Pay the Dearest Cost (10/12)
Title: Pay the Dearest Cost ( 10/12 )
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. But someone 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, Part Nine
Chapter Ten:
Chapter Ten: Vengeful Striking Hammer
The temperature in the bedroom had plummeted, it was icy now. It was no longer pitch black, as the door to the hall way was opened, and a long strip of light poured in over the two similar bodies strapped to identical heavy chairs.
There was no one else in the room at that moment, but without a doubt, there were at least five guards still in the penthouse suite.
A voice came from outside of the open door, from somewhere else in the suite. The voice paused between words for the speaker to smoke.
"We'll find the third one next. I’m not going to worry about it until I've finished the other two. Yes... I will, Father. The plane is scheduled for tomorrow, I will be completely done here by then and be back in Chicago for dinner, yes alright?"
The conversation faded as the speaker walked farther away into another part of the suite.
All was quite again.
"Mur-.." It was a muffled sound behind a gag. Wake up. "M-."
It was still dark in Murphy's mind, but there was noise, and it was gradually becoming closer. Definitely that was a familiar voice making those noises at him. And so, coming closer to consciousness, Murph replied. "Nnnghh."
Chin was bent down, touching against chest--head hurt something tremendous (and that wasn't all, either), and so he kept it down for the time being.
But then he remembered, and his head shot up. Hands and legs were tied to a chair again, and Murphy could hardly recall what had happened the night before when he’d been untied. Fuzzy images and scenes were playing in his memory, and Murphy was beginning to feel sick.
But all those feelings went away again, when he saw his brother. Bloody and gagged, Murphy still knew nothing more beautiful than the man in the chair beside his. "Connor..." Murphy's voice was raspy and rough--only loud enough for his brother---not that that would make much of a difference, but Murphy was forgetful of this fact.
Connor saw his twin's mouth moving in the dim light and recognized the word forming there as his name - it propelled his pulse into a faster beat. Even though he had been watching the naked Murphy breathe, every minute that passed while his brother remained unconscious sunk Connor's spirit deeper into the weary abyss it was in. Now the only thing he could hear inside his own pounding head was that rapid heartbeat and the imagined thought of Murphy's voice.
"Mmm." The gag around his own mouth kept words from being spoken, but Connor doubted that he would have trusted himself to speak even if he could.
It was in his eyes that he translated his thoughts, it was in the exhausted pallor of his skin that he showed how drained by fear he had been. He was battling between the hardened determination to get them free no matter what cost - and the defeated, drowning weight of the fact that this might be the last day they were together no matter what they did. No, Murph. We won’t die like this.
God, if only he could move his fingers, if only he could move without hurting his fractured rib, if only he could move one foot closer to Murph. If only time wasn’t running out.
Eyebrows knitted together, and Murphy's mouth drew down into a frown. Not at his brother, of course. Never at Connor. But the predicament that they found themselves in--it deserved more than a frown.
Murphy struggled, a brief struggle, because it sent him into a hissing fit of pain to move (a lean forward made his whole bottom flare up in pain, and although Murphy knew what had been done to cause such pain, he was glad he did not have a clear memory of it all). His wrist, he discovered a little dully, could hardly even move. They were truly, honestly stuck here.
And so he lifted his eyes again, to meet Connor's and it was a sad smile that he gave his lover. Almost resigned. But if we do die, know that I love you.
Connor and Murphy MacManus had never needed words to communicate--they had just been an added benefit in life.
"Ahhh! You’re awake!" It was a slither of a voice that spoke into the dark bedroom cage. If the light from the hallway hadn’t flickered to allow for Paolo's reentering shape to block it, Connor would have continued to gaze at Murphy without knowing the Italian had entered. It seemed that the chill of the room had only gotten colder, with Paolo drawing in, and Connor’s dark scowl was growled harshly through his exhaustion.
Paolo had his robe back on and the same ominous syringe envelope in hand. Connor didn’t like the smug look on the Italian's face and wanted to claw it off with his fingers and make Yakavetta's nephew wish he'd never blinked in the general direction of Boston.
"What is it, MacManus? Are you angry about something?" Paolo brandished the gun that had deafened Connor and been deep throated by Murphy, even spun it on his finger like he was slick. Without an answer, green eyes shifted to the naked captive. "Why is he mad, hm?"
Murphy found it difficult to tear his gaze away from Connor's face. When he finally did however, he regretted it instantly. The movement of turning his head made the small cat bell on his neck jingle. It was a happy noise that aggravated, Murph and made Paolo look even smugger.
Eyes wandered down to the envelope in Paolo's hand, and Murphy MacManus got a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. No, no. Not that again. Not with you. Not in front of Connor.
He cleared his voice, and put on the most sarcastic of tones he knew. "Because you're not rotting in Hell yet, Paolo," he sneered out. "Stop disappointing us so." He wasn't going to allow himself to sit back and take it this time.
The smugness did indeed vanish -- Paolo didn’t like that response very much.
"I’ve already told this to your brother --back when he could," The gun clicked, "Hear." Paolo was facing Murphy, but his arm extended the gun to level at Connor's forehead, where the Irishman's hair was limply adhered to his forehead with sweat and blood. Connor didn’t even cringe away.
His ears bled again when Paolo shifted his aim and fired the shot an inch from his temple. Even though his nerves were deadened, the violent vibration of the passing bullet still rang through his bones and he knew he was getting farther and farther away from ever hearing again.
"See how I deafened your brother? Just like that, for three days.” Paolo's grin had returned, but only shortly, because now he extracted the knife that Murphy had once planned to kill him with, and examined the blade with the tip of one finger. "Well, I do admit-- the gun is getting tiresome, despite how entertaining it has been to see your brother slip into unconscious from the pain... Perhaps I should use this knife to deafen him completely? Surely it would get the rug a little dirtier - but, hey, I'll pay the hotel for it. I’ve already paid them to ignore all the sounds that come from this suite." Paolo snickered and lifted the knife to his own face, holding the blade against his cheek. "Might as well take advantage of what I paid for, yes?"
Eyes flashed upward--meeting Connor's for a moment, and then Murphy was raging. "Don't ya fuckin' touch him!"
He did not fear for his own safety--he'd come here to save his brother, and that was what he still intended to do. For Connor, he did fear. If he couldn't get Connor out of this place, he would at least try and give him more time.
Self sacrifice, if need be. His twin was his other half. The piece that made him whole. Murphy could not sit around and watch him lose a whole sense. It disturbed him greatly to see Connor's ears bleeding. To know that he'd somehow grown almost used to this constant pain and loss.
"Ay'll kill you, bastard!" It was surprising how much strength one regained when adrenaline and anger came flowing back into the blood stream.
Paolo swiveled the knife a little to angle it toward his own lip like it were a thoughtful finger. "Kill me? But yesterday you offered something much more preferable, MacManus. What was it? 'Fuck you'?" Paolo was nodding to his own question - yes, that was the demand that’d been given to him yesterday. Use Murphy to his whim. But there was only one way to do that - short of fucking his corpse, which Paolo imagined would not be nearly as fun.
The gun was looped into his belt, and he used Murphy's own knife to open the envelope, and slid the syringe out - its tube held the concentrated aphrodisiac, except the dosage was higher this time - there was more. And all of it would be pumped into Murphy now.
"You should be thanking me, really. This drug will be in effect all the way until I kill you - quite a pleasurable death, eh?"
When Connor could open his dizzy eyes again, the flood of his protest was emptied in a growl so deadly in his throat, the sound alone could have killed weaker men.
Paolo was circling Murphy's chair and crouching behind it for access to the bound arms. "Cant stand to see your brother fucked in front of you, Connor?" The knife tip touched lightly on Murphy's skin where there was a tattoo of a Celtic cross. It sunk in at the intersection of the cross' bars and Paolo twisted it a little to make a spiraled cut. Now Murphy was still enough to inject the drug - and the full dosage was depleted into his veins as blood poured down his arm from another spot.
Murphy let out a little hiss of his own, at the feel of both the cut at his arm, and the needle being stuck into him. Fucking prick.
He swallowed, and let his eyes focus and settle on Connor's--blue, and so like his own. Might as well go out with a bang, right? A secret smile was given to Con, and Murphy knew what he was going to do.
"No," he said quickly--knowing that his last bit of rationality would be gone in only few short minutes. "He can't stand th' fact that you're th' one doing me and not him." There was something that felt really good about telling this to Paolo. "And not only that, but he has to sweat th' small stuff. It's disgusting to watch you do it all wrong."
A smirk, and a small toss of the head, as if Murphy were truly proud of what he was saying. And he was. "He's disgusted by th' fact that you need to use drugs to make me beg and moan for more. And so am Ay." His voice was just above a soft hiss now, but there was enough silence for it to be audible to Paolo. "My brother can make me beg louder and longer for more by using only his tongue and he's better at fucking thank you'll ever be."
This said, Murphy was momentarily satisfied. Now all he had to do was attempt to stay in the right frame of mind--drugs or otherwise.
Not such an easy task, at all.
Paolo's taunting remarks abruptly quieted. His slithered voice retreated and when he stood up - empty syringe still pinched between thumb and index - he wasn’t even looking at them. In the half shadow of the room, the concentration on his face was fierce. And when he finally circled the chairs to face them, disbelief warred with repulsion in his eyes.
Paolo's rings caught and tore Murphy's cheek with the backhand that snapped down over him. Before Paolo even spoke, he struck Murphy again, as hard at the first time on the backward swing of the first ripping slap.
"You’re not fucking joking, are you?!" The Italian's mouth opened again silently and his head shook in disgusted rejection of the thought. So he hit Murphy again and again, and he threw the empty syringe from his free hand and the vial of it shattered.
Connor didn’t know exactly what words Murphy had used to aired their relationship to the Mafia under boss- but he knew by the smug smirk on his brother's face that that is exactly what he'd confessed. When that smirk was slapped off- Connor's heavy chair jolted once with a movement so fierce that pain from every wound redirected its throbbing into his head and Connor was crying half threateningly and in half in excruciating agony. "Rrrrrh." The chair jolted again with Connor's effort and the pain was drawing him to the brink of passing out. But he wouldn’t leave Murphy, he wouldn’t close his eyes now when the next time he could be seeing his brother was when they were dragging his broken body away. Murphy Murphy MURPHY. Hang on, just hang on, we'll get out of this, we'll get free and we'll kill this mother fucker.
But how in the hell were they going to do that?
Paolo hit Murphy until his own hand throbbed.
Murphy bled. He could feel the wet sliding down his forehead, as well as that fragile space between bottom of nose and mouth.
He knew that his lip was split, and he knew that during an especially hard hit that caught the side of his face, he'd been unlucky enough to have his teeth clamp down on the side of his cheek.
He could taste it--filling up in his mouth. He was unable to swallow without choking, however, and so instead he let it slid slowly out of his own mouth. Head was slightly fuzzy, and Murphy wondered if the violence would be enough to keep his mind (or body, rather) off of sex. So far, it was working moderately well.
As often as he could, he kept his eyes on Connor's own gaze--snapping his head back up and over after each hit.
And when Paolo paused, and Murphy's face was throbbing, and he was hoping that his nose would stop tingling, and that he wouldn't have such a horribly split lip that he would need it stitched, Murph decided that it was better to be hit than to be raped (even if it did seem willing).
So he laughed, and somehow managed it to sound smug between lips that were dripping blood onto the rest of his naked body. "Don't ya like tha' idea, Paolo?"
Stop touching me. I won't be able to control myself much longer. The idea of moaning at any touch (even a slap to the face) was frightening.
Paolo didn’t like idea. He didn’t like the fact that Murphy could speak anything coherently through how much of the concentrated drug was coursing through his blood stream. Paolo was disgusted at the confession and aroused at the rivulets of blood pouring down his captive's neck from the cuts on his cheeks. He wanted to rape the fucking Irishman until the rivulets never stopped and Murphy MacManus was dead.
But he couldn’t let Murphy out of his binds to fuck him until the drug had set in, and he was beating Murphy too hard to let them get to the brain that was dizzy from being smacked. "No, you know what idea I like?" So he would torture Connor instead, hands off of Murphy - but nonetheless accomplishing something.
Paolo picked up the knife and knelt beside Connor’s chair - the deaf brother wasn’t even sure what was going on anymore. He steadied his own breathing to regain control after having watched his twin's blood splatter in arches through the air. He didn’t feel Paolo pressing the knife to his arm nor did he feel it sink under the flesh. Unlike Murphy's spiraled wound in the center of the cross, Connor's new wounds were slices that traced the outside of the entire cross itself. His head tipped back and he kept all sounds within him, biting his gag and holding on, holding on.
Murphy wanted to yell and spit out curses mixed with blood in Paolo's direction. Don't touch my brother, don't you fucking hurt him anymore!
But rational thought was terribly hard to conjure, and the room was getting hot again. Burning. Feverish. He let out a little groan, not sure what else to do--and let his head fall forward--chin touching against chest. Don't look at anyone else in the room.
It's wrong, it's...
Eyes drifted up anyway, and despite the cold of the room Murphy was hot, and his body was reacting. A whimper.
The first whimper didn’t affect Paolo's attention to the cross that was now just a screen of blood over Connor's arm.
The second and third whimper slowed him down. He stopped tracing the knife over the designs that were within the Celtic symbol but didn’t lift the knife from the skin or the blood that pooled up around the metal.
It didn’t take long for the rest of the nude brother's sounds to entice Paolo into leaving Connor alone and turn to watch Murphy instead. To sit and bask in the pain/pleasure writhing of the drugged twin. He would have begun carving at the tattoo on Connor's throat if it weren’t for his need to cut Murphy's bindings now - but not so fast. Paolo circled slowly around Murphy and listened to the sounds and pleas.
Head was turning from side to side as Paolo circled him. It was difficult to writhe while being tied to a chair--but somehow, Murphy managed it.
The soft whine that was leaving his throat now seemed never-ending. It was just one long, needy moan. Sweat mixed with blood on his now abused face, and it dripped down the curve of his temples, and then his chin--covering his neck in a tint of pale red.
It had been impossible resist such a high dosage of drugs, and now Murphy found it difficult to remember who or even where he was. All he knew was that he needed, and that was all he could concentrate on anymore.
Tongue (also covered in red) peeked out of his mouth, licking at bloody and split lips as if they were dry. Ay need....
But Paolo wasn’t quite ready yet. He wanted to savor the suffering of his little whore for a few more minutes before he killed the man.
His free hand came to Murphy's cheek to pet it gently - the same hand that had slapped the same cheek only moments ago.
"Beg." The fingers scraped the blood pouring from Murphy's cuts, leaving streaks of pale skin showing on his cheek. Paolo leant over the writhing body and aligned his own clean, untouched face with the erotic mess that was the Irishman's.
Murphy let out a sound that wasn't really words, but wasn't a moan either. Beg. His mind hardly comprehended the request. The order.
Tears were gathering up in his eyes. It was beginning to hurt, he needed attention so bad.
"P-lea..se." It was hard to even say that much, with so little room in his mind for things of that sort. He closed his eyes and tried his hardest. "Ay--need..." Please.
The words were cut off by Paolo's mouth, hard and demanding over Murphy's lips. The force father opened the wounds that his own knuckles had made on that mouth.
Connor's teeth clenched around the portion of the gag in his mouth, bruised jaw, sending pulses of pain into his neck. If I could reach the knife in his hand... if I could loosen one foot and kick that fucking knife into his heart. Connor was consumed in a desperate search for escaping even as a foul, anguished curse from came from Paolo.
Paolo was rearing his head back away from Murphy's, a string of blood stretching between their mouths before it was broken. Blood dripped from the Italian's mouth, pooling down to his chin. Murphy had bitten him.
"Mother fucker. You think you can get away with biting me?" Paolo brought the knife to Murphy with an urgent motion, slicing the binds at the captive's wrists and ankles. And when Murphy was free, the fist clenched in his hair yanked him violently out of the seat and onto his knees on the floor. "I'll teach you not to fucking bite." He was opening his robe with messy tugs. "If your teeth even touch me - I will -blind- him with your fucking knife…"
The floor was extremely cold to burning hands and knees, and it was something that Murphy welcomed-even if he wasn’t paying much attention to it.
Pants escaped his mouth and Murphy all but got down father--instead of leaning on hands and knees, the twin was on his elbows--bruised ass poised upward, as if just begging and waiting for the nephew of Yakavetta. Fuck me, please.
That was as begging as it got--forehead was pressed against the cool floor, and blood dripped down from every bleeding spot on his face, to make the floor beneath him slippery.
Connor watched Paolo Beniamino drop down to his knees and scrape mercilessly hands and knife down his twin's back. Connor watched Paolo bend Murphy toward him. He knew that when their captor finished with Murphy this time, he was going to shoot them both in the head.
And the last threads of Connor's sanity grew taut and snapped. He arched against the wire and tape wrapped around his wrists that had deadened every nerve in his finger tips - his ankles jarred at the inch-thick layer of wire that kept them paralyzed. And he dislocated something - a shoulder or an elbow - because his entire left side engulfed into flame. But he wouldn’t go down like this. He wouldn’t let go of Murphy like this. MURPHY!
The light from the hallway suddenly blossomed into a much brighter glow that filled every space in the room and it's abrupt explosion of white color blinded Connor.
Maybe it wasn’t the hallway light at all. Maybe it really was death this time. Murph...
But it was the hallway light. The newly opened door revealed a man of slim stature--a gun in each hand and a wicked expression on his unique face. Lips were pulled back, teeth showing a serious expression. And then, before he allowed himself to reallysee what was going on in the room, FBI Agent Paul Smecker found himself firing yet another bullet from one of his guns’ smoking barrels.
The head was the only place for the bullet to go. The bang echoed throughout the room, but once it had been fired, and Paolo was now laying to the side of Murphy with a hole in his head and his blood seeping out onto the expensive carpet, Smecker had the feeling that he was still the only one to really hear it.
"Holy shit," he muttered out, eyes going wide at the view before him.
Murphy was positively writhing on the floor, letting out soft whining noises. His hands, with bruised and swelling wrists were clawing at himself. Naked. His face was bloody almost beyond recognition.
But Smecker found himself moving toward the still tied Connor first. A knife was picked up off the floor (and Paul instantly recognized it as Murphy's own) and he was cutting the bindings on the chair. There was blood everywhere on Connor. Bruises and cuts not having any spaces on skin that was showing. But at least he was clothed.
The gag was taken out of Connor's mouth, and then Smecker was worried about what to deal with next.
"Can you walk?"
But when the gag peeled away from Connor's mouth - his lips nearly black from the dried blood that had not been cleared away since the first time they'd beaten him - he didn’t even appear to recognize Smecker or his freedom. He was staring with full focus on the gun in the agent's hands.
And like an electric current passing through him, Connor let out an unmuffled scream and grabbed that gun. Despite the fact that he couldn’t feel his hands and they were both gripping the weapon just to keep it from dropping and his fingers were shaking violently with the effort it took to keep his mangled shoulder up to support his arm.
Connor was up. But he never stood fully, only stumbled to a crouch and hit the floor a second later on his knees. The momentum of the fall rolled him straight down to his side, but at least he was facing Paolo's direction, because his aim was wild and trembling as every single bullet in the clip was emptied into the dead Italian’s body. The blood bursting from the craters of those bullet wounds didn’t satisfy him enough, and when the bullets ran out, Connor kept firing until the emptied gun slipped from limp fingers.
He didn’t pass out and he couldn’t stand yet--but the blood flow was returning, Connor would be dragging himself up no matter what was broken once he could catch his breath. He said nothing at all.
------
Tbc
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Next Chapter: Only they can save eachother.
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. But someone 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, Part Nine
Chapter Ten:
Chapter Ten: Vengeful Striking Hammer
The temperature in the bedroom had plummeted, it was icy now. It was no longer pitch black, as the door to the hall way was opened, and a long strip of light poured in over the two similar bodies strapped to identical heavy chairs.
There was no one else in the room at that moment, but without a doubt, there were at least five guards still in the penthouse suite.
A voice came from outside of the open door, from somewhere else in the suite. The voice paused between words for the speaker to smoke.
"We'll find the third one next. I’m not going to worry about it until I've finished the other two. Yes... I will, Father. The plane is scheduled for tomorrow, I will be completely done here by then and be back in Chicago for dinner, yes alright?"
The conversation faded as the speaker walked farther away into another part of the suite.
All was quite again.
"Mur-.." It was a muffled sound behind a gag. Wake up. "M-."
It was still dark in Murphy's mind, but there was noise, and it was gradually becoming closer. Definitely that was a familiar voice making those noises at him. And so, coming closer to consciousness, Murph replied. "Nnnghh."
Chin was bent down, touching against chest--head hurt something tremendous (and that wasn't all, either), and so he kept it down for the time being.
But then he remembered, and his head shot up. Hands and legs were tied to a chair again, and Murphy could hardly recall what had happened the night before when he’d been untied. Fuzzy images and scenes were playing in his memory, and Murphy was beginning to feel sick.
But all those feelings went away again, when he saw his brother. Bloody and gagged, Murphy still knew nothing more beautiful than the man in the chair beside his. "Connor..." Murphy's voice was raspy and rough--only loud enough for his brother---not that that would make much of a difference, but Murphy was forgetful of this fact.
Connor saw his twin's mouth moving in the dim light and recognized the word forming there as his name - it propelled his pulse into a faster beat. Even though he had been watching the naked Murphy breathe, every minute that passed while his brother remained unconscious sunk Connor's spirit deeper into the weary abyss it was in. Now the only thing he could hear inside his own pounding head was that rapid heartbeat and the imagined thought of Murphy's voice.
"Mmm." The gag around his own mouth kept words from being spoken, but Connor doubted that he would have trusted himself to speak even if he could.
It was in his eyes that he translated his thoughts, it was in the exhausted pallor of his skin that he showed how drained by fear he had been. He was battling between the hardened determination to get them free no matter what cost - and the defeated, drowning weight of the fact that this might be the last day they were together no matter what they did. No, Murph. We won’t die like this.
God, if only he could move his fingers, if only he could move without hurting his fractured rib, if only he could move one foot closer to Murph. If only time wasn’t running out.
Eyebrows knitted together, and Murphy's mouth drew down into a frown. Not at his brother, of course. Never at Connor. But the predicament that they found themselves in--it deserved more than a frown.
Murphy struggled, a brief struggle, because it sent him into a hissing fit of pain to move (a lean forward made his whole bottom flare up in pain, and although Murphy knew what had been done to cause such pain, he was glad he did not have a clear memory of it all). His wrist, he discovered a little dully, could hardly even move. They were truly, honestly stuck here.
And so he lifted his eyes again, to meet Connor's and it was a sad smile that he gave his lover. Almost resigned. But if we do die, know that I love you.
Connor and Murphy MacManus had never needed words to communicate--they had just been an added benefit in life.
"Ahhh! You’re awake!" It was a slither of a voice that spoke into the dark bedroom cage. If the light from the hallway hadn’t flickered to allow for Paolo's reentering shape to block it, Connor would have continued to gaze at Murphy without knowing the Italian had entered. It seemed that the chill of the room had only gotten colder, with Paolo drawing in, and Connor’s dark scowl was growled harshly through his exhaustion.
Paolo had his robe back on and the same ominous syringe envelope in hand. Connor didn’t like the smug look on the Italian's face and wanted to claw it off with his fingers and make Yakavetta's nephew wish he'd never blinked in the general direction of Boston.
"What is it, MacManus? Are you angry about something?" Paolo brandished the gun that had deafened Connor and been deep throated by Murphy, even spun it on his finger like he was slick. Without an answer, green eyes shifted to the naked captive. "Why is he mad, hm?"
Murphy found it difficult to tear his gaze away from Connor's face. When he finally did however, he regretted it instantly. The movement of turning his head made the small cat bell on his neck jingle. It was a happy noise that aggravated, Murph and made Paolo look even smugger.
Eyes wandered down to the envelope in Paolo's hand, and Murphy MacManus got a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. No, no. Not that again. Not with you. Not in front of Connor.
He cleared his voice, and put on the most sarcastic of tones he knew. "Because you're not rotting in Hell yet, Paolo," he sneered out. "Stop disappointing us so." He wasn't going to allow himself to sit back and take it this time.
The smugness did indeed vanish -- Paolo didn’t like that response very much.
"I’ve already told this to your brother --back when he could," The gun clicked, "Hear." Paolo was facing Murphy, but his arm extended the gun to level at Connor's forehead, where the Irishman's hair was limply adhered to his forehead with sweat and blood. Connor didn’t even cringe away.
His ears bled again when Paolo shifted his aim and fired the shot an inch from his temple. Even though his nerves were deadened, the violent vibration of the passing bullet still rang through his bones and he knew he was getting farther and farther away from ever hearing again.
"See how I deafened your brother? Just like that, for three days.” Paolo's grin had returned, but only shortly, because now he extracted the knife that Murphy had once planned to kill him with, and examined the blade with the tip of one finger. "Well, I do admit-- the gun is getting tiresome, despite how entertaining it has been to see your brother slip into unconscious from the pain... Perhaps I should use this knife to deafen him completely? Surely it would get the rug a little dirtier - but, hey, I'll pay the hotel for it. I’ve already paid them to ignore all the sounds that come from this suite." Paolo snickered and lifted the knife to his own face, holding the blade against his cheek. "Might as well take advantage of what I paid for, yes?"
Eyes flashed upward--meeting Connor's for a moment, and then Murphy was raging. "Don't ya fuckin' touch him!"
He did not fear for his own safety--he'd come here to save his brother, and that was what he still intended to do. For Connor, he did fear. If he couldn't get Connor out of this place, he would at least try and give him more time.
Self sacrifice, if need be. His twin was his other half. The piece that made him whole. Murphy could not sit around and watch him lose a whole sense. It disturbed him greatly to see Connor's ears bleeding. To know that he'd somehow grown almost used to this constant pain and loss.
"Ay'll kill you, bastard!" It was surprising how much strength one regained when adrenaline and anger came flowing back into the blood stream.
Paolo swiveled the knife a little to angle it toward his own lip like it were a thoughtful finger. "Kill me? But yesterday you offered something much more preferable, MacManus. What was it? 'Fuck you'?" Paolo was nodding to his own question - yes, that was the demand that’d been given to him yesterday. Use Murphy to his whim. But there was only one way to do that - short of fucking his corpse, which Paolo imagined would not be nearly as fun.
The gun was looped into his belt, and he used Murphy's own knife to open the envelope, and slid the syringe out - its tube held the concentrated aphrodisiac, except the dosage was higher this time - there was more. And all of it would be pumped into Murphy now.
"You should be thanking me, really. This drug will be in effect all the way until I kill you - quite a pleasurable death, eh?"
When Connor could open his dizzy eyes again, the flood of his protest was emptied in a growl so deadly in his throat, the sound alone could have killed weaker men.
Paolo was circling Murphy's chair and crouching behind it for access to the bound arms. "Cant stand to see your brother fucked in front of you, Connor?" The knife tip touched lightly on Murphy's skin where there was a tattoo of a Celtic cross. It sunk in at the intersection of the cross' bars and Paolo twisted it a little to make a spiraled cut. Now Murphy was still enough to inject the drug - and the full dosage was depleted into his veins as blood poured down his arm from another spot.
Murphy let out a little hiss of his own, at the feel of both the cut at his arm, and the needle being stuck into him. Fucking prick.
He swallowed, and let his eyes focus and settle on Connor's--blue, and so like his own. Might as well go out with a bang, right? A secret smile was given to Con, and Murphy knew what he was going to do.
"No," he said quickly--knowing that his last bit of rationality would be gone in only few short minutes. "He can't stand th' fact that you're th' one doing me and not him." There was something that felt really good about telling this to Paolo. "And not only that, but he has to sweat th' small stuff. It's disgusting to watch you do it all wrong."
A smirk, and a small toss of the head, as if Murphy were truly proud of what he was saying. And he was. "He's disgusted by th' fact that you need to use drugs to make me beg and moan for more. And so am Ay." His voice was just above a soft hiss now, but there was enough silence for it to be audible to Paolo. "My brother can make me beg louder and longer for more by using only his tongue and he's better at fucking thank you'll ever be."
This said, Murphy was momentarily satisfied. Now all he had to do was attempt to stay in the right frame of mind--drugs or otherwise.
Not such an easy task, at all.
Paolo's taunting remarks abruptly quieted. His slithered voice retreated and when he stood up - empty syringe still pinched between thumb and index - he wasn’t even looking at them. In the half shadow of the room, the concentration on his face was fierce. And when he finally circled the chairs to face them, disbelief warred with repulsion in his eyes.
Paolo's rings caught and tore Murphy's cheek with the backhand that snapped down over him. Before Paolo even spoke, he struck Murphy again, as hard at the first time on the backward swing of the first ripping slap.
"You’re not fucking joking, are you?!" The Italian's mouth opened again silently and his head shook in disgusted rejection of the thought. So he hit Murphy again and again, and he threw the empty syringe from his free hand and the vial of it shattered.
Connor didn’t know exactly what words Murphy had used to aired their relationship to the Mafia under boss- but he knew by the smug smirk on his brother's face that that is exactly what he'd confessed. When that smirk was slapped off- Connor's heavy chair jolted once with a movement so fierce that pain from every wound redirected its throbbing into his head and Connor was crying half threateningly and in half in excruciating agony. "Rrrrrh." The chair jolted again with Connor's effort and the pain was drawing him to the brink of passing out. But he wouldn’t leave Murphy, he wouldn’t close his eyes now when the next time he could be seeing his brother was when they were dragging his broken body away. Murphy Murphy MURPHY. Hang on, just hang on, we'll get out of this, we'll get free and we'll kill this mother fucker.
But how in the hell were they going to do that?
Paolo hit Murphy until his own hand throbbed.
Murphy bled. He could feel the wet sliding down his forehead, as well as that fragile space between bottom of nose and mouth.
He knew that his lip was split, and he knew that during an especially hard hit that caught the side of his face, he'd been unlucky enough to have his teeth clamp down on the side of his cheek.
He could taste it--filling up in his mouth. He was unable to swallow without choking, however, and so instead he let it slid slowly out of his own mouth. Head was slightly fuzzy, and Murphy wondered if the violence would be enough to keep his mind (or body, rather) off of sex. So far, it was working moderately well.
As often as he could, he kept his eyes on Connor's own gaze--snapping his head back up and over after each hit.
And when Paolo paused, and Murphy's face was throbbing, and he was hoping that his nose would stop tingling, and that he wouldn't have such a horribly split lip that he would need it stitched, Murph decided that it was better to be hit than to be raped (even if it did seem willing).
So he laughed, and somehow managed it to sound smug between lips that were dripping blood onto the rest of his naked body. "Don't ya like tha' idea, Paolo?"
Stop touching me. I won't be able to control myself much longer. The idea of moaning at any touch (even a slap to the face) was frightening.
Paolo didn’t like idea. He didn’t like the fact that Murphy could speak anything coherently through how much of the concentrated drug was coursing through his blood stream. Paolo was disgusted at the confession and aroused at the rivulets of blood pouring down his captive's neck from the cuts on his cheeks. He wanted to rape the fucking Irishman until the rivulets never stopped and Murphy MacManus was dead.
But he couldn’t let Murphy out of his binds to fuck him until the drug had set in, and he was beating Murphy too hard to let them get to the brain that was dizzy from being smacked. "No, you know what idea I like?" So he would torture Connor instead, hands off of Murphy - but nonetheless accomplishing something.
Paolo picked up the knife and knelt beside Connor’s chair - the deaf brother wasn’t even sure what was going on anymore. He steadied his own breathing to regain control after having watched his twin's blood splatter in arches through the air. He didn’t feel Paolo pressing the knife to his arm nor did he feel it sink under the flesh. Unlike Murphy's spiraled wound in the center of the cross, Connor's new wounds were slices that traced the outside of the entire cross itself. His head tipped back and he kept all sounds within him, biting his gag and holding on, holding on.
Murphy wanted to yell and spit out curses mixed with blood in Paolo's direction. Don't touch my brother, don't you fucking hurt him anymore!
But rational thought was terribly hard to conjure, and the room was getting hot again. Burning. Feverish. He let out a little groan, not sure what else to do--and let his head fall forward--chin touching against chest. Don't look at anyone else in the room.
It's wrong, it's...
Eyes drifted up anyway, and despite the cold of the room Murphy was hot, and his body was reacting. A whimper.
The first whimper didn’t affect Paolo's attention to the cross that was now just a screen of blood over Connor's arm.
The second and third whimper slowed him down. He stopped tracing the knife over the designs that were within the Celtic symbol but didn’t lift the knife from the skin or the blood that pooled up around the metal.
It didn’t take long for the rest of the nude brother's sounds to entice Paolo into leaving Connor alone and turn to watch Murphy instead. To sit and bask in the pain/pleasure writhing of the drugged twin. He would have begun carving at the tattoo on Connor's throat if it weren’t for his need to cut Murphy's bindings now - but not so fast. Paolo circled slowly around Murphy and listened to the sounds and pleas.
Head was turning from side to side as Paolo circled him. It was difficult to writhe while being tied to a chair--but somehow, Murphy managed it.
The soft whine that was leaving his throat now seemed never-ending. It was just one long, needy moan. Sweat mixed with blood on his now abused face, and it dripped down the curve of his temples, and then his chin--covering his neck in a tint of pale red.
It had been impossible resist such a high dosage of drugs, and now Murphy found it difficult to remember who or even where he was. All he knew was that he needed, and that was all he could concentrate on anymore.
Tongue (also covered in red) peeked out of his mouth, licking at bloody and split lips as if they were dry. Ay need....
But Paolo wasn’t quite ready yet. He wanted to savor the suffering of his little whore for a few more minutes before he killed the man.
His free hand came to Murphy's cheek to pet it gently - the same hand that had slapped the same cheek only moments ago.
"Beg." The fingers scraped the blood pouring from Murphy's cuts, leaving streaks of pale skin showing on his cheek. Paolo leant over the writhing body and aligned his own clean, untouched face with the erotic mess that was the Irishman's.
Murphy let out a sound that wasn't really words, but wasn't a moan either. Beg. His mind hardly comprehended the request. The order.
Tears were gathering up in his eyes. It was beginning to hurt, he needed attention so bad.
"P-lea..se." It was hard to even say that much, with so little room in his mind for things of that sort. He closed his eyes and tried his hardest. "Ay--need..." Please.
The words were cut off by Paolo's mouth, hard and demanding over Murphy's lips. The force father opened the wounds that his own knuckles had made on that mouth.
Connor's teeth clenched around the portion of the gag in his mouth, bruised jaw, sending pulses of pain into his neck. If I could reach the knife in his hand... if I could loosen one foot and kick that fucking knife into his heart. Connor was consumed in a desperate search for escaping even as a foul, anguished curse from came from Paolo.
Paolo was rearing his head back away from Murphy's, a string of blood stretching between their mouths before it was broken. Blood dripped from the Italian's mouth, pooling down to his chin. Murphy had bitten him.
"Mother fucker. You think you can get away with biting me?" Paolo brought the knife to Murphy with an urgent motion, slicing the binds at the captive's wrists and ankles. And when Murphy was free, the fist clenched in his hair yanked him violently out of the seat and onto his knees on the floor. "I'll teach you not to fucking bite." He was opening his robe with messy tugs. "If your teeth even touch me - I will -blind- him with your fucking knife…"
The floor was extremely cold to burning hands and knees, and it was something that Murphy welcomed-even if he wasn’t paying much attention to it.
Pants escaped his mouth and Murphy all but got down father--instead of leaning on hands and knees, the twin was on his elbows--bruised ass poised upward, as if just begging and waiting for the nephew of Yakavetta. Fuck me, please.
That was as begging as it got--forehead was pressed against the cool floor, and blood dripped down from every bleeding spot on his face, to make the floor beneath him slippery.
Connor watched Paolo Beniamino drop down to his knees and scrape mercilessly hands and knife down his twin's back. Connor watched Paolo bend Murphy toward him. He knew that when their captor finished with Murphy this time, he was going to shoot them both in the head.
And the last threads of Connor's sanity grew taut and snapped. He arched against the wire and tape wrapped around his wrists that had deadened every nerve in his finger tips - his ankles jarred at the inch-thick layer of wire that kept them paralyzed. And he dislocated something - a shoulder or an elbow - because his entire left side engulfed into flame. But he wouldn’t go down like this. He wouldn’t let go of Murphy like this. MURPHY!
The light from the hallway suddenly blossomed into a much brighter glow that filled every space in the room and it's abrupt explosion of white color blinded Connor.
Maybe it wasn’t the hallway light at all. Maybe it really was death this time. Murph...
But it was the hallway light. The newly opened door revealed a man of slim stature--a gun in each hand and a wicked expression on his unique face. Lips were pulled back, teeth showing a serious expression. And then, before he allowed himself to reallysee what was going on in the room, FBI Agent Paul Smecker found himself firing yet another bullet from one of his guns’ smoking barrels.
The head was the only place for the bullet to go. The bang echoed throughout the room, but once it had been fired, and Paolo was now laying to the side of Murphy with a hole in his head and his blood seeping out onto the expensive carpet, Smecker had the feeling that he was still the only one to really hear it.
"Holy shit," he muttered out, eyes going wide at the view before him.
Murphy was positively writhing on the floor, letting out soft whining noises. His hands, with bruised and swelling wrists were clawing at himself. Naked. His face was bloody almost beyond recognition.
But Smecker found himself moving toward the still tied Connor first. A knife was picked up off the floor (and Paul instantly recognized it as Murphy's own) and he was cutting the bindings on the chair. There was blood everywhere on Connor. Bruises and cuts not having any spaces on skin that was showing. But at least he was clothed.
The gag was taken out of Connor's mouth, and then Smecker was worried about what to deal with next.
"Can you walk?"
But when the gag peeled away from Connor's mouth - his lips nearly black from the dried blood that had not been cleared away since the first time they'd beaten him - he didn’t even appear to recognize Smecker or his freedom. He was staring with full focus on the gun in the agent's hands.
And like an electric current passing through him, Connor let out an unmuffled scream and grabbed that gun. Despite the fact that he couldn’t feel his hands and they were both gripping the weapon just to keep it from dropping and his fingers were shaking violently with the effort it took to keep his mangled shoulder up to support his arm.
Connor was up. But he never stood fully, only stumbled to a crouch and hit the floor a second later on his knees. The momentum of the fall rolled him straight down to his side, but at least he was facing Paolo's direction, because his aim was wild and trembling as every single bullet in the clip was emptied into the dead Italian’s body. The blood bursting from the craters of those bullet wounds didn’t satisfy him enough, and when the bullets ran out, Connor kept firing until the emptied gun slipped from limp fingers.
He didn’t pass out and he couldn’t stand yet--but the blood flow was returning, Connor would be dragging himself up no matter what was broken once he could catch his breath. He said nothing at all.
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Tbc
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Next Chapter: Only they can save eachother.