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Harry knows better than to Floo into the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes backroom without an invite.
He knows better than to Floo into the twins’ flat unannounced, too.
Their childhood bedroom at the Burrow and the room they shared with Lee at Hogwarts were similarly off-limits, but Harry doesn’t have to worry about those now that they're all long-graduated and living on their own.
Any of those locations are, at best, booby trapped with one of the twins’ latest prank products. The first person to disturb them becomes an unwilling beta tester. It's a great method for ensuring privacy– no one is safe because there is no specific target, and everyone had long ago learned their lesson at one point or another. Harry can admire the pranks’ ingenuity while not particularly relishing being the test subject. Three full days of being transformed into an anthropomorphic cat– something Fred and George admitted was inspired by Hermione’s ill-fated Polyjuice experience in her second year– that left him hocking up hairballs for weeks, had taught him to be cautious.
Of course, at worst, any precautionary measures are primed to catch the intruder in far more incapacitating and potentially maiming ways, as befits anyone who wants to steal from the WWW empire.
Harry always sends an owl or a Patronus first, to prime them for unexpected visits. Always.
What Harry didn’t count on is the dangers of Flooing into his own office, the one in the adjacent building that Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes expanded into as their business exploded after Voldemort's defeat.
It should be safe– he's been working alongside Fred and George for the better part of three years now, after he finally got fed up with the constant expectations foisted on him by the Auror department. It was almost like if you kill a horrifyingly powerful and evil dark wizard once, the whole magical world just expects you to keep doing that ad nauseum. And, fittingly, it had made Harry sick to his stomach after a while; he hadn’t even lasted a full year. Hence, taking up the twins’ standing offer to help run the production and distribution side of WWW.
His office is his and his alone. It’s Harry’s sanctuary from the loud bustle of Wheezes, charmed to keep all the noise from the shop out and with not a single purple or orange decoration in sight. There’s a handful of Quidditch posters on the walls, a sofa he’s slept on more than once tucked in the corner, and a few shelves of odds and ends gifted to him at different times from all of his friends. The office isn’t overly organised, nor is it particularly messy. It’s nice. Quiet. Calm.
What’s happening on the desk– His desk!– in front of him is not quiet or calm.
Nice, on the other hand… The instant hardening of Harry's prick in his trousers is an answer in and of itself.
“Fuck, Freddie, right there! Oh Godric, harder!”
Even without his name being called, Harry would’ve recognised Fred Weasley. Sure, it's Fred Weasley as he's never seen him before– completely naked, eyes closed, head thrown back, sweat matting his hair, balls deep and thrusting into the body underneath him– but Fred nonetheless.
Harry also automatically recognises the person Fred has bent forward over the desk, even though they're facing away. Lanky limbs, broad shoulders, long fingers gripped to the front lip of the desk to stop them from being shoved over with the force of the thrusts. Freckles across their shoulders. Red hair, the same style and colour as Fred's.
So, Harry knows. Computing it, making his brain take the necessary step of believing, is a little bit more difficult to achieve.
“So demanding, Georgie, you should learn to say please,” Fred teases without breaking his pace, and Harry is forced to assimilate the information into his worldview, given the unignorable verbal confirmation.
Harry blinks a few times, once and for all confirming that he’s not hallucinating one of his top recurring guilty wank fantasies. His knees go a little weak when it sets in, and he fumbles to catch himself on the wall.
He realises he’s still standing on the brick hearth of his office’s personal Floo entrance, jaw dropped and harder than he’s ever been in recent memory. How Fred and George didn’t hear his entrance– holy fucking hell, Fred and George are shagging on top of his desk– Harry can’t say. His best guess is that, with how loud they’re being and without either of them looking at the fireplace, the twins simply missed it. It’s not like they're expecting him; Harry is still supposed to be in Antwerp, finishing up their supply contracts for the newest Wheezes location.
“Fred, I swear– Ah, don’t stop, you bastard! Oh, oh– fuck me, please–”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Fred taunts over his twin’s wanton moans, a smug smile curling over his features as he opens his eyes to stare down at George’s back. He adjusts his grip around his brother’s hips, pulling him back almost violently onto his cock, which George seems to heartily approve of. “A little politeness goes a long–”
Harry knows he’s been caught when Fred shifts and must catch his shape out of the corner of his eye. His head flies up, staring directly at Harry, and the expression of complete and utter shock on Fred’s face would be comical if not for the situation. That shock also, unfortunately, causes him to go stock-still mid-thrust.
“Wh– Freddie, why–?” George begins to complain, fighting to turn his head to look at his brother over his shoulder.
Harry’s heart is in his throat, panic starting to creep in, and he’s just about to start grovelling on his knees in apology when Fred’s gaze goes from shock to sly understanding with one glance at the bulge in Harry’s trousers.
Without missing a beat, Fred shifts forward and lays himself close over George’s back, effectively pinning his brother in a position that makes turning his head to see Harry impossible. The older twin throws Harry a wink and puts a finger to his lips in the universal sign for ‘quiet,’ before threading his fingers between George’s and starting his rhythm again.
“Relax, Georgie. I was just wondering about how dear Harry would react, hearing you beg to be fucked.”
Fred’s eyes are locked on Harry as he murmurs to his twin. It’s Harry’s turn for shock, then, as George visibly shudders at the words.
Fred's smirk antes up a notch at both his brother's and Harry's reaction, and says, “I think he’d like it. I think he’d be so hard for you, for us. I think he’d want to hear you ask for it, beg for it, over and over. You’re so sweet like this, when you need it this badly.”
“Oh Merlin, Fred–”
“It’s why we chose his office, right?” Fred asks his twin rhetorically, grinding forward into George’s arse with deep pushes. “We wanted to pretend he was here, and that’s easier to do when I have you bent over his desk.”
Harry knows his mouth is still hanging open stupidly but– Is Fred serious? Did they plan to get off in his office because it’s some fantasy for him to join them? Do they actually want him? Or is it all talk, something Fred is just saying in the moment?
Whatever the truth is, Harry can’t stop his hand from flying to the front of his trousers, desperately pressing down and trying to relieve the ache in his cock.
Fred watches him do it hungrily, groaning as his thrusts speed up. He’s still got his twin pinned, hands locked together and using their combined hold on the edge of the desk to pull himself forward. The change in pace is met by an actual whimper from George, which sends a pang of lust so strong through Harry that he has to use the hand not on his clothed prick to grip the mantle for balance.
“Yes, yes–” George chants, and Harry can’t tell if it’s in agreement with what Fred said or simple, unconscious babbling as he's being pounded into. “Please, ‘m close, Freddie, harder–”
“Don’t beg me, George,” Fred growls in his ear even as he obeys, their joint movements harsh enough that some of the miscellaneous items on the shelf behind the desk start to rattle. “I want you to beg Harry. Ask Harry nicely to fuck you good and hard, to make you come.”
“Oh, fuck,” George whines, and Harry is just glad that he manages to keep his own matching exclamation silent. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to keep quiet if George actually–
“Please, Harry, I need it,” George pants, and every hair on Harry’s body stands at attention from the rush of dizzying arousal. “Please, fuck me– Oh Godric, Harry, more, please, please, right there–”
Fred, who Harry knows hasn’t looked away from him once since he’d caught him, finally lets his head rest between his twins shoulders, focusing on George’s body and leaving biting kisses across the back of his neck. Harry expects him to let his twin go, reach under the table and take him in hand, but he keeps their combined grip firmly on the desk.
It’s obvious that George is close, and Harry is just wondering why he doesn’t take matters into his own hands– literally– and break Fred’s hold to touch himself, when George moans a breathless, “Harry,” and starts convulsing under Fred’s weight.
It takes Harry a second but then it hits him– that George just came, untouched, to the thought of Harry fucking him into the desk. The other man is shaking apart, with Fred still pushing into him in slower, more fluid rolls of his hips. Harry can’t see George’s expression, but he’s always had an excellent imagination. The mental image of George’s face blissed out in orgasm combined with the very real scene in front of him slams through him, and Harry doesn’t know he’s close to the edge until he’s coming in his trousers like a goddamn teenager.
There’s no way he’s silent during it, even while biting down on his lip hard enough to hurt, but George still doesn’t seem to hear. Harry twitches through an aftershock, listening to George heave breaths into the relative quiet, and watches as Fred finally releases his twin enough to slide out and grip his prick around the base.
Fred is still hard, desperately so. Harry twitches again.
“Merlin’s beard, Freddie,” George breathes, almost too quiet for Harry to hear. He hasn’t moved from his sprawl across the desk, letting the furniture take his full weight as he comes down. “Where the hell did that come from?”
Harry catches the mischievous look in Fred’s eye but is too slow from his orgasm to do much more than widen his own eyes in panic.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Fred says coyly, bending forward to gently lift his brother’s head, turning it in Harry’s direction. “Let’s just say the inspiration appeared in front of me.”
“What–” George starts to ask, but cuts himself off immediately as his eyes finally land on Harry, sweaty and dishevelled with a wet spot beginning to show on the front of his trousers.
There’s a beat or two of silence– Harry in embarrassment, George in what appears to be uncomprehending disbelief– before George blurts out, “You’re meant to be in Belgium.”
It’s not really funny, but Harry feels the hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest anyway and can’t do anything to stop it. He grips the mantle again, this time to keep himself from doubling over as the laughter comes in great waves.
Distantly, he can hear Fred chuckling too, and he manages to choke out between giggles, “Got done early. I was going to stop by to drop off the paperwork but–” He waves in the twins’ general direction, succumbing to a fresh bout of laughter as he tries to encompass the ‘but’ of the situation.
The clatter of something falling off the desk and the scrape of furniture, combined with an aborted sound of surprise from Fred, pull Harry sharply out of his fit of humour. Blinking the tears of mirth from his eyes, he’s surprised to see George standing upright and wringing his hands, flinching away when Fred tries to grab his waist to steady him.
“You– I– We… It’s not–” George stutters, and Harry realises at the same time as Fred how panicked the other man sounds. Fred looks confused by the sudden change in his brother’s mood but, for once, Harry is the one who’s on George’s wavelength before anyone else.
“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” he says, walking a little closer to the desk and trying to catch George’s eye. It dawns on him, distantly, that both men are naked in front of him, but he decides to focus on the important things, like reassuring George. “Actually, it was the hottest thing I could imagine seeing, and let me tell you– I’ve imagined a lot of things.”
Harry’s sincerity seems to get through to George, who stops avoiding his gaze and looks him over, his eyes catching on the spreading stain on the front of Harry’s khaki trousers. The panic in his eyes is overtaken almost completely by a combination of relief and tentative lust when George asks, “So you don’t mind that we…?”
“No. You two are perfect like this,” Harry replies, knowing instinctively that George is referring to the whole ‘surprise, we have sex with each other’ thing, rather than the ‘surprise, we’re having sex on your desk, specifically’ thing. “Are you–?”
“Together?” Fred finishes for him. He reaches for George again, who only tenses slightly before allowing Fred to wind his arms around his shoulders and rest his head against him. “Yeah, for years now. Or forever, depending on how you look at it.”
Harry smiles at that, and at the way both Fred and George lean closer to each other as their relationship is confirmed. But their movement draws Harry’s attention to Fred’s still-hard prick and his own cock, valiantly trying to firm up in his pants, and Harry decides that it’s now or never.
“Did you mean it when you said you decided to have sex here because you wanted to imagine me with you both?”
“Yes.” He’s surprised when the answer comes, with zero hesitation, from George.
Well, that’s a point in Harry’s favour, so– “Is it just a fantasy or do you want to try the real thing?”
“Fuck,” George breathes, his pupils dilating as what Harry is offering sinks in. Fred takes the opportunity to answer and says, “The real thing. Definitely the real thing, if that’s something you’d be interested in?”
“Merlin, yes.”
Fred is around the desk in a second, as if the only thing holding him back had been the final confirmation from Harry that he actually wants them both. The kiss doesn’t take him by surprise, only because he sees it coming from a mile off. Fred’s lips are firm against his, the kiss moving from cautious exploration to frantic and probing in a few short presses. Fred’s cock grinds into Harry’s thigh as the taller man takes the opportunity to lick past his teeth when Harry’s mouth opens slightly on a gasp.
He understands, in the back of his brain, that he’s being steered around, urged backwards, the back of his legs hitting the edge of the desk after a little shuffling. Fred hoists him up onto it without breaking the kiss, and a shiver goes through Harry as he realises the wood is still warm from George’s body heat.
Immediately after that revelation, a separate pair of hands slide over his shoulders from behind, dexterous fingers starting to unbutton his shirt. There’s laughter in George’s voice when he scolds, “Hey, Freddie, maybe I’d like a taste.”
Harry, still struck a little dumb by the tongue in his mouth, the hard bodies pressed against him, and four wandering hands, protests as Fred pulls back. He doesn’t mourn the loss long. George gets a knee on the desk, coming close enough that Harry can turn his head to the side and let himself fall into another kiss.
George’s kiss stays slow for longer than Fred’s had, but there isn’t any less desperation or naked want. George takes his time, running his hands through Harry’s curls, sucking on his bottom lip, pulling him around so that he’s almost fully twisted on the desk as he finally starts exploring Harry’s mouth with his tongue.
Fingers, Harry isn’t sure whose, go back to unbuttoning his shirt. He breaks away from George as his shoes and socks are tugged off, followed swiftly by his trousers and pants in one go. Then his shirt is gone, and they’re finally all on an equal playing field.
Harry moves to take his glasses off, tucking them out of the way, and is caught by the sight of George yanking Fred in for a kiss, pulling his brother flush against Harry’s front in the process. It is the single most arousing thing that Harry has experienced to date, being caught between them, and he has the fleeting thought that it won’t be the last time he thinks that as Fred groans into his twin’s mouth.
He would’ve been content to just watch them again, but both men finally pull back and turn to him. It’s George who asks, “How do you want this to go, Harry?”
“We’re flexible,” Fred says with a leer. “Very flexible.”
“Want to fuck me, like we said before? Or you could fuck Freddie.”
“Or George could fuck you while I fuck him again?”
“Or Fred could fuck you while you suck me off? I’ve dreamt of your mouth for ages.”
Harry’s brain is melting from the pornographic version of a verbal tennis match. Any one of those scenarios would be acceptable– more than acceptable, amazing, transcendent– so he blurts, “That one, yeah, yes please,” without really caring which one they think he means.
“As you wish,” Fred and George chorus, and then he’s being manhandled in the most delicious way until he’s exactly where they want him.
Harry ends up in much the same position as George had been, feet on the ground with his legs apart, bent forward over the desk. He’s not as tall as George is, not even close, but he thanks the little growth spurt he had after the war once he had consistent meals and a stock of nutrition potions for allowing him to not be on tip-toe to rest fully across the surface.
“Alright, Harry? Comfortable?” George asks, kneeling at his eye level and giving him another kiss once he nods an enthusiastic affirmative.
“Let us know if you don’t like something and we’ll stop,” Fred says from over his shoulder, before whispering a set of spells that Harry recognises as cleaning and lubrication charms.
Harry’s response is to groan into George’s mouth as, unexpectedly, the first thing he feels is a lubed hand around his prick and a tongue against the back of his sac. George does an admirable job of trying to distract him, but Harry still jumps a little as the tongue moves from laving over his balls, trailing along his perineum, before tentatively licking across his areshole.
The moan that causes is enough to break his kiss with George, who sits back and swipes a thumb over Harry’s lower lip with a knowing smirk. Fred begins to lick him in earnest, alternating sucking kisses with wet passes of his tongue that make Harry's toes curl.
“He's good at that, huh?” George murmurs, running his fingers lightly down Harry's neck. The gentle touch makes Harry shiver. So does the tongue that starts probing past the rim of his hole.
“Freddie loves eating me out, it's one of his favourite things. He did it once for… oh, it was well over an hour. I could barely talk by the time he finally let me come and I couldn't stop shaking after.”
Fred must be able to hear his twin, because he hums in agreement, causing Harry to clench down on his tongue as it steadily works its way deeper inside of him. Harry already feels hazy with pleasure, his nerves on fire from having watched them before, and it's only become more intense since they started touching him. George's mouth comes back to his, and Harry stops thinking entirely for a little bit.
Something slippery eventually works its way next to Fred's tongue, and Harry bites back a whine as a long finger presses into him. It's been a long time since he's done this– the last was an ill-advised drunken fumble with Draco Malfoy, of all people, that was more argument than fucking– but Fred is careful as he quickly works up to two.
The tongue licking around his rim finally pulls away with a few parting flicks, and Fred asks “Feel good, Harry?”
He means to answer like a normal human once his mouth is free, but what comes out is something between a grunt and a sob as Fred finally finds his prostate.
“That's a yes,” George says unnecessarily, sounding smug. Harry can't see the grin with his eyes closed in bliss, but he knows it's there.
Fred laughs behind him, and the stretch of him adding a third finger is numbed by the sudden scent of George's arousal. Harry doesn't know when he shifted to stand and doesn't care. All he knows is that his mouth has been watering since the mere mention of putting it on George, and he's more than ready to make that fantasy a reality.
Opening his eyes is the best idea Harry's ever had. George's cock is hard and leaking, bobbing a few inches from his face, and Harry can't help but relish the fact that he's going to struggle to take it even halfway into his mouth, let alone the entirety of it. Based on his glances earlier, the twins are truly identical to the last detail, but he's at least confident in his ability to take Fred all the way into his arse– confident and practically panting with anticipation.
His eyes catch on the red marks across the vee of George's hips from where he'd been pressed into the edge of the desk not twenty minutes before. Without conscious thought, Harry manoeuvres enough to grab him over those spots, relishing in the gasp George lets out as he presses into what will surely turn into bruises in the next few hours.
The knowledge that he'll have matching marks of his own makes a low noise of want fall from Harry's lips.
The first taste of George is heavenly– masculine, musky, but clean with the slight alkalinity of his precome. Harry laps at the tip, desperate for more of the taste, before tracing a path down the underside, following the pronounced vein. George groans above him like he’s been punched, hands coming up to rest lightly on Harry’s head and shoulder. Harry works his way back up, noting how George’s hips stutter forward of their own volition every time his tongue grazes on the tight little bit of skin where his foreskin has been rolled back from the head. The heady rush of power that comes with knowing that he can create that reaction with such a little bit of pressure settles heavy in Harry’s gut, and he teases the area for a long minute until George is making continuous sounds above him and fighting not to jerk forward.
“Godric, but it sounds like you’re good with your mouth, Harry,” Fred observes from behind him, punctuating the statement with a precise press against his prostate. Harry’s mouth is too full to answer as he finally wraps his lips around the head, but he thinks George's twitchy little moans are response enough.
Harry gets lost in the slide as he works to take George deeper and deeper. It’s a bit of a reach for his neck, all told, but it’s worth the muscle strain he’ll no doubt experience in the morning to hear George curse above him as he succeeds in swallowing all but the inch or two covered by his fist.
Fred shifts behind him and, suddenly, the warm girth of his fingers are being removed, leaving Harry achingly empty. He garbles a complaint around the length in his mouth, earning another swear from George and a soothing hand over his hip from Fred.
There’s another whispered cleaning spell– presumably for Fred– and more lube, and then something solid and much larger than a few fingers is being teased gently over Harry’s arsehole.
“You ready?” Fred pants, his voice finally betraying how far gone he is. At least Harry and George got off before the second round– Fred must be aching. “I’ll go slow–”
Pulling off George’s cock briefly, Harry rasps, “Don’t want it slow. I want you to fuck me like you fucked George,” before returning his mouth to its task.
“Bloody hell, Harry. If you insist,” Fred replies with unconcealed arousal, before pushing forward steadily.
For a split second, Harry regrets his request. George has the presence of mind to pull back so he isn’t buried too deep in his mouth, which is considerate. It might also be self-preservation– when Fred begins to slide forward, it takes all of Harry’s will power not to grit his teeth and tense around the intrusion. Merlin, but he feels huge, and Fred's push forward lasts forever before he bottoms out. The stretch borders on painful but, regardless of what Harry said, Fred seems to know instinctively that he needs a minute to adjust.
Either that, or the twins are doing some type of silent communication above his head, which would honestly be par for the course.
After a handful of breaths, as the burn lessens into a manageable stretch, Harry remembers that George’s cock is still in his mouth and focuses on driving the other man wild in a bid to block out the slight sting of his out-of-practice muscles stretching. It works– George chokes on another groan as Harry drags him in by the hips, working him over as best he’s able with his mouth stuffed full.
His twin’s sound of pleasure seems to be the signal that Fred can move. He pulls out a little before thrusting back in, rocking in quick but shallow movements that push Harry further across the surface of the desk, further onto George.
“Harry, I have no idea what you’re doing with your tongue, but I never want you to stop,” George gasps above him, before fisting his hair in a tight grip.
“Everything you dreamed of, Georgie?” Fred asks, sounding breathless as he continues his short thrusts.
“Gods, yes, even better. So hot and wet, like his mouth was made to take my cock.”
Harry’s whine at hearing that is drowned out by Fred saying, “His arse is the same. So fucking tight, it’s like he’s pulling me in.”
Harry, unconsciously proving Fred’s point, clenches down around his next push forward. The move wrenches a moan from Fred’s throat but also changes the angle, forcing his cock right against Harry’s prostate, and then the only thing he can do is moan his approval around George’s cock. That seems to be the cue– Fred finally begins to heed his previous demand and starts slamming into him in long, hard thrusts that make Harry’s eyes roll to the back of his skull in pleasure.
The twins seem to find a natural rhythm quickly– Fred pushes forward at the same time that George pulls his hips back and vice versa, making sure that they don’t choke Harry in the process. He’s grateful for it, since he has absolutely no brain cells left to do more than remember to keep up the action of his tongue and hold onto George’s hips for dear life.
Through the fog of lust, Harry realises that he might be in real trouble. Fred’s cock fills him up in exactly the right way, and he could lose himself in the noises George makes as he sucks him. They’re both murmuring praise, both to Harry and to each other, along with whatever filthy observations come to mind and it’s… It’s a fantasy brought to life, a dream come true, and threatens to be so addictive that Harry is already dreading the moment that it’s all going to come to an end.
But come to an end it must. Harry knows he’s close again; not even the bruising force of Fred’s hips slamming him into the table is enough to push back his rapidly approaching orgasm– in fact, the sharp little bites of pain on each harsh thrust are ratcheting Harry higher and higher.
He doesn’t think he’ll be able to come untouched, though, not like George, whose hands are guiding and supporting his head. That realisation gives him an idea, and Harry lets go of George with both hands, stuffing one underneath himself to palm his cock and the other between George’s thighs to feel where he’s still wet from Fred fucking him earlier in the night.
“Oh, you–” George groans as Harry easily slips two fingers in his still-loose hole, letting George’s momentum as he fucks steadily but carefully into Harry’s mouth set the pace for his fingers. He curls them as he continues to stroke himself, finding the spongy bundle of nerves that makes George shout and his rhythm stutter.
“Bloody hell, Harry, you’ll be the death of us,” Fred grunts next to his ear between thrusts, and Harry hopes he’s close, too, as he uses the last bit of muscle control he has to squeeze around Fred’s hot length as it pushes inside him.
It’s like dominoes falling, how they crest over the edge one by one. George comes first, pulling back just far enough that he doesn’t gag Harry as he pulses in his mouth and down his throat. The sensation of George clenching around his fingers, combined with his own hand around his prick and the thrusts still nailing his prostate on every push forward, send Harry crashing headlong into his second orgasm. The sensations seem to ripple over every nerve in his body, pleasure so sharp it borders on painful washing over him from head to toe over and over as Fred fucks forward a last few times.
“Merlin, Harry!” Fred shouts as he comes, although Harry’s head is too full of cotton and bright sparks of light to do much more than twitch as Fred pushes into him a final time before collapsing against his back.
Vaguely, he clocks that George sinks to his knees in front of him, leaning against the desk and brushing gentle kisses across Harry’s neck and face. Fred is doing much the same along his back and over his shoulders, tapping him in warning before he pulls out with a groan.
Harry does his best not to clench at the horrifyingly empty feeling of nothing, instead focusing on rolling himself upright and not looking like a baby thestral as he gets his legs to cooperate. He also does his best not to let melancholy settle in as the endorphins that are flooding his body slowly leach out.
That this was a one-time thing, Harry is absolutely sure. Fred and George are happy together– it’s easy to see, even if he hadn’t completely known what together meant until an hour prior. They all had fun, it was an enjoyable experience, but the twins fulfilled their fantasy and would no doubt move on from it with nothing but fond memories.
If Harry is realising that he is going to have a much harder time moving on from tonight, well, that’s his own problem to deal with.
Finally clothed if a little mussed and presentable enough after a few hasty cleaning charms, Harry turns to head for the Floo, intending on a quick goodbye and a few shots of firewhisky once he arrives home. To his shock, an identical arm hooks around each of his, and then he’s being dumped unceremoniously between the twins on the sofa to the side of the fireplace.
“We’re taking your silence as having been shagged speechless–” Fred starts.
“– instead of your being uncomfortable. If we’ve got that the wrong way around–” George continues.
“– you should tell us.”
“We’d really like to do this again–”
“– and that’ll be a little difficult if you leave without telling us if something put you off.”
After Fred finishes their back-and-forth, both twins stare at him expectantly from each side. Harry, experiencing something like whiplash, hones in on the only part of their speech he really heard.
“You want to do this again?”
“Don’t you?” Fred and George ask in unison, a little doubt finally creeping into both of their expressions. George follows up by saying, “If you don’t, that’s alright, of course. But I– We both had a fantastic time and–”
“Of course I want to do it again,” Harry says, dumbfounded, “but isn’t it a little complicated? You’ve been together for years, we work together every day–”
Fred cuts him off with what seems to be an involuntary laugh, grin stretching wide. He cups the side of Harry’s neck, letting his thumb sweep tenderly along the soft skin under his jaw.
“Harry, you walked in on us fucking on your desk and didn’t immediately run for the hills screaming. That’s not complicated; it’s a bloody miracle. One we’ve been dreaming about for at least a few years, I’ll add.”
Letting that idea sink in, Harry can only stare at Fred for a second before he blinks a few times and launches himself across the short space for a kiss. Fred laughs into it, bringing his arms up to gather Harry close. After a second, Fred pulls away just to turn him towards George, who yanks him into another kiss that tastes a good deal like relief.
When they finally pull apart, the only thing Harry can think to say is, “I’m never going to be able to sit at that desk without getting hard again.”
Instead of the laughter he was expecting his quip to get, both of the twins’ gazes sharpen with arousal that gets an immediate mirrored response from Harry’s very tired flesh.
George is the one who finally breaks the tension and says, “That’s alright, then. We’ll just have to restrict your Floo access to avoid any… untimely visitors.”
And that is something Harry is quick to agree to.