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In the past twenty-one years, Regulus Black and James Potter had tried to kill each other a total of seventeen times.
Today would be the eighteenth.
Regulus Black had spent the better part of his adulthood imagining his wedding day. In those imaginings, he was usually dead. Not metaphorically or spiritually dead—though he was certainly both of those things—but actually dead as a doornail, a decaying corpse and all. He had always thought that drowning would be the most dramatic way to kill himself, so his imaginary wedding usually took place at the bottom of a lake.
That outcome would have been preferable compared to what was actually happening, which was standing in front of a mirror in his childhood bedroom, wearing a suit that cost more than most people earned in a year, and preparing to marry—
No. He couldn’t say his name. He really shouldn’t ruin his suit with vomit.
He adjusted his collar with a careful tug and scowled at his reflection. The robes were black, because the Blacks did not do colour at weddings unless it was the bride’s blood (though they had stopped that tradition a few decades ago). Hell, even the roses had no colour. They were white, which was probably compensation for not wearing a white wedding dress.
“Regulus!” His mother’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “Stop playing dress-up, and come downstairs. The Potters have arrived.”
Dress-up. As if he enjoyed this. As if he admired himself. As if there was anything to admire.
Regulus took one last look in the mirror, noted the dark circles under his eyes that apparently no amount of magic could fully conceal, the sharp line of his jaw that he’d inherited from his father, along with countless other undesirable traits, and decided that he looked exactly as miserable as he felt.
Good. Let them all see it.
He opened the door. Walburga Black was already standing right in front of it. She was wearing black, of course. “You look acceptable,” she said, which from Walburga was roughly equivalent to a standing ovation.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said. “I live for your approval.”
“Don’t act up. Don’t play smart. And don’t”—she reached out and adjusted his collar—“embarrass me. The Potters are an old family. Respectable."
Regulus rolled his eyes. “James Potter once transfigured my entire bed into a giant loaf of bread.” It hadn’t even been edible.
Walburga’s eye twitched. “That was years ago.”
“It was one year and two months ago.” He remembered waking up in breadcrumbs all too well. “It’s not like we were children back then, you know.” Although fucking James had surely never learned to grow up.
“Regardless. You will conduct yourself with dignity. You will say your vows. You will smile. And you will remember that your brother—”
“Ran off with a werewolf and left me holding the bag,” Regulus finished. “Yes, Mother. I’m aware. It’s literally the only thing anyone has talked about for two years.” Except for the wedding, of course. Everyone talked about the goddamn wedding.
Sirius had been supposed to do this. That was the thing that rankled most, the thing that sat in Regulus’ chest like a stone he couldn’t swallow. Sirius, the elder brother, the heir of the House of Black, the one who had been betrothed to James Potter since they were both in diapers.
The Potters and the Blacks had drawn up the contract when their children had barely been able to walk, a neat arrangement that would unite two of the most ancient and noble houses in Britain; Sirius and James would marry after they had both turned twenty-one. The date had been circled on calendars. The honeymoon had been booked. The whole day had been thoroughly planned.
And then Sirius had eloped with Remus Lupin in a scandal so spectacular that it had taken up three consecutive issues of the Daily Prophet, and suddenly Regulus—who had never been intended for anything more than a spare, who had spent his entire life in his brother’s shadow and had rather preferred it there, thank you very much—was being fitted for wedding robes and told to march down the aisle like a good little soldier.
He had considered running away himself. He had considered faking his own death. He had considered murdering James Potter and then faking his own death.
In the end, he’d done none of those things because he was, at his core, a coward who was terrified of his mother, and also because James had sent him a letter that had simply said:
I hate this as much as you do. Try to run, and I’ll drag you back myself. I’ll publish the photo of you covered in glitter. See you at the altar, my dear fiancé.
He remembered the day James had thrown a glitter bomb at him. It had been Regulus’ thirteenth murder attempt.
“Your brother,” Walburga said, and her tone conveyed nothing but contempt, “made his choice. You will make yours.” He had none. “You will marry James Potter.” Ugh. “You will produce an heir.” Even more ugh. “And you will do it without complaining.” Not possible.
“Can I complain a little?” he asked.
“No,” she said harshly.
He pouted. “Can I complain during the vows?”
Walburga’s hand twitched toward her wand. “Regulus.”
“You know I will anyway,” he said, and before she could say anything else, he swept past her and headed down the stairs.
Twelve Grimmauld Place had never been a cheerful home, but today it felt particularly oppressive, as if the walls themselves were leaning in to watch the spectacle. He hoped the walls would crash down on him, kill him within seconds, and end this utter misery.
The drawing room had been transformed into something like a chapel. Someone had hung dark velvet drapes over the windows and arranged white roses in ancient vases. The chairs were set out in rows, occupied by a scattering of relatives who had decided that the scandal of Sirius’ elopement was less important than the open bar.
Regulus spotted Aunt Druella in the front row, wearing a hat that looked as though it was trying to escape her head. Maybe it wasn’t a hat. She caught his eye and gave him a thumbs-up. It was the most terrifying thing he’d seen all day.
And there, at the front of the room, standing beneath an archway of thorns that some sadist had clearly thought was romantic, was James fucking Potter.
Regulus tried very hard not to run away.
James looked exactly as insufferable as Regulus remembered. His hair stuck up in every direction, as if he had just been electrocuted or had spent the morning deliberately styling it to look like he’d stuck his hand in an electrical outlet. At least his black suit was neat.
He was smirking. Of course, he was smirking. James Potter had been smirking at Regulus since they were eleven years old, usually right before he did something that would get them both detention. He almost felt sorry for Professor McGonagall.
Regulus walked down the aisle with the enthusiasm of a man approaching a guillotine. He kept his chin up and his eyes forward, refusing to look at any of the guests, refusing to acknowledge the whispers that followed him like a trail of smoke. He could hear his mother’s footsteps behind him, the measured tread of a woman escorting her son to his execution.
Merlin, how he hated her. How he hated them all.
Narcissa was supposed to be his bridesmaid, or whatever. She was already standing there with a wry grin and a hopeful look on her face.
James’ smirk widened as Regulus drew closer. “Nice suit,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. “You look like a depressed raven."
“Now I am depressed. I was having a nice day until I saw you,” Regulus replied, equally loud. “Shame you’re actually here. I was hoping you’d explode.”
“Children,” Walburga hissed from somewhere behind him. She shot apologetic looks at the guests. “The ceremony.”
The officiant was a wizard from the Ministry who had clearly drawn the short straw. He looked between Regulus and James with the expression of a man who had just realized he’d left his house on fire. “Shall we begin?”
“By all means,” James said, spreading his arms. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve got a broom to wax.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Regulus sneered.
The officiant cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today to witness the union of James Fleamont Potter and Regulus Arcturus Black.”
Regulus tuned him out. He’d read the marriage contract. He knew what was happening. He was being sold like a cheap accessory, like a piece of furniture, like one of the ugly vases in the hallway. The words washed over him in a dull roar, and he stared at a point just above James’ left shoulder, trying to pretend he was anywhere else.
He thought about the library at Hogwarts, which had been the only place he’d ever felt safe, and how he would never see it again because he was going to spend the rest of his life married to a man who thought books were for nerds.
“If anyone knows of any reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
Regulus opened his mouth.
“Don’t you dare,” Walburga silently mouthed at him from the front row. He closed his mouth.
James leaned in, close enough that Regulus could smell his cologne, which was annoyingly nice. “Scared?”
“Terrified,” Regulus said. “But mostly of your hair. It’s a bird’s nest.”
James snorted. “Your face is a bird’s nest.”
“Your personality is a bird’s nest.”
“Your entire existence—”
“The vows!” the officiant interrupted.
“—is a bird’s nest.”
“If we could proceed to the vows, please.” The officiant was sweating now, actual beads of moisture rolling down his forehead. “James Fleamont Potter, do you take Regulus Arcturus Black to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
James straightened up. For a moment, something serious flickered across his face, and Regulus felt a strange, unwelcome lurch in his chest. “I suppose I do. Someone has to keep him in line.”
“How romantic,” Regulus said. “I’m swooning. Someone catch me.”
He slapped the back of his hand against his forehead and let himself fall behind. Narcissa squealed as she caught him. She helped him stand up, and when he looked at his mother, grinning, she shot him the most terrifying look she’d given him all day. If looks could start fires, the whole house would be aflame.
“Could we move that part up?” Regulus asked as he straightened.
The officiant blinked. “I'm sorry?”
“The death.” Regulus gestured vaguely between himself and James. “Ideally, before the marriage, but I'd settle for immediately afterwards. It would save everyone a lot of paperwork.”
James snorted. Walburga made a strangled noise.
“Regulus Arcturus Black,” the officiant said, turning to him with the desperate hope of a man who had seen the end of his career flashing before his eyes. And apparently, he decided to ignore him completely. “Do you take James Fleamont Potter to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
The room went silent. Regulus could feel every eye on him, the weight of centuries of Black family expectations pressing down on his shoulders like a physical force. He looked at Walburga, who was gripping her wand so tightly that her knuckles went white. He looked at the guests, who were leaning forward in their chairs with the hungry fascination of people who knew they were about to witness a disaster. He looked at James, who was watching him with an expression that was almost—almost—vulnerable beneath the smirk.
He sighed. “I would rather die.”
The silence that followed was so profound that Regulus could hear the house creaking around them, the ancient wood settling into the earth like a sigh.
Walburga stood up. “Regulus Arcturus Black,” she said, in a voice that could have cut glass, “you will finish this ceremony, or I will finish you.”
“Mother, I’m just being honest. The vows do say ‘until death do you part.’ I’m simply trying to expedite the process.”
“Say it,” James said and shot him a challenging glance. “Come on, Black. Say it. Or are you too scared?”
Regulus gritted his teeth. “Scared of what? You?”
“Scared of admitting that this might not be the worst thing in the world.”
Regulus laughed. It was a brittle sound. “You surely are the worst thing in the world, Potter. Marrying you is like marrying the devil.”
James rolled his eyes. “And marrying you is like marrying a cactus. Prickly, unpleasant, and likely to cause bleeding.”
“At least I’m not a public menace.”
“At least I’m not a coward.”
The word hung in the air between them. Regulus felt his breath catch, the old, familiar anger rising in his chest, hot and somehow comforting. He took a step toward James, close enough that they were almost chest to chest, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in James’ brown eyes.
“I’m not a coward,” he said quietly, even though he’d thought the very same thing about himself only twenty minutes earlier.
“Then prove it,” James said, just as quietly. “Marry me, you absolute nightmare. Marry me and spend the rest of your life making me miserable. It’s what you’re best at.”
Regulus looked at him for a long moment. He thought about the life that was waiting for him; the long years of fighting and sniping and waking up next to a man who knew exactly how to hurt him. He thought about the alternative, about the look on his mother’s face if he walked away, about the way his name would be burned from the family tapestry next to Sirius’, about the loneliness that was already waiting for him like an old friend.
He thought about the fact that James Potter had never once, in all the years they’d known each other, looked at him with anything other than absolute, unwavering attention.
James’ mouth curled. “Say it.”
What choice did he have? His brother, the only person in the world he had ever liked, had left. The mere friends he had were connected to his family, and it would be a disaster to be seen with them, so it would only be a matter of time until they left him, too.
At least James was fun.
“I do,” he said, and the sound of the collective inhale was loud in his ears. “Merlin help me, I do.”
James’ smirk returned, wider than ever. “I knew you would say that, you absolute bastard.”
“Language,” Walburga said, but she was sitting down again, which was as close to approval as she ever got.
The officiant looked like he might cry from relief. “By the power vested in me by the Ministry of Magic, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may ki—”
“We’re done!” Regulus clapped his hands and turned to the crowd. “You heard him say it. We’re married. The contract is signed. It’s official. There is nothing else—”
He felt his breath catch in his throat when James grabbed him by the arm, spun him around in one swift movement, caught him by the waist, and kissed him right on the mouth.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not a romantic kiss. And it was far from good.
Regulus made a noise of protest. He fisted his hands in James’ robes, pulling him closer even as he tried to push him away. The guests applauded. Someone from James’ family wolf-whistled.
When James finally pulled back, he was breathing hard and grinning like a maniac. “There,” he said. “Now you’re stuck with me. Till death do us part.”
“Please part us then,” he groaned. “Kill me.”
⋆ ♱ ⋆
The suite was grotesque. Not merely ugly, though the velvet upholstery was certainly that, a garish shade of burgundy red that made Regulus Black—unfortunately now Black-Potter on some tedious document locked in Gringotts—think of dried blood and worse things.
The four-poster bed dominated the room like a throne. As if the Ministry’s paperwork and the witness signatures and the ridiculous spectacle of the afternoon hadn’t been enough, now there was this: the expectation that he and James Potter would fuck like good little pure-blood soldiers, sealing the alliance between their warring families.
Hopefully, they weren’t expecting blood on the sheets.
Regulus stood by the bed, already stripped of the suffocating robes of the ceremony. He’d changed into black silk trousers and a loose shirt, unbuttoned at the throat. He felt more like himself this way.
James had discarded his own wedding suit for washed-out jeans and hadn’t bothered putting a shirt on. He looked casual, as if they were flatmates rather than husbands bound by a magical contract and political necessity.
Merlin.
Husbands.
“Stop staring at the bed as if you could burst it into flames through sheer force of will,” James said, his voice carrying a mocking drawl that had made Regulus want to hex his teeth out since they were children. “Or is it just the thought of me touching you that’s making you look like you swallowed a lemon?”
Regulus turned around, a smile curling at his lips that held absolutely no warmth. “The only thing more repulsive than the thought of your hands on me, Potter, is your staggering assumption that you’d be doing the touching. That’s not how this works.”
Not that he expected James would want to touch him.
He reached into the bag he’d brought—charmed to be bigger on the inside, filled with exactly what he needed for this stupid farce—and began arranging his arsenal across the duvet. The burgundy clashed beautifully with the silicone and leather and polished metal. A sleek, curved wand-style vibrator. A set of graduated plugs, silver and gleaming. A dildo in deep purple. Lube, because he knew that James wouldn’t be able to arouse him. Another vibrator in pink. And, of course, a beautiful black strap-on.
If they had to do this, if the contract signed in blood and magic demanded consummation to seal the alliance between the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black and the increasingly pushy Potter line, then Regulus would be damned if he did it passively.
He took his time placing each item neatly beside the others. When he looked up, James had gone still near the dresser. His gaze fixed on the bed, confusion pulling at his brow. That idiot actually looked bewildered.
“What,” James said slowly, “in Merlin’s saggy left nut, is all of that?”
Regulus laughed. “Oh, sweet summer child. You mean to tell me the great James Potter doesn’t recognize a standard kit for proper fucking?” He ran his finger over a toy. “It’s a dildo, Potter. Surely, even you have seen one. Or do Gryffindors just rut against trees in the Forbidden Forest?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You do know what sex is, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know what sex is, you twat,” James snapped, colour rising in his cheeks. He took a step closer and scowled. “And I know what a fucking dildo is. I simply didn’t realize you were planning to open a sex shop in our marital bed. What the hell is that purple monstrosity?”
“That,” Regulus said, picking up the beautiful dildo that he’d bought four months ago, “is my greatest treasure. Listen carefully, Potter, since your brain seems to be struggling with basic concepts tonight: just because the Wizengamot has legally chained me to your insufferable existence, and just because tradition demands we seal this union with a penetrative act”—he almost cringed at his own words—“does not mean I intend to lie back and think of England while you clumsily rut against me.”
He dropped the dildo and stepped into James’ space, tilting his head back to meet those hazel eyes. James was taller and broader, and Regulus hated that he had to look up at him.
“If I have to endure this, I am ensuring that this farce of a union serves at least one purpose,” Regulus continued. “My pleasure. Whether you want to provide it or not. Whether it inconveniences your massive ego or not. Just because the Wizengamot requires us to consummate this travesty, and just because you’re the one with the cock—unfortunately—doesn’t mean I intend to lie there like a pure-blood sacrifice. I will come tonight, Potter. The only question is whether you’ll be useful enough to help, or if I’ll simply ignore you and use the toys while you sit in the corner like a good little cuckold.”
James’ eyes darkened, the confusion burning away under something hotter. Although they had fought out hundreds of arguments, he surely had never heard the word cuckold out of Regulus’ mouth.
He had insulted his cock before, though. Not that he had ever seen it, of course.
Regulus gestured grandly at the bed. “If I’m to be fucked, Potter, I’ll be fucked well. And if you can’t manage that, I’ll manage it myself, with or without your participation. You’re replaceable. These”—he tapped the dildo—“are not.”
James stepped forward and pushed Regulus back against the bedpost. “You unbelievable little shit,” he said, and there was a growl in his voice now, a vibration that went straight down Regulus’ spine. “You think I can’t please you? You think I’m only some clumsy virgin who needs your fancy silicone accessories to get you off?”
“I think,” Regulus purred, leaning back against the wood and letting his shirt ride up just enough to reveal the waistband of his trousers, “that you think entirely too highly of yourself. That you have no idea what to do with anatomy that isn’t your own. I’ve heard the rumours, Potter. Gryffindor’s golden boy, so generous with his cock, so convinced he’s God’s gift to witches and wizards alike. But I’ve also seen you eat soup, and if that level of coordination applies to your cunnilingus technique, I’ll be better off with the vibrator.”
He did not expect James to use his mouth on him, but oh, did he enjoy watching his face as it flushed dark red with anger at the insult. Oh, how he loved making him mad. It was so much fun.
“You’re an annoying piece of shit, you know that, Black? I’ve had lovers you couldn’t even dream of. I know exactly what I’m doing.” He leaned closer and smiled viciously. “I could have you begging in five minutes if I wanted.”
Regulus threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, please. That ego of yours. It’s almost impressive. You’ve spent seven years tripping over your own feet in corridors and charming your way out of detention with that smile; do you genuinely believe that translates to skill in bed? That all this”—he waved a hand at James’ broad chest—“Gryffindor bravado means you know how to touch a man?”
He stepped back, perched on the edge of the bed, and looked at every inch the aristocratic snob had been raised to be. “Here’s the truth, Potter: You hate me. I hate you. But I will be damned before I let you treat me like some blushing bride. I intend to come. Whether you want me to or not. Whether you’re capable of it or not.”
Suddenly, James grabbed his chin with rough fingers and tilted Regulus’ face up. The touch was electric and violent, exactly the kind of boundary violation Regulus had been hoping to provoke. “I am very capable of it, Black,” James snarled. “I bet you a hundred Galleons and my grandfather’s broomstick that I’ll make you come harder than you’ve ever come before.”
He pressed his fingers deeper into Regulus’ skin. “You think I’m all ego and no skill. You think I’ll fumble around like a small, innocent boy. Fine. If I can make you come, you admit it. You say, out loud, that James Potter is a God in bed and Regulus Black is desperate for his cock.”
Regulus’ lips curled. “And when you fail?” He said when, not if. “When you’re sweating and panting, and I’m still lying here as dry as the Sahara?”
“Then you get to use your little toy collection on yourself while I watch.” James shot back, stepping closer, crowding between Regulus’ knees. “But this won’t be necessary. Because I’m going to make you come so hard you’ll scream my actual name—not Potter, not you bastard, but James—before I have to use a single toy on you. I bet I can make you beg for my fingers, my tongue, and even my cock, without any”—he gestured vaguely over the selection of toys—“mechanical assistance whatsoever.”
Regulus’ pulse was hammering against his throat, against James’ thumb. The arrogance was staggering. It was also, regrettably, making his underwear cling uncomfortably to his skin. “You’re so delusional.”
“Am I?” James’ thumb traced his lower lip. He lowered his voice. “Or are you just terrified that you’ll actually enjoy being married to me? That underneath all that eyeliner and pride and arrogance, you’re just desperate for someone to fuck you properly?”
“First of all, I’m not wearing eyeliner,” he lied, “and secondly, the fact you’re betting a hundred galleons despite being one of the wealthiest men in England is utterly pathetic.”
Regulus had not expected James to grin. “But you are admitting your desperation to be fucked?” he asked.
“One thousand Galleons,” Regulus spat, knocking James’ hand away. “But don’t cry when you lose, Potter. I don’t have a handkerchief for your tears.” He raised his chin. “And I want to hear you admit you’re a talentless idiot when I win.”
“Deal.”
James moved faster than Regulus expected. He grabbed him by the hips and lifted him onto the edge of the high mattress, far away from the toys at the other side of the massive bed. Regulus gasped—he hated being manhandled, hated the reminder of James’ superior strength, hated how his body betrayed him by arching into his grip. James shoved him back and crawled over him with the grace of a predator.
“Close your eyes,” James commanded.
“I’d rather watch you fail,” Regulus shot back, but he let his head fall back against the pillows and stared up at the ceiling with feigned boredom, even as his breath quickened.
“Suit yourself, then,” James said. “But I’m going to prove you wrong, Black. And you’re going to hate every second of loving it.”
He didn’t start where Regulus expected. Before he could snarl at him, James grabbed the front of Regulus’ silk shirt and ripped it open. Buttons popped and scattered across the floor. The cool air hit Regulus’ chest, his sensitive nipples peaking into hard, aching points and then—
James bit his right nipple.
The shock of it was like lightning. Regulus hissed, his back arching off the bed. “You fucking—How dare you!”
“Sensitive,” James murmured against him. With his left hand, he rolled the other nipple between thumb and forefinger, pinching hard enough to make Regulus cry out again. “Good to know.”
He leaned down and used his teeth again, applying just enough pressure to border on pain before soothing it with his tongue. Regulus’ hands flew to James’ hair, intending to pull him away, but somehow ended up gripping tight, holding him there.
The dual sensation—James’ hot, wet mouth sucking hard at his nipple, tongue flicking the tip, while his hand rolled and tugged the other—completely threw Regulus off balance. He bucked upward, and a moan escaped him before he could swallow it. His hands gripped James’ shoulders hard enough to bruise. The sensation was overwhelming, sending sparks of pleasure that connected directly to his cunt, making him clench around nothing.
James’ hand roamed over his torso, then moved downwards and came to a halt on the middle of his body. Right there.
“You’re already hard in your trousers,” James observed, his voice smug against Regulus’ sternum. “So hard for me. And I haven’t even touched your cunt yet.” The corner of his lips lifted. “Pathetic.”
A part of him hated that James could feel his arousal; the other part enjoyed the fact that he was actually able to feel his swollen clit through his trousers.
“Shut up,” Regulus gasped, grinding his hips up involuntarily, seeking friction. “Just get on with it, you bastard.”
James laughed, the vibration travelling through Regulus’ ribs. “Impatient, are we?”
He moved down, his hands rough as he unbuttoned Regulus’ trousers, and dragged them down his hips along with his underwear. Regulus lifted his hips to help, and he hated himself for the cooperation, for the way his body betrayed him by being wet, by being ready, by wanting this. The cool air of the room hit his exposed skin, and he felt the familiar flicker of dysphoria—the wrongness of his anatomy, the body that didn’t match his mind—but James didn’t give him time to sink into it.
“Look at you,” James whispered. “Such a beautiful pussy. All swollen and desperate. You’ve been thinking about this since the vows, haven’t you? Since I put that ring on your finger?”
“I’ve been thinking about ways to murder you,” Regulus managed, his voice ragged.
“Liar.” Suddenly, his middle finger was right on his cunt, gliding through his labia and making Regulus gasp in surprise. “Fuck, you’re already so wet,” James said, and there was absolutely no disgust in his voice. “All that poison in your mouth, and your cunt’s weeping for it. You’re a mess, Regulus. A filthy, desperate little mess.”
Regulus was trying to remark a snarky retort—he really tried—but then James lowered himself between Regulus’ spread thighs. He gripped Regulus’ hips, his fingers dug into the soft flesh there, and without warning, he dove in.
The first swipe of James’ tongue against his clit had Regulus arching off the bed with a strangled sound he’d deny until his dying day. He didn’t tease—he attacked, licking broad stripes over Regulus’ hole, then circled his clit with the tip of his tongue with perfect pressure, sucking in a rhythm that made Regulus see stars.
It was filthy, the way James ate him out, like he was starving, like he was trying to consume him whole. The sounds were obscene, wet and desperate, and Regulus realized with horror that he was making noise too, breathless curses falling from his lips.
He licked again, a long, slow drag from hole to clit, gathering the wetness there and spreading it around. Regulus bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, refusing to give James the satisfaction of a moan. But James seemed to take that as a challenge. He sucked Regulus’ clit between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue in a rapid, relentless rhythm that had Regulus’ thighs trembling.
“You taste amazing,” James said, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin shiny with Regulus’ arousal. “I could eat this cunt for hours, Reg. I could make you forget your own name. But you’d still be talking, wouldn’t you? Still running that poisonous tongue of yours.”
“You bastard,” Regulus gasped, his hands flying to James’ hair. He meant to pull him away, to shove him off, but his fingers twisted in those messy dark locks and pressed him closer.
Without warning, James slid two fingers into Regulus, curling them immediately to find the spot that made Regulus’ vision whiten at the edges. At the same time, he fastened his mouth back over Regulus’ cock, sucking hard, his tongue working in merciless circles.
“Ja—” Regulus caught himself, clamping his jaw shut. He’d almost said his name.
“Mh?” James looked up, his chin shining, his eyes dark and triumphant. “Something to say, husband?”
“I hate you,” Regulus choked out. He gripped the sheets. “Don’t stop.”
James’ laugh was a puff of air against his oversensitive flesh. “Oh, I’m just getting started.”
James lowered his head again, but this time he bypassed Regulus’ clit entirely. He licked broad stripes over Regulus’ hole, teasing, avoiding where he needed him most, while his fingers traced maddening patterns at his entrance.
James used his tongue like a weapon, flicking and circling, then flattened it to press against the whole of him. He sucked Regulus’ dick, alternating between gentle and vicious, until Regulus’ thighs were still trembling on either side of James’ head. James curled his fingers inside him again, and Regulus couldn’t suppress the moan that tore from his throat.
“Fuck you,” he gasped, rocking his hips against James’ face. “Fuck—you—”
“Language,” James scolded, his voice muffled. “Such a dirty mouth for such a pretty boy. Is this what you wanted? My fingers inside your pussy? Tell me.”
“I want you to shut the fuck up and—” Regulus lost the sentence as James sucked his clit back into his mouth, working him with lips and tongue and fingers in a devastating rhythm. He was close, so close, hovering on the edge, his hands clawing at the burgundy sheets, and then—
James pulled back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glinting wickedly.
“What—” Regulus stared at him, his cunt aching and empty. “You absolute asshole—”
“You didn’t say my name,” James said, his voice rough with arousal. “You said everything but my name. And I think…” He reached up, his fingers glistening, and brushed a wet line across Regulus’ lower lip. “I think I want to hear you beg for the rest.”
Regulus sucked James’ fingers into his mouth without thinking, tasting himself, and watched James’ pupils blow wide. Regulus sat up and grabbed James by the collar of his t-shirt. He hauled him down into a kiss that was all teeth and spite. He could taste himself on James’ tongue, and he hated how good it was, how right the violence of it felt.
“I don’t beg,” Regulus snarled against his mouth. “But if you don’t fuck me in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to use that purple cock on you, and trust me, Potter, you couldn’t handle it.”
James grinned, wild and feral. “Promises, promises.”
Regulus yanked at his hair. “I said, fuck me, or—oh!”
James’ mouth was on his nipple again, biting down hard. Regulus screamed and arched his back.
“You like that, husband?” James asked and looked up with those mocking eyes. “You like having your nipples played with while I ignore your cunt? Tell me how much you hate me, Reg. Tell me while you’re pushing your nipple deeper into my mouth.”
“I hate—fuck—I hate you, you absolute—oh—”
James bit down again. Regulus was dripping now; he could feel it, humiliatingly wet against his thighs, his cock throbbing with every pull of James’ mouth. It was too much. It was exactly what he’d wanted, and it was infuriating that James Potter of all people was giving it to him.
James switched to the other nipple, giving it the same rough, devoted attention, his free hand sliding back down between Regulus’ legs. He rubbed two fingers over Regulus’ clit in tight, firm circles.
“Stop,” Regulus gasped as he felt the orgasm building. He couldn’t come like this, not from James Potter’s fingers, not while he sucked his nipple, not while— “I’m going to—stop—”
“Come,” James commanded, lifting his head from Regulus’ chest. His mouth was swollen, his eyes wild. “Come on my fingers, you smug bastard. Show me how much you hate me.”
He thrusted three fingers into Regulus’ cunt, curling them to press against the g-spot, and pressed his thumb down on Regulus’ clit, rubbing in ruthless, demanding circles.
Regulus’ body convulsed as he came with a scream that he tried to bite back. His cunt clamped down on James’ fingers rhythmically, wetness gushing out of him. He shuddered and shook, riding James’ hand, his nails raking red lines down James’ arms.
As he came down, panting, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead, James slowly withdrew his fingers. He held them up, glistening in the lamplight, and sucked them clean, one by one, his eyes locked on Regulus’ the entire time.
“One,” James said, his voice thick. “That was the warm-up. And I think I won a bet.” A wolfish smile spread across his face. “We’re just getting started, husband.”
Regulus lay there, chest heaving, his body limp and hypersensitive. He should have been furious. He was furious. But the anger was tangled up with a dangerous, aching want that he couldn’t suppress.
James stripped his pants off, revealing an unfairly glorious body, and a cock that was hard and heavy against his thigh. Regulus looked away, feigning disgust, even as his mouth watered. He heard a mutter of a protection spell—thank Merlin that one of them was being responsible about this travesty—and then James was back, pressing him down into the mattress. “How do you want it?”
Regulus looked at the other side of the bed, at the array of toys still waiting. The strap. The dildo. Then he looked at James. His hair was completely tousled by Regulus’ hands. James wrapped his hand around his own cock and stroked himself slowly, waiting for permission.
When Regulus didn’t answer, James made the decision for him instead. “On your back, then,” he simply said, lining himself up. His cock was gliding between Regulus’ labia—once, twice—then pressed against his throbbing hole. “So I can see your face when you lose it.”
Regulus pushed his hips up and let out a quiet moan when the head of James’ cock pushed in without resistance. “I’m not going to—oh, fuck!”
James pushed inside in one smooth, brutal thrust. The stretch was perfect, burning just right, filling the emptiness that James’ fingers had left behind. Regulus’ head fell back, and a sound that was embarrassingly close to a whine escaped him. James didn’t give him time to adjust; he set a punishing pace, driving into him with enough force to make the bedposts rattle.
Regulus was panting, adjusting to the girth, his hands braced on James’ shoulders. He could feel every pulse, every vein, the way James filled him completely. It was too much. It was perfect.
“You feel,” James gritted out, his hips snapping forward, “so fucking good. So hot. So wet. Like you were made for this. Made for me.”
“Delusional—narcissist—” Regulus managed, but the words were broken, punctuated by gasps. He wrapped his legs around James’ waist, changing the angle, and cried out when his cock hit exactly the right spot inside him.
James leaned down, his weight pressing Regulus into the mattress, and captured one of Regulus’ nipples with his mouth. He bit down as he thrust, and the sensation of being filled, being bitten, being claimed, sent sparks through Regulus’ entire nervous system. He was babbling now, he knew he was, a stream of curses and insults that sounded increasingly desperate.
“Say it,” James growled against his chest. “Say my fucking name, Regulus. Admit that I’m better than your toys.”
“Never!”
James reached between them, his thumb finding Regulus’ clit, and rubbed in cruel circles while he fucked into him, hitting his g-spot with every thrust.
“Oh, fuck!”
“You vicious little snake.” He lifted Regulus slightly, gripped him by the hips with both hands, and thrusted in him so hard that a slap of flesh echoed in the room. Regulus cried out, his fingers digging into James’ shoulders. James set a rhythm that was brutal, relentless, and exactly what Regulus needed.
James’ hands moved from Regulus’ hips to his chest, thumbs rubbing over his nipples, then down again to where they were joined, touching where James was splitting him open. “Look at this. Look how you take me.” Thrust. “All that fight, and you’re just a slut for it, aren’t you?” Thrust. “My slut.”
“James!” It tore out of him, involuntary and desperate. “James, you—you fucking—”
“There it is,” James purred, sounding unbearably pleased. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, driving Regulus farther and farther until he was trembling and teetering on the edge of the abyss. “Say it again.”
“James!” Regulus was chanting it now, lost to the rhythm, his burning pride falling in ashes around him. He was so close, so fucking close, but he needed more. “Harder—fuck me harder! You’re not trying hard enough—”
James growled. “You ungrateful little shit.”
James pulled out abruptly, ignoring Regulus’ snarl of protest, and flipped him over with rough hands. Regulus found himself on his knees, face pressed into the pillows, his ass up in the air. He tried to push up, to regain some dignity, but James’ hand came down hard on his left butt cheek, the slap ringing in the room.
“Stay down,” James commanded. His hand was on Regulus’ back, pushing him down onto the mattress. “You want to be fucked like you mean it? Here you go.”
He pushed back in without warning, deeper from this angle, and Regulus screamed into the pillow. James set a brutal rhythm, his hands gripping Regulus’ hips hard enough to leave bruises, his cock driving into him with precision. Then—smack—another blow to his ass, the sting blooming into heat, then another, alternating sides until Regulus was squirming, his skin burning, his cunt clenching around James’ cock.
“You’re taking me so well,” James mocked, leaning forward to bite at the nape of Regulus’ neck, his breath hot against Regulus’ sweat-dampened hair. “Such a good little husband. Who knew you’d be so obedient once you had a real cock inside you?”
“Fuck—you—” Regulus gasped, pushing back to meet every thrust, every slap. He was unravelling, the pleasure coiling tight and hot in his stomach, his chest heaving hard. He reached down to touch himself, but James knocked his hand away.
“Mine,” James snarled. “You come from my cock, or you don’t come at all!”
He reached around, his fingers finding Regulus’ clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts, his other hand continuing to deliver stinging slaps to Regulus’ ass. The combination was devastating—being filled, being spanked, being forced to accept pleasure on James’ terms and James’ terms alone. Regulus’ world narrowed to the slap of skin on skin, the wet, filthy sounds of sex, James’ ragged breathing in his ear, and the relentless pressure building inside him.
“My beautiful little mess,” James panted.
“Yours,” Regulus said, the word escaping before he could stop it, shocking him with its truth. “Fuck, James, yours.”
“That’s right,” James said. He began thrusting up into Regulus with force that drove the air from his lungs, each impact sending shockwaves through his body. “Say it again. Who do you belong to?”
“You—fuck—you, you bastard—” Regulus was sobbing now, the pleasure building again, his hole clenching around James’ cock. “I’m yours.”
“All mine.”
“James—James—I’m going to—”
“Come on my cock,” James ordered, his voice cracking with his own restraint. “Now, Regulus. Come for me.”
The authority in that command, the sheer arrogant certainty that Regulus would obey, pushed him over the edge once again. He came with a wailing cry that he couldn’t muffle, his body convulsing, his cunt clamping down on James’ cock in rhythmic pulses that seemed to go on forever. James kept fucking him through it, prolonging the orgasm with brutal thrusts until Regulus, overstimulated and trembling, sobbed into the pillow.
James groaned, a sound of pure agony, then he pulled out and flipped Regulus onto his back again, pinned him to the mattress, and drove into him with an abandon that shook the bedframe. Regulus’ legs were over James’ shoulders, his hands scratching down James’ back hard enough to draw blood, and James fucked him through his orgasm, extending it, making it burn.
“Reg—fuck—” James buried his face in Regulus’ neck, biting down hard at the juncture of shoulder and throat, marking him, claiming him. “Taking you—taking what’s mine—”
“Yes—” Regulus moaned, his body limp and trembling, oversensitive to the point of pain, but he didn’t want it to stop. “Come inside me. Do it. Fill me up, James.”
With a final, guttural shout, James buried himself into Regulus as far as he could and came, his hips stuttering and his fingers digging into Regulus’ hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. For a long moment, they stayed like that, locked together, panting, the room filled with the scent of sweat and sex.
Slowly and carefully, James pulled out. The loss of warmth left Regulus feeling strangely hollow. Every muscle in his body seemed to loosen at once, the adrenaline finally ebbing away and leaving behind only exhaustion.
He collapsed onto his side and rested his cheek on the pillow. He stared at the bed curtains, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, his dignity, and his ability to move without whimpering.
James flopped onto the bed beside him, staring up at the canopy with a smug, self-satisfied expression that made Regulus want to hex him into next week. Or possibly kiss him. The distinction felt blurred.
“So,” James said eventually, his voice rough and lazy. “That’ll be a hundred Galleons.”
Regulus let his eyes fall shut again, feeling the throb of his well-used body, the ache on his cheeks, the tenderness between his legs. He should be furious. He was furious. Dangerously so.
“I think,” James said after the silence had stretched long enough, “you want to tell me something.”
Regulus made a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. But he wasn’t a bad loser. He accepted his loss. Reluctantly. “Jamespotterisagodinbed.”
“Sorry,” James said, tilting his head, “what was that?”
Regulus planned murder. Again. He inhaled slowly through his nose before forcing each word out through clenched teeth: “James Potter is a God in bed.”
That bastard grinned. “And?”
“And,” he snapped, each word physically painful to form, “Regulus Black is desperate for his cock.”
“Yeah,” he said, utterly pleased with himself, “that’s what I wanted to hear.”
“I will stick your stupid broomstick up your arse,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “Consider it compensation for having to look at your face for the rest of my life.”
James laughed, rolling onto his side to face him. He looked younger like this, with his hair still dishevelled like a bird’s nest, though the arrogance remained firmly in place. “You came. Twice. I counted.”
“Bravo,” Regulus replied dryly, “you can count to two. Your mother must be incredibly proud of you.” He opened his eyes and turned his head. Involuntarily, he reached out and traced the scratch marks he’d left on James’ shoulder during his climax.
“So,” James said eventually, his voice quieter now. “Still hate me?”
Regulus considered. He considered the arranged marriage, the loss of his freedom, and the insult of the ceremony. He considered the way James had looked at him, touched him, the way he’d proven his point with actions rather than words. He considered the terrifying, traitorous warmth spreading through his chest.
But he also thought about the past ten years he had to endure.
“With the burning passion of a thousand suns,” Regulus said, but his voice lacked its usual bite.
“Good.” James smiled, slow and satisfied. “I love it when you hate me. It turns out to be fucking hot.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Regulus whispered, his lips curling into a dangerous smile. “Tonight, you got lucky. But tomorrow, I’m tying you to that bedpost, and I’ll be using every single toy I own until you’re the one screaming.”
James’ eyes darkened, interested. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“It’s a fucking guarantee, Potter.”
“James,” he corrected softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Regulus’ ear with surprising gentleness. “You lost the bet. You have to call me James.” Regulus was ninety-nine percent sure that this had not been part of the bet, but James had also fucked his brain out—so what did he know? “At least in bed.”
Regulus caught his wrist and squeezed it. “In bed,” he said, leaning in until their noses nearly touched, “I’ll call you whatever I damn well please. And right now, I’m calling you an insufferable, egotistical, surprisingly adequate lay.”
“Adequate?” James looked wounded. “I made you beg.”
“When you’re asleep, I’m going to smother you with a pillow.”
James grinned. “Are you flirting with me, husband?”
They lay there in silence, the hatred settling back around them like a comfortable blanket, though now it was threaded with something new. Regulus looked at the toys still gleaming on the bed, then at James, who was watching him with a predator’s patience.
“Round two?” James suggested.
“Only if you apologize for being a sanctimonious git during the ceremony.” He thought about it for a moment. “And in general.”
“I’ll apologize,” James agreed, rolling on top of him again, his weight welcome and heavy, “when you admit you loved every second of it.”
He pressed his knees on either side of James’ hips. “Never.”
“We’ll see,” James murmured, and then pulled him into a slow and gentle kiss. Regulus almost rolled his eyes at the tenderness. He didn’t want him to turn into a lovesick idiot.
So he planted both hands on James’ chest, pushed him off him, and pinned him to the mattress. Then he straddled his lap and reached for the other side of the bed. He let his hands wander over the expensive silicone. A smile curled at his lips.
“Now,” Regulus said, grabbing a black dildo, “you’re the one to beg.”