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magicsmutshop · 4 years

Text

When You See My Base Line - Pt 3

Part 3 of 4

Pairing: Jung Hoseok/Reader

Genre: Multi-chapter smut

Rating: Explicit

Word count:~3,500 words

Warnings: Alcohol, swearing, slight exhibitionism, oral, drooling over Hoseok's perfect face and body

Summary: After nude art model Hoseok leaves you in a puddle against your apartment door, you decide to turn the tables.

Navigation: part 1 | part 2 | part 4

“He did what?!” Ashley shrieks. You wince, pulling the phone away from your ear.

“Don’t make me repeat it,” you beg. “I’m embarrassed enough already.” You curl your legs up underneath you, sinking further back into your couch.

Ashley laughs. “Why should you be embarrassed? It’s fucking hot. I’m jealous. I can’t believe he made off with your panties!”

A day has gone by since Hoseok walked you home and got you off, and you’re debriefing with your best friend. You haven’t been able to get it out of your head--the way he took you to pieces with his hands, and then left before you could return the favor. Did you do something wrong? You needed Ashley’s blunt take on the situation.

You whine into the phone. “But why did he leave?” You take another sip of your glass of rosé.

“Look, I can’t tell you for sure what’s going on in his head. But he told you he wanted to come in, but had an early class to teach, right?”

“Yeah… he said neither of us would get any sleep if he came in.” His words were practically emblazoned in your mind. You blush a bit, remembering the heated look in his eyes.

Ashley squeals. “Seriously, JEALOUS! Why don’t I have any hot men or women fingering me up against my door?!”

“Ashley, come on…”

“Okay, okay. In all seriousness, I think you should take him at his word. He had fun, you definitely had fun, and he said you’ll see him again?”

“Yeah, he’s still the model for the next couple of classes, I think.”

You can hear Ashley taking a gulp of her wine over the line. “Perfect. You have a panty theft to avenge, so here’s what you need to do. You need to turn the tables on him…” she chuckles evilly.

You’re going to need more wine for this...

***

You take a deep breath before walking into your next art class. For the past few days, your mind has been filled with nothing but Hoseok, Hoseok, Hoseok. You wonder if you haven’t been building him up in your mind a little too much in the haze of a really good orgasm, so you’re a little nervous about what the evening holds.

Pushing through the door, you immediately see Hoseok, talking to Taehyung up at the front of the room. Oh shit, you definitely weren’t building him up too much--he might be even hotter tonight. He’s already in his flimsy grey robe, with the belt loosely knotted around his narrow waist. You’re hit with a visceral memory of wrapping your arm around that waist, the smell of his cologne, and the warmth of his body.

You’re so caught up in your reverie, you almost run into Jimin, who’s giving you an annoyingly smug smile. You try to scoot around him, but he leans over and hisses into your ear. “I guess I don’t have to ask if you had fun the other night, huh?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you hiss back, painfully aware that Taehyung and Hoseok have both turned in your direction.

Jimin raises his eyebrows and jerks his chin at Hoseok. “So you’re telling me that wasn’t you?”

You look over at Hoseok again, who’s tossing his head back in laughter at something Taehyung’s just said. The motion exposes a large, incriminating mark high on his neck, just below his jawline. You’re thrown into another memory of biting Hoseok’s neck to muffle your moans while he was making you come. Jimin’s smile gets even more smug. Whoops.

Your cheeks flush hotly as you make eye contact with Hoseok, who coyly raises a hand to wave at you. He blows you a kiss and then turns back to Taehyung, who’s still enthusiastically chattering about something. Hoseok casually runs his hand along his neck, ostensibly to scratch an itch, drawing more attention to the purple mark. You can see his bright smile dropping into a decidedly darker smirk, even as he pretends to pay attention to Taehyung.

Your rapt attention is only broken by the sound of Jimin’s evil little giggles behind you. That settles it--you’re going to make this man beg. Newly filled with determination, you slide into a seat in front and center, directly in front of the chaise set up for the model. You’re ready to recapture a little bit of power in this situation, if you can just find the right moment to enact the plan you and Ashley came up with.

***

Tonight, Hoseok isn’t actually fully nude. Namjoon’s theme for the evening is “Examining the juxtaposition of cloth with the human body,” so Hoseok is reclining on the chaise with his robe shrugged off his shoulders, cloth loosely bunched up around his midsection, leaving his toned chest and limbs bare to your gaze. Maddeningly, he keeps choosing positions that expose his long neck, with the bruise--that you left--standing out against his smooth skin. The only benefit is that he’s looking up at the ceiling, so you can focus on your sketchbook instead of his eyes.

Finally, Namjoon calls for a short break before the 45-minute pose. Hoseok pulls himself to a sitting position, wrapping his robe around himself again and tightening the belt a bit. He softly calls your name, but Namjoon swoops in, waving a phone in his face with a picture of a puppy pulled up on it. Hoseok reluctantly turns his attention away from you, but that brief moment of eye contact was enough to send another rush of heat through your body. It’s time to act. You spring up from your seat and head out of the classroom.

A little ways down the hall, there’s a single-user bathroom. Locking the door behind yourself, you stare at yourself in the mirror. Are you really going to do this? A montage of images flashes through your mind--Hoseok kissing you against your door, Ashley squealing into her wine on the phone with you, Jimin giggling at you, Hoseok flashing his hickey with a sly smile on his face. You’re going to do this.

You fluff your hair, adjust your bra, and smooth your skirt down over your hips--and then in one quick motion, you slide your panties off and slip them into your skirt pocket. Standing up straight again, you give yourself an encouraging thumbs up in the mirror, and head back out of the bathroom before you can lose your nerve.

You carefully slide back into your seat, making sure not to let your skirt ride up. You primly cross your legs together, take a deep breath in, and set your sketchpad and pencil back in front of you. You’re ready for the next sketching session to begin.

***

The setup couldn’t have worked out more perfectly if Ashley had been the instructor. For the final pose, Namjoon has Hoseok sitting spread-legged on the chaise, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees. His fingers are loosely interlaced together and resting on the bundled up robe in between his legs. Hoseok is relaxed, his thoughtful expression pulling his lips into a gentle frown. He’s currently staring off into space, but he’s perfectly positioned for a good view under your desk… you just need to get him to look in the right place.

Ten minutes into the pose, you feel like you’re starting to lose circulation to your legs, with how tightly you’re crossing them. You’re starting to get wet, rhythmically squeezing your thighs together to ease some of the pressure in your aching core. You yearn to have Hoseok sliding his fingers into you again, but first things first.

You deliberately let the pencil slip out of your fingers. It falls to the floor with a loud clatter, drawing the attention of everyone around you--including Hoseok. With a quiet mutter of “Sorry,”, you push your chair back a bit and bend down to the side, uncrossing your legs and scooping up the pencil. Checking that your seatmates have turned their attention back to their sketchbooks, you slowly drag the pencil up your left calf, spreading your legs as you sit back up. You can feel cool air in between your legs as your skirt rides up. Finally daring to look at Hoseok, you see him staring fixedly underneath your desk. He swallows heavily. Bingo. You’ve got him.

You stretch your legs as far apart as you can get away with underneath the desk. Your pussy is throbbing with excitement, but you keep a straight face as you put your pencil back to paper. Every few seconds, when you look back up, Hoseok is still staring. His face is starting to look a little flushed, and you see his knuckles turn white as he squeezes his hands together compulsively.

However, Hoseok is still doing too good a job of remaining professional. It’s time to up your game. Keeping your pencil in one hand, you slowly reach your other hand underneath the desk to stroke up your sensitive inner thigh. You watch Hoseok carefully, focusing on the bundle of cloth underneath his hands. Is he starting to get hard?

Peeking at his face again, you meet his eyes. His intense stare could melt lava--it’s hotter than your center. As his stare snaps back down to in between your legs, you oh-so-slowly, carefully, slide your index finger up your lower lips to circle your clit. Your breath hitches as you repress a little gasp--but Hoseok doesn’t miss it. His expression cracks as he bites his lower lip, pink tongue sweeping out to wet it. You bring your hand back up to your mouth, slipping your wet finger into your mouth. At this, Hoseok audibly groans.

Namjoon, who was leaning over Taehyung’s shoulder to look at his sketchbook, snaps his head up at the little sound. “Hobi, everything okay, man?”

Hoseok shudders. If you weren’t watching so closely, you’d miss that he’s subtly pressing the cloth into his crotch. He shakes his head, bites his lip again. He doesn’t look at you as he tells Namjoon, “I’m feeling a little queasy all of a sudden, must be the Chinese I had for dinner. Can we take a quick break?” His lips turn down into a frown.

Namjoon looks concerned, but nods his assent. “Of course, take the time you need.” He addresses you and your classmates. “We’ll break for 15 minutes. Let’s use this time to review what you’ve drawn so far, and figure out what you still need to work on when Hobi’s ready to resume his pose.” Your art teacher starts to approach Hoseok, but Hoseok is already wrapping the robe around his waist, being very careful to keep his midsection out of sight. Giving you one last burning look, he speeds out of the classroom.

Namjoon scrubs a hand through his hair, looking completely baffled as the class bursts out into chatter and discussion. He looks at you, but you’ve already primly crossed your legs, reviewing your drawing like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. You can feel Jimin’s knowing stare burning a hole into the side of your face, but you resolutely refuse to make eye contact with him.

To be safe, you let a minute or two go by before pulling your phone out of your bag. You bring it up to your ear, pretending to receive a call.

“Oh hi, Ashley, what’s wrong?” You smoothly slide out of your seat, keeping your legs close together despite the stickiness you can feel in between them. You nod to Namjoon and head towards the door, keeping up a one-sided conversation on your phone. You’ve got some unfinished business to take care of.

***

You ease the bathroom door open for the second time tonight. As you slip in, you see Hoseok standing at the sink, splashing water on his face. While his eyes are closed, you take a moment to appreciate the way he swipes his damp bangs out of his face. His eyelashes are inky smudges against his cheekbones, and his cheeks are nearly as red as his lips. He’s one of the most gorgeous men you’ve ever seen--and you’re causing this effect on him. It’s intoxicating.

You lock the door behind you with an audible click, causing Hoseok’s eyes to snap open. As he looks at you, his face immediately darkens, with a dangerous glint in his eyes. His eyebrows are drawn together almost as if he’s in pain, and his pupils are totally blown.

As you advance on Hoseok, you get a glimpse of yourself in the mirror again. Your cheeks are flushed and your lips are wet, but your expression is composed and calm. You feel powerful… in control. It’s your turn to make this man a panting mess. Hoseok isn’t going to know what hit him.

Turning back to him, you meet his dark eyes. He looks pissed. “What the hell was that, back there?”

You fix him with a deliberately innocent look. “What do you mean? I’m just checking up on you after you rushed out of the classroom.” You can see the substantial bulge underneath his thin robe as he turns away from the sink towards you.

Hoseok fixes you with a narrow eyed look, deliberately patting his face dry with a paper towel. “Did you forget something when getting dressed today?”

You smile sweetly in response, adjusting your skirt. “Something happened to my last pair of underwear, and I didn’t have time to do laundry.”

Hoseok drags his eyes back up from your bare legs. “Is that so?”

You step closer, noticing that he’s breathing heavily despite his cool words. You slowly run your fingers down the velvety skin revealed by the deep v-neck of his robe. Little goosebumps spring up in the wake of your touch.

Hoseok firmly takes your wrist, stopping your hand before you reach the belt of his robe. Looking into his eyes again, you start to fall under the power of his intense stare, as he looks down his sloped nose at you. He growls at you. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Standing this close to him, feeling the warm puffs of his breath on your skin and his long, smooth fingers clasped around your wrist, you’re quickly losing control of the situation. He lets go of your wrist and brings both of his hands to your hips, squeezing them firmly. Your lips are a hair’s breadth apart and your eyes start to flutter shut, when you hear his breath hitch.

Looking at Hoseok again, you see him biting his full lower lip while feeling your curves under the thin skirt. The rare sight of his nerves breaks your spell, and you suddenly remember your original plan, which is to completely wreck him.

It’s your turn to halt the path of his hands before he can slip them underneath your skirt. You take his hands in yours, pulling him close enough to feel his cock rub up against you. “I am enjoying myself… but it looks like you could use a little help here,” you whisper into his ear. A shudder runs through his frame.

Slowly grinding yourself up against his cock, you pull his hands back to your ass before reaching your own hands up to his neck. You slowly bring your lips to the love bite, trailing your tongue against it before sucking--hard.

Hoseok moans lowly. “What are you doing to me?”

“I’m taking care of you.” You pull back far enough to gently spin him around and push him against the bathroom door. He goes easily but stares down his nose at you, eyes nearly black and lips glistening. You finally get your hands on his belt and undo the knot. You slowly push his robe apart, revealing the golden skin of his lean torso. You duck down to trail your lips down his chest, detouring to swirl your tongue around one dark nipple.

Hoseok’s head knocks against the door as he moans again at the feeling. His flat stomach quivers as you continue your path downwards, kissing his skin while you drop to your knees. You squeeze the powerful muscles of his thighs as you finally come face to face with his hard cock,. You lick your lips at the sight. This is what you’ve been waiting to get your hands on, since that night in front of your apartment door.

Looking up, there’s no sign of a smirk on his face this time. He’s enraptured, watching you as you grasp his cock in one hand, swiping precum off the tip with your thumb. He starts to reach out one hand to your hair, but visibly pulls it back, biting his lip against another moan.

“Go ahead. I don’t want you to hold back.” You squeeze his hand in yours as you tilt his cock up in the other hand and wrap your lips around the dripping tip. He’s hot and smooth in your mouth as he shakily gasps out your name and tangles the fingers of his free hand in your hair.

As he uses his grip to gently push you further onto his cock, you stroke the little divots in his hips. You can feel the coiled power in his body as he continues to hold himself back. But much to your pleasure, you can hear him gasping and moaning above your head as you swirl your tongue around the tip of his cock. Pulling off briefly, you lick the taste off your lips, making eye contact with him again. He’s staring at you like you’ve hung the moon, which is frankly a major ego boost. “Please… don’t stop. Feels so good.”

Who are you to deny his request? You let him guide you back onto his cock, encouraging him to thrust into your mouth with a firm grip on his hips. He’s filling you up until all you can see and taste and hear and feel is Hoseok, losing control above you. Your pussy is absolutely aching to be filled and your nipples are hard against your shirt, but you’re enjoying the power you have over him too much to take your hands off of him.

You double your efforts, licking and sucking and stroking, but it’s not until you moan around his cock that he finally loses it, stuttering out your name and jerking forward. He tugs your hair tightly, holding you in place as a bitter taste fills your mouth. As his grip loosens, you slowly draw your mouth off his cock, licking his cum off your lips and swallowing it down.

Hoseok sags against the door as you rock back on your heels, bringing yourself back up to a standing position. He shakes his head in disbelief. “Seriously… what the hell was that?”

You wipe your mouth smugly. “Just a little payback for the panty theft.”

Hoseok stares at you for a beat before breaking out into a laugh. His eyes scrunch up into little circles before he pulls you into a deep kiss. “You’re amazing. I wasn’t expecting that.” He pulls you closer to him, licking into your mouth. You let yourself sink into the kiss, enjoying the feeling of him pressed up against you, but pull back when he tries to slip his hands under your skirt once more.

“Hobi, I don’t think we have time for that,” you reluctantly say, checking the time on your phone. “Don’t we have to get back to the class?”

Hoseok groans. “I can’t believe it. I’ve never been so unprofessional during an art class before. Namjoon’s going to kill me.” You simply smirk and pull your panties out of your pocket, putting them back on as Hoseok thumps his head against the door again. “You’re a demon.”

You smile happily and peck his lips. “I’m not as bad as you. You still owe me a pair of underwear.” You’re soaking into your current pair, and dying to get off, but you’ll have plenty of fuel for your fantasies in bed tonight.

Hoseok narrows his eyes at you, flipping from silly to intense once again. “Give me your phone.”

You hand your phone over, watching as he puts his contact info in, adding a little pleading emoji to his name. Cute.

He sends himself a quick text and gives the phone back to you. “Now we have each other’s numbers, let me get myself back together and try to finish out this class.”

You head back into the classroom a few minutes ahead of Hoseok. You’re trying to maintain your cover that nothing has happened, but you’re not sure how successful you are. Jimin and Taehyung try to give you high fives as you sit back in your seat, while Namjoon looks pissed, his eyebrows drawn together into a suspicious glare.

While you settle your art supplies in front of you, Hoseok slips back into the room, looking pulled together and composed once again. However, he sends you a quick grin as he settles back onto the chaise, little dimples popping into his cheeks.

At the end of class, your phone pings with a notification: “Namjoon��s letting me live for now... but I’m not letting tonight go unpunished.” You’re fucked--hopefully.

| read part 4

#bts smut #j-hope smut #hoseok smut #hoseok x reader #j-hope x reader #hoseok/reader #hobi x reader #hobi smut

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second-hand-heaven · 6 years

Note

I wouldn’t say no to some dicknighter for the prompts. 21 or 36 would be great.

thank you @gin-draws

21 “who hurt you?” and 36 “I think I’m in trouble” dicknighter

M waits in Dick’s apartment, bored. He should have been here an hour ago, and M has half a mind to take a door to the station to check on Officer Grayson himself. M’s already washed the dishes, dried them and then found somewhere suitable to put them away, and now he’s eyeing off the pile of laundry in the corner. Since when has he become so domestic? Footsteps approach outside the apartment door. The key slides in the lock, M can hear each pin click into place. He’s on his feet and at the threshold by the time the door opens. “Hello, officer,” M greets him at the door and slides his fingers through Dick’s belt loops, reeling him in until they are hip to hip, chest to chest.“Uh-oh, I think I’m in trouble,” Dick grins as he closes the door behind him. M presses Dick’s back against the wood and looks down at him, a grin tugging at his own lips. “Aren’t you always?” And by the looks of the bruise on his cheek and the split lip, yeah, Grayson is in trouble. “What have I done this time?” Dick asks coyly, through his smile wavers a fraction. Dick knows exactly what he’s done, or what has been done to him, more accurately. He can’t hide from M, not really.M’s hand comes up to Dick’s cheek, his fingers stroking across Dick’s sharp cheekbone that’s currently coloured purple and red. “Who hurt you?” Anger coils tight in his gut, but he forces himself to keep it at bay. The last thing Dick needs is another fight right now, especially from someone who is… whatever M is to him. Casual antagonist-slash-ally-slash-fuckbuddy? It’s not like they’ve talked about this, though maybe they should. “Just some punk. I’m fine, really. Just need some ice.” He turns away, tries to leave M’s embrace, but M still has one hand linked with the belt loop.“Hey,” M says, cupping Dick’s jaw, “let’s go back to mine.” He poses it like a question, not wanting to push. Dick nods, leaning in to M’s touch in a way that ignites arousal in M’s gut. M calls a door, one hand sliding around to grasp Dick’s hips. They land in his bedroom, M’s lips sliding across Dick’s cheekbone with little butterfly kisses.

“Hey,” M says, two fingers under Dick’s chin, tilting his head up to meet M’s eyes. “I missed you.” It’s been a while since it’s been just them, since they’ve had a moment alone where they can just be. Another time, he’d be on Grayson like white on rice, but something makes him feel sentimental tonight. He peels Dick out of his shirt, and together they divest each other of their remaining clothing.

Free from his clothes, Dick Grayson looks glorious, his sleek frame toned and tanned. A few bruises, older than the one on his face, scatter across his skin. “I missed you too, “ Dick says, a vision of sincerity, and M melts a little further. Dick reaches up, arms circling M’s neck, and M allows himself to be pulled down for another kiss.They fall into bed, M covering Grayson’s body with his own, his weight held up on his elbows. He looks down at Dick, that lazy smile stretching across his lips, and yeah, that’s what M’s been missing. M kisses his way down Dick’s jaw and throat, relishing each and every sound he elicits. There’s a nasty white line across Dick’s shoulder that captures his attention. He frowns at it, like it causes him personal offence. In a way, it does. M’s seen it before plenty of times, but tonight it sends something jagged and sharp through his chest. It’s a symptom of something greater, a disease taking over that his enhanced healing has no chance of defeating. Sentiment.

Dick follows M’s line of sight, finding what he was looking at. “They’re just scars, M,” Dick says, through he tugs the sheets up to his chin and rolls onto his side.“I know.” It’s a lie, of course, they’re more than scars. He’s seen Grayson naked before, that time in the Russian sauna was just the beginning, but right now, with Dick vulnerable beneath him, shying away from his eyes, it hurts. They fuck with clothes on mostly, a workplace hazard, really. There’s no better time for criminals to attack then when a vigilante is ready to get their rocks off, and there’s been more than one case of severe blue balls for M because some shitty arms dealer couldn’t wait another ten minutes. So yeah, they’ve been intimate, but far from intimate, if you catch his drift. He knows Dick has scars; he’d have to in this line of work. M’s seen a few too, but tonight something about those scars seems different. Or maybe it’s something within M that’s changed. He takes the edge of the sheet in his hand, peeling it down Dick’s body slow enough for Dick to stop him. Dick doesn’t stop him.

Each mark M sees reminds him of how Dick has been hurt, abused, beaten, and it makes something in his chest tighten. “Who did this?” M asks, fingertips tracing along a gnarly scar across Dick’s lower back. Raised and pink, angry, the scar looks fresh, though M knows otherwise. “What, that one? I think it was Two Face.”M leans down, his lips ghosting over the tender flesh. Dick gasps. It’s an odd sensation, kissing the scar, the tissue smoother than the surrounding skin. He runs his tongue over it, just to see, and Dick writhes against the sheets. Another one in the middle of Dick’s thigh catches M’s attention, evidently a gunshot wound. “This Two Face as well?” he asks as he moves lower on the bed, skipping past that glorious ass with barely a glance. “Penguin. Lucky shot.” There’s a hitch in Dick’s breath when M’s lips brush the scar. “Wouldn’t have happened if you actually wore pants while traipsing along the Gotham skyline instead of fucking tights.”Dick rolls onto his back. “I thought you liked my legs?”“I like your legs to be in one piece,” M grimaces as he moves between said legs. Dick nods, conceding, “yeah, me too.”M knows about the knee injury, can see the way the cartilage is a mess of torn tissue jammed into the joint. He knows it stiffens up in the cold weather, knows that a rub down and a heat pack is the best remedy. The fact that he knows it is quite telling, but he pushes the thought down to continue his exploration. "And what about this one?“ There’s a slash across Dick’s abdomen, the scar thin and well healed. It would have hurt like a bitch, M can imagine. Bitter this time, Dick says, "I think it was one of the al Ghul’s. I don’t remember.” M doesn’t push.Too many scars. There are burns and scars and and roughly healed fractures all through Dick’s body. M hates it, hates seeing every mark, every blemish. He’d take it up with Bats, but Dick would have his head for it, and not in a fun way. Besides, he can’t exactly blame the Bat, as much as he’d like to. It was, and is, Dick’s call, not Bruce’s, not M’s, not anybody else’s. So instead, M just sighs and turns his attention to a different scar. “What’s this one?” he asks, eyeing a thin, short scar across the lower right part of Dick’s abdomen. He traces a finger across the faint line as Dick laughs, “appendix.”M smiles against Dick’s hipbone, pleasantly surprised. Not all these scars are from Dick’s selflessness, from thugs and kingpins in Gotham’s streets. M moves lower, to Dick’s knees again, where the skin is streaked with pearlized scars. “These?”"The amount of times I skinned my knees as a kid, I’m lucky to have any skin left there.” He winks at M, a sultry smile on his lips. “Speaking of me on my knees…”

M laughs at that, shaking his head. “Not tonight,” he says between kisses to Dick’s thigh, the muscle and sinew quivering beneath his lips. Because fuck it, M’s in love with him, and tonight he’s going to goddamn worship Dick Grayson for all he’s worth.

FIN

#dicknighter #dick grayson #nightwing #midnighter #dc #fic #prompt fills #nova speaks asks #prompts #gin-draws

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rosyredlipstick · 7 years

Text

a million years ago

my first hp fic in five years. let’s gooooooo. Dean/Seamus cause I’m a sucker for background characters.

Six years ago, Dean Thomas had broken down in a sea of first-year tears and admitted, through rough hiccups, that he didn’t even have a father.

Seamus, with wide eyes, simply stated, “We can share mine, mate.”

Now, with stiff and pale bodies surrounding them, Seamus stared at the ground and whispered in a broken, soft voice, “I don’t know how anyone can come out the other end of this the same. I...I don’t even think I have a heart anymore.”

Dean, staring at the same ground, gripped at the other boy’s hand and pretended it wasn’t sticky with blood. “We can share mine, mate.”

Dean doesn’t even know when it started.

There was no revelation of waking up one particularly cloudy morning and realizing that he was in love with Seamus Finnigan. There was no crazed, drawn out attempt at denying his non-complicated feelings for the other boy. Dean had simply looked up from his potions essay one evening after dinner, saw the other boy bent over his own roll of parchment, and decided that this, seeing Seamus across him from everyday, wouldn't be too bad.

He’d kiss the other boy the next day, and Seamus would smile in the way that Dean knew he'd felt the same way.

It was simple, uncomplicated in those days.

They were simple, and it was easy.

Until it wasn't.

That morning, in their shared, temporary space they would call their home for a bit, it was almost like any other day. But it wasn’t, and this fact could only be proven by the hidden minuscule details of the room, such as the small packed bag shoved under the bed, Dean’s missing toothbrush from the cup in the bathroom, and the hardly used coat carefully draped over the nearest chair.

Seamus, of course, would sleep in until the last possible moment, usually around the time when the morning was spilling into the afternoon. He would wake up slowly but loudly, groaning and stretching until his bones were popping, with his eyes still drooping until any form of coffee was shoved into his weak hands. Dean, of course, had no such habits. Dean had two settings - asleep and wake, never a state of in between. In one moment to the next, he was awake and his eyes were open and alert. He was quiet, his only tell being the smoothing out of his deep, heavy sleep breathing.

Dean watched and memorized Seamus sleep - his sprawled out limbs, how the sheets pooled at his lower back, the way that his messy hair fanned across the pillow - and he almost - almost - wanted to forget it all and crawl back into bed. His fingers craved for his charcoal set, itching to immortalize Seamus’s long, thin fingers as they gripped at the sheets, and his bare toes hanging off their crappy too-small mattress. Dean picked himself up off their bed though, and shook those thoughts out of his head. He dressed himself in the stiff, hardly worn thick coat he’d been gifted years before, and a pair of muggle jeans that were soft at the knees.

He didn’t leave a note - there was nothing Dean could say that Seamus didn’t already know.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gripped his bag, and made sure to lock the bedroom door behind him.

Every step down the staircase was like a stab in the chest, and he shouldn't help but feel grateful that everyone in his family were heavy, late sleepers.

He didn't feel too bad for folding Seamus into his family category. Not even a bit.

He paused, his hand on the door, hesitation in his breath and heart, and only the thought of yesterday's Prophet headline - Family of Muggleborn targeted, Seven Dead - had his feet moving forward, and the door locking behind him.

Seamus had been living with them over the summer - his own mother and father escaping into the States for the time being. Before the term ended Seamus had been receiving multiple letters from them every day, each begging for him to attend them to the States. Seamus, his eyes always lingering on his boyfriend, never wrote back, and offhand asked if he spend the summer months with Dean.

Dean, confused but always willing, grinned and ruffled the other boys hair with an of course. Because of course.

Seamus’s eyes would catch on Dean’s broad shoulders, the ones that were currently shaking with laughter, and his dark eyes that held everything Seamus had ever wanted, and was certain.

On Dean’s thirteenth birthday, he wasn’t expecting any presents.

His mother had always been tight on money, and Nahilah and Naomi had just been born a month previously. He was hoping for a birthday letter, at most, but hey, his mother was trying to raise four girls under the age of ten while he was away, and he understood.

But Seamus had always been one to surprise him.

Because when he woke up on the morning of his birthday, it wasn’t to his usual wake-up call of Weasley bemoaning the existence of mornings, but to a heavy weight falling across his legs.

He sat up instantly, his eyes already open and clear. He didn’t know what he was expecting - he was used to this at home when there was at least one person always awake at all hours - but he managed to sometimes sleep in at school.

And, as Dean blinked to himself in surprise, Seamus was sitting up from his place on Dean’s legs, grinning widely and brilliantly.

“Happy Birthday mate!” He exclaimed, probably waking up the rest of their dormitory in the moment. He was bouncing up and down, putting no concern to his current place on Dean’s body.

But Dean couldn’t resist a grin. “Get off my legs, ya Irish goblin. I’m tryin’ to sleep over here.”

Seamus did as told, instead settling on the edge of the bed. “It’s your birthday! You’re thirteen, ya old man!”

Dean snorted, flipping the blanket over his shoulders. The tower tended to get especially cold in the morning, and he must have forgotten the warming charm he tended on most nights.

“Thanks Sea.” Dean only answered, pulling his legs up. It seemed like he wasn’t going to be falling asleep again, and the rest of their dormmates seemed to be coming to the same idea. He stretched, pushing his blankets off. “Let’s go get some breakfast before Weasley eats all the bacon, yeah?”

There was a noise of protest from the other side of the room, but Seamus paid it no attention. He only grinned wider, jumping up.

“You have to open your presents! It’s your birthday!”

Dean shook his head, ready to quietly explain what Seamus probably already knew, but cut him off as Seamus reached towards his bed, bringing back a newspaper wrapped box.

Seamus jumped back to his position, taking up more space on Dean’s bed then Dean currently was. “Here!” He only happily announced, shoving the box into Dean’s surprised hands.

Dean held out the package, the Daily Prophet playing out across the paper wrapping. It was slightly heavy, and rattled when Seamus had jotled with it.

“I -” Dean swallowed.

“Open it!” Seamus urged instead.

Dean dipped his head, and did so - carefully, and so slowly he could nearly feel Seamus vibrating with excitement.

He laid the paper to the side - he would probably be keeping it - and stared at the golden box in complete wonder.

Seamus smiled coyly, and it wasn’t like his usual sharp grins. “It’s a charcoal set, you know, muggle way. Like all the real artists had.”

Dean was nodding, his fingers tightening on the box. “Thank you Seamus.” He said first, softly, because his mother raised him to be polite. “I - I love it.”

Seamus’s grin turned familiar and sharp. “Now you can draw me!” He exclaimed, posing, and laughing when Dean kicked him softly, still absorbed in the gift.

Ron and Harry were standing behind Seamus now, laughing, and Neville was frantically shuffling through his truck. Ron and Harry threw a small package onto his blanket, explaining they went in a present together and that it was totally awesome - and it was! Coloring changing pencils, no spell required - his sisters would adore them when he returned home - and Neville finally emerged, looking relieved, with a package of chocolate frogs, hoping Dean would get the Ptolemy card he was looking for.

Seamus grinned at him surrounded by his precious gifts, not realizing how much this was to Dean. He wouldn’t realize for a while, how much he meant to Dean.

“Happy Birthday Dean!”

On Dean’s eighteenth birthday, he was completely sure he was going to die.

It was his fault, really, and that was the worst part. He had risked it - it was stupid. He just wanted to send off a quick letter - just a quick, scribble to let his family know he was alive - and they’d caught him.

The Snatchers kept jolting him around, demanding his name and shaking him until he felt like his head was going to snap completely off.

He muttered a name, even now unsure what he had said. It must have been the wrong thing to say, completely wrong from how they instantly threw him on the ground, each pulling out their wands.

He, on the cold, rain soaked gravel of Diagon Alley, - only feet from where he and Seamus had once kissed under one of the streetlights when it was dark and warm - stared at the end of the wand, and thought This is how I’m going to die.

He desperately thought of his sisters laughs, and his mother’s warm eyes, and how they would never know what happened to him. His time at Hogwarts - remembered in faded yellows - flashed by his eyes like the licks of a flame. He thought of Harry's fierce scowl and Ron’s loud jokes, and Hermonie’s soft voice always willing to talk him through a complex spell. He saw Ginny’s wide, sharp grin and Neville’s small smile he only shared after he solved a particularly difficult problem.

But he mostly thought of Seamus.

Seamus, when he was small and scrawny in first year. How Seamus was the first one to make him laugh, and always the last one he spoke to at night. Fourth year, when Dean was just beginning to notice how well he’d grown. Fifth year, when they’d first kissed, and then much other firsts. Sixth year, when they’d all grown up too fast, and much too grim.

He saw all of this in the matter of seconds, and he almost completely missed what the Snatchers were muttering.

Because moment later, he wasn’t dead, his wand was taken, and within the minute he was being apparated and thrown in a musty basement with dust in the air.

He thought of Seamus a lot those first few weeks.

He curled into himself in a corner, and thought almost obsessively, of the pale lines of the other boy’s chest, and the short pink scar that ran down the other boy's calf from a flying accident. He thought of the soft colored freckles that splashed over the other boy's shoulder blades, and the way he would ramble nonsense in his sleep, incapable of silence even in sleep.

He thought of how Seamus always made him laugh, and his chest glow with happiness. How Seamus would always catch Dean’s wrist first before moving down and lacing their fingers together. Seamus, as he kissed down Dean’s chest, would always drag his fingernails down Dean’s sides, leaving marks that would ache for hours. How Seamus’s neck would burn red as Dean leaned in for a kiss in the Great Hall, but always over-eager to share a lip-lock.

He did that for a long time, just laid there and thought and wondered when they were finally doing to do it, and why they were even waiting. On the bad nights - really bad nights - he would wake up from a nightmare, and he’d see You-Know-Who in the doorway, staring at him, and he’d always swallow his scream before his vision clear and he realized he was completely alone.

Dean began to plan.

Myla would be the oldest sibling when he died and – and that was good. Myla was smart, and she’d take care of their mother once – if – they ever found out what happened to him. Their mother would be ruined for a few months, but she was a survivor and after awhile she’d be okay – they would all be okay. Even Seamus, with how his fingers used to dig into Dean’s forearm and promise forever – he’d be okay. They would all move on and be okay and alive.

Even down here, alone and curled in a ball and obsessively thinking through the time after him, he couldn’t find himself to regret that. Leaving.

Because they were alive. He knew it.

At the moment, he was thinking of his charcoal set, the one from third year, the one he’d treated like gold bars instead of the cheap char and ash sticks they were, that was currently crushed and broken in a ditch on the other side of London. The single picture he'd taken, his last lifeline to every he'd left behind, the one taken last year at Christmas, was crumbled under the set, ripped and wrinkled and everything Dean was feeling like in that moment. He muttered softly to himself, reminding himself of how Professor Trelawney used to do the same thing in her office alone, but – but it was nice. To actually hear his voice instead of the crippling, ringing silence.

And then, just like that, the moment was shattered. The loud cellar door was being thrown open, but instead of a small loaf of bread hitting the ground like it did occasionally, it was a man crashing against the cement, an elderly man that was all bones and thin skin, and Dean was pressed against his side before he had taken another other breath.

The man was bleeding, a shallow wound from his forearm, likely a apparition gone wrong from the circular spin pattern of the cut. He – he learned that at Hogwarts, he vaguely thought, and remembered Hermonie flipping through a few articles about the gruesome subject.

Dean swallowed, feeling a bit numb, but used his few possessions to the best of his ability. The dusty rag he had found in one of the corners was curled in his hand, and his meager allowance of water was being pressed into the panting mans mouth. He vaguely recognized him, Dean was realizing, and the elderly man was having nearly the same realization.

Until the day he died, Mr. Ollivander would attest to the fact of how Dean Thomas had saved his life in a musty, dark cellar when he’d given up all hope.

And Dean Thomas, his eyes heavy with that darkness that seemed to go on forever, would proclaim the same.

They had allowed them a bit more food since Mr. Ollivander had arrived, and Dean had no idea how he could be so grateful to such horrible people.

He was bent over the other man, soaking the bland bread in water a bit to soften it and passing it along to the other man, when the door crashed open once again - much too soon to be the bread and water given to them nearly an hour ago. They both snapped up, Dean hurriedly putting down their cup of water with a clash, and stood, angling himself in front of the older man. His eyes had to take a moment to adjust to the sudden light, but even when they did, Dean had to blink back in surprise.

Because Luna Lovegood was in the doorway, stepping carefully down the dirty steps, which was absolutely horrible because although Dean was never close friends with the girl, Harry and Ginny both seemed to have a soft-spot for the Ravenclaw and she always seemed nice enough and no one deserved to be thrown down into a moldy, cold basement to die and this was horrible but –

But she was smiling.

“Oh, it’s just lovely to see you, Dean. I was wondering where you’d gone off too.” Luna gave him a pleasant smile. “As for you, Mr. Ollivander, you’ve aged particularly well, I see.”

The door crashed shut behind her, the sound of the lock sliding shut echoing through the small space, but she paid it no attention.

She walked over to them, frowning only a bit at Ollivander’s still-healing wound, and slowly sat cross-legged. Her blonde hair flowed down her back, and when she tilted her head, it brushed against the dirt on the floor.

“Luna.” Dean finally breathed out, bending down to sit with them. “Luna, you’re…here.”

“What do they want with a young girl like you?” Ollivander asked, his voice weak and tired. Dean frowned, passing over the cup with an urging hand until the man finally took it.

She shrugged, looking as casual as if they were just having a quick chat in the Great Hall. “My father, I assume.” She told them after a second, her voice full of air. “He’s been publishing anti-Voldemort articles in the recent issues of the Quibbler.”

Dean had to fight the shiver at her casual use of the name. “They grabbed you? Weren’t you at Hogwarts?”

She nodded, “I was traveling home for the Easter celebration Father and I have.” She frowned, “I do hope he remembers to feed the Blibbering Humdingers. They only appear once a year, you know.”

Dean took a breath, steadying the shock of panic at shot up in him. “It’s…Easter?”

Luna nodded, “April 13th. The Humdingers are scheduled to appear on the 15th, in the moment between night and dawn.” Her gaze turned dreamily, much too dreamily for such a horrible place, “I’ve heard they’re beautiful.”

Dean was still nodding, absorbing the information. “My family must be so worried.” He muttered, leaning back onto the concrete wall.

Ollivander squeezed his shoulder, much stronger than he was before, and nodded. Dean had already shared with him, and Ollivander also, but Luna only cocked her head to the side.

She picked at a piece of thread sticking out of her jumper. “I haven’t seen you in school. Everyone assumed you stayed with your family for the year.”

Dean glanced away. “I left my family in late August – it was too dangerous to keep around them. I managed to stay on my own for a while, a few months until –“ my birthday he swallowed, “Until December. They caught me and brought me here.” He gave her a half-shrug, still a bit unbelieving that she was here, in her bright jumper and soft colored tights and pink patterned trainers.

He took a careful breath, weighting his next words before speaking.

“Have you seen Seamus? At school?” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, the ache that been in his entire being

Luna nodded, “Yes. I have seen him with Ginny and Neville. They have been running the D.A. in the absence of Harry Potter.”

Part of him wanted to curse Seamus, for throwing himself in the danger that Dean was desperately, desperately trying to keep from him. The rest of him simply sagged in relief, nodding.

Hogwarts wasn’t the safest place in the world, but it was better then what he hoped for.

Seamus was okay.

He briefly entertained the thought of being able to see him again. Of being able to run in his arms and bury his face in the other boy’s neck and finally breathe free for the first time in months. He briefly entertained the thought of not dying down here, being able to hug his mother again and watch his little sisters grow older and be with Seamus and grow old himself.

He shook those thoughts – the ridiculous thoughts that would no doubt consume and destroy him if he fell to deep in drowning hope – and listened closely to Luna’s airy voice explain how she was captured.

Griphook was next, thrown in the same fashion they all had been. This time, Luna was the first one up and at his side, carefully looking for any injuries.

The goblin growled, “Get off of me, girl!”

“Sorry, sir.” She frowned at a cut on his forehead, steadily bleeding. “But you are bleeding. Would you mind if I helped?”

Dean was carefully lowering Ollivander off his shoulder where he had leaned for a nap, so he completely missed the surprised, slightly thrown, look Griphook shot Luna as she bend down to be eyelevel.

“All we have is a bit of water.” She pulled off the scarf she used to pull up her hair, “Would you mind?”

He stared at her for a long moment, the blood dripping into the corner of his eyes, and finally nodded.

Dean helped her carefully tie the fabric around Griphook’s forehead, cleaning the dirt out carefully, and lead them both over to Ollivander, now awake, was waiting.

As if a sick tradition, they listened to Griphook’s story, each retelling the abridged tale of their own. Dean wondered if they would be doing this again, and wished it not on any soul.

They were like that for weeks, he thinks. Speaking softly to each other, usually never too far from the other. They mostly stuck to Ollivander’s corner, telling each other stories they’d never think to tell or hear in any other circumstance. Dean learned how Ollivander made his first wand, and Griphook spoke softly about his wife, and his worry about her, in equal measure. His heart broke when Luna told them, still with air in her voice, about her mother, and her hope for the safety of her father and numerous fantasy-sounding creatures. And Dean…Dean told them about Seamus.

About falling in love with him and their years at Hogwarts and leaving him. Dean spoke about his sisters and his mother and hoped against whatever odds there were that they were safe, and that Seamus was safe.

Dean always stuck close to Ollivander, and Griphook seems to like Luna the most, with her patient listening ear and soft smiles. Dean and Luna always sat together though, and on the roughest of nights where Ollivander’s wound was burning like hot and most of them couldn’t sleep without a nightmare, their hands found each other in the dark, and squeezed roughly at the other’s hand. Dean wondered if they’d be here forever, when and how they’d die. Probably if the death eaters just decided they were too much trouble, via spell, or if they just stopped throwing down their meager food and water.

Dean was a details kind of guy, and on the worst nights, he came to a conclusion: they had nearly an entire bowl of water saved up from the bottom of the cup at the end of the night. They were all going to die, yes. But if through starvation or dehydration, maybe one of them could last. But yes, most of them were going to die. Ollivander first, his old age and injury needing more than they had. Griphook next, always refusing anything until Dean and Luna had their share. Dean next, as he’d refuse anything once they realized they were low, but would probably last longer than the other two men due to his young age and almost-still-there muscle. But Luna – Luna might be able to make it. It would be horrible, stuck in the moldy basement with three dead bodies and it might ruin her but – but she might be able to survive. Maybe someone would find her, realize they were all still down here, and she could survive on the bowl for awhile. She smiled at the death eaters when they briefly came in to make sure none of them have died, and spoke with a voice of happiness. She was too good to die down here, and they all knew it. She could make it.

They’d already told each other their If I don’t survive… declarations. She knew. She would tell his family and…and tell Seamus. He knew she would.

Luna could survive this. She needed to.

That was life for a long time.

Crying and telling stories and sharing crusts of food and sips of water. Dean, mentally planning grotesque details for what was probably going to happen, sat against the wall, Luna at his side as usual, as she went on about one of her favorite creatures - Crumple-Horned Snorkacks – when the door slammed open again, and Dean’s heart dropped because that meant the plan would be ruined and he’d have to start over and Luna had to get out and some poor soul -

But then Harry Potter was there - Ron yelling up the corridor – and Hermonie nowhere to be seen.

He…he didn’t know what was going on. Nothing was making sense and – he didn’t know what was going on.

They weren’t going to die in a moldy basement, he vaguely thought.

In one moment to the next, they were back at Hogwarts. Luna, always, at his side, Ollivander healing and Griphook helping with Harry’s next desperate adventure.

Dean was thrown in loud, bright room, filled to the brim with emotion and light. There was tension in the air, but they were greeted like heroes, and familiar faces – faces Dean thought he’d never see again – were flashing by, pulling him and Luna away and into hugs. Ginny Weasley was there, sobbing into Luna’s shoulder, and catching his eye and hand as he dipped around them, filling him with warmth from the simple action.

His hands were slightly shaking, letting himself being pulled into hugs and watching as people wiped at their cheeks at the sight of them. He swallowed, his eyes frantic over the crowd. Lee Jordan had announced them coming in, ecstatic, and – and he should have heard that, right? And he was so scared to ask someone – anyone – and the words were choking in his throat -

And then Seamus was being crushed into him. "I'm so mad at you." The other boy muttered, his hands betraying him as they tangled deep into Dean's dirty, kinky hair. He pressed his dry, chapped lips to Dean's neck, his mouth stumbling over old Irish prayers he used to know, and he didn't even seem to notice, or care, about the thick layer of dirt over the other boy's skin. “I thought you were - I thought -”

Dean gripped at his shoulders, the groves and bones so heart wrenchingly familiar, and he buried his nose deep in Seamus's neck, inhaling the sweat and dust that covered both of their skin. He was sobbing, he realized, sobbing as he clenched with too-thin fingers at Seamus’s body, Seamus, because Seamus was here and that meant Dean was free, he was free, and he wasn’t going to die in concrete basement.

"Where did you go." Seamus would ask - command - after they'd reluctantly pull away, unseperating, until they found a corner, the war quiet for now.

"Away." He stated obviously, so stupidly, but he – he couldn’t. Not now.

Seamus stares at Dean - so much older since they last shared a bed despite the months - and repeated himself.

"Where did you go."

Dean sighed, mostly out of emotion but also to clear his quickly tightening throat. "Shay," Dean looked up, meeting the other boy's clear colored, clouded eyed. "We both know you're eventually going to the get the story out of me. Just - right now..." Dean's eyes were desperate, his eyes flickering over every curve and wrinkle of Seamus's young face, and his hands twitched for a comfort he couldn't have. "Tell me something good. I…I haven’t heard anything good in awhile."

Seamus watched him, swallowing down his own beat of emotion at the hollow vulnerability in the other boy's voice. "Tamika's birthday just passed."

Dean's breath caught.

"We got her those dirt-less self-growing seeds she's wanted." He continued, and both of them ignored how wobbly his voice was becoming, but only Dean could hear the slight twinge of proud that came along with his words. "Her garden is coming along wonderfully."

"I told them you were called away on Ministry business." Seamus told him, his voice high and eyes red with emotion. "Your mother misses you - I've gotten nearly a dozen knitted sweaters she's told me to pass on, not to mention the ones she's gifted me."

Dean tipped his torso forward, his forehead resting on Seamus's shoulder as the other boy highlighted the past few months. Minutes in, Seamus's hand found itself curled around Dean's waist, only gently pulling him closer.

"You didn't have to stay." Dean told him, unsure how to make the phrase come out as a thank you. There was tears in his voice, tears he couldn’t just yet let run down his cheeks.

Seamus's voice was as soft as the gentle fingertips that traced over the back of Dean's hands. "I wasn't just going to leave them, Dean. Someone had to protect them." His words carried no blame, they were only stated as a soft fact.

When Dean spoke, his voice was raw. “I needed to protect them too.”

And the war was over, Harry was alive and so was Seamus and so was he, and he was sobbing so hard as Luna crashed into him, her arms tight around his waist as she, wonderful Luna, cried into his dirty clothes with the same relief and wariness and fear he was feeling.

Seamus was there, wrapping himself on Dean’s other side, each one of them shaking and laughing and sobbing into the other. Dean had blood on his hands, he realized, from when he was helping in the make shift infirmary, and it was getting all over Luna.

She didn’t seem to notice or care – they were both covered in enough dirt and blood to last a lifetime.

Luna pulled away, red-cheeked and beaming, her eyes just as sparkling as everyday in the cellar. Her eyes flickered to Seamus at his back, now pulling away, and nearly sagged with another wave of relief.

“Seamus.” She smiled, real and wide. “I am so glad you’re alright.”

She pulled him in for a tight hug, probably confusing Seamus a bit, but hell, everyone was hugging each other, so high on solace and exhaustion. He’d tell Seamus later, tell Seamus everything, but right now – right now he just threw his arm over Seamus’ shoulders, grabbed Luna’s hand, and lead them to the Great Hall. Luna would softly kiss his cheek, such hesitant and scared emotion in her eyes that Dean hadn’t ever really seen in her before.

After months curled together, everyday wondering if today was going to be the day he died – it was so difficult to pull away from her, smiling softly, as she ran off to find her father.

Seamus and Dean were surrounded by other war-torn students, some younger than they were, and too-many bodies laid still, covered by pale colored blankets and surrounded by crying peers.

They would sit and cry, clenching at each other. Seamus would stare at the ground, proclaiming he didn’t have a heart anymore, and Dean would swear he’d never heard anything as wrong as that.

Seamus was his heart – he was excitement and the wind that urged him forward in small smiles. He was the wheeze after a bout of laughter - the feeling of your first spell back at Hogwarts after a summer of nothing, when it felt like the magic was waking up in your chest, curling and warming up in anticipation.

Seamus not having that warmth – that heart in him – was impossible. Improbable. Illogical.

But Dean didn’t say that. Seamus – Seamus didn’t need to hear that right now.

Instead, he only gripped at the other boy’s hand and pretended it wasn’t slick with blood. “We can share mine, mate.”

The Great Hall, together curled on a single cot, was where they would both slowly break apart. It would take awhile for the other to put them back together but – but it would happen. They would do it together.

Someday.

They found out after that Griphook had died. They mourned.

Later, much later, after Dean had sent a fast letter to his mother, telling her he was coming home, and people and bodies were being walked out of the crumbling Hogwarts, he and Seamus were finally alone. Truly alone.

They were in one of the overflowing inns in Diagon Ally, needing privacy and rest in equal measure. They were leaving tomorrow for his mother’s. Hogwarts was in horrible mess, but they’d both be back. One day.

The door crashed open, a bit too familiarly, except now Seamus’ hands were twisted in his shirt, and they were chest-to-chest, and Dean was warmer than he’d felt in awhile.

"I don't think I can ever forgive you for that." Seamus told him through desperate kisses, their tongues and morals tangling.

Dean stripped his shirt, thankful for the dim lighting that hid his overexposed ribs and too pale skin. He was dirty, disgusting probably, but the only thing he wanted in that moment was to feel Seamus pressed against him, Seamus’s weight heavy on top of him, Seamus’s hands in his hair, and along his back and pressing against his skin and -

Seamus.

All he wanted in that moment was Seamus.

He told Seamus the story with nearly an entire bottle of firewhiskey filling his stomach. His tongue was still burning, his skin a flushed warmth, and the words were spilling out of him.

He told him about the months on the run and, in a quieter voice, about getting caught, and the time by himself and then Ollivander and then Luna and then Griphook and their time together.

His tongue was loose enough to mention the plan, and loose enough to explain it when Seamus asked.

He didn’t notice how white Seamus’s knuckles went around the table, clenching, but he did notice how tightly he curled around Dean that night.

He’d regret telling him in the morning – it was near the abridged version Dean had been planning on sharing – but Seamus would only shake his head and pull him against his chest and – and it would be okay.

The memorial was held at Hogwarts, one year after the end.

Everyone – everyone able – was there. The Professors, and all the students, but also the Weasleys and Hermonie, along with Harry and a blue-haired infant, and Neville was right there too, grinning slightly at the whole sight. Press, of course, but also graduated students who weren’t even there, and parents and more wizards and witches then Dean had ever seen in one place. Muggleborn family members and some American and French students, along with an entire bus full of Durmstrang students, all of their heads bowed down in respect. Even an array of Slytherin students, all adorned in dark, pressed nearly cloaks, stood apart, but stood silently and politely.

Luna was there, dressed in a soft blue to contrast against their mostly dark appeal. Ollivander was on her arm, limping softly, and they both caught his eye as they walked in, understanding when he waved them on. Seamus, of course, was there, his mother reluctantly along, depending on him to lead her through the hallways.

Dean breathed the clean, cold air, and his eyes fluttered shut. He was wearing one of his charcoal cloaks, still a bit too baggy even when it was several sizes smaller than his previous. But it was fitting better than it had months before, and Dean was allowed to count that as a win.

Hogwarts was truly a beautiful place.

They had recreated the building to scale, with the addition of a nicely done plague for those lost in the war-time hanging in the Great Hall. The forbidden forest was still growing, but nature would always heal itself. Even from here, Dean could spy the fields of fresh grass just starting to sprout from the dirt.

The first few months, Ollivander and Luna were over once a month, carefully hesitant and almost awkward at the beginning. They’d make bitter tea and speak quietly about their lives and how hard it was to move on, and Seamus would sit with him until some of the details were too much and he’d move into the kitchen to clench at the counters and take breaths.

Luna would talk about her father mostly, but also about Ginny and Harry and usually fill them in on their classmates. Ollivander would once mention how much trouble he was having running the wand shop, and by the end of the meeting Luna would be his official assistance.

Ollivander would move in into their spare bedroom after a few months, unable to live on his own anymore, and Dean enjoyed it a lot more he thought. He and Seamus got on spectacularly; discussing dragon heartstrings and faerie skin in equal excitement, and Ollivander actually seemed willing to try Seamus’s new, vaguely threatening sounding dishes.

They had each written to Griphook’s wife, each of them with vivid stories he told about her and his if case I die… promise long sense memorized. That time had been rough, speaking about that over untouched cold tea, remembering how thirsty and hungry they’d get, how much dirt and hurt that cellar held.

Dean was still having trouble eating his fill, but the tea cakes Luna would make were good, and she always made much too many, and everything was always easier for a few hours.

Over tea, without thinking, he would draw them. Luna, feeding a pleased-looking Ollivander a tea cake, and Seamus laughing in the background. Little Wrackspurts floating along all their heads, sunshine splashing across the table.

By the time he was done, brushing the lead pieces and eraser shavings off the thin napkin, he realized he hadn’t drawn since before.

Seamus would hang it in the hallway, in one of those chessy family frames but – but Dean didn’t stop him, and it kind of made sense.

It was all starting to make sense.

Notes: Soooo first HP fic in years. I haven't written anything in the HP world since I was 14, and I forgot how much FUN it was. I might possibly return to this world :) Title & excerpt from 'A Million Years Ago' from our holy mother Adele. I understand that this does not follow the canon storyline - I took some creative license with the idea. This has been sitting in my googledocs for around a year now and I finally decided to finish and post it. P.S. the working title for this was "dean thomas is an angsty cinnamon roll" just thought you should know

#Dean Thomas #seamus finnigan #dean x seamus #luna lovegood/dean thomas brotp #Harry Potter series #fanfic #fanfiction #rosy writes #battle of hogwarts centric

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