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Draco Malfoy did not lose.
He dictated the rules. He set the pace. He was in control.
So how, exactly, did he end up on his back, legs wrapped around Harry bloody Potter’s waist, wrists pinned to the mattress, and face burning hotter than Fiendfyre?
It had all started with a kiss.
Well, no. It had started with Draco being a smug bastard, as per usual.
“I don’t bottom,” he had declared that evening, chin lifted, voice dripping with that particular Malfoy superiority. He was perched on the armrest of Harry’s threadbare sofa, twirling his wand idly between his long fingers as if this conversation were beneath him.
Harry merely looked at him—no snappy retort, no laughter, just a slow, appraising smirk that should not have made Draco’s heart flutter the way it did.
“Yeah?” Harry murmured, voice dropping as he stepped closer.
Draco held his ground, reveling in their constant sparring, the electric tug-of-war that defined every interaction. “That’s right,” he shot back, crossing his arms, his smirk curling. “I take charge.”
“Do you now?”
The way Harry said it—like he already knew Draco was full of shit—twisted something low in Draco’s gut. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.
He huffed, sharpening his glare. “Obviously.”
Harry didn’t argue. He didn’t call Draco a liar or roll his eyes. He just stood there, looking infuriatingly confident, his green eyes raking over Draco with a heat that had no business being so effective.
Draco's eyes narrowed. “What's that look for?”
Harry smiled, but it wasn’t a nice smile. It was the kind of slow, deliberate grin that said he already knew how this night would end.
And Draco—fool that he was—stayed right where he was, daring Potter to prove him wrong.
It escalated in a blur.
One moment, Draco was sneering defiance; the next, Harry had him pinned against the living room wall, mouth slamming down on his with bruising force.
Draco had half a mind to push him away—he should have—but Harry’s hands clamped onto his hips, thumbs pressing into the bone with possessive grip. The kiss was all demand, Harry claiming Draco’s lips, tongue thrusting in deep, and fuck, Draco hated how his body arched into it, craving more.
“Still calling the shots, Malfoy?” Harry breathed against his mouth, voice rough with amusement.
Draco opened his mouth to snap yes, he was, but Harry shoved him harder into the wall, knee nudging insistently between Draco’s thighs, rubbing against his growing erection. A pathetic whine escaped Draco’s throat before he could clamp it down. Harry laughed, low and triumphant, the sound vibrating through Draco’s skin. He’d murder the git later. Right after his mind unscrambled.
But before he could muster a response, he was suddenly being pulled away from the wall, half-walked, half-stumbled toward Harry’s bedroom, and—how had he let this happen?
“I changed my mind,” Draco said quickly, digging his heels into the floor before they could reach the bed. “This isn’t happening.”
Harry hummed as he pushed Draco back onto the mattress anyway, crawling over him with maddening ease. “Is that so?”
Draco scowled up at him, ignoring the way his body definitely did not agree with his mouth. “Yes.”
Harry nipped at his jaw, trailing slow, deliberate kisses down the side of his neck. “Tell me to stop, then.”
Draco opened his mouth.
But nothing came out.
Then Harry was kissing him again, pressing him further into the mattress, and Draco was gripping his shoulders instead of shoving him away.
The shift in control should have annoyed him.
It did annoy him.
And yet—
“Relax, Malfoy,” Harry murmured against his throat, lips brushing the sensitive skin there, his fingers already working open the buttons of Draco’s shirt.
Draco scoffed, lifting his chin haughtily even as his breath hitched. “I am relaxed.”
“Right.” Harry chuckled, clearly amused by the blatant lie.
Draco was prepared to argue, but then Harry was pulling his shirt off completely, his fingers skimming down Draco’s sides, and suddenly, arguing wasn’t a priority anymore.
Somewhere between Harry’s hands slipping beneath the waistband of Draco’s trousers and the heat of their bodies pressing together, Draco came to a horrible realization:
He wanted this.
He wanted it too much.
Harry took his time with him, like he was enjoying the process of undoing Draco piece by piece. The bastard was infuriatingly good at it too—knowing when to press, when to tease, when to lean in close and murmur something utterly indecent against Draco’s skin.
And Draco let him.
Which was exactly how he ended up here—on his back, with Harry’s hands holding him down, his lips brushing against Draco’s collarbone.
His trousers were the next to go, followed quickly by his pants, and before Draco had time to feel indecently exposed, Harry was kneeling between his legs, eyes dark with hunger.
His pride made one last valiant attempt to resist. “I still don’t bottom,” he declared, breathless but defiant.
Harry hummed, reaching over to the bedside drawer. “We’ll see.”
Draco’s snarky comeback died the second he saw the bottle of lube in Harry’s hand.
Oh.
“Potter—” Draco started, but his voice lacked conviction.
He slicked up his fingers, spreading Draco’s thighs apart with infuriating confidence. “You’re going to like it,” Harry said, voice deep, steady, assured.
Draco bristled, hating how his skin prickled at the words. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”
“I don’t make bets I don’t win.”
Draco wanted to argue. He really, really did.
But then Harry was teasing along the inside of his thigh, and every coherent thought promptly left his head.
The anticipation was maddening. The slow, deliberate way Harry touched him, like he was savoring every moment, made Draco want to curse him—and then maybe kiss him again.
He was coming apart faster than he cared to admit, and judging by the smug look on Harry’s face, he knew it.
Then Harry pressed the first finger inside him.
Draco refused to react. He refused to let Potter know that the slow, teasing stretch sent a bolt of heat through his entire body. His muscles tensed automatically, and he was not flinching, thank you very much.
“Relax,” Harry murmured again, rubbing soothing circles into Draco’s thigh with his free hand. “Unless you’d rather I stop?”
Draco gritted his teeth, glaring at the ceiling. “Don’t you dare.”
Harry chuckled. “That’s what I thought.”
The bastard added another finger, working him open with steady, patient movements that made Draco’s body betray him.
The stretch burned at first, but then—then—Harry curled his fingers just right, and Draco had to bite down on his lip to stifle the moan that nearly escaped.
Harry noticed, of course. He grinned like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup. “Good?”
Draco scowled. “It’s fine.”
Harry’s smirk widened. “Oh, it’s about to be a lot better.”
Draco was prepared to fire back some biting insult about overconfidence, but then Harry slicked himself up, lined himself up properly, and slowly pushed inside him.
Draco’s brain short-circuited.
“Fuck,” Harry groaned, his head dropping forward.
Draco couldn’t answer. He was too busy trying to process the fact that—Merlin help him—it felt good.
The stretch, the fullness, the fact that Potter was inside him—he should have been indignant. He was indignant. But his body had other plans, and those plans included tightening his legs around Harry’s waist and pulling him deeper.
Harry sucked in a sharp breath. “Merlin, Malfoy.”
Draco barely heard him over the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears.
Harry moved, slow at first, dragging out the sensation with maddening precision. Every thrust sent shivers down Draco’s spine, made his fingers dig into Harry’s shoulders as he fought to keep his composure.
He failed.
Because then Harry angled just right, slamming into a spot that made Draco’s entire world tilt on its axis.
His back arched off the bed, a sharp, unbidden cry escaping before he could stop it.
Harry grinned. “Found it.”
Draco wanted to hex him. He wanted to wipe that smug expression off his face. But mostly, he wanted Harry to do that again.
Harry obliged, clearly enjoying the way Draco came undone beneath him. His pace quickened, his grip tightening around Draco’s wrists, Draco's name slipping past Harry's lips like a prayer.
Draco hated it.
Draco loved it.
And when his orgasm hit, it crashed through him like a tidal wave, stealing the breath from his lungs. He barely registered Harry following soon after, buried deep, panting against his shoulder.
For a long moment, the world was silent, save for their heavy breathing.
Draco lay sprawled on the bed, limbs still tangled with Harry’s, his breath slowly returning to normal. His body ached in ways he had no intention of admitting, and Harry was far too pleased with himself.
Harry lifted his head, pressing a lazy, self-satisfied kiss to Draco’s jaw. “So. What was that about not bottoming?”
Draco turned his head, scowling despite the afterglow. “I hate you.”
Harry only grinned, brushing a damp strand of hair from Draco’s forehead. “No, you don’t.”
Draco grumbled something unintelligible, but when Harry pulled him close, he didn’t resist.
He’d fight the battle again tomorrow.
For tonight… he supposed he could let Potter have this one.