#murdoc is his own warning | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jackdelroys · 6 months ago

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my reason for reason. | murdoc/reader

summary; when had be become so obedient?

wc; 1.4k

notes; a semi-sequel to @wojcheks' high on you. thank you soo much v for being my creative collaborative on this! we've been developing our own little murdoc lore/canon and it's been a blast. 🫶

no warnings, unless you count the usual way too flowery language, fluff, & metaphors of murdoc as a guard/attack dog. maybe like one (1) suggestive joke in the form of cocktail names. established relationship, no use of y/n or pronouns for reader.

It was…hot.

Not the way his lean muscles flexed, nor the way his hair stuck to his face just briefly before he pushed it back, slicked on his head as he shook the rest of the loose dampness away, finding the perfectly shaded spot to rest his arms half draped over the concrete edge as he gazes so obviously towards you.

It was the weather, of course, thick with the humidity from the water in which he was swimming.

The sunglasses you're wearing shields your gaze from being traced. To anyone else, you were an innocent sunbather by the poolside, listening to the local pop-trash channel frequency.

To him, you looked fucking perfect, laid nearly bare in the sun, a sight all for him to revel in.

Once in a while, a server will stop at your side, and with a melodic “Mur-mur?” you might get his attention for his own order. The way his name falls from your barely parted lips sounds so pretty and he'd be the first one to point that very thing out to you, always at attention when he hears it, and it churns his stomach to even dare to wonder if anyone else's name ever sounded so sweet on your tongue. But then again, he's also three sex on the beaches deep -- a cocktail you can't tell if he's ordering for himself, or for its namesake -- and before long he finds himself fixated on the rest of your serene expression, too.

He drinks in the way you were sat poised so unbothered by the temperature and so calm, and with the heavy heat there were few passersby to interfere with his blatant, repeated ogling of you between quick dives to cool himself.

You'll peek over at him sometimes, sure to pull down your glasses enough for him to see too, and when you do he always raises an eyebrow back playfully. Though he doesn't say anything, it's obvious he'll be fully accepting of the mental praise you're offering him with all the words behind your expression that you won't say, not in public at least.

He finds himself awaiting these praises soon, entirely subconsciously of course, but nonetheless he's habitually pausing his thoughts more and more frequently to steal looks towards you. Like some kind of dog, he thinks, and at the idea an abrupt nausea crawls its way up his throat; And the vodka surely is tainting his judgment because rather than the deeply buried, wicked grievance he used to take with this, he almost prides himself in it now: He's yours as much you are his. Still, half of himself takes aversion to the idea even when the tamed and trained voice in the back of his mind feels some kind of contentment within it. He tries to not ever think too much about it, because when the feeling is nice, it really is nice. But when he's in his own mind, it feels wrong, it's simply wrong without you there to prod at his thoughts alongside himself. He misses when he was alone. He also resents it. He wouldn't ever give you, your touch, your words, your delightful innocence and everything you are and have become to him up for the world, and he despises that part of himself for ever even suggesting such an idea, even if it's one he used to toy with quite often.

His drink is suddenly a lot less appealing.

He pulls himself out of the pool, drawn to you in some silent penance for even allowing his brain to wander to such terrible things. He can't hate you, no matter how hard the malfunctioning part of his personality tries. Long ago had he decided to put all of the effort it pushed forth into forcing you away towards holding you close. You are imprinted in him, now and forever, and he can't get enough.

He sits himself wordlessly at the end of your seat, and though you stare still at the way the poolwater clings to him, glistening in the slits of sunlight his many scars that speckled his skin you ignore him, feigning sleep maybe, chest rising and falling rhythmically just for a longer look at him. He can't see your eyes past the tint of your glasses, but the way your fingers reach barely towards him as his head lulls back so purposefully, so methodically, his low groan as he stretches reminiscent of those of only his most instinctive pleasures sells to him your true intents. The ghost of arrogant satisfaction crosses his expression and he mumbles something lowly, something you barely make out.

“...Staring, sweetheart.”

You scoff, finally swiping the towel from his chair -- which has plenty of space on it too, you are sure to remind him -- and offer your arms outstretched to him anyways. He so eagerly leans into your touch, fingers tousling the moisture from his hair. He allows you to style it as you please, a priceless sort of privilege, and you settle for a way that will frame his face as particularly handsome once it dries in the heat, you think.

He reaches for his own sunglasses, slipping them up his nose and smiling, sharpened canines poking just over his bottom lip.

You take care in the way you commit the sight of him like this to memory.

Sat between your legs, he leans back, and though you muster some semblance of protest, it's halfhearted and so obviously for show; being a showman himself he counters, making himself quite comfortable laying against you in the sun.

His fingers trace up your leg, to your knee and then back so feathery and light you might've mistaken him for someone different, not your Murdoc surely -- a thought you immediately shake away, this was your Murdoc, your Murdoc no matter what way he presented himself to anyone elsewhere -- and you see the way he closes his eyes behind his glasses contentedly.

He hums along with the song, as though he's heard it hundreds of times. He was so smoothly charming, when he wanted to be.

Damn him.

“You're soaking up my sun.”

The way his fingers walk themselves back up your knee, the way he chuckles airily, tells you awfully clearly where his intentions to move lie. As though he knows you're lying, so weak willed in your attempts to push him away he doesn't budge, not physically, not mentally.

Damn him again, for being right.

He laps at every scrap of attention you toss him, loyal and trained and collared and oh so sweet until he's sicced -- he can't stop his tongue from rolling over his teeth. He's housebroken. He wants to laugh at that.

There's a low growl in his throat, one he doesn't realize is building until your fingers that have woven into his hair draw it out of him.

Since when was he so obedient?

When he looks up at you, you run a finger under his chin, he watches you expectant of a kiss but in the same breath he's at attention elsewhere, a distant splash into the pool and because he's heeled he's almost asking where his treat is; He's been awfully well-behaved since your plane landed three days ago, and he feels deserving.

You must notice this, because when he scowls at the wandering eyes of some other guest adjacent to you both, you click your tongue.

“Be careful, my love, you know what happens to dogs that bite.”

“I've been good so far,” he counters lowly, pressing his mouth to the inner of your thigh where his head still lays. Your breath hitches, and it doesn't get past him.

“Good,” the hand still in his hair tightens just enough to make him grin at the sting, “Keep it up and I might let your leash loose for a bit.”

He hums giddily, and your smile almost makes him dizzy. He hates that he loves these games you play, together and with each other.

You're brushing a stray hair from his eyes now, and reminding him of your dinner reservations for tonight, not that he hears you over the way his nerves are burning from your touch and wanting to whine at its loss as you maneuver yourself around his body to stand. He finally seems to come back after a moment, sitting up too and remembering who he was.

His arms are lifting you then, and though you fight weakly, you're laughing too much to really try and stop him.

The annoyed “Murdoc!” is the last thing he hears before he tosses you into the pool. He's quick to follow as he captures you in a kiss, the water almost as refreshing as the feeling of his lips on yours.

#i looooove the dog metaphor for him. can you tell.#murdoc x reader #dennis murdoc #david dastmalchian #murdoc macgyver #macgyver #writing ||

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wojcheks · 7 months ago

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Stuck — Murdoc x F!Reader

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: NSFW, enemies to fucking, unhealthy relationships, undercover mission gone wrong, reader works for an unspecified organization, sexual tension, rough treatment, tied up, dub!con (?) (reader wants it but physically can't leave), choking, biting, fingering (f!receiving), PIV, unprotected sex, blood, possessiveness, murdoc is his own warning. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.1k 𝐀/𝐍: first smut i've ever posted!! the david dastmalchian obsession finally got me y'all. while looking for fics of his characters i decided to write my own. i only watched two episodes with this man so i'm pretty sure he's incredibly ooc. hope it's enjoyable regardless! ❤

You were told you’d be working with a wild card during this mission.

They assured you it wouldn’t affect the overall difficulty of the job. In fact, your partner had excellent skills in all the areas useful for achieving your objective. Weapons expert, proficient in hand-to-hand combat, knowledgeable, and calculated in his actions. All good things in your line of work.

What you didn't know was that they assigned you Murdoc.

And that was information that one needed to know prior to running face first into the aforementioned man. Especially during a job that would undoubtedly involve violence. For fuck’s sake, you would tear your handler a new one after this was over and done with.

Your first instinct was to put a fist through the hitman’s face.

A fair assumption was that he was here to derail you or, at the very least, complicate things. It wouldn’t be the first time he showed up simply to cause mayhem and be a thorn in your side.

Snarling, you threw his body against the wall and the assassin’s head hit the concrete with a sickening thud. With a forearm over his throat, you pressed down, immobilizing him.

You could admit that you were being a little too aggressive than necessary about it.

His dark eyes sparked with an unsettling light, something so unthreatened and unalterable about him it made your hair raise. He wasn't intimidated, you could tell. He treated you more like a nuisance to wave away, not an equal.

You felt his throat move against your skin when he swallowed, and it made you wanna press down harder.

“Calm down, sweetheart. The night's just getting started,” Murdoc murmured while leering at you from behind a wall of long eyelashes. They were so pronounced you wondered if he was wearing mascara.

His eyes suddenly grew wider in a mockery of fear, tone climbing to a falsetto, "Oh, dear god, what did I ever do to deserve this treatment?"

His voice grated on your nerves on the best of days, and this was a pretty bad one. A scoff rose up in your throat, but you crushed it before it could escape. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

The clear irritation that lowered your tone into a harsh whisper, however, was unmistakable. A small twitch of his cheek indicated that the hitman found your reaction highly amusing. He made a move as if to raise his hands towards you, but you clamped down on his trachea harder, and he stopped. And as the meaning of your words sunk in, you could almost see the gears start turning behind that smug facade of his.

“Murdoc. Stop thinking of ways to make this more difficult for me, and tell me plainly. What’s going on?”

A shade of disappointment marred his face before disappearing as quickly as it showed. “Come on, agent, you know me. Where would be the fun in that?”

“Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” the reprimand barely left your mouth before Murdoc’s fingers wrapped around your elbow and painfully bent it at an angle, removing it from his windpipe with a sharp tug.

Wide-eyed indignation contorted your face as your places suddenly reversed and Murdoc crushed you into the wall, not holding back either.

You weren’t some dainty, fragile damsel in need of rescue–there was hardened muscle hidden under your evening attire. And yet, Murdoc still overpowered you, both in terms of height and sheer strength.

Your nostrils flared in anger, and you threw your body weight against his grip to dislodge it.

He made a disapproving sound and let his weight fall on the point of contact between the two of you, driving the sharp parts of his slender fingers into the softness of your neck. You tried to suck in a breath and rasped instead.

“Now, now, you’ll either continue to throw your little tantrum, which won't end well, or start being useful by helping me,” as his words caught up to him, a displeased crease appeared between his brows.

“Although, using the term ‘help’ would be a dire exaggeration. I could be finished here long before you pick yourself up off the floor.”

You knew he was aiming to hurt your ego and rile you up, throwing you off balance around him seemed to be the primary goal. If you lost control and started lashing out against his mockery, the man would undoubtedly win.

He usually attempted it when the two of you ran into each other; it was a path well trodden, with various results.

Admitting it never even crossed your mind, but you were aware, deep down, that he was damn good at it. The words he used were one thing, and as cutting and shrewd in his judgements as he was, sometimes all it took for you to lose it was the damned look on his face. Always so superior and above it all. Like he wasn’t even human.

It drove you nuts.

You geared up for another round of verbal sparring before parsing his meaning. You hissed out the next words; the pressure exerted on your throat proved to be a pretty good deterrent from speaking. “Y-you’re the partner, the informant, that I’m... I’m supposed to be working with?”

Something in your face must have betrayed the distaste stirred up by the idea because Murdoc chuckled and then finally let go of your neck to bow with a flourish.

You coughed loudly, to get rid of the intrusive feeling of somebody being in control of your breathing. You massaged the bruised flesh where Murdoc’s gloves likely left indentation marks in their wake, then rolled your eyes at his theatrics.

“I don’t think letting your guard down around me is a good idea,” you said dryly when he finally straightened up from the exaggerated pose.

“Oh, sure it is,” another wide grin split his mouth, and you gritted your teeth in muted frustration. “And oh so thrilling, I assure you.”

You didn’t grace that with an answer.

Ten minutes and one barely civil conversation with your HQ later, you and Murdoc walked arm in arm into the towering building.

With only a few minutes to spare, you didn’t even find time to touch up your make-up. Or double check your gun. And as luck would have it, what you were infiltrating was a ball. With dancing included.

You'd groan out loud, but you knew your companion had a biting comment prepared if you so much as blinked wrong. Murdoc seemed thoroughly entertained by the whole debacle and made no effort to hide it, strutting along with all the subtlety of a battering ram.

It was supposed to be his strong suit, being a shadow or whatever, but driving you up the wall must haven taken priority.

In fact, there seemed to exist nothing that made him giddier than getting a reaction out of you, for whatever accursed reason.

“Now, wife,” his lip twitched at the word, “how about we get this party started?”

“How about you never call me that again?”

“And blow our cover? I would never do that to you.”

You glanced towards him. He caught you instantly, his dark piercing gaze dedicated to not letting you get away with anything.

Those dilated pupils peering from beneath half-open eyelids were anything but easy to withstand, but you held your ground. That is, until he gave you a slow once-over, complete with a too-long pause focusing on your cleavage.

“You are infuriating,” you snapped and whipped your head away in the other direction, barely managing not to raise your hand to cover the gap in your clothing.

The man only drew closer and raised his own arm towards you in an inviting (taunting, something inside you whispered) gesture.

“I have my charm. Shall we?”

—

“Would you let go of me, you animal?” While you tried to keep the hissing to a minimum, he wasn't making it easy.

And Murdoc’s hold on you didn’t release, obviously, the words entirely ignored. You expected nothing less.

The leather of his gloves was smooth and firm against your skin, colder than expected, artificial feeling. The sensation was unsettling, a barrier between you that you'd normally welcome with open arms, but something felt different tonight. Instead, you wished he’d take them off, bare skin on bare skin.

The visual had its… appeal.

Even if the man it centered on did not.

You stopped pulling away to not attract more attention from the surrounding people. A couple on your left already began to whisper while unsubtly pointing towards you. Making everyone think that they were witnessing a domestic dispute was a terrible way of staying unnoticed, even Murdoc had to know that.

He didn’t seem to care about it at all.

He pulled harder until you had no choice but to step closer towards him. Your palm fell on his chest, breath catching in your throat.

You never really noticed just how much he towered over you when in close quarters, and you wished you still hadn't. Sticking out your chin was a childish move, but having no control over your present movements brought that out in you.

Where you stood wasn’t a ballroom exactly, but the lofty ceilings and ornate columns lining the walls gave a strong impression of one. Grandiose was one word for it. Over-the-top was another.

Massive mirrors adorned the sides, and you caught a glimpse of your silhouette, partially obscured by the imposing shape of the man gripping your side. You shivered and turned away, oblivious to Murdoc's curious gaze following.

You skimmed the crowd in an attempt to locate the person you were after. It wasn't just to distract from the heat that image caused. Obviously.

“Enjoying yourself?” The singsong lilt of Murdoc’s voice coming from above drew your attention. You reluctantly looked up, ready to chastise him for his pestering; there were things at stake here more important than his pathological need to feel superior.

With languid steps, he swirled you softly to the side, and then pressed you into his chest, his grasp the very opposite of gentle. His fingers were demanding, leaving no room for physical distance.

It felt like a display.

Like he was showing you off.

He had to bend over to reach properly, the tips of his fingers running over the gap in your dress, moving the red material to the side, exposing more skin. You grabbed onto a lapel of his coat, feeling shaken from it.

Some strange stupor fell over you. Staring up at the length of Murdoc’s neck, watching him breathe in and out, the rhythm was almost hypnotic.

You had to dispel it, needed to focus. There was a tremor in your voice, one you hoped he'd take for anger.

“Did you forget why we’re here? It isn’t some fun little outing concocted for your amusement–”

“–I’d beg to differ–”

“–but a mission of significant importance to the security of–”

“–I thought this was a date–”

“–individuals invaluable to not only my organization but society as a whole–”

Murdoc abruptly leaned forward, cutting you off. “Do you even listen to yourself anymore? You’re really starting to sound like a talking head for your little agency, sweetheart, and that’s not very attractive.”

Biting down on a “go fuck yourself”, you turned, lips touching his cheek as you answered. “I don’t recall ever asking for your opinion, Murdoc. I think it’s better if you refrain from sharing it in the future.”

He caught your eyes with an empty smile, a shark showing his teeth. “Zero promises.”

—

You didn’t end up dancing for long before everything went to shit.

Splitting off from your partner for the night gave you some room to breathe. It also provided a unique opportunity for an assailant to knock you out cold in a deserted hallway.

Later you’d curse yourself for making such a rookie mistake—never split up without letting the other person know—but at the time you weren’t thinking clearly, a little preoccupied with things. You weren’t prepared for it, was the point, and you paid for that mistake dearly.

A sharp acute pain in the back of your skull jolted you awake. There was a building pressure behind your eyes and a pounding headache that turned your stomach.

You felt sick, and that wasn’t a good sign.

One failed attempt to open your eyes later, you realized what must have happened. Your previously done up hair was tangled with a makeshift blindfold, the cloth covering your line of sight. A twin piece wedged into your mouth stopped you from screaming for help.

Trying to push it out with your tongue brought only frustration, alongside a coughing fit.

Too much time couldn’t have passed, right?

You truly loathed the idea, but still dearly hoped that Murdoc was on his way to get you.

If someone told you a few hours ago that you’d ever count on Murdoc for back-up however, you would have laughed at them.

But life has a funny way of fucking with people, and this must've been karma for all the times you talked back to your boss. That's what he'd say, at least.

And with your shitty luck, the hitman was already gone, sporting a martini in some luxurious hotel suite, ogling strippers, or whatever men like him did to relax. Shooting innocents for fun was more likely.

That measly hope was dashed when a small groan reached your ears. A familiar chuckle followed, close nearby.

There was a hand wrapping around your wrist and you scrambled backwards, heart-rate skyrocketing. Trying to get away from the touch proved unsuccessful–your hands were connected to a chain, which was connected to a wall, keeping you firmly in place.

Deep breaths.

Looking for information was your first priority in a crisis, so you moved a hand over the ground, searching for anything to use. It was smooth but with loose gravel in places, like the coating of an underground parking lot, or more likely, a basement.

Attempting to calm down the thundering beating of your heart, you leaned back against the firmness, letting long fingers caress the inside of your wrist.

“M–uh–rdoc?” Your attempt at words was muffled and barely audible, but distinct enough.

“The one and only,” the assassin's response came back loud and clear–no obstruction in its way, a luxury you weren't afforded.

For a split second, you entertained the idea that he knocked you out cold and dragged your unconscious body down here to do god knows what. It didn't seem beyond him.

Fingers clamped down on your pulse point, forcefully grabbing your attention. "You're tied up, agent, and I can help you with that, but you'll have to push that ego aside for a moment."

A protest rose in your throat.

“Be a good girl and do as I say, got it?”

With a swallow, you stopped. The near silence of the room made it impossible to tell if the assassin noticed your reaction or not.

You weren't sure how close he was. How much attention he was paying. Dealing with this strange thing that's been chasing you all night was the last thing you wanted to do.

Murdoc's voice was calm and in control, a tone that inspired confidence and trust—emotions you were, as a rule, reluctant to feel towards him. But you had no choice. This was the fastest way to get out of your restraints, so, keeping your worries in check, you nodded assent.

Seemingly able to both move around and see, he hummed his acknowledgement.

“Good girl.”

“Now, scoot over to the right, yeah, just like that, use your legs. Keep going until you hit my side, you're almost there,” he directed, clearly aiming for something.

A stream of soft murmurs of apology filled the air at the pained noises you made when dragging your ankle. Someone clearly bent it at a shitty angle when they were attaching the chain, and you weren't sure if it was twisted or fractured. It fucking hurt though.

The pain must've made you delirious, because Murdoc was not the sort of man to know what an apology even was.

“Now put your leg up, the right one, try to sit up and then turn your body around. God, sweetie, it's been a while since I've seen good old-fashioned chains… not even handcuffs, they have us in chains,” Murdoc's voice ended in a high-pitched giggle, disbelief mixing with mirth at the absurdity of it.

You successfully followed directions and suddenly found yourself sitting on his propped up leg, balancing on it; your dress riding up on either side of your hips from the clumsy movements. Goosebumps rose in the cold air's wake.

Your face heated at the image you must have made, all wobbly and sweaty, desperate for guidance, barely covered up by the torn dress. Everything on display for Murdoc.

It became hard to breathe.

“That's right, just scoot closer, so I can reach you,” the tone of his voice was lower now, not quite a whisper, but close enough to make you shiver.

Keeping balance with arms bent behind you and wrists tied together was not easy. More soft pained noises, more maneuvering into position and you slid down, your ass landing directly on the hitman's lap.

Was that a gun in his pocket–?

“That's perfect, baby, just a little bit closer, so I can get rid of that pesky gag,” he grunted, sounding momentarily caught off-guard. “You do look good in it, though, I have to admit.”

Incapable of hitting him square in the jaw, you resigned yourself to leaning forward instead.

Curious fingers ran through your tangled hair, fingernails catching against your skin in exploratory touches, until finally making their way lower, towards the gag. Moments of fiddling later, the gag was gone and you could speak.

So you did. “What the fuck, Murdoc, are your hands free?”

“Shhh, agent, what if they hear us?” The way his voice caught on a snigger, bereft of any actual worry, threw a gallon of gasoline under the low level rage that's been burning in your chest the whole evening.

“Are you fucking kidding me, you fucker?"

It hurt, just how much he didn't care.

“We could die here, in this stupid basement, surrounded by nothing but trash and bound in some medieval ass chains, because you’d rather play around than do something useful for once!” Your voice grew louder and louder, and being unable to see his no doubt self-satisfied expression made it significantly worse.

“I’m asking you to help me, just once, just this one single time, you asshole. To put my well-being over your own, think of someone else but yourself! And take this stupid blindfold off me–Please–” You were on the verge of begging now, voice breaking on a plea.

A long stretch of nothing followed, disturbed only by your heavy breathing. Then, a light trace of fingertips over your cheekbone. “I didn’t know you trusted me so much, agent.”

“What–?”

Wet lips crashed into yours and Murdoc grabbed a fistful of your hair, pressing you against him. His smell filled your senses, something sharp and spicy, with an undercurrent of leather. The sound that left you was embarassing.

His palm was so big it encircled the back of your head effortlessly, fingers unkind in their urgency. He jostled your wound and you struggled within his grasp, trying to pull away with a distressed whine. Unable to see, unable to move, your body overcompensated for the lack of senses, making it feel like he was pressing into an exposed nerve. "Mu–urdoc–”

The groan made him pull away, sticky red smeared all over his hand now. He looked at it and chuckled. "Ah, they got you good, sweetheart. Let me make it worse.”

He didn't sound apologetic at all, and stuck his mouth to the underside of your jaw, sucking on the sensitive flesh. Tongue lapping up the saltiness of your skin, he let out a satisfied groan, hand wrapping around your neck to keep you from moving.

You let out another stifled whimper, part of you wanting to pull away from his possessive grip. The other part knew it would leave a mark and craved it more than anything.

Head falling back, your chest rose with laboured breaths, small sounds of exhilaration falling from your mouth. “Fucking hell–Ah–”

His other palm grabbed your breast, kneading it forcefully, wringing more gasps out of you. You felt his lips turn up in gratification against your tender flesh.

“Does that feel good?” His usually airy tone was raspy now, the gruff whisper making you shudder against his torso. “Tell me.”

You couldn't stop it; your hips ground down onto his own, dragging against the growing hardness beneath you. The emptiness inside you was infuriating, and you couldn't even reach down to relieve the pressure. You needed him now.

A loud cry left you when Murdoc bit down punishingly on your throat and gripped your chin between his fingers. He pressed his lips against yours before speaking, as if he couldn't stop himself.

“Fucking tell me, agent. Tell me what I should do with you. So powerless, all tied up, mine to control. I could do anything, so what will it be?”

“Murdoc, please–”

“Please what?” Cold air hit your skin as he pulled the dress up and slapped the back of your thigh, then snapped his fingers twice. “Focus, agent, right here, focus on me.”

This was all wrong; the way his gloved hand rubbed the stinging spot afterwards, his demanding tone, just how wet you could feel yourself becoming the more he touched you. The more he made you his.

“Touch me, please,” the words came out as a whisper, and were met with another chuckle.

“No no no no, sweet girl, that's not good enough. You gotta work for it.”

You couldn't escape, so you lowered your head into his shoulder, hoping to somehow disappear.

“Don't hide.” He yanked the blindfold off and threw it to the side, moving your head up so he could catch your gaze.

Despite everything happening between you, the mercenary looked near unbothered. His hand on your face felt steady, his breathing only slightly elevated, an expression on his face that you could only call triumphant.

It made you burn.

Your lipstick was smeared over his mouth, the red streaks physical proof of the way he crushed your lips together. You wanted to sink your teeth into his flesh and tear, a visceral representation of what he made you feel.

If your hands weren't bound, you'd be shoving them against his chest and running your fingernails down, marking him as yours too.

As it was, you only had your words left.

"Just fuck me, Murdoc, or do you need written instructions?"

The smug smile he sent your way was answer enough.

He grabbed the dark red material of your dress and tore the bottom part in half, a sharp exhale leaving your chest at the action. Then he stroked your ass, roughly stretched it and parted your legs, toying with the muscle.

You felt beyond exposed, a butterfly pinned to a board. Hair in disarray, flimsy panties not enough cover against forceful fingers and the hitman’s searing gaze. Naked planes of skin kept growing more and more red from the pleasure he wrung out of you. His hand reached between your thighs, and you closed your eyes.

He openly stared, drinking you in. Sharp canines peeked from behind his lips, mouth half open in captivation, and the black strands of hair fell over his eyes.

"What a sight you are," Murdoc murmured and palmed you over the thin material, fingers gathering moisture that soaked through it already.

You bit down on your lip and moved against his broad fingers, your muscles straining from keeping upright for so long.

He kept looking at your face and cataloging every little expression that passed over it, his eyes ablaze with a frenzy, an expression that in any other situation would make you shudder in fear.

Hell, it still did.

Impatiently, he pulled the material to the side and easily sank two fingers inside you, moving them in and out with a beckoning movement, rubbing against your clit until you let out a sob.

His wrist grew still for a moment, watching you grow frustrated in his lap, twisted satisfaction burning in his gaze. Then he added another finger, plunging all three as deep as they would go.

“Fuck, Murdoc, you shit–!”

He giggled and shushed you, "Stay still."

"Fucking bastard–"

"You telling me you don’t like this? You're not a whore who gets off on getting finger-fucked by her enemy?"

You wailed as he hit a spot inside you. “Shut the f-fuck–up–”

“Aw, but you don’t want me to, do you?” He shot forward, pressing his face to yours, hot breath hitting your lips as he continued, “I’m gonna make you cum on my fingers, agent, and then I’m gonna force them down your throat. Would you like that?”

Keening growing louder at the words, you moved your hips faster, panting against him, already nodding your head before realizing.

“I thought so,” the thrusting of his fingers grew quicker and you writhed in his lap, unbothered by what you looked like, only chasing your release with a single-minded determination.

Every once in a while your ass moved over Murdoc’s still clothed cock and he let out a pained-sounding hiss, his grip on your throat growing tighter.

You’d feel victorious if you weren’t so out of it.

Murdoc wrenched his fingers out of you and licked the moisture off, closing his eyes in pleasure. "God, you taste so good. How am I ever supposed to let you go?"

The sudden emptiness made you panic, and you caught his mouth in a kiss, urging him to continue. You could taste the slight saltiness from his fingers, your own flavour.

He pulled away from you with a laugh, then hissed again when you licked the side of his throat.

“Patience, agent, patience.” The grip on your neck disappeared and you heard his zipper open, a relieved exhale following.

The flicking of his wrist kept going for a few more seconds before he pulled out and ripped the flimsy fabric of your underwear off entirely. With an arm around your waist, he steadied you, before pressing the head of his cock forward.

At first, there was a dull sensation of resistance, Murdoc being bigger than you expected. But before you could protest, your cunt gave way, and he slipped in, the fullness and drag on your insides making you tighten around him.

The man rocked into you, his arm pressing your bodies so close together you could feel every laboured breath he took. You wanted to rip off the coat he was wearing, taste the naked skin over his ribs on your tongue.

You barely even noticed the changing gravity as you got pushed into the ground, your back painfully dragging against the rubble.

“I wanna spread your legs and eat you out until all you can think of is getting filled up to the brim,” Murdoc sounded almost delirious now, his hips speeding up, “wanna bury myself in you and keep going until you’re screaming–”

You encircled his waist with your legs, the pain of moving your ankle getting lost in the white noise that filled your head. You wanted him closer, you needed him closer.

Every time he pushed back in you squeezed him harder, wanting the stretch, urging him to thrust faster, squirming when he hit that spot inside you. It was almost too much, waves of pleasure twisting your insides, breathing near impossible.

"You'll feel me for days, agent, won't be able to look in the mirror without remembering my cock deep inside you," he groaned loudly, pulling you up into his lap without stopping the movement of his hips.

He bit down on your collarbone, leaving a red imprint of his teeth behind.

"Wanna mark you, scar you, make it so no one will ever touch you again–"

Your fingernails bit into the palm of your hand, his rasping voice pushing you over the edge. Knowing that you made him sound that way, that you brought out something desperate and reckless, a frenzied stream of litanies, from a man like Murdoc.

That was what did it.

Your legs tensed and clamped over his thighs, and you let out a string of curses. “FuckfuCKFUCK! Please–M-Murdoc, I–!”

He covered your mouth with his own and swallowed the shrill sounds, kisses turning brutal as you trembled in his arms. First his tongue ran over your teeth, then he bit down on your lower lip until the skin broke, a small stream of red immediately smudging between your lips. The sting sent a pulse down to your cunt, sucking Murdoc's cock in deeper.

He kept thrusting even as you stiffened, insides clenching around him like a vice, and with a short bark of your name he spilled himself on your inner walls.

Your exhausted body was pressed against his chest and you were empty for a moment. No worries, no thoughts. The aftershocks wiped your head clean of everything.

Your torn dress fell off your shoulders, but you didn't notice.

When you came to, your wrists were free, and the two of you were laying side by side on the floor.

Murdoc was staring at you like the cat that swallowed the canary; strands of hair were sticking out of place and a thin sheen of sweat covered his face, making his skin look glossy. It made him look so young, but you knew better.

His fingers kept running over the red imprint on your chest, eyes occasionally glancing at your scratched up wrists. He seemed... content. Some of that ever-present frantic energy looked to be gone.

You exhaled softly, the man's lips grabbing your attention. There was a redness there, lipstick or blood, and you weren’t sure which option was more appealing. Either way, you couldn’t take your eyes off it.

With an unsteady hand, you ran a finger through it, captivated by the sight, and the feeling of warm, malleable flesh.

Murdoc almost seemed human like this.

In a deliberately slow move, he ran his tongue over the tip of your finger and licked the ruddiness off. Grinned again.

God, you wanted to punch that smug look off his face, and you wanted to kiss him until he couldn't breathe.

What a fucking day.

#murdoc x reader #murdoc #david dastmalchian #macgyver 2016 #murdoc macgyver #dennis murdoc #smut #how do i tag this #macgyver show me this guy's balls #for those curious: it WAS a gun in his pocket #murdoc shot the only guard when you were unconscious so you were free to go the entire time >:)#is this even hot or am i deranged

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accidentally-in-fictional-love · 6 months ago

Note

📖 🔫 🩹 ? Love ur writing btw :)

Use Your Sharp Claws to Hold Me Gently - Murdoc/Reader

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, gender-neutral reader, no use of Y/N, pet names, lonely!reader (he fixes that don't worry).

Wordcount: 2354

Summary: You were alone, he knew it the moment he entered your apartment and saw only you in every inch, but you were also interesting, and that was something he couldn't let go of.

Notes: Thank you so much QwQ I was SO tempted to make the reader take care of Murdoc as I was song hunting to set the mood, so if I get this combo again know that I won't be able to resist hehe I ended up going with this song, full disclosure, and it fueled me so much that I blacked out and when I came to this was written so I hope you enjoy, cause I really like this one a lot 💗💗💗

He was in town again, his only warning the single text from his unlisted number, the other end going dead as soon as the message was received, no number to save to your phone and reply back to. You’d been doing this for a long while now, your arrangement to keep him close carefully discussed behind closed doors the night before he had to hop on a plane and become scarce again. You understood completely why that was, it didn’t scare you like he’d expected, but then again, he’d expected a lot of things to scare you, things that would scare anyone else for very rational reasons.

Not you though, not once you’d stared down the barrel into those brown eyes and fallen hard.

You were never supposed to be on his list, your presence a prime example of Wrong Place Wrong Time as you’d stumbled upon his hit just moments before he’d pulled the trigger. His target had pleaded with you for help when he’d seen you, money offered in sums you couldn’t dare to imagine owning, tossed around like it was nothing as he put a price on his own life. You never accepted, knowing that if you did then you’d be putting that same price on your own as well, wanting to risk your slim chance of survival as you just stood there, blocking off the alley so no one else would find themselves in the same situation.

He’d shot the man in that same instant, the gun pointed at you next without a hint of mercy.

You’d just stared him down, knew it was inevitable the moment you interrupted his carefully planned work, everything about him gave off the essence of preparations and structure and purpose, you were a fly in the wheel of all that to him, nothing more.

‘Just get it over with,’ you told him as you shut your eyes, trying to hide the fact that you were trembling and it wasn’t from the downpour currently soaking you to your now very tired bones.

He never did, wet footsteps approaching until you felt cold steel against your forehead. ‘Why aren’t you afraid?’ he asked you, eyes seeing right through you, down to your soul as he tried to find the answer. You opened your eyes then, his voice so much softer than the gun held in his leather gloved hand, rain dripping from his ginger-dyed bangs, the colour almost fully grown out from what had to have been a past disguise, and running down his face in streams. He was beautiful, you thought even as the thunder roared high above, the sounds of the city telling you that you still had a chance to run, salvation was only steps away, but you didn’t move, you couldn’t.

‘I am,’ you confessed, but it almost felt like a lie.

‘You should be,’ he replied lowly, and it held the same weight as your confession.

You took the back ways to your apartment, unable to miss how he dedicated every way to get inside without being noticed to memory, a silent promise that if you survived and told someone what you saw then he’d know exactly how to find you. You told him which window was yours, the fire escape leading right up to it, that fact the only reason you’d bought it in the first place; those metal stairs meant freedom for you in case of emergency, something you’d never had before as you moved to the big city and lived through too many unfortunate events to count.

He was taking that away from you as he jumped up, hoisted himself onto the stairs with such ease that you knew you’d never be able to outrun him even if you started now, no amount of window latches able to keep him out. You used the front door and met him upstairs, the security cameras sparsely spread throughout the building only catching you heading home, drenched but not giving away a thing. He hadn’t waited outside as expected, the window unbroken but still wide open as he dripped water all over your hardwood floors, shoes tracking mud over the thrift store rug in the living room.

He was seeing what you had to lose, but it wasn’t much he was soon to realize, your walls and surfaces bare of photos outside of the rare empty frame you’d bought but forgotten to fill, the default photo showing strangers looking happy behind the dusty glass. He lifted one of them up, knew they weren’t yours, and you heard him laugh at your loneliness, the sound so hollow like he didn’t even know what a laugh really was and was simply acting the emotion out.

Maybe he was lonely too.

You offered him tea or coffee, not knowing what to do to fill the time until the gun would surely reappear again but he refused, his attention now on you like he hadn’t even noticed you come in. He walked over to your tiny kitchen, searching through your cupboards until he found a glass; he went to the fridge and pulled out the pitcher of filtered water, poured himself some without asking, left everything out for you to clean up later if you’d even get the chance. ‘Expecting anyone?’ he asked casually, eyes looking for any sliver of a trace that you shared your life with anyone, the answer in his head before you could even open your mouth. ‘No, you aren’t… don’t you know it’s dangerous to live on your own in a place like this?’

It held no real concern. You offered him no real worry as you just shrugged.

The lights remained off as he let you get on with your night, his eyes always on you as you grabbed a towel to pat yourself and your clothes dry, the takeout you’d gone out to get reheated as you sat at the table and ate. He was never out of sight but he never approached you either, the only other thing he grabbed being one of the kitchen knives from the hand-me-down block you’d stolen from home when you moved out. You wondered if he might throw it at you like a circus performer, maybe it’d hit its target, maybe it’d fly right past and embed itself in the wall behind you, a trick to be applauded for either way, but it never left his hands, the blade occasionally catching the light as he spun it in his fingers.

You thought he might be coming to slit your throat when he walked behind you as you tried to cut through the too tough meat, his arms around you and making you still as the knife was pressed down and sliced through with ease. His movements were so delicate like that of a dancer, he was well trained in what he did, and when he was done he lifted the knife up to his mouth to lick away the sauce before going back to the kitchen. It was tossed down loudly into the sink now that he’d dirtied it but you didn’t jump at the sound, your eyes on him as he then strolled over to the couch and sat down, recently dried mud flecking off his shoes and onto your coffee table as he got comfortable.

He let you finish eating in peace, your last meal no doubt, before taking the gun out again and motioning for you to go to the bedroom, your body freezing cold but surprisingly calm as you did as you were told. There was no rush at all as you both walked in, the door wide open and letting you know that you weren’t trapped, and you waited for his next command when the gun was set down in plain sight on top of your dresser. It was perfectly spaced between the two of you, only two steps away with the grip facing you, an open invitation to grab it and defend yourself.

Images of trying flashed through your head. You didn’t act on them, his eyes shining the longer you just stood there; there was no point, you didn’t have much of a life anyways, the empty photo frames reminded you of that every day.

‘Aren’t you an interesting one,’ he thought aloud, your hand twitching only once towards the dresser before you fell still again. ‘My job is done tonight, and I might have a bit of time free in my schedule if you’d like to hire me, little rabbit,’ he then told you, his eyes meeting yours even as half of his face was shrouded in shadows, the light from your bedroom window making the only parts visible practically glow between his dark hair and even darker outfit.

‘What do you do?’ Your voice didn’t tremble, he was impressed.

‘I make problems disappear, for a price.’

‘Can you make more than problems disappear?’

This interested him even more, and he took a few steps closer to you, your head tilting back so you could look up to him. ‘What did you have in mind?’

You couldn’t say it, he already knew the answer already, and he considered what you wanted before taking off his coat and folding it up, the slightly damp leather creaking as it was placed on your dresser next to his weapon. He opened his arms to you, the gun still just in reach as he waited, and you could only stare at him as you walked forward; he wrapped his arms around you as you let your head fall against his shoulder, and the hug held nothing but the transaction as he attempted to make your loneliness disappear. He was warm as the rain continued to fall outside, his controlled breathing rustling your hair ever so slightly as the trembling began, your shaking hands reaching up to cling to his black sweater.

When you’d awoken the next morning you’d found your apartment empty again, although there was a text from an unfamiliar number on your phone telling you, ‘Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful,’ the line pulled directly from your copy of Frankenstien, the book open to the page and waiting for you to notice it on your dresser where the gun had been.

He’d returned to you a few months later, another new number with a quote alerting you to his arrival before you’d heard him tapping on the window, this time waiting for you to let him in. This situation repeated many times over the year, each time with a text, each time the two of you just retreating to your bedroom where he held you and stole your loneliness for hours at a time, never once telling you about where he’d been or what he’d done. Your frames were still empty all the while, and with every visit he’d hold you closer, share his warmth with you as he threaded bare fingers through your hair, let you lay there in silence or cry into his chest if you needed to.

He slowly filled all your empty spaces, even if just for a little while, and you wondered how large your bill must be getting with each press of split lips to the top of your head and bloodied knuckles tracing the curve of your flushed cheeks. You never asked for something of his to remember him by until the night you finally spoke, your body completely in his lap as he held you, your fingertips brushing over fresh bruises spreading over his bare chest.

‘I might not be able to afford you at this rate,’ you murmured, and when he breathed out a laugh it didn’t feel like he was acting anymore.

‘I do the jobs that interest me for free, you know,’ he whispered into your ear, hand coming up to run over your jaw until you couldn’t help but look up at him. ‘That was just the first time, though.’

‘What about now?’ Something inside of you told you to be afraid as you looked into brown eyes so dark they almost looked black, the red and purple painting his eyebrow to his cheek warning you of the danger, but you weren’t afraid, you never had been.

He didn’t answer you, his mouth finding yours as colours shone through cheap curtains and shrouded you both in a halo of store neons and street lights.

That was months ago, his latest text reading, ‘There are darknesses in life and there are lights; you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.’ Bram Stoker, tonight, Dracula. You screenshotted it as you did with all his quotes, it saved to your phone with all the others before deleting the now useless chat and unlocking the latch over your window. He arrived less than an hour later, the smell of cheap takeout making him smirk as he looked at the feast laid out for him. ‘Hello again, little rabbit,’ he said into your neck as he wrapped his arms around you, his gloves already removed so he could feel you against his hot skin.

‘Hello, Murdoc,’ you greeted him back, his canines grazing over your skin and warning you of the danger as they always did before he noticed the frame you’d placed by your TV, front and center in the gap between the device and the edge of the stand they rested on. He let go of you and walked over to it, lifting it up and laughing genuinely at the sight of himself in your bed, a secretly stolen photo you’d taken when he’d fallen asleep in your arms.

‘You really are interesting,’ he mused as he put it back, still shrouded in darkness as he turned on his heel to face you, the sight so familiar as he filled up every last empty space inside of you.

Maybe he really had been able to make your loneliness disappear that first night, but he’d have to figure that one out himself as you pressed yourself against his chest and kissed him.

He smiled against your upturned lips like he already knew.

#Ray's Readers #Ray's Requests #david dastmalchian #murdoc macgyver #murdoc x reader #not me promising to do more comfort than hurt next time I got the prompt and then getting Murdoc of all people for it lol let's gooooo #I was stumped for so long on the title for this one I almost went with lyrics again #surprised this one didn't end up longer cause that opening grabbed me by the throat and I realized I REALLY wanted to write more for him #I will call him beautiful in every single fic I write I'm legally required to and I can't help it either way

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elderyautjavegeta · 5 months ago

Text

NEW CHAPTER OF DEMON MONSTER MURDOC STORY JUST DROPPED!

Something Wicked (45479 words) by ZuviosGemini Chapters: 6/? Fandom: Gorillaz Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Murdoc Niccals/Stuart "2D" Pot Characters: Murdoc Niccals, Noodle (Gorillaz), Russel Hobbs, Stuart "2D" Pot, Satan, Cherry (Studio Killers) Additional Tags: monster au, monster murdoc, demon murdoc, Body Horror, timeline differs from canon, Budding Love, Friends to Lovers, demonic essence, Witchcraft, witch 2D, 2D goes pagan, celebrity guest stars, Unlearning Toxic Behaviors, specific warnings in chapter notes, I twist the canon to fit my own ideas, how murdoc lost his soul, satan is nonbinary, Explicit Sexual Content, (eventually) - Freeform, background Cherry (Studio Killers)/Noodle (Gorillaz) Chapter Summary:

Satan's visit causes a rift between 2D and Murdoc, and mending it will take effort on both sides.

yES HELLO, TWO CHAPTERS IN ONE MONTH??? AFTER 3 YEARS OF NOTHING??? Crazy honestly... I hope you guys enjoy, leave me a comment or something, I'd really appreciate it. Adding a gif for visibility!

#2doc #studoc #2dxmurdoc #murdocx2d #2d x murdoc #murdoc x 2d #gorillaz ship #gorillaz fanfiction #my fic #riley writes fanfic

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tomboyjessie13-artblog · 10 months ago

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I've been rewatching a bunch of ritual games on YT and wanted to draw something related to it again like I did years ago, this time with Jojo instead of Evillious.

One last thing before we get to the drawing though:

DO NOT PLAY THIS GAME, IT IS A VERY DANGEROUS RITUAL, DON'T EVER PLAY IT! Here's why: Link

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One day in Morioh, the school Tomoko works at is holding a teacher's convention in Tokyo, so she tells Josuke that she'll be gone for two days so he'll have to look after himself for a while(with Medea checking in on him).

During one of his classes, he overhears some students talking about a Japanese ritual game called "Hide and Seek Alone", which first appeared online in 1985 and has since regained popularity, he clearly dismissed it until lunchtime when curiosity got the best of him.

At the school's computer room, he checks it up and finds that the game is real, and it came with a set of instructions and warnings, so he printed them out just in case.

At World History, he goes to Medea and asked if he can borrow her sister-in-law's ofuda, with the excuse of protecting himself from enemy Stand users. Despite insisting that they don't work on Stands, she agrees to bring them over later to help him relax.

At night, Josuke got all the supplies ready, including a teddy bear from a store(whom he names Murdoc for the ritual), he follows the rules correctly and hides in his late grandpa's wardrobe in the living room.

After a long while, Josuke started to think that the ritual was bogus until [Crazy Diamond] appeared. While wondering why his Stand showed up, he starts hearing creepy laughing and scissors snipping.

Josuke took a quick peek outside and nearly choked on his salt water upon seeing the doll walking around, armed, and looking for him. He now understood why his Stand appeared so suddenly, he protected him out of instinct just like [Star Platinum] with Jotaro.

Quickly both Josuke and [Crazy Diamond] jumped out and ambushed the doll, drenched in it in salt water and yelling "I win!" repeatedly until he ran out of breath.

The next morning, Josuke told his friends about what he did the night before and how traumatizing it was, Medea overheard the conversation and became absolutely furious with him and rightfully chewed him out for putting his own life in danger messing with these occult rituals.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Note: Realistically the ritual was first discovered on online Japanese horror bulletin boards around 2006/07, not 1985, but let's pretend that this was a thing before the "Universe Reset" just for funsies, shall we?

*The doll is named after Murdoc Niccals, the bassist of the Gorillaz

#tw: possession #artwork #jojo's bizarre adventure #josuke higashikata #crazy diamond #creepypasta #ritual #occult #hide and seek alone #one man hide and seek #demon #teddy bear #scissors

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altschmerzes · 11 months ago

Note

🌹the torture fic

It is the great love of my life (there should be a question mark after 'fic' but my keyboard is very broken. It looks really agressive without it, sorry. Love the writi

sdlfkjds thank you!!! i'm so glad you enjoy it and no worries, not aggressive at all <3

here's a (very long sldfkjs as is the trend with clips from this fic) clip from part 2, which i've been working on today! as per usual with this fic, it's under a cut, with specific warnings at the top

(warnings: not much actively going on here, just that this is from right when they're leaving the motel mac was tortured in for two days, so he's in extremely bad shape. he's in a lot of pain, and there are references to what murdoc did to him in part 1, though none graphic or descriptive.)

The injection takes effect quickly once they’re back on the road and the relief is so strong that it makes Mac dizzy. Or maybe he’d been dizzy already and the pain has just eased away enough that he’s able to notice anything aside from that and the cold. He’s tired, too, and it’s hard to stay awake, though more tolerable to do so now that being conscious isn’t an automatic intolerable crush of constant shifting agony. It’s not gone, but it feels survivable at least.

Mac can’t let his eyes close. While the meds had helped the pain, he’s discovered that they haven’t done much at all for the anxiety still singing through his veins like the long, high note of a violin. It’s not particularly logical but Mac can’t help the sense that if he closes his eyes for longer than it takes to blink, he’s going to be right back in that room again, and Murdoc will be waiting. So he remains alert, not even given the choice to rest. Not yet.

Around the edges of all of it - the panic, the thudding of his own heart, the slight haze of the painkiller - Mac can hear Jack talking to him. The voice is unmistakable, though he can’t make out the words. It reminds him of when he’d been pushed past his limits and Murdoc’s voice had faded into a static blur, but with the opposite effect. That had been an insistent, cloying awareness that he was not safe and that Murdoc was ever-present, that there was no getting away from the threat, the promise of further pain and violation.

This, though… This is countless days on some couch or another, too exhausted to keep his eyes open but needing the sound of safety and home around him to remind him that he’s not out in some unfamiliar place surrounded by unfamiliar people. This is getting lost in a puzzle - a literal puzzle or just a complex problem that needs solving - and being guided along by a current that let him think clearly without getting too lost in the weeds. This is the shadow of a nightmare and the thick post-surgical haze and the jittering anxiety of an almost-flashback, calmed and soothed away by a voice he knows, a voice that belonged to a person who would keep Mac safe until his dying breath, and thus proof that whatever was going on, if that voice was calm and even, he didn’t have to worry about it, and everything was going to be okay.

Eyes barely kept open a slit, Mac drifts, slumped in the car’s seat. Jack is closer than he should be from the other side of the back of the car, but Mac isn’t complaining. The looming presence of someone else beside him isn’t as frightening as he might have expected it to be, and the warmth is welcome. Mac finds himself leaning over, drawn to the source of the warmth and safety that he knows even without being able to think clearly. At some point, clearly noticing this, Jack shifts. He slowly and carefully eases an arm up over the back of the seat, letting his hand rest high on Mac’s back, between his aching shoulders and just beneath his bruised neck. Jack puts just enough pressure into the point of contact to ease the burden on Mac’s shoulders and Mac leans into it, soaking in the point of heat and the paradoxical sense of safety.

The awareness that someone is touching him after what’s just happened makes Mac frightened and wistful at the same time. It sends a crawl of fear down his spine at first, calling forth fresh memories he wants desperately to keep stuffed down and locked away, but there is enough fighting against the reminders of his captor that he wants to turn and lean into it more than he wants to rip himself away. The man in the back seat with him is beside him and not in front of or behind him, and there’s still that voice, always that voice reminding Mac that he knows exactly who this person is, and that there’s nowhere he could be farther from harm than here with Jack’s hand on his back.

They continue on their drive to the airstrip, which seems both insanely far away and closer than Mac would’ve guessed for how remote the motel had been. Most of the trip passes by in a blur, aches renewed whenever they hit a rough spot of road. Several times, Jack sends an admonishment to be careful at the driver’s seat, and Mac flinches with every snapped word. They’re just tiny twitches but he knows that Jack notices. The hand on his back responds, a thumb smoothing over his spine in silent apology.

It happens again the next time, though. The car skids very slightly on a patch of ice and Jack hisses, “Watch it,” which is how Mac knows that Jack is having a hard time holding it together himself.

Ordinarily, he would have noticed in about a hundred other ways. Mac should have caught on much sooner, but the mess of his own head is taking up so much of his bandwidth that it takes that obvious of a tell to make its way through.

Another snap up at the front of the car and Mac inhales sharply.

“Sorry, kid,” Jack murmurs, and his voice is tight and strained.

A pang of worry clatters through Mac’s chest, followed by an even stronger wave of guilt. He fumbles with his good hand, trying to reach over. He wants to pat Jack’s knee or his shoulder, but he can’t get his arms to cooperate well enough. They’re tangled in the blanket wrapped tight around him and it hurts too much to try for long, so eventually Mac lets his head tip back and roll to the side instead. His neck throbs at the movement and it nearly tips him into another coughing fit, but it’s not as bad as it would’ve been before the injection, and he needs to get Jack’s attention somehow. Mac’s cheek presses into Jack’s arm where it’s stayed braced against the seat back, and he blinks up at him, determined to make eye contact at least for a few moments.

“Y’ ‘kay?” he asks. It’s hard to get it out but Mac needs to, even though he can hardly hold onto a coherent train of thought. Now that he’s aware of how badly Jack is struggling with this, he has to find some way to check in.

“Am I…” Jack stops before he finishes repeating the question and sighs, short and harsh. This close to Mac’s head, it sounds loud. Mac twitches, almost a flinch, and tries to pull himself up and away.

He wants to apologize, but he can’t get the words out through his raw throat and he’s too mired in exhaustion and pain to make a second attempt. It doesn’t help that he isn’t even sure what he’s apologizing for, and Jack doesn’t usually let him get away with saying he’s sorry without being able to answer that question.

“It’s okay,” Jack is quick to add, the press of his palm strong and warm on Mac’s back. “Hey, it’s alright. Sorry. I’m not upset at you, Mac. It’s okay.” There’s an insistence in the way the fingers of Jack’s hand dig in very slightly, and getting Mac to lay back down is a swift and easy fight.

There they stay for the rest of the drive. Mac still can’t close his eyes for longer than a moment or two, but it’s more than he’d managed before, and he’s almost up to four seconds at a time by the point that the car stops, and Thomas King announces that they’ve arrived.

#gav gab #this is just a full scene lmao it's not even a clip #ask box games #fic: something to hold onto #MAKING GOOD PROGRESS #PART 2 IS 26K NOW #writing liveblog #gav answers

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behindthewanderlust · 1 year ago

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Noodle’s Gift

Characters - Noodle, Murdoc, Russel, 2D

Summary - It’s Murdoc’s birthday and all he wants is to get the day over with. It’s a good thing Noodle’s a good kid

Word Count - 1,284

Warnings - Everyone is OOC (sorry), Murdoc wallowing in his own sadness, this is ooold

A/N - A really bad fic I wrote last year😭 I gladly welcome constructive criticism! Anything that’ll help me improve :)

——————————————————————————

The sun shining through the window awoke Murdoc. He did his best to avoid it by rolling over, but the stubborn sunlight kept invading his room. Accepting defeat, he grumbled as he kicked his sheets off and got out of bed. Murdoc started to make his way to the bathroom, each step reminding him of what day it was.

Step.

June

Step.

Sixth

Step.

2005

Step.

Your

Step.

39th

Step.

Birthday.

His face naturally twisted into the usual scowl it always carries. Birthdays had never been great for Murdoc. As a kid, all he wanted was a nice birthday party. As an adult, he couldn’t care less about the day.

His scowl grew deeper as he remembered the pencil his father got him for his eleventh birthday.

Fucking Sebastian, he thought, couldn’t have at least pretended to care for a second and get me something I didn’t already have.

Sharp rattles were suddenly heard on the door and Russel’s deep voice was heard. “‘D and I made breakfast, you should come eat.”

“Fine,” Murdoc grumbled, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Russel’s feet shuffled away while Murdoc quickly put his pants on and made his way to the kitchen, wanting to get breakfast over with so he could come back to his room and be miserable.

Breakfast was quiet. 2D and Russ tried to celebrate Murdoc’s birthday back in ‘98, but were met with his shouts and curses, so they never uttered a word about his birthday since. Russel had shared what had happened to Noodle, who never mentioned his birthday, heeding Russel’s warning. This year was different. Noodle was stubborn. Some may say she was too stubborn.

Noodle scarfed down her breakfast despite multiple warnings from Russel and 2D. She didn’t bother listening though. She was excited! She took another bite of food and prepared to speak with her mouth full before she was interrupted by heavy coughs.

Russel, who was closest to her, immediately began patting her back to get her to stop choking.

“Now I don’t know how many times we told you to slow down while you eat,” Russel gently scolded once she stopped choking, “slow down and stop eating like an animal!”

“Sorry, Russ!” she began, “I just-”

“We don’t know what we’d do if this turned into something serious!” 2D jokes, not meaning to interrupt.

“Sorry, I just-“ interrupted again.

“I don’t know any of that CPR stuff, love, Dents here would’ve had to revive ya, and I don’t think any of us would like that,” Murdoc half joked.

“Sorry-“

“You gotta start listening to us when we tell you things! We don’t nag just to nag, y’know,” Russel continued.

Noodle internally groaned. Today is her day to make Murdoc feel nice! And here they are, fussing over her.

“Sorry,” she finally managed to say, “I’m just excited.”

2D was the first to speak up, “about what?”

“You’ll see!”

Breakfast continued to be uneventful, with the boys sneaking glances at Noodle to make sure she ate slowly.

2D had offered to wash the dishes, and began collecting them to put in the sink. Noodle beamed, she could finally do what she wanted to do! With a quick, be right back!, she darted to her room. She gently collected her gifts for Murdoc and walked back to the kitchen.

“Surprise! Happy birthday!” she shrieked, setting her gifts on the table in front of Murdoc, who looked at her in shock. A small red velvet cake, a birthday card with crudely drawn art of the members on the front, and a green balloon sat in front of him. He sat there in shock, not knowing what to do with himself. He had never seen that many birthday gifts before, and he never thought he’d see so many presents addressed to him.

“…do you like it?” she squeaked out.

Murdoc had gone quiet since she walked back in the kitchen. Noodle began to second guess this decision, but a soft hug from Murdoc killed those thoughts.

“…I appreciate this, Noodle,” he managed to get out. He ruffled her hair and frowned, “didn’t have to get me anything, though.”

“I wanted to! I’ve never gotten you anything before,” she smiled.

At first, Russel and 2D were quiet. They were both worried Murdoc would react poorly to the gifts. Russel, relieved to see Murdoc hugging Noodle, broke his silence.

“Happy birthday, Murdoc. Hope it’s a good one.”

2D quietly stood and started to walk over the counter. Murdoc glanced over, suddenly remembering how he yelled at him and Russ the last time he tried to celebrate his birthday. Murdoc began to speak before 2D cut him off.

“I brought plates for the cake,” 2D began to nervously say, “happy birthday, Mudz.”

“Thanks Dents, you too, Russ.”

Noodle clasped her hands together, glad that her gift had been so well received. She quickly grabbed the knife to cut the cake, the fact that she should probably sing the ‘happy birthday’ song slipping her mind. She gave the first piece to the birthday boy, then Russel, 2D, and finally herself. The band enjoyed a nice and quiet moment while happily munching on their slices. Noodle occasionally looked up at Murdoc, curious to see if he was enjoying the cake as much as she was.

On the other end, Murdoc snuck glances at his bandmates (mostly Noodle). He’d never had a birthday celebration, he didn’t exactly know what to do. Still, he felt content. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

While eating their last bites, Noodle asked, “how do you feel?”

“The same as always, love.”

“But it’s your 39th! You really don’t feel anything? I’m gonna feel so grown-up when I turn 15 later this year! 15 is so different from 14, which feels even more different from 13.”

Her bandmates shared a laugh, much to her confusion.

“Once you get older, kid, each day feels like the last. 38 and 39 aren’t too different compared to 15 and 14,” Murdoc replied. Noodle nodded, not exactly liking the answer she got.

Finishing his slice of cake, Murdoc placed his plate in the sink.

“Right, I’m off to the showers,” he stated. 2D and Russel shared their plans while placing their plates in the sink. Noodle wasn’t finished though, and wanted to spend more time with everyone.

“Wanna watch a movie?” she asked, giving the three her best puppy dog eyes.

“I’ve got nothin’ better to do,” 2D shrugged, before turning his attention to dishes.

Russel smiled, “of course, Noodle, I’m always down to watch movies with you.”

Murdoc ruffled her hair once again. “I’ll be down once I finish showering, alright?”

Noodle nodded before rushing off to pick a movie.

Murdoc began the walk back to his room, balloon and birthday card clutched in hand. He slammed the door and locked it before collapsing on the floor. Broken sobs escaped his mouth, unable to stop the sounds by covering his mouth. He tried to wipe his tears but his eyes were like waterworks - no use at all. He stared at the balloon in his hand. He always wanted one as a kid. His father never let him have any normal kid things.

Murdoc remembered seeing a bunch of balloons at birthday parties on TV, and how his dad slapped him when he asked for one. All that didn’t matter though, he finally had one of his own! And it was all thanks to the kid he at first thought nothing of.

Murdoc glanced and the card Noodle gifted him. He didn’t know what he would do with that girl, but he did know one thing:

She would have the best 15th birthday ever.

#2d gorillaz #gorillaz fanfiction #gorillaz headcanons #murdoc gorillaz #russel gorillaz #noodle gorillaz

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plasticdazed · 1 year ago

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Crimson Love

Warnings: Heavy angst, disturbing themes, blood, coercion, unhealthy power dynamics, blood drinking, and toxic behavior. 18+. Minors do not read or interact.

Description:

On the desolate shores of Plastic Beach, 2D finds himself trapped in a sinister game orchestrated by Murdoc. The pressures of recording the next Gorillaz album have left Murdoc mentally drained and on edge. As 2D loses his voice due to overuse, Murdoc's patience wears thin. Instead of his usual outbursts, Murdoc resorts to silent control, which terrifies 2D even more.

The waves crashed relentlessly against the shore, mirroring the turmoil within Plastic Beach's gloomy interior. In a dimly lit recording room, 2D stood hunched over the microphone, his voice hoarse and strained from countless takes. The pressure to deliver the perfect performance weighed heavily on him, but he knew better than to complain. He had learned the hard way that voicing any form of protest invited wrath he couldn't bear.

"2D, mate, you're sounding more like a bloody walrus than a singer. Get it together!" Murdoc's voice growled from behind the soundboard, his eyes fixed on the blue-haired vocalist.

"I-I'm trying, Muds," 2D stammered, his voice barely audible, "Just need a moment."

Murdoc scowled, his patience dwindling rapidly. "Moments are for the weak, you daft twit. We have a schedule to keep, and your laziness is holding us back."

Desperation clawed at 2D's heart as he pushed himself further, trying to appease the volatile man who held him captive. His voice cracked, and then something inside him snapped. Blood trickled from his lips, staining the microphone with crimson droplets.

The sight was shocking even to Murdoc, and for a moment, his face softened with concern before morphing into something darker. "What have you done to yourself now?" he growled, his pupils fixed on the singer’s bloodied lips.

2D clutched his throat, coughing violently, blood dripping through his fingers. Fear and pain danced in his eyes as he glanced at Murdoc, who seemed to be filled with something disturbingly akin to fascination.

"You've gone and ruined your voice, haven't you?" Murdoc's pupils dilated, his voice lowering to a dangerous tone. "But you know, 2D, you're mine, and everything that belongs to me is my responsibility."

Confused, yet aware of the twisted connection they shared, 2D nodded weakly. He knew better than to resist Murdoc's whims, and if Murdoc wanted his blood, then that was what he would give.

The bassist moved closer, licking the blood off 2D's lips with a macabre intensity. A shiver ran down 2D's spine as Murdoc dipped his tongue into his mouth, tasting the remnants of his strained throat.

In this strange, eerie moment, a chilling bond formed between them. Murdoc's lust for control merged with 2D's desperate desire for safety, and for a brief moment, they found an unsettling harmony.

Murdoc's grip on 2D's throat loosened, and he stared at the singer, a mix of triumph and satisfaction in his eyes. "There. You see? Even in your pitiful state, you're good for something," he mused darkly.

Despite the disturbing encounter, 2D couldn't help but feel a strange sense of connection with Murdoc. In this bleak and twisted place, they found a peculiar understanding, a macabre intimacy that neither would admit but couldn't deny.

Plastic Beach, with its haunting beauty, became the stage for a dark symphony of unspoken melodies. In the face of silent control and manipulated terror, 2D and Murdoc danced to a melody they never wished to hear, bound by their own demons, trapped in the web they both helped weave.

#Gorillaz #dark fic #2doc fic #2doc #plastic beach 2doc #Gorillaz plastic beach #please read warnings #manipulation #2d x murdoc #murdoc x 2d #murdoc niccals #stuart 2d pot #stu pot #stuart pot

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venusbae · 8 months ago

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𝐏𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐙

Gorillaz lore - told a lil' differently :))

part 2 - frontman

content warning: satanism, violence, mentions of sex, mentions of abuse, drugs, alcoholism.

summary: murdoc tries to impress some ladies, in doing so, further causes poor sod 2D more brain damage, but begins to create his world famous band.

The court hearing was the first time Murdoc had actually been ‘sentenced’ per say, before it was bans on his driving licences or a few days stuck in a prison cell before his father or brother came to bail him out. His father's release resulted in thorough beatings when they got home, yet it didn’t teach Murdoc his lesson. In fact it further encouraged him to take drugs as it would be a few days of zero pain, and after the one harsh session from his father, he was often ignored for weeks on end. That was better than being hit for weeks on end, he could tell you.

“Murdoc Alphonse-” the judge was cut off by Murdoc clearing his throat.

“Faust.” He said loudly, shying his eyes down from the stand as the judge, and his father {which was felt from the back of his head}, glared at him. “Please sir, thank you sir.”

“Murdoc Faust Niccals,” The judge started again, looking down at the paperwork in front of him, Murdoc looking back up at him, “I hereby sentence you to 30,0000 hours of community service, 10 hours a week of caring for Stuart Tusspot.”

‘Fuck.’ Murdoc thought, this was not what he’d planned, not how this was supposed to go. The man looked over at the comatose boy, only then realising that his hair was fully blue, not split with red. Must’ve been the blood. He was being fussed around by his mother and father, they looked to really care for him. Murdoc scoffed, why were they fussing at him when he was unresponsive. After a few moments of the judge and juries leading the courtroom out, Murdoc was taken away to be given back his casual clothes instead of the black and white striped, shit-smelling uniform, and his handcuffs taken off him. Not that they were too uncomfortable though, he was used to them and in more ways than just prison.

Walking out of the changing room, Murdoc was greeted by Rachel and David, Stu-pot’s parents, shoving their son into him. The boy fell limp onto Murdoc as Rachel began to bawl at the sight. Murdoc gave a confused and disgusted look at his mother, David held her in an embrace, giving Murdoc a scowling stare while telling him sternly to make sure he did the right thing, like Murdoc was moving out and taking his younger brother with him. He’d never been in this situation, being the youngest of him and his brother. When Stuart’s parents walked away, Murdoc growled lowly with disgust, looking at the scraggly blue hair of him.

“Ah what the hell.” He whispered to himself, dragging the boy to his newly renewed car.

After the first year of taking care of the poor sod, Murdoc came to realise looking after Stuart wasn’t so bad after all. It became tedious to bathe and feed the 19 year-old, but Murdoc had often done the same routine with his father after he came home from the pubs blackout drunk, not that the old stinking man deserved Murdoc’s care. Hannibal, his brother, helped most of the time, but with Stuart it was different because he was on his own. This was his sentence. It was also different because there wasn’t an old man smacking his lips together in an attempt to speak while he was being fed. So in a way this was better, much better.

Murdoc had come to realise he could still do all the things he used to do, he just had to keep it on the down low. The drugs began to stay inside the house, and Murdoc, out of pure boredom, began to blow leftover smoke down Stu’s permanently hung open mouth. The anger Murdoc felt when he was drinking on his bed was put onto Stuart, the older man using him as a punching bag, taking away his stresses. Murdoc did feel a tinge of guilt after these moments, but one last swig of his bottle of Archer’s Schnapps would snap him right out of it, not remembering the next morning due to his hangovers. There was never any sort of response from Stuart, and even though Murdoc knew this was going to be the case for however long, it angered him more, which caused Murdoc to drink more.

Eventually, Murdoc decided sex would be the best thing to get his anger out, so every so often, Murdoc would look his new ‘friend’ in the spare room, bringing home a bird who seemed to think she was worthless enough to go home with Murdoc in his state, and perform rough and fast love to her. Until the feeling becomes numb enough for him to not feel so much anymore.

One of these days after a long time writing bass lines for a few sample ideas, Murdoc felt the need for fresh air, hopefully to pick up some hot ladies. He huffed, pushing his fringe back out of his face. The ragdolled look of Stuart caught his eye. The boy had become a sickly kind-of pale in all the time Murdoc had him, and not that Murdoc cared, but he thought why not take him for a little joy ride. He threw him over his shoulder and ran out to his car, throwing Stuart into the back carelessly with nothing to keep him in place. Murdoc drove with speed to a popularised car park in Nottingham, immediately spotting a few people and amongst them, a couple of beautiful women. He licked his sharp teeth before slamming his foot to the ground, spinning the wheel and making donuts in a large empty space of the area. Murdoc could see a crowd was gathering, and so it gave him more confidence. He began to speed forward to then change to 360 degree turns, only to then be flashed by a rather lovely sight of one of the women’s racks. Distracted by his own dirty old thoughts, Murdoc had not looked where he was going for a few seconds, hitting 90 miles per hour as he slammed his car into a bollard.

The only sense that filled Murdoc was the sound of shattering glass, a flashback to a year before. The feeling of dread filled him,

‘Shit..’ He thought, remembering the boy he had brought with him. Hitting his car on a small bollard wasn’t going to smash his windscreen, and he frantically thought about not securing Stuart to his seat.

“Bollocks.” He accidentally spoke aloud, turning to see that Stu was indeed not there. Murdoc bit his lip harshly, turning back toward the front. He sat up straight, there he could see the body of the poor sod about a mile in front, and for a second, there was no life, which Murdoc should have been used to by now but by god did he need just one small twitch.

And then there it was. First it was the wiggling of fingers, then a full hand twitch, then the full dragging of both arms. Murdoc released a relieved sigh, jumping out of his car to run toward Stuart, yet as he stepped two steps, Stuart began to slowly get up, raising what felt like hundreds of feet above Murdoc, this was the first time he had actually seen how tall the young man was, and god he was. At the same speed he got up, Stuart turned to face Murdoc, both his eyes now blackened. Stu had a blank stare across his face as his posture seemed to contort downwards, his arms reaching the tops of his thighs and his legs stretching miles.

Murdoc gaped in awe. He looked incredible, unbelievable, ethereal. He could’ve been almighty Satan if Murdoc hadn’t personally seen the being. To Murdoc, Stuart looked like a god. He was tall, pretty and had blue spikey hair, and now, what looked like 2 missing eyeballs. Murdoc knew immediately. This was his singer, his frontman. The universe (in Satan's weird weird way) had a plan all along, and here Murdoc was rewarded. His eyes glistened as his gaping mouth lifted into a menacing smirk, he rushed over to Stuart, dragging him back to the car to take him back home before any people could alert the authorities of what he had done and get him into more debt.

Back at the house, Murdoc put Stuart to the test. All the way there, he was bragging about his ability to play anything on the keyboard, and to pick up the notes quickly. Murdoc pulled out the dusty old thing sat at the back of his wardrobe and forced Stuart to play. Nervously, he put his fingers on the keyboard, brushing them over. There was an awkward silence and tension in the air before Murdoc grumbled.

“So, you like to lie, eh?” He mumbled, Stuart looked over, shaking his head quickly.

“Jus’, not sure what to play…” Stuart’s accent thick with anxiety, he looked back at his hands; trembling. He thought for a moment, thinking deep into his brain and trying to remember what he used to play, until Murdoc smacked a score in front of him. It was something Murdoc had written a while ago, something he had conjured up to get his father’s attention. Not that it did ever work. Stuart stared back at Murdoc, before the older man gave an urging look paired with a wave of his hand. Stu sucked in a big breath, carefully and repeatedly pressing on one key before playing the whole sheet of music. Murdoc bopped his head along with each note, cringing at a few off notes now and then. When the music was complete, the room was silent, the only noise coming from a fan in the corner of the room. Murdoc chewed on his thumb nail while he thought.

“How good are you wiv’ lyrics?” He questioned, standing up out of his seat and folding his arms. Stuart cocked his head side to side with a wobbly hand gesture. Murdoc nodded for a second, turning around. “Sing something.”

Murdoc tested Stuart for hours, making sure that he was indeed the perfect fit for the band. After a long time of singing, keyboard playing and bass playing. Murdoc chuckled to himself, making Stuart stare at him concerningly.

“Y’know, i ‘fink i’ll call you..” Murdoc walked slightly closer to the younger man, looking up as Stuart towered over him, “Two-D.”

#fanfiction #gorillaz #stuart pot #2d gorillaz #murdoc niccals #gorillaz fanfiction #murdoc gorillaz #stuart tusspot #please please please #got distracted so many times writing this #ily all

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sardonic-the-writer · 2 months ago

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𝐎𝐡 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝

↳ summary: what do you do when your neighbor is an up and coming rock star, and also the biggest dickhead you've ever met?

↳ warnings: mentions of smoking, murdoc being murdoc, canon type gorillaz content, etc. this all takes place sort of pre phase one/beginning of phase one

↳ song: sabbath bloody sabbath—black sabbath

masterlist | commissions | carrd

Your next door neighbor was a prick.

The apartment down the hall from you had been empty for as long as you could remember. It didn’t surprise you, to be honest, that in the year and a half you had lived in Essex nobody had snatched up the vacancy. Living in a cheap building with leaky faucets and flickering lights wasn’t for everyone, and if it weren’t for the fact that the complex was close enough to your job for you to commute on foot, you would have gone out flat hunting a long time ago.

So when your landlord mentioned in passing that you’d be getting a new neighbor, your first thought had been one of sympathy. This was a place of last resort, and you felt sorry for them if their financial status was anywhere near the likes of yours.

You no longer felt that way. Not one bit. If you were being completely honest, it had taken less than a week for you to realize that you wouldn’t be borrowing a cup of sugar from your new neighbor anytime soon.

He was loud, inconsiderate, apathetic, and you're pretty sure he worshiped satan. Not that there's anything wrong with that— you were simply tired of waking up every morning to the smell of fresh sulfur. The amount of air fresheners you had to go through just to get your place smelling normal again was criminal to both your sense of smell and your pocket book.

He would blast his music at all hours of the day, throw things at his wall hard enough to cause your picture frames to shake, and generally sound like he was orchestrating a brawl in the middle of his apartment. And when he wasn't doing his best to break the sound barrier, or win the world's worst neighbor award, he was snooping around the complex with a cigarette dangling from his lips, bothering anyone that happened to be passing by, and laughing like a banshee when they inevitably told him to fuck off.

Not to mention that he's green. You're still not sure what all of that's about, but at this point you’ve just accepted it as a fact. You had a green man living next door, and you couldn’t be more pissed about it.

You had done your best to avoid him as much as possible the first few months after he moved next to you, going as far as to wait each morning until you heard his door down the hallway slam shut and lock so you knew when to slip out into the hallway. It was just your luck that all that effort went to waste the moment you found him outside your door one night, riffling through your mail like it was nothing if not his own.

When you had blankly snatched the junk advertisements and bills from his sharp nails, shooting an accusatory 'what in the hell do you think you're doing' in his direction, he didn't even have the decency to apologize. He just blinked and scratched at his bare chest, his initial scowl switching to a sleazy sharks grin the second he finished giving you a once over.

You didn't give him a chance to form a sentence before you were shutting your door in his face with a resounding thud, faintly wondering afterward if it hit him with it. Upon further reflection, you decided you didn't care if you had or not.

His mate that happened to be over that night was the one that ended up apologizing to you later, and you had been pleasantly surprised to find that he was the exact opposite of his friend; all stuttering apologies and long legs as he messed nervously with his blue hair. He spent most of the conversation standing awkwardly in your door frame before you invited him in, ultimately deciding that he made for better company than his companion.

You found out that night that your neighbors name was Murdoc Niccals, and he was crashing in the space next to you for the time being while he tried to work on starting up a band. His partner that you let into your flat, 2D, was apparently the singer for the band, and claimed that he joined because he owed Murdoc a debt of some kind. You hadn't pushed further after hearing that, instead focusing on the band part. It certainly explained the blaring guitar samples you'd hear in the dead of night, and the suspicious looking cd's that were occasionally stuffed in your doors mail slot that you had chalked up to a scam up until until now.

You had been a bit more neighborly with Murdoc after that, no longer avoiding him and his smoky stench on purpose— if only because 2D had asked you to not judge him too harshly, and you felt you could trust the blue haired man.

That didn't mean you liked Murdoc, though. Every attempt he inevitably made after that day to get you to visit his apartment, or go out drinking with him, was always met with a quick exit from whatever conversation he had been trying to strike up with you. The pattern would repeat for weeks in what you knew was an attempt to wear you down, and to be perfectly honest, you thought you had been doing pretty well at warding off the oddly persistent man. It wasn't until a month or two more passed that you finally caved at the sight of 2D on your doorstep, waving at you with a squinted grin and halfway concealing a smug Murdoc behind him.

Bastard.

"I still don't know why I agreed to this." You surmised while locking the door to your apartment, purposefully not looking at Murdoc when he laughed. He was shirtless again— he was always shirtless —and his hair was flatter in the back this morning, like he’d smoothed a hand over it absentmindedly.

2D was standing to the right of the both of you, fiddling with the inner pockets of his jacket while waiting for you to finish up. He gave you a gap toothed smile when you turned to look at him. He had mentioned showing you some of the songs the band had been working on if you ever decided to come over, and was finally looking forward to delivering on that promise.

"Knew you couldn't say no to ol' face-ache. Don't know why I didn't think of it sooner." Murdoc tried to sling an arm around your shoulders, but you pulled away quick enough to make it look like he missed. You almost laughed at the scowl on his face.

"More like I couldn't say no to another week of you knocking on my door every day." You resorted to pulling a face, remembering how just this past week you had been woken up to impatient knocking on your door at least three times. "If I was of sound mind, I'd have reported you to the landlord already."

And yet here you were, you mused silently, accepting an invite to your strange neighbors apartment instead.

"No one's of sound mind anymore, mate. That's why the world’s so wonderfully shit these days." Came Murdoc's cynical response. He dug around in his teeth for something with his pinky for a moment before taking it out and looking at it, flicking it off his finger with a pleased look. You ignored him.

"Why do you even want me to come over anyways? It's not like we're best pals. I avoided you for a month, found you going through my mail, and then kicked you off my doorstep." You asked while wrestling your keys from the door lock.

"Everyone needs a bit of Niccals in their life." Murdoc said with a short laugh. You thought you saw him wiggle his eyebrows.

"Uh huh." You decided not to point out the fact he had ignored your question entirely, simply following after him.

The three of you got into Murdoc's apartment down the hall fairly quick. He only had to kick the door with the toe of his boot a few times before it gave way, opening with a loud creak and bringing the strong smell of smoke with it, along with the familiar stench of sulfur that you had since come to associate with him.

"Welcome—" Murdoc drew out the 'e' slowly as he sauntered through the doorway, "—to my crib."

He walked into the middle of the entrance and spread his arms out while grinning to himself. 2D shuffled in after you did, thanking you when you held the door open for him.

Murdoc’s apartment was much darker than yours. That was the first thing you noticed. Looking up, you saw that two of the three overhead lights that came with the apartment were either busted or shattered, and the third seemed to be handing on by a single wire. The rest of the room was lit up by flames from surrounding scentless candles, and looking at the red wax cascading down the long sides and onto carpet and countertops below, you wondered if he ever even bothered to blow them out before he left. Probably not.

In the middle of the living room, which was connected directly to the entrance, sat a rickety coffee table and an ashen sofa. Both of them had matching burns littering their surface, and you briefly got the mental image of Murdoc falling asleep on the couch with a lit cigarette still in between his sharp teeth.

You took in a few more details as Murdoc led you through the expanse of the living room. A signed copy of the Wickerman sat on a wooden mantle next to what looked like an upside down rubber cross. Both items were surrounded by numerous amounts of stains and scuffs on the walls, the majority of which looked to be more cigarette burns. At one point you almost tripped over what looked like a stack of old rock cd's at one point, only for 2D to immediately knock them over from behind. Murdoc didn't seem to notice, and you weren't about to point it out, so the two of you scurried away.

Murdoc had his hands in his jean pockets when he reached a different room separate from the living area, but took them out to open the door with some effort.

"Now, this is where the magic happens." Murdoc said smugly. You hesitantly walked forwards as 2D brushed past you from behind, making a beeline for what was probably a bed in one corner of the room, but looked more akin to a pile of dirty clothes and balled up linin sheets.

Murdoc’s inverted cross necklace bounced on his chest as he flopped on the mattress. 2D roughly sat up from where he had laid down on it, and the two of them started kicking each other pointlessly as you perused around the room.

“This is where you record?” The two of them stopped fighting when you turned back around, Murdoc having sent one more kick to 2D’s lower back before you could see.

“More like practice, love.” Murdoc chewed on his lip and closed his eyes. “Couldn’t record here if we wanted to. The acoustics just ain’t right for what we wanna do. We’re renting a studio out downtown for the real stuff, but we come up with most everything here.”

“Is it just you two? In your band, I mean.” You had been wondering that for a bit. You didn’t know much about making an album, but a band consisting of just a singer and a bass player didn’t seem like much of a band to you at all.

“Naw.” 2D spoke up with a shake of his head. “We’ve got a drummer, an’ my girlfrien’s the guitarist. They just don’t like comin up ‘ere much. Somefink about the smell, I fink. They keep buggin us about buyin’ a studio of our own, but Murdoc says we don’t haff the money right now.”

You heard Murdoc mumble something about the money comment to himself with a growl, and you pretended not to hear as you nodded at 2D.

A sort of awkward silence fell over the room after that, and you looked at a random stain on the ceiling while shifting your weight from foot to foot, unsure of where to go from there. It wasn’t like you had come over with an itinerary for the day in mind, and you certainly weren’t about to ask Murdoc what he wanted to do. You had a feeling you wouldn’t like his answer no matter what it was.

Another beat of silence passed. Murdoc’s chest rose and fell slowly. You poked at the inside of your cheek with your tongue.

“So— you want to show off some of those songs of yours or not?” You eventually asked, directing the question at 2D.

The reaction was immediate. He smiled widely, showing off some of his missing teeth, and launched himself off the bed towards a desk with a pair of speakers nestled next to you. You saw from the corner of your eye as Murdoc opened his eyes again, watching as the two of you crowded around a busted up computer screen in an attempt to pull up a song demo or two.

“Let me do it.” He grew impatient when 2D took too long, hopping out of bed to swagger over to the computer, hitting 2D on the back of the head as he forced him out of the desk chair and onto the floor by you.

“Show 'em th' one we worked on last month—“

“I got it!” Murdoc snapped, growling as he clicked a few more buttons. Finally, the file came up, and he pressed play as you shuffled closer to listen, ears straining as the melody opened with a heavy bass line. You watched the time stamp creep across the computer screen with rapt attention, pretending to ignore the feeling of two pairs of eyes on you.

It didn’t take long for it to finish with a flourish of drums, and one song from last month turned into one more song they worked on last night, then “just a few more” from the beginning of the year, until Murdoc was scrolling down in an attempt to find something they hadn’t showed you yet. At one point, 2D even shared some lyrics he had scrawled on a diner napkin this morning, smiling with squinted eyes as you laughed at some of the more absurd ones.

The three of you spent the rest of the night listening to the files Murdoc had at the ready, the two of them occasionally stopping one of the songs to gauge your opinion on it. More than once you had to reach over Murdoc’s shoulder to pause an ongoing track so 2D could launch into a detailed lyrical explanation, and after a few tries to slap your hand away, eventually the bassist would let you, even jumping into the conversation with a genuine take of his own every so often. After a while, you didn’t even have to tell Murdoc to keep hands to himself, all of you falling into easy conversation. 2D happily admitted at one point he was surprised you knew as much as you did about making music, considering when he had first started out, he had known fuck all. You’d just shrugged, taking the compliment, and told Murdoc to shut up when he grinned and said he liked someone with intelligence.

By the time you were leaving to get back to your apartment, waving goodbye to 2D and ignoring a borderline raunchy comment tossed your way by Murdoc, you hadn’t even realized six hours had passed.

Staring at your apartment door in the dark hallway outside of your flat, you blinked once. Twice.

You sighed. Fuck.

Maybe your next door neighbor wasn’t that bad after all.

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