#hes so fucked up and as a dude who enjoys drawing shiv and toms faces so much hibs is my delight to render

[shivroy]

what if the tomshiv baby wasn't aborted and turned out to be just like a weird cunt. this is my unadulterated vision

#hes so fucked up and as a dude who enjoys drawing shiv and toms faces so much hibs is my delight to render #fucking look AT him i need to throw him at a million miles an hour #goes without saying that his parents had him nannied out the wazoo and in his developmental years he was either with childcare staff #with the occasional parental outing + roy family holidays plus toms parents hanging around which did him immeasurable damage #tries to stalk kendalls mansion on google maps on his ipad at age 8 #gets everything on his christmas list unless it requires tom or shiv making a personal effort #tom and his relationship is so fucking bad and they never talk about it <3 #hibernian #thank you for being so nice about my stupid creation ily. i love you hibs also i hate you #succession #succession oc #tom wambsgans #shiv roy #tomshiv baby #shakes him until something happens #(i made every effort to make him look So much like his parents like hes got toms nose with shivs nostrils.. tom forehead.. shiv lips) #art #the nation

[trophywifejimgordon]

“I mean,” Greg said, voice sullen, looking away to scratch at the armrest of the couch he lounged on so luxuriantly, “It’s, uh, kinda pointless to talk about this, anyway? Right? So I’m just not sure—like, why bother?”

Tom looked up, brow furrowed. “Excuse me, Greg?”

“Come on, dude. You’re not—I mean, I already know what you’re gonna say, far be it from me to tell Tom Wambsgans, head of, head of, like, ATN or whatever, what he is or is not going to do, but—fuck—you’re not going to leave her for me? I guess is the point? You’re not, dude. So I just don’t see what, uh, enjoyment you receive by putting me through the motions.”

“Won’t I.” Tom’s voice was dangerously flat. He peered at Greg like a snake, coiled up and prepared to strike. “Please, tell me more about what I will and will not do. No, go on, it’s enlightening! Let’s hear more from the prophetic Mr. Greg.”

Greg groaned, glancing briefly at Tom before ducking his head with a frustrated eye-roll. 

“Dude, I knew—are you really going to do this? I mean, come on, Tom! Like, like… who are you trying to kid, here? Shiv’s got all the, uh, the status, and the money, and the name… you’re never going to piss all that away on a Hirsch. You’re just not. So what’s there…” He blinked, wiping a rough hand over his runny face, “Like, what’s there to discuss, at the end of the day? Not a whole lot.”

He tried to force himself to snort out a laugh, but—surprise, surprise—it came out all wrong. 

“I mean, I even sort of get it? I don’t think I would, for instance, throw all that away on me, either, if the situation were reversed, so like, it’s fine, it’s, uh, understandable, I just—”

“You think that’s what it’s all about, Greg? The money?” Tom’s voice was very quiet. Greg threw his head like a dramatic horse.

“No, actually, but I kind of wish it was, dude! Okay? Is that what you want, Tom? No. If you couldn’t leave her because, like, she’s Siobhan Roy and she made your position, then that’s cool, I came here to get a job too, so y’know, I get that. But you’re actually like—I think you’re still in love with her, dude? No matter how bad she’s, like, treated you, no matter how much she thinks you’re dirt… you still want her. So, yeah, there’s just pretty much no way, at least that I can see, that you’re going to take the fucking, scoop of whipped cream over the pumpkin pie. ‘Cause that’s what I am, right? Like, you’d love to have both, that’s great! But if you had to choose… I mean, who’d take the whipped cream? You know?”

Greg Hirsch looked like just about the most miserable person ever to talk about whipped cream. Something had to be done about this. 

Tom walked very deliberately over to the couch and perched himself, neat and prim, on the armrest, just above the spot Greg couldn’t leave alone. He leaned down, tilting Greg’s chin up with firm, gentle fingers under his jaw so that he would have no choice but to meet Tom’s gaze. Thus assured of his attention, Tom spoke to Greg just as he held him: Firm. Intent. 

“I’ve always thought pie was vastly overrated.”

Greg’s miserable, wet-dog eyes searched Tom’s face for honesty, an old question (is it real?) not quite meeting his lips. In answer, Tom bent down even further, attempting, if possible, to draw out call and response in a kiss.

Greg’s reaction was delayed but invariably enthusiastic. Reservations put aside (Tom wasn’t stupid enough to think they’d been forgotten), he grabbed at Tom, every inch of him, with his special brand of frantic and virginal enthusiasm. Tom might have enjoyed that particular response more if it hadn’t managed to pull him off his careful perch, and, in a humiliating maneuver, heavy and face-first onto the couch, smashing Greg under his uncontrolled dive and pinning him under Tom’s full weight.

Talk about a boner killer. Or maybe just a boner, in the traditional sense of the word. Ho-hum. It was a wonder they ever managed to maintain a sexy atmosphere long enough to fuck, Tom thought as he brushed off Greg’s fumbled apologies and attempted to right them both in a more respectable arrangement. Then again, considering the way they both always seemed on the verge of humping each other like bunny rabbits at the slightest provocation, maybe the real miracle was that they ever managed not to. Even Tom had to admit that disparaging a pastry food wasn’t exactly the come-on of the century.

Seated upright, in the end, side by side, with his head snuggled cheekily to rest on Greg’s pointy shoulder, Tom sighed.

“You know… I do still love her, in my way.”

Greg deflated a little. Tom could feel it. 

“Yeah, dude?” he said with a gulp.

“Yeah. But… I think you’ve sold yourself a little short, buddy. You’re not just some topping. You’re… I mean, you’ve said it yourself, you’re your own dish! Like a cake. You’re,” and as he spoke, Tom rounded on Greg, giving in to the urge to ravage him with the sort of rapid-fire kisses Tom favored when he felt so much… well, when he felt so much that he couldn’t stand it. “A beautiful,” he kissed Greg’s cheek, “delicious,” Greg’s jaw, “three-tiered cake with a gorgeous icing job in my favorite flavor.” The final kiss, Tom leveled at Greg’s slightly-open mouth. Greg kissed back for a second before he caught his composure.

“Wait a second, I mean, wait—” Tom, though visibly disappointed, stopped peppering Greg with kisses long enough to pull back and regard him. “Okay, I know that I, uh, started it? But could we… could we maybe, like, put a pause on the, uh, baked goods themed metaphorical, uh, statements? For a second? Because I’m just a little, like, unclear…” Greg caught Tom’s frown and rushed to cover it. “Not that I don’t love it! I do, I just would also, possibly, like to know what you’re saying? Um, for the record?”

Tom cupped Greg’s cheek with a smile he couldn’t help. Fondness bubbled up within him, when he was with Greg. His cup floweth over, etc.

“Aw, sugar plum, I’m saying I love you. You’re not my… ‘other woman,’ Greg, I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t serious. Hey.” Tom titled his head, searching Greg’s face, which seemed to have heated up under the praise and attention. “I’m not playing with you. I wouldn’t jerk you around. All that’s happened with Shiv… you know, it hurts, it does, but we’ve been death spiraling since our fucking wedding night. I don’t think… I don’t think she loves me, Greg. At least, not in a way that I recognize, so. So why stay? Why stay, when there’s nothing left for me, right? That’s how I see it, anyway.”

Greg was quiet for a beat. Then, “And… the money?”

Tom collapsed forward, burying his face in Greg’s chest with a defeated huff. Greg, apparently trying to either comfort or catch him but unsure what he was supposed to do with his hands in either case, danced uncertainly over Tom’s back for a moment before finally resting heavily on the swell of his hips.

“Oh, I’ll be flat broke,” Tom said into Greg’s shirt. “I signed a completely unconscionable prenup.”

“Not to worry,” Greg laughed, sliding into his role, “because, well, I don’t know if you know this, but I am actually quite rich?”

“Are you, now?” Tom said in mock surprise, twisting his neck awkwardly to look up at Greg’s face. “Why, Greg, this changes things! Do you think there’s room for one more, in your wealthy estate? I’d work for my keep. I can be quite…,” he mouthed at Greg’s throat again, keeping his gaze lasciviously, “useful.”

“Hmm…” Greg pretended to consider. “As, uh, excellent as that offer sounds? I’ve actually seen you do housework, and well… I guess you could say I’m just not convinced? Like, I guess my position is that a sexy maid is still, by definition, a maid, as it were. And I’m just not convinced that you have, like, qualifications in that regard?”

Tom gasped in mock betrayal. “You wound me, Greg. You really do.”

“So I guess, like, my counteroffer would be this: maybe we just get married? You could be, like, my trophy wife, dude.” Face immediately flushing a backtrack of came on too strong, Greg began to stutter, “I mean, obviously you’re a man, I didn’t mean—just—”

The needle scratched on their game. Tom looked up too suddenly, eyes too vulnerable; now it was his turn to not know if he should believe what he was hearing.

“Greg,” Tom cautioned. “Greg. Are you proposing to someone else’s husband?”

“Um, actually,” Greg said, face still red from his first attempt but nevertheless spurred on, “Actually, I think I’m proposing to mine?”

Sometimes, somehow, Tom was still blown away by Greg’s audacity. Suppressing a choke, a gasp, and a sob at once, he kissed his answer deep into Greg’s open mouth.

#succession #tomgreg #text post #fanfiction #tom wambsgans #greg hirsch #no plot and just a little too short to bother with ao3 but #i wrote this in a stupor between my classes yesterday #so. yay college?