No Mercy (House/Wilson, NC-17, kink)
After this was in beta, I realised that it's been an entire year since I last wrote H/W smut. That is just all kinds of wrong. But on the plus side, I'm starting to feel the H/W love again. I just hope Season 5 doesn't render it short-lived *g*.
Title: No Mercy
By: daasgrrl
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17, kink (unavoidably *g*)
Word count: 3,200
Beta: Thanks very much to bironic and evila_elf for encouragement, helpful suggestions and crit. The melodrama remains mine.
Summary: They'd never really spoken about what had happened between them, that first night of House's transformation.
Notes: This is effectively a 'sequel' to bironic's delicious No Pain (and will make a lot more sense if you read that first), because I really, really wanted one. Written with her very generous permission - thanks so much for letting me play in the sandbox, sweetie! ♥ If the fic should seem thoroughly self-indulgent, that's probably because… it kind of is.
No Mercy
The hunger was back. It coiled and twisted in the pit of House's stomach, inarguable as pain, as love, as fear, and as strong as all of them put together. In the back of his mind he still remembered, dimly, what it had been like all those years he was taking the pills; the craving for them. But now that desire seemed almost wholesome, as harmless as wanting a cup of coffee in the morning, or a hot meal after a long day. In comparison this need was all-consuming; it was old, and dangerous, and real.
The minutes ticked by endlessly as he paced. He had finally given in and made the phone call, and now it was all up to Wilson. Never mind that it was fast approaching midnight; Wilson had said he would be there as soon as he was able. House could only hope that he would hurry.
They'd never really spoken about what had happened between them, that first night of House's transformation. After House had fed, things had quickly grown awkward, and Wilson had left soon afterward. House had spent the rest of the night reveling in his new, pain-free state, with no mind to the future. When House had called Wilson back the next day, expansive in his triumph, the sound of Wilson's voice on the line instantly brought it all back to him; the rush of new life into his veins; the sight and smell and feel of Wilson trembling against him. The control. The power.
However, Wilson's idea of conversation seemed to revolve around all those practical issues that House had deemed far too mundane to dwell on. There was the issue of sunlight, which House had already learned was uncomfortable, but not immediately fatal. Other potential hazards were as yet unquantified, a fact that left Wilson sounding distinctly unimpressed. They'd moved on to House's new physiological state - he’d quickly discovered his breathing, heartbeat, and body temperature improbably did still exist, but were all functioning at record low levels. Finally, Wilson had insisted on discussing the potential impact on House's work arrangements - if he wanted to remain at PPTH he'd clearly need to negotiate later hours, an underground parking spot, and preferably, tinted office windows. Wilson promised that he would bring everything up with Cuddy on Monday, and in the end House had agreed to all of his boring plans just out of sheer enjoyment at the thought of that conversation. Belatedly, he'd realized that he'd also have to cancel the grocery delivery service.
But the other issues, the important ones, had lain silently between them. How much? How often?
Roughly a week after that initial feeding, House had felt the hunger stirring again, slowly strengthening into a physical ultimatum. After briefly contemplating his options, he had settled for calling Wilson to inform him of the situation. Wilson had seemed remarkably calm, considering. Uncertain of what to expect, House had been surprised, and very slightly disappointed when Wilson had finally turned up armed with a blood bag and disposable 17-gauge needle in his backpack. House had tied a tourniquet around Wilson's arm, and swabbed the area over Wilson's median cubital vein. Together they watched the dark liquid gently inflating the bag. Afterwards, House had clipped off the tubing near the opening of the bag and drunk directly from it, pronouncing it better than a Wild Cherry Capri Sun, although not by much.
Wilson had watched intently as his blood disappeared with each swallow, his eyes dark and unreadable. It hadn't been quite right, the way the blood had tasted; House had known that as soon as the first drops had trickled down his throat. But it had seemed a little churlish to say so at that moment. Wilson's blood was barely five minutes drawn; it was still warm from his body. But it was somehow flat in comparison with that first time; drained of life. House had contented himself with making some passing comments on the quality of the vintage, and Wilson had smiled weakly. He hadn't said anything, but the message was clear; this was how House would be feeding from then on.
But unlike the week's respite House had been granted the first time, within a mere two days the hunger was gnawing at him again. He'd made a few random experiments in an attempt to stave it off a little longer: pig's blood, chicken's blood, a raw steak that only made him feel ill. He'd even gone to the extent of stealing a unit of AB+ from the hospital refrigerators, but it provided a weak buffer at best. By the fourth day the hunger had become unbearable, and he'd called Wilson again, and Wilson had dutifully come through with another pint. And then tonight - after another three days, a few more unsuccessful experiments and another stolen hospital pint - he had picked up the phone once more.
Now House breathed a small sigh of relief as Wilson's key finally turned in the lock. Wilson entered the apartment with barely a word to House, and instead began retrieving the familiar equipment from his backpack. Then he sat down on the couch, shrugged off his jacket, and began to arrange the items around him.
"Here," Wilson said finally, presenting his bare right arm. His hand held the thin strip of binding cloth he used as a tourniquet, and he waved it in House's direction expectantly.
Even in the dim light, House could see that tonight Wilson was looking noticeably haggard, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He was also well aware that he had consumed too much blood in too short a time. Wilson had given him two units in just under a week, which put him right on the edge of safety limits, and should only have been done under strict medical supervision. The irony did not escape him. Continuing at such short intervals would only increase Wilson's risk of tachycardia, or of ending up in hospital hooked to a saline drip. Wilson must surely know all this as well, and yet he was here nevertheless. Waiting.
House stood staring down at him for a moment. Then he took the strip of cloth from Wilson's hand and threw it aside.
"What are you doing?" Wilson's eyes were wide, startled.
"No," House said. "Not that way. Not again. It doesn't…" He sat down heavily on the couch. Wilson was so close that House could smell him, his agitation, the warm pulse of life under his pale skin. He forced himself to look up into Wilson's face. "It doesn't work that way. It's never…"
"But I thought…"
"It was okay. For a couple of days. Better than the pig's blood. Better. But not… not like the first time. When you let me… I'm still hungry." It came out as almost a snarl, and Wilson drew back as though he had been slapped. It would have been comical, except that it was taking everything House possessed not to lunge at his throat right there and then.
"No," Wilson said. Slowly, he pushed himself off the couch, keeping eye contact with House all the while. He took a single step back, his left hand out in a warding gesture, useless. "That was… a mistake. I didn't understand, then. And there shouldn't be any difference. Blood is blood. It shouldn't matter how…."
"But it does. I don't know why, but it does."
Maybe it came down to nothing more than some primitive changes in blood chemistry, but by now House was convinced that satisfying the blood hunger required a particular combination of circumstances. That it did matter how, and under what circumstances. The willing flesh; the arousal. No wonder vampires had such a bad reputation.
"No," Wilson said, clearly uninterested in House's reasoning, or lack of it. His face was grim and drawn. "I don't want… this."
It shouldn't have hurt, the bluntness of it, but it did.
"Please," House said, and there was only the faintest flush of shame, easily ignored. The hunger was far too strong for such things.
"I can't."
"You already did, once." Now House took a step forward, and Wilson stumbled backwards, almost falling over the end of the couch. "And it was good, wasn't it?"
House remembered everything in such tantalizing, perfect detail; the sounds Wilson had made, the helpless convulsions of his body. Surely Wilson could see that this way was better. Far better. For both of them.
"Do you really care what I thought?" Wilson said, and sudden anger flared on his face, startling House, stopping him in his tracks. "What I think? Of course not. It doesn't matter to you. Nothing ever matters to you so long as you get what you want."
"What I need," House said quietly, as if that made all the difference.
Wilson waved an exasperated hand. "And I'm just supposed to put up with it, just like the Vicodin. To give you anything - everything you ask for. At your beck and call."
"Why not?" House demanded. The hunger was a sharp, angry thing now, and it pushed the words out of him without mercy. "It comes naturally to you, doesn't it? Healing the sick and comforting the needy? And by 'comforting', I of course mean 'sleeping with'. What's one body more or less?"
Wilson's hand was tight on the back of the couch, the knuckles turning white. "I'm leaving."
House moved without hesitation, at a speed that surprised even himself. Before Wilson had taken two steps, House had caught him, pushing him face-first against the still-closed door. So close. So warm. Unable to stop himself, he pushed his tongue into the crook of Wilson's neck, feeling the blood pulse against it, tasting the salt-sweet of his skin. Wilson shivered.
"Don't," he said helplessly. "House."
"Better this way," House breathed against him. Wilson was oddly still. "Less. So much less. Just a few mouthfuls…"
And then Wilson turned, wrenched himself around against House's weight. With House's transformation had come unnatural strength; he could have stopped him easily enough. But he let Wilson have that much of his freedom.
"And then what?" Wilson said, softly. "We do this again the next time? And the time after that? And if I should, god forbid, want to start dating someone again, I’d have to explain, oh, I'm sorry, but there's this guy I have to sleep with once a week… because he's a vampire? There has to be another way. Let me use the blood bag. Or just… find somebody else."
It wasn't going to be that easy. A substitute was completely out of the question. And the mere thought of sharing Wilson with someone else - anyone - made something ancient within House flare and growl. Wilson flinched, but held his ground.
"I need you," House gritted out. "More than anything else right now. Isn't that enough?"
"No. It's not."
The hunger was howling inside of him now, and House spoke as quickly as he could, desperately holding it back with the force of his words.
"But it's everything you've ever wanted, isn't it? I'll never stop needing you. I'll never leave you. I'll never die." He put in every ounce of persuasion he could muster, but Wilson's eyes were closed, and House couldn't see, couldn't tell what he was thinking. "Exactly what do you need to hear to make this okay for you? That I want you? That I love you?"
At that Wilson opened his eyes and smiled tightly, without humor. "You've said it all before. You don't love me, you love whatever takes away your pain."
"Which right now is you. And it always will be you. So what difference does it make?"
And then it overwhelmed him again, and his mouth was on Wilson's neck, but only to suck and nuzzle, not to bite - not yet. House could take what he needed by force, but he knew full well that if he did it would be for the last time, because Wilson would never forgive him.
"Please," House said again, and this time it truly was a plea, genuine, heartfelt. He pressed his lips gently against Wilson's, in an echo of the first time that he had… that they had... Right now House didn't understand, couldn't think; instinct was all that was left to him. Wilson's breath sighed into him, warming him a little, but not enough, never enough.
After what felt like an eternity, Wilson shook his head, but this time not in denial. Defeat, resignation… House couldn't have said, but it was enough, so long as Wilson gave in. Just this one time. And possibly the next. And for the rest of his life.
"Not… here," was all that Wilson said.
In the end it was only the implied promise that gave House the strength to hold on a little longer. Long enough to drag Wilson onto House's bed, long enough for House to undress himself, and to strip Wilson of his T-shirt. Long enough to begin suckling a still-bloodless trail down Wilson's body. Somewhere along the way frustration had turned into anticipation, and he was able to tamp down the hunger enough to enjoy the effect he was having on Wilson, the small, throaty noises he was making. One hand stroked Wilson steadily through his jeans until the other made it down far enough to undo the button and zip, and undress Wilson the rest of the way.
Then he took Wilson into his mouth, carefully, in case he changed without meaning to, and slid one hand up and down the shaft as he continued to lick and suck. He swallowed the tiny drops of saltiness as they came, and discovered that they held their own sustaining richness, although not quite as good as Wilson's blood. It was enough to satisfy the hunger for a while as Wilson twisted and moaned against the sheets. House's own erection brushed against the bed as he worked, but he barely noticed it. The pleasure of it could not compare to the soft thrumming of warmth as it began to spread through his body.
When he tired of that he released Wilson, and then, experimentally, began shifting his free hand further downwards, gently running his fingers along Wilson's perineum. Then downwards again, until he was caressing the sensitive pucker of skin in slow circles. As he pressed the tip of his finger inwards, Wilson's breath hitched in alarm, and he pushed himself up onto his elbows for a moment. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but House just looked at him, willing his consent, and something in his gaze must have put an end to further protest. Wilson lay back down without a word, and let him continue. House didn't know if Wilson had done anything like this before, if he'd even considered it, but it made no difference. Maybe House didn't need to do this, to go this far, but tonight some part of him was demanding more than the simple right to Wilson's blood.
After a few more moments he paused to fumble around a little in the area beside the bed, and then Wilson was shuddering as House's newly-slick fingers pushed against him, entered him fully, prepared him. House was aware that they must feel cold against the heat of Wilson's body, but there was nothing he could do about that.
Wilson's eyes opened briefly as he looked down at House and then nodded; and at that House withdrew his fingers and repositioned himself between Wilson's legs, nudging them upwards and apart. He did it easily, going onto his hands and knees without hesitation, without pausing to consider the potential repercussions for his leg. It had been years since he'd been able to do that with any partner, and the fierce pleasure that flowed through came as much from his sheer freedom of movement as from his arousal.
Wilson gasped as House finally thrust into him, his face furrowed in intense concentration as he tensed and then relaxed. A few long, long moments of adjustment, and then one of Wilson's hands blindly reached up to stroke himself between their bodies. House proceeded to rock into him slowly, again and again, taking his own small pleasures from the taste of Wilson's mouth, from the fine sweat covering his shoulders and chest.
"Close," Wilson whispered at last. "House."
And at that the hunger growled and leapt in him, demanding what it had been denied for far too long. House drew one long breath, and then bent into the curve of Wilson's throat. He licked once, twice, and Wilson was already moaning softly, wordlessly, his throat bobbing with suppressed sounds. Finally, House bit down, the points of his newly-sharp teeth easily piercing through the skin.
Immediately Wilson bucked up desperately against him, making a sound somewhere between a scream and a sob. House's hands went up to his shoulders and held him down hard, biting deeper as he continued to thrust. Wilson's breath was hot against the nape of his neck, and with each frantic beat of Wilson's heart the blood pulsed into his mouth, warm and rich and glorious, bringing new life to every starving cell of his body. Wilson whimpered and bucked again, and there was sudden warmth against House’s stomach. Dimly he was aware of the loss of his own erection; he must have come as well, although those sensations had seemed faint and far away compared to the ecstasy of the new blood flowing into him.
After a few more mouthfuls, the trickle began to slow, and the hunger finally grew quiet again, sated. A strange calm began to steal over him, replacing all that had gone before it. Slowly, he lifted his mouth from Wilson's neck, watching the last beads of blood form small, drying circles. When he was sure the bleeding would stop on its own, he withdrew gently and rolled off onto one side. Wilson was still gasping for air as though he had run a marathon, and House placed his now-warm hand across Wilson's chest, tracing its rise and fall. And in his new-found clarity, he understood. For while the overpowering hunger was gone, the need, somehow, was still there. He waited for Wilson's breathing to slow before he spoke.
"So… you're moving back in with me." It was not quite a question. Then he leaned over and pressed his mouth against Wilson's for a long moment, kissed him for the simple pleasure of doing so. It was both an apology and a promise.
When he had finished, Wilson's eyes opened slowly, studied him, shut again. He looked paler than ever, exhausted, but for the first time that evening his face held the faint traces of a smile. "It - makes a difference," he murmured.
House lay there and watched as Wilson's breathing deepened swiftly into well-deserved sleep. As for himself, he felt bracingly, preternaturally awake. Every sense seemed sharpened, and life flowed through him - more accurately, Wilson's life, sacrificed for his sake, one swallow at a time. House slipped out of bed and got dressed, stopping long enough to swipe a damp cloth over Wilson and cover him with the comforter. Then he grabbed his keys and went back out into the living room. He would return before dawn, and share Wilson's slumber for a couple of hours, but until then, the night was his. Time to take the bike for a spin, to go terrorize the night shift at the hospital, and after that maybe find an all-night bar with a decent band.
Warmth raced through his veins, and the crisp air condensed around his breath as he stepped out into the street. The moon was three-quarters full in the sky, and he had never felt more alive.