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Angel frowns.
Public transportation is inconvenient for a number of reasons.
The general anxiety of standing in such close proximity to so many people, for one.
The clothing required to stand in such close proximity to so many people, for another.
Gloves. Jacket to cover his bound wings. There’s nothing they can do to hide the halo, but most people are too wrapped up in their newspapers and discomfort to notice.
It would be stuffy and uncomfortable on a normal day, but even moreso now when trapped on a train full of jostling, sweaty, frustrated civilians.
“We’re getting off at the next stop.” Aki whispers quietly, “This is too risky.”
They hadn’t anticipated this crowd. It’s adding complication to already complicated things.
A terrible time to be called to a devil attack on the other side of the city. No car and driver available to transport them on such short notice, too far to run (and honestly, who would want to?), it took so little to put Angel in this absolute nightmare scenario.
“The sooner the better.” Angel’s nonchalant voice holds a pleading edge, though his expression remains stoic as ever.
It’s then, timed with the sway of the train car, that he feels the distinct, absolutely undeniable sensation of a large hand firmly gripping his ass.
Angel freezes, blue eyes suddenly wide.
Under the jacket, over his pants.
No skin contact, at least.
Maybe it’s an accident. The train is crowded, he’s a small guy being sandwiched between an assortment of strangers, there’s only so many places a hand can go.
But then that hand squeezes.
Hard.
Angel inhales sharply and holds his breath.
It’s just an accident. There’s no way…
A second hand joins the first, this one settling on his hip, also squeezing softly. Caressing even.
Really? At a time like this?
The devil’s temperature spikes. Those unwelcome hands probably think he’s a girl.
Gross.
He’s heard about train perverts, seen plenty of signs warning riders of their presence, but never paid it any mind.
Until now at least.
Something firm is pushing against him.
His eyes flick left and right, but he doesn’t catch a glimpse of the culprit amongst the wall of suits and slacks.
A bead of sweat runs down his neck. Suddenly that sportcoat isn’t enough, he wishes he was clad in a suit of armor instead.
Aki quirks an eyebrow and casts him a questioning glance, but it doesn’t linger. It’s too crowded in here, there’s no way he can see what’s going on so far below eye-level.
Angel looks away as heat rises to his cheeks, biting his lip and holds back a whimper as the mystery fingers trace small, affectionate circles on the small of his back.
He can’t bring attention to himself. He doesn’t want to bring attention to himself.
“Something wrong?” Aki’s gaze returns to Angel, who dismissively shakes his head and keeps his eyes averted.
“It’s just crowded. And I hate being eye-level with everyone’s armpits.” His voice wavers just a bit. Those hands are once again moving.
“We’ll get off soon.” Aki offers, looking to the map on the wall.
We’re not the only ones.
Angel’s breath cuts short as he’s abruptly being cupped from behind.
This guy is bold.
He grits his teeth, and it takes every bit of restraint to maintain his composure.
The restraint nearly cracks as a finger traces heavily around his modest package.
A quivering exhale escapes his parted lips.
He swallows down a pathetic sound.
It’s not his fault the piggish fondling is making him hard. He’s touch-starved, and this stranger doesn’t have the sense to be afraid of the contact.
Despite himself, Angel is throbbing.
It’s lucky, he thinks, that he’s so petite. His slacks alone are enough to hide the erection unwillingly pulsing to life.
Skin.
The sensation snaps him out of the involuntary high.
The stranger slid his greedy sausage fingers up the untucked hem of Angel’s shirt.
Two months.
His jaw drops in reflexive protest, but he swallows it down again.
The train jostles slightly, the contact is momentarily broken, but rejoined again when he sways back against his attacker’s fat belly, and the man takes advantage to press his whole sweaty palm against Angel’s bare hip.
Six months.
Angel’s heart pounds in his chest, his eyes go wide, flicking back and forth to see if anyone else is noticing this.
Aki. He pleads silently, staring daggers at the nape of his preoccupied companion’s neck. Get us out of here.
Eight months.
The train is plunged into the darkness of a tunnel, and suddenly there’s a chubby hand sliding up his shirt, squeezing his nipple, an open wet mouth stinking of beer on his neck, and the distinct pressure of a swollen, clothing-clad cock rutting up against his ass.
Two years.
A hand dips down his front, only a moment, dragging over his skin and roughly squeezing his slender cock through his slacks.
The lips are still on his neck, sucking and kissing until he exhales with a soft whine.
Three years.
As the train bursts into the light again the hands are gone, the mouth is gone, and the steady, heated pulse of that cock is gone too.
*whump*
There’s a collective gasp as something large hits the floor behind him.
Angel finally manages to twist around and look just as the crowd surges at the sight of a fat old man on the ground, hand clutched to his heart, twitching tent still pitched wet and shameless in his pants.
Someone screams and another hits the emergency stop button, the train lurches forward until it comes to a screeching halt, and like relief itself, people flood from the doors in a cacophony of panic.
Angel doesn’t even notice Aki’s questioning, lingering stare on him, instead casting his own glare of disgust at the human dead on the ground.
Hope it was worth it.
——