CHARLOTTE — also known as THE CANADIAN or the one who constantly disappears. 31/f/AST.
fandoms: la casa de papel, succession, marauders/harry potter (but fuck jkr fr), ted lasso, dc / batfam, marvel, && more.
oh and sometimes i make things..
One thing I dig about Robby is that he's wildly kind and empathetic... and also an entire fucking dick. Queen Bitch of the Cunt Parade over there. Thinks he's got all the answers, hates to have his authority questioned (especially by women!), and snarking back is his first instinct. Fandom has a tendency to sand off his edges because of his big heart, but nah dudes, this man will cut you.
[SIRIUS ORION BLACK] Sirius was a brave, clever, and energetic man, and such men are not usually content to sit at home in hiding while they believe others to be in danger.
you can click on this button once daily to help palestine and support other causes in the middle east for free. it takes literally 5 seconds and could help save lives so please take the time to click and share this link.
professional chef regulus can't sleep and works a mcdonald's graveyard shift. a small thingie inspired by this. 1486 words & totally sfw!
It came and went in waves, the bouts of insomnia that held him captive in sleep-elusive nights. Those hours of darkness where finding his rest proved itself to be no more than a fleeting chore, often resulting in Regulus dragging himself out from underneath his covers to find respite elsewhere. A place that wasn't a nightmare materialized in four enclosing walls, turning the small space of his bedroom into a reenactment of past events that only surface when he's stuck in that liminal space between consciousness and sleep.
An enigma, truly, the inability to sleep regardless of how much running a restaurant deprives him of his energy. What’s even more riddling, however, is the sight of Regulus Arcturus Black appearing in Stebbins’ office at 1:45 a.m. on a Saturday night, already wearing a McDonald’s polo he keeps stored in the bottom of his nightstand drawer. Why an award-winning chef with a long history of working in upscale establishments turns up at a fast-food chain is a mystery no one has been able to solve yet. Then again, people drink two liters of room-temperature chocolate milk to combat head-splintering migraines so there is no questioning a seasoned insomniac’s methods.
“Sup, Regulus. Another of those nights, eh?” Stebbins asks him with his feet planted on his desk. There is a monstrosity of a half-eaten quintuple cheeseburger in front of him – the equivalent of a heart attack between two buns. On the computer screen, a game of Solitaire is opened instead of the Excel file of expenditures he should probably be working on.
“Grill or cashier?” Regulus asks while working the pin into its place. It says ‘Mark’. Don’t ask him about that either.
Stebbins slurps his soda, the paper straw soggy and disfigured with the indents of teeth. “Sorry, mate, it’s drive-thru for you tonight. Got a newbie who’s gotta learn how to make the patties. Still know how it works?”
There is something incredibly surreal about having a three-star Michelin chef turn up at your restaurant and have them tend to take orders instead, but Regulus doubts that his culinary prowess could elevate the taste of a Quarter Pounder by a large margin. That and Stebbins is high as a kite if the red-rimmed eyes are anything to go by.
“Shit– aren’t you that dude from Food & Wine? Begulus Rack?”
“In the flesh.”
“Man, this is a McDonald’s, you know that right?”
“Yes. Can I work here for a few hours? I’ll only need unlimited coffee as pay.”
“Why?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“You’re fucking hired.”
It’s how it had become a common occurrence. Once in a month or two, Regulus would enter the shabby building and take his spot at whatever station was available at the time. Stebbins, the manager working graveyard shifts, welcomed him with little inquiries every time.
It’s how Regulus finds himself nearly thirty minutes into his shift, wireless headset on, and the seconds ticking by with little hustle and bustle. It’s not the social interaction that bothers him, but the lack of attention the entire ordeal demands. He’s bored. Not tired enough. And wonders if he should go for his nth cup of coffee since sleep is most definitely not going to be it.
Then, a car pulls up to the intercom post, and he taps into the screen before him. “Welcome, may I take your order?”
A loud yawn reverberates through his earpiece before a gravelly voice mumbles, “A McDick menu, please.”
Regulus is going to stick his head in the deep fryer. “Go away, Barty.”
Then, another voice joins, the rasp of a French accent lilting his words, “I’ll have the same. Can I upgrade mine to a large?”
Barty snickers into the intercom and Regulus bridles at both their words. “Can you both sod off?”
Evan tuts. “Now, that’s no way to speak to a customer now, is it?”
“Yeah,” Barty interjects, “where the fuck is your manager? I want to talk to him.”
“Probably off wanking or getting high,” Evan mumbles in the background, to which Barty hums in approval.
“Go home, you both stayed out late tonight.” Barty and Evan had not returned to their shared apartment after their shift at L’Astre and had instead chosen to use their night to mindlessly drive around.
“We went home and you weren’t there, Reg. We’re here to pick you up.”
“Barty, I’m fine. Just go.”
“Don’t be like that, Reg. Come home and I’ll make you a hot choccy before cuddling you to sleep. How’s that sound?”
“Evan, we both know you and Barty are going to be fucking each other's brains out. If I’m not going to be able to sleep, I might as well do that here.”
“Look at this git,” Barty barks out, “some cuddles from his Jamie and suddenly he’s giving us the cold shoulder, Evs. Are you telling me that Mr. Sunshine is a better spooner than I am? We might have to hold a spoon-off.”
More angry grumbling before Evan sounds through the intercom again. “I’ll call in James to drag your greasy ass home. Bring one of those Sugar Donuts with you.”
“You will do no such th–” The sound of tires screeching cut him off before the intercom goes quiet again and Regulus sighs, deeply, lamenting the fact that is his best friends always butting in.
Does he have unhealthy coping methods? Yes. Definitely. Without a shadow of a doubt.
Does this warrant cosseting (his friends just caring for him)? No. Absolutely not.
So it’s no surprise that when a car pulls up, approximately twenty minutes later, James’ voice resounds through the intercom, speech slurred with sleep.
“Mi vida,” he sighs, “come home.”
“I’m working.”
“You're not working,” James counters. “You're tiring yourself out in the most ridiculous of ways."
“I'm not tiring myself. This is quite calming, actually.”
“Baby, there is nothing remotely calming about working at a McDonald's at almost three in the morning.”
“Order. You're holding up the line.”
“Wha– there's no line! It isn't common practise to drive to a McDonald's this late, amor.”
“Your order.”
James groans loud enough for the intercom to fill his headpiece with static. “The usual.”
Regulus types in a singular Cadbury Flake Chocolate McFlurry.
“That will be one ninety-nine. Pull up to the window.”
James pulls up to the first window, driving a fancy trust-fund-baby Porsche, to pay for his purchase, and Regulus slides open the window to extend the terminal toward him. Only to end up watching how James turns off the engine, exits the vehicle, keys in hand, and dressed in pajamas still.
Regulus blinks. “Why did y– James!”
There is a startled sound when he suddenly climbs through the window.
“Get out,” Regulus hisses, trying to push him. “You can’t–”
“Watch me.”
“Are you mad?!”
“Not mad enough to work a McDonald's shift,” James grumbles, flinging both his legs over and coming to stand before Regulus. His hair is mussed and there are rabbit slippers on his feet, the socks mismatched like they were haphazardly put on before leaving through the door.
“Out.” Regulus points his finger to the window.
The thing is, James is an amiable man – not easily deterred nor someone who can be promptly riled up with little to no effort.
None of that is applicable when he is woken up between the sacred hours of one and four for inconveniences. And Regulus working a graveyard shift hardly counted as an emergency.
What’s the worst that can happen when two boyfriends have a stare-off in the ass of the night, in a McDonald’s?
“Oh, James, here to pick up Regulus?” Comes Stebbins’ voice.
James doesn’t look up. “Yeah, could you make me my order real quick?”
“Sure thing, mate. The usual?”
“Extra chocolate drizzle, please.”
“Right on.”
Regulus isn’t backing out now. He keeps his gaze glued to his, expression indifferent and arms defiantly crossed over his chest.
“Regulus.”
“Oh, it’s Regulus now, is it?”
“Your other nickname rights have been rescinded until you enter the car.”
“I think I can decide for myself, Potter.”
“You– That’s unfair!”
James’ bottom lip juts out just slightly in the makings of a pout and, well, Regulus is a weak man.
He sighs, tired, and rubs his eyes. “I’m tired.”
There are arms around him immediately, tugging his exhausted body into a warm, tight embrace, despite his aversion to public displays of affection. “Let me drive you to my place instead, baby, how’s that sound?”
Regulus snorts against his shoulder. “I doubt much sleeping will happen.”
“Maybe, but it will tire you out for sure. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it much more than working the drive-thru.”
No other incentive is needed for Regulus to open the window and clamber out of it, followed by a grinning James who is undoubtedly happy with having obtained a McFlurry and one Regulus Black for a two-for-free deal.
