Work Text:
“Greg, Tom has a visitor in reception.“
Greg, who is in the middle of a very dicey game of solitaire, pauses to cradle the phone between his shoulder and his ear, then opens Tom’s calendar. He’s fairly confident Tom doesn’t have any meetings until 3pm and it’s only just past noon. Sure enough, his diary is currently empty.
“Uhh… Name? Do they have a name or, uh… Corporation? An appointment time? Or an… An agenda, perchance?”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone, then a deep sigh, “Name’s Rebecca. She doesn’t have an appointment, just wants to see Tom.”
Greg clicks his tongue, nodding at nobody, “Okay, sure… Okay, let me check with him? And one of us will be right down, probably.”
The receptionist hums her agreement and Greg quickly disconnects to dial Tom.
“Ahoy-hoy, Gregory, to what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your call?” Tom’s tinny voice chimes in loudly, and Greg quickly lowers the volume to save his hearing.
“Hey Tom, uh… There’s someone here to see you, some lady? Rebecca? She doesn’t have an appointment…”
“And?” Tom asks, seriously.
“Well, I wondered if you knew of her? If it’s something I don’t know about—“
“Don’t think so, Greg, can you go and scope her out?”
“Scope her out?” Greg repeats, nose crinkling.
“Yeah, go see what she wants,” Tom says, then hangs up.
Greg stares into nothing for a few moments whilst his brain processes and catches up, then he sighs. It’s not a big deal, it’s just a long way down to reception and he was kinda comfy up here playing solitaire. Regardless he stands and slips his suit jacket on, straightens out his hair, and heads down.
When he gets there, he shuffles awkwardly behind the reception desk and clears his throat. The receptionist, whose name he regretfully can never remember, looks up at him with an arched eyebrow.
“Uh, I’m here to, like… Suss out Tom’s visitor?”
The receptionist gives him a withering look before nodding towards a lady lingering by the revolving doors. She’s tall and blonde and she has a camera on a strap slung over one shoulder. Greg speculates that maybe she’s here for work, or maybe it’s a PR thing they’ve somehow both forgotten about.
She’s looking outwards at the street, so Greg approaches loudly and taps her gently on the shoulder.
“Whoa,” she says when she turns, craning her neck to look up at him, “You’re even taller than Tom is. I didn’t think that was possible.”
This momentarily throws Greg for a loop as he stands and blinks at her for a moment, “Uh…”
“Is Tom not in today…? I can come back tomorrow—“
“No, uh, he’s— I just wondered— Can I help, in the interim? He’s… Tied up, at present? Thought I should come down and scope. Do some scoping. Are you a photographer?”
“No, brain surgeon,” she replies, dryly, then grins at Greg’s confusion, “That was a joke.”
“Oh,” Greg says, feeling like an idiot, “Were you doing a piece on him or something? I’m Greg, I’m like his assistant? So I could… Handle you? I mean, this … If that’s the case?”
She smiles lopsidedly, like she’s slowly figuring something out. Greg deeply wishes that she would clue him in.
“No, not exactly, I’m his—“
“Rebecca!”
Greg startles as Tom’s loud voice calls out from the opposite side of the lobby as he hurries over. Greg suddenly feels like his window of opportunity to glean information here is finite.
“You were saying?” He asks, suddenly curious as to the capacity in which Rebecca knows Tom, ‘ I’m his… ’ ringing in his ears a little. His what? Acupuncturist? Masseuse? New girlfriend? Perhaps an ex? He’s never met an ex of Tom’s, aside from Shiv. She could be a valuable source of information.
She opens her mouth to reply but is quickly distracted by Tom, who has swooped in on them quickly and is now pulling Rebecca in to kiss her cheek.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He asks her, beaming, and Greg hates the horrible little burn of jealousy he feels behind his ribs, “When Greg here said Rebecca it didn’t immediately click, but I started to wonder… It’s been forever!”
She nods just as brightly, cupping his face in one hand to thumb over his cheek, “And despite that you look exactly the same,” she says.
“Liar,” Tom says with a grin, pinching her waist, “No doubt trying to flatter me back in front of your camera.”
“Well, it’s funny you should bring that up…” she says, coyly, and Tom begins to pale.
“Why don’t I take you out for coffee? Or lunch? Coffee and lunch? Maybe a cocktail for dessert, sound good?” He says quickly, taking Rebecca gently by the arm and guiding her out, “Greg, can you move my call with Comms? I’ll pick up with them tomorrow.”
Greg just nods vacantly as he watches Tom leave, only realising he’s frowning so hard when his face starts to ache with it. He’s trying to piece together a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit, but only because he doesn’t yet have all the pieces. He folds his arms and sulks, hoping Tom comes back soon so he can grill him for everything he’s got.
~
Tom returns over four hours later.
After three failed attempts at walking seamlessly past his office to check if he’s back yet, Greg eventually resolves to bribing a couple of reliable spies on Tom’s floor to let him know when he returns. Knowing Tom as he does, he expects that he will try and avoid him for as long as possible, intent on keeping any and all information about Rebecca close to his chest.
Which is exactly why Greg accosts him the moment he gets the email, subject line: WAMBS BACK.
“Good lunch?” He asks as he briskly enters Tom’s office, making him jump. He came up so quickly that he forgot to prepare any sort of valid excuse for being here.
“Jesus, Greg, do you have my room bugged or something?”
“Don’t be silly,” Greg says, though he makes a mental note to explore that option at some point, maybe. He likes to collect information and Tom can be so secretive. Greg allows himself one brief moment to consider how insane it is to honestly consider bugging Tom’s office before he valiantly charges onward. “So was it good? The lunch?”
“Yes, Greg, it was good, are you waiting for me to dictate my review or something? Trying to improve your Google Guide score?”
Tom is holding something tightly in his hand. An envelope. Greg stares at it idly. He’s so curious suddenly, and he’s been restless ever since Tom left. His fingers twitch at his sides.
“What’s in the envelope?”
“DNA results. Turns out I’m your father, who knew?”
Greg makes a face, “Don’t say things like that, that’s… That’s not good for me to think about.”
Tom smirks and something unsaid hangs in the air between them. Greg is praying desperately that Tom doesn’t attempt to fill the comfortable and knowing quiet with some sort of awkward Daddy comment. Thankfully, he lets the silence stretch on before pulling open his desk drawer to slide the envelope inside.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, Gregory, Rebecca was just returning some pictures to me from our college days.”
Now that’s interesting. College Tom… A picture briefly forms in Greg’s mind but it isn’t clear enough for his liking.
“Oh,” he says, the tension in his shoulders fading, then building back up again, “So a friend? She’s a friend.”
Greg takes a breath in then sighs it out, grappling with the unexpected feelings that keep bubbling up to the surface lately. Ever since The Shivorce, Greg has been hyper conscious of Tom’s romantic interests. Hyper conscious and hyper jealous. He knows exactly why he feels like this, but he’s doing his best to ignore it. At least with Shiv he knew Tom was just… Bobbing along, suffering in one-sided monogamy. Now he’s a free man. Greg dislikes this concept…
“Ex girlfriend,” Tom says, in that voice that he does, the one that if he waggled his eyebrows it would make him look as well as sound like a gameshow host.
“And she’s a photographer?” Greg asks, that burning jealousy flaring up again as he thinks of his forgotten Nikon back home. It’s insane, but he makes a mental note to charge it when he gets home later.
“Yes. She’s a professional now. She was going through some of her things and—“ Tom trails off, swallows, “Well, it doesn’t matter. What are you doing tonight, anyway? Shall I treat you? Take you out for dinner?”
Greg arches an eyebrow. He still has questions, but Tom is deliberately playing up to his weaknesses in order to change the subject. Greg loves when he does that.
“What’s the occasion?”
Tom shrugs, “I don’t know, how many rounds of solitaire have you won today?”
Greg blinks, trying not to smile, “No comment.”
“I see,” Tom says, not trying nearly as hard as Greg to hide his amusement, “I’ll meet you in the lobby at 6.”
~
Greg wastes his final hour needlessly organising his desk, then wanders up to Tom’s office a minute after 6pm. He’s not sure what is driving his curiosity to such lengths, or why he’s so blindly giving in to impulse - he’s just going with it. Ever since Tom uttered the words ‘college days’, Greg has been foaming at the mouth, just desperate to see what Tom was like back then. He thinks part of it is just this enduring desire to know Tom better, to see the secret side of him that other people don’t see.
Knowing that Tom will be waiting for him downstairs, punctual as ever, he whips into Tom’s office and pulls open his desk drawer, only to find that, as suspected, Tom’s taken the photos with him. Greg huffs, because that makes things more challenging, but not impossible. They’re probably hiding in Tom’s briefcase, which he will no doubt bring along with him to the restaurant. Challenge accepted, he thinks to himself.
Tom takes him to his favourite sushi place because he likes watching Greg struggle with chopsticks, and they have an easy evening talking about nothing. There’s a tension in the air but Greg can’t figure out what it is, it just seems to constantly hum between them, charging the atmosphere. He keeps wanting to ask Tom about his ex, but every time the words get stuck in his throat and his eyes wander over to Tom’s briefcase. He needs what’s inside more than he can feasibly understand.
Eventually an opportunity presents itself.
“Wasabi makes my eyes run like Garry Bjorklund , Gregory, keep an eye on my bag, would you?” Tom says as he rises to go to the bathroom.
“Yep, sure, no problem,” Greg says, his gaze following Tom’s path across the room until he disappears out of sight.
The second he’s gone, Greg pounces on his briefcase like it’s about to explode. He’s grateful that they’re tucked away in their usual spot, a corner booth away from prying eyes and ears. Tom has always liked to be hidden away like that.
He tears into Tom’s briefcase like the man possessed that he is, rummaging around through his various papers and pens until he finds the envelope at the bottom. He has a brief moment of clarity that stops him in his tracks before it fades away, replaced with ‘college Tom’ madness again.
Just a quick look , he tells himself, for science .
Greg spares a cursory glance towards the bathroom to check for Tom before opening the envelope and spreading some of the photographs out on the table in front of him, face starting to burn as he absorbs what he’s seeing and the weight of what he’s doing.
Every photo is of Tom, except instead of candids, sporting events, or dates with Rebecca, they’re…
“Oh god,” Greg murmurs, fingers spreading out over Tom’s young face, tracing over his naked shoulders, his naked arms, every exposed part of him that Greg has never seen before.
Tom looks no older than 21. His hair is a little longer, enough to be in his eyes, those blindingly blue eyes that stand out in every picture, and he looks gorgeous. Every bit as broad and as tall as he is now, but a little leaner and smoother. In some photos he’s in bed, blankets slung over his ass, asleep, then awake, then smiling at the camera, genuine and content. In other photos he’s grinning whilst making coffee, sitting at a table or on a couch. In every photo he’s naked.
Greg can’t stop staring. He had wanted to see a secret and unknown side of Tom so badly, but this isn’t at all what he was expecting. He suddenly feels a deep, sinking stone of guilt in his stomach at what he’s doing, but he can’t seem to stop himself. The crazy thing is that even though Tom is totally naked, he looks so relaxed and normal that Greg hardly even notices it.
Instead, his eyes linger on Tom’s smile whenever he sees it. Tom smiles whenever he knows the camera is on him, and sometimes even when he doesn’t, and it’s so genuine and real. He has to hand it to Rebecca, she takes beautiful pictures.
He’s barely halfway through the pile when he suddenly senses a presence opposite him, dropping everything in his hands and sitting up straight.
Greg swallows, heart in his throat as Tom stares at him. He was so absorbed in the photographs that he didn’t even hear him return. Now he’s been caught, the evidence of his terrible, ugly betrayal spread out between them on the table. He feels like he’s on fire.
“Shit,” he says quickly, shaking his head, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, man, I— I— I don’t know what came over me? I just like— I became possessed? Obsessed, maybe? I’ve been thinking about it all fucking day and I just— I really just wanted to know? It was killing me… I know that’s not an excuse, exactly, and… Fuck, I’m sorry.”
Tom doesn’t react, just looks at him, palms flat on the table in front of him, staring Greg in the eyes. Greg is grimacing hard, entire body tense and on edge as he waits for his reckoning. A reckoning that Tom is clearly intent on dragging out. Long moments pass before it becomes too much to bear and Greg breaks.
“Do you wanna like… Punish me?” Tom’s eyebrows shoot up and Greg realises what he just fucking said, “Shit, I mean— I just mean, like, you could hit me?”
“Like spank you?” Tom says, his façade breaking as he smiles, “Over my knee? That’s what you want? Sick pervert…”
Greg is… So lost.
“You’re not mad…?” He questions slowly, watching as Tom rests his chin in his hand and looks down at the photographs.
“I’m not mad,” he says, and Greg shakes his head.
“Am I in a coma? Did you beat the shit out of me and this— this is a dream? I’m dreaming?” He stammers, and Tom just laughs.
“Don’t be a fucking moron. Jesus, Greg, is that what you think of me?” Tom says, feigning hurt.
“Why aren’t you mad, then?” Greg presses, “I just, like… Very substantially invaded your privacy and the only excuse I can muster is… Is that my curiosity sent me insane.”
“So, to be clear,” Tom says, biting his lower lip for the briefest of moments, “You’re pleading temporary insanity to this crime?”
Greg shrugs, then nods, “Uh, yeah, I guess if, if this is, like, the courtroom.”
Tom smiles, rapping his knuckles on the table a couple of times as if to mimic a judge's gavel, “Plea accepted. Verdict not guilty. You’re free to go.” Tom smiles tightly at Greg, then sighs, “Was it worth it, at least? Curiosity sated?”
Greg looks back down at the photos arranged haphazardly on the table. There’s still a stack he hasn’t even touched, “I mean… I feel a new curiosity has perhaps been unearthed?”
Tom nods, catching on immediately, “Well… As you already know, Rebecca and I dated in college...”
Greg rubs at his chest. The jealous beast inside him keeps rearing its ugly head today and he’s had enough of it.
“She was a photographer and she wanted to photograph me… I don’t know, Greg, it was the nineties,” Tom says, shrugging like that’s explanation enough.
Greg looks down at the photos, continuing to thumb through them. Some of them are cast in moody lighting and Tom looks serious, arms wrapped around a chair and chin resting on his bicep. In others he’s laughing or speaking or writing notes. He looks beautiful. Greg wishes he could have known him back then.
“You look good,” he says, because it’s true, but then he realises his mouth is running away with him again, “Happy, I mean.”
Tom nods, watching Greg shuffle through the photos before clearing his throat and gathering them up.
“Better stop there, Gregory. The ones on top are pretty tame but, uh…”
“Oh,” Greg says, watching Tom hide them away. He’s disappointed, but he can’t exactly say that, because he can’t even articulate why he even feels the way that he does. He watches mournfully as Tom envelopes them back up and slides them into his briefcase. “Do you miss her? Or, even just… Back then?”
“Yeah,” Tom says, looking pensive, “Sometimes.”
Greg nods. His heart is still beating hard in his chest, the adrenaline from being caught still humming under his skin.
“I have a camera back at my apartment—“ he tries, smiling in an attempt to diffuse some of the heavy tension that’s settled back in around them.
Tom snorts, shaking his head, “Shut up, Greg.”
~
Greg thinks, with great and eternal sadness, that that’s the end of it. That he’s missed his chance forever and the moment has gone. He spends a day or so feeling grateful that he even got to see what he saw, before immediately launching into plots and schemes in order to see the rest, trying to find a way of bringing it back up with Tom that doesn’t seem obvious and forced.
He’s run out of sensible ideas, and is about to move onto insane ones when an opportunity walks right into him about five days after they first met.
“Rebecca!” He says, more enthusiastically than he means to. She seems startled but somewhat entertained by Greg’s looming fervour.
“Oh shit! Sorry, Greg, I didn’t see you… Somehow?”
Greg laughs, feeling a little giddy, “Yeah, I guess I’m kind of hard to miss!”
Rebecca smiles but her eyes are widening. It makes her look comically amused and Greg wants to laugh, but he manages to keep himself in check. His brain is rapidly coming up with ideas on how to best further his scheme. Maybe he can ask her if she has the originals? Maybe he can tell her Tom lost the envelope and would like further prints…
“Are you here to see Tom?” He asks, trying desperately to remain normal in the face of his crazy brain, “I was just heading out to get him some lunch—“
“It’s a flying visit, I’m afraid,” she says, smiling, “I’m glad I’ve caught you, though, I was wondering if you could pass something on to him for me?”
Greg nods before his brain catches up, “You don’t wanna give it him yourself? He’s only—“
“No, I think you should do it… Could you give him this?” She says, pulling another envelope from her purse and handing it to Greg.
“More college photos?” He asks, taking the envelope and rotating it in his hands, fingers dragging around the edges. He feels as if he’s just been handed a check for a million dollars.
“No, I took this one the other day, when we went out for lunch. When he was talking about you.” She smiles sweetly at him, pulling her camera a little higher onto her shoulder, “Give him a kiss from me, won’t you?” She says, before making her exit, giving Greg a wave as she goes.
Greg stands in the reception area for a few moments whilst his brain turns over what Rebecca just said. He realises the envelope in his hands isn’t sealed, and it’s more than enough of a lucky happenstance to encourage him to take a look.
With a quick glance around him, he slides the photo out and looks at it, cheeks starting to burn the minute he sees it.
In the photo, Tom is smiling so serenely, backlit by the late afternoon golden light that pours into the coffee shop he and Rebecca are clearly sitting in. He has one arm folded over his chest, and the other is raised, thumb brushing thoughtfully against his lower lip as he talks. He’s staring down at his coffee, and is clearly in the middle of saying something, but he looks so happy, so content. It makes Greg’s heart race. He realises with unexpected elation that Tom looks like he did back in college - happy and free.
Something warm blossoms in Greg’s chest that floods his entire frame. Without really thinking, he pockets the photo and takes off at a run for the elevator. The entire ride up he’s buzzing with nerves, practically panting even though he’s barely even moved.
As soon as he reaches Tom’s floor, he marches up to his office and throws open the door before he can talk himself out of it.
“I wanna see you,” he blurts once he’s inside, chest heaving from the effort it took for him to say that.
There’s an awkward silence as Gerri slowly turns to look at him, sitting opposite Tom with her notebook open. Shit. He hadn’t realised she’d be here.
“Well, I’m kind of seeing Gerri right now, Greg,” Tom says, quiet and level.
“That’s alright, we’re about wrapped up,” Gerri says, rising. She gives the both of them a curious yet unimpressed look as she puts her notebook under her arm, “Far be it from me to get in the way of your little emergency mothers’ meeting.”
Tom rubs his temples as Gerri exits, closing the door firmly behind her.
“Sorry,” Greg says, “I forgot— I didn’t check.”
“Isn’t it your job to know my schedule?”
“Tom would you… Would you shush?” Greg says, approaching quickly and leaning over Tom’s desk onto his palms.
He’s suddenly nervous, even more so now that they’re alone. What if he’s completely misread the situation? What if he’s got it all wrong? He begins knocking on Tom’s desk with the knuckles of both hands on some sort of deranged impulse.
“Greg,” Tom repeats, growing impatient, “Get a hold of yourself, would you? What’s got your panties all twisted?”
Greg steels himself and looks up into Tom’s eyes, “I wanna see you. Like, modern day. I want you to show me.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Tom asks, but he’s only half smiling, like he knows what Greg means.
“I want you to show me the rest of your pictures,” Greg says, as confidently as he can muster, “And then after that, I wanna see you . And then— Then we’ll… We’ll see.”
“ We’ll see ,” Tom repeats, flatly.
“Yeah. Yeah, we will,” Greg says, voice low and determined. Tom swallows.
“Well, alright then,” he says, leaning back in his chair to give them a little breathing room. It’s only then that Greg realises he’d been leaning in closer and closer over Tom’s desk. He quickly stands up straight. “How about 8 o’clock?”
Greg processes this for a moment, “Wait, really?”
“Really,” Tom says, looking serious.
“Oh,” Greg says, hands tapping at the sides of his thighs, “8, you said? PM?”
“I don’t think I mean in the morning, Greg. 8pm. Post meridiem. My place. Okay?”
“Okay,” Greg breathes, feeling like he’s just stumbled out of the window thirty stories up but somehow landed on both feet without breaking a bone, “See you then. Post meridiem.”
~
Greg arrives at Tom’s place with a bottle of wine that immediately gets relegated to the bottom shelf of Tom’s wine cooler with a fond roll of his eyes.
“God bless you for trying,” he says, pulling out what is clearly a superior bottle and pouring them both a glass. Greg notices Tom’s hands are trembling as he does it, and it immediately makes him feel one hundred times more nervous. After all his insane scheming and plotting at the hands of his insatiable curiosity, he feels a little bad to have possibly put Tom unwillingly in this position.
“Just to be clear,” he starts, going against every desperate plea in his head, “We don’t have to like— Well, you don’t have to show me the photos. Or anything. If you don’t want. If it might make you, like… Uncomfy.”
Tom exhales a sound into his glass as he takes a sip, licking his lips once he’s done. Greg is entranced by his mouth in a way he’s never allowed himself to be before.
“I’m plenty comfy, Greg, it’s fine. It’s not a big deal. If you want to see, then I want to show you.”
“Cool,” Greg says, taking an overly large gulp of wine in an attempt to steady his nerves, wiping up what misses his mouth with his sleeve.
Tom smirks, then gestures Greg over to the couch, where Greg gingerly sits. Tom takes a deep breath and sits next to him, before immediately springing back up, rounding the coffee table to stand opposite. He awkwardly leans on the modern marble hearth of the fireplace, then stands up straight, then leans again, restless.
It’s then that Greg realises the photos are there on the coffee table, tempting him in, waiting to be touched and handled and looked at. Greg immediately slides off the couch onto the floor, crossing his legs and shuffling up under the table as close as he can get. This is what he’s been waiting for.
He fans his hands out over the photographs and takes them in. The top layer are all ones he’s seen before, but he takes his time to look at them again, trying to commit them to memory. He rests his chin in one hand as he begins to pore through, fingertips tracing over Tom’s face, and eyes lingering on his smile - just like last time. Then he starts to delve deeper. He distantly registers that Tom has started pacing, but he’s too enraptured by what he’s seeing to comment on it.
“She, uh… Forgot she’d taken a lot of these. I had too, admittedly. Quite the shock when she found them at the back of her closet,” he laughs, then clears his throat, “She thought I should have them.”
“Uh-huh,” Greg says, on another planet entirely as he moves through the photographs.
Oh shit I really like him , he thinks suddenly, a lot of things starting to make sense now that he’s finally allowing himself to feel it. He blinks out of it and looks up at Tom, the one that’s in the room with him.
“Are you sure this is ok?” He asks, watching Tom watching him. He‘s starting to feel the significance of this moment, and what it might mean to Tom as well as himself.
Tom huffs out a sigh, “I told you, Greg, it’s cool, it’s kosher, just get on with it…”
Tom returns to his pacing and Greg watches him for a moment before looking back, intrigue rising again. He sets aside the photos he’s seen in favour of the ones he hasn’t, eyes widening a little when he realises how explicit they are.
The first is black and white, Tom on the same couch as the other pictures, except this time his legs are spread and his head is tipped back, exposing his throat and pulling his chest tight. His hand is wrapped around his dick, and all Greg can think about is how obvious it is that one hand just isn’t enough. He has to physically swallow the saliva that pools in his mouth, eyes constantly roving over Tom’s stomach, his thighs, his shoulders.
Another is of Tom standing, side on, shoulders broad and prominent collarbones. Greg’s eyes trail lower to a whisper of abs, the V of Tom’s hipbones, and the uncompromising size of his cock.
Red sequoia, red sequoia, red sequoia , Greg’s brain chants at him, helpfully, and he realises with horror that’s he’s now panting. Panting over photos that are at least 20 years old, of a man who is right in front of him and still just as hot now as he was back then.
He’s distracted by another photograph, Tom’s eyes piercing, like they’re looking into Greg’s soul. He’s in a bath with shallow water, no bubbles at all, one arm hanging off the side, the other resting on his chest. His hair is wet, and there are droplets of water on his thighs. It’s unfathomably sexy, but it’s sexier because Tom’s smiling again, like he’s been talked into doing this and isn’t sure about it. Greg feels like he’s going insane, conjuring images in his head of Tom anxiously climbing into a half-empty bath, all for a photograph that would appease his girlfriend.
There are a handful of Tom on his back, taken from above by someone clearly straddling his hips, chest splattered with come. It’s like watching a slideshow - snapshots of his orgasm. First his eyes are screwed shut, mouth ajar, then his face melts into bliss, relaxing into it, then he’s laughing, covering his face, pushing sweaty hair out of his eyes. He looks unfairly good, but it’s making Greg feel strangely jealous and possessive. He doesn’t really like the thought of someone else making Tom look like that. It should be him.
“Obviously I don’t look like that now, Greg,” Tom says, out of nowhere, “I know you know that, but just in case you were under any fucking… Illusions, or whatever.”
“Tom,” Greg says, the words barely even coming out of his mouth from how tightly his want is gripping his throat.
“I’m old as fuck now, I am perfectly aware of the ravages of time,” Tom continues, shaking his head, “You don’t need to tell me.”
“I’m not,” Greg says quickly, “Dude, shut up.”
“You’re only going to end up disappointed—“
“Tom! Fuck, will you just come here, please?” Greg says, shimmying back and gesturing at the couch, urging Tom to come and sit down. When he does, he almost seems mad about it, and Greg hates that he’s inexplicably charmed.
Once Tom’s sat, Greg gets up onto his knees, positioning himself between Tom’s parted thighs, patting his legs a little awkwardly as he thinks about what he wants to say, and the best way to say it.
“Okay, so, uh… The pictures were nice, thank you, like really nice, don’t get me wrong, but I think I want to see you now. For fair comparison purposes?”
Tom makes a face, “You want to compare,” he says, flatly.
Greg nods, “Because like… No offence, but that Tom was Rebecca’s Tom, and I think I wanna see you now. This Tom.”
The Tom that belongs to me , Greg finishes in his head, swallowing tightly.
“Right, alrighty,” Tom says, hands at his sides, “So how is this going to work exactly.”
“Well,” Greg says, wishing he was drunk or high or cross-faded as fuck right now. Anything that might make this a little easier. Ultimately he decides that actions speak louder than words as he tentatively wraps his fingers in Tom’s shirt at his stomach and pulls him forwards.
Tom obliges, sitting right on the edge of the couch, leaving them only inches apart. Greg swallows, the weight of what he’s about to do crushing him, but he realises that he’s more excited about this than he was about the photos. The photos were a glimpse into Tom’s past, but what he has is here and now. He wants this more.
With shaking fingers, he pushes his palms up Tom’s chest to his collar. He traces the buttons with his fingers, staring intently at them before he starts to unbutton, agonisingly slowly, working his way down as Tom starts to breathe a little quicker in front of him.
“I told her about you, you know,” Tom says suddenly, and Greg remembers the photo, burning a hole in his pocket. He’s been saving it for the right moment.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly, freeing another button of its hole.
“Mm-hm. On Facebook. Months ago.”
Greg pauses for a moment, because he wasn’t expecting that. Then his mind casts back to the dawning look of comprehension on Rebecca’s face when he first revealed who he was to her. Like she knew something he didn’t. He exhales a shaky breath.
“Did you say I’m… I’m like this useless giraffe that does your scalp-hunting,” Greg asks, now halfway down Tom’s chest.
“Not exactly,” Tom says quietly, leaning in a little closer, and Greg has the maddening urge to hack into Tom’s Facebook account.
“Tom,” he says, unsteadily, “Dude, I really think you make me fucking insane. Like, clinically insane.”
Tom nods and their lips brush together, just barely, and Greg has to suppress a moan.
“I hoped you would look,” Tom breathes, hands fisting in the material of the couch at his sides, “That’s why I wasn’t mad. Because I wanted you to look.”
“Yeah?” Greg asks, reaching Tom’s belt buckle. He has maybe two buttons to go, but Tom’s shirt is tucked in, so he elects just to undo his pants. He might as well. The sound of metal clinking fills the room, and it sounds so explicit. So intentional.
“Thought you might… Like it,” Tom says slowly, “That version of me.”
“I did,” Greg says, breathing hard as he unbuttons Tom’s pants and lowers his zipper, “But I like this version more?”
They’re now basically nose to nose, almost kissing but somehow holding onto the barest thread of restraint, panting into each others mouths as Greg tugs Tom’s shirt from his open pants to finish undoing it.
“Fuck you, you can’t mean that,” Tom says, voice threadbare.
“Fuck you, Tom,” Greg replies, finally undoing the last button and spreading his hands out over his chest, his stomach, his waist, “Fuck you.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Tom practically whines before he breaks, seizing Greg’s mouth like he needs it to live, one hand cupping the back of his neck and squeezing. It’s possessive and Greg easily gets lost in it, pressed in as close as he can get between Tom’s thighs, chest to chest.
“I wanna take everything off,” he says quickly, all in one breath when Tom shifts his attention to kissing up the length of his jaw, wet presses of his mouth that somehow just feels perfect before he drags his teeth down his neck, “I wanna take everything off you.”
“Yeah… Yeah, sure,” Tom says, distracted, his free hand moving to cup Greg between his legs and squeeze. He moans when he finds him hard as Greg rocks instinctively into his palm.
“Tom, quit it, stop— stop being distracting,” Greg grits out, his head tipping back momentarily with a quick, strangled groan before he remembers what he’s doing. He forces himself to concentrate, dropping both hands to the waistband of Tom’s boxers, “Is this still the same as the pictures?”
“Well it definitely wasn’t fucking photoshopped, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Tom says somewhere close to Greg’s temple.
“Seeing is believing,” Greg says, fingers curling in the material to pull it down, “Or so the ol’ proverb goes...”
“Oh, shut up,” Tom says, lifting his hips and helping Greg along, shoving everything under his ass and down his thighs.
Greg briefly pulls back to discard Tom’s clothes before Tom pulls him back in again, straight into another kiss, and Greg is almost disappointed by it. He wanted to look at Tom, naked save for his open shirt, all for Greg and nobody else. Instead, Tom’s sizeable dick is pressing against his stomach, and suddenly all Greg can think about is swallowing it.
“Oh boy, oh no,” Greg says, desire thrumming through him so fiercely. He can confidently say he’s never been this horny in his life and it’s making him a bit delirious. He’s suddenly hyper aware of Tom’s arms, winding around his lower back, gathering him in, and the scent of his cologne, his clothes, and his skin. He wants to rub himself all over him, claim him for his own, make sure nobody else ever gets to see this again. Nobody save for him.
“What’s wrong? Wanna stop?” Tom asks, pulling back, only for Greg to chase him.
“No, fuck no, I was just… Despairing at my general state of— of desperation? I guess it’s sort of embarrassing to be this obviously fucking… Horny for you,” Greg says, feeling a flush seeping down his neck at the level of his honesty.
Tom looks at him, smirking, “You desperate for me, Gregory? Desperate for my dick? The one from the photographs?”
Greg nods, then looks down at Tom’s hands as they undo his shirt buttons for him. Suddenly everything has slowed down, and Greg is only grateful for it as it gives him a moment to catch his breath.
“What am I going to do with you?” Tom asks, quietly, slipping his hand inside Greg’s shirt as soon as he’s undone enough buttons to do so. His palm is large and warm over Greg’s heart as he closes his eyes to just absorb the feeling.
“Nothing,” Greg says suddenly, “It’s what I’m gonna do with you, Tom. That’s the— the thing that we’re doing here.”
He’s suddenly filled with renewed purpose, pulling Tom’s hand free of his shirt and moving in closer, pushing Tom with a hand at his sternum so that he’s leaning back against the couch cushions. Tom raises an eyebrow at him but says nothing, just exhales a broken off moan when Greg leans down to lick a broad stripe up the length of his cock.
Greg settles himself down lower, resting his elbows on Tom’s thighs as he leans in close, pressing open mouthed kisses to the base of his dick.
“You look fucking… Amazing like this,” Greg says, eyes fluttering upward for a brief moment to lock with Tom’s.
“Yeah, well, ditto,” Tom says, a little breathless as he lifts a hand to cup Greg’s jaw, hooking his thumb into his mouth for Greg to diligently suck.
It hits Greg all at once what he’s about to do, and his cock throbs painfully within his pants. He wants everything at once, he’s possessed with the need to claim every part of Tom for his own, make him feel good, make him feel wanted. Make him feel like he did 20 years ago.
With Tom’s thumb still hooked behind his teeth, he leans back to take his cock inside his mouth, pressing the flat of his tongue beneath the head before sealing his mouth around him. Tom’s hips immediately buck upwards, searching for more tight, wet heat. With a moan, Greg immediately grants him further entry, sinking lower onto his prick until he’s halfway down.
“Greg, Jesus, you— Fuck, I bet you suck cock like a whore,” Tom says, tipping his head back in a way that’s reminiscent of the photographs from his youth. Greg smiles around him, moving his tongue up and down the length of him before he starts to suck, determined to prove Tom right.
Tom removes his wet thumb to trail it up over Greg’s cheekbone, fingers threading into his hair and pulling just enough to feel good. It gives Greg the space and the permission to sink lower, taking Tom deeper until the head of his dick is leaking at the back of his throat.
He realises with a heady mix of shame and desire that he has never in his life been this greedy. He’s given blow jobs before, but they’ve usually been part of a fair exchange of orgasms. This time he’s doing it solely because he wants to, because he’s desperate to, because it’s turning him on something chronic and there’s an insane part of him that already wants to know what Tom’s come tastes like. Just another little bit of information for his Tom vault.
Tom’s rolling his hips now, a little cautiously, testing the waters of Greg’s resolve and his gag reflex, but Greg is confident he can take it. He closes his eyes and concentrates, sucking harder, tongue laving over prominent veins then dipping into the slit at the head when he pulls back. Tom arches at that, thighs lifting as he moans roughly, the sound of it echoing in Greg’s head for eternity. Greg presses his palms to Tom’s legs and holds him down, leaning in closer, swallowing more of him.
“Fuck, who taught you how to do this?” Tom breathes, now moaning on every exhale as Greg works him in his mouth, hot and tight and so wet that saliva is running down his chin. His fingertips push up to Tom’s hips, pressing in, feeling him move. He finally opens his eyes because he wants to see Tom’s face, he wants to look at him and watch him come undone. He wants to take pictures of him, he realises, he wants to capture every moment and seal it away for ever.
When he looks up at Tom they lock eyes, and it’s electric. Tom’s mouth is slack, and Greg’s is wrapped around the base of him, and it all proves too much.
“Can I—“ Tom starts, cut off by Greg’s enthusiastic nodding, moaning around the length of him as he drags his lips back up tightly, readying himself to swallow.
Tom comes with breathy moans, coating Greg’s tongue and painting the back of his throat. It’s so immensely intimate to feel Tom come in his mouth, his dick spasming, his balls drawn up close to Greg’s chin; it makes his eyes water with reverence. Greg eagerly swallows, feeling his eyes darken as he looks up at Tom for his approval.
“Fuck you, Greg, that… Shit…” Tom pants, shifting his hand to thumb his come away from the corner of Greg’s mouth, “Did you swallow it?”
Greg pulls back and heaves a desperate breath, opening his mouth and poking out his tongue to confirm that he did.
Tom pushes both hands into his hair and groans, “Greg—“
“Shut up.”
Before he can even help himself, Greg is scrambling up into Tom’s lap, rocking his hips uselessly. Tom, who has barely caught his breath, looks up at him, grinning like a lunatic.
“What are you—“
“Shut up ,” Greg repeats, more urgently this time, quickly tearing into his pants and pushing them out of the way, “Will you just… Will you just fucking touch me, please?”
He’s so hard it hurts, his dick a desperate heavy weight between his legs that’s only partially alleviated when he frees it from the tight confines of his pants. He can still taste Tom’s come in his mouth. It’s driving him mad, making everything simultaneously better and worse.
“Greg—“ Tom starts, pressing his face into Greg’s neck and groaning, arms winding luxuriously around him.
“Tom, I’m so serious, it’s really like… Imperative that you touch me, please, like immediately. Right fucking now?”
“Okay, alright, needy…” Tom breathes, quickly moving a hand between them to curl around Greg’s dick.
“Oh god, oh fuck yeah, that’s it,” Greg sighs. He truly has lost his mind. He’s arching into Tom’s fist, head thrown back with abandon. He’s never been this desperate to come in his life. He can already feel it building in the pit of his stomach, the prolonged want of it bursting through him like fireworks.
Tom doesn’t waste any time. He presses his free hand to Greg’s lower back, pulling him in as the other squeezes and works Greg’s cock, stroking him hard and fast as he sinks his teeth into Greg’s neck.
“Do you like that? Is that what you wanted?” Tom asks, and Greg practically growls.
“Sh— Stop. Shut up. Keep touching me,” Greg says, his fingers curling into Tom’s hair at the base of his head and pulling hard, “That feels good, don’t stop…”
“You’re mean when you’re desperate, I think I like it,” Tom whispers, somewhere close to the hinge of Greg’s jaw.
Greg licks his lips, rocking in Tom’s lap like he’s riding him and suddenly that’s all he can think about.
“You should fuck me… And we should film it,” he says, completely out of control as he presses in closer, “I wanna… Wanna watch it back.”
“Jesus, Greg… Have you always had such a dirty mouth?” Tom asks, squeezing him particularly hard before swiping his thumb agonisingly over the leaking head of his cock, working unbearable circles around his slit.
It’s agonisingly good. Greg squeezes his eyes closed so tightly he sees stars, starting to tense all over.
“Oh, fuck. Fuck, there, shut up, Tom you make me so crazy,” he babbles, thrusting into Tom’s fist, “It… It should be my come all over you, Tom, I want to recreate every photo she took of you.”
There’s a distant part of Greg’s brain that’s quite thrilled and impressed that he’s managing to say all of this despite being so incapacitated with lust. It’s broken a dam inside his chest and all these words keep spilling out of him without thought or permission. He’s so close.
“Yeah, alright, fuck,” Tom says, and Greg can feel his smile against his neck, “Now are you gonna come for me?”
Tom starts to work him faster, tighter, and Greg finally lets go, tumbling over the edge with crashing force. He jerks in Tom’s lap, then spills all over his stomach and chest, covering his skin with pearly ribbons, like paint on a canvas.
It’s intense, so much more intense than anything he’s ever felt. By the time he’s done he feels completely devoid of energy. He crumples against Tom’s chest, caring little for the mess he’s now made of his shirt.
Long moments pass where both of them just pant and slowly come down. Reality fades back in around them, and Greg regains his grip on his control. Just a little. He presses his forehead lazily to Tom’s, so strung out and exhausted that he can barely form complete sentences, but one thing is rotating in his mind, one thing he really, really wants.
“Would you…” he starts, then takes a cleansing breath, rolling his shoulders out as he relaxes a little more in Tom’s lap, “Would you really let me take pictures of you?”
Tom, who is a little further ahead in his after-glow than Greg, chuckles, warm hands sliding over his hips to rest at his waist, “And why on earth would you want to do that, Greg?”
“Because you’re mine. Because you’d let me,” Greg says, a crazed part of him thinking about Rebecca and wanting to stake his own claim.
There’s a long pause, and Greg starts to worry until he opens his eyes, sees Tom looking at him so serenely, so contentedly. That smile he saw in the pictures. The smile he only smiles when they’re together. Greg sees it so clearly now.
“Yeah, Greg, whatever you want,” Tom says, and Greg suddenly remembers the photograph.
He leans back unsteadily in Tom’s lap, shoving his hand into his pocket, “I want to make you look like this. All the time. But, like… Only for me,” he says, handing Tom the photo. He holds it tightly when Tom pulls on it to take it, both of them grinning when he finally lets go.
“Where did you get this?” Tom asks as he studies it.
“I bumped into Rebecca earlier. She said to give it to you…”
“I didn’t know she’d taken it,” Tom says, quietly, looking at the picture carefully with a sigh, “You know I was talking about—“
“Me, yeah, it’s kind of obvious, Tom,” Greg teases, knowing full well that if Rebecca hadn’t pointed out the truth he would probably be at home right now furiously wondering who on earth is making Tom smile like that. He feels giddy and excited and more insane than ever.
“Brat,” Tom says, pulling Greg close again to rest his chin on his chest, “It’s all for you. It always has been.”
Greg nods, arms winding around Tom’s neck as he closes his eyes. It’s all for him. It always has been.