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hackthis_archiveThis is Jack Sloper.
This is Gavin Montague.
I think you've all met Blaise before.
Let's play ball.
Harry Potter
Rated NC-17 for porn.
Dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
circe_tigana and ethrosdemon (even though she did beta duty)
I Have Been Waiting My Whole Life to Break You Apart
It doesn't really matter who you are, or where you were born, or who your family is, there are some things that no amount of breeding can counteract, like keeping quiet when you're receiving oral sex. There's something about the mess and the wet and -- Circe's pigs –- the slurping noises that erodes Blaise's resolve every time.
He tries though. He scrabbles at the walls and grips the folds of black robes tightly; there are teeth marks on his knuckles and the once smooth skin on the back of his hand. He moans and shakes and ends up with knots on the back of his head from slamming against the wall. The knots are hidden in his hair where they can't be seen, but he feels them at night, and he has started sleeping on his stomach to avoid the disquieting soreness.
Pain comes in a kaleidoscope of variety —- some of it is almost pleasant. And that’s the sort of perversion Blaise never knew he favored until he feels the stretch and burn of calloused fingers pushing inside him as he sweats and tries to maintain his hauteur. He can feel his entire body rebelling against the intrusion, and his mind bends slightly, reforms around who he is and who he thought he was.
He focuses on the silver lines of arching Greek letters and golden promise of their potential; Figgletaub's Second Theorem will supposedly, when solved, cloak him in invisibility. Blaise wants to solve that arithmetical formula so badly he can taste the ending before he's even solved the middle. Arithmancy isn’t a distraction. Sex is the distraction, and Jack Sloper grunts when Blaise's fingers tighten in his hair.
When Blaise glances down all he sees are freckles and bright eyes and the wetness of Jack's mouth. He releases his hold fractionally and drags a ragged fingernail along the side of Jack's temple. Jack blinks at the unexpected touch, and Blaise thrusts forward to remind Jack of his priorities.
Blow job, first, and intimacy never.
Blaise's fingernails have been a wreck ever since he discovered that Jack Sloper was good at something else besides Quidditch. It happened completely by accident, of course, and if Blaise believed in accidents that might sound a little bit more believable.
Blaise isn't a believer. That doesn't mean he doesn't believe in getting his cock sucked, regardless of house and lineage. Blaise has needs, just like every other sixteen year-old, and Jack is meeting them, with his tongue slipping and licking and sucking the length of Blaise's dick.
Blaise is wet from his navel to his thighs from Jack's tongue and his own pre-come. He grits his teeth when Jack's mouth moves from his dick to his balls and the finger inside him rubs ruthlessly at the little bright spark that makes him see spots.
Jack's tongue is far more talented than anything he could possibly be doing on the Quidditch pitch. Not that Blaise has been paying attention, but as far as he can tell Quidditch has no other proper use but to find him acceptable sex partners.
Blaise is not a Quidditch supporter; he is a Slytherin supporter. He believes in supporting whatever promotes the Slytherin agenda. And unlike his more blind and dunderheaded housemates, he does not confuse the Slytherin agenda with the Dark Lord’s agenda. Only idiots conflate toadyism with ambition. He would say that such narrow-thinking is only something a vapid, polar-visioned Gryffindor would do, but Jack is a Gryffindor and he's not quite as dense as some of his housemates.
Actually, Blaise doesn't know for certain if Jack is dense since he rarely pays attention to Jack unless he wants a sexual favour.
Unlike many students in his year, Blaise realises that you can't necessarily judge someone by their house. The salient facts about Jack are that he sucks cock with élan and that he's not impressed by Potter either. As Blaise understands it, Sloper was the first in his family to be sorted into Gryffindor, and he's been trying to get out ever since.
He's doing a fantastic job of it so far, consorting primarily with Ravenclaws and Slytherins, and staring at Blaise across the Great Hall with eyelashes that are entirely too long for a boy his age. The large freckle on Jack’s bottom lip can obliterate the infinite march of omicron theta upsilon. For a second or two.
Of course, there doesn't have to be a reason for everything. Draco is example prime of that.
Sometimes people just are the way they are, inscrutable and hodge-podge, with no rhyme nor reason aside from whim. Sometimes they just fancy whomever they fancy. Sometimes there's no ulterior motive for a Slytherin to fuck a Gryffindor besides sex –- not that Blaise knows too much about people who are this single-layered or forthright, but Jack Sloper doesn't seem to have too many secret motivations with Blaise's cock in his mouth.
Blaise could ask Jack what he’s up to with Blaise, but that seems as though it would be rather gauche at the moment, what with Jack's tongue wrapped around the head of his cock and his hands gripping Blaise's trembling thighs.
Blaise knows somewhere in the back of his mind that there are rules and etiquette to having someone suck you off, but all he can think about is sinking himself deeper into Jack's throat, and he goes back to griping Jack's hair when he starts humming something vaguely familiar around Blaise's dick. The Weird Sisters.
"Come on, Zabini," Sloper cajoles pulling off and looking up. Jack's voice is hoarse and low, and Blaise grunts as he comes all over Jack's fist. There's a smear of wetness on Jack's face, and Blaise bites the inside of his cheek as Jack licks his fingers and tucks himself back inside his trousers.
Blaise didn't even realise Jack had gotten himself off, but that makes Blaise's life that much easier. He presses himself against the wall when Jack gets to his feet. "Same time on Wednesday?" Jack asks expectantly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Blaise knows what Sloper wants, and he busies himself with getting his clothing in order instead. "Provided we're not all dead by then," he says curtly.
He's not going to snog Jack Sloper.
Jack exhales loudly through his nose and gives Blaise a bemused shake of disappointment before leaving. After Jack is gone, Blaise collapses against the door and recites the Fibonacci sequence backwards and forwards five times. Blaise is not unnerved; no Gryffindor could ever do that, but sex has a way of leaving him slightly addled and vulnerable in a way that leads him to mainly wank off rather than leave himself open to exposure. He needs all his facilities to go back to the dormitories.
He loses his place when there's a creaking noise from the corner of the room – that's what he gets for having assignations in the dungeons. It could be a ghost or a ghoul or a spider the size of a hippogriff, but Blaise knows it's none of these.
Blaise's mother and sister are great believers in premonition, but his father's always told him that that itch at the back of your neck, that roll low in your belly is called instinct. You don't have to have foresight if you're smart enough to know when something's afoot, and Blaise knows something’s afoot.
Distractedly smoothing the folds of his robes, he removes his wand quietly -- 12 inches of Chinese Elm with the heartstring of a Welsh Green dragon. He can take on another student; a teacher would've given him detention already.
He can taste the 'o' in Obliviate on the tip of his tongue...
"I haven't got all day," he says dryly. "Show yourself so we can get on with it. I have Arithmancy reading and eight inches of Charms to sort out before dinner."
Blaise prides himself on not being easily surprised -- his brother had been very keen on keeping boggarts as pets when Blaise was small –- yet he blinks once when an agile figure emerges from the corner.
Of all the possibilities: Theodore, a lost and soon to be very unfortunate, first-year, even Draco, wanting to know what Blaise was doing participating in House Dis-unity Activities, all of those were likely. Blaise wasn't expecting this.
"I've got a secret, won't everyone envy me. I'm sure everyone would love to know what Blaise Zabini is doing in the dungeons with another boy." The sing-song tone is decidedly out of place coming from such an imposing figure, and Blaise bites back a derisive snort.
Gavin Montague is all dark hair and dark eyes, but his smile is crooked and displays too many white teeth. He looks a bit manic, and Blaise watches him warily.
Rumour has it that Gavin had once had bright blue eyes, but that after That Toilet Incident one of his eyes was permanently dilated.
Having a mad look about you didn’t necessarily mean you were mad, but Gavin -- Gavin was mental. The darker eye made him look incredibly creepy according to Pansy, but Blaise could recall seeing her with Montague at least once or twice last year. It certainly hadn't put him off.
"What do you want, Montague?" Blaise lowers his wand fractionally; he's not nearly as bored as he's projecting, but that's irrelevant. There's something about Montague watching him have it off with Jack that's a little dangerous and a lot disquieting. "Did you enjoy the show?"
"What if I did? What if I didn't? Are you planning to give me another, Blaise Zabini? Are you going to bring your boyfriend back so he can perform? What will you do to keep me silent? Very very silent. Oh yes, quiet as a mouse."
"That's not my boyfriend," Blaise says pointedly.
Blaise isn't interested in being blackmailed today, especially by someone who doesn't seem to have all his faculties about him, and he stands fast when Gavin moves into his personal space. Montague has at least two inches and a good two stone on Blaise, which is what happens to boys who play Quidditch, but Blaise highly doubts that Gavin is as fast or as quick as he is.
He's unpleasantly surprised when Montague shoves him back against the door. Clearly he should've been more attentive when Draco forced him to watch Quidditch practise.
"That's not your boyfriend? Too bad, he's a pretty boy. Do you mind if I have a go?" Montague's voice holds the sort of placid reserve that Blaise recognizes as dead calm. Growing up in the aftermath of a war prepares a person for coping with the deranged. Blaise knows this dance.
"Was there something you wanted, you great brute, or were you just trying to show off your musculature?" Blaise says tapping Gavin's wrist with his wand. "I'm not terribly impressed."
"Oh, but you will be. Yes, so very impressed by me." Blaise schools his features into passivity, but his dick twitches when Gavin leans down and whispers in his ear. "Little Jack Sloper sat in the corner, giving Blaise Zabini a blow job, when along came a big black spider and said 'I think I want in there too."
Blaise's lower eyelid twitches, and he's glad of the darkness. Sane Slytherins do not speak in nursery rhymes, but who really gives a toss when Montague's pressing his thigh, a very well formed thigh, between Blaise's legs.
"Just because you want a leg over, doesn't mean you're going to get one," Blaise says sharply, pressing the tip of his wand into Gavin's throat. At another time, Blaise would probably walk the razor’s edge of the thrill of Gavin’s threat, brazen it out and enjoy himself not just a little. But on his own terms. "I'm no one's free ride."
Blaise blinks when Montague bats his wand away as though it were a feather. Blaise’s form of wandless magic involves spinning hexagrams and convex seals. All the same, Blaise does not dabble in self-delusion; it's that slender piece of wood that makes a wizard who he is. A battle of brute strength is not where Blaise's strengths lie. He's completely taken off guard when Montague licks the thin skin underneath his ear. "I don't want a free ride, Zabini. I want you."
Blaise's fingers scrabble at the wall behind him for the second time in less than hour. He doesn't like surprises, and his natural instinct says to flee, but Gavin has him trapped against this wall. "Why me?" he says, disgusted with the break in his voice
"Why not?" Montague's breath huffs against Blaise’s cheek, mint and liquorice, causing Blaise to shudder. He keeps licking Blaise and then blowing on his damp skin, and his fingers are unfastening Blaise's robes with a skill that is exciting parts of Blaise that even Jack hadn't managed to rile up ten minutes ago. This isn’t Gryffindor-baiting through filthy sex, all “oh your knees” and disdain. This is the slow twist of Blaise’s heart straining, the convolutions and ground dropping away of finding everything right in the wrongness of getting exactly what you shouldn’t want and do all the more.
"Because you shag girls," Blaise says pointedly, trying again to shove his rattled façade back into place.
"Yes, I did," Gavin concedes, biting Blaise hard enough to make him wince. "But they just don't seem to like me as much anymore. I suppose being stuffed in a toilet does that for your reputation. I wonder what you could do for my reputation, Zabini. I've heard you're a clever boy. I've seen you looking at me."
"Your egotism galls. You could give Draco a run for his money." Blaise pushes against Gavin weakly. He's not sure if he's trying to actually push him away or trying to agitate him enough to bring him closer. Probably the second, because it’s been a while since Blaise was truly at a disadvantage, that the bruises and games were real, not just sordid mimicry. Montague's incredibly solid underneath his robes. Blaise used to fancy him something rotten, even after the Weasleys stuffed him in the Vanishing Cupboard.
He doesn't know what to make of Gavin's odd behaviour. Montague used to be the straightest person Blaise had ever encountered, and now – now he's got his hands underneath Blaise's shirt, and Mordred, he likes to play rough, that’s not just Blaise’s fantasy life having winding him up. "I think I'll keep you," Montague says with slithering l’s and musical vowels.
"I'm not a fucking niffler, you daft berk. You're out of your head if you think you can keep me as your pet." Blaise yanks his head back from a frighteningly intimate caress of the backs of Gavin’s fingers on his face, and when he slams his head against the wall Gavin reaches behind him and cradles Blaise’s skull in his palm.
"Would you prefer it if something unfortunate happened to your playmate, Jack Sloper?" Gavin’s hand is bigger than Blaise’s head, his thigh rubs against Blaise’s cock with the sort of playful ease everything else about him belies, and Blaise feels the spice of true fear hit his blood.
"That would require me to care about him in the first place. I reserve my emotions for those who matter." Blaise can deliver cutting barbs in his sleep.
Montague's laugh is high-pitched; almost like a wail. It makes the hairs on Blaise's arms rise. All this time, and Blaise had believed Queenie was the ringer for most cracked Slytherin, and this nutter was skulking about, apparently watching Blaise. Blaise blames Draco, whom he considers his ill-luck charm.
"You're very endearing," Montague says. Blaise stills when Gavin looks him dead in the eye and then cracks his head back crushing Gavin’s hand into the stone when Gavin twists his nipple hard. Blaise's hands instantly go to the back of his head, which hurts abundantly even with Gavin’s hand to cushion it, and he's still seeing stars when he feels Montague's lips against his forehead. “Don’t hurt yourself. You have me for that. You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?” He flexes his hand, curling it into a fist and straight again, in a display of his imperviousness to pain or his lingering threat to Blaise.
This time Blaise pushes Gavin hard, hard enough that he takes a step back. "You're out of your fucking tree," he says sharply.
“Do you ever hear the old gods singing at night? The Wild Ride tangled up in the muggle church spires?” Gavin smiles, ducks his head. Blaise can see the beautiful, charming boy from before The Toilet Incident there, in the eyelashes resting on his cheek and the full sweep of his bottom lip bowed and red. He's made all the more appealing by the thick press of his erection against the plain side of his v-fronted trousers, the row of buttons opposite presenting a flattering symmetry.
Blaise wants to say “I always thought it would be Draco who went round the bend and down into the ditch”, but he doesn’t, not because it’s disloyal, but because there’s really no point.
“Are you hungry?” Blaise straightens his robes, wary, dead wary but pleasant, calm. He’s spent his entire youth around those Imperioed and Crucioed and hexed and charmed into something not even approaching safe. He knows how to simmer down those about to boil over and spill blood. He can navigate a room on soft feet and averted eyes. Blaise has carried on more than one one-sided conversation about sultanas while someone else raves “murder!” and “they will pay!” and “ashes, ashes, they all fall down!”
Blaise also knows the sharp, perfect taste of fear turning an orgasm from pleasant to imperative.
“Do you like sultanas?” he asks, blithely ushering Gavin out of the room.
-end-
Give much love toethrosdemon; she made this all better. If better = whacked out. Seriously though, the ending was all her doing. Show her love.
These are the new toys. Show them some love, too. You'll be reading about them a lot in the next few weeks.
Special love tocirce_tigana for finding Mr Sloper and Mr Montague.
This is Gavin Montague.
I think you've all met Blaise before.
Let's play ball.
Harry Potter
Rated NC-17 for porn.
Dedicated to
circe_tigana and ethrosdemon (even though she did beta duty)It doesn't really matter who you are, or where you were born, or who your family is, there are some things that no amount of breeding can counteract, like keeping quiet when you're receiving oral sex. There's something about the mess and the wet and -- Circe's pigs –- the slurping noises that erodes Blaise's resolve every time.
He tries though. He scrabbles at the walls and grips the folds of black robes tightly; there are teeth marks on his knuckles and the once smooth skin on the back of his hand. He moans and shakes and ends up with knots on the back of his head from slamming against the wall. The knots are hidden in his hair where they can't be seen, but he feels them at night, and he has started sleeping on his stomach to avoid the disquieting soreness.
Pain comes in a kaleidoscope of variety —- some of it is almost pleasant. And that’s the sort of perversion Blaise never knew he favored until he feels the stretch and burn of calloused fingers pushing inside him as he sweats and tries to maintain his hauteur. He can feel his entire body rebelling against the intrusion, and his mind bends slightly, reforms around who he is and who he thought he was.
He focuses on the silver lines of arching Greek letters and golden promise of their potential; Figgletaub's Second Theorem will supposedly, when solved, cloak him in invisibility. Blaise wants to solve that arithmetical formula so badly he can taste the ending before he's even solved the middle. Arithmancy isn’t a distraction. Sex is the distraction, and Jack Sloper grunts when Blaise's fingers tighten in his hair.
When Blaise glances down all he sees are freckles and bright eyes and the wetness of Jack's mouth. He releases his hold fractionally and drags a ragged fingernail along the side of Jack's temple. Jack blinks at the unexpected touch, and Blaise thrusts forward to remind Jack of his priorities.
Blow job, first, and intimacy never.
Blaise's fingernails have been a wreck ever since he discovered that Jack Sloper was good at something else besides Quidditch. It happened completely by accident, of course, and if Blaise believed in accidents that might sound a little bit more believable.
Blaise isn't a believer. That doesn't mean he doesn't believe in getting his cock sucked, regardless of house and lineage. Blaise has needs, just like every other sixteen year-old, and Jack is meeting them, with his tongue slipping and licking and sucking the length of Blaise's dick.
Blaise is wet from his navel to his thighs from Jack's tongue and his own pre-come. He grits his teeth when Jack's mouth moves from his dick to his balls and the finger inside him rubs ruthlessly at the little bright spark that makes him see spots.
Jack's tongue is far more talented than anything he could possibly be doing on the Quidditch pitch. Not that Blaise has been paying attention, but as far as he can tell Quidditch has no other proper use but to find him acceptable sex partners.
Blaise is not a Quidditch supporter; he is a Slytherin supporter. He believes in supporting whatever promotes the Slytherin agenda. And unlike his more blind and dunderheaded housemates, he does not confuse the Slytherin agenda with the Dark Lord’s agenda. Only idiots conflate toadyism with ambition. He would say that such narrow-thinking is only something a vapid, polar-visioned Gryffindor would do, but Jack is a Gryffindor and he's not quite as dense as some of his housemates.
Actually, Blaise doesn't know for certain if Jack is dense since he rarely pays attention to Jack unless he wants a sexual favour.
Unlike many students in his year, Blaise realises that you can't necessarily judge someone by their house. The salient facts about Jack are that he sucks cock with élan and that he's not impressed by Potter either. As Blaise understands it, Sloper was the first in his family to be sorted into Gryffindor, and he's been trying to get out ever since.
He's doing a fantastic job of it so far, consorting primarily with Ravenclaws and Slytherins, and staring at Blaise across the Great Hall with eyelashes that are entirely too long for a boy his age. The large freckle on Jack’s bottom lip can obliterate the infinite march of omicron theta upsilon. For a second or two.
Of course, there doesn't have to be a reason for everything. Draco is example prime of that.
Sometimes people just are the way they are, inscrutable and hodge-podge, with no rhyme nor reason aside from whim. Sometimes they just fancy whomever they fancy. Sometimes there's no ulterior motive for a Slytherin to fuck a Gryffindor besides sex –- not that Blaise knows too much about people who are this single-layered or forthright, but Jack Sloper doesn't seem to have too many secret motivations with Blaise's cock in his mouth.
Blaise could ask Jack what he’s up to with Blaise, but that seems as though it would be rather gauche at the moment, what with Jack's tongue wrapped around the head of his cock and his hands gripping Blaise's trembling thighs.
Blaise knows somewhere in the back of his mind that there are rules and etiquette to having someone suck you off, but all he can think about is sinking himself deeper into Jack's throat, and he goes back to griping Jack's hair when he starts humming something vaguely familiar around Blaise's dick. The Weird Sisters.
"Come on, Zabini," Sloper cajoles pulling off and looking up. Jack's voice is hoarse and low, and Blaise grunts as he comes all over Jack's fist. There's a smear of wetness on Jack's face, and Blaise bites the inside of his cheek as Jack licks his fingers and tucks himself back inside his trousers.
Blaise didn't even realise Jack had gotten himself off, but that makes Blaise's life that much easier. He presses himself against the wall when Jack gets to his feet. "Same time on Wednesday?" Jack asks expectantly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Blaise knows what Sloper wants, and he busies himself with getting his clothing in order instead. "Provided we're not all dead by then," he says curtly.
He's not going to snog Jack Sloper.
Jack exhales loudly through his nose and gives Blaise a bemused shake of disappointment before leaving. After Jack is gone, Blaise collapses against the door and recites the Fibonacci sequence backwards and forwards five times. Blaise is not unnerved; no Gryffindor could ever do that, but sex has a way of leaving him slightly addled and vulnerable in a way that leads him to mainly wank off rather than leave himself open to exposure. He needs all his facilities to go back to the dormitories.
He loses his place when there's a creaking noise from the corner of the room – that's what he gets for having assignations in the dungeons. It could be a ghost or a ghoul or a spider the size of a hippogriff, but Blaise knows it's none of these.
Blaise's mother and sister are great believers in premonition, but his father's always told him that that itch at the back of your neck, that roll low in your belly is called instinct. You don't have to have foresight if you're smart enough to know when something's afoot, and Blaise knows something’s afoot.
Distractedly smoothing the folds of his robes, he removes his wand quietly -- 12 inches of Chinese Elm with the heartstring of a Welsh Green dragon. He can take on another student; a teacher would've given him detention already.
He can taste the 'o' in Obliviate on the tip of his tongue...
"I haven't got all day," he says dryly. "Show yourself so we can get on with it. I have Arithmancy reading and eight inches of Charms to sort out before dinner."
Blaise prides himself on not being easily surprised -- his brother had been very keen on keeping boggarts as pets when Blaise was small –- yet he blinks once when an agile figure emerges from the corner.
Of all the possibilities: Theodore, a lost and soon to be very unfortunate, first-year, even Draco, wanting to know what Blaise was doing participating in House Dis-unity Activities, all of those were likely. Blaise wasn't expecting this.
"I've got a secret, won't everyone envy me. I'm sure everyone would love to know what Blaise Zabini is doing in the dungeons with another boy." The sing-song tone is decidedly out of place coming from such an imposing figure, and Blaise bites back a derisive snort.
Gavin Montague is all dark hair and dark eyes, but his smile is crooked and displays too many white teeth. He looks a bit manic, and Blaise watches him warily.
Rumour has it that Gavin had once had bright blue eyes, but that after That Toilet Incident one of his eyes was permanently dilated.
Having a mad look about you didn’t necessarily mean you were mad, but Gavin -- Gavin was mental. The darker eye made him look incredibly creepy according to Pansy, but Blaise could recall seeing her with Montague at least once or twice last year. It certainly hadn't put him off.
"What do you want, Montague?" Blaise lowers his wand fractionally; he's not nearly as bored as he's projecting, but that's irrelevant. There's something about Montague watching him have it off with Jack that's a little dangerous and a lot disquieting. "Did you enjoy the show?"
"What if I did? What if I didn't? Are you planning to give me another, Blaise Zabini? Are you going to bring your boyfriend back so he can perform? What will you do to keep me silent? Very very silent. Oh yes, quiet as a mouse."
"That's not my boyfriend," Blaise says pointedly.
Blaise isn't interested in being blackmailed today, especially by someone who doesn't seem to have all his faculties about him, and he stands fast when Gavin moves into his personal space. Montague has at least two inches and a good two stone on Blaise, which is what happens to boys who play Quidditch, but Blaise highly doubts that Gavin is as fast or as quick as he is.
He's unpleasantly surprised when Montague shoves him back against the door. Clearly he should've been more attentive when Draco forced him to watch Quidditch practise.
"That's not your boyfriend? Too bad, he's a pretty boy. Do you mind if I have a go?" Montague's voice holds the sort of placid reserve that Blaise recognizes as dead calm. Growing up in the aftermath of a war prepares a person for coping with the deranged. Blaise knows this dance.
"Was there something you wanted, you great brute, or were you just trying to show off your musculature?" Blaise says tapping Gavin's wrist with his wand. "I'm not terribly impressed."
"Oh, but you will be. Yes, so very impressed by me." Blaise schools his features into passivity, but his dick twitches when Gavin leans down and whispers in his ear. "Little Jack Sloper sat in the corner, giving Blaise Zabini a blow job, when along came a big black spider and said 'I think I want in there too."
Blaise's lower eyelid twitches, and he's glad of the darkness. Sane Slytherins do not speak in nursery rhymes, but who really gives a toss when Montague's pressing his thigh, a very well formed thigh, between Blaise's legs.
"Just because you want a leg over, doesn't mean you're going to get one," Blaise says sharply, pressing the tip of his wand into Gavin's throat. At another time, Blaise would probably walk the razor’s edge of the thrill of Gavin’s threat, brazen it out and enjoy himself not just a little. But on his own terms. "I'm no one's free ride."
Blaise blinks when Montague bats his wand away as though it were a feather. Blaise’s form of wandless magic involves spinning hexagrams and convex seals. All the same, Blaise does not dabble in self-delusion; it's that slender piece of wood that makes a wizard who he is. A battle of brute strength is not where Blaise's strengths lie. He's completely taken off guard when Montague licks the thin skin underneath his ear. "I don't want a free ride, Zabini. I want you."
Blaise's fingers scrabble at the wall behind him for the second time in less than hour. He doesn't like surprises, and his natural instinct says to flee, but Gavin has him trapped against this wall. "Why me?" he says, disgusted with the break in his voice
"Why not?" Montague's breath huffs against Blaise’s cheek, mint and liquorice, causing Blaise to shudder. He keeps licking Blaise and then blowing on his damp skin, and his fingers are unfastening Blaise's robes with a skill that is exciting parts of Blaise that even Jack hadn't managed to rile up ten minutes ago. This isn’t Gryffindor-baiting through filthy sex, all “oh your knees” and disdain. This is the slow twist of Blaise’s heart straining, the convolutions and ground dropping away of finding everything right in the wrongness of getting exactly what you shouldn’t want and do all the more.
"Because you shag girls," Blaise says pointedly, trying again to shove his rattled façade back into place.
"Yes, I did," Gavin concedes, biting Blaise hard enough to make him wince. "But they just don't seem to like me as much anymore. I suppose being stuffed in a toilet does that for your reputation. I wonder what you could do for my reputation, Zabini. I've heard you're a clever boy. I've seen you looking at me."
"Your egotism galls. You could give Draco a run for his money." Blaise pushes against Gavin weakly. He's not sure if he's trying to actually push him away or trying to agitate him enough to bring him closer. Probably the second, because it’s been a while since Blaise was truly at a disadvantage, that the bruises and games were real, not just sordid mimicry. Montague's incredibly solid underneath his robes. Blaise used to fancy him something rotten, even after the Weasleys stuffed him in the Vanishing Cupboard.
He doesn't know what to make of Gavin's odd behaviour. Montague used to be the straightest person Blaise had ever encountered, and now – now he's got his hands underneath Blaise's shirt, and Mordred, he likes to play rough, that’s not just Blaise’s fantasy life having winding him up. "I think I'll keep you," Montague says with slithering l’s and musical vowels.
"I'm not a fucking niffler, you daft berk. You're out of your head if you think you can keep me as your pet." Blaise yanks his head back from a frighteningly intimate caress of the backs of Gavin’s fingers on his face, and when he slams his head against the wall Gavin reaches behind him and cradles Blaise’s skull in his palm.
"Would you prefer it if something unfortunate happened to your playmate, Jack Sloper?" Gavin’s hand is bigger than Blaise’s head, his thigh rubs against Blaise’s cock with the sort of playful ease everything else about him belies, and Blaise feels the spice of true fear hit his blood.
"That would require me to care about him in the first place. I reserve my emotions for those who matter." Blaise can deliver cutting barbs in his sleep.
Montague's laugh is high-pitched; almost like a wail. It makes the hairs on Blaise's arms rise. All this time, and Blaise had believed Queenie was the ringer for most cracked Slytherin, and this nutter was skulking about, apparently watching Blaise. Blaise blames Draco, whom he considers his ill-luck charm.
"You're very endearing," Montague says. Blaise stills when Gavin looks him dead in the eye and then cracks his head back crushing Gavin’s hand into the stone when Gavin twists his nipple hard. Blaise's hands instantly go to the back of his head, which hurts abundantly even with Gavin’s hand to cushion it, and he's still seeing stars when he feels Montague's lips against his forehead. “Don’t hurt yourself. You have me for that. You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?” He flexes his hand, curling it into a fist and straight again, in a display of his imperviousness to pain or his lingering threat to Blaise.
This time Blaise pushes Gavin hard, hard enough that he takes a step back. "You're out of your fucking tree," he says sharply.
“Do you ever hear the old gods singing at night? The Wild Ride tangled up in the muggle church spires?” Gavin smiles, ducks his head. Blaise can see the beautiful, charming boy from before The Toilet Incident there, in the eyelashes resting on his cheek and the full sweep of his bottom lip bowed and red. He's made all the more appealing by the thick press of his erection against the plain side of his v-fronted trousers, the row of buttons opposite presenting a flattering symmetry.
Blaise wants to say “I always thought it would be Draco who went round the bend and down into the ditch”, but he doesn’t, not because it’s disloyal, but because there’s really no point.
“Are you hungry?” Blaise straightens his robes, wary, dead wary but pleasant, calm. He’s spent his entire youth around those Imperioed and Crucioed and hexed and charmed into something not even approaching safe. He knows how to simmer down those about to boil over and spill blood. He can navigate a room on soft feet and averted eyes. Blaise has carried on more than one one-sided conversation about sultanas while someone else raves “murder!” and “they will pay!” and “ashes, ashes, they all fall down!”
Blaise also knows the sharp, perfect taste of fear turning an orgasm from pleasant to imperative.
“Do you like sultanas?” he asks, blithely ushering Gavin out of the room.
-end-
Give much love to
ethrosdemon; she made this all better. If better = whacked out. Seriously though, the ending was all her doing. Show her love.These are the new toys. Show them some love, too. You'll be reading about them a lot in the next few weeks.
Special love to
circe_tigana for finding Mr Sloper and Mr Montague.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2005-07-12 07:57 pm (UTC)ooh! Creepy, almost non-con, fucked up power dynamic sex! Rock!
“Do you ever hear the old gods singing at night? The Wild Ride tangled up in the muggle church spires?”
fabulous, sweetie.
I'm liking this little world more and more. Dark and creepifying.
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Date: 2005-07-12 08:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-12 08:39 pm (UTC)Blaise likes it rough. The prettiest ones always do. Blaise/Harry would be the perfect wrong pairing. Not like Draco/Harry since Draco would never really have sex with Harry anyway, damn it! Blaise is amoral enough to.
I think she made Sloper up.
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Date: 2005-07-12 08:11 pm (UTC)This was perfect, creepy and full of cracked out, crazy goodness. God, I love Montague already. This does not bode well. And Ewan as Oliver? YES. I was still vainly hoping James McAvoy would make an appearance somewhere, but ah well. This is perfect too ;D
This series is going to be so good. So good. I can't wait omg
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Date: 2005-07-15 06:15 pm (UTC)Truthfully, I don't know *how* to refer to what we are doing. It's like everyone's writing bits, but then one person will pass something around to the others (
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Date: 2005-07-12 08:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-15 06:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-12 08:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-15 06:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-12 08:42 pm (UTC)ok. fine. porn it is.
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Date: 2005-07-15 06:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-12 08:43 pm (UTC)But then again, I'm always happy to see new work of yours. :)
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Date: 2005-07-15 06:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-12 09:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-15 06:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-12 09:22 pm (UTC)Just-yeah.
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Date: 2005-07-15 06:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-12 09:40 pm (UTC)And that is why I love him. It goes beyond his slightly non-con tastes and adorably dismissive attitude towards Draco, and focuses in on the lovely idea that he thinks.
Quidditch has no other proper use but to find him acceptable sex partners
Well yes, if you actually had to play you'd get sweaty, and not in a good way. Pick-up Quidditch perhaps, actual competition against people you are obviously superior to. Never.
“Do you ever hear the old gods singing at night? The Wild Ride tangled up in the muggle church spires?”
Just lovely.
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Date: 2005-07-15 06:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-12 10:19 pm (UTC)And the last line!
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Date: 2005-07-15 06:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2005-07-12 11:57 pm (UTC)jack sloper = gryffindor chaser chosen after tweasleys and harry beat up on malfoy.
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Date: 2005-07-15 06:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2005-07-13 12:09 am (UTC)here and in the future omg.I'm super intrigued by your choice in timeline. I'm super intrigued by our Jack's motivations. I'm super intrigued by Blaise's previous interest in Montague.
I'm turned on by your brain. Never stop.
Props to
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Date: 2005-07-13 02:12 am (UTC)I am in the middle of a whole Bevan/Oliver epic fic to go with this. Why? Who knows.
Also, you know that Number Nine is the dad, right? I mean, it's Number Nine, not just Chris. You shall see.
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Date: 2005-07-13 12:13 am (UTC)::wriggles happily::
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Date: 2005-07-15 07:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-13 02:47 am (UTC)*runs off to read*
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Date: 2005-07-13 11:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2005-07-13 05:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-15 07:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-13 02:26 pm (UTC)Jack's tongue is far more talented than anything he could possibly be doing on the Quidditch pitch. Not that Blaise has been paying attention, but as far as he can tell Quidditch has no other proper use but to find him acceptable sex partners. I love Blaise! *g*
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Date: 2005-07-15 07:20 pm (UTC)That's just what I like to hear ;)
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Date: 2005-07-14 01:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-15 07:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-17 06:59 am (UTC)there are some things that no amount of breeding can counteract, like keeping quiet when you're receiving oral sex.
So, so true. And it's a pretty line, and we're only on the first paragraph. Oh, goodie. *claps while jumping up and down* All you bastards want is sex, please, as if boy's linage could have any baring on that, you probably like it better from mudbloods. Oh, and apparently, the completely fucking insane, which is really really good, because I can defenetly get on board with that. Onwards, ho.
but as far as he can tell Quidditch has no other proper use but to find him acceptable sex partners.
I can totally relate. I mean please, footballers?
Only idiots conflate toadyism with ambition.
Sometimes, I get the succinct feeling Blaise is the only one with his bloody head on his shoulders. Thank you for having him snark off about that, it's so true.
There's a smear of wetness on Jack's face, and Blaise bites the inside of his cheek as Jack licks his fingers and tucks himself back inside his trousers.
Yeah, those oral fixations can be a bitch, can't they. Shucks.
even Draco, wanting to know what Blaise was doing participating in House Dis-unity Activities,
*rolls eyes* There should be a fic about this, I can almost taste the dialouge.
Gavin Montague is all dark hair and dark eyes, but his smile is crooked and displays too many white teeth.
I'm intrinsically frightened of Gavin Montague. In a way that makes me relish the moments I think he's going to hurt someone, because my tummy goes all warm. You did that. I applaud because you do deserve, you little wily mix, with your bloody crazy people.
Blaise stills when Gavin looks him dead in the eye and then cracks his head back crushing Gavin’s hand into the stone when Gavin twists his nipple hard. Blaise's hands instantly go to the back of his head, which hurts abundantly even with Gavin’s hand to cushion it, and he's still seeing stars when he feels Montague's lips against his forehead. “Don’t hurt yourself. You have me for that. You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?”
*brain falls out of head and flops around on the floor, dead*
Growing up in the aftermath of a war prepares a person for coping with the deranged. Blaise knows this dance.
Dance? Yeah sure, it's just like a dance. Except there's no music, no coreography, and the dancers hit each other because they like.
P.S. I love his mental voice v. v. much. Much fun. It's the pretty ones you have the gift for.
Sane Slytherins do not speak in nursery rhymes, but who really gives a toss when Montague's pressing his thigh, a very well formed thigh, between Blaise's legs.
Please, there's nothing wrong with rough sexing the insane (or being rough sexed by them). The drooling has benifits after all.
Blaise's fingers scrabble at the wall behind him for the second time in less than hour.
They need to fuck. Please. I'm serious about the alchohol as bribery this time, on my honor. You know exactly how delicious them shagging would be, I know you do.
"Because you shag girls," Blaise says pointedly
Oh, everyone shags girls. *waves hand dismissively* Try and make a valid point next time, sweetheart.
“Do you ever hear the old gods singing at night? The Wild Ride tangled up in the muggle church spires?”
Gorgeous, gorgeous line. Really.
More. I have run out of threats, really. Think of it as... something to do in a break from HBP. Which is sitting downstairs. Which I sort of need to read, yet don't want to at the same time. Oh, well. *glares* More.
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Date: 2005-07-18 07:28 pm (UTC)I love this so so much! You don't know my secret weakness for nursery rhymes and sing-songy-ness in fic. ESPECIALLY when accompanied by madness! ASLKDJFLAKSDJFLASKDJFASLDKFJSLDKfja!!!!!
Montague! Again. Jack Sloper!
And Oh! Blaise. I love how he was able to turn the situation around and calm Montague. Cunning! How I love you Blaise.
The nursery rhymes and Montague's sing-song lines, though, really make this piece as truly disturbing and memorable as it is.
More, more, MORE!!!
♥