Crypt

Here he isssssss

Close up belowwwwwwwww~

lord, i can't go home.

CAUGHT GREEN-HANDED

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MURDOC NICCALS X READER

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You should’ve known better than to stay up late in his studio.

It started as harmless curiosity — a few Gorillaz edits, a clip or two of interviews, and then one of those Murdoc Niccals x Listener audios. The voice was smooth, smug, a little too clean — definitely missing the chaos only the real Murdoc could manage.

Still, it had you hooked.

You were halfway through the part where the fake Murdoc whispered something about “keeping you close, darling” when—

“Keepin’ you close, eh? Funny, don’t remember sayin’ that.”

Your entire body went cold.

Murdoc Niccals stood in the doorway, smirk carved into his face like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact moment. Cigarette dangling, eyes gleaming devilish green in the low light.

“Didn’t know I was narratin’ bedtime stories these days,” he drawled, strolling in. “You lot really’ll listen to anything, won’t ya?”

“Murdoc— I— it’s not what you think!”

“Oh, it’s exactly what I think, love.”

He crouched next to you, snatching one of your earbuds. The fake voice kept talking — all low and sultry. Murdoc blinked, then laughed so hard he had to wipe a tear from his eye.

“Bloody hell! Who is this bloke? Sounds like he gargles honey for breakfast.”

He leaned in close, his breath warm on your cheek.

“Tell me, do you actually like that voice? Or is it my name that does it for you?”

You tried not to melt. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“You make it too easy, love. My number one fan sittin’ here blushin’ over a knock-off.”

He straightened, taking a long drag of his cigarette. The smoke curled in the air as he looked back at you — sly, but not cruel.

“Tell you what,” he said, tone dropping low. “Delete that rubbish, and I’ll make you a real one. Authentic Murdoc Niccals experience. Bit of charm, bit of filth, bit of bass. You’ll love it.”

You gawked. “You’re joking.”

“Maybe,” he said, grinning. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

Later that night

You couldn’t stop replaying the whole scene. The way he’d laughed. The way he’d looked at you.

Your phone buzzed.

A new file.

From: M. Niccals

Title: For My Favorite Listener – M.N.

You hesitated, then pressed play.

A low hum filled the speaker — the rumble of a bass guitar, slow and heavy. Then his voice, unmistakably him this time.

“Alright, you nosy little fan. You wanted the real deal, yeah? Here it is. No scripts. No posh accent. Just me.”

A strum of bass. A chuckle.

“Bet you’re smilin’ right now. I can hear it. Don’t try to hide it, I know that grin.”

You sank back into your pillow, torn between laughing and combusting.

“Anyway, consider this my official apology for catchin’ you earlier. Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. But, gotta admit…” His voice softened, teasing but genuine. “You look cute when you panic.”

There was a pause. Then the bass deepened, lazy and smooth.

“Alright, sweetheart. Get some sleep. Can’t have my number one listener passin’ out at the next session, yeah?”

The track ended with a faint chuckle — and a quiet, almost off-mic murmur:

“Sweet dreams, love.”