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Eito always avoids taking public transport at all costs.
He would rather walk several miles to his destination than step foot in a subway car. Being pressed up against a bunch of strangers on all sides, no escape from the disgusting, slimy appendages they call arms, their horrendous stench wafting over him like toxic gas… that sort of thing is out of the question.
Eito doesn’t mind getting chewed out for being late as long as he doesn’t have to subject himself to that torture.
His lover, on the other hand, is the type of person who cares very much what other people think of him. Takumi is, in every sense of the word, a people pleaser, and Eito had come to terms with the fact that he would never understand the boy’s innate desire to be liked by everyone he interacts with. Usually, Eito will bend to his will—he may not think much of other people, but he can’t fight his own innate desire to be liked by Takumi.
He can usually handle being subjected to mild amounts of discomfort if it means Takumi gets what he wants, but the situation he’s in right now is testing his willpower. The two of them have plans to meet with Hiruko and Nozomi for lunch, but they’d experienced issues every single step of the way—they put in the wrong address, walked thirty minutes in the wrong direction, and both their phones died.
Takumi looked like he was about to cry, and what is Eito supposed to do but suggest the one option that just might get them to the café within the hour.
At first, Takumi had protested—“You can barely stand to be in close proximity to our friends, I can’t put you through that!”—but Eito could read him like a book. He was inwardly dreading the mouthful he would get from Hiruko, and he would try not to take it to heart but that boy internalized everything.
And now they’re in the middle of a crowded train during the lunch rush, and somehow they’d managed to get separated, Takumi cornered at the very end of the car with at least ten people standing between them. Eito has his hands clamped over his nose and mouth in a futile attempt to both stifle the rotting stench and force the bile in his throat back where it came from. He’s tall enough that he can just barely see over the sea of bodies.
His stomach churns. No amount of layers of fabric would be enough to spare him from the sensation of malformed limbs oozing mucus, their skin teeming with lesions and pustules. He loves Takumi more than anything in the universe but right now he remembers the violent tendencies of his past self—the Eito from before they met. He wants to wring the necks of everyone on this train, starting with Takumi.
Eito forces himself to look up to see how the boy is faring, but instead of the apologetic expression he expects, Takumi looks almost frightened—his eyes are wide and frantic, his lips parted slightly. Eito looks at him questioningly, and the moment their eyes meet he realizes something is horribly wrong.
He musters up enough strength to push a few people out of his way to get closer to Takumi, earning several irritated glances, but he really couldn’t care less because now he’s close enough that he can see the man with a hand on Takumi’s ass—Takumi, who had insisted on wearing a skirt today because it’s “so hot out,” and he “likes feeling cute.”
You’re cute either way, Eito wanted to protest, but he held his tongue. Takumi is an adult capable of making his own decisions, even when said decisions get him into compromising situations.
Takumi trembles as the hand moves lower, playing with the hem of his skirt. When he doesn’t protest, the stranger gets bolder, inching closer to press himself up against him. He snakes an arm around Takumi’s waist and moves his skirt just enough to knead the soft flesh of his inner thigh.
Eito stills for a moment. The crowd of people near him keeps getting denser, and he realizes it’s because he’s not the only person who’s noticed Takumi’s predicament.They’ve started moving away, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the crime being committed before their eyes.
Eito grits his teeth, livid at how detached and cruel humans can be, how they continue to affirm every single one of his convictions against them. He needs to get closer to Takumi, needs to yank that man’s hand away and sever it from his body, but he can barely even move. His mind is hazy and he’s trying so hard to fight the nausea. He maintains eye contact, not wanting his lover to think he’d abandoned him, but now he’s forced to watch as this man violates Takumi in front of him.
The stranger’s hand moves up, slowly making its way further between Takumi’s legs, and the boy lets out a pathetic whimper. He’s hypersensitive, Eito knows this, and yet he can’t help the rage bubbling up inside of him alongside the intense repulsion toward his surroundings.
Takumi tries to bite back his sounds, not wanting to encourage his assailant, but the man’s free hand suddenly creeps up underneath his shirt, exploring and carressing every inch of his torso. And when he finds what he’s looking for—the cute, perky nubs on his small chest—he pinches one between his fingers. Takumi yelps, covering his mouth a second too late.
He is mortified by the heat twisting in his gut, the way his body instinctively wants to lean into every touch, to grind up against the man assaulting him. He knows, without a doubt, that his panties are already damp with his arousal.
Eito prays that the subway car will clear out at the next stop, but more people keep piling in, and it’s as if they’re drawn to him like a magnet. Meanwhile, Takumi and his assailant have enough space around them that Eito can see everything.
He sees the way Takumi’s knees buckle as the stranger’s fingers skillfully rub at the area between his thighs. His index finger brushes Takumi’s clit through his panties, rubbing circles around it. He moves lower, fingers ghosting over the soaked patch of fabric against his entrance. He prods at it, and Takumi curses himself for rutting against his fingers.
He tried to convince himself he just wants this to be over with. He just wants this man to get what he wants and leave him alone—but then, why does his heart beat with anticipation when those rough, calloused fingers dip beneath the waistband of his panties? Takumi attempts to focus on Eito, to communicate through his expression, I’m sorry, and please don’t look.
Eito can’t tear his eyes away, even for a second. He doesn’t know whether it’s the suffocating presence of humans violating his senses or the scene playing out in front of him that makes him feel more ill. Selfishly, he resents Takumi for putting both of them in this situation. Takumi chose to take the subway and he chose to dress like a whore, naively assuming Eito would be able to keep him safe from perverts.
Eito must be a pervert, too, because all of a sudden he’s extremely conscious of the tent growing in his pants. He should feel shame, he should make more of an effort to save Takumi, but there’s a part of him that wants the boy to learn his lesson. Perhaps Takumi would finally see things his way—he would see how inherently self-serving and repulsive humanity is at it’s core.
Takumi is crying now, but his flushed cheeks and parted lips make it seem like he’s desperate for more, and Eito thinks idly that maybe it’s true. Maybe Takumi wanted this all along, he was asking for it, and if he wants it then Eito has no reason to feel guilty for being turned on.
Takumi is barely capable of muffling his whines and moans anymore. The stranger has finally begun dipping his hands into his underwear, and his fingers seem so practiced, so purposeful, that Takumi wonders if he made a habit of molesting vulnerable boys on crowded trains. If he came back another day, would he run into his assailant again? Would he find himself in this humiliating scenario once more?
His train of thought is interrupted by the man unexpectedly shoving two fingers inside him at once. His legs would certainly have given out if the stranger didn’t have such a firm grip on him.
For the first time, Takumi’s assailant speaks, a low murmur in his ear. “You’re so tight down here… is your boyfriend not giving you enough attention?”
The man must have noticed Eito’s furious gaze, but it only seems to spur him on. His face is mostly obscured by a cap and surgical mask, but Eito can sense the shit-eating grin underneath.
He needs to look away. He needs to do something. His pants are somehow even tighter than they were a minute ago.
Takumi stiffens, the reality dawning on him again—Eito is watching him submit to a random stranger on the train. Eito, who had kindly offered to take the subway in order to make Takumi happy, who willingly subjected himself to what must be complete agony, who now has a front row seat to his lover’s unwilling defilement. He feels so dirty.
He just can’t help the fact that he likes feeling dirty. He likes wearing cute and revealing clothing in public, loves feeling eyes glued to his body as he walks past. Perverted men and women and prudish, judgemental folks—in many cases, they were one and the same—ogle Takumi shamelessly while he pretends not to notice. The depravity of it all turns him on like nothing else.
He’ll never reveal this side of himself to anyone, not to Eito or any of his closest friends, but Takumi takes a gross kind of pleasure in the anonymity of this encounter. Even with Eito watching, he can play it off as his body reacting against his will, nothing more.
For now, though, Takumi continues rutting against the stranger like a dog in heat. The man thrusts his fingers—three of them now—in and out of Takumi’s cunt at a brutal pace. His palm keeps brushing against Takumi’s clit and it’s not enough, he feels simultaneously overwhelmed and touch-deprived, and despite the relentless attack on his sweet spot he can’t cum like this.
Takumi is practically jelly in the stranger’s hands now, panting heavily between quiet sobbing and moaning, and if he doesn’t get any relief right this instant he thinks he might go crazy. His mind is so far gone at this point, and part of him wants to just start shamelessly begging the man to just touch his sensitive area a little more, but instead he opts for the slightly less embarrassing alternative.
Takumi slides his own shaky hand beneath his waistband and massages his own cunt in a frenzied attempt to get off. His clit is swollen and enlarged and overly sensitive, making him gasp involuntarily at the sudden stimulation.
He spares Eito another glance, both mortified and delighted to find that his lover is still watching—maybe he’s enjoying this too?
And Eito is still fighting his own inner battles, so he only vaguely registers Takumi desperately chasing his orgasm and fucking himself on this man’s fingers like his life depends on it.
“Look at you,” the stranger purrs, “I knew when I first saw you that you’d be an obedient little slut. I see right through your innocent act.” He emphasizes his taunts by tugging harshly on one of Takumi’s nipples.
Takumi lets out a borderline pornographic moan, and he’s once again thankful for the endless chatter and the sound of the train screeching against the tracks to drown out his pathetic noises. Still, several people turn to stare, and most of them simply look away in disgust, but a select few seem enraptured by the display. Takumi’s brain is so muddled with arousal that he wants to tell them to join in, to use him as they please—but what remains of his sanity quickly shoots that idea down.
He’s so close now, and he’s both disgusted and satisfied when he feels the wet spot behind him, seeping through his skirt. It seems that his assailant is even more sensitive than Takumi.
Takumi can sense himself reaching his limit, too, and he’s a little grateful to the stranger for not letting up even after he had his own orgasm. He’s sure that he would abandon all decency and finish himself off then and there, collapsed on the floor against the wall of a dirty train car with all these people watching… the sort of thing he has wet dreams about.
His legs spasm and suddenly Takumi is seeing stars, and he thinks he could get addicted to this; it’s belittling and he feels so used but this complete stranger is making him cum in such a public place and above everything it’s thrilling. Takumi climaxes, riding out his high, and he’s so drunk on pleasure that he doesn’t pull away just yet. Every inch of his body feels like it’s melting and all he wants to do is keep chasing that euphoria. His cunt throbs with overstimulation but he doesn’t stop until the pain overcomes his willpower.
Almost on cue, the train screeches to a stop, and the man who had just been molesting Takumi quietly exits, getting lost in the sea of people—but not before slipping a small piece of paper into the pocket of Takumi’s hoodie. “Call me if you want to play again, cutie.”
Takumi has no idea what stop the train is at, or even what time it is, though he doubts he could still face his friends looking like this. He’d have to come up with an excuse later.
He refuses to meet Eito’s eyes for the rest of their commute. The pair doesn’t need any communication; they both get off at the next stop without a word and take the opposite line home in silence.