fic: The Road to Burning
Title: The Road to Burning | txilar | Adult | 2950 | Regulus/Sirius
Author’s Notes: This fic is for Rabastani Independence Day and dedicated to spessartine. It would have been posted sooner, only my reguli had trouble getting it across the badlands due to winter raids. Personally, I think they just wanted the excuse for getting punishment. ^_~
Sirius sat an emptied wine glass on a passing house elf’s tray and draped himself across a chair next to Lucius, one foot hanging off the arm and bouncing in time with the live music. A young witch fawned at Lucius’s side, enquiring about the gardens at Malfoy Manor. Sirius interrupted loudly, taking another glass from a passing house elf. “I hear we received a mirror from the estate of an old French whorehouse, Malfoy. Seems like something you’d be interested in. More so than gardens, anyway.”
The young witch went round eyed and stopped talking, fingers hovering over her mouth. Lucius’s eyes narrowed, but he kept a polite smile on his face. “Sirius. You haven’t acquired any manners in your schooling. Shame, really. You once had great promise.”
Sirius looked around and sighed, dramatically ignoring Lucius. Crabbe, sitting next to Lucius, had perked up at the mention of a whorehouse, so Sirius continued on, his tone lascivious. “Father says that it shows you whomever you want, doing whatever you want.” Snapping his fingers at a passing house elf, Sirius lifted another glass of wine, both hands now occupied, and quoted in a sing-song voice, “’Shows desires and lusts you mightn’t even admit to yourself.’ Bet you’d see yourself, Lucius,” he said, before gulping the wine and smiling.
Crabbe chuckled until Lucius kicked his ankle bone. “I think we’ll join the adults now. I’m not sure you’d know what to do with such an item.” He rose and Crabbe shuffled up like a servant to clear the path. Lucius bent down to Sirius’s ear, his lips close, and whispered, “Perhaps I’d see you, Sirius.”
Sirius laughed loudly, making exclamations of disgust and threw back Crabbe’s abandoned shot of Firewhiskey. He heard a shuffle behind him and turned to see Regulus staring from behind a curtain. His face was red and he held an empty wine glass so tightly that Sirius thought it a wonder (or a non-breaking spell) that it didn’t break. He rose and Regulus fled to the stairs. Grinning, Sirius lifted yet another glass of wine and accosted a skittish seventh year witch with tales of the whorehouse finds.
///
The minute he felt the mirror’s heavy wood biting into his skin, he knew he should have let it be. Should never have even looked, let alone touch the thing. He didn’t let go however, stood there and watched, eyes wide, face pale. He stared open-mouthed. He looked into the reflection then around him, wondering at the lack of reconciliation between what he saw in the room and what he saw in the reflection.
He wasn’t sure at first what to do, but the mirror made it clear early on that as long as he remained in contact with the mirror, he needn’t do a thing. He did anyway: he touched himself, his neck, his chest, his hips, and there, doing just what the mirror showed, mimicking what he saw in the mirror. Showed things he didn’t want to see (didn’t think he wanted to see) but couldn’t look away from. “No, no,” he whispered, but he didn’t leave the mirror, didn’t pull away, didn’t stop from tracking his hands and fingers over his flushed cold skin, as his toes squeezed the bottom edge of the mirror.
“You want Sirius, don’t you?” asked his reflection, but the voice wasn’t quite his, was instead the hard metallic grating of the mirror.
Regulus shook his head, slowly, as if he couldn’t focus on the movement. The body standing in front of the mirror was still, but the reflection showed a hand winding about him. It pulled so hard his body jerked back, and he felt a hardness behind him that scared him enough to pull away.
“No,” he moaned, not sure what he was responding to.
His reflection hadn’t moved but he writhed in response to the phantom touches. In the reflection a hand slid around to his cock, fingers trailing up and down tauntingly. His bobbed in response and Regulus flushed down to his toes, wishing he’d never listened to that stupid conversation, never pushed the heavy velvet covering to the floor.
The hand kept moving and he knew all he had to do was let go of the mirror. But he couldn’t, he didn’t want to. The imaginary hands kept moving, the hips kept pressing hard. It was cold and dry and over too fast to be enjoyable. He stepped back and drooped, panting, embarrassed and oddly sated. One hand still gripping the mirror, he leaned into it. It didn’t seem quite real, anyway. He lifted his head, wiping his mouth, and stared into the mirror.
“Bon nuit,” the mirror grated out, his reflection grinning at him. The grin wasn’t one he wore and looked odd on his skin. He turned to reach out, but the room was empty, and when he faced the mirror again, its surface was cold to the touch.
The chill quickly spread to his body and he straightened, looking at his naked reflection in the mirror. He stared at his thin limbs and shivered, moving toward his clothes. After wiping his come from the mirror, grimacing the entire time, he dressed. He pulled his dress robe over his clothes and prepared to go back downstairs and play the good son. He didn’t know how long he’d been gone.
“What are you doing in here?”
Regulus froze and turned quickly at the sound of his brother’s voice. His eyes were wide and he was still slightly flushed, though dressed, his robe barely hanging onto his shoulders. “Nothing.”
They’d once hid and laughed in the sparsely lit old room. They’d played with magic when they weren’t supposed to, practised hexes on Kreacher, and told the future out of Dark books. They’d hid when Mother had her fits, especially as she became more and more antagonistic to Sirius, beating him when the mood suited her. Over the years more and more things had been hidden away in the shadows and fabric-draped furniture loomed like misshapen ghosts, exotic detritus filled the once comfortable window seats and small tracks in the dust hinted that the room was far from uninhabited. The sounds from the rest of the house muted and this was the one place one could feel distanced from the world of Purebred Wizarding society when it overtook the house in balls, society parties, and barely disguised political fetes.
Sirius stared at him for a moment before smiling wide. “Found it, did you? What did you do? Who did you see?” Sirius’s voice lowered and Regulus cringed at his tone. Sirius came toward him, unsteady on his feet.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Regulus tried to avoid his gaze and that brilliant smile.
“Yes you do,” he answered, laughter in his voice. He walked over to where Regulus sat on an antique recamier near the mirror, also from the French whorehouse. He kicked Regulus’s feet apart and stood as close as he could, his weight falling against Regulus’s thighs and chest. He pulled Regulus’s face close to his body, rubbing a hand over his hair, holding him for a moment before he whispered, “Want to know who I saw?” His breath was rich with wine and Firewhiskey
Regulus shook his head, the movement quick and faint, trying not to meet Sirius’s eyes. Sirius leaned down and rubbed his forehead against Regulus’s, like he had when they were young, to seal a secret from Mother.
His breath caught and he’d almost hyperventilated when Sirius knelt in front of him, foreheads still connected, hands on his shoulders, then his thighs, then under his shirt, his robe falling away again. As Sirius nuzzled his neck he opened his mouth to speak or breathe or something and Sirius licked and bit at his neck. He shuddered, fear like hiccups through him, and slid back on the recamier.
Sirius watched him in that dog-like manner of his; head cocked, tail wagging if he only had one. Regulus tried to push him away, but Sirius pulled instead of fell and Regulus was suddenly close against him.
He was warm and overwhelming and Regulus didn’t know where to put his hands. He thought of the mirror’s peeling silver and dusty pitted surface. Remembered reflected hands and his open mouth, panting so heavily he could hear it all around him, his hands gripping the thick carved wood so tightly it left marks deep and red in his palms that were visible still. Remembered the smears, midway down, only barely wiped away before Sirius came barging in, smug and perfect.
“You,” he whispered, the word like a breeze, drawn out long and smelling of dry leaves and resinous summer warmth, sliding across his cheek, and he imagined the mirror’s hands on him again, cool dry fingers pushing, guiding, and twisting. He thought for a moment that maybe the mirror had used him, not the other way around.
Regulus panted heavily and felt Sirius pull back. This is not right, not right… He started to ask why, but Sirius whispered again, right against his lips, tempting, hot and wet, Firewhiskey and wine in his words, on his tongue, and his hot fingers making the late summer evening more than it was. Regulus tried not to whimper or moan, or do something equally stupid. This will be better, better, because Sirius is flesh, not cold hard mirror.
“Want to know what I did?”
His lips were open so open that Regulus couldn’t help but open his to respond, yes, he was going to say, and a heavy warm wet tongue, rasped inside his mouth, for the first time ever, fingers hard on his face, lips wet so warm and wet. Tasting wine, he felt light-headed and tried to catch his breath. Sirius’s fingers parted, meeting on the back of his head as his other hand worked its way to his neck, thumb pressing and maybe that was why he couldn’t breathe. Sirius was heavy against him and warm between his legs. He couldn’t ignore him and his body didn’t ignore him, welcomed him, and he squirmed with the newness of it. He was too high inhaling the wine and sweat smell to think of being embarrassed.
Sirius’s hands moved quickly (not quickly enough) to his trousers, to his skin and this was nothing like what the mirror showed: the heat, the touch and the jumping muscles didn’t exist there. This was real, and his heart pounded leapt shook and Sirius was so hard and pressed against him and this is real, real, real. He couldn’t catch his breath; all he caught was handfuls of Sirius, smoke-like and elusive. He nearly shook with each attempted inhale and felt Sirius’s hot skin, pliant under his fingers, almost wet, tacky with warmth.
He fell back against the pillows and Sirius’s full weight pinned him down. He saw stars out of the corners of his eyes when his head caught the wooden edge, but Sirius didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, and he realised that he was nearly naked again, shirt off, trousers undone. Pushing his legs wide Sirius’s fingers trailed down inside his open trousers, between his legs. Everything felt so warm and damp and he nearly shook, arching against Sirius’s hands and mouth: whimpering, trying to push, move, to do something. Sirius pulled his mouth away and watched, eyes heavy, narrow. He pushed back Regulus’s hair and leaned down kissing him. Hands gone, hips grinding against him, nearly thrusting, then slowly rubbing against him. Regulus didn’t know what to do with his legs.
He pushed back suddenly, moving, almost whispering Sirius, his voice strangled, and pushed at Sirius shoving until he was sprawled, half sitting and Sirius was on his knees, frowning, lips parting to speak.
“I know you’re leaving.” Regulus placed his hand to Sirius’s mouth before he spoke. His breath was hot against Regulus’s fingers. “I heard you using your mirror.” Sirius stared back, silent, expressionless. Regulus’s fingers left his mouth to pull through his hair. He shook his head. “Don’t,” he whispered.
Sirius took his hand and pushed, pushed at him until he was on his stomach. Nervous, he opened his mouth to speak, turning, but Sirius leaned down, crawling over him and wrapped an arm around his neck, lifting Regulus to his lips, one hand under his chin, his lips wine warm still, his tongue dizzying. He pulled his trousers off, peeled his underwear off and spread his legs further apart. He grabbed Regulus’s hips and pulled him closer before resting his hands by Regulus’s head and hovering over him.
He moved his hand over Regulus’s bare shoulder and traced lightly down his back, then smoothed over his arse. Regulus clutched the cushions as Sirius trailed over the backs of his thighs with his ragged nails. Rubbing a hand over his backside again, he pushed a finger inside Regulus. Regulus yelled and jerked. “It’s only one finger,” whispered Sirius, scornfully, “Be quiet.” He moved his finger, sitting back and dragging the nails of his other hand down Regulus’s spine.
He tried to lay still and be quiet, but another finger slid in, moving, and twisting. Regulus sucked his breath in, biting his lip, whimpers held in, breathing harshly through his nose. He didn’t cry, but he didn’t like it either. Sirius wasn’t careful or gentle and it almost burned and almost hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath and tried not to breathe, tried not to move. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head.
“No,” he said, louder, sobbing in his voice, “Take them out, take them out, it hurts.”
Sirius shifted, voice a sigh and a groan, arms rearranging. “All right.” He lifted up, sliding his hand between them and whispered something. It felt wet when he moved his hand. “It’s a charm. Now, relax,” Sirius murmured, “And it won’t hurt.” He settled heavily over Regulus and pushed in, sliding slick, wet and hard, breathing heavy, wine scented breath sharp and hot in Regulus’s ear.
Regulus cringed realising it wasn’t fingers this time. It still hurt, but it wasn’t burning. It almost felt good, but it didn’t feel right, worse than the mirror’s wrongness felt.
Sirius pushed into him slowly and was still for a split second then he pushed over and over. Regulus cried out, trying to free his throat, and tried to pull away. He couldn’t relax. His fingers clutched at the powdered old velvet upholstery, his nails digging in between the old threads; he couldn’t touch himself, just let Sirius’s thrusts move him. The friction made him jerk and twitch. He held on, the heel of one palm under his teeth. Sirius’s lips, tongue wet and painting, traced and licked his neck, his teeth bit into his shoulder. He gasped, trapped in the crook of Sirius’s arm.
Sirius kept pushing, pushing, and it was frightening. He wanted to shiver, shudder, pull away and he didn’t like it, not at all, not ever. But a moment more and he jerked again, and shook uncontrollably, his hips melting. Gasping, voice incoherent, his teeth slipped off his palm to his lips, breath hard, he shifted and struggled to reach his cock. Sirius slipped an arm under him, holding him tight and close, the other on his shoulder, holding him tight and down. Regulus’s throat squeezed, his voice caught in Sirius’s elbow as Sirius trapped him. He struggled to move, his cheek rubbing against Sirius’s arm, breathing forced and heavy.
Caught between his skin and Sirius’s hands, still moving, pushing and hot. He squirmed, trying to move his hips in time with Sirius. Lit and shaking, Sirius kept thrusting into him, faster, harder, then one last time. Their cry was one, but different: sated and pained. Sirius draped across his back, damp, sticky, and heavy. Regulus moved his hand fitfully, desperately, barely able to reach himself and whimpering in frustration. Sirius was still and breathing shakily hot and wet into his ear. Regulus moved only his hand, barely able to draw in breath, his entire being on edge. They lay, still and hot, breath echoing on the hazy dirty windows of the small forgotten room, sweat cooling in the almost-swelter of a summer that was to be over far too soon.
Sirius pulled out slowly, lifting up, a faint grunt, as he did, and Regulus felt as though he’d been hexed: his body jerked with the movement and he felt waves, toppling him over, shut his lids and saw colours, felt tingling in his hands and feet. Tears wet on his face, hips pulsing, gulping air like water, and it wasn’t a moment before Sirius was back, pushing him over, too hot, too wet, lips and hands all over Regulus touching and stroking. He moaned, nearly crying, spilling uncontrollably over the old sofa. It was too, too much and Regulus begged him to stop. Sirius stopped and Regulus let his heart race as Sirius laid his forehead on his stomach, fingers resting on his arm and chest, sliding his body forward, their arms and legs tangled. He felt each cool brush of Sirius’s breath on his damp skin. He closed his eyes.
“Why did you do that?”
He felt Sirius’s nonchalant shrug. “The mirror. You?” His voice was casual, conversational and Regulus knew this wouldn’t stop him from leaving.
Regulus didn’t answer.
///
Three nights later, screams and hexes echoing in his ears, Sirius was gone. Mother came at him with her wand after burning Sirius’s name off the tapestry, yanking his arm and he fell to his knees only to wake the next morning in Sirius’s bed, all traces of him removed from the room.
/end
Author’s Notes: This fic is for Rabastani Independence Day and dedicated to spessartine. It would have been posted sooner, only my reguli had trouble getting it across the badlands due to winter raids. Personally, I think they just wanted the excuse for getting punishment. ^_~
Sirius sat an emptied wine glass on a passing house elf’s tray and draped himself across a chair next to Lucius, one foot hanging off the arm and bouncing in time with the live music. A young witch fawned at Lucius’s side, enquiring about the gardens at Malfoy Manor. Sirius interrupted loudly, taking another glass from a passing house elf. “I hear we received a mirror from the estate of an old French whorehouse, Malfoy. Seems like something you’d be interested in. More so than gardens, anyway.”
The young witch went round eyed and stopped talking, fingers hovering over her mouth. Lucius’s eyes narrowed, but he kept a polite smile on his face. “Sirius. You haven’t acquired any manners in your schooling. Shame, really. You once had great promise.”
Sirius looked around and sighed, dramatically ignoring Lucius. Crabbe, sitting next to Lucius, had perked up at the mention of a whorehouse, so Sirius continued on, his tone lascivious. “Father says that it shows you whomever you want, doing whatever you want.” Snapping his fingers at a passing house elf, Sirius lifted another glass of wine, both hands now occupied, and quoted in a sing-song voice, “’Shows desires and lusts you mightn’t even admit to yourself.’ Bet you’d see yourself, Lucius,” he said, before gulping the wine and smiling.
Crabbe chuckled until Lucius kicked his ankle bone. “I think we’ll join the adults now. I’m not sure you’d know what to do with such an item.” He rose and Crabbe shuffled up like a servant to clear the path. Lucius bent down to Sirius’s ear, his lips close, and whispered, “Perhaps I’d see you, Sirius.”
Sirius laughed loudly, making exclamations of disgust and threw back Crabbe’s abandoned shot of Firewhiskey. He heard a shuffle behind him and turned to see Regulus staring from behind a curtain. His face was red and he held an empty wine glass so tightly that Sirius thought it a wonder (or a non-breaking spell) that it didn’t break. He rose and Regulus fled to the stairs. Grinning, Sirius lifted yet another glass of wine and accosted a skittish seventh year witch with tales of the whorehouse finds.
///
The minute he felt the mirror’s heavy wood biting into his skin, he knew he should have let it be. Should never have even looked, let alone touch the thing. He didn’t let go however, stood there and watched, eyes wide, face pale. He stared open-mouthed. He looked into the reflection then around him, wondering at the lack of reconciliation between what he saw in the room and what he saw in the reflection.
He wasn’t sure at first what to do, but the mirror made it clear early on that as long as he remained in contact with the mirror, he needn’t do a thing. He did anyway: he touched himself, his neck, his chest, his hips, and there, doing just what the mirror showed, mimicking what he saw in the mirror. Showed things he didn’t want to see (didn’t think he wanted to see) but couldn’t look away from. “No, no,” he whispered, but he didn’t leave the mirror, didn’t pull away, didn’t stop from tracking his hands and fingers over his flushed cold skin, as his toes squeezed the bottom edge of the mirror.
“You want Sirius, don’t you?” asked his reflection, but the voice wasn’t quite his, was instead the hard metallic grating of the mirror.
Regulus shook his head, slowly, as if he couldn’t focus on the movement. The body standing in front of the mirror was still, but the reflection showed a hand winding about him. It pulled so hard his body jerked back, and he felt a hardness behind him that scared him enough to pull away.
“No,” he moaned, not sure what he was responding to.
His reflection hadn’t moved but he writhed in response to the phantom touches. In the reflection a hand slid around to his cock, fingers trailing up and down tauntingly. His bobbed in response and Regulus flushed down to his toes, wishing he’d never listened to that stupid conversation, never pushed the heavy velvet covering to the floor.
The hand kept moving and he knew all he had to do was let go of the mirror. But he couldn’t, he didn’t want to. The imaginary hands kept moving, the hips kept pressing hard. It was cold and dry and over too fast to be enjoyable. He stepped back and drooped, panting, embarrassed and oddly sated. One hand still gripping the mirror, he leaned into it. It didn’t seem quite real, anyway. He lifted his head, wiping his mouth, and stared into the mirror.
“Bon nuit,” the mirror grated out, his reflection grinning at him. The grin wasn’t one he wore and looked odd on his skin. He turned to reach out, but the room was empty, and when he faced the mirror again, its surface was cold to the touch.
The chill quickly spread to his body and he straightened, looking at his naked reflection in the mirror. He stared at his thin limbs and shivered, moving toward his clothes. After wiping his come from the mirror, grimacing the entire time, he dressed. He pulled his dress robe over his clothes and prepared to go back downstairs and play the good son. He didn’t know how long he’d been gone.
“What are you doing in here?”
Regulus froze and turned quickly at the sound of his brother’s voice. His eyes were wide and he was still slightly flushed, though dressed, his robe barely hanging onto his shoulders. “Nothing.”
They’d once hid and laughed in the sparsely lit old room. They’d played with magic when they weren’t supposed to, practised hexes on Kreacher, and told the future out of Dark books. They’d hid when Mother had her fits, especially as she became more and more antagonistic to Sirius, beating him when the mood suited her. Over the years more and more things had been hidden away in the shadows and fabric-draped furniture loomed like misshapen ghosts, exotic detritus filled the once comfortable window seats and small tracks in the dust hinted that the room was far from uninhabited. The sounds from the rest of the house muted and this was the one place one could feel distanced from the world of Purebred Wizarding society when it overtook the house in balls, society parties, and barely disguised political fetes.
Sirius stared at him for a moment before smiling wide. “Found it, did you? What did you do? Who did you see?” Sirius’s voice lowered and Regulus cringed at his tone. Sirius came toward him, unsteady on his feet.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Regulus tried to avoid his gaze and that brilliant smile.
“Yes you do,” he answered, laughter in his voice. He walked over to where Regulus sat on an antique recamier near the mirror, also from the French whorehouse. He kicked Regulus’s feet apart and stood as close as he could, his weight falling against Regulus’s thighs and chest. He pulled Regulus’s face close to his body, rubbing a hand over his hair, holding him for a moment before he whispered, “Want to know who I saw?” His breath was rich with wine and Firewhiskey
Regulus shook his head, the movement quick and faint, trying not to meet Sirius’s eyes. Sirius leaned down and rubbed his forehead against Regulus’s, like he had when they were young, to seal a secret from Mother.
His breath caught and he’d almost hyperventilated when Sirius knelt in front of him, foreheads still connected, hands on his shoulders, then his thighs, then under his shirt, his robe falling away again. As Sirius nuzzled his neck he opened his mouth to speak or breathe or something and Sirius licked and bit at his neck. He shuddered, fear like hiccups through him, and slid back on the recamier.
Sirius watched him in that dog-like manner of his; head cocked, tail wagging if he only had one. Regulus tried to push him away, but Sirius pulled instead of fell and Regulus was suddenly close against him.
He was warm and overwhelming and Regulus didn’t know where to put his hands. He thought of the mirror’s peeling silver and dusty pitted surface. Remembered reflected hands and his open mouth, panting so heavily he could hear it all around him, his hands gripping the thick carved wood so tightly it left marks deep and red in his palms that were visible still. Remembered the smears, midway down, only barely wiped away before Sirius came barging in, smug and perfect.
“You,” he whispered, the word like a breeze, drawn out long and smelling of dry leaves and resinous summer warmth, sliding across his cheek, and he imagined the mirror’s hands on him again, cool dry fingers pushing, guiding, and twisting. He thought for a moment that maybe the mirror had used him, not the other way around.
Regulus panted heavily and felt Sirius pull back. This is not right, not right… He started to ask why, but Sirius whispered again, right against his lips, tempting, hot and wet, Firewhiskey and wine in his words, on his tongue, and his hot fingers making the late summer evening more than it was. Regulus tried not to whimper or moan, or do something equally stupid. This will be better, better, because Sirius is flesh, not cold hard mirror.
“Want to know what I did?”
His lips were open so open that Regulus couldn’t help but open his to respond, yes, he was going to say, and a heavy warm wet tongue, rasped inside his mouth, for the first time ever, fingers hard on his face, lips wet so warm and wet. Tasting wine, he felt light-headed and tried to catch his breath. Sirius’s fingers parted, meeting on the back of his head as his other hand worked its way to his neck, thumb pressing and maybe that was why he couldn’t breathe. Sirius was heavy against him and warm between his legs. He couldn’t ignore him and his body didn’t ignore him, welcomed him, and he squirmed with the newness of it. He was too high inhaling the wine and sweat smell to think of being embarrassed.
Sirius’s hands moved quickly (not quickly enough) to his trousers, to his skin and this was nothing like what the mirror showed: the heat, the touch and the jumping muscles didn’t exist there. This was real, and his heart pounded leapt shook and Sirius was so hard and pressed against him and this is real, real, real. He couldn’t catch his breath; all he caught was handfuls of Sirius, smoke-like and elusive. He nearly shook with each attempted inhale and felt Sirius’s hot skin, pliant under his fingers, almost wet, tacky with warmth.
He fell back against the pillows and Sirius’s full weight pinned him down. He saw stars out of the corners of his eyes when his head caught the wooden edge, but Sirius didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, and he realised that he was nearly naked again, shirt off, trousers undone. Pushing his legs wide Sirius’s fingers trailed down inside his open trousers, between his legs. Everything felt so warm and damp and he nearly shook, arching against Sirius’s hands and mouth: whimpering, trying to push, move, to do something. Sirius pulled his mouth away and watched, eyes heavy, narrow. He pushed back Regulus’s hair and leaned down kissing him. Hands gone, hips grinding against him, nearly thrusting, then slowly rubbing against him. Regulus didn’t know what to do with his legs.
He pushed back suddenly, moving, almost whispering Sirius, his voice strangled, and pushed at Sirius shoving until he was sprawled, half sitting and Sirius was on his knees, frowning, lips parting to speak.
“I know you’re leaving.” Regulus placed his hand to Sirius’s mouth before he spoke. His breath was hot against Regulus’s fingers. “I heard you using your mirror.” Sirius stared back, silent, expressionless. Regulus’s fingers left his mouth to pull through his hair. He shook his head. “Don’t,” he whispered.
Sirius took his hand and pushed, pushed at him until he was on his stomach. Nervous, he opened his mouth to speak, turning, but Sirius leaned down, crawling over him and wrapped an arm around his neck, lifting Regulus to his lips, one hand under his chin, his lips wine warm still, his tongue dizzying. He pulled his trousers off, peeled his underwear off and spread his legs further apart. He grabbed Regulus’s hips and pulled him closer before resting his hands by Regulus’s head and hovering over him.
He moved his hand over Regulus’s bare shoulder and traced lightly down his back, then smoothed over his arse. Regulus clutched the cushions as Sirius trailed over the backs of his thighs with his ragged nails. Rubbing a hand over his backside again, he pushed a finger inside Regulus. Regulus yelled and jerked. “It’s only one finger,” whispered Sirius, scornfully, “Be quiet.” He moved his finger, sitting back and dragging the nails of his other hand down Regulus’s spine.
He tried to lay still and be quiet, but another finger slid in, moving, and twisting. Regulus sucked his breath in, biting his lip, whimpers held in, breathing harshly through his nose. He didn’t cry, but he didn’t like it either. Sirius wasn’t careful or gentle and it almost burned and almost hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath and tried not to breathe, tried not to move. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head.
“No,” he said, louder, sobbing in his voice, “Take them out, take them out, it hurts.”
Sirius shifted, voice a sigh and a groan, arms rearranging. “All right.” He lifted up, sliding his hand between them and whispered something. It felt wet when he moved his hand. “It’s a charm. Now, relax,” Sirius murmured, “And it won’t hurt.” He settled heavily over Regulus and pushed in, sliding slick, wet and hard, breathing heavy, wine scented breath sharp and hot in Regulus’s ear.
Regulus cringed realising it wasn’t fingers this time. It still hurt, but it wasn’t burning. It almost felt good, but it didn’t feel right, worse than the mirror’s wrongness felt.
Sirius pushed into him slowly and was still for a split second then he pushed over and over. Regulus cried out, trying to free his throat, and tried to pull away. He couldn’t relax. His fingers clutched at the powdered old velvet upholstery, his nails digging in between the old threads; he couldn’t touch himself, just let Sirius’s thrusts move him. The friction made him jerk and twitch. He held on, the heel of one palm under his teeth. Sirius’s lips, tongue wet and painting, traced and licked his neck, his teeth bit into his shoulder. He gasped, trapped in the crook of Sirius’s arm.
Sirius kept pushing, pushing, and it was frightening. He wanted to shiver, shudder, pull away and he didn’t like it, not at all, not ever. But a moment more and he jerked again, and shook uncontrollably, his hips melting. Gasping, voice incoherent, his teeth slipped off his palm to his lips, breath hard, he shifted and struggled to reach his cock. Sirius slipped an arm under him, holding him tight and close, the other on his shoulder, holding him tight and down. Regulus’s throat squeezed, his voice caught in Sirius’s elbow as Sirius trapped him. He struggled to move, his cheek rubbing against Sirius’s arm, breathing forced and heavy.
Caught between his skin and Sirius’s hands, still moving, pushing and hot. He squirmed, trying to move his hips in time with Sirius. Lit and shaking, Sirius kept thrusting into him, faster, harder, then one last time. Their cry was one, but different: sated and pained. Sirius draped across his back, damp, sticky, and heavy. Regulus moved his hand fitfully, desperately, barely able to reach himself and whimpering in frustration. Sirius was still and breathing shakily hot and wet into his ear. Regulus moved only his hand, barely able to draw in breath, his entire being on edge. They lay, still and hot, breath echoing on the hazy dirty windows of the small forgotten room, sweat cooling in the almost-swelter of a summer that was to be over far too soon.
Sirius pulled out slowly, lifting up, a faint grunt, as he did, and Regulus felt as though he’d been hexed: his body jerked with the movement and he felt waves, toppling him over, shut his lids and saw colours, felt tingling in his hands and feet. Tears wet on his face, hips pulsing, gulping air like water, and it wasn’t a moment before Sirius was back, pushing him over, too hot, too wet, lips and hands all over Regulus touching and stroking. He moaned, nearly crying, spilling uncontrollably over the old sofa. It was too, too much and Regulus begged him to stop. Sirius stopped and Regulus let his heart race as Sirius laid his forehead on his stomach, fingers resting on his arm and chest, sliding his body forward, their arms and legs tangled. He felt each cool brush of Sirius’s breath on his damp skin. He closed his eyes.
“Why did you do that?”
He felt Sirius’s nonchalant shrug. “The mirror. You?” His voice was casual, conversational and Regulus knew this wouldn’t stop him from leaving.
Regulus didn’t answer.
///
Three nights later, screams and hexes echoing in his ears, Sirius was gone. Mother came at him with her wand after burning Sirius’s name off the tapestry, yanking his arm and he fell to his knees only to wake the next morning in Sirius’s bed, all traces of him removed from the room.
/end