Dreaming in Color
Jun. 1st, 2007 03:09 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
hry2007.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
house_wilson_ghcTitle: Dreaming in Color
Author: Heather
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual assault, incest.
Disclaimer: I do not condone abuse, incest, pedophilia, rape, et cetera. Bad internet, bad.
Notes: This was written before the recent LJ controversy, and would've been posted either way. It's an upseting subject that I wanted to explore. I wanted to share a possible angle on House's father.
I've never written fanfic before, and most my experience with online writing was with a political blog I used to maintain but retired a year ago. Soybean tax rebates =/= fiction, so any concrit you guys have is awesome.
~~~
“Strip.”
So you do. You hurry up and unbutton your shirt, then address the fly of your jeans as he assesses the velocity of your response to his command. You analyze the scenery of the bathroom, having only moved here a month ago and not yet fully absorbed the details, like the slightly orange line where the carpeting meets the tub, and what jackass thought carpeting a bathroom was a good idea anyhow? The curtain is an offensive shade of green that for some reason seems to be in vogue. As he pulls said curtain out of the tub and to the side you note the bar of Dial resting in its holder, and the green of the curtain is blending with the orange of the bar that is somewhat darker than the yellow flowers tiling the walls of the stall. All these colors are blending together, like the remains of a battle with citrus fruits, you note as pull the hem of your fading white undershirt up until it’s above your head. It joins your blue jeans and brown button-down on the floor momentarily, and those hues mix with the carcasses of your cognitive produce conflict.
You’re lost.
Well, not totally lost, but misplaced at an ill-defined location within these thoughts, a safe enough place to be until he picks up on your escapism and cues you with a feigned cough. Dammit, hurry the hell up or you know you’ll just be making it worse for yourself. Sliding plaid red boxers over your hips, down lanky runners’ legs to the pile with the other colors, you’re careful to face your body neither toward nor away from him, so that your face doesn’t offend him or the scars on your ass remind him that yes, he is wearing the belt with the large metal clasp today and if you put up a fight, if you’re a smart mouth, it’ll just be worse. It doesn’t have to be worse, your mind is just making it that way, so go back to absorbing the surroundings. Remembering to toss in the trash the dull gray lint from your toes, so as not to mess up the bath, you hear the water run into the floor of the tub, splashing at a slight angle as his hand verifies that the teal knob is doing its job. Satisfied with the temperature, he secures the beige rubber stopper into the drain. Fully nude now, you place the dirty clothes in the hamper, after checking the pockets to make sure you didn’t leave money or gum or a pen or anything that could mess up the clothes.
“Get in.”
You comply. Of course you comply, you’re not a fucking idiot. It’s a new place, a new bathroom, but the same routine, and it’s easy to slip into that routine. It’s easy to keep noticing the colors in the room, the citrus decor and the rainbow within the hamper and the effects of the fluorescent lighting. You notice these things instead of the situation, because the situation isn’t new so it bores you. It hurts you, but more than that it bores you and that is some solace because you know how to deal with boredom. You step into the tub as he exits the room to retrieve the ice, freezing water raising the hairs up to your ankles. He always leaves the room for this part, an odd sort of respect of your privacy so that you’re able to adjust to the freezing water in peace. Speaking of freezing, you note that you can hear the traffic and leaves ruffling outside, meaning that he left the window open, meaning that he’s more pissed that you than usual, and Christ, Japan is fucking freezing at night, colder than Texas and far colder than Egypt.
Fuck. You hear him coming back up the stairs, and you’re still standing there like an idiot, your mind on a tangent about brightly colored home furnishings and Ancient Egyptian artifacts and not on the fact that your feet are numb, yet stabbing, oh God the stabbing pain that you’re pretty sure is the first stage of hypothermia because you’re starting to shiver, and you need to wise the fuck up and sit down quietly and wet your body and hair so that he doesn’t think you were trying to shorten or avoid your punishment. As you ease yourself into the water, oh the water’s cold and your balls pull up, you can hear him as he hits that squeaky step two from the top. The water’s cold, but not as cold as it could be, as it will be, so suck it up and don’t cry like a fucking nancy.
Lie flat, passive, and don’t look at him, don’t glare at him as he bites open a corner of the white bag and tears the remainder of the top open. Look at your shaking hands, your numbing feet with their newly acquired periwinkle undertones, but don’t look at him as he pours the clear-blue ice on top of you, mostly along the sides of your head, because your head leads to your pink foul mouth which leads to trouble. That’s probably why you’re lying here in the first place, and it’s your fault for not avoiding him or covering up whatever it was you did that set him off, and you need to learn to lie, to act, better. He’s stoic as he takes the remainder of the bags and empties it first at your sides, by your hands, but don’t move them, don’t defy him or you’ll be making it worse than it has to be. Note the shades and shapes of the bathroom, the geometric patterns formed by the stall tiles and the hint of mildew between said tiles that you need to remember to scrub off before he notices in a day or two. He’s still calm and focused as the last of the ice is emptied between your calves, and his calmness worries you, because it gives him power and he can calculate his moves, so don’t defy him by screaming, but Christ it’s freezing.
You thought you had your jaw clamped shut, but apparently not because you see something maroon, blood, on your chest now because you couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut. He shoves ice into your mouth, the first cube soothing toward the blow but the second and third suffocating until you secure them between your molars. You try to focus on that pain though, because he seems angrier and calmer than usual, and did you ever figure out what it was that set him off this time? Not that it matters, just shut the hell up and close your eyes and see all the hues of the room and on your body as he first presses his hand into your stomach to steady you, then sliding it toward your cock. You’re so cold, pale and small right now and this probably offends him, but he wants you to be cold. As he’s thumbing the head and massaging, no, tugging your shriveled balls, God it hurts, his unoccupied hand slides up your thigh with an ice cube, and it’s just like your mouth and throat, he wants you to be cold from the inside so he lets your cock alone for a moment so that he can lift your leg, and FUCK it’s cold, FUCK the ice is inside you and you shouldn’t scream if you want to be able to play your saxophone next week but you do anyway and as the third cube is shoved inside you, you’d wish they’d melt faster and all you can see behind your eyelids is bright fireworks and white, and oh GODDAMMIT he has a hangnail today and FUCK and why can’t you just shut the hell–
“Wake up ”
“House, wake up. You’re gonna wake the neighbors.”
Something’s shaking.
“Yeah, me, shaking your shoulders because it’s 4 A.M. and you’re screaming and we have work in a few hours. What the hell were you dreaming about?”
Wilson?
“It’s me... it’s me.”
Author: Heather
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual assault, incest.
Disclaimer: I do not condone abuse, incest, pedophilia, rape, et cetera. Bad internet, bad.
Notes: This was written before the recent LJ controversy, and would've been posted either way. It's an upseting subject that I wanted to explore. I wanted to share a possible angle on House's father.
I've never written fanfic before, and most my experience with online writing was with a political blog I used to maintain but retired a year ago. Soybean tax rebates =/= fiction, so any concrit you guys have is awesome.
Thanks in advance for your input!
~~~
“Strip.”
So you do. You hurry up and unbutton your shirt, then address the fly of your jeans as he assesses the velocity of your response to his command. You analyze the scenery of the bathroom, having only moved here a month ago and not yet fully absorbed the details, like the slightly orange line where the carpeting meets the tub, and what jackass thought carpeting a bathroom was a good idea anyhow? The curtain is an offensive shade of green that for some reason seems to be in vogue. As he pulls said curtain out of the tub and to the side you note the bar of Dial resting in its holder, and the green of the curtain is blending with the orange of the bar that is somewhat darker than the yellow flowers tiling the walls of the stall. All these colors are blending together, like the remains of a battle with citrus fruits, you note as pull the hem of your fading white undershirt up until it’s above your head. It joins your blue jeans and brown button-down on the floor momentarily, and those hues mix with the carcasses of your cognitive produce conflict.
You’re lost.
Well, not totally lost, but misplaced at an ill-defined location within these thoughts, a safe enough place to be until he picks up on your escapism and cues you with a feigned cough. Dammit, hurry the hell up or you know you’ll just be making it worse for yourself. Sliding plaid red boxers over your hips, down lanky runners’ legs to the pile with the other colors, you’re careful to face your body neither toward nor away from him, so that your face doesn’t offend him or the scars on your ass remind him that yes, he is wearing the belt with the large metal clasp today and if you put up a fight, if you’re a smart mouth, it’ll just be worse. It doesn’t have to be worse, your mind is just making it that way, so go back to absorbing the surroundings. Remembering to toss in the trash the dull gray lint from your toes, so as not to mess up the bath, you hear the water run into the floor of the tub, splashing at a slight angle as his hand verifies that the teal knob is doing its job. Satisfied with the temperature, he secures the beige rubber stopper into the drain. Fully nude now, you place the dirty clothes in the hamper, after checking the pockets to make sure you didn’t leave money or gum or a pen or anything that could mess up the clothes.
“Get in.”
You comply. Of course you comply, you’re not a fucking idiot. It’s a new place, a new bathroom, but the same routine, and it’s easy to slip into that routine. It’s easy to keep noticing the colors in the room, the citrus decor and the rainbow within the hamper and the effects of the fluorescent lighting. You notice these things instead of the situation, because the situation isn’t new so it bores you. It hurts you, but more than that it bores you and that is some solace because you know how to deal with boredom. You step into the tub as he exits the room to retrieve the ice, freezing water raising the hairs up to your ankles. He always leaves the room for this part, an odd sort of respect of your privacy so that you’re able to adjust to the freezing water in peace. Speaking of freezing, you note that you can hear the traffic and leaves ruffling outside, meaning that he left the window open, meaning that he’s more pissed that you than usual, and Christ, Japan is fucking freezing at night, colder than Texas and far colder than Egypt.
Fuck. You hear him coming back up the stairs, and you’re still standing there like an idiot, your mind on a tangent about brightly colored home furnishings and Ancient Egyptian artifacts and not on the fact that your feet are numb, yet stabbing, oh God the stabbing pain that you’re pretty sure is the first stage of hypothermia because you’re starting to shiver, and you need to wise the fuck up and sit down quietly and wet your body and hair so that he doesn’t think you were trying to shorten or avoid your punishment. As you ease yourself into the water, oh the water’s cold and your balls pull up, you can hear him as he hits that squeaky step two from the top. The water’s cold, but not as cold as it could be, as it will be, so suck it up and don’t cry like a fucking nancy.
Lie flat, passive, and don’t look at him, don’t glare at him as he bites open a corner of the white bag and tears the remainder of the top open. Look at your shaking hands, your numbing feet with their newly acquired periwinkle undertones, but don’t look at him as he pours the clear-blue ice on top of you, mostly along the sides of your head, because your head leads to your pink foul mouth which leads to trouble. That’s probably why you’re lying here in the first place, and it’s your fault for not avoiding him or covering up whatever it was you did that set him off, and you need to learn to lie, to act, better. He’s stoic as he takes the remainder of the bags and empties it first at your sides, by your hands, but don’t move them, don’t defy him or you’ll be making it worse than it has to be. Note the shades and shapes of the bathroom, the geometric patterns formed by the stall tiles and the hint of mildew between said tiles that you need to remember to scrub off before he notices in a day or two. He’s still calm and focused as the last of the ice is emptied between your calves, and his calmness worries you, because it gives him power and he can calculate his moves, so don’t defy him by screaming, but Christ it’s freezing.
You thought you had your jaw clamped shut, but apparently not because you see something maroon, blood, on your chest now because you couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut. He shoves ice into your mouth, the first cube soothing toward the blow but the second and third suffocating until you secure them between your molars. You try to focus on that pain though, because he seems angrier and calmer than usual, and did you ever figure out what it was that set him off this time? Not that it matters, just shut the hell up and close your eyes and see all the hues of the room and on your body as he first presses his hand into your stomach to steady you, then sliding it toward your cock. You’re so cold, pale and small right now and this probably offends him, but he wants you to be cold. As he’s thumbing the head and massaging, no, tugging your shriveled balls, God it hurts, his unoccupied hand slides up your thigh with an ice cube, and it’s just like your mouth and throat, he wants you to be cold from the inside so he lets your cock alone for a moment so that he can lift your leg, and FUCK it’s cold, FUCK the ice is inside you and you shouldn’t scream if you want to be able to play your saxophone next week but you do anyway and as the third cube is shoved inside you, you’d wish they’d melt faster and all you can see behind your eyelids is bright fireworks and white, and oh GODDAMMIT he has a hangnail today and FUCK and why can’t you just shut the hell–
“Wake up ”
“House, wake up. You’re gonna wake the neighbors.”
Something’s shaking.
“Yeah, me, shaking your shoulders because it’s 4 A.M. and you’re screaming and we have work in a few hours. What the hell were you dreaming about?”
Wilson?
“It’s me... it’s me.”
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no subject
Date: 2007-06-01 10:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-01 02:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-01 02:03 pm (UTC)*whimpers* I'm near tears. Fuck. Incredibly well-written, the detail is wonderful and so believably House. Totally stabs out my heart, though, to consider... well, fuck!
I'm curious, actually, if you would mind if I ran with the idea of ice-shoved-in-mouth idea. I can't really deal with writing the other idea *shudder* but House!whumping is on my muses' minds. (btw, I'd totally credit.)
I hope you write more fics soon! You have a wonderful handle on the written word. =)
no subject
Date: 2007-06-01 03:00 pm (UTC)I'm glad you like the detail. House is someone that distracts himself with sensory details, and I doubt this would be any different. Go ahead with the ice thing, the show had it first and I'd like to see more abuse fic.
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Date: 2007-06-01 02:40 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-06-01 04:46 pm (UTC)OT, but your dog is cute! Also, when will there be more Hugh&Bobby RPS?
no subject
Date: 2007-06-01 06:19 pm (UTC)I only wish that were my dog. Actually I only wish I had a dog. :(
I'm taking a day off to relax after finishing
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Date: 2007-06-01 06:53 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-06-02 03:06 am (UTC)Holy fuck, that was intense and sad and beautiful and heartbreaking. I can't believe that this if your first fic, it packs a punch. I hope to see more writing from you in the future.
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Date: 2007-06-04 01:05 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-11-21 07:00 am (UTC)