Archive of Our Own ^beta

The last place Harry Potter wanted to be was at the Weasleys’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. He wanted to be in Mallorca with the rest of the team, celebrating the end of the season. But the Weasleys were family—the only one he had left—and he couldn’t very well say no. 

So instead, he let Hermione reapply sunscreen to his back and shoulders and smiled at Bill and Fleur as they outlined the rest of the day’s activities: water volleyball, wizarding chess tournament, baking with Molly, dinner on the veranda in the evening. 

Bill, Charlie, and the rest of the Weasley kids had all pitched in to rent a lake house for the long weekend. It was quiet. Or, it would’ve been if the house hadn’t been stuffed full with more than a dozen people. 

And it wasn’t just the number of people. It was who some of those people were. 

Harry excused himself from volleyball and headed inside. He couldn’t bear to watch another drop of water run down Charlie’s abdomen. If he did, he would need to be restrained.  And if he were restrained, he’d need to explain to his best friend how badly he’d been crushing on his second-oldest brother for the better part of a decade. And well, Harry couldn’t admit that bit out loud.

Inside, he ran the tap and filled a glass of cold water. He just needed to take the edge off. If he could do that, he could spend the next few days around Charlie and not go insane with want. 

He climbed the stairs to his room and sorted through the mail that had been delivered while he’d been down by the lake. 

Two fan letters, straight into the rubbish bin. The Daily Prophet. And the newest edition of Wand Polishers. 

Harry quickly looked over his shoulder to make sure he was alone before wandlessly closing the door. He sat down on the bed, excitement coursing through his veins. 

Wand Polishers only came out once a quarter, and was well worth every fucking galleon he paid to keep his anonymity for it. He flipped open the cover, and there, on the first page, was a tastefully nude man. A bit small-framed for Harry’s taste, but the man moved from a perfectly clean state to being covered in artistic paint in a matter of seconds. 

He flipped the page and leaned back on the pillows, his hand sliding beneath his trunks. 

A few more pages in and Harry paused. One of his favourite models, an older man, sat with his head tilted back, simply palming his cock. The picture looped, with no release in sight for the man. Harry began stroking himself in tandem, allowing his own tension to slip away as he did. 

He pictured what it might be like to watch Charlie do the same, wondered what sounds his friend’s older brother might make. How big he might be. That thought spurred him on, and he squeezed his hand tighter around his pulsing cock. 

He flipped the page, once, twice, three times, and what Harry saw next nearly gave him a heart attack. 

There, on the page looking up at him, was Charlie fucking Weasley.

He whimpered. Or thought he did. Maybe he whispered Charlie’s name. Maybe he was silent. All he really knew was that Charlie was in a fucking porno magazine. 

A gay porno magazine. 

There Charlie was, getting his cock sucked by someone Harry now wanted to murder. Someone with messy brown hair who was apparently giving the ginger wizard a very good blowjob, by the looks of it. 

“Fuck,” Harry whispered as he began to stroke himself again in earnest. He pictured himself in the other man’s place, on his knees in front of Charlie. Taking his cock down his throat. Savouring what he might taste like, even now, covered in salt and sweat. 

The door opened, and Harry shoved the magazine under his pillow, withdrawing his hand from his trunks. “What the fu—”

“Sorry, mate, thought I heard my name, wanted to make sure you were okay.” A smirk danced across his face, and Harry knew he was breathing heavily still, even as his eyes roved over the man in his doorway. 

He mumbled something incoherent under his breath and tried to shove past Charlie on his way to the loo. Charlie stopped him with a hand on his chest. 

A tilt of his head. A long exhale. A question on his lips. “What were you doing in here, Golden Boy?”

Harry felt his cheeks heat, but he couldn’t admit it. Not to Charlie. Not to Ron. Not anyone. 

The only person who knew he harboured a crush on Charlie Weasley was the girl he’d let rub sunscreen on his shoulders earlier that afternoon. And he knew Hermione would take that to her grave, if for no other reason than she carried the same torch. 

“I was just checking my mail. Having a rest. It’s uh… really hot out there,” Harry managed to say. Charlie’s hand was still on his chest, his thumb had begun to move slowly back and forth over the sun-warmed skin. 

“Oh? Anything good in the mail today?” The older wizard stepped past him and into Harry’s space. Harry closed his eyes, trying to exude casual a demeanour and nonchalance. It was hard when the object of his desire was now filling his room with his very presence. 

Charlie sat down on the bed in the same position that Harry had just vacated. “This is nicer than my room. The bed is more comfortable. I think they’re punishing me by giving me the attic. Y’know, since I hardly come round.” 

Harry watched Charlie’s hands. “I’m sure that’s not the case.”

And then it happened. Charlie reached under the pillow and slid out the magazine Harry had so clumsily hidden. Looking over his shoulder to the younger man, Charlie looked amused. He hadn’t even bothered to close the magazine in his haste; it was still open to the page with Charlie on it. 

“I um– I don’t know how that got mixed into my mail. I’ve never seen it before. I’ll have to conta—”

“Harry, come here.”

Harry couldn’t help but draw closer, his cheeks surely the colour of his old Quidditch robes. Charlie pointed to the name on the cover of the magazine. Monty Prongfoot. 

“You know,” Charlie began. “I didn’t go to school with you. Or with your dad. But I seem to remember that certain Messrs Prongs and Padfoot were legendary a few years before I started. And they were undoubtedly important in your life. Seems a pretty easy name to track back to you, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes were still on the magazine. Still thinking about Charlie on the inside, when Charlie was sitting right next to him. The magazine opened, and he was looking down at it once more. 

A finger touched Harry’s chin, forcing him to look up and meet the icy blue eyes that belonged to the man next to him. “Do you like what you see, Harry?”

He forced himself to swallow, but did not look away. His hand burned with an old memory: I must not tell lies. The silence between them seemed to stretch on into an endless ether—one where time, space, even gravity itself did not tether Harry to reality. 

Finally, he answered. “Yes.”

Charlie’s eyes flashed with mirth, and Harry remembered why he had fallen for the man—the boy —all those years ago. Of all the brothers, Charlie was the most light-hearted, the kindest. Unlike the twins, who couldn’t take much seriously, Charlie had a depth to him that allowed his levity to shine. His laughter was a balm to Harry’s broken soul through the dark days of the war. When he came to the Burrow, he always hoped to catch a glimpse of Charlie. And when he did, it was like he’d been able to cling to a buoy in a raging storm. 

But that boy had left. He’d been away at the sanctuary for so long, and only in the last few years had he decided to take a teaching position at Durmstrang, much to his parents’ dismay. 

“Tell me what you like.”

Harry couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his chest. 

He liked it all. He liked the boy on his knees in front of Charlie. The way his fingers wove into the boy’s darker hair. He liked Charlie’s thick thighs, and the curly red hair that covered his entire body. He knew that many of these magazines used magic to enhance a wizard’s appearance, but he liked what he saw of Charlie’s thick cock, and how Charlie held the brunette’s chin in place as he buried himself deeper in his throat. 

He wanted that. He just knew he couldn’t have it. 

But then again, maybe he could. 

Charlie’s trunks were tight on his muscled thighs, and Harry placed his palm on his leg, his tan skin contrasting against the pale skin the Weasleys were known for. He squeezed lightly, teasingly. “I liked all of it, Charlie.” He held the other man’s gaze, letting his eyes drop momentarily to his mouth before flashing back to his eyes. “I like thinking about what it might be like if it were me, instead. That’s what I was really doing up here. I was watching your picture, thinking about being the one on my knees in front of you.”

Charlie exhaled a quick sigh of desperation. “Show me.”

Harry wasn’t sure he heard him right. “What?”

Fingers gripped Harry’s chin, not roughly, but enough to remind him that he was nothing but clay in Charlie’s strong hands. 

“Get on your knees, Potter.”

Charlie shucked his trunks, and what Harry had been sure was a magic trick only moments ago was now a certain reality thanks to the man in front of him. 

Harry wasted no time obeying Charlie’s command. He sank to his knees, his already rampant desire kicking up several notches when he saw the way Charlie looked at him. 

“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about you like this?” Charlie asked. He leaned forward, running a hand through Harry’s messy hair. “You’re Ronnie’s best friend, the gods-damned saviour of the world. And yet, all I have thought about for years is how I could make you mine.”

Harry laughed, the sound of it bouncing around the room like church bells. “Don’t be cruel, Charles.”

The grip Charlie had on his hair tightened. “You haven’t seen cruel, Harry.”

The words shot straight to Harry’s cock, and Charlie knew it. Charlie’s hand wrapped around his cock, and Harry’s eyes glazed over as he watched. “Do you know how many times I’ve wanked to the thought of you the last few years, boy?”

The bead of precum that collected on Charlie’s thick cock glistened in the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the curtains. Harry was unable to tear his eyes away from the sight in front of him, as Charlie drew the precum over Harry’s lips before pressing them open and pushing in. 

“Open your mouth, sweet boy.”

And so Harry did. He opened his mouth and let Charlie take control. He didn’t fight it. He had imagined this moment, and so many others like it, for years. 

Slack-jawed and sloppy. That’s what he wanted to be for Charlie. 

Not sweet. Not the bloody Saviour of the Wizarding World. 

No. 

Harry wanted to be used. To be ruined and to be brought so low he might consider hating himself for it before remembering that shame had no place among the living. Especially not in the bedroom. 

Charlie’s cock was thick, and he took as much of it as he could. The fingers in his hair twisted and tugged, and he pushed himself further down, trying to make Charlie feel as good as he could manage.

"Fuck,” Charlie whispered, as Harry used his hand to massage the wizard’s bollocks. He gazed up at the redhead, collecting spit and Charlie’s precum, and began to stroke him in earnest.

Harry slid his free hand beneath his trunks and began to stroke himself, but he heard Charlie tut and looked up. The older Weasley shook his head. “No, Harry, not yet.”

Harry nearly whimpered. He was painfully hard, but he wanted to please Charlie, so he removed his hand and focused on the man before him. With a jerk of his head, Charlie motioned to the bed. Harry rose, and Charlie grinned at him before pulling him closer. 

“Strip,” Charlie commanded.

Harry raised one eyebrow in question, but Charlie simply crossed his arms across his chest. “I can always leave if you’re not interested.”

“No, it’s fine,” he mumbled as he slid his trunks down his legs. Harry worried he might actually leave. “Of course I’m fucking interested.” 

Harry’s heart was pounding so hard in his chest, he was sure Charlie would hear it. For years, he had imagined this moment. And now that it was here, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Charlie whispered, taking a step towards Harry and closing the distance between them. “I can tell your mind is racing.”

Harry laughed nervously. “I–” He carded his hands through his hair. “I never thought this would happen. You’ve been… you’ve been a fantasy of mine since I was just a fucking kid. And now?”

“Harry?” Blue eyes met his, and Harry nodded. “I’m going to kiss you now, so please do shut up.”

The minute their mouths met, Harry abandoned all sense of self. He moaned, an indecent sound in the otherwise silent bedroom, and Charlie wrapped his arms around him, drawing him closer. 

Harry might’ve nipped at Charlie’s lip. He couldn’t be sure, because one moment he was in Charlie’s arms, and the next he was being guided onto the bed, a lubrication charm being cast over him. 

“Turn over,” Charlie whispered in his ear. 

Harry was more than happy to comply. He allowed Charlie to position him, face-first in the bed, his hands by his sides. A cool kiss pressed to his shoulder before the mattress sank with Charlie’s weight. 

And then he felt the delicious pressure pulsing at his entrance. Charlie bent a leg and straddled half of his body, one hand holding Harry’s right leg, the other guiding himself in. Another exhale, another push, and Charlie sank in even further. Harry thought he would certainly die. And then Charlie pushed in again. 

“Fuck , Harry, you’re so tight.”

Harry mumbled something into the bed, drool leaking out of the side of his mouth as Charlie began to rut into him. One hand came to rest on his hip, a possessive grip to hold him in place as Charlie took what he wanted. 

Harry was right. 

For all the years he’d spent in the Dursley’s cupboard.

For all the years he’d been gossiped about in the Prophet. 

For all the lies that had been told about him.

Harry had never known cruelty. 

As his hands remained at his side, unable to touch himself, all he longed for was release. He wanted to wrap his fingers around his cock and squeeze. He wanted to push into the bed and find an escape from Charlie, just for a moment. He needed something. 

Charlie didn’t let up, though. He leaned down and drew Harry’s head up, whispering in his ear. “You can take it. You wanted this, so take it. Take all of it.” 

It seemed like Charlie might be in some sort of trance, as he continued to speak. 

So bloody perfect. 

Gods, so tight. 

Going to keep you here all night, sweet boy. 

Wish I could keep your arse filled up just like this.

Love how you feel, Harry.

Harry was incoherent. The sounds of Charlie fucking him into the mattress, the burn of his cock stretching him in the most delicious way, the denial of his own orgasm. Harry was begging for it, and then he felt it. 

Charlie came with a stuttering groan, holding Harry’s hips still as he released inside of him. Harry was rung out, used, and still, he was left throbbing. 

As Charlie withdrew, Harry felt his spend leak out onto the bed as he flipped over. He reached for his cock, trying to find that release he longed for, but Charlie smacked his hand away. 

“You were so good, Harry. And if you continue to be good this afternoon, I’ll reward you this evening.” 

“You’re the cruellest man I’ve ever met, Charles.”

“I’ll remember that when I have you again later.”

Charlie rose from the bed and pulled his trousers back on. Before leaving the room, he turned back. “Hey, Harry?”

Harry was still on his bed, trying to make sense of the last thirty minutes. “Yeah?”

“Was I as good as your fantasy?”

He leaned up on his elbows, a smile stretching across his face. “Better, Charlie. You were much better.”

“You were too.”

Harry rolled his eyes and crashed back into the mattress. Before the door opened, he heard Charlie say one more thing. 

“Take the Quidditch coach position at Durmstrang, Harry. I know they’ve offered it to you.”

The door closed, and Harry ran a hand through his hair. He’d been made a proper mess. All he needed to do now was let Charlie clean up the pieces and put him back together. 

***

Two years later, Harry walks into a dark studio, unsure what to expect. Charlie told him the photographer was someone he trusted. 

That the photos wouldn’t be released. 

They were just for them. 

Harry sinks to his knees and opens his mouth. He lets Charlie fuck his face. Make a mess of him. Drool dripping down his chest. Fingers tugging at his hair. His face painted with Charlie’s cum. 

It’s what he wanks to later that night at Charlie’s command.