Nothing Will Last *Murdoc x Reader*

New York, I Love You

It had been three months since your whirlwind weekend with the infamous Murdoc Niccals. Early fall had transitioned into early winter and it was starting to get cold and blustery. Gorillaz had just finished up the end of their tour two weeks ago. He hadn't called. You had tried to call occasionally, but the phone number went right to an automatic voicemail. Who knew if it was actually even the right number?

Now you sat in "your" brewery taproom, the one that would now forever be cemented in your head as the place that the two of you met, and stared at your Russian Imperial Stout, the beer he had ordered that hot September day. Your friend wasn't working, and you didn't much feel like making small talk with the person who was behind the bar.

Your life had continued on as if nothing had really happened, and sometimes you wondered if it actually did. You fiddled with the upside down cross necklace that you had refused to take off from the second Murdoc slipped it over your head. Usually you kept it tucked underneath your clothes, so it was next to your skin, but when you were anxious, you found it comforting to play with in your hands.

You took out your phone and flipped through it to pictures from that late summer weekend. You had taken a few, and you wished you had taken more, but the ones that you had taken you would treasure forever. Backstage at the concert, cheesing it up with the band and their entourage on the tour bus, a selfie of you and Murdoc on the roof of the bus, with your city's skyline in the background. And a few naughty pictures. The last thing Murdoc cared about was some sex scandal, so he had let you take a few.

You couldn't say you were surprised or let down. You knew it was going to happen; you told yourself as much that first night you met him. But you liked to imagine that maybe, just maybe, he would give you a call someday. He had made it sound like Sunday morning was not the end, but you knew perfectly well that he was very good at telling girls what they wanted to hear.

But how many other down to earth, attractive, legitimately Satanist girls could there be out there? I'm unique, you thought to yourself. But it was becoming apparent with every passing day that you were not the one who was meant to tame the rockstar bassist.

You threw back the rest of your beer, and just as your glass hit the countertop, your phone rang. It was a New York City area code number that you weren't familiar with.

"Hello?" you inquired.

A slightly growling, British accented voice responded.

"'Ello, luv..."

Your heart suddenly felt like it was about to explode out of your chest and you almost dropped your phone. You couldn't get out any words, and instead took a deep breath and audibly exhaled.

"Sorry it's been so long," he said in that low voice that you forgot how much you loved to hear. You still couldn't speak.

"Remember dancing in that bar and singin' that song saying 'You're afraid of what you need'? The one by James Murphy's band? And then those lines from Althea by The Dead?"

He was rambling. Murdoc didn't ever ramble.

"...Yeah," you responded, hesitantly.

"Well, ehhh, I think they were right. And you were right. So...how would you feel about movin' to Brooklyn, eh?"

**Author's Note** Hooray! This has a sequel! Go on over and check out Something To Believe In to see what happens! Or don't and use your own imagination!