Author's Note: This was written for the prompt at the dark_wilson LJ community: "Ink." Warning: this is a very dark, violent, disturbing story. It absolutely should not be read by anyone under 18 or anyone offended or disturbed by violence or violent concepts, especially those of a sexual nature. Please do not comment or email me telling me how eeked out you are by this and what an awful person I am; I don't see anyone doing this, but I am doing my best to warn you and save your eyeballs and brain if you will be adversely affected. But the dark_wilson comm seemed to like it, so maybe some of you will, too. The absence of House's name being used is also purposeful, to lessen his sense of identity. Please also note that this is not my general opinion of James Wilson; I do not see him as evil or purposefully cruel. At worst, he is a little holier-than-thou and thoughtless. But sometimes those plot bunnies kidnap you and deny you food, water, and H/W fantasies until you write them. So you give in. Enjoy...or at least, try to survive!

Wilson has him tied to the bed, spread-eagle on his stomach, a flattened pillow cushioning his right thigh. The pillow is Wilson's sole concession to his comfort; the handcuffs securing him to the four posters of the bed are cold steel, and nothing keeps his aching cock from being crushed into the unforgiving mattress by his abdomen. He had teased Wilson for getting such a girlie bed, until Wilson promptly showed him its purpose.

He never questioned Wilson's furniture choices again.

Behind him, Wilson is standing at the foot of the bed, staring at him as he always does, jerking himself off to the sight as he always does. He sighs and shifts, discomfort starting in his legs and biceps, and Wilson's left hand smacks down almost instantly on his buttocks.

"Don't move."

He knows the rules, has memorized the rules…spent one evening writing out, "I will not move when Wilson tells me not to" one hundred times, on his knees and half-bent over the coffee table, while Wilson casually and thoroughly spanked his ass. (To be fair, he had spent several minutes fairly writhing while Wilson slowly finger-fucked him, and that was a very obvious violation.) His thigh had ached so badly after the incident that Wilson had kindly given him two Vicodin instead of one before putting him to bed without an orgasm. He had drifted off to sleep listening to Wilson's moans echo off the bathroom tile as he jerked himself off in the shower, fantasizing about touching himself and not daring to actually do so.

He does not want a repeat of that night, so he falls still and concentrates on the beautiful groans and whimpers Wilson is emitting as he pleasures himself. It is rare that Wilson will actually allow him to touch; he is generally restricted to watching, hearing, or being fucked. He is satisfied with this, generally, and if there are nights when he fantasizes about lying in Wilson's arms, of kissing him, of daring to actually be the one fucking instead of the one being fucked, these things are never spoken of. It's just not how things are.

He feels the bed dip as Wilson kneels between his spread thighs and holds back a whimper of anticipation. It is another one of the rules: do not speak or make a sound unless told to do so. He wonders if it is so Wilson can pretend he is someone else, but Wilson spends so much time looking at him before actually fucking him that he's sure that cannot be the case. At least, that is how he reassures himself.

Wilson's breath is catching a little, and he holds back a sigh. They are now at the portion of the night when Wilson gets a little emotional and waxes eloquent about past infractions and faults. It is how Wilson works himself into the lathered state of rage and arousal that he needs to truly take him the way he wants to, and he would never dream of questioning it. He lies still and silent, and wonders what direction the speech will take tonight.

Wilson begins, and he winces. It is an Amber night. These are his least favorite. When Wilson goes on about Tritter or Vogler or even incidents involving Cameron or Chase or Cuddy, he can deal with it. He swallows the sarcastic rejoinders, the urge for apologies, the attempts at explanation. He listens, and accepts, and waits for Wilson to finish, so that Wilson can finally begin. But the Amber nights make him ache and long to both sob and scream in anger. His apology, outside of this space, was never believed or accepted; he knows better than to even consider offering it here, now.

She is beautiful; she is brilliant; she is strong and amazing and perfect. He is a fuck-up, a cripple, a miserable asshole whose genius is completely overshadowed by his excuse for a personality. She is an angel ensconced on a throne; he is the devil without the bother for a disguise. She is love and hope; he is hatred and despair. Wilson's words differ every time, but he recognizes the melody of this worn-out song.

When Wilson is screaming about how fucking useless he is and how Wilson wishes he were the one who had died (thank god he had the apartment soundproofed when neighbors complained about the piano concerts at 3am), he knows that it's time. He braces himself for what is to come, both in anticipation and dread.

The small click of the switchblade sounds loud in the sudden silence; Wilson always quiets when he is about to begin. It is the same switchblade he used to electrocute himself; Wilson enjoys the irony. He feels the point of the blade dig lightly into his lower back and squeezes his eyes shut. This spot was chosen because Wilson said that a 'tramp stamp' was exactly what he needed, since between the hookers and the seduction of a married woman, Wilson was fairly certain he had crossed over into slut territory himself. He had merely nodded, which had earned him a half-dozen slaps across the ass. He should have known better. He knew the rules.

The words are slowly becoming scarred into his skin from injury and re-injury, which is of course the plan. His blood is the ink for this tattoo; this arrangement, his indeterminate penance. Wilson traces over the words, digging deep, pressing hard. There is no telling when the scars will be thick or prominent enough for Wilson's taste. He imagines this might go on forever—that when his liver gives out or his heart stops or his motorcycle tips and skids his body into oncoming traffic, Wilson will find him in the morgue and trace these words into his skin again and again: this mantra, this truth and warning to all who might get close enough to read.

I cannot be trusted.

He leans slightly into the sting, the wetness of drawn blood, making sure his movements are subtle enough not to draw attention. These moments are his catharsis, his confession, and he is always on the brink of tears and absolution. He traces out the lines in his head as Wilson traces them onto his skin. When Wilson deems it is enough for one night, he hears the knife clatter to the floor and a pillow is roughly shoved under his hips. He does not mistake it for comfort. This is facilitation.

There is usually very little warning, although the progression is so familiar by now that he knows what will happen. Wilson's hand swipes across his back, smearing in his blood, and then there is an almost indiscernible slicking sound. He knows that Wilson has gathered up his blood with his left hand, that that left hand has closed around his cock, even though he has never seen this act. He knows that Wilson is lubricating himself to fuck him with his own goddamn blood.

It is horrifying. It is disgusting. It seems, now, somehow appropriate.

Wilson's hands clamp around his hips—he knows, from experience, that a faint bloody handprint will be curled around his left side—and the blunt end of Wilson's cock presses hard against his opening. He closes his eyes again, since this simple movement is not a violation of the rules. Wilson is not slow, or gentle, but he is deliberate. He feels every inch of Wilson's hard, angry erection shoving into him, and bites back a moan.

Wilson pounds him hard against the mattress, and the steel handcuffs bite into his skin and urge him to whimper. He is careful, however, to keep silent; biting his tongue bloody is a common occurrence now. Every inch of Wilson's cock forces its way inside him over and over again, and he can feel his own weeping cock being mashed repeatedly into the pillow beneath him. He knows better than to come, however; the first time he did, which was not the first time this happened, Wilson was so furious that he could not sit down for a few days thanks to the soreness of his ass. He swore he had borne welts in the shape of Wilson's hand, though he suspected that was impossible.

Wilson is panting now, cursing loudly, and he knows that it will not be long. He sucks back his moans and gasps, mentally forces his body away from the brink of orgasm again and again as Wilson's cock slams into his prostate, and finally breathes the faintest sigh of relief and—if he admits it—delight when Wilson comes. His ass is burning from the friction, his back is on fire from the reopened knife wounds, and his leg is aching fiercely. But Wilson has once again purged himself, and all is right with the world.

He lies still and silent while Wilson goes to clean himself up, which means a lengthy hot shower that drains his water heater. When Wilson comes back, dressed and smelling like Amber's shampoo, he waits eagerly while Wilson unlocks the handcuffs and tugs away the pillows. He is allowed to move now, allowed to roll over onto his back, to relax his body. He is not allowed to take any Vicodin or to massage his thigh or his wrists and ankles, since any of these actions might relieve his pain or cause Wilson guilt, which is not the point of any of this. He knows better. He knows the rules.

He draws the blanket up over himself, knowing he will have to change the sheets in the morning because they will be covered in dried, crusted semen and blood. But for now, he is too relaxed and in too much pain to do so, so he will sleep in the uncomfortable dampness. Wilson will be leaving soon, but he dares not close his eyes and go to sleep. There is still one more thing.

Wilson pauses in the doorway, his face shadowed, his body backlit by a light left on in the living room. The lights in the bedroom have been turned off; Wilson is never interested in looking at his face. He waits for the last thing, unaware that he is holding his breath.

"What do you say?" Wilson never uses his name.

"I love you, Wilson." His answer is immediate, obedient, and true.

"Liar." The word is breathless, and then Wilson is gone. He lets out the breath. He always holds it, always waits, but nothing ever changes. He supposes it's silly to think that it would.

When he hears the snick of the door closing, he quickly wraps his hand around his still-hard cock, and in four or five rough jerks, he is coming, moaning out Wilson's name. When he falls asleep soon afterwards, it is in the midst of ignoring a stream of tears, making their way silently from the corner of his eyes to dampen his bloodstained sheets.