#dark tomgreg | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ezlebe · 1 year

Note

What are the premises for your other soulmate AUs, if you don’t mind sharing

Greg drags his hands down his face, leaning back in his chair with a creak. He swallows hard, peering at the drop tiles between his fingers, then lets one of his hands fall to rub hard at his collarbone.

“Fuck,” he whispers, slumping deeper into the chair. He has to sign, at this point, right? It would be sort of fucked up if he didn’t do it. Or he could bring Tom into the… No, that wouldn’t work.

He looks down at the pastry basket, Tom’s half-eaten leftover muffin crumbling and squished, and curves forward until his forehead hits the desk. The worst part is like how unsurprised he is about it; like, he is pretty shocked, but it doesn’t feel like he is enough. He’s heard so much come out of Tom in the time he’s known him that him declaring himself some vague embodiment of Greg’s tat halfway through a breakdown is sort of… baseline? He didn’t throw anything, really –

Oh, except the coatrack.

Greg peeks at the coatrack over his arm, then feels his nose scrunch, and shoves himself up from the chair. He picks it up and straightens his coat, tugging it to hang even, and stares at it, until eventually he’s leaning hard into the wall next to the door.

Okay, so it just took it a few minutes to fully hit him.

He stares at the floor next to the coat rack for a while, until he blinks finally and it burns, then stands back up while awkwardly smoothing his hands down his shirt. He swallows thickly, as he takes a step back, then another, and reaches for his phone at his desk.

He isn’t really sure what to say, or what he does eventually say, but Kerry seems to understand it. He nods, almost forgetting to answer aloud, when she offers an approval of the decision, a confirmation of where to courier documents, then drops the phone while it clicks to hang up. He realizes blankly that they really, truly don’t seem to realize that he was who got Kendall the papers. He wonders, consequently, if maybe anyone thinks it was Tom, or something, since he knows that would have to be the next assumption after seeing the hearings; after the way he seems to have resigned to prison.

He doesn’t want Tom to go to prison. He kind of doeswant to stick him in like another mail room, maybe, which feels a bit like a cell, but that’s pretty much the end of it. He definitely doesn’t want him any sort of gone, not now, even though he can’t like know for sure that Tom is really the reason why he’s got a tat of the name of an emperor slash Star Trek villain slash Italian word for black across his collarbone.

It is sort of nice to know what it actually is supposed to mean, if he is? Greg’s mom thought it meant his soulmate was going to be some full-of-himself tyrant, which isn’t… totally wrong, really, but it’s also not that abstract, because Tom said he was Nero, so Greg didn’t have to figure it out. And Tom just mostly wants to be a tyrant.

He doesn’t manage see Tom the rest of the day, though he does try peeking in the office and even lingers around Shiv from a distance, but it’s maybe for the best; he might say the wrong thing, when he isn’t even sure he wants to say anything at all. It’s not an ideal circumstance – Tom is married, is his boss, and already like has a lot on his plate. He doesn’t want to be like the final straw that breaks Tom. He can’t really handle crying very well and Tom already got way too close.

He picks up pizza on his way home, a few hours later, then stares mindlessly at a television that he realizes is muted some twenty minutes after he turns it on. He winces, then turns it back off, deciding it might just be simpler to go to bed early; he’ll feel less heavy in the morning.

He stares at the mark on his chest, after he takes off his undershirt, shower already spitting water behind him. He wonders what Tom’s must be, as he forces himself to turn around, if it’s just Sporus, or if it’s something else he might associate with Greg; hopefully, it’s just Sporus. He’s sort of wary of what Tom might think of him, even if it’s fond to Tom, it might not be all that great, like a silhouette of a sasquatch, or a paper shredder, or like… who knows, not something great to recreate for a vow ceremony.

Not that they will do that.

Or have one.

Tom is pretty married.

He nearly falls against the edge of the drain when his phone starts to buzz at a familiar tempo, and is thankful he’s mostly rinsed off, as he rushes out from under the water. He hurriedly turns off the spray, as he reaches for his phone, thumb slipping and slipping across the screen until it finally opens under the damp wet.

“Hey,” Greg answers, fumbling the phone, then setting it down and tapping speaker, while reaching out for a towel hanging on the bar; fuck, it’s damp – he really needs to do laundry. “This is Greg.”

“Obviously,” Tom says, sharply, then falls quiet, breathing in and out loudly into the speaker. He clears his throat, low and rough, “Just wondering what part of my humiliation convinced you to sign?”

“Oh, uh,” Greg fumbles, staring at his bare chest in the mirror with a nervous laugh. He touches at the letters, slowly tracing what he once thought was just messy handwriting, but turned out to be some kind of Roman. “Just… all of it?”

Tom breathes loudly into the receiver for a long while, then croaks out an unhappy laugh. “Great.”

“I-I, like meant –” Greg stutters into silence.

“Fuck off,” Tom snaps, then abruptly hangs up.

Greg sighs quietly through his nose, then rolls his eyes upward, as he taps at Tom’s name to call him back.

“What?” Tom demands, pitchy and defensive, but he did pick up, so can’t be that upset.

“I’m just like kind of bored, now… ” Greg says, glancing from his bed inviting him through the door. “Are you doing something?”

“I’m trying to choose the fed camp I want to be sent to.”

Greg runs a hand up his forehead, briefly staring up at the ceiling. He exhales a sigh, as quietly as he can, and drops his head. “Do you even choose it, not like… the jury, or whatever?”

“Judge, Gregory,” Tom says, followed by a low, harsh, unintelligible mutter, then a shallow clear of his throat. “No, I’m not doing anything, but I’m making myself available; apparently, Kendall nearly killed Logan.”

“What? But, I – I like just saw him?” Greg says, pulling his shirt on and trying not to be too annoyed that no one called him. “Unless you mean in some… business sense?”

“Nope, definitely the ol’ classic sense. They went on a hike and your dear uncle is old.”

Greg blinks rapidly down at the phone. “Uh. My grandpa goes on like a lot of hikes?” He says, though he wonders if it counts as a hike or just transportation, on those instances Ewan just won’t drive. “Kendall went on a hike?”

Tom offers a short, raspy laugh. “I do assume it was a pristinely groomed trail, Greg.”

“I could like come over,” Greg says, “Is Shiv there?”

“Have you looked at the time, lately?” Tom says, low and snide, and it almost feels like a jab at the watch thing, though Greg hasn’t yet managed to tell him the specifics about it. He’s run through it in his head, because Tom would get it fixed, if just to make himself look good, but he’d be a dick about it and Kendall the whole time. “She’s in her room.”

Greg blinks twice and furrows his brow, as he looks down at the phone.

Tom sighs a loud wash of static into the receiver. “You really want to come laugh to my face?”

“I’m not laughing at you, Tom,” Greg says, injecting a spare bit of hurt into his voice, as subtle as he can manage, though he’s really just sort of tired.

“I wish you would,” Tom mutters, not picking up on it, seemingly firmly stuck in his determined self-pity.

“I’m like not,” Greg insists, slowly, relaxing his voice with a low sigh. “So?”

Tom is quiet for a few beats. “Whatever, if you insist.”

Greg uneasily stands by, close but not quite embroiled, as Tom digs new depths for his prison problem; he talks about this guy who’s probably scamming him about preparing for it, and even takes Greg’s suggestion about shouldering all the responsibility, which is nice but not really like him, at least not to even joke about it. It’s not like he should even be a Christmas tree, really; the only bauble he should have is the one that like he technically gave Greg to begin with, not any from some slippery jerk in Sales.

He does kiss Greg out of nowhere, though, after sweeping through his office like a storm when the dam breaks, so maybe Greg just isn’t on the right wavelength to understand the plan. He isn’t really sure he wants to be? But he can tell it’s moving in some direction. He just has to watch and wait for the right time to pull out the tat, once Tom has evened out a little more steady, and… Yeah, after Greg has handled this thing with Kendall turning into a jerk about him going back to Waystar.

Like, Greg needs his job? It’s not like Kendall was offering to pay him.

Greg ends up asking out Comfry because it is hopefully, maybe a good position to appear extra gentlemanly, so she might not put out some exposé on him. He’s not exactly sure what that would entail, but he suspects his before-Waystar life, and while that’s mostly a lot of doing nothing with his mom, it perhaps includes like him shotgunning with shirtless guys and a YouTube video where he pretends to review a coke bottle bong. He doesn’t technically have a reputation to ruin, but he also doesn’t want to start one up that he has to improve.

The whole angle also, in a way that probably shouldn’t feel good, makes Tom this total mopey jerk that Greg can’t help poking at every chance. He spends combined days and kilometers across an ocean looking up at Greg like he wants to stick him in another mailroom, only it’s a windowless closet in his penthouse, and that’s not like great, but some sick part of Greg is ready to sign up. He’s been preparing how to lift his chin the right way, if Tom tries to kiss him another time.

Either way… It can’t be any worse than whatever is going on with this wedding. He actually suspects the guy is Caroline’s soulmate, but that she hasn’t told him, or anyone else, and he can empathize with it; he’s just not in a position where he can entice an unknowing Tom and spring it later in a similar way, not when Tom’s other option is Shiv. It would take a lot of finessing for Greg to get Tom any kind of anything, talking to the right people, propping him up with some light to heavy fibbing, and a lot of time, too, but Shiv… She just asks her dad.

He doesn’t have any castles, either, which he suspects would equally attract Tom.

He idly switches tracks halfway through the trip to courting the Contessa, who does have castles, and while he knows it won’t like actually go anywhere, it’s sort of nice to pretend that he could get one in a divorce. He manages to even shift Comfry to the Contessa, since he knows she hates working for Kendall, so that’s technically two birds, and then, as the night winds down, tries for a third by embellishing his affections a bit to Tom, who listens to it all with an expression like he’s legitimately contemplating a murder.

It’s a pretty good look on his face, somehow, stern and square, and Greg finds himself absently reaching up and scratching against the tat under his shirt.

“Greg, listen,” Tom says, an odd tone to his voice, as he jerks a chair from behind Greg in a pointed gesture. It’s easy to sit without thinking at all.

Tom asks him to make a deal with the devil, which could be Logan or Kendall, at this point, but Greg knows for sure that it’s Tom, so he does; it’s not really that hard, after Tom tries to guess what Greg could want most in the world, and it’s just Greg, as if that’s how he feels about it. It makes him feel fluttery and off-balance, getting another acknowledgement of the tat, and ends up eagerly grasping back at Tom for a hug.

It’s less ideal when Tom walks away, leaving Greg standing awkward. Greg looks around, contemplating if he should follow, but he ends up sitting back down while rubbing into the back of his neck, then jumping when a nearby server asks if he’d like a drink. He would… Yeah, but he really just wants something cheap and familiar? And it’s pretty unlikely Molsons exists in Italy.

He ends up with something called a Peroni, which isn’t really hitting the home feel he’s suddenly looking for, but it’s close enough. He’s mostly just holding an empty bottle by the time he gets the fortitude to wander up the stairs that Tom had disappeared up, darkness settled comfortably around the castle, and he stumbles into an evident aftermath in a room off the courtyard.

He peeks in and sees his cousins and Tom, Gerri, and Karl working in something, and no one especially looking at each other. He thinks Roman might be sort of crying, while Kendall is staring hard at a window, and Shiv… is the one now who looks murderous, but it’s not at all the same sort of murderous as Tom had looked earlier, because it’s directed like a laser at Tom. Tom, who is pretending not to notice, who’s posture is smug and self-satisfied, who’s talking mostly at a visibly annoyed Gerri.

The devil was probably Logan, then…

“Are you drinking fucking beer?” Roman asks, wetly, sour expression daring Greg to mention it.

“I was?” Greg says, looking down at the bottle, then shaking it to show its emptiness. “What happened?”

“Dad killed us,” Shiv says, tightly, hands wrapped tightly at her elbows where she stands at the edge of the room. “He… He somehow knew we were coming up here.”

Greg does his best wide blink, nodding and looking down at the papers at the table. “Huh. You could sue him, right?” He asks, peeking down, as Kendall flexes his hands to fists. “I’m doing that with my Grandpa.”

Roman practically growls beneath a sneer. “I’m not suing my fucking Dad.”

“He like would you,” Greg says, rolling the bottle in his hands. “Turnabout, you know? I mean, if he doesn’t act like he loves you, why, like… act like you do him?”

Kendall grimaces with a bite at his cheek, eyes sweeping down, as he lifts a hand to rub at his head.

Shiv suddenly looks like she’s not breathing at all, paling and maybe more furious, but her face is half turned away.

“What the fuck does love have to do with it?” Roman demands, stumbling up from the floor, then sinking into a nearby chair.

Greg straightens but manages to smother an impulse to step back. “Isn’t that why you wouldn’t?”

“Fuck off,” Roman snaps, expression twisting with a sullen scowl, while he voice gets worryingly throaty. “He loves us, assface; it’s the business.”

“…Right?” Greg says, looking away from Roman, before the reflexive urge to ask it he’s okay gets him like tackled. “So li-like do the business thing?”

Roman exhales an angry wheeze. “Shut up, you don’t know shit, Cousin Cuck.”

“Where’d you get that beer, bud?” Tom interjects, voice oddly soft, then sharply clearing his throat with a swift cough. “That wasn’t at the ceremony.”

“Oh, uh?” Greg lifts it to look down at the label with a low grunt, then he shrugs and peeks back up to Tom. “I asked and someone like found it… in the kitchen?”

“Let’s go get a couple more,” Tom says, stepping around the squat table in the center of the room. He walks past Greg to the door, plainly expecting him to follow. “Could use them, huh?”

Greg exhales a pitching hum, then looks around, for a trash can, hurrying toward one to drop in the empty bottle. He turns to catch up with Tom, seeing he’s disappeared around the corner in the courtyard, but he might be waiting just beyond it to scare him.

“Sporus,” Shiv says, all of a sudden and barely above a breath.

Greg looks over his shoulder with a blink, reacting to the name before he can really think about it, and incidentally makes eye contact across the room. He sees her face somehow pale further, turning her particularly corpse-like, minusing a pair of high spots of color against her cheeks.

“Is that a code word?” Roman demands, after a horribly tense few seconds, looking between them with sweeps of his red-rimmed eyes.

Shiv drops her head with a shake. Her voice is some weak attempt at snide, trembling at the back in a way Greg has never heard. “Shut up, Roman.”

Greg nearly trips over his own feet in haste to leave the room, as his pulse grows to a thud between his ears. He nearly runs into Tom, who was definitely waiting to scare him, but now looks at his face and immediately just seems comically resigned.

“You’re not taking their side already, are you?”

“Oh, uh – what?” Greg says, rubbing at the back of his neck with a glance over his shoulder. “No.”

“Ever the champion at playing dumb,” Tom tuts, eyes rolling plainly, even in the dark, and his shoulders spread while an elbow angles out almost wide enough to dig in Greg’s side. “You know, part of me appreciates your instinct to play both sides, as small as it is compared to the part that just hates it.”

“I’m really not,” Greg insists, then drops his voice, mostly joking, as he mutters under his breath: “This time.”

Tom huffs out an angry sort of snort, as his hand making solid contact with Greg’s shoulder in a shove.

The server is oddly eager about taking them to the kitchen and showing off the beer. They speak in low Italian blended with choppy English, and gesture until Tom and Greg both have a number of bottles in grasp, then laugh loud and escort them straight back to the courtyard, smiles wide and abundant, and Greg assumes they think it’s celebration for the wedding.

Tom sticks a bottle in his jacket, as he covers the neck of the bottle with his other hand and pops the cap.

By magic, or something.

Did he do that with his ring?

Greg stares for another beat, then offers his own bottle.

“How’d you open the other one?” Tom says, pretending to be put upon, even as a wry smirk sweeps his lips while he takes the bottle.

“They did it for me,” Greg says, watching as Tom, again, opens the a bottle like it’s nothing with the ring. “How do you – Were you married before?”

“You don’t need to be married to wear rings,” Tom says, dismissive, holding the bottle out with a wag. “You can even wear one just to open beer.”

“Oh,” Greg says, taking the bottle back, as Tom seems to palm the cap in a similarly practiced manner into the pocket with the other bottle. “How much did you drink?”

Tom opens his mouth, like he’s thinking about snapping something, then simply shrugs while lifting the bottle to his mouth. He pulls back after a beat, looking at the label. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah, it’s like…” Greg looks at his own bottle with a sigh. “Italian?”

Tom shakes his head and lifts the bottle again for another drink.

“You’re not, like – we’re not actually going back, right?”

“Would rather not, no,” Tom says, scratching at the edge of his chin with the back of a knuckle.

“Cool, uh – ” Greg nods, scratching up his hairline, as he scratches the lip of the bottle with his thumb. “My, like – my accommodation isn’t that far?”

Tom turns to look with a wide eye roll. “Your accommodation? Someone’s been watching travel vlogs.”

Greg shrugs and scratches at the bridge of his nose. “It has a pool?”

Tom mutters something under his breath, then lifts the bottle while tipping his head. He follows Greg without further argument, as he turns toward the stairs down toward the waiting cars.

Greg is relieved when no one else is at the little villa, when they pull up, probably all still back at the reception. It means he can slip into trunks and a less scratchy shirt, slump onto a lounger to finish beers that he halfway is drinking just to watch Tom do the ring trick, and suffer no witnesses when he stares after Tom decides boxers are good enough for swimming. He is not super into swimming, not like in the doing laps way, but Tom really seems to be, moving back and forth under the water and the dark sky. It’s mesmerizing in some kind of way, and he sets an empty bottle aside, lifting his head when Tom pulls himself out of water, then opens his mouth, not quite thinking, while Tom shakes water out of his hair.

“Did you like – uh, did you tell Shiv about the Sporus thing?” Greg asks, and realizes all at once that maybe he wasn’t really waiting for Tom to be ready, but that he was, perhaps, scared it was only him. He wishes he could swallow the words back into his throat.

Tom looks up with a start, markedly stepping wrong over the edge of the pool. He winces, as he looks down, halfway laughing in a pitch with no humor. “Wha-Why?”

Greg feels his mouth twitch, looking away from Tom, dripping with pool water and boxers plastered to his… thighs. “She like maybe called me that?”

Tom is quiet for a solid beat, then croaks out another laugh. “Oh. She… Well, she must have seen me watching the documentary?”

“Okay, sure – ” Greg says, nodding with a drop of his chin, remembering though that Tom sure had said book. “I-I was wondering if maybe it was…” He leans up and starts to yank at his shirt, movements jerky, until his shirt is gone and his tat is plain across his collarbone. “Uh, maybe?”

Tom openly gawks, lifting a hand and swiping it down his face. He stumbles forward and reaches out, then yanks his hand back, staring wide down at Greg like he’s waiting for a punchline.

Greg finds himself hunching, breathing out a tight, stuttered laugh. “If-if it’s not –”

“Shi-fuck,” Tom says, as he pulls down the band of his boxers with tetchy fingers.

Greg scrambles at the lounger, then feels heat flare in his face and satisfaction bloom against the back of his mind at Sporus scrawled against Tom’s hip. It’s in a similar writing as Greg’s, messy and with funny letters, and inarguably matching him.

“How did you like know?” Greg asks, dragging his eyes up from the tat. The light from the pool and the deck casts Tom in two shades, and he lets his eyes drop, staring at the dark writing peeking on his hip, where the waistband has half curled up. “About how mine said Nero?”

Tom wets his lips, as his eyes dart away, keeping that way for a pair of seconds before they sweep back. He exhales a weak croak, “I didn’t, I really didn’t, bud. I just…” He gestures widely with a jerk of both hands. “I wanted it to be.”

Greg feels a brief tightening behind his sternum, shifting his jaw with a swallow. “You did… Really?”

Tom blinks and a brow quirks up, dropping his hands to his hips. “Yes? Should I fucking apologize – did I trap you in some – ?”

“No, Tom,” Greg interrupts, shifting on the lounger and wondering if he should like maybe get up, or something, but Tom might push him in the pool. “It’s just… like, flattering?”

Tom stares for a solid beat. “Oh,” he intones, blinking a few times, then glancing away toward the lit hill beyond the pool in front of them.

“Like, I never… thought of that as an option, you know,” Greg says, jumping slightly and heat flushing his body, as Tom abruptly drops to sit on the edge of lounger and stare down at him. “Cart before the horse, or however that might go.”

Tom narrows an eye with a sharp turn of his head. “You didn’t think your soulmate would like you before you were their soulmate, Greg; is that how you felt about me?”

“Oh, no? I mean, I never thought about the soulmate angle, no, but not, um…” Greg tightly shrugs with a turn of his head into his shoulder, crown rubbing the coarse weave of the chair. “You’re not like exactly an unattractive individual, really.”

Tom slowly turns his head, brow climbing his forehead, as a smirk plays around his mouth. “Did you want to fuck me, Greg?”

“It could be, perhaps, put that way,” Greg mutters, heat flooding further up his neck.

Tom hums lowly, tilting his head with a markedly considering look. “More or less than either of your vapid courtiers?”

“Yeah, I don’t, uh – ” Greg wets his lower lip, breath hitching, as Tom suddenly, lightly touches against his tat. “That was a – I thought of that as a business-type match, more than a bed-type –”

“Hold on, you tricked those poor nice ladies, Gregory?” Tom interrupts, shifting his hand and his thumb presses hard and warm to Greg’s lower lip, along the damp spot where his tongue just peeked through. “Absolutely unconscionable, courting yourself an ignorant beard.”

“I don’t think they, like…” Greg swallows shallowly, craning his neck up, as Tom leans further in and over the lounger, practically on top of him. “Re-really expected otherwise?”

“I do,” Tom says, as his lashes drop with a plain glance down Greg’s body, then the pressure of a familiar hand in an unfamiliar place – settling low on Greg’s stomach. “Which is rude as fuck to say, but you are also hard as iron, buddy. I didn’t know you were so easy.”

“Yeah,” Greg agrees, weakly, as his dick jerks in some attempt to reach the foreign pressure against his waistband.

He wants to blame the soulmate thing but he’s just as sure that it’s really mostly Tom. He looks at him sometimes and sees something in his eyes, not quite harsh, in a way, but definitely in that vicinity, and just… He’s wondered at limits, somewhat, and is accidentally stumbling into his own.

Tom looks up, just briefly, toward the doors into the villa, and Greg would swear he feels the sweep of eyes like a physical thing, but that could just be the thumb along his cheek. “You done peacocking out here, you big turkey – we could solve this problem inside?”

“Could ju-just stay out here?” Greg counters, wondering if there’s any way he could roll his hips in a subtle, non-desperate way.

“I don’t think so,” Tom says, his tone some odd blend of steel and amusement. He does drop his hand another few centimeter or so, plainly taunting, while his smirk gets wide. “I’m not going to risk sharing you.”

“Do you think it’s like reincarnation?”

Tom rasps out a wheezy laugh into a bottle of mini fridge Perrier. “God, I hope not. Nero was not a nice fucking guy, to put it mildly.”

“Well, like,” Greg says, looking across the pillow with a turn of his head and a rub of his chin into the seam. “No one really, you know, knows anyway since the only records left about him were written like way after he died.”

“I cannot believe,” Tom snaps, tone lilting with familiar, amused ire, as he rolls over to set a hand against Greg’s sternum, pressing him into the mattress while he angles up in a loom. “You lied to me about – What did you say, the IP?”

“Yeah, um…” Greg says, dragging his teeth along his lip while he feels his cheek twitch against a smile. “You like really… romanticized it, it seemed like.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Tom says, abruptly slumping, bare chest smacking against Greg’s and halfway knocking the air from him. “You try growing up with a mutilated sex slave on your hip.”

“People, uh – ” Greg stutters, as Tom stretches out against him, elbows and knees settling against his in crooked, unyielding positions. “People think Nero was the devil?”

“Nero is not the devil,” Tom says, as he digs up through Greg’s hair with curling, scratching fingers. “He just works for him. Big difference.”

Greg huffs out a laugh, quickly smothered by Tom’s own smirk.

#instead of answering like a sane person i wrote a new one #tomgreg #the others are like ones a werewolf and werewolves have special bonds theres drama #a timer au obviously and a writing on skin au and this one where you can see the person's soul as an animal sort of like dark materials but #only the soulmate can see it there's like levels and you build them up with potential matches etc #uhhh past lives in dreams #i think im forgetting one #oh one where the conscious is the soulmate but not THEM them

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