"We should go out."

"We should."

"Where should we go?"

"... Draco, we're stuck in this stupid fucking castle with every anti-leaving charm known to wizardkind. Our choices are pretty limited."

"You're right."

"I know."

"So we're staying in? ...What should I wear?"

*

Long limbs encased in soft leather twist into and against denimed thighs like tendrils of music, note after throbbing note, and thin fingers, bone bleached in skin, splay and spiderweb up age-touched fabric and linger possessively on snug hips. Blaise watches his hands in a detached haze, a quicksilver grin quirking his lips as his hands pull the leather-clad body close to his own.

A gasp, and then Blaise's damn hands are moving down over the firm curve of Draco's backside and /fuck me/ he's leisurely grinding.

"Zabini, what are you-?"

"Ssh," is more a purr than a hiss from those bitten-wet lips that are now kissing and laving Draco's neck. His throat is worshipped by tongue and lips and /Merlin/ teeth in a bite that pulls an involuntary buck from the Malfoy's hips.

Blaise smiles in a feral gleam against snow-flesh cold and intoxicating as the Antarctic. He hasn't dreamed of this moment - Blaise's impulses are acted upon by his body before his brain has finished processing them - but, if he had, it can't have tasted sweeter. Draco is ice, yes, yes, but he is ice about to crack beneath the pressure of Blaise's touch and his fissuring moans split him apart piece. By piece.

Nip and lick up the beloved column of flesh to Draco's jaw, to Draco's lips, and breach them with an insistent kiss and /oh/. Stars tug at Blaise's crotch, impatient and impatient and he grabs that arse, pushes it into the wall and /fuck/ there's too much fabric between the burn of his cock and the rest of the world.

"Blaise-" as Draco snakes his legs around the other boy's hips, and the word is less an enunciation than a flat-out moan and he would be embarrassed but /soditall/ it felt good.

For a moment Blaise loses awareness of his body as he becomes want and need and senselessly grinds against Draco, his mouth a center of heat, the friction of denim against his straining cock like flares of exquisite pain.

"Fuck!" into Draco's mouth, a bitten-off orgasm as Blaise comes and /damn/, more drycleaning, but /sweetMerlin/ Draco had come in those bewitching trousers, the leather warm and supple as Blaise tip-toe fingers Arithmancy symbols to the tune of Draco's hitching breath.

Guiding himself backwards over the many and varied hazards of their dorm, Blaise shakily deposits Draco on solid ground before sitting heavily on his bed.

"Well." and

"Yeah."

And he really should ease out of these perturbingly sticky jeans and shower, but.

"Fuck it."

Exactly. Oh, did he say that out loud? Eyedart to Draco, flustered and still half-dressed.

Blaise had been quite proud of his restraint as Draco got changed earlier, shirts and trousers scattering in a maelstrom of dithering, teasing flashes of alabaster skin underscored with delicate veins and then those trousers - dragonhide the colour of rich and bitter chocolate outlining that perfect arse and... Well. Blaise had resisted for a prolonged and agonising four minutes and thirty-two seconds (he'd been counting under his breath, fists clenching and unclenching at his denimed thighs) before pouncing.

And now - /fuck/ - Draco's blush reaches down his neck to tickle his collarbone in hushed scarlet, and Blaise wonders if it would be hot to touch.

"Draco..." is not quite a question yet too hesitant for his usual demands. Draco's face breaks open and there is something smouldering behind those grey eyes, like silver ore. His swollen lips curl and the expression - /thank you, thank you/ - reaches those eyes and burns out the impurities.

"Yes?" and where did Draco learn to purr that way? The word falls from his lips and spears Blaise's cock, heat coiling up once more. /O, joyous hormones!/ but no, wait.

"I mean-"

And /damn/ is Draco sashaying his hips? He's slinking from wall to bed in an imitation of dance, the darker patch on dark leather near obscene sliced next to pale flesh. Blaise licks his lips in a slow swipe and savours the echo of Malfoy's skin, savours spice and sex.

"What do you mean?" brings the angle of his hips to Blaise's eye-level, the shallow slope of bone dipping beneath the caress of fabric like a wave petering on the shore. Then his hands are /careful Zabini/ once more on Draco's body and there is a sound like 'home' as he pulls the other boy on top of him, into the accommodating embrace of the bed.

"I meant-" punctuated with the brush of lips over skin, "that I think we should-" and there's this amazing taste in which Blaise loses himself, incoherent.

Grinning, Draco reclines and lets himself experience the hot trail of Blaise's progress, igniting his nerves in arrows of desire.

"- we should stay in more often?"