Author: fallen_arazil, aka Djinn
Fandom: House, M.D.
Characters: Wilson/various females, Wilson/House/Stacy
50_darkfics Prompt: 013. Nails
Word Count: 797
Rating: Mature (for sex and naughty words)
Disclaimer: Is there any gay sex on House? Then I still don't own it.
Author's Notes: some S&M overtones, more strongly on the M side. Hey come on, it's a dark!fic. I am sort of planning to do more with this threesome--I have a longer fic concept centering around the unlikely idea that this actually is how House and Wilson met, but that's for later.
His first wife's name was Amelia. He'd met her while he was in med school, and they'd married during his residency. She was the only wife his parents had fully approved of--a nice, Jewish girl whose greatest ambition was to be a doctor's wife. She hadn't minded his long hours, hadn't minded that he barely had time to peck her on the lips when he ran off for another seventy-two hour shift. Amelia was good at amusing herself with dinner parties and tennis games, and when he had the time for it he would be by her side, playing the doting, indulgent husband.
When they had sex, it was always underneath the covers, Amelia on her back, soft skin spread out across the sheets, thighs splayed around his hips. She whimpered when she came, soft and breathless and feminine, breasts heaving as she sucked in air. Amelia was something fragile, and he always felt as if he pushed too hard, he would break her. When he rolled off her, it was always with more a sense of relief than pleasure.
He is twenty-four hours into a shift when an ER nurse with curly blonde hair tugs him into an empty exam room, and when he shoves her up against the door, there is no soft breathlessness or delicate whimpers. She almost growls, dark red nails clutching at his collar, his hair, his skin--anything she can reach. She wraps her legs tight around his waist when he slides into her, and all but screams when she comes. Her fingernails leave long red welts across his shoulders, but he is on-call for forty-eight more hours, and by the time he gets home to Amelia, there will be nothing left for her to see.
The welts rub against his oxford every time he moves his shoulders, and he thinks about the nurse for the rest of the shift. He is driving home to Amelia when he finally realizes that he never learned her name.
Wilson is young, not even twenty-eight, and good looking, and there are plenty of nurses and staff that are perfectly willing to overlook the niggling little fact that he's married. Amelia simpers devotedly on the rare occasions that he's home, and Wilson starts sleeping with the head of the Pediatrics department's secretary. She has long, acrylic nails, and one Friday afternoon when she's sucking his dick in a little-used bathroom on the third floor, she actually draws blood from his hips.
She is fired two weeks later, having been caught in a compromising position with a technician from radiology, and Wilson wonders if he should feel jealous that he wasn't the only guy at the hospital she was screwing. Whatever he feels about it, he shrugs it off and takes up with a redheaded scrub nurse. Her nails are short but sharp, painted the same sterile hospital white as her scrubs. One Friday night, she bites down on his neck hard when she comes, right where it meets the shoulder, but low enough that it can be hidden by his collar. Amelia lives with him, and therefore sees the mark anyway.
The divorce papers shouldn't have come as a surprise, but Wilson, whatever else might be said of him, can be startlingly naive, and was caught completely off-guard. As long as he hadn't stopped and really examined his actions, he had never felt like he was doing anything wrong.
Three months later, he sees her at a bar--she's older than him, but classically beautiful, with dark eyes and hair, and when she invites him to join her, her voice has a slight Southern twang. She has long, slender fingers, and her nails are impeccably manicured, painted a classic red. Her fingers dance up and down the stem of her wineglass as they talk, and the way she tosses her hair and tilts her head says I'm interested. I want you. She says that her name is Stacy.
When the boyfriend comes over, Wilson thinks that it's over--he slides an arm around Stacy as gracefully as he slides into the chair beside her, and the look he gives Wilson is flatly appraising. Stacy introduces them, but Wilson's seen him before, at the hospital. Dr. Gregory House, the misanthrope, the firebrand, the bastard. For long minutes he says nothing, letting Stacy and Wilson awkwardly attempt to continue their conversation, before he stands and stretches, lazily.
"I'm going home." He says, flatly. "If you like him, bring him with us."
Gregory House's nails are short and blunt, but his fingers and long and deft, a doctor's hands. Stacy's nails leave welts on his shoulders and House's fingers leave ten distinct bruises on his hips, and even a week later, after all the marks are gone, he can't stop thinking about it.