Pay the Dearest Cost (8/12)
Title: Pay the Dearest Cost ( 8/12 )
Authors: empathicfrost (Frost) and theonemonaghan (Kacey)
Pairing: Con/Mur
Ratings: ***over-all series NC-17, for sex, sexual abuse, drug usage, language, violence and of course, the Twincest <3 ***
Disclaimer: not ours, but Kacey has a BDS shirt. >D And poster!
Summary: post-movie. Connor and Murph might be fugitives now, but they have each other. Except Yakavetta's nephew wants more than revenge.
A/N: a long bloody series.
Previous Chapters: Part One , Part Two , Part Three , Part Four , Part Five , Part Six, Part Seven
Chapter Eight:
Chapter Eight: Severed Reach
When the world returned to Murphy MacManus, it was black. This seemed a terribly odd thing to him since he knew his eyes were open yet could see nothing. His mind raced to catch up with his lost senses and now it was time to understand his situation.
There'd been a drink, and a mistake. Paolo had known who he was all along, and then had drugged him. Captured him. Sleeping pills, most probably, as his mind was still slightly foggy, but getting better with each second that passed.
His wrist ached something terrible, and a tug from both hands made Murph aware that he was tied to a chair. Both hands and legs were immobile. Murphy noticed, with a good amount of desperation, that he could no longer feel the knife holster on his leg, either. It had been taken. Shit, shit, shit.
He was damned near ready to vocalize his frustrations (in as many languages as he knew), when he heard the noise. A ragged breath--though it sounded weak, it was steady and patterned. Murphyknew the pattern, too--that was how well he knew his brother.
"Connor?" His head turned wildly to the right, eyes searching the pitch black for even a silhouette of his brother. None was found, and this pained Murphy more than he thought it would.
What did they do to you? "Connor?" Louder this time--more frantic. "Are you awake?" His voice raised desperately louder with each syllable. "Con!"
"He's asleep. Its no use, MacManus." Paolo flipped on a small light.
The light was instantly blinding to Murphy's eyes, which had been attempting, just a moment before, to adjust to the infinite darkness. A hissed out sound of pain escaped him, but then it was seemingly forgotten as throbbing eyes were forced to get used to it, and seek out Connor.
Whatever would have come out of his throat next got caught at the sight of his brother. He looked worse than Murphy would ever have imagined. Battered, bloody and bruised to the point where it was truly frightening. Was his ear bleeding?
"Connor!" Louder, this time. Almost a complete scream. Murphy ignored the words (as well as presence) of Paolo. "Connor!"
Bindings were tugged at, and all that it really managed was to make his wrists burn in further pain. It didn't matter. Connor mattered. "Bastard!" He yelled out; back arching forward, and hands wriggling uselessly behind his back.
Connor begun to stir and his uneven sleeping breaths weren’t as heavy now with his lips closing and his jaw tensing in conciouness. But despite every scream that filled the room in effort to gain his attention, Connor's eyes remained shut and then his head rolled painfully back to relieve the stress from it, to somehow quiet down the ringing that bounced through his skull.
Most of Connor's bloody cuts were dry and most of the bruises were not as swollen as they once had been. By Paolo's orders, he had not been beaten as frequently during the last day, as though he were being prepared for something, prepared for whatever torture, far worse, that would come next.
Paolo had changed, now he wore a nice fitting robe, the impression of a gun seen through the material at his hip - and yes, Murphy's knife was lazily gripped in one hand.
"In fact, Murphy. Its no use to call to him at all." Paolo approached the chairs in the center of the bedroom, his slick smile was for Murphy, but he went, instead, directly to Connor, with a purpose. He carefully touched Connor's chin and angled it up toward him, forcing the eyes that were closed to open.
Connor was forced to look straight ahead or close his eyes again, he neither heard nor could know at all of his brother's presence. Paolo tied the usual gag around Connor’s mouth, cutting off any waking curse he might mumbled to the captor. With the gag in place, the knife was being forced up under his chin and Connor scowled in challenge. He wasn’t scared, if Paolo was going to kill him, he would have done it. This was all mind games, this was all about suffering.
"He doesn’t even know your three feet away from him." Paolo was speaking directly, happily, into Connor's face, never looking away, but the Italian's words were directed at only Murphy.
"Don't you fucking touch him!" Murphy was more adamant than ever now--tugging at his too well tied wrists and attempting to loosen the bindings at his feet by kicking.
No avail. His voice was high pitched in its urgency, and growing even louder with each scream and growl. "Connor? Connor!" His wrists must have been bleeding now, and everything was seeming rather hopeless.
Random obscenities fell from his mouth direct at Paolo. Get that knife away from him! "No! What the hell did you do to him? Connor?!" Frantic.
Never, ever had he been so near to his brother without his presence being noticed. Tears threatened to prickle at his eyes, but anger held them back.
Paolo was as entertained as a child with a toy - two toys. He kept Connor's focus on him by moving the knife to the side of Connor's throat to the tattoo and nicking a small slice into the face of the saint image there. "Connor, would you like to see a show? You'll have a front row seat."
Uncomprehending and suddenly too drained to be angry at Paolo's frequent one-sided conversations to a deaf man, Connor only closed his eyes again. Even when his heavy, thick chair was being yanked to face the side of the room where the bed was, now his back was to his brother's and he didn’t know it. If he tilted his head back at that moment, it might have been enough to even brush Murphy's shoulder. But Connor remained oblivious, forced to watch the empty bed in the corner of the room.
"Don’t worry, MacManus. Your brother will know your here soon enough." Paolo disappeared out of Murphy's sight for a moment, retrieving something from a drawer- an envelope. From which he supplied a syringe needle. "Even if it wont be from hearing your screams."
Murph nervously eyed the syringe for a moment, mouth opening in morbid curiosity. Was that for him? What was it? Not that it mattered what it was--Murphy wanted no part in it, either way.
With a growl his hands tugged harder against their bindings--the sweat and the blood there made no difference when it came to getting free. It was a useless battle--but it made Murphy feel better in an odd way just to know he was still trying.
Fuck the needle. Connor wasright there. Right fucking there! He yelled his brother's name again, and honestly saw that it had no effect, no matter how hard he yelled.
"Connor," and this was just a hopeless whimper, as his eyes moved back to Paolo who was coming closer--like a lion slowly stalking its already near dead and helpless prey.
"Fuck you!"
Paolo's easy smile crackled like breaking glass into an intensely amused snicker.
"Indeed, MacManus. That is the point."
The Italian's clear polished nail tapped the tube of the syringe to clear away any chance of bubbles - he wanted Murphy very alive for what he had planned. It was as easy as bowing to one knee by Murphy's chair and efficiently yanking once and hard on Murphy's already wounded wrist. This halted all of the Irishman's resistance long enough to allow the 'point' to be delivered, the needle sinking into flesh, and the drugs flowing into blood.
Now all Paolo had to do was sit back and wait. He was already taking off his robe.
What was the point? Murphy twisted in his chair as best he could in attempt to see the spot where Paolo had just injected the syringe. Seeing would only make it more real.
But Murphy couldn't see his arms, and he was left with confusion. He didn't really feel any different than he had a moment ago.
"What did you do?" Murph's voice was overly loud--accusing. He was expecting to feel drowsy, or perhaps sick and blurred. But as the minutes ticked by, and Paolo was looking more and more smug, Murphy only found that he was feeling slightly warmer than before. Still--couldn't that be due to all the tugging and yelling he'd just been doing a moment before?
With his robe gone, the small Italian wore only expensive boxers and his gun holster. He moved to stand between Murphy's open knees -- because each of his feet were bound to separate chair legs -- and he slid the gun out to hold it up against Murphy's exposed chest.
"I'm getting you ready." Paolo licked the edge of his mouth, where his cigarette was usually hanging - at the moment, his craving seemed to be reserved for something else. The black metal of the gun that had deafened Connor slid coolly along Murphy's skin as it was already over heating and growing more sensitive with each inhale. The gun slid down the taut stomach and its edge softly struck the top of Murphy's low riding pants. "For Connor's show."
Connor himself had slipped back inside his own mind, staring ahead of him into nothing, unaware that his brother was there and uncaring of where Paolo went or why he had been gagged again. He was visiting some kind of memory in his thoughts to take him away from where he was.
For Murphy, the drugs coursed and spread through his limbs and for some reason, the cool barrel of that gun pressing and trailing against his bare, overheated skin was something he was staring to like. It didn't make sense to Murphy, even as his back arched, all on its own to meet with that metal again.
He felt like he needed that touch--any touch, actually. Just as long as he could get contact from it. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Hadn't been like this a few minutes ago.
"Wha--show?" He wanted to look over at Connor again--his brother's back was turned to him. Murphy felt, for a moment, that he may just cry, but then that cool touch was nearing his waist again, and instead of crying, he let out a soft whimper.
Need.
Lust flared heavily in Paolo's gaze as it traced the path of the gun's tip when it was pushed under the band of Murphy's pants.
"You'll see." Paolo knelt between the open knees and watched MacManus writhe at the caress of fingers that were pushing the gun deeper. Was the metal warmer now? Or was it just the heat of the mouth lowered to Murphy's navel? The tongue that tested the flavor of the pale skin around the hilt of the gun pressed against it?
"And so will he."
As dark as the words were that came so snidely from Paolo, Murphy did not seem to notice. Instead, he was hissing out his pleasure and need. More, more, more. "More," It was being verbalized now, in a soft, pleading voice. Over and over, with only pants for pause.
"Need." As much as being a slut had been an act before, he was actually being one now.
Still, he writhed against bindings and wriggled in his chair. It was not for any of the reasons he'd wanted to be free before, however. Now, he just wanted to be free so that he would be able to get rid of the erection that he was becoming so painfully aware of.
"Please," he said, as if that would explain anything at all--but he wasn't thinking straight at the moment. It was difficult to keep anything on his mind at all, but the urge and need.
Why this was, did not matter to him--and Connor was gone from his mind totally.
"Please?" Paolo murmured as his head lifted to give one final inspection of Murphy's face - had the drugs taken him fully? There was no doubt in Paolo's mind that the Irishman was consumed in the drug, unable to get out of it now. Murphy's skin was fevered, a subtle sheen of sweat on his brow - brought on by how swiftly his blood was coursing now, pulsing. Paolo laid his palm flat over that pulse at the front of Murphy's pants, pressing the gun there against the hardened flesh.
"Mmm. Its time." The pressure was loosened when the buttons on Murphy's pants were released. Paolo used the knife to cut the binds on Murphy's feet first, his hands next.
Even though his wrist throbbed something awful, Murphy did not make a note of it. Both wrists--blood and sweat covered were flexed briefly, and then he was whimpering again.
Hands moved to his own chest, and he scraped fingernails down it, letting out a soft moan as he did so. The small bell on his cat collar jingled as he moved, unintentionally reminding Paolo of the role he'd been playing in the bar. Slutty pet, just waiting to be taken. And now, he was just begging for it.
The knife was still present in Murphy's mind, but not in the way it should have been--he wanted off the chair, now that he was untied, but the obstruction of the knife was what kept him sitting for the moment. Oddly enough, he had no fear of the gun-- and craved more of its feel against him, in fact.
"Time," he repeated mindlessly, as if in utter agreement.
----
tbc.
----
Next Chapt: Connor's Show.
Authors: empathicfrost (Frost) and theonemonaghan (Kacey)
Pairing: Con/Mur
Ratings: ***over-all series NC-17, for sex, sexual abuse, drug usage, language, violence and of course, the Twincest <3 ***
Disclaimer: not ours, but Kacey has a BDS shirt. >D And poster!
Summary: post-movie. Connor and Murph might be fugitives now, but they have each other. Except Yakavetta's nephew wants more than revenge.
A/N: a long bloody series.
Previous Chapters: Part One , Part Two , Part Three , Part Four , Part Five , Part Six, Part Seven
Chapter Eight:
Chapter Eight: Severed Reach
When the world returned to Murphy MacManus, it was black. This seemed a terribly odd thing to him since he knew his eyes were open yet could see nothing. His mind raced to catch up with his lost senses and now it was time to understand his situation.
There'd been a drink, and a mistake. Paolo had known who he was all along, and then had drugged him. Captured him. Sleeping pills, most probably, as his mind was still slightly foggy, but getting better with each second that passed.
His wrist ached something terrible, and a tug from both hands made Murph aware that he was tied to a chair. Both hands and legs were immobile. Murphy noticed, with a good amount of desperation, that he could no longer feel the knife holster on his leg, either. It had been taken. Shit, shit, shit.
He was damned near ready to vocalize his frustrations (in as many languages as he knew), when he heard the noise. A ragged breath--though it sounded weak, it was steady and patterned. Murphyknew the pattern, too--that was how well he knew his brother.
"Connor?" His head turned wildly to the right, eyes searching the pitch black for even a silhouette of his brother. None was found, and this pained Murphy more than he thought it would.
What did they do to you? "Connor?" Louder this time--more frantic. "Are you awake?" His voice raised desperately louder with each syllable. "Con!"
"He's asleep. Its no use, MacManus." Paolo flipped on a small light.
The light was instantly blinding to Murphy's eyes, which had been attempting, just a moment before, to adjust to the infinite darkness. A hissed out sound of pain escaped him, but then it was seemingly forgotten as throbbing eyes were forced to get used to it, and seek out Connor.
Whatever would have come out of his throat next got caught at the sight of his brother. He looked worse than Murphy would ever have imagined. Battered, bloody and bruised to the point where it was truly frightening. Was his ear bleeding?
"Connor!" Louder, this time. Almost a complete scream. Murphy ignored the words (as well as presence) of Paolo. "Connor!"
Bindings were tugged at, and all that it really managed was to make his wrists burn in further pain. It didn't matter. Connor mattered. "Bastard!" He yelled out; back arching forward, and hands wriggling uselessly behind his back.
Connor begun to stir and his uneven sleeping breaths weren’t as heavy now with his lips closing and his jaw tensing in conciouness. But despite every scream that filled the room in effort to gain his attention, Connor's eyes remained shut and then his head rolled painfully back to relieve the stress from it, to somehow quiet down the ringing that bounced through his skull.
Most of Connor's bloody cuts were dry and most of the bruises were not as swollen as they once had been. By Paolo's orders, he had not been beaten as frequently during the last day, as though he were being prepared for something, prepared for whatever torture, far worse, that would come next.
Paolo had changed, now he wore a nice fitting robe, the impression of a gun seen through the material at his hip - and yes, Murphy's knife was lazily gripped in one hand.
"In fact, Murphy. Its no use to call to him at all." Paolo approached the chairs in the center of the bedroom, his slick smile was for Murphy, but he went, instead, directly to Connor, with a purpose. He carefully touched Connor's chin and angled it up toward him, forcing the eyes that were closed to open.
Connor was forced to look straight ahead or close his eyes again, he neither heard nor could know at all of his brother's presence. Paolo tied the usual gag around Connor’s mouth, cutting off any waking curse he might mumbled to the captor. With the gag in place, the knife was being forced up under his chin and Connor scowled in challenge. He wasn’t scared, if Paolo was going to kill him, he would have done it. This was all mind games, this was all about suffering.
"He doesn’t even know your three feet away from him." Paolo was speaking directly, happily, into Connor's face, never looking away, but the Italian's words were directed at only Murphy.
"Don't you fucking touch him!" Murphy was more adamant than ever now--tugging at his too well tied wrists and attempting to loosen the bindings at his feet by kicking.
No avail. His voice was high pitched in its urgency, and growing even louder with each scream and growl. "Connor? Connor!" His wrists must have been bleeding now, and everything was seeming rather hopeless.
Random obscenities fell from his mouth direct at Paolo. Get that knife away from him! "No! What the hell did you do to him? Connor?!" Frantic.
Never, ever had he been so near to his brother without his presence being noticed. Tears threatened to prickle at his eyes, but anger held them back.
Paolo was as entertained as a child with a toy - two toys. He kept Connor's focus on him by moving the knife to the side of Connor's throat to the tattoo and nicking a small slice into the face of the saint image there. "Connor, would you like to see a show? You'll have a front row seat."
Uncomprehending and suddenly too drained to be angry at Paolo's frequent one-sided conversations to a deaf man, Connor only closed his eyes again. Even when his heavy, thick chair was being yanked to face the side of the room where the bed was, now his back was to his brother's and he didn’t know it. If he tilted his head back at that moment, it might have been enough to even brush Murphy's shoulder. But Connor remained oblivious, forced to watch the empty bed in the corner of the room.
"Don’t worry, MacManus. Your brother will know your here soon enough." Paolo disappeared out of Murphy's sight for a moment, retrieving something from a drawer- an envelope. From which he supplied a syringe needle. "Even if it wont be from hearing your screams."
Murph nervously eyed the syringe for a moment, mouth opening in morbid curiosity. Was that for him? What was it? Not that it mattered what it was--Murphy wanted no part in it, either way.
With a growl his hands tugged harder against their bindings--the sweat and the blood there made no difference when it came to getting free. It was a useless battle--but it made Murphy feel better in an odd way just to know he was still trying.
Fuck the needle. Connor wasright there. Right fucking there! He yelled his brother's name again, and honestly saw that it had no effect, no matter how hard he yelled.
"Connor," and this was just a hopeless whimper, as his eyes moved back to Paolo who was coming closer--like a lion slowly stalking its already near dead and helpless prey.
"Fuck you!"
Paolo's easy smile crackled like breaking glass into an intensely amused snicker.
"Indeed, MacManus. That is the point."
The Italian's clear polished nail tapped the tube of the syringe to clear away any chance of bubbles - he wanted Murphy very alive for what he had planned. It was as easy as bowing to one knee by Murphy's chair and efficiently yanking once and hard on Murphy's already wounded wrist. This halted all of the Irishman's resistance long enough to allow the 'point' to be delivered, the needle sinking into flesh, and the drugs flowing into blood.
Now all Paolo had to do was sit back and wait. He was already taking off his robe.
What was the point? Murphy twisted in his chair as best he could in attempt to see the spot where Paolo had just injected the syringe. Seeing would only make it more real.
But Murphy couldn't see his arms, and he was left with confusion. He didn't really feel any different than he had a moment ago.
"What did you do?" Murph's voice was overly loud--accusing. He was expecting to feel drowsy, or perhaps sick and blurred. But as the minutes ticked by, and Paolo was looking more and more smug, Murphy only found that he was feeling slightly warmer than before. Still--couldn't that be due to all the tugging and yelling he'd just been doing a moment before?
With his robe gone, the small Italian wore only expensive boxers and his gun holster. He moved to stand between Murphy's open knees -- because each of his feet were bound to separate chair legs -- and he slid the gun out to hold it up against Murphy's exposed chest.
"I'm getting you ready." Paolo licked the edge of his mouth, where his cigarette was usually hanging - at the moment, his craving seemed to be reserved for something else. The black metal of the gun that had deafened Connor slid coolly along Murphy's skin as it was already over heating and growing more sensitive with each inhale. The gun slid down the taut stomach and its edge softly struck the top of Murphy's low riding pants. "For Connor's show."
Connor himself had slipped back inside his own mind, staring ahead of him into nothing, unaware that his brother was there and uncaring of where Paolo went or why he had been gagged again. He was visiting some kind of memory in his thoughts to take him away from where he was.
For Murphy, the drugs coursed and spread through his limbs and for some reason, the cool barrel of that gun pressing and trailing against his bare, overheated skin was something he was staring to like. It didn't make sense to Murphy, even as his back arched, all on its own to meet with that metal again.
He felt like he needed that touch--any touch, actually. Just as long as he could get contact from it. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Hadn't been like this a few minutes ago.
"Wha--show?" He wanted to look over at Connor again--his brother's back was turned to him. Murphy felt, for a moment, that he may just cry, but then that cool touch was nearing his waist again, and instead of crying, he let out a soft whimper.
Need.
Lust flared heavily in Paolo's gaze as it traced the path of the gun's tip when it was pushed under the band of Murphy's pants.
"You'll see." Paolo knelt between the open knees and watched MacManus writhe at the caress of fingers that were pushing the gun deeper. Was the metal warmer now? Or was it just the heat of the mouth lowered to Murphy's navel? The tongue that tested the flavor of the pale skin around the hilt of the gun pressed against it?
"And so will he."
As dark as the words were that came so snidely from Paolo, Murphy did not seem to notice. Instead, he was hissing out his pleasure and need. More, more, more. "More," It was being verbalized now, in a soft, pleading voice. Over and over, with only pants for pause.
"Need." As much as being a slut had been an act before, he was actually being one now.
Still, he writhed against bindings and wriggled in his chair. It was not for any of the reasons he'd wanted to be free before, however. Now, he just wanted to be free so that he would be able to get rid of the erection that he was becoming so painfully aware of.
"Please," he said, as if that would explain anything at all--but he wasn't thinking straight at the moment. It was difficult to keep anything on his mind at all, but the urge and need.
Why this was, did not matter to him--and Connor was gone from his mind totally.
"Please?" Paolo murmured as his head lifted to give one final inspection of Murphy's face - had the drugs taken him fully? There was no doubt in Paolo's mind that the Irishman was consumed in the drug, unable to get out of it now. Murphy's skin was fevered, a subtle sheen of sweat on his brow - brought on by how swiftly his blood was coursing now, pulsing. Paolo laid his palm flat over that pulse at the front of Murphy's pants, pressing the gun there against the hardened flesh.
"Mmm. Its time." The pressure was loosened when the buttons on Murphy's pants were released. Paolo used the knife to cut the binds on Murphy's feet first, his hands next.
Even though his wrist throbbed something awful, Murphy did not make a note of it. Both wrists--blood and sweat covered were flexed briefly, and then he was whimpering again.
Hands moved to his own chest, and he scraped fingernails down it, letting out a soft moan as he did so. The small bell on his cat collar jingled as he moved, unintentionally reminding Paolo of the role he'd been playing in the bar. Slutty pet, just waiting to be taken. And now, he was just begging for it.
The knife was still present in Murphy's mind, but not in the way it should have been--he wanted off the chair, now that he was untied, but the obstruction of the knife was what kept him sitting for the moment. Oddly enough, he had no fear of the gun-- and craved more of its feel against him, in fact.
"Time," he repeated mindlessly, as if in utter agreement.
----
tbc.
----
Next Chapt: Connor's Show.