Fic -- H/Z
The Sadness That Wastes
Rating: 18 (I think this is the first sexy thing I've posted here! How the hell did that happen?)
Pairing: Harry/Zacharias
Summary: "You wanna do lines off my arse?"
Declaimer: No mine and I hope to God JKR never reads this.
Warnings/Notes: Drugs, alcohol, and sex-ish stuff. This pairing just clings to the intoxicated angst. Also, I fully admit I was listening to Depeche Mode while writing this, "Dream On" almost exclusively, but it was originally inspired by the B&S song. It still counts... right?
There are people calling for him in the cramped living room. Harry kind of forgets why he decided to stand in the hallway in the first place. Smith is here, though, blocking the door to the toilet and wearing red shoes. Harry squints at the white laces. Smith reaches out, and both of them are watching as his fingers fist in the hem of Harry's shirt.
"Oi --" he starts and then realizes that there's nothing left after that. He stumbles around, pulling Smith with him. "I'm twenty-two!" he yells out into the living room. A cheer goes up among the guests, a chorus of Hurrah! that makes Harry throw his arms up in celebration. His flailing limbs smack Smith in the face by accident.
"Oh, wow," Harry says and turns to assess the damage.
"Potter," Smith says, but apparently he's more drunk than angry, because he laughs a little and grabs Harry's wrist. He hauls him close, holding his arm out and away from him as he bites at the blue vein just below the crease on the inside of Harry's elbow. He loops his other around his waist and Harry thinks it should be obvious where this is going and yet still:
"What are you doing?" But he's laughing and already slipping his fingers into Smith's waistband.
Smith hums against his neck and Harry's always liked that. He tilts his head to the side and hears Fred yell for him in the other room. It's his party, his friends are there, his girlfriend is there, sitting pretty and sweet and wonderful and --
"I can't--"
Smith scoffs. "Who do you think you're kidding?" He's got Harry laid out against the wall, and he pushes his knee between his legs and lifts up. There's a spark of sensation, a tingle that's like a memory. That is a memory, and there's a reason he doesn't do this with Smith anymore. He's sure of it.
"Smith," There's a growl in his throat trying to work its way out. "I --"
Smith is moving them, guiding them clumsily down the hallway. He pulls Harry through a doorway and then there's a bed underneath Harry's back and he's propping himself up on his elbows to watch Smith undress. Smith strips off his clothes easily and with a grace that suggests he's always performing. For someone.
When he's completely naked he leans over the pile of rumbled clothes and digs through the pockets of his jeans. He pulls out a little bag, and tosses it on the bed beside Harry.
"Lookit!"
Harry leans down close to the bag and squints, goes to adjust his glasses and finds that they aren't there. That's... peculiar. He looks around him wildly, patting himself down and thinking of where he could have left them. Fingers snap in front of his face.
"Harry. Harry!"
"My glasses...."
Smith rolls his eyes and bounces into a kneeling position next to him, scooping the bag up in his hand. "Wanna do lines off my arse?" He grins cheekily.
Harry snorts. "No." He lays back and realizes suddenly that they're in his room. He recognizes the ceiling. Smith rolls until he's pressed against him, squirming all along his side.
"OK. Wanna do... other things... with my arse?"
Harry smiles. "Yes."
There are teeth on his collarbone and fingers slipping through the buttons on his shirt, making them meaningless. Really, what dare stands in the way of Zacharias Smith when he wants something. Not buttons. Certainly not the best intentions of Harry fucking Potter.
He rolls them until he's on top. He stares at the dressing table by the bed for a moment until the lube's next to him on the pillow, conveniently open and warmed. That seems to really get Smith hot because he moans and writhes. Harry raises his eyebrows.
"Wandless magic? Really?" he says.
"Christ. That's -- that's more than wandless magic. That's--" Smith moans as Harry stiffens in concentration for a moment before his trousers and pants are suddenly gone, folded into a neat pile atop the dresser. "God."
Harry licks behind his ear. "If I blinked the right way, I could make your brain go to mush inside your head." Smith arches against him and pants. What a weirdo, Harry thinks.
"How can you --" Harry kisses him to shut him up, because he thinks he got it from Voldemort. Thinks most of the magic he can do now came from Voldemort during the last battle, or all the battles, he's not sure. If that turns Smith on, he doesn't want to know.
He's still kissing Smith when he pushes two slick fingers inside.
Smith twitches. "Fuck. Warn a bloke, yeah?"
"Sorry," Harry twists them and smiles at the way Smith's thighs tense up, how every muscle in his body seems to go taunt before he relaxes and bears down. "Hmm," Harry murmurs into his chest, eyes closed as he tries to disconnect himself from this. He's so hard, and his dick keeps brushing against the sheets, and it hurts.
"OK," he mutters as he kneels up and gets long, smooth, pale legs in the crook of each arm. He scoots forward, and now Smith is practically bent in half, his knees by his ears and his arse obscenely displayed.
There's a knocking then a pounding on the door as Harry pushes inside. Ginny's voice yells through the closed door and Harry should really be nicer to her. She's not going to put up with him much longer, and how many more punches in the face from Ron will it take before he gets that?
Smith moans, loudly. Harry pushes hard and fast, his fists holding Smith's biceps down against the mattress. His head feels funny. His dick feels funny, and suddenly there's this horrible thought that he might never come. That he'll just have to lie here fucking until he dies. There are worse ways to go, but it's still a mildly humiliating way to end a life. And what a scandal. Reeta Skeeter's face suddenly pops into his head just as Smith screams and comes hot against his chest. Harry stutters something like, "No fucking way" as his orgasm is ripped from him with Skeeter's stupid smirk still lingering behind his eye lids.
He disentangles himself too quickly, too hastily, and they both wince. He stumbles off the bed, his head spinning, and pulls on his trousers. He uses Smith's shirt to clean up the sticky mess on his stomach and notices the bag still sitting on the bed. The contents are rusty coloured and it's definitely a powder. He picks it up and crawls on his knees to where Smith is sprawled on his back.
"Turn over," Harry says, weighing the bag in his palm.
Smith blinks at him. "Are you kidding? Already?"
"Not that." Harry grins. "I wanna do lines off your arse."
Smith laughs, but rolls over all the same. The sounds of the dying party drift in through the closed door, as well as sounds of someone's muffled sobs. Harry opens the bag.
--end--
Rating: 18 (I think this is the first sexy thing I've posted here! How the hell did that happen?)
Pairing: Harry/Zacharias
Summary: "You wanna do lines off my arse?"
Declaimer: No mine and I hope to God JKR never reads this.
Warnings/Notes: Drugs, alcohol, and sex-ish stuff. This pairing just clings to the intoxicated angst. Also, I fully admit I was listening to Depeche Mode while writing this, "Dream On" almost exclusively, but it was originally inspired by the B&S song. It still counts... right?
There are people calling for him in the cramped living room. Harry kind of forgets why he decided to stand in the hallway in the first place. Smith is here, though, blocking the door to the toilet and wearing red shoes. Harry squints at the white laces. Smith reaches out, and both of them are watching as his fingers fist in the hem of Harry's shirt.
"Oi --" he starts and then realizes that there's nothing left after that. He stumbles around, pulling Smith with him. "I'm twenty-two!" he yells out into the living room. A cheer goes up among the guests, a chorus of Hurrah! that makes Harry throw his arms up in celebration. His flailing limbs smack Smith in the face by accident.
"Oh, wow," Harry says and turns to assess the damage.
"Potter," Smith says, but apparently he's more drunk than angry, because he laughs a little and grabs Harry's wrist. He hauls him close, holding his arm out and away from him as he bites at the blue vein just below the crease on the inside of Harry's elbow. He loops his other around his waist and Harry thinks it should be obvious where this is going and yet still:
"What are you doing?" But he's laughing and already slipping his fingers into Smith's waistband.
Smith hums against his neck and Harry's always liked that. He tilts his head to the side and hears Fred yell for him in the other room. It's his party, his friends are there, his girlfriend is there, sitting pretty and sweet and wonderful and --
"I can't--"
Smith scoffs. "Who do you think you're kidding?" He's got Harry laid out against the wall, and he pushes his knee between his legs and lifts up. There's a spark of sensation, a tingle that's like a memory. That is a memory, and there's a reason he doesn't do this with Smith anymore. He's sure of it.
"Smith," There's a growl in his throat trying to work its way out. "I --"
Smith is moving them, guiding them clumsily down the hallway. He pulls Harry through a doorway and then there's a bed underneath Harry's back and he's propping himself up on his elbows to watch Smith undress. Smith strips off his clothes easily and with a grace that suggests he's always performing. For someone.
When he's completely naked he leans over the pile of rumbled clothes and digs through the pockets of his jeans. He pulls out a little bag, and tosses it on the bed beside Harry.
"Lookit!"
Harry leans down close to the bag and squints, goes to adjust his glasses and finds that they aren't there. That's... peculiar. He looks around him wildly, patting himself down and thinking of where he could have left them. Fingers snap in front of his face.
"Harry. Harry!"
"My glasses...."
Smith rolls his eyes and bounces into a kneeling position next to him, scooping the bag up in his hand. "Wanna do lines off my arse?" He grins cheekily.
Harry snorts. "No." He lays back and realizes suddenly that they're in his room. He recognizes the ceiling. Smith rolls until he's pressed against him, squirming all along his side.
"OK. Wanna do... other things... with my arse?"
Harry smiles. "Yes."
There are teeth on his collarbone and fingers slipping through the buttons on his shirt, making them meaningless. Really, what dare stands in the way of Zacharias Smith when he wants something. Not buttons. Certainly not the best intentions of Harry fucking Potter.
He rolls them until he's on top. He stares at the dressing table by the bed for a moment until the lube's next to him on the pillow, conveniently open and warmed. That seems to really get Smith hot because he moans and writhes. Harry raises his eyebrows.
"Wandless magic? Really?" he says.
"Christ. That's -- that's more than wandless magic. That's--" Smith moans as Harry stiffens in concentration for a moment before his trousers and pants are suddenly gone, folded into a neat pile atop the dresser. "God."
Harry licks behind his ear. "If I blinked the right way, I could make your brain go to mush inside your head." Smith arches against him and pants. What a weirdo, Harry thinks.
"How can you --" Harry kisses him to shut him up, because he thinks he got it from Voldemort. Thinks most of the magic he can do now came from Voldemort during the last battle, or all the battles, he's not sure. If that turns Smith on, he doesn't want to know.
He's still kissing Smith when he pushes two slick fingers inside.
Smith twitches. "Fuck. Warn a bloke, yeah?"
"Sorry," Harry twists them and smiles at the way Smith's thighs tense up, how every muscle in his body seems to go taunt before he relaxes and bears down. "Hmm," Harry murmurs into his chest, eyes closed as he tries to disconnect himself from this. He's so hard, and his dick keeps brushing against the sheets, and it hurts.
"OK," he mutters as he kneels up and gets long, smooth, pale legs in the crook of each arm. He scoots forward, and now Smith is practically bent in half, his knees by his ears and his arse obscenely displayed.
There's a knocking then a pounding on the door as Harry pushes inside. Ginny's voice yells through the closed door and Harry should really be nicer to her. She's not going to put up with him much longer, and how many more punches in the face from Ron will it take before he gets that?
Smith moans, loudly. Harry pushes hard and fast, his fists holding Smith's biceps down against the mattress. His head feels funny. His dick feels funny, and suddenly there's this horrible thought that he might never come. That he'll just have to lie here fucking until he dies. There are worse ways to go, but it's still a mildly humiliating way to end a life. And what a scandal. Reeta Skeeter's face suddenly pops into his head just as Smith screams and comes hot against his chest. Harry stutters something like, "No fucking way" as his orgasm is ripped from him with Skeeter's stupid smirk still lingering behind his eye lids.
He disentangles himself too quickly, too hastily, and they both wince. He stumbles off the bed, his head spinning, and pulls on his trousers. He uses Smith's shirt to clean up the sticky mess on his stomach and notices the bag still sitting on the bed. The contents are rusty coloured and it's definitely a powder. He picks it up and crawls on his knees to where Smith is sprawled on his back.
"Turn over," Harry says, weighing the bag in his palm.
Smith blinks at him. "Are you kidding? Already?"
"Not that." Harry grins. "I wanna do lines off your arse."
Smith laughs, but rolls over all the same. The sounds of the dying party drift in through the closed door, as well as sounds of someone's muffled sobs. Harry opens the bag.
--end--