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When Tom first eagerly steps foot back over the threshold to his office, he doesn't think too much about the way Greg visibly scrambles.
At barely a minute past 2PM, the day’s schedule had already been rammed with needlessly long back-to-back meetings. Meetings which, in all fairness, couldn’t have been condensed within an email, but Tom sincerely wishes someone had tried anyway. The latest meeting; centered around the very thrilling topic of regulation breaches and forgotten protocol, had finally — fucking finally — come to its dull predictable conclusion, and Tom was seeking, quite desperately, an outlet for his simmering frustration.
Greg had managed to merrily escape a good portion of the midday boredom. Being the expert that he was at navigating sensitive documentation held within storage (thanks to an unfortunate situation one Thanksgiving), Tom had reluctantly selected him to flag down some information mid-meeting and had sent him on his way.
The beginning portion of the afternoon had then dragged quite horrifically without his trusted someone to sarcastically roll his eyes at every five minutes.
But Tom had spotted him now; the back of Greg’s head visible through Tom’s glass office door as he reclines idly on the couch, jacket off and completely at his leisure. By the time Tom had reached the door, he was already breathing into a complaining sigh, ready to vent all of his built-up exasperation to his favorite captive audience of one.
“Fuuuuuuck.” Tom groans by way of greeting as he pushes open the door, and Greg visibly jumps about a foot in the air.
It's not that Tom doesn't appreciate an employee getting a little jolt of action upon his arrival, but he doesn't usually provoke such a strong physical reaction, especially not from Greg. He frowns as he clicks the door closed gently behind him, watching the way Greg's shoulders draw together and shift in frantic movement, his head bowed.
“What’re you—” Tom begins, as he cautiously steps toward the couch, and hears a small, muffled clatter against the carpet before Greg is launching himself forward like a soldier throwing himself down onto a live grenade, attempting to shield the blow.
“Tom! Hey—”
Tom sees what Greg has gone to desperately cover and grab. His phone lies on the floor a good three feet away from the couch, and for the split-second before it's snatched away, Tom sees something concerningly flesh-toned and perhaps phallic on the brightly lit screen. Something that sends his mind whirring.
“What—”
“You’re back early!” Greg interrupts, sliding back onto the couch again and pushing his hair frantically out of his face. His cheeks are flushed a ruddy pink, eyes a little wild and panicked as he pants like a cornered animal. He hurriedly tucks his phone back into his pocket.
“It ran over by nearly an hour, Greg. I missed lunch. What are you talking about?”
“Oh yeah.”
“What were you—”
“Nothing?”
It didn’t look like nothing. The image that Tom saw briefly on Greg’s phone flashes up in his mind. He only saw a blur, really. Nothing certain or incriminating beyond a reasonable doubt. But Tom knows from that briefest glimpse, Greg’s flustered and panicked reaction, and the way his eyes plead now as he looks up at Tom— Tom knows, or at least he has a prickling hunch about what he’s potentially walked in on.
“I saw.” Tom says, matter-of-fact, coming to stand directly in front of Greg to better see him sweat. It’s not an actual lie, because he technically did. He just isn’t sure exactly what it is that he saw. It was definitely something, and Tom’s not going to drop it until he knows for sure and Greg is suitably chastised for it.
“Oh. But maybe you didn’t?”
“Hah!” It sounds a little forced, “nice try! Except, I did.”
“Oh, uh. OK. Sorry?”
“Sorry?” Tom laughs, strained in disbelief and overly loud. “You’ll have to do better than that, Greg.” He folds his arms across his chest, standing tall. “Sorry for what exactly? Apologize properly.”
He's too easy, Tom thinks, already smug with anticipated victory. Force Greg to admit his offenses through an apology when Tom isn’t even sure yet what the exact crimes even are. Greg’s great like that. Far too trusting.
Greg sighs, overdramatic to the point of theatrical. He flashes Tom his biggest and most manipulative puppy dog eyes that unfortunately work like a charm more often than not.
“Someone on, uh, Tinder? They wanted some, like, photographic evidence?”
“Who? What evidence?”
“Uh— Like a dick pic? A picture of my penis?”
That’s— Ok. Ok. That’s fine. It is. It’s fine. Funny, actually. If you really think about it.
It’s not actually, no. Tom’s not fine with this at all.
“Who?” Tom repeats, feeling suddenly very upset and heated and not sure what to do with it.
“Someone— Someone claiming to be called Bridget? I—”
“Bridget? Tom asks, voice tight, the name intentionally clunky and angular in his mouth with immediate distaste. "What a— What a pretty, sturdy little name. And what does Bridget do? Churn butter? Is she a shepherdess to a herd of unruly yet lovable goats?"
“I don't, uh—”
This isn’t exactly outside of Greg’s latest behavioral habits. There had been girls of late. Girls and apps and dates, and more girls and—
“So, you—” Tom takes a step back, blinking rapidly as he collects his thoughts, “so what, you thought you'd do this here? On my couch? Send off pictures of—” Tom pauses, mind reeling, “Were you just taking pictures? Just now?”
Greg at least has the decency to look thoroughly ashamed of himself, head tipped forward as he steals glances up with guilty eyes, like Mondale after he’s been caught drinking from the toilet bowl. “I-I mean— I just— I just took one.”
Tom knows very well all about Greg’s dating life. Knows about the prolific Tinder dates with numerous nameless girls that Greg describes to him the following day as ‘vegan brunette,’ or ‘cute but annoying blonde,’ or that one time, eager and excited, the glint of perceived success in his bright eyes; ‘pharmaceutical heiress!’
Tom didn’t much like hearing about these woeful little dates. Wondered often if Greg could tell and got a sick sort of pleasure out of telling him about them anyway, because Tom admittedly got a sick sort of pleasure out of the particularly exquisite type of pain hearing about them induced.
But there was something very not exquisite about the pain in bringing the physical reality of Greg’s sex life into Tom’s personal space. Something rather frustrating and rage-inducing and unbearably unsettling. It felt intrusive in a way that bred a dark and roiling jealousy deep within Tom’s core. Tom likes this couch. Had liked this couch. Had liked to lay back on it and decompress sometimes; to take a few breaths at the end of the day before heading home to his bleak empty apartment. How was he supposed to lie back on it now? Now the couch felt complicit in a betrayal Tom knew hadn't technically occurred, but stung all the same. How was he supposed to get any work done, sitting across from—
“So, Greg. Let me get this straight,” he begins, feeling himself start to lose control. “While I'm out there—” He emphasizes this by pointing out toward the door. “While I’m out there working my ass off, bored out of my mind, I trust you—” Tom jabs his finger now in Greg’s direction, “to run a simple errand for me, and you sneak in here— You have your own office, but you come in here, into my office, to whip your dick out for some— Some fucking girl—”
“Tom—”
“Tom.” Tom mocks, and Greg has the gall to look up at him offended.
There’s an uncomfortable pause in which Tom becomes aware just how fast and loud his own breathing is.
“Are you hard?” He demands, peering into Greg's lap, but his legs are crossed with his arms folded on top.
“I— No?”
“But you were. For the picture. Weren't you?” Greg looks away, his mouth set in an irritated line. “Have you fucked her?”
Greg sighs, eyebrows drawn together as he slides his gaze back up toward Tom, “Uh— The picture is somewhat of a pre-meet appetizer, if you will?”
“How lovely! An amuse-bouche! From the fucking— Fucking amuse-douche, huh?”
Tom’s smiling, but without a single hint of any real humor, his expression much like a haunted clown that just got kicked in the dick.
“Look, dude, I’m sorry about—”
“Are you going to? Huh? Gonna bump your fucking uglies?”
“I get it wasn’t totally cool of me—”
“Do you ever follow through with any of the girls you take on your shabby little dates?” Because if there’s one repeated pattern Tom has begun to notice in Greg’s boasts about his sex life, it’s the complete lack of actual sex.
“It’s not all about—” Greg slaps his fist into his palm a couple of times lamely, an action Tom assumes is to imitate the act. “—like, getting in there.”
“You don’t, then?” Tom demands, uninterested in hearing Greg’s little lesson on what he personally thinks constitutes sex.
“That’s kind of a really personal question?” And with that Greg stands up from the couch, avoiding looking at Tom as much as possible as Tom dips to the side to chase his eyeline, relishing the way Greg squirms under the scrutiny.
“It is, isn’t it. You don’t?”
“Uh, well I-I mean— Not as such.”
“Oh! Not as such?” Tom laughs, humorless.
“Tom, I'm gonna go—”
“So, what do you do? Huh? Bring them back to your place and then what? Just hands?”
Greg takes a few steps back to round the couch, “We don’t— I don’t bring them back—”
“Their place, Greg?” Tom takes a step toward the door to intercept Greg’s exit, “You impose yourself on their hospitality and you won’t even finish the job? And they let you! You must be something special. Are you? Huh? Something special, Greg?”
Greg shifts uncomfortably where he stands, pouting and awkward. He refuses to dignify the question with a response.
“Do you ever see the same girl more than once?” Tom presses, the false smile he’d plastered on before fades into something spiteful and vicious, “Do any of them call you back for a repeat performance? Do you call any of them back? You don’t, do you? You never do. Why is that?”
“Dude—” Greg huffs, his eyes darting between Tom and the escape.
“Is there something wrong with them? The girls?”
“Dude, can you stop—” Greg takes a quick step to the side and Tom mirrors to meet him, arms still crossed tight over his chest.
“Is it that there’s something wrong with them?” Tom asks, aware he’s moments away from crossing a line, but as always when it comes to Greg and the associated complicated feelings, he's completely unable to stop himself, “or is there something wrong with you?”
“Will you fuck off? Tom? The fuck—”
Greg attempts to push past, but Tom bodily shoves into him, forcing him back.
“You disgusting little prick.” Tom spits angrily, aware that his rage is all too revealing.
Greg stares back, irritation marring his brow. The fists held at either side of him clench and unclench, an action that Tom catches not without some element of caution.
When Tom scoffs at him, Greg's shoulders slump, his entire demeanor shifting into something bratty and petulant. A change of tactic. He sighs with a dramatic tilt back of his head, “I said I'm sorry. Just let me leave. C’mon.”
“So you can jerk yourself silly in someone else’s office? I should demote you down to a fucking coffee fetching intern where you belong.”
“Come on.” Greg complains with no real conviction, clearly only annoyed at the situation he's gotten himself into, and not in any way concerned for his position. It annoys Tom to no end that Greg knows it's an empty threat.
“Fucking useless overpaid corporate sex pest—”
Greg makes a move like he’s going for the door again and Tom steps up directly, blocking the way entirely. There’s a brief charged pause where Greg stops and rears back, pulling himself away again as Tom makes a grab for his arm, but Greg wrenches it immediately free.
“Get the fuck off me, man. I don’t wanna be in here anymore!” Greg’s voice raises just short of a yell, holding himself at full height. “Let me the fuck out!”
“No! YOU’RE MINE.”
Tom reels back the moment it comes out, his shoulders meeting the glass door behind him with a loud slam.
Hearing the words back in his own voice, shouted in an almost empty office surprise him just as much as they seem to surprise Greg. Had Tom not been quite so caught off guard by his own loud declaration, he might have been quicker off the mark to correct course on the mistake. Follow ‘You’re mine’ with ‘to do with as I please!’ ‘You're mine — you piece of fucking shit. Fuck you.'
'Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you forever.’
But instead he stands mutely in a silence that speaks volumes, that’s louder than any rushed and fumbled explanation that Tom could ever possibly try to follow up with. He feels his hardened expression falter; the mask cracks, and hates the way he sees Greg notice it too.
“Sit.”
“Wh—”
“SIT. Fucking sit.”
Tom points to the couch, angrily. His tone leaves no room for argument, but Greg looks a little like he might try anyway. He doesn’t ultimately, which is both a surprise and a relief.
Instead he stares back for an uncomfortably long moment, eyes searching for something that Tom hopes desperately that he doesn't find, before taking a huffing breath and turning away, stepping back toward his seat. He drops back down again with an exaggerated sigh, slumping against the small throw cushions like a troubled teenager sitting outside the principal’s office, awaiting disciplinary action he has no intention whatsoever of heeding.
Tom watches him for a moment, pausing still in the doorway and takes in the situation at hand.
He’d definitely said too much, that much was evident; between the sharp stab of nausea in the pit of his stomach, and the acute feeling of deep fathomless dread, Tom honestly wishes he’d had a better handle on the situation.
He reaches back and clicks the lock on the door behind him, and hopes the sound comes across just as menacing as he intends.
The sound of Tom’s tense footfalls against the carpet fill the room as he makes his way over to his desk, the total void of anything else only enhancing the discomfort.
He sets himself down in his chair, feeling self-conscious and antsy, and still real fucking mad, and is greeted with a wealth of unanswered emails when he logs into his computer. It’s a long, long list of monotony that fresh hot coffee would assist with, and Tom would turn to Greg, smiling sweet and condescending, and ask him to bring him some if he thought that Greg would actually come back.
Tom resolves to endure without.
It's quiet for a while, save for the gentle tapping of Tom's fingers against computer keys. He’s still angry. It’s a feeling hard to kick sometimes, and perhaps keeping the cause of his ire just mere feet away isn’t really helping.
“Tom?” Greg tries carefully, after a little time has passed.
“I'm busy.”
“But—”
“Shush.”
Greg huffs, and Tom watches him from the corner of his eye fidgeting back and forth, before reaching into his pocket for his phone, sliding it out with another exaggerated puff of air.
“Put it back.” Tom says firmly, without sparing a single glance over toward the couch. He types out a quick reply to someone instead, triple checking his answer in case evidence of his split attention has made its way onto the screen.
“But—”
“Greg.” Tom warns.
Greg huffs again, clearly aggravated, and slips his phone back into his pocket. He places his hands either side of him, digging annoyed antsy fingers into the fabric of the couch, the resulting scratch against the fibers a sound that grates on Tom’s frayed nerves enormously.
They manage to make it barely more than ten minutes before the shifting and huffing from the couch reaches a breaking point. Greg seems determined to be a distraction, making the inconvenience that Tom has imposed upon him a problem for the both of them. Tom can quite literally feel his blood pressure rising in irritation.
Who does Greg think he is? Tom has been too good to him — always has been. Too generous. Too forgiving. If Greg had been anyone else, Tom would have kicked him to the curb a long time ago. He’s become far too comfortable within their odd friendship. Tom is still his boss after all; despite the warmly lit dinners and the expensive drinks, the silly in-jokes and the cozy late nights...
“Tom?”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
Tom still holds an authority that Greg should be well wary of. That liberty taking fuck should be quaking in his boots, but instead he’s acting like an insolent little prick.
How hard is it for Greg to just do as he’s told, huh? All Tom wants is to cool off, and he wants Greg to just fucking sit there doing fuck all while he does that. He just wants Greg in his sights for a little bit longer, until he’s processed whatever the fuck he needs to process, and he needs Greg to shut the fuck up, otherwise—
“Tom, I-I just—”
Angry, Tom slams his palms hard against the surface of his desk, a couple of papers uplifted by the sudden movement glide softly down to the floor below. The smooth, quiet sound they make as they land only heightens the tension Tom feels in the rest of the room.
Tom fixes Greg with a look so piercing with unrestrained distaste that Greg visibly shrinks, his normally long body like a compressed accordion as he deflates back, staring at Tom with wide, startled eyes.
The ability that Greg has to get under Tom’s skin is truly astounding. His ability to then make Tom feel like a piece of shit for his perfectly valid annoyance is skillful beyond compare.
It riles Tom up all the more.
“When I tell Mondale to sit, he sits.” Tom says angrily, holding onto his irritation with both hands, unsure what to do with the guilt. “He doesn’t whine. He doesn't fucking complain. He sits. He sits and he looks at me and he waits. Can you do that, Greg? Is that within your rudimentary capabilities? Are you able to achieve the same level of obedience as my fucking dog?”
Greg opens his mouth to answer, but Tom, in no mood to hear whatever he might have to say, talks straight over him. “No! Shut up. You sit there. You don’t look at your phone. You sit there, you look at me, and you fucking wait.”
A deafening silence then. Tom huffs in exasperation.
He can't tear his eyes away. Greg's looking back at him with an expression that's hard to parse. He looked annoyed before, but there's something different and new and intense on his face now that adds nuance to his visible frustration.
There's a change in the air, and Tom's heart beats a little faster.
It feels distinctly heated suddenly, like Tom’s unintentionally said something provocative and the ripples of which are ricocheting back to warm his own skin. He readjusts in his seat, sitting a little taller, his back straighter. His eyes scan quickly down Greg's body to get the measure of him before flicking back up, and then immediately shying away from the directness of Greg's gaze, turning and hiding himself in the utilitarian safety of his computer screen.
To Greg’s credit, he does exactly as he's told, and that somehow makes it worse. Tom can feel Greg’s eyes burning into the side of his face, branding him with the very same charge that Tom had himself inadvertently brought into the room.
The minutes tick by, and Tom finds a great discomfort in being watched so resolutely, but it's not the variety of discomfort he might at first presume. It's a discomfort that has him fidgeting more in his seat, and that heats his blood. A flush spreads up his neck that has him sliding his forefinger into the collar of his shirt in an attempt to loosen the stiff fabric. His mouth is dry; he has to keep clearing his throat which is starting to make him feel unbearably self conscious.
Tom clears his throat for perhaps the upteenth time, pretending to read as he focuses on the outline of Greg’s still, watchful form in his periphery.
“Have you sent it?” Tom asks, voice quiet but clear. His temper abated and the guilt beginning to take hold over his earlier angry outburst. “The photo, I mean.”
“I— There hasn’t been much of a chance.”
“Are you going to?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
Tom nods. Types out a couple of lines of nonsense into a Word document, just to look busy, before deleting it again. He’s not really sure how to go about this. He’s not really sure what he even wants to say. He just kind of wants this entire situation with Greg and the photo and the girl to just go away, and to not have to think too much on the reasons why it's got him this worked up.
“I told you about what happened with Roman, didn’t I?” Tom asks. “Cautionary tale, Greg.”
“You did, yup.”
Tom nods again, and tries not to feel too irked that the reminder of Roman’s own indiscretion doesn’t appear to be enough to discourage Greg from potentially furthering his own. It would seem these delicate negotiations are not tipping in Tom’s favor without first battling it out.
When he speaks again, Tom makes sure to project his voice a little louder, a commanding tone that he hopes Greg won’t try to fight against.
“I’m a very important man, Gregory.” Tom frowns a little at his own use of ‘Gregory’. There’s an unspoken, only-known-to-him rule of when he uses it, and he overthinks briefly if now was the right time. “Everything about me and my environment— The company that I keep,” A pointed look toward Greg; the first since the atmosphere had shifted, and the gaze returned is undeniably hot. It makes Tom stumble a little over his words. “—C-could— Could be used against me. Against Waystar. That photo…” Tom takes a second, fingers gliding across the sleek lacquer surface of his desk, before slapping his hands against his thighs, turning to fully face Greg and steeling himself.
“As you saw fit to use my office as a backdrop, that photo could hold sensitive information about me. About the company. If that got out it could cause global shifts in the economy, and before you know it China is ruling us all with an iron fist and we’re watching Cheers reruns in bunkers, longing for the good old days. I cannot allow that.”
“Oh, of course.” Greg says, like that wasn’t the complete nonsensical bullshit they both know it was.
Tom expects Greg to pull his phone out and make a grand gesture of deleting the offending content, or at least a promise to. What he's annoyed to receive is bargaining.
“I could... check? For anything revealing or—”
“But I can’t trust you. That's the key thing. You hadn’t thought this far, so how can I trust you now?”
Tom relaxes back in his chair in a show of ease he doesn’t feel in the slightest. He’s too warm; quite literally sweating under his layers. He thinks about removing his jacket, but doing so feels like an admission to the heating effect that Greg’s unyielding focus is having on him.
“I-I could, like—” Greg is hesitant in a reply to a question Tom doesn’t really want answered. Just fucking say you’ll delete it, Tom thinks.
“Greg, just delete—”
“—could show you?”
“What?”
“Just to check? Like, I could— I could send it to you... first?”
Perhaps Tom should have expected this in some ways. Greg is nearly seven feet of contradictions and coquette-like faux naivety. His stammering, unsure nature should denote a slow mind, and yet the reality is far from it. His natural height should make him a central looming figure in any room, but he somehow manages to shrink away, as noticeable as old wallpaper. His wide shiny blue eyes tell the tale of innocence, and yet here Tom is, being offered a glimpse at something he really shouldn’t, and he gets a sense that the intention is as un-innocent as it comes.
“Just to check?” A nervous involuntary smile crosses Tom’s features, unsure what to do with the suggestion and thus his face. “That the nuclear launch codes aren’t somewhere in the back?”
“They could be?“ Greg says gently with a light shrug, like he’s not just offered to show Tom a picture of his cock, “but you could check, if you’d like to?”
No? Obviously the fuck not? Tom would not like? Are you insane?
Well…
See, here’s the thing. Perhaps, it wouldn’t hurt to check. Just to check. Logically speaking, Tom’s brain says no; for obvious reasons such as that would be weird, and certainly not for reasons like a concern that it’s an image that will flash up unwarranted during personal intimate moments.
But, for the sake of pique? It would certainly spice up the afternoon.
Tom sits with this offer for a moment, the twisting nausea of forbidden opportunity swirling in his gut. He does want to say yes, he realizes, and perhaps that’s all the more reason to say no. But Tom would be remiss not to take natural curiosity into account, and there’s an excuse already in play after all: it’s just to check. Greg’s made it all so easy.
“Bad idea to send explicit materials to a public figure such as myself, don’t you think?”
“I mean, there are like messaging services that are encrypte—”
“No.”
“It's really easy—”
Tom is firm when he voices his denial a second time, sliding back into annoyed. “No.”
“Sorry.” Greg says then, sheepish, but his eyes contradict him as he holds Tom’s gaze. There's something more there, underneath it all and barely disguised, open and offering: you can ask for anything. There's something else there too, something both delicate and attractively pathetic like please.
Tom chews on his own finger as he weighs up what he should do. He knows what he should do, which is to tell Greg to fuck off, and then call Samson in to grab him lunch and some kind of double-triple shot monstrosity from a nearby café.
While Greg might be nearly seven feet of contradictions, Tom is six foot three inches of should have.
Should have, but he did the opposite instead.
“Come here.”
Greg swallows, his eyelids fluttering. He doesn’t even hesitate. “Should I walk over or— Or on my knees?”
Uh.
Oh?
For a man who has quite literally used another man as a footstool — at work! And on company hours! — the question really shouldn’t come as such a shock to Tom, but it does. He feels floored for a second, his mouth falling open in surprise as Greg stares back, unblinking and firm.
Not liking to be visibly caught out by anything, Tom schools his expression, but the slight tremor on the inhale as he breathes through the shock gives him away.
This entire scenario has spiraled quickly out of the comfort of Tom’s control. He should put a stop to it, and there's that should again, because he should, and the simple fact of the matter forces him to contend with the truth which is that he doesn't want to. He likes this. He wants to see where this is headed because he likes this a lot.
Dipping his head once, eyes pointedly landing in the space between Greg’s feet, Tom wordlessly makes his selection. It was an easy decision to make.
Barely a second goes by before Greg carefully slips from his perch on the couch, his knees making two soft cushioned thuds as they land one after the other on the carpet.
One word and Tom could dismiss him and get on with the rest of his day. One word and Greg is chastised for his unprofessionalism and sent away with his tail tucked between his legs. One word and they can forget all about this and no more mistakes are made.
But Tom doesn’t say a thing.
Instead, he turns back to his computer, feeling as though he shouldn’t bear witness to this. Shouldn’t watch the way Greg crawls toward him on hands and knees in case the scene burns its way onto the back of his retinas with the indelible mark of Greg’s willful, keen submission.
The sound alone of Greg’s movements are already potent enough; the soft shuck-shuck of feet or knees sliding across low-pile, office appropriate carpeting. It’s not until Tom’s lungs ache that he realizes that he’s holding his breath.
There’s some shuffling as Greg comes to a stop beside Tom’s chair, and still turned away, Tom closes his eyes for a beat as he focuses on reeling in any of his body’s unwanted responses.
“Here?” Greg asks, sounding a little unsure. Tom considers ignoring him, overwhelmed by the way this entire situation has unfurled itself beyond his control, but then he’s turning his head and meeting Greg’s eyes before he has the chance to second guess it.
Greg is knelt a merciful two feet away, sitting back on his heels. His hands rest in his lap. The pose strikes Tom as deeply and erotically subservient the moment he sees him. He nods — a quick down-up, not trusting his voice to come out in any natural way.
This was a major error on Tom’s part, he realizes. He feels his cock stir with betrayal as he readjusts himself in his seat, turning back around to face the safety of his computer screen and clearing his throat for what feels like the 500th time in the past half hour.
He reads a couple of emails, or at least puts on a valiant show of reading them; the written word holding very little appeal when Greg is knelt beside him in a situation that is without doubt sexually driven, and mutually so. Tom can’t even pretend at this point. This isn’t like the footstooling thing, this isn’t silly or funny. No one’s lost an ill-advised bet. Tom sure as hell isn’t going to offer up the opportunity to one day swap places for a laugh. This is unequivocally horny, but Tom is reluctant to show any real indication that this is pressing all of his buttons, as obvious as it unfortunately may be.
He stares at the screen for a moment to compose his face, and then sighs as he turns and gives Greg a long disapproving look. He wants to ask Greg to remove his hands from his lap so that Tom may better gauge the state of him, but even just the thought of saying it with so much tension in the air has Tom losing his head a little.
Tom clears his throat to be sure his voice won’t crack revealingly. “Right, so hand it over.”
He reaches out his hand, palm up in front of Greg, and Greg's eyes dart up to Tom's face like he can’t quite believe he’s being indulged in this entire misadventure. Honestly, Tom can't believe it either.
His heart thunders as Greg lifts himself slightly to reach into his pocket, and then he's sliding his phone out and placing it delicately into Tom's palm with a nervous breath. Their hands don't brush, and it's almost more of a tease that way, that Tom was expecting the touch but was left inevitably wanting.
“Uh—” Tom tilts the screen to show where a passcode is required, and Greg lifts himself again and shuffles forward. He leans in to tap a quick code that Tom entirely misses as he observes the gentle curve of the other’s cheek from up close.
“Do you want me to—” Greg asks as his finger drifts toward his photo gallery, but Tom pulls the phone away to lean back in his chair and away from curious eyes, needing his own sense of privacy as he so brazenly invades Greg’s, albeit encouraged.
Fuck. Here goes.
When Tom first presses his thumb over 'photos,' he resists the urge to noticeably hold his breath, hoping to conceal his anxious enthusiasm. A selection of photos pop up, and right at the top left Tom recognizes what he'd seen only briefly earlier, before Greg had snatched the picture away. Even as a small image, it's unmistakable in nature, and Tom taps it before he can overthink it.
Right. Yeah. That's Greg's dick all right.
The image is horrendous. Out of focus. Blurred. Compositionally poor. If Tom were a young woman receiving this, he'd complain. In fact, Tom's going to complain regardless.
“This is an awful photo, Greg. You’d have more luck making macaroni art impressions than sending this.” He tilts his head to the side, eyes taking in the blurred features of what he's seeing. It's like looking at a dick at high speed. All Tom can really pick up is an approximation of shape and color. Pink, is what Tom is learning. A pretty shade of a deep heady pink that makes him feel hot all over just to look at it.
Greg rises up to get a quick glance at the screen. “Yeah, I was uh— In my defense I was in the very beginning stages of panic when I took it.” He says, cheeks warm.
Tom nods, before swiping away to the next picture. It's just a photo of a plain sugared doughnut, and it makes Tom smile somehow before he swipes to the next. Same doughnut, different angle. Tom glances at Greg to check he's not majorly overstepping by going through the photos, but Greg seems quite content with the situation. He seems more excited, honestly, eyes almost sparkling when he looks up and catches Tom watching him. Sick fuck.
Tom swipes again. A sunset, orange fading into pink. A pink not unlike Greg's dick, Tom thinks. Swipes, and now there's a photo of a man smiling at the camera. The photo makes Tom feel a little panicked and so he swipes to the next, and now there's a dog. Some kind of beagle cross, perhaps? And then a picture of that same man with that same beagle-like dog, and then another, and then a picture of a woman with her arm around the man and Tom is suddenly struck with the thought: are these Greg's friends? Greg has friends? Who are these friends? Greg has never mentioned them. Greg should have mentioned them. Why hasn't Greg mentioned them?
The next picture is of the woman laughing, the sun in her face. From all the pictures it appears they were at a park together. Then there's a picture of hotdogs, and then of the man from before with mustard on his face. Greg really should have mentioned these people. These friends. It's not exactly like Tom expected Greg's entire social world to revolve around him, but he feels unsettled to find out that it doesn't.
Now, as Tom swipes through the camera roll, feeling strangely put out, there are more pictures of food. Food, food, and then a nice selfie which Tom can't help but grin at a little, and then a random alley cat, and then... oh. Oh boy.
Tom chokes on his own saliva and covers with a light clearing of his throat.
Where Greg's most recent attempt at an intimate picture had failed, this one most certainly delivers. Delivers horrifically well actually. Delivers more than Tom would ever have wanted or expected. It's definitely Greg, and it's— Ah. It's— Well, Tom would hazard a guess and say that Greg was lying down for this one. In bed, perhaps? There's— And now this is the pièce de résistance, truly, there's— God. There's cum — quite a bit! — Splattered, almost artistically across a stomach with a light smattering of dark hair. Dark hair that leads down, down toward— Well, a reddened and very erect penis, is what. It must mean the picture was taken moments after he’d come. Greg was perhaps still feeling the bright tingles of the aftershocks of pleasure sparking through this body when he took this. Was likely panting and flushed. Did he get cum on his fingers? The very same fingers he used to take the photo? The fingers that held the phone currently cradled in Tom's own?
Tom swipes past the photo and now it's another photo much the same but, it would seem, pre-orgasm. Tom realizes, of course, that as he swipes through he's going back in time. He swipes again and again and oh fuck, that's a video. There's no way he can watch that. Not right now. Perhaps another time? Of course not. No way. Holy mother of fuck. Absolutely not. Unless? Tom briefly imagines that conversation: Greg, can I have your phone? I just want to watch the video of you jerkin’ the gherkin, haha! No reason.
Tom's eyes sweep to the side and find Greg watching him. It's immediately apparent that Greg knows exactly where in his camera roll Tom has found himself lingering. Greg looks both knowing and naive, both fearful and hungry. Tom can't take his eyes off him.
“You're very pink.” Tom says, as Greg blinks up at him. He reaches up and touches his cheek, misinterpreting Tom's words.
“No. I mean your uh— in the photos.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t use a filter?”
“On my—? That would be, like, weird? I think?”
“Right.” Tom says, turning the phone screen toward Greg abruptly and enjoying how he squirms a little at being made to face his own filth, “So you’re this pink?”
“I-I think so. I—”
They lock eyes, and Tom has to tamp down the enormous, grotesque urge to tell him that he’s pretty. Pretty in the photos, pretty on his knees, a pretty pink with big pretty eyes… Tom’s losing his mind.
It's funny, really, that he literally has a video of Greg masturbating at his fingertips, but complimenting him on what Tom has seen — calling him pretty — feels like an overstep of monumental proportions.
Greg looks like he’s working up the courage to say something, his lips part, and then close, and then part again as he tries to figure out his next words, and Tom patiently holds his gaze, willing him to have the bravery to say whatever it is he’s working himself up to.
“But I don’t, uh, know.” He says eventually, eyes flicking back down to the screen and blinking rapidly in discomfort, like Tom’s forcing him to look into the sun. “Like, perhaps the screen doesn't accurately portray, uh— Or maybe I see red tones better than you?” Eyes flicking back up, “Or vice versa, so it's hard to accurately say without, uh… Well, without actually seeing, uh…”
It’s an invitation, Tom realizes. It’s an excuse and an invitation to prod and to ask for more, and Tom takes it. Never mind that this bullshit about color tones doesn’t entirely make sense. Never mind that Tom's already seen more than enough. More than he should. More than is probably healthy.
Tom’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when this particular gift horse appears to be somewhat hung like one.
“So, you’re claiming to be an unreliable report.”
“I feel it’s perhaps all a matter of personal interpretation? So I-I wouldn’t be able, in good faith—”
Tom waves a dismissive hand to quiet him, sitting up a little straighter so that he may look down on Greg from a slightly greater angle.
“Is there anything you can do right?” Tom asks, eyes catching on Greg’s lips as his tongue peeks out momentarily to wet them.
Greg shuffles a little in a careful creep forward, bringing his body in closer to Tom — to Tom’s lap — and nods again. The pure audaciousness of the insinuation hits Tom solidly in the chest like a sledgehammer.
“Stand up.” He says abruptly, spreading his legs to knock his knee gently into Greg’s chest.
Greg startles. “Uh, to what end?”
“Just stand the fuck up.”
Tom slides Greg’s phone onto his desk, photo gallery still open with one of Greg's dirty pictures still bright and pink on the screen.
Greg rises to his feet faster than Tom imagines someone of his stature is safely capable of, and Greg sways just slightly like the light-headedness might agree.
Making a point of not looking straight ahead where his gaze would be met at crotch level, Tom keeps his eyes resolutely up, nodding his head forward and motioning toward the bookshelf behind them to a spot that, most importantly, cannot be viewed from the glass doorway. “Over there.”
Greg does as instructed, but not without a few unsure blinks directed Tom's way, but then he’s taking the small handful of steps toward the directed spot and pressing his back to the hardwood shelves with a nervous exhale through his teeth.
While Tom is relieved to have wrestled back control of the situation, he is aware it came at the price of losing control of himself; his own repressed desires assuming the driving seat at an opportune moment of Greg-induced weakness.
He looks over at Greg and this time when he feels his cock twitch he lets himself feel it unrepentant.
“Go on then.” He nudges, unable to keep the wavering dual combination of fear and amusement out of his voice. Leaning back in his seat, he rests his hands on his stomach, his fingers laced together. “Let’s see how well I can take in your red tones.”
“For real?”
Tom catches the way Greg’s fingers tremble a little by his side, and adds, “or you can go,” wanting to offer Greg a way out, the restrictions on leaving Tom’s sight now null and void. Greg has atoned for his transgressions. This has become something else entirely.
“No. I’m fine.” Greg says, voice sounding surer than his actions as he begins slowly unbuckling his belt with long twitchy fingers. He glances back up to Tom quickly to check he hasn’t gravely misinterpreted the situation before continuing as Tom’s eyes come to rest on his hands.
It’s clear to see with the way the light settles on the fabric of his pants that Greg’s at least half-hard already. Tom crosses his legs to hide any interest he might have on his own part, leaning an elbow on his desk and resting his head in the palm of his hand.
The quiet of the office only highlights the soft sound of Greg’s rapid breaths as he takes his time with unsure, nervous movements. But soon enough his belt’s unbuckled, and his pants unbuttoned with zipper down, and Tom has a moment of terrifying clarity that once again this is a huge escalation in his and Greg’s friendship. He becomes aware of these moments often, where he and Greg crash through a new invisible boundary and suddenly their entire relationship takes on a new form. What do things between them look like after this? Their entire short history together has been a series of escalations, all nudged along by a persistent temptation for forbidden fruit.
Greg’s thumbs hook over the top of a pair of black boxers, and Tom holds his breath.
There’s a little bit of a wiggle as Greg shimmies his boxers down in a careful attempt at keeping his pants up around his hips, but as he pulls the elastic away from his body and over his cock, his pants fall to his feet in a dramatic fwump, that only serves to heighten the reveal.
Tom disguises his intake of breath as preparation for a completely feigned, unimpressed sigh, his eyes linger for a moment on a middling pink that’s not quite as deep and full as in the photos. Then again, Greg’s cock has not been so recently or thoroughly abused.
Tom shouldn’t suggest it, or hint towards it, but he’s already opening his mouth to speak.
“Is that it?” he asks, goading. His throat tight around the words.
Greg stares back, incredulous. The color high in his cheeks. “Wh—”
Tom really shouldn’t.
“We’re breaching more HR codes than I care to count. At least make it worth my time.”
Greg looks a little startled, “worth your—?”
Tom only stares back, impassive, silently begging Greg to understand his meaning, whilst also terrified at the prospect.
“...You want me to, like—?” Greg's hand makes a slight jerking off motion by his hip. “Uh…”
Tom shrugs with a too audible gulp, desperate to not appear over eager, and in doing so making himself a parody of poorly disguised restraint.
Greg adjusts the elastic of his boxers to sit just under his ass, and then seems to take a moment to weigh up if balls tucked in would look silly, or if they should be out. It's pleasing when he rightfully decides on having them sit out.
Tom clenches his jaw, tight.
“So I’ll just, uh…” Greg's hand makes a move toward himself before halting in place. When he glances back over at Tom with wide eyes, Tom offers him a small encouraging nod back. “OK…”
He starts slow. Greg curls his pale fingers delicately around himself, a delicious contrast in color between the creamy tone of his hands and the flushed hue of his cock. He’s hard, almost completely, and Tom allows himself a good long look as Greg carefully works himself to full size.
Greg strokes himself with a concerningly dry hand, the little precum developing at the tip that he utilizes only dries out quickly against the heat of his skin, becoming too tacky for an adequate glide. Tom can feel the beginning of a chafe from here.
“Is it good?” Tom asks.
“Uh—”
“It’s not, is it? Because you’re doing a bad job.”
Tom takes a beat and a breath, pursing his lips together. He can feel temptation clawing its way up his throat until he’s opening his mouth again with words he shouldn't speak, both unable and unwilling to stop himself. It’s like a compulsion. He shouldn’t want it but he does, so he’s creating the excuse and setting the scene. Like a rabbit laying down its own snare, excited for the stew.
Don’t say it, Tom thinks to himself, knowing full well he’s going to and there is nothing that can stop him. Don’t—
“You need me to come over there, buddy?” He asks, body tense in anticipation of the answer, “Need me to show you how to make it good?” Tom feels shameless.
A tense and horrific silence ensues, before a pink tongue darts out and wets Greg’s lips. He nods with barely concealed enthusiasm, filling Tom with relief, “I think— Please.”
‘Please’. It’s a call to arms he simply cannot ignore, even if he tried.
Tom clicks his tongue as he pauses a moment to take stock of himself.
Honestly? He wants to jump up and rush over. He wants to crowd Greg up against the wooden shelves. He wants to spit in his hand— No. What he really wants is to spit directly onto Greg’s cock and stroke him until he’s whining and pathetic and oh so fucking grateful that Tom is going to let him come on company time.
Instead, Tom bends slightly to open up the drawer to his bottom left and pulls out a small, still full bottle of lube.
“What— Why do you—” Greg asks in surprise.
“It’s a man’s right to keep whatever he chooses in his desk drawer,” Tom says, twisting in his chair to lock his computer, “and it’s his business alone in why.”
“Uh—”
“But come on, Greg. Why the fuck do you think?”
Tom stands and removes his jacket, laying it neatly on the top of his desk.
Greg frowns as Tom walks over, hand falling away from himself. “So, you can just come in here and just—? But when I do—”
“Yes, because the key thing is that this is my office, you reprobate.” Tom smiles as he rolls up his sleeves, endlessly amazed by Greg’s bratty nature, clearly believing he’s suffering an injustice because Tom got mad at him for jacking it on Tom's couch.
Tom reaches up to pat Greg lightly on the cheek and tries not to think about holding that cheek instead to kiss him, pressing his thumb to Greg’s lips instead. The soft plushness under the digit has Tom fending off a shiver.
In-office masturbation, and handjobs and whatnot; it’s all just a release of pent-up male energy. It’s mind cleansing and refocusing. It’s resetting the balance. Recalibrating the internal dials. It promotes better work efficacy. But kissing? That feels a little, perhaps unavoidably romantic; something which, no matter what, this, whatever it is, cannot be.
Greg steadies himself with hands placed either side against the shelves behind him, holding his body rigidly as Tom presses into his side. He startles when Tom reaches up with his free hand and pulls roughly at the knot of Greg’s tie, loosening it away from his neck.
“Oh… why?” Greg asks, but he's already helping Tom get his tie open and begin unbuttoning his shirt.
“Do you keep a spare shirt in your office?”
“No?”
Tom tsks at that, undoing the last of Greg’s buttons one-handed. He makes no move to allow Greg room to shrug the shirt off, but instead just opens the two sides of the fabric, parting them away from where the hem had brushed against the base of Greg’s cock, and most importantly, away from anticipated mess.
Greg seems to realize the motive behind Tom’s actions then. “Oh!” Smiling, “g-good thinking!”
Tom indulges in a wink, feeling oddly smug from the praise. He gives Greg a quick pat on the stomach over the warmed fabric of his undershirt, and tries not to think too much on how he wants to take that off too. Wants to loosen his own clothes as well. Wants to, you know, wants— Uh.
He dares himself to reach down and get the first nervous touch over with, hooking a pair of fingers around Greg’s length and lifting slightly to feel the heft of him. His hot velvety soft skin a pleasant weight in Tom’s hand.
“Before, you— You shouldn't stroke yourself dry.” He says, taking a moment to properly compose himself, “The skin here is thin." Tom traces two fingertips feather light across a prominent vein, “you can make yourself sore.”
He looks away to squeeze a good-sized dollop of the lube into his hand, then looks up to meet Greg's eyes, except he gets stuck with his focus landing on smooth soft lips. “It's a little cool,” he warns before wrapping his palm fully around the length.
Greg gasps, as Tom smooths the lube all the way down, before twisting his wrist, running his hand up along the underside to wrap slick fingers around the head.
“Always, Greg, get yourself nice and wet.”
“N-noted.”
When their eyes do meet, Tom feels Greg throb in his hand. He's already flushed, his pupils blown wide. Greg wears the pleasure of sex well, which is such a deeply regrettable thing to confirm and discover.
“God—,” Tom says, intending to say something belittling. Something like God, you’re pathetic, or God, you’re desperate. But all that comes out is an honest God said softly with reverential awe.
Tom runs a finger gently over the tip to collect a small drop of precum, and almost brings the finger to his lips. He plays the scenario over in his head and the surprising way in which he wants to; wants to take a piece of Greg into himself, to know him ever increasingly intimately, to give every one of his senses a deep all-encompassing knowledge of him.
Tom strokes Greg slowly through his thoughts, using any available wetness to lubricate and further ease the glide. It shocks him just how much he himself likes this. How satisfying it is just to touch Greg in this way, to press himself this close, to listen to Greg’s soft little gasps only inches from his ear, feeling the gentle exhales against his own skin. It raises goosebumps along Tom’s arms, every sensation heightened, and it’s almost too much in the near silence of the office. He needs Greg to make more noise so at least he can focus on that and not the way it makes his own body feel. The way it makes his own body need.
“Don’t be fucking shy.” Tom says, desperate to fill the quiet, “Not too loud, but c’mon.”
Greg is so good. He’s always been good. He moans a little as Tom tilts his head back to study his face, the moan tapering toward the end into a whine that makes Tom sigh with gratification.
Tom wants to bury his face in his neck. He wants to ask Greg to pull the collar of his undershirt aside, and he wants to press his mouth to Greg's skin; wants to suck a big purple mark into Greg's collarbone that will last for a week or more. Brand him with his lips and teeth so that if Greg meets up with this girl — whoever the fuck she may be — she has to stare it down. That she'll know that someone has been here before, recently, and that Greg is very much theirs.
But that wouldn’t be enough. Physical marks fade; purple to green to yellow, and then soon enough it’ll be like Tom had never been here at all.
“Tom—”
Greg sounds wrecked already. Wonderfully, awfully, unforgettably—
Tom focuses his hand on the head, rotates his fist and gets a palm smeared generously for his efforts, spreading wetness with a slow tight fist down the length.
This is marking his territory somewhere that is slow to fade; imprinting his touch to flushed wanting skin and creating a tactile memory he hopes Greg won’t soon forget. Perhaps — tantalizingly, dangerously even — to cultivate a yearning for more.
“Tom, oh fuck—”
Impatient from the slow pace, Greg begins moving his hips, pushing his cock through the tight circle of Tom’s hand, and yeah, fucking— Fuck yeah, Tom likes that. He likes that a hell of a lot. He keeps his hand still as Greg fucks his fist, mesmerized at the visual of the flushed wet head, now just as pink and appetising as in the photos, sliding slick and hot through his fingers.
“Careful of the woodwork, Greg.” Tom says, mindful of the other’s hands still clinging to the shelves behind him, the scratch of nails biting into wood. He tries to sound severe but he’s panting a little too. “Squeeze my shoulder instead.”
“Oh f-uck.” Greg whines, pulling an arm up to grab at the fabric of Tom’s shirt, his long fingers curling around a suspender strap, “oh fuck.”
Tom is amused at how Greg can’t seem to say anything but ‘oh fuck’. ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck.’
“Oh fuck.” Tom mimics with great delight, smiling wide and unguarded.
Tom turns himself to better face Greg, pressing forward to still his twitching hips with a free hand, keeping himself just off to the side to avoid the wet leaking mess as Greg approaches orgasm. Taking over the pace from a slightly different angle, Tom speeds up and then immediately slows back down again, relishing the way it makes Greg whimper.
“I want you to make a big fucking mess, OK?” It’s a battle, but Tom does everything within his power to regulate his voice as his heart pounds, “you won’t disappoint me again, will you?” He presses his own hard cock into Greg’s hip, groaning into his words, “When the cleaners come in tonight I want them thinking I dropped a bowl of mushroom soup in here, yeah?”
It makes Greg laugh through a gasping breath, “That— That’s so gross.” Tipping his head forward to rest against Tom’s own, knocking their foreheads together a little painfully with a soft dull thunk.
Is Greg thinking about it too? Because all Tom can think about is how much he wants to kiss him. They’re so close. Even just the sharing of breath has Tom dizzy with a wave of undiluted desire. “Yeah?” He tilts his head up before catching himself, pulling away instead with a frustrated growl. “I thought you liked being disgusting?”
Tom leans forward, tilting his head to the side and presses an open mouthed kiss to the side of Greg's neck, soothing the persistent temptation to kiss him instead on his parted lips.
It makes Greg whine, the sound high-pitched and pathetic, his fingers dig hard into the meat of Tom’s shoulder before sliding up to cup tentatively around the back of Tom’s neck, and it feels so unexpectedly sweet, in this moment; the sensation of being wrapped up in him.
It's an exercise in restraint not to leave any visible marks when Tom so badly yearns to consume him, heart, soul, and body too. Wants to feel Greg shake between his teeth as Tom makes a claim to what should rightfully be his.
But, fuck. Not even that. It’s too violent and visceral. Tom wants to want that, almost; to harsh and harden the softness that he feels, but really…
Tom just wants to kiss him properly, and what’s the point anymore in pretending that’s a brand new feeling? He wants to kiss him so bad he aches deep in his bones with it. Fuck everything else, he just wants to hold him with devotion and care in his hands and kiss his lips until the ache dissipates and everything around them melts away into sweet senseless oblivion.
He wants to pour everything into it — he wants to pour himself into it — everything that he cannot ever say but wants Greg to feel. He wants to feel it too; to understand Greg, without the need for words, unmistakable through one single essential kiss.
It’s a temptation almost unbearable to resist.
And it’s a temptation entirely impossible to resist when Tom pulls back to see Greg blink open his eyes, looking directly into Tom’s own with a helpless moan as he comes.
Tom has to. He has to kiss him on that pretty pink mouth. He doesn’t even think about it now, doesn’t decide whether he should or should not, he just does, pressing himself upwards and catching Greg’s lips with his own.
An attempt is made to stroke Greg through, but all coordination is instantly lost. By all accounts it’s a reasonably bad, sloppy, graceless kiss. Greg is in the middle of moaning around an orgasm after all. But, fuck, that’s also what makes it so devastatingly good.
Tom tries to pull away, but Greg is coming back to his senses fast, leaning in and tilting his head in a way that fits their lips together into something delicious and soft and toe-tinglingly wonderful. Tom sighs into it unintentionally, the gentle sound embarrassing and honest in a way that sends panicked alarm bells ringing in his ears.
In hindsight, with a humiliating flush creeping up his neck, Tom might later come to realize that he had swooned.
He attempts to wipe his wet messy hand clean on Greg’s naked hip, and Greg bites at his lip in return – just bordering off gentle – and fuck if that isn’t the hottest thing in the entire world. Tom pulls at him with his clean hand, sliding it up into Greg’s hair as Greg winds his arms around Tom’s body, Tom licking past those perfect lips, rewarded with an indulgent sigh that melts syrupy sweet on his tongue.
It eventually slows in the way that all good kisses should; becomes less ragged and grasping and desperate, and tilts toward unhurried and tender in a way that this particular kiss should not.
This kiss should have been rough and vulgar. It should have been more about power dynamics than romance. It shouldn’t be about romance at all. If they had to kiss, it should have been about control and dominance and possession, and that’s the only thing that this kiss has in common with what it should have been, because it is about possession. Except it tingles where it should have inflicted pain. It equalizes where it should have reinforced the hierarchy. It soothes the discomfort it should have caused. It ties them together irrevocably with a knowledge of an idyll that they were better off not knowing anything about.
It might be one of Tom’s greatest mistakes.
But he could happily live a life just like this, Tom thinks, perhaps stupidly; pressed close and standing raised on the balls of his feet to kiss those soft warm lips.
And therein lies the problem; Tom has become unaccustomed to comfort of late, and Greg makes all of this far too easy.
It doesn’t take long for Greg to reach for Tom’s belt, and the moment he feels the contact Tom stumbles back and away from roving hands. His body had reacted faster than his brain, and so Tom stands and blinks back at Greg in shock for a moment as he tries desperately to catch up.
It’s suddenly and awfully sobering to look at Greg and see the evidence all over him of what they had done. Tom hates how much he desires more. How tempted he is to risk it all. He doesn’t even care about getting off, he just wants to hold Greg's face and kiss him again.
“I think not, don’t you?” Tom says, catching his breath, voice tight in reluctant resistance. He turns away quickly when he realizes how visibly hard he is in his slacks, feeling the dampness too: uncomfortable, cooling quick and sticky.
“Uh, no?” Greg replies with full reddened lips. Horrific. He quickly starts pulling boxers and pants back up long legs in a hurry to cover himself, as if Tom hasn’t got the most photorealistic image playing behind his eyelids as he tries to gather his wits about him.
“Well, I do so... perhaps not.”
“OK?”
“Right.” Tom’s voice is strained. All bravado woefully lost to awkwardness as he steps back and touches trembling fingertips to the surface of his desk to ground himself. “See that you don’t, uh, don’t take fucking pornos or whatever in my office again.”
“OK, sure.” Greg says dumbly in reply, half buttoning his shirt before shakily brushing himself down and failing to smooth out his creases. “Thanks.”
Under different circumstances Tom would have stepped over to Greg and smoothed out his clothes properly for him, chiding him playfully. But under these circumstances? Tom is doing no such thing.
He nods instead from his safe distance away. “Right.”
“Yeah.”
“Good—” Tom’s attention suddenly snags on the splash of mess leading away from Greg and across his carpet, seeing it now for the first time. He really did do as Tom had asked him. It doesn’t look much like mushroom soup though. It’s awfully incriminating just how much it looks unmistakably like cum. “Good. OK…” And then on autopilot, for no discernable reason other than to have Tom look bumbling and awkward, “Good, you know, uh— Good talk. We had, uh, there.” Fuck.
“Are you sure about...?” Greg asks, with a small jerking motion toward the obvious outline of Tom’s erection as Tom gathers some tissues together to throw onto the carpet, squashing them underfoot into the stain.
Tom would love nothing more, but absolutely the fuck not. Firmly, he grits out, “I’m sure.”
“OK. Cool. That’s—” There’s a pause. He looks back at Tom, and it feels worryingly like longing, “So ok, I’ll uh—”
Greg makes a move toward him then, and Tom’s heart just about falls out of his ass, but Greg awkwardly side steps him to quickly grab his phone from the desk with a tight smile. Once Greg drops the eye contact, he seems unable to look at any part of Tom at all.
“Yeah.” Tom fills the silence.
“I’ll get back to work! The grind never stops— Or sleeps, or—” He stumbles then, on the way to the door, because of course he does, and Tom can’t even find it within himself to comment or laugh. “Gotta go get that bread!”
He’s such a fucking dork. God. Tom is so fond of Greg it feels liable to make him sick.
In another life, Tom would call Greg back. He'd reach for him, hold him. In another life Tom would clear his desk and press Greg onto the surface and kiss every inch of him. He'd suck marks into his most ticklish spots and listen to him giggle, he'd— he'd—
“Mmhm.” He murmurs weakly, hoping he dies. Hoping they both die. He steps back behind his desk and slumps into his chair, exhausted in every possible way.
“Cool. Cool cool. Bye, sir.”
Tom watches as Greg almost folds in on himself with how visibly and awfully he cringes at ‘sir’ in the tense atmosphere. Tom really wishes his flagging hard-on didn’t pick up a little at it.
“Yes.” He nods. It's torture. His eyebrows have drawn together and he can’t seem to flatten them out again. “Goodbye, Greg.”
Thankfully, Greg gets the door open, looking back toward Tom, but not at Tom, flushing a real fucking familiar shade of pink. With horror, Tom notices that Greg has buttoned his shirt lopsidedly, the buttons of one side having been slipped through the hole one space up. He looks beyond ravished. He looks like some young Casanova escaping through the window of a tryst, rumpled and over-sexed, but Tom really cannot face saying anything and delaying his exit any further.
Greg smiles then, overly bright, and it looks as though it comes at great effort, “OK. Bye. B-bye.”
“Yes. Goodbye, Greg.”
And then, Christ. Fuck. He’s gone.
It’s quiet. Tom takes a few seconds to breathe before jumping up in a ferocious panic to finish his rough clean of the carpet before anyone can come in and see it, realizing he definitely should have made Greg do this himself, the slippery little fuck.
The world has shifted off its axis. Life as Tom knows it is now forever changed. He tasted the forbidden fruit, and it was absurdly divine. It dangled itself in front of him and he was too weak to resist, so he took a big fucking bite, and yet—
Tom reaches for his desk drawer, chucking in the lube and grabbing a small bottle of Purell, squirting a good amount into his hands and rubbing the fast-drying liquid into his skin. Ideally, he actually needs to wash his hands, but the thought of leaving the false illusion of safety his office provides scares the shit out of him.
Tom wonders how long he should leave it until he asks. Less than 10 minutes shows that he’s worried and wondering where he and Greg stand. 10–15 minutes gives the impression that Tom has just cranked one out, and then rushed to check in. 15–30 is the sweet spot. Anything longer looks intentionally like Tom’s pretending not to think about what happened, because of course he’s fucking thinking about what happened.
Tom waits exactly 16 minutes before he picks up his phone, then rotates it in his hand for another minute as he stares at the spot by the shelves where he’d just stroked Greg to completion, his mind a low hum of static white noise.
Sender: Tom W. [3:13PM]
>> Are we still on for dinner tonight?
Sender: Greg H. [3:14PM]
<< Sure!
Sender: Greg H. [3:22PM]
<< yum😊