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It's just too dry, but only just.
He says nothing about it.
It's better this way.
Just rumbles low in his throat and reaches behind him to slap at Stu's thigh.
Like spurring a horse, it jolts Stu into action. He wastes no time, setting an immediate pace somewhere between ‘too slow’ and ‘painfully fast’ that isn't quite right either, and he moves without rhythm, without cadence, nails digging into Murdoc's hips without care.
It's perfect.
There is something, he's decided as Stu rams back into him at the wrong angle and he hisses, there is something about being wanted. It doesn't matter that Stu sucks at this, sucked at it when he was twenty and still sucks at it over two decades later, because he wants. Because he is wanted, because Stu had come to him and asked him to stick it in his arse, and Satan, the wanting makes up for everything else. Stu leans over him, breathes wetly into his ear, moans his name broken and sweet, and it's fucking divine.
A hand, huge and gangly with new calluses from his recent bent with guitar, trails over his side, over the softness of his stomach, up to his chest where he mashes at it like a groupie's breast.
The wanting, Murdoc thinks again as the breathing against the side of his face quickens. The fingers carding through the thick blanket of chest hair do too.
Satan, how he is wanted.
“M'close,” Stu mumbles against his hair, stuttered with every thrust, “M'close, Muds.”
“Don't call me that,” he snaps like a knee-jerk reaction, but that plays into his sweet fantasy as well—Stu seems to know it, from the hissy little laugh he gets between grunts. It almost distracts Murdoc from what's going on between his legs, before realization and desperation come together like a car crash and his own hand flies to his untouched cock.
When Stu says he's close, it means he's got about nine or so pumps left in the tank before he finishes inside, hips pressed to ass, panting like he's run a marathon.
He's at three, if Murdoc’s count is correct, and Murdoc huffs out his own groan as he tries to stroke himself in time with Stu’s half-assed thrusts.
‘Or so’ seems to be the correct number of the day, as he gets to six and grunts out another soft, “Muds, Muds, Muds.” At seven, the hand on his chest squeezes too tight, damn near threatening to rip his nipple off; at eight, he keeps his hips tight against Murdoc, the weight of Stu’s entire body crunching his spine to the bed as he cums.
God—no, Satan, it's enough, it's enough, his roughly-fucked hole still clenching around Stu and the lips against his ear and that stupid nickname, it's enough.
Teeth gnashing at the bedsheet, Stu’s hips still rocking against him as he selfishly rides the aftershocks of his own orgasm, Murdoc spills over his own hand.
A beat or two and Stu sighs sweetly as Murdoc goes boneless, as if he had jacked him to the finish line himself instead of just humping him like a rabbit. Finally, he pulls out, just as graceless as he'd jammed it in, and flops onto the mattress next to him, patting around for the smokes he'd left close by—he finds the pills first, and pops two of them dry instead. Murdoc watches, rolls himself over gingerly because he knows it'll hurt once the endorphin-high comes down, feels his spine unravel and stretch as he lays flat on his back to match—a pair, the two of them, as they've always been.
His caution must show on his face. Stu even kindly offers him one of his little blue pills, but the pain's not bad enough to warrant it yet. “Cig,” he croaks instead, and Stu renews the search for them, finding the pack by his head and the lighter under his shoulder. He lights it between his own lips, inhaling deep to get it started before passing it to Murdoc—a kiss of its own, he supposes, as he draws deep himself and lets the nicotine settle his bones.
“Y'alright?” Stu murmurs, more gentle than he fucks, and he doesn't wait for an answer until he gets to the inevitable question—”Was it good?”
He's not sure why Stu feels the need to have his cock graded like a thesis paper every time they fall into a bed (or a studio couch, or a pub bathroom) together. Oh, to be a fly on the wall of his dressing room when he brings girls back after a show—does he ask them too, and get all bricked up when they say yes with enthusiasm and beg for more? If he says yes, does he get it missionary this time to save his knees?
No, Murdoc has half a mind to say just for the cruelty of it over the honest truth, but that'll keep Stu from doing it again.
Satan forbid, it might even get him to put effort into it.
“S'fine,” he settles on, passing the cigarette back in a show of good will. “Got off, didn't I?”
Stu accepts the smoke and the answer, although his eyes, ghostly white today, never leave Murdoc's mouth.
Wanted, he thinks once more as he makes a show of running his tongue over his teeth, wondering if the hitch in Stu’s breath means he's thinking the same thing.