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Murphy's drunk. He's drunk and boneless, and the inside of Connor's mouth has turned to sand hours ago.
Lounging on the excuse of a couch, head thrown back, one foot on the upholstery and knee bent, Murphy says, “We should get them all.”
They've been talking about tattoos; future ones, the ones they already have, the ones they want to share, the ones they'd never dare to. Murphy is dead set on covering himself from head to toe, from the way he's been talking.
“That won't fit, ye twat. Ye would've to be nine feet tall to have enough skin for it all.”
Murphy titters, carefree and happy and his knee bounces left and right, effectively spreading his legs with the movement. Then his head snaps up and he's blinking in his direction, looking like an owl. “We should try,” he states and his foot slips from the couch, making him almost lose his balance.
Connor sits on a rusty chair, opposite, and sends a quick prayer upwards. “We should get ye to bed, that's what we should do.” He stubs his smoke out - he's been chain-smoking ever since they got back to the flat, Murphy obviously plastered but decidedly active at the same time.
“Aye,” Murphy agrees, scooting down the length of the coach until he's able to reach his sketchbook. “That could work. Back first or front?”
Connor swallows, not nearly as lost as he'd like to be. “I'm not drawing yer whole book on ye, Murphy, cause I've got some brain cells left and I know it won't fit.”
This isn't, in fact, the end of the matter.
Wobbly, Murphy manages to stand up and shuffles over. His face is set. “Don't be thick, ye can't draw for shit,” he says, wiggling the book at him accusingly. “I'll draw them on ye.” His mouth forms into a ridiculous round shape, lips jutting out.
Connor can't believe he's even still standing, with all the alcohol floating through his system. Belatedly, he notices that Murphy seems to be waiting for something. “What?” he asks weakly.
“Well. Strip,” Murphy says with a shrug. Something in Connor's loins tightens.
“Another time,” he says, evading, and then Murphy shuffles closer, hands grabby.
“There's that big one we can do right on yer back.” He grabs Connor by the shirt and hauls him up with surprising strength, even though Connor has to hold him by the arms so he doesn't keel over in the end.
Anxiety rising in his throat, Connor tries to reason. “I don't think that's a good idea.”
“Why ever not?”
There's nothing he can answer, really, without giving himself away. He draws an uneven breath and submits to his fate. Might as well be that Murphy will grow tired soon, with all the alcohol in his blood.
Connor peels himself out of his clothes while Murphy thumbs through his sketchbook, frowning in concentration. It would be worth a laugh if the situation wasn’t so dire.
“Lay on yer belly, will ye,” Murphy says distractedly, chin pointing towards Connor's bed. “I'll do this one.” He grins happily, finger on a drawing, and Connor drops his pants, eyeing his briefs for a moment - everything in order - before he flops down onto the mattress with a defeated noise.
“Don't be dramatic,” Murphy says, pen already in hand and flushed face grinning, and clambers up on the bed next to him, kneeing Connor in the kidney.
Connor clicks his tongue and sends another prayer upwards, and then Murphy's hands are on his back, fingers smoothing over his skin like there'd be wrinkles otherwise, and then he's apparently decided on a starting position- “Hold up- Murph.” Connor tries to turn around, resulting in one of Murphy's hands pressing down between his shoulder blades, effectively holding him down. “Ye won't get the whole drawing if ye start so fucking low,” he tries again.
“Stop fretting,” Murphy says and then the only noise is their breathing and the pen dragging over his skin, catching every so often when Murphy puts on too much pressure, and sometimes it’s tickling when he's not putting on enough pressure.
A few minutes in, and Connor is sweating.
He feels clammy and hot, face pressed against his forearm, and he's breathing through his mouth already - Murphy hasn't even finished a single drawing yet. It goes on and on, lines wandering down on his body, over his spine, lower, and it dawns on Connor that even though Murphy keeps slipping on his skin, a bit uncoordinated, the pen stays steady and he isn't even talking, blathering on like he usually does, when intoxicated.
He clears his throat, the question already on his tongue, but then Murphy slithers down on the bed and straddles his thighs, cutting off his circulation immediately. “Get off, ye knob,” Connor grunts, thankful that his voice isn't too hoarse yet. “Yer fucking heavy.”
“Shut it.” Murphy continues drawing, and Connor breathes into his pillow, against his arm, cigarette smoke and leftover booze and Murphy in the air, and he knows he's got a problem when the pen wanders so low it almost reaches the elastic of his briefs.
“Ye done yet?” Connor clears his throat again.
“Almost,” Murphy says, and Connor can practically hear the frown on his face. “Few more inches.”
He breathes and breathes and Murphy hooks his fingers under the elastic, pulling a bit, nothing indecent to be sure, but he's pulling at his underwear nonetheless, and the pen drags right over where the swell of his buttocks begins.
He's got a problem, alright.
“Wish we had a camera,” Murphy murmurs, “this is neat.”
Goosebumps, hopefully unnoticed, are all over his skin by now. He's a mess, and Murphy talks about photographs. He shudders involuntarily, and Murphy pats his back quickly, propping himself up and lifting from his thighs. “Where do ye want the one with the circle?”
Rubbing his forehead against his arm, Connor lets out a long sigh. “Shoulder blades?” he offers weakly, and he should really put a stop to this, before-
It's too late anyway. He's straining in his briefs and he'll never turn around again, ever, even if everything around him catches on fire. He'll just have to lay here, suffering in silence, burning and aching.
“Nah, should be more intimate. It's not for the world to see, aye?” Murphy says. The mattress dips, the bed rattles with it, and then the pen is on his skin again, on the back of his thigh. His muscles jump at the touch, pen catching on fine hair.
“Murphy,” he manages to say, “No one's gonna see it there.” There's no answer, just the pen sliding over his skin and his own breathing, sounding too loud, but surely only to his own ears. Possibly. He hasn't closed his mouth in a while, and as if Murphy knows, this time he starts right above his knee, working his way up.
When his muscles shake too badly, ticklish and jumpy from the touch, one of Murphy's hands close around the fleshy part of his leg and he squeezes- and the hand stays.
This one only takes a few minutes and even if the pen hadn't left Connor’s skin, he would've recognized the satisfied noise for what it is. “Done?” he asks hopefully, and by now his voice does sound hoarse, no matter how many times he's cleared his throat. Murphy's head plops into his line of sight, turned at a weird angle, and he nods, grinning.
“Turn over,” he says, excitement written all over his face. “I wanna do the Leviathan.”
Connor just lies there for a moment, brain empty. He clears his throat again, just in case. “Nah,” he croaks, “Think this'll do for now.”
Murphy's face falls, he's even biting his lower lip. “Come on,” he pleads, “It'll look so good- deadly!” Connor is shaking his head before he's even finished speaking, and then Murphy's demeanor changes; head craned sideways, Murphy lifts his eyebrows at him until Connor averts his eyes and there's a small hitch in Murphy’s breath. “I don't care if ye got a tent,” he says, and Connor dies, internally, “It's only natural, with my talented hands on ye.”
“I’m not-” Connor starts, but Murphy slaps his arm, rather friendly even, and grins in the stupid way he does.
“I don't care,” he repeats, nodding for emphasis. “Turn around, then.”
Connor closes his eyes, a quiet prayer on his tongue, and then he complies. Trying to make it not awkward, he turns around in one go, overheated skin on his front breaking out in goosebumps when cold air washes over him and he very decidedly doesn't look down at himself.
Better off not knowing what Murphy is going to see when he takes a look. If, if he takes a look.
There's silence for a moment, and Connor opens eyes he didn't know he had closed, chancing a look at his brother, but Murphy's attention isn't on him at all, his head is buried in his sketchbook again. Well then, Connor thinks. This is for the better, anyway. He stays still until Murphy has internalized everything he needs to know and gets to work, pen digging into the skin just under his ribs, and Connor is sucking in a breath to escape the feeling, but Murphy stays relentless and soon he's adjusting to the feeling.
After a while, it's too intimate.
It's not something to be done, Connor thinks, and then he makes a great mistake by looking down the line of his body; at Murphy's hand on his ribs and the pen over his belly, and further down, where he's throbbing, hard and impossible not to notice and- Jesus Christ, there's a wet spot, he's fucking leaking already, a dark and very noticeable patch on his light briefs.
He covers his eyes with his arm, and he endures.
Murphy draws and draws, and Connor breathes, hot all over, steadily leaking on, eyes hidden, and he won't take much more of this. He won't. He'll have to put a stop-
“Fuck,” Murphy says suddenly, “I’ve started too low again.” And that is it, Connor thinks, this is the last straw.
“Are ye fucking kidding me,” he forces out, voice rough and not trusting himself to look down. “This is not-”
“I'll try, but I don't think it'll fit,” Murphy runs him over, and Connor has the sudden sense that Murphy is looking him over now, seeing, and his heart stutters in his chest.
“Come on,” he says, pleads, “We can always finish another time.”
“Nah.” Murphy sounds remarkably carefree for someone who’s about to get intimate with their brother's erection. Connor begins to question his mind, if he's honest.
Murphy keeps working on and somewhere along the way, Connor can't be bothered to control his breathing any longer, fuck it if Murphy can hear him. He knew, and now all Murphy has to do to end this is to simply stop. But he won't. He's drawing and the pen dips lower, and lower, lower, almost at his hips now, and then back to the middle, catching on coarse hair leading down and Connor shudders.
Maybe the whole thing wasn't indecent before, but now it's about to cross the line.
He's about to voice his complaint when the pen leaves his skin and Murphy's fingers are back, hooking under the elastic, pulling, and pulling some more, until Connor’s hips are exposed and he’s pretty sure the only part of him still covered up is his cock. Without meaning to, he looks.
And looks up again so fast the mattress jumps with it. “Fuck,” he tells the ceiling, and Murphy, and the room in general.
This is not normal, he thinks. He's basically wet by now, the dark patch not so much a small spot but a giant stain, and with the way Murphy dragged the fabric down, he's even more cramped together, bulking obscenely, pubic hair all over the place and for everyone to see.
Murphy draws on. He draws on until he can't make it work any longer, V covered up already and hair too thick further down, and Connor is breathing like he's running a marathon.
With nimble fingers, Murphy pulls at the fabric again, stubbornly trying to get it to stay under Connor’s hipbones, but it keeps snatching up on its own, and then he says, “Only the tail left, then I'm done.” and it sounds like a question.
Connor can't bring himself to say anything, and even if he could, he wouldn't know what to say besides 'ye sound decidedly sober for a drunken man, Murphy' and that's something he will not get into, now. Instead, he lies still, and after a few seconds of silence, Murphy tugs again, gently, and when he still doesn't react, Murphy’s fingers worm inside the fabric entirely, and he's pulling, sliding, moving down on the bed, and Connor is bare.
His cock lands on his belly with a soft sound and Murphy doesn't stall for a second, he's on him at once, pen digging into the soft skin next to his hips, and then he's everywhere; on the top of his thighs, on the sensitive skin on the inside, too, he's pushing him apart, shoving his shoulders between his knees, holding him steady when Connor squirms involuntarily.
He's making noises now, he knows. There's nothing to stop it, Murphy is right there, unbothered by all of it, from the sound of it. Not that Connor would know, because Murphy isn't talking and Connor isn’t looking down, oh no, he won't look at Murphy between his thighs, the image would be engraved in his brain forever-
“I can smell it,” Murphy says.
Connor’s hips roll up on their own, heat surging through him. Murphy is acknowledging- Murphy is right there, between- he's admitting this is real, he's-
“Would ye react like this, too, when it wouldn't be the pen touching ye?”
Connor's brain is fried. It's empty. He can't even move his arms anymore, he's not able to do anything.
Murphy moves again, hand on his thigh, under it, and then he's pushing it upwards, bending, pen tickling the place right between his leg and his butt and it's too much- and then Murphy lifts the other one, too, pen digging in in quick succession, and Connor is sobbing, he's so weak by now. He's pretty sure he's leaked an entire puddle and he keeps twitching, and Murphy sees, and smells, and knows-- God, does he know it's for him-
“Are ye gonna come like this?” Murphy asks and this time, Connor can't stop himself from looking down, quickly, hips twitching up and his body shaking with want.
Murphy is half-lying on the mattress, holding himself up by his elbows, one hand on Connor’s thigh, holding him open, face almost right between his legs, between where he- there's not a single chance that this isn't intentional, that he doesn't know , but he's not doing anything besides drawing.
'Does this count as decent,' Connor wants to ask. He doesn't. He lets his head drop instead, hiding behind his arm again, muscles shaking all over with the effort to stay still, to stay open and exposed, shaking with want and desire so strong he's rolling his hips up into nothing, into thin air, in tiny, tiny thrusts.
He's utterly lost.
“Hush now,” Murphy whispers and it sounds muffled, for some reason. There's no scraping sensation from the pen anymore either, and Connor sucks in a breath, holds it, holds it- “Breathe out now, Connor,” and he does.
Something breaches him, easily, wet, slipping inside and not stopping until he can feel Murphy's knuckles brush against him intimately, and his entire body goes rigid, clenching around- feeling it inside of him, and he says, “Oh, Murphy,” astonished, and then he comes all over himself, cock untouched.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Fuck, ye did,” Murphy rumbles, and then he's moving his finger out, but not all the way, and he pushes back in, and again, and again, and Connor shakes with it, thighs falling open, skin oversensitive and sweaty and too hot and Murphy doesn't let up.
“Ye fucking came like that,” Murphy says again, voice hoarse and eyes dark like charcoal, looking almost wild when Connor stares down at him.
Murphy pulls out and Connor's neck shakes with the effort to hold his head up, then Murphy's hand comes up to smear through the white stripes on Connor’s chest, coating his hand before he’s back already, pushing inside again and adding another finger. “Can I,” Murphy rasps, pulling his fingers apart, widening, making Connor hiss when his cock tries to twitch back to life too soon.
“What.” He doesn't recognize his own voice, way beyond shame now.
Murphy pushes in deep, in and out again, thumb pulling at him, and he won't look away from his face.
“Oh,” Connor says, voice high. This is happening, now. Nodding, he curls his upper body to the side and crams his hand under the mattress, fingers groping around until they hit the small jar, pulling and throwing it vaguely in Murphy's direction.
Murphy reaches for it and slicks his fingers up for real this time, inside of him again at once. “Jesus fuck,” he murmurs wildly.
“Lord's name.”
“Jesus fuck,” Murphy says again, shoving another finger inside, “I can't believe that worked.”
Maybe he's out of it, but not so much that he doesn't know what his brother is saying anymore.
“Ye fucking-” Connor starts, and moans helplessly. His thigh rises up on its own, exposing himself even more, and Murphy curls his fingers inside of him- He’s probably sweated through the covers by now.
“Just saying it's good I took matters into my own hand earlier, or I wouldn't have lasted until now,” Murphy comments, and then he pulls out, leaving Connor clenching around air. “Can ye come again?” he asks, looking down at Connor's soft cock.
“Ye fucking planned this,” Connor rasps, maybe out of it after all. “Ye and yer fucking tattoos-”
“Connor, can ye come again?” Murphy asks, impatient, and he's wiggling around, looking like a tool until Connor's brain catches up on the fact that he's trying to get out of his jeans.
He shrugs helplessly.
“For fuck's sake.”
The jeans land somewhere next to the bed and Murphy descends on him, lips closing around his cock. It's soft enough to fit inside completely, and Connor keens, hypersensitive, almost hurting with it, almost, and it’s filling out too fast, hurting for real for a moment, and then it doesn't fit anymore already, and Murphy has to draw off, hand closing around the base and he's sucking upwards, upwards, as if wants to suck the size out of him, Connor following with his hips-
“Can't wait any longer,” Murphy says. He crawls up the bed, over him, and Connor lifts his legs on instinct, closing them around Murphy's waist and Murphy's hand is between them, fumbling, and then he's poking at him, blunt and thick and Connor thinks no, for a moment, that won't fit at all, and then he's being breached, and Murphy murmurs, “Breathe out, breathe out, breathe out,” and he does, he does, and they slot together, panting.
Murphy is trying to be patient, Connor notices, but he's feeling fucked out already, worn and tired and giddy and hypersensitive, so he wraps one leg around Murphy's back, heel of the other digging into his arse, and urges him on.
It hurts, in all the good and some of the bad ways, and Murphy's weight is crushing him, making it even harder to breathe, and he can't stop moaning, Murphy's name spilling from his lips, profanities, sins, blasphemies; he's out of control and Murphy thrusts long and steady, teeth nipping at his jaw, at his neck, at his collarbone, not faltering, only when their mouths meet, suddenly, unexpected, and Connor can taste himself on Murphy's tongue.
At some point, Murphy's arm slips and he's almost lying on top of him now, Connor can't even roll his hips any longer, he's trapped and helpless and being fucked, cock rubbing between their bellies, wet again, and he's murmuring, secrets and confessions, and love confessions.
When Murphy comes, he stills for a moment, open mouth breathing against him, and Connor swallows it all; the moan and the air, head surging up to claim him, and he can feel it, down inside of him, and then he's coming, too, weak and sensitive, whining a bit and feelings all over the place.
“I fucking love ye,” he says, sobs, when his cock is still twitching and Murphy's hips haven't stilled yet. “I will- I shan't take it back, ye know now.”
Murphy shudders above him, arms moving to support some of his own weight again. “I knew,” he whispers, and he's pulling out, sound obscene, and settles on top of him again; a heavy, warm blanket. “I knew.”