Russel/Fletcher. PG-13. 100 words. Shota. Incest.
Fun is fun, to Fletcher.

Leaves scatter in a whirlwind of laughter. Fletcher runs to him, tackles him to the cool grass. They roll; he scrambles to avoid small, cold hands slipping under his shirt, and sucks in a quick, disbelieving breath when they slip down his pants instead.

Fletcher’s laughter is the same. It never darkens with seduction, never becomes a sound of teasing or of taunting. Fun is fun, to him. It’s another game to play, secretive and special.

Russel holds him close. He kisses trusting lips, drinks his brother’s hushed moans, and tries to recall a time he knew right from wrong.


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