#suggestion of nsft behind the cut but it's nothing blatant

[tothedarkdarkseas]

Hi anon! Since I can’t add a read more to the ask itself I’m just copying your text below, and I’ll respond to it at the bottom!

Anonymous asked:

Hi. Your WIP inspired me.

2.

The second time, it was on accident. He wakes up to a pounding under his skull, body not feeling much better, and a foggy memory of last night's events.

Shockingly, that isn't new. Not even a surprise.

The bed he's in (he's actually in a bed, that's one point) is soft at least, (unlike his bed at home, another point) which serves as a blatant reminder that he's not where hes supposed to be.

He opens one, now two eyes, and looks over at the body next to him.

Blonde hair that looks white in the sun covers her face. Whoever she is. He doesn't care.

Despite the protests of his spine, he sits up, and looks around. It's clean, cleaner than he's used to. The girl couldn't be that bad, as he takes notice of the pictures on the walls. Older people, presumably family. There's a desk in the corner, notebooks stacked neatly, a calendar showing the current month. She really had her stuff together. That's new. Poser, he thinks, offhandedly.

Murdoc doesn't think about why he already believes that anyone who would sleep with him must have something wrong with them, at the age of 24.

He gets out of bed slowly. He would deny actually caring about disturbing the girl's sleep. It's more that he doesn't want to see her face, see the disappointment of a man she brought into her room. He didn't want to see her eyes become dark. He didn't want to see his reflection in them.

His clothes were easy enough to find. They stuck out, the one mess in the room. Would his smell stay after he was gone? Would she wake up, scrunch her nose, and clean up after him before brushing her own teeth?

Nowadays, he doesn't wear pants. It's punk, he says, but that's a shit excuse. The reality is that when you're starving or aching from withdrawals, "new pants" doesn't really take priority on the shopping list. But now, the thought of the chafing denim on the walk home makes Murdoc's brows crease.

It's a new low.

He begins to slip on the first pair of knickers he finds. Laying on her vanity, he presumes they were tossed off from last night. They're ugly. Purple, with a pink lace around the waist and each leg hole.

He sees.

He can't stop himself from looking at his reflection.

The way they lay on his hips, how his thighs spill over the pink edge on each side. The bulge is a disgusting reminder that this is wrong. Yet pathetically, soft, it's contained in the small fabric. This is wrong. But as he turns around, A look over his shoulder and-

Fuuuuck. Shit. Shitshitshitshit. Fuck.

He slips on his jeans. His jacket. Boots. He's a whore, his thinks, when he remembers he left his house without a shirt.

He walks home with a red face.

The knickers stay on, for the rest of that day.

Thank you for sending me your take, I’m really flattered that this inspired you at all and holy cow, I’m very impressed with how quickly you whipped that up! I swear, there’s a cog missing in my brain that makes speedy writing feel like an impossibility, haha. You just banged it right out!

You and I are very much on the same page here! This probably won’t surprise you given our conversations on this blog, but you nailed the prediction (whether you meant to or not!) One of the five scenes I outlined was indeed Murdoc stealing knickers from a girl he’d shagged; given it’s canon that he steals purses and whatever else he fancies including clothing, I think this is just such a natural assumption to make. In the WIP, he’s begun wearing knickers on stage, making a spectacle of it, doing it for jeers and heckles and the punkish attitude that, in Murdoc’s case, bridges into antisocial behaviour. He doesn’t have to have the conversation with himself if he’s instead having the conflict with everyone else. The part where he feels something quieter than that, though, the part where he’s not yet given himself permission to wear them elsewhere-- that’s the next thing to contend with. By the time he’s snatching the knickers in a scene like this, there’s no audience to call him names nor an element of in-band fighting over their image, there’s no spite he can justify it with, and so there’s no reason to do it but the private desire to. And I think in your version you captured the very same feeling, making something he’d framed to himself as a statement into a secret. I love the concept of making the things you do alone so much scarier than the things you do under a spotlight. That feels very Murdoc to me.