Title: Parasites
Fandom: House
Pairing: HousexWilson
Summary: House was a parasite; he knew this. He reasoned, unambiguously, that he would be a parasite of the brain.
Disclaimer: Obviously, since this is a fanfiction, I don't own House.
Warnings: This is slash. If you're squeamish, avoid.
Written for cosplaynekokat for the five things prompt meme I posted on livejournal.
House was a parasite; he knew this. He reasoned, unambiguously, that he would be a parasite of the brain. Maybe something akin to toxoplasmosis. Something that increases your intelligence, yet makes you moodier and hate social interaction? Definitely like toxoplasmosis.
House decided he had all of the crucial parasitic attributes to be classified as, well, parasitic.
Parasites feed off of a host. House fed off of Wilson. Both House and Parasites were in the relationship for personal gain, both were driven by a primal force so strong, it didn't matter if the hosts were harmed. Both were selfish in their intent to survive to the point of destroying that which they fed upon, sucking the very life of their 'hosts.'
House also wasn't one to take no for an answer. Similarly, 'quit,' 'stop,' 'don't,' and 'not here' were processed quickly and denied. House was okay with this.
On more than one occasion, House had pushed Wilson roughly against the walls of his own office while snaking his hand down his colleague's pants as he did so. A plea of 'no' is less likely to be obliged if it comes out as nothing more than a muffled moan.
House was used the delay in Wilson's response, but knew, as always, that he would succumb, yet each time Wilson began to fervently kiss back, House was still newly surprised.
They almost always did it the same way. Make sure the door's locked. Turn the light down. Shut up, you're being too loud. They would clumsily make their way to Wilson's desk, fumbling like teenage boys; House even more awkward, trying not to show how pronounced his limp was, trying not to feel inadequate over his scars. Here was a decent guy, a good man, his bestfriend, and here he was, a vicious, old, pathetic excuse for a drug addict, fucking him on top of his desk. Again. And it was times like those that House felt the happiest and the lonliest at the same time.
Parasites destory. House destroys. He knows he is the reason Bonnie left Wilson. He knows he is the reason Wilson no longer has Amber. Wilson cheated on all of his wives with other women. When it came to Amber, it had been only House.
Thoughts of Amber always anger House, yet the surface often in his masochistic mind. Wilson could've been happy with her. Yet here he was. The only person who House cared about and cared about him in return was destroyed one thrust at a time.
While slick and sloppy, House always took care to leave no marks. Even after Amber was dead, he left no marks. The fear of discovery, of loss, was too great.
Wilson had no such thoughts. He knew that House didn't sleep with anyone other than him, and it's in this satisfaction that his mouth runs over House's chest each week, leaving beautiful marks the sizes of bruisies. House was fun. House was pleasure. House was House and Amber had been his attempt at a cheap immitation of a female version of House. One that hadn't been able to satisfy him, regardless of how much he loved her.
And the guilt. Divorce was one thing. Death was another.
Wilson had been selfish. He had tried to have both. And now she was dead and she knew. She knew that Wilson hadn't been hers. She knew everything; every kiss, every sinful, selfish touch.
And even in the injustice of it all, they slipped back into their proper places. The desk biting into the small of Wilson's back, House's leg throbbing as he ignored it, reasoning that fucking Wilson was worth two scarred legs and three weeks of clinic duty.
House often wondered why he couldn't let Wilson be. He wonders why Amber couldn't have turned right and sat down and why he, himself, couldn't have been sitting on the left. He wishes, sometimes, that he was dead. But then he sees Wilson again and becomes selfish and gets both, both the heat of Wilson's body pressed against his and the warmth of the blood that pounds through his own veins because he is alive. He is alive and Wilson feels sofuckinggood and it was worth all the guilt in the world to break the rules in such a delicious way, by fucking his best friend on some cheap desk that probably wasn't even real wood, but held their weight each week anyways.
But, House knows, unlike parasites (who cannot think), that the host wilsonwilsonwilson is in control. Regardless of who fucks who and regardless of the fact that House says when, where, and how long, he knows that he is the more reliant upon Wilson than he will ever be on him. And it is this trait, this dependency, that House decides is the most parasitic resemblence of all.
.end.
A/N:Getting back into fanfiction writing, slowly but surely. Keep a look out? Criticism/reviews are appreciated. Thanks :)
-Cj