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  Double or Nothing

 

Warning: just as bad as it sounds.

For Catja, on every level.

And Lance is kidding at the end, jeez.


"You know what," Lance breathed, the first time he took Fred home, "I think your brother's hot."

Fred froze. This could be trouble. "Ron?"

"Idiot," Lance laughed, and Fred thought it was a bit harsh to call him names this late in the day, since he'd been sitting perfectly innocently on a sofa at a houseparty until Lance wound up sprawled across his lap like Oliver Wood after a particularly heavy match. He was doing the favour, here.

Glacial sparks clashed together in Fred's brain. "George?"

"Got it in two," Lance murmured, and shifted comfortably, resting his head on the cushioned arm of the sofa. His eyes were half-closed and shone with something like deadly intent. He smelt faintly of expensive apricots.

"George," Fred said, stupidly. Of course he was aware of Lance's ass slotted so perfectly against his thighs, and of course he knew that Oliver sprawled like this when he wanted to be shown the sort of good time that Fred was all too happy to provide, but. George?

"You think he'd go for me?" Lance said, and Fred nodded because, well, he wasn't about to lie. That would be pathetic, to keep someone from his brother just because he wanted them himself. He hadn't done that in weeks.

"Shall I, um. Get him?" He knew he used to be a good deal more assertive than this. He also knew that in this position Lance would be able to feel every inch of Fred's feelings on the subject, and that possibly assertiveness wasn't quite natural in such an environment.

"You do that," Lance nodded, and wriggled quite unnecessarily as he got up, and gave Fred an utterly delicious smile before flopping down on the other end of the couch again. "I'll just wait here."

"Right," Fred said, nodding, and got gingerly to his feet, then walked through to the kitchen and stared at himself in the reflection of the glossy window.

George wandered over, handed him a pint glass of something orange. "Hey hey," he said.

"Mayflower," Fred said casually, which was their code word for Someone wants you and can I pretend to be you and have sex with them please? "Lance Bass."

George's eyes widened. "Lance Bass wants me?"

Fred's heart sank. That wasn't the right response, as far as he was concerned. "Yeah?"

"Since when?"

"Now?"

"I didn't even know he was here," George said, looking around furtively, and Fred's heart sank even more. This didn't look promising.

"Hey, I let you have that girl last time," he said, trying not to whine, and George started to say something and stopped and then winced at him.

"It's Lance Bass."

"It was a hot girl," Fred protested, but it looked quite useless.

"Lance, though," George said pragmatically, and Fred had to agree. It was a good point.

"Well," he said. "I suppose at least I got him sitting on me for a while."

George's eyes widened even further. "He sat on you?"

"I'm sure he'll sit on you too," Fred snapped, and tried not to imagine it, because oh, just, so very unfair. He adjusted his cock unhappily, and tilted his new drink with his free hand.

"Pink grapefruit and champagne," George said, watching him. "Which room?"

"Third left," Fred said, gloomily. "You can't miss him."

"I'll give you the details later," George promised, and Fred gave him a grateful smile.

"You owe me one," he said, and George's eyes widened indignantly.

"He wants me, though."

"It's Lance Bass, and I didn't have to tell you."

"I owe you one," George said immediately, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before dashing out the room.


The summer just gone, they'd worked on a spell to detect coins of value sickle-plus in sand, and tested it up and down the Cornish coast, and fallen in love with fishing boats. To prolong their holiday, they'd started selling scrolls to charm open oysters, and slept every night on the beach, curling up together for warmth under the bright chilly stars.

There'd been a sailor, classically, for four days near the end - no uniform, but pink cheeks and chapped hands and an accent like an advert for homemade pasties. "Mayflower," George had whispered, in the pub, "please," and Fred had taken one look and dropped his hand beneath the table.

George's hand had found Fred's fingers easily, sliding off Fred's ring, and then they'd conspicuously left the room and George had paused deliberately at the door and then returned to the table for Fred's jacket.

The sailor was George's type, absolutely and unequivocally. Fred paid closer and closer attention to George's type, these days.


"This just proves it, of course," Fred heard, in a voice like warm oil, approximately three minutes after George left. He spun round; Lance was leaning one hip against the doorframe, arms folded, one eyebrow exquisitely raised. Jewellery on his fingers caught light and held it.

"What?" Fred said, catching sight of George lurking in the corridor's shadow, feeling a shot of alarm. "What did he say? Wait. Proves what?"

"You're an idiot," Lance said, which was a bit harsh, Fred thought, this late in the-- oh. Deja vu smacked him round the head, and okay, so he understood that Lance was carrying on from earlier, but what had brought him back here in the first place?

He peered at George with deep suspicion.

"George isn't quite so stupid," Lance said, and pushed off the door, walking behind Fred's chair and laying a warm hand on each shoulder, "but it still took him a while."

They can't have shagged already, Fred thought. He tried not to look at Lance, because craning his head back that far would be deeply undignified. He knew that much. "Um. What?"

"I sent you to find George." Absently, Lance started massaging his shoulders, digging his thumbs against the muscle in slow, delicious glides. Fred held his breath. "It never occurred to you to come back?"

Oh.

"But George said that you'd done this before," Lance added, and Fred exhaled on a tiny splutter. "Or," Lance said delicately, "was he making that up, because he knew it was double or nothing?"

Fred glared at George, who admittedly looked somewhat sheepish under his patent entreaty that Fred back him up. "No," Fred said clearly, holding the pause just to watch his brother squirm, "he wasn't lying."

"Oh good," Lance breezed, and his hands slid briskly down Fred's chest, swerving a moment before they reached his crotch and leaving him choking back an indignant gasp. Lance kissed his cheek and strode back past George into the darkness of the corridor, making it all one movement.

Fred tried to catch his breath. Wow.

"Come on, boys," Lance called, over his shoulder. "The taxi's outside."

There was no way Lance had had time to call a taxi, Fred thought, as he got haltingly to his feet. For a taxi to be here by now, it'd have to have been called... before Lance even sat down on him.

"I think we might be in trouble," George murmured, as they set off down the corridor, bumping shoulders in their endless competition to be first.

Fred swallowed and grabbed his jacket from the banister as they hurried past. "Couldn't agree more."


The taxi was waiting at the curb, sleek and black and impatient. Lance strode towards it; Fred sort of skipped to keep up with George, and shivered a lot.

It was a cool night, licking under his collar with an icy tongue. It reminded him of Cornwall, actually, the 11.20pm chuck-out from the pub, the short giggling stagger to the beach before lying down together on the frigid sand.

They'd misjudged one night, and the depression they were nesting in suddenly dissolved, their meagre camp flooding with water like a deatheater's touch. They'd shot three feet in the air and spluttered and choked on icy salt, and then frustratedly dried their clothes by magic, breaking every rule in Arthur's handbook.

The image of George, bellowing in outrage, soaking wet in the moonlight with his hair plastered to his head and his pale-pale sandy fingers locking desperately round Fred's wrists - that image had stayed with Fred for a long time.

London didn't smell as good as the coast, Fred had to admit, but this felt like an adventure all the same.


Lance sat between them in the taxi, one hand on Fred's thigh, the other on George's. Fred was still having trouble breathing, and he could see the driver looking at him funny in the rearview mirror.

It was almost like he'd never seen twin redheads being taken home by an evil genius before. This was a London cabbie, though, and Fred had it on authority that this sort of thing happened round here all the time. It was George's authority, but still.

"This next left," Lance said, and pressed his little finger right into the seam of Fred's trousers, against the miserable ridge of his cock. Fred gasped, and heard George gasp in stereo, and by Merlin, Lance looked smug.

"Do you want some, um," Fred said, and trailed off as Lance's palm slipped a little higher, and George blurted,

"money?" and Lance closed his eyes like they'd done something hot.

"I'll get this one," he said, and there was an edge of amusement to his voice, and Fred tried to get the joke and failed and decided to concentrate on just breathing steadily enough to stay alive.


By the time the cab pulled in, Fred couldn't seem to breathe slowly at all - but he was hardly alone in his predicament, so maybe there was just something wrong with the muggle vehicle-air. The driver seemed okay, but still.

"Thanks," Lance breathed, as they piled out onto the pavement, and the taxi pulled away as soon as Fred closed the door. Must've had another job to go to, or something.

The house smelled faintly of lemon chemicals, and was cool and dark as Lance pushed open the door. George stumbled as he went in. Fred laughed and promptly caught his foot on a smushed pile of letters on the mat just inside the door, catching George's shoulders to stop himself from going down. Stupid muggle un-inventiveness, never considering self-sorting mail.

"Clowns," Lance muttered, flicking the light on, and Fred looked up indignantly as he pushed the front door closed with his heel. "Oh, now," Lance laughed, "hey, no offence."

"Just because your letters don't arrange themselves," George grumbled, and Fred scowled in agreement.

Lance's laugh melted into a slow, hungry smile, and his eyes half-closed again. "I'll be right back," he said, waving vaguely at a closed door behind him. "You think you can find your way upstairs?"

"I expect so," Fred said, and Lance gave them each a long look, then wetted his lips and turned away, disappearing through the door and closing it behind him. Fred looked at the staircase at the end of the hall, grey carpet leading neatly up to silent darkness.

He heard George swallow next to him. "Well, we probably can," George said, and Fred nodded. They'd navigated the Tube, once. One single staircase was piffle.

"Right," Fred said. "This is piffle."

George grinned at him, and for a moment it was almost normal, and then George was whispering, "race ya," and they started running and shoving and this was completely normal until they crashed into the darkness of a room at the top of the stairs and found that, although carpeted, it was still pretty fucking nasty on bare elbows.

"Ow," Fred complained, panting, and George reached over sympathetically - normal - and then froze and drew back.

The silence seemed even louder now they were up here in the dark.

"Why'd you do that?" Fred whispered, after a moment.

George cleared his throat. "Well, this."

"Weird," Fred agreed, and tried to swallow a laugh. "I can't believe we're here. This is your fault."

"It's not."

"We'll just have to be - convincing," Fred said, because it felt appropriate. He felt a little wave of hysteria crest in his throat. "It's Lance Bass, so we might have to try pretty hard--"

He passed the laughter to George, who ran with it; from the muffled noises, Fred imagined he had his sleeve stuffed in his mouth. "So true."

"--but if we agree it won't be weird, that'll help, right?" Fred finished, hopefully, after a minute.

George made an affirmative noise in his throat, then said, "He won't make us fuck, or anything," and Fred swallowed and nodded.

"Which is a good thing," he said, in case it needed qualifying. "Um. Wow. I still can't believe you landed us here."

"It's Lance Bass," George said helplessly, then nudged him. "Anyway, you know. You agreed too. You're here too. It was your agreement that clinched the deal. You said--"

Fred rammed him with his shoulder to shut him up, and George rammed back. "War," Fred exclaimed, pouncing, and George grappled him and rolled them over and when Lance flicked on the light it looked very dodgy indeed.

"Goodness me," Lance said. "You really... do do this a lot, don't you?"

Fred peered up past George's thigh, breathing hard. George was heavy, sitting on his chest like this, and anyway, they'd been exerting themselves. It did look pretty bad. Though all the stuff that seemed bad normally, the unmentioned stuff, all the times they accidentally walked in on each other, or shared clothes, or totally accidentally forgot to air one bed and so had to sleep all squashed up in the other for almost a week before the laundry got annoyed and did itself - all that stuff, that was good here, wasn't it?

Wow.

"It's not," George said - what you think - "exactly a regular pastime."

Nice save, Fred thought. "Just special occasions," he said, and George nodded and clambered off him.

"Well, you managed to find my office," Lance said, and Fred noticed the shelving for the first time. "If you want this to be a really special occasion," Lance added, turning away and lifting his voice slightly, making Fred shiver, "you might want to follow me through to somewhere more comfortable."

George held out a hand, and Fred used it to pull himself to his feet. George's knuckles parted briefly, and their fingers did a curious dance like they wanted to fold against each other, and then George let go and coughed, and hurried off in the direction Lance had gone.


The sailor had eagerly let them sleep in his house for four nights, George in his bed and Fred on the sofa, and they'd scrambled to watch the television box whenever the sailor was out, and remembered to answer to each other's names the rest of the time.

One evening, the sailor took photographs of them entwined on his sofa, tight in the makeshift bedclothes. Then he took a drink and sat back in the armchair and muttered admiringly, "I almost don't know which one of you I've had."

"You can't have George," George had said instantly, putting his arm across Fred's chest, and Fred had smirked behind George's shoulder and seen the knowing heat build in the sailor's eyes.

Later, when the sailor was mixing more drinks, George had kissed Fred hard on the cheek and said, "Reverse-Mayflower, go on, you have to try him," and Fred had been working up the nerve to make the request anyway, and grinned until there was a dimple under George's mouth.

"I will," he'd said. "But I don't think we need to change back."

They hadn't, and it had been weird and hot, George yawning and stretching out apparently unconscious on the sofa, no chance of watching, while Fred relaxed into the crook of the sailor's arm until the guy got the hint and started kissing his neck.

"George," the sailor had breathed later, "George," and Fred had shivered under his hands and said the sort of things he thought about George saying, and he'd looked up at the sofa from his vantage point on the big fluffy rug, and he'd come when George rolled over with an exquisitely casual sigh.


The first thing Lance did was walk over and pull the curtains against the moon, which gave Fred a chance to look around. Apart from being huge, the bedroom wasn't particularly rich-looking, and had practically no personality; the smooth slab of the bed dominated, its sheets the colour of dark autumn leaves. A bedside lamp sitting on a tiny set of drawers threw the rest of the room into creamy shadow.

Lance strolled back to the bed and sat down, toeing off his shoes. "Mm," he said, thoughtfully. "So here's the thing. I'd find it pretty weird to blink and find the two of you naked and touching each other, so do you mind if we start small?"

Fred had to swallow twice before he could answer. For some reason, the glimpse of Lance's ankle was fiercely arousing. The American accent, too. Made this all so movie-real. "Good idea," he said.

Lance's eyes darkened, and he looked from one to the other. "So why don't you two, um," he said, "c'mere?" and he slid back onto the bed until there was ample room to follow him.

George glanced at Fred, then crawled onto the bed and kicked off his shoes, grinning when Fred followed his lead. The bed gave pleasantly beneath the three of them, tipping them against Lance's shoulders, proving once again that, for all self-adjusting springs are a good idea in theory, sometimes muggles got it exactly right on their own.

George reached over and touched the back of Fred's hand when Fred moved to pull off his sock. "Starting small," he said, and Fred grinned reflexively. Oh yeah.

"Well, it doesn't have to be that small," Lance said, smirking at Fred over George's shoulder, and trailed his fingertips down George's spine. "Naked feet don't really count. But-- don't touch each other," he added, his breath catching.

George paused, halfway through pulling off Fred's sock, and they both looked round. "Why?"

Lance smiled at Fred winningly, and tucked his fingers against George's ear. "It's not fair," he explained, murmuring, "when you're all wrapped up in each other, 'cause you don't notice anyone else." He kissed George's cheek, then his mouth. "So - I mean, it's just a suggestion - but how about you pay me some attention for a while?"

"We can do that," George mumbled, trying to kiss him back, just getting the brush of Lance's lips, over and over. "We can, um." He flicked his fingers at Fred, slightly agitated, and Fred grinned.

He quite agreed. They shouldn't touch each other yet, and Lance needed to be held down right away.

"Shit," Lance groaned, as George pushed him flat on the bed and Fred took hold of his wrists, "you guys, um."

"Umm," George agreed, kissing him firmly and settling on top, and Fred lay alongside and crossed Lance's left hand over his right. Stay, he thought happily.

It was educational, he decided, to watch George's mouth in its pink slide and motion, the skid of his lips against Lance's, the wet glide of his tongue-- because, yeah, because it gave him valuable insight into how he must look, to other people, when they watched him kiss celebrities. It was definitely a need-to-know situation.

He watched Lance suck George's tongue, then bite at him - nibbling really, white moviestar teeth against George's bright lower lip - and felt his own mouth rush dry. Pressing down hard on Lance's hands, he dragged his gaze down their bodies, saw the unmistakable nudge of George's hips and felt heat spring unguarded through his own crotch.

Lance drew up one knee so it stuck up between George's legs; it looked, Fred thought, like a perfect Gucci mountain rising between denim ravines. What's more, it looked like there was an earthquake going on...

Fred wondered distractedly what had been in that champagne, but he couldn't spare his mind for long, not with Lance wriggling beneath his hand and his brother, those expensive pale eyebrows screwed into tight dark lines.

I want a go, he thought, abruptly plaintive, even as George's hand slid up Lance's arm and over Fred's fingers. It pressed, pressed until Fred caught on and let go, and then George slid until he was only stretched out against Lance on one side, leaving Fred the other to explore.

A whole side of Lance Bass all to himself, Fred decided, ducking to taste Lance's mouth at last, was perfectly adequate right now.

Lance groaned against his tongue, and Fred wondered if he tasted different, if George kissed differently, and wound up kissing Lance as hard as he could, determined to make - or perhaps do - an impression. Lance's mouth was fire-complex and wicked, mumbling syrupy little curses when Fred used his teeth, and Fred's nerves started to whine that there was far too much space between them.

He swayed, stretching the length of Lance's body and then dropping against him, and Lance exhaled with a noise like timber creaking and pushed his cock against Fred's thigh. Fred exhaled hard, returning the push, falling quickly to a sweet firm rhythm and giving up the kiss in favour of gasping against the lines of Lance's jaw.

Lance squirmed, tilting his head back, practically purring. He smelt of salty apricots, tasted plastic, and Fred couldn't even begin to get enough. He eased his thigh between Lance's legs, felt his shirt scruff up, the gleaming angles of Lance's belt buckle catching his stomach in a flash of chilled metal novelty.

Time to relieve him of that, perhaps.

Although, Fred realised, reaching down could be a problem. He became aware of pressure against his hip, of the noise of his breath falling as precisely over George's breath as one footstep landing crisply on another's imprint in fresh snow, and-- George. George, pinning Lance's hands, mirroring Fred's position by some cosmic coincidence because his eyes were closed and his mouth was busy at Lance's ear.

By all the dragons between earth and sky, Fred thought hoarsely, kissing blindly down Lance's throat and finding that yes, George's cheek was soft and pale and right fucking there: this is not on.

"Oh man," Lance whispered, his voice curving towards obscene huskiness, "you boys, beautiful fucking boys--"

Fred would've laughed, would've found it absurd, except that George's hand had pushed between his and Lance's stomachs and now he could feel the knuckles moving as George navigated that accursed belt and eventually wrenched it free.

"Yeah," Lance breathed, and Fred tried to lift off to give George's hand more room, and Lance made a piteous sound in his throat and pushed his hips up hard.

"Stay still," George muttered, and Fred heard himself murmur, wandless,

"Evincio," and George looked up sharply and met his eyes, and grinned. Yes, Lance would look pretty, bound.

Fred grinned back, and for a moment George wasn't a stranger with a red mouth and a voice like a Veela's Favourite, was only his wicked smirking brother, only his favourite person in the whole world.

"What?" Lance demanded, and George winked at Fred and then ducked and kissed Lance's stomach, and Lance's hands fell to catch George's shoulder and Fred's wrist, and Fred's mouth went dry once more.

"No, grab his hands," George said against Lance's belly, his hands shifting purposefully at Lance's trousers, and Fred swallowed and pried Lance's fingers off George's shoulder. George's shirt was very warm. Fred concentrated on taking one of Lance's wrists in each hand, drawing them slowly up the bed to Lance's shoulder level, staring down.

Lance gazed up at him, then bit his own lip, lifting his chin in the universal request for a kiss-- and swearing when Fred, grinning, refused to comply. More fun to tease, Fred decided. He was normally underneath, normally taking orders rather than taking the lead, but this felt pretty fucking good as well.

He fitted their palms together and Lance spread his fingers readily, and Fred rewarded him by sliding just the tip of his tongue over Lance's lips, pressing Lance's hands hard into the mattress when Lance licked back. The tips of their tongues touched in the dryness of panted air, and Lance tried to draw the kiss into his mouth, and Fred enjoyed not letting him.

There was something to be said for being in control.

He heard a slithery fabric noise, then some shuffling, and Lance shivered beneath his mouth. Fred tried to concentrate on dropping the tease and kissing him quiet, thinking it wouldn't do to be too aware of George moving up Lance's body again; his brain wanted to dwell on it, though, didn't want to let that shifting shape melt in his imagination.

Somehow, this three-to-a-bed thing was beginning to feel a little bit less mad.

"Sorry, budge up a bit," George mouthed, close to his ear, and Fred shifted over, still kissing, letting George work on the buttons that closed the fabric over Lance's chest. George's shoulder pressed into Fred's side, and Fred reversed his opinion again: the three in the bed badly needed to be spaced out, or things could get very hairy indeed.

He bit Lance's lower lip and squeezed his hands hard, then uncurled his fingers and started backing away. Lance made a low noise of protest, deprived kitten, but Fred had other things to deal with, urgent things. George's mouth was flat against Lance's collarbones, his fingers weaving through the buttons, his eyes closed; they opened as Fred drew level with him, heavy-lashed and fever-bright.

"Where're you going?" he whispered, for Fred's ears only. Fred collected words for his answer at a depressingly slow rate. George kissed the inch of Lance's chest that lay beneath the button he'd just undone, his mouth a berry smudge against the honey-pale.

"Down," Fred mouthed eventually, and George grinned against Lance's skin, nodding slowly.

"You do that." His hand lifted and scuffed over Fred's head, and Fred steeled himself against tilting into the touch, fighting against wondering what those fingers would feel like against his tongue. He sucked his own fingers all the time. Honestly, how could that not be enough?

Fred ducked down and ran his mouth over Lance's stomach, feeling the naked bump of Lance's cock against his neck and coming over all warm at the very idea. George had stripped him, then. He'd wondered.

Lance was trembling. Fred curved back onto his side, fitting his stomach to the edge of Lance's thigh, tempted to strip off his own jeans but still somewhat alarmed at the thought of the naked thing.

"You want me to take my clothes off now?" George asked, and Fred thought,

no, and Lance said,

"yes," and Fred shivered at the quiet authority in his voice. Looked like the tables had turned again. Fred remembered that there was something to be said for not being in control, too.

"What about Fred?" George said, and his voice was eager like when he protested to Ron that he hadn't been the only one putting conspicuous-wetpatch charms on Ron's trousers, that Ron should be just as angered and awed by Fred's handiwork.

"You first," Lance said, and Fred impulsively sucked Lance's stomach, a humble reward, and then Lance added, knowing and warm, "or you'll just get... distracted."

Fred swallowed.

George eased off the bed and then, a few small noises and a roll of Lance's hips later, climbed back on again, hands and knees, and kissed Lance deeply. Fred kept his eyes closed as much as he could, concentrating on Lance, concentrating on admiring Lance, his mouth moving over Lance's stomach, blacking out from his mind the proximity of George's calf, knee, thigh--

He thought about occupying himself with Lance's cock, taking it into his mouth because that would definitely require all his concentration, but countless dark corners with Oliver had taught him that cocksucking was an instinct that you couldn't appreciate until the time was right. It just wasn't quite the same if you rushed things. He didn't want the famous guy going home thinking he couldn't give a proper blowjob, did he?

He glanced up, checking on Lance's - only Lance's - progress, letting his eyes blur out the smooth freckled danger lurking so unmistakably nearby. He saw Lance's fists on George's shoulders, could guess Lance's hints. George was kissing him deliberately, though, and showed no sign of rushing, merely edging his knees at a snail's pace down the bed.

Fred pretended to be busy with kissing one of Lance's hipbones and stroking his thumb up and down the other, then glanced up in alarm when George swayed into his peripheral vision; he was going to get a mouthful of George's thigh if he wasn't careful. Can't have that. He went to warn George away, his hand finding the curve of George's hip and pushing, and George muttered and pressed against his palm, and Fred's fingers slid somehow further than planned.

George's skin felt divine, and Fred pulled back quickly, and the sensation of pressure against his fingers took far too long to fade.

He wrapped his hand round the base of Lance's cock, learning that shape instead, adoring the hot pulse and weight of it in lieu of replaying sinful touches in his mind's eye.

He pressed his mouth to the very base, chaste - or as chaste as he could manage given the fact that this was his mouth and not his dick in the middle of an incestuous gay threesome involving two seventeen year-old wizards and a popstar. Lance shuddered, and one of his hands fell to Fred's head, cupping the nape of his neck and nudging.

Fred backed off, ducking out of Lance's grasp, kissing Lance's thigh instead, satisfied when Lance groaned.

George settled back alongside Lance again, licking from his chest up to his mouth with a kitten-pink tongue, fingers trailing down the dip that fed into the planes of Lance's stomach, down and up, down and round.

Fred folded his hands over Lance's hips and held them down, shifting to lie between Lance's legs, gazing at Lance's fine cock with the fuzzy backdrop of George licking Lance's mouth, trying to work out how he got here.

George's hand smoothed across Lance's chest, palming a pale nipple, and Lance lifted forcefully under the press of Fred's hands and Fred ducked his head and stopped thinking. His mouth bumped against Lance's slippery stomach, veered, found the sultry wetness at the tip of Lance's cock, and sucked at it.

"Oh, fuck," he heard Lance gasp, and smiled to himself, drawing simple heat runes with the tip of his tongue and then lapping the fresh salt away. Lance didn't taste plastic here at all.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think about getting naked himself, instead concentrating on the pitch and fall of Lance's breathing as he traced an entire family of flame spells between the slight sideways veers that were necessary to prevent Lance from pushing his cock actually inside. By degrees, that's how he liked this, at his own pace.

Not driving Lance crazy in the hope of being rolled over and fucked hard-- not at all.

He feathered his tongue right down, the gradient of musk making his tastebuds glow, then glided back up and began lapping again. He breathed slowly and steadily, opening his mouth like he was about to accept before innocently swerving away when Lance slanted his hips to take advantage.

"You bastard," Lance complained, breathlessly, then added, "yeah, help him," and the bed shifted, and Fred made himself carry on with his eyes closed like he wasn't confused at all.

Surely George wouldn't-- because that-- wait-- and then he was proved wrong, because yes, George had slithered right down the bed beside him and that was George's mouth brushing incidentally against his, and incidental, yes, that was all it was, not incendiary at all.

Fred shivered, tilting his head, sliding his mouth slowly down the side of Lance's cock, escaping that tantalising sensation of George's lips working next to his own.

He kept wetting his lips and tongue as he moved down, reaching the base and carrying on, ignoring the tickle of hair against his lips until he found Lance's balls and sucked them against his mouth. He rested his cheek on Lance's thigh and smiled to himself. Safe, here. Safe from the flickering heat of George's mouth, safe with Lance's thumb rubbing over his ear again and again, safe with his senses full of Lance and Lance alone.

He hummed silently, lips shifting until he felt thready shivers start in Lance's thighs, until Lance's palm at the back of his head made him open his mouth as wide as it would go, take more of the silky crinkled weight against his tongue.

Hours passed, he thought dryly, smiling and stirring his tongue in circles, stroking Lance's thigh with his free hand, and then his jaw started to ache slightly and he drew away, pressing soft light kisses instead.

"Fuck," Lance told the ceiling, then, "oh, hell," and Fred wondered if George had done something or if it was just a generic sex curse.

Lance's hand at the nape of his neck started nudging again, this time drawing Fred's mouth back up, sliding his lips against Lance's cock, squeezing when Fred wrote his name in cursive with his tongue.

"Yeah, and just," Lance whispered, and he was - shit, yeah - was guiding him back to the head of his cock, and Fred opened his mouth helplessly when his lip caught the glide of George's tongue, and the world slowed down.

Bad idea, his brain told him vaguely, over a purely incidental - that word again - shower of sparks across the majority of his solar plexus. All he could taste was the heat of Lance, the clear slick salt of it, getting everywhere; across Lance's cock, in Fred's mouth, over George's tongue. He swallowed and licked, and pretended he didn't notice when Lance groaned, when the taut satin head of Lance's erection somehow evolved into the shifting silkiness of George's mouth, teeth, tongue.

This would be the bad idea, his brain said, even as Lance's hand stopped pulling and curved down his cheek instead, even as George's kiss turned brutal and he heard his own breath catch in a moan.

"Fuck," Lance muttered, and George bit Fred's lower lip and slid his tongue into Fred's mouth, and Fred clutched Lance's hips and sucked in soft blind helplessness and tried not to pass out any time soon.

He heard himself whimper when George drew back, and kept his eyes closed, then felt Lance's cock brush his lips and opened for him, because absolutely nothing else seemed the thing to do.

Lance pushed firmly up into his mouth, and Fred cracked his eyes open a little to get his bearings, sucking automatically, then swallowing hard when George kissed his cheek, mouth brushing as bruisingly innocent as a drop of veritaserum.

It was probably just a show for Lance, Fred told himself, as George laid a trail of soft sensation right across to his ear, then breathed on him, rose-warm and feather-light. Just a show.

He glanced up at Lance, see how they were being received; George chose that moment to lick his ear, Lance blinked at him like he'd been hit with a ecstablissum charm, and Fred trembled like a plucked unicorn-hair bow, swallowing against Lance's cock whenever he could get the air.

"You're the only one still dressed," Lance said, fingers slipping down to stroke Fred's cheeks, sliding his thumb lightly against Fred's lower lip and then pushing his cock in deep. Fred made a tiny noise in the back of his throat and tried to work his tongue against the sweet spot at the crown, then lost all concentration when George moved from merely kneeling over him to sitting firmly on the top of his thighs.

Pinned, Fred's brain drawled, reminding him of the million and one wrestling matches that finished with his arms folded behind his back and George sitting on him whispering, "say it, say you're a Malfoy."

"No," Fred would protest, and George would yank his arms a little harder and threaten to call his pet camera, and Fred would struggle and gasp and finally, eventually, with George chanting,

"Malfoy, Malfoy," in a whisper right up against his ear, concede.

For one moment, Fred's muscles wanted to shift his arms behind his back-- but that was stupid, would mean he was blowing Lance with no hands, have no possible way to save himself if Lance pushed too far, and that. just. didn't bear thinking about.

George leant forwards, hands smoothing over Fred's shoulders, fingers reaching over and finding the button at the hollow of Fred's collarbones. Fred shivered helplessly, the touch of George's fingertips igniting an intimate awareness that he'd have to struggle to avoid being stripped right now.

He didn't struggle. He pretended to be awfully involved in sliding Lance's cock in and out of his mouth, awfully involved in the twitch of it when he stopped concentrating and it bumped the back of his mouth hard, so frightfully preoccupied that he couldn't possibly notice the pressure of George cock at the top of his thighs as George leant against him and, reaching round from both sides, undid button by button with steadily trembling hands.

He didn't even struggle when George peeled his shirt off his shoulders, and then he realised he had to let go after all, had to bend his arms back one after the other to allow George to slide off his sleeves. He made it as businesslike as he could, keeping sucking, keeping his eyes closed.

Once, George had grabbed their newly christened Saboteur paper just as Percy cast a crematus spell on it, and Fred had grabbed George's hand by instinct, and together they had deflected the destructive magic into themselves and spared their latest masterpiece. It burnt. They'd had to sit on ice for three days, to cool the relentless scratch in their veins. His whole body had been throbbing, day and night, and Fred had never expected to feel anything even close to that again.

Right now, some ice would come very handy indeed.

Topless, now. He almost bit down when George ducked and mouthed the back of his neck, images of what he must look like - images of George, in fact - slicing one on top of the other through his head again and again. Instead of closing his teeth, he let his fists fuse against Lance's thighs, digging his tidy short nails into his palms in slow pulses; a pulse whenever the wet heat of George's mouth edged lower, whenever Lance pushed harder, whenever his own brain flashed coherent enough to register just how awkward it could be if anyone had seen them leave.

We were... talking.

He'd be better off saying George had hooked up with Lance, saying he'd gone because George was his lift, slyly fail to mention that the lift was of the Nimbus variety and perfectly capable of flying him home and then returning whenever George wanted to leave. In actual fact, the astute mind might observe, it would really be less trouble if they had travelled separately. Less squashed, certainly.

That train of thought was taking Fred no good place. He was almost relieved when George demanded his whole attention by stroking down Fred's sides, working his fingers under Fred's belly, and disjointing the button on his jeans. He hadn't let up, and the ridge of his cock had followed the path of least resistance, winding up nestled firm against the spread of Fred's ass, two civilised layers of fabric dividing their skin.

Fred's ass, more than anything in the world, wanted to grind back. George was lifting him, too, slightly-- his hands, working down Fred's fly, simply had to lift Fred's hips in order to ease the fabric open. Fred started panting around Lance's cock, nervous heat flaring through him like cracks of lightning, and George, George, he was tugging Fred's jeans apart, had to be perfectly aware of Fred's cock pressing down into his hands.

Lance's palm rubbed vaguely over the top of Fred's head, an incoherent request. Fred caught his breath and tried to suck some more, his mouth too dry, the taste rasping across his tongue, tingling all over like embarrassment or desire.

He peered up at Lance, saw Lance's other arm was flung across his eyes, and felt a little swirl of satisfaction through the crazy chaos of it all; that was no aloof celebrity, bedding them, no way. That was a man undone, a man stunned with the heat of them, and-- Lance slid his forearm across his face and looked Fred direct in the eye, and Fred swallowed against his cock.

"Fucking beautiful," Lance mouthed, his eyes half-closed, thumbing Fred's ear and then his cheek. George didn't seem to notice, was just easing Fred's jeans down, lifting off him to pull them over his thighs, then settling right back where he'd left off. One civilised layer of fabric. Fuck.

Fred watched Lance watch George, his own eyes half-closing, his mouth dryer than ever as he realised that George must have been able to see Lance all the time, that George had either been too wrapped up in teasing Fred to notice it was unnecessary, or he'd known and had carried on regardless.

Good, Fred admitted, then pretended he'd never thought such a thing in his life. It was getting more difficult to breathe. Lance was edging deeper, and it must've been cutting off his air. No other reason oxygen would be in short supply, nuh.

"You complete... angels," Lance said aloud, and George cupped Fred's cock with a little pressure, and Fred gasped and pressed down hard. George's fingers curved and slid, palms flat against Fred's pelvis, gathering him firmer against the line of George's cock. No angels Fred had ever heard of.

"You know some funny angels," George murmured, and Fred grinned.

"Heaven's going to be interesting when I get there," Lance shrugged, and George chuckled and leant forwards and kissed Fred's ear, and Fred squirmed.

Good, his brain admitted, helplessly; good to have knowing hands exploring his cock, utterly knowing, and actually, was it exploration when the territory wasn't new? and then George was pulling his pants down as well, and suddenly they were skin to damp skin, and Fred's stomach knotted with the pure hot insanity of it: this was way over the line.

"God, you guys," Lance muttered, and Fred couldn't help but spread his legs a little, because George was heavy, sprawled on top of him, and if this brought George's cock snug against his ass like they might possibly fuck, well, that was just coincidence, had to be. "You're so fucking hot."

George's hands covered Fred's hands on Lance's thighs. "So're you," George said, and Fred looked up at Lance, dishevelled and glowing, all those lean tan planes of muscle, as sexily queer as they come. Fred would never in his life carry off the sexiness Lance generated merely by breathing. For one thing, Fred had red hair.

"Wish there were two of me?" Lance smiled, and he was looking at Fred as well, but Fred wasn't exactly in a position to answer. He kept sucking. The air situation wasn't getting any better, but he'd traced it to the fact that George was squashing him, and lightheadedness was a perfectly normal reaction to over-compressed lungs, and he wasn't even fooling himself with the frantic rationalisation any more but it helped him to imagine he might be.

"That could get interesting," George said. Fred imagined two Lances. Whoa. He shifted, felt George's cock twitch against him, and found himself slowly, cautiously shifting again. George stroked his thumbs across the backs of Fred's hands.

"It's pretty interesting already," Lance said, and nodded at Fred. "You've undressed him, thank you. You wanna come back up here?"

George moved his hips a little, and Fred saw stars. A familiar ache was building in the pit of his stomach, an ache that demanded attention, demanded something pushing up his ass and easing the cramp of it or maybe just fucking him senseless--

"I quite like it here," George said, and Lance bit his lower lip like something incredibly hot had just occurred to him.

"Looks like you do," he said. "Planning on staying there? Because y'know," he added swiftly, voice dropping, amusement and lust in his mouth, "I really, really wouldn't have a problem with that."

"You have a problem with that?" George whispered, ducking to kiss Fred's ear again, and that brought the length of his chest flat against Fred's back, and Fred pushed up against helplessly him like some sort of chilly baby dragon.

He shook his head, barely noticing Lance's gasp. Later, okay, possibly, potentially, there would be trouble-- but right now, the glorious heat of George's chest leading down to the mouth-watering heat of George's cock, all pressed against him, damp and demanding - no. Problems could be put on hold right now.

All at once, all the heat and pressure disappeared, and Fred almost moaned in distress before his knees were pushed a little further apart, and he realised George was sitting between them.

Watching him, probably, Fred thought, and arched his spine shamelessly - in for a knut, in for a galleon, he thought, his grandfather's voice just fantastically inappropriate right now.

Thoughts of his family faltered when George touched his ass, then evaporated completely as one slow wet knowing finger pushed inside-- because now there was just George, and Fred letting Lance's cock slip from his mouth before he could go and really honestly bite into it, and George wasn't family, not in the conventional way.

Well, quite.

"I wish I had a camera," Lance muttered, and Fred rested his forehead against the base of Lance's stomach and panted, his breath bouncing off Lance's skin and hitting his mouth in little hot damp blasts.

A camera, he thought, imagining if George had brought his camera, taken his own sort of pictures, wizard pictures, catching the rhythm as well as the tone. George's other hand was slipping thoughtfully up his thigh, thumb stroking like a search, questing out the sensitive points in Fred's skin.

The pressure of George's finger inside him, shifting and wheedling him open and not quite slick enough to be painless, made Fred's head spin. He pushed back, wanting it slipperier, then shivered hard as George worked in another wet-not-slick finger good and slow.

"Lube," he whispered, and felt Lance stretch backwards and rummage around, and George hummed softly and leaned forwards and kissed the back of his neck. Fred twitched hard, clutching Lance's thighs, upturning his ass a little more.

"Thanks," George said, and Fred felt something being passed over, and there were tiny plastic noises and George had to be doing that one-handed, and then George's coolly slick hand returned to high up on Fred's thigh.

"Oh, man," Lance breathed, and then George was running a curious finger against Fred's balls, purpose in his fingertip, and the sudden unholy sensations of it were making Fred gasp, and George murmured,

"heh, yes, thought so."

"Here, you forgot," Lance said, and that was urgent enough that Fred forced his eyes open; Lance was passing George a condom, and Fred swallowed. Whoa.

Not only that, well, that meant business, that did - but also because there wasn't an easy way to say "we can't catch anything we can't cure," and then George was saying,

"No one else gets to do this," and Lance's eyes widened, and then he smiled incredulously and exhaled.

"My God. You two--"

"It's just our thing," George shrugged, nestling more firmly against Fred's thighs, then drawing his fingers thoughtfully out and pushing them back in, slippery now, twice as hard.

"Fuck," Fred muttered, aching to get to his knees, needing more now now now and yet fuck, fuck because more than this might kill him. He panted harder against Lance's stomach, his breaths ragging fiercely at the edges, and then Lance was slithering a little lower, sliding down until his cock was back beneath Fred's mouth.

Not a chance, Fred thought, even as he opened his mouth and tried to suck-- not a chance to get a proper angle, though, and with George adding another - fuck - finger, not much of a chance to coordinate at all.

"Sorry," he whispered, enjoying the sound of it in his mouth, "sorry--"

"Ah, c'mon, a little, just a little," Lance whispered back, "just until he," and then broke off, and Fred felt George's fingers against his jaw, George's weight tilting uncompromising on top of him as he nudged Fred's mouth open with his thumb.

And there should, Fred thought, as the salty head of Lance's cock pressed into his mouth and the slight chemical flavour of George's fingers melted away; there should be no way George could lean forwards without overbalancing or pulling out, but apparently in this instance Fred's mind's eye was wrong.

"Oh," Lance breathed, appreciation choking his voice, "oh, god."

Fred swallowed, his mouth hovering against the head of Lance's cock, the thick satin weight of it pushing up against his parted lips. He was trying not to breathe so hard that he got a headrush, and then George was twisting his fingers out and running his hands up Fred's back, up over his shoulders and then down.

Familiar, Fred thought hoarsely, pressing his mouth down on Lance's cock, then his cheek. Familiar, and, oh fuck, because George reached Fred's wrists and then tugged, prying his hands off Lance's thighs, easing then slowly down and then across and pinning them over the small of Fred's back.

Fred twisted until his shoulders yelped, panting, then struggled to lift and discovered he couldn't wrench free at all; George's hands were uncompromising, and the tearing heat in Fred's muscles pounded in time with the heat in his cock.

He rocked his thighs apart, felt George shift to lie between them, and fuck, too wrong and hot, George holding his hands behind his back, immobilising his crossed wrists with one steady hand. Fred struggled enough to make it real for himself, the ache in his spine building, pain glowing across his shoulders until he stopped resisting and felt the line of Lance's cock against his cheek, pressed his face hard against Lance's thigh--

Say you're a Malfoy, Fred's brain blurted in George's voice, his thoughts rocking through strange and uncharted orbits, wondering wildly if George thought about this whenever he held him down, if he imagined swivelling his hips until Fred's legs parted and his cock could fit in between.

The pulse of Lance's hips was steady beneath his face, tight smooth grinds pushing skin across skin, Lance's hands wandering over Fred's neck and hair in soothing gestures made obscene by proxy. Fred started breathing in time with it, with the rocking of Lance's pelvis, his ass aching hopefully with the cruelty of being fingered and abandoned and spread wide.

George shifted his knees a little further apart, and Fred keened softly, the noise buzzing in his throat and then spilling over Lance's skin. He wanted to beg, to coax, but he hadn't the breath, and also Lance, Lance-- there were intimacies he wasn't willing yet to share. It was easier to begin an utterly suppressible struggle, so he did, and then froze when George interrupted Fred's wriggling with the firm application of his cock to the cleft of his ass.

Nerves clamoured about the blunt hot pressure of it, almost pushing in, and Fred gritted his teeth and breathed hard, sucking salt-laden air shallowly into his lungs and then blasting it out under frustrated little moans.

Please, please--

"Ah," George muttered, and Fred imagined the sudden slide of it, having George at one moment aimed to push in and the next buried, with the grating ecstasy of the thrust in between-- but George was lingering, holding off, and it didn't seem to be mattering that Fred could feel exactly what he wanted, exactly how much.

Tease or conscience, Fred thought, and then - okay, fuck - tease, because George was leaning his weight behind the head of his cock and then relaxing again, exquisitely awful lulls before the pressure building and burning until Fred felt like vibration and a sharp jab backwards was the only answer. Pity he was immobilised right now, eh.

It went on, four, five, six rounds, until Fred was reciting willpower spell tables and beginning to feel the sweat-heat mix glowing like some unholy halo from his skin, and then George muttered, "Breathe," leaning down hard on Fred's wrists, and it was business this time, and Fred braced himself to howl.

George was pushing the head inside when Lance muttered, "fuck, stop," and sat up, his stomach tight and gleaming with effort. Stop, Fred thought, alarmed beyond all sense-- no, don't stop, fuck, because he was crazy for this now, and if George didn't--

The pressure melted off, and George's cock slipped down until the head brushed Fred's balls, his hands unrelenting on Fred's wrists. Fred groaned, deep in his throat, and buried his face in Lance's thigh. He needed it now, okay? now, now, and George wasn't, George was just--

"Now," Lance muttered, and Fred registered that Lance'd sat up, that Lance had a hand on the back of his neck and was pressing down a little, keeping Fred's cheek against Lance's thigh as he-- watched.

Oh sweet flaming salamanders, Fred thought wildly, as George lifted his pelvis a little and edged his cock back into position, blunt heat of the head slicker now: Lance was watching that.

"Yeah?" George muttered, testing burning pushes almost forcing him inside, and Lance stroked the back of Fred's tight shoulders and breathed,

"yeah, go on," and George pressed a little harder and then paused again.

"Slow," he whispered, and Fred opened his mouth to say, no, really, go right ahead, and then George added, "or right in?"

"Right in," Lance said, and Fred sucked in a hard breath, because fuck, they weren't even talking to him? and then George was nudging single-mindedly at Fred's ass and pressing down hard on Fred's wrists, and Fred lost all the air in his lungs as his thighs shifted a little further apart and George's cock pushed deliberately inside.

In near-eerie unison, Lance and George groaned.

"Fuck," Fred heard himself whisper, struggling a little to feel George re-firm his grip on Fred's wrists, panting hot and damp against the crease of Lance's thigh. Lance started squirming, tipping his hips, bringing the base of his cock against Fred's mouth-- and then he was sliding his hand up the back of Fred's neck and pressing, blindly, rubbing the base of his cock against Fred's mouth and keeping it there.

George's fingers eased into Fred's fists and squeezed, and Fred squeezed back, and then George pulled out and slid back in hard enough to make Fred's stomach glow. His hips, Fred thought helplessly: he was pretty sure his own hips never felt that controlled. If positions were reversed...

His brain tried to wrestle with that, and let the disconcerting images go graciously when George made a quiet noise against his ear and pulled Fred's hands out to press against the mattress next to Lance's thighs. It felt like someone shelving a fantasy in favour of reality, Fred thought distantly, the muscles in his shoulders full of a melting warm sensation, and then George was settling firmer against his back and picking up the pace, fucking, hard.

Lance started murmuring something that Fred, over the white noise in his ears and the stutter of his own breathing, guessed might be a prayer. Heat was washing over him, the slickness of George's cock the most distinctive thing about his entire life right now, the slickness and the rhythmic shoving slide of it, each thrust coming dangerously close to making him squeak.

Quaint to call on religion at a time like this. "Fuck," Fred muttered, and a mutter wasn't a squeak, wasn't anything like the adoring noises he was desperately quenching in his throat. Slowly, he realised that he was trying to take this like a man. Can't let George know--

Except it was performance, his brain reminded him, and that was the cloak they'd drawn around themselves, and in that case, hey, it was just fine to scream.

"Shit, ah, more," he groaned, twisting to lick Lance's hip, rocking back against George's pelvis but taking a little more of George's cock than he expected at that angle, hissing hard and vicious against Lance's skin.

And oh.

It was a little like time slowed down, except time had already done that; Fred's head wasn't exactly clear just now. He could hear that George had stopped breathing, and his own breath faltered. It was like the silence of trains being cancelled in the night, the absence of noise feeling louder than any scheduled run. He felt George's next thrust right down to his toes, deliberate and weighted, and couldn't hold back a grunt even as he tried to clamp his unsteady breathing down.

Fuck, please. He braced himself, and George did it again, pointed shove of his cock that said more plainly than words, you want this, and, you want this hard.

"Yeah," Fred gasped, abandoning a script he hadn't noticed making, clutching at George's fingers against the sheets. He was pushing up, his whole body pulsing, wet and hot along every part of him that touched another man's skin. Please, he thought; please, please, and then George was pulling free of his hands and gathering his hips, and they were shifting, manoeuvring Fred to his elbows and knees.

The next thrust made him bury his face against Lance's cock again.

"Jesus," Lance whispered, and George started fucking him hard, concentrated slam-slam-slam that made Fred arch and whine, "you're just, oh, man?"

Fred kissed Lance's stomach as much as he could, then shuddered when Lance reached down, when Lance's fist closed around the cock against Fred's cheek and started sliding, silver-ringed and certainty-sure.

He was beating off. He was beating off, Fred's brain explained patiently, because Fred didn't have the coordination to help, because Fred's mouth was slipping erratically against Lance's stomach and knuckles and cock, because Fred's attention actually couldn't be spared for a hot popstar while his-- while this sex thing was going on.

He amazed himself by shying away from it even as George readjusted his grip and pulled halfway out and started sliding, fast-paced three-inch slide, raking sparks into Fred's brain and making the pit of his stomach cry for a deep hit again.

He recognised the technique. He, fuck, he used the technique, used it on himself, his own fist, holding the head of his cock with both wet hands and rubbing fast, sublime couple of inches ignited in pure sensation again and again. And George was doing it using him.

"That's not fair," he heard himself whisper, and somewhere along the line George was breathing again, was panting soft and rhythmic, an intimately familiar sound. Jerking off, or with Oliver, or one of the others. Fred swallowed at an odd desire to be able to see George's face right now, to meet his eyes, get an affirmation that neither one of them was pretending this wasn't happening. His head spun in time with his pulse. Even though he wouldn't give up George's hands on his waist, tight and demanding, he suddenly missed the hand-holding moment earlier on. That was private, exclusive, nothing for Lance to see or feel.

Or failing the hand-holding, his brain added hazily, a moment later, he'd settle for a less selfish use of George's cock. Not fair to drive him crazy in this abstract way, use him like a fist, to tease in George's own time. Not fair at all.

"Properly," he whispered, coaxing with his voice and his hips, trying to rock back and take the evasive head of George's cock back deep-deep-brutal, and George gripped fiercer at his hips and sped up, just as shallow, his edged fingers digging into Fred's skin.

Fred licked distractedly at Lance's knuckles and barely heard the groan, everything blurring now. Buzzing waves of frustration crashed over and over him until he was wriggling his ass in George's grip in a blatant attempt to out-manoeuvre and take on the sly.

"Fuck," he whined, when George's grip just tightened. It gave him even less movement, every thrust sending a shallow thrill of sensation through Fred's body, relentless and unfulfilling. "What do you want?"

Lance muttered something, and Fred thought, yes, we know you're fine, and then George whispered, "this is serious. It's veritas," and Fred knew exactly what he meant, and something in his chest relaxed at realising they were on the same terrifying, stark-naked page.

"aeris'texi," he whispered back, the only thing he could think of, a Cornish spell for waterproofing ships before a storm.

"Oh fuck," George hissed, and gave a slight laugh, "suits me," and he wrapped one arm round Fred's stomach, pressing his face against the back of Fred's neck, and pushed smoothly all the way inside. Fred yowled, then started crooning as George started to move, George's hand finding his cock and pulling on it slow-quick-slow, the certainty of his movements filling Fred's brain with fire.

"If it suits you," Fred gasped, clutching at the sheets and pressing his wet forehead against Lance's hip, "it suits me - stands to reason," and George laughed again and twisted his strokes on Fred's cock until the sensation-thrills were shuddering through Fred in all directions, like shiny lace eternally unravelling.

Fred's breath started carrying sound, and George echoed him, indistinguishable, and the sensation gradually bunched, trembling, George slipping his hand down and confidently squeezing Fred's balls. Fuck Fred thought inanely, coming with a groan, lace turning to rigid lightning, ringing with pleasure for one-- three-- maybe eight seconds and then reeling in a darkness that slammed into him from all sides.

The world thundered with the sensation of swimming. "Since last summer," he thought he heard George whisper, and images flickered fast and fresh like releasing a jack-in-the-box, seaspray and candyfloss and sand-scraped skin and limpet-imprinted bare knees.

He opened his eyes as soon as he could and found himself lying face up on the dark sheets, someone's - George's - arm slung over his chest, pinning him down. He was tingling all over, especially in certain areas, buzzing like pins-and-needles but good. The room sounded wet. He turned his head, saw George sucking Lance off, mouth working lovingly up and down, Lance's fingers shivering through his hair.

Some reason, the thought of George tasting what Fred had tasted was more erotic than the fact that he was watching gay porn starring Lance Bass right now.

George's hand slid over Fred's chest, nails a light bite of pressure, and Fred flexed happily, and rolled to press against Lance's thigh. Lance groaned softly, then again, a rising cadence as George moved his mouth systematically and winked at Fred as he swallowed Lance down.

A collision occurred in Fred's chest, horror and bliss smashing into each other and making his head spin. George had fucked him. Fucked him. Fucked him, and it had been good, and not a show, no, couldn't be.

Time to read up on his wizard law.

"Jesus christ," Lance cursed, one hand swerving to where Fred was clutching his thigh, and Fred ducked his mouth and bit playfully at Lance's fingers, watching with a strangely detached pleasure as he saw Lance's hips rock up hard in response to Fred's teeth.

George hummed, eyes closed, hollowing his cheeks and then swallowing deep again, and Lance made a fist. Fred sucked Lance's knuckles hard and then pushed his tongue between them, and Lance gave a sharp little cry and jerked his hips and sleekly froze.

Fred watched George's throat work, and chewed distractedly on Lance's knuckles. Lance's hips pushed up a couple more times, then relaxed onto the bed, and he was stroking George's head like a wordless compliment.

George eased off him and breathed shallow and fast, pressing little kisses over Lance's stomach and hip, then kissed his way down Lance's wrist, winding up at Fred's mouth.

"Hey," Fred breathed, and kissed him, tasting Lance's cock and something saltier and the heat of exertion, still no apricots down here. George kissed back, a hand gradually climbing into Fred's hair, a slow pulse of silken existence until they gradually drew back and Fred realised he was in danger of sliding off the bed.

George shared his grin, then eased backwards, winding up lying the length of Lance's body, curling close, one hand on Lance's chest. "Bookends," he mouthed, and Fred grinned wider and copied him, shuffling close and tucking his chin against Lance's shoulder. Lance gathered him close with a sigh that sounded like the laziest orgasm Fred had ever heard, deep and soporifically contented.

Fred's eyes slipped closed, just as he felt George's fingers wriggle under his palm. Like it had been triggered, exhaustion swamped over him, allowing him just one final thought that there was a sort of perverse poetry to it, Lance's heartbeat cupped in the twins' twined hands.


Once, last autumn, in a club toilet, George had stripped off Fred's t-shirt and then his own, and swapped them, then run his wet fingers through Fred's hair until it stuck up in little twists. "Almost," he'd said, his head on one side, and then he'd reached between Fred's legs and pressed the heel of his hand sweet-firm against Fred's cock, and Fred had felt his own eyes widen, and he'd stayed carefully, perfectly still.

George's fingers had worked him slow and deliberate through his jeans until he was half-hard and they were both breathing through their mouths, and then he'd stepped back, given Fred a shaky grin, and nodded.

"Now you properly look like I did when I came in." He was still holding Fred's t-shirt balled up in one hand, and his chest was rising and falling with shallow swiftness, the summer's tan worn down to freckled pale smoothness again.

"Not quite," Fred had managed, pulling off his ring, and George's gaze flickered over it and veered across Fred's crotch and then back to his mouth, and then he'd held out his hand.

Carefully, Fred had slid the ring onto George's middle finger. It'd fitted, of course.

"Now we do," Fred had said hoarsely, staring at his fingertips and then turning and admiring their transformation in the mirror instead. He'd looked like George, and aroused as all fuck. "Who am I seducing, again?"

"Um," George had said, "the guy on the podium." He was rolling Fred's screwed-up shirt against his stomach, just a little. "Wait," George had said, as Fred swallowed and turned to go, and then George had reached down again, tips of his thumb and forefinger closing on the head of Fred's cock and dragging down, and Fred had reached for the mirror to steady himself, and closed his eyes.

"Thank you," he had said faintly, when George let go, and George'd made some low noise in his throat and immediately declared that he needed to go to the bar. He'd been gone by the time Fred had opened his eyes.

Fred didn't let himself think about that night very often. They'd been very, very drunk, he always told himself. They'd certainly never mentioned it again.


Sleep was a barrier that Fred wished he hadn't crossed.

"Hey," he woke to, with a poke in the shoulder, "wake up," and it was very odd for George to be here since Fred could quite clearly feel that he was wrapped around some naked man, and unless something monumental had happened then that wasn't normally-- oh fuck.

He opened his eyes, and caught his breath. George was leaning over him, face utterly blank, eyes flicking discreetly to Lance as soon as he saw Fred had woken up.

"He's asleep," he whispered. Something monumental, check.

"Yes," Fred agreed, and for a moment all he could think of was how much he admired the tough curve of George's lower lip, and then he realised that that was quite an inappropriate thought, and dashed it from his mind. "We should probably leave."

"Yes. So, um. We'd better get dressed," George whispered, his hand hovering at Fred's hip, then moving away when Fred leant into it. It still seemed to be dark outside - although of course, these would be very expensive curtains.

Fred faked a yawn and nodded, trusting that George was watching him, then slithered off the bed away from him, finding his twisted-up boxers and shaking them out with complete concentration.

Lance slept. Fred put his foot unsteadily into the first leg of his boxers, swayed wildly, and groped for stability in the shape of the bed. He glanced at George, and George was so busy buttoning his own fly that he didn't seem to have noticed. George's eyes kept darting towards Lance, nerves or something else. Lance slept.

Fuck. And then, clear in his mind, the idea that George was thinking of something else while Fred had been gasping back in his hands-- please, no. With a moment of helpless concentration, Fred could see it all, Lance's strokes evening out to match George's - and even that thought, the idea of George pacing himself to the hot famous guy right then? still no, no a thousand times, because Fred wanted Lance but not as much as he wanted George, and he couldn't bear it if this were the crucial difference between them.

He pulled on his jeans and then, reluctantly, walked round to George's side of the bed. His shirt was somewhere round here, but--

George's eyes were very dark when he glanced up, and Fred read nervous frustration as clearly as if George had written it in the air. "What's up?"

"Lost my shirt." Fred imitated George's neutral undertone without trying.

"Oh," George said, and the situation hung between them so vividly that Fred had an inkling that Skeeta's camera could take one shot of them and know every detail.

Irritated, Fred laughed softly. "Well, do you have it?"

"It's around here somewhere," George said. He was irritated too, Fred thought, but definitely not laughing.

It was too tempting to play the fool, knowing George respected his intelligence far too much to believe him. He swallowed and resisted. His mouth tasted like he'd panted too much this evening.

He licked his lips, and the touch of his tongue was like careless pressure on sunburnt skin; his lips were a little sore, felt tight, and George-- Lance-- no, he felt certain, George had done that.

He wasn't sure why he was so certain. And actually, heh, no. It was probably a misplaced romantic notion that after spending hours sucking Lance's cock, it was George's touch that had done the damage. Too surreal, that somewhere in the alchemy of their mouths he'd been scalded; some reason, though, for all he could remember giving head when he concentrated, the lingering sense-memories on his lips were rich and tantalising with the brush of George's mouth.

He was so fucked.

His shirt, he discovered - after about three minutes of squinting at the darkness round the base of the bed, skimming his palm over foreign crumpled clothes and trying to distinguish the thread-count - was slung on top of Lance's shoes.

He pulled it on, sleeve by sleeve. Lance slept.

"Look, Fred," George said abruptly.

Fred did up his buttons. "Mm?"

"This is awkward," George said bluntly, and Fred exhaled hard, shaking his head, grinning and not in any way feeling amused. He ached, a little, and George did not need to know that.

"Really."

"Keep your voice down," George said, and Fred lashed a glare at him, and George added quickly, "no, you know what I mean. You know this would be worse if he were awake."

Fred pinned his voice down to a murmur. "Maybe we should talk about it later then," he said relentlessly, "or not at all," and he couldn't help feeling like they'd wasted their opportunity to have Lance, which was odd since everything - but yes.

"This shouldn't have been about us," George said, like he was peering into Fred's brain, catching the thoughts just before they arrived. "Look at him."

Fred turned to look at Lance, all searingly debauched and mouthwatering, laid out like the vampires would be back any minute to finish the job. "You're right," he said, completely sober now and achingly wistful. "Look at him."

"It was a bad idea," George said quietly, "to both come to his house."

"Given what happened," Fred agreed, astonished to hear his voice thick like curdled emotion.

"Given the circumstances," George said, and Fred could tell he was nodding without looking over, and then he felt George's hand on his shoulder, his arm a reassuring pressure against his back, and held quite still. They were making up, putting it behind them, shelving it in shadow. It was wrong to want the spotlight back.

"I still think I should have had him," Fred joked, arranging his own arm round George's waist, very platonic, "I saw him first," and George said, so soft Fred almost didn't believe it wasn't his imagination,

"I saw you first," and held completely still.

"Few would argue," Fred heard himself say, his voice quiet enough that he thought he might get away with the cracks.

"We should maybe wake him up," George said, smoother, "since it could be the last time we see him," and his arm felt hot and light against Fred's shoulder, and Fred felt a curious buoyancy ripple through them both.

"If we did," he said carefully, his heartbeats thunderbolts between the words, "then certain things might develop, again."

"Things," George said, deadpan.

"Yes."

"Things," George said, tasting the word, and Fred dared wickedly squeeze George's waist, and George jumped and yelped and somehow turned indignantly in Fred's arms, and Fred tilted his head swiftly and their mouths touched like it was planned.

George breathed soft and light and fast as their lips brushed, hands barely skimming Fred's back, then closed in when Fred nuzzled at his mouth, closed in with gripping hands and sliding thighs and his testing, delicate tongue.

It was dark and warm behind Fred's eyes, and George's back moved beneath his hands like this were natural. "This is okay," Fred whispered, only just a question, feeling like a fool because he shouldn't need to ask because George was standing here, was kissing him, was his twin and they were supposed to share a language--

But frankly, Fred interrupted himself, their language felt foreign right now, and kissing could mean nothing since they'd managed to actually fuck each other and still not answer that fundamental question.

George nodded a little, kissing him slow and light, slower and lighter, and stopping. He rested his forehead against Fred's and took a deep breath. "Fred," he said, and Fred held his breath, and the pause seemed to last for three hours. Eventually, George whispered, "Mum's going to kill us," and Fred choked, relieved beyond all imagining.

"Mum is not going to know," he retorted, and George grinned and kissed him, swaying his whole body close, and Fred firmed his hands on George's hips and shook him warningly, and George started giggling.

"Sor--"

"You don't mean it so don't say it," Fred said quickly, quoting Ron a thousand times in one moment, and George laughed harder, pressing his face into Fred's shoulder, quaking. It was altogether too much temptation. Fred nipped at George's ear, pressing his teeth together harder than he'd dare with someone else, and George sucked in his breath hard, clutching Fred's back, his whole body flexing in Fred's arms.

"Fuck," George whispered, turning his mouth against the side of Fred's neck, pressing swift light feverish kisses up to his ear and then pausing, mouth over Fred's earlobe. "We're so fucked."

"Yes," Fred said, shivering hard and trying to tamp it down, "If this doesn't cause trouble--"

"There's no ifs," George said; "it's going to."

"Yes." And then, when that didn't seem to cover the enormity of hovering on the brink of complete and illegal insanity with his own flesh and blood, he added, "fuck," and that sent George off again like the same thoughts had been going through his head as well.

Naturally, that wasn't an entirely impossible likelihood.

"Okay," Fred said, when George calmed down a little, "we should really get out of here."

"Heh," George sighed, and unfolded from him, then reeled back in to give him one light kiss on the lips, and ducked down to find his shoes.

Fred looked for his own shoes, tugging them on, glancing over the bed, and oh. Lance. Wasn't quite sleeping any more. Fred swallowed, heat tingling the length of his body, and Lance pushed himself sleepily up on his elbow and drew up one knee.

"Hello," he said. George's head snapped up, and Lance glanced at him lazily, then grinned. "Oh," he said, "relax. I'm flying out to Florida in six hours anyway." His gaze swept over Fred again, and his grin widened. "I mean, not that that's not enough time to... no, I better not."

"We've gotta get home," Fred apologised, "or people'll get suspicious. So we'd better not, too."

"Home for curfew," Lance said wonderingly, and relaxed back on the bed, throwing his arms out, tipping his head back. "God, I love my life."

George was still kneeling, hands frozen on his shoelaces. "Will you be back?"

"Wednesday," Lance said instantly, and pointed vaguely at the bedside table with one finger. "My card's in that drawer."

Fred strode to the drawer, pulled it open, and took out the uppermost of a stack a pale squares with flowery script across one side and a long number over the centre. Fred felt a certain amount of power in its innocuous frame. It was definitely important. They could work out what to do with it later.

"Call me," Lance said, and Fred looked down at George, and George wrapped his hand round Fred's knee and used it to pull himself to his feet.

His eyes were gleaming exactly how Fred had a feeling his own were, right now. "We will."

"Excellent," Lance drawled, then looked over at them, eyelashes flicking as his gaze swept down them and up again. "Oh, man. I love my life," he repeated, then tapped his cheek. "C'mon, kiss me and then get outa here before I drag ya back down with me." He smirked. "You'd never make curfew then."

Fred went, and Lance's cheek was sleep-warm beneath his mouth, and he kissed it and then Lance's mouth as well, softly, several times. Lance's lips were sweet like someone had rolled roasted almonds across them, somewhat addictive, and then there was a hand at his hip and it was George's turn.

Fred backed off, turning Lance's card in his fingers, and watched George's head, auburn in the gloom, dip to Lance's fair one. He licked his own lips. They were in a lot of trouble.

"Fuck," Lance bit off, a moment later, "get out, I mean it, or I'm not gonna be responsible for what happens," and George laughed softly and grabbed Fred's hand, and they stuffed their feet into their shoes and stumbled out. They hurtled down the stairs, tumbled into the frosty yellow-lit darkness outside, and pulled the door carefully shut behind them.

The night had dipped from cool into fucking freezing, and Fred's muscles promptly started to tremble with a view, he suspected, towards seizing up and crippling him for life.

"Fuck, it's cold," George hissed, huddling determinedly at him, and Fred nodded ruefully and chafed their hands together. They were dressed for a lazy houseparty, for fashionable debauchery. Practical didn't come into it.

"We'd better catch a taxi," Fred said, and peered towards the road, somewhat reluctant to head out into the actual street just yet. He liked Lance's drive. It was all... private. "I don't think we can make the broom come here."

"Not without a specific location for it," George agreed. "Right, then. Taxi. Home."

There was a pause. A taxi rolled past, its little yellow light friendly.

They didn't try to catch it because George was kissing him again. "You didn't see that," he muttered, against Fred's mouth, and Fred shook his head because no he did not, not if George said so, and then an owl hooted and they scrambled back from each other in complete and abject fear.

It wasn't for them.

"Fuck," Fred grinned, head full of stars. "We should really get going."

"Fuck," George said suddenly, "The clock."

Fred had thought of that. "That's okay," he said, shaking his head quickly. "The reading won't have changed from City. Or Party, at worst."

"It might have fluctuated when we got in the taxi," George said nervously, and Fred smiled.

"No problem. The party moved. C'mon," he added wickedly, "we're both together. She might suspect mischief, but worse than that--"

"That's the one good thing about being us, right now," George grinned, squeezing his hand as they wandered down the drive, and Fred pushed him briefly against the gatepost and kissed his lower lip before whispering,

"There's more than one good thing. After all, we've got our own room these days."

George made a plaintive noise against his mouth, half a kiss and half a protest. "Yes, but," he complained, sounding as if he'd thought about this a lot, "It's not that good, because they'll be suspicious if we soundproof it, or--"

"--lock ourselves in the treehouse again, and--"

"--yet if we stay here all night--"

"Then they'll come look for us," Fred finished, disheartened, and George nodded. "And that's never fun."

Moodily, they started casting taxi charms.

"I suppose the sooner we're home, the sooner we can go out again," Fred said, after a minute, and George looked a little happier.

"That's true. And," he added enthusiastically, pulling Fred close and working a hand into his pocket, "Lance gave us his cardboard, and I think it's got a spell on it!"

Fred grinned, starting to fizz again. "Okay," he said, spinning the taxi charm a little faster as they held the card in the glow of the streetlamp and squinted at the lettering together, "well, at least that should keep us busy for a while."


George had £4.16 and Fred had £4.39 and the taxi was £7.60 back to the party to collect the broom, and the chips Fred was sent to fetch were 95p. Lucky, that.

Fred doused on the vinegar but only scattered a tiny bit of salt, because that was how they liked them. The woman behind the counter did a double take, and Fred turned to see George framed in the florescent lights. He had the Nimbus in one hand and was leaning against the doorframe with the other, and the lights washed out his eyes and hair and he looked exhausted and pitiful and happy.

There was no question that Fred loved him, obviously, but he had the first sudden inkling that this might actually work.

"Chip?" he beamed, holding out the steaming waxed-paper cone.

"Chip!" George said, with relish, taking a handful as they folded back out into the night together, making happy little noises as he ate.

They flew to the nearest portkey and lingered there, licking vinegar-stained fingers and making excuses not to go home until Fred grabbed George's damp hand and held it over the half-chewed acorn.

"We're going," he said sternly, and pressed down, and the world fizzed in and out, and then they were staggering towards the front door of The Burrow.

"I don't want to go in," George said stoutly, shaking off Fred's hand, and Fred thought, no, me neither, except that he could really do with a hot shower right about now. His aching shoulders, in particular, thought that would be a resoundingly good idea.

"You can camp in the garden," he said.

"No, I want a shower," George said, and Fred smiled reflexively, and kissed him quickly on the mouth, daring in the pre-dawn gloom. "Fuck," George muttered urgently, pressing back at him, and they were outside their house, actually under their parents' window, and the inkling that it might work suddenly seemed very far-fetched and idealistic indeed.

And yet. And yet, that definitely wasn't enough to make Fred pull back right now. George's mouth tasted of hot chips and sleepy sulky boy, and his fingers were damp at the base of Fred's skull, and this was insanity, in an addictive sort of way. The dawn chorus started up, fluttery-shrill on the edge of Fred's awareness, and there was a moment that went on and on where they were kissing fierce-hard and then the next where their hands snapped up and tangled in a mutual effort to push each other away.

"Fuck," George breathed, and Fred shook their fingers free and ran his hands through his hair, and blurted,

"We could shower together."

George's eyes widened. "We could not."

"We could," Fred retorted, at normal volume, and hearing his own stubborn argument-ready voice was like normality descending again. It was Saturday morning, disgustingly early, and they weren't even headed for a hangover. Everything would be fine.

"We could not," George squeaked, but he was buckling, crumbling, and then he was just staring, surprised and earnest, into Fred's eyes. "Okay," he said. "Maybe."

Fred beamed, and kissed his cheek, and led him into the quiet clutter of the house. A dishcloth stirred lazily and lost interest. The clock whirred as its hand trundled back to Home.

"One thing," George said determinedly, when they reached the bottom of the dark stairs, and Fred turned expectantly, impatient for the hot water now.

"What?"

"Seriously," George said softly, walking upstairs to get level with him, "I'm scared. We're in so much trouble," and Fred let him get on the same step and then pushed him briefly against the wallpaper and kissed his lower lip before whispering,

"Yes - but when are we not?"


Epilogue:

"You know what," Lance breathed, the second time he took Fred home, "I think your sister's hot."

Fred froze.

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