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Title: Inheritance
Author: heartofslash
Fandom/Pairing: Boondock Saints, Connor/Murphy
Rating: R
Warning: Sibcest. Discussion of female anatomy. Lord’s name taken in vain.
Disclaimer: Alas. This is not from the movie Boondock Saints. We can hope for a sequel...
Inheritance
The sickly smell of disinfectant almost, but not quite, overwhelmed the stench of vomit in the hall toilet. Fuck. This living on the lam was fucken asinine. There had to be a better way.
Connor finished pissing and tried to flush, but the handle wobbled without any effect. Fucked if he was going to stick his hand in and reattach the chain. It was only piss, it wouldn’t kill anyone.
He grimaced at the crumbling tiles in the shower stall, half-hidden by a mildewed curtain. They were checking out in the morning, no two ways about it. Anything would be better than this hole. He went back to the room and threw himself down on the lumpy, single mattress.
How the fuck could Murphy sleep in a place like this? The only thing louder than the sirens were the hookers on the street corner, clucking like chickens and squawking at passers-by, and the drug-dealing scum in the alley, threatening their clients for more money.
Tomorrow they would do a job. Da had it lined up. They were meeting him at the train station, they would go to the target - a whole meeting full of targets - and from the cash, jewellery and whatnot they found on the bodies, they would get a better place to stay. In a different city.
Connor stared up at the cracked ceiling. Everywhere they went seemed to have a cracked ceiling. He saw shapes, maps, diagrams, schematics. Words, sometimes. Words in languages even he didn’t know. Messages. The ceiling was trying to tell him something.
‘Get some fucken sleep’ it said, mocking him.
“Murph?”
Murphy sat bolt upright, the sleep clearing from his eyes almost instantly. “Everything okay?” Murphy was sometimes on edge the night before a job.
“I thought you said something.”
“I was sleeping.”
“I couldn’t.”
Murphy lay back down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
His bed was two, maybe two and a half feet away from Connor’s. All they could find in a hurry. Two single beds in a cramped room. Next place would have to at least have a double bed.
This was fucken torture, lying on the uneven mattress, able to reach out and touch, hear Murphy’s breath, smell his sweat in the hot summer air, but not enough space to lie together. Because these weren’t even single beds. They were half-size beds. Pint-size. Fucken pallets. Made for anorexics or children or monks.
Priest beds? This had been a mission. The bright, white neon cross shone outside their window. But even the Catholic Church gave up on the neighbourhood and some real estate arsehole had bought it and ran it as a fleabag hotel.
That was over ten years ago, according to the drunk in the lobby who wouldn’t shut up about the history of this hellhole. Had these mattresses really been there that long? With the sorts of people who stayed in places like this lying on them?
Connor got the willies, until he realised that he and Murphy were the types of people who stayed in places like that as much as anyone else. That was just depressing.
Murphy was awake now.
“Connor?”
“Aye.”
“Who are we gonna teach the prayer to?”
“Whom,” Connor said absently. “To whom will we…”
“Well?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it was passed on to us by our father, and he learned it from his father. Who-”
“Whom.”
“Stop with the fucken grammar lesson, I’m serious, here.”
Connor sat up, swung his legs over the side of his bed, and looked down at his brother, bathed in the neon glow from the giant cross.
Murphy, like Connor, was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. It was hot enough for his chest to be covered in a layer of sweat, slick and shiny. Lickable.
“Murph, you can’t be serious. If we were going to teach the prayer to anyone, it’d have to be a wee’un of one of ours.”
“Yeah…”
Connor got up and moved to the other bed. There was just enough room for him to sit on the bed beside Murphy’s hips. Slender hips. Beautiful hips, covered only by damp boxers. That was something worth pondering.
“Murphy, listen. You want a baby, you have to have a babe first. A woman. As in ‘person of the female persuasion’.”
“I know that.” Murphy said in a huff. “I’m not daft.”
“Well, think about it. Imagine it. Better yet, close yer eyes.”
Murphy did as he was told.
Sometimes he did what Connor told him to do, just like that. Sometimes he wouldn’t; he would laugh or tell Connor to fuck off. But tonight, he did it. Of course, Connor had been careful to use his lowest, smoothest voice, because he knew Murphy liked that. And the command had been one Murphy generally obeyed, because unlike other brothers, Connor had never, ever, told Murphy to close his eyes and then done something mean.
When they were four, just turned four, Connor could distinctly remember, a cousin had visited, and he’d told Murphy to close his eyes, he had a present for him, and then put a dog turd in his hand. Connor and Murphy were outraged. Ma wouldn’t listen when Connor tried to tell her what the little shit’d done. That was the first time he could remember a spanking and dinner being withheld as punishment because he and Murphy had ‘done violence to an innocent’.
But Connor and Murphy never did violence to the innocent.
Whatever the reasons, Murphy closed his eyes.
“Give me yer hand. Okay, so you’re going to go with a lass. First, you’re going to want to hold her hand, right? So hold my hand.”
Murphy held his hand and smiled.
Connor stared at his brother’s fingers twined with his own in a firm grip. So strong. “You like that. I like it too. But it’s not going to feel like that at all. Her hand’ll be smaller.” He slid his hand away so Murphy was only holding the fingers. “And she won’t hold you back so hard. In fact, she’ll complain if you squeeze too hard, so loosen your grip.”
Murphy did as he was told.
“Not so good, is it?”
Murphy shrugged. “I’m supposed to make a baby, not arm wrestle her.”
“Okay, then you’ll want to kiss her. Maybe you should sit up for this.”
Connor watched silently as abs contracted and hardened and curved and then Murphy was sitting next to him. Fuck, but Murphy had a lovely belly. And he’d kept his eyes closed.
“Start with, her face’ll be smooth.”
Murphy reached up to run his fingers over Connor’s stubble. “That’s a shame, it is.”
“Aye. And she’ll kiss like a girl, too.”
“Which is how?”
Connor smiled. “Well, you’ll have to kiss me to find out, because girls always wait for you to kiss first.”
That was an outright lie, but he was trying to make a point, so he was going to play every stereotype to the max.
Murphy leaned forward and brushed against Connor’s jaw. Connor could almost hear the stubble scraping across the soft, soft skin of Murphy’s lips. “Not very girly,” Murphy whispered.
“Shut up and kiss me, you fucken retard.”
Murphy did, and Connor had to fight to not respond too much. He pursed his lips primly then made them go slack, pulled back a bit when Murphy’s tongue stabbed at the seam of them. Murphy’s hands both moved up to his face, tilting his head back. He let his lips be opened, let Murphy’s tongue in his mouth.
Fuck, he wanted to push Murphy down and the bed and tonguefuck his mouth until his tonsils were raw, but he stayed passive.
Sparks of yearning flew from his mouth to his groin but he ignored them. This was a lesson. He had to teach it to the end. If he gave up, Murphy would never let him hear the end of it.
Connor’s passivity seemed to provoke a fierceness in Murphy. He probed deep in Connor’s mouth and swept his tongue over Connor’s teeth. He held tight to the sides of Connor’s head and kissed intensely, until they both had to come up for air.
“That was…” Murphy gasped.
“Not so bad…” Connor had to agree.
“What next?”
“Umm…” Connor took a deep breath. “Well, you want to feel up her tits, don’t you?”
Murphy’s hands were on Connor’s chest in an instant, two fingers plucking at the left nipple, thumb running wide, soft circles around the other, palms gliding over muscle, slipping across the sweat-soaked skin.
“No, not like that. To start with, it isn’t hard and sweaty. And there’ll be a bra you have to get past. It isn’t so easy. Imagine you have to get past a fortress of sorts before you get to the tits.”
Murphy nodded and stopped pinching.
Damn.
“They’ll be soft, and big. You’ll have to cup your hand.”
Murphy touched lightly, with his hands curved as if following more feminine contours.
“Careful. If you’re too rough, she won’t let you go any further.”’
Murphy’s fingers weren’t rubbing so much as gliding.
“They’d be soft,” Connor whispered. “Pillowy.”
That did it. Murphy flattened his palms and dug his fingers into the hard muscles of Connor’s chest.
“And when you want to go lower…”
Murphy slid his hands down over ribs, over tight abs, a scruff of belly hair.
“Gentle. That’ll be softer too, most likely.”
Murphy slid his fingers over the hard ridge under Connor’s boxers.
“And that won’t even be there.”
Murphy whined.
Connor bucked his hips and drove his cock into Murphy’s hand. Murphy pushed himself up off the bed, flipped in mid-air and landed on top of Connor, pushing him into the mattress, and stretched out - hard and masculine and not at all being careful or gentle. He ground his hips down and grunted into Connor’s ear. “No more playing around.”
Connor turned his head and saw that Murphy’s eyes were wide open now.
“No playing,” he agreed. He pushed Murphy’s shorts down over his hips. Ah, yes, firm arse with a hot, sweaty crack. As much as he cursed the heat, it had his advantages. Everything felt more textured, smelled stronger, was more slippery. He rubbed his fingertips up and down the crack, felt the hairs bristling under the pads.
No playing whatsoever. There was lube in the room, somewhere. He had to locate it. In his duffel, that’s where it was. Murphy’s arse was wriggling under his hands, muscles tensing and going all firm, pushing out and up and down and back again. His cock was skittering over Connor’s bare stomach, catching on the waist of his boxers, bumping into Connor’s cock, which was trapped, mercifully, in the upright position, lying against Connor’ s belly.
“Fuck, Murphy! I gotta get my drawers off and find the lube.”
Murphy held himself up with straight arms and hovered over Connor. Connor couldn’t move. His arms were pinned to his sides by Murphy’s wrists. “Fuck! Move! Help!” he howled.
“Which do you want?”
Connor heaved his hips up to dislodge Murphy, who tumbled to the floor beneath the beds. “Which what?”
“The lube or yer boxers, ya twat.”
Connor smacked Murphy across the back of the head. “Lube, idiot. I have to take the boxers off – I’m wearing ‘em! The lube’s in my duffel.”
Murphy vaulted over Connor’s bed and dumped the contents of the duffel onto the floor. Clutching the lube bottle in one hand, he used the other hand to heave himself back up over Connor’s bed and onto his own.
Connor was standing with one foot stuck in the boxers. “Fuck it,” he said as he dove on top of Murphy. Murphy’s legs opened a split second before Connor landed. Perfect timing. Connor grabbed the lube, squirted some on his fingers and slid them home in one, smooth motion.
“Jaysus!” Murphy yelled.
Connor would have smacked Murphy and yelled something like “Lord’s name!”, but his mouth was too full of Murphy’s cock. Everything was heat and swearing and pre-come and thrashing for a few minutes as Connor worked his lips up and down Murphy’s shaft.
Connor, kneeling between Murphy’s legs, kicked at the tangled boxers and sucked at the same time. Murphy ran his foot down the back of Connor’s calf and pushed the damp cotton over his ankle. He rubbed the sole of his foot over the sole of Connor’s foot.
Connor pulled his fingers out and moved up Murphy’s body. He couldn’t wait any longer. It didn’t look like Murphy wanted to wait either, he had his legs spread wide now, arse tilted up. Connor squeezed the lube bottle, and it made a weird sputtering sound. “Almost empty,” he muttered. He smeared the last of the lube on his hard dick, tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder and pushed in.
“A girl couldn’t do that to you,” he grunted.
Murphy made a choking sound. “No one could do that to me but you, Connor.”
Connor slid all the way in.
Murphy rose up to meet him.
The neon cross flickered outside the window.
Connor didn’t care if he ever taught the prayer to anyone.
“Fuck, Connor, it wouldn’t matter…” Murphy had to stop talking so her could take a few long deep breaths and squeeze his arse around Connor’s cock. “…it wouldn’t be because she was a girl…” He jerked his arse up and Connor buried his cock in Murphy’s arse, buried his face in the crook of Murphy’s neck, buried all his thoughts in one.
“It’s that she wouldn’t be you!”
The thought was this – he had Murphy and no one else did.
And the fleabag hotel didn’t matter anymore.
He rode Murphy to glorious completion. When he took his brother’s cock in his hand, he didn’t bother touching it nervously like a girl would, just to prove a point. He did exactly what Murphy liked, exactly what he needed.
When Murphy came, he whispered Connor’s name.
And Connor whispered Murphy’s.
And they were so close they fit on the bed with room to spare when they fell asleep.
When they carried their bags into the shiny, clean, fresh-smelling hotel room (with one double bed and one king-size bed, a shower stall and a bathtub, and cable TV included, with enough channels to watch Star Trek 17 hours out of every 24) the next night, Murphy placed a brand new bottle of lube on the bedside table.
“You know,” he said casually, “in our line of work, you never know when you’re going to run into an orphan, or some kid who needs taking care of. There’s more than one way to pass on your inheritance.”
Connor nodded. Good plan. Find some needy lad and teach him the family business. He’d have to think about that idea.
But right then, right there, he was much more interested in thinking about all that lube.
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