Chapter Text
There’s a sort of decorum that was beaten into Regulus at an early age.
It’s what shaped his bones. He was shown shame and discomfort by his mother and father’s hands, respectively, and really, Regulus should know better. That’s what he’s trying to say. That it’s hard on nights like these, when he’s teetering between not enough and too much to drink, and he is, ultimately, reminded in one way or another that he was taught to be an upstanding citizen. A just subject.
A child of honorable birth. Posture as forged as the words that come out of his mouth.
Actually, Regulus was taught to be a jackass and to care about which forks to eat dinner with, and how to bow politely.
He was a child who was taught that actions have consequences. Grand, life-altering consequences over something as small as not eating all of your dessert or flipping the mailman off, no matter your defenses or who else was doing it. Don’t touch the top cabinet in Father’s study or there will be bruises on the back of your hands for weeks and Regulus always thought he might be anemic with the way he bruised like an over ripened peach.
He knows, somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, how to spot the difference between Merino and Vicuna, and he has islands floating out there that are his.
All that’s left are those islands.
He does not know where they are, their shape, or the name of them, and Regulus hopes someday the state whisks in and takes them away. Steps in and removes them from where they float on the edge of his consciousness.
Regulus doesn’t want them.
But expensive wool and long-lost islands don’t really help when he was too drunk hours ago, not drunk enough now, and digging through his kitchen drawer, finding two of the three forks he owns to eat the takeout someone dropped at his door ten minutes before.
He slams the drawer closed with his hip.
Regulus doesn’t own a wool coat anymore because they make him near break out in hives, and he hasn’t set foot in the house that made him in almost six years.
“This guy says your eyes are very beautiful and he…eugh, god, nevermind. He’s a Scorpio.”
“Please stop,” Regulus says, folding himself back on the couch, take-out in hand. “I told you to stop.”
“This man wants to take you on a date.”
This man looks like someone Regulus will not be going on a date with. For a plethora of reasons. He swallows a bite of chicken. “I said stop. Give me my phone.”
Barty’s tongue peeks past his lips. “This man has a boat. Do you like boating? Yachting? He calls it yachting, actually, but I bet you already knew that.”
“My parents never owned a boat.”
Barty frowns and swipes the boatman away. “Bummer.”
“Sure,” Regulus says, lamenting the lack of yachting he’s done in his life. Barty’s turned something on the TV. Some movie that had been running long before Regulus got home, and the point and plot are lost on him but he watches anyway.
Someone’s leg gets blown off. Regulus slurps down a noodle, and says, “The guy I went on a date with asked me if I wanted to go back to his place with him after.”
“Wasn’t he like…old?”
“And?”
“And why aren’t you there now?”
“He smelled like my grandfather and it weirded me out.”
He’d been handsome enough. Regulus isn't the type to go after non-handsome men, after all.
He is not vain, but if he’s going to fuck someone, he’d rather like what he’s looking at, and although he has his own issues with what he sees in the mirror some days, Regulus knows he’s attractive. He’s got a good enough head on his shoulders, so he knows not to shoot down.
He knows, theoretically, he could have gone home with the man, and it probably would have been fine, but there was just…a lack.
And he did smell of a cloying menthol.
Maybe Regulus is vain, but vanity was also beaten into him and it’s hard to get an old dog to forget old tricks.
“What did your grandfather smell like?” Barty mumbles. “Cuban cigars and crisp thousand dollar bills?”
“Old medicine. Like cherries and menthol.”
“God, he was that old?”
“Who?”
“Your date.”
“No.” Another bite of chicken. “Just smelled like it.”
He was very nice, Regulus cannot fault him that, but overly nice men tend to make him feel extra mean, even on his nicest days, and sitting in his apartment with his best friend, tearing into match after match on the singular dating app Regulus downloaded in an attempt to not die lonely, isn’t the kindest thing to do. He knows this.
He just can’t find it in himself to care.
Regulus wore his nice shirt to dinner and the man hadn’t even ironed his and there was a bit too much hesitation for his liking when the bill was set on the table. He found the conversation stilted which made Regulus unable to sit still, fidgeting and sucking down glass after glass so as to have something to do.
“What's your favorite pastime?”
He watches another woman lose an arm. It’s a zombie movie. Regulus hums. “I don’t know. I was a miserable child.”
“Nice to see nothing’s changed.”
“Coloring.” A noodle slides down his throat and Regulus takes a sip of Barty’s wine. “I liked to color.”
“Like with crayons?”
“Yeah.”
“Boring,” Barty declares and then he’s silent again. “It wasn’t flirting with the pool boy at the country club?”
Regulus drops a noodle onto the front of his shirt. He frowns. “I hate swimming,”
It’s just that Regulus is broke. Well, almost. He makes decent enough money working as a server but he’s tired of being stressed, he’s tired of being lonely, and Regulus hates when Barty is over and he wishes he were by himself, but then when his friend leaves, his house is too quiet.
He lives quite a solitary life. Which is okay. He’s used to the quiet that surrounds and clings to him, and when life is too much, he shrinks and Regulus hates feeling small.
So, he is not unhappy with his life, but life is still life and it’s hard when you don’t have a vault the size of a small home and a name to stand behind. It’s hard when the only socialization you get is either the dickhead to his left or the patrons at the bar who Regulus does not care to remember. They love to remember him, but he goes home every night with his ears ringing.
Companionship. He’s trying to try it.
Someone to share the burden with, that’s what Barty had said, but Regulus’ burdens are his own and heavy. They’ve weighed him down and have taken the shape of his body, his blood, and no one else can carry them. It’s a silly idea, but Barty wouldn’t shut up about it, always trying to help, and Regulus thinks he’d feel a lot less bad about his life if he was getting laid on the reg.
Thus the dating app and Menthol Man.
“How tall are you?”
“Five-four.”
“Two blueberries tall,” Barty mutters and Regulus offers him his fork, eyes locked on the screen. “Got it.”
Companionship is hard for a plethora of reasons he’ll never want to explain to anyone he might find it with. Barty is too quiet after he eats the offered bite of chicken.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
He cuts his eyes at his friend who is curled up on the couch, hiding Regulus’ phone from his sight, fingers flying away on the keyboard. The movie’s credits are rolling and Regulus snatches his phone out of Barty’s grasp before he can so much as protest. A broken whine leaves his best friend’s lips.
Regulus blinks at the screen. “Are you kidding me?”
“Not at all.”
He grimaces, curling his lip at the website pulled up on his phone. Disdain is evident in his tone when he reads the god-forsaken words out loud. “Sugar daddies and—and Sugardaddiesandbabeez.com? Have you lost your mind?”
“You need to get laid.” Barty pauses. “And maybe find a man in the process. I get sad for you every time I get fucked and you don’t.”
“Stop thinking about me when you have sex.”
“I don’t, but when I’m happy after I think about you.”
Odd, Barty is, but no doubtedly sweet.
“In case you weren’t listening approximately four minutes ago, I have no trouble on that front.” Regulus puts the noodles down. This is, for now, more important.
Barty sighs, an exaggerated thing, and bats his eyes at Regulus from his strange new position draped over the sofa. “Well apparently you do, dear Reggie, because instead of getting down and dirty with a hot vintage-smelling man you are sitting here pretending to watch a movie with me.”
He’s making a grab for the phone again, but Regulus dodges.
“And you thought the best solution for that was—Jesus Barty, Findadaddy.com? Really?” There are so many tabs open now, and each one makes his eye twitch.
“I wanted to give you options! I also signed you up for Christian Mingle.” Regulus nearly chokes on a broccolini. “I figured their ad budget for commercials is huge, they have to be pretty successful.”
Traitorously, he wonders if Barty has the right idea.
Not with ChristianMingle.com, that was a wild card he certainly would never keep in his hand, but the whole idea. It’s—It’s not the most outlandish thought if one were Regulus who was wanting what he wants. It’s not like he hadn’t thought about it before.
Then he clicks into the next site and nearly chucks his phone across the room. His friend starts cackling immediately, knowing exactly what set him off. Barty grabs the phone back.
“Fine, fine. I knew Fetish Network was a bit of a reach, but here. Try this one.” The imposing device is placed back in Regulus’ hands and a sleek, navy blue homepage greets him.
Seeking Arrangements.
“It’s much classier than the others, I promise.” Barty grins. “Figured that’d be more your style, posh prick.”
“I’m not posh,” Regulus spits, eyes lingering on the screen. It’s much less…obtrusive looking than the others.
He hates navy, but the photo of the sleek car spells of money he does not have, and although he’s not Regulus’ type, the handsome man getting into said car looks like he’s got enough in his bank account to pay for just about anything he could ever want. Sometimes Regulus’ mouth waters when he thinks about how much easier life is when you have money.
And he may not have a lick of the inheritance and grandeur he grew up with, but, unfortunately, Regulus’ tastes never changed.
He is not stupid, Regulus thinks he’s actually very smart. Which is why it’s shameful, the sad dates he's been allowing himself to go on once in a blue moon. His parents would roll in their graves if they knew of the way he lived now, and Regulus idly wonders if they might support something like this. Probably not because of his intentions. Also probably also not because there’s the whole exchange of his company for money and Regulus just doesn’t think his parents would swallow that one down very easily.
Then he laughs out loud. Barty says nothing.
Terrible.
Barty is just terrible.
“Not anymore you’re not.”
“What?”
“Posh.”
“You can leave.” Regulus glances at the corner of the screen. “Don’t you have somewhere to be in the morning? It’s almost one, so you should leave.”
Barty raises his hands in defense. Of what? Regulus is not sure because now his face is on the internet, on…Findadaddy.com, Christian Mingle, and this site. Where Regulus is now signed up, and there’s a little red notification at the top. He sighs. Regulus bites at his lip, shakes his head, and sighs.
“I’m tired, go home.”
“You’re mad at me.”
“I'm always mad at you.”
“It was innocent fun,” Barty argues. “C’mon, don’t be mad.”
Regulus laughs, grabbing his blanket from the back of the couch. Yanking it out from under Barty. “I’m tired and am really hoping I’m not going to get charged for any of these fucking—really?” He swipes away from another tab. “PantyDeal, too?”
“Oh, you’ve heard of it?” Barty asks, arching a brow.
“Get out of my house.”
Regulus curls up further in bed, adjusting where he’s laid and pulling the covers closer under his chin. Comfy in a big, old shirt and nothing else, his sheets are clean and he’s tired. Sleep is threatening to whisk him away, but he’s staring at his browser in silence. Thinking.
Always thinking.
About that expensive-looking man getting into that expensive-looking car.
Regulus doesn’t even know where to start, so he doesn’t.
Instead, he turns his phone off and does the whole show of sitting up from under his cocoon of warmth and plugging it in. He sets it on his bedside table, lining it up next to his water and headphones. He scoots to the other side of the mattress and falls asleep facing the opposite way.
Regulus falls asleep and tells himself no.
Why? He’s not sure, but he will wake up tomorrow, delete the accounts, and move on.
Regulus wakes up to the Jurassic Park theme song. It had been cute a year and a half ago when he set it as his alarm. He figured 99 cents was worth possibly starting his day off in a fun new way. It was not cute now. He’d take the dinosaurs themselves at this point dragging him out of bed over those same fucking chords at way too loud a volume.
So he rolls over twice, to the left side of the bed, and snoozes the damn thing before he loses his mind.
Only, Regulus doesn’t put it down right away.
No, because he has about thirty emails from fucking PantyDeal and he is going to murder his best friend.
Okay, maybe they’re not all from the one site, but it’s early and there are so many and Regulus absolutely doesn’t want to deal with this before nine. He stares at them bleary-eyed for what must be four minutes because the snooze timer runs out and the alarm makes him drop his phone.
Picking it up, he trudges his way to the kitchen, makes some coffee, sips it, and fortifies himself to open the emails once more. It takes him far too long and not enough coffee to realize that he can’t delete all these profiles because Bartemius himself is the sole keeper of the passwords.
Regulus tries a few: password, passw0rd, ilovemen, ihatemybestfriendregulus
Obviously, they don’t work.
Throwing himself into the metaphorical flames, Regulus pulls up Barty’s contact. Clicks Facetime instead of calling because he wants to look Barty in the eyes when this all goes down. Maybe he should have made a whole pot of coffee instead of a cup.
The phone is ringing and ringing and Regulus is losing his nerve until it clicks.
“What—”
Regulus spits, “Okay, fine. How does this site work?”
Which is in no way what he had meant to say, and he’s so surprised by his lack of awareness, Regulus actually coughs a dribble of coffee onto himself.
Barty had been very asleep, in…silk sheets if Regulus is seeing correctly. His nose scrunches when he sees what looks like large windows. He scowls. Lots of sunlight. The sheets are black, and that is simply not the bedroom Regulus is used to seeing.
It’s…it’s something, though.
Kinda gaudy.
The coffee soaks into his shirt and his best friend sits up. He takes another sip to block out the bottom half of the screen. Barty is clearly not at home, and Regulus’ words are echoing in his head. Bouncing about from too much force and determination he did not know he had.
He’s tired of being broke. He’s tired of getting off by himself and having to pass by the nice desserts at that bakery he loves down the street because they’re fucking expensive.
“Baby?” he hears in the background, sleepy and quiet.
Regulus' eyes go wide.
“Go back to sleep, it’s just Regulus.”
Just Regulus?
Regulus hears an off-screen hmph, and then Barty is tossing him into the sheets before his face comes back into view. Regulus is silent, wide-eyed, and holding his breath as he watches the background shift and change when Barty drags himself out of the room.
“What do you want?”
“Well,” Regulus starts. “I—who was that?” he whispers.
“Evan.”
“Who?”
“My sugar daddy,” Barty says like it’s very, very old and boring information. “Or, well, I think he’s going to ask me to be his boyfriend. He really likes me. He’s so cute. Has a fat wallet and cock, too.”
“Oh my god.”
“I love him for both equally. Don’t worry.”
“No, I—” Regulus watches Barty set the phone down, also grabbing coffee. “You didn’t tell me you had a sugar daddy. What the fuck?”
“Well,” Barty says.
“Well?”
He takes a sip of his coffee, finally turning to face Regulus. “Good morning to you too. I just didn’t think you’d care. Also, it wasn’t like we were dating.”
“You just said he’s your boyfriend,” Regulus hisses. “Why on earth would I not care?”
He’s hurt. Wounded and thinks Barty doesn’t know him at all if he, despite how it may seem, thinks Regulus would not want to know such important and damning information. Everything is starting to make too much sense. He frowns.
“No, I said he will be soon.” Barty takes a careful sip of his coffee and hums. “He gets nervous…so cute.”
“I—okay…” Regulus trails off, suddenly overtaken with new information, but a sliver of him hopes it’s enough to veer the conversation away from—
“So, how does what site work?”
Thus ensues over an hour-long discussion where Regulus learns more than he ever bargained for about both online sugar dating etiquette and his best friend’s sex life.
Barty never did know when to hold his tongue.
There’s the discussion of pictures and Regulus swaps one that was originally on his profile because, well, his ass just looks better and he can’t seem to figure out the line between alluring and desperate for his bio. It’s snowballing fast and he’s already getting notifications and matches and that little red dot keeps flashing. Nervous and giddy walk hand in hand.
Thankfully, Barty does allow Regulus to delete the accounts from the other sites. The password was, in fact, ‘bjlovesbjs.’
He should have guessed.
By the time he’s lounging on his couch and Barty is more decently clothed, Regulus finally gets around to the elephant in the bedroom.
“So, Evan?”
“What about him?” Barty shrugs nonchalantly. Dumbass.
“I mean, I am your best friend and this doesn’t seem like a recent…arrangement, and I’d like to know how you met.” Doesn’t seem like that odd of a question to Regulus, but alas.
“What if I told you it was sugardaddiesandbabeez—”
“Oh, for fucks sake.”
Barty is laughing now and the camera is shaking as he acquiesces, “Fine, fine, it was that lovely website we just spent so much time on for you. We matched a bit ago and hit it off.”
“You just… hit it off? And he parades you around in a Ferrari and buys you jewels?”
“Well, it's a Rolls Royce and he pays off my credit card debt but yeah, pretty much.” It all sounds a bit too good to be true and luck has never been on Regulus’ side, but he can’t really go down from here. “Just try it out, Reg. You never know what could happen.”
So Regulus says goodbye, tucks his knees into his chest, and clicks on that little, intrusive red dot.
“What am I supposed to say to him?” Regulus asks, holding something Barty is very much trying to convince him is a shirt in one hand and his phone in the other. “Sorry, I don’t like the egregious way you use the word cock and when you took me out to dinner the other week, your boring conversation is what gave me a hangover, not the bottle service you insisted on?”
Regulus has found himself in a dilemma.
This thing, this sugar daddy thing, has spiraled out of control. It’s not just a snowball now, it's just a—massive ball. Barrelling towards a town, and the town will be crushed and demolished by the snowball that has snowballed out of control.
It’s that big now. Regulus is apparently a hit.
Which, once again: vanity.
But there are a lot of losers to weed through. A lot of men are, simply put, not his type. Match after match is just…well. Seeing photos of nice cars and chateaus in the countryside has polluted his mind, and Regulus is being stingy. He knows this. He’s searching for a diamond in the haystack.
He’d never imagine he’d be getting ready to go on a date with a man who makes over a hefty six figures a year, while begrudgingly trying to gently let down another man he went on a date with the other week. Watching as he gets another notification, Regulus groans and throws the phone on the bed.
If one more person mentions how beautiful his eyes are.
Said eye twitches. Regulus’ ego’s gotten too big. Too many people think they want to fuck him. He doesn’t want to wear the shirt Barty is trying to get him to wear.
“Well you could start with that, I suppose,” he says. “You’ve always been known to put things delicately and choose your words careful—”
“Help. Me,” he grits out, shoving at Barty’s shoulder because it’s his fault he’s stuck in this situation in the first place. “This is more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“I’m not a fucking carpenter.”
Barty takes his phone and sighs, typing out a response before throwing it on the bed. Regulus looks and narrows his eyes. It’s simple and straight to the point, a thank you for the date but I don’t think this is going to work, and why that was so hard for Regulus? He does not know.
But really, he’s broke and flunked out of what little college he went to. No money to his name after growing up swimming in it. All ties cut. Alone in the world to the most severe degree.
All of his upbringing and the rigorous training to be an upstanding citizen seems to go out the window the moment he gets a hefty chunk of cash sent to him in exchange for sitting, listening to a man drone on and on about how pretty his eyes are, and drinking a Cabernet dated with the year he was born.
Two hundred dollars for a picture of himself? How is one meant to say no to that? Five hundred to go on a date and get drinks after? Regulus would sit in silence with a stranger for that amount. At least he gets to watch them try to strike up a conversation in the process.
The looks he gets hanging off old men’s arms are neither here nor there. It hasn’t bothered him yet, and he doubts it will. Regulus has already paid off a quarter of his credit card debt, and he got one of those fancy pastries the other day. The world is about give and take.
So it does not make sense that they don’t want more.
Well, they do. Regulus knows this, cue the egregious use of the word cock aimed at his general person the other night, but standing in his room, struggling to come to terms with how he feels about himself? The concept of these men who do not know him wanting him?
That was not what Regulus had expected when he went along with Barty’s little plan. There’s a whole lot more self-reflection going on than he’d initially signed up for. There has to be because those hours he’s spent sitting across from strangers? It’s just that—they’re strangers. And there’s nothing between them to make them more. It’s an equal exchange, and tidbits of one’s life do not come out when you’re sitting at a table watching another man’s wife text him, asking where he is.
Regulus wears the shirt.
A few swipes of mascara and a lecture on safe sex from Barty later, Regulus is seated in an Uber Black he didn’t pay for, eyes darting across yet another profile. In any other situation, he supposed it would be considered rude to be actively on a dating app on the way to a date.
But, well. He’s scrolling and scrolling and there are so many Rolexes and receding hairlines before he stops.
There’s a photo and it’s not even provocative but something deep inside Regulus sparks.
It’s dark and moody, the photo, and the smoke from a cigarette twirls out of frame. It looks like it was taken outside of a bar. A seedy one, at that, with stained and cracked pavements. With patrons that don’t leave until three in the morning, smoking after closing at the bartops. Everybody knows each other's name and someone’s sister.
Those are Regulus’ favorite bars, though he doesn’t frequent them often.
A dark leather jacket, just the bottom half, and he bites his lip.
He clicks on the profile.
The flashing city lights blur as they shine through the windows. Regulus is a bit tipsy and apparently, he’s a bit bold.
Now, Regulus will never message first. He’s found his way on this site by only responding to messages he receives and Barty promises it makes him mysterious and enticing. Not too eager, Barty says he must keep his desperation firmly locked behind locked doors despite Regulus reminding him he’s not desperate, just open to the idea.
But something about this, the time of night and the two minutes until he arrives at some fancy French restaurant, makes his finger slip. Regulus clicks the little gray heart and it turns pink. It asks him if he wants to send a message.
He doesn’t.
Instead, Regulus pockets his phone and doesn’t think about it until much, much later.
Benjamin is a banker who asks Regulus to call him Benjy.
He’s waiting for Regulus when they get to the restaurant and true to his texts, he lets Regulus pick the wine for the evening. He pulls his chair out for him, compliments the shirt Barty made him wear, and smiles at Regulus when he thanks him for dinner, once again.
“No need, beautiful. Thank you for letting me take you out for the evening.”
Regulus smiles. “Thank you for taking me out,” and then he adds, with a hand to Benjy’s chest. “You look very handsome tonight, did I tell you?”
Bingo.
Benjy’s an overgrown mama’s boy type with too much money. He’s overly nice, shot for the moon, and reached the stars instead type of considerate. He places his napkin in his lap, doesn’t talk about his job too much, and leaves the floor wide open for Regulus. Which means, at some point, after polite hums and comments here and there on the weather or Regulus’ busy work schedule, Regulus starts to hate the sound of his own voice.
He’s decided Benjy is too respectful. Too nice.
What an infuriating issue to have.
Regulus excuses himself to the bathroom. He cannot stop the nagging in the back of his brain.
Rethinking something as silly as liking a photo. It’s not that he’s desperate. He’s not. He was perfectly fine by himself, and he feels bad. Benjy is kind. He’s been easy to talk to and let Regulus pick the wine, but now he’s in the bathroom after the conversation got a bit too hard to hold and Regulus is gnawing at his lip.
He’s having a crisis in the first stall of the men’s bathroom, wondering if he’s always been a terrible person.
Thinking about that profile, the cigarette smoke, and the smell of it. What it would smell like. Barty doesn’t smoke anymore, and it’s been a long time since Regulus bummed a cigarette outside a bar. He’s disgusted with himself for longing for one, to know the taste of it secondhand in his mouth. He smoked a lot when he first left home.
He’s never been able to pull off a leather jacket. Regulus thinks the stick up his ass doesn’t quite complement the material.
But that person. That profile.
Long fingers, the cigarette expertly perched between them, elbow resting on a knee. A night he could imagine was filled with laughs and cheap beer. A base way of living that Regulus always longed for and still hasn’t found. Regulus swallows and washes his hands.
Benjy is who he is on a date with.
Who clearly ironed his shirt and pulled a chair out for him. Who asks Regulus questions and doesn’t seem phased by his lack of sweetness. His lack in general. There’s nothing quite like satisfaction, and Benjy is…easy. A compliment and he’s blushing, nothing to make the cogs in Regulus’ mind work.
Nothing to make him work for it.
His six-month (going on near seven at this point) dry spell ends tonight.
Benjy calls them both another Uber right before he signs the check. Regulus makes one more trip to the bathroom, reflecting on the conversation of the evening, the color of Benjy’s shirt, and his chances of lucking out and getting one of those ‘demure in conversation but absolutely a freak in the sheets’ types of men.
It had been a wonderful evening. Truly not a waste of time.
There had been a few sly smiles tossed out by both of them over the course of dinner. Regulus wasn’t able to help it, Benjy’s a bit funny once you get a few drinks in you. Unintentionally or not, Regulus likes funny guys. He can laugh, despite what Barty might tell you. He likes them cut and dry, but Benjy’s cheeks got a bit pink from the wine, and Regulus got a bit drunk and thought maybe it was endearing, in a god bless you type of way.
In an I'm going to eat you alive type of way.
Or, actually, I already have.
Regulus says a prayer standing at the bathroom sink and thinks there’s absolutely nothing wrong with a polite man who is nice to him and willing to pay him for his company. He needs to seriously check himself if that’s an issue. It’s a win-win, but Regulus decides the sex must be at least a five out of ten.
If not, he’s going home, throwing his phone in the tub, and deleting every photo of him from the internet.
Regulus closes out of his browser, watching as that profile, that cigarette, disappears when he clicks his phone off. He straightens his shirt, wipes under his eyes, and walks to the front of the restaurant where Benjy is waiting for him, holding out his hand.
The car pulls up.
He bats his lashes and smiles.
Benjy opens the door for Regulus, who slides in, and then he closes it behind them. The driver confirms the address with them, and then it’s silent.
That profile, before Regulus put his phone away, had been active not twenty minutes ago.
He can feel Benjy’s hand slide up the side of his thigh, warm and hot, and Regulus has a lot to unpack when he gets home, but he’s not heading home quite yet.
Regulus can confirm by the time Benjy’s cock slips inside of him that it’s a wonder he’d managed to wrangle them into something other than missionary.
He doesn’t know if he’s flattered, but he is wound tight and will take anything at this point.
Benjy seemed hellbent and hellbound on fucking him almost as soon as they stepped into his front door, but the surprise at this odd dominance faded the closer they got to the older man’s bedroom. How one could be so careful while so insistent was beyond Regulus, but while he was mildly disappointed when he had to take off his own pants, there’s nothing quite like a grown man drooling, near dumb from the need to fuck you.
He doesn't need to be thrown against the wall and manhandled. Regulus just needs to come.
Benjy’s home lacks an ounce of charm, but he puts the bare surfaces and stale air out of his mind. His date is panting like a dog, feeding Regulus’ already sense of over-inflated everything.
“You’re so—” he chokes out, and Regulus grins at the tall ceilings, palming over the front of Benjy’s slacks and biting his lip. Coaxing his next words out of his with a squeeze. “So hot.”
“Get on the bed,” Regulus whispers in his ear, on his tip-toes and trying to push them further towards where they need to be. His fuck can be as dumb as a rock, but they need to get to the actual fucking before he can be considered a fuck. “Can you do that for me?”
Benjy makes a dumb noise.
“So I can ride you,” Regulus adds. “Want you so bad,” he tries out. “It was all I could think about at dinner.”
The man’s eyes bulge like that’s such a surprise. Regulus is wet, his feet hurt and he needs to be lying down. Needs to be fucked dumb himself, until they’re a pile of useless thoughts with no direction but in and he needs something to happen, or else his mind is going to get away from him.
It’s when he’s bent over the bed, with a quilt scratching at his hip bones, that he finds himself staring at Benjy’s open closet door.
No, he’s not riding him. Regulus doesn’t care at this point, and his pants and whines are very real but there’s also no leather jacket in that closet, Regulus is sure of it even as he looks through heavy eyes. He actually can’t see anything in the closet, it’s just a dark doorframe. The banker wouldn’t even turn his head to look if he walked by a store with a jacket like that displayed in the window.
Benjy probably smokes cigars with brandy and would wrinkle his nose at a cigarette. Christ, he might lament about his younger years if he saw a pack of real smokes.
The older man behind him would feel silly wearing such a thing as a leather jacket. He would frown and Benjy would put it on and stand awkwardly and there would be no finesse. Only certain types of people wear leather jackets, and Benjy is not one of those people. He’s soft around the edges. His touch, Regulus idly thinks right before he’s proved wrong with a harsh slam of Benjy’s hips, is just touch.
Nothing more. Which is surely asking for a lot, but while Regulus can feel how wet between the thighs he is, can hear himself begging for more, he’s still right side out.
“God, you’re so tight.”
“Harder, please,” he pants.
Regulus grips the sheets, meeting Benjy’s cock halfway. His hair is a wreck, in his mouth and he’s eating it, thinking now of what he’s still not found. What it might feel like to really fall apart and be swept up.
His thoughts are getting entirely too philosophical.
What a shame, he thinks. If Benjy would grip him just a bit tighter, if he was just a bit closer, it would have probably bumped this rendezvous up from a four to a five.
Regulus is going to come.
Arching his back, getting fucked over the side of the bed, and Benjy is quiet. He doesn’t say much, which checks out, and Regulus has never felt more like a world-class whore, trying to keep quiet in this nice place with no neighbors to complain. Mouth full of duvet cover, where everything just seems…a tad odd.
Maybe he’s just having a moment. While getting railed.
Benjy’s sweaty chest presses against his back as his cock finds home. Again and again, Regulus chokes on a pleasure that’s just enough to gag him. It’s only the scandalous sound of his wet cunt and the whirr of the air that just kicked on in the room.
If Regulus can think this much, this man is clearly not the one.
Benjy’s sheets smell of clean, pristine laundry and Regulus could really use a cigarette right now.
The curling of smoke, the denim, and the fire he longs for but does not feel…it’s dirty. It’s that wrong he always wanted but was deprived of. Those thoughts feel more comforting than what he’s currently surrounded by, but he can’t put the pieces together. It’s a puzzle and Regulus has found the corners but not the edges to nudge into place.
He cannot get that fucking man out of his head.
“I—I’m going to,” Benjy pants, his lips wet where they kiss Regulus' skin. “C’mon, baby. Fuck, I’m coming.”
All men curse when they come.
Regulus thinks Benjy would be a lot hotter if he did so more often.
And Benjy does make Regulus come in the end. Props to the man, but it’s been quite a while and that’s not really a feat. Regulus does not linger. He doesn’t want to and he thinks that’s telling. He feels an odd sense of what he can only think of as being ungrateful. It’s been a long while since he felt like a spoiled brat.
He might as well toss his hair over his shoulder as he lets Benjy lead him out the door.
The older man was just a bit too sweaty, a bit too tame with his desires. Benjy smiled when he walked Regulus to the car that took him home, and Regulus doesn’t want to be as unsatisfied as he is, but he is.
It’s more street lights blurring together on the ride home and it’s deja vu but sadder somehow and isn’t that pathetic?
Regulus is a rotten, rotten piece of work.
He’s drumming his thumbs against his knees, feeling where his skin is still damp from the rag that Benjy wiped him down with. He’s covered in dry sweat and the smell of someone else's cologne. He’s counting down the street signs, watching home get closer when Regulus feels the buzz. Ignoring the money Benjy just sent him, and the little heart, he scrolls.
It’s Barty. A check-in.
Nothing notable to report.
Regulus does, however, flip open that site once again, always a glutton for punishment, except this time it seems he is not. He’s doled out a small reward for his efforts, whatever they might truly be. He crosses his legs and sinks further into the seat.
There’s a new message in his inbox.
Metaphorically crossing his fingers, for fucks sake he doesn’t even know the man, he clicks.
blackdog: Hi
Well, that was a bit underwhelming.
Working himself into a frenzy and this man just says Hi. This mystery man is either a dick or one of those too-cool types. Regulus does not know how to respond, but he does because he’s an adult, and people on here like him—
regulus: Hello
A linguist, truly. But at least this time he did it by himself and did not have to borrow from the brain of Barty Crouch Jr.
It dings again, a new message, and Regulus swiftly closes his phone without looking. Far too high-strung over something so simple. Mystery Man is probably boring anyway. Boring and mean and probably really hot and his hands are so nice…maybe Regulus is still a bit tipsy.
Maybe he should press on the brakes a bit.
The sleek, black car rolls to a stop and he cracks his neck before hopping out and heading towards his door. Setting his phone face down on the kitchen counter, Regulus decides he is going to take a shower. He still feels much too sticky, and there’s no way he could fall asleep like this.
A full hour and a frankly much too-long skincare routine later, Regulus finds himself in bed. Rolled over on his left side holding his turned-off phone like a bomb. Pursing his lips and tilting his head, he closes his eyes as he turns it back on.
Only the top notification is not another message, it’s a Venmo for five hundred dollars.
A short note, a Sleep Well, and Regulus has not sent the cigarette man any pictures or prompting but there the money is—devoid of strings and violently intriguing.
Two messages. They have only exchanged two messages and a chunk of Regulus’ rent is paid for.
But a lack of strings is scary, because then what is holding him up? If he trips and falls and falls for this man, there isn’t anything to keep him from tumbling. Regulus is already acting out. He would wager, with the way he’s being, he’s already halfway to stumbling.
So he opens their brief messages. Sends a thank you in words and a thank you in pictures. Some of his best. Something inside him wants to impress. Something wants some validity to the generosity so that it makes more sense.
blackdog: Talk to you in the morning?
It’s a question but Regulus knows it is not and he will. So he gives an affirmative and the man seems satisfied, and for the first time in a much-to-long night, Regulus is as well.
Regulus wakes with a start. His first thought feels something akin to misplaced panic that has him sitting up in bed, a gasp leaving his lips as whatever dream he’s already forgotten fades and he’s reminded of the night before.
His mouth tastes of needing to brush his teeth and his back aches. There’s an ache between his thighs that he’d missed. His bleary eyes scan his room, the heavy curtains he forgot to close before falling into bed are letting the almost afternoon sun in, and Regulus slept late. Slept like the fucking dead.
He sits up, the blankets fall around his waist, and he hums, wiping sleep from his eyes.
Benjy. Four out of ten.
Five hundred fucking dollars and a simple Hi.
Sleep well.
It’s so startling impersonal in the light of day that Regulus almost feels like he’s robbed the man blind.
He freezes, hand falling comically slow and he looks at his phone on the bedside table. Innocuous. Quiet and off. The silence surrounds Regulus and it hits him over the head. No, this is fine, he tells himself. This is exactly what he’s been doing. Sure, it was a lot of money, more than he’s gotten in one go so far, but there are men out there much richer than Regulus ever was, and five hundred might just be chump change.
It’s too early in the morning for that thought to make Regulus hot. He grabs his phone, turns it on, and his lips part. No new messages greets his eyes.
And Regulus does something he never does.
regulus: good morning
He gets a response so fast that he doesn’t even get to set his phone down.
blackdog: have you had breakfast?
regulus: no
blackdog: hm
Regulus scrunches his nose up. It’s…odd.
Startlingly plain, which does nothing to qualm his feelings of highway robbery, and he has this overwhelming need. Somewhere deep and dark, the early morning sun hiding nothing. Regulus watches the notification roll in, the extra hundred dollars that weighs him down. That cigarette taunts him in the man’s profile picture, and he kicks the covers away.
It’s startlingly personal, Regulus realizes.
He had expected something much more I want to shove my cock into you this afternoon and you have the prettiest eyes.
You’d be appalled at some of the messages he gets from people who have never spoken a word to him. Even worse, sometimes it’s a congenial exchange of pleasantries and then the classic I want to shove my cock into you this afternoon.
This is clearly not that.
So Regulus tries his hardest to not listen to his own breathing as he angles his phone camera down. Showing his waist, bare and covered in dried sweat. The man does not know this, but he arranges the bedsheets into the shape of wanting to see more and recompense and snaps a photo. It’s the least he can do, is what he tells himself. A handful of words is not worth five hundred dollars, so he must—
He sends the photo as he gets out of bed. Along with a message before adapting the nonchalance of I didn’t just do that.
regulus: where am i meant to get breakfast, the ritz?
blackdog: if you want, sure
Regulus sets his phone down and washes the ugly shade of want down with a hot cup of coffee. There’s no need to get hung up on a stranger. No matter how fat his bank account is weighing him down. No matter how hot they are.
blackdog: well aren’t you pretty in the morning
Yes, here we are, familiar territory.
He knows exactly how this goes. Regulus knows exactly what steps to take and what to say and what to do. No man wants his cake without eating it too, and this man just likes to take his time before pouncing, so it seems. Luring him in.
Regulus fluffs up his hair a bit, an effort to look oh so I just woke up when another little ding reaches his ears.
blackdog: let me know what you get to eat, enjoy <3
And then the green Active bubble next to his photo disappears.
Well.
Regulus clearly isn’t the all-knowing aficionado he claims to be.
Suitibally flustered, staring at that little offline dot, and craving the fancy omelet from the restaurant just a bit too out of the way, he huffs and starts his day.
Regulus calls Barty.
Because, despite it all, he is Regulus’ best friend.
“What do you want?” he asks, throwing himself into the chair before Regulus. “I had plans today.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
Barty waves him off with a hand. “Evan had work. It’s fine.”
They’re sat at the fancy restaurant down the street, and Regulus’ favorite omelet is on the way out. The sun is shining, it’s one of those nice days people talk about. His headphones were on while he read a book, but Regulus lasted approximately ten minutes before he caved and called Barty.
Something in his voice must have given Regulus away, because, despite his sightly demeanor now, lazing all over the nice patio set with too-big sunglasses on and a wrinkly button-down with shorts, Barty had said he’d be right there.
He’s wearing boat shoes.
Evan must love Barty a whole lot to be seen with someone who looks like that.
“Get whatever you want,” Regulus mumbles. “It’s on me.”
Barty reaches over and tears a piece off the fresh bread. Chewing around his words. “Date went well, then?”
“No.”
He frowns. “I liked Benjy.”
“And I did too but he was too nice and I hate talking about myself.”
“You love to talk about yourself.”
“No,” Regulus corrects his friend. “I love other people talking about me.”
Barty hmphs. He shrugs and when the waiter comes over he orders a whatever he’s having. Both their omelets come out, the time waiting spent scrolling on their phones in silence. Regulus’ fingers twitch. He stays far, far away from his browser.
“So,” Barty says around his first bite of cheese and eggs. “Gonna tell me what’s really going on?”
Regulus, when he needs to be, can be concise.
“Benjy was too nice and I’m hung up on this other profile I found.” He washes down the confession with a sip of Mimosa. “We matched, he messaged me. Sent me five hundred bucks and told me to sleep well.”
“Wait, he sent you five hundred to…go to sleep?”
“No, no.” Regulus shakes his head. “Well, yes—but not really? He sent the money and then told me goodnight, so—well. Maybe? Then I messaged him and said good morning, then he told me to get breakfast and also I….mayhavesenthimaphoto.”
“Bless you.”
Regulus scowls. “Fuck off.”
“You sent him a photo?”
“He sent me five hundred dollars,” Regulus hisses. “Then I said I was getting breakfast and he said to enjoy and let him know what I get.”
“Yes,” Barty says, grabbing his own mimosa when the waitress stops by, taking a long sip and swallowing as he continues. “But you also sent him a photo. What did he say to that?”
Regulus purses his lips and cuts a triangle out of his omelet. Takes a sip of his drink to wash it down. “He called me pretty.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m fucking not.”
“So I don’t see the problem,” Barty shrugs. Unhelpful as always. “Seems he’s into it.”
“I—” Regulus starts then sighs. He wipes a hand over his face and rests his elbows on the table, god rest his grandmother’s vile soul. “Everyone else fucking sucks on that fucking site you signed me up for and I want him.”
He whines the last part. Spoilt brat through and through.
“Don’t throw a temper tantrum, you’ll choke on your omelet.”
“Barty.”
His best friend looks lost. “So tell him what you’re eating for breakfast.”
“What?”
“Text. Him,” Barty says slowly. “Surely you understand the concept? He’s into you. He sent you five hundred dollars and I know your brain is rotted from the fresh, crips hundreds you got under your pillow when you lost a tooth when you were little, but that's—that’s a lot,” Barty chuckles. “Just text him, he clearly is expecting another text.”
“But what do I say?” And now he really is whining. Pouty and so very ‘but I want the goose that lays golden eggs, daddy.’
Barty rolls his eyes as if inconvenienced by the whole affair and once again takes hold of Regulus’ phone. “He wants to know what you got for breakfast, so let’s show him. Smile, pretty boy.”
Which leads them to now—much later and the sun has set.
Barty got his rocks off with his now official Sugar Daddy turned Boyfriend so here they are, back on the floor of Regulus’ living room, airplaying his phone onto the big screen. Wrapped in blankets and the air has the taste of determination.
Investigation.
That damn picture is taunting him again, and Barty has been giving Regulus shit about it for near half an hour. The idea was to scrounge through the profile and figure out everything they could about Mystery Man, but so far they haven’t made it past this one, first photo.
“His face isn’t even in it, Reggie,” Barty wheezes. “All hot and bothered by a cigarette?”
“It’s not the—ugh.” His face is flaming. “Go fuck yourself.”
“Good tip, though. So every time I used to have a cig you wanted to suck my dick, huh?”
Regulus clubs him with a nearby pillow.
“It’s not just the cigarette you jackass, it’s the—the essence of it all.” He watches Barty mouth the word essence. “There’s just something about him, I don’t know. I want him.” Regulus knows he’s not making sense, but none of this really makes sense anyway so it’s fine. They’re past reason. “I really, really want him.”
“Okay, so what about the ‘Eu de Black Dog’ is so intriguing to you? I never pegged you to be interested in the whole ripped jeans and leather jacket type.”
“What kind of cigarettes do you think those are?” Regulus wonders.
Barty tsks. “Bet they’re menthols. Nasty bastard.”
He isn’t, though. Regulus really is not one to typically go for the whole ripped jeans and leather jacket type.
So that’s the thing, but there’s something about the man behind this profile that feels endlessly intriguing to him. He’s not like anyone else Regulus has spoken to on the site. He is so distinctly different he imagines there are people flocking to his profile. This man is wading through little red hearts. Regulus has to strike while the iron is hot. He has to keep this man’s intrigue.
There’s a flicker of something in this profile and the money and being called pretty never hurt anyone.
Regulus doesn’t get called pretty. Never thought he’d even like it. He’s hot, fuckable, brooding, and sultry if you will, but never just pretty. But today he has discovered that he blushes easier than he ever thought he could and he quite likes being called such a thing.
Regulus hopes, begrudgingly, that he might be called pretty again.
“Okay, locking in,” Barty clears his throat. “We have to at least make it through the rest of his profile, so kiss the screen and say goodbye to those thighs for the next hour.”
Regulus crosses his arms over his chest as they swipe to the next photo.
“Oh,” Barty drawls. “Oh, a bad boy. Fuck, how old is—oh, he’s twenty-seven. That’s not bad.”
“A bike,” Regulus says dumbly. “Motorcycle.”
Words have failed him.
His friend sighs, trying to pinch and zoom in to see closer. “I’ve been trying to get Evan to buy one for months, I’m jealous. That’s so hot.”
“They’re dangerous.”
“So is meeting random men to fuck on the internet,” Barty mumbles, trying to read the lettering on the side of the bike. “Pick your poison, love.”
Regulus declines to answer as he gnaws at the inside of his cheek. Arms still crossed, curled into the couch and now fearful of how much hotter this man can possibly get. This is, simply put, not fair.
Not at all.
The bike is sleek and classic black. It’s old too, and no doubt runs like a dream if this man has anything to say about it. In the photo taken from above, Regulus gets another peek at those thighs. The flat, hard planes of his stomach in a tight shirt are new, though. There’s the leather jacket again, which makes even more sense now, and black boots. Tied tight. Regulus swallows. It’s all too much. It’s like he’s been shoved into a badly written romance movie and this man is the stereotypical bad boy who’s going to rip his heart to shreds with his teeth.
His silence is too telling.
Barty swipes again, and the next photo, after a bated breath, is the most he’s gotten to see of Mystery Man yet. Cut off just below his chin
It’s a mirror selfie.
A very, in Regulus’ opinion, dignified but horribly slutty mirror selfie.
Nothing is inherently erotic. That’s the wrong word. There is nothing that should make Regulus want to jump this man’s bones, but the way those jeans fit his thighs, the tattoos he sees? Stark against pale skin, a tight-fitting, very soft-looking t-shirt hugging his chest again. Long fingers, he’s…this man is a wet dream Regulus is having for the first time.
One he does not want to wake up from because all of this combined with the sweet messages and the money and the effortlessness he feels when he does not have to answer the mystery man but wants to.
He looks…
“He looks like he’d leave before breakfast and toss a rag at me after blowing my back out.”
Barty pauses. “Is that what we’re going for?”
Regulus pauses.
He tongues at the inside of his cheek and asks Barty to zoom in again. He can’t make out what any of the tattoos are, but getting closer, he can see long hair. Just falling over the man’s shoulder. Not his typical type, but it makes sense given what he’s seen of the profile so far. It’s strange to look at a person’s page and not have…a single complaint.
Regulus is usually very picky.
Barty hums. “Looks like he’s in a club bathroom.”
“I hate going to the club.”
“Maybe he does too,” Barty offers up and Regulus snaps out of it. If Barty is in the mood to yield to his delusions, he must be acting a bit too down bad.
“Next photo. I can’t look at that anymore.”
“That bad?”
Regulus thinks he’d let the man get him pregnant. “Yes.”
And the last one is the massive, sprawling city skyline.
The colors of the sunrise steal his breath away. A real make you grateful to be alive colored sky. Framed by massive windows, high up in the clouds. There’s a modern, nice-looking couch in the bottom right corner. A lamp. The man has nice taste. It’s not the olive garden style, faux-french chateau, and grape motif living room kitchen combo he’s seen in other photos.
It speaks of taste. Of expensive taste, and knowing how to use money wisely.
Barty hums in disappointment, but Regulus cannot fathom that being someone’s view every day.
His friend reads aloud:
“Member since last year. He’s verified, which is good. Looking for men and has a slim body type. He’s five-nine, with a bachelor's degree. Ooh.” Regulus stares at the pile of laundry on his kitchen table that he needs to fold. “Single, social drinker and smoker which must be a lie, but I’ll let it slide,” Barty mumbles. “And finally, no children.”
“So,” Regulus says, knees drawn to his chest and staring at his phone on the screen before them. “What now?”