regulus x remus x james.
The night before James’ wedding they have a threesome.
PART TWO | infidelity | modern au | nsfw
James tosses his jacket onto a gold-trimmed chair like it personally offended him. His shirt’s wrinkled, top buttons undone, collarbone peeking out like a secret he hasn’t decided whether to share. He moves through the suite like he owns the place—and he does, technically—but there’s something disheveled about it tonight. Something not quite sitting right.
Remus sinks into the crushed velvet of the couch, legs spread, tie loose. He watches James flick through the minibar like he’s offended by the labels. Everything is too expensive. Everything tastes like polish.
Regulus stands near the floor-to-ceiling windows, silhouetted by the bruised skyline of London. The glass reflects him back in soft golds and harsh silvers. He hasn’t said anything. He’s removed his shoes but not his attitude.
“Is it tragic,” James mutters, holding up a tiny bottle of something French, “that all I want is a pint and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps?”
“It is,” Remus says. “But you’re still rich, so no one will stop you.”
Regulus scoffs softly, a little hum of laughter under his breath. James’s jaw tightens, just for a second. He walks past Remus, and hands him the bottle Pandora has provided. Keeping the little absurd French bottle for himself.
“Do you want something?” James asks without looking at him.
Regulus turns. “What, from the minibar?” He cocks his head. “Or in life?”
James doesn’t answer. He opens the bottle, drinks too much at once, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s punishing it.
Remus sighs, stretching out. “You’re spiraling.”
“I’m not.”
“Oh my God, he is.”
“James.”
“I. Am. Not.”
The suite is silent for a moment, except for the muffled pulse of the city outside—horns, nightlife, someone screaming in delight four floors down.
But then the heir to Black Enterprises speaks:
“She’ll be a beautiful bride,” Regulus says, too casually, watching the curve of James’s back. James turns to face him, bottle dangling from his fingers. “Don’t talk about her.”
Regulus’s brows lift, but he doesn’t apologize. He wouldn’t. Him and Lily got along quite well, actually. But it feels important not to state that here. Not yet, anyway.
Don’t show your full hand at once or whatever. Regulus is tipsy, too.
Remus watches both of them like they’re a cigarette and a match, already lit.
“I’m sleeping on the couch,” he mutters, because someone has to be reasonable.
James flops down beside him, a little too close. All limbs and drama.
“You said that an hour ago and you haven’t moved.”
“Because I haven’t seen a better option.”
“You haven’t looked.”
“Because I’m lazy.”
“Because you’re sulking.”
“I don’t sulk.”
“You sulk like it’s your fucking job.”
James pouts. “Regulus sulks all the time and he doesn’t get judged for it.”
Remus shrugs. “He’s a French nepo baby. It’s his branding. Like Lily Rose Depp.”
Regulus drifts closer, still silent. He’s not even looking at them—he’s watching the books on the glossy black shelf. Leather-bound things that no one’s touched. He picks one up, flips it open, closes it again.
His patience is as short as his attention span. But he can feel eyes watching his every movement, so he stays preforming.
“You’re both unbearable,” he says, softly. “It’s honestly a miracle you’ve survived this long.”
James grins, crooked and electric. “That sounds like projection.”
Regulus shrugs. “If it walks like a duck.”
Remus laughs—just once, sharp. “You’re the duck.”
“Please,” Regulus says, deadpan. A hand over his exposed chest, over his heart. “I’m the haunted pond.”
James chokes on his drink, and Remus can’t help it—he laughs again. It echoes, just a little, in the vast gold hush of the suite.
And for a moment, it’s almost light again. Almost bearable. Until James goes quiet.
Until Regulus drops onto the arm of the couch, half a metre away, and their knees almost touch.
Until James says, low and unsmiling: “You weren’t invited.”
And Regulus, soft and lethal, says: “You didn’t mean that.” He steals the bottle from James’ hand and brings it to his lips.
And Remus, stomach tight and skin buzzing, thinks: God, he’s going to kiss him.
And he doesn’t know who he means.
“We should put on music,” Remus tries to break the tension but no one moves. He’s not here to help his groom make any more mistakes at this hour.
That hotel-luxury quiet where everything feels far away. No ticking clocks. No responsibilities. Just the low hum of traffic below and three bodies orbiting each other like planets too close.
Remus nurses a drink now. Something amber and ancient. He’s kicked off his shoes, one leg bent beneath him, the other stretched out, sock loose at the heel. He’s not really talking anymore—just watching.
Studying James like he’s trying to memorize the geography of him.
The sharp line of his jaw. The way his hands twitch when he’s restless. The faint blush rising on his cheekbones that has nothing to do with champagne.
James is trying not to look at Regulus. He’s failing.
Every few seconds, his gaze flicks over—like it’s reflex. Like gravity. Regulus, lounging now, long-limbed and draped across the chaise like he owns every soft surface in the world.
One ankle hooked over the other. Shirt unbuttoned far too low. Pale collarbones catching the light. Hair falling into his eyes in a way that would seem affected on anyone else—but on Regulus, it’s art.
Remus sees it. All of it. James’s mouth tightening every time Regulus shifts. The way he licks his lip without meaning to. The way he can’t quite settle.
He wonders, with a flash of something bitter-warm in his throat, how many times James has wanted him.
He wonders how many times he himself has wanted something that looked like this. Beautiful, mean things. Pretty people who never cared quite enough.
Regulus catches him staring. And smiles.
He leans forward, slow and feline, reaching for the bottle near James’s knee. He could ask. He doesn’t. His hand brushes James’s thigh—deliberately.
James tenses. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe, for a second.
Regulus pours himself a drink and settles back, pleased.
Remus watches him with narrowed eyes. “You do know what you’re doing.”
“Always,” Regulus says, raising his glass to no one in particular.
James shifts in his seat, voice low. “You like it, don’t you.”
Regulus blinks, all innocence. “Like what?” James understands in that moment what a wolf in sheep’s clothing actually looks like.
“Being wanted.”
Regulus smiles again—slow, sharp, sweet. “Of course. What else is there?”
Remus laughs once, dryly. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” Regulus says, glancing between them, “neither of you have asked me to leave.”
He stretches his arms behind his head, ribcage rising beneath the thin cloth. His shirt slips further off one shoulder. The bruise from the hallway is purple now, shadowy and bold.
James stares at it. Remus stares at James. Regulus watches both of them. No one speaks.
Outside, a horn blares. Inside, the tension curls like smoke. And Regulus—Regulus just lets them burn
Remus, glass low and eyes sharp now, says lazily, “Let’s play something.”
James lifts a brow. “What are we, fourteen?”
“I just want to be entertained,” Remus mutters.
“You’re both gorgeous and miserable. I deserve at least one.”
Regulus smirks. “Fine. Truth or dare?”
“God, no.” Remus shakes his head. “Something better. Something meaner.”
He stretches, slow, deliberate. “Regulus. Say something filthy in French.”
Regulus’s smirk deepens. He sets his glass down like he’s been waiting for this exact kind of provocation.
“Oh?” he says, tilting his head. “You want performance now?”
James, somewhere between amused and increasingly restless, mutters, “He’s been performing all night.”
“Je peux faire mieux que ça,” Regulus purrs, voice low, thick with silk and smoke. He leans in slightly, speaking directly at James now, tone dipped in syrup: “Si tu savais à quel point j’aime te regarder quand tu es sur le point de perdre le contrôle.” Regulus eyes are natural like this, for some reason. Like this is just in his nature, his perfect circumstance. “T'as envie de moi, pas vrai ? Juste un peu. Juste assez pour que ça te fasse mal.”
James goes very still. He doesn’t understand most, but it’s still very arousing to receive such attention by such a lovely voice.
Remus doesn’t translate. He just watches—knife-sharp gaze, his pulse in his throat. James exhales slowly, squinting. “Something about control,” he mutters. “And… wanting?”
Regulus licks his bottom lip, entirely too pleased. He takes another sip from a cup he doesn’t remember exactly how he got his hands on.
He wonders what else he can get his hands on.
“Close,” Remus murmurs, voice gone a little husky. “He said he likes watching you right before you lose control. That you want him, don’t you? Just a little. Just enough for it to hurt.”
Silence. Thick, golden, loaded.
James swallows. “Right.”
Regulus reaches for his glass again, casual and cruel. “Your turn.”
James laughs, once. It doesn’t sound right. It sounds like surrender dressed as defiance.
And Remus thinks—This is going to end badly. But he doesn’t stop it. Because he wants to see how far it’ll go.
Regulus is draped back across the chaise again, eyes half-lidded, fingers ghosting the rim of his glass. He’s not even pretending to hide how much he’s enjoying this. How much he loves watching them squirm.
Remus clears his throat. “Next dare.”
James raises a brow. “Already?”
“You didn’t think we were stopping there, did you?”
Regulus smiles—lazy, sharp. “Your turn then, Lupin. Dare me.”
Remus sips his drink. Lets it burn a bit. Then: “Touch him.”
Regulus blinks once. A little flicker of surprise.
Then something else—delight, maybe.
James shifts where he sits. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like part of him was.
Regulus studies James for a beat, then gets up—slowly, gracefully, like a storm forming. He walks over, sock-clad feet silent on the plush carpet, and sits beside James with no ceremony at all. Their thighs brush. James doesn’t move.
Regulus leans in, one hand reaching up—not rushed, not rough—and very, very lightly brushes his fingers along James’s collarbone.
Just above the open edge of his shirt. Just skin. Barely pressure. Just enough to ache.
James exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.
Remus watches. His fingers tighten around his glass.
Regulus trails his touch up, featherlight, along the line of James’s throat, behind his ear. Not seductive, not even flirtatious. Reverent. Dangerous.
James’s eyes are half-shut now. Lips slightly parted. His pulse visible in his neck.
And Regulus? Calm. Poised. Smiling like he knows exactly what he’s doing to both of them.
He takes off those glasses and puts them on himself.
“There,” he murmurs, voice low and unbothered. “Touched.”
James’s voice is hoarse when he speaks.
“You’re a fucking menace.”
Regulus leans back, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “You dared me.”
And Remus—Remus is drowning in it. In the thick air, in the heat curling behind his ribs, in the sharp twist of want. He feels like he’s watching something sacred and doomed unfold in front of him.
He doesn’t know if he wants to leave or ruin it. So instead he says, voice quiet and shaking just a little: “James. Your turn.”
James exhales. “Dare you to give me my glasses back.”
Regulus pouts and hands them over with a simple: “Boring.”
He puts them back where they belong. “Well, I can’t fucken see, love. Now can I?”
Remus sees the way Reggie’s cheeks tint at “love” but doesn’t comment.
Regulus is still smoothing his sleeve like nothing happened. James is still recovering, lips parted, pupils blown wide. Remus is watching them both like he might light a match just to watch them burn.
And then he says it.
Quietly. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, but it was already lodged behind his teeth.
“We should’ve just fucked this out years ago.”
The words land heavy.
Regulus stills. His brow lifts, slow and sharp. A challenge in the arch of it. “Oh?”
Remus doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. Just stares, glass dangling loose in his fingers.
James exhales. Drops his head back against the couch, hair mussed, shirt open, utterly drunk and unguarded. “Still could.”
That silence again. But this one is different. Not charged. Not tense. Inevitable.
Remus sets his glass down carefully. “Don’t say that.”
James doesn’t move. “Why not?”
“Because I’ll take you seriously.”
James looks at him then. Really looks at him.
“Maybe I want to be taken seriously.”
Regulus laughs softly—low, wicked, delighted. “God, I forgot how fun you two are when you’re circling each other like wolves.”
James’s gaze cuts to him. “You’re not exactly an innocent bystander.”
Regulus smiles, slow and luminous. “No. I’m the thing you both want when you're too tired to lie about it.” He grin is feline.
No one disagrees.
The city pulses beyond the windows, soft orange bleeding into the sky. A car horn somewhere distant. The fizz of champagne left forgotten on the table.
And in the room—three hearts beating far too loud.
Waiting for someone to move first.
Regulus runs a fingertip along the rim of James’ glass again, lazy and elegant like he has nowhere else to be. His voice is syrup-smooth, too casual to be harmless.
Potter feels like a fish in a bowl, with a cat dancing its claws along the glass before it strikes.
“Have you two ever shared someone before?”
It slices through the quiet like a silver blade. James sits up slightly. Remus blinks. The question hangs there, glowing and heavy.
Neither answers.
Regulus tilts his head, pretending innocence. “What? It’s a fair question.”
Remus coughs once. “No.”
James scratches the back of his neck, flushed. “Christ, Regulus.”
Regulus leans back, still smiling. “You’re both acting like I asked if you’ve killed a man. It’s not that scandalous.”
James mutters, “You’re the scandal.”
That earns him a slow, dangerous grin. “Only when I’m bored.”
“Never Lily?” James glares at that. No.
“Never Sirius?” Remus flares at that one. Also, no.
Regulus rolls his eyes. “I guess I shouldn’t suggest Peter then.”
Remus shifts in his seat. His knee brushes James’s. It stays there. Both men stare at the point like something may happen but neither move.
Regulus watches the contact like a cat watching a ripple in water.
Then, softer this time—teasing, but under it, real curiosity: “Have you ever done it? The two of you. Alone.”
It lands heavier than the first.
James and Remus both go still.
James exhales through his nose, shoulders tense. “No.” ‘Stop. Please. Before I-‘
Remus doesn’t even blink. “Never.”
Regulus raises a brow. “Shame.”
They don’t ask why. The answer is floating between them already, thick and unspoken: Because if they had, this would be different.
Easier. Already ruined. Already done.
But instead, they’re standing on the edge. Palms open. Mouths dry. Waiting.
Regulus stretches out on the couch again, head tipped back. Light plays over his throat, his collarbones, the thin scar near his jaw that James has been staring at for ten minutes.
“I just think,” Regulus murmurs, “it’s a bit of a waste, don’t you?”
James says nothing. Remus’s heart is in his mouth. And the night, soft and electric around them, answers for all three.
Then he says it. Voice all velvet and slow sin: “If you had, I think I would’ve enjoyed touching myself to the thought.”
James makes a strangled sound—half-laugh, half groan—like the idea punched the air out of him. Remus doesn’t move.
Regulus leans in just a little. “I mean, can you blame me? You—” he nods toward Remus, “brooding and tense. Him—” a flick of his eyes at James, “smug and desperate. Would’ve been a vision.”
Remus finally speaks. Quiet. Clear. Clipped. “We shouldn’t be talking like this.”
James looks at him, wide-eyed. Regulus just arches a brow.
Remus’s jaw tightens. “It’s your wedding tomorrow.”
That lands differently. Like a bell tolling somewhere just outside the suite.
James doesn’t say anything.
Regulus doesn’t back off.
Instead, he says, soft and brutal, “All the more reason to say what you mean. Before it doesn’t matter anymore.”
And in that moment, Remus doesn’t know what’s worse—that he agrees, or that he wants to agree out loud.
The champagne tastes like fire now. The room is a cathedral of hesitation.
No one moves.
No one breathes.
But everything is about to come undone.
