Archive of Our Own

~March 29, the dormitory~

In the room at the top of the stairs on the right-hand side in the Gryffindor tower, where the seventh-year boys slept, Dean Thomas came out of the shower, one towel wrapped around his narrow hips and another in his hands, roughly working to dry his hair. He’d barely crossed the threshold from the bathroom to the dormitory before a raspy voice spoke from somewhere in the otherwise empty room.

“Oi. My back’s killing me like this. You mind sorting out the pillows?”

Dean looked over to Seamus Finnigan’s bed, where the sandy-haired boy lay motionless and pale. He had slipped into a position that did indeed look uncomfortable.

“'Course. Hang on.”

He walked over to Seamus’s bed and bent down to wrap one arm around him so he could hold him up while he rearranged the many pillows. Seamus’s head lolled back rather pitifully as Dean lifted him, the dead weight heavy since Seamus's body no longer agreed to do anything to help hold himself up. Both boys were very quiet, the slightest sound distinct, like the shuffling of the pillows and Dean giving a slight huff once as he nearly lost his grip around Seamus. It had been a couple of quiet days overall now, when he thought about it. Seamus had become a shadow of his usual self, less talkative with each passing day.

When Dean felt he’d done what he could, he lowered Seamus back down on the bed and readjusted the covers around his middle.

“Better?”

Seamus attempted a smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Need anything else?”

There was a short, strange pause during which Dean really had the feeling Seamus was going to say yes and it would be something important, but...

“Nope. I’m good.”

“Well, let me know, yeah?”

A weak nod and then Seamus closed his eyes, a slight uneasy crease between his eyebrows. Dean frowned suspiciously at him where he lay, restless and defeated, among the scarlet bedsheets. For a moment or two, he had been positive that there was something Seamus wanted to say. There was just something in the whole air about him that seemed to vibrate with some unspoken need. But Dean couldn't read minds, so if Seamus wasn’t going to tell him, he’d just have to grin and bear it, whatever it was.

Shaking the thought out of his head, Dean went over to his bed where he grabbed a clean pair of underwear from his trunk and, dropping his towel, stepped into them.

An almost undetectable moan came from Seamus’s bed. He’d been making occasional weird noises for days now, but whenever Dean asked him what the problem was, Seamus had told him there was no problem, he was just bored. Which wasn’t all that odd, really. After all, the only thing he’d been able to do was lie completely still in his bed for almost four days, and was probably looking at at least three more.

Therefore Dean let the moan slide and instead started to rummage around in his trunk, looking for a shirt to wear, muttering under his breath about what the hell the house-elves were doing when they should be doing laundry, and if they did their job then maybe he’d have something to wear that didn’t smell like jockstrap.

He swore and was just about to give up his unsuccessful search when Seamus’s voice came from a few feet away, uncharacteristically wary.

“Actually, Dean… there is something you can do.”

~March 25, the hospital wing~

Dean drew out a chair and sat beside Seamus’s temporary bed, eyes skimming up and down his body intently, as if trying to still his curiosity just by looking.

“So, did you find out what's wrong?” he asked when Seamus didn’t seem like he was about to tell him.

“Yeah,” Seamus said throatily. He still wasn’t moving and seemed quite worn out altogether. “It’s a little thing called corpus immobilus, more commonly known as the Limplimbs syndrome.”

Dean waited for him to elaborate. When nothing happened, he asked impatiently:

“Well, what is it, then? What does it do? How'd you get it?”

Seamus had to draw a deep breath before he could reply.

“Well, it’s caused by a combination of starvation, exhaustion and poorly executed magic. Madam Pomfrey says it’s very rare. Apparently, it only happens if you haven't eaten since before you went to sleep, and then slept less than five hours that night, and then get hit by a badly performed body-binding spell. Apparently the incomplete body-binding, combined with your body already being weakened from hunger and sleepiness, is what causes this.”

“Sounds weirdly specific, but okay. So you’re what, petrified?”

“Not really. It’s just that the combination of lack of food and sleep and then the rubbish spell weakens the body so much you can’t even lift a finger. So you might say the body-binding sort of worked, after all. I’m trying to stretch my legs right now but... well, look at me.”

Dean looked.

Well. If Seamus really was trying to move, it was indeed unsuccessful. There was nothing going on under his blanket.

“But… you’ll be all right, won’t you?” Dean's eyes were considerably larger than usual when he looked back up at Seamus's face.

“Yeah, but it'll last for about two or three weeks. A week at the very least, and that’s only if I take that horrid potion madam Pomfrey gave me.” Seamus suddenly seemed distressed. “Can you imagine? Weeks of not being able to move at all. I’ll need help with everything, things I haven’t needed help doing since I was four years old. Eating and brushing my teeth and... and taking showers and going to the bloody loo, for Merlin’s sake, and I don’t even know what’s worse, having Pomfrey drag me into the shower and undress me and…,” an odd sort of shiver flitted across his face, “wash me, or having her drag me into the bathroom and hold me up while…”

“Yeah,” Dean winced, unwilling to let Seamus finish the sentence. “Christ, mate, this sucks."

Seamus sighed and there was a short moment of silence before Dean spoke again.

“S'pose you shouldn’t have called Crabbe a prick-nibbling dyslectic.”

“I have no regrets."

"Really? Look where it landed you.”

“You’re one to talk. I've never heard you miss an opportunity to air your thoughts when it comes to the Slytherins.”

“Well, I don’t go a full day without eating before I do it. What’s up with that, anyway? I didn’t think you could be awake for ten minutes without stuffing your face with something.”

Seamus sighed.

“I didn't know being hungry could land me in the hospital wing, did I? I dunno, last night after Transfiguration I didn't really have time to eat. I had to finish Snape's essay.”

“Well, maybe if you’d eaten your blood sugar wouldn’t be quite as low and you wouldn’t be so touchy about Crabbe cracking some stupid joke about your freckles and then none of this would’ve happened.”

“It wasn’t just the bloody freckles joke, for fuck's sake. I spent four nights on my essay and he just casually knocked his entire ink bottle all over it.”

Dean shook his head.

“I get it, mate, I really do, but was it really worth a week of having a wrinkly old lady giving you sponge-baths and helping you go to the loo?”

Seamus groaned.

“Shut up about that, will you? It’s a really weird feeling when your body wants to shudder but can’t.” He sighed again. “Worst part of it is I won’t be able to do anything fun. There’s no one to talk to and I can’t hold a book up so there’s no chance I can even read.”

“There are spells for that. I’m sure madam Pomfrey will help you.”

“So I'll just spend every waking minute of this week reading. Brilliant, you know how reading thrills me.”

“Look, don’t get bitchy with me, okay? None of this is my fault. And you know I’d help if there was any way I could, but…”

Dean trailed off, frowning. He didn’t like the look that had just appeared on the other boy’s face.

“What?” he said, wariness obvious in his voice.

Seamus smiled sweetly. “Well, there is a way, isn't there?”

~March 29, the dormitory~

Dean abandoned his fruitless search for clothes and went back to his best friend’s bed.

“What's the matter?”

“You should probably sit down,” Seamus mumbled without looking at him.

And Dean had that feeling again, the feeling that had hit him from time to time the past few days – a combination of concern and dread. It didn’t matter that Seamus had insisted everything was fine; Dean just knew something was seriously bothering that boy, and he was rather relieved that he was finally going to find out what it was.

“Okay,” he said slowly, apprehensively, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Seamus’s eyes remained stubbornly directed towards his own lap. Dean waited patiently for him to start talking.

“It’s… sort of embarrassing,” Seamus said eventually. “I mean... to be honest, it’s really embarrassing. And I would never have asked anything of the sort from you if I wasn’t, well, paralysed. And I definitely wouldn’t have asked it of someone besides you because you’re the only person I fully trust and I really, really wish I didn’t have to say this, but it’s driving me mad, and I mean truly mad, not pleasant mad like Luna or funny mad like Fred and George, I mean scary mad like Snape or Umbridge or…”

“Seamus,” Dean interrupted. “Look, mate. I’ve known you for six years. I was there when your dog died, and after you had your first kiss. We've gone to the showers together. Oh, and when you'd had half a bottle of Firewhisky you talked for half an hour about the fantasies you have in said shower. Surely there's not much you can say at this point that will shock me.”

Seamus smiled weakly, still refusing to look at Dean.

“Just... hear me out, yeah? And remember I’m only asking you because we're mates. And I know you better than anybody else and that’s why I’m hoping you won’t judge me, because I think you of all people will understand and frankly, I think you’d do the same thing yourself if you were in my situation.”

Dean was overwhelmingly curious and sort of scared at the same time. Seamus was building suspense so much that Dean wasn’t entirely sure that what he wanted him to do wouldn't be dangerous.

He shot a small grin towards his unmoving friend.

“Just get to the bloody point, will you? It can’t be worse than that time I caught you trying to suck yourself off.”

Seamus scoffed loudly, blushing.

“I’ve tried to tell you, you fucking twat, I was bending down to look for my Astronomy homework!”

Dean's grin turned into a smirk. “With your pants off?”

Seamus snorted and seemed to sink deeper into the pillows. “Wanker.”

“Will you just tell me what’s going on?”

“But I don't reckon you…”

“Seamus. Just. Say it.”

Seamus closed his eyes and drew a deep sigh. Dean waited, foot tapping compulsively.

Seamus opened his eyes but didn't look at Dean, and his cheeks were peony pink when he finally spoke.

“Right, so. I’ve had a stiffy for three days.”

~March 25, the hospital wing~

Dean blinked.

“What do you mean?”

“You could be my nurse,” Seamus grinned.

Dean snorted. “Fuck off.”

“Why not? I’d feel much more comfortable with you than with old Pomfrey.”

“Are you actually an idiot all of a sudden? I can’t spend all week looking after you, I’ll miss classes.”

“It’s the Easter holidays, you absolute cockwomble.”

Dean’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. Right.”

“Right, and it’s not like you wouldn’t have spent the whole holiday with me anyway.”

“It’s sort of a different matter if spending the holiday with you includes taking off all your clothes and rubbing you with soap.”

“You could leave my shorts on.”

“So could Pomfrey.”

“I’d still be uncomfortable.”

Dean had to laugh. “But if it's me you'll feel completely at ease?”

“More so than with Pomfrey.”

Dean stared at Seamus, his mouth hanging open. “You’re having a bubble, right?”

“No! I’d feel much better having you around than that old hag.”

“Pomfrey’s not bad.”

“Well, she’s not you.”

Dean moaned, head in his hands. He was running out of excuses and he’d always found it difficult to deny Seamus anything. And to be honest, he fully understood where Seamus was coming from. If he’d been in the same situation himself, he would much rather have had his best friend take care of him than someone he barely knew and whose bony, spidery hands he definitely didn’t want on his body. Besides, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do the whole holiday if Seamus wasn’t around.

Seamus was looking at him. His blue eyes were pleading.

“I've got homework,” Dean tried half-heartedly.

“You don't actually think you'll have to spend all twenty-four hours of the day nursing me back to health, do you?”

Dean didn’t respond.

“Please?”

Dean drew a deep, slow sigh.

“When I get better I'll get you some of those caramel tarts you like from the kitchens.”

A small smile played in Seamus’s voice. Dean huffed out a small laugh and looked up at his best friend. Was there really any valid reason why he shouldn’t do this?

“Go on then. But we’ll have to work our way around the loo problem.”

~March 29, the dormitory~

There was a lingering pause during which Seamus was looking anxiously at Dean out of the corner of his eye, and Dean was trying to digest what he’d just heard and wondering which question to ask first. Seconds ticked by, mocking them. Eventually Dean couldn’t stop himself, but ended up blurting out,

“You’ve had a what for how long?”

“You heard.” Seamus's voice was hushed.

“But… are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, you prat. Just because I can’t move doesn’t mean I can’t remember what a boner feels like.”

Dean was dumbstruck. Could that really happen? And what did it have to do with him?

“But… how? I didn’t even know we were capable of that, especially in the state you’re in.”

“I don’t reckon we are, usually.” Seamus was looking at his lap again, and Dean could imagine him wanting to shift and fiddle with things, like he normally did when he was nervous or embarrassed. “It’s a side effect from the potion I’m taking. Madam Pomfrey said it could happen.”

Dean’s eyes slid down subconsciously to Seamus’s crotch, but since his lower body was well tucked in under the thick duvet, he couldn’t actually see if Seamus was telling the truth.

He swallowed, uncomfortable. They had discussed many subjects during the years, but never talked about this kind of thing. Girls’ bodies, yes, but not boys’. Why would they? They were both quite well acquainted with their own various body parts and were pretty sure they already knew everything of importance when it came to that.

He shook his head slightly and forced his gaze back to Seamus’s face.

“Have you tried thinking about Umbridge in crotchless knickers?”

Seamus almost retched.

“Dean, for crying out loud!”

“Have you?”

“No, but thanks for putting that image in my head. Fuck. Can you do a decent Obliviate?”

Dean ignored the request.

“What about Bubotuber pus?”

“Yes.”

“Crabbe?”

“Yes.”

“Goyle?”

“Yes.”

“Stamps? Yorkshire? The giant squid?”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“Dumbledore giving it to your mum?”

“Jesus, Dean, for fuck's sake!”

“Sorry, but that usually does the trick for me.”

“Look, I've tried thinking about every boring or disgusting thing I could come up with. It doesn't help. It hasn't budged."

Dean couldn’t help but snicker. “Must be pretty bad then.”

“Yeah, it is.” Seamus was obviously frustrated, and suddenly Dean felt sorry for him.

It certainly couldn’t have been easy, trying to cope. In Dean's case, half an hour of it was plenty more than enough to start making him uncomfortable, and he didn’t even want to imagine what it must have been like to put up with for three days. However, he was rather sure Seamus was exaggerating the whole thing in one way or another. He did have a tendency to do that.

“But…,” he began, but then stopped and hesitated - asking questions about your friend's erection felt weird. “But is it… I mean, is it like, a semi, or is it…”

“No, it's... I'm really, really hard. I’ve barely been able to sleep.”

Dean looked at Seamus more carefully for a moment. He did look exhausted. His freckles, usually sort of blended in with the rest of his skin, seemed to stand out like light-bulbs, contrasting weirdly against his pallid face, and there were dark, purple shadows under his eyes. When Dean thought about it, the last few days Seamus had seemed restless and tired at the same time, and he had lost most of his usual appetite. He had been clearly uncomfortable with Dean touching him, even to just check his temperature, and he had all but stopped talking.

It was all coming together now – the moans and throaty noises Seamus had occasionally been making hadn’t been out of boredom, but out of discomfort and frustration; the disturbed mumbling in what little sleep he had had, the constant exasperation, the strained tone in his voice – it all came down to this, the ever-present erection.

It was absurd. Dean kind of wanted to laugh and at the same time his heart swelled with sympathy.

“Three full days, eh?”

“Yeah.” Seamus made another little moan. “Ugh, I'm roasting. Could you get me out of my shirt?”

Dean nodded and set to work in thoughtful silence, wedging one hand in under Seamus’s back to hold him up while he began pulling his shirt off with the other, exposing freckled shoulders, a slender waist and a tight stomach. It was difficult and didn't exactly go smoothly, and in the action, his hands brushed and pressed frequently against the other boy’s bare, damp skin. He saw Seamus swallow several times.

“I've, er. I've noticed you haven’t been okay with me touching you these last few days,” said Dean, finally letting go of his friend and dropping his shirt on the floor. “Is this why?”

“Um,” Seamus seemed struck by fresh embarrassment. “Sort of. It’s... another side effect from the recovery potion, I think. Spasms, cramps, fever, long-lasting erections and heightened sense of touch are normal side-effects for boys, Pomfrey said.” He bit his lip. “The fever came first, then the stiffie, and then a few hours later when you checked my temperature, it felt… I dunno… more than it normally does.” He glanced awkwardly at Dean. “So now that I’m extra sensitive and all, you touching me sort of only makes me... harder.”

“...Oh.”

There was no telling who felt worse at this point.

Dean found it very difficult to accept the fact that his touch had made Seamus’s erection worse, and Seamus had been mortified about the whole thing for days.

“But,” Dean pushed, “there has to be something you can do to make it go down.”

Dean had a hard time believing that this condition wasn’t treatable; it was only a chub, after all. Apparently a very persistent one, but still.

Seamus’ blush intensified.

“That’s… kind of what I wanted to ask you about. There is one thing that normally works, which obviously I’d do myself if I could, but I’ve tried and it’s no good. I can't move.”

“What is it?”

Seamus didn’t reply, and a moment later, Dean’s eyes widened as he caught on.

“Oh bloody-- You want me to…”

He never finished the sentence. He couldn’t.

“Sorry, Dean. I hate to ask, but it’s driving me mental. I’ve slept shit, I don’t feel like eating and I can’t think about anything else than how badly I wish I could just have a dirty old wank. It's not that I'm horny, you know, it's just... it's always there. There's, you know, pressure in all the wrong places and it's constantly... just... ugh, I feel like I'm going to be sick if I have to take much more of it, and I reckon being sick in this state could possibly kill me.”

Something inside Dean’s neck seemed to itch, as always when he was abashed, and he reached up to rub it, his gaze fixed on the floor. He couldn’t think of a good response. This was too much. He had done everything he could to make sure Seamus was as comfortable as possible during his recovery. He'd had to take care of intimate stuff like feeding him and brushing his teeth. Seamus was yet to have a shower because they both felt too weird about it. Dean had searched through half the school library until he found a solution to the bathroom issue. And now Seamus wanted this . Dean strongly doubted either of them would be able to go through with it even if they decided to try.

Seamus was his best friend.

He couldn’t, he just couldn’t. There was no way.

“Seamus,” he said, his voice weary, “you can't be serious?”

Seamus nodded weakly. He certainly looked serious, and Dean hadn’t really thought he wasn’t. Just hoped.

He shook his head.
”Obviously I can’t do that.”

“Of course you can. It's not like you don't know how it's done.”

Dean almost wanted to say he didn’t, that he’d never done it and didn’t know how, but that would be ridiculous.

“Dean,” Seamus pressed on, when Dean remained silent. “I've literally heard you bash one out, several times. It's sweet how you hold your breath before you blow, so you don't make any noise.”

Dean's eyes widened. Seamus smirked.

“We don't all fall asleep as quickly as you think, mate."

Dean’s face flooded with colour and he turned to look over at Harry’s bed for the sole purpose of not having to look at Seamus.

“I didn't mean for you to hear,” he mumbled.

“Well, no, obviously. Look, I'm not trying to make you feel bad.”

“Then what are you trying to do, exactly?”

“My point is, you know how after you've worked yourself up for a bit? When you sort of start sweating and feeling a bit desperate?”

Dean swallowed, shrugging awkwardly and avoiding eye contact.

“Well, add another three days to that.”

Dean involuntarily made a face.

“Exactly,” said Seamus, reading him. “So I hope you understand how I can go so far as to ask this of you. I’ve tried to just endure it, I really have, but I'm just... so uncomfortable. And I don't know how much longer it will last. What if it doesn't go down 'til I get well?”

Dean groaned.

“I... ugh. Ask Harry, won't you? I hear he's good with giant snakes.”

Seamus shot him a deadpan look, clearly not amused. Dean sighed. It had certainly been a terrible joke, but he was desperate to get Seamus's mind off the subject.

“I honestly can't do it.”

“Bollocks.”

“Really, Seamus, think about it for a second, will you? Do you even realize what you’re asking me to do?”

“Yes, I do,” said Seamus. “I've been considering it for two days, so I've had time to think it through. And I’ve told you I’m sorry for asking and I’d do it myself if it was possible, but it isn’t.”

Dean chewed his lip. “Did you ever… I mean, have you ever…”

Seamus raised an eyebrow, waiting for Dean to find the right words.

“Would this be your first hand job?” Dean said at last.

He frowned when Seamus nodded. “Are you sure you want it to be me, then?”

Seamus made an I-don't-really-mind sort of face.

"It's not my virginity. And either way, I could do worse."

Dean did smirk a little at that, weirdly flattered but also panicking. He desperately wanted to make Seamus see sense, but trying to make Seamus change his point of view when he’d already made up his mind was like trying to push a house-elf through a sweater sleeve.

“Look,” he said, his voice urgent and impatient, “Think about what this means. I’d have your cock in my hand, for shit’s sake, and I’ve never even seen your cock hard before," he shut his eyes for a split second; he couldn't believe he was saying this, talking about this, "and I’d be doing something to you that I’ve only ever done to myself, and then you’d…” He shook his head. “I can't make you come. I can't.”

To his surprise, Seamus was nodding, looking thoughtful. Dean had expected him to immediately dismiss what he said or maybe to not even listen.

“You’re right about that,” said Seamus slowly. “You could see it that way. Or else you could think of it like this: I’m in pain, I’m nearly dying with frustration, and I can’t bloody well move. You’d only be helping out a friend. And I'm sure it'll probably be a bit weird afterwards, I'm not gonna lie, but not so much we won’t get past it.”

Dean looked at him skeptically, but deep down, he knew this to be true. What Seamus was after wasn’t technically sexual. He only wanted to relieve the unbearable tension, and since he was immobilised, he needed Dean’s help with that. That’s all there was to it. He needed a favour and he needed someone who wouldn't judge him to do it.

Suddenly his mind reeled and spun with memories.

Seamus thumping him on the back for making it into the Quidditch team, even though he himself had been waiting since first year for the next try-outs and had been flying since he was a child and must have been royally pissed off that Harry chose Dean instead. Seamus disappearing out of the portrait hole in the middle of the night, with great risk of getting caught, on his way to the kitchen to get some of Dean’s favourite cookies, because Dean had been ditched by Ginny and needed to be cheered up.

Seamus sitting heavy-eyed and pale next to him by a table in the common room at three in the morning, helping him finish his History of Magic homework.

Seamus swallowing his pride, apologising to Harry and joining the DA.

And Seamus trying his hardest – but unfortunately not managing – not to laugh when Dean had both his eyebrows singed off during a tricky Charms lesson.

Dean chewed at the inside of his cheek.

The thing was, the most significant difference between him and Seamus wasn’t that Seamus was so vocal and sociable and Irish and pretty much all over the place, while Dean, though chatty, was calm and collected and artistic and had to keep Seamus in place most of the time. It was that Seamus was willing to give so much of himself, always presenting his whole personality and all his obscure thoughts to Dean and often sacrificing his own comfort and/or safety in order to help his best friend, while Dean was sort of restrained and a little anxious and always managed to think too much before he acted, which usually resulted in him not acting at all. And Dean had always been looking for a chance to repay Seamus for being who he was, always going the extra mile for Dean, giving up his own needs, nudging him into doing things that he really wanted to do but would never have got round to if Seamus hadn’t been there. But he’d never got that chance and he felt like maybe this was it. Which sounded pretty fucking dumb when he thought about it, because how would a cheap hand job repay all of the brilliant shit Seamus had done for him, but it was a pretty big favour.

Bugger. He loved Seamus, he really did.

He closed his eyes, drawing a deep, bracing breath.

If he did do this, he’d be a poof and a pushover.

If he didn’t, he’d be quite a rubbish friend.

He’d just have to decide which was worse.

He opened his eyes and looked at Seamus.

"You're a right prick for making me do this."

Seamus’s eyes grew huge. “Does that mean...?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Woah. All right then.”

Silence fell. The two boys sat glancing awkwardly at each other, neither of them wanting to speak or move before the other did, but eventually, Seamus's needs got the better of him.

“So, er,” he said tentatively, “how do we… I mean…”

“I suppose we’ll have to start with getting your gear off,” said Dean, struggling to sound casual.

“I suppose.”

So Dean slowly got up and, feeling weak in the knees, pulled the thick, concealing duvet off his friend.

He turned away and closed his eyes immediately.

“Ah, mate.”

“I told you,” Seamus mumbled, sounding both embarrassed and exasperated.

Dean had half-expected, half-hoped not to see anything out of the ordinary, but there actually was a very persistent-looking tent in the soft cotton of Seamus’s trousers. He turned back slowly to have another look, and yep, it was there all right, looking almost ridiculous in its obviousness.

“Stop your gawking and just get them off, will you?”

Dean realised he was staring.

“Right,” he said, blushing faintly, and hooked his fingers uncertainly in the waistband of Seamus’s trackies and boxer briefs.

Already it felt skin-crawlingly intimate.

Dean braced himself and tugged Seamus's clothes down and off in one fluid movement, grimacing at the intimidating resistance and at the dull thud indicating something heavy springing back and slapping against Seamus’s stomach as he was unceremoniously undressed.

Dean tossed the two pieces of clothing aside. And then he couldn’t help but stare again.

Sure, he had seen Seamus naked before, loads of times. But he had never seen him hard. It was exceptionally strange, and somehow it made him look even more nude. Dean swallowed with difficulty.

He'd thought it would be smaller. Slimmer, at the very least. It looked too big for Seamus’s skinny hips. And he’d sort of figured it would be darker; it looked surprisingly pale. And he hadn’t imagined it looking so... obscene .

He realised abruptly that in only a few moments he’d be touching it. Stroking it. The thought made him cringe, but although he felt anxious to the point of queasiness, he had to admit to himself that he was also... curious.

He suddenly wondered who was bigger, Seamus or himself.

Christ. Better not start going down that road.

“Will you stop staring?" said Seamus, clearly uncomfortable. "Dean. Fucking hell.”

Dean blinked. “Oh.” He looked up at his best friend’s freckled face. “Sorry. Just… I’m not used to… I mean, I didn’t…" He shook his head and groaned slightly. "Let’s just get this done.”

“I’m not arguing.”

“So how d’you figure we… I mean, position-wise?”

“Dunno,” said Seamus awkwardly. “Any ideas?”

“Well, I don’t want to find myself accidentally looking you in the eye while I’m at it.” Dean chewed at his lip for a second. “Right. This will feel really camp, but…”

Once again, he heaved Seamus up from the pillows and then climbed behind him, settling down in a kind of half-sitting position with his legs on either side of Seamus’s hips, leaning back against the large stack of pillows before lowering the Irish boy back down until his bare shoulders rested against Dean’s naked chest.

Dean gritted his teeth. He had forgotten he was still only in his underwear. There was an awful lot of skin contact now, and the small of Seamus’s back was putting a lot of pressure on the area between his legs. He adjusted the other boy’s body against his own, feeling his own heart pounding against Seamus’s spine.

“Okay with this?” he asked, and Seamus nodded.

“Yeah. What about you?”

“Yeah, this’ll work fine.”

He reached out to pull the crimson hangings shut, blocking them from sight, just in case.

“So… without further ado, then?” he said uncertainly.

“Please.”

“All right.”

Dean let out a whooshing breath. His left hand was resting right on top of Seamus's heart, and Dean swiftly slid his other hand down his abdomen, briefly feeling really soft skin and lightly toned muscle. He closed his eyes in sheer awkwardness as the other boy let out a slight gasp at this touch. He had heard Seamus make noises of pleasure before, but that had been when he put a piece of his favourite chocolate in his mouth or when he sank into one of the good armchairs at the end of a long school day, that sort of thing. He had never heard him moan in sexual pleasure, never even caught the faint sounds of him taking care of himself in the dark, like apparently Seamus had with him, and it was entirely different.

He stopped dead somewhere around navel height, too intimidated to continue.

"Go on," Seamus reassured him. "Just grab it. It'll be fine."

Dean forced himself to keep going, feeling as if all thought and brain activity had drained from his head while his hand crept downwards, eventually sliding over Seamus’s prominent hipbone. At this point he knew he only had to move his hand inches to the left, but bloody hell, it was terrifying.

“Just do it,” Seamus breathed, sensing his hesitation. "It's fine, I promise."

Biting his lip and keeping his eyes closed, Dean inched his hand slowly to the left, scrunching up his face as he felt wiry curls brush against his fingers and heard Seamus suck in a breath.

And, deciding he would never be quite ready, he moved his hand that last stretch and fumbled a bit before his fingers closed around the base of something impossibly hard. Both boys let out startled noises and Dean opened his eyes, although he wasn't sure why.

It was strange and sort of creepy, looking at his own hand holding someone else's cock. The dark skin of his fingers brought out the paleness of Seamus's body even more. He knew Seamus was staring at it too and that felt even more strange, for some reason.

And then a new thing to worry about occurred to him.

What if the way he liked to do this was completely different from how Seamus liked it? It seemed unlikely that they would be into the exact same stuff. For one thing, Seamus was circumcised. Dean wasn't and he didn't know how big of a difference it would make.

So then, suddenly, he was filled with another unwelcome emotion; performance anxiety.

For fuck's sake. He didn’t need this.

He decided to just ask. He had to remember that this was Seamus and they had always been able to talk about anything. How else would they have got themselves into this situation in the first place?

“I don’t know how you like it,” he blurted out. “I've never handled a cut one. Is there, I dunno, do you reckon it's the same?”

Seamus gave a shaky sort of laugh.

“Dean, I can understand if you’re nervous, but I don’t think you have to be nervous about that.”

Dean didn’t reply, and Seamus quickly realized the response was unsatisfactory and that Dean was still waiting for some kind of directions.

“Look,” he said patiently, “it’s wanking. You tug it. How many different ways of doing that can there be?”

“But---“

“Look,” Seamus said again, “if you’re really choking, just pretend it’s your own cock you’re holding. I’m not even here, it's just a regular wank. If I want you to do it differently, I’ll tell you, okay, mate?”

Dean nodded, feeling slightly more sure of himself. He also felt oddly affectionate towards Seamus, who had always been spot on when it came to knowing what to say to make Dean feel better. It was weird, though, being called “mate” by someone whose cock was currently in your hand.

“Okay.”

Both boys went still and quiet. The only sound that could be heard was their heavy breathing; Seamus anticipating; Dean unnerved. Dean could also hear the throb of his own blood in his ears, but hoped Seamus couldn't.

Just imagine it’s your own, he reminded himself, as Seamus twitched in his hand.

He closed his eyes and adjusted his grip, which he knew was too loose, feeling the strange shifting of the stiff mass in his hand. Seamus made a soft noise in his throat.

Okay. I can do this.

So at last, Dean closed his eyes and pulled. A long, supple movement which coaxed a high-pitched, rather girly sound out of Seamus’s mouth. Dean almost gasped, too. He had never actually thought about how a cock felt to hold; like warm steel wrapped in thick, stretchy silk. And it was so heavy . His own couldn’t possibly be this heavy, or the thought would surely have struck him before.

He moved his hand back down leisurely, and then up again, finding a comfortable rhythm. It really wasn’t bad. Seamus felt, oddly, both familiar and unfamiliar in his hand. The shape was the same, the movement was the same, but it was peculiar when the movement wasn't accompanied by the sensation. And it did feel different, the way his hand didn't naturally slide all the way up past the head the way he was used to, due to Seamus's lack of foreskin. His hand sort of came to a halt just below the crown and he had to focus a little harder than usual to keep his motions steady and flowing. Apart from that... yeah, it was the same, really.

Seamus sighed, a kind of half-moaning sigh that Dean had heard before; Seamus sometimes made that sound just before he went to sleep; but it was different now. Much more urgent.

“You okay, mate?” he said under his breath, feeling it would be sort of a mood killer to talk in normal conversation tone.

“Yeah,” Seamus mumbled back. “You’re pretty good at this,” he added, grinning, his eyes closed.

Dean snickered.

“I've had practice.”

Seamus giggled too, breathlessly.

After that, both of them kept quiet while Dean worked, his grip firm but gentle and his rhythm unrushed. Seamus was panting softly, but other than that, the room was silent. The exception was when Dean unintentionally made a little funny twisting movement with his hand, which made the Irish boy unsuccessfully try to choke off an odd noise and tilt his head back against Dean’s shoulder. After that – silence.

In that silence, Dean thought about all the times he had done this, fantasising about various similar situations with girls. Not once had he thought about doing it to Seamus. And look at him now, with Seamus naked in his lap. Nudity was not new to them but this particular branch of nudity was. He wasn’t pass-the-shower-gel-and-stop-towel-whipping-me-naked, he was oh-Dean-yes-right-there-naked, and if he was honest with himself, Dean thought that being with a girl could never be like this. Yes, he was still feeling extraordinarily weird and awkward and unsure, but aside all that, he felt calm because he was with Seamus. And in some sort of queer way, that was a huge relief because it meant nothing could go wrong, and if it did they would laugh about it and Seamus wouldn’t tell anyone, which was more than he felt he could ever rely on when it came to girls.

He wriggled a little underneath Seamus. They were pressed very closely together and beads of sweat had formed in every place their skin touched, making their bodies slippery.

Then, he was abruptly interrupted in his train of thought by a low growl from Seamus.

“Dean,” he moaned, “could you-- I need you to go faster. Please.”

“Oh,” said Dean, taken aback. “Right.”

He hadn’t realised how slowly he was moving. Seamus was a bit impatient by nature, and Dean could well imagine that his way of doing this would be quite rushed.

So he started going faster.

The response was immediate and slightly frightening and probably quite flattering if you chose to see it that way. As soon as the rhythm of Dean’s hand picked up, Seamus seemed unable to stay quiet any longer. Dean had always thought that Seamus would be the type that was sort of noisy, even though he'd never heard him at it. He would, of course, have learned to keep quiet, what with sharing a room with four other boys, but it was a different matter staying quiet while taking care of yourself as opposed to staying quiet while someone else took care of you.

He was making little feverish, tremulous sounds, and when Dean glanced sideways at his face, so close to his own, he saw that his eyes were squeezed shut as if he were in pain, and he was chewing at the corner of his bottom lip.

He had never felt as awkward in his life as he did in that moment, nor had he felt as smug.

And quite suddenly, while looking at Seamus’s face, scrunched up in agonizing pleasure, he was filled with a strange, inexplicable emotion. Something that made him want to cry and bite Seamus’s shoulder and hug him tightly enough to choke him.

“Good?” he asked softly, breath whispering against the side of Seamus’s neck, cooling it down where it was burning up, and sped up his hand a little more, feeling the muscles in his right arm beginning to strain.

“Yeah,” Seamus whimpered, mouth falling open in response to the increased intensity, and the word was followed by a loud moan when Dean briefly squeezed him.

“Fuck-- Dean--”

That's a warning, Dean realised with a pang, eyes widening. He's about to... oh, God.

He was right. Seamus was about to.

This meant Dean knew that all it would take would be a slight tightening of his grip and a few more strokes and that would be it. And the right thing to do, the merciful thing to do, would be to get it over with, because Seamus had waited so awfully, inhumanly long. So he tightened his hold, and Seamus gritted his teeth and hissed.

“Dean,” he panted, his voice very tense, “I...”

“I know,” Dean mumbled. “Just shut up, will you.”

And, acting purely on instinct, he wrapped his left arm around that smooth chest and squeezed around it tightly, lengthening his strokes. A riotous heart pounded against his underarm and he knew that he, too, was panting now, from the weight on top of him and from the effort.

This was mad.

And then, after one long, rough tug of Dean’s hand, it happened.

Dean could hear it, the huge huffs of air coming out of Seamus’s lungs, and then the choked, long moan that resembled a sob more than anything else, and then he felt it, the uncontrollable pulsing and twitching in his hand, and after hesitating for a moment, he opened his eyes and saw it. Bursts of fluid spilling out obscenely over Seamus’s stomach and chest, and over Dean’s left arm and right hand, which was still working firmly but not as quickly as before. He stared at it, shocked and fascinated and scandalised.

“Fuck,” Seamus was hissing, barely audible, while he kept pulsing and twitching and holy shit, how much of this stuff could fit in one single bloke?, and he sobbed again and Dean felt a shudder rip through the body on top of his.

He held Seamus close, easing him through his release with long strokes, his hand now slick with come.

And then, after a longer while than Dean had thought possible, it started to fade. Seamus's breathing began to return to normal. He swallowed repeatedly and sighed, eyes still closed, looking exhausted. Dean's hand stilled and he looked at the mess they had made of themselves, unsure of what to say or do.

Seamus opened his eyes and stared, heavy-lidded, straight ahead.

"Christ," he mumbled.

"Yeah," Dean agreed weakly.

A short pause.

"That was really...”, Seamus began, but then started over. “I feel miles better. Thanks."

Dean smiled in a sort of long-suffering way.

"Don't mention it."

Another pause.

"Seriously. Don't ever mention it again."

Seamus snorted.

"Don't worry. Jesus, look at the state of me. Oh... and the state of you. Sorry, mate."

"It's all right," Dean almost laughed. "It's not like you can control it."

Seamus chuckled too, rather self-consciously.

"Um." Dean hesitated. "I suppose I should clean us up a bit."

He heaved Seamus off himself and climbed out from behind him.

“There’s a box of tissues in the drawer on my nightstand,” said Seamus helpfully.

Dean snorted in amusement and raised an eyebrow, smirking.

“For what purpose, exactly?”

Seamus gave a little bark of laughter.

“Don't look so smug. I know you’ve perfected your scrubbing spell for the exact same reason, you sanctimonious bell end!”

“Whatever.”

Dean was still grinning as he opened the drawer Seamus mentioned and took out the box of tissues. Snatching about six or seven of them, he wiped his own arm decently clean, then started on Seamus’s torso.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he muttered, feeling very bothered whilst forcefully tissuing off Seamus’s stomach, chest and pubic hair.

“Merlin, Dean, mind where you put that, will you? It’s sensitive.”

Ignoring him, Dean tossed the soiled napkins in the bin by the nightstand, and then stood for a moment, looking down at Seamus but really trying not to look at this still-swollen cock.

“What?” said Seamus, unnerved by Dean’s intense gaze.

“I just reckon we really ought to get you in the shower. I know we said we’d try to avoid that as long as possible, but... you’ve got sweat and come all over yourself. And anyway you haven’t showered since Sunday, you’ve gone long enough.”

Seamus didn't look convinced.

“I’m just not sure I want another bloke in the shower with me.”

Dean laughed.

“I’ve just been rubbing one out for you, don’t you reckon we’re quite well past the queer fear?”

Seamus had to snort with laughter, too.

“All right, but if I feel the wrong thing rubbing against me...”

“You’ll do what? You’re paralyzed.”

“Only til next week, and after that you can count on me to come up with a curse that makes your bollocks shrivel up and fall off.”

“Okay, sure, whatever, Seamus.” Dean grinned. “I promise I’ll make it quick and painless. You know, instead of having a moan about it, you should really be thankful that I'm prepared to do this sort of thing for you.”

Dean was very glad that there was nobody there to see them as he picked Seamus up with difficulty and carried him, still naked, into the bathroom, because it was the most ridiculous scene he had ever taken part in.

Once in the shower, it wasn’t quite as bad as either of them had feared.

Dean ignored the complaints about the floor being cold and made sure Seamus was sitting in a position where he couldn’t tip in any direction, before turning on the faucets. Dean himself kept his underwear on. He had to draw the line somewhere .

When the water was warm enough, he knelt on the floor next to Seamus, reaching for the shower gel he had left in there not half an hour ago.

“Feeling okay?” he asked, squeezing some greenish gel into his palm as he watched the hot water spray over the still very nude body in front of him.

“Yeah,” Seamus drawled, grinning slightly. “Not as bad as I thought.”

“Good.” Dean worked up a lather and then began to wash his friend off, lathering up his legs, stomach and shoulders, Seamus giggling all the while, sounding like a complete moron and claiming it tickled.

~April 7, the dormitory~

It was late Saturday night and Seamus had been up and about, as healthy and energetic as ever, for almost a week. Dean had been hugely relieved – and a bit frightened – when he had abruptly jerked out of his sleep on Monday morning, sitting bolt upright, looking around to locate the source of the sound that had woken him. Pulling his hangings open, heart thumping, he spotted it immediately. Seamus seemed to have gone out of his mind, sprinting around the room and jumping as high as he could with every few steps, singing Morning's here at the top of his lungs and actually doing cartwheels. Dean hadn’t even known he could do cartwheels.

Harry’s and Ron’s heads popped out from behind their hangings as well a moment later, tousle-haired and dazed, Ron cursing horribly. They all watched their Irish roommate for a few seconds, stunned, and then Neville’s hangings were also pulled open.

“Whassamatter?” he slurred, and then spotted the source of the commotion. “Oh, brilliant! Took you long enough, Seamus!”

Seamus stopped singing and jumping around like a madman at the sound of his name, staring at Neville with glittering eyes, positively beaming.

“I’ve never realised before how bloody brilliant this is! Controlling your limbs! Have you ever thought about that? The human body is a bloody miracle, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, God bless us everyone,” said Harry acidly. “Look, Seamus, it’s great that you’re well again and we’re all happy for you, but shut up, will you?”

“Right. Sorry, mate.”

It didn’t wipe the idiot grin off his face, though.

“Cheers,” said Harry, pulling his hangings shut again.

“Yeah, good job, Seamus,” Ron croaked before he, too, disappeared behind the scarlet curtains.

Seamus had turned to Dean.

“Dean, d’you realize this means you only have to feed and dress and undress and wash yourself from now on?”

“I thought we all agreed to pretend that didn't happen!” came Harry’s muffled voice from behind his hangings.

“Yes, I do realize that, and no one’s happier than I am, but will you please go back to sleep or at least leave the rest of us alone while we do? It’s still only half five.”

“Is it? Oh yeah. Right. Suppose I’ll just do a few laps around the lake, then.”

“Wicked.”

Dean had hidden behind his curtains and slumped back onto his pillow, only just managing to stay awake long enough to hear the rustle and click as Seamus got dressed and closed the door behind him.

It took until lunch for Seamus to get reacquainted with being able to do everything for himself, and then everything had gone back to normal. By the next morning, Seamus was just as unwilling to get out of bed as he had been before the accident.

And now it was Saturday night, and everything was most definitely back to normal as Dean lay in the dark, struggling to stay quiet while his hand worked swiftly under the duvet. He was almost sure that his roommates had all long since gone to sleep, so there wasn’t much reason for him to be all that quiet, but better safe than sorry. Especially after what Seamus had said about overhearing him.

It usually just took him a few minutes from start to finish, as he was never the type that wanted to relish the moment. He had grown up with three sisters and then moved to Hogwarts, where he had four roommates, so his philosophy had always been to just get it done quickly, before anybody else woke up/came in and realised what he was doing. Tonight, however, he had been going on for quite a while and still didn’t feel that build-up that was usually the prelude to orgasm. A weird nightmare had woken him and he’d been lying there, still a bit upset, for a short while before deciding distraction was probably the best way to go back to sleep. And he was certainly distracted, but he just couldn’t find the motivation to bring himself over the edge.

Just then, there was a creak. A very slight creak, but definitely a creak; someone had stepped on one of the bad floorboards. Dean stopped dead in his motions, eyes flying open. He pricked up his ears as another small squeak followed the first, and then there was near-silence, except the sound of cautious, non-creaking footsteps, so quiet he couldn’t determine if they were approaching or not. Well, somebody was out of bed, the question was whether they planned to be out of bed long enough that Dean ought to just give up on what he was doing.

He had barely finished thinking this before four fingers became visible, dividing the crimson hangings on his bed and pulling them open. His eyes widened and he instinctively tugged the duvet up to cover more of him, and then there was a whisper.

“Dean?”

It was impossible to determine whose voice it was, as it was only a hiss, and in the thick darkness, he couldn’t really see the person standing over him.

“Yeah?” he whispered back uncertainly.

“So I was right, then. Well, I reckoned... um.”

Even whispering, there was a grin to be heard in the voice, and also a clearly distinguishable Irish accent. Seamus. He wasn’t making much sense yet, though.

“What? Seamus, are you sleepwalking?”

“No, I’ve been awake for ages. And you starting to abuse yourself didn’t exactly help me go back to sleep.”

Dean scoffed, feeling his cheeks grow hot.

“You can’t possibly have heard that!”

“Hear like a bat, mate."

Dean rolled his eyes in an attempt to hide his embarrassment.

“What do you want, Seamus?”

His eyes hadn't adjusted to the dark yet, but he could hear the figure in front of him shifting.

“You’ll think I’ve gone mental,” Seamus warned. “But I’m going to say this anyway. I’ve just been thinking... and I decided now that I was listening to your little session here... we haven’t talked about what happened last week, which is completely fine with me, but I’ve been thinking that I know that was difficult for you and I never really told you how grateful I was.”

“So you decided to come over and do that now? Having heard what you said you heard?” said Dean, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“Hear me out, you knob. It sounds like you're having trouble finishing. It's taking you ages, and normally you're fairly quick."

" I'm not quick, ” Dean protested indignantly. “I'm efficient. And just how closely are you listening, anyway?!”

“There are literally no other sounds in the room, Dean. I tried not to hear you but...”

“Never mind,” Dean huffed. “Right. Yeah, I'm having... issues. Where are you going with this?"

"Well, I was thinking about what you did for me, and it sort of occurred to me that I... well, there's not much I can do that’ll properly show you how much I appreciated it, except... return the favour.”

Dean frowned incredulously as he understood what he was hearing.

“You mean... ?” he whispered, mind numb, and the dark figure before him nodded.

“I’ll give you a hand,” it said simply. “If you want me to.”

There was a long pause while Dean’s mind tried to work out the full meaning of this sentence, and his hand subconsciously went back to squeeze his own cock, which was still surprisingly hard and responded quite well to said squeeze. And he thought about how he’d felt sort of on the verge of giving up, but then again he also really wanted to come so he’d kept going, but just... couldn’t . And he looked through the darkness at his best friend, whose face he could now almost make out, and found that he knew what he should do was to call Seamus a poofter and decline the offer or at least argue, but at the end of the day, there was only one response that seemed possible to him.

Dazedly, he nodded.

“Okay.”

And Seamus didn’t argue, either, didn’t question this response, but simply said:

“Okay. Move over.”

Dean quietly scooted over to the right-hand side of the bed, making room for Seamus to lie down next to him. There was some rustling and scuffling as the Irishman settled in under the covers next to him, and it felt amazingly strange, because this time it was Dean who was naked and Seamus in his underwear, and it wasn’t Dean who would be doing the work, but actually... getting the work done for him.

“Your bed is warmer than mine,” Seamus noted after casting a privacy charm around the bed, and then sniggered. “But I suppose you’ve been engaging in warming activities while I’ve just been trying to sleep.”

“Bloody hell, your feet are cold!” Dean gasped as something icy brushed against his shins. “Keep those away, will you, or there won’t be anything left for you to work with over here.”

“Yeah, yeah. So how do you feel? Less anxious this time?”

“So far, all I’m feeling are your ice-block feet.”

“Okay, okay.”

Seamus shifted, moving his feet away from Dean’s legs and instead pressing the rest of his body, which thankfully was pleasantly warm, against Dean’s side.

“There.” He took a breath. “So. Is this a first for you too?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Hm.” Seamus sounded thoughtful. “That’s pathetic. We’re seventeen, we should have had time to at least get to third base.”

“I've done stuff!” Dean said defensively. “And so have you, in case you’ve forgotten. Before last week, I mean,” he added as he felt a retort coming from the boy next to him. “It’s not like we’re complete losers. We just haven't done this.”

“Yeah, I suppose. Honestly, though, d’you feel all right? Last time you seemed like you could’ve cried.”

“You weren’t so cocky, either,” Dean muttered. “Why are you so keen on talking about feelings?”

There was a moment before Seamus replied.

“I’m nervous. I’m really starting to get why you were so wound up last time. Sort of scary, isn’t it, doing it to somebody else. Rubbing another bloke’s cock, that’s mental. I mean, you'd never touched a cut one but I've never touched an uncut one. I’ve never even seen yours when it's hard. What if it’s loads bigger than mine?”

Dean blushed. This was another thing that differed himself from Seamus – what Dean tried his hardest not to think or talk about because it just seemed too awkward, and frankly, a little unwise, Seamus brought up with the same air as if he’d been asking Dean if he wanted butter for his toast.

“I tried not to think about that,” he mumbled.

“Sure you did. Oh well, guess I’ll find out, won’t I?”

Seamus gave a small huff of laughter, his tone attempting casual but only reaching wary.

“It’s gone sort of soft now,” Dean admitted.

“Yeah, I reckoned it might have. Fair enough, I'll work you up.”

“Will you be okay like that?” asked Dean, referring to Seamus’s current position.

“Guess not.”

Seamus rolled over onto his side and Dean felt warm breath on his skin, a face settling against the curve of his neck, and then a hand on his chest, pushing down slightly for leverage as Seamus tried to find a good position and eventually stilled.

“There, I think this’ll work. You about ready, then?”

Dean swallowed loudly.

“Yeah.”

He heard Seamus let out the exact same whooshing breath as he’d done himself the week before, and if Seamus hadn't already told him how nervous he felt, he would have known from that breath alone.

“Okay, I’m just going to grab it.”

Dean nodded, feeling light-headed.

The hand on his chest slid quickly down his abdomen and Dean barely had time for a quick intake of breath before he felt that same hand wrap around his half-hard cock. He swallowed again and heard Seamus do the same, pausing briefly before taking action. Seamus’s hand felt calm and sure of what it was doing as it moved slowly up and down, and Dean couldn’t stop a small “oh” from coming out as he felt himself quickly stiffen and swell. He was fully hard again in a matter of seconds.

Seamus’s touch was surprisingly tender and the pulls shorter than his own, focusing on stimulating the head rather than the whole shaft, and it felt different, but good. Very, very good. All coherent thought drained out of Dean's head as the upper half of his cock was gently massaged, and he was getting dizzy. This was anything but ordinary, miles from what he’d been doing, or trying to do, just minutes before. That had been out of routine, a half-hearted pull for better sleep, but this... it was obvious from the calculated movements of his hand that Seamus wanted to actually please him, to make him feel as good as possible, not just get it over with, which was what Dean had expected.

He was already panting. Seamus’s clever hand squeezed a little on its way up, making Dean’s breath catch in his chest because it was almost too much stimulation for the sensitive head, almost hurt, but not really, and in a brilliant way, and Dean caught himself clutching the sheets, needing to hold on to something.

“Just a mo’...,” came Seamus’s voice after a little while, and there was a small clutter as he seemed to grope for something on the nightstand. “Lumos,” he whispered and Dean had to shield his eyes for a moment, unprepared for the small light now spreading from his own wand, which was apparently what Seamus had been looking for.

Both boys gasped sharply as the scene was lit.

Dean’s chest, rising and falling heavily with each breath; the small trace of dark hair below his navel, thickening in a burst further down; the unfamiliar hand wrapped around him, looking as if it was squeezing out transparent liquid from the flushed, leaking head.

“Christ,” Seamus hissed, the look on his face intrigued and a bit disgusted.

"Yeah, mate. What'd you do that for?"

"I dunno. It's gay to do it in the dark."

Dean gave a little snort of laughter, shaking his head.

“Sorry,” Seamus grinned. “I’ll just carry on."

Seamus tugged lightly again and Dean had to gulp and briefly close his eyes as the skilled hand slid up and down his shaft, calm without being slow, firm without being forceful, gentle without being feeble. He stared up at the scarlet drapes that hung over his bed, his breathing laboured.

"Do you ever play with your balls while you do it?" Seamus's voice was a soft hum in his ear.

Dean blushed.

"Er. Some-- sometimes." He had difficulty speaking properly.

"Want me to?"

Dean frowned for a moment, contemplating this. Hell, he had washed Seamus's hair and armpits, Seamus could well touch his balls.

"I guess. If you don't mind."

"I don't."

Briefly, the hand left his cock and instead dipped further down to cup his balls. Dean's eyes rolled back and his mouth fell open, but he stayed quiet.
"How's that?" Seamus asked under his breath as he rolled Dean's testicles lightly in his palm, stroking, stretching. "Good?"

Dean nodded, still staring straight up, not watching but feeling Seamus's thumb lightly run down the vertical seam on his sac, starting at the very base of his shaft and going all the way around. He let slip a little gasp when the heel of Seamus's hand brushed the underside of his balls.

"And that?" The hand was back on his cock, grasping it slightly more firmly this time, the strokes more filled with purpose. Dean felt Seamus's fingertips caress every vein on its way up, and the tickle of foreskin against the head of his cock as the hand slid back down was...
"Yeah. Good," Dean whispered.

"Faster?"

Another nod.

So Seamus abandoned the teasing and Dean's eyes finally fluttered closed as he was jerked with hard, satisfying strokes.

"God, you're so hard," Seamus whispered, fascinated, as if the sensation was new to him.

"Jesus, Seamus, shut up!"

Seamus sniggered and closed his fist tighter, and there was no way Dean could have stopped the loud, throaty moan that came out. His back arched.

"You gonna...?"

"Mhm." Dean hardly recognised his own voice, it seemed so strained, and Seamus did shut up then, hands just mercifully guiding him through it all.

Dean's own hands grasped desperately at the sheets and a moment later he let out a strangled "ngh!" as his release tore through him, rushing out in thick globs over his flat stomach, spasming in Seamus's hand which was still pumping him overwhelmingly. Seamus quietly watched as Dean's body convulsed, expertly slowing his strokes as the spasms came at longer and longer intervals. Dean's climax was almost silent - he held his breath, just the odd tiny "ungh" slipping out and a thick swallow as his vice-like grip on the cotton sheets finally began to loosen and the fluid leaking from him ceased. Slowly, he gradually began to sink back against the mattress, his back no longer arched, his thighs no longer tense, his teeth no longer gritted. For several minutes, all went still and quiet. Dean was panting, but neither of them spoke.

After a while, Seamus seized Dean's wand from the nightstand again, muttering a scrubbing spell to clean off the area around Dean's navel, and, Dean noted with shame, his own hand.

"Cheers," Dean muttered.

They were quiet for a bit longer, unmoving. Dean was still exposed. Swollen and throbbing, still trying to pluck up the motivation to cover up.

"You are bigger, you know," said Seamus suddenly.

He sounded amused rather than bitter, but Dean still cringed when he realised what he was referring to.

"Seamus, don't," he began, but Seamus went on.

"Not by much," he said, scrutinizing Dean's lower regions, "and I reckon we're equal in girth, but I'm pretty sure yours is longer."

"Oh, bleeding Christ." Dean covered his face with his hands. "I'll do anything you sodding want if you stop talking."

"Oh please, you knew."

"I told you, I tried not to think about it. Still am, actually."

"Try all you want, you won't succeed."

"Not as long as you're going on about it."

"Look, it's more queer to keep up that desperate charade of not thinking about it than to just admit you've looked and shrug it off."

"What's queer is you using the word charade ."

"You've got bigger balls as well. Did you not think about that either?"

Dean wasn't sure what to do with himself - he felt like laughing, crying, rolling over and going to sleep, and/or punching Seamus in his (Dean had admittedly noticed) slightly more modest-sized balls.

"I haven't... I... you're..."

"I don't know why you're acting all flustered. If anyone should feel bad it's me, though actually I always sort of expected you to be bigger, to be fair."

" Why are you still talking about this?"

"I'm going to keep talking until you admit you've looked."

Dean groaned and took his hands off his face, pulling at the sheets to cover himself up.

"All right," he snarled. "We share a dormitory and a shower room, for shit's sake. I did look at you, a few times. I could hardly have avoided it entirely for six years."

"That's exactly what my point has been this entire time."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Did you come to the same conclusion I did?" Seamus pressed on.

"I... ugh." Dean dearly wished Seamus would just leave it, but at this point he figured it would be quicker to humour him. "I'd never seen you with a stiffie, not a proper one, until I... until, um..."

"Right. And what did you think then?"

"I pretty much thought the same as you." Dean sighed. "Now, please can you sod off and let me go to sleep?"

"Certainly, now that we're both satisfied."

"Don't ever say anything like that again."

Seamus gave a little snort of laughter before sitting up and stretching, and then made to leave Dean's bed. Dean had already closed his eyes and started breathing calmly and rhythmically when Seamus's voice came again from the edge of the bed.

"Dean?"

Dean moaned.

"What?"

"You... did enjoy it, didn't you?"

"What?" Dean said again, wearily.

"What just happened. That was... good, right?"

Dean cracked open his eyes and looked at Seamus disbelievingly.

"You were there. Do you really need reassurance?"

Seamus smirked.

"Right, sleep well then."

Dean only grunted in response, having closed his eyes again.

Seamus was so careful in his movements it was almost inaudible, but Dean could still hear the hangings being drawn and then fall shut as well as feel the weight of Seamus' body lift off his mattress.

A couple of tiny creaks as Seamus got back into his own bed, and then all was silent. The only sign that anything unusual had happened was the warm space in Dean's bed next to his own body, the sensitivity of his still plump manhood, and the faint smell of sweat and cedar that Seamus left behind.

Dean found that he was okay with it, all of it. The fact that they'd let it happen, but also the fact that it barely left a trace.

BONUS SCENE

~March 25, the hospital wing~

"Oh, do stop whinging, miss Clarke, it's only a few blisters. Put some more of that cream on, that'll shrink them right down."

Poppy made her way down the centre of the room briskly, rolling her eyes at most of the patients. The only one she really sympathized with at the moment was Seamus Finnigan. He had an actual condition, while the students in the other beds complained about blisters, nosebleeds, and hair turned into hedgehog spikes - all swiftly fixed with a bit of cream or a flick of Poppy's wand. But Finnigan had had to be carried in by Longbottom and Thomas, and thoroughly examining him had left her none the wiser. This was very unusual indeed, as well as unsettling.

She had, however, reassured his two friends that he would be perfectly all right (she couldn't know for sure, but she tried not to make a fuss before she knew what the matter was) and sent them back to finish their school day. They had gone grudgingly but Thomas had promised to be back as soon as the final bell rang. Heart-warming, but there had been no time for her to focus on all that - she had work to do if she wanted to determine what fresh hell this was.

After half an afternoon of intense research, she was almost certain she had bested the mystery of the boy's immobile limbs, but she had a few questions to ask him before she could be entirely sure.

She had reached his bed, and he was already looking expectantly at her.

"Mr Finnigan."

Poppy drew the curtains and cast a sound-muffling charm. She could tell these actions worried the boy, but she knew that if she turned out to be right in her conclusion, he would most definitely prefer that nobody saw or heard them speak.

"Am I dying?" he said throatily.

She assumed he was more or less joking, but still snorted derisively for good measure.

"Don't be ridiculous, Finnigan. I'm fairly confident I've found out what's wrong with you, and be that the case, I also know how to fix it. But I need to ask you just a couple of questions first, before I can be certain."

"Right."

He sounded a little unnerved, so she deliberately kept a calm posterior to assure him there was nothing to be nervous about. She seized the clipboard with his chart on it and the quill from the pocket of her apron, then drew up a chair and perched on it.

"Firstly," she said, holding the quill poised over the parchment, "am I right in assuming you had little sleep last night? Less than five hours?"

The boy looked bemused, which was understandable.

"Yeah, I went to bed at three-ish and got up at seven-thirty."

She made a note.

"And have you eaten anything today?"

"Well, no."

Another little note.

She was already quite sure she was right at this point and didn't technically need to ask the last question, but even so, she wanted his full statement for her report.

"And you said it was a Body-Binding spell, did you not? Was it... properly performed?"

Finnigan snorted.

"It was Crabbe who did it, so I would assume not. In fact, I'm pretty sure I heard him say Petrificus Total-bus ."

"I see. Well, that certainly settles it."

She scribbled some more on his chart, then put the quill down and turned to him looking serious.

Poor lad. This was going to be a heavy talk.

"Finnigan, your condition is commonly known as the Limplimbs syndrome, or corpus immobilus in medicine, and it's quite rare as it requires a very specific course of events. Less than five hours' sleep, abstinence from food since before you slept, and then being on the receiving end of a sloppy Body-Binding spell. It's this lack of rest and nourishment, which has the body already weakened, combined with the final hit of the improper use of the spell, that causes your inability to move your arms and legs. More often than not, other patients have been able to use some parts of their body - abdominal and facial muscles among others - but the limbs normally won't budge. Are you with me so far?"

"Sure. But you said you have a cure, yeah?"

Poppy could feel her face tighten. He clearly didn't grasp the magnitude of his situation, and she couldn't hold that against him. After all, even she hadn't known how ill he was since up until half an hour ago.

"I do," she said. "And it's a fairly simple one to prepare. However, even if you agree to keep taking it, it will still be at least a week before you're well again, and the journey back to health isn't going to be pleasant."

His jaw dropped.

"A week? I won't be able to move for a week? "

"A week if you agree to take the potion," Poppy reminded him, "otherwise you'll most likely be ill for about two or three weeks."

"Three weeks! But then why wouldn't I take the potion?"

Poppy tensed a little. She had known this part of the conversation would inevitably come up, but she didn't often have to deal with delicate matters such as the one she was about to and she wasn't looking forward to doing it now. But she set her jaw and kept her eyes on his.

"Well, there are side-effects, you see."

"Of course there are." Finnigan sighed. "Fine. What are they?"

Poppy peered at her notes.

"The most common one is a light fever, which is manageable. And..."

Right, this was the awkward bit. Just keep talking, she urged herself.

"And, well, the thing about this potion, Finnigan, is that it activates the body, and there's no way of controlling which parts are activated or in what way."

The boy frowned. She could tell he didn't like the sound of this, and she didn't like having to say it, but she ploughed bravely on.

"So, as the body is reawakened, you will likely experience random spasms and cramps, increased sense of touch, and abnormally long-lasting erections."

Finnigan's eyes widened, and she went on hurriedly:

"These are normal side-effects for male patients, nothing to worry about but it may cause a certain level of discomfort."

Discomfort. She could have laughed at her own choice of words; it all sounded like a royal pain in the backside if anyone asked her, but she obviously couldn't say that to a student. Were Finnigan a girl, he would have had it so much easier - buzzing muscles and nightly sweating sounded far less uncomfortable.

And uncomfortable was indeed the word to describe the look on Finnigan's face.

"Oh," he said weakly, looking determinedly at his own knees and blushing faintly.

Poppy herself was the picture of calm and poise, waiting for the question it seemed like he was bracing himself to ask.

"How... er," his throat sounded raw and dry, and he cleared it before continuing, "when you say 'abnormally'..."

"Days, in most cases."

She saw no point in letting him keep struggling for words.

His gaze snapped up to meet hers, aghast.

" Days? "

She nodded.

"There's no way around it, Finnigan - whichever way you go, you will certainly be uncomfortable. The only question is if you think the side effects of the healing potion sound like something you'd rather endure than twice or three times the recovery time."

He sighed very heavily, looking up at the ceiling, contemplating.

"Yeah, I suppose," he said eventually. "A bit of fever and... and all that other stuff... I mean, it sounds all right if it means I don't have to stew in my own juices for three weeks."

Poppy nodded approvingly.

"Excellent choice. I will have enough potion prepared to last you a week. Hopefully that will be enough to have you restored completely."

Oh, darn it all to Morgana, there was that other thing she was supposed to say. Very well.

"Also, once you're back to health and we discontinue your intake of the potion, exercise and," just get the word out, "masturbation, or other sexual activity, is highly recommended twice a day during the week that follows, to cleanse your body of the remains of the potion and make sure you don't relapse. It keeps the - the blood flowing to all the body parts affected."

"Oh." He cleared his throat again, and was very careful not to look at her. "Sure, no problem."

"Very good."

She almost giggled at the ridiculousness of it all, but then told herself she was no daft schoolgirl and instead finished her notes with a swift little flourish.

"Very well, then, Finnigan. I shall go and have your potion prepared for you in a bit, but first I'd like to discuss a few arrangements with you before any of your classmates show up."

Right.

How do you tell a seventeen-year-old boy he's going to need help going to the toilet?