come on, come on, dark Star

by itsosweet

Summary:

Each word is a thread, gently stitching Regulus back together, pulling him in from wherever he’s floated. His vision flares white, then blurs into gray. His throat feels impossibly tight, as though the world could seep in around him in a thin trickle of pain. He fights. Against the gag. Against the tears. Against every scratch of fear that claws at his edges. But beneath it all is something teetering on euphoria: the fierce awareness that he is meant to be here. That this is his reckoning and his reward.
_____

Regulus exhales slowly. “You want me to bleed for you before you’ll bruise me.”

James’ jaw tightens—but not in frustration. In recognition.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s exactly it.”

Notes:

happy kinktober, i found this one abandoned, almost fully written in my writing projects

Regulus folds the edge of the page over his thumb for the third time, though he’s not reading. His eyes flick back to the same paragraph again and again, the words bleeding into one another without meaning. The living room is quiet. Late-afternoon light filters through the windows, golden and low, painting James’ couch in sleepy warmth. The book is open in his lap, but his head is miles away.

He turns the page again, pretending it’s for something other than nerves.

Across from him, James sits in the armchair, barefoot, hair still damp from his shower. He’s reading too—though Regulus suspects it’s more out of habit than interest as James loves his routines. One of his long legs is hooked over the arm of the chair, and he sips from a chipped mug like it’s just another peaceful evening. Like nothing’s wrong. Everything looks normal. Feels normal. And that’s the problem.

Regulus shifts in his seat, the cushion crinkling under his legs. He’s been off for days. Weeks, really. Not in the dramatic, storming-out-of-the-room kind of way. Just… off. Restless in a quiet way. Like something’s pressing against the inside of his ribs and he can’t quite breathe around it. There’s something he expected to happen, but it hasn’t, and now he’s stuck in the silence that followed.

His birthday came and went nearly a month ago.

It was good. Better than good. They’d kissed a lot. Touched a lot. James had been soft with him, careful, but there was sex. For the first time. James had made sure he was ready, and had wanted it. Had taken it. Had come apart so thoroughly in James’ hands it left him aching and dizzy for days. But since then—nothing. Not nothing, not really. There’d been more touching. More quiet pleasure shared between kisses and laughter. Regulus wasn’t starving for affection. There was plenty of warmth, plenty of care, plenty of sex.

But it wasn’t what they’d talked about. Not what they’d been preparing for.

For over a year, James had introduced him to the world of kink—nonsexual, respectful, careful. Books, long conversations, scenes he’d witnessed but never touched. The rules were clear. No sex. No power exchange. Nothing until Regulus was eighteen and ready and steady on his own feet. And now that he is—now that he’s crossed the line—James is acting like it was never there to begin with.

Regulus glances up. James is still reading. Calm. Unbothered. He presses his lips together, glancing back down at the book in his lap, though he can’t remember what it’s about. His stomach twists. He shifts again, dog-earing the page for the fourth time before snapping the book closed altogether. The sound is small, but it echoes in his ears. James doesn’t react.

He stares down at the cover, tapping his fingers against the spine, trying to psych himself up. The conversation is coming. It’s already started inside him. He just has to say it aloud.

He counts to ten.

Then says, before he can stop himself: “My birthday was a month ago, you know.”

James looks up slowly. There’s a pause that lasts less than a second, before he sets his book aside and cocks his head slightly. “I’m very well aware.”

Regulus’ heart thumps, hard. He swallows. James doesn’t push. Just looks at him. Calm and waiting. He shifts again, uncomfortable. “Right. I just meant—” He stops. His throat closes. What does he mean, really? He knows, but voicing the fact that he’s feeling a little neglected, a little confused, maybe even a little hurt feels childish. He hates how awkward he feels. Hates how small his voice sounds in the silence between them. But the words are sitting like stones in his chest, heavy and cold. They have weight, and they’re dragging his ribs down with them. He looks at James. “We haven’t… done anything.”

His boyfriend raises a brow. “We’ve done plenty.”

Regulus flushes. “Not that.”

James leans back a little, arms folding over his chest, but his face is open. Attentive. “Then tell me what you mean.”

And Regulus wants to crawl out of his skin. He looks down again, fiddles with the corner of the book in his lap. “You know what I mean.” he mutters.

“I’d like to hear you say it.”

Of course he would. James never lets him run from things. Not in conversation. Not in emotion. Not when it matters. He exhales through his nose. “We haven’t had a scene.”

There. Out.

James is quiet for a beat. Then he hums, low. “No. We haven’t.”

His cheeks start to burn. “I thought…” He shrugs, trailing off. “I don’t know.” But he does know. He just doesn’t want to say it. Doesn’t want to sound like he’s expecting too much. Doesn’t want James to think he’s greedy, or bratty, or ungrateful.

James lets the silence hang for a few seconds, letting it settle. Then, gently, “Tell me what you thought would happen.”

Regulus’ throat is dry. He swallows. “I thought once I turned eighteen, we’d start.”

James’ gaze doesn’t falter. “We’ve started plenty, Regulus. Just not what you’re asking for.”

He nods stiffly.

His skin feels hot. He shifts again, bringing one leg up underneath him and hugging it to his chest like it’ll anchor him. He feels stupid now. Embarrassed. Like a kid throwing a tantrum because he didn’t get the toy he wanted. But it’s not about the thing. It’s about the wanting. The expectation. The time spent building up to something that never arrived.

James watches him for a while. Then says, “You’re disappointed.” He shrugs, which is his usual defense against emotions he doesn’t want to name. “Regulus,” James says.

Regulus picks at a loose thread on the book cover. “I just thought… I’d be ready. We talked about it for so long. You showed me all of it, explained everything. And I wanted it. I still do. But now it feels like you’re not going to.”

James is quiet. But not in the way that means he’s shutting down. It’s the kind of silence Regulus knows well—when James is thinking, choosing his words carefully. “You’re not wrong,” he says finally. “I have been holding back.”

He frowns. Looks up. “Why?”

The older man leans forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees. “Because it’s not a switch, Regulus. It’s not as simple as waiting until a certain date and flipping into a whole new kind of relationship.”

Regulus’ chest tightens. “I didn’t expect it to be instant.”

“No,” James says, voice soft, “but I think you expected it to be automatic. And that’s not the same thing.”

Regulus bristles, just slightly. “I was ready.”

James nods. “I know you were.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

There’s a pause, then James says, “For you to realize that wanting it doesn’t mean you’re prepared for what it will take.”

Regulus looks away. His stomach twists again. The worst part is, he does know what James means. It’s not about play. It’s about power. About trust. About surrender. And maybe, just maybe, Regulus still holds a little too tightly to control—especially when things get real. But he hates the thought that James doesn’t believe he’s ready. That he’s been watching him all this time and doubting. “I can take it,” he says, quieter now. “I’m not made of glass.”

“I know. But it’s not your body I’m worried about.”

Regulus blinks. “Then what?”

James leans back again, his tone still gentle. “Your mind, love. I need to know you’re walking in with your eyes open—not just with hunger, or curiosity, or what you think being submissive is supposed to look like.”

“I thought I was.”

They’ve talked about everything. For a year, they laid the foundation—terms, boundaries, safewords, expectations. James has been steady and slow, introducing concepts without pressure, making sure Regulus understood what he was getting into. But now, the time for theory is long past. And Regulus feels like he’s been left on the threshold, waiting for the door to open. Only to realize it’s locked. Or worse—still held shut by the man on the other side.

“Can you tell me what you’ve been thinking?” James asks gently.

Regulus shrugs, but that’s a lie. He can tell him. He just doesn’t want to. Because it feels… petty. Messy. Emotional in a way he’s never liked being. “I just don’t get it,” he says finally, voice low. “We planned for this for a year. I was ready.”

James tilts his head slightly, brows lifting. “I know.”

“No, you don’t,” Regulus says before he can stop himself. “Because if you did, we’d have done something by now.”

The words hang in the air, heavier than he means them to be. “That’s not fair,” James says softly. “But I’m listening.”

He curls tighter into himself. He’s already said too much. Or not enough. He doesn’t know anymore. His brain’s a storm of conflicting instincts: to explain, to lash out, to disappear. “I’m not trying to be ungrateful,” he says after a moment, quieter now. “I know how careful you’ve been. How hard you worked to make sure I understood everything.”

“You’ve never been ungrateful,” his boyfriend says immediately.

That makes Regulus’ throat pinch, but he presses on. “It’s just… I thought once I was eighteen, we’d start. A real scene. Something. Anything. But it’s been weeks. We’ve had sex, yeah, but that’s not… it’s not the same.” James nods slowly. Not agreeing, not disagreeing. Just receiving. “And it’s not that I didn’t like the sex. I did. It was…” Regulus swallows, eyes darting to the corner of the room. “Good. But it felt… regular. You weren’t in it the way I thought you would be.”

Now that it’s out, more keeps coming. Like a tap that’s finally been cracked open. James is quiet for a long time. Then he asks, very gently, “Do you think I don’t want you that way?”

Regulus doesn’t answer. Because yes. Sometimes, he thinks exactly that. When James is quiet for too long, or lets things stay casual. When he backs off mid-kiss, or switches tracks when Regulus begins to soften under him, like he’s afraid of going too far. He doesn’t say it aloud. But James sees it anyway.

“Regulus,” he says, low and firm now. “You are the most wanted thing in my life.” The words land so hard they make Regulus look up. James’ eyes are soft, but focused. Grounded. “I didn’t hold back because I didn’t want you,” he continues. “I held back because I didn’t want to skip the part where you wanted it with your whole heart. Not just your body.” James leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He folds his hands. Looks straight at Regulus like he’s trying to see through every wall. “I think you’re more ready than you know,” he says. “But I also think you still don’t believe I’ll catch you when you fall.” Regulus blinks. His chest tightens. “You trust me with your body. But I need you to trust me with your fear. With your silence. With the parts of you that don’t have words yet.”

Regulus exhales slowly. “You want me to bleed for you before you’ll bruise me.”

James’ jaw tightens—but not in frustration. In recognition.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s exactly it.”

Regulus looks down at his hands. He’s silent for a long time. Then he says, very quietly, “You already have most of me.” James doesn’t move. “You’ve seen more of me than anyone ever has,” he continues. “And I’ve let you. I’ve let you take your time. I’ve let you teach me. And it’s been good, all of it. But I need more now.” James breathes in like he’s going to speak—but he doesn’t. “I need that part of you too. The part that takes. That commands. That owns. And I do trust you with my—my everything, James, and that’s not a lie. At this point I’d trust you with my life too.”

James still doesn’t speak.

So Regulus says the thing that he’s been trying to say for weeks, voice quiet but steady.

“I want to submit to you.”

James closes his eyes for a long beat. When he opens them, something in him has changed.

He stands slowly, crosses the space between them. He takes Regulus’ hands in his own and sits down beside him.

Regulus tries not to feel too much. But he’s already frayed. His heart is still beating in his throat from saying what he did. He meant it. Every word. But now that it’s out, the fear rushes in too—loud and fast.

James is silent for a while.

When he speaks, his voice is careful. Not cold—never cold—but precise. “Before I say yes, I want to ask you something. Not because I need a right answer. But because you do.” Regulus nods. The older man shifts, facing him more fully. “If I had said yes a week after your birthday—if I’d planned a scene and set it all in motion—do you think you’d be as sure as you are now?”

Regulus thinks about it.

His first instinct is to say yes. He was ready. Or thought he was.

But now…

“No,” he says slowly. “Not like this.”

James nods once.

“Then that time mattered,” he says. Regulus hates that it’s true. Hates that the ache in his chest these past few weeks meant something. That maybe the frustration wasn’t a waste. Maybe it was part of the build. James watches him. Quiet. Steady. “What are you afraid of?” he asks softly. Regulus flinches. He doesn’t mean to. But it cuts too close. “Don’t say nothing,” James adds. “Not to me.”

So he takes a breath. “I’m afraid you’re going to see me fall apart and not want me anymore.” There. Sharp. Ugly. Honest. James doesn’t move. “I’m not afraid of pain,” he goes on. “I’m not afraid of bruises or bindings or giving up control. But I am afraid you’ll see the worst part of me—the messy part—and you’ll think, This was a mistake.” His voice cracks. He tries to hold it together. But he can’t. “I don’t have any practice with this. I don’t know how to be good at it. I only know how to want it. And sometimes I think that’s not enough.”

“It’s more than enough, sweetheart. ” Regulus bites the inside of his cheek, hard. “You said earlier that you already gave me most of you,” James says. “That’s true. And I’ve honored that. But now I need you to understand something in return.” He leans in, voice low. “When we scene, you’re not just giving me your submission. You’re giving me your fear. Your doubt. Your silence. Your body. Your heart. And I will take all of it. But I will never take it lightly.” Regulus nods, but his throat is thick. James’ voice softens. “You will fall apart. That’s part of it. And when you do, I will hold you through every second.”

Something breaks loose in Regulus’ chest. Relief, he recognizes it. James reaches out again, sliding his hand up the side of his neck, thumb brushing under his jaw. “I didn’t say no because I didn’t want you. I said not yet because I want all of you. And I knew if I took control too early, I might miss something you weren’t ready to say.”

Regulus closes his eyes. A tear slips free. Just one. James catches it with his thumb.

Regulus’ fingers curl lightly around the hem of his sleeve. He breathes in. Slow. Careful. His chest expands, and the breath doesn’t catch. It doesn’t stick in his throat. It doesn’t get tangled in some invisible web of pressure like it has for days, maybe longer. It just comes and goes. Easy.

He didn’t know he’d been holding anything.

That’s the part that surprises him most.

He thought he’d worked through all of it already with James, it’s been a year for fuck’s sake. He thought that was enough time to learn James. To see him clearly. To be seen. To settle into the certainty of it all. And in many ways, he had. He has. The trust is real. It’s been earned and tested and held up under scrutiny. James has never broken a promise. Never rushed him. Never taken without permission. Every lesson was offered, not forced. Every boundary respected. Every hesitation met with patience.

And yet, there was something still curled inside him. Some small, quiet part of him that wasn’t sure. Not about James. Not exactly. But about himself. About whether he was enough. Whether he was ready.

He hadn’t seen it. Not really. It had been buried beneath desire, beneath obedience, beneath all the hours they spent talking and learning and circling around each other. He thought trust was something you built once and then had. That once it was there, it stayed solid. But apparently, it breathes.

He presses his fingers to his sternum, just lightly. He thought he was being patient. Graceful. Trusting the process. That’s what James always called it. The process. But now, sitting here after saying the things he’d been afraid to say, he realizes it hadn’t been patience. It had been hesitation. It had been silence dressed up like maturity.

James shifts slightly, and his hand finds Regulus’ jaw. Just a touch. Fingers warm against skin. A tilt of the chin. An invitation. Their lips meet like gravity. Like they were always going to. It’s gentle, at first. Barely more than a press. The kind of kiss that holds itself back, that waits. But Regulus leans in, almost instinctively, chasing more. Always more. And James gives it to him, and he melts into it. There’s no resistance left in him. Nothing to guard. Not now, not here.

He lets go in tiny pieces. His spine curves. His knees fall. His fingers twitch once, then reach out and find James’ shirt. The latter licks into his mouth and something in Regulus breaks open. It’s not sharp. It’s not even new. It’s just more. Every second stretches, pulling him under with it. Every shift of James’ tongue, every low hum in his throat spins Regulus a little further out of himself.

James doesn’t say a word, doesn’t give instructions, but Regulus follows him anyway. Leans where James guides him. Breathes when he does. Tilts his head when James urges it with a nudge of his nose. It’s not conscious. It just is. His lips are wet. His breath is shallow. James’ hand drifts down to his waist, fingers curling under the hem of his shirt, resting low on his stomach. The touch burns. He arches into it, mouth parting in a gasp against James’ lips. But James doesn’t push further and just keeps kissing him.

And Regulus wants to live here. Right here. In the press of lips and the slide of tongues and the warmth of James’ body against his. His brain is going quiet. Not blank, but soft. Muffled. Like someone dimmed the lights in his mind.

The older man shifts, urging Regulus to lean back, and he follows without question. His spine hits the couch cushions. James comes with him, hovering above, never breaking the kiss. Regulus’ limbs buzz. His thighs tremble slightly from where they’re tangled with James’. His hands move without intention, brushing against James’ ribs, sliding into the curls at the base of his neck, then falling back to his own stomach. He doesn’t know what to do with them. Doesn’t need to know. James has him and he probably knows.

His body is pliant now. Molded into the shape of James’ kiss. The sound of lips parting, rejoining, the soft, breathy gasps between—it’s everything. It fills the room. It fills Regulus. Every new tilt of James’ mouth, every tiny shift in pressure, sends him spiraling deeper.

His hips roll, slow and shallow, and in response James presses down just slightly, not enough to pin, but enough to ground him. Regulus moans softly against his mouth, and James drinks it in like water. His head tips back against the cushion. James follows, kissing along his jaw, under his chin, back to his mouth. He loses track of how long they’ve been like this. Five minutes? Ten? A lifetime? It doesn’t matter. The world outside the couch has stopped existing. All that’s real is the hand on his waist, the mouth on his own, the gentle rhythm of lips meeting and parting and meeting again. James kisses softer now. Slower. Lighter. He cups Regulus’ cheek, strokes a thumb under his eye like he’s checking for tears. There are none. Not yet.

His eyes flutter open, but everything’s blurred. The lights are dim. James’ face is close, his lips are red, kiss-bruised. Regulus doesn’t remember when he stopped kissing back with purpose. Not exactly. His lips are still moving—still pliant, still parted—but it’s all instinct now, driven by sensation, not thought. Like the kiss is breathing for him. His limbs are heavy. Loosened. His spine feels soft. Everything else is cotton. Breath. Skin. The deep thrum of James’ presence beside and above and in him, filling space without taking it.

Regulus makes a sound—a quiet, choked thing—and James finally, finally pulls back. Just enough. Their lips part with a soft, wet sound. Regulus blinks up at him, dazed. James is breathing heavier now, but his eyes are clear. Alert. He brushes Regulus’ hair away from his forehead, thumb trailing slowly along his temple.

“You with me?” Regulus nods. Or maybe he thinks he does. His head moves, but it feels disconnected. Like his body’s floating slightly outside of itself. His throat works on a swallow, but no words come yet. James leans in again and his hand moves to Regulus’ chest, palm flat. Feeling the rise and fall. Measuring it. “You’re close,” he murmurs. “I can feel it.”

Subspace isn’t foreign anymore. James had taken him there before—once, twice—on his knees, fully clothed and still. Nothing but silence, breath, and James’ voice in his ear. Praise like incense. Light like prayer. It hadn’t been sexual. It hadn’t needed to be. Regulus had folded into it willingly, slowly, reverently. There’d been tears. He’d felt embarrassed by them then. He wouldn’t now.

But this—this is different. It’s messier. Intimate in a whole new way. He’s not kneeling. He’s not obeying commands. He’s just being kissed. James shifts slightly, lowering himself until they’re chest to chest, leg between Regulus’ knees, arms around his back. Cradling. Regulus sinks into it. Immediately. “I wish you could see yourself,” his boyfriend murmurs, voice barely a breath. “You’re so soft like this. So open.”

James brushes his lips along the curve of his cheekbone, then down to his jaw. Not kisses, exactly—more like markings. Impressions. As if his mouth is leaving a trail of warmth where words aren’t needed. Regulus melts further. “You remember the first time you knelt for me?” James asks quietly. Regulus hums, a tiny, fragile noise. “You were shaking,” he continues. “But you didn’t stop. Not even once. I knew then how deep this ran for you.”

Regulus lets his fingers flatten over James’ chest. He remembers that night vividly. How the carpet scratched against his knees. How cold the floor had been. How loud his own heartbeat felt when he lowered his eyes. How scared he was of looking foolish. Too eager. Too naive. But James had only praised him. Had touched his hair, had told him, Look at how brave you are, little thing. And Regulus had nearly cried, just from that. That same warmth is here now.

James smiles softly, and the corner of his mouth curves upward, just a little smug, just a little proud. It makes something warm crackle in Regulus’ chest. “Where do you want to start? Tell me and we will make it happen.”

 

 

//

 

 

To no one’s surprise, or perhaps to everyone’s, Regulus ends up on his knees.

The floor is cool against his bare skin, and the quiet hum of breath between them fills the space. He kneels not with haste but with certainty—a slow descent into surrender. The muscles in his thighs quiver slightly from strain or anticipation; it’s hard to tell which anymore. The room smells faintly of clean cotton and skin, of something deeper that’s begun to bloom in his blood and settle behind his ribs.

James is standing before him, unhurried, watching with a gaze that pins and warms in equal measure. Regulus doesn’t look up right away. He keeps his eyes lowered, his lips parted ever so slightly, James’ taste already lingering on his tongue, salty and warm, his.

This isn’t the first time he’s had James in front of him like this. But well, this is going to be first time he lets James do this.

The latter moves slowly like he always does in moments like this. He knows just how fragile everything is under the surface, how easily he could crack if pressed in the wrong place. Or the right one.

A warm hand finds the back of his head, thumb grazing the soft hair just behind his ear, and Regulus instinctively leans into the touch. Not with desperation, but with need—deep and steady and long-held. James threads his fingers into his hair, not pulling, not guiding, simply being there.

Then, he tilts Regulus’ face upward.

And Regulus lets him.

Neck bared, chin lifted, eyes finally rising to meet James’. His throat works around a breath. He doesn’t know what James sees in his expression but it must be enough, because he leans in, and his voice, when it comes, is quiet. Careful. Measured.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

It’s not the first time he’s asked.

It never feels like a test—but it does feel like a line. And Regulus is so tired of hovering on the edge of things.

He nods, slowly at first, then firmer. His voice scrapes out of his throat like it’s been sitting there for days.

“Yes,” he whispers. His lips barely move. “Please.” That word has started to mean so much more than it used to. It’s not a plea anymore. It’s a prayer.

James watches him for a long moment, and then—God—he smiles. Just a little. It’s not kindness exactly. Not pity. It’s something else entirely.

It’s approval.

It’s ownership.

It’s hunger kept barely in check.

James drags his thumb across the corner of Regulus’ mouth, smearing a trace of spit and breath into skin already warmed by want. His eyes don’t waver.

“You don’t move,” he says, “unless I move you.”

A breath. Regulus lets it shudder out of him.

“Yes.”

“You stay open until I tell you to stop.”

“Yes.”

“You take what I give you.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something inside Regulus. Not fear, not exactly, but the memory of it. His lips part wider as he inhales. Something inside him shakes.

And still—still—he says it.

“Yes.”

Soft. Steady. Certain.

The silence that follows is thick with meaning, but also peace. As if having said the words aloud has granted him some kind of permission, some kind of relief. His mouth opens wider, jaw aching already from anticipation. He holds himself still, breathing through his nose, letting the weight of expectation fill the space where panic used to live. His spine is straight, his hands resting lightly on his thighs, fingertips twitching only slightly.

He wants to reach forward. Wants to press his face closer. But he doesn’t.

He waits.

A hand ghosts through his hair, gentle at first, then firmer—fingers curling to grip, to center. Regulus exhales, jaw already beginning to loosen. “Breathe through your nose,” James murmurs, voice low and close, coaxing, like a whisper meant to sink into the marrow. “Relax your throat. Don’t chase it. Let me give it to you.”

Let me.

Something inside Regulus trembles. He nods just slightly, enough for James to feel the motion through his grip. His lips part without needing to be told. He’s ready. Or as ready as he ever will be. One hand stays in his hair, anchoring him, while the other slides along his cheek, palm warm against flushed skin. His thumb brushes lightly across Regulus’ jaw, guiding, steadying.

And then—

his mouth is full.

Just like that.

No warning, no moment of drama. Only warmth. Only weight. The slick press of skin against his tongue, heavy and hot and real.

He breathes sharply through his nose. His spine pulls taut from the effort of staying still, of not moving forward, not taking more than he’s given. He holds his body open like a question, and James answers by easing deeper, slow and smooth. Not all at once, James is careful. Always careful. He moves like he’s tuning a string—sensitive to tension, measuring every inch of resistance.

Regulus' eyes flutter shut, he would be lying if he said he doesn't enjoy this. The world narrows to sensation: the ache blooming in his jaw, the subtle tremble in his arms, the heat of James in his mouth, steady and impossible to ignore. He focuses on breathing—slow and even, nose only—inhaling past the tightness building in his chest. James doesn’t speak again for a moment. He simply moves in and out—short strokes, shallow, testing. His hand tightens in Regulus’ hair, not painfully, but firmly, commanding and it sends a shiver down his spine.

“Don’t think,” James murmurs, so softly it could be mistaken for breath. “Just feel.” Regulus would nod if he could. As it is, he only manages a faint tilt of his head, barely perceptible but James seems to feel it.

The tension in Regulus’ jaw builds slowly. Not from discomfort, not exactly, but from effort. From how hard he’s working to stay pliant, to be good. There’s a part of him that always wants to rush ahead, to impress, to reach out and take—but here, now, that part is quiet. Calmed. He lets James set the pace. His knees shift slightly, sinking deeper into the floor. His back arches subtly as he steadies himself.

And then James presses in deeper.

Not all the way. Not yet. But more.

Enough that Regulus’ throat begins to tighten. Enough to make his eyes sting with the effort of holding still. James holds there, just a heartbeat longer, letting Regulus adjust, letting him know this is intentional, that he’s being taken with care.

“Good,” he whispers, almost reverent. His thumb strokes Regulus’ cheek again. “You’re doing well.” Those words take the sting out of the ache. They soften the burning in his knees. They make everything worth it. Because being told he’s good, that he’s doing well, that he’s enough—that matters more than anything.

James doesn’t need to shove him down or speak cruelly or test his limits with force. This kind of control is gentler. Sharper, in some ways, because of its restraint. And Regulus craves it. Lives for it. Relaxes into it like sinking into warm water. Another shallow push forward—then James withdraws, just slightly, letting Regulus breathe. Letting him recover. He stays there for a moment, not moving, not speaking, only holding his head, thumb still brushing idle patterns into his cheekbone.

James moves again—just slightly, but deeper this time. Regulus breathes carefully through his nose, jaw wide, tongue relaxed. He fights the instinct to pull back. It isn’t easy, nothing about this is easy, but that’s not the point.

A beat passes. Then James speaks—his voice like velvet over steel. “Open your throat,” he says. “Let go.” Regulus swallows, breath hitching. He tilts his chin upward, lets his eyes fall half-lidded, and tries. His body resists at first, reflex kicking in, muscles tightening. He gags once, sharp and instinctive, a harsh sound caught in the back of his throat. James eases back, only a fraction. His thumb brushes gently against Regulus’ cheek, grounding him, the warmth of his palm a soft tether. “You’re okay,” he murmurs.

And he is.

James always makes sure he is.

He breathes in deep through his nose. Opens wider. Loosens the back of his throat as much as he can. His tongue flattens. His neck strains. He lets go of the need to control it, to master it, to be perfect.

And James begins to move.

Not roughly. But not hesitantly either.

He’s testing Regulus now—testing limits, not breaking them. He pushes deeper, steadier. Holds there for a moment before easing back. When Regulus chokes, he pauses. When he swallows, he praises him with a look, a touch. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t overwhelm. But he doesn’t coddle, either.

He just uses him—carefully, intentionally, completely. “Don’t pull away,” he says, low and firm. “Trust me. Don’t push past it yet. Learn it.”

He nods as best he can, the motion small and jerky, restricted by James’ grip. His whole body is taut with effort. His lips are stretched wide. His throat pulses. He focuses on stillness. James moves again, deeper than before. Regulus feels the burn at the back of his throat, the sting in his eyes as they water. A broken sound slips out—barely a breath, raw and caught—but James doesn’t stop.

“Let it pass,” he says, voice like silk pulled taut. “You can take it. Let your body adjust.”

And he does. He stays right where he is. Doesn’t fight the pressure, doesn’t rush the moment. He lets his eyes fall shut, lashes wet. A tear slips down one cheek, and James wipes it away with the pad of his thumb. There’s something terrifyingly powerful about this, surrendering without collapse. About not running from the discomfort. About sitting inside it, fully, and trusting that he’ll be held through it.

His whole body is trembling now, small, controlled shakes that come from deep inside. James rocks forward again. This time the thrust is firmer, more confident. The stretch is deep, and Regulus’ throat contracts hard around it. He chokes but it’s a softer sound now. Familiar. Expected.

He keeps his mouth open. Keeps his jaw slack. He doesn’t move.

He stays.

Because that’s his only job now. His only need. To stay where James has put him. To let himself be filled. To trust that every movement is exactly what he’s meant to take. He feels James’ hands again—one tangled in his hair, still firm, still guiding; the other steady on his face. He’s surrounded. Held. Controlled. His cheeks burn with tears, hot rivulets tracing lines down pale skin. His throat spasms and stretches, learning to hold open under pressure. His jaw aches, every muscle protesting, but he doesn’t fight. Instead, he surrenders deeper, folding into the weight of James.

“That’s it,” his boyfriend murmurs. He rocks forward an inch, then back, inch by inch, building a silent rhythm. Slow. Then faster. A little deeper. Tears spill freely now, unbidden, gleaming along his cheeks as he struggles to follow James’ commands. His vision blurs through the tears, but he doesn’t close his eyes. He can’t—he wants to watch James, to see each expression as the depth changes, each flicker in his eyes that says, You’re mine.

James leans forward, pressing in a little harder, and Regulus chokes around him, a ragged sound caught in the back of his throat. It’s too big, too much, but he doesn’t recoil. Instead, his mouth loosens around the intrusion, swallowing again and again, using quick bursts of breath through his nose to keep from collapsing into panic. His throat quakes, hot and raw, as he stretches further. He feels James’ grip tighten, almost possessively. His voice is a low thread of comfort: “Relax your jaw. Use your breath.”

Regulus tries to obey. He breathes in, counting each inhale, holding it for a single heartbeat, then breathing out through his nose. Every time his body twitches—when a deep thrust sends a flare of pain through his jaw, or when his arms instinctively jerk against his thighs—James tightens his hold. One firm grip in his hair, one steady hand at his cheek. “Stay open,” he insists. “Let me in. That’s it.” The words are soft but undeniable, a tether that keeps Regulus from spiraling into the reflex to close off. Instead, he holds himself open—wide—letting James fill him. Even when the edge of the gag reflex threatens to overtake him, even when his vision flickers and his knees quiver, he fulcrums on that silent command and refuses to move.

His body wants to retreat—wants to protect that vulnerable place at the back of his throat where the pain is sharpest. But his mind is firmly rooted to the present, anchored by James’ voice, James’ hands, James’ careful control.

His body trembles again, a sudden, uncontrollable quiver from the base of his spine to the tips of his fingertips. His throat convulses, an instinctive reflex that he cannot fully control—won’t let control. He tries to tilt his head back, to eject the depth of James’ body pressed against him, but James holds him firm. “Don’t pull away,” he says, voice low and unwavering. “You can take it. I know you can.”

He does not know how long he remains thus: kneeling, bound, and utterly given over to the slow aggression of James’ rhythm. Minutes or hours might pass; time unravels when every pore is attuned to each merciless inch. There is no measuring of seconds—only the press of heat, the burn of exertion, the relentless demand to surrender.

He moves forward, every thrust deep and merciless, testing the limits of Regulus’ resolve，who gasps around him, throat contracting, muscles clenching in reflex. But James does not relent. Instead, he holds him there, pressing him deep, requiring him to count on breath and will alone. “You’ll never get past the reflex if I let you flinch every time,” James murmurs against the hollow of Regulus’ ear. “This is how you learn.”

Regulus’ vision flares white, then blurs into gray. His throat feels impossibly tight, as though the world could seep in around him in a thin trickle of pain. He fights. Against the gag. Against the tears. Against every scratch of fear that claws at his edges. But beneath it all is something teetering on euphoria: the fierce awareness that he is meant to be here. That this is his reckoning and his reward.

He shudders, whole body quaking like a struck chord, but he does not pull back. He does not close off. He is open. “I know it burns. I know your jaw aches. But you’re doing it. You’re taking me. And I’m going to teach your mouth how to belong to me.”

The heat in James’ voice wraps around Regulus like a second skin. He tastes it—rising in his throat, electric. The ache becomes something else: a hollow that welcomes each pain, binds it with purpose. Each time James pushes, Regulus’ head drops forward, submitting deeper, his vision narrowing until all he can see is the stretch of skin at the corner of his eye and the flicker of satisfaction that dances there.

His vision dims at the edges. He senses that James slows for the first time, pulling out fractionally, just enough so that Regulus can gulp in fresh air, fend off the threat of unconsciousness. The humid air burns in his lungs as he inhales, chest heaving. James presses his hand to his temple, grounding him in the present. "Breathe,” he says, softer now. The command is gentle, but unwavering. “I’ve got you. You're so brave and good, love. You're everything." Regulus nods against his thigh, blinking through blurred vision as he gathers himself on broken breath. “Brave boy,” James whispers, voice a mixture of pride and worship.

He brushes his fingers through Regulus’ damp hair, scratching at the scalp in gentle circles to coax his pulse back to a calmer rhythm. The rough pad of his thumb lingers at the center of Regulus’ forehead, wiping away a fresh line of tears. Regulus fights to catch his breath, chest rising and falling in stuttering waves. He’s lost count of how many times James has claimed him, how many months of craving, months of whispered confessions and stolen glances lead to this.

The older man shifts again, guiding himself back into Regulus' mouth. This time, the burn is different. His throat no longer fights the intrusion; it has accepted it. His jaw, though sore, has learned to flex and glide, to form around the thick length with fewer spasms. His vision remains blurred, but the world no longer whirls. A single, torturous thrust follows—a tapering wave of warmth that drives deep into Regulus’ throat, and his whole body shudders at the intensity. He hums against James, a ragged sound that catches in his chest like a prayer.

The latter moans low and deep, the vibration traveling through Regulus’ throat, lending him a strange comfort. He meets James’ eyes—heaving, luminous, full of hunger and something almost tender. He tastes that desire and responds by pressing his tongue down, molding around James, letting him take. His breath hitches the instant his nose brushes against James’ skin. The closeness makes his heart thunder in his ears. There is something terrifying in being so entirely enveloped, so utterly claimed, but terror in these moments tastes like a drop of wine on his tongue—bitter, but laced with something bright and heady.

“Look at you,” James breathes. “Letting me do this to you.” Regulus’ reply is a ragged moan—wet, desperate, nearly broken. The rawness surprises him; he didn’t expect his own voice to betray him so completely. It catches somewhere between panic and need, each nuance swirling into a single, jagged sound. “Stay open for me baby." James’ voice is there again, a low rumble that reverberates against his eardrum: “I’m close, love. You want it? Or should I pull out?”

Every time James asks.

Every time the andwer is the same.

All his sight focuses on the quiver of muscle in James’ thighs—taut as a bowstring, driving the precise rhythm that buries Regulus farther under the weight of sensation. He takes it—deep, complete. He swallows, forcing his jaw to adjust, to stretch a fraction more so James can sink in further. With each inch James claims, Regulus’ head dips forward, nose pressing into bare skin, each inhalation rough and not enough. James’ body stiffens. His hips jerk forward—a final, punishing drive—and Regulus feels every mile of it, hot liquid pouring down his throat.

And then—it’s done.

Not over, just done.

James lets out a shaky breath, hands softening in Regulus’ hair so that he can’t flinch against him. “Fuck,” James mutters, voice ragged. “You’re—fuck.”

Regulus wants to speak, to say something—anything—but his jaw trembles so fiercely that he can only give a tiny, stifled sound, like a bruise moaning under a fingertip. His body feels weightless, as though the air has been pulled from his lungs and replaced with something molten hot. He must look wrecked. He can’t see himself, but he knows his face is flushed red in all the wrong places. Throat burning, cheeks slick with tears, lips swollen and slick with spit.

He is raw. Exposed. And the truth of how desired he is makes something shift inside him: pride mixing with relief, the sweetness of having been claimed so completely by someone he trusts.

He remains on his knees, head bowed, chest heaving, as James reaches to cradle his jaw in one hand and continues to stroke his hair with the other. Gentleness that feels almost foreign, after the intensity of what just passed. James presses a single, soft kiss to the shell of his ear. “You did so well,” he rasps. He lifts his head slowly, eyes heavy-lidded, vision blurred by tears that refuse to stay at bay. He meets James’ gaze, hungry, dark, and tender, and for a moment the room seems to spin. If he could describe how he feels, it would be something like floating in an endless sky, unafraid of the fall because he knows James would catch him.

Warmth radiates from every curve of James’ palms—soft reassurance. Regulus leans into the touch, letting his forehead rest against James’ shoulder. The aftershocks of what he just did, or better, let happen to him, thrum through his veins.

James brushes a thumb over Regulus’ bottom lip, collecting the last glistening trace of tears. He closes his eyes, savoring the delicate press of skin against skin. James leans down further, breathing thickly over Regulus’ hair. He inhales slowly, as though memorizing the scent of Regulus’ damp face—salty, sweet, uniquely his. “Baby come here,” he says softly, voice husky with emotion. “let me hold you.”

Regulus tilts his head up to meet James’ eyes. They’re glassy, rimmed with red, full of a depth that makes Regulus’ chest ache. He presses his lips to James’ jaw, leaving a damp kiss at the curve of his cheek, as though marking new territory.

The world doesn’t return all at once. It comes back in pieces, in hazy, half-recognized fragments of sensation that drift slowly back into place. First, the smell of James, close and grounding, all salt and sweat and something soft underneath it, like the soap he used in the shower that morning. Then the ambient hum of the room, the subtle hiss of air through the nearby vent, the faint rustle of blankets being drawn up with care as James guides him to lay down on the bed. Every sound is muffled, distant, as if heard through layers of cotton, but they find their way to him regardless.

Then there’s touch.

James’ lips press against his temple, light as a breath. “I’ve got you,” James murmurs, voice low, impossibly gentle. “You’re safe. It’s over now." Regulus exhales shakily, the sound catching on the way out like it has to climb over something in his throat. His fingers press into the small of his boyfriend’s back—barely, just the tremble of touch—and stay there. James holds him close, anchoring them both. His hand runs slow and steady down Regulus’ spine, repeating the motion in long, soothing strokes. “Breathe in,” he says softly to a still gasping Regulus. "Come on. Slow. Just like I taught you.”

He obeys without question.

Air in. A pause.

Air out.

His ribs hurt when he fills them too deep, like they’ve forgotten how to expand properly. His throat is raw, pulled tight and aching, but he breathes through it. James mirrors him, the rhythm syncing until Regulus can follow without thinking. “There you go,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Right here with me.”

Time slips away again. Maybe it’s minutes. Maybe more. The world narrows to touch, breath, and the sound of James’ voice.

Regulus doesn’t try to speak. He can’t. His lips are swollen, the skin split in places from tension. His jaw feels cracked open. But the air moves easier now. His heartbeat slows. The shaking in his limbs begins to dull. James adjusts slightly, shifting to tuck the blanket tighter around them, cocooning them both in warmth. “You were perfect,” he says, voice thick with feeling. “So perfect, Regulus. I couldn’t have asked for more.”

A sound escapes Regulus. Not a word. Just a small, fractured thing—part sigh, part whimper. He tucks himself closer, burying his face against James’ shoulder. He feels like water, like all the structure that once held him together has dissolved. But it doesn’t feel frightening. Not here. Not like this.

James kisses the crown of his head, and the warmth of it travels all the way to Regulus’ fingertips. “I know it was a lot,” he says. “I know I pushed you.” He pauses, thumb stroking beneath Regulus’ eye, catching the remnants of a tear. “But you stayed with me. You let me have everything.”

Regulus hums, low in his chest. It’s not quite a yes—but it’s close. It’s enough. “I’m proud of you,” James whispers. “You were brave.” His hand never stops moving. His voice doesn’t stop speaking. Each word is a thread, gently stitching Regulus back together, pulling him in from wherever he’s floated. There’s a warmth behind his eyes now, a burn.

Lastly, it's his body that comes back to it, returning with a neddy ache.

He makes a noise—small, high, and cracked wide open.

James pulls back just enough to look at him. Concern creases his brow. “Reg?”

Regulus tries to speak, but it splinters in his throat. He blinks up at James, eyes glossed and red-rimmed, mouth trembling. The words come in fragments. “Please.” Another blink, another broken breath. “James, I need—I need—please, please—”

“Hey.” James cradles his face with both hands, thumbing at his cheeks again. “Breathe. I’ve got you. What do you need, baby?”

The answer slips out like a sob. “Please touch me.” His voice is wrecked, nearly inaudible, but the plea lands hard between them. His thighs fall open without thought. His arms flop to his sides, fingers curling into the blankets. His cock—neglected, aching—is flushed an angry red and leaking steadily. “I need it,” he gasps. “Please—James—I can’t—”

“Shh,” the older man whispers. “I know. I know, love.” He kisses his way down, reverent and slow—forehead, temple, jaw. Each press of his mouth is gentle, grounding. One hand strokes Regulus’ belly, wide and flat, anchoring him in place. “You were so good for me,” James murmurs. “So strong. You gave me everything. Let me give this back to you.”

Regulus nods, frantic, eyes wide and wet. His whole body pulses with want. James kisses his chest, then lower. His breath is warm against Regulus’ skin as his hand wraps around him. He cries out. It’s not loud. It’s not sharp. It’s soft—ragged—shattered. It punches out of him like the last breath of something sacred.

James’ voice is full of awe. “Oh, baby. You’re shaking.”

“I c-can’t—” Regulus stutters, body arching. “I need you, need you, please—”

James strokes him, slow and sure. His palm is hot and confident. His fingers wrap perfectly. His thumb circles, rubs. Regulus whines—helpless, open, almost delirious with the sensation. “You don’t have to ask anymore,” James whispers, voice like velvet. “Just take it. Let me take care of you.”

And Regulus does.

There’s nothing left to guard. Nothing left to prove. Just the fullness of being known, the heat of hands on trembling skin, and the quiet promise that he is loved—exactly like this. He nods, the motion jerky and uncoordinated, like it takes all the strength he has left. His eyes are squeezed shut, but the tears don’t stop. They spill freely now, streaming down his cheeks, soaking into the pillow, into James’ skin wherever they touch.

His thighs tremble, the muscles fluttering helplessly with overstimulation because his whole body is lit up right now and tender. His hands scrabble for purchase—fisting the sheets, clawing at James’ forearm, then his shoulder, then down to his back—grasping for something. For him. Every touch is frantic, uncoordinated, desperate, as if letting go would mean unraveling completely.

James leans over him, heart pounding, breath heavy but steady. His chest presses against Regulus’ side, grounding him, enveloping him in warmth and presence. He tilts his face toward Regulus’ temple and begins pressing soft, endless kisses to his cheek. Again. And again. And again. “You’re beautiful like this,” he whispers, voice thick with awe, with reverence. “So raw. So open.”

Regulus chokes on a sob, the sound breaking high in his throat. “It hurts—” he gasps, voice shaking with the impossible edge of too much. “Hurts—feels so good—I can’t—”

James touches their foreheads together, anchoring him. His breath fans over Regulus’ lips, his voice firm but soft. “You can,” he says. “You are. Breathe, baby.”

Regulus’ lungs are stuttering, but he tries. Tries so hard. His mouth opens, sucking in air like it’s the only thing keeping him from coming apart. His hips arch without control, his spine bowing, his cock twitching violently in James’ hand. And James follows every frantic thrust with steady, sure rhythm. His palm never loses its pressure, his thumb never stops circling. The pace is patient, coaxing him to the edge rather than shoving him over. “You want to come?” he asks, low and tender, as if he’s asking something sacred. “Want to fall apart for me?”

The answer is a whimper, the word yes barely coherent through the sob caught in Regulus’ throat. “Yes!” he cries, like it’s being torn from him. “Please—please—I need to—”

James kisses his temple, slow and warm, like sealing a promise. “Then do it,” he whispers. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

And he does.

He falls.

His whole body seizes, every muscle clenching, every nerve lit up like fire. His climax crashes through him in a wave so massive it steals his breath. There’s no scream. No shout. Just a soundless quake, his mouth open in a silent cry as his body jerks and trembles.

He doesn’t come—he breaks.

The orgasm rips out of him in broken sobs, in shudders he can’t stop, in the violent twitch of his hips as James keeps stroking him through it. His body jerks again, and again, each pulse pulled from him by a hand that knows every inch of him. Not just his body, but him. The parts no one else sees. The parts he only ever shows James.

And James doesn’t stop.

He murmurs softly with every breath. “That’s it. That’s my boy. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” His lips press to Regulus’ cheek, his jaw, his neck, slow and soothing, like trying to kiss the tremors away.

The aftershocks hit hard.

He curls in on himself, overwhelmed, barely conscious of the tears still slipping past his lashes. His chest heaves with sharp, shuddering breaths. His vision swims, wet and blurry. His thighs twitch with overstimulation, his cock softening against the heat of his belly. His whole body is flushed red and damp, skin tacky with sweat, with spit, with everything that just came pouring out of him.

He’s wrecked. Beautifully, devastatingly wrecked.

James moves carefully. Gathers him close, one arm sliding beneath his knees, the other wrapping around his back. He pulls Regulus into his chest, skin to skin, like putting something precious back into its place. “Shh,” he breathes, rocking him gently. “You’re okay. You did so well. I’m so proud of you.”

Regulus nods weakly against his chest, the motion more instinct than intent. His hands, slow and trembling, finally move. They clutch at James’ back—fingertips curling into the warm, solid flesh—holding on like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away. “I’ve got you,” his boyfriend whispers again, quieter this time, right against the shell of Regulus’ ear. “Come back to me, sweetheart.”

After a while, James moves—slowly, carefully—his arms stay wrapped around Regulus for a moment longer, pressing a final kiss to his temple before drawing back just enough to speak. “Let’s clean you up, love.” His voice is soft. Threadbare. Still heavy with the weight of what just passed between them, but anchored by that steady, grounding calm that never wavers—especially when Regulus is like this.

Regulus doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

He’s too tired to protest, too wrung out to pretend he could move on his own. His limbs feel like water, his body too loose and too tight all at once. Muscles still fluttering in random, exhausted pulses. But he doesn’t flinch when James lifts him—arms strong, sure—like he weighs nothing. He just melts into the hold, cheek pressing into James’ shoulder, lashes fluttering closed.

The blanket stays wrapped around him, cocooning him in soft warmth as James carries him into the bathroom. The light is dim. Thoughtful. Kind to the rawness in his eyes and the stretch in his throat. James settles him carefully on the closed toilet seat, never letting the blanket slip, then crouches in front of him, hands steady, movements quiet.

Regulus slumps forward a little, head dipping, eyes half-lidded. Everything about him is pliant. Loose. Held together only by James’ presence. His breath hitches once, a soft, instinctive sound, when James reaches for the cloth and runs it under warm water.

The first touch makes him shiver. The damp heat of the towel presses to his cheek, and he leans into it without thinking. The slow drag of fabric across sensitive, overworked skin feels like mercy. James cleans his cheeks, his chin, the mess on his neck with practiced tenderness. James tilts his face carefully this way and that, fingertips gentle beneath his jaw, guiding him with soft pressure. His gaze stays on him the whole time—watchful, reverent. “Still gorgeous." he murmurs.

Regulus doesn’t react outwardly, he doesn’t have the strength to nod, or even smile, but something inside him unclenches. Loosens a fraction. He breathes. He lets his head rest against the cool wall behind him and lets James work. Lets him care. Lets himself be seen.

 

 

//

 

 

Two hours later he’s more awake, clean, fed, content and fully back to himself.

He’s sprawled across James’ duvet in nothing but James’ shirt—one of those loose, worn-in button-downs that smells like bergamot and cedarwood. It swamps him in the shoulders but doesn’t quite reach past the curve of his ass when he stretches, back arching cat-like, arms splayed above his head.

He knows exactly what he looks like.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

It hadn’t always been like this. In the early days—when his walls were still up, when he was still bracing for rejection he couldn’t name—he would’ve been too tightly wound to even tease. Too cautious. Too afraid of misstepping, of being too much or too needy. But over time, something shifted. James made space for him to be complicated. Messy. Petulant. Loved anyway. And now—on days like this, when the air between them feels light and warm and his mind is quiet—Regulus lets himself brat a little. Not to push boundaries. Just to play. Just because he can. Because he’s safe enough to want, and confident enough to ask.

From the corner of his eye, he watches James reclined on the other side of the bed, still shirtless, his chest faintly flushed from earlier, a book open in one hand. He’s reading out loud, as per Regulus’ request. His other hand rests low on his stomach, fingers twitching every now and then. Regulus has known him long enough to know what that means.

He yawns dramatically.

His legs kick a little, slow and aimless, like a bored cat trying to provoke a reaction. The shirt rides up further. The hem barely covers the top of his thighs now, the backs of them kissed pink from where James had him kneeling earlier. “I’m bored,” he announces, stretching out across the duvet like a spoiled cat in the sun.

James doesn’t look up from his book. “You’re meant to be recovering. And you’re the one who asked me to read.”

“I am recovered,” he insists, flopping onto his back with a dramatic sigh.

“Mm. No, you’re annoying.”

Regulus gasps, scandalized. “Rude.”

James glances over the edge of the page, brow arched in challenge. “You cried in my arms one and a half hours ago.”

“And now I’m bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” Regulus grins. “A natural-born miracle.”

“Regulus—” The warning is soft. Barely a notch above affectionate. But it’s there—threaded through James’ voice like steel through velvet. He closes the book slowly and sets it on the nightstand with all the weighted precision of a man just barely holding on to patience. “You’re not ready for round two.”

Regulus turns his head toward him, his smile slow and deliberate. “I feel fantastic.”

“You feel cocky.”

“Because I’m right.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“You’re not, Regulus,” James says again, with that deadly steady tone—the kind that makes Regulus’ pulse stutter in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

He groans theatrically, rolling onto his side and flinging one arm across his eyes. “You never let me have fun.”

“You just had enough fun to last a week. See if you can speak tomorrow with that throat.”

“That’s subjective,” he mumbles under his arm.

James sits up slightly, watching him with open suspicion. “Are you really trying to get my cock again by whining at me?”

Regulus peeks at him, chin propped on his fist, grin slow and bright. “Is it working?”

James doesn’t answer.

Which is an answer.

So Regulus stretches—long and slow, arms above his head, toes pointing toward the foot of the bed. The movement is pure theater. The shirt hikes up, hem catching just above the curve of his ass, leaving him deliciously bare and very much aware of it. He glances over his shoulder, eyelids low, lashes dark against flushed cheeks, meeting his boyfriend’s stare. “Hmm?”

“Cover yourself.”

“No.”

“Regulus.”

He purrs, dragging the syllables out like honey. “Yesss?”

James sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “We’re done for today.”

“Define ‘done.’”

James tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. “Do you really want to push me after what I put you through an hour ago?”

Regulus hums, feigning thought, then crawls a few inches forward on the bed. The movement is sinuous—calculated. The shirt slips further open at the chest, collarbone exposed, one bare thigh hooked lazily over a pillow. “Actually, yes. Desperately.”

James watches him, silent. Calculating. He doesn’t move—but something in his posture changes. He’s more alert now. Tense. Like a predator clocking the shift in the air before the pounce. “You’re a menace,” he murmurs finally.

Regulus beams. “Mm, but a very cute one.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Only for you.”

James leans forward, slowly, one hand snaking out to wrap around the back of Regulus’ neck. He tugs him in, kisses him—deep, warm, claiming. When they part, Regulus is breathless, eyes glazed slightly, lips parted. James searches his face. “What are you asking for?”

He swallows, a flicker of vulnerability beneath the bravado now, but he holds James’ gaze. “Fuck me?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to feel it again,” Regulus whispers. “And you haven’t yet.”

“Today.” James huffs but his thumb brushes gently across Regulus’ throat—just where the bruising heat of earlier still lingers. Then down, slowly, tracing the hollow of his collarbone. “Are you sure you’re not just chasing the high?” he asks, quieter this time. “That you’re not still floating?”

Regulus shakes his head. “I feel solid. I feel good. I feel like me. And I want you—just because I want you. That’s all.”

James smiles, soft and reverent. “Then ask nicely.”

He.grins, impossibly sweet. “Please, James. Ruin me.”

James growls low in his throat. “You really are a brat.”

Regulus practically glows. “Your brat.”

James groans softly and pulls him fully into his lap, strong arms wrapping around him as Regulus straddles his thighs. “If you ever brat at me again just to get me to fuck you, I’m going to ruin you for a week.”

The grin that appears on Regulus’ face is feral. “Promise?”

The older man laughs, low and helpless. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Regulus hums, leaning in to nip at his jaw. “I know.”

James brushes his knuckles down his cheek, tender in a way that contrasts sharply with the dark promise in his eyes. “Last round.” he says, voice like velvet over steel.

Regulus nods fast, too fast, his breath catching with the kind of anticipation that curls hot in his stomach. The corner of James’ mouth twitches—half fond, half exasperated. It might be amusement, but it’s gone in the next second, smothered by purpose. In one smooth, unhesitating movement, James flips him, gripping and guiding him like he’s weightless. Regulus ends up on all fours, knees digging into the crumpled sheets, muscles still loose and pliant from earlier. Instinctively, he shifts—spreads his thighs, arches his back, settles into the position he knows James loves.

But James stops him.

“Wait—” Regulus starts, confused. But then James grabs both of his wrists and tugs them behind his back, pinning them tight at the small of his spine. He gasps—more surprise than protest—and then collapses forward with a choked exhale, cheek pressed to the mattress, arms useless behind him. His chest flattens against the bed, his hips left high and vulnerable.

“Oh,” he breathes, stunned and breathless. “Rude.”

“You’re mouthy for someone about to beg,” James replies, voice low and warm with control.

He makes a soft, wounded sound when James presses a steady palm to the center of his back and pushes down. Not cruelly—just firmly, commandingly. It arches Regulus further, exaggerating the curve of his spine until his hips tilt up, completely offered, and his shoulders are pinned by gravity and grip alike.

James’ one hand keeps him anchored, but the other roams slowly, skimming over flushed skin and faded marks. His fingertips drift in lazy trails, brushing over ribs, over the swell of Regulus’ ass, pausing at every bruise with a touch that somehow feels like both a claim and a blessing. Regulus trembles. He lifts his hips instinctively, greedy for more. But James just presses him down again.

“You’re so full of yourself when you’re fed and clean,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself. His breath ghosts hot against Regulus’ skin as he leans in. “I liked you better an hour ago, crying into my shoulder.”

Regulus huffs a shaky laugh, breath catching as James’ fingers drag over the back of his thigh. “You’re such a romantic.”

James grins against the base of his spine, lips brushing just above the dip. “I’m serious,” he says. “You’re the most beautiful when you’re undone.”

Regulus swallows. His voice is hoarse, tinged with a smirk. “Then do something about it.”

And James does.

He kisses a slow line up the curve of Regulus’ back, his hands sliding down over the backs of his knees, pushing gently until Regulus widens his stance further. His touch is greedy, but his mouth is patient. Open-mouthed kisses at the base of his spine, then lower. Each one lands warm and wet, immediately followed by fingers that dig in just enough to make Regulus twitch.

“You begged for this,” his boyfriend murmurs against his skin. “So don’t act surprised when I give it to you.”

Regulus moans, the sound muffled into the sheets, one hand curling into the pillow. He tries to rise, hips jerking slightly, seeking more. But James is already there—tightening his grip, pressing a knee between the backs of his thighs to hold him exactly where he wants him. “Please,” he gasps.

“Stay,” James whispers. “You’ll get what you need. You always do.” The position is humiliating—there’s no other word for it. Arms pinned, face down, ass up, completely exposed. But James doesn’t rush. Doesn’t use it against him. He just lingers—touches him like he’s reading scripture. Reverent. Intentional. Fingers ghost up the backs of Regulus’ thighs again, pausing at the crease where thigh meets hip. He palms each side gently, possessively, then drags his hands up to settle at his waist. “You’re already shaking,” James says softly, almost to himself. His thumbs press into Regulus’ hips, firm and grounding. “Didn’t even touch you properly yet.”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, voice muffled into the sheets. His cheek is hot. His whole body is flushed and twitching.

“You’re gorgeous, that’s what you are.” James answers, more breath than words, and Regulus’ only answer is a happy little sound that slips out, because he loves to be worshipped like this. James leans down, his breath warm against Regulus’ back. “And mine,” he says possessively, punctuating the words with a kiss pressed to the top of his spine.

Regulus shivers violently, as if James’ mouth has lit a fuse beneath his skin. The air in the room feels too thick now, charged with something electric and slow-burning. The anticipation is unbearable—crawling under his skin, twisting low in his stomach, winding tighter and tighter. He’s shaking from the delicious, torturous slowness of being held in this place where every sense is hyperaware and every nerve ending feels like it’s on fire.

His breathing is ragged. Shallow. His wrists are still bound behind him in James’ grip, but it wouldn’t matter even if he let go—Regulus wouldn’t move. Couldn’t. He likes it. He needs it.

Then James shifts behind him. There’s the whisper of a breath, the rustle of fabric, a bottle, and then—

Two fingers press low between Regulus’ thighs.

Not pushing. Not stroking. Just resting there.

The contact is maddening in its restraint.

Regulus gasps, whole body tensing. The muscles in his legs twitch and clench, his thighs quivering with the effort of holding himself still. “Easy,” James murmurs, his voice a balm and a command all at once. “Breathe. You’ve done this before.”

Regulus squeezes his eyes shut.

Not like this.

Not with his chest pinned to the mattress and his arms immobilized. Not with his body already half-broken from earlier and his skin lit up like a live wire, and James—James—controlling every inch of him. The latter strokes over him there, finally. Just once. Gentle. Almost too gentle.

The pressure is maddeningly not enough. It makes him ache, hips trying to shift closer despite the firm hand still pressing into his back. James doesn’t let him move. Doesn’t let him take. Only gives what he chooses to give. The first press of his fingers is slow. Not tentative. Never tentative. James knows him too well for that now—knows the way he tenses, the way he breathes through the stretch, the exact sounds he makes when something teeters on the edge of too much and too good.

Regulus cries out into the sheets. The sound is raw, muffled, pulled from deep in his chest. His thighs clench tight before giving way, trembling violently as he tries to breathe through it. His hands, pinned uselessly behind him, curl into fists.

His hips jolt once, uncontrollably.

“Still sensitive,” James says, voice low and terribly pleased.

“No shit,” Regulus grits out, breath coming in short bursts.

James leans in again, his lips brushing the shell of Regulus’ ear. “You asked for this.”

“I ask for a lot of things,” he whispers, voice shaking. “You don’t always give them to me.”

James hums—deep in his throat, appreciative and smug and fond all at once. “But I’m the only one who knows what to do with you.”

Regulus nods into the bed, jaw clenched hard as James’ hand begins to move, loosening him. It’s too much and not enough. It always is, at first. That sharp edge of sensation that makes his eyes sting and his thighs tremble. He breathes through it, forces himself to let go. To take it. For James. His arms twitch behind him, but James holds them steady—just enough pressure to remind him that he’s held, claimed, guided. He bites down on a sound and then lets it out anyway.

James hums again, the sound vibrating where his mouth rests against Regulus’ spine. He crooks his finger ever so slightly and presses deeper. Regulus keens. His knees almost give out, but James keeps him up, hands steady, pace merciless in its control. He doesn’t speak now. He just breathes—controlled, steady—and strokes him with the same patience, the same discipline that always makes Regulus feel like he’s being worshipped and ruined in equal measure. His hand moves in that practiced rhythm, the kind that makes time feel slippery, meaningless. Regulus writhes beneath him, hips twitching involuntarily, head turned to the side and cheek pressed into the sheets, his mouth parted in soundless gasps.

He moans, the sound rough, pulled straight from his chest. It vibrates in the space between them. His body jerks, hips seeking, chasing something James won’t let him have yet. His thighs are already trembling. The second finger comes slower, but the stretch is deeper—more insistent. Regulus gasps, spine flexing, fingers curling where they’re still uselessly pinned behind his back. There’s a desperate sort of pleasure in that helplessness, a relief in not having to make any choices at all.

But gods, it hurts. In the best, most addictive way.

Regulus sobs—quiet but shaking. His voice is gone, still ragged and frayed from earlier, but his body listens. His muscles loosen, finally yielding to the rhythm. His breath comes easier. The knot in his chest untangles just enough to let in more of that burning, beautiful ache. James leans down, and Regulus shudders at the press of lips against the dip of his back. The tenderness nearly breaks him more than the pain.

“Almost there. Just one more,” James whispers. “You’ve got it, love.”

The third finger is slowest of all. It comes with an inhale—deep, steady—and then the push, that final stretch that makes Regulus whimper into the mattress. His legs spasm. His chest jerks. His arms tug instinctively against the hold, but he doesn’t try to break free. It’s painful, yes. Stretching. Deep. But good. His body shakes under the weight of it—his need, the trust, the tension pulling taut through every nerve ending.

James slides his free hand up his side again, skin to skin, the way he always does when Regulus starts to spiral. His palm is broad, warm, careful. “If you want more,” he says, voice like velvet and smoke, “you have to ask for it properly.”

Regulus pants, head buried in the sheets, eyes squeezed shut. He’s trembling. He wants—wants so badly he can’t form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.

But he forces it out. “Please.”

James doesn’t move.

“Beg.”

It’s not cruel. It’s kind. It’s a reminder: Regulus is safe. He’s allowed to want. Allowed to fall apart and still be held.

“Please, James,” he gasps. “I want you. I want all of you. I want to feel it. I want to be yours. Again.”

James stills for the briefest second—just a beat—but the shift in his energy is palpable. A subtle pull of restraint unraveling. Then he curls his fingers, slow and wicked. Regulus sobs.

“That’s it.” James says softly. “I’ll give you everything,” he continues, “but I want you open. I want you honest. I want you mine.”

“I am,” Regulus whispers, voice cracking on the words. “I am. I’m yours.”

He trembles—legs splayed, arms still pinned behind him, spine bowed in perfect submission beneath James’ hand. His skin glows with heat, slicked in sweat, flushed from neck to thighs. His mouth opens again, but no sound comes.

He’s ready.

He’s shaking with it. Quivering under the weight of his own surrender. He’s begging without speaking, his entire body a language only James knows how to read.

And James—James, who is all control and patience and quiet possession—is still human. He can only take so much of Regulus like this: exposed and aching, whispering please into the sheets like it’s the only word he remembers, the only one that matters.

When James finally pushes in, Regulus makes a noise so guttural, so broken, it barely registers as a word. It’s a sound dragged from the deepest part of him—raw, strangled, ripped from his chest like it cost something. His entire body tightens and quakes under the weight of James inside him. His knees buckle slightly, but James doesn’t let him fall. He stays still, rooted in place, breathing hard above him.

For a moment, everything is still.

Time folds in on itself. All Regulus can feel is the fullness, the heat, the pulsing ache of being stretched around James, filled to the edge and held exactly where he needs to be. There’s no friction. No movement. Just the overwhelming sense of presence. Of being occupied completely.

James bends low, folding his body over Regulus’ arched frame until his mouth finds the curve of Regulus’ spine. It lingers, warm lips pressed against damp skin, and when he speaks, it’s barely louder than a breath. “You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re doing so well.” Regulus nods—frantic, trembling. He can’t speak. Can’t form words. But his body says it for him: the way his shoulders stay relaxed despite the restraint, the way his back arches willingly beneath James’ palm, the way he melts into the praise like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

The first motion is small. Just a testing pull of James’ hips, a subtle shift that makes Regulus gasp, his whole body clenching around the sudden emptiness—and then fluttering as James eases back in.

The second thrust is smoother. Longer. Purposeful.

Regulus moans—broken, breathy, caught between disbelief and relief.

And then the rhythm begins. Slow at first. Measured. Every movement deliberate. Each thrust carved out with precision—just deep enough to push him to the edge of sensation, but never over. Just angled enough to make him feel every single inch of the stretch, the pressure, the burn, and the claim. James fucks him like he’s trying to rewrite something. Not rough. Not rushed. Just certain. Steady. Determined.

“You’re mine,” James breathes, voice low and gravel-rich. “You take me so well. You’re perfect like this. Fuck, Regulus—so perfect.”

Regulus moans again, but the sound doesn’t carry far. It’s caught in his throat, swallowed by the sheets as he pants into the mattress. He can’t speak. Can’t think. He’s undone in a way that defies logic—his entire body reduced to fire and tremor and sound.

James doesn’t falter, his pace never stutters. He fucks Regulus through every twitch, every sob, every overwhelmed shudder of his muscles. He doesn’t speed up—not yet. But the thrusts deepen. Each one lands with that maddening, perfect pressure that makes Regulus jerk forward, legs splaying wider against the sheets, hips canting up helplessly to meet him.

He cries out when James hits just right—when something inside him sparks and blooms and pulls taut. He sobs when it’s too deep, too good, too much. And James is always there. Always catching him. Always pressing lower, whispering: “I’ve got you.” “Stay with me.” “Just a little more.”

The edge rises like a wave—high and hot and terrifying. It looms over him. Drowns him. He’s not sure if he’s burning alive or coming apart. Maybe both. “Please,” he chokes, voice scraped raw. “Please, James—”

James’ breath stutters—just a hitch—and then he grits his teeth and fucks him harder. Not wildly. Not carelessly. Just more. Like the dam has cracked. Like control is still there, but it’s fraying at the edges.

“You want it?” James growls. “Say it.”

Regulus keens, head thrashing, body buckling beneath the weight of what he’s asking for. “Want to come—please—want to—need to—James—”

And then James wraps an arm around his chest and hauls him up slightly—just enough to change the angle. Just enough to tip him forward again, re-anchoring him even deeper. The motion is devastating.

“Come for me,” James whispers. “Now.”

And Regulus breaks.

His body bows. Arches. Every muscle locks. And then he’s coming—hard—without touching, without thinking, without even breathing. The orgasm crashes over him like a storm, wringing sob after sob from his throat. His chest convulses. His mouth opens in a silent cry. His vision blurs.

James doesn’t stop.

He keeps moving—keeps working him through it. The aftershocks hit hard, racking through Regulus in waves. And then James follows, groaning low, deep, guttural, as he comes inside him. His whole body stiffens before he collapses forward, still holding Regulus, still anchored to him. They stay like that—joined, trembling, panting. Heat clings to their skin. Sweat sticks them together. And slowly, with infinite care, James begins to ease out.

He’s gentle now. Reverent. Every movement is calculated not to break the moment. He kisses the back of Regulus’ neck. Loosens the grip on his wrists. Untangles their limbs like they’re something sacred.

And Regulus—limp, breathless, wrung out—floats.

From the way James held him through it. From the way he was taken, and known, and loved. Completely. He’s not asleep. Not quite. But he’s adrift—floating somewhere on the edge of consciousness, caught between dreams and the too-real echo of everything that came before. The kind of stillness that follows being well and truly undone. His body feels strange, in that sweet, confusing way that always comes after James has pushed him just far enough. Like he’s not quite in it anymore. Like he’s only borrowing it while he figures out how to breathe again.

He’s heavy and light at once. His limbs aren’t sore, exactly, but they’re uncooperative. Boneless. Slack. The dull, blissful ache that radiates from the base of his spine to the bend of his knees makes it hard to tell where the bed ends and he begins.

He’s warm. Wrapped in something soft and weighty—James’ blanket, probably, though it smells like James’ shirt too. Like cotton and sweat and something darker. Earthy. Familiar. Time doesn’t make sense anymore. It’s loose. Elastic. The moments stretch and sway without definition, held together only by the way Regulus is breathing and the steady press of something under his cheek. Not a pillow. Not quite.

James.

Regulus is curled on his side, head pillowed in James’ lap, cheek resting against warm, bare skin. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know James is sitting up, back pressed against the headboard, one knee bent beneath the blanket. Solid. Still. The safest thing in the room.

And then—there’s the hand.

It moves through his hair with quiet certainty. Not mindlessly. Not because James is distracted. No—James is never distracted after. That’s what makes this part matter. His hand doesn’t wander or twitch or skip. It moves in slow, deliberate strokes, fingers threading through the curls at Regulus’ nape with the kind of rhythm that makes the world feel predictable again. Thumb brushing the soft place near his temple. Fingertips tracing behind his ear. Returning, always, to the same path. Like he’s reminding Regulus where he is. Who he is. What he’s allowed to feel.

And then, finally, James speaks. His voice is low and quiet, rasped by use and shaped by care. “You okay?”

Regulus hums—just a noise at first, nothing articulate. Then, hoarse and barely above a whisper: “Yeah.”

It scrapes from his throat, the word. Frayed at the edges, fricative and bruised. He’s been too loud tonight. Begging. Moaning. Laughing, maybe, at one point—James always manages to make him laugh even when he’s shaking apart. He’s sure his voice will be gone by morning, left in the sheets with the sweat and the sound of his surrender.

That’s fine.

He doesn’t need to talk right now.

James hums in return. A pleased, approving sound. “Good.”

Regulus still doesn’t open his eyes. He lets himself sink into the warmth of James’ lap, into the quiet certainty of being held without pressure. He listens to the way James breathes—long and even now. Grounded. Every now and then, he hears a little shift in the bed, the soft creak of the headboard as James settles more comfortably, but the hand in his hair never stops.

“You came back quick this time,” James says, voice unhurried.

“Mm.”

“Still with me?”

Regulus doesn’t speak this time. Just lifts two fingers in the most half-hearted peace sign imaginable.

James snorts. “That’s a yes?”

“Obviously.”

“Could’ve been a threat.”

Regulus smiles into James’ thigh, the edge of his mouth pressing against soft skin. “You wish.”

James shifts just enough to tug the blanket higher over Regulus’ shoulders, fingers catching at the edge to tuck it in. Like he’s worried Regulus might get cold, even though his skin is still flushed with heat. “You were a menace tonight,”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“It is when I say it.”

James huffs through his nose and lightly trails the backs of his fingers down Regulus’ cheek, brushing a damp curl away from his face. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re soft,” Regulus murmurs, still not bothering to open his eyes. “petting me like I’m your favorite cat.”

“You are my favorite cat. Hissing, dramatic, pretends to hate affection.”

“Pretends?”

“You beg for it.”

Regulus huffs again, not quite a laugh. “Only because you make me.”

“Exactly.”

Silence folds over them again. Not awkward. Not tense. Just easy. Just real. The quiet buzz of the fan in the corner hums low. The sheets rustle slightly when James shifts. Their breathing is still uneven, but not urgent anymore.

Eventually, Regulus cracks one eye open.

James is looking down at him, watching—soft around the edges, loose-limbed and open in that rare way he only ever gets when the adrenaline has burned off and he’s still riding the last wave of release. The kind of look that makes Regulus feel seen. “Alright?”

“Yeah.” He exhales slowly. “I think so. My throat hurts.”

James doesn’t stop petting his hair. “It was a lot.”

“But I liked it.”

“I know.”

“I like being pushed.”

James’ hand pauses, just for a second, then resumes. “I pushed you because I trust you could handle it. But I never want you to think that’s what you owe.”

“I don’t,” Regulus says quickly, firmly. “I wanted it. All of it.”

James hums again, satisfied.

Regulus tilts his head, cheek rubbing lightly against James’ thigh. “Did you… I mean. Was it good for you too?”

James smiles—slow, wide, unmistakably real. “You want a rating?”

“Yes,” Regulus says without hesitation. “Give me notes. Grades. Rubrics. Pie charts if necessary.”

James chuckles, clearing his throat like he’s actually considering it. “Alright. A+ for effort. A for attitude. B-minus for teasing me until I nearly lost it.”

“Only B-minus?” Regulus frowns. “I should get extra credit for creativity.”

“You literally asked for it.”

“And I delivered.”

“You provoked me.”

“And you liked it.”

James gives him a flat look, but his thumb never leaves his temple. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I liked it.”

“Good.”

James leans back against the headboard, glancing at the ceiling. “You’re getting better at recovery.”

Regulus hums. “You’re getting better at ruining me.”

James laughs again, quieter this time. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” Regulus breathes in, holds it, then lets it go slowly. “I feel good. I felt safe the whole time.”

“Even when it was rough?”

“Especially then.”

James nods. It’s quiet. But it matters.

“That’s what I want,” he says softly.

And that’s what they stay in—for a while longer. Just the warmth of the bed. The quiet reassurance of breath and touch. James’ fingers never stop. Regulus’ muscles start to uncoil.

Eventually, James shifts, voice low and warm. “Bath or bed?”

Regulus groans, tucking himself deeper into the blanket. “Don’t make me move.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“I’ll bite you.”

“You’ll try.”

Regulus smiles lazily. “Bed.”

James kisses his forehead. “Then bed it is.”

And for once, there’s nothing else they need.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of FEEL THE WORLD AROUND YOU