Archive of Our Own

The doors closed a few seconds after the blow of a whistle. The tiny space Harry occupied became even more restricted. He now not only had the elbow of the man in front of him digging into his ribs, he was practically inhaling the hair of the woman standing ahead of him. Harry shifted uncomfortably, holding his backpack in front of him as a makeshift barrier. His other hand was curled around the bar above his head, cursing every jolt of the carriage.

He'd like to pull out a book, maybe some homework. Damn, even the mobile his aunt and uncle had reluctantly bought him—one that only had a snake game for entertainment—but that would risk dropping something. So instead he watched the view through the gaps between people. Light, dark, cities, countryside, over and over.

Forty-five minutes. Times that by two. Every weekday.

The doors beeped again, and he realised he had begun to drift off. The ground shuddered slightly as the train began to move, launching the passengers into a gentle sway. No one seemed to notice. Heads hung over electronics and ears were covered with headphones, avidly discouraging any human interaction.

Harry watched a young mother struggle with a baby and a buggy. He'd like to help, but he couldn't move. No one else seemed willing to give up their precious space.

He didn't really notice the person moving behind him, no more than he noticed the occasional accidental touch in unfortunate places after years of using public transport.

So, although the brush against his arse snapped him out of his distraction, it wasn't alarming by itself. He simply shifted a little farther forward, assuming it was someone adjusting in the cramped space. The touch went away, and he turned his attention back to the window.

Then. It was there again.

A press against his one arse cheek, more solid than before, and Harry startles. He's about to move again when he freezes at the realisation that it's a hand. Someone's hand. Someone is touching him with their hand, on purpose.

He knows he should be alarmed, that he should move, even if it means bumping into the woman in front of him.

He had read about it before, seen it on the news, but outside of an obligatory, distant feeling of revulsion and pity, he had never really thought about the reality of it. He had never thought about it happening to him.

He isn't the type that attracts attention. He's skinny and small. His glasses are like beer bottles, and his hair never seems to decide what it's doing. All of his clothes are old or hand-me-downs from Dudley that are far too big.

People don't look twice at him. They don't go out of their way to say hello, get close, and all that. He's never even had anyone hit on him.

So he really hates the part of himself that wants to turn around and ask this person if they have the right person. Do they realise who they're groping?

The hand moved, feeling up both cheeks now slowly. And, Harry realises the person behind him has no intention in stopping.

He feels the soft press of a finger press against arse check, as much as material of his jeans will allow. Harry bites a gasp back, as the finger slides up and down in a lazy manner.

His hand on the bar is sweating. The hand slips even lower and cups the lower arch of his arse, middle and ring finger delving between his thighs and Harry jostles as they press to that patch of skin behind his balls, almost digging.

The train lurched around a bend, pressing Harry harder against the stranger’s exploring hand. His breath hitched—half from the sudden motion, half from the way those fingers lingered, pressing insistently against the seam of his trousers. He should move. He should shove backward, elbow the creep in the ribs, anything.

But his muscles locked, frozen between shame and something darker, something warm that coiled low in his stomach. No one had ever touched him like this. No one had ever wanted to.

The fingers withdrew slightly, just enough to make Harry think it was over, before returning with firmer purpose. This time, they traced upward, over the curve of his arse, then dipped inward—slow, deliberate—brushing the cleft through the fabric. Harry’s grip on the overhead bar turned white-knuckled. His throat clicked as he swallowed. No one around him reacted. The mother swayed with her baby, a teenager scrolled through their phone, an old man dozed against the window. It was like he wasn’t even there.

Then the touch changed. A thumb hooked into the waistband of his trousers, tentative, testing. Harry’s pulse hammered in his ears. This wasn’t just a grope anymore. This was—this was— His brain stuttered, unable to finish the thought. The thumb retreated, replaced by the flat of a palm sliding down the back of his thigh, squeezing lightly before retreating entirely. The loss of contact was somehow worse. Harry’s skin prickled with phantom heat.

The train slowed for the next station.

Harry didn't remember sprinting down the platform—only the sting of cold air in his lungs and the slap of his shoes against concrete as he bolted past the turnstiles.

He didn't look back.

Not once.

His pulse pounded in his temples like a second heartbeat, drowning out the station announcements, the chatter of commuters, the hum of departing trains. By the time he reached the bus stop three blocks away, his fingers were shaking too hard to fish out his Oyster card. The driver gave him a look but said nothing as Harry stumbled aboard.

Aunt Petunia's voice cut through the fog in his head the moment he fumbled the front door open. "You're late," she said, not looking up from the sink where she scrubbed a saucepan with militant precision. "Dinner was at six. It's seven-thirty." Harry opened his mouth—to say what, he didn't know—but she waved a soapy hand. "Your plate's in the microwave. Don't expect me to reheat it."

He mumbled something, anything, and fled upstairs. His room was exactly as he'd left it that morning: narrow bed shoved against the wall, Dudley's old computer desk buried under textbooks, the faint smell of must clinging to the curtains. Harry dropped his backpack and pressed his forehead against the door, breathing hard. The wood was cool against his skin. Solid. Real.

His hands still trembled. He stared at them like they belonged to someone else. The stranger's touch lingered—not just on his skin, but deeper, like a stain he couldn't scrub out.

Harry took the bus for three days straight—circuitous routes that added forty minutes to his commute, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with pensioners and schoolkids who smelled like sour milk and pencil shavings. By Thursday, he began to wonder if he’d hallucinated the whole thing.

Maybe it had been a bag strap. Maybe he’d dreamed the thumb skimming his waistband. The alternative—that someone had chosen him, of all people—was laughable.

On Friday, he risked the train again, wedging himself into a forward-facing seat near the emergency exit. No one could sneak up behind him here. The carriage smelled of stale coffee and wet wool, ordinary and safe. He kept his knees locked tight, his backpack crushed against his chest like armor. Three stops passed. Nothing. Harry exhaled through his nose and let his shoulders drop half an inch.

Then the train braked hard. A man stumbled into the aisle, bracing one hand on the seat beside Harry’s head. The overhead light caught the silver buckle of his watch as his sleeve rode up—just enough for Harry to notice the dark hair dusting his forearm, the tendons flexing as he adjusted his grip.

The watch glinted again as the man’s fingers curled over the seat’s headrest, his other hand—broad, knuckles rough—brushing Harry’s thigh as if by accident. Harry held his breath. The train swayed, and the man swayed with it, his fingers drifting higher, skating along the inseam of Harry’s trousers. No one glanced their way. A woman across the aisle yawned into her paperback. A teenager tapped at his phone. The man’s fingertips pressed in, slow and deliberate, tracing the outline of Harry’s cock through the fabric. Harry’s stomach clenched. He should shove the hand away. He should stand up. He didn’t move.

Then the fingers dipped under his waistband.

Harry’s pulse stuttered. The man’s hand was warm, his palm dry as it slid past the elastic of Harry’s boxers, fingers wrapping around him with practiced ease. A thumb swiped over the head, smearing precome down the shaft, and Harry’s hips jerked forward before he could stop himself. Heat flooded his face. He bit down on his lip hard enough to taste copper, his fingers digging into the backpack in his lap. The man stroked him slowly, each pull tightening the coil in Harry’s gut. It was wrong. It was so wrong. His stomach twisted, but his cock throbbed, the pleasure sharp and humiliating.

The train jerked around a curve, and the man leaned in closer—close enough for Harry to catch the faint scent of sandalwood and something metallic beneath it—as his fingers worked Harry with terrifying efficiency. Every stroke sent sparks up his spine, every twist of the wrist made his thighs tense. The man’s breath ghosted over the shell of Harry’s ear, warm and deliberate, but he never spoke. Harry’s cock twitched in that stranger’s grip, leaking shamelessly, and the sheer wrongness of it—of how good it felt—made his stomach churn. He should wrench away. He should scream. Instead, he dug his nails into his thighs and bit back a whimper.

The man’s thumb circled the head of Harry’s cock, smearing the wetness there, and Harry’s hips bucked forward involuntarily. A soft, choked noise escaped him before he could stop it. The woman across the aisle flipped a page in her book. The teenager scrolled past a meme. No one noticed. No one cared. The man’s fingers tightened slightly, his pace quickening, and Harry’s vision blurred at the edges. He was going to come. In public. In his trousers. With a stranger’s hand down his pants. The thought should have horrified him. It did horrify him. But the heat pooling low in his gut was undeniable, tightening like a spring coiled too far.

Then the train slowed for the next station, and the man withdrew his hand as smoothly as he’d slipped it in. Harry’s cock pulsed against the damp fabric of his boxers, aching and ignored.

The loss of contact was a physical pain. The man straightened, adjusting his cuff with that same silver watch glinting under the fluorescents, and stepped into the aisle without a backward glance. Harry watched him go—the broad set of his shoulders, the confident stride—until the crowd swallowed him whole. The doors hissed open. The platform buzzed with oblivious commuters. Harry sat frozen, his breath coming too fast, his body thrumming with unreleased tension.

Harry scrubbed at his skin until it stung pink, but the phantom press of fingers lingered—along his thighs, between his legs, circling the base of his cock in slow, taunting strokes. So did something else.

He dressed mechanically, pulling on Dudley’s old pyjama bottoms—threadbare at the knees, stretched at the waist—and a t-shirt thin from too many washes. The mirror fogged over, obscuring his reflection. A small mercy. He didn’t want to see whatever expression twisted his face.

Bedsprings creaked as he collapsed onto the mattress. His fingers twitched at his sides. The house settled around him—Petunia’s muffled TV laughter, Vernon’s snoring, the distant hum of the fridge. Safe sounds. Normal sounds. They should have anchored him. Instead, his skin prickled with restless energy. His cock stirred, half-hard against his thigh, betraying him.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. The man’s grip had been firm, unhesitating. Like he knew exactly how Harry would react. Like he’d done it before. The thought should have killed any arousal. It didn’t. Harry’s hand slid under the waistband of his pyjamas before he could stop himself. His own touch felt clumsy in comparison—too tentative, too unsure. He bit his lip, imagining those broad hands palming him again, the rough scrape of calluses against his shaft.

The pillow muffled his shaky exhale. His fingers curled tighter, twisting just the way the stranger had—firm at the base, thumb circling the head—and his hips jerked off the mattress. Heat pooled low in his belly, sharp and insistent. He thought of the way the man’s sleeve had ridden up, revealing the dark hair dusting his forearm, the tendons flexing as he worked. The memory alone made his cock twitch in his grip.

Harry rutted into his fist, chasing that phantom pressure. His other hand fisted in the sheets. The bedframe rattled and he came.

It was always the same. 

Three weeks later, when he found himself hovering near the emergency exit again, pulse rabbiting in his throat as the train rattled through the outskirts of London. The carriage was half-empty this late, shadows stretching long across the vinyl seats. He didn’t see the man board. Didn’t notice him until the weight of a palm settled heavy on his thigh, fingers spreading possessively over the inseam of his trousers.

The touch was familiar now. Harry’s breath hitched anyway. The man didn’t speak—never did—just crowded him against the window, his other hand sliding up Harry’s ribs beneath his shirt. Calluses scraped over a nipple, and Harry bit down on a gasp. No one glanced their way. The elderly woman across the aisle dozed, her knitting slack in her lap. The man’s thumb hooked into Harry’s waistband, tugging just enough to make his stomach flutter.

Then the train plunged into a tunnel, and the darkness swallowed them whole.

Harry hadn’t realised how much he’d come to rely on the illusion of visibility—the way daylight made it all feel distant, almost unreal. Now, with the blackness pressing in, every sensation magnified: the hot puff of the man’s breath against his ear, the slick sound of his zipper sliding down, the way his own cock jumped when those broad fingers wrapped around him. The man stroked him slowly, thumb smearing precome over the head in lazy circles, and Harry’s hips jerked forward of their own accord. He should stop this. He should—

The man’s free hand cupped the back of Harry’s neck, guiding him down. Harry went, knees hitting the sticky floor of the carriage before he’d fully processed the motion. The wool of the man’s trousers scratched his cheek, the scent of starch and something muskier flooding his senses. His fingers trembled as he fumbled with the belt buckle, the metal cold against his knuckles. The man didn’t help. Didn’t stop him either.

Harry’s throat went dry when he finally got the fly open. The man’s cock was thick, the head flushed dark in the intermittent flashes of tunnel lights. He’d never—no one had ever— Harry swallowed hard. His own erection ached in his trousers, neglected and leaking. The man’s fingers carded through his hair, not tugging, just… waiting. Harry exhaled shakily and leaned in.

The first press of his lips to the man’s cock sent a jolt through him. Salt-bitter skin, the pulse of heat beneath his tongue—it was nothing like he’d imagined. The man’s thigh tensed against Harry’s shoulder, but his hand stayed gentle, fingertips tracing the shell of Harry’s ear. Harry licked a tentative stripe up the shaft, and the man’s breath caught. The sound went straight to Harry’s gut, coiling tight and low. He opened his mouth wider, taking the head in, and the man’s fingers finally tightened in his hair—not forcing, just guiding. Harry’s eyes fluttered shut.

The train emerged from the tunnel, and fluorescent light washed over them. Harry froze, but the man didn’t pull away. Didn’t seem to care that anyone could turn and see Harry on his knees, lips stretched around his cock. The thought should have horrified him. Instead, heat licked up his spine. The man’s thumb brushed his cheekbone, smearing spit, and Harry moaned around him.

Then the train lurched, and the man’s cock hit the back of Harry’s throat. He gagged, eyes watering, but the man didn’t let him pull off—just held him there, fingers gentle even as his hips stuttered forward. Harry’s nose pressed into coarse hair, the scent of musk and starch overwhelming. His own cock twitched in his pants, desperate for friction. The man pulled him off just enough to let him breathe, then pushed back in, slow and relentless. Harry’s hands scrabbled at the man’s thighs, unsure whether to push or pull.

A week later, Harry waited at the same spot—back of the carriage, emergency exit light flickering overhead. His pulse hammered when the man slid into the seat beside him, their thighs pressing together through layers of fabric. No preamble this time. The man’s hand was already under Harry’s shirt, calloused fingers skating over his ribs. Harry bit his lip hard enough to taste copper. The man leaned in, his breath hot against Harry’s ear, and for the first time, he spoke: “Turn around.”

Harry’s stomach swooped. He obeyed before he’d fully processed the words, twisting in the seat to face the window. The man’s chest pressed against his back, solid and unyielding. Hands slid around his waist, unbuckling his belt with practiced efficiency. Harry’s breath hitched when the man shoved his trousers down just enough to expose his arse, the cold air raising goosebumps. Then—warmth. The man’s cock slid between his thighs, thick and insistent, smearing precome against his skin. Harry’s own erection jutted out, rubbing against the man’s abdomen with each thrust. The friction was maddening—not enough, too much—and Harry’s fingers clawed at the window ledge.

The man’s grip tightened on Harry’s hips, pulling him back onto each stroke. His breath came ragged against Harry’s neck, teeth grazing the tendon there. Harry’s vision whited out when the man’s thumb swiped over the head of his cock, smearing wetness down the shaft. He came untouched, shuddering, the man’s name a silent scream on his lips. The man followed moments later, hot stripes painting the backs of Harry’s thighs.

After, the man wiped them both clean with a handkerchief—monogrammed, Harry noted absently—before tucking himself away. He pressed a kiss to Harry’s nape, fleeting as a shadow, and disappeared into the crowd at the next stop. Harry sat frozen, his trousers still bunched at his knees, until the conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom.

Harry had known it would come to this. Somewhere between the first tentative brush of fingers and the way his body had begun anticipating those touches—leaning into them before he could stop himself—he’d understood. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Not for the man. Not for the fevered twist in Harry’s own gut whenever he replayed those moments in the dark of his room, fingers buried in his own hair, imagining it was someone else’s grip.

The train rattled through a particularly rough stretch of track, the overhead lights flickering. Harry’s pulse stuttered in time with them. The man had herded him into the cramped toilet without a word, his broad palm a brand between Harry’s shoulder blades. The lock clicked. The world narrowed to the stench of industrial cleaner, the shudder of the train beneath their feet, the way his own breath echoed too loud in the tiny space.

Harry braced his hands against the metal wall, head bowed. The man’s body pressed flush against his back—warm, solid, inevitable. Fingers traced the waistband of his trousers before yanking them down to his thighs in one sharp motion. Cold air prickled his skin. Then—heat. The man’s tongue dragged slow and filthy up the cleft of his arse, and Harry’s knees nearly buckled. A noise escaped him, high and desperate, before he could bite it back.

The man didn’t speak. Never did. His hands were everywhere at once—kneading Harry’s hips, spreading him wider, fingers circling his rim with a confidence that made Harry’s stomach flip. He tensed instinctively when the first fingertip pressed in, but the man didn’t pause. Just worked him open with ruthless efficiency, spit-slick fingers crooking in a way that had Harry’s toes curling against the grimy floor. His cock ached, trapped between his stomach and the cold metal wall, leaking onto his shirt.

Then the fingers withdrew. Harry heard the rustle of clothing, the clink of a belt buckle. His breath hitched. He knew what came next. Had imagined it in the dark of his room, fingers buried in his own hair, pretending it was someone else’s grip. Reality was different. The man’s cock nudged against him, thick and unyielding, and Harry’s body locked in a paradox of want and fear.

The first thrust stole his breath. Pain lanced up his spine, white-hot and blinding, but the man didn’t stop. Just buried himself to the hilt in one smooth motion, his hips flush against Harry’s arse. Harry choked on a sob, fingers scrambling for purchase on the wall. The man’s hands settled on his waist, thumbs pressing into the dimples above his hips, holding him in place as he pulled out and slammed back in.

It hurt. It shouldn’t have felt good. But with each rough snap of the man’s hips, the pain blurred into something else—a sharp, electric pleasure that coiled tight in Harry’s gut. His cock jerked, untouched and oversensitive, smearing precome against the wall. The man’s breath came ragged against the nape of his neck, his rhythm relentless. Harry’s vision greyed at the edges. He was distantly aware of the train swaying, the clatter of wheels on tracks, the way his own reflection in the scratched metal door looked—wild-eyed, flushed, ruined.

The thought struck him like a slap: He could be doing this to someone else right now. The jealousy was irrational, vicious. It clawed up Harry’s throat, bitter as bile. He didn’t even know this man’s name. Had never seen his face. But the idea of those hands on another boy, of that cock buried in someone else—Harry’s nails dug into the wall. A sound escaped him, half-protest, half-plea.

“Good boy,” the man murmured against the sweat-damp skin of Harry's nape, lips brushing the delicate vertebrae beneath. The words punched through Harry like a live wire—shocking, electric, devastating in their tenderness. He'd expected cruelty. Mockery. Not this—this soft, possessive praise that coiled around his ribs and squeezed. The man's thrusts slowed, turning deliberate, each snap of his hips punctuated by another murmured "Good boy," until the phrase blurred into one endless litany. Harry's breath hitched. His fingers scraped uselessly against the metal wall, his reflection warped and trembling in its scratched surface.

The man's hand slid around Harry's waist, calloused palm skimming his stomach before wrapping around his cock. The touch was rough, efficient, perfectly timed to the rhythm of his thrusts. Harry's vision whited out. Pleasure licked up his spine, molten and unbearable, and he came with a choked sob, his release streaking the wall in erratic spurts. The man didn't stop. Just kept fucking him through it, his grip tightening on Harry's hip as his own rhythm faltered. Harry felt the moment he tipped over—the sharp inhale against his neck, the way his cock twitched deep inside him, the hot spill of come that should have repulsed him but instead sent a vicious thrill through his gut

For a long moment, neither moved. The train swayed around them, the fluorescent light flickering like a dying pulse. Then the man withdrew, his belt buckle clinking as he tucked himself away. Harry stayed pressed against the wall, his breath fogging the scratched metal inches from his face. His reflection stared back—lips swollen, glasses askew, cheeks flushed pink beneath his freckles. He looked ruined. He felt ruined.

The man’s fingers brushed the small of his back—once, fleeting—before the door unlocked with a hollow click. Cold air rushed in as it swung open. Harry didn’t turn. Didn’t watch him leave. The footsteps receded, swallowed by the hum of the train. Only then did Harry sag, his forehead thumping against the wall. His knees trembled. His arse ached. His cock twitched, still oversensitive.

He waited until his breathing evened out before straightening, wincing as fabric rasped over raw skin. His trousers slid up with a whisper of denim, the waistband catching on his hips. The zipper felt alien under his fingers, like dressing someone else’s body. The mirror above the sink showed the hollows under his eyes, the sweat-damp curls stuck to his forehead. He looked—normal. Only the tremor in his hands betrayed him. He splashed water on his face, let it drip off his chin.

He picked me. The realisation burned brighter than shame.

All those months of being nobody’s son, nobody’s friend—then this stranger, with his silver watch and calloused fingers, had reached through the crowd and chosen him.

Not Dudley with his rugby thighs.

Not the sharp-jawed boys from his economics class.

Harry.

Broken-glasses, too-skinny Harry.