birdsofshore: (flapping)
[personal profile] birdsofshore posting in [community profile] hpkinkfest
Title: Head over Heels
Author: [livejournal.com profile] birdsofshore
Artist: [livejournal.com profile] shiftylinguini
Prompt Number: S94
Kink Showcased: Footjob, semi-public sex
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Summary: Bloody Malfoy. Always turning up when he’s not wanted, making Harry notice things he doesn’t want to notice… like Malfoy’s new tattoo.
Warnings: mild foot and ankle fetish, semi-public sex, footjob, tattoo, pining
Word Count: ~6300
Author's Notes: Thank you to my lovely betas, [livejournal.com profile] lq_traintracks and [livejournal.com profile] shiftylinguini for licking this into shape for me. Many thanks to the mods for hosting this marvellous kinky playground for us. And thank you most of all to my brilliant collaborator, Guini, for her patience and enthusiasm, and for taking the time to create so many glorious pieces of artwork. I'm in love with the way she's drawn them. ♥
I also wanted to let dear [livejournal.com profile] capitu know that I was thinking of her a lot when I wrote this. That might be evident in one or two places, heh.
Artist’s Notes: Omg, I was so excited when the lovely Birds asked if I fancied a collab (um, yes!!) and even MORE excited when footjobs came into the mix! My adoration for a fine pair of ankles (unf) is matched only by my appreciation for a good bit of semi-public, partially clothed kink (jshdjahj!!).
Big, throbbing thanks to Birds for being so amazingly fun to drool over ankles with, for encouraging me and beta-ing my sketches, and for writing such a toe-curlingly hot fic ― I am thrilled to be able to add some art to it! <333

Head Over Heels on AO3

~*~
The grass was tickly against Harry’s back, but he was not moving for anyone.

“Oi! Lazy. Come and help us unpack this lot,” Ron called.

“Lazy?” Harry opened one eye. “Who carried most of it up here while you sauntered along with a couple of rugs? That hamper weighs a ton.”

“Yeah.” Harry could hear the grin in Ron’s voice. “Mum’s been busy baking. Some kind of giant pie thing.”

“And enough sweet stuff to feed an army,” Hermione added, sounding rather disapproving. “How many people are actually coming?”

“I think twenty or so?” Luna said. “Maybe more? I’m not sure. I asked quite a lot of people, and everyone seemed to think a picnic was a great idea. Look, here are a few coming along the path.”

Harry let his eyes fall closed. The sun had decided to come out again and was beating down, warm and delicious, on the bare skin of his torso.

“There’s a blanket here, Harry, if you don’t want to lie on the grass,” Luna told him. “Come and have some of this nettle juice. I made it myself – it’s very refreshing.”

“Nah, thanks,” Harry said, stretching an arm over his head. “I’m really fine here.” He felt like a pat of butter lying on a slice of hot toast, his limbs liquid with contentment. “So Molly’s been baking? Any treacle tart in there?”

“Oh, yes, don’t fret, mate. She asked specially, Will Harry be there?” Ron made a teasing attempt at his mother’s voice. “Ooh, I’d better make another six treacle tarts for him, and a meat pie the size of Surrey. I won’t worry about Ron, though, he’ll be fine with corned beef sandwiches again…

Harry snorted, then blinked as a shadow fell across his face. He squinted upwards at the tall, angular figure standing over him.

“Treacle tart?” Draco Malfoy was looking down at him, an amused smirk pulling at his mouth. “Not worried about losing those muscles, then, Potter?” He let his eyes run over Harry’s torso.

Harry sat up abruptly and glared at Malfoy. Where had he sprung from, anyway? And why did he always have to turn up at things and take the piss out of Harry?

“It must be a nice life… “ Malfoy went on. “Flopping around all day, eating puddings…” Malfoy was wearing a crisp white shirt, and his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. This was the kind of thing Harry kept noticing, now Malfoy was around a lot more. And Harry didn’t want to notice it. Instead he fumbled for the t-shirt he had tied around his waist. It had got all sweaty as he carried stuff up the hill, and now it looked dusty from where he’d been lying on the ground, but he pulled it on over his head anyway and got to his feet.

“Need some help?” he asked the group around the blanket.

“No, we’re fine, Harry. It’s all done.” Luna looked around happily at everything set out. “You relax.”

But how could he relax, now Malfoy and his gang were here? Although, actually… Malfoy seemed to have turned up on his own. That kept happening, too. Like Malfoy thought he was welcome, or something. Like he’d been invited.

“Thanks for coming, Draco,” Luna said. “I’m glad you could make it.”

Malfoy unslung a leather satchel from his shoulder. “I brought Pimms. And some fruit and olives and things.” He unpacked various bottles and bags as he spoke.

“Wonderful.” Luna beamed. “Harry, why don’t you get Draco a drink?” She pointed at a couple of picnic benches nearby, where a selection of glasses and bottles had been placed. “Oh, hello, Rolf. You found us!” She gave the tall bearded man in shorts and sandals an enthusiastic hug.

Harry felt his brows draw down. Malfoy could get his own bloody drink. Why did he always have to look so… like that? His hair was perfect as usual, and all silvery and shining where the sun caught it, and he had some poncy shirt on, and tailored trousers and a pair of leather brogues. He looked like a model from a bloody magazine, all effortless elegance, instead of someone who’d dressed for a picnic with friends. Not that these were his friends, anyway, they were Harry’s friends.

“Hi, Draco,” Hermione said. “How are things at the bookshop?”

Malfoy turned that oh-so-charming smile on her, as if he were genuinely pleased to see her, and Harry felt his jaw clench. As if he could forget about Malfoy’s bloody bookshop. Hermione must shop there practically every day, going by how many times she mentioned the place.

Instead of waiting to hear the answer, Harry went over to where Luna was using her wand to hang fluttery cotton flags in the trees. “You invited Malfoy?” he hissed in her ear.

“Of course,” Luna looked surprised. “Why not?”

“Because… because,” Harry said. Wasn’t it obvious?

“I know he makes you feel uncomfortable,” Luna said gently. “But maybe if you tried talking to him, instead of just watching him all the time, you might—”

“I do not watch him all the time!” Harry protested.

“You do, Harry.” Luna touched his arm. “You know you do, and you scowl a lot. You’re very scowly, and it doesn’t suit you.”

“It’s just weird, him being here, and everyone being friendly to him, and—”

“Weird things can be good, don’t you think?” She sighed. “And Harry… I’m not sure it’s how the rest of us feel about Draco that’s bothering you.”

Harry wasn’t even going to think about what Luna meant by that. “I’m going to get a drink,” he announced.

“Good idea. While you’re there, you can get Draco one.”

But when Harry stomped back to the drinks table to get himself a beer, he saw that Malfoy was already there, drink in hand, and watching Harry with clear grey eyes.

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You see? Harry wanted to shout. It’s not me watching Malfoy. It’s him looking at me all the time, and making stupid remarks, and acting like… like this is amusing, or something. He could feel himself flushing under Malfoy’s gaze. Malfoy looked so fucking cool and composed, lounging on a tree stump, and his clothes looked way more comfortable on a hot day than Harry’s jeans and walking boots. Of course Malfoy would know the right thing to wear, Harry thought as he downed the beer. The right thing to drink, too – Malfoy’s glass was all tall and frosty and just looking at it made Harry’s mouth water so that he had to pull his eyes away before Luna accused him of staring.

But Malfoy must have noticed Harry looking, because there he was at Harry’s elbow, offering a jug of Pimms. “Want some of this?”

Harry wanted to say no, but it looked bloody gorgeous. It was brimming with fruit and the jug had clearly been charmed to stay chilled. “Yeah, OK,” Harry said, and he took the tall glass gratefully when Malfoy handed it to him.

God, it was good: fresh and zesty, and startlingly cold. Harry took another, longer drink and then nearly choked as he caught sight of Luna over Malfoy’s shoulder, giving him a thumbs up sign.

Malfoy looked entertained, and settled himself on the tree stump again. It would be pretty rude for Harry to walk off now, wouldn’t it? So Harry sat – it would only be for a minute, he told himself – on one of the picnic rugs. It was also rude and possibly odd to sit there without saying anything, but Harry couldn’t think of a single topic of conversation. Instead he stared at the ground, at his own boots, rather muddy and scuffed, and then at Malfoy’s pristine shoes with the leather buffed to a shine.

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Malfoy was sitting with his legs crossed, and his narrow trousers were rolled up an inch or two into a neat fold at the bottom. Why would Malfoy do that? To show off his ankles, or something? Harry had never thought about it before – had never thought about anyone’s ankles before – but he could see that Malfoy’s ankles were worth displaying. They were kind of narrow, and they looked smooth and… well, they were just a nice shape. Malfoy wasn’t wearing any socks, and the bare knob of bone jutting out just above his shoe was… there was something intriguing about it.

Harry took another drink. He suspected the silence was getting weird, and he couldn’t just sit there staring at Malfoy’s ankles, for fuck’s sake, but then Malfoy shifted his position and Harry saw that what he had assumed was a shadow was actually some kind of intricate marking on Malfoy’s ankle. What the hell was it? He wished he could see better, but it was really hard to make out, and he could hardly get down on his knees and start examining it—

“Potter.” Harry’s eyes flicked up to Malfoy’s face to find he was watching Harry with one eyebrow raised. “What are you looking at?” Malfoy asked.

“Uh. Is that a tattoo?”

“Oh.” Malfoy smiled. “Yes. Want to see?”

Harry did, very much, but he couldn’t say that, surely… But Malfoy was already sitting down next to him and offering his ankle for inspection.

Merlin. Harry didn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. It was a flower. But it wasn’t just the fact that Malfoy had a single flower tattooed on his ankle which made this strange shivery feeling twist through Harry’s gut. It was the most delicately drawn thing he had ever seen – Harry hadn’t known that tattoos could even look like this – and it was so simple and perfect that it almost took his breath away.

“Hold on,” Malfoy said, and he slipped off his shoes and extended his foot towards Harry so that he could see the stem of the flower, the impossibly fine line of it which traced around Malfoy’s ankle bone and down towards the arch of his foot.

“It’s a poppy?” Harry asked. The tattoo had no colour to it, no shading, only the barest outline against the stark pale skin.

“Yes. I’ve always liked them.” Malfoy glanced up, and whatever he saw in Harry’s face seemed to encourage him to go on. “They grow in the most unexpected places. The seeds can lie dormant in the soil for decades and then, when they’re exposed to light…” He made a gesture with his hand like a flower bursting into bloom.

Harry had to fight the urge to reach out and touch, to trace the skillful inkwork. He thought about the artist who had done this, imagined them bent over Malfoy’s narrow ankle, mapping out the petals, and he felt a sudden squirm of jealousy in his stomach. He wondered how Malfoy had looked while it was being done. What expressions he had made.

“Did it– did it hurt a lot?” Harry asked.

“No.” Malfoy gave a crooked smile. “No, this one didn’t really hurt much at all.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to Malfoy’s, and there was some kind of challenge there, as if Malfoy was daring Harry to say anything – to bring up the othertattoo that they both knew Malfoy had.

But beneath the defiance, there was something else – an uncertainty. It felt as if Malfoy was holding his breath. As if he had exposed a little too much and was ready to withdraw again in a hurry if necessary. Harry looked down at the flower tattoo again. At Malfoy’s bare feet, at the way he was sitting with his legs tucked sideways to let Harry look. It felt incredibly intimate all of a sudden, almost unnervingly so, and Harry realised, oh god, that his body was reacting to Malfoy’s closeness, to the sight of his pale, bare feet right there on the blanket. To the fragile lines of a flower sketched out on Malfoy’s very masculine ankle. Harry swallowed hard, his throat dry, and Malfoy’s lips parted as if he would say something, and—

There was a cough, and Harry’s gaze snapped away from Malfoy to Ron, who was standing right next to them. How long had he been there?

“Alright, mate? Everything OK?” There was a little perplexed crease wrinkling Ron’s forehead as he looked from Harry to Malfoy and back again.

“Yeah.” Harry nodded, maybe a bit too vigorously. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” He looked around and saw about a dozen more people had joined the picnic while he’d been sitting there with Malfoy.

Ron jerked a thumb towards the food laid out on rugs. “You coming to eat? Food’s really good.”

Hermione joined them. “Ron… I’m sure Harry can decide when he wants to eat.”

Ron looked stubborn. “Stuff’ll be gone soon.”

“Are you kidding? There’s enough here to feed about a hundred—” She broke off. “Oh my gosh, you’re right, Ron. It looks like Dean is going for the last of the chicken legs, and as for the sausages, well, if you’re quick you might be lucky...”

“Catch you later,” Ron said, leaving abruptly.

Hermione smiled to herself, then flicked a glance between Harry and Malfoy. “Well, er. Ron seems to be busy for now. Enjoy yourselves.” She gave them an awkward little wave as she left.

Malfoy looked as if he was trying not to laugh. He caught Harry’s eye again, and then lifted his chin as if gathering the nerve to say something. “So, I’ve been wondering...”

But Harry didn’t want to know what Malfoy was going to ask. Why didn’t people listen when he told them this was too weird for him? Bloody Luna, inviting Malfoy all over the place, and bloody Hermione, too, smiling like that, like she knew something he didn’t. Most of all, bloody Malfoy, sitting there barefoot with his poxy flower tattoo, his bloody cheekbones and hair and his face all hopeful and handsome and glowing.

Harry got to his feet in a hurry, and he couldn’t look at Malfoy any more, or he might change his mind and stay sitting next to him and his stupid ankles.

“Going to get some food before it’s all gone.” He walked purposefully towards the others. He had no bloody appetite at all, in fact his insides seemed to be flopping about madly, but Neville was over there, and Harry hadn’t seen him in ages. Talking to Neville would be far better – about a hundred times less awkward – than trying to talk to Malfoy.

Harry fought the urge to adjust himself in his jeans, and he didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see what Malfoy’s face was doing after Harry had been such an arse to him.





~*~






He’d managed to make his way through a good wedge of Molly’s pie. He’d drunk another beer or two. And he’d joined in with a really chaotic game of volleyball, where only about half of the players seemed to have a clue how to play, and a good percentage of those were determined to cheat anyway. So why did Harry feel all hollow inside and like he’d far rather sod off home and sprawl on the sofa by himself?

He had drifted away from the group to sit at one of the picnic tables. The sun was still beating down, and Harry was kind of sweaty from leaping around in an attempt to look as if he was enjoying himself. He pulled up his t-shirt to wipe away some of the dampness on his forehead, and as he pulled it down, a flash of white caught his eye and he saw Malfoy standing a little way off under a tree.

Malfoy was watching a game of frisbee while chatting to one of the wizards who worked with Luna, and Harry didn’t know why Malfoy talking to someone else annoyed him, but it did. It was probably the way he seemed so at ease. His white shirt was open at the neck, and as Harry watched, Malfoy took a long draught of his drink, his throat working, his expression unreadable. He looked so cool and unruffled there in the shade, and Harry could imagine how Malfoy’s pale skin would feel beneath his fingers, beneath Harry’s heated lips.

Fuck. He was definitely going to have to go home. He was just wondering what the best excuse would be for leaving early, when Ginny sat down at the other side of the table.

“Hey, hero boy,” she said, grinning, and dodged neatly as he went to kick her under the table. “Why are you hiding over here all by yourself?”

He shrugged. “Felt like taking a breather,” he told her. “Did you just get here?”

“Yup. Training pretty hard. Got tomorrow off, though, so I’m planning to enjoy myself. So… anyone interesting here?”

Harry’s eyes flicked to Malfoy against his will. It was only for a split second, but Ginny’s gaze followed.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, fiddling with the label on his beer where it was starting to peel off. “Is there?”

Ginny sighed. She reached over and nabbed the bottle from Harry’s hands, then took a drink. “How many more times do we all have to watch you sit around pining like this?”

Pining?” Harry grabbed the bottle back. “I was just having a drink by myself for five minutes. Is that some kind of a problem for you?”

She shook her head, her ponytail swinging a fierce flash of red. “I remember a time when I thought you weren’t scared of anything,” she said.

“Oh, Gin.” He felt a prickling at the back of his throat. “I was always scared. Of course I was. You know that.”

She rested her chin in her hands and regarded him with steady eyes. “Yes. But you didn’t used to let it stop you from doing what you needed to do.”

Harry scowled. “Fuck, will no-one ever just let me be? I don’t… I don’t even know what you’re on about.”

“Liar. You know perfectly well.” She took another swig from Harry’s beer, then stood up. “Well, see you later – some cute Ravenclaw guys just turned up. I’m going to make the most of the afternoon, even if you’re not.”

Harry watched her walk away, then put his head down on the table and closed his eyes. He could feel the sun beating down on the back of his neck. Maybe he was getting sunstroke. It felt like he had two choices: Leave the picnic, go home and be miserable. Or talk to Malfoy, make an idiot of himself, then go home and be really fucking miserable.

In his mind’s eye he could picture Malfoy, in glorious tormenting detail, exactly as he looked today. The slash of pale skin at his throat. The endless, lean lines of his legs in those trousers. The maddening tattoo. That was practically the worst of it, because now, when Harry thought about Malfoy, he was going to think of that, as well. Think of that bloody flower and how Harry would like to press his lips to it, to kiss along the sweep of Malfoy’s ankle and down to the tender skin of his foot. To discover if Malfoy was sensitive there, if he would moan and shiver as Harry licked along the ticklish arch…

Harry let out a groan from deep in his chest, and then stiffened suddenly as he heard a twig snap. He lifted his head to see Malfoy standing at the other side of the picnic bench, his eyes once again crinkling in amusement.

It took some effort for Harry not to drop his head back down onto the bench. Another part of him wanted to run, but fuck it, he was an adult. And when he was eleven, he had pulled the sword of Gryffindor out of a shabby old hat, so now he was nearly twenty years old, he could certainly sit at a picnic bench and have a conversation with Draco Malfoy without losing his shit, for god’s sake.

Malfoy swung one leg, then the other, over the wooden slats so that he could sit down. God, his legs. His fucking legs. They were just unfair. At least he had put his shoes back on, but there was all the rest of Malfoy to cope with, and Harry shifted a little to try to deal with the way his cock had got trapped against the seam of his jeans.

Malfoy didn’t speak, just smirked, and, well, if he was going to sit there and look at Harry like that, Harry was sunk. He needed to take control of the situation. “Malfoy,” he said, but it came out in a sort of ridiculous croak, and Malfoy looked more smug than ever.

“You look hot,” Malfoy said, his lips quirking up at the corner, and it wasn’t until Harry’s mouth had fallen partly open that he realised Malfoy was gesturing with his wand to summon the icy jug of Pimms and two fresh glasses, and that Malfoy had meant Harry looked a sweaty mess, sitting there in the sunshine, not that Harry looked hot hot. Merlin. He felt the blush rising up from his throat and had to force himself not to Apparate away then and there.

Malfoy didn’t seem to have noticed as he poured Harry a tall drink and slid it towards him. “So, what was the game you were playing?” Malfoy asked.

“Oh.” Harry took a grateful draught of Pimms. Ahhhh, that was so bloody good. “Volleyball. It’s a Muggle thing.”

“It looked fun.” Malfoy didn’t seem to be taking the piss, and Harry felt instantly suspicious. Why would Malfoy say something nice about something Muggle? Malfoy hated all that stuff, didn’t he? Except for the fact that he’s drinking a Muggle drink, said a little voice in Harry’s head. He was also wearing Muggle clothes, and according to Hermione, sold Muggle books alongside wizarding ones in his stupid poncy shop that everyone except Harry raved about.

OK. Just because Malfoy liked Muggle stuff now… that didn’t mean he wasn’t still a wanker. But, thinking about it, Harry was also fairly sure that what Malfoy had shown him was a Muggle tattoo. He sneaked what he hoped was a surreptitious glance under the table, hoping to get another look at it, and spluttered half a mouthful of Pimms when he saw that Malfoy had slipped his bloody shoes off under the table again.

Fuck. Harry looked around. Everyone else seemed miles away, playing volleyball or cheering from the sidelines, or sitting under the trees chilling out in the shade. There was no escape. It was just him, and Malfoy, and Malfoy’s bloody bare feet.

“You know… I was hoping I’d run into you here,” Malfoy said, and Harry’s mouth wanted to fall open again, but he stopped it. He had to be misunderstanding what Malfoy was saying. He’d had a couple of drinks, after all, and the sun was pretty hot, and although it really sounded like Malfoy was saying he was pleased to see Harry, he was certain Malfoy actually meant something else. Something totally insulting.

“Er. Were you?” Harry said, feeling like an utter dork. It would make sense later, he was sure, but right now, Harry couldn’t seem to work it out at all.

“Yes,” said Malfoy, softly. “Yes, I really was,” and then there was this terrible silence which went on for about a decade before Harry managed to reply, “Oh.”

Presumably everyone was going to jump out from behind a tree and shout, “Gotcha!” or something, at any minute, but for now, there was just Malfoy’s silvery eyes on him, making Harry want to squirm. Malfoy’s gaze ran all over Harry’s face, then he took a swift drink from his glass and as he put it back down on the table, Harry felt something brush against his ankle.

Hell. Malfoy’s legs were too bloody long, Harry knew that, but surely he could keep them over his own side of the table? Malfoy was watching Harry intently, his hair falling forwards across his forehead, his face soft and sort of hesitant, and Harry found that he couldn’t handle the silence any more.

“Why?” he asked, and he felt like he must be walking into Malfoy’s trap, like the punchline was going to come any moment, but he couldn’t help it, he had to ask anyway.

Malfoy took another drink, and then the touch on Harry’s ankle came again, only this time… this time, it was less like a brush, more like something deliberate, and oh fucking hell that was Malfoy’s foot, Malfoy’s bare foot, stroking over the gap between Harry’s walking boots and his jeans.

What the actual fucking fuck? Harry sat there, frozen, staring at Malfoy and unable to believe it. Harry should pull his legs away. He should… he should stand up and ask Malfoy what the hell he was doing. Shouldn’t he?

Instead, he sat there wide-eyed, as Malfoy moved slowly, purposefully, nudging his foot under the hem of Harry’s jeans until his toes were resting on Harry’s shin. Merlin, something bloody weird was happening here, because just that touch set hot, shivery sparks radiating up Harry’s leg. Malfoy didn’t break eye contact, just watched Harry’s face as his foot moved higher, lifting Harry’s jeans with it, and then he squirmed his toes in a sort of caress against Harry’s bare calf, and oh fuck, the feel of it went straight to Harry’s already swollen cock, and Harry moaned.

Oh god. Just for a moment… Harry had forgotten. Forgotten that this was Malfoy and that it couldn’t possibly mean what Harry would like it to mean. It had to be some kind of joke.

“Why are you doing this?” Harry asked, his voice sounding odd to his own ears.

“Don’t you like it?” Malfoy asked, softly kneading the flesh of Harry’s calf with his foot.

“Uh– I–” Harry stuttered, and then Malfoy hit a particularly sensitive spot and Harry had to bite his lip to stop himself from making any more embarrassing noises.

“I thought you looked… rather fed up,” Malfoy said, sliding the smooth ball of his foot over Harry’s skin again. And again.

Nnngh?” was all Harry could manage in return.

“And maybe a little unhappy,” Malfoy clarified. “I thought perhaps I could help.”

Harry’s cock was throbbing against his thigh. It was trapped there, under his jeans, hard and uncomfortable, and things were only getting worse as Malfoy switched sides and started massaging Harry’s other leg through the soft denim, lifting his foot higher, and rubbing in a way that made Harry want to do something totally inappropriate.

Harry shifted in his seat, widening his legs in an attempt to give his prick more space. There was still a small part of his brain that was telling him to get the hell out of here, but the rest of him was aching for Malfoy to carry on. Malfoy’s foot slid between his legs, moving slow and deliberate, doing terrible, wonderful things. This was insane. This was insane, and Malfoy’s foot stroked over Harry’s thigh where the denim was worn and soft and oh fucking hell, it felt so good, and someone was going to see.

Harry swallowed hard and glanced over at the others in what he hoped was a casual way. The volleyball seemed to have turned into a rowdy game of football, witches vs. wizards, and from the shouts of triumph Ginny and Luna let out at that moment, the girls appeared to be thrashing the boys.

“No-one’s looking,” Malfoy told him, his voice pitched low. His foot moved higher till it was practically in Harry’s lap, and Harry hadn’t dared look down at it yet, but he could picture it perfectly. The smooth pale arch of Malfoy’s foot, and the bare ankle, and oh hell, maybe it was the one with the tattoo. He had to look, then, and ohfuckohfuck, it was, the outline of the petals tracing shivery-fine over Malfoy’s skin, looking like a puff of wind would blow them away. It made Harry’s breath catch in his chest just to see it lying there against his jeans.

For one long, crazy moment, he thought about how it would be to unzip his flies and take his cock out. It would feel so fucking good to let it spring free, and maybe Malfoy would—

Holy Merlin, what was he thinking? Harry’s friends were right over there. And more than that – this was Malfoy. This was exactly what Harry didn’t want – wasn’t it? What he’d been trying to avoid with all his might. He couldn’t help it if it felt so bloody good when Malfoy touched him, like something Harry had been waiting a long, long time for. Like a painful knot loosening inside him, something tight and tangled slipping free and in its place there was such pleasure, oh god, only pleasure and no pain at all.

What was the harm in it? He glanced over again, and saw Ginny riding piggyback on some fit-looking guy, whooping with glee. Malfoy was right – no-one was looking at Harry, and he seized the chance to shuffle forwards on the seat, tilting his hips so that finally he could adjust himself and get his erection pointing more comfortably upwards and to the side. Malfoy’s eyes flashed with heat, and he moved his foot so it was a hair’s breadth from the thick bulge in Harry’s jeans. Harry was so hard, and these jeans had always been kind of fitted around the crotch. If anyone came over Harry was screwed, his enjoyment of Malfoy’s company blatantly obvious.

Malfoy let his toes skate lightly – so lightly – over Harry’s erection. Uhh. Harry had to hold himself back from thrusting against Malfoy’s foot. Harry closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Malfoy was watching him. Hell, Malfoy was so bloody gorgeous. His cheeks were slightly flushed, colour pinkening his high cheekbones, his pupils wide and inky-black against the pale grey of his irises, and Harry felt the last of his resistance slip away like melting ice.

“Yeah?” Malfoy asked in a whisper, brushing the ball of his foot with teasing gentleness over Harry’s prick.

Oh, god. “Yeah,” Harry groaned, and Malfoy pressed his foot to Harry’s erection, and sort of kneaded it through his jeans, and Harry felt his mouth hang open in bliss.

Uhhh.” He closed his eyes again. God, it was good, the pleasure raging through him hot and fierce.

Malfoy slid the ball of his foot along Harry’s full length, and then made a little surprised sound in his throat. “Fuck, Potter.”

Harry opened his eyes to see Malfoy biting his lip, his white teeth sinking into the fullness of it. Malfoy rolled his foot over Harry’s cock again, from root to tip, and, uhh, Harry felt shocks of heat radiating out almost violently from the base of his spine.

“Merlin,” Malfoy breathed. “You’re– fuck. Big.” His foot slid over Harry’s length again, stopping to massage the head, his eyes slightly glazed.

His foot stroked, then squeezed, and it wasn’t like anything else Harry had ever felt. It was muscular and sort of yielding at the same time, and now Harry could feel the hunger in the way Malfoy touched him. It was so hot, so alarmingly hot, and Harry had to choke off a moan and remind himself where they were. This was a picnic, for fuck’s sake. You couldn’t get much more wholesome than that, and there was Malfoy’s foot, pressed lovingly against the length of Harry’s erection, and Harry was going to come if he wasn’t careful, right there in his jeans.

“Harry?” a voice shouted. “You OK over there?” Bloody hell, it was Ron, yelling from the sidelines of the football game.

Malfoy’s foot froze, and Harry knew he needed to answer quickly, but he didn’t trust his voice. He had to gulp in air before he could manage any kind of reply. “Yeah,” he called. “Fine, mate.”

Harry’s eyes flicked guiltily to Malfoy, who had let his foot drop down and was keeping his face turned away from the others.

Ron frowned, and looked as if he might say more, but then a ball came out of nowhere and hit him in the side of the head. “Oi!” he roared. “Ginny, you utter knobhead!”

Harry watched in relief as Ron grabbed a handful of grass and chased after Ginny, apparently trying to stick it down the back of her dress.

Then Harry gasped as a warm, steady pressure against his balls drew his attention back to Malfoy. He looked down, and felt his cock jerk in approval at the sight of Malfoy’s toes splayed over Harry’s groin. Delicious heat pooled at the base of his spine and he stared helplessly as Malfoy began to move again.

“Forget about the others,” Malfoy said. “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?” he asked Harry. Malfoy’s voice, the snooty tones tinged with a breathless excitement, was almost as much of a turn on as what he was doing with his foot. “You’re going to come,” Malfoy told him.

“Oh, god,” Harry choked out as Malfoy’s foot worked over his length, strong and sure.

“You’re going to come, right here.”

“What about—” Harry broke off as Malfoy reached the head of his cock again, his supple foot coaxing the most incredible reactions from Harry. “Ahhh.”

“They won’t notice,” Malfoy said quietly. “We can be quick.”

Harry’s cock twitched against Malfoy’s touch, so close already. The sun went behind a cloud and then burst out again, and Malfoy looked as though he was glowing. The light streamed down on him, catching his hair and making it incandescent, his face alight with a fierce hungry expression that Harry had never seen before.

“So hot,” Malfoy said.

“God, yes,” Harry gasped.

You’re so hot,” Malfoy told him, looking as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying, and Harry couldn’t help it, he clutched at Malfoy’s foot with both hands, grinding against it. A bead of sweat trickled from his temple. His orgasm was waiting, right there, a great rush, ready to spill over—

“Yes,” Malfoy urged, low and dirty. “I—” He swallowed, hesitating, then Harry bucked up against his foot and Malfoy’s words came tumbling out. “I fucking want you, Potter.” His skin was smooth against Harry’s palms, the knob of his ankle shifting under the skin, and all of that glorious friction right where Harry needed it. “I want you inside me.”

Harry came. Oh god, he came. A long, low, groan rumbled through his chest and he couldn’t help it if anyone heard. His face twisted up in an agony of bliss, his prick jerking again and again, spurting into his jeans with Malfoy’s foot pressed against the growing wet patch on the denim.

And when Harry thought he was finally done, Malfoy’s foot coaxed the last few drops from him and he sagged against the table, utterly spent.

“Oh god.” Harry kept his eyes closed for a moment. “That was… that was amazing,” Harry said. “Did anyone see?”

“Well,” said Malfoy, and Harry could hear the smile in his voice. “It wasn’t the most discreet ending, maybe.”

Harry’s face flamed with heat as he opened his eyes. “Oh, bloody hell.” It didn’t surprise him that Malfoy still looked relatively unflustered, although there was a tell-tale flush of colour on his cheeks.

“Don’t panic. I think we got away with it,” Malfoy said, looking round. The football match seemed to be over and most people had flopped down to rest on Luna’s colourful rugs. “If they did notice, they’re doing a good job of pretending they didn’t.” He gestured at Harry’s crotch. “You’d probably better…”

Harry found his wand and hurriedly cleaned himself up. The sun was lower in the sky now, and as Harry’s heart rate returned to normal, he felt a breeze stirring the hairs on his arms. “Er. You didn’t come,” he said, feeling a bit shy.

“No,” said Malfoy, and his voice sounded offhand enough, but his eyes were darting uncertainly across Harry’s face. “I didn’t.”

Harry gulped. He supposed they could risk it again, or maybe they could go off into those trees and find somewhere? But, bloody hell, a picnic was no place for all the things he wanted to do to Malfoy. He wanted to peel those tight trousers off him, unbutton the pristine shirt and leave it hanging loose, framing Malfoy’s chest while Harry kissed down, down, down, covering every inch of Malfoy’s body until he reached the flower tattoo and the tender soles of Malfoy’s feet.

“Can we go somewhere?” Harry asked. “Somewhere... private?”

Malfoy smiled, and it lit his whole face, the sharpness softening into something quite unexpected. “I thought you’d never ask.”

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