Score
Title: Score
Pairing: Fred/George
Rating: NC-17
Summary: History of Magic is incredibly boring.
Warnings: Incest. Dirty... talk? Exhibitionism, I suppose. Wanking. Silliness.
Notes: This is for the fantastically fabulous starstruck1986, who was having a shitty day the other day. Told you I'd write you some twin!porn, my dear ♥ I know it's goofy, but I hope it at least makes you smile :) And I'm sorry it's a bit late; hopefully today isn't crappy enough for you to need it!
It happens like this:
They're in History of Magic, tucked into the back corner - one in front of the other, because this is the only class where they can get away with sitting near each other - and the room is too hot and the air is too close and there are these dripdripdrips of sweat crawling out from Fred's hairline and sneaking down his neck.
They look delicious - George isn't going to lie, at least not about that - but he's not going to lean up and lick them. Not here. Too obvious. Rule Number One is never go for the obvious.
George taptaptaps his fingers on the desk, dull little lulling sounds like raindrops, and creases his eyebrows in dangerous thought. Fred has broken Rule Number Two, which is never turn your back.
George's face goes from dangerous to wicked in a fraction too fast for the eye, and the bells ringringring inside his head and the heat shoots into his belly and Fred reaches back with one long-fingered hand to wipe the sweat from his neck. He hunches down, and his robes gap, and George wants to jam his hands between the fabric and the flesh and pinch and scratch and hold on too tight and…
Oh, he's getting hard where he sits, and it just isn't fair for Fred to rest comfortably, no, it isn't fair, and George likes justice and equality and all that shite, and he wants to stick his tongue down his brother's throat and push some justice down there, justice and spit and take-it-take-it-take-it and…
Ideas pop like flowers from a trick wand, and George eyes the blank parchment perched sideways-slanting on the edge of Fred's desk. He grins and shifts and slips his wand into his sleeve with a stretchstretchstretch forward and a yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawn and a whisper under his breath that sounds like a cough.
Orange ink - it matches their hair - crawls across the page, catches Fred's sharp eyes, surprises him. Score One, George thinks, gringringrinning as the words write themselves.
unbutton yourself
Fred doesn't look back. George can tell by his shoulders that he's smiling, and he knows from his arms that he's listening, and Score Two because Fred never listens. That's Rule Number Three.
Fred shifts down in his seat, and George leans up, and he swears he can hear blood rushing with a broomstick whoosh, and in his head he tells it where to go, smiling a sweaty smile. George adjusts, stretches, whispers and licks his lips, salty as Fred's neck.
take it out
No one's watching. Everybody's doodlingdoodlingdoodling in their crisp-paged books, or they're chin-in-hand staring straight through Binns' wispy back, or they're snoring like saws against wood - wood, George snickers; wood - and they just don't care. But George does.
He doesn't have to see to know what it looks like. Shite, he could look into his own lap, but he doesn’t even have to do that. Fred shifts in his seat, his hands disappearing, and George swallows hard. Hard makes him laugh, makes him throb, makes him rock his hips up like he's got Fred spread across them begging for it, but no, that's later. George closes his eyes and there it is, thick and full in a hand that looks like his, and oh shite everything is too tight…
look at you, you whore. do you know what i want to do to you?
Fred does. Of course he does. He wants and George wants and they want and want wraps around them and trusses them up and brings them belly to belly and mouth to mouth and knee to ground, and that's what George wants. He wants Fred on the floor with his legs apart and his lips apart and...
open your legs. wide. i want to see your feet.
They appear, one on either side of the desk, sticking out sideways, toes straight up in dirty, too-tight trainers, and George Scores Three.
George's heart feels like fireworks bangbangbanging in his chest, whizbangcrack, and his cock matches the rhythm, trapped tight under his jeans. Fred's collar is dark with sweat now, and George can feel him from here. Feel everything. Fred's feet flex, forward and back, and George takes a breath to steady himself but of course it doesn't work.
George has the points, but Fred is winning.
Binns' voice fades in and out, poor wireless reception, irrelevant, dry, on and on and on.
one hand. around. move it before i tell you to, and i'll hex it off.
Fred doesn't believe him, but he pretends that he does. His arm curls into his lap, and his feet move again, ticticticcing as he grips himself tight, and George shifts, adjusts, moves, tries to make room, but it's hopeless. He's so hard that if he came right now, he'd muss Fred's hair, and the thought makes him grin. He stores it for later, pictures the mess, bites down on his lip and coughs.
No heads turn. Nobody cares.
Except for Fred. Fred stiffens at the noise, knows what it means. George pictures the smirk, and it makes him want to muck it up, make Fred open wide with it and swallow. He takes a breath, sharpsharpsharp, and Fred's shoulders jerk.
close your eyes. what do you see?
Fred's free hand stretches upupup over his shoulder, and he can't see where he's aiming; he just trusts George to get it right.
George shifts his parchment, uses his wand to move Fred's arm, watches.
His parchment turns from beige to purple, and George bites down on his own hand as the ink turns white and drippy. Only Fred could be so filthyrottenclever with his cock out in his hand, only Fred, who is his and nobody else's.
YOU. BENT OVER BINNS' DESK. LEANING RIGHT THROUGH HIM. BEG PRETTY FOR ME, GEORGIE.
George doesn't want to beg, doesn't want to even the score. His game now. His rules.
Fred shakes his head like he's trying to clear it, and his damp hair catches the ugly lights, and George palms his cock through the fabric. Score Four: he won't beg.
not today. not that. this: you on your knees for me, mouth open, hands tied. like it?
Fred likes it. George can see his arm tighten, can picture the grip he's got.
George likes it, too. Likes Fred when he's helpless, bound like that, wet-lipped and long-lashed, his whole face just asking for it. Sometimes, Fred's not allowed to touch. Sometimes he'll be still like that while George brings himself off, his tongue out and his eyes open, cock up against his belly, and if George thinks of that any longer - thinks of Fred's pretty face, all spunk and freckles - he's going to come in his pants and that's not on. No.
George doesn't wait for Fred to answer.
fuck your hand. slow. don't fucking stop unless i say so.
Fred moves. The chair scrapes against the ground.
Anyone could look. There are plenty of eyes in here, and George smiles, thinks he'd probably hex them out of the skull of anyone who dared right now, and his blood is racingracingracing.
It's Fred's arm that's moving, though, and that isn't what George said.
Wrong.
T for following directions. i said fuck your hand. not jerk it off.
From the way Fred moves, George knows that he's laughing. George smiles, too, and then his fingers creep downdowndown to his button, just to take the pressure off, yeah, that's right, just to ease it…
And then Fred's moving, hips up and down and up and down and up and down, shallow and quiet, and he's fucking his hand, softsoftsoft, and George's breath feels hot and dry.
better. i bet your fingers are sticky already, aren't they, whore?
George can feel his hand shake when he writes the words, and it's taking all of his concentration to get them right. But he will. He'll get them right and earn himself a big round O for making his brother come.
He's good at that.
Fred's arm moves again when he pretends to stretch, and he answers this time, the letters black and spindly now, not enough concentration left to make them fun.
WET LIKE YOR MOUTH
George smiles at the missing U. Score Five. His zip is old and creaks, and he can't undo it, but that's all right. This is better.
T for spelling. my mouth is wetter. you can have it later if you want. i'll let you pull my hair and fuck it hard. i'll let you fuck it right into the wall. i'll swallow, and i'll lick it off your cock like a good boy.
Fred tilts his head back now, and his hips are fasterfasterfaster and he wouldn't notice if he was being watched, but George would.
George leans forward and looks around, pokes Fred between the shoulder blades with his wand. No way is he done yet.
Fred's head snaps up, his attention snaps back, his hips jerk, George's cock twitches, the world has narrowed itself down to the two of them. Somewhere, Binns' voice comes through a haze as thick as a spell, but it's just white noise.
don't you dare look away. not finished with you. you're going to come right here. where everyone can see. all over your hand and your robes and your trousers, you filthy bastard. how much come do you have for me?
George can guess. His head is buzzbuzzbuzzing.
SO MUCH
i want it. give it to me. NOW.
George gets it.
George wins.
Fred's body shudders in his chair, and the legs scrape harder, and his heel slips against the floor, and there is a dark line down his back that George wants to lick, follow it like a path, and Fred is always loud, but right now, he makes no sound and he's just comingcomingcoming and George's cock is throbbingthrobbingthrobbing but he's not going to touch it, he's going to push Fred into the loo when the bell goes off and make him take care of it, and…
show me
Fred is the only one who can be graceful twenty seconds after he comes. He tilts back, balancing on the back legs of his chair, and stretches long and lean and yaaaaaaaaawning out towards George, arm low, and….
… paints a streak across George's cheek, grinning like a cat.
George sighs.
He supposes it's a tie.
Pairing: Fred/George
Rating: NC-17
Summary: History of Magic is incredibly boring.
Warnings: Incest. Dirty... talk? Exhibitionism, I suppose. Wanking. Silliness.
Notes: This is for the fantastically fabulous starstruck1986, who was having a shitty day the other day. Told you I'd write you some twin!porn, my dear ♥ I know it's goofy, but I hope it at least makes you smile :) And I'm sorry it's a bit late; hopefully today isn't crappy enough for you to need it!
It happens like this:
They're in History of Magic, tucked into the back corner - one in front of the other, because this is the only class where they can get away with sitting near each other - and the room is too hot and the air is too close and there are these dripdripdrips of sweat crawling out from Fred's hairline and sneaking down his neck.
They look delicious - George isn't going to lie, at least not about that - but he's not going to lean up and lick them. Not here. Too obvious. Rule Number One is never go for the obvious.
George taptaptaps his fingers on the desk, dull little lulling sounds like raindrops, and creases his eyebrows in dangerous thought. Fred has broken Rule Number Two, which is never turn your back.
George's face goes from dangerous to wicked in a fraction too fast for the eye, and the bells ringringring inside his head and the heat shoots into his belly and Fred reaches back with one long-fingered hand to wipe the sweat from his neck. He hunches down, and his robes gap, and George wants to jam his hands between the fabric and the flesh and pinch and scratch and hold on too tight and…
Oh, he's getting hard where he sits, and it just isn't fair for Fred to rest comfortably, no, it isn't fair, and George likes justice and equality and all that shite, and he wants to stick his tongue down his brother's throat and push some justice down there, justice and spit and take-it-take-it-take-it and…
Ideas pop like flowers from a trick wand, and George eyes the blank parchment perched sideways-slanting on the edge of Fred's desk. He grins and shifts and slips his wand into his sleeve with a stretchstretchstretch forward and a yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawn and a whisper under his breath that sounds like a cough.
Orange ink - it matches their hair - crawls across the page, catches Fred's sharp eyes, surprises him. Score One, George thinks, gringringrinning as the words write themselves.
unbutton yourself
Fred doesn't look back. George can tell by his shoulders that he's smiling, and he knows from his arms that he's listening, and Score Two because Fred never listens. That's Rule Number Three.
Fred shifts down in his seat, and George leans up, and he swears he can hear blood rushing with a broomstick whoosh, and in his head he tells it where to go, smiling a sweaty smile. George adjusts, stretches, whispers and licks his lips, salty as Fred's neck.
take it out
No one's watching. Everybody's doodlingdoodlingdoodling in their crisp-paged books, or they're chin-in-hand staring straight through Binns' wispy back, or they're snoring like saws against wood - wood, George snickers; wood - and they just don't care. But George does.
He doesn't have to see to know what it looks like. Shite, he could look into his own lap, but he doesn’t even have to do that. Fred shifts in his seat, his hands disappearing, and George swallows hard. Hard makes him laugh, makes him throb, makes him rock his hips up like he's got Fred spread across them begging for it, but no, that's later. George closes his eyes and there it is, thick and full in a hand that looks like his, and oh shite everything is too tight…
look at you, you whore. do you know what i want to do to you?
Fred does. Of course he does. He wants and George wants and they want and want wraps around them and trusses them up and brings them belly to belly and mouth to mouth and knee to ground, and that's what George wants. He wants Fred on the floor with his legs apart and his lips apart and...
open your legs. wide. i want to see your feet.
They appear, one on either side of the desk, sticking out sideways, toes straight up in dirty, too-tight trainers, and George Scores Three.
George's heart feels like fireworks bangbangbanging in his chest, whizbangcrack, and his cock matches the rhythm, trapped tight under his jeans. Fred's collar is dark with sweat now, and George can feel him from here. Feel everything. Fred's feet flex, forward and back, and George takes a breath to steady himself but of course it doesn't work.
George has the points, but Fred is winning.
Binns' voice fades in and out, poor wireless reception, irrelevant, dry, on and on and on.
one hand. around. move it before i tell you to, and i'll hex it off.
Fred doesn't believe him, but he pretends that he does. His arm curls into his lap, and his feet move again, ticticticcing as he grips himself tight, and George shifts, adjusts, moves, tries to make room, but it's hopeless. He's so hard that if he came right now, he'd muss Fred's hair, and the thought makes him grin. He stores it for later, pictures the mess, bites down on his lip and coughs.
No heads turn. Nobody cares.
Except for Fred. Fred stiffens at the noise, knows what it means. George pictures the smirk, and it makes him want to muck it up, make Fred open wide with it and swallow. He takes a breath, sharpsharpsharp, and Fred's shoulders jerk.
close your eyes. what do you see?
Fred's free hand stretches upupup over his shoulder, and he can't see where he's aiming; he just trusts George to get it right.
George shifts his parchment, uses his wand to move Fred's arm, watches.
His parchment turns from beige to purple, and George bites down on his own hand as the ink turns white and drippy. Only Fred could be so filthyrottenclever with his cock out in his hand, only Fred, who is his and nobody else's.
YOU. BENT OVER BINNS' DESK. LEANING RIGHT THROUGH HIM. BEG PRETTY FOR ME, GEORGIE.
George doesn't want to beg, doesn't want to even the score. His game now. His rules.
Fred shakes his head like he's trying to clear it, and his damp hair catches the ugly lights, and George palms his cock through the fabric. Score Four: he won't beg.
not today. not that. this: you on your knees for me, mouth open, hands tied. like it?
Fred likes it. George can see his arm tighten, can picture the grip he's got.
George likes it, too. Likes Fred when he's helpless, bound like that, wet-lipped and long-lashed, his whole face just asking for it. Sometimes, Fred's not allowed to touch. Sometimes he'll be still like that while George brings himself off, his tongue out and his eyes open, cock up against his belly, and if George thinks of that any longer - thinks of Fred's pretty face, all spunk and freckles - he's going to come in his pants and that's not on. No.
George doesn't wait for Fred to answer.
fuck your hand. slow. don't fucking stop unless i say so.
Fred moves. The chair scrapes against the ground.
Anyone could look. There are plenty of eyes in here, and George smiles, thinks he'd probably hex them out of the skull of anyone who dared right now, and his blood is racingracingracing.
It's Fred's arm that's moving, though, and that isn't what George said.
Wrong.
T for following directions. i said fuck your hand. not jerk it off.
From the way Fred moves, George knows that he's laughing. George smiles, too, and then his fingers creep downdowndown to his button, just to take the pressure off, yeah, that's right, just to ease it…
And then Fred's moving, hips up and down and up and down and up and down, shallow and quiet, and he's fucking his hand, softsoftsoft, and George's breath feels hot and dry.
better. i bet your fingers are sticky already, aren't they, whore?
George can feel his hand shake when he writes the words, and it's taking all of his concentration to get them right. But he will. He'll get them right and earn himself a big round O for making his brother come.
He's good at that.
Fred's arm moves again when he pretends to stretch, and he answers this time, the letters black and spindly now, not enough concentration left to make them fun.
WET LIKE YOR MOUTH
George smiles at the missing U. Score Five. His zip is old and creaks, and he can't undo it, but that's all right. This is better.
T for spelling. my mouth is wetter. you can have it later if you want. i'll let you pull my hair and fuck it hard. i'll let you fuck it right into the wall. i'll swallow, and i'll lick it off your cock like a good boy.
Fred tilts his head back now, and his hips are fasterfasterfaster and he wouldn't notice if he was being watched, but George would.
George leans forward and looks around, pokes Fred between the shoulder blades with his wand. No way is he done yet.
Fred's head snaps up, his attention snaps back, his hips jerk, George's cock twitches, the world has narrowed itself down to the two of them. Somewhere, Binns' voice comes through a haze as thick as a spell, but it's just white noise.
don't you dare look away. not finished with you. you're going to come right here. where everyone can see. all over your hand and your robes and your trousers, you filthy bastard. how much come do you have for me?
George can guess. His head is buzzbuzzbuzzing.
SO MUCH
i want it. give it to me. NOW.
George gets it.
George wins.
Fred's body shudders in his chair, and the legs scrape harder, and his heel slips against the floor, and there is a dark line down his back that George wants to lick, follow it like a path, and Fred is always loud, but right now, he makes no sound and he's just comingcomingcoming and George's cock is throbbingthrobbingthrobbing but he's not going to touch it, he's going to push Fred into the loo when the bell goes off and make him take care of it, and…
show me
Fred is the only one who can be graceful twenty seconds after he comes. He tilts back, balancing on the back legs of his chair, and stretches long and lean and yaaaaaaaaawning out towards George, arm low, and….
… paints a streak across George's cheek, grinning like a cat.
George sighs.
He supposes it's a tie.