Author: Guede Mazaka
It’s dark in there. Dark and soft—not like street dark, with its broken-syringe sharp edges and its wet filthy spots, not like box dark where there’s nothing but goodbadaretheyopeningyetyetyet. Soft. Black. Charcoal filtered with the little bits of golden light from the cracks. Comfortable dark. Slipslidegrace all over, just like Coat’s own hue. Coat’s settled. Hung up, shoulders carefully smoothed over the hanger, hems loose and easy below but above the floor that’s dirty and rasping and hard. Not a button or trimming twisted wrong. Coat’s in her place. In her element, even.
And there, down there come two little soft-stepping swish-creaks. Little round things that rustle when Coat drifts an exploratory edge, when Coat dusts its lowest corners right along those rich smooth outlines, testing the wrinkles and the down-folded tops. They shiver ever so nicely, flickering the black. But they’re still a little too far. Scared? Scared of the dark?
They should be. They should squeak and backpeddle too fast, too soon and flop over right beneath Coat when Coat worms one corner into a fold of leather. Mmmmm…maybe they’re black—perfect match—or brown—needs a little corrupting, but doable—but either way they’re wide-open now and Coat was never one to miss an invitation. Plunges right down, fast and hard and enveloping the shaking boots in—
* * *
Murphy opened the door and blinked for two reasons. Firstly, it was hard to see what was going on. Secondly, it was hard to believe what he was seeing. “Connor? You sure that girl’s being straight with us?”
“’course. She puked on my fucking shirt, offers the upstairs bedroom so I can clean off and you can be a useless piece of shite on the bed.” Footsteps headed past Murphy—hand whacked his arse so he yelped and nearly took a header into the closet—and on into the attached bedroom. Shortly thereafter, running water and splashing.
“I’m not fucking drunk enough for this,” Murphy muttered, pulling himself up again. Then he took another look. Reached down, frowning, and pulled at the coat that had fallen. That was weird…they usually didn’t take the hanger down with them. And he had to tug hard to get the coat out of the boots on which they’d landed; it had stuffed itself in good and proper. In the end, he actually had to kneel down to deal with it.
Well, that definitely wasn’t natural.
Neither, come to think of it, was the hand on the back of his neck suddenly shoving him down into the folds of the coat. He called out for Connor, but then that mouth was on his neck, biting circles around the bumps of his spine and fuck him, but his back wanted to push back. But no, no, hand on his hip forcing that down as well and in this position he couldn’t turn enough to grab. Couldn’t do much except flap like a loose chicken till Connor—it was Connor, no one else could slash teeth into Murphy as if he deserved it—switched to holding him down by the wrists instead.
Mouth full of cloth. Murphy coughed, choked, spat wads into the fabric and shit, that was going to be a hell of a dry-cleaning bill, but Connor only let him up enough to turn his head. Then it was back down, Connor’s knees shoving his feet apart, Connor’s free hand pulling Murphy’s pants down without even undoing the fly and thank fucking God Murphy’s only set of dress trousers were a bit too large because even then there was rasp of zipper dragging down his belly and catching on hair--fuck. One gone, hurting like a bastard and he jerked back to feel Connor’s prick snugging up to the curve of his arse.
In the background, the water was still running.
“Gonna flood her bathroom,” Murphy panted. Still teeth in his neck, just beneath his too-long hair and Connor was a clever bastard. Wasn’t gonna show ‘less Murphy finally decided to get that haircut.
“’s not her apartment,” Connor laughed. “She’s just got the key, you know?”
And Murphy does know, because then that’s the sound of Connor’s zipper and Connor’s pants falling and it’s like the dinnerbell, the ringing for Mass, the fucking whatever that makes Murphy drop head-down ass-up and whine like his throat’s on fire and he’s just got to tell someone about it, only he can’t because now--
--his arse is starting to catch sparks, too. God knows where Connor’s gotten the slick, but it’s a little short of enough and Murphy is twisting and bucking to get more of it, fighting for Connor to hurry up before it burns Murphy to nothing. But Connor takes his time, even yanks his fingers out so he can pat Murphy on the arse and lean over to lick long strings of liquid swearing behind Murphy’s ear till it dribbles down and fills up Murphy’s mouth. He can’t—he whimpers and falls face-first into the coat again, kissing it like a prayer, an adoration because he can’t exactly move to give it to the proper recipient, can he? Only then Connor’s voice is changing, lower and rougher and sweeter, and Connor’s fingers go out again but it’s not playing around. It’s fucking, and oh God, Murphy is thankful. Prick deep in him, going deeper with every thrust, and Connor whispering hell and heaven into his skin till his gut and hips and everything else clench. Sends it right back to Connor and tightens off his voice, one race around the circle faster and faster till Murphy smashes down. Rises up. Screams mercy and joy into the fucking coat and comes all over it.
Then he’s belly-down in his own stickiness, smearing it around till Connor’s ready to follow and Connor always does. Always.
“Fucking mess,” Connor grunts.
“Not our fucking mess, is it?” Murphy shoots back. “Off, man. You’re like a fucking rock.”
* * *
Coat is twisted and rumpled and abused. Coat is dirty. Coat is no longer in the dark and somewhere the boots have vanished, little frightened things that they are. So have the men who came to her and enjoyed her.
Coat preens. Now that’s satisfaction.