Chapter Text
Whizz Hard books is an ultra-modern publishing house in the heart of London. Regulus’ agent, Franklin, doesn’t fit in. His office comes equipped with a giant screen at the end of his desk that they could meet on virtually, but Franklin says Zoom meetings poison his psyche. Instead, they sit in two bright orange office chairs in a glass-walled room that feels like a fishbowl.
“It’s not terrible.” Franklin tells him, tapping the hardback copy of Regulus’ latest ‘hit,’ You Had Me At Hello. Franklin is a nice enough man. He wears tidy suits with novelty ties and matching socks, has an entire collection of those wood carved pens with animal heads on the end, and always shows up to meetings with coffee for himself and Regulus. He’s just hard to take seriously (in part because of the animal-head pens, and in part because he swivels back and forth and back and forth on his chair when he talks).
“I know it’s not terrible,” Regulus says carefully. It’s already on the shelves, and it’s selling well, people are talking about it. So it can’t be bad. Franklin nods seriously in agreement.
“The thing is… some of your readers have a bit of an ish-” sometimes Franklin says ish instead of issue, he also says awk instead of awkward and serio instead of serious. It, alongside the animal head pens, is part of the reason he’s so difficult to take seriously. He brandishes one at Regulus while he speaks, a horse this time.
“What Frank? What’s the issue?”
Franklin doesn’t go by Frank, he wrinkles his nose at him and sighs, hurrying to the point.
“It’s the sex, Reg,” he says covertly, covering his mouth with one cupped hand.
“The sex?”
“Mhm. You know, the smut. They, the readers, say it’s… medical, and unrealistic… unsexy.”
Regulus can feel his cheeks heating up. He is so not doing this, talking about smut with his agent. It’s bad enough he had to put it in the book in the first place (“sex sells, Reg!”), the last thing he wants to do is talk about it out loud with horse-head wielding, hamburger-sock wearing Franklin.
“It isn’t medical!” Regulus snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not that I care about what a few readers are saying-”
But Franklin cuts him off, “The thing is, it’s more than a few.”
Grimacing, Regulus cranes forward and plucks his coffee off the table, drumming his fingers on the paper cup.
“You could hire a ghostwriter, you know,” is Franklin’s very sensible suggestion. But Reg is and always has been fundamentally against ghost writers, he did it for ages when he was first out of college and the pay was shit, and anyway, if he’s going to put his name on something it should be his.
So he tells Franklin that he’ll figure it out with the next book, which is currently a handful of words scattered around documents on his computer, notebooks, and stray receipts he keeps all jammed in the same big tote bag, not that Franklin needs to know that. And then he leaves.
He takes the long way to the pub just so he doesn’t show up ready to snap the head off anyone who tries to look at him, and also so he can fight off the frustrated wall of emotion that wells up at the threat of not being good enough. He didn’t think he’d be the type of writer to agonize over book reviews and angry Tweets but there’s a particularly addicting high that comes along with reading his praises (and a particularly addicting low that comes along with reading everything else).
Franklin’s critiques (which are actually his readers’ critiques, his brain supplies unhelpfully) are still on his mind when the afternoon fades into evening and he finds himself sitting in the corner of a dimly lit bar with his head laid against the wall.
“They can’t be that bad,” Remus says from across the table. He’s wearing the sort of pinched expression he gets when he’s trying to soften bad news.
Which can only mean one thing.
“You read them!” Regulus accuses, sitting bolt upright and leaning across the table. Remus leans back from him, holding his hands up like a shield.
“I didn’t go looking for them!” He exclaims, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He’s recently gotten glasses. Sirius is obsessed with them, and Regulus can see the appeal, it gives him a bookish sort of hot weird librarian aura. “They just came up…”
“Came up where?”
“Oh you know, socials.”
“Socials.” Regulus repeats blandly, looking at Remus in horror.
“Have you read the book, then?” Regulus knows that he has, because Remus is endlessly supportive and reads everything he writes, including the bad self-insert first novel he wrote fresh out of college that never made it to the publisher. He’s also his most honest friend. He finds his pointer finger in his mouth, teeth working at the edge of a usually well-manicured fingernail, while Remus studies the space in between them.
“It was good,” Remus says slowly, like he’s picking out each and every word carefully. “Can I ask you something that’s a bit blunt?”
“When have you ever censored yourself?”
Remus doesn’t answer the question. Instead he says, “How much sex are you having?”
Every single one of the hairs on Regulus’ neck rises and he’s sure he’s gone tomato-red.
“Enough!”
“Hm.”
“Hm.”
“When was the last time, then?”
It isn’t that he doesn’t remember, he does, very vividly. Regulus last got off with a sandy-haired man from uni who was close friends with his roommate. They did it after a party at three in the morning and it was wholly unenjoyable. He was nice enough, kind, chivalrous, blah blah, Reg had heard from a number of people that he was good in the sack, so maybe it was him that was the problem.
It’s neither here nor there that Regulus graduated university five years ago.
Remus shoots him a knowing look. “Well, you need to get laid,” he says matter-of-factly. “So you can bring your smut to life, figure out what people are doing these days, you know kinks and foreplay are ever evolving and if you write plain old vanilla missionary - which is actually pretty hard for two men to accomplish, you know - your readers are going to think your sex is boring forever.”
“Easier said than done,” he says, to which Remus gives him a look that’s meant to mean ‘Oh please.’ Regulus could definitely be having sex if he wanted to be. He’s a desirable man. Hot (objectively), rich, he owns his own townhome for Christ’s sake. Hell, there are a half dozen regulars in this bar who would jump at the chance.
Regulus doesn’t want to sleep with any of them. Remus doesn’t seem to realize that.
“Pick someone in here. Anyone. If you could sleep with anyone, who would you?” Remus twists in his seat to survey the tables. This is a hip place that tends to draw a hip crowd, mostly rich influencer types who are staying in the rooms upstairs, or not-so-rich wannabe types who will post pictures of the decor and pretend they are. Among them are a smattering of regulars, old school friends of his brother’s, chic Londoners here for their night cap.
“Oh my god, I don’t know-”
“Answer the question!”
“Remus.” Regulus groans, dropping his head into his hands.
“Stop thinking! Gun to your head. You have to fuck someone in this room. Who is it?”
Regulus feels a bit like there really is a gun to his head, the way Remus is looking at him and speaking quickly and drumming his fingers on the table.
“James.”
Remus blinks at him. “James…” he repeats slowly, turning to watch James behind the bar. He’s silent for an agonisingly long time, and then he nods and says, “James would definitely have sex with you.”
Thankfully James is oblivious to the conversation happening in the corner of his bar, talking cheerfully to a well-dressed couple while he shakes their cocktails over his shoulder.
“Anyway, shouldn’t you be working?” Regulus tries to deflect, but Remus is wearing an annoying little smirk that tells him he won’t be forgetting this conversation any time soon.
When Remus finally leaves him, Regulus open his laptop. He even manages to pull up the word document and start aimlessly tapping at his keyboard. He’s supposed to be writing, every other night he drags himself out of the solitude of his apartment to find somewhere in the city and write. It’s an agreement made with Sirius out of a not-unfounded fear that if he doesn’t he might accidentally shut himself away without seeing the light of day or another living, breathing human for weeks on end. It happened once when he was working on his first book. Sirius found him looking like what one could only describe as crusty with next to nothing in his cupboards and demanded he come up for air. That’s obviously the only reason he spends so much of his time at this quirky bar underneath the boutique hotel run by his brother’s best friend.
Writing, however, feels impossible when there are competing, irritating thoughts demanding attention. Franklin and his in-depth critique of Regulus’ sex-scenes and all of Remus’ leading questions (and their destination, who is currently abandoning his post at the bar and making his way straight toward him).
“Gin and tonic?”
Regulus glances up from his laptop, chin propped in his hand and thinks ‘fuck, can he read minds?’
“Mhm.”
“Extra lime?”
“Mhm.”
“Coming right up, babe.”
“Don’t call me that-”
James is unperturbed, sidestepping several paces to avoid the flick Regulus tries to throw at his wrist. Regulus likes to watch him make his drinks, all deft fingers and a charismatic flourish. He leans in over the bar and flashes glinting smiles, holds the shaker high above his head. He flirts and sways his hips to the low music. People pour handfuls of money into the tip jar.
“It’s on the house,” James says, like this should come as a surprise to him. When he comes back a second time, it’s with a drink in his hands that does wonders to warm Regulus up. He groans into it, too busy praying for some word-related miracle to notice James dropping into the chair opposite him.
“God, you haven’t looked this stressed out since you tried for an economics degree,” James muses. The memory makes Regulus grimace, spreadsheets and numbers. His parents would have been proud, but at what cost?
“I’m not stressed out,” Regulus says, even as he pushes his fingers into the corners of his eyes until stars jump across his vision.
“Right…” Snatching the laptop, James swivels it around to face himself, ignoring Regulus’ squawk of protest. “Oh this is just riveting,” he snorts.
“Shut up! I’m working on it.”
“Clearly you’re not working very hard.”
“Ok, now you’re just being a dick,” Regulus grumbles, taking a generous gulp of his drink.
James takes pity on him and returns the laptop, and at least has the decency to look apologetic when Regulus chances a glance at his face. “Maybe I can help?”
Regulus nearly chokes on his drink, Remus’ voice replaying ‘James would definitely have sex with you’ unhelpfully in his head.
“I don’t know how you could,” he says reasonably and tries again for another sip.
James shrugs. “Dunno, you could bounce ideas off me. Maybe talking it out will help.”
The only thing that sounds more mortifying than discussing his bad smut with his agent is discussing his bad smut with James Potter. Regulus grimaces and gives his head a firm shake.
“No,” he tries to say it with a sense of finality. “Don’t you have work to do, anyway?”
Dorcas is behind the bar now, but there’s a crowd gathering so James gives a great huff as he stands. “It’s never done, is it?” He complains but throws a grin over his shoulder as he leaves, calling, “I mean it, I’m all ears if you need me!”
//
Regulus has never been able to decide whether his tenacity is a blessing or a curse. Sirius always called it bull headedness, stubbornness he picked up when he realized he could do whatever he wanted as a grown adult out from underneath his parents’ thumb.
He’s spent every waking minute since leaving the pub thinking about his reviews. Seeking them out on the Internet and searching his name on socials, reading them and saving them, dissecting them, and, as a consequence, convincing himself that the only way to save his good name is to prove every single one of them wrong with this next book. A better man might be able to rise above it, not Regulus.
If you’d asked him years ago if he’d find himself in a romance fantasy author niche, he’d have said absolutely not. He was on track to follow after his father in some cushy career in the business sphere writing shamefully in notebooks he stowed under his bed in case his parents had the bright idea to confiscate his computer. A failed degree, several break downs, and a decision to go no-contact later and here he is. He’s credited fantasy with saving his life on multiple occasions, at book talks and live reads and press conferences and in the article that came out about him shortly after his first publication hit a young adult’s best sellers list. In truth, he loves the romance piece nearly as much. The reprieve it gives from feeling largely unlovable in a suffocating day-to-day existence, perfect men crafted out of ink on a page who live their lives without shame and ridicule, even if they have to serve as side characters to the more palatable heterosexual love affairs.
He’s well on his way to wearing a hole in his floor, the way he’s pacing the length of his kitchen. It’s been more than a week since his meeting with Franklin, and the page he’s working on hasn’t gotten any longer. The phone is in his hand before he can think twice about it.
James’ voice is groggy and garbled on the other side of the line. A quick glance at the clock tells Regulus it’s nearly three.
“Reg?” James groans, and the mental image of him stretching out on the bed, long and languid, is nearly enough to break through the writer’s block itself. “Are you ok?” There’s a note of concern through the tired sigh, and the sound of sheets shuffling, the click of a light switch.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course I’m fine.”
“Just called to chat in the middle of the night?” James sounds amused more than irritated. Regulus has suddenly forgotten how to speak. What the hell is he doing? There are no circumstances under which he’s the type of person to call James Potter up at three in the morning.
“You know what,” his voice sounds tight. “Never mind, I’m sorry, go back to sl-.”
“Well now I’m up,” James cuts him off. “So spill.”
It feels so incredibly stupid. Regulus turns his eyes to the ceiling like the cosmos might open up and save him from the humiliation. “I’m just writing.”
James hums curiously.
“And you said you could help.”
“At three in the morning?”
“Ok, you know what this was a bad idea, goodnight James.”
“Wait!” Regulus can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll help. Lay it on me.”
There’s another long silence that James doesn’t try to fill this time.
“It’s romantic.”
“Right.”
“… Sexually romantic. And it just isn’t… Coming.”
James snorts loudly. Regulus’ flush has crept up to his ears, he’s exceptionally glad James can’t see him.
“Why don’t you read it to me?”
“Absolutely not,” Regulus squeaks.
This actually isn’t helpful at all. He’s about to say goodnight for good and hang up the phone when James says, “Text it to me then.”
There’s a long silence in which Regulus considers just how much shame he has. James is quiet alongside him. Patient. Eventually he nods to himself and sends a photo of his abysmal word count and scattered sentences to James’ phone, waiting with held breath for him to read it.
There are a series of hms and ahs on the other line.
“I need inspiration,” Regulus says, mostly to fill the silence.
James clears his throat “I mean there really isn’t a lot here.”
“I know!” Regulus resumes pacing his kitchen.
“Want to talk through it?”
“No,” Regulus sighs.
“Well then I don’t know what you expect me to do unless this is some sort of booty call.”
It doesn’t seem to click until Regulus is silent for several seconds. His heart is thumping so hard he’s afraid James can hear it through the phone.
“Is this a booty call?”
“It isn’t… not one.” He’s going to kill Remus Lupin. This is probably the worst idea he’s ever had and the only reason he’s had it at all is because Remus put it there, that conniving bastard. “Oh you know what, good night James.”
“Hold on a second.”
“Can you promise me you’ll never bring this up again?”
“Reg.”
“To anybody. But especially Remus. And especially my brother.”
“I’m putting my shoes on. I can be there in like… fifteen minutes. If, you know, you’re still interested.”
Regulus’ knees feel a bit like they’re going to fail him, so he clings to the counter for some stability. He isn’t aware that he’s gaping like a fish and staring silently at his phone until James clears his throat.
“Yeah,” he manages, even though every atom in his body is saying that no, he actually definitely means no.
“Alright,” James’ laughter does soften things a little. “See you soon.”
It isn’t that Regulus doesn’t want to have sex with James. The thought has occupied his every waking moment for a week, longer if he’s honest with himself, at least at the back of his mind somewhere. This is just so dramatically unlike him that the violent 180 is making him feel a bit ill.
When the buzzer goes, he’s in the living room setting two mugs of tea on knitted coasters. Regulus’ two-bedroom brownstone isn’t even a five-minute train from James (and Remus and his brother since they all live together like they’re still seventeen and in the dorms). It’s split into three levels with hardwood floors and warm lighting, a rich green sofa he had custom made and vintage knick knacks and picture frames on every flat surface.
He has a white-knuckle grip on the door when he swings it open.
“What did you tell my brother?”
“Hello to you, too.” It’s half past three and the trains aren’t running, but James is here anyway. His cheeks are pink and his hair is still wet from the shower, and when Regulus closes the door behind him his glasses fog up.
“Smells nice in here.” James has been in his house plenty of times before. It isn’t their usual go to, because it’s easier to hang out where the three of them live (and where the host isn’t so anal about shoes coming off at the door or crumbs on the furniture). James steps out of his trainers without being told to and then he hangs up his jacket (denim) and shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweats. It’s at that very moment, looking at James with his flushed red cheeks and his very casual clothes that the gravity of this whole thing finally hits.
He could panic. He does start to, but James’ frigid hand on his wrist is enough of a shock to the system that he freezes midway through turning back toward the hallway. “Did you mean it? Or are you just fucking with me?” James asks.
It’s such an absurd question that Regulus’ thoughts stop in their tracks.
“Why would I be fucking with you?” He can’t quite read the expression that passes over James’ face, eventually replaced with an upward quirk of the corners of his mouth that he can only read as amusement.
It feels too much like being laughed at for Regulus not to offer up something barbed. “I needed some inspiration, figured you’d be around and willing.” The confidence in that particular statement all comes from Remus.
“What’s that supposed to mean? I have a life you know, I could have been out.”
It’s interesting that the implied nothing to do is what he’s hung up on. “Well?” Regulus says, “You were free, weren’t you?”
His eyes track down James’ body, his t-shirt and his sweatpants, back up to his cold-flushed cheeks. The nighttime air in London is still chilly this time of year. When they track back up again he catches James doing the same and has to swallow several times to clear his throat enough to speak. “Well. Do you want tea?”
He expects James to look at him like he’s grown a second head, but he doesn’t. Instead, he follows him into the kitchen and humours him by standing at the counter with a mug in his hands.
“Is this how you seduce all of your hook ups?” James asks.
The phrase hook up makes Regulus’ mouth screw up in distaste. He’s never been a casual lover. University saw a handful of men in his bed because that felt like the thing he was supposed to do: Party, flirt, fuck, sleep uncomfortably next to someone who’d probably be better off a stranger, and then try not to think about what they’d done the next time he saw them in class or in the coffee line. But he doesn’t have time for the relationship thing, and anyway, to get to the relationship stage you have to get through the casually-dating stage and he doesn’t want to do that either.
“You’re an anomaly,” Regulus tells James. It means he doesn’t have to admit that his proverbial bedroom is full of cobwebs, but it seems to pique James’ interest in a way that makes Regulus blush anyway.
“So,” James’ throat bobs when he swallows the last dregs of his tea. His voice has a teasing note that makes Regulus want to shove him. “How would you like to go about this?”
Regulus just manages to suppress a scowl. It should take away from the appeal, probably, but James’ banter and his stupidity which isn’t really stupidity have been a welcome constant since he left his parents’ home and showed up on Sirius’ doorstep (which happened to also be James’ doorstep) when he was eighteen.
“Well, we’re not doing it on the couch,” Regulus says primly from the base of the stairs.
“No, obviously not. That’s definitely below you.”
James doesn’t follow him right away. He can hear him rinsing out their mugs, the opening and closing of the dishwasher, and then footsteps behind him. He doesn’t seem to notice that Regulus is hovering around awkwardly, wholly unsure of what to do with himself. James, though, seems like he’s already very comfortable. He turns off the overhead light in Regulus’ bedroom and turns on the lamp beside his bed. It casts a warm pool of light on the covers, and on James, perched on the edge of it as if he belongs there.
Maybe he shouldn’t be trying to fuck someone who knows his tells. He’s prone to chewing the skin off his lips when he’s nervous and eye contact has always felt like a terrible inconvenience, especially in moments like these ones. Since he isn’t looking at him, he startles when James’ hand wraps around his wrist and tugs. He’s wearing slippers, which feels stupid and sort of embarrassing now, especially when they make him stumble over his own feet and land with an ‘oof’ between James’ thighs. They’re strong thighs, he’s seen them in swimming trunks and gym shorts, all with stupidly short inseams because James is apparently unacquainted with modesty. There’s a thumb on his lip, coaxing it out from between his teeth in a way that’s tender but still forceful, a silent ‘don’t do that’ and ‘that’s better’ when he lets it go and feels James’ thumb on his jaw instead.
“You’re going to have to kiss me first. I still sort of think you’re just fucking with me.”
It’s then that Regulus realizes just what position they’re in. James on his bed, knees spread, Regulus standing between them. Good lord. He isn’t sure why he expects James to sit there like a statue when he kisses him, maybe because that’s how the curious ‘you’re not my usual type’ uni men tended to be. James, though… When Regulus musters up the courage to lean in until their noses are nearly touching, James winds around him like an octopus. A strong hand braced against his jaw, the other on the divot in the small of his back. Splayed out like that, it feels like James could hold his whole fucking body in his palms. He doesn’t though, what he does do is drag Regulus forward until his back arches and their fronts are pressed flush together and then he has the audacity to sigh indecently, even though they haven’t even kissed.
Or maybe that was him. Yeah, that sound was definitely him.
They stand like that for an amount of time that should be awkward, but isn’t. Nose to nose, Regulus can feel James’ breath (mint, chamomile) on his lips, and those hands never pull away. The one on his back moves a little, fingers flexing into tight muscles. Most of the time, James has the energy of a charming golden retriever. Stupidly, Regulus assumed that inability to sit still and be wholly serious would come into the bedroom. But James is very still now, and looking at him very seriously.
Regulus kisses him first, because it becomes clear that James really won’t be the one to make the first real move. Tentative, soft. It causes James to take a sharp inhale of breath and the hand on his back to pull a little bit tighter. It becomes sort of blurry, then, the line between one kiss becoming two and then their mouths are pressed together in something slow and unyielding. Eventually Regulus opens his eyes and finds himself straddling one of James’ thighs, the whole of his weight balanced on James’ knee.
“Jesus, Reg.” James gives a choked laugh.
“Shut up,” Regulus’ cheeks are flushed. “No laughing.”
Knocked backward by Regulus’ hands on his chest, James hits the bed and grins up at him.
“I wasn’t laughing.”
“You were laughing.” Regulus plants one knee on either side of his hips, crawling on all fours to hover over him. He can feel his heart in his throat and in his stomach, right alongside whatever magnetic thing makes him kiss James again.
Firmer, this time, because he’s trying to shut him up.
James’ grin falters and he groans. He reaches for Regulus so abruptly that his knees slip out from under him until their bodies are pressed so tightly together that he can’t miss the way James’ sweats stretch over the hard front of his pants. Already. It sends his head spinning, and his own body responding when James rolls his hips up off the mattress.
“Fuck,” Regulus breathes when James’ kisses move to his neck. It’s been such a long time that the feeling is foreign, but not at all unwelcome. Breath tickles against pale skin until Regulus’ head has craned so far backward asking for more, more, more that he’s starting to go a little dizzy.
‘That’, he thinks, ‘Need to add that.’ The way it feels like the climb before a free fall, a teasing brush of lips, the almost nip of teeth, and the dizzy rush of blood when the suction of James’ mouth pulls deliciously at his skin.
“No marks!” Regulus gasps, and James replaces his lips with his tongue.
“Sorry,” he mutters sheepishly, not stopping.
James is gentle, the way he coaxes Regulus onto his back. Now he can roll his head freely without cutting off his air supply, spine following the arch in his neck when James tugs his shirt collar down to expose more skin to his mouth.
When James nudges their hips together it’s almost immediately too much, senses overwhelmed by touch. He shimmies out of his shirt when James rucks it up, giving himself more skin to work with. James kisses and he grazes his teeth, but he never bites and he doesn’t suck, just soft enough that Regulus’ nerve endings light up, just soft enough to be as frustrating as it is pleasant.
James’ mouth grazes closer to his navel, just underneath his belly button, right above his hip bone. Regulus is hard now, the fabric of his pants stretched tight across his cock. He’s wearing dark green joggers, and it’d be horrifying that James can see and feel everything, if only him feeling everything didn’t feel so good. James palms him through the fabric and all of the air leaves Regulus’ lungs in a startled, “Ah!” and a silent plea for James to do it again.
When he does, Regulus’ hips lurch. James laughs again, but he doesn’t have it in him to complain about it. Realizing quite suddenly, and perhaps surprisingly, that he wants James’ mouth lower, Regulus freezes. Before he can stop himself he gives James’ hair a sharp tug.
“Not that.” James’ kiss is a little frantic when he comes back to his mouth, but he reels himself in quickly with a nod.
“What then?”
“Hands. Hands only. Is that ok?”
He expects James to plow right through the limit. Not in an awful way, but James has always been a ‘one-step-too-far’ kind of guy. Overbearing in a sweet way, someone who doesn’t know how to be politely shut down when his intentions are good.
But James nods earnestly, and returns his hands to Regulus’ hips and his mouth to his lips.
He and James kiss for a long time. James kisses reverently, like this isn’t just a hook up and he couldn’t dream of being a selfish lover. It’s a tongue behind Regulus’ teeth and a strong hand up in his hair. James' thigh grinds slowly between his, so slowly that Regulus squeaks a whine because he wants more, more, more.
“James,” he breathes. “James!” This time he repeats it a little louder. He means for it to be sharp, but it comes as a pathetic whimper instead. James does lift his head, though, from where he’s lavishing his neck with attention. “Touch me.”
James responds well to the plea. He moves like he’s been coiled up and waiting to, his hand traveling down Regulus’ body. He’s laid on his back, James on his side hovering over him. It grants him easy access to Regulus’ front. James palms over him through his pants first, teasing, but only for a moment before he’s slipping a hand under two layers of fabric. It’s warm, the tips of his fingers are rough. Regulus’ body is tight with anticipation, breath stuttering as fingers ghost the skin over his pubic bone.
James’ thumb swipes through the moisture at the tip of his cock and it sends sparks up his spine. But he doesn’t stop there, curling his fingers around him and starting a languid rhythm. Regulus can’t help it, he crushes their lips together so the needy sounds coming out of his mouth are instead poured down James’ throat. He isn’t sure how much time has passed before he feels James’ weight shift until his other hand is freed from underneath him. It’s an inconvenient angle, his arm all bunched up, barely able to reach between his own legs. It takes Regulus a second to find it in him to act. It feels clumsy, the way his hand scrambles until it’s down James’ sweatpants with his own. James acts like he’s been dying to be touched for years instead of minutes, gasping and tightening his fingers on Regulus’ cock. Soon, they’re each pulling in uneven breaths and moving in desperate, frantic motions.
“Oh,” Regulus’ forehead creases, teeth gritting as pressure forms low in his gut. His muscles are tightening, shoulders shifting against the mattress. Try as he might, he can’t stay still. James chases his writhing body, and he doesn’t complain when Regulus’ wrist stops moving altogether in favour of focusing desperately on his budding orgasm. It rips through him suddenly, and too soon. Having James’ hand on him is nothing like having his own hand. It’s a startling wash of pleasure, body pulled toward James.
When the high wears off they’re both breathing hard.
“Shit,” Regulus mumbles, and then repeats it when he realizes James is still hard and heavy in the palm of his hand.
“It’s alright.” But it doesn’t sound alright. James’ voice is tight and his pupils are blown wide. When Regulus flexes his fingers he twitches in his grip. And oh, isn’t that a little bit intoxicating?
“Reg.” James’ breath hitches when he gives an experimental twist of his wrist. His movements are more calculated now that he doesn’t have James’ hand down his pants driving him crazy. Long, languid pulls, a twist at the tip. He may not be that experienced anymore, but this he does know how to do.
James is a vocal lover, making noises Regulus didn’t think possible, little keening gasps and whines and pleas. He has the fleeting thought that if his brother knew, he’d never let James live it down.
When James comes, it’s with a sharp cry and his hand snapping out to catch Regulus’ wrist and hold it still. Afterwards, they both breathe unevenly into the silence. James is the first one to break it.
“Shit, Reg.” Privately, Regulus agrees, but he also doesn’t think James should be so affected. There clearly isn’t a shortage of people willing to fuck him, given how much attention he gets at work.
James rolls toward him from where he’s fallen onto his back. He kisses Regulus’ shoulder and then his jaw, breathing against his skin for a while longer.
The mattress dips as he’s trying to find the will to move. He doesn’t expect James to leave, so he jolts when the warmth of him is suddenly gone and the floor is creaking. The bathroom light flicks on, and then so does the tap. In the quiet of the bedroom Regulus’ head is anything but, it gives him time to think (overthink). He’s well on his way to spiraling when James reappears at his bedside.
“Do you want me to?” James gestures at his thighs.
“No, I’ve got it.” James looks covertly away while Regulus cleans himself up with one of his own face cloths (bad choice on James’ part, but complaining feels like more energy than it’s worth). James disappears when he’s done, the water turns on again and then off. The creak of the floor signifies his return, and then the dip of the bed and the shuffling of the covers.
“Mind if I stay or are you going to make me walk all the way home again?” James presses his cheeky smile into Regulus’ shoulder.
“Shut up,” Regulus sighs. His entire body feels heavy, and the covers feel languidly warm with James underneath them. He reasons that it’s only right to roll onto his side into the open arm James offers him given they’ve just gotten one another off.
“Shouldn’t you be whipping your computer out to finish off a scene?”
Regulus covers a choking sound up with a cough. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”