Rating: Mild NC-17
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended
Distribution: Ask first, please.
Summary: Fred and George learn to keep some things separate as they grow up, but finally acknowledge their need to be together.
Author's Note: Written for Lissanne's birthday; I chose F/G in honour of the two fics we cowrote so long ago. Twincest warning.
For the first few years of our lives, we shared a bed. Frankly, I think it was because it was easier on Mum - she knew we'd keep each other company better that way, and thus need less middle-of-the-night reassurance from her, for thunderstorms or the ghoul clanking about, or what have you. She already had her hands full with our elder brothers, and, by the time we were four, ickle Ron and Ginny, too. So putting us together as tots was a handy solution that worked well for everyone.
Around the time we turned six, however, Mum and Dad decided it was better we learn to sleep apart. And Dad finally found the time to enlarge our room, which meant we actually had space for two beds in there - no excuses for us to be crammed together in one bed anymore. So we'd skip off in our dragon-print pyjamas, let Mum and Dad tuck us in to our individual beds, and then one of us would climb in with the other as soon as they'd left. We learned to sneak back before morning, to make the beds look properly slept in, but otherwise, we still preferred to stay together.
By the time we got to Hogwarts, we understood the need for public image; even at eleven you want to appear grown up and manly in front of the other lads. It took us all of one day to have our reputation as pranksters cemented (Fred slipped a dungbomb into Snape's cauldron; we got detention, but it was worth it) and that's not the sort of image that goes along with sharing a bed with your brother. So, we stuck to our separate four-posters and got used to it. And although we sometimes stole into each other's beds when we went home for the holidays, even that became a rarer event as we got older. I think wanking is what tipped the scales for that decision; we were young and horny like any adolescent boys, but being a twin, and as close a twin as we were, meant we had to decide exactly what we would and wouldn't share. At school, we all joked about wanking, but got quite good at silencing charms and pretending ignorance when the bedcurtains were yanked shut. At home, we didn't have any silly bedcurtains, of course; I knew when he was doing it, but I continued to pretend I didn't. He probably did the same for me.
We first got the idea to someday open a joke shop when we were about fifteen, and began making and testing things with great enthusiasm (what, this surprises you?). We had only each other to experiment on for the first couple of years and thought nothing of feeding each other, slapping on creams, reporting odd, even embarrassing dreams, peering closely at odd purple splotches, and the like. So, that summer, when Fred announced that he'd garnered a date with Henrietta Chat from the next village, we decided a bit of kissing practice was in order before he was set loose on the poor girl. For some reason, using Ginny would've been gross, but practicing on each other? We didn't even think about the repercussions.
I remember treating the whole thing as the colossal joke it was, with Fred trying to dip me, and my pretending to swoon at the whole thing, and then both of us falling down in a laughing heap before Fred finally leaned in and kissed me just to prove that he knew how. It was a quick, overdramatic kiss, just as the rest of the 'experiment' had been, and I responded in kind, kissing him back with a loud smack. He planted another one on me and then our laughter was dying away and we were coming together, lips finding each other in all seriousness. His lips were warm and chapped, smooth and rough against my own; I slipped my tongue into his mouth, feeling my own ridges and textures and teeth from a new angle, and let him take a turn doing the same. Fred's hand came up against the back of my neck, bringing us even closer, not that I was trying to pull away; my own hand slid down his spine to the small of his back, snugging us together there, so we were closely pressed from heads to hips and feeling every inch of smooth chests and rapidly hardening lumps beneath our jeans. I didn't know my own body could feel so much - twice over, if Fred's erratic breathing was any indication.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the moment was over. I suddenly found myself standing apart from Fred, mirror images of ruffled hair and wide blue eyes as we took in what had happened. Then, with careless ease, Fred smiled and said, "Well, I think we just proved we'll know what we're doing with the birds," and that was the last we ever spoke of it.
But it was not the last time I ever thought of it. We'd always been close - he was me and I was him; we'd slept and played and poisoned ourselves together - but it was something entirely different to kiss him. That kiss showed me there was something incredibly appealing about a body I knew so well; it sounds kind of narcissistic, but it wasn't - I wanted him, not myself. I began to crave more, maybe particularly because I knew it was crossing a line, and not something you did. In the showers after Quidditch, getting dressed each morning, looking at him across the table in the Great Hall, I began to wonder what it was like to touch the rest of him, to touch things that were me, yet not me. Instead, I said and did nothing, and we continued to do what we did best - playing pranks and Quidditch, spending time with our friends, and testing more of our proposed joke products on each other.
A year went by - a long year - and we were home again. Dad nabbed World Cup tickets, Ron was trying to get Harry to come visit, and we were back to pretending ignorance in our beds at night, until….
"I know what you're doing."
My hand froze. "What?" I whispered back?
"C'mon, George. You know what I mean." His voice was warm and teasing. "We always turn the other way, but I know what you're doing over there, just like I can't hide from you. We know each other too well."
I resisted the urge to let go of my rapidly shrinking cock and keep up the pretense by declaring I wasn't doing any such thing, but I knew he'd know. Instead, I started stroking again, slowly, but deliberately. "All right. Yes," I admitted. "Are you?"
"Yes. C'mon, we'll do it together. Not like we weren't anyway." I heard, rather than saw his grin.
As he said, it wasn't like we'd probably been doing it in tandem for ages anyway, but it was totally different to know it for sure, to declare it. I became superconscious of what I was doing, wondering if he was doing it the same, or differently; neither of us had relinquished the blankets over our hips, so I couldn't see exactly. Did he have the same sensitive spots I did? Did he grip himself in exactly the same way? Stroke his balls with his free hand? I closed my eyes and pictured him next to me, arching his back just so, freckled legs spread just so, my fantasy fueled by the soft panted breath I could hear from the next bed, and the up-down scrape beneath his blanket.
The image was intoxicating; I came harder than I ever had before, biting my lip to stifle my moan, then heard him gasp his own climax moments later.
"Who were you thinking of?" I asked, when I could catch my breath.
"Angelina. What about you?"
I closed my eyes again. You. "Ummm, Katie."
"Yeah, good choice."
That began a summer of exceptionally enthusiastic wanking, even for teenage boys. Sometimes he initiated the joint wank, and sometimes I did. But one night I opened my eyes and saw that Fred was … watching me. I froze in surprise, just like I had that first night - and then I saw the unmistakably hungry look in his eyes. Just what I felt for him and had tried to hide for so long. We stared at each other a long moment, unmoving, my hand still on my cock under the sheets, him propped on one elbow, the other hand in secret, unseen places. Slowly, his night-dark eyes watching for my reaction, he levered himself out of his bed and took one, quiet, steady step after another until he reached my side; I could see that his boxers were clearly tented, a small gap appearing in the slit in front from the tension beneath. I drew my eyes away and looked up into his face, so suddenly solemn, and then I was closing my eyes again as he bent down to kiss me.
Maybe it was because we were both already so obviously turned on, but that kiss nearly sent me over the edge, right then and there. It was everything that 'experimental' kiss had been, and so much more. A year's worth of hunger and memory, of our need to be reunited physically, seemed poured into that kiss, and I pulled him down on top of me so we could be even closer. There. There it was, that completion, that sense of utter unity which could only come from being physically aligned with someone who matches you in every way. Our legs twined together perfectly, and we could kiss and keep our cocks in perfect alignment at the same time. Fuck, it felt good. I was pushing up against him, and he was pushing down against me, and then we were scrabbling to push the damn boxers off so we could be skin to skin as we had not been since we were children. Red hair and freckles were everywhere as we rolled over and about on the bed, with his hands and mouth on me and mine on him, stroking and licking and exploring, and it was both different and the same as what we could do ourselves. It was doubling ourselves, doubling what we felt and who we were as individuals, doubling the love we shared, and the need we had. And when I let go at last, finally releasing my climax, and watching my mirror image do the same, it was the completion we'd been denying ourselves for so long.
Was it wrong? We've always had our own definitions of wrong and right, which usually don't mesh with most of the adults' views. But they work for us, and rarely harm - well, not permanently - anyone else, so what's the problem, really? We keep this quiet, even from our more open-minded friends, knowing that few people would understand why we need this, and why it shouldn't affect anyone else. Can't even accidentally get off any little wizardlets this way. What matters to us is that we're united again - entirely. We have our own shop now, our own flat, our own bed. We're together on our own terms, and we have our own life - together.
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