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"Greg-" Tom is hissing across the railing, rather conspicuously. "Gotta tell you something, buddy."
Greg is watching people dance on the club floor. There's these two girls who keep clasping hands and laughing while grinding up on other guys. It's kind of weird.
"Hm?" Greg tears his attention away to look right at Tom-- he is like, so much drunker than Greg right now. Actually, that's almost always the way it is lately. Greg tries not to worry about it too much, but it is hard.
"I-" Tom laughs, covering his mouth with his hand. He looks almost coy, secretive. "I got a dick piercing,” Tom says, like an outburst, covering his mouth back up to stifle more laughter.
"What?" Greg isn't sure he's heard correctly. No, scratch that, he's definitely sure he didn't. "Um- what did you- what did you say?"
"I got a dick piercing, Greg," he says, laughing himself forward into Greg's space.
They're making direct eye contact. At least Tom is far too drunk to interpret Greg's gawp as being horrified. He's not interpreting much of anything at all.
Greg has no idea what the fuck to say to this. He just copies Tom's giddy expression and smiles.
"Uh- why did you - why did you do that?"
"Why does anyone do anything, Greg?" Tom slaps his shoulder. "For fun! I don't know, just- fuck it, right?”
"Sure-" Greg rubs his nose. His eyebrows refuse to return down to their rightful places. "Uh- yeah, I guess."
When someone comes by with shots on a tray he just grabs one, downs it without question.
Vodka. It's straight vodka. Straight to his head.
He stumbles once as Tom finds the tray and takes two more shots, concerningly out-doing. Two thumbs up.
He throws an arm around Greg's back, completely fucking careless. Ruffles a hand through his hair and laughs, grins, beams.
Greg tucks his head to his chest at the contact, knowing he'll be drunk enough to regret it all in the morning, but not nearly enough to forget.
***
And he so wishes he fucking forgot.
The hardest part of his Monday morning isn't recovering from Sunday's hangover. No, he's fine, actually, even if Tom's definitely still a bit laggy.
No. The hardest part is sitting through a fully staffed meeting and listening to Tom talk like everything is normal. Because it is normal.
It's normal, but Tom also has a dick piercing.
Tom is talking about cost reduction, with a dick piercing.
Tom is taking questions from people, with a dick piercing.
Tom is back to talking about quarterly earnings, with a dick piercing.
Greg puts his chin onto his hands and wills himself to think about anything else. Dead puppies? Oh. No. That's really sad. Too sad.
Cruises scandal? Maybe it's not too late and they can both still end up in prison. Making toilet wine and eating slop. Pretending to be racist so they don't get shanked. It's very suitably horrible, he thinks.
Having all your mortal possessions taken away...
Do they make you remove your piercings in prison?
Fuck.
Greg wants to slap himself. Dead puppies. He realizes he's bouncing his leg and looks over to his left. Everyone else here is actually paying attention. Their jobs probably depend on it, of course. No one wants to look disinterested when quarterly earnings are fucking down.
Greg always knew he would be screwed if Tom didn't like him, but he's equally screwed with Tom liking him, because really, what the fuck else could've ruined a meeting this way. It'd be better if he'd fallen asleep at the table rather than have these kinds of thoughts.
The trick would have to be avoidance then. Stay out of Tom's orbit. It's that simple.
The meeting ends and Greg has to bite his tongue to keep from sighing in relief. He hurries, not to be the last one out before Tom, but still receives a hearty pat on the back for it. His ears must be pink.
***
If only it was that simple avoiding Tom. It’s not.
All week. It's really fucking not.
Tom is getting coffee and smiling at him, with a dick piercing.
Coming into his office, sitting on his desk, playing with his desk toys. He’s touching his hair in the hallway, for no reason. He’s squeezing his arm. He's patting the small of his back, rubbing little circles. Was it always this way? Had Greg always borne the weight of it so well? Without noticing?
Tom is calling him the prince of the paperwork paupers, across the hall, with a dick piercing.
Greg is going slowly, horribly, insane. Over a dick piercing.
He throws his head into his hands at his desk, a keystone to his new afternoon ritual. Question everything. Regret the day you were born. Call yourself a million horrible names, each more nasty and relating to abnormal sexuality than the last. Then, only then, can you start checking your emails.
Is this what Roman’s day is like?
***
At the end of the day Friday, Tom is in his office clapping his hands. 6:00 PM sharp.
“Alright, let’s go out!”
It’s not even a question. As if Greg would never think to say no. He wouldn’t.
***
The usual spot, and Greg looks for those two weird girls. They’re nowhere to be seen. Greg thinks about them dancing, the way they’d moved against each other once, like for an audience. It makes him feel a bit sick.
Tom comes back with some overpriced cocktails. Something called a paper plane, with a delicate garnish on top that he hands to Greg.
They watch the people dancing with their elbows on the rail, sipping at their drinks. But Tom pretty much chugs. He’s through two drinks by the time Greg finishes his paper plane.
The girls are here again, Greg notices, and flinches when they kiss.
There’s too much tongue, and a horde of men surrounds them. It’s terrifying, like a graphic car wreck, but Greg can’t really look away. He manages to get his eyes to Tom, gauging a reaction. He looks unhappy too. His nose scrunches up into his face.
The girls pull away from each other, forced to contend with the growing crowd. Greg doesn’t want to see what happens next.
He walks over to the couch behind him and Tom and all but throws himself down. Fuck this.
Tom follows him over and puts down his drink, offering Greg a hand up.
Greg shakes his head.
Not taking no for an answer, Tom rebuts with his own headshake. “Come on, let’s get fucked up,” Tom says. “Well and truly fucked.”
Greg frowns. “But I gotta-”
“Well and truly fucked, Gregory! It’s the weekend, man! Come on, dude!” Tom is grinning like an idiot again, swaying off-rhythm back and forth.
The overuse of un-endearing bro-speak points to just how drunk Tom already is. Greg hates that it’s still almost adorable.
“Just come over, buddy, don’t worry about it. You can have the guest bed.”
***
They’re fucking trashed on the way back, totally fucking totaled. It’s amazing nobody vomits in Tom’s car. Greg wants to, respectfully, but his life isn’t quite worth so much.
Greg presses his head into Tom’s shoulder.
“How are you not sick, man?” God, his voice is probably way too loud. He can still hear the music pounding in his ears. “How are you not dead?”
Tom pets his hair, too rough. Too drunk to be particularly gentle.
“You’re a lightweight, Greg.” Also too loud. “Accumulate some experience, dickwad.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Poor little Greg. Coming up on thirty and never learned how to party.”
“Shut up, man.” Greg whines. “You’re too loud. Sorry I never went to, uh, orgies, or frat homes, or pierced my dick and whatever the fuck.” Greg scoffs. “If that, like, even is true.”
“It so is, Greg. It so totally is.” Tom proves weirdly defensive about it. “If I didn’t have even the smallest shred of dignity, I’d show you- right fucking now.”
“Sure.” Greg taunts, sitting back up when he feels another wave of nausea.
“It’s fucking real, Greg.” Tom looks Greg dead in the eyes. “And it’s totally fucking hot.”
***
If Greg thinks about the piercing when he jerks himself off in Tom’s guest room, well, he’s too far gone to be ashamed.
***
“Morning, sunshine.” Tom is steeping tea into a blood-red mug. He looks less… barely alive than other times Greg has seen him hungover, so that’s good. Probably.
“Hey.” Greg shuffles over to the kitchen island, feeling a little exposed in his boxers, and slides onto a stool. It takes a lot of energy not to put his head down into his arms like a grade school kid sleeping at their desk.
“You want anything?” Tom asks.
“Oh…” Greg rubs his head. “Just- just water would be good.”
“You know,” Tom pauses, bringing the kettle back to its stand, “you asked me about my piercing last night.” He keeps moving, opening a cabinet to remove a tall plain glass, pressing it to the fridge for water.
Greg feels the air punch right out of his shitty useless lungs.
“Oh.” He has to rub his eyes. “Shi- s-sorry.”
Tom only slides the glass of water across to Greg and shrugs. “Just figured you didn’t believe me.” He rubs at his nose. “Wouldn’t blame you.” He picks up his mug and comes to sit on the stool next to Greg. The heel of his palm presses into his forehead. “It was a pretty snap decision.”
Greg doesn’t know if he’s supposed to say anything. Tom seems like he might continue on anyway.
“I don’t often frequent parlors of that kind, Greg.” Tom sighs. “I don’t want to give the wrong impression.”
“Oh- uh- me, me neither.” Greg had actually been a frequent-er, once, but it doesn’t feel important to mention. It was for entirely different reasons. One of his close friends had been a tattoo artist. There’s a not-so-surprising overlap between most stoners and loving tattoos. Greg never got any, anyway. No piercings either.
“Really? No hidden jewels under that-” Tom tugs on the hem of Greg’s tee, “sad white cotton?”
“You’ve uh- you’ve seen me shirtless, Tom.” Greg tucks a bang behind his ear. “So, no.”
“Shame.” Tom sips at his tea. Turns back to the side to rest his cheek on his braced backhand, facing Greg. “Belly button piercing could really suit your waifish, feminine little torso.”
“Shut up.” Greg scoffs. Tom is smiling at him though. He pats Greg’s hand without giving it a second thought.
Greg lets his head fall to the counter with a bonk. Tom laughs, easy.
The silence between them feels a bit smothering, but almost comfortably so. Like being swaddled by a blanket.
***
There’s never a conversation about it, but a quiet understanding passes that Greg will be recovering at Tom’s place, for the rest of the day.
The companionable silence continues when they move to the couch, Greg curling his legs under himself and sipping at his water. Tom is scrolling on his phone on the other arm, spread out on the chaise and looking incredibly bored. Greg has no idea what he does online. There’s no way the guy has a personal twitter.
Just the thought of Tom trying to understand shitposting is enough to make Greg smile.
Tom catches Greg smiling at him and puts his phone down, sitting up and pushing at Greg’s knee.
“Think I’m gonna go shower.” Tom stands up. “As much as I enjoy lying here being sweaty and gross with you.”
Greg hazards a sniff to his armpit, frowning.
Tom sees this and paces over to ruffle his hair. “You’re fine, Greg, I just feel like shit,” he says, before starting towards his bathroom.
Greg huffs an exhale and looks up to Tom leaning in the hallway, gazing at him.
“Just let me know if you need to use the shower, okay? Water pressure is better in the master.”
It’s too hard not to bash his head on the couch once Tom is out of sight.
***
After a few minutes, Greg decides he has been drinking way too much water.
Well, okay, not really. It’s been a huge help for his headache, it’s just that he needs to pee really fucking bad all of the sudden.
He heaves himself off the couch with great effort and heads to the one in the hall, stopping with a start when he sees Tom standing in the bedroom doorway.
“You scared m-” Greg stops as he realizes Tom isn’t wearing anything except a towel.
“I live here, Greg.” Tom says flatly, but his eyes are twinkling with amusement. “I was just shutting the door to avoid this, you little pervert.”
Greg can’t even laugh. He’s not sure he’s breathing anymore. “S-sorry.”
“Sorry?” Tom smirks and steps forward, leaning on the doorframe, easy. “Relax, man. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so red.” He slaps Greg’s cheek, gives a light pinch. “You really were trying to see something, huh, Don Juan?”
“N-no!” Greg shakes his head. “Cause- I gotta-” He points at the bathroom door, desperate. “No, like, really, I just gotta, um, pee? Like really bad?”
“Relax. Just giving you a hard time.” He shifts out of his lean, grabbing the door handle in one hand. “Go piss, Greg.” The door closes in Greg’s face.
***
Tom is sitting on the couch, freshly changed, by the time Greg finally creeps out of the bathroom himself. He’s spread out on the center of the couch, dark jeans and a navy blue sweater, one arm slung along the backrest. The other is on his phone, but when he sees Greg, he puts it in his lap and pats the space right next to him.
Greg feels his face twitch in surprise, but doesn’t dare question it aloud. He doesn’t even make it to the couch, anyway.
“You were thinking about it, weren’t you?” Tom is asking.
“W-what?” Frozen. Greg is fucking frozen.
“What.” Tom is using his mocking voice. “The piercing, Greg.” He rolls his eyes.
Yep. Still frozen.
“You can ask, you know.” He’s got both his arms around the back of the couch. It’s painfully smug.
Something about the visual has Greg wanting to drop to the floor, beg for mercy, something . His mouth is basically watering. He stills himself and tries to even his breathing when he feels warmth pooling in his gut.
Should he really pretend he has no idea what Tom is implying?
“Um-” Greg just swallows, unable to form a cohesive thought any longer, least of all verbalize it.
“You wanna see?” Tom raises his eyebrows and smiles. He pats the back of the couch with both hands instead of waiting for an answer, standing up with the momentum of it. “Let’s go.”
Let’s go?
Greg still can’t bring himself to speak, but he grabs the back of Tom’s arm as he walks by, really more for support than anything else. He feels dizzy, like he’s about to fucking fall over.
Tom leads him back into the bathroom, but for some reason, the master this time-- they cut through Tom’s bedroom, spotless and immaculate, bed freshly made. It’s way too nice here, clean. Everything falls in shades of black and white, crisp. It hardly even feels like a place to sleep in, let alone conduct any kind of affair.
Affair? Greg winces at himself. Where the fuck did that come from ?
Everything is moving too fast. Too fucking fast. And he’s sober. So painfully fucking sober.
The bathroom tiles are cold under Greg’s bare feet.
“Greg.” Tom snaps his fingers. His eyes are seeking Greg’s. “Is this okay?”
Greg nods. Puts all of his energy against hyperventilating.
“And you want to see?”
Greg tries to nod again, but Tom reaches out and grabs him by the chin. He doesn’t move, though, just staring Greg down, fishing for any sign of hesitation. Greg is guessing he doesn’t find it--well, he knows that, really--as Tom drops his hand.
“Do you want to, or should I?”
He looks down at Tom’s hand, where it sits on the waist of his jeans. He looks back up at Tom, catching his meaning, but still a bit paralyzed. Luckily Tom senses this and nods, unbuttoning his jeans, shrugging them down a bit to reach into his boxers.
Greg is already kind of gasping just at the gesture, but when Tom takes himself out, Greg hears his own sharp inhale as if from outside of his own body.
God.
Tom gives a little laugh. Greg must’ve murmured that out loud.
“I warned you, buddy.” Tom's smiling, but it's really not arrogant at all, surprisingly. It's kind and golden, for no good reason. Greg wants to cry.
Tom's cock is beautiful, and yeah, Greg is really fucking unhappy to be thinking it, but it’s just objectively true. Lightly curved, strongly proportional to his stature (which is to say tall, and not narrow in the least), circumcised, and sure enough, right at the spongy pink flair of the head, a piercing. It’s gold and subtle, not too small, but not obnoxious. Like a cherry on top of a hot fudge sundae.
Not that Greg wants to… never mind.
He’s been staring for the better part of a minute, mesmerized.
In the nose, out the nose. Out somewhere as long as you’re still breathing.
“Wow, Tom.” Greg squint-blinks.
“Yeah, you think so?” Tom flexes his grip behind himself on the bathroom counter. He’s looking deliriously happy. “To tell you the truth, I’m- I’m a bit obsessed with it.”
Greg’s face can’t get any redder. Might as well ask, then. “And does it, like,” Greg bites his lip, releases, chooses now to look up, like an idiot, “make um- make the act- the actual physical thing better?”
Tom’s brows crease and his open mouthed smile wavers. “Huh?” He tilts his head. “Oh, sex?” His brows crease again as he looks down himself. “I wouldn’t know.”
He wouldn’t? What?
Greg looks behind him on the bathroom counter, catching the gleam of Tom’s wedding band behind the faucet.
Something settles at the same time another thing rises in Greg’s stomach. Knots and butterflies.
Tom is still smiling at him, with his eyes anyway, but more somberly. Like he wants to take Greg’s face in his hands and kiss him. Again.
It’s too much for Greg to shoulder.
“Can- can I?” Greg makes to crouch, pointing at the ground, simulating his question. Can I get on the floor, Tom?
“Oh.” Tom blinks. Inhales. “Sure. Sure, go ahead.”
Greg kneels and swallows, running a thumb over his lip. It’s only a few inches to lean in for a better look.
“It’s real gold, you know.” Tom offers. “24 karat.” States like he’s doing Greg a favor, not deigning to the lower metals.
“Uh-huh,” Greg is past the line now, somewhere on the other side of giving a shit. It’s nice. He’s almost having fun. He reaches out a curled finger towards the piercing.
Tom nods once as if to say go ahead, but Greg catches him flinch- ever so slightly, like he’s trying to hold something back.
“And is it,” Greg pokes the metal ball at the top, lightly-- it slides down a little, “like- fully healed?”
Tom flinches again. Even more visibly.
Greg feels deadly. Like poison.
He pokes the jewelry again, pressing down somewhat deliberately this time. “Does it feel, like, okay? Does it- um- does it feel good?”
Tom’s breaths are audible. Steady, but uncontrolled.
“Do you wanna shower Greg?”
“Hm?” Greg looks up, genuinely surprised.
“Do you want to take a shower? Right here.” He breathes. “Right now?”
Greg looks to his right and back up at Tom. Back down to his cock. Back up, blinking his eyes. A shaky exhale. “Right-right now?” Tom nods twice. Greg stands, clasping his hands together and wringing. One of his shoulders shrugs up. “Um, yeah. Sure.”
Tom runs a hand along Greg’s side, bunching his t-shirt a little. “And would you want me to shower you?”
Greg wants to lean into the touch, gives a few short breaths out his nose. “You- you want that?”
“I’d like to, yeah.” Tom lowers his eyes. Watches Greg’s chin, watches his own knuckles graze against that chin.
And now Greg leans into it, or at least lets his head rest in Tom’s hand, running up and down his face, thumbing circles at his temples.
Tom is silent, only breathing, but his eyes say look at you. Like Greg is some tiny precious thing.
Greg takes a deep inhale and Tom runs his hand down Greg’s neck, to his shoulders. His other hand rises up to meet it. Both hands trail down Greg’s sides, slowly, slowly, but purposefully grabbing at the hem of Greg’s shirt. Up slow enough for Greg to shrug out his arms, comfortably. Tom barely even looks twice before reaching for Greg’s boxers, pulling them forward and down, again, slow enough for Greg to step out.
He looks now, this time, from the floor up to Greg’s cock. It’s much more quietly appreciative than judgmental. Greg finds he actually doesn’t mind the staring much at all— as if they’ve done this a thousand times, ten thousand, twenty. Practiced, ritualistic.
Tom stands up and guides Greg towards the shower, warm hand against bare waist.
He adjusts the temperature on the wall as the shower head ramps to life.
“Uh- Tom? Your clothes?”
“Oh.” No disparaging remark or retort. He’d genuinely forgotten, hadn’t he?
Greg helps pull at Tom’s sweater to separate it from the button down below, but Tom does most of the work, heading straight away to pull at his waistbands too.
Greg barely gets a look by the time Tom straightens his legs and before he’s being backed into the shower, which interestingly, is a step down from the bathroom floor. It’s also very spacious. The water isn’t even really touching him yet.
He’s not sure what he expects, but it’s not Tom just heading straight to the water— especially when he’s already showered. Tom runs his hands through his short wet hair, watching Greg stand near the other end with dark and curious eyes.
“Pass me the shampoo,” he waves at Greg. Greg complies.
“What are you waiting for?” Tom gestures. “Get under the water.” He steps out to the side. Greg takes his place, mussing whatever product was left in his hair from Friday out for good.
Tom clicks open the shampoo and pours it in one palm. He puts the bottle down on the low shelf behind him and stares at Greg, almost poker faced in his composure. He raps a knuckle on Greg’s sternum so that he’ll step forward a little.
Greg leans his head and neck forward, out of the water, but also to make it easier for Tom.
And when his hands fall into Greg’s hair, start kneading in the soap— it’s like heaven. Greg could live and die a thousand deaths to stay like this forever. Tom scratches his nails into Greg’s scalp, around his ears. Breathes shallow like it pleases him too.
He lets a breathy moan escape and is pleased by the reaction this evokes in Tom, pulling on his hair. Pulling, then pushing him back under the water and scrubbing again, massaging all the bubbles to the rinse.
Tom lets Greg take it from there, watches him run his own narrow fingers through his hair, pushing back. Look at you, Tom says again, only with his eyes.
“Body wash?” Tom asks, looking past Greg to the wall.
Greg reaches behind the water stream to grab a white bottle behind him. He opens it himself, raises Tom’s hand, and squeezes a large dollop into it. It smells like vanilla and coconut. He gives the bottle back to Tom, who just bends his knees to drop it on the floor beside himself, rubbing his hands together to make suds.
He stares at Greg for what feels like an eternity, over his cock, his chest.
Tom looks like he wants to take Greg by the dick and pull.
Greg wants Tom to do exactly that.
Instead, Tom just puts his hands on Greg’s chest, like he’s defusing a bomb. He rubs slow, lazy circles over Greg’s pecs-- barely grazes his nipples-- moves down towards his waist. He gives a tentative squeeze and inches down, back, forward, over his ass, squeezing at the base, and back up. Back to Greg’s chest, then his arms, then his shoulders.
He turns Greg around with both of his big wide hands, keeping one against his neck while the other rubs up and down Greg’s spine.
Greg hears a cap click open again. Tom’s hands come to the small of his back with more cold soap. He’s rubbing in dips, teasing at the edge of some invisible boundary, pushing it back further each time. Mid-way down Greg’s ass, feeling close to between, and back out, up. Reaches further and cups beneath, letting both hands thumb at pulling Greg apart. Back out. One last slide and Tom’s hand is between his legs, a fingertip pressing on his hole and out. Out.
Greg jumps a little, feels his cock twitch. He can’t ask for any more, doesn’t know how, probably couldn’t speak if he tried, anyway.
It all comes out a whimper.
Tom turns him back around and presses their bodies together for the first fucking time. Greg whimpers again, throwing his head back and his mouth open, swallowing almost pained. Tom is hard against his thigh. A hand creeps between them, Tom rubbing soap with an open palm around Greg’s cock, reaching down to cup his balls, stroke between his legs, almost to his rim--
All that and then Tom stops. Runs out of soap.
Greg’s breathing is way too heavy for his nose, shaking and absolutely wrecked.
“Rinse off and I’ll get you a towel, okay?”
Greg doesn’t want to nod, but he does, wiping the knuckle of his thumb under his eye.
***
It’s cold outside the shower.
Tom approaches him with a towel, pink, actually, and impossibly soft. He’s starting to pat Greg down with it when the most horrible thought occurs.
What happens now?
Because Greg can’t possibly bear for this to become an incident . A bad joke, a forehead kiss, a proposal. Something that happens once that they never ever talk about again. And it might. And it could. But it can’t.
He closes the inch between them with his forehead, pressing his nose against Tom’s and taking sharp, ragged breaths. He feels like he could cry. Probably fucking sounds like it too.
Don't you dare take this back.
Greg tips his head so his lips brush the top of Tom’s mouth, tentative, experimental, grazing.
I want to make it so you can't, not ever.
Tom kisses back gently, then all at fucking once; his hands leap over Greg’s shoulder, the towel drops to the floor and Tom steps on it, cradling the back of Greg’s neck in both hands. They’re panting into each other before it makes sense, before their lips have touched even three separate times, and Tom is pushing Greg against the counter.
Their legs slot together and Tom is hard, painfully fucking hard against Greg’s thigh. Greg doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on before in his life.
He grabs at Tom without thinking, wrapping his hand around his cock, near the base, rubbing up to the head and running his thumb over the piercing there, very deliberately, if a bit indelicate.
Tom huffs, and before Greg understands it, he’s been lifted onto the counter, like a doll, like it was nothing. He stares at Tom in wide-eyed wonder-- Tom, who just smiles and cradles his face in both hands, pressing a chaste kiss to Greg’s lips before his hands trail down to stroke at Greg’s thighs.
Look at you, he’s saying, pressing into Greg’s hips.
He wraps his arms around Greg’s back, pulling him forward, till he’s barely on the counter’s edge. He wraps his legs around Tom for support.
Tom buries his face into the crook of Greg’s neck, sucking bruises, undoubtedly, that might be there till the next workweek. Greg just pants over Tom’s shoulder, mewls when Tom takes him in hand and starts pulling him off in fast but careful strokes.
“Tom. Tom- Tom Tom Tom. ” Greg is pleading. He wants Tom to stop, so he can touch him; he wants Tom to keep going, push him past the edge; he needs Tom to stop so he can get on his knees and pray, take Tom into his mouth; he needs Tom to keep going because he’s going to die, fucking die in this bathroom if he doesn’t finish soon--
“You’re okay.” Tom whispers into his neck. “I’ve got you.” His hands move up under Greg’s arms, pulling him more flush. Greg wraps tighter around him, putting his arms around Tom’s neck and some of his weight off the counter.
One of Tom’s arms shifts under Greg and he’s off the counter, which by itself is impossibly hot, mostly because Greg thought it was impossible, letting out a pitchy gasp-- but it becomes a pornographic fucking whimper when this allows Tom to slide their dicks together, holding Greg’s weight in both hands. They kiss like the world is ending, Greg sucking on Tom’s tongue as he rubs a hand over Tom’s soft shorn nape.
Tom pats on Greg’s thigh, lowering him down. “As- fuck- as incredible as that feels, Greg,” Tom puts one hand on Greg’s shoulder, “I’m not a kid anymore.” He winces. “And I need to go to the gym. We’ll work on it.”
Greg nods, tries to apologize, but Tom starts up again.
“So for now,” Tom is hoisting a hand behind Greg’s knees, “this has to do.”
And just like that, Tom is carrying him bridal style, out of the bathroom. Greg is smiling about it much like he imagines a bride would, warm and full, but with some sense of smug entitlement. Possessive.
Greg guesses Tom feels about it all in a similar fashion, from the way he’s thrown onto the bed and instantly covered. Tom is pressing kisses down his body, biting at the crease of his hips, breath light and fast and wanting.
It’s suddenly sentimental, lying on a bed, and Greg can’t help it when he asks, “Were you- were you scared?”
Tom looks up, hands still wrapped around Greg’s upper thighs. “What?”
“Why didn’t you- in the- in the shower, I mean?”
Something passes through Tom’s eyes like liquid fire.
“Because I want this, y-you know?” Greg offers to the ceiling. “Like, I really hope you know.”
This must sound like a fucking challenge to Tom, who just licks a stripe up Greg’s cock before shoving his tongue right inside his mouth.
“Thank you, Greg.” Tom breaks the kiss. Presses a small one on his lips. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
The weird brush-off sarcasm annoys Greg. He props himself up on his elbows. Tom’s tone makes him want to keep prying, but at the same time, to just kiss him like he’s crying, like he needs to be told by someone that it’s all gonna be okay.
Tom kneels around his thighs now, taking them both in one hand before Greg can form a rebuttal. He just watches Tom in lazy awe and wishes distantly that the piercing was at the bottom of Tom’s head, so he could feel it rubbing against him.
“It is- it is like,” Greg pants, struggles out, “it is really fucking hot.”
This forms a terribly devious grin on Tom’s face and he picks up his speed, forgoing himself to lavish on Greg, lean forward as he strokes, presses kisses onto his chest.
“And to think, I haven’t even fucked you with it.”
Well, that catapults Greg right towards the edge.
He’s moaning into Tom’s mouth and fucking up into his hand, practically blind from need. Tom thumbs a few cruel circles on the head of Greg’s cock as he cums, making eye contact while he licks it off of his fingers, impassive. Cruel doesn’t even begin to describe it, visually.
Tom shifts his weight back to lay forward, bracketing Greg with an elbow and taking himself in long, languid strokes over Greg's torso.
When he leans in for a kiss, Greg furrows his brows, tasting remnants of himself on Tom’s tongue. It’s a little salty, but not as bad as he would’ve guessed. It’s worth it anyway to have Tom kissing him like this, soft and careful, licking against his lips and almost quivering as he nears his own edge.
It’s rare to see Tom unguarded period, but this feels like bearing witness to the eighth wonder of the fucking world, Tom’s long eyelashes fluttering and soft little huffs emitting from his nose. He’s beautiful like this, thoughtless and flushed, and a look of absolute calm washes over his face as Greg feels warm heat cascading over his stomach.
Shit.
Tom crashes down onto his back besides Greg.
They make eye contact, and for some reason, both bust out into laughter.
Greg smiles and releases a long, even exhale. Tom is looking at him with some unnameable emotion glinting in his eyes, half-mischief, half-devotion.
“As soon as the last of this alcohol leaves my system tomorrow,” Tom remarks, “you’re dead, Gregory.”
Greg smirks to himself. Looks over at Tom through dark, hooded eyes. What am I gonna do with a soul anyways? What else am I gonna do with a fucking life?
“So many things I want to do to you, it’s not even funny.” Tom growls. “It’s insane.”
It is insane. Tom is insane. They’re both completely fucking insane.
Greg is giddy with it, surely, their particular brand of insanity, and closes his eyes, held firmly in the promise of things to come.