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bartonomy · 1 month ago

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RESTLESS SILENCE!

PAIRING Barty Crouch Jr. x quiet!fem!Ravenclaw!Reader

SYNOPSIS Barty Crouch Jr. hated silence. You thrived in it. Being paired together for a Potions project in the library should have been simple—but Barty refuses to let the quiet win.

CONTENT WARNING obsessive! barty, possessive! james, angst, fluff, the boys not asking yn abt her feelings LMFAO lmk if i missed something!

WORD COUNT 5k words

library.

Barty Crouch Jr. prided himself on many things—his sharp mind, his quick reflexes, his ability to get under people’s skin ( much to Regulus’ and Evans dismay) when he wanted to. But patience? That had never been one of them.

And yet, patience was exactly what was required when he found himself sitting across from you in the library, parchment spread between you, potions textbook propped open, the air between you thick with silence.

It wasn’t just any silence. It was a suffocating, calculated quiet, the kind that settled around the you like a second skin. You liked it. Humming in contentment as you flipped through the book to gather enough information for your assignment.

It drove him mental.

You had been partnered up in Slughorn’s class earlier that day, much to Barty’s irritation. You were everything he wasn’t—controlled, meticulous, the sort of person who took diligent notes and never spoke unless you had something of actual substance to say. The worst part? You were no outcast. Despite your quiet nature, you were as well-liked, hovering at the edges of the Marauders’ usual chaos, laughing softly at Pandora Lovegood’s dreamy theories, and using your smart mouth (Gideon insists) to get the Prewett brothers out of trouble from Mcgonnagall. You were… respected.

Barty was tolerated, at best.

Now, in the dim glow of the library’s enchanted lanterns, you sat across from him, quill in hand, completely ignoring him. Well, unintentionally, he had been fussing in his place since you both arrived an hour ago, trying to get you to do merlin knows with him.

Barty exhaled sharply through his nose, slumping back in his chair. “You could at least pretend to be interested in conversation,” he muttered.

You didn’t look up. “I don’t find unnecessary conversations stimulating.”

He scoffed. “How very Ravenclaw of you.”

You merely hummed in acknowledgment but said nothing more, flipping to another page in his (you lended yours to Peter after he accidentally got soaked by the bucket of water from the black lake intended for Snape) textbook.

Barty’s fingers drummed against the table. He could handle a lot of things—detentions, duels, even his father’s unrelenting scrutiny, but this? This was insufferable.

So, naturally, he decided to make it his mission to ruin the silence.

It started small.

A flick of his wand, and your inkwell slid ever-so-slightly across the table. You caught it before it could spill, shot him a glance, and continued writing.

Next, he nudged your parchment just out of reach. You didn’t even blink, simply shifted your chair forward and carried on.

Fine. If you were going to be stubborn, he’d up the stakes.

With another subtle movement of his wand, your beloved muggle book „The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie“ the one you had tucked beside your Potions text, began to quiver. Slowly at first, then more violently, the pages ruffling as though caught in a windstorm.

you sighed, set your quill down rather roughly, and calmly muttered, “Finite Incantatem.”

The book stilled.

Barty whistled. “Impressive.”

You finally looked up at him, expression unreadable. “It‘s a First Year spell. Are you always this restless?”

He grinned. “Are you always this boring?”

There was no offense in your gaze, only quiet scrutiny. “No. But I also don’t feel the need to fill the silence just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

Barty opened his mouth, then shut it again.

No one had ever called him out so plainly before. Most people either avoided him, tolerated him, or challenged him outright. But you… you understood him in a way that unsettled him.

And worse, he had no idea what to do with that.

The pranks escalated.

By the end of the week, Barty had:

• Transfigured your quill into a small snake (you turned it back with no regard of his presence, only Trelwaney who shrieked in horror).

• Enchanted your book to read aloud in a dramatic voice (you merely bookmarked your page and waited for him to get bored).

• Jinxed your notes to rearrange themselves whenever you tried to read them (you rewrote them without complaint).

Each time, you met his antics with infuriating patience. No anger. No exasperation. Just quiet indifference, as if you knew exactly why he was doing it.

It wasn’t until he charmed your beloved novel to hover just out of reach that you finally had enough.

With a soft Expelliarmus, the book yanked itself free from his spell and slammed down onto the table between you. you met his gaze, eyes burning with guarded anger.

“Why?” you asked, voice level but firm.

Barty leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. “Why what?”

You exhaled, slow and measured. Merlin, was he testing your already low patience “Why go to such lengths just to get a reaction?”

Barty opened his mouth to fire back something witty, but the words caught. He couldn’t answer.

Because the truth was something he didn’t want to admit. Because silence had never been kind to him. Because silence meant expectation, the weight of his father’s disapproval, the loneliness of never being enough. Because he didn’t know how to exist in a world that didn’t constantly react to him.

You watched as something shifted in his expression—something raw, something unguarded. And for the first time since you had been paired together, you didn’t seem like you were trying to solve him.

You just saw him.

The silence stretched between you once more. But this time, it didn’t feel suffocating. This time, it felt like something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something inevitable.

The library had become a battlefield.

Barty didn’t lose. Not at duels, not at arguments, and certainly not at mind games. But after a week of relentless pestering, pranks, and jinxed books, but all he was met with was radio silence.

And Barty hated being ignored.

Tonight was no different.

You were back in your usual spot in the potions section near the back, candlelight flickering over parchment, and you were sure you could hear people snogging in the aisle next to you. Barty wasn’t writing. He was watching, and it pissed you off.

“Fascinating,” he drawled, chin resting on his palm.

You sighed, not even bothered to look up. “What is?”

“You,” he said simply.

At last, you glanced at him, one brow slightly raised. Not surprised, not flattered, only curious and slightly amused. As if he was some interesting tale from Trelawney‘s weekly horoscopes

Barty leaned forward, smirking. “You’re too patient for someone who spends time with the Marauders. They’re reckless. Loud. Gits.”

Your lips twitched in almost a smile. “And yet, I don’t find them insufferable.”

“Lucky them,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, studying him. “You don’t actually hate them, do you?”

Barty scoffed, leaning back. “Tell them that, and I’ll hex you.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “You could have joined them, you know. You’re clever enough. Quick-witted. You keep up with them in class.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think I wanted to associate myself with obnoxious Griffins? I have a reputation to uphold ”

You only raised your eyebrow at that. “Oh yes, because being a maniacal, havoc wrecking wizard is soooooo important”

He roared into laughter, clutching his stomach like you have given him the funniest joke in Salazars sake. Tears were dripping out the corner of his eyes with his ropes falling messily over his shoulder.

After his sudden burst of emotions, there was silence, well, as much as you could say from Barty‘s loud wheezing trying to calm himself down and a group of second year Hufflepuffs discussing the use of Mandrakes, the space between you two was peaceful

Then, you shrugged, rolling your shoulders back to ease the growing pain (or the growing tension that is about to engulf you two) “or maybe, its because you’re lonely.”

Barty went still instantly.

For a moment, the pleasant quietness became oppressive, thick with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then,he laughed again. Though, now, it was short, sharp, utterly devoid of humor. “You think you know me?”

“I think,” you started, carefully trying to puck out the right words, “that you spend too much time trying to get people to notice you, y‘know?.”

His smirk returned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And yet, you’re the one paying attention.”

This time, you didn’t look away.

Checkmate.

Barty wasn’t sure when it started.

When you became the first person he looked for in a room. When silence with you stopped feeling suffocating and started feeling… different.

It was a slow, creeping thing, like poison slipping into his bloodstream.

You weren’t like the Marauders. You didn’t fill space with noise or demand attention. You simply were, an observer, someone who noticed things most people didn’t.

And Barty hated being noticed.

The Slytherin common room was quiet this late at night, with most students crammed at the Hufflepuff quidditch After-party after they had won against Ravenclaw earlier that day. Except for Barty and Regulus.

The younger Black sat in one of the loveseats by the fireplace, posture perfect as always with his messenger bag on his side while across from him, Barty sprawled lazily on the couch, legs stretched out, looking more reckless (or crazy according to Evan) than usual.

Regulus had been watching him for the past ten minutes. The tension in his shoulders, the way he ran a hand through his Black-Green hair in agitation or the way his knee bounched when he thought no one was looking.

Finally, as if this thought gave him immense pain, he sighed. „You’re obsessed.“

Barty stilled. „What?“

„With her.“ Regulus arched an eyebrow knowingly

Junior scoffed, throwing his head back against the couch dramatically, flailing his arms „Oh, not you too!

Regulus ignored him. “It’s pathetic.” Barty turned his head, smirking. “Funny. Sirius said the same thing about you once.”

Regulus’ fingers twitched. “Sirius is an idiot.”

“And yet, here you are, acting just like him—concerned about my well-being, giving me the I know best speech.” Barty sighed, stretching his arms behind his head. “It’s sweet, really.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t care what you do.” Barty grinned. “Liar.”

Regulus exhaled sharply. “What is this, Barty?”

Barty hummed, considering. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Reggie”

Regulus frowned. “You’re distracting me by talking about my idiotic brother. So spill, what are you afraid of? ”

Barty’s smirk faltered. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just stared into the flickering fire, expression unreadable. Then, with a slow breath out “Everything.”

Regulus didn’t press. Didn’t have to. He understood better than anyone what Barty really meant. The weight of expectations. The suffocating presence of a father who saw only duty.

Regulus studied him for a moment. “You don’t get attached to people. Especially not to someone like L/N. " Barty’s smirk returned, but it was weaker this time. “Maybe she’s just different.”

Regulus leaned back, unimpressed. “Or maybe you just don’t like that you can’t control her.” Barty exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “And yet, I keep coming back.”

Regulus tilted his head. “That’s called liking someone, Barty.”

Barty scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Please. I don’t like people.”

“Then why does James Potter look like he wants to murder you?”

His expression darkened. “Because he knows.” the curly haired boy hummed thoughtfully. “Knows what?”

Barty looked him dead in the eyes.

“That she’s mine.”

Regulus sighed, standing up. “Merlin, you’re insufferable.”

But as he walked away, Barty didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, watching the fire, thinking about you.

It was , like Regulus said, James who noticed first.

Barty had expected it, really. The four eyed boy was too perceptive for his own good, especially when it came to people who operated in the gray spaces between morality.

One evening in the Gryffindor common room, James leaned against the couch where you were reading, arms crossed. “So,” he mused, “are you finally going to tell us why Crouch won’t leave you alone?”

You barely glanced up. “Because we’re Potions partners.”

Sirius, sprawled across an armchair, snorted. “Right. And I’m Minister for Magic.”

Remus, ever the voice of reason, tilted his head. “You do spend an awful lot of time with him.”

Peter nodded, mouth stuffed with fizzing whizzbees. “It’s weird.”

you sighed, closing your book without marking your spot first, which you internally curse. “He’s… frustrating.”

Sirius smirked. “But?”

You hesitated. Just for a moment. “But he’s not as easy to hate as people think.” That was all they needed to hear.

Sirius groaned dramatically. “Merlin help us, she’s sympathizing with the enemy.”

Remus grinned knowingly. “This is going to be fun.”

James Potter knew you better than anyone.

He had known you since you two were small—before Hogwarts, before the Marauders, before any of this. You had been his first real friend, little pigtails following him around, who always listened when he rambled about Quidditch, often times playing the referee and giving yellow cards to his imaginary opponents and someone who was there when he needed you.

And now? Now you were spending too much time with Barty bloody Crouch Junior.

James didn’t like it. Not one bit.

At first, he thought nothing of it. A Potions partnership was just that—a school assignment. But then he started noticing things.

The way you lingered in the library after hours.

The way Barty watched you fondly when he thought no one was looking.

The way you didn’t seem nearly as irritated with him as you should have been.

And that was unacceptable.

James wasn’t stupid. He knew who Barty Crouch Jr. was. The arrogant, sharp-tongued Slytherin who played by his own rules, who didn’t care about anyone but himself and his best friend‘s brother. And yet, somehow, he had wormed his way into your schedule, your attention—things James had always had without question.

He didn’t realize just how much it bothered him until he saw you two together.

It was a late evening in the library, and James had come to find you. Instead, he found your little pest stuck to your side.

Barty was leaning back in his chair, smirking, while you sat across from him, rolling your eyes but not actually telling him to leave you alone. There was something different in the air between them—an ease James didn’t like.

Not one bit.

“Oi.”

You looked up, blinking in surprise. “James?”

Barty groaned. “Oh, fantastic.”

James ignored him, focusing on her. “We were supposed to go over Transfiguration notes, remember? Minnie was bugging me to take lessons with you”

You frowned. “That’s not until—”

“Now,” James said firmly. Barty snorted. “Territorial, aren’t we, Potter?”

James’ jaw clenched. “Just making sure my best friend isn’t wasting her time.” He just grinned, all teeth. “Oh, trust me, she’s not.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples to ease the incoming headache. Is it from Barty‘s constant yapping, the oh so frustrating instructions of the Felix Felicis, or James bickering? Who knows. “James, we’re just working on Potions.”

“Right,” James muttered. “Because that explains why he won’t stop staring at you.”

Barty raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You jealous, Potter?” James hated how his stomach twisted at that. “Of you?” He scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Good,” Barty said smoothly, “because she’s free to spend time with whoever she wants.” The Gryffindor bristled. “And you’re free to bugger off.”

“James.” your voice was sharp now, cutting through the tension. you stood, gathering your books. “I’ll meet you in your common room later, okay?”

James hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “Fine.” But his glare at Barty said this isn’t over.

As he left, Barty chuckled under his breath. “Protective, isn’t he?”

“You love making things worse, don’t you?” you simply glared at him. Barty grinned. “Admit it. You’d be bored otherwise.”

You only shook your head at that, exasperated. But this time, you didn’t argue.

And Barty? He liked that just a little too much.

James Potter wasn’t the jealous type. At least, that’s what he told himself. But this—this infuriating, undeniable thing happening between his best friend and Barty bloody Crouch Jr.—was driving him mad.

It wasn’t just about Barty. It was about you.

You were his best friend. The one person who had always been there before Sirius, before Remus, before Peter. You had an unspoken understanding, a rhythm that no one else could touch.

And yet, somehow, you were slipping out of reach.

Because of that foul git.

Because wherever you were, Barty was not far behind.

Pandora Lovegood was an odd one. Everyone knew it.

She spoke in riddles, saw connections where others didn’t, and had a habit of appearing exactly where she was needed.

So James should have known better than to groan when she plopped down next to him on the bench in the transfiguration courtyard, humming thoughtfully.

“You’re sulking,” she observed. “I don’t sulk,” James muttered.

She smiled, entirely unconvinced. “It’s about her and him, isn’t it?” He scowled, borderline pouted. “There is no her and him.”

Pandora tilted her head. “Not yet.” at that, James sat up straighter. “Yet?”

Pandora just hummed again, her dreamy expression betraying nothing. “I think you’re afraid.”

“Of what? Crouch?” He snorted. “Please.”

“No,” Pandora mused. “Not him. You’re afraid because for the first time, she’s paying attention to someone else.” James didn’t respond. Because that would mean admitting she was right. The Rosier smiled knowingly. “You can’t stop it, you know.”

“Stop what?”

She simply shrugged, standing as if that answered everything. “The inevitable.”

James groaned. “Merlin, you’re worse than Moony.”

But as she walked away, her words lingered. And James hated that more than anything.

James found Barty alone that evening, leaning against the cobble stone wall just outside the Charms Classroom. He didn’t hesitate.

“Stay away from her.”

Barty turned, raising an eyebrow. “Potter,” he drawled, lips curling into a smirk. “This is getting predictable.” James stepped closer, jaw tight. “I’m serious.”

“Sirius is the loud one,” Barty quipped. “You’re the one with the tragic hero complex.” James hated that he had a point. “Whatever game you’re playing,” he said sharply, “she’s not a part of it.”

Barty’s smirk faltered. Just for a second. “Who says it’s a game?”

James scoffed. “Oh, please. You don’t care about her. You just like getting a rise out of people. And I won’t let you use her to do it.” Barty’s expression darkened.

“Use her?” he repeated, voice low, dangerous. “Funny, coming from you.”

James stiffened. “What the hell does that mean?”

Barty leaned in slightly, voice smooth as silk. “It means you don’t like that she’s spending time with me—not because you think I’ll hurt her, but because you can’t stand the idea of not being the most important person in her life.” James clenched his fists. Barty’s smirk was sharp, knowing. “Hits a nerve, doesn’t it?” James took a slow breath. He would not hex him.Not yet, at least.

“She’s my best friend,” James said coldly. “And I trust her. But I don’t trust you.” Barty’s gaze flickered—just for a moment. Then, with an infuriating grin, he stepped back.

“Well then, Potter.” His voice was almost mocking. “Let’s see who she trusts more.” And with that, he turned and walked away.

James stayed there for a long time, breathing heavily, hands clenched at his sides. Because for the first time, he wasn’t entirely sure who would win.

You were avoided him.

Not subtly. Not carefully. Just completely ignoring his existence

It started the week following the small… confrontation in library. Barty walked into Potions, expecting you to be at their usual table at the back, books already open,quill tapping absently against parchment, asking about his usual trouble with filch and a soft smile gracing your lips. Instead, your lips never opened and gaze never left your paper.

No glance in his direction. No acknowledgment at all.

Barty stared. His fingers curled into fists beneath the desk.

Fine.

But then it kept happening. In the corridors, you veered away when you saw him approaching. In the library, you sat with James, Sirius, even Remus—anyone but him. When he did catch youe eye across the Great Hall, you looked away so quickly it felt like a slap.

It wasn’t anger. It was erasure, like he wasn’t even there.

Barty Crouch Jr. had never been ignored in his life. People watched him. They feared him. They respected him, hated him, wanted to be him. But you—you were acting as though he was nothing.

And he couldn’t stand it.

At first, he played it off. Shrugged, smirked, pretended not to care. But then a week passed. Then another. And with every second of silence, something inside him frayed. He found himself watching you too closely. Waiting for you to look at him. Wanting your attention, even if it was anger, frustration, anything but this emptiness.

And when James Potter threw an arm around your shoulders at the Slytherin party, whispering something that made you laugh—

Something in Barty snapped.

You didn’t know how it had come to this.

One moment, you had been talking with Evan about absolute nonsense, nursing a cup of firewhiskey mixed with something you didn’t want to know, trying to focus on anything other than the tension between James and Barty, the way they seemed to be circling each other like wolves.

And now…

Now you were backed against the cold stone wall of an abandoned corridor, heart pounding as Barty loomed in front of you, eyes blazing with something wild, something dangerous.

“You’re avoiding me.” His voice was low, accusing.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m not.”

“Liar.”

You flinched. Not because you were afraid of him, Merlin, no—Barty is lunatic at best—but because there was something desperate in his voice, something fraying at the edges.

“I just needed space,” you said carefully. Barty let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Space? From me?”

His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you thought he might actually grab you, hold you there like he could force you to listen. “You belong with me.”

The words sent a chill down you spine. Not because of their meaning—but because of how much he believed them. “Barty,” you whispered, voice betrying you slightly, much to your annoyance “you don’t own me.”

His jaw clenched. “I never said I did.”

“But you act like it,” you shot back. “Like I’m something for you to win. Like James and I can’t be close, like I don’t have a choice in who I spend time with.”

Barty exhaled sharply, stepping closer, invading her space. “You do have a choice.” His voice was low now, almost a plea. “So why do you keep running from this?”

This. Whatever this was.

You felt your breath hitch, your pulse racing as he stared at you, expression laced with something desperate.

“This isn’t normal,” you whispered. Barty tilted his head, studying you. “Since when have I ever been normal?”

Your heart ached at that. Because he wasn’t. He was sharp edges and chaos, wildfire wrapped in silk. And you were intrigued.

“Tell me to leave,” Barty murmured, voice softer now, more dangerous. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I will.”

You opened your mouth, words mingling in your head, yet none of them escaped your lips.

Barty’s smirk returned, but it wasn’t triumphant. It was something else—something satisfied yet frustrated, as if he hated how much he needed you to not push him away.

The next day, you felt off-balance. Everything was the same, yet nothing was.

The Great Hall was as loud as ever, filled with students laughing, chattering, passing notes between bites of dinner. James sat beside you, talking animatedly with Sirius about the shenanigans they pulled at last night‘s party. Remus was reading. Pandora was off in her own world, stirring her tea with the wrong end of her spoon.

It was normal.

But you weren’t . Because he was there. Across the room, at the Slytherin table. And he wasn’t acting normal at all.

Barty Crouch Jr. was watching you. His elbow was propped on the table, chin resting against his knuckles, eyes fixed on you with that sharp, playful intensity. Like he was waiting for something. Like he could still feel last night as much as you could—the heat of his breath, the weight of his words, the way he had opened your eyes.

Your stomach twisted but not in the usual dread

You quickly looked down at her plate, poking at the food with the fork, suddenly very aware of every movement, every breath.

It was fine.

You could pretend it hadn’t happened. You could move on, act normal, be the person she had always been. You could-

“You okay?”

James’ voice cut through your thoughts.

You startled, nearly knocking over your pumpkin juice. James frowned, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses.

“You’re jumpy,” he observed. “Weird day?”

Yes. Extremely weird.

“No,” you said quickly. “Just tired.”

James didn’t look convinced.

Barty was still watching. You could feel it. Your pulse quickened. You needed to get out of here.

With a forced smile, you pushed back from the table. “I just remembered-I have to grab something from the library before class.” James raised an eyebrow. “Now?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

You turned before he could question you further, walking briskly out of the Great Hall, heart pounding.

You should have known he would find you.

It had been inevitable. Barty Crouch Jr. wasn’t the kind of person who let things go. He didn’t believe in backing down, in walking away—especially not from you.

And so, a day after the Slytherin party, after you had spent the night pretending you weren’t looking over your shoulder for him, he found you.

The Astronomy Tower was, to your luck, empty. The moment you stepped onto the stone balcony, the cold air biting at your skin, you felt him before you saw him in your peripheral vision.

He was leaning against the railing, staring out over the darkened grounds, sleeves rolled up, hands tense against the stone. He looked different in the moonlight. Less sharp, less manic, less like the Barty Crouch Jr. the world expected him to be.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“I hate my father.”

His voice was quiet. Hollow. You stiffened, startled by his sudden honesty, by the rawness in his tone.

Still, you didn’t leave. Didn’t move.

Barty exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he murmured. “To be expected to be perfect. To be a reflection of someone else, someone you loathe.”

Your chest ached at the exhaustion in his voice.

You stayed silent, waiting.

Barty let out a sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. “He thinks he can mold me into whatever he wants. A loyal son. A future politician. A Crouch through and through.” He scoffed. “But I’m not. I never was.”

He turned to look at you then, and for the first time, there was no smirk, no amusement—just something raw and vulnerable, something you had never seen before.

“I think,” he said slowly, voice quieter now, “that’s why I wanted you so much.”

Your breath caught unexpectedly.

Barty’s eyes flickered over your face, unreadable. “You don’t try to make me be something.” His lips twisted. “Even when you hate me, at least it’s real.”

Something heavy settled between you, thick and undeniable.

“And”, he started, face twisting into something uncomfortable, trying to find the right words. For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you—like he was fighting a battle you couldn’t see.

Then-

“I hate him too.”

The words were sharp, bitter, cutting through the silence like a blade. Your breath hitched. “Barty—”

“No.” He turned to face you fully, eyes burning. “I hate the way he hovers around you like he owns you. I hate the way he looks at me like I’m something filthy. I hate that no matter what I do, he’s always there.”

Your chest ached at the frustration in his voice, the way his fists clenched like he was barely keeping himself together.

“He’s my best friend,” you said softly. Barty let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No. He’s waiting.”

You frowned at that. “Waiting for what?”

“For you to wake up,” Barty muttered. “For you to realize that he’s the safer choice. The one who won’t make your life complicated. The one who fits neatly into your perfect little world.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You think this is about James?”

Barty scoffed. “It’s always about him.”

Frustration flared in your chest. “Barty, I chose to stay away.”

He stilled.

“I chose to keep my distance,” you continued, voice surprisingly steady despite the inner hurricane you felt. “Not because of James. Not because of anyone else. But because you—”a sharp exhale left your mouth. “You scare me.”

Something flickered in his expression. “I’d never hurt you.”

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s not what I meant.”

Because this, the fire between them, the way he looked at you like he was drowning and you were the only air left—

It was too much. Barty was too much. And you weren’t sure if you were strong enough to handle it.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, Barty stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel his warmth, enough that your breath caught in your throat.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he murmured.

Your pulse raced. “Then stop—” “Stop what?” His voice was rough now, almost desperate. “Wanting you? Needing you?”

“Barty—”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to stop.”

And maybe that was the real problem. Because Barty Crouch Jr. had never been good at letting things go.

And neither had you.

So when he reached for you, fingers brushing against your wrist like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, you didn’t pull away.

And when he kissed you, desperate and reckless and full of something sharp and aching,

you kissed him back.

938 notes · View notes

creatingblackcharacters · 5 months ago

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“The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth” - Violence, Violent Imagery & Black Horror

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of death, violence, blood, hate crimes, antiblackness, police violence, rape

Note! I am going to be speaking from a Black American point of view, as my identity informs my experience. That said, antiblackness itself is international. The idea of my Blackness as a threat, as a source of fear and violence to repress and to destroy, is something every Black person in the world that has ever dealt with white supremacy has experienced.

There are two things, I think, that are important to note as we start this conversation.

One: there is a long history of violence towards Black bodies that is due to our dehumanization. People do not care for the killing of a mouse in the way they care about a human. But if you think the people you are dealing with are not people, but animals- more particularly, pests, something distasteful- then you will be able to rationalize treating them as such.

Two: even though we live in a time period where that overt belief of Blackness as inhuman is less likely, we must recognize that there are centuries of belief behind this concept; centuries of arguments and actions that cement in our minds that a certain amount of violence towards Blackness is normal. That subconscious belief you may hold is steeped in centuries of effort to convince you of it without even questioning it. And because of this very real re-enforcement of desensitization, naturally another place this will manifest itself is in how we tell and comprehend stories.

There are also three points I'm about to make first- not the only three that can ever be made, but the ones that stand out the most to me when we talk about violence with Black characters:

One: Your Black readers may experience that scene you wrote differently than you meant anyone to, just because our history may change our perspective on what’s happening.

Two: The idea that Black characters and people deserve the pain they are experiencing.

Three: The disbelief or dismissal of the pain of Black characters and people.

You Better Start Believing In Ghost Stories- You’re In One

I don’t need to tell Black viewers scary fairytales of sadists, body snatchers and noncoincidental disappearances, cannibals, monsters appearing in the night, and dystopian, unjust systems that bury people alive- real life suffices! We recognize the symbolism because we’ve seen real demons.

Some real examples of familiar, terrifying stories that feel like drama, but are real experiences:

12 Years a Slave: “This is no fiction, no exaggeration. If I have failed in anything, it has been in presenting to the reader too prominently the bright side of the picture. I doubt not hundreds have been as unfortunate as myself; that hundreds of free citizens have been kidnapped and sold into slavery, and are at this moment wearing out their lives on plantations in Texas and Louisiana.” – Solomon Northup

When They See Us: I can’t get myself to watch When They See Us, because I learned about the actual trial of the Central Park Five- now the Exonerated Five- in my undergrad program. Five teen Black and brown boys, subjected to racist and cruel policing and vilification in the media- from Donald Trump calling for their deaths in the newspaper, to being imprisoned under what the Clintons deemed a generation of “superpredators” during a “tough on crime” administration. And as audacious as it is to say, as Solomon Northup explained, they were fortunate. The average Black person funneled into the prison system doesn’t get the opportunity to make it back out redeemed or exonerated, because the system is designed to capture and keep them there regardless of their innocence or guilt. Their lives are irreparably changed; they are forever trapped.

Jasper, Texas: Learning about the vicious, gruesome murder of James Byrd Jr, was horrific- and that was just the movie. No matter how “community comes together” everyone tells that story, the reality is that there are people who will beat you, drag you chained down a gravel road for three miles as your body shreds away until you are decapitated, and leave your mangled body in front of a Black church to send a message… Because you’re Black and they hate you. To date I am scared when I’m walking and I see trucks passing me, and don’t let them have the American or the Confederate flag on them. Even Ahmaud Arbery, all he was doing was jogging in his hometown, and white men from out of town decided he should be murdered for that.

Do you want to know what all of these men and boys, from 1841 to 2020, had in common? What they did to warrant what happened to them? Being outside while Black. Some might call it “wrong place wrong time”, but the reality is that there is no “right place”. Sonya Massey, Breonna Taylor- murdered inside their home. Where else can you be, if the danger has every right to barge inside? There is no “safe”.

It is already Frightening to live while Black- not because being Black is inherently frightening, but because our society has made it horrific to do so. But that leads into my next point:

“They Shouldn’t Have Resisted”

Think of all the videos of assaulted and murdered Black people from police violence. If you can stomach going into the comments- which I don’t, anymore- you’ll see this classic comment of hate in the thousands, twisting your stomach into knots:

“if they obeyed the officer, if they didn’t resist, this wouldn’t have happened”

Another way our punitive society normalizes itself is via the idea of respectability politics; the idea that “if you are Good, if you do what you are Supposed to do, you will not be hurt- I will not have to hurt you”. Therefore, if my people are always suffering violence, it must be because we are Bad. And in a society that is already less gracious to Black people, that is more likely to think we are less human, that we are innately bad and must earn the right to be exceptional… the use of excessive violence towards me must be the natural outcome. “If your people weren’t more likely to be criminals, there wouldn’t be the need to be suspicious of you”- that is the way our society has taught us to frame these interactions, placing the blame for our own victimization on us.

Sidebar: I would highly suggest reading The New Jim Crow, written in 2010 by Michelle Alexander, to see how this mentality helps tie into large scale criminalization and mass incarceration, and how the cycle is purposely perpetuated.

You have to constantly be aware of how you look, walk and talk- and even then, that won’t be enough to save you if the time comes. The turning point for me, personally, was the murder of Sandra Bland. If she could be educated, beautiful, a beacon of her community, be everything a “Good” Black person is supposed to be… and still be murdered via police violence, they can kill any of us. And that’s a very terrifying thought- that anything at any point can be the reason for your death, and it will be validated because someone thinks you shouldn’t have “been that way”. And that way has far less to do with what you did, than it does who you are. Being “that way” is Black.

My point is, if this belief is so normalized in real life about violence on Black bodies- that somehow, we must have done something to deserve this- what makes you think that this belief does not affect how you comprehend Black people suffering in stories?

Hippocratic Oath

Human experimentation? Vivisection? Organ stealing? Begging for medicine? Dramatically bleeding out? Not trusting just anyone to see that you are hurt, because they might take advantage? All very real fears. The idea that pain is normal for Black people is especially rampant in the healthcare field, where ideas like our melanin making our skin thick enough to feel less pain (no), an overblown fear of ‘drug misuse’, and believing we are overexaggerating our pain makes many Black people being unwilling to trust the healthcare system. And it comes down to this thought:

If you think that I feel less pain, you will allow me to suffer long before you believe that I am in pain.

I was psychologically spiraling I was in so much pain after my wisdom teeth removal, and my surgeon was more concerned about “addiction to the medication”. Only because Hot Chocolate’s mom is a nurse, did I get an effective medicine schedule. My mother ended up with jaw rot because her surgeon outright claimed that she didn’t believe that she was in more than the ‘healing’ pain after her wisdom teeth were removed. She also has a gigantic, macabre (and awesome fr) scar on her stomach from a c-section she received after four days of labor attempting to have me… all because she was too poor and too Black to afford better doctors who wouldn’t have dismissed her struggles to push.

As a major example of dismissed Black pain: let’s discuss the mortality rate of Black women during childbirth, as well as the likelihood of our children to die. When we say “they will let you bleed to death”, we mean it.

“Black women have the highest maternal mortality rate in the United States — 69.9 per 100,000 live births for 2021, almost three times the rate for white women, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Black babies are more likely to die, and also far more likely to be born prematurely, setting the stage for health issues that could follow them through their lives.”

Even gynecology roots in dismissal (and taking brutal advantage of) Black women's pain:

“The history of this particular medical branch … it begins on a slave farm in Alabama,” Owens said. “The advancement of obstetrics and gynecology had such an intimate relationship with slavery, and was literally built on the wounds of Black women.” Reproductive surgeries that were experimental at the time, like cesarean sections, were commonly performed on enslaved Black women. Physicians like the once-heralded J. Marion Sims, an Alabama doctor many call the “father of gynecology,” performed torturous surgical experiments on enslaved Black women in the 1840s without anesthesia. And well after the abolition of slavery, hospitals performed unnecessary hysterectomies on Black women, and eugenics programs sterilized them.”

If you think Black characters are not in pain, or that they’re overexaggerating, you’re more likely to be okay with them suffering more in comparison to those whose pain you take more seriously- to those you believe.

What’s My Point?

My point is that whatever terrifying scene you think you’re writing, whatever violent whump scenario you think you’re about to put your Black characters through, there’s a chance it has probably happened and was treated as nonimportant (damn shame, right?) And when those terrifying scenes are both written and read, the way their suffering will be felt depends on how much you as a reader care, how much you believe they are suffering.

There’s a joke amongst readers of color that many dystopian tales are tales of “what happened if white people experienced things that the rest of us have already been put through?” Think concepts like alien invasion and mass eradication of the existing population- you may think of that as an action flick, meanwhile peoples globally have suffered colonization for centuries. The Handmaid’s Tale- forced birthing and raising of “someone else’s” children, always subject to sexual harassment by the Master while subject to hate from the Mistress- that’s just being a Mammy.

There’s nothing wrong with having Black characters be violent or deal with violence, especially in a story where every character is going through shit. That is not the problem! What I am trying to tell you, though, is to be aware that certain violent imagery is going to evoke familiarity in Black viewers. And if I as a Black viewer see my very real traumas treated as entertainment fodder- or worse, dismissed- by the narrative and other viewers, I will probably not want to consume that piece of media anymore. I will also question the intentions and the beliefs of the people who treat said traumas so callously. Now, if that’s not something you care about, that’s on you! But for people who do care, it is something we need to make sure we are catching before we do it.

“So I just can’t write anything?!”

Stop that. There are plenty of examples of stories containing horror and violence with Black characters. There’s an entire genre of us telling our own stories, using the same violence as symbolism. I’m not telling you “no” (least not always). I’m telling you to take some consideration when you write the things that you do. There’s nothing wrong about writing your Black characters being violent or experiencing violence. But there is a difference between making it narratively relevant, and thoughtlessly using them as a “spook”, a stereotypical scary Black person, or a punching bag, especially in a way that may invoke certain trauma.

The Black Guy Dies First

The joke is that we never survive these horror movies because we either wouldn’t be there to begin with, or because we would make better decisions and the narrative can’t have that. But the reality is just that a lot of writers find Black characters- Black people- expendable in comparison to their white counterparts, and it shows. More of a “here, damn” sort of character, not worth investment and easy to shrug off. The book itself I haven’t read, just because it’s pretty new, but I’m looking forward to doing so. But from the summaries, it goes into horror media history and how Black characters have fared in these stories, as well as how that connects to the society those characters were written in. I.e., a thorough version of this lesson.

Instead, I wrote an entire list of questions you could possibly ask yourself involving violence or villainy involving a Black character. Feel free to print it and put it on your wall where you write if you have to! I cannot stress enough that asking yourself questions like these are good both for your creation and just… being less antiblack in general when you consume media.

Black Horror/Black Thriller

We, too, have turned our violent experiences into stories. I continue to highly suggest watching our films and reading our stories to see how we convey our fear, our terror, our violence and our pain. There are plenty of stories that work- Get Out, The Angry Black Girl and her Monster, Candyman, Lovecraft Country (the show) and Nanny are some examples. There’s even a blog by the co-writer of The Black Guy Dies First who runs BlackHorrorMovies where he reviews horror movies from throughout the decades.

Desiree Evans has a great essay, We Need Black Horror More Than Ever, that gets into why this genre is so creative and effective, that I think says what I have to say better than I could.

“Even before Peele, Black horror had a rich literary lineage going back to the folklore of Africa and its Diaspora. Stories of haints, witches, curses, and magic of all kinds can be found in the folktales collected by author and anthropologist Zora Neale Hurston and in the folktales retold by acclaimed children’s book author Virginia Hamilton. One of my earliest childhood literary memories is being entranced by Hamilton’s The House of Dies Drear and Patricia McKissack’s children’s book classic The Dark-Thirty: Southern Tales of the Supernatural, both examples of the ways Black authors have tapped into Black history along with our rich ghostlore.” “Black horror can be clever and subversive, allowing Black writers to move against racist tropes, to reconfigure who stands at the center of a story, and to shift the focus from the dominant narrative to that which is hidden, submerged. To ask: what happens when the group that was Othered, gets to tell their side of the story?”

For on the nose simplicity, I’m going to use hood classic Tales From The Hood (1994) as an example of how violence can be integrated into Black horror tales. Tales From The Hood is like… The Twilight Zone by Black people. Messages discussing issues in our community, done through a mystical twist. Free on Tubi! If you want to stop here before some spoilers, it’s an hour and a half. A great time!

In the first story, a Black political activist is murdered by the cops. The scene is reflective of the real-world efforts to discredit and even murder activists speaking out against police violence, as well as the types of things done to criminalize Black citizens for capture. The song Strange Fruit plays in the background, to drive the point home that this is a lynching.

The second story deals with a Black little boy experiencing abuse in the home, drawing a green monster to show his teacher why he’s covered in wounds and is lashing out at school.

The fourth story is about a gangbanger who undergoes “behavioral modification” to be released from prison early. Think of the classic scene from A Clockwork Orange. He must watch as imagery of the Klan and of happy whites lynching Black bodies (real-life pictures and video, mind you!) play into his mind alongside gang violence.

Isn’t Violence Stereotypical or antiblack?

That last story from Tales From The Hood leads into a good point. It can be! But it does not have to be! Violence is a human experience. By suggesting we don’t experience it or commit it, you would be denying everything I’ve just spoken about. We don’t have to be racist to write our Black characters in violent situations. We also don’t have to comprehend those situations through a racist lens.

Even experiences that seem “stereotypical” do not have to be comprehended that way. I get a LOT of questions about if something is stereotypical, and my response is always that it depends on the writing!!! You could give me a harmless prompt and it becomes the most racist story ever once you leave my inbox. But you could give me a “stereotypical” prompt and it be genuine writing.

Let’s take the movie Juice for example. Juice in my honest to God opinion becomes a thriller about halfway in. On its surface, Juice looks like bad Black boys shooting and cursing and doing things they aren’t supposed to be doing! Incredibly stereotypical- violent young thugs. You might think, “you shouldn’t write something like this- you’re telling everyone this is what your community is like”. First- there’s that respectability politics again! Just because something is not a “respectable” story does not mean it doesn’t need to be told!

But if we’re actually paying attention, what we’re looking at is four young boys dealing with their environment in different ways. All four of them originally stick together to feel power amongst their brotherhood as they all act tough and discover their own identities. They are not perfect, but they are still kids. In this environment, to be tough, to be strong, you do the things that they are doing. You run from cops, you steal from stores, you mess with all the girls and talk shit and wave weapons. That’s what makes you “big”. That’s what gives you the “juice”- and the “juice” can make you untouchable.

I want to focus particularly on Bishop, yes, played by Tupac. Bishop, the antagonist of Juice, is particularly powerless, angry, and scared of the world around him. He puts on a big front of bravado, yelling, cursing, and talking big because he’s tired of being afraid, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it otherwise. So when he gets access to a gun- to power- he quickly spirals out of control. His response to his fear is to wave around a tool that makes him feel stronger, that stops the things that scare him from scaring him.

Now, that is not a unique tale! That is a tale that any race could write about, particularly young white men with gun violence! If you ever cared for Fairuza Balk’s character in The Craft, it is a similar fall from grace. But because it is on a young, Black man in the hood, audiences are less likely to empathize with Bishop. And granted, Bishop is unhinged! But many a white character has been, and is not shoved into a stereotype that white people cannot escape from!

Now would I be comfortable if a nonblack person attempted to write a narrative like Juice? Yes, because I’d worry about the tendency to lose the messaging and just fall into stereotype outright. But it can be done! The story can be told!

“But if Black violence bad, why rap?”

The short answer:

“In order for me to write poetry that isn’t political, I must listen to the birds, and in order to hear the birds, the warplanes must be silent.”

Marwhan Makhoul, Palestinian Poet

First, rap is not “only violence and misogyny”. Step your understanding of the genre up; there are plenty of options outside of the mainstream that don’t discuss those things. Second, every genre of music has mainstream popular songs about vice and sin. The idea that Black rappers have to be held to a higher standard is yet another example of how we are seen as inherently bad and must prove ourselves good. We could speak about nothing but drugs and alcohol and 1) there would still be white artists who do the very same and 2) we would still deserve to be treated like humans.

That said, many- not all- rappers rap about violence for the same reason Billy Joel wrote We Didn’t Start the Fire, the same reason Homer first spoke The Iliad- because they have something to say about it! They stand in a long tradition of people using poetry and rhythm to tell stories. Rap is an art of storytelling!

Rap is often used as an expression of frustration and righteous anger against a system built to keep us trapped within it. I’m not allowed to be angry? Why wouldn’t I be angry? Anger is a protective emotion, often when one feels helpless. Young Black people also began to reclaim and glorify the violence they lived in within their music, to take pride in their survival and in their success in a world that otherwise wanted them to fail. If I think the world fights against me no matter what I do, I’d rather live in pride than in shame with a bent head. Is it right? Maybe, maybe not. But if you don’t want them to rap about violence, why not alleviate the things leading to the violence in their environment?

Whether you choose to listen to their words, because the delivery scares you- and trust, angry Black men scared the music industry and society- doesn’t make the story any less valid!

Conclusion

I am going to drop a classic by Slick Rick called Children’s Story. I think listening to it- and I mean genuinely listening- summarizes what I’ve said here about how Black creators can tell stories, even violent ones, and how even the delivery through Blackness can change how you perceive them. Please take the time to listen before continuing.

youtube

I’ve been alive for 28 years and have known this song my whole life, and it just hit me tonight: not once is the kid in this story identified as Black! My perception of this story was completely altered by my own experiences, who told the story, and how it was told.

That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You can tell stories of violence that involve Black characters. I love and adore a good hurt/comfort myself! But you need to be cognizant of your audience and how they’ll perceive the story you’re telling, and that includes the types of imagery you include. It’s not effective catharsis via hurt/comfort for the audience if your Black readers are being completely left out of the comfort. “I wrote this for myself” that’s cool, but… if you wrote racism for yourself, and you’re willing to admit that to yourself, that’s on you. I’d like to think that’s not your intention! You can write these stories of woe and pain without mistreating your Black characters- but that requires knowing and acknowledging when and how you’re doing that!

@afropiscesism makes a solid point in this post: our horror stories are not just fairytales full of amorphous boogiemen meant to teach lessons. Racial violence is very real, very alive, and we cannot act like the things we write can be dismissed outright as “oh well it’s not real”. Sure, those characters aren’t real. But the way you feel about Black bodies and violence is, and often it can slip into your writing as a pattern without you even realizing it. Be willing to get uncomfortable and check yourself on this as you write, as well as noticing it in other works!

If you’re constantly thinking “I would never do this”, you’ll never stop yourself when you inevitably do! If you know what violent imagery can be evoked, you can utilize it or avoid it altogether- but only if you’re willing to get honest about it. You might not intend to do any of this, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t change the pattern, because as always, it’s the thought that counts, but the action that delivers!

#creatingblackcharacters #long post #writing #writing black characters #black character design #black history #media history

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luvstappen · 2 days ago

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pairing: oscar piastri x fewtrell!reader, lando norris x fewtrell!reader

summary: “sometimes you just don’t know the answer ’til someone’s on their knees and asks you“

warnings: SMAU (no written parts), swearing, mature themes, angst, unhealthy relationship (?), arrival fallacy, guilt, self-pity, emotional conflict, use of y/n

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a/n: i’ve been adding warnings to each chapter, but i feel like i haven’t been doing it enough, so here’s a little heads-up! even though this chapter is sweet and fun in some moments, it is also heavy with angst, guilt, and self-doubt. if you’ve ever been in a relationship where you felt like you weren’t loving the other person enough (or weren’t being loved enough yourself), this might hit close to home. i know this whole story has resonated deeply with a lot of you, but this chapter really got me. take care of yourselves <3

a/n2: anyway... oscar jr is the real main character of this story

liked by oscarpiastri and others

ynfewtrell i’m officially a cat mum

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ynfewtrell yes this is my whole personality now btw!!!

user this is the most important news of the year actually

maxfewtrell You’ve cat to be kitten me! comment has been deleted

user did you really name him oscar jr

ynfewtrell yes!!!!

user he’s so tiny 🥹 i’d die for him

oscarpiastri Great name ❤︎ liked by author

user i’m sorry but oscar jr is the funniest possible name i love them

maxfewtrell Enjoy every meowment comment has been deleted

maxfewtrell Please stop deleting my comments comment has been deleted

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OSCAR'S MESSAGES

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TAGLIST: @harrysdimple05 @milkysoop @charlesgirl16 @wosof1 @illicitverstappen @back-on-my-bullsh @revrse @skepvids @screamingwines @a-beaverhausen @l-vroom4 @wildflowerhuggy @meglouise00 @formulaal @smithieandy @sltwins @awritingtree @colmathgames2 @org12 @alice-went-away @grovelingmen @taasgirl @anotherapollokid @d3kstar @gnarlycore @leclercdream @skeleton-elly @verstappensrealwife @seonghwaexile @hellowgoodbye @samantha-chicago @delululeclerc @5sospenguinqueen @riverxsq @s0meth1ngs @silentreader128 @cheer-bear-go-vroom @sarahsobsession @raweceekk @willowsnook @nxlx96 @saythename-sm @lesliiieeeee @landopoet @blushmimi @neferaskingdom @oikarma @mayax2o07 @obxstiles @speeedybaby

#★ nessie's writings #f1 x reader #f1 smau #formula 1 smau #f1 fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris smau #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri smau #smau

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gallusrostromegalus · 2 months ago

Note

Random question, could you give some ideas on Irish names your family may have in the 1950-60s? I got a character with an Irish grandpa with 9 brothers and sisters (3 brothers and 6 sisters) and I only got the oldest sister name (soairse) and his name (Caine). I guess I could just name the rest some form of jack and Margret since those seem to be popular, but I wanted to see if there were some “interesting” names you found in your family tree that maybe one of the siblings got named after some ancestor?

Firstly for the sake of clarity: I'm American, not Irish. All of my ancestors for the last 4-5 generations have lived here, and while I like learning about the language/music/culture, I am absolutely not an expert. I HIGHLY recommend getting a sensitivity reader, I'm sure someone in the comments can wave at you if they're willing to take on the job.

Second, Triple-check the spelling, pronunciation, meaning and provenance of any names you do choose, and ABSOLUTELY DO NOT TRUST ANY BABY NAME WEBSITES, they're basically all AI slop at best. The best written-down lists and meanings are actually on Wikipedia.

Third: If you want to learn more Irish names, you can look up the names of like, any Irish musician or artist. I think spotify still has Genre Playlists, if you look up "Irish Folk" you'll get a shitload of names of Real Irish people- and hey, if Hirohiko Akari can name all his characters after 80's pop bands, you can make a subtle ref to modern musicians. Also you'll get a bunch of fun music! --- So while I was writing this, I somewhat departed from the intent of this response, and am putting the last point under a cut because the post got long. And weird.

So there is a thing in Irish-american families, and I think it's true in the British isles still where there are "Family Names", where the same set of first names is recycled over and over and over across generations. My dad's family has exactly three male names that they rotate through over the generations: Roy, Emmet and Jack*. In that order, where the son takes the father's first name as his middle name. My great-grandfather was Roy Jack Surname, my grandfather was Emmet Roy Surname, and my dad is Jack Emmet. My sister and I were AFAB, so the names skipped us and my male cousin in my generation is now Roy Jack. In the event that there are more than three living men with the same surname in the family, that's when they start reaching for the Given Names Of In-Laws We Like and might introduce a new name into the lineup.

*Names changed for privacy above and hereafter, but you get the idea.

So if any of your characters are descendants of that grandpa? They may share a first or middle name with one of his siblings. in fact, they may share the SAME first and middle name with a living relative, and be called "Junior" or "Young Firstname" to distinguish them from the relative they were named after.

My mom's family is from England and has a similar tradition: any new girl born into that family gets a name that is based on the name of one of her living female relatives, usually by sharing the same first letter or syllable. Elanor after Eloise, Vivian after Virginia, and also Jenny after Virgnia via 'Ginny' and every variation of Margret ever, which there are way more of than you'd think.

I cannot recommend doing what they did with Male names though: Name literally every boy Bob* for like five generations, and distinguish individuals by middle name (Bob-Howard and Bob-Benjamin) surname (Bob-Jones and Bob-Bailey) or Honorific (Captain Bob, Dr. Bob, Bob Jr.) when yelling out the kitchen window.

Most families have to good sense to not have the same name repeated in a generation, even if it has a shitload of nicknames. A mother and daughter might both be Margrets (with different nicknames), but two sisters or cousins wouldn't be.

If you've got in-laws you like, but their surname didn't carry over to their kids, you can also just use their surname as a first name! "Regan" is a first and last name, as are Riley and Bailey. This works out in some cases but not in others:

I have a pretty rare surname- last time I checked, there's only 14 people with it worldwide. It's similar to two other VERY COMMON Irish Surnames, but spelled different and from a different region. It's also Very Definitely A Surname- nobody would see my surname alone and think its a firstname.

Since I don't want to bandy it about, we'll pretend that it's "Breathnach", which has a similar vibe.

My Iowa family is Enormous and all descended from my Great-Aunt Lilyanne, Emmet-Roy's sister. Being a good catholic girl, Lillyanne took her husband's surname when she married, and most of her descendants still have that surname, and none have Breathnach.

After the last of my grandfathers grandchildren were born my Iowa family was sad- all but one of Emmet-Roy's grandchildren was female, and my male cousin has his father's surname. Assuming that we would all marry and take our spouses names, the Iowa family despaired that that the Breathnach name would die out!

So one of my second cousins decided that she would Carry On The Family Name, by giving it to the son she was carrying as a Firstname.

Yeah.

Being "Breathnach Surname" is bad enough, but this was compounded by the fact that the Iowa family's surname is Thomas.

YEAH.

My poor cousin Beathnach Thomas, who always has to re-do his paperwork because NOBODY ever puts the names in the correct boxes, who had his first name printed on every jersey he ever had because the uniform place went "that can't be right!", who cant buy his own beer because he's had so many drivers licenses confiscated because liquor store owners and bartenders think his ID is a fake, who has to not only spell his name to everyone he meets, but explain it too.

Then I made it worse.

I ran into cousin Beathnach in Bozeman, Montana quite by accident a few years ago, and while catching up, I mentioned that I was married.

"You know, it's a real hassle, but I'm kind of glad I've got the name I do. I'd heard you sister changed her name, and now with you married- I'd be sad to think we were running out of Breathnachs, you know?" he laughed.

I had to explain.

I married the most wonderful man in the world, who has an extremely common first and last name. Which was kind of a problem, because he shares it with some truly rotten people that always come up during background checks and he has have to explain he's not THAT asshole. It also sounds like and is only a letter or two off a lot of other very common names so his mail is constantly sent awry.

My husband will shortly abandon his too-common-for-comfort surname and become the newest Breathnach, taking the total to 15 (the paperwork takes a while).

...So the name lives on through us anyway, and poor cousin Breathnach Thomas went through all that for no reason. He got very quiet, got up from the table and walked outside to the veranda of the restaurant we were in to stare into the picturesque scenery for a while.

"Well, it's not like people change their first names..." he sighed, when he returned to the table.

"...You know how my sister changed her name? She only changed her first name. She's still a Breathnach." I explained quietly.

I've never seen a man look so haunted.

"I know lots of people who've changed their first names, actually. Mostly for transgender reasons, but a bunch because they just didn't like the one they were given." I added, because if he's going to get his world turned over, it's best to flip it all at once.

His brow furrowed at the ponderous speed of a continental collision, approaching the idea with caution. "...I'll have to think about it."

It's been about a year, but since then, I'll get a text from him every few weeks, auditioning a new given name. I do my best to be fair- I give him the meanings of those names, how they're likely to be misconstrued (some are tolerable annoyances, some pose a safety risk), and if he'd be sharing that name with anybody notable or troublesome. The first few were clearly based on Breathnach, but he began to branch out, and the trend of names has indicated that the idea of Naming Himself is causing my cousin to examine himself, and come to some Realizations (TM).

I realize I have gotten completely off-topic from your actual ask, but I urge you to really get into the nuance of nomencalture, because a name can tell a fascinating story.

#family lore #poor cousin Lastname Firstname

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thebubblesareevil · 3 months ago

Text

Who’s the bad guy here, really?

(This is pretty rushed, but I completely forgot about this and didn't want to abandon it. Hope you like it)

Danny was tired.

It had been 3 months since he ran away from home and joined the league…well technically he joined the JR league. Apparently, once the league realized he was actually a 15 year old, they decided that MAYBE they shouldn't have him fighting Bizarro on his own.

Danny didn’t get it, but they got him enrolled in school and made sure he wouldn’t miss too many classes so that was a bonus.

That was about a month ago and Danny was certain the main team was mad at him for lying about being a half ghost. He thought he made some real friends before they moved him to the Jr squad, but no one was answering him.

Any hero that DID answer him always gave the same excuse.

“I’m sorry Danny, I’d love to hang out but we have to deal with this new villain duo!”

What’s worse is that any enquiry about the so-called villains was greeted with nervous glances and swift retreats.

(Danny was sure there were no new villain, the team would have heard about them by now)

The team did their best to cheer him after every evasion, but it really wasn't helping.

He did this to himself, but that was fine. His family was safe and that's all that mattered.

Three months ago, the GIW launched an all out war against phantom in amity park. Anyone that was suspected of having anything to do with ghosts was taken in for questioning and wouldn't come back for days. They even started to get aggressive towards his parents after they started advocating for Phantom.

So Danny did the only thing he could.

He left, as publicly as possible, Danny ran away from the only home he had ever known to protect his family.

And now his friends had ditched him because he lied.

Danny felt like shit.

---------

"This is the third attack on a League base in 2 weeks." Batman said sternly to the heroes surrounding the table. He pressed a button.

A holograph appeared over the table depicting 2 Villains carrying large weapons, destroying everything in their wake. The 2 were incredibly resilient. The larger of the two was taking hits from wildcat and the smaller tossed canary across the room, completely ignoring her screams.

Both had been stationed at the outpost to guard against these exact 2 villains, and both were still recovering.

Their threat level was raised, now it was their turn to step in.

-------

Danny dragged himself out of bed as he got up early for training. He heard a knock at the door.

"Come in." He shouted as he put on his shirt.

Conner walked in, scowling as he saw some of the scars littering Danny's chest.

"You ready? We're training with Batman today."

Danny scoffed. "Ready? No. No one's ready for Batman, I am excited though.

The two headed towards the dining room to eat before training when suddenly the alarms blared. They rushed to the comm room, meeting up with M'gann on the way.

"What's going on?!" She asked, bracing herself as the base shook.

"No idea, whatever it is its not good."

As they rushed into the comm room they greeted by the sight of a woman fighting hand to hand with Batman. Superman was on the floor covered in green goop while a large man was getting ready to toss Green Arrow across the room.

The teens stood in shock. Though only one spoke.

Well, maybe spoke wasn't the right word.

"MOM?!?!? DAD?!?!" Danny yelled.

The man spun around suddenly, casually tossing green arrow across the room.

"DANNO!!! MADDIE ITS DANNY!!!"

The man raced over, only to be cut off by the Flash blocking his path.

"Danny, run! We'll hold them off, just get out of here!"

Danny stood there dumbfounded.

His dad on the other hand, wasn't.

"You stay away from my son you damn creep!" He shouted as the Flash charged him, somehow not noticing the man pull out...a baseball bat?

Danny winced as flash got hit with the Fenton anti-creep stick.

"Dad! Stop! They're my friends!" He tried to placate his dad.

"Friends don't convince you to run away from home to join a cult!" He then noticed the other two teens. "Holy Fudge! MADDIE THERES MORE KIDS!!!" He shouted as his wife held off the creep from Gotham.

"Dad! The League didn't make me leave! And it isn't a cult!"

This made the man pause.

"I left to protect you guys! The GIW was gonna come for you, so I led them away! I only joined the league so I could keep helping people!" Danny yelled.

The orange-clad man stopped, giving his son a sad look.

"It's not your job to protect us son, it's our job to protect you." He said picking his son up and wrapping him in a bear hug.

Conner just stood there confused as M'gann clapped and grinned out the outcome.

"Now can you tell mom to stop trying to mace Batman?" Danny asked when his dad put him down. The two turned to the fighting duo.

"Let's give them 5 more minutes. Your mom hasn't had this much fun since she ditched that cult in Asia."

(Feel free to take this idea and run with it. I like the idea that the fentons are a force of nature that defies explanation..but Maddie definitely stole their early ecto samples from the lazarus pit)

#dc x dp #good parents jack and maddie #short but sweet #mistaken villains #brain vomit

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hkpika07 · 2 years ago

Text

Get ready for me exploding in the tags

what's everyone's favorite mario character?

#dear god you can’t make me choose #but uhhhhhhh okay okay #bros get top bidding. I cannot choose one without choosing the other. they are a pair do not seperate #but then bowser is also top bunk because his writing in literally everything he’s been in is the best shit I’ve ever read in any game ever #he’s just so charming and funny and delightfully corny in an evil way #now for the spin offs. paper Mario first #Olivia and count Bleck are my faves in that regard I would kill for Olivia actually. and -falls to the floor and explodes- Bleck.#Olivia is just so so bright and sunshine and lovely wonderful helper I love her so god damn much she’s everything to me #and bleck’s story is the best Mario story known to man and I want to chew through the earth’s mantle when I think about it too hard #PEACH BELOVED PEACH YOU GET SO MUCH CHARACTERIZATION IN THE PAPER MARIO FRANCHISE I ADORE YOU AND ALL YOUR SPUNK.#dimentio is a good second. delightful bastard. but I also really really like Bobbery from ttyd #also Watt from Pm64 they’re everything they’re such a little baby (literslly)#WAIT TIPPI HOW COULD I FORGET TIPPI IM SO SORRY MY LOVE TIPPI MY BELOVED I ADORE HER AND HER SASS AND DETERMINED WILL AND KINDNESS AND—#sports game spin offs. waluigi. obviously.#now you might say Red. Isn’t he a main character? no. he only appears in the spin off games #Daisy. butch bisexual love of my life #Luigi games let’s go. King Boo aesthetically fucks. but also I really like Egad and whatever the fuck he’s doing #For portrait ghosts I really like Morty and the twins Wilbur and Orville #Mario and Luigi rpg games there’s too many to choose from #But off the top of my head Antasma. Peasley. Fawful. those Russian guys from Dream team #The block guy who has all the blitties and you get a special bowser attack for finding all of them #Mario RPG on snes Geno is really the most memorable character there #favorite of the Koopa kids? no. I refuse to choose a favorite there. they are all so special to me #-points to koopalings and bowser Jr.- my kids. I share custody with their father #I always had a soft spot for Wendy and Ludwig though. so if I listed them out those would be the first I think of #favorite star spirit is Skolar #muskular and eldstar are a close second #favorite minion is all buzzybeetles and koopatrols #favorite non minion enemy is wiggler #congrats you unlocked my autism

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maxlarens · 9 months ago

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ok so i had an idea for the rb photographer fic if you're up for it

first of all im like in love w ur fics i love em all

and nextly, listen to this..

charles isn't single but manwhore carlos probably is?

he flirts w our photographer and makes max jealous?? roped in by danny ofc to get them together?? what do you think??

anyway have a great day! <33333

UM OKAY THANK YOU! max x rbphotographer!reader are literally everything to me and i am SOO thrilled to have gotten this request. very in character for daniel to get everyone involved in scheming even tho max has told him not to😭 love it so much😇😇 hope u enjoy and i am SOOOO sorry this took so long xx

MV: tonight (i wish i was your boy)

pairing(s): max verstappen x redbull photographer!reader

word count: 1.9k+

Max likes to think he’s not a jealous person.

Max likes to think that— but it doesn’t mean it’s true. Daniel would and has, argued that Max is an abnormally jealous person. In the sense that Max doesn’t like to share. Doesn’t like other people playing with his toys. Not that he thinks of you (or Daniel) as his toy— that’s absurd. He’s a jealous person, not some territorial asshole with an anger problem. (Okay, sometimes he has an anger problem. He’s been working on it. It hardly crops up anymore, but he’s not territorial).

He is, again, bad at sharing, and also uniquely used to getting what he wants.

It’s not because he’s got a crush on you. Despite what Daniel would like to assume. It’s just that you’re meant to be his friend. You’re here with him, because of him. He’s meant to be able to hover around you all night, getting carried away as he tries to explain something meaningless while you give him that half-grin that you don’t even realise you’re doing most of the time. He’s the one who’s supposed to be putting his hand on your back, and leaning in to ask if you’d like another drink—

Not Carlos.

Definitely not Carlos.

(Well, at least it’s not Charles).

Instead, Max is standing next to an overeager Lando at the DJ deck, gripping his drink so hard that he’s mildly concerned the glass will shatter to pieces in his hand. Actually, that’s not such a bad idea to get your attention. Maybe if that happens you’ll stop looking at Carlos Sainz Jr with big googly eyes and you’ll come nurse his hand or whatever it is you’re supposed to do in pathetic little fantasies like the one he’s entertaining. You’re not really the nursing type though, you’re more prone to start freaking out and calling everyone on the Red Bull team to tell them that Max has irreparably damaged his hand.

Max stops entertaining that particular fantasy.

Daniel’s not here, he’s gone home to Australia for a few weeks and skipped out on this weird little grid (+ friends) party that Charles is throwing. This is good and this is bad for Max. On one hand Daniel is not here to rib him about his half-admitted crush on you, on the other hand Daniel is not here to distract him from his half-admitted crush on you. There’s Lando of course, who can be just as good in the distraction department, but it’s not quite the same.

Lando doesn’t quite know about the raging crush, which is probably for the better. He’s been around when Lando’s tried to set up Oscar before and that was an absolute unmitigated disaster.

“Hey man,” speaking of Oscar, “You good?”

Max frowns and then half turns to look at Oscar who’s now hovering next to Lando with a fruity little drink in hand, “Yeah mate,” he answers, confused.

Oscar gets this weird little micro expression on his face that Max wouldn’t usually take any note of— his forehead creases, he raises a disbelieving eyebrow— but the skepticism grates at Max a little, leaves him wondering.

“Why?”, he caves.

Oscar shakes his head, shrugs, “You're kind of staring down Carlos."

Max's mouth falls open, just a little. He is not. His eyes flit to Lando unconsciously for confirmation before he has a chance to defend himself against what are frankly untrue allegations from Oscar. But Lando is already shrugging, making a face that says he has been.

Fuck. Max frowns. And doesn't say anything.

Better to stay quiet and look moody than to admit anything to these two. Total menaces. Well, no that's Lando. Oscar might be helpful. Still, Max isn't going to admit anything. Daniel and apparently Charles knowing about it is more than enough.

Their hushed conversation behind him fades into the background as Max turns again to look at you and Carlos— and alright he gets it now. There's definitely a different kind of set to his jaw, a scowl on his lips as he watches Carlos put his hand on your shoulder.

There is something in his gut. Something sick. The feeling he gets when he's on track and the car starts sliding, the wheels locking up. When hears the va-rum of a car go by, sees something that isn't wide open space in front of him. Something like panic starts to climb up his throat. He knows he shouldn't be this bothered by you and another person, but he can't get rid of this voice in the back of his head that says you might like Carlos more than him. That you might stop hanging around Max, texting him at all hours of the day with photos of your food or random questions, waiting for him in the garage after sessions and not just because you've got to take pictures of him, and going out for food on 'friend dates' as you've taken to calling them.

If you and Carlos... okay no, Max doesn't even want to think about it.

He starts walking over, trying to smooth his face into something less intimidating as he goes. He turns it into a strained, mouth-closed smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He directs it at Carlos.

There's a glint in Carlos' eyes that Max doesn't like the look of.

"Hi Max," he says, flashing his white teeth, he gestures to you, "I was just getting to know your lovely friend here."

Alright. Max understands instantly. This has Daniel's name written all fucking over it. Max's fake smile falls, turning into a flat look that he levels at Carlos. He's trying not to scowl because he doesn't want you to catch on to anything, but it's not easy. His phone is burning a hole in his pocket, he doesn't care if it's the middle of the night in Australia right now, he's itching to call Danny and ask him what the fuck he is thinking pulling something like this from 14,000 kilometers away?

"Mm," Max hums, unimpressed, unable to fake pleasantries even for your sake, "Great."

You look at him, eyebrows raised a little incredulously at his tone. There's slight amusement there too, he thinks, as he returns your look. You squint a little, as if to say, don't give me that look, Max Verstappen. He can feel himself smiling, the corner of his mouth lifting with ease even though the object of his anger still has his stupid hand on your shoulder.

He can't help himself when he reaches for your elbow, asks, "D'you wanna get a drink?"

You bite down on the edge of your smile, "Sure, Maxie."

You turn and say something to Carlos that he doesn't listen to. Partly because he doesn't care, partly because the sound of you saying Maxie is playing on a loop in his head, like it always does whenever you use the nickname. Which is more often than not. God, he loves it. Maxie Maxie Maxie. It sounds so syrupy sweet coming from your mouth. Smothered in affection. You're the only person, bar his mum and sister that he lets use it. Daniel sometimes, but Daniel would say it regardless, the menace that he is.

"Max," you say, hand on his bicep, thumb smoothing back and forth there, "Where'd you go?"

Max blinks. Carlos is gone now.

"Hm, no, nowhere," you frown, so he says, "Just a bit tired."

This seems to satisfy you. You slip an arm into the crook of his, linking them together as you tug him to the bar. You order him a G&T and yourself a glass of wine before the two of you head out onto the balcony where it's far quieter. Less people, less chatter. Max prefers it like this, with no one there to get in the way of your attention on him, his on you. He thinks you prefer it too.

He hopes you do at least.

You sip your wine, Max’s eyes linger on the line of your neck, the way your fingers curl around the glass, how your eyes glitter in the early afternoon sun.

“What was that earlier?”, you gesture inside, raising your eyebrows again, “With Carlos?”

Max laughs nervously without meaning to, “Uh, what do you mean?”

The ‘something sick’ is back in his gut again. He hopes you buy his nonchalance, but doesn’t feel confident you will. You know him too well. That’s his fault.

You sigh, “I mean the dick measuring contest, Maxie.”

Maxie. Maxie.

Then he finally registers your words around the loop of your voice in his head, he guffaws, almost choking on his drink, “The dick measuring contest!?”

“Yes,” you hiss, leaning forward on your stool, “Yes, Max. I’m not an idiot, you were getting territorial.”

Max blinks. Max feels red creeping up his neck. Max feels butterflies and maybe a chainsaw in his stomach.

“Wha—”, he tries again, “I—”

His mouth doesn’t appear to be working. Maybe because he’s not sure what on earth he’s supposed to say. What do you even mean? Are you trying to say that you know he was jealous of Carlos? That you know he has feelings for you? Or are you just referencing the fact that he’s weirdly territorial of his friends sometimes? What is he supposed to say in response to any of it? He can’t figure it out for the life of him.

Then you’re blushing you’re blushing and you’re saying, “You don’t have to worry, Max. You’re my favourite person here.”

Okay, alright, what the fuck does that mean? God. Max hates this. If you were any other girl he’d have asked you out literally years ago. But because you’re you and you’re his best friend besides Daniel, he can’t ask you out. He has to smother his feelings into something platonic because he cannot bear the idea of losing you.

Despite his better judgment telling him not to, Max asks, “Really?”

You hum, “Really, really.”

It happens in slow motion, it must. Or at least that’s how Max replays it in his head every night before he goes to sleep. You reach forward and put your hand over his, fingers on his wrist, thumb drawing a pattern on his upturned palm.

Then you say, in a way that he can’t figure out for the life of him, “Love you, Maxie.”

Chills run down the length of his spine, that chainsaw starts up again in his stomach. Love you, Maxie. He feels sick— like he might word vomit the entirety of his feelings for you right there and then. Instead, he forces himself to smile. Closed-mouth, eyes crinkled.

“Mm, yeah, love you,” he says back, his voice cracking as he tries to make it sound normal and platonic and not wracked with nerves.

You smile, warm, beaming and showing your teeth, like he’s made your day infinitely better by just saying those words. As if you’ve not just made his stomach churn and his heart take leaps and bounds in his chest. As if he’s not going to think about the way you’d said it every second of every day. As if he won’t dream of you saying it in every other context imaginable.

You pat his hand twice, then pull it back to take hold of your drink again. Smiling as if you’ve not ruined him for anyone else for good.

#max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #oneshots:mv33 #rb photographer!reader

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iamgonnagetyouback · 5 months ago

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Hello!! Could you do a Regulus x Reader who is Barty's twin sister, maybe? It can be, like, just Barty being veeery dramatic his best friend is dating his "Precious Treasure, baby sister Y/N"

(If you want, could you do reader as Ravenclaw? I am one myself so that's why haha)

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀────۶ৎ defiled

synopsis: you’ve been sneaking around with regulus for weeks, but barty, bless his heart, finally catches you. after a series of over-the-top reactions, failed attempts to intimidate regulus, and a very official list of dating rules, barty still isn’t convinced—but that won’t stop you and regulus from having your fun content warnings: barty being overdramatic™, evan suffering through it all author's note: hey, lovie!! thank you so much for requesting. it is a non-specified house so you can go with ravenclaw if you want ♡ hope you love it, doll—mwah!! ‹𝟹

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 818

You’d been sneaking off to meet Regulus for weeks under the guise of “study sessions.” Barty, bless his oblivious heart, bought it every time. But today, as fate would have it, you and Regulus were actually studying. You were sitting across from each other, surrounded by books, and for once, neither of you had so much as brushed hands.

Then the door burst open with a bang, and Barty stormed in, dragging a nonchalant-looking Evan at his side.

“REGULUS BLACK!” Barty bellowed, face red, practically foaming at the mouth. “HOW DARE YOU—”

You and Regulus jerked up, blinking at him with wide eyes. “Uh, Barty?” you ventured, pushing your Transfiguration book aside. “What’s wrong?”

Barty froze mid-rant, taking in the scene. The neatly aligned notes. The genuine, palpable… studying.

“Oh.” He cleared his throat, eyes darting from you to Regulus and back, as if desperately seeking a hint of anything he could use against the Slytherin. “I… uh. Right.” He looked at Evan, hoping for support.

“Yes,” Evan said blandly, “it looks very… scandalous, Barty.”

With an awkward cough and a dramatic hair toss, Barty turned on his heel, leaving the room as though he hadn’t just made a grand scene. You and Regulus waited a beat after the door clicked shut, then sighed in unison, sharing a relieved laugh.

But, naturally, peace was never meant to last.

A week later, you and Regulus finally let your guard down. You’d snuck into a secluded corner, exchanging long, soft kisses, when a horrified gasp echoed through the corridor.

“OH, MY TREASURED, PRECIOUS SISTER!” Barty’s voice thundered as he gaped at the two of you, Evan standing dutifully by his side with an unreadable expression. “ARE YOU SEEING THIS, EVAN?”

“Yes, Barty,” Evan deadpanned, “it’s… devastating. Truly. I may cry.”

Barty’s hand flew to his forehead, looking seconds from fainting. “REGULUS BLACK, YOU FILTHY SCOUNDREL! HOW DARE YOU—”

“Oh, Merlin,” you muttered, pulling away from Regulus, face red with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. “Barty, please, it’s not that serious.”

“NOT THAT SERIOUS?” Barty’s eyes were wild. “My baby sister! My delicate, angelic sister, defiled by—by him!”

Evan’s lips twitched as he watched the spectacle, glancing at Regulus, who was entirely amused. “Well, you’re not wrong, Barty. It’s horrific.”

You huffed, crossing your arms with a smirk, looking every bit as sassy as Regulus. Barty, unable to handle it, marched off with a huff, refusing to speak to either of you. For the next week, he only addressed you both through Evan.

“Evan, tell her I refuse to be betrayed by my own blood.”

“Evan, tell Black he can burn in the deepest pits of Azkaban.”

Evan looked mildly entertained, relaying each line with a deadpan that had you and Regulus nearly in stitches every time.

Finally, though, when you and Regulus refused to go groveling back, Barty stormed up to the two of you in the common room, brandishing a very long list of what he called “The Rules of Courtship According to Barty Crouch Jr.”

“Listen, you two!” he declared, waving his list like a sword. “If you want to keep dating, you’ll have to agree to my conditions.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Alright, Barty. Let’s hear them.”

He cleared his throat, glancing at Evan for dramatic emphasis. “Condition one: Regulus shall send me weekly updates regarding his intentions.”

Regulus smirked, nodding with faux seriousness. “Of course, Barty. I’ll draft a parchment immediately.”

“Condition two,” Barty continued, “any romantic gesture that may involve public displays of affection will be cleared by me first.”

You bit back a laugh, looking at Regulus, who gave you a wink. “Completely understandable,” you replied, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Condition three: If Regulus breaks your heart,” Barty paused, swallowing, “I reserve the right to challenge him to a wizard’s duel.”

Evan rolled his eyes. “Very noble of you, Barty.”

Barty ignored him, watching you both expectantly. “Do we have a deal?”

Regulus put a hand on his heart, leaning in toward you with mock reverence. “If that’s what it takes to keep you, love,” he murmured, looking like he was seconds away from laughing.

You turned to Barty with a playful smile, saluting him with a mischievous sparkle in your eyes. “Deal, Barty. I’ll keep your conditions in mind.”

Barty huffed, looking pleased with himself but suspicious, muttering under his breath about how “it better be taken seriously.” But as he stomped off with Evan in tow, you and Regulus just exchanged a look, barely managing to hold in your laughter until he was out of earshot.

And for the next few weeks, Barty would “accidentally” stumble upon you two in the most innocent scenarios—Regulus helping you with homework, walking you to class, even reading quietly together in the common room. He would leave with an awkward salute or finger guns every time he was deemed wrong.

#⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ivy writes ༄.°#regulus black fluff #regulus black x reader #regulus black #reggie black #crouch!reader #dividers by thecutestgrotto

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