Oh, this is exciting. He hasn't been pulled around like this since he was a teenager, maybe, ducking beneath the bleachers to slip his hand under the pleated skirt of some bubbly blonde cheerleader who would only cum on his fingers when there was a chance they might be caught. The risk of exposure. The thrill. The indirect fuck you to her upper-middle-class mommy and daddy, if they only knew the sort of junkyard trailer trash boys their perfect daughter was tumbling when they weren't looking.

Murphy isn't blonde, bubbly, or a cheerleader, but he's got a tight little fucking body as Danny bullies him against a brick wall, boxes him in with his weight and bulk. His hand combs through his hair at his crown. Knots down to the scalp, viciously. Tilts his head back for Danny's mouth on his mouth, for a sharp set of teeth down his throat, pinging off his Adam's apple.

"God, you're hot," is accompanied by a quick bite to his pulse, tongue trailing a long tendon in his neck up to his jaw and ear. The hand not holding Murphy's head in place snakes between his thighs, splays his legs wider with a prodding nudge from the heel of his palm. Spread 'em. Let him in. He grips his dick through his trousers, squeezes him experimentally. "I can't very well fuck you here, though, can I?"

He'd fucked another man in an alley — John — not even an hour ago, but he was only a man that looked like a man, not an actual man. Murphy bruises where Danny bites him, like a peach. He might break.