#darksun

[sunkiller-microfics]

June 2026 Prompts

Enjoy writing some James x Barty micros!

Rules/Guidelines are here. Make sure to tag this account in your posts, so I can reblog them.

[bradleysass]

core - @sunkiller-microfics - wc: 1k

Barty hated yoga.

Not in a passionate way. Not in the way he hated early mornings or authority figures or yogurt with fruit chunks in it. No, yoga inspired a quieter kind of misery. The kind that settled deep in his bones every time the woman on the television smiled with terrifying serenity and said things like, “Now engage your core.”

What core?

Barty was fairly certain his organs were just floating around inside him like soup.

“This is humiliating,” Barty muttered as he bent forward with all the grace of a folding chair collapsing in on itself.

Behind him, sprawled on the couch like a lazy housecat, James snorted.

“You’re doing amazing, love.”

“I’m one wrong move away from snapping my hamstring clean in half.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Barty glared over his shoulder, blonde curls sticking to his forehead already. “If you laugh at me again, Potter, I’m turning this into a murder scene.”

James lifted both hands innocently, though his grin ruined the effect. “I’m not laughing at you.”

“You literally just laughed.”

“I laughed with affection.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

The instructor on the TV transitioned smoothly into another pose. Barty stared at her in horror.

“She’s not human.”

“She’s flexible.”

“She’s possessed.”

James bit down on another smile.

The living room smelled faintly like the coffee they’d abandoned on the table an hour ago. Morning light poured through the windows, warm against the hardwood floors. Barty stood barefoot on a yoga mat James had bought three months ago during one of his “we should take care of ourselves” phases.

Usually Barty ignored those phases until they passed.

This one apparently had staying power.

“Come on,” James coaxed softly. “Just try the next one.”

Barty sighed dramatically enough to qualify as performance art before shifting into position again.

James watched him carefully.

Watched the slight wobble in Barty’s arms as he held himself up. Watched the concentration pulling his brows together. Watched the tiny frustrated huff every time he lost balance and had to reset.

But mostly—

Mostly James watched how hard Barty was trying.

That was the thing that kept making warmth bloom painfully in James’s chest.

A year ago, Barty would’ve quit after five minutes.

A year ago, anything involving patience with himself turned ugly fast. One mistake and he’d spiral. One stumble and he’d snap something cruel about his own body, his own mind, his own worth. James remembered nights spent peeling sharp words out of Barty’s skin one by one, holding him together while he shook with frustration at himself.

Now?

Now he was still here twenty minutes later, sweaty and annoyed and muttering curses under his breath—but still trying.

James couldn’t stop smiling.

Barty dropped into a plank pose with a noise of immediate regret.

“Oh, fuck this.”

“You’ve got it!”

“My arms are vibrating.”

“That means it’s working.”

“That means I’m dying.”

James laughed quietly, softer this time. Fond enough that it almost hurt.

Barty still didn’t notice the staring.

Probably because he was too busy fighting for his life.

The instructor started talking about breathing techniques.

Barty wheezed, “I can’t believe people do this for fun.”

James leaned his head against the couch cushion, eyes never leaving him.

There was something unfairly beautiful about Barty like this. Not polished. Not sharp-edged and defensive and dangerous the way he presented himself to everyone else.

Just… Barty.

Hair messy. Oversized sleeveless shirt slipping off one shoulder. A faint flush spreading across his cheeks from exertion. Completely focused on trying to improve himself because James had suggested it might help with the back pain he constantly ignored.

Because James had asked.

God.

James loved him so much he felt stupid with it sometimes.

“Okay,” the woman on the television said cheerfully, “time for boat pose!”

Barty looked physically offended.

“No.”

James burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” Barty said, pointing accusingly at the screen. “Look at her. She’s balanced on her arse like a fucking enchanted swan.”

“You can do it.”

“I absolutely cannot.”

“You said that about the stretches earlier.”

“And I was correct.”

Still grumbling, Barty shifted onto the mat and attempted the pose.

It lasted approximately three seconds before he tipped sideways entirely and rolled onto the floor with a loud thud.

James immediately sat upright. “You okay?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Barty started laughing.

Not irritated laughter. Not manic laughter.

Just genuine, breathless amusement.

James stared at him.

Barty lay sprawled dramatically across the yoga mat, giggling into the floorboards at his own failure, and something inside James went painfully soft.

Because that was new too.

The ability to fail without tearing himself apart over it.

Barty finally looked over. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

James blinked, apparently having been caught staring for far too long.

“Like what?”

“Like I just personally hung the moon.”

James smiled before he could stop himself. Big and helpless and probably far too emotional for ten in the morning.

Barty’s laughter quieted.

And James realized, suddenly, that Barty had changed enough to notice things like this now too.

The softness. The pride.

The love.

James pushed himself off the couch and walked over until he was standing beside the mat.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I’m really proud of you.”

Barty’s expression immediately twisted into suspicion. “Why are you saying it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to make me cry before breakfast.”

James crouched beside him.

Barty’s cheeks were pink now, whether from exertion or embarrassment James couldn’t tell.

“You’ve just…” James hesitated, trying to untangle feelings too big for language. “You’ve come really far, B.”

Barty looked away instantly.

Classic.

James reached out and brushed sweat-damp curls back from his forehead.

“A while ago,” James continued softly, “you wouldn’t have let yourself be bad at something long enough to improve at it.”

Barty swallowed.

The joking edge faded from his face.

James smiled gently. “But you stayed.”

Barty stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

Then, quieter than before, “Well. You asked me to.”

That nearly killed James outright.

He leaned down without thinking and kissed Barty’s forehead.

Barty made a grumbly little noise. “Don’t get sappy on me.”

“Too late.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You love me.”

Barty finally looked back at him, eyes warm despite the insult already forming on his tongue.

Unfortunately, before he could say it, the woman on the television chirped—

“Now we’ll begin crow pose!”

Barty sat straight up. “Absolutely the fuck not.”

[bradleysass]

limit - @sunkiller-microfics - wc: 471

The room is dim except for the warm spill of a bedside lamp, shadows stretching long across the walls. It feels intentional—everything Barty does feels intentional. Even the way he watches.

James is already flushed, breath uneven, shirt half-open and slipping off one shoulder. There’s a kind of restless energy in him, like he’s bracing and leaning in at the same time. He always does that—meets the edge instead of backing away from it.

Barty notices. Of course he does.

He steps closer, slow enough to make it unbearable, fingers brushing along James’s jaw before tilting his chin up just slightly.

“Still with me?” Barty murmurs, voice low, almost conversational.

James huffs a quiet laugh, though it catches halfway. “You’d know if I wasn’t.”

“Mm.” Barty’s thumb traces over his lip, not quite gentle. “I would.”

There’s a pause—not empty, but charged. Checking, measuring. Barty’s gaze flicks over him, sharp and assessing in a way that would be unnerving if James didn’t like it so much.

Then, softer, but more serious: “Tell me if I hit past your limit.”

That lands differently.

James’s expression shifts—not losing the heat, but grounding it. He nods once, deliberate. “I will.”

Barty studies him for another second, like he’s committing that answer to memory, then something in him settles. Not restraint exactly—but control.

“Good,” he says.

And then he tests.

It starts small—a firmer grip, a sharper press, something that makes James inhale quick and sharp. Not pain for its own sake, but precise, placed. Barty watches the reaction like it’s part of the process, like James’s responses are instructions he’s learning to read in real time.

James leans into it.

Of course he does.

A quiet, breathless sound slips out of him, halfway between tension and something warmer, and Barty’s mouth curves just slightly.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, almost teasing now. “That one you like.”

James doesn’t answer in words—just a nod, a bit too quick, eyes bright.

So Barty pushes a little further.

Not recklessly. Never that. Each shift is measured, each reaction catalogued—the way James’s shoulders tense, the way his breath stutters, the exact point where anticipation starts to blur into overwhelm—

And right before it tips—

Barty eases off.

Just enough.

James exhales, shaky but smiling, like he knows exactly what Barty just did. “You’re—” he starts, then cuts himself off with a quiet laugh. “You’re infuriating.”

“Careful,” Barty replies lightly, though his hand settles at James’s waist again, grounding. “I’m being nice right now.”

“That’s nice?” James raises a brow, but he’s leaning closer again, drawn in despite himself. “I’d hate to see the alternative.”

Barty’s expression sharpens—not dangerous, not really, but intent in a way that makes the air feel tighter.

“Maybe,” he says, voice dropping just slightly, “we’ll get there.”

[sunkiller-microfics]

May 2026 Prompts

Enjoy writing some James x Barty micros!

Rules/Guidelines are here. Make sure to tag this account in your posts, so I can reblog them.

[bradleysass]

broken - @sunkiller-microfics - wc: 995

James couldn’t decide which version of the moment had been real.

In one, Rockwood had leaned too far across the cafeteria table, voice dipped low, words coated in that oily, almost-friendly tone people used when they wanted to hurt you without witnesses. Pathetic, maybe. Or still hearing things, are you? Something like that.

In another, it had been Creevey instead—quieter, sharper, a whisper that slid right past James’s ear and nested somewhere behind his eyes. That version didn’t even feel spoken aloud. It felt placed there.

And then there was the third possibility, the one James had been getting better at recognizing—the one where no one had said anything at all.

That one was always the hardest to accept.

The plate had left his hand before he’d fully chosen which reality to believe.

It shattered spectacularly against the far wall, ceramic exploding like a gunshot. Conversation died instantly. Chairs scraped. Someone swore. Orderlies were already moving before the last fragment hit the floor.

James remembered the restraint on his arms more than the restraint itself—the pressure, the inevitability of it. The way his own voice sounded distant as he tried to explain, You didn’t hear it? He said—someone said—

No one ever heard it.

Now there was only the hum.

The solitary unit had a sound to it, a low, electrical buzzing that never quite settled into the background. James sat on the narrow bed, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair as if he could physically hold his thoughts in place.

He’d messed up.

Again.

He squeezed his eyes shut, replaying the scene, trying to pin it down like something scientific. Evidence. Angles. Reactions.

Rockwood hadn’t looked at him.

Creevey had been across the room.

No one else had reacted until the plate hit.

James exhaled sharply through his nose. “Not real,” he muttered, like a conclusion he could file away. “Not real.”

Some days, that worked.

Some days, it didn’t stop the echo.

A sound in the hallway pulled him out of the spiral—soft, uneven. Footsteps. Then a faint shuffle, like someone dragging their shoe along the floor on purpose.

James stilled.

He turned his head slowly toward the door, eyes tracking the thin strip of space at the bottom. For a second, there was nothing—

Then a shadow.

And then, just barely visible when the person leaned closer, the top of a head.

Dark. Curly.

James’s chest loosened before he could stop it.

“You know,” came the voice, muffled through the door but unmistakable, “a broken plate is a sure-fire way to land yourself in the fun room.”

There it was—that tone. Light. Amused. Like this was all a joke and not… this.

Barty.

James huffed a quiet laugh despite himself, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, well,” he said, voice rough, “I’ve always had a talent for self-sabotage.”

There was a soft thud as Barty leaned his forehead—or maybe his shoulder—against the door. “You’re supposed to think about throwing things,” he replied. “Not actually do it. That’s, like, step one of being a functional disaster.”

James shifted off the bed and moved closer, lowering himself to sit on the floor with his back against the door. The proximity felt… grounding. Even with the barrier between them.

“I thought I heard something,” James said after a beat.

He hated how that sentence sounded now. Thin. Overused.

On the other side, Barty didn’t answer right away. No immediate joke, no deflection. Just the faint sound of him adjusting his stance.

“Yeah?” he said finally, quieter.

James pressed the back of his head lightly against the door. “Could’ve been Rockwood. Or Creevey.” He swallowed. “Or neither.”

Another pause—but not an uncomfortable one. Just… space.

“Okay,” Barty said.

Not are you sure? Not that didn’t happen. Just… okay.

James let out a slow breath. “I tried to check. You know—like they tell me to.” He tapped his temple lightly against the metal. “Context. Reactions. Evidence.”

“And?”

“And I still threw the damn plate.”

A soft snort came through the door. “Bold strategy.”

James huffed again, but it faded quickly. “I think it slipped through,” he admitted. “One of the bad ones.”

This time, Barty answered immediately. “Yeah,” he said. “That happens.”

There was no pity in it. No clinical distance. Just… fact.

James closed his eyes.

On the other side of the door, Barty slid down until he was sitting too—the faint scrape gave it away. Their backs lined up, separated by a few inches of reinforced material and a whole lot of hospital policy.

“You know what I think?” Barty said after a moment.

“That I’m an idiot?”

“Well, yeah, obviously. But that’s not my point.”

James smiled faintly, eyes still closed.

“I think,” Barty continued, “that you noticed it might not be real. Which is already better than, you know, last month.”

James winced. “Low bar.”

“Still a bar.”

Silence settled again, but this time it felt… different. Less like isolation, more like a shared pause.

“They’ll let you out tomorrow,” Barty added. “Maybe sooner if you play nice.”

“Define ‘play nice.’”

“No more interior decorating with cafeteria ware.”

James let his head tip back slightly, a quiet laugh escaping him. “I’ll do my best.”

“Do better than your best,” Barty shot back lightly. “Your best is what got you in there.”

Another beat.

“…Hey,” James said, softer.

“Yeah?”

James hesitated, fingers brushing lightly against the door as if he could somehow reach through it. “Thanks. For… checking.”

On the other side, there was a faint shift—like Barty had mirrored the gesture without thinking.

“Don’t get sentimental on me,” he said, but the edge was gone. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

James smiled to himself, the tightness in his chest easing just a little.

The hum of the room didn’t disappear.

The doubts didn’t vanish.

But for the moment, they weren’t the only things in his head.

[bradleysass]

hate - @sunkiller-microfics - wc: 1.1k

As a fun fact, you can thank having "We Don't talk anymore" - Charlie Puth on repeat for this one.

James doesn’t mean it.

That’s the worst part—how convincing he sounds when he does.

“I hate you,” he spits, the words sharp and fast, like if he gets them out quickly enough they won’t stick to his teeth. Like they’ll dissolve in the air before they can land.

They don’t.

They land squarely in Barty’s chest.

Barty doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move at all, actually—just leans back against the closed front door, keys still dangling from his fingers, jacket half-zipped. He looks tired. Ink stains his hands, dark crescents under his nails, and there’s a smear of red on his wrist that might be ink or might not.

“Yeah,” Barty says, flat. Not dismissive. Not hurt. Just… there. “You said that already.”

James’s hands curl into fists. He hates that tone more than anything—the calm, the knowing. Like Barty’s memorized the script. Like this is just another loop in the same broken record.

“Maybe I mean it more this time,” James snaps, pacing now, dragging his hands through his hair hard enough to pull. “Maybe I finally realized I should’ve meant it the first hundred times.”

“Right,” Barty mutters, pushing himself off the door at last. He tosses his keys onto the side table with a clatter. “That must be it.”

“You were gone for six hours,” James continues, voice rising, words tripping over each other faster than he can filter them. “Six. Hours. You said you’d be back by four.”

“I had a client.”

“Oh, yeah? Must’ve been a really important client.”

Barty exhales slowly through his nose. He shrugs off his jacket, hangs it up with deliberate care—like if he moves too fast, something will snap.

“She wanted a full sleeve redone,” he says. “Took longer than expected.”

James laughs, sharp and humorless. “Of course she did. Let me guess—she just couldn’t let you go, right? Needed you there, touching her all day—”

“Don’t,” Barty cuts in, not loud, but firm enough that it slices clean through James’s spiral.

But James is already gone, already halfway down the slope.

“—because you’re just so good at that, aren’t you? Everyone loves you. Everyone wants you. Why wouldn’t they? You’re—” He gestures wildly, like the word is somewhere in the air and he just has to grab it. “—you. And I’m just—”

He chokes on the rest.

Barty watches him carefully now. Not cold. Not distant. Focused.

There it is.

The pivot.

It always comes—the turn from anger into something messier, something hollowed-out and aching.

“I’m just what?” Barty asks quietly.

James shakes his head hard, like he can dislodge the thought before it finishes forming. “Nothing.”

“James.”

“I said nothing!”

Silence crashes between them, heavy and buzzing.

James presses his palms into his eyes until stars burst behind them. His chest feels too tight, like his ribs are shrinking around his lungs.

“You should just go,” he mutters, voice dropping, losing all its earlier sharpness. “Honestly. I don’t know why you’re even still here.”

Barty doesn’t answer immediately. He moves instead—slow, measured steps across the room until he’s standing just a few feet away.

“Because you don’t mean it,” he says.

James lets out a broken laugh. “God, you’re so arrogant.”

“No,” Barty replies, just as steady. “I’m experienced.”

That almost gets a smile. Almost.

James drops his hands, eyes red-rimmed and too bright. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I can’t,” James snaps, frustration flaring again. “That’s the whole problem—I can’t explain it, I can’t stop it, I can’t—” He gestures helplessly at himself. “—turn it off. One minute I’m fine and the next I just—” He swallows hard. “I get this thought stuck in my head and it won’t leave.”

Barty’s expression softens, just slightly. “What thought?”

James hesitates.

That’s new.

Usually he just deflects, lashes out, says something cruel enough to end the conversation. But tonight the words sit heavy on his tongue, demanding to be said.

“That you deserve better,” he admits finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Or that you’ve already figured that out and you’re just… waiting to leave.”

Barty’s jaw tightens.

“And tonight?” he asks.

James huffs a weak, self-deprecating breath. “Tonight it was both. You were gone too long, so obviously that meant you found someone better and just didn’t feel like telling me yet.” He shrugs, brittle. “Makes sense.”

“It doesn’t,” Barty says immediately.

“It does in my head.”

“Your head’s a liar.”

James snorts. “Yeah, well, it’s very convincing.”

Another stretch of silence. This one isn’t as sharp. Just… tired.

Barty rubs a hand over his face, smearing that streak on his wrist further. “She cried halfway through the tattoo,” he says suddenly.

James blinks. “What?”

“The client,” Barty clarifies. “Said her ex used to draw on her arm when she couldn’t sleep. She wanted me to copy the designs exactly, even though they were shit.” He huffs softly. “Took forever because she kept asking me to redo lines that were already perfect.”

James stares at him, thrown off.

“I wasn’t cheating on you,” Barty adds, quieter now. “I was stuck with a crying woman who couldn’t decide if she wanted a star or a spiral.”

A beat.

“…spiral’s better,” James mutters automatically.

“Yeah,” Barty agrees. “I know.”

The tension cracks, just a little.

James sinks onto the couch like his legs give out all at once. He drags his hands down his face, exhausted now, the manic edge burning out and leaving something duller in its wake.

“I hate this,” he says, voice small. “I hate that I do this to you.”

Barty shrugs, but it’s not dismissive this time. Just honest. “Yeah. Me too.”

James winces.

“But I also know it’s not really you,” Barty continues. “Or not all of you, anyway.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No,” Barty agrees. “It doesn’t.”

He steps closer, then stops—close enough to reach, far enough to give James space to pull away if he wants to.

James doesn’t.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Barty says, softer now. “Even when you try to make me.”

James lets out a shaky breath. “You say that now.”

“I say it every time.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It does,” Barty cuts in gently. “You just don’t believe it yet.”

James looks up at him, eyes glassy. “Why?”

Barty tilts his head, considering him like it’s the simplest question in the world.

“Because I know the routine,” he says. “And I’m still here anyway.”

That does it.

James’s shoulders finally drop, tension draining out of him in a slow, uneven exhale. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, like the weight of everything is finally too much to carry standing up.

“…I don’t hate you,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” Barty says, nudging his foot lightly against James’s. “I know.”

A pause.

“…you can still be a bit of a dick, though.”

That earns a weak, real laugh.

“Shut up,” James murmurs.

Barty smirks, just a little. “Make me.”

And for the first time that night, the merry-go-round slows.

[bradleysass]

high - @sunkiller-microfics - wc: 868 - CW: drug usage

James already knew what he was going to walk into before he even unlocked the door.

It was the smell first—earthy, damp, unmistakable. Not quite rot, not quite incense. Mushrooms. Again.

He closed his eyes for a second, forehead resting against the doorframe like maybe, if he waited long enough, reality would rearrange itself into something less exhausting. It didn’t.

The door creaked open.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered.

Barty was sprawled flat on his back in the middle of the living room, limbs splayed out like a crime scene outline that had given up halfway through. One arm twitched lazily every few seconds, fingers curling at nothing. His shirt—James’s shirt, actually—was half-ridden up his torso, exposing pale skin and the sharp jut of his ribs.

Evan, somehow worse, was draped over the couch upside down, head hanging off the cushions, hair brushing the carpet. He was staring at the ceiling like it held the secrets of the universe, blinking slowly.

“Guys,” James said, shutting the door a little harder than necessary.

No response.

“Fantastic. Great. Love this.”

He dropped his keys on the counter and stepped over a discarded hoodie, then another, narrowly avoiding what he sincerely hoped was just spilled juice and not something more concerning. His gaze flicked between them—Evan, blissfully dissociated; Barty, barely conscious.

“Do you two have, like, a schedule for this?” James continued. “Or is it just whenever I have a long day?”

Still nothing.

James exhaled sharply through his nose and walked over to Barty, nudging his foot against Barty’s side. No reaction.

“Oi,” he said, a little louder. “Crouch. Earth to Crouch.”

He gave him a light kick—more of a nudge, really, just enough to jostle him.

Barty stirred.

It wasn’t much. Just a slow, delayed reaction, like his brain had to swim through molasses to catch up. His head lolled slightly to the side, unfocused eyes blinking up at James.

James crossed his arms. “There he is. Welcome back. Care to explain—”

“Ohhh…” Barty breathed, voice soft and warped, like it had been stretched out of shape. His lips curved into a slow, dreamy smile. “Jamie.”

James froze.

Barty reached out vaguely, his hand missing James entirely and landing somewhere near his ankle. His fingers curled there anyway, like he’d meant to do that.

“Hi,” Barty added, as if this were a perfectly normal interaction and not him absolutely gone out of his mind on the living room floor.

James stared down at him, unimpressed.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said flatly.

Barty just hummed in response, eyes drifting half-shut again, still smiling like James had just said something wonderful.

From the couch, Evan let out a quiet, awed whisper. “He’s glowing.”

“I am not glowing,” James snapped.

Evan didn’t even look at him. “No, like… spiritually. It’s a whole thing.”

“Right. Brilliant. Fantastic. Love that for me.”

James dragged a hand down his face, already feeling the headache settling in.

“This is exactly what I needed after work,” he went on. “Truly. Nothing says relaxation like coming home to my boyfriend off his head and his terrible, terrible influence of a best friend—”

“I’m a great influence,” Evan murmured dreamily.

“You got disowned, Evan.”

“Character development.”

James groaned.

He looked back down at Barty, who was still lightly gripping his ankle like it was the only stable thing in the universe.

“Let go,” James said.

Barty shook his head weakly. “No. You’ll float away.”

“I will not float away.”

“You might,” Barty insisted, brows furrowing with genuine concern. “Everything’s… wobbly.”

James sighed, long-suffering, but didn’t pull his leg away.

“God, you’re ridiculous.”

Barty’s smile softened, eyes fluttering open just enough to look at him again.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But you love me.”

James paused.

For a moment, just a moment, the irritation cracked.

He rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite to it anymore. “Debatable.”

Barty’s grip tightened slightly, like he didn’t believe him for a second.

“…Jamie,” he mumbled again, softer this time, like the name itself was something comforting he could hold onto.

James huffed, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Come on. Up you get. I’m not leaving you on the floor.”

It took effort—more than it should have—but eventually James managed to haul Barty into something resembling a sitting position. Barty leaned into him immediately, all loose limbs and dead weight, head dropping against James’s shoulder.

Evan watched this with deep, profound interest.

“This is,” he said slowly, “so beautiful.”

“Shut up, Evan.”

“I’m serious. It’s like… love. But, like—cosmic.”

James adjusted his grip on Barty, who was now fully clinging to him.

“Next time,” James said, already bracing himself for the inevitable repeat of this exact situation, “we are having a conversation about boundaries.”

“Mm,” Barty hummed against his shoulder, clearly not processing a single word.

“…And maybe,” James added, quieter, “slightly less of whatever the hell this is.”

Barty just nuzzled closer, mumbling something incomprehensible that might have been his name again.

James looked down at him, exasperation giving way—just a little—to reluctant fondness.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Evan gasped softly. “He admits it—”

“Evan, I swear to God—”

[bradleysass]

cat - @sunkiller-microfics - wc: 1k

James had always thought it was strange.

Not bad strange—Barty was many things, and “strange” barely cracked the top ten—but curious strange. The kind that itched at the back of James’s mind whenever it came up, which, admittedly, wasn’t often.

Barty never let anyone into his apartment.

It wasn’t a rule he announced. He just… deflected. Joked. Distracted. The one time James had casually suggested stopping by, Barty had knocked over his own drink mid-laugh and then spent a suspiciously long time cleaning it up. Another time, he’d claimed “plumbing issues,” which might have been believable if he hadn’t followed it up with, “You wouldn’t survive it, Jamie, it’s horrific, like a swamp, like a—just don’t.”

So James had dropped it.

Mostly.

Until Barty, of all people, said, “You’re coming over Friday.”

James blinked. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Barty said, already halfway through lighting a cigarette he absolutely was not going to smoke indoors (he would; he always did). “I’m making dinner.”

“You… cook?”

Barty looked offended. “I’m Italian, you absolute tragedy.”

“You order Italian,” James corrected.

“I order because I am lazy and people keep ruining it,” Barty snapped. “Penne alla vodka should not taste like regret and jar sauce. I’ve had enough. I’m doing it myself.”

“And this requires me?”

“You,” Barty said, pointing at him with the cigarette like it was a weapon, “are going to sit there and appreciate it properly.”

Which is how James found himself, two days later, standing outside Barty’s apartment door while Barty fumbled with his keys like he’d forgotten how doors worked.

“You alright there?” James asked.

“Fine,” Barty said too quickly. “Perfect. Never been better. Just—keys—metal—doors—architecture—”

“Barty.”

“I’m opening it!”

The door swung open.

James stepped inside.

And… nothing exploded.

No swamp. No catastrophe. No obvious reason for the years of avoidance. The apartment was—well, it was Barty, but in a way James hadn’t expected. Clean, for one. Not sterile, but deliberate. Dark wood shelves lined with books that looked actually read. A record player in the corner. Plants that were somehow alive.

“You can sit,” Barty said, already retreating toward the kitchen. “Or stand. Or pace. You do that.”

“I don’t—” James started, then stopped, because he did.

“Wine’s on the counter,” Barty added. “Don’t touch anything that looks expensive.”

“That’s vague and unhelpful.”

“Then don’t touch anything at all!”

James laughed, shaking his head as he wandered further in. “You invited me, you know.”

“Yes, I’m aware of my own mistakes.”

From the kitchen came the sound of chopping, then the sharp scent of garlic hitting oil. Barty hummed under his breath—something low and unfamiliar—and James felt that strange curiosity again, softer this time.

It was… nice, actually. Domestic in a way that didn’t quite fit the Barty he knew, all sharp edges and biting wit. Here, he seemed… settled.

James took a sip of wine, leaned against the counter—

—and then his gaze drifted.

He wasn’t snooping.

Not really.

He was just… looking.

There was a hallway just off the living room. A door slightly ajar. Another closed. A third—

“Well,” James muttered to himself, “I’m already in too deep.”

He set the wine down and wandered over.

The first door led to what was clearly Barty’s bedroom—dark bedding, a half-open wardrobe, nothing particularly shocking beyond the fact that Barty owned more than one properly folded shirt.

The second—

James hesitated, then pushed it open.

It looked like a spare room, maybe an office. Desk, chair, a few scattered papers.

And then—

“Oh,” James said.

On the desk, laid out with almost alarming neatness, was a set of cat ears.

Not cheap ones. Not the plastic, costume-shop nonsense James had half-expected. These were… well-made. Soft, sleek black with a subtle sheen, the kind of thing that looked expensive.

James picked them up.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Interesting.”

He turned them over in his hands, inspecting the stitching, the weight. “High quality,” he added, like he was evaluating a piece of art.

Then his gaze shifted.

“…oh no.”

Next to them was a tail.

Also black. Also—disturbingly—matching.

James stared at it.

“Alright,” he said slowly, “we’re going to be reasonable about this.”

He reached out and very carefully nudged it.

“It could be,” he continued, “a costume accessory.”

Another nudge.

“A normal, innocent—”

He picked it up.

“…clip.”

He turned it over.

There was a pause.

James squinted.

“…is that—”

“James.”

James nearly launched the tail across the room.

He spun around. Barty was in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, expression utterly unreadable.

There was a long, terrible silence.

James held up the tail.

“Good news,” he said. “I haven’t made any assumptions yet.”

Barty didn’t move. “Put it down.”

“I would love to,” James said. “Clarification first.”

“James.”

“Is it—”

“James.”

“—a clip—”

“James.”

“—or—”

Barty pushed off the doorframe and walked in, slow and deliberate, until he was standing very close.

“Put,” he said quietly, “it down.”

James, to his credit, did.

Gently.

Respectfully.

“Right,” he said. “Done.”

Another pause.

Then—

“…you were snooping.”

“You left the door open!”

“You entered the room!”

“I was curious!”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You own luxury cat ears!”

Barty’s expression twitched.

“That,” he said, very precisely, “is none of your business.”

“It became my business the moment I feared for your—” James gestured vaguely toward the tail “—structural integrity.”

Barty barked a laugh—sharp, surprised, unwilling.

“Get out,” he said, but there was no heat in it now. “Dinner’s burning.”

James lingered for half a second longer, then grinned.

“Oh, I’m absolutely not letting this go.”

“I will evict you.”

“You invited me.”

“I will rescind it.”

“You made penne alla vodka.”

“…get out of the room, James.”

James backed toward the door, hands raised in surrender, grin widening.

But as he stepped into the hallway, he caught the faintest hint of color high on Barty’s cheekbones.

And that—

That was new.

James filed it away carefully.

“Oh,” he said lightly, heading back toward the kitchen, “this just got very interesting.”

Behind him, Barty groaned.

“Regret,” Barty muttered. “Immediate, overwhelming regret.”