Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The place was dim and tired. Paint peeling off the ceiling. Tables wobbling on uneven legs. The bar was half-stocked, the air thick with smoke and desperation. It smelt like piss and bad gin.

But no one breathed, no one dared even move.

Because Murdoc Niccals had just walked in. 

He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t need to. The second the door creaked open and his silhouette appeared—sharp suit, cane in hand, cigar still glowing—the patrons shrank. One man slid his glass away. A woman in red excused herself to the restroom and didn’t come back.

Murdoc took a slow, deliberate step inside, scanning the room. He’d come to remind the owner why you don’t say no to The Devil’s Piano. You don’t sell piss-brown whiskey in New Orleans– his city unless you buy it from him .

On stage—if you could call it that– a crooked platform nailed together over scuffed floorboards—a long, lanky figure draped in faux black velvet stood under a sad little spotlight. Dark dramatic eye makeup with long, sad lashes, a deep, blood red lip.

“ I t was cold outside of Tiffany's, I was shivering in the storm

I walked in and asked a gentleman "could I please keep warm?"

He asked me how come a baby doll has no comfy place to go

So I told that kindly gentleman my tale of woe .”

The music didn’t falter. The small, nervous band behind him kept up, watching him, watching Murdoc Niccals , waiting for something to break.

But 2D didn’t flinch.

He sang to him. Eyes locked. Expression unreadable. Maybe amused. Maybe curious. Maybe playing a game he didn’t know he’d already won.

Murdoc’s jaw tightened.

The siren on stage wasn’t afraid. He stepped off the stage, mic cord trailing behind him like a leash.

“ Every baby needs a da-da-daddy to keep her worry-free

Every baby needs a da-da-daddy, but where's one for me? ”

Tall, pretty, perfectly gelled and styled blue hair–too pretty for the likes of this place. The kind of beauty that made people nervous without knowing why. The kind you didn’t touch unless you could afford the aftermath.

The club was silent as 2D wrapped around tables.

“ Rich or poor, I don't care who

If he hasn't got a million then a half will do”

Murdoc sat still in his chair, cane propped beside him, jaw set hard. Eyes narrowed and locked on the singer weaving between tables like he was scouting his prey.

2D slowed as he neared Murdoc’s table, barely three feet away. Close enough to see the gold glint in Murdoc’s cufflinks. Close enough to smell his cigar smoke mixed with his expensive cologne. 

The patrons closest to Murdoc shifted in their seats, trying not to be there. Everyone knew what Murdoc Niccals did to people who got too close.

But 2D got closer. 

His gloved hand connected with Murdoc’s tie.

His thumb and forefinger pinched the knot lightly, straightening it— fixing it—with the same care a lover might use. Then, down a little—his palm pressed flat over Murdoc’s chest, the barest pressure.

And all the while, he sang—smooth, sin-soaked, voice like smoke curling

“Every baby needs a da-da-daddy.

Could my da-daddy be you?”

The final note lingered in the stale air like a slow exhale. Then silence. Not applause, not a breath. Just thick, heavy stillness.

2D’s gloved hand slid away from Murdoc’s chest like silk across glass. He turned without a word, the trailing edge of his black velvet dress brushing against Murdoc’s thigh as he stepped back toward the stage.

Not a single soul moved until he disappeared behind the crooked curtain.

Then, like something had been released, the room exhaled all at once. A chair creaked. A match struck. The bartender poured a double without asking who it was for.

Murdoc remained still, staring at the space where the singer had vanished. Then, slowly, he rolled his cigar once between his fingers, and flicked off the ash.

He didn’t look at the man beside him. Didn’t need to.

“Flowers,” he said flatly. “I want the biggest, best bouquet in this bloody city. I want damn peacock and ostrich feathers.”

“But sir, it’s–”
“ I don’t care how late it is.” Murdoc barked, “get them. Now.”

The man scrambled, nearly knocking over a chair in his haste to get out the door. Murdoc didn’t even watch him go. He just stood there for a beat longer, gaze fixed on the back hallway where that singer had disappeared.

The backstage area was a joke. A cracked mirror balanced on two mismatched crates, lights half-burnt out and buzzing like flies. The walls were yellowed with time and smoke, stained with God-knows-what, and one of the overhead bulbs blinked with the jittery panic of a hangover.

The air stank of grease and gin. Through a thin wall came the dull thud of cleavers from the kitchen, the occasional burst of swearing from a cook with zero patience for the drama unfolding next door.

2D was perched on a stack of crates, legs crossed elegantly at the knee, gloves still on. He twirled his cigarette holder between two fingers, unlit, idly waiting for someone to give him a reason to light it.

“Are you completely mental ?” the pianist finally blurted. “Do you have any idea what you just did out there?”

2D blinked. “Flirted?”

“That was Murdoc fucking Niccals ,” the bassist hissed, eyes darting toward the hallway like he expected the devil himself to materialize. “You touched his tie. You sang to him. You put your hand on his chest .”

2D tilted his head slightly, “Well, I was singing about needing a daddy. He seemed like the type.”

A groan rose from the small, sweaty cluster of men around him.

“You don’t touch him,” the drummer said, voice low like a confession. “No one touches him. No one even looks him in the eye unless they’re ready to lose teeth.”

“He’s got people in the Mississippi," the saxophonist added. “The ones he doesn’t send home in pieces, anyway.”

2D smiled faintly at that, like it was charming.

“Do you think he’d kill me, then?” he asked softly, clearly joking, but with a tilt of sincerity that made everyone shift.

The pianist leaned forward, eyes wild. “You just asked Murdoc Niccals if he’d be your daddy , man.”

“Did I? Really? ” 2D mused, dragging the holder along his lower lip in thought.

“ Yes .”

“Well. S’pose we’ll see if he says yes, then, won’t we?”

Silence.

Someone whispered oh my God.

The faintest creak of floorboards sounded in the hallway behind them.

2D’s smile didn’t waver. He lifted the unlit cigarette holder again and spoke casually, like he hadn’t just set his life on fire.

“By the way… who exactly is Murdoc Niccals?”

The question barley hung in the air before it was answered by the flinging open of the backstage door.

And there he was, Murdoc Niccals .

Framed in smoke and hallway light, cane in one hand, a half-dead cigar smoldering between his teeth—and behind him, one of his goons struggling to carry an absolutely monstrous bouquet through the narrow doorway.

Roses, orchids, lilies, trailing vines, ostrich and peacock feathers bursting out of the top like an absurd plume. It looked like it belonged at the funeral of a queen—or the wedding of someone very, very rich and unstable.

The band scrambled out of the way like mice. One knocked over a stool. Another backed directly into a costume rack and knocked a sequin cape to the floor.

Murdoc barely spared them a glance.

His eyes were locked on 2D.

And he was smiling.

Not kindly, not gently.

But with something sharp and interested—like a man seeing a treasure on the auction block and already knowing the highest bid would be his .

“‘’Ello?” 2D said, surprised. 

“Well, bloody hell,” Murdoc drawled, stopping a few paces inside. “You’re British.”

2D blinked, lips parted in surprise. “So are you.”

Murdoc’s grin widened. He stepped forward, gestured once with two fingers, and the crony shoved the bouquet into an empty chair nearby and vanished like his life depended on it.

Murdoc didn’t waste time with pleasantries. He reached for 2D’s hand—not shaking it, but taking it delicately, turning it over palm-up, and pulling at the tip of the glove with two fingers until it slipped off.

Then he lifted 2D’s bare hand to his lips and kissed it.

Not a peck, certainly not. A long, slow, deliberate press of his mouth against the singer’s skin, warm and possessive.

2D didn’t move, didn’t breathe, no one did.

“Is that how you greet all your countrymen? Or just the ones you want to fuck?”

Murdoc’s grin cut wider, slow and sharp. “Tell me your name, songbird.”

2D crocked his head to the side, “everyone calls me 2D.”

Murdoc nearly scoffed, but didn’t. He was too focused, too caught in the curve of the boy’s lips, the deliberate carelessness in his voice.

“Well, 2D,” Murdoc said, voice dipping to something low and private, “would you like to have a private conversation with me?”

2D took his time. He looked Murdoc up and down—not hurried, not shy, just… thoughtful. Then he glanced around the room and leaned in slightly, close enough to make Murdoc’s breath hitch just once.

“Sure,” he said softly, stepping off the vanity with a fluid grace that made the hem of his velvet dress swish dramatically behind him. “Lead the way, Daddy.”

Murdoc nearly choked, but covered it with a low, appreciative chuckle that sounded far too much like a growl.

He gestured with a tilt of his cane and walked toward the hallway without checking if 2D followed.

Of course he did.

The band stood in stunned silence as the pair disappeared down the hall—one in a perfectly tailored suit, the other in black velvet. The absurd bouquet still sat on the chair like a witness.

From the far corner, the saxophonist finally exhaled. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “He’s gonna own this city by the end of the month.”

The alley behind the club was narrow and wet, half-lit by a flickering wall sconce and the dull red glow of Murdoc’s cigar. Somewhere nearby, jazz spilled faintly out of an open window, warped by distance and bad acoustics.

Murdoc leaned against the brick wall, cane in one hand, cigar in the other. His jacket was open now, collar loosened, letting the sticky New Orleans air soak through his shirt. He looked like a man who was always either seconds away from violence or seduction—possibly both.

2D stood across from him, back against the opposite wall, arms folded lightly. He didn’t seem nervous. If anything, he looked amused. Like he’d seen this play out before, just never with this kind of budget.

Murdoc broke the silence first.

“You’ve got a hell of a voice,” he said, tone even but eyes sharp. “Doesn’t belong in a pisshole like this.”

2D shrugged one narrow shoulder. “It’s rent. Food. Gin. Better than busking.”

“I could do better.”

2D raised an eyebrow. “That right?”

Murdoc took a slow drag from his cigar, then nodded toward him with the tip of it. “The Devil’s Piano. That’s my club. Downtown. Real stage. Real band. Wardrobe. Private dressing room. Minibar. Flowers every night, if you like that kind of thing.”

“I like chocolate more.”

“Done.”

2D smirked, then glanced toward the door they’d just come through.

“I live here, y’know,” he said. “Upstairs. Shitty room. Barely any hot water. But it’s part of the deal. I sing, I stay. I’m under contract.”

Murdoc’s lip curled.

“That piece of paper’s not worth the ink it’s written with. You think I care about some backroom clause scribbled out by a coward selling bathtub gin?”

2D cocked his head. “What would you do? Burn it?”

Murdoc didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him— really looked at him.

“No,” he said eventually, voice low. “I’d buy the damn club just to burn that paper. And then I’d bulldoze the building. And maybe throw your old boss in the river for wasting your time.”

2D’s mouth twitched—half amused, half surprised.

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Murdoc smiled, teeth sharp behind the smoke. “So’s your lipstick.”

That made 2D laugh, a soft, breathy thing that curled through the air like perfume.

“I want you at The Devil’s Piano,” Murdoc said, finally serious. “I want your name on the marquee. And I want you singing  for me. Not these half-dead drunks who can’t tell talent from tits.”

2D was quiet for a moment, weighing something behind his dark lashes.

Then he stepped a little closer.

“You got a flat, too?” he asked lightly. “With silk sheets and clawfoot tubs and curtains that aren’t made from tablecloths?”

Murdoc chuckled.

“I can get one.”

2D’s smile widened—slow, lazy, dangerous. Then, with a dramatic flutter of lashes and a little gasp, his face twisted into mock worry.

“But… I can’t just leave,” he said, eyes suddenly wide and innocent. “What about—”

Murdoc fell for it instantly.

“I’ll handle it,” he cut in, voice firm, twirling his cigar in his fingers like he was mentally making a to-do list of bodies to intimidate or bury. “You go upstairs and pack your bags. I’ll put you in a hotel tonight, and get you a flat in the morning.”

2D looked at him, letting the silence hang for just a second too long—just enough to savor the control he had. Then he gave a soft, helpless little nod, almost bashful.

“You’re very generous,” he said sweetly, like it hadn’t all been theater.

Murdoc just grunted, flicked ash into the alley gutter, and started toward the street, already barking orders over his shoulder to a man that wasn’t there yet.

2D watched him go.

Waited until the heavy door swung shut behind him.

Then he let the smile crack wide across his face.

Like a man who’d just realized he was going to get everything he wanted—and didn’t even have to ask.

The office smelled like sweat, ink, and the sticky bottom of an empty liquor bottle. Paperwork was scattered across a desk held together by hope and coffee stains. A fan on the filing cabinet whirred uselessly, stirring the heat just enough to piss someone off.

Murdoc sat on the edge of the desk like he owned it, his cane resting across his knees. He hadn’t said a word since he entered, hadn’t had to. The club owner—Ray or Roy or something equally forgettable—had been sweating through his collar the whole time.

Murdoc reached into his coat, pulled out his flask, and took a slow drink.

Roy or Ray tried to speak first.

“Look, Mr. Niccals, I don’t know much about that little blue-haired slut, what he did—”

The air in the room stopped .

Murdoc turned his head. Just barely.

And in that razor-thin moment of silence, the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

“Don’t you dare talk about him that way,” Murdoc said, voice low and perfectly calm. Too calm.

The kind of calm that got people buried under buildings.

Roy or Ray swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did. And now I’m pissed.”

Silence enveloped the room, you could practically hear the sweat droplets falling down the owner’s brow.

“I’m taking him,” Murdoc said. “Tonight.”

“A–Alright,” the owner stammered quickly. “Y-you can take him.”

Murdoc stepped closer, his shadow stretching long over the man's feet.

“And I want this place gone ,” he added, voice dropping to something colder than before. “By next Friday. I don’t care if it’s rubble or ash, but I want it off my map.”

“Mr. Niccals—listen— please, ” the man begged, voice high with panic now. “It’s not just business—this club, it’s all I’ve got. I didn’t know he was—he was yours. I wouldn’t have touched him if I’d known—”

Murdoc grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and slammed him hard against the filing cabinet, rattling every drawer.

“You’re damn right you wouldn’t have.”

The man gasped, wheezing through his teeth.

“You think you can trap someone like him in a pisshole like this and then cry about your losses?” Murdoc leaned in close, his voice low and lethal. “That boy sings like sin wrapped in silk, and you had him sharing a wall with rats.”

“I—I can fix it,” the man choked.

“You’re not fixing anything. You’re done. You breathe near him again and I’ll feed you to the river inch by inch.”

Murdoc released him with a shove that sent him crashing to the floor.

He adjusted his cufflinks. Straightened his jacket.

Then looked down, not even a trace of empathy in his eyes.

“Don’t rebuild,” he said. “Don’t relocate. Just disappear. ”

He turned on his heel, and as his cane tapped once against the floor, two of his men stepped in from the hall.

“Boys,” Murdoc said, not even looking back, “make sure he understands how final this is.”

Chapter Text

The French Quarter breathed differently in the morning. Slow and swamp-heavy, thick with the scent of stale beer, magnolia blossoms, and sun-warmed rot. The streetcars had barely started clattering and the gutters still steamed from last night’s storm.

Murdoc Niccals stood in the middle of an empty third-floor flat, sharp silhouette framed by the open French doors. The flat overlooked a narrow street, one of those that always felt dim no matter how bright the sun burned.

The place had bones. A good corner. A private entrance. Old wood floors that creaked with just the right amount of drama. Two bedrooms, and a deep cast-iron soaking tub in the back bath, not clawfoot, but long and heavy and lined in white enamel.

He didn’t smile, didn’t say a word. Just took a long drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl around the words forming in his mind.

This would be the nest.

He turned toward the doorway. “Get the boys.”

Footsteps echoed down the stairs. A pair of his men—no names, no chatter, just loyalty in pressed slacks—appeared in the hall, already awaiting orders.

Murdoc’s voice was smooth and absolute.

“I want everything done before sundown. Paint. Curtains. Silk. Get it livable. Get it pretty. ”

A pause.

“No, I mean bloody beautiful. ”

What followed was a whirlwind.

The cracked white walls were painted deep maroon by noon. The windows were dressed in thick velvet, blackout-lined and gold-tasseled. The furniture came in piece by piece—white lacquer, gold accents, curves like opera sets.

A new circle mattress was carried up by four men, wrapped in plastic and the scent of expense. Egyptian silk sheets. Goose down pillows. Velvet throw blankets in jewel tones.

In the main room, a custom-built vanity with a lit mirror was assembled under the front window. It shimmered in the late afternoon light, surrounded by delicate crystal bottles of perfume and powder, imported from places 2D wouldn’t even know how to pronounce. Silk robes hung waiting in a carved armoire. Every drawer was filled—lace gloves, thigh-high stockings, hairpins, cosmetics in mirrored boxes lined with red velvet.

In the corner, a sleek gold minibar was stocked with everything Murdoc thought 2D might like. Imported liqueurs, sugared syrups, cherry preserves in tiny glass jars. There were tins of tea, little glass bottles of absinthe, and a stack of hand-rolled cigarettes.

And the flowers.

A forest of flowers.

A centerpiece the size of a child’s coffin was placed on the marble-top dining table: lilies, peonies, roses, and plumes of peacock feathers that curled toward the chandelier. The scent filled the whole flat—heavy, narcotic, impossible to ignore.

A note lay propped against the vase, scribbled in Murdoc’s messy, rushed scrawl:

Welcome home, songbird.
—M.N

Next to it: a gold-trimmed box of chocolates from some French bakery none of his men could pronounce. 

Murdoc took one last look around as the sun started to dip. He lit another cigarette.

It was done.

No one else would touch this place. No one else would have a key. This flat was off the map. Off the books. It belonged to him , and by extension, it belonged to 2D.

Then, the door clicked open with a thick, metallic sound.

2D stepped over the threshold in a pale blue day dress—thin cotton, belted at the waist, hem brushing just below the knee. The kind of thing a girl might wear to a garden party. Modest, but worn like a dare. A wide-brimmed straw hat shaded his eyes from the afternoon sun, and in one hand he held a single small carpet bag, faded paisley with fraying edges.

That was it.

He stood in the center of the flat, turning slowly in place as he took it in. Velvet curtains. Gold light. The scent of flowers thick in the air. A chandelier caught the afternoon sun and scattered it in fractured pieces across the floor.

His eyes landed on the bouquet. Then the chocolates. Then the vanity. Then the silk robe hanging on the back of a chair like it had been waiting for him.

He let out a quiet gasp.

Murdoc stepped out from the hallway where he’d been lurking in the shadows, dressed his best. Better than usual. 

2D wasn’t startled by his appearance, in fact, he’d been expecting it. So, he simply turned, smiled, and said, “is this all for little old me?”

Murdoc grinned a wicked thing, before gestured towards 2D’s bag with the tip of his cane, “that all?”

2D blinked at him, then looked down at the carpet bag as if he’d forgotten it was there.

“Oh. Yeah. It’s got my makeup. Shoes. Show dress. Picture of my mum. Not much else.” He shrugged. “Didn’t exactly come to America with trunks.”

“Show dress?” Murdoc raised a brow.

“The dress I wear for shows?” 

“All you’ve got is one bloody dress for shows?”

2D huffed, “It’s nice . If feels like velvet.”

Murdoc scoffed, “yeah, feels like velvet.”

2D narrowed his eyes slightly, tilting his chin like a challenge. “It’s black. It sparkles in the light. I look good in it.”

Murdoc took a slow drag from his cigarette, then exhaled hard through his nose. His jaw shifted once, side to side. “You’ve got a wardrobe here now,” he said finally, nodding toward the armoire near the vanity. “Silk. Sequins. Real velvet. Gloves for every bloody mood. You’re not getting back on any stage in that threadbare rag.”

2D blinked at him. Then grinned.

“Give me a tour?” 2D asked, offering his hand.

Murdoc grunted, and then struck his cane against the ground, “course, anything for my songbird.”

Murdoc lifted the rusted latch on a steel side door marked “Employees Only” and led 2D down a narrow hallway that smelled like brine and sawdust. The floor sloped just a bit underfoot, uneven from years of foot traffic and spilled pickle juice.

“Is this… a warehouse?” 2D asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Used to be,” Murdoc muttered. “Still is, on the books. Keeps the cops comfortable.”

They passed barrels stacked to the ceiling. Barrels of pickles, some jars—Murdoc knocked one over just to watch it roll. Two of his goons nodded silently from their post at the end of the hall.

Then he stopped at a thick, scarred wooden door. Reached for the switch tucked behind a support beam.

A small click .

A motor hummed. The wall to the left of the door shuddered once—then began to slide open.

A hidden freight elevator waited behind the wall, already open. Murdoc stepped in without looking back.

“Coming?”

2D joined in after him, readjusting his sun hat.

The door shut as Murdoc glanced at 2D from the corner of his eyes, his cane situated firmly in front of him.

“You didn’t change.” Murdoc said.

2D adjusted his grip on his carpet bag, which held his old makeup. “Lost the hat–but I’m just, Overwhelmed, I s’pose.”

Murdoc huffed, “S’fine. There’s more dresses in your dressing room.”

2D’s eyes all but lit up, “my dressing room?”

Murdoc placed a hand to his chest in mock offense, “who do you take me for?”

“No one’s ever given me my own dressing room before.”

“Well,” Murdoc muttered, “you’ve never had a proper stage, either.”

The elevator bumped to a stop with a soft clunk . The doors slid open, and the sound of soft piano chords drifted in from the main floor.

Murdoc stepped out first, but paused just outside the door. Turned halfway toward 2D.

“Stay close. You’ll get lost in this place if you don’t know where to look.”

2D stepped out beside him, carpet bag still in hand, his fingers brushing Murdoc’s sleeve as they walked.

“ You tell that limp bastard he can’t just throw me out like a stray dog! ”

Moonflower—New Orleans’ answer to Marlene Dietrich if Dietrich chain-smoked clove cigarettes and stabbed exes with her heels—was in full fury. Makeup half-done, a sequined robe tied tight over her corset, her black bob unmoving even with every sharp word. 

But the goons weren’t flinching. Not even a little. One was already carrying out her trunk of dresses; the other had started stripping her powder jars and perfume bottles off the vanity.

“This is my room!” she barked, snatching her gold compact out of one of their hands. “I’ve been here for years!”

One of them grunted without looking up. “Orders changed.”

She slapped a jar of rouge onto the counter so hard the lid popped off. “Orders changed. Orders changed—what the hell does that even mean? Who even is this new girl?!”

The goon by the wardrobe paused. Looked at her.

“Not a girl.”

Moonflower blinked. “What?”

“He’s Murdoc’s now.”

There was a heavy pause.

She stared at them. And then, slowly, the fury in her face was replaced by something else—something meaner. Not fear, not jealousy,  but Calculation.

“Oh,” she said, suddenly soft. “He is , is he.”

No one responded.

Another goon swept in with new gowns wrapped in plastic and fresh silk robes embroidered with gold thread. They hung them up in the armoire without a word. Moonflower didn’t recognize the labels—but they were expensive.

By the time her trunk was rolled down the hallway, her nameplate was already being scraped off the door.

Inside, two more were hanging new lace curtains and restocking the liquor cart. A crystal ashtray was set next to the vanity, along with a note in Murdoc’s handwriting.

A single fresh white rose sat in a cut glass vase by the mirror.

Moonflower stood in the hallway, watching.

Her jaw ticked.

And then she smiled, slow and poisonous.

“I give it a month,” she muttered, lighting another cigarette. “No one ever stays his favorite for long.”

The back corridors of The Devil’s Piano didn’t creak like the ones in the warehouse. These halls were lined in deep plum wallpaper, soft to the touch, and lit by low golden sconces that gave everything a dusky haze.

2D’s fingers brushed along the wall as he walked, trailing over velvet and cool brass fixtures. It felt like being inside a jewelry box.

Murdoc led the way, his cane tapping rhythmically against the polished floorboards. His voice was quiet, but certain.

“Dressing rooms are down this way. Yours is at the end—used to be Moonflower’s.”

“Moonflower?” 2D echoed.

“Don’t worry about her,” Murdoc said without missing a step. “She’s... transitional.”

2D smirked.

They passed a smaller hallway off to the right, just a slit of darkness between the wallpapered walls.

Murdoc paused there.

“Office is back here.”

He pushed open a tall, carved door with a lion’s head handle and gestured for 2D to follow.

Inside, it was all dark wood, green glass, and smoke. A massive desk dominated the room, mahogany and claw-footed, with a revolver carelessly tucked under a half-folded newspaper.

There were no windows—just a single emerald green banker’s lamp.

Murdoc stepped around the desk and leaned on the edge, tapping ash into a cut-glass tray.

2D stepped in slowly, tilting his head. “Is this where you decide which clubs live and die?”

Murdoc grinned. “Among other things.”

2D drifted toward the desk, setting his small carpet bag down with an audible thump . It looked ridiculous in the room—like a mouse in a lion’s den.

His eyes fell to the revolver, and Murdoc followed his gaze.

“Insurance.”

“I like the smell in here,” 2D murmured, brushing a hand over the desk. “Like gunpowder and cologne.”

“It’s mine,” Murdoc said simply.

2D looked up at him.“I know.”

They stared at each other a second too long. Then Murdoc exhaled and pushed off the desk.

“Come on. Let’s see your room.” Murdoc said, offering his arm.

2D hesitated just a breath before slipping his hand into the crook of Murdoc’s elbow. His touch was light, almost teasing. Murdoc’s cane clicked as they stepped out of the office and into the warm shadowed glow of the club proper.

The Devil’s Piano was mostly empty at this hour — just a few bartenders prepping behind the lacquered bar, a couple of goons pretending not to stare, and the slow, deliberate hum of someone tuning the baby grand on stage. The chandelier above flickered like a sun trying not to set.

They strolled through it like kings. Or gods.

2D’s eyes flicked upward to the stage, around the velvet-draped tables, to the gilded sconces that dotted the walls like constellations.

“You built all this?” he asked, half under his breath.

Murdoc gave a single nod, chin lifted.

“Piece by piece.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Murdoc didn’t answer, but his jaw shifted again — the compliment landing somewhere deeper than he liked to admit.

They passed through the floor, past the curtain, into the hallway where the dressing rooms waited in a row like private little kingdoms. The closer they got, the stronger the scent of new flowers and silk powder filled the air.

“End of the line,” Murdoc muttered, gesturing with the tip of his cane. “Yours is at the end.”

2D squeezed his arm once more before letting go. “You spoil me.”

Murdoc just smirked. “Not yet.”

Then he reached for the door, and opened it.

2D stepped inside, slow at first — cautious, reverent, like he might break something just by breathing too hard.

Warm light bathed the room in a soft glow. The vanity mirror, lit with amber bulbs, cast golden halos against the walls, already dotted with faint smudges of perfume and powdered air. The fainting couch in the corner — red velvet with carved walnut legs — looked like something out of a painting. A wardrobe stood open against one wall, gowns and robes swaying slightly as if they’d just taken a breath.

2D turned in a slow circle, hands lightly out as if to catch himself from falling into a dream.

Then came the whistle.

Murdoc, still in the doorway, let out a sharp, low note.

Footsteps followed — heavy and fast. One of his goons appeared moments later, shouldering through the threshold carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses, white orchids, and tall, obscene plumes of peacock feathers. A second followed with a gold-foiled box of chocolates, tucked under one arm like contraband.

The first bouquet was set on the vanity. The second box laid beside it with a soft, deliberate thud.

2D blinked at the size of it all. It looked more like an altar with offerings to a goddess than a vanity.

2D’s mouth was agape, “this really all mine?”

“Course.” Murdoc grinned his wolfish grin.

“ Murdoc! ”

The voice cut through the hallway like a blade. Sharp. Controlled. Practiced.

Both men turned.

There in the doorway stood Moonflower, framed like a storm in the golden light. Robe still cinched tight, heels unforgiving against the wood. A cigarette burned between her painted fingers, already trailing smoke in slow, furious curls.

She looked at 2D. Then at the bouquet. Then at the nameplate on the door.

Back to Murdoc.

“What the fuck is this?”

Murdoc didn’t flinch. He didn’t even pretend to soften.

“You’ve been moved.”

“I noticed,” she hissed. “To a closet with no working lights and a crack in the mirror.”

Murdoc shrugged. “Should’ve had better timing.”

Moonflower’s eyes cut to 2D. “This the new bird?”

2D lifted his brows, caught between politeness and survival instinct. “‘Ello.”

Moonflower raised an eyebrow, but stopped herself from pointing out the missing teeth. She knew better.

She turned back to Murdoc. “He’s cute. But he better be brilliant.”

Murdoc’s eyes never left hers. “He is.”

Moonflower took a slow drag of her cigarette, exhaling like a dare. “You always get bored, Murdoc. Always.”

A beat passed.

She took another step forward, tapping ash into the edge of the doorframe. Her voice dipped.

“But you won’t find another me.”

Murdoc smiled like he’d already won the argument. “Didn’t need to. Found something better.”

Moonflower didn’t answer. Just held Murdoc’s stare for a moment longer, then flicked her ash to the floor with calculated grace. She turned on her heel and walked away without another word, smoke trailing behind her like a cape.

The silence she left behind was thick, velvet-heavy.

2D looked up at Murdoc. “Friend of yours?”

Murdoc scoffed. “Not anymore.” Murdoc tapped his cane pointedly upon the ground,“get changed and ready,” he said, turning halfway toward the door. “You’re the opener tonight.”

2D blinked. “I am?”

“’Course you are.”

Murdoc turned back toward him, and for a moment, the grin he wore was something darker. Not unkind — just hungry.

“Place has been dead all week. I want them stunned. Dazzled. Begging.”

2D stepped toward the vanity, brushing his fingers over the embroidered silk robe that hung from a velvet hanger. “What do you want me to sing?”

Murdoc shrugged. “Anything you want, songbird.”

Then he stepped toward the door, pulling it halfway closed behind him.

“Just make sure they remember who you belong to.”

The door clicked softly shut, leaving 2D alone in the golden light — his name on the door, his gowns in the wardrobe, and a thousand eyes waiting beyond the curtain.

He turned back to the vanity, picked up the card tucked in the flowers once more, and smiled to himself.

The Devil’s Piano didn’t breathe — it purred .

Smoke coiled from long-stemmed cigarettes. Crystal glasses clinked softly. Waitresses in backless satin swirled through the tables with feline ease. The house band, tucked in the corner under a velvet arch, played a low, smoldering vamp, just enough to keep hearts beating.

And center front, at the table nearest the stage, sat Murdoc Niccals.

He looked like sin dressed for Sunday. Sharp suit, darker tie, cane resting beside him like a scepter. One arm slung lazily over the back of his chair. A half-finished scotch sweating on the table in front of him. The glow of the chandeliers overhead caught the sharp edge of his jaw, the glint of his gold cufflinks, and the tension in his jaw he wasn’t bothering to hide.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off the stage.

Around him, the air buzzed with conversation — low and reverent. The club had heard whispers. A new act. A new muse. Some said Murdoc had found him in a back-alley speakeasy. Others claimed he’d brought him in from Europe, draped in jewels and debts. No one knew for sure.

But everyone knew Murdoc didn’t sit at the front table unless something important was about to happen.

He lit a cigar, the flare of the match reflecting briefly in his eyes.

The red curtains trembled slightly as someone moved behind them.

Murdoc leaned forward just enough to rest his elbows on the table, cigar between two fingers, smoke curling like a question above his head.

And then—The house lights dimmed, the chatter died. The stage lights came up — warm, golden, slow. The curtain parted.

And there he was.

2D stood center stage, unmoving for the first few seconds, letting the crowd see him — really see him — before he even took a breath.

He was dressed in deep midnight blue, a gown that shimmered like oil slick under the lights. The fabric hugged his narrow frame, sheer in places, opaque in others — teasing lines of skin and shadow that dipped below the collarbone and swept into a plunging back. The hem kissed the stage floor. Every movement promised more.

Long gloves, black velvet, clung to his arms to just above the elbow. On his wrist, a single rhinestone bracelet flashed whenever he lifted his hand. His signature cigarette holder dangled lightly from his fingers — unlit, purely theatrical, but no less dangerous.

His makeup was surgical.

Eyes rimmed in coal, lashes long and spidery, fanned out like fallen stars. His cheeks were hollowed slightly with powder, emphasizing the elegance of his cheekbones. A slash of blood-red lipstick crowned his mouth.

His blue hair had been freshly styled, sculpted close to the sides and waved dramatically at the front, like some tragic film star from another life.

He stepped forward.

A hush rippled across the audience like smoke over glass.

Murdoc didn’t blink.

Not when the crowd leaned in. Not when someone two tables over whispered, “Is that him?” Not even when 2D turned his head and looked straight at him .

And smiled.

2D motioned with his cigarette holder, and the band began to play.

“ Whatever Lola wants

Lola gets

And little man little Lola wants you”

He stepped forward on the stage, hips moving slow beneath the velvet weight of his gown. He didn’t need to dance — every step was choreographed seduction. Every glance was sharp as a knife hidden in silk.

A few gasps rose from the tables. Someone let out a laugh — nervous, delighted, aroused. But no one dared speak over him.

2D’s eyes flitted across the room like a predator choosing which heart to stop first. Until they landed back where they always would: on Murdoc.

He smiled — that same lazy, wicked grin he’d used in the alley, the one that somehow felt like both an invitation and a dare.

“Make up your mind to have…
No regrets…
Recline yourself, resign yourself, you’re through…”

He pointed the cigarette holder directly at Murdoc this time, drawing the line clean and clear between stage and table. Between temptation and territory.

“I always get

What I aim for

And your heart and soul is what I came for”

Murdoc adjusted himself in his seat — subtle, but telling. One shift of his hips. One flicker in his jaw. A pulse visible in his temple. No one else might have noticed.

But 2D did.

He smiled again — slow and sinful — and tipped his chin forward like a cat about to pounce.

“Whatever Lola wants…” he sang, stepping forward, one gloved hand trailing the microphone stand.
“Lola gets…”

Someone in the back actually gasped.

2D’s gaze never left Murdoc. He sang right through him — through the suit, the tie, the arrogance. Like he was stripping him with every note.

“You’re no exception to the rule,”
He purred, circling the mic.
“I’m irresistible, you fool…”

His voice dropped to a whisper, almost too soft to hear over the throb of the upright bass.

“Give in…”

The final chord hung in the air like a secret.

And then — silence. No one clapped. Not yet.

They were too stunned. Too tangled in it.

It took a full breath before the room erupted — thunderous , almost manic applause. People stood, some called his name, others just stared, dumbfounded, unsure what exactly had just happened but knowing they’d never forget it.

Murdoc didn’t move.

He just sat there, one hand curled loosely around the base of his glass, the other pressed flat against his thigh — jaw tight, chest rising.

He didn’t smile. But he didn’t blink, either.

The cheers were still echoing faintly when the door to 2D’s dressing room shut behind him. He leaned against it, breathing hard, heart still pounding from the rush of it all — the lights, the song, Murdoc.

He wasn’t alone long.

No knock, just the creak of the door opening again. Murdoc stepped inside without waiting for permission, closing it behind him with a soft click.

Neither spoke. Not right away.

Murdoc just stood there, watching him — that same unreadable heat in his eyes. The faint scent of cigar smoke still clung to his coat. He was leaning on his cane, heavily.

“You liked the song?” 2D asked, voice rough with leftover adrenaline, a little smug.

Murdoc huffed. “Liked?”

He stepped forward once. Twice.

“You nearly stopped my heart, songbird.”

2D smiled at that — wide, bright, too dangerous for how soft he looked under the vanity lights. His lipstick was still perfect. His gloves still on. He looked expensive. Untouchable.

But then — he crossed the space between them.

No hesitation. No teasing.

He reached up, fingertips ghosting along the lapel of Murdoc’s coat, then settled on the back of his neck.

And 2D kissed him.

Not rough. Not rushed. But deliberate — a slow drag of lips, stained red and warm, tilting Murdoc’s whole world off its axis.

Murdoc froze, just for a second. Then gave in.

His hand came up to 2D’s waist, firm and possessive, as if he was anchoring himself to something real. Something dangerous.

When they finally parted, breath mingling in the low light, 2D licked his bottom lip.

“Couldn’t wait for to do it,” he whispered.

Murdoc just stared at him for a long moment. Then: “Don’t stop now.”

2D was about to answer — maybe with a laugh, maybe with another kiss — when there was a sharp knock at the dressing room door.

Murdoc didn’t move.

The knock came again — louder this time.

A muffled voice from the other side: “Boss? You need to come now. There’s a problem on the floor.”

Murdoc clenched his jaw. Hard.

“ What kind of problem? ” he barked.

“Rowdy out-of-towners. They’re trying to throw around names, said they don’t pay house rates.”

Murdoc closed his eyes, just for a moment — like he was counting to ten to stop himself from murdering someone before dessert.

2D pulled back half a step, smoothing his thumb under Murdoc’s lip, catching a smudge of his own lipstick there.

“I’ll still be here,” he said softly, a little breathless but calm.

Murdoc opened his eyes, looked at him like he didn’t quite trust that. Like part of him expected 2D to disappear the moment he turned his back.

“Damn right you will,” he muttered.

He stepped back, adjusted his collar, and tapped his cane against the ground. The transformation was instant — softness gone, mask in place. The club’s proprietor again. Dangerous again.

2D smiled to himself. 

At the door, Murdoc paused.

“Don’t take that dress off.”

2D smiled, wicked and serene. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And then Murdoc was gone, door swinging shut behind him, already shouting orders before he’d fully hit the hallway.

The applause was gone now, swallowed up by the smoke and hum of the back hallway. The glow of the vanity still warmed 2D’s face, but the energy in the room had shifted. Not bad. Just... quieter. Charged in a different way.

He was reapplying his lipstick — carefully, artfully — when the knock came. It was softer this time. No goons. No Murdoc.

When he opened the door, Moonflower stood there, arms crossed, and just behind her, Paula — cigarette between her lips, eyebrows already raised.

“Ladies,” 2D said, mock-flattered. “Here to congratulate me?”

Moonflower didn’t smile. “We’re here to talk.”

2D stepped aside, a little curious, a little tired, but still riding the high.

They didn’t sit.

“You did good,” Paula said, taking a drag. “Real good.”

“Too good,” Moonflower added.

2D arched a brow. “Should I be apologizing?”

Paula gave a short laugh. “No, sugar. Just... listening.”

Moonflower stepped forward, voice low. “You’ve got all this before one number. You think that means you’ve made it?”

“I think it means he likes me,” 2D said, tone still casual, but his fingers tightened slightly on the vanity edge.

“He likes lots of things,” Moonflower replied, gaze sharp. “And he’s only loyal to himself. ”

“We  don’t know exactly what he’s promised you,” Paula added. “But then again, we do. Because we’ve all heard it before.”

Moonflower’s tone dropped. “Be careful, bluebird. You shine too bright, you start to look like a target.”

2D looked between them — lipstick perfect, silk robe brushing his ankles. Still glittering from the stage.

He gave them a lazy, practiced smile.

“I think I can handle myself.”

Paula exhaled smoke, slow.

Moonflower shook her head once, muttered, “So did I.”

Then they were gone — heels clicking down the hall.

Chapter Text

Time didn’t pass the same way inside The Devil’s Piano .

There were no clocks. No windows. Just the rhythm of the band and the rise and fall of 2D’s voice.

 He’d been there a while. Long enough for his robe to hang on the right hook without thinking. Long enough for the band to follow his lead without looking. Long enough to forget what the sky looked like at midnight.

His dressing room no longer felt new — but lived in. The flowers were refreshed daily. New dresses came in boxes wrapped in ribbon. He had a full wardrobe now: velvet, sequins, silk in every shade of vice and sin.

And he sang . Every night. Always last minute, always something he picked, never the same thing twice.

He sang for men in furs and women in pearls. For card sharks, city councilmen, and jazz musicians who swore they'd seen the devil once, and that he looked suspiciously like the man in the front row with the cane.

Cane propped beside him. Cigar smoldering in his fingers. Expression locked in that unreadable place between reverence and possession. He never applauded — not like the others. He just watched , like the performance was for him and him alone. Like the rest of the room didn’t exist.

And 2D… he savored it.

Sang just a little slower when Murdoc leaned forward. Swayed his hips more when Murdoc clenched his jaw. Took longer lighting his cigarette if Murdoc’s gaze lingered.

They hadn’t had sex yet.

But 2D was waiting for it. Hungrily.

Not just with the flirtations on stage or the lingering glances behind the curtains. Not just in the way he let Murdoc kiss his knuckles after every show or drape a new fur around his shoulders “because he was cold.”

No — it was in how he looked at him.

How he watched Murdoc’s mouth while he talked.

How his breath hitched slightly every time Murdoc reached for him — never rushed, always deliberate — a hand on the small of his back, or his jaw, or just brushing his shoulder as they passed too close in a hallway that wasn’t wide enough.

It was everywhere between them now. Written in the space between their fingertips. In the crackling tension during late nights in Murdoc’s office, after everyone else had gone, when the music was gone and all that was left was smoke and liquor.

They talked. They drank.

Sometimes 2D would sit on the edge of Murdoc’s desk, legs crossed, silk clinging to his thighs, voice soft and teasing.

And Murdoc would just look at him — hands on his knees, teeth dragging over his lower lip like he was holding something back. Like he was starving.

And 2D would smile, because he was starving too.

The Devil’s Piano was quiet now — the kind of quiet that still hummed in the walls. Somewhere, far off, a bottle clinked. A chair scraped. But the band had gone, the crowd had vanished, and only the residue of perfume and cigar smoke remained.

2D leaned against the edge of Murdoc’s desk, legs crossed at the knee, dress hitched slightly above his thigh. He’d left his gloves on, just for the drama of it — one hand propped under his chin, cigarette holder balanced between his fingers like he’d been born with it.

Murdoc sat in his chair, one hand curled loosely around a half-finished drink, the other resting on his cane, which leaned against his thigh.

They weren’t saying much.

They rarely needed to.

2D exhaled a slow stream of smoke, eyes half-lidded. “Quiet, now.”

Murdoc grunted. “It’s early.”

“Mm.” 2D’s lips curled. “You like early.”

“I like you ,” Murdoc said before he could stop himself.

2D’s eyebrows rose faintly. He uncrossed and recrossed his legs with deliberate slowness.

“Bit bold, Mr. Niccals.”

Murdoc tilted his glass. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been looking at me all this time?”

2D leaned forward, just a little — not enough to close the distance, but enough to let his voice drop to a whisper.

“I haven’t been subtle.”

“No,” Murdoc muttered. “You bloody haven’t.”

The silence between them thickened. The heat of it pressed like hands around both their throats.

2D reached out and took Murdoc’s glass, brought it to his lips, and drank from it. Slowly. Deliberately.

Then placed it back down on the desk.

Murdoc watched every inch of him like a man watching something sacred fall out of heaven.

And still — he didn’t move.

Didn’t kiss him, didn’t touch him, not yet.

Because wanting was almost better than having–and 2D knew it.

He leaned forward — a breath away from Murdoc’s mouth.

And then stood. “Nighty night, Daddy,” he purred, already walking toward the door, hips swinging slow beneath the shimmer of his gown.

Murdoc stayed perfectly still, hand tight on his cane.

Eyes burning, mouth empty– wanting.

It was a new day, a Friday, one of the busiest nights at The Devil’s Piano.

Backstage was chaos in velvet and feathers.

Heels clacked over warped wood. Lipstick-stained glasses littered every flat surface. The air smelled like hairspray and spilled gin, and somewhere offstage someone was rehearsing a trombone scale that could wake the dead.

2D was perched on the arm of a velvet chaise, one stockinged leg crossed over the other, still in his performance gown. A cigarette holder dangled loosely between two fingers, unlit but held like a scepter.

Moonflower stood at a vanity, dabbing her eyes with a powder puff that no longer held powder. Her dress had been silver once, now dulled by sweat and stage lights.

Paula had one heel off, foot up on the edge of a dressing table, grumbling as she rubbed her ankle. “I swear, if I have to do the Charleston one more bloody time I’m gonna lose a toe.”

2D grinned. “Lose the toe, gain the drama.”

“You’re the drama,” Moonflower said, smirking at him in the mirror.

He winked back. “And proud.”

Paula narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re awful chipper for someone who just left Murdoc’s office flushed and sweaty.”

Moonflower’s head snapped around. ”You did?”

2D tilted his chin, feigning innocence. “We talked. That’s all.”

“That’s never all with Murdoc,” Paula said darkly.

“Oh, it was tonight.” 2D leaned back, voice syrupy. “He just stared at me like he was dying of thirst.”

“Probably is,” Moonflower muttered. “That man’s wound tighter than my corset.”

“I like his cane,” 2D said, dreamy, blowing an invisible puff of smoke. “Makes him look like he owns the world. Or at least something deliciously illegal.”

Paula groaned. “He does own the world, sweetheart. And he’s never lost anything he wanted.”

Moonflower added, quieter, “Just be careful he doesn’t decide you’re his favorite toy. He plays rough.”

2D gave a sharp little laugh and stood up, smoothing the front of his gown. “Well. Good thing I like games.”

The lights outside flickered — warning them another act was about to start.

Moonflower reapplied her lipstick. Paula slid her heel back on.

2D blew them both a kiss.

The curtains swept closed behind him.

Applause thundered through the club like a train. Whistles, stomping, shouts — the kind of ovation that made chandeliers shiver and waitstaff freeze mid-step just to watch him disappear behind the velvet.

2D didn’t stop walking. Didn’t turn back to bow again. He knew what that kind of reaction meant. He didn’t need to chase it — it was already his.

He slipped offstage, heels clacking over the warped floorboards, sweat just beginning to gather at the nape of his neck. The rush still pulsed through his veins, thick and hot like the spotlight hadn’t quite let him go.

His hand reached for the wall as he caught his breath, chest rising and falling beneath the thin lilac silk of his gown. The hallway lights flickered as someone opened the door behind him, letting one last wave of applause spill through before it faded.

Out if the audience, Murdoc hadn’t moved. He was still in his seat, fingers locked around his glass, jaw set so tight it looked carved in stone.

But his pupils were blown wide.

His breathing, uneven.

And in his perfectly pressed slacks, his erection pressed with painful urgency — impossible to ignore. It had crept up on him mid-song, somewhere between 2D’s final whispered verse and the low, sin-slick smile he threw before disappearing behind the curtain.

Murdoc’s free hand twitched against the tabletop, curled briefly into a fist.

He couldn’t even be angry. He was just— Ravenous.

And too in aware of how many people had just seen his songbird like that.

How many were still cheering, how many wanted him. And how few of them knew that Murdoc Niccals was going to ruin him.

But not here–not yet.

He adjusted his tie with slow, calculated control, jaw ticking. Then reached for his cane and stood — careful, composed — even if every nerve in his body wanted to drag 2D straight off his dressing room vanity and finish what they hadn’t started.

The door slammed open without warning.

2D didn’t flinch.

He was seated at the vanity, one leg folded over the other, robe slipped casually off one shoulder. Deep silk red — the kind of thing that screamed expensive , the kind of silk that moved like water. His skin glowed under the lights, powdered just so, the shine pressed from his cheeks.

He had one hand on his compact, the other reaching for the lipstick.

Murdoc stormed in like he was late for a war.

“You won’t be needing that,” he growled.

2D froze — just long enough for effect.

Then grinned. That infamous, lazy, missing toothed grin.

“Well,” he drawled, “aren’t we impatient tonight?”

Murdoc’s cane thunked to the wall, forgotten. He didn’t speak right away — just crossed the room in three heavy steps, heat pouring off him in waves.

2D cocked his head, eyes glinting. “You like the robe?”

Murdoc’s voice was gravel. “I like what’s under it. ”

“Oh, so do I,” 2D purred, slow and teasing. “You had it shipped in it? Supposedly belonged to some opera singer’s mistress.”

Murdoc’s hand slammed down on the vanity beside him, making the powder tin rattle. 2D didn’t jump — just turned fully toward him on the stool, letting the robe slip further open at the collar.

“Say it,” Murdoc demanded.

2D blinked up at him. “Say what ?”

“You know bloody well what. That you’re mine.”

2D leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of Murdoc’s ear.

“Say please.”

Murdoc’s breath hitched.

Then his mouth was on 2D’s — hot, rough, claiming — and the compact hit the floor with a clatter, shattering it. 

2D pulled away just for a moment to gasp, “My compact–!”

“I’ll buy you another one–” Murdoc growled, “Hell. I’ll buy you a hundred more.”

Murdoc bit his lower lip, hard enough to make 2D gasp — then kissed him to swallow the sound.

There was no preamble anymore. No teasing. No holding back.

Hands in hair. Silk sliding over skin. The robe slipped off one shoulder, then the other, until it hung loosely from his elbows like the wrapper to something far too expensive to ever be left unattended. Murdoc tugged him closer, between his knees now, one hand flat on the small of 2D’s back, the other cupping his jaw.

“Mine,” he muttered between kisses, voice gone hoarse. “Say it.”

2D smirked — lips kiss-bruised already. “Yours.”

“Louder.”

He bit back a moan and whispered it again — this time into the corner of Murdoc’s mouth.
“Yours.”

Murdoc stood, ignoring the flare of pain in his leg, and walked 2D backwards toward the fainting couch — never breaking the kiss, never loosening his grip.

Silk hit the floor. The lights buzzed above them.

And somewhere beneath all the heat and noise and silk and hunger, 2D thought:

Finally.

2D’s bare back hit the fainting couch. He was breathless, lips parted, eyes dark with want.

Murdoc stood over him, gaze dragging down his body like it was something he owned –probaby because he did. Slowly, he sank to his knees—cane discarded behind him, pain in his leg ignored, replaced by something stronger, sharper.

“What do you want me to do?” 2D asked, eyes doe like.

Murdoc chuckled low in his throat, a dark sound like smoke curling from his lungs. He leaned in, hand trailing up 2D’s thigh, fingers splayed, possessive.

“Nothing,” he said, voice rough. “I’ll take care of you, my pretty little songbird.”

He kissed just beneath 2D’s navel—slow, reverent.

“You just lie back,” he murmured against his skin, “and let me worship you like you’re meant to be worshipped.”

2D shivered, the robe slipping fully open, baring him to the soft warmth of the dressing room lights. His head tilted back against the curve of the fainting couch, breath stuttering somewhere between a gasp and a moan. His thighs parted instinctively—hesitant, but already yielding.

2D turned his head, cheek flushed pink, lashes heavy. Embarrassed.

Which only made it sweeter.

Murdoc smiled — not kindly, not gently. But dark and full of fire. A grin that cut deep.

“Oh, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice scraping low. “And you don’t even know it.”

2D’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Murdoc leaned in, dragging his mouth along the inside of one thigh — slowly, purposefully — like a prayer or a promise. 2D’s breath hitched again, fingers curling into the cushion beneath him.

“You don’t need to hide from me, love,” Murdoc said, his voice a velvet rasp. “Not when I’m about to make you forget your own name.”

2D shuddered. His legs shifted — not to close off, but to offer. His chest rose and fell too fast to control, lips parted, lashes low. He looked down at Murdoc, eyes glazed with anticipation and disbelief, like he couldn’t quite fathom being wanted this thoroughly. This deliberately.

Murdoc didn’t rush. He kissed higher, softer. One hand slid up 2D’s thigh to steady him, the other smoothing up to his hip with reverent patience.

And then he breathed against him.

2D made a sound — broken, breathless — and Murdoc grinned . A flash of teeth, wild and proud, like he’d struck gold.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he said, and when 2D did — flushed, panting, trembling . Murdoc finally lowered his mouth to him fully

The rest of 2D’s world fell away. The booze, the songs, the robes, the dresses the perfume, the chocolates, the flowers, the makeup– all of it . 

His thighs trembled against Murdoc’s shoulders, breath shattering from him in fragments too soft to hold. Every nerve felt new. Like Murdoc had stripped him down past the skin and was learning him with every slow, reverent pass of his mouth.

He whimpered something—maybe a warning, maybe a plea—but Murdoc didn’t relent. Only hummed low against him, a deep, sinful sound that made 2D’s vision swim.

Stars. Real ones.

And then he shattered.

He cried out, hips stuttering, back arching off the fainting couch. The silk robe bunched beneath him, hands scrambling for something to hold that wasn’t slipping away.

Murdoc rode it through. Held him down with one hand, the other stroking gently along his stomach until he stilled—wrecked, shaking, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles through the rain.

Silence, except the soft hum of the vanity lights and 2D’s ragged breaths.

Murdoc finally looked up. His lips were red, his hair mussed from 2D’s hands, his expression dark with satisfaction.

He pressed one last kiss to 2D’s thigh before standing, slowly, painfully.

Then he took the silk cloth from the vanity, dipped it in cool water, and began to clean him with slow, deliberate care.

2D blinked up at the ceiling, dazed.

“…You gonna smoke a cigarette and say ‘was it good for you, darling?’” he murmured, voice hoarse.

Murdoc chuckled— genuine , and surprisingly soft.

“No. I’m gonna dress you in your softest robe. Put you in my lap. And hold you till you fall asleep.”

2D turned his head to look at him, still breathless, stunned.

“Whatever you say, Daddy.”