Pairing: Murdoc x FTM!2-D

Disclaimers: I do NOT own Gorillaz. Additionally, this fic has adult themes that may be triggering. It includes my headcanon 2-D as transgendered, as well as intense emotional/psychological themes of self-harm, abuse, drugs, male pregnancy, violence, chaotic relationships and obscene language. Please do not read if you cannot handle these things or just do not wish to read them—I assure you there are plenty of other wonderful fics out there that you'll prefer J Told from 2-D's POV and Murdoc's intermittently—I hope it's not too confusing! Other than that, ENJOY~

2-D:

The heavy stench of cigarettes and mildew hangs in the air as you tilt your head back to exhale a long stream of smoke upward toward the ceiling. It is littered with cracks, yellowing and peeling as you peer at it through your azure-colored hair, hanging in wisps in front of your pitch-black, sunken eyes. A sigh never feels as good without the nicotine-laced smoke, weaving intricate patterns as it drifts through the room, slowly disappearing into naught. The shirt around you feels too tight, and you tug at its front in frustration, grasping at it's flimsy material firmly with your hand, stretching it forward, away from your chest that you despise so earnestly.

Tobacco may be ruining your lungs, but so is the incredible tightness of anything you wear wrapped snugly around your frame to conceal parts of your anatomy that feel just so out of place you want to scream. With an artful flick of the fingers, you ash the cigarette onto the ground, before bringing it back to your chapped lips and inhaling deeply, then exhaling yet another tendril of smoke. The lighting is dim, a single dull lamp hanging from the fan, whose blades, as they move quickly in never-ending circles, lull you into a numb trance, your back resting against the soft cushion of the age-old sofa. That's when you hear a knock. You know he won't wait though, and seconds later he standing in the doorframe, a bit intoxicated, grinning as always when in such a state. "Hey, Faceache," he utters, taking another swig of whiskey, a bit dribbling slowly down his chin. You look up and down his tall, slender frame, the sleek black hair a bit wonky, the oddly-shaped nose, as the grin reveals chipped, crooked, yellowing teeth. "Hey, Muds," you respond in a semi-amiable manner—the best you can manage—along with a crooked half-smile. Your cigarette rests on your lip in the gap created by missing teeth. And suddenly he slams the whiskey bottle down on the floor, glass shattering everywhere, but he doesn't take notice and slumps down onto the sofa beside you—

Too close. You cannot be this close to anyone. Not as you are now. You shudder as his body brushes against yours, the stench of alcohol and cigarettes heavy on his breath and he leans in to whisper something you can't understand. You try to scoot away—he can't know who you really are, so you must avoid bodily contact. And that's when he throws his arms around you, gripping your shirt, and staring stupidly at you with dilated pupils. So he's high, too. Your heart panics as he leans into your neck, nuzzling against it. "Muds…ey! Stop that, would ya? Sod off!" You try to push him away, and that's when he hits you. The blow strikes you in the ribs, then next in the jaw, and your lip splits painfully, a slow trickle of blood springs forth. It's fine, he didn't mean to. You wipe it away hurriedly with your jacket sleeve, smudging the crimson liquid onto the hunter green fabric. He stops suddenly, looking at you. "Fuck, sorry, Stu…didn't mean it," he slurs, bringing a finger to your lip gingerly, but you smack it away, turning and hugging your knees to yourself. That's when he wraps his arms around you, causing your entire frame to tense up. He releases you, getting up slowly and faltering a bit before walking out the door, slamming it shut, vibrations echoing through the walls.

You squeeze a few tears from your eyes, shaking your head so as much hair as possible covers your eyes. Standing up shakily, you walk to the bathroom, slowly locking the door behind you before removing your jacket and shirt to assess the damage. A lovely purple bruise has began to form, creeping across your ribs and side, and you avoid touching it, adjusting the binding around your chest ever so slightly before fully clothing yourself once more. The faucet drips lazily, as your mind races. Your lip is swollen as you open the medicine cabinet, and produce a small razor blade. Carefully shutting the small door of the cabinet, you peer at your face in the cracked mirror, gross from crying and trauma of the blow. The fabric of your sleeve yields willingly as you push it farther up your arm, exposing fair skin littered in pink scars of varying dimension and length before taking the blade and pulling it down the length of your inner arm again. It's only seconds before the blood surfaces, slowly oozing down the skin and onto the sink. After staring at your arm for a few minutes, you turn on the faucet with a creak, allowing the cold water to wash over the irritated skin, the blood disappearing down the drain in a faint pink stream. You apply a bandage to your arm, tug the sleeve down and walk out of the bathroom, resuming your position on the sofa. Your body sinks into it willingly, before you fish around in your jacket pocket and produce your iPod, burying the small earbuds into your ears and turning it on shuffle and allowing your tired eyes to drift shut.

And before you know it…

/

My first Gorillaz fic ever. Sorry for the short chapter and cliffhanger .'' Please read and review. I hope to make it a bit happier in future chapters, just not yet.