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Sunday, February 25th, 2007
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11:47 pm - The Morning After
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Disclaimer: I don't own House or Wilson, I just release my frustration at the fact that they haven't fucked yet.
A/N: This is my first attempt at real slash, so I'd love to hear what people think. This is also posted on fanfiction under my sn there. "Love and music are forever". Comments are much appreciated
Rating: R for oral sex and language
The Morning After…
Wild wet heat…
engulfing…
…two bodies pressed together in a kiss, so hard and wild that Wilson bites the inside of House’s lips as their bodies writhe against each other. The salty taste of blood fills both their mouths, but they don’t dare stop now.
Pulsing, clawing hands…
reach…
…for a desire hidden for too long. Buttons too easily slide away from drunken fingers; clothes are instead ripped away in wanton lasciviousness.
Deep, feral scent…
permeates…
…the air. It’s the smell of expensive cologne and cheep vodka, of acrid sweat and sweet arousal. But the scents, which would require a delicate nose to detect, are lost among the sharp inhalations of both men as their skin meets for the first time.
Wilson forces House down against the bed, pinning his wrists above his head as he kisses his neck. His tongue skates and glides across the other man’s neck and collarbone tracing it with fierce kisses and soft bites. He’ll have bruises tomorrow.
Wilson feels House’s body arch underneath him, pressing flesh to flesh. (Quite an impressive arch, seeing as Wilson is semi-on all fours in order to hold House down.) The firm caress of skin makes a small gasp slide from Wilson’s lips. House smiles crookedly at the noise, but Wilson is enjoying his control too much to so easily relinquish it just because his own libido would like to have him do so.
He pushes House down again, even more forcefully this time; the mattress slams against the wall.
Wilson traces the line of his kisses down House’s chest (for a man who never works out, he’s beautifully muscled.) Wilson lips leave soft, wet traces of vodka-tainted saliva all the way down to his hip. Wilson can feel the bone jutting up just under the soft flesh. He takes a moment to caress the spot with his lips; House moans and gasps in longing.
The way Wilson’s lips linger just on the edge of ecstasy and the way those hands are wrapped gently around his hips pulling them gently in towards him is driving House crazy with desire. Unconsciously, he tries to writhe in pleasure, but he doesn’t realize how firm Wilson’s grasp is and it keeps him pinned in place.
“Oh…fuck! James!” He moans in such ardent passion that the sound of the hunger in his voice makes Wilson’s own cock rise in desire.
Wilson slides his hands around off House’s hips and uses one of them to prop himself up and with the other he gently runs one of his callused fingertips over the hard shaft of House’s cock. Just the soft touch makes House moan and his head twitches from side to side.
Wilson brushes his lips over the tip of his cock. Yes, he is a tease. But, after all, House has put him through hell a hundred times isn’t it right that he should have his fun now?
“Mmm—Oh please! Ah! Please!” House begs between gasps. “Fuck…oh….James…shit… please!”
How the mighty have fallen. House is begging for something. Wilson saw such delicious irony here. And no, he did NOT have a domination fetish. And no he was NOT enjoying keeping House just on the edge of total bliss.
Truth be told though, House’s desperation was driving him mad. Wilson wants to deny him even longer, but the moans are making him wild. He wonders which on of them is going to lose control first.
He slowly, ever so slowly, slips his mouth over House’s rock hard cock, making sure that his tongue covers ever inch and side of it with firm caresses. He sucks gently but even that is enough to make House’s muscles spasm.
House can no longer even say James’s name, he claws the bed sheets as if trying to rip them from the bed. He’s loosing control. His hands move and grip James’s shoulders as if trying to draw him in and push him further away at the same time. He’s leaving deep marks on the skin with his nails but both men are too wrapped up in the passion to even notice this.
Wilson doesn’t want to deny House his pleasure anymore.
He moves his mouth faster.
With one final caress he allows House to orgasm with wild screams. His hips buck and his back arches, his whole body jerks. Wilson watches with a satisfied smile on his lips. He can’t say he’s not proud of the work.
Finally, House’s breath returns to his chest, he collapses among the tangled sheets—exhausted.
Wilson curls his head on the other man’s heaving chest, and at last the wildness of their passion and the stupor of liquor draws them down into the sweet seduction of sleep.
House awakes among the disaster zone of his bedroom.
He is alone. Although, he isn’t entirely sure why this realization surprises him. He wakes up alone every day; why was it strange now?
He rolls over and an empty vodka bottle clatters off the bed and onto the floor. The noise makes a bolt of pain shoot through his head—actually the pain hits more of his whole body. There isn’t an inch of him that doesn’t hurt.
He tries to remember last night: he’d been drinking. The hangover was clear proof of that.
There’s something else, something he knows he needs to remember.
Wilson.
Wilson was here last night.
He rakes a hand through his hair. Why is that important? He wishes he could remember—if only he hadn’t drunk so much last night.
He’s pouring two white pills into his palm when he finally does remember. His hand drops and the pills spill onto the floor. His arms fall limply to the bed; his fingertips just brush the bare skin of his hip.
Wilson was HERE last night.
House has lost count of how many nights he’s woken from dreams in which Wilson had been here, but this had been no dream. Wilson had been there. All soft flesh and wild passion. He’d been here.
But he wasn’t anymore.
House retrieves the Vicodin from the floor and swallowed them down. He isn’t sure if he is thankful Wilson is gone or if he wants to cry.
He gets in the shower and tries to wash the traces of last night from his skin, but even after the water has washed every inch of his skin the scent of Wilson’s cologne still clings in his hair and on his skin. He can’t escape it. It follows him around the apartment filling his nose like a specter it haunts him, making him unable to forget what had happened last night.
The morning after…
How will they look at each other?
Wilson must not have wanted this; if he had, he would still be here. How would House be able to admit that he had wanted it?
House downs his cup of instant coffee dispassionately. Even through the disgustingly cheep flavor he can still taste Wilson’s kisses—bittersweet.
He tries everything not to think of last night—but it’s all he can think about. He sinks down on the couch and lays his head back, just giving into the remembrance.
Suddenly, someone’s hands are over his eyes and a soft laugh is coming from behind him. Lips are being pressed against his hair, and are pulled away with a much exaggerated “mu-ah” sound.
“Wilson?” He asks tentatively he doesn’t want to dare to hope.
“Yes.”
House turns around and looks up at the other man who is standing behind him. “What happened last night?” He didn’t want his voice to sound so hostile, but he can see the light vanish from Wilson’s eyes at his tone.
“You didn’t feel the same way about it then. I’m sorry. I’ll go.” Wilson says all this very quickly, it’s obvious he’s embarrassed.
“No!” House grabs Wilson’s wrist.
He doesn’t have the words; he pulls Wilson down into a kiss that nearly makes Wilson flip over the back of the couch.
The morning after…
They become lost in their passion; they don’t even bother to head back to the bedroom. Their hands once again explore the other’s body, with the hunger that can only come from the second time around.
current mood:  mellow
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Thursday, February 22nd, 2007
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10:50 pm - Unworthy
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This is my most recent fic comment if you would! I'd love to hear what you think! Thanks!
Disclaimer: I don't own House or Wilson--sadly. I wish I did, but nope, I just play with the toys i put them back when i finish, i don't break them.
Rating: PG13 for suicide.
Unworthy
He wasn’t worthy of his angel.
There were some in this world who deserved mercy because of the willingness of their souls to receive it. But there was no such willingness in him. There were some who deserved mercy because the previous noble acts of their life were enough to obscure the mistakes of a short period. But there were no such good deeds.
And then, there are those that receive mercy because they have an angel in their life. He was one such as this.
And he was no longer worthy of his angel.
It was neither God nor Satan who had brought him to his knees here on the bathroom floor, (after all, he believed in neither one of them). It was only himself. It was not even the memory of the cold, piercing eyes of his angel looking down at him that had brought him here. It was only himself. His decision, his fate.
And still, he thought of the way that face had gazed down at him, all pain and disgust—no customary saintly grace, no commonplace desire to forgive. Only coldness.
Cold.
Like the tile under his bare flesh.
He had seen in those heavenly eyes a flash of disappointment. He’d failed his angel again. In the very act that his angel both hated and loved. It was the thing his angel wanted above all things, but could never dare to hope, and he had failed.
He would not fail this time. He didn’t need anymore failures added to his generous supply. This time he would not lie in a pool of his own vomit, but instead in his blood. He wouldn’t take any chances this time.
His angel would feel no pain or surprise at this. He could not fall any farther from his angel’s grace. How could one fall from grace when they had never possessed it in the first place?
But was he not an angel in his own right?
Not a white angel, but a fallen one.
His black, tattered wings would no longer lift him into flight. And his soul was too stained with his own failings to anymore believe it would ever know love again.
He was unworthy of love.
Unworthy of his angel.
And, finally, his angel knew that.
He had at last turned his face away. Get behind me, Satan. Satan—the angel who had fallen the farthest. House saw himself equal in all ways to that angel, except he had not had as far to fall.
He wasn’t just trying to comfort himself with the religious motifs as he approached the end. He had no “final questions” left that he needed to up with fairy tales to answer. There were no mysteries he wanted solved. He had always solved the mysteries. The Rubiks Complex. He’d solved the puzzle at last.
His purpose in life: Wilson’s purpose.
He was here on this planet only to make Wilson’s life mean something. He was Wilson’s ultimate objective.
And he was unworthy of even that.
The angel deserved so much more than a hopeless fight with the fallen as they both plunged downward into the spiral of Dante’s inferno; sinking lower into each layer of hell. House would not let himself drag another angel down.
Pain and death were no strangers to him. They were the two black wings that had stooped his shoulders for too long. They were old friends and enemies, old lovers and old adversaries. An intrinsic paradox.
They were his two ultimate companions here at the end. And he was not afraid to embrace them as his final friends one last time before he fell into the silent stillness of oblivion.
There is no heaven. There is no hell. There is only this moment.
And beyond…nothing…
This notion didn’t frighten House.
In fact, it comforted him. He wanted no eternal damnation for the things he had done. And could never bear to receive more charity that he would feel unworthy of. He wanted nothing. He was escaping from everything. The only way to do that was to find nothing.
He was unworthy of his angel.
His last prayer was that his angel would not be the one to find him. He didn’t want Wilson to see him cold. Unless, his angel would find repentance in the act. But that repentance would only be if by his death he could finally repay the debt of kindness that had been done to him.
He would free not only one soul, but two.
No one had brought him here but himself. As much as he wanted to pass this off as a charitable offering. He couldn’t. His angel would receive recompense, yes, but only as a secondary result.
It was neither God nor Satan who has brought me to my knees. It is me. It is only me.
He was unworthy of his angel.
Unworthy of himself.
Unworthy of anything.
Unworthy of even the last few moments he was allowed as the blood spilled out. He knew it didn’t take long for a person to bleed out. Less than a minute. And yet, here, he had an eternity.
Maybe there was no heaven and no hell, and only this moment. For the rest of eternity. Eternity was a cold bathroom floor with his own blood spilling around him. His head filled with philosophical thoughts and self-condemnations.
Was this his eternity?
No…
His eyes had already closed and the scarlet pool of blood was slowly receding from his mind. Like a dying ember the image of it ceased to burn on the inside of his eyelids. The blackness opened up before him and behind him and under him and around him and engulfed him.
It was perfect peace, perfect happiness, and perfect redemption.
He felt, for the first time, as if he had, in some small way, released his angel from the prison.
Cages or wings? Which do you prefer my angel?
It was only himself who had brought himself to this point only himself who had come to this point. And only himself who would be leaving it. The pain and worthlessness would be left behind. And only House, black wings (now scars unable to be erased) and all, would fall into the void. Arms outstretched, like a martyr. Eyes closed in perfect serenity, like a saint. And among all this, his black wings, the only betrayer of what he really was.
A fallen angel, escaping his name at last.
He was unworthy of his angel… and unworthy of being a fallen angel anymore.
Worthy at last…
Unworthy of everything…
But worthy of Nothing…
Nothing…
current mood:  sick *achoo*
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10:43 pm - Revamp
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So I deleted all the old stuff from this journal and decided to start over. This will mostly be my own rantings and a bunch of my House fanfiction when I do write it. (It's also posted on fanfiction.net) but I'm not liking that website so much anymore so I'm branching out to here.
Anything you want to know about me can be found in my profile. So that's about it.
I'm just bored right now because I have nothing to do. I've been sick at home all day (*pout*) so I'm bored and I really should be sleeping, but I don't like sleeping except at the wrong times.
Anyway, I think I'll try and post my newest House fic up here and see how it works.
Love to all.
current mood: sick *sniffle*
current music: "The Phantom of the Opera" ~The Phantom of the Opera
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