FIC: surreptitious crotch adjustment ~seamus/dean [rated R]
title: surreptitious crotch adjustment
author: kaalee
pairing: Seamus/Dean
word count: ~890 words
rating: R
prompt: Day
a/n: Written for my Seamus/Dean claim at 50_smutlets. Dedicated to both balefully and danijo1... a late birthday wish to a couple of gorgeous, glorious DC-peeps. ♥ Many thanks to darthfox for the quick beta. ♥
surreptitious crotch adjustment
seamus/dean, rated R
::
During their seventh year, Defence Against the Dark Arts changed. Umbridge was gone, Snape had disappeared, and there was a new woman teaching.
She was the talk of the school. It wasn't that there weren't attractive women around; Heaven knew catching even a glimpse of Madame Rosmerta's stockings was enough to send the calmest student into a fit of uncomfortable shifting and surreptitious crotch adjustment.
Professor Olanike was not only gorgeous, but she also spoke with her hands with such grace and flair, entrancing each of them with long, dark fingers that trailed over her wand, a book, or the top of her desk, making everything she touched thrum with the vibrating cadence of adolescent desire.
She was also the first professor to institute private tutorials for each of her students. They weren't often, and didn't last near long enough for most of the males' taste, but were the newest form of gossip floating through the library on perfumed tongues.
Neville was convinced that she was part Veela until Dean finally told him that most black women had skin that glowed like that.
And Seamus? Seamus.
Seamus came back from every private tutorial with a hard-on and always excused himself to the shower immediately.
Dean tried not to be jealous or nervous or go use the loo when Seamus was recovering from a lesson, but it was hard.
Er, so to speak.
All of them had their own quirks when they wanked. Dean told himself that he only noticed because he was an artist - a people watcher. He needed to know these things. And, no, it wasn't odd that he'd only really ever paid Seamus's quirks any sort of heed.
Seamus always made a certain noise when he pulled himself off in the shower following his tutorial. It was a keening, dry moan and it sent shivers down Dean’s back.
Really, nothing should make his skin tingle like that in the daytime.
So, it wasn’t his fault when they had an assignment to try out a few defensive hexes with a slightly malfunctioning (wet, hot, or bent) wand and Dean ended up sitting outside the shower in the loo with a firm grip on his wand and tight trousers.
It wasn't his fault she gave the assignment just before one of Seamus's tutorials... in the middle of the day, for Pete's sake. It was the only way he could think of to do his homework. The shower was wet, yes? Not to mention, listening to the sounds of another bloke pull himself off would unseat nearly anyone.
Dean heard Seamus wring out a cloth and he almost lost his nerve and walked out. When he saw Seamus's feet under the curtain, lightly tanned from going barefoot all summer and halfway into autumn, turn and plant away from the spray, he swallowed and tightened his hand around his wand.
Any minute now. Then he could, uh, practice.
He heard a grunt, followed by familiar light slapping sounds.
A moment later, Dean's hand slid into his trousers, his assignment forgotten in the filtered, hazy light of midday. His hand felt damp; from nerves or anticipation, he didn't know, but he really, really should stop this...
But, he couldn't.
Seamus hissed and Dean saw his feet shift, one moving slightly forward as the toes on the other foot curled slightly against the floor. Seamus's low moan was back, shuddery and slow and filling every bit of him like white heat in his bloodstream.
With his eyes closed, Dean could see images move in slow motion through his mind: memories of quiet, private fantasies that he'd never even drawn. In the blurred red daylight through his eyelids, Dean forgot whose hand was touching him, forgot everything but the sound of gasps, the sound of need, of clouded desire, of...
Seamus, Seamus, Seamus...
He wanted... oh, god, he wanted to come loudly -- to moan in the same tone, in the same bloody moment as Seamus... to forget the humid air settling around him and let everything be as he'd imagined too many times to count.
It was moving so fast now; he could nearly see Seamus through the curtain and he had no idea if he'd even opened his eyes. He -- oh, god -- what if? -- he was...
God, he was going to come.
Dean squeezed his thighs together, feeling his balls draw up and liquid shudders spread through him in subtle, sharp waves. He shot over the inside of his waistband, hissing unevenly through his teeth and clenching his buttocks tightly together and letting the slow imagery of daytime fantasies wash through him. He jerked slightly and dropped his wand with a sharp clatter.
Oh, bugger.
There was a long, interminable pause before he saw Seamus's feet move again. Then Seamus pulled the curtain. Dean could see the dark towel slung low around his waist (a thinner torso than years past -- Seamus had actually grown a few inches over the summer) and a sparse trail of reddish hair leading down from his navel. He felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, but didn't look away; he owed Seamus as much.
"Next time-" Seamus said, his voice cracking slightly on the 'i,' before his eyes widened and he hurried out of the room.
Dean sat on the bench in a daze.
Next time?
::
:: next::
~thank you so much for reading! ♥
[ table]
author: kaalee
pairing: Seamus/Dean
word count: ~890 words
rating: R
prompt: Day
a/n: Written for my Seamus/Dean claim at 50_smutlets. Dedicated to both balefully and danijo1... a late birthday wish to a couple of gorgeous, glorious DC-peeps. ♥ Many thanks to darthfox for the quick beta. ♥
surreptitious crotch adjustment
seamus/dean, rated R
::
During their seventh year, Defence Against the Dark Arts changed. Umbridge was gone, Snape had disappeared, and there was a new woman teaching.
She was the talk of the school. It wasn't that there weren't attractive women around; Heaven knew catching even a glimpse of Madame Rosmerta's stockings was enough to send the calmest student into a fit of uncomfortable shifting and surreptitious crotch adjustment.
Professor Olanike was not only gorgeous, but she also spoke with her hands with such grace and flair, entrancing each of them with long, dark fingers that trailed over her wand, a book, or the top of her desk, making everything she touched thrum with the vibrating cadence of adolescent desire.
She was also the first professor to institute private tutorials for each of her students. They weren't often, and didn't last near long enough for most of the males' taste, but were the newest form of gossip floating through the library on perfumed tongues.
Neville was convinced that she was part Veela until Dean finally told him that most black women had skin that glowed like that.
And Seamus? Seamus.
Seamus came back from every private tutorial with a hard-on and always excused himself to the shower immediately.
Dean tried not to be jealous or nervous or go use the loo when Seamus was recovering from a lesson, but it was hard.
Er, so to speak.
All of them had their own quirks when they wanked. Dean told himself that he only noticed because he was an artist - a people watcher. He needed to know these things. And, no, it wasn't odd that he'd only really ever paid Seamus's quirks any sort of heed.
Seamus always made a certain noise when he pulled himself off in the shower following his tutorial. It was a keening, dry moan and it sent shivers down Dean’s back.
Really, nothing should make his skin tingle like that in the daytime.
So, it wasn’t his fault when they had an assignment to try out a few defensive hexes with a slightly malfunctioning (wet, hot, or bent) wand and Dean ended up sitting outside the shower in the loo with a firm grip on his wand and tight trousers.
It wasn't his fault she gave the assignment just before one of Seamus's tutorials... in the middle of the day, for Pete's sake. It was the only way he could think of to do his homework. The shower was wet, yes? Not to mention, listening to the sounds of another bloke pull himself off would unseat nearly anyone.
Dean heard Seamus wring out a cloth and he almost lost his nerve and walked out. When he saw Seamus's feet under the curtain, lightly tanned from going barefoot all summer and halfway into autumn, turn and plant away from the spray, he swallowed and tightened his hand around his wand.
Any minute now. Then he could, uh, practice.
He heard a grunt, followed by familiar light slapping sounds.
A moment later, Dean's hand slid into his trousers, his assignment forgotten in the filtered, hazy light of midday. His hand felt damp; from nerves or anticipation, he didn't know, but he really, really should stop this...
But, he couldn't.
Seamus hissed and Dean saw his feet shift, one moving slightly forward as the toes on the other foot curled slightly against the floor. Seamus's low moan was back, shuddery and slow and filling every bit of him like white heat in his bloodstream.
With his eyes closed, Dean could see images move in slow motion through his mind: memories of quiet, private fantasies that he'd never even drawn. In the blurred red daylight through his eyelids, Dean forgot whose hand was touching him, forgot everything but the sound of gasps, the sound of need, of clouded desire, of...
Seamus, Seamus, Seamus...
He wanted... oh, god, he wanted to come loudly -- to moan in the same tone, in the same bloody moment as Seamus... to forget the humid air settling around him and let everything be as he'd imagined too many times to count.
It was moving so fast now; he could nearly see Seamus through the curtain and he had no idea if he'd even opened his eyes. He -- oh, god -- what if? -- he was...
God, he was going to come.
Dean squeezed his thighs together, feeling his balls draw up and liquid shudders spread through him in subtle, sharp waves. He shot over the inside of his waistband, hissing unevenly through his teeth and clenching his buttocks tightly together and letting the slow imagery of daytime fantasies wash through him. He jerked slightly and dropped his wand with a sharp clatter.
Oh, bugger.
There was a long, interminable pause before he saw Seamus's feet move again. Then Seamus pulled the curtain. Dean could see the dark towel slung low around his waist (a thinner torso than years past -- Seamus had actually grown a few inches over the summer) and a sparse trail of reddish hair leading down from his navel. He felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, but didn't look away; he owed Seamus as much.
"Next time-" Seamus said, his voice cracking slightly on the 'i,' before his eyes widened and he hurried out of the room.
Dean sat on the bench in a daze.
Next time?
::
:: next::
~thank you so much for reading! ♥
[ table]