Prise de Fer

Prise de Fer*

If Blaise were the type, he'd freely admit that he had no one to blame for his current situation but himself.

However, Blaise was not the type to admit to any sort of culpability. In fact, if one were to ask him, he would say without a moment's hesitation that he was in said predicament because Draco had cheated. Draco being Draco, this was entirely possible. Probable, even.

But Blaise was not about to open his mouth and rile up that particular vipers' nest. Especially not when the aforementioned Malfoy was straddling his chest and holding the extraordinarily sharp blade of a 300 year-old rapier to his throat. Blaise mused that it probably had to be charmed in some way to keep it so honed. He felt his suspicions were validated as the keen edge of the weapon was pressed just a touch harder against his neck and it burned like ice.

He knew without seeing that blood had been drawn. Not first blood, no. That had happened fifteen minutes and one silk shirt ago. However, with Draco poised above him, a pale predator with quicksilver eyes flashing, Blaise did not, in any uncertain terms, trust his housemate to not merrily slit his throat.

Draco shifted slightly above him and Blaise, voice remaining infuriatingly calm only due to years of practice, said, "Are you quite finished?"

Draco pressed down harder and panted, "Do you yield?"

Do I yield?

Blaise was torn between incredulity, pride, and that most prevalent of Slytherin characteristics: self-preservation. Did he yield?

Really. What kind of stupid question was that?

With his own weapon lying out of arm's reach and his neck one wrong move away from being irreparably damaged, his options were quite obviously limited. Any other person would probably do the sane thing and yield with nary a second thought.

But Blaise was having second, third, tenth thoughts. He was positively gorging himself on the myriad of mental morsels. Never had there been a Zabini born who let himself be limited by unpleasant circumstances and Blaise was not about to be the first.

He must have taken too long to answer because Draco asked again, voice taking on a dangerous edge, "Do you yield, Zabini?"

It's true that Blaise was without a blade--but he was by no means unarmed. With the barest hint of a smile, he utilized his weapon of choice when it came to dealing with difficult situations.

Slowly, carefully, so as not to get himself prematurely killed in an altogether messy fashion, Blaise lifted a hand to press against Draco's sweat-slicked chest, just above his pounding heart. Then, letting his fingers trail a lazy, teasing course down the blond boy's abdomen, Blaise murmured, "Do you wish me to yield?"

A fine shiver chased through the boy above him and Blaise felt an answering thrum of heady satisfaction in his own body. For he knew that, while Draco currently had the power, he himself had all the control.

And when tongue replaced blade at his throat, he thought it all worked out to a brilliantly successful stalemate.