Nicholas: Another challenge ficcy of A Hotter Kiss. She seems to keep us all busy, doesn't she? Anyway, you didn't see this on my upcoming list because I got the challenge about four hours ago and wrote it in that following time. This is the finished piece. I like it. I'm a bit anxious to my challenger's review because, though I tried to add that line you wanted, Kiss, I couldn't quite fit it in without tweaking it, so I just made it a bit of a theme AND I'm not sure if what is shown in this fic would be considered abuse or not...I'm just not a good critic of my own stuff. This is Connor talking to you, by the way. Hope you like.

P.S. The multiple ellipses is something I borrowed from Manga. It's a bit of a structure thing. It represents a long pause (the image of which is given by the many beats of seeming silence).

Disclaimer: Don't own it, don't sue me.

Rating: M...language...violence/abuse...slash...twincest...suggestivene

Murphy's beautiful. He's too beautiful ta harm, too wild ta master an' too damn persuasive ta resist. I'm his, an' I always will be. More than just his twin, I'm his friend, his lover an' his shoulder ta cry on. Fortunately er unfortunately, he doesn't do the majority o' the cryin' in our relationship.

I would never hurt me brother, not on purpose, at least. I hate ta raise a hand ta him 'cept in jest. I try ta avoid, at all costs, violent contact with me twin. My fear is that I'll do somethin' rash, er go overboard an' then he'd never fergive me. It's just the way I am. I try ta be gentle with him when I need ta be ('cause let's face it: we all know who's the fuckin' older, more responsible brother here), an' so even if he gets angry an' hits me outta some drastic error on either of our parts, I won't fight back.

Murphy's more rambunctious…a bit persnickety at times, as well. I wouldn't dare try ta hold him back when he's dead set on seein' he has his own way (I'd laugh ta call him a spoiled brat, though). He's also protective…overly protective. Wouldn't go so far as ta call him paranoid, but that's damn close.

It wasn't the first time he went just a bit too far. Many times I've found myself in a state o' utter agony at his hands, but I'll always fergive him. I can't help it: I love him an' couldn't bare ta lose him. An' so ev'ry time he gets a bit too much ta drink an' takes somethin' just slightly the wrong way, I take his wrath as best I can. It's better he gets it out than bottle it up an' hurt himself somewhere later on down the road. An' anyway, there's always that moment when he goes from hurtin' me ta holdin' me, from cursin' me ta kissin' me. If it weren't fer that moment, I'd don' think I'd live ta see another day.

Like I said, it wasn't the first time he went a bit too far. It was the first time he had a rational reason too. It was the first time I thought ta try me own defense an' try ta talk some sense inta him. Silly little me.

"What the fuck, Connor?" He wasn't drunk this time, he was really offended…hurt.

"What're ya on about?"

"That girl: 'O! Look at me with my fancy hair an' three hundred dollar shoes!' I come back from the bathroom an' yer there feelin' her up. What. The. Fuck?"

He shoved me ta the side. Alright, I can deal with that. Just a stumble as I'm tryin' ta walk through the door, nothin' ta worry about. I let him walk by 'cause I don' want ta get in his way right now. "I wasn't feelin' her up. She offered ta let me feel her skirt, it was made outta some weird, soft fabric." Which I did indeed use as an excuse ta feel her up. Guilty as charged.

It wasn't like ya think tho', reader. Sure, I touched her skin—smooth an' pale it was—fer comparison only. I wanted…I'm not quite sure what I wanted ta do, but I concluded from me experiment that where Murphy is warm, this woman is very much not. An' while I can't say that my thoughts about her at that exact moment were completely, one hundred per cent pure, I can say that if I had any inclination ta…ya know, I would do it wonderin' why I'm not with Murphy instead.

Murphy just didn't seem ta get that. "Right…fuckin' shit-faced liar." Not like I had the right ta assume he'd get that. I just shouldn't go around rubbing up on a lady's thigh while me brother's around (even when he's not around, I suppose).

The second I let the door slam, he pushed me again. Harder this time, I fell back against the side o' the couch an' just barely kept me feet under me. God, I love that couch. Funny bit of infermation 'bout that particular, grimy, overly used, beloved piece o' furniture that was in our apartment when we got there: that's where I lost my virginity—an' ta Murphy as well. That's somethin' nice ta think about instead o' how much it hurts when I fall back onta it an' smack my head on the wooden bit that sticks outta the back of it 'cause he was just determined to push me over.

I wouldn't mind a bit of a concerned flicker in Murphy's eyes right then, but I get nothin' o' the sort. That's just not him. So I don' expect it when I wince from the knives and needles of hurt stabbin' up ta me brain. "Murph, just calm down, alright?"

He kicked my side: "Shut up, jerk-off!" Kicked me again.

I had caved in a bit from that second blow an' as some misplaced defensive maneuver, I rolled off the couch an' landed on my hands an' knees. I was on my feet again quickly, an' managed ta dodge a punch aimed at my face. He meant business, Murphy did.

I gripped his wrist as he tried ta pull his hand back an' held him relatively still long enough to try ta say somethin'. "Murphy, ya en't bein' fair." I may have been physically stronger of us (a God-given gift), but Murphy is an over-all better fighter than me. I think it's from experience.

His other fist came outta nowhere an' hit me in me already sore side. That's about when a scuffle o' epic proportions broke out in our quiet, little loft on the fifth floor of a buildin' in South Boston. I couldn't keep track o' who was hittin' who an' whether er not I was hurtin' him er meself. Either fuckin' way, the tables quickly turned when I somehow slammed back inta the floor an' he jumped down on top o' me.

I don' like the thought o' hurtin' him, but the idea that he doesn't mind it when he's beatin' on me, when he's treatin' me like shit, that's enough ta infuriate me. So I wrenched an' twisted, tryin' ta throw him offa me.

He wasn't phased. Murphy had a very strategically positioned advantage that was literally over me. All o' his weight wasn't on me, but he pressed me down hard enough ta keep me there. An' then, in the midst o' my hands swattin' at him and his tryin' ta hold me down, I felt a tight, two-handed grasp on me throat...

... ... ...

... ... ...

That just didn't happen. That just wasn't how it went with us. I automatic'ly stopped flailin' me arms an' instead gripped his at the wrists. I really couldn't breath at that moment. I knew then, that this had gone entirely too far. "Stop fightin' with me," he demanded harshly, "just stop!"

My sudden stillness brought my body into a state o' realization. I now began ta feel the various bruises I'd have in the mornin' an' a bleedin' lip. As I was wrenchin' at his hands, I felt my pulse start to pound maniac'ly against my sores on my side and arms. I closed my eyes fer a moment, tryin' ta get just one more breath of air (in situations like these, ya go one step at a time).

Then I heard his voice change. "O shite…" Quiet fearful little Murphy I used ta know when we were in grade school. He let go immediately an' sat back on my lower abdomen. "O fuck."

I took in a deep breath an' that poundin' surged directly up ta my head. His weight was set uncomfortably just underneath my stomach. As I got me wits about me again, I realized that I was still holdin' his wrists an' that he was starin' at me with a wide-eyed look of an officially freaked out child.

He was pantin', tho' not as hard as I was. "Fuck…" I wonder if he could form any other words than that.

As our eyes locked for the longest short moment in recorded history, I found that the flit of fear in my chest that his near-throttlin' me brought magnified by the flash o' terror in his blue irises. The little broken corner of the window at the far side of the room let in the regular sounds of the city-life lettin' us know that all had, in fact, not changed. We were still us an' Murphy was still my brother: he'd just lost control.

He wouldn't apologize. I would think I'd know me own brother ta know that. He wouldn't give the slightest bit of an "I'm sorry." I know that. I fergive him already, ya know why, dear reader? I fuckin' love him.

Abruptly, an' rather unexpectedly I thought, he pulled his wrists free o' my hands an' gingerly traced his fingers along my throat where he'd just a few seconds before been so rough. He winced slightly. "I have an idea," he started quietly. "…Let's ferget that happened."

I nodded like I always did. We pretended ta ferget 'cause that was easiest even tho' that just meant we didn't learn from our mistakes an' we'll do it again. Still, I nodded like I always did because I fergive him.

Ya know why? 'Cause as he leans down an' lets his lips brush the bruised skin on my neck, it's the true, fuckin' meanin' o' "kissin' it better." That's fuckin' why! 'Cause now that his hands have made that fuckin' change from deadly ta harmless, I know that it's his way o' makin' sure I know how sorry he really is. That's the fuckin' reason.

Even tho' it breaks me heart just a tad that he can hurt me without thinkin' twice my soul flies high when he makes up for it. My mind dances when he kisses me and touches me so gently that it seems he thinks I might break. "So…We're cool, then Murph?"

His tongue lapped tenderly at the blood on my lower lip for just a moment before he looked in my eyes an' nodded. "Aye, we're cool, no matter how hot it's about ta get in here."

O, there's the loophole. Right in that thought is the contradiction an' irony that I wish I could show off ta me friends, I'm sure they'd be amazed. I hate when Murphy hurts me outta anger—it's not a nice feelin'. But when it comes down ta when we're makin' up, the world wouldn't turn without that telltale pain that goes with makin' love with him. An' I would never think o' harmin' me brother—on purpose, mind ya. Yet, when he lets me, I'm sure I make him feel it (don' pretend ya don't know what it is, my naughty reader).