fic: the gift of what you notice more ~ Seamus/Dean, pg13
I finally finished the epilogue to my (very shortened) Seamus/Dean 50_smutlets story and am just overjoyed at having written it. I feel so accomplished! Even better: this story has trolleys art embedded within and it’s absolutely gorgeous.
Thank you to the small, but loyal, set of Seamus/Dean readers that have read this over the years. ♥ These boys have been the OTP of my heart for so long and it means a lot to me to have people reading.
Heading and notes are under the cut --
title: the gift of what you notice more
author: kaalee
pairing: Seamus/Dean
word count: ~1200
rating: pg13
a/n: Thank you to all of the readers and followers over the years (!!) it took me to complete this story. Though I imagine I might not be finished with this universe, this story is now complete. I’ll archive it in its entirety at Ao3 soon. Thank you so much to incapricious and jlh for helping me make sense of this and weeding out some of my dashes! The title was borrowed from one of my favorite Dar Williams songs, The Blessings.
THE ART: Years ago, the glorious trolleys drew a gorgeous picture for me and I’ve been saving it -- saving it for so long because it fit in exactly where this story was going. Now that the story is done (which I still can’t believe), I can finally share it. *glee* The art is embedded within.
master post can now be found here
the gift of what you notice more
seamus/dean, rated pg13
:: previous::
.::epilogue::.
Artists are often accused of deliberately denying themselves, of avoiding happiness, because with pleasure comes contentment and contentment breeds the crappiest of art. Muses kick into overdrive during times of suffering; some of the best and most famous art has been borne from tortured moments.
Of course, that would be intensely obvious if Dean were to share some of his more recent, emotion-laden art. Were someone to look at his sketchbook they might comment on the lovely detail of the body parts he’d drawn so painstakingly or ask when they might view his work in a gallery. They might exclaim over the clear passion in the lines or the evocative tenderness in his subject. The seventeen (and a half) newly filled pages are the best work he’s ever done. And he doesn’t care in the least.
Because, right now? With Seamus here in front of him, looking right into his eyes, Dean would give up any modicum of talent, would offer his fantasized space in the National Gallery to some other up-and-comer, if only Seamus would kiss him.
Seamus's hands come up to cup his face. Dean feels the light brush of a fingertip over his lower lip, his cheek, his entire fucking world. It's been so long in the making: so much want, so much incongruous denial, so much of his own willful misunderstanding and now that it's here time starts dissolving, everyone around them melts into the fire until they're the only two in the whole of Scotland. The desire inside him is a vital organ. The pain is gone now, it's faded into a dull ache… fulfillment of extended longing.
He wants Seamus to kiss first. Seamus has to kiss first. Without moving a muscle, Dean thinks: please, Seamus, please kiss first. Dean's been such a fool through this whole thing, and even with Seamus's hands on his skin, with his thumb tracing Dean's lip, he's still afraid that Seamus doesn't want this the same way. Dean finally laid himself bare, told Seamus: "I know who I fancy." Told him this time, without any mad pronoun slips, "Seamus, I want... you."
Now Dean’s slowly fading, from the inside out, while he breathes and waits and hopes. Seamus has got to want him back. Then, after a month-long eternity of errant yearning, Seamus leans the tiniest bit forward and kisses him.
Dean’s world explodes.
::
Seamus closes his eyes, lets the rush of want and the slick of Dean's lips wash over him and he thinks: Yes.
It's here, here inside him. It’s everything all at once. It might be the best kiss of his life, rivaling fantasy and countless (wet) dreams or it might be a fumbling mess, but Seamus has no way to judge. All he knows is that Dean's here, kissing him back -- finally, finally kissing him -- and it's not just happening in his mind anymore. It's happening everywhere.
He breathes Dean's breath, touches Dean's shoulders, and watches Dean's eyes. All he knows, all he’s known, all he ever wants to know is Dean.
They kiss wet and open-mouthed for a long, long time. Seamus finally feels like a teenager again: lips bruised and a bit numb when Dean moves to kiss his neck. Seamus holds his breath for a moment and shuts his eyes, surrenders. Nothing should feel this good.
He threads his fingers into the tight curls on Dean’s head and tries to remember to breathe.
When Dean makes it back up to his mouth, Seamus licks every inch of Dean’s lower lip. It’s soft, so soft and swollen and he could just die from the taste of it. The feel of everything spreads inside him and spills out until he’s drowning in everything Dean.
Dean pulls back for a moment and looks at him, his eyes boring into Seamus's with a mixture of feelings Seamus can barely name. He looks back, caution stirring in the back of his mind.
"Is this--" Dean starts and his voice falters. "Is this... real?"
The caution inside him bursts; caution can bloody well go and fuck itself for all he cares. This is Dean. It's Dean and he's here and they've finally, finally got somewhere and he's not going to fuck it up now.
Seamus nods, reaching up and tracing Dean's lower lip with his thumbs.
"Dean," he whispers, letting caution seep out of him and refilling it instead with the depth of Dean's eyes. He can read them now, can see the walls, the uncertainty that has been blinding both of them.
Which is really rather stupid, actually. Seamus is mad for Dean, has probably been for years, though he’s only known for a few months. He looks deep into Dean’s eyes, wills him to see what he knows: that Dean is everything -- the only thing -- he wants.
Seamus leans forward and kisses Dean’s upper lip gently, then sucks it slowly into his mouth while his eyes hold Dean’s. A quiet peace settles over him and he answers against Dean’s lips:
"It’s real."
::
Later, months and years later, Seamus will be amazed at his stupid, bloody luck. Dean will be the first to peel Seamus’s clothes from his body, will whisper promises under Seamus’s ear, will admit how desperate, how wrong he’d been before. Dean will be the first to ask forgiveness and the last to let himself come.
Sometimes the one with the most caution makes the grandest moves.
Later, they will find out that when Seamus (finally) kissed Dean most of the occupants of the common room had applauded and someone had said “bloody finally” to a chorus of laughter. Apparently the room had emptied not long after, even though Parvati had shoved them into a corner and pulled a curtain in front of them when it was clear that the snogging was likely to go on for a good while. When they find out, they will laugh, amazed that neither of them remembers a single thing, consumed by their kiss-blind haze.
One day, they will enact all of the vivid imaginings that played through their minds during the months before they finally got it right. All of the rutting, the sucking, the messy, passionate kisses. Every one will be so entirely better than their fumbling adolescent fantasies; it will be as though they invented it out of their own sheer want.
Together they will discover the feel of summer rain on their fevered skin, will curl together in front of a winter fire. They’ll fight sometimes: shout and throw things and find that make up sex is far better than anyone has ever admitted.
It will be anything but simple, but it will be real. It will be theirs.
But for now, Seamus slides his arms completely around Dean, touching the warmth of his lower back and bracing his other hand at the base of Dean’s skull. He shuts his eyes again, opens his mouth to the pliant sweetness of Dean’s tongue, and lets himself fall a little bit more in love.
::
~thank you so much for reading! ♥
Thank you to the small, but loyal, set of Seamus/Dean readers that have read this over the years. ♥ These boys have been the OTP of my heart for so long and it means a lot to me to have people reading.
Heading and notes are under the cut --
title: the gift of what you notice more
author: kaalee
pairing: Seamus/Dean
word count: ~1200
rating: pg13
a/n: Thank you to all of the readers and followers over the years (!!) it took me to complete this story. Though I imagine I might not be finished with this universe, this story is now complete. I’ll archive it in its entirety at Ao3 soon. Thank you so much to incapricious and jlh for helping me make sense of this and weeding out some of my dashes! The title was borrowed from one of my favorite Dar Williams songs, The Blessings.
THE ART: Years ago, the glorious trolleys drew a gorgeous picture for me and I’ve been saving it -- saving it for so long because it fit in exactly where this story was going. Now that the story is done (which I still can’t believe), I can finally share it. *glee* The art is embedded within.
master post can now be found here
the gift of what you notice more
seamus/dean, rated pg13
:: previous::
.::epilogue::.
Artists are often accused of deliberately denying themselves, of avoiding happiness, because with pleasure comes contentment and contentment breeds the crappiest of art. Muses kick into overdrive during times of suffering; some of the best and most famous art has been borne from tortured moments.
Of course, that would be intensely obvious if Dean were to share some of his more recent, emotion-laden art. Were someone to look at his sketchbook they might comment on the lovely detail of the body parts he’d drawn so painstakingly or ask when they might view his work in a gallery. They might exclaim over the clear passion in the lines or the evocative tenderness in his subject. The seventeen (and a half) newly filled pages are the best work he’s ever done. And he doesn’t care in the least.
Because, right now? With Seamus here in front of him, looking right into his eyes, Dean would give up any modicum of talent, would offer his fantasized space in the National Gallery to some other up-and-comer, if only Seamus would kiss him.
Seamus's hands come up to cup his face. Dean feels the light brush of a fingertip over his lower lip, his cheek, his entire fucking world. It's been so long in the making: so much want, so much incongruous denial, so much of his own willful misunderstanding and now that it's here time starts dissolving, everyone around them melts into the fire until they're the only two in the whole of Scotland. The desire inside him is a vital organ. The pain is gone now, it's faded into a dull ache… fulfillment of extended longing.
He wants Seamus to kiss first. Seamus has to kiss first. Without moving a muscle, Dean thinks: please, Seamus, please kiss first. Dean's been such a fool through this whole thing, and even with Seamus's hands on his skin, with his thumb tracing Dean's lip, he's still afraid that Seamus doesn't want this the same way. Dean finally laid himself bare, told Seamus: "I know who I fancy." Told him this time, without any mad pronoun slips, "Seamus, I want... you."
Now Dean’s slowly fading, from the inside out, while he breathes and waits and hopes. Seamus has got to want him back. Then, after a month-long eternity of errant yearning, Seamus leans the tiniest bit forward and kisses him.
Dean’s world explodes.
::
Seamus closes his eyes, lets the rush of want and the slick of Dean's lips wash over him and he thinks: Yes.
It's here, here inside him. It’s everything all at once. It might be the best kiss of his life, rivaling fantasy and countless (wet) dreams or it might be a fumbling mess, but Seamus has no way to judge. All he knows is that Dean's here, kissing him back -- finally, finally kissing him -- and it's not just happening in his mind anymore. It's happening everywhere.
He breathes Dean's breath, touches Dean's shoulders, and watches Dean's eyes. All he knows, all he’s known, all he ever wants to know is Dean.
They kiss wet and open-mouthed for a long, long time. Seamus finally feels like a teenager again: lips bruised and a bit numb when Dean moves to kiss his neck. Seamus holds his breath for a moment and shuts his eyes, surrenders. Nothing should feel this good.
He threads his fingers into the tight curls on Dean’s head and tries to remember to breathe.
When Dean makes it back up to his mouth, Seamus licks every inch of Dean’s lower lip. It’s soft, so soft and swollen and he could just die from the taste of it. The feel of everything spreads inside him and spills out until he’s drowning in everything Dean.
Dean pulls back for a moment and looks at him, his eyes boring into Seamus's with a mixture of feelings Seamus can barely name. He looks back, caution stirring in the back of his mind.
"Is this--" Dean starts and his voice falters. "Is this... real?"
The caution inside him bursts; caution can bloody well go and fuck itself for all he cares. This is Dean. It's Dean and he's here and they've finally, finally got somewhere and he's not going to fuck it up now.
Seamus nods, reaching up and tracing Dean's lower lip with his thumbs.
"Dean," he whispers, letting caution seep out of him and refilling it instead with the depth of Dean's eyes. He can read them now, can see the walls, the uncertainty that has been blinding both of them.
Which is really rather stupid, actually. Seamus is mad for Dean, has probably been for years, though he’s only known for a few months. He looks deep into Dean’s eyes, wills him to see what he knows: that Dean is everything -- the only thing -- he wants.
Seamus leans forward and kisses Dean’s upper lip gently, then sucks it slowly into his mouth while his eyes hold Dean’s. A quiet peace settles over him and he answers against Dean’s lips:
"It’s real."
::
Later, months and years later, Seamus will be amazed at his stupid, bloody luck. Dean will be the first to peel Seamus’s clothes from his body, will whisper promises under Seamus’s ear, will admit how desperate, how wrong he’d been before. Dean will be the first to ask forgiveness and the last to let himself come.
Sometimes the one with the most caution makes the grandest moves.
Later, they will find out that when Seamus (finally) kissed Dean most of the occupants of the common room had applauded and someone had said “bloody finally” to a chorus of laughter. Apparently the room had emptied not long after, even though Parvati had shoved them into a corner and pulled a curtain in front of them when it was clear that the snogging was likely to go on for a good while. When they find out, they will laugh, amazed that neither of them remembers a single thing, consumed by their kiss-blind haze.
One day, they will enact all of the vivid imaginings that played through their minds during the months before they finally got it right. All of the rutting, the sucking, the messy, passionate kisses. Every one will be so entirely better than their fumbling adolescent fantasies; it will be as though they invented it out of their own sheer want.
Together they will discover the feel of summer rain on their fevered skin, will curl together in front of a winter fire. They’ll fight sometimes: shout and throw things and find that make up sex is far better than anyone has ever admitted.
It will be anything but simple, but it will be real. It will be theirs.
But for now, Seamus slides his arms completely around Dean, touching the warmth of his lower back and bracing his other hand at the base of Dean’s skull. He shuts his eyes again, opens his mouth to the pliant sweetness of Dean’s tongue, and lets himself fall a little bit more in love.
::
~thank you so much for reading! ♥