FIC: rough, irregular pounding ~ seamus/dean, R
~for my darling oconel on her birthday. ♥ My dear, I can't tell you what a joy it is to call you my friend. *so much love*
rough, irregular pounding
seamus/dean, seamus/blaise. 794 words. rated R
notes: Written for my Seamus/Dean claim at 50_smutlets. It continues the arc of the previous four.
:: previous::
::
Well.
Everything is different now. Everything. It was one thing to delude himself into content shades of misconception, but another thing altogether to have it so blatantly taken from him. Ripped, actually. Ripped out so that he can hold the twisted mass that was (is) his desire and see the jagged edges.
The only difference now is a rough, irregular pounding where his heartbeat used to be.
So?
Seamus continues with life as he knew it, less than interesting, doing things right. It's hollow now, bitter, even. And it reeks of stale boredom and a monotony even his gran would notice. His mam has always been critical of her own mother, said she didn't live, thought too much, took everything the safest way possible.
He can't do that. His gran didn't get it right, and his mam definitely hasn't figured things out, either.
Seamus retreats into himself the only way he can think of: he starts studying. He now knows the answers to questions that don't involve violence. He becomes the 'third' call on -- the one professors go to when the first two volunteers are blitheringly wrong.
He ignores every sign from Dean that he once would have held onto: a punch on the shoulder, the barest knee brush. Letting things go as far as he did was a big mistake. Seamus can't believe he was able to delude himself so blindly.
With newly directed effort, Seamus becomes the expert on saving potions that appear to have gone wrong, building privacy charms that repel the idiotic questions of first years, and mixing the best fertilizer for most of the flesh eating plants in Greenhouse Five.
Seamus had always thought there would be power in knowledge, but really it seems to be the opposite. The more he learns, the more the empty black hollow grows inside him until he's quite sure if a Healer were to open him up, they'd find only air.
One afternoon in Potions, Seamus catches Blaise Zabini watching him, but doesn't pay it any heed. He doesn't pay attention the next time, or to any of the next seventeen times either.
Not really.
In fact, he pays it so little heed that when one day he turns away from the farthest library stack with a new book to add to the pile he's amassed (Still More Information Moste Trivial) and bumps headfirst into Blaise Zabini, he's ignorant enough to be surprised.
He stumbles through a feeble apology and starts to go, but Zabini presses bodily against him, rocking their hips together obscenely until Seamus awakens into something oddly terrifying. He can't tell if he's this hard because there hasn't been anyone who has shoved their tongue down his throat so elegantly while at the same time reaching into his trousers and grasping at his prick, or if possibly it's because Zabini's hands are familiar: thin and cool in their confidence.
Seamus rocks shamelessly against him, gasping once and grappling behind him for something to hold onto. This is the first time anyone has ever had their hand so tightly around him, squeezing and sliding slowly up and down. He looks down, watching the head of his dick protrude and retreat. The slit on the tip opens, then closes like a mouth tasting the air.
Zabini tells him he looks good with his dick out and his mouth slack like this. Images flash through his mind: evocative, entirely wrong images and Seamus shuts his eyes to let them in.
A book drops not too far from where they're standing and Seamus's eyes fly open. He blinks twice as reality plunges back into him, then mutters something close to "gottagetback" before doing up his trousers and racing out of the darkened library.
When he enters the Common Room, after a long (long) walk through well-lit corridors, he sees Dean sitting on the sofa, talking to Lavender and laughing uproariously. Seamus whirls around as Dean's words echo in his mind:
"I know who I fancy... she's--"
Seamus takes off out of the portrait hole, stumbling through corridors under the influence of nothing like alcohol.
Incongruously, he finds Zabini in a corridor, mutters something he doesn't remember as he pulls off his shirt, then lets Zabini tear a small fissure into the strength of his resolve.
Seamus doesn't moan, doesn't even move, really. He just lets this happen because in the shadowy black cave of night, the line of Zabini's jaw is exactly the right colour. Zabini's hands draw perfect circles on every inch of bared skin: his fingers are just the right length, and Zabini's mouth is exactly the right height. Seamus leans back, opens his mouth into the dark bitter of misplaced longing and doesn't draw breath.
::
~thank you so much for reading! ♥
:: next::
[ table]
rough, irregular pounding
seamus/dean, seamus/blaise. 794 words. rated R
notes: Written for my Seamus/Dean claim at 50_smutlets. It continues the arc of the previous four.
:: previous::
::
Well.
Everything is different now. Everything. It was one thing to delude himself into content shades of misconception, but another thing altogether to have it so blatantly taken from him. Ripped, actually. Ripped out so that he can hold the twisted mass that was (is) his desire and see the jagged edges.
The only difference now is a rough, irregular pounding where his heartbeat used to be.
So?
Seamus continues with life as he knew it, less than interesting, doing things right. It's hollow now, bitter, even. And it reeks of stale boredom and a monotony even his gran would notice. His mam has always been critical of her own mother, said she didn't live, thought too much, took everything the safest way possible.
He can't do that. His gran didn't get it right, and his mam definitely hasn't figured things out, either.
Seamus retreats into himself the only way he can think of: he starts studying. He now knows the answers to questions that don't involve violence. He becomes the 'third' call on -- the one professors go to when the first two volunteers are blitheringly wrong.
He ignores every sign from Dean that he once would have held onto: a punch on the shoulder, the barest knee brush. Letting things go as far as he did was a big mistake. Seamus can't believe he was able to delude himself so blindly.
With newly directed effort, Seamus becomes the expert on saving potions that appear to have gone wrong, building privacy charms that repel the idiotic questions of first years, and mixing the best fertilizer for most of the flesh eating plants in Greenhouse Five.
Seamus had always thought there would be power in knowledge, but really it seems to be the opposite. The more he learns, the more the empty black hollow grows inside him until he's quite sure if a Healer were to open him up, they'd find only air.
One afternoon in Potions, Seamus catches Blaise Zabini watching him, but doesn't pay it any heed. He doesn't pay attention the next time, or to any of the next seventeen times either.
Not really.
In fact, he pays it so little heed that when one day he turns away from the farthest library stack with a new book to add to the pile he's amassed (Still More Information Moste Trivial) and bumps headfirst into Blaise Zabini, he's ignorant enough to be surprised.
He stumbles through a feeble apology and starts to go, but Zabini presses bodily against him, rocking their hips together obscenely until Seamus awakens into something oddly terrifying. He can't tell if he's this hard because there hasn't been anyone who has shoved their tongue down his throat so elegantly while at the same time reaching into his trousers and grasping at his prick, or if possibly it's because Zabini's hands are familiar: thin and cool in their confidence.
Seamus rocks shamelessly against him, gasping once and grappling behind him for something to hold onto. This is the first time anyone has ever had their hand so tightly around him, squeezing and sliding slowly up and down. He looks down, watching the head of his dick protrude and retreat. The slit on the tip opens, then closes like a mouth tasting the air.
Zabini tells him he looks good with his dick out and his mouth slack like this. Images flash through his mind: evocative, entirely wrong images and Seamus shuts his eyes to let them in.
A book drops not too far from where they're standing and Seamus's eyes fly open. He blinks twice as reality plunges back into him, then mutters something close to "gottagetback" before doing up his trousers and racing out of the darkened library.
When he enters the Common Room, after a long (long) walk through well-lit corridors, he sees Dean sitting on the sofa, talking to Lavender and laughing uproariously. Seamus whirls around as Dean's words echo in his mind:
"I know who I fancy... she's--"
Seamus takes off out of the portrait hole, stumbling through corridors under the influence of nothing like alcohol.
Incongruously, he finds Zabini in a corridor, mutters something he doesn't remember as he pulls off his shirt, then lets Zabini tear a small fissure into the strength of his resolve.
Seamus doesn't moan, doesn't even move, really. He just lets this happen because in the shadowy black cave of night, the line of Zabini's jaw is exactly the right colour. Zabini's hands draw perfect circles on every inch of bared skin: his fingers are just the right length, and Zabini's mouth is exactly the right height. Seamus leans back, opens his mouth into the dark bitter of misplaced longing and doesn't draw breath.
::
~thank you so much for reading! ♥
:: next::
[ table]