He Just Knows
Title: He Just Knows
Fandom:The Boondock Saints
Pairing: Connor/Murphy MacManus
Prompt: Sixth Sense
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1541
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it. Didn't happen. Damn it.
Author's Notes:twincest Big Damn Table of fic to be found here.
Beta by haldoor Thanks, sweetie! *smooches*
For my auntie Kaige.
Connor can sometimes tell when Murphy is sick or hurting. It’s not some great ‘act of God’ type revelation. He just knows. It has happened before, but one of the times the feeling was the strongest was when they were in 11th grade.
Connor was inside on his lunch break, trying desperately to finish a book report, when he was hit with a dull throbbing in his ribs and the back of his neck. He just knew that Murphy was in trouble. Pushing his chair back hard enough to knock it over, he ran out into the school yard to find his twin on the ground, being kicked by Sean Dempsey and Rory Coffey. With a scream of pure rage, Connor threw himself at Sean, vision gone pure red, taking the bastard down hard. Doesn’t matter that last year the three of them were friends. That shite hurt Murphy, and it’s ended any chance of them ever being friends again. Connor doesn’t think on these things as he snarls and hits. All that matters is Murphy.
Murphy managed to get to his feet, after Connor’s surprise attack. As he straightened, he caught a blow to his stomach that nearly had him back down, but he countered with a punch to the face. Rory was on the ground with a bloody nose, and Murphy was dropping to his knees, getting in two solid blows in before things got worse.
“Boys! Stop fighting at once!” a harsh voice cracked across the schoolyard. All four boys flinched as they recognised the voice of the Mother Superior, Principal of Sacred Heart High School.
“Yer in shite now, MacManus.” Rory sneers. The look lost much of it’s effectiveness with the deliverer flat on the ground, however. With a swift but painful dig of his fingers under Rory’s collarbone, Murphy gets to his feet, looking over to see Connor matching his movement. The twins were roughly grabbed by the scruff of their necks, and are dragged to The Office, being reprimanded the whole time. Murphy tunes her out, while attempting to look suitably contrite in hopes of a reprieve. He risks a glance at Connor, eyes asking ‘You ok?’. Connor barely nods ‘Aye.’ He arches an eyebrow. ‘You?’ and receives a matching short nod. ‘Aye.’
The nun pushes the twins ahead of her into The Office and closes the door.
“Connor. Hands out in front of you, palms up.” She instructs, taking down the strap from it’s place of honour on the wall.
The words “Oh, fuck.” are almost out of Murphy’s mouth, but he bites them back just in time, not wanting to make matters worse. Connor takes a shuddering breath, closes his eyes for a second, then opens them, stares straight ahead. Ah, fuck, fuckfuckfuck. Gonna hurt. Fuck. The strap comes down surprisingly hard, considering the sister’s age, and Connor inhales sharply at the blow. He’s screaming in his mind, at her, and the two idiots in the yard and at Murphy. What tha fuck did ya do ta make them so pissed off at ya? And why didn’t ya do some damage to them before ya went down? Fuck. Fuckingburns. Fuck. But he doesn’t drop his hands, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. Again. Crack. And again. Crack.
Murphy’s hands are already aching before Connor’s punishment is finished. And as his begins, Connor flinches in sympathy with every strike.
The walk home is torture. Murphy’s ribs and palms throb with each beat of his heart, again when he breathes; and Connor hasn’t spoken to him yet. He’s completely miserable.
“Look, Conn...” he starts to apologise.
“Save it, alright? It’s not yer fault. Now c’mon. We have ta tell Ma our side of tha story before the school calls her.” Connor doesn’t look at Murphy, just lengthens his strides, and jogs the last block, leaving Murphy behind.
Saying that their Ma is not pleased when she hears what happened would be an understatement. Furious would be a bit more accurate, but not with the twins. She storms around the kitchen, banging pots and gesturing emphatically with her cigarette.
“Th’old bitch. Who does she think she is? Anyone would be able ta tell ya were protectin’ yer brother.” She growls in Connor’s direction as she sets the table, slamming down the plates.
After dinner they go to bed early, and both are feigning sleep when Ma leaves for the pub.
“Conn? You awake?” Murphy whispers.
“Aye.”
“Fucken ribs.” Murphy explains, then slides off his bed, moves to sit beside Connor’s legs, a hand resting just above his twin’s knee. “How’s yer hands feel?”
Connor sits up, pushes the sheets out of the way. “Same as yours, ‘m sure.”
Murphy cocked his head to the side for a moment, considering...what? Nods once, then crawls up, slides a leg over Connor’s body to sit on him. He squirms a bit before settling just below Connor’s ribs.
“Tha fuck?” Connor asks, not really protesting.
Murphy cradles Connor’s left hand between his own. He delicately licks across the center of Connor’s palm, then draws away, blows cool air across the wet patch. Connor shivers slightly. It feels good, easing some of the residual pain in his hands. He doesn’t need to see Murphy’s smile, can feel it through the shadows.
“Thanks for savin’ m’arse.” Murphy says, serious for a moment, and stills, waits for Connor’s reply. “M’sorry I got ya in trouble.
“Welcome. And it’s not your fault. Well,” he clarifies “not all your fault, at least.” Connor waits a moment, relaxing under the reassuring weight on Murphy. “Ya goin’ ta sit there all night, or are ya goin’ show proper gratitude to your saviour and kiss me?”
Murphy’s smiling again.
“Is that the way it is, then?” he asks, before he’s all over Connor at once, still-sore hands rubbing across chest and stomach before coming up to cup Connor’s face. Murphy kisses him thoroughly, is working his way down and starts Ah, fuck chewing on the side of Connor’s neck, not caring about the marks. Connor manages to squirm out from underneath and pin him, carefully. His knees press against pale thighs, and he braces himself, hands pressing wrists into the mattress. Murphy’s boxers are hanging off his hips and Connor impatiently changes his grip so he can pull them down.
“Stay.” He commands, only half hoping that Murphy will obey, and leans over to feel under the mattress for the small bottle of hand-cream they’d borrowed from their ma.
“Ah, fuck.’ Connor growls when he finds it. “There’s not much left. I don’t want ta hurt you.” He’s trying to pull back, but Murphy won’t let him.
“Shut up and fuck me.” Murphy demands, and as unwilling to hurt his twin as Connor is, his dick is not wanting him to do anything more than obey.
“Alright. Alright.” Connor pants, surrenders, as he’s twisting off the lid, trying to get as much cream as possible out of the bottle. Shite. It’s going ta hurt no matter what. ‘M not mad enough at ya that I want ta hurt ya.
He carefully pushes a finger into Murphy, then two, carefully twisting and stretching before adding a third.
“Will ya get on with it?” Murphy growls, thrusting back against Connor’s fingers. “Not getting’ any younger here.”
“Not gettin’ any older than me, either.” Connor observes, smearing the last bit of cream over his cock, and pulling Murphy’s legs to rest over his hips. Ya sure about this? Murphy can feel the question in the air, answers by locking his ankles behind Connor’s back and pulling him forward.
Connor’s pushing, slowly, slowly in, and Murphy’s hands are gripping the sheets tight. And Jesusfuck it hurts, hurts, because no matter how demanding he was, it wasn’t enough lube and he’s so fucken close to begging Connor to stop. But he doesn’t because Connor has shifted his hips, cock rubbing sweetfuckingchrist inside him perfectly, and the words being chanted in Murphy’s mind have shifted to a million different versions ‘God’, ‘Please, Connor’, and ‘more’. All that’s left are moans, slickhot slide in and out, whimpered blasphemy.
“Jaysus.”
“Ah, God. So good, little brother. Fucken amazing.”
Murphy can’t summon the energy to protest the ‘little’ bit. Begs instead. “Please, Conn. Fuckenplease. He’s not sure exactly what it is he’s asking for. More, harder, faster. More. Just more. And Connor just knows, changes his pace, hips slamming against Murphy almost hard enough to leave bruises. Murphy knows he’ll be paying for this tomorrow, but can’t seem to make himself care.
When they come, it’s hard and fast, Connor shaking, barely controlled enough to keep from collapsing on injured ribs as he bites Murphy’s shoulder. Easy now, Murph. He has Murphy keening, writhing beautifully beneath him, and scratching white lines across sweatslick skin as he comes.
Murphy will clean them up later, and they’ll move to his bed, staying there until their ma comes home. The next day they’ll find Sean and Rory after school, and finish off what they started. Their ma will complain about them coming home two days in a row with blood on their school clothes, but they know that she’s glad it’s not their own blood and is secretly proud of them.
Fandom:The Boondock Saints
Pairing: Connor/Murphy MacManus
Prompt: Sixth Sense
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1541
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it. Didn't happen. Damn it.
Author's Notes:twincest Big Damn Table of fic to be found here.
Beta by haldoor Thanks, sweetie! *smooches*
For my auntie Kaige.
Connor can sometimes tell when Murphy is sick or hurting. It’s not some great ‘act of God’ type revelation. He just knows. It has happened before, but one of the times the feeling was the strongest was when they were in 11th grade.
Connor was inside on his lunch break, trying desperately to finish a book report, when he was hit with a dull throbbing in his ribs and the back of his neck. He just knew that Murphy was in trouble. Pushing his chair back hard enough to knock it over, he ran out into the school yard to find his twin on the ground, being kicked by Sean Dempsey and Rory Coffey. With a scream of pure rage, Connor threw himself at Sean, vision gone pure red, taking the bastard down hard. Doesn’t matter that last year the three of them were friends. That shite hurt Murphy, and it’s ended any chance of them ever being friends again. Connor doesn’t think on these things as he snarls and hits. All that matters is Murphy.
Murphy managed to get to his feet, after Connor’s surprise attack. As he straightened, he caught a blow to his stomach that nearly had him back down, but he countered with a punch to the face. Rory was on the ground with a bloody nose, and Murphy was dropping to his knees, getting in two solid blows in before things got worse.
“Boys! Stop fighting at once!” a harsh voice cracked across the schoolyard. All four boys flinched as they recognised the voice of the Mother Superior, Principal of Sacred Heart High School.
“Yer in shite now, MacManus.” Rory sneers. The look lost much of it’s effectiveness with the deliverer flat on the ground, however. With a swift but painful dig of his fingers under Rory’s collarbone, Murphy gets to his feet, looking over to see Connor matching his movement. The twins were roughly grabbed by the scruff of their necks, and are dragged to The Office, being reprimanded the whole time. Murphy tunes her out, while attempting to look suitably contrite in hopes of a reprieve. He risks a glance at Connor, eyes asking ‘You ok?’. Connor barely nods ‘Aye.’ He arches an eyebrow. ‘You?’ and receives a matching short nod. ‘Aye.’
The nun pushes the twins ahead of her into The Office and closes the door.
“Connor. Hands out in front of you, palms up.” She instructs, taking down the strap from it’s place of honour on the wall.
The words “Oh, fuck.” are almost out of Murphy’s mouth, but he bites them back just in time, not wanting to make matters worse. Connor takes a shuddering breath, closes his eyes for a second, then opens them, stares straight ahead. Ah, fuck, fuckfuckfuck. Gonna hurt. Fuck. The strap comes down surprisingly hard, considering the sister’s age, and Connor inhales sharply at the blow. He’s screaming in his mind, at her, and the two idiots in the yard and at Murphy. What tha fuck did ya do ta make them so pissed off at ya? And why didn’t ya do some damage to them before ya went down? Fuck. Fuckingburns. Fuck. But he doesn’t drop his hands, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. Again. Crack. And again. Crack.
Murphy’s hands are already aching before Connor’s punishment is finished. And as his begins, Connor flinches in sympathy with every strike.
The walk home is torture. Murphy’s ribs and palms throb with each beat of his heart, again when he breathes; and Connor hasn’t spoken to him yet. He’s completely miserable.
“Look, Conn...” he starts to apologise.
“Save it, alright? It’s not yer fault. Now c’mon. We have ta tell Ma our side of tha story before the school calls her.” Connor doesn’t look at Murphy, just lengthens his strides, and jogs the last block, leaving Murphy behind.
Saying that their Ma is not pleased when she hears what happened would be an understatement. Furious would be a bit more accurate, but not with the twins. She storms around the kitchen, banging pots and gesturing emphatically with her cigarette.
“Th’old bitch. Who does she think she is? Anyone would be able ta tell ya were protectin’ yer brother.” She growls in Connor’s direction as she sets the table, slamming down the plates.
After dinner they go to bed early, and both are feigning sleep when Ma leaves for the pub.
“Conn? You awake?” Murphy whispers.
“Aye.”
“Fucken ribs.” Murphy explains, then slides off his bed, moves to sit beside Connor’s legs, a hand resting just above his twin’s knee. “How’s yer hands feel?”
Connor sits up, pushes the sheets out of the way. “Same as yours, ‘m sure.”
Murphy cocked his head to the side for a moment, considering...what? Nods once, then crawls up, slides a leg over Connor’s body to sit on him. He squirms a bit before settling just below Connor’s ribs.
“Tha fuck?” Connor asks, not really protesting.
Murphy cradles Connor’s left hand between his own. He delicately licks across the center of Connor’s palm, then draws away, blows cool air across the wet patch. Connor shivers slightly. It feels good, easing some of the residual pain in his hands. He doesn’t need to see Murphy’s smile, can feel it through the shadows.
“Thanks for savin’ m’arse.” Murphy says, serious for a moment, and stills, waits for Connor’s reply. “M’sorry I got ya in trouble.
“Welcome. And it’s not your fault. Well,” he clarifies “not all your fault, at least.” Connor waits a moment, relaxing under the reassuring weight on Murphy. “Ya goin’ ta sit there all night, or are ya goin’ show proper gratitude to your saviour and kiss me?”
Murphy’s smiling again.
“Is that the way it is, then?” he asks, before he’s all over Connor at once, still-sore hands rubbing across chest and stomach before coming up to cup Connor’s face. Murphy kisses him thoroughly, is working his way down and starts Ah, fuck chewing on the side of Connor’s neck, not caring about the marks. Connor manages to squirm out from underneath and pin him, carefully. His knees press against pale thighs, and he braces himself, hands pressing wrists into the mattress. Murphy’s boxers are hanging off his hips and Connor impatiently changes his grip so he can pull them down.
“Stay.” He commands, only half hoping that Murphy will obey, and leans over to feel under the mattress for the small bottle of hand-cream they’d borrowed from their ma.
“Ah, fuck.’ Connor growls when he finds it. “There’s not much left. I don’t want ta hurt you.” He’s trying to pull back, but Murphy won’t let him.
“Shut up and fuck me.” Murphy demands, and as unwilling to hurt his twin as Connor is, his dick is not wanting him to do anything more than obey.
“Alright. Alright.” Connor pants, surrenders, as he’s twisting off the lid, trying to get as much cream as possible out of the bottle. Shite. It’s going ta hurt no matter what. ‘M not mad enough at ya that I want ta hurt ya.
He carefully pushes a finger into Murphy, then two, carefully twisting and stretching before adding a third.
“Will ya get on with it?” Murphy growls, thrusting back against Connor’s fingers. “Not getting’ any younger here.”
“Not gettin’ any older than me, either.” Connor observes, smearing the last bit of cream over his cock, and pulling Murphy’s legs to rest over his hips. Ya sure about this? Murphy can feel the question in the air, answers by locking his ankles behind Connor’s back and pulling him forward.
Connor’s pushing, slowly, slowly in, and Murphy’s hands are gripping the sheets tight. And Jesusfuck it hurts, hurts, because no matter how demanding he was, it wasn’t enough lube and he’s so fucken close to begging Connor to stop. But he doesn’t because Connor has shifted his hips, cock rubbing sweetfuckingchrist inside him perfectly, and the words being chanted in Murphy’s mind have shifted to a million different versions ‘God’, ‘Please, Connor’, and ‘more’. All that’s left are moans, slickhot slide in and out, whimpered blasphemy.
“Jaysus.”
“Ah, God. So good, little brother. Fucken amazing.”
Murphy can’t summon the energy to protest the ‘little’ bit. Begs instead. “Please, Conn. Fuckenplease. He’s not sure exactly what it is he’s asking for. More, harder, faster. More. Just more. And Connor just knows, changes his pace, hips slamming against Murphy almost hard enough to leave bruises. Murphy knows he’ll be paying for this tomorrow, but can’t seem to make himself care.
When they come, it’s hard and fast, Connor shaking, barely controlled enough to keep from collapsing on injured ribs as he bites Murphy’s shoulder. Easy now, Murph. He has Murphy keening, writhing beautifully beneath him, and scratching white lines across sweatslick skin as he comes.
Murphy will clean them up later, and they’ll move to his bed, staying there until their ma comes home. The next day they’ll find Sean and Rory after school, and finish off what they started. Their ma will complain about them coming home two days in a row with blood on their school clothes, but they know that she’s glad it’s not their own blood and is secretly proud of them.