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Greg’s never been in a relationship long enough to have a note-worthy anniversary before.
Frankly, he’s never been in a relationship worth mentioning, period, but definitely not one that ever came close to hitting the one year mark.
And yet, here he is, closing in fast on one whole year of dating Tom Wambsgans.
It hasn’t been without its hurdles – the turbulence immediately following Italy last year had been pretty rough, and Greg had been on the edge of his seat most of the summer and into the fall, just waiting for the oxygen masks to drop. But somehow, some way, they’d pulled up and pulled through. He’d never even needed his under-seat floatation device.
Both of them have been doing better under Matsson’s leadership, as well. Tom’s flourishing as CIO – finally getting to stretch his wings a bit now that he’s no longer under the constant, critical eye of the Roys – and Greg’s really coming into his own over in Digital.
It’s been nice, honestly.
Plus, Greg’s not in Tom’s pool of direct reports anymore, which means Greg telling Tom about his day at work over dinner isn’t just him rehashing Tom’s own schedule to him. There’s some variety there that they wouldn’t have had before, and Greg’s glad for it, especially now that they’re living together.
Tom had dragged Greg along on all of the showings he’d scheduled on his hunt for a new place during the divorce proceedings, and Greg hadn’t understood at the time how much Tom wanted his opinion on the whole living situation – he hadn’t known Tom was shopping for two. But when they’d stepped into a split-level Chambers Street apartment and Greg had let out a quiet “wow” at the way the golden afternoon light had slanted through kitchen windows, Tom had barely let the agent finish the tour before he was putting in an offer.
(The ample green space out on the roof and balconies had been big selling points for Mondale, too.)
Tom had moved Greg into the guest bedroom off the mezzanine, and Greg lived there all of two weeks before he’d ended up in Tom’s bed.
Since then, it’s been almost a year, and Greg’s still really fucking happy.
He has a job he actually likes, an apartment he loves, and a partner he would marry tomorrow, if asked.
Tom is, whether he knows it or not, responsible for almost all of the joy currently populating Greg’s life.
So.
Greg wants their anniversary to be extra-special.
He wants to do something for Tom no one else has ever done for him before. Something he thinks – he hopes – that Tom will like.
And he has something very specific in mind.
He’d gone at Tom with a measuring tape a few weeks ago in pursuit of said ‘something’ and when Tom had raised an eyebrow at him and asked, “What on earth are you measuring me for? A gimp suit?” Greg had swatted at him and said, “It’s a surprise. Stop asking questions or you’ll ruin it.”
It isn’t a gimp suit.
But.
Tom also isn’t completely off the mark.
The idea had come to Greg back in July, when he and Tom had been out walking Mondale, and they’d passed a movie theater. He’d watched the way Tom’s eyes had lingered on a poster for an upcoming film. Some ancient warfare drama – not typically Greg’s speed. But when Greg had lined that up against some things Tom had shown interest in previously – thought about that in the context of a name Tom had called him by once, an idea had taken root.
It’s a very custom order, but Greg thinks it’ll be well worth it.
He hopes Tom thinks so, too.
~
Their anniversary falls on a warm, sunny day in early September.
It’s a Saturday this year, which means Greg gets Tom all to himself for the whole day.
And Tom, in typical Tom fashion, spoils him fucking rotten.
Greg wakes up to a tray being placed on his bedside table, and the sweet, rich aroma of homemade french toast filling his senses. He blinks bleary eyes open to see Tom standing next to the bed, a small smile on his face.
“Happy Anniversary, Gregory.”
Greg’s not quite with it enough yet to muster a verbal response (he does smell coffee on that tray, though, which is promising for his coherency) so he reaches for Tom, instead. Tom grants Greg’s questing fingers a hand and Greg draws it to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Tom’s knuckles. Tom’s fingers tighten around his.
“Hey there, sleepyhead.” Tom’s voice is quiet; private.
“Hey,” Greg croaks out. He levers himself up against his pillows with some effort, squinting against the bright morning light. He doesn’t let go of Tom’s hand. “‘Morning. Happy Anniversary.”
Tom’s other hand comes up to stroke through Greg’s bedhead. “I made you some breakfast.”
“Mmm.” Greg leans into Tom’s touch, eyes half-closing in simple, hazy contentment. “I can see that. You didn’t have to, y’know.”
“I know,” Tom says. “I wanted to. It’s a special day, after all.”
God.
Tom is just – he’s so –
“You’re so good to me,” Greg murmurs.
“I try to be,” Tom says, soft.
Greg knows. It hasn’t been the smoothest path to where they are now. He knows how much effort Tom’s put into paving this road. “I know. Thank you.”
Tom doesn’t say anything, but he bends down to kiss the top of Greg’s head, hand migrating from Greg’s hair to the back of his neck. It’s gentle. Tender.
When Tom starts to pull back, Greg makes a sound of protest.
Tom glances down at him, one eyebrow raised in question.
Greg brings a hand up to tap at his own lips.
Tom laughs – one of Greg’s most favorite sounds – and kisses him.
So, yeah. Greg’s feeling pretty fucking spoiled today.
Breakfast is predictably delicious, and afterwards, he and Tom take Mondale on a long, meandering walk through a few of Tribeca’s parks.
Greg loves walks with Tom, but he especially loves walks with Tom after the events that had transpired in June of this year.
(Ironically, Greg owes this bit of increased happiness to Roman Roy of all people, after Roman had tweeted a picture of himself flipping off the camera and laying one on Matsson. He’d captioned it “happy pride bitches” and sent Waystar Gojo’s PR team into a full meltdown on how to pivot with this. They’d landed on pushing Waystar Gojo’s revamped ‘diversity and inclusion’ initiative, bravely spearheaded by their own CEO and COO. It’s mostly bullshit, but it’s bullshit that means Tom and Greg don’t have to worry so much about that, anymore.)
Greg gets to hold Tom’s hand in public, now.
It’s a small thing, but –
It’s nice.
Greg likes it.
(Tom seems to like it too, judging by how often he initiates it.)
The rest of the day passes with a kind of pleasant, gilded ease – lunch at that new bistro Tom’s been talking about, back home for an afternoon catnap on the rooftop terrace for Greg and Mondale while Tom lounges next to them with a book, and then out to dinner for a classic little celebration.
When they make it back to the apartment, Tom tells Greg he has one more thing for him – just wait right here.
Tom disappears down the hallway to his study and Greg takes the opportunity to dart into his own closet and pull out the box he hid there three days ago. He’d actually started to worry it wouldn’t get here in time at the beginning of the week, but lo and behold, FedEx came through for him.
He takes the box back into the living room and settles on the couch just as Tom’s making his way back.
Tom, of course, zeroes in on the box immediately.
“What do you have there, Gregory?”
Greg has to fight the urge to hide the box behind himself, suddenly a little nervous. “A surprise.”
“Ah,” Tom says, taking a seat next to him on the couch. He sets a slim, rectangular present on his lap. “Is this the same surprise you assaulted me with a tape measure over, a while back?”
“It may be,” Greg hedges. “Perchance.”
“Well.” Tom reaches for it, fingers curling and uncurling in a grabby gesture. “Let’s have at it, then.”
“Oh, um.” Greg puts a hand on top of the box. “Actually, I think you should go second. If that’s alright?”
Tom’s eyebrows skyrocket. “Oh, really?”
Greg nods. “I just, um. Yeah. I’d like to open yours first. In case you don’t like mine.”
“Greg.” Tom softens. “I’m sure I’ll like whatever suit you’ve cooked up for me.”
Oh, God, he thinks it’s a suit?
Greg can definitely see where he could’ve gotten that impression, but, like. It’s definitely not a suit.
Fuck, did he want a suit?
“Ah. Sorry to disappoint, perhaps, but.” Greg licks his lips anxiously. “It’s not a suit.”
Tom, in a baffling turn of events, seems to perk up at that. “It’s not?”
“Nope,” Greg says, watching Tom closely. Maybe he didn’t want a suit. Greg’s not sure if that bodes better or worse for him. “So can I – are you cool with me going first?”
“Sure, sure.” Tom drags his eyes away from his gift with visible reluctance. He hands Greg his present. “For you, Monsieur.”
“Merci.” Greg never retained much French, but he knows the basics enough to throw a hint of a Québécois accent on that. Just enough to pique Tom’s interest the way it’s seemed to in the past.
Sure enough, Tom sits up a little straighter.
Greg smirks to himself as he unwraps his present and opens the gift box within.
Inside, he finds two leather luggage tags. They’re caramel-brown and buttery soft to the touch, embossed with the initials ‘GJH.’ Greg’s not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. The thought behind it makes him feel warm inside. It’s a sweet gift. Sentimental.
“These are really nice, Tom.” Greg picks up one of the tags and smooths his thumb over it. The texture is like velvet. “Thank you.”
“You – ” Tom laughs, hand coming up to cover his mouth the way it does when his laughter is a surprise to even him. “Greg, sweetheart, I’m glad you’re still so easily impressed, but the real gift is inside the tag. Open the flap.”
“Oh.” Greg does as he says. On the inside of the tag flap, the date of their anniversary is embossed in gold. Greg smiles. “Aw, Tom.”
Then he looks over at the pocket where his contact info would normally be. Instead of a contact card, there’s a note.
DL152.
Greg frowns. “DL152? What’s that mean?”
“It’s a flight number,” Tom says. “I’m taking you to Rome in October.”
“What!?” Greg exclaims. “Tom, are you serious? Rome? For real? When are we – you said October?”
Tom nods, fond. “First two weeks of October. We won’t be fighting the summer tourist crowds by then, and I figured that should give us both plenty of time to hand off what we need to at work, and put the rest on pause until we get back.”
“Oh my God.” Greg’s never been to Rome. He’s never been to any of Europe without the Roy clan, and every time he’d been there with them, something business or family-related had gone horribly, catastrophically awry. The idea of going to Italy again with just Tom this time is incredibly appealing. Just him, and Tom, and two blissful weeks of eating Italian food and seeing the sights and enjoying each other’s company. It sounds like heaven. “Tom, this is so – ” Greg cuts off, overwhelmed.
“Yeah?” Tom prompts. “You like it?”
“Dude, of course I do, this is such an awesome gift! Like, I’m actually so fucking excited – I’ve never been to Rome, y’know?”
“Neither have I,” Tom admits. “But I want to see it with you.”
God, he can’t just say shit like that. Greg drops the luggage tag back into its box and leans forward, pulling Tom into a kiss.
When he breaks for air, he moves his hand to cup Tom’s cheek, thumb stroking over the crest of Tom’s cheekbone. He watches as Tom’s stupid-long eyelashes flutter open again.
“I want to see Rome with you, too,” Greg whispers. He steals another kiss. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Tom echoes, dazed. “I’m glad you like your gift.”
“I think ‘like’ may be underselling it, honestly.” Greg says, pulling back with a grin. “Seriously, Tom, this was like. A really, really amazing surprise.”
“Well, speaking of surprises,” Tom points at the box behind Greg. “Do I finally get to know what you’ve been holding out on me?”
Ah. Right.
After the gift of a romantic getaway, Greg’s gift is feeling a bit pale in comparison.
At least he’s on theme?
“Okay, so.” Greg grabs the box and sets it between them. “It’s, uh, it’s no trip to Rome, but it is, funnily enough, like, tangentially related? Or not even like, tangentially. It is related. Not to the trip, but to the location. So. That’s something. Also, if you don’t like it it’s totally cool and I won’t be offended.”
That’s a total lie. If Tom doesn’t like it Greg’s going to be so fucking embarrassed.
“That’s quite a disclaimer, Gregory,” Tom says, taking the box onto his lap. “You have anything else to say, or am I allowed to unveil the mystery now?”
Greg laughs weakly. “Um, no, I’m done. You can open it.”
Tom does.
As he pushes past the tissue paper, he stops.
“Greg?” Tom stares down into the box. “What is this?”
“I-It’s, um. It’s a costume.”
“A costume?” Tom asks, eyes still glued to the contents of the box. “For…Halloween?”
“N-No, not Halloween,” Greg stutters, flustered. “So, you can, like. You can absolutely say no and we can just forget this whole thing. That’s 100% on the table. But, uh. If you’re interested, I thought, perhaps, we could, like, roleplay?”
“Roleplay?” Tom repeats, glancing up at Greg. “As…?”
Tom’s really gonna make him say it, huh.
“As, uh. Well. Nero. And Sporus.”
Tom’s eyes widen. He looks back into the box – at the leather and silk and metal inside. “You got me a Roman Emperor costume?”
“It’s actually probably closer to, like, a general?” Greg clarifies. “‘Cause I thought the battle armor was, um, more interesting. Than, like, just a bunch of robes.”
Sexier. He thinks it’s sexier than a bunch of robes.
“Uh huh.” Tom says, pulling out the leather and metal cuirass and holding it in front of him. “Jesus Christ, Greg, this looks…very well made.”
“Yeah, I actually found this guy on Etsy who makes them.” As soon as Greg had let the seller know he was ready and willing to drop a couple grand on this up front, the guy had been super open to any special requests Greg had. “Thought it would be more fun if it felt, like. Authentic. Y’know?”
Tom’s gaze drags back to Greg. “And what about you? Did you get a set like this for yourself?”
Greg shakes his head. “Sporus wouldn’t have battle armor.”
Tom’s mouth parts. His eyes darken. “What would Sporus have, then?”
Greg shrugs a shoulder. “Dunno. Guess you’ll have to find out. If you’re interested.”
“Consider me very fucking interested, Greg,” Tom says, voice low.
Greg grins. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Alright,” Greg says, excitement bubbling up in his chest. Tom likes Greg’s gift. He really likes Greg’s gift. He wants to try out Greg’s gift, even. “If we’re gonna do this, I do have two ground rules for you. One,” Greg holds up a finger, “don’t bring up the castration thing. Maybe that was like, a fetish thing for Nero, but it’s a pretty massive turn-off for yours truly. As you might imagine.”
“Yup.” Tom nods eagerly. “Noted. Can do.”
“Alright,” Greg holds up a second finger. “Two: don’t, uh. Don’t, like, dwell on the dead wife thing? In this? I feel like that would make it pretty weird, too.”
“Didn’t even cross my mind.” Tom says, hands gripping the edge of his gift box. “Consider it done.”
“Okay.” Greg nods, demands met. “Okay, then. Give me like. Fifteen minutes? To set up. And then you can come in. As Nero.”
“Yup. Okay.” Tom lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Holy shit, Greg. You little – I can’t believe you – this is – yeah. Yup. Fifteen minutes, you said?”
“Fifteen minutes.” Greg confirms. He stands and pads over to their bedroom door. He turns to look back at Tom in the doorway, thrill running down his spine at how Tom’s eyes are still locked on him. “See you soon.”
As he closes the door, Greg hears a muffled “fuck” from the living room.
Mission: Get Tom Onboard With Roleplaying? Accomplished.
Greg sets about the bedroom quickly, dimming the lights and lighting a few candles on the dresser. Then he heads to his closet and strips off his clothes, slipping into the tunic he’d commissioned for himself. It’s not unlike an over-long white t-shirt, but it’s satiny soft and comes down about mid-thigh on him. It came with a belt, too – a red, sash-like thing that Greg secures around his waist and blouses the tunic over a bit. When he walks back into the bedroom, he glances at himself in the mirror.
It’s not an unappealing sight.
He has color high on his cheeks, and the soft drape of the tunic makes him look smaller, daintier than he really is. His hair looks a bit too styled, though, so Greg runs a hand through it, messes it up a bit. Satisfied with the results, he makes his way to the bed.
Greg’s never roleplayed with anyone before, at least…not in this context. He hopes he can do it justice. There’s an anticipatory flutter of excitement in his gut, but it’s tangled up with nerves, too. God, he hopes it goes well. He has no doubt Tom will commit to the role. Greg just hopes he can meet him at that level.
He’s also not sure how, uh, historically accurate Tom’s going to want to be with this endeavor. Not very, probably. Still, maybe it wouldn’t hurt if Greg just…got the ball rolling a bit? In case Tom does want to play up the baser side of the Emperor.
Greg fishes a bottle of lube out of his nightstand and crawls onto the bed with it. He assembles a little mound of pillows to lean back on and then shuffles around, reclining into them as he spreads his legs, planting his feet.
He drizzles some lube onto his fingers and reaches back, circling lightly.
Greg lets his head fall back, eyes closing.
It’s been a while since he fingered himself. He’s so used to Tom doing it now, he finds himself unconsciously following the path Tom’s fingers usually take: circling, teasing, pressing, backing off, teasing again, rubbing, breaching.
Greg lets out a soft sigh as he works a finger slowly into himself.
This really is just one more area where he’s let Tom spoil him – where he’s gotten used to someone else doing the work for him. Of doing the work better, even.
Greg’s no slouch in the self-pleasuring department, but Tom knows him so well, has learned him so thoroughly, that Greg thinks he may genuinely prefer it from him, at this point. Plus, Tom’s fingers are…well. They’re thicker than Greg’s. He’s acquired a taste for that honey-sweet burn.
Greg shifts, grabbing the lube with his free hand and reaching back to add more as he pulls his finger out a bit. Then he sinks it back in, letting a second finger come up to tease at the rim.
He thinks about Tom walking in on him like this.
The fluttery feeling in his gut grows.
He doesn’t actually want Tom to walk in on this scene tonight. It would be over too fast, if he did. Another night, though, maybe. If this goes well, they might just open up a whole slew of opportunities Greg didn’t even know he was interested in.
He works the second finger in as heat washes up the back of his neck. Yeah, Greg can think of a few scenarios they could try out. Ones they’d both probably be very into.
God, he really hopes tonight goes well.
He hadn’t realized how much he still wanted to explore with Tom – didn’t realize how much was still unexplored.
Greg turns his head to glance over at the clock on his bedside. A few more minutes, yet. He twists his fingers and lets out a hard exhale at the sensation. The angle isn’t great on his wrist, but it still lights him up inside, makes him feel hot and tingly all over. He hasn’t even touched his dick yet, but it’s getting interested all on its own, firming up against his thigh.
Greg briefly considers adding a third finger as he works himself over. He doesn’t have much time left, though, so best not. He’ll leave that to Tom.
He pulls his fingers out and grabs a handful of tissues from his nightstand, wiping his hand off and cleaning up the excess down south while he’s at it. He tosses the tissues into the trash by the bed and then situates himself, sitting up and stretching his legs out in front of him, smoothing his tunic over the tops of his thighs and leaving his hands there. As a final touch, he bows his head a bit, demure.
Then, he waits.
He’s not left waiting long.
When the door pushes open, Greg glances up through his lashes and can’t stop the deep, startled gasp that escapes him. When he’d ordered this outfit for Tom, he’d known it would look good on him.
He didn’t know it would look this good.
Tom approaches the bed with slow, deliberate steps, and Greg takes him in.
He has sandals strapped to his feet, laced up to his knees with leather shin guards at the front. He’s bare from there to just below mid-thigh, where the red silk tunic and brown leather pteruges end. The leather shifts against Tom’s legs, letting the tunic show through the strips of the skirt like rivulets of blood. Greg’s eyes track further up, to the leather cuirass and its gold embellishments, fitted perfectly to Tom’s chest and torso. It hugs every curve of him. Greg is really fucking glad that he insisted on roping that tape measure around Tom’s pecs as well as his waist. It looks fucking amazing on him. And the robe…
The robe really brings it all together – secured just below Tom’s right shoulder, bunted across the top of his chest to a second clasp, and then draped dramatically over his left shoulder, the robe falls behind him in a stately, crimson cape, gold embroidery along the edge catching the low light of the bedroom and glinting in it. Greg trails his gaze over Tom’s bare biceps, down to the leather and gold forearm-guards secured around his wrists, and then back up, seeking his face. The golden laurel crown he’d special-ordered sits perfectly on Tom’s head, like it belongs there. Tom has his chin tilted up, eyes cast down to drink Greg in, pupils blown even for the low light of the bedroom.
He looks regal.
Imperial.
He looks unbelievably fucking hot.
Greg may have severely miscalculated which one of them is going to get more out of this roleplay.
Tom comes to a stop next to the bed.
Greg’s full-on staring at him at this point. Entranced.
When Tom speaks, his voice has none of its normal varied melody or cadence. It’s deep; measured. “How long have you been waiting up here for me, Sporus?” He asks. “Since the ceremony ended?”
Jesus fuck.
Okay, so they’re doing a wedding night roleplay. Greg can totally roll with that. It’s definitely not turning the fluttering in his stomach into an absolute flock of butterflies.
Rein it in, Hirsch. What would Sporus be like on his wedding night? Probably fucking terrified. Probably wouldn’t know where he stood with the formidable Emperor of Rome. He’d fall into old roles.
Greg, with effort, pulls his eyes away from Tom. He casts his gaze down, at his hands. “Y-Yes, Master.”
Tom tuts at him, admonishing. “There’s no need for that now. You’re my Empress, Sporus, not my slave. Address me as a wife would.”
Oh.
Greg feels heat bloom across his cheeks.
So they’re. They’re really leaning into the wedding night roleplay, then.
Well. If Tom’s giving him permission, Greg’s more than happy to call him – “H-Husband?”
Tom clears his throat, and Greg sneaks a glance at him.
There’s a dusting of pink across Tom’s cheeks. “Call me by my name, Sporus.”
Oh, Christ. Yeah, that would make more sense.
Greg flicks his eyes back down.
“Nero,” he manages, swallowing back his embarrassment.
“Yes,” Tom replies. He lowers himself onto the bed, sitting close to Greg. “Again.”
“Nero,” Greg repeats, gaze trained on his own thighs.
“That’s right,” Tom praises, voice low. He sweeps the backs of his knuckles over Greg’s cheek. “That’s good.”
Greg’s eyes flutter shut. He loves it when Tom praises him. He didn’t think he’d be getting that into tonight’s action, but he’s certainly not complaining. Maybe he can get a little more if he –
“Nero,” Greg says again, letting out a sweet little sigh.
Tom’s fingers trace over the bridge of his nose, reverent.
“It’s our wedding night, Sporus,” Tom says, and yeah, Greg’s hyper-aware of that. “Are you excited? Nervous?”
Greg nods. He needs a moment to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.
“Tell me,” Tom murmurs, fingers trailing down to ghost over Greg’s lips. “Have you ever been with a man before?”
Greg’s breath hitches, eyes opening in shock.
He turns his head to meet Tom’s heated gaze.
He knows what Tom wants to hear for this.
“N-No, I’ve never – I’ve never been with anyone before.”
Tom hums, pleased. His touch trails over Greg’s jaw, down the sensitive skin of his neck.
“Untouched,” Tom muses. “You are a treasure, aren’t you.”
Greg can’t look away from him.
He’s enthralled. Ensorcelled.
He’d known Tom would be into this, but Jesus Christ had he ever failed to consider just how much it would do it for him.
Tom’s fingers are tracing lines of lingering heat on the surface of Greg’s skin. Like trickles of kerosene, lighting him up.
“My treasure,” Tom says quietly, almost to himself. Greg shudders at his words, at his touch, making its way down Greg’s bare arm. “Are you ready to rule Rome with me?”
Greg nods, watching Tom’s face as he runs his hand over Greg’s. “Y-Yes, Nero.”
Tom plucks Greg’s right hand from its resting place, pulling it away from Greg’s thigh and stroking over the backs of his knuckles with his other hand. “And are you ready to stand by my side? As my Empress?”
Greg swallows thickly. “Yes, Nero.”
Tom brings Greg’s hand to his lips and kisses it.
Greg feels like he’s on fire.
Tom sets his hand back down, at Greg’s side, and releases it. Then, he shifts, moving more fully onto the bed – putting himself just next to Greg.
He lays his palms on Greg’s knees and meets his gaze head-on. “And are you ready to submit to your husband?”
Holy shit. Where the fuck has Tom been hiding this side of himself?
Not that Tom’s ever really been sub-par in the realm of pillowtalk. Sure, maybe he had a few missteps in the early days, when they were still feeling each other out, but he’d always hit the mark for Greg besides that.
But this?
This is a whole new level.
Greg didn’t even know Tom was capable of this.
Greg’s never been this turned on in his entire fucking life.
When he speaks, it’s breathy. “Yes, Nero.”
Tom takes his assent for what it is. He runs his hands up Greg’s bare thighs, stopping at the edge of his tunic. “Spread your legs for me, Sporus.”
Greg’s not even faking the way he trembles at that. He spreads his legs haltingly, like he’s shy about it. Tom uses his grip on Greg’s thighs to push them farther apart, and Greg has to hold back a groan. The edge of the tunic is barely covering him, now.
“Lay back,” Tom commands. “Let me see you.”
Greg obeys. He leans back so he’s reclined against the mound of pillows at the head of the bed, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Tom’s hands travel the rest of the way up his thighs and flip back the hem of his tunic, exposing him.
Greg can feel his face burning as Tom takes his fill, knuckles gliding over the length of Greg’s dick.
“Lovely,” Tom says softly. “You’re so beautiful, Sporus. Such a pretty boy.”
Greg squirms.
His fingers fist in the sheets beneath him. He feels flayed open under Tom’s eyes, raw and vulnerable and electric.
Tom moves again, shifting on the bed so that he’s sat between Greg’s spread legs instead of beside them. Once he’s settled, he lays his hands on the inside of Greg’s thighs, hot and heavy. Like a brand
“Tell me you want me.”
The words are more Tom than Nero. Reminiscent of some of their first times together.
“I want you,” Greg replies. God, does he ever. He’s not above begging right now. “Please, Nero.
That does the trick.
Tom keeps one hand on his thigh, but the other moves up. He ignores Greg’s dick, hand seeking something else entirely. Fingertips graze against Greg’s hole, and Tom’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Sporus,” he says, “why are you wet back here?”
“Um.” Greg wets his lips. Tom’s eyes dart up to his face. Greg feels pinned. “I-I wasn’t sure how, ah, eager you would be, tonight. I thought, perhaps, I should prepare myself, a bit? So as to prevent any, um. Pain. S-Since it’s my first time, and all.”
Tom’s lips spasm briefly, like he’s fighting back a smile.
His eyes, however, darken.
“I would never hurt my Empress,” Tom says. He grabs the lube Greg left next to the pillows and spreads some over his fingers before returning to Greg’s hole. He’s rubbing more purposefully now.
Greg bites his bottom lip, looking at him through his lashes.
Tom holds his gaze.
“Let Nero take care of you,” he says, and then he sinks two fingers right into Greg.
“Oh – oh!” Greg throws his head back on a gasp.
There it is. That honey-sweet burn.
Tom’s fingers fill him up like they’re bespoke to him, stretching him with the careful, studied movements that only come from familiarity. He knows just how to work Greg over, work him up, knows how to get him flushed and panting in no time at all.
“Look at you,” Tom murmurs. He twists his fingers, wrings a whimper out of Greg. “That’s it. Open up for me.”
Greg throws an arm over his face.
Tom’s single-minded focus is irradiating. Greg’s pretty sure he could trip a geiger counter right now, the way he’s burning up inside.
“Oh, no, we can’t have that.” Tom’s other hand leaves his thigh and comes up to close around Greg’s wrist, peeling his arm away from his face. “I want to see you.”
Greg blinks up at him, chest heaving.
He lets Tom see.
A ripple of something passes over Tom’s face, and then he dips forward, pressing a kiss to Greg’s open mouth.
Greg moans, hands coming up to clench in the fabric of Tom’s robe.
God, finally.
Tom licks into his mouth, and Greg kisses him back eagerly, desperately.
Tom kisses Greg like he’s trying to plunder him. Like he’s trying to conquer him.
As if he hasn’t already.
Greg considers himself thoroughly conquered, thank you very much.
He tries to bring Tom closer, to press their chests together, but Tom pulls back, nipping at Greg’s lower lip. He twists his fingers again, just the way Greg likes it, and chuckles against Greg’s mouth at the sharp inhale it elicits.
“T–Nero, please,” Greg begs, almost slipping out of character.
He needs more.
“I’ve got you,” Tom promises. He sits back and reaches for the lube again, coating a third finger. As he presses it in, Greg writhes.
Yeah, this – this is what he needs.
Tom’s fingers are thick and capable within him. He knows exactly where to press, has learned precisely where to rub the pad of his middle finger to drive Greg wild, to make his legs fall open even wider, to make his thighs tremble.
Through the onslaught of pleasure, Greg becomes distinctly aware that his dick is painfully hard against his abdomen, dripping onto the hem of his tunic. He reaches for it – just to take the edge off – and Tom’s free hand smacks it away.
“That’s your husband’s job,” Tom says, like that’s not liable to make Greg blow his fucking load right here, right now. He thumbs over the head of Greg’s cock, smearing pre-come across it, and Greg breaks.
“D-Don’t – !” Greg flaps a hand at him and Tom stills immediately, eyes snapping up. “I’m already close, so don’t – !”
Tom understands. He takes his hand away.
Okay, so maybe Greg didn’t think that one all the way through.
He really doesn’t wanna come until Tom’s inside him, though, so. Trade-offs.
“Just,” Greg waves a hand weakly. Tom’ll get it. “Please.”
Tom does, in fact, get it.
“Yeah?” Tom asks, “You ready for me?” He looks down at Greg meaningfully, just barely breaking character to wait for an answer.
Greg gives him a firm nod and then throws himself back into his role. “I th-think so. But be gentle with me, Nero. You’re so big.”
Tom visibly restrains a laugh. He pulls his fingers out and reaches under the hem of his own tunic. The silk and leather there has been tented for a while now, so Greg has no doubt the shaky exhale Tom lets out is genuine.
Tom maneuvers forward a bit on his knees, reaching up to steal some of Greg’s pillows and stuff them under his hips. Then he runs his hands along the backs of Greg’s legs, pushing them up so Greg’s knees are pressed into his chest.
“Stay,” Tom commands.
Greg stays.
Tom reaches for the lube again, gets a good amount into his hand, and then his hand disappears back under his skirt to coat his cock. Greg can’t see it, but he can hear it – the slick, wet sound of it. His ears burn.
Tom shuffles again, erasing the last few inches between them as his left hand closes around Greg’s right hip, holding him in place. There’s a blunt, slick pressure against Greg’s hole, and then finally, finally, Tom is pressing into him.
Greg breathes through it, trembling.
No matter how many times they do this, he’ll never get used to the way Tom’s cock splits him open; the way it makes him boneless – reduces him to sensations alone.
The stretch of it is searing. Delicious.
Consuming.
Greg revels in it.
“You’re doing so well, Sporus,” Tom says, voice tight. He’s nearly fully sheathed in Greg now, waiting for the go-ahead. “So good for me.”
Tom is really not playing fair tonight. He’s bringing out every single one of Greg’s buttons, and pressing them all.
“N-Nero,” Greg breathes. He can feel the fabric of Tom’s tunic against the base of his cock. “Please. Fuck me.”
Tom’s other hand comes up to Greg’s left hip, anchoring him. He pulls out – slow – and then slams back in.
Greg keens.
Tom curves over Greg’s body, grip tight on his hips as he sets a brutal pace, just the way he knows Greg likes it. “Let it out. Let me hear you.”
“F-Fuck!” Greg’s breathing like it’s being punched out of him, scrabbling at Tom’s back, fingers twisting in his robe.
The way Tom fucks astounds him sometimes.
Back before they’d gotten together, at Kendall’s nightmarish 40th birthday party, Tom had taunted him with his dick size and stamina, and Greg had assumed he’d been exaggerating. He’d called Tom on it; told him to prove it.
A couple months later, Tom finally had.
It had been a humbling experience for Greg. Tom had very much not been bluffing, and the way Greg’s legs had shook when he’d first stood up from the bed afterwards had been, in a word, revealing.
The worst part is, no one even taught Tom how to fuck like this.
Greg knows – he’d fucking asked.
Nope. This is just Tom, dialed into his own animal impulses. He’s just like this. Naturally.
Apparently, he came straight from the factory with the presets to drive Greg out of his mind.
It’d be infuriating if it weren’t so goddamn hot.
“Look at you,” Tom groans. He’s leaning over Greg with each thrust, bracketed between Greg’s open legs as he uses Greg’s hips as a balance point. There’s a nonzero chance Greg is gonna have bruises there. The thought sends a thrill down his spine. “It’s like you were made for this.”
Sometimes – like right about now – Greg thinks he just might’ve been.
He hooks his ankles behind Tom, pressing them into the small of Tom’s back, egging him on.
“Y-Yeah, c’mon,” Greg goads him. The effect is undermined a bit by how winded he is. “Made for this – made for you.”
It hits the mark, regardless. Tom’s rhythm stutters.
“Say that again,” Tom growls, thrusts resuming. “Tell me – say it again.”
“I was made for you,” Greg breathes. Tom’s got a slightly different angle now, and it’s fucking – it’s hitting just right, sending sparks up the length of Greg’s spine.
“Gr – ” Tom cuts himself off, shakes his head. There’s sweat on his brow, glistening just under the golden line of laurel leaves.
“Sporus,” Tom corrects himself. His breathing is getting erratic. “Sporus.”
“Nero,” Greg whines.
“Made for me,” Tom murmurs, bending forward to lay a kiss at the base of Greg’s neck.
“Just – just for you,” Greg pants. He’s getting close. Tom hasn’t even fucking touched his dick, and Greg’s already on the verge. “I’m all yours, Nero.”
“Mine,” Tom says into Greg’s collarbone, hot and damp, thrusts quickening.
“Yours,” Greg agrees. He relinquishes his grip on Tom’s robe and brings his hands up to the back of Tom’s head, carding through the short hair there. “A-And you? Nero?”
Tom raises his head. His eyes are a ring of stormy blue, nearly eclipsed by black. His face is flushed, and his lips are parted, breath coming in short, fast huffs – in time with the pace he’s just starting to lose the rhythm of. “I’m yours.”
God, Greg is so fucking close.
He holds Tom’s face in his hands and smiles at him, open-mouthed, eyes half-lidded.
“Mine,” Greg whispers. He pushes his luck. “My husband.”
Tom’s eyes widen, hips stuttering forward, pressing flush against Greg’s ass. His hands dig even deeper into Greg’s hips, and Greg cries out, clenching around him.
Tom gasps, eyelids fluttering, and comes.
Greg can feel it as Tom pumps into him – the hot, wet rush of it – and when Tom brings a hand to Greg’s cock and strokes him once, twice, Greg follows him over the precipice.
Pleasure crashes through him in a wave, and Greg bends with it, back arching. He lets out a high, choked sound – somewhere between a sob and a scream – as Tom’s last, shuddering thrusts strike through him like a match, flaring white-hot.
Greg lets it all wash over him, skin prickling, muscles twitching, eyes rolling back. Distantly, he’s aware of Tom’s hands stroking up his sides. Greg shakes under him.
“Breathe, Greg.” Tom’s voice.
Oh, right.
Greg gulps in air like he’s drowning.
Slowly, his senses filter back to him. The pleasure ebbs, leaving him warm and sated. Glowing.
Greg blinks his eyes open, eyelashes tacky. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them.
Tom’s face swims into focus.
“Hey,” Tom says. He looks fond. “How we doin’?”
“Mmm,” Greg hums, contented. He feels very well fucked. System’s still coming back online.
He gives Tom a weak thumbs up.
Tom laughs. “Oh, high praise, indeed.”
Greg flips him off.
“Feisty,” Tom remarks, amused. He just watches Greg for a moment, and Greg lets him. He knows how much Tom likes to bask in the afterglow. Greg likes that too, so it works out.
“Here, let’s – ” Tom shifts his weight back, pulling out. Greg hisses at the sensation, overstimulated. “I know, sorry, I know, hang on. Let me get you cleaned up.”
Tom slides off the bed and walks into the en-suite. Greg listens to him shuffling, then to the sound of water running. He props himself up on his elbows as Tom returns with a washcloth and crawls back between Greg’s legs.
Greg clears his throat as Tom runs the warm, wet cloth over him gently, cleaning him up. “So.”
Tom glances up at him, raising a brow. He doesn’t pause in his clean-up effort.
“So…?” He prompts.
“So, um.” Greg picks at the hem of his come-streaked tunic. Time to fish for compliments. “Did you like it?”
“Did I like it?” Tom asks, incredulous. “I don’t know, Greg, is the sky blue?”
Greg smirks to himself, pleased. “Yeah, I thought you might.”
“Well you thought right, you little minx.” Tom sets the washcloth aside. “Come here – sit up for a second. Let’s get this off you.”
Greg obliges him, scooting down from his mountain of pillows and undoing the sash at his waist. He slips the tunic over his head and drops it into Tom’s waiting hand.
Tom thumbs at the fabric. “Is this silk?”
“Yeah,” Greg says. “I don’t know how, like, historically accurate that is, but I also don’t really care. I wanted it to be soft.” He thinks he deserves that. As a little treat.
“Oh, no complaints from me, don’t you worry.” Tom grabs the washcloth in his other hand and shuffles off the bed again. “I just don’t want the stain to set. Give me a minute.”
As Tom walks back into the bathroom, robe fluttering behind him, Greg stifles a giggle.
Emperor Nero, off to do some laundry.
Greg follows him, bracing against the nightstand for his first couple wobbly steps, legs re-acclimating. By the time he makes it to the bathroom doorway, Tom has filled his sink with cold water and submerged the tunic, stirring it lazily with a finger.
He glances up at the mirror and cracks a smile at Greg in the reflection. “Hey, you.”
Greg smiles back at him. He pushes off the door frame and pads over to Tom’s sink, hoisting himself up to sit on the counter. Tom’s eyes graze over him. Greg reaches up, plucking the golden crown of laurels from Tom’s head and depositing it on his own.
Tom tilts his head. “It suits you,” he says, eyes warm. ”My little Empress.”
Greg beams at him. He’s not sure when being called an Empress became a thing for him, but it definitely is one now. He hopes one day Tom’ll make good on that for real. Greg would very much like to call him husband one day and have it be true.
In the meantime, Greg sets about undressing him, stripping Tom of his armor as an actual Empress might’ve, once upon a time. If Tom’s going to hand-wash their silks right now, he should add his own to the mix, too. He reaches for Tom’s left arm, turning it over so he can release the snaps on his arm-guard, then sets it aside and gestures for Tom’s other arm. Tom obediently stops his stirring and surrenders his forearm to Greg’s fingers, letting him strip the guard from that arm as well. Greg places it next to its twin and then slips off the counter, kneeling at Tom’s feet.
Tom’s hand goes to the top of his head on instinct.
“Gregory,” Tom warns, “while I appreciate the vote of confidence, there’s no way in hell I’m getting it up again tonight after that.”
Yeah, that makes two of them. Greg presses a teasing kiss to the bare skin just above Tom’s knee. “I’m taking off your sandals, Tom.”
“Oh,” Tom says weakly. “The sandals. Right.”
Greg takes a moment to appreciate how good Tom’s calves look all laced up like this before he reaches around, undoing the laces on both sandals and helping Tom step out of them. He nudges them off to the side and levers himself back up, coming around to Tom’s back. He surveys the robe for any stains and finds none – just wrinkles around Tom’s upper back from where Greg was gripping at it earlier. Thank God, too. They’d probably need to fill up the bathtub if this baby needed a rinse.
Greg unclasps the robe at each of Tom’s shoulders and gathers it in his arms, attempting a messy fold job before giving up entirely and tossing it in the general direction of Tom’s closet. He’ll deal with that tomorrow.
Tom huffs out a quiet laugh, then goes back to stirring at Greg’s tunic in the sink.
The cuirass and pteruges are actually one piece, so Greg just has to undo the clasps for Tom’s shoulder straps and untie the laces on his back before he’s sliding it down Tom’s torso, guiding it to the ground. Tom dutifully steps out of that as well, and Greg lays it out flat next to the sandals.
Finally, Tom is left in just his tunic.
“You wanna get this off and add it to your silk bath?” Greg asks, tugging lightly at one of the sleeves.
“Probably should,” Tom admits. He shakes off the hand he’s been marinating Greg’s tunic with and reaches back, grabbing the fabric at the nape of his neck and drawing it over his head with both hands. Greg watches the flex of Tom’s back muscles greedily as they’re revealed to him.
He’s always been a sucker for backs, and Tom’s is fucking built. Greg would know – Tom’s used that back to pick him up and manhandle him a time or two, to Greg’s utter delight.
When Tom straightens up again, Greg presses close, winding his arms around Tom’s middle from behind. He drops a kiss onto Tom’s bare shoulder.
He just wants to be close.
Tom turns his head, glancing at Greg in his peripherals, one hand drifting to cover Greg’s on his abdomen.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, soft.
Greg loves when Tom gets sweet with him like this.
Greg’s a bit of a clinger, after sex; he’d never learned not to be. Lucky for him, Tom’s a cuddler. He likes to dote on Greg after he fucks him through the mattress, and that suits Greg just fine. Better than fine, really. That suits Greg perfectly. Like Tom’s a puzzle piece, snapping into place against Greg’s own. Two complementary halves of a whole.
“Hey,” Greg replies, similarly soft.
Tom’s thumb strokes over the back of Greg’s hand. “You alright?”
Greg nods, chin bumping against Tom’s shoulder. “Just wanted to hold you.”
Despite the fact that they’ve been standing here naked for a solid while now, that’s what brings a bit of pink to Tom’s cheeks. “Well. Hold away.”
Greg clings to him a bit longer. Eventually, his drowsiness starts to sneak up on him. He yawns so wide he’s pretty sure Tom could hear his jaw crack.
“I think I’m gonna shower real quick, actually.” Greg says, drawing away from Tom with one last kiss to the back of his neck.
“I’ll probably join you in a bit.” Tom says. “Just want to finish rinsing these out.”
“Sure.” Greg says. He peels the laurel crown off his head and sets it on the counter. Then he heads over to the shower, turning it on and waiting for it to warm up before stepping under the spray.
“So,” Greg raises his voice a bit to be heard over the water. “Do you have, like, a whole itinerary planned for us when we go to Rome? Or is that a surprise?”
“Oh, I’ve got some ideas!” Tom calls back. Through the glass of the shower door, Greg watches Tom rinse out his tunic and squeeze it gently, walking over to drape it over the tub to dry as he refills the sink. “Nothing’s set in stone outside of the hotel and a couple dinner reservations, though, so I’m open to input, if there’s something you’re dying to see.”
“Ooh, where are we staying?” Greg asks. He reaches up and detaches the showerhead from its stand, bringing it closer to let water sluice over his face and body.
Tom walks back to his sink and turns off the faucet, dunking his own tunic in and repeating his process. “I got us a suite at the St. Regis.”
“That sounds fancy.” Greg replaces the showerhead. He grabs some shampoo, lathering it through his hair. “Are we staying there the whole time?”
“It’s booked for the full two weeks,” Tom replies, “but I doubt we’ll stay in Rome the whole time. We might take a couple day trips. Maybe even an overnight or two somewhere else, if the mood strikes. It’s pretty flexible, really.”
“Is the Amalfi Coast near Rome?” Greg asks, rinsing out his hair. He’s seen so many pictures of the Amalfi Coast, all bright colors and steep hillsides and postcard-perfect views. He’s always wanted to go.
“Yeah, that’s not too far. Three-ish hours, I think?” Tom drains the sink again, rinsing out his tunic with a fresh stream of water. Greg can see it running just a bit pink off the blood-red fabric. Ah, so that’s why he didn’t mix it with Greg’s tunic. Good looking out, Tommy. “You wanna see the Amalfi Coast, Greg?”
“Yeah, it’s, like, on my bucket list and everything.” Greg reaches for his conditioner. Another one of the finer things in life that Tom turned him on to. He combs some through his hair, the smell of mint and rosemary mingling with the steam of the shower.
“Well, then we definitely have to see it.” Tom muses, walking over to the tub and laying his tunic out to dry next to Greg’s. When he’s done, he steps over to the shower, slipping in and letting the door shut gently behind him. “If you want to see Amalfi, we should go to Sorrento, too. We can make Naples our home base for a few days.”
“Sounds good to me.” Greg smiles at him, rinsing the last of the conditioner from his hair and stepping aside to let Tom duck under the spray. “I’ll just follow your lead, honestly. You haven’t steered me wrong yet.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Tom says, voice a little muffled by the water as he tips his head back.
Greg takes a quiet moment to admire the way Tom looks through the steam of the shower. It’s sappy, but he still can’t believe he gets to have this, sometimes. He runs his palm over the breadth of Tom’s wet shoulders, and Tom presses back into his touch.
“I’m gonna get ready for bed,” Greg says, rubbing his fingers affectionately between Tom’s shoulder blades. “See you in a minute?”
“Yeah,” Tom replies, “I won’t be long.”
“Alright.”
Greg steps out of the shower and dries off, rubbing the towel roughly over his hair to get the excess water out and then padding into his closet to fish out his bathrobe. He would go for his pajamas tonight, but he wants to be close to Tom, wants to fall asleep pressed against him, skin-to-skin.
Not that Greg’s pajamas are a far cry from that. ‘Pajamas’ is probably a rather generous term to describe the oversized t-shirts Greg favors wearing to bed. The first time he’d been comfortable enough wearing just that to bed with Tom, it had netted him a raised eyebrow.
(“No boxers?” Tom had asked.
“They always get twisted.” Greg had explained. “It’s not comfy for me.”
“Hmm,” Tom had hummed. “Alright. Rocking a real Winnie-The-Pooh look instead, I see.”
“I prefer ‘Easy Access,’” Greg had replied.
He hasn’t heard a peep about it since.)
Greg hears the shower shut off as he returns to the bedroom, blowing out the candles he’d lit on the dresser and turning off the lights before assessing the damage they did to the bed.
It’s actually not too bad. Mostly cosmetic. Greg disassembles the pillows from the mound he’d built up and tosses them back into their rightful places. There’s a couple minor stains on the top sheet, but nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow, so Greg shakes it out and pulls it up to meet the freshly fluffed pillows. He gives their comforter the same treatment. Then he circles around to his side of the bed and drops his bathrobe, slipping between the soft sheets with a blissed out sigh.
Tom’s taste in quality bed linens: yet another thing Greg is thankful for.
A moment later, Tom comes out of the bathroom, also in a bathrobe. He normally opts for his t-shirt/sleep pants combo, but clearly, he picked up on Greg’s preference for tonight’s sleeping situation.
Greg feels something warm swell in his chest.
He loves this man so goddamn much.
Greg pats the space next to him – Tom’s side of the bed – and watches Tom shed his own robe and climb under the covers.
As soon as Tom is settled on his back, Greg snuggles up against him, draping an arm across his chest and tangling their feet together. Tom’s skin is still hot from the shower, and he smells like Greg’s body wash.
He loops an arm over Greg’s torso and pulls him close. His lips press into Greg’s damp hair.
“I gotta say, Greg,” Tom murmurs, breath tickling Greg’s scalp, “You set the bar pretty damn high for anniversary celebrations with this one. Might be difficult to top, in the future.”
Greg runs his fingers over Tom’s chest, nails scratching lightly through the hair there. “I don’t know. I can think of a few ways you could top it.”
“Yeah?” Tom asks; quiet. Hopeful.
“Mhm.” Greg’s sure Tom knows what he’s alluding to. It’s not something Greg’s gonna push him on – he gets the whole once bitten, twice shy thing – but because of that, there’s an unspoken understanding between them: Tom needs to be the one to ask. Greg’s not going to be the one to get down on one knee. He’s not going to push Tom into something he might not be ready for just yet.
But when he is ready…Greg will be waiting.
“Greg?” Tom’s voice comes through the dark again.
“Yeah, Tom?” Greg replies.
“When we go to Rome, we’re bringing the outfits.”
A sleepy giggle bubbles out of Greg, sending its shockwaves through Tom’s chest.
“Yeah, Tom,” Greg laughs, “I kinda figured.”
“Good,” Tom says, pleased. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
“Me too.”
And they are on the same page, Greg thinks.
They are.