the kettle black
Murphy is a big fan of coffee. Is a big fan of the smell, the taste, the look. Just an all around coffee pusher. Because coffee is and always will be a taste he associates with fucking. Straight out, straight up, twisting, writhing, hands sweating, sweeping; palms slipping, fingers scraping, fucking. Frantic must-go-faster always. Need this, need that. Need it harder, faster, longer, deeper. Holding on like ya can't let go, and ya honestly couldn't even if you tried, pried, needed to. Fingers gripping so tight, so hard, knuckles are locking. Inner thighs locking, shoulders locking.
The weight of the world on every thrust and shudder and sway. Bow tight, wire tight. Words bubbling up but bleeding out. Hissing. Tensed jaws a hard line. Baring white. Glisten just off the moon coming down in white-blue shafts. Damp air. Noises not checked or held in. Bellowing. Grinding. Howl. Some kind of prayer at that. Names drawn thin and tight, blood rushing long and hard.
Voice lost and scratchy at the end of it all. Morning a morning too bright. Coffee just as thick as the sex in the air, then. Fresh, heavy, luring smell, and how is Connor so fucking awake? Feel down the throat savoured, hot and steadily hotter. Sipping careful through breaks on a cigarette. Lounged back on bed, propped up on one shoulder, sore. Well used. Squinting at natural light and watching Connor's outline watching him back. Yeah, Murphy's a coffee pusher. Breathing curls of steam in and smirking slow. That taste washing over a throat ragged with his brother's name.