Fandom: House MD
Pairing: Chase/Wilson (and a teensy bit of hate!House/Cameron)
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 073. Light (it’s meant to be ironic, I think) and also for karaokegal
Note on the title: It’s pretentious, but when I was brainstorming ideas for this on my walk home it popped into my head so I figure it belongs with the story.
Summary: Chase/Wilson. Unadulterated hate!sex, violence, borderline non-con etc etc etc
Author’s Notes: Written to a very specific set of instructions for karokegal, who on a recent rant on her lj asked for hatesex and bemoaned that there wasn’t enough good hatesex out there. I’m not saying this is actually good, but it a) isn’t Torchwood or Lost, b) features I-hate-you (and faintly smutty) sex, c) runs mostly on anger, d) has as little introspection as I could bring myself to cut out and still make it sound like a fic I’d written (I can’t live without a little introspection) and e) isn’t AU, WIP and has tie-ins to canon. I can’t do better than that. (28 to go till I’m done for ff100)
If you bring along your needles, then I’ll bring along my sharpened pencils, and draw one more comic tragedy.
It’s damn near blinding sometimes.
Someone stupid like Cameron – no, not stupid, just blissfully unobservant – might blithely call this love, but she’s wrong. It’s not her fault. For her relationships are all about touches and kisses and tying things up with ribbon.
It’s not like that with them at all. If there’s tying up of anything it’s not with ribbons, it’s with the things they have to hand, like the telephone cord (wrenched from the wall so hard it’s a wonder it didn’t snap), belts, whoever’s tie is nearest. Foreman gives him suspicious glances in the mornings and House pretends not to see in an uncharacteristic fashion (Chase thinks that he’s jealous and that gives him a sense of smugness that just won’t fade) and Cameron doesn’t even notice (remarkably self-absorbed, that woman, since she supposedly has such a bleeding heart).
He can count the number of times Wilson’s kissed him on the mouth on the fingers of one hand, which is kind of strange, because he’d need all his fingers and toes (and most of Wilson’s too) in order to count how many times they’ve fucked.
Chase reaches for the light switch and Wilson pins his wrist to the wall hard enough to leave bruises and for a split-second they both wonder if it’s broken. Just in case it is, Wilson digs his fingernails into the soft skin, and Chase hisses in something like pain.
“You’re the one who gets off on this,” Wilson points out quietly, “Don’t you fucking dare pull out on me now.”
“You have no idea what gets me off,” Chase hisses back, teeth gritted, blue eyes staring up into Wilson’s and aw, he’s trying to be defiant, and it’s both adorable and really irritating.
“Not the best of times to develop a backbone, Robert,” he spits between his teeth. “One more word and I’ll have to experiment with that duct tape in your kitchen drawer.”
Chase laughs breathlessly.
“If you gag my mouth then tell me what I’m supposed to suck your cock with,” he demands crudely, and Wilson slams his wrist against the wall hard enough to make him choke and this time he remains quiet.
Vogler. Of course it was him, the dull, never-ending cliché that broke everyone’s personal relations apart and put them back together in increasingly ridiculous and complicated combinations (the date didn’t work and she left the corsage battered on the sidewalk but Wilson knows for a fact that a week later House made her come in exam room one with four fingers inside her and when she knelt down to take his cock into her mouth her eyes said I hate you but her body said I fucking love it when you bruise me).
For Wilson, it was Chase attempting to apologise for the whole debacle where he got fired. But an apathetic “I’m sorry” wasn’t good enough, not after all the shit he’d had to take and Julie’s furious silence and the slap across the face (“And what the fuck are we supposed to do now? Are you even employable any more? You are so goddamn irresponsible, you narrow-minded selfish-”), so he told Chase that it would take a lot more than that to make up for his betrayal, and Chase had said he’d do anything.
Silly boy. He’s got so much left to learn.
House stole the role of the tragic hero years ago and Wilson can’t be bothered to tear it away from him; tragic anti-hero doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, but there’s something approaching terror in Chase’s dilated eyes and maybe that’s all he really needs.
In the dark there would be anonymity at least, but with the lights on they can see every flaw and every line and every inch of imperfect skin, lit to a degree that makes them look sick and unhealthy. Wilson can see that Chase hates it, being this naked, unable to pretend that Wilson is someone else, and perhaps that’s why he takes some kind of perverse pleasure in ensuring everything is as brightly lit as possible.
Chase’s fingernails are tearing holes in the sheets and Wilson is going to have a really fucking serious talk with him about this sometime when he isn’t buried deep inside him. Hands and knees (sometimes he likes the look in my eyes while I’m fucking you, Robert, look at me and drown in the fact you’re actually letting me do this to you and you’re not trying to run away position, but it takes more effort than Chase is actually worth), Chase pinned underneath his weight, unable to move properly, gasping and panting and occasionally letting out half-words that could be pleas or obscenities.
It doesn’t matter.
“You think you’re so fucking clever,” Wilson hisses into his ear, grinding so deep Chase bites back what sounds gratifyingly like a scream, “Chewing those pencils and acting like you’re superior to everyone just because your daddy was rich but he still won’t look at you.”
“I’m not-” Chase tries to begin, then gasps. “Fuck, I’m going to-”
“No, you’re not.” Wilson is surprised at how steady and cold his voice is as he reaches a hand beneath Chase and grabs his balls, yanking them down and gripping them so hard that there’s no physical way Chase will be able to come now.
“Shut up,” Wilson mutters, punctuating the order with a thrust of his hips, and Chase tapers the sound into a whimper and then into nothing, bowing his head, trembling. “You come when I say you can come, understand?”
Chase says nothing, defiantly silent, trying once again to prove something (fuck knows what it is; who really cares) and Wilson thrusts forward again, catching his prostate dead on, making Chase catch his breath.
“Please,” he moans, sound muffled like he’s biting his mouth together in an attempt to keep quiet, and Wilson laughs and keeps fucking him, harder and harder until eventually he takes his hand away and hisses: “Now.”
Chase needs no further encouragement and Wilson feels his own orgasm follow a minute later. He pulls out abruptly and Chase collapses, quivering, fists tangled in the sheets. He’s bitten clean into his lip; there’s blood blossoming and Wilson can’t help himself. He kisses Chase, sucking his lower lip into his mouth to taste the blood and make the cut sting.
He hates Wilson because Wilson has everything he hasn’t got; respect, self-assurance, the love of his family, the ability to get on with House. It’s self-explanatory.
What he can’t understand is exactly why Wilson hates him.
“Why are we doing this?” Chase asks hopelessly on a wet Thursday evening on the hospital roof, littered with Stacy’s cigarette butts and not a whole lot else.
His hair is sticking to his face from the rain and he flinches when Wilson backhands him across the face.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warns him. “I don’t want the long, rambling monologues as we try to figure out what the fuck we want. They’re boring, they’re pointless, and I don’t give a damn.”
Chase’s eyes glitter dangerously in the halflight.
“So what do you want?” he asks.
Wilson forces him onto his knees, rainwater already soaking into his beige work slacks, and grabs a handful of sodden hair to pull Chase’s head back and stare into those baby blues. There’s pure, violent hatred in them; not penance, not respect, just malevolence. And it’s really fucking gratifying.
All Chase wants to do is snap the lights off, drown in darkness, pretend that Wilson isn’t Wilson and that he consented to this somewhere along the line. However, Wilson’s apartment has all these fantastic spotlights in the ceiling, illuminating everything Chase doesn’t want to see. The appendix scar on his own stomach looks blotchy and wounded under such scrutiny, and he feels awkward and damaged and unattractive with every inch of him laid bare for Wilson to glance dismissively at and fuck over. Same old same old and he twists his face away.
This really isn’t fair.
So maybe screwing Cameron while she was under the influence wasn’t the best of ideas. And Wilson definitely doesn’t like it (Chase can’t figure out most of what he’s muttering but the word whore has certainly factored in at least fourteen times).
“Please,” he whispers because there is nothing that is going to make him say sorry, even if Wilson has him pressed face-first into the wall of his office (the non-glass one; even Wilson isn’t that sadistic, and besides, bodily fluids are a bitch to clean off). “Don’t.”
“What, you’ll give it up for Cameron but you won’t for me?” Wilson lets out a short burst of derisive laughter. “Shut up.”
Chase doesn’t want this but Wilson has him pinned, butterfly-style, and he realises that he’s fucking trapped by a furious doctor who’ll have no qualms about-
“Please, don’t,” he begs, nails scrabbling on the paintwork (bringing chips of pale blue up; Wilson will have hours of fun explaining that to Cuddy), attempting to get himself free, but he can’t.
“Don’t make me have to tell you to shut up again,” Wilson warns him, ripping Chase’s collar open to sink his teeth into his neck, and Chase goes limp, biting back sobs and pleas because he’s realised that there’s no way out of this situation. So he presses his face into the wall and shuts his eyes tight and mouths why the fuck am I doing this and he really can’t think of an answer.
Chase mumbles sorry in a sulking teenager tone of voice, eyes downcast and mouth bruised from where he’s been biting it. His pants are torn and the buttons are missing and he’s trembling in a boringly unsubtle fashion. Wilson isn’t sorry.
He presses his mouth to Chase’s and tastes blood on the other man’s lips.
“Understand?” he whispers.
Chase won’t even look at him.
This whole thing is making Chase incredibly doubtful of Cuddy’s hiring techniques. He thought House’s were shoddy, but it’s beginning to look suspiciously like Cuddy just invites doctors into her office and goes “ok, you have a medical degree, you seem to be borderline sociopathic and have a dangerous streak of sadism, how would you like to run a department?”
Chase turns off all the lights in his apartment, sits in the dark, and breathes.
On his knees with his hands tied behind his back with a belt, Chase has his eyes shut against the glaring electric lights in Wilson’s office, but Wilson doesn’t want that. He grabs a fistful of that pretty, pretty blonde hair and yanks Chase’s mouth right off his cock.
“Look at me,” he orders. Chase’s red mouth twists into something that might even be a smirk.
“Or what?” he enquires softly. “What can you possibly do to me that you haven’t done already?”
Wilson pulls Chase up by the hair and whispers into his ear:
“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
Wilson tastes fake and wrong when he kisses Chase; his mouth tastes overwhelmingly of mint, and nothing else, as he bites Chase’s lips until they bleed, fisting his hands in his labcoat, all violence and hunger and it’s possible that this has something to do with Stacy but it’s also fairly unlikely. There is no logical reason and-
“You’re thinking again,” Wilson murmurs dangerously. “I wonder, Doctor Chase, what we can do to fix that.”
“You’re very creative,” Chase mumbles, “I have complete faith that you’ll think of something.”
“This constant answering-back is a very unattractive quality,” Wilson informs him quietly. Chase does his best to muster up the ability to care.
Wilson ties Chase’s hands to the headboard with the rosary Chase has kept in his nightstand for longer than he wants to remember. It’s one of the few things he’s still got that belonged to his mother, and he begs Wilson not to, lamplight shining off the blood red beads, but Wilson ignores him and tangles the chain around his wrists.
He threatens to leave Chase hog-tied all night, and Chase is forced to tug until the rosary breaks and beads sprinkle all over his bed. Wilson shrugs as he slams the door behind him and Chase squeezes his eyes tight shut and counts to three thousand, six hundred and forty seven until he’s sure he isn’t going to break down completely.
“Let me turn the lights off,” Chase pleads. Wilson looks down at him, bitten and bruised and actually pleading, and smiles slightly.
“Why?” he asks.
Chase can’t reply, and Wilson knew this. He knows that Chase cannot bring himself to admit to all the fear and terror and hatred and the way he’s being broken down bit by bit by bit.
“I love you,” Chase says steadily, dangerously, meeting Wilson’s eyes. It’s sweet how obviously he’s trying to scare Wilson off.
“Oh yeah?” Wilson smiles his best I’m-A-Bastard smile. “What else have you got?”
Chase thinks that maybe it’s gone beyond what he knows how to deal with when he feels a stab of sickness in his stomach as the sun rises behind his blinds, sending bright shafts of light across the bedroom.
Maybe it’s just because he’s there and no one else is.
“Did Vogler fuck you like this?” Wilson asks conversationally, pulling Chase’s head back by the hair (always the hair; it’s becoming a fixation with him) as he pushes deep inside him. Chase breathes in through his teeth but refuses to speak. “Did he?” Wilson pushes in again, deeper, rougher, and Chase shuts his eyes resolutely and twists his head away. Wilson is left holding several golden hairs, and he laughs, stilling for a second.
“I hate you,” Chase hisses. Wilson rolls his eyes, sighs, and pulls out, discarding the condom on the floor beside the bed. Chase turns over, confusion on his face and cock still painfully hard, in spite of it all (he says he doesn’t want it but oh, he does). “Wh-what are you doing?”
Wilson pulls his pants back on and fastens the belt.
“You ruined the mood,” he explains, and clicks the lights off on his way out.
Chase stares into the dark until it begins to scare him.
Silence. Impasse. Wilson knows he’s going to win this one, but Chase clearly likes the illusion that he might succeed anyhow.
“Turn the lights out,” he begs, again. Wilson, smiling nastily, walks over the wall, flicks the switch, and plunges them both into darkness.
“This what you want?”
It’s so black in here that neither of them can see, although Wilson knows what he’s doing, and takes a carefully audible step towards the bed. He can hear Chase’s helplessly sharp intake of breath. He takes another one, reaches out and, by memory alone, grasps Chase’s upper arm and drags him off the bed and to his feet. He slides his hand up and tangles it in Chase’s hair, pulls his head back and proceeds to kiss him deeply, here in the painful dark.
He pulls back for a breath.
“Turn them back on again,” Chase begs, something that might be terror in his voice. “Please, turn them back on.”
“You wanted this,” Wilson reminds him in a voice like silk over razorblades, and leaves them both in the dark.
Chase lies on his back and stares at the light fitting in the ceiling until spots appear in front of his vision and he has to tear his gaze away.
It’s damn near blinding sometimes.