For my darling Laura. I had originally planned to write you something else, but you had requested that I write you Charlie/Bill incest and I have yet to be able to deny you anything.

So Merry Christmas, love! I hope you enjoy it.

Notes: This is set before Charlie's fifth year, and Bill's seventh year.


"Bill," Charlie whispers, causing you to put down your book to look at him. He's sitting on the edge of your bed, watching you closely.


He's silent.

You watch as Charlie's eyes flicker between your eyes and your lips. You're sitting perfectly still, waiting for Charlie's next move. Before you can comprehend what's going through Charlie's mind, Charlie leans forward and presses his lips against yours. You freeze momentarily, unable to think of what to do. Finally, you push him away gently. His blue eyes widen in fear and confusion, before he diverts his eyes from you.

"Merlin," he whispers to himself. "I'm…sorry," he says, addressing you. "What have I done?"

It hurts to see Charlie so confused. You push down your own questions, allowing yourself to comfort your brother – Oh Merlin, my brother, you think to yourself as you inch closer to Charlie – because he needs comfort right now and family always comes first.

"Hey," you say softly, trying to get him to look at you. You want to tell him that you're good, that you can overlook the fact that he's kissed you but you're not so sure you can. Instead, when he looks at you, you give him a half-hearted smile. "Talk to me. After that, we definitely need to talk."

He glances down. "I don't know," he whispers, frustrated. "I've been thinking about a lot lately. And I know I shouldn't. But I honestly thought I had it controlled, thought I wouldn't act on it. Guess I was wrong," he finishes and gives you a weak smile.

Then he curls up on himself, waiting for your response. But you're stunned. You remember the feeling of his lips on yours – soft yet persistent – and it felt right even though it's wrong. So very, very wrong. You shouldn't be thinking about Charlie in this manner; he's your brother.

"And if I'm not sorry?" you ask before you can stop the words from tumbling out of your mouth. His head snaps up and scrutinizes you closely, trying to determine if you meant it. Hell, you're not sure what he'll find because you don't even know if you meant it.

You lean towards him, pressing your lips against his. It doesn't take him long to react. He kisses you harder, waving his hands in your hair. And your heart skips a beat as he tries to deepen the kiss.

In the back of your head, a small voice keeps reminding you of what you're doing – this is wrong; he's your brother; you're not supposed to be doing this – but you ignore it. Because, in this moment, nothing has ever felt as right as it does with Charlie's lips against your own.

When you finally part, Charlie untangles his fingers from your hair, almost sheepishly, and grins at you. You let the silence hang between the two of you, staring at a pair of familiar blue eyes. His position is now at ease, playful; unlike how he was curled up earlier. You're glad to see him as his usual confident self.

Charlie, as usual, feels the need to fill the silence. "I'd apologize, but I'm not sorry," he murmurs.

You roll your eyes and laugh. Before you can stop him, he steals another kiss. You want to tell him that it shouldn't happen. You want to tell him that it won't happen again. But the way your heart's skipping a beat tells you that you want this as much as he does.

"Go to bed, Charlie. We'll talk in the morning," you tell him as sternly as possible. You climb in your bed, staring at the ceiling, willing sleep to come. Maybe tomorrow you'll see it in a different light; maybe tomorrow you'll be able to tell him that it's wrong – so very, very wrong – and that it'll never happen again.


He kisses you the next morning, and you can't deny that your heart still skips a beat. You both know it's wrong, but it feels so right and that's all that matters in that moment.


A/n – so many thanks to Paula for being a dear and beta-ing this for me.

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