discarded debris

Fic: Puppeteering (Hermione/Blaise)

2007-04-21T08:30:08Z

Puppeteering
Harry Potter.
Hermione Granger/Blaise Zabini. Adult, for sexual situations. Fisting.
Notes: Written because of one of those weird random pairing + weird random situation generators. I've been told that this story is a bit unnerving. Hermione is terribly clinical and cold and there is a certain detachment in this situation, but there it is. Unbetaed. This was originally published under a different LJ, several years ago.

When Hermione Granger made her first visit to Hogwarts' library she never imagined that someday its contents would lead her here, behind the spell-locked curtains surrounding the bed of a Slytherin boy. She'd definitely never imagined this tableau: Blaise Zabini bent over on his knees, with his hands splayed against the headboard, his bum in the air, and her hand up his arse.

It was all Harry's fault, really. He should have known she'd research homosexual sex after he’d confessed to her and Ron that he was gay. (Honestly. Losing a Quidditch game because he was trailing after Malfoy – Malfoy! – to watch his thighs clenching around his broom.) She'd read all about heterosexual sex months ago when Ron first asked her to Madam Puddifoot's one Hogsmeade weekend. Not that she had any intention of using the information. Well, no intention of using most of it. Yet.

It had taken her half the week just to find the books: they were all under the heading "Crooked Wands" instead of anything logical. She should have guessed sooner, though; after all, the books she'd read on Ron’s behalf had been in the Potions section under "Stirring Caldrons." Heaven forbid Ginny turned out a lesbian. It'd take a month just to figure out the likely euphemism. Hermione had already begun a list of candidates, though, just in case. She certainly couldn't ask Madam Pince for that sort of help.

Hermione sighed and tried to reposition herself on the bed. If only she hadn't let slip to Zabini, when he snuck up on her in the library, that she was reading the books on Harry's behalf. She might have been able to talk her way out of this situation. Some girls received sexual pleasure from watching gay men have sex. She knew this because she'd read it in a book called "Waving Your Own Wand," which she'd read in first year but not fully understood until sometime later. Hermione wouldn't have liked Zabini to reveal that sort of information about her to the school, but the Daily Prophet had printed false stories about her before, so she was no stranger to embarrassment and false rumours. Or she might have realized sooner that she could have blackmailed Zabini herself. After all, he had to have been stalking that section of the library for a reason. But no, instead she was here, on a Slytherin's bed, with a Slytherin moving himself back and forth on her hand.

Hermione wondered for a moment if Zabini would ejaculate from just this or if she'd have to touch his penis as well. She'd only agreed to do exactly what was on the page she was reading, and masturbating was in the first section of the book. Nowhere near anal fisting. But she wasn't going to sit here all afternoon, and Zabini said she'd have to make him come for their bargain to be fulfilled. He also said that she had to be silent, and do nothing except what the book said; he didn't want to remember that it was Hermione Granger behind him even while it was happening. Which stood to reason, she supposed, if he had been hoping to find another boy reading the books instead of her. Oh, thank God she hadn't sent Harry to research for himself. He might have been trapped in here instead, and that would have been worse if word had gotten out, since he wished to keep it secret. At any rate, Hermione was honour-bound to see this bad situation through. Zabini certainly seemed to be enjoying it, anyway. His back seemed to arch and fall with each thrust and pull onto and off of her arm. And he was moaning! Strangled, half-formed words were falling out his mouth into the pillow below him, and it looked as if he were drooling, but since Hermione had folded in her thumb and made those last few pushes to get her wrist bone past his sphincter he hadn't closed his mouth, so it shouldn't have surprised her.

Thank God, Merlin and anything anyone had ever believed in that she had already passed the section on analingus when he found her.

Hermione wondered how Ron would react if she put her fingers up his bum the next time she performed fellatio on him (once for each potions class he escaped without detention). But no, he'd be looking for a new girlfriend before she even got her fingers back out.

Well, at least she could offer Harry practical advice on two subjects. She was pretty good with fellatio, she thought. She'd only nicked Ron with her tooth once – thank God again for her spell-reduced teeth – and Zabini seemed to be thrusting himself into a frenzy now, so she must have done something right. She hadn't thought he'd put up with this for so long, though. It couldn't possibly feel as good as he was making it seem.

Unless... he had surprised her from behind while she was taking notes on how properly to prepare the anus for penetration. Maybe he'd been waiting for her to get to that point in the book. He hadn't seemed put off at all when she'd told him what exactly she'd been reading about.

Sneaky, horny, blackmailing git.

Maybe she should do something to help this along. She hadn't even tried to find his prostate gland. But maybe he'd already found that on his own.

Zabini's shoulders dropped down to the pillow and Hermione snapped out of her reverie. One of his hands was wrapping around his penis. She'd never seen a boy masturbating before. Not even Ron, though she had done it to Ron a few times. Zabini's penis was a darker colour than Ron's, the glans more purple. His scrotum was entirely hairless, as was the cleft of his arse, and she'd seen earlier that Zabini kept the rest of his pubic hair trimmed into a thin strip like a runway leading to his penis. Ron was red all around. His skin flushed more red than usual when he was aroused; his pubic hair seemed to be everywhere and was a darker shade than the hair on his head, and the glans of his penis turned an almost frightening shade of red when he was erect.

This had to end soon. She was tired of holding her arm like this.

Hermione leaned her head down a little and licked her arm, not quite where it was touching Zabini's arse. She tasted salt and the strange spell-created lubrication. It was supposed to taste good – she'd taken notes on that earlier too – but it wasn't quite pleasant. She had read about this, she could manage it, so she pushed her face in a little closer, between the two halves of Zabini's bum, and licked around the rim of Zabini's arse. And suddenly his muscles clenched so tight it felt like they were trying to swallow her arm down like a snake taking its prey in whole. His prick was jerking around like a puppet on a string and the semen was dripping from his fingers and stomach and making wet, little puddles on the sheet beneath him before Hermione realized quite what was happening.

He'd shouted out Draco's name then, and she'd sniggered because she'd caught Malfoy with a Hufflepuff girl after curfew not too long ago. Why all the gay wizards were attracted to Malfoy, she'd never understand. But now Zabini was shouting, "Out! Get out!" at her. If she could get free, she'd already have been gone, but Zabini's arse was still spasming around her wrist, and she knew from the book that she couldn't just yank it out. Zabini shouted a spell she must not have reached yet in the book because her hand flew out his arse like a bullet from a gun. Then he rolled over, and pushed her out through the curtains, and then just as quickly out through the door. He stood there naked and trembling and told her that if she ever, ever told anyone what he'd said, she'd wish for Draco's beaver tooth spell because even You-Know-Who would never dream of the things he'd do to her.

Hermione blinked, and surreptitiously sniffed her hand while pretending to wipe her nose. It didn't even smell like the weird lubrication, so she just cast a light cleaning spell before giving Zabini a little wave and a grin. Just let him try to manipulate her again, now she knew his secret. She was nobody's puppet.

Drabble: Staking a Claim (Ryan/Aaron)

2007-04-21T08:01:52Z

Staking a Claim
CSI: Miami
Ryan Wolfe/Aaron Jessop. Adult-ish.
Notes: A double drabble, post "Open Water", but pre "One of Our Own". Unbetaed and more boring than I was aiming for. Doesn't confine itself well to the drabble format, really.

Sex with Aaron was oddly gentle, even at its most frantic. He was so tentative, too uncertain by half, but eager to please. Aaron seemed to learn best by example; each move Ryan made was sure to be returned moments or days later. Ryan wondered sometimes if Aaron had been a virgin or inexperienced. He worried that this was just more of Aaron's deference, like his shows of respect for his superiors, the way he treated every officer more experienced than he as a mentor, as if they all knew more or better than he did.

Ryan kept sex gentle.

But Aaron had had that look in his eyes as he talked with Delko, still reeking of garbage from the cruise ship, a look that spoke of something like adoration and was the same as the one Ryan had taken - mistaken? - for attraction a month prior. It was that look that brought them here: Ryan pressing Aaron up against the door of Aaron's apartment, treating him like a physical, animal creature, instead of a porcelain figure to sweep sweetly into sex.

It felt too much like marking his territory, and he was. No way anyone would take this from him.

Unfinished fic: Untitled (Harry/Sirius)

2007-04-21T07:35:23Z

No title
Harry Potter.
Harry/Sirius, pre-slash, I guess.
Notes: Started many years ago and never finished. In need of much editing. And an ending. And most of a middle.

Sirius stamped so hard walking into Grimmauld Place that evening that the house elf heads shook on the walls. He had had enough of this shit. He could understand that the trial of a supposed mass murder cum escape artist of the century cum necromanced-back-to-life is-he-really-human-anymore thing might concern the Wizengamut enough for a trial. But it had been three weeks of physically and emotionally painful memory extractions and they still hadn't even reached the night of the Potters' betrayal and deaths!

A lifetime of memories would take a lifetime to extract. Though, of course, that might be their intentions. Keep the scary wizard off the streets, and in prison if they could manage it.

Sirius stamped a little harder as he walked up the stairs to his room. If Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World and Godson to Sirius Black could keep him out of prison during the trial, then maybe he could use a little more of that happy goodwill of the recently saved public to persuade them to speed the fucking trial up just a bit. A few drops of Veritaserum, the right list of questions, and he'd be home free.

Or free to leave home, as it were. Bloody Grimmauld Place.

Sirius knocked the last house elf head off the wall with an angry fist. Kreacher's eyes rolled with every bounce and jerk down to the bottom of the stairs. His head continued to roll until it bounced off the front door and came to a rest beneath the brick archway that hadn't existed when his mistress was still alive. If he'd still had thoughts in his head to think, Kreacher would have been horrified to discover her portrait bricked behind an ugly adornment that didn't suit the grotesque beauty of Grimmauld.

---

Sirius collapsed face forward onto his bed, neither searching for his still-too-moody godson to say hello nor stopping to pull off his dragonhide boots. A good hard fuck was the only thing he wanted right now. Barring that, a bed. A soft one.

"Hard day, Sirius?"

Sirius flipped him the bird. And groaned. "This is going to take months, Harry."

"I'll do another interview," Harry said, and began pulling off Sirius' boots. "You're going to get mud in your bed.

"Turn over." Harry pushed Sirius' hip as he spoke. "Was that a request before? A good hard fuck?"

Harry begun unbuttoning Sirius' robe; it was plain grey, dull as sticks, but neat and chosen to wear throughout the trial because it was neither too fancy not too unkempt. He couldn't go in looking like a vagabond from the street, but neither could he appear too flush with the wealth of the Black family fortune.

Sirius lifted his head a few inches off the bed to look Harry in the eye. He had a wary, and weary, look on his face as he spoke, "You're too young, Harry."

Harry grinned. He pulled the sleeves of Sirius' robe off his arms one at a time as if Sirius were a child who still couldn't dress himself. Sirius wore nothing but pants under his robe.

Harry pulled on the robe until it came loose from where it was lodged under Sirius' body, and tossed it onto a heap of robes in the corner. They really needed to get a new house elf. Sirius and Harry were the sort of bachelors who could, though they didn't, just burn the dirty clothes and buy new ones for each day. Still, they weren't the sort of bachelors to take care of the washing either. Something had to give eventually.

"Sirius, those boots make your feet utterly rank," Harry said, and cast a charm at Sirius' now bare feet.

Harry sat on the side of the bed by Sirius' feet, spelled up a jar of hand cream from the bathroom, and, beginning with Sirius' left foot, started to massage.

Sirius' feet were long, thin, bony. Rather like Sirius after he first escaped from Azkaban. The stringy tendons and veins stood out too much for him to have truly nice feet. But feet were feet, and Harry thought they probably didn't get too much better than this, no matter where you looked.

Drabble: Imperial Gallons of Facts (Reid/Hotchner)

2007-04-21T07:01:23Z

Imperial Gallons of Facts
Criminal Minds.
Spencer Reid & Aaron Hotchner. A quiet domestic scene, in an imagined universe in which they're in the early days of a relationship.
Notes: An unbetaed drabble. I can't recall if Reid's home has ever been shown on the show. Or if he reads anything for pleasure. Mostly developing an idea I've had about Reid and how he interacts with the world. Or rather, processes the world.

"I thought you'd have more books."

He'd never been to Reid's apartment before.

Reid frowned. "I quit buying them in college – just read them in the bookstore and put them back on the shelf."

Hotch lifted one from the shelf above the tv stand. "Do you enjoy books, Spencer? I've only seen you speed-read. For cases."

"I failed an English paper once for knowing just the facts and quotations. He said the subtext was more important than the text."

"Come sit," Hotch said, patting the couch. "Just listen: 'Now, what I want is Facts. Teach these boys and girls...'"

Fic: Shivering (Sirius/Harry)

2007-02-17T03:23:28Z

Shivering
Harry Potter.
Harry Potter/Sirius Black, sort of. Adult. Wanking.
Notes: Unbetaed. Written in 2005 as a giftfic. Originally published under another LJ name.

Harry was shivering; even the bath didn't warm him. He hadn't expected Grimmauld Places 11 and 13 to be surrounded by Dementors: it was an unpleasant welcome, to say the least, exacerbated by the presence of a sneering Snape who came out to help fight back the Dementors. And then by Sirius' mother, who seemed to have been hit with a Sonorus charm. And then by Mrs. Weasley, who shouted at Harry for daring to leave the Dursley's unescorted.

Perhaps it hadn't been Harry's greatest idea yet. But they really couldn't expect him to stay there, not when news had arrived just that afternoon that Sirius had been found! Not dead, not behind the Veil. But in Dorset. Somehow. Well, stranger things had happened in this world. Harry certainly didn’t think it was the result of any spell-casting he may have been surreptitiously performing at the Dursleys’. After all, what boy his age could possibly cast a spell to bring someone back from the Veil? And dump him in Dorset? Not this boy.

Being of age in the Wizarding World was grand, though, wasn’t it?

Of course, his heating charms seemed not to be working tonight. And neither had any of his other spell-castings since he’d arrived. Harry bet Mrs. Weasley had fought tooth-and-nail to have magic dampening spells placed on the house so that he and Ron couldn’t make Ginny feel bad or some such other rot. Even the twins hadn’t been apparating around, so either they’d grown up since he saw them last, or she was doing something to stop the lot of them from doing magic.

He hadn’t even seen Sirius, yet. That would warm him up, though. A little too much, maybe. And though he’d… worked off a little frustration before flying out, he was young enough that it’d be back at a moment’s notice anyway.

Harry ducked under the water.

He thought of his godfather in the bath over Christmas last year, the way his hair floated when he sunk beneath the surface, the way rivulets of water had streamed down his face when he plunged back into the cool air. (He’d known Harry was watching. Harry hadn’t.) His eyes drifted closed and he trailed his fingers down his neck, brushed over his collarbone, rifled his fingers through his chest hair, pinched his nipples, and arched up from the water, as if he were arching up into a lover.

Harry pinched his own nipples, recreating the scene as he remembered it. The way Sirius sucked his bottom lip into his mouth as he twisted and pinched his nipples until they were hard and rouged with blood, like twin bruises on his chest. The way he scratched his nails over them, like picking scabs. Harry had grown to like tight pinches and scratching fingernails on his body since then. The sharp burst of sensation not quite like pain in these moments alone with Sirius on his mind and his fingers on his body.

Sirius slung a leg over the rim of the tub in Harry’s memory and so now did Harry.

Yes, this would warm him up.

One hand drifted lower, still rifling through body hair as if looking for something, tracing the indentations of ribs, smoothing the hollowed flesh of his too thin belly. His other reached lower, cupping flushed balls in his palm, thumb rubbing circles around each, pressing lightly between them. His hand slide up the underside of his cock, closed tightly near the head, and pulled down.

Harry remembered this, this first sight of another man’s hard cock, this first sight of another man wanking. This was nothing like when he and Ron would lay back in their own beds and describe women they’d like to shag, while quietly masturbating behind closed curtains. Harry had never admitted he thought more of Ron during those moments than of Hermione’s tits or Parvati’s pert bum (and what must have been between her thighs), but his mouth would keep describing them while his mind was thinking of red hair and Ron’s strange freckle-free prick, which he’d glimpsed (blurry-eyed) in the shower.

After he’d seen Sirius though, he had better images to dream of and this bath got more fantasy time than Ron’s rather too-red body, which Harry imagined would flush up red as a boiled lobster in the throes of passion.

Sirius’ foreskin slid away and back over the head of his prick, like peeling some obscene, erotic fruit over and over, back and forth, until his body curled in and his hand moved so frantically Harry could hardly see what was happening. Harry looked up at Sirius’ face then, and Sirius stared out at Harry and spoke his name before his face scrunched up like a baby about to cry and then did cry out.

Water sloshed over the edge of the tub.

“You’re going to have to clean that water up, you know, Harry,” Sirius said, and grinned as Harry opened his eyes. “No magic. But maybe I’ll clean you up first…”

Drabble: Pretense (Harry/Sirius)

2007-02-17T03:11:23Z

This was originally published online under a different LJ name. It's unlikely anyone will remember, but I ought to say so anyway. It's... several years old.

Pretense
Harry Potter
Harry Potter/Sirius Black. Adult, for sexual situations
Notes: There was a second drabble that went along with this, from Harry’s point of view, but I can’t find the file for it anymore.

Sirius keeps his eyes closed when he fucks Harry. Or fucks him from behind, one hand clenched in Harry’s unruly hair. He can’t bear to look into those sorrow bright eyes, not while slippery skinned and stretched over Harry’s body.

He’s been quiet since he came back through the veil and so he thinks that Harry doesn’t notice the silencing charm he wordlessly, wandlessly, places over his own mouth when they fuck. Thinks Harry doesn’t notice he moans James’ name into Harry’s back, the side of Harry’s neck, Harry’s hair. Doesn’t wonder why Harry lets him, why Harry craves it.

Drabble: You're Dead to me, Sirius Black! (Sirius/Emmaline, Sirius/Remus)

2007-02-17T03:08:23Z

This was originally published online under a different LJ name. It's unlikely anyone will remember, but I ought to say so anyway. It's... several years old.

You're dead to me, Sirius Black!
Harry Potter.
Sirius Black/Emmeline Vance, implied Sirius Black/Remus Lupin.
Notes: Written for an "Your Ex-Lover is Dead" challenge. Works only on the assumption that Emmeline was in school at the same time as the Marauders, which, well, I don’t think she was. But never mind that. My explanation for the Snape+Whomping Willow+werewolf event.

"How could you do this?" Emmeline shouted in the middle of the Great Hall.

Silence fell like Mrs Norris being dropkicked over a banister while the Marauders crept around after hours.

"I would never do anything to you, Em. I love--"

"I saw you! And him!" She pointed at Remus. "Sneaking outside together. Without Potter. S-someone told me about you two. What else could..."

He couldn't tell her. He clasped Remus's hand instead.

"I'm sorry, Emmeline..."

"You're dead to me, Sirius Black."

Snape grinned from across the room. "Got you," he mouthed at Sirius.

I'll get you back, Sirius thought.

Drabble: Fly Alone (Sirius/Remus, Sirius/James, Peter)

2007-02-17T03:03:20Z

This was originally published online under a different LJ name. It's unlikely anyone will remember, but I ought to say so anyway. It's... several years old.

Fly Alone
Harry Potter.
Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, SB/James Potter, Peter Pettigrew. Adult-ish for sexual situations.
Notes: I tried to cut it back to 100 words, but couldn't manage it, so this is a bloated drabble: it got greedy and wanted too many words.

Sirius did not want to take Peter up on his bike.

It was the coolest thing he’d ever owned: he wanted to show it off, but… It was sexy with Remus; embarrassing with James. Peter would be… disturbing.

It was like the first time he rode a broom: cock suddenly hard against the vibrating wood. Remus rubbed against Sirius’ arse until he came, groaning in Sirius’ ear. James scooted so far back on the seat, Sirius thought he’d fall off until he tugged him up close, and James whimpered It doesn’t mean anything over and over until he too came. But Peter… Peter was still waiting.

Maybe he could fly alone.

Drabble: He Can't Remember (Fred/George)

2007-02-17T02:58:02Z

This was originally published online under a different LJ name. It's unlikely anyone will remember, but I ought to say so anyway. It's... several years old.

He Can't Remember
Harry Potter.
Fred Weasley/George Weasley. Adult, for sexual situations.
Notes: Written for a squick challenge at a drabble community.

Fred can't quite remember anymore how this happened.

He knows it was after they caught his bed on fire doing experimental potions one summer, and it was before they started sharing a bed at Hogwarts their fourth year. Sometime between the two, separate blankets and pillows turned into the slide of lips, tongues and then, much later, skin.

Fred wasn't George's first kiss, though George was Fred's first. Fred thinks – vaguely hopes – they're each other's first with this. And Fred can't remember how this happened, but with George's cock pressing there and his mouth kissing here, Fred doesn't really care.

Drabble: Tomorrow (Ryan/Eric)

2006-06-06T06:47:36Z

Tomorrow
CSI: Miami
Ryan/Eric drabble. Adultish.

Eric's mattress is old and sags in at the middle so that even after these most frantic, angry fucks, after a day of stepping on one another’s toes in the lab in the hummer on the scene, they always come to cocooned together in the centre of the bed, too warm, too close.

Ryan leaves then, his expression too subtle to read, the lines of his shirts as crisp as always, unmarked by the ninety minute stint in a heap on the floor against the wall. He nods goodbye, always locks the door behind him.

They'll do this again tomorrow.