"The House Syndrome" Epilogue
Title: The House Syndrome
Chapter: Epilogue
Fandom: House MD
Pairings: Wilson/Park, House/Wilson
Worcount: This Chapter-1425
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Graphic sex for both pairings. Massive Angst-fest ahead. No fluff, no schmoop. Possible triggers. Read at your own risk.
Notes: This is the last bit. Extremely smutty and very dark. Thanks to Michelleann68 for Full Metal Beta. Comments and concrit welcome.
Summary: Things are back to normal, so everyone gets hurt.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Thanks for going on the journey with me.
And now.....
Wilson couldn’t sleep; everything hurt too much to get comfortable.
The minute he’d walked into House’s apartment, his punishment had begun. Punishment for so much. For Park, of course, but possibly for years of minor wounds that House had been accumulating from Wilson in the course of their relationship. Feeling the rawness in his throat, Wilson could almost imagine that House had even been avenging the worst sin of all; that Wilson had been with Bonnie when the infarction happened, as if his presence in the hospital would have changed anything.
Except maybe, just maybe, it would have.
Caring about House was inherently masochistic. Wilson had chosen to pay the price, but he’d also worn the role like a well-made suit and it had the same effect as any other plumage. There was a nearly unlimited amount of sympathy (and pussy, he could imagine House sneering) to be garnered from the apparently thankless task of being House’s only friend.
It was both so much worse and so much better than they could possible imagine. The wives who’d been forced to share him with House and even the random pity fucks whose names he managed to remember at least long enough not to be a bastard who didn’t remember, would be shocked to see what House was capable of dishing out sexually and how much Wilson lapped it up. Literally.
Knees, jaw, throat. All aching. He’d been on the floor for what felt like hours, even if it was barely 45 minutes. It was like New Orleans. Or the days just before the infarction. Over the last few years, the pills had left House barely able to raise a reasonable hard-on and then it was mostly a matter of hand-jobs and filthy talk. Sometimes House might get extremely aroused by solving a good puzzle, but there was only one surefire aphrodisiac in his arsenal and that was anger.
Whatever pain House was feeling in his leg, he seemed willing to endure or ignore, as long as he could keep Wilson on the floor, mouth full of cock, sucking at his hardness, until he gagged, and making him start all over again. Wilson felt sick and yet deeply satisfied that he could still bring this out in House. Yes, he thought as House threw in some verbal abuse as well, in that voice he’d always found so irresistibly sexy. He was a cocksucker and he’d put his own skills in that department up against the best of House’s hookers any day or night.
When House finally stepped back, giving Wilson a chance to catch his breath, he also got to see House’s cock; long, hard and wet. Beautiful. Like House himself, to Wilson anyway. And no, he had no intention of sharing. Dominika had been convinced to depart and Wilson was happy to keep sending her money to make sure she stayed far away. She and House had been having far too much fun together.
Wilson felt a twinge of anticipation in his buttocks. It had been too long, and he knew House had no intention of making this easy. There was a perfectly good bed only footsteps away, but that wasn’t what House needed. He wanted Wilson’s ass in front of him, legs spread, holding onto the couch for support. Another trip down memory lane. A certain Channukah night when House had won the fight with Julie for possession of Wilson’s body, at least temporarily. Wilson remembered going home that night, with the taste of House’s whiskey on his tongue and the reminders of House’s cock in every step he took. Julie had welcomed him home with raised eyebrows and shrug, but never said anything. Like House, she was good at saving up scores to settle when her opponent was most vulnerable.
House could be gentle. Wilson had seen what need and self-hatred and deprivation could do to a man and there had been nights when he’d had the gratification of hearing House beg for release and holding off until the last possible moment. He thought he could remember lying close to House, at least one arm touching him, a hand lying casually near House’s crisp thatch of pubic hair.
As he braced himself against the sofa, Wilson knew that House wouldn’t be on the begging equation of things tonight. Wilson suspected he would be lucky if House bothered with any lubricant beyond sweat or spit and he wasn’t wrong. Even with the anticipation and the desire, he still heard himself letting out a strangled scream when House penetrated him. It was a slow, insistent entry, not to be fought or denied, but only accepted as what he deserved, but also what he wanted. This was House showing the emotion he’d denied so many others. That alone was enough to make Wilson open himself even more and breath into the pain until the sensation became bearable and then completely necessary.
The scream was replaced by whimpering and then a soft moan, but even as he was melting into insensibility and approaching orgasm with every thrust, he couldn’t keep from worry about how badly House’s leg would pay for the exertion afterwards. When the endorphins and rage wore off, he would be in total agony.
Not that House cared. Wilson knew that House made deals with his pain, and tonight he was buying what he wanted with the pain to come. Of course then he’d try to welsh, by guzzling booze and throwing down a double or triple dosage of pills, but that was part of the game.
Wilson felt a deep throaty groan rising in his chest. House was bargaining with Wilson’s pain as well as his pleasure. How long had they been doing this? Playing these games? Hurting each other and coming back for more because there was this…these moments, House’s cock deep in his ass, thrusting hard, hitting sensitive places and making the world shimmer into a sweaty cloud of tension waiting to break.
House had a last declaration of victory to make before the act could be completely.
“Park can’t give you this, can she?” he growled with another angry thrust. House liked to think he was only man Wilson ever slept with. Not completely true, but close enough and not a secret to be given away easily.
So Wilson shook his head, and grunted, “No, no. Just you….House… Please!”
The begging was both contrived and utterly true and Wilson knew it was pushing House closer to the edge. They’d gotten the rhythm going, back on the same team with one goal mind, almost as if they were a real couple, Wilson thought fleetingly as he sensed the change in House’s breathing followed by a slow, tortured gasp.
House was coming, holding tightly onto Wilson’s hips, and delivering himself of a last few obscenities as he spilled into Wilson’s ass. Wilson felt his own being pulsate with the shudder of House’s orgasm. He made a few tentative grabs at his own cock, knowing it wouldn’t take much contact, that he was almost there. He closed his fingers around the shaft and felt the fluid dribbling against them just as House pulled out, leaving his stickiness on Wilson’s buttocks and thighs.
Once he’d managed to stand up, causing his knees to begin their protests, Wilson’s first instinct was that they both needed a shower, or at least a wet towel to clean up with. Instead they staggered to bed, like two drunks or like one crippled drug addict and one sex fiend, who’d just had the working over of his life and still needed to get to the bathroom.
It could wait, he thought. House had drunk deeply from a bottle of Rye and downed several Vicodin in preparation for what he had to know would be an especially ugly morning after.
No conversation. No cuddling. House was turned away from him, as if in a dreamer’s disgust at the filthy mess they were together. Wilson was alone with his own pain, a full bladder, and the oddly soothing sound of House snoring.
Wilson smiled to himself. He knew that House would never be able to look at Park without recalling that Wilson had said, “I love her.” Whether it had been true at the time didn’t matter. House believed it and that scar would never heal, just as the wound in his heart that was Amber would never heal.
House would go on hurting everyone around him because that’s what he did, but Wilson would always be special.
Only he could hurt House.
Chapter: Epilogue
Fandom: House MD
Pairings: Wilson/Park, House/Wilson
Worcount: This Chapter-1425
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Graphic sex for both pairings. Massive Angst-fest ahead. No fluff, no schmoop. Possible triggers. Read at your own risk.
Notes: This is the last bit. Extremely smutty and very dark. Thanks to Michelleann68 for Full Metal Beta. Comments and concrit welcome.
Summary: Things are back to normal, so everyone gets hurt.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Thanks for going on the journey with me.
And now.....
Wilson couldn’t sleep; everything hurt too much to get comfortable.
The minute he’d walked into House’s apartment, his punishment had begun. Punishment for so much. For Park, of course, but possibly for years of minor wounds that House had been accumulating from Wilson in the course of their relationship. Feeling the rawness in his throat, Wilson could almost imagine that House had even been avenging the worst sin of all; that Wilson had been with Bonnie when the infarction happened, as if his presence in the hospital would have changed anything.
Except maybe, just maybe, it would have.
Caring about House was inherently masochistic. Wilson had chosen to pay the price, but he’d also worn the role like a well-made suit and it had the same effect as any other plumage. There was a nearly unlimited amount of sympathy (and pussy, he could imagine House sneering) to be garnered from the apparently thankless task of being House’s only friend.
It was both so much worse and so much better than they could possible imagine. The wives who’d been forced to share him with House and even the random pity fucks whose names he managed to remember at least long enough not to be a bastard who didn’t remember, would be shocked to see what House was capable of dishing out sexually and how much Wilson lapped it up. Literally.
Knees, jaw, throat. All aching. He’d been on the floor for what felt like hours, even if it was barely 45 minutes. It was like New Orleans. Or the days just before the infarction. Over the last few years, the pills had left House barely able to raise a reasonable hard-on and then it was mostly a matter of hand-jobs and filthy talk. Sometimes House might get extremely aroused by solving a good puzzle, but there was only one surefire aphrodisiac in his arsenal and that was anger.
Whatever pain House was feeling in his leg, he seemed willing to endure or ignore, as long as he could keep Wilson on the floor, mouth full of cock, sucking at his hardness, until he gagged, and making him start all over again. Wilson felt sick and yet deeply satisfied that he could still bring this out in House. Yes, he thought as House threw in some verbal abuse as well, in that voice he’d always found so irresistibly sexy. He was a cocksucker and he’d put his own skills in that department up against the best of House’s hookers any day or night.
When House finally stepped back, giving Wilson a chance to catch his breath, he also got to see House’s cock; long, hard and wet. Beautiful. Like House himself, to Wilson anyway. And no, he had no intention of sharing. Dominika had been convinced to depart and Wilson was happy to keep sending her money to make sure she stayed far away. She and House had been having far too much fun together.
Wilson felt a twinge of anticipation in his buttocks. It had been too long, and he knew House had no intention of making this easy. There was a perfectly good bed only footsteps away, but that wasn’t what House needed. He wanted Wilson’s ass in front of him, legs spread, holding onto the couch for support. Another trip down memory lane. A certain Channukah night when House had won the fight with Julie for possession of Wilson’s body, at least temporarily. Wilson remembered going home that night, with the taste of House’s whiskey on his tongue and the reminders of House’s cock in every step he took. Julie had welcomed him home with raised eyebrows and shrug, but never said anything. Like House, she was good at saving up scores to settle when her opponent was most vulnerable.
House could be gentle. Wilson had seen what need and self-hatred and deprivation could do to a man and there had been nights when he’d had the gratification of hearing House beg for release and holding off until the last possible moment. He thought he could remember lying close to House, at least one arm touching him, a hand lying casually near House’s crisp thatch of pubic hair.
As he braced himself against the sofa, Wilson knew that House wouldn’t be on the begging equation of things tonight. Wilson suspected he would be lucky if House bothered with any lubricant beyond sweat or spit and he wasn’t wrong. Even with the anticipation and the desire, he still heard himself letting out a strangled scream when House penetrated him. It was a slow, insistent entry, not to be fought or denied, but only accepted as what he deserved, but also what he wanted. This was House showing the emotion he’d denied so many others. That alone was enough to make Wilson open himself even more and breath into the pain until the sensation became bearable and then completely necessary.
The scream was replaced by whimpering and then a soft moan, but even as he was melting into insensibility and approaching orgasm with every thrust, he couldn’t keep from worry about how badly House’s leg would pay for the exertion afterwards. When the endorphins and rage wore off, he would be in total agony.
Not that House cared. Wilson knew that House made deals with his pain, and tonight he was buying what he wanted with the pain to come. Of course then he’d try to welsh, by guzzling booze and throwing down a double or triple dosage of pills, but that was part of the game.
Wilson felt a deep throaty groan rising in his chest. House was bargaining with Wilson’s pain as well as his pleasure. How long had they been doing this? Playing these games? Hurting each other and coming back for more because there was this…these moments, House’s cock deep in his ass, thrusting hard, hitting sensitive places and making the world shimmer into a sweaty cloud of tension waiting to break.
House had a last declaration of victory to make before the act could be completely.
“Park can’t give you this, can she?” he growled with another angry thrust. House liked to think he was only man Wilson ever slept with. Not completely true, but close enough and not a secret to be given away easily.
So Wilson shook his head, and grunted, “No, no. Just you….House… Please!”
The begging was both contrived and utterly true and Wilson knew it was pushing House closer to the edge. They’d gotten the rhythm going, back on the same team with one goal mind, almost as if they were a real couple, Wilson thought fleetingly as he sensed the change in House’s breathing followed by a slow, tortured gasp.
House was coming, holding tightly onto Wilson’s hips, and delivering himself of a last few obscenities as he spilled into Wilson’s ass. Wilson felt his own being pulsate with the shudder of House’s orgasm. He made a few tentative grabs at his own cock, knowing it wouldn’t take much contact, that he was almost there. He closed his fingers around the shaft and felt the fluid dribbling against them just as House pulled out, leaving his stickiness on Wilson’s buttocks and thighs.
Once he’d managed to stand up, causing his knees to begin their protests, Wilson’s first instinct was that they both needed a shower, or at least a wet towel to clean up with. Instead they staggered to bed, like two drunks or like one crippled drug addict and one sex fiend, who’d just had the working over of his life and still needed to get to the bathroom.
It could wait, he thought. House had drunk deeply from a bottle of Rye and downed several Vicodin in preparation for what he had to know would be an especially ugly morning after.
No conversation. No cuddling. House was turned away from him, as if in a dreamer’s disgust at the filthy mess they were together. Wilson was alone with his own pain, a full bladder, and the oddly soothing sound of House snoring.
Wilson smiled to himself. He knew that House would never be able to look at Park without recalling that Wilson had said, “I love her.” Whether it had been true at the time didn’t matter. House believed it and that scar would never heal, just as the wound in his heart that was Amber would never heal.
House would go on hurting everyone around him because that’s what he did, but Wilson would always be special.
Only he could hurt House.