'You can hold me if you want to,' said the thigh near his hip and as he reached out to do that, it kissed him through the blankets. With a knee meeting knee and a cap brushing cap, it slipped through his legs and he squeezed to keep it still — not trusting it any lower because he didn't trust himself. Especially when it flexed and was tight to his hold, he could imagine every ripple and all the muscles beneath his own. Toned from profession and from 'whee!' -ing little children, lifting them from the earth and giving them wings for a moment. And what a privilege it must have been to have been held by this angel, by their hands, by their love — it'd be an honor if he could have that.

'And you can and you will, just tell me where I can hold you,' said the toes around his heel and the heel around his toes, crawling swiftly from where they were and down again to rile him up. Until clenching were his muscles, until breathless were his lungs, until curling were his hands and bucking lightly was who he was. Because it was a reflex, if you will, it was a product of how he felt — tugging further at the thigh already digging into him. And another one came above him and he squirmed when he touched it. Because it was heavy and hot, and there was skin against skin. One of the pant legs of a jogger had rolled up, just for him — leaving a thicket of a limb and something warm for him to savor.

'Maybe here?' it suggested; not the heat, but the leg. It wound around him like rope and hugged him with all it had. 'Maybe there?' It came again and began to dig at the blankets. So that eventually, there was little keeping him away from it. 'Or…' trailed the scars he could feel from its knee cap, 'You can approach me.' It parted, just to look at him when it said it.

As if a lover who had been undressing and glancing up for permission; or rather, giving their consent so he could unwind how they did him. And have them tremble at his toes, at his heels, at his legs, at his thighs and his touches as he loved them like a man. Like someone without a plan, without thought, only devotion — if he could slip past their legs and ground them into the mattress. And trail lightning up a thigh with every pass he did on them. Now, wouldn't that be paradise if he had done so when they said it?

But there was no need for him to rush and not now; he was a patient man. He'd have all the time in the world to undo these as Harry did, so there was no need for him to stop this when all he wanted was his lion. Just the feel of him pinning down and teasing him all the while — it was an addiction and a poison Tom had willingly drunken, buzzing in his veins when Harry crawled up to meet him.

And his hands were no larger than the ones at his hips, holding him steady to the rock face of this body. It was like a mountain: built with grooves and valleys and peaks beneath his palms, leaving little to the imagination but much at the same time. And when Harry hiked to his shoulder and camped near his collar, dipping a finger down the bone of his neck to feel him shudder, Tom was blessed with a sight as soon as he opened his weary eyes.

Because 'Circe!' and 'Merlin...' and with an 'Mmmm' up his spine, gazing down at him was the sunrise — bound and bottled in human form. Not a part of him could look away nor wanted to as he stayed; and for the first time in a while, there was nothing Tom could say. Because all he could do was simply marvel at the fondness on Harry's face; how it was crumpled with a smile and with laughter lines he could trace.

'You can touch me,' said the thighs now swallowing his waist. They squeezed Tom until he curled, until he shifted underneath them. 'You can mark me,' said the eyes when they sauntered up to caress him. And maybe they were mapping all the places where they knew Tom was sensitive. 'And you can kiss me. If you want,' said the padding of a thumb when Harry rolled it just a little, teasing at a bud until it was dark to his fondle; and there was little Tom could think of to ease the hitches in his breathing because surely, he was going to burst. 'But if you'd rather just lay here,' it was torture when Harry stopped and the little gremlin knew all about it when Tom lurched from his pillow, 'That's fine with me, too.'

His little smile could just kill him. Because it spoke of a man with as much patience as the Devil, knowing that it was only a matter of time before he got what he wanted. And whatever that was, Tom knew he was clutching it — and that deep down, inside of him: he was on his knees to part with it.

Because he was human, after all — he was vulnerable to temptation — and you could say he was wooed when he faltered from Harry's hips. Not yet grazing where he could be, but tracing where he wanted. Like the muscles of a thigh, turning softer at his touch; like the end of a pair of briefs and the cotton fraying thin; like the patchwork of hair and the tautness of the flesh; and like the fire burning hotter when Tom strolled down a leg. Stretching as far as he could go without rising from the bed, never breaking from his stare when he fondled and squeezed him there.

"You're a little far. Come closer." You could imagine how hoarse he was: what with his partner on top of him and all the teasing he endured, all the stroking when he woke up and neither saying not a word. 'Until now,' Tom had thought when the words left his tongue. 'I want to show you that — '

"You're beautiful," Harry said it and he meant it And he squinted while he did it because of course, he couldn't see him.

"I'm much more in 1080p."

"Try 4K," Harry teased.

And if his sweetheart had his glasses, Tom would've rolled to that remark. Since the whites of one's eyes weren't that clear when they were blurred, especially from the eyesight of a devious little lion — pawing softly as he sauntered, as he leant down just to see him.

With a lovely pressure, building up; a pair of lips, he could kiss him; a splash of freckles, he could trace them; a hungry look, pinning him down. And there was nowhere he'd rather be when he skimmed Harry's being: a lazy finger up his thigh, up his back, up his shoulder. Just a nail away from biting him when it settled beneath a juncture, barely an inch from his pulse and it nipped at his finger.

"Do you want something?"

Harry chuckled. "You should be asking yourself that."

"Oh, I am." He began to wander from Harry's cheeks to his lips, and from those lips to his cheeks — nose scrunched in amusement. "But where to start? Could you tell me?" He sounded rough as he said it.

"I'll give you a few pointers." There was a hitch when Harry kissed him.

And like a single ray of light, it ripped Tom from the blankets — he was a seed in germination. Sprouting as far as he could go when he folded Harry to his branches, and there was little he wouldn't do as he savored every moment.

Pin and be pinned, gift and be gifted, steal and be stolen, coveted and worshipped — Tom knelt at that altar and was also bread to be broken, scattered within the hands of both a demon and a savior. Because Harry roamed him to his pleasure and was roamed back with as much fervor. Until there were no Riddles or Potters, but merely a man and his partner: each wobbly for something more when they came back together.

And in the end, winding softly around the forefronts of each other, came all the love they never knew and it struck them like a wave.