We Are the Champions
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
6,104
Reviews:
57
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
6,104
Reviews:
57
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Draco Under Siege
Author\'s Notes: My wonderful friend has drawn a picture for me for this chapter. It is truly beautiful. Please note that this is extremely explicit. Would appreciate it if you are underage, don\'t click. Thanks! http://w-williams.com/art_hobbit/harry_potter/Champions_web.jpg
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Potter—who in every respect was one of the clumsiest people Draco had ever had the misfortune to meet, the twit shuffled everywhere and still tripped over everything in his path and even tripped when there was nothing in his path, does he ever pick up his feet, but what could you expect from a moron who believed that mismatched socks were an acceptable lifestyle choice—undid his pants with a confidence and ease that Draco had only seen him exhibit on the Quidditch pitch when he was chasing the snitch. If Draco had injected fifteen chocolate bars and five cups of espresso I.V., he couldn’t have been more wound up. He watched in horror and fascination as Potter’s pants fell in slow motion to pool around his ankles.
What the hell?
Fuckingpathetictwat; miserableloathsomewanker, pitifulfour-eyedgit; scarredhideoustwit; prickteasewhoringcunt; wretchedinsufferable TOSSER!
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
POTTER WAS COMMANDO!
Draco barely heard Crabbe’s voinnounnouncing, “Get ready; set; go!” Conversely, the click of the stopwatch reverberated like an explosion in his ear, and then for the next five minutes Draco felt every tight and desperate molecule of air forcing its way through his lungs. Later, Draco suspected that if at that moment Crabbe had shouted that Draco’s hair was on fire, Draco would have told him to fuck off, gladly letting himself be incinerated to a heap of beautiful white ash rather than reach for a pail of water. For that would have meant taking his eyes off of Potter. Which he wouldn’t have done for all the chocolate in France, or all the glasses in Britain, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland combined:
• Not with Potter’s slim waist and the flat of his olive-toned stomach not three feet from him and Draco aching to rip the shirt off of Potter’s back because his nipples were beginning to pucker under the soft cotton of his white tee-shirt, whether from nerves or arousal, and what did they look like and would they taste of vanilla and salt and did Potter like having them touched and pinched and licked and bit and pulled oh so gently and oh god maybe pinched and licked and bit and pulled not so gently?
• Not as Draco’s eyes followed the dark hair on Potter’s stomach as it tapered into the most inviting vee of black, curly, coarse pubic hair, which nestled a very nice half-hard cock pulling away from plump balls that were already hanging a little low and no doubt a little sweaty and how would they feel cupped in Draco’s hands?
• Not as he watched Potter close his eyes and then with one hand, the nails bit down to the nubs, fondle one ball, then the other, oh yes, and, holyfuck, the thumb of Potter’s other hand, shitshitshit, began to tease his cock, rubbing his flat of his thumb up and down the underside of his cock for a minute and when Draco thought he’d scream from anticipation, “You bastard, grab your cock, or I’m going to fucking well kill you,” the right side of Potter’s mouth twitched up just a fraction of a centimeter, and then he slowly began sliding his thumb back and forth under his slit.
Draco thought it couldn’t possibly get worse. But he was wrong.
Because Potter shuddered and brought his other hand up to his mouth, ran his thumb over his bottom lip before wetting it with his tongue, and then sneaking his hand under his tee-shirt, he began thumbing and pinching first one nipple and then the other, while the other hand continued to massage his head, and Draco didn’t know what was worse, finally getting a teasing glimpse of Potter’s large, dark nipples as he played with them or getting *only* a teasing glimpse of Potter’s large, dark nipples as he played with them, and Draco silently groaned because his own balls began clenching in that hot, tight, hot way that usually meant he was about six seconds from coming and he knew that if that fucker didn’t stop he was going to cream in his pants but Potter did stop, and Draco was about to exhale a giant sigh of relief, but then Potter licked his palm, closed his saliva-shiny hand around his cock, and began to pump, while the thumb of the other hand kept its gentle round and round under the slit.
Unable to take his eyes off of Potter, Draco began counting seconds in an attempt to stave off his pending orgasm. As he watched in continuing horror, Potter stroked, teased, and massaged his cock to complete fullness, giving everyone in the room an honors thesis presentation on how to jerk off.
“One-hundred twenty, one-hundred twenty-one…why in the fucking hell hadn’t Crabbe called time yet…one-hundred twenty-two… could I deep throat that?... one-hundred twenty-three… ohchrist, he’s fucking his hand now… one-hundred twenty-four…surely, surely, surely, surely…uh…surely, it had been…one-hundred twenty-four…five minutes already… one-hundred twenty-five…why, why, why does one of the nicest cocks I’ve ever seen belong to that git… one-hundred twenty-six…if Potter keeps this up I’m going to loose it… one-hundred twenty-seven…and then I’ll never be able to get it up again…one-hundred twenty-seven…the humiliation would be much too much to bear... one-hundred twenty-seven…has Potter ever sucked anyone off?… one-hundred twenty-seven…one-hundred twenty-seven… one-hundred twenty-seven… one-hundred twenty-seven…”
“Time,” yelled Crabbe and Potter stopped. Just like that. Draco didn’t know whether to cry from relief or frustration. Potter cupped his dick with one hand so Blaise and Ron could measure it, pulled down his shirt with his other, and before Draco could turn away, he opened his eyes and stared right into Draco’s. Potter didn’t so much as a flick a glance in Ron or Blaise’s direction. And Potter, the arch-typical Gryffindor, who for the entire seven years Draco had known him had been an open book, every emotion stamped in big earnest letters on his face, was here and now completely inscrutable, so devoid of expression that if Draco hadn’t known better he’d have sworn that this was a Slytherin. Because only a Slytherin could have done such a virtuoso performance with his own dick in front of fifty other boys and then just stop, acting like he’d spent the last five minutes untying a knot in his shoelace.
Potter didn’t blink or even acknowledge his score when Blaise announced it to the room; he kept his eyes riveted on Draco. Was this a challenge, a question, a bet, a fuck you, or, god, he wondered, an invitation? Draco stood mesmerized as those eyes continued to make some demand or statement Draco didn’t understand. If the room wasn’t full of people he’d have hit him, screamed at him, “What the fuck do you want, Potter?” anything to break that cool appraisal that was feeding this horrible arousal.
The spell was broken when Blaise slapped him on the back. “Oi, Draco, your turn, Potter beat Goyle.” At those words, Potter bent down, grabbed the waistband of his pants to hoist them back up on his hips, and then shoved his cock to the side, struggling with the zipper as his pants tented out from his still full-blown erection. But he didn’t move; he just stood there. Christ. He intended to watch Draco jerk off with the same scrutiny with which Draco had watched him.
Being a near a genius, he’d worn his robes tonight. Earlier that afternoon, he spent a couple of hours debating what to wear. Not too casual, it was up to him to inject a note of formality into this affair, yet he didn\'t want to put on too much of the dog. With any luck, this would become a yearly tradition, whereby Slytherin could humiliate the three other houses without any effort. He frowned; the cost of all that hand lotion had been considerable. Perhaps he should have the other houses chip in. Sort of an equipment fee. He flipped through his wardrobe containing forty dress robes, twenty white dress shirts, thirty blue dress shirts, and twenty pairs of gray flannels (Draco like round numbers) before settling on midnight blue robes that brought out the gray in his eyes.
All that mental effort for nothing. Fuck. At this point, he could been made wearing a robe made out of burlap, because all he cared about was hiding his erection, which was stuck to his silk boxer shorts. Please, he prayed, don\'t let me have stained the front of my trousers.
\"Ready, Draco?\" Blaise asked absentmindedly, while totaling up the inches from Goyle and Potter.
Ready? You could say that, Draco thought bitterly. Oh Merlin. He didn’t need five minutes. He didn’t even need five seconds. He was so hard, that close, a mere two strokes and he’d flood his hand. At a loss over what to do, he coughed a few times in a desperate bid to buy time. Blaise must have sensed something was wrong because he asked him if he was all right. He nodded and then coughed again trying to eke out another few seconds of grace. Blaise conjured up a glass of water, which Draco sipped slowly.
What to do?
Should he just fuck it?
Tell Crabbe to stuff this farce and measure him right then and there. Let the world see that with a few strokes of his hand, Harry Potter had reduced Draco Malfoy, of incomparable physical beauty, grace, elegance, and charm, oh, addendum, mustn’t omit the perfect dick part, into a whimpering mess with a hard-on the size of Europe. A Draco Malfoy who could’ve cared less about the socks Potter was wearing because given half a chance and two seconds, Draco would charm off every stitch of what Potter called his clothes.
Thank god for breeding. If this wasn’t what being a pureblood was all about. Just as he was about to admit defeat, open his robes and let come what may, a little evil voice inside of him admonished, “Get a grip. Draco. You are a Malfoy. You are a Slytherin. Don’t let this sad little colorblind freak get the better of you.”
Coughing again into his left hand as a distraction, Draco clenched his right hand so tightly that his nails gouged half-moon marks into the palm of his hand. He kept grinding his nails into his palm until he felt pain and warmth. Continuing to abuse his palm with his nails, slowly but surely he felt his erection softening.
Yes!
Keeping his right palm clenched tight against the side of his robe in case his palm really started bleeding, he tossed his chin in a defiant jerk and looked back into Potter’s eyes, the question, the answer, the challenge still there. Just for him. He knew it.
“You want a show, Potter?” Draco sneered.
The energy between them shifted, then broke. Like Potter was surprised or uncertain about what was going to happen next.
Potter winged a look in the Weasel’s direction, rolled his eyes, and snapped back with the usual scorn with which he addressed Draco, “No, I don’t. Just wank off, you jerk. Let’s get this over with,” he said. They were back to the status quo.
But not.
Because Draco could see that Potter’s erection hadn’t abated one iota, and that Potter’s upper lip was shiny with sweat. Just like his.
*******************
TBC
******************************************
Potter—who in every respect was one of the clumsiest people Draco had ever had the misfortune to meet, the twit shuffled everywhere and still tripped over everything in his path and even tripped when there was nothing in his path, does he ever pick up his feet, but what could you expect from a moron who believed that mismatched socks were an acceptable lifestyle choice—undid his pants with a confidence and ease that Draco had only seen him exhibit on the Quidditch pitch when he was chasing the snitch. If Draco had injected fifteen chocolate bars and five cups of espresso I.V., he couldn’t have been more wound up. He watched in horror and fascination as Potter’s pants fell in slow motion to pool around his ankles.
What the hell?
Fuckingpathetictwat; miserableloathsomewanker, pitifulfour-eyedgit; scarredhideoustwit; prickteasewhoringcunt; wretchedinsufferable TOSSER!
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
Draco barely heard Crabbe’s voinnounnouncing, “Get ready; set; go!” Conversely, the click of the stopwatch reverberated like an explosion in his ear, and then for the next five minutes Draco felt every tight and desperate molecule of air forcing its way through his lungs. Later, Draco suspected that if at that moment Crabbe had shouted that Draco’s hair was on fire, Draco would have told him to fuck off, gladly letting himself be incinerated to a heap of beautiful white ash rather than reach for a pail of water. For that would have meant taking his eyes off of Potter. Which he wouldn’t have done for all the chocolate in France, or all the glasses in Britain, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland combined:
• Not with Potter’s slim waist and the flat of his olive-toned stomach not three feet from him and Draco aching to rip the shirt off of Potter’s back because his nipples were beginning to pucker under the soft cotton of his white tee-shirt, whether from nerves or arousal, and what did they look like and would they taste of vanilla and salt and did Potter like having them touched and pinched and licked and bit and pulled oh so gently and oh god maybe pinched and licked and bit and pulled not so gently?
• Not as Draco’s eyes followed the dark hair on Potter’s stomach as it tapered into the most inviting vee of black, curly, coarse pubic hair, which nestled a very nice half-hard cock pulling away from plump balls that were already hanging a little low and no doubt a little sweaty and how would they feel cupped in Draco’s hands?
• Not as he watched Potter close his eyes and then with one hand, the nails bit down to the nubs, fondle one ball, then the other, oh yes, and, holyfuck, the thumb of Potter’s other hand, shitshitshit, began to tease his cock, rubbing his flat of his thumb up and down the underside of his cock for a minute and when Draco thought he’d scream from anticipation, “You bastard, grab your cock, or I’m going to fucking well kill you,” the right side of Potter’s mouth twitched up just a fraction of a centimeter, and then he slowly began sliding his thumb back and forth under his slit.
Draco thought it couldn’t possibly get worse. But he was wrong.
Because Potter shuddered and brought his other hand up to his mouth, ran his thumb over his bottom lip before wetting it with his tongue, and then sneaking his hand under his tee-shirt, he began thumbing and pinching first one nipple and then the other, while the other hand continued to massage his head, and Draco didn’t know what was worse, finally getting a teasing glimpse of Potter’s large, dark nipples as he played with them or getting *only* a teasing glimpse of Potter’s large, dark nipples as he played with them, and Draco silently groaned because his own balls began clenching in that hot, tight, hot way that usually meant he was about six seconds from coming and he knew that if that fucker didn’t stop he was going to cream in his pants but Potter did stop, and Draco was about to exhale a giant sigh of relief, but then Potter licked his palm, closed his saliva-shiny hand around his cock, and began to pump, while the thumb of the other hand kept its gentle round and round under the slit.
Unable to take his eyes off of Potter, Draco began counting seconds in an attempt to stave off his pending orgasm. As he watched in continuing horror, Potter stroked, teased, and massaged his cock to complete fullness, giving everyone in the room an honors thesis presentation on how to jerk off.
“One-hundred twenty, one-hundred twenty-one…why in the fucking hell hadn’t Crabbe called time yet…one-hundred twenty-two… could I deep throat that?... one-hundred twenty-three… ohchrist, he’s fucking his hand now… one-hundred twenty-four…surely, surely, surely, surely…uh…surely, it had been…one-hundred twenty-four…five minutes already… one-hundred twenty-five…why, why, why does one of the nicest cocks I’ve ever seen belong to that git… one-hundred twenty-six…if Potter keeps this up I’m going to loose it… one-hundred twenty-seven…and then I’ll never be able to get it up again…one-hundred twenty-seven…the humiliation would be much too much to bear... one-hundred twenty-seven…has Potter ever sucked anyone off?… one-hundred twenty-seven…one-hundred twenty-seven… one-hundred twenty-seven… one-hundred twenty-seven…”
“Time,” yelled Crabbe and Potter stopped. Just like that. Draco didn’t know whether to cry from relief or frustration. Potter cupped his dick with one hand so Blaise and Ron could measure it, pulled down his shirt with his other, and before Draco could turn away, he opened his eyes and stared right into Draco’s. Potter didn’t so much as a flick a glance in Ron or Blaise’s direction. And Potter, the arch-typical Gryffindor, who for the entire seven years Draco had known him had been an open book, every emotion stamped in big earnest letters on his face, was here and now completely inscrutable, so devoid of expression that if Draco hadn’t known better he’d have sworn that this was a Slytherin. Because only a Slytherin could have done such a virtuoso performance with his own dick in front of fifty other boys and then just stop, acting like he’d spent the last five minutes untying a knot in his shoelace.
Potter didn’t blink or even acknowledge his score when Blaise announced it to the room; he kept his eyes riveted on Draco. Was this a challenge, a question, a bet, a fuck you, or, god, he wondered, an invitation? Draco stood mesmerized as those eyes continued to make some demand or statement Draco didn’t understand. If the room wasn’t full of people he’d have hit him, screamed at him, “What the fuck do you want, Potter?” anything to break that cool appraisal that was feeding this horrible arousal.
The spell was broken when Blaise slapped him on the back. “Oi, Draco, your turn, Potter beat Goyle.” At those words, Potter bent down, grabbed the waistband of his pants to hoist them back up on his hips, and then shoved his cock to the side, struggling with the zipper as his pants tented out from his still full-blown erection. But he didn’t move; he just stood there. Christ. He intended to watch Draco jerk off with the same scrutiny with which Draco had watched him.
Being a near a genius, he’d worn his robes tonight. Earlier that afternoon, he spent a couple of hours debating what to wear. Not too casual, it was up to him to inject a note of formality into this affair, yet he didn\'t want to put on too much of the dog. With any luck, this would become a yearly tradition, whereby Slytherin could humiliate the three other houses without any effort. He frowned; the cost of all that hand lotion had been considerable. Perhaps he should have the other houses chip in. Sort of an equipment fee. He flipped through his wardrobe containing forty dress robes, twenty white dress shirts, thirty blue dress shirts, and twenty pairs of gray flannels (Draco like round numbers) before settling on midnight blue robes that brought out the gray in his eyes.
All that mental effort for nothing. Fuck. At this point, he could been made wearing a robe made out of burlap, because all he cared about was hiding his erection, which was stuck to his silk boxer shorts. Please, he prayed, don\'t let me have stained the front of my trousers.
\"Ready, Draco?\" Blaise asked absentmindedly, while totaling up the inches from Goyle and Potter.
Ready? You could say that, Draco thought bitterly. Oh Merlin. He didn’t need five minutes. He didn’t even need five seconds. He was so hard, that close, a mere two strokes and he’d flood his hand. At a loss over what to do, he coughed a few times in a desperate bid to buy time. Blaise must have sensed something was wrong because he asked him if he was all right. He nodded and then coughed again trying to eke out another few seconds of grace. Blaise conjured up a glass of water, which Draco sipped slowly.
What to do?
Should he just fuck it?
Tell Crabbe to stuff this farce and measure him right then and there. Let the world see that with a few strokes of his hand, Harry Potter had reduced Draco Malfoy, of incomparable physical beauty, grace, elegance, and charm, oh, addendum, mustn’t omit the perfect dick part, into a whimpering mess with a hard-on the size of Europe. A Draco Malfoy who could’ve cared less about the socks Potter was wearing because given half a chance and two seconds, Draco would charm off every stitch of what Potter called his clothes.
Thank god for breeding. If this wasn’t what being a pureblood was all about. Just as he was about to admit defeat, open his robes and let come what may, a little evil voice inside of him admonished, “Get a grip. Draco. You are a Malfoy. You are a Slytherin. Don’t let this sad little colorblind freak get the better of you.”
Coughing again into his left hand as a distraction, Draco clenched his right hand so tightly that his nails gouged half-moon marks into the palm of his hand. He kept grinding his nails into his palm until he felt pain and warmth. Continuing to abuse his palm with his nails, slowly but surely he felt his erection softening.
Yes!
Keeping his right palm clenched tight against the side of his robe in case his palm really started bleeding, he tossed his chin in a defiant jerk and looked back into Potter’s eyes, the question, the answer, the challenge still there. Just for him. He knew it.
“You want a show, Potter?” Draco sneered.
The energy between them shifted, then broke. Like Potter was surprised or uncertain about what was going to happen next.
Potter winged a look in the Weasel’s direction, rolled his eyes, and snapped back with the usual scorn with which he addressed Draco, “No, I don’t. Just wank off, you jerk. Let’s get this over with,” he said. They were back to the status quo.
But not.
Because Draco could see that Potter’s erection hadn’t abated one iota, and that Potter’s upper lip was shiny with sweat. Just like his.
*******************
TBC