Start Carving, Darling

by thegatheringdust

Summary:

Curious, Regulus lifts the knife to his lips, licking remnants of sauce off the flat of the blade. He drags the motion out, all the way to the sharp point, leaving the metallic surface with a flick of his tongue.

It’s a successful experiment. James’ chest rises with his next inhale, throat bobbing as he swallows. Regulus smiles to himself, bringing the knife back to his tongue.

The appearance of a hand on Regulus’ knee under the table, the pressure a bit too firm, distracts him. He turns to his right, where Barty has been deep in conversation with Lily for the last half hour. He’s not looking at Regulus now, but the grip of his fingers, sure to leave an imprint on Regulus’ delicate skin, makes it very clear: he has seen everything.

Notes:

when someone makes a highly specific request for unhinged barty/regulus/james featuring knives, best believe i will deliver!

Chapter 1: Start Carving, Darling

James Potter is watching him.

It’s been a recurring theme, lately. Regulus sees the glint of gold wire frames out of the corner of his eye, light reflecting on the lenses, that moment of opacity more telling than the clear hazel eyes beneath. They attend the same dinners, the same parties—all usually hosted by Sirius, their key point of overlap, who thrives off the constant company. In the dim light of a bar, or across his brother’s living room, Regulus sees that gleam, and he knows.

James has never gotten close enough to make it obvious, has never so much as brushed a hand against Regulus, which might be the only reason he’s still alive. But Barty realises. He must. He has observed all the same little tells that Regulus has, and more than that, he recognizes the way Regulus watches James in return.

He’s a hard lure for Regulus to resist sinking his teeth into. Beautiful in an undeniable sort of way, luminous brown skin and enticingly dishevelled curls, strong features and a smile that could charm the stoniest misanthrope. Arms toned enough to crush Regulus with their power, and a personality agreeable enough to know he never would. Impertinent, but so easy to tame.

On the far side of the table, amidst the relaxed chatter and the clink of cutlery, candlelight turns James’ glasses to twinned circles of flame. He’s not watching Regulus’ face, but rather the steak knife in his hand, which has ceased to serve any real purpose, dinner long since finished. Regulus twirls the knife against the ceramic rim of his plate, an idle, thoughtless action.

Well, perhaps not entirely thoughtless. James is watching, after all.

Curious, Regulus lifts the knife to his lips, licking remnants of sauce off the flat of the blade. He drags the motion out, all the way to the sharp point, leaving the metallic surface with a flick of his tongue.

It’s a successful experiment. James’ chest rises with his next inhale, throat bobbing as he swallows. Regulus smiles to himself, bringing the knife back to his tongue.

The appearance of a hand on Regulus’ knee under the table, the pressure a bit too firm, distracts him. He turns to his right, where Barty has been deep in conversation with Lily for the last half hour. He’s not looking at Regulus now, but the grip of his fingers, sure to leave an imprint on Regulus’ delicate skin, makes it very clear: he has seen everything.

Regulus discards the knife on his empty plate with a sigh. Barty is always ruining his fun.

In the chair directly opposite, Sirius is looking at them both, frowning. Sirius has always hated Barty, claiming he’s a bad influence on Regulus, which is rich coming from someone who was disowned by his family for his troublemaking behaviour many years before Regulus developed the spine to leave. He doesn’t understand their relationship. No one does.

Regulus and Barty aren’t together and never have been, unless you count all the sex, and whatever it is that has always kept the core of their beings entangled, well beyond what can reasonably be comprehended by an outsider looking in. But they don’t have rules, nothing spoken or unspoken constraining what they do or don’t do outside of each other. That doesn’t stop Barty from digging in his nails, dragging Regulus closer at every turn.

Regulus will pay the price for his performance tonight. The prospect doesn’t trouble him. It never has.

 

~

 

After dinner, once people have gradually started to leave, Regulus helps with the dishes. He’s alone in the kitchen, Sirius and Remus busy saying goodbye to their friends. Up to his forearms in soapy water, he scrubs his way through a stack of plates, meticulous and methodical as he is in all things.

He notices the shadow of movement behind him but doesn’t turn. He expects the heat of the chest that presses against his back, and the familiar hand that threads through his hair, clenching into a fist and yanking his head back at an awkward angle. His wrists remain submerged in the sink, fragile porcelain still held between them, wet and dirty.

Barty’s breath clouds hot against his ear. “You think Potter can give you what you want?”

“I think Potter probably has a nice cock,” Regulus says, rolling his eyes to the side to see the hint of Barty’s profile allowed by his strict grasp.

“Nicer than mine?” In another context, with a different voice, it could be the words of a lover, the kind of sweet teasing that hardly even prickles against skin. From Barty, it is a threat, poised to exsanguinate. “He’s soft, gentle.” Barty spits the word like an insult. “Probably couldn’t even kill a spider.”

“Maybe.” Regulus smiles, toeing a very dangerous line. “But I bet I could get him to fuck me hard.”

The hand in his hair tightens, forcing his head further back and exposing the curve of his throat. The position is painful, vulnerable. Barty snatches up one of the newly cleaned knives from the dishrack beside the sink, the steel still dripping, and brings it to Regulus’ neck.

The plate in Regulus’ hands slips, striking the basin of the sink with a harsh noise. By pure luck, it doesn’t shatter.

“You have a filthy mouth,” Barty hisses against his cheek. “Someone should cut out your tongue.”

The serrated teeth of the blade bite into his windpipe, just below his Adam’s apple, forcing Regulus to shallow his breathing.

“It’s time for you to stop playing with Potter.” Barty’s mouth moves against him, the command pressed directly into his skin. “Do you understand?”

Regulus swallows, and the knife digs deeper into him, the jaws of a bear trap ready to snap in place and never let him escape. One wrong move, and he is caught.

Regulus has never been one to leave the bait. “Should I stop playing with you, too?”

Barty shifts his hold on the knife, tilting it until the point prods the underside of Regulus’ jaw, where the thin skin is drawn taut. He feels when it gives way, steel nicking the flesh just enough to draw a taste of blood.

“We’re not playing,” Barty says, leaving a kiss just below Regulus’ ear before he pulls away, tossing the knife into the sink without care, the handle bumping Regulus’ knuckles as it lands with a small splash.

Even as the warmth of Barty’s body disappears, Regulus’ awareness snags on another presence. He twists his head around. James is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his lips parted, eyes wide and glazed. Barty brushes past him without a word.

Regulus reaches up to his neck, swiping his thumb over the small, stinging puncture that Barty left behind. His finger comes away tinged with red, and on reflex, Regulus lifts it to his mouth and sucks it clean.

James follows the movement, licking his lips as if he, too, can taste it.

Silence stretches, impressions of copper and steel lingering between them. James is the first to turn away. He departs without a word, just one last unsteady breath, grazed but not ensnared. Not yet.

Regulus returns to washing the dishes. He finishes with the plates, cleaning the tainted knife last. In the polished surface, fragments of his own features glimmer and distort, all shades of black and silver. But somewhere, in the depths, is a glint of gold.

 

~

 

In one sense, Regulus obeys Barty’s demand. In another, realer sense, Regulus does what he has always done: exactly what he wants. He was raised in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, after all. He is well practiced in interpreting orders however they serve him best.

If Barty isn’t playing with him, then Regulus is done playing with James. This leisurely contest of temptations and traps is over. The winner has been clear from the very start.

 

~

 

All it takes is one kiss. James is easy like that, distracted by the simplest of decoys, hardly even knowing he is caught until it is too late.

One kiss, a mark left on his neck, some roaming hands, and James follows him back to his flat. Regulus lives alone, despite spending most nights with Barty. He has always needed his own space.

Barty is out with Evan tonight, though, which is not a coincidence in the slightest. Regulus leaves nothing unplanned. The entryway is dark, only a single lamp left on in the corner of his bedroom, and James stumbles as he removes his shoes in the unfamiliar setting, breathless and eager to resume kissing. Regulus locks the front door behind them.

He tugs James towards his room by his shirt, a bit harsher than he meant to be at this precise moment—one of the buttons pops off, skittering somewhere on the floor. Regulus takes advantage of the opportunity, undoing the remaining buttons with practiced expertise. The fabric parts to reveal a delicious expanse of skin, already burning under Regulus’ touch. James makes a sound, pliant in his hands.

Easy, easy, easy.

Regulus has the layout of his flat memorized well enough to guide James without having to look where he is going. He only separates their bodies when they reach his bed, shoving James onto his back on the mattress with one quick push of palms against his chest.

It is then that Regulus notices the room is already occupied. Half cast in shadow by the weak lamplight, Barty reclines in the green upholstered chair by the window, the one Regulus uses for reading.

“Don’t stop on my account.”

James, less quick to realize they are not alone, jolts up into a sitting position at the low sound of Barty’s voice. He reaches out to grab hold of Regulus’ wrist in the same moment, a sweet and simple gesture, as if his first instinct is to protect.

He won’t be protecting Regulus from Barty tonight. He wasn’t even able to protect himself.

“Please.” Regardless of what Barty may claim, Regulus knows that Barty himself is nothing more than an intricate structure of self-amusing deceits, layered upon each other. That blasé inflection is a ruse, just like his relaxed posture, legs spread and elbows resting on the arms of the chair. He tilts his head to the side, leaning it on one lazy hand, and that is a trick, too. “Continue.”

James glances between Barty and Regulus, a line between his brows. He says nothing, seeming to be waiting for Regulus to speak first. Regulus shakes off James’ uncertain grasp on his wrist, offering him a placating touch instead, running his fingers in an arc over James’ curls and down to his chin.

He lifts James’ face, pulling his attention away from Barty so that it is solely focused on where Regulus stands above him.

“Ignore him,” Regulus murmurs. He holds James’ gaze, all glossy black pupil, unwavering. “It’s just a game.”

James licks at the corner of his lips, eyes darting once more to Barty before they settle back on Regulus’ face. A span of heartbeats passes; Regulus measures them in the thrum of James’ pulse, blood ever telltale.

James nods. His hands find their place on Regulus’ hips again, drawing him down into a kiss.

It doesn’t matter how lost they get in each other’s mouths or naked skin, stripped to nothing piece by piece. Regulus does not forget Barty is there. His presence stretches from floor to ceiling, wall to wall. He is on every inch of Regulus’ body without a single touch.

Physically, James and Barty are nothing alike. Barty is long and lanky, all sharp bones and jagged edges, spikes of hair and smudged eyeliner, deliberate chaos. James is broad and steady, all soft lines and smooth muscle, purely artless sincerity. When Regulus straddles his lap on the bed, he enjoys the way James envelops him in his arms, the warmth an appealing contrast to Barty’s ice.

Regulus doesn’t rush. Barty wants to watch; he’ll give him a show.

He doesn’t look over his shoulder as he stretches himself open with his fingers. Doesn’t so much as glance in Barty’s direction when he reaches once more for the lube on his bedside table to slick over James’ cock. He only pauses when his fingers brush against something else near the drawer.

A short-hilted dagger, inlaid with intricate designs and touches of onyx, his initials engraved at the base of the blade. A gift from Barty, two birthdays ago. Cold, inflexible, exquisite. Dangerous. Exactly like you, Barty had said.

Exactly like me, Barty meant. Regulus feels it now, promise and threat, as he closes his hand around the hilt.

He leaves it on the bed near James’ shoulder. James’ entire being reorients itself around the knife, awareness and arousal and alarm striking him all at once. The round frames of his glasses catch the light as he turns to look at it, reflecting the tapered silver.

His hands, resting lax on Regulus’ bare thighs, tense. Fear is a potent emotion, but so is desire. Regulus is intimately aware of how thin the line between the two can be. “Are you going to use that?”

Regulus’ fingertips track a slow course from James’ collarbones to the narrow cross-guard of the dagger, where grip turns to blade. “Do you want me to?”

James bites his lip. His eyes flicker to Regulus, and then to Barty in the corner. Whatever James finds in the expression of their silent observer, it seems to make up his mind.

Lip still caught between his teeth, he nods.

“With words,” Regulus demands.

“I don’t want you to hurt me,” the answer comes quick. James swallows. “Just…”

“Make it seem like I will?”

James nods again. “Yes.”

The hilt is cool to the touch, a pleasant weight. Regulus runs his thumb over the engraving on the blade. His three favourite letters—the ones that mark something as his.

He lifts the dagger.

Beneath him, James smiles a little, his characteristic confidence and humour irrepressible, even now. “You’re not going to take this as an opportunity to murder me, right?”

“No.” With the very point of the dagger, Regulus traces lines of looping script on James’ chest, right above his heart. Not hard enough to draw blood, only enough to tease its sharpness. R.A.B. “But I could.”

The hitch in James’ breath is intoxicating. Regulus has always preferred desire that aches, his want and need accompanied by a touch of risk. Usually, Barty is the one dosing out the high of adrenaline, Regulus welcoming pain or peril as the small price of pleasure. Having that influence in his own hands is different. Better.

As if in response to his thoughts, from the chair behind him, Barty laughs, a quiet, abrasive sound. Or perhaps he is responding to the insinuation that Regulus is capable of killing James. Either way, it amounts to the same thing: a not-so-subtle reminder that Barty still thinks himself in control.

“Don’t look at him.” Regulus shifts his grip on the dagger, bringing it to James’ neck, just beneath his jugular. Metal and skin barely kiss. Regulus holds his hand steady. “Only me.”

With the threat of laceration so near, James doesn’t move. Regulus sits up on his knees, reaching to line up James’ cock. He is large against Regulus’ palm, larger still pressed against his entrance. As if James Potter needed another reason for his overinflated ego.

Regulus sinks down. The sound James makes offers immediate gratification.

Restraint, to no one’s surprise, proves not to be James’ strong suit. He struggles with the restriction on his movement, even as the knife to his throat begins to take him over, body and mind. Regulus knows the effect well: the heightened sensation; the thrill of endorphins coursing through his system; the distorted sense of the world, blurred and narrowed at once, everything whittling down to this moment, right here, right now.

James’ hands clutch uselessly at Regulus’ waist, his thighs. He pushes his hips up into Regulus, trying to meet the motion as Regulus starts to ride him in earnest, though it earns him a warning pressure of steel. James makes a high noise in his throat, somewhere between a whine and a moan.

Because Regulus is a generous person, he pulls the blade back a scant centimetre, enough to let James shift his position. James uses the benevolently-gifted opening to bend his knees up behind Regulus, giving himself more leverage. That is the only leeway Regulus allows, though his compassion does not go unrewarded. The new angle as James thrusts up into him is sinfully good, enough to earn them both a gracious welcome in hell.

Dagger or no, James does not fuck gently. Regulus wonders, for half a moment, if this is how he has always liked it, or if he simply read Regulus’ preferences very well. It is not a thought worth lingering over. The depth and stretch of Potter inside of him, the pace, the forcefulness—no concentration can be spared.

James will not last much longer; it’s clear from the bruising grip of his fingers and the noises that catch between his lips, louder and more abandoned now.

In one deft motion, Regulus flips the dagger in his hand, so that the other side is against James’ neck. Regulus keeps only one side of the blade sharpened, while the other remains dull, only slightly more hazardous than a butter knife. But James does not know that. When Regulus pushes the dagger into the skin of his throat, hard enough to slice him open if he used the opposite edge, for James, lost to the ecstasy of the lethal, it is a mortal moment, one in which he must only anticipate bloodshed or death.

James arches up, coming with a strangled moan, the sound stifled by the burden on his throat.

He is a wicked sight to behold. Sweat on his temples and in the hollow of his clavicles, all those lovely muscles contracted, head thrown back and neck bared, a red line of skin left sore and abraded from the dagger. Entirely at Regulus’ mercy. Regulus wants to devour him.

The hand that is not holding the dagger finds his own cock, disregarded until now. The slide of Regulus’ fingers along his length, together with the sensation of James spilling inside him, is almost enough. Almost.

With James still shuddering beneath him, Regulus looks over his shoulder. Black eyes meet his, and Barty smiles. Not a single thing about it is kind.

Heat surges through him and Regulus comes, the sudden force of it unexpected. He loses track of the room, his cognizance liquifying, the person inside him and the person watching him muddling together in his mind so that for a moment, he is not sure which is which. When he finally blinks away the haze from his vision, he is no less disoriented to find that Barty is no longer in the chair.

“What—?”

Arms close around him from behind, the loop of a snare pulling taut.

“That was entertaining,” Barty murmurs against his ear. He is still fully clothed, fabric scratching and tickling against Regulus’ bare skin. Regulus’ hold on the dagger, which had begun to grow lax, tightens once more when Barty closes a hand over his, pressing his knuckles back into a fist around the hilt. “But this is what you really like, isn’t it?”

Barty drags his hand up, so that Regulus is holding the sharp of the knife against his own throat. His grip is unforgiving. Regulus, weak and unsteady in the aftermath of his orgasm, is powerless to push him away.

He and Barty have their systems. Regulus could stop this, if he really wanted. But the truth of the matter is, Barty is right.

“I think it’s time to show our dear Jamie here how it’s really done.”

One arm remains wrapped around his chest, keeping their overlapping hands on the dagger held beneath Regulus’ chin. Barty’s other hand snakes between their closely pressed bodies, undoing his jeans and shoving them down just enough to expose himself. Regulus can feel the length of him, hard and hot against his lower back.

James has already slipped out of him, leaving a mixture of come and lube trickling down his inner thighs. It presents no challenge at all for Barty to push inside of him, loose as he is.

Right away, it is too much. Oversensitive from having already come, being filled again verges quickly from pleasure into torment.

Regulus struggles in Barty’s hold, an instinctive reaction, and a foolish one considering the circumstances. It is only Barty’s quick reflexes and nimble handling of the dagger that spare Regulus from slicing an artery. Barty's other arm constricts around Regulus’ waist, stilling his writhing.

“You think this dagger belongs to you, that you can use it as you like, just because it has your name on it?” Barty punctuates the question—rhetorical, always rhetorical—with a slow, harsh thrust. The tip of his tongue is a reptilian flicker on the shell of Regulus’ ear. “You’ve misunderstood.”

Another thrust, harder. Regulus is forced to crush himself even further into Barty’s embrace to escape the press of the dagger, plastering himself to Barty’s chest. The worn cotton of Barty’s shirt sticks to his skin, tacky with sweat.

“Just because something is for you”—Barty is speaking hardly above a whisper, but in the quiet bedroom, the only thing louder is the wet sound of him fucking into Regulus—“doesn’t mean you own it.”

His rhythm quickens. Each thrust wrings a gasp out of Regulus. The sensation is unbearable. It is the greatest bliss Regulus knows.

“This is mine.” The blade caresses Regulus’ skin. “You are mine.”

Regulus’ legs no longer bear the entirety of his own weight. They tremble with each drag, every driving movement inside of him. Authority is accorded only to Barty.

“You’d like it if I slit your throat, wouldn’t you?” Teeth scrape against his jaw. “In your last moments, you would come for me, just like you always do.”

Regulus looks down and meets James’ eyes. They stare up at him, round and dark and glittering, humiliatingly aware that Barty has said nothing but the truth.

“Touch him, sweetheart,” Barty says, and this time the command is the dull side of the dagger, aimed at James. “He’ll come again. He’ll come as many times as I say.”

James isn’t like Regulus; he obeys without having to be told twice. And this time, so does Regulus. Shortly after James’ hand closes around his cock, his renewing hardness forced by the extreme stimulation, he comes for the second time that evening. It is less like pleasure and more like relief.

He is boneless when Barty lays him back against the covers of the bed beside James, leaving one kiss brushed to his forehead, another to his neck. The only energy Regulus has left in him is spent rolling his head to the side, watching as Barty moves to hover over James. The dagger is in his hand when he reaches out to stroke James’ face, the gesture tender. Regulus doesn’t even remember Barty taking it from his hand, too sated to put up any fight.

“You understand, don’t you, Jamie?” Barty whispers as he leans down, their lips a scant breath apart. The sound of metal meeting is painfully melodic, the blade of the dagger scraping against the frame of James’ glasses. “It doesn’t matter what games we play. Everything’s already mine.”

When James and Barty kiss, victory becomes trivial. Regulus sees that now. Winning is beside the point when the blending of silver and gold is that beautiful.

Notes:

please help validate me with comments, i will love and appreciate you forever!

Chapter 2: I'm Starving, Darling

Summary:

Maybe this is what he and Regulus have always needed, Barty muses—a shift in their equation. Another playmate; someone with different camouflage and a new set of claws.

Notes:

another one for my beloved muse E, and for everyone else who liked the first part ♡

The hunt is more fun, with three rather than two. No longer the simply weighted equilibrium of predator and prey. Maybe this is what he and Regulus have always needed, Barty muses—a shift in their equation. Another playmate; someone with different camouflage and a new set of claws.

It all just becomes so dull, when you know your quarry too well. That’s why Regulus is his favourite. He’s always been good at keeping Barty on his toes. Never quite the same chase or plan of defence, and enough stubborn endurance to only go down with a fight.

And sure, Barty hates sharing. He was a selfish child, and he’s no less prone to hoarding his toys as an adult. His uncompromising personal doctrine holds that what’s his is his, and no one else’s. But with James, it doesn’t feel like he’s surrendering anything. No, it’s the opposite really. James is another addition to his collection. He’s big game, and like all hunters, Barty loves his trophies.

After the first time, he and James don’t talk. They don’t even text. Maybe Regulus has his number; maybe they’re going on sweet little coffee dates or having long heart-to-hearts. Barty doesn’t know and doesn’t care. That’s not his game. Instead, he lays low, circling from a distance.

His next strike comes, not unexpectedly, at James’ favourite watering hole: Remus and Sirius’ flat. Barty likes Sirius fine, and Sirius tolerates him probably about as much as it’s possible to tolerate the delinquent, tattooed heathen fucking your little brother six ways to Sunday and making no real secret of it. But of the two, Barty prefers Remus. If he and Sirius weren’t so boringly and monogamously joined at the hip, Barty thinks he’d enjoy getting his hands on Remus. There’s a wildness buried behind all that nerdy politeness that Barty is certain he could draw to the surface.

That’s neither here nor there, though. Barty already has two targets to keep his eye on at the moment—Regulus, forever trying to slip from his grasp, and James, still unused to this sport.

Though they were invited to the party together, he and Regulus arrive separately, as is their custom. Sirius has never quite been able to wrap his head around the nature of their relationship, alternating between treating them as a regular couple just like him and Remus, or as purely platonic acquaintances. Regulus, who enjoys getting under his brother’s skin whenever and however possible, refuses to play into either of these straightforward, vanilla dynamics. For events like these, that typically means Barty and Regulus showing up like two people who have never met before in their lives, then spending the evening subjecting Sirius to a variety of blatant and lewd displays of affection.

Regulus is already inside. Barty knows because Regulus passed him while he was smoking on the street outside, tugging at Barty’s belt as he went by without even a word of greeting or a flash of eye contact.

Barty doesn’t follow him just yet. Outside, he waits. Stalks.

James shows up two cigarettes later. He freezes at the door of Sirius and Remus’ building, only feet from where Barty lounges against the brick, hand still cupped around the flame of his lighter as he replaces the butt of one fag with another.

Their eyes meet. Barty lowers his hand and slides the Zippo into his back pocket alongside his half-empty pack of Marlboros. As intended, James follows the motion, gaze lingering on the sharp bones of Barty’s hips, exposed by his low-riding jeans and the frayed hem of his shirt.

“You smoke?” Barty asks him between drags. James is looking somewhere around his lips.

“No,” James says, stepping closer to Barty, away from the door and the much safer bet of his friends inside.

Barty quirks a brow. “You just like the smell?”

“No.”

“The ambiance?”

“No.” He’s in Barty’s space now, crowding him against the side of the building without quite touching him, the length of the cigarette in Barty’s fingers measuring the distance between them. Like this, it becomes clear that he and James are almost the exact same height.

Barty grins, cigarette held between his teeth. He reaches out to grab hold of James’ hips, flipping them around to reverse their positions and press James’ back against the wall. James allows it, though Barty can feel the tension hit his muscles as he loses whatever upper hand he stupidly believed he had.

“Ah,” Barty says, as if reaching a new realization. “I know what it is.” Leaving one hand at James’ waist, he snakes the other up the narrow space between their bodies to recapture the cigarette with two fingers. “You like the burn.”

He lifts the cigarette away from his lips as he speaks, the lit end dangerously close to James’ parted lips. The glowing cherry reflects a perilous red on the curve of his mouth and the frames of his glasses. The tip of James’ tongue sneaks out like it can’t help but want a taste, wetting his lower lip against the heat.

Barty can imagine the sting of it. Another few seconds, another centimetre, and it might blister.

“No,” James says. The moment his mouth forms the denial, Barty pulls the cigarette away, releasing him from the impending threat of searing his skin.

Barty tilts his head to take his next drag, slow and deep. He lets the hand with the cigarette fall back to his side as he leans in close to James, bringing the other up from James’ hip to grip at his throat instead. Their noses brush, and he breathes the heavy lungful of smoke out between them, acrid and choking, the best kind of unpleasant.

“Are you sure about that?” he murmurs into James’ mouth. Teases his tongue against that warm lower lip, nowhere near sweet enough to be a kiss.

James’ jaw shifts, and then he is moving too quickly for Barty to make sense of it, gripping Barty’s wrists with strong hands and yanking them up and over his head as he wrenches Barty’s body around to pin him face first against the wall, cheek scraping the rough brick. It pushes the air from Barty’s chest, all of it bitter, hazy.

“I think,” James’ teeth catch on the silver studs that arc around the top of Barty’s ear, “That’s the part you like.”

His large palm, calloused and warm, slides up Barty’s wrist to steal the half-burnt cigarette dangling from lax fingers. Even with one less hand holding him in place, Barty doesn’t try to move from the position he’s been put in, letting the satisfying weight of James’ body press him into the brick without complaint. He’s curious, really, just how far James can go.

Barty hums, needling him on. Neck strained, his vision is limited to impressions of brown skin and dark curls. “You sound confident.”

James leans more heavily against him. Barty can’t see the movement of his arm, but he can feel the shift of James’ shoulder, the brush of his knuckles against the exposed line of Barty’s waist below his ribs where his shirt has ridden up.

“I am,” James says, and he presses the lit end of the cigarette into the skin just above Barty’s hip.

The hot shock of it makes him hiss before the pain even hits. He is less aware of James dropping the cigarette and grinding it out beneath his shoe, and more aware of the sting of scalded skin, a bright snag on his nerves. No bigger than his fingertip, and yet it redirects all sensation.

He doesn’t realize he is laughing until James releases his wrists and steps back. With a lazy motion, Barty rolls around to face James, head lolling back against the wall. His shoulders shake, grin stretching his lips wide.

“You’ll regret that,” he says, breathless with the exhilaration of primal agony, the basest kind of carnal exchange.

James’ eyes glint, pleased at the promise. “We’ll see.”

He leaves Barty there on the street, going inside to join Regulus, the rest of the party already in full swing somewhere in the flats above them.

Out on the dark pavement, Barty traces a finger around the small, circular burn on his hip, smiling to himself.

He was right after all. This is more fun.

 

~

 

He captures them together in the hallway outside the bathroom. Barty doesn’t even have to rustle them out. James is overconfident now, believing he has fumbled his way to the top of the food chain. Barty has always enjoyed the foolish ones.

Regulus notices him first. He knows Barty well enough to expect him, and he’s enough of a bitchy little tease to smirk when he catches Barty in his peripheral vision, closing in on them.

They’re making out in the shadowed corner, rough and sloppy, James’ hands laced through Regulus’ silky black hair. He can only see one of Regulus’ hands, clutching at James’ chest, but he knows exactly where the other has slipped out of sight between them based on the way James gasps and grinds his hips into the touch.

Barty lets them enjoy their moment of dry fucking against the wall of the corridor, watching from a few feet away. He times it to when James is burying his face into the crook of Regulus’ shoulder, that first soft groan smothered against his skin. Then, Barty steps forward, closing one hand around the back of Regulus’ neck and the other around James’.

“It’s time to leave.” He whispers the command into the sparse air between them as he tightens his grip, feeling the knobs of their spines beneath his fingers. “Now.”

When Regulus and James draw their heads apart—as much movement as Barty’s grip permits—both of their mouths are kiss-swollen and slick with spit. Barty leans in, holding them both firmly in place while he sticks out his tongue, licking the wetness from their lips until it is adequately replaced with his own.

There is a hitched breath, from one or the other of them, or both, it hardly matters. Two little rabbits, thinking themselves a match for an obligate carnivore.

He releases them. “Let’s go.”

They follow him without question.

 

~

 

Barty’s flat is sparser than Regulus’, and much less tidy. Regulus has always hated the mess, which is at least half the reason they spend more time at his place. But tonight, Barty wants to be in his own space. He locks the door behind them, slow and deliberate, lingering in the heady atmosphere of a lion dragging its kill back to its den.

Though unorganised, it can never be said that Barty is poorly prepared. His dark sheets are mussed but clean, the bedroom relatively free from the chaos that reigns in the rest of his flat. In here, he wants no distractions.

He instructs with preamble, assured of what he wants and how he wants it. “Strip.”

Regulus obeys easier than James, as compliant as he ever gets, which means he must be feeling needy. Barty smiles at him, an unspoken praise as Regulus unbuttons his shirt, leaving it on the end of the bed before taking off the rest of his clothes.

James dawdles. His jaw twitches as he pulls his t-shirt over his head with one hand and undoes his belt, then pauses to watch Regulus. There’s something shifty in his gaze as it flickers from Regulus’ pale, naked skin back to Barty, who stands impassively by while he waits for his directions to be followed. He knows that look in James’ eyes; knows it heralds mischief.

Barty moves into the space between them, stroking his left hand down Regulus’ bare ribs and across his stomach, approving. He rests his right hand flat against James’ sternum, the proprietary touch a warning. “Strip, or I’ll have to do it for you.”

James smirks. “Be my guest.”

Barty’s fingers flex, and the gentle pressure of his palm becomes a harsh shove, forcing James back onto the bed. With his belt already unbuckled, Barty doesn’t bother with the button of James’ jeans, tucking his fingers into his waistband and all but ripping them off him, taking his briefs with them.

“Hold him down,” he tells Regulus, stripping James of his socks while he’s at it, wanting him totally exposed. Regulus moves, kneeling on the bed near James’ shoulder, but James resists.

An animal cannot help but thrash when it is trapped, seeking an escape. Desperation is a survival instinct. Barty does not blame him for that.

But this goes beyond what Barty will tolerate. James surges up, wrapping his muscled arms around Barty’s torso and twisting them to the side, pinning him to the bed. Somewhere in the flurry of movement, he snatches up Regulus’ discarded button-up. Though similar in height, James is stronger, and heavier. His body holds Barty in place as he loops the sleeves of the shirt around Barty’s wrists, wrestling it into an amateur knot.

It's a mistake. Barty snarls up at him, temporarily thwarted, though he knows this obstacle is only fleeting. James is incapable of going in for the kill. He doesn’t have the teeth for it.

James kisses down his chest, shoving Barty’s shirt up to his collarbones as he goes and sucking a careless smattering of reddish marks around his navel. A minor taunt, rather than an attack. When he settles down at Barty’s thighs, freeing his half-hard cock from the confines of his jeans, Barty relaxes into his light restraint, mollified by the warmth of James’ mouth and by the sight of Regulus digging through his bedside table for the lube he knows Barty keeps there.

Barty’s good at watching. He can leave them to it, for a little while.

The soft suction of James’ lips around the head of his cock, sliding down to take more of him bit by bit, is enough to coax him to full hardness, even more so when he drives his hips up, making James gag and forcibly readjust.

Kneeling behind James, Regulus has begun to slick his fingers with lube. He’s better at this sort of preparation than Barty is, anyway. Not only because of his adept hands, meant for pianos and other fine instruments, but also because of his patience. Barty is always too rough, indifferent to the concepts of thoroughness or gentleness.

The first press of Regulus’ finger inside of him makes James jolt, drawing back from Barty’s cock. Regulus soothes a hand over his flank and up to his shoulder blade, guiding James to resume his ministrations while he works him open.

After the initial reaction, James surrenders to it easily. When he moans, it sends subtle vibrations through Barty’s cock, delicious enough that Barty can’t help but lift his hips into it, seeking further down his throat, wanting to feel it straight from his vocal cords. James is an intolerable brat, but a good multi-tasker, Barty will give him that. He balances sucking Barty off with having two fingers stretch him open marvellously, which bodes well for Barty’s evening.

When Regulus starts on a third finger, Barty decides he’s had enough of this little détente. With a few jerks of his wrists and a bit of contortion, he frees his hands from James’ crude binding and grasps hold of James’ curls with both fists, pulling at the roots. Saliva and precum paint James’ chin when his head is tugged back from Barty’s cock, mouth still open as he stares up at Barty through the smudged lenses of his glasses, knocked askew on his face. Barty wants to destroy him. He wants to consume him.

Trapped between Barty and Regulus, James’ back forms a beautiful arch, his eyes glazed over in the way Barty has been waiting for. Unlike Barty’s previous command, his next is obeyed without delay. “Get on your back.”

Regulus withdraws his fingers and James turns over, parting his legs expectantly. Barty nudges Regulus aside to take his place between James’ thighs, but he pauses to caress Regulus’ cheek first, leaning in to kiss him before he asks, “I think Jamie is ready to learn his role here. Don’t you agree?”

Regulus grins, beatific. “He’s a quick learner,” he says, eyes silver as a knife and just as sharp when he looks down at James. “I think he can handle it.”

While Barty spreads lube over his cock, Regulus straddles James’ chest, stroking himself while he waits for Barty to get in position. Like this, Barty can’t see James’ face, though he has a rather compelling view of Regulus’ arse. He doesn’t really need to see James’ expression, anyway; his body is wonderfully responsive to Barty’s attentions, squirming and tensing with every touch, and his sounds come without any filter or restraint.

Gripping the back of one thick thigh, Barty presses James’ knee up towards his chest, until it is almost touching Regulus’s leg where he kneels over him. He lines up his cock, dragging it across the slippery, sensitive area, letting James feel the size and shape and heat of it before he sinks inside of him.

Regulus must have pushed into his mouth at the same time, because James’ moan comes out muffled. Barty gives him only a brief moment to adjust before he pulls back, then drives himself in deep once more, hips slapping against James’ skin.

Barty has always had one preference, and one preference only: hard and raw. He will trick and tease and play with his food before he eats it, but he would rather never fuck again than waste his time on anything less than total, consuming passion. The intensity he wants is vital, blood on his hands and flesh under his fingernails. He wants to tear with his teeth and feel the snap of bones.

He sets a punishing pace. Regulus offers no reprieve either, the muscles of his back and thighs contracting in rhythm as he thrusts, a hand in James’ hair helping him lift his head up to meet each motion. James’ moans and whimpers begin to bleed one into another, a desperate crescendo. He makes such pretty noises, with his mouth full of cock.

Barty can tell when Regulus is getting close by the high pitch of the whine that leaves him, one of Barty’s most cherished sounds. Before Regulus can fully surrender himself to it, Barty reaches to curve an arm around his belly, drawing him back towards his chest just enough to hook his chin over Regulus’ sweat-dampened shoulder, searching for James’ eyes. When they meet Barty’s, the wide hazel irises are almost entirely eclipsed by black, and wet enough to have left streaks of tears down James’ cheeks.

“Don’t swallow,” Barty warns, waiting for him to nod to show he understands the order. “I want you to choke on it.”

James moans, loud and unconstrained until Regulus’ cock stifles him once more. Regulus falls forward to press his hands against the headboard, giving himself better leverage to push down into James’ throat. He comes only a minute later, giving a last few aborted thrusts as he spills in James’ mouth. Trembling with the exertion, his legs finally give out and he falls to the side, splayed out panting and spent beside James on the mattress.

Like the depraved slut that Barty already knows James is, the taste of come precipitates the end for him. Barty hikes James’ leg higher, shifting until he finds the angle that makes James throw his head back. He aims for that same spot again and again, so that when he finally wraps his hand around James’ cock, strained and leaking against his stomach, James cries out within seconds, the sound strangled in the back of his throat as he shudders through his orgasm.

His cock is still twitching as Barty momentarily slows the tempo of his thrusts to lean forward and grab hold of James’ chin, pressing down on his bottom teeth with the pad of his thumb to force his parted lips open further. Just as Barty requested, Regulus’ come is still pooled in his mouth, impeding his already laboured breaths.

“Good boy,” Barty murmurs. As a reward, he gathers the saliva on his tongue, holding James in place while he spits it into his mouth to mix with Regulus’ come. He swirls the viscous combination on James’ tongue with his thumb while James stares up him with glassy eyes and damp, flushed cheeks, entirely overwhelmed. “Now swallow.”

James does, his lips closing around Barty's finger before he pulls it back. “You’re doing so well, Jamie. Just hold on a little longer,” he promises, pressing a single kiss to James’ mouth with uncharacteristic tenderness. “Alright?”

James nods weakly. Barty smiles, sitting back on his heels and gripping James’ thighs once more, folding his body how he likes it best and resuming his previous rhythm. James clenches around him in overstimulation, and the tightness only drives Barty closer to the edge. He smells dirt and leaves, life and decay, the cracked open heart at the pinnacle of a kill.

He loses himself to it. Somewhere in those preyed and predated woods, Regulus’ hand finds its way into his hair, then down his spine. He mouths against the side of Barty’s neck, nipping the skin, but it is the hand that wraps around his hip that Barty focuses on, one slender finger finding the raw red mark scorched there and digging into the centre of where it throbs, aggravating what is already sore and inflamed.

That flash of pain is what does it, every visceral need culminating at once. He comes inside of James, a release so intense he is sure it must be somewhere on the brink of death.

When he comes down from that liminal place, fiercely sought and even more brutally attained, both James and Regulus are wrapped around him, all tangled together as one. Regulus trails kisses over the nape of his neck while Barty buries his face in James’ chest, stroking aimless touches over his arms and breathing in the warmth of musk and sweat. He listens to the powerful beat of James’ pulse and the susurrations of Regulus’ breath, a hushed and familiar scene.

Just like that, the hunt begins anew.

Notes:

don't be like jartylus, please use condoms and discuss your kink ahead of time lol

if you enjoyed this, i'd love to know. comments are always the best part of my day!

i’m toying with the idea of writing a third part to this, but for now i’m going to keep it as complete

Chapter 3: A Kindness, Highness

Summary:

He's confident. Always has been. James knows his own talent. Even so, competing two against one has proved trickier than he thought, especially with competitors like Regulus and Barty.

But James is no quitter. He can dig his heels in, push himself harder, faster. He can keep up, no matter what new trick shot they throw at him.

Notes:

i posted the last chapter and then immediately thought "you know what? this should really be a triptych with a james pov chapter."

so here we are. i wrote another 4k words of porn purely for ~stylistic~ reasons and absolutely no other motive… sure let's go with that….

James has been infatuated with Regulus Black since the day they met. Sirius introduced them, of course, announcing him proudly as his little brother and steering him towards James with overeager hands on his slim shoulders. Regulus looked at James with that cool grey gaze, holding out a dispassionate hand for him to shake, and James knew then: Regulus was the ultimate challenge.

He can’t help but stare. Continuously creating a mental diagram of Regulus’ porcelain skin, the contrasting waves of ink-black hair, his sharp jaw and bowed lips. James has been staring for days, weeks, months now. He knows better than to take his eye off an opponent.

Regulus tests him like no rival ever has. Every flick of his wrist, every arch of his neck is an intimidation tactic, goading James to lose sight of his goal. He wants James to break, to admit defeat, and he has certainly put James through his paces already. He did no more than press the tip of a dinner knife to his wet pink tongue and James was left winded. There’s no doubt, Regulus is playing in a whole different league.

Barty was an unforeseen addition, and James will admit that his entrance into the match made James stumble, if only briefly. Before, James had only noticed him indistinctly in Regulus’ orbit, a dangerous grin just on the periphery of his vision. When James had asked Sirius if Barty and Regulus were together, Sirius had laughed in his face. Not quite a denial, but ambiguous enough to leave an opening for James, one that he took advantage of.

He's confident. Always has been. James knows his own talent. Even so, competing two against one has proved trickier than he thought, especially with competitors like Regulus and Barty.

But James is no quitter. He can dig his heels in, push himself harder, faster. He can keep up, no matter what new trick shot they throw at him.

This week, Regulus’ skill of choice is the dexterity of hands.

James’ routine at the gym is strict and inviolable. He follows it closer than any religion, finding peace and respite in the burn of his lungs and strain of his muscles. He doesn’t go to therapy, doesn’t meditate. Instead, he works out.

It is such a sacrosanct part of his life that the sight of Regulus in this, of all spaces, feels profane. He stops dead in the lobby with his gym bag slung over his shoulder, gaping.

“Reg?”

They live close enough to each other. It shouldn’t be such a shock, except that James has never seen him here before. If asked before today, he would have bet money that Regulus never went to the gym at all.

It’s not that he’s unathletic. Deceptively lean, perhaps, but James has also seen up close and personal just how capable his thighs really are. But there’s something bizarre about seeing Regulus in a place as mundane as this. Every moment that he’s spent in Regulus’ presence has had a touch of surrealism to it. In James’ mind, Regulus exists on another plane; a sort of fantastical, untouchable being, above such things as lifting weights and running on a treadmill.

“Hi, Jamie.” Regulus’ mouth curves around the words, pink lips settling together and curling at the corners, soft and devious.

No one calls him Jamie. Not his best friends, not his family. His mum has always spurned the moniker, insisting that she named him James for a reason. And Sirius, Remus, Peter—they all have their own nicknames for each other.

Regulus and Barty use the syllables like they mean something. When they call him Jamie, the lilt of the diminutive ending raises the hair on the back of his neck and trickles like water down his spine.

“What are you doing here?”

Regulus is standing off to one side of the gym’s lobby like he’s waiting for someone, dressed in black joggers and a hoodie. Was he waiting… for James? No, obviously not, that would make no sense. But having already shifted into his hyper-focused workout mindset, James is having trouble wrapping his mind around why else Regulus might be here.

Regulus looks over at the gym equipment, wholly unimpressed. “Regular exercise is good for your health, or so I’ve been told.”

He pouts in the direction of the nearest squat rack, like he doesn’t totally believe it. James wonders who it is, exactly, that has the balls to tell Regulus Black he needs to exercise more, because it could certainly never be him. He can’t imagine surviving that conversation with all his limbs still attached. Not that he’s left most of their conversations unscathed as it is.

His agitation must be obvious, because Regulus arches an eyebrow at him. “Is that a problem?”

James adjusts his gym bag higher on his shoulder, shifting his weight on his feet. He hasn’t warmed up enough for this exchange.

“No,” he replies. “No, of course not.” He winces as soon as he says it. Already on the defence—Regulus will see right through it.

Regulus hums as he glances towards the door, but whoever he is waiting for has seemingly not arrived yet. There’s the usual girl working behind the front desk, and a fair amount of people exercising around the gym, but no one is paying them any mind.

Turning his attention back to James, Regulus steps closer to him, narrowing the field of play. It throws James off balance, but he holds his ground, unwilling to surrender more turf.

Regulus studies James’ face, eyes tracking across his cheekbones down towards the collar of his shirt, lingering there. James doesn’t know what’s going through his mind. He’s never been able to predict Regulus’ next move, which is part of what makes being around him so exhilarating.

James waits, muscles tense. Regulus has the advantage now, and he presses it, moving even closer. He’s a few inches shorter than James, but this contest has never been a matter height.

“You have something on your neck.” Regulus brings his thumb to his mouth, licking along the pad of it, slow enough to rob James of his concentration. It evokes another memory, equally gross and alluring, of Regulus licking his own blood from his finger in Sirius’ kitchen. “You must have cut yourself shaving.”

He reaches up, fingers cupping the nape of James’ neck as his thumb swipes at a spot just under his jaw. He must be right, because the contact stings, finding some small hurt that James hadn’t noticed. The first pass of his thumb is enough to remove whatever spot of blood was left behind, James is sure, but Regulus goes back over it a second time, digging his finger harder into the nick in the skin. Drawing out further tenderness, rather than soothing it.

“Mm, your pulse is fast.” His palm slides from the back of James’ neck around to the side, thumb brushing in an arc over his Adam’s apple. The motion is smooth enough to seem casual, natural, but James knows it is anything but. Regulus and Barty have taught him that much already. “Something wrong?”

The shifting touch has left Regulus’ hand all but wrapped around James’ throat, thumb stretched across one side and fingers curved around the other, warm palm resting squarely on his trachea. The hold isn’t harsh, but firm enough for James to feel each bend and flex of his knuckles. Graceful, purposeful.

James swallows, intensifying the sense of constriction. “Just eager to start my workout,” he says, the words coming out strangled.

With his chin forced back as it is, James can only follow Regulus with his eyes as he leans in, putting more weight on his hand. His fingers tighten, compressing arteries, restricting the vital flow of blood to James’ brain. Wisps of dark hair tickle against James’ skin, and his vision blurs, light-headedness quickly encroaching.

“You’ll work hard for me, won’t you?” Regulus’s nose brushes along his jaw, a sensation that James is only distantly aware of. He is caught up in the pressure of the hand on his throat and the haze bearing down on him, the delightful, frightening cloud of it suffused with the fresh scent of Regulus’ cologne. An opponent hardly even exerting himself.

When Regulus lets go, the sudden rush of oxygen hits James like a tidal wave, so good it leaves him shivering and giddy. Regulus steps back, hand returning to his side like he never tried to choke James at all. In his unsteady state, James almost doubts whether he ever really did.

Regulus doesn’t wait for an answer. It’s a rhetorical question anyway. He smiles and brushes past James without another word, going to greet the petite blonde girl who just came in through the doors. She looks vaguely familiar to James from some party or another; Pandora, he thinks her name is. He’s too stunned to pay her much attention.

It takes him far too many minutes to force himself to move and go about his workout. By then, Regulus has disappeared with his friend, off somewhere in the gym out of James’ sight.

It doesn’t matter. With every exercise, every set, every repetition, James feels Regulus’ fingers around his neck. Their imprint hinders him, an extra hurdle, but that only drives him to double his efforts. Regulus may have scored another point in this impromptu face-off, but the clock has not run out yet.

 

~

 

The next time that James finds himself in Regulus’ flat, it is by explicit invitation. They have never done this in a prearranged way before. It’s a new strategy, and a bold one. Cocky, even. But James faces it undaunted, as he always has.

Regulus answers the door in a robe, black silk edged in emerald. The colours suit him, drawing attention to the silver of his eyes. A perfect complement to the red and white shirt that James wears, and the gold of his glasses. They stand on either side of the open door, staring each other down, and in his mind, James sees a gleaming coin tossed into the air, spinning in slow motion as it falls.

“Come in,” Regulus says, stepping back to let James pass. The door closing behind him makes a soft sound, followed by the harsher click of the lock. James doesn’t look back. He moves with confidence down the hallway and towards Regulus’ bedroom, as if his heart rate is not already ratcheting up, adrenaline kicking in.

Regulus is following, probably. He moves too quietly, like a cat. James should check to be sure, but he has yet to notice any trace of Barty, and the threat of an unseen opponent makes him nervous.

The layout of Regulus’ bedroom is stamped in his mind. He had let Regulus distract him too much the last time he was here; this time, his eyes go immediately to the corner by the window, to the green armchair and its occupant.

Barty reclines in the same position as then, limbs arranged in a relaxed sprawl. Legs spread apart, elbows on the armrests, head leaned back. So similar to James’ memory, except for one major difference: here and now, he is entirely naked, adorned only by the lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.

James freezes. It’s the response of an amateur, which James is not, but his body reacts faster than his brain.

Tattoos litter Barty’s skin, all varying styles and degrees of detail, the black of some more faded than others. A serpent curls its way around one bicep, fangs dripping, reaching towards the petals of an elaborate rose on his chest. A constellation of stars dots the prominent curve of his ribs, something about the pattern familiar to James for a reason he can’t quite place. Six letters spread across the expanse of delicate skin between his hip bones, just above his cock. James knows, from prior encounters, that the tattoo reads SINNER. But in the shadow cast by Barty’s arm as he brings his cigarette to his mouth, it looks almost like the word WINNER.

“Jamie.” Goosebumps break out over his skin. Barty says it as he always does, part praise, part jeer. “Take a seat.”

He can’t decide his next manoeuvre. His faltering thoughts only hit another block when Regulus slinks past him, untying his robe as he moves. He drops it on the floor just in front of James, a dark pool of silk staining the carpet. It’s easier to focus on that than it is to watch Regulus arrange himself on Barty’s lap, less tattooed but no less naked. James makes himself look anyway, seeing the stretches of bare skin, muscles flexing and extending, joints gliding to find ways to fit together.

Regulus plucks the cigarette from Barty’s fingers and puts it out in the crystal ashtray resting on the windowsill. By some miracle, Barty lets him. Despite their easy nonchalance, it is that detail, of all things, that makes James begin to wonder if the two of them planned their every move.

Regulus shifts, so that his back is leaning against Barty’s chest and his legs are splayed wide over Barty’s thighs. One hand reaches back to twine lazily in Barty’s brown hair, while he trails the other over his own chest, drawing a line down his sternum and towards his navel, an arrow leading straight to the place James’ eyes have already fallen.

He knows the aim of Barty’s command, but their rulebook is full of loopholes. He evades, going to sit on the edge of Regulus’ bed.

Barty doesn’t let his little feint slip by unnoticed. “No,” he tsks, tapping his foot against the carpet. “On the floor, on your knees.”

The small reproach boxes James into a corner. His only choice now is to push back directly, but can he risk it so soon?

When he doesn’t move, Barty adds another directive, this time with more of a bite. “Your clothing won’t be necessary.”

James’ hands jump to the collar of his shirt before he even thinks about it. The desire to comply is stronger now than his will to resist. He strips his clothes off, leaving them abandoned on the floor atop Regulus’ robe. Once undressed, he takes his position in front of the armchair where Regulus and Barty await, fondling each other with idle touches.

When James sinks to his knees at their feet, Regulus smiles. Barty offers no such affirmation. He only whispers something in Regulus’ ear, too quiet for James to hear. Regulus nods, then pats around near Barty’s hip, finding the bottle of lube tucked between his body and the cushions of the chair.

James is left to watch as Regulus wets his fingers and reaches between his own spread legs, circling and then pushing the tip of his middle finger inside himself. He prepares himself slowly, in no apparent rush as he works in one knuckle, then the next, pausing to add more lube. James shifts on his knees, moving imperceptibly closer, so that with a simple turn or tilt of his head he could bury his face into any number of enticing locations.

He knows he should stay still. Knows he is courting a counterattack if he takes any offensive action. But it’s difficult, being so close. He can smell the both of them from here, mingled but distinct. Regulus, lightly perfumed, clean and sharp. Barty, all smoke and nicotine, bitter and heady. And more potent than all of that, growing stronger by the minute, the cloying musk of sex.

James’ restraint snaps when Barty’s hand slides between Regulus’ thighs, one rough finger pushing in alongside the one Regulus is working gently in and out. Regulus’ body reacts to the intrusion, his legs tensing against it, but the way his knees are hooked around Barty’s effectively holds him open.

Both Barty and Regulus are much more fair-skinned than James, but the similarities in their hands end there. Regulus’ fingers are lean and manicured, while Barty’s are knobbly and indelicate, with a half-healed scrape over his knuckles and chipped polish on his nails. The sight of them together, pressing into Regulus, is too much.

James reaches forward, desperate to touch, but before he can join them in stretching Regulus open, Barty’s voice stops him. “Hands to yourself until you’re told otherwise,” he orders. He accompanies it with a taunt, pushing his finger deeper and making Regulus whimper. “Or else you will stay nothing but a spectator.”

James jerks his hand back like he’s been stung. Barty has him there: nothing, absolutely nothing, could be worse than being relegated to the sidelines. He digs his nails into the carpet to hold himself in check while Regulus and Barty finish with their preparation, resisting every disobedient impulse of the raw, pent-up energy and need tearing at him from inside.

Regulus whines when Barty slips his fingers out, adjusting Regulus on his lap as he reaches between them to grab hold of his own cock. He slicks the excess lube on his hand over his length before positioning the head of his cock at Regulus’ rim, lingering long enough that Regulus begins to squirm with the anticipation.

Barty hooks his chin over Regulus’ shoulder, catching Regulus’ earlobe between his teeth. Regulus’ eyes have fallen closed, attuned only to Barty’s teasing, but Barty’s gaze finds James. In James’ mind, Barty’s eyes have always burned black as a demon’s. But for the first time, James realizes that beyond the dilation of his pupil, Barty’s eyes are actually a peculiar shade of olive green, not unlike the upholstery of the armchair he occupies.

He holds James’ stare as he pushes inside of Regulus. James and Regulus gasp in tandem, though James has not had even a finger laid on him. Even so, he is already hard enough to hurt, a deep, tugging sort of ache taking root below his stomach, his cock twitching and heavy between his legs. James bites into his bottom lip, fighting back a desperate sound as Barty begins to fuck into Regulus, giving him little time to adjust to the new fullness.

It is agony and ecstasy to watch. The elegant column of Regulus’ neck is bared to the caprices of Barty’s tongue and teeth, his pale flesh squeezed between Barty’s fingers where he grips Regulus’ thigh, holding him in place, forcing Regulus’ back to arch as Barty drives into him. James can’t bear it. His mind is buzzing with the effort, the tactics, with not knowing the next play. He is trying, trying so hard—

“Relax, Jamie,” Barty coaxes, his words cutting through the sound of Regulus’ moans and the blood rushing in James’ ears. “Breathe. All you have to do is listen.”

That promise does something to him. It is like the moment during a long run or an intense workout when the pain of exertion fades into a state of pleasant calm, almost euphoria. James exhales, releasing his tight hold on his breath and his thoughts in one gust, letting it all unravel, tension seeping out of him.

He just has to listen. Listen, and then act. He can do that. He can do that so well.

“Good. That’s good. I knew you could be good for me.” James feels light. Barty’s praise warms him, tingling through his veins. He nods, suddenly eager to prove his ability. “Now listen, okay? I want you to suck Regulus off.”

James wants that too. It’s easy to shift forward on his knees and get his mouth on Regulus, hardly any distance between them at all. Regulus’ cock is hot on his tongue, already dripping, sweet, addictive. Regulus groans when James sucks at the head, caught between dual pleasures. Barty has not let up his thrusts, and the logistics of it are tricky, trying to swallow down Regulus’ cock with any sort of rhythm while Barty fucks him relentlessly on his lap. Everything is a mess of skin and heat and sweat and grasping hands, an excess of tantalizing, vulgar sensations at once.

Something pulls at James’ head, drawing him back. He lets himself be manhandled without resistance. He is floating, drenched in the stimulation. Barty’s rough fingers are in his hair, tangled in his curls, and Regulus’ lithe fingers are pushing into his mouth, two of them shoved past his swollen lips, swirling through the mess of saliva and precum on his tongue.

James knows he is strong. He has always taken pride in his own capability, his skill. But Barty and Regulus—they are the ones in control, and their power is intoxicating. There is honour in being beaten by someone truly better. Barty and Regulus are worthy opponents, and that means James is worthy of their challenge. He looks up at them from his place on his knees between their legs, held and used, and he feels more valuable than ever before.

“Do you want to feel it?” Barty asks, and James doesn’t know what he means, knows only that the answer is yes. Barty grabs James’ hand, currently resting on Regulus’ inner thigh, and brings it to where his cock is disappearing inside of Regulus. “Go on. He can take it.”

Regulus’ head is thrown back on Barty’s shoulder, his breath coming fast, eyes half-lidded as he looks down at James. Beautiful, always so beautiful, but even more so now when he is pushed to his limit. He gives James something like a nod, a desperate jerk of his head that gets lost in a whine as James begins to work the tip of his finger inside him.

The fit is already tight, though eased by the ample slipperiness of lube. It takes less effort than he expects to slide his finger in alongside Barty’s cock and match the motion of Barty’s thrusts.

Regulus’ fingers are still on his lips, Barty’s hand still on his head, all of them connected like pieces of a puzzle. Competitors on the same pitch.

“You’re going to come, Regulus,” Barty murmurs the words against Regulus’ ear, but he looks at James while he says it. “I want to see Jamie covered in it.”

It’s gross and crude. It’s the hottest thing James has ever heard in his life.

He leans his head forward, offering himself up for it as Barty wraps his hand around the base of Regulus’ cock, aiming it where he wants. He has timed it well. That, or Regulus is supremely obedient. A few more thrusts of Barty’s cock, a few strokes of his hand, and Regulus comes warm and wet on James’ face, streaks of white across his cheeks and the lenses of his glasses. A few sticky drops land near his mouth, still hanging open around Regulus’ fingers, and James licks them up, revelling in the salt and tang of it.

Barty does not slow. He keeps fucking Regulus through it, so that Regulus is still shuddering through the aftershocks of his orgasm when Barty drives into him with one last harsh motion, clutching Regulus in place by his hip as he finishes.

Maybe this is what Barty had meant when he asked if James wanted to feel it. With his finger still buried inside of Regulus, James experiences every throb of Barty’s cock as he climaxes; he feels the hot pulse of Barty’s come seeping around him, spilling out onto his hand and the cushions of the chair, a twin sensation to the stickiness on his face.

It’s all so much. He is vibrating with want, can’t even understand what he needs until Regulus reaches out to stroke a finger over his cheekbone, smearing the residue of his own come beginning to dry there. The soft touch sparks through James, landing somewhere low in his belly, making him aware all at once just how painfully aroused he is, so close to the edge that he thinks, unbelievably, he might just be able to come without any contact at all.

But Barty and Regulus are not so unmerciful.

“Come here.” Regulus is sliding off Barty’s lap and onto the carpet, making space for himself between James’ folded knees. They are sore from his prolonged position on the floor, though that faint ache flees from his mind as soon as Regulus wraps his long fingers around his cock. His grip tightens, and James remembers those same fingers around his throat at the gym, squeezing.

James doesn’t last long after that. He finishes on their terms, a perfect hat-trick, and it doesn’t even feel like a loss. Because in the end, it’s not about the person holding the trophy. It’s about bringing out his very best, whatever it takes.

With Regulus and Barty, James is at the top of his game.

Notes:

to everyone reading and commenting, thank you so much!! i worried at first this was kind of a niche idea, but i'm really happy people have enjoyed it, because i had a lot of fun writing it!

EDIT: this work now has a follow-up! if you’re interested in seeing rosekiller in this universe, check out kill shot

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Start Carving