Piss Up a Rope (1/1)

I'm new, and this is my first post. (It's a little pervy, so read the warnings.)

Title: "Piss Up a Rope"
Author: Jimbo
Fandom: 'Boondock Saints'
Subjects: Connor and Murphy MacManus
Date: December 3, 2005
Rating: NC-17, I guess, for nastiness (I suck at ratings)
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters -- just borrowing them for the fun of it.
Dedication: To Roger, who loves these characters and anything I decide to do with them.
Warnings: Slashy. Fetish-y. Implied incest. Read at your own risk of being offended.
Feedback: Whatever kind. I like discussing content.



"You and yer fuckin' rope," Murphy said.

Glaring, Connor continued to work, carefully coiling up a 30-foot length of hemp. Hadn't Murphy learned by now how much use there was in a good rope? Jesus Fucking Christ, all the real heroes had one.

And it certainly had come in handy before!

"Will ya hand me my bag?" he said, his left arm straining as he held the heavy rope in one hand and reached toward Murphy with the other.

"Take it and take a shite in it," Murphy said, shoving the pack at his brother. "Yer welcome to the fuckin' thing."

The MacManus brothers had only been in Motown a few days and didn't plan on staying long. The city and its problems were too formidable for even their holy cause, and as soon as they finished cutting off the neck of the methamphetamine pipeline currently poisoning their old Southie neighborhood, they would beat the shit out of there. Beirut or Baghdad were more attractive vacation spots than downtown Detroit.

Connor shoved the coiled cord in the bag and let it drop, then reached up to the rosary that had swung loose from the neckline of his t-shirt when he bent over to pick up the rope. How had he forgotten to take it off and hang it by the door? He glanced to the nails that acted as pegs on the wall by the jamb and there was Murphy's Celtic cross dangling where it belonged, right next to a chunk of peeling wallpaper and what looked like a fat spider climbing toward the ceiling.

What the fuck?

He pulled off the rosary and walked toward the door, glancing out of the corner of his eye to see whether his brother had noticed how he'd bolloxed up.

"Forget somethin'?" Murphy asked.

He shrugged and tried to smile as he hung the beads on the nail next to Murphy's. Maybe they had entered the small flat at different times and he had just forgot. Maybe he had been distracted by a noise in the hall or maybe he had been interrupted by the phone. There were lots of reasons he might have been out of sync with Murph for long enough to forget to hang up the rosary.

Lots of reasons.

"I need a piss," Murphy announced, and Connor stood for a moment, assessing whether he, too, needed one. Slightly surprised, he realized he didn't. Should he follow his brother into the small john and pretend? Would having Murphy notice the weakness or complete absence of his stream be worse than admitting he just didn't have to piss?

The twin brothers usually did most everything together without a second thought. And now one of them needed to piss and the other didn't, and that was proof that something was completely fucked up.

"Go ahead," Connor said, his voice surly. "Fuckin' knock yerself out, then."

"You don't need to?"

Connor shrugged again. "I don't want to is all. I want to pack up the rest of this shit."

"Pack what up? The guns? The rounds? We're not even goin' out again tonight, so what's the hurry?"

"I'm in no hurry, but it's all over me bed, isn't it? It's not on yours."

"So sleep in mine, then," Murphy said with a pointed look. "What's the difference which bed we choose?"

The previous night they had fallen together, exhausted, into one of the two beds in the dingy room, not even bothering to wipe off the beads of blood that dotted their faces. Connor's hands shook when he pulled at the sheet to cover his freezing legs, remembering how close the maniacal meth dealer had come to shanking Murphy with one of his polished spoons. They hadn't seen him in the room, probably because he was passed out next to the couch, high out of his head from the fumes of the liquid meth he and his boys were boiling into crystals.

Connor's gun had jammed, and with a curse he reached for one of the tequila bottles used to smuggle the drug across the border, smashing it against the table, the thick yellow shit inside splashing and burning his hand. The sound of the breaking glass grabbed the attention of both Murph and the glittery-eyed git quietly stalking him as he bent over a dead man on the floor, making the sign of the cross and preparing to cover the staring eyes with coins. When Connor sprang forward and cut the bastard's throat with the jagged bottle, the fine arterial spray spattered them both.

Tossing the bloody bottle aside, Connor grimaced. "Fuckin' cactus juice'll kill ya! Better stick with Guinness."

Murphy grinned. "Let's get the fuck outta here."

Only the nearness of his brother had finally warmed Connor's icy skin, and he had lay pressed against Murphy most of the night, not caring that they both smelled of sweat and blood and dangerous chemicals. The two hadn't even bothered to remove their rosaries at all, had simply slept in them as they had the night they had gotten their Calling, as if they still needed their holy protection even in the relative safety of the piece-of-shit rented room and one another's arms. Murphy hadn't protested when Connor held him closer and closer...

...and closer.

Now Connor wondered why the fuck he couldn't just admit he didn't need to piss? Or that he couldn't remember walking in the room together after dinner or taking off their coats or hanging up their crosses, which he evidently never did anyway?

Is he coming down with a fucking case of the fucking flu? Will he be shivering and sweating and puking up the lousy corn beef and cabbage by midnight?

He hopes to hell he will. It's better than thinking that something has changed between his brother and him.

"Well, I'm goin' to the toilet," Murphy said. "You can piss up a rope for all I care."

Connor stood and listened as Murphy unzipped his jeans and let fly, the normal healthy flow of a MacManus echoing in the tiny bathroom. They usually did it together, side by side, their dicks nearly touching, their streams intertwining like two rivers meeting at the head of a waterfall. He knew what it would look like, what it would feel like, what it would smell like.

He felt himself stiffen.

"I need to--" he started to say. 'I need to piss now, don't I? Don't I?' he thought.

Did he?

No, he was getting a little too stiff for pissing.

Murphy threw him a strange look when he came back into the room wearing only his shorts and socks. "Ya didn't clean off yer bed, now, did ya?"

He shook his head.

"What's the matter with ya, Connor? You sick or somethin'?"

Sweat had broken out on his forehead, and he could feel a tremor in his left hand, the one marked with Truth. Aye, he was fuckin' sick, that was it. If his mother or his da or anyone else could see inside his head right now, he'd have the livin' shite kicked out of him. He'd be dragged by his heels to the nearest church with his head banging up the steps to have his crotch scrubbed with holy water by a real Irish priest, and no doubt the blessed liquid would burn like the yellow meth oil had.

Like the warm wet feeling of his brother's piss when it missed the mark and touched his hand and dick.

'So we shall flow a river forth to Thee,' said the prayer, the prayer they had been taught as babies, the prayer that now defined their divine mission...

Holy Mary, Mother of God, he would burn in hell for thinking that!

"I'll sleep with you," he announced abruptly, pulling off his black t-shirt.

"Fine. Just give me room to breathe tonight, will ya?"

Connor slipped off his jeans and shorts as Murph snapped off the one lamp in the room. They climbed in the same small bed from opposite sides, moving in perfect accord again, first one leg, then the other, their asses depressing the mattress and their heads hitting the pillows at exactly the same moment. They rolled together, turning toward one another.

"No," Connor said.

"No what?" Murphy asked.

"No, I will not let you fuckin' breathe!"

With that, Connor closed his mouth over Murphy's and sucked in his sibling's reluctant tongue along with his warm breath. Connor's dick throbbed against his gut, like a nozzle ready to spit steam as soon as the pressure valve was opened, ready to baptize his brother with come or piss or both.

It didn't matter which.

A struggling Murphy pulled away and came up for air. "You that fuckin' horny?" he said, gasping. "Is that yer problem, then?"

"Don't fuckin' fight me, Murph," Connor said with an elegant pause.

"Don't make me use my rope."

The End