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The popcorn is terrible, but Sirius can’t stop eating it. Reflexive fistfuls, then one piece at the time when his stomach starts to ache. Half the kernels failed to pop, collecting in an oily layer at the bottom of the bowl, but the ones that did are largely burnt, sulfuric and a touch too brown. No happy medium, just infancy and spoiled, unripe and rotten. He’s certain there’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but it’s hard to think of metaphors when one’s little brother who one is also maybe possibly fooling around with is subtly grinding against one’s leg under a blanket in a room surrounded by one’s closest friend and said friend’s immediate family.
James didn’t put the butter on the popcorn when it was piping hot, so there are weird, cold unmelted globs of stuck here and there. Still, Sirius keeps sticking his hand in, reflexively. Bowl to mouth, bowl to mouth on a psychotic, twitchy feedback loop. It’s like smoking but worse. He could go for a cigarette right now, but he tries not to smoke around Regulus, who has a bad habit of picking up Sirius’s bad habits.
There are so many things in his life like this—things he should stop, but can’t stop. Also— bad habits.
His brother fakes a yawn, then drapes one of his bony legs over Sirius’s lap under the blanket, knocking the now mostly empty popcorn bowl awry. He’s so fucking clingy he’s even jealous of food. Sirius would be annoyed with him—is annoyed with him—but he’s also half-hard, which makes things like annoyance (and apparently metaphors) distinctly challenging.
“Does anyone want any of this?” Sirius announces, grabbing the popcorn bowl in one hand and Regulus’s very narrow ankle in the other. He wipes the popcorn grease on the blanket before giving Regulus a warning squeeze as he deposits the bowl and what’s left in it (mostly unpopped kernels and unmelted butter, infancy, unripe) on the well-worn coffee table between two bowls of different flavored crisps.
“Thanks mate,” James says faintly from where he’s spread out on the floor. His gaze is trained on the screen, very committed to whatever drama is unfolding on Eastenders. Sirius has no idea, because all he can focus on is the heady heat of Regulus’s body slouched insolently against him, burning up. Plus, he’s only crashing the Potter family’s TV night because Walburga was on a bender and he wanted to escape the house with Regulus in tow. It’s not like he gives a shit what’s happening in Eastenders.They are here incidentally, because James is a very good best friend with a lovely and accommodating family. Sirius is a less good friend. Not to mention deplorable family.
The knowledge the Potters are offering him and his little brother access to a stable, routine night as a break from the tumult of their own household makes this incestuous hard-on all the more mortifying. Equal parts horny and guilty, Sirius scans the room with experimental prudence. Fleamont and Euphemia are absorbed in the show, each on very comfortable looking recliners that flank the couch where he and Regulus are bundled up under a blanket. James keeps kindly checking on them but not very studiously, as James has always been safe enough to skate by without really paying close attention. Which is good. Sirius cannot withstand close attention right now.
The blanket is a custom checkerboard of nearly identical images all depicting the Potters’ recently deceased but clearly very loved yellow lab, Merlin. His greying, tongue-out muzzle is grinning up at Sirius from approximately twelve little windows, which is not helping how dirty he feels about Regulus’s leg placement. But luckily, the Potters themselves have not seemed to notice what’s transpiring on the couch, or the ways in which Sirius and Regulus are unkindly violating the generous pocket of normal they’ve been offered.
Sirius takes the liberty of sticking his hand under the blanket and grabbing Regulus’s leg, looking him in the eye and mouthing behave! With his best big-brother scowl. It’s absurd because he’s still touching him. He can’t stop touching him.
Regulus is a brat and also a teenager, so he’s perfected the truly abhorrent look of utter disdain he shoots at Sirius. Fuck you he mouths back. It’s fine.
The thing is, it’s so not fine. It’s not fine because Sirius’s mind is positively clouded with arousal and as a result he’s not thinking clearly. He should kick Regulus off and shove a pillow between their bodies, but instead, his hand is still on the sharp line of his shin, idly rubbing it up and down, nothing but the thin barrier of Regulus’s sweatpants dividing skin from skin. Instead, he’s wondering what he can get away with. If he could slide a little higher, cup the burning hot junction between his little brother’s thighs, find his clit, rub it, make him flush right here in the spill of blue light pouring from the Potter’s old rabbit eared TV.
The thing is, Regulus has him so fucked up, Sirius is already three quarters of the way to making a bad decision under Merlin’s knit death shroud right there in the living room at his best friend’s family telly night. He should be arrested, frankly. So should Regulus, because this is at least sixty five percent his fault. If he hadn’t had a such a big fat obvious crush on Sirius throughout his childhood, and hadn’t got ridiculously hot the minute he began transitioning, Sirius wouldn’t have had to step up into the role of Older Brother teaching his Younger Brother the Ropes of Manhood with a Distinctly Inappropriate Twist. Because that’s when things got messed up. They were only marginally, reasonably fucked up before that, in a standard Old Money Alcoholic Parents way. Then, his little sister was suddenly his little brother and was asking him how to pee standing up and he was trying to be helpful and somehow…things got weird along the way. Reaching down, parting the pretty lips, exposing Regulus’s urethra to create that perfect parabolic stream into the toilet bowl weird. He never should have touched his brother’s pussy, but hey. We all have regrets. Sirius isn’t even totally sure this counts as one of his.
In his defense, it was a perfect pussy. Like. Symmetrical, juicy. Thick outer lips, which was crazy because Regulus is rail thin otherwise, how on earth did he have those long coltish white-girl legs with a fat puffy cunt in between them? Even with the T cream he’d been applying for the last few years (Walburga agreed to pay for topical but not injectable hormones for reasons Sirius cares not to decipher because trying to understand crazy mothers will make you crazy yourself), his lips still almost entirely eclipsed and concealed his increasingly big clit. It only really popped out when he had his legs spread wide and. Sirius has to peel them apart with his thumbs to really get his tongue in there. Fuck. His hand twitches an inch or so higher.
As if his little sibling tattle-tale sensor is activated by Sirius’s ill-intentions, Regulus looks at him, eyes glittering smugly, mouth pulled into a sideways smirk colored in sheer, undiluted devotion. Behave! He mouths, throwing Sirius’s words back at him with mocking glee. Then, he decidedly removes his leg from Sirius’s lap, the absolute tease. Sirius is about to embrace a rush of half baked relief that he doesn’t actually have to accept how ready he was to finger blast his brother on the Potter’s Family Sofa when Regulus shifts his entire body closer, pulling the blanket up to his chin and snuggling up against his side. They’re flush, Regulus using him as a pillow, the whole of his skinny body flopped back, thin dark hair spread out all over Sirius’s shoulder. To heighten the stakes, he nonchalantly grabs Sirius’s arm and pulls it around his body, taking his hand and spreading it out over his sternum to cover the thud of his heart.
Right between his tits.
If anyone were to see them, they wouldn’t necessarily jump to conclusions there was something untoward going on. They might even think it was sweet—a protective older brother so comfortable with his masculinity he’s totally unafraid of cuddling his little brother in front of his best mate.
Of course, the too-warm universe beneath the blanket tells an entirely different story. Sirius’s formerly half-hard cock is at aching attention now, so much so he has to reach down and actually adjust it to take the pressure off. Furthermore, Regulus is fucking messing with him. Stroking over his fingers one by one, blunt nails dancing over his knuckles, his wrist. Idle touch designed to drive him crazy, and draw attention to exactly what he’s touching: the flat, bony expanse of ribcage between Regulus’s soft little tits. Which Sirius simply cannot resist.
Now— Regulus had never been particularly endowed. Puberty wasn’t kind to him at first, he got pimples and too tall too fast and his chest was swollen without any real definition. Sirius definitely used to punch him in his puffy, brand new tits, because it would make him scream and cry and actually back off on whatever incredibly annoying little sister behavior he was throwing himself neck deep into. But a bit later, once his body adjusted to pubescence and T, he’d filled out to cute, perfect, ridiculously firm A cups. Something about the post testosterone fat-redistribution made Regulus’s formerly gangly body make sense, and his tits were small enough he could just wear a tight sports bra and look perfectly flat chested under his mostly oversized shirts, with relatively no effort. Sirius sometimes forgot they existed at all, so they were a glorious treat when he remembered. Or, when Regulus decided to remind him. Like now.
He lets his hand drift over Regulus’s chest, brushing from one little tit to another. Not with any intent to actually start something he can’t finish, but just to touch, because he wants to, and sort of can’t help it, and because he’d like to work his little brother up enough they’re certain to fuck whenever it is they make it back home. However—Regulus isn’t wearing his sports bra, which makes Sirius’s mind flatline in static. It’s perfectly reasonable, They’d left the house in a hurry, eager to get out from under Walburga’s storming raincloud, and as a result Regulus dressed hastily and was basically in his PJs, sweats and a loose-fitting black hoodie with some shitty, unintelligible metal band scrawled across the sleeve. Regulus was sort of a musical genius and if he wasn’t listening to classical he was listening to the worst, least melodic, most complicated and diabolically mathematical black metal known to mankind. Sirius is sure these evil bands have names, but he can’t read them, any more than he can tell you what the fuck was going on in this particular episode of Eastenders. He has better things to worry about. Like how he can feel Regulus’s nipples hardening even through the hoodie, sharp little bullets for him to tease, the motion of his hand obscured in blanket.
In addition to being mouthwateringly hot, Regulus’s tits were also insanely sensitive. Probably another one of T and puberty’s combined miracles, Sirius wasn’t sure but he wasn’t complaining. On rare occasions he could make Regulus come just from playing with his nipples—pulling them, twisting them, bending his head and flicking the hard, rosy points with his tongue until his brother’s lanky hips lifted right off the bed in seismic quakes. He doesn’t think he can actually pull that off here, with James and Fleamont and Euphemia so close, but he has every intent of pushing the boundary. Regulus deserves it for playing footsie all through the popcorn making.
“Quiet,” Sirius murmurs against the shell of Regulus’s ear as his breath moves toward audible huffs, whip-like body squirming, chest heaving. He bites his tongue, shifts against Sirius’s torso, offering his tits up to his hands. It’s not enough, Sirius needs more. Emboldened by how clearly turned on his brother is and how remarkably oblivious James and his parents are, Sirius boldly moves his hand down, creeping under the hem of Regulus’s hoodie and the threadbare shirt beneath it. Regulus’s soft, padded stomach twitches under his palm, damp with the lightest sheen of perspiration. Sirius inhales him, presses his face into his soft hair, sucking in the smell of the expensive salon shampoo. When Regulus was still navigating his gender with inexpert grace, he went through a period of dousing himself with overtly “masculine” scents and Sirius would get a headache just walking by his bedroom, which reeked of awful chavvy body spray from Boots. Since then, he’d gotten over it (in part because Walburga had also banned Boots products from the house) and was back to defiantly using his old, definitely higher quality hair products. To Sirius, they didn’t smell masculine or feminine—they just smelled like Regulus. Like home, like childhood. He sucks a lungful in, reaching to cup one of his tits and squeezing it.
Regulus keeps quiet but presses his legs together, the fabric of the blanket bunching between them, distorting a photo of Merlin crashing through the sea with a toy in his mouth. Sirius freezes, making sure none of the Potters have glanced over and noticed this obviously sexual movement, but no one is looking. So, he ups the ante—takes Regulus’s taut nipple between thumb and forefinger, and tugs.
His brother melts against him, molten and scalding and sweaty and perfect. It’s impossible to stop—Sirius had been maintaining at least the illusion of watching the TV, keeping his gaze fixed on it while his hands moved covertly over Regulus, but he drops the facade entirely now, pressing his face into his brother’s silky hair as he plays with his tits. First one and then the other, made exactly for his palms, each nipple twisted and rubbed into tender perfection, red-hot against his fingers while Regulus’s heart goes crazy in the trap of his chest.
They’re getting totally carried away and very into it when, just like that, the episode ends. The credits are suddenly rolling and James gets up to flick on the light and Sirius is ripping his hand from his brother’s hoodie with such incredible speed the hem of it burns his wrist. “How about that, cliffhanger, yeah?” James says, stretching and cracking his back. Regulus has vaulted off of Sirius to the other side of the couch, taking the blanket with him so Sirius is exposed, forced to scramble for a throw pillow to hide his hard-on with.
“Terrible,” he bluffs. “Dunno how you lot manage to watch episodic television, I dunno if I can handle the suspense.”
“Lucky for you, we watch every week, so you can come over,” James says good naturedly, flashing a winning smile.
Euphemia stands as well, walking behind the couch and squeezing Sirius’s shoulder reassuringly, which is absolutely terrible but does douse the fire between his legs a bit. “You and Regulus are welcome any time,” she says warmly. “Me and Fleamont are heading to bed, but there’s more dinner on the stove, you boys help yourselves if you want, and feel free to stay the night.”
“What do you say, Sirius—fancy another episode? We have some of the earlier seasons on VHS,” James says, already popping open the entertainment center to rifle through.
“Hell yeah” Sirius says, genuinely grateful for the invitation as much as he’s eager to get back to the dark and his brother’s tits. He really would rather not go home and deal with his mother tonight. He simply doesn’t have it in him. “If you don’t mind.”
“Course not,” James says, yawning. “I might crash in one of the recliners, s’been a long day, but feel free to stay up watching. One of you can sleep on the couch or take my bed or whatever. Treat the house like your house, what do they say—mi kata es su kata?” he says, smiling happily in a way that reminds Sirius very much of Merlin the Dog on the Merlin the Dog Blanket.
“Casa, kata is a karate form,” Regulus pipes up, always very ready to correct someone with pompous authority, which is hilarious coming from someone who only took three seconds of karate before deciding it was too ‘demanding.’
“Yes, that.” Clearly unbothered and free of suspicion, James loads up the tape and hops into his father’s recliner, spreading out. It’s astounding to Sirius—the Potter’s home is the exact opposite of the Blacks, in that it is full of hideously ugly furniture that’s supremely comfortable, rather than beautiful antiques one is expected to never, ever sit on. The first time he came over, he had never even seen a recliner. He didn’t know chairs designed to sleep or lie down in existed. He’s glad for it— James would never be able to relax enough to entirely miss incestuous sex happening mere feet away from him, were they at Sirius’s house.
Soon the lights are back off and a new episode is playing, in which the characters from the previous episode all look several years younger and the video quality appears to be filtered through a film of hazy grime. It takes a minute or so for Regulus to creep back across the couch and settle comfortably into Sirius, but before he does he strips his sweatshirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the side, so he’s wearing nothing but this absolutely obscene shirt that’s riddled in holes. It’s from a music camp he went to almost a full decade ago, which is insane because it means he can still fit into clothes from when he was like seven years old. Granted, it was an absolute tent on him back then and he’s grown into it, but still. Sirius loves how old this shirt is, how thin the cotton has worn and how the appliqué (which bears the text I only play violin on days that end in Y) is mostly peeling off and how very obviously Regulus’s nipples show through the meager scraps. It is not a shirt that’s decent for public, and Sirius would barely consider it decent for a friend’s house, but of course the friend of James and he’s blissfully clueless a few feet away, tapping his foot and yawning every few minutes, so who cares.
Sirius frees both his hands, tugs the blanket up, and boldly uses the cover of dog-pictures to fondle Regulus, a hair less surreptitiously now since James’s parents have retired. Regulus has loosened up a bit, too—his legs are open, hips pumping almost imperceptibly under the covers. After a few minutes of undetected fooling around, Sirius tugs the shirt so one nipple pops out, exposed to his fingers, right there where James could turn around and get an eyeful of his brother’s bare tit were it not for the blanket. The brush of the rough knit makes the nipple harden even further, Regulus’s mouth parting around a little sigh. He turns his head into Sirius’s neck to muffle his own voice, humping the air as Sirius toys with him, squeezing one tit while he rolls the exposed nipple with the other.
This goes on and on, through half an episode. Sirius would be content to just keep on keeping on, but Regulus begins shaking so violently, he knows he’s close. So he intensifies the pressure, flicking and grabbing and playing, torturing his nipples the same way he does with his clit. And finally—it happens: a locking up, a rocky little shake. Regulus’s breath huffing out of him all ripped up and ruined. Perfect.
When it’s over, Sirius does not let go. He keeps squeezing, more gently this time, but without any intention of stopping. Maybe it’s the way James is so fucking unaware, maybe it’s the rush of getting away with something insane in the first place—but now that this train is chugging along, he knows there’s no getting off.
“Sirius,” Regulus murmurs after he cants up to press his lips right into Sirius’s ear, nothing but breath as he whispers, making him shiver. “I’m so wet.”
Sirius’s mouth is not buried somewhere so he can’t say anything, he just emphatically squeezes his brother’s tits, mashing the soft, meager handfuls together, making him writhe. He knows it wasn’t his plan, initially, but now that James’s parents are no longer around he really wants to see how far he can push this whole messing around in semi-public thing.
And it should be enough—making Regulus come like this, from nipple play alone, because the fact he can do that is so hot. But it’s not enough, because now, Sirius is thinking about his brother’s pussy again. That fat, juicy, so pink pussy, all frothy and soaked under the blanket, ripe for the taking. He could get his fingers in it, he thinks. It wouldn’t take much to get Regulus off again when he’s this worked up, to pet his pretty little clit and dip into his core and fingerbang a few quick, desperate teenage orgasms out of him. He comes so fast anyway, under the least secretive and least low-stakes circumstances, and they’re both clearly into the added layer of risk. It would take like two seconds. It’s extremely possible. James would be none the wiser. So, without thinking too hard, Sirius keeps one hand kneading a tit, but drops the other to Regulus’s bent leg.
His ropey calf flexes in Sirius’s grip, tightens then goes slack again, like his body begging Sirius for more. I’m so wet, he’d said. Discussing his pussy ten feet from their friend, offering it up. Soaking the ugly, period stained underwear he still has because it pisses Walburba off to not throw things away once they’re ruined. More threadbare fabric, holes for a few soft, wayward hairs to escape. So slick and puffy, maybe wet enough it’s drenched all the way through his sweats, making a shiny patch there for Sirius to press to his face later, lick up.
Positively ravenous now, Sirius’s hand does climb higher, moving beyond his better judgement. To Regulus’s knobby knee, then above it to the atrophy-soft plane of his thigh. You’d think the T would help Regulus build more muscle, get harder somehow, but he’s destined to be waify and petal-soft no matter what. Probably to torture Sirius, actually. All of him soft like bruised fruit, meant to be invaded, felt, fingered open and sticky and weeping.
Regulus settles closer, leaning back incrementally and widening his thighs in clear invitation. Offering his so wet pussy up to his brother’s wandering fingers. It makes Sirius’s stomach plummet. Eyes still locked on the TV screen he creeps those final few inches, brushing his knuckles against the seam of Regulus’s sweats, where they’re pilling and worn-thin and baggy over the searing swell of his cunt. They’re not wet, but they’re hot. He’s positively burning up under there. Sirius rubs in a hungry circle, feeling him out through the fabric.
Regulus fucking mewls, and it scares the shit out of Sirius. Makes him drop the tit and grab his bony ribcage instead, dig his nails in punishingly. They both freeze, but James hasn’t batted an eye. Thank god for his intense viewing commitment to Eastenders.
Sirius relaxes, but only a little. QUIET, he mouths, and luckily this time Regulus actually nods in concession. A breath shudders out of Sirius and he arranges the blanket, making sure it’s tented over their laps in such a way it successfully obscures anything happening beneath it. Sorry, Merlin, Sirius thinks, angling his wrist to rub his thumb right into Regulus’s center through his sweats. He knows exactly where his thick, needy clit is, and the knowledge of his knowledge alone makes him feel wild. Like he is the sort of person who knows how to find his brother’s clit blind, in the dark. He’s spent enough time down there, sucking it, popping the sweet, sensitive tip out of the hood to swirl his tongue around it, driving Regulus so crazy his quads are spasming he can picture it exactly, zero in and rub pointed, precise circles right into the spot he likes best. He knows his brother’s pussy that well. Worse, he wants it so bad he’ll risk being spotted by his best friend and best friend’s fucking parents just to get his hands on it. Who knows if they’re actually in bed, they might come out, get a glass of water, check on them—he knows how stupid this is. But he just cannot fucking bring himself to care.
Regulus is actually being pretty good, with regards to staying quiet and still. Relatively still anyway—his head is thrown back and his angular face is hollowed out in his way that Sirius knows to mean he’s sucking the inside of his cheek, and there are muted twitches happening under the blanket, but he’s pretty sure if James decided to turn around right now, he wouldn’t suspect a thing. He’s normal, after all—he’s not the sort of guy who would ever even imagine something as sordid as incest happening in the tower of a gothic mansion, let alone in his own fucking living room while fucking Eastenders plays in the background. Plus, he’s known Regulus since he was an impossibly irritating tagalong little sister always begging to be included in their games. He still sees him like that, in some ways—it would never, ever cross his mind that Sirius sees him as a sexual being. Possibly even made him into a sexual being.
Sirius watches him carefully, gaze darting between a completely absorbed James and his brother’s lap, making sure his hand isn’t too obvious as it moves up, away from his cunt, to the waistband of his sweats. They’re not loose but they’re not tied, elastic the only resistance as he deftly moves long fingers below the waistband to touch the fever-hot skin underneath. He pauses there for a moment, stroking the hairless, super-soft skin above the edge of Regulus’s underwear. He tracks his breathing, loving how hitched it is, how desperate. Then he pushes his fingers underneath the last barrier of fabric, which is, indeed, soaked through against the back of his hand.
He almost makes a sound himself as his fingers bump over Regulus’s clit. It’s so hard, swollen and bobbing against his fingers with each breath. He rubs it, smearing the thin, satin-slick wetness all over it, mouth watering as he imagines the salty taste. It’s obscene, his brother’s pussy is so wet it’s making sounds, wet sloppy snicksnicks as his fingers smear hungrily between the puffy folds, lewd and terrible and loud enough he can make them out but James likely—hopefully— can’t. He rubs insistently, a little clumsily to maintain secrecy, but it doesn’t matter how limited his range of motion is, Regulus is so worked up already so he’s close and it only takes a few seconds before he turns his head, bites Sirius’s shoulder to shut himself up, and comes. Hard. Sirius can feel his cunt pulsing, not just the opening but the whole thing, his swollen clit lifting minutely up and down with the force of muscular contractions. It’s so hot Sirius feels himself drool into his brother’s hair, mouth so suddenly flooding at the force of his own desire. However, his orgasm is entirely secondary to him—he’s hard, but he cares a lot less about doing something about it than he does about making Regulus come again. He knows he can—he’s already humping against his fingers in the aftermath, eager and hungry. A fucking freak of nature, it’s insane he can go again, so soon, and Sirius loves it.
Before going back in for the kill he taunts a bit, touch feather-light as he skims his fingertips through the absolute swamp down there. Burning slickness, juicy soft folds doused in fluid. He knows it’s so pink right now, so swollen he can practically taste it. He just aimlessly brushes and touches for a while, occasionally straining his wrist to push a finger into the channel of Regulus’s cunt, shallowly enough to rub at the puffy interior walls where his G spot has swollen up before sliding back up to tease his clit. It’s not enough to get him off again yet, but it’s enough to bully him to the edge, pleasure him and and drive him crazy so it’s fucking easy to push him off the cliff when he’s ready: a deliberate pressure, two fingers pressing down on the button of his clit, rubbing once, twice, and there, again. A fucking earthquake. This one is bad, his hips lift up, bucking into the pressure so much they almost lose the blanket. Regulus wrestles it back at the last minute, catches it before it falls, disguising the reflexive little hnggg sound he makes in the process. They both freeze, staring at James, who yawns but doesn’t otherwise react, thank god.
Sirius should stop while he’s ahead, but he’s not thinking clearly. His dick is hard and his brother is so remarkably, mind blowingly hot. He needs to touch his pussy again, he needs to feel how juicy and swollen and burning hot it is after coming three times in rapid succession. But most of all, he needs to make him come once more. Rub another one out, push him, ruin him. It’s just so easy, his cunt is so fucking made for it, so hungry and greedy and wet. So as soon as Regulus is settled back into him, panting, he shoves a hand into his sweats again, cupping it tight so his fingers sink in between the thick folds of his outer lips, clit pulsing in time with his rapid heart-beat. God, everything is so slick. Sirius is all pruned up to the second knuckle like he spent time in the bath.
He plays for a minute, flicking Regulus’s clit, loving the way each direct point of contact makes his whole body jump like he’s been electrocuted. He’s so sensitive and overstimulated, the ropes of his quadriceps tightening, trembling, gathering, then releasing beyond his control. Sirius has to let go of his tit in order to curl his whole arm around his brother’s narrow ribcage, trapping him upright to keep him from too obviously lurching around. It’s so hot—holding him there, forcing him to stay still while he twists and pinches his clit. It’s like turning a key, unlocking something inside him. Regulus reduced to a fountain of pain-pleasure, a raw nerve. It must hurt a little, but he’s grinding like he likes it, like he can chase another peak if Sirius just keeps touching him, so he does.
They find a rhythm, eventually, communicating without words the way siblings can, sometimes. Shared worlds, shared language. Regulus shuddering, Sirius rubbing, teasing. He has to increase the pressure, really pressing his clit down hard and willfully abandon gentleness in order to wrench another one from his brother’s exhausted body, but in a few minutes it arrives, spills out into Sirius’s wrinkled fingers, over his cramped wrist. Another seismic orgasm, clenching, spasming, huge, beautiful. He pushes past his clit to finger his flexing little opening as he comes, the muscle of it sucking desperately at him, winking open and closed in convulsive pulses. God. He could do this forever—fingerfuck his brother’s perfect pussy until he couldn’t breathe anymore, until he forgot his own name, until his limbs stopped working and he cried.
He’s still moving and he hasn’t teared up yet, but breathing does seem like it’s a serious effort right now. Regulus spilled out against him, totally limp and trembling and twitchy, hair sweat-damp and mouth parted. Now if someone looked over, they might actually know what was going on. Plus, Sirius can smell his brother’s cunt on the air—musky, spicy, like locker room after a vigorous footie scrimmage. It’s hot, but it’s not a great way to make your best friend’s living room smell.
Sirius shakes his totally soaked hand free from his brother’s underwear, brings it up to Regulus’s lips and makes him suck them off, taste his own wetness, salty and metallic, like eating the come up will lift the incriminating tang from the air. Regulus—his mouth is so goddamned hot it goes straight to Sirius’s dick, sharp little tongue pressing between his knuckles, swiping the fluid off in needy laps. Sirius has to pull from the suction to keep from blowing his load right there, against his brother’s sweaty back. Instead he reaches for his tits, gropes them again with the spit wet hand before delving back down into the blanket, into his sweats. Pure humidity, fever hot flesh. He should stop, he really should stop, but he still doesn’t want to. Regulus whimpers in almost protest and Sirius grits out a firm shh, gaze darting over to James, who hasn’t moved in awhile and very well might be asleep. He seems far-away anyhow, in a different universe on his recliner, the mainland miles out from the Incest Island Sirius is marooned on, fingers buried to the hilt inside the sweet, gripping channel of his brother’s perfect pussy.
He fucks it idly, adjusting the angle so he can dig deeper, rub his walls, crook his fingers. Regulus is positively gushing, thick strings of slickness connecting the heel of Sirius’s hand where it’s mashing against his gooey clit with each downstroke. He thinks maybe he’s just indulging himself at this point, lost in the needy, delicious heat of Regulus’s body for his own pleasure and that Regulus cannot possibly get off again, but then he starts locking up in that familiar way, legs tensing, hips lifting as he grinds his pubic bone into Sirius’s palm. And fuck, yeah, he’s game, he’s game to keep going and never stop, so he starts fingerfucking his G spot, rubbing it as hard as he can while keeping his hand in place so Regulus can grind against it. Thank god James is openly snoring now, because otherwise, he would absolutely be able to hear them if he hadn’t already smelled them. Choked gasps from Regulus, shifting limbs, the blanket almost entirely fallen away from his lifting, driving hips. Sirius has to keep using his own body to remind him he needs to be quiet, he needs to stop moving so much, they still have to keep this a secret. One arm tight around his chest, holding him in place, keeping him trapped.
The last orgasm comes like a fucking car crash—sudden, out of nowhere, smoke, fire. Regulus’s lithe body lifting up off the couch in a quaking suspension bridge, his pussy positively dripping as it squeezes Sirius’s fingers in rhythmic, vice-tight clenches. Sirius has to bite back his own swear, right there in his throat, Jesus fucking christ, Reg, yeah, come for me. It lasts forever, rips through his body, moves him in desperate, animal lurches Sirius has to tamper down, force to submission lest they wake all three of the Potters and possibly the whole neighborhood because who could sleep through a little brother orgasm like that? This is the shit that changes timelines, ruins worlds.
Finally, after what seems like a shockingly long stretch of Eastenders, Regulus goes boneless against Sirius, panting. Undeterred and still half-crazy with power, Sirius withdraws his fingers from his pussy to rub against his raw clit, but Regulus reaches down and has to physically push his hand away, hissing. And fuck, that’s hot, too. Knowing he’s maxed out, so sensitive, can’t take another second of being tormented and teased and touched by his big brother.
Sirius keeps his hands in Regulus’s underwear for a minute, petting his pubic hair and cupping his mons as he comes down, sucking in breath, still tremulous and shaky. Eventually, Regulus yanks his hand up, and puts his fingers in his mouth for a second, just to slurp them clean before rolling over. “Is James asleep?” He asks in a low whisper, two spots of color on his cheek, hair frizzed up on one side and damp from Sirius’s spit on the other. It makes his stomach drop, just seeing him like that. So clearly fucked. Anyone would know what he did to his brother, were anyone to see.
Sirius blinks dimly for a few minutes, and then remembers James and looks over. “Sort of? He’s rolled over a few times. I think, like, dozing.” He leans forward, narrowing his eyes.
“Oy, mate?” He says, a touch louder. James grunts wordlessly, and lets out another muted snore. “Yeah, I’d say so. Why, you’re done, aren’t you?” he murmurs to Regulus.
He bites Sirius’s shirt in response, shaking his head before rolling up onto shaky knees to press his mouth right to Sirius’s ear. “No. I want to suck you,” he says.
Fuck. Sirius’s stomach lurches in arousal—he hadn’t forgotten he was hard, but he hadn’t even really thought about getting off save for worrying he might do it unceremoniously on the Potter’s couch while his brother writhed against him in the throes of his own orgasms. He nods, threading a hand through Regulus’s soft hair and directing him. “Make it quick,” he says, gaze darting to James. “Not sure how long he’ll be under like that.”
But Regulus is already lost to the task at hand, greedily popping the button on Sirius’s worn black jeans, working the teeth of the zipper down to pull him out. The relief is instantaneous—the second his cock is exposed to the air Regulus’s mouth is all over it, searing, hot, wet like the rest of him. Sirius has to bite back a reflexive groan—fuck, how the hell did Regulus stay so quiet while Sirius was fucking his brains out? He has to turn his head and stuff his mouth with his own shoulder and sleeve to keep from saying his brother’s name. He’s so sloppy, so drooly, so searing as he swallows, clearly as desperate to get his mouth full of big brother cock as Sirius was to get his hands full of little brother pussy. It’s mind blowing, actually—that this starving want, this depravity is actually mutual.
Sirius has gotten a good number of blow jobs in his life, from men and women with varying backgrounds and sexual experience, but no one sucks cock like his little brother. It’s not that he’s better, or more skilled—in fact, the inexperience is part of why it’s so uniquely good— he’s just more determined, or something. He sucks Sirius like he plays the violin or writes an essay: locked in, obsessed, drowned. It means he never softens his tongue into a wide pad, either. He’s too focused, lapping like a cat, always moving, mapping out. It’s almost too much, the contact too pointed and firm, but too much is good right now because Sirius wants to come fast. Regulus makes quick work of him, licking the glans, the slit, tongue lashing and lapping and sharp and sweet as he dips back to choke the whole thing down, or, as much as can take before nearly gagging.
That little half-gag is what does it—and maybe that makes Sirius a bad person, getting off on his little brother’s throat not being totally ready for him. Or maybe he was always, already a bad person for wanting to fuck his little brother’s throat in the first place, who knows. Not him. His mind is totally blank and broken, fritzed out in a wave of static as his balls gather, tighten, and he starts to shoot off. Regulus pulls to the tip to eat it, swallowing each spill of come with that same utterly unwavering fixation on the task. God bless Autistic Little Brothers, Sirius thinks, since he’s probably already a bad person.
He realizes he’s got Regulus’s hair in a fist once the haze clears from his vision, and he lets go achingly, knuckles stiff with the force of his grip. He wonders what that means it did to his brother’s scalp, but Regulus doesn’t look like he’s in the slightest bit of pain—smirk big and shit-eating in the blue glow of the TV as he sits back on his heels, and wipes his mouth. “That was fast.”
“Yeah, well, you. That was. A lot. Of times. And that made me…yes. Like this.” He offers ineloquently, in case James can half-hear through the haze of their dreams and puts two and two together.
“Tell me about it,” Regulus whispers, flopping back and draping his long willowy legs all over Sirius’s lap as Sirius tucks his dick back into his boxers and jeans. “I thought I might piss myself for a minute there. All over Merlin. Thank god I kept it together.”
Sirius’s totally spent dick still manages a twitch at the thought of making his little brother piss on the Potter’s couch. Bad person, etc. “That would have been…not ideal. To explain. But very hot.”
Regulus lobs a throw pillow at him. “You’re gross,” he says, so very fondly.
Then, James says something mostly unintelligible, making them both jump, hearts racing. “Mate?” Sirius asks, voice high and tinny. “You ok there?”
“Mppgh spaghetti in the cellar,” James might say. Uncertain. Sirius relaxes, but only a little.
“In the cellar?” Regulus whispers. “Is that from Eastenders?”
“He’s sleep talking,” Sirius says hopefully. “So he is asleep…but we should really quit before we do something crazy,” he tells Regulus with unconvincing sternness, like they have not already done something crazy. Or four things crazy. He doesn’t even remember how many times Regulus came, he sort of lost count, but it was certainly more than one. Five times crazy? Six? Jesus.
“Yeah,” Regulus says with a yawn. “When I can stand. Legs not in working order right now. Thank you for that.”
“You’re very welcome,” Sirius grins before grabbing the popcorn to eat a fistful, suddenly very aware of how much of a toll all that restrained exertion took on him. He worked up an appetite satiating his other appetite—and what do you know. The popcorn doesn’t taste half as shitty now, licked up from his dirty hand.