Note: First attempt at House. Haven't written anything in a few years. I'm probably extremely rusty. Going for a dark, obsessive House. Inspired by season three, episode twenty - House Training.
Unbeta-d.
Sex with James, fantastic.
I drop heavily onto my couch, reaching for my vicodin. It's late, I can't sleep. No case to think about, my mind running rampant. It always comes back to Wilson. Who he's seeing, what he's doing, where he's been, where he's going. And now, sex with him.
Oh, it's not as if I've never thought of it before. I think of everything.
I reach for my beer, wondering how much consumption it will take to drown this train of thought. The television is on, but it's just background noise.
Fuck, Wilson, why must you take up so much of my time? Even if it is unintentional on your part. And now your damned ex-wife has me speculating on a topic I try to avoid.
I always assumed sex with Wilson would be good. But, fantastic? And knowing that he's remarkably attentive does nothing to quell my curiousity. Though, I didn't need Bonnie to tell me that, it's obvious.
I sigh. In sabotaging his attempted relations with Cuddy, I've gained information my obsessive mind could have done without. Yes, I know I'm obsessive. Extraodinarily so.
I snort derisively. Everyone thinks my obsession with him is based an enjoyment I get from messing with his life – they're only half right. They never believe me when I tell them the other half. Smirk.
The way he becomes infuriated at the smallest things I do – stealing his food, experimenting on patients, obstructing his work and social life – sends thrills down my spine. The way his eyes harden with frustration and his cheeks turn slightly pink when I've crossed a line fills with smug self-satisfaction. Only I get that look. Only I can enrage that way. There are so many looks that only I can draw out of him, only I get the privilage to see.
My favourite is when I embarass him – easy feat to acheive, really. His body language is entirely captivating. His ears tint pink, he looks down as he nervously shifts from one foot to the other, he becomes completely abashed. And his voice, the flustered inarticulation. All of it makes me want to ravish him on the spot. His embarrassment envokes such lust upon me, I wonder when my self-control will finally slip.
Pensively, I stand and limp toward the kitchen. Halfway there, my phone rings, I can't be arsed to answer it. They'll leave a message if it's important. I reach into the fridge from another beer as the answering machine takes over.
"House, it's me. I know you're there." Of course you do. "I'm coming over. Be there in twenty minutes."
Ah, reliable Wilson. I was wondering when he was going to call – must have just finished his paperwork. He always comes over after a case goes wrong, his attempt to console me, though I don't need it. I could care less if a patient dies, it's all about the puzzle. And Wilson is the best puzzle of all. He keeps me interested.
I will never understand why he stays around – a lie, I do. I'm a parasite to him. Taking and taking, never giving back.
But, fuck, I get such a satisfaction out of the way he acquiesces to my ways. Stands by me no matter the situation. The way he lied for me, willing to go to jail. When his assests were frozen and his car revoked, he wasn't even angry. Just resigned and accepting. The way he goes with my ideas – no matter how crazy – and gives me anything I want. Such a feeling of control, of total power. It's addictive.
No matter what I do, he always comes back to me.
It's obvious he's obsessed as well – he would have to be, why else would he stick around? Nobody sees his obsession, though. Only mine. They wonder why he always comes back to me, yet they can't conclude it's for the same reason I go to him. The idiots.
They allow themselves to be blinded to the fact that Wilson is just as masochistic as I am sadistic – perhaps even more. The way he gets into relationships, knowing that I'll come and ruin them. It's all just a game. I know he plays it too. Why else would he keep dating when he is aware of the end result?
He knows I'm just playing games. He loves playing my games.
He knows I thrive on his attention, having it all on me. Always on me. It's not for anybody else. They're obviously not worthy of his time. They don't know him like I do. They don't know his every nuance, every thought, every feeling. They don't deserve his time and effort – they're not allowed it. I do, I am.
His attention is so addictive. I would go insane without it. Without that look he gets when he's humouring me, or angry with me, or enjoying my company. The way his attention is completely on me in moments when it's just he and I. It's so empowering. When he gives me his attention, he is surrending his control completely. Ah, such a masochist.
My masochist. Only mine. Mine to hurt. To humilate. To infuriate. To control. Mine.
To have completely.
It's just a matter of time, he and I both know it. We're beating around the proverbial bush. He, too submissive to act; I, too sadistic.
I finish my beer; tonight, that's all going to change. Tonight, I mark him, I take him. He is mine.
Comments are appreciated, good or bad.
- Wykked As Syn