Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: AC, Ric/Jason/Sonny, slash, violence, masochism, language, sexual situations.
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own them and not making profit from this.
Summary: Just how twisted IS Ric Lansing? For that matter...what if he's not the only one?
"The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground."
-Genesis 4:10, The Bible.
The ropes are thick with wiry, individual pieces of straw-like thread
sticking out like barbs. They're going to leave burns, concentric circles like a Celtic love knot, on his wrists. The floor is cold against his cheek...but not nearly as much as the knee in the center of his back that is keeping him pinned down. As the fingers curled in his hair, jerking his head back. He is caught between a rock and a hard place...a hard person...who has no intention of letting him go.
Which is fine.
Because there is no place he'd rather be.
"You're going to pay, Lansing," the voice hisses, low and harsh, in his ear. Not so lacking in emotion now. No, it's flush...flush with anger and resentment and...something else... something darker than death. "I can't kill you...but that doesn't mean I can't make you suffer."
"You promise?" He laughs, chokes, and tastes blood on his lips as his chin is slammed, summarily, into the concrete.
Jason Morgan is so literal. So mindnumbingly predictable.
Ric always knew it would come to this.
He anticipated it. Tasted the sharp copper tilt of wanting it. When he
was shot, he dipped his fingers beneath the bandages more times than he could count, licked the hint of *this*...of *this* from his own skin. Rope and leather and sweat and fury.
Women are soft, pliant. Weightless. Matchsticks easily snapped. But in the showers at boarding school and the locker rooms of exclusive tennis
clubs and frat houses in Cambridge, he learned to crave something indestructible. Every time someone backhanded him, he was hard and gasping and wondering if...if this was how his brother dealt a blow. The sharp-crack sensation of his head teetering on his neck...the bruises. A Kennedy boy dislocated his shoulder on a yacht one summer at the Vineyard and he gave him a "thank you" blowjob before going to the emergency room. Even now, the misshapen flesh above his barely healed bullet wound is all he has to stroke to get off.
So, the friction of his shoulder against the floor is glorious. Jason is an
expert...things are bent, bruised, bleeding, but not yet broken. This could go on for hours. Days. His tolerance is nearly Tantric. He knows he will last.
He is just waiting for Jason to shatter.
And it isn't long before he's shoving him onto his back, pushing his bound hands up, over his head. Sonny's henchman has hidden depths...and perhaps flashes of his own boarding school days from another life. Did AJ ever tie him to a headboard with silk ties? Did he funnel vodka into his soft, pink, mouth and listen to him choke? Is that, not memory, why brother is against brother now?
If his hands were free, Ric would cup Jason's face. Would kiss him and
taste the essence of Sonny laced with rage. But he can't...so he settles for a satisfied sigh when his shirt rips under the enforcer's capable hands.
Jason slammed him up against a wall once. And then wrapped his arm around his neck on the Vineyard. When he was choking, flailing, begging Sonny with his eyes to spare his life, he was nearly coming in his pants. Foreplay. Gorgeous, irrevocable, foreplay.
All leading to this. Consummation.
"Come on," he pleads...taunts..."Show me what you've got, Morgan..."
The fist slamming into his jaw is an answer. So is the crack of a rib. The blinding pain in his shins. The buttons of the leather jacket leaving imprints on his bare skin. He bucks up, rubbing his groin against the thighs that have him immobilized. *More*. *More*. *Please*.
"You're a sick fuck," Jason hisses as his hand slides down, as his fist closes around his still-imprisoned cock and squeezes. "You're a sick fuck who deserves to die."
And he can't help but pant, agree. "Yes....yes...yes..."
His muscles are straining. Arms bent like bowstrings at an archery competition. Elizabeth's fingers were never enough...too small, too gentle, as they tried to cup the entire length of his cock. Jason's grip is beautifully cruel, bordering on excruciating. There are no illusions here, no lies of love. No plans, no plots, no agendas. Just him. Jason. And Sonny's shadow. All that he's ever had, envied, wanted.
Carly...just a means to an end. Elizabeth...a diversion from that end. This...this...is exactly where he needs to be. Where he always planned to be. Coming in his jeans as the door bursts open and his brother walks into the abandoned warehouse, his gun trained on them both.
"What the fuck is going on here?"
"I'm...suffering..." he laughs as his body goes limp.
He doesn't miss the weight when Jason pulls up, shoves away. Because he has ice blue eyes and coal black ones trained on him as he drowses, boneless and spent, on warm stone.
"You should've let me kill him," Jason whispers, evenly, staring at his right hand like it's tainted...diseased...in need of amputation.
And Sonny stares at his right hand the same way for an instant. "I couldn't. He's my mother's son." As he walks over and helps Ric stand. "Besides, killing's too good for this scum," he adds, low and dangerous, tugging at the ropes...checking their tightness...brows furrowing at the raw, red, marks already formed beneath.
When his callused fingertips slide over the furrows and gouges, Ric can't help but whimper, gasp, and he feels himself reacting, despite the sticky heat that already has him flying. *Yes*, he thinks, snap my wrist. Break it in two. Maim me, Brother, exactly like you did when I was born...when you took my mother away. And as if Sonny can hear his silent pleas, his tanned hand closes around his wrist. Squeezes tight in a parody of a more intimate caress.
"You like this, Ric?" he wonders, softly. "You like being hurt? Being treated like the rabid dog you are?" And Sonny's laugh is like a thousand spikes digging into his flesh. "You're less than human, Lansing. You show me, my family, my *wife* disrespect. You're nothing."
And then he pulls away.
Ric moans, protesting the absence of violence. Of promise.
And Jason starts forward...ready to give it back.
"I give the orders," Sonny reminds, stilling him with his sharp tone, one hand on his sleeve. And then his fingers travel upwards, to his henchman's neck, stroking the soft skin between his chin and the collar of his t-shirt. "You think pain...pain absolves you, Ric?" he wonders, conversationally. "You know nothing. You don't understand loyalty."
They move like shadows...overlapping...and suddenly Sonny's arm is around Jason's throat...gentle, not cutting off his air supply, not choking. Simply natural. Simply welcome. His lips are level with the taller man's cheek and they barely brush. Jason leans down into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut.
"This is my brother," Sonny murmurs, huskily. "This is my life. He is everything to me that you'll never be."
The last thing Ric sees before unholy unconsciousness is Jason's jacket falling to the ground...the last thing he hears is a gasp...a sound not of his making. Something that doesn't shatter upon impact.
That he'll never have.
May 3, 2003.