Title: The Devil Has My Ear Today

By foggynite

foggynite@hotmail.com

Fandom: Boondock Saints/Angel

Pairing: Connor/Murphy/Doyle

Rating: NC-17

Summary: "He's their compass… He points them in the right direction."

Notes: Blame sms. Again. She keeps feeding the plot bunnies. But she's a great beta.


The Devil Has My Ear Today
By foggynite
~+~

Summer heat seeping through the window. The vague stirring on the other side of the bed. A groan from the bathroom.

Doyle wakes slowly, but wishes he could just slip back into oblivion. The cheap motel room is bright, too bright, and he thinks he may not be completely sober yet.

Retching sounds from the bathroom, and Connor's ridding himself of the night's excesses. Soft snores in his ear breathe, dammit, breathe and he doesn't usually sleep on his back. It makes his neck hurt.

The mattress dips to the side, an arm flops over his chest. The oppressive sticky warmth makes his flesh crawl. He feels like he's baking slowly, sweat gathering in the hollow of his chest. He tries to shove the heavy limb off. No luck.

"Quit yer twitchin'…" Murphy's voice, rough in his ear.

Snorting, Doyle stops trying to move and lies there, roasting in his own skin. His stomach itches. He needs a shower, but the bathroom's occupied and Murphy won't take kindly to being dumped on the floor--

~old woman screaming "get out, get out then and go you worthless, ungrateful—" break of bones and crunches the grandson keeps pummeling beating and hitting harder and harder with blood spraying she doesn't scream~

--but Doyle really needs to take a piss his heart won't stop running so the McManus twins will just have to deal. Murphy's heavy, short and compact with smooth corded muscles, and the minute Doyle touches the pale freckled skin of his back, he's lost.

Murph grumbles in his sleep, arm pulling Doyle closer as he tries to burrow into the pillows, hips lazily thrusting in unconscious languor. Doyle lets his hand trail along the other man's back for a moment, reveling in the soft texture. There're so many scars—nicks and pocks and slashes—and the first time he saw the other man shirtless, he thought his skin would be tough, like leather. Like Murphy.

Street sounds out the window. Horns blaring, bass thumping, people shouting back and forth. LA is a busy town. It breathes like a living thing and never sleeps and refuses to die. There are so many evils to address here—

~shoves the other boy "yeah well now they're my shoes motherfucker so go cry home to your daddy—" and the boy pushes away pulls out a handgun –for safety his mom said for your safety—and squeezes the trigger, firing blindly because he's so tired of~

--But he has time to lounge in bed every once in a while. He can indulge himself. He works just as hard as the boys, puts in as much foot work. He's their compass, their radar. He points them in the right direction.

And right now his direction is the bathroom. Grabbing the edge of the bed and hauling himself over, he manages to escape Murphy's grip but lands on all fours. Sighing, willing the room to stop spinning, he decides that crawling after surviving the godawful swill they tucked back last night is not undignified. He fully intends to call a plague down upon that cheapass bartender's head one of these days.

One of these days. For now, he staggers—crawls—limps to the bathroom doorway and pulls himself up by the door handle. Connor's hanging over the edge of the tub, naked backside all bones and muscles, covered in as many scars as his brother. Doyle ignores him and manages to make it to the toilet, supporting himself on the wall and his aim is slightly off, but who gives a fuck that early...

Connor gags again, obviously just dry heaving at this point, and Doyle regards him quietly as sweat drips down his neck. An annoying droplet trickles down his spine, along the crack of his ass. That decides it for him.

"C'mon, Con'r," he rasps. "Move yer ass over or drown…"

Connor doesn't respond as he yanks on the shower faucets, not bothering to pull the curtain closed. Doyle lets the water run a bit, hoping to rinse the tub out before he gets in. He wonders if Connor is actually asleep and just sleep-puking. He shudders and takes a tentative step in, relieved that there's no trace of the blonde's—

~if they don't want me fine I'll go away I'll leave and won't they feel bad won't they hate themselves like I hate me and then they'll know They'll realize everything that they've done to me and I hope she cries I hope he feels like shit No one will notice that I'm gone any I'll just disappear and build my own empire of dirt~

--morning activities, and the water's blessedly cool. His calf nudges a tattooed hand accidentally, but it seems to startle Connor back to consciousness.

"Wha--?"

Doyle starts to hum an old sea chantey, beginning to feel better, and that's something he can thank his demon heritage for. One good quality of many downsides, but he'll take an easy morning-after any day. Besides, it's a convenient excuse to just drink more.

He lathers the shampoo right as Connor looks up at him, and the gunman gets a mouthful of PertPlus foam.

"Blech!"

The blonde looks so outraged, Doyle can't help laughing. That encourages retaliation, he knows it, but he can't be bothered by it much when a naked Connor McManus is climbing into his shower, intent on rinsing his mouth. Doyle's finished rinsing his hair, so he relinquishes the water stream easily.

"What time is it?" Connor asks in-between gargles.

"Half past noon, give or take." Doyle shrugs, eyes riveted on the water trailing down Connor's back. The urge to touch is overwhelming and he lets his fingers follow the water's path, digs the tips in when it earns him a groan of pleasure from the other man--

"C'mon kid You said you wanna play with the big boys so go ahead Just take a taste One little tab We only sell the pure shit here" and his mouth's on fire and he's on his knees gagging Staring up at two heavyset bodyguards and a knife is under his chin forcing his gaze up to the man in the suit "We don't like independent thinkers here my boy Not at all And when you try to cross me~

--and Doyle can't help that other parts of him are waking up, a Pavlovian response to those beautiful noises. Connor braces himself against the mildewed tiles, back arching as he groans again, louder. He's the vocal one. Doyle learned that early on.

A hiss and he knows that he's found a tight spot, so he keeps working there, stepping closer. Swaying backwards, Connor grinds against him, making his hands falter. The slide of his cock between soft flesh, and he rests his forehead against Connor's shoulder, resuming his massage a little roughly. It just encourages the other man to pant harder.

His hips are moving of their own accord, thrusting hard enough that Connor has to brace his elbows against the wall, too, and Doyle can just imagine the picture they'd present, heads bowed as the water streams over their writhing bodies.

The thought makes his hips buck and his mouth is hanging open, water running freely over his lips. His hands slide away from Connor's back, follows the trim line of his waist down to his hip bones, runs his fingers through damp pubic hair. His cock presses further against Connor's crack, the blunt tip occasionally nudging at the other man's opening, and Doyle can't get his thoughts together enough to remember if there's anything they can use for lube in here.

Stretching up onto his toes, Connor provides a better angle, and Doyle gasps, nearly choking on water.

"C'mon. C'mon c'mon c'mon," Connor chants under his breath, punctuating each word of encouragement with a flex of his ass against Doyle's thighs. And there's hard muscle there, hairs rubbing against his skin, and Doyle bites his shoulder, nearly whimpers at how good this is.

"This… This is the way a man should wake up…" Murphy's smirking voice distracts him for a moment, but he's struggling to find a good handhold to brace himself, because he can't stop can't stop won't stop, and his flailing hand meets solid flesh. He turns his head, water running through his bangs, down his face like tears, and he holds Murphy's steady gaze. The brunette regards him with a smug grin, cheeks already showing the flush of arousal, and Doyle licks Connor's shoulder, mouths at the skin pressing against him. Murphy grabs Doyle's hand in a grip so hard—

~blood everywhere all over the walls the floor and there's whimpering noises from the next room where the two men went-- a steady thumping and screams-- she's just too afraid to get to the front door because no where is safe-- he'll track her down again find her and she might as well give up give in give every because he owns her and he doesn't like to lose his property~

--he thinks his fingers might break, but the pain makes it more real, grounds him in reality. He lightly bites the skin under his lips, revels in the gasp and reflexive jerk that Connor gives, and Murph's brown eyes remain unblinking.

"Let me help you out, hm?"

The grip on his hand lessens, pulls his arm lower, but he can't look away from Murphy. He's trapped, and suddenly his palm is cold. Thick and gooey, the slick is spilling over his palm, getting all over Murph's hands and the squeeze bottle, and his cock is straining, hard to the point of painful. Last night it was Connor pushing into him while Murphy licked along his brother's back, sucking on Doyle's fingers as they scrabbled helplessly at the scars and muscles.

The memory sets him in motion, cupped hand blindly finding Connor's ass, pushing in two fingers covered in slick, the other man still loose from last night. He can't take much prepping and he grasps Murphy's shoulder, using him for leverage. He barely waits before his hips are steadily driving forward inch by inch, listening for that moment when Connor's pants relax, become freer.

He starts thrusting when he can't take the burning heat around his cock anymore. The friction is delicious and Connor's groaning, pushing back, letting more of his weight rest on his heels, and Doyle's gripping Murphy's shoulder hard enough to bruise while his other hand pumps Connor's dick. Connor tenses first, muscles straining, skin turning red as he spurts liquid heat over Doyle's palm. The constricting muscles around his cock are almost painful and Doyle's still long enough for Connor's dick to stop twitching, then he continues to fuck him hard.

His eyes have fallen closed at some point, but he forces them open, focuses on Murphy's sweaty cheekbones. Connor's arm is moving, pumping his brother's cock in time to Doyle's thrusts and that—

That's enough to make his vision white out and his body tense with that wonderful tingle that starts in his balls and just spreads through his viscera and his hearing goes just as Murphy's muffled groan echoes in his ears and then his world is black—

~"bitch, you're gonna work for me and do what my boys say or that kid of yours will be in the state's loving hands Or my boys over here Your choice" plumes of cigarette smoke ringing his face Loud music thumping through the floor boards of his office and the woman in front of him is shivering half stripped but he just sneers and waves her out One of his boys takes her roughly by the arm shoves her out the door as the phone rings "Never any time for pleasure these days boys That's what happens when you reach the top~

--and the water is frigid cold when he comes back to himself. Connor is trembling under him, slumped forward at an awkward angle, so Doyle slowly pulls out and away, lets him regain his balance. Murphy's at the sink, rinsing himself off with one hand while he lights two cigarettes with the other. Turning off the shower, Connor turns to face them with a smug expression, imperiously wiggling his fingers to demand the second cigarette.

Murph rolls his eyes, but holds out the butt and looks up at Doyle seriously. Mirroring his brother, Connor regards the half-demon and asks, "So where we headed tonight?"

Cold tiles against his back in the humid bathroom, summer heat forgotten as a chill settles into his bones. A chill that will remain until all three of them are back here again tonight and safe.

Much to Connor's amusement, he has to clear his throat twice before he can speak. The twins elbow each other at the state he's in, but then their expressions turn sober. Looking blindly between the two of them, Doyle starts the night's mission.

"There's a club down in Chinatown, owned by a very bad man…"

LA is a busy town. It breathes like a living thing and never sleeps and refuses to die. There are so many evils to address here.

And Shepherds we shall be…

~+~
END