#seamus writes

[a-boros-named-seamus]

As the Citadel fell around him, Shepard thought about the Normandy. About every member of his crew. About Kaidan.

🎵 “It started out as a feeling,”

He remembered meeting the man, just before Eden Prime. Fighting aside him and Ash, with him on that last desperate sprint to the Conduit.

🎵 “Just because everything's changing, doesn't mean it's never been this way before.”

And then there was Alchera. Promising Kaidan he would be fine just as soon as he got joker to a pod. Struggling to breathe as his suit vented into the void.

🎵 “Now we're back to the beginning,”

And then there was Horizon. That terrible day. Kaidan looking at him like a traitor, a puppet dancing to the Illusive Man's tune, had broken something in his heart that he hadn't known was there. He thought of Kaidan when he destroyed the Collector Base

🎵 “But just because they can't feel it too, doesn't mean that you have to forget.”

Mars had been... hard. He had desperately wanted Kaidan to trust him again, had tried so hard to convince him, but there was little time for talking, and he wasn't comfortable baring his heart in front of Liara and her obvious, unwelcomed, crush on him.

Nevertheless the pain in his heart drove him to try. And it had been working, step by step.

🎵 “Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light.”

And then Eva Core had tried to collapse Kaidan's skull. He'd barely been able to tear him away from Kaidan's bedside, let alone sleep. And when he had slept, his dreams had been full of the words of the dead. The Vista of the Citadel's wards arcing out if the Widow Nebula had been as beautiful as ever, but it had been hard to think about anything but the paramedics EDI had called to meet them in the docking bay. Watching them take Kaidan away had filled him with a profound sense of dread.

🎵 “It's just a feeling and no one knows yet,”

"Maybe some things get better with age"

"Or maybe you have"

Kaidan chuckled. "Are you flirting with me, Commander? Wait, wait! Don't tell me. Let me live in the illusion"

Shepard's heart had skipped a beat there. He'd been going out on a limb and kaidan had been happy. Had encouraged him.

There was still an ache deep within his heart, but it was closing.

🎵 “You'll come back when it's over,”

Kaidan lowering his gun there on that Citadel had healed that secret hurt that he'd been nursing since Horizon. Their conversations on Mars and in Huerta had helped, but this one absolute moment of trust closed it forever, leaving naught but a memory.

🎵 “And then that word grew louder and louder 'til it was a battle cry,”

That date, that 'sanity check' at Apollo's Cafe. It had been... oh god it had been perfect. They'd both danced around the subject, just a bit, but in the end they'd come together and stuck that way.

And later, at the car lot, when he'd been running from CAT-6 and relying on his barriers and wits. He'd walked through a door to find Kaidan standing there in his armor and toying with mercs, and his relief, adrenaline, fear, and love had all mixed together to make that tableau the single hottest thing he had ever seen.

🎵 “All you can do is try to know who your friends are as you head off to the war,”

His thoughts went to that last party on the Citadel. All of his living crewmates had been there sharing moments both raucous and quiet. It had done his soul good. The cracks that had started with abandoning Ashley had finally begun to close. His favorite part had been the morning after. He'd woken up next to Kaidan and gone on to find his crew enjoying the morning quiet.

🎵 “Let your memories grow stronger and stronger ‘til they're before your eyes,”

The last memory was that of Kaidan coming up to his quarters just before the assault on Cerberus. Good drinks, a good talk, and even better sex. It had been the perfect night, even as death's specter loomed.

And then, he returned to present.

🎵 “Which then grew into a hope, which then turned into a quiet thought, which then turned into a quiet word,”

Just breathe. He repeated it to himself over and over, his cybernetics straining to keep him alive beneath the rubble. He could see teams searching the wreckage, but couldnt call out, because he had to focus on breathing.

He'd managed to tap into every eezo nodule in his body, pushing his biotincs to their limit on order to break his fall and keep himself from being utterly crushed, and it had still been just barely enough. But there was hope for him yet

As he started to slip away, he heard rescuers drawing close.

"Call the Normandy. We found him alive"

🎵 “No need to say goodbye,”

He awoke to several familiar sensations. The rubbing of soft sheets. The scent of flowers. Warm sunlight on his skin. A monitor beeping in time with his heart.

"Shepard?"

Kaidan was there next to him, holding some sort of report and looking dreadful. He also looked beautiful. Like the dawn after a long, cold night.

They spent a few quiet moments of relief together until EDI, who had of course hacked the hospital to keep an eye on his heart monitor, ushered everyone in. Or, well. All of them that could fit in a private hospital room.

The rains had passed, a beautiful new day had dawned, and they were all here to see it.

[practically-an-x-man]

I have a loose fragment of poem/song lyric I wrote with mostly Vivienne and Wojchek in mind. Not sure how well it fits, but I thought I'd send it to you.

My bride she is a storm on the sea I know some day she'll be my grave My life I know is hers to claim before some day I join her waves In the deep my soul will be With my siren of the sea

I live my life on all its seas I find salvation in its grace I hear its voice deep in the night it keeps my heart from evil's fright the devil won't find me as I roam as she swims near ship and home

I speak with it when I'm far from shore it sings to me to stop my wreck I seek her out upon the sea she joins me on an empty deck On the ship that I call home In her grasp where I belong.

OH MY GOODNESS this is so perfect for them!!! You really captured their dynamic so well, and writing it as song lyrics makes it even more fitting for their story and their relationship! It's genuinely so perfect for them, I can't stop rereading it!

You really captured Vivienne and Wojchek so well, thank you for sharing this <3

[mournfulroses]

Seamus Heaney, from a poem titled "Roots," featured in Contemporary Irish Poetry

[t1oui]

writing 8th year is actually kinda fun. also as much as oblivious ron is funny ron being the only one who knows what's going on is way more entertaining (in my opinion)

[the-sun-is-also-a-star]

microfic: touch

| drarry | sfw | 741 words |

Touch was special to Harry.

At first it was terrible, coming from a household where every touch was violent and love was rare. 

Hogwarts changed that.

Ron would throw his arm over his shoulder after a quidditch match and Hermione would fall asleep on his shoulder while they studied late. It was odd, but soon it became as easy as breathing.

Soon touch became the way Harry would communicate. He'd lightly shove Seamus with his shoulder and press his knee to Luna's when he'd sit on the floor with her to listen to her daily rants. He'd kiss Hermione's forehead before she left a room and tug on Ron's clothes to get his attention. He'd make sure that he was always touching someone at some point. 

Harry Potter was not a boy who was shown a lot of love through touch, but he expressed it oh so generously. 

When Draco and Harry became hesitant friends in 8th year, Harry was nervous. 

The war had not ruined his affinity for physical touch as a means of comfort, in fact, it may have exacerbated it. 

But Harry did not know if Draco liked to be touched and with a friendship so rocky, he wasn't willing to risk it. 

But like all things with Draco, everything just sort of clicked. 

When they sat together for lunch in the great hall (a fact that made Harry giddy with joy for some reason?) he found Draco sitting close enough that their arms pressed together. 

When they sat next to each other in class, Draco's leg would be close enough to brush against his every now and then. 

When they sat on the couches in the 8th year common room, all of their friends sitting together, squashed up on the couches, Draco and him would sprawl all over each other, limbs entangled and unbearably comfortable. 

All in all, Harry loved it. 

It was when they started dating that it all came to a crux. 

It was their first year out of Hogwarts, and with Draco beginning his time consuming journey of training to become a potions master, a relationship was the last thing that you would assume could work out. 

But they made it work, they always do. 

Harry didn't care that Draco had odd hours because he had to sometimes check on potions at weird times in the night, he didn't care that sometimes Draco would spend entire afternoons reading on potions textbook or the other, he didn't care that sometimes Draco had to cancel plans last minute because his mentor was an utter ass and had Draco running at his beck and call. 

It should have bothered him, especially as early as it was into their relationship as it was, but it didn't. 

He didn't care because when Draco got back from his odd hours he would always kiss the crown of Harry's head, and get back into bed, going back to spooning him like he never left.

He didn't care because when Draco spent entire afternoons reading, he always did it on the couch next to Harry, his legs curled up next to him and his body leaning into his, and afterwards he would kiss Harry and thank him for being so patient with him. He didn't care because everytime before he got back from his mentor he would kiss Harry on the cheek, and hug him, tightly, promising that as soon as his internship was done he would never cancel plans again because he knew how important stability was for Harry. 

Harry was never that good with expressing how he felt, but he loved Draco Malfoy, and he expressed that very clearly. He expressed it in the way he linked their pinkys together. He expressed it the way he hugged Draco from behind when he made coffee in the morning. He expressed it in the way he swung their hands when they walked anywhere. 

And Draco loved him, oh how Draco loved him. 

Draco loved him in the way he let Harry bury his face in his neck when he was cold. Draco loved him in the way he put his arm around Harry's chair when they went to pub nights with their friends. Draco love him in the way he pulled him close when they were dancing. Draco loved him.

Touch was everything to Harry, it was how he loved and how he wanted to be loved.

And oh, how he was loved.

[cobrakaisb]

🍺with adam fantilli?

based on the song no hands by waka flocka flame

"what song is a must play for you?" rutger asked, looking at you over the rim of his red solo cup. you were currently in a heated game of cup pong at a party at the hockey house. the teams were you and seamus versus rutger and luca, and to be quite honest, seamus was not carrying his weight. regardless, you moved to take the shot while also answering rut's question, "no hands."

"girl what?" seamus asked, finally paying attention. "girl what?" you repeated, "it's such a banger. the second i hear the opening, i want to get up and dance." "on your boyfriend," luca teases, and the other guys laugh. "yeah, on my boyfriend. sorry that you don't have one," you snap back, sinking the ball into the cup.

"sorry that luca doesn't have what?" adam, your boyfriend, asks as his arm wraps around your waist and head rests on your shoulder. your hand reaches behind you, patting his cheek gently, as you answer, "a boyfriend." adam laughs at your response, kissing your cheek affectionately. "of course he doesn't have one, he's too busy third-wheeling us," adam teases. "oh ha ha. at least my partner isn't obsessed with no hands," luca replies, taking a sip of beer. "no hands? what's he talking about?" adam asks, looking at you, but instead of explaining your given a sign from god himself.

listen to this track. girl the way you moving, got me in a trance, dj turn it up, ladies this yo jam.

"oh my god. adam, let's go dance. please? y'know it's my favorite," you beg, already leading him away from the cup pong table. "i know babe," he answers, following you as seamus pats him on the back.

[edwardian-girl-next-door]

"I cannot be weaned / Off the earth's long contour, her river veins."

~ Seamus Heaney, "Antaeus" from Death of a Naturalist (1966)

[what-even-is-sleep]

thinking about Bodkin again bc I mean,,, ALL THE SYMBOLISM OHHHHHGH. i NEED some tumblr film analysis hobbyists to watch this show and tell me all the themes n such

[nicohischierz]

the perfect wingman: seamus casey

tagging: @ivy-34, @hzstry8, @francesfarhardi, @cixrosie, @heartz4hisch, @trevs-swiftie

it was a running joke in the team that seamus was the perfect wingman.

he would try chat up a girl but lose out so bad that when one of his friends came to ‘save him’ they’d end up with the girl they wanted.

and today was no different.

except this time, seamus was brought along in the hopes of accompanying the girls friend. the florida native followed luca, adam and gavin as they approached a group of four girls.

the three other boys had immediately been approached by a girl who they seemed to have conversed with before.

seamus however, thought he was striking out again as the other girl had her back turned to him with her phone out.

“i am so sorry about that, i had to help a friend out,” the girl explained as she turned to face seamus.

seamus was at a loss for words. there’s no way you were standing in front of him.

“seamus casey?” you asked.

the boy nodded as you brought him in for a hug.

“h-hi y/n, you look great,” he complimented.

seamus was nervous. well more nervous than usual.

“i was wondering how long it’d take before i see you again. i thought i’d have to go down to yost,” you joked.

“i mean you could text me in instagram cause you know we follow each other,” he muttered.

you smiled at him and handed him your drink which he gladly accepted. you were shocked that seamus was still the nervous boy you remembered, you thought being a hockey player he’d be more confident.

“so what are you doing here?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

“well, my friends have been chatting up some of your teammates and i guess they mentioned being here,” you replied.

it took seamus a while to figure out that you played the exact role he did with his teammates. but he couldn’t understand why.

you were the most beautiful person he had ever laid eyes on. he loved the way you tied your hair to get it out of your face and the way you payed full attention to whoever was speaking.

“how come you’re stuck with me shea? i thought by now you’d have a lovely girlfriend who you’re mad over,” you asked.

seamus shrugged.

“i guess people don’t like guys who can’t string two sentences in front of them,” he tried to joke.

but all it did was make you sad.

“hey, i know this ice cream joint like two blocks over, so you wanna go?” you asked.

seamus nodded immediately and the two of you headed towards your friends to say goodbye.

“y/n?!” gavin exclaimed, bringing you in for a hug.

you returned the gesture and quickly explained that you and seamus were going out to have ice cream. the other six nodded and went back to their conversations.

the one night of ice cream, turned into weekly ice cream runs.

which then turned into movie night and ice cream.

and then movie night, ice cream and monday breakfast.

it was during one of your movie nights that seamus finally had enough courage to ask you out. you wasted no time bringing the boy in for a kiss, leaving your movie unattended.

the two of you managed to keep your relationship a secret for months but finally decided it was time to tell everyone.

“are you shea?”

“it’s now or never,”

and with that you pressed post and switched your phone off, cuddling into your boyfriends arms.

yourusername

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yourusername: his job is beach

tagged: seamuscasey26

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not even two seconds later, gavin barged into seamus room with luca and rutger in tow.

“what the fuck!”

[iwritesickfic]

Surprise

part 1! - partially in response to a few prompts, partially its own thing. enjoy!

Seamus is almost vibrating with excitement. He hasn’t seen Theo in a month, and tonight is finally going to be the night. He’s been touring, and though Seamus would love to travel with him, he has all his own shit to do in Ireland. Lots of shit. Unfortunately.

But he finally had the time to fly the 7 and a half hours to New York to see Theo perform this week. And Theo has no idea. He's taken every precaution to make sure of that.

The show is just about over, and Seamus is standing in one of the cinderblock and concrete access hallways below the stadium, fidgeting like he’s waiting for his prom date.

Then Theo’s there, swarmed by crew members and production people, gorgeous as ever. He’s still a ways away down the hall, and it doesn’t seem like he’s seen Seamus yet. He gives it a few moments before calling out.

“Theo!” A few heads turn, and Theo looks around, totally confused, so Seamus calls again. “Theo!” His voice echoes in the cavernous space, and finally Theo’s eyes find his. Then he’s sprinting down the hallway toward him, nearly knocking Seamus over as they embrace.

The first thing Seamus notices above all else is how hard he’s trembling. It’s more like shaking. Seamus holds him tight, pulling him flush against him, and feels Theo start to cry, his face buried in Seamus’s neck. He's sobbing, gasping for breath. He’s slick with sweat, his hair stuck to his temples and forehead.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Seamus says gently, and kisses his cheek. “Are you happy to see me?” He asks teasingly, and Theo pulls back, looking half overjoyed and half exhausted. He presses a kiss to Seamus’s lips, then rests his forehead on his, eyes closed. He's out of breath - from the crying or the sprint or the kiss Seamus isn't sure.

“You have no fucking idea,” Theo whispers. His voice sounds totally shot, and he’s still shaking. He’s flushed and warm too, but that can probably be chalked up to the fact he just did a two hour set under stage lights. “Please tell me you’re staying the night. Please, fuck.”

His arms are looped around Seamus's neck.

“As long as you want,” Seamus says, and presses another kiss to his cheek. God, he’s warm. He runs his hand through Theo’s sweat damp hair, pushing some off his face and forehead. “You wanna sit down?” Theo nods, and Seamus guides him to a folding chair. He stumbles, and Seamus catches him by the elbow.

He’s getting more and more concerned with each passing moment. He’s seen Theo after shows before, and it’s never this bad. He almost seems drunk.

Theo practically collapses into the chair, then folds forward, elbows on knees, head in his hands. His greasy strands of auburn hair hang down around his face. Seamus lays a hand on his back and squats down.

"Are you ok?" he asks, hushed, and Theo nods, but doesn't say anything. "Are you sure?" He swallows thickly and looks up.

"I'm so happy you're here Shay, I'm just having a terrible fucking day and I-" he stops abruptly as he sees something over Seamus's shoulder and forces a smile.

"Amazing show tonight!" a female voice says, and Seamus looks back to see Emma, the tour manager. Immediately Seamus feels his shoulders tense. He and Emma always seem to be getting into screaming matches. He never intends it to be that way, but that's how it always ends up.

"Thanks," Theo says, voice still hoarse. She keeps walking, and as soon as she's gone, his smile drops again. He lowers his voice and looks back to Seamus. "Can we just go? Please, can we go home?" He sounds on the verge of tears, like he's unsure of what the response will be. Seamus tucks some of his hair behind his ear.

"Teddy, of course." He's beyond worried now. Theo stands, and Seamus is about to make a joke when Theo's eyes roll back. Then he's falling. Seamus is frozen for a second before he makes a desperate grab for his arm. It doesn't help. He's limp, and though Seamus manages to break his fall somewhat, he's on the ground. "Theo!"

A crowd starts to gather almost immediately, and Seamus's heart feels like it's going to burst out of his throat.

Theo's eyes are already fluttering open again, but in contrast to how flushed he was a minute ago, he's gray-pale now. A soft noise escapes his chapped lips.

There's a medic kneeling beside them now, and Seamus lays his hand on Theo's chest. Theo's hand clumsily finds his, fingers still trembling. Seamus's hand is shaking too.

"You with us, Theodore?" the medic asks, and Theo nods, starting to push himself up. Both Seamus and the medic simultaneously ease him back down. "Whoa, take it slow. Just relax for a minute. I'm gonna take your blood pressure, alright?"

Theo nods again, his eyes falling closed.

The crowd is murmuring, and another medic arrives. They exchange a few words before he goes to work too. Taking his temperature, his blood oxygen, his pulse. The whole time, Seamus is sick to his stomach. He just tries to focus on the feeling of Theo's chest rising and falling beneath his palm.

Finally, they sit him up and he opens his eyes and the first thing he does is lean his forehead down onto Seamus's shoulder. He's still holding his hand, and Seamus squeezes it tight. He's also still extremely warm, and Seamus really wants to ask the medic what his temperature was.

"Dehydrated?" he asks instead, and the medic tilts his head as if to say "sort of." He stands and starts to talk to Emma, who looks more stressed out than concerned. Seamus tries to make out what they're saying, but he can't quite. He knows it's more than dehydration. Something is wrong, and Emma knows. The medic knows. Everyone knows but him. And it's making his blood boil.

"Shay, please, I wanna go home," Theo whispers, his lips hot and dry against Seamus's throat. His face is tucked in the crook of Seamus’s neck. His pleading, soft voice brings Seamus back down, and he's able to shift his focus.

"I know," he whispers back. He rubs his back, and Theo hums. "When did you start feeling sick?"

"I'm fine. Please just get me the fuck out of here." He's obviously not fine, but now isn't the time to argue the obvious. The second medic returns with a bottle of Pedialyte and a straw, which Seamus hands to Theo.

"What's - Do you know…?" he asks, and he doesn't miss the way the medic's eyes dart over to Emma before he answers. It relights the fire in his stomach.

"Low blood pressure from dehydration. Once he drinks that he should be good to go," he says, and leaves before Seamus can ask anything else.

"Maybe we could get you an IV?" Seamus asks, and Theo shakes his head.

"Seamus, please just get me home. Please."

"Ok."

He texts the driver to pull around and a flags down a PA to grab them a golf cart. He has to practically hold Theo up as they get into the cart, and as soon as they sit down, he presses his too warm body against Seamus's.

It's the same story for the car, and as soon as the door shuts and they're on their way, Theo lets out a heavy sigh.

"What's going on?" Seamus finally asks, and Theo tucks his head back against his shoulder.

“Tough show,” he mumbles, and when Seamus's silence indicates he isn't satisfied with that explanation, he sighs "I feel like shit.”

"I can tell." He presses his lips to Theo's temple, and is sure beyond a shadow of a doubt he has a fever. "How long?"

"Long time," Theo says. Seamus has so many questions he can't even get one out.

"You've been sick?" He finally asks. Theo nods. "How… What is it?"

"My throat,” he murmurs, and Seamus brings his hand to Theo’s throat, feeling under his jaw. Sure enough, his glands are swollen, and when he brushes his fingertips over them Theo stiffens.

“Baby,” Seamus breathes out, and Theo shakes his head weakly.

“It's not that bad.” Again, Seamus doesn't need to say anything for Theo to get the message. “Ok, well it's better. It's getting better.”

Finally, Seamus asks the question that's been bothering him the most.

“Why didn't you say anything?”

Theo takes a breath like he's about to speak, but the sound of his phone ringing cuts him off. Seamus is about to tell him to leave it, but Theo is already pulling it up to his ear.

“Hey,” his weak voice says, and though Seamus can hear someone speaking on the other end, he can't make out who. Eventually, he just hands the phone over to Seamus.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Seamus. You guys are headed back to Brooklyn?” It's Zeke, Theo's manager.

“Yeah, we’re on the bridge.” He pauses, staring out the window.

“Ok, that's fine, we were all just wondering where you guys went. Especially since he passed out, we wouldn't - well… It's just good you're getting him home.”

“Tell me what's been going on,” Seamus says, and Theo makes a small sound of protest beside him.

“Seamus,” he whispers, as if pleading with him to drop it.

“Realistically, we can’t cancel every time-” Zeke starts.

“Zeke!” Seamus snaps, incredulous.

“I care about him just as much as you, but what has to be done has to be done.” Even he doesn’t sound fully convinced.

“Spare me,” Seamus spits back.

“Shay, please,” Theo murmurs, and Seamus takes a deep breath.

“Just tell me everything.”

–

He didn’t have to carry Theo in from the car, but he certainly had to carry him upstairs. He’s exhausted, not even to mention the fever he's running. Someone in perfect health would be exhausted after the tour schedule Theo has.

He’s had some kind of throat infection for at least the last month, and he's been doped up on painkillers and antibiotics nonstop for the last two weeks. In the interest of keeping him on stage they've had a doctor shooting him up with Prednisone before each show. If it wasn't for the steroid shots he likely wouldn't be able to talk, let alone sing.

Seamus always knew deep down the label would do anything to keep their tour rolling. But he never imagined it would come to this. Performing with a throat injury is playing with fire, it’ll be a miracle if his voice doesn’t need serious rehab. For now though, Seamus is just focused on trying to make the best of the situation at hand.

Theo is sitting on the edge of their bed, flushed and shivering, while Seamus slowly helps him out of his sweat damp clothes. As he goes, he presses kisses to Theo’s overheated skin, slowly and reverently. Theo melts under him, pushing himself as close as he can get.

The way he’s pressing closer, the sounds he’s making - it all says he wants things to go further, but Seamus knows that would be ill advised at best, disastrous at worst, so when Theo’s fully undressed he pulls away.

Still, he leaves one hand on Theo’s head, the other on his shoulder.

“I’m gonna go make some tea, alright?” Seamus says, and Theo gives him such a miserable look Seamus almost wants to forget it and just lie down with him right now. He runs his thumb over Theo’s temple. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

He kisses his forehead before heading back downstairs to the kitchen. He can’t decide whether he’s more livid or worried out of his mind.

A month. He’s been sick for a month, and he didn’t tell Seamus. Seamus imagines him in fancy hotel rooms trying to sleep with a soaring fever. All by himself. Shivering, aching after a two and a half hour show. It’s enough to make Seamus want to punch a hole in the wall.

While he’s making the tea, he schedules an appointment with Theo’s doctor and his ENT for tomorrow morning. He’ll need to dig through Theo’s bag to find his antibiotics, not that they seem to be doing any good.

The last call he makes is to Emma. While the line rings, his jaw is clenched so hard it hurts.

“Hey there, Seamus,” she says when she picks up.

“Hey there, Emma,” he says, barely holding himself back. “I was just calling to let you know we’ll need to be rescheduling the next week of shows. So that’s…” He squints at his notebook. “The next two nights in Edison, then Boston, Philly, and Pittsburgh.”

There’s a long silence. So long he almost thinks she hung up.

“Ok, Seamus. I understand you’re concerned for him. We’re all concerned for him. We all want what’s best for his health.”

“Emma,” he starts, just barely contained.

“We’ve discussed this in the past, and I’ve explained to you time and time again that he is an adult. He does not need you coming to his rescue, especially when you don’t have the full story. He’s perfectly capable of telling us himself if he’s too unwell to perform. Frankly, I think your behavior -”

“That is such fucking bullshit, and you know it.”

“Please,” she sounds bored more than anything, and that’s only making him angrier. “Can I explain?”

“How he lost 15 pounds in a month? Why he can’t stand up without blacking out? Why I wasn’t told about any of this?”

“You’re his boyfriend. Not his mother, not his husband - his boyfriend. And maybe the question you should be asking is why he didn’t tell you.”

Seamus’s fists are clenched so hard he feels his fingernails digging into his palms. He forces himself to relax. He takes a deep breath before continuing, fighting to keep his voice even.

“The bottom line is he’s not showing up for the next week. So do whatever you need to do, this isn’t a discussion.”

“Maybe you should discuss this with Theo before you break his contracts for him,” she says, her tone more grave. Of course now that her money is on the line it’s suddenly very serious.

“Goodbye, Emma.”

He wants to throw his phone. But the tea is done and Theo is upstairs waiting for him, so he takes another deep breath and heads back up.

When he walks in the doorway to their bedroom his heart nearly breaks in half. Theo's curled under the comforter shivering, breathing like he's trying not to cry.

Seamus doesn't hesitate in getting closer - they've been apart too long. He pulls Theo into his lap and strokes his hair, trying to not let how overheated he feels overwhelm him.

He's on fire with a fever, and it doesn't help that what little Pedialyte he drank has probably burned off already.

“Seamus,” he murmurs, like it's the only word he knows.

“I made you some tea,” Seamus says softly, and Theo makes a soft sound. “I'm gonna grab the thermometer and some ibuprofen and I'll be right back, ok?” He feels Theo nod, so he maneuvers his way out from under him and into their ensuite.

In addition to the thermometer and medication, he soaks a washcloth in some lukewarm water. When he gets back, Theo's half sitting up, taking hesitant sips of the tea, eyebrows furrowed.

Seamus climbs onto the bed next to him and presses the damp cloth to Theo’s forehead.

“I love you so much,” Theo whispers, and his voice sounds even worse than it did an hour ago. Seamus just kisses his cheek. He brings the thermometer up, and doesn't need to say a word for Theo to open his mouth obediently.

They sit there in silence as they wait for the reading, Seamus combing his sweaty hair out with his fingers. He’s terrified to see what his temperature actually is, and tries not to panic when he reads “102.8”

“Why didn't you tell me?” He finally asks.

Theo presses his chapped lips into a line and sighs. Seamus draws the damp washcloth down the side of his throat, then down his sternum.

“You know I would've dropped everything. I would've been on the first flight,” Seamus says, and Theo’s trembling fingers wrap around his wrist. They're so unnaturally warm.

“That's exactly why I didn't tell you, Shay.”

[l1lyfl0w3r]

I desperately need a fic with a 'fake lovers' trope but where they don't fall in love.

For example

Ginny x Dean

Where Dean x Seamus is the actual ship

But Ginny wants Harry to be jealous, and Dean wants a way to forget about Seamus.

In the end Dean x Seamus start dating after Seamus gets upset and confesses.

Ginny gives up on Harry. Harry realises he likes Ginny after the fact. Maybe they end up together in 6th year, maybe not.

Canon compliant as much as possible but also not at the same time. Iykyk, I don't even know tbh

I will probably have to write this myself, unless someone wants to do it for me.

[snuggerudism]

CHRISTMAS COOKIES | Seamus Casey

event masterlist

banner by @bernardsbendystraws

warnings: none

Three weeks ago, offering to bake all of the desserts for the Utica Comets Christmas party seemed like a good idea. Now, you were seriously kicking yourself for it.

Seamus gets home from practice as your scouring through your recipe book, flipping through the desserts section.

“Babe?” Seamus rest his hand on the small of your back, rubbing it in circles. “What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing. I just need to pick out what desserts I’m making and bringing to your team party.”

“Let me help.” He sits on the stool next to you, and you slide the recipe book in between the two of you.

“I’m definitely making my christmas cheesecake bars and brownies. How many types of cookies should I do?” You look at Seamus, fixing his hair absentmindedly.

“Two types should be plenty.” He watches as you add that to your list.

“I’m thinking of cake pops, some type of dessert dip, chocolate covered strawberries, and a salted caramel truffle.”

“Anything you make they’ll love.” He smiles at you.

“You’ll help me make them?” You look up at him with curious eyes.

“Absolutely.”

“Perfect. I want to get started on the cookies now,” You reach for the pantry on your tiptoes, cursing yourself for putting all the supplies on the top shelf. “Shea? A little help here?”

“Let me.” One of his hands rests on your hip as he grabs the things you need with ease.

Seamus smiles as he watches you move around the kitchen with ease, like you’re in your element. Baking has always been one of the things that brought you the most joy, and you often found yourself doing it.

“Shea, I’m gonna use the bathroom quickly. Can you put that in with the dry ingredients?” You point in the general direction of the baking powder.

“Absolutely.” He gives you a nod and smile.

He’s doing exactly as told, not wanting to mess up your desserts.

You give him a quick peck on the cheek when you come back, letting a thank you slip past your lips.

Later, when you’re frosting the cookies together, he comes up behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, pressing a various number of kisses to your cheek and neck.

“I love you Shea.” You turn your head so your looking at him.

“I love you more babe. Thank you for doing this.”

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

The Sangre de Cristo Mountains, viewed from Cuchara Valley, Colorado (Aug 29, 2024) :: [Robert Scott Horton]

* * * *

"For he had gone alone into the island / And brought back the whole thing."

[Seamus Heaney]

[gracilissart]

intraliminal; to walk the line between life and death

character: seamus wrynn written by: graciliss word count: 1975 words content warnings: descriptions of gore, death, depersonalisation and automutilation

It was like waking up, not knowing you had slept in the first place.

Describing what being rejected by the indiscriminate arms of death felt like was almost as mystifying as dying itself. Wrong, one could say it was, to drift within the liminal space of life and death. Wrong was how it felt, at the very least.

Disappointing?

By definition, that came close. How could one ever live on a second time after perishing painfully? There was no coming back from dying deliciously; not to someone like Seamus.

Fear was what he last remembered feeling as he slipped away into death’s loving slumber. At least he thought so, for he never could be certain. People always provided the man with conflicting definitions when asked about such abstractions: joy, sorrow, rage, terror, love. The common human being enjoyed communicating in concepts, and these were concepts often foreign; too convoluted and undefined for Seamus to tangibly grasp.

No. Fear was a notion that was deeply palpable to the man, that he knew. It was primal and formerly ingrained in him. In the past, he had been a fearful young boy. After a fateful turn of events in an unfortunate July, however, he for the longest time considered himself rid of this feeling. As such, to live your last breaths in fear - a feeling thought to be long forsaken - was bewildering.

In the end, it was not fear for the bliss that is death which he remembered dreading. To die meant the pain he deservedly endured in life would end at last, and that was what was most mortifying of all. 

Now, however, fear was what the man had cruelly been absolved of. Some say fear was part of what made you human, but it wasn’t as though Seamus ever felt human to begin with. A malignant presence, perhaps. A bad omen incarnated in a futile shell of muscle and bone. Now, a revenant. A vagrant soul brutishly shoved back into that same decaying cold shell it had longed to finally leave.

Truly, there was no rest for the wicked.

When Seamus’ eyes opened not even helpless panic or disorientation struck him, merely a sense of knowing.

In awakening, he fleetingly thought to himself that if he perhaps closed his eyes again, he could return to rotting. He could go back to putrefying where he laid and once more blissfully decay away into his surroundings.

Much to his dismay, though, he knew better than to idly hope, for reality was cruel in that way.

Still, he opted to keep lying down where not too long ago his corpse was bloating, his state of mind now pensive. He could make his way to the surface of the water right now, for he had someplace to be. This he woke up knowing too.

However, pretending to drown one last time still seemed ideal for now. Fester for as long as possible was what he opted to do instead, almost exactly the way he did at 16; when he opened the door on that fateful day in July.

The water enclosing him and filling his lungs was as cold as his now-reanimated body. The thought of being picked apart by scavenging animals as he drifted to the surface would have been appealing enough. Ideally though, he always fantasised about his mangled corpse - or what remained of it - sprawled across a derelict road, maybe on display amidst the town centre. 

Old women could clutch their pearls and cover curious children’s eyes. Solemn churchgoing mothers could reluctantly mutter prayers. Whichever injury it’d be that he’d succumb to would be animalistic, but each laceration and gash inflicted with too much intelligence and sick pleasure for any animal to have done.

He would have hoped for his insides to be spread and shared for the world to see; his ravaged torso turned to a hollow cavern. If he were lucky enough, perhaps the vacancy of his gutted body would invite someone depraved enough to break away what ribs remained intact and crawl inside to savour what little dying warmth his carcass offered.

Seamus would have liked to rot away on a hot summer night, in which his body could bloom like a carrion flower. Festering wounds would birth generations of maggots at accelerated rates. It could have been just like Eileen’s did, just like when he pretended to rot away by her side upon being greeted by the sight of her still, brutalised body. He could only keep wishing to die as she did. It was only right.

He could make do with the river. Being left to sink where nobody would find him appealed to him as an equally deserved fate.

If only he could stay here forever.

There was no use in prolonging his damnation any longer. Seamus rose from the surface with undefined purpose. He knew: he was going to hell, a notion which directly opposed his beliefs formed in life, but one which he approached with acceptance. 

Acceptance was all one could turn to in the end. 

First, however, the revenant knew to shed himself of his grave. The river absorbed Seamus and in return gave him a second life. Amniotic river water rapidly expelled itself from his body. What remained of the lifeless womb which scornfully birthed him was coughed from out of his lungs, retched out of the depths of his stomach. The taste of his grave still lingered in the male's mouth and dripped down wet, discoloured lips. 

It was foul. It was what love tasted like.

All around him was darkness. Not a soul sighed within his vicinity and the cold of the streets bit deeper than skin, sinking its teeth into marrow. In life, the shock of the night kissing warm flesh would have made him shiver. Now his body was as cold as the air embracing him, and he found himself unbothered, unmoved by the frigidity of the air.

Green eyes scanned the void that was Boston, water clearing from his vision and blots morphing into discernable forms before him.

There was always the occasional fellow up later than one should be, none of the reasons pure or lawful. Seamus knew from experience, and with that he knew something was wrong. Not a living thing - not even vermin - unwittingly laid itself bare under his watchful gaze. The night was deader than the revenant himself. It made him want to stay in this abyss forever.

The journey was not what Bibles spoke of, and he doubted Hell was anything like what priests warned wide-eyed children and faith-rotten churchgoers of. Nothing was as told, this he learned early on in life.

The walk to Hell instead was a quiet stroll through dead-of-night Boston; a solemn pilgrimage to a final destination that should be eternal torment. Had he needed to process it, this would have given Seamus enough time to quietly accept it as the place to be, though he never needed the time in the first place. He already knew that if Hell were real, it was where he was destined to go. 

He was doomed to go there according to the preacher. 

According to father. 

According to mother.

According to Moira.

Seamus felt nothing towards the fact that they were right. Hell is just another place. Tonight, Hell was a small boutique, open at hours only the devil himself would wake at. The glow of lights within the building invited the deathly vagabond, and like a moth drawn to flames, he approached.

He regarded the window panes and the light glowing from within. He observed the glass and the boutique’s name etched in large font on the display window.

The revenant found himself wondering if others too walked a path similar to his own, whether others were as disappointed as he was upon being forcefully pulled away from the realm of the dead. He had spent a decade in life silently searching for a case as lost as his own and was met with silence. What a disappointing journey it had been; even now he remained unheard.

Green: a Scheeleian shade of chartreuse.

Amidst his pondering, the hue initially escaped his vision, but it was unmistakable. Through the reflection of glass not much could initially be made out save for two glowing voids of green staring back at him. There was not a soul present within shop itself. The green gaze peering at Seamus through the glass was very much his own. 

Acknowledgement of his corporeal self was a laborious task. In trying, his body felt like it wasn’t his own; his consciousnessmerely  a disembodied presence haunting a husk that once lived. 

Like a dream; the more you tried to envision and sharpen the imagery before you, the blurrier it became, and yet his eyes forced him to perceive that damned form which was his.

Still damp but having been somewhat dried off by the open air, strands of long, black hair - which usually fell loosely over part of his forehead - remained glued to his face, being dried in place. Fabric stuck to his body in a manner that made the man’s skeleton desire the prospect of jumping out of its body. In an attempt to ease the visceral discomfort he tugged at the fabric, freeing it of its suction again his skin.

Through the glass, a man resembling him maintained intense eye contact. It was him. It also wasn’t. Stare long enough and his features drifted and warped into a visage foreign to him. Today, he possessed enough clarity to understand this was him, despite everything. The glaring, barely-healed scars on his face helped ground the suggestion of his identity. 

The new, angry reminders of his death littered across his face were something the pale man could find himself poring over for eternities to come. Staring at what once were harsh lacerations resembling an extended grin, starting from the corners of his mouth, Seamus wondered whether he could tear his cheeks open again, this time without the assistance of a blade. Maybe if he just pulled his jaw down hard enough…

His fingers were already lodged in his mouth, two pressing against his lower incisors and canines, which notably felt sharper, pointier. Just past that, his fingers resided right beneath his tongue. The other two in turn pressed against his upper set of teeth, cold fingertips resting on his palate.

All it took was a single hard enough yank, he figured. Painfully, however, he hesitated, and from hesitation sprung a halt. There was nothing more he wanted: anything to feel blood trickle down from his cheeks down to his chin, for it to gather and reluctantly trickle down the pale skin of his neck. Seamus craved the taste of copper, his own more than anything: self-flagellatory, it was.

Despite everything, Seamus’ hands retreated from his mouth, leaving saliva-coated fingers to dry to the air.

Unsatisfied, he stood still before averting his gaze from his reflection, feeling like he had seen what he wanted to. Little explanation would console him amidst his disappointment. No eternal torment could kill him a second time, nor could it kill him as delightfully as the first.

That was the sole thing he was certain of, and accept it - embracing Hell like a fleeting lover - was all he could do.

Seamus’ hand reached for the door, clasping the cool brass knob and turning. The funerary jingle of bells announced his entrance to Hell.

Eventual acceptance was all he was certain of.

[the-sun-is-also-a-star]

just found a short drarry drabble I wrote a while back, should I post it?

[dk-thrive]

Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

— Seamus Heaney, opening lines in "Digging" from "Death of a Naturalist." (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1966)