Pound of flesh | Murdoc Niccals x Female Reader
A late-night recording session fueled by exhaustion and animosity collapses into a moment of dark, vengeful intimacy. This can be read as a standalone chapter or part 3 of the 'Coworkers' series. Set in Phase 1
Relationships: Murdoc Niccals x Female Reader
You found yourself tutting, a sharp, rhythmic staccato that cut through the low hum of the monitors, your sighs heavy with a burgeoning, leaden frustration. It was a familiar dance.
You scrutinised him from behind the glass, uncertain whether his current state of erratic brilliance was fueled by the dregs of a whiskey bottle, a lungful of marijuana smoke, or a volatile cocktail of both.
However, the intonation of El Diablo was fundamentally, agonisingly skewed. To any layman, the bass line might have sounded merely "out of tune", but to your ears, it was a structural disaster. You knew, with the instinctive certainty of a seasoned architect viewing a listing skyscraper, that the bridge of the instrument had somehow shifted, likely during one of Murdoc’s more histrionic performances.
Yet, Murdoc Niccals was not a man to concede to physics.
He sat on a three-legged stool in the center of the recording booth, swaying slightly, clutching the bass like a holy relic. He wouldn't have any of it. Every time you keyed the talkback to suggest a calibration, he met your critique with a sneer that was equal parts arrogance and defensive bravado. He barked back, his voice a gravelly rasp, claiming his "beloved" was a paragon of perfection. In his mind, the instrument was an extension of his own ego: infallible, untouchable, and utterly incapable of being wrong.
"For Christ's sake, Murdoc, please." You sighed. "Let me have a look at it. It's getting late. Everyone else is in bed! I'm knackered, you're knackered. I wanna go to sleep." The latch of the heavy soundproof door clicked with a definitive metallic resonance as you stepped into the live room.
Murdoc didn't move. He remained sitting, draped over the bass, his silhouette jagged and spindly against the dim, amber glow of the studio lights. As you approached, the scent of him hit you, an intoxicating, ruinous blend of patchouli and the sharp acidity of sweat. Up close, the tremors in his fingers were visible, an energy that he was unsuccessfully trying to channel into the strings.
"There’s nothing wrong with her!" He reared back. "She’s screaming because I’m making her scream!"
You growled in frustration.
"The fucking bridge! Look at it!" You pointed at the instrument. "It’s slanted. You must have knocked it during that stunt with the pyrotechnics."
"It’s an aesthetic choice." He spat, though his venom lacked its usual sting. He remained seated on the stool, the heavy body of El Diablo resting between his thighs like a barrier. "A bit of... character. Adds a bit of filth to the low end dunnit? You wouldn't understand the nuance of it, would you? Too busy playing with your little knobs and faders."
"You'd know all about playing with knobs, wouldn't you?" It wasn't a flirt. It was a dig.
"Oh, she's got teeth tonight, ain't she? Eh?" He goaded. You groaned and ran a hand through your hair.
"It’s called professional standards, Murdoc! I'm trying to get this track sorted!"
"Oh, 'ark at her! 'Professional standards.'" Murdoc mimicked, his voice rising to a mocking, nasal squeak that set your teeth on edge. He stood up abruptly, the bass guitar swinging dangerously at his hip like a weapon. "Professional standards are for session musicians with mortgages and The Union to protect their snidy arses. I’m Murdoc bloody Niccals! I don’t follow standards, I set the bloody bar so high, even the Big Man upstairs can't reach 'em!"
"You're not setting a bar, Murdoc, you’re tripping over one." You snapped, refusing to yield an inch of floor and folding your arms over your chest. The booth felt suddenly microscopic, thick with the scent of overbearing cologne. "You’re so obsessed with your own myth that you can’t even hear when you’re playing a quarter-tone flat. It sounds like a tractor with a knackered engine, not a masterpiece."
"It sounds like anguish, you berk!" He hissed, looming over you, his yellowed teeth bared in a jagged snarl. "It sounds like the world is ending! That’s the point! You want it clean? Go record a bloody church choir or some drippy pop-idol muppet. I’m giving you pure, unadulterated filth, and you’re stood there whining about a millimetre of metal!" He was shouting now.
"It’s not just the bridge, and you know it!" You shouted back and poked a firm finger against his chest, right over the silver inverted cross that sat nestled in his chest hair. "It’s your ego. It’s always your sodding ego. You’d rather release a bin-fire of a track than admit for one second that you aren't infallible. You’re hiding behind the 'chaos' because you’re too bloody lazy to actually put in the work!"
Murdoc’s eyes flashed with a dangerous fire, his pupils pinpricks of pure spite. He slammed El Diablo onto its stand with a jarring thrum that vibrated through the floorboards, leaving him untethered and looming.
"Lazy? Lazy?" He repeated, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying rasp that seemed to vibrate in your very bones. He stepped into your personal space, forcing you back until the small of your back hit the cold glass of the observation window. "I’ve sold my soul, been through hell and back, and built this empire out of spit and spite while you were probably still in nappies. I don’t do 'lazy.' I do whatever the fuck I want." He caged you in, his long, spindly arms locking either side of your head against the glass. "You’ve got a right mouth on you tonight, haven't you?" He growled, his breath hot against your face, smelling of tobacco and illicit botanicals. "Think you're the big bollocks because you can read a waveform? You’re lucky I don't chuck you out on the Geep on the A40 and find someone who knows how to take a bit of direction from their betters."
"Do it then!" You hissed, your voice a ragged whisper, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "Chuck me out. Go on. See how far you get with a record that sounds like that. But you won’t, will you? Because you know I’m the only one who actually gives a toss about making you sound like the legend you keep telling everyone you are."
For a long, agonising moment, the air between you was pure static. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, his chest heaving. The argument wasn't about the music anymore; it was a total collapse of professional boundaries, and the friction was reaching a snapping point. The static in the air finally snapped. Murdoc didn’t pull away; instead, he surged forward, pressing the full, heavy weight of his body against yours, pinning you firmly against the studio glass. You inhaled sharply, eyes widening.
"You think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you?" He breathed, his voice a jagged, low-frequency rumble against your ear. "Always hovering, always fucking judging. Poking at the beast just to see if it’ll bite."
His hands were suddenly everywhere at once, frantic, calloused, and smelling of nickel strings. He bypassed your mouth entirely, as normal, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck with a predatory sharp edge that made a ragged gasp catch in your throat. You moved to push him away, the instinct was there, born of a genuine, simmering fury, but as your palms met his chest, the anger didn't dissipate. It transmuted. The heat of the argument curdled into something darker and far more demanding, a sudden, heavy ache of lust that mirrored his own aggression. Neither of you were looking for affection; you were looking to win the argument by other means.
"Right then," he voice came out a low-frequency rumble against your skin. "You want to talk about 'playing with knobs'?"
He didn't bother with finesse. With a violent, sweeping motion of his arm, he cleared a space on the heavy oak workbench nearby, sending a tray of guitar picks, strings and other various tools clattering to the floor. He hoisted you up onto the edge, his hands sliding beneath your clothes with a bruising possessiveness, his touch searing like a live wire. You couldn't help but give in and whimper. The glowing LEDs of the outboard gear cast flickering reds and greens across his sharp, angular features. He looked like a man possessed, stripped of his stage persona and reduced to something raw and demanding. He kept his gaze locked on yours. You hated him so much in this moment, but craved his touch. Murdoc ran a hand up between your thighs and you couldn't help but moan.
"Listen to that," he muttered, his thumb hooking over the waistband of your jeans. "No 'intonation' issues there, eh? Best thing I've heard out of this booth all night."
As he moved between your thighs, the cool wood of the workbench provided a sharp contrast to the radiating heat of his skin. Every movement was a power play, a silent negotiation of who held the upper hand. The monitors still hummed a low, steady drone in the background, but the only sound that mattered was the unedited symphony of your combined breath. Murdoc didn't need to say another word; the smug, triumphant set of his jaw told you exactly who he thought had won this round.
Your hands laced around the back of his neck, then ran through his greasy hair, making sure to snag his tangles on purpose. Just as easy as he'd put you on the work desk, he dragged you off with a growl.
"Turn 'round." He said gruffly. A firm hand pushed lightly between your shoulder blades and you complied, bending over the workbench. Murdoc delivered a sharp smack to your clothed arse, before gripping your hips and grinding his own clothed hard cock into you. The sharp crack of his palm against you echoed off the soundproofed foam of the walls, a stinging jolt that sent a surge of heat straight to your core. It was a rough, percussive punctuation to the argument he was convinced he’d just finished. Murdoc’s hands, large and cold from the air-conditioned studio, clamped onto your hip bones with the bruising grip of a man who had no intention of letting go. He wasn't rushing. He was taking his time to savor the shift in the room's power.
"See, this's your problem," he muttered, "Always trying to tidy things up. 'swhat got us in this position in the first place, isn't it?"
You swallowed, saliva tasting like a toxic, dizzying cocktail of loathing and desire. Every nerve ending screamed in protest against his touch, yet your body betrayed you with a humiliating, reflexive urgency. Inexplicably, you found yourself shifting, heels sliding across the floor to widen your stance.
Murdoc let out a low chuckle.
"Eager, aren't we?" He murmured, leaning over her until his shadow swallowed you whole. He caught the lobe of your ear between his teeth, tugging with a sharp, mean pressure that sent a jolt straight down your spine. "Widening those legs for me without being told. That’s the first bit of cooperation I’ve had out of you all night, you lippy little slag." His hand moved with the practiced grace of a musician, reaching around to fumble with the button and fly of your jeans. His long, nimble fingers, the ones that usually danced across bass strings, delved beneath the lace of your underwear. A sinful, broken sound escaped your throat as his fingertips found their mark, pressing firmly against your clit.
"Ain't so lippy now, are we?" The smirk was audible in his voice, dripping with a victor's arrogance.
He didn't slow his pace, his dominant hand maintaining a rhythmic, torturous pressure while his fretting hand worked clumsily at the fastening of his faux-leather trousers. The metallic clink of the belt felt loud in the heavy silence of the room.
"Look at you," his breath came in hot, uneven hitches. "All that fire and spit from earlier, and now you’re just melting into the floorboards. I think I prefer you like this, all quiet and desperate."
He finally won the battle with his trousers. His hand abandoned your clit, now moving instead to seize your hip with a bruising, proprietary force that anchored you in place. There was no gentleness in his movements, only a restless, driving intent.
He wound his fingers into the loose strands of your hair, yanking your head back to force you upright. He pressed his body flush against your spine, his breath fanning hot and ragged against the shell of your ear.
"Get them jeans down your ankles," he groaned, his hands already working with a frantic impatience to help you undress. You kicked the denim and lace away, leaving them in a discarded heap on the floorboards. He gave the curve of your bare hip a sharp, possessive squeeze before shoving you back over the edge of the desk. When you spread your legs for him, it wasn't enough to satisfy him; he used the heavy, leather-clad tip of his boot to nudge your ankle further outward, widening your stance until you were completely exposed.
A low, guttural groan escaped him at the sight. He guided the rigid length of his cock into you from behind, the sudden, intrusive fullness of him stealing the very air from your lungs. You bit your lip hard, trying to stifle the cry building in your throat, but Murdoc leaned over you, his face inches from yours.
"Go on," he challenged, a wicked, mismatched glint dancing in his eyes. "Tell me again how much you hate me."
He began to roll his hips, a slow, torturous friction that set your nerves on fire.
"Fuck!" The word was a broken moan. "I fucking despise you."
You inhaled sharply, your fingers clawing at the wood of the desk as he thrust deeper, refusing to let you catch your breath. "You arrogant... sleazy... egomaniac!"
Murdoc threw his head back, a sharp laugh. The insult seemed to fuel him, his movements becoming more frantic and forceful as he took every word as an invitation to drive you harder into the edge of the desk. You braced yourself, hands curling around the far edge.
"That’s it," he snarled, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, leaving marks that would surely be there tomorrow. "Give me all that venom. It’s the only thing about you that’s as foul as I am."
He leaned down, his chest pressing flat against your back, pinning you between his body and the cold, cluttered surface of the desk. Pens rattled and papers scattered to the floor, but neither of you noticed. He was moving with a relentless, punishing rhythm now, his breath coming in short, ragged hitches that hitched right against your skin.
"Go on. More," he encouraged, his voice a low, vibrating growl as he gripped your hair again, pulling just enough to force your head back. "Tell me how much of a bastard I am while I fuck you."
He didn’t wait for the answer, driving into you with a sudden, sharp depth that made your vision swim. The desk rattled violently under the impact, the metal legs scraping against the floor with a screech that was lost beneath your own wrecked moans.
"You’re a... a self-serving prick," you choked out, your fingers curling into the edge of the wood until your knuckles turned white. Each syllable was punctuated by the heavy, rhythmic thud of his hips hitting yours. "A disgusting, a disgus- ah! A degenerate."
"Keep going," he hissed, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck. He sounded breathless, his usual smug composure fracturing into something raw and feral. "Don't stop now, we’re just getting to the good bits."
He reached around, his hand finding yours on the desk and interlacing his fingers with yours, pinning your arm down. It felt strangely intimate. More intimate than any other time you had fucked him, as though this nasty entanglement actually drew emotion from him. The pace shifted from frantic to agonisingly slow, a long, dragging slide that forced you to feel the staggering reality of him.
"You think you're... the king of the world," you gasped, your head falling forward as the sensation peaked. "But you're just... a-a-ah!" The word broke into a high, thin cry as he surged forward, hitting that same deep spot with unerring accuracy. Murdoc let out a low, guttural sound, a mix of a growl and a triumph, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He let go of your hair and reached, his long, spindly fingers splaying across the desk to grip the far edge, effectively trapping you in the heat of his shadow. The clutter on the desk shook with every heavy, wet thud of his body against yours. He was chasing his own edge now and becoming something desperate and uncoordinated. You could feel the tension coiling in his muscles, the way his fingers dug into the wood until his eyes blew wide. He let go of the desk to grab your hair again, not to pull, but to anchor himself as he delivered a final, staggering succession of thrusts that had you seeing galaxies.
"Go on, tell me how much you hate the bloke fucking your brains out!"
The irony of the moment wasn’t lost on you even as your senses were splintering into a million jagged shards of light, Murdoc was still demanding his pound of flesh, still needing to hear that your desire was wrapped in a layer of loathing.
"I... I hate you," you sobbed out, the words catching in your throat as the friction reached a fever pitch. "God, Murdoc... I hate you so much." Your grip tightened on the edge of the desk as your orgasm tightened your walls around him. With a high pitch sound, you announced your climax.
Murdoc let out a jagged, triumphant hiss at the sound of his name, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to keep you grounded as he forced himself as deep as possible into you one last time. It was a deep, possessive movement that felt like he was trying to leave a permanent mark on your very soul. His body went rigid, his muscles locking up like a rusted machine finally forced into gear. He buried his face against your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin in a sharp, stinging nip as he finally let go, his own release hitting him with a force that left him trembling.
For a long minute, the only sound in the booth was the cooling hum of the amplifiers and the ragged, synchronised gasps of two people who had just finished a war. Murdoc stayed draped over your back, his weight heavy and damp, before he slowly uncoupled himself with a wet, lingering slide.
He didn't offer a hand to help you up. His fingers, still interlaced with yours on the desk, gave a small, involuntary squeeze before he let go. He reached past you, snatched a discarded cigarette from the desk, and lit it, the flare of the lighter illuminating the smug, dark satisfaction in his eyes.
"Right then," he exhaled a plume of grey smoke that drifted into the acoustic foam. He adjusted his trousers with a sharp tug, already retreating back into his armor of arrogance. He gestured vaguely toward the bass guitar still standing on its rack. "Now that you’ve got that out of your system... fix the bloody bridge. I want to redo the take in ten minutes."
You sat on the edge of the desk, legs trembling and skin stinging, watching him saunter back toward the microphone. You didn't hate him. In fact, you were beginning to fear what you thought you might have felt.
"Ten minutes, Murdoc," you croaked, reaching for your jeans. "And if it's still flat, I'm mixing you out of the track entirely."
