« Touch me again, and I’ll end you...in a non-criminal way.»

Closed John Murphy from The 100
ofmonstersandmenrp's Murphy
Multiverse | OC friendly | Mun is 18+

abtbellamy:

Bellamy couldn’t help a deep sigh at Murphy’s words, he hadn’t exactly planned to enjoy his last days. There was no damn point anyway. Not when everything awful was still going around. “Enjoying things doesn’t exactly fit into my schedule right now, thank you very much,” he huffed. He knew Murphy was only teasing but fuck, how could he even take this so lightly?

He glared down to Murphy, he didn’t like that how he became a bit softer, it was… wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be like that, grinning at him, trying to get him drink like they were damn pals or something. Bellamy wasn’t sure what he was even supposed to think about that. But the offer was still tempting, he just wanted to damn think something else, and he wouldn’t die because of a few sips. That would surely be disappointing, for the Grounders at least. Bellamy shook his head and stood up, grabbing the bottle underneath everything else.

“Fine,” Bellamy sighed and sat back down. He didn’t even grin, he just needed at least something to do and if Murphy was going to behave… well, he would give him a chance. He popped the bottle open before poured some liquid into his mouth, grimaced as it was just so awful he had expected. “Fine. You better start to sing,” he said and handed the whiskey for the other.

Bellamy’s expression sharpened and steeled itself, but Murphy did not break under its pressure. Instead, he watched his dying leader take a deep sip of hundred-year-old whiskey. Bellamy made a face and passed it over. Murphy smirked; he was well acquainted with the acidic taste, and didn’t so much as flinch as he gulped some down. His lower lip lingered on the mouth of the bottle, still warm from Bellamy’s touch. Soon he’d be gone, and the camp would cool in his absence. Fucking great.

Murphy shook that thought from his head and passed the bottle back, before stretching out with all the arrogant, lazy danger of a cat. “Then I’ll sing, your highness,” he deadpanned, before prodding Bellamy’s boot with his foot. He then told a story about Connor, and sniggered at the memory of his abject horror. Sure, Murphy had been even more of a dick back then, but there was no harm in telling the truth. Maybe then, Bellamy would see him as less of a nuisance and more of a human. Not that it should matter – they’d both be soon anyway.

He changed the subject to Mbege. Their foray into causing havoc on the Ground had lasted precisely as long as it took for Charlotte to kill Wells. And still, they’d left their mark on the surface, carving their shared initials into trees, making ugly weapons out of scrap metal, and slipping radioactive frogs into unsuspecting tents. Murphy then talked about how he’d met Mbege in the skybox. The latter was arrested during Murphy’s second year of incarceration, and they became fast friends, armed with the same sardonic sense of humour. Hell, they’d single-handedly made a guard retire. Murphy was partially proud of that feat, and it showed through his embellished recount. He did not, however, mention his crime. He knew that Bellamy used to be a guard, after all.

Some of the topics made him smile, and others made him desperately sad, but still he talked, because he owed Bellamy that. Kind of. Murphy figured that Bellamy probably needed this—needed someone else to take charge for once. And so Murphy talked and talked, and for now, that was enough to protect them from tomorrow. Finally, when the back-and-forth of booze made his cheeks ruddy and his voice dry, he stopped.

“Hey, I think that’s the longest you’ve gone without telling me to shut up.”