In the darkness Blaise is beautiful, black skin blending with black night, and Pansy presses slow kisses over the finely-boned contours of his face with studied aplomb. He makes her wonder about beauty - even as a boy, he did; even as a boy he was ethereally handsome - about the smoothness of skin and thickness of lips and symmetry of faces. Draco, poor Draco, has a faintly sneering sort of appeal when he squares his shoulders and looks down at them all with his cool gray eyes, but her boyfriend and Blaise Zabini are leagues apart when it comes to physical beauty. Pansy too, is down further still; whatever attractiveness she has managed to muster for herself resides in mascara charms and carefully chosen fabrics, in skipped meals and hours spent bleary-eyed over the girls' toilet. That Blaise Zabini has chosen to spend his nights with her, then, is something that fills her chest with a rather greedy sort of joy, a simmering self-satisfaction that allows Pansy to purr drunkenly over the curve of his shoulder as he thrusts inside her. She relishes the way the heat travels over her body like a great big shrudder, the way the room briefly evaporates into nothingness and she is left, even for a few seconds - to witness the burning of the sky, before everything comes back into focus again, somehow lesser than before.
"That's three times tonight," Blaise murmurs, after he has finished with his own release, only seconds later.
"Want a trophy or something?"
He laughs against her neck, the warm breath almost ticklish against her exposed skin. "I probably deserve one. But then your boyfriend probably wouldn't be too happy if he saw an 'I Made Pansy Fucking Parkinson Come Three Times And Counting In One Night' award hanging from my neck."
"He's gone now, anyway." Something like guilt twists in her chest; Pansy very adamantly does not think of the last time she saw Draco, or of the sight of the Dark Mark still burnt oh-so-brightly against the tender underbelly of his too-thin forearm, eyes wide and terrified and fifty years too old. He hadn't even said goodbye, and in retrospect, neither had she. "I don't even know if he's coming back.
"What will you do when he does?"
"What will any of us do?"
Blaise shakes his head. "You know that's not what I mean," he says, and untangles his legs from hers. He's right; she does, and yet she doesn't want to acknowledge anything of the sort. She has spent too long thinking of Blaise as a mere object, as the one to-be-looked-at, to-be-possessed. That he might want to genuinely possess her - this is a whole terrifying other matter altogether. Pansy thinks of him, so seemingly haughty and disdainful of just about everything in the daylight, and so unexpectedly candid underneath his robes - is it all a mask, then? Or this all a game, all a ploy, to get into the knickers of the lone Slytherin seventh year the rest of them all thought no-one other than Draco Malfoy could have?
She will have to figure this out later, when she isn't spent and sweaty with her hair an uncombed pillow around her head; there must be a logical way of looking at the facts and making sense of this whole thing so that her heart gets little broken as possible. Instead of responding, Pansy hooks her ankle around Blaise's shin and, sliding her hands down the parallel slopes of his hipbones, presses her mouth first against the dip of his bellybutton before moving down, down, down. His hips buck against the curve of her lips, and Pansy readies herself for the taste of sweat and salt.
Pansy/Blaise - The Sky Is Burning (R)
"That's three times tonight," Blaise murmurs, after he has finished with his own release, only seconds later.
"Want a trophy or something?"
He laughs against her neck, the warm breath almost ticklish against her exposed skin. "I probably deserve one. But then your boyfriend probably wouldn't be too happy if he saw an 'I Made Pansy Fucking Parkinson Come Three Times And Counting In One Night' award hanging from my neck."
"He's gone now, anyway." Something like guilt twists in her chest; Pansy very adamantly does not think of the last time she saw Draco, or of the sight of the Dark Mark still burnt oh-so-brightly against the tender underbelly of his too-thin forearm, eyes wide and terrified and fifty years too old. He hadn't even said goodbye, and in retrospect, neither had she. "I don't even know if he's coming back.
"What will you do when he does?"
"What will any of us do?"
Blaise shakes his head. "You know that's not what I mean," he says, and untangles his legs from hers. He's right; she does, and yet she doesn't want to acknowledge anything of the sort. She has spent too long thinking of Blaise as a mere object, as the one to-be-looked-at, to-be-possessed. That he might want to genuinely possess her - this is a whole terrifying other matter altogether. Pansy thinks of him, so seemingly haughty and disdainful of just about everything in the daylight, and so unexpectedly candid underneath his robes - is it all a mask, then? Or this all a game, all a ploy, to get into the knickers of the lone Slytherin seventh year the rest of them all thought no-one other than Draco Malfoy could have?
She will have to figure this out later, when she isn't spent and sweaty with her hair an uncombed pillow around her head; there must be a logical way of looking at the facts and making sense of this whole thing so that her heart gets little broken as possible. Instead of responding, Pansy hooks her ankle around Blaise's shin and, sliding her hands down the parallel slopes of his hipbones, presses her mouth first against the dip of his bellybutton before moving down, down, down. His hips buck against the curve of her lips, and Pansy readies herself for the taste of sweat and salt.