Stewardess Fanfiction

Title: Carnival Ride. 5/9 in the Already Crazy series.
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Author: stewardess_lotr
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The MacManus brothers decide it’s time they got drunk. Connor/Murphy, age fourteen.
Warnings: Twincest. Graphic descriptions of drinking way too fucking much. Underage everything.
Archive: In my LJ only

Beta by lionflame and juniper_nyne, who have saved my ass yet again.





“How much of it do we have to drink?” Murphy asked.

Connor held up the nearly empty whiskey bottle. “We should drink it all to be sure.”

“Put it in a jar or something.”

Connor poured the whiskey into an empty, clean jar and screwed on a lid. “Let’s go outside and walk around. When’s Ma getting back?”

Murphy shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. A crowd’s coming over, so she won’t notice we’re missing.”

They left the house at eight in the evening. It was late summer, still light out until ten. They walked for half a mile before Connor unscrewed the lid of the jar and took a gulp of whiskey.

“Fuck!” His face wrinkled up and he shuddered. He wiped his mouth on his forearm. “Your turn.”

Murphy held his breath while taking a sip. He coughed and most of it dribbled down his chin.

“Ya didn’t have as much as I did,” Connor said. “Do it again.”

Murphy swallowed it this time. The whiskey burned all the way down to his stomach. He’d had sips of beer and wine, but never the hard stuff. Being drunk must be really fun, if people drank this shite to get that way.

Getting thoroughly drunk was their plan. They had never been drunk, and it seemed time. And Ma had somehow forgotten the existence of this particular bottle of whiskey -- maybe because it was so foul tasting. There was about a cup of it left. Murphy hoped it was enough to make them drunk.

They walked, sipped, walked, sipped. Half an hour later, the whiskey was nearly gone. They stopped so Connor could light a cigarette, lighting one for Murphy at the same time. As usual, the cigarette made Murphy light-headed and giggly.

Connor dropped the empty jar into a bin. “Is it working for you yet? I feel funny.”

“Aye,” Murphy said. He stepped into the street and fell on his arse.

Connor pointed at him and laughed, then fell over. Murphy crawled back up onto the pavement, where there was a patch of grass, and Connor followed.

“I can’t stand up,” Murphy said. He giggled uncontrollably. His body felt strange, like it was floating. That was the problem: gravity was broken, so he couldn’t walk.

On his hands and knees, Connor crawled. Murphy pursued him in the same fashion. After twenty feet, they were able to stand. They leaned against the side of a building for a minute or two.

Trying to walk down the street was like being on a carnival ride. It took them more than an hour to stagger home.

Murphy felt a little better. He could walk in almost a straight line. They went into the kitchen, which was packed with relations and people Ma knew from The Anvil. Ignored by the adults, they grabbed food and drank Cokes, then used the toilet and left again, walking to a small park. They lay down on the grass and lit cigarettes.

“We’re drunk,” Connor said with satisfaction.

“Yeah,” Murphy said. He crossed his arms under his head and tried to smoke without using his hands, holding the cigarette between his lips. Ash fell into his eyes, and he sat up and flailed at himself.

He wondered how long being drunk would last. Should they drink more, just in case?

“We should get something else to drink,” Connor said. They stood up and looked around. There was a pub nearby that was frequented by people so old they barely even moved. Connor headed towards it and Murphy knew what he was going to do, so he stayed close to him.

They entered the pub and went straight up to a table near the door. The old couple sitting at it looked at them in astonishment. Connor picked up the man’s beer glass and Murphy picked up the woman’s, which had more in it. They ran out the door, spilling beer as they went.

They stopped sixty feet away and drank the beers down without pausing to take a breath. It was heavy stuff, like Guinness. Connor hurled the empty glass into the street, where it made a satisfying smash, and Murphy threw his as well. They ran further away from the pub, but no one came out after them.

They were more than a mile from home, and it was close to midnight, so they finally headed back. Murphy felt fucking cool. They were drunk, they were out late, and they were smoking cigarettes. When he turned to look at Connor, Connor was already smirking at him.

When they were a couple of streets away from home, they stopped at another tiny park, this one with a bench and a bronze statue of somebody famous and dead. They sat down on the bench and lit what were likely to be their last cigarettes of the night. Ma would beat them if they smoked in front of her.

“What are we going to do now?” Murphy said. Going home to bed seemed a letdown after getting drunk for the first time. Too bad they weren’t old enough to go out to a club. That would be really cool: drinking with other people, listening to music, dancing.

Connor stood, then looked up and down the street. “Let’s streak.”

Murphy choked on his cigarette smoke. “What do ya mean, streak?”

“Take off our clothes and run home, idjit. Streaking.”

Murphy stared wide-eyed in surprise at Connor for a moment, then finally laughed. “Fuck, yeah.”

“We won’t get caught,” Connor said confidently.

They took everything off but their socks, then put their shoes back on. They bundled up their clothes; they would have to carry them while they ran.

“Go!” Connor shouted.

Murphy staggered after him, laughing so hard he could barely take a step. But then it felt good, running with nothing on, so he picked up speed. It turned into a race, both of them running as fast as they could, trying to beat the other.

Murphy couldn’t stop laughing, thinking about the old ladies in the houses lining the street. He waved up at the windows as they ran. “Hey! Look!” he shouted. “We’re fucken streaking!”

Running full out, they were home quickly. They stopped on the stairs, pulled off their shoes, put on their jeans, then went inside the house. The place was deserted: no Ma, no nothing. The party had moved elsewhere.

They drank more Cokes, had toast with butter and jam, then finished off a few half empty drinks left on the kitchen table.

In their bedroom, Connor pushed the window open so they could lean out of it and smoke cigarettes. Murphy wondered if any old ladies had seen them streaking. He hoped they had.

Connor burst out laughing. “Their fucken faces.”

Murphy pictured the surprised old man and woman in the pub and fell on the floor, laughing. Connor fell on top of him and tickled him. Murphy punched Connor on the arms and legs until Connor let him alone and retreated to his bed.

Murphy lay on his back on the floor. The carnival ride was back. Only this time, it wasn’t feeling good. The floor was moving, the whole fucking room. He groaned and rolled onto his side.

Connor knelt next to him. “What?”

“Make it stop turning,” Murphy grunted. He grabbed Connor’s knee. Connor wasn’t moving, so that should make everything stop spinning. For a second it did, then Connor started going around with him.

“Jesus fucken Christ. Oh God!” Murphy wailed.

Connor laughed uncertainly. “What’s wrong with ya?”

Murphy tried to think of the words. Suddenly his body was drenched with sweat and his mouth flooded with saliva. Connor stood up and dragged him into the bathroom, where Murphy vomited into the bathtub. Then he vomited into the sink and, finally, the toilet.

Connor held his head while he retched. Murphy could feel a thick string of saliva hanging out of his mouth, but he couldn’t do a fucking thing about it.

Connor wiped his face with a towel while Murphy knelt in front of the toilet. Connor flushed it, then cleaned up the bath and the sink.

“Fucken hell, Murph,” Connor whispered while he rinsed everything off. He left and returned with a tall glass of chocolate milk. Murphy shuddered, but drank it down.

“Get in the bath,” Connor said. He helped Murphy pull off his jeans, and Murphy realized they were both spattered with vomit. Connor pulled the rosary off over Murphy’s head, took off his own, undressed, and stood in the bath with him. Using the jug Ma used to rinse her hair, Connor poured hot water over Murphy, then refilled the jug and drenched himself.

Murphy was still shivering. “I’m never doing this again,” he vowed. Even after vomiting, he felt drunk. Abruptly, he sat down in the bath. Better to sit down than to fall down. The bath felt fucking freezing on his arse.

Connor sat down and kept pouring hot water over him. He closed his eyes so water wouldn’t get in them, not opening them until Connor stopped pouring water on his head, only onto his body.

Every once in a while, Connor poured water over himself, then went back to drenching Murphy. Murphy was glad Connor hadn’t put the stopper in the drain. If he saw any bits of vomit floating in bath water, he was sure he would puke again.

He had a sense of deja vu, then he realized this was the first time in years he and Connor had been in the bath together.

It was fucking cramped. Their knees were touching, and Connor must have the tap sticking into his back. Connor’s sun-darkened skin contrasted with the white porcelain of the bath, and his face was full of concentration as he refilled the jug over and over.

Connor had underarm hair, arm hair, leg hair, and even chest hair. There was hair running from his bellybutton down to his pubic hair, which was dark brown, the same color as all of his body hair.

Murphy still didn’t have a single fucking hair on his chest, though he had underarm hair and pubic hair. But he didn’t look anything like the eight-year-old who had last shared a bath with Connor.

He stopped shivering. Connor looked at him questioningly, asking him if they were done. When Murphy nodded, Connor stood up, turned around to reach for towels, and Murphy averted his eyes. Connor’s thighs and arse were right in his face. He didn’t look eight-years-old anymore, either.

They stepped out of the bath and dried off with towels thankfully free of vomit, brushed their teeth, then returned to their bedroom.

When Murphy lay down, he almost cried. His bed was spinning.

“Connor!” he called out. “I’m still sick.”

Connor got on the bed with him, so Murphy moved to give him room.

It wasn’t fucking fair. When he had thrown up in the past, he always felt better afterwards. And things had never spun around like this. It was the most horrible feeling, ever. He wanted to die.

“Lie on yer side,” Connor whispered. “Does that help?”

Murphy tried it. “Maybe.” He felt Connor touch his back, scratching it lightly, and realized they were both still naked. But he didn’t care. And they had just fucking streaked anyway.

He rolled onto his back and put his hands on his stomach. “It hurts.”

Connor put a hand on his belly and rubbed in slow circles. “That okay?”

“Aye,” Murphy breathed.

Connor’s hand was cool and dry, moving lightly over his skin. He closed his eyes. As long as he concentrated on Connor’s hand, he was fine. It was as if Connor’s hand held him still, kept him from spinning.

He sighed in relief, but said nothing because he didn’t want Connor to stop. He could feel Connor’s knees touching his legs, and Connor’s breath on his cheek.

“How come ya didn’t get sick?” Murphy whispered.

“Must be cause I came out first,” Connor whispered back.

Murphy laughed weakly at the old argument.

Being drunk was weird. At first he had been full of a strange energy. Now he felt floaty again, but also heavy, the way he felt when he was lying in the bath while the water slowly drained away.

“You can stop if ya want,” Murphy said.

“I’m not tired,” Connor said. He turned off the lights, then moved to the other side of Murphy so he could switch hands.

Murphy’s brain was foggy, but even so he could tell Connor’s hand felt different.

Connor had scratched and rubbed his back many times, and it always felt good. Now his twin’s touch felt strange.

The circle Connor’s hand made got bigger and bigger, up high on Murphy’s chest, down low under his bellybutton. Every time the circle widened, Murphy felt himself get shivery, but a good shivery, not like being sick.

He spread his arms and legs out and tilted his head back, but there wasn’t enough room on the bed. He had to slide one arm under Connor’s neck, and one leg under Connor’s legs.

Connor’s hand went higher, over his nipples. He shuddered. He was suddenly aware of Connor next to him, breathing slow and hard. Why was Connor still rubbing him? Why were his hands moving so slow -- both of Connor’s hands now -- over his chest, his nipples, down low over his belly, but not low enough?

Not fucken low enough.

Connor’s hands were setting off the strangest feeling in him, like Connor was touching him everywhere at once. Without him willing it, his body moved up against Connor’s hands, and he made pitiful sounds. Every stroke of Connor’s hands intensified the feeling, made it build and surge through him. His eyes were closed, but he could still see Connor, see his tanned lean thighs as he stood up in the bath.

It was fucking weird. It must be happening because he was drunk.

Connor’s hand swept up slowly over his chest then down, lower and lower, grazing the top of his pubic hair. Then Connor’s hand stopped moving, only his fingertips touching Murphy’s pubic hair.

Murphy started to tremble, even though his body felt too heavy to move. Touch me there, Connor. Fucken touch me. Please. He held his breath, and Connor’s hand slid down. Cool fingertips brushed his cock.

It felt amazing. He gasped loudly and tried to stifle the sound. If he was quiet, Connor wouldn’t think about what he was doing, and keep doing it.

Connor’s hand wrapped around his cock. When had it gotten so hard?

His breath shuddered out. Connor was half lying on him, his face directly over Murphy’s, studying him.

“Feel better now?” Connor whispered.

Murphy groaned. Just wait until I do it to you, you bastard. Then you won’t be so fucken smug. He bit Connor’s chin and panted.

Connor’s face was full of concentration again while his hand moved on Murphy’s cock. Murphy tugged his arm and leg out from under Connor and gripped him. If he didn’t feel all of Connor, he was going to fucking explode.

All of a sudden Connor was lying on top of Murphy, kissing him, licking his face and neck. Murphy jerked his body upward, moving his cock in Connor’s hand. The fog in his mind changed to cloudy euphoria. Connor moved down him, kissing and licking his chest, his stomach, his pubic hair, his thighs. He was sure Connor wouldn’t do it right up until the moment he felt Connor’s mouth on his cock.

His mind stopped and ecstasy took over. Connor’s mouth was warm and tight and wet on him, Connor’s hands were on his belly, rubbing. He forgot to be quiet. He cried out, his fingers moving in Connor’s hair, stroking it, pulling it. It wasn’t fair that Connor was too far away for him to touch. He reached with his hands and demanded, “Connor!”

Connor slid up and kissed his mouth, his hand back on Murphy’s cock. Murphy twisted against him until Connor lay on top of him again. He had to feel Connor like this when it happened. He opened his mouth so Connor could lick it.

Connor was lying on him, his chest resting on Murphy’s. Both his hands were moving. He was fisting his own cock at the same time, right up against Murphy. He could feel the wet tip of Connor’s cock against his thigh.

“Connor,” Murphy half croaked, half howled. His body jerked and trembled, Connor’s hand controlling his world until the white-hot jolt roared through him, out of him, all over Connor’s hand.

***

Murphy opened his eyes, which felt full of dirt. He blinked over and over, but the feeling didn’t go away. He got out of bed, surprised to find himself naked, pulled on briefs, and went to the bathroom. He pissed, flushed the toilet, then drank gallons and gallons of water out of the tap.

He went back into the bedroom. Connor rolled over and looked at him, his face wide awake considering they had stayed up most of the night and got drunk for the first time.

Everything rushed back. Murphy’s knees trembled and he sat on his bed, then pulled the covers up over himself, his eyes not leaving Connor.

“Ya still feel sick?” Connor said.

Murphy shook his head and groaned at the pounding that resulted. “Head hurts. That’s all.”

“Ya were really sick last night,” Connor said.

“Lucky I don’t remember it.” Murphy lay flat on his bed and closed his eyes.

Connor had fucking kissed him. He didn’t know why, but that scared him more than anything else they had done. He felt a sick shiver go down his spine as he recalled the fervor of Connor’s mouth on him, the way Connor’s mouth had loved him.

“Yeah. Lucky for you,” Connor whispered. His voice was dull and thick.

I remember every second, Murphy cried silently. I’ll never forget it. He kept his eyes closed. Don’t let me fucken lie to you. Make me stop. He didn’t open his eyes even when he felt Connor get on his bed with him.

Connor’s fingers lightly touched his face. What the fuck was Connor doing? Why was he touching him like this, so slow, so soft?

“You said the floor was spinning,” Connor whispered. “You threw up all over. I washed you off. You got into bed, and I rubbed yer stomach until you went to sleep.”

Relief flooded Murphy. Connor knew he remembered everything, but was going to let him pretend so they didn’t have to talk about it, think about it.

“Sorry ya had to clean up after me,” Murphy whispered. Connor’s hand came to rest on his forehead.

“It’s my fault,” Connor said. “It was my idea to get drunk. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” His tone was final.

“I don’t care if it was yer fucken idea or not,” Murphy whispered. “I wanted to get drunk as much as you did. So shut the fuck up so we can sleep.”

Connor said nothing more, and after a while his breathing changed. He was asleep.

Murphy knew he understood. I wanted it as much as you did. Wanted your hand, your mouth, on my cock. Wanted you to kiss me. Wanted everything.

---

For elaur.

Bookcover by Nine Fingers. Sean Patrick Flanery photo from duboseknows.com. Norman Reedus photo from Meet Norman Reedus.