see him. Sirius. His presence is like smoke under the door—inevitable, warm, a little wild. He steps inside with the sort of gentleness you've only ever seen him offer to frightened animals and broken glass. It doesn't suit him, not really. Not the man who has always been too much for the world to hold. But here he is, trying to take up less space. Trying not to be loud. Trying to be safe.
You hear the soft clink of ceramic on wood. A teacup, placed on the little table beside you. Chamomile, probably. With honey. The mug is his favourite one—chipped near the rim, stars faded around the handle. You stare at it for a moment, then glance up, vision blurry with sleep you haven't had. You can smell the tea from here. Sweet. Floral. Comforting. The steam curls in the air like an invitation you don't feel worthy of.
His fingers tremble as he pulls back.
It would be easy to miss if you weren't already an expert in shaking. He shoves them into the pockets of his jeans like he's trying to hide it, but the tension in his shoulders gives him away. There's always been something of the boy in Sirius when he's scared. The way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes flicker over you, like he's trying to memorise you in case you vanish. Like he's already seen it happen in his mind. Maybe he has. Maybe he's lived it in nightmares. Maybe that fear is why he's here now, moving slow, speaking softer.
He kneels slowly, one leg folding under him, the other propped up like he's ready to bolt if he has to. He doesn't say anything at first. Just breathes. Just exists beside you. His presence anchors the air.
"You're a good parent," he says finally.
The words stop everything.
You blink. The shadows hush. The baby sighs in the crib. The air, thick with the ghosts of imagined disasters, stills for a beat. Just one. But enough to make you look at him.
You open your mouth, but the apology climbs up your throat before the words form. He sees it coming. He always does.
"Don't," Sirius says, shaking his head. His voice is hoarse, like he's been rehearsing this. "Don't say you're sorry. Not for thinking. Not for being scared. Not for—" He swallows hard. "Not for what's in your head. That's not your fault. None of this is your fault."
You lower your gaze again. The mug is steaming gently, a tendril of warmth reaching for you. Your hands twitch with the thought of touching it, but you don't. You can't. Not yet. Even the thought of your fingers closing around something that warm, that safe, makes your heart thud like an alarm bell. Even safety feels dangerous, like a trap. Like a thing you might break by needing it too much.
The floor creaks, then another presence joins the room, quieter still. Remus.
He doesn't speak right away. Just kneels on the other side of the rocking chair and rests a hand gently on your ankle. Not to restrain. Not to comfort. Just to say: I'm here. I see you. His touch is feather-light, like he's afraid too. Of hurting you. Of tipping you off balance. Of taking one thing too far and unravelling the little threads you've wrapped around yourself. You wonder if he can feel how tense you are, how close to shattering.
He disappears from your peripheral vision for a moment, and then he's back, unfolding one of the baby's blankets. The yellow one, soft and slightly stained, the edges frayed from a month of gentle chewing and washing and folding. It smells like formula and lavender and something impossibly safe. You can smell it before you feel it.
He wraps it around your shoulders without asking.
The weight is soft. Soothing. Real. The fabric slips around your collarbone like a breath, catching in the hollows of your body where the fear has hollowed you out. It warms your skin, prickles the hairs on your arms. You breathe in the scent and, for a second, your chest loosens.
"You're allowed to be scared," Remus says, his voice barely louder than breath. "That doesn't make you dangerous. That makes you human."
His lips brush your temple. Not in a performance of comfort, but in a ritual. Something practised. Something offered. A reminder that even if your hands won't move, theirs still do.
"I don't know how to do this," you whisper. "I don't know how to be the kind of parent they need."
Sirius tilts his head. "You think we do?" he asks, almost laughing, but there's no mockery in it. Only honesty. "I've been winging it since we brought them home."
Remus smiles faintly. "You're not doing this alone. That's the whole point. There are three of us. Three. You get to fall apart sometimes. That's why we built this together."
"And," Sirius says, more softly now, "they still reach for you when they wake up."
Remus nods, his hand still resting light against your arm. "They know you. They trust you. They don't know what fear is yet. They just know warmth. Sound. Your voice."
You swallow, throat dry. "But what if I break them?" you breathe. The question leaves you raw. "What if I already have?"
Sirius leans forward until his forehead almost touches yours. His eyes are wide and wet and furious with love. "Then we un-break them together. Just like we un-break each other."
You let out a soft, helpless noise. "I thought I saw things. Heard things. I think I still do. I thought if I touched them, it would—infect them. Ruin them."
Remus exhales, a sound like pain. "That's the illness talking. Not you."
"But it feels like me," you say. "It sounds like me. It wears my face when I close my eyes. It whispers in my own voice."
"That's how it works," Sirius says. "It puts on your voice so it can trick you into believing it's true. But I know your voice better than that. We both do."
Remus rests his chin on your shoulder, the scratch of his stubble grounding. "Your real voice sings lullabies. Your real voice cried the first time they opened their eyes. Your real voice loved them before you ever saw their face. That voice is still in there. It's just quieter today."
You clench your fingers into the blanket. "I want to hold them. I want to. But my body won't move."
Sirius nods like it makes perfect sense. "Then we'll wait with you until it does."
"We'll wait as long as it takes," Remus adds. "No clocks. No milestones. No pressure."
Sirius bumps his knee against yours. "Besides, I still don't know how to burp them without getting puked on, so if you want to watch me make a mess..."
You laugh. It cracks something open, but it doesn't hurt. The sound is soft. Unsteady. A beginning.
Remus presses his forehead lightly against your temple. "There you are," he murmurs. "We've missed you."
Sirius reaches for your hand, tentative. You let him take it. He squeezes once. Just once.
They don't make you hold the baby.
They don't push. Don't hover. Don't hand them over like a test you might fail. There is no expectation, no pressure curled into their posture. Just presence. Just the steady rhythm of being here. Just the quiet promise that love doesn't always have to be loud or earned. Sometimes it only has to be shared. Sometimes it only has to be there.
Sirius stays close, his knee still pressed against yours, grounding. He doesn't let go of your hand. His thumb moves in slow, absent circles over your knuckles, like he's soothing himself as much as he's soothing you. His hands are warm and calloused, the kind of worn comfort that comes from a lifetime of holding too tightly and being held too little. But here, now, they are steady. Reverent. Like he knows what it costs you to stay in this moment, and he's willing to pay the toll with silence. He doesn't speak unless you do. He doesn't flinch when your fingers twitch. He just stays.
Remus hums something under his breath. It's not a tune you recognise, exactly, but it sinks into the room like a thread, stitching the air together. Low and warm and wordless, a sound meant for settling frightened things. He sits cross-legged on the floor beside you, shoulder just brushing your calf. Occasionally he glances toward the crib, then back to you, like he's reminding himself—reminding all of you—that the world has not ended. Not yet. Maybe not today. His eyes are soft, their tired gold dimmed by worry and wear, but they never lose focus. They never leave you stranded.
The tea beside you is cooling, but you still don't reach for it. The mug sits like a symbol of something kinder, something ordinary. You can't quite imagine being the kind of person who could drink tea right now. That version of you is too far away. But its presence matters. Like Sirius and Remus. It doesn't ask anything of you. It just waits. It reminds you that there is softness still, somewhere.
You listen instead. To the baby's breathing, impossibly light and even. To Sirius shifting occasionally, his denim brushing against the wood floor. To Remus' quiet melody, which has turned into something you realise is a lullaby—or maybe a memory of one. You don't know where it comes from, but it wraps around your ribs like a soft scarf. Each note unravels a little of the tension braided into your spine.
Sirius says your name like a question he already knows the answer to.
"Still here?"
You nod. Barely. But it's enough.
He smiles, faint and crooked. "Good. We like you here."
Remus chuckles quietly. "We do. We're rather fond of you, actually."
Your lips twitch. Not quite a smile. But almost.
Time becomes strange. Minutes pass, or maybe hours, thick and slow like syrup. The shadows in the corners stretch and settle again, no longer threatening, only waiting. At some point, the baby lets out a little coo in their sleep. A tiny sound, so small it would be lost in any other moment. But here, it pierces straight through the fog.
Your eyes flick to the crib.
Sirius notices. He squeezes your hand again, gentle. Steady. No rush. No suggestion. Just understanding.
Remus leans forward just a little, speaking softly. "They've been sleeping well today. They missed you this morning, I think. Kept fussing until Sirius hummed your song."
You glance at him. "My song?"
"The one you hum when you change them," Sirius says. "You probably don't even know you do it, but they do."
You swallow hard. The lump rises in your throat too fast to catch. You look down at your lap, then at the blanket around your shoulders. It smells faintly like lavender and milk and warmth. Your breathing has slowed, not even intentionally. The fear is still there, still gnawing beneath your ribs, still curling sharp and mean at the edges of your thoughts. But it's quieter. Muffled. Like someone turned the volume down.
Remus speaks again, slower this time. "You don't have to rush anything. There's no checklist. No right way to be ready."
"But if you are ready," Sirius adds, voice softer now, "we'll be right here. Not watching. Just here."
You don't answer. Your throat is thick with feeling. With doubt. With longing. With fear.
Instead, you shift. Slight. Barely perceptible. But your hand rises from the blanket, hovers in the space between you and the crib like it weighs a hundred pounds. Your breath stutters. A gasp caught in your lungs. Your chest tightens, then loosens, then tightens again.
Sirius doesn't say a word. He just slides his hand over yours.
Solid. Sure. Warm. His palm covers yours like a seal, like a promise. Like a vow spoken without ceremony.
"We're here," he murmurs, voice anchored like stone. "All three of us."
Remus rises onto his knees beside you, steady and slow, not to guide or direct but to witness. He reaches up and touches the blanket, smoothing it over your shoulder like it matters that you are still wrapped in something soft. Like it matters that you remember what comfort feels like.
The crib feels far away and far too close all at once. But you keep your hand where it is. Hovering. Trembling. Reaching. The distance between you and the baby is the width of the world. And yet.
You don't touch. Not yet. Just hover. Just exist in the space between wanting and doing. But the baby stirs, little fists uncurling, a soft sound slipping from their lips. Not a cry. Just life. Just breath. Just being.
And the shadows—the ones in your mind, the ones clinging to the corners of the nursery—they go still.
i think we should introduce blogger rpf to the ecosystem just cos im curious to see how people would characterise me and my relationship with my mutuals. also i'd read enemies to lovers fics of me and my mutuals in law that have me blocked
before my egg cracked, i had noticed that trans people were often pro-accessibility and up-to-date on the needs of disabled people, but i hadn’t seen any inherent connection between the two (other than the obvious minority-looking-out-for-other-minority thing). but now that i’m trans and medically transitioning, and i have to constantly repeat myself while talking to doctors and nurses, and explain things about my own anatomy to medical staff who should already know this, and having every single problem i might have blamed on my “condition” so nothing i say is taken seriously, all of the sudden i have a little sneak peak into the life of someone who has to deal with this all the time. like shit bro, being disabled probably sucks ass, someone should do something about this
There is no room for rad fems in cripplepunk. The creator was trans. The majority of the people in it are trans. This isn't just the "cool disabled" tag it's a fucking movement.
Your value as a person is not defined by how much you can contribute to society no matter what ableists will make you think.
You DO deserve to feel joy and happiness no matter what anyone else says.
If you haven't been told this please know I am proud of you for making it through the year. I know from personal experience that it can be hell just trying to survive when disabled and I am so proud that you managed it, seriously.
Disability aids don't ruin your outfit, by the way. You still look just as cool in your cool outfit, with or without disability aids. And you know what? They can add to it. Decorate your wheelchair. Use fun tubie tape. Put a cool case on your communication device. Etc. And even if you don't do anything extra to your aids, guess what? You still look cool and your disability aids are cool, and they don't ruin your outfit or coolness. They're just a part of you. So, remember to be proud of them and you. <3 (heart shape)
Pairing: Poly!Prongsfoot x Disabled!Reader
Summary: You're too tired to move. Luckily, James and Sirius are more than happy to stay in bed with you all day.
Tags: disabled!reader, chronic fatigue, depictions of chronic pain, established relationship, soft domesticity, hurt/comfort, fluff, reader not moving much, reader being held, james is so grounding, sirius is so gentle, sensory detail heavy, no use of y/n, reader being loved exactly as they are
Word Count: 4.2k words
The day is already soft around the edges. It unfolds in blurred brushstrokes, like watercolour left too long in the rain—hazy, impressionistic, and quietly kind. There's no urgency here, no sharp lines. Only the muffled hush of rain against the windows, the dull golden spill of early morning light filtered through thick curtains, and James's hand warm against your back as he murmurs, "Let's just stay in today."
There's a gentle finality in his tone, the kind that brooks no argument—not because he's demanding, but because you know he's already decided. He's made up his mind in that quiet, stubborn way he does when he senses something in you is fraying. And maybe it is. Maybe it has been for days now. There's a weariness in you that runs too deep to name, a tiredness untouched by sleep. He knows it. Sirius does, too. They always know. It's in the way they watch you without staring, in the way they don't ask questions that would require you to lie.
You're still in pyjamas—oversized, shared, slightly mismatched. Sirius's ancient Gryffindor sweatshirt, stretched and threadbare at the cuffs, swallows your hands like it's trying to keep them safe. James's flannel bottoms hang loose around your hips, soft with age and faded from countless washes. The fabric carries the ghosts of mornings like this—slow, indulgent, made of toast crumbs in bed and warm hands on colder skin. You're layered in their scent—sandalwood and bergamot and something softer, maybe lavender—and beneath all that, something purely domestic. Laundry powder. Clean sheets. Sleep. Familiarity so complete it feels like part of your skin.
The three of you are a tangle of limbs and blankets beneath a fortress of duvets, all heaped and heavy, smelling faintly of lavender and the lingering warmth of dreams. Sirius's legs are half-wrapped around yours, one of James's feet is stuck out the bottom of the covers because he always runs warm. There's a dent in the pillow from where Sirius's head had rested earlier, and you can still feel the faint echo of his breath on the back of your neck.
The air is thick with quiet intimacy, the kind that's not performative or polished—just lived-in, like the soft dip in the mattress where James always sleeps, or the scratch on the headboard from when Sirius kicked it in his sleep last week. It smells like home. It feels like a pause button pressed on the rest of the world.
Sirius is perched on the edge of the bed, cross-legged, dark hair falling in his face as he squints at the telly remote like it's personally offended him. His eyebrows are drawn tight in a frown, mouth tugged downward as he mutters, "Why does every bloody streaming service have a different interface? It's a conspiracy. A deeply personal one. Against me."
"Just pick one, Pads," James says, voice rough with sleep but undeniably smug. He shifts slightly, pulling you closer into his chest. His arms encircle you without ceremony, one curling around your middle, the other tucked under your arm, his chin resting in the crook of your neck like it belongs there. "Doesn't matter what we watch, long as we're not moving."
He presses a palm to your belly, warm and grounding. The weight of it is enough to make your eyes flutter. You feel him breathe behind you, slow and steady, like he's syncing himself to the rhythm of your own stuttering pace. He smells like sleep and shampoo and the faintest trace of the coffee he made hours ago but forgot to drink.
Your limbs are weighted, heavy with that deep-set weariness that doesn't quite hurt but doesn't leave either. Chronic fatigue doesn't always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes it just settles in like fog—insistent, quiet, dense. A slow encroaching tide. Today, it's rooted in your muscles, stitched into your bones. Every movement feels like swimming through syrup. There's no strength to spare. But here, in this cocoon of warmth and soft pressure, wrapped between James's chest and Sirius's inevitable sprawl, it feels… manageable. Not gone. Never gone. But dulled. Contained.
Even your breath feels heavier lately, like every inhale has to negotiate its right to be here. But you're not alone in it. You can feel the shape of that knowledge in every touch they offer without condition. You're not expected to be anything today except here.
You blink slowly, vision a little blurred, lashes sticking together from sleep and dryness. The light doesn't hurt, not exactly—it just presses in too insistently, and you let your eyes drift closed again. There's no reason to fight it. The ache in your shoulders, the heaviness in your limbs, the quiet strain behind your eyes—it's all easier to bear when you're not carrying it alone.
Sirius finally collapses back against the pillows with a triumphant, "Aha!" as the opening credits of your favourite comfort film begin to play. He queues it up with a flourish, like he's just cast a particularly complex spell. You know what's coming—the familiar intro, the scenes you could quote, the soft arc of a story that asks nothing of you but your presence. There's relief in that. In knowing exactly what's next.
"Finally," James mutters, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder, his lips just brushing the fabric of your shirt. "Thought I was going to waste away waiting."
"You'd waste away in five-star luxury," Sirius quips, rolling into place behind you. He slides an arm around your waist, his body fitting to yours like muscle memory. His breath is warm at the nape of your neck, his skin still radiating the heat of sleep. "But you'd make it everyone's problem."
"I'd waste away dramatically. There'd be swooning."
"There's always swooning with you," Sirius replies with a smirk, his thumb brushing lazily over your hipbone through the fabric.
"He really did faint once because he skipped breakfast," you murmur, your voice too quiet to carry far but just loud enough that they hear.
James gasps theatrically. "I was young and fragile!"
"You were sixteen. And you missed one meal."
Sirius chuckles, his nose nudging the edge of your jaw, his laugh soft and affectionate. "Truly a tragic tale."
You huff a quiet laugh, the sound barely a breath, but Sirius catches it anyway. His fingers find yours beneath the blanket and link without comment. He doesn't squeeze. Doesn't press. Just holds. James's thumb strokes slow circles on your ribs, like he's marking time. A quiet rhythm just for you.
Neither of them says anything about how your eyes keep fluttering shut. About how your limbs are leaden, unmoving. About how you haven't shifted much at all since crawling into bed last night and never really leaving. Not for long. There's no mention of the ache you didn't voice, the exhaustion you didn't name. Not aloud. Not yet.
They don't have to.
Sirius shifts closer, the duvet rustling around him, chest pressed flush to your back. His nose nudges just behind your ear, and he exhales like he's been holding it all morning. Deep. Content. Entirely too pleased with himself.
"Alright, love," he says softly, and it's not really a question. Just a presence. A reminder. You're not alone here.
James hums into your neck, his voice barely a vibration. "This is nice. We should do nothing more often."
The film is playing now, scenes moving in a blur of colour and sound. You don't really follow the plot. You don't need to. The room is warm, thick with shared breath and the soft rustle of shifting blankets. You mean to say something. You do. Something small. Maybe just a noise, a sigh. Maybe just their names. But the words get lost in the warmth, in the rhythm of Sirius's breathing against your back, in the familiar weight of James's arms around your middle. The soft weight of tiredness pins you still, and for once, you don't mind it.
Every so often, Sirius kisses the back of your neck. It's not rhythmic, not deliberate. Just instinct—like breathing, like blinking. Soft, unhurried presses of his mouth against the curve where your spine meets your skull, where the edge of James's shirt slips down your shoulder. He doesn't say anything when he does it. Doesn't have to. The heat of his lips, the weight of his breath—those are words in their own right. Whole sentences. Promises. Apologies. I-miss-yous and I'm-here-nows whispered through skin. Sometimes, he breathes you in, like the scent of you settles something inside him. Like he's trying to memorise your presence down to the atoms.
He shifts now and again to brush stray hairs from the back of your neck, to smooth the fabric of your shirt where it's wrinkled, but mostly he just stays still. He's learned your stillness isn't absence. That it means you're here, just somewhere deeper inside yourself. And he stays with you there.
James's hand is still on your hip, fingers tracing those same slow circles he started nearly half an hour ago. The motion hasn't faltered. He's not trying to coax anything from you. Not trying to wake you or stir you or prompt you. He's just there. Gentle, grounding. Present. His palm drags slightly over the fabric of your pyjamas, rough with calluses in the best places, familiar in the way gravity is. It doesn't matter that he's done it for so long—each pass feels like a fresh reminder that he hasn't gone anywhere. That he won't. That he's right here, wherever your body is, wherever your mind drifts.
Between them, you drift. Drowsy. Floaty. Suspended. Held in place by warmth and softness and the kind of love that never rushes. Your body isn't entirely yours in this moment—it belongs to the mattress, to the warmth, to them. To the weight of Sirius's arm slung over your waist, the press of James's chest against your back, the faint murmur of dialogue from the telly that you're not really listening to. A haze of a story, just enough noise to keep the silence from ringing too loud. And even that, somehow, feels part of the rhythm—like the film knows to keep quiet while they speak to you with hands and breath and skin.
They talk sometimes. Little things. Low-voiced and half-mumbled, like secrets spoken just for the air to carry. Their words aren't for each other, not really. They're for you, meant to settle over your skin and sink into your bones. Meant to rest beside your pulse.
"You look so fucking good in this," Sirius breathes, brushing his fingers over the hem of the sweatshirt as he nuzzles behind your ear. His voice has that rough edge he gets when he's sleepy but trying not to fall all the way. "Should keep you in it permanently. Might die. Might die happy, though. I mean, look at you. You're not even trying. You just exist and I'm fucked."
"He's not wrong," James murmurs, lips against your temple, his breath warm on your skin. "You've got no idea, love. S'not fair. You're just—" His hand flattens against your hip, like he's trying to keep you from slipping away. "—ridiculously pretty. Gorgeous. S'like you were made for us."
Sirius snorts softly. "We should build a shrine to you. Right in the living room. With little candles and a velvet cushion in the middle. Maybe those gold picture frames. You know the ones."
"We'll have to take turns worshipping at it," James adds. "I'll write a rota."
You don't respond—not with words. Just a small shift in your breathing, a soft hum somewhere in your chest. You're too tired to move, too warm to want to. But the words soak into you, settle beneath your skin like sunlight. Like balm. Like home. The way they speak to you—like you're holy, like you're precious, like you matter exactly as you are—it fills something you didn't know was empty.
"Can't believe we get to hold you like this," Sirius says after a long stretch of quiet, his voice scratchy with sleep and something softer, something breaking around the edges. "Missed this. Missed you. Missed the way you go all soft when you're between us. Like you remember you're safe."
James hums in agreement, nose pressed to your hair. "Missed your weight on me. You always go so still when you're tired. Like you're made of glass."
"But stronger," Sirius adds, with a breath of reverence. "Glass that could cut. That could shine."
You huff a weak laugh, the sound more breath than anything. They both smile, and you don't have to see them to feel it ripple through their bodies. Their warmth shifts with it. Their hands pause, then continue. Slow. Loving. Committed. Sirius squeezes your hand where it's nestled beneath the blanket, his thumb stroking across your knuckles in slow, lazy arcs.
Another kiss, this one lower—Sirius's lips at the base of your neck, pressing firm and unhurried. The kind of kiss that lingers. That says more in silence than anything else could. James responds by tucking you closer, his hand dragging up to your ribs and back again. A loop. A lullaby. The kind of touch that you could live inside forever. Sirius's thumb strokes a gentle line across your hip, back and forth, a rhythm almost as steady as your heartbeat. Your body responds in the only way it can—by softening further into the touch.
Your eyes close. They've fluttered open and shut a dozen times now, but this time they stay closed. Your chest rises and falls between theirs. Your skin hums with the memory of every touch. Of every word not spoken aloud but pressed into your skin all the same. Even the quiet has weight here. Meaning. It doesn't need to be filled. It just exists, shared between three sets of lungs and three slow, steady heartbeats. There's no pressure, no expectation. Just warmth. Just rest.
The movie keeps playing, but you're not watching. You drift in and out of it like a dream you can't quite catch hold of, each scene blurring into the next. The flickering light washes over the three of you in soft flashes—blues and greys and the occasional warmth of candlelight from the screen. But you don't need to follow it. Not when their voices are there to anchor you. Not when their touches keep you tethered. Not when every breath is a reminder that they are still here.
"Love you like this," James says into your hair, voice gone sticky with emotion, thick with it. "Love you always, but this… this is perfect. You here. With us. Letting us hold you. Letting us remind you that you don't have to do it alone."
Sirius murmurs something in agreement—just a sound, a noise of contentment. Of belonging. Of something he can't quite name. His hand strokes your waist like he's trying to memorise you. Like if he lets go, he'll forget the shape of you. And that would undo him.
James shifts just slightly to press a kiss to the shell of your ear. "Don't need anything more than this. Just you. Just now."
Sirius noses behind your ear again, voice barely a whisper. "You're so easy to love when you let yourself rest. You know that? You don't have to do anything. Just be here. That's enough. You're enough. Always have been."
Another kiss. Another breath. Another pause where all the air in the room seems to pull inward and wrap around the three of you. And still, their hands don't stop moving. Still, their mouths keep finding bits of skin to worship. Still, they hold you like you're made of magic and breath and the most fragile light.
Every press of their lips feels like a promise. A vow not spoken in ceremony but carved quietly into the shape of your mornings. Of your stillness. Of the way you let yourself be held. You wonder if they know—if they realise—that they're the only thing that makes this stillness bearable. That being wrapped between them is the only time the fatigue doesn't feel like defeat.
You don't need to be more. You don't need to be anything but here.
And they don't stop touching you—not possessively, not with urgency. Just gently. Endlessly. Like they're afraid you'll disappear if they don't. Like they're reminding themselves—and you—that you're not alone. That this moment, this softness, this safety, is yours. Deserved. Kept.
When the credits roll, they don't move.
The soft glow of the television dims and flickers with the end title sequence, but no one makes a sound. The music is quiet, barely more than a murmur, and still, they stay wrapped around you like they've forgotten how to let go. Like movement would break the spell. Like silence is the only language that matters right now. The only truth. Time folds in on itself, stretches out long and golden and hushed. None of you are ready for the moment to end.
James's hand slides up from your hip, curling gently beneath your jaw. He tilts your face toward him with a touch so light it's almost hesitant—like he's asking permission even after all this time. His thumb strokes along your cheekbone once, a tender swipe, and then he kisses you.
Slow. Deep. Unrushed. Like he has all the time in the world to memorise the shape of your mouth. Like you're the only thing he's ever wanted to watch. He kisses you like your breath is the only one he wants to breathe, like the rest of the world could fall away and it wouldn't matter—not as long as he has this. Has you. His nose nudges gently against yours as he draws the kiss out, his fingers resting just below your ear, anchoring you to him.
The kiss doesn't ask for anything. It simply gives. He leans into it gently, his fingers smoothing over your cheek, his body curving around yours like he's trying to shelter you from every sharp edge in the world. It's reverent. Soft. Steady. The kind of kiss that doesn't chase fire—it keeps you warm. It promises morning after morning, all quiet and close, just like this.
Your fingers twitch, a soft response, barely enough strength to move but enough to say you're here. You're present, even in the fog. He feels it, smiles into the kiss, and lingers there anyway. No urgency. No pressure. Just warmth. Just James. Just now.
Behind you, Sirius shifts—just slightly, enough to tighten his arm around your waist. He leans forward, laughter rumbling in his chest, low and affectionate, like it's bubbling up from somewhere bone-deep. "God, you two are fucking beautiful," he murmurs against your shoulder before pressing a kiss to it. Then another, higher up, over the seam of the sweatshirt. A slow trail that feels like punctuation. Full stop. Comma. Exhale. Each kiss pressed in time with his breathing.
He mouths at the fabric before moving to skin, nuzzling aside the collar with a kind of unspoken reverence. The kind that says he could spend the rest of the day doing just this. Kissing every inch of you, cataloguing your reactions, letting you know—without words—that you're safe. Adored. His. Like he's trying to memorise your stillness, your softness, the precise way you let go in his arms.
And then, without warning, his mouth is at your cheek. A brush of lips. A pause. A breath. His hair falls over your temple, and you feel the faint tickle of it as he hovers close.
"You're unreal," he whispers, and kisses the corner of your mouth like he can't help himself. Like gravity pulls him to you, like orbit is inevitable. His voice sounds almost awestruck—like even now, after all this time, he still can't believe you're real.
Then he leans further, stretching over you, warm and unhurried. He cups James's jaw and kisses him too—open-mouthed and lazy, all heat and affection and the weight of everything they never say but always show. James hums into it, his hand never leaving your face. The kiss deepens for a moment, tender and full of history. Full of belonging. Full of all the things neither of them puts into words when they're sober, when the lights are bright, when the day is loud.
Their mouths part with a quiet sound, the kind that belongs only to people who know each other this well. Sirius rests his forehead briefly against James's, and they both sigh like something in them has settled. Like something found its way home. You feel their breath moving around you—warm, grounding. Holding you in the quiet centre of their world.
You stay there, cradled between them, surrounded by their bodies and their heat and their breath. The duvet's twisted around your legs, the telly quietly cycling through suggested titles, light flickering across the wall like fading firelight. None of you are in any rush to leave this moment. No one even glances at the remote. The outside world feels impossibly far away.
No expectations. No demands. Just soft kisses and heavier limbs, skin against skin where sleeves have ridden up, where pyjama bottoms have twisted at the ankle. Hands linked. Ankles touching. A mess of bodies that fit together like puzzle pieces, like poetry. Like destiny you got to choose. You're not sure whose fingers are whose anymore, and you don't care. You are cocooned in them. Entirely.
James presses another kiss to your brow, this one quick and quiet, as Sirius burrows closer from behind, his chest flush to your back. His hand strokes slow patterns across your stomach, shapes that don't mean anything but feel like everything. He spells your name once, lazily, like he's carving it into the fabric of the morning. Like it belongs there.
The room smells like the three of you—shampoo and sleep and faint cologne and something entirely your own, familiar and safe. Home. The rain has stopped, or maybe it hasn't—you can't hear it anymore. All you hear now is breathing. Theirs. Yours. The quiet hum of togetherness. The kind of peace that doesn't have a soundtrack. It just is.
There's weight to it. A gravity. Something that holds the three of you in orbit around each other. Even in silence, there's connection. In stillness, there's comfort. The kind that isn't rare but still feels sacred. Sirius's thumb traces idle lines over your ribs now, and James's breath softens as he whispers your name like it's a prayer.
And still, they don't let you go. Not even a little. Their bodies stay curved around yours like you're the centre of some private solar system. Anchored. Illuminated. Needed. Known.
"We could stay here forever," James mumbles, voice heavy with sleep, still close enough that his breath ghosts over your lips. His thumb brushes along your jaw like he's smoothing something fragile. Like he's memorising every soft thing about you in case he ever wakes up and it's gone.
"We should," Sirius agrees. "Anyone objects, they can fuck off. We're busy. Permanently. Occupied with what matters."
James laughs softly, that breathy sound that always makes your chest ache in the best way. He leans in again, presses another kiss to your forehead. "Reckon we've earned it."
Sirius rests his chin on your shoulder, his hand still moving over your skin. "Reckon we deserve it," he murmurs, a touch more serious now. His voice is softer than usual. Almost reverent. "Reckon you do most of all."
You shift just enough to turn your head, your cheek pressed to James's chest, your back warmed by Sirius's weight. You can feel their hearts, slow and steady and so close. You can feel their warmth like it belongs to you. Like you were built to fit here. Like you were always meant to find your way back to this exact place.
James kisses your hairline again, and Sirius exhales slowly, like your presence is the thing grounding him. You can feel the way they both breathe deeper with you here, like your stillness lets them soften too.
No one says another word for a long while. There's no need. Every breath, every small touch, every kiss and shift and sigh—it's all conversation. It's all connection. It's all the things you never had to ask for, given freely now. A language of love spoken in stillness, fluent in silence.
You're tangled in love and linen. Wrapped in the kind of stillness that doesn't ask anything from you. The kind that heals. The kind that doesn't demand answers or energy or anything at all. The kind that only ever asks you to stay.
Warm and half-asleep, exactly where you belong.
And when James's thumb moves again, brushing that same line across your cheekbone, and Sirius kisses your shoulder like he's claiming it, you know they're not letting go anytime soon.
if you think for even just a second how fucking crazy bonkers it is that women are so frequently kept from being protagonists or important or fully realized characters when its like. That is literally 50% of the world population. Half of all people (more or less. hopefully more as time marches on!) are women. And you look at media and think about how many protagonists are men and their best friends are men and the ensemble cast is 80-100% men and the fandoms are about men and the romances are about men. well. YOU GO INSANE
Do you know of any way to include 𝓒𝓸𝓸𝓵 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓬𝔂 𝓤𝓷𝓲𝓬𝓸𝓭𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝔁𝓽 in a fic in a way that is friendly to screen readers?
I'm gonna be a bit of a Debbie Downer for a second and point out that it's not just people who use screen readers who have difficulty with those fonts. It's also people with dyslexia, lower reading comprehension, lack of familiarity with cursive or fancy fonts, and non-native speakers.
I myself am none of the above, but I still can't read more than one or two words of either strikethrough or Zalgo text before I can feel a strain in my eyes.
For those who are able to visually read the words, I'll explain what the issue is with screen readers. Fancy Unicode Text isn't actually text. It's letters formed by unicode symbols that were created for use in, for example, mathematical equations. Each of those symbols has a name, and a screen reader will read out each "letter"'s name instead of reading the whole word. I'll put an example below, as an image, to save people who are using screen readers to read this post (there's a brief alt text though).
example courtesy of https://givemefonts.com/blog/accessibility-in-unicode
So, now that everyone is up to speed on the question, I have one question and two possible solutions.
The question: What is the purpose of using the fancy unicode text?
First possible solution: If you just want to be able to differentiate the font and/or colour of text within a fic, you can do that with a work skin and leave the text fully readable by screen readers. Here's one that was created for Undertale and has a whole bunch of web safe fonts you can switch between. There's one for Homestuck as well. And a third workskin that does lots of formatting, including fonts and colours.
Second possible solution: If you're going for a specific look that can only be achieved by fancy unicode text, then you might want to include that as an image and set the image's alt text to be the plain text version.
Let's open it up to see if anyone else has ideas, though! I'm certain someone else has run into the conundrum before.
I've been using text-to-speech compatible ereader software for over a decade now, since before my eyesight started going bad, so I've experienced these sort of compatibility issues as a) a fully sighted reader, b) a reader with severe cataracts, and now c) a reader with diabetes-related vision loss. Reading by sight is still possible for me, as is editing out the frickin' non-TTS-friendly stuff in Calibre if i want to read it badly enough, it's just very annoying and sometimes eye strain inducing - and generally I have to *REALLY* like your work already to suffer through squinting at annoying fake text in order to replace it with real text.
In most cases cases the snarl of glitch text or long strings of unicode-symbol-names-being-read-aloud is an automatic 'hell no'. Basically either is right up there with overly long ASCII/emoticon dividers in terms of annoyance factor. Also, a lot of the look of unicode-symbols-as-text can be more-or-less replicated by font and style changes such as using bold and italic or a cursive font, which are at least TTS friendly even if not always particularly great for people who sight-read with vision/perception issues. Though I would hope people with those issues are at least using software that ignores document CSS and forces the use of friendly-to-them fonts and formatting (the software I use has such features in addition to TTS, you just have to have enough sight to go through the menus changing things to your particular satisfaction).
So I highly second just using Cool Regular Text instead of unicode text, with maybe an optional skin if you want to be particularly spiffy about it (though note that skins get thrown away when the fic is downloaded, so I and my ereader likely wouldn't even notice any difference... unless the lack of skin causes a bunch of stuff to break in creative ways). So yes, look at the skins linked in the above reply, if you're really ambitious maybe even hit up the W3 Schools site and learn some CSS for ways of affecting text appearance yourself.
Also I will note in relation to the second possible solution offered above that, sadly, there's still a lot of readers out there where alt text on an image is basically ignored. If you're lucky maybe there's a symbol on or near the image to let you know the alt text exists, but if you're sitting there listening via TTS it's just going to skip right past that image and your text may well not be understandable without the missing bits (for example if it's a conversation between two characters, one in regular text and one as images-with-alt-text, you'd only hear the regular text bits read aloud). And yes, I've just double-checked the software I use, and a checkbox for automatically reading alt text doesn't seem to be among its many options... I should drop a request to the dev. I might not need that myself (yet...) but. Stupid aging body.
resting is not shameful. it just isn't! no matter what you are resting and recovering from. it's okay to need rest, even if it's from activities other people find to be really simple. it's going to be okay.
They have a designated "no decisions" day once a fortnight. No plans, no lists, no answering the door. Sirius is nominally in charge of it; he makes the playlist and the blanket fort. But it was Remus's idea, because he noticed that Sirius made six impulsive purchases and three loud bad decisions every time he went too long without being completely, utterly unscheduled.
Pairing: Poly!Buddie x Disabled!Reader
Summary: You're too tired to move—but they worship you like stillness is holy.
Tags: disabled!reader, multiple sclerosis, depictions of chronic fatigue, heavy sensory symptoms, overstimulation and desire interwoven, reader struggles to move but still craves connection, buck and eddie as steady anchors, eddie is patient and dominant, buck is worshipful and ravenous, oral sex (fem receiving), nipple play, reader is held open and cherished, double penetration, reader is worshipped not despite but because of their stillness, reader can't move much and they don't need to, mutual devotion, filthy but tender, overstimulation, some crying, use of y/n, MDNI
Word Count: 3k words
The day has weight. It hangs from your shoulders like wet wool, clinging and dragging, burrowing into every limb until your bones feel sodden and slow. Even breathing feels thick. Your thoughts come syrup-heavy, and blinking feels like a conscious effort. The fatigue is the kind that sits in the marrow, the kind that makes the world feel slightly tilted, distant, unreal. Like you're watching everything through thick glass, underwater and detached. There's a slow ache that pulses through your joints, your muscles a whisper away from total surrender. But there are hands on you—warm, steady, familiar—and they tether you back into your skin, into this body that tries its best and still sometimes betrays you.
You're stretched across Eddie's chest, your body draped over him like something precious he's meant to protect. His heat floods through your shirt, through your ribs, through the dull ache in your muscles, easing the tension that MS has wound tight through your nerves. His heartbeat thuds slow beneath your ear. Patient. Grounding. Real. He's not in any rush. He never is with you. He knows the pace of your body better than you do sometimes. Knows the weight of your exhaustion and meets it without hesitation, without complaint.
One of his arms is locked around your waist, cradling you like you're something fragile and fierce all at once. The other hand—God—his other hand drifts lazily over your nipple, rubbing soft circles through the thin fabric of your vest. Each pass is gentle but pointed, a quiet claiming, a touch that says I see you, I want you, even when you're still. It sends shivers racing over skin that feels too exhausted to respond properly, but it tries anyway, reacting in small, fluttering bursts of sensation. You melt, boneless and compliant, because your body may be slow today, but Eddie knows exactly how to coax it into humming. He always does.
Between your spread legs, Buck is a different kind of devotion entirely—wild, hungry, devastating. He's nestled between your thighs like it's his home, his whole world, and his mouth is locked to your centre with ruthless purpose. He licks you like he's been starved, like he's worshipping at an altar and you're the only god he knows. His tongue slides in slow, deep strokes that punch heat up your spine, each movement filthy and wet and unashamed. It's messy and reverent, all at once. He doesn't stop to breathe. Doesn't stop to speak. He pours himself into you with every lap of his tongue, every kiss he presses to the sensitive skin between your thighs.
The sounds he makes—those low, eager groans, the obscene wet noises of his mouth working you open—fill the living room, echoing off the walls and vibrating through your hips. Your thighs twitch despite the heaviness weighing them down. Your fingers twitch against Eddie's chest. Everything in you is weak, trembling, barely able to move at all, but they don't ask you to. They don't need you to. Buck and Eddie take every ounce of work from your body and pour themselves into you instead.
It's almost too much. It's never enough. Your breath catches on every exhale, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded as pleasure rolls through you in slow, molten waves. Your skin feels tight and too soft, like it's glowing. You can barely hold a thought in your head for more than a second before it's lost to the next stroke of Buck's tongue or the next drag of Eddie's fingers. Everything else falls away—the pain, the fatigue, the stiffness—and all that remains is the way they make you feel.
Eddie kisses your temple, slow and lingering, and then his voice—low, gravelled, that dominant murmur that curls heat deep in your belly—brushes your ear. "He's got his tongue all the way inside you, baby. You feel that?"
Your answer is a tiny, shaky whimper. It barely makes it past your lips, but Eddie hears it, of course he does, because he always hears the things your tired body won't let you say. His fingers on your breast tighten just slightly, circling with more intent, sending sparks through your chest and down your spine. Your nipple hardens under the slow rhythm of his touch, pleasure blooming outward from the centre of your chest.
Your hands tremble where they rest useless at your sides, the fatigue making your muscles flutter helplessly. Every nerve feels slow but raw, sensitive. Eddie's touch is both grounding and inflaming. Buck's is obliterating. He makes a soft, feral sound as he drags his tongue flat and slow, licking you like he wants to taste your soul.
"He's fucking you with it," Eddie murmurs, voice dipping even lower, a sinful rumble meant only for you. "Slow and deep. Just how you like it. Filthy little thing."
You swear the words alone make your whole body tighten. Heat rushes through you, quick and sharp, meeting the constant swirl of Buck's mouth. You feel him react to Eddie's words—feel the moan he lets out against you, loud and wrecked, sending vibrations straight into your core. The sound nearly snaps your vision out of focus. It makes your toes curl, your lungs seize.
Your hips twitch. It's barely anything—a weak, trembling arch, a stutter of motion against Eddie's chest—but both men feel it immediately. Buck's grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging in with reverence. He groans again, louder this time, and it reverberates through you like thunder. He adjusts, just slightly, and the new angle sends a lightning bolt of pleasure racing up your spine.
Eddie's breath grazes your cheek as his hand slides down, fingers dragging a slow, heated path along your stomach, over your hip, then under your thigh. He curls his hand around it, lifting and opening you wider, giving Buck more access, more room, more of you. "Take it, baby," he murmurs, and his tone is all command wrapped in tenderness. "That's it. Let him wreck you."
Buck answers with a low, primal growl, his fingers digging into your hips as he drags you closer, as if he can pull you into his mouth entirely. His tongue pushes deeper, wetter, filthier, stroking in firm, devastating motions that send your heart skittering. His lips seal around you, sucking, devouring, worshipping. Every stroke is deliberate. Every flick and press is mapped out with aching precision. You can't remember how to breathe. Can't remember your name. Only the way they touch you, love you, undo you.
Your breath breaks. Your thighs tremble, twitching uncontrollably. Nerves flare hot and electric, overstimulation and need warring with exhaustion, blending into something dizzying, overwhelming, beautiful. You feel undone at the seams, all sensation and surrender. Your body no longer belongs to you—it belongs to them, to this moment, to the fire they've coaxed from embers.
The room goes soft at the edges. Colours blur. Your vision swims and narrows, collapsing down to the sensations flooding your body. Eddie's chest beneath you—warm, broad, familiar. Eddie's voice in your ear—steady, dominant, reverent. Buck's mouth—relentless, punishing, perfect. You float there, suspended between the two of them, nowhere and everywhere at once. There is no beginning and no end, only now. Only this.
Every slow circle Eddie traces over your nipple sends another tremor through your limbs. Every slick, obscene stroke of Buck's tongue chips away at your ability to stay tethered to the world. Your thoughts scatter like sparks. Your body feels weightless and heavy all at once. There's no pain, no fatigue, not here—not with them. There's only heat and hands and breath. Only love that tastes like fire.
You can't move. You don't need to. They move for you. They take what your body can't give today and turn it into something else—something tender, something feral, something overwhelming. They meet you exactly where you are. They worship you as you are. Every gasp, every whimper, every tremble is cherished. Not weakness—just more of you to hold.
Eddie's fingers tighten around your thigh, holding you open, keeping you steady as your muscles flutter and give way. His thumb strokes slow, soothing lines into your skin. "You're doing so well," he whispers, voice molten. "Just let us have you."
Buck moans again, a needy, desperate sound that vibrates through you. His lips seal around your clit, sucking hard enough to drag a broken cry from your chest. Your back arches—just barely, just enough—and Eddie follows the motion instantly, holding you up, supporting the tremor that ripples through your exhausted limbs. His lips press to your hairline, anchoring you with every breath.
Buck's fingers squeeze at your hips, guiding you against his mouth in tiny motions your body can't make on its own. His tongue flicks just right, again and again, until you're sobbing out little, broken sounds.
You're barely holding on, nerves sizzling and breath coming in stutters, when Eddie shifts beneath you. His arm tightens around your waist as he lifts you gently off his chest. The world tilts, your body weightless for a moment as he guides you, slow and steady, until you're straddling him, facing him, trembling in his lap. Your muscles ache with the effort of movement, the weight of the day dragging through every limb, but Eddie holds all of you like it's nothing. Like you weigh nothing. Like you are everything.
He settles you there, one big hand cupping the back of your neck, the other bracing your hip. You're shaking, overwhelmed and oversensitive, and yet the hunger in your belly hasn't lessened—it's only sharpened. The ache of wanting them, of being surrounded by them, pulled apart and cherished, makes you shiver. He watches you like he's memorising every blink, every moan, every gasp that falls from your mouth, and with every look, your heart thunders louder in your chest. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, the tip of his cock nudging at your folds, hot and heavy with want, and still he waits—he always waits—until you're ready.
He slides one hand between your thighs, his palm warm and slick with your arousal as he lines himself up at your entrance. The head of his cock nudges against your folds, and you moan—sharp and high—because you're so sensitive, so wet, and the heat of him is too much and still not enough. Your nails scrape weakly at his shoulders, a silent plea, a tremor of anticipation too thick to name.
"You're already so wet," he murmurs, voice thick with need, awe, reverence. His eyes are on your face, studying every flicker of expression, every tremble. "You want this, baby?"
You nod, throat too tight to speak, and he leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then your cheekbone. Gentle. Anchoring. His other hand stays at your hip, steadying you as he slowly pushes inside. You can feel every inch, feel the way he stretches you, feel the slow, burning bloom of fullness that makes your head spin.
It's not rough. It's not fast. It's reverent. And it splits you open in the best way, stealing your breath, scattering your thoughts. You can't do anything but cling and sob quietly against him, the sensation too much and not enough all at once.
You cry out—soft and breathless—as he fills you, inch by inch, the stretch grounding and gorgeous. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, clinging, because your body is shaking and tired and floating, and the only thing holding you to earth is Eddie's hands and Buck's voice whispering behind you.
Buck.
He's still close, still watching, eyes dark with hunger and love, and then he moves—rising up behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his lips brushing along your spine, kisses soft and endless from the nape of your neck down to the curve of your lower back. His hands skim your sides with reverent care, fingers leaving heat in their wake. You feel the heat of him—his cock nudging against your ass, already slick with need—and your breath stutters again, your body tensing with anticipation, your nerves thrumming like live wire. You feel bracketed, held between them, a precious thing wrapped in heat and reverence.
"Easy," Buck soothes, kissing your shoulder. "Gonna take care of you."
Eddie cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your flushed skin. "You can take us, sweetheart. Just breathe."
And then Buck presses in.
Slow, careful pressure, the stretch burning just right. Your jaw drops as you keen, breath broken, body pulled taut like a bowstring as he slides into you. He's so careful, so achingly gentle, and the sensation is overwhelming—two of them filling you, stretching you, claiming you until you don't know where one ends and the other begins. It's a dizzying, exquisite fullness. You cry out again, voice thin and breathless, overwhelmed by the exquisite pressure of it.
Your eyes flutter closed, head tipping back against Buck's shoulder as you shudder. He murmurs praise into your skin, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
Full. So full. Claimed. Owned. Adored. Worshipped.
Your mind blanks. Your body trembles.
All you can do is moan—high and sweet and desperate—as you cling to Eddie, burying your face in the curve of his neck. Your hands are shaking, clutching at him like he's the only thing keeping you from flying apart. Buck kisses your spine again and again, grounding you as Eddie strokes your thighs, murmuring soft, dirty promises against your skin. Their rhythm is patient, like they know how fragile you are in this moment and want you to feel everything slowly, deeply.
They don't move yet. They hold you there, letting you adjust, whispering soft praise against your skin. Buck's hands stroke your sides, his lips pressing to the base of your neck. Eddie strokes your back with one hand and your hip with the other, his mouth brushing against your temple. You can feel every inch of them, inside and around you, and for a long moment you can't tell where you end and they begin. You're suspended in warmth and desire, in the endless tide of them. Your body is theirs, and they move like they know it.
Then, slowly, they start to move.
A gentle, rolling rhythm that rocks through you like a tide. Eddie thrusts up into you as Buck rolls his hips forward, and the friction makes you cry out. It's slow and filthy, patient and perfect. Each movement precise and fluid, like they've practiced it a hundred times. Like they've memorised every sound you make, every twitch of your body, every gasp you try to swallow. Their pace is synchronised, each stroke of their hips sending you deeper into the fog of pleasure.
They murmur your name between kisses and groans, like it's a prayer. Like it's sacred.
Eddie's breath is warm against your skin. "So good for us, baby. So fucking good."
Buck's hands tighten, guiding your hips. "Taking us so well. Look at you—fuck."
You're shaking. Whimpering. Melting. There's no resistance left in your body, only want. Only need. Only the deep, aching pleasure of being filled and held and moved, every nerve lit up and trembling. Your skin is hypersensitive, nerves fluttering with every shift and press of their bodies. Each roll of their hips knocks another moan loose, another tremble down your spine. You can't think. Can't speak. You're a mess of sensation, caught in the heat of it, the worship of it.
Buck leans in to kiss your shoulder again, sucking gently at the skin. Eddie reaches up and tucks your hair behind your ear before cupping the back of your neck, pulling you in to kiss him. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue sliding against yours as his hips grind deeper. You moan into him, desperate and raw. You're unravelling at the edges, held together only by their hands, their voices, their bodies moving in perfect rhythm with yours. You lose yourself to it, to them.
Your orgasm builds slow and fierce, curling deep in your belly, spreading like wildfire. You can't think. Can't speak. Can't breathe around it. Tears prick your eyes, your vision swimming as you ride that line—so close, so close—
Eddie whispers against your mouth, "Let go for us, baby."
And then Eddie hits that perfect spot inside you just as Buck angles his hips and grinds deeper. They move together like a single being, perfectly attuned to every inch of you. The way they fill you, the way they hold you, it's everything. It's more.
You fall.
You come with both their names on your tongue, gasping, moaning, tears sliding down your cheeks as your body clenches tight around them. The pleasure is blinding, full-body, shattering. You sob into Eddie's shoulder, overwhelmed, undone, absolutely consumed.
They follow quickly.
Buck groans your name as he spills inside you, his grip bruising, his voice cracked and desperate, hips stilling as he presses deep and stays there.
Eddie holds you tighter, thrusting once, twice more before he comes with a low, breathless curse against your ear, his hands trembling where they cradle your hips.
You're boneless in their arms, trembling and full and blissed out. Their hands are everywhere—stroking your back, your hair, your hips—soothing you through the aftershocks. Buck doesn't move from behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his forehead to the curve of your spine. Eddie cradles your face in both hands, kissing your forehead, your cheek, your lips in a silent chorus of love. There's nothing left but the sound of your breathing, the slow thud of your heartbeats.
They stay like that for a long time. Just breathing. Just holding. Just being.
Eventually, Buck shifts slightly, pressing kisses down your spine, murmuring soft nothings that sound like devotion. Eddie strokes your cheeks, brushing away the tear tracks with his thumbs.
"You okay?" Eddie whispers, voice husky with tenderness.
You nod against him, a tired, blissful smile pulling at your lips.
Regulus and Remus both cry at different things than people would expect. Regulus cries at moments of witnessed kindness between strangers, unexpectedly. Remus cries at structural moments in novels, when the theme lands. They have not yet cried at the same thing at the same time. Regulus suspects it's only a matter of time.
