Bless Me Father
This has been in the words for a few days, egged on by the Treehouse Goddess and helped along by mrstotten , thank you.
This is kinda new for me, its possibly the longest one shot I have written and its my first time writing a almost dom/sub relationship. I have to admit to being kinda proud of this.
Anyway...Connor/Murphy walling slamming, hair pulling, tattoo licking, dom/sub slash...can you really get better than that?
Neither of them can remember when it started, maybe it had been there all the time, lying in wait just below the surface. Coiling under skin marred with scars and ink. But it was there now, worked to the surface, like a splinter, by time.
Murphy has always been trusting. Connor is the one with the hairbrained ideas, lets jump off the bridge, lets tattoo ourselves, lets kill bad people for God, and Murphy is the one who looks at Connor with absolute trust and says ok. Connor isn't sure when his hairbrained ideas had turned to lets damn ourselves to hell, but Murphy just smiles and says ok, trusting Connor, always trusting Connor.
Bless me Father for I am about to sin.
It didn't taken much, it isn't even a command, but Murphy does it without question, hands over the over the cigarette without a flinch and something turns in Connor, like a light turning on in a dark room, suddenly Connor can see, and it's almost too bright.
Usually, Murphy would have done it with a fuck you or a get it yourself, but he hands it over, eyes bright with something that Connor doesn't want to understand, not yet anyway. The air crackles with something like the promise of a storm as Murphy hands it over, fingers sliding over Connor's skin, Murphy's eyes widening slightly, lips parting. Connor takes the cigarette, lights it and tries to ignore the pitting in his stomach and the burning on the side of his face where Murphy eyes bore a hole.
Bless me Father for I am about to sin.
The bed is hard beneath him, always hard because they would rather buy cigarettes and beer than new mattresses, and Connor bends to tie his shoelace, Murphy on the floor in front of him, curled into himself like a child, tying his own lace with artistic and deft fingers. “Tie my laces Murph”. It was in jest, a joke designed to get Murphy to throw the nearest object at him, curse and grin, but Murphy does it. Something dark and hungry flickers across his face and he crawls, goddammit crawls, across the small space between them, fingers reaching for the laces. His hands shake slightly as he winds them round each other and pulls, turning his face upwards towards Connor. Pupils blown wide. Connor is too dazed, wound too tightly to say a snide remark, just a husky “thanks”, and Murphy moves back, drawing in a ragged breath as he mutters “no problem”.
Bless me Father for I am about to sin.
It takes a few days from then for Connor to realise fully what's going on, to realise that Murphy needs it, needs to be told what to do from Connor, needs it in a way that no brother should and it makes Connor feel sick at the same time as it makes his heart race and his skin itch and heat to pool in his belly at the thought of how far can I take this?
The light that was too bright has dulled, his eyes used to it now and Connor can see perfectly, can see into the corners where dust lingers and dark things hide and it makes him scared in a way that he hasn't been since his felt blood dripping down his wrists and the bone deep ache at the thought that Murphy would be taken from him.
Murphy has always been tactile, always touching, reaching out with hands that were far too artistic to be taking lives, hands that were meant for praying not killing, but reaching out with them, and big trusting eyes. Connor has always just let him, needing to feel his brother any way he could, enjoying the closeness, the connection that no one could understand even if they accepted. But Connor has never really seen how those touches could be seen by other people, could be seen as wrong by anyone that didn't know them. But those people are wrong, those people don't know that Connor needs to feel Murphy's hands on him as much as Murphy needs to have his hands on him.
Murphy has nervous habits. He bites his fingernails, chews on his lips and t-shirts, rakes hands through his hair and it annoys Connor because most of them bring attention to his hands. Hands that Connor now can't take his eyes off, not since he crawled forward and used them to tie Connor's shoelaces. Murphy is doing it though, sitting next to Connor on a moth eaten couch, cigarette dangling between his free hand as the other is up against his mouth, teeth biting at the nails and Connor snaps. “Stop it”. It is bitten out, harsher than he meant, lower than he meant to and Murphy stops immediately, not looking at Connor but his whole body going tense as he lowers his hand from his mouth to his lap and stares at them. Murphy looks like his whole being is going into holding still, body wound tight like a coiled spring and Connor doesn't want to think what it would take for him to make Murphy snap, make the tension drain from his being like water down a drain, spiralling down into the unknown, make Murphy look at him. Connor knows what look will be on his face. He doesn't want to see it.
Murphy looks though, turns his head and looks at Connor with eyes that are dark with need and Connor wants to look away, Hail Mary, Mother of God he wants to look away and scrub himself clean till any hint of giving Murphy exactly what he needs is gone, but he can't, drawn to Murphy's face like a moth to a candle. And Connor's never really understood why moths are drawn to flames, not really because they're nocturnal creatures yet they strive for light. But when Murphy licks his lips slowly and whispers out a muttered “Conn” he kind of understands, can see why they are drawn to the danger of fire when it goes against everything they should want.
Bless me Father for I am about to sin.
Connor wants to test the waters, just like when they were kids and they would put toes into freezing water, see who could hold it there longer, wants to put his toes into the water and see how far he can push this. Its then when Murphy, seemingly in a trance, moves. He's always moved with a jerky kind of boyish charm, lumbering along next to Connor, but now he slides like water over marble, slides off the couch and crouches between Connor's legs, hands, God his hands, on Connor's knees and waits, face upturned to Connor's, eyes bright and trusting and full of need and how is Connor meant to deny him, when Murphy is all he lives for?
“Murph, what you doing?” He asks, his voice low, rasping in his throat like he's been screaming for hours, or silent for days. Murphy's hands grip tighter, fingers digging in through denim and he shakes his head once and Connor knows that looks, knows it means that Murphy has no idea, that he's running on pure instinct. Without speaking Connor leans forward, covers one of Murphy's hands with his own as the other slides up Murphy's jaw, fingers just touching and Murphy leans into the touch like a cat, practically purrs as Connor's fingers reach the skin behind his ear, a growl low in his throat and Connor swallows hard. Murphy's eyes slide shut, long dark eyelashes sweeping his cheeks and Connor has to hold himself back from leaning forward even more and touching the dark smudges beneath Murphy's eyes with his lips. “Connor” Murphy breathes out, so quietly to could be a sigh, but Connor and Murphy have never had troubles understanding each other.
The phone ringing makes them both jump guiltily, Connor's fingers sliding off Murphy's skin, Murphy moving away as Connor curses loudly and grabs the handset, stopping the shrill ringing dead. It's their Ma and Connor shifts uneasily from foot to foot as his mothers voice bleeds into his head and he can almost hear what she would say if she caught her boys touching each other like they had been seconds ago. Murphy is by his side though, warm skin pressing into Connor's arm, breath ghosting across his cheek as he tries to get closer, to hear their mothers voice down the telephone. Connor digs his elbow into Murphy's ribs and they are back to brothers.
Bless me Father for I am about to sin.
The noise of the water wakes him up, not the emptiness of the bed beside him, the lack of his brother snuffling in his sleep, the water from the pathetic excuse of a bathroom. And Murphy's stifled gasps at the lack of hot water. Connor pushes himself up, wiping the sleep and the fading images of a dream he doesn't want to analyse from his gritty eyes. Murphy's standing under the water, one hand braced against the cracked and dirty tiles, water sliding down his inked skin, the other hand wrapped around himself and Connor realises with a punch to the gut, that the stifled gasps aren't for the lack of hot water. Murphy's eyes are closed, throat moving every time he swallows down a groan that Connor knows wants to escape. Murphy's hand moves, gripping tightly and twisting on the upstroke, mirroring how Connor touches himself and a sick thrill chases its way up Connor's spine with the thought I can have this.
“Murphy, stop.” And Murphy does, a shuddering in take of breath and his hand stilling the only indication that he heard Connor. His hips twitch once in a vain attempt at causing the friction that he needs and Murphy pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, bites down and presses his forehead into the tiles. Connors knees are weak and his mouth is dry and he wants nothing more than to wrap his own hand around Murphy, to take him over the edge, watch as his brother falls to pieces under his hands, water mingling with come on the shower floor. But he swallows the lump in his throat. It's not like he's seen Murphy like this before, he has, but he usually interrupts by throwing something at his brothers head, this time though Connor knows he could step forward, join his hand with Murphy's, or even worse, make Murphy touch Connor and the thought thrills him at the same time as terrifying him.
Murphy whimpers, whimpers, hips twitching again as the internal battle between I can have this and I shouldn't want this rages in Connor's head.
“Connor...” Murphy still hasn't looked at him, still has his eyes clamped shut, his head pressing into the cold tiles like its the only thing grounding him right now and that breaks Connor, makes him take a step forward and cover the hand pressed to the tiles with his own.
“Move your hand Murphy.” Murphy shudders, his whole body quivering under the water and his eyes are still closed, fingers twitching against the tiles, but he moves his hand, once, stifling a groan. Connor's free hand winds itself into Murphy's hair and pulls his head up, Murphy opens his eyes and fuck that's a sight to see. Murphy's pupils are blown wide, need practically pouring out of them, mingling with fear as he locks eyes with Connor and moves his hand again.
Connor is close enough to smell him, the familiar scent of Murphy, mixed with arousal, its a heady mix that makes him light-headed, his fingers entwine with Murphy's, clutching like a life line as Murphy gasps again, drags in a shuddering breath. Connor takes a step forward though, crowds in towards Murphy, feels the heat from Murphy's skin even though the water is cold, his fingers still grasping Murphy's hair.
“Conn...” Murphy sounds wrecked, voice pleading for Connor to do something and Connor has no idea what to do, frozen to the spot, one hand tangled in his brothers hair, the other clutching Murphy's hand. He feels reality slipping away like this is all some dream, and he's going to wake up, aroused and flushed with Murphy throwing something at him for waking him up.
“Connor...please.” And Connor doesn't know what Murphy wants, what he needs but he slides his hand down his spine, watching Murphy arches into it.
“Shhh. C'mon Murph.” Connor whispers into his ear and Murphy shudders, hand still moving, still grasping and pulling him closer to the edge. Something in Connor snaps when Murphy groans and he spins him, pushes his back against the tiles and crowds even closer, still not quite closer enough, lips hovering over Murphy's as Murphy shudders once more and spills onto his hand.
“Fuck.” Murphy murmurs against Connor's lips.
Bless me Father for I have sinned.
During the harsh light of day everything is normal. Plain and ordinary, Murphy exactly as he was before Connor made him come in the shower by just telling him to. And Connor finds it disconcerting, no sure where reality ends and surrealism begins, not sure if he dreamt the whole thing. He keeps looking at Murphy, watching to see subtle changes in his brother behaviour towards him. And there's nothing. Not until they're heading out the door, heading to the bar.
“Get the door Murph.” And Murphy stalls, his fingers already round the handle, he stops though, for a split second, eyes locking with Connor's and Connor can see it, can see this morning, Murphy's fingers locked with his own, Murphy's breathing across his lips as he comes between them.
Connor keeps expecting someone to notice, keeps expecting someone to say something but Murphy is just the same, easy smiles and wandering hands, flicking cigarette ash into Connor's beer and laughing that genuine laugh that never fails to make Connor's belly warm, but now makes it squirm now, a swarm of butterflies deep in his stomach when Murphy leans over him to speak to someone, hand pressed to Connor's thigh. He tries hard to ignore the way way Murphy's fingers clench once before pulling away.
So Connor drinks. Beer filling the pit in his stomach, making his head fuzzy and his vision blurry as Murphy hauls him from his stool and back to their apartment. His arm strong around Connor's waist, his body warm against Connor's. The couch is welcome, hard and lumpy against his back but welcome as Murphy crouches between his legs and begins untying his boots. Connor runs his fingers through Murphy's hair, Murphy leans into it slightly, not taking his concentration off the knots in Connor's laces though. Connor can feel the scar that Murphy got falling from a tree when they were eight. Can feel the bump under his fingers as he rubs at Murphy's scalp, trying to erase one of the few things that makes them different, that separates them. Murphy pulls his boots off one by one, not looking at Connor even though Connor knows he can feel his gaze.
“Murph...” Murphy looks up at that, Connor's stumbling over thoughts and words and one thing is keeping him grounded. “Tactus mihi.” Touch me. Murphy swallows, sits up and slides his hands up Connor's thighs. Murphy's hands shakes slightly, but his eyes look relieved, like this is what he's been waiting for, permission. And Connor doesn't know if that thrills him or scares him.
“Tell me what to do, Conn...I.” Murphy's voice is low, quite, like he's speaking in the bar, right into Connor's ear and he only wants Connor to hear.
“Shirt off.” He's impressed by the way his voice works, because he honestly thought it was stuck then, stopping dead in his throat at the vulnerable way Murphy had spoken, vulnerable yet commanding. Commanding Connor to command him. Murphy nods and then is gone, stripping the t-shirt over his head in one fluid movement. Murphy's skin is pale, smooth except for scars, all of them Connor was there to see. A roadmap of their lives on Murphy's skin. He can name every one, name where it happened, how Murphy sounded when his skin was broken, can name the terror that flooded though his veins at the sight of Murphy's blood.
Murphy's hands return, sliding once again up his thighs and he looks up at Connor, with wide eyes, hands hovering over Connor's belt, and Connor draws in a breath and nods once.
Murphy's hands are cold, his fingers like ice and fire against Connor's skin where his t-shirt has ridden up, fingers deftly undoing his belt. Connor reaches out and draws a finger down Murphy's arm, the muscles twitch under his touch. He feels lost, lost at sea, tide sweeping him left then right and it makes him seasick. Murphy looks grounded, sure if a little unsure, sure that he wants this unsure that he can have this. Murphy sits forward, slides his hands under Connor's shirt, fingernails scratching the surface of skin and he's so close, lips parted, breathing slightly ragged.
He can't do this, this is his brother, his life, he can't damn him for eternity no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much he wants to feel Murphy under him. He's losing his nerve, its one thing to watch as your brother touches himself in the shower, but this, this is something else and he can't do it. He can't. He...
Reaches out, winds his fingers round Murphy's wrists, stopping their upward movement and Murphy looks at him.
“Murph...I can't...I...Jesu succurro mihi.” Jesus help me. Murphy blinks and leans forward.
He kisses Connor then, and its completion. Lips sliding over lips and Murphy's tongue licks into his mouth. “Esta bien Connor.” He murmurs into Connor's mouth. It's ok. Connor wonders when this became about Murphy looking out for Connor, Murphy taking control, his mind slips over the fact that he asked Murphy to take it. Murphy's hands are pushing under his shirt again, fingers playing over ribs and he pulls away long enough to pull the shirt over Connor's head, it lands behind him with a almost silent thud as Murphy concentrates on the denim barrier between him and Connor. Connor lifts his hips as Murphy slides the denim down, its rough against his skin but then Murphy's hands are back, smoothing, running over the and scars and ink in a way that make Murphy look like he's praying and its almost too much for Connor.
Murphy uses his long fingers to wind around Connor's wrist, pulling his hand forward, placing it over Murphy's hip. Connor flexes his fingers, tightens them in Murphy's skin, pressing in, almost hard enough to bruise and its nothing new, a bruise from Connor. Murphy's mouth is at his neck, mouthing at his pulse, teeth and lips and tongue on the Virgin tattoo. Connor dips his fingers into Murphy's jeans, and Murphy jerks his hips forward.
“Connor. lasciar andare.” Let go. And Connor does. Pushes all the wrong, this is wrong feelings down, swallows them like a jagged pill and reaches for Murphy's jeans, hands shaking only slightly as he pops the button and pushes them down Murphy's pale thighs. Murphy tugs on Connor, pulling him off the couch till they're kneeling in front of each other, facing each other. Murphy runs a hand down one side of Connor's face, like he used to when he was a child, a stupid gesture that got turned into something more, something that used to annoying Connor now it send a spike of lust through his body. Murphy kisses him again then, fingers gripping at the back of his head, pulling him forward, chests touching, heart beating together as Murphy licks into his mouth, groans and Connor pulls they're hips together almost to hard.
“Christ Connor.” Murphy curses, voice harsh against Connor's skin.
“Lord's name Murph.” Connor can't help it, it slips out before he has a chance to catch it, words their mother used with a back hand to the head, falling between then and Murphy freezes, and Connor stops breathing.
“Hail Mary, mother of God.” Murphy whispers against Connor's lips. “Touch me Connor. Please.” Connor breathe again then, takes a deep breath, his lungs flooding with oxygen as Murphy arches into him. “Please.” Connor can feel Murphy against his thigh, can feel Murphy's cock hard already and it breaks through the static, make Connor reach between them and into Murphy's boxers, makes Connor wrap his fingers around Murphy and squeeze once. Makes Murphy buck into his hand, teeth biting into his bottom lip. Makes Connor realise that yes this is wrong, but he doesn't care, not when Murphy opens his eyes and looks at Connor like Connor is the second coming. Anything is worth that look, even eternal damnation, even if Connor doesn't feel he deserves it.
Murphy's clutching at his arms, shoulders, hips, any skin he can find, thighs shaking where they are pressed up to Connor's, forehead pressed hard to Connor's, Connor's name on his lips when Connor twists his hand, thumb sliding over the slick head of Murphy's cock.
“Have you got me Conn?” Murphy opens his eyes again and looks deep into Connor's. The question is pointed, Connor knows the point, he's asking Connor to take back control, he's giving Connor control even though Connor has no idea what to do. Its all give and take, Murphy needs to give control to Connor, needs Connor to take it from him, and Connor has to do this for his brother. He's always looked out for Murphy, Murphy always looked out for him, but Murphy needs him now and Connor needs to take he desperate worried look from his brothers eyes.
“I've got you brother.” He says, right before kissing Murphy deep as Murphy shudders against him, hot come spilling on to Connor's hand. Murphy whimpers once, a sound that makes Connor remember the aching erection between his own legs and then Murphy's gone. Pulling back and pushing gently on Connor's shoulder, skin flushed and eyes heavy lidded. Connor gets the silent message, yet another way they don't need words between them, and sits, putting his legs out in front of him, propping himself up on his elbows. Murphy looks down at him, eyes tracing a burning path across Connor's skin, licks his lips and lifts his eyes to Connor's, the silent question hanging in the air between them. Holy Mother of God, Connor knows what Murphy wants, almost dreads it, because its a line that Connor isn't sure he wants to cross.
“I need you to tell me to Connor.” Murphy says. He's not looking at Connor any more, not looking at his eyes anyway.
The words stick in his throat but he manages to croak out a husky “Do it,” before Murphy is leaning forward, lips parting and licks a stripe up the underside of Connor's cock. His mouth is hot when he swallows Connor down, a wet heat like nothing he has ever felt before and Murphy swirls his tongue, hums around Connor and Connor forgets how to breath and his arms give out. His head hits the floor with a thud and his hands come up to Murphy's hair of their own accord, raking through the strands, gripping as Murphy licks and sucks like its the end of the world.
His orgasm hits him hard and out of the blue, creeps up like a thief in the night and he's coming hard enough that he thinks he blacks out, tasting damnation and love as Murphy swallows all the time, fingers clutching at Connor's hips. Murphy pulls back, swipes a thumb over his bottom lips, tongue darting out and that should be illegal. It is illegal. The words taunt him as Murphy crawls up his body and plants himself between the couch and Connor, arm winding around him, hot sweat slick skin sliding against Connor's.
Murphy's mouthing words against Connor's skin, words of love and thanks and Connor kisses him, stopping the words he doesn't want to hear, can't hear, not yet. He tastes himself.
He loves Murphy. Loves him with everything he is, would die for him, has frequently bled for him. And he knows Murphy loves him, it feels right to have Murphy curled up next to him, Murphy's kisses on his skin, it feels right and that's what's wrong.
Murphy shifts, and Connor knows he's already asleep, tightens his hold on Connor and turns his face into Connor's neck. Connor pushes down the desire to push his brother into the threadbare rug and sink into his sleep pliant and warm body, and offers up a silent prayer to the God that should abandon them both.
Forgive me Father for I have sinned.
Part 2: I Will Sin Again
Part 3: You And Me Against The World
Part 4: On The Outside
Part 5: Cognitive Dissonance
This is kinda new for me, its possibly the longest one shot I have written and its my first time writing a almost dom/sub relationship. I have to admit to being kinda proud of this.
Anyway...Connor/Murphy walling slamming, hair pulling, tattoo licking, dom/sub slash...can you really get better than that?
Neither of them can remember when it started, maybe it had been there all the time, lying in wait just below the surface. Coiling under skin marred with scars and ink. But it was there now, worked to the surface, like a splinter, by time.
Murphy has always been trusting. Connor is the one with the hairbrained ideas, lets jump off the bridge, lets tattoo ourselves, lets kill bad people for God, and Murphy is the one who looks at Connor with absolute trust and says ok. Connor isn't sure when his hairbrained ideas had turned to lets damn ourselves to hell, but Murphy just smiles and says ok, trusting Connor, always trusting Connor.
Bless me Father for I am about to sin.
It didn't taken much, it isn't even a command, but Murphy does it without question, hands over the over the cigarette without a flinch and something turns in Connor, like a light turning on in a dark room, suddenly Connor can see, and it's almost too bright.
Usually, Murphy would have done it with a fuck you or a get it yourself, but he hands it over, eyes bright with something that Connor doesn't want to understand, not yet anyway. The air crackles with something like the promise of a storm as Murphy hands it over, fingers sliding over Connor's skin, Murphy's eyes widening slightly, lips parting. Connor takes the cigarette, lights it and tries to ignore the pitting in his stomach and the burning on the side of his face where Murphy eyes bore a hole.
Bless me Father for I am about to sin.
The bed is hard beneath him, always hard because they would rather buy cigarettes and beer than new mattresses, and Connor bends to tie his shoelace, Murphy on the floor in front of him, curled into himself like a child, tying his own lace with artistic and deft fingers. “Tie my laces Murph”. It was in jest, a joke designed to get Murphy to throw the nearest object at him, curse and grin, but Murphy does it. Something dark and hungry flickers across his face and he crawls, goddammit crawls, across the small space between them, fingers reaching for the laces. His hands shake slightly as he winds them round each other and pulls, turning his face upwards towards Connor. Pupils blown wide. Connor is too dazed, wound too tightly to say a snide remark, just a husky “thanks”, and Murphy moves back, drawing in a ragged breath as he mutters “no problem”.
Bless me Father for I am about to sin.
It takes a few days from then for Connor to realise fully what's going on, to realise that Murphy needs it, needs to be told what to do from Connor, needs it in a way that no brother should and it makes Connor feel sick at the same time as it makes his heart race and his skin itch and heat to pool in his belly at the thought of how far can I take this?
The light that was too bright has dulled, his eyes used to it now and Connor can see perfectly, can see into the corners where dust lingers and dark things hide and it makes him scared in a way that he hasn't been since his felt blood dripping down his wrists and the bone deep ache at the thought that Murphy would be taken from him.
Murphy has always been tactile, always touching, reaching out with hands that were far too artistic to be taking lives, hands that were meant for praying not killing, but reaching out with them, and big trusting eyes. Connor has always just let him, needing to feel his brother any way he could, enjoying the closeness, the connection that no one could understand even if they accepted. But Connor has never really seen how those touches could be seen by other people, could be seen as wrong by anyone that didn't know them. But those people are wrong, those people don't know that Connor needs to feel Murphy's hands on him as much as Murphy needs to have his hands on him.
Murphy has nervous habits. He bites his fingernails, chews on his lips and t-shirts, rakes hands through his hair and it annoys Connor because most of them bring attention to his hands. Hands that Connor now can't take his eyes off, not since he crawled forward and used them to tie Connor's shoelaces. Murphy is doing it though, sitting next to Connor on a moth eaten couch, cigarette dangling between his free hand as the other is up against his mouth, teeth biting at the nails and Connor snaps. “Stop it”. It is bitten out, harsher than he meant, lower than he meant to and Murphy stops immediately, not looking at Connor but his whole body going tense as he lowers his hand from his mouth to his lap and stares at them. Murphy looks like his whole being is going into holding still, body wound tight like a coiled spring and Connor doesn't want to think what it would take for him to make Murphy snap, make the tension drain from his being like water down a drain, spiralling down into the unknown, make Murphy look at him. Connor knows what look will be on his face. He doesn't want to see it.
Murphy looks though, turns his head and looks at Connor with eyes that are dark with need and Connor wants to look away, Hail Mary, Mother of God he wants to look away and scrub himself clean till any hint of giving Murphy exactly what he needs is gone, but he can't, drawn to Murphy's face like a moth to a candle. And Connor's never really understood why moths are drawn to flames, not really because they're nocturnal creatures yet they strive for light. But when Murphy licks his lips slowly and whispers out a muttered “Conn” he kind of understands, can see why they are drawn to the danger of fire when it goes against everything they should want.
Bless me Father for I am about to sin.
Connor wants to test the waters, just like when they were kids and they would put toes into freezing water, see who could hold it there longer, wants to put his toes into the water and see how far he can push this. Its then when Murphy, seemingly in a trance, moves. He's always moved with a jerky kind of boyish charm, lumbering along next to Connor, but now he slides like water over marble, slides off the couch and crouches between Connor's legs, hands, God his hands, on Connor's knees and waits, face upturned to Connor's, eyes bright and trusting and full of need and how is Connor meant to deny him, when Murphy is all he lives for?
“Murph, what you doing?” He asks, his voice low, rasping in his throat like he's been screaming for hours, or silent for days. Murphy's hands grip tighter, fingers digging in through denim and he shakes his head once and Connor knows that looks, knows it means that Murphy has no idea, that he's running on pure instinct. Without speaking Connor leans forward, covers one of Murphy's hands with his own as the other slides up Murphy's jaw, fingers just touching and Murphy leans into the touch like a cat, practically purrs as Connor's fingers reach the skin behind his ear, a growl low in his throat and Connor swallows hard. Murphy's eyes slide shut, long dark eyelashes sweeping his cheeks and Connor has to hold himself back from leaning forward even more and touching the dark smudges beneath Murphy's eyes with his lips. “Connor” Murphy breathes out, so quietly to could be a sigh, but Connor and Murphy have never had troubles understanding each other.
The phone ringing makes them both jump guiltily, Connor's fingers sliding off Murphy's skin, Murphy moving away as Connor curses loudly and grabs the handset, stopping the shrill ringing dead. It's their Ma and Connor shifts uneasily from foot to foot as his mothers voice bleeds into his head and he can almost hear what she would say if she caught her boys touching each other like they had been seconds ago. Murphy is by his side though, warm skin pressing into Connor's arm, breath ghosting across his cheek as he tries to get closer, to hear their mothers voice down the telephone. Connor digs his elbow into Murphy's ribs and they are back to brothers.
Bless me Father for I am about to sin.
The noise of the water wakes him up, not the emptiness of the bed beside him, the lack of his brother snuffling in his sleep, the water from the pathetic excuse of a bathroom. And Murphy's stifled gasps at the lack of hot water. Connor pushes himself up, wiping the sleep and the fading images of a dream he doesn't want to analyse from his gritty eyes. Murphy's standing under the water, one hand braced against the cracked and dirty tiles, water sliding down his inked skin, the other hand wrapped around himself and Connor realises with a punch to the gut, that the stifled gasps aren't for the lack of hot water. Murphy's eyes are closed, throat moving every time he swallows down a groan that Connor knows wants to escape. Murphy's hand moves, gripping tightly and twisting on the upstroke, mirroring how Connor touches himself and a sick thrill chases its way up Connor's spine with the thought I can have this.
“Murphy, stop.” And Murphy does, a shuddering in take of breath and his hand stilling the only indication that he heard Connor. His hips twitch once in a vain attempt at causing the friction that he needs and Murphy pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, bites down and presses his forehead into the tiles. Connors knees are weak and his mouth is dry and he wants nothing more than to wrap his own hand around Murphy, to take him over the edge, watch as his brother falls to pieces under his hands, water mingling with come on the shower floor. But he swallows the lump in his throat. It's not like he's seen Murphy like this before, he has, but he usually interrupts by throwing something at his brothers head, this time though Connor knows he could step forward, join his hand with Murphy's, or even worse, make Murphy touch Connor and the thought thrills him at the same time as terrifying him.
Murphy whimpers, whimpers, hips twitching again as the internal battle between I can have this and I shouldn't want this rages in Connor's head.
“Connor...” Murphy still hasn't looked at him, still has his eyes clamped shut, his head pressing into the cold tiles like its the only thing grounding him right now and that breaks Connor, makes him take a step forward and cover the hand pressed to the tiles with his own.
“Move your hand Murphy.” Murphy shudders, his whole body quivering under the water and his eyes are still closed, fingers twitching against the tiles, but he moves his hand, once, stifling a groan. Connor's free hand winds itself into Murphy's hair and pulls his head up, Murphy opens his eyes and fuck that's a sight to see. Murphy's pupils are blown wide, need practically pouring out of them, mingling with fear as he locks eyes with Connor and moves his hand again.
Connor is close enough to smell him, the familiar scent of Murphy, mixed with arousal, its a heady mix that makes him light-headed, his fingers entwine with Murphy's, clutching like a life line as Murphy gasps again, drags in a shuddering breath. Connor takes a step forward though, crowds in towards Murphy, feels the heat from Murphy's skin even though the water is cold, his fingers still grasping Murphy's hair.
“Conn...” Murphy sounds wrecked, voice pleading for Connor to do something and Connor has no idea what to do, frozen to the spot, one hand tangled in his brothers hair, the other clutching Murphy's hand. He feels reality slipping away like this is all some dream, and he's going to wake up, aroused and flushed with Murphy throwing something at him for waking him up.
“Connor...please.” And Connor doesn't know what Murphy wants, what he needs but he slides his hand down his spine, watching Murphy arches into it.
“Shhh. C'mon Murph.” Connor whispers into his ear and Murphy shudders, hand still moving, still grasping and pulling him closer to the edge. Something in Connor snaps when Murphy groans and he spins him, pushes his back against the tiles and crowds even closer, still not quite closer enough, lips hovering over Murphy's as Murphy shudders once more and spills onto his hand.
“Fuck.” Murphy murmurs against Connor's lips.
Bless me Father for I have sinned.
During the harsh light of day everything is normal. Plain and ordinary, Murphy exactly as he was before Connor made him come in the shower by just telling him to. And Connor finds it disconcerting, no sure where reality ends and surrealism begins, not sure if he dreamt the whole thing. He keeps looking at Murphy, watching to see subtle changes in his brother behaviour towards him. And there's nothing. Not until they're heading out the door, heading to the bar.
“Get the door Murph.” And Murphy stalls, his fingers already round the handle, he stops though, for a split second, eyes locking with Connor's and Connor can see it, can see this morning, Murphy's fingers locked with his own, Murphy's breathing across his lips as he comes between them.
Connor keeps expecting someone to notice, keeps expecting someone to say something but Murphy is just the same, easy smiles and wandering hands, flicking cigarette ash into Connor's beer and laughing that genuine laugh that never fails to make Connor's belly warm, but now makes it squirm now, a swarm of butterflies deep in his stomach when Murphy leans over him to speak to someone, hand pressed to Connor's thigh. He tries hard to ignore the way way Murphy's fingers clench once before pulling away.
So Connor drinks. Beer filling the pit in his stomach, making his head fuzzy and his vision blurry as Murphy hauls him from his stool and back to their apartment. His arm strong around Connor's waist, his body warm against Connor's. The couch is welcome, hard and lumpy against his back but welcome as Murphy crouches between his legs and begins untying his boots. Connor runs his fingers through Murphy's hair, Murphy leans into it slightly, not taking his concentration off the knots in Connor's laces though. Connor can feel the scar that Murphy got falling from a tree when they were eight. Can feel the bump under his fingers as he rubs at Murphy's scalp, trying to erase one of the few things that makes them different, that separates them. Murphy pulls his boots off one by one, not looking at Connor even though Connor knows he can feel his gaze.
“Murph...” Murphy looks up at that, Connor's stumbling over thoughts and words and one thing is keeping him grounded. “Tactus mihi.” Touch me. Murphy swallows, sits up and slides his hands up Connor's thighs. Murphy's hands shakes slightly, but his eyes look relieved, like this is what he's been waiting for, permission. And Connor doesn't know if that thrills him or scares him.
“Tell me what to do, Conn...I.” Murphy's voice is low, quite, like he's speaking in the bar, right into Connor's ear and he only wants Connor to hear.
“Shirt off.” He's impressed by the way his voice works, because he honestly thought it was stuck then, stopping dead in his throat at the vulnerable way Murphy had spoken, vulnerable yet commanding. Commanding Connor to command him. Murphy nods and then is gone, stripping the t-shirt over his head in one fluid movement. Murphy's skin is pale, smooth except for scars, all of them Connor was there to see. A roadmap of their lives on Murphy's skin. He can name every one, name where it happened, how Murphy sounded when his skin was broken, can name the terror that flooded though his veins at the sight of Murphy's blood.
Murphy's hands return, sliding once again up his thighs and he looks up at Connor, with wide eyes, hands hovering over Connor's belt, and Connor draws in a breath and nods once.
Murphy's hands are cold, his fingers like ice and fire against Connor's skin where his t-shirt has ridden up, fingers deftly undoing his belt. Connor reaches out and draws a finger down Murphy's arm, the muscles twitch under his touch. He feels lost, lost at sea, tide sweeping him left then right and it makes him seasick. Murphy looks grounded, sure if a little unsure, sure that he wants this unsure that he can have this. Murphy sits forward, slides his hands under Connor's shirt, fingernails scratching the surface of skin and he's so close, lips parted, breathing slightly ragged.
He can't do this, this is his brother, his life, he can't damn him for eternity no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much he wants to feel Murphy under him. He's losing his nerve, its one thing to watch as your brother touches himself in the shower, but this, this is something else and he can't do it. He can't. He...
Reaches out, winds his fingers round Murphy's wrists, stopping their upward movement and Murphy looks at him.
“Murph...I can't...I...Jesu succurro mihi.” Jesus help me. Murphy blinks and leans forward.
He kisses Connor then, and its completion. Lips sliding over lips and Murphy's tongue licks into his mouth. “Esta bien Connor.” He murmurs into Connor's mouth. It's ok. Connor wonders when this became about Murphy looking out for Connor, Murphy taking control, his mind slips over the fact that he asked Murphy to take it. Murphy's hands are pushing under his shirt again, fingers playing over ribs and he pulls away long enough to pull the shirt over Connor's head, it lands behind him with a almost silent thud as Murphy concentrates on the denim barrier between him and Connor. Connor lifts his hips as Murphy slides the denim down, its rough against his skin but then Murphy's hands are back, smoothing, running over the and scars and ink in a way that make Murphy look like he's praying and its almost too much for Connor.
Murphy uses his long fingers to wind around Connor's wrist, pulling his hand forward, placing it over Murphy's hip. Connor flexes his fingers, tightens them in Murphy's skin, pressing in, almost hard enough to bruise and its nothing new, a bruise from Connor. Murphy's mouth is at his neck, mouthing at his pulse, teeth and lips and tongue on the Virgin tattoo. Connor dips his fingers into Murphy's jeans, and Murphy jerks his hips forward.
“Connor. lasciar andare.” Let go. And Connor does. Pushes all the wrong, this is wrong feelings down, swallows them like a jagged pill and reaches for Murphy's jeans, hands shaking only slightly as he pops the button and pushes them down Murphy's pale thighs. Murphy tugs on Connor, pulling him off the couch till they're kneeling in front of each other, facing each other. Murphy runs a hand down one side of Connor's face, like he used to when he was a child, a stupid gesture that got turned into something more, something that used to annoying Connor now it send a spike of lust through his body. Murphy kisses him again then, fingers gripping at the back of his head, pulling him forward, chests touching, heart beating together as Murphy licks into his mouth, groans and Connor pulls they're hips together almost to hard.
“Christ Connor.” Murphy curses, voice harsh against Connor's skin.
“Lord's name Murph.” Connor can't help it, it slips out before he has a chance to catch it, words their mother used with a back hand to the head, falling between then and Murphy freezes, and Connor stops breathing.
“Hail Mary, mother of God.” Murphy whispers against Connor's lips. “Touch me Connor. Please.” Connor breathe again then, takes a deep breath, his lungs flooding with oxygen as Murphy arches into him. “Please.” Connor can feel Murphy against his thigh, can feel Murphy's cock hard already and it breaks through the static, make Connor reach between them and into Murphy's boxers, makes Connor wrap his fingers around Murphy and squeeze once. Makes Murphy buck into his hand, teeth biting into his bottom lip. Makes Connor realise that yes this is wrong, but he doesn't care, not when Murphy opens his eyes and looks at Connor like Connor is the second coming. Anything is worth that look, even eternal damnation, even if Connor doesn't feel he deserves it.
Murphy's clutching at his arms, shoulders, hips, any skin he can find, thighs shaking where they are pressed up to Connor's, forehead pressed hard to Connor's, Connor's name on his lips when Connor twists his hand, thumb sliding over the slick head of Murphy's cock.
“Have you got me Conn?” Murphy opens his eyes again and looks deep into Connor's. The question is pointed, Connor knows the point, he's asking Connor to take back control, he's giving Connor control even though Connor has no idea what to do. Its all give and take, Murphy needs to give control to Connor, needs Connor to take it from him, and Connor has to do this for his brother. He's always looked out for Murphy, Murphy always looked out for him, but Murphy needs him now and Connor needs to take he desperate worried look from his brothers eyes.
“I've got you brother.” He says, right before kissing Murphy deep as Murphy shudders against him, hot come spilling on to Connor's hand. Murphy whimpers once, a sound that makes Connor remember the aching erection between his own legs and then Murphy's gone. Pulling back and pushing gently on Connor's shoulder, skin flushed and eyes heavy lidded. Connor gets the silent message, yet another way they don't need words between them, and sits, putting his legs out in front of him, propping himself up on his elbows. Murphy looks down at him, eyes tracing a burning path across Connor's skin, licks his lips and lifts his eyes to Connor's, the silent question hanging in the air between them. Holy Mother of God, Connor knows what Murphy wants, almost dreads it, because its a line that Connor isn't sure he wants to cross.
“I need you to tell me to Connor.” Murphy says. He's not looking at Connor any more, not looking at his eyes anyway.
The words stick in his throat but he manages to croak out a husky “Do it,” before Murphy is leaning forward, lips parting and licks a stripe up the underside of Connor's cock. His mouth is hot when he swallows Connor down, a wet heat like nothing he has ever felt before and Murphy swirls his tongue, hums around Connor and Connor forgets how to breath and his arms give out. His head hits the floor with a thud and his hands come up to Murphy's hair of their own accord, raking through the strands, gripping as Murphy licks and sucks like its the end of the world.
His orgasm hits him hard and out of the blue, creeps up like a thief in the night and he's coming hard enough that he thinks he blacks out, tasting damnation and love as Murphy swallows all the time, fingers clutching at Connor's hips. Murphy pulls back, swipes a thumb over his bottom lips, tongue darting out and that should be illegal. It is illegal. The words taunt him as Murphy crawls up his body and plants himself between the couch and Connor, arm winding around him, hot sweat slick skin sliding against Connor's.
Murphy's mouthing words against Connor's skin, words of love and thanks and Connor kisses him, stopping the words he doesn't want to hear, can't hear, not yet. He tastes himself.
He loves Murphy. Loves him with everything he is, would die for him, has frequently bled for him. And he knows Murphy loves him, it feels right to have Murphy curled up next to him, Murphy's kisses on his skin, it feels right and that's what's wrong.
Murphy shifts, and Connor knows he's already asleep, tightens his hold on Connor and turns his face into Connor's neck. Connor pushes down the desire to push his brother into the threadbare rug and sink into his sleep pliant and warm body, and offers up a silent prayer to the God that should abandon them both.
Forgive me Father for I have sinned.
Part 2: I Will Sin Again
Part 3: You And Me Against The World
Part 4: On The Outside
Part 5: Cognitive Dissonance