Pay the Dearest Cost (9/12)
Title: Pay the Dearest Cost ( 9/12 )
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, Part Eight
Chapter Nine:
Chapter Nine: Sins of the Flesh
Connor MacManus was bound to a chair by tape and wire, a gag knotted around his mouth and dried blood pooling in the cups of his ears. And he was imagining a room that had once been a home. Too anyone else's eyes, the room would have looked trashy and poverty stricken. There were two flat, old mattresses beside each other on the ground - a dying old refrigerator - water that never ran hot and lights that rarely turned on at all. But to Connor - that illegal housing on the fifth floor - it had been home. Their home. The first they had ever had as adults, the first they had ever had alone. He and Murphy didn’t need hot water or bigger beds, they only needed each other to make that room a home.
Connor was imagining that room. He was imagining the days when he would sit at the old, falling apart table that was cluttered with pizza boxes and beer bottles, reading an article in a magazine about an exotic place he'd never see - and frankly, didn’t want to go to. He was happy here in Boston. Even on the days that simple, working man's life drained him of his enthusiasm -- he was never alone, nor did he ever lack someone who would make him forget it all.
He imagined Murphy sliding into view, curiously peeking at the magazine. They'd been lovers since they were teens, and probably even prior to that. And Murphy never failed to want to see what Connor saw, or do what Connor did - which was a useless effort, since they already finished each other's sentences and performed daily, unconscious things in synchronicity - so Murphy was doomed to see what Connor saw whether he wanted to or not.
Connor was sitting there thinking of Murphy. Murph.
So it stopped his heart to see his brother at that moment.
Murphy was being pulled in front of him - he had appeared from no where- no, that wasn’t true. Paolo, the fucking piece of Mafia shit, was leading his brother toward the bed that was in front of him. Murph was here, Murph had come for him, and Lord God, Murph had been caught. His brother was going to be tortured and killed. The jolt emptied adrenaline into Connor.
Murphy's name erupted against the gag that was hindering Connor mouth - his voice cracking and weak despite how loud the sound was, crying Murphy's name and leaning so far forward in his chair that the binds threatened to rip through his numbed wrists. The effort pulled his shoulders back, with just another jolt, they might have dislocated themselves. MURPH!
God…god Fucking... If you touch him--
But... Murphy wasn’t bound. No. He wasn’t bound at all. Paolo's gun wasn’t even pointed at him. Connor's eyes burned. Take the gun, Murph. Fucking get the gun!
It didn’t make sense. Murphy wasn’t even fighting. In fact...Murphy hadn’t even looked at him.
Paolo pushed the drugged MacManus down flat against the bed, climbing up easily to pin Murphy against the mattress with one knee on his stomach. Paolo turned to smile at Connor.
The drugs were so that Murphy sensed nothing but his own lust. Mouth stayed half opened, panting softly. Hands were moving to touch anything that he could reach. Bare skin was ideal. His own chest, briefly--and then shortly cropped nails were running over Paolo's upper thigh. Murphy had half a mind to just get himself off, but the prospect of another man helping out was also good. It would save his wrist more than a little pain (even if that wasn't what he was thinking about at the moment).
And so Murphy, drugged into high heaven, purred softly and demanded attention. His gaze did not care enough to wander across the room--to where he would have met his beloved brother. No, instead, they were on Paolo. Wanting, needing.
Connor didn’t understand it, the punishment that had been inflicted on his body over the last two nights had infiltrated its abuse into a mind that felt dizzy now as it fought to make sense of what was happening. Was this a hallucination? Was this some nightmare that he couldn’t wake from?
But it couldn’t have been anything but real, because the pain slicing up his arms and back and neck was frighteningly intense - the ringing in his skull- that seemed to enter through the useless ears that were dark with blood - was all real, real, real.
Murphy was only a few feet from him... Writhing and bucking up toward the breathing incarnate of everything they wished to abolish - murderer, theft, rapist! Connor couldn’t let this happen, his brother being raped, right there.
But how could he stop it? He had not the strength even kick his legs - he hadn’t even stood up in 48 hours. His shoulders were burning from the exertion of his weak strength against his binds - and he was frightened of passing out from pain - he couldn’t take his eyes off of Murphy.
Murphy who was... reaching out toward Paolo. Willingly.
MURPH--KILL HIM!KILLHIM! Connor's gag was damp from the heat of his muffled screaming.
The Italian's fingers rode the muscle of Murphy’s stomach, latched into the opened edges of those slutty pants and peeled them down and off. Murphy's head was turned toward the mattress by the gun that shoved into his temple - allowing Paolo a clear, long view of the spread out body, unclothed except for the legacy of Murphy's scars and Murphy's tattoos where the make up had long since faded away on his skin.
Paolo shoved him onto his stomach, so that he faced Connor. Murphy was far beyond the ability of sight, but Connor would have a perfect view of Murphy's face the entire time. "Who's gorgeous now?" Paolo licked the angel wing tattoo on Murphy's shoulder blade and yanked his hair back. "How hard do you want it, Gorgeous?”
"Hard," Murphy was not above begging, and he hadn't been for a few minutes now. He wanted something to fill him so badly, he was willing to cry and writhe and do anything he was asked to for it.
"Hard," he repeated again, head turning upward at an odd angle so that the gun that had just been at his temple was now brushing against his mouth. Lips parted and metal clicked softly against his teeth.
It seemed like a very good idea at the moment, to let his mouth open, and his tongue wander playfully over the barrel of that gun. That would do nicely, wouldn't it? Something filling both sides of him at the same time? A gun could start things out.
Even Paolo was arrested into the thrill of that image, his hand shivered once when Murphy opened for the gun and his own mouth fell open to unconsciously mimic the curl of the tongue against the metal.
In a moment, Paolo wore only the holster of the gun, the boxers stripped. He had what was needed to make this easy for any lover - but Murphy wasn’t a lover and Paolo had no intention of making anything easy on him. So his free hand curved into the dent of Murphy's hip, lifting, pulling, dragging Murphy MacManus up to his hands and knees and never pulling the gun out from the man's mouth.
With the next wet sound against metal that came from the Irishman's lips, Paolo swung his head toward the watching Connor, and pounded once and fully into Murphy. Teeth were bared into a grin and neck arched, Paolo felt dry resistance that tore at his forced touch and soaked him in warmth of blood. "Hard."
No lubrication, or preparation. Generally, this would have been more than enough to leave Murphy MacManus flat out refusing the sex.
The drug was strong, however, and instead of letting out the gasp of pain that should have been there, Murphy found his situation delightfully pleasurable, and so only arched his back to accommodate.
Moan was loud, even though Murphy's mouth was still full with the black gun that clacked extra hard against his teeth with the last thrust. It did not stop his tongue at working over the curves and shapes of the pistol, at all. It may have even encouraged the man to take a better go at it, as he was now tilting his head to even out the space between gun and how it fit into his mouth.
There was no room for tears of anguish in Connor's eyes - there was no room for anything except the white-hot rage that turned blue color into black. The cords of his throat strained and he was killing himself with the exertion to snap out of the binds that kept him immobile. But the bonds didn’t loosen, or even budge and the roar of blood in his ears might have been a roar from his throat but it was so raw and he was so out of breath, that he couldn’t tell what sound, if any, were escaping him.
All Connor could think about was a vow. A vow. To kill Palo Beniamino in a way he'd never killed another man. To wrench the life from him with his fist, to latch fingers into whatever was the foul source of Paolo's existence and rip it out. But Connor couldn't even feel his own fingers, he had not been untied for two days - he was weak and his vow wasn’t going to be fulfilled tonight.
So Connor had to watch - and it was Murphy's face that was his unwavering focus. Murph, get a hold of this, wake up! MurphMurph...Murph.
Connor shook.
The idea of keeping the gun in his mouth after a few more thrusts was quickly discarded, and Murphy had turned his head to the side a little to be free of it, letting his head and lust filled gaze turn downward toward the bed, even as he felt the tip of the gun readjust on his temple. This fact did not seem to phase or bother Murphy MacManus in the least.
Instead, he just took it all in, svelte body rocking in time with Paolo's harsh thrusts. But it felt good--or at least, that's what his body was telling him. No matter how rough, or bloody, or intense it was, those drugs were telling him that this was the most wonderful he'd ever had.
Wonderful was automatically associated with Connor MacManus. It just couldn't be helped. And so when his brother's name began to roll off of his tongue, Murphy was more than a little lucky that the next thrust left him breathless, and only at the beginning of the name. "Co--"
It'd made him look up for a moment--lusty blue eyes locking onto the ones that were so like his own just a little ways across the room. Connor. Mouth opened part way, as if he was getting a clue, and he were going to speak.
And then another thrust had him forgetting all over again, a soft moan escaping instead of real words. He was so close now, he wouldn't need any special attention of his own to come. So close to falling over the edge, there was no hope at all for him coming back.
The fleeting moment of Murphy’s recognition left Connor with the sensation of being ripped in half.
Murphy was in there, Murphy was somewhere behind the drugged cloud that was glazing his eyes. And for a second, Connor had glimpsed his brother and his lover. But that moment had been torn away just as swiftly and Connor couldn’t help but feel that part of himself had detached itself to hide where ever the real Murphy was hiding, where neither of them could reach when one of them was being hurt.
Connor’s head was shaking; he had not the voice to yell his protests and threats-partly because he could see ecstasy rippling through Murphy's body and he knew that that nothing short of completion or death would revive Murphy from his drugged coma.
With Paolo's gun shoved into Murphy's temple---Connor didn’t know which one would come first for his brother, completion or death.
The Italian's fingers tightened, on Murphy's hip and the hilt of the gun, as his thrusts lost their piercing rhythm, like a murder by stabbing, and every movement spiraled into need for his own satisfaction, hard, fast - for himself, soaked in blood, filled with power. Paolo was panting and baring his teeth as climax reared on him.
And when he came, he pulled the trigger against Murphy's temple.
Fortunately for the oblivious Murphy, there was nothing left in that room that was actually loaded. The unloaded gun clicked against his temple, and Murphy hardly even noticed at all, as he was coming (hard, just like everything else that had happened in the last part of the night). His head--short and dark brown bangs rifled by the barrel of the gun--pressed more firmly against the metal as his body shuddered.
Eyes were closed now, and mouth stayed half opened, small (yet frantic) pants and moans still slipping through hardly parted teeth. He did not notice that he was bleeding through the force of the sex, or that he was leaning on the wrist that he'd damn near broken.
No, all Murphy MacManus noticed was what the drugs made him notice. He was enjoying himself still--even if he did feel completely worn out.
And then Murphy would feel nothing - because the butt of the unloaded gun came down hard and fast to the back of his skull.
---
tbc
----
Next Chapter: Almost ...to the end.
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, Part Eight
Chapter Nine:
Chapter Nine: Sins of the Flesh
Connor MacManus was bound to a chair by tape and wire, a gag knotted around his mouth and dried blood pooling in the cups of his ears. And he was imagining a room that had once been a home. Too anyone else's eyes, the room would have looked trashy and poverty stricken. There were two flat, old mattresses beside each other on the ground - a dying old refrigerator - water that never ran hot and lights that rarely turned on at all. But to Connor - that illegal housing on the fifth floor - it had been home. Their home. The first they had ever had as adults, the first they had ever had alone. He and Murphy didn’t need hot water or bigger beds, they only needed each other to make that room a home.
Connor was imagining that room. He was imagining the days when he would sit at the old, falling apart table that was cluttered with pizza boxes and beer bottles, reading an article in a magazine about an exotic place he'd never see - and frankly, didn’t want to go to. He was happy here in Boston. Even on the days that simple, working man's life drained him of his enthusiasm -- he was never alone, nor did he ever lack someone who would make him forget it all.
He imagined Murphy sliding into view, curiously peeking at the magazine. They'd been lovers since they were teens, and probably even prior to that. And Murphy never failed to want to see what Connor saw, or do what Connor did - which was a useless effort, since they already finished each other's sentences and performed daily, unconscious things in synchronicity - so Murphy was doomed to see what Connor saw whether he wanted to or not.
Connor was sitting there thinking of Murphy. Murph.
So it stopped his heart to see his brother at that moment.
Murphy was being pulled in front of him - he had appeared from no where- no, that wasn’t true. Paolo, the fucking piece of Mafia shit, was leading his brother toward the bed that was in front of him. Murph was here, Murph had come for him, and Lord God, Murph had been caught. His brother was going to be tortured and killed. The jolt emptied adrenaline into Connor.
Murphy's name erupted against the gag that was hindering Connor mouth - his voice cracking and weak despite how loud the sound was, crying Murphy's name and leaning so far forward in his chair that the binds threatened to rip through his numbed wrists. The effort pulled his shoulders back, with just another jolt, they might have dislocated themselves. MURPH!
God…god Fucking... If you touch him--
But... Murphy wasn’t bound. No. He wasn’t bound at all. Paolo's gun wasn’t even pointed at him. Connor's eyes burned. Take the gun, Murph. Fucking get the gun!
It didn’t make sense. Murphy wasn’t even fighting. In fact...Murphy hadn’t even looked at him.
Paolo pushed the drugged MacManus down flat against the bed, climbing up easily to pin Murphy against the mattress with one knee on his stomach. Paolo turned to smile at Connor.
The drugs were so that Murphy sensed nothing but his own lust. Mouth stayed half opened, panting softly. Hands were moving to touch anything that he could reach. Bare skin was ideal. His own chest, briefly--and then shortly cropped nails were running over Paolo's upper thigh. Murphy had half a mind to just get himself off, but the prospect of another man helping out was also good. It would save his wrist more than a little pain (even if that wasn't what he was thinking about at the moment).
And so Murphy, drugged into high heaven, purred softly and demanded attention. His gaze did not care enough to wander across the room--to where he would have met his beloved brother. No, instead, they were on Paolo. Wanting, needing.
Connor didn’t understand it, the punishment that had been inflicted on his body over the last two nights had infiltrated its abuse into a mind that felt dizzy now as it fought to make sense of what was happening. Was this a hallucination? Was this some nightmare that he couldn’t wake from?
But it couldn’t have been anything but real, because the pain slicing up his arms and back and neck was frighteningly intense - the ringing in his skull- that seemed to enter through the useless ears that were dark with blood - was all real, real, real.
Murphy was only a few feet from him... Writhing and bucking up toward the breathing incarnate of everything they wished to abolish - murderer, theft, rapist! Connor couldn’t let this happen, his brother being raped, right there.
But how could he stop it? He had not the strength even kick his legs - he hadn’t even stood up in 48 hours. His shoulders were burning from the exertion of his weak strength against his binds - and he was frightened of passing out from pain - he couldn’t take his eyes off of Murphy.
Murphy who was... reaching out toward Paolo. Willingly.
MURPH--KILL HIM!KILLHIM! Connor's gag was damp from the heat of his muffled screaming.
The Italian's fingers rode the muscle of Murphy’s stomach, latched into the opened edges of those slutty pants and peeled them down and off. Murphy's head was turned toward the mattress by the gun that shoved into his temple - allowing Paolo a clear, long view of the spread out body, unclothed except for the legacy of Murphy's scars and Murphy's tattoos where the make up had long since faded away on his skin.
Paolo shoved him onto his stomach, so that he faced Connor. Murphy was far beyond the ability of sight, but Connor would have a perfect view of Murphy's face the entire time. "Who's gorgeous now?" Paolo licked the angel wing tattoo on Murphy's shoulder blade and yanked his hair back. "How hard do you want it, Gorgeous?”
"Hard," Murphy was not above begging, and he hadn't been for a few minutes now. He wanted something to fill him so badly, he was willing to cry and writhe and do anything he was asked to for it.
"Hard," he repeated again, head turning upward at an odd angle so that the gun that had just been at his temple was now brushing against his mouth. Lips parted and metal clicked softly against his teeth.
It seemed like a very good idea at the moment, to let his mouth open, and his tongue wander playfully over the barrel of that gun. That would do nicely, wouldn't it? Something filling both sides of him at the same time? A gun could start things out.
Even Paolo was arrested into the thrill of that image, his hand shivered once when Murphy opened for the gun and his own mouth fell open to unconsciously mimic the curl of the tongue against the metal.
In a moment, Paolo wore only the holster of the gun, the boxers stripped. He had what was needed to make this easy for any lover - but Murphy wasn’t a lover and Paolo had no intention of making anything easy on him. So his free hand curved into the dent of Murphy's hip, lifting, pulling, dragging Murphy MacManus up to his hands and knees and never pulling the gun out from the man's mouth.
With the next wet sound against metal that came from the Irishman's lips, Paolo swung his head toward the watching Connor, and pounded once and fully into Murphy. Teeth were bared into a grin and neck arched, Paolo felt dry resistance that tore at his forced touch and soaked him in warmth of blood. "Hard."
No lubrication, or preparation. Generally, this would have been more than enough to leave Murphy MacManus flat out refusing the sex.
The drug was strong, however, and instead of letting out the gasp of pain that should have been there, Murphy found his situation delightfully pleasurable, and so only arched his back to accommodate.
Moan was loud, even though Murphy's mouth was still full with the black gun that clacked extra hard against his teeth with the last thrust. It did not stop his tongue at working over the curves and shapes of the pistol, at all. It may have even encouraged the man to take a better go at it, as he was now tilting his head to even out the space between gun and how it fit into his mouth.
There was no room for tears of anguish in Connor's eyes - there was no room for anything except the white-hot rage that turned blue color into black. The cords of his throat strained and he was killing himself with the exertion to snap out of the binds that kept him immobile. But the bonds didn’t loosen, or even budge and the roar of blood in his ears might have been a roar from his throat but it was so raw and he was so out of breath, that he couldn’t tell what sound, if any, were escaping him.
All Connor could think about was a vow. A vow. To kill Palo Beniamino in a way he'd never killed another man. To wrench the life from him with his fist, to latch fingers into whatever was the foul source of Paolo's existence and rip it out. But Connor couldn't even feel his own fingers, he had not been untied for two days - he was weak and his vow wasn’t going to be fulfilled tonight.
So Connor had to watch - and it was Murphy's face that was his unwavering focus. Murph, get a hold of this, wake up! MurphMurph...Murph.
Connor shook.
The idea of keeping the gun in his mouth after a few more thrusts was quickly discarded, and Murphy had turned his head to the side a little to be free of it, letting his head and lust filled gaze turn downward toward the bed, even as he felt the tip of the gun readjust on his temple. This fact did not seem to phase or bother Murphy MacManus in the least.
Instead, he just took it all in, svelte body rocking in time with Paolo's harsh thrusts. But it felt good--or at least, that's what his body was telling him. No matter how rough, or bloody, or intense it was, those drugs were telling him that this was the most wonderful he'd ever had.
Wonderful was automatically associated with Connor MacManus. It just couldn't be helped. And so when his brother's name began to roll off of his tongue, Murphy was more than a little lucky that the next thrust left him breathless, and only at the beginning of the name. "Co--"
It'd made him look up for a moment--lusty blue eyes locking onto the ones that were so like his own just a little ways across the room. Connor. Mouth opened part way, as if he was getting a clue, and he were going to speak.
And then another thrust had him forgetting all over again, a soft moan escaping instead of real words. He was so close now, he wouldn't need any special attention of his own to come. So close to falling over the edge, there was no hope at all for him coming back.
The fleeting moment of Murphy’s recognition left Connor with the sensation of being ripped in half.
Murphy was in there, Murphy was somewhere behind the drugged cloud that was glazing his eyes. And for a second, Connor had glimpsed his brother and his lover. But that moment had been torn away just as swiftly and Connor couldn’t help but feel that part of himself had detached itself to hide where ever the real Murphy was hiding, where neither of them could reach when one of them was being hurt.
Connor’s head was shaking; he had not the voice to yell his protests and threats-partly because he could see ecstasy rippling through Murphy's body and he knew that that nothing short of completion or death would revive Murphy from his drugged coma.
With Paolo's gun shoved into Murphy's temple---Connor didn’t know which one would come first for his brother, completion or death.
The Italian's fingers tightened, on Murphy's hip and the hilt of the gun, as his thrusts lost their piercing rhythm, like a murder by stabbing, and every movement spiraled into need for his own satisfaction, hard, fast - for himself, soaked in blood, filled with power. Paolo was panting and baring his teeth as climax reared on him.
And when he came, he pulled the trigger against Murphy's temple.
Fortunately for the oblivious Murphy, there was nothing left in that room that was actually loaded. The unloaded gun clicked against his temple, and Murphy hardly even noticed at all, as he was coming (hard, just like everything else that had happened in the last part of the night). His head--short and dark brown bangs rifled by the barrel of the gun--pressed more firmly against the metal as his body shuddered.
Eyes were closed now, and mouth stayed half opened, small (yet frantic) pants and moans still slipping through hardly parted teeth. He did not notice that he was bleeding through the force of the sex, or that he was leaning on the wrist that he'd damn near broken.
No, all Murphy MacManus noticed was what the drugs made him notice. He was enjoying himself still--even if he did feel completely worn out.
And then Murphy would feel nothing - because the butt of the unloaded gun came down hard and fast to the back of his skull.
---
tbc
----
Next Chapter: Almost ...to the end.