We Are the Champions

Warnings: In plain and simple language, Draco jerks off here. If boys palming their dicks squicks you out, please leave. Also, there are allusions to male/male sex. If you don’t like men doing themselves and contemplating men doing men, do not read. Oh, if you\'re allergic to chocolate, it might be wise to give this fic a miss.
Beta: A wealth of betas. And dammit I needed them. Thanks snottygrrl, amanuensis1, and fauxwen, especially fauxwen. Greatly appreciate it.
LJ: www.livejournal.com/users/pir8fancier

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If Potter wanted a show, he’d get a show. But first…

Turning around to put his water glass on the table, Draco snuck a lightning-fast hand under the flap of his robe to determine whether or not he had leaked through his shorts to his trousers. No, thank Merlin’s dick, no! Tomorrow morning after ascertaining—pro forma, of course—that his monogrammed socks were indeed monogrammed with all the initials in the proper order, he’d send Mother an enormous bouquet of perfect white tulips with a card informing her that whatever she paid for his shorts, they were worth (underline “worth”) every (underline “every”) galleon. And could she order another twenty pair? The next time Blaise teased him about how the yearly cost of his custom-made boxers runs neck and neck with the GNP of Portugal, Blaise could just suck his cock. Twice.

The legendary Malfoy confidence restored to its normal insufferable level, Draco muttered a healing charm on his palm, placed his hands on his hips, and turned around. Slowly. To face forty-plus pair of eyes trained on him. And forty-plus bodies with their legs cantilevered out from their bodies to give their erections much needed relief. Hmmm, there seemed to be a definite correlation between which direction someone’s leg was angled and whether they were right or left-handed. But he was ambidextrous, so which way…no, no, no, back to the task at hand.

Scrunching up his brow, he shook his head ever so slightly as he surveyed the room, as if to say, “You poor pathetic tossers (for once that sobriquet absolutely appropriate), you call *that* wanking?”

While privately acknowledging (was it possible to Obliviate oneself?) that watching Potter palm himself brought Draco to within a hair’s breadth of an orgasm—as in fuckinghellthatwasthehottestthingI’veeverseen—he would rather proposition McGonagall and Dumbledore for a threesome (whips and chains obligatory) than admit it. And based on the odd angle of forty-something legs, he wasn’t the only person in the room impressed by Potter’s hand/dick coordination. However, never let it be said that Malfoys didn’t rise to a challenge. The amateurs (specifically one *very*, *very*, *gifted* amateur) could hand it over and let a pro show how it was done. By the end of his five minutes, if he didn’t have at least a third of the room popping their corks, so to speak, his name wasn’t Draco Black Cesarus Lucius Guillaume Lorenzo Jean-Franc Maximillius Klaus Frederick Tertian Dromenico Malfoy. Any memories they might have of Harry’s strong brown hand caressing and thumbing a perfectly delicious-looking dick or flicking a peaked brown nipple or nervous fingers flitting across the flat of his stomach or any other manner of sexual acrobatics on Potter’s part would be flobberworm feed compared to the performance they were about to witness.

Pureblood. Purely fucking awesome. Pure Malfoy.

One more sweep of the room and his eyes came to rest on a grim-faced Potter, which did absolutely nothing for his rather nice bottom lip. The second their eyes met, Potter brought his arms up around himself in a tight hug. Draco noted with immense satisfaction that Potter still had a full-blown, christ-that-had-to-hurt hard-on.

Well, you scarfaced pathetic git, if you think you hurt now…

“Blaise,” Draco drawled, “Can we get this show on the road? I don’t have all night.”

“Right, Draco. Vince,” Blaise asked Crabbe, “Ready?” but he kept his eyes on Draco; his little coughing fit hadn’t passed unnoticed. In code, Blaise raised his left eyebrow and turned his head one inch toward Draco in the silent question, “You okay?” Draco responded with his right eyebrow raised and a smile. “Absolutely fucking brilliant,” he signaled.

Blaise lowered his eyebrow slowly in such a manner that said, “Had me worried.”

Draco had spent the entire summer of his fifth year perfecting the eyebrow code. He’d refined it over the years, and now a room full of Slytherins could carry on a conversation without so much as uttering a single word. It was amazing how handy that turned out to be, especially since Blaise and Pansy were now an item. On most days all Pansy could manage was a croak with consonants. Of course, not everyone was as proficient as Draco, Blaise, and Pansy, but even Crabbe, severe vitamin deficiency notwithstanding, had mastered the basics. Draco’s only failure was that complete immovable lump Millicent Bulstrode. Honestly, he would have had more success with an ice cube. Assuming ice cubes had eyebrows. After spending hours demonstrating the most simple of phrases, he started to develop a very unflattering twitch whereby *his* eyebrows began to move uncontrollably in six different directions, while hers remained cemented in place. He conceded defeat. No great loss, frankly. Who *really* wanted to converse, even in eyebrow code, with Millicent Bulstrode?

Unbuttoning his robe in a trice and without even looking in his direction, Draco handed it to Goyle. Whose hand was at the ready. Ah, minions. Perhaps he’d reconsider Goyle’s exile to Mozambique. He’d put him on minion probation instead. Crabbe, too. He was in a generous mood, now that he could all but taste a Slytherin victory.

Draco stood in front of Potter in a simple button-down blue shirt, gray flannels, his beloved monogrammed socks, and dragon-hide loafers. An outfit that didn’t exactly scream out, “Fuck me into the mattress,” so much as, “Say, you want to go to the library and do Arithmancy problems for a couple of hours?” but when one is handed lemons, one must make lemonade. Besides, Draco didn’t need any manner of props, because Draco Malfoy had the most shaggable body in Hogwarts.

Not that there hadn’t been some concern on that score.

Over the years, Draco watched his peers scamper into puberty, while his own body remained skinny and shapeless. Although his voice matured into a very acceptable baritone, his shoulders didn’t fill out, nor did he develop any of the other lovely hallmarks of puberty, with the exception of pubic hair. Thank Merlin for small miracles, because at that point all speculation—fuck yourself six ways to Sunday, Nott—as to whether he’d been using glamours on his hair was put to rest, thank you very much. But that was it. Aside from his voice changing and his pubes growing in, he just got taller. At sixteen, he resembled nothing so much a mutant six-year-old with a deep voice. Many a night he lay in bed cursing the fact that he’d inherited the less-than-sublime physique of his hated Great-Uncle Roman Black.

The fates relented, however, and during the summer before his seventh year the Malfoy genes came to the fore. Skinny and thin became sleek and taut. Hours of Quidditch practice had toned his stomach to perfection, and, then, as if he needed yet another reminder of how completely fucking blessed he was to be a Malfoy, the somewhat infamous Malfoy arse appeared seemingly overnight. An arse that looked so hot in black leather that the only thing hotter was said arse out of black leather. Life didn’t get much better.

Nodding at Blaise to let him know he was ready, Draco poised an elegant finger over his left shirt cuff button. At Crabbe’s “Go!” Draco closed his eyes and whispered to himself, “Show time.”

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As he quickly unbuttoned his cuffs and the front of his shirt, Draco pondered exactly what images he should conjure up while bringing himself to the brink. Critical, really. Because he wanted to get within one stroke of coming, as full and flushed as possible. Every millimeter counted.

Shirt open, the flat of his hands resting on the blond thatch of hair that grew down the length of his stomach into his pubis. Moving them up the hard line of his ribs, he begins to palm his nipples lightly, teasing, wooing them.

He would not think about Potter. Absolutely not. Now that he’d come to his senses, that little loss of control was obviously due to some hex or potion slipped in his pumpkin juice. There was no fucking way Draco found Potter physically attractive. Who could?

(a) That scar. Enough said.
(b) The hair. A complete horror story in itself.
(c) Utter lack of even the most rudimentary fashion sense; rudimentary as in matching one’s socks before venturing out in public. And as if he needed any more ammunition on that score, the git didn’t even have the decency to wear underwear.
(d) Speaking of underwear, that waist, his hands on Potter’s waist that day in the hallway…no, no, no, don’t think about the waist.
(e) Ankles? Wonder what his ankles are like? Draco’s secret weakness (and kink). Probably knobby. Ugly. Yes, Potter would have hideous ankles.

A troll, an absolute troll. Well, not tall enough for a troll; possibly a troll who was a dwarf. The bottom line: any fantasy featuring Potter was out of the question.

Thumb and index finger come to a point, and begin pullingpinchingrolling taut nipples back forth.

There *was* that stupendous afternoon with Blaise several months ago at the end of their affair. Oh yes, figs, raspberries, a bottle of his father’s finest cognac, and melted chocolate. Draco remembered their frantic kissing, mouths wet and nut-flavored from the alcohol; Blaise’s wrenching moan as Draco poured the warm chocolate over the cleft of his arse; the chocolate coating Draco’s cheeks and chin as his tongue lapped away; and Blaise coming without even Draco touching him. Draco’s cock jumped. He’d have to unbutton his pants soon or he’d asphyxiate.

Sucking gently on one thumb while the other hand continues to squeeze and pull at his left nipple. A soft slurping sound as his thumb leaves his mouth and begins to circle round and round his right nipple, tender and aching now as it reacts to the wet and air and stimulation; his cock throbs in sympathy, silently begging: me, what about me? Other thumb slips into his mouth and lips begin to suck. Body arches into growing erection.

Surprising what excellent lube melted chocolate made. Wonderful afternoon. Draco hardened. Yes!

Unfortunately, as with all of Draco’s more brilliant plans, it backfired. And as wonderful as the afternoon had been, Draco couldn’t help but remember the aftermath. He woke up the next morning in horrible pain, his dick covered in enormous red spots that hurt *and* itched. It must have been that French chocolate; the Belgians wouldn’t even consider using such shoddy ingredients.

Assuming he could even stand the pain, God forbid he’d even think about approaching anyone for a shag. If *he’d* been propositioned by someone with a dick advertising sixth stage venereal disease, they’d hear his screams in, well, Mozambique. Even wanking was out of the question. Can you spell hell on earth? B.e.i.n.g-a-s.e.v.e.n.t.e.e.n-y.e.a.r-o.l.d-b.o.y-a.n.d-u.n.a.b.l.e-t.o-j.e.r.k-o.f.f. Blaise was similarly afflicted, although certainly better off than Draco. For two weeks Draco couldn’t wank and Blaise couldn’t sit down.

Finally, after Draco’s sexual frustration grew to such heights that he began indiscriminately hexing anyone who even so much as looked in his direction, Blaise dragged the both of them off to Madam Pomfrey. Possibly the most embarrassing thirty minutes of his life. Madam Pomfrey clearly didn’t believe their story that they’d had an allergic reaction to soap. Utter cow. “I trust that you two will be more careful about what *soaps* you use in future.” “Do you think you’re really *old* enough to be using *soap*?” “Do I need to talk to Professor Dumbledore about the fact you boys are using *soap*?” On and on it went. Only Blaise’s repeated kicks to his shins kept Draco from hexing her mouth shut. After they promised not to *bathe* again, it was all he could do not to snatch the container of salve from her hand. The final indignity: “Do you want me to administer the salve?” To this day, whenever she saw him she’d ask him if he was still *using soap*.

Utter cow with a cherry on top.

Of course, even a simple hand job had both of them recalling the regrettable chocolate-aphrodisiac-cum-lube-cum-severe-allergic-reaction episode. Thus, their affair ended amicably, with Draco handing Blaise over to Pansy with a few cryptic words about Blaise’s allergy to chocolate, it’s the size of Wales, and a couple of sure-fire healing charms for a sore throat.

To Draco’s horror, his cock began to wilt at the memory. No! He began mentally scrambling for anything that would bring his cock back to hardness; an arse came into mind, light brown. Au naturel or the remnants of a summer holiday at the seashore? Sans bathing trunks? Potter would certainly feel right at home. Suddenly, he saw his hands kneading, teasing…

While a wet thumb teases his left nipple, a sure hand unbuttons, then unzips his flannels. A quick shimmy of hips and the trousers fall to the floor. Cupping, rolling his balls though his boxers, the slick caress of the silk and the pressure of his hand brings his erection back to full force. A loud grunt in the background signals that one had fallen, forty-six to go. He sighs with relief.

Now where was he? Oh yes, pale, long, elegant fingers stroked the darker skin, which was so intoxicating his stomach curled inside out. So. Beautiful. Reaching for the cup of melted chocolate (this time the finest bittersweet Belgian chocolate, make no mistake), he raised the cup about ten inches above that beautiful arse and poured the chocolate slowly, oh so slowly, over both cheeks, in the cleft…

Shrugging off his shirt so that it hangs in the crook of his elbows, he then pulls his arms away from his body. His shirt falls to the floor with a soft shush. Off in the distance, another grunt…

It was like watching someone pour a shot of espresso into a latte. The swirl of dark brown against the lighter brown of a plump arse cheek. Holyhell, that delicious clench of his stomach again. A voice whimpered, “Draco. Fuck. Oh fuck.” Fantasy Draco stopped. He knew that voice. Who was it? All of a sudden fantasy Draco and real Draco were one and the same, and they both knew that this was Potter’s husky rasp crying out his name, crying out his pleasure, his desire.

No! No! No! No Potter!

Clearly, there must still have been traces of that hex in his system. Think. Think. Okay, Terry Boot had terrific shoulders and that thick cock…

His left hand sneaks under the waistband of his boxer shorts to wrap around himself, his body arching again into the palm of one hand, while his right hand slides in behind the fabric of his boxers to cup the curve of his arse where it meets his leg. Both hands squeeze. He arches even more, the muscles in his back stretching into the motion. The hand on his arse moves to his waistband and yanks his boxer shorts down just enough to free his cock and balls. One hand then returns to his arse, fingers just close enough to the cleft to tease. Off in the distance, he hears two moans—no, three. His hand moves up his cock and his thumb slowly pushes under the slit and…


Boot. Think Boot. Draco imagined the two of them standing naked, front to back. They were the same height, which was odd, because Draco was at least half a head taller than Boot, but hell, this was a fantasy. Draco embraced him, his mouth nuzzled Boot’s dark hair (wait, wasn’t Boot blond?), his erection pushing up against Boot’s arse. Boot was pushing back and panting in short, hot breaths, the quick in and out of Boot’s back throbbing gently against Draco’s chest. Fucking hell, Draco had never been so excited. He pulled back a little and dragged his tongue across the entire width of Boot’s back, from shoulder tip to shoulder tip. Merlin’s balls, who knew Boot tasted so good? Like vanilla. He heard himself moaning, not sure now whether he was moaning in his fantasy or moaning out loud, but who the fuck cared, because his fantasy self was sucking at the curve of where Potter’s neck and shoulder met and it was wonderful. His stomach was doing the tango, his groin was doing the mambo, and he was pushing against Potter’s arse…Fuck!

No! No! No! No Potter!

He opened his eyes to orient himself, to stop this, to fight this. Which turned out to be yet another idea gone wrong, because right in front of him stood Potter, the tight-lipped grimace gone. Once again Potter was questioning, demanding. The look on his face seemed to say that even though forty-six pairs of eyes could see the same thing, it was his for the taking. Oh goddamn him. Goddamn him. Draco hated not knowing, not being in control, not taking because he didn’t know what was being offered. And then Potter did something that truly made Draco hate him. Hate him more than he’s ever hated him. Potter ran the tip of his tongue over that luscious bottom lip, which was now shiny and somewhat swollen. Had Potter been worrying it with his teeth? An image appeared of Potter bending over him, playfully nipping Draco’s neck, shoulders, just below his navel, the inside of his thighs. Draco’s stomach and groin clenched so hard that it was all he could do to stay upright. Goddamn that bastard to hell. Draco closed his eyes again and hung his head in defeat.

The hand cupping his arse moves toward his balls. He hears more moans off in the distance; they seem much fainter than before, but he doesn’t really care who is getting off because he needs to fondle his balls or he will die. He can’t help himself and mouths, “Fuck,” as he rolls them back and forth in a sweaty palm as he brings his other hand up to his mouth. Licking his palm in broad, slow stripes so that it’s good and wet, he returns his hand to his dick and begins to stroke, fondle, stroke with a twist at the end, ohfuckyeah, just a slight twist, fondle…

He and Potter were naked on an anonymous bed. His body stood out in sharp relief, but for some reason Potter was vague in parts. Like Draco was near-sighted. And Potter was touching him, but not sexually. Inexplicably, Potter was tickling him, and Draco was laughing, giggling even. The real Draco knew that he’d never giggled in his entire life. He wouldn’t even know *how* to giggle, but somehow the fantasy Draco was doing an excellent imitation of it. “Give up, you prat?” fantasy Harry demanded. “Never. Never,” panted out fantasy Draco in between giggles. More tickling ensued, but somehow Draco turned the tables and he was tickling Potter. Potter’s throaty, deep guffaws unraveled something very deep inside Draco, and the tickling turned into gentle caresses down the length of Potter’s waist. Potter nuzzled into the curve of Draco’s body, laved Draco’s ear with a very wet tongue, and whispered, “Draco,” with an ease that suggested he said it every day of his life. What’s more, hearing Harry say his name like that spurred more unraveling, more unwinding. In fact, it wasn’t an unwinding so much as something had finally stopped. The only thing Draco could liken it to was a top that had ceased its frantic spinning, was wobbling, then did an exhausted bobbing first to one side and then the other, until it final tipped on its side, utterly spent.

The cessation of this something that had no name was such a relief that Draco almost sobbed with it. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn it felt like happiness. Harry’s name was on his lips, and he was about to answer back, to respond to Harry’s call of *his* name, when hands began to stroke his thighs, again with an ease like these hands had done this a million times before. Draco arched into these wonderful hands as they begin to stroke, fondle, stroke with a twist at the end, ohfuckyeah, just a slight twist, fondle…

Then Harry began to call his name again, and Draco turned toward it, expecting the same lovely breathy murmur that jellied Draco’s insides before…but something was wrong. No sexy murmur. No, it was insistent, like he was trying to get his attention. Not now, Potter, you git. So close, so close. Just a little…like that…like that…

“Draco! Draco, it’s time,” Harry barked. But it wasn’t Harry’s voice. It sounded like Blaise. What in the fuck was Blaise doing interrupting his fantasy? He was destroying what had been shaping up to be the wank of the century.

“Blaise,” Draco snapped open his eyes and growled, “You’d better like the weather in Africa…”

Blaise coughed and raised his eyebrows—first right, then left—to indicate they weren’t exactly alone. The understatement of the year. Draco wasn’t in bed with Harry Potter getting the hand job of the century. He was standing in a room with forty-something boys holding their crotches, he wasn’t wearing a shirt, his trousers were pooled around his ankles, and his hand was clutching his dick. In front of him stood Harry Potter, his arms still wrapped around himself, the edges of his teeth slightly red with blood as they tore into his bottom lip.