Brokeback Irishmen

Despite the fact they would never admit it to anyone but maybe each other in playful taunts, both of the Irishmen clung to each other like an octopus in bed.

With the sun shining down onto their bare skin through the broken blinds, both men were a single entity in that moment of blissful slumber. Skinny and scarred, with the various tattoo’s spread across their bruised and cut skin, they laid layered over each other, clinging and starved for affection.

They both had battle wounds from the previous night, but each wore them with ease and pride. The bite marks that were sunk into the most visible and available places, the four telling red scratches of fingernails against skin, the big welps and bruises from the rough play both in and on the way to the bed.

For now though, they were in peace. Burke’s arm’s clinging in a too-tight grip around the Pikey as Mickey’s hand curled into the bloody mess of Burke’s brown locks, ensuring he wouldn’t escape ever again. Their rib cages rising and falling together on a synchronized rhythm, shallow to the avoid the pain of the cracks in them. A pain they both now shared.

These were the quiet moments they couldn’t take from each other, no matter what they did to try.

hardlyapocalyptic:

dagsandcaravans:

Woah, woah, woah.

…Is it a geed bar?

It’s THE BEST - and also exclusive.

…Any Irishmen in it?

hardlyapocalyptic:

dagsandcaravans:

I t’ought ye were in fekin’ hell!

Yet again—. I have not ruled Hell for some time, Mickey O’Neil. I tired of the responsibility and passed it down to new rulers.

I run a bar these days.

Woah, woah, woah.

…Is it a geed bar?