Fic: Pawn
Title: Pawn
Author: Fayding_fast
Pairing: W/A, H/W
Rating: R
Warning: House is pretty dark.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Wordcount: 1522
Summary: Amber pushes House's buttons. She really pushes them.
Spoilers: For season 4
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Amber has a beautiful neck. Graceful, creamy, it is the kind of neck a nubile model posed before Botticelli would have been proud to flaunt; it is a feature that attracts every man's eye in a room.
Certainly, it's drawn House's.
He's picturing what it would look like, twisted at an insane angle. Not one of his finer moments, he is imagining snapping it.
Oh, he'd be clever, make it look like a macabre accident - She tripped? She's dead? What a terrible tragedy - but to permanently dispose of Wilson's girlfriend? And to discover that he's cleanly got away with it? For House, it's all about the simple pleasures in life. He'd be free of another nemesis. He'd be basking in a dream come true.
Trying to accurately remember the explosive sound a breaking twig makes, House is lost to the world around him, staring vacantly into his glass.
"House? What do you think?" Amber's staring at him expectantly.
He looks up at her, then glances at Wilson, whose eyes are currently sparkling. House has been tuning their conversation out for a good five minutes. From the look of things, Wilson suspects this, the bastard. House plays it cool and shrugs carelessly. "Sounds pretty good," he hedges.
"Great," Wilson says cheerfully. "We'll meet you there next Friday."
Yep, Wilson knows.
House's eyes shoot daggers at him, and Wilson laughs with abandon. House shakes his head, giving up.
He watches as Amber strokes Wilson's arm, her touch calculated. Possessive. House looks away, seething. Why he has agreed to join the two lovebirds for an after work drink, he will never know.
Thoroughly miserable, wearing his best hangdog expression, he scowls at his surroundings. Amber's choice of bar, it's bland, with not even a pool table to break the monotony. Only a few other patrons have wandered in, and judging by the prices of the drinks, they've only scuttled in to escape the cold. None of the other customers are in earshot; again, because of Amber's preference, the three of them are sitting in the furthest corner of the room.
House picks up his glass and swirls the remains of his beer. Time to finish it off and excuse himself. He has better things to do than play the gooseberry.
Amber leans into Wilson and kisses him tenderly.
Wilson responds at first, but quickly pulls back. "Amber...." he cautions. Color stains his cheeks. "We talked about this." He shifts slightly, moving his stool away from her and right next to House. He peeks at House self-consciously.
Unbelievable. "For God's sake." Draining the rest of his beer in one gulp, House slams the empty glass down on the table, and swipes his chin with the back of his hand. He had been planning to leave, but now, perversely, he hesitates. Wilson's leg is pressing against the length of his, solid and warm, and there's a terrible pressure blossoming inside his chest. House thinks it might be loathing teamed with bitter regret. Whatever it is, it's unpleasant. But, it keeps him seated.
Amber fails to take the hint. Painted nails trail across Wilson's chest. "So coy?" she purrs. "You weren't like this last night."
"We didn't have company last night." Squirming again, Wilson looks almost annoyed and that's when House makes his mind up. Decides that enough is enough.
She's deliberately baiting him, and House is feeling old and jealous and, well, tired of it. He hates her. Okay, then, she's asking for it. If she wants to test him, he will play her at her own game.
"Your girlfriend has goaded me into doing this," House murmurs regretfully. He turns fractionally on his seat.
Nothing screams insincerity louder than a smirk, followed swiftly by a grin.
Face suddenly blanching, Wilson absently brushes Amber's exploring hand away. His dark gaze fixes upon his friend, liquid and wary. Afraid. He stares at him in that paralyzed way of his, when he knows that House is about to do, or say, something cruel.
Holding his gaze, not bothering to worry about consequences, House places his hand boldly on Wilson's inner thigh, near his knee, and sweeps it firmly up towards his groin.
The effect is immediate.
Inhaling sharply, thighs parting, Wilson's head jolts back, his eyes drifting shut.
"Holy crap." Astounded by Wilson's reaction, House, in his turn, is instantly aroused. His mouth gapes open as his friend abruptly hunches over, moaning softly. He snatches his hand back, perturbed and not a little terrified, by his own swift and highly visible response.
Amber stares at them, her face slack with dismay.
"Wilson?" House's voice scrapes up his throat. His friend is still bent over double, and for a moment, House finds it impossible to think. "Wilson," he says again, hand caressing his back. House recovers his wits quickly. His confusion dissipating, his mind as sharp as a vixen's tongue, he grips the back of Wilson's neck, and, more or less, forces his friend to sit up.
Hands limp by his sides, still reeling, Wilson looks up as his defenses crumble down.
House is fascinated. So many expressions flit across the pale face. Primarily, stark disbelief. But then, Wilson's eyes, those beautifully shock-widened eyes, begin to plead. Become frenzied with need.
House doesn't waste time. He repositions his stool, and slides his left thigh between Wilson's knees, keeping them apart.
"No," Wilson mumbles, dazed.
House grips Wilson's arms. "Yes," he insists calmly. He pulls Wilson relentlessly, carefully closer. He does this in stages, expecting, at any given moment, to meet resistance. There isn't any.
"Wilson?" Amber's voice holds a touch of hysteria.
There's no answer.
"Ditch the bitch," House suggests hoarsely. He drags him even closer.
Breath catching, Wilson jerks in House's arms. A strong hand begins to glide up over his ear. Gently, lovingly, the fingers slowly start to clench, becoming entangled in his hair. They ensure that he remains motionless. They persuade him that it would be wise to stay perfectly still.
"You hear me? She's a pale imitation." House stares unblinkingly at Amber, his eyes as cold as Wilson's turned shoulder. "She's a proxy. And a rather pitiful one at that."
Wilson is tugged closer yet.
And now House's right hand slides leisurely up his arm, across the shoulder, and finds its way to Wilson's throat. It remains there, not crushing, but casually resting. Prudently lightly. House takes the opportunity to measure his pulse. It's thundering against his fingertips, and House savors this, the fact that it's hammering. It makes House feel powerful. Oddly whole.
Amber's glaring at him, at them both. Her expression's murderous.
House nudges his knee deliberately into Wilson's groin and Wilson convulses. His lips caress an acquiescent Wilson's ear. "You're safe with me," he breathes. He watches as Amber furiously grabs her bag and coat, and leaves. He watches as she stalks away, his gaze following her progress, all the way to the exit.
Wilson doesn't even notice. He's quiet. So very, very quiet. His eyes have become glassy.
House wonders if he should be worried about him. "You'll be pleased to know I've reconsidered," he says. He waits a moment, but there's still no acknowledgment. "I know what's best for you."
Yes, Wilson thinks distantly. I'm sure you do.
House lets go of Wilson's hair and his friend stays exactly where he is. House is pleased with him. He starts rocking him, the two men swaying together, to and fro. House allows his free hand to explore, to skim down Wilson's spine, until his fingers encounter leather. They trail teasingly along Wilson's belt.
Inconceivably, just before House releases Wilson's throat, the pulse accelerates even more. To dangerous levels. It's absolutely racing.
House considers this, the long fingers of both hands now toying with Wilson's buckle. He stares into the distance, then shrugs; the belt starting to slide through his hands. "I know you want this," he soothes.
They're in a public place, but House isn't unduly concerned. The bar is practically empty, and they're sitting miles from anybody. House reaches for Wilson's zip, and his friend behaves, and doesn't try to stop him. "I want this, too," House assures him. The zip starts to lower, House going out of his way to be careful. The things he has to do. His own heartbeat, finally, starts to quicken.
Wilson murmurs something unintelligible.
Protest or entreaty?
And does House really care? He reaches for him, and grips him, and is enthralled by the tremors this action invokes. By the involuntary whimpers.
"Hush," House says forcefully, although he doesn't actually mind the wordless begging, at all. "You'll attract attention." His hand moves over warm, silky skin, working him. Pleasuring him in a steady rhythm. "You'll be alright. Trust me." Blue eyes are still staring at nothing.
Wilson sobs against his neck.
"Shhhh," he warns again, his hand pumping industriously. "Don't fret, I've got you," he croons. "You want to know what I've decided?"
Wilson's shuddering against him almost continuously. Helplessly.
For the first time in a long time, a smile touches House's lips, and reaches his eyes. To the casual observer, the smile would seem frightening. Chilling. "Good, I'll tell you," he says. He rubs his cheek against Wilson's, his hand deftly speeding up. He's still smiling. House closes his eyes, content.
"I've decided that you should date the real thing."
The end.
Author: Fayding_fast
Pairing: W/A, H/W
Rating: R
Warning: House is pretty dark.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Wordcount: 1522
Summary: Amber pushes House's buttons. She really pushes them.
Spoilers: For season 4
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Amber has a beautiful neck. Graceful, creamy, it is the kind of neck a nubile model posed before Botticelli would have been proud to flaunt; it is a feature that attracts every man's eye in a room.
Certainly, it's drawn House's.
He's picturing what it would look like, twisted at an insane angle. Not one of his finer moments, he is imagining snapping it.
Oh, he'd be clever, make it look like a macabre accident - She tripped? She's dead? What a terrible tragedy - but to permanently dispose of Wilson's girlfriend? And to discover that he's cleanly got away with it? For House, it's all about the simple pleasures in life. He'd be free of another nemesis. He'd be basking in a dream come true.
Trying to accurately remember the explosive sound a breaking twig makes, House is lost to the world around him, staring vacantly into his glass.
"House? What do you think?" Amber's staring at him expectantly.
He looks up at her, then glances at Wilson, whose eyes are currently sparkling. House has been tuning their conversation out for a good five minutes. From the look of things, Wilson suspects this, the bastard. House plays it cool and shrugs carelessly. "Sounds pretty good," he hedges.
"Great," Wilson says cheerfully. "We'll meet you there next Friday."
Yep, Wilson knows.
House's eyes shoot daggers at him, and Wilson laughs with abandon. House shakes his head, giving up.
He watches as Amber strokes Wilson's arm, her touch calculated. Possessive. House looks away, seething. Why he has agreed to join the two lovebirds for an after work drink, he will never know.
Thoroughly miserable, wearing his best hangdog expression, he scowls at his surroundings. Amber's choice of bar, it's bland, with not even a pool table to break the monotony. Only a few other patrons have wandered in, and judging by the prices of the drinks, they've only scuttled in to escape the cold. None of the other customers are in earshot; again, because of Amber's preference, the three of them are sitting in the furthest corner of the room.
House picks up his glass and swirls the remains of his beer. Time to finish it off and excuse himself. He has better things to do than play the gooseberry.
Amber leans into Wilson and kisses him tenderly.
Wilson responds at first, but quickly pulls back. "Amber...." he cautions. Color stains his cheeks. "We talked about this." He shifts slightly, moving his stool away from her and right next to House. He peeks at House self-consciously.
Unbelievable. "For God's sake." Draining the rest of his beer in one gulp, House slams the empty glass down on the table, and swipes his chin with the back of his hand. He had been planning to leave, but now, perversely, he hesitates. Wilson's leg is pressing against the length of his, solid and warm, and there's a terrible pressure blossoming inside his chest. House thinks it might be loathing teamed with bitter regret. Whatever it is, it's unpleasant. But, it keeps him seated.
Amber fails to take the hint. Painted nails trail across Wilson's chest. "So coy?" she purrs. "You weren't like this last night."
"We didn't have company last night." Squirming again, Wilson looks almost annoyed and that's when House makes his mind up. Decides that enough is enough.
She's deliberately baiting him, and House is feeling old and jealous and, well, tired of it. He hates her. Okay, then, she's asking for it. If she wants to test him, he will play her at her own game.
"Your girlfriend has goaded me into doing this," House murmurs regretfully. He turns fractionally on his seat.
Nothing screams insincerity louder than a smirk, followed swiftly by a grin.
Face suddenly blanching, Wilson absently brushes Amber's exploring hand away. His dark gaze fixes upon his friend, liquid and wary. Afraid. He stares at him in that paralyzed way of his, when he knows that House is about to do, or say, something cruel.
Holding his gaze, not bothering to worry about consequences, House places his hand boldly on Wilson's inner thigh, near his knee, and sweeps it firmly up towards his groin.
The effect is immediate.
Inhaling sharply, thighs parting, Wilson's head jolts back, his eyes drifting shut.
"Holy crap." Astounded by Wilson's reaction, House, in his turn, is instantly aroused. His mouth gapes open as his friend abruptly hunches over, moaning softly. He snatches his hand back, perturbed and not a little terrified, by his own swift and highly visible response.
Amber stares at them, her face slack with dismay.
"Wilson?" House's voice scrapes up his throat. His friend is still bent over double, and for a moment, House finds it impossible to think. "Wilson," he says again, hand caressing his back. House recovers his wits quickly. His confusion dissipating, his mind as sharp as a vixen's tongue, he grips the back of Wilson's neck, and, more or less, forces his friend to sit up.
Hands limp by his sides, still reeling, Wilson looks up as his defenses crumble down.
House is fascinated. So many expressions flit across the pale face. Primarily, stark disbelief. But then, Wilson's eyes, those beautifully shock-widened eyes, begin to plead. Become frenzied with need.
House doesn't waste time. He repositions his stool, and slides his left thigh between Wilson's knees, keeping them apart.
"No," Wilson mumbles, dazed.
House grips Wilson's arms. "Yes," he insists calmly. He pulls Wilson relentlessly, carefully closer. He does this in stages, expecting, at any given moment, to meet resistance. There isn't any.
"Wilson?" Amber's voice holds a touch of hysteria.
There's no answer.
"Ditch the bitch," House suggests hoarsely. He drags him even closer.
Breath catching, Wilson jerks in House's arms. A strong hand begins to glide up over his ear. Gently, lovingly, the fingers slowly start to clench, becoming entangled in his hair. They ensure that he remains motionless. They persuade him that it would be wise to stay perfectly still.
"You hear me? She's a pale imitation." House stares unblinkingly at Amber, his eyes as cold as Wilson's turned shoulder. "She's a proxy. And a rather pitiful one at that."
Wilson is tugged closer yet.
And now House's right hand slides leisurely up his arm, across the shoulder, and finds its way to Wilson's throat. It remains there, not crushing, but casually resting. Prudently lightly. House takes the opportunity to measure his pulse. It's thundering against his fingertips, and House savors this, the fact that it's hammering. It makes House feel powerful. Oddly whole.
Amber's glaring at him, at them both. Her expression's murderous.
House nudges his knee deliberately into Wilson's groin and Wilson convulses. His lips caress an acquiescent Wilson's ear. "You're safe with me," he breathes. He watches as Amber furiously grabs her bag and coat, and leaves. He watches as she stalks away, his gaze following her progress, all the way to the exit.
Wilson doesn't even notice. He's quiet. So very, very quiet. His eyes have become glassy.
House wonders if he should be worried about him. "You'll be pleased to know I've reconsidered," he says. He waits a moment, but there's still no acknowledgment. "I know what's best for you."
Yes, Wilson thinks distantly. I'm sure you do.
House lets go of Wilson's hair and his friend stays exactly where he is. House is pleased with him. He starts rocking him, the two men swaying together, to and fro. House allows his free hand to explore, to skim down Wilson's spine, until his fingers encounter leather. They trail teasingly along Wilson's belt.
Inconceivably, just before House releases Wilson's throat, the pulse accelerates even more. To dangerous levels. It's absolutely racing.
House considers this, the long fingers of both hands now toying with Wilson's buckle. He stares into the distance, then shrugs; the belt starting to slide through his hands. "I know you want this," he soothes.
They're in a public place, but House isn't unduly concerned. The bar is practically empty, and they're sitting miles from anybody. House reaches for Wilson's zip, and his friend behaves, and doesn't try to stop him. "I want this, too," House assures him. The zip starts to lower, House going out of his way to be careful. The things he has to do. His own heartbeat, finally, starts to quicken.
Wilson murmurs something unintelligible.
Protest or entreaty?
And does House really care? He reaches for him, and grips him, and is enthralled by the tremors this action invokes. By the involuntary whimpers.
"Hush," House says forcefully, although he doesn't actually mind the wordless begging, at all. "You'll attract attention." His hand moves over warm, silky skin, working him. Pleasuring him in a steady rhythm. "You'll be alright. Trust me." Blue eyes are still staring at nothing.
Wilson sobs against his neck.
"Shhhh," he warns again, his hand pumping industriously. "Don't fret, I've got you," he croons. "You want to know what I've decided?"
Wilson's shuddering against him almost continuously. Helplessly.
For the first time in a long time, a smile touches House's lips, and reaches his eyes. To the casual observer, the smile would seem frightening. Chilling. "Good, I'll tell you," he says. He rubs his cheek against Wilson's, his hand deftly speeding up. He's still smiling. House closes his eyes, content.
"I've decided that you should date the real thing."
The end.