uh, this was a long involved conversation about how hot it would be if George cooked. I think. shallow? us? by glock, I think.

 

When Fred snaps his apron strings, George turns around to grumble, but Fred's already pushing him against their ancient wood stove. "Watch it!" George yelps, as the back of his legs hit the cast iron door to their oven. It's hot and more than a little painful.

Fred grabs his apron and pulls him against the sink instead. and George doesn't get another word in before he's kissing him, kissing and then his pants are off and George can suddenly talk, because Fred's mouth isn't on his, it's there and there feels so good so George isn't saying anything anyway. so good.

The edge of the counter is digging painfully into his back and twice George's hand slipped into the draining rack, but there's sunshine on his face from the window and he can't open his mouth to say anything, still. so. good. Fred's. mouth. just. keeps. on.

and when George finally spits out, "god," and shudders, Fred looks at him with a big smirk. "Oh, shut it," George answers that grin, leaning heavily on one hand and nearly sliding down the counter top.

Fred leans back, on his haunches, wipes his mouth. Cracks his neck. Comments, "I think you burned the biscuits."