wook77 | HP fic: Wants and Wishes (Deamus)

Today is

ficlette's birthday and to celebrate... I'm posting Day 2 of the Week of Love.

Title: Wants and Wishes
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Deamus - Dean/Seamus
Rating: R
Word Count: 1160ish
Warnings: Flangst?
Summary: Seamus wants and longs and yearns and dreams. He also curses, fluently and in four languages.
A/N: Self-beta'd

Seamus wants. He wants and he longs and he yearns and he dreams. He also curses, fluently and in four languages. He's tired of this wanting and longing and yearning and dreaming.

Most of all, he's tired of the dreaming. They haunt him at the most inopportune moments. There's the time he's on the phone with his da and his da's rambling about some random topic. Seamus had heard the word "paint" and the dream of Dean painting him twice in one night surfaced. First, Dean had painted him on the canvas, skin glowing while he lay on a bed and then, Dean had painted his body. The dream had sent his dick throbbing. He'd escaped that conversation without a modicum of guilt as there'd been no chance he would've been able to say anything more than "Fucking Christ" or the like.

More embarrassing is the time that he'd been in a meeting with his boss. His boss had grinned at a joke he'd cracked. Seamus had remembered the dream from the other night where Dean had flashed a similar grin just before he gripped Seamus's wrists in one hand and dragged them above Seamus's head before using his free hand to life Seamus's legs so that knee touched ear. The too full feeling of Dean's fingers penetrating his arse, the too cool feeling of the lube that coated Dean's fingers and the too much not enough feeling of Dean's cock sliding deep into his arse, all of them had haunted him while his boss nattered on about something. Whatever it was, it hadn't been important, not when Seamus compares it to the dream feel of Dean's face bending down and their lips touching.

A touch on the back of his hand startles Seamus out of his contemplations. He realises that he's been staring at Dean's bare feet – all bone and sinew and taut dark skin – for he doesn't know how long. He flushes even as he shifts his gaze to look to his crotch, trying to surreptitiously check his dick and make sure that he doesn't have something he'll be embarrassed about later.

He does, though, as his cock is hard and it's pushing against the fabric of his swim trunks as he reclines on the wooden dock with Dean. His face flames as he shifts his gaze to Dean and notices that Dean's staring at his cock. Seamus isn't sure about what to say or when to say it or even if he should say something. It's not like there is anyone else about, they're the only two in the area.

Dean looks up and their eyes meet. Seamus's face is still flaming red even as Dean stares at him. He waits for Dean to say something, crack a joke or make fun of him for getting a hard on in the middle of the day on a small dock while they're both shirtless and sunning themselves. Dean isn't saying anything though, just staring and Seamus can't take it anymore so he breaks eye contact and sits up. He's thinking that the water will hide it, cool it down until they're normal again, this moment can be ignored and forgotten.

But Dean's hand is on his chest, brushing down until one of his fingers dips into the hollow of Seamus's belly and then drifts back up. Seamus shivers and is held helpless under that exploratory touch. It's not like they haven't touched one another, they've been mates for fifteen years, after all. Touching and looking is par for the course what with the communal showers and close quarters. Hell, they've slept together countless times, curled in upon one another to make room in the small beds.

This is new, though. Too new and too much and not enough at all, really, especially as Dean's fingertips drift along Seamus's collarbone and drift up his cheek before threading into his hair. It's when their cool tips brush his ear that Seamus exhales and realises that he's been holding his breath the entire time Dean had been touching him. It's when Seamus turns to look at Dean again that he realises that Dean isn't blinking as he watches his hand drift, feather light, across Seamus's skin and through his hair.

Seamus's exhale is shaky as he rests on his elbows and feels that touch drift back down his chest. He isn't watching Dean's hand; he's watching Dean watch his own hand. It's almost more intimate than watching the touch itself because Seamus can see that Dean is entranced by it, more entranced than he'd been by the paintings at the art museum they'd visited yesterday for Dean's birthday.

"Dean?" Seamus doesn't want to break the moment but he's nervous and scared. He's also worried that if he wakes up right now, he'll regret interrupting but he has to know what's going on as this isn't a dream.

Dean's gaze swivels up to meet Seamus's before Dean's hand shifts to the back of his neck and cups it. It's only when Dean's mouth is a hairsbreadth from his that Seamus realises that he's been holding his breath again. He barely processes the thought when Dean's lips are on his and this is so much better than he'd ever dreamed.

Seamus hadn't realised just how warm Dean's lips are or how smooth they are. His eyes drift shut as his lips open and then there's that first trace of tongue on his lips before it delves into his mouth. Pushing off of the bleached wood, he angles himself towards Dean and his hand touches Dean's face.

Their tongues swirl, brushing and touching. Seamus's hand drifts to delve into Dean's hair, softer than he'd thought possible, and tightens against Dean's scalp. Dean's grip is just as tight in his hair. They shift, bumping noses, to try another angle and to see if the taste varies or if the feelings change. The kiss remains gentle; there are no teeth or biting as their noses press against each other.

There's a tightness in Seamus's chest and he tries to ignore the need for breath because he'd been dreaming about this for ten years, ten long fucking years, but Dean pulls away and pants, breath puffing against Seamus's lips. Their eyes meet and they stare, features blurred except for the eyes. Dean's hand drifts away from Seamus's neck and the chill, even in the sun, takes the place of the heat of that grip.

They retreat from one another as Seamus's hand drops until it lies on his stomach. Seamus is uncomfortable in the continuing silence until Dean grins and his hand shifts so that their fingers are entwined, Dean's palm resting on the back of Seamus's.

The possibility that his dreams might not just be dreams anymore sweeps through him and Seamus returns the grin. The silence blankets them and insulates them from the rest of the world.

This, right here, right now, is enough for Seamus.

As always, I'd love to hear what you think