Paris, France III
REGULUS
"Keep going, Reggie," James whispers in his ear, encouragingly. "You've been so good,"
Regulus felt like he was on cloud 9. He snakes his arms around James' neck as he lets out another moan.
"Come on, Sweetheart. Come for me," James murmured seductively in his ear, leaning down to kiss his neck.
Regulus was so close. He's about to come-
Suddenly, Regulus's eyes snap open, and he finds himself in bed alone, boxers soaked, and James hovering over him with a worried expression. Regulus had never been more thankful for a blanket in his life.
"Reg, are you okay?" James asks, clearly concerned. "You keep making noise in your sleep; I thought you were having a nightmare, so I woke you up."
Nightmare? Regulus was going through bliss. Did James have to wake him up?
"Fine," Regulus mutters, gripping the blanket tightly while avoiding eye contact. His body is still thrumming, his skin feverish with leftover tension. He needs to get a grip.
"You sure you're okay? You were, like, panting and moaning a little in your sleep," James asks, voice filled with concern—but there's something else there, something teasing, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to Regulus.
Regulus almost dies on the spot. Moaning? Panting? Fuck. Regulus is fucked.
"I'm fine," he snaps, probably a little too quickly. "Pass me the water." He needs a distraction. Anything to cool him down, because his skin is burning, and James is looking at him like he's trying to figure something out.
James hands him the bottle, and Regulus gulps it down too fast—too desperate—only to choke as the water catches in his throat.
"Shit—" He coughs violently, but before he can recover, James is already moving, his large, warm hand pressing against Regulus’s back, rubbing slow, soothing circles.
"Careful, darlin’," James murmurs, voice impossibly soft, and Regulus is going to actually combust.
He can’t breathe. Not because of the water, but because James is too close, his touch too gentle, his voice too low, too much. His body betrays him, a traitorous flush creeping up his neck, his ears burning hot.
James notices. Of course he does. His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smirk.
"You sure you're okay?" James asks again, this time softer, but there's a knowing edge in his voice. His hand lingers on Regulus’s back, warm and steady.
Regulus swallows, trying to will the heat away. He turns his head slightly, just enough to meet James’s gaze—and that is a mistake. Because James is watching him with those impossibly warm hazel eyes, intense and searching, like he’s seeing straight through him.
"I said I'm fine," Regulus grits out, but it lacks any real bite.
James leans in slightly, not enough to touch, but enough that Regulus can feel his presence, the heat radiating between them. His voice drops, lower, teasing.
"You sure?"
Regulus hates him. He hates him so much.
Because James knows exactly what he's doing.
And Regulus isn't sure how much longer he can take it.
A beat of silence. Neither of them moves. The air between them crackles.
James is too close. The scent of his shampoo, his cologne, the warmth of his skin—it’s all invading Regulus’s senses. His throat feels tight, his pulse hammering beneath his skin. He doesn’t even have the strength to glare anymore.
James’s eyes flicker—down. Just for a split second. Noticing the way Regulus’s lips part slightly, how his breath catches.
And then—he smirks.
That infuriating smirk, the one that makes Regulus want to either slap him or kiss him senseless.
"Did you have a good dream, Reggie?" James asks, voice low, laced with something dangerous.
Regulus's entire body locks up.
His face is burning, his stomach twists violently, and his thighs clench involuntarily.
James grins. He saw that. The bastard saw that.
Regulus refuses to give him the satisfaction.
So, he glares, straightening his spine and scoffing, forcing himself to sound bored. “You’re delusional, Potter.”
James hums, clearly not believing him. “Mhm.” He tilts his head, studying him, like a cat watching a trapped mouse.
"You were saying my name," James continues casually. Too casually. "In your sleep."
Regulus’s stomach drops.
"No, I wasn’t." His voice is flat, a blatant lie.
James grins wider. "Oh, you were." He leans in, just a little closer, his breath ghosting over Regulus’s already flushed skin. "Wanna tell me what that was about?"
Regulus clenches his fists beneath the covers, nails digging into his palm. If he moves even an inch, he’ll be touching James, and he cannot let that happen.
"I don’t remember," he lies again, keeping his expression neutral, his voice even.
James tsks, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Shame," he muses. "Sounded like a good dream."
Regulus swallows. He needs to get out of here. He needs to escape this conversation before he loses his goddamn mind.
"I’m going to shower," he blurts out, too fast, too desperate, before throwing the covers off and practically bolting toward the bathroom.
But not before he catches James’s expression.
Smug. So fucking smug.
Regulus slams the door shut behind him, pressing his back against the cool wood. He shuts his eyes, heart pounding.
That was too much. Too close.
James knew.
And the worst part?
James was enjoying it.
***
Regulus was fine.
Really.
Sure, his skin still burned from the dream he was not going to think about, and sure, James had been looking at him like he knew something, but none of that mattered.
Because Regulus was fine.
He walked into the hotel’s breakfast lounge, calm, composed, unreadable. He could handle one meal. He could sit at the same table as James Potter and not completely lose his mind.
And then James smirked at him.
Not a normal smirk. That smirk.
The kind that sent warning bells ringing in Regulus’s head. The kind that meant trouble.
Regulus stiffened. He kept his face carefully neutral as he slid into his seat, forcing his attention onto his plate.
James did not look away.
Regulus ignored him.
Or, he tried to.
James, of course, had other plans.
The first strike was subtle.
James stretched, reaching for the teapot in the center of the table. His foot nudged against Regulus’s under the table—just a brush, barely there.
Regulus did not react.
James did it again.
Regulus’s grip tightened around his fork. He refused to acknowledge it.
But James was persistent.
A second later, James leaned forward, voice casual, directed at no one in particular. “Didn’t sleep much last night,” he mused, pouring his tea.
Regulus felt his pulse stutter.
No.
James wouldn’t.
“You kept me up, actually,” James continued, tilting his head slightly. His gaze flickered to Regulus for just a second—just long enough to make it clear that this was not an innocent comment.
Regulus’s stomach plummeted.
James knew.
The fucking bastard knew.
Regulus forced himself to stay still. To keep his breathing even. To not react.
Across the table, Sirius was rambling about some ridiculous dream he had, Barty was stealing food off Evan’s plate, and Peter was still half-asleep. No one was paying attention.
James was doing this on purpose.
And no one even noticed.
Regulus clenched his jaw. Fine. If James wanted to play, Regulus could play.
He slowly set his teacup down. “Strange,” he murmured, finally meeting James’s gaze, voice calm, collected. “I slept fine.”
James tilted his head, lips twitching.
“Oh?” His foot nudged Regulus’s again—firmer this time. Deliberate. “Funny. You seemed restless.”
Regulus stabbed his fork into his eggs with too much force.
James took a slow sip of his tea, eyes never leaving him.
Regulus had two options.
- Ignore him. Pretend this wasn’t happening.
- Fight back.
Regulus chose the latter.
He shifted, subtly mirroring James’s movement, leaning forward just slightly—enough to make it look natural, but enough to crowd James’s space.
Then, quietly, low enough that only James could hear—
“You’re imagining things, Potter.”
James froze.
It was quick. A split-second hesitation. A flicker of uncertainty.
Regulus’s stomach flipped.
James recovered fast, of course. He was annoyingly good at this game. He smirked, gaze dipping, just slightly, before flicking back up to meet Regulus’s.
“Am I?” James murmured, voice silky smooth. “Could’ve sworn I heard something.”
Regulus hated him.
Because he couldn’t stop himself from remembering.
The dream. The way James had sounded in his head. The way his name had spilled from Regulus’s lips like a prayer.
Regulus flushed.
James saw it.
And the worst part?
He laughed.
Not loudly. Not obnoxiously. Just a quiet huff of amusement, just enough to let Regulus know that James had won this round.
Regulus clenched his teeth.
This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
For now, he took a slow, controlled sip of his tea, forcing his body to relax, forcing his expression into bored indifference.
Let James think he won.
Regulus was just getting started.
***
The second Regulus stepped into their hotel room, he let out a slow breath, his fingers twitching at his sides. Breakfast had been a nightmare. James had spent the entire time teasing him, pushing the boundaries in ways no one else could see. A lingering touch when passing the coffee, a low whisper near his ear when making an offhand comment, a smirk that held too much knowledge. All subtle. All undeniable. And the worst part? No one noticed but him.
Regulus had tried to keep himself composed. He had glared, rolled his eyes, feigned boredom, but James had known better. James had seen the cracks. And James had enjoyed every second of it.
Now, alone in their room, Regulus wanted distance. Space to shove every intrusive thought into a locked, airtight box. He shrugged off his blazer, tossing it onto the nearest chair with more force than necessary, and moved toward the bathroom, eager for a cold shower.
But before he could reach the door, the sound of it clicking shut behind him made him still.
He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
James.
Regulus could feel him standing there, his presence too heavy, too much. He had always been like this—an all-consuming force, filling every inch of space like he belonged there.
Regulus straightened, exhaling slowly. “Do you need something, Potter?” He kept his voice cool, unaffected, like James hadn’t spent all morning wrecking his composure piece by piece.
There was a beat of silence, and then James stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “You’re running.”
Regulus stiffened. He forced his body to stay relaxed, but the tension coiled in his stomach like a wire ready to snap. He turned, leveling James with an unimpressed stare. “I don’t run,” he shot back, lifting his chin slightly. “I just don’t waste my time on stupid games.”
James hummed, amused, taking another step closer. “Oh, Reggie,” he murmured, voice dipping into something silkier, deadlier. “You love this game.”
Regulus felt his pulse skip. He wasn’t going to let James win this round. Not again. Not like this.
So he tilted his head, letting a slow smirk curl his lips, meeting James’s gaze head-on. “Tell me, Potter—do you ever get tired of pretending?”
James arched a brow. “Pretending?”
Regulus took a step forward, closing the gap between them ever so slightly, watching as James’s eyes flickered—just a fraction—like he hadn’t expected that. Regulus let the silence stretch, savoring the moment. “You play this little game,” he continued, his voice soft but edged with sharp intent, “Acting like you’re in control, like you’re unaffected.” His smirk deepened. “But I know you.”
James’s breath hitched, barely perceptible, but Regulus caught it.
So he pushed further.
His voice dipped lower, smooth as velvet. “You tease, you flirt, you play it off—but you don’t want to win, do you?”
James’s jaw tensed.
Regulus saw it, felt the shift in the air.
James wasn’t laughing now.
Regulus had him.
He leaned in, just enough that their lips were a breath apart, enough that James could feel the words as he spoke. “You want me to push back. You like it when I push back.”
James didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t fucking breathe.
For once, James Potter didn’t have a comeback.
Regulus’s heart hammered as he watched James’s resolve waver. He could see it now—the way James’s fingers twitched at his sides, how his breathing had slowed, how his pupils had darkened ever so slightly. Regulus had spent years perfecting his ability to read people. He knew when someone was affected.
And James was affected.
Regulus smirked, savoring the power shift, letting the tension settle just right. And then—he pulled away.
He turned smoothly on his heel, brushing past James as if the conversation had never happened. He had won. He had finally won. He reached for the bathroom door, satisfied with the way he had left James standing there, speechless.
But then—James moved.
Fast.
Before Regulus could react, a strong hand wrapped around his wrist, yanking him back—and suddenly, he was pressed against the wall.
James was right there, too close, one hand braced beside Regulus’s head, the other still wrapped around his wrist, his grip firm but not unkind.
Regulus sucked in a sharp breath.
The game had changed.
James wasn’t teasing anymore.
This was something else.
Something dangerous.
The air crackled between them, thick and heavy. James’s gaze was dark, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted slightly, like he was holding back something far more destructive than words.
Regulus’s pulse roared in his ears.
James’s voice was low when he finally spoke, dangerously soft. “Not so fast, Reggie.”
Regulus stilled.
His body felt like it had been set alight.
James’s fingers flexed against his wrist, his breath warm against Regulus’s cheek. He wasn’t moving away. He wasn’t smirking anymore. This wasn’t a game.
Regulus could feel the weight of James’s stare, the way his eyes flickered down—to his mouth, to his throat, back up.
Regulus’s breath came shakier now, but he refused to let James see it.
He refused to be the one to break.
But James was patient. Too patient.
The silence stretched, suffocating, unbearable.
And then—James leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice a ghost of a whisper.
“Tell me to stop.”
Regulus froze.
His fingers curled into fists against the wall.
James’s grip was loose enough that he could pull away. If he wanted to.
If he wanted to.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t push James away.
Didn’t tell him to stop.
And James saw it.
James felt it.
His smirk faltered. His eyes softened.
A beat of silence.
Then, softer, rawer, realer—
“Didn’t think so,” James murmured.
And then—he let go.
Just like that.
Pulled back, stepped away, like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t just wrecked Regulus’s entire fucking existence.
Regulus stared.
Chest heaving, pulse hammering, brain short-circuiting.
James stretched, yawned like he hadn’t just cornered Regulus against a fucking wall.
“Well,” James said casually, strolling toward his bed, “that was fun.”
Regulus wanted to strangle him.
Or kiss him senseless.
Or both.
James flopped onto the bed, grinning to himself.
Regulus?
Regulus stood frozen, his back still pressed against the wall, trying to remember how to breathe.
This wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
James Potter thought he’d won. Thought he could corner Regulus, mess with his head, then walk away like it was nothing.
Regulus had let him get away with it for too long.
Not anymore.
His heart was still pounding against his ribs, his skin burning from James’s touch, but his mind—his mind had finally caught up.
James wanted to play dirty? Fine. Regulus could play filthier.
He took a slow breath, smoothing down his shirt, forcing every ounce of self-control into poise, confidence, control.
Then—he moved.
Not toward the bathroom. Not toward the door.
Toward James.
James, who was lounging on the bed like he hadn’t just wrecked Regulus’s sanity.
James, who had the audacity to look pleased with himself, one arm thrown lazily behind his head, shirt slightly rumpled from where Regulus had shoved at him.
James, who didn’t even notice Regulus creeping closer until it was too late.
Regulus didn’t stop until he was right next to the bed.
James’s smirk faltered just a little.
Regulus tilted his head, giving a slow, deliberate once-over—the kind of look James had thrown at him all morning. The kind of look that was too much, too lingering, too knowing.
James tensed. Good.
Regulus let his smirk curl at the edges. Let the tension breathe. Let James feel it.
Then, he climbed onto the bed.
James’s entire body went rigid.
Regulus didn’t even touch him. Just hovered, leaning forward on his hands, gaze locked onto James’s, daring him to move.
James swallowed.
Regulus saw it. Felt the air shift, felt the control tilt in his favor.
And then, in the softest, deadliest voice he could manage—
“Tell me to stop.”
James sucked in a sharp breath.
Regulus didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just waited.
And James?
James didn’t fucking move either.
Didn’t tell him to stop.
Didn’t push him away.
Didn’t smirk anymore.
Regulus leaned in a fraction closer, breath ghosting over James’s jaw. “Didn’t think so,” he murmured, throwing James’s own words right back at him.
The shift in James was instant.
His fingers twitched. His breath came faster. His pupils blown wide.
Regulus knew he should stop.
Knew that if he pushed one inch further, there’d be no going back.
But James wasn’t stopping him.
And Regulus?
Regulus had never felt so alive.
Regulus could feel the shift, the moment where he had James completely at his mercy. He had spent all morning enduring James’s relentless teasing, forced to bite his tongue, to pretend he was unaffected. But now, he had turned the tables, and he could see it—feel it.
James was barely breathing. His chest rose and fell a little too quickly, his fingers twitching against the sheets like he didn’t know what to do with them. His gaze flickered down—to Regulus’s mouth, then back to his eyes, and for once, James had no comeback. No smirk. No teasing remark to brush it all away.
Regulus wanted to savor this moment, wanted to drink in the way James looked completely wrecked without Regulus even touching him. He had him. He fucking had him.
And then—
A knock at the door.
Regulus flinched, his entire body tensing like he had been caught doing something forbidden. James’s reaction was just as sharp—his grip on the sheets tightening as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over him.
“Oi, Potter!”
The voice was unmistakable.
Sirius.
James exhaled hard through his nose, his head tipping forward slightly like he was trying to shake himself out of it. Regulus, however, was frozen, his brain struggling to catch up, to process the fact that reality had just come crashing back down on them.
A second knock. More impatient.
“James! Open the fucking door!”
Regulus barely registered the sound of footsteps as James pushed himself up, rubbing a hand down his face like he was trying to erase whatever had just happened. Regulus forced himself to breathe, to shove away the burn in his chest that felt alarmingly close to disappointment.
James stood, running a hand through his already-messy hair before glancing toward the door. For a moment, he hesitated, like he was debating what to do, whether he should open it. But then his gaze flickered back to Regulus, and Regulus hated—hated—the way James suddenly looked normal again.
Like the last few minutes had meant nothing.
James took a slow step back, reaching for his hoodie draped over the chair, and Regulus clenched his fists at his sides. He didn’t know what he had expected, but not this. Not James shaking it off like it was just another meaningless exchange between them.
Regulus straightened, masking whatever he was feeling behind a cold, indifferent expression. “Go talk to him, Potter,” he said, voice sharp and clipped, as if James was bothering him now.
James hesitated again. He opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it.
Another knock. Louder this time.
James turned back toward the door.
And then—just before leaving—he looked over his shoulder, that infuriating smirk pulling at his lips, the same fucking smirk he always used to deflect, to pretend.
“Try not to miss me too much, yeah?”
Regulus’s jaw locked.
And before he could snap, before he could rip into James for turning this into another joke—James was gone. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Regulus standing there, seething.
His pulse pounded in his ears, his skin still burning from James’s presence, but his hands shook—with frustration, with something he couldn’t name, something he refused to acknowledge.
He had spent so long thinking James was the reckless one, the one who acted on impulse, the one who leapt without thinking. But now, Regulus wasn’t so sure.
Because James had run.
James had chosen to leave.
And Regulus was the one left behind, staring at the empty space where James had just been, feeling like he had lost a battle he hadn’t even realized he was fighting.
JAMES
James shut the door behind him a little too forcefully, as if that would somehow stop the way his heartbeat was hammering against his ribs. His skin was still burning, his mind still racing, and fuck, he needed a second—just one second to pull himself back together.
But Sirius was standing there, arms crossed, brows furrowed. He didn’t look pissed exactly, just... impatient. James could work with that.
“Took you long enough,” Sirius grumbled, shoving his hands into his leather jacket pockets. “Thought you died in there.”
You have no fucking idea, James thought but didn’t say. Instead, he forced a grin, hoping Sirius couldn’t see the way his pulse was still wrecked.
“Yeah, well, some of us actually enjoy resting,” James said, throwing on that easy, effortless charm that had gotten him through years of bullshit. He stretched, rolling his shoulders, trying to ignore the phantom weight of Regulus fucking Black pressing into him just minutes ago.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, looking him up and down. “You alright, mate?”
James scoffed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because I just had your little brother pinned against the wall, seconds away from—nope. James was not going to think about that. He was going to shove it into a deep, dark corner of his mind, lock the door, and throw away the key.
Sirius didn’t look convinced, but he shrugged it off. “Whatever. Just come on—we’re meeting the others downstairs.”
James nodded, running a hand through his already-messy hair before following Sirius down the hall. He kept his steps measured, his breathing steady, every movement calculated to mask the fucking chaos raging inside him.
He needed to get a grip.
Because the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that he had been the one to break first.
He had spent the entire morning teasing Regulus, winding him up, watching with amusement as Regulus struggled to maintain that infuriating composure of his. He had loved it, thrived on it. But the moment Regulus pushed back? The moment he flipped the game on its head?
James had folded.
Regulus had gotten too close. Had looked at him like that. Had said those words.
"Tell me to stop."
James had been done for.
He wasn’t even sure what would have happened if Sirius hadn’t knocked on the door. He liked to think he wouldn’t have done anything stupid, but fuck, Regulus had been so close, his voice had been so low, and James had wanted—no. No, he wasn’t doing this. Not now.
They stepped into the hotel lobby, where the others were already waiting—Remus sipping his coffee, Peter eyeing a basket of croissants, Barty and Evan whispering to each other in a way that suggested trouble, and Dorcas scrolling through her phone, unimpressed by all of them.
No sign of Regulus.
James ignored the way his stomach twisted at that.
"Alright, what’s the plan?" he asked, clapping his hands together, forcing his voice into something light, something casual.
Sirius side-eyed him, but let it go.
"We’re heading to sound check soon," Dorcas said, not looking up from her phone. "Try not to be too hungover, Potter."
James smirked, leaning against the counter. "Me? Hungover? Never."
"Bullshit," Barty muttered.
James snorted but didn’t argue. He was too aware of the empty space beside him, the fact that Regulus still hadn’t come down yet.
And as much as he told himself to let it go—
He couldn’t.
Because the last thing he had seen before walking out of that room was Regulus standing there, chest rising and falling too fast, his eyes dark with something James couldn’t decipher.
And James had walked away.
James had run.
His jaw clenched.
No.
This wasn’t over.
Not by a fucking long shot.
James had been watching the elevator doors like a man possessed. He wasn’t waiting for Regulus. Absolutely not. He was just… mildly curious. Not at all insanely aware of the fact that Regulus still hadn’t come downstairs.
He forced himself to focus on the conversation around him, but it was mostly just Barty trying to convince Evan to commit a felony and Peter debating whether or not he should get another croissant.
Then—
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open.
And there he was.
Regulus Black stepped into the lobby, looking perfectly composed, as if he hadn’t just spent the morning pressed up against a wall with James breathing down his neck.
James wanted to laugh. Alright, then, play it cool.
But the moment Regulus’s gaze flicked to him—just the briefest second of eye contact—James knew. He knew.
Because Regulus may have looked calm, but his eyes—his eyes told an entirely different story.
Something burned there, something unresolved.
Something dangerous.
And James wanted to poke it, to push him, to see what happens when Regulus finally snaps.
But instead, he just grinned. "Morning, darling."
Regulus’s jaw tightened, but he gave nothing else away. "Don’t call me that."
James shrugged. "You didn’t seem to mind earlier."
A flicker of something crossed Regulus’s face—annoyance? Frustration? Desire?—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Can we just get this over with?" Regulus muttered, brushing past him to stand with Barty and Evan.
James watched him go, smirking.
Oh, you’re not getting rid of me that easily, love.
***
The venue was massive. Rows upon rows of empty seats stretched out before them, the stage looming high above like a battlefield. The lights were too bright, the air too electric, the energy already crackling even though the stadium was still empty.
James slung his bass over his shoulder, stretching his fingers before plucking a few test notes.
Regulus stood on the opposite side of the stage, adjusting his mic stand, looking composed as ever. But James knew better now. He knew exactly how to spot the tension hiding beneath that perfectly crafted exterior.
He smirked. Let’s have some fun.
They ran through a few songs, the sound techs adjusting levels, the crew making sure everything was working properly. James kept himself focused—mostly.
Because every now and then, his eyes would drift across the stage.
To Regulus.
To the way his fingers curled around the microphone stand. To the way his jaw tightened when James got too close. To the way his voice—that voice—sent something sharp and hot curling inside James’s chest.
Regulus was trying to ignore him. James could tell.
So naturally—James made it worse.
He stepped closer, just a little, just enough for Regulus to feel him there.
When they reached a break in the setlist, James leaned in slightly, his voice low enough that no one else could hear.
"Still thinking about this morning, Reggie?"
Regulus froze.
James saw the exact moment he registered the words. Saw the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers gripped the mic stand just a little tighter.
And then—
Regulus turned, slow and deliberate, and looked at him.
James’s stomach flipped.
Because that look? That was dangerous.
That was a promise.
A threat.
Regulus tilted his head slightly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. "Careful, Potter," he murmured, voice like silk-wrapped steel. "Wouldn’t want you getting distracted before the real show."
James’s breath caught.
Oh, fuck.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
***
The stadium was alive. The roar of the crowd was deafening, the flashing lights turning the stage into something otherworldly. James could feel the vibration of the bass through his chest, the energy crackling in the air, the sheer chaos of it all.
They were halfway through the set, sweat dripping down the back of his neck, his fingers buzzing with adrenaline. The show had been electric so far—Regulus had been performing like a goddamn menace, all smooth vocals and effortless confidence, his every move calculated to make the crowd lose their minds.
And James? James had spent the last forty-five minutes pretending he wasn’t watching him.
Pretending he wasn’t obsessed with the way Regulus commanded the stage.
Pretending his stomach hadn’t flipped every time their eyes met.
But then—then—the moment came.
Sirius, still grinning from their last song, turned to the audience, throwing an arm around Regulus’s shoulders. “Alright, alright, Paris,” he drawled into the mic, his voice dripping with amusement. “As you may know, we decided to shake things up a little this tour.”
The crowd screamed.
James smirked, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Oh, this was going to be good.
Regulus rolled his eyes but reached into the glass bowl Sirius was holding, pulling out a folded slip of paper.
“Each night,” Sirius continued, “one lucky song gets chosen at random as our surprise cover for the night.”
Regulus unfolded the paper. Read it. Paused.
James saw it immediately—the way Regulus’s grip tightened just slightly, the way his lips parted in the tiniest moment of hesitation.
Sirius noticed too. “Oh,” he said, suddenly delighted. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”
Regulus blinked. Looked at the paper. Looked at Sirius. Looked at the crowd.
James leaned forward slightly, still catching his breath. “What?”
Regulus exhaled sharply. Then—very slowly—he raised his mic to his lips.
“…A Nonsense Christmas.”
The crowd fucking exploded.
James’s brain short-circuited.
Wait.
Wait, wait, wait.
Because no way in hell—
Did Regulus fucking Black just agree to sing the filthiest Christmas song of all time?
James was still trying to process when the band kicked into the intro. And then—then—Regulus started singing.
And James?
James wasn’t prepared.
Regulus leaned into the mic, voice as smooth as silk, eyes locked onto him.
"Think I only want you under my mistletoe,"
James choked on air.
Regulus was doing this on purpose.
Oh, he wasn’t just singing the song—he was performing it. One hand gripping the mic stand, the other trailing up his own torso far too slowly as he swayed to the rhythm.
James was supposed to be playing his bass. His fingers should be moving. Instead, he stood frozen, watching in real-time as his brain short-circuited.
Regulus moved closer to the edge of the stage, boots clicking against the floor, voice dropping just enough to make James’s stomach clench.
"Here's a lil' carol I wrote, it's about you and me,"
James gritted his teeth.
Regulus was fucking with him.
Every look, every teasing lilt in his voice, every calculated movement—James saw through it. The way Regulus let his fingers brush against the mic stand, the way he tilted his chin just so, the way he smirked between lyrics like he knew exactly what he was doing to James.
And fuck, it was working.
James’s grip on his bass tightened as Regulus glided across the stage, all long legs and unholy confidence. His shirt—loose, oversized, but falling off his shoulder just enough to be dangerous—shifted as he moved, and James had to look away before his thoughts got any worse.
"You're my wish list. Lookin' at you got me thinking Christmas"
James should be focusing on the crowd. The music. Anything but Regulus and the way he was looking at him.
But then—Regulus did the thing.
The thing.
He dragged his teeth over his bottom lip.
James blacked out.
It was over. He was done.
Regulus had won.
The final chorus hit, and James had never been more grateful for a song to end in his entire life.
The second the last note played, Regulus stepped back, exhaling lightly into the mic, and for a moment—just a moment—James thought it was over.
Then Regulus smirked. Right at him.
James swore under his breath.
He was so fucked.
And judging by the satisfied glint in Regulus’s eyes, he knew it.