Disclaimers: So very much not mine.
Spoilers: Vague ones for OotP. Very vague.
First line courtesy of the fabu Pearl-o.
The room smells like dirt and vinegar, sweat and unwashed clothes.
This, along with the Quidditch posters hastily applied to the walls (gotta make this bloody pile homey *somehow*, mate), the barely-blocked sounds of life downstairs, next door, creeping through the walls, is what Harry is using to focus.
Focus seems really important right now, like it could be something desperately important to his future (short) life as a reasonably sane human being.
"All right, Har?" Fred. He knows it's Fred because Fred isn't the one licking his neck.
George giggles against his throat and makes Harry writhe. Just a little. "Feels just fine to *me*..."
"Now, George," says Fred, in a horrifyingly credible imitation of their mother that makes Harry twist a little harder, though he still isn't sure if he's trying to get *away*.
"Oi, mate, enough of that! We've *serious* business to attend to. Isn't that right, Harry?"
"Uh --" is all he manages to get out before Fred is on the bed, hands pushing down the pillow on either side of his head and mouth...
It can't properly be called a snog. Snogs have laughter attached, somehow, can be laughed off. This is a *kiss*, long and slow and more serious than he could credit, or rather, more serious than he could've credited before George had shaped his palm over his ratty jeans and squeezed and bit the hand Harry would've used to brush him away.
Bit it and sucked the fingers into his mouth and suddenly everything had been -- is -- as serious as a bloody heart attack.
"God, look at that. I love watching you kiss, Fred. Watching your mouth move."
Harry can feel Fred smiling against his mouth, but the kiss goes on and on, tongue stroking his own like he expects it to get as hard as -- Thought lost to a groan because George has him again.
Has his cock in this dry, hot, possessive hold and is squeezing. Rhythmically.
Wet sounds and the kiss is broken. "Toldja he'd be hot..."
"Mm," says George, apparently focused on his new toy.
And Harry has a moment, a brief, shining moment of clarity where all the words he's not saying queue up in a fever of expectation. I thought we were going to talk about Quidditch. Your mum's downstairs. I can't believe --
And it's gone with the first hot stripe, hot *strip* of George's tongue over the head of his cock.
Strip, yes, because Harry thinks this could flay him alive, leave him a messy pile of questionable potions ingredients all over the bed.
"You like that..."
He blinks up to see Fred watching him with a sort of ravenous *interest*, and he knows it wasn't a question, but... "Yeah... I... feels good..."
And something in what he said makes Fred close his eyes for a long moment. Makes him lick his lips and rock his hips against Harry's thigh and George is sucking on him and he really wants to close his eyes again, really wants to *feel* this, but Fred turned-on is just too... too *something*.
He can't look away.
And it's even better when he opens his eyes again, because there's a sly, lazy light there that has nothing to do with his general image of Weasley Goodness and everything to do with *sex*, freckles and all.
"Suck him harder, George..."
"Oh, *God*," and he doesn't know if he's reacting to the *action* or to Fred's voice, so friendly and so evil and suddenly nothing matters but *more*.
He reaches for Fred, sliding shaky hands over strong, pale shoulders, and then just stroking. Up under the ragged hem of the much-abused sweater, down where it's smooth and hot and God, *hard*.
Sharp little rub of a nipple and Fred pulls the sweater off, leaving him lean and bare and *there*, and George is... is *fucking* himself on Harry's cock, and the only thing that would be better is if he was surrounded by them, if there were no parts of his body free of twins.
But this... this is going to make him come in *seconds*, dreamy lust wonderfulness and all.
"George, I'm... oh God I'm gonna come..."
And George just sucks harder and Fred guides Harry's hands back to his nipples and makes him *twist* and he hears himself make a noise of pure, animal desperation and he can't hold back for another second.
Spills into the hot wet heaven of George's mouth and twists Fred's nipples and collapses back against the bed, limp and spent.
They give him a moment. A long, sweet moment of being stroked and petted and nibbled on the ear, and then Fred exhales against his cheek.
And George licks a smiley-face onto his belly.
And Fred says, "our turn."
Focus, Harry decides, is entirely overrated.