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Here's a fun fact for the folks at home: subways fucking suck dick.
With the pseudohipster softcore-punk aesthetic you exude effortlessly on the daily, you know you’re expected to have a throbbing boner for the disillusioning grungy underbelly of city life but honestly, seriously, fuck that romanticized garbage. You’re cursing Bro to hell and back for being too lazy to pick you up today because other people are disgusting and you don’t like being touched.
Your train rolls in and you manage to slip your way through the mosh of bodies expertly enough (read: rudely, and with the generous utilization of elbows) to land yourself in one of the last empty seats. You ignore the this-generation-has-no-manners-or-respect-for-the-elderly stinkeye you get for pulling that piece of shit move as a young teenage boy and shoot back a how-the-fuck-do-you-know-I’m-not-disabled-or-something-you-presumptuos-asshole,-also-it’s-your-fault-the-economy’s-in-the-shitter glare in return.
You, of course, are not at all disabled, and are probably in better shape than every other person on this train. But it's the principle of the matter, and you were raised a stubborn little jackass, so your insolent able-bodied butt remains firmly planted on grimy plastic.
The train jolts forward and you settle back for a long ride. Listen to music, drown the world out, you’ll be home feasting on leftover pizza in no time. When you finally manage to yank the tangled mess of cording out of your pocket to stuff your headphones in, you notice one of the earbud caps— the rubbery bit, the squishy little mushroom-shaped plug thing on the end— must’ve gotten caught on something and popped off earlier on your expedition.
You mutter a bitter curse under your breath, mood instantly souring. Why the fuck do they even make those little shits removable, couldn’t they just glue them on? The default buds are already perfect, one-size-fits-all, you’ve never had to swap them out for the smaller ones that come in the package. The companies must’ve gotten class-actioned by some minority activists with loud mouths and freakishly small ear canals. Fuck them, fuck this, and fuck you too, Dr. Dre. You’re not even a real goddamn doctor.
You let your head clunk back against the window in annoyance, contemplating sleep for about the half-second it takes for your skull to start rattling painfully against the vibrating glass. Nah bitch, it says, you’re gonna stay conscious for this one, sit your ass right back up and enjoy the ride. You debate the pros and cons of gritting your teeth and ignoring the tremors threatening to dislodge your brain from your cranial cavity. You soon realize that it’s stupid to risk a concussion out of spite toward personified shit-talking inanimate objects, and shimmy back up the seat in defeat. Your meninges had better thank you for the mercy.
And so you’re resigned to spending the commute in a shitty mood, cursing the universe for its injustice as if it’s somehow novel, as if you’re not thoroughly acquainted with the sadistic bullshit of the macrocosmos by now.
People Watching would normally be on your contingency agenda for eating up some time, but as the subway carries you further and further out into bumfuck, every stop has the pool of roast-worthy candidates draining a little more until only three of you are left in the compartment.
One dude on the other side of the car is sprawled haphazardly across several seats, body limp and still in sleep or death, but you’re at a solid 90% that you can still see his chest lifting as he breathes. He’s your typical run-of-the-mill stoner type with wild grungy hair and sunken eyes, and wow those might actually be pajama pants he has on, by the looks of it you’d be willing to wager he’s been wearing them around all day. He’s got dirt or paint or something smeared across his face in a way that possibly looks deliberate, and he's pretty fucking disgusting, you think— but in an endearing kind of way. In your mind you salute his blazed drooling ass and wish him well in his blissed-out dreams, hoping fondly that the bro hasn’t already slept through his stop.
Sitting right across from you is a kid in a blue hoodie who’s had his eyes firmly locked on his phone screen the entire ride. Kids these days, right? His nerd-ass teeth are sticking out as he bites his lower lip, and the bright screen is reflecting in his nerd-ass glasses as he types incessantly with agile fingers. You don’t think he’s looked up even once, and you’re fighting the urge to say something to him, just to alleviate the boredom a little, because he may look like he’s en-route to fulfill daily duties as Mayor of Dorktown but he’s also the only other halfway sentient one here and that makes him your last hope.
As though he can feel the silent fires of your sick burns from across the row, he suddenly raises his head and his stare locks to yours. For a sliver of a fraction of a second, brilliant blue eyes search your shades before he’s whipping his face back down and shielding himself behind his phone again, visibly startled that you seemed to be already looking at him. Probably scrambling in his mind to figure out if your head simply happened to be turned toward him for no real reason, or if behind your sunglasses you really were just blatantly staring him down.
Man, you think his cheeks might even be turning a little pink. That’s goddamn precious. You’ve always known yourself to have a bit of a weakness for blushing nerd boys, but most days it’s at least marginally more of a challenge to draw that obvious of a reaction out of someone. You must really be on your game today. Nice.
The boy resumes tapping away on the keyboard, now with a little too much intention to pass as natural, and brightly colored acrylic charms clack together where they hang down from his phone case. Like the magnanimous, merciful bastard you are when it comes to assuaging the mental distress of strangers under atypical social conditions (which are usually orchestrated by you in the first place, for your amusement), you pointedly turn your head and show off your profile, granting him the comfort of knowing that you’re not secretly scrutinizing him from behind your shades.
His head remains stiffly angled towards the screen, and you bet he thinks he’s real subtle, thinks you don’t catch the way his eyes flicker up surreptitiously to slide over your body in a textbook once-over as you shift positions. You keep your smirk in your mind and off your face, electing instead to stare out the window looking cool and pensive, while you take a moment to thank the universe for this lovely surprise gift of a new target to mess with. But then again, the universe has totally been ramming its omnipotent cosmic dick up your dry ass all day, so it kind of owes you.
And then, rather suddenly, you’re torn away from the possibility of any further gay sex allusions
by a bright flash of light
and a shutter sound.
Your neck snaps like a whip towards the source of the flash, just in time to see the boy’s blue eyes widen in unmistakable horror as his fingers fumble clumsily with his phone, faltering and just barely managing to keep it from clattering across the subway floor.
Holy shit. Did he seriously just—
Is this kid for fucking real?
He gapes at you, utterly panic-stricken. He’s floundering, squeaking out some stilted nonsense about the “f-flashlight, um, function—” on his phone and how “it’s— it’s broken, it uh, sometimes it just?”, but he’s totally grasping, it’s the most pathetic attempt at a lie you’ve ever heard, you know it and he knows you know it.
His words peter out at the stony look on your face and he manages a weak, guilty croak of a laugh before swallowing hard. He looks at you like you’re the ancient vengeful deity he’s made the fatal blunder of offending, like he knows he should give up now and get himself prostrate at the foot of your holy altar for judgement, all that’s left is to await the divine smackdown you’re about to slam-dunk onto his blaspheming mortal ass.
When instead you stare him down stoically and say nothing, his mouth slowly closes, teeth coming together with a soft click.
After a few tense moments (well, not tense for you at all, but from the looks of it he’s probably flirting with a hernia about now) you see he’s not going to make any further attempts to explain himself without some urging, apparently content with demonstrating to you his best impersonation of a comatose goldfish.
You smoothly rock yourself up onto your feet with all the indifference of someone who hadn’t just had his social decencies and basic expectations of privacy blatantly violated by a mystery nerd on a subway. You stride over to stand in front of him and lean down to get into his space.
He stares back up at you, frozen like a rabbit in a crow’s talons. You watch as a spark of fear snuggles up with the panic already comfortably camped in his eyes, like he’s calculating the likelihood of making it the next ten seconds without taking a deadass punch to the mouth. You offer him nothing, keeping your expression carefully unreadable so you don’t let on how completely and utterly amused you are at how the events of this train ride are progressing.
Casual as a breeze, you shift your gaze down to see he’s got a white-knuckled death grip on that traitorous phone of his, clutching it close to his chest like he’s subconsciously trying to keep it hidden from your attention. Honestly, he should know better at this point.
In a flash you reach down to wrench it from his hands, and he flinches in surprise instead of realizing your ploy in time to react and fight you for it. He opens his mouth with a potential protest as it’s snatched away, but when you cock your head at him challengingly he just sinks back further into the seat in surrender, face burning red.
The renewed blush on his cheeks has you struggling even harder to keep your smirk safely repressed, so you glance away from his definitely-not-adorable face of humiliation in favor of appraising your newly stolen prize.
And good lord. You were fucking right. It’s even sweeter than you dared to imagine.
TT: Please pardon my skepticism and understand that I’ve never before been given much reason to count the public subway among the prime watering holes of attractive young eligible bachelors.
EB: yeah okay i know, he’s just got this douchebag aura that does it for me i guess?
EB: ugh! he’s just hot in a prickish tool kind of way and it is sorta hard to explain.
TT: Unfortunately you know I can’t comment much on the peculiarity of your tastes unless granted opportunity to see the Adonis myself. That caveat, naturally, carries with it the implication that my eyes could even be deigned worthy of gazing upon his visage’s allegedly unequivocal splendor.
EB: the sarcasm is just as sidesplittingly hilarious as always rose but try to remember that you are talking to the creep shot master here.
EB: i.e., you better enjoy your panties while you have them because they are about to be knocked. clean. off.
TT: Consider my breath sufficiently bated, John.
And there at the bottom you see the picture he took, the money shot, loaded up in the reply box and all ready to be sent off for his friend’s viewing pleasure. It’s not even a bad picture of you, honestly. Your head’s turned in signature confident apathy and the angle shows off your killer jawline. You give a slight nod of approval and hope you’re not too forward in pressing “send” on his behalf. Fuck, you’re so close to breaking down and laughing your ass off. Keep it together Strider, this situation is too beautiful, you gotta revel in it just a little longer.
When you look away from the phone and back to him, his face has had plenty of time to follow the natural progression through resigned trepidation, and has presently transitioned into unadulterated mortification. It’s scrawled in the slight part of his lips and the bright blush of his face and his comically widened eyes, like he really, truly can’t believe that this sitcom scene is happening to him in real time.
A thousand potential quips spandexed in ego and snark gracelessly tumble over themselves like drunken gymnasts in a rush to be first out of your mouth. You sober up and reign them in though, keep yourself patient. Your lips settle into an expectant smirk instead, drinking in the power trip you’re getting from watching this poor boy floundering in embarrassment.
Ah, damn, he really pegged you back there. You kind of are a prickish tool. Whoops. It’s a rather anticlimactic epiphany, though, something you already kinda knew. Apples, the trees they fall from, whatnot.
So then, next course of action. Mission objective. General Strider, just what exactly are we trying to accomplish here? Let’s take a quick inventory of what we’ve learned so far:
Subject shows marked proclivity for making increasingly innovative expressions of dumbfoundment, and has exhibited impressive talent in the field of turning himself various incriminating shades of red.
Other than that, this kid— “John” you’ve figured out for yourself, no thanks to him— is apparently not one to take matters into his own hands or offer any constructive contributions toward the advancement of ongoing proceedings. You’re in the saddle here, you’re yanking the reigns around. You’re the cowboy directing this western. [Techs: insert Brokeback Mountain reference here in post]
So you already know he thinks you’re hot. And you know you think he’s pretty hot, too— dork-hot, at least. And when opportunities like these arise, you’ve never quite been able to resist pushing people, hard, to test out their limits.
So you decide how you want to push John, and remarkably, he doesn’t push you away.
You press your lips firmly into his and it only takes him a few moments to get over that initial moment of what the fuck, am I dreaming? before he’s making jerky attempts to kiss back. And you, in your boundless empathy, understand it as a common phenomenon observable in every individual you’ve thus far graced with your godly kissing skills. You don’t fault him for it, you know the divine perfection of your lips can take some getting used to. He tastes like blue raspberry bubblegum, and it’s nice. He can take his time.
When you do pull back, you see he’s got this dumb look on his face like he’s confused as fuck, but also not planning on complaining any time soon. He catches on fast. You like that about him.
You run a finger across his reddening lips. “Dave,” You say.
You watch as his rational thinking swims to the surface again, and his eyes refocus on you. “Whuh?“ he blurts, in that really lame way of his. Eloquence personified, you sure know how to pick ‘em.
“The name’s Dave,” you clarify smoothly. “In case you need something to moan.”
BAM, slide on the Strider Smirk™ and slam dunk, fuckin’ nailed it, you’ve been waiting to use that line forever.
John gives you a weird look for a second— which must just be how he looks in the throes of awe at radically unbridled suaveness? Then his expression turns vaguely contemplative and he sinks back against the seat. Which you guess might be a step in the right direction, but still not quite swooning though, which is more along the lines of what you were expecting here.
“Dave,” he repeats slowly, and it’s saccharine, he’s looking up at you from under his lashes, testing it out on his tongue.
You swallow despite yourself and hope he’s too dense to notice. Yeah. Yeah, damn right, it sounds good coming from him, and his mouth curls into a smile like he’s decided he likes it too. He licks his lips pointedly, clearly gunning for sultry and you have to grudgingly admit to yourself he doesn’t miss the mark by too far.
Then his fingers reach out to clutch your shirt collar, reeling you in, slow but inescapable.
“Mmm... Daaave.” He lets your name drip off his tongue again, drawn out like sweet taffy and candied in lust. This time your expression twitches because uh, what the hell, where exactly did this kid’s sense of shame fuck off to just now, that was hands-down one of the most picturesque pornstar moans you’d ever heard, right up jockeying with the ones that pump through your headphones during the precious alone time afforded when your bro leaves to run late night errands.
But his lips quirk up then as he catches your brief blunder— he’s not in control of his expressions like you (usually) are— and that gives his whole gambit away.
Jesus Dicksucking Christ. He’s fucking with you, what a little shit. As soon as you realize it your gape breaks into a scowl and your brain starts clambering for a way to save face now that he’s completely turned the tables on you. You vindictively consider complimenting him on his sex-noise expertise— ask which hentai he’s imitating it from, if he practices in the mirror when he’s home alone, does his hand like it better when he moans like that?— but he’s ignoring the plainly irritated look on your face and regripping your collar, pulling you down sharply and almost smashing your nose against his in the process.
“Oh Dave, ravish me…” he pours the words against your lips, dragging the vowels out, but it’s punctuated at the end by a stifled giggle and a mischievous grin he can’t keep off his face anymore like he knows the jig is up but he wants to rub all your hubris and gullibility back into your face anyway.
“Little shit,” you growl into his mouth because you can’t think of anything wittier, your unruly hormones are in Scramble The Fucking Jets mode and you can’t believe this kid served you with such idiotic antics. He outright laughs at you and arches his back in a sharp curve, rocking his hips up into yours lewdly— it’s a ridiculous exaggeration probably not even meant to be serious but it’s still kind of hot too in a way that really pisses you off.
“Oh c’mon you deserved it, that line was so cheesy!”
He doesn’t release your collar even when you try to jerk back from him. You’re a little petulant that he’s making fun of you, but he won’t let you pull away in annoyance, he just rolls his eyes at your attempts before yanking you close again. He’s stronger than he looks, and it’s really starting to grate on your nerves (because it’s also hotter than you’d comfortably prefer it to be).
He’s still chuckling at your expense while pointedly trying to get at your lips to kiss the sneer away, and you realize you’ve lost the little edge you’d had when you initiated this fiasco. He’s laughing at you now, reveling in your embarrassment. Now you’re the lame chump, and you probably should’ve known this was coming, Icarus.
But you don’t have to let it play out this way. If he wants you to fight him for it, then like hell you won’t rise to the challenge. So instead of resisting, you rechannel your annoyance into something that could actually prove productive: namely, shoving your hand unceremoniously down the front of his pants.
His fingers tighten immediately on your shirt and he jerks in surprise, a huff forcing itself through his lips as you grip him through his boxers, like his cock is that poor scrub’s Wailord from a wireless tournament two days ago, flailing around uselessly, missing every attack while its blinking red hp bar is steadily sapped away. And your hand is the Wrap move of your Lickitung, agonizingly slow and weak but unrelenting and consistent like clockwork, dragging it closer to inevitable blackout while you cackle maliciously and spam your Minimize / Double Team combo because your strategies in online pokemon matches have always been devised exclusively in favor of psychological dominance over petty pleasantries like efficiency, expediency, or not playing like a massive exploitive pisslord.
So yeah, you start in on him and he’s knocked completely off balance, blindsided, and with a flick of the wrist the balls are in your court again. You rub your palm against his fast-hardening cock and lean in close to breathe over his neck, hot and wet to send sparks dancing across his skin, and he shivers.
“Nnn— oh god, what the fuck,” he whimpers weakly, suddenly he can’t catch his breath. You’re struck with a strange feeling that there’s a joke you could make about that somewhere in here, but you can’t exactly stop time right now to come up with it and you’re a little too busy maneuvering your hand down his pants to care about the finer intricacies of heavy-handed referential metahumor.
And yeah, ‘what the fuck’ is probably right, you’re on a public fucking subway right now in case you somehow managed to forget those rattling steel grates under your shoes or that incessant metallic creaking noise, but you really and truly could not give less of a tapdancing fuck. The kid’s started squirming now that you’ve firmly maneuvered your hand around his clothed cock, he’s trying to roll his hips up to get more friction out of your grip and shit man, you’ve barely even touched him yet and he’s practically losing his mind, is there a polite way of asking someone if they’re a virgin?
“Christ, John, are you a fucking virgin?”
He winces and his face turns cherry red again, Jesus, you’re starting to feel a bit worried for him, can excessive vasodilation cause someone permanent blood vessel damage? You don’t know, and neither would Dr. Dre, because he’s never attended medical school. John seems like he wants to sputter out a negation but that look on his face is all you needed as an answer, so instead of being the insufferable toolbag you literally always are, you decide to rouse your disused, shriveled up pity glands from their apathy-induced coma. In a shocking turnabout that would baffle anyone who has ever known you, you let it slide.
Your grip tightens as you give his dick a good solid stroke, and whatever lie he was probably frying his brain trying to formulate gets caught in his throat, reshaping itself nicely into a moan. Shaky hands grapple upwards to tangle in your hair, his inexperienced grip rough and tight and he starts yanking a little without thinking and ohfuckdamn play it cool, you will not moan, not when he doesn’t even realize what that kind of shit does to you. You’re not gonna reward him this early for a little arbitrary beginner’s luck, no matter how much it feels like a delicious punch to the cock when he tugs like that.
It’s becoming a little hard to get him off properly with the stubborn denim of his jeans playing defense, so you lean back and jerk at them until he catches on and raises his hips, eager to assist you. His jeans slide off and his boxers tag along, and then his dick is springing out into the open and you lick your lips, slow and overemphasized, making the movement into an exhibition like it's a joke. But it's not.
You wrap cautious fingers around him because you’re pretty sure this won’t last long; you’re gonna do your very best to have fun in the time limit his inexperienced dick allots you. Your fingers slide teasingly up and down along the underside, feather-light and annoyingly insufficient to see if you can’t coax some sweet noises out of him before the subway spell breaks.
He grunts and rocks down towards you insistently (pushy much, wow, what a disgraceful lapse in handjob-ee etiquette), not even trying to pass off his frustration as anything but. This kid could not play to his vest if he was gambling his own grandmother, and that grandmother was the proprietary of a trillion dollar company to which he was the sole heir. He’s not just bleeding his hand to you, he’s actively shoving his cards in your face and encouraging you to pluck out aces to use against him in turn.
You lean back in for a deeper kiss because you don’t trust him not to say something characteristically lame and goober-y that will ruin the sexy atmosphere that you’re so very lovingly nurturing. You take charge of the pace because he’s probably only ever kissed his mom, letting your tongue slip out to run along the seam of his lips.
He parts them accommodatingly, and when you press in further you’re pleasantly surprised that it actually doesn’t feel like you’re kissing a suffocating mackerel, so alright, you’ll amend that last premature judgement. Maybe he has, in fact, made out with someone else before. It’s either that, or you were right, but he and his mother practice slightly less conventional demonstrations of familial affection than you’re accustomed to.
He sucks on your tongue a bit, pushing against you rhythmically, and alright, damn, that’s pretty good, maybe you’re starting to get a little into this. His teeth scrape along your lip and your traitorous throat makes a soft encouraging noise of its own damn volition, which sets him off snickering as he pulls you even closer and surges aggressively back against your lips.
And that causes a problem because it’s given him momentum to work with, new control that he redirects into trapping your bottom lip between his teeth a little more roughly than you were ready for. You huff a breath against his mouth as his tongue flicks along the captive skin, and you try to pull away to reinstate the safety of the pattern but apparently that’s not penciled in on his smooching agenda because his teeth bite down harder to keep you there and— fuck, ah— you just whimpered, there’s no mistaking it, and embarrassment makes your ears heat up.
He hums interestedly, like he’s just stumbled upon a potentially rare rock to add to his collection because he absolutely seems like the type of loser who would have a rock collection, but before you can cuss him out for the condescension, he pulls you in by the grip on your hair and yanks your head roughly to the side. You can’t help the startled whine this time as the sharp feeling jolts down your spine and somehow your cock gets even harder in your pants and fuck, he catches on fast. You hate that about him.
His tongue drags up along your throat, slow and scalding, and you bite your lip against forfeiting an additional whimper, but only just barely. You fight back with the gentle scrape of a fingernail to the sensitive spot just under the head of his cock, rubbing at it with your fingertips in the insistent way you know will drive any guy insane and oh, maybe you should’ve thought that one through because then he bites, he just clamps the fuck down and nngh— oh shit, that’s definitely your voice whining his name and you are so fucked, this oblivious dork of a virgin is playing you like a piano. He’s got you all figured out and he’s exploiting your stupid sub side like a goddamn pro and you’d really like to go back and kick your own ass right now for underestimating him.
You hastily up the ante on your end, really buckling down to the task at hand— in your hand— so he’ll hopefully have less mental capacity for gathering heuristic data on how to totally fuck your shit up.
You readjust and add a little wrist-twist and grip him tighter and it starts to work, the handjob deities smile down upon your wretched gay soul and it finally looks like you’re getting to him. You can tell because he inhales sharply on the next downstroke, tensing up against the seat, spreading his legs further apart in what you’ve chosen to interpret as a visceral display of surrender. His enthusiastic hips are rocking themselves up into your fist, and his grip trembles where he’s seriously starting to stretch out your shirt. You’ll be sure to send him the bill for the collateral when this is over, your threads don’t come cheap.
“Ahhn, fuck. Oh fuck, oh god.”
And that ‘over’ should be, yeah, about any second now. You hit a little speed-bump there but now you’re right back in the fast lane, you’re gonna make him—
“I’m close, stop, stop,” He gasps out, his shaking hands fumbling to push yours off. His eyes are squeezed shut and he’s panting, completely out of sorts. It’s really hot. “Fuck, stop or I’m— I’m gonna come in my fucking pants—“
What?
Oh no, you’re not going to stop for that, what does he think this is?
He wrenches his eyes open when you swat his meddlesome hands away, and you flash him your best shit-eating grin. Your hand speeds up on his dick because you’re an antagonistic asshole who doesn’t like being told what to do.
He balks and chokes on a startled moan, starts squirming.
“No! S-shit— fuck you, that’s so gross!” And the squirming intensifies, he’s urgently trying to jerk away but you’ve got one firm grip on his throbbing cock and the other on his shoulder pinning him down as you stroke him off insistently. What, are these boxers expensive or something? Designer junk-cradlers he doesn’t wanna get a little jizz on? Really though, where did he even think this was going, he’s not too great at thinking ahead, is he?
His struggles weaken as the building pleasure seems to overrule his distaste for soggy underoos, but it certainly doesn’t make him any less of a little bitch about it.
“God, you massive shithead— a-ah!— You’re such a f-fucking— asshole,” It’s lovely bedroom talk, really. You’ve always been such a sucker for sweet nothings.
He kisses decently and talks a lot of shit, but this is most likely Baby’s First Handjob, and you can navigate your way around a dick with enough finesse to steer him exactly where you want him. You know those protestations are just for show, he’s trying to talk big like it’s not painfully obvious that you’re blowing his maidenly mind to thoroughly pleasured little pieces. He probably doesn’t even realize how easy it would be for you to flip this into an educational exercise in the underappreciated art of making a dude beg.
Your strokes slow. As a matter of fact, maybe that’s something you ought to prove to him. Fair recompense for being such a snarky little shitstain to you earlier, yeah?
You stop pumping him altogether and just let your fingertips trace lightly along the head of his dick, torturous circles careful and measured, keeping away from where he wants you most. What can you say? You’ve had a lot of practice, so you know what you’re doing. Don’t fucking slut shame.
“You want me to stop, huh?” You murmur, and the way you have him pinned like this, you can feel his subtle shudder of a reaction to the teasing note in your voice. That’s certainly a no if you’ve ever felt one.
“Nngh,” He articulates in reply, fidgeting in his seat, and his eyes roll back to the ceiling in a silent prayer for strength. You grin and wait patiently for it to be denied.
After a few more needless moments of defiance, his chest deflates. He won’t meet your eyes, but he shakes his head in resignation, biting his lip hard.
“So then,” you start sweetly, voice syrupy with triumph. “About this whole moaning-my-name impasse we’ve encountered…” You let the implication hang, and he shoots you a glare that is just, so utterly ruined by the needy look in his eyes. “Changed your mind yet, babe?”
“God, don’t call me babe you sleazeball,” he manages to grind out through clenched teeth, but his hips are stuttering, he’s trying rather ineffectively to keep from thrusting up into you, and the protest falls a little flat.
“C’mon, it’s just one little syllable, princess,” You croon in your sleazeballiest voice, prompting him with an angelic smile, and his face sours. He sticks his tongue out at you. Like, genuinely does it, with all the sincerity of a ten year old who still thinks it’s a clever comeback.
You start tapping your fingers impatiently against his cock in a way that is definitely more annoying than satisfying; he’s going to fucking hate you by the end of this or you’re not doing your job right. His cock twitches at the steady sensation, and you bet he’s just aching for you right now, but he’s valiantly (futilely) refusing to go down without a fight on the snark front.
“Please can I come, Dan.” He deadpans.
You look at him flatly. And then you give his cock a long, slow-burning squeeze that has him doubling inward with a breathless groan as he dances the line between oh shit good yes don’t stop, and okay dude WAIT pleasedon’tcrushmyjunk.
“Do you not realize the position you’re in, babe?” You patronize with a laugh, and he writhes in the palm of your hand, groaning despite himself as you let your fingers slip down past his cock to toy at his balls. Your own hard-on is seriously starting to chafe against the seam of your jeans, but it’s not like you plan on taking it out or anything, what the fuck? You’re not gonna get your rocks off on a public subway, that’s just fucking gross. You actually have investment in some things called “standards” and “self-control” and you enjoy the preservation of your basic dignity, thanks.
“Come on, come on, just— let me get off, douchedick—” he groans, straying even further from the magic words. Ungrateful.
“Still haven’t said my naaame,” you sing-song in reply, and really, how has he not punched you yet? You would’ve punched you by now, if you were teasing yourself this hard.
Or maybe he’s into it. Wait. That’s cute, oh man, that’s really cute. The only thing you love more than a blushing nerd boy is a kinky blushing nerd boy.
When he doesn’t deign to give a reply, puffing up his cheeks in challenge, you decide you could also settle for some more moaning. You’re a patient man when you need to be; right now his composure has the delicate fragility of a splintering tree twig, and you’re a belt sander. You roll your palm against his balls and apply some gentle persuasive pressure, and the resulting low keen forced from his throat unbidden assures you that he’s got a lot more to lose from waiting than you do.
You drop your other hand from his shoulder to slide along his hip, shoving under the heavy fabric of his hoodie to brush against the skin underneath. You tease the soft skin with your nails to watch him squirm at the sensitivity, exhaling in a huff, then you slide up further and pull the hoodie along for the ride.
His skin is cream like it’s never seen the sun, which is unsurprising and fits with his pre-established nerd motif. You flick one of his nipples and he jerks, and when you rub against it with one of your fingertips he starts shifting around, panting a little, getting restless. You like how it works him up, so you pinch him, hard.
“Ah!” He cries out, and it’s bitten off into intermittent cussing and some pretty pathetic whining noises as you roll the nub between your fingers. He squirms but his hands stay where they are at his sides, clenching and unclenching fitfully but making no errant attempts to impede your fun— it looks he’s finally starting to get it. His lips are parted and his head tilts sideways to watch as his chest heaves under your working fingers, and your blood thrums at the way his eyes stay trained dazedly on you, half lidded and out-of-focus.
You finally give his poor nipples some reprieve and drag your nails down his stomach, watching the muscles flutter in their wake. Your hand comes to join the other down below to tease his balls as you gently stroke him off.
He makes a pleading noise— when you glance up haughtily to meet his eyes you find him already staring at you, all prior defiance stomped out and replaced with a burning arousal that’s clearly eating him alive.
He opens his mouth to speak, but cuts himself off and bites his red lips, probably in response to the gloating, anticipatory look in your eyes. Your smile is all arrogance as you lick your lips and spread your hands to give his cock a slow, heavy pump. It breaks him.
“G-god,” his voice cracks, “Please, please—“ it’s a breathless rush, and you grin like the devil.
“Alright,” you say lightly, as if it's that easy. You wrap the fingers of one hand in a tight ring around the base of his cock, because you want him to have to work for it.
You give him a nod of permission to let him fuck your fist in earnest. His hips jerk immediately up into you and his face contorts to desperation, eyebrows drawn together, and he starts making these little whining noises in the back of his throat with every breath as you drag him higher, but offer no mercy. He knows what you're waiting for. You focus your attention on the head, sliding your thumb up and down over the sensitivity of the tip as his hips buck.
“Fuck, fuck,” He moans at warring pleasure and denial, completely unhinged. “Oh my god, just please, Dave,— Dave— please,” he finally gasps it out, gives it up, his face pleading and sincere. You want to keep it as your permanent ringtone.
“Aww, there it is!” You coo at him, and it was absolutely worth the hassle, consider your face saved. “What a good little nerd, you wanna come now?”
“God, fuck you—" A harsh squeeze. "Ah! Okay, please yes, I need it— c’mon please Dave—!“ The words spill like dominos, so easily now that his walls have crumbled. And so you, in your boundless empathy, oblige him.
His noises are high and desperate when you finally let him go, and you watch his mouth fall open as the pleasure crashes over him and sends him reeling. He jerks up and whines and shudders and comes into your fist, squeezing his eyes shut as his cock pulses in your grip. God, he’s so hot. This is so hot. Your dick hurts.
You brush your fingers gently along his length a few more times as he comes down. “No homo,” you note, just to ensure there won’t be any awkward misconceptions later.
When you’re sure he’s all orgasmed-out you release him and pull away, and before he can get his wits together again you furtively wipe the gross come off your fingers using his hoodie. Shhh. It’s fine. He probably won’t even notice.
John looks so cute and satiated and relaxed all slumped back against the seat, eyes closed as he reigns in his breathing. You lean back and root around in your pocket to pull your phone out.
Knowing full well you’ve left the flash on and the sound high, you snap a picture of him.
His eyes fly open and his face instantly twists, but when he looks like he’s about to breathe fire you cut him off with a gentle, patronizing finger to his lips and a smug eyebrow raise. He’s fuming. It’s awesome.
“Ah-ah, loverboy. I think you’ll find we’re even.” He flushes instantly, beautifully, reminded of how this whole expeditious train ride started. He retains presence of mind though to jerk his head away and make a desperate lunge for your phone. He’s too slow, naturally; by your estimation he’d require roughly 5 more years of strenuous reflex-oriented swordfight training to stand a chance of catching you. You’re being modest, really. You’d say 8 to be conservative. Not to brag though.
You dance away from him effortlessly, chuckling at his attempts because he’s just so cute when he’s trying to play dirty, his groping hands are too clumsy to snag a substantial grip even on your loose street clothes. Plus, he’s still kinda covered in his own come. Goddamn he’s adorable.
He pierces you with a petty glare as you scamper away and all the emotions flavoring his expression mix into a weird yet vaguely attractive cocktail of indignation, embarrassment, and sexual satisfaction. You slide your phone safely into your back pocket and scoop up your backpack, discretely flipping your hard dick up into the waistband of your pants in a half-assed attempt to maybe not look like you just got the short straw in a one-sided quickie on a public subway.
You glance back to the more fortunate participant of the endeavor, watching him mutter curses as he clumsily redoes his pants and digs some crumpled napkins out of his bookbag to clean himself off. You indulge yourself and sweep back over to kiss the scowl off his face. You thought he might push you away but apparently he gets over shit pretty fast, because he’s leaning into you almost immediately and deepening the kiss again and his hands are on your waist pulling you back close, and they’re sliding down slowly past your beltloops along your ass and into your pockets and Oh NO you don’t, fucker!
You slap your palm right over his face and shove him away, laughing again and swiveling your hips out of his grip to protect your phone. This kid just does not know when to give shit up. You tell him so, mocking and playful, and he smirks back with a sly look of his own.
“Almost worked,” He chuckles, wiping his mouth. Then lowly, with a shameless leer at your crotch, he adds, “But I guess you’re going to need that picture tonight, anyway.” His conspiratory grin is sexy and adorable— giant nerd-ass teeth and all.
And he’s not wrong.
The intercom dings and you give John a last quick kiss because you’re a gay sentimental fuck before turning away, but just before you reach the doors, Stoner Bro catches your attention. He hefts his arm over the edge of the divider, offering a grimy clenched hand up to you, and he’s got this doofy, knowing grin plastered on his face and you really wish you had enough shame to give a shit about what he might’ve heard. You huff a shocked laugh, and then what else is there to do but indulge him in a Congrats-on-the-Sex fistbump on your way out?
You make a mental note to wash your hands later, for a few good reasons now, and you toss your Beats in the first trashcan you pass. Get it? It’s symbolism.
And it gets you thinking. ‘Cause you know, gas is really expensive these days and taking the subway is actually way better for the environment. It’s like your civic duty or whatever to protect the rainforest trees and the dying whales and the ozone bubble, right? That nature shit’s like, so rad. Caring about the environment is totally punk.
So… maybe you’ll tell Bro you won’t be needing a ride home anymore.
You know. For a little while, at least.