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sick_wilson2013-06-10 08:25 pm
mnstrtruckslash.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2013-06-10 08:25 pm
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Title: Beauty’s Curse (Chapter Three)
Summary: Wilson is kidnapped by a deranged and violent serial killer. The murderer holds his victims hostage, while he rapes, disfigures, and tortures them (sometimes for a few days sometimes for months) before the actual killing. When House realizes that the police are out of their depths, he must help investigate and find his friend before it’s too late. The chapters alternate between House and Wilson’s point of view so you can see both sides of the story.
Warnings: Somewhat detailed descriptions of torture/ beatings, and possibly rape in the later chapters, a slash relationship between House and Wilson, use of curse words, violence obviously, not for the squeamish but I’ll try and keep it from being too graphic. Some OOC behavior, takes place in an alternate universe, and definitely a crack fic.
Spoilers: I’m setting this right around season 1 (maybe a little before that) but Wilson is not married to Julie anymore. Some spoilers from seasons 1 and 2 but nothing major. Also, House and Wilson live together/ are in an established relationship.
Rating: Definitely not for kids. I’d say it’s a HARD R right now, maybe it’ll get a bit worse but not yet.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
I cried so hard and for so long that I passed out. When I awoke up, my sandwich plate was still on the floor about twelve feet away from my—not mine!—bed. I sat up slowly. My foot was still throbbing in agony. The severity of my burn was bad enough to keep the cut on my forehead from hurting too badly. I reached up to inspect my face all the same. There was dried blood everywhere but the wound seemed to have stopped bleeding. It wasn’t dangerously deep. If I had access to sutures (even badly done stitches) I probably wouldn’t even get a scar. But I suppose that’s sort of the point, I thought to myself. He wants to make you hideous. I lifted my injured foot in order to examine it.
Unfortunately, in the dank, dreary dungeon, I was only able to see things directly in front of me. The sole of y foot was raw, chaffed, and covered in bits of blood red splotches. It still burned with a throbbing ache, but some of the original pain had subsided. I pressed a finger against my foot, probing it carefully. Unable to help myself, I howled with pain before clamping my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound. The chemical burn was extremely bad, but once again under the right circumstances could be handled by any doctor in the western world. Unfortunately, I was locked in a filthy torture chamber, without access to antibiotic ointment, sterile dressings, or any other medical supplies. It would be a miracle if I was able to keep the thing clean. Probable outcomes flitted about my brain: infection, gangrene, death.
There was just enough light in here for me to see that my cell was filthy. “Jack” may have been obsessed with many things but apparently cleanliness was not one of them. I stared down at my injured heel and wondered how I was going to bandage and/ or keep it clean. Forget the foot, you can live without it, part of me insisted. You gotta find a way to get out of this hellhole. Fake a seizure. Pretended to agree with his insane world view. Hell, if it’ll get you home alive, let him gouge out both your eyes and slice your dick off!
“Yes,” I told myself, out loud. “Yes, that is exactly what I have to do. I'll pretend I believe him. I know not to act to eager Obviously I can’t just start raving about how brilliant he is the second Jack gets back here or he’ll know I’m bullshitting him but I can do this.” I knew not to act too eager or to come off too strong too soon. Years of arguing with House had taught me a lot about how to appease a crazy person. Of course, next to my captor, House’s obnoxious and rude antics were mere quirks. I swung my feet down over the bed, and tried to stand up. I dug my fingernails into the mattress so I could get up without putting weight on my any part of my left leg except the tiptoes. Then, I limp-hopped to the place where my sandwich was sitting. At this point I felt starved. My eyes had been fixed on the plate for the last several minutes. I could only imagine a handful of things that would bring me any comfort at this moment. My favorite foods were high on the list. However, I was also deeply concerned about eating it. What if Jack had done something to the sandwich? It could be filled with rat poison or—although, I thought that would be counterproductive given his logic.
As insane as he may have been, my captor did have a weird sort of plan for me, a message he was trying to get across. Poison usually lead to suffocation, heart attack, or stroke. These are relatively quick and painless deaths. They really didn’t fit his M.O. Could be, the cynical part of my brain taunted, or maybe you’re just hungry and trying to justify eating his food.
I examined the sandwich as I had done with my foot, ignoring the anal retentive part of my mind that was screaming about how disgusting it was that I hadn’t washed my hands between those tasks. It seemed alright, and—unless more than a day had passed since my kidnapping, I hadn’t eaten in almost 18 hours.
I was famished. I took a tiny bite. Chewed. Swallowed, and then waited. Nothing happened. I then, greedily gobbled up the rest of my sandwich.
After eating, I decided to get up and look around. I told myself I was looking for a way to escape but I think it was really morbid curiosity. I stood up again, placing weight on mostly my right leg and just the toes of my left one. I limped around the room. Each of the four falls of my square cell was made from a thick, hard, wood-like material. I banged on each of them, but was unable to make much noise. Plus it seemed soundproof. There was a small flight of stairs along one wall. Although I had no way of knowing which direction anything I actually faced, I dubbed this wall the North wall. There was a large steel door above the steps, with five separate locks on it.
The locks only opened on the outside of this door. Three opened like normal deadbolts. One looked like the inside of a numbered dial, and the last was—I guessed based on what I saw—was digital. The room had no windows, and the only air vents were in the ceiling, fifteen to twenty feet above the ground. The room itself was fairly small, perhaps five feet by five feet, by however tall it was. There were large, partially cleaned blood stains all over. A thick layer of dust, food crumbs, and god knows what else covered the filthy, cold, cement ground. I even saw a handful of cobwebs, and one extremely large, brown spider. I saw a security camera—again out of my reach in the southwest corner of the room, directly above the bed. I could tell from the red light that it was on, but not if it was filming me.
Presuming that I was being watched, I willed myself to “behave” at all times. After making several laps around my prison, I returned to the bed, exhausted. I sat down, and tried to imagine what Jack might say to me when he came back, so I could practice my response lies. I wanted them to sound sincere. You don’t want him to catch on, or he might really hurt you. I had this conversation entirely in my head, carefully sitting in bed, facing away from the camera so that he wouldn’t see me if my lips accidentally moved.
Jack was insane but also—in his mind—sort of logical in his thinking. His life had been made horrible because of his disfigurement, and so he believed that people like me were the problem. I could almost see where he was coming from. I had worked hard in my life, but maybe part of the reason I was so successful, at least in some areas of my life. Maybe if I’d had a huge scar across my face, my patients wouldn’t feel as safe with me. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten into medical school, or gotten a job at such a great job. But then again, maybe my hard work, and all the time I spent studying were probably at least somewhat helpful. Plenty of people who didn’t look like me had successful lives. There’s also his lunacy to consider. Would you hire a guy who thinks beautiful people need to be broken and destroyed?
“Stop it!” I shouted at myself, stupidly. I said it aloud. I whimpered, waiting for my captor to return and ask why I was screaming and fussing and then try to comfort me. Or worse he'd come down and do something god awful as form of "punishment" since I had knowingly broken the rules we'd agreed to. The rules he agreed to and was forcing on me. Two minutes passed (I counted, holding my breath) then a few more. Then, a few more minutes passed (this time I just let time go by on its own, not counting or anything) and a few more. Nothing happened.
My thoughts jumped around but mostly I was able to stay focused: When he comes down here next time, I have to just listen to what he says, and try to agree with it. He’s probably going to want to fuck me. Maybe if I don’t fight, maybe if I play along, like he’s sensitive to my body and act like he is the best lover I’ve ever had, then maybe…no that won’t work! He’s an expert in body language, and he’s been watching me for god knows how long. I don’t think he’ll ever believe me, but I have to try all the same.
I sat there for what felt like hours, imagining all the things Jack might possibly say and do to me, how he was likely going to “play with” me before he got down to the disfigurement. I would have to take all of that, try not to scream. I’d have to fight (he said he hated the “easy to break” boys) but not a lot. I’d have to pretend to see the light. Admit my whole life had been based on luck and my good looks. I’d thank him, for what he did to me, and promise to help him spread his message. I practiced ways to act like I had suddenly gone from thinking he was insane to thinking he was brilliant. I had managed to do similar things with House on more than one occasion; I was good at it.
xxxxx
I heard the deadbolts unlocking, and the door creaked a bit as Jack opened it. I turned around so I would be facing him, and sat perfectly still, my head held low. I heard footsteps and then blinding florescent lights flooded on all over the room.
“Lie down, Jim,” Jack ordered. I did as I was told. “I suppose you’ve had a lot of time to think while you’ve been down here alone, haven’t you?” I didn’t move. “Good, boy, Jim. You may respond now. What have you been thinking about?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said. How my good looks have given me an unfair advantage in life. I don’t completely agree with your theory that only pretty people get anywhere in life, but maybe it’s not right that I look the way I do…is okay if I continue?” Jack smiled taser still in hand and he sat down beside me on the bed. Now he was close enough for me to see him well. He’d showered and washed and styled his hair since the last time I saw him, and he was wearing skin tight slacks without a shirt. I couldn’t tell for certain, but I was pretty sure he was going commando, to borrow a phrase from House.
“You could, but I don’t think you want to. You’ve definitely started thinking the right way, Jim and I am amazed. This is the fastest turn around I’ve ever seen.” He stroked my cheek with one hand, and my thigh with the other. “But you’re also blowing smoke up my ass, aren’t you, Jim? Go ahead and nod.” I responded as he told me to. “You’re also the first of my boys to ever try it,” he explained, stroking my leg more and more. I closed my eyes trying to focus on not letting my body respond to his touch.
Unfortunately, this seemed to make Jake furious. He jabbed a long, sharp fingernail directly into my groin. I gritted my teeth together swallowing a yelp. “I’m sorry, Jim. I really don’t like doing those sorts of things, but don’t you dare look away from me like that. Never again, understand?” I nodded, praying I was still allowed to do so.
Jack began to cry. “People stare at me from far away but when I try and talk to somebody, try and get close. When I try to make a real connection with someone, they always turn away. Even that first slut wouldn’t look at me, and I was paying him good money. I got so angry with him. I just wanted him to look me in the eyes!” Jack sobbed. Terrified of how he might respond, but afraid to not comfort the psycho, I reached up and wrapped my arm around the man’s shoulder.
He smiled again. “I knew you were different, Jim. I knew you were special. You’re mine, aren’t you?” I didn’t respond. “Good boy. I’m sorry about hurting you down there, though. You probably won’t be able to get a stiffy for a while, huh?” Once again, I stayed motionless. “That’s okay; I’ll get you off next time.” Jack took my hand with his enormous paw, and pulled it to his crotch. He was rock hard, almost bursting out of the zipper.
I wanted to shut my eyes more than ever, but I knew I couldn’t. When Jack mentioned the “slut,” I recalled hearing about the first victim. A nineteen-year-old male prostitute, found with his eyelids removed, among other things. “That’s it, Jim,” he whispered, pulling the fly open. What happened next seemed fragmented. Pieces of old home movies stitched together to form a story. It makes sense, you know what took place during the video but at the same time, you don’t see the whole story.
The memories remain almost impossible to access, which I decided must have been a coping mechanism of some kind. Once finished, Jack collapsed on top of me, breathing heavily, and stroking my hair. “That was fantastic, Jim. I have never seen a boy take to me so quickly. I knew you were the one. I always knew it.” To him, it probably sounded like a compliment, possibly even pillow talk. To him it probably sounded like he was telling me he loved me and how I was his soul mate or something, but I was not comforted by these words. After he was finished, I felt my entire body trembling, and I couldn’t stop it.
Be still, I thought to myself, over and over and over. I tried to command my body to behave, to do what I wanted—needed—it to do. Nothing worked. I continued to tremble like a terrified toddler. Stop shaking or he’s gonna do something even much, much worse. You stupid piece of crap, stop it, my mind shouted at my body.
“It’s alright, Jim. This is all new to you. After what I did earlier, you have plenty of reasons to be terrified of me. In time, you’ll start to relax and trust me though. By the time I’m finished with you, everything is going to be perfect. You’ll see that we were made for each other. I just have to fix a few things. I just have to take it away. You’re cursed, Jim but don’t worry, I can cure you of it. Soon, you won’t be cursed with this horrible, horrible beauty anymore. And then we’ll live happily ever after together.” He climbs off of the bed, zips up his pants, and walks out of the cell, locking me inside.
Summary: Wilson is kidnapped by a deranged and violent serial killer. The murderer holds his victims hostage, while he rapes, disfigures, and tortures them (sometimes for a few days sometimes for months) before the actual killing. When House realizes that the police are out of their depths, he must help investigate and find his friend before it’s too late. The chapters alternate between House and Wilson’s point of view so you can see both sides of the story.
Warnings: Somewhat detailed descriptions of torture/ beatings, and possibly rape in the later chapters, a slash relationship between House and Wilson, use of curse words, violence obviously, not for the squeamish but I’ll try and keep it from being too graphic. Some OOC behavior, takes place in an alternate universe, and definitely a crack fic.
Spoilers: I’m setting this right around season 1 (maybe a little before that) but Wilson is not married to Julie anymore. Some spoilers from seasons 1 and 2 but nothing major. Also, House and Wilson live together/ are in an established relationship.
Rating: Definitely not for kids. I’d say it’s a HARD R right now, maybe it’ll get a bit worse but not yet.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
I cried so hard and for so long that I passed out. When I awoke up, my sandwich plate was still on the floor about twelve feet away from my—not mine!—bed. I sat up slowly. My foot was still throbbing in agony. The severity of my burn was bad enough to keep the cut on my forehead from hurting too badly. I reached up to inspect my face all the same. There was dried blood everywhere but the wound seemed to have stopped bleeding. It wasn’t dangerously deep. If I had access to sutures (even badly done stitches) I probably wouldn’t even get a scar. But I suppose that’s sort of the point, I thought to myself. He wants to make you hideous. I lifted my injured foot in order to examine it.
Unfortunately, in the dank, dreary dungeon, I was only able to see things directly in front of me. The sole of y foot was raw, chaffed, and covered in bits of blood red splotches. It still burned with a throbbing ache, but some of the original pain had subsided. I pressed a finger against my foot, probing it carefully. Unable to help myself, I howled with pain before clamping my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound. The chemical burn was extremely bad, but once again under the right circumstances could be handled by any doctor in the western world. Unfortunately, I was locked in a filthy torture chamber, without access to antibiotic ointment, sterile dressings, or any other medical supplies. It would be a miracle if I was able to keep the thing clean. Probable outcomes flitted about my brain: infection, gangrene, death.
There was just enough light in here for me to see that my cell was filthy. “Jack” may have been obsessed with many things but apparently cleanliness was not one of them. I stared down at my injured heel and wondered how I was going to bandage and/ or keep it clean. Forget the foot, you can live without it, part of me insisted. You gotta find a way to get out of this hellhole. Fake a seizure. Pretended to agree with his insane world view. Hell, if it’ll get you home alive, let him gouge out both your eyes and slice your dick off!
“Yes,” I told myself, out loud. “Yes, that is exactly what I have to do. I'll pretend I believe him. I know not to act to eager Obviously I can’t just start raving about how brilliant he is the second Jack gets back here or he’ll know I’m bullshitting him but I can do this.” I knew not to act too eager or to come off too strong too soon. Years of arguing with House had taught me a lot about how to appease a crazy person. Of course, next to my captor, House’s obnoxious and rude antics were mere quirks. I swung my feet down over the bed, and tried to stand up. I dug my fingernails into the mattress so I could get up without putting weight on my any part of my left leg except the tiptoes. Then, I limp-hopped to the place where my sandwich was sitting. At this point I felt starved. My eyes had been fixed on the plate for the last several minutes. I could only imagine a handful of things that would bring me any comfort at this moment. My favorite foods were high on the list. However, I was also deeply concerned about eating it. What if Jack had done something to the sandwich? It could be filled with rat poison or—although, I thought that would be counterproductive given his logic.
As insane as he may have been, my captor did have a weird sort of plan for me, a message he was trying to get across. Poison usually lead to suffocation, heart attack, or stroke. These are relatively quick and painless deaths. They really didn’t fit his M.O. Could be, the cynical part of my brain taunted, or maybe you’re just hungry and trying to justify eating his food.
I examined the sandwich as I had done with my foot, ignoring the anal retentive part of my mind that was screaming about how disgusting it was that I hadn’t washed my hands between those tasks. It seemed alright, and—unless more than a day had passed since my kidnapping, I hadn’t eaten in almost 18 hours.
I was famished. I took a tiny bite. Chewed. Swallowed, and then waited. Nothing happened. I then, greedily gobbled up the rest of my sandwich.
After eating, I decided to get up and look around. I told myself I was looking for a way to escape but I think it was really morbid curiosity. I stood up again, placing weight on mostly my right leg and just the toes of my left one. I limped around the room. Each of the four falls of my square cell was made from a thick, hard, wood-like material. I banged on each of them, but was unable to make much noise. Plus it seemed soundproof. There was a small flight of stairs along one wall. Although I had no way of knowing which direction anything I actually faced, I dubbed this wall the North wall. There was a large steel door above the steps, with five separate locks on it.
The locks only opened on the outside of this door. Three opened like normal deadbolts. One looked like the inside of a numbered dial, and the last was—I guessed based on what I saw—was digital. The room had no windows, and the only air vents were in the ceiling, fifteen to twenty feet above the ground. The room itself was fairly small, perhaps five feet by five feet, by however tall it was. There were large, partially cleaned blood stains all over. A thick layer of dust, food crumbs, and god knows what else covered the filthy, cold, cement ground. I even saw a handful of cobwebs, and one extremely large, brown spider. I saw a security camera—again out of my reach in the southwest corner of the room, directly above the bed. I could tell from the red light that it was on, but not if it was filming me.
Presuming that I was being watched, I willed myself to “behave” at all times. After making several laps around my prison, I returned to the bed, exhausted. I sat down, and tried to imagine what Jack might say to me when he came back, so I could practice my response lies. I wanted them to sound sincere. You don’t want him to catch on, or he might really hurt you. I had this conversation entirely in my head, carefully sitting in bed, facing away from the camera so that he wouldn’t see me if my lips accidentally moved.
Jack was insane but also—in his mind—sort of logical in his thinking. His life had been made horrible because of his disfigurement, and so he believed that people like me were the problem. I could almost see where he was coming from. I had worked hard in my life, but maybe part of the reason I was so successful, at least in some areas of my life. Maybe if I’d had a huge scar across my face, my patients wouldn’t feel as safe with me. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten into medical school, or gotten a job at such a great job. But then again, maybe my hard work, and all the time I spent studying were probably at least somewhat helpful. Plenty of people who didn’t look like me had successful lives. There’s also his lunacy to consider. Would you hire a guy who thinks beautiful people need to be broken and destroyed?
“Stop it!” I shouted at myself, stupidly. I said it aloud. I whimpered, waiting for my captor to return and ask why I was screaming and fussing and then try to comfort me. Or worse he'd come down and do something god awful as form of "punishment" since I had knowingly broken the rules we'd agreed to. The rules he agreed to and was forcing on me. Two minutes passed (I counted, holding my breath) then a few more. Then, a few more minutes passed (this time I just let time go by on its own, not counting or anything) and a few more. Nothing happened.
My thoughts jumped around but mostly I was able to stay focused: When he comes down here next time, I have to just listen to what he says, and try to agree with it. He’s probably going to want to fuck me. Maybe if I don’t fight, maybe if I play along, like he’s sensitive to my body and act like he is the best lover I’ve ever had, then maybe…no that won’t work! He’s an expert in body language, and he’s been watching me for god knows how long. I don’t think he’ll ever believe me, but I have to try all the same.
I sat there for what felt like hours, imagining all the things Jack might possibly say and do to me, how he was likely going to “play with” me before he got down to the disfigurement. I would have to take all of that, try not to scream. I’d have to fight (he said he hated the “easy to break” boys) but not a lot. I’d have to pretend to see the light. Admit my whole life had been based on luck and my good looks. I’d thank him, for what he did to me, and promise to help him spread his message. I practiced ways to act like I had suddenly gone from thinking he was insane to thinking he was brilliant. I had managed to do similar things with House on more than one occasion; I was good at it.
xxxxx
I heard the deadbolts unlocking, and the door creaked a bit as Jack opened it. I turned around so I would be facing him, and sat perfectly still, my head held low. I heard footsteps and then blinding florescent lights flooded on all over the room.
“Lie down, Jim,” Jack ordered. I did as I was told. “I suppose you’ve had a lot of time to think while you’ve been down here alone, haven’t you?” I didn’t move. “Good, boy, Jim. You may respond now. What have you been thinking about?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said. How my good looks have given me an unfair advantage in life. I don’t completely agree with your theory that only pretty people get anywhere in life, but maybe it’s not right that I look the way I do…is okay if I continue?” Jack smiled taser still in hand and he sat down beside me on the bed. Now he was close enough for me to see him well. He’d showered and washed and styled his hair since the last time I saw him, and he was wearing skin tight slacks without a shirt. I couldn’t tell for certain, but I was pretty sure he was going commando, to borrow a phrase from House.
“You could, but I don’t think you want to. You’ve definitely started thinking the right way, Jim and I am amazed. This is the fastest turn around I’ve ever seen.” He stroked my cheek with one hand, and my thigh with the other. “But you’re also blowing smoke up my ass, aren’t you, Jim? Go ahead and nod.” I responded as he told me to. “You’re also the first of my boys to ever try it,” he explained, stroking my leg more and more. I closed my eyes trying to focus on not letting my body respond to his touch.
Unfortunately, this seemed to make Jake furious. He jabbed a long, sharp fingernail directly into my groin. I gritted my teeth together swallowing a yelp. “I’m sorry, Jim. I really don’t like doing those sorts of things, but don’t you dare look away from me like that. Never again, understand?” I nodded, praying I was still allowed to do so.
Jack began to cry. “People stare at me from far away but when I try and talk to somebody, try and get close. When I try to make a real connection with someone, they always turn away. Even that first slut wouldn’t look at me, and I was paying him good money. I got so angry with him. I just wanted him to look me in the eyes!” Jack sobbed. Terrified of how he might respond, but afraid to not comfort the psycho, I reached up and wrapped my arm around the man’s shoulder.
He smiled again. “I knew you were different, Jim. I knew you were special. You’re mine, aren’t you?” I didn’t respond. “Good boy. I’m sorry about hurting you down there, though. You probably won’t be able to get a stiffy for a while, huh?” Once again, I stayed motionless. “That’s okay; I’ll get you off next time.” Jack took my hand with his enormous paw, and pulled it to his crotch. He was rock hard, almost bursting out of the zipper.
I wanted to shut my eyes more than ever, but I knew I couldn’t. When Jack mentioned the “slut,” I recalled hearing about the first victim. A nineteen-year-old male prostitute, found with his eyelids removed, among other things. “That’s it, Jim,” he whispered, pulling the fly open. What happened next seemed fragmented. Pieces of old home movies stitched together to form a story. It makes sense, you know what took place during the video but at the same time, you don’t see the whole story.
The memories remain almost impossible to access, which I decided must have been a coping mechanism of some kind. Once finished, Jack collapsed on top of me, breathing heavily, and stroking my hair. “That was fantastic, Jim. I have never seen a boy take to me so quickly. I knew you were the one. I always knew it.” To him, it probably sounded like a compliment, possibly even pillow talk. To him it probably sounded like he was telling me he loved me and how I was his soul mate or something, but I was not comforted by these words. After he was finished, I felt my entire body trembling, and I couldn’t stop it.
Be still, I thought to myself, over and over and over. I tried to command my body to behave, to do what I wanted—needed—it to do. Nothing worked. I continued to tremble like a terrified toddler. Stop shaking or he’s gonna do something even much, much worse. You stupid piece of crap, stop it, my mind shouted at my body.
“It’s alright, Jim. This is all new to you. After what I did earlier, you have plenty of reasons to be terrified of me. In time, you’ll start to relax and trust me though. By the time I’m finished with you, everything is going to be perfect. You’ll see that we were made for each other. I just have to fix a few things. I just have to take it away. You’re cursed, Jim but don’t worry, I can cure you of it. Soon, you won’t be cursed with this horrible, horrible beauty anymore. And then we’ll live happily ever after together.” He climbs off of the bed, zips up his pants, and walks out of the cell, locking me inside.