He's nervous.

Except he's not. But he is—but it's—

Steph moves into the stall, unbuckles his pants, peels the waist down his hips and gets a hand around his soft cock. He didn't bother wearing underwear tonight—the pants were hard enough to get on, and honestly, after an hour in the club, he regrets it. The cool air hitting his skin feels like a balm, a great distraction to the fact—

He strokes over his soft cock, once, twice, thinks he should at least put in some effort of excitement before—he's over thinking it. But my god, what if he flags? Why is he doing this, he's insane—

He looks down at the hole in the wall, duct tape framing it, just large enough for him to see a hand wave through. Bony fingers beckoning him, and Steph can hear the person on the other side fall to their knees on the tile.

Steph wipes the sweat from his brow, looks down at his cock, it's finally stirring with interest—they shouldn't have to do all the work over there—and quickly brushes his neatly trimmed pubes with the tips of his fingers. Looks good.

"Anyone there?" the hand asks—or rather, the voice of the hand—and he sounds a little tipsy. Maybe Steph should get out of here until he remembers he's in a nightclub bathroom, the soles of his loafers sticking to the floor when he steps forward.

Steph doesn't answer, just places his cock onto the palm of the open hand. He closes his eyes when the hand closes around it, tries to focus on the conversation by the sinks and not the fact he's getting a handjob from a stranger.

"Come closer," the hand asks again. It disappears and returns with a glob of glistening spit, and the sight makes Steph's toes curl.

He obeys, palms pressing into the shared wall between them to get his dick through the hole. He almost pulls way when he feels wetness—a tiny kitten lick to the underside of his head, then the flat of an entire tongue tracing lower, lower, to his balls. It's insane how the person on the other side wastes no time, doesn't even care he's half hard, just immediately sucks each ball into his mouth.

From here, Steph can tell his lips must be obscene. The ghostly imprint on his nerves tells him as such, from the way they wrap around his length, working up and down in tandem with his calloused hand. The contrast in the warmth of his mouth with his rough hands makes Steph crazy, his humid breath sticking to the wall in front of him. He's sweating everywhere, feet rocking back and forth on his heels and toes, hips rutting up against it to fuck deeper into the wall.

The person pulls off, and Steph can hear him gasping to catch his breath, the obscene slick sounds of the hand working all of his gloopy spit over Steph's cock.

"You close?" the voice rasps. "'M getting tired."

Steph bucks his hips forward, a silent 'yes,' and the mouth is back on him, this time taking him all the way down, no patience, his gag reflex echoing in the stalls. Steph shouldn't find it so hot, it should disgust him—this stranger could vomit all over him, and all he could do is wipe off whatever he could (if there's even paper stocked in the stalls) and tuck it back into his pants. No underwear. God. And yet—

The person gags again, moans, sucking him down, slurping up whatever doesn't drip down, down Steph's balls, and probably onto the floor and duct tape between them. Steph moans, nails scraping against the wall, and cums. The person pulls off before he's finished, gurgles up a cough and a hiccup, hand never faltering to keep milking him through. He rest of it must fall onto the floor, or even his face and opened mouth. Steph wouldn't know, but it feels good. So good.

"Shit." Steph murmurs, cheek smashed against the wall. He feels the hand let go of his cock, now at half mast, and he pulls himself back through the hole. His cock is still glistening, the last remnants of spit and cum covered across the surface. The sight makes him twitch, doesn't even care if some of it's going to crust up on his pants.

He cleans himself up with the last two squares of toilet roll in the stall, tucks himself back in, and opens the door. The bathroom has mostly cleared out, and he sees one person washing their hands and face at the sink.

Steph inches closer, unable to make out who it is until he sidles up to the sink beside them. He tries to be subtle, to only look out of the corner of his eye—

"Intak?"