#moonkillermicrofic

Barty had been staring at the replica sword for weeks. Months, maybe. He didn't keep track of time unless it involved making someone else's life harder.

It gleamed in the shop window, a perfectly crafted medieval longsword, the kind a warlord might wield. It was beautiful. It was terrible. It was absolutely necessary.

There was just one problem.

"Barty, you are not bringing a sword into this house."

March prompts

Hello! Here are prompts for this month.

You know the rules. Pick a prompt, find inspiration, write a fic and remember, it's microfic, so limit is 1000 words.

Tag me and I will reblog it :)

Have questions or ideas? Send me an ask!

Still need last month prompts? You can find them here!

Greetings ♡

There was a gentle feeling in the atmosphere, it was a warm summer night and everything felt right. Remus had been forced persuaded by Evan and Barty to go camping with them and the rest of their group— no magic allowed.

The stars shone brightly overhead as he sat alone by the dwindling campfire. It was a good while after midnight, and despite everyone having gone to bed, Remus was still up. Well, “up” might have been an overstatement; it was more so like he was on the verge of falling asleep on the log he was sitting on. 

A loud snap came from somewhere beside him, jolting him awake. He looked around for the source of the noise— Dorcas and Pandora’s tent was still and quiet, as was the one next to it, belonging to Evan and Remus. Across the site was Regulus and Barty’s, the zipper was pulled halfway shut but was quiet all the same. 

The noises of twigs snapping grew closer and closer, forming a haunting melody in the still night air. Remus looked at where the sounds were coming from— somewhere in between where he was sat and where Regulus and Barty’s tent was.

Remus stayed still as he watched a figure draw closer. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest when the figure emerged. What at first appeared to be a stranger coming to murder everyone at the campsite in the night, Remus soon recognized as Barty. 

“Hey, what—uh what’re you doing? I didn't realize you were still up,” Remus smiled shakily.

“I got some firewood,” Barty replied, nodding down to the mixed pile of twigs and sticks in his arms, before continuing with a smirk, “Damn, did I startle you that badly?”

“Yeah I was almost asleep, you scared the shit out of me,” Remus muttered as Barty split the stack into two: one into the campfire and one on the ground next to him as he sat a hair’s breadth away from his boyfriend.

“‘m sorry. Think I could make up for it somehow?” A suggestive grin took over Barty’s face with that comment.

If you have any ideas, please, leave them in the comments :D

The morning after a full moon was always the worst. Remus could feel it deep in his bones, a weariness that sleep couldn’t touch. Every breath ached, every shift of his body sent ripples of pain through his muscles. The air in the small flat he shared with Barty was thick with the scent of blood—his own, mostly, dried in streaks on his arms and legs. He hadn’t done too much damage this time, he thought distantly. Nothing broken, at least.

He groaned as he turned onto his side, only to find Barty already there, sitting at the edge of the bed, watching him with sharp eyes. He looked awful too—bruises lining his arms, his lip split from some unknown scuffle in the night. It had been a rough one. Remus knew that without asking.

Barty reached out, hesitant, brushing his fingers over Remus’s wrist. “You with me?”

Remus swallowed, his throat dry and raw. “Yeah.”

Barty exhaled, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “It was bad.”

It wasn’t a question, and Remus didn’t answer it. They both knew.

“I tried,” Barty muttered, fingers curling into fists. “You know I tried.”

Remus closed his eyes. He did know. He always knew. Even as a bat—small, quick, desperate—Barty tried to keep up with him. Tried to keep him from hurting himself. Tried to keep him safe.

“I can’t keep you safe,” Barty said suddenly, voice tight with frustration. He wasn’t looking at Remus now, his gaze fixed on the floor. “Not like this.”

Remus opened his eyes again, softer this time. He reached out, fingers brushing against Barty’s clenched fists until they slowly uncurled. “It’s not your job to keep me safe,” he said quietly. “You know that.”

Barty let out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, well. Someone has to.”

Remus squeezed his hand. “You already do more than enough.”

Barty didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was quieter. “It’s not enough.”

Remus didn’t argue. He was too tired, and they’d had this conversation too many times. Instead, he tugged at Barty’s arm, coaxing him closer until Barty finally gave in and lay down beside him. Their bodies fit together in a way that felt natural, even when everything else was a mess.

“You stayed,” Remus murmured against Barty’s shoulder.

Barty huffed. “Where else would I go?”

Barty doesn’t talk about his mother much. Not since she passed away.

Remus has never pushed him to share. He learned early on that some things are too fragile to touch, and Barty—loud, reckless, unrelenting Barty—closes off at the mere mention of her. So, Remus never asks. He lets the silence exist between them, heavy but never suffocating, an unspoken understanding.

But around this time of year, something shifts.

Remus sighed, gripping the instructions with one hand and the screwdriver with the other. The baby gate in front of him was, by all accounts, a simple contraption. But nothing was simple when it involved assembling things with Barty in the vicinity.

Remus huffed, bracing himself against the kitchen counter as he glared at Barty, who was lounging on the couch, flipping a knife between his fingers with practiced ease.

"Why don't you make yourself productive and go over there?" Remus gestured vaguely towards the mess in the living room—Teddy’s toys scattered across the floor like a war zone, remnants of an abandoned snack on the coffee table, and what Remus suspected was a juice stain on the rug.

Barty flicked the knife up, caught it, and finally glanced at him. "Why would I do that when you're already doing such a fine job playing house?"

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because it's your mess too. And Teddy is your—"

"Protégé," Barty cut in with a sharp grin. "A promising young mind who should learn the ways of chaos early."

"Teddy is a toddler," Remus deadpanned. "He does not need lessons in chaos. He is naturally gifted."

Barty shrugged, tossing the knife onto the table before standing up and stretching with a groan. "Fine, fine. I’ll contribute."

Remus didn’t trust him at all. He moved cautiously as Barty strolled into the mess, hands in his pockets, surveying it like it was a battlefield. Then, with sudden enthusiasm, Barty bent down and picked up a stuffed wolf toy, holding it in front of his face. "Oi, Lupin. Look at me, I’m you. I read books and take life seriously."

Remus exhaled slowly, biting back the urge to throw a pillow at him. "Just clean, Barty."

But Barty, being Barty, didn’t listen. Instead, he turned to Teddy, who was sitting in his playpen, watching with wide, fascinated eyes. "Teddy, mate, we are at a crossroads. You can either follow the path of your dear old dad—boring and responsible—or you can embrace the fine art of controlled mayhem."

"Barty," Remus warned.

Teddy clapped his hands, giggling. "Mayhem!"

Barty looked smug. "That’s my boy."

Remus groaned, knowing he had just lost this battle before it even began. "I hate you."

Barty smirked, picking up a toy car and chucking it into the toy bin—his version of cleaning. "You love me."