(no subject)
Drunk Tonight
Rating:R
Wordcount:253
Boondock Saints, twincest, and alcohol.
Murphy becomes gentler when he drinks. His rough puppydog eagerness turns to pure grace in bed, and hands that were punching Connor only an hour before are wickedly soft.
Connor doesn't drink the same way he used to. It was different back home, and another type of different after they had met Il Duce, were forced to leave Boston. He's at the pub earlier, drinks harder and longer than before. When he gets home, his kisses burn almost as much as the whiskey, and leave Murphy with the same airless feeling. Connor pushes and pulls, shoving Murphy onto the bed and biting down hard on the place where shoulder meets neck. Leaving bruised, claiming proof that Murphy is his, proof that even the woman in the pub can't avoid seeing. Keeps pushing, pushing, and Murphy gets worried, worried that he’s going to break this time, but then Connor starts talking and it’s fine, it’s safe. (‘Stay still, you’ll hit yer head’ and ‘Aye, just there.’ and ‘Christ, Murph, love ye.’)
One Lent, Connor gave up alcohol. Murphy laughed at him for the first four days, and cursed him for holding fast to his resolve for the next thirty six.
Connor is maddeningly patient, drunk or sober, binding Murphy with ropes and promises, but sometimes they both think it’s too soon for this. For Connor to be watching him so intently (too much, too close) as they come, souls screamingly raw and bare, and him seeing the echo of it all in Connor’s eyes.
Rating:R
Wordcount:253
Boondock Saints, twincest, and alcohol.
Murphy becomes gentler when he drinks. His rough puppydog eagerness turns to pure grace in bed, and hands that were punching Connor only an hour before are wickedly soft.
Connor doesn't drink the same way he used to. It was different back home, and another type of different after they had met Il Duce, were forced to leave Boston. He's at the pub earlier, drinks harder and longer than before. When he gets home, his kisses burn almost as much as the whiskey, and leave Murphy with the same airless feeling. Connor pushes and pulls, shoving Murphy onto the bed and biting down hard on the place where shoulder meets neck. Leaving bruised, claiming proof that Murphy is his, proof that even the woman in the pub can't avoid seeing. Keeps pushing, pushing, and Murphy gets worried, worried that he’s going to break this time, but then Connor starts talking and it’s fine, it’s safe. (‘Stay still, you’ll hit yer head’ and ‘Aye, just there.’ and ‘Christ, Murph, love ye.’)
One Lent, Connor gave up alcohol. Murphy laughed at him for the first four days, and cursed him for holding fast to his resolve for the next thirty six.
Connor is maddeningly patient, drunk or sober, binding Murphy with ropes and promises, but sometimes they both think it’s too soon for this. For Connor to be watching him so intently (too much, too close) as they come, souls screamingly raw and bare, and him seeing the echo of it all in Connor’s eyes.