Juxian Tang's Fiction
Main Page
Slash/Yaoi Fiction
Original Fiction
[+] Livejournal
[+] E-mail Juxian
Slash and Yaoi Fiction
Title: Going Wrong
Author: Juxian Tang
E-mail: juxiantang@hotmail.com
Site: http://juxian.slashcity.net
Pairing: Regulus/Sirius
Rating: NC-17
Warning: incest, rimming
Summary-A/N: Written as a part of Fantasy Fest for dementedsiren who requested: Regulus/Sirius - hate fic with rimming, Mrs. Black watching.


Regulus watches. He doesn't have a lot of choice on that matter. It is either this - or hiding in his room, putting layers after layers of silencing spells around - because *they* don't bother with silencing spells, oh why would they? - and pretending to study, even though he's passed his O.W.L.s just a couple of weeks ago. Sometimes a book on Transfiguration seems preferable; but mostly he watches.

He stands on the top of the stairs, as if caught in mid-motion, but they never notice him anyway, never look up. And he sees them down there - his mother and Sirius. Screaming. Fighting. Again. And again. And again.

Sometimes he thinks it's killing him.

"You sick pervert, your father is rolling in his grave as you're betraying your family! I should have let you die when you were born."

"Shut up. Hag."

The sound of a slap is deafening, and Sirius' head jerks, a tiny involuntary gasp falls from his lips. Their mother has a heavy hand.

"I'll teach you, you rotten boy, I'll teach you to respect me - even if I have to kill you for that!"

"I hate you."

First time when Sirius had said it, Regulus cried half a night because it seemed to him the world was crashing down, these words so awful that something had to befall Sirius for saying them. But nothing did - and Sirius even didn't look repentant after that.

Please, please, father, Regulus thinks, I want you to be alive, I want everything to be like before.

But he knows it won't be, and everything is going wrong, and whatever Sirius does, it seems to be on purpose to spite their mother: he 'sold his soul to Gryffindor', 'a lapdog of Potters', 'hanging around with Mudbloods and beggars'. And Sirius has only one year at school left - and it is the last summer when their mother can beat some sense into him and make him behave properly.

She beats it into him, literally.

"Bend over."

"Fuck off." Sirius' voice squeaks, it seems a bit too much even for him, even if he tries to sound defiant. "Make me."


Sirius' wand flies into one corner and he bangs into the opposite wall, blood spurting from his bitten lip and his eyes going hazy. Their mother, very straight in her black robes, peers down at him, and then a wave of her wand raises him, throws over the table, face down. Her anger overcomes her as she yanks Sirius, gripping him, slamming his face into the board - and more blood runs from his nose, his shirt torn.

Sometimes Regulus admits that he watches because of this moment. When Sirius' face is smeared with blood, long black hair - untamed, not like Regulus' neat haircut - sticks to it, and his shirt slides off his shoulders, a bit of his chest visible, his brown nipple pressed to the table.

Their father's cane, spelled for harder blows, swings in the air. The sound of it contacting flesh is nauseating, and Regulus winces and hides his face against his shoulder for a moment. But then he watches all the same. He sees how Sirius gnaws his lip as he tries to keep silent - tries for a long time. But it goes on and on, and finally he gives in and tears run on his cheeks. But he never screams and never begs to be spared.

Later their mother will come to Regulus' room, without cause, and sit on his bed, and he, trying to be a good son, that's how she calls him - 'you are not like this freak, you won't disappoint me' - will look at her with puppy-like sympathetic eyes.

"Rub my shoulders," she will ask, shifting them uncomfortably. "This cane is so heavy."

And he will do it, kneeling behind her on the bed, his thumbs massaging hard knots of her neck muscles, and she will groan in relief slightly.

She smells unpleasantly, with something spicy and dusty, much like Kreacher smells, and sometimes it seems to Regulus that shadows change her face in a horrible way, making her look old and evil.

And he still remembers how strikingly beautiful she was, in her silk evening robe and with diamonds shining in her ears and on her neck, when she and their father were going to a party - and how lovely she smelled when leaning to Regulus and brushing her cool lips over his cheek.

And when later he comes to Sirius' room - under pretence of taking some book - Sirius, sullen, will be sitting in his unmade bed, smoking those awful Muggle cigarettes. And he will look at Regulus as if it's him who's to blame for everything and say:

"Go away, you smell like her."

Sirius... He remembers different Sirius. Sirius who is likely four year old, running to Regulus with outspread arms, lisping as he mimics someone of grown-ups: "Come here, my little angel, I'll hug you."

And Sirius with a goofy smile on his eighth birthday, wandering around the house and gasping at every decoration their father had put there in his honor - because Regulus' birthday was a month ago, and since then Sirius was darkly predicting that if for his birthday the house 'isn't as nice as for Reg's', he'd run away.

And Sirius hexing every Slytherin who tried to pick on Regulus, in his first year.

Then everything was so much easier. Then their father was alive, and even Sirius' sorting into Gryffindor didn't seem such a disaster. Then their mother was - if not happy, she always was too composed for that - but maybe contented.

And then Regulus didn't stroke his cock at night, every night, unable not to do it, no matter how he tries - while fantasizing of his brother's bitten lips and strong chest in the torn shirt.

Faster, harder, flesh slapping on flesh, and Sirius' face is so handsome - everyone says that, and their girls-cousins giggle foolishly when seeing him - tangled hair falling onto his dark-blue eyes, angry and passionate. And sometimes even in Regulus' dreams this face is smeared with blood and an additional sound accompanying Regulus' fantasies is of the cane falling on Sirius' back and buttocks.

"Sirius," Regulus gasps, and breath is caught in his throat as hot come shoots into his hand. "Sirius."

With every day of this terrible summer things get worse. James Potter's white fat owl brings letters during breakfast, and the scandal that somewhat has quieted during the night starts anew.

Paranoia is written on their mother's face even when she looks at Regulus.

"I know. I know everything." And Regulus blanches, thinking she might mean his night activities - even though he never forgets to put all those silencing spells on his room. "You only pretend you're good, you really care for him, not for me. I know you talk about me - you and him - gossiping, old and stupid do you think I am?"

And Sirius sneers at him whenever meeting, the tips of his fingers yellow with nicotine, so much he smokes.

"Go to her, you little suck-up. Don't you dare to poke your nose into my business, spying on me."

And Regulus feels he can't breathe, don't they both see what they are doing to him...

Sometimes he wants to see them both dead.

And then one evening, when he can't bear loneliness any more, he wanders into Sirius' room without a knock. And Sirius is standings at the window, in the late twilight, absolutely naked.

His back is black and blue, harder blows have left bloody imprints in some places but it cannot mar him. Nothing can. Sirius' shoulders are wide, his waist narrow, his ass... oh, his ass - and his legs are long and strong, muscles straining as he...

He's doing something, standing like that, in front of the window - Regulus can't see what, but the smell, the sound is so familiar to him.

He barely can believe it. Is Sirius, his brother, also doing it? Fantasizing, pleasuring himself, in solitude. Wanking. Soft moist slaps make blood rush to Regulus' cheeks - and he both wants to run - and to stay here forever, watching, reveling in the perfect line of Sirius' back and his arm moving, moving...

And then: "James," Sirius says. "James."

Regulus' breath hitches, in a loud gasp, and Sirius swirls back, his eyes wide and panicked - and yes, his cock is hard, an erect shaft between his thighs. And at the next moment the shock in his eyes exchanges with anger.

"You fucking spy." He doesn't yell, he hisses - and it scares Regulus even more. "How dare you... You're like her, you're worse than her, did she send you here?"

Sirius, Sirius - his face is white, his teeth bared - and there is so little familiar in his face, so little Regulus can hold onto, from his memories, form the happier times he doesn't want to let go.

"She... she didn't. I..."

But of course Sirius doesn't listen - or doesn't hear, as he approaches, his face white and his cock red - and both these sights blur in front of Regulus' eyes, he doesn't know where to look, where he wants to look.

"You can never refuse her, you always do everything she wants, you fucking pathetic pawn, why can't you have a mind of your own? If she tells you to go drown yourself - will you do it? If she tells you to lick her cunt - but you're probably already doing it, you idiot!"

Regulus doesn't even think Sirius understands what he says, what he accuses him of - and he can't defend himself against such absurd things. So he just stands there, so close to the door, and yet he doesn't try to leave. And Sirius is coming nearer, smell of cigarettes in his breath and smell of arousal on his body.

"What are you staring at?" he spits, his voice nasty and more than a little insane. "Want some of it, do you, you little cock-sucker?"

He raises his hand to hit Regulus, a blow not unlike those their mother gives Sirius - and then Regulus slides down onto his knees, avoiding the slap. And Sirius' cock, its head wet, is right in front of his face.

And Regulus strives forward, unthinking, and wraps his lips around it, pushes down, trying to take as much of it as he can.

It's not how he imagined it, he usually fantasized about Sirius' mouth on his cock, but right now it's exactly what he wants, it seems so right - even as he gags when the head of Sirius' cock presses at the back of his throat.

Sirius gasps. The sound - Regulus can feel it, going through all Sirius' body and ending in Regulus' mouth - and it is such an overwhelming feeling, of utter closeness, nearly fusion. Sirius gasps again. He sounds like he's choking.

"Reg." His voice is so changed, absolutely not like it's been when he has called Regulus names. "Reg... why?"

He wants to look at Sirius' face, to see its expression but he can't, going down like that, trying to get Sirius' cock deeper into his resisting throat. All Regulus sees is Sirius' belly, muscles trembling, contracting under the smooth skin - but it says to him probably as much as Sirius' face would.

He sees Sirius' hands fly up, helplessly, as if he wants to push Regulus away - but he doesn't, and they hover next to his face, indecisive. To see Sirius indecisive is so strange - and knowing that it is him, it is what he's doing affects his brother like that is enough to make up for the awkwardness of Sirius' too big cock butting into Regulus' throat.

There is too much spittle in his mouth and he doesn't know what to do with it, and he doesn't always remember to breathe through his nose - but oh, Sirius's taste, smoothness and heat of his shaft, slight saltiness of it - it's all worth it, definitely.

"Oh Reg," Sirius sighs and finally his hands find the use, tangling into Regulus' hair, not painfully, nearly gently, not even guiding him but as if Sirius needs to hold onto something.

Sirius, Regulus thinks when his brother spills to his mouth, Sirius, Sirius. And he erupts at the same moment, right in his pants, shaking and gasping on Sirius' come.

His mouth is full of bitter, thick taste that makes his eyes tear and there is a wet, still warm stain spreading on the front of his pants. Regulus is extremely aware of it. Sirius slowly unclenches his hands from his hair, and Regulus knows that Sirius looks down at him. But he isn't sure he can look at Sirius' face now. What will happen as soon as he looks up? Sirius will ask him, he surely will ask - and Regulus doesn't have any explanation to give.

Please don't hate me, will he say? You are so beautiful - so wild and sleek, like a predatory animal - so much unlike everything I am. I fantasized about you; about doing things to you, about you doing things to me.

He licks his lips. It has been so easy when he was sucking Sirius's cock. Is has seemed so right.

He raises his hand, careful, and touches Sirius' thigh. There are dark bruises and scabs on it, left by the cane, skin warm. Sirius trembles like a horse, as if Regulus' touch burns him.

He can't talk. He won't. He looks at Sirius' cock, now limp, and the heavy balls under it, covered in dark down, and suddenly he leans and kisses these balls, raises them in his palm, in gentle fingers. And Sirius jerks and freezes, and it seems even his breath stops.

Good, Regulus thinks, he won't want to talk now.

And this joy mixes with a dizzying delight that suddenly fills him, of being so close to Sirius, of the touch so intimate that it is even more than when he's been swallowing Sirius' cock. Sirius' balls are soft, and very warm, and weighty, hairs wiry on them, and the smell is so rich and heady, stronger than anything else. And there is this intoxicating realization of Sirius' vulnerability, of his submission to Regulus - and Regulus feels insane, drunk as he licks and kisses his brother's balls, running his tongue over them in wide sweeps.

"Oh my God," Sirius says, a nearly hysterical chuckle caught in his throat - and he is hard again. And when Regulus' hand slides over his hip, rubbing it, Sirius' leans into this touch - and the feeling of his warm skin is everything Regulus wants to feel and to taste.

He doesn't know what happens to him, what strange need urges him when he whispers, not looking up at Sirius: "Turn around. Please turn around."

And his elder brother is like a puppet is his hands, turning pliantly, and Regulus sees his ass, buttocks round and firm, the welts on them swollen and tender.

He wants more, taste, smell, intimacy, wants to know Sirius as no one else does. He runs his tongue over the welts, they taste salty and hot, and Sirius shivers but says nothing.

He flinches hugely when Regulus parts his asscheeks. But still there is no word coming from his lips. And Regulus wonders if Sirius will even let him take him, like that, shove his fingers - or his cock - into the pink, puckered flower of his anus. Sirius will let him take him - and probably will imagine James Potter doing it.

And so Regulus doesn't try - but instead he leans forward and pushes his tongue into this opening. A shudder goes over Sirius' back and he makes a sound as if he's hurt, his hand jerks up and he sticks his teeth into the edge of his palm.

And Regulus licks, all around the opening and into the crack, up and down, to the perineum, and a part of him reminds him that it's insane, he's doing something normal people don't do. But the sounds Sirius makes, small shallow gasps, and the tangy, rich smell, like of Sirius' skin, only more of it, and the slowly loosening ring that opens to Regulus' tongue - it can't be wrong.

And if it is, he doesn't care.

He's drunk - drunk on Sirius, on the power over Sirius, on Sirius' pleasure - and he can't get enough of this taste, of the yielding ring clamping around his tongue. Regulus darts, in short, thrusting motions, then laps again - and this way, yes, he takes Sirius, makes him his, and it is everything he wants, he hasn't known something can be so good.

"Oh God," Sirius says again, his voice a whisper. "I'm coming, oh my..."

And so he does, his body trembling, and Regulus presses his face to Sirius' backside, trying to soak in as much of this sensation, of their closeness as he can. His hands are on Sirius' thighs and he feels how his brother trembles and pants. And if he never had to move, could stay like that, near Sirius, in silence, he would be quite happy.

And then Sirius' hand clenches on his wrist, and he turns, keeping Regulus in place.

There is no way to escape or to delay the inevitable. Sirius holds him and looks down at him, his face sweaty, his eyes with expanded pupils huge and wild.

"Reg," he says, his voice very hoarse. "I... I don't know what to say."

"You can say to him 'Bravo'."

It is another voice, ruthless, scathing like a blow - and the sound of applause in silence is harsh and snapping. And Regulus thinks, please, please let it not be happening. But it *is* happening, and their mother stands in the doorway, straight and dark, and her palms clap steadily, evenly.

"It was not difficult to get him, was it, Regulus?" she says. "He thinks with his cock and nothing else."

Regulus' befuddled brain refuses to understand what she says. He could have expected anything - her screaming, cursing them, beating them half to death. But her face is composed in deep shadows, an expression of almost contentment on it as she eyes them as if they are two curious insects.

Sirius snarls, even not trying to cover himself. His hand tightens on Regulus' wrist like a vice.

"You shouldn't have tormented yourself, Regulus," she continues, "all those nights. Kreacher told me, you knew that silencing spells didn't work against house-elves, didn't you? I'm glad you are satisfied. You are a good son, you deserve it. And this one - this *whore* - it is all the same for him whom to pleasure, Potter, Mudbloods or anyone else. He might as well pleasure you."

It is disaster, Regulus thinks, but his thoughts lack fervor because he already knows it's too late. She'd better beat them up. But she just stands there, a smug smile on her thin lips - and Sirius' hand on his wrist suddenly unclasps, pushing Regulus' hand away, like it is something disgusting to touch.

No, he wants to say, please don't listen to her. But the words are stuck in his throat as he looks at Sirius' pale, wild face.

"What's wrong?" their mother says. "Don't you like being called a whore? Too bad because that is what you are."

It's wrong, Regulus thinks, it's me who's a whore, it's me who wanted it. But it is too late - Sirius moves suddenly, in an irate whirl - and there is the wand in his hand, pointing alternately at their mother and at Regulus - and insane hatred in his face.

"Get out of my room," he yells, "get out, both of you!"

"There is nothing yours in this house!" their mother screams, her voice just as insane. But she backs away, a little - and Regulus, shocked with her apparent fear, also scrambles away, partly on his ass, partly pushing with his heels - out of Sirius' room, and the door shuts in his face at the same second.

"How dare you talk to your mother like that?" she screams. And Regulus is glad that she and Sirius are again clinched on each other because now he can get up and spurt to his room, and shut the door, lock and lock and lock it, like it will make him safe, will undo everything that happened - or at least will help him forget.

He sits down on the floor, covering his ears, and tries not to listen, not to think.

Please, father, I want to be dead, like you.

He repeats it for so long and presses his fingers to his eardrums so hard that he misses the moment when it all finally goes quiet.

At last he takes his hands away from his ears and listens carefully. Silent. His mother is probably in the dining hall, sitting alone at the table, as it is her habit of lately. And Sirius is in his room.

Regulus' face is wet. He hasn't noticed he was crying. It is dark in the room and he leans against the wall, exhausted. What a terrible night.

What a terrible life.

With a deafening shot Sirius' door slams. Regulus hears his steps, swift and angry, along the corridor and going downstairs.

"Accio broom," he yells.

"Where are you going, you deranged spawn?" their mother asks - and Sirius' voice is full of revengeful glee:

"To pleasure Potter."

"If you leave now, you're not my son any more!"

"Very well, I don't want to have anything to do with this family!"


Another door bangs shut, and something is Regulus' chest breaks, and it seems to him he's going to scream. But he doesn't, he puts his head on his crossed wrists and keeps silent.


[+] Back