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At five minutes to seven, Regulus adjusts the book on his bedside table until it sits perfectly straight. Magical Water Plants of the Highland Lochs. Something simple. He isn't allowed anything too excitable or complex, for his mind is too weak to handle it.
He perches on his bed, which is made and uncreased. In five minutes, his father will unlock his door, as he always does, and their daily routine will begin. It is his favourite time of the day because his father is his favourite person in the world.
It used to be Sirius. They would play games and laugh together, and sometimes he would wrap Regulus up close so that they touched from top to tail. That's what he called it; top to tail. When they hugged, Regulus could smell his brother's neck and feel the tangles of his hair and be touched. He is never touched anymore. There's a time and a place for touching, like there is for magic and food. Time decided by his parents.
They keep him away from Sirius. They keep him safe.
The key rattles in the lock and Regulus sinks into his place on the floor, kneeling with his head bowed. He does not pick at his skin or chew his lip like he wants to–a Black heir knows restraint.
His father's shadow falls over him. A hand comes to rest on the top of his head as it does every morning. He hears his father sigh, pleased, and Regulus glows under the approval.
“Good morning, my darling.”
“Good morning, sir.”
The hand drifts down to adjust Regulus’s collar, fingers brushing over the intricate lace. Regulus resists the urge to arch towards him.
“Did you sleep well?”
He asks every morning, even though he knows the answer. The aftertaste of Sleeping Draught remains thick on Regulus's tongue, always infused with his evening tea.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He tilts Regulus’s head up to face him. “Are you ready–cleaned, stretched?”
Regulus clenches, his lubed hole dripping slick. Every day, before his father comes, he prepares himself for his morning training by fingering himself, arse in the air and chest flat to the bed. His penis gets hard, especially when he hits a soft little spot inside that makes him convulse, but Father says that it’s good and Regulus always wants to be good.
"Yes, sir."
His father releases him to undo his belt, the metal chime harmonising with the rush of leather, all while Regulus mourns the loss of their closeness. Training is one of the few times Regulus is allowed to feel the warmth of another human. You're pure, his parents tell him, you mustn't risk being tainted. They're forced to be harsh with him because he is drawn to sin, like Sirius is, and they can't risk losing another child to corruption.
Regulus understands. There are guilty, shameful times when the cane meets his back or a Crucio is aimed his way, that he feels the familiar heat pool between his legs. The pain makes him harden. He isn't allowed to abuse himself, but before bed he allows five minutes for his thighs to rub as he remembers the throb of hurt. It isn't right, he knows that, and it's why his parents take great pains to protect him from himself.
"Of course you are. Always so obedient." His father takes his cock out and strokes it, even though it's already hard, and Regulus watches the movement hungrily. "What are you waiting for? Into position, boy, I haven't got all day."
Sometimes his father's patience runs thin at Regulus’s ineptitude. He tries his hardest though it's rarely enough–but if he is to be heir, he must be flawless. Tomorrow, he thinks, he will be better. He must be.
"I'm sorry, sir."
Regulus stands with all the grace his breeding has taught him and bends over the bed. It's at the perfect height where he's hinged at a ninety degree angle, his chest resting against the mattress and feet skimming the floor. He reaches back to lift his nightshirt, closing his eyes as the cotton brushes his skin. Sensation is a pleasure he allows himself. The ridges of the duvet's embroidery pressing against his nose, the downy embrace of the mattress, the breath of the summer breeze kissing over his legs.
His rear is exposed and he holds his cheeks apart just like he's been taught to. Father likes to see the pink wetness of his hole wink at him as if welcoming him inside. He's hairless and small, not like his father or brother, but his parents tell him this is normal. It means Father's cock splits him wide enough to bleed if he doesn't prepare himself properly, and that he can hardly satisfy his mother when she uses his prick. He tries to atone for his defects with his mouth and hands, for what use is he if he can't please them?
"No matter, my dove. You'll make it up to me."
The fleshy tip of his father's cock rubs against his hole, teasing it with shallow dips inside. He presses forward as if to enter him, letting his rim wrap around the head before pulling out again. Regulus tries his hardest to suck it in, fluttering his walls to tempt it inside, but his father can be patient when he wants to be. Even without looking, he knows he’s smirking. Taunting, he shakes his cock while it sits inside him, jiggling his hole and making Regulus's eyes cross.
"You won't sing for me, songbird?" He reaches underneath them to cup Regulus's genitals. "What if I touch you here? You're so swollen, so full. Simply fit to burst." He strokes the skin of his sack, more curious than caressing. "No, you certainly haven't been playing with yourself–your mother has her doubts, but she doesn't use you in the mornings, does she? This is our time."
Even if he wanted to, Regulus couldn't come without permission. In a rare fit of rebelliousness, he tried grinding against a pillow but couldn't even get hard. Father will drive his cock inside him for hours, slamming into his hole until it's red and loose, teasing his cocklet the entire time, but Regulus won't–can't–come until he's told to.
"Arms, position two."
He moves unthinkingly, holding his arms to the small of his back and gripping his wrists.
"Excellent." His father rewards his cock with a stroke. "Maybe I shall even let you come."
The words shouldn't make him hopeful, but they do. Regulus hasn't come for weeks because his genitals look so much sweeter when they're flushed and plump.
His father moves to grip his hips instead. "Hold still now. Let me use you."
This is one of Regulus's favourite parts. He keeps his breath steady by counting to five over and over, but his cock still drools as his father begins to urinate.
It's hot, always so hot. He loves feeling it flood him, reaching so much deeper than come. It flushes his wickedness out, purifying him. Sometimes Father chooses his mouth, but he secretly prefers it streaming into his hole where he can feel it gush back out again, taking with it the evil he has made.
His father groans, sinking in slowly. He's still pissing, but now he's filling him up with unyielding flesh too, so that Regulus is laden with his father's gifts. It presses against his own bladder in a cruel reminder of its fullness. He clenches tight to keep everything trapped inside, where it sits and warms him–the coldness within him fades away. "Isn't that better, my darling?" He fingers the rim of Regulus's hole to feel it twitch. "My pissy little slut."
He wiggles his hips at the foul language. Father likes to call him lewd things and watch his cheeks flush–Regulus doesn't know what a slut is, but the low way in which his father says it makes him whine. He calls him it often, so Regulus must be very slutty indeed.
“Thank you, sir, thank you.” He's breathless already, and it's barely begun.
He shouldn't be greedy, but he wants to be taken rough and fast so that the piss splatters out of him and his hole is left dripping and used. Patience, patience. His needs come second, but he can't help feeling so empty.
His father slides in further, pissing deep inside him. The lube and urine make it easy, and Regulus has a lot of practice relaxing his hole–his father has spread him with many different toys. Beads the width of his wrist, false phalluses shaped like beasts' cocks, glass vases threatening to break if he clenches too harshly. But his favourite will always be his father's thick shaft.
Yours, he thinks. Your slut, your hole. Use me, use me, use me.
Regulus bites his lip to silence himself. Speak when spoken to.
When his father sheaths fully, he gives a harsh thrust, and Regulus hears himself slosh. His rim kisses at the base of his cock, straining around its width, yet still pleading for more. Piss starts to leak from him despite his arse gripping tight. He tries to stop it, but he's just so full and his father isn't even finished. The smell floods the room and makes his mouth water.
His father grinds forwards, squishing him into the bed. The duvet is too rough against his prick, but he rubs against it anyway, hoping it might ease his ache. His foreskin catches on the fabric and drags back and forth with his hips. Impatience is a disgusting trait, but he can't help it, not when his father is pulsing inside him or with urine trailing down his legs in warm streams.
"Clench, you stupid boy." Father hates it when he wastes his piss. "I haven't ruined that hole of yours, have I?"
"No! No, sir, I'm sorry." He tightens as best he can even as his father starts to move. His hole drags over the cock, widening each time it meets the base and shrinking when his father pulls back.
"No matter, you'll be big enough to share soon, and then you'll really be a nice sloppy fucktoy, won't you?"
"No!"
It's unforgivably rude to question his father, but his shock made him speak before thinking. Shared? Father owns him, Regulus was made for his cock–that's what he's always been told! He doesn't want to be shared!
His father grasps his hair and yanks his head back. He leans down, crushing Regulus to the bed with movements slow and promising danger.
"What was that?" His voice is a still lake–deceptively calm until what lurks below attacks. Regulus whimpers, knowing what that voice promises. "I didn't quite hear you, Regulus. You'll have to speak up."
The tears start before he can stop them, along with sharp, juddering gasps. "I just–" he starts, but his father tugs his hair harshly. "I only want your cock, sir, please! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I spoke back, please–"
"Want. You want nothing. You serve and you like it. 'Only my cock', what do you think we've been training you for, you dumb cunt?"
Regulus's breath stops as his body goes cold.
"To–to inherit? Without Sirius, you need a new heir! A better one, one you've trained properly!"
His father does the worst thing he could possibly do: he laughs. Cruel and loud, like Regulus is the butt of a brilliant joke.
"Foolish boy," he says through his chuckles. "You won't be inheriting anything."
"But Sirius–"
"–is still salvageable. It will take work, but there's still potential. He is a Black, after all."
"I…" Regulus stares at the barred window, looking down at him. It seems taunting now, instead of safe.
"Thank you for the laugh, my pet." His father kisses his temple and releases his hair, letting Regulus's head drop to the bed. "We'll have to address your behaviour, but that can come later. First, fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how well we've trained you."
Regulus considers disobeying. He would very much like to lie where he is and cry, for his whole world has shattered around him. All the rules, restrictions, regulations–they were never to shape him into his brother's replacement. He is every dirty thing his father calls him, he just hadn't realised.
"Yes, sir," he whispers.
He watches himself, distant, as his brain shuts down and his body moves how it's been taught to. Back and forth, slow and steady, until his father inevitably grows bored and takes over. His thrusts jolt Regulus against the bed, the knives of his hip bones leaving bruises, but there's nothing to be done but remain still and let it happen.
From outside his window, he swears he hears Sirius's laugh. A bird hovers briefly in his vision as if to mock him. He wants to leave this room and join them, to fight back and take what's his. But how could he? He hasn't been trained for it.