A New Routine

Remus had never noticed Charlie Weasley before, at least not any more than any other Order member. His lust – fascination, he called it in his mind, for the lack of a more proper euphemism – came about abruptly, the day Bill charmed all of Charlie’s clothes and linens to march into the foyer and dance in front of Mrs. Black. Her shrieks had filled the house, followed shortly by Charlie’s when he finished his shower only to find he had naught to cover him.

Remus had been in the kitchen with Molly, trying desperately to concentrate on his breakfast rather than the screams and crashes and peals of laughter that threatened to shake the house on its foundations. Bill had barged in, red from laughter and exertion, and he was followed almost immediately by Charlie, shouting the sort of things that Molly had almost certainly never heard her second eldest shout before.

Charlie, wearing nothing but a well-placed pillow, had wrestled Bill to the floor and gotten in one solid punch to his brother’s shoulder before Molly had broken them up. The two men had scrambled to their feet, Bill stifling his chuckles when he could and Charlie holding the pillow over his hips, looking quite thoroughly embarrassed.

Remus had found his pulse rushing, and he had looked away quickly, until Molly had sent the two off. That was when Remus had looked up, caught a glimpse of Charlie’s strong back and tight arse and muscular thighs, and his interest began.

Charlie wasn’t built thin and tall like Bill or Percy or Ron. He was shorter, stockier, more powerful, with his broad shoulders and muscled limbs. He was dark under the freckles, but Remus hadn’t seen any distinctive tan lines, and that detail led him to distraction. His hair was darker, too, than most of the Weasleys, and his eyes were a piercing, distracting shade of blue-gray. He had burn scars, shiny and slick-looking, on either arm and down one thigh, these imperfections only adding to his appeal. But the most intriguing thing Remus noticed about Charlie Weasley was his tattoo.

It was a dragon, silly as that seemed for anyone but Charlie. Its wings spanned Charlie’s shoulder blades, the claw-tipped tops threatening to curl over to Charlie’s front. The dragon’s forked tongue rested on the nape of Charlie’s neck, flicking just below the base of his short-cropped hair. Its spine aligned with Charlie’s, each spike accenting another disc, until finally, just above the crease of Charlie’s magnificent arse, the tail curved down across one firm globe, then around and up to end with one last flick inside the valley created by the jut of his right hipbone.

Remus wanted to explore the tattoo with his hands and mouth, wanted to know if it felt as real as it looked, though he hadn’t seen it move. He wanted to see it over and over, count every scale and know every detail; he didn’t like relying on his memory of the one glimpse to satisfy him.

He fell asleep every night only after imagining his tongue sliding over Charlie’s broad back and down, down his spine, then rolling him slowly over to trace the dragon’s tail. He imagined sucking on Charlie’s sharp hipbone, letting his tongue slide down into the crease between groin and thigh, lapping at the salty sweat gathered there and tasting Charlie underneath.

He imagined what Charlie’s skin must taste like, as Remus slid his hand under the sheet, grasping tightly at his own cock. He imagined touching and tonguing Charlie’s scars, and he moaned, thumb sweeping over the head before he slid his hand back down. He imagined how Charlie got to be one single tone all over, imagined him basking in golden sunlight, gloriously bronzed and gloriously nude and gloriously beautiful, imagined watching Charlie touch himself.

He imagined wrapping his mouth around Charlie’s cock, imagined straddling Charlie’s chest and Charlie’s tongue inside him, wriggling and thrusting and rubbing him raw, imagined turning to settle his weight on Charlie’s cock, riding him harder and harder until Charlie came. He imagined turning again, making Charlie suck and lick him clean again, and here, alone in his bed, Remus felt his balls draw tight, his stomach clench.

He imagined flipping Charlie onto his stomach, wrists bound and muscular back straining so that the dragon looked as though it could really fly, and taking him, rough and hard and fast. He imagined Charlie begging so hard he had to be gagged, imagined fucking him so hard that Remus’ hips were black and blue, and Charlie’s arse was a mottled mass of bruise.

Remus came then over his own hand, alone in the dark of his room, and he sighed, reaching for his wand to clean himself up. Since he had seen it, this was Remus’ routine, and it would haunt him until the night Charlie climbed into his bed, whispering, “I know, I know.”