Still, where did the lighter fluid come from? (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} emiime) wrote in ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} emific,@ 2008-09-08 16:10:00 |
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Pyramid (Charlie/George, NC-17)
Title: Pyramid
Pairing: Charlie/George
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 900
Warnings: Incest, angst
Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's.
Summary: Bill is married. Fred is gone. Charlie and George are lost.
"You want to get a what?"
"A tattoo," George said again, with a bit of a huff. "I thought I'd ask if you'd go with me, but fuck off if you're just going to take the piss."
"No, I'll go with you, I will—just—do you mind if I ask why?" Charlie's eyes twinkled merrily, and he tipped back in his chair, but his expression turned solemn at his brother's next words.
"For Fred."
Charlie paused, then leaned forward, the legs of his chair sounding a muted thump against the floor.
"All right, little brother. When do we go?"
***
George gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, hissing as the tattoo artist moved his wand once more over his spine.
"Fuck," he hissed, "I can feel it down my arm."
"You all right?" Charlie asked, but he was smiling, and he wasn't looking at George's face, but over his shoulder, where the tattoo in progress was clearly visible in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
"Fine," said George, "Yeah. Fine." Charlie privately thought that George sounded anything but fine, but he kept that thought to himself and just kept watching.
The brothers didn't speak for the next twenty minutes, until the tattoo artist sat back, finally, and surveyed his work.
"Am I done?" asked George.
"One more spell," said the tattoo artist, "Just hold still—this one won't hurt."
The artist passed his wand over the entirety of the inked area, muttering the first of the series of healing spells that George would have to continue on his own, then gave George a hand mirror so he could see the multicoloured masterpiece that now graced his back.
George steeled himself with a breath before he looked in the mirror.
"Our finest hour," he declared, as fireworks burst to life on his skin.
***
"Does it still hurt?"
George took his time turning his head to meet Charlie's blurred gaze.
"Does what?"
Charlie grinned and took the bottle of Old Ogden's from George's limp hand. "I guess the answer is no, then." He struggled to sit upright on the sofa, then drained the last from the bottle that George had found in the back of his cupboard.
"You know what, Georgie," Charlie continued, "Bill went with me when I got my first tattoo." Charlie patted his right shoulder. "It was a seedy little place—we were both underage—Bill got one, too, and we're damned lucky neither of us got an infection. She doesn't move like she used to, either," Charlie said, rolling up his sleeve to gaze at the snoozing green dragon there, "But I still love her."
George nodded and slumped forward, pressing his palm to the dragon on Charlie's shoulder. She flicked her tail once, twice, then settled again.
"Always liked her," George said, and Charlie nodded.
"You miss Bill." George said when another moment had passed. Belatedly, Charlie realised that George's hand was still on his bicep, and George's fingertips were curling into his flesh.
"You miss Fred," Charlie replied, and he turned to face his brother.
George didn't let go of Charlie's arm. He clung even harder. Charlie bit his lip. George had the same blue eyes as Fred, the blue eyes that stared out of the faces of Ron and Percy…and Bill.
"Your eyes are brown," said George, and his breath smelt of whisky, and his face was close enough to kiss.
George's hand travelled up to Charlie's neck, and Charlie realised he was sweating. He plucked at his t-shirt and leaned forward.
"I miss Bill," he confessed.
"I know," said George.
And the brothers' mouths met.
***
Charlie wondered, fleetingly, if George imagined his twin behind him, buried inside him, clutching his arms and sweating all over him.
"Fah—" George gasped, and Charlie clenched his jaw and waited for it to turn into his dead brother's name.
"Fah—fuck," George managed, and Charlie thrust forward harder, biting his lip until he tasted iron.
"Hurts," George said then, and Charlie drove into him, faster, faster, as his orgasm approached, and George gasped "Yes". The pressure of fingertips on George's hips turned into the sharp crescent moons of fingernails, and George arched back, spreading his thighs, lifting himself, opening himself to his brother, giving and taking, both at once.
Charlie couldn't watch George's ginger hair flying anymore. He reached forward and pushed his brother's head down and watched the fireworks exploding on George's back, blue and gold and green, and Charlie came, howling, as the biggest one of all burst, orange-red, across George's shoulders.
"Don't move," came George's voice, up from his choked throat and through his clenched teeth. "Don't leave—don't. Fred—"
"I'm here," said Charlie, regulating his breaths, and he reached under George and covered his brother's hand with his own until George cried out.
***
George's flat smelled of whisky and sweat and sex, and when Charlie woke, he retreated to the loo, leaving his sleeping brother on the sofa.
He left the light off and sat on the edge of the tub, naked, and buried his face in his hands.
"I'm sorry," he said over and over again, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Some time later, the doorknob turned, and George entered. He sat at his brother's feet and grasped his ankle.
"I'm sorry," Charlie said finally.
"I'm not," said George.
"Hardly our finest hour," Charlie replied.
George only held his ankle tighter.
Title: Pyramid
Pairing: Charlie/George
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 900
Warnings: Incest, angst
Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's.
Summary: Bill is married. Fred is gone. Charlie and George are lost.
"You want to get a what?"
"A tattoo," George said again, with a bit of a huff. "I thought I'd ask if you'd go with me, but fuck off if you're just going to take the piss."
"No, I'll go with you, I will—just—do you mind if I ask why?" Charlie's eyes twinkled merrily, and he tipped back in his chair, but his expression turned solemn at his brother's next words.
"For Fred."
Charlie paused, then leaned forward, the legs of his chair sounding a muted thump against the floor.
"All right, little brother. When do we go?"
***
George gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, hissing as the tattoo artist moved his wand once more over his spine.
"Fuck," he hissed, "I can feel it down my arm."
"You all right?" Charlie asked, but he was smiling, and he wasn't looking at George's face, but over his shoulder, where the tattoo in progress was clearly visible in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
"Fine," said George, "Yeah. Fine." Charlie privately thought that George sounded anything but fine, but he kept that thought to himself and just kept watching.
The brothers didn't speak for the next twenty minutes, until the tattoo artist sat back, finally, and surveyed his work.
"Am I done?" asked George.
"One more spell," said the tattoo artist, "Just hold still—this one won't hurt."
The artist passed his wand over the entirety of the inked area, muttering the first of the series of healing spells that George would have to continue on his own, then gave George a hand mirror so he could see the multicoloured masterpiece that now graced his back.
George steeled himself with a breath before he looked in the mirror.
"Our finest hour," he declared, as fireworks burst to life on his skin.
***
"Does it still hurt?"
George took his time turning his head to meet Charlie's blurred gaze.
"Does what?"
Charlie grinned and took the bottle of Old Ogden's from George's limp hand. "I guess the answer is no, then." He struggled to sit upright on the sofa, then drained the last from the bottle that George had found in the back of his cupboard.
"You know what, Georgie," Charlie continued, "Bill went with me when I got my first tattoo." Charlie patted his right shoulder. "It was a seedy little place—we were both underage—Bill got one, too, and we're damned lucky neither of us got an infection. She doesn't move like she used to, either," Charlie said, rolling up his sleeve to gaze at the snoozing green dragon there, "But I still love her."
George nodded and slumped forward, pressing his palm to the dragon on Charlie's shoulder. She flicked her tail once, twice, then settled again.
"Always liked her," George said, and Charlie nodded.
"You miss Bill." George said when another moment had passed. Belatedly, Charlie realised that George's hand was still on his bicep, and George's fingertips were curling into his flesh.
"You miss Fred," Charlie replied, and he turned to face his brother.
George didn't let go of Charlie's arm. He clung even harder. Charlie bit his lip. George had the same blue eyes as Fred, the blue eyes that stared out of the faces of Ron and Percy…and Bill.
"Your eyes are brown," said George, and his breath smelt of whisky, and his face was close enough to kiss.
George's hand travelled up to Charlie's neck, and Charlie realised he was sweating. He plucked at his t-shirt and leaned forward.
"I miss Bill," he confessed.
"I know," said George.
And the brothers' mouths met.
***
Charlie wondered, fleetingly, if George imagined his twin behind him, buried inside him, clutching his arms and sweating all over him.
"Fah—" George gasped, and Charlie clenched his jaw and waited for it to turn into his dead brother's name.
"Fah—fuck," George managed, and Charlie thrust forward harder, biting his lip until he tasted iron.
"Hurts," George said then, and Charlie drove into him, faster, faster, as his orgasm approached, and George gasped "Yes". The pressure of fingertips on George's hips turned into the sharp crescent moons of fingernails, and George arched back, spreading his thighs, lifting himself, opening himself to his brother, giving and taking, both at once.
Charlie couldn't watch George's ginger hair flying anymore. He reached forward and pushed his brother's head down and watched the fireworks exploding on George's back, blue and gold and green, and Charlie came, howling, as the biggest one of all burst, orange-red, across George's shoulders.
"Don't move," came George's voice, up from his choked throat and through his clenched teeth. "Don't leave—don't. Fred—"
"I'm here," said Charlie, regulating his breaths, and he reached under George and covered his brother's hand with his own until George cried out.
***
George's flat smelled of whisky and sweat and sex, and when Charlie woke, he retreated to the loo, leaving his sleeping brother on the sofa.
He left the light off and sat on the edge of the tub, naked, and buried his face in his hands.
"I'm sorry," he said over and over again, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Some time later, the doorknob turned, and George entered. He sat at his brother's feet and grasped his ankle.
"I'm sorry," Charlie said finally.
"I'm not," said George.
"Hardly our finest hour," Charlie replied.
George only held his ankle tighter.