A/N: Written for tmmdeathwishraven, who requested SeamusBlaise with the prompt floo powder. Hope you like it, m'dear! And remember, people, I take requests! The weirder the pairing, the better :D

Also, I don't know why, but this one has got a fair few curse words. I don't know what came over me... Do I normally use curse words? I don't think I do. Unless... Hm.

Ramble over.

Pairing: Seamus Finnigan/Blaise Zabini

Prompt: 7. Explosion

Naturally, it's all your fault.

You're a fucking disaster, blind drunk and heavy tongued and Lavender tells you to get out of her house and do not come back until you've sobered up completely, you ignorant arse.

So you do.

You stumble to her fireplace and you scream something that should be Goodfuckingbye! but sounds a lot more like Guhfoonbyeand you throw more than a handful of floo powder down and fall into emerald green flames and scream, "Home, home, fucking home!" and hope that you were articulate enough for the fire.

You weren't.

You spin through the grates and see flashes and flashes of homes that aren't yours. Your stomach is sick and you're not sure which is spinning faster, the floo or your head. The vomit rises in your throat and you want to grasp the walls, you want to stop fucking spinning, but you need to get home. But it's that or get sick all over yourself, isn't it?

So instead you leap from the grate and hope you're not too far away from home.

Something happens, something goes wrong, and the fireplace crackles and shakes behind you and then there is a bang! Clouds of emerald dust rain down over the carpet and coat your robes in a layer of green. Fuck. You look around quickly, desperately, hoping that the explosion wasn't nearly as loud as you think. You're in a small sitting room with only a flickering candle for light, the house owner curled up in an armchair with a book on his lap. He looks familiar. And bloody shocked.

"Finnigan? What the fuck are you doing in my house?"

Zabini. You don't say anything, but hold your hands to your mouth to try and stop yourself being sick.

"Merlin, Finnigan, are you drunk? I'd make an Irish joke here but you're making this a little too easy, aren't you?"

"Shut up, Zam- Bamz- Zabinini," you blurt from behind your fingers.

"You're in my house. You've just exploded into my sitting room! I'll say whatever the hell I want to say! Now get out."

"Can't," you manage to say, albeit weakly, the waves of nausea subsiding slowly.

"Lovers' spat?" he asks mock-sympathetically.

"Something like tha'."

"Awh, Thomas kick you out?"

"Th-hic- Thomas? Dean? No, no, Lavender, Zambini, Lavender."

"Really? I thought you two were shagging for years."

"No, no, no, no, no. Dean is a boy, Zibini. Lavender is -hic- not."

"And you're telling me that you don't fancy Thomas? Not even a tiny bit?"

"Of course not! Silly Zambi..."

"You're not too drunk to lie then, are you?"

"Dean is my f-friend, he's my friend."

"Of course he is," Zabini whispers, rising from his chair and stepping closer and closer to you, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. "But you wish it were more than that, don't you? You wish he would look at you. Touch you. Kissyou."

And then he is so very close that you can taste his laughter as he closes the space between you. Zabini's lips are rough and dry against your jaw but his fingers are soft on your neck, tracing the vein that bulges, thick and blue, throbbing along with the excitement of your rapidly beating heart.

"Do you wish he would touch you like this, Finnigan?" Zabini murmurs, his mouth dangerously close to yours. "Do you wish he would...kiss you?"

And then your lips meet and the explosion of the floo is nothing at all to this. Your lips sing and your tongue burns with his touch, every nerve in your body shouting and screaming and calling his name and you are clawing at his shirt with fingers that are too drunk and clumsy for this.

He chuckles darkly into the kiss.

"Knew it."

And he pushes you back from him with a sneer.

"Now get out of my house."

You stand there, slack-jawed, confused and lost and desperate and Zabini is folding his arms and glaring at you. He is daring you to defy him, to stay a while longer, and you think that maybe he wants you to.

But you're drunk.

So you say, "Fine, fine. Where's th'door?"

He stays still, his glare still angry and sharp on his face and his eyes narrowed in contempt. The seconds pass slowly as you sway on your feet and Zabini stares you down.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he growls, and then his hands are at your back and his lips are against yours once more and the world is spinning again but this time it's good, oh so good, and Zabini smiles against your lips.

"Fuck Thomas," he mutters. "You're mine now."

"That was –hic - quick," you reply.

"Not really, Finnigan. I've been waiting too long for this," he says, and then you're kissing again and the reply you tried to formulate is swallowed so your contented sighs are the only response he gets.

And, quite frankly, you think, fuck Lavender, too.