Fic - Going Home - Harry Potter - Seamus Finnegan/Kale Cavanaugh (OMC)
Title: Going Home
Author: constantbedhead
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Seamus Finnegan/Kale Cavanaugh(OC)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,050.
Summary: Sometimes, coming home is the best part about leaving.
Warnings: It’s slash. If that counts as a real warning, anymore.
Notes: Written for two of the loves of my life, Sneaks and Mika.
Feedback: Is love.
Going Home
There’s a pause. It’s a heartbeat, an unforeseen rhythm that quickens in its pace and then suddenly stops all together as a breeze of breathe slides through the air. A soft click ticks as people continue to stroll at a speed that seems to break the barrier of time - which, at the moment, seems to have stopped. Something is hitched in his throat as his hands try to find solace in his hair, pockets, shirt, face - anywhere that keeps him occupied and distracted - that keeps him from picking up speed on his feet and leaving his luggage forsaken.
But Seamus Finnegan was always told he was a bit of a girl, a bit of a fanatic and romantic, and on any other occasion, he would have debated it to the end time, but at the moment his chest is swelled and the pricking at the corners of his eyes isn’t because of the sunlight that’s pouring in through the windows of the nearly transparent walls of the airport. His fingers drum over his lips as quiet smirk sits on his lips and suddenly there is no luggage, there is no airport, there is no air itself as his feet move of their own accord, picking up speed, the trinkets of tears slipping against his cheek and into his hair.
Seamus’s nose hits another nose - beaded with sweat and anxiety and he doesn’t know if the tears that are still curling at his lashes are what’s making their closeness seem soaked or if his counterpart is tearing just as much. His nose bumps against his lover’s cheekbone, over his eyes and his lips are parted, exhaling erratic, harsh breaths as a new onslaught of soft, relieved tears sprinkle over his eyes. Without warning there’s a pair of rough, calloused hands in his hair and lips on any surface they can find - hot, warm, persistent, wet and comforting - soft mewls of compassion companions to each movement, altering each breath as they hitch and arch. Seamus plows his own rough fingers through dark, knotted and sweat-matted locks and the rough hands slide down the red and black striped shirt that Seamus forgot he was wearing until the grip at the soft, tender fabric of his nearly materialized shirt. He forgot the shirt he was wearing was a reminder - scented with a mingling of desire, passion, love, lust and everything that could intoxicate them both in mere seconds.
And it does - it intoxicates them until they can’t breathe and they seek air in each other’s lips, heated in a harsh kiss that sucks at tongues, lips and air from each other’s lungs as they inhale heavily through their bumping and pressed-to-each-other noses. Seamus loves the way his fingers feel in his lover’s hair, drummed down with sweat and the perspiration that promises so much on a level of ecstasy and passion and without warning, Seamus pouring everything he can feel pumping in his chest into his lover’s lips, mouth and soul.
Their bodies are crushed, and Seamus can’t quite remember when Kale started to cling to him or when they both started to share the taste of their tears, and he certainly can’t remember when Kale started to cry at their expense, but he doesn’t complain or question. A soft mewl escapes his parted lips as he feels Kale’s persistence deafen and mute itself, the smallest and most miniscule of pecks finding its way over his lips. The death grip that Kale originally had on him - shirt, waist, jeans, body, hair, neck, soul - seems to loosen as the brunette tugs away, that never-ending smirk curling at his lips. But the smirk is sated as it mingles with the few tears that couldn’t cling to his eyelashes and Sea nuzzles his nose into his lover’s neck, licking at his jawbone and then curling around his earlobe.
“Finnegan,” Kale starts, but it’s a harsh rasp, a whisper, a whimper that implies so much more than the usual ‘it’s so fucking good to feel you again’ that seems to be their mantra. “Finnegan, you are not allowed to leave me again,” he growls, pulling Seamus up to look deeply into his forest green, gold-freckled eyes. Seamus can’t help but start to count the very faint beauty marks on his lover’s cheeks - there’s fourteen, he already knows, but he can’t ever help feeling like he’s missed one - and Kale is kissing him again, softly, cutting off his counting.
Seamus loves the way Kale tastes - like memories, like candy, like home - and his tongue seems to drift and mold and meld and melt all completely at once and the rough and yet content grip he finds himself in sends a shiver down his shaking spine and their noses are bumping again as Kale answers Seamus’s previous pouring of his soul with his own, his emotions rucked up through his stomach, into his throat and humbled beneath his hooded gaze as he holds Seamus’s head in place. His fingers twine and fiddle with the hair on the back of his lover’s head and Seamus is clinging now, clinging like there’s no tomorrow, today, or yesterday - like he may never see Kale again even though he’d just suffered that experience for whatever allotted amount of time he’d been away, and there’s that queasy feeling nestled in his stomach as he hums into Kale’s mouth.
“Shut the fuck up, bastard,” Seamus growls before pulling Kale’s bottom lip between his teeth - where it belongs - worried and sucked and kissed until beet red, weathered from wear. “Love you,” Seamus whispers, caught in the back of his throat as he says, looking at the tip of Kale’s ear as he does because saying it while looking into his lover’s eyes won’t work, won’t happen, because it hurts enough knowing that he means it. But Kale is always full of imaginary surprises.
“Love you to, Sea,” he purrs and sucks at his lover’s neck. “Let’s go home.”
Coming home was always the best part of going away, Seamus mused to himself as he clung helplessly to Kale’s torso. Coming home and the hope that he could always come home to this was what mattered most - especially when he could turn around and see a few older couples with muted smiles and glassy-eyed glances portraying their undying affection for young-love as they wait for their own chance to go home.
Author: constantbedhead
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Seamus Finnegan/Kale Cavanaugh(OC)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,050.
Summary: Sometimes, coming home is the best part about leaving.
Warnings: It’s slash. If that counts as a real warning, anymore.
Notes: Written for two of the loves of my life, Sneaks and Mika.
Feedback: Is love.
Going Home
There’s a pause. It’s a heartbeat, an unforeseen rhythm that quickens in its pace and then suddenly stops all together as a breeze of breathe slides through the air. A soft click ticks as people continue to stroll at a speed that seems to break the barrier of time - which, at the moment, seems to have stopped. Something is hitched in his throat as his hands try to find solace in his hair, pockets, shirt, face - anywhere that keeps him occupied and distracted - that keeps him from picking up speed on his feet and leaving his luggage forsaken.
But Seamus Finnegan was always told he was a bit of a girl, a bit of a fanatic and romantic, and on any other occasion, he would have debated it to the end time, but at the moment his chest is swelled and the pricking at the corners of his eyes isn’t because of the sunlight that’s pouring in through the windows of the nearly transparent walls of the airport. His fingers drum over his lips as quiet smirk sits on his lips and suddenly there is no luggage, there is no airport, there is no air itself as his feet move of their own accord, picking up speed, the trinkets of tears slipping against his cheek and into his hair.
Seamus’s nose hits another nose - beaded with sweat and anxiety and he doesn’t know if the tears that are still curling at his lashes are what’s making their closeness seem soaked or if his counterpart is tearing just as much. His nose bumps against his lover’s cheekbone, over his eyes and his lips are parted, exhaling erratic, harsh breaths as a new onslaught of soft, relieved tears sprinkle over his eyes. Without warning there’s a pair of rough, calloused hands in his hair and lips on any surface they can find - hot, warm, persistent, wet and comforting - soft mewls of compassion companions to each movement, altering each breath as they hitch and arch. Seamus plows his own rough fingers through dark, knotted and sweat-matted locks and the rough hands slide down the red and black striped shirt that Seamus forgot he was wearing until the grip at the soft, tender fabric of his nearly materialized shirt. He forgot the shirt he was wearing was a reminder - scented with a mingling of desire, passion, love, lust and everything that could intoxicate them both in mere seconds.
And it does - it intoxicates them until they can’t breathe and they seek air in each other’s lips, heated in a harsh kiss that sucks at tongues, lips and air from each other’s lungs as they inhale heavily through their bumping and pressed-to-each-other noses. Seamus loves the way his fingers feel in his lover’s hair, drummed down with sweat and the perspiration that promises so much on a level of ecstasy and passion and without warning, Seamus pouring everything he can feel pumping in his chest into his lover’s lips, mouth and soul.
Their bodies are crushed, and Seamus can’t quite remember when Kale started to cling to him or when they both started to share the taste of their tears, and he certainly can’t remember when Kale started to cry at their expense, but he doesn’t complain or question. A soft mewl escapes his parted lips as he feels Kale’s persistence deafen and mute itself, the smallest and most miniscule of pecks finding its way over his lips. The death grip that Kale originally had on him - shirt, waist, jeans, body, hair, neck, soul - seems to loosen as the brunette tugs away, that never-ending smirk curling at his lips. But the smirk is sated as it mingles with the few tears that couldn’t cling to his eyelashes and Sea nuzzles his nose into his lover’s neck, licking at his jawbone and then curling around his earlobe.
“Finnegan,” Kale starts, but it’s a harsh rasp, a whisper, a whimper that implies so much more than the usual ‘it’s so fucking good to feel you again’ that seems to be their mantra. “Finnegan, you are not allowed to leave me again,” he growls, pulling Seamus up to look deeply into his forest green, gold-freckled eyes. Seamus can’t help but start to count the very faint beauty marks on his lover’s cheeks - there’s fourteen, he already knows, but he can’t ever help feeling like he’s missed one - and Kale is kissing him again, softly, cutting off his counting.
Seamus loves the way Kale tastes - like memories, like candy, like home - and his tongue seems to drift and mold and meld and melt all completely at once and the rough and yet content grip he finds himself in sends a shiver down his shaking spine and their noses are bumping again as Kale answers Seamus’s previous pouring of his soul with his own, his emotions rucked up through his stomach, into his throat and humbled beneath his hooded gaze as he holds Seamus’s head in place. His fingers twine and fiddle with the hair on the back of his lover’s head and Seamus is clinging now, clinging like there’s no tomorrow, today, or yesterday - like he may never see Kale again even though he’d just suffered that experience for whatever allotted amount of time he’d been away, and there’s that queasy feeling nestled in his stomach as he hums into Kale’s mouth.
“Shut the fuck up, bastard,” Seamus growls before pulling Kale’s bottom lip between his teeth - where it belongs - worried and sucked and kissed until beet red, weathered from wear. “Love you,” Seamus whispers, caught in the back of his throat as he says, looking at the tip of Kale’s ear as he does because saying it while looking into his lover’s eyes won’t work, won’t happen, because it hurts enough knowing that he means it. But Kale is always full of imaginary surprises.
“Love you to, Sea,” he purrs and sucks at his lover’s neck. “Let’s go home.”
Coming home was always the best part of going away, Seamus mused to himself as he clung helplessly to Kale’s torso. Coming home and the hope that he could always come home to this was what mattered most - especially when he could turn around and see a few older couples with muted smiles and glassy-eyed glances portraying their undying affection for young-love as they wait for their own chance to go home.