FIC: The Unforgiving Minute (Blaise/Draco, R)
Title: The Unforgiving Minute
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Draco, Blaise
Rating: R
Summary: "You never used to be too busy for a blowjob."
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim...
-- "If"; Rudyard Kipling
*
Lucius had been trailing through Draco's sleep again, this time flushed and trembling and very, very hard to shake off. They were in the gardens, now -- not close enough to the manor for Draco to escape quickly, unless he sprinted, and he wasn't sure he wanted to risk that yet. His father's sleeves were rolled halfway up and his hands were shaking with rage as he waved them wildly in Draco's face. Draco hunched his shoulders, stuffed his own hands in his pockets, and lengthened his stride a little.
"You are a Malfoy," Lucius had insisted furiously, smacking Draco's legs with his cane to make him slow down, "but your behavior would lead one to assume you'd been brought up by stableboys. House Slytherin is shamed and dishonored by your conduct, and if word of your actions were to spread, your mother and I would likewise be humiliated!"
Draco kicked at the cane, winced, and walked faster.
"Your lusts would benefit from some control, Draco!" Lucius shouted, lips twisting. "Embracing your fickle compulsions will only drive you farther down the path to ruin! Every minute you spend in the company of that disgraceful abomination is a minute of degradation and idiocy!"
Draco had just broken into a run when Goyle's stupid mooing alarm clock went off.
*
Despite sprinting halfway across the castle so as not to be late for breakfast, drinking three cups of coffee in as many minutes, and keeping his eyes firmly open all the way through Transfiguration, Draco only fully woke up in the soft, pungent darkness of what seemed to be a broom closet with Blaise's mouth around his cock.
"Shit," he said loudly. "Shit, Blaise. What the hell?"
"Tut, language," Blaise said around his mouthful. "Whatever shall I do with you?"
"Just what you've been doing with me for the last five minutes, I hope," Draco said, and then realized he'd said it. "Fuck. Fuck! Listen -- stop -- get off -- I've got class in a minute and I can't think with you down there like that!"
"Good," Blaise told him smugly. "You're not supposed to be thinking. Or talking, either, come to think of it."
"God," Draco said weakly, arching. "God, stop. I have to go and you're. Um. Very good at this?"
Blaise grinned a little and didn't reply. Draco scrabbled at the wall, trying to push himself even deeper into Blaise's damp warm mouth and not exactly succeeding -- Blaise had always been fantastic at taking him all the way in and he definitely hadn't lost that talent yet and fuck and they were in a broom closet and Draco knew they'd agreed to stop doing this at some point and he just had to remember why and Blaise had started to really suck now and --
"You've got class in a minute?" Blaise asked lightly, wiping his mouth, and Draco had to resist the urge to smack himself for not holding on to that thought.
"Yeah," he said firmly. His bag had spilled somehow, and one of his Potions books had ended up in a box of Mrs. Skower's. "And if you hadn't noticed, so have you."
"Studious now, are we?"
"I would've said practical, but it's close enough."
"You never used to be too busy for a blowjob."
"I beg to differ," Draco snapped, and slammed his way into the corridor.
*
The note came during dinner, worming its way around a platter of quiche and fluttering cheerfully in an inch above Draco's nose. He snatched it out of the air and tried to stuff it into his pocket, but it squeaked loudly and started to struggle, beating its tiny paper wings frantically against his fingers.
Blaise was seated halfway down the table, apparently absorbed in a plate of sausage and flirting in a somewhat desultory manner with Crabbe. Draco sighed and unfolded the paper.
September 3, it read. Approximately 10:30 PM.You wouldn't let me use Nott's strawberry lube, remember? Said it would make the sheets sticky.
September 6. Approx. 6:15 AM. You're grumpy when you're woken up.
September 7. Approx. 3:00 PM. Lucky Filch cleans his closets so much...
September 8. Aprox. 11: 00 PM. ...because we always tend to get them dirty.
And it went on, and on, and on. Draco stopped about a quarter of the way down and incinerated it with a furtive flick of his wand.
The second note was even more insistent, but much shorter than the first (Still think you weren't too busy?). When Draco looked up, Blaise was picking potatos off of Crabbe's plate and casually avoiding Draco's eyes.
Draco rummaged in his bag for a quill and wrote: Well I'm busy now.
Blaise's third communiqué hovered menacingly over Draco's head, feinting, until he grabbed it and forced it open. The parchment was blank, but the crumpled thing managed to struggle upwards when released and peck Draco furiously once between the eyes before fluttering slowly away, which he supposed was message enough.
*
Draco decided to take advantage of Nott's ridiculous drinking problem the next evening and found the bottles just where Nott had always boasted they'd be -- transfigured into spellbooks and lying disconsolately in his spare cauldron. He took two back to his four-poster and discovered that, while one was definitely just Hogwarts, A History, the other was a perfectly respectable claret -- rich and dark and thoroughly, unreservedly disgusting. He disposed of the horrible thing after three sips -- but, that night, his father noticed anyway.
"He has led you astray," Lucius said softly, nodding. They were in his study this time, but Draco was sitting stiffly behind the gleaming desk while Lucius stood in the doorway, his face firm with knowing sorrow. "The longer you continue to associate with him, the farther your steps will falter. Drink and debauchery are only the first items in what will become a long and damning catalogue, Draco, a long and damning catalogue of -- "
Draco took a deep breath, stood, and shoved his way past Lucius and out the door.
*
This time it took four cups of coffee, two hours of class, and one frantic orgasm for Draco to open his eyes -- the only way to avoid his father these days, it seemed, was not to close them. Blaise disentangled his right hand from Draco's hair and the right from Draco's jeans, straightened his robes with a couple of quick tugs, and waited.
"Oh," said Draco. "Oh, shit." He grabbed his own hair and dragging at it. "What the hell. What the hell -- I told you -- "
"Do as I do, not as I say."
"Fuck," Draco spat. "If I'm so exemplary, why are you here?"
"And why'd you just come?"
"Fucking shit," Draco shouted, and Blaise winked slowly, smiling.
"You'll miss class," he said. "See you tomorrow."
*
The classroom Blaise had chosen was small and shining, with thin windows and and a heap of desks. It was warm and Draco was sticky and he hadn't slept properly in a week. He was starting to wonder if he couldn't get tired enough to eat without noticing, to walk and take notes and come.
Next morning, Blaise had moved on from Crabbe's plate to Goyle's cup of coffee. Draco sat down calculatedly close to him and presented his profile at what seemed to be the appropriate moments, but Blaise didn't look at him at all.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Draco, Blaise
Rating: R
Summary: "You never used to be too busy for a blowjob."
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim...
-- "If"; Rudyard Kipling
*
Lucius had been trailing through Draco's sleep again, this time flushed and trembling and very, very hard to shake off. They were in the gardens, now -- not close enough to the manor for Draco to escape quickly, unless he sprinted, and he wasn't sure he wanted to risk that yet. His father's sleeves were rolled halfway up and his hands were shaking with rage as he waved them wildly in Draco's face. Draco hunched his shoulders, stuffed his own hands in his pockets, and lengthened his stride a little.
"You are a Malfoy," Lucius had insisted furiously, smacking Draco's legs with his cane to make him slow down, "but your behavior would lead one to assume you'd been brought up by stableboys. House Slytherin is shamed and dishonored by your conduct, and if word of your actions were to spread, your mother and I would likewise be humiliated!"
Draco kicked at the cane, winced, and walked faster.
"Your lusts would benefit from some control, Draco!" Lucius shouted, lips twisting. "Embracing your fickle compulsions will only drive you farther down the path to ruin! Every minute you spend in the company of that disgraceful abomination is a minute of degradation and idiocy!"
Draco had just broken into a run when Goyle's stupid mooing alarm clock went off.
*
Despite sprinting halfway across the castle so as not to be late for breakfast, drinking three cups of coffee in as many minutes, and keeping his eyes firmly open all the way through Transfiguration, Draco only fully woke up in the soft, pungent darkness of what seemed to be a broom closet with Blaise's mouth around his cock.
"Shit," he said loudly. "Shit, Blaise. What the hell?"
"Tut, language," Blaise said around his mouthful. "Whatever shall I do with you?"
"Just what you've been doing with me for the last five minutes, I hope," Draco said, and then realized he'd said it. "Fuck. Fuck! Listen -- stop -- get off -- I've got class in a minute and I can't think with you down there like that!"
"Good," Blaise told him smugly. "You're not supposed to be thinking. Or talking, either, come to think of it."
"God," Draco said weakly, arching. "God, stop. I have to go and you're. Um. Very good at this?"
Blaise grinned a little and didn't reply. Draco scrabbled at the wall, trying to push himself even deeper into Blaise's damp warm mouth and not exactly succeeding -- Blaise had always been fantastic at taking him all the way in and he definitely hadn't lost that talent yet and fuck and they were in a broom closet and Draco knew they'd agreed to stop doing this at some point and he just had to remember why and Blaise had started to really suck now and --
"You've got class in a minute?" Blaise asked lightly, wiping his mouth, and Draco had to resist the urge to smack himself for not holding on to that thought.
"Yeah," he said firmly. His bag had spilled somehow, and one of his Potions books had ended up in a box of Mrs. Skower's. "And if you hadn't noticed, so have you."
"Studious now, are we?"
"I would've said practical, but it's close enough."
"You never used to be too busy for a blowjob."
"I beg to differ," Draco snapped, and slammed his way into the corridor.
*
The note came during dinner, worming its way around a platter of quiche and fluttering cheerfully in an inch above Draco's nose. He snatched it out of the air and tried to stuff it into his pocket, but it squeaked loudly and started to struggle, beating its tiny paper wings frantically against his fingers.
Blaise was seated halfway down the table, apparently absorbed in a plate of sausage and flirting in a somewhat desultory manner with Crabbe. Draco sighed and unfolded the paper.
September 3, it read. Approximately 10:30 PM.You wouldn't let me use Nott's strawberry lube, remember? Said it would make the sheets sticky.
September 6. Approx. 6:15 AM. You're grumpy when you're woken up.
September 7. Approx. 3:00 PM. Lucky Filch cleans his closets so much...
September 8. Aprox. 11: 00 PM. ...because we always tend to get them dirty.
And it went on, and on, and on. Draco stopped about a quarter of the way down and incinerated it with a furtive flick of his wand.
The second note was even more insistent, but much shorter than the first (Still think you weren't too busy?). When Draco looked up, Blaise was picking potatos off of Crabbe's plate and casually avoiding Draco's eyes.
Draco rummaged in his bag for a quill and wrote: Well I'm busy now.
Blaise's third communiqué hovered menacingly over Draco's head, feinting, until he grabbed it and forced it open. The parchment was blank, but the crumpled thing managed to struggle upwards when released and peck Draco furiously once between the eyes before fluttering slowly away, which he supposed was message enough.
*
Draco decided to take advantage of Nott's ridiculous drinking problem the next evening and found the bottles just where Nott had always boasted they'd be -- transfigured into spellbooks and lying disconsolately in his spare cauldron. He took two back to his four-poster and discovered that, while one was definitely just Hogwarts, A History, the other was a perfectly respectable claret -- rich and dark and thoroughly, unreservedly disgusting. He disposed of the horrible thing after three sips -- but, that night, his father noticed anyway.
"He has led you astray," Lucius said softly, nodding. They were in his study this time, but Draco was sitting stiffly behind the gleaming desk while Lucius stood in the doorway, his face firm with knowing sorrow. "The longer you continue to associate with him, the farther your steps will falter. Drink and debauchery are only the first items in what will become a long and damning catalogue, Draco, a long and damning catalogue of -- "
Draco took a deep breath, stood, and shoved his way past Lucius and out the door.
*
This time it took four cups of coffee, two hours of class, and one frantic orgasm for Draco to open his eyes -- the only way to avoid his father these days, it seemed, was not to close them. Blaise disentangled his right hand from Draco's hair and the right from Draco's jeans, straightened his robes with a couple of quick tugs, and waited.
"Oh," said Draco. "Oh, shit." He grabbed his own hair and dragging at it. "What the hell. What the hell -- I told you -- "
"Do as I do, not as I say."
"Fuck," Draco spat. "If I'm so exemplary, why are you here?"
"And why'd you just come?"
"Fucking shit," Draco shouted, and Blaise winked slowly, smiling.
"You'll miss class," he said. "See you tomorrow."
*
The classroom Blaise had chosen was small and shining, with thin windows and and a heap of desks. It was warm and Draco was sticky and he hadn't slept properly in a week. He was starting to wonder if he couldn't get tired enough to eat without noticing, to walk and take notes and come.
Next morning, Blaise had moved on from Crabbe's plate to Goyle's cup of coffee. Draco sat down calculatedly close to him and presented his profile at what seemed to be the appropriate moments, but Blaise didn't look at him at all.