Bottom Harry One Shots

As Far As You'll Take Me

Summary: When he finds Harry in the common room, scattered about with a bunch of books and with an essay he's dictating about the history of unforgivables, it takes more than a few kisses for Tom to coax him back to bed. And by the same token, reality is even better than his own fist.

Ship: TomRiddlexHarryPotter

All credit goes to HQ_Wingster on Ao3

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A shower, a shudder: tiles painted by a finger, fingers coated with a dire, dire risen by a want. While leisured in a hand that had stroked it to completion, imagining a few calluses and teeth that weren't there.

As fluttering came the eyelids when something broke beneath the water, as a back and then after soon collided into a wall. While the inside, burning up while the outside, running cold — as trailing from the bottom and then rippling its way up was every tremor in his person — keeping the slippage to a minimum.

When he buckled and then he caved, and then he slid across the tiles while biting at his own lips and leaving bruises in his wake. That when he licked them, they pulsated; that when he touched them, they brushed back; and that when he chewed them into submission and burrowed past the red, he couldn't hide every sound or wrack of pleasure from his chest.

As deep and as a part of him, though a stranger to himself, riddles upon riddles upon riddles beneath his skin were now solved and all at once when a name quivered from his lips.

For it was everything — a denominator, the common answer to all he had, the very thing he would reach for and wage war on its behalf, the only person he ever cared for if he couldn't say himself and the only one he'd ever die for.

He would abandon his own principle.

Because every time he worked himself; or rather, had the name do it: he would perish and just a little and just enough to feel his grave. Feel the ground open wide as it swallowed when he came, when he tumbled from where he were and was met with softness as he did. In the shape of hands holding him up and nuzzling where it ached, trailing to where it hurt and kissing the pain away.

That even though he was alone and the farthest from his bed, though he had nothing but himself and the clenching of his fist, he could feel a pair of hands as they roamed along his flesh. He could feel parted lips kissing him out of breath, and he could feel the stare and the stutter and the smirk near his neck when he unveiled it to be seen — to be touched gingerly.

With vulnerability at its finest and trust between those teeth, he could feel these so clearly as he splashed from reality. As if another was here with him — a little shorter, but just as strong — when they wound him around a finger and at once, he was at their mercy.

As if their name and their face and their hands and their mouth were actually on him now and he could quiver at their touch, feel them part between his knees and the sound of 'Tom' drenched in water. And the visage of an angel, of a warrior, at his feet. Dressed in robes and that of silk that weren't parted when they got here, too enthralled and too distracted and couldn't be bothered.

For Tom was here: here as a darling and as a flower and keening like an instrument when strummed at where he wanted — yearning to be messed with.

While biting at his knuckles, gnawing red out of white while leaning over, near-collapsing and with his shoulders against the wall.

Shaking, trembling, widening to his thoughts: beguiled by the steam and the wilds of his lust and it made it easier for him to rock, to stiffen, to want, to spill, to hitch, to paint a landscape with his touch. With his fingers when they swept across the tiles surrounding him, with his everything were he honest when he fell to imagination.