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The first thought that crosses his mind is I need a drink, even though he’s already gripping a bottle in his hand. He swills it around. It’s not enough - he needs something stronger, needs to feel it burn all the way down.
The second thought that crosses his mind is I need a smoke, but he’s shit out of luck for that one; he doesn’t have any fags on him and the party’s entirely inside.
These are not unusual thoughts for Murdoc Niccals - they’re pretty much the only two things on his mind at any given moment.
(Though sometimes he thinks I need a shag. And sometimes he thinks I need to write a new song. He’s a simple man who knows what he needs. Not wants, mind you, because that implies it’s something he might not get. And Murdoc always gets his way.)
Thankfully, his first lament is quickly remedied by the sound of chanting. Murdoc snaps his head up from where he’d been staring down the neck of the bottle to the row of men lining up shots that look like they were drained from toxic waste.
Exactly what he needs.
Pushing through the swarm of dancing bodies to get to his saving grace, he groans at the group of young celebrities with their first taste of wild stardom, all lining up for a shot. Murdoc has no patience for a queue, for fuck’s sake, any party where he’s not a) off of his face or b) balls deep in someone is not worth being at. Yet, he waits, and rewards himself with a swiftly downed second shot. His organs light up like a Christmas tree in a wildfire as they go down, and he sighs. This is what it should be, getting drunk. As quick as possible, so he doesn’t waste any time sober when he could be the life of the party.
This is what it should be, being alive. Fast and intense and burning, thrilling.
As he puts down the second shotglass and makes way for the next sorry sod to try and neck one poker-faced, he feels a clap on his back. Snarling, he whips around - who do they think they are, to touch him?
Murdoc meets the gaze of a blue-haired girl, eyes sparkling and bouncing on her toes.
Shit. Blue hair. He came to this particular party to escape Faceache, not to meet his twin in some sort of twisted Parent Trap situation.
“Your eye didn’t even twitch, oh my God. I was gagging at that. I’m lowkey impressed.” She grins brightly, and Murdoc squints - even if he drank himself to the A&E, he’d still despise talking to these sorts. They never have anything bad to say about anything, smiling madly like the Cheshire Cat. How can you live without slagging things off at least a little? “My name’s Mavis, by the way.”
Clasping her hands together, her arms push towards her chest in such a way that they frame her tits, drawing Murdoc’s gaze downwards. It’s not like he can help it - they’re there, after all.
And they’re a fucking nice pair.
So maybe that’s why he grumbles, “Murdoc Niccals.”
“I know. I’m, like, in love with your music. I grew up listening to you.” She hasn’t stopped her bouncing, and Murdoc would be more annoyed if those tits weren’t bouncing too.
Grew up? Fucking hell. Is he that old? Is she just a girl? Is he being a nonce?
“How old are you?” He asks.
She smiles something coy, and fuck if that doesn’t infuriate him. “Twenty-two.”
Murdoc nods. Shit. He’s old, he’s decrepit, he’s going to crumble to bits right in front of her eyes. He needs another drink because apparently, five minutes isn’t long enough for that toxic sludge to seep into his bloodstream and sweep all rationale away.
“So, yeah, basically since I was old enough to appreciate good music.”
She cocks her head to the side, peering at him through her lashes, and Murdoc knows in an instant what game they’re playing. This is one he’s a master of - a simple strategy game that he’s been going at for longer than she’s been an alleged fan of his. He’ll have her in the palm of his hand by the end of the night.
His move. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and angles his head upwards, looking down at her with a lidded gaze. “That so? You’re a special one, then.”
Murdoc hears that phrase every other week, but she visibly brightens all the same.
“Really? I mean, that’s on you and your band for putting out such good tunes.” The flattery’s an old tactic, but he has to admit, he loves a little ego-stroking to get himself going.
Looking from side to side, she moves closer, a smile playing on her lips. “I actually… God, this is embarrassing. I lost my virginity to one of your albums - when it first came out, I bought the CD to show my then-boyfriend. He didn’t care, but I, like, did not let him turn that shit off. It didn’t really set the mood, but who cares?”
“That’s a story and a half, love.” Murdoc’s not one for imagination, but he pictures the anecdote as she tells it. His eyes flick down to those tits and drag reluctantly up to her expectant face framed by wisps of blue hair.
That fucking hair. Murdoc longs to take her ponytail and pull. Of course the girl who’s practically throwing herself at him shares the same colour as 2D. He always manages to get his grimy, unsteady fingers all over Murdoc’s joys in life. It wouldn’t surprise him if she dyed her hair for him. If 2D was here right now, he has no doubt she’d choose him over Murdoc.
On her knees for him. Gagging for him. Slobbering all over his cock, his head thrown back and gripping her hair. Whining her name. Cuddling up to her after, because he seems like the sort of sod who’d do that.
That pretty-boy, vapid fucking vocalist. One day Murdoc will beat his head in for good, and he’ll savour every moment.
Like curdled milk, his mood (and sex drive) have soured. Any self-respecting man would feel the same after realising he’s sloppy seconds, sparse picking.
Only then does he realises she’s still talking, and he’d tuned her out. Not that it matters - he’s done, here. Turning on one heel, he walks away without another world, though he longs to shoot a sardonic comment her way. Something-or-other slag, though Noodle gets on his case if he calls women slags, which is bollocks because some of them are slags.
“Murdoc…?” He hears her call out, distant. Sod her. He better not see her fucking face again.
Vision swimming, he almost smacks his head on the door on his way out. With glee, he realises the shots are finally taking effect, though it’s quickly dashed with disappointment as he realises he’s making his dramatic exit.
No matter. It won’t be his first time being drunk alone. All he needs is some music and a plush duvet and it’ll be like he’s ascended to another plane of existence.
Back home, he collapses onto his mattress with a grunt - all ready to swathe himself in blankets and let the dreamy state of mind take him over.
Amidst the fog, though, he can feel his libido slowly creep back up. Sighing, he mutters drunken admonishments to himself - of course, he only feels up to it when he’s all alone. Though Murdoc should’ve known - once he’s got sex on his mind, only sex will take it off of his mind - it’s inconvenient all the same.
Well, there’s only one thing for it, even if it’s not quite the same thing. Like Quorn sausages - wholly unsatisfying and even a little disgusting, but sometimes it’s the only option available that’s closest to the craving.
With a groan, he unzips his fly, fingers numb and fumbling, and grasps the base of his cock. Moans slip unbidden past his lips with each stroke, grip tight as he works at himself. Murdoc’s eyes flutter shut, the sad sight of his hand pumping at his dick not doing anything for him but too lazy to open Pornhub. Instead, his mind flicks to the easiest-to-reach imagery - those tits, pushed together, round and soft and full. His breath hitches. Framed between arms, with hands that could be getting him off right now, if he pretends hard enough, hands that tie her hair up before she-
The hair. The blue hair. Pulling on that hair. Pulling on 2D’s hair. Pulling on 2D’s hair as he’s knelt in front of Murdoc, lips parted- no, not 2D taking his cock into his mouth, the girl, what was her name? He was so sure it was-
A click jolts him out of his feverish fantasy, eyes wide and meeting a soulless gaze.
2D stands in the doorway, mouth parted and taking in Murdoc’s naked body. He startles, coming to life as he stumbles backwards.
“Sorry, sorry…” He mumbles, looking pointedly away. Too good to meet Murdoc’s eyes, he supposes. The bitter anger from earlier rises. Would it be so bad to teach his sorry arse a lesson, while he’s here?
“Wait, wait… 2D, Stu…” The words are lead as they roll off of his tongue. Stu. Isn’t that just a throwback? A thrill of satisfaction rises in his chest as 2D halts. He’ll still listen to Murdoc, almost on instinct. Even after so long apart. Good. “Come ‘ere. Come on.”
And 2D does, padding across the carpet and taking a seat on Murdoc’s bed. He’s practically euphoric - here he is, laid bare in front of his bandmate. A normal, self-respecting person would’ve walked out. But because Murdoc asks, 2D follows. The naive lamb to his shepherd.
“You alright, Mudz? You’re looking a bit…” 2D starts, and Murdoc wants nothing more than to shut that pretty little mouth of his. He spouts too much shit, sometimes, when all he needs to do is sit there and look stupidly out of it. Murdoc catches himself looking, in those moments where 2D’s not entirely here.
“Shh… None of that. No talking. Just come over.”
2D moves closer, fingers this close to Murdoc’s thigh. The dickhead’s doing it on purpose, he fucking knows it, he knows what thoughts were running around his mind in the moments before he was interrupted, and is teasing him, showing him what he needs so desperately but just out of reach.
Lucky Murdoc always gets his way.
Without a second thought, he takes that damned hand and wraps it around his cock. His bandmate blinks at him, those soulless eyes of his own creation telling him nothing. Any sane man would run far from him at this point, but 2D is not a sane man. 2D is his devout.
Murdoc decides to test him further, poke the wasp’s nest. He moves their hands together - already it feels better than his calloused hands, and he can’t help but let a moan slip. 2D’s skin is soft from an easy childhood and piano rehearsals, milky white skin that’s missing scars and bruises that litter Murdoc, making him whole. 2D doesn’t tell his story in blemishes, because everything tragic that happened to him only served to make his appearance more striking. The red-hot anger this simple fact brings bubbles over as 2D bats his lashes at Murdoc, at them working at his dick, and he snatches his hand away like he’d been burned.
“Go on, then. I’m well tired. You’ve done it y'self plenty, yeah?” He’s going to make that pretty boy work if he wants to sit there and play coy like he’s never wanked before.
2D does, though in the most torturous way - grip light as a feather, almost tickling as he moves with careful, controlled movement up and down his shaft. Murdoc basks in the feeling of someone else doing the work for him through laboured breaths, though if he doesn’t put some real effort into him soon, he’ll dig his nails until his wrist until he has to grip tighter.
“Come on… ‘S not gonna break. Go faster.” He orders instead, and fuck, if he doesn’t half speed up instantly, almost as if he’d been waiting for permission to do so. He arches his hips, jolting as 2D runs his thumb over the slit. Precome. Embarrassing. Now he looks desperate.
“Tighter,” He commands, to let 2D know who’s in control here. A whine leaves his mouth as 2D encloses his fingers tighter. “That’s it.”
He keeps his eyes open, to drink in the view - 2D, wordlessly pumping at his cock with his mouth parted, almost as if he’s giving easy access for Murdoc to use it. Fucking whore.
That girl - any girl - could’ve had 2D, but he’s got him in his bed, all to himself, leaving him arching his back and moaning at his quick hands that dance across his keyboard, now working at his cock with steady strokes, and Murdoc’s own calloused hands grip the bedsheets as he spits curses from the sheer pleasure of it.
And Murdoc deserves this. All of this. He made 2D, after all, why shouldn’t he get to have him? Though he’s greedy. He’s not got enough.
“Come ‘ere,” He barely manages between breaths, palming at whatever part of 2D he can touch. Anything to get him closer.
“Alright, alright…” 2D straddles his left thigh - and isn’t that just a sight? Blue hair falling over his sockets, vacant gaze fixated on Murdoc. Legs slightly parted as are his lips, visibly hard in his jeans.
Murdoc’s not sure why this shocks him. He always had an inkling that he was a little queer, even if the man didn’t know it himself. Though he supposes he’s glad 2D’s enjoying the view of him splayed out beneath him, twitching and moaning. This thought also makes him double-take - since when did he care about what that sod felt?
A soft laugh from his bandmate only confirms how much of a twat he is - Murdoc becomes horribly aware of what situation he’s in, bucking his hips and whimpering for 2D’s touch like some sort of bottom bitch. He’s exposed, here, literally and metaphorically, tough exterior that usually bends 2D to his will cracked. 2D sees this, he laughs, and he loses any sort of respect he has for Murdoc. He runs off and tells his bandmates, who laugh at him. They turn their back on him once again.
“Y’think that’s funny, hm?” Murdoc asks, though fear bubbles in his chest. 2D shakes his head - as if. The fucker’s hiding a smirk behind that hair, he knows it. “Yeah… S’what I thought.”
That hair, that sodding hair. In a jolt of anger, he takes a fistful of it. Should he rip it from his head, ruining his perfect image that so many swoon over? No. Because, at the end of the day, 2D is of his creation, and it wouldn’t do to fuck up his hard work. He has a better idea to put him in his place.
“Why don’t you make it up to me, then?” With that, he puts that mouth to good use.
…And regrets it.
“Fuck-! Not the teeth!”
A sharp pain runs through his shaft, and he grits out a garbled insult as he yanks 2D away from his poor cock. “Mary and Joseph, anyone would think you’ve never been blown. Rule numero uno - no chompers!”
“Well, gimme a second to do it myself and maybe I’m not gonna bloody bite it off!” 2D retorts as if the whole situation wasn’t his fault, to begin with.
“Fine, fine,” Murdoc loosens his grip a little, only because he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about this moment before. Fleeting, primal urges when high as a kite, but there nonetheless.
2D takes a moment to peer at Murdoc through his lashes like he knows how much he wants it. And it works - his breath hitches.
Finally, he dives his head down, and Murdoc chokes on a moan at the sudden jolt of pleasure. His mouth is warm and wet, tongue working of its own accord as he sucks up and down his cock. Satan, he’d known that mouth could preach sermons, murmur a song into existence, carry the lilt of a haunting tune through soft lips now coated in spit and kissing the base of his dick. His talented vocalist.
Swearing loudly as his tongue licks across his slit, he yanks on that blue hair. “Satan- you fucking-”
You twat. You God amongst men. You stupid bitch. You disciple. You eyesore. You pretty, pretty boy.
He doesn’t know what he’s about to say - not that it matters, since he’s cut off by a whine as he hits the back of 2D’s throat. His whole body tenses as he gags around his cock, and Murdoc feels a well of satisfaction in his chest, twitching at just the right moments to make it happen again, again, again. The sight of 2D struggling to take all of him into his mouth leaves heat pooling at the base of his cock - fuck, he’s getting close - but he’s barely able to appreciate the view as he throws his head back into the pillows, revelling in the feeling as 2D brings his hand back, slick with spit and precome and pumping rhythmically at the base with the strong grip he’d had to practically beg for to begin with.
"That's it- Fuck- Keep going-" 2D looks up at him, at that, and for a few terrifying moments their eyes meet, stripped of any guard and clouded with want. Then, he jerks his head back down, and 2D gags once again.
“Stu- 2D-” A Freudian slip, as his bandmate swirls his tongue around the tip once again.
Others want 2D - he’s an attractive celebrity, for fuck’s sake. No one wants Stuart Pot, a relic of the past, and so Murdoc gets to claim his as his own. He has the luxury of knowing them both, after all. Stuart exists only in his mind, now - 2D may be for the public, the tabloids, the image of the band, but Stuart Pot is for him, the braindead plaything he had to nanny for months. And look how that worked out. Not too bad, if he says so himself.
Murdoc watches 2D as he devotes himself to pleasing him, lips swallowing as much of his cock as he can muster, kissing his fist that pumps at the base. A far cry from the timid touch he’d started with - he’s a quick learner when it comes to practical tasks, and Murdoc is all too glad to be his teacher, running one hand through his dampened hair and moaning with abandon as he pulls roughly on 2D’s hair with the other, the heat rising to its peak as 2D fervently bobs his head up and down-
"Ah, fuck- I'm-"
A loud, choked whine cuts off his warning, and he holds 2D’s head still as he thrusts his hips into that pretty mouth. The man’s choking on him, he can feel the muscles tighten around his cock, but he’s past caring - if anything, his struggle works the climax from him as he cums down 2D’s throat, reeling as he rides out his finish in weak spurts, dissolving into hoarse whimpers. Finally, he loosens his grip on 2D’s hair, closing his eyes and feeling him take his mouth back.
"Mmh."
The heady smell of sweat and desire lingers in the dim room, and Murdoc keeps his eyes closed, even as 2D murmurs his name. Murmurs. As if they should be soft with each other, now. As if a blowjob will change anything. He doesn’t want to see what he’s done with 2D. Put his grotty, calloused hands in that blue hair, fucked his mouth raw. Another mark he’s left on him. It pleases and sickens him all at once.
"Whaddya want?" He groans when he’s sure he can no longer take it, aiming a smack in his direction but just missing.
"Erm…" 2D trails off, playing with his fingers. All those miracles he can work with his mouth and he still can’t form a coherent fucking sentence.
"If you're gonna sit there like a lemon, sod off. Tired," He mumbles, the sight of 2D with tangled hair, swollen lips and tears in his eyes too much for him. He turns over in bed, snoring loudly and waits for the soft padding of feet and the click of the door.
Once again, he’s ruined his perfect image. A part of him gloats - this is what 2D gets, for thinking he’d seen a weaker side of Murdoc. He gets hurt, left reeling because Murdoc isn’t weak, he hits, and he hits hard. Another, drunker part of him tells him he’s disgusting for tainting him with his depravity, and would Murdoc ever stop branding 2D with his dirt?
He doesn’t listen to the drunken voice, because when he’s sober, he can easily block it out.
Instead, he thinks of 2D straddled over his leg, body wanting- needing it just as much as Murdoc’s did.
Next time he’ll make him gag for his touch.