snitchnip_chill & florahart
Author: Chillie (snitchnip_chill)
Title: Maybe At The Time It Felt Like
Pairing: Fred/George
Challenge: It makes me angry, ashamed, but really alive - Manic Street Preachers, No Surface All Feeling
He's sleeping. I'm covered in goosebumps, though it's sweltering in our room.
I slip under his covers. He shifts minutely; I freeze, 'til a slight snore passes his lips. I lean over to capture it with my mouth. I kiss him with my eyes open, scrutinizing my pale, sleeping reflection.
We sleep naked in the summers; my hand reaches down to wrap around my cock's twin. I stroke it gently, slowly. I press my own hard cock against his sinewy thigh. My fingers slide down his freckled shaft, already slick with his precome.
He's my brother, my brother, my twin. Merlin, what am I doing? What would he say if he woke up and caught me doing this? What would he - oh shit.
My legs tremble as I try to hold it in, try not to - oh fuck.
Fuck.
--
I slip back to my own bed, the pounding of my heart keeping me awake a few moments longer. In the morning, I'll listen to him try not to wake me while he cleans my come from his sheets.
Later, he'll tell me; he had another of those dreams last night. The rush of blood to my embarrassed cheeks twinned by a rush of blood below.
Author: florahart
Title: Resonance
Rating: NC-17
The clock strikes three, and I slide out of bed, out of sheets that cling on a sweltering night, sticking to my thigh, my ribs, my already-hard cock that knows what I am about to do because I do it often, in the heat of August and the cool crisp of April and the frosty dark of January. If I am awake in the night, and often, I am, I stand from my bed, throwing back unwelcome lonesome sheets and blankets to cross to the other bed, and look, watching him sleep, gooseflesh making my skin crawl no matter the temperature, no matter the rain or the hour or the place. I have done this in my parents’ house, in our flat in Hogsmeade, even at the Grimmauld Place property, twice, the summer we were so often there.
I lift his sheet, peeling it away from his sweaty belly, staring for a long moment as cool air washes across him, turning damp-moist flesh clammy, bringing up goosebumps on him to make us match so perfectly once again. He sleeps on his back, tonight, as often he does, and as I stand here, trying to resist the need to do what I know I’m about to do, I watch his cock rise from slumber, resting in rusty curls that glint blue-dark against blue-white pale skin in the light of the near-full moon in a cloudless sky. His cock knows, if he does not, that I am here, and watching, and it rises in greeting in benediction, calling me closer and I respond to the naked glowing flesh, to this shameful obsession I hold. I slide in next to him, my toes grazing the protruding knot of bone at his ankle. My knee tucking against its other companion, my hipbones framing his, side-on, as my hard prick presses between us. I ooze sticky on his side as I worm my way up under his arm, resting my head on his shoulder, his chest, waiting to see whether he wakes.
He never does wake. I wish, sometimes, that he would, that he would know and feel and kiss me back when I press my lips to his, when I watch his closed lashes as I slip my tongue between his lips and run them along the edge of his teeth that are oddly mine, backward and out-turned and yet familiar, because they are mine and because they are his and I do this so often and never, never has he woken. I’m glad, when I’m not wishing, that he never does. He might recoil, might push me away, might pull me closer and plunge his hot tongue into my mouth and feel my teeth and either way, I die a little bit at the thought. I die when I think he might put his hand to my chest and pry me loose of him, or when I think the same hand might rest, just there, as he stares into my identical eyes and spreads his legs for me and urges me over him. I die, and I harden and I press against him once again, against his conveniently naked skin on a hot night as I taste the salt-sweet lobe of one ear, as I run my hand through a sprinkling of hair on his chest, down and down until I encounter hair again, just below his navel, just where I find it on myself, damp with sweat and soft, there, soft turning crisper as my hand continues down.
I wrap my fingers around his prick, his prick that I know feels like mine, though I have not felt mine, not with my hand, in a year or more because I feel him and it echoes in me as I grind against him. I squeeze as I thrust, and my foreskin opens as I slide my hand down, sticky pre-come dripping onto my thumb as it leaks down his hip. I’m close, too close, too soon but never, ever soon enough. I pull the covers back over us and snuggle closer, hotter, wronger and wronger, my hips thrusting of their own accord no matter that I tell them to stop, to wait as I circle his freckled cock, the cock I have seen him stroke in the sun on a hot day on the roof, basking in the sun gloriously naked, unaware I am watching, fixated, stock-still in the dormer window above and behind him, unable to touch myself because I cannot move, and because touching my own cock feels wrong now. I came anyway, when he did, spurting onto the glass, reflecting the shower of come he poured onto himself. I never need to touch myself when he is coming. The pull in his cock pulls in mine, pulls and squeezes and pushes away until I explode, and no need to use my hands, or my eyes even-I imagine I’d come in my pants standing at the counter helping Snape, if he were upstairs with a girl, pumping into her, making her shout.
I won’t, this time, though. I won’t come. I’ll make it all up to him. I’ll jerk his cock until he spills, and then I’ll go back to my bed, hard and unsatisfied, and I’ll lie there like that and wait for morning because it’s wrong that I like to feel him come. Wrong and filthy, and what would he say? I want to know, and I don’t, and I already do. He’s close. He’s so close, his balls tucking up against him. I won’t come, but I’ll make it good for him. I roll up to position myself over him, our two cocks slipping side by side, my wrinkled sac grating against his so perfect and rough, and shit! No! I won’t. My legs shake and my shoulders burn, holding me here, and I will not come. I won’t. I won’t, but I do, I shoot on him, spill onto his cock, onto his head, my white spunk pooling there, and he stirs! Shit! He can’t wake now, not with me between his legs, my softening cock dripping still, the spurted liquid so tempting between us. I freeze, willing the muscles of my shoulders not to quiver above him, willing my sweat not to drip from my brow to his shoulder, willing him not to close his soft, relaxed thighs, and I wait. Another soft snore comes forth from his parted lips, and I nearly whimper aloud with relief. Far too close, I know, and it’s because I’ve not stopped myself, again, and I have to stop doing this.
I lift my leg over his, and follow with the other, crawling off his bed and snuggling the sheet back up over him, watching it drift down, watching the air under it displace as it moulds to his skin, as it sticks and wrinkles in the drops and pools on his belly, pulling tighter there with the heaviness of my sin, outlining his cock, his perfect, hard cock, still leaking, still throbbing so I can see the pulse, or I imagine I can, and I just stop myself from touching it before I crawl back into my own bed, exhausted and horrified and unable to refrain from lifting my wet fingers to my mouth to lick myself clean before I sleep, listening, as I lie and wait for my eyes to fall closed, to the pounding of my heart in my chest, the blood rushing through my ears, thankfully away from my temporarily sated traitorous prick.
I know how morning will be. It excites me and frightens me, how he’ll wake and feel the sheet, stuck to him, how he’ll be hard again, how he’ll clean the sheets quietly, trying not to wake me, and go into the shower where I hear him grunting as he pumps into his hand and pants and leans against the wall. The wall is thin, and I imagine I can hear the slide of his hand on his cock, the moist kiss of sound as his wet slit pulls open and pressed closed with every slide. I don’t imagine the gasps or the strangled keening sound in his throat when he comes.
He’ll ask me, later, if I ever have those dreams. I’ll blush, trying, and succeeding because he is awake, not to allow the accompanying flush that raises my cock from its rest to drag me over to him, to his thigh, his hip, his perfect muscular arse, and I’ll tell him that I don’t-which is true; I’m always, unmercifully, awake for my excursions into his bed-and he’ll wonder aloud, again, if there is something wrong with him that he comes in the night, and again in the morning, and often, again, during the day, either by his own hand, or in the back room with Harry on a Hogsmeade Saturday. I’ll tell him, for the millionth time, that no, of course not, it’s normal, that I’m just more active during the day. This isn’t true, but he thinks Harry also goes down on me; he thinks my long breaks in the bathroom are spent touching myself rather than convincing my cock not to send me careening into him as he bends to place stock on shelves, as he returns, pink and breathless from a rendezvous with Harry, as he looks at me with his innocent eyes-innocent of that which I see and feel, but a perfect match for a prankster never the less; he thinks I have a crush on Harry’s long-time nemesis and recent friend Draco.
Draco Malfoy is pretty enough, flawless and pink and so often beautifully flushed himself, with anger or frustration or the rush of the wind, but he has no freckles on his nose or on his shoulders or his cock, and the sensation of being drawn to him faded, for me, a year ago. He hasn’t come by in quite some time, and that’s all right; it would be hard to explain that I’d need to be able to hear my brother in the showroom in order to get hard for him. Now, I want freckles and pale moon-blue skin on shuttered eyes, silent in the dark, unknown and unspoken and never, ever returned.
No, nothing is wrong with him, I’ll tell him. I’ll mean that. It will be absolutely true, no evasion in it, and still, he won’t believe me.
Perhaps tomorrow night, he’ll wake, and catch me, identical cock grazing identical groin, identical eyes staring back into his, identical lips parting his to suckle at his tongue. He’ll catch me, and I’ll have the answer I want and don’t want, and need and cannot stand, and then it will be over, for better or worse.
Title: Maybe At The Time It Felt Like
Pairing: Fred/George
Challenge: It makes me angry, ashamed, but really alive - Manic Street Preachers, No Surface All Feeling
He's sleeping. I'm covered in goosebumps, though it's sweltering in our room.
I slip under his covers. He shifts minutely; I freeze, 'til a slight snore passes his lips. I lean over to capture it with my mouth. I kiss him with my eyes open, scrutinizing my pale, sleeping reflection.
We sleep naked in the summers; my hand reaches down to wrap around my cock's twin. I stroke it gently, slowly. I press my own hard cock against his sinewy thigh. My fingers slide down his freckled shaft, already slick with his precome.
He's my brother, my brother, my twin. Merlin, what am I doing? What would he say if he woke up and caught me doing this? What would he - oh shit.
My legs tremble as I try to hold it in, try not to - oh fuck.
Fuck.
--
I slip back to my own bed, the pounding of my heart keeping me awake a few moments longer. In the morning, I'll listen to him try not to wake me while he cleans my come from his sheets.
Later, he'll tell me; he had another of those dreams last night. The rush of blood to my embarrassed cheeks twinned by a rush of blood below.
Author: florahart
Title: Resonance
Rating: NC-17
The clock strikes three, and I slide out of bed, out of sheets that cling on a sweltering night, sticking to my thigh, my ribs, my already-hard cock that knows what I am about to do because I do it often, in the heat of August and the cool crisp of April and the frosty dark of January. If I am awake in the night, and often, I am, I stand from my bed, throwing back unwelcome lonesome sheets and blankets to cross to the other bed, and look, watching him sleep, gooseflesh making my skin crawl no matter the temperature, no matter the rain or the hour or the place. I have done this in my parents’ house, in our flat in Hogsmeade, even at the Grimmauld Place property, twice, the summer we were so often there.
I lift his sheet, peeling it away from his sweaty belly, staring for a long moment as cool air washes across him, turning damp-moist flesh clammy, bringing up goosebumps on him to make us match so perfectly once again. He sleeps on his back, tonight, as often he does, and as I stand here, trying to resist the need to do what I know I’m about to do, I watch his cock rise from slumber, resting in rusty curls that glint blue-dark against blue-white pale skin in the light of the near-full moon in a cloudless sky. His cock knows, if he does not, that I am here, and watching, and it rises in greeting in benediction, calling me closer and I respond to the naked glowing flesh, to this shameful obsession I hold. I slide in next to him, my toes grazing the protruding knot of bone at his ankle. My knee tucking against its other companion, my hipbones framing his, side-on, as my hard prick presses between us. I ooze sticky on his side as I worm my way up under his arm, resting my head on his shoulder, his chest, waiting to see whether he wakes.
He never does wake. I wish, sometimes, that he would, that he would know and feel and kiss me back when I press my lips to his, when I watch his closed lashes as I slip my tongue between his lips and run them along the edge of his teeth that are oddly mine, backward and out-turned and yet familiar, because they are mine and because they are his and I do this so often and never, never has he woken. I’m glad, when I’m not wishing, that he never does. He might recoil, might push me away, might pull me closer and plunge his hot tongue into my mouth and feel my teeth and either way, I die a little bit at the thought. I die when I think he might put his hand to my chest and pry me loose of him, or when I think the same hand might rest, just there, as he stares into my identical eyes and spreads his legs for me and urges me over him. I die, and I harden and I press against him once again, against his conveniently naked skin on a hot night as I taste the salt-sweet lobe of one ear, as I run my hand through a sprinkling of hair on his chest, down and down until I encounter hair again, just below his navel, just where I find it on myself, damp with sweat and soft, there, soft turning crisper as my hand continues down.
I wrap my fingers around his prick, his prick that I know feels like mine, though I have not felt mine, not with my hand, in a year or more because I feel him and it echoes in me as I grind against him. I squeeze as I thrust, and my foreskin opens as I slide my hand down, sticky pre-come dripping onto my thumb as it leaks down his hip. I’m close, too close, too soon but never, ever soon enough. I pull the covers back over us and snuggle closer, hotter, wronger and wronger, my hips thrusting of their own accord no matter that I tell them to stop, to wait as I circle his freckled cock, the cock I have seen him stroke in the sun on a hot day on the roof, basking in the sun gloriously naked, unaware I am watching, fixated, stock-still in the dormer window above and behind him, unable to touch myself because I cannot move, and because touching my own cock feels wrong now. I came anyway, when he did, spurting onto the glass, reflecting the shower of come he poured onto himself. I never need to touch myself when he is coming. The pull in his cock pulls in mine, pulls and squeezes and pushes away until I explode, and no need to use my hands, or my eyes even-I imagine I’d come in my pants standing at the counter helping Snape, if he were upstairs with a girl, pumping into her, making her shout.
I won’t, this time, though. I won’t come. I’ll make it all up to him. I’ll jerk his cock until he spills, and then I’ll go back to my bed, hard and unsatisfied, and I’ll lie there like that and wait for morning because it’s wrong that I like to feel him come. Wrong and filthy, and what would he say? I want to know, and I don’t, and I already do. He’s close. He’s so close, his balls tucking up against him. I won’t come, but I’ll make it good for him. I roll up to position myself over him, our two cocks slipping side by side, my wrinkled sac grating against his so perfect and rough, and shit! No! I won’t. My legs shake and my shoulders burn, holding me here, and I will not come. I won’t. I won’t, but I do, I shoot on him, spill onto his cock, onto his head, my white spunk pooling there, and he stirs! Shit! He can’t wake now, not with me between his legs, my softening cock dripping still, the spurted liquid so tempting between us. I freeze, willing the muscles of my shoulders not to quiver above him, willing my sweat not to drip from my brow to his shoulder, willing him not to close his soft, relaxed thighs, and I wait. Another soft snore comes forth from his parted lips, and I nearly whimper aloud with relief. Far too close, I know, and it’s because I’ve not stopped myself, again, and I have to stop doing this.
I lift my leg over his, and follow with the other, crawling off his bed and snuggling the sheet back up over him, watching it drift down, watching the air under it displace as it moulds to his skin, as it sticks and wrinkles in the drops and pools on his belly, pulling tighter there with the heaviness of my sin, outlining his cock, his perfect, hard cock, still leaking, still throbbing so I can see the pulse, or I imagine I can, and I just stop myself from touching it before I crawl back into my own bed, exhausted and horrified and unable to refrain from lifting my wet fingers to my mouth to lick myself clean before I sleep, listening, as I lie and wait for my eyes to fall closed, to the pounding of my heart in my chest, the blood rushing through my ears, thankfully away from my temporarily sated traitorous prick.
I know how morning will be. It excites me and frightens me, how he’ll wake and feel the sheet, stuck to him, how he’ll be hard again, how he’ll clean the sheets quietly, trying not to wake me, and go into the shower where I hear him grunting as he pumps into his hand and pants and leans against the wall. The wall is thin, and I imagine I can hear the slide of his hand on his cock, the moist kiss of sound as his wet slit pulls open and pressed closed with every slide. I don’t imagine the gasps or the strangled keening sound in his throat when he comes.
He’ll ask me, later, if I ever have those dreams. I’ll blush, trying, and succeeding because he is awake, not to allow the accompanying flush that raises my cock from its rest to drag me over to him, to his thigh, his hip, his perfect muscular arse, and I’ll tell him that I don’t-which is true; I’m always, unmercifully, awake for my excursions into his bed-and he’ll wonder aloud, again, if there is something wrong with him that he comes in the night, and again in the morning, and often, again, during the day, either by his own hand, or in the back room with Harry on a Hogsmeade Saturday. I’ll tell him, for the millionth time, that no, of course not, it’s normal, that I’m just more active during the day. This isn’t true, but he thinks Harry also goes down on me; he thinks my long breaks in the bathroom are spent touching myself rather than convincing my cock not to send me careening into him as he bends to place stock on shelves, as he returns, pink and breathless from a rendezvous with Harry, as he looks at me with his innocent eyes-innocent of that which I see and feel, but a perfect match for a prankster never the less; he thinks I have a crush on Harry’s long-time nemesis and recent friend Draco.
Draco Malfoy is pretty enough, flawless and pink and so often beautifully flushed himself, with anger or frustration or the rush of the wind, but he has no freckles on his nose or on his shoulders or his cock, and the sensation of being drawn to him faded, for me, a year ago. He hasn’t come by in quite some time, and that’s all right; it would be hard to explain that I’d need to be able to hear my brother in the showroom in order to get hard for him. Now, I want freckles and pale moon-blue skin on shuttered eyes, silent in the dark, unknown and unspoken and never, ever returned.
No, nothing is wrong with him, I’ll tell him. I’ll mean that. It will be absolutely true, no evasion in it, and still, he won’t believe me.
Perhaps tomorrow night, he’ll wake, and catch me, identical cock grazing identical groin, identical eyes staring back into his, identical lips parting his to suckle at his tongue. He’ll catch me, and I’ll have the answer I want and don’t want, and need and cannot stand, and then it will be over, for better or worse.