poly!moonwaterkiller x fem!reader who is having a hard time with xmas [1.2k words]
this was a prompt from 🎱 that I must have deleted by accident because I can't find it in my inbox! I'm sorry! I can't remember the whole request but basically; poly!moonwaterkiller with reader who maybe grew up in a similar household as Reg and is super stressed/nervous with the impending holidays and sort of breaks down - the boys taking care of her.
CW: Christmas being a hard time of year for people, broken glass, reader and Remus are going to be the death of Reg & Barty [but they love it], a sickening and downright disgusting amount of pet names - it’s criminal, implied past abuse/toxic environments, hurt/comfort
Regulus felt a little shameful at the fact he didn’t spot the signs before it was too late.
Though he supposed it was less that he didn’t spot the signs, but rather that he didn’t think it would have led to this.
This being you currently sniffling in the middle of the hallway on your knees, both boys approaching you from opposite ends of the hall after hearing the sound of glass shattering.
“Treasure?” Barty asks in the softest tone Regulus thinks he’s ever heard from the notoriously abrasive boy. “Are you okay, love?”
You nod quickly, though your head stays pointed to your lap and the sniffling ceases when you seemingly hold your breath.
“What’s the matter, amour?” Regulus ventures, sharing a concerned look with Barty who seems to shrug helplessly at him. What Regulus wouldn’t do to have Remus here right now; he always knew what to do.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper; voice taught and high as you suck in another shuddering breath.
“What’re you sorry for, sweetness?” Barty prompts, obviously distressed if his attempt at every endearment was anything to go by.
“I…I broke it.” You whimper; another shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
You’re nearly sobbing by the time Regulus makes it to you, crouching down behind you and placing a gentle hand on your tense shoulder when he notices shards of glass; a few in your hands and a pile in front of your knees.
“Oh, amour; is that glass? Are you hurt?”
“I’m sorry.” You repeat.
“Treasure; are you hurt?” Barty tries a touch more severely, both boys clearly more concerned about your safety than the broken decoration.
“No…no, I’m sorry. I can clean it up, I promise I-”
“Okay, amour, come here, please?” Regulus tries, applying some pressure to your shoulder in order to encourage you to stand, though stopping immediately when you shake him off.
“No! No, I need to clean it up. I’m going to clean it up.” You insist, though your shaking hands end up dropping a few of the shards of glass you’d already managed to pick up.
Regulus didn’t even realise Barty had left until he reappeared; a pair of slippers on his feet, a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other as he crouched in front of you.
“I’ll clean it up, my treasure. Okay?” He asks softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead before you have a chance to answer and starting to sweep it up. “Don’t step, okay? Reg, can you help her up?”
Regulus wraps his arms around your middle and hoists you up, taking the brunt of your weight until you’re a few steps away from the broken glass before placing your bare feet back down onto the hardwood floor.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry, amour.” He insists as he guides you towards the kitchen to rinse off any broken bits of glass from your hands.
“I didn’t mean to.” You tell him again.
“I know you didn’t.”
You’re sniffling and letting out the odd soft sob by the time Remus steps through the front door of the flat. His face falls significantly when he finds you crying over the kitchen sink with Regulus stationed behind you, wrapped around you protectively as he washes your hands.
“What happened?” Remus all but coos, causing you to let out a pitiful sob.
“We had a bit of an accident, hm?” Regulus answers for you, though he shoots Remus a concerned look.
“Are you hurt, dovey?” Remus asks as he puts down his things and makes it over to you, leaning over the counter beside you in order to inspect your hands.
“No.” You admit; the word sounding as though it was thoroughly forced out of your lungs. “M’sorry.”
“No need for apologies, amour.” Regulus reminds you gently as he shuts the water off, reaching for the tea towel that Remus quickly grabs for him and dries off your hands.
“This week has been a lot for you, hasn’t it sweetheart?” Remus finally asks, lifting one hand to brush a gentle finger over your cheek bone as you nod. He tsks and coos nearly pathetically when you let out another sob. “My poor sweet girl; come here.”
He opens his arm in invitation and you accept it quickly, tucking yourself into his side and properly sobbing into his jumper as he rubs soothing circles up and down your spine and presses his lips to the crown of your head. “You’re okay, hm? Did the boys take good care of you?”
You nod, but Barty answers for you when he enters the kitchen with a dustpan full of glass. “Course we did. That’s what we’re here for, right babe?”
The only response he gets is a single breath out your nose that Regulus figures was supposed to be a chuckle, and Remus’ soft and loving smile that Regulus pretended he didn’t notice caused Barty’s face to flush a pretty pink.
“D’you wanna have a cwtch on the sofa? There’s that new Christmas movie I’d like to watch; would you watch it with me?” He asks you, smiling sadly when you nod into his chest.
“We’ll order something for dinner, okay amour? You guys start the movie and we’ll come join you.”
You heave in a deep breath and remove yourself from Remus’ side, rubbing at your eyes as you turn to the other two boys. “Thank you.”
“Course, Tres. Nothing to thank us for.”
You offer a half smile at that, and whilst Regulus gives you a soft one of his own, Barty simply beams at you.
“Love you.”
“We love you too, mon cœur. Now go queue up the movie.”
“Love you, babygirl.” Barty murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple as you pass him.
“Thank god you’re home.” Regulus sighs as he deflates significantly, placing himself in your recently vacated spot along Remus’ side.
Remus laughs at him. “What do you mean?”
“It’s hard seeing her so upset.” Barty answers.
“I never know what to do.” Regulus continues.
“You both did perfectly.” Remus argues, smiling at Barty over Regulus’ head. “I know it’s not exactly an easy time of year for all of you; you’re doing well looking after each other despite it.”
“Well duh,” Barty starts, though neither of his boyfriend’s missed the emotional crack in his voice, “I’m perfect at everything I do.”
“Think you can order us the perfect date night dinner then, smartass?”
Barty simply pfft’s at him. “Of course I can, Mr. Moons.”
“I’ll leave it in your capable hands then, handsome.” Remus murmurs salaciously, pressing a kiss to Regulus’ hair and then pecking one on Barty’s temple as he leaves the kitchen to follow after you.
“They’re going to be the death us.” Regulus whispers; lovestruck.
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Dude since like you would continue writing poly moonwaterkiller. Idk if you okay with it, but do you mind writing poly moonwaterkiller x sick reader. I mean, we know barty is so fucking wild. Would love to see barty doing anything for reader to make her happy, but moonwater get stress cos "no barty! she shouldn't be outside rn! She's sick!" And Barty be like "but she looks happy out hereee!!!"
Something like that, thank you! And love you both
thanks so much for your request (and your patience in me writing this for you a few months later 😅). I knew I loved the idea; just needed to wait for the right moment to write it!!
poly!moonwaterkiller x sick!reader who Barty is taking very good care of thank you very much
CW: fem!reader is poorly, Barty calls Pandora peculiar [affectionately], disgusting amount of fluff
“Dovey!” Remus exclaimed as he spotted you sitting on the stone floor of a small balcony on the side of Gryffindor tower. “What are you doing out here!?”
It had officially been about a week of this gods-awful flu that was wreaking havoc on your immune system (and more importantly, your lungs) to which Madame Pomfrey prescribed healing draughts, lots of water, and rest.
And this, Remus felt, was decidedly not rest.
He and Regulus rushed to crouch beside your hunched over form to see that your eyes were closed as you pointed your face towards the sky.
“Hi boys.” You offered weakly, still never opening your eyes to greet them.
“Amour, what are you doing out here?” Regulus repeated, placing the back of his hand against your temple and grimacing at the heat radiating from it.
“Getting some sun.” You explained simply. “Haven’t been outside in ages.”
And while Remus knew that to be technically true, he also knew there had been a reason for that.
“Dovey, it’s barely spring and it’s far too cold for you to be out here; besides, it’s mostly cloudy.” He explained, wondering how in the hell you found the energy to move yourself from Remus’ bed all the way out here when you seemed completely incapable of even opening your eyes.
And where the hell was Junior!?
“Exactly; mostly cloudy.” Barty’s voice chimed in as he stepped out onto the balcony to join the three of them with a cup of tea in one hand and a bowl of soup in the other.
“Junior, what in Salazar’s name do you think you’re doing?” Regulus hissed at him as he placed the bowl on the ground in front of you.
“Taking care of our girl.” He hissed back at him before softening as he turned to look at you.
“Hey Treasure, still doing okay?” He asked softly, pushing a lock of hair behind your ear.
You hummed in acknowledgment.
“I brought some tea with lots of honey.” He explained as he placed the cup in your hands.
That, Remus noticed bitterly, enticed you to open your eyes.
“Thank you.” You cooed, though the sentiment was sort of lost in the coughing fit that it elicited.
“Junior, it’s too cold outside; she needs to be in bed.” Remus sighed disappointedly.
Disappointed that he had to play the bad cop, and disappointed because this looked like a really nice way to spend the afternoon.
If you were tired of being sick, Remus was tired of watching you feel so poorly and not being able to do anything to fix it.
“I cannot believe you think me daft enough to leave her to the elements, Lupin.” Barty sneered as he resituated the blanket that had begun to slide off your shoulder. “She has four layers on and a heating charm surrounding her, Evans had some muggle fever reducers that I gave her just before I went to the kitchens, and vitamin D is supposed to support healthy immune system function. So suck my dick; the both of you.”
“Okay.” Remus offered quickly at the same time Regulus let out a tiresome “Barty”.
“You feel better already, don’t you baby?” He cooed as he sat beside you and pressed a kiss to your overly hot temple.
You hummed in the affirmative again.
“Okay, but where are her shoes?” Remus continued, noting the way you were sitting with your knees up to your chest and the soles of your feet pressed firmly into the stone beneath you.
Barty seemed to turn a bit bashful at that before quickly schooling his expression. “It’s quite simple, really. Pandora suggested that she ought to try grounding.”
Though his tone was haughty, he turned bashful again when he received no response from either of his boyfriends.
“Said it would be good for her…chakras or her aura or…I don’t know! Alright!? I don’t know; but Salazar’s saggy balls, she’s been so sick for so long and I just wanted her to feel better. So yeah, I listened to Peculiar Pandora, okay? Sue me.”
Barty hardly had a moment to pout before Remus was wrestling the Slytherin into his lap as Regulus cooed at him.
“Barty’s going soft.” Regulus taunted lovingly.
“I will literally bite your fucking head off, Black; try me.”
“You’re just soft for our girl, hm?” Remus purred into Barty’s ear, relishing in the way the notoriously tense boy melted for him.
Barty made a harrumphing sound half way between reluctant admittance and a whine.
“Be nice to him.” You admonished quietly; opening one eye at Remus and Barty as you leaned into Regulus’ side who had moved to sit beside you in Barty’s place.
“He is being nice.” Regulus defended quickly.
“I’m always nice.” Remus added. “I’m alway nice to you, aren’t I?” He continued as he looked down at Barty, currently curled up in his lap.
“You’re mean.” Barty pouted.
“Come now.”
“Horrid.”
“Yeah?”
“Just awful.”
Remus beamed down at the petulant boy before nuzzling his face into his neck.
“You love it.” He accused.
Barty was quiet for a moment as he drew circles on the back of Remus’ hand. “Maybe.”
Remus was very thankful that Barty was such a clever person, because sitting out here with his three loves on this semi-lovely Scottish spring day felt an awful lot like Remus’ own little personal heaven.
ok so idea: parents poly!moonwaterkiller + fem!reader are called to hogwarts for a parent-teacher conference of sorts after their troublemaker kid was caught following in their parents (*ahem* remus and bartys *ahem*) footsteps by causing general mischief and being a pain in mcgonagalls behind
im imagining remus as the disappointed-but-secretly-proud/amused dad meanwhile barty just openly encourages the kid, leaving poor regulus and reader to try and discourage their kid from further “marauding” if you will
you're literally an angel for a) requesting this and b) waiting almost four months for it 🥹🫶
poly!moonwaterkiller x fem!reader who are called to a meeting at Hogwarts regarding their marauder of a child
CW: targeted prank against Slytherin, naughty child who is a product of naughty parents, Regulus tries really hard to be the bad guy [someone's gotta do it]
Did the Deputy Headmistress’s office used to be bigger? You swore it used to be bigger.
Certainly the chairs used to be bigger? You weren’t sure the last time you were in here that your feet could touch the floor.
You and Regulus sat somewhat rigidly in the chairs of your formidable former Professor’s office whilst Remus sat comfortably as if simply meeting with a colleague and Barty sat incredibly casually as if he was lounging by a pool.
You expected some levity to dissipate when Professor McGonagall strode in with your child on her heels, but Barty simply smiled at the newcomers.
“There’s my girl!” Barty cheered as McGonagall moved behind her desk to expose your kid who at least had the grace to look somewhat chastised. “How are you, sweetness?”
“She’s in trouble, Barty.” Regulus hissed severely, causing you and Remus to grimace slightly as you waved apologetically at her.
“Indeed, Mr. Crouch.” McGonagall agreed quickly as she considered the lot of you from the top of her glasses.
“Uhm, actually, Professor,” Barty started, pasting on what the three of you often referred to as his ‘faux adult voice’, “it’s Mr. Lupin, now, and I expect to be referred to as such.”
McGonagall seemed to be working overtime to stifle the half exasperated and half happy-for-him smile that was threatening to take over her face before looking down at a piece of parchment in front of her.
“Right, well, it appears that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Mr. Lupin’s.”
Barty seemed nonplussed over the accusation whilst Remus seemed to straighten ever so slightly in his chair.
“Eloise has been doing exceptionally well in her Care for Magical Creatures class; so well, in fact, that she was able to enlist the help of some nifflers that she released into the Slytherin dorms. Many students awoke very displeased that their family crests and various jewellery were missing.”
“Objection.” Barty demanded as he sat up straight. “What evidence do you have that it was her?”
McGonagall pursed her lips as she looked at her former student. “She was caught trying to dispose of the jewellery, Mr. Lupin.”
“Awe, Eloise.” Barty bemoaned then, turning to look at his daughter. “You got caught?”
“Barty…” You whined then, alerting him to the severe glare McGonagall was levelling him.
“This is a very serious matter, Mr. Lupin; though all of the jewellery was returned with the exception of one Malfoy signet ring,” McGonagall paused as Remus’ chuckle-turned-cough and Regulus’ ill hidden smirk at the thought of his poncy cousin-in-law fussing over a child’s ring, “the Slytherin student’s families are not pleased.”
“Of course not, Professor. This is completely unacceptable and will not happen again, isn’t that right, Eloise?” You offered, giving your daughter an encouraging look to agree with you.
“Of course, absolutely, it won’t happen again.” She agreed readily - smart girl.
“And please let the Malfoy’s know that we will compensate them for the missing ring.” You continued, earning you a disbelieving scoff from Barty, a ‘well…let’s not get carried away now’ from Regulus, and a snort of laughter from Remus.
“Very well.” McGonagall offered. “Be that as it may, this act cannot be overlooked; there will be consequences.”
You, Regulus, and Remus quickly agreed verbally, barely masking the muttered “what a rip” from Barty.
“Since Eloise has such a…penchant for creature care, she’s going to be tasked with assisting Hagrid in feeding, mucking, and grooming all of the beasts and their pens on school grounds.”
“All of them!?” Eloise and Barty chorused almost comically, had it not been for the steely glare the deputy headmistress shot them.
“All of them.” She agreed resolutely. “For three weeks, you will be in charge of the hippogriffs, giant toads, thestrals, puffskiens, bowtruckles, and nifflers alike. As well as what other beasts Hagrid needs help caring for.”
Eloise sat back into her chair with a huff at that, looking comically similar to Barty who appeared to be moping in camaraderie.
“That is all for me; I’ll leave you to it for a few moments to catch up and say goodbye, Miss. Lupin.” McGonagall offered her current student before nodding curtly at her former students and exiting her office.
“My sweet, silver sickle; how have you been?” Barty asked then as he opened his arms wide to which Eloise quickly accepted.
“Barty! Do not coddle her!” Regulus admonished then, though you couldn’t help but notice the way his hands seemed to itch to reach out to her.
“Oh, hug your daughter, Regulus.” Remus admonished before Eloise quickly left Barty’s grasp in order to crash into him.
“Sorry, papa.” She murmured into his neck, causing Regulus to heave a great sigh which was mostly just for show.
“Tu me donnes du gris.” Regulus sighed then as he pulled Eloise in tighter to him. “You’re forgiven, but I mean it, amour; plus rien, d’accord?”
“Oui.” She mumbled miserably as she stood up straight.
“Okay, come on then, hug your mum before McGonagall comes back in and chases us all out with her walking stick.” You teased as you stood from your chair; Eloise wasting no time before slamming into your middle. “I miss you, sweet girl.”
“I miss you too, mum.” She admitted before moving, finally, to Remus.
“Oh my gods.” Regulus murmured as he spotted something across the room. “Does McGonagall have the first edition of Nicholas Flammel’s book over there?”
And just like that, one of your fourths had wandered to the other side of the room to peruse his former Professor’s bookshelf.
Swat.
“That was kind of a good one, El.” Remus whispered then, earning him an eye roll from you though you opted to stay silent.
“Yeah! Enlisting the help of creatures that can’t be given detention was brilliant.” Barty agreed readily. “Less brilliant that you were caught, though.”
“I just didn’t want the nifflers to actually run off with all their things! I was going to give it all back.” She harrumphed.
“What about the Malfoy ring?” Remus asked as he held her by his side.
A sinister smile took over Eloise’s face. “That’s at the bottom of the Black Lake.”
“I thought you said you were going to give it all back?” You asked in an accusatory manner.
“To everyone who deserved it back.” She corrected haughtily.
“Well, I’d wager that no Slytherin deserves it back.” Remus argued, earning him a glare from Barty.
“You and me, tonight. We duel at dusk, Lupin.” He spat.
“For Merlin’s sake.” You sighed as you bent down to Eloise’s level. “Sweetheart, I’m so happy that you’re so creative and having so much fun, but please for the love of all the gods, don’t get in trouble next time!?”
“Yeah, be more like your Da over there; he never got caught.” Barty added quickly.
“The trick is having a fall guy; blame it on Haz next time, that’s what I always did to his father.”
“You better not be encouraging her over there!” Regulus called as he began to make his way back over.
“Love you, El!” Remus offered as he stamped a hasty kiss on the top of her head.
“Be good! Love you!” You hissed quickly and you pulled her in for one last quick hug.
“Don’t forget to write us!! Love you!” Barty added before the three of you hurried over to the floo, leaving Regulus shaking his head in exasperation and Eloise with a beaming smile as the three of you disappeared through the green flames.
Pairing: Poly!Moonwaterkiller x Disabled!Reader
Summary: You're in pain tonight. Your boys know without asking.
Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, background prongsfoot, hurt/comfort, reader is james's sibling, no use of y/n, remus is steady and soft and always knows, barty is a chaos muppet and a caretaker in disguise, regulus brings the tea you didn't ask for but needed, bonfire backyard kind of night, soft!remus, background marshmallow warfare, comforting touch, found family, reader floats on the edge of everything until they don't, fluff woven through ache, quiet emotional understanding, no one says it but they all know
Word count: 2.5k words.
You curl deeper into the nest of blankets James and Sirius set out for you—layers soft with use, tinged with smoke and old magic. They're the kind that have soaked up years of history, the kinds of things passed between hands during midnight talks and early morning hangovers. These are blankets that have covered you when you were sick, when you were heartbroken, when the pain flared so hot you thought you might burst apart. Now they cradle you like an old friend. Familiar. Kind. They smell like bonfire smoke and the faintest trace of Sirius' cologne, and underneath that: the warm spice of the Burrow's cinnamon tea, a memory stitched deep into the fibres.
You shift slowly, careful with your body, trying to find the least painful configuration. Nothing is pain-free tonight. Just pain-managed. A dull roar in the background of your mind, like a radio left on in a distant room. Some joints throb, others grind. Your muscles pulse with that familiar, hateful buzz. Even the good air—that crisp, golden kind that comes only with October—feels thick, like wading through mist.
The backyard is alive with light and shadow, the bonfire crackling against the gathering dark. It paints the garden in gold and copper, dancing over overgrown hedges, scattered chairs, the sagging swing James never quite got around to fixing. Leaves crunch softly with every footstep, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the chatter of the neighbours' wireless drifting through their kitchen window.
Closer, laughter erupts. Barty and Sirius are locked in another ridiculous argument, this one apparently over how long to roast a marshmallow. Sirius, theatrical as always, is gesturing wildly with a burning skewer like it's a wand in a duel. Barty, eyes alight and mouth curled into that familiar smirk, flings a glob of marshmallow back with enough force to hit James, who lets out a choked wheeze of laughter so hard it bends him in half. You smile, almost, for half a second. But it doesn't quite reach your face. Not tonight.
The ache tonight is deep. Low and humming through your muscles like a second heartbeat. It drains the sharpness from you, makes your edges blur. You're quieter than usual, the kind of quiet your boys don't like. You know Barty will notice eventually—his chaos masks a deeper awareness. Regulus already has, probably, but won't say anything. Not yet.
But for now, no one calls you out. No one draws attention to the way you keep curling tighter, how your eyes have slipped half-shut even though it's barely past dusk. You're here, but not quite. Floating just outside the edge of your own skin.
And then—
You feel him.
Remus.
The shift in atmosphere is subtle, but undeniable. A ripple through the air, a soft weight in the grass behind you. He arrives the way dusk does—inevitable and quiet, wrapping around you before you realise you needed it. There is no fanfare, no question. Just the scent of him drifting forward—parchment, pine, a hint of chocolate from whatever he'd tucked in his pocket earlier.
He lowers himself beside you, so smoothly the blankets don't even rustle. One arm finds your waist, slow and deliberate, and then he's pulling you in. Not forceful, just... anchoring. Like gravity. Like the tide. Your body responds before your mind catches up, sinking into him with a gratefulness so sharp it almost feels like pain.
Remus is warmth. Steady and encompassing. His chest becomes your backrest, his thigh bracing your knee. He doesn't flinch at the way you lean your full weight into him. He only shifts slightly, adjusting to hold you better.
He doesn't speak.
He doesn't need to.
One of his hands finds yours under the blanket, and his thumb begins tracing slow, deliberate arcs across your knuckles. He always does this. It's the kind of gesture that bypasses words entirely. Steady. Comforting. Intimate without demand.
You let your cheek rest against the slope of his collarbone. It feels safe here. Safer than you expected. The air feels easier to breathe.
"Hurting?" he murmurs eventually, low and close. His breath is warm against your hair.
You nod. Just once. Just enough. Because trying to explain the shape of this kind of pain—how it's not just in your bones but around them, threaded through the very fabric of you—feels impossible.
Remus doesn't ask for more.
Instead, he lifts the edge of the blankets and tucks them more securely around your legs. Adjusts the one beneath your hip so the pressure eases. His movements are precise, practiced. He's done this before. He's watched you wince when no one else noticed.
"Do you want me to get you anything?" he asks softly.
You shake your head, slow and small.
"Alright," he whispers. "Then I'll just stay."
And he does.
The chaos continues around you. Barty yells something about betrayal and marshmallow heresy, Sirius lets out a noise of outrage so high-pitched it startles the neighbour's cat, and Regulus finally tosses a whole cushion into the fray with an expression of deep, tired disdain. James is still wheezing.
It all sounds far away. Distant. Not in a bad way. Not anymore.
Remus is here. Solid and constant. His fingers never stop moving. Mapping the curve of your palm, tracing along your wrist, grounding you in tiny, tender touches. Occasionally, he presses a kiss to your temple—soft, absent-minded, like punctuation to a sentence that doesn't need saying.
Barty notices next.
Of course he does. Your silence cuts sharper than his own name.
One moment, he's deep in his chaos—coated in marshmallow goo and righteous indignation, flinging half-melted sugar globs in Sirius' direction with wicked delight—and the next, he's freezing mid-gesture. His gaze snaps toward you, theatrical horror blooming across his face like he's been personally wronged.
"You too, sweetheart?" he gasps, clutching his chest with both hands like the pain is mortal. "You—you're just going to sit there and let him slander burnt marshmallows?"
Sirius lets out a barking laugh, holding his perfectly golden marshmallow high like a trophy. "Because golden is clearly superior," he says, grinning like he's won.
Barty turns, affronted, scandal rippling through every inch of his frame. "Superior?" he echoes, voice climbing an octave. "They taste like air, Sirius. Like crunchy beige disappointment. You don't caramelise, you concede."
"You've betrayed me," he says, pivoting back to you. Arms flung wide now, half spinning, like he can appeal to some imaginary jury. "I thought we had something sacred. Charred sugar solidarity. And now… now you leave me to burn alone."
His voice is still bright with showmanship, every vowel exaggerated for effect. But the sparkle in his eyes tells a second story. Behind the teasing is something sharper. More alert. Barty's always watching. Always listening. And your silence? It hums louder than words ever could.
Your smile wobbles out slowly. Weak. But there. It's real. Not quite wide, but it counts. Your hand shifts where it rests against Remus', and his thumb strokes yours in quiet response.
Barty notices that, too.
And without breaking eye contact, he lowers himself to the fire with exaggerated solemnity. Kneels like a man offering tribute to a queen betrayed. His movements are less flamboyant now—more deliberate. Focused. He spears a marshmallow, holds it in the flame, and turns it with a precision that would make Regulus proud.
It burns. Perfectly. Cracks into ash like sugar glass. He sandwiches it between melting chocolate and a biscuit with gentle hands. Then he rises.
Not quickly. Not with his usual bounce. Slowly. With purpose.
"For you, my love," he murmurs as he kneels beside you and holds out the s'more like it's the crown jewels. His voice is low now. Quiet. Meant only for you and the fire.
You blink. Your fingers are slow, your grip tentative, but you take it. He lets your hand linger against his.
Then, with a dramatic exhale, he collapses into the blanket pile beside you.
Fully and irreverently.
Limbs everywhere. A mess of hoodie strings, fire-warmed skin, and sarcastic sighs. His legs find your lap without hesitation, like they've always belonged there. He curls partially into Remus' side, settling into the gap without needing to ask.
"You've no taste, Black," he calls, eyes fluttering shut as though Sirius' offence has physically exhausted him. "Your marshmallows are as bland as your fashion choices."
Sirius doesn't miss a beat. "Says the boy who once wore three collars at once and tried to convince everyone it was 'an aesthetic'."
"It was an aesthetic," Barty grumbles, already half-curled into your warmth. "You lot simply lack vision."
The banter swirls around you like the fire—sharp, fast, bright. And you're tucked in the centre of it, buffered by warmth and voices and heat.
And Barty.
He keeps talking. Loud, ridiculous commentary on Sirius' cooking. An exaggerated re-enactment of James' most egregious attempts at s'mores over the years. He recounts a completely fabricated tale of wrestling a giant goose to the ground with only burnt sugar and his undeniable charm.
His voice is a balm, somehow. Loud enough to drown out the noise in your bones, rhythmic enough to help you breathe easier.
But between the theatrics, he watches you.
He thinks he's subtle. He isn't. His glances are frequent. Short, sharp flicks of his eyes when you shift or wince. He clocks every movement, every twitch. Every time your shoulders hunch or you take a deeper breath than normal.
And he doesn't say anything.
He doesn't need to.
Because Barty understands how to make space and fill it all at once. He knows how to distract without demanding, how to soothe without silence. He threads nonsense between the ache until you forget for a moment how much everything hurts.
And when your hand moves again—not quite reaching, just flexing faintly with the ghost of want—he catches it like it was always meant for him. Fingers laced through yours, grounding.
And then Regulus is simply there.
You hadn't seen him leave. You didn't hear the soft pad of his steps on grass, didn't clock the moment his silhouette vanished from the bonfire ring. There was no sound, no disruption—just the gentle continuation of laughter and firelight and shifting blankets. And yet, now, without preamble or flourish, he's kneeling beside you like he never left. Like he's always been there, just beyond reach, biding his time.
He doesn't speak at first. He never does. Just watches you, quiet and deliberate, eyes shadowed in the firelight. Unreadable to most. But not to you. To you, he's an open page, edges inked in soft stillness. And then he holds something out with both hands—careful, reverent.
Your tea.
The tea. The exact one. The brand James always forgets and Sirius never buys. The one that takes ages to find in shops and that you hoard behind tins of cocoa and mismatched mugs. It steams in the mug you and James used to fight over on sick days when you both lived at home—your favourite. The one with the deep blue glazing, chipped only at the bottom.
Your fingers twitch, clumsy and hesitant. Regulus sees. Of course he does.
He shifts closer, a whisper of movement, and slides his hands beneath yours, guiding them to the mug. His touch is cool—recently returned from indoors, maybe the kitchen—but steady. Grounding. The warmth of the ceramic seeps into your palms, a slow undoing.
"You look like you need it," he says, simple and sure. No softening, no hesitation. It's not a question. It isn't even really a statement. Just fact, dropped into the air between you like something undeniable. There's no weight of expectation behind it. Just care. Clean and quiet and without condition.
His gaze lingers, steady and unblinking, as if daring you to argue. You don't.
Because he's right.
You look down at the tea. Steam coils in delicate spirals, catching in the amber glow of firelight. You inhale, and it smells like memory—like quiet mornings curled under quilts, like old books and softer days. The knot in your chest loosens, just slightly.
He settles beside Remus without another word. Doesn't ask, doesn't seek permission. He just fits. The blanket nest seems to mould itself around him, adjusting like it knew he was coming. His shoulder presses gently against your back—not enough to jostle, but firm enough to remind you he's there. A quiet line of support.
Remus doesn't shift. He breathes out slowly, as if this arrangement was always meant to be.
The world stills.
The bonfire crackles gently, smoke curling up to dance in the dark. The sugar from Barty's s'more still lingers on your tongue, sticky and burnt. Somewhere behind it all, James lets out a shout of laughter and Sirius yells something about marshmallow warfare, but it all blurs together, distant and unimportant.
Here, in this little circle of warmth, everything slows.
Regulus's arm finds a place behind you, resting lightly along the curve of the blanket. He doesn't speak again, but his presence says enough. Barty, always tuned to the frequency of your moods, tugs one of the softer blankets higher over your legs with a sort of casual purpose. Then, as if rehearsed, his palm returns to your knee. Grounding. Familiar.
You don't speak.
You don't need to.
The conversation happening here doesn't need words. It lives in the unspoken things—the slow sips of tea between breaths, the warmth blooming slowly through your cold fingers. It lives in the weight of Barty's hand, the pressure of Regulus' shoulder, the steady rise and fall of Remus' chest against your back. Their presence wraps around you like extra layers, like the warmth of a fire you didn't know you were cold without.
Barty doesn't speak now. His voice, so often filling the quiet with colour and noise, is silent. But his thumb rubs a soft pattern into your skin. Comfort, repetition. A rhythm that matches the pulse behind your ribs.
Regulus watches you, discreet and constant. You feel it in the corner of your vision. Not intrusive, not questioning. Just there. Bearing witness.
Remus shifts only to press his lips to your temple. One quiet kiss. Then stillness again.
You take another sip of the tea. It tastes exactly right.
And the ache, that relentless hum beneath your skin, doesn't disappear. But it softens. Pressed beneath the weight of three different kinds of love—so different in shape, but equal in depth. There's no pressure to smile. No expectation to move. Just space. Held open for you, around you, because of you.
You lean a little heavier into Remus.
Regulus doesn't shift.
And Barty, still draped across your lap, rests his cheek against your thigh. His body goes still, but not tense. Peaceful. Anchored.
None of them say it.
They don't have to.
In the soft glances traded over flickering light, in the heat of the mug between your hands, in the rhythm of Barty's thumb and Regulus' breath and Remus' heartbeat—you're already answered.
okay, okay hear me out....pre established poly!moonwaterkiller
barty and reader are together, reg and remus are together. And Barty is OBSESSED with the fact that remus and reg are into her (and she's into them, but maybe just doesn't take their advances seriously). I just know he'd LOVE them fawing over her, knowing they can't actually act on anything without his permission? Barty would know that they're all into each other but drag it out purely for the sexual tension
Could totally see Remus hesitantly bringing it up to apologise for being so obvious and god for bid impeding on a boundary, and Barty is just like ??? no this is turning me on actually please keep hitting on my girlfriend
Like he's into both of them too but that's his treasure? so it's different
Pairing: Poly!Moonwaterkiller x Disabled!Reader
Summary: You were meant to go out. But pain arrives like a thief, stealing your night before it even begins. Still, they don't leave.
Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, chronic illness flare, you tried so hard to rally but your body had other plans, trying not to be a burden, reader's internalised ableism, hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship, no use of y/n, remus is so gentle it aches, regulus speaks in silence, barty brings cake and chaos, they always come back for you, post-getting ready heartbreak, comfort in silence, chronic illness realism
Word count: 2.6k words
The plan was to go out. Rooftop bar, overpriced cocktails, something flirtatious and loud. Something with music loud enough to drown your thoughts and low enough to let their voices curl in your ears like smoke. You'd even picked out an outfit—something soft and slinky, the colour of midnight velvet, something that made Barty grin like he'd got away with something terrible and delightful, made Remus tilt his head with that quiet, amused reverence that always made you feel seen, made Regulus reach out and smooth a wrinkle from the fabric without even realising his fingers had moved. It was one of those nights where everything felt like it might line up perfectly—the moon hanging low and golden, your boys all in a rare mood of calm and camaraderie, the ache in your joints mercifully silent until it wasn't.
You'd curled your hair, soft waves kissed by the effort of heat and time. Painted your mouth, each stroke of lipstick deliberate, a promise. Chosen jewellery that shimmered like a secret told only to candlelight. You were ready to shine, to step into the world like something sacred and untouchable. You could already hear Barty saying something obscene in your ear, feel the warmth of Regulus's hand brushing the back of your neck in that absent, steadying way he had, picture the way Remus would murmur something clever and kind just under the noise. You'd imagined yourself laughing, head tossed back, body moving loose and free.
And then the pain came.
Not all at once. It never is. It begins like a whisper, an echo behind your ribs. Then a bloom of fire. A low, coiling ache that stretches its claws beneath your skin and sinks in. It crawls through your torso like it's trying to carve a home there, sharp and constant and cruel. You freeze on the edge of the couch, your breath hitching in that familiar, traitorous way. One hand clamps to your side, useless, instinctive, as though pressure could pacify the angry nerve endings singing beneath your skin.
It doesn't work.
The ache unfurls, then tightens, like some invisible fist curling in your guts. Your pulse echoes in your ears, and the room swims gently at the edges. You don't cry. You're past crying. This pain has no room for dramatics; it is too old, too practiced. But your throat still tightens with it. You dig your nails into your palm to anchor yourself, blinking up at the ceiling like maybe it has answers. You breathe. Slowly. Shallowly. It doesn't help.
By the time they emerge from the bathroom, voices tangled in easy, familiar laughter, you're curled in on yourself on the bed. Trying to look casual. Trying not to ruin it. The outfit clings like paper now, every seam a reminder of what you're not up for. Your head is a haze, thoughts snagging like cloth on bramble, dread pooling beneath every attempt at composure. You straighten your spine, paste on something that might be mistaken for a smile.
"I think I'm gonna sit this one out," you say, breezy. Hollow. A line rehearsed and too well worn. "You three go. It'll be better without me slowing things down."
Remus stops walking like someone's snapped their fingers in front of him. Just—stops. Still and attentive.
His eyes find yours. Soft, narrowed. That frown starts between his brows. He doesn't speak, not yet, but he sees you. You know he sees you.
Barty swings toward you immediately, eyes sharp with scrutiny. "You alright?" he asks, casual in tone but not in body—he's already stepping closer, fingers twitching like he wants to touch but doesn't know where. His energy buzzes like static, a barely-contained storm.
"Fine," you say. A lie made brittle by your voice. "Just tired. Go have fun."
Barty doesn't buy it. You can see it in the way his mouth flattens. In the twitch of his jaw. Regulus hasn't said a word, but he's watching you like he's reading an ancient language he knows too well. His gaze tracks the tremor in your hands, the stiffness of your spine. His mouth opens like he might speak, but no words come out.
"We don't have to go out," Remus says, gentle but firm, his voice a balm you want to lean into.
"Yes you do," you say, sharper than you mean to. The air vibrates with it. Then, quieter: "I want you to."
A beat passes, thick and silent.
Barty opens his mouth, expression flaring with that brand of protective defiance he wears too often, but you cut in with a smile that feels like it's made of cracked porcelain.
"Please. Just tonight. I'll feel better with a bit of quiet."
You rise from the couch, just to prove you can. Just to show them you're still solid. The pain flares at the movement, your breath hitching. The room tilts, only slightly, but it's enough to make you feel like your body is betraying you in slow, humiliating degrees. You steady yourself on the dresser before they can see.
"I'm going to change," you murmur. "Have a good time."
Regulus doesn't move. His gaze lingers like the drag of silk across your skin, weightless and intense. He says nothing, but his silence is deafening—a thousand things left unsaid coiled on the tip of his tongue. He watches you until you step through the door.
Inside, you strip the outfit off with trembling hands. It feels like peeling away someone else's skin, shedding a version of yourself you never got to become tonight. Each movement is careful, measured, your breath shallow from the effort. The jumper you choose is oversized and worn soft with age. It smells like comfort. Like them. One of them. All of them. It wraps around you like arms that aren't here. The kind of arms that usually find you without you asking. The kind that hold you together when you feel like you're about to split open from the inside.
You lie on your side, curled with a heat pack hugged to your belly like a shield. The pain pulses in slow, spiteful rhythms. Shame seeps in alongside it, curling into the hollow of your chest and the backs of your knees, more familiar than you care to admit. You pull the blanket up to your chin and burrow into the pillow, trying to pretend it's a chest, a lap, a shoulder. Trying to make your body smaller. Less.
They never make you feel like a burden. Not once. But still. Still.
Tonight, your body is too loud. Too demanding. Too much. You ache in ways that words can't touch. And even if they were to come in now, soft-eyed and stubborn, you wouldn't know what to say. There is nothing to fix. Just this. This endless, stupid ache. The cruel kind. The kind that steals more than just your night. It steals the version of you you were almost allowed to be.
You listen for footsteps. The creak of wood. The click of the front door. Nothing.
They haven't left.
But they haven't come in, either.
You wait.
It starts with the quiet shift of fabric and the soft click of the door.
Regulus enters without fanfare, without hesitation. He doesn't ask. Doesn't say your name like a question, doesn't ask how bad it is or offer some platitude that would only make the knot in your chest twist tighter. He just moves. Calm, deliberate. He sheds the shell of his going-out clothes as if he never meant to leave at all—each motion a quiet undoing. The light from the lamp paints him in soft gold, haloing his hair, and his silence wraps around the room like a blanket, like a breath held in reverence.
You don't look at him. Not directly. But your eyes flicker to the shape of him in your periphery—the way he folds his jumper with precise, almost ceremonial care before pulling on a soft, long-sleeved shirt. Dark grey. Familiar. Comfortable. The shirt he wears on evenings when no one is meant to see him but you. It smells faintly of lavender and old pages, and the sound of the fabric settling over his shoulders is its own kind of comfort. He moves with purpose, yet without pressure, like every motion has already been decided. He doesn't fill the silence, but he doesn't leave it empty either. It becomes something sacred in his hands.
Then he slides into the bed beside you, his movements smooth, nearly silent. Cool fingers brush yours beneath the duvet like a question with no punctuation. You answer without words, just the faintest tilt of your hand toward his. He doesn't grip. Doesn't squeeze. Just lets your knuckles rest against his, the heat of his skin a grounding presence. It's not about comfort—not exactly. It's about witness. About not leaving. About showing up in the ways that matter most when words become too cumbersome. He shifts slightly closer, until his shoulder brushes yours, and you feel the shape of his presence steady and sure.
He opens a book.
It's one of the thick ones. The kind with fragile, whispery pages and a ribbon bookmark. The kind Regulus reads more slowly than necessary, like he's savouring the shape of every word. He doesn't read aloud. He doesn't have to. The rustle of paper and the soft shift of his breathing is enough. It fills the room in a way pain can't touch. His thigh brushes yours under the covers, a warm point of contact. He shifts only once, to tuck the duvet tighter around you both. A quiet gesture, and a steady one, like anchoring a sail in the wind.
His presence says everything. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to be anyone but this. Just breathe. Just be. And he means it. He always means it.
You do.
Five minutes pass. Five minutes of quiet turning pages and shared warmth. Five minutes where the worst of the ache becomes background noise. You feel the rhythm of him beside you, the soft turn of paper, the subtle catch of breath when he finds a line he likes. You imagine he's reading some dry, ancient piece of literature, something dense and slow. But his presence makes even that feel like lullaby.
Then the door creaks again, and the scent of chamomile and honey precedes Remus like a promise. A balm, carried in on the whisper of steam. His entrance is unhurried but purposeful, the kind of careful that speaks of practiced attentiveness. He knows where to step so the floorboards don't creak. He moves like someone who's done this before—who knows how to carry care like a cup of tea: steady, sure, unwavering.
He carries a mug with both hands, carefully, reverently—your favourite blend, steeped just right, not too hot. The kind of attention that makes your throat ache. There's a soft cloth draped over his wrist in case it drips, because he always thinks that far ahead. Because he sees you, all the invisible things, all the held-back sighs and forced smiles. The small tells in your breathing. The tightness around your eyes. Nothing escapes him.
"Hey, love," he murmurs as he kneels beside the bed, his voice warm and hushed. He places the mug on the nightstand, then presses a soft kiss to your temple. It lingers. So does he. His hand rests against your cheek, his thumb brushing gently just below your eye. Grounding. Tender. Familiar.
"You don't have to pretend with us."
Your eyes flutter shut. Just for a moment. Let it in. Let it settle. Let the weight of being known melt against the ache of your body. You inhale slowly, the scent of the tea mingling with the familiar smell of clean sheets and Regulus's cologne. Safety. The kind you can sink into.
Remus straightens and sits on the other side of the bed, close but not crowding. He doesn't ask for space; he simply takes the space that has already been made for him. Regulus leans into him almost immediately, wordless and automatic. His hand lifts, barely-there, and brushes along the line of Remus's spine in a slow, featherlight motion. A silent thank-you. A reminder that they are, even in quiet, still reaching for each other. Still choosing softness, even now.
Remus's hand finds Regulus's thigh, anchoring him, and for a while no one speaks. There's only the sound of breath and the occasional whisper of turning pages. The mug of tea waits, steaming gently, a quiet offering. There's no urgency. No expectation. Just the sacred hush of people who have chosen to stay. The kind of presence that doesn't demand anything of you. That holds space for pain and softness alike.
The room holds still.
Then Barty crashes in like a storm.
The door swings open too fast and he's grinning like he's just set something on fire and is hoping you'll be proud of him for it. He's radiant with mischief, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with wind or adrenaline or both. His coat is askew and there's a scuff on his shoe that definitely wasn't there before. His hair is windswept, the collar of his shirt half-popped like he got into an argument with it halfway across town and decided to let it win. His energy is a whirlwind, a thunderclap in a quiet chapel.
"Right, party people," he announces, flinging something onto the foot of the bed with theatrical flair. "If we're not getting drunk on a rooftop, we're gambling for kisses and sugar."
A patisserie box. The ridiculous kind with gold leaf and too many layers. Your favourite cake sits inside, pristine and absurdly expensive. You recognise the label—it's across town, and always has a queue. He must've run. Probably flirted with someone in line, sweet-talked his way past the wait. Beside it: a card game, still shrink-wrapped, boasting fluorescent colours and probably terrible instructions.
"Found this absolute nonsense in the shop by the bakery," he adds, tugging off his jacket and tossing it somewhere behind him. "It promises chaos. We deserve chaos."
He flops onto the bed with the kind of dramatic flair that makes the mattress bounce. His legs tangle over yours, his head tipping backward into Remus's lap without hesitation. Like it's his rightful place. Like there's nowhere else he could possibly belong. His body fits in like he was always meant to be part of the mess. Of the softness.
"Miss me?" he asks with a wicked grin.
Remus laughs, low and fond, and bends to press a kiss to Barty's mouth. It's slow, unhurried. Barty hums into it, satisfied. His fingers find the hem of Remus's jumper, tugging gently just to be annoying. He grins when Remus swats at him without heat.
Regulus, trying to swipe a fingertip through the icing with the most innocent expression he can muster, earns a sharp nip to the wrist for his trouble. He snorts, utterly unbothered, and swats Barty lightly with a pillow. Barty retaliates with a grin and a flourish, offering him a fork like a peace treaty. Regulus takes it with a tiny smirk and the faintest hint of mischief in his otherwise impassive expression.
Barty twists toward you then, the grin softening. There's still mischief in it, but it dims into something gentler. Something unspoken. He looks at you like you're the whole reason he came back. Like the sun has decided to rise in your bedsheets.
"Hey, sweetheart," he says, voice lower now. "Didn't think we'd really leave you behind, did you?"
You don't answer. But your hand slips into Regulus's properly, your shoulders drop by a fraction, and you breathe in the warmth of chamomile, sugar, and presence.
Pairing: Poly!Moonwaterkiller x Disabled!Reader
Summary: The lift breaks again. Dinner burns. Nothing goes to plan. And still—somehow—it's perfect.
Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, fatigue and mobility struggles, fluff, hurt/comfort, barty is chaos incarnate, remus is quiet steadiness, regulus is soft and sharp, bickering in the kitchen, communal caretaking, reader has cerebral palsy, no use of y/n, being loved even when things fall apart, emotional softness in a messy flat
Word count: 2.2k words
The elevator is out of order. Again.
"Of course," you mutter, staring at the sign taped over the metal doors. Your left leg throbs slightly, a dull reminder of the pain that never really leaves. You shift your weight onto your crutch, but the ache only deepens, settling into your hip and knee like unwelcome tenants who've overstayed their welcome.
Fifth floor. Five flights of stairs to navigate with cerebral palsy winding its way through your bones, making every movement an effort. It's not just physical tiredness; it's a weariness that seeps into your very being, a constant companion to your condition. And today, it feels more potent than ever.
You glance back at the closed elevator doors one last time before turning towards the stairwell. The climb is slow, each step a battle between determination and fatigue. But you've faced greater challenges than this, and so you push forward, propelled by necessity and a stubborn will that refuses to give in.
By the time you reach the landing on your floor, your palms are slick against the handles of your crutches, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. Sweat trickles down the back of your neck, soaking into the collar of your jacket, making it stick uncomfortably to your skin. You pause for a moment, leaning heavily against the wall as you gather the strength to continue, but before you can unlock the door, it swings open.
Regulus.
He looks like he's been pacing for hours, his sweater rumpled and sleeves pushed up past his wrists. His gaze sweeps over you, sharp as a quill's point, cataloguing every detail, every possible injury. "You're late," he says, and though the words are a rebuke, his voice trembles with relief so faint you almost miss it. He moves to step forward, as if to guide you somewhere quieter, but hesitates.
"The elevator," you manage between gasps of air, "again."
His hand hovers near your arm, not quite touching, giving you the space to breathe—to gather yourself. But you don't need space, you need — You wince, a sharp pain shooting down your leg, and Regulus steps aside without a word, the door swinging open wider at his command. As you pass, there's a murmur of a protective spell under his breath—more for himself, you think, than for you.
Inside, the flat is chaos held together by sheer force of will.
The table is set—probably for the third time, judging by the misplaced cutlery and overstressed symmetry. A bouquet of flowers wilts in the center, its petals starting to curl at the edges. Candles burn low, their flames flickering in the draft from the door, casting long shadows across mismatched plates. Remus refused to buy a second matching set, a small act of protest for reasons you cannot recall now. He stands behind the table now, his breathing too controlled, too even. When he looks at you, his smile is small and tight—the kind he reserves for when things are falling apart and he's trying to hold them together silently.
Barty is in the kitchen.
Smoke billows from a pot on the stove, the acrid scent of burnt... what should have been pasta. "I WASN'T EVEN GONE THAT LONG!" Barty's voice is a disbelieving bellow, his hand gripping a wooden spoon like it might somehow redeem the situation. "How does water even burn? This has to be some sort of sabotage. Bloody Regulus."
"Perhaps if you had remembered to add the pasta," comes the dry retort from behind you. Regulus closes the front door with a soft thud. A small smile tugs at his lips—sarcasm, not malice, in the face of disaster.
"Saboteur," Barty grumbles, narrowing his eyes at the smoke still wafting from the pot. He tosses the utensil into the sink with a clatter that echoes his frustration and turns on his heel, only to collide with the edge of the counter. A muttered curse slips from his lips, followed by a glare towards the innocent stove as if it were personally responsible for his misfortune.
You drop into the nearest chair, a wince creasing your brow as your leg twinges in protest. The crutch clatters to the floor beside you, a stark reminder of how much you've pushed yourself today. For a moment, it's all too much—the ruined dinner, the ache seeping into your bones, the tug-of-war between mind and body that leaves you feeling more exhausted than ever before. It's supposed to be a celebration, a marking of another year together, but it feels like a farce, a play where every actor forgets their lines and the scenery collapses around them. Your chest tightens, the air in your lungs turning stale with disappointment.
Remus's steps are quiet as he crosses the room and kneels beside your chair. His touch is warm and sure, fingers pressing into the tense knot of muscle in your thigh. "You could have sent a text," he murmurs, the faint hint of reproach softened by concern.
"I didn't want to worry you."
"Too late for that," he replies simply, his hands never ceasing their work. "I'll always worry. Especially when you don't."
Across the room, Barty tosses a spoon into the sink with a clatter that seems louder than necessary. "Right, sod this," he declares, throwing up his hands. "We're ordering takeout."
"We bought wine," Regulus protests weakly from the doorway, still caught between wanting to salvage the evening and watching it crumble around him.
"Wine goes with everything," Barty retorts without missing a beat. "Even curry. Especially curry."
Laughter bubbles up from your chest, a sound that's almost foreign in its lightness. Barty grins at the sound, then strides over, seemingly unaffected by the tension still lingering in the room.
There's no resistance when he reaches down, one arm slipping under your knees while the other supports your back. He lifts you as though you weigh nothing, carrying you to the couch and settling you onto his lap like a child. His body is a wall of warmth behind you, solid and real, an anchor in the chaos. One hand rests lightly on your stomach, fingers splayed wide, as if marking territory. The other wraps protectively around your waist, holding you close.
"Comfortable?" Barty's voice is a low purr, his breath warm against your ear as he rests his chin on your shoulder.
"You're being ridiculous."
"You're soft." His arms tighten around you for a moment before relaxing, the tension in his body ebbing away. "Just let me hold you."
You don't protest, allowing yourself to sink back into his embrace. There's something strangely comforting about it, despite everything.
Regulus moves toward the kitchen, and the clink of wine glasses reaches your ears. Remus settles on the sofa next to you, his hand finding its way to your thigh. He starts to rub slow circles there, the pressure just enough to ease the ache that's settled deep in your muscles. He doesn't say anything, just leans in to press a soft kiss to your temple—a silent promise, a grounding point amidst the storm.
"Your gloves were left in the hallway," Remus murmurs, his fingers brushing against yours where they rest on the armrest. "I brought them in."
You hadn't even noticed you'd dropped them. Your fingers curl slightly, gripping his hand in a gesture of gratitude before letting go. He gives your hand a brief squeeze before withdrawing, the warmth of his touch lingering.
The silence that stretches between the three of you is filled with the rustle of a takeaway menu, the occasional brush of Barty's lips against the nape of your neck when he thinks no one is looking, and the sigh that escapes Remus' lips as he works the tension out of your muscles. You allow your eyes to flutter closed, just for a moment, breathing in the quiet companionship that fills the room. It's a far cry from the solitude you've grown accustomed to—the silence that usually accompanies pain, the need to steel yourself against the world.
When Regulus returns, there's a clink of glass as he sets down four tumblers filled with amber liquid. He places one in front of you, then slides the others towards Barty and Remus before settling onto the plush carpet, his legs folded beneath him. His back rests against the edge of the coffee table, mirroring your position but maintaining an appropriate distance.
"Indian or Thai?" Regulus asks after a moment, his eyes flicking between you and Barty.
"Both," Barty responds without missing a beat. "We're in mourning."
A hint of a smile tugs at Regulus's lips, and he inclines his head as if that explanation makes perfect sense. There's a strange comfort in his acceptance, unexpected and warm.
He starts reading aloud from the takeaway menus with the gravity of someone scrutinising ancient texts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles up from your chest. It feels foreign, this lightness amid the heaviness of the evening, but not unwelcome.
The food takes its time to arrive. Long enough for Barty to start tracing random shapes on your thigh, and for Remus to read aloud from the back of a wine bottle just to fill the silence. Regulus pulls out a small sketchpad and begins to draw—maybe it's the curve of your cheek or the sharp angle of the coffee table, but he doesn't let you see.
Eventually, Barty shifts, pulling you down until you're lying across him like a cat basking in the sun. Your legs stretch out over the cushions, and you feel his arm settle around your middle, fingers idly playing with the hem of your shirt.
When the food arrives, you're all but slumped against Barty, too exhausted to hold yourself upright. Remus gently eases you forward so he can adjust the pillows behind your back, propping you up just enough to be able to eat. Regulus is already opening the bags and setting out containers with a precision that belies his worry.
"Here," he says, unfolding a fork.
You make a feeble attempt to reach for it, but Regulus's hand closes around yours, stopping you in your tracks. "No," he whispers, not unkindly, "allow us."
His fingers deftly work the utensil, stirring through the container before lifting a small bite to your lips. You blink at him, unsure, but Regulus only offers a soft smile in return.
"It's been a long day," he murmurs as if that explains everything, "for all of us."
"But especially for you," Remus adds from beside you, his eyes never straying far from your face. "Let us take care of you tonight."
And so you do.
You let Barty's arms remain wrapped around your waist, his chest a steady rhythm against your back. You let Remus cradle your leg in his lap, his hands working to soothe the ache that still pulses there. You let Regulus feed you, each bite a testament to their resolve, each wipe of a napkin across your lips a silent promise kept. You are half-fed, half-conscious, and entirely cared for.
This isn't how anyone had imagined the evening would go—not by a long shot. But here, in this moment, it's exactly where they need to be.
The flames of candles flicker over the makeshift table, casting shadows that dance in tandem with the wavering uncertainty of the evening. The wine is a degree too warm; the food, though delicious, remains in its takeout containers, a stark reminder of culinary disaster. The music, once an accompaniment to laughter and clinking glasses, now seems oddly out of place — softly romantic melodies mixed with the lingering scent of smoke and Chinese food. A curtain hangs off its hook in one corner, forgotten in the rush to salvage the night. One of the overhead lights flickers, as if mirroring the tension in the room.
And yet —
It's perfect.
Not because it's without flaws, but because those flaws are part of a larger truth. They're the rough edges of reality that highlight the beauty of unexpected moments, the way light becomes more meaningful when seen through cracks. This is the kind of love that doesn't demand perfection, but celebrates effort; that stumbles and rights itself, then keeps going, laughing at missteps while holding tight to each other's hands. It's the kind of love that stays, even when the kitchen is smoky and dinner comes in cardboard boxes.
"You know," Barty leans in close, his voice low and laced with mirth, "I'd still burn the world for you. Even if it smells like burnt starch in here."
Remus's hands are steady as he works, the soft light catching on his face. "I'd just like to make it a little better. No burning required."
Regulus offers another bite, his gaze never leaving yours. "And I'd prefer if no one died tonight. But noted."
A soft laugh escapes you, genuine despite the heaviness that clings to your bones. Somehow, amidst the exhaustion and the broken elevator and the culinary disaster, you've never felt more at home than in this moment of imperfect tenderness.
Their love may be chaotic and mismatched, but it is unwavering. It is the beacon that guides you through the storm, the anchor that holds you steady when the waves threaten to pull you under. You wouldn't trade it for a perfectly executed evening.
