The first time, it’s sloppy and wet, teeth scrape and noses bump. Blaise isn’t impressed at all.
He’s only fourteen, but he’s been having sex for months thanks to a rough introduction by his recently deceased stepfather who had a fondness for young boys. Luckily, Mum has a penchant for dead husbands. He no longer worries about going home on holiday because the rough hands and painful shoving will not be awaiting him.
He has learned since that night when his stepfather came into his room and buggered him. It is a game, after all, and Blaise has always enjoyed playing games. Especially ones he wins. He has learned the looks, the touches, the way to suck and get anything he wants, the want to keep control even if he’s on bottom, the way to get himself on top. His housemates know, of course. He’s a favorite of the older students already. Just four months and he has more power than any in his year, possibly more than those in the other years. Sex, he has learned, is power.
Blaise doesn’t know why he wants Malfoy. The boy is a whining brat who stands behind his father for protection. Perhaps it’s the fact that Blaise would love to feel the elder Malfoy inside him because, above all else, Blaise loves power. He prefers it in his own hands, of course, but there is something he can’t explain about having the focus of someone so powerful on him. He feels it with Flint. Rough, rude, and positively uncouth, Flint is not at all aesthetically pleasing but he has power and that’s what makes Blaise bend over for him.
There are many things he’s learned from his mother. He watches her, knows the games, has understood many things far earlier than most boys his age do even upon leaving Hogwarts. Mature for his age, she always says with a faint smile and pat on his head. Malfoy gives him nothing. Most of Slytherin respect him only because of his father. He has little power, but Blaise suspects that will change as they get older. He doesn’t know why, but he is drawn to the pale blond. He likes to tell himself it’s merely because he thinks Malfoy will one day have power. It is easier that way, after all. He needs no excuse if there is power, whether it’s having power over Malfoy or eventually basking in the power the boy may have in the future.
It is Blaise’s first kiss as well as Malfoy’s. One does not need to kiss to kneel and suck. One does not need to kiss to spread cheeks and grit teeth while someone fucks him. One does not need to kiss to thrust forward into tight heat. It feels odd, intimate, and he doesn’t like it. Malfoy’s breath warm against his lips, his sharp nose poking his face, his teeth in the way. Malfoy can’t kiss. Blaise knows what to do and knows it shouldn’t be like this.
He pulls back and looks at Malfoy. His pale hair is hanging around his pointed face, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes are shiny, and he’s breathing hard. He looks scared, fascinated, curious, and his gaze keeps darting to Blaise’s lips. He should walk away. Go find Pucey and share a wank. He’s getting hard just from the bad kiss, which annoys him. He controls his reaction by now, has learned ways in which to do so, never lets anyone control him even if he gives them his body.
There is a vase of roses nearby. Goyle’s mum sent them for his birthday because he‘d mentioned missing the smell of their garden. He removes one and faces Malfoy again. He doesn’t speak as he moves the red petals across Malfoy’s lips. Gently, slowly, he watches through dark eyes as Malfoy frowns and seems ready to protest and whine. If he does, Blaise will consider it done. He doesn’t believe in second chances. He leans forward and brushes his lips against the other side of the rose, keeping the flower between their mouths. Malfoy can’t kiss, but maybe Blaise can teach him. It’s worth the time even if he’s still uncertain why.
Malfoy kisses the rose, careful with his teeth, moving his face so the petal doesn’t rub his nose. Blaise slowly lowers the rose until their lips meet again. It’s better the second time but still too wet and Malfoy seems desperate for the touch, the feel, and Blaise understands that far too well. It makes it more real when he touches him, feels Malfoy practically keen just from the gentle touch of his fingers on his shoulder, craving intimacy and contact. There is no game here, not between them, and Blaise somehow knows there never will be regardless of what happens elsewhere.
He will not shag Malfoy today nor will he let the boy shag him. Maybe not for months. This isn’t about power and sex and control. He whimpers when he feels a smooth palm tentatively touch his cheek, caressing him as gently as his fingers had stroked the rose. Blaise decides as they fall to his bed that maybe kissing isn’t so bad after all.
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Table of Contents | - Text Size +
August 27, 2005