What It\'s For

Warnings: Underage/chan (14); terribly unsafe, naive, and inappropriate use of a Muggle firearm/gun-play; elements of consensual & spontaneous D/s, incest, basically PWP



What It's For

They’re fourteen when they find it.

Fourteen, taller than they’ve learned to manage just yet, rain dripping down their necks from a storm as hard and sharp as glass. Fourteen, muddy from skidding through the grass on their brooms, laughing and shoving their elbows between one another’s ribs as they stumble into the garage to get out of the weather. Fourteen, giddy and breathless, all testosterone and magic and yes.

They’re fourteen, and they slam the door shut so hard that the shelves rattle, and there it is. A box slides sideways; George reaches one lanky arm out to grab it, and there it is.

It’s small, dull chrome and smudged metal, dusty – and there. On the shelf. In their father’s garage.

The box slips from George’s fingers when he sees it and crashes to the floor with a bang.

From a few yards away, Fred hollers, “Clumsy git!” and flicks water from his wrung-out t-shirt at his brother. George doesn’t respond. His eyes are wide and his body is still, and there is a look on his face that brings Fred tripping over himself to get close.

There isn’t much that stops Fred and George short, but this does. For a few moments, the only sound is the rain pounding away at the roof and the wet slosh of Fred’s foot in his soggy shoe as he takes a step backwards. When Fred finally speaks, he says, “Fucking hell,” and his voice breaks on the middle syllable. George doesn’t laugh.

They know what it is. Charlie’s had an obsession with Muggle comics since he was younger than they are, and when they were twelve, they spent winter break at Lee’s house, which has electricity and television and movies.

“Fucking hell,” George agrees. “It’s a gun.”

Fred reaches out his hand, but George grabs him by the wrist. “Don’t bloody touch it, you arsehole. It’ll explode.”

But Fred is mesmerized. There’s a look on his face like he’s been hexed or something, and he shakes George off without even looking at him. “No it won’t,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “See?” He points to the trigger. “That’s what makes it explode. I won’t touch it. Promise.”

George searches his brother’s face for deception. Fred lets him, turning his head so they are straight-on with each other and meeting him eye-to-eye. Satisfied, George nods. As Fred reaches for the gun, George reaches for Fred, and their fingers, hard and cold and wet, knot together.

They both stare as Fred picks it up. He grips it by the nose and turns it back and forth. “Heavy,” he says. “Here, hold it.”

George’s other hand comes around and closes over Fred’s. Even shared between them, its weight is solid and imposing. “Heavy,” George agrees.

It’s different from holding a wand. Magic is power – Light and Dark, Accio and Avada – but this is something else entirely. When a wand is raised, it might be a joke, a Silencing spell, a Tergeo for the chicken coop. It’s as common as spit. When a gun is raised, nobody questions what it’s for.

“Is it… are there things in it?” George asks, his voice a little hushed, a little awed.

“Dunno,” Fred answers. “I reckon not. Do you think Dad’d keep that shite in here if there were?”

“No. But still.”

Fred’s fingers are stroking up and down the barrel almost absently, and his head is tilted in thought. George knows that look. He can see the mechanisms of his brother’s brain turning over and over and over, and something closes around his spine like a fist and sets his body buzzing.

“Let me check,” Fred says. He says it like he knows what he’s doing, and he takes the gun from George’s palm and shakes it gently. Silence. Fred shakes it harder. Still nothing.

George is watching him with dilating eyes, his toes squirming in his third-hand trainers, waiting. At his side, his left hand is clenching and releasing in a heartbeat rhythm, his only nervous gesture – Fred does the same with his right sometimes, but he isn't doing it now.

After a moment, Fred looks up. “It’s empty,” he says, his voice confident but his eyes unsure.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Listen.” Fred shakes it again, and again, nothing.

George nods uneasily. As he does it, Fred catches his eye, and there it is: that strange thing burning, that mischief-mayhem-manic glint that spreads unchecked across his face and makes a mirror out of George’s. That look.

It’s contagious, like a yawn. One of them starts, and they share it back and forth until the fire roars at a dangerous pitch. Fred grins. George bites his lips. Fred arches his eyebrows. George shifts his weight. Fred raises the gun. George freezes.

“Hands up,” Fred says, his voice like a hard-edged smile.

George recognizes the line – it’s from some police movie Lee made them watch seven times in the course of two weeks – and raises his arms above his head, palms out. He snorts. “Pig.”

Fred waves the gun menacingly, his finger grazing the side of the trigger. “Shut up.”

George rolls his eyes and grins.

“Empty your pockets.”

“You prat,” George laughs. “You don’t tell your bloody suspect to empty his own pockets.”

Fred shrugs, grinning cheekily, and George does it anyway, turning them inside out until a bent paper-clip, a crumpled up Chocolate Frog wrapper, and Percy’s favourite quill clatter to the floor. Fred is watching him intently, one hand holding the gun out straight in a show of stamina, the other clawing at his own thigh. Fred’s wet clothes are clinging to him everywhere, and George’s gaze fixes between his brother’s legs. What he sees there makes him swallow. Hard.

Fred doesn’t move to hide it, though he can see that George is looking. He adjusts his position against the weight of his weapon and nods his head. “On your knees,” he says.

His voice has gone quiet, almost tentative. The energy has shifted a little, skidded sideways and blurred, and now they’re playing but they’re not, and the heat in George’s belly spikes. He kneels, his mouth suddenly dry and his heart rattling his ribs like it’s trying to get out. Fred stands over him, a few yards away, his arm steady but his hand trembling.

Under George’s wet knees, the cement floor is cold. Shudders race up and down his back, and he isn’t sure, precisely, what it is that’s causing them: the temperature, the gun, the slightly mad look in his brother’s eyes, or his own response to the whole thing. In spite of it – because of it? – he’s hard, too; his pulse pounding in his cock and his belly taut.

Fred takes a few steps towards him, closing the distance. He’s got his head tilted again, thinking again. Fred might come off to other people as spontaneous, impulsive, a bit reckless, but George knows that he is positively meticulous. He is quick and decisive, but he’s always got a plan. From the floor, George smiles up at him, permission for whatever he’s doing, and that’s all Fred needs.

Fred’s arm swings over until the barrel of the gun is against George’s forehead, right at the top, grazing his hairline. George swallows thickly, his whole body prickling. “Suck my cock.”

Their eyes meet, mirrors reflecting each other like some bizarre funhouse trick, and Fred’s free hand moves to the button on his jeans. He fumbles with it, his fingers wet with rain and sweat and clumsy with hasty desire, and George reaches up to help. Their gazes never shift.

They work together like two hands on one body, and George pulls the zip all the way down. Fred shoves one side of his jeans down; George tugs the other. The gun barrel bumps against his head, and every time it does, George’s cock gives an almost painful throb. They work together to yank Fred’s pants to his knees, and George stares up at his brother’s cock, so rigid it’s almost flat against his belly.

Neither of them moves for a moment. George wets his lips. They’ve done this before, but only a couple of times, and never like this. Never on his knees. Never outside. Never dripping and shivering with a gun to his head in a shaft of muted light coming in through the window. Never with Fred looking at him like that: so cold it’s almost hot – or maybe it’s the other way around – and hungry and blatantly eager.

Closing his eyes, George reaches into his own lap and pops his button. He moves his legs apart and shimmies his zip down, his breath thin. He swallows and opens his eyes. Fred nudges the gun against him again and says, “Suck it.”

George does. He takes the base of Fred’s cock in his hand and opens his mouth, pulling it down so the head touches his tongue. He’s already salty there, a little bitter, pre-come leaking like mad. It’s a familiar taste, one that George sort of likes, and he licks it off in a tentative swipe. Fred’s muscles go tight. The gun presses harder.

George licks at the underside in short little strokes, and then opens wider to wrap his lips around. When he does, Fred jerks forward and whimpers at him, and George sucks. He closes his eyes, concentrating on the metal against his skin, the cock in his mouth, the cement under his knees. He comes as far forward as he can, taking as much of Fred as he can handle, and slides back and forth, working the sides of his mouth to get more spit, more heat, more friction. He knows it won’t take much – it never does; Fred always comes fast and hard and a lot – but he’s surprised by how soon it happens.

Fred starts to shake, and his hand drops to his side. The gun slaps against his bare thigh, and George reaches with his free hand to hold onto it. To his surprise, Fred lets go. George catches it, pressing up so that the handle hits Fred’s bony hip, and holds it there, running his fingers up to close around it.

With his other hand, Fred pulls hard at George’s wet, tangled hair, dragging him forward so his face is flush with Fred’s body. George coughs and pulls back in protest, and the backwards slide is enough: Fred’s fingers clutch and yank, and his hips jerk, and he comes three full mouthfuls. George swallows and swallows and swallows, trying to keep up, and it drips onto his chin as Fred gasps and grunts and pulls out with a start.

George licks his lips and opens his eyes. Fred is staring down at him in a sort of reverence, his eyes almost frightened. The gun is in George’s hand; there’s come on his chin; his cock is hard, the head poking out of the elastic of his Y-fronts; he’s wet, and he’s dirty, and he is, at this one strange and suspended moment, the most beautiful thing Fred has ever seen in his life.

They stare at each other for a moment before George eases his arm down and sets the gun aside. Fred is panting a little when he slumps to the floor and says, “Come ‘ere, Georgie.”

George walks on his knees over to his brother, and Fred pushes him down onto his bottom and crawls between his legs. He leans over him, his jeans and pants still bunched around his feet, and just kisses George until he comes, wet swirling kisses on the head of George’s cock until he’s mad and dizzy and getting it everywhere: Fred’s eyelashes and cheeks and fringe and lips, and Fred nuzzles him like a happy cat until George tells him to stop.