We Are the Champions

Author:pir8fancier
Title: Hell in a Handbasket
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R-ish for language, kittens. Foul use of language
Warning: Filth. This is filth. Champions-style filth. The "f" word is used no less than 29 times and the "c" word three times. If swearing bothers you, move on by. Oh, and it's slash. But you knew that. :D
Word Count: 3,965
Status: 6/1 million
Disclaimer: For fun, not profit.
Betas: alliekatga, lizzie_omalle, confusedkayt, and lexique. Muchas smoochas. It's a hell of a lot better for your efforts, and I thank you.
Author's Notes: I'd like to note that although I am a total pagan religion-wise, I lower-case all classic Christian terms because they are often used as expletives, and I know that a number of you who read this site are, in fact, practicing Christians. I know that it means something to you, and it doesn't mean anything to the characters, so I like to make a differentiation.

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As Draco came back to earth, he noticed he didn't have the energy to open his eyes, and his knees and ankles had taken a vacation to Africa. They just didn't exist. The only thing keeping him upright were two strong, warm hands pressing against the small of his back, plus the grip he had on the shoulders of the boy with the warm hands.

But who the fuck cared? Draco could lose a few body parts right now and never notice. Comme ci, comme ca. Knots you are so my bitch. Because this was fucking bliss.

Right then and there he decided that he was done sticking his dick in girls. Done. Boring fucks, all of them. Nothing could be better than this. His body, still twitching a little from one motherfucker of an orgasm, was plastered against a warm male body slightly off-center so that their hips bones nestled against each other. So fucking perfect. Like hand in glove. And christ, the planes of their chests met each other, no breasts in the way, they were so close, their cocks now soft and sticky from come, squished together against the flat of their stomachs. Yeah, fucking-me-twice bliss. He sighed and snuggled even closer.

One hand left his back and began carding fingers through his hair--oh yeah, sweet, don't stop--methodically brushing damp tendrils of hair away from his sweaty forehead. He moved slightly into the hand to show his approval. His cock, randy bastard, jerked slightly to indicate new interest and the corresponding cock jerked, too, and could round two be far behind?

"Round two, round two," begged his cock. Oh yeah. But this time he'd suck that cock, now thrusting enthusiastically against his stomach. Not that the handjob didn't make him come his brains out, but his mouth ached, ached with the desire to do something, something... And just as he was about to lower his head to suck on a collarbone, the other boy whispered, "Draco," and nuzzled his head against Draco's own, his hand cupping the back of Draco's head in a very proprietary but gentle gesture.

It was only then that Draco realized it wasn't just any sinewy, wirey, gorgeous-arsed boy rubbing his hardening cock against Draco's hardening cock.

Fuck everyone in the entire castle...No, fuck all of Britain. Heads were going to roll, people were goddamned Apparating to Africa within the hour, license or no license. Their body parts could splinch themselves over Spain, Portugal, and fucking Italy for all he cared, because that throaty, husky whisper belonged to just one person.

Harry Potter.

Shit! He had Potter come all over his stomach! His stomach. And his come was all over Potter's stomach and their come had co-mingled and was now PotterMalfoycome, no, MalfoyPottercome, and he thought he was going to be sick.

"No!" he shouted and wrenched himself away from Potter.

This was a rather stupid move as moves went, because with his pants and boxers still bunched around his ankles, he kerplunked flat on his arse. Propped up on his elbows and splayed out like some Christmas goose about to be stuffed, he knew he looked supremely inelegant. And although elegance wasn't on his morning list, because, well, some things were so innate that they didn't need to be on the list, like breathing and constant sneering, the absence of elegance, or, worse, the appearance of inelegance was yet another indignity to be piled on that now-tower of indignities. Draco conceded that for anyone else it would have been impossible to be elegant when your arch enemy's come was matting your stomach hair. But he was a Malfoy. If anyone could pull it off, it would be him. However, maintaining any semblance of elegance splayed out on the floor with arch-enemy-come-matted stomach hair, having been tripped by the clothes you couldn't be arsed to remove because you were so fucking horny, was beyond even his abilities.

Bloody fucking hell.

"Malfoy, do you want help up?"

Draco closed his eyes.

He started counting to ten.

Once he'd reached ten he'd open them, fully expecting to find himself a victim of an alcohol-induced fit of temporary insanity. His dick would not be twitching with glee, nor would he smell like he'd been mucking about in a barn with animals. No. He'd open his eyes to find himself most happily in his bedroom on his bed, one hand clutching an empty bottle of his father's finest cognac, the other wrapped around a nearly over-flowing vial of hangover potion, and an empty five-pound box of chocolates at his side, his chest littered with those little brown crinkly paper liners used to protect chocolates from one another.

Were these little brown paper thingees necessary? Were they chocolate condoms? Without them, did chocolates shag each other to make more chocolates? With his current run of bad luck, all those vile raspberry creams--when he was Minister he'd ban raspberry creams from all of Britain--would be the randiest ones and they'd stick it to all the caramels, and he’d end up with forty raspberry creams, blech!, and five caramels.

Surely his ten seconds were up; he could now open his eyes.

Hmmmm, it didn't feel like a nice comfy mattress underneath his arse. It felt like the cold stone floor of a tenth-century castle--the same floor he'd crashed onto fifteen seconds earlier. Or it would if his arse hadn't gone completely numb, because stone floors in tenth-century castles gave new meaning to the phrase “when hell freezes over.”

Better play it safe. He opened one eye.

Did he see a silk green bed curtain? Did he spy a poster of his four-poster? Did he catch a glimpse of himself in his five-meter by ten-meter mirror?

Of course. Fucking. Not.

Potter stood in front of him, extending some sort of appendage; he only caught a glimpse. His attention was elsewhere. Courtesy of his fleeting but enthusiastic thrusting against Draco’s stomach, Potter had a beautiful new hard-on. At mouth level. Draco’s mouth level, to be exact. His cock gave a roar of approval and jumped to attention, crowing in a traitorous hallelujah that he'd given up girls because who'd want to eat pussy when you could suck dick? “This dick! This dick!” begged his own cock.

He shook his head and closed his eye.

"Don't be an arse. Bet that floor's colder than fuck. Here, take my hand."

Right. Take his hand. Pay no attention to that cock four inches from your mouth, just reach around...For the first time, he wondered if Blaise’s constant bleating about him being insane could be true.

Because only a completely bat-shit insane Draco Malfoy would wank off with Harry Potter, then proceed to nestle into Potter’s body with some pathetic post-coital purr, then beg for more gratuitous head petting like some goddamn poncy housecat (can cats be ponces? Hmmmm?), rut against Potter’s stomach, their come mashing together even more so that they were, like, completely and totally mixed, and then, in a final act of mind-blowing lunacy (no pun intended), blow Potter.

He was on the verge of saying fuck it, this close to grabbing Potter and giving him a blowjob that would suck black off a cauldron, but thank god, the near genius part of him was still functioning, even if his cock had become Benedick Arnold. Because Potter had clearly hexed him when he conjured that cleaning charm. And even though his cock was sorely miffed at this epiphany, the rest of Draco nearly sobbed with relief. It wasn’t him. It was some diabolical charm that those Gryffindors devised. They probably handed it down from generation to generation. Draco was so sick of everyone thinking these Gryffindors were nice people who played fair. Utter cretins. A secret charm nobody knew about. Selfish cunning bastards, not sharing that with everyone. Imagine, camouflaging a mi-cock-su-cock charm as a cleaning charm. “Oh, you have a spot on your shirt. There, took it right off. Do you want to suck my dick?”

Emboldened by this epiphany, he somehow scrambled to his feet without falling over, and hitched his boxers and trousers up and over his frisky cock, which still hadn’t entirely given up hope.

“Hah, Potter! I say hah! I’m on to your little scheme. Let me say right here and now that you Gryffindors are the most bloody selfish wankers I’ve ever run across.”

Potter stood there looking like he didn’t know what Draco was talking about. Sneaky cunt. “Scheme? What are you on about now, Malfoy?”

Draco tried to wrench his pants together so that he could zipper them closed. But, as Potter’s erection seemed to show no signs of abating (god, sneaky cunt squared, no cubed), his eyes and dick continued to conspire against him because he couldn’t look away and, short of a freezing charm, his dick wouldn’t behave.

“For god’s sake, do…do something about that,” he waved in the direction of Potter’s crotch.

Potter covered his erection with a woefully inadequate palm. “Malfoy, what scheme?"

Needs must. Draco grabbed his wand from the wee table and pointed a freezing charm on his dick. There, he’d make a Hufflepuff feel right at home. He zippered his pants closed and grabbed his shirt from off the floor.

“Don’t act so clueless. Granted, you do clueless very well, but in this case it’s too little, too late. The sex charm masquerading as a cleaning charm. As if you didn’t know.”

“Like I'd know how to do a sex charm.” Potter used his own freezing charm to shrink himself and shoved his dick in his pants. "For fuck sake, just because it felt pretty fucking fantastic..."

"Of course it felt fantastic! I had my hand on your dick..."

"And don't even try to tell me that you didn't feel the same way..."

"Stupid idiot. Of course I did. You had your hand on my dick..." That didn't come out quite the way Draco intended it to. "How do you explain this,” Draco demanded, motioning between them, "if it wasn't a hex or a charm, Mr. I-Don't-Do-Sex-Charms-I-Am-Such-A-Goddamn-Liar. Well?"

“We’re sexually attracted to each other? Why do you have to make things so effing complicated?” Potter threw his arms up in the air as if frustrated.

"No way!" Draco sputtered. "Deny all you want. It's the spell. You're such a perverted pillock that you probably cast it on yourself as well. We are not attracted to each other. We are enemies. That's with," Draco counted on his fingers, "three 'e's'. What part of this equation don't you get?"

Potter shrugged that insufferable Potter-esque shrug. "Look, I don't understand this anymore than you do, Malfoy. I hate your fucking guts just as much as you hate mine. And I know how to spell enemies, you prat. It's just...just...couldn't we just, you know, give each other handjobs and forget the enemy stuff for a few minutes? Like, we unfreeze our dicks and, uh, do stuff. We don't even need to talk. You talk too much anyway. Handjobs and maybe some kissing? When you're not sneering you have a really nice mouth."

"I do not talk too much. You're just jealous, since you can't string a sentence together without a plethora of those pathetic 'uhs' and 'you knows' and 'stuffs.' One 'stuff' in a sentence is unacceptable. A second 'stuff' on the heels of the first one is a sign of terminal stupidity. Acknowledging your limitations, I am going to put this in language that is crystal clear. We are not going for round two. Ever. Even if it weren't for the freezing charm, the hex would have worn off by now..."

"More like you got off..." Potter grumbled.

"Oh, and like you didn't?..."

"Of course I did. That's my point, you completely maddening tosser!"

He pointed his wand in Potter’s direction. "No, Potter, the point is that enemies do not give handjobs to each other. That in itself is proof positive that this was magic. Attracted to each other? HAH! Hah again! I will discover what charm or hex you used on me, and then I will go to the Headmaster and prove to him that his Golden Boy is nothing but a deviant who casts sex spells on unsuspecting innocents.”

Potter had the nerve to smirk. “One 'hah' in a sentence is unacceptable. A second 'hah' on the heels of the first one is a sign of terminal stupidity. And are these same innocents who hosted the wank olympics?”

Draco curbed the impulse to smash his fist into Potter's face. He needed to find Blaise right away before the hex completely wore off. He turned away and said in a loud voice, "If this utter piece of shit castle doesn't produce a door this instant, I will personally to go Beauxbatons and Durmstrang and spread the word that it's put together with imitation stone and sealing wax."

The door appeared.

Blackmail. It's a good thing.

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“Enemies-fucking-enemies-no-way-that-I’m-attracted-to-that-fucking-weirdo-blind-superb-arse-want-to-suck-those-nipples-so-badly-I-fucking-hate-him-and-his-perfect-dick-cock-nice-bits-too-where-in-the-hell…”

Oh. Draco found himself at the entrance to the Slytherin dorms. Right. He banged on Blaise’s door. No answer. He banged again, just to be polite and then didn’t wait. The curtains were drawn around Blaise’s bed. What the hell? Draco yanked them back.

For god’s sake.

Pansy was on her knees in the vee between Blaise’s legs, his cock in her mouth, and Blaise on his back in an exact imitation of Draco’s inelegant sprawl not ten minutes earlier. Which didn’t help Draco’s mood one iota, because clearly Blaise was getting sucked off rather nicely, and all Draco had gotten for his sprawl was a nice case of freezer burn on his arse.

“Pansy, stop that this instant,” Draco demanded.

“Dwaaoooo?” she garbled, not freeing her mouth just yet.

As much as Draco had to admire her ability to even utter a single sound considering she had that thing choking her airway, this was beyond the pale. Honestly, she wasn’t going to have any vocal chords left at all if she kept this up. He would have a word with her in the morning. Based on how she was deep-throating Blaise, she'd have a whopping case of laryngitis tomorrow and the entire conversation would have to be conducted in eyebrow code.

“I need to talk to Blaise.”

Blaise picked up his wand and spelled the curtains shut.

Draco incinerated them. “Stop acting like horny teenagers. Get your dick out of Pansy’s mouth and meet me in my room. Right now. It’s a matter of life or death.”

Blaise started and Pansy looked around at Draco, her eyes wide. “Life or death?” she repeated.

“Yes, Blaise’s, if he doesn’t get his dick out of your mouth and into my room. Chop chop.”

“God, you’re impossible,” Blaise grumbled. “Pans, stop, you know what he’s like. This had better be good,”

“Bring your wand,” Draco ordered.

Pansy moved from between Blaise’s legs, and gave Draco a pronounced pout before sitting back in the pillows and grabbing a pack of cigarettes. Blaise Accio'd a dressing gown, took a drag off of her cigarette, and gave her a tit a squeeze before following Draco out of the room.

“Muttering is lowbrow, Blaise. I suggest you break that nasty habit at once.”

“I was reminding myself that (a) you’re my friend; (b) you’re my friend who’s insane; and (c) you’re my friend who’s insane who will never let me finish receiving a most superior blowjob until I listen to your insane ranting and call it for what it is. Insane ranting. Now, Pansy is waiting. If she’s asleep by the time you’ve done having your hissy fit, I will kill you.”

“I do not have hissy fits." Blaise gave a contemptuous snort. "Besides, it’s not like you don’t get blowjobs everyday,” Draco grumbled. Since he wasn’t getting blowjobs everyday, he really didn’t think Blaise had a cock to stand on. Draco shut the door and locked it. “Check me for charms or hexes. Sex charms or hexes.”

Blaise went rigid and his eyes darkened, no mean feat because his eyes were already black. “Please tell me you’re joking." Blaise began sniffing in Draco's general direction. "You smell like six different kinds of fuck. This couldn’t have waited until morning?” Blaise pinched the spot between his eyes, a gesture that seemed to be endemic to everyone Draco knew. “Need I remind you that I haven’t gotten off yet, even though you obviously have, and now you want to know if you’ve been hexed. Wished I’d been hexed. BECAUSE THEN I WOULD HAVE GOTTEN OFF TOO!”

“No need to shout. And no, it couldn’t wait until morning,” Draco snapped.

Blaise folded his arms in front of him and made the "gimme" sign with his hand.

Christ. Just when Draco seriously began questioning Blaise's credentials (like his abject refusal to give Draco's cock one more fucking millimeter so he could beat Potter), Blaise pulled something like this. It was times like these that Draco realized that Blaise was the most Slytherin of the Slytherins. His very unpredictability made him certainly the most dangerous. Crafty bastard.

And as if Draco didn't know exactly what he meant by that hand gesture, Blaise followed it up with, "Tell me who, or I'm hightailing back to bed and warding the room so that not even the Headmaster himself could blast his way in."

Fuck. Draco would have to tell him. Blaise was really the only person he trusted to do a charm or hex diagnostic on him. If Crabbe and Goyle so much as pointed their wands in his direction, they'd cock it up, no question. Look at the bludger business. Draco still hadn't forgiven them for that debacle. Instead of checking for or removing Potter's curse, they'd probably cast some charm on him, fuck it up, resulting in him trying to bite off his own dick.

"P...er" Draco mumbled, trying to leave out the "o" and both "t's" to make it as Potter-less as possible.

"Excuse me?"

Draco tried to bluff it out. "You know, the one with the scar." There must be at least one other boy in the school with a scar.

"You made it with Potter?" If Blaise's jawed dropped any more, he could give himself a blowjob.

"No, no, no. Not really. Well sort of. But not," Draco protested. "He hexed me. Pretended to do a cleaning charm after the castle nearly suffocated us to death but it wasn't a cleaning charm at all but a centuries old Gryffindor sex charm handed down by Godric Gryffindor himself, I'm sure, and the selfish wankers have been keeping it to themselves for centuries and then I was all clean but then...then there was the...uh...sex part. See, you get clean first, then have this compulsion to touch your arch enemy's cock. It's really evil, Blaise. So evil and brilliant we need to beat the shit out of Potter in the morning so he'll tell us how to cast it."

Blaise's arms dropped as if exhausted. "Draco, am I supposed to understand even a quarter of that utter shite? No, don't answer that, I'll get another twenty-minute explanation and by that time Pansy will be asleep. Take off your clothes," he sighed. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I get a warm mouth around my dick.”

Since Draco hadn't bother to put back on his shirt and was still only in his trousers, boxers, socks, and shoes, it only took a second to undress. For the next five minutes, Blaise walked around him, muttering incantations, waving his wand over every inch of Draco’s body, tsking and uttering "oh mys," and even a "jesus christ."

Draco knew it. Potter had hexed him. Denial, denial, denial, my arse. Potter could just Apparate to Egypt because here was proof positive.

“Must have used six or seven charms. The sex was so fantastic, Blaise. You have no idea. Bet he used a fucking encyclopedia of..."

Blaise was shaking his head back and forth slowly.

"You delusional fucker." Why did that sound familiar? "Aside from the freezing charm you used on your dick, and I think you over-did it, it'll be a miracle if you have an erection for the rest of this month, never mind the rest of the week, nothing. Not one single hex or charm."

Draco shook his head. It wasn't possible. Just Not Possible. He began to crumple. He hated crumpling. "Not one?" Please, please, please, just one.

"No, Draco. Not one." He gave Draco's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Now, I'm going back to my room, and hopefully Pansy, who I swear has had her gag reflex removed, will still be awake. I'd thank you to...Draco?" That was the thing about Blaise, why he made such a poor minion. He had brains and more than your average acumen and knew his charms and hexes and, even worse, he knew crumpling when he saw it. "You okay?"

Draco nodded, more to get Blaise out of his room than anything else.

"You want a memory charm?" Draco shook his head. "Want me to ask the house elves for glasses so that you can smash away?" Draco shook his head again. Glasses were pointless when on the ten scale, ten being, "Merlin's dick, someone kill me now," you'd reached a twenty-five. This was worse than last Christmas, when he discovered that his father was a boot-licking toady to a megalomaniac who couldn't even be arsed to spell himself a proper nose. Slits. His father followed the orders of a man who apparently believed that slits and nostrils were one and the same. Not to mention the megalomaniac bit.

"Look, I'll be in my room if you need me. On second thought, don't have a meltdown for at least twenty minutes. Okay?" and with another friendly grasp of his shoulder, Blaise was out the door, sprinting toward Pansy and her nice warm mouth.

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Draco paced back and forth. He relived the entire day--from the first toss off to his storming out of the Room of Requirement--searching for some reasonable explanation why that handjob with Potter had him purring and cooing into Potter's shoulder like some, well, some girl. And as much as he would have liked to dismiss Blaise's ability to detect spells, he was a fucking god at it. Which left only one explanation: Draco was actually attracted to Potter. That scarred, color-blind git with the amazing dick and a pert little arse and nipples that were begging to be licked and...

"Enough," he screamed at the ceiling. "And you, you traitor, you," he hissed at his dick, which was now hard, of course. So much for the over-zealous freezing charm. Visions of Potter jerking off was clearly a sure fire way to ensure a first-class boner, evidenced by his cock jerking and leaking in a pathetic bid for a little hand/dick action. "You can just suffer, you turncoat."

Bleeding fuck, he was now actually talking to his own dick. If his dick started to answer him back, he was going to hang himself in the Astronomy Tower.

Right. His body had betrayed him before. Remember those nadir years when he was little more than a blond dwarf with a baritone? He was more than just a perfect body, which for some reason seemed hell bent on betraying him with that dark-haired freak.

He was a Malfoy.

He was a near-genius.

He'd refuse to let that I-can't-distinguish-blue-from-green-challenged moron get to him.

More pacing, a slight break for a couple of squares of chocolate, and then it came to him. It was so simple, so clever, so Malfoy that he'd do that rarest of rare things tomorrow morning after his shower. He'd cross out the "near" and underline "genius." Twice. Too fucking right.

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TBC