When he'd thought about this in the old days, when he'd let himself think about it, it hadn't been slow or easy or anything like romantic. It had been all heated, rushed fantasies, just enough to get him off in the brief periods when he had that kind of privacy, when he wasn't with someone else who could be blessedly distracting. Brief, because it hurt. Flashes of something like this, pressing Tom up against a tree and taking what he wanted. Crippled, because he was crippled, in his head if not in his body.

And now... he's not sure what this is.

"Fuck," he mutters between kisses, already dropping a hand between them and palming Tom roughly, feeling hardening flesh pressing back and fumbling with his zipper.