![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wook77I realise that International ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kaalee Appreciation Day was just a short time ago but it's now time to celebrate kaalee's birthday! So, it means another fic and a birthday gift if it wasn't lost in the sodding mail.
Title: Everchanging Saffron
Author:wook77
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Seamus/Dean, various mentions of past relationships
Rating: Hard R
Wordcount: ~2900
Warnings: present tense, inversion of fandom clichés.
Summary: In our life there is a single colour, as on an artist's palette, which provides the meaning of life and art. It is the colour of love.
Author's Note: Summary is a quotation by Marc Chagall. Written with golden yellow love forkaalee. Beta'd by why_me_why_not and test-read by ficlette. All remaining mistakes are my own. As I know that it annoys some, I'm also warning for the inclusion of links within the story to assist the reader.
On a less formal note, I've wanted to write a piece that turns the fandom clichés for Seamus and Dean on their heads. I wanted Seamus to be the one with art in his soul and a brush in hand. I truly hope that I succeeded with this one.
Kissing, he decides, is a lot like painting. There are as many textures, colours, and moods in kissing as there are in painting. He enjoys experiencing as many of both as he can. If anyone were to ask him, he could describe the taste, texture, and moment that he created a painting or brushed against lips. He remembers kisses as colours.
Vermillion, for example, is the colour he's mentally assigned to Lavender Brown. She's a cinnamon red, a Chinese red, a mercuric red that can only be encompassed by vermillion. It's a kiss that he'll remember to the end of his days. She was his first and that counts for a lot when it comes to memories. Even if it had been a piss-poor kiss, she'd still be vermillion. That it had been a secretive yet chaste kiss stolen behind a tapestry while the rest of his small world swirled in a dance only strengthens the colour.
Neville, on the other hand, is mulberry. He's rich and a bit understated, or even a bit unrecognised for the beauty within him. Drunk on wine – another reason why Neville reminds him of mulberry – they'd kissed for hours. They hadn't been the most skillful of kisses, the pair of them had been far too sloppy drunk for that. Still, the lipping at each other, teeth clacking while hands explored, Neville's kiss was just what he'd needed after seeing that. No one ever really knew that they'd come together in commiseration for their misery over that, and it isn't anyone else's business so they won't be finding out. Seamus's brushstrokes are light as he splashes the mulberry, thus, Neville, onto the canvas.
Mahogany, he decides as he builds the colour on his palate, is Hermione's colour. Brown and dull at first glance, no one had ever thought of her as a girl waiting to be kissed. Ron had blown it there, had waited too long until he'd lost the chance to be Hermione's first kiss. Viktor might've been her first but Seamus, brushing finger across lip, could still remember the richness of their press of lip to lip. Mahogany, with a little bit of work, is the best of all the browns and that's the way Seamus will always think of Hermione, even now that she's with Ron. It's not something that Seamus will be mentioning to anyone any time soon, though. He likes his head just where it's at, thanks muchly.
Whenever he thinks of Harry, it's easy to assign stereotypical colours, greens or reds or even black. None of those will do for Harry. Instead, Harry's cinereal silver. He's muted, almost lost in the dark, which is the only time that Seamus is willing to remember that stolen kiss, back pressed against the wall and Harry's hands roaming everywhere Seamus never wanted them to go. Seamus hadn't asked for it, which wasn't to say that he didn't enjoy the kiss. He had, quite a bit. It was just the aftereffects that he hadn't enjoyed.
Harry's cinereal silver had cost Seamus the rainbow of colours, the explosion of sensation, of Dean's kiss. Just the thought of that loss has Seamus slashing paint onto the canvas in front of him, a red so deep that it looks like dried blood. The clichéd colour choice appeals to Seamus's remembrance as he slices through all the other built up patterns of vermillion, mulberry, mahogany and silver. The swirls and lines, boxes and circles, are all slashed through with the red-black until the painting looks like the aftermath of Jack the Ripper's knife attack.
Even doing this, Seamus can't get rid of the anger and the hurt of Dean walking away without a word. The only reason that Seamus ever picked up a paintbrush was because Dean had asked him, sodding Dean. There'd been some girl taking some art class that he hadn't had the balls to attend on his own so he'd asked Seamus to go with him. Dean had gotten the girl and Seamus had gotten a love of mixing pigment to acrylic. Seamus knows that he got the better end of the deal, as the girl had left within a few weeks but the love of painting had stayed on.
There were times, like now, though, that Seamus thinks that he got the worst end of that bargain because damned if he doesn't hate the painting as much as he loves it. Painting's Dean's thing, and it's that connection that Seamus can't stand even as he moves the first canvas off to the side and puts a fresh, clean, and new one up on the easel.
This one isn't going to have vermillion or mahogany or mulberry on it. There sure as shit isn't going to be any cinereal silver in it either. Instead, Seamus starts out with a small dot, just a bit to the right and above the center. The dots of that same red-black/black-red that he'd used to sweep over the other painting. It's the core of his feelings right now, the very center of his thoughts, this swirling hurt and hate, but he keeps himself from making it any bigger than the tip of his pinky finger.
Carefully setting the brush to the side, he grabs a fan brush, its wide thin bristles completely devoid of colour. Lightly dabbing just the tip of the brush into the cerulean blue – the colour of the serenity and peace – he draws a line that bisects the dot of darkness. Cerulean blue was the colour of the peace that Dean's touch in the middle of the night brought him, the small comfort of a hand on his stomach, his chest, his neck, his back, his arse, or even his thigh. The line's so thin that the light barely cuts through the darkness.
A quick swish through the cleaning agent and Seamus sets the fan brush to the side. He replaces it with the comforting weight of the thick and heavy brush that's as big around as his thumb. The bristles stick out and cause extra lines of colour on the canvas and that's the exact look he's going for. Loading the brush with his custom-mixed saffron paint, Seamus draws a tilted 's' from upper right to lower left-hand corners, almost intersecting the red-black dot. The connotation of the 's' is obvious and another cliché that Seamus doesn't much care about. Instead, he concentrates on the way the colour of the paint changes as he swirls it over the canvas, building up layer upon layer. This is his passion, mutable and changing, depending on the moment.
One minute, he's feeling saffron-red, deeply passionate as they kiss, tugging at clothes and needing to touch flesh-to-flesh. It's a consuming red, the way that their lips need and want. To Seamus, it's exactly the best sort of feeling in the world. There's nothing better than the fiery heat that they create between them.
Except when the passion simmers and turns gentle, a heat that consumes rather than explodes. That's the rich yellow of saffron that swirls and mingles with the red. That yellow heat keeps him steady and warm. The yellow almost brushes against the red-black but doesn't quite and Seamus wants it that way, wants to keep the heat and passion separate from the hurt and betrayal of Dean's back walking through the door and the way he hadn't even paused while Seamus had yelled after him, had chased after him like a fucking dog with its master.
In his anger, he's pressed the brush too hard against the canvas and now the saffron has mingled into a muted brown that is attractive in its own way, even if it isn't the passion that Seamus had been going for. It isn't at all what he'd wanted, just like this situation with Dean isn't what he wanted. He hadn't asked for any of it, dammit, hadn't told Harry to kiss him, hadn't ordered Dean to turn his back on Seamus and walk off, hadn't wondered what his heart would feel like when it broke into a thousand pieces, each one a different colour.
Dropping the brush into the cleaning agent, Seamus pauses to look at his painting and he realises that it's missing something; there's too much empty canvas and not enough colour for this work. He looks at his palate and doesn't see any one colour that fits. Instead, he takes a dab of crimson, a little bit of terra cotta, some kerry green, a bit of azure, some pomegranate, and mixes it all together. It turns into an odd shade of black but it's exactly what he's looking for, a melding of all the colours of Seamus's life.
It's exactly right because when Seamus thinks of his life, he thinks of Dean and that amalgamation of events and love and life. Dean is every colour of the rainbow and the only way that Seamus can possibly express that is with a bit of everything jumbled up into this odd shade of black. Grabbing a medium-tipped brush, Seamus dabs it into the black and sketches a frame around the works, his hand wobbles as he outlines his relationship with Dean with the colours of Dean himself. There are gaps and spots and that's alright as well. It's not like there haven't been rough spots in their relationships before.
That spotty line finishes off the work on the canvas and Seamus leaves it where it is. It'll join the masses of other paintings that Seamus has done since Dean walked away from him. Now that he's not possessed with painting everything out, Seamus can't help but think about the owls he's sent, the letters pleading and fighting for Dean to talk to him. The letters remind him of the paintings that he's sent Dean, fighting in his own way for Dean to see, really truly see, exactly what Seamus thought of him, how much Seamus needed him. The white silence that's answered leads Seamus to wonder if Dean just doesn't want a damn thing to do with him because, deep down, he enjoyed the vermillion of Lavender's, the mulberry of Neville's, the mahogany of Hermione's, and, especially, the cinereal silver of Harry's kiss.
Shaking off the thoughts, Seamus methodically starts to clean up. He washes the brushes and then the palate before scrubbing at his hands. None of the colours that have dried on his skin will leave even when he picks at it. Suddenly, getting those colours off is the most important thing in his life and he turns the water on as hot as it'll go and he breaks out the strongest soap that he can find. He's going to get rid of that black and red-black and cinereal silver especially.
Blaming the rush of water for not being able to hear the approach, Seamus startles when hands appear around him and turn off the water. He stills within the circle of arms and fixates on Dean's dark skin as it grips Seamus's hand and rubs at the angry red spots that have formed under the scalding heat of the water. Lips nuzzle at his ear as Dean twists his hands this way and that, looking at all the colours and marks.
"Dean, I…" Seamus breaks the silence because he can't stand the sound of silence, not between them, because silence is the white absense of colour.
"I'm sorry, Seamus." The words are whispered against Seamus's scalp and Seamus can't help the shiver.
"'M sorry, too. Couldn’t think of how to say it, couldn't put it down just right though I kept trying. Was going to send you that one and hope that you understood but I didn't get a chance." Seamus starts to gesture towards the painting he's just finished where it stands on the easel but Dean's hands hold his captive as the thumbs rub small circles over the paint that splattered across his freckled skin.
"I'm such an arse, a jealous fucking arse, and I don't quite get what you see in me when I'm acting like an arse." It's a softly spoken admission.
"Like I'm not an arse, meself. Fuck's sake, I know what it looked like, just would've liked to've been able to explain. Don't much care about going over the past, not if you're here and we can be, just be, and not worry about everything." Seamus leans back into Dean as he speaks and can feel the saffron-yellow warmth against his back while the saffron-red starts to pool in his belly as Dean lips at his ear again, sucking the curl of flesh into his mouth and nipping down lightly. The shudder that ricochets through his body is much more intense this time as his knees weaken.
Then the colours explode as Dean draws his hands over his head and turns him around, twisting him up literally and figuratively as they touch lip to lip. This kiss isn't a colour he'd ever be able to describe. It's too bright to be that every-colour-black and it's certainly not a bright white absense-of-colour. Tongue touches tongue and Seamus braces himself against the sink at his back. Stretching up onto the tips of his toes, he reaches to get more of Dean's taste, the small trace of curry made with the indulgent taste of saffron.
That's why Seamus forgives as easily as he does, because Dean tastes of saffron, almost like he knows exactly what colour Seamus normally associates with him. He's mutable and changing and different and more. Seamus thinks that he could lose himself in kissing Dean for hours. Who thinks of cinereal silver when they can have saffron in all its hues and tones? Seamus doesn't care about the answer to that question as Dean's hands sneak up under his shirt in the back, fingertips teasing as they dance down his spine. They're still nipping and licking and tasting as they touch and it's better than it'd been before Seamus had sent Dean all those owls.
This kiss is almost as rich as their first and made better for the familiarity between them. Dean knows just how to touch, just where to touch, to make Seamus tilt his head back and cry out as fingers graze sensitive flesh. He, too, knows just how to touch Dean to make Dean stumble backwards and Seamus seizes the moment, threading his fingers into the hair at the nape of Dean's neck and taking control of the kiss. There isn't anywhere to sit in Seamus's studio, and that's an oversight he might just have to correct in the future. For now, though, there's a spot on the wall where no canvases rest and it's just big enough for the two of them to angle themselves into it.
It's a fantastic plan if only Dean would go along with it. Instead of doing that, though, he's pulling Seamus's shirt over his head and then undoing his denims. They slide off his hips as if they are afraid that the explosion of colour in Seamus's head will consume their faded blue. Stumbling over the denim woven around his ankles where it's trapped against the boots, Seamus bucks forward into Dean's grasp and can't possibly think about anything other than the feel of Dean's rough palm against his cock. Looking down, he watches the way Dean's darkness consumes his pale length and the sight's enough to make him send a prayer up to the heavens that he won't embarrass himself by coming too quickly.
Hoping to turn the tables, Seamus frees Dean from his clothing as well, shirt hanging off the arm that's busy with Seamus's cock. They're both trapped with their denims around their ankles. There's no chance of making it to the wall. Instead, they're in the center of the room, just to the right and slightly above the painting as they touch and reacquaint themselves with each other.
Dean twists his wrist just at the tip of Seamus's cock and Seamus bites his lip as he comes, spilling out over Dean's fist. He pants as he struggles to remain standing and then Dean's hand is over his own as they both touch Dean's cock. Seamus closes his eye and absorbs the various textures as his world narrows to the engulfed-in-saffron-red heat of his hand. Dean's hand is rough while his cock is silky smooth. The circulating air is cool while the rubbing friction is hot.
Dean cries out, causing Seamus's eyes to fly open to watch as Dean's face twists and his knees buckle. Seamus catches him and they sink to the ground gracelessly. They're still trapped in denim and it makes it uncomfortable to curl into one another but somehow they accomplish it all the same. Once more within the circle of Dean's arms, this time, they're face to face and Seamus reaches out a hand to cup Dean's cheek before leaning in and brushing lip against lip. There's that muted red and yellow mixture. Now he knows what that tastes like when the exploding red is consumed by the simmering yellow and the simmering yellow is blown asunder by the exploding red.
He looks up at the painting and sees the way that his world is framed by Dean and thinks that, just perhaps, he knew that Dean would be here just as he finished that painting. Just perhaps, Dean knew that Seamus needed the melding riot of colour that is Dean in his life.
As always, I'd love to hear what you thought. Concrit welcomed
Happiest of Birthdays to you, kaalee!
kaalee Appreciation Day was just a short time ago but it's now time to celebrate kaalee's birthday! So, it means another fic Title: Everchanging Saffron
Author:
wook77Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Seamus/Dean, various mentions of past relationships
Rating: Hard R
Wordcount: ~2900
Warnings: present tense, inversion of fandom clichés.
Summary: In our life there is a single colour, as on an artist's palette, which provides the meaning of life and art. It is the colour of love.
Author's Note: Summary is a quotation by Marc Chagall. Written with golden yellow love for
kaalee. Beta'd by why_me_why_not and test-read by ficlette. All remaining mistakes are my own. As I know that it annoys some, I'm also warning for the inclusion of links within the story to assist the reader. On a less formal note, I've wanted to write a piece that turns the fandom clichés for Seamus and Dean on their heads. I wanted Seamus to be the one with art in his soul and a brush in hand. I truly hope that I succeeded with this one.
Kissing, he decides, is a lot like painting. There are as many textures, colours, and moods in kissing as there are in painting. He enjoys experiencing as many of both as he can. If anyone were to ask him, he could describe the taste, texture, and moment that he created a painting or brushed against lips. He remembers kisses as colours.
Vermillion, for example, is the colour he's mentally assigned to Lavender Brown. She's a cinnamon red, a Chinese red, a mercuric red that can only be encompassed by vermillion. It's a kiss that he'll remember to the end of his days. She was his first and that counts for a lot when it comes to memories. Even if it had been a piss-poor kiss, she'd still be vermillion. That it had been a secretive yet chaste kiss stolen behind a tapestry while the rest of his small world swirled in a dance only strengthens the colour.
Neville, on the other hand, is mulberry. He's rich and a bit understated, or even a bit unrecognised for the beauty within him. Drunk on wine – another reason why Neville reminds him of mulberry – they'd kissed for hours. They hadn't been the most skillful of kisses, the pair of them had been far too sloppy drunk for that. Still, the lipping at each other, teeth clacking while hands explored, Neville's kiss was just what he'd needed after seeing that. No one ever really knew that they'd come together in commiseration for their misery over that, and it isn't anyone else's business so they won't be finding out. Seamus's brushstrokes are light as he splashes the mulberry, thus, Neville, onto the canvas.
Mahogany, he decides as he builds the colour on his palate, is Hermione's colour. Brown and dull at first glance, no one had ever thought of her as a girl waiting to be kissed. Ron had blown it there, had waited too long until he'd lost the chance to be Hermione's first kiss. Viktor might've been her first but Seamus, brushing finger across lip, could still remember the richness of their press of lip to lip. Mahogany, with a little bit of work, is the best of all the browns and that's the way Seamus will always think of Hermione, even now that she's with Ron. It's not something that Seamus will be mentioning to anyone any time soon, though. He likes his head just where it's at, thanks muchly.
Whenever he thinks of Harry, it's easy to assign stereotypical colours, greens or reds or even black. None of those will do for Harry. Instead, Harry's cinereal silver. He's muted, almost lost in the dark, which is the only time that Seamus is willing to remember that stolen kiss, back pressed against the wall and Harry's hands roaming everywhere Seamus never wanted them to go. Seamus hadn't asked for it, which wasn't to say that he didn't enjoy the kiss. He had, quite a bit. It was just the aftereffects that he hadn't enjoyed.
Harry's cinereal silver had cost Seamus the rainbow of colours, the explosion of sensation, of Dean's kiss. Just the thought of that loss has Seamus slashing paint onto the canvas in front of him, a red so deep that it looks like dried blood. The clichéd colour choice appeals to Seamus's remembrance as he slices through all the other built up patterns of vermillion, mulberry, mahogany and silver. The swirls and lines, boxes and circles, are all slashed through with the red-black until the painting looks like the aftermath of Jack the Ripper's knife attack.
Even doing this, Seamus can't get rid of the anger and the hurt of Dean walking away without a word. The only reason that Seamus ever picked up a paintbrush was because Dean had asked him, sodding Dean. There'd been some girl taking some art class that he hadn't had the balls to attend on his own so he'd asked Seamus to go with him. Dean had gotten the girl and Seamus had gotten a love of mixing pigment to acrylic. Seamus knows that he got the better end of the deal, as the girl had left within a few weeks but the love of painting had stayed on.
There were times, like now, though, that Seamus thinks that he got the worst end of that bargain because damned if he doesn't hate the painting as much as he loves it. Painting's Dean's thing, and it's that connection that Seamus can't stand even as he moves the first canvas off to the side and puts a fresh, clean, and new one up on the easel.
This one isn't going to have vermillion or mahogany or mulberry on it. There sure as shit isn't going to be any cinereal silver in it either. Instead, Seamus starts out with a small dot, just a bit to the right and above the center. The dots of that same red-black/black-red that he'd used to sweep over the other painting. It's the core of his feelings right now, the very center of his thoughts, this swirling hurt and hate, but he keeps himself from making it any bigger than the tip of his pinky finger.
Carefully setting the brush to the side, he grabs a fan brush, its wide thin bristles completely devoid of colour. Lightly dabbing just the tip of the brush into the cerulean blue – the colour of the serenity and peace – he draws a line that bisects the dot of darkness. Cerulean blue was the colour of the peace that Dean's touch in the middle of the night brought him, the small comfort of a hand on his stomach, his chest, his neck, his back, his arse, or even his thigh. The line's so thin that the light barely cuts through the darkness.
A quick swish through the cleaning agent and Seamus sets the fan brush to the side. He replaces it with the comforting weight of the thick and heavy brush that's as big around as his thumb. The bristles stick out and cause extra lines of colour on the canvas and that's the exact look he's going for. Loading the brush with his custom-mixed saffron paint, Seamus draws a tilted 's' from upper right to lower left-hand corners, almost intersecting the red-black dot. The connotation of the 's' is obvious and another cliché that Seamus doesn't much care about. Instead, he concentrates on the way the colour of the paint changes as he swirls it over the canvas, building up layer upon layer. This is his passion, mutable and changing, depending on the moment.
One minute, he's feeling saffron-red, deeply passionate as they kiss, tugging at clothes and needing to touch flesh-to-flesh. It's a consuming red, the way that their lips need and want. To Seamus, it's exactly the best sort of feeling in the world. There's nothing better than the fiery heat that they create between them.
Except when the passion simmers and turns gentle, a heat that consumes rather than explodes. That's the rich yellow of saffron that swirls and mingles with the red. That yellow heat keeps him steady and warm. The yellow almost brushes against the red-black but doesn't quite and Seamus wants it that way, wants to keep the heat and passion separate from the hurt and betrayal of Dean's back walking through the door and the way he hadn't even paused while Seamus had yelled after him, had chased after him like a fucking dog with its master.
In his anger, he's pressed the brush too hard against the canvas and now the saffron has mingled into a muted brown that is attractive in its own way, even if it isn't the passion that Seamus had been going for. It isn't at all what he'd wanted, just like this situation with Dean isn't what he wanted. He hadn't asked for any of it, dammit, hadn't told Harry to kiss him, hadn't ordered Dean to turn his back on Seamus and walk off, hadn't wondered what his heart would feel like when it broke into a thousand pieces, each one a different colour.
Dropping the brush into the cleaning agent, Seamus pauses to look at his painting and he realises that it's missing something; there's too much empty canvas and not enough colour for this work. He looks at his palate and doesn't see any one colour that fits. Instead, he takes a dab of crimson, a little bit of terra cotta, some kerry green, a bit of azure, some pomegranate, and mixes it all together. It turns into an odd shade of black but it's exactly what he's looking for, a melding of all the colours of Seamus's life.
It's exactly right because when Seamus thinks of his life, he thinks of Dean and that amalgamation of events and love and life. Dean is every colour of the rainbow and the only way that Seamus can possibly express that is with a bit of everything jumbled up into this odd shade of black. Grabbing a medium-tipped brush, Seamus dabs it into the black and sketches a frame around the works, his hand wobbles as he outlines his relationship with Dean with the colours of Dean himself. There are gaps and spots and that's alright as well. It's not like there haven't been rough spots in their relationships before.
That spotty line finishes off the work on the canvas and Seamus leaves it where it is. It'll join the masses of other paintings that Seamus has done since Dean walked away from him. Now that he's not possessed with painting everything out, Seamus can't help but think about the owls he's sent, the letters pleading and fighting for Dean to talk to him. The letters remind him of the paintings that he's sent Dean, fighting in his own way for Dean to see, really truly see, exactly what Seamus thought of him, how much Seamus needed him. The white silence that's answered leads Seamus to wonder if Dean just doesn't want a damn thing to do with him because, deep down, he enjoyed the vermillion of Lavender's, the mulberry of Neville's, the mahogany of Hermione's, and, especially, the cinereal silver of Harry's kiss.
Shaking off the thoughts, Seamus methodically starts to clean up. He washes the brushes and then the palate before scrubbing at his hands. None of the colours that have dried on his skin will leave even when he picks at it. Suddenly, getting those colours off is the most important thing in his life and he turns the water on as hot as it'll go and he breaks out the strongest soap that he can find. He's going to get rid of that black and red-black and cinereal silver especially.
Blaming the rush of water for not being able to hear the approach, Seamus startles when hands appear around him and turn off the water. He stills within the circle of arms and fixates on Dean's dark skin as it grips Seamus's hand and rubs at the angry red spots that have formed under the scalding heat of the water. Lips nuzzle at his ear as Dean twists his hands this way and that, looking at all the colours and marks.
"Dean, I…" Seamus breaks the silence because he can't stand the sound of silence, not between them, because silence is the white absense of colour.
"I'm sorry, Seamus." The words are whispered against Seamus's scalp and Seamus can't help the shiver.
"'M sorry, too. Couldn’t think of how to say it, couldn't put it down just right though I kept trying. Was going to send you that one and hope that you understood but I didn't get a chance." Seamus starts to gesture towards the painting he's just finished where it stands on the easel but Dean's hands hold his captive as the thumbs rub small circles over the paint that splattered across his freckled skin.
"I'm such an arse, a jealous fucking arse, and I don't quite get what you see in me when I'm acting like an arse." It's a softly spoken admission.
"Like I'm not an arse, meself. Fuck's sake, I know what it looked like, just would've liked to've been able to explain. Don't much care about going over the past, not if you're here and we can be, just be, and not worry about everything." Seamus leans back into Dean as he speaks and can feel the saffron-yellow warmth against his back while the saffron-red starts to pool in his belly as Dean lips at his ear again, sucking the curl of flesh into his mouth and nipping down lightly. The shudder that ricochets through his body is much more intense this time as his knees weaken.
Then the colours explode as Dean draws his hands over his head and turns him around, twisting him up literally and figuratively as they touch lip to lip. This kiss isn't a colour he'd ever be able to describe. It's too bright to be that every-colour-black and it's certainly not a bright white absense-of-colour. Tongue touches tongue and Seamus braces himself against the sink at his back. Stretching up onto the tips of his toes, he reaches to get more of Dean's taste, the small trace of curry made with the indulgent taste of saffron.
That's why Seamus forgives as easily as he does, because Dean tastes of saffron, almost like he knows exactly what colour Seamus normally associates with him. He's mutable and changing and different and more. Seamus thinks that he could lose himself in kissing Dean for hours. Who thinks of cinereal silver when they can have saffron in all its hues and tones? Seamus doesn't care about the answer to that question as Dean's hands sneak up under his shirt in the back, fingertips teasing as they dance down his spine. They're still nipping and licking and tasting as they touch and it's better than it'd been before Seamus had sent Dean all those owls.
This kiss is almost as rich as their first and made better for the familiarity between them. Dean knows just how to touch, just where to touch, to make Seamus tilt his head back and cry out as fingers graze sensitive flesh. He, too, knows just how to touch Dean to make Dean stumble backwards and Seamus seizes the moment, threading his fingers into the hair at the nape of Dean's neck and taking control of the kiss. There isn't anywhere to sit in Seamus's studio, and that's an oversight he might just have to correct in the future. For now, though, there's a spot on the wall where no canvases rest and it's just big enough for the two of them to angle themselves into it.
It's a fantastic plan if only Dean would go along with it. Instead of doing that, though, he's pulling Seamus's shirt over his head and then undoing his denims. They slide off his hips as if they are afraid that the explosion of colour in Seamus's head will consume their faded blue. Stumbling over the denim woven around his ankles where it's trapped against the boots, Seamus bucks forward into Dean's grasp and can't possibly think about anything other than the feel of Dean's rough palm against his cock. Looking down, he watches the way Dean's darkness consumes his pale length and the sight's enough to make him send a prayer up to the heavens that he won't embarrass himself by coming too quickly.
Hoping to turn the tables, Seamus frees Dean from his clothing as well, shirt hanging off the arm that's busy with Seamus's cock. They're both trapped with their denims around their ankles. There's no chance of making it to the wall. Instead, they're in the center of the room, just to the right and slightly above the painting as they touch and reacquaint themselves with each other.
Dean twists his wrist just at the tip of Seamus's cock and Seamus bites his lip as he comes, spilling out over Dean's fist. He pants as he struggles to remain standing and then Dean's hand is over his own as they both touch Dean's cock. Seamus closes his eye and absorbs the various textures as his world narrows to the engulfed-in-saffron-red heat of his hand. Dean's hand is rough while his cock is silky smooth. The circulating air is cool while the rubbing friction is hot.
Dean cries out, causing Seamus's eyes to fly open to watch as Dean's face twists and his knees buckle. Seamus catches him and they sink to the ground gracelessly. They're still trapped in denim and it makes it uncomfortable to curl into one another but somehow they accomplish it all the same. Once more within the circle of Dean's arms, this time, they're face to face and Seamus reaches out a hand to cup Dean's cheek before leaning in and brushing lip against lip. There's that muted red and yellow mixture. Now he knows what that tastes like when the exploding red is consumed by the simmering yellow and the simmering yellow is blown asunder by the exploding red.
He looks up at the painting and sees the way that his world is framed by Dean and thinks that, just perhaps, he knew that Dean would be here just as he finished that painting. Just perhaps, Dean knew that Seamus needed the melding riot of colour that is Dean in his life.
kaalee!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 10:06 pm (UTC)I love all the little details about each kiss, and the association of colors with them. I'm a detail-whore, so this was just brilliant.
Good job!
no subject
Date: 2007-06-21 03:37 am (UTC)*loves muchly*
no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 10:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-21 03:38 am (UTC)*loves*
no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 10:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-21 03:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-21 01:36 am (UTC)*so much love*
Thank you SO MUCH for this, and for thinking of me, and for all of you, really. *cling*
no subject
Date: 2007-06-21 03:41 am (UTC)I'm very glad that you liked this! *loves* (you get my underwear dancing guy icon :))
I hope your birthday was filled with awesome instead of packing and cleaning and boring stuffs.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-21 07:40 am (UTC)This was absolutely lovely!
no subject
Date: 2007-06-22 08:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-24 11:20 am (UTC)That was brill... being an artist I loved the association of colours to people - I can totally see that. The whole bit with Neville ♥ - gotta love that Neville's getting a bit of love (I can see theres going to be a flood after OotP) Bad Harry! At least Dean's passion for Shay got past that...
I loved this so much. Saffron is so their colour.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 07:11 am (UTC)See, I was reading this because I couldn't sleep, but now I have to go PAINT. Dx. Look what you've done.
Though I'm glad I picked this fic. -mem'd-