Fandom: House MD
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 084. He
Summary: Wilson likes it when Chase is on his knees, eyes closed. (Chase likes it in the brief moments of post-coital silence)
Author’s Notes: I hadn’t written anything destructive in a while, so then I wrote this. This is quite destructive and I am very, very proud of this. I really like it.
Maybe I ain’t used to maybes smashing in a cold room cutting my hands up every time I touch you.
Wilson likes it when Chase is on his knees, eyes closed. Blonde hair across his face, catching the office lights in strange, blinding places. Mouth too red, skin too pale except for the places where it’s flushed or bitten. Shirt open at the collar, tie crumpled on the floor. Hands trembling and clenched where he won’t reach to touch Wilson’s hips. Steeling himself like it’s going to be an ordeal when they both know it’s not. Cock straining against his slacks, begging to be touched, but they both act like it’s not there. Wilson likes to take his time, likes the lingering moment before Chase’s lips touch flesh.
(Chase likes it in the brief moments of post-coital silence, when the edge has worn off and everything seems considerably better-if stickier- and the lights in Wilson’s office- or his own, bland apartment- are off. When Wilson isn’t Wilson and Chase isn’t Chase and all they are are two people, no names, no genders, no needs, no desires, just them and a moment of pure quiet and warm heat and the brush of skin before they both move away. Chase likes the fact it’s so intimate without becoming personal, likes the fact he can need it then and not care too much.)
Wilson wants to be in control. He wants to control someone and own someone and be the man he couldn’t be with his wives because there are certain ways you can’t act when you’re married. He wants to pin Chase against the door of his office, bite at his neck until the other man is moaning like he can’t take any more, mar that vulnerable, pale skin so often strangled by ties and shirt collars and the scrubs really won’t hide this. He wants to press Chase’s face into the door, fuck him from behind with his teeth sinking deep into the other man’s shoulder, make Chase scream for him and only for him. But Wilson has learnt from House’s Rolling Stones collection if nothing else that you can’t always have what you want and for the moment he restrains himself.
(Chase wants to be possessed. He wants to be owned because then he doesn’t have to worry about being left alone and cold and feeling dead half the time. He wants to be able to feel, to taste Wilson on his skin all day, drenched in another man’s sweat, another man’s scent, to feel like he’s not even the slightest bit himself any more, to be able to smile at House and think I’ve got your best friend inside me and on me and no matter how many insults you throw at me you can’t top that. He wants to spend his evenings dabbing at bruises on his hips and sticking Batman band-aids onto the cuts on his back. But he also knows that to ask for what he wants is technically to not get it at all- it should be second nature- and so he bites his mouth shut and takes what he can get.)
Wilson tells Chase that he doesn’t need him to be around, that if he tells anyone else- especially House- he’s dead. Finished. He gets the feeling that Chase already knows that but it doesn’t stop him reiterating it, hissing it into Chase’s ear while Chase grinds against him and says nothing but soft little whimpers. It’s not healthy, the way Chase haunts him, the way he finds himself craving that perfect pale skin and those blue eyes and the taste and smell that is, simply, Robert Chase. And because Wilson wants to be indebted to no one he keeps on telling Chase that he’s so easily replaceable it hurts.
(Chase tells Wilson that he hates him, that he’s too much like House, that he’s a second-rate, diluted carbon copy of the other doctor and that he’ll never be good enough. He doesn’t know if it hurts Wilson- he wants it to, Wilson’s words certainly cut him enough- but to say the words, the lies, is rich catharsis and feels better, somehow, than anything else Wilson does to him. Chase tells Wilson fuck me now, but likes it when the walls of the hospital tremble and fill with the other words that he’s incapable of articulating, let alone saying.)
Wilson needs the feel of Chase’s skin against his, the slide of Chase’s tongue in his mouth, the moans that desperately escape the younger man’s mouth even though he tries not to make any sound. The warmth of body heat radiating through them, his teeth grazing Chase’s chest, fingers teasing just inside him, making Chase shudder and beg inarticulately. Desperately. Face flushing and pupils dilating and making these incredible noises. And even though Chase looks like the needy one, all whimpers and groans and impatient shifting of his hips, Wilson knows all too well that he’s the one who’s finding it harder to deny himself this every time.
(Chase needs to break everything that means anything to him because it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy; he wants something and then he gets it and then he loses it. And he’s learned that it’s quicker and much more fun to lose something deliberately than to watch it be snatched from his fingers and have to deal with the hurt. So he finds what he needs and he gets it and he watches the look on Wilson’s face as he slides Chase’s shirt back over his shoulders to find the teeth marks that he didn’t put there-Wilson is always careful not to leave marks so they can’t be traced back to him- red and incriminating and when he looks at Chase with a surprising amount of betrayal in his eyes Chase won’t blush. Instead, he sits absolutely expressionlessly because his face wants to contort into something that is either a smile or tears- he doesn’t want to know which- and reflects that he really is some kind of masochist.)
Wilson bites down on his anger and down on his bitterness and refuses to say a word and goes back to acting the way he did before he even really registered that Chase existed and no one-except House, maybe- even notices the difference. Wilson feels the difference sometimes, from time to time, because you can’t go straight from needing something to not needing it at all, but mostly he’s just angry and even angrier because he has no right to be angry. Three failed marriages and yet another failed almost-relationship and everything around him just seems to amuse itself by cracking into shreds.
(Chase bites down on a pen thoughtfully, 24 across is proving to be a nasty little bastard, and he doesn’t know why he puts himself through this every day because he doesn’t actually like crosswords. House and Wilson are bickering good-naturedly and Cameron is making coffee and he can’t see Foreman from his peripheral vision but surely he must be doing something in here. But whatever else is going on, he simply amuses himself by orally molesting the pen, and it takes him a while to notice that Wilson is watching every move of his mouth in something approaching way-too-obvious fascination. Chase knows then that it will be all right. Because, of course, he wants things, and he gets them, and he loses them, but sometimes, he gets them back again, because they just can’t help themselves.)