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Blaise was the sort to put his money where his mouth was. Never begged off, never tried to weasel out of paying up. If he bet Draco a bottle of Gargoyle Cordial that he could get into Cho's pants, Draco would be sipping the sultry stuff (a gourmet high-impact bastard of ale, treacle and Yorkshire peat) by midnight on the day that Blaise got slapped hard enough to make him give up.

Even better, Blaise liked a challenge, and was a shocking judge of character. When he bet Draco six galleons that he could get Pansy drunk enough that she'd play strip poker, Draco saluted Pansy the following morning with the thimble of Blastum Claritopia he'd bought with his winnings (she'd been hammered, all right, but the girl could hold her drink). She'd sipped it gratefully, face clearing as the hangover melted out, whilst Blaise slumped in an armchair with his long legs crossed at the ankle, tossing genial insults at them, accusations of secret-coffee and sleight-of-hand.

When, a week later, Blaise said, "fine, you choose the stakes, but I've blatantly won so don't think too hard," regarding the nicking of Granger's pride and joy, a crimson Wyrmfeather quill the oldest Weasley brat had given her, Draco knew what to lay on the table.

He wanted Blaise's mouth where his money was.




Blaise's fingers were singed where the quill had blasted him; he looked normal, but there was a pervading smell of burnt hair around the place.

"Well," Draco smirked, "that looks to have gone as well as could be expected."

"Sod off," Blaise said. He folded his arms. "So."

"So," Draco agreed. He was glowing inside. "I've got half that Gargoyle Cordial upstairs. Want some?"

"Why not?" Blaise said, then added, in an undertone, "Help take the taste away."




Draco had two well-worn fantasies about this scenario.

In one, he was sitting on the side of his bed and Blaise was drunk and cheerful, going down on him like Draco was the sexiest thing ever, licking his cock all over and rubbing his cheek against it and mouthing his balls and basically worshiping him, and then, slowing suddenly down, sitting shyly back on his heels. "I want you to see it," he'd mumble, and hold the head of Draco's cock close to his open mouth, stroking him furiously with both hands until Draco came all over his tongue.

The other fantasy, Blaise was surly and unwilling and offered a handjob and glared when Draco said no, it was a bet. In *this* fantasy, it took all Draco's coaxing and sneering to make him do it, and when he unzipped, Blaise made Draco hold it, wouldn't touch it with his own hands. Draco would be hot in his own fingers, so stiff and ready, and it'd be hard not to help himself along. Blaise would scowl and close his eyes tight and open his mouth, and Draco would push it in as far as he could, and Blaise would try to back off slightly but also move his tongue and tighten his lips, and that would get Draco going. He'd hold Blaise's head in both hands and start to thrust, just gentle, steady, until Blaise was moving with him, and then he'd speed up, thrusting harder, making Blaise struggle to accommodate him, and then, pretty soon - indeed, all of a sudden - that fantasy would end due to Draco making a satisfying mess.

As he lead Blaise through the Slytherin common room, casually ignoring his grumpily studying peers, Draco couldn't actually quite work out which way he'd prefer it to go: drunk and willing would be a lot of fun, but surly would be *hot*.

His cock flexed against his thigh as he started to climb the stairs. He had a feeling it was going to be quick, either way.




The air hummed as Draco got the bottle out his chest and passed it over. Blaise tilted it sceptically. "Have a nice night in on your own, did you?" he grinned, with suggestive eyebrows. "You lush."

"I've had that bottle for a week," Draco retorted. "A snifter, here and there..."

"What are you, a-hundred-and-six?"

"Discerning taste is born, not made," Draco sniffed. "Anyway." He felt a frisson of warmth as he remembered *why* they were going to crack open the Cordial at 4 o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. "We can't stay here. Anyone could come in." He looked Blaise straight in the eye. "And I wouldn't want to rush..."

Blaise gave him a dark, wry look - but his voice was perfectly pleasant. "By the river? There's some seclusion upstream."

Draco took his thickest robes out of his trunk and folded them over his arm. "I'll need these, then."




Draco half expected the whole bottle to disappear down Blaise's throat the moment they sat down. Understandable, given the circs. Then, give it ten minutes, and Blaise would be wrecked and pliable. That would be absolutely fine.

Blaise sipped delicately, eyes closed. "Needs ice."

Draco could never remember the ice spell. "Did you bring ice?"

"Nope."

"Well."

Draco looked at the knotty swirl of river water, flowing brilliant and quick and noisy between stone-jumbled banks. The water was pale green up here - it got darker the closer it ran to the Great Lake, picking up all sorts of curses and larvae along its journey. They were a good mile or so upstream - perfectly forbidden, so they shouldn't be disturbed. They'd waved their sixthform badges at the Slytherin prefect and, the Cordial transfigured neatly into a pair of wicked shears, said they were off to collect lunar nettles for their Potions coursework.

Ten minutes' hike, Draco's cock pressing up ever more insistently under his clothes, and they'd found the curl in the river from which the castle was finally invisible.

"I'm no good at ice vocals," Blaise was saying, "leave that to the house elves, eh?" and then, as Draco looked over at him, he opened his eyes. They glinted in the late afternoon light, unreadable. If his voice could have glinted too, it would have. "Let's get on with it, then."

Draco blinked. "Don't you want some more to drink, first?"

Blaise's smile was crooked. "I think the obliteration needs to come afterwards," he said, and passed Draco the bottle, and cleared his throat. "So, you want to lean against a tree, or what?"

"A tree?" Draco said blankly, and looked around them. Standing up? He patted his thick robes. "Can't I just -" he smoothed the robes, words forming ungainly in his mouth, "- stay here?"

"What, not content with getting me to suck your cock, you want me to strain my back as well? That wasn't in the bet."

Draco closed his eyes briefly as a rush of heat shot behind his ribs. His cock felt denser and warmer by the second. "Fine, I'll stand," he said. "But not by a tree."

"Suit yourself," Blaise said, and looked at him expectantly, and Draco got to his feet, movement strobing into slow motion, lightheaded as if he'd just got out of a hot bath - and a Veela had been holding out his towel. Blaise rose up on his knees and grasped Draco's hips with both hands. "Get it out, then."

His voice was slightly breathy. Draco took a swig of Cordial and reached under the low hem of his jersey with his other hand, thumbing open his buttons clumsily and feeling his cock flex as the strained fabric parted. He pulled it out, coolness of the early evening air sliding in to shiver under his balls, then bit his lip hard as Blaise batted him out the way and wrapped his own hand round Draco's cock instead. The inside of Blaise's fist was cool and firm. He gave Draco a couple of awkward strokes, then adjusted his grip and pulled carefully, easing the foreskin down, sending Draco's pulse into double-time.

A moment later, as Blaise's wet tongue ran over the naked head of his cock, Draco wished to damned Delilah and her furies that he'd opted for the tree. He almost dropped the Cordial. His free hand groped for Blaise's head - for stability, not even to guide him to the right places, because Blaise clearly had a good idea of which places worked. His tongue slipped around and around, barely any pressure but wetter and wetter, and the air played cold on every inch that wasn't being addressed, almost icy where Blaise's tongue was-and-then-wasn't.

Draco breathed out heavily, then gasped, then breathed out shockily, then heard himself whine. The sensation was building, but maddeningly slow, and he'd fantasised about Blaise trying to swallow and being breathless and eager and maybe even letting Draco fuck his mouth, fists in his hair and hips pounding-- he hadn't thought Blaise would take him apart, steadily and delicately and utterly in control. As if, maybe, he'd done this sort of thing before.

"Do you-- ah," Draco said, breaking off as Blaise's fist twisted down his cock, as everything got tauter and tighter and almost too much.

Not - quite - too much. Blaise's tongue stopped swirling and he rested his lips against the very tip of Draco's cock, and his hand on Draco's hip went hard and warning as he slowly, wetly, carefully let the head of Draco's cock slip inside.

"*Uh*," Draco bit off, a pure rush searing up his body, slamming into his balls. He stared at the sky; it seemed to be quaking blue-silver, and the noise of the river pounded in his ears. Pounding-- couldn't think. He looked down, focussing on his own pale hand locked in Blaise's hair, pushing the artful fringe off Blaise's smooth forehead, unshadowing his half-closed eyes. He wondered joltingly what Blaise could see, if he was imagining he was somewhere else, if he was trying not to gag.

Blaise looked rather serene. Draco breathed through his teeth, harder when the slight rocking of Blaise's mouth warmed into sucking, into rocking more steadily. The hand wrapped around Draco's cock started shifting, too - just little twists, little pulls, but oh, felt so damn good.

Draco stared down, moving his hand so he could see Blaise's mouth, see the movement of the head of his cock disappearing into it, shiny and fat and only half-as-pink as Blaise's lips. He swayed, panting now, a base heat building in his balls: needing to thrust. He tried, and Blaise's hand on his hip tightened warningly. Damnit.

He moved his other hand towards Blaise's head, then veered away sharply as he realised he was still holding the Cordial. Fuck! He wondered if he could drop it. Drink it all? His free hand slid round the back of Blaise's head, hoping to get some leverage, and Blaise looked up at him sharply-- and that, the sight of those bright sly eyes in that provocative face, sucking his dick, *sucking* him, the *knowledge* in his eyes as he swirled his tongue--

Draco swayed again, and forced a somewhat-breathless laugh, and realised his eyes were shut. He opened them. "Fuck," he breathed, and Blaise smirked and sucked harder, dipping his head again, letting another fraction into his mouth. Draco made encouraging mm sounds, almost without meaning to, and Blaise slid further down until Draco felt the bump of the back of his mouth.

The exhalation that caused was a lot like a groan. Blaise backed off and did it again, smoother, and again, wetter, moving his hand in strokes that didn't quite match the rhythm of his mouth, that jerked Draco into a second radius of sensation before the first had begun to fade. Draco groaned harder, almost incredulously, and Blaise redoubled his pace, the rhythms jarring exquisitely, the wet noises of it pushing Draco almost to the edge.

Blaise was definitely, a corner of Draco's mind blurted, not as unenthusiastic as he'd expected. Definitely not surly. His lips found the sweet spots and the ridge under Draco's cockhead, the areas currently shaded luminous in Draco's mind, but he didn't seem to realise, just slid over all those delicious points and on down, stuffing more of Draco's cock into his mouth and rocking and squeezing with both hands. Blaise's artistry had melted into naked enthusiasm, and it was wet and noisy and desperate and felt insanely good.

Draco groaned harder as debilitating hope clicked gloriously into certainly: he was going to come. Soon. Now? No, but soon-- oh fuck, fuck-- *soon*-- He forced his eyes open again in time to stare at the sort of rapt concentration in Blaise's face, the hollowing of his pink cheeks as he twisted down, the screwing of his own fist tight in Blaise's hair, before the rhythms of Blaise's mouth and hand collided like cymbals and the hot chaotic shock of it dragged Draco over a selfish, sun-spotted edge. He shot into Blaise's mouth, his cock pulsing hard, and then he was quaking under the suction as Blaise swallowed once - twice - until he was done.

He was *still* holding the Cordial. He realised distantly that Blaise hadn't quite finished, was sucking softly as he drew back. Draco's knees threatened to give way as he tucked himself back in. He swallowed.

"Fuck," he said, faintly. Aftershocks rang louder than the river in his ears.

"Fucking wasn't part of the bet, now, was it," Blaise smirked, and stood up. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the knuckle of his thumb, licked his lips, and took the Cordial out of Draco's cold, nerveless hand. "Thanks," he said, and took a long swig, and then looked at Draco's dazed face, rolled his eyes, and kissed him.

Draco inhaled sharply, coming back to life, the heat of Blaise's mouth burning with alcohol and a faint, coppery tang. Blaise's slippery tongue darted into his mouth and then away again, and teeth played against his lower lip, and then, as Draco gasped and shivered, Blaise licked into his mouth again, making a low mmm noise. Draco trembled even more at the sensation of Blaise's arm sliding round his back, deliberate and firm, angling him to open his mouth wider.

When Blaise drew back, Draco could barely breathe.

"That wasn't part of the bet either," he managed, and Blaise paused, then released him. Draco stumbled.

"No," Blaise agreed, "no, it wasn't. My mistake."

Draco had a feeling he'd said the wrong thing, and abruptly sat down. The ground was blessedly steady under the blanket of thick robes. His dizziness abated, and then, when he glanced up and saw Blaise silhouetted against the dulling sky, a fresh wave hit him. "Sit down," Draco said curtly, trying to sound normal. His mouth was blazing inside, and the words came out brittle.

"I don't remember sitting down being part of the bet," Blaise said, coldly.

Draco stared at him. "Right," he said. He wasn't sure how they'd gone from kissing to sniping in under a minute - it was probably Blaise's fault.

Blaise took another swig from the bottle, and wiped his mouth viciously.

Draco tried another tack. "Pass me the Cordial."

"I'm not finished."

"It's mine," Draco said, and Blaise gave him a truly poisonous look, and, holding the bottle by the neck, offered him the base. Awkwardly, Draco took it.

"Thank you," he tried. He didn't really want it, now. He set it on the grass, then looked up sharply: Blaise was walking away. "*Hey*," Draco called, managing to knock the bottle over as he sat up on his heels, and Blaise made an exasperated noise and turned round.

"*What*?"

He looked fierce and exciting and in no mood to humour anyone. Dark slugs of Gargoyle Cordial pulsed, and then trickled, into the grass, filling the still air with a smell of ancient rich earth. "I bet," Draco said, swallowing, playing the only card that he could think of, "that you can't sit down next to me in the next thirty seconds."

Blaise folded his arms. "Oh, really," he said. "And what, exactly, would you honour that wager with?"

Draco swallowed again, and looked at the sky, and then made himself meet Blaise's gaze again. "The next hour," he said. His chest was as tight as his voice. "Wherever you like. Doing what you see fit," he said, and reconciled himself to a truly hideous evening if he'd read this wrong. "Whatever that might be."

"Really."

"Yes."

Blaise made him wait twenty-seven seconds before he sat down.

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