Chapter Text
“You want me to—what?” Regulus baulked from the floor where he was cutting stars out of his Celebrities Focus magazine to make a collage of fashions from the 59th Academy Awards.
Sirius crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against his bedroom door. He was wearing baby blue jeans that he’d cut above the knees and a baseball singlet—also cut—that precariously teased the dark ring of his belly button when he moved. Regulus’ eyes kept drifting down to the visible thatch of soft black hair that sprung up through his middle from behind his zipper, and he had to forcibly tear them away to meet his brother’s gaze when he explained, “Just come and hang around the paddock with me. You don’t have to actually watch the race, just be sexy, hand out some beer koozies and root for Remus to win,” he added the last part—the most ridiculous part—under his breath.
“Why would I do that?” Regulus scoffed. “He’s up against my best friend, you know.”
Sirius’ mouth split into a devilish grin. “Oh, I know. I might even be nice and let you wave to your little boyfriend from our tent on the pit lane. Ooh—actually, we could flash him your tits, and with any luck maybe the bastard will do us all a favour and crash early.”
“You’re such a bitch.” Regulus threw his Sellotape dispenser at him, disappointed when it bounced off of Sirius’ arm without doing any damage.
“At least I own it,” Sirius laughed. His hair was teased into a side ponytail, and it spilled over his shoulder when he tilted his head, softening the whole redneck chic situation happening and giving it a feminine, country twist that matched his tall pink cowboy boots. “Come on, Reggie. We talked about this… I can’t leave you home alone every weekend.”
“So don’t go,” Regulus snapped—and then regretted it immediately. He couldn’t stand the look of pity that crossed his older brother’s face. It’d reared its ugly head a lot since he came to live with Sirius and started to divulge what life at home had been like for him—how uptight and controlling their mother had gotten since her firstborn left, tossing up the middle finger in his wake. “Or do,” he tried to backtrack. “I could use a break from you anyway. Maybe I’ll open the windows and clear out the overwhelming scent of desperation you leave around the place.”
Sirius snorted, and he looked like he had a quick response lined up—probably about Regulus’ room reeking of depression—when the wall phone in the kitchen started to ring. “Get dressed,” he pointed firmly at Regulus. “We’re leaving in ten.”
“Whatever,” Regulus muttered. “I’ll come, but I’m not fawning after your old ass, race car driving idol.”
“You say that now,” Sirius winked. “Wear something that shows off your ass!”
“I’m not a hussy like you!” he yelled after him, cheeks flaming. Sirius’ chuckle rebounded as he took the stairs two at a time.
Despite his protests, Regulus padded through the house five minutes later wearing the tightest clothes he could find, and revealing so much skin between the pieces that he felt practically naked. His booty shorts were riding up his crack, and they left absolutely nothing to the imagination if you stared closely enough at the soft black fabric trapped between his thighs. His crisp checkered tank top was years old now, a gift from Sirius at the start of his obsession with racing, and it was definitely too small for him, clinging to his skin and revealing the flushed hue of his nipples, which poked through the thin material dead centre on both barely budded mounds of breast. His knee high socks made it even worse—they elongated his legs, made his ass stick out like a trophy when he passed the full length mirror in the hall.
What was he thinking?!
Sirius was still on the phone when Regulus entered the kitchen. He was curious if his brother would rescind his instructions on what to wear when he saw him like this. More than once, Regulus had paraded around the house in very little, in hopes of eliciting some sort of reaction from his older sibling, but all he’d ever gotten was Sirius’ cheeks going red with frustration, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, and him leaving the room in a hurry. He hadn’t said anything about the attention seeking behavior—yet.
Sirius’ eyes widened when he saw him this time, his mouth dropping open in shock. He leaned back against the kitchen cabinets, looking him up and down, and Regulus tried hard to keep the self-consciousness off of his face as he came to a stop in front of him, his hands on his hips.
“Well?” he asked.
“—be there soon. Yeah. See ya.” Sirius slammed the receiver back onto the wall without tearing his gaze away from Regulus. After a silent beat, he whistled.
“Damn, Reg,” he said, suddenly pushing off the cabinets and stalking forward. Regulus backed up against the island and found himself trapped there as Sirius’ hands hovered down his sides, not quite touching him. “You look fucking hot.”
“Yeah?” he breathed wondrously.
“Yeah,” Sirius nodded approvingly. “But it’s missing something…”
Regulus opened his mouth to ask what when Sirius pinched his chin and turned his face up, eyes glinting like a light bulb had gone off over his head. It took Regulus a startled second to process the wet smack that landed across his mouth, and it wasn’t until Sirius’ fingers were swiping across his lips that he realised his brother had spit on him—and was now using it like gloss to make his wobbly gasp glow.
“There,” he judged confidently once the colour on Regulus’ mouth was sufficiently smudged. “Now you’re perfect.”
❯❯❯❯
The number one thing Regulus hated about race tracks was that they were loud. Even when the cars weren’t flying down the lanes, engines roaring, there was a hub of activity from every angle, not a spot of peace to be found. A headache was already brewing as his brother dragged him down the middle of the paddock through rows of the competing teams parked up in their designated spots.
Remus Lupin’s semi seemed to be one of—if not the—last in the lot, set apart from the others. It was big, the back of the hauler open and inviting, but to his surprise, there wasn’t a big crowd gathered around it. In fact, it looked sleepy compared to the multiple, preemptive parties happening at the others. There were no throngs of people, no boombox blaring a contradicting station to the ones beside it, and the open cooler of beer seemed untouched, the ice melting underneath the bright spring sun.
Regulus couldn’t help but feel relieved that they weren’t joining a massive group of half-sloshed and sleazy groupies—it was bad enough that Sirius made them stop at some of the other trailers to push smiles and hand out Lupin’s merch to easy fans along their way. He’d felt everyone staring at him, women sizing him up and men ogling his body like he was a dripping piece of meat.
He didn’t know which was worse—those receptions, or the shrewd narrowing of Remus’ eyes when Sirius presented him to the man just outside of the big truck.
“What’s this?” he queried, sounding bored.
Regulus scowled at him. He was not a what but a who—who the fuck did this guy think he was? He recognised him of course; Remus Lupin was older—older than Sirius by a good ten years—but not old. Mid-thirties, or maybe that was Regulus being generous, which already this guy did not deserve, but he was good looking. By his tone, he was the no nonsense type, but to put up with Sirius, Regulus knew that he did have to be willing to allow some.
His hair was a bit of a mop—helmet head—the sun-lightened curls framing his ears but coming out straight from the root, making a ridiculous curtain of fringe that’d clearly been shoved back and tucked behind his ears so many times that it just stayed like that now, but it worked for him. It matched his mustache, which was bristly across his top lip and softened the strong, bumpy bridge of his nose. He was leaning with his knee bent against a tall toolbox, a water bottle in his hands, and beside him, Sirius’ friend James—Remus’ newly instated Crew Chief—sat on a fold out table, resting back on his hands and beaming at them.
“We told you, Remus,” James nudged the driver with his shoulder. “Entourage. You need more presence back here. You can’t just be winning races, winning hearts is important too. America needs to want you to win.”
“That’s where we come in… Regulus and I make you look like you’re not a total social pariah,” Sirius added confidently. Regulus turned to shoot a questioning look at his brother—Sirius hadn’t said anything about that. “Don’t worry, Reg,” his brother whispered only to him, “he’s always this grumpy before a race. It’s not you, it’s the nerves.”
“I don’t care about the optics,” Remus grunted, carrying on his conversation with James.
“Maybe you don’t, but Wrangler does and they pay for your car, which costs more than the first place prize money from all twenty-nine races in the cup combined just in upkeep alone. Do you want to lose this sponsorship? Because you will if you’re wearing their name and looking like an asshole.”
Sirius chose then to leave Regulus’ side and head over to the cooler, snagging two glass bottles out of the ice. Remus made a frustrated noise, throwing a glare his way. “Is he even old enough to drink?”
He is right here. Regulus didn’t know where his voice had gone, but it wouldn’t come out. Curse his stupid, social conditioning—it hadn’t quite succumbed to the grave he was trying to bury it in, and the adults were talking. With a laugh, Sirius moved to stand behind him, hooking his arm around Regulus' waist and drawing him back against his chest.
“He’s old enough to consent,” his brother answered suggestively instead.
“Sirius—”
But the cold bottles pressed into his bare stomach, cutting off his hiss of protest and making him shiver as Sirius dragged them both up—leaving a damp trail on his shirt between his breasts—before tipping one into his mouth. Regulus heard his throat work before Sirius let out a satisfied Ahh.
“I’ll keep my eye on him, won’t let him get too out of hand.”
“You better.” Remus’ jaw worked, and they could all feel it coming—the ‘he’s your responsibility’ speech—when quick footsteps sped across the pavement and saved them from having to hear it. Regulus was captured in a bear hug and yanked from his brother’s arms, spun through the air and planted on his feet by an excited fiend who could be no one other than,
“Barty!” Regulus grinned as Barty nuzzled his neck.
“Just what the fuck are you doin’ here princess?? How’d you escape your tower, huh?”
“I live with Sirius now,” he said, embarrassed that he hadn’t had the chance to tell his friend sooner about his whole situation. “He dragged me here. Against my will, I should add—” Regulus raised his brows obviously at his brother, who didn’t bat an eye.
Sirius was too busy glowering at Barty—he never did like Reg’s friends, calling what few he had to speak of too old, too out of pocket—while Remus and James looked between themselves, stunned.
“Boys,” Barty’s smile broadened in the direction of his competition. “Lupin, you’re lookin’ tight, man. Remember to remove the stick from your ass before you get in the hot seat… maybe you’ll actually have a chance at winnin’ this one.”
Remus’ nose twitched, but the lack of a reaction was vaguely impressive. Barty was a bit of a loose cannon when it came to his mouth.
“I was three seconds behind you in the last race. That won’t happen again.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, buddy. You know what they say… the first race makes the season.” With a condescending click of his tongue inside of his kissing teeth, Barty turned back to Regulus and ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry, babe. I won’t hold this traitorous allegiance against you… you can still come party with us after I win today.”
Regulus shot a worried glance to the team around him—to Sirius, who he depended on for a place to stay right now—and gave his friend a shove. “Don’t you have a car to go drive or something?”
“Or something. Lineup starts in thirty. Come say hi to Rosie whenever you get free of these losers. He’ll be pissed if he finds out you were here and didn’t bother.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Regulus brushed him off even though he was excited by the reminder that Evan would be around here somewhere too, and planned to do just that once his brother abandoned him for the track with James and the pit crew. Barty blew him a kiss and then he was gone, waltzing through the paddock like a prince amongst peasants, and Regulus was left to face Remus Lupin’s stern expression.
“A word?” he said to Regulus—the very first thing he’d said directly to him.
Charmer.
❯❯❯❯
The hauler didn’t look nearly as big once it was closed up with both Regulus and Remus inside. The ceiling was lower than he expected, Regulus hadn’t noticed the upper shelving for the car before, which left room for the bottom half to be a studio of sorts. It was lit by plenty of fairy lighting, and a TV hung in the far corner, presumably to watch the race from the paddock. Old helmets hung on the wall on either side of awards, trophies and certificates, badges of honour, etc, all affixed so they wouldn’t fall while the truck was moving, and to his surprise there was an acoustic guitar hanging there as well—a battered old thing that looked like it’d seen better days, but would probably still play well if it was tuned.
There were a couple of folded lawn chairs arranged in a semicircle, and Remus sat in one of them, the yellow and blue racing suit he wore—to match his Pontiac—crinkling as he moved. Regulus stood in front of him and shifted between his feet anxiously, nursing the nasty bottle of beer his brother had handed him with a playful, “Good luck—” before he left.
Regulus didn’t understand why he needed any luck—or why he felt like he was in trouble. He was here basically out of the goodness of his own heart, he didn’t work for Remus, but after Barty it felt like he was in the hot seat, just waiting for the crash to come, like he was going to be scolded or told off or something. Regulus tried not to think of this tight space like his father’s office, but it was hard with this near-stranger looking up at him like he’d already failed.
“Right,” Remus leaned on his elbow and rubbed his fingers over his lips. “Tell me why the fuck I should let you stay.”
“What?”
“Being a part of my crew is a privilege, Regulus. I’m sure you’ve noticed it’s a small one… I’m not big on people, and I definitely don’t fuck around with spies, so after that show I just witnessed between you and Crouch Jr., the man to beat this season…”
The second thing that Regulus hated about race tracks? That the people who used them always had so much damn audacity. “Barty’s just a friend,” he sniffed, crossing his arms over his chest.
Remus followed the motion with his eyes. “That’s exactly why I have a problem with you being here. You’re gonna hear shit, be privy to secrets, and what assurance do I have that you’re not just gonna go and run your pretty little mouth off to him, huh?”
Regulus rolled his eyes to hide the way heat crawled up his spine when Remus mentioned his mouth with that sexy, southern drawl of his. “I couldn’t give less of a shit about racing.”
“That's not exactly reassuring me, darling.”
“I don't care.” Licking his lips—still thinking way too much about that comment—Regulus swayed closer. “I'm only here ‘cuz Sirius wanted me to be here.”
“You're here for him?”
“And he's here for you, so,” Regulus shot back petulantly. After shaking his head, Regulus took a swig of beer. As far as liquid courage went, it was fucking piss poor, and he grimaced. “Look, I showed up, showed off my ass to a bunch of pricks and handed out your tacky fucking koozies, which was humiliating, by the way, but I still did it, all because Sirius asked me to. What more do you want from me?”
Remus seemed to consider this as he leaned forward, prying the bottle from Regulus’ hands. Regulus was almost grateful—he really didn't wanna drink it—but the feeling was fleeting, because the next thing he knew, he was being turned around and pulled down into Remus’ lap.
“Wha—” he squeaked.
Why was everyone manhandling him today?
Why wasn't he fighting it?
Remus’ mouth touched his ear, his fuzzy upper lip tickling his skin and his smooth voice filtering in over all the growing noise from outside: Car engines, hooting and hollering, crowds herding to the stands, all muted by the rich way he cooed, “You think my koozies are tacky?”
Air hissed through his teeth as Regulus arched, and the hands on his hips scaled a few meagre inches, Remus’ thumbs riding across the sensitive strip of skin beneath his breasts.
“You think my mouth's pretty?” he managed, already sounding desperate.
Remus’ surprised bark of laughter startled him, but he quickly melted against his chest when Remus cupped him in his palms and applied enough pressure to settle him. He stared warily at the unlocked trailer door as Remus nosed under his ear, a tingling sensation blooming behind his lungs. His body acted against him, hips rolling forward into the hand that slid slowly down his middle to rub between his legs.
“I said the same thing about the merch, you know,” Remus hummed humorously.
Regulus whined when Remus’ fingers spread out, pinching the leg holes of his short-shorts together in a wedgie that he rocked between his bulging lips. “What’re you doing?”
“Thought I might take you for a quick test drive…”
He was wet enough that the fabric slid smoothly, soothing the over sensitivity away for Remus’ fingers to slide inside and touch—skin to skin—without making him cry out. They dragged through the moisture now covering his cunt, swirling and searching.
“If you're up to the challenge?”
Regulus’ hands flew to Remus’ forearms as a finger plunged into him. He wasn't some blushing virgin, but the digit was thick, and it stole his breath when it curved up into his heat at the same time as Remus kneaded down over his mound. “Holy crap,” he moaned, knees turning in as the heat in his body built like a pressure cooker. He couldn't come up with anything better. Definitely couldn’t back down—and sue him for being a little touch starved, but he didn’t really want him to stop. Remus’ other hand continued to grope him, petting down his stomach and up into his hair as Regulus writhed in his lap, and his teeth skimmed his ear as he watched from over his shoulder. Suddenly his age really didn’t seem to matter to the older man—but then the speakers flared to loud life and the announcer's voices started barking.
Regulus cringed deeply, elbow sinking into Remus’ stomach as he groaned at the noise—and at the sudden, horrible death of the orgasm he was fast approaching—but Remus barely missed a beat before he was standing, using his arm around Regulus’ middle to lift him off his feet and walk him over to the wall of memorabilia.
From it, he pulled down a pair of big, banded earmuffs in ugly, dandelion yellow just like the rest of his gear. Before Regulus could ask—again—what was happening, his hearing was fishbowled, everything intensely muffled. His shoulders sagged as he finally got a break from the onslaught of noise.
And then Remus tugged down his shorts.
A big hand cupped his ass, thumb sinking into his fleshy centre and spreading it open before a chilly stream of fluid was pouring down his middle.
“Oh, god, of course you have lube on you,” he griped, barely able to hear his own voice, but he wasn't complaining when two fingers pushed it inside, gently but insistently scissoring apart to make room. Remus didn’t seem to be the kinda guy that pussyfooted around, but it didn't really matter that it was so minimal—when Regulus felt the blunt head of Remus’ cock kissing his entrance, he knew that not even an hour of fingering would've prepared him for the size of it. Better to face it, take it, since he apparently wanted it so bad that he could feel his own arousal dripping down his legs with the lube. News to him, but—okay. And damn, the fullness felt good. Regulus was—maybe—starting to understand why Sirius was so obsessed with this guy.
Remus was incredibly—shockingly, given their time crunch—patient about splitting him open on it, careful until Regulus’ body gave a reluctant way around him. Regulus was putty after that, breathless and bloated and overwhelmed. His thoughts were abuzz without his hearing, and he couldn't predict where Remus’ hands would go next, moving in possessive flurry. His chest, his waist, his arms—eventually dragging his wrists behind him, using them like handlebars to piston his hips as Regulus hung from the hold. The plap plap plap sensation against his cunt adding a sharp, stinging sensation to the stomach bursting fullness bulging his clit. Every thrust was solid, strapping, he was going to be feeling this for fucking days—
With one more hardy stroke, Remus stilled, plastering himself awkwardly against Regulus’ back, and he felt his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. He squeezed his eyes closed, waiting for the warm spread he was sure was to come—fucking animal—but all that happened was a deep rumbling from Remus’ chest as he held back his orgasm, face bent and buried against Regulus’ shoulder. He took a moment to calm himself, and then he was pulling out, turning Regulus around and dropping him onto his knees.
Regulus winced as he landed awkwardly on his shorts, cunt throbbing. He dropped his hand down to his clit and looked up at Remus, his glare quickly widening in appreciation, gaze transfixed on the cock Remus pumped in his face; it was thick-skinned, uncut and red where it wept at the tip. Mouth watering, Regulus licked his lips and knelt up, desperate for a taste, only for Remus to bury his fist in his hair and jerk him back down before he could get one. He held him still as come splashed across his face, and hot droplets on his lashes forced his eyes closed and his cheeks to flame as his own pleasure peaked, body shuddering through an intense burst.
Remus’ fingers swiping through the stripes on his cheek and pushing into his mouth brought him out of his head, and to his further embarrassment, he mewled as he sucked them clean, shuffling ever closer. Remus’ spend didn’t taste like much at all, a faint musk covered up by the lingering sharpness of motor oil, but his tongue was thorough and greedy anyway. A hanky gingerly cleared his eyes, and Regulus blinked them open to see Remus’ intense stare on his mouth. Redoubling his efforts, he took his fingers deeper, pride surging in his chest when they sank past his tonsils and he still didn't choke.
Remus’ eyes flashed, and he added a third finger, then a fourth like he just couldn't help himself stretching Regulus’ lips thin around as much of his hand as Regulus could take. Regulus hated that he wanted to impress him—but in a roundabout way, it felt like impressing Sirius. Regulus curled his tongue up, feeling around the crest of his calloused palm, but Remus was already drawing back, his eyes flicking to the side like he was listening to something.
The race, Regulus remembered suddenly.
Remus tapped his cheek with his wet hand and then stood up to shove himself indelicately back into his jumpsuit. It wasn’t half bad, honestly—from this angle, Regulus could appreciate that it hugged him just right, especially around his thighs. And then he was kneeling in front of him again, peeling one cushioned muff away from Regulus’ ear so that he could hear him order pointedly, “Denounce your friendship with Crouch.”
“Crash your car,” Regulus croaked, determined to be difficult even though he was still shaking, and he’d probably roll over and bare his ass if Remus wanted him to.
Remus chuckled, unfazed, and pressed a sloppy kiss to his cheek. “I'm gonna win this one just for you, sweetheart,” he purred, and then he replaced the guard over Regulus’ ear, dropped the soiled hanky into his lap, and left him there on his knees to take his place in the lineup.