A collection of one shots I have written about my beloved trash son John Murphy.
I take requests if you would like one specially made, only rule is that I write from a Y/N perspective only. No one shots featuring your name.
(Cover created by aya-f...
[A/N] Hello darlings despite popular belief I am not dead, just suffering from months long writer's block. Luckily though while rewatching the 100 I was hit with inspiration. I hope you enjoy it, feedback is always appreciated.
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John Murphy. There was a lot to say about that boy. You had to admit you held a soft spot for him, even before you ended up on the ground. He'd had a rough childhood that caused his abrasive personality, which was only amplified by his new found ego gifted to him by the power Bellamy gave him on the ground. You saw past the asshole front he put up though. You were the one that approached him and started your friendship with him in the Sky Box, and once you were sent down that friendship blossomed into something more than friends but less than lovers. Before it could finally transition into a relationship he was hanged, and outcasted, leaving you alone and putting you in your current situation...
• • •
"Fuck, that's gross," Murphy said as he rolled you onto your side, allowing the blood to flow freely from your mouth.
"You don't look much better," the sarcastic comment spluttered from your chapped lips, flicking specks of your blood onto his already bloody clothes. You, of course, were right. He looked like a mess with his torn shirt exposing his muddy wounds.
"Do you really think it's a good idea to insult the person making sure you don't die?"
"Only when i know my insatiable good looks make up for my charming wit."
"I wouldn't call the blood oozing from all the holes on your face insatiable," he said shaking his head as a chuckle escaped his lips.
"But you do agree my wit is charming?"
"I didn't say that," he gave you a pointed look as he set down the cloth he'd been using to rub the blood off your face.
"C'mere," you patted the space next to you on the pile of blankets you were on, "everyone's going to sleep. You should to."
"You sure you want the guy who was ready to kill a kid warming your bed?"
The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. Your eyes softened as the Murphy only you knew surfaced. He showed you the broken, self-hating boy he really was.
"I couldn't think of better company," as you said this you grabbed his hand and pulled him down next to you. Before he could even open his mouth to shoot a retort he was on the ground by your side. "Ya know, camp isn't as eventful without you around. No one else can keep up with my sarcasm quite like you," you tell him as you get into a comfortable position. Your head was on his chest, one leg resting between both of his, and your hand tracing patterns on the skin exposed by the tears in his shirt.
"You seem to be the only one that missed me," the pain is so evident in his tone you have to draw in a deep breath to quell the tears that you want to cry for him.
"Nah, I'm just the only one brave enough to say it out loud," he starts to relax into your comforting hold, brining his hand up to run his fingers through your hair.
"Tomorrow, I'm going to clean your wounds." "Okay." "And then, I'm going to show you just how much i missed you." "Yeah?" "Mhmm, and I'm going to apologize for not stopping what started this in the first place."
Your words caused him to draw in a sharp breath. Cautiously you bring your hand up to the collar of his shirt.
"Can I?" The rest of the question doesn't need to be voiced. Closing his eyes, he gives a small nod. Your fingertips slowly brush against his neck. The scars had just begun to heal, but they'd always be there, a constant reminder of his painful past. You kept your eyes on him, gauging his reaction to your movements, making sure that the sensation was never too much for him to handle.
"Or I could start with the apologies now," you end your sentence by pushing yourself up with your unoccupied arm so that you're leaning over him. His eyes open and you make sure you give him enough time to protest before you lean down and brush your lips against his neck. His eyes are filled with a mix of emotions: confusion, sadness, want. Murphy hadn't been touched like this— so gently, caring even— in a long time. He tried to remember that time, it had to have been well before being sent to the ground, maybe before his dad was floated?
"I'm so sorry," your words bring him back to the present as you lightly kiss his cheek, his forehead, his temple, his nose, and finally his lips. Your mouths slot together easily, it's a familiar feeling, the movements come naturally to both of you. Except now it's slower than its ever been, really just a touching of lips, only lasting for a minute. The emotion poured into is enough to leave him gasping though.
"I'm going to make it up to you, every way i know how," you put every ounce of sincerity you had into your words.
"I'm counting on it," a smirk is on his lips in no time. Old habits die hard, but you're infatuated with Murphy whether it's the side you know or the front he puts up for everybody else. You give him a small smile, and another kiss before resuming your earlier position.
That's how Clarke finds you in the morning, Murphy holding you tight as you both sleep soundly. She decides to let you two sleep for a few more minutes as she makes her rounds through the drop ship.
This moment, is what they call the calm before the storm.
