Disclaimer: House, M.D., nor any of it's characters, belong to me. I'm just a fanfiction writer with too much time on her hands.
Warnings: Male x Male sex. If you don't like it. Don't read.
I used to fantasize about you, on your knees, begging 'please'. Looking up at me with those small chocolate eyes, heavy lidded with desire.
You'd want me so bad you couldn't contain yourself, and you would be there, shaking as you kneeled before me, a shivering, pathetic puddle. Tearing at your clothes, begging to touch mine, moaning like a wanton slut.
And I would touch myself. Sprawled out on the floor, on the bed, behind my desk, wherever I would get the sudden urge to feel you, to feel myself. Floating high on a cloud of Vicodin, I would run my hands over my body like it was yours, feeling my muscles twitch and my fingers and toes curl.
But now, I take you on your back, on the cold, hard unforgiving wood of your overpriced desk. Your fingernails bend backwards and break as you fight for purchase against the smooth grain, fight for leverage to pull yourself away from me.
Your lips are speaking a mixture of pleas. But not the kind I'd imagined. This kind blends my name into some amalgamation of commands mixed with 'don't', 'stop', and 'no'.
I tear at your clothes, buttons popping and material ripping as you fight to keep them on. You're calling me a madman, telling me I'm insane, and making grunts that sound animalistic, feral. Sounds that I never knew you could make, and it excites me, thrills me in a way I can't explain.
My arms hold you down and my legs spread yours – finally free of your pants – and my hips fit between them like puzzle piece. You're gasping, surprised at my strength. We both realize you're going to have bruises in the morning. Signs of your struggle. My hips pressed against you cease all protests from that area, except for the occasional stray leg that connects with wounded muscle. It hurts. It really hurts. But it's okay though.
My hands hold your frail wrists together, and I warn you not to struggle, lest you shatter the fines bones like porcelain. Part of you listens to me, and the other part flairs up again when it feels me reach for you entrance, feels my fingers spreading and digging inside.
You really are beautiful like this. In the hazy glow of the evening light shining through the wide windows, casting long shadows on your skin. You're screaming at me, but the sound falls deaf on my ears. Your body is all I'm listening to. Feeling the way your muscles clench and grip around me. The way your body is unsure of whether to push me away or pull me closer, rocking against me. The way your back arches when I hit that sensitive bundle of nerves inside you and a moan that surprises both of us escapes your swollen lips and the room fills with a hollow silence as I finish preparing you.
You stare at me, wide eyed as my fingers move. I can't make out that expressions, but I can lick my lips and still taste you on them. I enter you in one fell swoop and you are again fighting against me. Biting your lips against the pain and scratching with dull broken fingernails.
You're pulling me closer and pushing me way before going still, before lying back against the desk and looking so beautiful. Like a shiny new toy. Like a Christmas present waiting to eternally be unwrapped.
"Why?" You ask me, your voice rough and hoarse from screaming.
I stare at your bruises. At the scratches on your face and the bite marks on your neck.
"Because." I say. "It's what you wanted."
Because it's what you needed. I could tell by the longing way you would look at me when we would walk side by side. The way your limbs would brush against mine and you would look so weak so helpless, buried underneath ex-wives and failed relationships and dying patients who all looked upon you to be their savior.
You needed this. This release from everything. For someone to dig you out from the corpses and dying remnants of your failed life and remind you what lust and desire were.
Because, it's the only way I know how to save you.
Your lips are on mine. Sliding past them roughly, biting hard enough to bruise, hard enough to tear.
I feel your breath, hot and desperate as you move against me, pressing your cock to my belly, seeking friction, seeking love, seeking... everything.
Your skin is salty with sweat, and I commit this taste to memory, and I hold on to you and fuck you so hard you're screaming, so loud I wonder if you're dying. If my passion is killing you, and suddenly everything is too hot. Too tight and I'm swimming in the taste of your skin, the color of your nipples, the way your eyelashes tickle my skin and how you're biting hard enough to bruise. To scar.
And then everything is bursting, and I'm coming so hard I can't breathe, and you are right there with me, gasping as if taking your first breath of life, before going limp underneath me.
Afterwards, the air is silent and still and my skin feels cold as we sit beside each other, admist the broken shards of junk on the floor.
The clock ticks.
"Happy birthday, Wilson."
Time passes.
"Thank you, House."
And we shall begin again.
A.N. This is my first House, M.D., fanfiction. So please be gentle. I'm not really sure where this came from, but it just kind of popped into my head and I went with it.