Fic: What you do when you are called
Title: What you do when you are called
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Pairing: Murphy/Connor (hence incest/twincest - if you're squicked by that, then don’t read!)
Rating: R (for bro!yay sexy times)
Word Count: 2600
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit, etc.
Summary: Connor was in the shower, scrubbing the blood off his body and watching as it went down the drain, mixed with soapy water. Three snippets of the brothers’ life.
Author’s Notes: Thanks to elfwhistletree for the sparkling quick beta - you’re a gem! This is for nixwilliams, who said something about BDS fic being hard to write (or was it hard to write convincingly?) and something in my brain took that as a challenge. Also, I’ve had Nix’s dvd of this awesome flick for an age - so at least now I have something to show for that or something to offer by way of gratitude. Comments, as always, appreciated.
1.
The light was blue-white and clear and lent everything the quality of a dream. Murphy was lying on the bed, naked, his mind elsewhere, somewhere in the air above him, in the light that filtered in through the high windows that had never known blinds or curtains. Their place was one expansive room; the outside walls the only boundaries that existed there. On one wall, two shower fixtures, an unused shower curtain, musty and stuck together at the bottom. The toilet, just there; and on the opposite wall, a small makeshift kitchenette, then two single beds, just mattresses on the floor. By the door, there was a decrepit couch that faced the showers on the opposite, far end of the room. It was simple, but that’s how Connor and Murphy liked it.
Connor was in the shower, scrubbing the blood off his body and watching as it went down the drain, mixed with soapy water. Pig’s blood, from their work at the meat-plant. He couldn’t stand the smell of it, the stickiness of it. And even though they wore layers of clothing, and aprons and gloves, it still got on him, underneath his clothes somehow and in his hair. He’d start taking off his clothes as soon as they got in the door, dropping them across the floor as he made for the showers.
Something brought Murphy back and he felt a moment’s confusion as to whether he’d been asleep, or his dream-state had been waking, steam-induced. His eyes clicked onto Connor in the shower. He was side-on to Murphy, his eyes shut, his hands in his hair. Murphy watched him, watched the way the water trailed off his body, the way lather collected in his pubic hair, the way he moved - the way Murphy could almost predict, without thinking, what he’d do next.
Murphy propped himself up with one arm bent behind his head and moved the other hand to his groin. He was all but hard, touching himself and lazily watching Connor, thinking of nothing in particular; the pint they’d have later, the mouth of that bird the other week around his cock, the thin, fair hair that dusted Connor’s upper chest, the porn they’d watched together when they were 18 and back in Ireland and for some reason was still in his head. Perhaps it was the feeling, rather than the images, that he remembered. He’d been painfully hard that night, frustrated in the dark, Connor by his side, lit by flickering light from the screen. He’d glanced at him, sidelong, and could still recall his brother’s face, his mouth open, breathing, his look intense.
The shower stopped and Connor wandered, looking for a towel, dripping water on the uncarpeted floor. He glanced at Murphy, found a towel and buried his head in it, rubbing his hair dry. When he looked up, his eyes were gleaming.
“For fuck’s sake, Murphy,” he muttered, but he was grinning. He towelled the rest of himself dry, his back to Murphy. He pulled on a pair of jeans, no underwear. He hung the towel on the shower rail, turning back towards Murphy, eyes flitting from his groin to his face and back again. Murphy couldn’t look away, his brother’s face bright and perfect in the light. Connor reached for a grey-blue t-shirt, pulling it over his head, momentarily concealed at the same moment Murphy came, giving a wordless call and involuntarily closing his eyes, gasping upwards.
It surprised Murphy to suddenly feel Connor near, leaning over his body but not touching him, his hand unexpectedly on his mouth. Murphy’s eyes snapped open. Connor was just there, smiling blue into his eyes. He leant in to kiss the back of his hand: his own hand instead of Murphy’s mouth. Murphy had a moment to smell that hand before it was withdrawn. It smelt of soap and of Connor - clean but unmistakable.
“Have a shower, Murph,” Connor said, calling over his shoulder as he moved towards the fridge. “You stink.”
Murphy smelt his own hand. It smelt of come, and stronger, of blood. He closed his eyes and let out a breath. “You’re not my ma!” he sang out to Connor.
“Ha!” said Connor.
Under the shower, Murphy ran his hands over his body, feeling it fall clean, layers of the world coming off it, washing away. He sat by Connor on the couch, eating a cheese sandwich that Connor had made him, his hair dripping onto his t-shirt. The light fell a fraction lower, a shade of gold to it as the sun dipped into the city.
“Pub?” said Murphy.
“Pub,” said Connor.
They put on their rosaries as they left, simultaneously tucking them into their t-shirts, then pulling on matching dark wool jackets.
2.
The cell was cold, but they were used to cold. The sleep was filled with unfamiliar sounds and voices, muffled but keeping them tied, somehow, to consciousness. When they finally slipped under, it was deep and whole, peaceful and dark. The sleep of the innocent. Their breathing was in sync. Connor’s hand was touching the flesh of his belly, the blanket scratchy on the skin of his arm, but unnoticed now sleep had come. Murphy’s hand was closed around the cross on his rosary. They both lay on their backs.
Into that sleep crashed something clear and bright, booming but silent. An unexpected, driving force. An energy filling them, tying them even more together. They felt the ceiling collapsing inwards, water falling onto their faces, their bodies pounding suddenly with meaning. A meaning so clear, so direct, it hurt them - their bodies felt it before their heads could think it. They gasped awake, spasming upwards as though reaching for something beyond this world, grasping for the unknown. The ceiling had not fallen in.
“Destroy all that which is evil,” Connor spoke it. It felt like using his voice for the very first time, inventing language as he went along. But there was no doubt Murphy understood it - he might as well have spoken it with him or for him.
“So that which is good may flourish,” answered Murphy, their ears adjusting to human sounds, still ringing from the crashing and the waves. They were gasping, sweating, everything in crisis.
They looked at each other, and in looking, understood. Their calling. The message they had received, spoken with their own mouths but with a will not their own. But it was solid and real and they couldn’t deny it.
They dressed with shaky hands, acutely aware of their bodies in space. Each knew what the other did by feel alone, mirroring and echoing movements, sensing the beat of each other’s heart. A calm was slowly settling over them.
They looked at each other. The first moment of their new life. Connor looked broken to Murphy, beautiful but washed-up, and cleaned-out, and filled with something new. It was something he could feel in himself too, felt it changing the landscape of his own heart, the expression of his face, the way his body felt - connected forever now to Connor. They felt new in the world, ready to do what they knew they must do. Their hearts beat as one.
3.
The motel room was green. A mouldy, tired green, a dull cack of swirling green bedspreads and musty matching wallpaper. It was a colour Murphy had never liked. Maybe because green was never Connor’s colour. Connor was a lad of blue and gold. Blue eyes that lit up and saw straight into Murphy, and golden hair, radiant skin. And all he wore, all he looked good in, was shades of blue, from dark navy to strong blue denim to pale blue-grey. Of course, they wore their heavy black coats, black balaclavas when they needed to. They could cover themselves black and sink into any night, always knowing where the other was even when they were invisible. But blue was the colour Murphy liked to see Connor in, though he never said it. Had never really thought it even, until they were surrounded by such an awful green they felt like fish out of water, they were so out of place there.
Murphy was heavy with a gradual creeping confusion, at first so slight he hadn’t sensed it. The euphoria had gone, the liberating feel that they were doing what they had been sent to do. Perhaps it had been finding their father, hearing him speak things that previously only they had spoken. And with their own voices, their own tongues, it felt divine. But their father had made it human. And slowly, slowly, doubt had crept into Murphy’s heart, and for the first time he was unsure whether Connor was feeling the same thing as he was. But he had no words to ask.
Then their father left them, parting their missions and speaking with straightforward logic that they could accomplish more apart - Connor and Murphy as one unit, Il Duce as another. And Murphy had been glad - realising it was selfish - to have Connor to himself again. They went back to sleeping in the same bed, something they hadn’t done since before they found their father, in the days when the message pulsed clear and pure through their blood and stronger, then, as they slept together, bodies relaxed and curled around each other. It felt like it kept them on the path, facing the right direction, moving and together as one. And then, with their father there, it was no longer just the mission of the twins, the brothers, but all of them and it became diffuse.
Murphy stood up, placing his gun on the bedside table and went to the bathroom to wash his hands. He smelt them as he walked back into the bedroom, smelling the unfamiliar soap. He stopped and leant in the doorway, looking at Connor. He was sitting on the bed, cleaning his gun. He had a smudge of blood on his face, more on his hands. Despite the gloves, despite the balaclava, it still got on their skin, drying there when they couldn’t be bothered washing it off. Connor looked wrong surrounded by all the green. He looked pale, less real, less substantial. Not for the first time, Murphy wondered if his brother was an angel. Then he laughed at himself, out loud, before he could stop himself.
“What is it?” said Connor looking up. He looked tired but he smiled anyway.
“Nothing,” said Murphy. “Just my head.”
“Oh yeah?” said Connor, placing down his gun.
“Yeah.”
Connor kept looking at him, longer than was necessary, longer than Murphy expected. He moved his gun to the bedside table, next to Murphy’s, his eyes still on Murphy’s face. He made a sideways motion with his head, indicating towards the bed. Murphy walked towards him, his movements steady, though he felt so heavy inside a small part of him wondered if he should be able to move at all. He stopped in front of Connor and placed his hands on the sides of Connor’s neck, fingers into hair and gentle pressure onto the back of Connor’s scalp. He looked into Connor’s face. And when he couldn’t bear looking at him any more - when he seemed too beautiful to be contained, to be real, physical and right there, in front of Murphy - Murphy lent down and kissed him on the mouth. Their mouths opened, exploring with lips and tongues and teeth. Connor’s arms wrapped around Murphy’s waist and pulled Murphy into him, then down onto the bed, Connor falling backwards with Murphy on top of him. There was a breath of laughter as Connor’s stubble rubbed against Murphy’s face, his hand coming up to touch Murphy’s cheek, warm and gentle. Their eyes locked for an instant before they were kissing again, tasting each other, tasting familiar. Murphy found his way to Connor’s skin, impatient hands pulling on t-shirts, eager to touch each other’s bodies but also to rid themselves of clothes. Murphy managed the first button of Connor’s jeans, but failed at the rest, instead breathing fast onto the skin of Connor’s neck as he shed his own jeans, Connor wriggling underneath him, kicking off shoes and removing jeans.
Naked, it seemed too long coming - though they’d done this just the other night, a variation on a theme. They were both hard, aching for touch, for release. Connor made a grab at Murphy and flipped him. They were, as ever, equally matched in strength, and Murphy laughed instead of fighting back. Connor’s hands were on him, his mouth making his way down Murphy’s body, hot breath on Murphy’s prick. His fingers were delicate, too careful and light, and Murphy looked down to see Connor’s face focused in concentration. Connor gave a brief half smile as his eyes flicked upwards (knowing Murphy was watching), then his tongue darted out over his lips and he opened his mouth onto Murphy’s cock. It was hot and wet and all around him, moving over him, making him harder, even though he didn’t know how that was possible, he seemed to be straining to contain himself within the sensation, he could get lost there. Connor, sweet Connor.
Connor pulled off just before, catching Murphy with his hands as he came, then laughing and wiping them on the bedspread. He crawled his way up Murphy’s body and lay on top of him, propping his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the mattress on either side of Murphy’s head. He looked at Murphy with a bemused look on his face, his own cock hard against Murphy. Murphy reached up to try and kiss him, but Connor moved his head away.
“What?” said Murphy.
“What nothing,” replied Connor.
“You happy then, are you?” Murphy murmured as he pushed his hips up to press further against Connor’s cock.
Connor just smiled. “Yes, I am happy, as a matter of fact,” he said.
Murphy looked up into Connor’s face. “Are you?” he said, unsure if he was being serious or not.
Connor was a long time answering. Murphy’s hands slowly played on the skin of his back.
“Oh, Murphy,” Connor said eventually, holding his gaze for a long beat, before leaning down to kiss him. They kissed and forgot to breathe.
Before long, Murphy was hard again and Connor fucked him. They forgot about the world. They forgot, almost, about their calling. They forgot about the blood on their hands, Connor’s hand reaching around to grasp Murphy’s dick as they fucked. They came, Murphy first, onto the unworthy bedspread, and then Connor, deep inside Murphy.
They collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard. Murphy laughed, barking sudden and loud, then stopped. Connor moved his hand up and brushed it awkwardly, upside-down across Murphy’s chest. They were both sweaty.
Murphy was looking upwards at nothing when Connor spoke.
“Murphy?” he said in a whisper soft and ragged. Murphy turned his head to look at him, suddenly fearful. Connor was looking at him, his eyes wide and pupils dilated and dark.
“Murphy,” he said again - again as though it was difficult to say.
“Yes,” whispered Murphy, moving his body towards Connor, an arm reaching out across his chest to grab him by the shoulder. Connor’s arms came around him, his head leaning in close.
“Murphy,” he whispered, his voice still shaking. “Murph?” He paused and Murphy thought he could hear Connor’s heart beating loud. “I know,” Connor said, and quieter, almost to himself, “I know.”
Murphy exhaled. They wrapped themselves in the ugly bedspread and slept, their bodies curled together like one.
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Pairing: Murphy/Connor (hence incest/twincest - if you're squicked by that, then don’t read!)
Rating: R (for bro!yay sexy times)
Word Count: 2600
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit, etc.
Summary: Connor was in the shower, scrubbing the blood off his body and watching as it went down the drain, mixed with soapy water. Three snippets of the brothers’ life.
Author’s Notes: Thanks to elfwhistletree for the sparkling quick beta - you’re a gem! This is for nixwilliams, who said something about BDS fic being hard to write (or was it hard to write convincingly?) and something in my brain took that as a challenge. Also, I’ve had Nix’s dvd of this awesome flick for an age - so at least now I have something to show for that or something to offer by way of gratitude. Comments, as always, appreciated.
1.
The light was blue-white and clear and lent everything the quality of a dream. Murphy was lying on the bed, naked, his mind elsewhere, somewhere in the air above him, in the light that filtered in through the high windows that had never known blinds or curtains. Their place was one expansive room; the outside walls the only boundaries that existed there. On one wall, two shower fixtures, an unused shower curtain, musty and stuck together at the bottom. The toilet, just there; and on the opposite wall, a small makeshift kitchenette, then two single beds, just mattresses on the floor. By the door, there was a decrepit couch that faced the showers on the opposite, far end of the room. It was simple, but that’s how Connor and Murphy liked it.
Connor was in the shower, scrubbing the blood off his body and watching as it went down the drain, mixed with soapy water. Pig’s blood, from their work at the meat-plant. He couldn’t stand the smell of it, the stickiness of it. And even though they wore layers of clothing, and aprons and gloves, it still got on him, underneath his clothes somehow and in his hair. He’d start taking off his clothes as soon as they got in the door, dropping them across the floor as he made for the showers.
Something brought Murphy back and he felt a moment’s confusion as to whether he’d been asleep, or his dream-state had been waking, steam-induced. His eyes clicked onto Connor in the shower. He was side-on to Murphy, his eyes shut, his hands in his hair. Murphy watched him, watched the way the water trailed off his body, the way lather collected in his pubic hair, the way he moved - the way Murphy could almost predict, without thinking, what he’d do next.
Murphy propped himself up with one arm bent behind his head and moved the other hand to his groin. He was all but hard, touching himself and lazily watching Connor, thinking of nothing in particular; the pint they’d have later, the mouth of that bird the other week around his cock, the thin, fair hair that dusted Connor’s upper chest, the porn they’d watched together when they were 18 and back in Ireland and for some reason was still in his head. Perhaps it was the feeling, rather than the images, that he remembered. He’d been painfully hard that night, frustrated in the dark, Connor by his side, lit by flickering light from the screen. He’d glanced at him, sidelong, and could still recall his brother’s face, his mouth open, breathing, his look intense.
The shower stopped and Connor wandered, looking for a towel, dripping water on the uncarpeted floor. He glanced at Murphy, found a towel and buried his head in it, rubbing his hair dry. When he looked up, his eyes were gleaming.
“For fuck’s sake, Murphy,” he muttered, but he was grinning. He towelled the rest of himself dry, his back to Murphy. He pulled on a pair of jeans, no underwear. He hung the towel on the shower rail, turning back towards Murphy, eyes flitting from his groin to his face and back again. Murphy couldn’t look away, his brother’s face bright and perfect in the light. Connor reached for a grey-blue t-shirt, pulling it over his head, momentarily concealed at the same moment Murphy came, giving a wordless call and involuntarily closing his eyes, gasping upwards.
It surprised Murphy to suddenly feel Connor near, leaning over his body but not touching him, his hand unexpectedly on his mouth. Murphy’s eyes snapped open. Connor was just there, smiling blue into his eyes. He leant in to kiss the back of his hand: his own hand instead of Murphy’s mouth. Murphy had a moment to smell that hand before it was withdrawn. It smelt of soap and of Connor - clean but unmistakable.
“Have a shower, Murph,” Connor said, calling over his shoulder as he moved towards the fridge. “You stink.”
Murphy smelt his own hand. It smelt of come, and stronger, of blood. He closed his eyes and let out a breath. “You’re not my ma!” he sang out to Connor.
“Ha!” said Connor.
Under the shower, Murphy ran his hands over his body, feeling it fall clean, layers of the world coming off it, washing away. He sat by Connor on the couch, eating a cheese sandwich that Connor had made him, his hair dripping onto his t-shirt. The light fell a fraction lower, a shade of gold to it as the sun dipped into the city.
“Pub?” said Murphy.
“Pub,” said Connor.
They put on their rosaries as they left, simultaneously tucking them into their t-shirts, then pulling on matching dark wool jackets.
2.
The cell was cold, but they were used to cold. The sleep was filled with unfamiliar sounds and voices, muffled but keeping them tied, somehow, to consciousness. When they finally slipped under, it was deep and whole, peaceful and dark. The sleep of the innocent. Their breathing was in sync. Connor’s hand was touching the flesh of his belly, the blanket scratchy on the skin of his arm, but unnoticed now sleep had come. Murphy’s hand was closed around the cross on his rosary. They both lay on their backs.
Into that sleep crashed something clear and bright, booming but silent. An unexpected, driving force. An energy filling them, tying them even more together. They felt the ceiling collapsing inwards, water falling onto their faces, their bodies pounding suddenly with meaning. A meaning so clear, so direct, it hurt them - their bodies felt it before their heads could think it. They gasped awake, spasming upwards as though reaching for something beyond this world, grasping for the unknown. The ceiling had not fallen in.
“Destroy all that which is evil,” Connor spoke it. It felt like using his voice for the very first time, inventing language as he went along. But there was no doubt Murphy understood it - he might as well have spoken it with him or for him.
“So that which is good may flourish,” answered Murphy, their ears adjusting to human sounds, still ringing from the crashing and the waves. They were gasping, sweating, everything in crisis.
They looked at each other, and in looking, understood. Their calling. The message they had received, spoken with their own mouths but with a will not their own. But it was solid and real and they couldn’t deny it.
They dressed with shaky hands, acutely aware of their bodies in space. Each knew what the other did by feel alone, mirroring and echoing movements, sensing the beat of each other’s heart. A calm was slowly settling over them.
They looked at each other. The first moment of their new life. Connor looked broken to Murphy, beautiful but washed-up, and cleaned-out, and filled with something new. It was something he could feel in himself too, felt it changing the landscape of his own heart, the expression of his face, the way his body felt - connected forever now to Connor. They felt new in the world, ready to do what they knew they must do. Their hearts beat as one.
3.
The motel room was green. A mouldy, tired green, a dull cack of swirling green bedspreads and musty matching wallpaper. It was a colour Murphy had never liked. Maybe because green was never Connor’s colour. Connor was a lad of blue and gold. Blue eyes that lit up and saw straight into Murphy, and golden hair, radiant skin. And all he wore, all he looked good in, was shades of blue, from dark navy to strong blue denim to pale blue-grey. Of course, they wore their heavy black coats, black balaclavas when they needed to. They could cover themselves black and sink into any night, always knowing where the other was even when they were invisible. But blue was the colour Murphy liked to see Connor in, though he never said it. Had never really thought it even, until they were surrounded by such an awful green they felt like fish out of water, they were so out of place there.
Murphy was heavy with a gradual creeping confusion, at first so slight he hadn’t sensed it. The euphoria had gone, the liberating feel that they were doing what they had been sent to do. Perhaps it had been finding their father, hearing him speak things that previously only they had spoken. And with their own voices, their own tongues, it felt divine. But their father had made it human. And slowly, slowly, doubt had crept into Murphy’s heart, and for the first time he was unsure whether Connor was feeling the same thing as he was. But he had no words to ask.
Then their father left them, parting their missions and speaking with straightforward logic that they could accomplish more apart - Connor and Murphy as one unit, Il Duce as another. And Murphy had been glad - realising it was selfish - to have Connor to himself again. They went back to sleeping in the same bed, something they hadn’t done since before they found their father, in the days when the message pulsed clear and pure through their blood and stronger, then, as they slept together, bodies relaxed and curled around each other. It felt like it kept them on the path, facing the right direction, moving and together as one. And then, with their father there, it was no longer just the mission of the twins, the brothers, but all of them and it became diffuse.
Murphy stood up, placing his gun on the bedside table and went to the bathroom to wash his hands. He smelt them as he walked back into the bedroom, smelling the unfamiliar soap. He stopped and leant in the doorway, looking at Connor. He was sitting on the bed, cleaning his gun. He had a smudge of blood on his face, more on his hands. Despite the gloves, despite the balaclava, it still got on their skin, drying there when they couldn’t be bothered washing it off. Connor looked wrong surrounded by all the green. He looked pale, less real, less substantial. Not for the first time, Murphy wondered if his brother was an angel. Then he laughed at himself, out loud, before he could stop himself.
“What is it?” said Connor looking up. He looked tired but he smiled anyway.
“Nothing,” said Murphy. “Just my head.”
“Oh yeah?” said Connor, placing down his gun.
“Yeah.”
Connor kept looking at him, longer than was necessary, longer than Murphy expected. He moved his gun to the bedside table, next to Murphy’s, his eyes still on Murphy’s face. He made a sideways motion with his head, indicating towards the bed. Murphy walked towards him, his movements steady, though he felt so heavy inside a small part of him wondered if he should be able to move at all. He stopped in front of Connor and placed his hands on the sides of Connor’s neck, fingers into hair and gentle pressure onto the back of Connor’s scalp. He looked into Connor’s face. And when he couldn’t bear looking at him any more - when he seemed too beautiful to be contained, to be real, physical and right there, in front of Murphy - Murphy lent down and kissed him on the mouth. Their mouths opened, exploring with lips and tongues and teeth. Connor’s arms wrapped around Murphy’s waist and pulled Murphy into him, then down onto the bed, Connor falling backwards with Murphy on top of him. There was a breath of laughter as Connor’s stubble rubbed against Murphy’s face, his hand coming up to touch Murphy’s cheek, warm and gentle. Their eyes locked for an instant before they were kissing again, tasting each other, tasting familiar. Murphy found his way to Connor’s skin, impatient hands pulling on t-shirts, eager to touch each other’s bodies but also to rid themselves of clothes. Murphy managed the first button of Connor’s jeans, but failed at the rest, instead breathing fast onto the skin of Connor’s neck as he shed his own jeans, Connor wriggling underneath him, kicking off shoes and removing jeans.
Naked, it seemed too long coming - though they’d done this just the other night, a variation on a theme. They were both hard, aching for touch, for release. Connor made a grab at Murphy and flipped him. They were, as ever, equally matched in strength, and Murphy laughed instead of fighting back. Connor’s hands were on him, his mouth making his way down Murphy’s body, hot breath on Murphy’s prick. His fingers were delicate, too careful and light, and Murphy looked down to see Connor’s face focused in concentration. Connor gave a brief half smile as his eyes flicked upwards (knowing Murphy was watching), then his tongue darted out over his lips and he opened his mouth onto Murphy’s cock. It was hot and wet and all around him, moving over him, making him harder, even though he didn’t know how that was possible, he seemed to be straining to contain himself within the sensation, he could get lost there. Connor, sweet Connor.
Connor pulled off just before, catching Murphy with his hands as he came, then laughing and wiping them on the bedspread. He crawled his way up Murphy’s body and lay on top of him, propping his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the mattress on either side of Murphy’s head. He looked at Murphy with a bemused look on his face, his own cock hard against Murphy. Murphy reached up to try and kiss him, but Connor moved his head away.
“What?” said Murphy.
“What nothing,” replied Connor.
“You happy then, are you?” Murphy murmured as he pushed his hips up to press further against Connor’s cock.
Connor just smiled. “Yes, I am happy, as a matter of fact,” he said.
Murphy looked up into Connor’s face. “Are you?” he said, unsure if he was being serious or not.
Connor was a long time answering. Murphy’s hands slowly played on the skin of his back.
“Oh, Murphy,” Connor said eventually, holding his gaze for a long beat, before leaning down to kiss him. They kissed and forgot to breathe.
Before long, Murphy was hard again and Connor fucked him. They forgot about the world. They forgot, almost, about their calling. They forgot about the blood on their hands, Connor’s hand reaching around to grasp Murphy’s dick as they fucked. They came, Murphy first, onto the unworthy bedspread, and then Connor, deep inside Murphy.
They collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard. Murphy laughed, barking sudden and loud, then stopped. Connor moved his hand up and brushed it awkwardly, upside-down across Murphy’s chest. They were both sweaty.
Murphy was looking upwards at nothing when Connor spoke.
“Murphy?” he said in a whisper soft and ragged. Murphy turned his head to look at him, suddenly fearful. Connor was looking at him, his eyes wide and pupils dilated and dark.
“Murphy,” he said again - again as though it was difficult to say.
“Yes,” whispered Murphy, moving his body towards Connor, an arm reaching out across his chest to grab him by the shoulder. Connor’s arms came around him, his head leaning in close.
“Murphy,” he whispered, his voice still shaking. “Murph?” He paused and Murphy thought he could hear Connor’s heart beating loud. “I know,” Connor said, and quieter, almost to himself, “I know.”
Murphy exhaled. They wrapped themselves in the ugly bedspread and slept, their bodies curled together like one.