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Ned had only known Tom Jopson through their mutual social circle when they’d first moved in together. That was a decision purely out of convenience: Ned had the space, Tom was looking, and Ned hadn’t been strange enough about his lingering attraction to the man for it to cause any issues. Since then, they'd become… well, Ned considered them friends, but he couldn't pretend to know Tom's mind on the matter.
If Tom’s old, beat-up car hadn't had a major malfunction that landed it in the shop for nearly a week, Edward assumed he never would've asked his demure roommate for a ride so late in the evening. If he hadn't, Ned would never have known that “work” was where Tom spent his long nights out— the ones where he came home at 3 AM smelling like cigarettes with sweat sticking his dark hair to his forehead. If Ned had never known about “work”, he wouldn't be having some sort of emotional fit about it in the car on the way to “work”.
He was trying to convince himself it wasn't a big deal, but Jopson had treated it like a big deal. “I’ll give you the address on the way,” he’d said. “Just drop me off, don't linger. And don't tell anyone what you see.” Ned wasn't sure who he would've told. Tom wasn't a very forthcoming man in the first place and it seemed horrible to pry, as curious about “work” as he was. Ned hadn't even realized that Tom was wanting for money badly enough to have two jobs, much less one so late in the evening that encouraged him to dress in such baggy clothes.
Ned had never seen Tom in anything baggy, save for when he was sick as a dog and couldn't manage the upkeep of the mask of his own face that he wore around others. If not for the two (and only two) times he had needed Edward’s care in those bouts of illness, fetching prescriptions and making lemon ginger tea with extra honey, Ned wouldn't have known about the masks Tom wore. Whatever mask Tom Jopson had for his “work”... Ned wasn't going to disturb it. In the seat next to him, that long and angular face of Tom’s was adorned with eyeliner along his bottom lids and glitter dazzling his cheeks. He was handsome to begin with, but now he was a sight to be seen. Ned had been trying not to stare or think about what sort of “work” encouraged men like Jopson to wear body glitter and eyeliner to beg for attention…
What was the harm in Tom making money off of his body, anyway? He was fit: toned and strong without being intimidating and a swimmer’s build despite his long-standing habit of running. Jopson had never once had a date over to their flat and thus he had no way of judging, but Edward found it hard to believe Tom was anything but talented in bed, what with his attention to detail, his determination, his willingness to learn and devote himself. And if it was more than just stripping, Ned was okay with that, too. Good for Tom, he kept thinking. Good for Tom. Standing up against a pole, hooking his leg around it. Maybe he did lap dances, and there was a bralette lacing along his chest with matching lace that poked out from under his shorts. Would he wear shorts? Maybe male strippers wore jockstraps, and nothing but…
By the time they arrived, the flames of Ned’s growing fantasies were engulfing him and burning brightly. The address Jopson had provided was on a rougher street. As they rolled by with Ned white-knuckling the wheel, his eyes were caught on shirts with less fabric than brassieres and skirts so short that he could see the curve of the ass they hardly covered. He knew his face was beet red. The street lights reflected his anxiety, all of them a dimming red that bubbled in his mind what he had already been thinking: Tom Jopson was a gigolo. Was that the right word? “Prostitute”, probably. “Hooker” was too crass, and Jopson demanded a higher level of respect, regardless. Even if he wore nothing but glitter on his cheekbones and a jockstrap that had his ass looking rounder than anything… Little was going to respect Jopson.
“Park here,” Tom directed in his softest, most polite voice. His zip-up hoodie made sense, then, if he was going to remove it for the sake of an outfit as revealing as what the women on the sidewalks were wearing. Edward realized he was grinding his teeth together, and reminded himself to stop, only to notice he was still tense all over. The thought of Tom Jopson prostituting himself was polluting Ned’s mind to the point he was sure he needed to get home and bury himself in bed.
In bed, alone, while Tom was out having sex with men for money. Men that weren't Edward, and money that wasn't Edward’s. For at least the third time that night, Ned reminded himself that it was most certainly bad form, not to mention horribly rude, to masturbate to the thought of one’s roommate, even if they were a stripper whose dress demanded attention and encouraged cheeky thoughts.
Habitually, he cracked his knuckles against the palms of the opposite hand. “Is there, ah,” Ned swallowed, “A time you'll be… finished… by? For— For me to pick you up again.”
Tom nodded. Then he shook his head, a small smile working its way onto his delicate lips. “Do you know what, Ned? I’m actually not sure,” he mused. “It surprises me sometimes. You may as well stay and watch.”
Edward flexed his thighs in an attempt to give his blood somewhere to go that wasn't… He cleared his throat. “You're sure?” He asked. Watching Jopson… like watching the sunrise, or the Northern lights, or a flock of birds dancing midair… something brilliant and unexplainable. Again, his mind returned to the tantalizing vision of Jopson's fit body in nothing but a jock strap, bending at the hip to lean down and slip a fiver from Ned’s fingers to tuck in the strap that hugged his ass. Ned rolled his shoulders, one of them popping from how stiff he was holding himself.
“I’m sure, Ned,” Jopson gave him another smile. His knees felt weak. Edward had to wait for Tom to climb out of the car to follow, and then he trailed behind the man into the building they'd parked in the alleyway for, entering through a side door.
Immediately, Ned was taken by the pounding music vibrating the floor, seeping into his very bones through his chest. His hand on his stomach could feel the music pulsing through him, and the other hooked onto Jopson’s sleeve for fear of being lost as he pushed through the crowd. It made sense, he supposed, for Jopson to work in such a place. He couldn't see any poles, but scantily clad men and women and otherwise were pressing their bodies together and writhing to the bass-heavy electronic music. Business must be conducted in the back.
In the front, strobe lights and flickering colors entertained wandering eyes. There was a small, overcrowded bar against one wall while the majority of the space was devoted to the dance floor. Despite the building’s size, the floor still seemed packed as he squeezed by person after person. Jopson seemed unaffected as he swam through the sea of people, his voice adding to the full roar as he nodded at people who seemed to recognize him. No one Edward recognized would be in such a mess of sweat, desire, and flashing lights. Except Tom, apparently.
Ned was so distracted by the view of a woman on a platform who seemed not to be wearing any knickers that he bumped into Tom when he stopped, having only been guided by Tom’s sleeve. Ned found them close enough to the empty stage, well in sight of the backstage doors.
“Ned,” Jopson said, “Stop here, please. I have to go to the back.” Where business was conducted… Apparently Ned looked discontent, because Tom offered a smile. “You'll see me,” he assured him, “You won't be able to miss me.”
Edward could not stop staring. He watched Jopson disappear around the edge of the crowd, headed towards the stage doors. An attempt, albeit weak, was made to stamp down his hopes that Tom Jopson would do a particularly exotic floor show with his striking blue eyes caught on Ned the entire time. That seemed egotistical, didn't it? And demanding, and Ned didn't want to demand anything of Tom. He did, however, fantasize that Tom would demand something of him.
Ned hadn't had time to properly integrate with the crowd when the music playing over the massive speakers started to fade. It was swiftly replaced with electric whining, a sound that seemed to curl around the space to build, and build, and build, until the crowd began to cheer and shout.
“Oh, and he's so fuckin’ fit! Just wicked sexy, wait until you watch him dance a little bit,” a woman behind Ned started to shout over the music to whoever she was with, “His set is always brilliant, just brilliant! You'll love it, you will!”
A shocking pang of possessiveness rippled through Ned’s mind at the idea of anyone else seeing Tom Jopson dancing in any state of undress. He pushed his way through the next few rows of people, inching closer and closer to the stage, where he could make out in the darkness someone doing something. Just as the song picked up and the bodies around him started to jump in time, the lights came up.
Illuminated in blues and purples and black light, behind a table of electronics and wires and buttons and switches, was Tom Jopson. A set of headphones around his neck, one hand holding half to his ear while the other slid across his board of equipment, he seemed right at home. The shock of seeing Tom in a sleeveless mesh shirt that glowed pink under black light, his glitter doing the same, bracelets and bands wrapped around his wrists catching the light, made Edward nauseous. Tom was exceedingly handsome. Whatever mask he was wearing, Ned wanted to kiss it.
That desire was horrifying for a good handful of reasons. The primary of which was that Tom Jopson was notably not stripping. He was not prostituting himself. He was not a gigolo, hooker, or sex worker. He was DJing. He was smiling out at the crowd and down at his equipment, a mess which Ned could not pretend to understand, and he looked… happy. Lighter. Maybe it was all part of this version of him, but it somehow made sense that he would come home from this sweaty, tired, and sorrowful for the night to have ended.
He hit a button, a line of lyric played, and he dipped his hips as he danced in place. He hit the button again, the same lyric played, he wagged his hips. Tom was dripping with sexuality, sticky, sweet and seductive. The movement of his body was hypnotic. Thumping music inspired his shoulders to shrug along with it. His lips mouthed every word of every lyric. Every little button he pressed and dial he turned seemed to pleasantly surprise him. Edward had never seen Tom so relaxed.
He was caught in place by the sight, surely for several songs— at least for so long that the crowd pushed him forward several feet, and then off to the side. He couldn't tell if it was three songs or ten; he hardly paid attention to the turning of the songs and the skill Jopson so clearly had with the music, instead drinking in every bob of the man’s head and wag of his hips. As far as Ned could tell, he was indeed wearing a jockstrap under low rise jeans.
Ned felt like vomiting. The guilt of assuming his roommate, a retail manager by day, would be stripping by night was horrible, wasn't it? It was wrong of him to have pictured Jopson undressed, it was stupid of him to think Jopson would invite him to some sort of exhibitionist display of his confidence. It was never implied, was it? It was entirely an invention of Ned’s, his mind latching onto the secretive nature of Jopson and prescribing to him whatever would excite Edward the most.
He ducked through the crowd towards the wall, wishing all the while that he hadn't thought such things about his overly-neat, overly-polite roommate. He should be happy for Tom, shouldn’t he? The mass of bodies he was lost in were enjoying themselves. It was a joy for Jopson, clearly, if his smile was anything to go off of, and again, Ned felt horribly selfish for his possessive, obsessive feelings. It was unbelievably selfish to want Tom’s smile for himself.
He pushed the bathroom door open and slipped inside, and then immediately worried that the bathroom would do little to calm him. It smelled as rank as any club bathroom might, and the fluorescent lights overhead were so bright in comparison to the dimly lit club’s flashes of color that Ned had to squeeze his eyes shut to force them to adjust.
“You know what I think?! I think you're a right proper—”
Worse than the lights bothering his eyes, Ned found himself staring at an argument unfolding between a short, quick-looking man with reddish hair, and a man who was built like a brick shithouse. There was one stall and two urinals in the bathroom, two sinks, three men, and not much room to spare. These two were between Ned and the stall he could hide in, and he was between them and the exit.
But they, so animated in their anger, seemed not to have noticed him.
“Ooohoho, don't think! That's the fuckin’ problem, isn't it?! You fuckin’ think! D’you know what? Billy always says—”
The shorter man made a noise that really and truly sounded like a growl. “Don’t you talk about Billy Gibson, I’ll take your fuckin’ balls and I’ll shove them down your fuckin’ throat.”
The taller of them sneered. “You just thinkin’ about my balls and my throat again, is that it?” he asked. As he spoke, his eyes flicked towards Ned, who he couldn't help but internalize the biting comment as something of an offer with the attraction in the man’s narrowing eyes.
It was then that the shorter of them realized Edward’s presence, and he ducked and shoved Ned out of his way before Ned could catch his face. He slammed the bathroom door behind him, and very quickly, Ned was alone in the bathroom with the other man. Standing broad, he gave Ned a rude look as he pulled something from his pocket to touch his little finger to. Ned knew before he started to rub it on his gums what it was, and that he did not want to associate with the man standing before him with cocaine on his lips.
“You didn't hear that,” the man said. He turned to stare at himself in the second of the two heavily graffitied mirrors, a sigh torn from his big chest.
Ned shook his head. “I didn't hear that,” he repeated in agreement.
The man sighed a second time and turned on the water to wet his hands. He rubbed at his face to wash it, before shaking the water off of himself not unlike a dog. Then, in the mirror, he stared at Edward behind him. “You don't come here often,” he said. Not at all confused, but intrigued.
“No,” Edward said. “I don't come here at all.”
He spun around, and Ned was face to face with the handsome face of a stranger. Big-boned, a softer jaw, a strong nose, fluffy honey-brown hair giving way to a lighter mustache and the beginnings of a beard. Ned preferred clean-shaven. The man’s hand planted itself firmly on Ned’s hip, and for whatever reason, Ned didn't stop himself from enjoying it.
“You're a handsome one, aren't you?”
“I’m—” Ned repeated, and caught himself, and sputtered, “my… hand… sorry, pardon me?”
The stranger merely smiled. He leaned back, seeming to admire Ned like a work of art that warranted viewing multiple times, at multiple angles, from multiple distances. “You don't come here, huh? Why are you here now?”
“I… ah,” Ned shrugged and tried for the first word that came to mind: “Cruising.”
It was a lie. He kicked himself for “cruising”, of all things, to be the first thing that came to mind upon being approached by an attractive stranger in a bathroom. He told himself it was a knee jerk response to obscure the fantasy he had convinced himself Jopson was living. Ned couldn't yet reconcile that the DJ bumping his own remix of Donna Summer’s I Feel Love was indeed Ned’s mild-mannered roommate, or that Ned had walked into the building expecting to see that roommate undress.
The stranger raised his eyebrows. “That right?” He grinned, wolfish and hungry. His right hand snaked upwards, finding purchase in Ned’s dark hair.
The thought occurred to him that maybe “cruising” was the wrong answer. It was embarrassing. He’d never gone cruising before and never thought he would. Now there was a man putting his hands in Ned’s hair and staring at him like he wanted to gnaw on Ned’s bones.
“That’s right,” he managed. His knees were weak; not the way they had been with Jopson, thankfully. With Jopson, it was nervousness. This, he figured, was merely anticipation. There was no doubt in his mind that what he suspected might happen, was going to happen.
The man’s hand tugged on Ned’s hair, forcing him to throw his head back and then sink downwards, putting him on his knees. The floor would be filthy, he knew that. He knew he’d want to burn his pants when he got home, and yet there was no other place he could imagine being once he was there, looking up at the man.
A wide thumb swiped across his lips, encouraging his mouth open, while the stranger’s tongue licked along his own bottom lip in appreciation. Ned swallowed hard when he saw the silver flash of a tongue ring.
“Can you deepthroat?”
Edward Little could do many, many things. He could sing, he could speak pig Latin, he could give a fairly detailed, passionate history through the Age of Sail, he could list fifty-three digits of pi, he could make crepes and fried rice from scratch, he could juggle, he could tie maybe ten different knots in any length of rope, he could sing the alphabet backwards and, after a pint or three, burp the alphabet (forwards, backwards was unattainable at the pub). Edward Little, with his many talents, could not deepthroat.
When he didn't answer, the man staring down at him gave a low, throaty chuckle. “Open your mouth,” he demanded. His big thumb found the corner of Ned’s lips to hold his jaw open. “We’ll make it fit, doll.”
The hot embers within Ned’s gut reignited in a flash, burning hot and bright. His already half-hard cock was making his trousers tight and his head was feeling emptier than it should have. Part of him wanted to be bothered by how easily he complied, or be disgusted by kneeling on a club bathroom floor, or have any strong feelings about his indecency, but he couldn't find it within himself. Not when there was a strong, handsome man putting his fingers in Ned’s mouth and calling him “doll”.
The stranger’s jeans, stained on the knees and the thighs from wiping what looked like grease onto them, were already undone. One hand shoved them further down while the other’s thumb played with Ned’s tongue.
“Look at me,” he said suddenly, voice husky with desire. When Ned looked up to his hazel eyes, he was smiling. He said, “That's it…” and pressed Ned’s face forward.
He was loath to admit that he might enjoy the hand on the back of his head encouraging him to rub his tongue on the deep red fabric of the man’s underwear. There was utterly no denying that it excited him, in the very least, to be huffing the smell of a man who had clearly come from work. Dark hair with a shimmer of golden under the damn fluorescents teased out of the man’s waistband, creeping up his belly and disappearing under his shirt. Had he been a shameless man, Ned would've encouraged his shirt to ride up just to see the pattern of this man’s body hair and run his fingers through it.
Edward’s mind began to wander. Sweat and grease and body hair— a mechanic? Someone who worked with his hands, surely, if his calloused palms were anything to go by. He was so absorbed in thinking about how he (a man who wore suits to work and hadn't ever been to a proper club before that night) was on his knees in the bathroom taking deep breaths of a laboring man’s cock, that he had hardly noticed the layer of fabric being yanked away. That he hadn't hesitated to put his tongue on the bare cock in front of his face.
More than that, however, when he looked up, he realized that the stranger manhandling him had just enough gut Ned could hardly see his face. That only made his cock twitch in his pants. He may have been as tall as this stranger, but this man had a good hundred pounds on Edward; more muscle and more fat on wider shoulders, bigger hips…
When he was told to start sucking, Ned had never been so sure of his need for something. He took the tip of the admittedly attractive cock into his mouth while the stranger’s hand in his hair guided him along: slowly, steadily, pushing him down and pulling him back. Having had fingers in his mouth already, Ned had an abundance of drool with which to slick the heavy cock, enough that some of it dripped down his chin. He felt used.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” the stranger purred above him. Ned chanced a glance up and saw that smile twitch, eyes narrowing with what he could only assume was hunger. Oh, he felt used, and the question of deepthroating still had yet to be addressed.
“You like that, do you?” He kept smiling. Ned blinked purposefully, hoping that would be answer enough, and the man responded by pushing more of his fat cock into Ned’s mouth. He was still breathing the smell of what he could only describe as masculinity, heady and thick and musky, and it was making him dizzy.
The stranger laughed. “Lucky you found me, hm?” He began to breathe heavily, taking the hand from the base of his cock once enough of it was in Ned’s mouth. “You love it,” he all but growled. Ned wasn't sure what to do beyond press his tongue to the underside of the man’s cock and bob his head, tilting his head to the side, suckling— all things he had pictured himself treating Jopson with.
This man was not Jopson, however, and there was no deluding himself into picturing it was Jopson above him; Jopson’s hands in his hair, Jopson’s voice egging him on, Jopson’s pubes brushing his nose. He couldn't imagine Jopson’s cock could be as girthy or as heavy— longer, probably, but everything about this man was wide and Jopson was not a wide man.
“Oh, fucking…!” The stranger moaned, “Christssake, doll, stick your tongue out. That's it! God, that's it… Now swallow—” Ned gagged involuntarily and it made a horrible choked sound, which he swore made the cock in his mouth jump. “Not like that,” the man chuckled. Ned’s face felt hot. “Yeah, feels good, but not like that. Wanted you to choke on it, you'd be choking,” he said, somewhere between a threat and a promise.
“Open your throat,” he directed, “Relax it. That's it, doll, you just relax…” He thrust particularly hard and Ned gagged, instinctively pulling away until the hand in his hair caught him. “Shh, shh, shh, that was my bad! That was my bad, sweetheart, just feel so good… S’okay… won’t do it again…”
The man let out a low chuckle, swallowing thickly and breathing heavily. “Told you we’ll make it fit, and we will. You're doin’ fine, yeah, you are… you just need to relax, yeah?”
Ned’s big, teary brown eyes stared up at the man. He tried to communicate through his gaze that he was as relaxed as he could possibly be on the ground with a cock in his mouth, but then his handsome stranger pulled Ned’s hair to urge his head back and that was it.
“There it is! There it fuckin’ is, sweetheart, how’s that feel, hm?” The man gave a triumphant chuckle which turned into a growl. “So fuckin’ good…”
Ned could feel it. He could feel the cock in his throat, teasing deeper while the stranger shivered and, clearly, was fighting himself not to thrust his hips. Slowly, he started to push Edward down the rest of the way, mumbling, “That's it, doll, take it… Take my fat fuckin’ cock, you can do it…” all the while.
Edward found his mind peacefully empty. All he could care about was the cock in his mouth: the weight of it, the taste, the way his throat felt invaded and full and he was sure it would feel sore when it was over, and he couldn't care. All that mattered was pressing his nose into the man’s curly thatch of pubic hair, letting his cock down his throat as far as it could reach, listening to the man’s praise and encouragement the way he hoped any god listened to his prayers.
His head was drawn backwards, then pressed forward. The stranger’s hips started to stutter, slowly finding a rhythm. Ned let his eyes close while his face was used— really, truly used. He choked, on occasion, gagged grossly, and had to be pulled away to breathe for merely a moment. Then he was back on the stranger’s cock. There was no choice but to accept it, accept being a toy for his big, aggressive stranger. Face fucked like the whore he had wistfully assumed Jopson to be, and Ned wasn't even being paid. It served him right, didn't it?
The man’s big, wide hand yanked Ned backwards by his hair, and he gasped. There was drool hanging from his lips, spit smeared on his cheeks, and he was gasping for breath. His man’s cock was slobbery and the hair on his balls was matted down with it. Ned’s mouth tasted like cock. He hated when his mouth tasted like cock. But his man hummed with fondness, thumb wiping saliva off of the side of Ned’s lip, and it didn't really matter what anything tasted like.
“Do you always do what people tell you?” He asked. “Answer me.”
Ned coughed. The idea of speaking was not only a mental burden, but a physical one; his jaw felt abused and his throat felt raw. Still, he tried to say, “No,” but only a pathetic sigh came out with the shake of his head. His voice was nowhere to be found.
At that, the stranger, voice warm and boisterous, well and truly laughed. “I don't believe you,” he said with a smile, and then demanded, “Choke on it.” Edward’s head was pushed down again.
This time, his stranger wasn't gentle. Big hands gripped the sides of his head and held him still while eager hips bucked against his face. Every thrust had his nose in the man’s pubes, bumping the round of stomach, balls slapping his chin, making the most depraved, disgusting noises as he tried to accept cock into his throat and fight his own gag reflex to do it. It wasn't working. He loved it. Whatever magic that had him deepthroating had worn off, and he was sure he was a mess. If he looked down, he might have seen his shirt darkened by his own spit, splattered down his front and on his pants, pooling on the floor.
As if reading Ned’s mind, the man said, “Oh, sweetheart, if you could see yourself,” and he laughed. “God. You might cry. Fuck, I hope you cry…”
Ned was very sure his brunet hadn't meant to say such a thing out loud. It was a weight off of Ned’s shoulders, truthfully, because he was sure the tears collecting in his eyes were bound to spill at some point. In any other capacity, he would have taken offense to the desire to do exactly what was asked of him, but his cock was leaking in his pants and he could mount no argument against that fact. All he cared about, the only thought in his mind, was trying to ensure his gagging wouldn't lead to vomiting.
Ned could only tell someone had entered the bathroom when he heard a belt buckle fumbling and piss hitting the urinal wall, and he tried to pull away. The man didn't let him. Fingers wove into his hair and kept guiding his head.
“You don't mind him, sweetheart, he doesn't care. You focus on me. Let me see those eyes,” the man leaned to better see Edward, his hips cocked forward. He was grinning, all hungry teeth and wanting eyes. “Oh-hoho, fuck, yes, keep those eyes on me, sweet thing. Fuck, look at you…”
He hit the back of Ned’s throat particularly hard and Ned flinched, his whole body tensing. Tears were forced from his eyes and a dam had broken; every time he blinked, fat tears rolled down his cheeks, an automatic response to the use of his body.
The man growled, “Oh, that’s fuckin’ it, you fuckin’ slut,” he sucked in a sharp breath, “Fuckin’ cry on it, doll. Fuckin’ hell… Head fuckin’ empty ‘cept for my fuckin’ cock, huh? Y’look like you were made for this, sweetheart, those big eyes… Oh, that's it, that's it, stick your tongue out—” the man made a particularly throaty noise and Ned felt his own cock throb in desperation, aching from the lack of attention (as if that lack of attention wasn't serving to make him harder).
He choked again, hard enough that his whole body curled, and he considered himself lucky his handsome stranger let him go when he did. He coughed, gasping for air, a single sob shuddering through his body. When he looked around, they were alone in the bathroom, and he silently thanked God that the other stranger hadn't stayed to watch. That thought, however, made him sob again with the desire that coursed through his veins. It worried him how much he liked that thought.
“Oh, you can cry, sweetheart,” his stranger cooed, using a light blue handkerchief, apparently from his pocket, to wipe off Ned’s tears and then the saliva making a mess of his face. “You can cry for me all you want, but… I— God, I have to fuck you,” the man grumbled, entirely unafraid to grab Edward and manhandle him. He pulled him to standing, groping at his chest and the front of his pants.
“Can I fuck you, doll?” He asked. The question surprised Ned only because he had assumed it was the natural conclusion to him kneeling in a club bathroom, and he found it proactive for the man to ask again. He was sure he would have said as much if his words had been within reach, but without them, he could only nod.
“Fuckin’ hell, sweet thing,” the man pulled Ned into a kiss. He wondered vaguely if his mouth tasted, to another’s tongue, as much like cock as it did for him. If that was the case, his lover didn't seem to mind, wantonly lapping at his mouth with all of the passion of a dog.
“Turn around,” he demanded. Ned obeyed.
His ravishing stranger truly was just as big as Ned had been anticipating. He had Edward pressed against the sink, and he could feel the man’s hips lining up with his, the hard-on poking at his ass, the man’s belly pressed to his back. Edward was so dizzy with desire and his knees so weak from need that he wanted to warn the man that he was in danger of falling, but those big arms seemed plenty capable of catching him. Could Jopson hold Ned up like that? Would Jopson be able to hold him off the ground and fuck him, like this stranger so clearly could?
“Go on, look at yourself, sweetheart,” the man’s hand found Ned’s hair again to force him to see himself in the mirror.
He looked a mess. Hair ruined, face red, lips wet, and drool on his chin. He looked like he had been sucking cock, to his great shame. Anyone who stepped into the bathroom would have been able to see him like that, fully clothed and still looking like a right proper slut.
“Mouth’s free and you can't even talk, huh?”
Ned tried to make some kind of protest: a witty retort, or a simple answer, or a biting reply. All that came out was a breathy, whimpering moan which only served to prove the man’s point. He smiled, hands finding the front of Ned’s pants to undo them and, with no delicacy, yank his cock free from the suffocating confines of his underwear.
“Look at this,” the man cooed, rubbing his blunt nose into Edward’s neck, licking sweat off of him and placing kisses along the delicate skin. “You're aching, hm? You want it so badly, but you can't ask for it, huh?”
Ned gave a shaky nod just as his stranger’s fingers ran up and down his cock in the most teasing touch, which forced another whimper from his throat. The stranger kept smiling at him in the mirror, “I won't make you beg, not this time,” he said against Ned’s ear, taking his earlobe between his teeth and tugging. “Fuck… Look at you, sweetheart, you're a fuckin’ mess for me…”
Again, Ned tried to speak— a teasing protest, a needy encouragement, anything— and a keening whine was all he managed. A strong, calloused palm rubbed at his swollen tip and he sobbed again, tears falling while he bucked his hips against the hand. His stranger was clearly very pleased with him, biting at his neck, sucking on his skin like he was trying to drink the blood from his veins.
“Condom?” He asked, voice gruff and needy. Edward, to his own great shame, shook his head. He didn't have any in the first place. He would have preferred one, of course, but in his current state, anything that came between him and a load of spunk inside of him was an enemy of the state. The man laughed. He might've asked if Ned was sure and offered him something, but Ned was shaking his head and pushing back against the hard cock behind him with reckless abandon.
“You really are such a fuckin’ slut, huh? Should I be worried, sweet thing? Hm? First time in this place, and you’re just begging to get fucked?” He laughed breathily, hands abandoning Ned’s cock (earning a disappointed whimper), and fingers hooking on his pants to pull them down. Instead of letting them sit just below his hips like the stranger’s, Ned’s pants were pulled down to his knees.
“You should be embarrassed, doll,” the stranger said into his ear. “Your cock is dripping.”
It was. And he was.
“Fuck me,” he breathed out, the only words he could form. Speaking accentuated how sore his throat was, but it made the stranger’s face light up.
“What was that, doll?” He asked.
Ned swallowed. “Fuck me,” he managed, “Please, God, fuck me.”
The man nuzzled Edward’s neck, finding a spot just beyond the collar of his shirt to dig his teeth into. He didn't stop until Ned made a pained noise, flinching and crying out, and then he turned Ned’s face to kiss him.
“Not God,” he murmured against his lips, “but I’ll fuck you good, sweetheart, promise.”
Ned rolled his shoulders and then straightened his arms, serving to crack his right elbow (frustratingly, not his left) as the stranger’s hands ran up and down his sides, serving only to reveal his thinner frame hidden beneath his loose shirt. The man squeezed his hips, rubbing his hand over Ned’s flat belly as if to accentuate the fact that his rounder form was up against his back.
“Relax for me, doll,” the man breathed, his hand petting Ned’s side like he was an anxious animal. He heard the clicking cap of something opening and glanced over his shoulder to see K-Y in the man’s hands. In his right mind, he might have questioned where the lube came from. In his current mind, Ned only hoped that this man had a hundred more surprises for him.
When he felt fingers at his hole, they were warmer than he had expected. A moan was drawn from his lips, breathy and soft, lost in the noise of music in the distance. Jopson’s music. Ned stared at himself in the mirror, at his wet face and puffy eyes, red lips and drooling mouth, and still, all he could think of was Jopson on that stage and the way his hips swayed to the music.
“Fuck,” he sighed, tilting his hips to encourage the finger in his ass. It felt wrong to think about Tom. He couldn't stop himself.
“Oh, I know,” the man said with a smile, “Not enough, is it?” He teased. Ned shook his head. “Need more, huh?” He growled, a second lubed finger slipped into his hole as Edward nodded. Another moan from his throat and the man was pumping his fingers in and out, mumbling to Ned how badly they both needed it.
Ned whimpered, “Oh, fuck,” as a third finger was inside him. He was doing his damndest not to unravel and fuck himself on them, as much as he adored those wide, strong fingers. In and out, stretching him more like a lover than any man ever had before, mumbling in his ear about how warm he was, how tight he was, how pretty he was with tears in his eyes.
Once he removed his fingers, the stranger was quick to line his cock up and slide into Ned. It was immediately apparent to them both, as they groaned and sucked in hot breaths, that Ned should have been fingered for a moment longer. Neither of them could find it in them to care; the man didn't stop, and Ned didn't stop him.
It burned. A deep-seated, aching pleasurable pain that was familiar to him, usually only from his own playing. And Ned loved it. No attempts were made to stop his moaning, or muffle the noises he was making. If anything, the stranger was encouraging it with a hand wrapped around Ned’s throat to tilt his head back. He hadn't shut up, either; he was mumbling to Ned every dirty thought that crossed his mind, every promise, every threat, every possible praise, every possible insult.
“Fuckin’ disgustin’, you know that?” He was saying, “Buggered in a public bathroom, hm? How long've you been fuckin’ dreamin’ about this? Did you think your night was gonna go this way, did you think you'd get fucked like a girl in the bathroom or somethin’? Bet you wanted to get fucked on the dance floor, hm? Bet you'd fuckin’ bust if I had my hand down your trousers out there.”
Ned couldn't answer. Words were refusing to form in his mind. He egged his stranger on, encouragement in the form of moaning and sobbing while he matched (and perhaps surpassed) the man’s desperation. Edward had never been fucked so well and so thoroughly, to the point that he worried maybe kissing the man had passed cocaine to him. But that couldn't have been right, because he had done cocaine twice with George, and it made him queasy each time.
The only thing he could feel was pleasure. Bouncing in the air, his cock remained untouched out of fear that he would cum too quickly and discourage his stranger. To keep them off himself, Ned’s hands were on the man; one behind his head to grab at his curls, the other on top of the arm snaked around his midsection.
“Fuckin’ hell— Jesus fuckin’ Christ—!” The man grunted, hammering into Ned and gripping his hips hard enough to bruise him. Ned was hardly coherent enough to realize what was happening until a second strong arm wrapped around his chest. “Gonna cum inside,” the man panted out, “Paint your fuckin’ guts with my cum, hm? You want it?”
“I— I want it,” Edward panted out, gasping for breath between his own moans. “Yes, I want it!”
That was all the man needed. He buried himself to the hilt inside of Ned, shouting and growling as he came. He held Ned close to his body— not just on his cock, but letting Edward feel the curve of his stomach and his hot breath against his cheek. The stranger’s moaning vibrated through them both, a lesser but more tantalizing version of the heavy bass playing just outside the door.
While he was feeling a stranger’s cum paint his insides, just as the brunet had promised, he had forgotten entirely about his roommate and his embarrassing assumption. The only thoughts in his mind were of the cock buried inside him and the man that kept fucking despite having cum already. It was some slice of heaven, perhaps, that Ned had stumbled upon in a club bathroom.
Then the door slammed open. Ned was sure he would have orgasmed on the spot from the embarrassment of being walked in on twice— he even made eye contact in the mirror with the man who had entered— but it didn't happen. His stranger made eye contact with the intruder, too, his eager smile souring and twisting into a contemptuous frown.
“You fucking dog, you,” the intruder said, hardly hiding a sly little smile on his sly little face.
“Do you fuckin’ need somethin’?” Ned’s stranger snapped, turning to stare at the man. His shock of light, reddish hair and his stranger’s reaction confirmed it was the same person he’d been arguing with when Ned entered.
“We’re leaving,” he said plainly, interest flickering on his face as he absorbed the sight of his… friend… balls deep in a stranger. “You've got three minutes.”
The door shut behind him, leaving the bathroom cut off from the music outside. Jopson’s music.
“Sorry to do it, doll,” the man kissed his neck again, thrusting a few more times just to churn the cum in his guts before he pulled out. Ned’s body shivered at the loss, but sweet kisses anywhere the man could reach helped to soothe him. His stranger continued, grumbling, “He gets home before I do, he’ll fuck up my tapes, or shit on my bed or something… Rat bastard…”
He couldn't care in the least. Ned grunted and swallowed thickly. “I haven't…” he sighed, refusing to look down at his aching, leaking cock, but motioning to it with one hand.
“I know,” the stranger gave him an apologetic smile, and then another kiss full of tongue and teeth while he shoved his own cock away and fixed his pants. “Sorry. I really am. I’ll owe you, hm?”
Edward managed a nod, unsure of what else to do The stranger kissed him again, murmuring against his lips, “There's a good boy,” before he looked himself over in the mirror and then vanished.
The music grew louder as the door opened, and then quieter as it shut. Ned was left alone in the bathroom. The stranger's cum wasn't yet dripping from his hole, and he found he had little choice but to start stuffing himself back into his pants, at least for modesty’s sake.
The shame of it all had yet to hit him. His cock was still stiff and demanding touch, and Ned was nearly horny enough to shut himself in the single, disgusting bathroom stall to try and cum before he had to leave. This night was about Jopson, after all. Fucking Tom Jopson. He still had to drive Jopson home. He still had to sit in the car next to him and not think about the fact that he had been beyond convinced Tom was a prostitute. He had been so damn convinced, and who was it that ended up a mess? Who was it that had a load in his guts? Not Tom Jopson.
The door opened. Ned braced himself against the sink and closed his eyes, hoping this stranger would go about their business without paying him any mind.
“Oh,” a familiar, honeyed voice hummed. “I wasn't looking for you, and yet here you are.”
Ned’s eyes snapped open to see Tom Jopson standing beside him. Gazing at himself in the mirror, he realized what a mess he was. Predictably, he looked like he had been fucked like a slut in a club bathroom. He watched Jopson look him over and take stock of the evidence: the dark stains on his shirt, the grime on his knees, the dark patch on his pants where his cock had smeared pre-cum. To say nothing of Ned’s red lips, the remaining slobber on his face, or how red his cheeks were... As he usually did, Jopson wore an indistinguishable expression. Light and amiable, and nothing more. It made Ned feel sick. He swallowed. His mouth still tasted like cock.
“I’m going to play an encore,” Tom told him, turning away to step towards a urinal. To keep himself from trying to stare, Edward closed his eyes again. “It’ll be another maybe… forty-five minutes to an hour... You can always wait in the car.”
“No,” Ned managed. “No, I liked your set. I never expected you to be so…” he paused as he searched for the right word. Any word, really. “Good.”
His heart hammered when Jopson laughed, soft and light and amiable. Another persona. “High praise,” he mused, and then he was beside Edward to wash his hands.
Ned forced his eyes open. In a moment, Jopson was staring at him, and there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to retreat, nothing to hide behind. His roommate was staring at him in all his post-coital wariness. Then a gentle hand brushed away some of Edward’s hair, fixing what he had planned to ignore until he could shower at home.
Tom smiled, all faux sweetness on his lips but a touch of bother in his eyes. “I’ll meet you at the car, then?”