A gift for westernredcedar!
Author: ??? Giftee: westernredcedar Title: Crash and Burn Pairing/Characters: Percy/Charlie Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 6,182 Warnings: incest, angst, alcoholism, dirty talk, role playing Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's. Summary: All it had taken was one snifter of brandy, offered to him by a weary but resilient Scrimgeour, and within a matter of weeks, Percy was lost. Notes: For westernredcedar — you asked for Percy estranged from his family, and I sincerely hope this suits. It was a challenge capturing Percy in the midst of such a dire period, but it was also fun. The whole fic has a dark tinge, but I tried to keep the kinks fairly mild. *crosses fingers and hopes for the best* A million thank yous to emi for being so indulgent, and a lovely mod. I couldn't have done this without you!
The war had made Percy into a bona fide alcoholic.
Many employees at the Ministry were alcoholics, Percy found; the discovery came at first as a great shock, which fast turned to disappointment, and eventually lead to the smug satisfaction that Percy need never resort to such escapism to manage his job. That pride had kept Percy smug and sober for three years, through the Crouch debacle, all the way to covering up for the bumbling Fudge. A year of wheedling from Scrimgeour and Percy hadn't budged. Until the day the Death Eaters took over.
Well, that wasn't entirely accurate. Today was the first official day of Death Eaters controlling the Ministry, but they'd been there for weeks—months, even—and Percy had been assuaging his fears with the Devil's cure for what seemed like ages, now.
All it had taken was one snifter of brandy, offered to him by a weary but resilient Scrimgeour, and within a matter of weeks, Percy was lost.
Before, when things were clear cut and simple – earn top marks, become Head Boy, get a job at the Ministry – he'd abhorred the idea of drinking. It was something the weak-willed did to escape reality, and Percy was anything but weak-willed. He was always in control of his life. Until the war.
Percy got through his days on Scotch and grim determination.
Today was an especially difficult day. The Minister for Magic was dead. Percy threw back the last of his office supply of Scotch and quickly Apparated home. The Death Eaters would be removing the body soon, and he didn't want to be there when they did.
Percy's head pounded as he fumbled with his wand, slurred out the unlocking spell, and stumbled inside his flat. Everything was in its place—as much place as they had, among the mess (the alcoholic version of himself, Percy found, could be rather clumsy, and was more lazy than before)—but, still, nothing was in place. The Minister was dead. Percy had been there, and he didn't like to admit it, but he'd known it was coming, yet he'd done nothing to stop it. He blamed the drinking, but if he were honest with himself, he wouldn't have stopped them anyway. They'd have killed him, and he didn't want to die.
Percy moved quickly, if gracelessly, across the room to the table where he kept the liquor — he didn't bother with the pretense of a cabinet anymore — and picked up the nearest bottle. It didn't even cross his mind to use a glass; he tipped the smooth, amber liquid down his throat, right from the bottle. The alcohol might as well have been water, with the way it rolled down Percy's throat without burning, or without his even being able to taste it. He'd had, what? Three, four glasses today? And that was before the Minister had been murdered. Percy would double that, no doubt, within the hour.
"Today, my boy, is a day to drink. No protestations, just drink," Scrimgeour's voice thundered loudly in his head, the memory of that dark June day surfacing in Percy's mind.
He could practically feel the etched crystal of the glass Scrimgeour had pressed firmly into Percy's hand, cool and rough like the bottle he now held. Percy had nearly protested, but, indeed, the Minster had ordered him not to, so reluctantly he drank. It burned going down, but it soothed his jangled nerves, and that was precisely what he needed. Percy's voice shook as he spoke.
"Sir… they say Professor Snape is the one that did it, is that—"
"True?" Scrimgeour had shrugged. "I don’t know what's true anymore. Voldemort is back. Dumbledore is dead. And I am royally fucked."
Percy sputtered at the admission, the profanity, but Scrimgeour continued, unfazed. "Now, now Percy – don't waste good liquor. Drink up."
Dutifully, he had. Back in his flat, Percy lifted the bottle in a silent toast to his fallen superior. He and Scrimgeour had shared a glass every day as the post-Dumbledore world unfolded, though it had become two as the suspicion began to creep that they were not alone in the Ministry.
As Percy neared the bottom of the bottle, the liquid went 'thunk-a-thunk-a-thunk,' air bubbles and gravity doing their work. The sound reminded Percy of the sickening thud of the Minister's body as it hit the ground. Now his head thudded in echo: this one would be a migraine, surely, by morning.
His brandy spent, Percy plucked up a nearby rum bottle, and made way to the couch. The firm cushions sank just a fraction under his weight, and Percy burrowed back, trying to get as comfortable as he could. He knew he should have bought a couch better suited to leisure, but at the time he was buying his furniture set, he could have never imagined the change in life circumstances. The old Percy didn't laze about on the couch for hours — there was too much work to do — and, thus, the set was attractive and functional, but not exactly comfortable. Percy's weary body cursed his earlier lack of foresight.
This bottle of alcohol had a more distinctive taste, and, checking the label, he made a low, curious noise. Spiced rum? Where had this come from; it was hardly to Percy's straightforward taste. Percy wracked his brain. Must have been something Charlie had brought over.
"Oi, shove over little brother," Charlie's brusque tenor echoed somewhere in the back of Percy's mind. He tried to fix on to the memory. It had been, what? Six months ago? Definitely after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came back. Or Voldemort, rather. After Christmas. He'd not even told anyone where he was living, but there had been Charlie, pushing over the threshold like he owned the place.
"Happy housewarming," he'd said, shoving a bottle into Percy's arms. Spiced rum.
Ah, yes, definitely from Charlie, then. He took another swig.
Technically Percy was estranged from his family – he ignored his father at the Ministry, sent back his mother's Christmas jumpers and generally tried to convince himself he was better off without them. They'd always treated him with a certain nonchalance – he wasn't sporty, strong or funny like his other siblings; he was smart, yes, but no more clever than Bill or Charlie, apparently, since his accomplishments never made much of a dent. It was hard to get attention when someone from your family had been there before you.
Percy bristled – he was bitter, he knew, but he was justified in it – they'd not even been proud when he got his job with the Minister. They thought it was a ploy to get to his family, as if he hadn't worked his arse off for seven years at Hogwarts and a year in Crouch's office in order to get where he was.
And what more – they'd all taken his shunning them so easily! Yes, his mother had written and sent gifts, but his father made no real effort, despite seeing him every day, and none of his siblings wrote, or visited. Never mind that none of them knew where he lived. They hadn't even tried to find out. Except for Charlie.
"You made mum cry at Christmas, you ponce," Charlie's voice bubbled up in Percy's mind again, from that chilly February night at his flat. He'd sounded angry, of course, yet there was that brotherly affection underneath it, and despite his best efforts, Percy had felt himself deflate. God it was good to have family again. Not that he'd let that show on the surface. No, he'd shown Charlie a stern face as he surveyed his flat.
"Bloody hell, it's clean in here," he'd continued, raising an eyebrow at Percy's admittedly spic and span living quarters. Percy didn't answer. "Not like I should be surprised." Charlie lips quirked in amusement as he sat himself down on Percy's couch. He made a face, but didn't say anything. "Now let's talk about this not talking to Mum at Christmas mess..."
...And Charlie had berated him for two hours about what a prat he was being, but how they were brothers, and they had to make an effort.
That first evening was strained, and when Charlie left, Percy was so mad he threw a hex at his kitchen table, which had been sitting crooked ever since. But it was a starting point, and since then, Percy had seen Charlie every other weekend, like clockwork. They spoke about everything and nothing – comparing Scrimgeour to Fudge, discussing Quidditch scores, begging the question of whether a sixteen year old could save them all. They avoided talking about their family after that first night or, more like, Charlie brought it up and Percy refused to discuss it.
But things had really come to a head two weeks ago.
"Fucking hell, I'm knackered," Charlie had trundled in, not even bothering with pleasantries. He plopped right down onto Percy's couch, grimacing. "I hate your couch. Fucking uncomfortable."
"You've mentioned it," Percy replied, wryly, already reaching for the Scotch. "Drink?"
"Oh, yes. Can't believe you're so easy about the stuff, nowadays. Little brother Percy. Perfect Prefect Percy…"
"Shut it. You know I hate thoshnamesh," Percy slurred.
Charlie quirked an eyebrow. "Someone's already got started on the good stuff."
Percy shrugged. "The Minister and I had a little."
"Just a bottle."
Charlie sniggered. "S'more like it. Man after my own heart. Well, give it here." Percy handed over the glass, then seated himself down next to Charlie, his own glass clutched firmly in hand.
"So why was your day so hard, then?" Percy asked, swirling the alcohol in his glass idly.
"Plannin'. Though not sure I can tell you. Order business."
Percy bristled. "I do work for the Minister, you know. On the good side."
"Yes, but your man was against Dumbledore. He may be keen to join our side now, but, well. You and I both know it's… ill-advised for Scrimgeour to know too much."
"It's not like I'm going to tell him!"
Charlie sent him a sideways look. "You wouldn't have too, Perce. Come on."
Percy fell silent. He was right. There were Death Eaters in the Ministry and Percy wasn't stupid – he couldn't cast a proper Occlumens. Order information was safer away from his mind. He hated that part.
"I think Dolores Umbridge is working with them."
Charlie's eyebrows disappeared up into his fringe. Percy forged on.
"I've been running reports for her. At first she told me she was compiling lists of Muggleborns for the Hogwarts board. Back in an advisory capacity, you know? But I'm not stupid. They've gone missing, some of them."
"It's not your fault." Charlie sounded as if he believed it, too.
"Yes it is."
"You need to get better at Occlumency, brother," was all Charlie would answer to that. He said it whenever he wanted to tell Percy something he shouldn't.
Umbridge. Percy snapped out of the memory, shivering as a clap of thunder pealed outside. She'd come to him today, asked him to fetch her some papers. Rather conveniently, it was in that time that the Death Eaters took their last meeting with Scrimgeour.
Umbridge was one of them, and Percy was running favors for her.
He was working for the bad guys.
What would Charlie say, now that something Percy had done, simply because it was easy, had absolutely led to someone's death? But, no. Charlie loved him. Charlie was like him.
He was back in the memory. He was sat right where he was now, just as drunk out of his mind. For Percy it was his second bottle of the day, and presumably about the same for Charlie. It was a dark conversation, the whole thing—whatever Charlie and the Order were working on was important, probably involving Harry—and in the end it devolved into a pity party, with Percy leading the charge.
"I'm so pathetic. Perfect Percy. Always doing the right thing. And what does it get me? Bollocks. I'm alone, and nothing but a pathetic… poof."
Charlie had nearly spit up on himself. Percy grimaced, bracing himself for the worst.
"What do you know?" Charlie hiccoughed, a grin on his face far too goofy for the somber occasion; Percy bristled. "Two poofs in one family. Knew we had something in common," Charlie had smirked — smirked, ever so wickedly – and Percy let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.
"You… I… what?"
"I like cock, little brother. At least, that's what I mean when I say 'poof', unless it has some other meaning I'm not aware of."
"No, no, that's—um, yeah, that is what I—" Percy felt his cheeks flush.
"Don't be embarrassed, Perce. We all like a nice rogering every now and then. Well, blokes like you and me. Bill? I could not, for the life of me, get him to try it. Brave Gryffindor, my arse." Charlie sniggered. "Arse." No, wait, Charlie giggled, which set Percy off. It was pretty funny, really.
"Speaking of Bill…" Charlie began, and Percy froze. Oh, right. They didn't talk about the family. "You have to stop being a prat, Percy. Come to the wedding."
"I—" Percy didn't know how to answer that. He wanted, to, really, but how could he? After everything that had happened with his family?
"If you come, I promise I'll invite one of my hot friends from Romania, tell him about you. Guaranteed wedding shag."
"I don't know...'
"Don't be a fucking prat. You're coming. Friday, August 1st, at the house."
"I—okay," Percy had conceded, his mind on anything but Bill's wedding. Best to get Charlie to shut up about that, so they could talk about more pressing matters. Mainly that Charlie liked—Percy gulped—cock.
The thunder rolled outside, and Percy's cock throbbed at the memory of him and Charlie dishing about their sex lives. Or, okay, Percy's lack thereof. It had been thrilling, and also somewhat comforting, talking about something like that with Charlie, like real brothers. He'd always imagined it was the kind of stuff Charlie and Bill talked about—
That was today. But Percy had got so swept up in running this report for Umbridge (Percy's stomach turned) and then Death Eaters storming the office, that he'd forgot. Charlie would kill him.
Percy took another swig of rum.
Outside, a great boom sounded, followed by a resounding crash. A storm was moving in, and Percy shivered despite the August heat.
Boom, boom, boom.
Percy groaned as his head throbbed in time with the thunder outside. He needed a headache potion, but he was pretty sure he was out.
Boom, boom, BOOM.
God that was loud, and it sounded really close...
BOOM, BOOM, BANG.
Blast. That's because it wasn't thunder. It was coming from his front door.
Percy groaned getting to his feet, and shuffled over to the door. He knew who it was. Only two people knew where he lived, and one of them was dead.
He'd barely got the door open an inch before Charlie surged forward, grabbed hold of Percy's shirt and slammed him back against the wall. The door banged shut behind them.
"Ooompf," Percy let out a great exhalation of air. His entire body smarted from the sudden, hard contact, but his lower back and arse in particular throbbed unpleasantly. Charlie's fingers gripping his arms tightly, effectively pinning him against the wall, didn't help matters—his headache returned, full-force, and Percy scrunched up his face.
Seemingly oblivious to Percy's discomfort—or perhaps he just didn't care — Charlie dug his fingers in tighter, and ground out, jaw tight, "You. Weren't. There."
"Your own brother's wedding day. You fucking promised, Percy."
"I know, I know—please, Charlie, you're hurting me." Percy's muscles began to burn where Charlie pinned him to the wall, and he was starting to feel dizzy.
Charlie's teeth clicked as he clenched his jaw tight, then released Percy. He stumbled over toward the liquor and slurred, "You'd better havesa goodstuffs."
"You're drunk," Percy spat, following Charlie and massaging a bruised shoulder blade with one hand.
"And you're not?" Charlie rounded on him, eyes blazing, and Percy shrunk back. Touché.
"So what piss poor excuse do you have this time? Too busy at work? Afraid to make Mum cry? Fuck, I don't know, off shagging some guy in a back-alley? What was important enough for you to miss your own brother's wedding?"
"The Minister is dead."
Charlie merely shrugged.
Percy pressed on. "I was there when it happened."
"It happened long after the wedding. That's no excuse."
"I—" Percy's throat closed up, and he bit down a sob. "I'm sorry!"
Charlie seemed to give up on his anger. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he out a heavy sigh as he sat himself on the arm of Percy's couch. "I'm tired of this, Perce. Things are real now—life and death—and I can't keep coming round, hoping maybe you'll do the right thing. George lost an ear last week. Did you know that? Death Eater's curse took it right off. What if he'd died? Where would you have been? Come on, Percy."
Oh God, George. Percy's chest constricted suddenly, and he had to fight to suppress a sob. Charlie was right. He was a fucking prat, and completely useless. But, wait a second—no, he wasn't! He was the bloody junior undersecretary to the Minister for Magic. The alcohol made him bold, and his idea just came tumbling out.
"Let me help, then. Spy, for the Order. The Death Eaters, they trust me, and--"
Standing with a slight wobble, Charlie snapped to attention, his mouth tightening in a firm line. "No. Absolutely not."
"Just because... no. You just can't."
"But I'm the perfect person to do it. I work in the Minister's office, I already have an idea of who's working for You Know Who, and they all think I'm completely cut off from you guys. They'll never suspect..."
"You really think you'll still have a job in the Minister's office, now that he's dead?" Charlie asked with blunt efficiency.
"Yes." Percy's mood darkened. "They would have killed me today if they were done with me. They know I'm a Ministry man. I can be useful." Disgusted with himself as he was, Percy knew it was the truth. He had to spy for the Order, or else he was no better than the Death Eaters. Who knew how much damage his compliance had already done.
"I don't know..."
"Oh, come on Charlie. Don't think I'm stupid -- I got as many NEWTs as you did. I catch your meaning every time you tell me to get better at Occlumency. You lot have been itching to use me ever since you showed up here. Don't pretend it was all just out of brotherly affection." Percy's stomach dipped as he said it. It sounded good and tough, but he would be lying if he said he didn't hope Charlie was there just for him. Didn't mean he was blind to his own usefulness, however.
"If they catch you, they'll kill you, Percy," Charlie said quietly.
"Then I won't let them catch me."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not? I'm just as much a Gryffindor as you lot are, gallivanting around with the Order. If anything, I'm cleverer."
"It's not just about being clever, there's--" Charlie's expression darkened, and he took another swig of alcohol. Percy hadn't even realised he was holding a bottle.
Charlie's jaw clicked, and he seemed to be ruminating over something. Finally he spoke. "Suck me."
"Wha—what?" Percy shook his head, as if to clear the false sound. He must have been hallucinating, under the influence of the alcohol. Cause he could have sworn Charlie had said—
"Suck my cock. First lesson in spying—you have to be willing to do anything to maintain your cover."
"I fail to see how this is an applicable situation," Percy stumbled over the bigger words, but felt he got his point across. Charlie, however, did not appear moved.
Charlie pushed down on Percy's shoulder with one hand and Percy found himself acquiescing, getting down on his knees. So much for controlling his motor skills—he was too far gone.
"Suck me, Percy."
"I—" Percy broke off, further protestations failing to make the journey from his logic centers to his mouth. Charlie began to undo his belt, then the zip of his trousers, and Percy merely kneeled, mouth agape, trying to make sense of this. He was confused, but he was also incredibly turned on, which in turn was making him even more confused. Why was his brother asking—no, demanding—that he suck his cock? He knew they were both drunk, but this was just beyond—
"Mmmpf!" Percy let out a muffled cry as Charlie nudged the head of his cock against his lips. His surprise didn't stop him from sucking him in, however, as his instincts took over and his tongue sought the taste it craved.
God, Charlie tasted amazing—like skin and sweat, and that distinctive male musk that Percy hated to admit he loved. He hadn't sucked many cocks, but the few men he had pleasured had responded enthusiastically, and he hoped they weren't just being kind. 'Eager cockwhore,' he believed one of them had called him. Percy flushed deeply. But he was, and he moaned a sigh as Charlie's cock slipped further into his mouth.
"That's it, little brother," Charlie murmured, "yeah... want to fuck your tight, hot mouth..."
Arousal shot down Percy's spine, right to his cock. God, those words, spilling from his brother's mouth... Percy swirled his tongue round the tip of Charlie's cock, relaxed his throat, taking Charlie in. Charlie began to fuck Percy's mouth, grunting with each push of his hips. Charlie was fucking Percy's mouth, fucking Percy... wait, no—Percy's head seemed to clear, if momentarily. He pulled back.
"Wait, wait—Charlie, no, I can't do this." Percy wiped aggressively at his mouth, trying to get the (delicious) taste of Charlie's cock off his lips.
"What are you going to do when it's a Death Eater that's got you on your knees? Beg off?" Charlie snarled down at him, prick bouncing suggestively with each harsh word. "Best case scenario, they'll beat you into submission. Worst case scenario? They peg you for a spy, and they kill you, if you're lucky. They'll use you against your family and everyone you love first, then kill you, if you're not."
"I don't believe you," Percy stammered, his heart racing, his dick throbbing as he watched Charlie aggressively palm at his erect cock. "You're, you're...drunk. And horny, and you just want to get off—" Percy ignored the part of his brain that felt the same.
"Yes, I'm horny. And, fuck yes, I want your mouth on me, but I'm not making this up to get a free blow job. These are things that really happen. I—" Charlie's voice broke, and he worried his bottom lip. "Just trust me, they do." Charlie dropped the aggressive stance, and his voice softened. "Come on, Perce. Do this with me, and you'll be able to do anything. Doesn't get much worse than fucking your own brother."
Doesn't get much better, a voice at the back of Percy's countered. He swallowed, hard, and contemplated his brother's cock before him. He offered a sound, logical argument. Once you've sucked off your own family, committed... incest (he flinched), your boundaries were pretty much reached. Could he get down on his knees for some Death Eater? Let them fuck him? He didn't know. Could he do this?
He reached forward, taking Charlie's cock gently in his hand, and guiding it to his mouth. The sound of Charlie groaning as Percy engulfed him worked on Percy like an aphrodisiac, every inch of him singing with arousal. Sweat trickled slowly down his spine, temple, collected in the crease of his knee as he kneeled before Charlie, working his cock down his throat. His blood thrummed through his veins, head swimming dizzily, and Percy just let himself float, drunk and horny and happy, and scared as fuck. He worked his jaw harder, as if to maximise Charlie's pleasure meant diminishing his fear.
"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, you are too good at this. Where—" Charlie broke off in a groan as Percy sucked particularly hard, "oh God, where did you learn this? I never thought—. God, you're such a good little cocksucker, Perce. So, so good."
Charlie threaded his fingers through Percy's hair, massaging his scalp, which Percy met with a low hum of pleasure. In turn, the vibrations from his throat did something Charlie liked, and his hips to jerked, violently. Percy's muffled attempt to cry out only pulled Charlie deeper down his throat, and in short order Charlie was coming, Percy swallowing reflexively, trying not to choke.
"Fuck," Charlie said slowly, succinctly, and Percy couldn't help but agree. He swallowed the last of the bitterness and gently pulled back, Charlie's cock releasing from his mouth with a wet 'pop.'
Tugging on Percy's shirt collar, Charlie pulled Percy up, right into a searing kiss. Startled and embarrassed—his mouth tasted of Charlie's come!—Percy pushed back against Charlie's chest, to no avail. His brother was stronger than he was—always had been—and held him fast.
"God, the taste of my come on your lips..." Charlie groaned, licking and nibbling at Percy's lips.
Oh, God, Charlie liked it? Percy's dick throbbed its approval, and the thought of Charlie, taking Percy right here, up against the wall, flitted into his mind.
"I want you to fuck me." It slipped out before Percy could stop himself, all inhibitions wasted away by that point. Charlie froze, and pulled away.
A lightening strike lit the flat in an eerie yellow light, and Percy realised, belatedly, he hadn't turned any lights on. Charlie looked like a frightened rabbit, in the half-light.
"I--I, I'm sorry!" Percy sputtered, feeling his face burn. Why did he say that? "I just--I thought. You know, in the name of preparation..." That was a flimsy excuse, Charlie was never going to believe him, he'd think he was a nutter, a pervert—
Percy did a double-take. "What?"
"I said 'okay.' I know you're no virgin, but you are right... you need to be prepared for anything."
"Charlie, I didn't mean--" The protest made it no further past his lips, as Charlie silenced him with a single spell. He mouthed without sound, breath rasping uselessly, asking Charlie what the hell he was doing. Why was he pushing him towards the couch? Charlie met Percy with his own silent answer, as he unfastened Percy's trousers and coarsely pushed them down over his hips, then bent Percy over the back of that practical, functional, unrelenting, goddamn couch.
"Using your mouth on me wasn't enough for you, huh? You want me to fuck you? Ram my cock so deep inside your arse you can't sit for a week? You're such an eager cockwhore, Weasley," Charlie growled, and Percy's erection returned full-force, as he realised what he was doing. Role-playing. Fuck; it was even hotter than the blow job.
Percy heard rather than saw Charlie spit into his palm, and even though he was expecting it, drew a sharp breath as two slick fingers probed his hole, though only briefly. Then he heard a spell he'd only heard about, but never used, as Charlie used magic to get himself hard again. He heard the wet smacking noise of Charlie slicking himself with spit.
"Because you've been a good little under-secretary today, I'm not taking you raw. Keep up the good work, or..." Charlie trailed off, his tone menacing, and Percy shivered. Where had Charlie learned this? He was uncannily good at it. The hairs on the back of Percy's neck stood on end as he imagined a Death Eater behind him, pushing him over his desk, taking him roughly. His erection flagged. No, that wouldn't do—he was up for spying, he'd do anything it took, but he didn't want that.
But he wanted Charlie. He focused on the sound of his voice, both familiar and alien to him.
"Gonna fuck you so hard. Bet you've got a nice, tight arse, pathetic little blood traitor that you are. Who would want to fuck you?"
Percy's breath caught in this throat as he felt the blunt tip of Charlie's cock prod his hole. He was glad Charlie had stolen his ability to make noise, as otherwise he would have let out the most undignified wail as Charlie pushed none-too-gently inside. God, it burned.
"Mmmnnnn, you're just as tight as I thought you'd be. Who else has fucked this arse, huh?"
Despite the rough action, Charlie still seemed to be Charlie underneath it all, and he gave Percy a moment to adjust—a kindness he was sure a real Death Eater wouldn't have offered. But the words continued absolutely filthy.
"I bet you like it when they come inside you." Charlie's hot breath teased his earlobe. "Like to feel it dribbling down your thighs, after they're done using you."
Yes, Percy's mind screamed, and he bit down on his lip, hard, as Charlie finally began to move. It was slow-going, at first, and Percy would feel every ridge and pulse of Charlie's cock as it dragged in and out, just a few inches, though they felt like miles. Charlie grunted with frustration, the friction apparently doing nothing for him, either.
"Make your mouth useful, Weasley, and give me a bit more lube," Charlie prompted him, presenting his cupped hand in front of Percy's mouth. Gathering up all the saliva he could, Percy spit roughly into his brother's hand, reviling at how base it was, fucking on spit and fury.
But the added lube made all the difference, and Percy felt the first spike of pleasure run up his spine as Charlie slid more easily inside him. Their fucking was shaky at first, clumsy, alcohol-heavy limbs struggling to move in tandem. Then, finally, like a well-oiled grind, they fell into a fluid rhythm, Percy canting back into every push of Charlie's hips. And for the first time, Charlie was quiet, except for the odd grunt, as they moved.
Boom, boom, boom
Outside it thundered, and with each heavy clamour, Charlie pounded into him with syncopated jabs. Percy whined uselessly as Charlie, whether intentionally or not, brushed against a spot inside of him that made Percy's vision go hazy, and every limb turn to jelly. He didn't have to make a sound for Charlie to notice how much more shamelessly Percy ground back into him, and he answered him with more hot words hissed in his ear.
"Is this how you got to the top, Weasley? Let powerful men fuck you over their desks? Suck them off while taking dictation? No wonder you made it to the Minister's office so quickly."
The words stung—he knew they were playing roles, but they felt rooted in truth. Did Charlie really think that? He was sure some people did. But he'd never—he would never… Percy groaned, or least as much as he could do without sound, as Charlie found his prostate again.
"I should send a memo round," Charlie rasped in Percy's ear, nipping at his earlobe intermittently. "Tell everyone what a good fuck you are. How tight your ruddy arse is. The Dark Lord himself might even like a turn…"
Percy shivered despite himself. This was too much. He couldn't—couldn't—oh fuck!
Charlie maneuvered his hand round Percy's torso and grabbed hold of his cock, working it with his hand at an insistent tempo. Percy grit his teeth. He wouldn't come yet. Couldn't come yet. It was too soon, he needed this to last…
Sweat poured down his temple, soaking his brow, and he felt his glasses slip down his nose. Clumsily, Percy maneuvered a hand up to his face to push them back up, but managed to upset his balance in the process. He fell forward, face hitting the unrelenting cushions hard, glasses digging painfully into the bridge of his nose. The new angle this produced was exquisite agony, Percy's prostate sparking on every stroke, and he could feel himself teetering on the edge.
"Come on, Perce," Charlie murmured, tone slipping, just a bit. "Come for me; wanna lick you clean… bet you taste amazing."
Percy gurgled in the back of his throat, Charlie's sweat-slick hand milking him. He never broke stride, pummeling Percy's arse with the same insistent speed as his hand. Had he not been silenced, Percy would have shouted the building down as the force of his orgasm hit. Light exploded behind his eyes, blindingly white, and Percy's entire body shook from the overwhelming sensation. He'd barely had an opportunity to come down from his orgasm before the comfortable weight of Charlie on his back, inside him, disappeared, and he found himself flipped round.
"Finite Incantatem," Charlie murmured, Percy's voice returning just in time for him to emit an undignified squeak as Charlie engulfed his prick. "Mmmmmmnsogood," Charlie moaned, licking and sucking the last of Percy's orgasm from him.
"I…you…Charlie…" Percy muttered incoherently, then hissed as Charlie sucked on his over-sensitive cock. Charlie pulled away, and Percy's head cleared. He'd not come.
"You didn't…" Percy started, looking down, and found that Charlie was finishing himself off, wanking himself furiously with one hand.
"If I were a real Death Eater—" Charlie broke off in a moan, "I'd be coming on your face, calling you my Muggle-loving whore. Instead—ah, ah!" His face contorted as he came into his hand. "Instead I'll just have you clean my fingers."
Percy accepted them gladly, taking great care to suck every last remnant of Charlie's come from his soiled hand, moaning as he did so. God, Charlie was filthy. And Percy had just had the best fuck of his life, which he supposed made him a bit of a pervert, as well.
Slowly and shakily, Charlie stood, casting what Percy thought was a guilty look, though he couldn't be sure, given the dim. What they had done was bad enough, but the way he took him, nearly raw, the things he whispered in Percy's ear. Charlie seemed to possess an eerie degree of knowledge of Death Eater colloquialisms, and it made Percy wonder. He cleared his throat, and began to pull himself up from the couch.
"That was… well, realistic, to say the least." Percy chuckled half-heartedly, the sound hollow, even to his ears. He moved slowly to Charlie's side, and placed a hand gingerly upon his arm. "How did you know what to say… what to do? Charlie... have you been spying, did that—" Even in the half-light, from the side, Percy could see Charlie grimace.
"I have to go," said Charlie suddenly, jerking away.
"Oh, okay," Percy said in a small voice. Shit. Why did he say that? Clearly it wasn't something Charlie wanted to talk about, though Percy had never imagined he could be right. Charlie must have been spying for the Order, and these things probably happened to him. Percy stomach turned at the thought.
"Mum is very upset, I have to—I'll owl you yeah? Yeah." Charlie sounded like he was trying to convince himself, more than anybody.
Charlie looked around the living room, trying to get his bearings, eventually realising his dick was still hanging out of his pants. Putting that to rights, he patted himself down, met Percy in a last, tormented glance, and headed for the door. Halfway out the door, Charlie turned, casting one last glance at Percy, and said, "Don't forget to brush up on your Occlumency, yeah?"
Percy nodded dumbly, and before he could speak, the door slammed shut, and Charlie was gone. He supposed that last statement meant he was vetted to spy for the Order, now. Never mind he had to destroy his relationship with Charlie to get there. The price to pay in war, yes?
Percy hobbled over to the liquor supply, arse smarting with each move. All that was left was that damned spiced rum of Charlie's. Percy took a fortifying swig before moving back into his bedroom. He needed a full night's sleep, and a trip to the liquor store was in order. The next months, possibly even years, would require a lot more of the Devil's cure, if Percy was to be of any use.
That night, Percy dreamed of men in dark cloaks, whispering vile things in his ear as they fucked him. Sometimes, they would turn into Charlie, and for that moment, Percy felt safe. They took Charlie sometimes, too, and Percy watched: horrified, turned-on, curious. Percy watched, and dreamed, and woke, then fell into the dreams (or nightmares) again.
Outside, the thunder boomed and the lightning set the city alight. At last, rain tumbled down, and despite it, everything burned.