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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13. Kink hints. Incest.
Pairing: Connor/Murphy, Smecker/Greenly
Feedback: Whatever you noticed.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Using goodtwin's 'Michael' as Greenly's first name.
Summary: If you could bottle it and sell it…
***
Useful Application No. 69
Paul's car was rocking.
He stopped about five feet away and had a cigarette. When the bangs and weird sounds still hadn't stopped, he edged quietly around the back end and then smacked on the trunk, which promptly popped open.
"Hey, what kept you?" Connor was out first, tugging down his shirt. "We were bored."
"So you broke into my trunk." Paul didn't know whether to laugh or growl, but one thing he didn't debate over was whether to watch. He flicked at the black nylon dangling from Murphy's wrists. "What's with the rope?"
Shrug, and Murphy snapped one end at his brother's ass. "Ask him. It's his little thing."
"Bastard." Connor promptly put Murphy in a headlock and dragged the both of them out. "Stay out of Brooklyn tonight, all right? We're going to be a bit busy."
"Here. Go take the night off or something." At the last minute, Murphy wrestled off the rope and tossed it to an extremely bemused Paul.
***
Greenly peered after the fast-disappearing twins. "What was that?...and why are you looking at me like that?"
"You just inspire that kind of reaction, Greenly. It's a gift." Paul shoved the other man into the car, then dropped the rope into Greenly's lap. "Hold onto that. We're going to need it."
***
Position No. 36
For a relatively frail-looking guy, Smecker sure knew how to handle himself. And handle Michael, for that matter.
"Mike? Christ, is everyone in this town-" teeth sunk deep into Michael's neck "--Irish?"
"Hey, you asked. Now would you hurry up and-" More speech would've risked sending Michael's voice into squeaky, so for the sake of his rapidly-shredding dignity, he shut his mouth. The sun-warmed hood was burning his dick, and he couldn't shove himself up because fucking Smecker was one kinky bastard.
Correction: he was a prick. But for once, Michael saw nothing wrong with that.
***
Flavor No. 9
Beer shot up Connor's nose. It burned, choked, and otherwise inconvenienced the hell out of him. "Shite! You fucking bastard!"
Still holding the bottle, Murphy was laughing too hard to defend himself. As beer doused both of them, they went head over feet off the couch and onto the floor. "Your fault for falling asleep in the middle of...Connor? Hey...hey...now that isn't fa--ahh..."
Ignoring the feeble protests, Connor tugged collar from neck and slurped up a few more drops. "'s not like I'm going to waste good beer. Stop moving so much--you're making it spill."
***