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spiritkitty | spiritkitty and slightlytricky | spiritkitty

for spiritkitty; connor/murphy. caveat lector, as I've not actually seen the movie, eep.

So yeah, it's early enough that Murphy's not able to communicate in anything but the deepest grunts, even when it's clear he has much to talk about. Because he's being held against the pale green (and who thought that was a good idea?) tile in the shower, held up by a broad hand on his shoulder, held at bay by Connor’s eyes and the look in them.

Murphy's feet keep slipping on the floor of the shower, and it's not because the floor is really all that slick. It's coarse, pebbled almost, hardly worn down even by hundreds of previous residents in this beaten-down apartment, and should thus provide stability Murphy knows he sure as hell isn't going to find elsewhere. Anyway, point is that he's slipping, and every time he does, Connor's hand clenches harder on his shoulder, forcing him back up. Murphy curses the floor for making this difficult, for disturbing Connor's concentration at yes, the absolute fucking worst time.

Because when Connor's concentration is disturbed, it means that he stops stroking down his cock with fingers slicked up white and smooth from the Ivory shampoo (because no way are they buying any prettified crap when Ivory works just as well and smells, you know, nice but not too nice) and stops making that sound—that soft little exhale followed by an inhale that's like a fucking purr.

And Murphy kind of likes those sounds, thanks.

Connor looks about ready to give up, patience as ever only just a shard greater than Murphy's own, and so Murphy pushes off the wall, steadies himself and presses Connor against the tile. His mouth meets Connor's in a rush, and Connor—to both their surprises—doesn't fight this, not a bit, not today. Not this morning.

Murphy's hand is larger than Connor's, and (if you ask Murphy) fits around Connor's cock much better than Connor can do it himself. He knows better than Connor how far he can push, and where to turn, and when to twist and how often to stop completely, waiting to hear that purr grow loud and long.

When he moves again, it's quicker, and Connor rises up on his toes a little, hips bucking off the wall and into Murphy's body. Murphy's watches the slow slide of Ivory and water make its way down Connor's hipbones and he smiles for the first time since he got in this shower, three minutes before Connor joined him with a promise of something more interesting than eggs and toast afterward. Connor's hand threads through Murphy's hair, slips a bit through the strands, and then he's fisting that hard, harder even than Murphy's fisting his cock, pumping him too quickly, too soon, too much—

And what, Murphy thinks, his laugh echoing around them, a fucking mess they are now.

After a moment, Connor's laughing too, shoulders shaking and fists smacking at Murphy's shoulders and telling him get the fuck outta here. Murphy throws his hands in the air in (mock, always mock, because, you know, well—) surrender, backing up to his own side of the shower and reaching for the soap just one more time.

When their eyes meet again, Connor almost fucking blushes, and Murphy nods, passing him the shampoo bottle. Morning communication's mostly overrated, Murphy thinks, and stands under the spray of water just to see if he'll slip again.

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for spiritkitty and slightlytricky; connor/murphy, implied murphy/dominic muahahaha

"Well, tha' was pretty," Connor says, but it comes out from between his teeth as though every syllable been's dragged from him slowly, like the sound of a zipper coming down, which of course makes sense, 'cause that's exactly what's happening. "Very pretty. When did y'decide y'liked the English, Murph?"

"Wasn't anythin'," Murphy shakes his head, sighs when Connor's hand slips inside his jeans, and then shudders when it closes around his cock hard. "Told him to fuck off, and he did."

Connor's smile in response is very warm, his laugh even more so.
"Took you entirely too long, though, don't y'think?" Connor yanks Murphy's cock from inside the denim, and Murphy thinks it's not really for his benefit. "What was his name? Tell me so I can address him, y'know, properly next time."

"Mona—" Murphy inhales sharply, knees almost buckling when Connor scrapes his ragged fingernails down the length of Murphy's cock. "Monaghan. Fuck, Connor, what're you doing—"

"Taking care of you, Murph." Another laugh. "Monaghan, yeah? So he's one of us, but not. Irish blood, english heart. There's bad breeding for you."

"Connor ..." Murphy's voice comes out in slow whisper. "Nothin' happened—"

"Then why were you this ready? Y'don't usually walk around this fucking hard except for me, Murphy. Remember that, yeah?" A pull, of twist of fingers that goes from caress to complete fucking brutality in the time it takes Murphy to shut his eyes, waiting for the relief to come, and it's so close, he doesn't even care anymore how angry Connor is, and then there's just the feel of Connor's breath on his face and the loss of Connor's hand on his cock and the knowledge that it's not—

Going to happen.

The next sound Murphy hears is the lighter that matches his own striking, so close to his face that he flinches. He opens his eyes slowly, anticipating everything and nothing at once.

"Remember that," Connor says quietly, and walks away.

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also for spiritkitty; Connor/Murphy as goldfish. *facepalm*

"Bet you'll be flushed first."

"The fuck?" Connor wakes from perfectly still sleep, and the water swirls around them. Murphy rides the little wave, belly flattening and eyes for once not rushing over Connor's thinner, paler orange body. "Murph."

"I was just thinkin'" Murphy waves one fin in the air. "This lass, she's got kids and a cat. S'only a matter o'time before one of us bites it, and it's gonna be you."

"Is that so?" Conner takes a deep breath, gills flapping sharply, and his body arches with the movement. "And why would that be, Murph?"

"'Cos you're slow. You're skinny but you're slow. Yer not eating, either, and 's not because I'm takin' it from you."

"No, that's somethin' else entirely." Connor's fin slaps against the back of Murphy's tail, and Murphy swims to the other edge of the bowl, backing up there and staring his brother now. It's Connor's turn to ride the ripply wave of agitation in the bowl. "Murphy, what're you doin?"

"Thinkin'."

"Again?" The marine equivalent of a snort makes a series of bubbles rise the surface of their glassy home. "Gets you nowhere, my boy. I am eatin' y'now, just after you've gone to sleep."

"Not enough, though." Murphy swims off, turning his back on Connor. "And yer gonna get flushed and I'll just sit here and swim here and be fuckin' bored out me mind."

"Don't you worry about that," Connor says soothingly, swimming over to Murphy's side. "If I get flushed, I'll take you w'me. Hey, y'know Guido, in the tank? I heard he survived flushing."

Murphy's eyes bulge a little. "Yer fucking kidding."

"'m not. And let me tell you, brother, if that fat fuck can survive flushing, so can we."

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