Destiny Interrupted

Boondock Saints. Connor/Murphy. R. 100 words.

Drabble.

Saltsweet

Connor’s tongue is hot and slick, tasting of alcohol, cigarettes, the salt of blood, the sweet of sin.

Murphy can hardly remember a time when he didn’t know what Connor’s mouth tasted like. He doesn’t want to remember really, because this is the path he chose and he never—never fucking ever—wants to look back.

There’s always some variation of ‘Fuck, Murph, we can’t…’ lingering bitter as orange peels on Connor’s tongue too, but Murphy sucks out those feeble protests, grinds them up, renders them unrecognizable by the time they’re laced with semen and sliding back down Connor’s throat.

*

End