hp fic // before a looking-glass [sirius/regulus; R]
title: Before a looking-glass
author: crooked
pairing: Sirius/Regulus
rating: R
word count: 469
summary: Sirius knows he should stop; he should never have even started.
a/n: for the when you care enough to send fest.
before a looking-glass
He knows it's wrong. Bloody fucking wrong, to be precise. It's a long-standing Pureblood tradition and exactly the sort of thing Sirius is meant to despise. He isn't even sure how it all began, except that it was Regulus' fault. (It's always Regulus' fault.) Sirius knows he should stop; he should never have even started.
If only his little brother wasn't so damned good at blowjobs.
Yeah, it makes him a little sick when he actually thinks about it - really analyses it and realises just who Regulus is to him. So that's why Sirius doesn't think about it. Much.
It's bad enough that he has to look down and see a slightly paler, smaller version of himself with his lips wrapped around him. That's why he often turns his head away or threads his fingers in Regulus' hair, mussing his stupid mop of black hair so that it covers his too-familiar face. He comes, gives Regulus a patronising pat on top of his head (because he knows he hates it), and then he can pretend it never happened. If there's one thing Blacks are good at, it's pretending things never happened.
But now? Now Regulus has himself pressed up against Great-Uncle Whoever's antique dresser, and Sirius is looking at their reflection in the mirror. He doesn't want to be looking, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away. It's narcissism to a new and extremely twisted level, being this fascinated at the sight of himself fucking an almost-but-not-quite carbon copy of himself. He'll probably have the presence of mind to be disgusted with himself later, but Sirius is too busy marvelling at how bloody similar Regulus' face is to his own when he whimpers. Change the hair, make him shades more handsome, and Regulus could be Sirius. He wonders why he's never really noticed it before. Maybe fucking gives him some sort of clarity he's otherwise lacking.
At any rate, Sirius can't stop staring at Regulus in the mirror, and he's coming before he realises what's even going on. Regulus is still clutching at the edges of the dresser, panting and fogging up the mirror, as Sirius does up his trousers and runs a hand through his hair.
"You'd better not be late to dinner," he says, cool and casual as if he'd not just been fucking his brother. "Mother will ask questions."
He leaves the room but not before giving Regulus a pat on the arse, laughing at the litany of hushed curses that follow him into the hall.
(He laughs while he can because, in a matter of moments, Sirius will be back in his own room, staring at his solo reflection in the mirror and wondering when exactly he became everything he hates.)
author: crooked
pairing: Sirius/Regulus
rating: R
word count: 469
summary: Sirius knows he should stop; he should never have even started.
a/n: for the when you care enough to send fest.
before a looking-glass
He knows it's wrong. Bloody fucking wrong, to be precise. It's a long-standing Pureblood tradition and exactly the sort of thing Sirius is meant to despise. He isn't even sure how it all began, except that it was Regulus' fault. (It's always Regulus' fault.) Sirius knows he should stop; he should never have even started.
If only his little brother wasn't so damned good at blowjobs.
Yeah, it makes him a little sick when he actually thinks about it - really analyses it and realises just who Regulus is to him. So that's why Sirius doesn't think about it. Much.
It's bad enough that he has to look down and see a slightly paler, smaller version of himself with his lips wrapped around him. That's why he often turns his head away or threads his fingers in Regulus' hair, mussing his stupid mop of black hair so that it covers his too-familiar face. He comes, gives Regulus a patronising pat on top of his head (because he knows he hates it), and then he can pretend it never happened. If there's one thing Blacks are good at, it's pretending things never happened.
But now? Now Regulus has himself pressed up against Great-Uncle Whoever's antique dresser, and Sirius is looking at their reflection in the mirror. He doesn't want to be looking, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away. It's narcissism to a new and extremely twisted level, being this fascinated at the sight of himself fucking an almost-but-not-quite carbon copy of himself. He'll probably have the presence of mind to be disgusted with himself later, but Sirius is too busy marvelling at how bloody similar Regulus' face is to his own when he whimpers. Change the hair, make him shades more handsome, and Regulus could be Sirius. He wonders why he's never really noticed it before. Maybe fucking gives him some sort of clarity he's otherwise lacking.
At any rate, Sirius can't stop staring at Regulus in the mirror, and he's coming before he realises what's even going on. Regulus is still clutching at the edges of the dresser, panting and fogging up the mirror, as Sirius does up his trousers and runs a hand through his hair.
"You'd better not be late to dinner," he says, cool and casual as if he'd not just been fucking his brother. "Mother will ask questions."
He leaves the room but not before giving Regulus a pat on the arse, laughing at the litany of hushed curses that follow him into the hall.
(He laughs while he can because, in a matter of moments, Sirius will be back in his own room, staring at his solo reflection in the mirror and wondering when exactly he became everything he hates.)