Belief, BDS/SPN, Murphy/Dean, 18/nc-17
Title: Belief
Author: Katty, aka merry_gentry
Fandom: Crossover - BDS/SPN
Pairing: Slash, Murphy MacManus/Dean Winchester
Rating: 18/nc-17
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, they do not belong to me. They do conjure up rather pretty images in one's mind, though, don't they? ^_^
Author's Notes: Written for idiosyncratic's prompt over on comment_fic: BDS/SPN, Murphy/Dean, belief
Summary: Murphy’s not lacking in height by any means, but the man in front of him has at least two inches on him. That’s alright - Murphy likes to stretch up into a kiss, which is what he happens to be about to do as Dean tilts his head down and brushes his lips against Murphy’s.
Murphy’s not unattractive - he knows that, but when up against Connor, most people walk on by Murphy and head straight for his (younger, no matter what the bastard says) twin. Murphy doesn’t really mind. It’s fun to watch most people wash out with his brother - Connor may be the ‘pretty’ one, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to fall for anyone with a greedy eye and a roving hand.
Most evenings, in fact, neither of them pick up anyone, and they get pissed at whatever bar’s closest to whatever dirty motel they’ve ended up in, and they leave at the end of the night crowing Irish drinking songs to the night sky.
This evening, though, promises to be a little different. There’s two blokes sitting at a table a ways to the back of this particular nondescript bar - one has a laptop open in front of him, not to mention the notepad and - Murphy squints - the four different coloured highlighters. He snorts with amusement and takes another shot, elbowing Connor when the misbegotten son of a bitch tries to push him off his barstool.
The other bloke, now. Aye - the one staring right at Murphy while his companion taps away at the computer. Almost the prettiest thing Murphy’s ever seen in his whole life, in Ireland or in this huge country. And he’s still staring at Murphy as Murphy stares back.
Connor notices his distraction, of-fuckin’-course, and glances in the same direction.
“You going ta have a little fun then, Murph?” He downs the rest of the beer, and abandons the glass to better put Murphy in a headlock.
“Well, I was thinkin’ about it, you bastard,” Murphy says, kicking out to catch Connor’s shins, not hard enough to damage, but hard enough to let Connor know his brother means business.
“Ah, my baby brother’s going ta get lucky!” Connor drawls it out, and Murphy rolls his eyes.
“The day I’m your baby brother’s the day I’m dead an’ been buried - and even then I’d still be the oldest!”
Connor just sticks his tongue out at Murphy. Neither of them has grown up much past five years old, it feels like sometimes.
Murphy downs another shot and makes sure the pretty thing over in the corner notices when he drags his hand across his mouth. Murphy’s got a nice smile, and he knows it - and he knows it’s one that usually manages to coerce people into letting him do what he wants. This time he’s out to attract attention, and he gets it - the stranger’s gaze is heating up and he turns suddenly to his companion to say something.
Murphy saunters for the back door of the bar. It’s no coincidence that his chosen path through the crowd takes him right past his stranger’s table, and he brushes a hand against the other man’s back as he passes, feeling the worn leather.
He’s not two steps into the alley when he feels the other man behind him and he turns, his smile still curving his lips.
“Murphy,” he offers, and his stranger grins, and, my, his eyes are even nicer all lit up like that.
“Dean.”
Dean saunters closer, crowding Murphy up against the wall opposite and rests his hands on Murphy’s waist. Murphy’s not lacking in height by any means, but the man in front of him has at least two inches on him. That’s alright - Murphy likes to stretch up into a kiss, which is what he happens to be about to do as Dean tilts his head down and brushes his lips against Murphy’s.
“Hmm…nice,” he hums happily, and Murphy can’t help the bubble of delighted laughter that spills out.
“Not so bad yourself,” he says, and catches one hand around the back of Dean’s neck, hauling him in for another, deeper kiss, his other hand creasing the material of Dean’s T-shirt underneath his jacket. Dean’s hands tighten on his hips as he pushes Murphy against the brickwork, practically devouring his mouth, now, and Murphy purrs into it.
After that it’s a rush of sensation; his front pressed up against the cold brickwork as Dean pushes into him, the heat from behind not at all muted by the condom Dean had rolled on without looking down, the cocksure bastard. It’s intense, and Murphy knows he’s babbling in Latin, Gaelic, French - hell, it could be any of the languages he knows, and he’s started praying to God above and to Mary, Jaysus Christ, and the Holy fuckin’ Spirit because Dean’s taking it slowly. Too damn slow, and Murphy tightens up his muscles and pushes backwards and is rewarded by Dean biting down on the place where his neck meets his shoulder and sucking hard before apparently losing all self control and ramming home into Murphy who mewls and opens up around him and takes it.
His fingers are scrabbling against the damp brickwork, and he tosses his hair out of his eyes in frustration.
“Make me fuckin’ come, ya bastard,” Murphy growls out, and Dean huffs a laugh behind him, but he lets go with one hand to reach around. Christ, but Murphy knows he’s going to be carrying Dean’s marks on his hips for days and Connor’s going to get endless material out of this, but he doesn’t care, because he’s coming harder than ever before, it feels like.
And as he does, he can hear Dean blaspheming behind him, in Latin, no less, and a warm curl spirals out and through his orgasm when Dean wraps his now-free arm around Murphy’s chest and hauls him back and away from the support of the wall. Dean’s in him and around him, and Murphy tilts his head back onto Dean’s shoulder and looks up to where he can make out a few stars in the cloudy sky, and he smiles when Dean comes.
My fic masterlist is here.
My please-give-me-a-prompt begging-page is here.
Author: Katty, aka merry_gentry
Fandom: Crossover - BDS/SPN
Pairing: Slash, Murphy MacManus/Dean Winchester
Rating: 18/nc-17
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, they do not belong to me. They do conjure up rather pretty images in one's mind, though, don't they? ^_^
Author's Notes: Written for idiosyncratic's prompt over on comment_fic: BDS/SPN, Murphy/Dean, belief
Summary: Murphy’s not lacking in height by any means, but the man in front of him has at least two inches on him. That’s alright - Murphy likes to stretch up into a kiss, which is what he happens to be about to do as Dean tilts his head down and brushes his lips against Murphy’s.
Murphy’s not unattractive - he knows that, but when up against Connor, most people walk on by Murphy and head straight for his (younger, no matter what the bastard says) twin. Murphy doesn’t really mind. It’s fun to watch most people wash out with his brother - Connor may be the ‘pretty’ one, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to fall for anyone with a greedy eye and a roving hand.
Most evenings, in fact, neither of them pick up anyone, and they get pissed at whatever bar’s closest to whatever dirty motel they’ve ended up in, and they leave at the end of the night crowing Irish drinking songs to the night sky.
This evening, though, promises to be a little different. There’s two blokes sitting at a table a ways to the back of this particular nondescript bar - one has a laptop open in front of him, not to mention the notepad and - Murphy squints - the four different coloured highlighters. He snorts with amusement and takes another shot, elbowing Connor when the misbegotten son of a bitch tries to push him off his barstool.
The other bloke, now. Aye - the one staring right at Murphy while his companion taps away at the computer. Almost the prettiest thing Murphy’s ever seen in his whole life, in Ireland or in this huge country. And he’s still staring at Murphy as Murphy stares back.
Connor notices his distraction, of-fuckin’-course, and glances in the same direction.
“You going ta have a little fun then, Murph?” He downs the rest of the beer, and abandons the glass to better put Murphy in a headlock.
“Well, I was thinkin’ about it, you bastard,” Murphy says, kicking out to catch Connor’s shins, not hard enough to damage, but hard enough to let Connor know his brother means business.
“Ah, my baby brother’s going ta get lucky!” Connor drawls it out, and Murphy rolls his eyes.
“The day I’m your baby brother’s the day I’m dead an’ been buried - and even then I’d still be the oldest!”
Connor just sticks his tongue out at Murphy. Neither of them has grown up much past five years old, it feels like sometimes.
Murphy downs another shot and makes sure the pretty thing over in the corner notices when he drags his hand across his mouth. Murphy’s got a nice smile, and he knows it - and he knows it’s one that usually manages to coerce people into letting him do what he wants. This time he’s out to attract attention, and he gets it - the stranger’s gaze is heating up and he turns suddenly to his companion to say something.
Murphy saunters for the back door of the bar. It’s no coincidence that his chosen path through the crowd takes him right past his stranger’s table, and he brushes a hand against the other man’s back as he passes, feeling the worn leather.
He’s not two steps into the alley when he feels the other man behind him and he turns, his smile still curving his lips.
“Murphy,” he offers, and his stranger grins, and, my, his eyes are even nicer all lit up like that.
“Dean.”
Dean saunters closer, crowding Murphy up against the wall opposite and rests his hands on Murphy’s waist. Murphy’s not lacking in height by any means, but the man in front of him has at least two inches on him. That’s alright - Murphy likes to stretch up into a kiss, which is what he happens to be about to do as Dean tilts his head down and brushes his lips against Murphy’s.
“Hmm…nice,” he hums happily, and Murphy can’t help the bubble of delighted laughter that spills out.
“Not so bad yourself,” he says, and catches one hand around the back of Dean’s neck, hauling him in for another, deeper kiss, his other hand creasing the material of Dean’s T-shirt underneath his jacket. Dean’s hands tighten on his hips as he pushes Murphy against the brickwork, practically devouring his mouth, now, and Murphy purrs into it.
After that it’s a rush of sensation; his front pressed up against the cold brickwork as Dean pushes into him, the heat from behind not at all muted by the condom Dean had rolled on without looking down, the cocksure bastard. It’s intense, and Murphy knows he’s babbling in Latin, Gaelic, French - hell, it could be any of the languages he knows, and he’s started praying to God above and to Mary, Jaysus Christ, and the Holy fuckin’ Spirit because Dean’s taking it slowly. Too damn slow, and Murphy tightens up his muscles and pushes backwards and is rewarded by Dean biting down on the place where his neck meets his shoulder and sucking hard before apparently losing all self control and ramming home into Murphy who mewls and opens up around him and takes it.
His fingers are scrabbling against the damp brickwork, and he tosses his hair out of his eyes in frustration.
“Make me fuckin’ come, ya bastard,” Murphy growls out, and Dean huffs a laugh behind him, but he lets go with one hand to reach around. Christ, but Murphy knows he’s going to be carrying Dean’s marks on his hips for days and Connor’s going to get endless material out of this, but he doesn’t care, because he’s coming harder than ever before, it feels like.
And as he does, he can hear Dean blaspheming behind him, in Latin, no less, and a warm curl spirals out and through his orgasm when Dean wraps his now-free arm around Murphy’s chest and hauls him back and away from the support of the wall. Dean’s in him and around him, and Murphy tilts his head back onto Dean’s shoulder and looks up to where he can make out a few stars in the cloudy sky, and he smiles when Dean comes.
My fic masterlist is here.
My please-give-me-a-prompt begging-page is here.