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If you asked Sirius, or Remus, or any of James’ friends, anyone that wasn’t Peter, they would say that James wasn’t a jealous person. He wasn’t possessive. He didn’t get mad when someone touched what he considered his. If you asked them, they would tell you that no, James was made out of sunshine, with so much love in him that it spilled over and included everyone. James never wished for things that another person wore or had. He never cried or hesitated to smile and congratulate the others when they won at Quidditch.
He wasn’t possessive, either. Anything that was his was yours, really, as long as you asked for it James would do everything in his power to give it to you, to make you happy. He shared his jumpers, the notes he took during lessons (even if his handwriting was shite and sometimes almost unintelligible, as always), he gave you his snacks and his smiles and his laughter. If you touched something that was his, even his sacred broom that he polished until it shone like a jewel, he would only smile and banter until you both were crying with laughter.
But the others didn’t know James like Peter did. Or they pretended not to, Peter wasn’t sure. But Peter had been there since the very beginning, and he saw James for what he truly was: an arrogant, pureblooded boy. And it wasn’t that Peter didn’t love him, he did, more than he could describe in words or even gestures. But that didn’t stop him from seeing the truth. Because James Potter, charming and loyal and brave as he was, had everything.
He was filthy rich due to his father’s business. Money as a concept barely existed to him. He had a complete disregard for how much a certain amount actually was, and would pour endless galleons on whatever his friends wanted. It was worse because he was the only child of the Potters'. He had never worn hand-me-downs and would never know how it felt against your body, to have a shirt that was slightly too small or too broad or had a stain that would never quite leave, no matter how many times you washed it. Peter doubted that he had ever worn anything that wasn’t the best material you could possibly find on the market. Well, apart from when he snatched one of Moony’s jumpers, all of them cosy but steadily falling apart at the seams. Like a caricature of a poor student.
At home James was adored and pampered. Peter had never met any parents kinder or more loving than Euphemia and Fleamont Potter. They bathed James in it until James didn’t know anything other than I love you and I’m so proud of you and No matter what happens, you are our darling boy. It was because of them that James had this unparalleled confidence, this ease that immediately made you relax when you were near him, made you think that nothing bad would ever happen. Because it felt impossible as long as you were close to this boy who moved through the world as if it was his to conquer. And even if something bad would happen, you just knew that James would be there to make it all better. Instantly, like a charm. It was no wonder that Sirius, the infamous Black with all those scars on the backs of his legs (given to him by his mother’s lacero), desperately craved James as if he was the solution to all of his problems.
James Potter had never in his life had to cry for attention. He had never had to beg; everything was already there at his fingertips. His dad was fun, joined him when he was mischievous, and his mother was so kind that she never berated him for real whenever he did anything wrong. Even when it was grave. Even when he broke that fine vase she had, with all the pretty flowers on it. No, Euphemia had only smiled and told her son that It’s alright, a vase is replaceable, you are not. Because James Potter’s mere existence was precious.
Maybe he was. He had the right blood in his veins; centuries upon centuries of it. Even if it wasn’t part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight because the maker of the list thought his surname a little too suspicious, a little too common and tainted, he had enough money for it never to be an issue. No one would ever even think to suggest that he didn’t belong anywhere because his blood was possibly mixed like Lily’s or Remus’. He was attractive, exuding confidence paired with a boyish charm that had everyone falling head over heels for him. He would never hear the words of bullies, never be confronted with the fact that maybe his glasses were nerdy or his hair a little too much of a mess for it to be actually cool.
In his darkest moments Peter hated that, hated his attitude and carefree nature. It seemed unfair. That this one boy had gotten all of it, meanwhile others (like Peter) had to struggle through awkward, stilted conversations while trying to maintain eye contact and not sweat like a pig or squeak like a rat. Sometimes Peter hated the fact that James had gotten everything handed to him on a silver platter, as if he was a king while the rest of them were barely scraping by.
So no, it didn’t surprise Peter when James and Lily broke up. It didn’t surprise Peter when James fell for the younger Black brother, a more intense and messed up version of Sirius, if that was even possible. It didn’t surprise Peter when this boy brought out the side of James that he never let anyone see if he could help it. The angry, jealous and possessive streak that everyone else thought didn’t exist.
Peter thought they were stupid, because how could they forget? Forget the fact that James had never had to share as a child, and that the world was his, the rest of them merely visitors in it. Forget that underneath all those charming smiles was an arrogant boy who had never had to beg or cry for what he wanted. Forget that James had never had to deal with those emotions before, not really, and when he finally encountered them it wasn’t strange that everything went downhill, very, very quickly.
~~~
James sighed as he turned around with the firewhisky in his hand, leaning back against the bar with his elbows on the counter. He brought the smudged glass to his lips and gulped down another mouthful. Rosmerta, or Madame Rosie, as Sirius liked to call her, was busy serving others behind him.
He looked out at the sea of people. The pub was packed tonight, filled to the brim with both students and students of the past. He was a bit miffed to nowadays belong to the latter category. The golden days at Hogwarts were over for good, but sometimes he ached to return to the old school that had functioned as his second home for so long. Sometimes he longed to be eleven again, with a raven haired boy attached to his hip as if they were twins. But they had all grown up now, and being old had its perks as well. For example, he didn’t have to listen any longer to his best mates fucking as he tried to sleep.
Sirius was Godric knows where, Remus suspiciously absent as well so James thought he had an inkling to what they might be up to in the pub’s bathroom. The thought had him grinning, giddy with the knowledge that the days filled with intense, heartbreaking pining was finally over, that his two best mates had stopped with the tense fighting long enough to actually realise that they were madly in love. Numpties.
Peter was in a corner, haltingly speaking to Marlene who had half her attention on Mary. He wondered if those two would ever figure it out like Remus and Sirius had. He hoped they would, for all their sakes.
James stood up straight when he spotted him. There, right in the middle of the room, was the one person James wanted to see. His ebony curls bounced a little as he turned his head, making the candles reflect the earrings pierced into his slightly small ears. The small stars had been a gift from Sirius, and the leather jacket that was currently resting on his shoulders was his brother’s as well. It was a testament to the development of their relationship that Sirius had proposed that he borrowed the prized possession for this night out with their friends.
Regulus pulled a few curls out of his eyes. James swallowed; observing the rings adorning his fingers. He had the hands of a man who played piano for a living. Sirius always hated it, detested the damned instrument that had brought him so much suffering, but Regulus was different. Always had been, and always would be. They might look alike, with their slender builds, the same height and strikingly similar faces, but their personalities were entirely different.
The older had given him an inseparable bond, a friendship that would never break. The younger had him dizzy with love and desire pulsing through his every vein.
He had never done anything, of course. Regulus was still fragile, still healing, and Sirius would kill him if he did anything to mess it all up. He had fallen right back into the role as an overprotective brother that he had donned in the first years of their childhood, before they fell apart.
Sirius had begged until his throat was raw for his brother to leave their parents, just like Sirius had, but Regulus had refused. That was until they one day got the news in the paper that Walburga Black and Orion Black were dead. An accident, the investigation had concluded. James wasn’t so sure, but either way Regulus had become the head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black in a single night. He had inherited Grimmauld Place and the vault at Gringotts, making him one of the most sought after young men in all of wizarding Britain. Not that he wasn’t sought after before, but now it was bordering on insanity. It had surprised them, Sirius most of all, when he one day turned up at the flat Sirius shared with Moony, all his facades shattering when he saw his brother.
The younger Black was now… recuperating. Slowly.
And James was trying to stay away but not succeeding.
James gulped down some more of the firewhiskey, still watching the man he so often dreamt about. He was talking to the Prewett twins, or rather, the Prewett twins were talking to him. Regulus was smiling slightly. James loved his smiles – all of them, even the cold smirks – and he was so glad that Regulus had begun to smile genuinely more often. He wanted him to be happy. He did. He did. But. He hated that it was Fabian who was making him smile right now. He hated that it wasn’t him. He wanted to be able to go up to Regulus and talk to him out in the open without having to look over his shoulder to see if anyone was seeing how far gone James already was. He wanted to talk to him in a pub and make him laugh – Godric, his laughter, James could get drunk purely on the sound of it – without having to fear Sirius’ wrath.
He frowned when he saw how tense Regulus’ jaw suddenly had become, how blank he had forced his face to be. He was uncomfortable.
James didn’t know when this insistent urge – no, need – to protect him had surfaced. He had always done everything he could to help his friends, that included taking in the heir to one of the oldest and most powerful pureblood houses in Britain, but this was on another level. Was it his innate desire to make everyone happy? Was it the fact that Regulus was suffering and James couldn’t see it without wanting to tear the world to shreds for having inflicted that upon him? He tossed and turned in his bed at night, thinking about it, thinking about why he couldn’t leave the young man alone.
James was not often mad, but when he saw Regulus tense and blank faced like that, something ugly rose in his heart. He watched as Gideon leaned in, closer and closer, one of his hands upon Regulus’ shoulder. He was talking animatedly about something, perhaps explaining one of his legendary pranks, as the hand crept down until it was resting on the younger man’s hip. He saw red when Regulus smiled at him. It was strained, one of his endless facades that were meant to protect him and mirror the person in front of him, but Gideon didn’t know that and James could see it. Gideon took it as a yes, and James slammed down the glass now drained of firewhiskey on the counter, never taking his eyes off of the hand that was inching towards the small of his back.
Without thinking it through, he started pushing his way through the throngs of people. His skin was itching with the heat of the room; his collar suddenly too tight and restricting. Usually he was talking loudly with his friends somewhere, maybe dancing to some imaginary music, drunk out of his mind, but there was a reason why he had chosen to stand by the bar tonight. It was not a good day. He had those days as well, even if he liked to pretend that he didn’t and did everything in his power for others not to catch on. And now someone was too fucking close to his– to Regulus, and James couldn’t stand it.
“Get your hands off him, Prewett,” he snapped, forcing Gideon’s hand away from Regulus’ pale skin, his grip on his wrist brutal and unforgiving as he wrenched his arm away.
The twins blinked at him in shock, unused to James being anything other than mischievous and happy whenever they saw him. As a schoolboy he had idolised the two of them and retold their pranks almost as if they were his own, and he knew that they liked to think of him almost like a younger brother, a successor, because of him picking up the mantle of Hogwarts’ prankster. Now he stared hard at Gideon and Fabian, itching to touch Regulus but doing his best not to be a hypocrite.
Turning around, he looked over his slender body, almost as if checking for injuries.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low despite the volume in here.
Regulus gave him a curt nod, gripping his elbow in a clear sign that he was not. It angered him that Regulus had slipped back into that headspace where he felt like he had to lie about his well-being because he didn’t feel safe enough. That someone had forced him back into old thinking patterns, taught by the mother that was thankfully already dead. He could feel how his fingernails were digging into his skin, creating crescents inside his clenched fists.
“Come on, James, we weren’t doing anything bad. Regulus liked it,” Fabian argued behind his back.
He whipped his head around to the other Prewett twin, younger by a minute, and grinned in a way that even he could feel was slightly unhinged; aided by the alcohol and his pissy mood.
“If you bother him again, I will make sure you can’t get out of St. Mungo’s for a few weeks,” he laughed, ignoring the stares, “Sorry, that sounded like a joke. I will actually do that, though.”
“It’s no big deal if Regulus wants to suck my cock instead of yours, Potter,” Gideon scoffed, crossing his arms.
“What the fuck did you just say about him?” he snarled, thinking he must have heard it wrong.
“I said–” Gideon started, about to repeat the whole thing.
He had raised his fist before he had even finished the sentence. Gideon stumbled back into a table by the force of the blow against his jaw, and it screeched in the pub, making the others gasp and fall silent; apart from a girl somewhere, who screamed. James didn’t notice. He simply grabbed him by the collar and drove his fist into Gideon’s nose, immediately satisfied by the crack that followed as it broke and blood started gushing. Using the table, he grabbed the back of his head and slammed him face first into the hard wooden surface. He should have remembered to bring his fucking wand, he realised. He could fight like a muggle, Moony had taught them, but a wand would have helped in dealing more permanent damage.
He couldn’t think of anything except for the pure unfiltered rage that was coursing through his veins.
This absolute piece of shit thought that he had the right to touch Regulus? To talk about him like that? Well, James would set the record straight for him.
“James.”
He had promised himself that no one would touch Regulus ever again. He had hated himself for not being able to stop Walburga, and he would not fail once more.
“James, please.”
They had tumbled to the floor. Giden was beneath him.
“James, stop.”
His knuckles were bloody. He barely registered the pain.
“James!”
Regulus' voice.
He halted what he was about to do, his fist in the air, ready to strike once more. Slowly he came back to himself, bit by bit, realising that he was gripping Gideon by his bloody collar. His face was a mess; unrecognisable almost.
Everyone was staring at him. His friends were there, shock written plain on their faces. Remus and Sirius had returned, and he didn’t protest when they hauled him up from the floor, away from Gideon. Fabian quickly knelt by his brother, cradling his broken face in his hands. He looked up at James with murderous eyes, and he was surprised to find out that he felt nothing by it.
“What in Godric’s name are you doing, mate?” Sirius hissed to him.
Remus was standing to the side, trying to convince someone not to call for aurors. He opened his mouth to say that he didn't know, he didn’t know what had come over him, but nothing came out.
“James,” Regulus called softly, and he looked up at the sound of his voice, of his name falling from his lips.
His heart constricted in his chest, and all the emotions that had been absent before suddenly slammed back into him. The guilt and shame were enough to drown him. He had hurt someone. He had been violent in front of Regulus, and now he would flinch back from his touch; avoid their quiet conversations. The thought of it made him want to throw up. He wouldn’t be able to stand it if Regulus began to be afraid of him.
He had done everything possible to make Regulus feel safe with him, and now he had fucked it all up in a single night with his stupidity.
Regulus stepped forward, his gaze searching and flickering back and forth on his face. His breath hitched as their fingers intertwined and Regulus pulled on him gently. Before anyone could react, everyone warped and disappeared in a sudden apparition, leaving James slightly dizzy when he landed in the living room of Grimmauld Place.
It had changed since his parents died. James knew that even if he had never stepped a foot in the house. The first thing Regulus had done was throw out all the furniture and paintings. Crouch had burned it all with him, he had said once in one of their nightly confessions. Now the living room was no longer dark and cold. It was still aristocratic, elegant, regal almost, but it had transformed into a room you actually wanted to live in. James looked away from Regulus, pulling at his hair in agitation. He looked out over the dark green sofa, a sofa that looked as if it belonged in the eighteenth century and not 1980. The meticulously polished side tables that held bouquets of Regulus’ favourite flowers. The fireplace made out of black marble. The chandelier that held crystals and candles; all of them already lit.
He stepped back, scared that he was making Regulus as uncomfortable as he had been with the twins.
“I’m– I’m so sorry, I– it’s just– he was touching you, and I– I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to– I–” he rambled, all of the words he wanted to say getting tangled together and spilling out into incoherent sentences, “if you want to never see me again, I understand, I– I don’t– if you are–” scared of me.
He wanted to lie to himself and say that he had lost control because someone was threatening him, but the truth was jabbing him in the ribs with its harsh little fingers. He hadn’t lost all sense because of what the twins had said. No, the truth was much uglier than that. He had been jealous. That was the simple truth of it. He had seen Regulus smile, seen someone else touching him, and everything had become an angry haze of minemineminemineminemine. And then he found out that Regulus didn’t want their touches, and it all became infinitely worse.
“James. James, look at me. You’re alright. It’s alright.”
He wasn’t breathing properly, he realised distantly. Almost as if it wasn’t his own body. All he could see was the blood on his hands. There must be blood in his hair now, too.
He had hurt someone. He had hurt someone. He had hurt someone!
What if Regulus never wanted to be near him again because of this?
He blinked when Regulus put his hands on his cheeks, holding his face almost as if he was fragile. His bony fingers were cold on his skin. James had always been too warm, a sun burning, while Regulus had always been cold like ice. His breath stuttered.
“Jamie, it’s okay,” Regulus murmured.
His grey eyes reminded him of a frozen lake in winter. The one outside his parents’ house, that he had run over when the ice was thick enough; laughing.
Regulus caressed his cheek with his thumb. Slow, gentle strokes that drove him mad. It took everything in him to fight against the urge to touch him, to pull him closer.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. He wanted to close his eyes and savour the touch, but he didn’t dare to. He was afraid that if he did, he would open them to find that he had imagined it. That Regulus in reality hated him after all. “Do you dislike me for what I did?” He couldn’t say the word hate. Not without crying.
Regulus laughed.
“No, I don’t dislike you, you idiot. What do you think I am, some fragile little bird?”
“I– no, but–” he sputtered, tipsy and confused.
He went quiet when he saw Regulus’ little smirk. Unable to help himself, he swayed forward. He ached to touch him, to get pulled in by the centre of his universe. He didn’t know if he could fight himself any longer.
“You know the childhood I’ve had, James. What you just did was nothing. In fact, seeing you jealous and angry was surprisingly… hot,” Regulus mumbled.
They were so close. If he leaned forward an inch he would finally know what his lips tasted like.
“Yeah?” he breathed, barely conscious of anything that wasn’t RegulusRegulusRegulus.
Regulus slowly lowered his hand to his jaw, stroking his jawline. He should have thought about the consequences at that moment. He should have thought about everything that was logical that told him that he couldn’t have this. Before he could think it through too much though, Regulus gripped his jaw and pulled him down.
His lips were so soft.
He moaned, immediately grabbing his hips to push him up against the nearest wall. Regulus’ body thumped when it collided, but neither of them slowed down. He slotted his knee in between his legs, feeling how aroused he already was.
The little whimper that escaped Regulus’ lips must be what the afterlife sounded like.
He stopped kissing him only to let him breathe. Regulus arched his neck, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed. James groaned at the sight of it. He leaned in to bite right below, sucking and kissing it to soothe the abused skin. He pressed closer. He wanted to crawl into his chest, past the rib cage and into his heart. But that wasn’t possible, so he settled for rutting against him to give them both some friction. The relief of it had him panting.
“Fuck me,” Regulus gasped.
The words had him stumbling back, realising suddenly what he was doing. He couldn’t touch him; Sirius would kill him. Regulus, he wasn’t well enough yet, he wasn’t–
Regulus was panting, his cheeks flushed and hair tousled. Seeing him like that, he was dangerously close to losing his mind all over again. He was so achingly beautiful. He would have to force himself through the coldest shower of the year after this.
He backed into the sofa’s high edge when Regulus scowled and straightened, advancing towards him like a bird stalking prey. He swallowed, his mouth dry from want and a slight fear that had his bones singing.
“We have talked for weeks now, I know you want me, and yet you will not touch me. Why?” he asked, clearly frustrated, seen in the pull of his brows and the set of his glistening mouth. A mouth he had been kissing hungrily a mere minute ago.
“I can’t, you know I can’t.”
He couldn't go back any further, and Regulus caught up to him with a hand that he slowly trailed down his chest. The light pressure of the pads of his fingers was enough to have him ready to do whatever he wanted. His breath hitched when Regulus leaned up, leaving only half an inch between their lips.
“Why, James?”
Sirius. Sirius would kill me.
“I– you’re still frail, and–”
“Oh, please. I didn’t survive this house by being frail.”
He whimpered when Regulus stopped teasing his clenching abdomen and palmed the bulge in his trousers. He curled in on himself, wanting to both escape and push further into the teasing hand. His knuckles were white with how hard he was gripping the back of the sofa.
“That’s it,” Regulus murmured, keeping his pressure maddeningly light as he stroked him.
“Please, I–” he begged, on the verge of tears with desire and warring emotions.
He was so hard it hurt. He could cry from how good it felt.
“Shh, it’s alright, Jamie.”
Regulus plucked the glasses from his face and put them by the vase on the nearby table. He blinked, the world having turned blurry from one moment to the next. He could only see what was right in front of him. Regulus’ eyes, his high cheekbones, the freckles covering them. His lips; a perfect cupid’s bow. He exhaled shakily, understanding that he would never be able to walk away from him.
“Please.” He didn’t know what he was begging for any longer.
“Fuck me.” The words were not at the end of a gasp this time. It was a command, and he was all too willing to obey. “Fuck me, or I will go back to the twins and let them do it instead.”
He whipped his head up, his mind instantly clearing in that way it had before the fight. He could see Gideon with his hands all over him, Fabian telling him that Regulus had liked it. He turned them around to push Regulus up against the sofa, his protruding hip bones digging into the sharp edge as he pinned him there with his own body. He was taller and broader than Regulus, and he liked how he felt in his arms.
“No,” he growled, that anger from before returning with full force. He stripped him of his clothes, ripping the material because of his impatience and vanishing the rest. He had always been stupidly good at wandless magic, precise and swift. “I won't let them.”
“Then show me that I don't need anyone else,” Regulus taunted, laughing breathily when he bent him over the edge with a hand on his neck.
Muttering the lubrication charm, he pushed a single finger inside of him, smirking when Regulus whimpered helplessly. Morgana’s tits, he was tight. So fucking tight. He leaned forward and nipped his shoulder when he pushed in another, scissoring his fingers to prepare him for the third. He didn’t want to hurt him, but he needed to be inside him so badly he could barely hold back. Not with the image of the twins in the back of his mind.
Regulus keened when he brushed against his prostate. He chuckled, marvelling at how pliant he was now that he had something up his arse. No more commands and threats about leaving. His third finger entered easily. Pumping his fingers in and out of his clenching hole, he thought about how that tight heat would feel around his aching cock. The imagined feeling had him moaning in anticipation.
After a moment he pulled his fingers out, ignoring the whine that slipped past Regulus’ lips at the feeling of being empty. Slicking his cock up with lube, he lined up and pushed in with a thrust that bordered on harshness. The answering moan he received didn’t indicate that it was too much though. Having that warm and tight feeling finally surrounding his cock instead of his fingers made him groan appreciatively, pulling out and thrusting in again just as deeply. Soon enough he had set a ruthless pace, claiming him again and again and again. He put one of his hands on his waist, the other gripping his hair and keeping him upright. His grip was tight enough to bruise his porcelain skin.
Leaning over him, he whispered the word into his skin. Chanting it like a prayer.
“Mine,” he repeated breathlessly, pushing his forehead into his arching back.
“Yours. Only yours,” Regulus answered, choking on a moan.
The air in the room was thick with tension and the heat that radiated off of their bodies. James was covered in sweat and panting with the need to let go. A need that was growing more and more urgent with each passing second. His bollocks were aching with the need for release, and he didn’t think that he could hold it off for much longer even if he wanted to.
“James–” Regulus moaned brokenly, his voice catching on a high note as he cummed onto the back of the elegant eighteenth century sofa.
The feeling of his hole clenching around his cock had him moaning as well, following almost right after. He thrusted a few more times until the pace became languid and he stopped as he enjoyed the last seconds of his orgasm. Closing his eyes, he savoured the bliss before pulling out. Before Regulus could protest he gathered the younger man into his arms and picked him up like a newlywed, positioning him on the ruined sofa to lie down alongside him. He stared at Regulus as his eyes fluttered close.
“Love?” he murmured, trailing his hand along his hip.
His pale skin was so smooth. Now that he had allowed himself to do so, he was obsessed with touching it, touching him.
“Hm?” Regulus hummed, satisfied and obviously comfortable after the release of their mutual frustration.
“We should talk." He couldn't help but smile.
“Later,” Regulus mumbled.
James only pulled him closer, giving up on arguing with the man that always had his way. It was okay. They could figure it out when the time came for it. Now he only wanted to bask in his happiness and feel the touch of the younger. The touch of the one he loved.