Ficlet; Fred/George; R
Title: Synonymous, Anyway
Pairing: Fred/George
Rating: R
Word Count: 619
A/N: Mmmm, twincest. Been waiting for these two to inspire me again.
George’s fingers itch with mischief-he imagines they will catch on fire, eventually, which will be alright because of the comedic value of a flaming redhead. George thinks it makes him rather unbalanced, really, that he doesn’t mind the thought of bursting into flame if it gets a laugh, and then thinks that he wouldn’t want to be anything less then unbalanced, anyway, and then says it’s like bugs, like bloody bugs--
under my skin, yeah, Fred finishes. He is running his hands under cold water and biting his lip against the urge, but there’s no resisting, something has to be done, so he says, blimey, it’s annoying. D’you think we could-
--no, we did that last week, (George is eying the thermal pattern of Fred’s shirt, which looks as though it would catch between the rivulets of his hands and ease the itching if only it was rubbed right) maybe Mrs. Goodlihall wouldn’t mind--
--almost kicked us out twice for doing that, and it’s not the right time of day, you know, (Fred wonders why George is wearing corduroy and then remembers it is winter and then remembers that corduroy would feel fantastic against his burning palms) and anyway it’s been a while since we’ve--
Cor, it has, hasn’t it?
They lean together and angle their heads so their grins mix properly, and George bites Fred’s bottom lip playfully and Fred happily shoves his tongue too far down George’s throat. Prat, they laugh breathlessly in unison, and rub their hands frantically against each other. Fred pinches George’s arse so hard that George cries out (amused/aroused, they’re synonymous anyway) and bites Fred on the collarbone where he is ticklish.
The mischief courses through their veins until their whole bodies itch, and now they are between a doorframe, filling it exactly, so that each is both pushing and being pushed. Mrargh, George groans, laughing, arching into Fred’s hand which is sliding easily into his pants, and Fred grins and rolls his eyes backwards and feels George’s itchy fingers cupping his balls.
They make enough noise for four men (and it is mostly laughter), they pull each other off as they rub, rub everywhere, conduits for the rampant mischief that has nothing to do but be transferred between them. The downstairs neighbor bangs viciously on her ceiling with a broom and the sound thrills them; Fred screams cock as George screams balls and they both pull just right and thrust and come to her horrified shriek.
Gasping (climax/laughter, they’re synonymous anyway) they crash to the floor and twitch around and roll on top of one another. Fred is playing with the tails of George’s shirt George is tickling the inch of Fred’s stomach that is exposed. D’you think we could- Fred begins and George nods, and they stand and button each other up.
(I think maybe it’s odd that we do this, Fred says, smiling, zipping his brother’s pants and ruffling his hair until it looks properly disheveled.
George frowns, feigning worry. I think maybe it’s odd that we shag.
They catch each other’s eyes, communicating through shades of hazel, and wait the proper amount of time-comedy is in the pauses-before grinning. Nah.)
George grabs two dragonhide jackets from the closet and Fred grabs two beers from the cooler and they toss one of each to the other. The door is open, the sky is blue, the woman from the flat below is still bellowing and it’s like a symphony to well trained ears. They bring their lips together, once, and it feels like they are on fire (two flaming redheads) and it’s funny as much as it’s beautiful-they’re synonymous, anyway.
Pairing: Fred/George
Rating: R
Word Count: 619
A/N: Mmmm, twincest. Been waiting for these two to inspire me again.
George’s fingers itch with mischief-he imagines they will catch on fire, eventually, which will be alright because of the comedic value of a flaming redhead. George thinks it makes him rather unbalanced, really, that he doesn’t mind the thought of bursting into flame if it gets a laugh, and then thinks that he wouldn’t want to be anything less then unbalanced, anyway, and then says it’s like bugs, like bloody bugs--
under my skin, yeah, Fred finishes. He is running his hands under cold water and biting his lip against the urge, but there’s no resisting, something has to be done, so he says, blimey, it’s annoying. D’you think we could-
--no, we did that last week, (George is eying the thermal pattern of Fred’s shirt, which looks as though it would catch between the rivulets of his hands and ease the itching if only it was rubbed right) maybe Mrs. Goodlihall wouldn’t mind--
--almost kicked us out twice for doing that, and it’s not the right time of day, you know, (Fred wonders why George is wearing corduroy and then remembers it is winter and then remembers that corduroy would feel fantastic against his burning palms) and anyway it’s been a while since we’ve--
Cor, it has, hasn’t it?
They lean together and angle their heads so their grins mix properly, and George bites Fred’s bottom lip playfully and Fred happily shoves his tongue too far down George’s throat. Prat, they laugh breathlessly in unison, and rub their hands frantically against each other. Fred pinches George’s arse so hard that George cries out (amused/aroused, they’re synonymous anyway) and bites Fred on the collarbone where he is ticklish.
The mischief courses through their veins until their whole bodies itch, and now they are between a doorframe, filling it exactly, so that each is both pushing and being pushed. Mrargh, George groans, laughing, arching into Fred’s hand which is sliding easily into his pants, and Fred grins and rolls his eyes backwards and feels George’s itchy fingers cupping his balls.
They make enough noise for four men (and it is mostly laughter), they pull each other off as they rub, rub everywhere, conduits for the rampant mischief that has nothing to do but be transferred between them. The downstairs neighbor bangs viciously on her ceiling with a broom and the sound thrills them; Fred screams cock as George screams balls and they both pull just right and thrust and come to her horrified shriek.
Gasping (climax/laughter, they’re synonymous anyway) they crash to the floor and twitch around and roll on top of one another. Fred is playing with the tails of George’s shirt George is tickling the inch of Fred’s stomach that is exposed. D’you think we could- Fred begins and George nods, and they stand and button each other up.
(I think maybe it’s odd that we do this, Fred says, smiling, zipping his brother’s pants and ruffling his hair until it looks properly disheveled.
George frowns, feigning worry. I think maybe it’s odd that we shag.
They catch each other’s eyes, communicating through shades of hazel, and wait the proper amount of time-comedy is in the pauses-before grinning. Nah.)
George grabs two dragonhide jackets from the closet and Fred grabs two beers from the cooler and they toss one of each to the other. The door is open, the sky is blue, the woman from the flat below is still bellowing and it’s like a symphony to well trained ears. They bring their lips together, once, and it feels like they are on fire (two flaming redheads) and it’s funny as much as it’s beautiful-they’re synonymous, anyway.