Title: Captivation
Author: Leela (leela_cat)
Based On/Inspired By: Fascination by fanlay
Characters/Pairings: Charlie/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Content/Warnings: blindfold, bondage, sensory deprivation
Word Count: ~2,400
Betas: rgrayjoy, florida_minxie, and eeyore9990
Summary/Description: Charlie's family loves him, they really do, but Harry's the only one who knows what he needs.
Author's Notes: fanlay created this art for one of my Kinky Kristmas prompts. This is one of the many possible scenarios that could have led them to the point of that picture. And, yes, softly_sweetly wrote for the same art, but a good piece of art can and should inspire many different stories; just as a good piece of fiction can inspire many pictures. (Plus, I've had this written for weeks... and now I feel safe to go and read hers.)


Everything's too much. Too many people. Too many children. Every single one of them is calling for him, claiming him, requiring something from him. Mother, father, brothers, sisters, in-laws, out-laws, nieces, nephews. Too many voices, too many hands, all of them yelling, touching, laughing, shoving, screaming. They're all here and there, and everywhere that Charlie goes someone is sure to follow. Demanding to talk, to listen, to hug, to sit, to...

"Shhh."

Charlie doesn't realise that he's making any noise until Harry quiets him, soothes him, gentles him.

"I can't," Charlie manages. And that seems to be enough for Harry to understand, even as Charlie curls up tighter, wraps the blanket closer, shutting out the world.

"Give me five minutes, all right?"

A shiver runs through Charlie's body at the imagined stroke of Harry's hand on his arm. He tries to nod, to say he'll be fine, but he can only manage a strangled kind of sound and a twitchy jerk of his head.

It's all right. It has to be all right. Because they're stuck in England for three more days, and it only took four to get him into this state. His family loves him, they really do, even if they don't know what to do with him and don't know how to stop or to listen when he says, "No," or "Not right now," or just tries to walk away and grab a few minutes of peace and quiet.

His yearning for the solitude of Romania and their home on the edge of a mountain is a desperate, keening whine that strums his nervous system. The dragons don't have expectations that Charlie can't handle. And Harry always knows — and mostly understands — when Charlie needs silence and to be alone, and he always, always, always knows how to help when Charlie just can't deal any longer.

* * *

"But we have plans, Harry." Charlie's mother's voice floats through the closed door, the high-pitched edge of want making Charlie's back teeth ache — and not just because he's clenching his jaw. "Draco and Ginny are taking everyone to Elphaba's for the night. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get reservations? Especially for the whole family. You and Charlie have to be there."

Harry's response is a murmured susurration, too low for Charlie to make out individual words.

"Oh, my poor boy. I should stay home and take care of him." Molly doesn't shriek but she might as well have, as far as Charlie's concerned. He bites the inside of his mouth, holding in the noises that he can't bear to make.

"Fine... a headache... can manage." Disjointed fragments of Harry doing his thing, putting himself between Charlie and the encroaching, grasping, needing, wanting, demanding...

"Shhh."

And Charlie settles, not caring that he didn't hear Harry come in or his mother go away.

"We've got until morning," Harry whispers. "If that's what you want."

Fine tremors are running through Charlie's arms and legs, shuddering down his spine, as he forces out a noise of agreement. That's their deal, and he won't break it. Because Harry's not a mind-reader, so even in the times when he can't imagine how to combine letters into words, he finds a way to let Harry know that he wants it, needs it, can't imagine anything else, anyway else, any...

"Shhh."

This time Harry caresses the blanket that provides such flimsy protection, directly above Charlie's arm, and Charlie's torn between arching into the touch and cowering away.

"Stay here. I'll be back when they've left and it's safe."

And then Harry casts the wards. He speaks the words aloud even though he doesn't need to, and he adds the extra fillip that ensures the door locks with the clatter and snick of bolts ramming home.

* * *

The room they're staying in is at the top of the Burrow next to the attic. It's one of the new ones, created after the second set of grandchildren were born. Barely large enough to hold the double bed that's crammed into a corner and a tiny chest of drawers, nevertheless the room's too big for Charlie's comfort.

The creak of the stairs and the rap on the wards serve warning of Harry's return and send Charlie into a tailspin of overwhelm. He wants to scream, yell, lash out, punch, hex, curse, and hide. He can't... can't... can't... can't...

"Shhh."

The blanket vanishes, stealing away his barrier against the world and exposing how bad Charlie let things get this time. He's not even sure he cares that Harry can see that he couldn't quite get his robes off, that the belt is still tied around his waist and the robes still cover half of his otherwise naked body.

"Charlie." Harry croons the name and uses firm, long strokes, as if Charlie is a newborn dragon who needs to be gentled into accepting the touch of human beings. "I'm going to bring you down, all right?"

Down. Listening to the rustling that means Harry is getting undressed, that there'll soon be warm skin surrounding him, Charlie squeezes his eyes shut and hugs himself closer, holding onto that promise with everything he has left.

The bed shakes as Harry gets in. There's an almost-ease to his touch that encourages Charlie to allow Harry to manipulate him into place with Harry's arms and legs pinning him, wrapping around him, holding him safely and securely.

Charlie's panting by the time Harry is done, digging his nails into Harry's muscular forearms to ground himself.

"I've got you," Harry says, and Charlie believes him.

After a minute or maybe hours, Harry asks, "Can you open your eyes?"

The shudder that runs through Charlie's body seems to be answer enough. Harry squeezes his forearms and says, "Spell and blindfold then."

"Caecus."

Darkness enfolds Charlie as his sight is stolen. Every speck of light that assaults him through his eyelids disappears into black night. Charlie's lips part on a sigh as another charm sends velvet slithering around his head, tying itself off just tight enough that he can feel the blindfold's reassuring pressure.

They sit for a while. Charlie held in place by the stroking of Harry's hands, his muscles slowly relaxing in a painful series of twitches, quivers, and jerks.

No one's forcing him to endure the unnaturally bright sunshine of an August afternoon or assaulting him with the vicious Chudley Cannons' orange that all the kids and half the adults have been wearing, pushing on him, pulling on him, giving to him, asking... asking... asking...

The ghoul bangs on the wall behind them, and Charlie bites his tongue. A sound — not a whimper because Charlie doesn't do that — escapes him. He turns his head, presses his ear into Harry's chest and waits.

He's not disappointed, although he thinks — worries, wonders — that Harry might be.

But Harry's clearly not, because he whispers the other spell, the one that deafens Charlie, slides magical plugs into his ears, leaves him unable to hear anything but the soft, reassuring cadence of Harry's voice.

"Shhh."

And Charlie does. Quietly, peacefully, he trusts in Harry. Knows that Harry will take care of him, be his eyes and ears if anything happens. In a bit, a little bit, possibly less than an hour, the absence of sound, of sight, of any touch but Harry's has given back Charlie's ability to think and to feel.

"Touch," Charlie mutters, or at least he thinks he says it out loud, and Harry understands, as always.

Harry moves him again, guiding him and waiting patiently while Charlie crawls off the bed, feeling with his hands.

Charlie's abandoned briefly in the middle of the room, unable to see or to hear anything because Harry is silent. The only tangible things in his world are the pressure of the blindfold, the softness of his robes, the tightness of the belt around his waist, and the hardness of the wooden floor beneath his knees.

But the hands and voices still tug at the edges of his mind, still pull and twist and grab and yank and demand.

"Shhh."

Charlie settles at the hand in his hair, at the sensation of cords drawing his wrists together and wrapping around them, tying his hands behind his back. His heels dig into his arse. Tension leaves his muscles, and he sways.

"Touch," Harry says, and Charlie does.

Bending over, he rests his head against Harry's stomach. The skin is soft. Hair rasps against his tongue, tickles his chin. He kisses, licks, nuzzles. Blind and deaf, Charlie forgets himself. His world has been reduced to Harry — the feel of Harry's skin, the scent of Harry's arousal, the soft sounds that only Charlie can bring out of Harry.

Harry's cock nudges Charlie's bare neck and shoulder. Its wet trail is chilly on Charlie's overheated skin. Instinctively, he turns his head and runs his tongue along its length. It smells so much like Harry, tastes so much like home that Charlie's overwhelmed for a brief moment. But then one of Harry's feet slides beneath Charlie's bollocks and Charlie's cock stirs.

Wrapped in Harry's smell and touch, knowing what he's doing to Harry from the clenching of the fingers in his hair and the incoherent vowels that come from Harry's mouth, Charlie slides the tip of his tongue into the slit of Harry's cock.

Drawing in his breath in a long hiss, Harry's hips jerk forward and he shoves his cock into Charlie's mouth.

Fingers flexing with the need to touch it, grasp the base, steady it and himself, Charlie pushes down instead, pressing his own painfully hard cock and tight balls against Harry's foot and shin as best he can, taking Harry's cock in as deep as he can. Balance is awkward. He wobbles as he bobs and ruts. Tattooed wings spread out across his back, as if the dragon is struggling to keep its own balance.

Sucking, licking, working, Charlie finally manages to get Harry's cock all the way in. He stops there, his nose buried in the crisp, curling pubic hairs. His breathing feels difficult, raspy, but he can't hear the air move in and out of his lungs, past the cock in his throat.

"Charlie. God. Charlie." Harry's voice breaks in the middle, cracking on the syllables of Charlie's name. His leg presses harder against Charlie, and Charlie tries to hum his agreement.

And Harry understands. He places one hand on Charlie's shoulder, steadying him, and the other on Charlie's head, pushing him onto Harry's cock. And then, keeping Charlie still, not permitting him to move, not expecting him to do anything, Harry fucks Charlie's mouth.

Hips moving hard and fast, in no particular rhythm, Harry pants and gasps. Charlie can feel Harry's bollocks tightening, drawing up under Charlie's chin. He works his tongue, moves it against the shaft that fills his mouth, sucks as much as he can, keeping it all irregular, until the noises that come out of Harry surround him, protect him, fill him.

It's not enough, though. Not nearly enough. Charlie knows it, and so, clearly, does Harry. Just before Harry comes, he stops.

"Need," Harry says, "Please?"

Charlie nods, because he can give now. He pulls off Harry's cock, flattening his tongue and running it along the length as he releases it. With his hands behind his back, he can't lie down, so he shuffles backwards on his knees until he hits the bed. Then, he straightens his legs, spreads them to (hopefully) display his bloody fucking hard cock, leans his upper body back, and waits.

The spell is fast and slick and warm. Harry slides his back and arse down Charlie's front, holds still for a moment, as he grasps Charlie's cock, and then sits down the rest of the way.

Being inside Harry without preparation, without first feeling that tight hole around his fingers is a shock. Charlie's hips thrust up.

"Hard, Charlie, fucking hard." Harry's begging, broken, needy, but Charlie forces himself not to move.

Feeling his way with mouth and teeth and tongue, he finds Harry's shoulder and then the curve that leads up to his neck. Without hands, Charlie can only open his mouth and use his teeth to hold on, to press down, to encourage Harry to give him what he needs.

He uses nips and bites and licks to tell Harry what he wants, to get him to grind down with his arse instead of bucking and lifting. A nod and Harry begins to writhe, pushing down harder and harder, taking Charlie in deeper and deeper, never letting him go.

Heart speeding up, pushing up and in, wanting, needing more and harder and deeper and all the way in Harry, Charlie obeys the touch of Harry's hands and spreads his legs as far apart as they can go. And then Harry's fingers slide along the crease of Charlie's thighs, slipping between them. One hand cages Charlie's bollocks. The other twists around the base of Charlie's cock, the fingertips going up and into Harry's arse with Charlie's cock.

It's so gloriously fucking tight. Charlie's head falls back, his mouth opening and closing. He shoves upwards, hips moving in tight circles, feet pressing flat against the floor.

Words, syllables spill from Harry's mouth as he rocks in place. And Charlie's shaking. His whole body trembles. Nothing matters but this connection between them, this world that Harry's given him. He tries to tell Harry to touch himself, but he can't manage the words, isn't sure that he's even made a sound. But Harry's hand, the one that's holding Charlie's bollocks, squeezes and sends them both arching and pulsing out their releases.

* * *

The air Charlie drags into his lungs is harsh, redolent of bitter and sweet and sex. Harry's collapsed against him, and Charlie can feel Harry's chest heaving, can hear the sound of air rushing in and out of Harry's mouth, can sense the dampness of Harry's tears.

At some point, Charlie's hands were released. Ignoring the burn of his muscles, he wraps his arms around Harry and holds him close. He keeps his eyes closed as his hearing and then his sight are returned. He doesn't let go when Harry's hands come up and cling to his arms.

They'll be home soon enough, and he'll take care of Harry then.

~fin~