Blaise had never considered himself a man easily shaken. He had walked through life with quiet arrogance, a steady pulse, and a heart that belonged to no one. He had been a shadow, moving through the world with detachment, untouched by its chaos. And yet—here he was.
A father.
If anyone had told him years ago that he'd be sitting here, cradling a child in his arms, he would have laughed in their face. He had never wanted this. Never even thought of it. He was a man of power, of control, of dangerous secrets—fatherhood was never in the equation.
But then there was her. Ginny.
The woman who had stormed into his life and set fire to everything he thought he knew. She had always been a force of nature—his fire, his greatest temptation, his one true indulgence. But she had done something even he hadn't expected. She had given him an heir.
His son. A piece of himself, carried within her, nurtured by her, brought into this world by her. And he would never be the same. He gazed down at the tiny, sleeping form curled against his chest. His son's breaths were soft, barely there, his tiny fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as though even in sleep, he needed to hold on. A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed hard, willing himself to remain composed, but Merlin help him—he was undone. How could he love someone so much it physically hurt? He had spent his life avoiding attachments, shielding himself from the vulnerability that came with loving someone too deeply.
Love made you reckless. Love made you weak. Love gave people power over you.
And yet—here he was. Wrecked over a six-pound baby who couldn't even hold his own head up yet. He exhaled shakily, his free hand running over the soft curls on his son's head.
His son.
His.
It didn't feel real. But it was. Because Ginny had given him this. She had given him a family. She had given him purpose. She had given him a reason to wake up every morning and breathe.
His throat burned with the weight of it all. Carefully, he shifted, cradling the baby closer, inhaling his scent—something warm, something new, something his. And in that moment, he knew—he would kill for this child. He would burn the world to the ground if it meant keeping him safe. Because for the first time in his life, he had something to lose.
He had never been the type of man to need anything. He had built a life on control, on discipline, on knowing exactly how much to take and when to let go. He had prided himself on his independence, on his ability to stand alone, untethered by weakness. But this—this insatiable, clawing desperation—was something he had never expected. It was humiliating.
He needed her. Not in the poetic, romanticized way people spoke about love, but in a way that made his skin itch, in a way that made his breath uneven, in a way that felt dangerously close to addiction. He craved her presence like a dying man craved air, and it was fucking unbearable. He had spent years molding himself into the perfect picture of control, and now? Now, he was moments away from sinking to his knees, from crawling if that's what it took to have her eyes on him again.
She was his world, his fire, the center of his existence. And yet, lately, he felt like an afterthought—a shadow in his own home, left waiting on the outskirts of her attention. He understood why. He wasn't so selfish that he couldn't see the bigger picture. Their son, their perfect little Val, needed her. She was an incredible mother, the kind who gave every ounce of herself without hesitation. She nurtured, she protected, she gave endlessly. It was beautiful to watch—except when it meant there was nothing left for him.
He felt sick with it. This ugly, festering need that curled in his gut, twisting tighter with each passing day. He wanted to be patient. He wanted to be understanding. But fuck, he was drowning. Every night, she collapsed into bed exhausted, barely sparing him a glance. Every morning, she woke with Valerius in her arms, whispering sweet words that once belonged to him. And every single time, he felt himself slipping further, spiraling into something dark and poisonous.
He was toxic. He knew that. He wasn't supposed to need this much attention, wasn't supposed to burn for it like a man on fire. He had always been the one in control, the one who kept his emotions measured and carefully contained. But now? Now, he was suffocating.
He tried to be subtle at first—lingering touches, soft kisses at her temple, whispered invitations to steal a few moments alone. But she was always too tired, too distracted, too absorbed in their son. And with every rejection, no matter how unintentional, something inside him snapped a little more.
His patience thinned, his restraint waned. He found himself resenting the way she poured all her love into Valerius without sparing him the smallest fraction. He felt himself unraveling, his grip on his self-control slipping through his fingers like sand. The logical part of him knew she loved him. Knew this wasn't some intentional cruelty. But the raw, unfiltered part of him, the part starved for her touch, for her attention, for her fucking presence, didn't care about reason.
He was jealous. Jealous—of his own son. The realization made him feel like the worst kind of man, but it didn't make the feeling go away. He resented the way Val had all of her, the way she looked at their son with a love so vast it could consume the universe, the way she smiled at him with a softness that had once been his.
He hated himself for it. Truly.
But no amount of guilt could erase the fact that he wanted her. Needed her. Desperately.
If she asked, he would crawl. If she demanded, he would kneel. If she turned to him now, even for a second, he would forget his pride, his self-respect, his everything, just to be in her orbit again.
And that? That made him a terrible person.
And by now, it was painfully clear—Blaise was not a good man. Never had been. He had never pretended to be. He had never wanted to be. The world had no use for good men. Good men got walked over, used, discarded. Good men made sacrifices without ever seeing anything in return. And Blaise? Blaise was not built for that. He had spent a lifetime curating himself into something more, something better. He was cold when he needed to be, ruthless when required, and most of all—calculating.
But this? This was different. This was Ginny. This was his wife. And he was losing her.
She didn't know it, of course. She had no idea how deep the cracks ran inside him, how violently he craved her attention, how her absence in his orbit was destroying him piece by piece. And if she did know, she wouldn't see it as neglect—because it wasn't. He knew that. He wasn't a fucking idiot. He wasn't some fragile man-child whining because his wife had more important things to do. Their son needed her. She was a mother. That came first.
But fuck, did she even see him anymore?
Did she notice the way he lingered at her side, waiting for her to look at him? Did she feel the way his touches had grown desperate, lingering just a second longer than they used to? Did she realize that every time she smiled at Val, he felt like he was starving for a fraction of that warmth?
It wasn't fair. He had been patient. He had been understanding. He had held his tongue and let her take all the space she needed. But it was getting to him. Festering like an open wound.
He needed a plan.
A fucking plan.
Talking to her? Fuck no. That wasn't how things worked with them. Ginny was fierce, stubborn, and brutally honest when it suited her. But when she was distracted, when she was in her own world, she was blind to everything else. He could tell her how he felt—could sit her down and lay it all out, could explain that he was starting to go insane without her—but what would that accomplish?
She'd feel guilty.
She'd apologize, mean it, and for a day—maybe two—she'd try to divide her attention between him and Val. And then? Then things would slip back into the same cycle, because the problem wasn't a lack of love. Ginny loved him. She just wasn't seeing him right now.
So no. Talking wasn't the answer.
He needed something bigger. Something stronger. A way to force her attention back onto him, a way to make her remember that he was still here, that he existed, that he was her husband first before anything else.
He tapped his fingers against the table, his mind racing through possibilities. Flowers? Too basic. A romantic dinner? She'd appreciate it, but it wouldn't fix anything. He needed something more impactful. Something that would shake her, wake her up, remind her of the life they had before everything got so… muddled.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
He was going to have to get creative.
Ginny wouldn't come to him—not unless he made her.
And fuck, if he had to break every single one of his own rules to make it happen, then so be it.
~~~~~~
The neighbours birthday party was extravagant. Of course, it was—everything Daphne Green grass did was extravagant. The manor was bathed in golden candlelight, music hummed low through the halls, and the clink of crystal glasses filled the air as the elite of wizarding society flitted through the ballroom like well-dressed vultures.
Blaise didn't care about any of it.
He had no patience for empty conversation, no interest in the polished smiles of men who pretended to be his equals, and no tolerance for the socialites who clung to him like their last lifeline. Normally, he endured it all with his usual detached charm. But tonight?
Tonight was different.
Because tonight, Ginny barely looked at him.
She was there, of course, stunning in a deep crimson dress that hugged her body in ways that made his blood run hotter than firewhisky. Her hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, her lips painted the same sinful shade of red that had once been smeared across his jaw, his chest, his cock—but now? Now she wasn't even looking at him.
She was laughing at something Astoria had said, her attention fully occupied, her expression soft, warm—and not directed at him.
She had barely touched him all night.
The thought made something dark and vicious coil in his gut.
He clenched his jaw, rolling the tension from his shoulders, but the feeling only grew. He had been patient. He had been understanding. He knew Val took up most of her time, that motherhood had consumed her in a way that even he found himself in awe of. But fuck, was he supposed to just sit there and watch as the woman he loved forgot what he was to her?
No.
If she wasn't going to see him, then he was going to make damn sure she did.
So, as he stood at the edge of the ballroom, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes locked onto the perfect pawn for his game. Daphne Greengrass.
She was beautiful, of course—icy and untouchable, the picture of refined elegance, and most importantly? Exactly the kind of woman Ginny would notice.
With practiced ease, he slid up beside her, letting his presence linger just close enough to make her tilt her head toward him, intrigue flashing in her sharp blue eyes. "Blaise," she greeted, voice smooth, practiced.
"Daphne," he murmured, letting a smirk tug at his lips. "You look breathtaking tonight."
She arched a delicate brow. "You sound surprised."
He chuckled, low and rich. "Never."
He knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't even have to try hard. Just a touch on her arm, a slow lean closer as she spoke, letting his voice drop into something smooth, intoxicating. Daphne played along easily—of course she did.
She had always enjoyed the thrill of his attention, even if she knew better than to expect anything real from it. Once upon a time, she had been a convenient distraction, a chess piece in his carefully played social games, but nothing more. Daphne, for all her elegance, for all her perfectly curated charm, had never been able to hold his attention beyond a fleeting moment.
Not like her. Not like Ginny.
Ginny wasn't watching.
And that was a problem.
He needed to be seen. Needed to be noticed.
With a glass of whiskey in hand, he approached Daphne with the kind of smooth, effortless grace that made men envious and women pliant. She turned at the sound of his footsteps, a knowing smirk curving her lips before he had even spoken.
"Daphne, darling," he purred, his voice a deep, honeyed drawl. "You've outdone yourself. This party is breathtaking."
Her smirk widened as she lifted her champagne flute, taking a slow, deliberate sip before responding. "Thank you, babe," she replied, eyes gleaming with amusement. "You know it's hard to reach your level of extravagance, but—" she gestured vaguely at the grandeur surrounding them, "—twenty-five is twenty-five. We need to celebrate properly, don't we?"
He stepped closer, just enough that their proximity turned heads but not enough to seem overly improper. The scent of her expensive vanilla and jasmine perfume curled in the air between them, but it did nothing for him. She was beautiful, objectively so, but there was no fire there, no heat that ignited anything in him. Still, she served a purpose.
Daphne noticed the shift immediately. Her smirk deepened as she tilted her head, a single golden curl slipping over her shoulder.
"Feeling lonely in your marriage, love?" she teased, her voice laced with mischief.
Blaise chuckled, low and rich, before leaning in. His lips brushed the shell of her ear as he whispered, "It might be easier with you," his words smooth, practiced, drenched in a charm that came naturally to him. He finished with a soft, seductive Italian endearment, one meant to stroke her ego.
The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.
He hated her.
She was dull. Boring. Predictable in the worst way.
But she was also the perfect weapon.
She laughed, a light, airy sound that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh, Blaise," she cooed, placing a manicured hand on his chest, letting her fingers graze the expensive fabric of his suit. "You're always such a flirt."
She was eating it up, exactly as he'd planned.
He reached up, a bold move, and tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers lingering just long enough to imply something more.
Daphne's expression shifted—still teasing, still playful, but now tinged with interest.
Her nails dragged lightly down the sleeve of his suit, a calculated touch meant to tease. "Maybe," she murmured in flawless Italian, "you could visit me tomorrow. We could have some fun… just like old times."
His lips curled into something darkly amused. He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against the back of it.
An acknowledgment.
A challenge.
A carefully laid trap.
Daphne thought she was playing a game, but Blaise knew he was orchestrating something much bigger.
Ginny was going to see him.
The evening had drawn to an end, the glittering lights of Daphne's birthday party fading into nothingness as Blaise finally returned to Ginny's side. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around her waist and Apparated them home.
The moment their feet touched the ground, a sharp, stinging crack echoed through the night.
His head snapped to the side as pain bloomed across his cheek.
Ginny had slapped him.
Hard.
He blinked, momentarily stunned, the metallic taste of blood lingering where his teeth had grazed the inside of his cheek. His pulse jumped, but before he could even process the first hit—
SLAP.
The second blow came faster, fiercer.
His jaw clenched, his temper flaring as he turned back to face her. "What the fuck!" he snapped, his voice sharp, his patience worn thin.
Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her eyes burning with a fury he had never seen before. She looked like a goddess of wrath, her wild red hair a fiery halo around her face, her lips trembling—not with fear, but with rage.
"I am going to kill her," she seethed, her voice shaking with pure, undiluted venom. "And then I'm going to kill you."
He scoffed, rolling his shoulders as he rubbed at his throbbing jaw. "What the fuck is your problem?"
Her problem? Oh, he had the audacity to ask her that?
"YOU!" she screamed, shoving at his chest, her small hands balled into furious fists. "Flirting? Touching? Whispering in her ear like some desperate fucking schoolboy? Are you that deprived? That desperate for a shag?!"
He arched a brow, his lips curling into a lazy smirk, though his pulse was hammering in his throat. "So someone was eavesdropping," he murmured, tilting his head in mock amusement.
Ginny saw red.
"WHAT IF I WAS?! HUH?!" she bellowed, stepping into his space, her anger crackling in the air between them like a live wire. "If you want to cheat—GO AHEAD! Be my guest! Go over to that cheap, secondhand slag tomorrow and enjoy yourself, just like the old times!"
He barely had time to process the words before she lunged at him again, her hand raised to strike him a third time.
But this time, he was ready.
Faster than she could react, he caught her wrist mid-air, his grip like iron. In one swift motion, he spun her around, pinning both of her arms behind her back. Her body pressed flush against his, her back to his chest, her breaths hot and ragged as she struggled against him.
"You done?" he murmured darkly into her ear, his voice low and edged with warning.
"FUCK YOU!" she spat, thrashing against his hold, but he only tightened his grip, keeping her in place.
"Enough." His voice was sharp, commanding, and filled with barely restrained fury.
She fought against him, kicking at his legs, her breath hitching in pure frustration. "You're a bastard, Blaise! A lying, cheating, manipulative bastard!"
"And you," he growled, his grip flexing, "are being a reckless, bratty little wife who doesn't know when to listen."
"LISTEN TO WHAT? LISTEN TO YOU SWEET-TALKING THAT WHORE?!"
He exhaled sharply, tilting his head down, his lips just barely brushing against the sensitive skin of her throat. "You think I'd ever touch her? You think I'd ever want anyone but you?"
She froze for half a second, her anger clashing violently with the way his voice sent shivers down her spine.
But she was too furious, too betrayed to care. "Then what the fuck was that, Blaise?" she hissed. "You think you're clever? Think you can play these little games with me?"
His grip on her wrists tightened as he pressed her harder against him, his breathing uneven. "You think I don't know you, my love?" he whispered, his voice both infuriatingly smug and dangerously smooth. "You love this. You love the fight. You love feeling this angry, this alive. You love that I make you crazy."
She let out a ragged breath, her head tilting back slightly, but she still struggled against his hold, unwilling to surrender. "I HATE YOU RIGHT NOW," she snarled.
His laugh was low and dark, curling around her like smoke, thick with knowing. "No, baby," he whispered, his breath fanning against the shell of her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. "You don't hate me. You hate how much you need me."
And fuck—he was right.
But she would rather die than admit it.
His grip tightened, firm and possessive, his fingers digging into her waist. "You forgot for a second what I do when I'm at work," he murmured, his voice laced with something dangerous, something that sent her pulse skyrocketing. "You can't overpower me."
Her eyes flashed, her nails digging into his wrist. "Is that a threat?" she hissed.
Before she could react, his hand shot up, wrapping around her throat in a swift, dominating grip. With one sharp movement, he pressed her against the cold, hard wall, his body following close behind, caging her in.
Ginny gasped, but not in fear. Oh no, fear had nothing to do with the way her thighs clenched, the way her breath hitched as her back met the unyielding surface.
She glared up at him, fire burning in her eyes, but he could see it—the way her pupils dilated, the way her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. She wanted to fight him, wanted to push back, but her body? Her body was already betraying her.
"Apologize for being a whore," she spat.
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Oh, amore," he hummed, tilting his head as he let his fingers skim the delicate skin of her throat. "If I'm a whore, then what does that make you?"
Without warning, he grabbed the thin fabric of her dress and ripped it clean down the middle, the sound of tearing fabric cutting through the tense silence like a blade. The ruined material pooled at her feet, leaving her standing before him in nothing but her lace-trimmed knickers and sheer bra.
She didn't even flinch.
Didn't react. Didn't care.
All she wanted was to hurt him.
Her fists flew before she could think, striking against his chest, his shoulders, anything she could reach. But Blaise barely moved, barely flinched, only tightening his grip as he caught her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head.
"Desperate little whore," he murmured, dragging his nose along the length of her jaw. "Thighs already glistening, and I haven't even touched you yet."
Her breath hitched, fury bubbling beneath her skin. "Not from—"
But she couldn't finish the sentence.
Because fuck, he was right.
His dark eyes gleamed, victory laced in every ounce of his smug expression. "Oh?" he taunted. "So if I touch you right now, you won't be dripping?"
"Shut up," she growled through clenched teeth, her thighs pressing together instinctively.
"Hmm… slutty. Pathetic."
"SHUT UP."
And then he moved.
His hand left her throat, gliding down, down, slow and torturous, ghosting over the bare skin of her stomach before dipping lower.
Lower.
Lower—
And then—
"Blaise—" she choked out, her voice betraying her completely as his fingers pressed against the damp lace of her panties.
"What is it you need, my love?" he purred, his thumb rubbing teasingly over the soaked fabric, just enough to make her ache.
Her hips jerked, her body betraying her, again. "You… it's been too long…"
His dark chuckle vibrated against her throat. "Four months," he murmured, dragging his nose along the sensitive skin behind her ear. "Agonizing four months without your gorgeous cunt. Agonizing four months without your love."
"I—" she swallowed hard, her pride warring with her desperation. "Please… move your finger… I love you, please do something…"
"Oh, now you love me?" he mused, sliding his finger along the soaked fabric. "You haven't touched me. Haven't even looked at me the way you should. You neglected me, amore."
"I know," she whispered, her voice unsteady, filled with something she couldn't quite name. "I know, I know… I'm sorry, I—"
Her breath stuttered as he finally, finally pushed the lace aside and slid a single finger inside her.
"Fucking hell," he growled, his lips pressing against the shell of her ear. "You're dripping. You are a pathetic little slut, aren't you?"
Ginny let out a choked whimper, and fuck, it was humiliating how quickly her body folded for him.
"Say it," he murmured, pumping his finger slowly, torturously. "Say you're mine. Say no one else could ever touch you like this."
Her pride refused.
Her body screamed for more.
As she started to ride his fingers, rocking her hips desperately against his palm, she knew she was completely and utterly fucked. Not just because of the pleasure ripping through her like wildfire, but because of what this meant—how easily she crumbled for him, how much she needed him, how much she hated the idea of him with anyone else.
Her nails dug into his shoulders, her breathing ragged, her body chasing the high that only he could give her. It had been too long. Too long since she felt him like this, too long since she allowed herself to have him. She was angry, furious, possessive—but beneath all that, she was desperate.
"You cannot cheat on me," she panted, her voice shaking with need and fury. "You cannot look at anyone but me. You are not allowed to talk to anyone but me!"
His lips curled into a smirk, dark and victorious. "Someone is jealous," he murmured, his voice thick with amusement.
Before she could snap back, he pushed another finger inside her, stretching her further, making her gasp at the sudden fullness.
Her hands trembled against his chest, her thighs quivering. "I…." her voice faltered, her pride battling her pleasure. "Please… please one more…"
He didn't hesitate. He shoved another finger inside her, curling them perfectly, his thumb pressing against her swollen, neglected clit. His other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her still as he worked her, as he owned her body the way he always had.
"Are you jealous?" he whispered, his voice dangerously low, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. His fingers never slowed, plunging into her mercilessly, pressing into that one spot that made her legs shake.
"I AM!" she cried out, her voice raw, her hips bucking wildly against his hand. "I fucking hate her! I hate that she even thought she could have you! I hate that she—"
He silenced her with a wicked chuckle, his free hand grabbing her wrist and guiding it down between them. He forced her palm against her aching clit, trapping it there. "Then show me," he growled. "Show me how much you hate the thought of someone else touching me."
Ginny let out a strangled moan, her fingers instantly circling her own clit, her body frantic for release.
"What should I do with her?" he murmured, his tone deceptively casual, but his fingers told a different story—relentless, punishing, consuming.
Her back arched violently, her head thrown back against the wall, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. "Kill her!" she choked out, completely lost in the haze of jealousy and pleasure. "She can't look at you!"
He smirked, his lips brushing against her jaw, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "Already done, amore."
And with that promise, he quickened his fingers, his movements becoming brutal. He didn't slow down, didn't let up, pushing her further and further until the tension snapped—until her entire body shattered around him.
A strangled sob tore from her lips as pleasure exploded through her, her vision going white, her body convulsing violently against him. She could feel herself unraveling, falling apart in his hands, drowning in the possessive, consuming love that bound them together.
And he fucking loved it.
His fingers didn't still until she was completely spent, until her body was nothing but a trembling, wrecked mess in his arms.
He held her through it, pressing kisses along her damp skin, whispering words in Italian, low and soothing. "Mia anima…" he murmured against her ear, his voice soft now, reverent. "You're mine. Always mine."
Ginny, still dazed, her body trembling in the aftermath of her release, let out a shuddering breath. Her forehead pressed into the crook of his neck, his scent—dark spices, musk, and something uniquely him—grounding her. She wasn't sure if she wanted to slap him or kiss him. Maybe both. Maybe hard.
"Yours," she whispered hoarsely, her voice still wrecked from the intensity of it all. "
She felt him smirk against her skin, but before he could say something cocky, she gripped the back of his head, yanking him down to face her. "You cannot pull another stunt like that again!"
His dark eyes glimmered with something dangerous, something amused. "I… felt neglected," he admitted, his voice lower now, raw.
Ginny scoffed, her nails digging into his shoulder. "You're a sick fuck. All you had to do was ask."
"I should not have to ask for my wife's attention," he murmured, his lips brushing against her jaw. "I should not have to beg for a kiss, for your touch, for your time."
Her stomach twisted, a lump forming in her throat. "I was waiting for you," she confessed, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. "To maybe… make a move."
His eyes darkened further. "And you couldn't say it?"
She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. "I… no. I should not have to ask my own husband for an orgasm. For a kiss. For affection."
He exhaled sharply, like he was trying to steady himself, like her words hit something deep inside him. Without another second of hesitation, he grabbed her, hauling her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing. A startled gasp left her lips, but before she could protest, the world spun, and suddenly they were not in the dimly lit hallway anymore.
They were in their bedroom.
She barely had time to take a breath before his lips crashed against hers, claiming her, devouring her. He kissed her like he was making up for every second of distance between them, like he was making up for months of neglect, of unspoken words and silent frustrations.
He pulled back just enough to whisper against her lips, "Does my wife want a kiss?"
She nodded, breathless, and he kissed her again, deeper this time, his hands gripping her waist, grounding her, owning her.
"Does my wife need another orgasm?" he murmured against her mouth.
She nodded again, but this time he didn't give in so easily. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, down her neck, over the curves of her body. "Use your words, baby girl," he coaxed, his voice thick with lust and control.
"Yes," she gasped, her body arching into him, needy and desperate. "Please. Ever since you ate me out months ago, all I wanted was an orgasm."
A wicked smirk curled at his lips, his grip tightening on her hips. "Ever since I saw you would be my wife, all I wanted was to spread your thighs and ruin you."
She let out a breathless, almost delirious laugh. "There's something really wrong with your head."
"There's something really fucking wrong with me," he agreed darkly, flipping her onto the bed like she was his to maneuver, his to control.
His strong hands grabbed her thighs, pulling them apart before draping them over his shoulders. The sheer dominance in his touch sent a sharp pulse of heat through her, making her ache.
"I should take my time with you," he murmured, teasing her entrance with the thick head of his cock. "I should be gentle."
"Don't you fucking dare be gentle," she snapped, glaring up at him. "It's perfect. I need it, Blaise. I need you."
A guttural sound rumbled in his chest, primal and possessive, before he thrust into her—slow but deep, filling her completely, stretching her in a way that made her whimper.
"Fucking hell," he growled, his head falling forward for a moment. "You're even fucking tighter than before."
Her nails raked down his back, her breath coming out in short, sharp pants. "You're even fucking bigger than before."
His eyes snapped to hers, dark and feral. With a devilish grin, he rolled his hips, grinding into her, pulling out just enough to make her whine before slamming back in. He felt her clench around him, her legs tightening over his shoulders.
"What was that, princess?" he taunted, his hands sliding up her stomach before pinching one of her nipples, making her jolt.
"It doesn't hurt," she breathed, almost pleading. "Please… please fuck me properly."
He groaned, his restraint snapping entirely. "Oh, my angel needs to be ruined, doesn't she?"
And fuck, he obeyed.
He set a brutal pace, pounding into her with deep, powerful thrusts that sent waves of pleasure rolling through her, that made her scream. Every stroke hit just right, dragging against that spot that made her toes curl and her hands clutch the sheets.
"Gods, Blaise—" she gasped, her body arching, her nails digging into his biceps as she begged for more.
"That's it, baby," he groaned, gripping her hips so hard she was sure she'd have bruises tomorrow. "Take it. Take what I give you."
"More—" she whimpered. "Faster, harder, please—"
"Fucking hell," he hissed, gripping her throat with one hand while the other smacked against her clit, making her body jolt. "Needy little thing. You love this, don't you? Love knowing no one else will ever fuck you like this?"
"Yes—yes—yes—" she sobbed, her pleasure building to something cataclysmic.
"Say it," he demanded. "Say who fucking owns you."
"You do," she gasped, her vision going hazy.
His thrusts grew even rougher, even deeper. "That's my good girl," he praised, his fingers tightening around her throat just enough to make her dizzy with pleasure. "Now come for me."
She shattered.
Her entire body convulsed, her orgasm ripping through her like a fucking storm, her vision going white as she screamed his name. He fucked her through it, dragging it out, making it last until she was shaking violently beneath him.
And then, with a low, almost animalistic growl, he buried himself to the hilt and came deep inside her, his body shuddering against hers, his grip still iron-tight.
For a long moment, neither of them moved, their heavy breathing the only sound in the room.
Finally, as she started to regain herself, she exhaled shakily, her fingers brushing along his jaw. "You're mine, too," she whispered, her voice raw but certain.
He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering there for a long time. "Always," he murmured, his hold on her tightening as if he'd never let her go.
And in that moment, Ginny knew—no matter how much they fought, no matter how much they hurt each other, no matter how much they burned—they would always, always find their way back.
~~~~~~
The weight of his failures pressed down on Draco like an avalanche, suffocating and inescapable. He had lost her—Hermione, the one person who had seen him at his worst and still believed in him. But belief only stretched so far, and he had pushed her past the breaking point. Now, all he had left was an empty penthouse, a bottle of whiskey he no longer wanted, and a desperation so thick it nearly choked him.
Summoning what little resolve remained, he forced himself toward the fireplace. His hands trembled as he reached for the Floo powder, hovering for a long moment over the flames. It was pathetic, really—how much hesitation lived in his bones, how much shame coiled in his stomach like poison.
Within the hour, Theo and Blaise arrived, both stepping into his penthouse with an expression that mirrored each other—concern, curiosity, and the unmistakable wariness of men who had witnessed Draco Malfoy in ruins before. They were used to this—the self-destruction, the slow spiral, the anger that burned itself out only to be replaced by a hollow nothingness. But this time, something was different. This time, Draco wasn't drinking himself into oblivion or punching walls to feel something. This time, he had called them. That alone was enough to make them pay attention.
Theo was the first to speak, his sharp gaze scanning the wreckage of Draco's study—the overturned glass, the scattered papers, the dim, suffocating atmosphere of a man barely holding himself together. "You look like absolute hell," he said bluntly, stepping inside as if he owned the place. "What's going on?"
Blaise followed, his eyes flicking from the untouched bottle of whiskey to Draco's rigid stance. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Please tell me this isn't just another one of your brooding episodes," he muttered. "Because if we came all the way here just to watch you stare at walls and sulk, I'm going to throw you off the balcony."
He let out a dry, humorless laugh. "As tempting as that sounds, I actually need help."
Something in his voice made both men still. This wasn't just regret. This wasn't just a moment of weakness. This was something deeper—something more desperate.
Theo crossed his arms, his voice dropping in volume but not intensity. "What happened?"
Draco exhaled, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "She left me." The words felt like razors in his throat. "Hermione—she left. Three weeks ago. I haven't heard from her since."
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Blaise exchanged a glance with Theo, the weight of the confession sinking in.
"Well," Blaise said finally, his voice devoid of its usual lazy amusement, "congratulations, Malfoy. You managed to completely fuck things up."
Draco flinched, but he didn't argue. He had no right to.
Theo sighed, rubbing his jaw. "What did you do?"
Draco shook his head. "That's the thing, I don't even know when it happened. I didn't see it coming. I didn't realize—" His voice cracked, frustration bleeding through the exhaustion. "I was so wrapped up in my own goddamn head, in my own fucking damage, that I didn't see I was ruining everything."
Blaise exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Draco, you are the smartest idiot I have ever met. You're telling me she just woke up one day and decided to leave? No warning? No signs?"
"She was slipping away," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "I just didn't realize how much until she was already gone."
Theo studied him for a long moment before speaking, his voice softer but still carrying the weight of truth. "Then let me ask you this: are you calling us because you miss her, or because you finally realize you need to change?"
The question hit Draco like a gut punch.
Because that was the real issue, wasn't it? He hadn't just lost Hermione—he had lost himself in the process. He had become the worst version of himself, a man even he couldn't stand to look at in the mirror.
"I don't want to be this person anymore," he admitted, his voice raw. "I don't want to keep falling back into the same patterns. I don't want to keep losing the people who matter because I can't fucking deal with my own shit." He lifted his head, locking eyes with both of them. "I need to fix this. I need help."
Theo's expression softened, and for once, he didn't have some cutting remark or sarcastic quip ready. Instead, he nodded. "Good. Admitting it's the first step."
Blaise let out a deep breath. "We'll help you, but this won't be easy. You can't just sit around and sulk and expect things to magically fix themselves. You're going to have to put in the work."
Draco nodded, the weight of his own mistakes pressing heavily on his chest. "I know," he said. "But I'm ready. Whatever it takes."
Theo clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once. "Alright, then. First things first: no more whiskey. No more self-pity. We come up with a plan, and you stick to it."
Blaise smirked, though there was warmth behind it. "And if you slip up, I will personally drag your sorry arse out of whatever pit you try to crawl into."
Draco let out a small, exhausted laugh. "I'll hold you to that."
The three of them stood there for a long moment, the gravity of the situation settling in. This was the beginning of something difficult, something painful—but also something necessary. Draco didn't know if he could fix things with Hermione, but he knew one thing for certain: he had to fix himself first.
And for the first time in a long time, he believed he could.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Blaise let out a slow, deliberate breath. Then he chuckled, low and humorless. "You've really done it this time, haven't you?"
Draco flinched, but he said nothing.
Theo straightened, his eyes narrowing with something between disappointment and fury. "Draco," he said, his voice slow and measured, "do you have any fucking idea what you've done?"
Draco lifted his head slightly, but before he could speak, Theo was on him.
"No, don't look at me like that, don't even try to fucking defend yourself," Theo snapped, his usual cool demeanor cracking as he took a step forward. "You think this is some kind of minor inconvenience? You think this is just a temporary setback? You destroyed her. And now, you're sitting here, moping like a goddamned child because you don't know how to fix it?"
Draco swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "I—"
"You what?" Theo cut him off viciously. "You miss her? You regret it? Too fucking bad. You didn't just mess up, Draco. You broke her. You ruined something good. Something real. And for what? Because it was easier to push her away than deal with your own goddamn emotions? Because instead of being a man, instead of facing your issues, you let yourself spiral until the only thing left in your life was the wreckage you created?"
Draco's breath was unsteady, his chest rising and falling too quickly. He had expected Theo to be angry—he should be angry—but the sheer disgust in his voice made Draco feel like he had been physically struck.
Blaise, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke. "You know," he mused, his voice deceptively casual, "I've seen you fuck up a lot, mate. Hell, it's practically a sport at this point. But this? This is a new fucking low."
Draco's hands curled into fists. "I know I fucked up," he gritted out.
"Do you?" Blaise shot back, his voice sharp. "Because I don't think you do. You called us here, what, to have a little intervention? To help you clean up the mess? That's not how this works, Malfoy. You don't get to cry about it now. You don't get to decide when it's time to make things better. She does. And after what you've put her through, after everything, what makes you think she'll ever want to see your face again?"
Draco felt something inside him crack.
"That's what I'm trying to figure out," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't—I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to make things right. I don't even know where to start."
Theo exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temples as if trying to suppress the urge to strangle him. "First of all," he said, voice tight, "this isn't about Hermione. Not yet. This is about you getting your shit together. Because right now, you're a fucking disaster. And if you think some half-assed apology or some grand romantic gesture is going to fix things, you're out of your goddamned mind."
Blaise nodded, his expression grim. "If you want to make things right, you start by fixing yourself. Not for her. For you. Because right now? You're a fucking joke."
Draco bristled, his pride flaring. "You think I don't know that?" he snapped.
Theo laughed, but there was no humor in it. "No, Draco, I don't think you know that. Because if you did, you wouldn't have let it get this bad in the first place."
Draco clenched his jaw so tightly it ached. "I just—" He let out a ragged breath, his hands shaking as he gripped the edge of the table. "I just want to fix it."
"You don't fix this," Blaise said coldly. "You earn your way back from it. If you even can."
Theo crossed his arms again, staring down at him with something that almost looked like pity. "You don't get to decide when she forgives you, Draco. You don't get to rush this. You don't get to dictate how long she needs, or if she'll ever come back."
Draco pressed his palms into his eyes, his head pounding. "I know," he muttered.
"No," Theo said simply. "You don't."
Draco dropped his hands, looking up at them, his face drawn and exhausted. "What do I do?"
Blaise scoffed. "You really want to know?"
Draco nodded.
"Then listen closely," Theo said, his voice dead serious. "You clean up your goddamn life. You stop wallowing. You stop drinking yourself into oblivion. You get help. You work through your shit, and you do it for you, not because you think it'll get you Hermione back."
"And here's the kicker," Blaise added, his smirk cruel. "You do all of that, and you still might never see her again."
Draco flinched, but Blaise wasn't finished.
"If you really love her, you'll do it anyway. Because you owe her that. You owe yourself that." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "And if you're not willing to do the work? Then you never fucking deserved her in the first place."
Draco swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. He had never felt so small, so ashamed, and yet, for the first time in a long time, he felt something else too.
Resolve.
"Okay," he said hoarsely. "I'll do it."
Theo gave a slow nod. "Then prove it."
Blaise studied him for a long moment before shaking his head. "God help you, Malfoy. Because this is going to be the hardest thing you've ever done."
Draco exhaled, the weight of their words pressing into his ribs. He had no illusions—this wasn't going to be easy. This wasn't going to be quick.
But he would do it.
Because for the first time in his life, he had to.
~~~~~~
Blaise stepped through the front door, the weight of the evening still pressing against his shoulders. The dim glow of the lamps cast long shadows along the walls, and the warmth of home was a stark contrast to the suffocating tension he had left behind at Draco's. He exhaled deeply, rolling his neck to ease the tension coiled in his muscles.
From the nursery, he heard the soft, soothing sound of Ginny's voice. She was singing—a quiet, lilting tune that she had likely sung to Val hundreds of times before. The sound was a balm against the chaos that had consumed the rest of his night. He followed it, stepping into the doorway to find her sitting in the rocking chair, Val curled against her chest, already slipping into sleep.
She glanced up when she noticed him, her hazel eyes flickering with curiosity. "What happened?" she asked quietly, her voice gentle so as not to disturb their son. "Did you go to work?"
Blaise let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Worse," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Had to rip a new one into the spoiled brat."
Ginny raised an eyebrow, amusement flashing briefly in her gaze. "Pansy?"
"Gods, no," he scoffed. "Malfoy."
Her expression immediately shifted, her lips pressing into a thin line as she adjusted Val in her arms. "Well…" she said slowly, treading carefully.
Blaise didn't sugarcoat it. "Hermione left him."
A beat of silence.
Ginny blinked, then snorted. "Good for her."
He smirked at her reaction, though it quickly faded. He knew this was a delicate subject, one they had both avoided for far too long. "Baby," he said carefully, his voice softer now, "you still don't want to talk to her?"
Ginny stiffened, shifting Val slightly before standing to place him in his crib. She tucked him in with careful, practiced movements, but Blaise didn't miss the tension in her shoulders.
She hesitated. "I don't know what to say," she admitted finally, her voice quieter now, laced with something she refused to name.
Blaise moved behind her, resting a hand on the small of her back. "You do," he countered gently. "What are you afraid of?"
Her body went rigid. Slowly, she turned to face him, her eyes flashing with something sharp and unresolved. "I'm not going to apologise," she snapped, her voice low but firm. "She knew what was going to happen to my brother. She stood beside me while I watched it happen. She—" Ginny's breath hitched, her chest rising and falling unevenly. "I was right there when she almost died, Blaise. I—I wiped her fucking ass—"
"Ginny," he murmured, but she wasn't finished.
"No!" Her voice cracked, raw with pent-up emotions. "I changed her diaper, I bathed her, I took care of her like she was my own damn sister—and she chose to keep the truth from me."
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms so hard he worried she might draw blood.
"She betrayed me," she whispered, her voice shaking with something far worse than anger—pain.
Blaise studied her carefully, watching the way her chest heaved, the way she was trembling, not with fury, but with grief. He knew this wasn't just about Hermione's deception. This was about loss—the kind that lingered, that festered, that built up like a dam ready to burst.
He reached for her, pulling her gently against him. She didn't resist, but she didn't melt into him either. She was still rigid, still fighting against something inside herself.
"Gin," he murmured into her hair, his arms wrapping tightly around her. "It's okay to be hurt."
She let out a shuddering breath against his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "I don't know how to forgive her," she admitted, barely above a whisper. "I don't know if I can."
Blaise pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his grip tightening. "Then don't," he said simply. "Not yet. Not until you're ready."
She let out a soft, broken laugh, pulling back just enough to look up at him. "That easy, huh?"
"Nothing about this is easy, baby," he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "But you don't have to force yourself to forgive her if you're not ready. You don't owe her that."
Ginny exhaled slowly, the fire in her eyes dimming just slightly. "And if I never forgive her?"
His expression remained unreadable for a moment before he answered, his voice steady. "Then you don't," he said simply. "But don't make that decision out of anger. Make it when you know, deep down, that it's what you really want."
She studied him, searching his face for something, and whatever she found there must have been enough because, after a long moment, she sighed and leaned back into his arms.
"I hate that you're the rational one," she muttered.
He smirked, a wry, knowing tilt of his lips as he brushed his fingers along the curve of her jaw. "Well, one of us has to be," he murmured, voice dripping with amusement, though his eyes held something heavier—something unspoken, lingering just beneath the surface.
But the humor faded as his gaze darkened, something raw flickering across his face. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head as if trying to loosen the weight of the words forming in his throat. "I could never ask for your forgiveness," he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "I'm not expecting you to forgive me. Ever."
Ginny didn't hesitate. Her response was immediate, firm, unwavering. "I won't," she said, her hazel eyes locked onto his, daring him to argue. "You know that."
He swallowed, his grip on her waist tightening just slightly before loosening again. "You can leave me anytime you want," he said, his voice controlled but edged with something dangerously close to vulnerability. "You know that, right? You should leave me."
She stared at him, her lips parting slightly, as if considering his words—but then, she shook her head. "I don't want to."
His jaw tensed. "Why?" The question was barely a whisper, yet it carried the weight of every insecurity, every shadowed thought he had tried to drown in arrogance and control.
She let out a small breath, tilting her head slightly as she studied him, as if really seeing him in that moment—the man beneath the layers of cruelty, of sin, of the carefully constructed walls he had built to keep himself from feeling too much. And then she gave him the only answer she had, the only one that had ever made sense, no matter how twisted it was.
"Something's wrong with me," she whispered, her fingers sliding up his chest, over the rapid beat of his heart. "I just love you. That's the answer."
Blaise's breath caught for the briefest second, something unreadable flashing across his face before he let out a slow, humorless chuckle. "Thank you," he murmured, pressing his forehead against hers, his fingers tangling in her hair. "For loving me."
A long silence stretched between them, warm and heavy, until Ginny finally spoke again, her voice softer now, laced with something that felt almost distant.
"I knew something was wrong with Ron," she admitted, her nails tracing absentminded patterns along his forearm. "He was always the odd one. Not Percy. Him." She hesitated, as if weighing the weight of the memories pressing against the edges of her mind. "There was something dark in him. Like he was walking side by side with the Devil, even when he was smiling."
His entire body stiffened. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides as he forced himself to remain still, to listen, though every muscle in his body was coiled tight with tension. "He abused every woman in his life," he said, his voice controlled, but barely. "Did he ever…" He inhaled sharply, his hands gripping her waist. "Did he ever do anything to you?" His breath turned sharp, ragged. "Ginny, I swear to God, if you tell me he ever touched you—"
"Amore," she cut him off, pressing a hand against his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing beneath her fingertips. "Please calm down."
His nostrils flared, his grip tightening, as if bracing himself for an answer he wasn't ready to hear.
"He was…" She hesitated, her brows knitting together, searching for the right words. "He was weird. That's what I remember." Her lips pressed together, and for a moment, she looked almost lost in thought, as if sifting through memories she had long since buried. "But I loved him. He was my brother." The admission felt hollow, almost rehearsed, like she had spent years convincing herself of it.
He exhaled sharply, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, grounding himself in her warmth. He didn't believe in God, but right now, he was thanking every deity in existence that she wasn't about to say the words that would push him over the edge.
But still, he wasn't satisfied.
"Weird how?" he pressed, his voice still tight, still barely controlled.
Ginny bit her lip, her eyes flickering away for a moment before she sighed. "He… looked at people differently. Women, especially." She hesitated, her fingers twitching against his skin. "Like they were something to be owned. Controlled." A shudder ran through her, but she quickly shook it off. "But he never laid a hand on me. He knew better."
His jaw clenched, but he didn't argue.
He had to believe her.
Because if he didn't, if he even suspected otherwise—
He closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to breathe.
"You should have told me you felt that way about him," he murmured, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles along the back of her neck.
She let out a humorless laugh. "Would it have changed anything?" she asked, arching a brow. "You still would've done what you did."
His smirk was lazy, indulgent, as he leaned in and pressed a slow, lingering kiss against her temple. The warmth of his lips contrasted with the ice in his words, a contradiction she had long since stopped questioning. "True," he admitted with an eerie sort of satisfaction. "But I would've enjoyed it a lot more."
Ginny let out a breathy, humorless laugh, her fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt as she pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. The dim lighting of their bedroom cast shadows across his face, making the sharp lines of his cheekbones even more pronounced. His dark eyes, always unreadable, held a glint of something wicked—something dangerous. Something hers.
"You are truly a psychopath," she murmured, her voice neither accusation nor compliment, but something suspended in the space between.
His smirk widened just slightly, a slow, knowing thing that sent an unspoken chill down her spine. "I'm just fucked up, amore," he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, his fingers dragging deliberately against her skin as if savoring the touch. "But when my time comes to meet my creator—" his voice dipped lower, something almost reverent beneath the mockery, "—I'll be ready for the consequences."
She tilted her head slightly, as if considering his words, as if weighing the depths of his conviction. And then, without hesitation, she whispered, "So am I."
The air in the room seemed to shift, thickening with the weight of her admission. The words weren't spoken in defiance, nor in resignation, but in certainty. It wasn't a dramatic declaration, wasn't some performative act meant to impress or unsettle him. It was simply the truth.
And the worst part?
He believed her.
His smirk faltered, just slightly, just for a moment, before he let out a slow, exhaled laugh, his head tilting as he studied her—really studied her.
He had always known she was different. That her love for him wasn't the kind that came with conditions or boundaries. She had seen him at his most depraved, had witnessed firsthand the blood on his hands, the cruelty he was capable of, and yet—she stayed. She chose him, again and again, even when he gave her every reason not to.
And now?
Now she sat before him, eyes unwavering, spine straight, telling him she was just as willing to meet the fire as he was.
It was both terrifying and thrilling.
"You don't have to be," he murmured, his voice almost too soft, too careful. A rare moment of hesitation, a flicker of something dangerously close to concern.
Her lips quirked into something between a smirk and a sad smile, her fingers trailing absentmindedly along the sharp line of his jaw. "Neither do you," she shot back, raising a brow. "But here we are."
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the tension between them electric.
Here they were, indeed.
Two people with no business loving each other the way they did. Two people who had long since accepted that love, for them, was never going to be gentle. Never going to be kind.
But it was theirs.
Blaise exhaled sharply, his grip tightening at her waist as he pulled her flush against him. "We're both going to hell, cara mia," he muttered against her skin, his voice rough, worn.
She only smiled, tilting her head to whisper against his lips, "At least we won't be alone."