Reel-to-Reel
poly!wolfstar x fem!reader
Summary: Sirius wastes ten dollars of recording tape in the studio and Remus decides to teach him a lesson.
Warnings: NSFW / but smut is marked with ** / so you can skip it if you want / implied groupie reader / voyeurism / drug and alcohol use / smoking / duh it’s the 70s / sirius black being a diva /
1974
“Again.”
Remus’ voice is steady as a drum, even though they’ve been at it for hours.
“Oh, come on,” Sirius groans from the recording booth. “That one was fine!”
“You were too quiet.”
“But I thought you liked it when I was loud—”
A buzz sounds as Remus turns a knob on the switchboard, silencing Sirius’ whining. The entire world outside of the control room goes mute, and you watch Sirius put his headphones back on and give Remus a reluctant thumbs-up.
“He’s such a drama queen,” Remus mutters, leaning into the smaller microphone on the production desk. “From the top.”
The tape starts again, the click-click-click of the reel scratching something in your brain that makes you lean your head back into Remus’ shoulder. The red recording light turns on, and Sirius starts to sing again.
You have no idea what time it is — there aren’t any windows in the recording studio, so the entire space takes on a permanently dusky appearance. The walls are a sandy colour, blurring in and out of focus against the smoke drifting from the joint between your fingers.
James and Peter left maybe an hour ago, the only evidence of their presence being the empty Coca-Cola bottles strewn around Peter’s drum set and the five guitars placed on the floor like a druid’s stone circle.
You’ve been making your way through a six-pack and picking at the leftover McDonald’s that Marlene had dropped by earlier. At some point, you’d gravitated into Remus’ lap, and now you’re curled into his side like a denim-clad cat.
“Pass that here, would you, love?”
You pass your joint over to him, and Remus swipes his thumb over your wrist in thanks.
“Finish your fries,” he says, without looking up from the mixing desk.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten anything today.”
“I ate, like, a pack of Oreos.”
He turns to look at you with an unimpressed expression.
“And like, six beers.” you continue, hands raised in defence. “They have carbohydrates.”
His face doesn’t move, eyes aggravatingly firm beneath the fringe of his straw-coloured hair.
“You should be a teacher, y’know.” you tease. “You’ve got that passive-aggressive look down to a tea— OW!”
Remus has pinched your thigh. You swat him in the chest, and he turns back towards the mixing desk.
“Don’t hit me,” he says, “I’m working.”
“Oh, so you can physically assault me, but I can’t defend myself?”
“Eat your fries.”
You huff, snatching the joint back off of Remus and making a show of stuffing salty fries into your mouth. If he notices, he doesn’t rise to it, proceeding to unplug a wire and reinsert it somewhere else with a satisfying click. His hands are so big that it’s quite impressive how deftly he can make his way around a switchboard, with its fiddly wires and knobs.
“Do you think it needs another track?”
You shake your head, mouth full of fries. “Nah.”
At first, Remus had just thought you were another one of Sirius’ tour-wives, but he’d started warming to you when he realised you’d learned a thing or two about music production after hanging out around musicians for so long. He really warmed to you after you sucked his dick backstage last year, but that had come a few months later.
When exactly he became the sort of person who made sure you finished your fries, you aren’t entirely sure.
He hums in approval when you throw the empty bag of fries in front of him. “Good.”
You crack open another can of beer.
“You sure you don’t want one?”
He shakes his head, nodding to the fifth cup of tea he’s drunk in the past hour.
Your gaze returns to Sirius as you take another sip. He’s wearing one your sequinned blouses, cropped at the waist on his long pale torso, and a pair of velvet trousers that hang dangerously low on his hips. His whole body ebbs and flows as he shakes the maracas he’s holding, hair falling like liquid obsidian beneath the low studio light.
His head angles back when he gets to the bridge, and you have to stifle a moan. He makes the same expression during sex. There’s something in the way his eyebrows pinch, almost as though he’s in pain — it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen.
Or maybe you and Remus are both just masochists.
The thought makes you laugh so hard that beer starts streaming out of your nose.
Remus frowns “What’s so funny?”
“Me.” You shrug, licking your lips clean of foam. “I’m hilarious.”
“You’re getting to be worse than him, you know.”
“Hey!”
He lets you whack him in the shoulder this time, before reaching his left arm around you so that his hand can find a home beneath the undone fly of your denim shorts. The wool of his fisherman’s jumper is warm against your thigh, and you lean further back into his chest.
You twist your head against the side of his neck, mumbling into his warm skin: “Can I have a kiss?"
“I’m working.”
“But I finished my fries.”
He takes a long drag of the joint, before turning and leaning in to breathe it in between your lips. The taste of tea and lemon sherberts greets your tongue when you lick inside of his mouth.
“Whoa, can we keep it PG in there, please?”
Remus groans with frustration at the sound of Sirius’ panicked voice. You giggle at his stance in the recording booth; hands on his hips as he stares at the two of you accusingly.
Remus leans into the mic. “You just wasted that entire take, mate.”
“Don’t call me mate. I can see your hands down her—”
Remus turns Sirius’ voice off again with a flick of a switch, laughing to himself quietly. “From the top.”
You think that you can make out the words dick-head and bell-end behind Sirius’ lips, but you can’t be entirely sure. The recording light flashes on again, and the track starts over.
“S’fucking ridiculous,” Remus says, pressing another button as Sirius begins singing again. “He doesn’t understand that tapes cost money.”
“I don’t think Sirius understands anything about money,” you whisper conspiratorially into his ear.
Remus’ hums in agreement, and his hand starts to move beneath your shorts.
**It’s innocent at first — lazy circles that make you feel as though your heart has sunk between your legs. But then they slide under the elastic band of your underwear, and you let out a yelp.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” he says, taking the joint from you and going back to fiddling with the mixing desk with his free hand. “Just showing him what happens when he wastes studio time.”
“And you call us childish—“
You’re cut off when his thumb rubs over a particularly sensitive part of you, pushing his elbow against the inside of your thigh to spread your legs open wider. The warning look he gets from Sirius only seems to spur him on, and he pushes two fingers inside you down to the knuckle.
The beer can crinkles in your hand.
“Don’t splash that onto the switchboard,” he says.
“You’re making that—” you moan when his fingers make a particularly wet sound “You’re making that kinda difficult, here, man.”
Still, with a wobbly hand, you place the beer can onto the mixing desk. It’s just as well— as soon as your hand is free of the offending can, the heel of Remus’ palm starts pushing against your clit and your back arches, your body bent like a violin bow and straining in his hold.
Your voice comes out hoarse: “I’m going to come.”
“Look at him.”
“I can’t—”
“Look at him, or I’ll stop.”
“Oh, fuck you—”
You open your eyes just enough to make out Sirius staring murderously at the two of you, shaking his maracas with fury before your vision is clouded with stars.**
When you come to Remus is winding up the reel, and Sirius has disappeared from the recording booth.
Sirius opens the door with force, red-faced and panting.
“What the fuck did I do to deserve that?”
“You wasted a reel.” Remus says, wiping his fingers on his trousers and leaving a wet patch on the wool. “And Y/N finished her fries.”
“Her fries?” Sirius looks incredulous. “I’ve been slaving away for hours, and you get her off because she finished her bloody fries?”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“You’re a sick man,” he huffs to himself, snatching the joint out of Remus fingers, before storming off back towards the door.
“Where are you going?”
“We are going back to the hotel. It’s my turn. Bloody fries. I never should have introduced you two to each other.”
