"I said I didn't mean to!" Connor snipes, exasperated, but Murphy isn't listening. Murphy is dripping, and there is a burn on his leg from where the coffee scalded his skin and he has an "I'm gonna count to ten and then slit your throat" kind of looks.
In Connor's hand rests the empty mug. It's gripping and Connor's hand is equally scalded and behind him is the pair of shoes he's tripped over, left carelessly by one of them, who can tell which.
Murphy stands up in one swift motion and has his brother in a painful headlock the next. But Connor elbows his twin in the gut and pulls away from Murphy's grasp and in the next thirty seconds their apartment turns into a rough-and-tumble brawling room.
The two roll around in the floor, exchanging punches and taking turns pinning each other down and neither of them can really remember when it turned from an actually fight into something less violent and into something more animalistic; when blows were exchanged with kisses.
And Murphy doesn't really remember when he went from wanting to punch his brother for being so careless and when he wanted to hear Connor begging and writing beneath him. But somehow he is on top of his brother and half their clothes have gone somewhere and Connor is doing just that.
They manage to make it to the bed, and by the time they do, the rest of their clothes are gone. Connor is all mouth and tongue, moving like sin itself across his chest, drifting down across the hollow of his hip to take Murphy's erection into his mouth.
Murphy is all hands, his fingers finding all of Connor's erogenous spots and roaming like they own they terrain they're exploring. Connor is his to mold and control. He can make him squirm, he can make him moan or beg or buck all with a simple command from his hands in the right spots.
And it is not long before his hands leave Connor to pull at a cold handle of the bedside drawer and he is pulling out a glass bottle and Connor is groaning his approval around a mouthful of cock. But as he opens the cap, the darker twin surreptitiously gives the cover a twist to intentionally loosen it.
When he turns the vial upside down to pour some out onto his palm, the top falls off and the oil splooshes from the bottle and spills in a sticky, messy puddle all over Connor's chest.
That's enough to distract Connor from what he's doing and he releases Murphy with a wet pop and utters an incoherent noise of protest.
"What's tha fuck?" He manages at last, lifting his head to peer down at his torso.
"Sorry, Conn," Murphy says with the biggest shit-eating grin Connor has ever seen. "I didn't mean to."
