Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: emzlovesharry
From: mindabbles

Title: Watching, Waiting, Willing
Characters/Pairings: Harry/Charlie
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: voyeurism, magically influenced desire, fantasy
Other Warnings/Content: wanking, anal sex, oral sex, a little dirty talk
Word Count: 4,200
Summary/Description: Harry shouldn't want him, certainly shouldn't be staring and fantasising every time Charlie's near. He's lost control of himself. The mistletoe – meaning George – must be to blame.
Author's Notes: Thank you to my fabulous betas w and e and to g for the word brainstorming. Thank you to the mods for running this fantastic fest and to the recipient for this lovely prompt. Happy Kinky Kristmas everyone.




Watching

He shouldn't be watching Charlie.

Peeping, spying, intruding.

Harry shouldn't have risen from his bed in The Burrow – the attic room he once shared with Ron and now shares with his quietly snoring little boys – when he heard the creak from the door opposite.

Minutes ago, Harry peered into the darkness and watched Charlie tiptoe down the stairs with amazing quiet for a man his size.

Now Charlie stands, believing he is alone, in front of the fire. The flames cast a shifting light on his broad, muscular torso. His hair seems to be on fire and the dragons inked across his back dance, chasing the light.

During dinner, every time that Harry caught Charlie's eye, Charlie was already looking at him. He smiled and he chatted, and he drove Harry mad with his rough-looking hands and gentle voice.

Charlie reaches out to touch the photo on the mantelpiece. It's in a heavy wooden frame and is the only one in this house of Harry without his arm slung around Ginny or a toddler on his shoulders. Harry sits astride his broom on the day he was a guest referee at the Quidditch World Cup. Charlie moves the photo, turns it to face front.

Charlie's shoulders flex and the muscles in his back ripple. His arm is in front of his body, moving, opening robes. Still facing the photo, Charlie backs up and flops onto the overstuffed armchair. He arches his hips to slide his pyjama bottoms down over his arse. Harry bites his lip to stifle a groan as Charlie's cock springs free. It's gorgeous, thick and short and hard, just like Charlie's body. He imagines walking into the room and falling to his knees, sucking the entire thing into his mouth.

Charlie wraps his hand around his cock and Harry imitates him. He watches every movement, twisting when Charlie twists, and stroking with the same measured, slow touches, top to bottom and back again.

Harry lets out a soft gasp as the head of his cock becomes slick. Charlie's is too, and Harry can see it glisten in the firelight. He shouldn't be doing this. It is too soon after he and Ginny split, and he shouldn't be watching anymore than he should have been imagining those hands on him and that cock in his mouth everyday for the last week. He can't think when Charlie is around, can't do anything but want him.

Charlie moves faster, squeezes harder, and Harry can feel how those calluses would catch on the head of his cock. The dragon on Charlie's chest moves as his pectoral muscles flex, seeming to lick his nipple with each downward stroke. Harry leans forward, tongue on his lips as he stares at Charlie's chest.

Charlie tips his head back, resting it on the back of the chair and baring his thick neck. He pinches a nipple and Harry could swear he hears the dragon hiss. A deep, low sound comes from somewhere in Charlie’s chest and his face crumples into bliss. Harry watches with awe as Charlie comes over his hand, strong hips thrusting up into his fist and a flush that backlights the ginger hair on his chest.

Harry stays in the shadows, his hand flies on his cock, and he imagines crawling in to Charlie's lap and rubbing against him until he comes all over the cheeky dragon that keeps licking Charlie’s nipple. Perhaps it would lick his come.

"Ah." Harry swallows his moan. He comes, his eyes still on Charlie's hand where it fondles his softening cock. The moment after he comes, he freezes, realising what he's done and terrified that if he is watching Charlie, someone may be watching him.

He tucks himself back into his pants quickly and just as he is about to tiptoe back to his room, Charlie looks up. He can't see him, Harry thinks, not as dark as it is. There is no way he can see him, but Charlie looks right at Harry and lifts his sticky hand to his mouth.



Waiting

Charlie pulls his broom into a dive and Harry gives chase.

"Come on," Charlie calls, laughing over his shoulder. "Faster."

He's not even trying to catch the snitch. He's baiting Harry, teasing him. At least that's what Harry tells himself.

Harry leans low on his broom and the wind whips his hair back. He's faster than Charlie, but Charlie has years of out-flying dragons under his belt. Harry's blood pounds through his veins, rushing with adrenalin at the challenge. Charlie feints left, and for a moment Harry thinks he will crash into frozen ground of The Burrow's back garden. Instead, Charlie's feet touch the ground and he pushes off with his powerful legs, shooting back up into the air. His hair is longer than Harry has seen it, flames streaming after him. Harry moves so close he could touch them if he could take his hand off his own broom for a moment. He overtakes him and throws Charlie a cheeky grin.

It's only then that Harry realises they've lost the rest of their players. Ginny, George, Angelina, Ron, Teddy, and Bill are all hovering near the ground, varying degrees of irritation etched upon their faces.

"All right," Ron shouts. He lands and dismounts. "You two can stop your Seeker pissing contest and come inside before we freeze our bollocks off."

Harry lands and unclenches his fingers. His hands are freezing. His bollocks are far from cold.

*

The Weasley's sitting room is warm and welcoming as ever, and Harry can't help but give thanks every time he walks in here that he is indeed still welcome.

The fire crackles in the hearth, warming the room. Bill utters a spell and summons bottles of warm Butterbeer from the kitchen.

"I'll take something stronger," Charlie says. He's standing in front of the fire, with one arm leaning on the mantelpiece. His elbow bumps the photo of Harry.

Harry sinks into a chair. His mouth goes dry as he realises he’s in the same spot as Charlie's bare arse was last night, and that same haze of desire closes in on him. He sucks hard on his bottle of Butterbeer and Charlie catches his eye and licks his lips. Or maybe he imagined it, because while Harry is going to melt, Charlie seems completely calm. Harry absently rubs his hand over the soft arm of the chair, feeling for indentations where Charlie gripped it when he came.

"Good to see you fly," Charlie says from his station in front of the fire. His skin would be warm to the touch. "You hold a broom well. Turns like the ones you were doing take some strength in you thighs." Charlie drops his voice and his gaze. There is no one else in the room as far as Harry's concerned. The others have faded into the background, and Harry stands.

Charlie glances up, and for a moment Harry thinks he's beckoning him. He follows Charlie's gaze and there it is. The explanation he didn't want. Delicate green leaves, tiny white berries, twine around each other into a long garland that festoons the room. Every six inches or so, there is a small red tag that sparkles with the ornate letters, "WWW."

"Uh, yeah, right. Here's that something stronger," George says. He coughs and thrusts tumblers of Firewhisky at both Harry and Charlie.

"Thanks," Harry says. His voice seems to get stuck on the way up.

The chatter and hum of the gathering make their way back to Harry's senses. Charlie grins at him over his glass of whisky and Harry's skin feels too tight for his body. He has to move and he stands quickly, splashing his hand with whisky. Without thinking, he licks it from his fingers as Charlie watches and George mutters something about it being too much. Harry would have to agree.

He leaves the room and walks, careful not to run, to the loo. Away from the heat of the fire, away from Charlie, the tile walls of the downstairs bath are blessedly cool. Harry can't remember wanting someone this much. It feels out of control and dizzying, but he doesn't want it to stop.

Harry closes his eyes and rips open his robes. His hand is rough on his prick, moving hard and fast. Charlie's broad, rough hands. He slips a finger into his mouth, calloused on the side from gripping a broom, and wraps his tongue around it. He smoothes his other hand over the head of his cock, slickness easing his strokes. He gasps and bites his lip to hold back Charlie's name. It feels so good, but not enough. Not enough, he breathes as he pulls his wet finger from between his lips, reaches around his body and circles his entrance.

"Fuck," he whispers, as he pushes his finger just inside, and then slides it deeper. He presses his cheek against the wall, the cool tile teasing his nipples Images of Charlie fill Harry's head: Charlie on the broom; Charlie last night, cock in his hand. He fucks himself harder, two fingers, and he squeezes his cock. He opens his eyes in time to watch himself come all over the pristine surface of the wall in front of him.

His heart is pounding and his breath judders out of him. He pushes away from the wall and cleans it with a swish of his wand. He turns the taps and splashes cool water on his face. The frenzy is gone. He can make it through dinner. Dinner is, after all, blessedly away from the mistletoe and that bloody chair.

But this rushing in his veins, this pull to Charlie, can't just be the mistletoe. He felt it outside playing Quidditch. He felt it from across the hallway last night. And he sure as hell felt it just now, and there are no green garlands in the loo. If it is the mistletoe, that's one hell of a spell.

He pushes open the door and looks down, adjusting his robes, and nearly bangs right into Charlie.

"You finished, then?" Charlie asks.

"Yeah," Harry says. "Your turn, I reckon."

"I reckon," Charlie says, sweeping Harry from head to toe with a look that singes his skin.



Willing

The huge tree sparkles with hundreds of faerie lights. The warm, spicy scent of mulled wine fills the air and carols – Celestina being blessedly absent this year – waft from the wireless. The small kids are snug in beds and everyone is engaged in quiet conversation, with the exception of Ron and Teddy who seem to have an epic chess match going.

It is all so Christmassy and perfect, and it makes Harry feel desperately lonely.

Charlie and Bill have their heads together, nattering away much as they must have as inseparable boys. Charlie's powerful forearms rest on his knees, his broad hands dangling between his legs.

George seems to notice Harry looking, because he sits next to him. He waves toward the ceiling. "Took it down for the good of humanity. Or Mum. It was a bit strong, that stuff."

"Ah," Harry says. "Yeah, I reckon it was."

Charlie laughs at something Bill says and that same feeling of his skin being too tight grips Harry. He downs his goblet of mulled wine. He's lost count of how many that is, drinking to stave off the burning want, but it's only made it worse.

He pulls at the neck of his robes. "I thought you took it down."

"There're still small bunches hanging here and there. I modified the spell," George says. "Only takes hold if someone catches your fancy." He tells himself he's imagining it, but George's eyes dart to Ginny.

"Right. Actually, I think I should go." He stands and yawns. The floor sways under his feet. "I think I’m off. Ought to check in at home. Water the plants and such," he announces loudly enough for all to hear.

He ignores a few looks that imply that he’s mad and steps toward the Floo only to find his way blocked by Molly.

"Harry," Molly says, in a voice that brooks no argument. "It's Christmas Eve. Now’s not the time to go. What are you thinking? I won’t have you alone and the children are here and will want you in the morning. You’ll stay the night." He might be imagining it, because he knows she still hasn’t given up hope, but she smiles and looks back and forth between him and Ginny.

This is why he can’t stay. This is why it is so wrong, what he wants. None of them accept that it is over between him and Ginny – and he can't be here, not with the mistletoe, and the wine, and that stretch of skin where Charlie's neck curves into his shoulder.

Then he thinks of his kids running downstairs at God knows what hour to find their bulging stockings, and he knows she’s right about one thing at least.

"I'll, yeah, of course I'll stay," he says, feeling a bit like a deflating balloon. "I'm just going to get some air. Too much to drink. Back in a moment."

The air is heavy with the promise of snow, and the clouds hang low and steel grey in the sky. Harry wraps his arms around himself, but the cold feels good, clearing his head and the haze he's been in since Charlie popped out of the Floo a week ago.

It's just the mistletoe and bloody George, and he should be able to go back in and have Christmas with his family and stop obsessing about his sodding ex-brother-in-law and not embarrass himself any further. It's just the mistletoe.

"Hey," a voice as mellow as hundred-year old Ogden's says in his ear. The word floats over Harry's shoulder, a puff of warmth made visible by the cold air. It's as if there's a spell in it, warming Harry from the inside out.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut.

"Where were you running off to?" Charlie asks. His hand circles Harry's wrist and Harry's certainty that it's just the mistletoe melts with it. "Or did I misinterpret?"

Charlie takes a step and his foot touches Harry's, and Harry can feel his cloak brushing the back of Harry's robes.

"It's not what you think," Harry says, grasping at his last chance to do the right thing.

"Do you want me to go?" Charlie asks. His hand lands on Harry's hip and his breath ruffles the hair at the back of his neck.

"No, but—, " Harry pauses. "Christ, I had too much of that bloody wine. It's not us. I mean, that's not what I mean, but it's George and his mistletoe. It does something to me."

"What does it do?" Charlie's arm wraps around his waist and his solid chest presses against Harry's back.

"You know what it does," Harry says. "It does the same thing to you."

"Mm," Charlie breathes. Harry feels lips on his hair. "Right now you should ask yourself if you really care why."

"I—what?" He must have had more wine than he thought. Nothing seems clear.

"All right," Charlie says. "Then answer me this, has George been round your flat anytime recently?"

"No," Harry says slowly.

"Well then." He steps back and the cold air rushes against Harry's back. "There's one thing for it. Go back to your flat. I'll say something to the others and follow. If I'm sucking you off in your bed within ten minutes, it's because I want to."

"Make it five," Harry says.

*

He made it about three. They made it to the wall just outside of Harry's bedroom.

"Fuck," Harry moans. He threads his fingers through Charlie's thick hair. He looks down, dizzy with desire, but he has to look, has to watch Charlie's lips slide over his cock.

Charlie lets Harry slip nearly all the way out of his mouth and circles the tip of Harry's cock with his tongue.

"God, come here, come here," Harry babbles. He grabs Charlie's hand and pulls and Charlie stands. He's pushed against the wall and Charlie's lips are on his. He tangles his fingers back in Charlie's hair and deepens the kiss. Charlie is fierce and tender at the same time and Harry's heart pounds out a frantic pace.

"I want you," Charlie says, his smooth voice gone husky and rough. He moves against Harry and their cocks brush, sending sparks up Harry's spine. "That's what you felt. That's what I felt. George made it too strong."

"What?" Harry asks. His head is still fuzzy with the wine, but it doesn't matter now. It never mattered.

"Come on." Charlie steps away and Harry looks. Charlie's broad shoulders curve into thick arms. The blue and purple dragon curls on his strong chest, its tail running down the side of his stomach. Harry wants to lick it. "You like to look," he says with a smirk and pulls Harry into the bedroom and pushes him onto the bed in three long strides.

Harry lands on his back on the bed, legs dangling off. "I do," he says. "Like to look at you."

"So look," Charlie murmurs.

Charlie moves forward with the grace that always surprises Harry. He straddles Harry's lap and climbs onto the bed with one knee on either side of Harry's thighs.

"You're gorgeous," Harry mumbles. He touches the dragon, tracing its tail with his finger.

"Nothing to you," Charlie answers. He leans and touches Harry, gentle fingers on his face, a firmer touch on his chest, a rough thumb over his nipples. "Watch me."

Harry opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes and Charlie slips two fingers into Harry's open mouth. His body hums with anticipation, his hips arching, waiting for the slide of Charlie's slick fingers into his body. He curls his tongue around the fingers, sucking them deeper.

"Lube," Harry says, when Charlie pulls his fingers free. He doesn't want to wait more than a heart beat between Charlie's fingers and his cock. "Bedside table." He rolls to get it, but Charlie pushes him back on the bed.

"You like to look, watch me," he repeats. "Lie there and watch me."

Harry props himself on his elbows, and watches. He watches as Charlie spreads his legs, his thigh muscles flexing, and Harry has to touch, to feel the play of muscles under skin. He watches as Charlie reaches around behind himself with his spit-slick fingers and rocks his hips back, his mouth falling open and eyes burning into Harry's.

"Oh god, you're—" Harry says. He bites his lip hard. Disappointment that he is not about to feel Charlie's cock inside him and an overpowering desire to come deep inside Charlie swirl and battle in Harry's head. His head swims and he grips Charlie's thighs to stop the feeling of falling.

"Mm," Charlie moans, thrusting slowly back and forth, his cock brushing against Harry's when he rocks forward. Harry watches his stomach muscles clench and his arm move as he works himself open.

"Lube," Harry says. He flings out an arm and summons the bottle. "I want to do more than watch." He manages to move down the bed so he can reach through Charlie's leg. He touches Charlie's fingers, to feel how they slide in and out of Charlie's arse.

"Do it," Charlie growls and Harry slips a finger in alongside Charlie's. He's hot and soft and so tight on Harry's finger.

Harry is lost in the sounds he makes and the slip and slide of their fingers, the sight of Charlie over him. All too soon, Charlie gasps and pulls Harry's hand free, seizing him under the arms and pushing him back up the bed.

"Christ, you're strong," Harry says, tossed like a rag doll.

"Now you watch," Charlie says. He reaches around and holds Harry's cock and Harry struggles to keep his eyes open as he feels the head of his cock press against Charlie's arse.

Harry daren't move or look away. He'll die if Charlie stops. Charlie rolls his hips, working just the tip of Harry's cock inside himself.

"Unh, God, it's almost, almost—" Harry says, holding back. His body wants to thrust, to push all the way in and he grits his teeth.

"Mm, that's good," Charlie mutters as the head of Harry's cock is engulfed in his tight, hot body.

"Fuck me," Harry groans. "Please, it's too much."

Charlie laughs, slow and deep. "Okay," he says. "Easy." He plants his hands over Harry's chest and sinks down onto Harry's cock. Harry watches. He watches Charlie's pupils blow wide and his lips part on a gasp. He cranes his neck and watches Charlie lower himself until his balls press against Harry's stomach.

Harry digs his fingers into Charlie's hard thighs and tries to move, but he feels utterly pinned – lightheaded and frantic and blissfully trapped under Charlie's weight.

"Come on, fuck me," he pleads.

Charlie starts to move. He rocks back and forth, Harry's cock sliding in and out of his body. He lifts up and presses down, changing and testing until he lets out a guttural gasp and finds his rhythm. Now Harry can move with him. He lifts his hips nearly off the bed when Charlie rocks down to meet him.

Charlie leans back, his hand on one of Harry's thighs, and at this angle, the pressure on Harry's cock doubles and he has to concentrate every fibre of his being on not coming, on not ending this too soon.

"Shit, shit," Charlie gasps and he wraps his hand around his cock. "You're not watching," he scolds as Harry lets his head fall back and eyes fall closed against the dizziness and the pounding in his veins.

"I'm nearly, going to—" Harry stammers.

"Not yet you're not," Charlie demands and Harry watches as he strokes his cock, moving all the time up and down over Harry. He's fast and hard, just like he was the other night in the chair, but this time, Harry can feel every jolt, every pulse of desire on his cock.

"Please," Harry begs. "Come, I need to watch you come."

"Harry, oh, fuck, Harry," Charlie moans. His hand speeds up and he grinds down onto Harry, rolls his hips in tight, fast circles, clenching on Harry's cock. "Fuck," he gasps and come seeps from between his fingers, dropping warm onto Harry stomach.

Harry's been hovering on edge for ages, since Charlie first moved, since he first tumbled from the Floo a week ago. The sight of him rocking through the waves of his orgasm, still stroking his cock, flushed and in disarray, is the end of it. Harry thrusts into him, short, sharp, and fast and he comes, the room spinning as it feels like everything he's been holding back pours into Charlie's body.

His breath tears from his lungs, rasping and ragged, and he smoothes his hands along Charlie's thighs and stomach, feeling the warm skin and soft hair. Charlie sighs and falls forward, heavy and solid on Harry's chest, and Harry feels his softening cock slide slowly out of Charlie's body.

Too soon, Charlie slips off him and flops onto the bed next to him. He doesn't know how he'll keep his hands of Charlie from here on out. Ginny will see it. Ron and Hermione will see it. Just like the other night, the frenzy of desire has faded with the last waves of his orgasm, and he can think again, remember that this was not what he was meant to do.

"What the hell are we going to tell them?" Harry groans, covering his face.

"You don't leave much time for afterglow, do you?" Charlie asks, laughing softly.

"Sorry," Harry says. "That was brilliant," he adds hastily.

Charlie leans up on one elbow. His hair falls over his face as he looks down at Harry. "Are you honestly in the habit of telling extended family every time you fuck someone once?"

"I just think it might be a bit obvious when we turn up after being gone so long," Harry says. He closes his eyes and the disapproving faces of Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and Molly swim in front of him.

"Then we'll tell them it was lingering effects of the mistletoe," Charlie says, and Harry can't tell if he sounds irritated or disappointed, or both.

"Wait. Once?" Harry says, opening his eyes. His head is clear, and the thought that this can't happen again is suddenly worse than the thought of facing the other Weasleys.

"Well, if it was only the mistletoe—" Charlie shrugs. "—once should be enough."

"What about lingering effects?" Harry asks. He turns and pushes Charlie back onto the bed. "I should think they'd last at least until morning."

"True enough. We can't be blamed for George's over-enthusiasm," Charlie says. He runs a finger down the centre of Harry's chest.

Harry feels dizzy again as Charlie's lips press to his throat. He's lightheaded, like he's flying and his broom is diving, out-of-control. It'll be all right, he tells himself. Charlie's a strong enough flyer to get them both safely to the ground.