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Divine Rights The truth is, Malfoy doesn't know a good thing when he sees it. Blaise gives him access to his body - a temple, obviously, to be worshiped with hands and tongue and teeth - and he still stares after that Potter. Harry Potter, with awful hair and scrawny arms who must be trying to make a statement with those glasses because otherwise. Ugh. In their dormitory Draco is fire on Blaise's skin, the antithesis to the cold stone grazing his exposed flesh with gnarled hands. He is a terribly enthusiastic fuck, all gasps and moans and invocations to obscure greek deities, treacled heat wrapping around them like whispers of magic. When Draco comes - first, Blaise's pale fingers curled around his cock and carelessly, painfully tugging, one lazy eyebrow impossibly arched - it is with a fierce hiss and he scrabbles back across the floor when his eyes refocus. Blaise sneers. It's like looking into a mirror. "What's wrong, Malfoy, my hair too neat for your tastes? Nails not bitten to the quick, and it's putting you off your game?" Lines furrow Draco's brow, his lip curling in imitation of the other boy. "I've no idea what you're talking about." He gets to his feet and pulls his robe on, ignoring the unpleasant feeling of fabric against his sticky thighs. Makes to deliver a haughty look at Blaise who is now casually leaning back against his bed, legs splayed out over the dark stone; he is still mostly dressed - his lower limbs encased in Muggle-style trousers, of all things. The glare, however, fails miserably as Draco watches Blaise slowly lick his own palm, pink tongue trailing over skin he can remember the touch of, like a brand of possession. His hand clean, Blaise tilts his head back, and stares. His sneer metamorphoses into a full-toothed grin but his eyes are still glassy, frozen, colder than the dungeon air that chases around Draco's bare and oddly-feminine ankles. "No, I suppose you don't." And then Blaise is standing too, and he's taller than Draco. He lowers his lips to the trembling pale beneath him and there is fire in Draco's mouth, spice and sex on his tongue, teeth on his lips and. It stops. He blinks once, twice, to clear his head and wonders vaguely if there's a spell for this sort of situation. Decides there probably isn't, vows to create one. Blaise Zabini is definitely something that requires a counter-curse. Blaise wonders for a moment if Draco even realises that he stares after Potter, or that his life seems to center on the one person in the world he claims to hate. If he is blind to what everybody else sees - even Parkinson, and she wouldn't notice a hippogriff if it chewed on her arm. He licks his lips and tastes the remnants of Malfoy, and decides that he doesn't care. Some people were born to be temples, and some to worship; Blaise is quite certain he doesn't suit servility. back |