Title: "House of Straw"
Author: monimala
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: 'SAC', Lorenzo/Connorkolas/Mary, slash/het.
Disclaimer: Nope. I do not own these characters.
Summary: This is for my darling Jazz. Even though she actually hates Enzo and Nik, she is enthralllled by the guys together. Can you blame her? And I threw in Mary because she's cute.

The gazebo was dark, deserted, but there was a promising silence... a vibration in the air...almost oppressive like the summer heat. Lorenzo Alcazar moved through the shadows like a predator in the forest, emerging through the tangle of bushes almost in synch with the young man whose footsteps were barely audible on the wet wood floor.

"Connor," he greeted, tone purely formal and business-like...eyes glittering with something considerably less than that. He did not dare let the other name slip past his tongue...the name Emily Quartermaine no doubt moaned in her sleep as she reached across her empty bed.

This was not a place for princes.

Or dreams.

Simply men.

"Mister...Mister Alcazar." The man--boy, really--who called himself Connor Bishop still spoke like royalty. The hesitation came from something else.

The vibration in the air.

Rain began to fall as the taller man moved forward. The warm, wet, wind whipped their faces as Lorenzo slid his palm against Connor's cheek. A slap, not a caress.

"I told you...you may call me Lorenzo," he chided, softly.

"Lorenzo, then." This...this was spoken like the mocking prince. Something pulled from the deep well of memory. Like the kiss that followed.

Prey teasing predator. Hunt me, take me down. And he welcomed the challenge. The firm sinews and muscles, the rough, new, calluses on palms that had never known work until a desperate woman took him in.

Connor leaned in, to be bitten, devoured, their gasps and sighs drowned out by the whisper of leaves and the distant roll of thunder. They stumbled against the railing of the delicate gazebo, leaning flat against the lattice work...Connor reaching up and winding fingers through as he offered himself up for the kill.

Nikolas Cassadine would never spread himself beneath a man. Certainly not one who had ordered his death. Lorenzo was supremely lucky that the boy beneath him bore no knowledge of that self...that all he knew was nature, wild and primeval.

Hands roamed free under threadbare grey t-shirt, teeth scraped stubbled jaw...and the whimper that rose from Connor's throat was in tune with Lorenzo's hungry growl.

The boy was his. His. His. Marked by circumstance and scent and need and secrecy.

"Lorenzo..." It was a command, a command from his impatient new employee. Stop thinking, stop writing poetry with tongue and taste and hollow of throat and simply *do*.

"So eager...Connor?" he teased, effortlessly undoing the too-tight jeans, tugging the zipper down halfway.

"You're eager, too, Mr. Alcazar...to seduce my husband away from me!"

The voice from the steps was icy, unlike the rain and their skin. Icy and possessive.

"M-mary," stammered Connor, automatically pushing away from the gazebo wall.

"No." Lorenzo gently shook his head, one firm hand on the boy's chest keeping him in place. "No, Mary..." He turned, eyes flickering over the business suit she wore, buttoned primly from throat to hem, hiding her lush figure just as she hid her lies from the stranger she had molded like clay into husband form. "I am seducing nothing away from you," he assured, softly, pointedly.

She paused, there, on the threshold, the blush rising up her cheeks obvious even in twilight. And Lorenzo knew he had won.

He held out his other hand, murmuring, imperatively, "Come."

Hypnotized, moth to flame, helpless mouse to cobra, she crossed to them. To him. And when she tasted her Connor on his mouth, she made a sound that could have been "thank you", could have been something far more profane, but was simply a moan of pleasure.

One hand down from the lattice work, Connor buried it in the thick kinks of his false bride's hair, watching their kiss deepen, urging it to.

And then they both returned to him.

It was a picture of something decadent yet animal. Two wolves in suits, one half-dressed in sheep's clothing. Lorenzo tipped back Connor's head, kissing him so that he could drink of their combined betrayal as Mary tugged his paint-spattered jeans all the way down and followed their descent.

This was not a place for princes.

This was not a fairy tale.

Simply hips moving counterclockwise, and the storm pouring down, and the silence being broken by the hoarse cries of the damned.



May 14, 2004.

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