Peter Parker x fem!reader who he picks up from the bar [1.4k words]
CW: ³⁰⁾ picking them up from a bar, drinking/drunkedness, idiots-to-lovers heavy on the idiots, drunk declarations of love, throwing up [not described], reader has hair that can be held back
Peter’s just slipping in through his bedroom window when his phone starts ringing.
He has half a mind of letting it go to voicemail, but then he realizes that the only people who would be calling him at this time of night are you or May, and the thought immediately vanishes.
Fuck, he's so whipped for his two leading ladies.
“Yo?” He calls as he puts the phone to his ear, biting the fingers of one of his gloves in order to pull it off.
“It worked!” You cheer, and while Peter smiles at the sound of your excitement, he gets the sense you’re not actually talking to him.
“What worked?” He asks anyway.
“Peter?” you shout, seeing Peter pull the phone away from his ear before responding.
“Hey, lovely. What’s up?”
“What are you doing right now?” You yell.
“Well, I’m talking to my best girl, of course.” He responds simply, his smile fading when he hears you deflate on the other end of the phone. “Y/N?”
“Well…do you think you can pick me up?” You ask, voice falling to a more appropriate volume as bashfulness colours your tone. Peter’s eyes dart to the clock on his bedside table.
2:23 AM.
“Where are you, lovely?” He asks no nonsense as he begins pulling his suit back on.
“Uhm…well, I’m at a bar!”
Great, that really narrows it down. “Where’s Jocelyn?”
“Well she met this guy and went home with him. So I stayed for some more drinks-”
“Are you okay?” Peter interrupts, suddenly near violently angry with your friend for leaving you alone and drunk. “Where are you?”
“What’s this bar called again?” You shout directly into the microphone; Peter doesn’t miss the sound of a male voice answering for you. He’s already picturing the bar in his head when you repeat the name back to him clumsily.
“I’ll be there in ten, alright?”
Peter makes it there in seven; zipping his hoodie up over his suit as he fixes his hair, smooshed from the mask.
The bar seems to be petering out; cabs lined up outside in wait for drunks to stumble out in search of a ride home. Peter’s skate shoes gain a lot of grip on account of the tackiness of countless spilled drinks that accumulated on the floor as he pushes past a couple making out near pornographically and two friends consoling their inconsolable friend who ‘deserves way better.’
He spots you; a smile growing when he spots you dancing happily with a girl he doesn’t recognize. His smile falls when he notices a guy watching the two of you dutifully. Peter decides he doesn’t like him.
You stumble out of a spin at the sound of your name being called, face lighting up when you come to find Peter standing there.
“You came!” You shriek, launching yourself at him. He’s ready for you, catching you with ease.
“I can’t believe you doubted me for a second.” He scoffs playfully. “Foul. You owe me a meatball sub for your lack of faith in me.”
“Oooooohh….” The girl you had been dancing with hums in understanding. “I so get it.”
Peter isn’t sure what she gets but you seem to, nodding solemnly.
“Makes so much sense.”
“What makes sense?” Peter asks.
“Babe.” The dude says, giving your friend a pointed look that has her clamming up. “Sorry if we bothered you.” He says to Peter. Peter decides he fucking hates him and hopes he dies.
“These two hit it off a few bars ago. I just didn’t want to leave until I knew she had a way home.”
Oh.
“Oh.” Peter mumbles, feeling guilty for having jumped to hatred so quickly. “Uh, yeah. No. I appreciate that.”
You share some – nearly tearful – goodbyes with whom Peter comes to learn is Twyla.
“Listen,” Drew starts, giving Peter a look, “I had tried to convince her to call a girlfriend or something, but she insisted you’d get her home safely.”
While Peter didn’t like this guy's lack of faith in him, he found himself very grateful for a stranger to have looked out for his favourite girl all evening. He hopes Twyla makes many more friends at bars just so they have a Drew looking out for them.
“Thanks; she’s in good hands.” Peter offers as he shakes Drews hand.
“Alright, Twy? Let’s get home. Y/N you have our numbers, right?”
“Keep us updated!” Twyla interjects far too loudly. “I want all the deets!”
The two of you step out into the nighttime air and you take a long, deep inhale as if the air of New York City wasn’t some of the most disgusting air to be breathed.
“Oh my God, Pete!” You exclaim. “Look at the moon!”
“There it is!”
“It’s so beautiful.” You sigh reverently.
He chuckles to himself, eyebrows high on his head as he watches you skip haphazardly down the sidewalk as if it might bring you closer to it.
“It’s the moon's third rotation in Sagittarius right now, which makes it appear much prettier, you know.”
You spin in his direction at that and he expects you to call him on his shit. All you do is sigh sadly.
“What?” He laughs.
“You’re so smart and clever and know so many things.” You lament, hardly sounding happy at the fact. Peter almost feels bad for fibbing about the moon. “Can I stay with you tonight?”
That was never up for discussion but Peter doesn’t bother telling you that. “What’s with Twyla and Drew?” He decides to ask instead. You sigh wistfully.
“I met Twyla n’the bathroom back at The Lucky Rabbit! She’s so lovely and pretty and fun; I want to be her when I grow up.” You whine.
“She’s that great, huh?” Peter laughs.
“Yeah, she’s my best friend.”
Peter rushes up ahead of you and swings around a telephone pole, landing directly in front of you which forces you to look up at him in shock, the moonlight bouncing and refracting off your features. Maybe it isn’t the moon that’s so beautiful, maybe it’s just you.
“I thought I was your best friend?” He accuses playfully.
“No…” You sigh, morose.
A desperate sound leaves Peter’s lips. “What? Why not? Since when?”
“You can’t be best friends with the person you’re in love with, Pete.” You explain to him like he’s stupid for not knowing that, stepping around him to continue in the wrong direction.
“You’re in- wait, when did- so you- hang on.” He stutters before catching up to you again to stop you from walking. You won’t look at him. “What’s this about being in love?”
You groan petulantly. “Jocelyn kept saying I should hook up with some guy to get over my feelings for you but then she started flirting with your doppelgänger and went home with him! And then I met Twyla in the bathroom and she told me I should so totally call you! But then Lose Control by Missy Elliot came on so we danced and then we went to more bars and-”
“Hey.” He interrupts, placing a hand on either cheek and encouraging your face up towards his. “When were you going to tell me you were in love with me?”
You pause, eyes flitting between each of Peter’s as you consider your answer. “I…don’t know.” You admit. “Maybe when I knew you loved me back.”
“I love you back.” He blurts suddenly; perhaps unceremonious but not dishonest.
“You…do?”
Peter nods quickly.
“Oh.”
Peter beams. “So? What do you say? Think we can be in love and best friends?”
You start to nod before freezing.
“Pete?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I have to throw up.”
Peter nods. “Okay lovely, fair enough.”
You calmly turn away from him and lean over a garbage can before heaving into it as Peter comes up behind you to hold your hair back.
He can’t wait to tease the ever loving shit out of you about this in the morning; for now, Peter celebrates silently. You love him. You love him. You’re in love with him.
And he gets to spend the rest of the night fussing over you to his heart's content.
I saw nothing is so good. Can we get the same dynamic, perhaps a continution with tasm parker and his no-boundaries roomate? Please and thank you.
this was a very sneaky way of asking for a part two to a fic; I respect it. thank you for playing!! <33
Peter Parker x roommate!reader who patches him up [896 words]
p1 | p2
CW: ³³⁾ patching up their injuries, roommate!reader has no boundaries, no gender markers used for reader but it is suggested that the reader owns/wears lingerie, admitting to having sexual thoughts about one another
Peter should have known better than to close his eyes and let his guard down now that you are home, but he can’t deny that you’ve always felt like home to him.
He’s paying the price for that now.
You no sooner change out of your work clothes before you’re joining him on the couch; sitting down with a great, heaving sigh and throwing your head back to rest on his abdomen as you so often do.
He hisses in pain.
The sound has hardly left his lips before you’re sitting up and taking a survey of his frame. “What? What is it? What’d I do?”
Peter tries to laugh, though it quickly turns into a groan. “I hardly think you’re the one who whacked me with a tire iron, are you?”
“Someone whacked you with a tire iron?” You all but shriek, giving Peter no time to come up with a quippy response before you’re yanking his shirt up in an attempt to disrobe him.
“Hey hey hey, whoa, what happened to buying me dinner first?” Peter grumbles, hardly helping you in your feat as you force the t-shirt over his head.
“You ate my cooking last night, Parker.” You grumble in response, though your brows are doing that cute little dip that they do when you’re focused and your eyes stay locked on his chest; skin tinged an angry red and purple where metal met flesh right over his ribs. He’ll die before he admits it, but he absolutely flexes his core under your piercing gaze.
“And you just left it like this!?” You ask disbelievingly. “You didn’t tape it up? No ice? Have you even cleaned the area!?”
“I’m fine.” he argues as you stand to storm away; the sound of things rattling in the door of the freezer as you yank it open with too much force. “I’m quite capable, I’ll have you know.”
“Quite capable.” You scoff as you return with a bag of frozen peas, cloths, and some athletic tape. “If you were so capable, how come someone managed to hit you with a tire iron?”
“It was six against one, babe; I think I'm entitled to miss one blow?” He doesn’t look at you as he says it; eyes pointing up at the ceiling and mentally counting backwards from 100 by three as you sink to your knees in front of him and set up between his spread legs. “‘Sides, it was just a tire iron.”
“Just a tire iron? Peter, that is what most people would call a blunt force instrument.”
“Well I’m not most people, am I?” He jokes. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m kind of a big deal ‘round here. They call me Spider-Man.”
“You’re a bad Spider-Man…” You mutter, forcing Peter’s head up to look at you incredulously; the sight of your head at waist level is a little too much for him to handle, though, forcing him to recline again.
“What did you just say?”
“I said you’re a bad Spider-Man.” You repeat, now with your full chest.
“How can I be a bad Spider-Man?! I’m the only one! There’s literally nothing to compare me to!”
“Okay, well, first of all: where are your other limbs?” You ask simply, sitting back on your heels to cut him a look.
“Other limbs?!” He gawks, sitting back up to glare at you.
“You’re short four limbs for a spider!”
“Man, babe; Spider-Man.” He’s quick to correct.
“And what the hell have you done about mothman?”
“Mothman?”
You nod and shrug helplessly. “Well? Spiders eat moths, no? Seems to me a proper Spider-Man should have put a stop to him by now.”
Peter blinks owlishly at you. “You are so weird.”
“Lay back.” You demand after a scoff of offence.
Peter does as told; hyper focused on your proximity to him, his stomach tightens when your breath tickles his skin. You place your elbows on either side of his hips and he thinks he might actually die as you start dabbing at the broken and raw skin of his abdomen.
“Breathe, Parker, it’s just a cloth.”
“Yeah, well, you’re currently hovering over my crotch right now so I have more pressing matters to attend to, okay?”
“What?”
“I’ve only ever imagined you on your knees under very different circumstances so you’re going to have to give my brain a second to catch up, alright?” He bites, throwing his arm over his eyes as he waits for you to storm off or maybe call him out for being a pervert.
“Oh! You’ve imagined that too?” You cheer excitedly, causing Peter to flinch not only at your pitch but also at the way you simply continue your ministrations; wiping at the bruising and scrapes one last time before reaching for the athletic tape. “What was I wearing? Because I have this blue number I think you’d love.”
His head snaps up again, causing yours to do the same; blinking once, twice, and then smiling at Peter like you haven’t just blown his mind.
“You are so weird.” He reminds you. “Are you almost done? Please tell me you’re almost done.”
You tsk and smooth out the tape you’ve laid, your hand straying slightly lower than strictly necessary in a way that Peter does not miss.
“You’re all patched up, Parker. Just let me know when you want to see that outfit of mine.”
hi!! could I play roulette? maybe 18 with poly!marauders? thanks so much 💛
sounds good! thanks for playing <3
poly!marauders x fem!reader who has to cut them off at the bar [1.3k words]
CW: ¹⁸⁾ cutting them off at the bar, drinking and drunkedness, meet-cute/flirting, fluff
You’re wiping down the bar when a figure leans against it. You plaster on your best customer service smile, though you find it falling softer and much more sincere when you’re met with one third of your favourite customers of the night.
The curly headed bloke with round wired frames looks down at the nametag pinned to your shirt before trying it on for size, the end of your name turning up in a question as he smiles at you. “Did I get that right?”
“You did.” You smile politely. “What can I get for you?”
He falters slightly, but soldiers on as he steals a glance over his shoulder. “My name is James; the tall bloke there is Remus, and the long-haired bloke who’s leaning heavily against him? That’s Sirius.” He explains, gesturing towards the booth the two men were occupying.
The taller man – Remus – somehow looks both thoroughly exasperated and entirely smitten as Sirius all but shouts at him about something or other. Clearly too loud for basically sitting right on top of his companion, and loud enough that you can hear his voice from across the bar, but not quite loud enough for you to hear the words over the bar’s music.
“We may have been indulging him this evening by letting him frequently come up to the bar to flirt with the pretty server,” he pauses to smirk as you flush at the compliment, “but now he’s rather insolent and insisting on another round or five.”
“I see…” You allow, keeping your gaze on the glass in your hand instead of ogling the booth of men as you had been all evening now that one patron of said booth is standing in front of you. “You’ve cut him off.”
“Well, you see, about that,” James chuckles, leaning further onto the bar on his elbows, arms crossed which emphasises his already very impressive arms. You swallow thickly and turn your gaze back down to the already clean glass, wondering if you don’t notice a small flash of recognition on James’ face, “he’s decided that Rem and I are ‘no fun sacks of shite’ and just trying to thwart his efforts on ‘wooing the pretty server’.”
You chuckle which elicits one out of James, too. “That’s quite rude of you two.”
“Yeah, well, Sirius would agree with you.” He grumbles, though he hardly sounds disgruntled when he turns to share a smile with Remus who has a petulant Sirius sprawled across his lap. “Now, we think he might be at the point of no reason when it comes from his boyfriends,”
The sentence lingers for a moment, as though James is giving you a chance to react. You had been quite certain the boys were in some sort of romantic relationship with each other, what with their affectionate treatment of one another throughout the course of the night. Of course three of the most attractive blokes you’ve ever seen would be together. But each of them gave you a slight indication (or the utter delusion) that they had been flirting with you.
And then James had come over here talking about Sirius ‘flirting with the pretty server’ and, well, you’d gotten your hopes up. But of course Sirius would be taken; two times over, apparently.
“-but, we think he may be more easily persuaded to call it a night if the pretty server whose number he's been trying to get told him it was time to go home.”
A surprised and perhaps slightly confused laugh bubbles out of you. “But…if you’re both with him, why would he want my number?”
You swear the rosiness in James’ cheeks from the drinks in his system deepens as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, maybe it wasn’t just Sirius who was trying to get the pretty server's number.”
You spend too long smiling at the bloke’s bashfulness to respond before a breathless Sirius appears beside him, regardless of the fact that the booth isn’t far enough away to have run out of oxygen on his way over.
“James! How long does it take to- to get another round, mate?” He stutters, shooting you what you suspect he thinks is a charming smile that falls somewhere closer to the endearingly toothy grin of an excited dog.
Remus winces, offering you an apologetic yet hopeful smile as James widens his eyes at you pointedly.
“Actually, handsome, I was just telling James here that I might have to call it for the night.” You scrunch your nose sympathetically, watching Sirius’ eyes light up at handsome and subsequently fall at call it.
“Call it? What? Why? No, don’t call it; call what? What are we calling? Why are we calling it?”
Remus looks like he’s about to start consoling Sirius in a manner that most parents use to console their fussy toddlers, but you make a show of looking over your shoulder as if confirming that no one around was listening.
“Listen, I’m technically not supposed to serve the same group after a certain number of times, but you guys were really cute, so I may have broken the rules. Unfortunately, the boss is onto me, so I can’t serve you guys anymore, otherwise I’ll get fired.”
It’s a lie; the boss isn’t here, and you’re free to serve people an appropriate amount and cut them off when you feel the moment calls for it, but Sirius doesn’t seem to register much else other than the fact that you called them cute.
“We don’t want to get the pretty server fired, do we, Sirius?” Remus placates then, brushing a broad hand up and down Sirius’ back that fills you with an ache of want.
But, if James thinks you’re pretty, and Remus thinks you’re pretty, and Sirius thinks you’re pretty…well, then maybe…
“How about” you start, releasing some receipt paper from the machine and grabbing your pen “you guys call it a night, and message me tomorrow if you’re still up to chatting?”
You hardly have a moment to hold out your number before Sirius is ripping it out of your hands and holding it above his head like a trophy.
“I did it! I got her number!”
James, for his part, smiles and claps as if he didn’t just circumvent this whole ordeal, and Remus smiles as he pulls Sirius safely into his side as the long-haired man starts to sway.
“Awesome job, bubs. That’s perfect, we’ll message her tomorrow, yeah?”
Sirius’ face falls again. “What? No! Why? We should message her tonight.”
“She told us to message her tomorrow, Pads. We don’t want to come off as desperate.”
“But we do want to come off as eager, Moons! It’s called taking initiative.”
“It’s called sobering up before you make an arse of yourself.” Remus deadpans in response, sharing a knowing look with you over the top of Sirius’ head as he begins to usher him towards the door.
“Gosh, you’re an angel.” James groans appreciatively, reaching across the bar to squeeze your hand as he smiles widely at you. “Thank you. And if we're successful, you should be hearing from us tomorrow.”
“And if you’re unsuccessful?” You ask James as he backs away, keeping his eyes on you as he narrowly misses tables and patrons whilst following his boyfriends out of the bar by sound alone.
“Then you’ll be hearing from us tonight!”
The rest of your shift drags on, but the night does finally come to a close.
You leave work to an onslaught of messages of varying levels of legibility from one number, a single message from another number that reads
“I’m SO sorry about him, dove. Feel free to ignore him, we’ll do some damage control in the morning. Have a good night x”
And finally, a message from a third number that simply reads “thank you again, angel!!”
hi! could i play roulette? number 24 from the acts of service list with barty?
and congratulations on 7k!! if anyone deserves it- it's you, i absolutely adore everything you write 🫶🏻🫶🏻
thank you so much, doll! & thanks for playing! <33
Barty Crouch Jr x Potter!reader who needs a glass of water [542 words]
CW: ²⁴⁾ getting up in the middle of the night to fetch them water, fem!reader, one [false] sexual insinuation, Barty @ Potter manor, Barty's about as soft as he's ever been in this tbh, nightmares, fluff
Barty was just beginning to think he could get used to this when he was suddenly not the only one in the kitchen anymore.
“Oh gods, you’re everywhere.” Regulus jokes as he joins him in the Potter’s kitchen, procuring himself a plate before pursuing the fridge for leftovers. “You alright?”
“Yeah, actually.” Barty admits, finding himself surprised by how true that is and how willing he is to admit it. “I…I think I really like it here.”
“You’re surprised?” Regulus laughs, though there doesn’t seem to be any judgement in his tone. “Your favourite person is here, after all.”
Barty laughs, too, feeling far lighter than he has…well…perhaps ever. “Fair enough.”
“Are you gonna stay?” Regulus asks as he jumps up to perch the counter whilst his food heats up.
“Can’t imagine going home after this, you know?” Barty admits, shifting on his feet with two glasses of ice water in his hands.
Regulus hums in agreement. “Can’t find it in me to blame my brother for leaving much anymore.”
“Oh yeah,” Barty drawls sardonically, “I would’ve been quick to abandon you there too.”
“Oi-”
“I know, I know.” Barty sighs before rattling off Regulus’ continuous arguement. “He was a kid too.”
“Good boy.” Regulus snickers, earning him a swat up the back of the head.
“Reg? Are you- oh.” James starts and stops as he steps into the kitchen, narrowing his eyes as he sidles up beside Regulus and gives Barty a once over. “You’re everywhere.”
Regulus can’t help but laugh at the familiar accusation as Barty narrows his eyes at James in return, almost hating how playful their back and forth has gotten since the beginning of his stay at Potter Manor.
“I was invited, toerag.”
“Oh, I’m aware.” James scoffs. “I protested vehemently.”
“And yet.” Barty smiles sardonically.
“What are you even doing in here anyway?” James huffs, and Barty sees his opportunity to bring this enemies-to-ambivalent-acquaintances arc that they’ve been coasting on straight back to enemies again as Merlin intended.
“Getting your sister a glass of water; she’s parched from all the shagging we’ve been doing.”
“You son of a-”
“Alright, alright. For Salazar’s sake, Barty.” Regulus grumbles as he grabs James by the shirt allowing Barty to slip out of the kitchen; he snickers to himself the whole way back to your bedroom.
“Bee?”
“Hey, Tres.” Barty coos as he walks around to your side of the bed, perching on the edge to hand you one of the glasses of water and placing the second on the nightstand. “How’s this, hm? Cold enough for you?”
You let out a shuddering breath and nod gratefully. “Yes, thank you. M’sorry.”
“There’s no need to be sorry, sweetness. Must’ve been quite the nightmare.” He murmurs softly, running his thumb along your damp hairline. “Think you’re gonna be able to fall back asleep?”
“You’re staying, right?” You blurt suddenly; glass nearly slipping out of your clammy hand as you urgently clutch Barty’s wrist with the other. “You’re going to stay? You’re staying?”
“I’m right here, tres.” Barty assures you, distressed yet very touched that even your unconscious mind seems to be worried about his whereabouts. He can't find it in him to mind; you make up the majority of his dreams, too. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
hi elle, i love the new theme!! could i play roulette with barty or sirius (or maybe poly!bitchkiller?) + "defending their name when they’re not present"? thanks!!
sure can! thanks for playing <3
poly!deathstar x fem!reader who defend Sirius' honour [619 words]
CW: ¹⁵⁾ defending their name when they’re not present, Mulciber, threats of violence/maiming
Barty’s having a pretty good day, thanks for asking. And coming across what appears to be a fight in the halls carries the promise of turning an already good day into a great one.
That is until he pushes through the crowd to see you sneering at Mulciber as you jam the point of your wand into his jugular. Barty’s split between feeling concerned for Mulciber who seems to not be taking your threats of violence and maiming seriously, feeling indignant on your behalf that someone has deigned to upset you, and feeling a little aroused at the sight.
“Right, so what’d you do to earn my girl’s wrath, Mulciber?” He drawls as he sidles up beside you; you’re so tense that you hardly spare your boyfriend a glance as you narrow your eyes further at your adversary.
“I didn’t say a thing to the bird, Junior.” Mulciber scoffs drably. He comes close to smartening up when Barty shoves him roughly by the shoulder.
“You watch your fuckin’ mouth.” He spits before turning his attention to you. “What’s up, Tres? What’s got you so wound tight?”
Barty feels a smile threatening at the corner of his lips as you stomp your foot near petulantly. “He was running his mouth about Sirius.”
His interest piqued, Barty’s brows migrate to the top of his forehead as he turns back towards Mulciber. “Is that right?”
Mulciber, for his part, scoffs. “Oh come off it, Junior. Even you have to admit that Black is a pompous sack of shite!”
Mulciber has hardly blinked by the time Barty has him by the collar of his robes and is shoving him up against the stone wall of the corridor.
“That is my pompous sack of shite you’re talking about, you twat. And I happen to think upsetting my girl is a capital offense, so I would choose your next words very carefully if I were you.” He murmurs threateningly.
Mulciber, apparently, has enough brain cells to spare to recognise that he ought to keep his smarmy mouth shut. Barty offers him a sardonic smile before releasing his collar, offering him one patronising pat to the cheek as he takes a step back from his house mate. “Good chap.”
Mulciber grumbles something under his breath as he stoops down to pick up his rucksack, and Barty graciously pretends not to hear it as he turns his full attention to you.
“Treasure, as much as I love seeing you hand a tosser’s bollocks to them, I do wish you’d wait for me to get into it with them, yeah?” He half jokes, drawing a gentle line down the curve of your jaw with the back of one of his knuckles which encourages you to unclench your jaw.
You let out a sigh as you shake some of the residual tension from your shoulders. “Sorry…I just- he made me so mad.”
“Oh I know, he’s fucking infuriating.” Barty agrees readily, smiling in return when his appeasement earns him a shy one from you. “D’you feel better now, though?”
You seem to think on it for a second before deciding that yes, you do feel better. Barty beams at you and bends down to kiss your forehead, throwing his arm over your shoulders as he begins guiding you in the direction of the one other person who might be able to take you from feeling better, to feeling great.
“Why don’t we go find that pompous sack of shite of ours then, hm?” He jokes, earning him an elbow in his side that he pretends nearly knocks him over and a peal of bright, bubbling laughter out of you.
Yup, Barty is having a great day, thanks for asking.
Hiii, omg I've never done one of these before but i absolutely love your writing and I especially love the way you're celebrating your 7k (CONGRATULATIONS BTW I LOVE LOVE LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU) but anyway... I was wondering if I could get number 40 from the Acts of service list (taking on the blame to protect them) for female!reader x poly!marauders. maybe while they're at Hogwarts and almost get caught.
Thank you so much! and congratulations on everything, your writing FUCKS!
hahhaa I love everything about YOU! thanks for playing!
poly!maruaders x fem!reader who takes the fall for them [815 words]
CW: Sirius-centric, detention, targeting Slytherin's (but not really), reader is implied to not be in Gryffindor
“So,” Sirius asks; smile saccharine as he sits languorously in the chair beside you, “why’d you do it?”
Your eyes flit up from your parchment to where Professor McGonagall is marking exams.
“Oh, come now; you stared into the eye of the beast in clear defiance earlier this afternoon and now you’re scared of her?”
Your eyes narrow as you turn to glower at the Gryffindor. His smile widens.
“Relax, doll, I cast a muffliato. The old bird can’t hear us tweeting.”
“You are so crude, Black.” You mutter, turning your face back towards your parchment.
“And you’re dodging my question.” He continues, leaning forward in his chair in order to rest his elbow on his knee and his chin on his fist. “Why’d you do it?”
“Do what?” You venture, feigning ignorance.
“Oh don’t be cute, L/N.” Sirius purrs, leaning back in his seat again as he gives you a once over. “I know you’re a brilliant witch.”
You don’t answer, continuing on with your essay about the mating habits of grindylows.
Sirius sings a long, drawn out version of your name that doesn’t stop until you finally spin your chair and hiss “what?”
“Why’d you take the fall for us?” He asks simply, still smiling like you weren’t currently hoping that now was when your attempts at learning wandless and non-verbal incendio would finally work.
“You know what? Why would you carry on to earn a detention when someone had already taken the fall for you?” You counter, leaning back in your chair to scrutinise him in turn.
His eyes narrow as he considers you. “Right, how about this? I’ll answer your question if you promise to answer mine.”
“Fine.”
“I charmed the pixie cages open during DADA so that I would get detention just so I could come and ask you why you took the fall for me and the lads.” He offers simply. “Three evenings of extra credit work for-” he pauses to flip your parchment up and read your work “-grindylows? Hardly seems worth taking the blame for causing the Slytherin showers to spew red paint instead of water. ‘Specially when you didn’t do it.”
He holds your gaze, mirroring your posture before he leans back in again; taking up your space, breathing your air.
“So, I ask again; why’d you do it?”
You steal another glance at McGonagall who appears to be so thoroughly disturbed by someone’s essay that she’s since taken her glasses off in order to rub harshly at her eyes.
“You’re wrong.”
With this, Sirius’ head tilts. “Am I?
You hum in agreement.
“How?”
“You didn’t charm the Slytherin showers to spew red paint instead of water, you – I don’t know how, but – somehow managed to charm them to only spew red paint when Mulciber, Avery, and Rookwood were in there. Every other Slytherin managed to avoid being painted red.”
“So I was wrong.” He agrees. “This still doesn’t tell me why you took the fall for us.”
“Perhaps I figure if anyone deserves to be painted red, it’s Mulciber, Avery, and Rookwood.” You offer simply.
“Is that so?”
“Quite.”
Sirius hums, eyes flitting up and down your form once more before he seems to come to some decision.
“Come on a date with us. To Hogsmeade.” He doesn’t quite ask; not a question, but a suggestion with little room to negotiate.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We want you to come on a date with us to Hogsmeade.” He repeats.
“Why?”
“Because we seem to have a lot in common.”
You laugh incredulously. “What? Like being of the belief that there are some people who deserve to be drenched in paint?”
“Precisely.” He agrees with his trademark smirk. “Plus, we think you’re fit and don’t exactly find ourselves with enough excuses to spend time with you.”
“Ah,” you allow, “hence the detention.”
“Hence the detention.”
“And if I say no?”
Sirius’ brows jump minutely before he schools his expression. “Well, then I suppose we could just keep meeting like this, though I hardly think McGonagall is going to allow the third years to do so poorly on a transfiguration essay again any time soon.”
The two of you steal a glance at the deputy headmistress to see her…with her head in her arms and seemingly sobbing into the sleeves of her robes?
“So? What do you say?” He encourages, posture screaming nonchalance though you swear you notice a flicker of something unsure dance behind his eyes.
“I’ll think about it.” You relent with a smile, barely looking down at your paper in enough time to miss the beaming grin that takes over the Gryffindor’s face.
The butterflies that take flight in your ribs leave you wondering if taking the fall was more trouble than it was worth. Though, you suppose you’ve always known the Marauders to be nothing but trouble.
For Roulette 🎱 34 with Rosekiller, specifically Barty with his arm in the sling.
Love your recent blurbs (and all your writing tbh)
thanks for playing!
poly!rosekiller x fem!reader who tries to help Barty dress [576 words]
CW: ³⁴⁾ helping them get dressed when their arm’s in a sling, petulant name calling, subtle [VERY SUBTLE] dom/sub dynamics if you look hard enough, fluff
“I feel like a giant baby.” Barty huffs as he does nothing to help you help him into his shirt.
“Yeah well, you’re acting like one, too.” You grumble as you continue uselessly in your feat, his slinged-up arm the only extremity currently within his shirt.
“That’s rude, treasure,” Barty states simply as you stretch the ever-loving hell out of his band-tee, “you’re a rude girl.”
“And you’re a dickhead!” You nearly shriek in turn, trying to shove his big fat head – that must’ve somehow grown in size since he dislocated his shoulder – into the neck hole. You end up turtling him.
“You’ve done a terrible job.” He decides from inside his shirt. You glower at him even though he can’t see you doing it.
“You’re not helping me.” You fume.
He holds his good arm out helpless. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed or not, but I’m sort of incapacitated right now!”
“You have one functioning arm that you could use to help me out here!”
Barty lets out a derisive scoff at that. “The way you were going at me there a moment ago you’d think you were trying to rip that one out of its socket, too!”
“We are going to a restaurant, Barty; you need to wear a fucking shirt.”
“One look at my fucking form and the host would let me in no problem.” Barty decides resolutely.
“I am not going anywhere with you without a shirt.” You declare.
Barty, pauses and raises his good hand up to where the collar of his shirt should be to tilt his head at you. You assume – you still can’t see him from where he now lives beneath the fabric of his shirt. “Well, aren't you just a tit today?”
“Barty!”
“Alright, alright. Jesus Christ.” Evan mumbles as he finally enters the bedroom. He hardly pinches the fabric of Barty’s shirt before it magically exposes his wild head of hair – Barty appearing just as surprised at this as you – and forces his good arm into its sleeve.
“You” Evan tells Barty “need to stop acting like a toddler. And you” he continues as he turns on you “need to stop letting him rile you up.”
You have the grace to look shame-faced whilst Barty rolls his eyes petulantly.
“Apologise for calling her a tit and refusing her help.” Evan directs, causing a helpless sound to emulate from the back of Barty’s throat.
“But-”
“Barty.” Evan warns, seeing Barty roll his eyes as he ultimately relents.
“I’m sorry for calling you a tit and refusing your help.”
Evan turns to you, then. “Apologise to him for trying to rip his other arm out its socket.”
“But I wasn’t-”
“Poppet…” He warns again, seeing you melt the same way Barty had.
“M’sorry for trying to rip your other arm out of its socket.” You say to the floor.
“Alright then,” Evan murmurs, seemingly pleased, “can we head to the restaurant now, please? I’m starved.”
But he doesn’t wait for either of you to agree, simply placing a gentle hand to the centre of your shoulder blades as he directs you out of the room, shooting one more warning glance over his shoulder to your still some-what petulant boyfriend.
You look over your own shoulder, sticking your tongue out cheekily at Barty. He smirks at you, though, alerting you to the fact that all is forgiven; the following gentle pinch to your bum an ‘I love you.’
Hi happy 7k!!! That’s so amazing and you really deserve all the love from every one of us who is lucky enough to have found your blog. Can I please request roulette with Barty and ³³⁾ a messy makeup vanity? I’m picturing him trying to organize it as a surprise for his gf but then getting confused and not knowing how to categorize anything “what is all this shit?” but really take the prompt wherever you fancy I’m just happy to read anything you write. Thank you and hope you’re having a beautiful day!!
thanks for playing! I'm ngl, this is I think the second prompt I got and started it immediately and it was sort of sitting there because I'm not sure I liked how it turned out BUT...I had written most of it and didn't want it to go to waste so....here you go <3
Barty Crouch Jr x reader who has a messy makeup vanity [571 words]
CW: no gender markers used for reader but it is implied that reader wears makeup daily, not the writers best work I don't think so apologies, fluff
Barty’s excited, clearly, and you do your best to match his level of enthusiasm as he eagerly guides you in the direction of your bedroom.
“Are you sure this can’t wait, Bee? I haven’t even taken my shoes off y-” but the words die on your lips as he places (read: lightly shoves) you directly in front of your vanity table. The same vanity table that had been a certified disaster this morning upon leaving for work, yet now appears to have been cleaned and newly organized.
“What do you think?” He asks excitedly, not unlike a child showing his parents how he dressed himself for the first time ever.
“It’s…so clean!” You offer, noting the fact that the mirror was clear of spots and smudges, and the tabletop looked to be thoroughly disinfected.
“And organised!” He clarifies, gesturing towards your products now lined up in what appears to be by shape and size. “I know it was frustrating you this morning, and it’s been on your to-do list for a while, so I thought I’d help.”
His explanation sees any residual concern about the order (or lack thereof) of your beloved vanity table melting away as you turn to smile at your sweet boyfriend. “You’re right, Barty, thank you. This was very sweet of you.”
His smile turns soft as he pulls you into his embrace, rocking you back and forth as you both look at your vanity table. Or, as you look at your vanity table whilst he looks at your reflection in the mirror.
“So what’s the first thing I got wrong?” He asks casually, not a lick of offence in his voice as your eyes dart up to meet his in the mirror and you freeze.
“What? Nothing. No, this is really lovely, Bee.”
Barty simply chuckles as he allows you to pull away. “Of course it’s lovely; I’m the perfect boyfriend.” He scoffs as though you were barmy for suggesting otherwise. “But it can still be wrong even if it’s lovely. What’d I not get right?”
You spend the next while walking him through your entire makeup routine, right down to live demonstrations – on him, of course. He is, after all, ‘the perfect model, treasure’ – the room having fallen dark now only illuminated by the lights of your vanity as the sun had long set.
You blink at the, rather fetching, Barty in the mirror; his runway-ready face perfectly aligned with your perfectly tidy and re-organized vanity.
“My God, treasure…” Barty murmurs as he inspects himself in the mirror. “Is this how you feel all of the time?”
A disbelieving laugh escapes you even though you’re not entirely sure what he means. “Like what?”
He scoffs. “Uhm, fucking gorgeous?” He explains as if that had been perfectly clear before. “Christ; you should take this off of me, quick, before the pizza guy gets here.”
“What?” You laugh in bemusement. “You ordered pizza?”
“It was part of the surprise!”
“Why do we have to take it off?!”
“Because, treasure, if he sees me looking like a ten he’s absolutely gonna fall in love with me. It’s hardly fair to the poor bloke knowing he doesn’t stand a chance.”
You let out a real laugh, then. “And what of me, then?”
Barty’s face falls soft. “Treasure, I’ve been dealing with this our entire relationship.” He tells you, helping himself to a makeup wipe that the two of you had since moved to a more appropriate placement on your vanity. “Besides, I can fight.”
