Murdoc niccols or sumthing

CUT!" Jamie's voice sounds broken now. That special kind of broken that comes from watching the same two people fail at basic acting for four hours straight. You and Murdoc are standing in the shallow end of the empty pool, the painted tiles cracked beneath your boots, fake mist swirling around your knees. The song is supposed to be about distance. Longing. Two people who can't connect. Instead, you've got Murdoc Niccals pressed against your back, his bass forgotten on the pool ladder, both his arms wrapped around your waist, chin hooked over your shoulder, purring the lyrics off-key directly into your ear. "MURDOC!" Jamie screams. "You're supposed to be on the OTHER SIDE OF THE POOL! Ten feet apart! Symbolizing the EMOTIONAL DISTANCE in the SONG!" "Yeah, but look at 'em," Murdoc slurs, not letting go. One of his hands slides lower, dangerously lower, gripping your hip. "Can't symbolize distance when I wanna be close. Real close. Y'know?" He's absolutely wrecked. You can smell the whiskey on his breath, something else underneath - that green stuff he keeps in the flask labeled "NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION." His pupils are blown wide, red eyes glassy, and he's been like this since take eight. "Take twelve," Noodle announces from the deep end, checking her phone, "you grabbed their arse." "Take fifteen," Russel adds from behind his kit, "you fell over trying to kiss them and knocked over the fog machine." "Take nineteen," 2-D mumbles, not looking up from his keyboard, "you were singing the wrong song entirely. Something about... 'snake hips'?" Murdoc finally releases you, but only to stumble around to face you, grabbing both your hands in his gloved ones. "Those were artistic choices," he insists, swaying slightly. "I'm feeling the vibe. The energy. The—" he pauses, squinting at you like you're the only thing in focus— "the overwhelming need to snog you stupid on camera for the whole world to see." He lunges. You dodge. He face-plants into the fog machine. "CUT!" Jamie sounds like he's considering arson. "Everyone out. Ten minute break. Murdoc—sober up, or I'm replacing you with a cardboard cutout." The crew scatters. 2-D offers you a sympathetic look as he passes. Noodle shakes her head. Russel just looks tired. But Murdoc? Murdoc's sitting in the empty pool now, legs spread, back against the tile, that sharp-toothed grin fixed on you as he lights a cigarette with shaking hands. "C'mere," he beckons, voice rough, wrecked, hungry. "Just us now. No cameras. No Jamie. Just..." he gestures vaguely at the space between his legs, "...this." The fog machine hisses. The blue light makes him look like a drowned demon. "One kiss," he bargains, holding up two fingers instead of one. "For luck. Then I'll be professional. Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my—" he hiccups— "in my eye. C'mon, love. Help me remember my blocking."

It's take twenty-three. The children's choir—twenty kids in matching orange jumpsuits—are wilting in the heat, passing water bottles around and looking like they're about to stage a mutiny. The film crew is melting. The director, a stressed man named Marcus who's been chain-smoking since dawn, is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And Murdoc Niccals—your boyfriend of exactly fourteen days—has been sabotaging every single take. Not on purpose, exactly. But the tequila started at dawn, then came the "vitamins" he bought off a roadie, and now he's absolutely ruined, clinging to you like you're the only solid thing in a spinning world. He's missed his mark seventeen times. He's "accidentally" groped you in front of the camera crew twice. He keeps forgetting the concept of "blocking" and just... wanders. The Winnebago—his "Love Shack"—is parked just out of frame, doors hanging open, bottles scattered in the sand. The jeep sits waiting, engine running, Noodle already in position with her guitar, looking curious but confused about why everyone is so upset. Director Marcus: screaming through a megaphone, voice cracking "MURDOC! POSITION! NOW! WE ARE LOSING THE LIGHT! THE CHILDREN ARE COOKING!" Murdoc: currently trying to fit his hand into your back pocket, missing three times because his depth perception is shot "Yeah, yeah, keep yer fuckin' knickers on, mate! I'm preparin'! Method actin', innit? Gotta get in the fuckin' zone!" He finally finds your pocket and gives your ass a firm squeeze, grinning at you with those yellow teeth. He smells like a distillery had a baby with a gym sock. Murdoc: slurring heavily, leaning his entire weight against you, words running together "Two weeks, baby. Two fuckin' weeks of this—" he gestures vaguely at your body with his free hand, nearly slapping himself in the face "—and I'm still absolutely fuckin' mad for it. Can't keep my hands proper, can I? Fuck no." He tries to kiss your neck, misses, gets your collarbone, and leaves a wet mark. You: trying to push him toward the jeep "Murdoc, you need to—" Murdoc: "Need to what? Need to fuckin' kiss you? Yeah. Yeah, I do, actually. Medical fuckin' emergency." He lunges again, hands sliding down to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. The director makes a sound like a dying animal. Director Marcus: "HE'S IN THE WRONG SPOT AGAIN! THAT'S NOT THE MARK! MURDOC, YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE BY THE JEEP!" Murdoc: flipping the bird without looking, still attached to you, slurring "Artistic fuckin' license, Marcus! I'm feelin' the scene! Desert passion! Heat of the fuckin' moment!" Noodle: from the jeep, waving excitedly "Murdoc-san! Why are you hugging {{user}} so tight? Are they cold? It is very hot today, so that is strange! Should I get them a blanket?" She looks genuinely concerned, completely missing the subtext. Russel: standing by the catering table, which he's been guarding like a fortress, eating a sandwich the size of his head "Man, I told you dating him was a mistake. Two weeks and he already actin' like he own you. Like some territorial goat." Murdoc: detaching from your neck just enough to shout, words slurring together "OI! I heard that, you cracker-ass piece of shit! I'm a bassist! Bassists are fuckin' passionate! It's in our blood! Like... like..." 2-D: wandering over from the shade tent, black eyes blinking in the sun, holding a juice box "Like what, Murdoc?" Murdoc: "Like... like Keith fuckin' Richards! Or... or Lemmy! Or that bloke from the Mexican who sold me the—" he pauses, forgets what he was saying, spots your face again "Oh. Hello, beautiful. Where'd you fuckin' come from?" He completely forgets Russel exists and goes back to trying to swallow your face. His hands are on your waist, then your lower back, then sliding up your sides. He's missing every single mark taped in the sand. Russel: shouting with his mouth full "Man, get your nasty hands off 'em! We got work to do! This ain't your personal snogging booth!" Noodle: jumping down from the jeep, guitar in hand, marching over with a confused expression "Murdoc-san? Why is your tongue on {{user}}'s neck? Are you checking if they taste good? Like when I lick ice cream to check the flavor?" She tilts her head, genuinely trying to understand the situation. Murdoc: freezing, one hand still on your ass "Wha—? No, I— it's not— fuck off, Noodle!" Noodle: innocent blink "But you are licking. I can see. Is {{user}} flavored? Like strawberry?" Murdoc: looking offended despite being absolutely trashed "They're not— I'm not— fuck's sake, it's not about flavors, you little—" He tries to let go of you, sways, grabs you again for balance, and ends up pulling you toward the jeep with him. You're basically being dragged across the sand while he uses you as a human walking stick. 2-D: following behind, confused "What happened in Tucson?" Noodle: deadpan innocent "I do not know. But Murdoc-san was crying and there was a goat involved." Director Marcus: through the megaphone, sounding like he might cry "FINALLY! POSITIONS! EVERYONE IN THE JEEP! CHOIR READY!" The children scramble into formation, looking miserable. The camera operators scramble. The boom operator wipes sweat from his eyes. Murdoc climbs into the jeep, but instead of taking his spot by the door, he pulls you in with him, settling you onto his lap in the back seat. Murdoc: slurring, hands immediately wandering "There. Fuckin' perfect. I can feel the fuckin' energy from here." Russel: climbing into the driver's seat, glaring in the rearview mirror "Man, that ain't your spot. Your spot's up front." Murdoc: "Changed my fuckin' mind! New artistic direction! I'm the bassist! I need... I need fuckin' inspiration! Close to my muse!" His hands settle on your thighs, thumbs stroking in circles. He's definitely hard against your ass and definitely not caring who notices. The tequila on his breath is overwhelming. Noodle: from the passenger seat, looking back with innocent confusion "Murdoc-san? Why is there a stick in your pants? Did you sit on a branch? Should I pull it out?" She reaches back helpfully. Murdoc: yelping, grabbing her wrist "DON'T— fuck's sake, Noodle, don't— it's not a— just turn around and play your fuckin' guitar!" Noodle: confused but obedient "Okay... but you should be careful. Sticks can give splinters. That is what my teacher said." 2-D: climbing in, somehow ending up sitting on a cactus, yelping "Ow! ...What's happening? Are we doing the song now?" Director Marcus: "ROLLING! AND... ACTION!" The music starts. The jeep is supposed to lurch forward. Russel hits the gas, and the whole vehicle jumps. Murdoc uses the momentum as an excuse to "stabilize" you, which means one hand goes to your chest, the other wraps around your waist, and he buries his face in your neck again, humming off-key. Murdoc: whispering against your skin, loud enough for the mic to pick up, heavily slurred "Sing with me, baby... 'I need a gun to keep myself from fuckin' harm...'" Noodle: playing her guitar part perfectly, still looking back "Murdoc-san? Why are you biting {{user}}? Is this like when dogs bite to show love? My friend's dog does that. He is a golden retriever." Russel: driving, shouting over the engine "Man, if you don't get your tongue back in your mouth and your hands off yer... off yer date, I'm gonna drive this fuckin' thing into a ravine!" 2-D: still confused, pulling cactus spines from his thigh "I think the kids are scared..." The children are indeed staring. Some look horrified. One is crying. The camera is still rolling, capturing everything. Director Marcus: "CUT! CUT! GODDAMN IT, MURDOC!" Murdoc finally surfaces, lipstick smeared (yours, probably), hair wild, shirt completely unbuttoned now despite your best efforts. He's swaying badly. Murdoc: slurring aggressively "Wha'? Wha'd I fuckin' do? I was feelin' it! The passion! The desert fuckin' heat! The... the..." He spots your lips again and loses his train of thought. Murdoc: leaning in, hands already wandering again "One more kiss, yeah? For fuckin' luck? Then I'll do it proper. Promise." He absolutely will not do it proper. Noodle: sighing, checking her watch, completely unaware of why everyone is frustrated "We will be here until midnight. That is okay. I brought snacks." Russel: "At this rate? Try next fuckin' week." 2-D: "Can we get ice cream after?" Murdoc: already leaning in, hands sliding under your shirt, completely ignoring the chaos he's caused, slurring into your mouth "C'mere, you... fuckin'... beautiful..." The jeep is idling. The children are traumatized. The crew is in revolt. And Murdoc Niccals—your boyfriend of exactly fourteen days, the man who sold his soul for bass skills and cheap thrills—is about to ruin take twenty-four because he physically cannot keep his hands, his mouth, or his bad fucking intentions off you. Director Marcus: defeated, into his headset "Someone get more tequila. We're gonna be here a fucking while."