can you maybe do a rosekiller or wolfstar fic where reader gets too overwhelmed during sex and needs to use the safe word, then she feels really bad for "ruining the mood" but the boys comfort her? love your work!
hi babes, thanks for your request!
poly!rosekiller x fem!reader who uses their safe word [1.3k words]
CW: implied smut but no smut takes place in the fic, dom/sub dynamics, implied bondage (reader had been in restraints), implied sub drop, aftercare + emotional aftercare, some panic/anxiety
Red is bad.
Red is the colour of signs blinking at you indicating problems with your car, the colour of emergency lights in your rearview mirror, the pen teachers and professors used to use to mark ‘meet me after class’ on your essays from years gone by. It’s the colour of anger, the sting of the hand against your back end in punishment. It entices a bull to charge; not quick enough and the matador is bound to spill more red on the ground beneath them.
And now you burn with red hot shame after having screamed the word; a single ‘red’ putting an immediate halt to your boyfriends’ fun and pleasure.
Red is bad.
Silence is worse.
The second your hands are unbound they take to covering your face; you feel like a kettle fit to burst any second, the pressure building up and up and up until you risk exploding.
“Treasure, hey, hey hey. Talk to me.”
The kettle starts to whistle. No, you keen.
Barty continues. “Are you hurt? What do you need?”
You flinch as his hand gently lands on your shoulder and feel horrid for it immediately. You’re not hurt, you don’t think. But you feel fundamentally wrong and abysmally guilty.
“M’sorry.”
“None of that, Poppet. Talk to us.” Evan chimes in.
The only thing that manages to leave you is a sob.
There’s a shift in the room. You’re not sure what it is because your eyes are squeezed shut with your hands held over them, but you can feel it.
You’re cold. No, you’re not cold, but you are shaking. Trembling, really.
The room feels brighter, did someone turn the lights on? Can one feel a room being brighter?
A blanket is spread over your form and gently tucked into your sides.
“Tres, please; what hurts?”
You shake your head no.
“No, you can’t tell me? Or no, nothing hurts?” Barty asks; you’re not sure you’ve ever heard him speak this softly…well…ever.
You shake your head again.
“Can you take my hand, Y/N? Can you do that for me?”
Still feeling painfully guilty for what you’ve done to the night, you’re desperate to comply; willing to do anything to right this wrong, to be good again. You shift so only one hand covers your eyes and the other reaches out; Barty’s hand immediately envelopes yours.
“Thank you, baby.” He rushes out; breathless in his gratitude. “Can you squeeze my hand for me?”
You do. He brings your hand up to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles; you squeeze his hand again in hopes of receiving another, but he’s already moving on.
“Can you squeeze my hand once for yes, twice for no?”
You squeeze once as a breathy sob slips from your lips; completely unaware you’d still been holding your breath.
“Good job, tres. That’s great. You’re doing so good f’me.” He murmurs into a space between your knuckles; September, thirty days for September – that’s the space from which his breath fans across the back of your hand. “Does anything hurt?”
You squeeze his hand twice – no. You can feel him deflate in relief beside you as he takes your one hand in both of his.
“Okay. Okay, thank you, beautiful.”
You choke out a sob at his thanks. “M’sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for; you did everything right.”
“I was bad.” You argue.
“When? I can’t think of a single moment you were bad.”
You pull your hand away finally and look up at Barty, his form a blurry blob through the tears and your panic. You can make out, though, that whatever he sees has his face crumbling in sorrow.
And you were the one to put that face there. That’s what’s bad.
“He’s gonna hate me.” You whisper dejectedly; Barty’s head tilts at you.
“Who is going to hate you?”
“Ev-” you hiccup, teetering precariously into the realm of hyperventilating. “Evan. Evan’s gonna hate me, he’s-”
“He absolutely does not hate you.” Barty insists, but you’re shaking your head no at him.
“He left. He- he’s… he’s gone. He left because he’s mad at me. I was bad.”
“You were not bad.” Barty insists, bending at the waist to press his forehead to yours. “And he did not leave. He’s running you a bath, treasure; he’s making sure you’re okay.”
“I don’t deserve a bath.” You hiss, and you can tell you’re beginning to sound petulant even to your own ears.
“I think that’s really up to me.” Evan sounds from the door as he returns to the room, now clad in only a pair of sweats as he brings a damp flannel and a glass of water over to the bed.
“M’so sorry, Ev. I-”
“I don’t want any apologies, Y/N.” He says plainly though not unkindly. “There’s no need to apologize. You did everything right.”
“But-”
“What are our safe words for, hm?” He cuts you off, using the flannel to wipe your forehead; your eyes blink shut and take a few seconds too long to open back up again.
“To be safe…”
“Mhm, and to check in.” He agrees. “And Bee and I should’ve done a better job checking in, shouldn’t we? If we had, you might not have had to use it.”
You’re not sure how to respond so you don’t, allowing him to trail the flannel back and forth across your hairline as you watch his eyes.
“Does anything hurt, Y/N?” He asks softly, and you realize he’s using your name intentionally; pet names and scenes give way to intimacy and concern. The pressure inside the kettle moves closer to a simmer as he and Barty carefully lower the heat.
“No.” You whisper in response; his jaw loosens in what you recognize as relief. Your eyes flit to Barty who’s watching you closely; he smiles encouragingly when your eyes meet his.
“Did anything hurt?”
You think about it; you’re not entirely sure what the breaking point was that had you shouting ‘red’. You only know that it had become too much and you thought your chest might have burst if you’d held on for even a second longer.
Your brain’s foggy but you try to do a quick catalogue of your body and come to a decision. “...No, no I…I don’t think anything hurt.”
Barty hums in confirmation as he leans over to press a kiss to your damp head.
“Just too much?” He asks as Evan’s hand lands on your blanket covered knee.
“She was done, hm?” Evan agrees, you nod.
“D’you feel okay for a bath, Poppet?” Evan asks then as he moves across the room to grab a luxuriously fluffy robe and holds it open for you. “You can give us shite for all the ways we fucked up tonight, hm?”
“Give us hell, Treasure.” Barty agrees as he helps you up off the bed and into Evan’s robe.
“I don’t wanna give you hell…” You admit quietly; someone’s hand at the small of your back – warm even through the thick material of the robe – as they lead you in the direction of the bathroom.
“Our sweet girl through-and-through, hm?” Evan murmurs into your hair; his hand now straying from your lower back over to your hip in order to pull you closer to him.
“That’s okay, Tres,” Barty grins as he ushers the two of you into the – now steamy – bathroom with a beautifully prepared tub, “you can punish us tomorrow, hm?”
The once red-hot burner that your kettle sat upon has run cold, the once boiling water now warm enough to bathe in, the pressure once inside you now released through encouragement and mollification.
Hello luv! Could you possibly do poly!rosekiller x reader who has a problem with picking. Like she just loves picking her nails or her face or cuts or whatever haha
sure, at the risk of starting another haterpocalypse. may I present to Tumblr for the very first time ever, a never before seen rare ship that no one has ever done before, entirely my own unique original idea, a very niche concept that has never been seen before in the history of all fan fiction:
poly!rosekiller x anxious!reader who picks at her nails [866 words]
CW: anxiety, reference to reader working with a doctor re anxiety, medications, bleeding, hurt/comfort & fluff
You were actually so consumed by the increasingly blurry screen in front of you that Evan’s reproachful oi startled you so greatly that your knee whacked loudly (and painfully) against the bottom of the kitchen table, threatening to overturn both your tea and Barty’s coffee.
“Christ, Rosie, what is your problem?” Barty hissed as he made to stabilise a vase of flowers in the middle of the table.
“She’s at it again.” Evan tattled, causing you to quickly rip your hands away from your mouth and hide them in your lap, but the way Barty’s head spun towards you told you all that you needed to know; it was too late - you’d been outed.
“Alright, that’s it.” Barty declared quickly, slamming your laptop shut in front of you. “You’re done.”
“But-”
“Nope.” He cut you off, standing in order to pull out your chair and forcing you to stand lest he actually dump you out of it. “Done, capiche, finite. Get lost.”
“Barty…”
“C’mere, poppet.” Evan offered then, putting aside his book and holding his hand out for you in invitation, and the welcoming prospect of joining him in his lounge chair won against any residual dismay from being yelled at.
You accepted his hand which saw you curled up in his lap in the very next second as he inspected your - now shredded - nail beds; your body felt horribly warm when he tsked at you.
“Look what you’ve done, pet; you’re bleeding.” He cooed, and the distress in his tone almost counterbalanced his disappointment in you.
Almost.
“M’sorry.” You murmured, earning you another tsk in response as he gently thumbed over the raw skin surrounding your nails, an indent between his brows you thought might be growing permanent between dealing with you and dealing with Barty.
“You should be, mauling my poor girl.” He turned his eyes to you, then, causing your traitorous eyes to sting and your bottom lip to jut out in a pout that he quickly pressed his lips to.
“You were told to stop looking if it was stressing you out, sweets.” He reminded you gently; lips still hovering over yours should you need him to kiss away another pout.
“I know.” You whispered.
You weren’t even aware what you were doing until Evan’s hands tightened around your own near painfully.
“Stop it.” He hissed. “Stop picking.”
“M’sorry.” You offered again; he must’ve heard the breathy tone laced through your words because his grip loosened minutely before he pressed another deep, lingering kiss to your lips, only pulling away once you let out the breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.
“I know you are, poppet. But you need to stop.”
You were saved from having to respond by Barty returning, pulling one of the footstools over to sit in front of you with a tray of…things.
“What’re you doing?” Evan asked him on your behalf.
“Give ‘em here.” Barty ordered in lieu of responding. Evan didn’t seem to mind, however, handing over your hands he had imprisoned within his own.
You quickly wiped your cheek against your clothed shoulder, prompting Evan to wipe at the few tears managing to escape from your lashes as you sat up; hands occupied as you watched Barty dip a paintbrush into a bowl of white paint.
No, not white paint: definitely not white paint you deduced as the cool, viscous liquid touched your hands.
“What is this?”
“A remedy.” Barty replied, looking up from his current task only when you threatened to pull your hands away at his unanswered question. “It’s glue, treasure. If you’re so hell bent on picking, don’t let it be at your sodding nails.”
You looked back down when Barty pulled away, some of the white material already fading to a translucent shade of your skin.
You held a pointer finger up to Evan, getting about an inch away from his nose before he was circling your wrist with his hand to keep you from making a mess of him.
“Fuckin’ Hell, bee; d’you really think this was a good idea?”
“You got a better one?” Barty asked as he theatrically whipped out an embellished hand fan you didn’t even know he owned let alone where he was hiding it in the house without breaking his serious facade.
“Once it’s all dry, you can peel it away; better than your skin, yeah?” Barty asked, smiling at you softly.
“Yeah.” You agreed on an exhale, the ball of anxiety loosening slightly in your chest as you held your hands aloft.
“Then maybe we’ll book another appointment to talk to your doctor about your meds, hm?” Evan offered then; thumb pulling at your lip the second it slipped between your teeth at the thought of going back to the doctors.
“D’you want me to come with you, tres?”
You looked over at Barty as if considering it before he rolled his eyes good naturedly. “I swear to God I’ll behave - won’t even threaten anybody.”
“Okay…thank you, Bee.”
His smile turned beaming before he was bringing his face to yours, pressing a kiss to your lips and smiling into it as he heard you peel the first layer of glue from your hands.
poly!rosekiller x fem!reader who they figure out they're obsessed with [659 words]
written in collaboration with @unstablereader
CW: platonic!girlfriend reader again [similar concept to this fic, it’s the exact same trope friends just reimagined lol], one mature innuendo but SFW, possessive Evan, chaos and violence loving Barty
“Well,” Evan’s voice echoed, interrupting the conversation you’d been in the middle of with Fabian Prewett, “doesn’t this look cosy.”
Your attention moved to the open doorway as Evan sauntered in, offering him a half smile as he kept a rather predatory gaze locked on Fabian.
“Oh, hey Ev.” You greeted quickly, twisting your body where you’d been sitting criss-cross on one of the desks in order to face him. “What’re you doing here?”
“I was just about to ask the same thing.” Evan replied as he made it to you, one hand worming its way to your waist as the other settled on your knee. His glare never faltered as he deigned to reply. “I just endured a temper tantrum from Junior; said something about someone ‘stealing his treasure’. Is that what’s happening here, Prewett?”
“We were working on our Herbology essay.” Fabian explained simply, meeting Evan’s obvious hostility with a smirk.
“Were you now?” He continued, the ghost of a smile on his lips that never met his eyes. “Looked like a pretty intimate study session.”
“Yeah?” Fabian goaded. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound jealous, Rosier.”
“Well you clearly don’t know a fucking thing, then, because I am jealous.” Evan replied evenly; his words and his rather blase deliverance of them shocking both you and Fabian.
“What?” You barely managed to get out, causing Evan’s intense gaze to soften as it moved from Fabian to you.
“I’m jealous, darling girl.” He stated plainly; gaze unwavering. “I already have to share you with Junior, and I only do that because I rather like sod. I don’t like Prewett; I don’t like the way he talks to you, I don’t like the way he behaves around you, and I definitely don’t like the way he looks at you. I want to be the only one who does any of that.”
Fabian let out a disbelieving scoff. “Have you lost the plot, mate? We’re in the middle-”
“Prewett, I’m going to warn you, I am this close to throwing you out of the fucking window.” Evan threatened darkly, though his grip never strengthened on your waist or knee. “And whilst Junior might like that, she’d be upset, so I’m not going to.”
Fabian seemed to deflate a little, but Evan carried on.
“But the next time I find you hitting on my girl, I might consider it worth making her frown over.” He paused, smiling.
“And I’ll make sure we’re on a much higher floor.” Barty added, seemingly materialising out of thin air to add to Evan’s point.
“Barty! I- Evan.” You stuttered, reprimanding them both as you tried to shake yourself from this stupor they just put you in.
“Don’t worry, poppet. I’ve been told I’m real good with my mouth; I’m sure I’ll find a way to make it up to you.” He promised with a wink.
“I’m out of here.” Fabian finally spat as he grabbed his belongings.
“Brilliant idea.” Barty cheered, smiling tauntingly at the sod as he threw his bag over his shoulder, offered you an apologetic look, and stormed out of the room. “Have a bad day!”
“I-” you started breathlessly “what the hells was all of that about?”
Whilst Barty had no qualms beaming at you, Evan had the grace to look at least somewhat chagrined as he returned his gaze to you.
“Regulus may have pointed out that the feelings Barty and I have for you are less than platonic,” He explained, ignoring Barty’s petulant ‘that’s what i’ve been trying to tell you!’ as he packed your school supplies into your bag and helped you off of the desk, “so I figured I ought to come and tell you.”
“Well...okay, but where’re we going?” You asked, taking Barty’s hand and following him obediently.
“To the Great Hall.” Evan explained, your bag over his shoulder and his hand on your lower back as he held the door open for you. “Gotta make sure everyone else knows, too.”
prompt: There's something oddly comforting to me about how if I was freaking out about something and they were in their blitzed out state they'd help me calm down while sort of thinking I was a weird freak. - @moonstruckme
poly!rosekiller x fem!reader who is having some sort of mental breakdown [1k words]
CW: reader is having a quasi-panic attack, rosekiller do their best to help but they truly Don't Get It™, they think she's weird but love her anyway
Evan found himself very much unprepared and ill equipped to handle this right now.
You’d come flying into the flat in a tizzy rambling on and on about some great injustice or upheaval in your life at a million miles an hour without hardly even sparing him or Barty a glance.
Granted, the second blunt may have been a little much, but he generally did not know how to handle big emotions. The horrified and uncomfortable expression that Barty was wearing told Evan that he, at least, felt the same. Neither boy grew up exactly encouraged to feel their feelings out loud; pushing down all upset didn’t exactly lend itself well to empathy and compassion.
He wondered if he was simply imagining the heavy smoke in the room or if you were just oblivious to it; either way, you were clearly not on the same level as the two boys.
He’d come to the conclusion about two and a half minutes into your tangent that no one was dead or dying, and when he deduced that those were the only scenarios worth this amount of anxiety, he more or less sort of tuned you out; only registering the panicky quality of your voice.
Barty had tried calling your name a few times which only seemed to spur you on and cause Barty to look over at him in a bemused sort of concern. “What the fuck? Are you seeing this?” Barty seemed to be asking.
I am seeing this, what the fuck, indeed.
“Poppet,” Evan tried in his most authoritative tone, hoping to hell that his words didn’t sound as slow and languid as they felt on his tongue, “you need to settle down.”
That had, apparently, been the wrong thing to say if the way you turned your body towards him with wild eyes and nearly shaking hands meant anything.
“I can’t!” You shrieked, causing Barty to actually wince at the pitch your voice took.
“But…why not?” Barty asked cautiously, and you burst into tears.
“Fuck me.” Evan groaned under his breath as he stamped out the end of his blunt; he was clearly done for the day. “Alright, hold on. Let me get my shit together so I can talk some sense into you. Calm down.”
“I can’t.” You keened, Evan tsked at you.
“Jesus Christ, you’re wild today.” He commented as he flung open the windows. Barty was already in the kitchen grabbing bottles of water and some snacks; following proper sober up protocol.
Evan took the time to actually move the ashtray to the opposite side of the room, hoping to have as clear a head as he possibly could to deal with his wound tight little minx. Ruining his high by being all adorable and weird. You were lucky you were so cute.
“Treasure, you need to go sit down.” Barty murmured then as you seemed to be frozen in some sort of panicky fright in the centre of the kitchen. “Or maybe light up for a minute…” He added sarcastically under his breath. Unfortunately for Evan, you heard him.
“I can’t do that, Barty! I get paranoid!”
“As opposed to whatever you are right now?” Barty asked incredulously then, and you let out a gut wrenching sob.
“Okay! Okay, fuckin’ hell. Come here.” Evan called as he sat back down in his chair and beckoned you forward with one impatient hand.
“This is too much, pet.” He chided as he pulled you down onto his lap. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“But-”
“Enough; your only job is to breathe right now, got it?”
You sucked in a shuddering breath as you nodded; eyes squeezed shut, forcing a steady stream of tears down your cheeks. You looked pitiful.
“He didn’t say to hold your breath.” Barty commented gently as he sat on an ottoman in front of Evan’s chair and tried to hand each of you a bottle of water - Evan took both. But the breath that escaped your lips was forceful and left you panting for more. “Oi! Not like that, hey. Deeper breaths, Tres.”
“Y/N. Relax, doll. Relax. You’re fine.” Evan chided; his hand resting on your lower back and his thumb drawing circles at the space between the top of your jeans where your shirt gave way to skin.
The flat fell quiet save for the sound of your breathing - at first shuddering, then practised and intentional, and finally settling into a more natural cadence - as Evan drew lines up and down your back with one hand and drew circles with his thumb on your knee with the other, and Barty fiddled distractedly with your fingers.
“I’m sorry.” You whimpered eventually, and both Evan and Barty let out sighs of relief.
“That was fucking wild, Treasure. Absolutely deranged.” Barty scolded playfully, pulling your fingers to his lips for a kiss.
“Scared the shit out of me, poppet. I thought someone was dying.”
“I didn’t mean to worry you…” you offered shyly, shoulders curling in on yourself as if you sort of wanted to disappear. Evan pulled you roughly into his chest and stamped a kiss to your forehead.
“I’m always worried about you, weird little freak.”
“I’m gonna need like, five more blunts after that. Do I have grey hairs? I feel like I have grey hair now. You’re ageing me, Treasure. You’re sending me to an early grave.” Though you clearly accepted Barty’s teasing for what it was when you returned his kiss fervently.
“No more blunts.” Evan called as Barty moved to put on a record. “Next time she comes in like a bat out of hell, I would like to have our wits about us. Hm? Give us a fighting chance.”
“So we’re rawdogging our way through life from now on? Alright, Ev; but if I start having meltdowns like our perfect little freak over there, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself!”
“....Maybe one blunt a day?” Evan asked you when Barty disappeared around the corner; murmuring the question into the slightly damp hairs at your temple.
“Maybe so.” You agreed with a tired chuckle turned sigh. He couldn’t blame you; if he was tired after all of that, you must be exhausted.
“yes the both of you look adorable, but can i please have my clothes back now?”
Or the “do any of the clothes you’re wearing belong to you?”
Or a little combo with rosekiller x reader 🖤
YES
poly!rosekiller x fem!reader who has plenty of clothes of her own [486 words]
CW: somewhat smutty implication at the end but fades to black, fluffffffffff
“Treasure,” Evan could hear Barty start in what he knew to be his ‘I’m pretending to be chiding but actually find all of this rather funny’ voice, “if this is your way of telling us you need more clothes, we're more than happy to buy you more clothes.”
“I don’t need more clothes!” You laughed in response as Evan made his way down the hallway with his morning cup of coffee to see what the two of you were going on about.
“Well it looks like you had a pretty hard time finding anything of your own to wear today; forgive me for being worried we weren’t spoiling you enough.”
Evan rounded the corner into the living room to see you lounging on the sofa; one leg tucked under you and the other bent at the knee that your hand was resting on whilst Barty hovered above you with a faux berating look on his face.
“What’s going on in here?” Evan asked as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head from behind the couch before making his way around it and settling in the space beside you.
“What’s going on,” Barty started theatrically, causing you to snort - the sound made the very corner of Barty’s lips rise in the ghost of a smirk before he schooled his expression, “is that our darling angel clearly does not have enough of her own things.”
“Is that true, poppet?” Evan asked you as he played into Barty’s little skit. “Do we not spoil you enough?”
“You spoil me fine.” You groaned, laughing when both boys scoffed in offence. “You spoil me plenty - too much!”
“Then what is the issue?” Evan asked then.
“Look at her!” Barty shouted, gesturing wildly at you with both hands. “Look at her outfit!”
Evan shifted his weight onto his one hip and turned his body towards you, his arm thrown over the back of the sofa as he scrutinised your form; a surprised laugh bubbling out of him when he realised what Barty’s ‘problem’ was.
“Poppet,” Evan laughed, “do any of the clothes you’re wearing actually belong to you?”
Sure enough, you were wearing a pair of Barty’s joggers, his favourite band tee, and one of Evan’s zip up jumpers with the arms folded over an absurd number of times.
You blinked slightly owlishly at him, answering after a beat of silence. “The knickers are mine.”
“That’s too many articles of your own clothing, Treasure!” Barty let out with a loud laugh, clearly over pretending to be miffed at the pilfering of his wardrobe. “I’ll have to buy some of my own knickers for you.”
“If it helps, I’m pretty sure you bought these knickers too.” You offered him solemnly, and Evan watched a salacious expression take over Barty’s face he knew was mirrored on his own.
“Is that so?” Evan drawled. “Perhaps you ought to show us, just to confirm.”
¹³⁾ “i don’t even want to know how the glitter got there.” with barty or rosekiller x reader? Thanks 😄
HA no cuz this is so them. thanks for playing!
poly!rosekiller x fem!reader who drop a glitter bomb [670 words]
CW: afab!reader, allusion to sex that happened before the scene, mentions Barty's arsehole and reader's cervix, non sexual nudity, Evan is in his own personal hell, joking reference to waterboarding
“Evan, you have to admit that this is completely overboard.”
Evan does not have to admit that this is completely overboard, thank you very much. He thinks placing a garbage bag beneath the two of you and pulling you in the direction of the bathroom like you’re on a magic carpet to be perfectly reasonable.
All you get from him is a grunt and a glare in response.
“I thought the two of you were going to a music festival.”
“We did.” Barty agrees readily, looking dangerously close to stepping off of his garbage bag magic carpet and onto Evan’s clean bathroom tiles until Evan points a menacing finger at him, daring him to do just that.
Barty (wisely) reconsiders.
“And since when do music festivals involve so much…glitter?” He asks in disgust, gesturing vaguely at the two of you who are covered in it. He almost feels bad for the cleaning service who vacuums the corridors of your building every day; a trail of glitter no doubt leading right up to the door of your flat all the way from the lobby.
“It’s fun, Ev.” You smile at him.
He frowns at you. “It’s horrid, actually.”
“It’s whimsical.” Barty posits.
“It’s making me want to burn the fucking building down.” Evan carries on.
“Okay, okay.” You relent, diffusing the tense situation. “We’re getting in the shower. Fuckin’ hell.”
Evan decides not to comment on your cheek on account of you doing as instructed, stepping off of your garbage bag magic carpet and directly into the standing shower before you start slowly removing your articles of clothing.
“Smart, Rosie. Now we get to see her naked.” Barty stage whispers as he leans disturbingly close to Evan for someone so thoroughly bedazzled.
“You too, fucko.”
“Oi!”
“Barty, just get in.” You huff, clearly losing your patience with the glitter bomb carnage that has become your evening.
And if Evan was appalled before, he’s horrified now as your clothes fall to the bottom of the shower and the parts of you that were covered by clothing are just as glittery as the parts of you that were not.
“What the fuck?” He asks in disbelief.
“I think I’ve got glitter up my fuckin’ arsehole.” Barty mutters as he tries to scratch said arsehole. Evan immediately pulls the shower head down and turns it on full blast, soaking the sod before it even has a chance to warm up.
Barty begins to squeal and holler about it being cold but all Evan registers is the fact that though he can see glitter sinking down the drain like a melting constellation, it doesn’t even make a dent on the glitter covering the sod’s body.
“This is my hell.” Evan decides then, looking hopelessly between the two of you.
You push your thighs together as your face pinches in discomfort. “Do you think it’s possible to have glitter on my cervix?”
Barty is all too eager to respond, regardless of how pathetic he currently looks glittering and soaking wet. “Oh, that’s probably beca-”
“Stop.” Evan states emphatically, the shower head in one hand and the other held up in warning. “I don’t even want to know how the glitter got there.”
You snicker at what you no doubt assume to be Evan’s theatrics, but Barty seems genuinely perplexed.
“But it’s because we-”
But Evan drowns the sound of the explanation out by aiming the shower head directly at Barty’s face.
“Well, Ev,” you state, placing a hand on your hip and looking at him like a disappointed mother; Evan’s familiar with those kinds of looks, “you don’t have to waterboard him for trying to explain it to you.”
The use of the term waterboarding is clearly used for dramatic effect on your part, but Evan responds in kind anyway.
“M’not.” Evan says as he watches Barty sputter and shield his face with his hands for a few more moments. “I’m waterboarding him for bringing glitter into my flat.”
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 Elle! I'm here to hibernate, and I was thinking maybe a poly!rosekiller (you've got me hooked on Barty and Evan) or whatever pairing you think works best, love all our boys, with either:
“they’ve slept for like twelve straight hours. should i be worried?"
Or
“hey, i think it’s time to go to bed.”
Because I am both. Chronically.
If you don't respond it's totally cool, you're such an amazing writer and so many people love your stuff I totally understand not being able to respond, lovely girl!
P.S remember to drink water :)
thanks so much for the prompt, doll!! and thanks for being here with me; I'm happy to be celebrating with you <3
the winter games
poly!rosekiller x fem!reader who's asleep and Barty's afraid of [702 words]
CW: immature boyfriends, muggle/modern au, Barty hit someone with his car but it was chill and also not pictured, mentions of dicks but not described
Evan swore his eyes were beginning to cross when his paperwork was interrupted by the sound of a hastily whispered “Rosie!”
Evan looked up to see Barty standing in the doorway to his office. Well, it was more like to see Barty’s shoulders and head floating about halfway up the door frame as he leaned around it without actually stepping in.
“What is it, bee?” He drawled as he turned back towards his work.
“I need help.”
“With what?”
“Hiding a body.” Barty deadpanned.
Evan let out a tired sigh and looked up at him. “Again, Barty?”
“With Y/N, Rosie! And for the last time, that cyclist I hit was fine; he bounced right back up and smacked the hood of my car. He certainly wasn’t too hurt to cuss at me.”
“What’s wrong with your Treasure?” Evan asked - diverting yet another grumbling at how inconvenient hitting another man with his car was for Barty - as he organized his sheets into a neat stack. He may have called you Barty’s Treasure, but you were his poppet, and Barty seemed to think you needed his help so Evan was inclined to help you.
“She’s asleep.” Barty said simply - troublesome cyclists forgotten - causing Evan to pause.
“I hardly see what the problem with that is, Barty.”
Barty stomped his foot and rolled his eyes as if it were Evan who was being rather meddlesome and vague. “She’s asleep in the kitchen.”
Oh…that was the problem.
Sure enough, covered in an array of flour, sprinkles, and icing, you were resting your head on one folded arm with a piping bag sitting dejectedly in your opposite hand; a small stream of red icing pooling out the bottom. Sound asleep.
You’d refused Barty’s help earlier in the evening, stating that he wouldn’t do as good a job and you wanted your holiday cookies to be perfect. Evan didn’t particularly blame you for that, but he did feel rather guilty that you couldn’t trust your boyfriend to not pipe dicks on all of your sugar cookies when your back was turned.
“You didn’t want to wake her up?” Evan surmised as he gently took the piping bag from your hand.
“Listen, I love her with my entire being, but I’m kind of afraid of her.”
Evan couldn’t help but huff a laugh at that. “Fine, can you clean this up then?” He asked, gesturing vaguely to the state of the kitchen as he came up behind you and leaned over your frame.
“Poppet.” He murmured as he gently rubbed at your shoulders. “Come on, doll.”
An incoherent sound of discontent escaped your lips as you tried to rise; Evan’s weight above you kept you from sitting up too quickly.
“Hey, I think it’s time for bed.”
“But, th’cookies-”
“Will be here in the morning.” Evan argued as he allowed you to sit up slowly. “Barty’ll even help you with them.”
“No he can’t, Ev. He’ll ruin them.”
“He will not because whilst he’s helping you, I will be supervising Barty.”
He felt something warm in his chest as he watched you struggle to wake up; brain working overtime to make sense of your surroundings and to make sense of what Evan was trying to tell you.
“We’ll get it done in the morning, yeah? Together.” He offered gently.
“Yeah…” You let out with a sigh after a beat, Barty letting out a sigh of relief of his own from behind him.
“Go get in your pyjamas, pretty girl.” Evan instructed as he helped you stand, pressing a kiss to your hair and patting your hip in dismissal before watching you plod off in the direction of the bedroom.
“Ev, can’t I just-”
“No.”
“Just one.”
“I said no, Bee.” Evan pressed more forcefully.
“I hardly see what the issue with one festive dick is.” Barty grumbled as the two of them followed you towards the bedroom. “What if I save that one and then we give it to Reg?”
That gave Evan pause.
“One.”
“Thank you!”
“What’s happening?” Your voice sounded from somewhere in the washroom, causing both boys to freeze outside of it.
“Nothing.” They chorused; one of them in the form of a question and the other in the form of a delighted cheer.
