rapids
bds, connor/murphy
by lilnee
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"It's freezing, ya retard, that's why."
Imagine ocean.
"It's only fuckin' water, gimme a break."
Imagine rolling ocean. Foaming and glowing, the heavy hang of mist in the air. Every breath like new day going down. Easier, easier, and maybe then too much, so the slow sigh that gives you five seconds of satisfied, thick, blue, green, heavy midnight. When all the tourists and children are at home, or in hotels, inns. The area vacated, desolated, ink slap blue. There are sand castle shadows, monuments (Murphy tripping on one the way down) and sticks and stones to break your bones. Nothing but long grey land under the moon going on and out, finally curving around a rock, a cliff, the end, where the earth's chipped off. Something less than perfect but it's quiet, it's the sea out there, it's endless difference, churning spontaneity, constant motion.
Murphy's tempting fate.
Connor's just tired.
"Freezing water, yer goin' deaf on me."
"Oh, come on, fuck. When are ya gonna get another chance?"
"If ya want to go and freeze your balls off, be my guest. Just do us a favour an' don't drown, alright. Have to fuckin' move to save yer ass now, wouldn't I." Connor adjusts in the sand where he's sitting and sighs. Further up from the rush of water and bubbles and sharks. Sharks, fuckin' serious. Great Whites. Sightings and attacks of those two years ago, the sign said. Six feet from shore. But that's not a good enough reason for Murphy, no. He wants to chase the waves.
Connor can barely see the frown, his pout, whatever it is (it all looks unhappy), in the shadow. Downcast light, but still enough for shapes and scopes and the features of Murphy's face. Isn't much for the situation, so he doesn't do much about it. Just lifts himself up on his elbows (sinking further down, shifting, sliding away, grains digging sand paper fine) and looks out at that ocean. Water, endless difference. It's smooth and then it's rising up again, ridged, wave upon wave upon white lines curling over sand. Sea foam. This is the ending of the world. The drop off from civilization. Connor imagines he can see driftwood coming in on every swell. Timbers from ships and boats, or limbs from trees on islands out beyond anything and everything and he's daydreaming. Night dreaming. Thinking. Murphy hasn't moved at all. Not to anywhere away. He's pacing him, circling a side, and just now sitting down. Nothing but the slam of a wave coming in hard, air exploding, and then he's pulling his knees up, saying something about the weather, about changing the subject, about this being too far from home.
Only all he's said was it's cold. Connor chews his lip like isn't his habit and thinks about that. Thunder storm in his head is what Ma would say. Easy things to forget when you're nowhere familiar... Ma and Ireland and green as green as. Cold. He turns to look—and there's an idea. Builds from his stomach. The wind snaps, turns Murphy's hair inside out, over his face. The instant to spill it out presents itself. Ripe moment. The ends of the world have no consequences so don't hesitate.
"Suck my cock."
Let that wash over and sink in.
"What?"
Murphy scoffs enough for it to be incredulous.
So. "Wasn't a question." And he digs his fingers into the sand as far as they'll go.
Murph tilts and shakes his head to get the hair out of his face. He doesn't look anything like he should be for the moment (great pickup lines I have known). He looks calm, glimmer of excitement in glimmering blue eyes, the clouds thinning and planets shining. Dark shines. Don't only imagine this. Been imagining things too often, too long. Start somewhere different. By no fucking means new, oh no, but... Different. Murphy's entire demeanor changes like fluctuation. Opens up, outward, lifts and stretches his arms out. Lips moist from licking, tender from biting and wind, moving slowly but moving. Lazy sea creature come on land.
He's zipping himself down for Murphy, leaning back fully. Takes himself from his elbows to the curve of his spine, Murphy's face dim and muted in the light above him. Mellow, only roaring (you've got to think the tip of an iceberg). There's half the fun. Always fucking with the lights on, watching and noticing and here's room for error, sight and smell and sound. The natural soundtrack in the background, literally drowning their voices, and maybe thoughts, too, because Murphy's forgotten about his argument too soon or not soon enough. Like bringing himself closer and nudging Connor's legs wide with a knee soon. Like cold, sand-chewed hands migrating higher to inner thigh soon. Rolling his tongue out like the ocean rolls out just to tease, to breathe on Connor's mouth and help with his jeans. Slow grin. Fixated. A little breathless, a little shaky, always moving, always going.
"If I'd known the ocean got ya this excited..."
"Ya'd want to live in a fuckin' beach house." Connor rocks his hips up, up, up, only just a little wanton. Nothing like blatant desperation to put the hop in someone's step. To get Murphy's fingertips pressed sharp.
"Got good ideas." And Murphy's panting already. Sucking in too much salted air, too deprived for too long. There's sand in everything and Connor's boxers, and this is too much like a dream to be happening.
Might find yourself just plain fucking more than doing the foreplay. The slow smiles, the full on grins and soothing licks, bites, looks, touches, slower than harder, or faster for release, release, release. Might find yourself desperate for some kind of escape from the running, the hiding, the sulking in shadows. Need that space, that stretch, that physical gratification. So when you find yourself with the chance for slow, testing, soothing, sex... it goes without saying. It's where you can't go wrong. Not just comfort, not just brotherly.
"Ahh."
It's nothing yet but wet heat from Murphy's mouth over the head of Connor's cock.
"Jesus, fu—Murph."
Haven't had time for this in...
"Too long, don't," Murphy'll say it was whined, Connor'll say it was insisted, "Don' fuckin' tease, motherfucker... There's a," he's groping for hair, shirt, shoulder, to lift, to grip, to pull—finally finds something, "limit." And he kisses him on the mouth, the throat to get the point across. This'll be everything all at once. That long steady licking and hard biting. That soothing touching, petting, eyeing. That final swallow and grin, wind cooling to almost painful. Connor hisses and folds his knees up, pulls Murph closer, pulls him higher. "Go on."
"Say please."
He's got him there. His prick heavy and pressing into Murph's belly. Some other time that might have warranted a chuckle, but it's only made him flush (shudder, rise) here. Made him remember exactly where he is, exactly who he is, exactly why he's on a beach in California, flat out in the sand, hot in winter. Pacific large and unmistakable over his brother's shoulder. He's going to say he's lucky. (Only.)
"Murph."
(Guns and blood come between it.)
"I didn't hear a please."
He's swallowing. Not hanging out in the open wind, anyway. Murphy's not that cruel. But Murphy is slowly, oh slowly (can see things like the strain of his spine and thighs as he does, the curve of hips and folded edges of shirt over belly), rubbing his buttoned jeans into Connor's open ones. Can feel the hard rumour of his cock, easy, more slow and slower until he stops and just presses down. Interesting warmth.
"Please," whispered from chapping lips.
Murphy comes in to lick them, make it a sting.
"One more, aye."
This is a little out of character.
"Now. Please."
Murphy'll make due on promises, and sometimes he won't. On this time, on this particular day, he does. Starts licking down stretched warm hot hot flesh as soon as he's there. Wetting and wetting again when the air dries him. Starts curling his fingers around Connor's back, into his jeans where they're pulled uneven. Licks, presses, sucks hard at the head and now the moaning starts. Going loud so he can hear himself over the ocean. Over that noise and the sand between his fingers.