break - @rosekillermicrofic - slightly NSFW - word count: 280
“Oi,” Evan called to his boyfriend, finding him in their bedroom. “I’ve got a question.”
Barty, who’d been scrolling on his phone, looked up to him with one raised eyebrow. “Duct tape or lube.”
Evan did a double-take. “Eh?” he asked, sitting on the bed.
“Solves most problems,” the shorter man said wisely. “What’s up, Rosie?”
“If one of us dies…are we broken up?” Evan asked, face blank, but a hint of nervousness in his normally-emotionless voice.
“The fuck?” Barty sat up, scrambling to his side. “What’s got you thinking about that?”
“Pandora was watching some movie. One of the main characters was dying, and she told her smarmy boyfriend to move on without her, or whatever,” Evan murmured, looking down.
Barty scoffed. “It’d take a lot more than death for us to break up. That’s just a fucking long-distance relationship. Pandora’s into Ouija Boards and all that shit, right? We’d just learn how to use one of those, and–”
“And what, sext through a Ouija Board?” Evan replied, but his lips were curling upward.
“Hell yes,” Barty replied. He mimed moving a planchette to the same spot over and over again. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” His voice was monotonous but he gave Evan a lewd grin.
The taller man laughed. “Alright. Hot. Good to know.”
“Trust me, Rosie. You’d have to do a lot more than kill me to get rid of me,” Barty winked. “That’s why we’re never getting married. Fuck ‘til death do us part,’ that’s for amateurs. We’re in this together in every afterlife.”
Evan rolled his eyes and smacked his boyfriend upside the head. But internally, something that had been twisted and anxious eased a bit.
Barty doesn’t realize he’s still talking until his throat starts to feel a little raw and his words begin to blur together.
It had started the second he walked through the door.
“—and then this guy, right, he swears he wants something minimal, like he literally says ‘tiny, subtle,’ and I’m thinking, great, easy, we love that—”
Evan hums softly, fingers threading through Barty’s hair in slow, practiced motions. It’s automatic at this point—Barty drops onto the couch, head in Evan’s lap, and Evan takes over from there. A rhythm. A routine.
“—but then he pulls out this reference,” Barty continues, waving a hand somewhere in the air, “and it’s, like, a full chest piece. I’m not even exaggerating. Dragons, flames, the whole dramatic saga—”
Evan’s fingers scratch lightly at his scalp.
Barty melts further into him.
“—and I tell him, ‘that’s not minimal,’ and he goes, ‘well, I want it delicate,’ and I’m like, those are not the same—Evan, they’re not the same—”
Another soft hum. Agreement, probably. Or maybe just acknowledgment.
Barty keeps going.
He talks about the apprentice who almost passed out during a piercing. About the playlist at the shop that got stuck on the same three songs for an hour. About a woman who tipped him with homemade cookies that may or may not have been underbaked but he ate anyway because she looked proud.
At some point, his voice slows. Not because he’s running out of things to say—Barty never runs out of things to say—but because the warmth of Evan’s lap and the steady motion in his hair is dragging him somewhere soft and hazy.
Still, he keeps talking.
“…and I told him, if you touch that again before it heals, I will personally haunt you,” he mutters, words starting to slur together. “Like, not even in a threatening way, just… a promise…”
Evan’s fingers don’t stop. They comb, scratch, smooth. Over and over.
Time passes.
A lot of time.
Barty doesn’t notice how long until he pauses mid-sentence and the quiet stretches just a second too long.
His eyes blink open.
“…wait.”
Evan’s hand is still in his hair.
The room is dimmer than it was before. The light outside has shifted—golden hour bleeding into something softer, something evening.
Barty goes still.
“How long have I been talking?” he asks slowly.
Evan doesn’t answer right away. His fingers just glide through Barty’s hair again, like the question isn’t urgent. Like nothing is.
That’s when it hits.
Barty bolts upright so fast he nearly headbutts Evan’s chin.
“Jesus—Evan, why didn’t you tell me to shut up?” he blurts, already scrambling off the couch. “I’ve been going on forever, haven’t I? You were just sitting there—fuck, you were being polite—”
He starts pacing, running his hands through his own hair now, undoing all of Evan’s careful work.
“I didn’t even ask about your day, I just came in and started—God, I do this all the time, don’t I? I just talk and talk and—”
He turns, ready to keep spiraling, already halfway into an apology—
And Evan moves.
It’s quick, but not rushed. Deliberate.
His hand catches Barty’s wrist mid-gesture.
The contact is warm. Grounding.
Barty freezes.
Evan tugs—just enough to stop him, not enough to pull him off balance. His thumb brushes once over the inside of Barty’s wrist, absentminded, familiar.
“Barty.”
The way he says it—quiet, steady—cuts clean through the noise in Barty’s head.
Barty swallows. “Yeah?”
Evan looks at him like this is simple. Like this has always been simple.
“I love the sound of your voice.”
Barty blinks.
Once. Twice.
“…what?”
Evan’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, it softens, just slightly at the edges.
“I like listening to you,” he says, like he’s clarifying something obvious. “You get excited. You ramble. You make everything sound more interesting than it has any right to be.”
His thumb brushes Barty’s wrist again.
“It’s my favorite part of your day.”
Barty stares at him.
There’s a laugh somewhere in his chest, but it gets stuck halfway up, tangled with something warmer, something heavier.
“You’re insane,” Barty mutters, but it comes out quieter than usual. Less bite, more disbelief.
Evan just shrugs, like that’s not really a denial.
“Come back,” he says, giving Barty’s wrist a small tug.
Barty hesitates for half a second.
Then he folds.
He drops back onto the couch, a little less dramatically this time, settling with his head in Evan’s lap again like he was never gone. Like this is where he’s meant to be.
Evan’s fingers return to his hair immediately. Like they missed it.
For a moment, Barty is quiet.
Then—
“Okay, but I didn’t even get to the worst part,” he says, already shifting, already warming back up. “Because after the dragon guy left—”
Evan smiles, small and private, fingers moving in slow, steady patterns.
@rosekillermicrofic may 2nd - neck - TW: Main character death
They broke apart from their kiss almost as if they had been wrenched away from each other. Barty wrapped his arms around Evan's waist and buried his face in his neck
"I dont want you to go, Rosie."
"I'll be back soon. I swear, three days max," Evan murmurs, kissing Bartys head.
Two weeks later, Barty stands alone in the rain, crisp white collar resting against his neck as he stares at the gravestone in front of him.
"You said three days. I'll see you soon Rosie," he croaks, voice hoarse from screaming for four days straight, laying roses by the headstone
Evan had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing as Barty pulled the lotion tube away from Luna and pushed an actual children's toy into her little hand instead. Luna giggled, then immediately started sucking on the toy.
Barty gagged and this time, Evan couldn't hold the laughter back. His boyfriend got up from the floor, dropping the lotion in Evan's lap as he sat back down on the sofa.
Evan deposited the spit-covered item somewhere next to him. "Fine," he said. "So it is a bit gross. But it's also normal."
Barty hummed, sounding entirely unconvinced. "How did she even get the lotion? She can't even walk yet and her crawling needs serious work."
Evan shrugged, watching the kid laugh at her own socked feet. "Dunno. Maybe it fell out of the bag when we changed her?"
"Speaking of kids being a bit gross…" Barty mumbled, shuddering.
Evan chuckled. It had been a lot gross, but he'd never give Barty the satisfaction of being right about this. He looked over at him, catching a small smile when Luna waved at them. "You're good with her."
Barty scoffed. "Surprised?"
"Not even a little," Evan answered honestly. He leaned over, whispering to Barty. "I know you've got a soft center, Crouch."
"Yeah, well—" Barty cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed at being caught out. "She is very cute, so that helps. Aren't you, little Luna moth?"
He bent over to grab Luna from the floor, who had crawled over and was cooing at one of the skull tattoos on Barty's leg. She immediately reached for his face with sticky, wet hands and he closed his eyes to avoid tiny fingers in eyeballs.
Evan laughed at his boyfriend's facial expression and moved in to press a kiss to his temple, then Luna's head. "I'll go get some wipes."
may 1 - prompt: rose - @rosekillermicrofic - word count: 209
"Fair warning, Pandora is about to come here to ask what your favourite flower is, and she doesn't take I don't know, I don't think about fucking flowers as an answer," Barty says, bursting in their dorm, where Evan and Regulus are trying to get their potions work done.
"She literally didn't let me leave until I told her a flower. I'm kind of afraid of whatever she needs this information for," Barty continues, oblivious to how little attention his friends are paying to what he has to say: "If she shows up with a bunch of roses, I don't know what I'll do."
And with that, he finally caught the other two boys' attention. Except, they burst out laughing.
"Roses? You told her your favourite flower is a rose?"
"It was the first thing I could think of!"
"Yeah, I'm sure rosie is the first thing that comes to mind," Regulus comments, and Evan laughs again. With the amount of rosie, black and crouching jokes that are being thrown around their dorm every day, he would have been more surprised if Regulus didn't point this pun out.
However, as he turns around, he notices something that normally doesn't happen when these jokes are thrown around.
“Morning Evan.” Pandora welcomed her brother as he walked into her parlour.
“Morning Panda bear.” He walked up to his sister and kissed her on the forehead. “How are things here?”
Pandora shrugged and sat on a chair.
“It’s the middle of the week. It’s gonna be slow but I can’t complain. Besides, Xenophilius will be stopping by later.”
“Ah yes. The beloved husband that you like to rub in my face.” Evan leaned back in his chair. “How is he anyway?”
“He’s very busy all of the time.” Pandora responded. “But I can’t complain. We’re so close to being able to put a downpayment on a house.”
Evan smiled. “That is such good news.”
“Now, why don’t you tell me about Mr. Vomit-In-The-Back-Of-Your-Car?”
“You mean Barty Crouch Jr.? Heir to the Crouch fortune and way out of my league?”
“The very same.” Evan sighed. It sounded like an odd mix of a disgusted sigh and a lovesick sigh.
“God, he has occupied my every waking thought. But he’s practically a ghost. His father has made sure of that. I looked him up when I got home and there was nothing on him. Other than the fact that he is the only son of Bartemus Crouch Sr. He’s one of the richest and most famous people around and there is literally nothing on him except for photos and rumors on Reddit.” Pandora hummed.
“I don’t know if that means his parents are good parents or bad parents.”
“I gave him my number without even thinking. I mean, why would he message me?” And as if it was manifested, Evan’s phone dinged, signalling a new message.
New Message
Unknown number
Hey
Who is this???
Unknown number
Barty. You gave my friend your number last night. Told me to reach out.
“And the ghost has now haunted your phone.” Pandora said with a smirk, noticing how Evan smiled, looking at his phone. “Y’know, if you stick around, you’ll probably see him.”
This got Evan’s attention.
“He comes here? What for?”
“Tattoos. He’s one of my regulars. Comes in, in the middle of the week to get a small tattoo or get a little more work done on one of his bigger ones.” Pandora flipped through her appointment book. “He’s very busy so he only spends about 45 minutes in the chair when he comes in. But he pays handsomely.”
“When’s his next appointment?” Evan was all the more willing to sit around and wait for the male that had occupied all of his brain space.
Happy prompts day, everyone! Welcome to all the new writers and readers, and welcome back to those of you returning for October!
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@rosekillermicrofic | Prompt - Unknown | TW: Gore, mention of death | WC - 404
The itch never left. It faded but Barty knew not. The snake around the skull craved more or maybe he did.
An enormous scratch of the stone, against stone, and there she was, quivering yet bold, Mrs Crouch. Her silhouette nearly pale against the darkness of Azkaban. Her hands held together, tightly, close to her chest.
Barty could already feel the warmth, maybe it was because the dementors were far away, or maybe it was just his mother presence. The last living impression of his existence - apart from his father, who he didn't dare look up to. He too was standing somewhere at the back, Barty knew.
"Bartemius-", the cold voice of his father. His mother walked forward.
"We will take you out, son." The sweetness inside her said.
The father figure moved forward, his face almost white in the moonlight. His footsteps echoing against his heartbeat. Then the movement was sharp and before Barty could defend, his father had already gripped him by the neck forcing him against the wall. "YOU HAVE BEEN A DISGRACE." Then he hissed, " If it wasn't your mother, you would have been dead to us."
Then he punched. Again. And again. AND AGAIN.
Till Barty could smell his mother's hair, implying her guard, her protection against her husband, something so prevalent, as always.
Barty could not stand anymore, his weight tossed him on the ground, but before he closed his eyes, before he felt the coldness of the dementors, he did what he felt like doing. Maybe his father wasn't the right person, but he surely stood nearly perfect at this moment.
Barty returned the pain, blow by blow, wetting his hands with blood. His mother pulling him apart.
"YOU HAVE GONE MAD." Barty Crouch Senior screamed.
"Definitely Sir", Barty hissed.
Then the sharp coldness hit. Yet it felt better. Atleast even in the abyss, he could see his memories. No matter what he saw, almost all of them had the blood spattered, mudded, yet assuring face of Evan. The smile he had before his death. The unknown sense of moral, the defeating preservation of hope. All gone. But Barty could still see him. In a way, he found the cure of his loneliness, beating him up with the dementors presence, rejoicing the self abusement through his memories.
He could do everything. Everything for one. And he could leave everything for that one.
