Alles muss in Ordnung sein

Blaise is sitting in the corner as usual, long legs stretched from chair to table, slender in long black trousers. Always black. A lazy eyebrow raises, with carefully practiced indifference, at the click of the latch and the door opening. He watches with blue eyes so dark they shift toward black, from under hair just long enough to cover his eyes, before moving back to the book held in impossibly long fingered hands with equal indifference.

Draco notes, upon entering, that Blaise's hair, as per usual, is somewhere between half groomed and disinterestedly unkempt, Draco can never quite figure out which it is. It is one of the many little things about Blaise that irk him. Like the fact that no matter how much he watches Blaise he can never seem to take him all in. And that way he has of fading into the background, his dark clothes blending with the shadows and never being noticed if he doesn't want to be. You can't watch the watcher apparently, not in a way that leads to any sort of gratification anyway. Not when it is Blaise Zabini. Blaise, who seems to just lean back into the air and disappear whenever it suits him, leaving Draco trying to remember if he was there or not. It's almost as if air reacts differently when Blaise is around. It is infuriating. It disrupts Draco's normally orderly world, his carefully crafted web of control. He is the one who is in control, the unofficial but undisputed king of Slytherin. They all do what he wishes. They all want to do what he wishes. Except Blaise.

Blaise Blaise Blaise.

It will not do to let this go any further. It is true that Blaise is really just indifferent to the everyday politics of the other Slytherins, that his non-participation in, well, just about everything, is really not hurting anyone, but it is the principle of the thing. To have even one person out of line, one who just sits and waits (for what exactly) and watches, one who does not listen and act in unquestioning agreement, could lead to others who do not listen. It is a problem that needs to be remedied. Why has he even let it get this far? It is time that Blaise learns to do as Draco wishes, like everyone else.

"Zabini," the name twists through the air in his best icy drawl, the drawl that works on everyone. Except Blaise.

"Draco," darkest blue meets icy grey with an insolent glare. No one calls him Draco but Pansy and he only tolerates her doing it because she lets him fuck her. (Even if your name is Draco Malfoy you can't get everything for nothing.)

"That's Malfoy to you."

Blaise is out of the chair and over the table between them in one sweeping movement that is somewhere between slink and flight and slither. There is something about the way Blaise looks at him, like he is looking through him, inside him, that is highly disconcerting. It shouldn't, but Blaise's utter detachment throws him a bit off balance. It is supposed to be anger he is provoking. Anger is expected. Anger is easy. But Blaise has never been either.

"Oh, is it now? I thought that living in the same room for the last six years might have put us on a first name basis."

"You thought wrong."

"Pity, that. Though, it happens so rarely," Blaise looks Draco up and down taking in the exquisitely tailored robe, the shirt of finest grey silk, the silver blonde hair perfectly set save a few carefully chosen strands that have fallen across his forehead, the perfect angular features, the way he stands, as if he owns the world, as if he's entitled to it, as if everyone owes everything to him (after all, where would those of pure wizarding blood be without the Malfoys). All perfectly controlled and just asking to be toyed with. Draco shifts his weight from one foot to the other and brings his hand up, pushing at the hair that has fallen across his forehead, and Blaise grabs his hand, pulling Draco toward him, and slowly runs his tongue up Draco's middle finger.

Draco goes rigid, his eyes wide as Blaise sucks the finger into his mouth and caresses it with tongue and teeth and the unbelievable warmth of his mouth. There is a sound, like a half choked sob, and Draco realizes, to his horror, that he made it. (This is not exactly going as planned.) Blaise releases Draco's finger and sneers at him, running his tongue over canines that are maybe a bit too sharp. There is something feral and disquieting about that look. Draco thinks that this just may be what it feels like to be prey, and he is, if it is even possible at this point, even more unsettled. He tries to pull his hand out of Blaise's grip, in a way he feels is very authoritative, but the long delicate fingers that hold his wrist are deceptively strong and all he manages to do is stumble a bit as Blaise moves in closer. (No, definitely not going as planned.) Then his back is against cold stone and there is a hand, warm through his trousers, lightly brushing against his cock, and he is already hard, and there are teeth at his ear, a tongue tracing his jaw, his neck, kissing sucking, grasping, gasping, hands searching for skin in the tangle of robes and shirts and trousers and Blaise's touch is not exactly gentle, but not exactly rough either.

Hands twine in hair. Light hair. Dark hair. Weaving a tangled tapestry that tells of fingers brushing nipples just released from the confines of silk, teeth on neck, fingernails on chest and the sting of pleasurepain as a moan escapes lips tight with the illusion of control. The sudden hiss of rapidly retreating breath as skin meets skin, hot and sweat soaked despite the chill of air tangling between them. Tongue trailing from collar bone down chest, flicking over nipple and on across stomach, past navel and ohgodyesohfuck. Hot and wet and gasping and Blaise's hand is over Draco's mouth with a look that says quiet and an unbelievable half smirk around his cock.

Draco bites at the soft flesh of Blaise's thumb in a vain attempt keep from crying out, leaving red-purple bruises blossoming under the skin. But, still a hissing gasping moan escapes into air thick with the muffled sounds of fabric against skin and skin against skin and skin against stone and the all so carefully and tightly wound coil of Malfoy control twitches and begins to unravel, one slow twistlicksuck at a time and, with a wrenching gasp and ohgodohyesohHolyFuck and hands scrabbling for a hold on stone, it is gone.

Draco is dimly aware of the position that he is in both physically (lying flat on his back on the floor, and the stone is cold, and his shirt is probably ruined) and mentally (the fact that Blaise managed to get him into this position despite the fact that he had been trying to assert his control /he did have control at one point didn't he/ over Blaise) and that Blaise could do anything to him. Anything. And he wouldn't care. He would want it. And, there is a moment, before he can see straight again, before his gasping breath returns to normal, before he starts to feel the scratches and scrapes on his shoulders from arching his back into the rough stone, when he thinks that he just might give up control over most everything to have this every night.