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A migraine throbbed behind Murdoc’s eyes. He’d tried to soothe it earlier by popping half a packet of Panadol, but he’d ended up vomiting them up half an hour later. He was sweating, trembling, hot all over, and his tongue was thick and slug-like in his mouth, sticking to his hard palate whenever he swallowed. He was in withdrawal, and he was going down hard.
No one in Stoke had been willing to sell to him. One too many IOU’s ignored, one too many bounced checks. So here he was, shakily driving his stolen Vauxhall Astra into the nearest town with dealers he hadn’t (yet) fucked over. There weren't many.
His vision swam as he drove and two lanes merged into one, a horn blaring as he nearly side-swept a car on the opposite side of the road. He blinked rapidly and leaned against his steering wheel, trying to focus on driving so he wouldn’t go hurtling into oncoming traffic. Though an accident might have been a reprieve at this point, because the hospital would probably give him morphine for any injuries.
He considered it, then set it aside. He wasn't that desperate yet. He was already in Crawley, and all he had to do now was arrive at the meeting he’d arranged with a potential dealer. They were young, fresh on the scene, and as Murdoc was currently broke, that was ideal for him. The young ones were always easier to deceive. Most of them bright-eyed, naïve, eager to establish themselves and build a customer base. Murdoc had left more than a few of them high and dry after giving them a fraudulent check or some counterfeit notes. Most of them didn’t last long in the business anyway. He was doing them a favour by giving them a taste of disappointment early on, before they were in it long enough to discover how fraught it could be.
His hands were so sweaty that he almost swerved onto a footpath when he pulled up at the public loo he’d been directed to by the dealer. It was a small red-brick building, old and ragged, covered in graffiti and surrounded by trash. Not the sort of place anyone would enter for its intended use. Murdoc doubted this was the first time a drug deal had gone down here.
He pushed his car door open and stepped out, and it took all his willpower to remain upright through a wave of vertigo. He took several deep breaths and started to walk the short distance between himself and the public toilets. Despite the fact he’d parked within a few feet of it, he felt as though he’d trekked up the side of a mountain by the time he staggered inside and leaned heavily against a sink.
“Uh,” he heard from one of the cubicles, and he turned his head to find a blue-haired man sitting on one of the toilets with the lid down. Pants still on, thankfully. “Are you here to-?”
“Yeah,” said Murdoc quickly, turning so fast that he lost his balance. He stretched out an arm and caught himself on the rickety frame of a stall. It was filthy, gritty under his hand, and he made a small noise of disgust and wiped his palm on his trousers before turning to Stuart in search of his goods.
“Oh,” said Stuart. He really did look young. Maybe eighteen, nineteen. He’d probably be out of the business by twenty. He didn’t look like someone who needed to do this; he looked like a kid experimenting, trying on boots too big for him. “You feeling alright?” asked Stuart. “You seem a little, uh. Bad.”
‘Bad’. Murdoc rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine once you give me my fix.” He made a come-hither gesture with his fingers. “C’mon, give it.”
“Er, you have to pay me first. That’s how this works.”
Murdoc made an annoyed sound through his teeth and reached into his back pocket for his wallet, which was completely empty save for a cheque he’d prepared for this exchange. It was crumpled from being wedged so hastily into Murdoc’s cash compartment. He took it out, straightened it on his chest as best he could, and offered the slip of paper to Stuart. The boy hesitated before taking it out of his trembling hand.
“I thought it was gonna be cash.” He squinted down at the cheque, thick black eyebrows furrowed. “Wait, Matlock? I know that name.” His eyes flicked back up to Murdoc. “You’re Murdoc?”
“No,” said Murdoc, exasperated and desperate, licking his chapped lips. “Matlock. Says right there.”
“I know what it says,” said Stuart, a touch indignant. “I mean, you gave my friend a bum check ages ago, when he was visiting Stoke. His supplier was right pissed.”
Murdoc opened his mouth, and then closed it, a frustrated sound flitting between his teeth. He couldn’t really argue this wasn’t a bum check since Stuart clearly knew his real name.
“Fine,” he said caustically, trying and failing to snatch the cheque back. The little bastard held it out of reach before he could get a hand around it, and he was too weak to slap him upside the head for having the gall to play keep-away with him. “We’ll do an IOU instead.”
“No way,” said Stuart, scoffing. “You think I’m dumb?”
Murdoc’s lips compressed into a thin line. “I’m not the one doing drug deals in filthy public loos with strange men, kid. I mean, what if I had a gun on me? Or a knife?”
He made a sluggish movement toward the interior of his leather jacket and the pocketknife there, and Stuart yelped like a kicked dog and snatched his wrists out of the air. To Murdoc’s great frustration, he was too weak to extract himself, and all his tugging and writhing managed to do was send him collapsing in a heap onto the filthy floor. The cement connected hard with his knees and he winced. Stuart didn’t release his wrists even after it was evident Murdoc was too weak to continue the altercation. He just stared at Murdoc, his blue eyes wide and frightened.
Murdoc's head listed forward and Stuart made a strangled noise of alarm.
“Kid,” said Murdoc raggedly, teeth gritted. “Just-just-”
One of the kid’s hands slid into his leather jacket, and he didn’t manage to react in time to prevent Stuart from taking his pocketknife and tossing it across the room and into one of the chipped, yellowed sinks. It landed with a clatter loud enough to make Murdoc flinch.
“You got anything else on you?” asked Stuart, but he didn’t wait for an answer before continuing to pat Murdoc down. Once finished, he released Murdoc’s wrists and shifted on the toilet seat like he was preparing to leave.
Murdoc didn’t let him. Couldn’t let him. He weakly applied his weight to Stuart’s lap, head butting into Stuart’s stomach as he reached for the front of the boy's trousers.
“How ‘bout this?” He got the button open and zipper down with practiced ease, smiling up at Stuart with as much allure as he could muster. Which, admittedly, wasn’t much while he was sweaty and trembling from withdrawal. “I’ll give you the best blow job you’ve ever had, then you give me my fix. Sound good?”
It was honestly not the worst thing Murdoc had done for a hit.
Stuart stared down at him, rigid and pale, but Murdoc didn’t let that dissuade him. As far as he was concerned, if he wasn’t being pushed away, he must have been on the right track.
He closed his fingers around Stuart’s cock and the boy gave a choked-off little cry. “F-fuck,” he breathed, then curled his hand around Murdoc’s wrist, nails biting into Murdoc’s skin. But he didn’t push Murdoc away. He watched Murdoc like a wary animal, looking him up and down, gaze lingering on Murdoc’s mouth, his parted lips. While he didn’t release Murdoc’s wrist, he didn’t make any move to extract it, even when Murdoc began to stroke him to hardness.
He had a nicely sized cock. Big, thick, and heavy. Something Murdoc would have relished having in his mouth were he not raw and aching all over. It was a little hard to appreciate Stuart's impressive size with a migraine drumming through his skull.
He stroked until Stuart was fully hard, which didn’t take long at all. The kid must have liked what he saw. Now hard, his cock was almost the size of Murdoc's forearm, impressively big, and something Murdoc was going to struggle to take into his throat. He’d battered his gag reflex into submission years ago, but there wasn't much he could do about his throat's meagre width and depth.
“We have a deal?” he asked, eyes flicking up to Stuart.
Stuart seemed surprised at being addressed. After a moment of hesitation, he slid a hand into Murdoc’s hair and cupped his scalp with surprising tenderness, like Murdoc was a lover rather than a desperate junky preparing to suck him off for his next hit. “Uh, yeah. Y-yeah. That sounds good. The deal you proposed, I mean. It sounds- oh!”
Stuart spoke too much, so Murdoc silenced him with a quick stroke of his tongue up the underside of Stuart’s cock, grinding the tip against Stuart’s frenulum. The hand in his hair tightened and a breathy little noise of appreciation flew from Stuart’s lips. Sensitive. Probably not a virgin, but he’d certainly never slept with someone with anything resembling talent if that was enough to shake his composure. Murdoc might have laughed if he’d been in any mood for it.
He slid his hands to Stuart’s thighs, his palms hot and sweaty and catching on the fabric of Stuart’s jeans as he curled them there for stability. He swallowed a few times to try to generate some moisture before dipping forward and drawing Stuart’s cock into his mouth, taking care to cover his teeth with his lips. As Stuart's cock slid over his tongue, he closed his eyes and focused on sucking gently on the head and gliding his tongue over all the sensitive ridges and veins. Stuart gasped like he’d just been dunked in ice water and jerked his hips forward, and his cock ended up sliding so far into Murdoc’s mouth that it butted up against his soft palate. The suddenness of it choked Murdoc a little, but he adjusted easily enough. It wasn’t the first time he’d sucked off someone overeager. In fact, he’d had his face fucked on more than one occasion.
Stuart began to rock his hips, driving deeper into Murdoc’s throat with each thrust, so perhaps he was going to have his face fucked on this occasion too. He didn’t mind the thought. It was less effort, less exertion, and having his throat fucked until his vision swam and his ears popped would be a nice reprieve from the exhaustion and pain of his withdrawal. But he wasn’t one to give a lazy blowjob no matter how bad he felt, so he continued bobbing on Stuart's cock and hollowing his cheeks and inching Stuart toward the back of his throat. It was going to be a tight fit. Already, with just half of Stuart's cock wedged into him, his jaw was creaking and his breaths were barely whistling in around the girth of him. Most people he blew weren’t this anatomically gifted.
Undeterred, Murdoc descended lower, and lower, and Stuart made some truly obscene sounds with every inch he swallowed. Good thing no one except them were likely to use these toilets, because he wasn’t exactly being quiet.
“Fuck,” he moaned, his fingers closing around handfuls of Murdoc’s hair. His sneakers thumped on the concrete as Murdoc gave a particularly hard suck. “Fuck, I can’t believe this- can't believe you're the best blow job I’ve ever had.” It wasn’t much of a compliment since Stuart’s experience probably consisted of slack-jawed teenager girls who slobbered their way through the entire blow job, but Murdoc still found himself flushing with pleasure at the praise. It was rare that he received positive feedback, and he clung onto what little he did get like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.
He hollowed his cheeks and hummed to send little vibrations down the length of Stuart’s cock and the boy let out a ragged, “Oh, god,” which really made him feel accomplished. He smiled, lips stretching around the girth of Stuart’s cock, and opened his eyes to look up at Stuart’s flushed face and disorientated expression. Some sweat dotted his hairline and his lips were pink and bitten, likely in some failed effort to quiet himself. A pretty man. An attractive man. Someone Murdoc wouldn’t have minded inviting between his legs under different circumstances. He was assailed briefly by the image of Stuart on top of him, spearing him open, panting and whining and praising him – so good, you’re so good, Murdoc – but he wasn’t quite pathetic enough to proposition someone after blowing them for a fix. That would have to remain in the realm of fantasy.
He hummed once more, and Stuart responded by seizing either side of his head and driving his cock the rest of the way into his mouth, as deep as it could go, until Murdoc’s lips brushed the coils of blue hair at the base of his cock. The sudden deprivation of oxygen led to Murdoc choking and spasming, his fingers flexing on Stuart’s thighs, but he had done this before; he knew how to relax himself and accept the intrusion. He knew how to subsist on slithers of breath while someone pummelled the back of his throat. He let himself go slack in Stuart’s lap, sluggishly swirling his tongue while Stuart pistoned into him with a reckless hunger. He was moving like a goddamn jackhammer- clearly Murdoc had done a good job of working him up.
Stuart breathed hard and noisily through his nose as he sought his peak with thoughtless snaps of his hips. His grip on Murdoc’s hair tightened until Murdoc whimpered around him, and he was a little startled by how much that spurred the boy on, made him move faster, hungrier, needier. His eyes were wide, bright blue, staring down at him and drinking him in, and there was so much want in that gaze that Murdoc could have melted into it. It was almost enough to make him forget why he was doing this.
“You’re so good,” Stuart whispered raggedly. And it was sweet, really, that he was getting this worked up over a blow job in a filthy toilet stall, with the miasma of neglect and misuse thick in the air.
If this boy kept on selling, he was going to be eaten alive.
“So good,” Stuart continued, panting as he jerked his hips. His nails scraped Murdoc’s scalp. “So good, so handsome, you’re so fucking handsome, your mouth is so hot, you’re so wet inside, you- you-” Dirty talk clearly wasn’t his forte, but Murdoc found himself swelling in his trousers regardless. A rather inconvenient thing since he didn’t intend to get off anytime soon. He’d put himself into a drug-induced stupor to get rid of the malaise and shakes and then he’d worry about getting his rocks off.
It was getting hard to focus at this point, with so little air reaching his lungs. And while his mouth had started off unpleasantly dry, he now had a surplus of saliva gathering under his tongue and sliding in lines down his chin, which made gasping in breaths when he could even more difficult. Anyone with less talent than him might have started to asphyxiate on their own saliva by this point. But even dazed and disorientated, with blood rushing in his ears and black crawling at the edges of his vision, Murdoc knew how to keep himself breathing. Timed swallows, careful manoeuvring of his tongue. And he knew how to do it in such a way that it felt good, too. Less like an effort not to choke and more like an effort to please.
Stuart’s fingers raked through his hair and he abruptly pulled Murdoc against him, holding him in place with a grip deceptively strong for such a gangly young man. A tall one, granted, so perhaps that compensated. Stuart’s cock twitched in his throat and then Stuart was shuddering and sighing and forcing Murdoc to swallow as he spilled thick strings of come down Murdoc’s throat. It was practically a staple of his diet by this point, so he had no trouble swallowing every drop and licking any remains off the head of Stuart’s cock as Stuart drew out of Murdoc’s mouth.
Once the aftershocks of his climax had passed, Stuart sunk slowly back onto the yellowed seat of the toilet and let his head fall against the filthy bricks behind him. Murdoc remained on his knees, catching his breath and looking up at Stuart expectantly. It took the boy far, far too long to remember why he’d had his cock out.
“Oh, shit,” he breathed, the realization of what he’d just done coming over his face in a wave. Hormones: always a reliable way of lowering someone's inhibitions, and Murdoc had no desire to stick around long enough to find out just how distressed the boy would get about getting a blowjob from a junkie – and a male one at that.
“If you’ll hand me the coke, I’ll be going,” he said, raising a trembling hand.
Stuart looked at that hand like he’d just come at him with the pocketknife.
“I, oh, uh- god, mum’s going to be so mad, oh god.”
Murdoc rolled his eyes. “Not if you don’t announce it. The coke.” He wiggled his fingers, growing annoyed.
Stuart drew a baggie of coke from his jeans pocket and tossed it at Murdoc, sending it sailing into his chest rather than his hand, which Murdoc might have found demeaning were he not so thrilled to finally have relief in sight. Had he a little less pride, he probably would have snorted it off his fingers right then and there.
He swept the cocaine into his hand and stumbled to his feet, snatching his pocketknife out of the sink before exiting the public toilets. His gait was so slow and weak that Stuart emerged from the toilets before he managed to reach his car. While he’d enjoyed Stuart’s attention just a moment ago, he didn’t appreciate it now. The expression on Stuart's face wasn’t one anyone wanted to see directed at them. It made his throat tighten as he slipped into the driver's seat of his car and began to cut the cocaine into lines on his dashboard.
He’d only managed to snort one line when he heard a gentle rapping on his window. With a jolt, he snapped his hands around the steering wheel, preparing to drive off should he find himself confronted by a police officer, but he turned his head and it was Stuart’s bulky fist and wide blue eyes staring back at him. Murdoc swore under his breath and slowly wound down the window.
“What now?”
You aren’t going to tell anyone about this, right?”
Murdoc cocked his eyebrows at him. “You think I’m going to go around telling people I gave you a suck for coke?”
“Er, I guess not,” said Stuart, audibly flustered. “I think maybe you shouldn’t have more coke, actually. It doesn’t seem to be doing you any good. You probably shouldn’t drive either.”
He wanted to toss this kid down a manhole. “Right, appreciate the heartfelt advice, but I’m a little busy, so if you could just... fuck off, I’d appreciate that even more.”
“Oh. Okay. Sorry. I just- never mind.”
Shame such a nice cock was attached to such a pillock. Murdoc waited until Stuart had started trotting his way down the footpath before rolling his window back up and returning to his coke. His pain and tension started to recede partway through his second line. He’d need more drugs if he was to stave it off, but this would keep him for at least a few days, maybe a week if he spaced out his use. That would be long enough to find other arrangements.
It took him almost six months to transition from a coke addict to an alcoholic. Some people might have called that one step forward and two steps back, but Murdoc was of the opinion that being an alcoholic was far better than being addicted to coke. Much easier and cheaper to supply, slightly less detrimental to his health, and the stupor lasted longer.
Cocaine had been a colossal drain on his money as well. A vicious cycle of him buying drugs, running out, getting low, and then buying more drugs, until he had nothing but pennies left at the end of the month to spend on his budding musical career. Which was... non-existent right now, between the numerous failed bands and his current lack of equipment through which to build his magnum opus. He couldn’t buy any, either; not when the odd jobs he took brought in just enough to cover his father’s inflated rent for his single, raggedy room that he barely even occupied anyway.
But Murdoc wasn't about to let lack of funds get in the way of his dream. One heist was all he needed, he decided. Hop into a car, drive into a music store, collect everything he needed during the pandemonium, and leave. What could go wrong?
Well, for one thing, he ended up ramming his car right into the face of whoever was working the till that day. He watched their body fly through the air like a ragdoll and land with a thump among the rubble and fallen shelves. A keyboard slid down the side of a broken shelf and hit him in the stomach, like salting the wound, and Murdoc couldn’t help laughing at the comedic timing of it all. He slid out of the driver's seat to start collecting instruments (in retrospect, he probably should have come in from the side or something because he’d broken half the stock in the store) and cast his gaze over the fallen worker. The shock of blue hair made him stumble and fall over, right into the rubble, where he hit his knee on the corner of a brick and yelped as pain jarred up his leg.
Through his tears, he managed to confirm the identity of who he’d crashed into. His face was a little older, a little hairier, fine black whiskers sprouting just under his nose, but that was undoubtedly Stuart Pot, his dim-witted dealer from almost a year ago. Evidently, he’d stopped selling drugs and gone legitimate. But the world had chewed him up and spat him out regardless- or Murdoc had, rather, by ramming his car so hard into his face that one of his eyes was so dark that it looked like an empty void. Doubtful he’d be seeing out of that again anytime soon. He was still alive, twitching and groaning, head lulling, but he didn’t respond to Murdoc hovering over him or the sound of Murdoc’s voice.
“Whoops. Sorry, kid.” He laughed, got to his feet, and hobbled toward the equipment he wanted. Even as he got his hands around a keyboard, Stuart didn’t speak. “Things to do, places to be. Good luck with the, er. Eye. Heh.”
He turned with the guitar in hand, grinning from ear to ear. The smile promptly fell from his face when he saw a police officer standing at the shattered entrance to Uncle Norm’s Organ Emporium, with a gun levelled at him. Not one to take his chances with the itchy finger of law enforcement, Murdoc released the keyboard and raised his hands, wincing slightly as his prize slammed into the ground hard enough to crack open.
"Mr. Niccals. Haven't seen you around these parts in a while." The police officer smiled at him as she cast her eyes over Stuart's twitching body. "You've really screwed up this time, haven't you.”
That was clearly a rhetorical question, and he was tempted to answer it out of spite. But again: not one to test the itchy finger of law enforcement. “Would you believe I accidentally drove through the window?”
“No.”
Murdoc sighed. “Yeah, didn't think so." Well, wasn't he nice and fucked. But at least he wasn't quite as fucked as Stuart, who was now prone on the ground. "Turn around, hands behind my back, etcetera?"
"You got it," said the police officer.
Murdoc turned and presented his wrists, grimacing as cold metal closed around them.