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Tonight is James Potter’s twenty-sixth birthday, and while he originally intended to spend it curled up on the couch with a pint of ice cream in his lap, he is instead three whisky neats deep and has his eyes locked in on the man of his dreams.

The club is two floors—a packed crowd of people down below moving like the ebb and flow of an ocean, and equally as many people milling about on the wrap-around balcony that makes up the second level. There’s a bar along the wall behind James that will make you anything from a cheap tequila sunrise to a whisky neat poured from a thousand dollar bottle.

It’s James’ birthday, but it was an absolute fucking nightmare. He spent most of it pretending to give a fuck about his clients, fingers at his temples and a constant pressure behind his eyes.

He needed a drink or two. Maybe three. At least six, if he’s being honest.

So he scrapped the ice cream idea and ended up at a club that promises the best music, the best atmosphere, and the best booze. And because he’s James fucking Potter with a whole Fortune 500 to run, he bought a whisky neat poured from the thousand dollar bottle. Finished it in a single swallow, then slammed black plastic on the sticky counter and told the bartender to give him another.

James will never complain about inheriting his parents’ legacy—or their fortune—but there are days when the pressure of balding board members and unpredictable stock markets makes him want to blow his brains out.

So in less than ten minutes he drinks three glasses of liquor, each costing more than most people’s weekly paychecks. He’ll admit that it’s not his finest hour.

James is leaning his elbows on the balcony railing, half-drunk glass of whisky dangling from his fingertips—just watching. There are hundreds of people down below but it’s easy as breathing for James to spot him; he would have found him in a crowd of thousands.

He’s smack in the center of the floor, pale skin turning red and blue and deep purple as the lights change. Black jeans hang dangerously low on his hips. He’s not wearing a shirt, but rather a cropped jacket so black it should swallow the lights entirely—except for its swirling patterns that catch and glitter as he turns. It’s a long sleeve jacket, probably too hot, but it looks so god damned good on him that James is glad he’s wearing it.

James leans forward, hips hinging on the balcony railing.

He can’t look away. He wouldn’t even if he could; he’s too enraptured.

It’s hard to catch his face in any detail; he moves too much, round and round with a girl that has shocking white-blonde hair. But they don’t dance intimately the way couples around them do; it’s friendly. Fun. There’s another girl that dances with him too, her hair piled high in elaborate dreads, skin smooth and warm as honey with a smile just as sweet.

Eventually he slows enough for James to finally catch a better look. And oh, James is a fucking goner, breath leaving him in a rush. He’s gorgeous—unfairly so—with thick black curls that James is just itching to get his fingers lost in. A face carved and cut by the gods, all sharp angles with devastating cheekbones, full lips, an aristocratic nose. He looks rich, like he knew the smell of money from the moment he came into the world. He doesn’t smile, eyes half-lidded as he throws his head back, the lights turning him a myriad of colors as other parts of him fall into shadow.

He looks as though he doesn’t give a single fuck about anyone else, and James wants to take him apart piece by insolent piece. Watches as he raises his hands up over his head, turning with the blonde girl who throws her head back and laughs. James sees rings on almost every one of his fingers; they catch the light, glinting. Brutal things, good for breaking bones if you throw a punch hard enough.

James wants him.

James wants him fucking bad.

But he’s content to watch from his spot on the balcony for now. He won’t interrupt the fun. He does have some decorum; his parents raised him right, after all. And halfway to drunk off his ass, dressed up in a black suit that screams business, tie hanging loose and blazer thrown over the couch behind him, is not how he feels like approaching the complete dream of a man dancing below. James has felt the heat of pretty women and fucked plenty of pretty men, but this one is different.

Like he might not fall for James’ charms.

Like he might knock James the fuck out if he feels so inclined.

And James is so far gone that he thinks he just might let him.

He sips his whisky and keeps watching, completely enthralled, unconcerned with the people that bump against him or linger too long in his peripheral. They watch him, urging him to turn around and smile at them so they can accept the invitation. But James doesn’t feel like inviting anyone in tonight; he’s too busy deciding whether or not to swallow his pride and just go down there, ridiculous work attire be damned.

James’ fingers twitch around the glass in his hand. He wants it—his voice, his smell, the taste of him. Whisky burns down his throat as he drinks, the three glasses that came before it already racing through him, burning away his resolve to stay put.

He doesn’t know where Remus is. He always manages to talk some sense into James. They come together but generally don’t leave that way; James always leaves in his own car, and Remus goes home with the bartender.

James finishes his drink and slips away from the railing. Heads for the bar and waves his glass. They know him here; he’s here all of the time. Too often, maybe. It depends on the week, really.

Once he has another glass in his hand, James turns back to the railing. Settles back in his spot, content to just watch for a little while. He needs another whisky or two to burn through him before he can say he’s properly relaxed.

Down below the man is still dancing, careless and unbothered as ever.

There are a lot of people on the balcony level. It wraps around the entire club; there’s more than enough space for hundreds of people to congregate against the railing, drinks in hand as they watch the lower floor. James expects to blend in, doesn’t think he’ll stand out much at all. Sure, he’s handsome as hell—bright smile; attractive features; good hair and skin; tall; always in expensive, tailored clothes—but it’s not like he can be easily spotted from the floor below. There are just too many people.

So it takes him by surprise when he looks up, pausing mid-dance, and tilts his head back. For a moment it looks as though he’s searching. He turns, slowly, gaze tracking along the balcony, reading every face until—

Oh.

James doesn’t look away. Even with the distance between them it’s a heated, intentional stare, like it’s meant to pin James in place, pull him apart and get to all the bits underneath his skin.

They stare at one another, neither of them moving. He’s frozen there on the dance floor, bodies jostling against him, trying to pull him back into their movement. Yet he remains still as stone, eyes locked into James’ stare.

James brings the glass of liquor to his lips, quirks the corners of his mouth up as he sips. He wonders which of them will break first, or if they’ll do this all night. An impasse, neither of them willing to move quite yet.

It’s him that moves first—he smiles slowly, tilts his head to the side. A silent challenge, tossed across the distance between them and up to James.

Come get me.

James shakes his head—just once. Sips again, pointedly. Let me finish.

And the smile on his face, so pretty just a moment before, turns sharp as a knife’s edge. Leaving James to stare at him from above, he turns away and moves closer to the front, his jacket still catching the lights; it makes him impossible to miss.

There are stairs to James’ right that lead right to the edge of the dancefloor. It would only take a few minutes to get there, to navigate through the crowd and find himself face-to-face with the only person he wants to take home with him tonight.

But he’ll wait. Watch. Finish his drink. It was expensive, after all.

He’s in the middle of another sip, nursing the liquor to keep it from hitting him too hard, when he sees a guy with sandy blonde hair and a ridiculous blue and yellow Hawaiian shirt appear from out of the crowd. James watches him get too fucking close to someone James has already marked as his.

And oh, if that doesn’t just piss him off.

It’s unreasonable—he’s the one that said no—but still, it boils his blood to see a man that fucking beautiful give a smile to someone that wore a blue and yellow Hawaiian shirt to a club. And one with a fifty pound entrance fee no less.

What a fucking joke.

James watches Hawaiian Shirt slip a hand beneath that gorgeous black jacket, stubby little fingers running against the smooth dip of a back James has spent many nights memorizing. Thin lips against pretty ears whose shape James knows better than his own, saying things James can’t hear. But he knows they’re filthy—Hawaiian Shirt thinks he’s scored, thinks he’s bet on a winning horse, and will, by some stroke of sheer luck, go home with the prettiest thing on the floor.

Absolutely fucking not.

They’re dancing now, bodies pressed together from chest to knee, and oh, this just won’t do.

There are so many things that James Potter is good at. Business ventures, million dollar deals, stock market predictions, convincing anyone of anything, balancing a checkbook, leaving late but still arriving on time.

He is not at all good at impulse control.

And when James’ stare is met by dark, hooded eyes, pretty mouth curled at the corners, pulled up in an open taunt—he is decidedly no longer interested in keeping his shit together.

James downs the rest of his drink in a single swallow. He pushes off the railing and turns to see Remus has returned to their table. His phone is in his hand and he looks a little mussed, as though he’s just spent a while being kissed senseless.

Remus looks up when James slams his glass down. He raises a brow and pursues his lips. “Really, James? Let’s not break another one. It’s only Monday.”

“I’m going down there.”

Remus nods knowingly. “Just don’t punch anyone tonight, yeah? It got messy last time. I’d rather not pay for the extra detailing to have blood removed from my backseat.”

“I’ll pay for it. Hell, I’ll even buy you a new car.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Remus tells him.

James snorts. “Watch my jacket?”

“Always do.”

People part for James as he walks through the crowd; he’s sure his expression is positively murderous. He just can’t stop seeing those stubby, awful little hands all over such pretty soft skin. Skin he was running his own hands over just last night. His blood heats in his veins with each person that doesn’t move aside, halting his progression to the floor below.

There are no less than hundreds of people on the lower level. James sighs, already not looking forward to pushing through them. If it weren’t for the mental picture of grubby hands underneath a black jacket, dipping lower and way too far, he might’ve stayed upstairs. Waited out the crowd. But he’s come this far already, so James rolls up his sleeves as he pushes through, the heat of so many bodies and the whisky in his veins making him feel uncomfortably hot.

It takes a few minutes of pushing but James finally sees those awful blue and yellow colors. They’re rather easy to spot—it’s a really ugly shirt. A complete insult to fashion.

For a moment James thinks he’s already moved on to another, that he might’ve been smart and left this asshole behind, but then Hawaiian Shirt spins and James is looking at the back of that expensive black jacket, the smooth expanse of a lower back on display—and those grubby, short-fingered fucking hands are right there, dipping dangerously close to the waistband of his jeans.

James doesn’t hesitate. He’s already too pissed off to think straight, anyway.

He pushes through the few people standing between them, reaches out with a steady hand, and slips his fingers into soft black curls, palm cradling the base of a skull he knows as well as his own, has had under his hands a thousand times. His fingers contract, tugging in a way he knows will sting but not hurt.

James’ smile is positively dreadful. He watches with glee as Hawaiian Shirt’s expression morphs. It turns from triumph to confusion as what he thought was his prize falls back into James’ chest instead. The hand not buried in soft curls settles against a taut stomach, pulling him in and holding him close.

Irritation flashes in Hawaiian Shirt’s too-small, watery eyes as soon as he realizes what’s happened. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Leave.” James has to yell to be heard over the music. “This one’s not up for grabs.”

“He was dancing with me. So who the fuck are you?”

“His fucking fiancé. So fuck off.”

There’s a brief second where James thinks he might actually have to throw a punch or two tonight. He can see Hawaiian Shirt size him up, taking in his height and broad shoulders, calculating if it’s worth the fight. He must decide it’s not because he shakes his head and slips back into the crowd.

James dips his head down and says, voice low, “Really, love? How many times are you going to push me to my limit? We can’t keep doing this. I can’t punch and then pay off all of them.”

Regulus tips his head back against James’ shoulder, a smile playing at his lips. “I told you to come down here. You didn’t want to. I had to get creative.”

James huffs a laugh and unfurls his fingers from Regulus’ hair. He slides his hand around to circle Regulus’ throat, thumb just under his jaw to keep his head tilted back, fingers pressed against his pulse point. “Or you could’ve just waited.”

Regulus makes a low noise; James feels the vibration against his palm. “I didn’t feel like waiting.”

“You’re spoiled,” James says, nipping at the shell of Regulus’ ear. “Spoiled fucking rotten.”

“We were just dancing.”

James hand squeezes, just the slightest pressure, but Regulus gasps, eyelids fluttering shut. “With that guy? Jesus, love. Have some taste.”

James met Regulus two years ago in this exact club. Had watched him from afar, leaning against the railing with a whisky glass in hand until he mustered up the courage to approach him. It was the first time he met Sirius’ little brother, and he was beautiful even then—twenty-two and fresh out of university, finally home from France after four years abroad.

James took Regulus home for the first time that night.

Do you usually go home with guys from the club? James had asked. It was innocent enough. Just curiosity. He knew of Regulus but that was all it had ever been; their paths never had a reason to cross until that night. It was immediate—the pull, the desire to have him.

Would it bother you if I did?

No. But I would need to stop for condoms. I don’t think I have any at home.

And Regulus, full of so much god damn attitude even then, smirked and said, Bold of you to assume I’m going to let you fuck me.

Isn’t that why you’re in my car?

I could change my mind. Maybe your flat is dirty.

James scoffed. It’s not.

Or you’re bad at foreplay.

Again, he scoffed. I’m not. It’s the best part.

Or your dick is small.

James cut him a glare. It’s definitely not.

Oh. You have an ego. Regulus had said it with laughter in his voice.

I can back it up. James’ response was immediate and sure.

There had been a barely-there smile on Regulus’ lips, something tentative and not yet willing to grow. I don’t go home with anyone, he had finally said. I just go to dance with my friends.

Okay.

You believe me? Just like that?

I know when people are lying. You’re not.

That’s foolish of you to assume. I could just be a very good liar.

Maybe, but I doubt it. You respond to questions with non-answers or even more questions. When you do answer I know it’s genuine. You don’t seem the type to bother with lying for no reason.

Regulus had seemed to like that—the way James already understood him. Paid attention to him and learned his tells. So he let James lead him into a penthouse with impossibly high ceilings and wall-to-wall windows that looked out over London, and he let James fuck him on as many surfaces as reasonably possible in a single evening.

James hadn’t intended to start something with Regulus. Realizing just who he’d slept with when they woke up in his bed the next morning complicated things. Sirius would kill him for it. And really, James had just wanted a fun time, a single good night. Except the next week he saw Regulus again, and again James took him home. And again the week after that. And again, and again, until finally James caved and asked Regulus out properly.

The games started early. Regulus is too damn smart; it didn’t take long for him to realize that James has a nasty jealous side. Regulus is good at getting what he wants out of James, knows all of the ways to bring him to his knees. Has learned what makes him smile, what makes him mad.

James doesn’t like it. He downright hates Regulus’ games sometimes. But he loves Regulus more than he’s ever loved anyone in his life, so he plays along. Lets Regulus have his fun, because no matter what happens or how heated it might get, they always go home together. It’s James that gets to take Regulus apart piece by piece, unraveling his cool façade until he’s begging James to fuck him, all that insolence and attitude he wears like armor melting away into James’ sheets.

The world narrows to just the two of them when James spins Regulus around, both hands on his bare waist. “I missed you,” he says, dropping his forehead against Regulus’. “It’s my birthday. You couldn’t be nice to me just this once?”

Regulus grins at him, gray eyes flickering under the changing lights. “I wouldn’t be me if I was nice, and you wouldn’t be you if you wanted nice.”

James sighs and slides a hand across Regulus’ stomach, around his ribcage, thumb grazing his nipple. He feels Regulus shudder under his hands and smiles. “This is my favorite outfit,” he says, almost absently, pulling Regulus in tighter against him. “I hate that Hawaiian Shirt touched you in something I bought.”

Regulus throws his head back and laughs. It’s a beautiful, open thing. Something he saves just for James. “You nicknamed him ‘Hawaiian Shirt’?”

“Yeah. I mean, what asshole wears a shirt that fucking ugly to a club?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re a thorny bastard that likes to piss me off.”

Regulus presses his mouth to the underside of James’ jaw. “I just wanted to dance with you. It’s your birthday.”

“You could’ve waited,” James argues. “I was finishing my drink. That guy had fingers like little fucking sausages. Put them all over you, too. The fucking gall.”

“What are you going to do about it then?” Regulus taunts, lips pressed to James’ ear.

James groans, his hands flexing, fingers digging into soft flesh. Regulus feels more familiar to him than he feels to himself sometimes. “We should go home, love.”

“I want to dance.”

“And I want to fuck you. Remind me again whose birthday it is?” James slips a hand back into Regulus’ hair and pulls, searching his eyes. He’s shorter, his eyeline coming just to James’ chin, but his glare packs a punch all the same.

“Fine. But let me tell Sirius I’m leaving.”

They push through the crowd together, fingers intertwined. It settles something in James’ chest to have Regulus’ hand in his. He hasn’t seen him all day—they’re both too busy most of the time, only able to see one another in the evenings—so it’s a calming touch, soothing away his irritation a little.

They find Sirius exactly where they expected to find him: in Remus’ lap, knees bracketing his hips, hands locked behind his neck, their kisses bordering on obscene.

Regulus walks right up to them and flicks his brother’s temple.

Sirius pulls back, irritated and ready to spit fire. “Seriously, Reggie?”

“I’m going home.” Regulus hooks a thumb in James’ direction.

“Hey, James. Happy birthday,” Sirius says, shooting him a smile. He’s a warped version of Regulus—softer in some places and kinder in all the rest. “You look pissed. What did Reggie do?”

“Your brother is a pain in my ass.”

“Didn’t I warn you not to—Ow. What the fuck?”

Regulus has flicked him again, this time right between the eyes.

“No one asked for your opinion, Sirius. Will you be fine if I leave?”

Sirius glances behind them in the direction of the bar and squints, a slight purse to his lips. He nods. “I think Peter is running the bar fine without us tonight. You can go home.”

The entire club belongs to Sirius and Regulus, though it’s more Sirius’ project than Regulus’. Regulus prefers to work at James’ company. He likes bossing someone around just because he can, or slipping into James’ office in-between meetings to climb into his lap, hands already pulling at buttons and zippers and ties.

James grabs his jacket from the couch and squeezes the back of Sirius’ neck as he walks by. “Have fun kids. Don’t stay out too late,” he says, reaching out to ruffle Remus’ hair.

Remus slaps his hand away, glaring. “Get fucked, James.”

“He’s about to,” Regulus chimes in, cheeky as ever.

Sirius flips them both off. “No one needs to know that, Reggie,” he calls as Regulus turns away.

James wraps his fingers around Regulus’ wrist and pulls him back through the crowd. His buzz is completely gone now but he doesn’t really mind. All he wants is to get Regulus home and in their bed anyway. The alcohol was a means to an end, something to soothe him after a bad day, but this is so much better.

The cool spring air hits them once they step outside. There’s a light rain starting, and the air smells fresher and a little less like city.

They’re waiting for the valet to bring James’ car around when Regulus says, suddenly, “I bought you a cake this morning. It’s in the fridge at home.”

Home. James likes the way it sounds when Regulus says it, like it’s something precious. Sacred. He moved in six months ago; James complained that it wasn’t practical to pay insane amounts of money for two places, especially when Regulus spent all of his time at James’ anyway. Besides, slipping from boyfriend to fiancé changed things. Moving in just felt natural after that.

“That was nice of you,” James remarks.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, love.” James reaches out to gently flick the tip of Regulus’ nose, pulling back quickly when Regulus moves to slap his hand away.

The valet pulls James’ car around a moment later. It’s a sleek, all-black Maserati that goes much faster than London streets necessarily allow. But Regulus liked it, and James has long since accepted that what Regulus wants, he gets. Especially if it’s James that can give it to him.

Their drive home is quiet. James has one hand on the wheel and the other on Regulus’ thigh, and Regulus is busy fiddling with the radio, looking for a song he can stand. The club is close to James’ building; it only takes ten minutes of navigating traffic for them to arrive home.

James pulls the Maserati into the U-shaped drive in front of a tall high-rise. He tosses his keys to the valet, nodding when the man says, “Good evening, Mr. Potter.” He’s tried a thousand times to get them all to call him James, but none of them will. Not even the young footman that sees him every day will do it, always greeting him with a kind smile and gentle Hello, Mr. Potter as he opens the door that leads inside the building.

They step into the elevator at the far end of the lobby; they still haven’t spoken. James presses the button for the top floor. He glances sidelong at Regulus who’s staring forward resolutely as the steel doors shut. James can feel it in the air—tension thick enough to cut. A fuse just waiting for one of them to ignite it.

As usual, it’s Regulus that strikes the match.

“You know,” he says, breaking the silence, “I thought he was kind of cute.”

James’ inhales sharply. “Regulus,” he warns.

“I didn’t think his shirt was that bad. Just a little—”

“Regulus.” James’ nostrils flare, jaw clenched tight. “Do not start.”

Regulus picks at his nails, posture relaxed and so fucking unbothered even as James grows tense beside him. “His name was Dave. I think he was American. His accent sounded—”

James slaps his palm against the elevator’s keypad, hitting the emergency STOP button with far too much force. The elevator jerks to a halt and Regulus stumbles backward. Before he can right himself James has him pushed up against the wall, a knee shoved between his thighs and a hand wrapped around his wrists, holding them above his head.

“You are so fucking irritating,” James grits out, his mouth already pressed against the smooth skin of Regulus’ neck, free hand slipping beneath his jacket and gripping his sides. James pulls back and stares down into defiant eyes, pupils blown and swallowing gray irises.

Regulus raises his chin. “It’s not my fault you get so jealous.”

“You push me,” James argues.

“You make it too easy.”

James’ grip on Regulus’ wrists tightens. He’s right, of course. James falls right into his traps every time. “Forget his name,” he demands. “Take it back that you thought he was cute.”

“Make me.”

“Regulus.”

He leans forward, lips ghosting over James’ as he whispers, “Make me.”

James surges forward and kisses him hard enough to bruise. It isn’t a kind kiss, even though he wants it to be. He just can’t shake the picture of Regulus on the dance floor, so much of him being touched by someone else. Someone that isn’t James.

James runs his tongue along the seam of Regulus’ mouth, demanding entry, and Regulus groans when James’ tongue rolls over his. It’s a filthy kiss; desperate, so desperate, because James has wanted to kiss Regulus ever since he spotted him on the dancefloor. Hell, he’s been thinking about it all day.

He drops his hand to hook it under Regulus’ knee, pulling one leg up and around his hip. “Take it back,” James says when Regulus nips at his bottom lip, teeth sinking in just enough to sting.

“No.”

James makes a low, frustrated noise in the back of his throat and reaches down to hook a hand behind Regulus’ other knee, pressing him harder against the wall. He nuzzles into Regulus’ neck, forcing him to tilt his head back, granting James access.

“You can’t fuck me in here,” Regulus tells him, but he drops his head back with a dull thud, letting James ravish his neck.

“I own the fucking building. I can do whatever I want.” James’ lips ghost over Regulus’ pulse point; he can feel how fast Regulus’ heart is racing. It’s a fast, steady rhythm that matches his own.

“There are cameras.” Regulus’ back arches when James tongues at the hollow of his throat, tracing a line up the center to the underside of his jaw.

“I’ll tell security to wipe them.” James grips Regulus’ chin and turns his head so their eyes meet when he says, with a wicked smile, “And I’ll make them send me the footage.”

Regulus’ eyes widen a fraction, nostrils flaring as he exhales. “You wouldn’t.”

“I definitely would, love.”

Regulus gaze flicks from James’ eyes to his mouth and back again. “Fine,” he finally relents. “Hawaiian Shirt was ugly. The ugliest guy I’ve ever fucking seen.”

James’ grin broadens. “And?”

“And what?” Regulus squirms against the wall, his ankles crossed at James’ back and pulling him in, searching for friction.

“Tell me what I want to hear, love.”

Regulus eyes narrow. “You are the one that’s irritating. Just so you know.”

James nips at his bottom lip, still grinning. Waits. Lets Regulus keep squirming against the wall, searching but never finding what he needs.

“I’m yours,” Regulus finally says through gritted teeth, going still, chest heaving. “I’m yours, okay? You irritating, overprotective, jealous—”

James kisses him full on the mouth. It’s gentler this time; he draws it out slow and sweet, smiling all the while. “I love you,” he says softly against Regulus’ lips. Warmth blooms in his chest, spreads out through his whole body.

Regulus rolls his eyes and pushes at James’ chest. “Put me down. I did not spend all that energy riling you up just for you to get all soft.”

“Oh, I’m still going to fuck you,” James promises. “I just want you to know how much I love you before I do.”

“God, you’re such a sap, James Potter.” When James makes no move to let him go, still clearly waiting, Regulus says, “I love you, too. Now put me down.”

James lets him go and steps back, reaching absently for the keypad. The elevator starts moving again a moment later, flying through floors to James’ penthouse.

“I wonder how many people are waiting for the elevator,” he muses absently.

Regulus opens his mouth to say something, but James reaches for him, looping an arm around his waist and pulling him in close. He buries his face in Regulus’ neck and sighs, at once calm and mere seconds from crawling right out of his skin.

James feels like a rubber band pulled taut, seconds from snapping.

The elevator dings, double doors sliding open. James’ penthouse is an ostentatious, overly luxurious place, and they’re immediately greeted with high ceilings and a panoramic view of London.

James drops his wallet and keycard on the entry table, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch. He hears Regulus kick off his shoes and pad softly into the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets, then slamming them closed.

He finds Regulus sitting on the island, legs swinging. He’s leaning back on his hands and smiling when James steps into the kitchen. There’s a slice of cake on a plate beside his thigh.

“Happy birthday, James.”

It’s these moments when Regulus softens and smiles at him, full and open, that remind James why he is so in love with Regulus Black.

There isn’t a thing James wouldn’t do for him. Regulus only has to ask.

James steps forward and pushes Regulus’ knees apart, slipping between them, hands sliding along his thighs to rest on his hips. “Are you going to sing to me?”

“Never.” Regulus reaches for the plate, holding it between them. He stabs at the cake with a fork. “I don’t sing.”

“I wouldn’t say that, love,” James muses, laughing fully when Regulus glares at him.

“Here. Eat.” He pushes a forkful of cake against James’ lips. “I didn’t buy this for it to go to waste.”

James snorts but opens his mouth and takes the bite of cake. It’s chocolate, his favorite, and not too sweet. He hums approvingly and reaches for the other fork. Before he can grab it, Regulus bats at his outstretched hand.

“I’m not letting you feed me,” he mutters, stabbing at the cake again. “I can feed myself.”

“Just once?”

“I don’t trust you. You’re going to get icing all over my face. Then you’ll try to lick it off like a damn dog.”

James grins. “I would never.”

“You’re literally thinking about it right now. I can see it in your eyes.” Regulus takes a bite, leveling a pointed look at James.

And James, knowing he’s caught, says, “I’m only thinking about it because you brought it up. It sounds fun.”

Regulus wrinkles his nose. He offers another bite. “You have weird fetishes.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do.”

“You’re the one feeding me cake,” James points out.

Regulus sighs. “Because it’s your birthday. I wanted to do something nice.”

“A rare occurrence.”

“I told you not to get used to it.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. But I will be taking advantage of it.”

Regulus huffs. He takes another bite of cake without further comment. Between the two of them, it’s almost finished. He offers James the last forkful, nudging it towards him. As James finishes it off, Regulus sets the plate down gently beside him. His movements are smooth, controlled, like he’s thinking about each one.

“What’s wrong, love?” James asks, running his eyes down Regulus’ body, taking in the smooth expanse of his bare chest and the taut planes of his stomach. “You’re tense.”

Regulus purses his lips, pouting, and looks up at James through his lashes. He leans forward slowly, breath ghosting across James’ lips, and whispers, “I thought you said you were going to fuck me, James Potter.”

James makes a strangled noise. “You brought out the cake.”

“And now the cake is gone.”

“Jesus. You’re spoiled and impatient,” James mutters, shaking his head. He reaches out and grips Regulus’ hips, pulling him forward, their chests pressed together. “It’s almost like today is about you even though it’s my birthday.”

“Sex is a present that’s mutually beneficial.”

James opens his mouth to respond, but Regulus closes the distance between them, kissing with such fervor that James forgets whatever it was he wanted to say. He pulls Regulus more fully against him, looping an arm around his waist. He waits until Regulus’ ankles are crossed at his lower back, arms locked around his neck, before stepping away from the island, taking Regulus with him.

It’s a short walk from the kitchen to their bedroom. They don’t break the kiss as James navigates blindly through the penthouse, one hand trailing along the wall, the other digging into Regulus’ skin. James kicks their bedroom door open and then slams it shut with his foot, groaning loudly when Regulus sucks on his tongue.

He drops Regulus unceremoniously on the bed and crawls over him, bracketing his head with a hand on either side of him. “No more games, love.”

Regulus’ fingers are busy undoing his tie, pulling at the buttons of his dress shirt with the other hand, but he freezes at the tone of James’ voice. Looks up, brow furrowed. “What?”

“No more games.” James sits back on his heels and yanks off his tie, tossing it to the side. “No more trying to make me jealous just so I’ll fuck you rougher.” He finishes the buttons on his shirt and shrugs it off. Tosses it somewhere into the dim. “Just ask me. I’ll do anything for you.”

Regulus stares up at him, breathing uneven, skin flushed pink and so fucking pretty. “But I—”

“No. No more.” James reaches between them to pop the button of Regulus’ jeans, then slowly pulls at the zipper. “I’ll dance with you whenever you want. I’ll lay you out on this bed every night if that’s what you need.” He shuffles on his knees, shimmying Regulus’ jeans down his hips. “But one of these days someone is going to push too far. Or touch you the wrong way.”

James stands in front of him and pops the button of his own trousers, working the zipper down. He’s painfully hard and desperate for relief, but he needs to get this out. Has wanted to for a while.

“I love you too much to share you with anyone else,” James tells him, gently.

Regulus’ jaw clenches, eyes hooded and fixated on James. He drops his gaze as James strips off his trousers, then flicks it back up to his face. “I don’t know how to love the way you do, James.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just—Just so easily. I’m too fucked up. I don’t deserve it.”

James crawls back over Regulus, slotting their bodies together. He rolls his hips, groaning as the friction finally gives him a sliver of relief. For a moment he loses himself in this—Regulus’ fingers clawing at his back, blunt nails scraping at the skin, breathy moans slipping from his lips that James swallows eagerly.

He pulls back, collecting himself. Regulus tries to chase after his mouth but he doesn’t let him. “You’re perfect. And you do deserve it,” James tells him. “I wouldn’t change a damn thing about you. But we’re engaged now, Reg. We can’t do this forever. I’m tired of using other people as foreplay.”

Regulus holds James’ face in his hands, the rings on his fingers cool against James’ burning skin. He looks James right in the eye when he says, “Then show me that we don’t need to.”

It’s a chaste kiss at first, just the bare brush of lips. James waits, hovering there, letting the fire in his veins build and build until he can’t take it anymore.

The rubber band snaps.

James’ hands are lost in Regulus’ hair, his hips grinding down of their own accord, so fucking desperate for this. He runs his tongue along Regulus’ bottom lip—a quiet question. And Regulus, eager and already mewling, pulls James in, turning the kiss into something hot and open-mouthed. It’s a mess that leaves them both breathless.

It’s easy for James to lose himself in the taste of Regulus, to forget his own name when Regulus bucks his hips up, rutting against him. He can feel Regulus’ hands wandering all over him, never settling in one spot for too long, fingers digging into soft flesh and pulling at hard muscle.

Regulus is the one that flips them. He pushes at James and hooks his ankle so that James is under him when they roll over. His knees bracket James’ hips and he wastes no time surging forward, mouthing along James’ jaw and down his neck. They’re both breathing heavily, pulses racing, and James is already getting dizzy when Regulus begins to move down, pressing wet kisses to his sternum as he goes.

James whimpers at the feel of Regulus’ cold rings against his skin; he’s hot all over, burning up. His back arches when Regulus hooks long fingers in the waistband of his briefs, pulling and urging them down, down, down.

Sometimes Regulus will draw this part out, taking his time and teasing every debauched sound out of James that he can. But tonight there’s no preamble, no warning. James doesn’t mind though; he wants Regulus so bad that he’s seconds from unraveling, the intensity of it too much. Regulus kisses along the inside of his thigh, mouths at the dip of his hipbone. James is about to start begging when Regulus opts for skipping the niceties and just swallows him whole.

“Fuck,” James hisses, fingers grappling at the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto. He settles one hand at the back of Regulus’ head, fingers fisting loosely in his curls, and grips the pillow under him with the other.

Regulus excels at everything he does. It’s something he says comes with his surname; an innate need to be the best, to commit one hundred percent and nothing less. However, James is sure this is not something Regulus’ ancestors anticipated him applying such a skill to. But as Regulus takes James’ cock in his mouth until it hits the back of his throat, humming low, the vibration curling James’ toes, he is more than thankful that Regulus is as committed as he is to excellence.

James is so lost in the warmth of Regulus’ mouth around him, his brain short-circuiting, that he doesn’t realize he’s about to come. It hits him suddenly—hard and fast instead of creeping up on him; a warmth that coils low too quickly.

James tightens his grip in Regulus’ hair and pulls hard, hissing at the soft pop as Regulus’ lips slip off of him. “Too close, Reg,” he grits out, breathing heavily, forcing himself back down to earth.

Regulus kisses a path up his stomach, across his chest, back along his jaw, until he’s right in front of James’ face, grinning and so fucking smug. “You usually last longer,” he muses.

James glances at his swollen lips, red and shiny. “I spent all day thinking about this.”

“Excuses.”

James’ eyes narrow. It’s a challenge. Regulus is goading him, pushing him back into that irritated state that makes him rough. “And you think you could last longer?”

Regulus grins. He reaches between them and grips James’ length, wrist twisting artfully, just the way James likes. His eyes flash in triumph when James smacks his arm away, eyes rolling back as he fights to keep his body under control.

“Yes,” Regulus says. “Yes, I do.”

James kisses him roughly, slips his hands under Regulus’ jacket and pushes it off, their teeth knocking together as James lets himself completely loose. He presses Regulus back into the mattress, slotting their bodies together, and with one hand holding him up, he lets the other wrap around Regulus’ throat. He watches with hungry, greedy eyes as Regulus arches, exposing more of his neck, granting James permission.

“You’re obscene,” he whispers, squeezing just enough to draw a gasp from Regulus’ lips.

“James,” Regulus breathes, eyes fluttering shut. He bucks his hips, searching but finding nothing. James has pulled away, already hooking his fingers in Regulus’ waistband and yanking them down his thighs.

James grabs Regulus’ ankles and drags him to the middle of the bed. He settles between Regulus’ legs, his ankles on James’ shoulders, and leans over him, grinning something wicked as he reaches over and yanks open the nightstand’s drawer, searching blindly as Regulus leans up to kiss across his chest.

James drops the little bottle next to Regulus’ head and slides a hand across his bare chest, back up to his neck. “What do you want, love?” he asks, thumb rubbing gently at Regulus’ pulse point as his fingers squeeze. “You have to tell me what it is you want.”

Regulus opens his eyes; he’s seething. “You talk too much, Potter.”

James squeezes harder and Regulus moans, eyes fluttering shut again. “Tell me or I’m leaving you here hard and untouched.”

“You wouldn’t,” Regulus gasps, voice wrecked, fracturing at the edges.

“Try me.”

Regulus fingers fist in the sheets as a flush spreads high on his cheeks. “No.”

James leans down and bites at his earlobe. “Regulus,” he says, softly. “It’s my birthday.”

“Oh, you are—” But James cuts him off with another squeeze of his hand and Regulus goes boneless. When James pulls back, Regulus breathes out, “I want you, James. Just fuck me already. Now.” He shudders, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Please.”

And this is it—James’ favorite moment, the holy fucking grail of his entire evening. Regulus is unraveling under him, the chinks in his armor no match for James when it really comes down to it. If he wanted to, he could pull this moment to its limit until Regulus is downright begging, but James has waited long enough. Not to mention it is his birthday.

“Was that really so hard, love?” James taunts. Grinning because he’s won this time, he reaches out to press two fingers to Regulus’ lips, raising a brow expectantly.

And because Regulus is as desperate for James as James is for him, he parts his lips and lets James slip his fingers inside his mouth. He swirls his tongue, their eye contact never breaking. The sight of it sets James on fire from the inside out.

James works Regulus open gently, kissing him like a man starved. He swallows every moan, every gasp, coaxing them out of Regulus with each twist of his fingers. Whenever they get like this he’s always thankful that the whole top floor is his; he doesn’t think his neighbors would appreciate the sound of Regulus coming apart underneath him.

“James,” Regulus whines, arching under him while simultaneously pushing at his chest. “Quit fucking around.”

“Bossy.” James reaches for the bottle, pops the cap and coats his fingers, then his cock, hips stuttering at the contact. It’s too much and not enough; he’s aching for more, has gone untouched for too long. He lines himself up, watches as Regulus inhales, flushed chest heaving. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

James sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Regulus’ thigh as he pushes into him, sucking a bruise into his skin as Regulus groans loudly in the quiet of their room. He always feels so fucking good, like he was made for James. Two puzzle pieces clicking together perfectly every time.

James collapses forward as he bottoms out, both of them breathing erratically.

“Just—tell me when I can—” James drops his forehead into the curve of Regulus’ shoulder, shuddering; it’s tight and hot and he’s gone, gone, gone.

“I’m fine,” Regulus tells him, squirming impatiently. “Just move, James.”

James pulls back and looks down—Regulus’ curls are plastered to his forehead, a thin sheen of sweat making him glow; his pale skin is flushed pink all over, and he looks absolutely wrecked. Warmth coils low in James’ belly; he did this, and he made Regulus—all sharp teeth and claws—a desperate mess.

James reaches for Regulus’ hands still fisted in the sheets. He brings them to the curve of their headboard and wraps Regulus’ fingers around the edge. James squeezes for emphasis and says, “Best to hold on, love.”

Regulus’ pupils are completely blown; his nostrils flare with a sharp exhale as James pulls almost completely out of him before slamming back in. It’s all over after that—the last vestiges of James’ control slip from his fingers and he’s just gone, one hand pressed firmly into the mattress beside Regulus’ head while the other grips wherever it can, holding Regulus down with a merciless grip against the bed as James slams into him again and again.

Their kisses are sloppy, missing their mark most of the time, and after a while James just rests his forehead against Regulus’ and focuses on the feel of him, watching as his eyes roll and his lips part. James changes the angle occasionally, if only to watch Regulus’ reaction to it.

When he can feel the pressure at the base of his spine growing impossible to ignore, James reaches between them and grips Regulus’ length in his hand. It takes hardly any coaxing to send him hurtling right over the edge, back arching as a moan rips from his throat, loud and broken. James follows quickly after him, burying himself in Regulus as he tumbles down, down, down, breaking at the bottom, his groan muffled in Regulus’ neck.

Neither of them move for a while. Regulus is shaking, fingers still gripping the headboard, and James is still as stone, fighting to control his breathing.

“Happy birthday,” Regulus croaks, suddenly.

James laughs at the casualness of it. He pulls out and collapses on his back, staring wide-eyed at the high ceiling. “That was—The best birthday.”

Regulus slides his hand into James’, turning on his side to look at him fully. “No more games,” he says, echoing James’ earlier words. “I’m done. I promise.”

James glances at him, searching for any sign that he might not mean it. But Regulus’ face is open and honest, if not a little flushed and euphoric.

“Okay,” James says simply. “No more.”

“Just me and you,” says Regulus, hooking their pinkies together.

“Just me and you, love.”

They lay there until the sweat on their skin becomes uncomfortable. Regulus slips into the shower with James. They kiss languidly under the warm spray, fingers slippery against wet, sudsy skin. None of it is purposeful; they’re just happy to touch and be touched in return.

Afterward James slips into sweatpants and heads right for the kitchen, his mind on a singular thing: the ice cream.

He grabs the carton and two spoons from the drawer before making his way into the living room. The rain has turned heavy, slashing against the windows. His favorite thing about living in a penthouse is the incredible view of both the city and its unpredictable weather.

James settles into the couch cushions, swinging his feet up and stretching, all of his muscles loose and warm.

Regulus appears at the end of the couch a moment later. He’s wearing one of James’ oversized hoodies. On James it’s big, but it swallows Regulus’ smaller frame, the sleeves too long on his arms.

“Hi, love,” James says, smiling. “Ice cream?”

“We already had cake.”

“People usually have cake and ice cream, don’t they?”

Regulus sniffs dismissively, comes around the couch, and smacks James’ thigh. “Move over.”

“Ask nicely. It’s my birthday.”

“Barely. It’s almost midnight.”

“Then it’s still my birthday.”

Regulus heaves a sigh. “Can you please move your ridiculously knobby knees before I break them?”

“That’s more like it.” James opens his legs, patting the spot between them.

Regulus settles against him, his back to James’ front. He takes an offered spoon and pulls the lid off of the ice cream carton. James holds it steady as Regulus dips his spoon in, taking a hefty bit of chocolate crunch ice cream for himself.

“I thought we already had cake?” James teases, dipping his own spoon in.

“We did. But I didn’t say we can’t have ice cream.”

They sit for a while, taking turns dipping their spoons into the carton, speaking only occasionally as they watch the rain outside. The living room is dark, lit only by moonlight that shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“I’m not going into work tomorrow,” James says offhandedly. “We can sleep in.”

“Mm.” There’s the clink of metal against teeth as Regulus shoves a spoonful of chocolate ice cream into his mouth. “Or we can have sex.”

James presses his cold spoon against Regulus’ neck, grinning when Regulus elbows him in the ribs. “Or we can do that,” he agrees, coughing slightly as he laughs.

Eventually the ice cream is nearly gone. Regulus scrapes the bottom with his spoon, unwilling to leave any behind. James sets it on the coffee table when he’s done and grabs the remote, turning on the TV. The clock comes up first—12:05 A.M.

“No longer my birthday,” James says, disappointed.

Regulus scoots down, pulling James with him, and they end up lying on their sides facing the screen. James throws his arm lazily over Regulus’ waist, idly flipping through possible watches as he buries his nose in Regulus’ hair. It smells like citrus, still a little damp.

“Thank you for being the best birthday present.”

Regulus grunts. “I can’t believe you almost tried to fuck me in the elevator.”

“I still think we should try it some time.”

“No.”

James muffles his laugh in Regulus’ curls and smiles, warmth spreading throughout his whole body. They eventually settle on something they’ve both seen, the volume low so they can listen to rain falling steadily against the windows.

They fall asleep with their fingers loosely intertwined, James’ hand held tight against Regulus’ chest.