greenapple: sufjan plays the typewriter (writing)
[personal profile] greenapple
The Boondock Saints
575 words
February 2008
Adult content: sexuality, language, situations
Summary: The bog’s all the fuck the way over there, and he doesn’t know if he can be fucked to make it.

It’s dark, no need for lights and no money for them, either, and too drunk to see in any case. They fall through the door, pulling each other back up, cursing each other for gobshites, for motherfuckin bastards, and fuckin ratarsed bollixes what can’t hold their drink, disgrace to the family name. And as he stands up, Connor goes down, knees wide, legs folded under him and hands unfurled, closed eyes and eyelids fluttering while he’s somewhere else for a while.

“Fffuck,” Connor says, faraway, most of him gone.

Murphy presses his thighs together, thumb against his pecker, the long-suppressed need to piss overwhelming him now they’re both home. He thinks. The bog’s all the fuck the way over there, and he doesn’t know if he can be fucked to make it. Can’t remember if there’s no good reason he has to. He’s taking himself out of his pants, the room spinning except for Connor, and standing up takes more concentration than holding his piss, so he doesn't.

He lets go, warm memory and body bliss before he surfaces to the reality of it. Connor’s shirt spreading dark in a bloom and line to his jeans.

There’s Connor, his chin tilted up and a lazy smile, his lips parted. Then eyes shooting open, a push meant for Murphy but sends him sprawling backward, unbelieving, glimmer of wet in the scruff on his chin, and marked.


Murphy forces the last drops free and a wicked good shiver spread through him, a cold and little death, pecker rearing up in his hand.

“Did you take a slash on me?” Connor’s voice from far away.

He feels himself laughing, his head too busy swimming to hear. The burbling giggle, then crow calling, pleased and proud. Connor on his back, wiping his neck and chin, stupid look on his face.

“Did you just fuckin piss on me?” Voice rising up now, with his fists, with his feet; with a tackle that throws him backwards and Connor's pinning him, Murphy struggling to breathe, to move arms, kick legs free, the denim and boots hobble too complex a puzzle for him to figure. He sucks air, gets a mouth full of wet shirt instead, twisted in Connor’s fist and shoved in his face; spits and sucks until he remembers what from. He swears at Connor, muffled, curses congested and drowned. Connor with his fingers near down his throat, and Murphy bites and shakes.

Connor hisses him quiet, and he bucks and thrashes but Connor’s quit fighting him, only keeping him down. A gentle, “Easy, now,” and Connor dodges Murphy’s weak slap to his head. Connor leans forward, clumsy shift of knees, and pulls out his fingers and wet shirt. Replaces them with his mouth, sloppy bite, tongue curling long inside to match his own. Connor is a heavy indistinct shape Murphy can’t see, he can barely feel his own face or his feet, but he finds Connor by his belt loops and jerks him down, to the numb ache in his cock, hard enough to feel good; can’t feel its match in his twin until Connor falls sideways, slip of elbow, half off him and half on and he can recognize the meaty press of his dick on his thigh.

“B’Jaysus,” Connor prays, to Christ and his brother, hand skidding stickslip over Murphy’s stomach. Fingertip brush over his navel, and Connor looking him in the eye. Heat chases after, and they both shiver.

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