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Painting with my Lover

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Seamus learned a long time ago not to bother Dean while he was painting. Dean had a mean artistic temperament. If Seamus even knocked quietly on the door, tip-toed in, tapped his lover on the shoulder and asked what kind of cereal he wanted from the market, Dean would scream in rage and destroy whatever he was working on, even if he was one brush stroke away from completion.

So here he was, sitting patiently on the couch all day, reading the latest autobiography by Viktor Krum. He had just gotten to the bit where Krum talked about his forbidden passion with Hermione Granger (in detail), when two long muscular arms circled his shoulders. Seamus leaned back into the embrace. "So you're finished?"

"Yep." Dean smiled, standing up to his full height. "Come and see." He held out his hand to his lover and led him to his secret artistic lair.

Seamus gasped, covering his mouth with his hand. The painting was exquisite. The colors were bright and vivid, the texture looked like you could actually feel the fabric of the rumpled clothes if you touched it.

"Like it?" Dean smiled, putting an arm around his partner's waist.

"You flattered me. You made me look…" He shrugged. "Beautiful."

Dean leaned over and kissed the Irishman's cheek. "That's what you look like to me."

Seamus snickered, shoving Dean away. "You must be blind then!"

Dean laughed, dipping his fingers in bright red acrylic paint and lightly slapped Seamus' cheek, smearing the paint all over.

Chuckling, Seamus picked up a tube of dark green, lunging at Dean, who dodged and ended up tackling him to the ground, kissing him passionately.

"I think I have an idea for a new painting." Dean said breathlessly.

"What?" Seamus gasped, attempting to bite on Dean's lips.

"I think I'll call it The Result of Painting with my Lover." He smiled wickedly. "Wanna begin?"