A Lesson in Control

The room is quiet except for the faint crackle of the fireplace and the steady rhythm of her breathing, measured, controlled, as if she isn't pressed against the leather armrest of a Slytherin common room sofa, Zabini between her legs, his fingers curling slow and deliberate against the softest part of her inner thigh. There's something insufferable about the way he watches her, dark eyes heavy-lidded, patient, like he's waiting for her to break first, and maybe that's why she refuses to give him the satisfaction.

"You're doing that on purpose," she says, her voice carefully even despite the way her pulse flutters against her throat.

His lips curve, lazy, indulgent, a predator well aware of his prey. "Doing what, Weasley?"

Her breath hitches when his hand shifts, knuckles brushing over the damp heat of her underwear, barely there, a whisper of contact, and she hates how easily he unravels her, how just the anticipation alone has her body tightening in expectation.

"You're playing with me," she accuses, nails digging into the green upholstery beneath her, her spine arching slightly when he presses again—more firmly this time, enough to make her hips jerk, chasing the friction he so purposefully denies.

Blaise hums, the sound low and knowing, his amusement evident in the way the corners of his lips twitch upward, his dark eyes gleaming with something that looks suspiciously like satisfaction as he tilts his head just slightly, as if he's actually giving her words careful consideration, though they both know he isn't—not really, not when he already has the answer, not when he's already so sure of himself, of her, of this, whatever this has become between them. "You say that like it's a bad thing," he murmurs, his voice rich and smooth, curling around her like the warmth of firelight against cool skin, like the slow pour of expensive liquor, intoxicating and just a little bit dangerous.

And maybe it is dangerous, or at least it should be, at least she should see it that way, should be telling herself that this—him—is a bad idea, that she's making a mistake every time she lets herself get tangled up in him, in the sharp, teasing press of his smirks, in the slow, deliberate slide of his fingers along her skin, in the way he looks at her like he knows things she hasn't even admitted to herself. She should have walked away the first time, should have ignored that first kiss behind the Quidditch stands weeks ago, the one that started in a heated argument, that ended with her back pressed against rough wood, his hands firm on her waist, his mouth insistently on hers, stealing the breath straight from her lungs and replacing it with something just as vital, just as consuming. 

She should have left it at that—one mistake, a moment of recklessness she could tuck away and pretend never happened—but instead, she keeps making the same mistake over and over again, keeps falling into him like she never learned how to stop, keeps letting him touch her, tease her, unravel her with the slow, infuriating precision of a man who likes to take his time.

And now, this is their pattern—a relentless push and pull, a game played in glances that linger a second too long, in touches that start innocently but never stay that way, in sharp-edged banter that always, always ends with someone pressed against a surface, with mouths colliding, with hands grasping, tugging, taking. An unspoken agreement, neither of them willing to acknowledge the inevitable truth beneath it, that this isn't just a game anymore, that it hasn't been for a long time, that they're already in too deep to pretend otherwise. 

And yet, neither of them say it, neither of them give in, because to name it would be to make it real, and if it's real, then it's something they can lose. So instead, she just meets his gaze, her pulse thrumming in her throat, her fingers curling into the fabric of the couch beneath her, and she pretends—just for a little longer—that she still has the option of walking away.

And Blaise, damn him, knows exactly how to play.

His fingers move with an excruciating slowness, slipping just beneath the delicate lace of her underwear, the barest brush of his fingertips against the heat of her making her breath catch in her throat, her entire body tensing in anticipation. He doesn't push further, doesn't press into her just yet—no, he simply lingers there, tracing idle, featherlight touches over skin that is already sensitive, already aching for more, and it's cruel, the way he does it, the way he teases her with so little, like he's drawing out the inevitable just because he can.

He watches her all the while, his dark eyes heavy-lidded and calculating, every tiny shift of her expression, every twitch of her lips, every shudder of breath cataloged and stored away like he's memorizing her, like he's figuring out just how long he can stretch her patience before she finally snaps.

And Ginny knows that's exactly what this is—a test—a challenge wrapped in slow, deliberate torment, a game where he's waiting to see how long she can hold out before she cracks and begs him for what they both know she wants. And she hates it. Hates the smug tilt of his mouth, the way he's so damn composed, like he isn't at all affected by the heat of her body beneath his, by the dampness gathering between her thighs, by the way she's struggling to keep still even as every instinct in her screams to move, to grind herself against the fingers that still refuse to push deeper, to take the pleasure he's purposefully keeping just out of reach.

Her patience has never been her strong suit.

Her fingers twitch where they grip the couch, knuckles white from how hard she's forcing herself to keep from grabbing his wrist and forcing him to do something, to stop playing his damn games and just give her what she needs. Her jaw tightens, her breath coming short and sharp as she stares up at him, her frustration rising like a slow-burning fire in her chest, and she wants to hold out, wants to pretend she's just as in control as he is, but it's no use. Not when she's already trembling, already teetering on the edge of losing whatever composure she might have had left.

"Blaise," she snaps, the word cutting through the silence, sharp with impatience, with frustration, with something dangerously close to desperation, but he only smirks, entirely unbothered by the warning in her tone, his confidence infuriating, effortless, like he knew she'd break first, like this was the outcome he'd been waiting for all along.

His head dips, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his breath warm, teasing. "Yes, darling?" he murmurs, voice low and smooth, rich with amusement, like this is all so entertaining to him, like he's enjoying the way she's unraveling beneath him far too much.

And fuck, she hates him for it, hates that he's so calm while she's burning up, hates that she's always the first one to snap, always the one losing her grip while he keeps his perfectly intact. But more than that—more than that—she hates herself for the way the endearment does something to her, for the way it slides through her like warm honey, twisting deep in the pit of her stomach, for the way her body betrays her before her mind can catch up, thighs parting just a little wider in silent surrender, in an offering she refuses to acknowledge, an unspoken please she wants to take back the second it happens.

Blaise notices, of course he notices, and she can feel his smirk against her skin, can hear the smug amusement in the soft hum he lets out as his fingers finally—finally—press a little deeper, teasing along the slick heat of her with just enough pressure to make her stomach clench, to make her thighs twitch in response.

"See," he muses, his tone infuriatingly casual, his fingers still maddeningly slow as they stroke over her, parting her with deliberate ease. "You say you hate me, but your body always tells me something else."

Ginny makes a choked, frustrated noise, nails biting into the upholstery, her entire body tight with the effort it takes not to give him the reaction he wants. "You're insufferable," she hisses, but the words lack their usual bite, softened by the way her breath stutters, by the way she can't keep herself from rocking her hips just slightly, chasing more of his touch without meaning to.

Blaise chuckles, dark and pleased, his free hand sliding up her side, fingers curling beneath the hem of her shirt, grazing over bare skin, warm and possessive. "And yet, you keep coming back."

His fingers dip further, just enough to tease, to spread her open with devastating precision, and Ginny breaks, her head falling back against the couch, a soft, breathy moan escaping before she can stop it.

And Blaise sounds downright smug as he leans in and murmurs, "That's more like it."

His lips skim over the delicate curve of her jaw, the warmth of his breath ghosting against her skin, sending shivers down her spine as he lingers there, as if savoring the way her pulse flutters beneath his mouth, the way she tilts her head just slightly in response, unconsciously offering him more. And then—finally, finally—his fingers press deeper, no longer teasing, no longer playing at restraint, sinking into her with a slow, deliberate precision that has her back arching off the couch before she can even think to stop herself, her entire body responding instinctively, helplessly, to the stretch of him inside her.

She barely manages to swallow down the strangled, needy sound that rises in her throat, but he hears it, she knows he hears it, because his smirk is back, of course it's back, carved into his lips like he knew this was inevitable, like he's been waiting for the moment when she finally stops pretending she has the upper hand, when she stops fighting the fact that she wants this, wants him, wants everything he's giving her.

And then, as if he hadn't already shattered her composure enough, he moves again, curling his fingers just right, pressing against the perfect spot deep inside her that has her muscles tightening around him, has a sharp gasp catching in her throat, has her thighs trembling on either side of him as her entire body jolts with the force of sensation. His thumb finds her clit at the same time, the pressure light at first—too light, teasing—but then he circles it with just enough friction to make her breath hitch, to make the muscles in her stomach clench, to make her hips rock helplessly against his hand, chasing after the pleasure he so carefully doles out. And suddenly, control feels like the stupidest, most pointless thing in the world, a ridiculous, unattainable concept when she's burning from the inside out, when she's falling apart beneath him in slow, steady increments, her body no longer her own but something his, something he's unraveling with infuriating expertise.

"Thought you wanted me to stop playing with you," he murmurs, his voice all smooth arrogance, rich and amused and so unbearably smug, and she should hate him for it, should have enough fight left in her to snap something sharp, something vicious, something to wipe that insufferable expression off his face—but she can't, she can't, because all she can focus on is the way his fingers move inside her, steady and unrelenting, coaxing pleasure from her with a precision that leaves her raw, that leaves her helpless beneath his touch.

She wants to argue, wants to tell him to go fuck himself, wants to pretend she's not already so close she can barely think straight, but then he shifts again, presses deeper, harder, and whatever words she might have had dissolve into a shattered, breathless moan, her fingers flying to his wrist, gripping it as if that might somehow steady her, as if that might stop her from completely losing herself in the overwhelming, unbearable pleasure of it all. 

But it's useless, because he's relentless, because he's so fucking good at this, at her, because he knows exactly how to push her, how to drag her to the edge and keep her there, teasing, taunting, making her need in a way that's almost unbearable. And as he watches her, as his eyes darken with something satisfied, something wicked, something hungry, she knows—she knows—he's not going to let up. Not until she breaks for him.

He works her open with slow, relentless purpose, dragging her toward the edge with the kind of skill that has her stomach coiling tight, pleasure blooming in slow waves. Her head falls back against the armrest, lips parted, and Blaise watches her, rapt, taking in every twitch of her body, every fractured breath.

"Come for me, baby," he says, voice low and coaxing, and Merlin, it shouldn't be this easy, shouldn't be this effortless, but she's already tipping over the edge, pleasure cresting hard and fast as her muscles tighten around his fingers, a choked moan slipping from her throat.

The words barely have time to register before he is moving, shifting her easily onto her back, the worn leather couch cool against her flushed skin. His hands trail down her sides, slow and deliberate, and Ginny shivers, already hypersensitive from the way he'd unraveled her moments ago. She knows she should say something sharp, should throw his arrogance back in his face, but all she can do is watch as he slides lower, his breath hot against the inside of her thigh.

She barely has time to process, barely has time to take a breath, before his mouth is on her, before soft lips and wicked tongue press against her still-throbbing heat, before the warmth of his breath and the slick heat of his tongue against her sends a sharp, electric pulse straight through her spine. A strangled gasp rips from her throat, her body arching instinctively, fingers flying to his hair without thought, tangling into the soft curls and pulling tight, desperate for something—more, deeper, harder, anything—but Blaise, damn him, just hums against her, the vibrations of it sinking straight into her skin, making her thighs tremble against his shoulders.

He starts slow, deliberately slow, his tongue dragging over her with unhurried, indulgent strokes, taking his time like he's savoring her, like he enjoys the taste of her as much as he enjoys tormenting her, as much as he enjoys the way she's already coming apart beneath him, already squirming, her thighs twitching with every flick of his tongue, every carefully measured movement. He's relentless in his patience, unbothered by the way her breath stutters, by the way her nails scrape against his scalp in wordless demand, by the way her hips shift against his mouth, trying—failing—to chase something he refuses to give her just yet.

She tugs harder, a sharp, desperate pull against his curls, an unspoken order, and finally he gives in, his mouth pressing firmer against her, his tongue moving with something sharper, something more intentional, and she lets out a ragged moan as sensation floods through her in a sudden, unbearable rush.

He chuckles, the sound dark and far too smug, the deep vibration of it sending another sharp pulse of pleasure through her. "Still so impatient," he muses against her skin, his lips brushing the words directly into her, and the arrogance in his tone is almost enough to make her shove him away—almost.

But then—then—he drags his tongue over her again, this time with devastating precision, this time with the exact pressure that makes her body seize and her breath choke in her throat, his hands gripping her thighs harder now, holding her in place as he really starts working her open.

And all rational thought vanishes.

"Shut up and—oh—" The words dissolve into a moan, her voice breaking as he flicks his tongue just right, just so, his pace unfaltering, unrelenting, each movement calculated, methodical, a perfect blend of slow, drawn-out torment and raw, consuming pleasure.

She can feel herself unraveling far too fast, can already sense the pressure curling low and hot in her stomach, her body tightening in anticipation, sharp and insistent, and she hates him for it—hates that he knows her body better than she does, hates that he takes his time learning her, understanding her, unraveling her with such ruthless patience, like she's something to be studied and savored rather than just taken.

His tongue moves in slow, precise strokes, teasing at first, then devastating, each flick deliberate, each swirl and press of his mouth perfectly timed, and it's too much—too much—not enough—too much—

"Blaise—" she gasps, a choked, breathless plea, her fingers tightening in his hair, her thighs trembling against his shoulders, and his answering hum—low, pleased, indulgent—sends a fresh shock of pleasure straight through her, her entire body jolting with the force of it.

It's obscene, the way he eats her out, the way he enjoys it, the way he licks into her like he could do this for hours, like he would do this for hours if she let him, like there's nowhere else he'd rather be, nothing else he'd rather be doing than this, than her, than wrecking her with nothing but his mouth and his hands and that unbearable, perfect confidence.

And maybe that's what undoes her in the end.

The want in him. The ease in him. The certainty.

Her hips lift off the couch, moving helplessly against his mouth, desperate for more, and Blaise doesn't tease anymore—doesn't hold back now—doesn't make her beg for it like he usually would. No, this time he gives it to her, he gives—sucks at her clit with ruthless precision, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs, holding her exactly where he wants her as he drags her over the edge again, no hesitation, no delay, no restraint.

And she shatters.

She comes with a sharp, broken cry, her entire body locking up for a brief, unbearable moment before it shudders apart beneath him, pleasure cresting so hard and fast it obliterates her, rips through her with dizzying force, leaves her boneless against the cushions, her muscles trembling, her chest heaving as she gasps for breath.

She barely registers the loss of his mouth against her—barely registers anything—before he's moving, shifting back up over her, his body pressing warm and solid against hers, his weight grounding her, anchoring her, and she blinks up at him, still dazed, still breathless, still trying to gather her thoughts when he leans in and kisses her, deep and slow, unrushed and consuming, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

It's possessive, in its own way. A mark. A claim.

And Ginny—still shaking, still flushed, still reeling—lets him take it.

"You look good like this," he murmurs against her lips, fingers brushing down her side, still too gentle, too knowing.

She scowls, or tries to, but she's still wrecked, still reeling, and she knows he sees right through her.

"You're too smug for your own good," she mutters, voice hoarse, and Blaise only grins, completely unrepentant.

"And you love it," he says simply.

She doesn't get the chance to argue before he's kissing her again, teeth scraping against her bottom lip, and then his hands are tugging at his own belt, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room.

Ginny swallows hard, pulse kicking up all over again.

It seems they really are just getting started.

She barely has time to steady her breathing, barely has time to come down from the dizzying high he's already dragged her through, before the next sound reaches her ears—slow, deliberate, calculated—the unmistakable slide of leather through belt loops, a smooth, frictionless rasp that is almost drowned out by the erratic pounding of her own heartbeat. The soft clink of metal follows, the buckle coming undone with practiced ease, and even though she isn't watching yet, she can hear it, can feel the moment stretch, thick with anticipation, with the weight of what's about to happen, with the impossible, suffocating heat curling low in her stomach. The sound alone sends a fresh, involuntary shiver through her, a sharp little spark of pleasure shooting through her spine, and when her gaze finally drops, drawn instinctively to him, she watches—rapt, breathless—as his fingers move with slow, unhurried precision, with the kind of ease that belongs to a man who is never rushed, never uncertain, never anything less than entirely in control.

He doesn't rip the belt free, doesn't yank at the leather in some frantic display of urgency—no, of course he doesn't. Instead, he pulls it free in one long, fluid motion, the supple black leather slipping from his trousers like something unraveled, undone, like a promise of what's to come. It falls to the floor with a quiet, unceremonious thud, disappearing into the shadows beneath the couch, forgotten the moment his hands move again, this time to the fastenings of his trousers.

And when he shifts back, just far enough to push them down, his movements are still deliberate, purposeful, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he's savoring every second of this, as if he enjoys the way she's squirming beneath him, the way her breath catches, the way her body tenses in anticipation, still thrumming with the aftershocks of the orgasm he wrung from her minutes ago. And she is squirming, shifting beneath him, her thighs pressing together involuntarily as heat pools low and heavy in her stomach, as the sight of him—already hard, already so achingly ready for her—pulls another sharp, involuntary pulse of arousal straight through her.

He sees it. Of course he does.

Amusement flickers in his dark eyes, his mouth curving into something slow and knowing as he watches her reaction, his arrogance practically radiating from him in waves. "Like what you see, Weasley?" he drawls, the words thick with satisfaction, with teasing, with something darker, something that sends a fresh spike of heat curling through her spine.

She should say something sharp, something scathing, something that wipes that insufferably smug look off his face, but the truth is—she's too caught up, too gone, too reckless with want, and instead of giving him some sharp-edged retort, instead of snapping at him with her usual fire, she just moves. Reaches for him, wraps her fingers around the thick, hard length of him without hesitation, without thought, her grip firm but teasing, dragging her palm along him in one slow, deliberate stroke, relishing the way his smirk falters at the contact.

His breath catches—just slightly, just enough that she feels it more than she hears it—but then he exhales sharply, a tight, controlled release of air, his body tensing above her as he braces a hand beside her head, grounding himself, steadying himself against her.

"Shut up," she murmurs, her voice lower than before, rougher, as she tightens her grip just enough to make him feel it, just enough to make his jaw flex, his fingers twitch against the couch. She drags her thumb over the tip, smearing the bead of moisture there, teasing, watching the way the muscles in his abdomen tense as she strokes him with purpose, slow and deliberate, watching the way his control threatens to crack, how barely restrained he is despite all his composure.

"Merlin," he mutters under his breath, his voice rough, jaw clenched tight as his head tips back slightly, his body visibly reacting to her now, no matter how much he tries to hold himself together. And for a moment, she just watches him, drinks him in—because she knows what this means, knows what it means to have the Blaise Zabini like this, undone beneath her touch, his control slipping, his breath uneven, because of her.

It's a rare sight, a privilege she refuses to waste.

But before she can push him further, before she can test just how much patience he really has left, his hand moves fast, catching her wrist, fingers wrapping firmly around it before he presses it back against the couch, pinning it beside her head.

"Enough of that," he murmurs, his voice rough, deep, edged with something dangerously close to warning. "I don't have the patience for it tonight."

She lifts a brow at him, her smirk lazy despite the way her pulse is hammering in her throat. "That's rich, coming from you."

His answering grin is sharper now, darker, full of promise. "Oh, trust me," he says, shifting over her, pressing her deeper into the cushions, his voice dropping to something lower, something that makes her stomach tighten with expectation. "I have plenty of patience when it counts."

And then, before she can respond, before she can open her mouth to taunt him again, he's moving, his grip shifting, his free hand trailing down her waist, dragging over the soft curve of her hip, his fingers skimming the sensitive skin at the inside of her thigh as he guides himself to her entrance, teasing, just barely pressing against her, the thick head of his cock nudging against too little, not enough, and Ginny sucks in a sharp breath, her body arching, her nails biting into the fabric beneath her as every thought in her head dissolves into this, into him, into the unbearable anticipation of what comes next.

He watches her, dark eyes fixed on her face, waiting, holding her gaze as if he wants her to feel everything, as if he wants to watch every flicker of sensation wash over her while he takes his time sinking inside, stretching her open with slow, deliberate precision, filling her inch by inch until there is nothing left between them, until she feels all of him, until he's buried so deep she swears she can feel him everywhere. She gasps, her fingers clenching at his shoulders, her body adjusting to the sheer, unbearable fullness of him, her breath shuddering from parted lips as he presses himself fully against her, their bodies flush, no space, no distance, just him, just this, raw and consuming and so much.

Her chest rises and falls, her nails digging into the muscle beneath her hands, and when she finally exhales, it's a ragged, shaking thing, barely a whisper of breath, barely words. "Fuck—" she breathes, voice trembling, wrecked, every syllable unraveling into the thick, heated air between them.

Blaise doesn't move, doesn't thrust, doesn't give her what she's aching for just yet. Instead, his lips ghost over hers, not quite a kiss, just a teasing brush of heat, just breath, his own unsteady, his control hanging by a thread, and his voice—low, knowing, unbearably smooth—curves around the question like it's already been answered. "You feel it too, don't you?"

Merlin, she does.

It's never been like this before, never this slow, never this intentional, never this devastatingly deliberate, like he wants her to feel every inch of him, like he wants to take his time wrecking her, to leave an impression, to mark himself into the deepest parts of her until she can't forget the way he feels, the way he fits against her, inside her, the way he holds her here, completely, utterly his.

And then—finally—he moves.

It starts slow, torturously slow, each thrust long and deep and measured, his hips rolling against hers with agonizing precision, dragging pleasure through her in slow, aching waves that make her toes curl, make her breath catch, make her body tighten around him, the friction too much and not enough, a desperate, exquisite kind of torment. Ginny clenches around him, instinctive, needy, her nails digging into his skin in silent demand, and she feels the way his composure frays at the edges, the way he groans softly against her jaw, his breath uneven, his control slipping just a little, just enough to make her smirk before another slow thrust destroys her all over again.

"Merlin, you feel so good," he mutters, the words slipping out in a breathless rasp, his forehead dropping to her shoulder like he needs the grounding, like she's doing something to him just as much as he's undoing her. His pace quickens, not hurried but determined, not rough but relentless, each thrust pushing her deeper into sensation, each snap of his hips sending sharp, electric pleasure sparking through her.

Ginny tilts her head back against the couch, her breath breaking, her moans spilling from her lips, soft and gasping and so much, letting herself feel it, letting herself fall apart under him. He moves faster now, his rhythm growing rougher, his grip firmer, his breath heavier, the heat between them rising, climbing, burning, and then he shifts slightly, angles his hips just right.

And the moment he does, she gasps, pleasure slamming into her so intensely it steals the breath straight from her lungs, a sharp, blinding thing that sends her spiraling.

"There," she gasps, voice breaking, her nails dragging down his back, her body tightening around him in helpless, raw response. "Blaise—"

He lets out a quiet, breathless laugh, something dark, something satisfied, something impossibly fond. "I know, sweetheart."

And then he really gives it to her.

His hips snap against hers with an intensity that leaves her wrecked, each thrust harder, deeper, faster, pushing her higher and higher, dragging her closer and closer until she's right at the edge, until she's clinging to him like he's the only solid thing in the world, until her body coils tight, tighter, unbearably wound.

And he knows, of course he knows. He always knows.

He presses his forehead against hers, his dark eyes locked onto hers, watching her, waiting, his fingers slipping between them to find her clit, rubbing tight, devastating circles over her, and that's it.

She breaks.

She falls apart with a strangled cry, her body locking up before shuddering violently, pleasure ripping through her in hot, pulsing waves, dragging her under, drowning her, her vision going white, her limbs going boneless beneath him.

And Blaise—Blaise follows right after, his rhythm stuttering, a low, guttural groan torn from his throat as he buries himself deep, his body shuddering against hers, spilling into her with a rough, shaking exhale.

For a long, long moment, neither of them moves.

The only sound in the room is their breathing, still ragged, still uneven, still catching up, the heat between them still thick, still tangible, even in the aftermath.

Then, finally, Blaise shifts, careful as he pulls out, a quiet, satisfied hum slipping from his lips before he collapses onto the couch beside her, his skin still warm, his body still humming with the remnants of pleasure. One arm drapes lazily over her waist, grounding, possessive, his, and Ginny exhales deeply, still catching her breath, still feeling the aftershocks roll through her in slow, residual waves.

"Well," she finally says, her voice still rough, still breathless, but her smirk is easy as she turns her head to look at him, her eyes glinting with mischief. "That was a decent start."

Blaise lets out a low, contented chuckle, his fingers already trailing idly over the curve of her hip, teasing, promising, wanting.

"Oh, Weasley," he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to her bare shoulder, his voice dark and warm and so sure, so certain.

"You have no idea."

And just like that, his fingers wander again, slow and knowing, tracing lazy, tempting circles over her still-sensitive skin, already coaxing her back under, already promising more, already letting her know, this was only the beginning.

Ginny barely has a moment to catch her breath, her body still lax and sated from the pleasure he's already wrung from her, before Blaise shifts beneath her, his movements slow, lazy, the kind of ease that makes her stomach tighten because she knows—it's not laziness, not recovery, it's something else entirely. His hands are still warm on her skin, fingers pressing firmly against her hips, kneading slow, possessive circles into the soft flesh there, not holding her still, not pushing, just feeling, just keeping her close, just letting her know that he isn't done yet. His chest rises and falls against her side, his breath still uneven, still rough around the edges, and yet there's something about the way he looks at her—dark and heavy-lidded, his pupils wide, his expression unreadable but unmistakably hungry, like he's watching her, studying the flush still lingering high on her cheeks, the way her body is still humming with the remnants of pleasure, the way she hasn't pulled away, the way she isn't moving away at all.

She should be exhausted. She is exhausted, her limbs still loose, still wrecked in the best way, her body still thrumming with the aftershocks of everything he's already done to her, but there's something else beneath it, something hot and alive and unwilling to settle, something curling through her all over again, something she knows is reflected in her own eyes when she meets his gaze. Because it's not just him—it's her, too, it's always her, it's always been this, whatever this is, this constant, impossible heat between them, this game they pretend isn't a game, this thing they pretend isn't dangerous, this pull, sharp and unrelenting, that neither of them ever truly fights.

So when she shifts onto her elbows, her body still sprawled half against his, her voice low and knowing when she murmurs, "Think you're done with me already?"—they both know it isn't really a question.

Blaise's lips twitch into a slow, knowing smirk, the kind that sends a fresh pulse of heat straight through her, the kind that tells her she's already lost whatever silent battle she thought she was waging. "I think," he says, his voice smooth, lazy, a slow tease as he drags his fingers down her spine, trailing heat in their wake, "that you look like you want more."

She does.

Merlin, she does.

And maybe she should fight it, maybe she should hold onto something—some last shred of dignity, some last remnant of self-control—but she doesn't, she can't, because the second she even considers denying it, she's already moving, already shifting, already swinging a leg over his hips, straddling him in one fluid motion, her body settling over him as if she belongs there.

His hands go straight to her thighs, his touch firm but indulgent, warm palms sliding up the curve of her legs, thumbs pressing against the dip of her hips in a way that makes her breath catch, in a way that makes her pulse jump beneath her skin. But he doesn't force her down, doesn't guide her, doesn't try to take control—not yet. No, instead, he just watches, lets her take her time, lets her set the pace, his expression unreadable but his body impossibly still beneath her, a coil of tension just waiting to snap.

Ginny drags her fingers down his chest, slow and deliberate, her nails just barely scraping over his skin, teasing, testing, watching the way his muscles twitch beneath her touch. "Then let's see how much patience you really have, Zabini."

She feels it—the way his breath hitches, just slightly, so subtle most people wouldn't have noticed, but she notices. She notices everything about him. And yet, he doesn't break eye contact, doesn't flinch, doesn't crack—not yet. He just watches her, his gaze dark and intent, making her stomach flip with the weight of it, his hands sliding further up her thighs, gripping her hips, his fingers tightening just slightly. But still, he waits.

Lets her move.

She feels him beneath her, already half-hard again, the heat of him pressing against her in a way that makes her thighs clench involuntarily, makes heat rush through her, makes her ache. And she knows he feels it too, knows he's watching her feel it, knows he's waiting for her to react, and she refuses to let him have the upper hand.

So she tilts her hips, drags herself over him, slow and teasing, nothing more than friction, just a taste, just enough—but not enough.

Blaise exhales sharply, his fingers tightening against her waist, and she does it again—slow, deliberate, teasing—and this time, she hears it, the quiet curse that slips from his lips, the sharp inhale of breath, the almost-unraveling of his control.

Smirking, she leans forward, bracing her hands on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath her palms. "Something wrong?" she murmurs, feigning innocence, though they both know exactly what she's doing.

Blaise huffs a breathless laugh, but his jaw is tight, his fingers twitching where they grip her. "You're playing a dangerous game, Weasley."

"Am I?" she asks, tilting her hips again, rolling against him just right, just enough to make his muscles flex beneath her hands, just enough to make his fingers clench against her skin, just enough to push him further.

His fingers flex, his grip tightening, and for a second, she thinks he might snap, might flip her over and take control again, might push her back and remind her who really sets the pace—but instead, he just watches her, his patience razor-thin, his muscles taut beneath her.

And then, his control shatters.

"Enough," he mutters, his voice low, something dark and certain threading through the syllables, and before she can tease him again, before she can try to push him further, he moves, lifts her just slightly, just enough to guide himself to her entrance, the thick, flushed head of his cock pressing against her, teasing, just barely pushing in.

Ginny inhales sharply, her breath stuttering, her fingers digging into his chest as she sinks down onto him, taking him inch by inch, the stretch deliciously slow, dragging over her nerves in a way that makes her toes curl, makes her thighs tremble, makes her ache with how much she wants it, with how much she needs him. It's almost too much, almost too slow, almost unbearable in its perfect, excruciating pace—but not enough. Never enough.

And when she finally takes him all the way in, when he's fully seated inside her, when there's nothing left between them but heat and pressure and the perfect, agonizing fullness of him she knows they are nowhere near done.

Blaise groans, the sound low and guttural, his breath stuttering as his fingers tighten around her hips, the weight of her pressing down on him sending sharp pulses of pleasure rippling through his body. But he doesn't move—not yet. He lets her take her time, lets her adjust to the impossible fullness of him, to the stretch, to the slow, deliberate slide of him inside her, filling her so perfectly, so completely that his own restraint feels razor-thin, hanging by a thread as she exhales shakily above him, as she lifts her hips just slightly before sinking down again with the same teasing, languid precision. His fingers twitch against her skin, his patience fracturing, but he holds still, forces himself to let her lead, to let her set the pace, even though every muscle in his body is screaming for him to move, to flip her over, to pin her down, to take her with the desperate, reckless need clawing at his insides.

She leans forward, her hands bracing against his chest, her palms warm where they press against his skin, and when she moves—fuck—when she moves, it's deliberate, torturously slow, languid rolls of her hips, her thighs flexing as she rides him, finding a rhythm that makes his head tip back against the couch, his breath leaving him in a harsh, unsteady exhale. She's soaked, every slide of her body over his leaving slick, devastating heat in its wake, every grind of her hips dragging another wave of pleasure through him, and fuck, she's doing this on purpose, he knows she is, he can see it in her eyes, can feel it in the way she moves—measured, calculated, teasing him with every slow, careful movement like she wants him to break.

His fingers dig into her skin, his grip bruising, his control splintering at the edges.

"Fuck," he mutters, his voice raw, wrecked, barely more than a breath. "You're going to kill me."

Ginny smirks, wicked and knowing, dragging her nails down his chest, just hard enough to leave faint red lines in their wake, just sharp enough to make his muscles tense beneath her touch. "I thought you had patience, Zabini," she purrs, voice low and smug, and fuck, she's enjoying this, enjoying watching him come undone, enjoying the way she's unraveling him, the way he's holding onto his restraint by the thinnest, thinnest thread.

He lets out a breathless laugh, but it's tight, strained, his jaw clenching, his entire body taut beneath her as she picks up her rhythm, rolling her hips with more intent now, more force, her pace smooth, effortless, fucking devastating, each slow, grinding movement pulling a low, wrecked groan from his throat.

She watches him, watches the way his head tips back against the couch, the way his lips part around a soft, shuddering breath, the way his dark eyes flicker between heavy-lidded and ravenous, the way his composure is slipping, little by little, the control he wears so easily cracking beneath her touch, beneath the slow, insistent drag of her body over his. And Merlin, it does something to her, sends another sharp wave of heat rushing through her veins, knowing that she can do this to him, knowing that she has this much power over him, that Blaise Zabini, the most unshakable person she's ever known, is unraveling because of her.

"Merlin, you feel good," he mutters, his voice wrecked, his fingers flexing against her hips like he's barely holding himself together, like he's seconds away from snapping.

Ginny grins, leaning down so her lips hover just over his, her breath warm against his mouth, teasing, tempting. "Then maybe you should let go," she whispers, her voice smooth, dark, full of challenge, of provocation.

And then she moves, really moves, lifting herself almost completely off him before sinking back down, harder, faster, finding the perfect rhythm, finding the exact pace that makes his breath stagger, that makes his hands fly to her hips, that makes his control shatter all at once.

Blaise breaks.

His hands clamp onto her hips, tight, possessive, and his restraint—so carefully maintained, so effortless in every other situation—snaps, his composure gone as he meets her thrust for thrust, his hips snapping up to meet hers with something raw, something desperate, something that has her crying out, her head tilting back as pleasure slams through her so hard, so fast, it's almost too much, almost too intense, but she doesn't stop, can't stop, chasing that feeling, chasing that fire, moving with him, moving against him, the sound of their bodies colliding filling the dimly lit Slytherin common room, their breathing heavy, ragged, desperate.

And then he flips them.

She barely has time to react before she's on her back, pinned beneath him, her body still throbbing from the force of it, from the way he moves so effortlessly, from the way he looms over her, from the way he takes control without hesitation.

"You're dangerous, Weasley," he murmurs, his voice dark, rough, something close to reverence woven between the words, his lips brushing over the delicate skin of her throat, his breath hot against her pulse.

Ginny smirks, breathless, reckless, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him in closer, tighter, deeper. "Then what are you going to do about it?" she whispers, teasing, daring, her nails trailing down his spine.

His answering grin is all sharp edges and dark promise, his body thrumming with intent as he snaps his hips forward, hard, deep, stealing whatever retort she might have had, replacing it with a gasp, a moan, with his name falling from her lips like something prayerlike, something worshipful, something she doesn't even mean to say out loud.

And then there's no more teasing, no more waiting, no more drawn-out games.

There's just heat, and skin, and the perfect, delicious slide of him against her, inside her, pushing her higher and higher with every thrust, with every shift, with every panting, breathless sound that spills from their lips.

They don't fight it anymore.

They don't pretend this is a game, don't pretend this is casual, don't pretend they aren't completely wrecked for each other, don't pretend they aren't both drowning in this, in each other, don't pretend that whatever this is between them isn't something bigger than either of them can control.

Because there's no coming back from this.

They both know it.

He finally kisses her, his lips brushing against hers in a way that is infuriatingly soft, light, barely there, like a whisper, like a tease, like he's savoring the moment, like he knows exactly how much she still wants him even after everything they've just done, even after she's already breathless and wrecked beneath him. There's no urgency in it, no hunger, no desperation—just intention, just warmth, just the slow, easy press of his mouth against hers, a stark contrast to the way he's touched her all night, to the way he's left her trembling, to the way he's taken her apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but this, just him, just her, just the way they fit together in a way that neither of them have the energy to deny anymore.

And then, just as slow, just as casual, as if the words don't matter, as if they aren't about to shift the ground beneath her feet all over again, he murmurs against her lips, his voice low and smooth and so unfairly confident, "So, are you finally going to go on a date with me?"

She blinks, still hazy from the aftershocks of pleasure, her body still thrumming with the remnants of him, and it takes her a second to register what he's just said, a second too long for him not to notice, a second too long for him not to smirk when her breath hitches, when she processes. Her fingers, still resting lazily against his chest, twitch slightly, and then she huffs a short, incredulous laugh, tilting her head back against the cushions, arching a brow at him as she drags her nails idly down his skin, like she's thinking, like she's weighing his words, like she isn't already grinning because—of course this is how he chooses to do it.

She hums, dragging the moment out, letting silence stretch just long enough to make him wait, before she finally mutters, voice heavy with amusement, "Making a girl orgasm is your way of asking someone out?"

Blaise doesn't hesitate, doesn't even pretend to be abashed, doesn't falter in the slightest—no, of course he doesn't. He just smirks, smirks, lazily, so self-satisfied she almost wants to shove him away just to wipe it off his face, but then he's leaning in again, his breath warm against her mouth, his hands still tracing absentminded circles over the bare skin of her hip, and he murmurs, shamelessly, effortlessly, "Did it work?"

And fuck, she hates him.

She hates him because he already knows the answer, hates him because he's already won, hates him because he's so damn smug about it, because she can feel his self-satisfaction in the way he presses the softest, most infuriatingly teasing kiss to the corner of her mouth, because he knows exactly what she's going to say, because he always knows—

And maybe that's why she doesn't make him wait, doesn't draw it out, doesn't pretend like she isn't completely, utterly wrecked for him, because why bother at this point?

She exhales, rolling her eyes, but her lips are already curving into a smirk of her own, already betraying her, and she lets herself sink further into him, her fingers trailing up his neck, twisting into the curls at the base of his head, pulling him closer even though she's supposed to be making fun of him.

"Absolutely," she breathes, her voice low, full of amusement, full of something else entirely, something deeper, something dangerous.

And when he grinned against her mouth, when he kissed her again, deeper this time, longer, slower, something that felt suspiciously like real, she didn't even try to fight it.