Fic: Another Saturday Night (Dean/Seamus, adult)
Title: Another Saturday Night (re-post)
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Dean/Seamus
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: Seamus is suspicious of what Dean's doing on the weekends and decides to investigate.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 4373
Author's Notes: Written for ozma_katiebell in the 2009 hp_springsmut exchange, for which the big reveal was posted today. Thanks to florahart for the beta. :D
Seamus closed the door on their last party guest, then leant back against it, laughing. "Fuck me; I thought they'd never leave."
He grabbed his beer from the little table by the door and lifted it to his lips, emptying the bottle and tossing it into the rubbish bin. Much as he loved having people over, he much preferred the flat when it was empty and quiet. Except for Dean, of course. Dean, he could listen to all day, not that he'd ever admit it to the tosser's face. When Seamus heard no answer from him, he glanced around the flat. "Oi, Dean?"
"Yeah - I'm back here, mate."
Chuckling, he followed Dean's voice back to his bedroom, not even hesitating when he found the door closed; he couldn't remember a time when that had stopped him before. He grabbed the handle and opened it to see Dean standing up hastily from the bed, a bag next to him.
"Er, hey, Shay. What are you doing?"
"Nothin'…?" Seamus gave his best mate a quizzical look. "Just seein' what you were up to."
"Oh - ah. Just on my way out."
"Aye; I see that," Seamus nodded toward the small bag. "You do realize when I said 'right, everyone get the hell out' twenty minutes ago, I wasn't talkin' about you, right?"
Dean laughed. "Nah, of course not. I've just got somewhere I need to be."
"Where is it you're goin', then?"
"Nowhere special," Dean said a bit too quickly. "Somewhere for school."
Seamus nodded, imagining some kind of nighttime art project. Sounded funny to him, but Dean always got weird and obsessive about his art. Probably it was why he was so damned good at it.
Didn't explain why he was acting so strange, though. Seamus flopped back across Dean's bed as Dean gathered up his bag. "See you later, then. I'm leavin' this mess, so you know - no way you get to skip out and leave me to clean it all up."
Dean laughed and left as Seamus pulled up one leg and rested his foot on the edge of the mattress. He folded his arms behind him, but lifted his head when he felt his hand brush against something. "Wait; mate, you forgot your-" Breaking off, he held the scrap of black material and elastic up to the light, staring up at it. "--mask?"
Seamus frowned and tugged at the elastic band contemplatively.
"Huh."
Dean stumbled into the kitchen at half-ten the next morning, as Seamus was dumping cheese on some eggs in a frying pan. "Was aimin' for omelettes," he said, glancing at Dean, who was scratching his bare stomach and rooting through the fridge for something cold. Seamus cleared his throat and focused on the frying pan. "But they're turnin' out more like scrambled eggs."
"Dunno why you always insist on cooking, mate," Dean said mildly as he grinned at Seamus over the door of the fridge. "It never goes to plan, does it?"
"Aye; well, practice, and all that," Seamus said. "Anyway, shut the fuck up. I'm makin' yeh food, here."
"You're too good to me," Dean walked over and peeked over Seamus' shoulder. He'd not showered yet, but Seamus couldn't seem to mind, what with Dean's chest sort of nearly brushing his back, and everything. Bit difficult to focus on cooking, though.
This was exactly why moving in with Dean hadn't been the best idea. But … it was Dean. When he'd asked, there really hadn't been any other answer but 'yes'.
"So, ehm," He stepped away from Dean as he took the eggs off the flame. "How was your studyin' or paintin' or whatever, last night?"
"My what?"
"You know - wherever it is you went?"
"Oh! Right. That. It was fine."
Dean really was a shite liar, wasn't he? Seamus watched his face redden, nearly imperceptibly. He'd run through any number of mask-based scenarios in his mind last night when he'd been lying awake, not cleaning up. From Dean's blush, it looked like the 'out doing freaky shite with some girl' scenario seemed to be the best one.
Fuck.
Seamus fished a couple of forks out of a drawer, trying to ignore the burning sort of feeling in his chest. "Aye; well. Good," he nearly grunted.
"Shay, you alright?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"I dunno, just …" Dean watched him for a moment, finally giving him a little smirk. "Thought you might still be mad that I left you with all the cleaning."
"You didn't," Seamus lifted a brow and leant back against the counter. He put a hand into the pocket of his jeans, letting his fingers brush against the flimsy mask. "Or maybe you were too out of it last night to see the state of the sittin' room."
"And what state is that?"
"Same one you left it in, wanker." Seamus laughed and turned to fetch some plates.
*
The next weekend, Dean left the flat again when he thought Seamus was asleep. Seamus listened until he heard the door click shut, then got up and went into Dean's room.
Fucking pathetic, was what he was. Wasn't his business where Dean went at night, or what he did. Or with whom. If Dean ever found out Seamus was poking around his bedroom for anything other than a spare pair of socks, he'd never hear the end of it. And they'd not done stuff like leave chocolate frogs between each other's sheets for at least a year or two. Still, Seamus couldn't stop himself. He wanted to know who this girl was, and what Dean did with her. Even knowing that he didn't have the right equipment to ever compete. If there was a competition. And fuck, he was pathetic.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed and peeked under the dust ruffle, finding nothing but an empty canvas and a large drawing pad. Easing back to sit on his heels, he scanned the room. It was a hell of a lot neater than his own bedroom, even if there were various paintings and drawings leant against the walls, and the odd fleck of paint on the floor. His gaze landed on the closet door, and he moved over to it, sliding it open with a bit of a creak. Immediately visible were Dean's art supplies - a case of pastels, a brush set, charcoals, more pads of paper. Seamus had to dig a bit more to find the rest.
He pulled each piece out carefully - if he disturbed the art stuff too much, Dean would damn well notice - and stared at them for a good five minutes. An empty pizza box, a random stethoscope, a plain brown cardboard package that seemed to be empty as well. A tool belt? Dean was about as handy as Seamus' middle finger. And the tools didn't even look real. A bit more digging unearthed some kind of date book. He flipped through it: no girls' names or anything; only appointments and times, and some addresses.
There were a few more masks - good thing he had spares, Seamus thought dryly. And a pair of handcuffs … jesus. Seamus sat back on his heels, feeling a pulse in his groin as his mind ran through the different ways Dean might be putting those to use.
"Fuck."
*
Seamus was sure he'd lost his bleeding mind. He was quite sure that only complete fucking psychos did this sort of thing, and yet … the next time, when he heard the door of the flat close behind Dean, he reached for his hooded sweatshirt and put it on, zipping it up and flipping the hood over his head.
They didn't really do much stealth work in Hit Wizard training, but he figured if he was careful, he might be able to pull this off without being seen. Being seen was pretty much not an option.
It was just … if it was a girl, why was Dean lying to him? It wasn't as if Dean knew the Seamus got infuriating burning feelings in his chest at the thought of Dean with someone who wasn't him. Unless he was sorely mistaken, Dean had no idea that Seamus even thought of him that way. Wasn't like Dean was trying to spare Seamus hurt feelings, or something. So where the hell was he going on Saturday nights?
And why didn't he trust Seamus to know about it?
He fished into the back pocket of his jeans and found the scrap of parchment on which he'd scrawled the address from Dean's datebook, the one that had been next to today's date. He didn't recognize it, but that was probably because Dean was going to some Muggle area. No Apparating, then.
Dean seemed totally normal on the tube, looking like any other Londoner on his way to have a good time, not like he was under some kind duress, or anything like that. Seamus sat a few seats behind him for the short ride, and when the train stopped, he waited till Dean was out of the car before hopping out of his seat to follow.
The building appeared to be a hotel. It wasn't far from the tube station, and Seamus managed to stay a safe distance behind Dean without getting noticed. He had a feeling he'd not be able to just waltz into the place the way Dean had, so a simple Disillusionment charm allowed him to slip in after, while the door was open. Once inside, he opted to stay that way rather than try to avoid all the people who were around.
For a few disoriented minutes, Seamus walked up and down the corridors, trying to see where Dean had got to. He could hear music playing dimly from another room, some kind of Muggle rock stuff, and there were intermittent girly cheers happening as well. Seamus was sure that wherever his mind was going had to be the wrong place. He had to be wrong about what those sounds meant and what they had to do with the fact that Dean had a tool belt in his closet.
Until Dean slipped out of one of the rooms and walked past Seamus, oblivious. Seamus stared, gaping, after him. He was wearing said tool belt, along with some of the tightest jeans Seamus had ever seen. The vest he wore really didn't cover much of his chest at all - and was that oil on his arms? Seamus followed Dean down the hall, attempting to ignore the fact that those jeans were tight enough for him to count the change in Dean's pocket, until they reached the room with the music. Seamus entered the room a few minutes later, finding it full of women: some who looked at least fifty, some who were pissed out of their gourds, and all of them leering and catcalling.
At Dean.
Holy buggering fuck.
Seamus looked on helplessly as the song changed, and Dean walked up front, replacing a nearly-naked bloke in a chef's hat. The women squealed as Dean moved with the music and pulled that vest off. By the time he ducked out of the room, he was rock hard, and his cock didn't seem to care how pathetic that was.
He was waiting for Dean when he got back to the makeshift dressing room, having locked the door and removed the charm that had kept him invisible. "What the fuck, mate?"
"Seamus! What the fuck, mate?" Dean was pulling the vest off again when he nearly jumped. It made Seamus laugh.
"You just going to repeat everything I say, or what?" Seamus was surprised that he was able to do much more than stare, himself.
"You followed me?"
"Fuckin' right I did - what was I supposed to do, with you lyin' to me about where you were goin'?"
"I didn't … lie. Exactly." Dean averted his gaze.
"Some art project this is, then," Seamus crowed. "What is it you call it - interpretive dance?"
"Fuck off, yeah?" Dean reached into his bag and yanked out a t-shirt. "I told you it was for school. It is! Art classes are bloody expensive."
"So you're payin' your way through by takin' your bleedin' clothes off for a bunch o' - o' - handsy housewives?" Seamus laughed, but he felt tense enough to snap apart. Bloody fucking tool belt.
"It's not that big a deal, alright? They tip really well, and they don't touch!"
"Aye; not without payin' extra, surely." Seamus quipped. "Don't want to sell yourself too short."
"They don't ever touch!" Dean was bright red as he mumbled, "it's against the rules."
"Ah, right - is there, like, a strippers' handbook, or somethin'?"
"This is exactly why I never told you, you arse." Dean pulled his shirt over his head and lowered it over his torso. "I knew you'd be like this. Knew you wouldn't understand."
"Oh no, I understand just fine," Seamus snorted. "So what; you pay the school in singles?"
"Fuck you."
"No, fuck you, mate. You could've told me. Thought you were … hell if I know. Goin' out with some girl, or somethin'." It was Seamus' turn to look away, lest Dean pick up on how relieved he was for that not to be the case. "Figured you were into some kinky shite. Blindfolds and masks, and whatever." He jammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the mask he'd found and had barely put down for weeks. "Should take better care to hide this stuff if you're bent on keepin' it from me."
"You've been … carrying that thing?" Dean was watching him with an odd sort of expression, and Seamus shrugged.
"Just tonight," he lied. "Wanted to know what it was you got up to."
"So - you thought I was with some girl, roleplaying, and you thought you'd follow me?"
Seamus reddened. "Thought I was the one askin' questions?" he muttered. "I wasn't sure, or anything. Figured you'd have told me if it was a girl."
All Dean did for the next minute or so was look at him, silently, and Seamus felt like squirming. He'd not exactly meant to admit so much. It wasn't as if he didn't know that it wasn't normal to spy around on his best mate. Or to give a damn who he was sleeping with. Or taking his clothes off for.
Whatever.
Seamus balled the mask up in his fist and stared back at Dean, lifting his chin even if he felt like all of a sudden, their roles were switched. Now he was the one with something he was hiding. He was the one with some explaining to do.
Well that was most definitely not going to happen. There wasn't any explaining the reaction he had to seeing Dean strip. After all, it wasn't much different from the reaction he had to Dean on a normal day, and he couldn't bring himself to explain that, either.
In the end, he lost their little stare-off, clenching his jaw as he looked away. "Anyway. I don't have time for this," he said, ignoring for now the fact that Dean hadn't exactly asked Seamus to tag along in the first place. "I don't give a damn what you do."
"Right," Dean said carefully, looking totally unconvinced.
"Aye. Right." Seamus moved to the door, but Dean was in the way. He knocked against Dean's shoulder as he passed, and Dean grabbed his forearm. Seamus jolted, a little too much for it just to have been surprise.
"What?" he managed, staring straight at the door. All he wanted was to get home, as soon as possible. He was fucking aching, here.
"Shay ..." Dean trailed off, then let go. "I dunno. Nothing."
Seamus nodded tightly. "Great. I'll just be leavin' you to get to your next gig then, or whatever." Dean was still blocking him somewhat, but it finally occurred to Seamus that he didn't actually need the door, so he Apparated away.
Naturally, he was home in just a moment, standing in the dark sitting room. He groaned and pushed a hand back through his hair. Maybe Dean wouldn't bring this up again. Certainly he'd be embarrassed enough about his little sideline gig not to want to mention it, and furthermore, Seamus wasn't even sure Dean suspected anything was going on with him.
They could put it behind them.
Well, Seamus didn't know if he could, actually, but it would be his problem, just like before.
Speaking of his problem ... he had to take care of it before Dean got home or he was going to fucking burst. He flicked open the button above his fly as he tugged his shirt over his head, heading for the shower. Not that the cold water would be likely to help, but still. When he reached the bathroom, his denims were already pushed down around his thighs and he damn near tripped to over his socks as he tried to toe them off on the way to the shower. It was a good thing their bathroom wasn't big enough for a tub, or there was no way he'd have made if over the edge without busting his head open.
Once he'd got his shorts off, he turned on a cold spray of water and stepped under it, immediately wrapping his hand around his cock, gasping. He'd been right about the cold water not helping in the slightest. All he could see was Dean's skin, his lips, everything, as he closed his eyes and tightened his grip, working his hand back and forth. He'd not felt this horny in years; it was like he was fucking fourteen again, putting his fist in his mouth as he tried not to wake the other lads, sleeping in beds not eight feet away.
It wasn't long before his strokes became quicker and more erratic, his hand slick with water and the drops of liquid leaking from the tip of his cock. He came with a grunt, stroking lightly as the evidence was washed away. When he was done, he slumped against the shower wall, opening his eyes after a few moments.
When he saw Dean standing there gawking, his image hazy through the glass, he jumped -- literally -- and stood up straight.
Shite. Maybe ... maybe it wasn't really him? Wouldn't be the first time.
Closing his eyes again, Seamus reached out with one hand, sliding the shower door to the side, expecting Dean's face to go away by the time he'd opened it. The fact that he hadn't even turned the water off yet didn't matter very much at the moment.
"Jesus!" It didn't work. Now he could see Dean quite clearly, even if Dean looked somewhat dumbstruck, his mouth slightly open as an errant spray of water from the shower splashed him in the chest.
"I didn't have another gig," Dean said finally, his voice sounding all hoarse and unused.
"Aye, well ... what the hell're you lookin' at?" Seamus asked, red-faced, and for the second time tonight he moved to push past Dean, naked or not. "It's not like you've not caught me wankin' before."
"You," Dean said, bringing a hand up to press against Seamus' shoulder, to press him back toward the shower stream. "I'm looking at you, mate."
Seamus didn't know what to say to that, but Dean's face was awfully fucking close, and there was a look on his face he'd not seen before. "Well, stop, alright? Give me a fuckin' minute."
"Shay." Dean met his gaze, shaking his head even as he swayed toward Seamus a bit. "Shut up, yeah? Just shut up, and ... and just fucking ..."
This wasn't actually happening, was it? Either way, Seamus was afraid to question it. He lifted his hand to the back of Dean's neck, gripping tightly, his thumb resting just below Dean's ear.
And Dean wasn't stopping him. "Well, then," he muttered, and dragged Dean against him, not caring that Dean was getting wet. Their lips met awkwardly, their teeth clicking together a moment before Dean shifted, taking a bit more control, and returned the kiss. It was a bit rough as far as kisses went, but neither of them particularly minded. For his part, Seamus wanted more. With his free hand, he reached for the first thing he could touch, which happened to be Dean's shirt, and gathered the material in his hand and tugged Dean further into the shower. He gasped as Dean touched him, his fingers sliding along his wet skin.
"Water's too bloody cold, mate," Dean said. Seamus hadn't even noticed. He reached down blindly and adjusted the temperature, hoping he wasn't pushing it too far to the other extreme. Dean wasn't complaining though, especially not when Seamus leaned back in and rubbed his lips against his neck, letting his tongue flick out and taste. It was better than he'd imagined.
Panting, Dean pushed Seamus off of him long enough to tug his soaked shirt over his head and let it fall to the bottom of the shower. Seamus had never felt this free just to look at Dean, so he took advantage of it for as long as he could stand without touching. Finally, he moved back in and pressed against him, like he'd only ever been able to do accidentally before. He felt the sparse hair on Dean's chest scratching his own skin, almost immediately feeling his erection coming back to life.
He groaned when Dean bit at his shoulder, but couldn't form words at the moment. Seemed they'd finally found something they could do without taking the piss. As Dean pressed him against the wall, Seamus felt his arousal pressing against his leg, still encased in his jeans.
He wasn't going to stand for that. He let one hand trail down Dean's torso until he found his waistband, but instead of undoing the fastening, he simply slipped his hand down into the tight space. They both jolted as his fingertips brushed the tip of Dean's cock.
One of them muttered 'fuck' while the other groaned; Seamus couldn't tell which, but he did know there wasn't enough room in these jeans, especially when they were soaking wet. He wiggled his fingers a bit until Dean finally opened the fly, giving them both some relief. He gasped when Seamus slicked his hand further into his shorts. "Shit, mate."
Seamus lifted his head, looking Dean in the eye briefly before they kissed again and Dean began to rock his hips toward Seamus' fist. When they were pressed close like this, Seamus could feel every tense muscle, every taut plane of Dean's skin, and he started to rock himself against Dean as well.
Dean caught on soon enough. He brought his hand from around Seamus' back and then wrapped his calloused fingers around his cock. Seamus swore ripely and bucked into Dean's hand; he couldn't quite believe how close he was to coming when he'd only just wanked five minutes ago.
It only made things worse -- or better; definitely better -- when their cocks brushed and Dean went ahead and closed his fingers around them both. Seamus moved his hands over Dean's chest, touching everything he could as they started to move in tandem. It wasn't long before they were both tensing and coming, spurting between their bodies, onto each other's stomachs.
Seamus let his head drop to Dean's shoulder for just a moment, panting while Dean braced a hand against the wall to Seamus' left. They were silent for what seemed a long time.
"So this is how I get you to stop bloody talking?" Dean said finally.
For whatever reason, the joke caught Seamus off guard; maybe he wasn't sure how things were supposed to work afterward. He'd been a bit too caught up in the now to think about it, really. After a few moments, he eased into it. "Weren't talkin' so much yourself, you arse."
Dean paused. "Point."
He finally moved back, giving Seamus some room to move -- not that there was a whole lot of room in the shower to begin with -- and ducked his head. Seamus cleared his throat and pushed off the wall, then reached down them to shut the water off.
It had got cold in the end, anyway.
"Well. Er." Dean licked his lips and stepped out of the shower first, letting Seamus move past him.
"Fuck; is this ... are we going to be awkward, or somethin'?" Seamus blurted as he reached for a towel.
"Dunno," Dean shrugged. "I wasn't exactly planning for ... that."
Seamus nodded and swallowed, avoiding Dean's gaze. "'s not like I was either, mate."
"No, I know. But."
"Did you like it?" Seamus asked quietly, before he could stop himself. He hooked the towel around his waist and shook the heaviest bits of water from his hair.
"Did I ..." Dean shook his head. "Were you there? Of course I did. But we're mates, and I didn't expect -- I just didn't even think you'd be into something like that, until tonight."
Seamus laughed suddenly at hearing that Dean and he had been in the same boat, pretty much. "Likewise."
A pause. "We're a couple of idiots."
"Don't go speakin' for me," Seamus snorted.
Dean shoved Seamus sideways on his way to grab a towel, and Seamus laughed again. Maybe things didn't have to change too much. Not that he minded these changes at all.
He glanced sidelong at Dean. "So, I always figured the whole strippin'-to-pay-for-school thing was just a myth."
"This again?" The look Dean shot him was long-suffering.
"What're you talkin' about; I've only just found out this evenin'," Seamus pointed out. "You can't do somethin' like this and expect me to just drop it."
Dean sighed. "Well, at least you know now. No more following me, yeah? I wasn't in trouble or anything."
"Yeah, I could see you were in good hands," Seamus nodded, tucking his tongue in his cheek. "Lots and lots o' good hands."
"Fuck off." Dean reached out quickly and snatched Seamus' towel, ducking out of the bathroom quickly enough to shut the door and lock him in.
Seamus only laughed.
end
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Dean/Seamus
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: Seamus is suspicious of what Dean's doing on the weekends and decides to investigate.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 4373
Author's Notes: Written for ozma_katiebell in the 2009 hp_springsmut exchange, for which the big reveal was posted today. Thanks to florahart for the beta. :D
Seamus closed the door on their last party guest, then leant back against it, laughing. "Fuck me; I thought they'd never leave."
He grabbed his beer from the little table by the door and lifted it to his lips, emptying the bottle and tossing it into the rubbish bin. Much as he loved having people over, he much preferred the flat when it was empty and quiet. Except for Dean, of course. Dean, he could listen to all day, not that he'd ever admit it to the tosser's face. When Seamus heard no answer from him, he glanced around the flat. "Oi, Dean?"
"Yeah - I'm back here, mate."
Chuckling, he followed Dean's voice back to his bedroom, not even hesitating when he found the door closed; he couldn't remember a time when that had stopped him before. He grabbed the handle and opened it to see Dean standing up hastily from the bed, a bag next to him.
"Er, hey, Shay. What are you doing?"
"Nothin'…?" Seamus gave his best mate a quizzical look. "Just seein' what you were up to."
"Oh - ah. Just on my way out."
"Aye; I see that," Seamus nodded toward the small bag. "You do realize when I said 'right, everyone get the hell out' twenty minutes ago, I wasn't talkin' about you, right?"
Dean laughed. "Nah, of course not. I've just got somewhere I need to be."
"Where is it you're goin', then?"
"Nowhere special," Dean said a bit too quickly. "Somewhere for school."
Seamus nodded, imagining some kind of nighttime art project. Sounded funny to him, but Dean always got weird and obsessive about his art. Probably it was why he was so damned good at it.
Didn't explain why he was acting so strange, though. Seamus flopped back across Dean's bed as Dean gathered up his bag. "See you later, then. I'm leavin' this mess, so you know - no way you get to skip out and leave me to clean it all up."
Dean laughed and left as Seamus pulled up one leg and rested his foot on the edge of the mattress. He folded his arms behind him, but lifted his head when he felt his hand brush against something. "Wait; mate, you forgot your-" Breaking off, he held the scrap of black material and elastic up to the light, staring up at it. "--mask?"
Seamus frowned and tugged at the elastic band contemplatively.
"Huh."
Dean stumbled into the kitchen at half-ten the next morning, as Seamus was dumping cheese on some eggs in a frying pan. "Was aimin' for omelettes," he said, glancing at Dean, who was scratching his bare stomach and rooting through the fridge for something cold. Seamus cleared his throat and focused on the frying pan. "But they're turnin' out more like scrambled eggs."
"Dunno why you always insist on cooking, mate," Dean said mildly as he grinned at Seamus over the door of the fridge. "It never goes to plan, does it?"
"Aye; well, practice, and all that," Seamus said. "Anyway, shut the fuck up. I'm makin' yeh food, here."
"You're too good to me," Dean walked over and peeked over Seamus' shoulder. He'd not showered yet, but Seamus couldn't seem to mind, what with Dean's chest sort of nearly brushing his back, and everything. Bit difficult to focus on cooking, though.
This was exactly why moving in with Dean hadn't been the best idea. But … it was Dean. When he'd asked, there really hadn't been any other answer but 'yes'.
"So, ehm," He stepped away from Dean as he took the eggs off the flame. "How was your studyin' or paintin' or whatever, last night?"
"My what?"
"You know - wherever it is you went?"
"Oh! Right. That. It was fine."
Dean really was a shite liar, wasn't he? Seamus watched his face redden, nearly imperceptibly. He'd run through any number of mask-based scenarios in his mind last night when he'd been lying awake, not cleaning up. From Dean's blush, it looked like the 'out doing freaky shite with some girl' scenario seemed to be the best one.
Fuck.
Seamus fished a couple of forks out of a drawer, trying to ignore the burning sort of feeling in his chest. "Aye; well. Good," he nearly grunted.
"Shay, you alright?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"I dunno, just …" Dean watched him for a moment, finally giving him a little smirk. "Thought you might still be mad that I left you with all the cleaning."
"You didn't," Seamus lifted a brow and leant back against the counter. He put a hand into the pocket of his jeans, letting his fingers brush against the flimsy mask. "Or maybe you were too out of it last night to see the state of the sittin' room."
"And what state is that?"
"Same one you left it in, wanker." Seamus laughed and turned to fetch some plates.
*
The next weekend, Dean left the flat again when he thought Seamus was asleep. Seamus listened until he heard the door click shut, then got up and went into Dean's room.
Fucking pathetic, was what he was. Wasn't his business where Dean went at night, or what he did. Or with whom. If Dean ever found out Seamus was poking around his bedroom for anything other than a spare pair of socks, he'd never hear the end of it. And they'd not done stuff like leave chocolate frogs between each other's sheets for at least a year or two. Still, Seamus couldn't stop himself. He wanted to know who this girl was, and what Dean did with her. Even knowing that he didn't have the right equipment to ever compete. If there was a competition. And fuck, he was pathetic.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed and peeked under the dust ruffle, finding nothing but an empty canvas and a large drawing pad. Easing back to sit on his heels, he scanned the room. It was a hell of a lot neater than his own bedroom, even if there were various paintings and drawings leant against the walls, and the odd fleck of paint on the floor. His gaze landed on the closet door, and he moved over to it, sliding it open with a bit of a creak. Immediately visible were Dean's art supplies - a case of pastels, a brush set, charcoals, more pads of paper. Seamus had to dig a bit more to find the rest.
He pulled each piece out carefully - if he disturbed the art stuff too much, Dean would damn well notice - and stared at them for a good five minutes. An empty pizza box, a random stethoscope, a plain brown cardboard package that seemed to be empty as well. A tool belt? Dean was about as handy as Seamus' middle finger. And the tools didn't even look real. A bit more digging unearthed some kind of date book. He flipped through it: no girls' names or anything; only appointments and times, and some addresses.
There were a few more masks - good thing he had spares, Seamus thought dryly. And a pair of handcuffs … jesus. Seamus sat back on his heels, feeling a pulse in his groin as his mind ran through the different ways Dean might be putting those to use.
"Fuck."
*
Seamus was sure he'd lost his bleeding mind. He was quite sure that only complete fucking psychos did this sort of thing, and yet … the next time, when he heard the door of the flat close behind Dean, he reached for his hooded sweatshirt and put it on, zipping it up and flipping the hood over his head.
They didn't really do much stealth work in Hit Wizard training, but he figured if he was careful, he might be able to pull this off without being seen. Being seen was pretty much not an option.
It was just … if it was a girl, why was Dean lying to him? It wasn't as if Dean knew the Seamus got infuriating burning feelings in his chest at the thought of Dean with someone who wasn't him. Unless he was sorely mistaken, Dean had no idea that Seamus even thought of him that way. Wasn't like Dean was trying to spare Seamus hurt feelings, or something. So where the hell was he going on Saturday nights?
And why didn't he trust Seamus to know about it?
He fished into the back pocket of his jeans and found the scrap of parchment on which he'd scrawled the address from Dean's datebook, the one that had been next to today's date. He didn't recognize it, but that was probably because Dean was going to some Muggle area. No Apparating, then.
Dean seemed totally normal on the tube, looking like any other Londoner on his way to have a good time, not like he was under some kind duress, or anything like that. Seamus sat a few seats behind him for the short ride, and when the train stopped, he waited till Dean was out of the car before hopping out of his seat to follow.
The building appeared to be a hotel. It wasn't far from the tube station, and Seamus managed to stay a safe distance behind Dean without getting noticed. He had a feeling he'd not be able to just waltz into the place the way Dean had, so a simple Disillusionment charm allowed him to slip in after, while the door was open. Once inside, he opted to stay that way rather than try to avoid all the people who were around.
For a few disoriented minutes, Seamus walked up and down the corridors, trying to see where Dean had got to. He could hear music playing dimly from another room, some kind of Muggle rock stuff, and there were intermittent girly cheers happening as well. Seamus was sure that wherever his mind was going had to be the wrong place. He had to be wrong about what those sounds meant and what they had to do with the fact that Dean had a tool belt in his closet.
Until Dean slipped out of one of the rooms and walked past Seamus, oblivious. Seamus stared, gaping, after him. He was wearing said tool belt, along with some of the tightest jeans Seamus had ever seen. The vest he wore really didn't cover much of his chest at all - and was that oil on his arms? Seamus followed Dean down the hall, attempting to ignore the fact that those jeans were tight enough for him to count the change in Dean's pocket, until they reached the room with the music. Seamus entered the room a few minutes later, finding it full of women: some who looked at least fifty, some who were pissed out of their gourds, and all of them leering and catcalling.
At Dean.
Holy buggering fuck.
Seamus looked on helplessly as the song changed, and Dean walked up front, replacing a nearly-naked bloke in a chef's hat. The women squealed as Dean moved with the music and pulled that vest off. By the time he ducked out of the room, he was rock hard, and his cock didn't seem to care how pathetic that was.
He was waiting for Dean when he got back to the makeshift dressing room, having locked the door and removed the charm that had kept him invisible. "What the fuck, mate?"
"Seamus! What the fuck, mate?" Dean was pulling the vest off again when he nearly jumped. It made Seamus laugh.
"You just going to repeat everything I say, or what?" Seamus was surprised that he was able to do much more than stare, himself.
"You followed me?"
"Fuckin' right I did - what was I supposed to do, with you lyin' to me about where you were goin'?"
"I didn't … lie. Exactly." Dean averted his gaze.
"Some art project this is, then," Seamus crowed. "What is it you call it - interpretive dance?"
"Fuck off, yeah?" Dean reached into his bag and yanked out a t-shirt. "I told you it was for school. It is! Art classes are bloody expensive."
"So you're payin' your way through by takin' your bleedin' clothes off for a bunch o' - o' - handsy housewives?" Seamus laughed, but he felt tense enough to snap apart. Bloody fucking tool belt.
"It's not that big a deal, alright? They tip really well, and they don't touch!"
"Aye; not without payin' extra, surely." Seamus quipped. "Don't want to sell yourself too short."
"They don't ever touch!" Dean was bright red as he mumbled, "it's against the rules."
"Ah, right - is there, like, a strippers' handbook, or somethin'?"
"This is exactly why I never told you, you arse." Dean pulled his shirt over his head and lowered it over his torso. "I knew you'd be like this. Knew you wouldn't understand."
"Oh no, I understand just fine," Seamus snorted. "So what; you pay the school in singles?"
"Fuck you."
"No, fuck you, mate. You could've told me. Thought you were … hell if I know. Goin' out with some girl, or somethin'." It was Seamus' turn to look away, lest Dean pick up on how relieved he was for that not to be the case. "Figured you were into some kinky shite. Blindfolds and masks, and whatever." He jammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the mask he'd found and had barely put down for weeks. "Should take better care to hide this stuff if you're bent on keepin' it from me."
"You've been … carrying that thing?" Dean was watching him with an odd sort of expression, and Seamus shrugged.
"Just tonight," he lied. "Wanted to know what it was you got up to."
"So - you thought I was with some girl, roleplaying, and you thought you'd follow me?"
Seamus reddened. "Thought I was the one askin' questions?" he muttered. "I wasn't sure, or anything. Figured you'd have told me if it was a girl."
All Dean did for the next minute or so was look at him, silently, and Seamus felt like squirming. He'd not exactly meant to admit so much. It wasn't as if he didn't know that it wasn't normal to spy around on his best mate. Or to give a damn who he was sleeping with. Or taking his clothes off for.
Whatever.
Seamus balled the mask up in his fist and stared back at Dean, lifting his chin even if he felt like all of a sudden, their roles were switched. Now he was the one with something he was hiding. He was the one with some explaining to do.
Well that was most definitely not going to happen. There wasn't any explaining the reaction he had to seeing Dean strip. After all, it wasn't much different from the reaction he had to Dean on a normal day, and he couldn't bring himself to explain that, either.
In the end, he lost their little stare-off, clenching his jaw as he looked away. "Anyway. I don't have time for this," he said, ignoring for now the fact that Dean hadn't exactly asked Seamus to tag along in the first place. "I don't give a damn what you do."
"Right," Dean said carefully, looking totally unconvinced.
"Aye. Right." Seamus moved to the door, but Dean was in the way. He knocked against Dean's shoulder as he passed, and Dean grabbed his forearm. Seamus jolted, a little too much for it just to have been surprise.
"What?" he managed, staring straight at the door. All he wanted was to get home, as soon as possible. He was fucking aching, here.
"Shay ..." Dean trailed off, then let go. "I dunno. Nothing."
Seamus nodded tightly. "Great. I'll just be leavin' you to get to your next gig then, or whatever." Dean was still blocking him somewhat, but it finally occurred to Seamus that he didn't actually need the door, so he Apparated away.
Naturally, he was home in just a moment, standing in the dark sitting room. He groaned and pushed a hand back through his hair. Maybe Dean wouldn't bring this up again. Certainly he'd be embarrassed enough about his little sideline gig not to want to mention it, and furthermore, Seamus wasn't even sure Dean suspected anything was going on with him.
They could put it behind them.
Well, Seamus didn't know if he could, actually, but it would be his problem, just like before.
Speaking of his problem ... he had to take care of it before Dean got home or he was going to fucking burst. He flicked open the button above his fly as he tugged his shirt over his head, heading for the shower. Not that the cold water would be likely to help, but still. When he reached the bathroom, his denims were already pushed down around his thighs and he damn near tripped to over his socks as he tried to toe them off on the way to the shower. It was a good thing their bathroom wasn't big enough for a tub, or there was no way he'd have made if over the edge without busting his head open.
Once he'd got his shorts off, he turned on a cold spray of water and stepped under it, immediately wrapping his hand around his cock, gasping. He'd been right about the cold water not helping in the slightest. All he could see was Dean's skin, his lips, everything, as he closed his eyes and tightened his grip, working his hand back and forth. He'd not felt this horny in years; it was like he was fucking fourteen again, putting his fist in his mouth as he tried not to wake the other lads, sleeping in beds not eight feet away.
It wasn't long before his strokes became quicker and more erratic, his hand slick with water and the drops of liquid leaking from the tip of his cock. He came with a grunt, stroking lightly as the evidence was washed away. When he was done, he slumped against the shower wall, opening his eyes after a few moments.
When he saw Dean standing there gawking, his image hazy through the glass, he jumped -- literally -- and stood up straight.
Shite. Maybe ... maybe it wasn't really him? Wouldn't be the first time.
Closing his eyes again, Seamus reached out with one hand, sliding the shower door to the side, expecting Dean's face to go away by the time he'd opened it. The fact that he hadn't even turned the water off yet didn't matter very much at the moment.
"Jesus!" It didn't work. Now he could see Dean quite clearly, even if Dean looked somewhat dumbstruck, his mouth slightly open as an errant spray of water from the shower splashed him in the chest.
"I didn't have another gig," Dean said finally, his voice sounding all hoarse and unused.
"Aye, well ... what the hell're you lookin' at?" Seamus asked, red-faced, and for the second time tonight he moved to push past Dean, naked or not. "It's not like you've not caught me wankin' before."
"You," Dean said, bringing a hand up to press against Seamus' shoulder, to press him back toward the shower stream. "I'm looking at you, mate."
Seamus didn't know what to say to that, but Dean's face was awfully fucking close, and there was a look on his face he'd not seen before. "Well, stop, alright? Give me a fuckin' minute."
"Shay." Dean met his gaze, shaking his head even as he swayed toward Seamus a bit. "Shut up, yeah? Just shut up, and ... and just fucking ..."
This wasn't actually happening, was it? Either way, Seamus was afraid to question it. He lifted his hand to the back of Dean's neck, gripping tightly, his thumb resting just below Dean's ear.
And Dean wasn't stopping him. "Well, then," he muttered, and dragged Dean against him, not caring that Dean was getting wet. Their lips met awkwardly, their teeth clicking together a moment before Dean shifted, taking a bit more control, and returned the kiss. It was a bit rough as far as kisses went, but neither of them particularly minded. For his part, Seamus wanted more. With his free hand, he reached for the first thing he could touch, which happened to be Dean's shirt, and gathered the material in his hand and tugged Dean further into the shower. He gasped as Dean touched him, his fingers sliding along his wet skin.
"Water's too bloody cold, mate," Dean said. Seamus hadn't even noticed. He reached down blindly and adjusted the temperature, hoping he wasn't pushing it too far to the other extreme. Dean wasn't complaining though, especially not when Seamus leaned back in and rubbed his lips against his neck, letting his tongue flick out and taste. It was better than he'd imagined.
Panting, Dean pushed Seamus off of him long enough to tug his soaked shirt over his head and let it fall to the bottom of the shower. Seamus had never felt this free just to look at Dean, so he took advantage of it for as long as he could stand without touching. Finally, he moved back in and pressed against him, like he'd only ever been able to do accidentally before. He felt the sparse hair on Dean's chest scratching his own skin, almost immediately feeling his erection coming back to life.
He groaned when Dean bit at his shoulder, but couldn't form words at the moment. Seemed they'd finally found something they could do without taking the piss. As Dean pressed him against the wall, Seamus felt his arousal pressing against his leg, still encased in his jeans.
He wasn't going to stand for that. He let one hand trail down Dean's torso until he found his waistband, but instead of undoing the fastening, he simply slipped his hand down into the tight space. They both jolted as his fingertips brushed the tip of Dean's cock.
One of them muttered 'fuck' while the other groaned; Seamus couldn't tell which, but he did know there wasn't enough room in these jeans, especially when they were soaking wet. He wiggled his fingers a bit until Dean finally opened the fly, giving them both some relief. He gasped when Seamus slicked his hand further into his shorts. "Shit, mate."
Seamus lifted his head, looking Dean in the eye briefly before they kissed again and Dean began to rock his hips toward Seamus' fist. When they were pressed close like this, Seamus could feel every tense muscle, every taut plane of Dean's skin, and he started to rock himself against Dean as well.
Dean caught on soon enough. He brought his hand from around Seamus' back and then wrapped his calloused fingers around his cock. Seamus swore ripely and bucked into Dean's hand; he couldn't quite believe how close he was to coming when he'd only just wanked five minutes ago.
It only made things worse -- or better; definitely better -- when their cocks brushed and Dean went ahead and closed his fingers around them both. Seamus moved his hands over Dean's chest, touching everything he could as they started to move in tandem. It wasn't long before they were both tensing and coming, spurting between their bodies, onto each other's stomachs.
Seamus let his head drop to Dean's shoulder for just a moment, panting while Dean braced a hand against the wall to Seamus' left. They were silent for what seemed a long time.
"So this is how I get you to stop bloody talking?" Dean said finally.
For whatever reason, the joke caught Seamus off guard; maybe he wasn't sure how things were supposed to work afterward. He'd been a bit too caught up in the now to think about it, really. After a few moments, he eased into it. "Weren't talkin' so much yourself, you arse."
Dean paused. "Point."
He finally moved back, giving Seamus some room to move -- not that there was a whole lot of room in the shower to begin with -- and ducked his head. Seamus cleared his throat and pushed off the wall, then reached down them to shut the water off.
It had got cold in the end, anyway.
"Well. Er." Dean licked his lips and stepped out of the shower first, letting Seamus move past him.
"Fuck; is this ... are we going to be awkward, or somethin'?" Seamus blurted as he reached for a towel.
"Dunno," Dean shrugged. "I wasn't exactly planning for ... that."
Seamus nodded and swallowed, avoiding Dean's gaze. "'s not like I was either, mate."
"No, I know. But."
"Did you like it?" Seamus asked quietly, before he could stop himself. He hooked the towel around his waist and shook the heaviest bits of water from his hair.
"Did I ..." Dean shook his head. "Were you there? Of course I did. But we're mates, and I didn't expect -- I just didn't even think you'd be into something like that, until tonight."
Seamus laughed suddenly at hearing that Dean and he had been in the same boat, pretty much. "Likewise."
A pause. "We're a couple of idiots."
"Don't go speakin' for me," Seamus snorted.
Dean shoved Seamus sideways on his way to grab a towel, and Seamus laughed again. Maybe things didn't have to change too much. Not that he minded these changes at all.
He glanced sidelong at Dean. "So, I always figured the whole strippin'-to-pay-for-school thing was just a myth."
"This again?" The look Dean shot him was long-suffering.
"What're you talkin' about; I've only just found out this evenin'," Seamus pointed out. "You can't do somethin' like this and expect me to just drop it."
Dean sighed. "Well, at least you know now. No more following me, yeah? I wasn't in trouble or anything."
"Yeah, I could see you were in good hands," Seamus nodded, tucking his tongue in his cheek. "Lots and lots o' good hands."
"Fuck off." Dean reached out quickly and snatched Seamus' towel, ducking out of the bathroom quickly enough to shut the door and lock him in.
Seamus only laughed.
end