HP Fic: The Regulars - Seamus/Goyle (WPE #8)
Title: The Regulars
Pairing: Seamus/Goyle
Rating: G
Word count: ~1,260
Summary: Seamus Finnigan is the life of the party and Gregory Goyle definitely is not.
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.
Note: Last part of the Weird Pairing Experience. I wrote it back in July, but forgot to post it here *facepalm*.
Seamus Finnigan had always been the life of the party. Ask anybody: from the Gryffindor common room to his dozen cousins’ birthdays in Ireland to the raunchiest establishments down Knockturn Alley, Seamus’s presence was synonymous with “a great time had”.
Greg had never put one toe inside the Gryffindor common room, and he certainly wasn’t a relative of anybody whose Mum would marry a Muggle, but Knockturn Alley was a place he knew quite well. He’d been a regular at the Wicked Pint for almost four years when Seamus Finnigan entered it for the first time.
Greg had been coming there every day of the week for the calm and the good ale, and because no one would look him in the eyes. (It was always easier to ignore the whispers and the mockery when people did it behind your back.) The arrival of Seamus Finnigan that Friday night-and his coming back four weeks in a row-made things a bit…different.
At first, Greg had thought that Finnigan was just loud-obnoxiously so, even. Greg didn’t know if it was an enchantment (most probably a curse) or a magical artifact, but Finnigan seemed to be bringing with him music and dancing and laughing everywhere he went.
Then, he attributed it to Finnigan’s group of friends. They must’ve already had a party going and just chose to finish it where Greg was trying to drink quietly. It wasn’t as if Finnigan just caused parties to appear wherever he went. Greg knew magic was capable of a lot of things, but even he wasn’t dim-witted enough to believe such bullshit.
The thing was, though, it was never the same group of people accompanying Finnigan each week. Greg could chalk it up to the bloke having a huge number of friends but it didn’t feel right, because he’d never seen the likes of Potter and Weasley and Longbottom in the Wicked Pint, and that black kid Greg’d always seen with Finnigan back in Hogwarts was always conspicuously absent too.
With the weeks passing and Finnigan keeping on coming in every Friday night, Greg became strangely more and more aware of him and his presence in the bar. Finnigan would always show up around the same time and Greg would feel some kind of shift in the air. Sometimes he felt like his skin was more sensitive to the change in temperature when Finnigan entered the pub than to the cold air of the night that often infiltrated the mouldy attic room he rented in Kent for way too many Galleons a week.
The evening Finnigan arrived alone for the first time was the evening Greg stopped being passively aware of him and started actively watching Finnigan. The pub was dimly-lit but Greg had no problem following the shock of sandy hair moving to the rhythm of the background music. Being alone didn’t change one thing in Finnigan’s attitude in the pub. Greg followed the muscles of Finnigan’s back shifting under his shirt and the large gestures he made with his hands while he talked. That evening was also the evening Greg noticed Finnigan’s mouth, and how often he would use it on other people.
When faced with the facts, Greg could only conclude one thing: Finnigan was some kind of man-whore. Anyone who seemed willing enough, Finnigan kissed. Some on the cheek, some on the hand, some on the mouth. So many on the mouth. Tall girls, small girls, round girls, flat girls. And boys too. The first time it was a boy Greg saw Finnigan kiss, Greg thought he was going to be sick. He’d felt this strange lurch in his stomach and had to look away. He left the pub and wondered if he would dare come back.
He did come back though. He even arrived there earlier than usual on the next Friday, not wanting to miss even one minute of Finnigan’s presence in the pub. He saw him kissing four boys that Friday, and two the next, and after a while, Greg stopped counting. He stopped being able to look away, too. And he kind of wanted to only see him kiss boys, now. He liked it even better when the boys were taller and wider than Finnigan and when they looked more like men. And when he was back in Kent and the only noise in the middle of the night was the two homeless people living outside his window fighting once again, Greg wondered what it would be like for Finnigan to kiss him.
After a few months, this was the only thing Greg could think of on Friday nights. He thought about it at other times too: when he was in the shower, and when he wanked, and when he had a pause between two Evanescos at his shitty parole job at the Ministry. Friday nights slowly became unbearable and Greg couldn’t help feeling this weird jealousy inside his chest, this insufferable longing, and this pain at the terrible knowledge that there was no way Seamus Finnigan would ever want to kiss stupid, Death Eater’s son, ex-Death Eater and out-of-Azkaban-on-parole Gregory Goyle. The idea that even someone who kissed everything that moved wouldn’t kiss him was very realistic, but kind of heart-breaking too.
Greg decided that the best thing to do was to get resigned to living a life where Finnigan would never kiss him. And it wasn’t as if anyone else would do it either anyway. On Friday nights, Greg decided it was better to stay at home.
Two weeks after Greg had stopped going to the Wicked Pint on Friday nights, Finnigan sat on the chair next to him.
At first Greg thought that something went wrong with his calendar and that he’d come the wrong day, but no. That day had been evaluation day and evaluation day was always on a Tuesday. Greg realised the weirdest thing about Finnigan sitting next to him was that there was no party happening.
‘I thought you’d stopped coming altogether,’ Finnigan said.
Greg didn’t actually believe Finnigan was talking to him, but it was a week night and the pub was almost empty. The closest other person was three tables away.
‘I saw you watching me, you know,’ Finnigan went on as if Greg had actually acknowledged him. Finnigan took a sip of his lager and when Greg dared glance at him, Finnigan was staring right back. ‘I don’t know why you never came to talk to me. Everybody always does.’
Greg had no idea what to say. He never knew what to say when people around him exuded such confidence, and even with his physique he always felt small and frail in these situations.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned his head towards Finnigan just in time for the bloke to press his lips against Greg’s.
It was everything Greg had imagined and even more. It was soft and moist and there were hints of teeth and tongue and Greg didn’t know if he was doing it right, but it sure felt good.
The hand on his shoulder slipped towards the back of his neck and he felt fingers playing with the strands of hair he had there, and yeah he was kind of glad he hadn’t had enough Galleons for a haircut lately.
‘Come back, next Friday,’ Finnigan whispered in his ear afterwards. ‘I’ll want you to dance with me.’
Finnigan stood up and left the pub, and Greg came back the next Friday and every Friday after that.
Pairing: Seamus/Goyle
Rating: G
Word count: ~1,260
Summary: Seamus Finnigan is the life of the party and Gregory Goyle definitely is not.
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.
Note: Last part of the Weird Pairing Experience. I wrote it back in July, but forgot to post it here *facepalm*.
Seamus Finnigan had always been the life of the party. Ask anybody: from the Gryffindor common room to his dozen cousins’ birthdays in Ireland to the raunchiest establishments down Knockturn Alley, Seamus’s presence was synonymous with “a great time had”.
Greg had never put one toe inside the Gryffindor common room, and he certainly wasn’t a relative of anybody whose Mum would marry a Muggle, but Knockturn Alley was a place he knew quite well. He’d been a regular at the Wicked Pint for almost four years when Seamus Finnigan entered it for the first time.
Greg had been coming there every day of the week for the calm and the good ale, and because no one would look him in the eyes. (It was always easier to ignore the whispers and the mockery when people did it behind your back.) The arrival of Seamus Finnigan that Friday night-and his coming back four weeks in a row-made things a bit…different.
At first, Greg had thought that Finnigan was just loud-obnoxiously so, even. Greg didn’t know if it was an enchantment (most probably a curse) or a magical artifact, but Finnigan seemed to be bringing with him music and dancing and laughing everywhere he went.
Then, he attributed it to Finnigan’s group of friends. They must’ve already had a party going and just chose to finish it where Greg was trying to drink quietly. It wasn’t as if Finnigan just caused parties to appear wherever he went. Greg knew magic was capable of a lot of things, but even he wasn’t dim-witted enough to believe such bullshit.
The thing was, though, it was never the same group of people accompanying Finnigan each week. Greg could chalk it up to the bloke having a huge number of friends but it didn’t feel right, because he’d never seen the likes of Potter and Weasley and Longbottom in the Wicked Pint, and that black kid Greg’d always seen with Finnigan back in Hogwarts was always conspicuously absent too.
With the weeks passing and Finnigan keeping on coming in every Friday night, Greg became strangely more and more aware of him and his presence in the bar. Finnigan would always show up around the same time and Greg would feel some kind of shift in the air. Sometimes he felt like his skin was more sensitive to the change in temperature when Finnigan entered the pub than to the cold air of the night that often infiltrated the mouldy attic room he rented in Kent for way too many Galleons a week.
The evening Finnigan arrived alone for the first time was the evening Greg stopped being passively aware of him and started actively watching Finnigan. The pub was dimly-lit but Greg had no problem following the shock of sandy hair moving to the rhythm of the background music. Being alone didn’t change one thing in Finnigan’s attitude in the pub. Greg followed the muscles of Finnigan’s back shifting under his shirt and the large gestures he made with his hands while he talked. That evening was also the evening Greg noticed Finnigan’s mouth, and how often he would use it on other people.
When faced with the facts, Greg could only conclude one thing: Finnigan was some kind of man-whore. Anyone who seemed willing enough, Finnigan kissed. Some on the cheek, some on the hand, some on the mouth. So many on the mouth. Tall girls, small girls, round girls, flat girls. And boys too. The first time it was a boy Greg saw Finnigan kiss, Greg thought he was going to be sick. He’d felt this strange lurch in his stomach and had to look away. He left the pub and wondered if he would dare come back.
He did come back though. He even arrived there earlier than usual on the next Friday, not wanting to miss even one minute of Finnigan’s presence in the pub. He saw him kissing four boys that Friday, and two the next, and after a while, Greg stopped counting. He stopped being able to look away, too. And he kind of wanted to only see him kiss boys, now. He liked it even better when the boys were taller and wider than Finnigan and when they looked more like men. And when he was back in Kent and the only noise in the middle of the night was the two homeless people living outside his window fighting once again, Greg wondered what it would be like for Finnigan to kiss him.
After a few months, this was the only thing Greg could think of on Friday nights. He thought about it at other times too: when he was in the shower, and when he wanked, and when he had a pause between two Evanescos at his shitty parole job at the Ministry. Friday nights slowly became unbearable and Greg couldn’t help feeling this weird jealousy inside his chest, this insufferable longing, and this pain at the terrible knowledge that there was no way Seamus Finnigan would ever want to kiss stupid, Death Eater’s son, ex-Death Eater and out-of-Azkaban-on-parole Gregory Goyle. The idea that even someone who kissed everything that moved wouldn’t kiss him was very realistic, but kind of heart-breaking too.
Greg decided that the best thing to do was to get resigned to living a life where Finnigan would never kiss him. And it wasn’t as if anyone else would do it either anyway. On Friday nights, Greg decided it was better to stay at home.
Two weeks after Greg had stopped going to the Wicked Pint on Friday nights, Finnigan sat on the chair next to him.
At first Greg thought that something went wrong with his calendar and that he’d come the wrong day, but no. That day had been evaluation day and evaluation day was always on a Tuesday. Greg realised the weirdest thing about Finnigan sitting next to him was that there was no party happening.
‘I thought you’d stopped coming altogether,’ Finnigan said.
Greg didn’t actually believe Finnigan was talking to him, but it was a week night and the pub was almost empty. The closest other person was three tables away.
‘I saw you watching me, you know,’ Finnigan went on as if Greg had actually acknowledged him. Finnigan took a sip of his lager and when Greg dared glance at him, Finnigan was staring right back. ‘I don’t know why you never came to talk to me. Everybody always does.’
Greg had no idea what to say. He never knew what to say when people around him exuded such confidence, and even with his physique he always felt small and frail in these situations.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned his head towards Finnigan just in time for the bloke to press his lips against Greg’s.
It was everything Greg had imagined and even more. It was soft and moist and there were hints of teeth and tongue and Greg didn’t know if he was doing it right, but it sure felt good.
The hand on his shoulder slipped towards the back of his neck and he felt fingers playing with the strands of hair he had there, and yeah he was kind of glad he hadn’t had enough Galleons for a haircut lately.
‘Come back, next Friday,’ Finnigan whispered in his ear afterwards. ‘I’ll want you to dance with me.’
Finnigan stood up and left the pub, and Greg came back the next Friday and every Friday after that.