Chapter Text
There’s an echo when Tom’s knees crack against the cold ceramic tiles. Shivers run through his bones like electricity. The LEDs above them flicker in unison. It’s funny, he thinks, how much he spends on suits just to cover them in whatever coats the floor he finds himself sinking into. Tom has the money for it; he could buy a new suit every time his pants get all dusty from kneeling between Greg’s legs like this; but he can’t shake the side of himself that winces when he turns over a price tag. It’s in his bones.
He rests his arms on Greg’s stick legs, soothing their shaking, and reaches out to his buckle. Tom wishes he had the power to calm Greg’s nerves with just his touch. He’s most likely just cold.
But it’s nice: hearing the familiar whip of Greg’s belt to section their long silence into manageable chunks. Tom pulls it from its loops and discards it just to watch Greg’s reaction to being tugged ever so slightly closer to his boss like this, to feel the power Tom yields run across his waist as if he were a tamed horse. He gasps. Tom feels himself harden.
Greg’s breaths are shallow and sparse, and Tom counts them in his head; a rhythm to follow. His lungs are a flute that Tom cuts short with the bassoon he calls a hand. Thick country palm wrapped around him; rough and warm; Greg’s breath falters at the insulation. And Tom takes note every time.
They do this often. During boring meetings Tom shoots him a look that seems like just another face in his small collection of judgemental expressions, but Greg sees its intricacies. He nods and excuses himself first, gangly limbs climbing out from whatever seat he’d been squashed into, and Tom watches with a finger curled above his top lip and a disapproving glare. Then Tom makes a less noticeable exit when he can no longer sit with his thoughts of Greg touching himself in his absence. He never waits long; Tom locks the bathroom door with haste and they get off however they need to.
There was never really a beginning; they never planned anything; there was never a big bang—just Tom and Greg and an apple in the garden of fifth floor restroom.
Tom gets off on just hearing Greg’s soft whimpers. He’s not loud—not in here, at least—but the little bits of himself that escape from his barely-parted lips sound like music to Tom. At first he tried to pretend it wasn’t that; that he just had an oral fixation and Greg was just an easy target; but it wasn't long before he started hastily burrowing a hand in his pants whenever Greg’s tempo and pitch increased. He always prayed Greg wouldn’t look down and notice the way he sighed on his length or the way his back arched ever so slightly, the way he always came when Greg did; the way he got off on Greg getting off.
This time he holds Greg’s dick in his hand and leans towards it.
“Tom?” Greg breathes.
“Yes, Greg?” he hums, stopping in his tracks. He’s reminded of how frail his heart is every time he locks eyes with Greg. The man looks down at him, lips slightly parted, glancing between Tom’s gaze and his hand.
It takes him a while to formulate a sentence. “I wanted to say thank you, for always… servicing me—”
“What, are—are you practicing your Oscar acceptance speech with me? Do they have a ‘Best Pillow Princess’ award now?”
“I just wanted to say—”
“Shut up, Greg.”
“But—”
Tom has his tongue on Greg’s balls before the latter can finish his sentence. He shudders, whispering a soft little fuck to himself as his grip on the seat tightens.
He’s good for keeping his hips so still.
Tom’s tongue drags lethargically around each side. It’s the holding Greg’s cock out of the way so he can suck each sac easier that Tom knows riles Greg up; if there’s a list of good ways to show attention to someone who’s been ignored their whole life, this has to be up there somewhere.
But he doesn’t just do it to make Greg feel seen. He does it because he needs the inside of his mouth to experience Greg the same way his eyes and hands do.
Greg never found pleasure in hurting Tom the way people did in the few pornos he’d seen. He did, of course, do some research after the first time Tom got on his knees for him and he “splooged” in Tom’s mouth way too soon. Pushing him down until he chokes seems too harsh. Instead he holds a hand hesitantly behind Tom’s head, not quite touching him but not quite rejecting the idea.
Oh, how Tom would die to be touched now. A rough hand to his face, fingers pulling at his hair, scratches wherever; anything to make his suffering real .
“Uhm… Tom?”
Tom pulls himself away and looks up. The back of his head connects with Greg’s hand and Greg lets it stay there; caressing the back of Tom’s head.
It hurts him more to be loved like this by a man he can’t have than to be hated by a woman he calls his wife. “I think I’m close.”
“Don’t cum on me.” He couldn’t care less where Greg’s cum went. Not now.
Usually he’d want Greg to cum on him, just to see him freeze for a moment and profusely apologise and try to erase the proof that Greg had marked Tom as his. As much as he feels like the world is only Greg when he’s in this stall, though, he does have a real world to get back to after this; a world where he’s happily married and strictly Greg’s boss and getting on his knees for a subordinate is completely unheard of and he’s happy and married and Wambsgans. Not Tom, not the way Greg whines it, not a Tomlette composed of a broken Greg’s touches and whispers. He can’t help but consider letting Greg cum on him, though, consequences be damned.
“Can I come in you? In your—your mouth, I mean.”
Tom laughs. It seems so hard to not wanna give him everything he asks for.
And Greg didn’t make it any easier for Tom, either. In the early stages he’d trap Tom against the stall, hands gripping the top of the door, head hung and panting in Tom’s face as Tom jerked him off. One of his arms would get tired and fold and he’d find his lips pressed against Tom’s ear, slurred swears and empty praise hitting his brain right at the pleasure centre. Somehow smelling the mints Tom leaves on his desk and explicitly does not give Greg permission to take turned him on even more.
Tom tried small talk, a few quips, some “You like that? You get off on being milked by your boss like this?” here and there. But it only got Tom off more than it did Greg (though Greg often nodded, no matter how demeaning or cruel Tom’s rhetoricals were, and when Tom would go silent he’d whisper “ please, more, t—tell me I’—I’m a—a slut, whatever you want, please—fuck ” but air would build up in Tom’s lungs and his throat would clog and his eyes would squeeze shut and he’d grunt at his own sudden orgasm.) When Greg got close he’d tilt his head back and Tom would trace his Adam's apple with his eyes. It only made him want Greg more than he could’ve predicted; more than he could’ve planned for: Tom found himself wanting. He wanted to have Greg on his lips; to taste the red of his flushed neck; the long thin fingers that sometimes curled around Tom’s shoulders when he came; the gentle cupids bow he always glanced at when Greg spoke—
Occasionally Tom’s knees ache. He prays for those days when Greg doesn’t try to persuade him to take the role of the floor jockey, though Tom would flaunt his accolades in the matter if he could. He’s skilled in making Greg feel good because he—and he’d never use this word out loud—loves it when Greg feels good. He’d give it all up to throw Greg onto his wife’s bed and mount him, kissing every inch of his skin and licking everything that makes Greg squirm. If he could just convince Greg to let him hear his unadulterated mewls and moans; to fully see his effect on Greg; he’d throw his life away. All his hard work, all his years of being the floor jockey just to experience this man’s pleasure in its purest form and whisper I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you to every cell in Greg’s body that’d listen in the hopes that they’d absorb it and find the little love me ’s coded within his voice cracks.
Occasionally Greg feels the cold of the bathroom floor and understands how isolating it can be down there. But Tom wraps a hand around the back of his neck, his fingers sifting through his almost-mullet, and guides him. Greg can do the unbuckling part, easy. His hands do shake and his breath does hitch when he sees the outline of Tom’s dick pressed hard against his underwear but when he looks up at Tom it all feels okay.
Greg’s not too good at sucking dick. At least not as good as Tom. But he enjoys Tom’s hands entangled so deep in his hair and he likes how clean Tom tastes and he’s not opposed to how gentle Tom is—he doesn’t buck his hips or fuck his face or anything. Tom holds Greg’s face sometimes—if he had a more rudimentary understanding of their relationship he’d say Tom caresses his face, but that can’t be the right verb because that type of forbearance is reserved for his wife, not his subordinate. Tom holds Greg’s face sometimes.
There’s no one else in the universe but them. There’s no one else in this public bathroom but them. Sometimes cum dribbles out of Greg’s mouth and onto Tom’s shoe. They giggle quietly, their existance a secret to the outside. There’s no one else in Tom’s world but Greg. No lips but Greg’s. No eyes but Greg’s. Tom would give Greg the world if he could fit it into their little cubicle. Greg pushed himself up and gave Tom a smile, oh how he hands his smile on a platinum platter for Tom to die over. He smiles like it's not a star collapsing and Tom can’t take it. He needs more. He wants more. But if they were to cross the river and kiss it’d ruin everything. So he stayed plastered to the toilet seat lid and Greg left first.
Greg always leaves first.