The Problem with Turnabout

Connor/Murphy. R. ~650 words.
“And what’s that supposed to be?” Connor asked, giving Murphy’s frayed zip a pointed look. “A polite suggestion?”

Flicking his cigarette into the ashtray, Murphy wandered over to drape both arms over Connor’s shoulders, a welcome bit of warmth until he said, “You’ll fuck it all to hell if you keep at it like that,” with his chin digging into the top of Connor’s skull.

“Fuck off.” Connor ducked down, aiming a smack to the side of Murph’s head, easily dodged, and rubbed the sting from his scalp. “I know what I’m doing.”

Murphy’s laugh came with a retaliatory smack to the gun’s naked barrel. “Do you now?” He settled back into place, clingy as a piece of plastic wrap, and caught Connor’s wrist before a set of scarred knuckles could drill into the side of his thigh. “Sure you don’t need a hand there?”

“I’ll give you a fucking hand,” Connor muttered, twisting around to get free while Murphy kept on laughing. An elbow to the gut cut that racket short, and Murphy’s half-assed and far too late attempt at dodging a second time around sent pieces of the gun clattering to the floor. “Christ, Murph, look at what you’re about, making a fuckin’ mess all over the place.”

Murphy’s laugh picked up right where it’d left off, a little rougher around the edges as he fought to pin Connor to the chair, his free hand skidding south to slap over Connor’s cock. “How about you give me something else then, and I’ll make a proper mess of it,” he said, giving it a firm squeeze.

Connor surged up and the chair went broadside, the table ass over kettle and everything left on it scattering to the corners of the cramped little room. They went down in a tumble, Connor’s flail to keep his balance turned to a scramble up on top of Murphy. Then it was a laugh and a curse as he grabbed at Murphy’s face, gave him a wet, smacking kiss and a light cuff to the side of the neck.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Murphy scrubbed the back of his arm across his face, a punch to Connor’s shoulder landing like an afterthought. He struggled up, rolling beneath Connor’s arm to straddle his chest, pin both arms to the dusty floor with his knees. “There now.”

“And what’s that supposed to be?” Connor asked, giving Murphy’s frayed zip a pointed look. “A polite suggestion?”

Murphy eased off, planting both hands on either side of Connor’s head at the same time Connor slapped both hands to his hips. “With how you fumbled that gun, I won’t go getting my hopes up.”

“Too right you won’t, you saucy fucker.” A knee to the backside unbalanced Murphy enough for a shove to send him sprawling, and Connor was quick to scramble back up, usurping his reign in their endless game of king of the mountain.

Murphy shrugged, as slow and lazy and as careless as his grin. “Aye, good job,” he said, tucking both arms behind his head, “but now what’re you going to do? Bit too far away from a round of turnabout, aren’t you?”

“So you say,” Connor said, yanking Murph’s zip down and losing skin on the jagged edge. Patience gone, a gift belonging to a saint not him, he shoved a hand in through the half open zip. Metal teeth scraped his wrist hard enough to raise a bright welt over the scars he wore in Murphy’s name, hardly worth the notice as he finally reached bare skin, wrapped his fingers tight around Murphy’s cock and felt the hot rush of blood thickening it up. Carelessly tugging clothes out of the way, he freed Murphy’s cock and slid his hand down, squeezed a little tighter near the base, the soft weight of Murphy’s balls pushed up against the side of his hand.

Murphy let out a grunt that might’ve been a curse, and Connor said, “But I wasn’t of much a mind for fair play,” through the devil’s own grin curving his mouth.


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