It's a paradox.
It's sickening and heady and deeply special.
It's his Fred.
George shakes underneath Fred, with each slow push, as Fred holds him close with a hand gripping his hair and another delicately framing the side of his face.
"You know, George," Fred whispers, voice strained, lips touching his ear, "I couldn't ask you this before but, maybe I could now.."
Because Fred has grown so comfortable with this facet of their relationship.
The initial hesitancy and insecurities have all but dissolved.
Have all been forgotten by Fred under the delusion the repeated physical intimacy has created.
"Mm," George responds, his nails pressing into Fred's shoulder blades. He moans quietly as Fred reaches deep within him.
"You do love me, don't you?"
George breathes out a laugh. "Oh I don't. I hate you and that's why- ngh.. I spend my every breathing moment with you,"
Fred pulls back from the crook of his neck and meets his eyes. "No," They moan together as Fred quickens his pace. "Fuck.. no,"
George is quickly losing the thread of the conversation as he throws his head back. He digs his nails into Fred's skin, tightens around Fred, and hears only the rush of his own blood.
"I mean, do you- do you- oh," Fred pants harshly, wanting to slow his pace and tug at George's hair harder and yell at him to stop playing because he knows what Fred meant. He only could drive harder and harder into George, hear his moans fill his ears, feel him tighten impossibly around him.
"Oh, shit," Fred stiffens, and almost blacks out when he comes inside him. He takes George in his hand and tugs at him before he could even recover from his own tremors. George trembles and with a quiet, drawn-out keen, comes undone.
"You know what I mean, George," Fred says, breathless, watching George turn boneless under him.
George kisses his cheek softly and chuckles. "Of course I do."
"Look at me and say that."
George meets his eyes.
Fred is swept away by just how beautiful his twin looks at that moment. He feels his heart grow heavy.
He wants to hit him, abuse him, and heal his hurting spirit with the power such dominance would give him.
He could only lean in and kiss his lips gently, when he has him under him like this – so compliant and drained.
Face flushed and hair a mess and eyes dark and drowsy..
"I do," George repeats gently.
Fred leans in and kisses him again, once, twice. He wants to demand a better reply, a firmer reply; he wants to hear more. Something about the way George says it just doesn't sit well with him, has never sat well with him.
"No, you don't," Fred murmurs against his lips.
"I do,"
"You do what?"
"I do love you,"
"But you're not in love with me,"
"I am," George chuckles again, returning the gentle pecks Fred places on his lips.
"No, you're not," Fred says, heart growing inexplicably heavier by the minute. He tries to breathe, but his throat just isn't letting the air in.
"I love you," George repeats simply, kissing Fred properly.
"No, you don't," Fred shakes his head and whispers when they pull back. His chest is so clogged, he barely breathes. He becomes aware of the tears only when George smoothes a gentle hand over his cheek.
"Shh," George strokes a hand down the expanse of his back, and buries the other under Fred's hair, pulling him flush against him.
He says nothing after that; he keeps petting his hair gently, until he falls asleep over him.