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firewhiskeyficTitle: ballroom, close hold: five, six, seven, eight
Author:lq_traintracks
I am of legal drinking age in my region: I am two 21 year-olds and a 6 year old, which pretty much describes me to a T. A tee??
Pairing(s)/Characters/Fandom: Fred/George; brief, past Fred/OMCs and PG-13 George/Angelina
Challenge/Prompts used: Fred & George Weasley; Court Jester (maybe?? I can’t remember if I was able to tdo to this one—you be the judge!); Sex Pollen; On Heat/In Heat; Tiptoe Through the Tulips (barely lol)
Summary: If there are two things that don’t go together, it’s sex pollen and going into heat. Or maybe they do go together and it’s just a matter of perspective.
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; sibling incest; Weasleycest; mentions of pre-pubescent self-fondling???; A/B/O dynamics; sex pollen; the twins being uncharaeteristicsally not hilarius I guess; felching; kissing after felching
Word count: 1,600
Author's Notes: Apparently spelling the name G E O R G E is impossible while tipsy. Who knew? Massive thanks to the awesome mods for another round!
If there are two things that don’t go together, it’s sex pollen and going into heat. Or maybe they do go together and it’s just a matter of perspective.
To backtrack, Fred always knew he’d be a bottom. From the time he was tettering on the edge of puberty and got obsessed with sticking his own finger up his bum. It wasn’t until fourth year that someone caught him at it, and it was George. He’d got a strange look on his face, said, “You ought not do that, Freddy,” and Fred had hidden his naked lower half under the sheet and fired back, “You’re not my keeper.”
The strange look, in some capacity, remained for years. Only in private. Only when it was just the two of them. Which was how Fred preferred things: just the two of them.
It wasn’t like they hadn’t… seen stuff. George had walked in on Fred masturbating in the bath, in bed, on the floor… And Fred, just once, had interrupted Geoererge whoa there George, rather, with his hard cock in his hand and ready to come.
“Merlin, Freddy,” he’d exclaimed. And yet it had come out sort of breathy and aroused so that, if Fred imagined it later that night while he touched himself, it was almost as though George had wanted him.
So, sure. He’s fucked up. He wants his own twin brother. Which is a truly terrible thing when he and George go into heat and rut at the same time, discovering, in a hot, stupid flash, that one is an alpha and the other an omega, and both of them sick with wanting.
They’d avoided something narrowly that day. Or Fred had. He’s not sure how George took care of things—it was fifth year and they were no longer rooming together at the good old Warts of Hog. Fred, for his part, found that boy, Clive, from Percy’s year, and dragged him behind the greenhouses to suck his cock and then, when he was begging to fuck him, bend over. As ready for it as Fred had been, he’d still been shocked that it had been the other boy who begged.
Speaking of the greenhouses. Just who exactly keeps plants that sploot pollen that makes the sneezer who is unlucky enough to inhale it want to fuck their brains out? Not want, even. Need. (Unsanctioned use of the word ‘sploot’ there.)
It’s sixth year, and there’s no Clive now, but Fred has a couple blokes he can count on in a pinch, and one of them was supposed to have met him here tonight. You know, to take the edge off, his heat coming on a couple days early this time, strong and painful like wound made to bleed.
“Fucking Todd,” Fred curses, even as his dick gets so hard he thinks it might qualify as a medical condition. Merlin, is he going to have to show up at Mungo’s like this? He sneezes again, pre-coming from the force of it. He groans pathetically.
“Freddy?”
Buggering shit.
“No, you have to go. Gerroge, leave.” (Fo fuck’s sake with his name, why??)
“I didn’t…” Gerroge (WHAT) begins, maybe thinks better of it, and then turns toward the door. “Sorry.”
His hand is on the knob. The door is opening. Fred is struck with a feeling so intense it sends him to his knees.
“Wait,” he pleads. “Don’t go. Please. I’m sorry. Please… stay with me.”
Geoge sighs (really???), a hard exhalation through his nose. He stalks towarrd Fred. “What’s happened to you? What’s this… yellow stuff?” And before Fred can stop him, he’s swiped his fingers through it on Fre’ds shoulder. (It’s the names. Like., wtf.)
“No, no don’t—” Fred tries, but it’s too late.
George sneezes.
Then he says, “Oh shit.”
And that shouldn’t be a turn on. It really shouldn’t. But Fred’s eyes roll shut at merely the sound of Geroge’s voice (and one r is better than two). He grabs himself hard, squeezing his dick through his trousers. It won’t be enough. Right now nothing feels like it will ever be enough.
Except for him.
“Please,” Fred says, rubbing at himself now. “Georgie, please.”
George’s breathing has gone strained, and Fred can see the outline of his cock as it gets hard. He leans forward, takes an experimental lick at it, cotton and heat and brother and all.
George’s hand makes a fist in his hair. “Stop,” he hisses, and the anger in his voice ratchets up Fred’s desire, like the expression of the feeling itself is an aphrodisiac. (Nailed it! What a word!)
Something has shifted in Fred—his heat, the pollen, he doesn’t know, doesn’t care. “Fuck my mouth. Fuck my arse. My thighs, come on my tits, I don’t care. I’ll take you there. I’ll take care of you if you just… Georgie, fuck me.”
A growl comes out of him, his eyes dark and sunk low, chin dropped to his chest to watch Fred tremble for it. He rips into his trousers, pushes his pants beneath his balls, and Fred takes the invitation, dives deep for it. His brother’s cock slides into his throat. He doesn’t gag; the heat takes care of that. It’s made of him a receptacle. He’s empty and then full and then empty and then, when George thrusts, full.
They slide together, slick as easy spells, as an arm around a body and the rhythm that renders the dance. (gah too much!)
Fred remembers—even, like this, insensate—his brother pulling Angelina Johnson into his arms, the ballroom hold, and how his hand slipped down, two more inches, riding the rise of her arse, in public. And Fred’s sullen, hormone-driven angst at it. That hand. Just there.
And now. George takes him. His hands bury in Fred’s hair, and he guides his mouth, fucks it, his cock emerging slick with spit as Fred whimpers for more, again and again.
“Fuck,” George grits out, pulls Fred off, wrestles him to the ground, face-first. He rips Fred’s trousers, the seams giving it up for him like Fred is ready to. His pants around his thighs, he spreads. “Fuck,” George says again, pushing into him.
There’s a fragrance that rises, sweet and fragile, honeycomb or jasmine—the cup of a tulip. And sweat. His sweat. His brother’s.
George takes him by the shoulders, controls it. He splits Fred open. It’s animal and base, what they’re doing. “This what you need?” Geroge says (I give up), voice low, like they’ll be caught, like it’s private.
“Yeah. Just like that.”
George is going to make him come from the fuck alone. Fred doesn’t care. He closes his eyes and gives himself to it. His arse goes wet, the heat ramping up, making it easy, making him easy.
“God, you feel good,” George says.
Merlin, Freddy, he remembers.
He comes with his cock bouncing up and slapping his own belly. George lets out a familiar groan, one he’s heard from across the platonic, familial space of their bedroom when George’d forget to put up privacy charms. Except better, more, inside him. His brother’s come is warm and prolific (can I say that about come??) It satisfies the heat, the pollen. Him.
George withdraws, and Fred thinks, That’s it. It’s over.
But George turns him over, lays him down, sinks between his legs, licks a hot path up his cock, then lower. He tastes his own comes as it dribbles out of Fred’s arse. He laps at him, as hungry as when they started, and Fred makes a helpless sound, pulling his legs up, offering it.
George rims him gently, for minutes, the lassitude pulling at Fred’s muscles and mind.
George comes up for breath, smeared with his own spunk and the wet from Fred’s fucked-out arse.
“Don’t you bloody kiss me like that,” Fred jokes breathlessly. When has he ever met a situation as serious as this with anything other than the defense of humour?
But Geroge makes a noise in his throat, still animal, and he crawls up Fred’s body, meeting Fred’s surprised-open lips with his tongue.
It ought to be filthy, this kiss, this version of them. But Geroge takes Fred in his arms. He cradles him against his body, blood beating through them both, skin hot with it.
Ballroom. Close hold. Five, six, seven, eight.
They kiss each other under fronds of blurry stars and sweaty, dripping ferns, and with all the magic in their bodies.
They kiss to turn back time.
Fred thanks Merlin, they can’t.
Author:
lq_traintracksI am of legal drinking age in my region: I am two 21 year-olds and a 6 year old, which pretty much describes me to a T. A tee??
Pairing(s)/Characters/Fandom: Fred/George; brief, past Fred/OMCs and PG-13 George/Angelina
Challenge/Prompts used: Fred & George Weasley; Court Jester (maybe?? I can’t remember if I was able to tdo to this one—you be the judge!); Sex Pollen; On Heat/In Heat; Tiptoe Through the Tulips (barely lol)
Summary: If there are two things that don’t go together, it’s sex pollen and going into heat. Or maybe they do go together and it’s just a matter of perspective.
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; sibling incest; Weasleycest; mentions of pre-pubescent self-fondling???; A/B/O dynamics; sex pollen; the twins being uncharaeteristicsally not hilarius I guess; felching; kissing after felching
Word count: 1,600
Author's Notes: Apparently spelling the name G E O R G E is impossible while tipsy. Who knew? Massive thanks to the awesome mods for another round!
If there are two things that don’t go together, it’s sex pollen and going into heat. Or maybe they do go together and it’s just a matter of perspective.
To backtrack, Fred always knew he’d be a bottom. From the time he was tettering on the edge of puberty and got obsessed with sticking his own finger up his bum. It wasn’t until fourth year that someone caught him at it, and it was George. He’d got a strange look on his face, said, “You ought not do that, Freddy,” and Fred had hidden his naked lower half under the sheet and fired back, “You’re not my keeper.”
The strange look, in some capacity, remained for years. Only in private. Only when it was just the two of them. Which was how Fred preferred things: just the two of them.
It wasn’t like they hadn’t… seen stuff. George had walked in on Fred masturbating in the bath, in bed, on the floor… And Fred, just once, had interrupted Geoererge whoa there George, rather, with his hard cock in his hand and ready to come.
“Merlin, Freddy,” he’d exclaimed. And yet it had come out sort of breathy and aroused so that, if Fred imagined it later that night while he touched himself, it was almost as though George had wanted him.
So, sure. He’s fucked up. He wants his own twin brother. Which is a truly terrible thing when he and George go into heat and rut at the same time, discovering, in a hot, stupid flash, that one is an alpha and the other an omega, and both of them sick with wanting.
They’d avoided something narrowly that day. Or Fred had. He’s not sure how George took care of things—it was fifth year and they were no longer rooming together at the good old Warts of Hog. Fred, for his part, found that boy, Clive, from Percy’s year, and dragged him behind the greenhouses to suck his cock and then, when he was begging to fuck him, bend over. As ready for it as Fred had been, he’d still been shocked that it had been the other boy who begged.
Speaking of the greenhouses. Just who exactly keeps plants that sploot pollen that makes the sneezer who is unlucky enough to inhale it want to fuck their brains out? Not want, even. Need. (Unsanctioned use of the word ‘sploot’ there.)
It’s sixth year, and there’s no Clive now, but Fred has a couple blokes he can count on in a pinch, and one of them was supposed to have met him here tonight. You know, to take the edge off, his heat coming on a couple days early this time, strong and painful like wound made to bleed.
“Fucking Todd,” Fred curses, even as his dick gets so hard he thinks it might qualify as a medical condition. Merlin, is he going to have to show up at Mungo’s like this? He sneezes again, pre-coming from the force of it. He groans pathetically.
“Freddy?”
Buggering shit.
“No, you have to go. Gerroge, leave.” (Fo fuck’s sake with his name, why??)
“I didn’t…” Gerroge (WHAT) begins, maybe thinks better of it, and then turns toward the door. “Sorry.”
His hand is on the knob. The door is opening. Fred is struck with a feeling so intense it sends him to his knees.
“Wait,” he pleads. “Don’t go. Please. I’m sorry. Please… stay with me.”
Geoge sighs (really???), a hard exhalation through his nose. He stalks towarrd Fred. “What’s happened to you? What’s this… yellow stuff?” And before Fred can stop him, he’s swiped his fingers through it on Fre’ds shoulder. (It’s the names. Like., wtf.)
“No, no don’t—” Fred tries, but it’s too late.
George sneezes.
Then he says, “Oh shit.”
And that shouldn’t be a turn on. It really shouldn’t. But Fred’s eyes roll shut at merely the sound of Geroge’s voice (and one r is better than two). He grabs himself hard, squeezing his dick through his trousers. It won’t be enough. Right now nothing feels like it will ever be enough.
Except for him.
“Please,” Fred says, rubbing at himself now. “Georgie, please.”
George’s breathing has gone strained, and Fred can see the outline of his cock as it gets hard. He leans forward, takes an experimental lick at it, cotton and heat and brother and all.
George’s hand makes a fist in his hair. “Stop,” he hisses, and the anger in his voice ratchets up Fred’s desire, like the expression of the feeling itself is an aphrodisiac. (Nailed it! What a word!)
Something has shifted in Fred—his heat, the pollen, he doesn’t know, doesn’t care. “Fuck my mouth. Fuck my arse. My thighs, come on my tits, I don’t care. I’ll take you there. I’ll take care of you if you just… Georgie, fuck me.”
A growl comes out of him, his eyes dark and sunk low, chin dropped to his chest to watch Fred tremble for it. He rips into his trousers, pushes his pants beneath his balls, and Fred takes the invitation, dives deep for it. His brother’s cock slides into his throat. He doesn’t gag; the heat takes care of that. It’s made of him a receptacle. He’s empty and then full and then empty and then, when George thrusts, full.
They slide together, slick as easy spells, as an arm around a body and the rhythm that renders the dance. (gah too much!)
Fred remembers—even, like this, insensate—his brother pulling Angelina Johnson into his arms, the ballroom hold, and how his hand slipped down, two more inches, riding the rise of her arse, in public. And Fred’s sullen, hormone-driven angst at it. That hand. Just there.
And now. George takes him. His hands bury in Fred’s hair, and he guides his mouth, fucks it, his cock emerging slick with spit as Fred whimpers for more, again and again.
“Fuck,” George grits out, pulls Fred off, wrestles him to the ground, face-first. He rips Fred’s trousers, the seams giving it up for him like Fred is ready to. His pants around his thighs, he spreads. “Fuck,” George says again, pushing into him.
There’s a fragrance that rises, sweet and fragile, honeycomb or jasmine—the cup of a tulip. And sweat. His sweat. His brother’s.
George takes him by the shoulders, controls it. He splits Fred open. It’s animal and base, what they’re doing. “This what you need?” Geroge says (I give up), voice low, like they’ll be caught, like it’s private.
“Yeah. Just like that.”
George is going to make him come from the fuck alone. Fred doesn’t care. He closes his eyes and gives himself to it. His arse goes wet, the heat ramping up, making it easy, making him easy.
“God, you feel good,” George says.
Merlin, Freddy, he remembers.
He comes with his cock bouncing up and slapping his own belly. George lets out a familiar groan, one he’s heard from across the platonic, familial space of their bedroom when George’d forget to put up privacy charms. Except better, more, inside him. His brother’s come is warm and prolific (can I say that about come??) It satisfies the heat, the pollen. Him.
George withdraws, and Fred thinks, That’s it. It’s over.
But George turns him over, lays him down, sinks between his legs, licks a hot path up his cock, then lower. He tastes his own comes as it dribbles out of Fred’s arse. He laps at him, as hungry as when they started, and Fred makes a helpless sound, pulling his legs up, offering it.
George rims him gently, for minutes, the lassitude pulling at Fred’s muscles and mind.
George comes up for breath, smeared with his own spunk and the wet from Fred’s fucked-out arse.
“Don’t you bloody kiss me like that,” Fred jokes breathlessly. When has he ever met a situation as serious as this with anything other than the defense of humour?
But Geroge makes a noise in his throat, still animal, and he crawls up Fred’s body, meeting Fred’s surprised-open lips with his tongue.
It ought to be filthy, this kiss, this version of them. But Geroge takes Fred in his arms. He cradles him against his body, blood beating through them both, skin hot with it.
Ballroom. Close hold. Five, six, seven, eight.
They kiss each other under fronds of blurry stars and sweaty, dripping ferns, and with all the magic in their bodies.
They kiss to turn back time.
Fred thanks Merlin, they can’t.
no subject
Date: 2023-04-05 07:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-04-11 04:29 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for your awesome comment! And for running the fest of course! Your own awards were well-deserved! :D
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Date: 2023-04-06 07:58 pm (UTC)I loved how the author's notes got more and more irate as the fic went on. Good one MA.
no subject
Date: 2023-04-11 04:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-04-08 12:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-04-11 04:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-04-10 03:39 am (UTC)And from "It ought to be filthy...." to "They kiss to turn back time...." is absolute poetry. When I read that part I just murmured "yowza" to myself!
no subject
Date: 2023-04-11 04:31 pm (UTC)