Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: leela_cat
From: woldy

Title: Skin Deep
Characters/Pairings: Charlie/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: Tattoos
Other Warnings/Content: Anal sex
Word Count: ~3100 words
Summary: There was nothing inherently intimate about sticking his cock into someone, but there's a lot of personal history tied up in Charlie's ink.
Author's Notes: This may be a more philosophical take on the prompt than you intended, but I hope you like it! Many thanks to M for betaing.



Charlie knew better than to believe anything people said while fucking. He'd heard all the great lies over the years: yours is the biggest cock I've ever seen; you're the only person I do this with; I love you; I'll leave my wife. None of those were true, except maybe the one about his cock, so Charlie didn't take the things Harry said during sex too seriously either.

Harry's head was thrown back as he rocked over Charlie's body, the lean muscles of his stomach flexing with every movement. There was a sheen of sweat over Harry's skin, and Charlie watched a droplet trickle down the line of Harry's jaw and over the hollow of his throat.

Harry was moving slowly, taking his time, perhaps even teasing a little because he knew Charlie's penchant for rough sex. Although they'd only been fucking for a couple of weeks, enough of those hours were spent in bed that they'd learned what each other liked. There were few things Charlie didn't like in bed, but right now he wanted to fuck Harry properly -- harder and faster than the lazy sway of Harry's body above him.

Charlie thrust, pressing his cock deep into Harry's body, and felt the clench of muscles around him. Harry's head came up and his eyes met Charlie's, his pupils blown so wide there was only a thin ring of green around the black. In Charlie's view - and he was something of a connoisseur - there weren't many things sexier than Harry when he was being fucked, stretched wide, and high on sheer sensation. As Charlie thrust again, Harry braced his hand on Charlie's chest and used it to press back onto his cock.

"You'll have to tell me about these sometime," Harry said, voice catching as Charlie pushed into him at an angle calculated to slide over his prostate.

Charlie glanced at where Harry was looking, at the splay of his fingers across the tattoo over Charlie's heart.

"Later," Charlie said, thrusting again, harder.

Harry didn't respond, just slid down onto Charlie's cock and fell into rhythm with his movements, so Charlie figured that was the end of it.

Later, as they sprawled on the bed, Harry said, "So, tell me about the tattoos."

Harry was lying with his chest nestled against Charlie's side, one hand thrown over Charlie's hip. There was no easy way for Charlie to disentangle himself.

"It's not much of a story," Charlie said defensively, and reached for his pack of cigarettes beside the bed.

He shook a cigarette out, put it in his mouth, and raised his wand to the tip to light it. The cigarette flared and Charlie inhaled, sucking the smoke into his lungs. All the keepers on the dragon reserve smoked to relax, especially after a close call, and the habit had stuck with him.

"I'd still like to hear about it," Harry said, watching him closely. "If you don't mind telling me."

Charlie took another drag, playing for time, and looked away.

Almost everyone he'd slept with asked about the tattoos, and he'd never yet answered. Charlie had fucked dozens of people, some of whose names he didn't know at the time and virtually none of whose names he remembered now. There was nothing inherently intimate about sticking his cock into someone, but there was a lot of personal history tied up in his ink.

Charlie opened his mouth to give his habitual evasive response, and then saw Harry's expression. Tension was visible in the set of Harry's mouth and the lines around his eyes, as though he was bracing himself for unwelcome news, and the realisation that his answer mattered brought Charlie up short. This wasn't just idle pillow-talk -- Harry cared about his reasons.

Harry's forehead was hidden beneath his just-shagged hair, but Charlie could clearly see the pink burn mark over Harry's heart, and the spidery white lines on the back of his hand. Each of those marks was a reminder of Harry's pain and sacrifice, and not one of them was voluntary. If anyone deserved an explanation for the way Charlie has chosen to decorate his skin then perhaps it was Harry, whose life had been defined by a lightning-shaped scar.

"What d'you want to know?" Charlie asked, taking another puff on the cigarette.

"Everything," said Harry, eyes fixed on Charlie's face. "Why you got them. What they mean."

Charlie exhaled, and watched the smoke dissipate. "Dunno where to start."

"Then start at the beginning," Harry suggested. "Tell me about your first tattoo."

There was no easy way of telling this story, not given the reason behind Charlie's last tattoo, but the beginning wasn't so bad. Perhaps he could do this.

"The celtic band on my arm was first. It was done by a Muggle, because the tattooist on Knockturn Alley was afraid of what mum would do to him when she found out."

The mattress shifted as Harry leaned closer to his arm to examine the tattoo, and Charlie took another puff.

"What does it mean?"

"Nothing much," Charlie replied, tilting his head up to blow a stream of smoke at the ceiling. "I was eighteen, I had five brothers and Merlin knows how many cousins, and when people looked at me they saw one of a hoard of indistinguishable Weasleys. I wanted to stand out. We all did it: Bill grew his hair and got the earring; Percy got glasses; the twins made a point of being identical; Ginny was the girl; and Ron... I think it used to mess with Ron's head that he didn't have a thing to make him different."

"Yeah," Harry said slowly. "I think it did."

For a moment there was a distant look on Harry's face, as though some old memory had suddenly clicked into place.

"So, did it work?" Harry asked, eyes focusing on Charlie again.

"In a way. It worked in my head, which was the main thing. Then I moved to Romania and there weren't any other Weasleys around."

Charlie waited for the question everybody posed, Did it hurt?, but Harry didn't ask it.

"Which one did you get next?" Harry said, instead.

"Bessie."

"The dragon? I didn't realise it was a specific dragon and not, er, just a breed. It's a Hungarian horntail, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Charlie replied, flicking the ash off his cigarette.

"The horntail from the Triwizard Tournament?"

"Her sister. Bessie's slightly better-tempered." Charlie said, and Harry grinned in shared recollection of how angry the Hungarian Horntail at the Triwizard Tournament had been. "In breeding season we had almost a hundred dragons at the reserve, but Bessie was the most fun."

"So you got the tattoo because she was your favourite?"

"In a way. Y'see, Bessie's smart for a dragon. Most of them have no interest in humans, except as potential food or a threat, but Bessie has a sense of humour. It took months before she trusted me, but then she'd relax when I was in her territory. She played tricks on me, sometimes, and I could've sworn she was laughing."

Charlie paused to take a drag on his cigarette, and Harry waited for him to continue.

"I wouldn't say we understood each other -- wizards and dragons are too different for that -- but we liked each other anyway. Sometimes, if you're lucky, the most strange and frightening creature can become a friend. Seemed like a lesson worth remembering."

"Sounds a bit like how Hagrid thinks," Harry said. "Except, well, Hagrid's not that great at knowing when to leave dangerous creatures alone."

"Hagrid's more of an optimist than I am," Charlie agreed. "He's good at his job, though. He knows more than people give him credit for."

The easy option was to stop here -- take the diversion of talking about Hagrid, or dragons, and avoid any mention of the freshly inked tattoo on his chest. It was tempting, but the most important thing Charlie learned working with dragons was that any job he started should be done properly. If he stopped now then Harry would only know half the story, and perhaps Charlie owed him more than that.

Charlie met Harry's eyes, saw the determination there, and remembered Harry's stubborn streak. Even as a kid, Harry had stood up to You-Know-Who and the Ministry of Magic, and Charlie had a feeling he wouldn't stop until he'd heard the full story. If Charlie had learned anything from his mum, other than that moving abroad was the only way to escape her Sunday dinners, it was that sometimes you had to submit to the inevitable.

"Can I see?" Harry asked, indicating Charlie's back.

Charlie balanced his fag on the ashtray, and rolled over so that his back was facing Harry. He felt Harry's fingers trace over the dragon tattoo that stretched across his shoulder-blades, and the slight tickling sensation as Bessie flicked her tail in response.

"The detail is amazing," Harry said quietly, as his thumb rubbed a warm circle on Charlie's back.

"It's based on a photo. It was done by a bloke called Damek in the magical quarter of Prague, and he's famous for animal tats."

"And you feel it when she moves?"

"Usually only if I'm paying attention to it. Some people don't like magical tattoos of anything living, because they think the movements will annoy them. My back's not that sensitive, so it doesn't bother me."

Harry's fingers continued to move gently across Charlie's back, as though petting the dragon. There was something oddly soothing about it.

"Then there's the tree," Harry said quietly.

"Yeah," Charlie said curtly, reaching for his cigarette. He took a deep drag on it, then blew out the smoke and watched it waft in the air above them.

Harry didn't say anything else, but his hand stroked steadily back and forth across Charlie's skin.

"I got it when Fred died," Charlie said, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. "The memorial at Hogwarts is so humourless and impersonal. I wanted... I wish I'd been there."

"I was there," Harry said quietly, "and there's nothing anyone could have done to stop it."

Charlie took a final puff on the cigarette, which was trembling slightly in his hands. He leaned forward to stub it out in the ashtray, and Harry's hand fell away.

"Can I ask..." Harry said, hesitantly. "Why the tree?"

"I taught him to fly underneath the apple trees at the Burrow. It's stupid - I doubt Fred even remembered it."

"It's not stupid. It's a way of showing you loved someone so much you'll always want to be reminded of them. I used to think my scar was about Voldemort, but it's not really - it's a mark of how much my mum loved me. The tree's like that."

Charlie's chest felt tight, and he couldn't seem to find any words. He felt an arm slide around his chest, and then the warmth of Harry's body against his back.

"I didn't get it before," Harry said. "I thought tattoos were...well, too much like the Dark Mark. We've all got scars from fighting Voldemort and the Death Eaters, me, Ron and Hermione, and I didn't know why anyone would want to leave a mark on themselves like that. But if it's about memories you want to keep..."

"I chose my tattoos," Charlie said, hearing the rasp in his voice. "They're part of me."

Harry was silent for a long moment, and then he said, "Dumbledore once told me that it's your choices that show what you're really like."

"Prob'ly not what he had in mind, but that's it exactly."

"I dunno," Harry said lightly, and Charlie could almost hear the smile in his voice. "Dumbledore used to wear some pretty wild suits. I wouldn't put it past him."

"I've gone for years without thinking about wrinkly tattoos, so thanks for that."

Harry laughed, and said "Don't worry - even when you're wrinkly, you'll still be pretty hot."

___________________________

"You're sure?" Charlie asked, wand poised over Harry's skin.

"Yes."

"You could still go to the tattooist in Knockturn Alley. He'd do a better job."

"I want you to do it." Harry said. "I trust you."

It was almost frightening to have this much trust placed in him: the task of creating the first mark Harry had ever truly chosen; of putting Harry's emotions and memories into ink that could never be washed away. It seemed incredible that anyone would willingly hand over so much power to another person.

Charlie remembered being nervous before the first tattoo he'd received, but it was nothing to how he felt now. Any mistake he made would be etched onto Harry's skin, as indelible as his lightning scar. Harry was silent, taking slow, even breaths, and Charlie tried to find some of that same calm.

He took a deep breath, then another, and said, "Atramentum."

The tip of his wand glowed brightly for a moment, and then the spark seemed to sink into the wood. Charlie touched the wand carefully to the nape of Harry's neck, where a line of hair had been shaved away and a small image was outlined.

Harry didn't flinch at the contact, even though it must have stung. In Charlie's experience the sensation of a tattoo was basically the same whether it was done with a needle or a wand: a scratchy pain that faded to a prickle as the endorphins kicked in. Tattoos close to a bone usually hurt more, and Charlie's dragon had been far more painful than the band on his arm. Harry's tattoo was right over his spine, and was likely to hurt a lot.

"Keep still," said Charlie, "and say if you want me to stop."

Very carefully, willing his hand not to shake, Charlie drew a curving bright red line downwards, and a matching one on the other side of Harry's vertebra. Then he moved the wand over a series of shorter lines that linked the first two strokes together in a simple, elegant shape: a phoenix with its wings outstretched in flight.

With a small stroke of his wand, Charlie drew the final sweeping arc of the phoenix's tail. He lowered his wand, and looked critically over the image. It wasn't a perfect copy of Luna's sketch and some of the lines were jagged or uneven, but the scarlet phoenix was clearly recognisable. A professional tattooist would have drawn it better, but this was as good as Charlie could make it.

"Finite atramentum," Charlie muttered. For an instant, both his wand and the phoenix glowed golden, and then the light faded away.

"That's it?" Harry asked, still motionless.

"Yeah," Charlie said, mouth dry. "That's it."

Harry raised his head, moving his neck gingerly from side to side.

"It'll be a bit sore and swollen for a few days," Charlie told him. "If it gets worse then use an antiseptic charm, but usually they heal all right. I can conjure a mirror if you want to see it."

"I don't need to see it to know that it's there," Harry said.

That explained the location, then. Harry couldn't see the back of his own neck, and Charlie doubted that many other people would get a chance to see it. Within a few weeks his hair would be long enough to cover the tattoo entirely.

Charlie preferred his tattoos to be public, a statement to the world, but he could see that endless staring and nosy journalists might make you feel differently. Perhaps it was like the reason some people wore sexy underwear beneath boring robes - a difference not in what others saw, but in how you felt about yourself.

Harry lifted his hand to his neck, and Charlie watched him run his index finger carefully over the new tattoo. For the next few days he would be able to feel the shape of the phoenix from the slight inflammation of his skin.

"Want to tell me what it means?" Charlie asked, keeping his tone light.

"Well..." Harry said, turning round to look at him. "It's a really long story -- too long to explain now. But the important bits are about choices."

"Fair enough," Charlie said, and grinned as an idea occurred to him. "Shall we christen it?"

"You mean...like a new bed?"

"Exactly," Charlie said, remembering how he had celebrated his first two tattoos with a threesome in a Muggle club near Charing Cross, and an orgy in Prague's most notorious leather bar. "Except there's no need to do it on a bed. There's lots of endorphins in your bloodstream after a new tat, so you might as well put them to good use."

"Okay," Harry said, a smile spreading across his face.

Charlie reached his hand out to wrap his fingers in Harry's hair, and tugged. Harry stumbled closer, letting himself be pulled, and Charlie kissed him. Harry's mouth opened beneath his, hot and greedy, and Charlie couldn't resist biting his lower lip.

"Doesn't hurt," Harry murmured against his mouth. "You can, ah, do it again if you want."

"That's the beauty of endorphins," Charlie said. He tightened his hand in Harry's hair and felt Harry's spine arch in response.

"Weren't you--" Harry broke off as Charlie interrupted him with a kiss. "Weren't you going to fuck me?"

"In a hurry?"

"Just today--" Harry said breathlessly. "You said -- endorphins."

Harry's breath caught as Charlie moved closer. He felt the hard line of Harry's cock against his thigh. Charlie lifted his head, and took in the sight of Harry: cheeks flushed, lips red from kissing, pupils blown wide. Without releasing his grip on Harry's hair, Charlie slid his thumb over the fresh tattoo, and felt Harry shiver in response.

"Turn around."

Harry turned on the spot, and Charlie guided him to the wall and leaned in so his chest pressed against Harry's back. The phoenix was only inches from his face, bright against the pink skin, and Charlie tried to memorise how it looked. Even if he and Harry never fucked again then Harry would always have that tattoo, and Charlie would always have the knowledge that he put it there.

Charlie blew over the sensitised skin around the tattoo, and saw the hairs rise on the back of Harry's neck. Harry squirmed, and pushed his arse back against Charlie's cock.

"Good thing you haven't got plans for tonight," said Charlie, reaching down to unbutton Harry's jeans, "because a tat with a long story behind it calls for a long, hard, thorough christening."

As Charlie wrapped his hand around Harry's cock, Harry let out an incoherent moan and bucked his hips forward. Charlie decided to take that as wholehearted agreement.