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theknightmarket · 20 days

Note

I still think about Chase Me a lot and it.

Hmgh. 🙏

Not a lot of Murdock content that goes into his potential motives.

"You're a special case."

In which Murdock's cat and mouse chase comes to an end. TW: cursing, mention of murder Pages: 16 - Words: 6,500

[Requests: OPEN]

They got him.

They’d trapped him in a corner and wrapped the cuffs around his wrists. He was sitting in a cell, chained to the desk, waiting to be interrogated.

If they hadn’t called you, you would have forced your way into the police department anyway, regulations be damned. But they were smart, or maybe they just remembered the last time you were kept from the end of your case – either way, you had been writing up a very particular, very private report when your phone began to ring. You nearly didn’t answer it, too determined to finish off the last paragraph of the page before someone could interrupt, but it buzzed once, twice, thrice, and then you grabbed the thing and pressed the call button. Your mouth hung open at the half-way point of a cursing out when the officer who called you spurted out the very words that kept ringing through your head like a church bell.

They got him.

They had captured the Serotonin Serial Killer, and he was waiting in interrogation room C to be questioned by a detective. You made the forty-five-minute drive into twenty, flashed your badge at the receptionist, and didn’t say a word to anyone as you dashed through the hallways of the bustling building. Officers pressed themselves against the wall to avoid being barreled into, knowing you were on the warpath just from the look on your face. Though, it was no secret where you were headed. Your little stint with the man of the hour was kept between the two of you, but people had picked up on your sudden determination to solve the cases. When you worked sixteen-hour shifts, whispers took your place in leaving your office building and returning to your apartment. Rumors spread, some nice, some rude, all patents of the news agency; apparently one of his victims was your sister or uncle or second cousin thrice removed, because it gave you a motive and you were obviously the most important in the case to grant one. Never mind the guy slitting the public’s throats, the detective who was doing their job had to have a personal reason.

But your gripes with the press and other detectives were nothing you were focused on; distantly, you heard the taps of your shoes against the clean tiles towards the room, the times new-roman C blazing against the white wallpaper outside of a locked door.

You opened it without a second thought.

“It’s you.”

“You sound surprised, sweetheart.”

Murdock sat there, as you expected, chained, as you expected, grinning from ear to ear, as you expected. You imagined he was the first to be smiling so wide in the cold steel of a police chair, bound to the table in front of him. He was still adorned in his usual outfit, a red turtleneck and black trench coat, with blood splatters barely noticeable even in the scrutinous glaring of energy-efficient lights. The only thing that put you ill at ease was the crack in his sunglasses. It brewed a pit in the bottom of your stomach as your thoughts fled to assumptions that only helped to deepen it.

But you didn’t verbalize your suspicions that someone had put a hand on the man before you, the only indication that it crossed your mind being the heightening of your shoulders and an overtaking scowl. Instead, you simply locked the door behind you and dropped into the chair across from him. “You got caught,” you stated bluntly, his eyes following your descent, and it felt wrong to be able to see part of his iris.

“I did,” Murdock admitted. “Well done, you cuffed me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

You couldn’t keep the venom out of your tone, but you didn’t entirely want to. What you wanted to do was find the officer who caught him, ask them how they did it, and then find out exactly how his glasses got shattered so you could repay the favor. You assumed the plan came from your innate distaste of the police force and the rest of the detectives – you relied on the idea so that the thought could pass your mind without worry for the real sentiment behind it. And it almost did.

Murdock, helpfully, brought it back. “Jealous that you’re not the only detective in my life?”

“And if I am?”

“I’d appreciate it.” Damn his charming smile. He leaned forward in his seat, balancing his head on one of his hands, and flashed his grin at you like some kind of reward. It made you tense up, aided by the chill of the metal chair but by no means outweighed by it. You didn’t like this. The uncertainty of your emotions. In your last encounter, you were so certain of your anger towards him and his constant evading of capture, and yet there you were, with the man himself in front of you and definitely captured, fighting a losing battle against your own mind to convince yourself you weren’t swayed by him.

“Good thing I’m not, then.” You ignored the spark in Murdock’s eyes that hinted at his doubt. “How’d you get caught?”

“I killed somebody.” You almost laughed. It wasn’t as though he would be in the same room as you for shoplifting given his track record, but you let him continue without interruption, “Jemimah Pims. Fraud. I got spotted going into her office by a receptionist.”

You knew the name. Pims was big in public service chains that weren’t fast-food; she’d always hated the things, so she pulled a complete 180 and threw herself into high-class wine bars and five-star restaurants. Go figure, she didn’t start those businesses with legal money in her pocket, and that was where Murdock came in. The issue was that you didn’t believe that was his place. You’d seen him take revenge for affairs, prejudiced, miscarriages of justice – not money laundering. And getting a witness?

He must have misinterpreted your skeptical expression, because he followed himself up with, “She’s perfectly fine. Probably clearing up a couple of meetings that are going to go unattended.”

That didn’t help quell your suspicions. Of course, the receptionist was indeed alive, she had been the one to report him, after all, but that wasn’t the part you doubted.

“Let me rephrase that; why’d you get caught?”

You hit the nail on the head. The missing shard of his glasses was enough for you to see his iris, and that was enough for you to see his true feelings. That must have been why he kept them on so much, but they weren’t helping him now. Any excuse he might have made was wiped off the drawing board, and he knew that, too.

Almost reluctantly, he answered, “You’ve been awfully busy lately.”

“You can’t just kill someone because you want attention.” You interrupted a useless continuation that he didn’t even get to start. Of course, you had been busy in recent weeks, but that meant you had enough on your plate already without him piling it sky high.

A few days after your interaction on the roof of the theater, you were handed a case file from the higher-ups. Manila folder, top secret stamp, the whole cliché that made you want to bash your head into your desk. Your actual desk, mind you, the one that had been slightly bloodied by James Pratt. Everything was cleared up relatively fast, the funeral was scheduled for two months’ time, and you were back to work like it had never happened, like there was never a body of a friend draining into the floorboards. That folder, though, pushed it further back into the recesses of your mind; it was a political assassination attempt that you were shocked it landed on your task list. However, it was definitely there, and it was definitely high up on the list, so much so that you barely had time for yourself, let alone the serial killer watching you from another office building’s fourth floor. You supposed that Murdock reached his boiling point quicker than you.

One of your hands leapt to the bridge of your nose while the other ran through your hair. This job was pure stress without a serial killer giving you bodies because he wanted you to look at him.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

He stretched out his hands in an attempt at a shrug, but the cuffs limited how far his dramatics could go. To compensate, he brought his ankles up to cross them over the table. You could already feel the headache brewing, and the incompetence of the cops around you was certainly not helping. Hadn’t they read a single guidebook or, hell, watched a crime movie? It didn’t have to be one of the good ones, either, for them to figure it out that the criminal needed to be chained by the arms and legs to the table. You were so, so close to wringing someone’s neck – whether that was Murdock or the incompetent police. Really, anyone within a twenty-foot radius was at risk.

But you couldn’t, no matter how much your hands itched at the thought. Instead, you took a long, deep breath, in and out and in and out. A pitiful chuckle bubbled up in your throat. “Jealous that you’re not the only serial killer in my life?” you asked, somewhere between sarcastic and genuine.

“Yes.”

Too bad.

“So, what now?” you asked, to which you only got a raised eyebrow in response. “You’re in a police station, Serotonin.” His pout became more noticeable. “How do you plan to get out of this one?”

“Who says I plan to get out of it?”

“You wouldn’t sacrifice your entire career to get some one-on-one time with me. You’re not stupid.”

There was a glint of pride peeking out from the edge of the sunglasses. The rest reflected back onto him, but it was enough for you to see, notice, and feel the rush of blood to your cheeks and ears. Your moral compass told you it was wrong, behind wrong, to be happy with his silent praise, but that thing was long since broken. You wouldn’t trust it to tell you the ethics of kicking a child into the road to stop a wayward fruit cart.

“Hmm, well, as much as I’d like to, you’re right; I can’t just abandon it all for one person, no matter how gorgeous they are.” You had half a mind to find an ice bucket to dunk yourself in. If only to yourself, you would admit you didn’t get complimented often – on your work or otherwise. It wasn’t for a lack of anything, but the general verdict wherever you went was to never initiate conversation unless someone didn’t like the look of their head on their shoulders. It happened often in the detective department, and that was where you spent the majority of your time – the rest was in your apartment, alone and whiling away hours until you got back to work.

But you weren’t allowed to dwell on that depressing thought for much long, before Murdock started talking again, leaning as far back into his chair as the cuffs let him go. “There are moles in the police, sweetheart,” he teased, “you said it yourself. Not one person here can’t be bought or blackmailed. The boys standing outside this two-way mirror, for example.” He turned to smile in the direction of that very mirror. You couldn’t see the officers outside, obviously, but you could imagine them sweating through their blue jackets, not only because they were caught but because Murdock had that look. The one that told whoever he was staring at that this would be their last day, like making eye contact with the grim reaper. Except instead of a bleached skull and hollow pits, he was a beautiful masterpiece come to coax you into the ‘sweet embrace of death’, as the saying went.

“I can taste the corruption from here. It didn’t take long to find out about the affairs and gambling.”

“I thought your whole thing was indiscriminatory vigilante justice. Moles don’t count?”

Vividly, the body of Pratt sprang to your mind. Still warm on the floor of your office. Head turned so that his check was mashed into against the grain. Eyes glassy like a frosted window.

Even though his gaze returned to you, you felt his words pierce the air as knives thrown to the mirror. “Oh, they do. I’ll kill them when I’m done here.”

Murdock was happy with himself. Proud of his work that rewarded him with this scene – two police officers paling from behind a wall, a detective sitting across him wearing a blush and a scowl, and himself haphazardly chained to the table. He wouldn’t have traded it for anything else. He sometimes, on the days when things were, the days when he was positioning old bodies or stalking new ones, when he had time to himself, he wondered what it the outcome would have been had it not been you assigned to his case. He couldn’t imagine the boredom; he didn’t give a damn about the press or the public, whether they were scared of him or in awe. When he first started this whole thing, he hadn’t even cared about the people chasing him, and, mostly, he still didn’t. But then there was you. A grizzled detective with a chip on their shoulder and enough experience with the law to sate thirty juniors. Murdock loved his job, but you made it that little bit more interesting.

Only, he could have done without your next question.

“Do I count?”

His head shifted to stare directly at you, his shattered focus pulled into one place, your expression of curiosity, doubt, a tinge of daring.

You continued, that tell-me-I’m-wrong look overtaking the rest of the emotions, “I let you get away with de Gaille and Lochlin. Doesn’t that make me a killer by association?”

Technically, he supposed it did. After all, he’d killed people for less. However, that wasn’t meant to be your ending. You weren’t supposed to be a pig on a hook in the butcher’s backroom.

“You’re a special case, love.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to help me get out.”

Your immediate thought was to resist. Mouth open to tell him a stern no and legs ready to storm from the room, you were sure Murdock saw, but he didn’t act. He just watched as your shoulders heightened and your grimace deepened. He just watched as you stayed seated, though the discomfort showed.

“Your boys can’t do that?” you asked.

He shook his head. “They’re at the window because two officers have to be. They won’t go near me with a ten-foot pole, or without a foot of concrete between us.” A light chuckle bled into his words, accompanied by the flash of an eye and the corner of his lip perking up. “You, though, have been much, much closer. And you have nothing for me to play on, except for a little bit of affection.”

“Affection, is that what it is?” the scoff escaped you before you processed his words, and it was just as well. You didn’t want a serial killer to know he was – on the most basic level and not even that much and only if you wanted to actually define it and you certainly didn’t – correct. You did feel something for the man sitting before you, leaning casually back in the steel chair of the interrogation room, but you wouldn’t admit it aloud.

“Romantic, sexual, aesthetic, whatever your attraction is. It stops you from letting me fry, as you like to put it.”

“It stops me from letting you die, but that’s where it ends. Locking you up, I’m fine with that.” You were getting faster, pitifully desperate to prove to him, to yourself, to the two officers standing outside that you were not tied to him in any way. You had no reservations about keeping him behind bars. Despite that, it wasn’t the thought at the forefront of your mind – pride and place belonged to the reassurance that it wasn’t that simple. For one second, you assumed that you did enjoy his company and looking at him and his charismatic whisperings that set something aflame in your heart. You still couldn’t abandon everything to run after this maniac. You couldn’t. You couldn’t.

“Are you?”

Were you?

A horrible feeling of dread washed over you, thrown to-and-fro in the rush of the river Styx, your lungs filled with water, and you struggled to keep afloat. It wasn’t that simple. It couldn’t be. There were so many other factors at play. Your life, his life, his job, shit, your job. You were a detective sent to wrap the handcuffs around Murdock’s wrists.

As if he sensed your crumbling façade of calm, he pushed, “You’ll have to pick a side, of course.” You hated to admit it, but the choice would be easy, if you could convince yourself to acknowledge that you did have a choice. Left or right. You didn’t have to consider the nuance of it all, no matter how much you wanted to. The answer your heart made for you blazed in your mind, but trails of fog tried to cover it with questions and consequences.

“Sitting on the fence isn’t an option.” His tone was strangely gentle, like coaxing an injured animal from their hiding place. “If you let me out or if you lug me to a cell yourself, I’ll know where you stand. Hell, I’ll even give you a week to change your mind. But you can’t just leave and wash your hands of it all.”

Responsibility. That was the thing at the crux of his decisions. Who lived and who died all depended on responsibility. The corrupt decided their own sentences when they played both sides off against each other. Police and aristocracy, politicians and the church. The hypocrites were the ones with their necks on the block, and Murdock wielded the axe. He hoped that you would see that, and maybe, if you wanted to, find a handle for yourself.

The distance between the two of you seemed to close. The desk turned to mist. The walls around you felt as though they’d constricted without you noticing.

“Think about it, love.” You didn’t need to think, that was the worst part. “You can go back to your boring job where you aren’t respected or cared about, and you can file reports about a teenager’s accidental arson while the bigger cases are picked off by fat cats who just want the reputation and money.” You didn’t need to be convinced. “Or you can come with me and use justice how it should be used. How you want to use it.”

Heart thundering in your chest so loud you thought it might burst – but then you wouldn’t have to make a decision so maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad – the rest of your body stayed paralyzed with fear. Not of Murdock, of course not, but of the fact that you wanted to go with him. In a split second, you’d made your choice, and you didn’t need his fancy words to encourage it. You weren’t some injured animal, you were a detective who had lost faith in the system, leaving only a struggle with your morals and upbringing to contest with, two things that were fading fast from your mind.

Meanwhile, Murdock struggled with the twitch of his hand that compelled him to comfort you. He had never been a sympathetic person – most murderers weren’t – but he didn’t like this look on you. At least, he liked it much less than the vivid rage you so often sported, particularly when it was for him. This was a distressed look that he didn’t mean to cause. Give him the fireworks and the explosions and the sparks, not the earthquakes that rocked the very place he stood and threatened to knock him off his feet entirely. Deep in his chest, he wanted to exchange that expression for anything else, but he found him options vastly limited by the cuffs. His mouth dropped open, seconds away from offering kind words, but they had done enough.

Luckily, that enough was in the direction that he wanted.

You didn’t speak as you got up from your chair and walked to the door. You lifted your hand but switched courses quickly, aiming not for the handle but for the ring of keys hanging on the wall next to it. One of them would unlock the handcuffs. One of them would set Murdock free and damn you to a life of crime in one movement. You had witnesses, after all, and your own conscience wouldn’t let you be a traitor to either side.

When you were close enough, he reached out to you. A hand caressed down your arm as far as the metal would let him go. His contact sparked against your skin while the clang of the cuffs hitting the table rang out in the room like a church bell. When he was free, he did the most unexpected thing you would ever believe he chose to do.

Murdock wrapped an arm around your waist and shifted the hand that was on your arm around your shoulder. He was surprisingly cozy, like a warm-blooded animal, in the din of the interrogation room. As you stood frozen, half from his action and half from the reality of your own setting in, he tightened his grip and dipped his head into the crook of your neck.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he mumbled, words muted by his closeness to you, but you didn’t mind. You didn’t mind one bit. In fact, slowly, you drew your arms around him, too.

“When we get home, we’re talking about this.”

He pulled back at that, barely enough for you to properly hear his question of, “Home?”

It went unanswered, but he had already gotten a sentence out of you, and that was much more than he could had ever expected. You propped your hands against his chest to subtly move him further from you, eyes cast down and expression downcast.

“Stay here.”

He followed your order easily, considering it was just him standing in the room while you left into the hallway. Both of you knew it would take just one turn of the key to lock him inside, a couple of steps to tell someone that he needed to be locked up as soon as possible, a quick course of action that would relieve you of all your guilt. Murdock wouldn’t hold you to it, because you still chose a side. It just wouldn’t be the one he wanted.

When you returned with a hat and jacket – and, unbeknownst to him, the image of those two officers paralyzed with fear seared into your mind’s eye – he felt his shoulders relax and a pleasant smile take over his lips. Pleasant wasn’t a word often used to describe anything to do with Murdock, but you had a strange way of breaking the norms, and he didn’t mind it one bit. He even let you manipulate his arms like a doll into the flimsy material before you dropped the cap onto his head. It dipped over his forehead slightly, so you adjusted it until you could just see his eyes out of the shadow.

“You don’t say a word until we’re out of this building and into my car,” you ordered, and Murdock thought it best to acquiesce. It was the least he could do after this whole situation that he put you in.

Briefly, he nodded. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He had.

But the next course of action was simple; you left the keys on the hook as you opened the door, unceremoniously shoved Murdock by the shoulder into the hallway, and lead him into the entrance. You had never been more appreciative of the other officers’ reactions to you. Seeing them jump out of your direct path like they’d been set on fire was good for you, if not practically – given you were escorting a serial killer out of the precinct – then emotionally. Nobody tried to look at the man in step by your side, mostly because they were too afraid to cast their gaze anywhere near you. Before, you might have felt disappointed at the reaction, but, if Murdock was right, they were no better than you.

You really hoped he was right.

You made it to your car promptly, and he was soon to round the hood to get into the passenger seat while you swung the driver’s door open. You almost drove off without looking in your back seat, your hand still on the keys in your ignition when you noticed the pile of equipment in the middle of the bench. Duct-tape, zip-ties and lo-and-behold, your original gun. It was as clean as the day Murdock had taken it from you.

Speaking of – you turned to look at the man next to you, who wore the most sheepish expression you would have imagined fit on him.

“Seriously?” you asked.

“I wanted to be prepared in case you put up a fight.”

“You were going to kidnap me?”

“Only for a day or two.” Your eyes narrowed, and he took that as a sign to rush to his own defense. “Just long enough for you to come around. I would never kill you.”

How comforting. It was weird that the thought was half-genuine; you were indeed glad that he had never planned on ending your life.

Sarcastic or not, you muttered a, “thanks,” as you pulled out from your parking space and started the journey home.

Murdock was a surprisingly quiet travelling companion. You expected him to be chatting your ear off about his latest kills, their crimes, their lives, their deaths, etcetera, etcetera. The only thing noise he made, though, was his humming along to the radio’s soft rock. Some instrumental had him tapping his fingers along the window’s edge in its rhythm. If you hadn’t been driving away from a police interrogation, it might have been sweet. And even if you were…

But the magic didn’t last forever. You pulled into your apartment’s parking lot, the three scuffed paint lines amongst those alleyway dumpsters and loose beer cans constituting for one, and you turned off the engine. You didn’t live in a nice part of town, you knew that, and you weren’t ashamed. Sure, you spent most of your time in your office, but that wasn’t because you were embarrassed to live in the building. It was just easier for you, to the point that your apartment was more of a second home, like the grandparents’ that you used to spend every second Wednesday at.

You locked your car door when you were out, then made your way to Murdock’s side.

“This is your place?” he asked, shutting his own door behind him.

“What, you’ve never seen it before?”

“I steered clear of your intimate life.”

The image of the equipment that was still in your backseat had you raising an eyebrow. “Oh, that’s where you draw the line?”

“I didn’t want to rush it.” You didn’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes, nor did you stop yourself from grabbing Murdock’s hand and tugging him towards the front of the building. From the outside, it looked like your standard run-down-rat-dream, but you’d taken the liberty of sprucing up your own rooms. It lessened the fear in your heart about showing your new partner – in crime.

Said man shot a look down to your hands. “No, I much prefer you doing this out of your own volition.”

The lobby of your building served its purpose. It had a reception table, a door to the breaker box and other things up-keep, and a staircase that led to the rest of the floors. There was only one other door on this level, which was for the owner’s place, but he was either hardly ever there or rotting on his couch, based on how little you saw of him. Another plus was that there were no cameras, but that was only a positive for right now. You would certainly be more worried about smuggling in a murderer had there been sufficient security measures.

So, with the ease of this mission, you took Murdock up to your apartment relatively easily. The other occupants of the building stayed put in their rooms as you went up the steps, before you stopped on the fifth floor. It took a second for you to fish your keys out of your pocket, but, when you had and you’d twisted them into the lock, Murdock let out a little whistle.

You were proud of the work you’d done to fix the place up. When you had first bought it, it was more of a trash dump than a living space – you hadn’t made it three steps without tripping on a bunch of tied up newspapers, which got you into the immediate mindset for clearing it up. The cleaning was over by the first day, the repairs by the third, and the refurbishment by the end of the week. All on your dime, mind you, but you were fine with that. It just meant that if and when you moved out, you would take everything with you.

Now, it was made into an actual home with crimson wallpaper, a plush couch, a bookcase in the corner and, the thing that Murdock took most notice of, an empty fish tank.

You closed the door behind Murdock as he sashayed to the centre of your front room.

“I didn’t see you as a fish owner,” he commented.

“I’m not.” You hung your jacket on the rack beside you. “Never spent enough time here to look after them.”

It was a sad tale you never liked to tell. Three betta fish and two weeks at the office was the most you let slip when people asked.

But, instead of asking, Murdock flopped back onto the cushions behind him and tucked his hands underneath his head. “Cozy.”

You were able to see his closed eyes when you sat on the coffee table. He looked peaceful, if you could ever call him peaceful. For a moment, you thought he might have checked out early and fell asleep.

His voice nearly startled you, but it only made you squint your eyes and cross your arms on your knees. “You wanted to talk,” he prompted.

“What’s the arrangement now?”

“I assume this is a one-bedroom and I don’t like sleeping on the couch.” He opened his eyes only to wink with the one you could see between the cracks of the glass.

You admonished him firmly. “Murdock.” For you, this was a turning point in your entire life. You didn’t believe in that second chance after death – not that you imagined you would get a good one after this – so you needed to make this count.

“There we go,” he whispered, a smug tone made by you finally saying his real name aloud.

As much as you’d like to continue his banter, easier now that you could actually talk to him in the privacy of your own home, you needed to be secure in your thought process. “Am I quitting my job?”

“Yes.” Blunt, but effective. That was better for you. “But you still have a week to mull it over. Not that I think you’ve made the wrong choice—” His hand jumped back to where it had once been in yours, “—You can do more work out here than you ever could as a detective.”

Whether that was true or not, you both believed it. Murdock had since his first kill, and you were steadily getting further and further from the fence.

“So, I’m joining you.”

“If you feel so inclined.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever you like.”

“You’re being vague.”

“Sweetheart, this is your life.” As if to punctuate his point, he brought you closer by your hand. Your heart thudded in your chest while the memories from your first one-on-one flooded back. “You can come out stalking with me or go off on your own.”

Deep breath in, deep breath out. He was right. You assured yourself that, yes, this was your life. And you’d chosen to spend it taking the law into your own hands.

Now, your questions were for the simple act of asking questions. You needed time to process it, and listening to Murdock talk was surprisingly helpful. “Then why pull me off the force?”

“I saw what they were doing with you. You told me. I certainly won’t take credit for your work, and you’re not restrained by paperwork or legalities. I just wanted to open you up to more effective opportunities.” He leaned closer, almost out of his seat. “And, as much as I’ve loved our game of cat and mouse, it’s hard to carry on a relationship when you run the risk of shooting me anytime we meet. Although, I do love the danger. Complicated, isn’t it?”

“Not really.”

When you’d first become a detective, you would have never imagined that your career would end like this. Shot in the line of duty, punched a higher up, retired at a nice, old age to a farm in the countryside. Those were the scenarios you’d thought up all those years ago. And yet, you liked this outcome. It filled you with some kind of excitement when you thought about finally dealing with the other detectives you’d seen. And Murdock, oh, Murdock, he was your favorite part.

That was why you didn’t need any encouragement to dive forward and connect your lips with his. He was immediately receptive to the kiss, using his hand to pull you towards him. All the stress of joining a murderer melted away with the contact. Sparks danced along your skin where he drew his other hand from your arm to your shoulder to your neck. Undoubtably, you were touch-starved, you’d known that for a while, and that made the fire grow quicker than you thought it would. The dance you’d been doing with each other for months was nothing in comparison to the dance of your lips. It was less infuriating for you, and more prideful for Murdock. The little sounds that escaped your mouth as you shifted to get more comfortable gave him a boost to his ego that he really didn’t need. Still, he smiled while you pushed deeper.

This was his prize. You would never admit it, but Murdock knew that you knew that he won. He wasn’t sitting pretty in a cell, he was sitting pretty on your couch, with a view, not of iron bars, but of a gorgeous detective who had practically pledged their life to him. He leaned back just an inch to breath, letting you do the same, in order to get a good look at you.

The breath was worth nothing when you knocked it out of him, anyway. Disheveled was a good look on you.

“I’ve made my choice,” you muttered, “and I don’t intend on going back on it now.” That statement made his heart quicken, more than fleeing any crime scene could ever cause.

His curiosity was piqued when you straightened your back and looked towards the bookcase.

You got to your feet as you said, “Oh, that means I can show you something.”

Murdock watched you rush to where you were looking. You grazed a hand across the dusty surface, eyes skipping through the spines to find the thing you were searching for. When you turned around again, Murdock saw not a book, as he would have guessed, but a manilla folder.

After your rooftop meeting, you had done some research. You used to tell yourself it was to keep tabs on the other detectives, so that you could possibly guess who Murdock would go after first. Now, you admitted that it was just to dig up some dirt.

You fell back next to Murdock on the couch, bringing a foot onto the coffee table. The folder was tossed open in your hands by the weight of the papers inside, and there were a lot of them, each separated with a tab. One name, one last name, was written per tab.

It didn’t take long for him to figure out what this was.

“Oh, I love you,” he sighed as he flipped through some of the documents. It was a dream come true for him. The background check was the most boring part of the process, he much preferred the chase. With you, he had gotten all of his information from talking to you, and he only stayed entertained because it was you. In your hands was the golden ticket to avoid all of that messy business.

Murdock was so happy that you chased him.

“I love you, too,” you replied, bringing a hand up to grab at his jawline. If it were any other moment, he might have teased you, but he was too busy falling in love with you, as if the cat and mouse schtick hadn’t been enough for him already. He was looking forward to getting your claws back.

“So,” he whispered into the minimal gap between you, “Pierce or Vanderbilt first?”

You dropped your head, hitting his lips with a light laugh. It was the first time that you wondered what your life had become in a grateful sense.

[I don't actually think that this was a request, but I also think of Murdock way too much to only have one fic about him. Hence... you get this. I hope you enjoyed <3!]

#theknightmarket #fanfiction #markiplier egos #writing #markiplier egos x reader #markiplier #one shots #x reader #murdock x reader #murdock #iswm #iswm murdock #also guess who just remembered they have an inbox #detective x criminal

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mane--attraction · 6 months

Text

It's that time of year again when haunted houses are in full swing, and despite your best efforts, you are going alone to have some fun getting spooked. Might you get more than you bargained for, however?

Word Count: 5015. Yeah. This one kinda got away from me lol. Fun fact, this is now my longest fic ever. This was also supposed to be done for last year, but I clearly vastly underestimated how long this was going to be.

Mild knifeplay, "kidnapping," gender neutral but afab reader. Murdock x reader. Potentially inaccurate haunted house depiction.

MINORS DNI!

~~~

Dusk dapples the sky while you stand in line, waiting for the local haunted house event to open its doors, rubbing your arms to ward off the beginnings of a chill in the air. Despite living here a while, this is your first time you've built up the nerve to go. It takes up the entire fairgrounds, with multiple houses under one event. You had extended an invitation to Murdock, because you were sure it was right up his alley, but he declined, citing work. He's been away an awful lot this month, despite his best efforts, and you were hoping to spend more time with him out and about instead of just within your four walls and between the sheets. But alas, it seems like it's not to be, and you had reassured him it was alright, even as you tried to mask your disappointment.

You mostly relegate all that to the back of your mind, your excitement more prominent now that you're here. You hesitated to attend in the years prior because some of the houses were interactive, where the actors could grab you. It was one of the selling points you had used to appeal to Murdock, animatedly mimicking it in the air, although you wonder now that you think about it if that was a deal breaker for him; after all, thanks to his…line of work, would he have reacted negatively? The last thing either of you need, especially him, is legal action.

Regardless, you're not sure now why it was such a problem for you that you didn't even try the normal houses; and after all, it's not like the ones where they can touch you have free reign. Although you do have to fill out a liability form, so maybe that's why you over-thought it in the past.

You're at the front of the line before you realize it, handing over your money—extra for the specialty houses—and signing the necessary forms. The woman in the booth puts on your wristband and gives you a map and a spiel that she's already had to recite multiple times, but you are eating up every word, grinning excitedly.

"Welcome to our little town of horrors, where the streets and fields are home to a great many spooky things, where the veil between the supernatural and our world grows thinner by the day. But beware: it's not just the ghost and ghouls that are out to get you… Good luck."

And with that, you're free to start exploring. You wander around for a little bit, gaining your bearings on the area, but it isn’t long before impatience overtakes you and you head towards the first haunted house. The smell of food is enticing, as are the Halloween-themed carnival games, but that all can wait. The best way to tackle this is head-on, even if you're sure these beginning houses are going to be pretty okay. This is, after all, just a local event, even if it does pull in quite the crowd. Plus, you’re starting at the tamest one, with plenty of kids out front, so you’ll be fine.

Let the spookening begin.

Your first house was actually a little underwhelming because of being geared so young, but you worked your way through the other two houses you wanted to try before getting to the “final boss” of the haunted houses tonight. You were sufficiently spooked, both through corridors and a corn maze, but the goal wasn’t “sufficient.” With slightly overpriced pizza sitting in your stomach, you start towards your final destination.

Excitement and nervousness, stronger than before, bubble together the closer you get, the previous scares coming to your mind’s eye, but you force yourself through it rather than chicken out. You didn’t come all this way just to back out. You do wish Murdock was here, though; you’d feel a lot better if he was. Things seem less scary with a man like him by your side. The screams from within startle you from your thoughts. You swear they're louder here.

The attendant checks your wristband to make sure you're allowed in, then waves you along into the corral with the next batch of "victims." You fidget with your hands and glance around at the rest of the event. It's only now you realize how physically isolated this house is from the others.

"First time?"

You turn to see a guy around your age with a group of a few others, probably his friends. You chuckle, your nervousness evident. "Yeah. I went through some of the others already, just this one left."

The guy grins, while the two girls resume some quiet discussion. "It'll be fine. They'll just push you and tug on your clothing a bit, maybe grab your hand, but nothing too bad."

"As if you don't scream every time," one of the girls pipes up from her conversation.

He huffs, only half insulted, and you can't help but giggle in tandem with the girls. "I do not—"

“Do too.” The girl who spoke grins. “I bet you’d scream real loud if we went to one of those newer places where they can drag you off somewhere”

“They actually allow that?” you interject, eyes rounding in surprise.

“Yeah, I heard a couple of the big popular places are adding that as a feature.” The girl pulls her coat around her, the wind kicking at everyone’s legs. “It’ll probably never happen here, though. Not with everything that’s happened recently.”

While it does genuinely take you a moment, you nod and go “ah” as if you aren’t in flagrante delicto with the culprit of crimes a few towns over. A culprit whom you were originally planning on bringing here— Thankfully, you’re almost to the door of the house, so the group’s focus is more on getting in than on you, and nobody seems to notice your smile growing a bit taut.

“Hey, why don’t you stick with us?” The other girl you haven’t spoken with yet bounces on her feet.

“Yeah, it’s more fun as a group,” the guy says. His buddy nods.

“Sure,” you say, the twisty feeling in your stomach loosening. “The more the merrier, right?”

Everyone in the group gives some form of acknowledgement, and then the attendant cuts in with their spiel about the theming—a mansion, run down with time after the owner and his staff’s mysterious disappearances…if that’s really what happened. Rumor has it that something terrible befell everyone inside—and they might think you’re to blame, if you’re not careful. They also bring up reminders about protocol while in the house. You've heard all of it at the other haunted houses here, and not much changes with the addition of physicality; as always, if it gets too overwhelming, there are ways out that all the performers know.

The buddy turns to you once the speech is done. “What’s your name, by the way?”

You introduce yourself, and he repeats your name. “Nice to meet you.” He gives his own name and sounds off everyone else’s. You try and commit it all to memory, even if you’re not sure how well it will stay.

“Nice to meet all of you.”

And with that, you step over the threshold, and the door slams shut behind you. You jump higher than you think is warranted, but the scaredy cat in the group does in fact let out a yelp, which sets everyone off laughing. You collectively take a moment to consider the path in front of you: a narrow corridor, flickering with sickly yellow lighting, the remnants of pumped-in fog curling at the floor.

You’re not entirely certain who steps forward first, but it definitely isn’t you. Despite knowing this is all fake and having already gone through other hallways similar to this one, it still has enough of a thrall to induce a silence that grows more tense the further you all get. The walls are eerily similar to how you would imagine a decrepit mansion to be, wallpaper peeling off in sheets, and you find yourself suspicious of every dark spot in the wall. Even the mirrors in the supposed foyer, cracked and broken, are suspect. The sounds of a creaking house and muffled howling winds are piped in; quiet enough to make you second guess where you are, but loud enough that it almost feels too loud in the enclosed space.

One of the girls lets out a shriek, pulling away suddenly from the wall, and you practically jump out of your skin. She giggles nervously. “It got me!”

Everyone else follows suit, letting out a laugh that normally would release tension. You can only speak for yourself when you think about how it didn’t much help.

“Get out! The master is gone: Get out while you still can!”

The warning, shouted at a frightening pitch, kicks your group forward, everyone pressing together as the hall narrows more, then widens again, a bend ahead of you all. You feel a hand against your sleeve, and you jank it back quickly with a surprised curse. A cold breeze tickles your neck, and it takes all your willpower not to shriek, even though that is perfectly in spirit with a haunted house (pun not intended). “Please tell me someone else felt that cold air?” you squeak.

“Yeah, I did,” says the guy in front of you. You already can’t tell which one he is.

The wood beneath your feet groan as you all continue forward, the sconces flickering with the yellow light your eyes have gotten used to. You shove your hands into your pockets; the closer you keep your limbs, the less likely they are to be grabbed. The door handle beside your group rattles. It’s not fake. You all move a little quicker.

The floorboards creak behind you, and you feel like you turn as if in slow motion to see a man standing in the middle of the hallway in a mask, human-like but definitely not human. Every feature is exaggerated just enough to be unnatural, and in this place, it works a little too well. With his frame, he seems to take up the entire hallway; and if not physically, then with his presence. Your eyes lock onto him, and you stop walking, as if he’s frozen you in place. Everything else disappears: no sound, no sight except for this man. And there’s something about him…

The man lets out a guttural growl, the kind that sends genuine fear into the pit of your stomach. You’re the first to scramble to run the moment he shifts to pursue, pushing through the rest of your group, the spell broken, but everyone else soon follows suit, screams echoing in the tiny corridor. You're not sure where theirs end and yours begins. You whip your head around just long enough to confirm where the man is before you round the corner, and your line of sight is perfect to see him between everyone’s heads, the unsettling lighting warping the mask more. You swear you see a knife in his hand.

Finally, after a few minutes of running, one of the girls must have glanced back, because you hear her call out behind you, "He's gone!" Your feet don't quite get the memo, and you find yourself out ahead of the group as you slow and catch your breath.

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter to yourself. Why did that scare you so much?

“Are you okay?” one of the guys asks. You nod.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” It’s half a lie, and you laugh nervously. “Just part of the experience, right?”

“Right.”

“We should probably keep moving though. Who knows when the next person’s gonna jump out at us.” Despite not being fully ready, you lead the group forward, trying to figure out what it was this time. It’s probably not that deep, but it feels important to figure out.

However. Something occurs to you.

That mask didn't look like it belonged in this house

Teeth bared in a snarl too wide to be natural, prominent eyebrows casting shadows over the eyes, more creature than human, despite being human-like. Surely it's just a mistake, but all the other houses have been meticulous with what they had to work with, so for a slip-up to happen now seems odd. Although, it could still fit, since it had been said nobody knew what happened to the occupants of the mansion. That doesn't quite explain, however, why his outfit—including an almost knee-length modern coat with pants—wasn't that of a servant, nor the head of the mansion…

“That was a pretty good scare,” says one of the girls behind you.

“Yeah, that felt so visceral,” says the other. "Wild."

“I have the heebie jeebies.” It’s that guy, the scared one.

“You always get the ‘heebie jeebies.’”

He huffs. “Shut up—”

You slow down, falling to the back of the group. You swear you hear something that isn’t just the sound system, but maybe it's just your overactive imagination. After all, anyone would be on high alert after being chased. The guy you haven’t spoken to gives you a look that you almost miss, but you don't explain yourself. No point.

“I thought this was supposed to be more grabby.”

“Maybe we just haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“I know this place is big, but it’s not that big.”

“They probably just want to build up the spookiness,” you interject, even if you’re not fully convinced, yourself.

“Ah, that would make sense.”

You stop in front of another destroyed mirror, pieces scattered on the table under it. Your own face is almost unrecognizable, horridly lit and fractured in the reflection, concern and fear staring back at you.

“YOU WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOU’VE DONE!”

It comes from up ahead, and it snaps you from your trance, but instead of seeing your new acquaintances, you see…nobody. Everyone is gone. Even the voice you heard isn’t visible to you.

You swear you see a bit of the one girl's hair trailing behind her at the bend ahead, but you're much too far away already, and you're not sure they noticed you're not with them yet. It stings a little, even if you know they didn’t mean anything by it, but your nervousness overpowers that, the uncertainty of what lies ahead gnawing at you. You jog forward, just fast enough to hopefully catch up with the rest of the group—

You hear a loud THUMP somewhere behind you, startling you enough to jump. With the way the ground vaguely vibrates, whatever hit the floor must have done so pretty hard. You swallow thickly. “Guys?” you call out. No answer. You jog with more urgency now, your footfalls and heartbeat equal tempo in your ears. More than likely, they didn’t hear you because of ambience, but you fear they’ve gotten too far away in such a short span of time. You pick up speed—

—but there’s another noise behind you, a shuffling, that has you stop again, head whipping around to try and find the source. With the corners so dark, it’s impossible to tell if someone is there or if it was just an animal that found its way in. You stand there for a few seconds longer than you should, staring into the darkness. Something is up, and the lack of anything actually happening is making this so much worse than being physically pushed and pulled in different directions. You’re not a haunted house expert by any means, but this place has been far too quiet. Slowly, you continue to move forward, the faux fog growing thicker with less bodies to disturb it. The floor creaks uncomfortably loud. You don’t remember any mention about multiple pathways, so where the hell is everyone?

There's a tug on your hair, and you barely suppress a yelp, but you suppose it was an accident…although it was rather close to your scalp; how did someone get that close without you realizing after all this time…

Suddenly, there's a hand clamped around your wrist, jolting you, and you'd think it a coincidence if it wasn't for the one wrapping around your mouth, dragging you to someone and into the shadows. You scream, but it's muffled, drowned out by the suddenly overly loud sound system, and your efforts to struggle out of your assailant's grip are futile, holding you tightly against their body as they maneuver you with much more ease than you'd expect. It's honestly kind of scary how little you're affecting them. Their hands are oddly cool against your skin, and then you realize it's not their skin, but some material.

Leather.

A door slams open behind you, and you're dragged into a room. The outside noises are muffled, then dampened once the door shuts again, trapping you in the dim space with whoever has kidnapped you. You're still yelling, trying to stomp on their feet and throw your head back against their chin, but their shoes are too solid and they're too tall to headbutt. Your hands twist around to pinch or scratch, but all you get is fabric.

"Sweet thing," a man's voice growls into your ear, "you better cooperate, or else this will be a lot more difficult for you."

The person's hands shift, and hope surges that you'll get an opening, but before you can get very far in acting through it, you're forced to the ground face down, hips suddenly pressed up against you, and you freeze. He's rock hard.

"Or you can struggle all you like. Doesn't much matter to me." Somehow, you can tell there's a grin to his voice. "It just encourages me to try harder."

It takes you a moment too long to try and buck him off, gnashing your teeth. "Get off of me! You'll be sorry!"

You feel the man throb, and he laughs lowly. "Sorry how, sweetheart? A pretty thing like you, at my mercy…"

The chill of metal against your skin startles you into freezing again, and something about it seems…familiar. The cogs take a moment to turn, but then they click into place. You know that voice. "Murdock?"

He's quiet for a moment, then chuckles. "Well, well. Smart cookie. Not that I expected anything less from my kitten.”

Considering the shock of it all prevented you from thinking straight, he's lucky you didn't panic more. "Wh— What are you doing here? I had thought—"

"I couldn't resist the opportunity." Murdock tosses something to the ground—a mask he was apparently wearing. "And work…ended much sooner than I thought."

The lighting is terrible, but your eyes focus on the mask, which stares back at you with a bared grin, more bestial than you realized, and a memory flashes: Being pursued down the hall, sickly yellow light flashing across its exaggerated features— "But how—"

He shushes you, hands trailing across your neck to expose it to him. "I have my ways, sweetling. Not everyone is as careful as they could be." He starts pressing startlingly soft kisses to your neck, although it isn't long before they become more insistent, and you bite your lip and shiver. "Yourself included."

His dangerous tone sets off a nervousness in the pit of your stomach: it’s the type of tone he uses when you’ve been misbehaving. “L-listen, Murdock, I carry that pepper spray with me, you know I’ll be okay—”

“Do I? After all, look at how easily I stole you away…”

Shit. He’s not wrong. "You—you’re just abnormally strong.” You swear you hear a light chuckle, but you ignore it and squirm in one more attempt to get free. “The others, they're— they're waiting for me—"

"Are they?" He can't hide the hint of possessiveness that creeps into his voice, and one of his hands presses into your back to stop you. "They can wait, sweetheart. We haven't had our fun yet."

The sharp tip of something presses against your center, and you yip, jolting forward. “Don’t you dare! I’m not about to replace these—”

“Alright, I won’t. Help me get you out of them, then."

His hands push their way under your coat to find the band of your jeans, and a half second after he starts, your brain jumpstarts again and you scramble to assist him, finding the waistband before he does and pushing it down your body. Murdock takes over when it rounds your ass, shoving the material to your knees with impatience. You try and kick them off, although it is very difficult in this position; he helps a little bit, but once you’ve gotten it off one leg, he grips your thighs, forcing you to stay still. Slowly, the cold metal of the flat of his blade trails over your skin: along your thigh, pressing against the underside of your ass, across and down to the other thigh…then it’s pressing against your core again, and with nothing but your underwear left to protect you, you can’t help but whimper.

“These are easily replaceable, though. Aren’t they, kitten?”

His knife pushes a little firmer against you, and your breathing shudders. It takes everything within you not to press back. “...Yes, sir.”

His grin is as clear as day in his voice this time. “Perfect.”

It’s the only warning you get before a gloved finger hooks between your skin and the cotton, pulling it away just enough to allow the knife to slip through and slice. Your underwear offers no resistance, cut through like butter and exposing you in an instant. The cold only chills you for a moment, his groin back against yours and grinding roughly, and all you can do is fail to hold back your moan. He only does this for a few seconds before pulling back. His jingling belt gives away his intentions, and your blood pumps faster in anticipation.

“Do you think you’re ready? Hm?” There’s a soft sound and fabric going flump, and his bare hand is on your clit, rubbing intensely. You gasp wildly, nodding without actually knowing if you are or not. Murdock’s fingers dip into you, checking for himself. You don’t resist lifting your hips towards them, trying to guide them further in with a desperate whine. He just teases you, sliding back and forth and occasionally thumbing your sensitive nub.

“Please,” you whisper without thinking.

“What’s that?” Fuck, he sounds so smug, and you’d love to snap back at him for it, but him slowing to a snail’s pace is too distracting. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

“Please, Murdock!”

His fingers leave you, and you pout and whine quietly. However, his zipper popping open has you changing your tune. “One more try.”

There’s little hesitation from you. “Pleasefuckme!”

“Mm.” His head slides through your folds, and you gasp again. This time, his gloved hand stills you before you can move. “Music to my ears.”

That’s all the warning you get before he slowly slides into you, gripping your hips. You squeak, lashes fluttering as your breaths come out in puffs, adjusting to how almost easily he stretches you. He rubs at you a little more, and he sinks in the rest of the way. A low moan is his reward, followed by one of his own. Murdock hardly moves at first, simply grinding within you and rocking his hips in shallow movements. Then, suddenly, he draws back all the way and snaps his hips against yours, and you yelp in surprise. You aren’t given much of a reprieve before he does it again. And again. And again. And each time, you let out a shout, although you try to muffle yourself, thinking you hear footsteps in the hall. At any moment, someone from the staff could come in here. Does he know this?

Better question is, does he care? You’re not sure if you want to admit that it kind of turns you on.

Murdock starts a steady pace, not so intense as before but just as overwhelming. You’re panting already, struggling to keep quiet. He notices and chuckles. "Go ahead and scream." His command is uncannily punctuated by muffled screams from within the haunted house proper. "Do you really think they can hear you over everyone else’s, let alone the sounds from the haunted house itself?" His breath is hot by your ear. "Nobody's going to investigate, sweet thing. I have you all to myself, now."

That shouldn’t excite you as much as it does, holding back a whimper, yet you can’t hold back the way you tighten around him. He slows, as if making sure of something, then growls. “Oh, naughty thing. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You clamp your mouth shut, hoping that if you don’t answer, he’ll leave it alone. But alas, your body betrays you once more, and Murdock stops, a certain something sharp that you forgot about dragging against your neck just enough for you to be aware of it, your breath catching. “Answer me, kitten.”

“Yes, sir.” The reply rushes from your lips with more neediness than you thought it would have.

“First you let your ‘kidnapper’ fuck you, now this?” he teases, clicking his tongue with mock disappointment. “Seems I need to learn more about my kitten.”

Your face flushes intensely. It’s no different than when he’s chased you out in the woods, and he knows this. He just can’t help himself…but also he’s more than willing to play into the role of pursuer. This you know well.

“Maybe I should be making you beg more for me to fuck you.” His gloved hand trails along your thigh. “But I’m much too impatient for that.”

His grip grows tight enough to bruise, his thrusts growing intense to match, and you let out a sound unlike any you’ve made thus far, wild and raw and overwhelmed with pleasure. Murdock laughs, triumphant and deep like his thrusts, and more than tinged with lust. It almost seems to settle into your bones.

“God. What a rush you give me.”

His pace is technically slower now, but that doesn’t matter with the way your eyes roll with every impact. You feel him lean over, but don’t know what’s happening until his lips reach your neck, kissing and sucking the skin he can find. Your moan is so whorish that it would embarrass you under different circumstances. His lips curl against your neck, although you barely comprehend that’s what’s happening. You try and reach your hand to your clit, but he beats you to it, only to rub so harshly that you practically sob out a cry. “FUCK!”

“If you insist,” he says, his strained voice giving away how much you’re affecting him. That hand travels back up to hold your hip in a vice grip. He lets out that same guttural growl from earlier, this time low and long, and with it directly in your ear, you nearly lose your mind, fluttering madly around him. You're so close—

"There it is. There we are." Murdock growls again, shorter but nowhere less effective. "Do it. Cum. Scream for me."

Despite being so tightly wound, you’re almost not sure if you can obey…until he groans and slams once more into you—and with a shriek, you are undone, clenching wildly around him and thighs trembling with an orgasm more intense than you expected. Murdock grunts in surprise, trying to continue fucking you through it. Your mind fractures with every attempted stroke, whimpering and babbling curses.

“Oh fuck—”

Murdock grunts once, twice, then he’s spilling inside you, cock pulsing harshly, the heat of him and his skin flush against yours driving you mad. He gasps and huffs and puffs, hand blinding finding you and rubbing again just enough to feel you clench around him harder. You keen loudly, practically a shriek in and of itself, legs threatening to give out as your body is kept on that intense plateau.

Eventually, the rush of cum slows, as does his throbbing inside you, and your own body is, mercifully, allowed to relax, still fluttering but not actively climaxing. The both of you pant heavily, catching your breaths as the two of you recover. His hands slide over your body, the strange dichotomy of skin and leather over and under your clothes. Murdock slips from you, and you’re too tired yet to be disappointed by it. He guides you in rolling you onto your back, and you don’t resist, grateful to give your legs a break from supporting you.

You blink almost blearily at where he ought to be, your eyes needing to adjust again to the lighting. You find your legs spread wide, almost folded in half, and his cockhead against your entrance once more. He doesn’t do anything at first, probably just taking you in. It’s a welcome, true reprieve. His bare hand brushes against your cheek, and you lean into it on instinct.

While maybe the break ought to last longer, Murdock is true to his word and impatient to have you. As he slides into you again with an unabashed moan that’s matched with your own, it strikes you as always that he’s already—still?—half hard again. If there’s one guarantee about Murdock among the other guarantees, it’s that he doesn’t stay soft for long.

Now, you can see him, face closer to yours. Even in the dimness, there's no mistaking that hunter's glint in his eyes. "Hello, sweetheart," he says, a wicked grin on his lips. "Miss me?"

He's devouring your mouth before you can respond, head spinning while he takes over your senses. His thrust scrambles what few thoughts you had left, eyes rolling into your head with a loud moan swallowed by him. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and he groans into your mouth. Your mind tumbles again.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Murdock pants against your lips, watching your unfocused expression as he resumes pounding into you. All you can manage is a long whine. “How much more, hm? How much more can you take while I show you just how much I missed you?”

You don’t know. You can’t even think enough to be able to consider how much more.

But you’re certainly about to find out.

#lemon #x reader #Murdock x reader #minors dni #gender neutral reader #afab reader #gn reader #cw knife #a year in the making folks #happy halloween~~#murderplier x reader

34 notes · View notes

itsmeatballworld · 1 year

Text

| stitches |

summary | matt cleans you up after you’re injured trying to help someone.

pairing | matt murdock x fem!reader (female body parts mentioned)

wc | ~1800

warnings | cursing, hurt reader, nudity but not sexual, mentions of bruising, fighting, weapon (knife), injuries, and blood.

a/n | hi all! I love the ‘stitching up the one you love’ trope. Matt obviously fits that bill - but uno reverse baby. It’s reader who needs the fixing. Also this is my 1st time writing for Matt so I hope it’s alright (established relationship btw)

dividers by @/firefly-graphics <3

Your body gave out the moment his apartment door swung open.

Your knees buckled, hands bracing your fall as you splayed out on the hardwood floors. Coughs riddled your body as the tight, squeezing pressure in your chest made it hard to breathe.

Ribs were broken, you could feel it. Blood soaked through your plain clothes from the gash on your side. Hopefully, this was nothing more than just a busted rib, a cut, and some bruising.

You could handle that. It’s what you’d mend for your boyfriend when he’d come home injured from fighting.

Anything else and you’d need help.

“M-Matt?” your voice merely whispers in the dark.

The place was silent. Not an echo of life beyond that door. No bare feet shuffling on floorboards or a hum of the shower running.

Right, he wasn't home.

With a deflated groan, you managed to get back onto your feet.

He was at the bar with Foggy and Karen where you should’ve been too. But like your boyfriend Matt Murdock, you were a bit stubborn.

It was dumb that you went out tonight when you felt like shit. It was even dumber that you went out after saying you’d stay home and rest. Your loving boyfriend left his place with every intention you’d still be in one piece when he returned.

—

“I’ll pick up some soup from that diner on 9th and west 46th street. What’s it called again?”

“No, no.” You hushed him with a soft touch against his thigh. He was nearly crushing you from how close he sat down on the bed. It made you feel loved and wanted with him so close. And you loved it.

He hovered over you, brown eyes focused on your groggy expression. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ll shower and get some sleep. Go meet Foggy and Karen,” you ran your fingers up to the callous hand now resting against your cheek.

He smiled. “I can stay. I’ll take care of you. I want to.”

“I’ll be fine. Go have fun, baby.”

—

Fuck. You were really regretting going out.

It was pitch black in his apartment, with only the neon glow of billboards outside to illuminate the space. You limped out of the entry hallway and to the bathroom.

The moment you shuffled inside, everything happened fast. You were in the shower. Water ran over your sensitive skin, soaking through your ruined clothes. A mewling groan escaped your lips.

You sat hopelessly under the constant water pressure. Streaks of crimson bled out from worn out clothes.

In the end, you knew that you needed to rest more than anything and this shower wouldn’t do much else but wash away the evidence.

“Shit,” you cursed as the gash on your side stung. Yet the idea of moving from this shower seemed like an impossible task.

You winced as you tried to tug your pants down. But like honey on skin, the fabric clung to your body, soaked from the shower. It was like cement. You whined like a helpless child.

The pain was excruciating but it was worth it. When you snuck out of the apartment, keys dangling from your loose fingertips with the intention of grabbing that quart of soup Matt mentioned, you never thought Matt’s martial arts sessions would be used.

—

In the dark alley you saw a young mother yanking her purse away from a lanky man, screaming for help. Never mind the throbbing migraine or the fear crawling up your spine. What if he has a gun? You acted and went straight for his knee. He buckled.

Then he hit you. You struck back. He kicked and his heel slammed into your chest. Then a flash of silver. A knife.

You felt the searing pain but kept moving. He kicked but so did you. Overpowering him with a move Matt showed you, the guy was on the ground, hands raised in surrender.

“A’right! Christ, you crazy bitch! T-take the bag!”

It didn't take much to knock him out after he let go of the bag. You groaned, grasping the purse and your side. His wide blue eyes and scruffy blonde hair were burned into your mind now.

Possibly forever.

The owner of a nearby bodega rushed into the alleyway with his cell, shouting he already called the cops. The mother was grateful and tried to get you to the nearest ER but you dropped your head to the little boy cowering behind the half-full dumpsters.

“It’s okay now. Are you both okay?”

“Yes–”

“Thank you!” The little boy cried before racing to his mother’s side.

—

It was worth it. Helping the mother tonight would be something you will never regret. Even if it hurt like a – you hissed when the water pressure hit your gash. You needed to move faster. Strip these clothes off and throw them out before Matt gets home. He’ll be worried sick about you.

You tugged on the fabric again, biting your split lip as the soggy pants finally slid down your waist and stopped at your knees.

Slowly, piece by piece, you moved the wet clothes down until you were naked on the shower tiles.

“You’re bleeding?”

The sight of your boyfriend was something you’d never forget. He was stiff, his hand gripping the doorframe until his knuckles were white. His chest heaved in and out rapidly.

When did he come in? Hell, it didn’t matter. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to. Plus, he could smell the bitter iron scent of blood better than a hound. There wasn't a chance of getting out of this without him knowing.

“You’re bleeding. Fuck. What happened?”

“I’m…okay.”

Usually it’s the other way around with Matt broken and bleeding. But not tonight. And he was petrified.

You tried to sit up, but he was already at the shower door. Matt’s hands were at your hips then up to the gash across your side. You winced.

“Fuck, baby. You’re hurt. I can feel it.” His fingers danced back to the gash, moving softly against the bare skin. Matt was already judging how many stitches he’d have to place.

He was still in his casual work clothes. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His glasses were off, revealing those eyes you fell in love with.

“M-Matt–”

“What happened?” He ignored the running water and dove inside the shower. You watched him swivel around your lax frame and plant himself in the reddish stained tile. “Can you stand?”

“I’m sorry.”

Matt frowned. “Don’t be sorry.” He knelt down at your feet, “Can you stand?”

“Um,” you winced, “I’ll try.”

Matt reached up, feeling for the valve, and shut the shower off. Silence settled over the room, coaxing you both into the familiarity of your bodies near one another. He touched your cheek, softly fixing his gaze around your face. You knew he could sense you—feel you.

You lifted up to a seated position. Matt scooped underneath your armpits and helped you to the bedroom.

Immediately, Matt went to work. He knew your body like the back of his hands and he wasted no time in stitching and wrapping your injuries. When he was satisfied with his work, he slid one of his old t-shirts over your body.

“Twelve stitches,” he muttered. “So that means bed rest.”

“Didn’t have to ask me twice—ow.” A light laugh nearly tore open Matt’s handiwork.

Like before he left, he plopped down onto the mattress and hovered above you.

“Your wrist is sprained. Shoulder was badly dislocated, but it should heal in a few weeks. Two…” his fingers and palm ran down to your left side, just under your breast. “Three ribs are fractured.”

“Mmhm. Anything else, doc?”

Those hands that worked miracles seconds earlier clenched into tight fists. “I could have lost you,” he whispered your name. “Please. Please, don’t ever do that again.”

You pulled closer to his warmth. Fingers trailing up and down his dry sweatpants he changed into. “It was stupid, I know.”

“It wasn’t stupid.” He sighed. “I’m glad. I was teaching you how to defend yourself.” He ran those callous fingers up your waist, to the stitched patch of skin. “I just never thought you’d use those lessons to save someone else.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You never have to apologize. I’m not mad, baby.” He brushed your cheek, “I was terrified. I could hear you wheezing and groaning. And the blood? I never wanted you to get hurt.”

He held your face in both hands, skimming his thumbs across your split bottom lip. He recoiled as if he could feel the surging pain coursing through your body.

Matt dipped his head until his forehead rested against yours. “But it could’ve been worse than this.”

“I know.”

He was silent for a moment. As if he was absorbing the situation, Matt kept his calm in the chaos. As always.

“Tell me.” You moved enough back until your body was inches from Matt.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me what’s going on inside that brain, Matt.”

He exhaled. “You shouldn’t be out there trying to save people.”

It was the silence in the room that felt the heaviest. He was right to be scared and worried. But you weren’t trying to play hero. This was something you had to do. “It was one night,” you murmured. “I got hurt but I’ll be fine.”

“You weren’t fine when I found you.”

“Matt.”

“No,” he crumpled to the bed, his hands flying into his hair. “I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

“I’m not going anywhere. But you have to trust me when I say I’ll be okay. She needed my help and I know you would have done the same. You taught me that.”

He didn’t want to agree. You could see the anguish across his stricken features. The fact was - neither of you should be hurting yourselves to save complete strangers but you do. It might have been your first - and only - night fighting crime, but when someone needs help, the right thing to do is act.

Matt knew that.

“I don’t want you to stop helping people. I just want you to be safe.”

You moved closer as he folded into the mattress, sweeping you into his embrace. He smelled clean, like cinnamon and fresh linen. The smell of beer still lingers on his breath. But you were safe at home in your loving boyfriend’s arms. And that’s all that mattered.

“Promise me you’ll rest if nothing else. You’re in bad shape and I don’t need you walking around trying to fix things—“

“I promise.” You choked on the tears suddenly spilling down your cheeks, “I promise, Matty.”

He lifted his head from your shoulder. Without a word, he kissed your temple and you were nothing but a puddle in his arms.

-xx-

a/n: yikes i hope someone enjoyed this lil mess lol :0

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mothgodofchaos · 6 months

Text

Quiet

So you may or may not be an attempted hit by the most prolific hitman in the area...

Murdoch X GN!Reader, TW: blade, implied death, home invasion? Words: 927

You’re sitting at your desk, standing up as you move to exit your office. You straighten out your jacket, combing your fingers through your hair as the door closes behind you. The hallway is silent, pictures of your family and certificates you’ve earned over the years hanging on the walls, a soft shag rug underfoot.

The living room is quiet, long heavy curtains covering the tall windows, lamps on their way to dim and fizzle out, small crackles of a dying fire. You kneel down, grabbing a poker from beside the fireplace, stoking the coals to try and reignite it. You hear what sounds like rustling behind you, and you turn around, holding the hot poker to defend yourself. “Is someone there??” There’s a silence that proceeds your call, and after a few moments of uneasiness, you go back to the fire. You throw a few logs onto the fire, standing back as it gets hotter, consuming the wood to turn it into coals as well. You throw your suit coat onto one of the couches, loosening your tie and tossing it on top of your coat.

“It’s probably nothing, right? And here I am, perfectly sane, talking to myself…”

The living room is quiet, once again. Your footsteps quiet as you discard your dress shoes, socks softly pattering against the wood floor. You move to a little cabinet to make yourself a drink, fixing your hair in the mirror as you wait for the kettle to boil. You swear you can make out the curtain moving behind you, despite not remembering opening the window yourself. You grab one of the hefty glass bottles, walking slowly towards the offending curtain. You try to not make a sound walking across the floor, tearing the curtain away to reveal: a vent underneath that was most likely pushing air to move it.

“Oh… well I guess I’m just a bit jumpy…”

You move the curtain back, focusing on the crackling fireplace as the kettle clicks, the sound of the water boiling mixing beautifully with the flames’ dance. The bottle returns to its place as you make your drink, occasionally looking up into the mirror to fix your hair that keeps moving in front of your face. “Goddamn hair, stay.”

You tuck it behind your ear once again as you stir your drink, looking up again as you see a figure behind you, a gloved hand covering your mouth before you can scream. In the dim light, you can’t make out his eyes behind his shades, but the wide grin on his face tells you all you need to know about his intentions.

“Now now… we can’t have any unwanted visitors during our time together, can we~? I need privacy to work, little fawn…”

Your eyes widen as he pulls out a knife, looking over his features in the event you make it out of this alive, you could get a decent police sketch out of it. He twirls the knife between his fingers, his hair tied into a half up, half down hairstyle. A maroon turtleneck is complimented by a black suit coat, a golden pin sitting over his left pec. Leather gloves cover the rest of what can be seen, his thumb blocking your airways, filling your nose with the scent of leather and blood.

“Shhh… the less you fight, the easier this is for both of us…” There’s very little you can do to fight, almost falling forward onto the cabinet before he catches you, making you lean against him as he tilts your chin up, grazing the blade against your skin. Your mind is swimming, the only thoughts being all your regrets, as tears pinprick in your eyes.

But then it all stops, suddenly you can breathe again as he removes his hand. You hold still, despite wanting to run, all due to the blade remaining at your throat.

“Such a shame to see such a pretty thing erased from the face of the world, one that hasn’t been properly cherished…”

His hand returns to your chin, gently grazing along your jaw. The knife lowers, sheathed back in.

“But perhaps if you were to just go missing… I still get paid, and you can be treated like the darling fawn you are… How does that sound~?”

You just look at him, astonished he could be flirting with you in this sort of scenario.

“Someone wa-ants me dead??”

“Yes, and paid quite the hefty sum to make sure it follows through. And as much as I enjoy money, I simply can’t let something this easy on the eyes to go to waste…~”

It takes a lot of wide eyed pondering, thinking about how much you’re abandoning, but you’re abandoning it all either way. But one is significantly more appealing than the other. You turn around, seeing him loom over you as you’re cornered against the cabinet.

“...and you won’t kill me if I go with you…?”

“Absolutely not, killer’s oath, sweetheart~”

He draws a heart and crosses with his knife in the air over his own heart, that same grin he had when this whole interaction started now returning. He stands up, now seeing him at his full height. A golden medallion reflecting what little light is in the room, but you make out a few of the antler-like details.

“...fine. Not like I have much of a choice anyways…”

“I knew you would come around~”

You squeak as he grabs your hand, walking you out of your building and into the night, never to be seen again.

#murdoch #murdoch markiplier #murdock markiplier #murderiplier #murdoch x reader #murdock x reader #in space with markiplier #iswm #markiplier egos #TW: knife #TW: implied death #TW: home invasion #stabbington #chaoswrites

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cherryauts · 1 year

Text

Acquired Taste | Murdock x gn!reader

Summary: “You really think you can say no to me?” Murdock grabbed my wrist, pinning it to the wall behind me. Even through his dark glasses, I felt him stare deep into me.

Word Count: 1236

Tags/Warnings: First Person, Oral(giving), mentions of murder, mentions of gore/blood, partners in crime, deepthroat emeto(vomit), very mild blood play

Blood slowly dripped down my hand. It covered the 8 inch dagger I gripped onto. My chest rose and dropped. I stared down at the body below me. I really had just killed someone. His chest was torn open messily. His heart lay between his broken ribs and organs, tattered and crushed. No longer able to beat, damaged beyond repair.

“You did well, doll.” Murdock spoke, walking beside me to look further at the man below. He smirked, seeing what I had done.

“I did..?” I huffed out a bit, finally speaking as my throat was tight.

He hummed in agreement. “I’m surprised for your first time. You seemed to enjoy it.” He let out a chuckle.

I soft smile spreads across my face as the adrenaline slowly leaves my system. Murdock moved a hand to my chin, turning me to face him. Pressing his lips into mine for a deep kiss. I melted into it, my body relaxing and no longer tense.

“Someone riled up?” I pull from his lips with a purr. His hand came up to grab at my throat, pushing me back into a wall.

“What about it? Are you wanting to fix it yourself, kitten?” He tilted his head as he spoke. My face scrunched up, hating the nickname. Only earning a chuckle from his lips.

“Not anymore with that name brought up.” I scoff. A pout spread across his face. He moved his hand from my throat up to my chin. Moving a thumb to my lips and pushing between them, pushing down roughly on my tongue. I grunt, moving a hand up to grab his wrist.

“You really think you can say no to me?” Murdock grabbed my wrist, pinning it to the wall behind me. Even through his dark glasses, I felt him stare deep into me. He massaged his thumb into my tongue before pulling it back to let me speak.

“Bite me.” I grinned. A huff of air passed his lips as he grabbed my shirt collar. Forcing me down onto my knees in front of him. He grabbed onto both my wrists and pinned them above me to the wall, despite my physical struggle.

“Well, you’re no fun.” I pout. Before I could say anymore he delivered a harsh smack to my cheek.

“And you listen to me. Got it?” He grabbed my jaw. His fingers digging into my skin.

I sank back onto my knees, slowly nodding.

“Use your words.”

“I understand.” I look back up to him, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

“Good.” He let go of my jaw, but kept my wrists pinned with one hand. His free hand moved to his pants. Struggling a bit, he managed to unbuckle his belt, pulling it from the loops of his jeans. I watched his movements intently. He unzipped his pants. Without any hesitation, he reached into his pants and, through the hole of his briefs, pulled his partially hard cock out.

I grunt in response, looking away and tugging at his hands that pinned mine.

“What?” Murdock chuckled. “You wanted this, right?”

“I did.” I mumbled, finally admitting. With that, he let go of my hands.

I repositioned myself in front of him. I moved the still bloodied hand to his cock, taking it in my hand and stroking him up and down. Blood lightly smeared along his skin as he grew hard.

He only grunts in response, watching me with curiosity. I held his cock up more, leaning in. I let my tongue hang from my mouth, running it along the underside of his cock. His body shudders, moving a hand down to my hair.

I glance up at him as I lick up to his tip, cleaning up some of the blood off him. My lips wrap around his sensitive tip and I suck softly, earning a groan of delight from Murdock.

I let go of his base, taking more into my mouth. My lips sliding with ease along his skin. I push my tongue up against the underside of his cock. Taking a second to breathe through my nose, I allow my throat to relax. I push my head down further on him, slowly taking him into my throat.

Murdock let out small huffs of breaths and a few groans. “You look so good on your knees like that.. But you’re taking too long.” He warns.

I look back up at him, narrowing my eyes into a glare. I purposely went slower, wanting to waste his time.

He carded his fingers through my hair, entangling them before grabbing a fistful. I growl in response, giving a quick nip to his cock.

“You’re just begging for it at this point.” He growled back, his voice low. Without another word, he forced my head back down onto his cock. My hands shot up to his thighs, gripping hard as my throat tightened around him. I gagged hard, trying to push back instinctively.

“Come on, take it all on your own like a good little pet.” He chuckled. Keeping my head on him, I couldn’t push back, his strength overbearing me. I squeezed my eyes shut, tears pricked my eyes. I could only gag, my throat not able to relax no matter how hard I tried.

With another gag, a rush of watery bile shot up my throat. It spilled over his cock and out the side of my mouth.

Murdock let out a laugh. “Can’t even handle a cock down your throat, thought I trained this out of you.” He finally let go of my head. I sent my head back, leaving a mess of watery vomit on his cock and pants.

I gasp and choke, spitting up what was left in my mouth. He grabbed onto my hair again, yanking it back so I looked up at him. I watched as he quickly stroked at his cock, using the previous fluids as lube.

I let myself take the time to breathe, knowing I only had a limited time. Once I was calm enough, he guided my mouth back to him. Pushing me down his length without much time to adjust. I close my eyes, just trying to force my throat to relax. Holding my head in place, he thrusted quick into my mouth. I breathe through my nose, holding onto his thighs as I take his rough pace.

He thrust deeper and deeper every few strokes. My nose pressed up into his skin. His moans grew louder and his breath grew heavy. The thrust of his hips turned sloppy, and I knew he was close to his edge.

I was suddenly pushed back off his cock. He held a tight grip onto my hair, keeping my head back. I looked up at him with half-lidded eyes. My tongue slipped out of my mouth, hanging with my mouth wide open for him.

Grunts and groans escaped his mouth as he stroked his cock quickly. And not long after, streams of cum shot from his tip. I closed my eyes, feeling bits of his cum spread over my face, some hitting my tongue. Once his grip loosened from my hair, I opened my eyes. I pull my tongue back into my mouth, swallowing down his cum.

“Feel better?” I say with a purr, looking up at him.

“Keep running your mouth and your throat won’t be the only thing I ruin.”

#markiplier egos #iswm murdock #iswm fanfiction #murdock x reader #markiplier #markiplier smut #murdock smut #oneshot #x reader

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coff33notforme · 2 years

Note

Dating hcs for your fave ego, Actor Mark, and Murdock? :0

A/n: This took so long my hands are dead. Sorry this is so long, this legitimately took four whole pages to write lmao

Genre: Headcannons, Fluff

Actor

When he first met you through Damien, he was a total ass

He would take every chance he got to make some sort of prude comment pertaining to you in some way

So of course your first impression of him was that he was just some rich asshole, and of course during that whole ordeal Damien was defending you but that didn’t stop Mark

Anytime there would be some sort of event Damien would go to he would invite you to tag along and Actor would go to seek you out

At first Actor felt a sort of entitlement towards you that all the harsh comments were justified by your status, but over time Actor started to…question his feelings towards you

Every time he saw you he felt his chest tighten and a fluttering feeling in his stomach made it hard to articulate the words he wanted to say to you

You noticed that his comments towards you slowly became less brash and sometimes he would even offer you a small smile here and there

Which was incredibly rare to see a genuine smile from the Actor

But Mark was frustrated with himself, why was he treating you like this? Surely he wasn’t opening up to you so easily

This internal conflict lead to him going back to treating you like shit then feeling guilty and going back to being strangely sweet was exhausting for you

There was a party going on at the Actors house and for some reason you went carefully optimistic about how you would be treated

But tonight was some hoe the worse he's ever been

Not just some rude comments here and there, they were cruel

But it was only when he started to mock your physical appearance that you had enough of his bs

You slammed your drink to the ground looking the now stunned Actor in the eyes “You know what, Mark?? Fuck you.” you hissed, storming off towards the door . You could hear Damien calling after you as you opened the door slamming it You could hear the door slam behind you as someone called for you, you felt some grip your shoulder lightly turning you around

“Damien, listen…” you said before being turned to face the Actor, his face held an uncharacteristic soft look of worry. Yet you glared, shrugging him off angrily “What the hell do you want from me?! Why do some days you have to be such an ass, and then be so kind the next?” The Actor avoided your gaze a guilty expression crossing his features “It’s..its complicated…” he murmured . “Fine! If you don’t want to tell me? I’ll just be on my way then, have a lovely day Mark!” you shout turning quickly

Mark's eyes widen frantically and he calls to you “Because I love you!” you freeze turning to him “What?” he feels this suddenly sting of vulnerability in this moment something he's not use to “I..wasn’t ready to open up to someone again. I thought I would be able to push you away and the feeling would just…go away. But I never meant to hurt you.” his gaze was fixed on the ground, afraid to meet your disgusted expression. But that feeling of dread washed away when your soft lips met his . For once in his life, the Actor had nothing to say, stunned by the realization that you had just kissed him

“See you tomorrow Mark” you smiled softly walking into the night

Once you start to date this man though he will show you how truly dramatic he is

Like this man is such a diva

“Darling, please I beg you if you truly love me don't leave”

“Mark I have to get up for work”

He is so needy, he needs constant attention and affection 24/7

You’ll wake up in the morning with his face buried in your stomach, or he’ll be clinging to your side

Have fun trying to get him off you, because this man has a grip of steel, your not getting him off

He’s very hesitant when you say you need to leave the manor for something insisting he can just have one of the staff members get it for you

He has serious abandonment issues, afraid that every time you leave the house will be the last time he sees you

He needs reassurance from you, though he talks big all the time he’s a very insecure person, please tell him you love him, he needs it

Whenever he sees you he likes to pepper your face with kisses, his stubble tickling you in the process

He cannot handle horror movies or games whatsoever, he talks shit, but just one jump scare and he's clinging to you in fear

He’ll get really defensive afterwards so I would not recommend trying to scare him unless you want to spend the whole day making it up to him

He’s not big on pet names but when he does use them they’re usually the more classic ones

Like ‘Love, Darling, Beloved, etc’ but if he’s feeling soft which is very rare he’ll call you ‘Sweetheart, Honey’

Softest you’ll see him is either when he's had a long day and all he wants to do is come home to you and fall asleep on the couch or when he’s half asleep he’ll cuddle up to you and whisper how much he loves you

He’s prone to start petty arguments sometimes that get out of hand pretty quickly

He’ll give you the silent treatment even if you try to apologize and even if it was his fault

But eventually he’ll start to feel a tiny bit guilty after ignoring you for a week

He’ll peeper your face and neck with kisses and whisper sweet nothings to you as an apology

He’ll take you out to a very expensive restaurant just to emphasizes how sorry he is

He does love you after all he just has a very funny way of showing it

Murdock

You first saw him at a coffee shop you frequently visited, mostly just to work, it was nice to get up in the mornings starting your day with a latte and just working in that quiet little coffee shop. And since it was early in the morning not many people came in to sit down, just a couple of morning joggers here and there but nobody who was there to stay, that was until one day. The morning had started like normal you got your drink and you went to sit down, but then this man had walked in.

Something about him had caught your eye, maybe it was his stylish sense of dressing, maybe it was this sort of mysterious feeling that lurked around him wherever he went. But something about him was alluring to you, drawing you in and captivating you. He sat at one of the many empty tables next to you sipping his coffee quietly

You wanted to make conversation, to reach out and introduce yourself, but felt too intimidated by him to say anything. Instead you internally struggled on what to say for ten minutes until much to your dismay he had gotten up and left the shop. This continued for a couple days until finally one day he spoke to you

“Hey, I see you here every morning, how long have you been here?” You were a little surprised that he was talking to you at first but none the less you were overcome with joy that he had actually started a conversion. “Oh! Um about two years, I think?” you replied turning away from your laptop to face him “Two years huh? That’s some dedication right there” he let out a low, gravelly, chuckle to which you smiled

“Yeah I guess so”

He turned his head looking down at his watch frowning slightly “Well it’s been wonderful talking to you, but I’m afraid I have to go now, see you later Y/n” he waved, making his way through the door

‘Wait, Y/n? I didn’t tell him my name’

You two met up at the shop every morning chatting and conversing on the many topics of life before one day Murdock had asked you on date

Walking through the park on a cool starry night, you wished you could have stayed there forever but sadly Murdock and you had to part ways eventually

“Alright, well I’ll see you again tomorrow” he said smiling yet the soft frown of disappointment didn’t go unnoticed by him “Yeah! I’ll see you” you said forcing a smile on your face not wanting to keep Murdock for any longer . As you turned, walking in the direction of your car you were spun around to Murdock once more “Ah-! Murdock what -” you were cut off with a soft kiss to the cheek as Murdock smirked “See you tomorrow, sweetheart” he whispered in your ear before slinking away leaving you behind, flustered and confused

Dating this man is…an experience to say the least

Not in a bad way at all! He’s just so quiet your never really sure what's going on inside his head

He doesn't plan on ever telling that he’s a *cough murder cough* simply because he wants to keep you from harm's way including himself

He loves flustering you beyond anything else

And he uses any chance he gets to do it

He’s sitting down and you walk by? He’s pulling you into his lap

You're standing somewhere just minding your own business? He’s coming up behind and wrapping his arms around your waist while he lays kisses along your neck

And despite this he claims he's not one for touch, yeah right

If you ever do the same to him though?? This man is putty in your hands

He loves to compare hand sizes with you, it makes his heart flutter <3

Ok but this man drives so f a s t

Not even intentionally, he just speeds, you're convinced your going to hit someone, but somehow you never do

He absolutely hates lazy weekends so don’t ever expect to be laying in bed with him in the mornings, he feels the need to always be productive

He has no chill, despite his calm composure which in a way is sort of ironic

He loves rainy days though, so expect him to drag you out during a rainy day to have a walk, under a shared umbrella

And also long talks in front of the fireplace, very specific but he enjoys the feeling of the warmth from the fire and the warmth that your presence provides him as well

Yancy

Today was visitation day at the Happy trails prison. The visitation hours had started about two hours ago and were now almost over, you sighed as you watched the other families visit and talk for away before departing. They hadn’t shown up, they called you here yet they hadn’t shown up. Honestly this didn’t surprise you in the slightest this wasn’t out of character for them at all. You sat waiting in the room surrounded by inmates, families, couples and yet no sign of your friend. You glanced at the clock watching the minutes tick by with a heavy heart hoping at any minute they would walk in, explaining to you there delay yet fifteen minutes passed by and there was no such luck

“Youse waiting for someone too?”

You turned around to be faced with a tall boston man looking down at you

“Yeah, but I don’t think they’ll show” you respond tiredly, as the man sits next to you on the bench “Me neither” you turned to him, frowning “Who are you waiting for?” you asked curiously

“It doesn't matter now” you frowned, reaching out to pat him on the back, he suddenly tensed at the action and you quickly retracted your hand “I’m so sorry! I should have asked first” you quickly apologized. And he…chuckled? “No no, youse fine. I’m just not used to being touched is all” he offered a small smiled to you, one which you happily returned . Though your friend didn’t show up during visiting hours you and Yancy talked, laughed, and joked with each other until the last hour. It was nice, you hadn’t felt that comfortable with someone in a very long time. Yancy was so kind, you wondered how he’d ever managed to end up in prison in the first place, but there was no doubt in your mind you be back for the next visitation

It was only until Yancy actually applied for Parole that you started dating he wanted to wait until you could be together outside of just visitation hours

Yancy is so touched starved please give him lots of love please

He will not be able to sleep without out you after the first time you cuddled

So if you stay up late to work, draw, write, etc

Yancy will find a blanket and curl up next to you

So if you sleep at your desk you’ll wake up with Yancy curled up against you

Yancy loves to bake for you, once he got out of prison he started to look for things to do during the day and cooking just so happened to catch his eye

He’ll make you anything from deserts, pastries, full meals, etc you name it and Yancy will make it for you

He also loves to knit

So he’ll make you scarfs, mittens, jackets, cardigans, and a lot more, he has a lot of time on his hands

Yancy loves to nap with you, especially on cold days he’ll come up from behind you and wrap all his limbs around you so you can’t leave

Yancy also loves you carry you places, don’t worry about being to heavy he’s very strong so weight is not a problem for him

Kisses <3

All the time, he loves them so much

And he melts when you give him any sort of affection especially kisses he just loves you so much

He’s pretty easy to fluster considering he's never been in a relationship before

Very worried he's going to hurt you with his strength he gets so excited whenever he sees you he just wants to engulf you with a big warm hug but hes so worried he's going to crush you

This man is like a golden retriever I swear

But you love him anyways <33

A/n: This took me all day ahhhhhhh

#iswm x reader #murdock x reader #yancy x reader #yancy iswm #yancy ahwm #actor mark x reader #actor mark #who killed markiplier #yancyplier #yancy the prisoner #murder mark #markiplier egos x reader #iplier egos x reader

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weirdlyhornyforegos · 2 years

Text

In Control

MINORS DNI!!!! A little late birthday gift for @westanthewaterman :3 Some Dark x afab!reader x Murdock

Tags/warnings: tentacles, use of puppy/pup/pet as nickname, dom/sub dynamics, knifeplay, shallow cuts for fun, bloodplay, oral (reader giving), penetrative sex (reader reciving), anal (m reciving)

Wordcount: 2.2k+

The black tentacles keep your nude form in place, at mercy of the two watching you. You try to squirm, but there is no use.

Murdock stands next to the couch where Dark is seated, both watching you with intent. They’re both fully clothed, but you had been stripped almost as soon as you entered the room.

“Such a pretty puppy you got here, Dark.” Murdock grins, clearly checking you out, even with his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.

“I know that, and I urge you to be, hm, not gentle, but fair with them. I don’t share often.” The threat in his words aren’t subtle, making Murdock smirk, but nod.

“Noted.” Murdock takes a few steps closer to you, and you follow him with your eyes, the tentacle over your mouth stopping any whimpers from escaping.

“So pretty....” Murdock says it almost absentmindedly as he steps close enough to touch you, letting leather clad fingers dance over what little skin isn’t covered by tentacles.

They move away more and more as Murdock explores you, but they never let you go fully, instead shifting to hold onto your ankles and wrists.

The one over your mouth stays.

You’re still suspended on the air, kept on display for them both.

Murdock touches are light, teasing, even as one hand slips down between your legs, feeling over the heat there.

“So wet already... Enjoying yourself?” You don’t know if he’s talking to you or Dark, but you but you try to whine, pleading for more, because now his fingers are just gently resting between your folds, not even moving.

Murdock chuckles, his unoccupied hand coming to rest on your throat.

“Oh, what fun I’m going to have with you.” He applies some light pressure on your throat, and your eyes widen as you feel it getting a little harder to breathe.

“No marks.” Murdock seems to startle at Dark’s voice, almost like he had forgotten there was an audience for this.

“You’re no fun.” Murdock frowns over his shoulder, letting go of your throat to pinch at a nipple instead.

“My rules are simple, if you don’t like them, simply leave.” Murdock sighs, but says nothing, but doesn’t move away from you in the slightest.

His fingers pressed against your folds finally move, sparks of pleasure shooting through your body as he spreads your wetness over his glove before pushing two fingers inside of you with ease.

“So tight...” He groans, moving his fingers in and out at a teasingly slow pace. You want him to move faster, but you know you can’t, that you’re completely at his mercy.

So instead, you focus on the pleasure he gives you, like a good puppy should. You take what you get, and in the moment that is two fingers working you open while Murdock’s other hand switches between your breast, kneading and every so often pinches a nipple.

You lean your head back, closing your eyes for a moment. The tentacles follow you first, but then it shifts. For a moment you’re confused.

Would you be allowed to speak already?

But no, it simply shifts so it can prod at your lips before pushing its way inside. You groan around it, loving how it fills up your mouth perfectly, like it was designed for this.

Knowing Dark, it probably was.

Also, this one doesn’t follow Murdock’s pace, as it starts trusting in and out of your mouth a lot faster.

And fuck, it feels so right.

You start to shiver, and when Murdock shifts his hand so his thumb rubs over your clit, it takes everything in you to not just come on the spot.

Because, you have not been allowed to cum yet.

However, that is quickly changed as Murdock leans forward to mutter in your ear, his warm breath fanning over your skin smelling slightly of mint.

“Come on puppy, cum for me, and cum for your Daddy.” Your gaze slips to Dark who is still just sitting on the couch, just watching the show.

He tilts his head, and then gives a short nod. You moan around the tentacle in your mouth, and clench around Murdock’s fingers as you cum. They both keep fucking you through it, driving and pushing your arousal so high it makes you feel lightheaded.

As Murdock removes his fingers from you, his hand on your jaw makes you focus on him. The tentacle stops fucking your mouth, but it stays, keeping your mouth occupied.

Murdock keeps eye contact as he puts the two fingers that were just inside of you in his own mouth and sucks.

Fuck.

He hums, and you think he has closed his eyes behind his sunglasses.

“How sweet you taste.” He removes his fingers from his mouth, but only so he can tug his gloves off with his teeth. His coat goes next, then the arms of his turtleneck gets rolled up, showing off strong arms.

You watch, already feeling yourself aching with more as Murdock gets a little more undressed. He doesn’t do much with his pants, only opening and showing them down far enough that he can fish his cock out, giving himself a few strokes.

You feel your mouth water, and as you watch his hand move over his cock, you also notice the knife strapped in a thigh holster.

You swallow around the tentacle, and Murdock notices your gaze.

“Liking what you see?” You nod, not even for a moment feeling ashamed to tell the truth.

“Didn’t know your pet was that kind of slut, Dark.”

“My pet is a lot of things.” Is the cold and even reply Murdock gets to his teasing. Murdock huffs, but grins as he steps close to you again. With a grip on your hip, he and the tentacles move you to sink down on his cock.

He stretches you a bit, but it’s nothing you can’t take, you have learned that a long time ago.

You just wish for a moment that you could wrap your legs around his waist to pull him closer, but Murdock doesn’t leave much time to think, as this time, his pace is harsher and quicker.

The tentacle starts up again as well, fucking you in tandem with Murdock.

You can see Dark watching you with a light smirk, head slightly tilted and resting in his hand. His eyes are fully black, and though you can’t tell too well where his gaze exactly lies for the moment, you’re sure he is very much watching.

One leg rests up on his knee, and with his hands crossed over his lap, you can’t see if he’s hard or not.

Though you are rather certain he is, because there is no way he would let this continue if he wasn’t getting anything out of it.

Your attention on Dark is broken however, as you feel cold metal press against your collarbone.

“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to mark up a pretty little thing like you.” You forget to breathe for a moment, the images flashing through your mind wonderful, and you clench around Murdock’s cock.

“Have you forgotten the no marks rule so fast?” Dark voice is cold, bordering on angry. Murdock only looks over his shoulder with a smirk.

“I don’t think your pup here agrees, not with the way they squeezed my cock.” Dark squints, but gets up from the couch, seconds later appearing behind you.

Murdock clearly startles at the sudden change, but doesn’t stop or even slow down fucking you.

“Is this true pet?” The tentacle in your mouth is removed, and you take a few deep breaths and lick your lips before answering.

“Please Daddy, please, let Murdock cut puppy with his knife, marking puppy up for him and Daddy!” Dark smirks, shaking his head.

“Stop for a moment Murdock.” He hasn’t stopped fucking you, or even slowed down for a second, and now he merely smiles at Dark.

“No.” The response from Dark is immediate. He splits for a moment, and in seconds there is a thick tentacle coiling itself around Murdock’s waist, ceasing any movement.

“It would do you well to remember who is in control here.” Murdock growls, but doesn’t say anything.

You’re shifted around, leaned back by encouraging hands. A few tentacles shift to make some sort of surface underneath you, supporting your back.

Next, your head is turned, making your face on level with Dark’s leaking cock. You don’t even know when he got it out, but you don’t care, moaning around him as Dark pushes himself inside of your mouth. He sinks himself as far in as he can go before coming to a stop, letting himself just rest inside your mouth.

“Shallow cuts only, and if you seriously hurt them, I will do a lot worse to you.”

“Don’t you worry your handsome little head about it.” Dark growls, the ringing that always follows him piercing for a moment. You hear Murdock wince.

“Right, right, I understand, Daddy.” The title is said in spite, and you can only watch from the corner of your eye as the tentacle around Murdock’s waist tightens.

“Careful, or I might have to teach you what happens when you don’t behave.” You see another, smaller, tentacle making it’s way up Murdock’s leg, and though you can’t see exactly, you can guess where with the way Murdock shivers.

“Have I ever said I don’t like that?”

“Interesting...” Finally, Dark starts to move again, sliding in and out of your mouth, making you let out a content sigh.

Murdock is still for a few seconds, but just as he lets out a loud moan, he starts moving again. You rather quickly realize, seeing the way the tentacle around his waist flexes, that Dark is the one moving him. You also see the small tentacle move back and forth, clearly moving in and out of Murdock in shallow trust.

You clench around Murdock, causing him to groan, and even with Dark’s cock in your mouth, you manage to let out a noise that is so, so, desperate.

The knife that had previously been at your collarbone, returns. The metal is still cold, feeling so pleasant against your heated skin. Luckily the pace you’re getting fucked out is slow, which means the quick cut Murdock makes isn’t deep.

It’s just deep enough to draw blood, and you feel Murdock lean down to lap up at least a few drops.

“Should have known you were that kind.”

“Can you blame me? Such a pretty pet on display, so helpless, so fully submissive, and I’m not supposed to taste them in almost every way I can?” Another shallow cut is made, this one on your sternum.

Murdock’s tongue licking up the blood shouldn’t feel this hot. But, with the feeling of that, the way he fucks into your pussy, and with how Dark fills your mouth, you’re getting so warm, so filled, so, so, so close.

It doesn’t help that the room is filled with the slick sound of you being fucked, and Murdock and Dark’s grunts, moans, and groans.

And they show no sign of stopping, both of them fucking into you, filling you over and over again. Murdock keeps making shallow cuts, lapping up the droplets of blood with a wide tongue. Dark grabs your hair, fucking into you mouth, every so often hitting your throat, making you gag around him.

To no one’s surprise, it’s not long before you get close again. Dark of course notices, fine tuned to your body as he is, and a tentacle appears to rub at your clit.

One, two, three times, and then you cum again, clenching hard around Murdock, making the man groan, and with only a few more trusts, spill inside of you.

Dark follows not long after, spilling in your mouth. You swallow as good as you can around him, not wanting a single drop to escape, as a good puppy should.

They both keep trusting in and out of you for a little while, chasing their own highs, making all of your orgasms last as long as possible. When they pull out, you whimper, so sensitive, but so satisfied.

The tentacles shift you again, but this time it’s to set you down on your feet. It’s nice thought, but as soon as they let you go, you fall forward into Murdock, who catches you with a chuckle.

“They’re rather cute like this, I must say.” You sigh, snuggling into his chest, the fabric of his turtleneck soft and warm.

“They tend to be that after a good fucking.” Dark presses himself against your back, keeping you sandwiched between the two of them. “And this was a rather great fucking, wasn’t it puppy?” You nod, feeling your arousal grow again, both at the sound of Dark speaking so close to your ear, but also with how Murdock’s cum leaks out of you.

You hope Murdock will be up for a round two when you can regain some control of your legs again. You know Dark always is.

But for now, you don’t voice those thoughts out loud, instead letting Dark lead you and Murdock to the bathroom to clean up, and then take a bath. Murdock tries to protest being taken there as well, but Dark just levels him with a glare that leaves no room for arguments, though Murdock does grumble a little bit.

#darkiplier x reader #darkiplier smut #Darkiplier #murdock x reader #murdock #darkiplier fic #darkiplier fanfiction #dark #murdock smut #afab reader #my writing

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crazy-ego · 7 months

Text

Guys I’ve remembered a fan fiction and now i cant find it…… it was a murdock x reader ego fic where every time he came home he would give the reader milkshakes… please tell me someone knows the name or has the link for the damn fic 😭

#markiplier #markiplier egos #markiplier egos fanfiction #help me find this please #this is so stupid #this is a cry for help #markiplier fanfiction #markiplieregos #markiplier murdock #murdockxreader #murdock x reader #markiplier murdock x reader

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sardonic-the-writer · 2 years

Text

━RANDOM MURDOCK HEADCANONS

━Tw: Mentions of blood and murder

━Notes: I'm so bored rn

━Song: "Blood (End Credits)" By My Chemical Romance

A fast. Fucking. Driver

He doesn't even do it consciously. It's like his own personal trigger finger (Ironic I know)

Has the clearest skin ever. Like what????

You asked him once what he does to keep it that way and Murdock had simply responded "bathing in the blood of my victims"

You couldn't tell if he was joking or not

Small, itty bitty headcanon that he can't stand Wilford

Just becuase the pinkette doesn't take murder as seriously as him. But that's about the only reason honestly

Likes classical music and jazz!!!! A Kenny G man at heart (Kins Squidward /j)

#murdock #murdock x reader #murder mark #muder mark x reader #egos #markipliers egos #markiplier egos x reader #markiplier egos #egos x reader #iswm #iswm x reader

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rat-that-writes · 2 years

Text

things i think murdock texts you

#markiplier egos x reader #markiplier egos/reader #murdock x reader #murdock/reader #murdock 🔪

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theknightmarket · 1 year

Text

"Chase me."

In which Murdock and a pursuing detective dance around romance and dead bodies.

TW: murder, blood, cursing, suggestive themes

Pages: 23 - Words: 9,500

[Requests: OPEN]

Criminals are like an itch. You go after one, and, when you catch it, three more pop up in the most inconvenient places. It makes you wish you had never bothered in the first place, but leave them alone, and they’ll fester, make you suffer, weeds that stay rooted in the ground until the entire thing is burned to a crisp.

In the most recent months, murders have spread like a wildfire, and, sure, they destroyed the thieves, the addicts, the scammers, scared them into hiding, but it left you dealing with the smoldering remains. Among the fire starters, the ringleader was elusive and infamous, labelled by the media as the Serotonin Serial Killer. You knew the press liked giving them quippy nicknames, but it was always a dumb move, because, in your and the rest of the departments’ opinion, it just made them more feisty – more likely to act out just to see those letters blazing in the newspaper. It gave them God complexes as their actions drew attention to them, whether you knew their actual name or not, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was people talked, and they talked about them. The murderers who made your entire life harder.

However, as much as you hated the rise of crimes in that industry, you benefited from it, despite how much that statement left a sour taste in your mouth. You were one of the top detectives for cases like those, the ones where people knew next to nothing about the murderer, nor the victims, nor the motive, nor anything at all! It enraged you like a bull, taunted by the waving of a flag, a knife stuck into the back of a higher up had you seething with just once glance. Half of them deserved it, too, which made it even more infuriating that you couldn’t just stick them behind bars and let them rot.

You dragged another red string away from the man’s dead body, a photo you had taken just as vague as the rest of them and linked it to the centre. That was all you could do, and even the middle wasn’t clear; a shaded, grimy picture of a man with sunglasses. You wanted to punch it. So, so much. But you couldn’t because it was the only linking feature to each of the victims. The first to be offed was a girl barely past 21, working nights in the nearest café. As much as you were aware, they had nothing in common. Meanwhile, the latest man to die by Serotonin’s hands was a – supposedly – honest businessman, who ran a couple grocery stores down the bay. Killed in his own home, wife still sleeping next to him. It was a horrid sight for her to wake up to, made only worse by the fact that it wasn’t to the police knocking on their door. Rather, it was the ruckus they made across the street.

You remembered it well, and now, the embarrassment and rage burned like suns through your veins, setting alight your skin and cursing your cheeks with warmth.

You had gotten the call late at night, stars sparkling brightly, making faux promises that sleep would come easy and delicate – though, delicate it was, and you woke with the first chime of a ringtone. Lazily bringing the phone to your ear, you mumbled out a rough, “Hello?”

“15 Mayfield Way, Peteston.”

You squinted into the darkness, as if looking hard enough would bring any kind of logic to your mind. It didn’t work, and it left you asking shakily, “Can you… could you repeat that, for me?”

“15 Mayfield Way, Peteston—” You groaned, they weren’t giving you much to work with and it was getting on your nerves. Hell, you were about to press down on the end call button, but five little, simple, blunt words made you pause. “We think we’ve got him.”

All the other person heard was the clatter of the phone dropping to the floor, shuffling around a room, and constant ragged breaths. That was where the call cut off.

The officer glanced around the scene, shrugging, and giving an assuring smile. They assumed you were on your way, but they couldn’t be sure with how distant you were from their department. They weren’t aware you were on the case until you arrived at the last crime, dressed in a dark trench coat, and brandishing a cup of coffee like a gun.

Now, they were expecting you to make an appearance, no matter the time or place. There’d be hell to pay if they didn’t let you in one what was happening, and, for such a big event as having the chance to catch the guy tormenting the city for the last four months, they were sure you’d want to know.

But the officers – who crowded around 15 Mayfield Way with guns, tasers and bullhorns at the ready – were not the only ones eager to see your car pull up.

Sitting in the window, leg pulled up to his chest and cradling a bloodied knife, was the Serotonin Serial Killer. As his friends knew him, Murdock. With a name like that, what other choice did he have than to go on a calculated killing spree? He laughed to himself; a gravelly chuckle that didn’t dare reach anyone else’s ears. Not the wife laying peacefully behind him, and certainly not her dead husband.

Red and blue splashed against his face every second, playing a silent funeral march. A grin crept onto his face as a more subtle but vastly more interesting vehicle sidled up to the cop cars. Your car. The first time he had seen it, he hadn’t guessed you would be behind the wheel, but it made sense. Dark, sleek, unnoticeable. He liked that.

There was something he liked more, though. Oh, he loved your cat-like movements, the barked orders that sent shivers up his spine like none of the pigs could. He almost wished you would find him, but he couldn’t let that happen. Not before he introduced himself properly, he wouldn’t want your first words exchanged to be the last, now, would he? The thing that he absolutely adored was that scowl. The deep concentration molded into pure wrath, a challenge to God to take this opportunity away from you, and the tip of your lips. He would talk for years about those, he would let them be his final words, and that flicker of light against your irises. Flames that ate up the sense of duty instilled in you, consumed your morals, and tempted you to just do the job yourself.

Murdock was conflicted on that front. He dangled his weapon of choice in his hand, the blade scratching at the window, teasing you without you even knowing it. You were just too good. In that moment, he knew he couldn’t get you over to his side. You’d rather take the high road, lock people in cells and risk them escaping, legally or not, than use the gun given to you by your title. You would rather do a lot of things than outright kill a man.

With time and attention, he pledged to change that.

The smirk widened. It was a fantasy he couldn’t wait to make come true. Later, he had to remind himself, but another part of him bit back that it would still happen, eventually.

You only looked mad when you arrived at his crime scenes, and he felt a pang of pride swell in his chest. Only he could make you so angry you nearly cracked the fingers of the officer you shook hands with.

Only he could be the cause of a pained yell that echoed down the street. It was a glorious orchestra of the gods, and he had front row seats from the window of 13 Mayfield Way, Peteston. Those incompetent pigs had got it wrong; he had never set foot in 15, but 13 was exactly where the body of Frank Deffler, an old man who got away with loan sharking under the guise of a fine grocery store owner, was laying.

Murdock had nothing against Lucy, his wife, but you had to leave something unique for the police to remember you by, and he planned to be in your mind for as long as possible. Or, at least, until he could strike again. He was already coiling up, like a snake ready for the kill, but that was for another time. Another chuckle, only barely audible over your ranting from outside. You called the officers all the names under the sun, barely turning back to apologize to the family you had disturbed.

He couldn’t wait to see you again. Maybe even hear those insults pointed towards him, for a change.

Sliding off the ledge, he absentmindedly fished a card out from his jacket. It didn’t matter that it was clean before he tossed it somewhere, it didn’t matter that he heard the splatter as it landed near Frank’s neck. It didn’t matter because you knew what had happened, and you were coming to get him.

Scratch not wanting to damage your only shot of the killer, a dart was lodged between his eyes before you were fully aware of what you were doing. It gave you a sick sense of glee seeing the piercing metal lodged in his head. You knew it shouldn’t have, but it did, and you couldn’t find it in you to feel bad about it. A couple more shoves towards the edge of the cliff and you might be ready to do it in real life if you ever got the chance. You weren’t there yet.

“Damn, did he fuck your girl, too?”

James Pratt, your ever helpful colleague, came strolling through the door just in time to see you stare daggers and throw them into Serotonin’s face. You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother to turn around; you already knew what he looked like, you didn’t need to see him again. Blond hair, shit-eating grin, scar along his neck, cute dimples. No, you were too involved with trying to figure out what the killer would look like without the shadows, without those sunglasses, and – without admitting it out loud – without a nose.

“Piss off, Pratt,” was all you could muster up, falling into the desk seat behind you. Your office was home to a plentiful number of trinkets and furniture, your favorite being the plush spinning chair given to you after solving your first ever case. That was a piece of cake compared to this, and you knew you’d get little more than a pat on the back and another file on your desk by the morning. It was to be expected, you weren’t the baby detective you were three years ago, but you chalked it up to the new management. Two new fat cats getting the medals and media’s attention, which you could always do without, for your discoveries. The Henderson murder, the Bayside Break-ins, even the mole you uncovered in the room two offices over fell under their names and their credit.

You groaned, took a deep breath, leaned back in the chair to find some kind of calm after a stressful night. It didn’t work.

“Alright,” he hummed, “but I thought you’d want to know.” Tap, tap, tap. He drew a manicured hand along the wood of your table. A sweet mahogany he had always commented on, whenever he had the time. He was not doing so now, which lead you but to one conclusion.

You picked your head up and shot to your feet. A warning look settled on your face… if he was wrong, if he was tricking you, if something like what had happened light night dared to happen again, he would pay.

James smiled placatingly.

Tap, tap, tap.

You blinked.

“Diamond Avenue, first house on your left.”

Like a bullet from a gun, you disappeared from sight within seconds. The rattling of your footsteps would send lions into hiding, but you would have to settle for every member of the investigative department. They knew when to bother you, and when you should be feared – by the hard-set flame erupting in your eyes, it was easy to tell which of those sets of rules they should abide by.

Your colleague was left swaying from side to side, not from drunkenness, but from an attempt to keep himself awake and aware. It was easy to let your guard down in those dingy, dark offices, where the blinds trapped mystery and deceit inside and scared off the blinding light. Your hands would disappear into shadows, your feet would scatter inches away from your legs, and monsters could stay hidden in the corners of the room.

If only you had looked at James when he’d entered, you might have finally noticed the man you had been trying to catch for months aiming a knife in the general direction of your friend. Murdock stayed silent, pressed against the wine painted wall, while James tipped you off. It was his game, and he wanted to make sure the roles were played perfectly. A courtesy he would never offer to anyone else. He wondered if you would appreciate it, or whether you would punch him in the face for invading his privacy – either way, he didn’t mind.

“You might want to hurry,” the officer noted, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. Trying. “They’re quicker than they look.”

Murdock only laughed, mocking and genuine at the same time. A strange combination that had James’ heart beating faster and faster the longer he spent with joy in his throat.

“I only need to be there for, eh, the last five minutes?” He twirled the knife around, digging it into the plaster and etching a small hexagon like how children wrote their initials in a heart. He thought about doing that but figured it would be better to do it later when you were actually present – possibly tied up in your chair, it was comfortable enough for you to be there a while, and nobody would check up on you. He had watched you long enough to know that not a single soul dared enter the lion’s den without your go-ahead, and that was what duct-tape was for.

Taking a step back to look at his artwork – having added a pentagon and some more straight lines – Murdock continued, “Really, I don’t have to be there at all, but I can’t resist seeing their face when I’ve gone to all that trouble. Pictures, as well, aren’t I kind?”

James didn’t respond. Understandable, given how his throat was filling up with blood. Otherwise, it’d be rude to leave him without an answer.

The clatter of his body as he fell to the floor didn’t bother the rest of the department. If it was dangerous to go into your office while you were there, it was a death sentence to go in when you weren’t – so, Murdock could get away with leaving him there.

He grimaced as he stepped forward, a disappointed growl forcing itself through his throat when his shoes came away sticky. Great, now he’d have to throw them out – they were his best pair! Oh, well.

“It’s your lucky day,” he mumbled to himself, leaning against your desk to wrestle off the stained shoe. The other one was removed, too, but he only placed the bloody one on your desk. Mahogany, he noted, and he was gone just like that.

Stepping out of your car, the quiet grind of gravel underneath your wheels having calmed your nerves, you noticed there was a distinct lack of police. Of course, it would make sense for James to come to you first, he knew how devoted to this case you were, but it was off-putting to pull up to a completely normal looking house with the knowledge a dead body was stuffed somewhere inside. Just in case, you dialed the number of the cop from before, left a blunt message and hung up.

A shaky breath escaped you as you steeled your nerves. This didn’t have to be hard; this didn’t have to be a battle. You could be in and out within minutes, handcuffs on the Serotonin Serial Killer and another tally on your ladder.

The door was already unlocked when you pushed at the handle. It wasn’t even properly closed, letting frigid air, as cold as the grave, swirl around your feet. You stepped over the boundary and looked around. It was a big place, fit for a king, or a man making six figures, but you didn’t know if there was a difference. A wooden-boarded hallway stretched far in front of you, a couple of rooms falling out at the sides. You could see the back of a couch through an archway, and at the very end was the kitchen. A staircase spiraled up around a corner, and, while the designs in the banister were nice, you were more concerned with the splatter of blood at the first step.

You made sure not to tread in it as you ascended, and you quickly noticed that it wasn’t the only mark. It was steady, but the further up you went, the more blood pooled on the wood. A drop, a lining, a splash, until there was more crimson than brown. Half of you felt guilty, immeasurably so, for wishing such a fate on someone just to catch some guy, but the other part was bursting with excitement, raising your heartbeat, and forcing sweat to gather in uncomfortable places. Although it was better for the rest of the city, you didn’t like that you were happy now.

Especially when the trail of blood had you marching past a door marred with crayon and glitter. In this profession, those were facts you had to brush off, or lose yourself in the morality of the situation. Anybody with half a conscience would be troubled to the point of no return, hence why a lot of the new recruits quit after just a couple days on the force.

You had lasted three years; what did that say about you?

You would debate the ethics later, you promised, as the lead came to a stop. Not slow by any means, all that blood couldn’t have come from just one person, but it ended either way before a closed door. With the spread of sticky ooze against the ground, slowly melting into the cracks of the wood panels, you didn’t avoid getting your shoes dirty. The imprint of the soles haunted you as you twisted the handle.

The body was not hard to spot.

Peter Burrows slumped in his chair, a black tie curled around his neck like a snake and his jacket was shed lazily around a pair of strong shoulders. They lacked form but held him up enough to show meticulous strikes near his collarbone, though the rest of his body was shadowed by the desk light flashing from a side. It flickered and spat, eventually snuffing altogether when you stepped up to the table. A horror movie cue that had you squinting suspiciously, but that wasn’t the only thing that worried you. The thing that caught your nerves and pinched them tight around your heart was something that the Serotonin Serial Killer had never done before; he'd left clues. Purposeful and overwhelming helpful, so much so that you wondered if this was even his doing.

But it had to be. Who else would cut out the chemical formula of their namesake from the victim’s corpse and lay it in front of them? A copycat, maybe, since he had been around long enough to garner a cult following. You leaned forward to look at an array of photos spread across the desk, hoping they would provide some ideas to who this really was the fault of.

The light reflected off of some of the polaroids, but the gist was pretty easy to get – the guy was a serial cheater. Not as bad as a killer, but they had both committed their crime more than once. This one was, strangely, harder to look at, though, as you were confronted by Mr. Burrows in a variety of positions with a variety of women. Some blonde, some brunette, some old, some young – none his wife. Why were the wives always getting the short end of the stick? Whatever, it matched with the murder of Frank Deffler, so that added to it really being Serotonin.

And then, the theory was fully tossed to the side when you noticed the literal calling card sticking out from Peter’s suit pocket. Oh, and he had been generous enough to draw a winky-face. How sweet.

You brought it close to your eyes, scanning for every little detail that could give him away, before flipping it over. You huffed, bit back a growl, chucked the thing somewhere behind you and started to look around the crime scene for more information. The man was getting on your nerves, not least of all because he was suddenly changing so much! You weren’t one to enjoy the chase, not as much as other detectives in the department, but being given the answers this easy was almost insulting.

There was a number in bright, bold white set against that blue background – a burner phone, it had to be. He may have been giving you too many clues, but he wasn’t an idiot. Or, that you knew him to be.

Breathing in and out, it was easy to forget you had never met him before. It pissed you off that you were always so close, just seconds away from getting a glimpse of a torn coat or pair of sunglasses, and then everything would be ripped away from you because of the wrong house, or a slight traffic delay, or anything else that the gods above thought you deserved on that day.

Turning with sudden fury, you snatched the calling card off the ground, pocketed it without a thought and stormed away. The police could deal with the kids and wife, wherever they may be – on your way down the stairs again, hearing the distant wail of sirens, you wondered if they had heard the murder. Assuming they didn’t, you also wondered if the killer was doing that on purpose. To spare their reactions or to make them terrified of their ignorance, you didn’t know. Maybe you’d ask him when he was behind bars.

You had many things to ask him, actually. Why he started killing in the first place, why he chose his victims, why he was suddenly so generous in his leaving clues. They all begged to be answered, but you had no way to do that yet. When you were able, though, the guy wasn’t going to catch a wink for a week straight. By then, he’d be ready for the chair, probably begging for it, too, with the interrogation you’d planned.

The call of the police didn’t meet your ears, nor the sound of a family talking inside. Cries, consolations, cops, in general – you didn’t care for it. The person was already dead, why bother weeping about it when there were things you could fix. You could find the murderer in the time it took to hold a funeral, and every minute wasted would make it harder. Did that make you a monster? You didn’t think so, though sessions of therapy did give you the impression sometimes, you just liked taking action.

And action you did take when you arrived back at your office. The first being to mutter, “Shit,” at the corpse crumped like wastepaper in front of your door. Blond hair, scar along his neck – it was James. You knew someone would take him out eventually, with a gun or on a date, there were equal chances. Hell, a couple days more and you might’ve found yourself flipping a coin.

But that possibility was no more; his blood leaked from the symmetrical wound on the front of his neck to the back. The skin folded in on itself, creating a flap that sputtered and wept with crimson. You barely noticed it on the dark wood floor, but his body wasn’t something you could easily dismiss. Although, and you sidestepped the cadaver to get a better look, the bloody shoe marring your desk did pique more interest.

First, call the head of your department, then, gloves. It was the right thing to do, James was young enough to still have a lot of his family, so they’d probably want to know as soon as possible. Surprisingly, the fat cat who was brought in – one of those pricks who stole your achievements – reacted more than you had, even though they hadn’t held a conversation since he was hired. A shocked gasp, some mumblings about how horrid he looked, and then he stopped. Your own eyes met his dark blues, but the color didn’t bother you. The accusatory spark did.

You had half the mind to shove him out, deal with James’ body on your own, but you had more important things to get to. You knew who had done this, and, like you said before, actions spoke louder than words. Finding his killer was your topmost priority, leading you to hole up in a vacant office with decent reception while the department declared your original one a crime scene.

One, two, three, four.

You took a deep breath in.

Five, six, seven, eight.

You let it out.

Nine, ten, eleven—

“Hello?”

His voice was…

Normal.

It was completely normal, like a man answering a routine call from a doctor’s office, like a man who hadn’t separated skin from skin dozens of times without remorse, like a man who was not a murderer. The voice had a depth and frequency achieved by most in the early mornings and a tone befitting something primordial, the void come to life. You would get lost in it if he had continued speaking, but, lucky for you and the case, he had stopped after just that one word, not that it didn’t have an effect on you. A raised heartbeat, eyes widened by a nanometer. It didn’t fit a hardened killer. Briefly, confusion flooded over you.

But anger was seconds behind. That bull-like fury as you thought you had been tricked. Serotonin wasn’t stupid. You were, though, because you had foolishly believed he had given you a real number. The guy wasn’t connected at all to the murderer you had been chasing, probably letting him escape the city or state or country entirely. You had fucked everything up because of trusting some criminal stranger, and people had died. All those victims, Deffler, Burrows, James.

The phone was about to split in half with the pressure you put on it.

“I apologize, sir,” you spoke, gathering as much calm as possible, “I don’t think you’re the person I am trying to reach.”

He didn’t reply, and you took the silence as a go ahead to hang up. “Have a good night.” Your finger sprang to the button, a huff escaping you unwilfully. Another dead end and it didn’t give you any kind of satisfaction.

“I didn’t think you’d give up so easily.”

A fraction of a second later and it all would have been lost. How good for you, then, that you were able to draw your thumb back and hold the phone to your ear again.

“You didn’t give me a fake number.”

“Why would I do that?”

His voice had changed. You noticed after getting your bearings that the normality had been exchanged for almost a drawl. Brooding and dramatic. Dark. It fit him better than the every-day-Joe had, and you may have even admitted that it left you stunned. That depth was still there, deeper than the Mariana Trench and just as pressuring, but there was no light, just specks of change that you couldn’t see. You weren’t sure which voice was the act.

“Because I’m the detective set to track you down and put you in jail,” you answered, leaning back into the chair that wasn’t as good as yours, “and not many people are open to being locked up.”

“Then don’t lock me up.”

“I won’t let you fry, either.” He hummed, and you felt the reverberation shake your hand. “And why is that? You don’t know who I am.”

“Exactly, I don’t.” You rose from your chair and pulled apart the blinds. The sun was going down, which spread a haze of golden browns over the cityscape, like freshly baked cookies. “You’ve killed dozens of people, enough to fill a gallery, not many killers can manage that, or even want to.”

“And you want to know why.” It wasn’t a question.

A crack split your face in two, a barely noticeable smile. “Rough childhood? Father left and mother drank, you picked up the pieces?”

He laughed. Funny, you preferred it to the ones you’d hear daily from the conference room.

“Close, but you’re still off. Do you mind if I ask some questions?”

Now, you paused. You had nothing to hide, and you didn’t mind a murderer knowing some of the details of your life. So, limply, you shrugged.

“Good.”

Ah. He could see you.

“And yes, I can see you.”

The crack turned to a fissure.

Imaging you would be there for a while, you twisted the chair around and sat back into it. Putting your feet back up on the windowsill made the stiffness of the seat against your back better.

He started, “Is anyone else aware that we are talking?”

“No. They’re preoccupied with the body you left in my office.”

“How did you feel when—”

“Uh-uh,” you cut him off with a tut, “my turn.”

The break told you he yielded to your question, though, you didn’t know what to make it. There were too many queries brimming already, demanding to be asked now and not a moment later. After a few seconds of thought and shamelessly scanning the windows across from you for any sign of the guy, you settled.

“What should I call you?”

“You aren’t a fan of the Serotonin Serial Killer?”

By his tone, he wasn’t either, but he had set himself up for that one. You had to deal with the poorly constructed consequences.

“Too much of a mouthful,” you admitted, “and, “if these chats are to become habit, I don’t want to be running away every time your number shows up.”

A huff bellowed down the phone. Your eyes flickered wearily across the city line again. None of the windows showed movement, not even a glimmer of a candle – though, you wouldn’t put it past him to sit in a pitch-black room for the sake of it.

His answer came moments later, when, after you released a slight breath, he whispered his best kept secret.

“Murdock.”

This was the first time you’ve ever heard such a name; it was unique and packed a punch, rightfully so. You thought it necessary that a man like Murdock deserved to be the first one you know. Not that you knew why just yet, but there was a stirring in your gut that you’d be getting familiar with the name soon enough.

You didn’t voice this, however, instead replying, “Nice name. Didn’t give you much of a choice, though, did it?”

Another chuckle. They were starting to dig into your spine like an infestation, straightening out your back and making you both aware and relaxed at once. “I’m not against it, sweetheart,” he responded.

“That’s not my name.”

“Never said it was.”

A moment of silence was shared between you, as you continued to scan the skyline. You weren’t exactly looking for Murdock now, more admiring the look of the smoggy city. The murderer had been on your mind for quite some while now, and it had been taking a toll on your perception of the world – mostly, that you no longer saw it as the place you grew up in, just a bunch of crime scenes waiting to be uncovered. Talking to him made you reminisce on the days that wasn’t so.

“Your turn,” you stated bluntly.

So, Murdock went back to his original question, the one he had tried to ask before you interrupted him. “How did you feel when you saw your friend?”

You sat still, nothing jumping to mind. It might’ve been denial, or maybe you were never really that close with James in the first place, but there had been no sadness when you came face to face with his bleeding body. Only anger. Mild inconvenience. Some part of you hoped it was just the years of working as a detective that desensitized you to murder, but there was something else that told you it was your personality, that you didn’t have that natural predisposition to empathy.

“Pissed off,” you answered after a minute, “I liked the guy, and you went and slit his throat.”

“Not without reason,” came his response, and it didn’t sound as jokey as his other lines had been.

“Nothing ever is – but you didn’t have to kill him.”

Murdock appeared to consider this, before audibly shifting wherever he was. There was a creak around him, indicating that he was inside, but that was a given. No sane person would be caught dead flaunting their murders in public. There was just the question of whether he was indeed sane.

“Anything else?” he asked.

Again, you were stopped short of an answer. There were plenty of emotions you could rule out, and you had definitely felt something, but placing that was harder than finding a dead body in a pile of mannequins. The only thing you could think of was what you answered with. “Determined.”

“To do what?” His interest was piqued, if the change in tone was anything to go by, like a child being read a fantasy book. It was a weird comparison that nearly startled you as you made it.

Unbeknownst to you, while you stared out at the city, Murdock was swaddled in shadows. Every caress of the darkness sent shivers down his spine, and the moonlight carved around his structure. Sitting on the top of a desk – he had always enjoyed the privacy of studies – the blinds struck through beams, as to separate a bright jawline from shaded eyes. A pair of polished sunglasses were caught in one hand, with the phone in another. He had debated using a burner phone, but where was the fun in that, and he enjoyed being able to listen intently with his personal devices into your words.

“Catch you.”

The visible, lower half of his face was stretched into a morbid grin at your response. He had expected nothing less from his favorite detective, but you had a habit of surprising him. He had never been gladder to get you on his case because he’d rather risk getting caught than make his work boring. You were practically the opposite of that, and the anticipation of your future encounters sent a shock of excitement through him. A few more volts and he might have just ‘fried’, as you put it.

“Why all the clues?” Your question reminded him that you were still having a conversation, leading him to perk up again where he sat.

“I got bored—” It was simple, but it was the truth, “—Everything started to repeat: the murder, the police, the motives. You were entertaining, though, I have to give you that.”

“So, what were your motives?” The silence you received was answer enough; you were jumping the gun, and the smirk you could practically feel on Murdock’s face spoke volumes. You rolled your eyes and muttered, “Right, go on.”

“Why don’t you like your directors?”

A laugh forced itself out of you. Not amused, no, it was pitiful and sardonic. “Buddy, you don’t wanna go there.”

“It’s my question, dear.”

Whatever retort about how, again, that was not your name, was interrupted by your own heart. For once, you were acting on whim and not calculated efficiency. There was hardly anyone in the department you could talk to, you family lacked anyone sane enough to understand, and your friends? Half were out of state, and one might have still been lying dead in your office.

So, who better to vent your frustrations to than a notorious serial killer? And vent you did, from unsolved cases lugged onto you constantly, to the ones you did solve being credited to them. Patrick de Gaille left break rooms a smoking mess, all but once sided with the man in domestic abuse situations, and apparently had a kindergarten level education because he could just not understand the concept of personal belongings. David Lochlin was even worse; sexist, racist, homophobic and a world full of other intolerances would sneer at the mere sight of him. The ‘rumors’ of sexual harassment in the workplace turned out to just be stories, all of which were brushed under the carpet and burned, alongside allegations of manipulation and bribery.

All in all, it was a disgrace to be working underneath those two – to your reputation and morality – but what else could you do? Getting Murdock behind bars would help, but there was a 99.9% chance it would be stolen from you at the last second. That, and your skill set, which had been perfected after so many years in the field, was suited to no other legal professions. It was a lose-lose situation, this the very statement you finished your rant with.

Murdock promptly responded, “Noted.”

It gave you pause, just for a second, and then you realized that you had spilled your guts to a guy with no reservations about killing people. You tried not to give him time to process the information, as you quickly jumped to prompt, “Your motives.”

“I think you could figure that one out.” The teasing was heavy in his voice, not least of all because he was right. Technically, you could figure it out with enough cases and overtime, but you might as well have taken advantage of the interview with a serial killer.

“Answer the question, Murdock,” you sighed back.

“I must confess, I love hearing you say my name.”

Mudock was now coming to realise that, maybe, he didn’t just like seeing you get angry. It was a treat for sure, but it was more likely that seeing a redness as stark and dangerous as a wild-fire dart across your face was the thing doing it for him. He had half a mind to run over to your office and kiss you right then and there. Obviously, he held back and stayed sitting on the desk, but it was a thought he shamelessly entertained longer than practical.

Your blunt tone brought him back to the present, “The question.”

Notably, your blush hadn’t yet died down when he looked back to you.

“The thrill of it,” he answered.

“Elaborate.”

“Haven’t you felt it?” A prickling of sadistic excitement crackled down the phone. “When you go into a new case, catch the guy red-handed and twist the cuffs a little too tight?” Breathlessness overtook him, like he was reliving the moment. “I know I have, and it’s exhilarating.” It was as if he could sense your defense building back up, but that meant it had fallen down at some point. He felt giddy at the concept of getting you on his side, though he still needed to be careful. He added on, “And don’t worry, I only target people who deserve it.”

You leaned forward in the chair, bending your stomach over outstretched legs. “What constitutes as ‘deserving’ it?”

You’d lost your formal tone, a role swap Murdock was keen to explore, so he explained, “If they’ve done anything bad. Bribery, adultery, murder, letting a known killer into someone’s room without alerting them, for instance.” Normally, he wouldn’t go for such a simple crime, but James had been a special occasion.

You were thinking the same. “Even if they’ve been coerced?”

“Coercion is just disguised acceptance, love.”

Even though you disagreed, it was woefully easy to understand where he was coming from. Hell, this was the same for most officers in your department, and you were sure they thought similarly of you. However, the idea did stir one question in you.

“How’d you get by this rule, then?” A slight hum was your prompt to go further. “You’re killing people, why is your throat still intact.”

Murdock expected this, and it wasn’t as thought he had been lying about the motive. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar. “An executioner, who works for the king, kills tens of people a day. If that executioner stops, tens of murderers get away a day. The choice is clear.”

You hadn’t pegged Murdock as the utilitarian type, but it fit him. A guy like that couldn’t be doing this because he was bored, or for the aesthetic – though you wouldn’t say he didn’t look good doing it.

The corridor was starting to flourish to life, staff members thinking it safe to come out now that the crime scene had been decorated with tape and markers. You wondered if they kept James in there, before shrugging it off in order to continue the conversation. That didn’t feel great, morally, but business was business, and you had a killer to catch.

“You get two,” you reminded, as you rose from your seat to lock the door. “I asked out of turn.”

His question was immediate, “Why are you so keen to stick to the law?”

And your response was simple, “It’s my job.”

“It’s your directors’ jobs, too.”

Flopped back into the chair, you thought about it some more. The first point was true, but it was like a reflex. Nothing deep or extreme, and nothing that revealed more than you had to. Here, in this moment, you were undergoing a transaction, information for information, and you had no qualms about sharing details with Murdock.

“Because too many detectives are like them,” you began, “I haven’t always been on the left side of the court, so to speak. I got done in for a crime I didn’t commit because of an oversight by the police, and if someone like me had been there, I would’ve been able to spend the next year in sunny Beverly Hills, not shoved in some cell like cattle.”

You remembered the day well. It was nothing you liked to dwell on, and the exact events meant little to you. The only thing that you kept close to the chest were the emotions, the pure, unadulterated rage that coursed through your veins as the judge slammed down the hammer. One of the jury rose, announced your guilt with the confidence of a god, and then left. It didn’t matter to them, didn’t matter to the police, but it mattered to you. Perhaps if you had been allowed to live a normal life, you wouldn’t be chasing down criminals for bread and beer. Perhaps you could have had a family, friends, a proper life. Perhaps the most interesting conversation you’ve had in a year wouldn’t had been with the serial killer you were chasing.

“Who was the cop,” that very man asked, sounding lackadaisical but brimming with eagerness.

“Detective Benjamin Hammond. Kicked off the force when I joined and had to become a mailman to get by. Pretty sure he’s had it out for me since then.”

Murdock laughed, “Oh, what could he do against you?”

“Steal nine out of fifteen of my packages.”

Another chuckle fell from his lips, and you caught yourself feeling slightly proud of that. Your grin spread wider, and your shoulders dropped in relaxation. It was confusing to be in the situation that you were, some might even say crazy, but you weren’t against it. You tried to rationalize by telling yourself you were helping the case, but the joking tone and shared experiences hinted at something else.

“Hey,” Murdock whispered, coming out of the carefree mood, “I know it’s not my turn, but I’ve gotta go, so d’ya mind me asking one more question?”

Ignoring the speck of disappointment that appeared in your stomach, you nodded. “Shoot.”

When Murdock said that he was no liar, rest assured he stuck to it. “I’m going to murder Patrick de Gaille and David Lochlin in three days in the theatre on fifth. Their bodies will be in the third room to the right.” He took it as a good sign when you didn’t react, not even a tightening in your fist or a quirk of your mouth – so, he finished the proposal with, “Do you fancy a date?”

A quick succession of thoughts ran through your mind, a stampede of ‘what ifs’, ‘what abouts’ and the like. The idea of warning the two was tossed out as soon as it came, followed quickly by trying to convince Murdock otherwise. Both would be useless, as none would actually listen to you, but that only left one thing to do.

“Sure.”

That single word was like a firework in Murdock’s heart.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he practically sang, a near-unnoticeable coating of disbelief, “I’ll see you at nine, sharp.”

And just like that, the line went dead. You saved his number under his own name, reasoning that only you knew it as of now, and exited back into the hallway, ready and willing to help with the dead body lying still in your office.

You were only interrupted, as you took a step through the doorway, by your phone ringing once more. A guilty, expectant feeling popped up, too, when your reaction was to tease Murdock for calling you back – but you were surprised. Instead of your new acquaintance, it was the routing centre. Considering that you were a detective, it shouldn’t have been too shocked to see a crime reported and directed to you. You pressed the accept button when you got ahold of your bearings.

“Code 1.8.7 at 16 Brick Kiln Street.” Those were the only words you heard that mattered, also because they were the only ones you fully recognised. A code 1.8.7 was murder, a thing you’d become friends with in the last few years, and 16 Brick Kiln Street, well, it was an apartment building. Windows cleaned every week and a door that needed its hinges replaced. Nothing special, a part of the fact it was direct neighbors with your police station.

At least you knew not to use that office again.

The theatre was dismally quiet three days later. You hadn’t called in the murders yet, so it appeared as just any closed building along the road. You knew better, and someone else did, too. Murdock was in there, somewhere, maybe watching you, probably not. A gun stayed strapped to your side, just in case, as you stepped carefully around the entrance hall. Dust flitted about through windows, and the fence separating the stands from the main stage was easily jumped. You were almost surprised they didn’t have nighttime security, but who would want to break into a theatre anyway?

The second that you crossed the threshold, there they were. You couldn’t focus on the ornate decorations along the rug, or the backdrop from the rendition of Macbeth they had yet to put away because, in all their glory, there de Gaille and Lochlin hanged. Rabbits left to bleed out after a hunt, and where else could their wolf be than standing in front of them, hands behind his back and sunglasses covering his eyes. The suit looked good on him, the uneven splotches not so much. The steady drip echoed around the hall, colliding off the wooden pillars and refurbished seats. The room almost seemed made for him; nothing went without a red or black coating, and shadows crept around corners.

“Murdock,” you greeted, hand coming to rest on your weapon. You weren’t planning to discharge it, but intimidation was a tactic you liked to employ.

He didn’t respond. Instead, an ever-present smirk grew wider, and his boots clicked against the wooden flooring like hooves. Slowly, he moved closer, majestic, and primal at the same time. Tap, tap, tap. Eventually, he was so close that you could see your own reflection in the darkness of his glasses. Your face was forcefully blank, and he was still smiling.

“How?” was your next question.

“I slit their throats and stringed them up to the rafters. David was first, and then Patrick heard, and I killed him, too.”

“Why?”

“They undermined you, took advantage of others, committed a number of crimes that we just don’t have the time to get into right now.”

“When?”

“We said nine, sharp, didn’t we?”

Murdock was now barely a few inches away from you, and this being your first time seeing him, only one thought came to mind. Every little detail about his voice corresponded with his physical features. The near-gravel texture spoke of his stubble, and the playful lilt mimicked the smirk, plus a jawline only available to such a deep volume. He looked exactly how you had imagined he would, more that your blurry photo on a corkboard could do justice. That, and he was undeniably hot.

Sighing, you unhooked a pair of handcuffs from your belt – you were still a detective, after all, and you were here on work hours. “Alright, then,” you muttered, half as a warning to him and preparing yourself. The last four months climaxed here, and it was worrying to assume it would be over just like that.

And foolish.

“Did you think I’d make it that easy, love?”

Before you could blink, Murdock was poised back on the stage, a brick-red speck on his shoulder. A glance over his shoulder, and then he was sashaying towards the left wing. It was only when he brushed a hand against the curtain dangling at the side that he spoke.

“Chase me.”

And so, you did. Murdock disappeared into the skeleton of the theatre, your boots echoing down the corridors after him. Always a few steps behind, you’d see the end of his blazer curve around a corner or hear the click of a door when you were seconds away from grasping the handle. Some distant laughter teased you, at once making you think he was everywhere and right beside your ear. You shuddered, in what you hoped was the cold of the underbelly.

Your own soles clattered along the hallways, skidding to a stop as you noticed a slam in the stairwell you had just passed. A two-story building, and, upon running up the first set, the door to the storage floor was bolted shut. Another slam. The roof.

Your first thought was that he had blocked himself off, but you’ve seen enough action movies to know that it wasn’t so straight forward – you also wouldn’t put it past him to jump and somehow survive. So, ignoring your rapid heartbeat and ragged breathing, you climbed up the flight to the small door. It creaked as you pushed through, and you were sure it cracked when it banged closed behind you again.

If Murdock had a way off the roof, he had yet to use it. He stood, back to you, and was almost camouflaged by the night sky. Stars flickered and shimmered, but they warped around him, as if artificially avoiding the malicious aura he put out.

“You didn’t go far,” you stated, hand hovering over the handcuffs once more.

He didn’t respond to that, and, instead, spoke with a glance over his shoulder, “For a detective, you sure do wind quickly.”

“So, this is a kindness, is it?”

Your bluntness amused him, that much was obvious when a laugh struck out from his throat. “Would it be so bad?”

Risking a step closer, you bit back a smile as he stayed planted to the concrete. The little exercise wasn’t going to damage your ability to wrap metal around someone’s wrists. However, the confident smirk on Murdock’s face gave you pause. You wagered skeptically, “I’m assuming you won’t go this easily.”

Another, shorter laugh drained into the frigid wind. It was colder now, than it had been when you’d first arrived at the theatre, and you hoped it was the reason why the hair on your arms pricked up and blood flooded to your face. “No, my dear,” he answered, “but I couldn’t pass up this opportunity.”

The quirk of an eyebrow was the only prompt he needed. “Your police friends, do they know where you are right now?” This time, he was the one grinning; you were still, not even shivering in the air or flinching at how close he was beginning to come. Maybe it was instinct to freeze, or maybe it was the realization that no one was coming to help you, or, as he wished, maybe it was simply your reaction to him that stunned you.

Murdock halted inches away from you. “And I know you won’t turn me in, so what’s wrong with staying here for a bit longer?” A finger shifted underneath your chin, lifted it up slightly and then left as quickly as it had arrived. His smile remained. “The company’s nice.”

You would be lying if you said that your heart continued at a normal pace, but you couldn’t let it bother you. Murdock was so close that you could practically feel his breath on your mouth, you just needed to move your hand slightly and he’d be in cuffs.

But you found yourself unable to move, looking out through your eyes as if a ghost and the body you once inhabited the immoveable dead. That might as well have been so, given the way your heart thudded against your chest and easily missed the most crucial of beats.

Murdock moved closer, one hand coming to rest against your waist and the other tapping against the nape of your neck. There was no use denying the sparks that shot down your spine, and pretending it was just because of the cold was a fool’s venture.

“Come on, snake, let’s rattle.”

And so was passing off the feeling of Murdock’s lips against your own as anything other than euphoric. The adrenaline spiking your veins doubled, and the sounds of the city dropped to a dull bustle. He used his hand to push you closer, manipulate your head in a way that made you willfully move into him. Your chests collided, your belt stirred, and pressure danced up and down your side. Some distant part of you yelled that this was wrong, so, so wrong – but a closer, intimate part, so convincing that Murdock could have been the one to say it, whispered that it was okay. For now, you could enjoy the spins of your stomach, the weight of his lips against yours, the near groan he let out when you bit against his skin.

The kiss lasted no more than twenty seconds, and yet, it felt like a century on that rooftop. You wished that it would last longer, but, when you were forced apart by the overwhelming need to breath, you were starkly denied both that and to look upon Murdock anymore that night. The space he had occupied was gone, exchanged for a vacuum that swirled with the suns and light. Delivered out of your haze, you also noted the missing pull of your gun. Your hand rushed to check, and there was no mistaking that it was gone, though, in place of it, was a card snagged in the holster.

The Serotonin Serial Killer’s calling card.

It was on that spot that you vowed you would never let him get away again, and it was from the street below that Murdock wished you a very good night, lips pressed to the barrel of your gun.

You were gorgeous when you were angry.

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