Conner the Sinner

DISCLAIMER: Boondock Saints, Connor and Murphy are all products of the genius mind of Troy Duffy. This is simply an indulgent dabbling of pure fiction by a fangirl. Now, Onto the good stuff!

----

Aye, so'm a sinner.
Technically, that makes me a hypocrit too.
Y'see, I kill people. I kill killers, rapists... drug dealers, too, if be the case. But mostly killers, mafia men wi' big suits and skunky gobs, fat cigars 'n suitcases full ay money. Me and me brothur perform the justice and will o' the lord, a family tradition as et is, we rid th'earth o' murderers an'--oh, fuckin' 'ell, it's all a bunch of crap anywey.
Let me start over.

---So I'm a sinner.
And as of this night, I'm sittin' in a sinner's bar; The Broom Closet, they call et--not exactly the most original name fer a queer bar but certainly appropriate--with a glass of cold sinnin' alcohol in m'and. What makes this kind ay bar particularly sinful is it's filled only with blokes-- half-dressed, er not dressed at all--- some of them are bumpin' and grindin' on the dance flaur like a bunch of pansy idjiots, while the older er weaker ones take their chances at the bar, tryin' to chat up the pouty-faced blond bartender while drownin' their sorrows in fancy drinks named after sexual favors.
"Gimmie a blowjob," I hear from a few seats down, and when I look, it's another bloke, just like all the other blokes, except this time e's bauld, 'n fairly unattractive.
I shift in my seat. Tha's when I r'member I'm wearin' leather fuckin' pants--- and that they're so bloody tight I can feel the seams climbing up me arse. Oh, righ, I think. I fergot: I'm a fuckin' 'ustler.
While me an' Murph blow the faces offa murderers 'n rapists, we don' take their money. Never 'ave, due to the fact that that would indeed make us sinners, thieves. Huh. We did it maur on principle 'n tradition than actual belief, rilly, er atleast I did, b'cause the last time I went to confession I wis twelve years auld, and everytime I kneel at that altar wi' my brother I don't pray, I'm jus' thar. Just thar 'n speakin' those memorized words, oh ye holy father, etcetera.
Mum always taught us the values of 'ard werk, aside from the values of 'ard drinkin', o'course. So fer money, we work, like, 'odd jobs': recently, the meat business. Before that, automotives. Sold our clothes, sold our weapons, even at one point sold our bloody fridge cos' we didn't 'ave enough scrap to wide our arses wi.
I sell my body.
And no, if that's what you're askin'; Murph doesn't know. M'not rilly sure 'ow my particularly morally-adept 'n religious twin brothur would take et if he found oot I sucked cock fer extra cash. He doesn't even know I 'ave the knack fer it, although I wouldn't particularly mind showing him---
Oh. Hold on. Some bloke's come up.
"In the back room, stud?" Terrible american accent. Bit 'o art-fag-fuzz on 'is chin, short black hair matches 'et, e's got cold, dead-grass green eyes. A fifty-quid, er dollers as they call 'em 'ere, is clutched in the hand that rests against my shaulder. E's no Frank Sinatra, but e'll bloody do.
I say, "Aye", and we go on our merry little wey to the infamous back room ay the bar.
Now, lemme tell ye somethin' about the back rooms ay poofter-bars.
It's bloody dark, and hot as 'ell. Et always es; that's the beauty of the institution, ye could be fuckin' the ugliest piece of arse this side o' town, but all ye've gaut is the feelin'-- that feelin' o' heat 'n sensation. It don't rilly matter whut ye look like anywey, b'cause it's all about gittin' off. Plus it's better fer business if ye can stay hard while some hideous three-chinned mutant buggers ye senseless.
I feel the bloke push the fifty into my back pocket, 'n right away his 'ands er all over my arse. 'N they're not gentle, they're bloody ravenous, squeezing all o'er-- until I realize I've been pushed past all th'other sweaty, copulatin' blokes to the slightly cool, slightly damp wall.
He doesn't waste time, this one.
Where was I? Et's kind of 'ard to think when some aggressive bugger is yankin' yer hundred-somethin'-euro leather keks down to yer knees and frantically gropin' all around yer limp noodle like an auld pervert. Who th'fuck does 'e think 'e is? Some mock-rapist, some mock-captor; but he ain't neither o' those, cuz I'm bloody lettin' 'im. The fifty-pounder that's now located somewhere by my tremblin' fuckin' ankles is why ah'm lettin' 'im do it, lettin' him relish in his power 'n control 'n whatever-th-fuck-else that gits him awf on this disturbing shite.
Oh, gaud. He's not goin' to use any lube. E's just wettin' his fingers with his tongue and stabbin' me in the arse with 'em, like that'll fuckin' help, an' before I kin protest-- he's in.
Oh, GAUD, e's in, an' I can feel ev'ry fiber o' my being clench and scream simultaneously. I claw at the wet, dark wall, tryin' to find somethin' to grab hold of, an' tears come to me eyes, a scream lodged in my throat--'e buries himself deeper and I ferget about the scream, 'cos I'm goin' to pass out. Roight there on the dirty, cum-splattered flaur, I'm going to drop like a fuckin' stone, b'neath dark shapes o' stinking bodies 'n aw.
But I don't. I stay upright, stiff and straight 'n filled with electric bolts of agony, 'n this bloke shovels in me guts with is' hard cock. His fingertips dig into me sides so 'ard I know they'll be bruises and then I feel his hand wrap 'round me flaccid dick. This isn't goin' to be o'er anytime soon. I choke in another scream an' try to relax my bottom half, a trick ah've learn'd, try to make it feel less like rape and more like a jaub-- my jaub. And thin I know the only way to make it less painful is to think about somethin' else-- think about him.
So I close my eyes, ball up me fists, and I pretend.
I pretend that the stranger who's gittin' 'is rocks off pummelling me to 'ell is my twin brother, Murphy. I pretend that his thrusts are less erratic and stabbin' but slower, sweeter. I pretend that it isn't some bloke's hand wound 'round me unresponsive knob, but his. His. His.
'E leans forward, flat sweat-sheened chest against the curve of my back, and 'e kisses me ear. His breath is hurried and frantic, and each gasp 'n moan catches itself in my ears, and I savour in 'em. His thrusts are languid--almost loving, er some sick mockery o' love--pullin' out agonizingly slowly 'n then thrustin' back in firmly, a quivering sigh jerked from me lips each time. His 'and is knowing and perfect, he pulls on my stiffened cock just so, squeezes at all the right spots, drives me insane with need an' lust an' blood. I drop me 'ead down, 'n kin see th' curve of his 'and, and th' tattoo that marks it. A rush 'o heat settles in me gut, my mind swims.
Using that wet, disgusting wall as lev'rage, I meet his body with mine, and get dizzy when I hear his breath catch and a series of moans drop from his gorgeous mouth; his thrusts grow more shallow, more blind. He fists me cock wi' a kind of feriocity tha' suprises me, a kind o' 'urried passion that leaves me seein' stars 'n planets, and I'm pushing, pushing back up agaisnt 'im, meeting every pivot of his narrow hips and moaning, moaning, moaning 'is fuckin' name. Something inside of me breaks, er explodes, I can't tell, but it sends me seein' white and feelin' hot stings o' pleasure run through my arms an' my legs an' my dick, and suddenly I'm cumming into his hand with a keening, desperate cry like a stray flea-haggard bitch howlin' at the moon.
And then it's over.
Those smooth, gentle 'ands are replaced by rough ones that feel slightly grimy, grippin' my flesh severely like a vice and havin' no consideration for my well-being 'er anyone elses, rilly. A few hard, fast pumps and the bloke comes and almost immediately withdraws himself, slappin' a warm, wet palm over me battered arse.
"Ye're a sick fuck, you know that, mate?" The bloke says as 'e wipes my cum off on my body, and thin I don't feel the heat of him anymore. I just lean up against the wall, pull up my trousers and try to breathe, hearing the sounds bodies smacking against eachother, my own heart pumping in my ears.
Aye.
So I am.