Chapter Text
“Okay, so if you really wanna do this–”
House, who had been mouthing his way along the hollow of Wilson's throat, makes an annoyed noise and leans back to glower. “Uh, I'm already doing this, if you would shut up.”
Wilson rolls his eyes. “I'm just saying, if we're going to do this, you need to be aware of the–”
“What, do you have really nasty top surgery scars? Weird bottom growth? Embarrassing tattoos?”
“What? No, I—”
“Wilson. James.” House waits for Wilson to make eye contact. His pupils are blown wide and his lips are bright red and slightly swollen. It's an excellent look on him. “I don't care about anything you could possibly have going on. I just want you. I said that.”
Wilson practically melts, almost swooning back into the kiss. If House knew all it would take was some pretty words, he'd have been doing this ages ago.
House loses track of time, there in his dim living room with the baseball game forgotten in the background, Wilson heavy and warm and soft on his lap. The kisses get deeper and wetter, and Wilson's hands come up to make tight fists in the front of House's worn t-shirt. House takes his time sliding his own hands under the back of Wilson's button down, skating blunt fingernails up and down the smooth skin there.
“You're driving me crazy,” Wilson murmurs into House’s mouth. House nips at his bottom lip in retaliation and has to stifle a laugh at the breathy noise that earns him.
“You were already crazy,” House says. Wilson starts to argue, but if he wanted to hear Wilson argue, he'd have talked to him during business hours. Right now there are only a few things he wants Wilson to be doing with his mouth, and arguing is none of them.
House hums contemplatively and makes a show of dragging one finger down Wilson's front, catching on each of the buttons on his shirt. Wilson swallows hard, throat working. A small smile plays on the corners of House’s kiss-bruised mouth when he starts to fiddle with the top button, easing it through its loop, eyes darting up to see how Wilson is faring under the attention.
Wilson is watching with his mouth soft and open, breaths coming quick and shallow with the effort of holding still while House moves to the next button. Slowly, the first three buttons of Wilson’s shirt are undone, and House leans in to plant an open kiss there, in the dip between Wilson’s collarbones. Wilson’s breath hitches and his hands move to House’s shoulders, holding tight.
“You like that?” House teases, doing it again.
“Not at all,” Wilson says breathlessly. When the next button is undone, his hips twitch, like he’s having to work to hold himself back from grinding onto House’s lap mindlessly. House hides his grin by burying his face into the crook of Wilson’s neck, earning him a shiver and a whine.
Wilson smells like the expensive cologne he’s always wearing, with a layer of antiseptic underneath that he can never quite cover up. It’s like the hand sanitizer and disinfectant and hospital soap are just another layer on his skin, another part of him, like they are a part of House. They’re a matched set, steeped in shared history and time spent attached at the hip, and House has to dig his teeth into Wilson’s neck to stop the flood of emotion that threatens to rise up like water from a deep well.
“Jesus, Greg,” Wilson breathes, squirming.
“What, are you afraid of a little bruising? No hematomas for the big bad oncologist?”
Wilson makes a desperate little sound at that, and House has to pull back to marvel at him.
“Oh, you really like that idea, huh?” he muses, watching Wilson’s face somehow get even redder. House smiles, slow and dangerous. “Want me to bruise you up? Make you wear a scarf to work, so all your nurses don’t notice and wonder who’s been getting a piece of that sweet ass?”
“f*ck,” Wilson grits out, hips stuttering forward again, all worked up and still fully clothed except for those shirt buttons.
“That’s the plan,” House hums, and returns his attention to getting Wilson naked.
The rest of the shirt buttons go quickly, Wilson pliant and soft under House’s touches. Finally, the shirt falls to the floor, leaving House with full access to run his hands along every inch of Wilson’s torso, calloused hands catching on the soft skin there.
The surgery scars are silvery and smooth, one under each pec, old and healed. They were clearly very expertly stitched and carefully cared for, barely even there after what must have been at least a decade, by House’s best estimate. He trails a finger along one of them and savors the way Wilson shivers as he traces the line, stopping at a divot that must have been where a drain was placed, working his way across to where a smaller scar branches off to meet the nipple.
Wilson hums apologetically. “I never really got much feeling back in my nipples, after everything healed up.”
“I’m sure you have feeling in other places,” House says with a deliberately gross leer, and goes for the fly on Wilson’s slacks. Wilson yelps adorably and bats House’s hands away. House pouts, but keeps his hands to himself for a second, waiting to see what Wilson will do.
“You’re still wearing your shirt. It’s not fair,” Wilson complains, eyes sparkling, the bastard.
“Oh, whatever,” House mutters. He shoves Wilson backwards and grabs for the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head and flinging it somewhere in the direction of the kitchen. “Happy now?”
“Very,” Wilson says, and spreads a hand across House’s chest, pausing to thumb over a nipple. House stifles a groan, and Wilson smiles, pleased. “Okay, so I might not have feeling in my nipples, but you definitely do.”
“Do not,” House tries, but it’s a fail of a lie, because Wilson grabs and twists and House moans, a filthy, surprised sound that only seems to egg Wilson on. He pinches and rolls the nipple again, other hand snaking up to give the same treatment to the other one, and if House wasn’t already hard in his jeans, he definitely would be now.
Wilson pinches again, particularly hard, and leans down when House opens his mouth in a groan. Wilson hums happily and slides their mouths together, tongue warm and wet and slick where it traces along House’s lips, on the edge of his teeth. It’s heady and hot, and House can barely breathe through the feeling of it all, the smooth glide of tongue, the sharp pinches that Wilson keeps giving. It’s beautiful.
“I don’t like penetration,” Wilson says without preamble, leaning back.
House blinks at him dumbly. “Uh, okay?”
“I mean, I can handle it, and sometimes it’s fine, but usually it’s just unpleasant,” Wilson continues, casually, wrinkling his nose like he’s talking about a bout of unpleasant weather. House nods along, barely paying attention. All the blood in his body is nowhere near his brain, so he’s pretty sure he would agree with anything Wilson said just to get those hands back on him.
“And?” House prompts, when Wilson seems content to sit back and wait for a response.
He shrugs. “I just thought I should say something before we get any more naked. Because I’m definitely about to get you more naked.”
House laughs at that, but the laugh turns into a bitten-off groan when Wilson slides a hand down to the fly of House’s jeans. The jeans are uncomfortably tight, but they somehow get even tighter when Wilson uses unfairly steady hands to slide the zipper down and undo the button, exposing the waistband of House’s boxers and the trail of hair that disappears into them.
“Lift up with your good leg, I’m gonna slide your pants down,” Wilson instructs, standing, his doctor voice sending a shiver down House’s spine and making him throb with need. He immediately makes a mental note to get Wilson to be commanding more often, especially in times like right now, when House is half out of his mind with want and wants to follow commands with a fervor that he’s never really felt before, not even when he went on a few dates with a dominatrix back in med school. He’d never been remotely into receiving orders, not even in a sexy way, but if Wilson’s the one doing it, House is pretty sure he’s along for the ride.
Once the jeans are down, Wilson kneels between House’s knees, one hand on each thigh. House tries to shy away from the attention on the gnarled mess of scar tissue and skin, but Wilson holds tight, warm palm open and unafraid.
“It’s ugly,” House says, as close to apologizing as he can possibly be right now.
“It’s just you,” Wilson says simply, sliding his hands up to House’s waistband.
A punched out sigh rattles from House’s throat when Wilson runs a finger over the front of his boxers, a fingertip barely ghosting over the frankly embarrassing wet spot there. Wilson’s tongue darts out to lick his lips and House finds himself involuntarily mirroring him, watching with heavy-lidded eyes as Wilson slowly, slowly drags the waistband downward and frees his aching co*ck.
Wilson looks up for a second, beams, and then leans in, never breaking eye contact as he slides his lips down over the head. House hisses at the tightness, the heat of it all, the way Wilson’s eyes are dark and endless and steady. One of Wilson’s hands comes up to palm the shaft as he sucks gently on the tip, tongue running over the sensitive skin there, making House see stars.
“Good God,” House breathes. He runs a hand through Wilson’s hair, just like he’s always wanted to, deliberately messing it up. Wilson takes the movement as encouragement and takes House deeper into his mouth, lips stretching obscenely and cheeks hollowing as he sucks. House sees entire f*cking galaxies, fingers tightening in Wilson’s hair reflexively, which only serves to draw a moan from the other man that vibrates House’s co*ck in the most delicious way.
Wilson laughs a bit at the way House’s eyes flutter, which sends even more vibrations along House’s length. House has to work to avoid f*cking into Wilson’s mouth, carefully holding himself as still as he can while Wilson bobs slowly, up and down, up and down. He quickens his pace gradually, one hand working while he takes as much as he can into his mouth, the heat and wetness of it all driving House out of his mind with want and need.
Wilson pulls off with a pop, a string of spit dripping onto the tip of House’s co*ck in a way that makes it twitch. He almost gives in to the urge to shove Wilson’s head back down, but Wilson starts saying something, so House waits breathlessly.
“You can f*ck my throat, if you want. I don’t mind,” he says, and bends back down to take House deep into his throat. House can feel the moment the head of his co*ck hits the back of Wilson’s throat, and Wilson chokes a little bit, the spasming of his throat tight and perfect.
“You’re gonna kill me,” House groans. He fists one hand in Wilson’s hair and pushes, just a bit, toes curling at the way it draws a moan from somewhere deep in Wilson’s chest. Wilson bobs his head up and down quicker, gasping wetly around House’s co*ck, the fingers of his free hand digging into the skin on House’s intact thigh. House keeps a tight grip in Wilson’s hair and works him up and down, each pull bringing Wilson further onto his co*ck, bringing the white heat coiling in House’s stomach closer to the surface.
House loses himself to the bleary haze of pleasure, only really able to focus on the sounds Wilson is making, the slight drag of his teeth on the underside of House’s co*ck, the way he groans into it when he bottoms out. Somewhere, the baseball game is over and an infomercial is playing, but that’s the furthest thing from House’s mind. Right now all he cares about is whether Wilson will let him cum down his throat.
“James, I’m gonna–” House tries to warn, but Wilson only swallows around House’s co*ck, throat tightening and closing and–
House swears he meets Jesus Christ Himself in that moment.
When he finally catches his breath, he sees Wilson leaning his head on House’s good knee, staring up at him with something soft and gentle in his eyes. House’s head lolls and he gasps for breath, slowly remembering how to work his fingers so he can let go of his iron grip in Wilson’s hair. Wilson hums and presses a kiss to House’s knee with his wet lips.
“You’re a menace,” House breathes, “A slu*tty, slu*tty menace.”
“You’re into that,” Wilson rasps. His voice is deliciously wrecked.
“You don’t need to look so satisfied,” House tells him.
Wilson gives a little breathless laugh. “I am satisfied, though.”
“We haven’t even gotten to the main course yet,” House says. He taps Wilson’s temple and shakes his knee, trying to dislodge Wilson, who seems content to sit lazily at House’s feet for the foreseeable future. House has other ideas, but unfortunately, they involve a change of location. “Move. I’m trying to take this party to the bedroom.”
“Bossy,” Wilson complains, but stands up anyway. He pushes his hands into the small of his back and groans before holding out a hand to House, who stares at it for a second before deciding that it’ll be easier to just take the help where it’s offered. He grabs Wilson around the wrist and uses it to leverage himself to his feet, doing his best to hide the wince when the foot of his bad leg makes contact with the floor. It’s not comfortable, but it only has to bear his weight long enough to get into bed, so he’ll manage.
House uses the walls to support himself, but Wilson hovers all the same, which House deliberately ignores.
“You have an unfair advantage here,” House says when he’s sat on the edge of his bed, gesturing at himself sans clothes and Wilson, who is still wearing pants.
Wilson rolls his eyes but undoes his belt, hooking his fingers in the waistband of his slacks to pull them down. The pants end up kicked off somewhere across the room for one of them to trip over in the morning. Wilson’s underwear are simple and gray, and House glares at them until Wilson huffs and drags them down too.
“Happy?” Wilson asks.
“I will be when you get over here,” House complains, patting the bed.
Wilson rolls his eyes, but goes nonetheless. There’s a split second of awkwardness when they’re both sat on House’s unmade bed, fully naked, staring at each other in the dark and silence. House breaks it by reaching out with both hands and grabbing at Wilson’s shoulders to haul him in as he flops backwards, causing Wilson to yelp and flail as he’s dragged down unceremoniously to land on top of House.
Wilson opens his mouth to complain, but House silences him by impulsively sticking two fingers inside. Wilson’s eyes go wide and he closes his lips around House’s fingers, sucking gently and swirling his tongue. If House hadn’t just cum, he would have been immediately hard again.
“Sit on my face,” House says without preamble.
Wilson squeaks and grabs House’s wrist to remove the fingers from his mouth. “I’ll suffocate you!"
“You won’t.” House rolls his eyes. “Besides, name a sex position that my sh*tty leg is gonna be able to handle for any length of time that doesn’t involve you on top.”
Realization dawns on Wilson’s face, and he leans in to kiss House apologetically. House lets him, savoring the salty taste on Wilson’s lips and tongue. Wilson kisses deeply, shifting himself on House’s lap so that he’s straddling House’s good leg. The wetness between Wilson’s thighs is hot and slick when Wilson starts to move himself back and forth, his mouth never leaving House’s.
House hums appreciatively and they stay that way for a while, making out sloppily while Wilson rides House’s thigh slow and hard. House runs his hands up and down Wilson’s sides and swallows the shivery noises it draws from him.
After a few minutes, House breaks the kiss to say, “I wasn’t kidding.”
It takes some shuffling and adjusting, but finally they end up with House flat on his back, Wilson hovering nervously over him, House’s hands braced on Wilson’s soft thighs. Wilson stares down with huge pupils and his mouth slightly open, already gasping even though he’s barely been touched.
House pulls, and Wilson goes, coming to a tentative seat on House’s face.
The world immediately falls away. The television in the other room, the cars rushing by outside, the ambulance siren a few blocks away, none of it matters. All that matters in this moment is the way Wilson’s thighs bracket House’s head like earmuffs, blocking out sound and holding him in while Wilson carefully, carefully rests his weight onto House’s face.
House meets him with an open mouth, tongue laving out to meet the slickness that’s all but dripping. Wilson makes a punched-out sound somewhere in the world above, but House doesn’t fully register it. He swipes his tongue around in circles, careful not to press too hard on Wilson’s co*ck, slow and gentle no matter how much he wants to dive in.
“Christ, House,” Wilson murmurs. One hand comes down to press onto the top of House’s head in encouragement.
House rolls Wilson’s co*ck around on his tongue, applying just the slightest bit of sucking pressure to it, paying close attention to which movements make Wilson jerk and shudder. The salty taste of Wilson’s pleasure soaks House’s face, sweeter when he dips his tongue down towards Wilson’s entrance, teasing the rim but never sliding past. Wilson said he didn’t like penetration, and House isn’t going to test it.
Wilson rocks forward, effectively cutting off House’s air supply, which is way hotter than it should be. He takes it as a sign of encouragement and moves faster, letting spit pool in his mouth to make the glide even wetter and filthier. Wilson is panting now, breath coming in short bursts with high pitched whines on the end as he rocks himself onto House’s tongue.
Wilson bites off a curse when he c*ms, hand scrabbling at House’s hair, thighs shaking as he falls apart. House holds him there and doesn’t relent, tongue working Wilson through the org*sm with devotion until Wilson flinches at the overstimulation and slumps over.
They catch their breath there in the dark for a few minutes, chests heaving, wetness drying in House’s stubble. After he feels like his heart rate is back to a sustainable pace, House flops a hand around on the bed until he finds Wilson’s arm.
“That was f*cking awesome,” he says, holding Wilson’s wrist and feeling the pulse race there.
“Yeah,” Wilson agrees. “I’ll have to send Cuddy a thank you card.”
“An edible arrangement,” House laughs. Wilson swats at him and goes to grab a wet washcloth and two pairs of pajama bottoms. He tries to wipe House’s face, but House shakes him off and does it himself. They take turns brushing their teeth and there’s only a second of hesitation before Wilson crawls into bed with House, triple checking the alarm and making sure both their phones are on do not disturb.
They fall asleep together, and in the morning, there are hand shaped bruises on both of Wilson’s thighs that turn his face bright red when he notices.
