Owen only turns because he hears his name, which is his first mistake. His second is not dodging the hand that shoots out and wraps around his tie, and his third is letting himself be yanked into the supply closet. Although honestly, Tom tops him by a good four inches so it's less 'letting him' and more 'going along for the ride.'
"Listen, if this is about the game last night--"
Tom still has Owen's tie wrapped around his fist, and he pushes Owen against the wall with the back of his hand.
"Not about Dodger, either."
He's crowding Owen, invading his space in a way that should probably be scaring the crap out of him. There's a flash of white, Tom's teeth gleaming in the dim light that leaks in under the door. He unwinds Owen's tie and slides his hand down Owen's chest, twisting to smooth his palm over Owen's stomach, and Owen does his best not to squeak when Tom's fingers cup his balls.
Another flash-grin and Tom is leaning down to him, breath hot against Owen's ear, the side of his neck.
"You talk in your sleep, O-dog."
That scares him, and his hands fly up to push at Tom's chest but it's no good, Tom's too heavy and he's leaning and chuckling against Owen's face.
"Relax. This won't hurt."
Owen sucks in a breath to tell him no, to tell him to stop, but Tom, he... oh God, he squeezes just so and Owen's cock fits the curve of Tom's palm like maybe this is okay, maybe it can end in some way not involving humiliation and intense pain. Owen's head falls back against the wall, he's panting like there's no air at all and Tom is watching him.
"You like my hands."
Owen's hips jerk forward before he can even think about denying it, and he hears Tom's breath catch low in his throat. Tom bites his lip, his fingers working at the fly of Owen's pants and it's insane for hands that big to be this agile. It's completely insane for them to be doing this at all and Tom certainly seems to know what he's doing but Owen really, really doesn't. Not this, not with a guy, and he curls his fingers around the lapels of Tom's blazer and wonders when Tom will figure that out.
Owen wonders if he'll get to come, first.
Tom closes his hand around Owen's cock and leans in even more, his forehead against the wall next to Owen's temple, the whole length and breadth of his body covering Owen's. He pulls and oh God, practice makes perfect and no one's had more practice jerking off than Tom, he's infamous for it. The moan still surprises Owen when it comes, like Tom tugged it up from his belly and Owen can't decide what would be worse, getting them caught here like this or making a noise Tom will tease him for later. He presses his face into the cloth of Tom's blazer, Tom's breath rushes out of him in a murmured, "Fuck, yeah," and his cock, the hard length of his cock, is pushing against the bone of Owen's hip.
Owen can't see, he can't hear anything past Tom in his ear, and all that leaves him with is feel. Tom twists his hand on the upstroke and Owen closes his teeth and tastes polyester. Tom's breathing harder, in time with the slide of his fist over Owen's dick and he braces his free arm on the wall above their heads. Owen wants, God he wants to come and he's getting there but more than that, he wants to not just stand here and take this.
He wants to not just take, and to hell with what comes next and if Tom wants to kick him out of the room after, well fuck, he started this.
Tom's body is a long curve over him, thighs pinning Owen in place and his belly pulled back and his head dipped low. Owen bumps against Tom's hand when he reaches for Tom's fly but he doesn't stop, not even when Tom's fist tightens around his dick. Tom's cock is thicker than his, hot and he has to have been hard this whole time. Owen's never, he just strokes Tom the way he does himself and by the hitching whine at his ear that's good enough.
Tom rubs his thumb over the head of Owen's cock, catching the wetness and smearing it down and Owen's head thumps the wall hard.
"Hang on... hang on." Tom lets go and Owen stops moving, thinks he must've done something, but Tom just shoves the edges of Owen's blazer back, further out of the way and then oh, fuck, why didn't he think of this? Tom has both their dicks wrapped up in his fist, long fingers tangling around Owen's hand and he's, they're stroking together and it's fucking incredible. Tom's moaning in his ear, trying hard to bite it back but Owen hears him anyway, and with every pull he seems to curl in further, pushing so close his face is almost rubbing against Owen's cheek.
Owen's thrusting up into their hands as much as he can, his cock sliding against Tom's and he shifts his grip beneath Tom's fingers and yes, fuck, right there. Owen shuts his eyes, watches the sparks behind his lids and listens to Tom in his ear and feels, feels Tom drag his lips up the side of Owen's face and God, oh God, Tom's kissing him. It's sloppy and awkward, like maybe Tom didn't plan this part at all but when Owen opens his mouth Tom's there, teeth and tongue and the choked-off moan when he comes, when Tom comes all over their joined fist.
Tom keeps kissing him, squeezing harder and the slip of their cocks together with Tom's softening and his own still hard, it's filthy and brilliant like every dream that ever made him strip his sheets in the morning. Their hands are slick with come, it's on Owen's shirt and he thinks that's why Tom moved his blazer but fuck, he's still a mess and he can't even care because Tom has pulled Owen's tongue into his mouth and started to suck. Owen whimpers, he can't help it and if Tom says a thing about it he'll point out who lasted longer, thank you, but then he can't, he's losing it, lost it and if Tom's weight weren't still pressing him into the wall, he'd slide right down to the ground.
The bell shrills in the hallway outside and Tom finally pulls away from Owen's mouth with a wet smack. He just stands there looking down at Owen while Owen tries to catch his breath, and he can't read Tom's face at all in this light.
Owen swallows. "I'm late."
"I-- yeah." Tom nods once, and they take their hands off almost simultaneously. Tom's eyes slide away and he reaches across to the shelves, has to lean to do it and Owen realizes his other hand is still wound into the lapel of Tom's blazer, so tightly his fingers ache when he lets go.
Tom straightens and he's got a fistful of paper towels, which works but it's not exactly comfortable and when Owen hisses he responds with a murmured, "Sorry, sorry." Owen's shirt is a near-total loss no matter what they do.
"I can't go to class like this."
"No, here." Tom pokes the tails of Owen's shirt down the front of his pants, pulls the edges of his blazer forward and buttons it. "That'll get you back to the room, 'n you can change."
"I'm already late--"
Tom cuts him off with a chuckle, shrugs his shoulder. "You're new, just say you got lost."
Lost... in a supply closet. With his roommate. Owen looks him over, and Tom is marginally less wrecked than he is but not by much. "What about you?"
"'m dressing out. Besides," Tom buckles his belt, buttons his own blazer and is maybe grinning at Owen, just a little. "Hell, they practically expect it."
And Owen knows what Tom means, what he probably means, but still there's a hot curl of something in Owen's belly that he'd rather not look too closely at just now.
Their clothes are as straight as they're going to get, and Tom opens the door a crack and steps back.
The hallway should be clear by now. There's late and then there's late and Owen's moving for the door when Tom stops him, takes his arm just above the elbow with a soft, "Wait."
Owen doesn't hear anything from the hall but he stops just the same, and Tom is bending down to his face, looking at Owen with that puzzled line between his eyebrows.
"What, is there something...?" He didn't think either of them shot that hard, but Tom shakes his head a little.
"No, just." And Tom kisses him again, a quick, deliberate sweep of lips and tongue and when he straightens the frown line has vanished like it was never there.
Owen knows he's staring but he seem to can't help it, and Tom steps back again and opens the door wider.
"You'd better go."
"Uhm, yeah. I'll--" And now he's stammering, which is no good at all.
Tom's lips twitch, and he nods his head toward the hallway. "Take the back stairs, it's quicker."
"Right." Owen nods and straightens his blazer as if it will help. "Right. Back stairs."
Owen steps out into the hallway -- which is, thankfully, completely deserted -- and is five steps down when he hears his name again, like the first time, like what got him into this mess to begin with. When he looks back Tom is framed between the closet door and the lintel, still partly in shadow. He licks his bottom lip and smiles.
"See you at lunch."
"Yeah." Owen smiles back at him. "I'll see you there."