Bellamy slammed Murphy forward hard enough to bring tears to his eyes; each rock forward made him choke and gasp. Bellamy gripped Murphy’s hips, hard enough to bruise, and pulled him back against the thickness in his ass, wringing a whimper from his throat. He did his best to breathe, to take the full brunt of each brutal thrust. Every crime and tribulation, every wrongdoing and hardship and memory, wavered and shimmered like heat haze, dissolving into the feeling of being well and truly fucked. His world narrowed to only the sensation of being filled and confined, unable to do anything but take what Bellamy gave him. His own prick ached desperately, wet and hard against his belly.

Bellamy’s voice shattered Murphy’s delirium, and he could not entirely bite back a disgruntled huff, imagining how Bellamy’s large, calloused hands might feel around his neglected cock. The worst part was that Bellamy was right; Murphy didn’t deserve a single fucking thing. “Oh, come on-”

He freed a hand from the wall and spat into his palm, and moved to stroke himself; his narrow palm grazed his twitching shaft, fingers ghosting over the tip. It gleamed with wetness, flushed and throbbing with arousal. And it was so good, warmth coiling tight and overwhelming in his belly as he worked himself, hesitant at first and then firm as he grew used to the angle. He was so achingly hard, and he was afraid to move too quickly lest he spend there and then like a needy slut; if Bellamy kept up the tempo he might well do so despite himself.  At least Bellamy did not tease. He simply found a punishing rhythm and kept it up, diving forward with harsh, merciless thrusts that had Murphy tipping his head forward, his breathing harsh, hands pressed to the wall so he would not collapse with the intensity of it all. The world around him ceased to exist, and Bellamy’s secure arms were the only thing keeping Murphy upright.  

“Ah, so fucking close. My hair, my hair, please-” he insisted, too far gone to care about his pride. “Just pull-”