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All the Things I've Never Felt

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Draco cannot stop staring at him.

Potter sits there, sandwiched between Weasley and that Mudblood, both hands wrapped around his pint, laughing along with his friends and his followers.

He can feel something bitter and hot bubbling up from the pit of his stomach – something violent and comprised entirely of unadulterated hatred – at the exact same moment Potter looks across the pub and stares right into Draco’s eyes.

Potter meets his gaze calmly, like he’d known all along that Draco’s been watching him but couldn’t, until that very moment, be bothered to return his gaze.

The hateful son of a cunt.

Lip curling, Draco raises his sixth tumbler of scotch at Potter and downs it in a single gulp. Potter doesn’t even blink.

Instead, still maintaining eye contact, he raises his pint to his mouth and takes a long gulp. Draco wants to own Potter so bad he can almost taste it through the sting of alcohol burning its way down his throat.

He’s on his feet and halfway across the pub to the back door almost before he can firmly make up his mind to leave. With every step he takes, he imagines he’s crushing Potter’s nose underfoot again, imagines the satisfying crunch of it breaking like it did all those years ago.

Outside, Draco lights a cigarette and leans back against the grotty brick. The acrid whiff of the smoke mingles with the foul stench of rotten potato peels, fresh urine and rat shit.

Draco cannot stop trembling.

He cannot stop thinking about Potter. He cannot stop his mind from drifting back a week, recalling every little detail with painful clarity.

Potter had worn a pale, mint green button down under his black leather jacket, buttons left undone up to his sternum. He wore an oxidised silver pendant shaped like a stag on a long black thread around his neck. Potter had smiled at Draco and had laughed at things he’d said. He’d bought Draco drinks. He’d played with Draco’s hair.

More than anything else Draco can still feel that ache in his chest that he’d felt every time Potter said his name with something akin to fondness. The way Draco’s every resolve to be sharp and aloof dissolved under the bastard’s touch. The way his eyes had lingered on Draco’s mouth, making Draco’s heart fling itself around his chest, and the way his fingers brushed over the sensitive inside of Draco’s wrist, making his whole body tingle.

When he’d asked Draco if he wanted to share a cab home, it had been Draco’s turn to laugh.

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Draco asked. Potter’s cheeks pinkened and he shoved Draco playfully.

“Just get in the fucking cab, Malfoy.”

They headed to Islington, Draco straddling Potter’s thighs. Potter shoved his hands into Draco’s jeans, grabbing and massaging his arse. He sucked on Draco’s lips until they were swollen. He bit Draco about a dozen bruises along his neck before they stumbled out of the cab and swayed towards Potter’s greying, grim looking house.

It’s just sex, Draco thought, lifting his hips and letting Potter tug his jeans and pants off in one messy bundle. It’s just a drunken shag, he told himself as he let Potter press his knees back onto his chest. This is where Potter belongs, he mused: between Draco’s legs with his tongue up Draco’s arse.

But even as he ate Draco’s arse open, it felt like Potter was in charge – Potter, not Draco. Even though Draco had shoved Potter’s head down and held it there while fucking his tongue, it felt like Potter was in control of the situation, not him. Even as he kicked Potter away and turned over, wordlessly daring Potter to fuck him, it felt like Potter was in charge. Potter lined kisses up Draco’s spine and told him he’s beautiful. Draco asked Potter to shut the fuck up and put his cock to some use.

Unfazed, Potter had done just that. And he’d done it with such élan. Pressing lube into Draco’s arse with his thumb, grabbing Draco’s arse and jiggling it with obscene glee, playing with Draco’s rim even as he’d thrust into him, his silver pendant swinging against Draco’s back.

Later, reduced to a pile of trembling limbs and covered with sweat, Draco stretched out half an arm’s length away from Potter. He remained silent, his arse still contracting, as Potter drunkenly rambled on and on about taking Draco out to dinner the following evening. And when Potter fell silent and began to snore, Draco dressed and left.

There’s a creak of a door hinge now and then Potter is joining Draco in the back alley. He’s wearing a pristine white shirt tucked into blue jeans and his boots look new. He’s fiddling with his hair as usual, but that somehow proves to be an improvement on his general appearance. Trudging up to Draco, Potter stands there with his hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on Draco’s mouth wrapped around the cigarette.

“You just left last week,” Potter reminds him like a great, big oaf. Like Draco doesn’t remember the weight of disappointment in the pit of his stomach as he’d stolen one last glance at Potter and walked out.

“Your place smells of moss,” Draco replies, flicking ash off his cigarette.

“It’s rather old.”


Potter returns Draco’s gaze with bright eyes. He’s not drunk. He’s probably not even tipsy. Draco’s never felt more vulnerable as he stands there, head spinning, as he stares blearily at Potter’s face, at his wide green eyes and shy smile. Potter looks as pure as his spotless, white shirt. He looks like he isn’t capable of something as lewd as greedily sucking on Draco’s arsehole. Like he isn’t capable of forcing two back-to-back orgasms out of Draco.

Draco wants to hurt him. He wants to stub out his cigarette on Potter’s bare skin. He wants to tackle Potter to the ground and leave him covered in piss and rat shit. He wants to punch his face until it’s swollen and bruised. He wants Potter to bleed.

And so when Potter steps forward and covers Draco’s mouth with his, Draco flings his cigarette down and wrestles him around until he’s holding Potter pinned against the dirty wall. Potter makes a small sound of surprise but Draco doesn’t pause or slow down as he grabs Potter by the hair and kisses him with the same raw anger that’s been bubbling up inside him since he saw Potter walk into the pub.

Kicking Potter’s legs apart, Draco slips in one long thigh between Potter’s legs and Potter moans at that, his mouth still fused with Draco’s, immediately grinding down. Sinuously moving his thigh back and forth against Potter’s erection, Draco lets himself be lost in the kiss for the briefest few moments before abruptly forcing Potter away with a hand to his face.

Potter looks like he wants to question it, like he wants to protest, but Draco gives him no time or opportunity to do so. Placing his hands on Potter’s shoulders, Draco pushes downward, exerting steady pressure until Potter  sinks to his knees.

It ought to have felt like a victory. He’d just physically pushed Potter onto his knees and he had acquiesced beautifully. But now he's looking up at him, gazing up at him, wordlessly urging Draco to do something, anything; say anything, and Draco wants to ask him what he wants.

And then relent and give it to him.

Half of Potter’s upturned face is covered in shadow, his panting hoarse and quiet in the sudden stillness around them. The one eye Draco can see is vividly green and shining with something like excited arousal. Something turns over in Draco’s gut. Potter is aroused as he kneels there in piss and putrid garbage, Draco’s erection mere inches away from his wet mouth.

I’m going to fuck your face, Draco wants to say, swaying drunkenly on the spot. I’m going to come all over it.

Instead he says, “Take it out.” He swallows hard, his throat suddenly parchment-dry. “Take my cock out and suck it.”

He expects some resistance: an offended huff and a murderous glare maybe. But all Potter does is bite his lip and fumble with Draco’s flies. Draco is so surprised that he doesn’t even pause to marvel at the desperation with which Potter pulls his cock out and sucks on the head.

“Fuck,” Draco mutters, hurriedly catching himself with one hand on the wall, the alley swimming around him as that last tumbler of scotch finally hits him. The brick under his hand is grainy and unyielding, grazing the softness of Draco’s palm. Potter’s head bobs back and forth, his lips turning pinker with each second he spends ravenously sucking Draco down.

It feels incredible. Potter sucks cock like a proper slut and Draco wants to stay inside the wet warmth of his mouth forever. It feels like an incredibly lavish indulgence – the Saviour himself sucking Draco’s cock as if he’d rather die than be doing anything else except kneeling in a dirty alley with Draco’s cock going deeper and deeper into his throat with every bob of his chaotic, raven head.

“Wait,” Draco says, halting him by clenching one hand painfully tight in his hair. Potter sucks off his cock and turns his dark, slightly confused gaze up at him. “Open,” Draco says, pressing the tip of his cock against Potter’s lower lip.

For one, wildly exciting moment Draco is sure Potter will put up a fight. Perhaps he’ll ask Draco to fuck off but then drag him to his musty old house again. Perhaps this time...Draco wouldn’t leave.

However, Potter simply opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out slightly so that the crown of Draco’s cock is resting on it and waits. Swivelling his hips, Draco shifts his cock around, so it slides up Potter’s cheek and then down his chin, before bringing it back to his tongue, gently tickling the ridge of his own cock against the velvety softness of Potter’s tongue. 

Potter sighs, his eyes fluttering shut, and Draco is livid at the way he’s being submitted to.

Infuriated, he tightens his hand further in Potter’s hair, braces his other hand on the wall again, and shoves his cock in. Potter splutters, his hands flying up to grab Draco’s hips and Draco responds by thrusting harder, firmly holding Potter in place by the hair and fucking in deeper.

“What would they say, Potter?” he pants, shivering at the constricting heat of Potter’s throat around his prick. “What would all your followers say if they saw you like this, hmm? If they saw what a fucking whore you are for my cock in your mouth?”

Potter moans again and shuts his eyes, his glasses slipping down his sweaty nose from how hard Draco is thrusting. He’s sucking Draco so hard that loud slurps fill the silence of the alley. His hands curl around Draco’s hips, thumbs tracing the hipbones and Draco tosses his head back, lips pressed together lest a single sound of sinful ecstasy escape him.

“I’m close,” Draco says raggedly. “I’m going to come, Potter. You want that?” Potter nods. “I’m going to come all over the Hero’s face.”

Potter responds by cupping Draco’s arse with both hands and squeezing.

With a muffled cry, Draco tumbles over the edge. He starts to come in Potter’s mouth but with an enormous burst of self control, Draco pulls out and stripes Potter’s face and hair with long ribbons of spunk. Tugging hard on his cock, Draco watches with his mouth slightly open at the way Potter licks the dripping tip and swallows.

“Fuck,” breathes Draco.

“Yeah,” replies Potter roughly, swiping the back of one hand across his face, wiping away the dripping trickles of come. Draco simply stares at him, his gaze not shifting even as Potter slowly rises to his feet and tugs Draco closer. “Share a cab home with me?” he says and Draco wants to roll his eyes.

“Not tonight, Potter,” he says, and something catches in his throat at the way Potter’s face falls. “Tonight,” says Draco, “you’re coming to mine.”


Potter seems indecently eager to eat Draco out again, barely waiting until they’re both undressed before lifting one of Draco’s thighs to his shoulder and diving in. Lightly fondling his own prick, Draco gasps up at the ceiling, toes curling with each biting suck Potter lays on his rim.

“Tastes so good,” Potter garbles at one point, wetly licking up Draco’s crease like a dog. “You’re so hot, Malfoy.”

Absurdly enough, Draco feels his face heat. He feels the blush spreading right down his chest as he sneaks a glance downwards, just in time to see Potter slip two fingers into his own mouth before prodding at Draco’s arsehole with his slick fingertips, licking around them.

He writhes in complete silence, back undulating and toes curling as Potter steadily licks him loose. He flinches every now and then when Potter slyly nibbles at the wrinkled flesh just inside his rim, soothing away the tantalising sting of it with the broad of his tongue, all the while scissoring the fingers he’s got inside Draco.

“Potter,” Draco gasps, lower back arching off the bed as Potter’s fingers slide in, slow and sure, right against his prostate.

“Yeah?” Potter pants, eagerly lifting his head and nudging his glasses higher up with his free hand. “You all right, Malfoy?”

But Draco doesn’t want it to be like this. He doesn’t want Potter enquiring as to whether Draco is all right. He doesn’t want Potter to willingly sink to his knees, suck Draco off and then hold steady so that Draco can come all over his face.

What Draco wants is to feel that burning, jealous hatred that had fuelled him through most of his childhood and young adulthood. He wants to peacefully hate Potter and not have Potter ruining everything by being careful and sweet with him. He wants to feel something more than the scorching, merciless shame and embarrassment that fill him every time he looks at Potter and remembers what he symbolises: peace, and love, and courage and freedom.

All the things Draco has never felt.

“Come up here,” he says coolly and Potter looks rather taken aback.

“You don’t want me to--?” he starts.

“I said come here,” snaps Draco, sliding his leg off Potter’s shoulder and tugging pointedly at Potter’s hair.

Looking curious more than excited, Potter obeys, stretching out on top of Draco and immediately kissing him again, the stag pendant pressing bluntly into Draco’s chest. There’s a wet spot in Potter’s boxers where his erection is seeping, but he seems most content to simply rut against Draco’s own renewed boner.

Biting viciously into Potter’s lower lip, Draco abruptly yanks his mouth away. “What are you playing at?” he asks and immediately feels like punching Potter in the face because he looks so thoroughly bewildered at Draco’s question. As if he isn’t harbouring some depraved plan to bring ridicule to Draco and his family.

“Playing at?” Potter repeats blankly. “Um... Sex,” he says stupidly, after a moment’s deliberation.

Lip curling, Draco rolls them over before sitting up and flipping Potter onto his front. Potter yelps and flails wildly for a moment before lifting up onto his elbows and looking over his shoulder in shock.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Potter asks and Draco wants to cheer. Potter looks nervous and unsure as Draco calmly drags his boxers off. He finally seems to be considering putting up a fight.

“Malfoy,” Potter says, still craning around to stare at Draco.

Running his fingers through the fine hairs on Potter’s thighs, Draco claws his hands around handfuls of Potter’s firm, taut arse, his fingernails digging in deep as he squeezes. Potter hisses, squirming slightly, but doesn’t pull away, and doesn’t ask Draco to stop.

“On your knees,” whispers Draco, holding his breath as Potter mulls over the instruction for a couple of seconds before slowly bringing his knees under him so he’s standing on all fours. Still stroking his arse, Draco looks right at him as he turns his head and watches Draco once more.

Then Draco parts Potter’s buttocks and sees for himself the dusky little hole there, nestled in a silken patch of soft hairs. Potter shudders and Draco can feel it all the way up to where he’s massaging Potter’s arse.

“Are you regretting this yet?” Draco asks and Potter, panting through his mouth, slowly shakes his head. Draco rubs the pads of both thumbs over Potter’s arsehole and presses until the rim dips inwards. “You don’t regret doing this with me, Potter?” he questions and once again, Potter shakes his head.

“Were you hoping I’d regret it?” Potter rasps, his hole clenching shut and blinking open under Draco’s thumbs. “Were you hoping I’d fight you? Kick you away, maybe, and run screaming out of your house?”

“Shut up,” Draco says quietly, reaching for his wand. Other than briefly turning his gaze to look at Draco’s wand in his hand, Potter doesn’t react. He stays there on his hands and knees, having his arsehole rubbed and petted, his hair falling into his eyes, his lip caught between his teeth as he unabashedly holds Draco’s gaze.

Draco murmurs a spell and shuffles closer, dropping his wand aside and separating Potter’s arse cheeks again to watch the way the conjured lube thickly drips down his crease, gleaming in the light pouring in from the streetlight outside.

“Are you worried?” Draco asks and Potter snorts.

“I’m bored,” he says, his mouth twitching as though he wants to laugh. Draco’s nostrils flare in irritation and he glares, making Potter grin.

Slapping his cockhead against Potter’s arsehole a few times, Draco considers in silence, his vision doubling before him as he waits. Potter holds very still and Draco can hear his own heart thumping in his ears, his mouth dry and his breath slightly choppy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really, but he resents Potter for how well he had fucked Draco a week ago and he wants to win this.

Because it feels like a challenge. Everything with the bastard feels like a challenge to Draco.

He’s rutting slowly, his cock slipping through the slick channel of Potter’s crease, Potter’s arsehole clenching with every stroke against it. Draco still has his hands full of Potter’s arse and so he pushes them together, squeezing his own prick between the cheeks. Potter groans and bucks back once and Draco nearly comes right there.

Gritting his teeth and holding back a strangled sound of pleasure, Draco picks up the pace. Potter is meeting him thrust for thrust now, his crease turning wetter from the precome Draco leaks into it. There’s a soft slapping sound and Draco realises that it’s Potter’s cock bouncing against his own belly. He’s not come yet, Potter, and he’s been hard since they were in the alley. The fact that Potter doesn’t complain about this and lets Draco have his way nearly sends him flying apart.

“Fuck you, you fucking bastard,” Draco snarls and whips his hips even harder, sending the frame of the bed crashing into the wall. Potter emits soft, croaked sounds of pleasure, his head tipped back, the pendant around his neck swinging wildly. Draco reaches up and snags a hand in Potter’s hair, dragging his head further back, and making Potter scream.


“Fucking—hate you—Fuck!”

Draco’s ears are ringing as he comes, spilling in short jets along Potter’s crease, making it even slicker. Potter is squirming under him, rutting his cock against the sheets, the muscles in his arse clenching. Draco’s thighs are trembling where he’s kneeling and when Potter lets out a low, plaintive cry and jerks around in his climax, he feels goose bumps rise all over his body.

Tiddly and flushed with an odd sense of success, Draco feels himself slumping forward, landing on Potter’s sweaty back before rolling off of him and with a grunt. Potter is heaving beside him and it’s only after he hears that does Draco register his own whimpering.

“Hey,” Potter puffs, scrambling upright and pulling himself closer to Draco. “You okay?”

Fuck off, Draco wants to spit. But then Potter is pressing damp, open-mouthed kisses along Draco’s neck and it’s all Draco can do to simply melt into the mattress, his whole system shutting down with record speed.

“Use the Floo in the living room,” he babbles mindlessly, darkness creeping in around the corners of his eyes.

Potter says something in reply but Draco is already asleep.


He wakes up to an empty bed.

Head throbbing, Draco blinks around the room. He hadn’t drawn the curtains the night before and sunlight is slanting into the room in broad, yellow beams, making his eyes ache. He’s naked, Draco, and when he sits up and looks around again, he spots his clothes bunched together on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Details of the previous night trickle into his head, leaking in drop by drop like water from a broken faucet. Potter, on his knees in the dark, foul smelling alley; Potter’s mouth, still swollen from sucking Draco’s cock, fastened around Draco’s arsehole; Potter’s spectacular arse, tight with muscle, clenching under Draco’s hands; Potter’s tiny arsehole, dark and ringed with hair...

Draco slumps backwards, turning half onto his front and burying his face into the pillows. Stomach rolling unpleasantly, mouth bitter with the aftertaste of too much alcohol, Draco breathes in deeply. He smells, very, very faintly, sweat and spunk...and Potter.

A loud, crashing sound of something hitting the floor makes Draco scramble out of bed and snatch up his wand. The sound seemed to have come from the kitchen, from where he can now hear muffled cursing.

What the fuck?

Stark naked and hungover as all fuck, Draco strides out into the living room, crossing it silently on bare feet and bursting into the kitchen with his wand drawn.

Potter is in Draco’s kitchen. He’s waving his wand at a broken mug on the floor – Draco’s favourite mug – and catches it as it mends and reforms, rising up smoothly. There’s a pan sizzling on the hob and the room smells of eggs, sausages, coffee and toast. There are two plates on the counter, waiting to be piled with food. And Potter is there.

Potter, who’s dressed in the same shirt and jeans he’d worn the previous night, still hasn’t noticed Draco standing behind him. Potter, who is barefooted and mussed, and is making breakfast for Draco’s kitchen.

Then, quite suddenly, Potter seems to become aware of a set of eyes on him. Whipping around, he takes in Malfoy standing there, naked and wand held aloft, and he grins.

Potter stands there and he grins at Draco like it’s no big deal for him to be cooking breakfast in Draco’s kitchen after having, presumably, spent the night in Draco’s bed.

“Sleep all right?” Potter drawls, and Draco’s hand clenches around his wand.

“What are you doing here?” Draco asks tightly.

“Making breakfast,” Potter replies airily, turning back around and picking up the spatula in the pan. “You hungry? You look like you’re going to hurl, though.”

“Why—” Draco says loudly, but somehow unable to form a full sentence. “What made you think—Why would you even—What the fuck are you even doing here?”

“I just told you,” Potter replies gently, serving up eggs and sausages onto both plates. “I’m making breakfast. Thought I’d bring it to you in bed but you’re up now, so...” he shrugs, “’s good. Sit down,” he adds, pointing to the little breakfast table near the window.

“Potter,” and when the man pays no heed, “Potter.”

Potter sighs. “Yes, Malfoy?” he asks with an overly patient expression.

“Why are you still here?” Draco asks rudely. “Why haven’t you fucked off yet?”

“You’re very rude, you know,” Potter says conversationally. “First, you leave my place while I’m sleeping. And now you’re wringing my cock for making you breakfast.” He pauses and grins again. “Are you this callous with all your lovers?”

“You’re not my lover,” Draco informs him at once, even as his heart leaps in his chest. He’s suddenly very aware of how naked he is.

“I’m not?” Potter looks genuinely surprised and not a bit offended. “Then what would you say last night was? And last week?”

“Haven’t you ever just fucked someone and left it at that?” Draco asks aggressively. “Or do you propose to all your one-night-stands?”

Potter laughs, and it’s a rich, warm sound that makes Draco want to say more things to make him laugh. “You’re not really a one-night-stand, though,” he tells Draco, raising an eyebrow, lips curved up in a wry smile. “Not after last night.”

“What, so we’re boyfriends now?” asks Draco incredulously.

“Not yet,” Potter says cheerfully. “I’d like to take out to dinner at least once before we put a label on this.”

“I’m not going to dinner with you,” says Draco.

“Lunch, then?”


Potter glances at the filled plates. “Breakfast?” he asks, looking confused.

“You just want to fuck me again, is that it?” Draco asks flatly, his limbs beginning to tremble.

“Well, not right away,” Potter says, scratching the back of his neck and (poorly) hiding a smile. “I’d hoped we could eat breakfast first.”

“We hate each other,” Draco reminds him, ignoring his attempt at humour. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, so you said last night,” Potter deadpans. “People don’t usually say ‘I hate you’ during sex, you know?”

“They do if it’s the truth.”

Potter smiles. “The truth,” he says, “is that neither of us could possibly know where this is going.”


“So sit the fuck down, shut the fuck up and eat your fucking breakfast, you fucking pain in the arse,” Potter says, bringing both the plates over to the table and kicking out a chair for Draco.

“But...” Draco looks around blankly, his wand hanging limply by his side. “But...we hate each other,” he repeats feebly.

“Maybe, but the sex is pretty fucking brilliant,” Potter states, going back for the coffee pot and two mugs. “Will you sit down?”

“Why?” asks Draco stupidly.

“’cause I’m less likely to attack you if there’s a table between us,” replies Potter, gaze zeroing in on Draco’s cock.

Draco flushes and glares, squirming where he stands because he’s naked while Potter is fully dressed and flirting and looking at Draco like he’s going to eat him up whole. Honestly. It’s been less than twelve hours since Potter’s tongue was last buried inside Draco’s arse and now he feels conscious of his nudity?

He stands rooted to the spot as Potter approaches him, slowly winding his arms around Draco’s waist and leaning in to give him a sound, lingering kiss. Draco hears his wand clatter to the floor as he buries both his hands into Potter’s hair and opens his mouth for his tongue. His cock twitches against his thigh and Potter makes an odd, growling sound in his throat, pulling back and fixing Draco with a piercing look.

“Still hate me?” he asks, eyes gleaming, sunlight glinting off his stupid glasses.

Draco narrows his eyes. “Like you wouldn’t believe,” he replies breathlessly, dragging Potter back in.