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It's Charlie mate Dennis, a Hufflepuff from two years ahead of him at Hogwarts who also worked by his side at the Dragon preserve in Romania, who first puts the idea in Charlie's head.

"What a mouth on him, eh?" Dennis yells above the noise of the party they're at. Across the room Draco has obviously just finished dressing-down some poor lad trying to chat him up. "Must be great fun."

Charlie knows Dennis well enough that he can very nearly hear the "Phwaor!" in his voice, so the implication is fairly obvious. But he still can't keep himself from asking, "How do you mean?"

"Bet he's got plenty to say in the bedroom," Dennis answers cheerfully before waggling his eyebrows.

Charlie's quite familiar with Dennis's keenness for partners who liked to talk during sex. Hours of mucking out dragon enclosures and long days of training the beasts they watch over often give rise to those kinds of conversations. Dennis's current girlfriend, a genius in matters of dragon breeding with an expertise in Common Welsh Greens (met around the same time Draco and Charlie took up together when Charlie returned to England), has been described as "a proper screamer" with plenty of appreciation and awe.

Across the room Charlie can see the target of Draco's ire slinking away, red-faced. Draco's full lips move, no doubt firing off one last biting comment as a parting salvo before a haughty smile spreads across his sharp features.

"Phwaor," Dennis actually shouts in Charlie's ear a moment later, as though he can't rest until he's made his take on the situation ridiculously obvious. He jostles Charlie with a friendly elbow to the ribs and grins.

Charlie takes a pull from the bottle of lager in his hand as he keeps his eyes trained on Draco and says nothing in reply.






Draco is gorgeous in the bedroom. That much Charlie could easily brag about, if he was the sort of man ever to talk about such things in detail. He is long stretches of pale skin and rosy flushes spreading over his chest, wide grey eyes and rounded pink mouth, fluttering eyelashes and flung back head, pretty pink cock and restlessly jerking hips.

The thing is, though, Draco hardly makes a sound when they're in bed together. Sure, he sighs in his sleep or occasionally mumbles under his breath when he's dreaming (mostly about Snitches or what sound like curt orders to House Elves). They have a bit of pillow talk now and then, when they have the energy before they pass out. Or they confer quickly when they're getting ready in the mornings about whose turn it is to call the woman about the Floo or bicker over whether they'll spend a free evening with Draco's friends or with Charlie's.

But when they fuck, Draco bites his lip and swallows his moans and presses his mouth against the pillow as he comes.

There's no one right way to do any of this, relationships or sex. This Charlie knows from having a horde of siblings who come to him to confide about their own peculiar relationships with their respective partners. So it's not that he's worried that Draco doesn't give voice to exactly what he's feeling when Charlie bites his way down his torso as a prelude to flipping Draco onto his belly or encourages Draco's quivering thighs to clamp at his neck when he's sucking that lovely cock. And it isn't that he suspects Draco might not enjoy what they do together; Charlie can see and feel how much Draco likes it in the tightening of Draco's arms and legs around him as they rock together or in the wild look in Draco's eyes when Charlie's not letting him tip over the edge just yet.

But ever since Dennis assumed that Charlie was a mouthy little minx in the bedroom, Charlie can't help but feel like he wouldn't mind hearing how much Draco likes it as well.






The first time Charlie blurts out, "Yeah, you like that, don't you?" Draco ignores him entirely. Well, that's not exactly accurate: at Charlie's words he frantically tugs at Charlie's arse to get him to thrust harder with one hand while the other strokes mindlessly down his neck and chest until he can tug at his nipples.

When a few nights later Charlie has Draco on his hands and knees, he gives Draco's bottom a smack before he'll let him have his cock. Draco chokes out a nearly-stifled whimper while Charlie presses against his hole, teasing them both with the feel of him stiff and ready. It seems a good time to try again as any. "You want it?" Charlie asks low. "Tell me you want it, love," he pants. The tendril of flame curling in his belly has just as much to do with whether Draco will answer him as the way that Draco's breathing comes out in harsh gasps and shaky exhalations.

Yet aside from a barely audible whine and a trembling of his limbs, Draco doesn't reply.

A week later Draco still doesn't answer directly, not even when Charlie demands, "Let me hear you beg." Unless of course Charlie can count how Draco's back bows and arches while Charlie waits, the way he tilts his tight backside up, presenting with a quiet strangled sound from his throat, as begging entirely without words.

Later, Draco rests his chin on his folded arms atop Charlie's chest and regards him, those enticing eyes surprisingly sharp. "What's this all about?" Draco asks finally. "You asking me again and again to --" He purses his lips and waits for the answer.

"I dunno," Charlie answers. When Draco looks skeptical, Charlie threads his fingers through Draco's pale blond hair and tries again. "I just thought you might like -- that is, I'd like to hear you more -- oh, for fuck's sake," he finishes, dropping his hand to the mattress, frustrated at himself for sounding like a tongue-tied fifth-year meeting someone under the Quidditch bleachers for the first time. "Look, I want to hear you talk sometimes when we're having sex, all right?"

Whatever he's been vaguely expecting to happen when he raises the topic directly, it definitely is not Draco nearly leaping from the bed and struggling to tug on his clothes and robe.

"Wait a moment," Charlie says as he sits up. "Where are you going?"

"Look, if you got sick of me, you could just say so," Draco snarls as he fumbles for his wand and his wallet. "I knew you would get tired of it eventually --"

"I'm not," Charlie says, alarmed and getting to his feet. He doesn't bother to pull on a t-shirt or hunt for his boxer briefs; the only thing he can think of is that Draco must stay here with him and talk about all of this.

"Why else would you care?" Draco yells, looking fierce as Charlie feels his own eyes widen. "Everything was good between us, until you had to bring up something I don't do, something I can't do, and if that's the condition you're going to --"

"It's not any sort of requirement," Charlie bellows back. He's slower to lose his temper than most of his siblings, but right now he hasn't the luxury of holding back. "If you can't do it, you can't do it! I'm not going to force you to try anything you won't like, and I don't need anything you can't give! I just thought it could be something else we'd both enjoy, but not if it's going to fuck anything up between us!"

Draco pauses, narrowing his eyes. "You're not trying to break it off?"

"No, you stupid sod," Charlie grits out. "I'm not letting us break up, especially not over something silly like this, because it just so happens I love you!"

For a time, the only sound in the bedroom is of the two of them breathing hard.

"What was that?" Draco asks.

Charlie sighs and rolls his head to one side and the other, cracking his neck. "I love you," he repeats when he can meet Draco's eyes, feeling all sorts of selfish. He'd meant to say it countless times, so many that he'd half convinced himself he'd actually already gotten the words out. But now he's gone and burst out with it while he's standing there naked and absurd and in the middle of a fight.

Draco frowns as he straightens his rumpled robes. "Obviously I love you too," he says crossly.

When Charlie laughs, Draco gives him a shove so that he stumbles back onto the bed in an ungainly sprawl.

Charlie can't help continuing to laugh as next to the bed, Draco mutters imprecations and yanks off his robe, shirt, and trousers. He lays aside his wand with care, but when Charlie half raises himself on his elbows to watch him, Draco shoots him a pointed and sulky look before he flings his clothing into a pile on the floor.

Finally Draco flops next to him, watching impatiently as Charlie tries to work through the last of the hysterical giggles. "Budge over," he says at last when Charlie manages to quiet. He maneuvers Charlie into lying on his side so Draco can curl in front of him, tugging Charlie's arm in a proprietary hold over Draco's chest.

"It's not anything strange," Draco says some time later in the darkness.

Charlie startles out of the half-doze he's slipped into and gives Draco's stomach a reassuring stroke.

"I just don't like talking during," Draco continues. "I mean, I'm not shy."

"Definitely not." Charlie nuzzles the nape of Draco's neck.

"It's not as though anything traumatic happened to make me feel like I've got to be quiet when we --" The next words come stiffly, pulled away from Draco like strands of fabric stuck to a tiny unnoticed wound. "I always had to watch what I said, though."

Charlie waits for something more, maybe about the hazards Draco navigated as a boy, as a pureblood, as a Slytherin, as his father's son. But Draco doesn't add anything else. "You don't have to talk about it," he offers. "Not unless you'd like to."

Draco's silent for a while. "I like to have something that isn't for anyone else, something that belongs only to me."

"To us," Charlie says. He flinches a moment later, because it could sound like a correction, and he doesn't mean to make overly large demands.

But Draco just repeats, "To us," thoughtfully, like it's a robe he's trying on for size.






When it happens, it's so long afterward that Charlie has very nearly forgotten about the matter.

But when on a quiet Saturday afternoon, Draco slips into Charlie's lap as he sits on the couch and whispers, "I thought maybe you could -- you could --" Charlie's ears prick up. He stays utterly still, unthreatening, someone trying to convince an approaching skittish creature he means no harm.

He caresses Draco's shoulders in a light massage until Draco says a deep breath and says, "I thought maybe you could come to the bedroom with me, touch me everywhere but my cock and my arse and not give me any more until I beg for it, really beg for it."

"That sounds brilliant," Charlie says truthfully, and Draco looks so terribly grateful he nearly laughs aloud just for the joy of it. But instead he smiles softly at him and says, "Yeah, let's go do all of that."

When they reach the threshold, though, Charlie draws Draco's hand to his mouth and bites the heel of his palm lightly. "Just so you know, you don't have to say anything more about it, not unless you want to."

"Christ, that's a relief," Draco mutters. "I just about choked getting all of that out."

Charlie grins as he follows Draco to their bed. After all, it's not as though Draco really has to recite a litany of bawdy requests for Charlie to know exactly what Draco wants.



*~*~* The End *~*~*