okay sooo i had an idea that might be incredibly outdated by now but it’s my favoriteeee and i’d love to see ur own spin on it
i’m thinking either regulus or barty (which ever u think fits better) who is incredibly warm like all the time, think walking radiator😭 and reader is just really cold 24/7 and uses him to warm up whenever she sees fit :,)
love love ur work and your page btw !! so beautiful
Stolen Warmth
bartylus x fem!reader
synopsis: in which barty, always the warmest among you, finds his heat intensified by a lingering fever—an unexpected advantage that you and regulus cannot ignore. perpetually cold, the two of you compete and conspire to claim his reluctant warmth, turning every cuddle into a battle.
warnings: mild illness/fever, light bickering, playful teasing, animagi chasing, mild emotional tension, some physical discomfort (cold/heat sensitivity), regulus being a little shit, sick/soft barty, fluff fluff fluff
wc: 2.1k
a/n: i did a little twist to this, and since i couldn't pick between barty and regulus, thought i'd do both <33 hope this meets your expectations!
masterlist
You bolt out of class the moment the professor mutters dismissal, not even bothering to shove your quill fully into your bag as you barrel through the corridors.
Your fingers are already numb, curled tightly around your scarf, and your thoughts are consumed by a single, glorious truth: Barty is in the dorm, and according to the sacred cuddle schedule, it is your turn—not Regulus’s.
You love both of your boyfriends, you really, really do, but cuddling with Regulus is an actual nightmare.
He’s beautiful, devastatingly beautiful, but he’s also so bloody cold, and curling up with him feels less like affection and more like someone’s slipped a block of ice between your ribs. You have endured it before, out of love and obligation.
Barty, on the other hand, is blessedly, unfairly warm, like some ancient elemental spirit of heat and comfort wrapped in sleepy eyes and strong arms.
And while most people assume that being in a relationship with two boys would come with all sorts of complicated emotional drama, the truth is, the only real conflict you ever face is the bitter, eternal war between you and Regulus over who gets to absorb Barty’s body heat first.
Today, the universe has aligned. Barty is in bed, warm beyond reason, and by all that is holy in the cuddle constitution, that warmth belongs to you.
Which is why you’re here, running full speed through the corridor like your life depends on it, because if Regulus gets there before you, he will wrap himself around Barty like a smug, aristocratic scarf and never let go, and you won't have any leftover heat.
Your footsteps echo sharply as you sprint down the stairs, nearly slipping when you round the corner that leads to the Slytherin dormitory.
You slow just enough to give the stone wall the correct password, then push through the entrance, half-blind with purpose and windburn.
But the second your eyes land on the corridor leading to your shared room, your stomach drops.
There he is.
A sleek black cat sits calmly just outside the door, tail flicking with smug precision. His pale green eyes meet yours, gleaming with the unmistakable glint of mischief.
“Regulus, you little shit,” you hiss, voice thick with betrayal.
He meows, almost mockingly, then turns and bolts.
Your legs move before your brain catches up. “Oh no, you don’t!” you shout, slamming your bag against the wall as you give chase.
Your boots skid on the polished stone floor as you race after him, your scarf flapping wildly behind you like a flag of war.
He darts around corners with practiced grace, sleek and unbothered, tail curling just so as if to taunt you. You, on the other hand, are panting and flustered, your frozen fingers clenched into fists as you throw yourself forward, heart pounding not from fear but from pure, unfiltered indignation.
He’s going to beat you to Barty.
And you’ll be damned if you let that smug little bastard steal your heat slot.
“Regulus!” you yell, chasing him as he darts like a shadow toward your dorm door and the warm, toasty boy inside.
You lunge the moment his slick black tail flicks around the corner, and just as Regulus-still in cat form—is about to slink triumphantly into the dorm room, you skid in front of the door and slam it shut with both palms.
The thud echoes like victory.
You whip around, hair disheveled, chest heaving from the chase, as the cat freezes just inches from the door.
He glares up at you with those imperious green eyes, his tail flicking like an insult, his tiny cat nose twitching in blatant offense—as if you’re the one committing treason.
But you’re already reaching into your robe pocket with the righteousness of a lawyer mid-trial, and you produce the parchment scroll with theatrical precision.
Barty’s gold-inked title gleams at the top like a royal decree: “Heat Access Schedule: Property of Bartemius C. Crouch Jr.” It sparkles obnoxiously.
You crouch to his level, unravel the scroll with theatrical flair, and jab your finger at the bold, clearly marked time slot.
“Regulus Arcturus Black,” you pant, triumph dripping from every syllable as you flash him your most evil grin, “it is my time. Seven to eight thirty. Right there. And I quote—‘Lap and chest privileges at full discretion of Y/N.’ That clause was reviewed, signed, and stamped with Barty’s wax seal. This is legally binding under the cuddle constitution and you damn well know it.”
He blinks slowly.
Then slowly, too slowly, he lifts his paw, unsheathes one delicate little claw, and rips the parchment in half. The sound of tearing paper is somehow louder than it should be.
You freeze, staring at the ruined remains of the schedule as they flutter pitifully to the floor like the ashes of your last shred of patience.
“Are you kidding me?!” you shriek. “You absolute menace! I need my cuddles, Regulus! Stop being a selfish little—”
You launch forward to grab him, but he’s already leapt backward like a slippery shadow, tail high and smug as he bolts for the dorm.
“Get back here!” you yell, nearly tripping as you scramble after him.
“YOU'RE A CAT, NOT A THIEF!—COME BACK AND FACE ME LIKE A MAN!”
He lets out a low, unimpressed meow that sounds suspiciously like a scoff. You swear he raises an eyebrow, somehow, despite having fur.
“Fine,” you mutter, standing up with exaggerated weariness.
“If rules don’t mean anything to you, then I guess I’ll just go all alone into the cold, where I’ll probably freeze to death. But no, it’s okay—don’t worry about me.”
You sniff loudly, tugging your scarf higher over your nose like a tragic orphan. “It’s not like I haven’t been feeling faint all day. I mean, I’m only showing early signs of hypothermia—tingling fingers, shivering spine, loss of will to live—minor things, really.”
You wobble slightly on your feet for effect. “I was just hoping for a little warmth. A little kindness or cuddle, maybe. But clearly…” You sigh as your voice breaks. “Clearly I was wrong.”
The silence stretches.
Then, with the softest rustle of fur and magic, Regulus shifts.
It begins with a shimmer around his paws, a ripple of something ancient and practiced. In the space of a heartbeat, where the cat stood, there is now a boy—pale-skinned and annoyingly elegant even barefoot in a dorm hallway.
His black curls fall into his eyes as he studies you, his expression exasperated but ever so slightly fond.
“Oh, amour,” he murmurs, voice like velvet steeped in sarcasm. “Are you truly that cold? I am so sorry.”
You blink at him, lips trembling—not from cold, but from the effort it takes not to laugh.
And in that single, suspended moment of sympathy, you twist, grab the door handle behind you, and barge inside.
“Barty!” you yell, throwing yourself onto the bed in a blur of scarf and limbs.
Behind you, there is a stunned silence.
“You sneaky lying maniac!” Regulus bellows from the hallway. “Tu es un démon! Une menteuse! Une petite actrice dramatique—je vais te tuer!”
You hear the slam of the door, the rapid slap of bare feet against stone, and then he is chasing you again—but it’s too late. You’ve already landed on Barty, who is lying sideways across the bed with his arms open in sleepy confusion.
He jerks upright with a startled grunt, arms instinctively catching you even as his eyes snap open wide.
“What the—what the bloody hell is going on?” he exclaims, voice pitched somewhere between alarmed and scandalized. “Did you just launch yourself at me?”
You look up at him, breath catching in your throat. His hair is tousled from sleep, shirt rumpled, and his hands are already settling instinctively around your waist despite his confusion.
Your voice drops, soft and a little breathless. “Barty,” you say, eyes searching his face, “I missed you.”
His brows draw together, tension easing just slightly as his lips twitch into something warmer, something fond.
“I missed you too, trouble,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers through your hair.
You barely have a second to enjoy the warmth of his chest and the way his heartbeat slows beneath your cheek—before the dorm door slams open behind you.
Regulus bursts in, wild-eyed and betrayed, breathing like he’s just sprinted across the castle and looking absolutely offended by the sight of you already cuddled into Barty’s arms.
“Putain de voleuse de chaleur !” he snaps, voice sharp and scathing. “You stole him! You stole Barty’s warmth, you freezing little traitor—sorcière glacée !”
Barty immediately tenses beneath you, looking from Regulus to you with the wide-eyed panic of a man caught in the middle of a house fire.
“What,” he says slowly, carefully, “did you both do?”
There’s a pause.
You and Regulus both inhale like you’re about to deliver reasoned, mature explanations.
And then—
“You ripped the contract!” you shout, flinging your hand toward Regulus.
“I’m colder than you!” Regulus yells back at the same time.
“You used your cat form to cheat and get here faster—”
“You cuddled him twice yesterday, for longer than your allotted time slot—”
“I needed this, my fingers were numb, Regulus—”
“I have poor circulation!”
“You tore up the only system we had—”
“You lied about being sick!”
“You always turn into a cat and sneak under the blankets—”
Their voices collide, climbing louder and louder until it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. Barty sits frozen between you, arms half-raised like he’s afraid moving might trigger further destruction.
Eventually, Barty sighs—a long, slow breath that carries all the patience and quiet surrender of a man who has given up.
He simply lies back down on the bed, rolling gently onto his side as if inviting the chaos to come to him. He pulls the blanket up over his chest, closing his eyes briefly before lifting one arm just slightly—an unspoken offer.
You and Regulus exchange a glance, both of you frozen for a moment, then drawn in by that quiet invitation like moths to a flame.
Without hesitation, you slip forward and curl into the warmth of Barty’s chest, your hands sliding beneath the soft fabric of the blanket, seeking the steady, comforting heat that only he can provide.
Regulus follows, settling on the other side of Barty, his cold fingers lightly brushing against your arm. His breath is soft and steady as he presses closer, resting his cheek near the curve of Barty’s neck, as if he’s finally found a place where he belongs.
The three of you lie there, perfectly still, the silence full and heavy with the weight of shared warmth and unspoken affection.
After a moment, Regulus slowly blinks up at you, his eyes shining with quiet tenderness.
“Je t’aime,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle.
You smile softly, warmth blooming in your chest.
“Je t’aime, me or Barty?” you tease lightly, nuzzling closer.
Regulus’s lips curve into a mischievous grin. “Je t’aime, you and barty.”
Barty stirs at that, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the congestion weighing on him. He coughs softly, then says, “I love you too, Black.”
You both laugh quietly, the sound mingling with the gentle rhythm of Barty’s breathing.
Though Barty feels utterly miserable beneath his fevered skin, the contentment of being held by both of you is clear in his softened expression. His arm tightens just a fraction around your waist as he lets himself drift toward sleep.
He doesn’t complain, not really. If anything, there’s a sort of smug peace to him now, even in the throes of whatever miserable cold he’s caught. His fever, for once, has a purpose. His body, too warm to be comfortable for himself, is perfect for the two of you.
And even if his throat aches and his head’s spinning and his entire being feels like it's made of soup, he can’t help but feel vaguely victorious. He is loved, wanted, fought over. He is, in the worst of health, still the prize.
And for one perfect, quiet moment, it works.
The dorm is warm and dim, your breath soft against his collarbone, Regulus’s curls tickling the back of his neck, all of you tucked under the covers in one tangle of limbs and shared heat.
Barty lets his eyes fall shut. His body relaxes.
He starts to drift.
And just as the room settles into a perfect, peaceful stillness—
“AH!” you shriek, bolting upright as if struck by lightning. “Regulus!—move your freezing toes away from me!”
