THE INTERVAL]
FRIDAY, 8:27 AM [CIRCA. CHAP 31-32, DEADPOOL BREAKS INTO THE DAILY BUGLE]
If you asked him, Barty Crouch Jr would say he was a perfectly capable cook.
The firefighters, however, would not.
At all.
Like, at all.
Because somehow he had ended up setting his flat on (mild) fire trying to boil water.
Now, ‘Why, Barty, why?’ or ‘How, Barty, how?” wouldn’t help anything, because, to be honest, he didn’t fucking know either, dude.
But what he did know was that he finally had an excuse to remodel. Everything.
But he didn't much fancy the hobo life, so he needed somewhere to say.
So let’s play a little Whose-House-Can-Barty-Crash-At-Tinder, shall we?
First contestant:
Pandora Lovegood, 19
Pandora is a loveable manic pixie fairy celestial being, she enjoys long walks in the forest while picking flowers and nature.
Like, she just likes nature .
She’s a nature whore.
Living situation -
Lives in a cute little small cottage house thingy tucked between two apartment buildings, most often cluttered (in an endearing way) with various plants and stuffed animals.
Extra bedroom for anybody who would like to sleep over, although full of (water damaged?) books and kitchen appliances.
House full of little knick-knacks and ongoing creative projects.
Roommate-ability -
Pandora, while being an adorable all-loving probable alien, is prone to being a little little little liiiiittle bit overbearing as a roommate when feeling talkative.
When not feeling talkative and sociable, however, you can hardly notice her presence when she’s focused on something specific.
Would definitely bake real good shit.
Has a new boyfriend (???) and probably does definitely not want Barty over to harass him while they try to shag or something.
Dorcas Meadowes, 20
Goddess, except one of those goddesses that are extremely judgemental of young intelligent beautiful sexy men (namely Barty). Witty, extremely sarcastic, mature, casual deep late-night conversation enjoyer.
Has a pretty chill girlfriend she is completely besotted with: Marlene Mckinnon.
Living situation -
Lives on the second floor of an apartment building close to Regulus’ (see contestant 3), relatively tidy house.
Warm lighting, huge soft couch, huge bookshelf, 2 bedrooms.
Large built-in TV in the wall (huuuuuge bonus points)
Has those really cool rugs from the Middle East or India or something that have huge patterns on them that Barty likes stepping on like a maze.
Roommate-ability -
Quiet and respectful of privacy (which Barty has none of, but still).
Can cook good food.
Would be one of those roommates that lets you do your shit as long as you don’t bother her.
Would sit in comfortable silence with you while you both study or something.
***DEAL BREAKER AHEAD***
Remember her girlfriend from before?
While the housing situation isn’t completely sorted out, she stays over a lot. A. Lot.
Barty would not like to listen to them having sex first thing in the morning. (How does lesbian sex even work?) (Whatever, not like he’s finding out anytime soon)
Regulus Black, 19
Personification of a black cat. Grumpy, quiet, sarcastic, moody, mean, a tiny bit stuck up and mean. Barty’s best friend. Certified bitch.
Reads a lot, pretty smart, surprisingly a little nice once you annoy him enough.
Certified bitch.
Again.
He’s just that certified.
Living situation -
Pretty expensive flat near Dorcas’ (see contestant 2), normally tidy outside his bedroom, but bedroom and some specific places are messy as shit.
Lots of bookshelves with lots of books and those soft expensive sheets and duvet covers.
One bedroom, but comfy couch which Barty could crash on.
Roommate-ability -
Already sick of Barty, so wouldn’t try talking to him too much unless he gets bullied into it or is feeling semi-nice.
Would leave Barty to his devices if not destructive, also almost always out of the house studying and working and some other shit.
Good booze.
Doesn’t go out to the pub or clubs much so probably doesn’t get laid much, so no gay sex noises.
Pretty funny.
Would begrudgingly do little nice things like leaving you a cup of tea.
Evan Rosier, 19
**ABSOLUTELY FUCKING ELIMINATED BEFORE JUDGEMENT***
***NOT STAYING WITH HIM***
***NUH UH***
***DON’T EVEN TRY***
***NO WAY***
***DON’T ASK***
So it was down to contestant 3, Regulus Arcturus Black.
Right?
Totall- no.
NO.
No he’s not going to show you contestant 4’s profile.
Nuh uh.
…
Fine.
Fuck you.
Evan Rosier, 19
Fucking beautiful.
Living situation -
Also has a pretty expensive flat near Dorcas (see contestant 2) and Regulus (see contestant 3 [the obvious best contestant]).
Tidier than Barty and Pandora, but messier than Dorcas and Regulus.
Absolutely massive 4K Ultra HD TV also built into the wall + owns a PS5 + massive gaming setup.
1 bedroom, one pull-out couch/bed thingy saved for whoever wanted to sleep over, whether that be his friends or random people he might bring over to shag.
Whatever.
Barty didn’t care anyways.
*plays Radiohead angstily*
Has a cool vinyl collection, more random lighting (never turns the big light on) and a comfy bed.
Roommate-ability -
***TAKE NOTE THAT THIS WILL NEVER TAKE PLACE BECAUSE CRUSHES SUCK ASS***
Matches Barty’s freak perfectly.
More chill, would watch movies at 3:00am with Barty, would order takeout half the time.
Incredibly sarcastic and funny , hot as fuck .
Okay, let’s stop.
So it was obvious to Barty who he should stay with while his whole flat was remodelled.
(Stop yelling ‘Evan! Evan! Evan!’ you sound stupid.)
Contrary to popular opinion, he was going to ask Regulus.
So that’s why he was on the phone with Regulus, pacing around his half-charred half-paint-stripped flat.
“Okay Reggie, remember how I told you not to get mad?” He purred in his most sickly sweet voice after he had finished explaining.
“You. Set. Your. -” Oof, sentence words. Not good. “-Fucking. Bloody. Flat. On. Fire?”
“Why, gee, Reg, I’m fine. Yeah yeah, nobody was hurt. No Avengers had to show up, hardy har har.” Barty rolled his eyes.
“Shut up. So what else did you possibly need to tell me?”
“So…” Barty decided to rip the band-aid right off. “I’m homeless.”
“You’re what?” Okay, good intentions, bad delivery.
“Uh, unless you graciously let me crash at your place?”
Barty heard a long, echoed inhale from the other side, a tell-tale sign Regulus had his face in his hands and was trying not to go there himself and shove Barty’s head in his charred and broken down oven.
“...So can I?”
A pause.
“Okay, Barty, you know how busy I am?”
“Yeah- that’s fine! I don’t need a babysitter, just let me crash on your couch. For a few days, even. I’ll go to Pandora’s and terrorise her boyfriend if you want me gone. Just the first few days.”
Barty wasn’t pleading, by the way.
He was too cool for that.
He just sensed that Regulus’ hesitation meant ‘no’, and if it were ‘no’, Regulus would still be compelled to find Barty a place he could stay without terrorising anybody’s boyfriend.
That meant one person.
Insert contestant 4.
“Barty, you know I can’t…”
“Please, Regulus. You can’t do this to me; don’t make me go there. " Okay, now Barty was pleading.
“It’s the only place you can go.” Regulus’ matter-of-fact voice rang throughout Barty’s head, an annoying reminder.
“No, I can- I can sleep on the streets. Or I have an elderly neighbour. Haven’t seen him in a while, he might be dead, but then I can get the flat all to myself. Please, Regulus, just not-”
“Call Evan.”
“Reggie,” Barty begged, stretching out the syllables.
“ Call Evan. And tell him I told you to go to him.”
Sometimes it was like Evan and Regulus had some unspoken secret that made Barty feel like a child.
Not that he minded, but he found it odd.
“You know what? Fuck you.” Barty huffed, hanging up.
He sighed, sitting down and looking up at his half-torn-down house.
“Mr Crouch?” He heard someone walking into his flat.
“Yo,” he stood up, walking up to the interior designer in charge of renovating his flat.
“You do need to go soon, just so we can start-”
“Oh, right, yeah, I’ll be out of your hair now. All set.” He picked up his backpack and suitcase, loosely doing a two-finger salute to the interior designer, walking out of his flat, not sparing it a single last glance.
Once he was in the lift, going down seven floors, Barty started pacing.
Where the fuck was he going to stay?
He definitely wasn’t calling Evan, god forbid.
Man, fuck Regulus. He definitely isn’t some all-knowing Cupid, guy probably hasn’t been in a relationship for a while.
Neither have you, Barty.
Shut the fuck up.
“Alright, fine, I’ll just thug it out. It’ll be chill.” Barty concluded to himself, his feet obviously not catching up with his brain, resulting in him walking right into the shiny elevator door.
FRIDAY, 8:32 AM [CIRCA. CHAP 31-32, DEADPOOL BREAKS INTO THE DAILY BUGLE AND BUGS REGULUS]
Barty squinted up at the sky, sitting on the side of the road outside his abandoned apartment building.
The homeless life *the jail rock blues plays*.
A lonely life.
For a lonely man like Barty.
All alone *faint harmonica in the distance, so well played it sent vibrating chills up Barty’s spine*.
Oh, shit, nevermind, that was his phone.
Before he could pull out his phone to see ten thousand calls from the five thousand people Regulus had probably informed of Barty’s homelessness, an all-too-familiar black Nissan Skyline R34 pulled up in front of him, spraying Barty with the water from the curb as an all-too-familiar head (not of a dick, fuck you very much) popped out.
“Get in loser, we’re going shopping.” Evan called out in a (rather convincing) American accent.
“Ev? Why the fuck are you here?” Barty wrinkled his nose, looking down at his clothes spotted with dirty ass rainwater.
“Regulus called.” Evan shrugged, as if that explained anything.
Actually, it explained a lot.
Fucking depressed gayboy.
Telling his crush about his lack of home.
“Am I…”
“Staying with me? Yes.”
Barty grunted monosyllabically, grabbing his suitcase and backpack and hoisting it into Evan’s trunk.
Once he circled back around, he slumped into the passenger seat.
🥚ULUS / RESIDENT DEPRESSED GAYBOY
I HATE YOU 🥚ULUS
ZERO RESPECT FOR THE CRUSH HUSTLE
Barty sighed, shoving his phone in his pocket and turning to Evan with puppy dog eyes.
Sure, call him a simp.
Call him delusional.
But Barty knew what he wanted.
“Yes?” Evan snorted without looking at him.
“Am I sleeping in your bed, baby?”
Then the car jerked.
“Uh, sorry, learner driver up in front.” Evan mumbled. “...Did you bring your skateboard?”
“...No.” He did.
FRIDAY, 10:03 AM [CIRCA. CHAP 32-33, AMIDST REGULUS AND JAMES GOING TO THE S.H.I.E.L.D HELICARRIER FOR NYC ANNOUNCEMENT]
“...Did you clean up?” Barty asked, raising an eyebrow at Evan as he walked in, dropping his suitcase and backpack at the door.
“No, it’s… I had to clean anyways, alright?” Evan stammered, surveying his own flat, which was cleaner than usual. He had vacuumed and… mopped? That was a lot to do for a nineteen-year-old bachelor.
Barty gasped, chucking his phone on the sofa and wincing as it bounced off the sofa and onto the floor. He knee-slid to Evan’s PS4, lightly caressing it.
“Hell- o, gorgeous,” he murmured as Evan stood behind him with crossed arms, probably raising an eyebrow.
“Are you done?” He asked, snorting. “I’ve got a lecture in, like,-” he checked the massive Hot Wheels clock propped up against a stack of books. “-Twenty minutes, so you can wank to my gaming setup after I lay down the rules of staying here.”
Barty sighed, throwing himself on the sofa and crossing his arms behind his head. “Lay it on me, baby.”
“...Alright. So, first, I’ve been- wait, I have twenty minutes? Fuck! Just-just take this. You’re sleeping in the guest room and the sheets have already been changed. Bye.” Evan chucked a piece of paper at Barty and grabbed his backpack, practically flying out the door.
Barty unfolded the piece of paper,
RULES 4 STAYING @ EVAN’S PLACE
1. Don’t burn down my place like you burned down yours
2. You have a key. Don’t lockpick my lock. I already have complaints from the neighbours
3. NO FUCKING RANDOS FROM THE PUB!!!!!!
4. Make yourself a good housewife while I’m gone
5. No bodily fluids on my shit
6. Don’t eat all the ice cream bitch
7. If you bring a pet home, I will shoot you
8. No seriously. I will.
FRIDAY, 7:58 PM [CIRCA. MID CHAP 33, WHILE EVAN CALLS REGULUS ABOUT GOING TO NYC]
“- Fine, fine. It’s…fine. You’ll be fine.” Evan sighed, walking in while holding his phone to his ear with his shoulder. “Yes.”
“What’s up, Ev?” Barty mumbled, sitting upside down on the couch, head touching the floor while reading a comic.
“ Fuck,” Evan huffed, hanging up. “‘Sup, B.”
“Who was that?”
“Just… Regulus.”
“Who?”
“ Regu- oh. Egg -ulus.”
“Hmm, Egg-ulus. What’s up with him now?”
“He’s going to New York.”
“WHAT THE FUCK?” Barty yelled, falling off the couch and ending up cracking his back in a pretty fucking concerning way.
“Yeah. It’s… for the Bugle or something. Apparently, the Bugle got a tip that Spider-Man’s meant to be there and they want a photographer on the frontlines.”
“He’s going to New York? Oh no, is he overpacking again?”
“ God,” Evan groaned. “Probably. Have you eaten dinner?”
“No, it’s like, five.”
“It’s eight.”
“...Oh.”
“I’ll order something. You like Thai? Pass me the menu.”
“I orgasm to Thai food, dude.” Barty scoffed before passing Evan one of the takeout menus on the coffee table.
Fifteen minutes later, Evan got an alert that the food was there, and he went down to the lobby to get it while Barty surfed the TV to find something to watch.
Spider-Man was on the news, probably speculation about how evil he was or whatever. It was a shame - that whole being bitten by a spider thing. Personally, Barty would’ve liked to be bitten by something more appealing.
Like one of Regulus’ cousins.
Speaking of appealing, Evan brought the food.
As Barty cued the first horror movie he saw (Scream 4), Evan sat down next to him, wordlessly passing him one of those splinter-inducing forks the takeout places gave you, a flimsy plastic soup spoon, a plastic container of tom yum soup lined with plastic cling wrap and another plastic container of noodles (that was more baby corn than noodles).
Barty leaned his head forward to take a sip of the soup (trying not to cut himself on the chipped spoon), and started coughing and spluttering.
Evan jolted up, taking the food away from him so he didn’t get any on both of them.
“Hey, when I said ‘no bodily fluids on my shit’ that counted spit!”
“Why-why the fuck is it so hot?” Barty choked out.
“The fuck do you mean? This is how hot normal soup is.”
“Oh. My Thai takeout place has been scamming me!” Barty huffed, crossing his arms.
Evan just rolled his eyes and kept eating.
Barty was so down bad it wasn’t even funny. Unless you’ve got some masochism kink and you like that stuff.
SATURDAY, 11:42 AM [CIRCA. CHAP 34, POST-MONTAGE]
Barty woke up with a piece of paper taped to his forehead.
“Ow, fuck,” he grunted as the tape came back with a few strands of his hair as a nice accessory.
what’s up, sleepyheaddickhead?
I’m out until 1 at saturday classes, nutella sandwich and nesquik out on the counter (bcuz you’re such a baby)
Okay, and maybe Barty was blushing. (He was definitely blushing)
But under the face value meanness and standoffishness, Evan was just a total sweetheart. Which was why Barty wanted to bone him with all the force of all the 10,000 Star Wars movies and spin off series’ .
While he walked out to the counter, pulling on a random zip-up hoodie he found in his suitcase (because he ran hot during the night, and could never keep a shirt on while he slept) (to be honest, he didn’t know if the hoodie was Evan’s, Dorcas’ or Marlene’s), he blindly turned the TV on behind him—background noise.
It was the news, talking about how Spider-Man and Deadpool had made their appearance in New York and were fucking around the Statue of Liberty. Good for them. Honestly, Barty expected them to go to Coney Island and fuck on top of one of the rides. The rollercoaster, probably.
After he ate, however, Barty was the thesaurus definition of bored. He had swiped through TikTok so long that he got to those ‘end of year status update’ videos little eleven-year-old Sephora kids did while leaking practically all of their government information.
Barty even started wondering what his would look like.
‘Blood vessels in hand popped: nearing five
Relationship status: shut the fuck up
Role Model: anybody from Breaking Bad
Favourite Family Member: refer to question two’
He checked Twitter (or X, but that’s reserved for the genre of videos he watches) and got his daily blast of Spideypool fan edits and their tweets.
spiderman_official @the_real_spidey
mfs who rhink my bff is nicky fury: 🤡
mfs who thing mt bff is daredevil: 🤡
mfs who NNOW my bff is DADDY DEADPOOL:🤭🤭😍😍🙀😻💪💪💪😇🥰😍🥰🥳🥳😱😨😨😰🥶🤤😽😸😸😺😺😻💋💋👨🦰👩🚒👰♀️👰♀️👰♀️👰♀️👼👼👼👼🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐
_____Replies_____
deadpool_official @fr_deadpool_!!!
OMGGG SPIDEYYY STAWPPP IM BLUSHINGG
↳spiderman_official @the_real_spidey
STOP STEALING MY PHONE?
gk 💿 @dtraos
HOW MANY TIMES IS SPIDEY GONNA GET HIS PHINE STOLEN
⭐️ @k
horridly unsubtle deadpool babes <33
Then he snooped around Evan’s cabinets. As you do. He found a shit-ton of sewing equipment - red, blue and black thread, a heavy duty sewing machine - the whole dealio.
Then, of course, as Evan came home from his Saturday classes, Barty plugged in Evan’s electric guitar.
Barty started playing and yell-singing as soon as Evan had stepped foot in the apartment.
“NO SLEEP ‘TILL!” - He played the bit on the electric guitar as Evan sighed. “BROOKLYN!”
“Brooklyn.” Evan deadpanned, unenthusiastically pumping his fist in the air while saying it at the same time as Barty. “Will-will you get down from there?”
Oh right. Barty was standing on the stove. (Turned off, of course, what did you think he was, a maniac?)
“Go get dressed, we’re going out.”
“Aw, Evan,” Barty gushed in a mock Southern belle accent. “Is it ‘cause I was a good housewife?” He had vacuumed. Uh huh. Vacuumed.
SATURDAY, 1:30 PM [CIRCA. CHAP 34, WHILE REGULUS AND JAMES START MAPPING OUT THE TUNNELS]
The happy (yet to be) couple found themselves sitting on the edge of a pier, eating Subway (where of course, Barty had to be cliche and bring up the ‘this footlong isn’t the only footlong I’ve had in my mouth’ niche).
“This is nice,” Barty sighed, kicking his feet. “Scenic.” He (what’s up with the cliche?) over-exaggerated a yawn, lifting one arm up and inching it closer to Evan’s shoulder.
At the glare he got, however, he quickly pulled his hand back, smacking himself in the back of the head while pretending to nonchalantly ruffle his hair.
“Are you still bored?” Evan asked, raising an eyebrow.
“...Yeah.” Barty stood up. “Jack, catch me!” He put his arms out and grinned as sweetly as possible at Evan, who had also stood up.
“You’re facing the wrong way, dipshit.”
“Oh yeah.” While shuffling to turn around, Barty tripped on the stupid balled up Subway wrapper, effectively launching himself into the water face first.
From under the water, he heard Evan cackling at him, so he reached a hand up, feeling around for Evan’s ankle before pulling him in as well.
“OH SHIT!”
They spent a solid half minute underwater, throwing kicks and punches at each other (blocked by the stupid thickness of the water) before resurfacing, laughing and gasping.
Evan spotted a family of five staring at them beat each other up underwater, unimpressed. “They’re probably staring at your shirt,” he mock-whispered to Barty.
Barty looked down at his shirt, which was sopping wet and had, in the biggest text he could find, ‘HEADGAME SO BOMB THEY CALL ME SLOPPENHEIMER’.
SATURDAY, 3:28 AM [CIRCA. CHAP 35, WHILE THEIR BFF REGULUS IS KNOCKED THE FUCK OUT]
“So, what movie now, Mr Crouch?” Evan yawned, stretching out on the sofa.
“Please, Mr Crouch was my father. Call me sweetheart.” Barty winked at Evan, scrolling through the library to find another movie.
They had - at least - ten finished microwaveable popcorn bags (you know, the ones that smell like burning hair and gasoline before you open them and sometimes explode in the microwave?) strewn over the floor and were too lazy to get up and make another one, and five of those little plastic tubs of fairy floss stacked on the coffee table.
He played one of the Saw movies - he didn’t remember which one, because there were ten million of them, cut him some slack.
“Girl dinner.” He nodded.
“...Sure.”
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Say it, Rosier.”
A sigh.
“...Girl dinner.”
“HAHAHAHA! GAYYY!” He wished.
Through the next hour, Barty had blushed more than he had all through high school (okay, maybe not) as he and Evan were literally tucked next to each other.
“If you squint, Jigsaw kinda looks like Timothee Chalamet,” Evan remarked.
Barty turned to face him to ask him how the fuck he knew, but was met with THE most fucking enrapturing eyes ever. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
Don’t get him wrong, Barty had no shame when it came to wanking.
He’d once jerked off in a Nando’s bathroom.
Then an IKEA bathroom a few days later.
Point was, Barty wanked a lot in multi-million chain store bathrooms.
Oh, and that he was pretty shameless.
So he had no second thoughts when he blinked at Evan like a lizard for a second and grabbed his face and kissed him with as much unleashed repression as a closeted blind lesbian in a fish market.
[KEEP IN MIND. THEIR BFF IS BEING KNOCKED THE FUCK OUT WHILE THEY RIDE THE BONE EXPRESS]
[AND EVAN IS HIS MANAGER]
[AND HAS NO IDEA ABOUT THE KIDNAPPING]
[AND-OKAY I’LL STOP]