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"House," Wilson tries, forcing his words out with all of the urgency he can muster, "this isn't a good idea—we- we have to talk about this first, you can't just- oh-"
He's trapped under the other man's weight with his back pressed rather uncomfortably to the edge of his own wooden desk, flush with panic and uncertain arousal. The things on his desk are pushed off to the sides, all but toppling over the edges. A premonition of picking up after House prickles the nape of Wilson's neck in irritation, his mind still reeling from the seemingly abrupt change of pace.
He shouldn't be doing this. They shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be letting House do this to him, take whatever he wants, however he's wanted it, destroy everything that matters. He should've made off the moment he heard the door lock, too frustrated and argumentative—too caught up in the moment to have it in him to notice or care. They've never ventured into this territory, shocking as that may be even to him, and he feels that what House is doing now might be the single spark needed to implode their relationship.
Wilson presses up against the body smothering him in a sorry attempt to wiggle free and swallows the noise that bubbles up in his throat when he's met with twice the amount of force pushing him back onto the table. His skin warms, electric; he doesn't remember the last time someone has taken him to bed, much less his office. He's ridiculous for even letting it get this far. In spite of his apprehension, though, House's voice rings clear to him when he speaks. "Are you telling me you don't want this?"
Before Wilson has a chance to say a single thing—not that he really had anything in mind, anyway, not with House's leg slotting itself right between his thighs—there's a set of slick, sharp teeth ghosting along his jugular that sets fire to the already growing pit in his stomach. He's so fucked. "House," he tries again, a bit more brokenly this time as his voice gives out under his weakening resolve, "I don't think-"
An admonishing slap to Wilson's thigh disrupts his train of thought. No, scratch that; it uproots his conscious mind completely. A faint moan forces its way past his lips before he's able to process the sensations blooming through him, and he doesn't really even realize what he's done until he catches a glimpse of the wild, unyielding gleam now fixed in House's eyes. He hardens despite himself, swallowing around the anxious pressure gathered in the hollow of his throat.
"I don't think I remember asking you what you thought," House says, in this low, rasping tone that sends shivers down his spine. He draws each word out on his tongue, dripping like honey, cloying Wilson's senses and rendering his logical mind impotent. It leaves him breathless and practically baring his neck, exhibiting the pale expanse of skin like some kind of temptation. He's so, so, so fucked. He thinks of how fucked he is when House licks his pulse; he also thinks of how fucked he is when the leg pressed against his crotch drags upward and pushes back down; the crescendo of this single thought peaks when House lowers his hands to Wilson's hips and shoves him further up the desk, manhandles him, leaves him there panting and limp. House eyes him critically from where he stands, shifting his weight to accommodate the soreness in his leg from all the rough handling.
"You still worried about where this is going, Mr. Goody two-shoes?
Oh.
The question stuns Wilson a small amount—he'd gotten so worked up and so lost in the rhythm House was putting out that the thought of stopping him was blotted out by the pure need pooling in his gut. Whatever reservations he'd had about doing this had been shoved into a corner of his mind that he hadn't planned on revisiting. He whines, a small, soft sound, pushing his hips forward and trying to find House's leg again.
"Don't be an ass," he manages to groan out in between his racing thoughts, unaware of how he's presenting himself to House. It's probably for the better; as easy as it is to unravel him, this specific situation sounds every alarm in Wilson's body. It’s just—he wouldn't really fuck his best friend, would he? Especially House, of all people, when something like this could have repercussions beyond his imagination? Was he capable of sinking to that level? The distinct question of Oh God in heaven, am I a whore? pings through his thoughts rather exasperatingly, wholly forgotten when House presses back up against him and drops a hand between his legs. He whimpers a shaky "oh," answering his own question as his head tips back and bumps the desk. Something rooted deep inside of him churns, dark and insistent. He doesn't want to admit just how much he wants to give into it.
"You're wet," House observes, dragging his finger almost tauntingly up the darkened front of Wilson's slacks, right along the seam that his swollen cock is pressing against. Those two words combined are devastating to Wilson. Sure enough, the fabric there is sticky, damp from the absurd amount he'd been leaking. He responds with a sharp gasp and bucks his hips into the contact, turning his head to the side as he attempts not to look so ashamed. He's not sure if he's supposed to say something back, and House's eyes piercing through him only makes it harder to think. He really didn't mean to get this far, at any rate; he's just so needy, so eager to be touched however he can that his body's gotten ahead of him.
"I- I can't help it," Wilson says, his voice cracking, teetering between defensive and coy as he looks up at House apologetically, hoping he's not going to regret his admission. He feels a tinge of humiliation and tries not to let it gnaw at him, knowing full well how the older man can be, aware that there are some things he's better off not knowing.
House considers this for a moment with hungry eyes trained on Wilson's body, humming in response; it's something that Wilson isn't quite sure how to translate until a firm hand starts rubbing against the head of his cock, right where his pants are soaked through. House's other hand takes its place resting against Wilson's inner thigh and catalogs how it stutters at his touch.
"I need you to do something for me," House says quietly, speaking evenly over the soft, punched out noises Wilson lets out as he tries harder and harder to twist his hips further into House's grasp. He wants so badly to be touched, needs it, and the realization that he could cum like this occurs to him through a feeling of nagging dread, his cock twitching in his pants. He bites his lip, stifles himself long enough to pull in a steady breath so that he can reply.
"What—ah, what, what is it?" He's still unable to gain full control of himself, his chest heaving erratically, though he knows how much worse it could be. He's surprised he hasn't already dropped to his knees and started unbuckling House's belt himself in a fit of impatience. Lord knows he's imagined what he'd find.
"I need you to be a good boy for me-" oh, that felt like being punched in the stomach—when did House get like this? "-and suck."
It takes a moment for Wilson to register the fingers being pressed to his lower lip, but when he does, a shiver skips down his ribs and settles warmly in his pelvic floor. His thighs press together around House's hand involuntarily. He moans—something pleading and unbidden—and draws the full length of his fingers in, nearly laps at them, pulling his tongue along their underside as a play at obedience. House makes a low, enraptured sound at the sight, exhaling a faltering breath. He had some idea of how slutty Wilson could be from past conversations with thoughtless ex-wives, but seeing it, feeling it in the form of a warm, pliant mouth and drooling cock is worlds away from that. God, Wilson is just so easy. House almost starts to think he's begun to hallucinate again, mentally searching for a recollection of the last time he'd popped open a bottle of Vicodin when he feels Wilson's tongue working itself against his fingers and has to stop thinking altogether.
"Doing so good," he praises, the lilt in his voice reflecting his adoration as he pushes his free hand the rest of the way up Wilson's thigh to toy with his zipper. It's a teasing motion; House doesn't intend to give him that satisfaction yet, but he thoroughly enjoys watching the wounded look that forms on his face when he realizes what House is doing, thick brows knotting together. He nudges Wilson's thighs further apart, bowing over and lowering his head, scraping his teeth along the wet fabric covering his bulge. There's a possibility that he only does this to antagonize Wilson, and in any case, it works. He cries out, trying and failing to stay under control, pushing back against the hands pinning him down. He lets out a needy, wordless sound around House's fingers, spreads his legs further, offers more of himself up in the vain hope that House might take pity on him like this. Might dare to do the unthinkable. He’s most certainly a sight to behold—legs open wide, straining against his slacks, mouth falling lax as House rubs his thumb along the tender line of Wilson’s reddened, spit-slick lower lip. He pants against House’s hand and presses his cheek to it, already aching for relief.
“Please,” he breathes out, shifting his hips again. Dazed, he takes a moment to turn his eyes to House, half-lidded, unfocused. The light from the back door catches them well; House is able to see how dilated Wilson’s pupils are, having to swallow the derisive laugh that surfaces. Poor thing isn't even faking it. He hesitates to ask how long Wilson has waited for this, eaten his heart out over it, unwilling to face the answer. Nevertheless, he savors the image in front of him, one he knows will sear itself into his retinas unforgivingly.
“I couldn’t hear you,” House says gently, just shy of mocking, wiping the spit from his thumb off on Wilson’s cheek. “You have to speak up for me, James, tell me what you want. Use your words.” Another surge of arousal shoots up Wilson's spine, pushing a high-pitched moan up from beneath his sternum. His face colors a balmy shade of pink as his mind wanders back to the last time he'd heard something like that, stunned to hear it from the older man.
“Please,” Wilson begins again, his voice tapering off in a pitchy little noise; he feels raw, shocked alive by every lingering touch left by House’s exploring hands. “I need— I- oh, just touch me,” he pleads, growing incrementally quieter with each spoken word like he can hide behind his lowered volume. “Please, House, I can’t take this, it- it’s- it’s too much, I-…” He trails off, restless where he’s laid up on the desk, unsure of how to finish his sentence without embarrassing himself more than he already has.
“You’re doing such a good job,” House says gently under his breath, turning a momentary deaf ear to the begging he'd elicited, soothing the swell of Wilson’s hips with small, circular motions. His praise is received well—Wilson's breath hitches, dark eyes slipping shut briefly. His eyebrows tip up, drawn together in his distress. “I’m going to take care of you, alright?"
House regards the eager twinkle in the other's eyes with amusement and watches it roil in anticipation, bringing himself forward until he's flush to Wilson, unzipping his slacks. He answers the questioning look on his face with a harsh roll of his hips; Wilson responds beautifully, head thrown back as they press together, back arched into House's touch like he can't get enough of anything that House gives him and can't stand the space between them. He seems to lose himself in the feeling, content to let the older man continue rocking into him as long as it meant having some sort of release.
House slows his pace at that, drags each push and pull out, even making sure to relish in the sound of Wilson’s brain catching up with his body as an overwhelmed moan punches through him alongside hushed curses. Spurred on by the shameless demonstration before him, he bends down, bowing his body over Wilson’s to whisper rough-edged praises against the shell of his ear. He lays a hand flat on the younger man's stomach, pushing down slightly, bracing himself. House can almost feel the heat his body is radiating at this distance. “You’re so hot like this,” he croons, “just falling apart. Can’t believe I got this lucky, pretty slut like you with his legs spread for me."
Wilson makes a wrecked noise in response—something close to a sob—and squeezes his thighs around House's waist, grinding up against him, the words bolting straight through him. He sucks in a trembling breath as deft fingers undo his belt buckle, tugging at his waistband until it's digging into the backs of his thighs and ass. He squirms a bit at the exposure, his cheeks burning at the sight of House's fixed gaze. He's tempted to open his mouth, maybe snark out some sort of stupid question like 'are you just gonna sit there and stare all day? ', but the older is already cupping him through his briefs before he can quite get the words out. "Fuck," Wilson gasps, whimpering, his eyes watering as he bucks up into the warmth of House's palm, broad enough to leave him feeling like he's at his mercy. Heat begins to pool in his gut, pushing him closer and closer to the edge. Pleasure licks up his spine almost as an afterthought, eroding at overwhelmed nerves, heightened by House's insistent rubbing.
"Yeah? Not used to letting somebody else do the work, are you," House teases, working at Wilson's bulge with the heel of his palm. It goes without saying that he isn't used to being handled by another man, much less by the very last person he'd expect it from, and it shows in his oversensitivity as he groans and moves his hand to cover his mouth, his legs jerking inward. "C'mon, James, I know you're already close," he continues, leaning down to rumble the words into his ear, kissing down the line of his jaw to the soft underside of his neck.
"G-Greg, my clothes, I shouldn't," Wilson pants as he reaches out, grabbing at House's wrist with a sudden urgency, trying unsuccessfully to stop his movements. His foresight had fallen short, only kicking back in at the realization that he really was going to cum like this, his spare clothes an unfortunately long walk away in the locked trunk of his car. "It's gonna make a- a mess, you can't—"
"Not a problem for me," House interrupts, hushing the younger man with a rough roll of his wrist. He pulls his hand back and slips it underneath the waistband of Wilson's briefs, sliding them down before he can object. The motion fully exposes him, his head lolling to the side in hopes of avoiding House's gaze when he realizes just how much of him is on display. "Think it's a bit late for that, anyway," he says, glancing down at damp fabric, that penetrative gaze drifting upward, "already made a mess of yourself, and you didn't even have to try. Look at you." He takes the length of Wilson's swollen cock into his hand, giving him a light squeeze, pushing his thumb underneath the sensitive head of his cock experimentally. House is nothing short of enthralled by the way he reacts, his hand moving to cover his mouth again, whining high in his throat; his eyes fall almost unwillingly to watch himself thrust into the other man's grasp, just throbbing in it, transfixed on the slick sounds it starts to make when he settles into a rhythm. "That's it," House murmurs, squeezing tighter as Wilson begins to come undone underneath him, "that's it, baby, just let go. Wish everybody could see you like this. See how easy you are, how quickly you lose your composure. Bet you'd love the attention, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, God," Wilson cries out, straining to keep quiet, "House, I- I'm— nnh-!" He cuts off at that, his hips stuttering and pressing down into the desk, arching his back. Warmth spills out from House's fist onto his stomach and stains the fringes of his shirttails, even managing to reach his tie. An embarrassed blush creeps across his cheeks at about the same time that House smiles, clearly satisfied with the results of his little escapade, his fingers still dripping with cum.
"You put on quite the show." His hand finds its way back to Wilson's cheek, cradling it for a few moments, watching horror and recognition flicker through the younger's expression before pressing his thumb to his lip expectantly. Wilson knows better than to open his mouth in something as fruitless as an objection, squirming with tentative unease as House slips his thumb the rest of the way in, his softening cock still twitching with arousal. He swallows around it, unable to help the soft moan he lets out at the unfamiliar taste in his mouth.
House withdraws his hand after a moment and hums in approval, rifling through his pockets with his dry hand for something to clean off with, coming up with a couple of wrinkled napkins from the cafeteria that he'd forgotten about.
"Not that I had much of a choice," Wilson responds enigmatically, finally having found his voice, muscles flexing involuntarily under House's touch where he reaches down to soak up most of the mess that'd been made. With all the thoughts swarming back into his head, he's not apt to say much, instead falling silent while he observes House's movements.
"Oh, come on, like this wasn't a long time coming. Don't get hung up on all the details, especially considering who got who off. And you call me selfish," House says, feigning hurt as he gestures vaguely at himself, leaning over to drop the used napkins into where he thinks—hopes—the trash can is. "Either way, no worries. You can always repay the debt some other time. I mean, you know where I live." He backs away with a slight limp, bending down to retrieve his discarded cane. On his way back up he flashes Wilson a simultaneously smug and teasing grin—one that leads him to second-guess just how serious House is being.
"You- you're leaving?" Wilson doesn't mean for his voice to come out as incredulous as it does, because after all, they are still at work. They'd probably end up arguing again, anyway. But he can't help feeling a bit cheated, like it's not something he can wait to talk about, or at least like House could maybe stay just a little longer. If only to assure him that he hadn't dreamt everything, that he wouldn't wake up in bed with sheets to clean and a guilty conscience.
"You'll have to start paying if I stay any longer," House replies, already mid-doorknob-turn. He doesn't open his mouth to speak again, but the glint in his eyes seems to say enough for the both of them, both cautionary and beckoning. 'You know where I live.'
Wilson is still turning the words over in his mind after the door clicks shut behind House, even still when he starts to put himself back together, and when he locks up for the night, his hand lingering on the doorknob all the same.