Work Text:
Eames checks his mobile, texting Ian as he steps onto the tube at Canary Wharf. He’s heading home from his father’s office, where it’s been dictated he will spend his after school hours until his mother gets home from the shop.
As usual, his parents are making too big a deal of everything. He and Ian were just messing around. They were high, and maybe a little pissed, and Eames never could turn down a dare. His mother had popped home from her shop to grab a forgotten order form and walked in on Eames’ mouth around Ian’s cock. It happens.
Now he’s doomed to ride the train into the city after class, then back to Kensington when his father is too busy to leave the office on time. It’s a little past rush hour, but the train is still crowded and Eames huddles at the back, arm wrapped around the pole so he can continue to text. People press in, invading personal space, and jostling each other until the doors close.
Eames is facing the window, swaying slightly. A woman is talking loudly into her mobile a few feet away, giving directions to some poor soul in charge of the woman’s cat. Eames turns his music up to drown her out.
At Bermondsey, the tide of people shifts and someone presses up behind him, closer than is comfortable. Eames straightens, pulling away from the body at his back. The inch he gains quickly vanishes as the person leans into him. He cuts a glare over his shoulder to discourage further contact.
The man behind him is staring resolutely out the window. They’re the same height, and he knows the man knows Eames is staring at him, but he makes no indication that he cares. Eames huffs and turns back, steeling himself to ride it out. Westminster isn’t far, and then he can switch trains. He hates wearing his school uniform on the tube; there’s always someone leering at him, looking to fulfill some sick fantasy.
The line curves and Eames leans to the side, the man behind him following suit. When the track straightens, Eames catches the man’s eye in the window’s reflection. Dark eyes stare into his as the man leans forward and run his nose lightly behind Eames ear.
He shivers, unable to look away. The man does it again, nuzzling a little and tugging Eames’ earbud out with his teeth. Eames swallows thickly. The man is fit, he can see that much. His suit is expensive, and his hair cut fresh. While Eames isn’t a fan of being touched by strangers, he could do worse.
The right hand holds the bar beside Eames’ head. His left curves over Eames’ hip, holding him in place. He almost chokes when the man’s erection presses against his arse, firm and impressively large. The man lets out a small moan and rubs his prick side to side until it settles between Eames’ cheeks.
He doesn’t dare move, though his pulse is jumping and his own cock is taking interest. The man’s breath is moist on Eames’ neck and his eyes flutter closed when he rubs his cock gently against Eames’ arse.
They stay like that until the train stops and Eames realizes he needs to switch to the District Line. He opens his mouth to tell the man it’s his stop.
“No.” The man whispers in his ear, his hand snaking around to Eames’ front. He smooths his hand over Eames’ rapidly filling cock, humming against his neck.
The slide of the man’s fingers speeds up as the train starts up again, and Eames bites his lip to keep from groaning. He pushes back into the man, head dropping back onto his shoulder when his zipper is lowered.
How can this be happening? he wonders. Why isn’t he stopping it? He gets his answer when long, warm fingers steal through the slit in his boxers and grip his cock. His blazer isn’t quite long enough to hide their actions, but by the time the man’s thumb skates over the head of Eames’s cock, he’s past caring.
The man jerks him, tight and quick, rocking against him in time with the strokes. Eames moans and the man nips at his neck, shushing him. He braces his left arm on the window, the force of the man’s rutting pitching him forward.
He can feel the weight of the length between his cheeks, and wishes there weren’t so many layers between them. The arrogance and daring of the man is startling and hot as hell, and Eames thinks he’d get on his knees for him right here and now if the man demanded it. He pictures opening his throat and letting the man fuck into his mouth. He imagines strong fingers cupping his skull, holding him still as the man shoves his cock in roughly, again and again. The thought of choking as the man’s spunk floods his mouth sends him over edge and he’s quaking and spilling over the man’s hand and into his pants.
The moment he finishes, the man’s hands are on his hips, grinding Eames’ ass against his cock. It feels impossible large and Eames wants to help, but is too shocked to do much more than hold still. That’s apparently enough since less than thirty seconds later the man is gasping against his neck, fingers digging bruises into Eames’ hips as he comes in his trousers.
The doors open at Bond Street and the man disappears. Eames is shaking, his zipper down and come drying on his trousers. He folds his cock away, knowing he’s going to catch hell for being late. He feels dirty and used, and certain he’ll be on the train at the same time tomorrow.