Chapter Text
The house was quiet. That eerie, late-night kind of quiet, where even the air holds its breath. A streetlamp outside flickered through Regulus Black’s bedroom window, casting soft gold light across the pale sheets tangled around his legs. He was sprawled on his bed, head hanging off the side, flipping through a paperback book with one hand and munching chocolate buttons with the other. A jazz record spun low in the background, some weird Muggle thing he’d stolen from Sirius’s room last time he was bored.
It was just past midnight, and the house should’ve stayed silent.
But then—
Clink.
A soft sound.
Too deliberate.
Regulus stilled. His fingers hovered mid-page. The chocolate button fell from his hand and rolled down the duvet, disappearing into the sheets.
“...the fuck was that,” he muttered under his breath.
He sat up slowly, eyes narrowing, listening. He knew that sound hadn’t come from his room. Or the creaky pipes. That wasn’t a house noise.
Clack. Thunk. Clatter.
From the kitchen.
No wind sounded like that.
Regulus’s heart dropped straight through the floor.
“Oh fuck no,” he whispered, swinging his legs off the bed and grabbing the nearest thing that could be considered a weapon: his chunky bedside lamp. It had a brass base. Heavy. Sharp cornered. It would do.
He crept to the door, bare feet silent on the hardwood, and opened it with a click that sounded deafening in the silence. The hallway was empty. Shadows long and stretched.
Reg slunk down the hallway like a cat, lamp in hand, eyes wide. As he reached the stairs, he paused to listen again. Another sound echoed up from the ground floor—plastic rustling. A cupboard door thudding shut.
Who the fuck breaks into a house and starts... raiding snacks?
Regulus crouched and edged downstairs, one step at a time. He clutched the lamp tighter. Half of him wanted to run. The other half was so bewildered by the criminal’s priorities that he had to see it.
He pressed his back against the wall and peeked into the kitchen through the slightly-open door.
There—
A man in all black, ski mask, gloves, the whole cliché, stood hunched in front of the open pantry. A bag of crisps dangled from one hand. The other was deep in a box of chocolate chip cookies.
“What the actual shit—” Reg whispered aloud.
The man froze.
Regulus froze.
The man slowly turned his head.
Regulus’s eyes went wide.
The man dropped everything and lunged.
“OH FUCK—” Reg screamed, dropping the lamp with a crash as he bolted backwards. The man sprinted forward, reaching out—
WHAM.
He hit the pile of laundry Reg had dropped earlier that evening after forgetting to put it in the wash. Socks, a hoodie, and—most notably—a silk dressing gown bunched beneath his foot and slid out from under him.
SLAM.
Face. To. Floor.
Hard.
Regulus skidded to a stop just outside the kitchen and clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide—
And then it burst out of him.
WHEEZING. FULL-BODY. CACKLING.
“OH MY—oh—my—fuck—you—YOU JUST—” he couldn’t even finish, tears already streaming from how hard he was laughing.
The man groaned on the floor, rolled over, and pushed himself upright. He snarled beneath the mask and lunged again, pure rage this time. Regulus shrieked and turned to run—
Only to hear:
“UNGH—oh—FUCK!”
He spun around and doubled over laughing. The man’s sleeve had caught on the hallway door handle mid-run and yanked him backward like a cartoon character. His body went flying sideways, feet off the ground, and landed straight on his ass again.
“You—snrk—you can’t be serious!” Regulus cackled, backing up as the man cursed and struggled to untangle himself. “You’re like—like—Muggle Mr. Bean or something!”
“I’M GONNA FUCKING—” the man yelled, finally freeing himself and charging forward again.
Regulus turned and booked it up the stairs, heart pounding, feet flying.
Behind him:
Thump. Trip. SKID.
“Oh no—”
THUMP. THUMP. CRASH.
Reg looked over his shoulder to see the man eat shit again, this time missing a step and collapsing in a pile halfway up the stairs.
“OH MY GOD I CAN’T—” Reg was wheezing, half-crying, tripping over his own legs now from laughing too hard. He made it to the top, turned down the hall—
WHAM.
“FUCK!”
He’d flung a door open and smacked it directly into the man’s face just as he was trying to recover and follow him up. The guy was slammed backwards again.
“You’re like—you’re cursed, mate!” Reg yelled behind him, absolutely losing it, sprinting back down the stairs two at a time while the guy flailed and tried to stand.
“YOU LITTLE BITCH!” came the muffled roar.
“YOU BROKE IN FOR CRISPS!” Reg shouted over his shoulder. “WHAT KIND OF CRIMINAL PRIORITISES SNACKS—”
He hit the ground floor, wheezing with laughter, making a beeline for the living room where the landline was mounted on the wall.
He reached it—finally, finally—and grabbed the receiver, still laughing. Dialed.
“Hello? Hello?! 999?!”
“Emergency services, what service do you require?”
“POLICE,” Reg squeaked, tears streaming, voice breaking. “THERE’S—THERE’S A MAN IN MY HOUSE—HE’S TRYING TO KILL ME—I MEAN HE’S TRYING, HE’S REALLY SHIT AT IT—”
CRASH.
A body tumbled down the stairs like a sack of potatoes. Every step THUD until—
WHUMP.
A groaning heap of limbs at the base.
“...and he just fell down the stairs again,” Reg added into the phone, deadpan now, still laughing. “I didn’t even touch him this time.”
“We’re dispatching officers to your location now—”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.” Reg turned slightly, still on the phone. “Hey! You good down there, Masky?”
The man groaned.
“Take your time, yeah?” Reg called, smirking. “I’ll be here. Laughing my entire arse off.”
But the man stirred. Sat up.
“OH FUCK ME—HE’S COMING AGAIN—” Reg yelped, abandoning the phone and bolting into the hallway again. The man gave chase.
Round three.
They tore through the house like a Scooby-Doo sketch—Regulus darting behind sofas, vaulting over the coffee table, the man slamming into a wall, then tripping on a slipper. He faceplanted into the shag carpet.
Reg squealed with laughter and kept running, ducking through the dining room, yanking out a chair behind him. The man tripped over it.
“YOU’RE LIKE A CURSED NPC!” Reg screamed. “STOP CHASING ME! YOU’RE GONNA DIE BY ACCIDENT!”
“SHUT UP!”
CLANG.
The guy ran full-speed into the broom cupboard door that Reg had left open.
“AAAAAAA—” Reg couldn’t breathe. He literally couldn’t breathe. “You’ve concussed yourself twice!”
Still, the man staggered on.
They hit the laundry room. Reg flung detergent in his face. The guy screamed.
The bathroom. Reg slammed the door into his leg and the guy fell again.
The corridor. The guy got tangled in the hanging fairy lights.
Regulus collapsed against the wall, howling.
“Please—” he gasped, tears in his eyes, voice breaking. “Please, just go! Just take the snacks and leave me with this memory!”
Sirens wailed in the distance.
The guy groaned. Tried to crawl toward the front door.
“Oh no you don’t,” Reg hissed, tackling him with the last of his strength and sitting on him.
He just barely had enough energy to whisper into his ear:
“You broke into the wrong fucking house.”
And then the front door burst open, and a half-dozen Aurors and coppers came storming in, wands raised.
The man groaned, face-down.
Regulus—covered in crumbs, still crying with laughter, perched triumphantly on the back of a failed burglar—gave a little wave.
“Hi,” he chirped. “I’d offer you snacks, but he ate most of them.”
The silence after the sirens was deafening.
The Aurors stood frozen in the doorway, half-blinded by the still-swinging hallway light, their wands raised, stances taut. Their eyes tracked the sight before them—Regulus Black, tiny and in an oversized tee and microscopic shorts, collapsed across the back of a groaning, ski-masked man like a victorious cat lounging on a dead mouse.
Regulus was cackling. Full-body, wheezing, foot-kicking, hiccuping losing it.
The man beneath him whined weakly into the carpet. He didn’t even struggle anymore. He just lay there, defeated, like the universe had finally broken him.
“…What the fuck,” muttered one of the Aurors.
Another cleared their throat. “Uh. Mr Black. Statement?”
Reg sat up still giggling, legs folded across the guy’s back like a throne. “Oh—oh god—you want me to tell you what happened?”
A wand lit up, conjuring a quill and parchment in mid-air.
“Start at the beginning, please.”
Reg wiped tears from his face, still chuckling. “Right, okay, so I was just chilling upstairs reading, right? Normal night. And then I hear crunching from downstairs and I’m like, ‘Hello? Ghost? Demon? House elf on crack?’ But no, it’s this bloke—” he thumped the man’s back lightly, “—robbing me. For crisps.”
“I wasn’t robbing you for crisps,” the guy mumbled into the carpet.
“Oh, my bad,” Regulus said, breathless with laughter. “You were robbing me and helping yourself to crisps.”
The man groaned again.
One of the Aurors tilted their head. “And then?”
“Then he tried to kill me, but instead tripped over my laundry, slapped his own face on the floor, got caught on the door handle, fell up the stairs, got door-slammed in the face, fell back down the stairs, ate shit like seven more times, and I laughed so hard I nearly pissed myself,” Reg chirped, beaming.
A long pause.
“…Would you like to press charges?”
Reg grinned. “Nah. That was the funniest fucking thing that’s ever happened to me. Leave him. He’s suffered enough.”
The Aurors exchanged baffled glances. One scribbled something reluctantly on the parchment and shrugged.
“Technically,” one muttered, “there’s no evidence of theft, just trespass, and he’s not injured enough to count as battered by the victim…”
“We’re just gonna—go,” another said, eyes still wide. “Do… whatever this is.”
And then, just like that, the house was quiet again.
The Aurors were gone.
The door clicked shut.
Reg collapsed again, fully wheezing, arms around his stomach, legs kicking as he rolled half off the guy and into a fit of exhausted laughter.
The man groaned. “Kill me.”
“You tried,” Regulus wheezed. “Didn’t go so hot.”
“You’re the worst,” the man muttered.
“I’m the victim,” Reg giggled.
The guy sat up with a frustrated grunt—taking Reg with him since the teen was still on top of him. Reg squealed as he slid off the man’s back and flopped sideways onto the floor beside him.
The man ripped the ski mask off with a growl.
Reg stopped. Blinking up from the carpet. Face flushed from laughing.
Oh.
…He was hot.
Not like soft-boy-cute, but gruff, broken-nose, scar-down-his-jaw, growly-voice hot. Broad shoulders, heavy frame, big hands, messy dark hair matted from the mask, stormy eyes glaring down at him.
And the tattoos—stretching up his throat, curling down one arm, inked with skulls and snakes and mechanical roses—were enough to make Regulus bite his lip without meaning to.
“Fucking hell,” Reg whispered under his breath, still grinning.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The guy groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face. “This is such bullshit.”
“What, the part where you lost to a half-naked twink with a bedside lamp?”
“I didn’t lose.”
Reg snorted. “You fell down the stairs twice.”
“I was—you’re—I got sent to do this for gang initiation, alright?” the man growled, flustered. “Was supposed to rob a rich Pureblood’s house. Easy target. In, out. Clean. You ruined everything.”
“Oh no,” Regulus gasped dramatically, hand on his chest. “You’ll never get to join your scary little crime club now.”
The man scowled, looking thoroughly miserable. “They’re never gonna let me in. They’re gonna eat me alive.”
“Well, I won’t eat you alive,” Reg said with a cheeky grin. “Unless you ask nicely.”
The man blinked.
“Stop that,” he muttered.
“Stop what?”
“Being—whatever the fuck this is.”
“Adorable? Charming? Breathtakingly pretty?”
“Princess,” the man growled, eyes narrowed. “Shut it.”
Regulus beamed. “You keep calling me that.”
“You didn’t give me your name.”
“Fair. But I like it. Say it again.”
“No.”
Reg pouted and crawled a little closer on all fours, that oversized shirt slipping further off one shoulder. “C’mon,” he teased, voice syrupy. “You clearly like it. You said it three times already.”
The man’s mouth opened. Closed. His face flushed slightly.
“You’re a menace.”
“I’m delightful.”
“You’re dangerous.”
“Not as dangerous as you are,” Regulus said, propping his chin on his fists, still giggling. “All those brutal stairs you tackled. How will I ever recover?”
The man scowled and turned away, ears pink.
Regulus inched closer again and straddled one of the taller’s thighs without permission. The guy froze like he’d been stabbed.
Reg leaned in and pushed up his sleeve, fingers ghosting over the heavy muscle of his forearm, tracing the ink there. “Ooh. Spicy tattoo choices.”
“Don’t touch me,” the guy grunted—but his hands had already shot out instinctively to grip Reg’s hips, holding him steady.
Reg giggled. “Thought you didn’t want me touching you.”
“You’re the one on my thigh.”
“You’re the one grabbing my waist.”
“Princess—” he warned, low and throaty.
Regulus smirked, eyes wide and mischievous. “Say it again.”
The man growled under his breath, nostrils flaring. “What is your name?”
“Regulus.”
“…Of course it is.”
Reg tilted his head, smiling. “Yours?”
The guy hesitated.
“…Kian.”
Reg’s brows lifted. “Oh. You’re not, like, twenty-five?”
Kian looked like he’d been slapped. “What? No! I’m nineteen!”
“Oh!” Reg perked up. “I’m sixteen.”
Kian groaned and leaned back against the wall, dragging a hand down his face again. “I’ve made so many bad decisions tonight.”
“Breaking into a house or letting the twink win?”
“Yes.”
Reg giggled again and curled his arms around Kian’s shoulders like a cat. “I won’t tell your scary gang bosses. Pinky promise.”
“You’re literally cuddling your would-be burglar.”
“And you’re not stopping me.”
“…Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Reg said sweetly, giggling into his neck. “You’re so fucked.”
Kian was losing. Bad.
And not in the tripped-on-his-own-foot, slammed-into-every-wall-in-the-house kinda way. No, this was worse. This was internal. Violent. Psychological. A full-blown crisis of masculinity and logic and what the fuck even is happening right now.
Because Regulus Black—still perched on his thigh like some smug little gremlin, oversized tee halfway off one pale shoulder, with a grin full of knives and dimples—was currently squeezing his arm and humming like he was examining a particularly nice cut of meat.
“Ooh,” Reg crooned, fingers pressing into Kian’s bicep like it was a stress ball. “Solid. Like, scary henchman from a movie solid. Fuck—how do you get muscles like this? Do you just… fight wolves in the woods? Wrestle bears? Eat bricks?”
Kian grunted and looked away, jaw tight. “Pushups,” he muttered. “And gym. Like a normal person.”
Reg giggled and ran both hands up to his shoulders, squeezing again. “Bet you crush melons with these. Jesus.” He leaned in, dragging the hem of Kian’s sleeve up, eyes gleaming as more tattoos appeared. “Fuck, this one’s sick—wait, is that a snake with wings? Oh my god, and this one’s a sword through a skull—hot. Wait, wait, what’s this one?”
His fingers traced along the ink curling under Kian’s collarbone, brushing against a patch of scarred skin just beneath it. The older boy flinched. Reg only hummed curiously. “Stab wound?”
“Yeah.”
Reg’s fingers ghosted across a long, thin scar down Kian’s ribs. “Knife?”
“Glass.”
“Ooooh. Bar fight?”
Kian growled low in his throat. “You ask too many questions.”
Reg just smiled, nose scrunching as he leaned even closer, chin back on Kian’s shoulder. “You have so many though. Scars. Tattoos. Marks. It’s like a fuckin’ scrapbook. You’re all angry mystery man and I live for that aesthetic.”
“I’m not an aesthetic,” Kian snapped, eyes hard, but his hands still hadn’t left Reg’s waist.
“Oh you so are,” Reg chirped, lips brushing his jaw now. “Big, scary, muscley crime-boy who’s bad at crime and got tackled by a teenage twink in tiny shorts. You’re, like, one trauma dump away from being my new favorite tragic anti-hero.”
“I will kill you.”
“You tried,” Reg cooed. “Didn’t go great.”
Kian’s brain was melting. Melting from touch and closeness and that fucking smile and the soft ghost of Reg’s fingers skating across every tattoo, every line of scar tissue, every inch of ink and flesh he normally kept covered. The kid was too pretty. Too much. Glittering eyes and messy hair and that voice—light and playful and always full of amusement, like Kian was just a walking punchline in his personal romcom.
Abort mission.
Abort.
Abort.
Do not grab his ass.
Do not throw him down.
Do not pin him and grind—
“You’re thinking very hard,” Reg murmured, still idly tracing the line of ink down his arm.
“I’m thinking about leaving.”
“No you’re not,” Regulus said, completely unbothered.
Kian growled.
Reg clung tighter. “You don’t have anywhere to go, do you?”
“…None of your business.”
Reg perked up. “You can stay here.”
Kian blinked.
Regulus blinked back, smiling. “I mean it. My parents are never home—they’re always abroad, doing some political Pureblood bullshit—and my brother ran away two years ago so like. It’s just me. Has been since I was a kid, really.” He shrugged, small shoulders lifting. “No one really noticed if I was around or not.”
Kian stared.
“That… explains a lot,” he muttered.
Reg beamed. “You too, huh?”
Kian’s jaw clenched.
“…My mum left when I was five,” he muttered, voice gruff. “Dad was a fucking drunk. Didn’t care. I spent more time on the streets than in that house.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Reg’s hand rested against his chest, gentle now, like he was grounding Kian with touch.
“…We’re kind of the same,” Reg said softly.
Kian stared at him, at that tiny upturned face with those bright eyes and infuriating smile, and hated how true that felt.
Reg grinned again. “See? You can stay. We’ll be all domestic and shit. I’ll be your cute little housewife and you’ll be my scary-ass guard dog who threatens the neighbours.”
Kian choked. “What—”
“You can stand outside shirtless and snarl at people,” Reg said cheerfully. “Maybe lift heavy things. Menacingly.”
“You’re insane.”
“You’re agreeing though.”
“I’m not—”
Reg wrapped his arms around Kian’s neck like a scarf, squishing his cheek against the man’s and kicking his legs behind him. “You’re staying~”
Kian groaned into his hands, but his grip around Reg’s waist instinctively tightened. That tiny waist. Warm, soft, fuckable.
He was doomed.
“I hate you,” he muttered.
“No you don’t.”
“I’m not your boyfriend.”
“Yes you are.”
“Since when?!” Kian barked, flustered.
Reg giggled and threatened, “Since I decided. Now shut up before I hump your leg like a puppy.”
Kian made a strangled sound.
Too late.
Reg was already kissing up his neck, soft and slow and way too deliberate, lips brushing over stubble and warm skin. “Mmm,” he sighed dreamily. “You have stubble. I love that.”
“Princess—fuck—stop—”
“Nope~”
He kissed the hinge of Kian’s jaw. The corner of his mouth. The stubble there, rough under his lips.
Kian grunted, hands tightening on Reg’s hips.
“You’re the worst,” he growled.
“I’m your boyfriend,” Reg whispered.
“…Fuck,” Kian muttered, defeated. “Fine.”
Reg cheered.
“HI BOYFRIEND!” he squealed, arms flying around him.
Kian groaned like he’d been shot. “Fucking hell, hi princess.”
Reg grinned and finally—finally—kissed him.
And it wasn’t shy.
No hesitation.
Full-tongue, breath-stealing, meltingly hot.
Kian growled low and deep and kissed back like he’d snapped, like all the fighting he’d done to not give in was finally gone, wiped out by the little devil in his lap. He wrapped both arms around Regulus’s waist, big arms banding completely around him, dragging him flush against his chest.
Regulus made the prettiest noise—high and breathy—one hand threading into Kian’s hair, the other gripping his shoulder.
Kian kissed harder, mouth opening wide, tongue greedy, nipping Reg’s lip until the smaller gasped.
“You’re so fucking—” Kian panted between kisses, “—annoying—fucking menace—perfect little brat—”
Reg giggled, straddling his lap fully now, grinding down just enough to make Kian choke.
“Ohh, you like it,” he cooed, peppering kisses along his jaw. “You love your little nightmare twink, don’t you?”
“I’m gonna fuckin’ die,” Kian groaned, holding him tighter.
Reg licked his neck. “Not before I ruin you first.”
And then they were kissing again, hotter, wetter, tongues clashing, breaths shallow and hands everywhere—Kian gripping Reg’s thighs hard enough to bruise, Reg tangling around him like ivy. Teeth clacked. Groans rumbled. Reg laughed into his mouth, triumphant and gleeful, because he won.
He always won.
And Kian?
Kian didn’t mind losing anymore.
Kian wasn't fighting it anymore.
Not even a little.
The last of his resistance had crumbled the second Regulus kissed him like that—messy and hungry and utterly fucking devastating, like the boy had crawled inside his head, found every jagged nerve and weak point, and sunk his teeth in.
And now?
Now he was kissing him like he meant it. Like he wanted to stay. Like he belonged there, wrapped around this mouthy, half-naked chaos sprite grinding in his lap with all the grace of a fucking pornographic ballet.
Regulus whimpered against his lips, tugging him closer, hands threading through his hair, pulling, clinging, needful in a way that had nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with a lifetime of hollow quiet. Kian could feel it. The ache. The hunger.
The loneliness.
And—fuck—he understood that. Knew it. Breathed it.
He wasn’t walking away from this.
He’d be stupid to even try.
A warm house. A soft bed. A pantry full of food and a fridge that worked. A lock on the door that didn’t need a chair propped under the handle. A roof that didn’t leak. No gang shit. No running. No jumping fences and fighting for scraps. No ice in the mornings, no empty bottles on the floor, no cops at his heels.
Just safety. Warmth. Laughter.
Regulus.
The pretty boy bouncing slightly in his lap, arms around his neck, giggling breathlessly between hot, wet kisses. Like he couldn’t believe Kian was real. Like he was afraid he'd disappear if he stopped touching him.
Kian groaned into the next kiss and moved.
Quick. Rough. Like instinct took over.
He gripped Reg’s thighs tight and rolled—tackled him back onto the floor, bodies thumping against the carpet. Reg squealed in surprise but immediately wrapped his legs around Kian’s waist, ankles locking behind him.
“Ooooh,” he gasped, eyes wide and gleaming. “You’re taking charge now?”
Kian growled above him, bracing his arms on either side of that tiny frame, looming over him. “You want this,” he muttered low and dark, breath hot against Reg’s cheek, “you keep acting like this—you’re mine now, princess. You get that?”
Regulus bit his lip and nodded, breath catching. “Mhm. I’m yours. All yours.”
“Fucking right you are.”
He dipped down and kissed him hard, tongue pushing deep, dragging another breathless sound from the boy beneath him. Reg squirmed under him, grinding up into his hips like he was trying to crawl inside his skin, soft little moans spilling past every kiss.
Kian loved that sound.
Reg was a livewire—burning hot, trembling, giggling, desperate. He kissed like he was starving. Moved like he didn’t know how to not cling.
Kian pinned his wrists above his head with one hand and growled into his mouth, rutting down against him, groaning when Reg whimpered and rocked up into it.
“Fuck,” Kian muttered, pressing kisses down his neck. “You’re fuckin’ addicted already, huh.”
Reg giggled again, breathless and arching under him. “Hnn—y-you tackled me, growled at me, and kissed me stupid, what the fuck did you expect?”
“To wreck you,” Kian growled against his jaw. “Claim you. Make sure no one ever touches you but me.”
Reg made a sound between a gasp and a whimper, legs tightening around his waist.
“I’ll let you,” he whispered, flushed, eyes blown wide and wet. “You can stay with me. In my room. All the time. I don’t care. I want you there. You can sleep in my bed, use my stuff, wear my shirts—”
“Not wearing your fuckin’ shirts.”
“Okay, I’ll wear yours,” Reg chirped, grinning. “I’ll be your clingy little housewife. You’ll be my hot murder-boy. We can scare the neighbours.”
Kian groaned.
Reg kept going, delirious and breathless and adorable. “We won’t even need to do anything—I’m rich as shit. Like, inheritance-rich. So we can just stay here and fuck and eat snacks and watch trash TV and never do anything.”
“You’re gonna kill me,” Kian grunted, grinding down again, shuddering when Reg gasped and rocked up hard.
“Only with love,” Reg giggled, clinging tighter. “You can do whatever you want to me. Just don’t leave.”
That voice.
Small. Honest.
Kian looked down at him, and—for one raw second—he saw him.
Not just the mouthy brat who kissed like a goddamn wet dream.
Not just the snarky little shit who made him trip over fairy lights and choke on cookie crumbs.
But the lonely boy with no one home. No one who noticed. No one who stayed.
Just like him.
“Not leaving,” he murmured, voice rough. “Not fucking ever.”
Reg blinked—eyes suddenly shining, lips parting—and pulled him down with a soft, desperate noise, kissing him again and again like he could memorize every second of it.
Kian kissed back harder, deeper. He wasn’t just accepting it now—he was claiming it.
This was his.
His house now. His soft bed. His weird little gremlin with the sharp tongue and the sweeter smile.
And fuck—Reg was so soft under him, so warm, chest heaving with every breath, kissing back like he needed it to live.
Kian grunted and grabbed his thighs, tugging him closer, dragging their hips together again. “Fucking hell,” he growled, “you feel so good—”
“Mmh—Kian—”
Reg was moaning into his mouth, hands dragging down his back, nails catching on muscle.
Kian ground down harder. “Gonna mark you up,” he panted against Reg’s throat. “Wanna fuckin’ ruin you. So everyone knows you’re mine.”
Reg giggled, squirming deliciously under him. “Then do it,” he cooed. “Make me yours, boyfriend.”
Kian groaned loud, biting into his neck just enough to leave red behind, tongue following, lips dragging across the pale skin like he couldn’t stop.
Reg moaned and shivered, gasping his name.
This wasn’t just about lust anymore.
This wasn’t about a gang initiation or a mission gone wrong.
This was about two broken boys finding something warm in the wreckage.
And Kian?
He wasn’t letting it go.
Not now.
Not ever.
Kian groaned against Regulus’s throat, breath hot and ragged, muscles trembling with how tightly he was holding back. The carpet was rough against his knees, Reg’s thighs wrapped high around his waist, and everything smelled like sugar and sweat and want.
He barely managed to mutter, “Fuck—should we move to a bed or something—?”
But Reg clung tighter, legs locking, arms lashing around his neck like a needy octopus, whimpering, “No—no, here, please, don’t stop, don’t let go—don’t make me wait—”
Kian’s brain short-circuited.
“Fuck it.” The words came out as a growl, his hands already tugging at the waistband of Reg’s shorts and yanking them down in one brutal motion. Soft cotton slid off smooth thighs and bunched around one ankle.
Kian sat back for just a second, breath catching, eyes darkening as he took in the sight beneath him. His mouth curled in a smug, low chuckle. “Of course,” he murmured. “Fucking knew you weren’t wearing anything under these.”
Reg bit his lip, breath stuttering, cheeks pink and chest heaving. “Was hoping you’d find out.”
Kian grinned. Predatory. “You little slut.”
Reg giggled and squirmed, arching his back, every inch of him screaming please touch me.
Kian’s gaze swept the room. No lube. Nothing. He didn’t even care. He hooked two fingers in front of Reg’s lips and muttered, “Spit, baby.”
Reg’s eyes flared wide and glossy—like this was the hottest thing anyone had ever said to him—and without hesitation, he parted his lips and sucked them into his mouth with a desperate moan.
“Mmmph—”
Kian felt it. That needy, greedy pull of his tongue, slick and eager, like he wanted to be used. Like he loved it. Reg sucked harder, moaning around his fingers, hips twitching up into the press of Kian’s body, eyes fluttering shut with a whimper.
“Good fuckin’ boy,” Kian growled, pulling his hand away with a wet pop and trailing it straight down, slipping between those perfect thighs. “You want this, huh? You want me to stretch you out right here on the floor like a needy little brat?”
Reg bucked into his touch with a breathless gasp. “Y-Yes— please, please—Kian—need it—”
One finger pressed in slow and deliberate. Kian groaned deep in his throat, watching Reg’s head fall back, lips parting around a helpless, cracked moan.
“Ahhh—nngh—oh fuhhhck—”
“Shit, you’re tight,” Kian muttered, watching the way Reg’s thighs trembled around his waist. “Been waiting for this, haven’t you? Been aching for someone to fuckin’ ruin you?”
“Yes—yesyesyes—” Reg writhed beneath him, eyes fluttering, his whole body grinding down onto Kian’s hand like he could take more by sheer force of will.
Kian laughed low, shoving a second finger in with no warning.
“A-AHH—!”
“Shh, c’mon, take it,” he cooed, leaning in to press wet kisses to Reg’s neck, jaw, the corner of his mouth. “You’re doin’ so good, princess. So fuckin’ good for me.”
Reg whimpered and rocked his hips down, chasing every curl of those thick fingers, gasping out, “Mmh—m-more—Kian, please, I—I can take it—”
“You're greedy,” Kian muttered, licking down his throat. “Little cock-hungry thing, fuck.”
Reg arched like he was possessed, legs twitching, desperate and trembling and clinging so hard Kian swore he’d leave fingerprints in his skin. The carpet scratched up Reg’s back. He didn’t care. He wanted the burn. Wanted the stretch. Wanted Kian inside him, wanted to belong to someone, finally, finally—
And Kian?
Kian wasn’t stopping until he gave him everything.
Kian grinned down at the writhing mess beneath him, absolutely soaked with sweat and spit and want, the boy’s thighs trembling around his waist as he pumped his fingers in deep—three now, working Reg open with a slow, steady rhythm that had the younger boy gasping and whining and pushing down greedily onto every thrust.
“Shit, look at you,” Kian muttered, lips brushing Reg’s jaw, “rockin’ down like you’re starving for it. You are, huh? You’re just fuckin’ desperate.”
Reg let out a shivery little gasp, back arching. “Mmh—I am—fuck—Kian, please—need you—”
Kian chuckled, licking up his throat, then curling his fingers just right to drag a strangled cry from Reg’s lips. “I know you do. Been beggin’ like this from the start. Fuckin’ drippin’ on my hand. Think you’re finally ready to take me, yeah?”
“Yes—yesyesyes—” Reg whimpered, clutching at him like he’d die without the weight of Kian’s body over his.
Kian groaned, pulling his fingers out slow just to hear the slick pop and see Reg’s thighs twitch. The boy whined, hips chasing, needy and wide-eyed and flushed all the way to his chest. “No—nnh—Kian—don’t—don’t stop—”
“Relax,” Kian said, grinning smug as he pushed himself upright, dragging his pants low with one hand. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed and heavy, the head slick with pre and twitching under the open air. Reg’s eyes locked on it like he was hypnotized.
Kian saw it. Smirked wider. “Wanna help me out, pretty thing? Need somethin’ wet to slick this up.”
He held out his hand—“Spit.”
But Reg had other ideas.
The boy squirmed upright, still breathless and trembling, and shifted down to his knees, eyes shining with something just a little wicked. He licked his lips slow, deliberately, and whispered, “I’ve got a better idea.”
Kian barely had time to blink before Reg was leaning in, mouth parting, hot breath ghosting over the head of his cock.
Then—fuck—that wet, eager tongue dragged a long, slow stripe from base to tip.
Kian’s head dropped back with a groan. “*Oh—*fucking—hell.”
Reg moaned sweet and filthy as he opened wide and took the head in, lips soft, tongue swirling, spit already dribbling down his chin. He sucked slow at first, wet and messy, working his mouth down inch by inch, one hand bracing on Kian’s thigh while the other cupped his balls, fingers feather-light.
Kian swore, hips bucking forward, hand flying to Reg’s hair like instinct. “Fffuck, Reg—”
The boy just hummed around him, lashes fluttering, head bobbing in a smooth rhythm now, spit running slick and hot down Kian’s cock as he worked it deeper.
“Holy shit—fuck, yes—just like that—fuckin’ hell, princess—” Kian groaned, fist tightening in Reg’s hair. His knees nearly buckled as he watched the younger boy moan around his length, taking more with every push, eyes glassy and perfect and ruined.
Reg whined around him, nose pressed against the base now, throat working to swallow as much as he could. Every bob was sloppy and soaked, obscene sounds filling the room as he coated Kian’s cock with spit, slicking him up so perfectly Kian thought he’d lose it right then and there.
“Gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” Kian growled, voice guttural, body shaking as he looked down at the flushed mess on his knees. “You better hold on, ‘cause I’m not stoppin’.”
Reg kept working him with an eager, filthy focus that made Kian’s knees buckle—mouth stretched wide around the thick length of his cock, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing with every suck. His free hand was cradling Kian’s balls, rolling them gently, squeezing just enough to make Kian groan, head tipping back as the pleasure clawed up his spine.
“Fffuck—fuck, baby, your mouth—” Kian gasped, breath catching as Reg took him deeper. “S’fucking good—yeah, fuck, just like that—”
His hips jerked, cock plunging deeper, and Reg didn’t flinch—took it. Bottomed out with a wet choke and held there, drool spilling from the corners of his lips, throat bulging, still sucking, still moaning like it wasn’t enough.
Kian blinked down at him, confused. “The fuck—why’re you—”
Then Reg pulled his hips.
Kian froze.
Realized.
And grinned.
“You filthy little—” He cupped Reg’s cheek, thumb brushing spit off his chin. “You want it like that, huh? Wanna be used? Want me to fuck that pretty mouth like it’s your job?”
Reg moaned around him.
That was all the permission Kian needed.
He fisted his hair tight, both hands now, bracing his weight as he rolled his hips—slow at first, dragging his cock out inch by inch with a wet schllk, then snapped forward again, deep and fast, groaning when Reg’s throat tightened around him.
Then he started.
Rough.
Hard.
Fast.
Fucking into his mouth with ruthless pace, each thrust wet and obscene.
Thock—thock—thock—
“Shit, listen to that—fuck, princess—taking it so deep—such a good fuckin’ toy for me—”
Reg whimpered around him, clinging to Kian’s thighs, letting himself be used, body twitching with every thrust as spit and pre and moans spilled from his mouth in messy, breathless waves. His lashes fluttered. He was glowing with it.
Kian was unraveling.
He felt the heat coil in his spine, in his gut, thick and heavy and close—
“Fuck—” He yanked out suddenly, gripping the base of his cock hard to stop himself, gasping through clenched teeth as Reg collapsed forward, coughing, panting, drool painting his chin and neck.
“Oh my fucking god—” Reg wheezed, voice hoarse, wrecked. “I—I love you.”
Kian laughed—dark and breathless, still panting—and bent down to scoop Reg back up like he weighed nothing. “You’re so fuckin’ gone already.”
He laid him down, gentle this time, flat on his back against the carpet again. Reg blinked up at him, pupils blown, lips swollen, spit trailing from the corner of his mouth.
Kian leaned over him, stroking himself slow, thick and twitching in his hand, then lined himself up—head of his cock slick and pressed to Reg’s fluttering, stretched entrance.
Reg gasped and wrapped his legs around Kian’s hips again, arms pulling him down by the shoulders.
“Please—please, now—need it, need you, need you so bad—”
Kian leaned in, brushing their noses together, voice low and teasing.
“Yeah, baby? Gonna let me fuck you stupid now?”
Regulus clung.
Breathless, trembling, wrecked—arms wrapped tight around Kian’s neck, heels digging into his lower back, soft gasps breaking into full-blown whines with every teasing roll of Kian’s hips against his entrance. His whole body arched, needing, eyes glossy, lips swollen, begging without shame.
“Please—Kian—please, I need it—I need you inside me, now, fuck, please, I can’t—I can’t wait, I’ll die, please, I need you—”
Kian just grinned—wide and wicked and dark, his cock pressed tight against Reg’s slick, twitching hole, both hands gripping those slender hips like he owned them.
“You’re so fuckin’ desperate,” he growled, voice syrup-thick and hot with satisfaction. “You want it that bad, princess? You want me to fill this tight little hole and wreck you?”
Reg nodded frantically, babbling through a moan, “Yesyesyes—want your cock—please, I need it, Kian, want you to fuck me dumb, want to feel you—want you to breed me—want to be full all the time—”
Kian’s brain snapped.
He didn’t ease in.
Didn’t tease.
Didn’t draw it out.
He slammed forward in one brutal thrust—deep, rough, fast—and Reg screamed, head thrown back, voice breaking into a high sob as he was filled completely, all at once.
“*K-KIAN—AHH—*FUCK—!”
Kian groaned, low and feral, hips already pounding—no rhythm, no slow buildup, just slamming into Reg like his life depended on it, each thrust deeper than the last, relentless and brutal.
Smack—smack—smack—
“Fuck—you hear that?” he snarled, face buried in Reg’s throat, biting at the soft skin there. “That’s how fuckin’ wet you are. That’s how much you need me.”
Reg sobbed, clinging harder, legs wrapped around his waist, back arching off the floor. “I love you—I love this—love your cock—so fucking good—Kian, please, don’t stop, never stop—”
Kian laughed, dark and breathless, still fucking into him like a wild animal, one hand sliding up to grab Reg’s throat—not choking, just holding, possessive and hot.
“You’re mine,” he growled. “You hear me? This tight little hole? Mine. Gonna keep you full every fuckin’ day. Breed you til your body knows who it belongs to.”
Reg choked on a moan, entire body shuddering under him, tears slipping from his lashes. “Yes—yours, yours, I’m yours—!”
Kian sat up slightly, grabbed one trembling leg and folded it up, pressing Reg’s knee to his chest and lifting the ankle high, setting it over his shoulder as he snapped his hips again.
“Ffffuck—” he groaned, eyes wide, cock twitching deep inside. “You’re so fucking flexible—holy shit—gonna have fun with that later, baby.”
Reg just wailed, nails digging into Kian’s arms, completely gone, body shaking with every deep thrust, his voice reduced to gasps and babbles of “so deep—so good—fuck me—fuck me harder—”
And Kian?
Kian was lost in it.
Pounding into him like a man possessed, groaning with every thrust, sweat dripping, cock dragging over Reg’s sweet spot until the smaller boy couldn’t even form words anymore—just desperate, high-pitched sounds that filled the room.
He was claiming him.
Owning him.
And Reg loved every goddamn second.
Kian growled—low and guttural—and didn’t pull out, didn’t stop, just shifted his grip and rolled, flipping them both without breaking contact, pressing Regulus tight against his chest as he sat back and let gravity do the rest.
The moment Reg landed in his lap, impaled full and deep, he screamed.
“K-KIAN—ahhhfuck—!”
Kian bit down on a groan, eyes half-lidded, breath punching out of him as Reg trembled and writhed in his lap. The new angle shoved him deeper, impossibly deep, cock grinding against every sensitive nerve inside Reg’s tight, pulsing heat.
Reg was clinging, nails dragging down Kian’s shoulders, kissing his face, neck, jaw, anywhere he could reach. “So good—so full—I love you—love you so much—fucking perfect—don’t stop—never stop—”
Kian’s hands slid to Reg’s hips, holding him steady, and he grinned—smug, hungry, possessive.
And then Reg started to move.
Not even consciously. Just instinct—those narrow hips rolling slow at first, riding the stretch, grinding himself down deeper, and then bouncing. Fast. Desperate.
He was fucking himself on Kian’s cock, whimpering with every bounce, every slap of skin-on-skin, every deep drag of that fat, heavy cock wrecking him from the inside out.
Kian just sat there and watched.
Smirking like the smug bastard he was.
Didn’t even have to move.
Didn’t have to do a fucking thing.
And Reg was losing it—taking him so well, moaning so sweet, eyes rolling back, little babbles of praise and pleas and “feels so good, I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours—”
Kian couldn’t stop staring.
Couldn’t stop thinking.
I can have this.
This sweet, needy, touch-starved little brat throwing himself into his lap, desperate to be used, to be filled, to be owned.
And all Kian had to do was let it happen.
No more cold.
No more running.
No more fucking gang bullshit.
Just this—warm skin, whiny little moans, soft lips pressed to his throat, a body that ached to be filled.
He’d protect this.
He’d kill for this.
He’d put his fists through every one of those smug crime-boss motherfuckers that tried to touch Reg. Every prick who tried to take what was his. Reg wasn’t going back to being alone. Wasn’t going to cry himself to sleep. Wasn’t going to get hurt, not ever again.
Not while Kian was here.
Not while Kian was wrapped around him like this, thick cock shoved so deep it was like they’d never separate.
“Fuckin’ ride me then,” Kian growled, voice rough and dark, fingers tightening on Reg’s hips. “Bounce on this fat fucking cock like you mean it, baby.”
Reg shattered.
“AHH—!” he choked, whole body tensing, back arching as his voice cracked. “*I—I’m gonna—*Kian, I’m—fuck—!”
“Go on then,” Kian cooed, filthy and soft in that gravel-thick voice. “Cum on my cock, princess. Let it out. Show me who you fuckin’ belong to.”
Reg screamed.
No hands.
No touch.
Just the sound of that voice, the stretch of that cock, the thick grind of it punching his insides just right. He came hard, body locking up as his mouth dropped open and his whole body shook.
And Kian lost it.
The sight. The sounds. The tightening.
“*Shit—*fuck—f-fuck—” he gasped, hips jerking up one last time, deep, cock pulsing hard as he spilled inside, white-hot and endless.
He tugged Reg tight against him, burying his face in the boy’s neck, groaning through clenched teeth as his arms banded around that narrow waist, holding him close, not letting him move an inch.
Reg trembled against him, still clinging, still whining through his high, face buried in Kian’s hair.
Both of them panting.
Soaked in sweat.
Hearts racing.
Kian huffed out a breath, rough and shaky, still deep inside.
Regulus whined softly, wrapping himself tighter around him.
And Kian?
He held him like he’d never let go.
They sat there for a long moment—wrecked, gasping, drenched in sweat and each other’s moans. Regulus was slumped against Kian’s chest, boneless, arms loosely looped around his neck, mouth parted and cheeks flushed, every inch of him trembling with aftershocks. Kian’s heart thundered in his ears, cock still buried deep inside, breath rough and heavy against Reg’s hair.
Eventually, with a groan of reluctant loss, Kian shifted his hips and slowly pulled out. Reg let out a soft, high whine, clinging tighter, legs twitching from the stretch.
Kian sat back to admire his handiwork, and fuck—what a view.
Reg was leaking.
Dripping, actually—thick, white, warm trails of him sliding from that fucked-open hole, pooling against pale skin and staining the inside of those slutty little shorts still bunched around one thigh.
Kian grinned.
“Gotta keep that in,” he muttered, voice like gravel and smoke, and tugged Reg’s shorts back up, tight and snug, sealing all that cum inside where it belonged.
But before he could even tuck himself back into his pants, Reg was already leaning in.
“Wait—” the boy whispered, eyelids heavy, voice raw, “let me—”
Then his mouth was on him again, tongue licking along the softening length, gentle and slow, cleaning him up with little kitten licks and soft kisses to the tip, to the shaft, to the base and down to the balls. Every movement was reverent—worshipful.
“Shit,” Kian hissed, hand automatically threading through Reg’s hair again, petting him, scratching lightly against the scalp. “You just can’t stop, can you, baby?”
Reg mumbled something unintelligible, lips still pressed against the side of Kian’s cock, and Kian chuckled—smug, lazy, pleased.
Once Reg had licked him clean and slumped back into his lap with a satisfied sigh, Kian finally tucked himself away, zipping up and buttoning back like the fucking conqueror he was. Then, without so much as a grunt of effort, he scooped Reg up into his arms.
The boy whined but didn’t resist, immediately curling into his chest like he belonged there.
Kian stepped into the kitchen on the way out—and promptly stopped.
“…Holy fuck.”
The place looked like a spread from some high-end interior design mag—marble countertops, huge island, all stainless-steel Muggle appliances that probably cost more than what he’d made in the past three years combined. And it was stocked. Fridge glowing with cold light and full. Pantry packed. He spotted some fancy imported chocolate, crisps, fizzy drinks, a few glass bottles of shit he couldn’t even pronounce.
He snagged a fistful of snacks and a couple cold cans of something sweet, all one-handed, juggling them awkwardly while still carrying Reg’s limp, snuggling form in the other.
The kid was useless now—half-asleep, whining softly, peppering little kisses to Kian’s throat and jaw like he couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t even hold his own weight, just clung like a koala while murmuring, “Kian… mmm… ‘s warm… love you…”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kian muttered, trying to keep the grin off his face, “you’re fuckin’ obsessed.”
He made it back to the massive living room and dropped down onto the biggest, softest sofa he’d ever sat on—leather, deep as a fucking mattress—with a sigh, kicking off his boots and stretching out. One arm went behind his head, the other wrapped tight around Reg’s waist, anchoring the smaller boy across his chest.
Reg just curled closer, still in his oversized shirt and cum-filled shorts, arms tucked under himself, thighs pressing down into Kian’s hips, cheek squished into his chest like he never planned to move.
Kian stared up at the ceiling for a long moment.
Then looked around.
Then laughed. Quiet and disbelieving.
He was in a London townhouse. Marble kitchen. Leather couches. Fuckin’ glass cabinets. Soft blankets and mood lighting and actual heating. He had snacks in arm’s reach and a fucked-out nymph of a boy whimpering in his sleep on top of him, kissing his collarbone like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.
He’d made it.
He was in.
No more gang bullshit. No more cold alleys. No more running, starving, hiding. Just this. This house. This life. This boy—so pretty and needy and clinging—his prize.
And Kian would guard him with his fucking life.
No one touches him.
No one looks at him wrong.
Not the gang. Not strangers. Not anyone.
Reg was his.
His to fuck, to hold, to keep safe.
The boy whimpered in his sleep, nose scrunching, and Kian tugged him tighter, lips brushing his temple, grinning against his hair.
“Mine,” he whispered.
And finally, they both drifted off—Reg snoring soft into his chest, Kian’s fingers lazily petting his thigh, heart steady and full for the first time in his life.