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“You want me to wear… that?” Wilson asks, fidgeting with the hems of his McGill pullover as he looks at the thing between House’s middle and forefinger.
“Yeah. C’mon, it’s just a vibrator,” House says with a shrug, making Wilson scoff. “A remote control vibrator, House! And you want me to wear that at work? Do you know how many policies that would be violating? It might even be sexual assault, I-I don’t know!” he says, raising his hands defensively.
They’re both drunk. It’s a Sunday night, and House had still insisted they have “a couple shots”. “A couple shots” turned into “a couple more”, which turned into the six-pack of beers empty on the floor beneath their feet. Wilson would usually never get drunk on a Sunday night like this; House always changes his mind.
“You’re making it out as a bigger deal than it is,” House argues, clearly holding back an amused smirk at Wilson’s frown.
“Why should I have to be the one to wear it? Why can’t you?” House can already tell Wilson is slipping. “I don’t think it’d work very well on my kind,” he responds, already knowing he’s won.
Wilson bites his lip.
House always changes his mind.
The next day at work, it’s a nightmare. The small, pill-shaped vibrator taped to his shaft hasn’t gone off yet, but the threat of it going off whenever he stands or dares to talk with someone is the part that has him on edge (not really; he’s only a little hard). He knows House is watching him, planning to strike when he least expects it.
And oh boy, does he.
“How’s your patient? The six year-old?” a colleague of Wilson’s from the oncology department asks at the urinals, making Wilson raise an eyebrow. Starting a conversation mid-piss is a little strange, but whatever. At least someone’s showing interest in his career.
“Fine,” Wilson says. “Chemo seems to be working. She—” Suddenly, Wilson jolts, leaning forwards to clutch onto the edge of the urinal in order to keep himself upright. The vibrator’s gone off mid-piss, making his breath hitch and stream stutter. It’s humiliating—utterly humiliating!
His colleague in the stall one down from his own raises an eyebrow, but thankfully, politely averts his gaze from Wilson’s penis. “Are you alright?” he asks though, seemingly a little hesitant. Wilson can’t blame him; he did just nearly collapse at a urinal, the quiet little hum of the vibrator against his dick echoing throughout his body, attacking his nerves in a way that make him feel so awfully good. Really, being tormented and humiliated like this shouldn't make his dick so hard; he should be mad! He is!
He's just... harder than he is angry.
Wilson just puts on a weak little smile, jerkily nodding. "Y-Yep. Fine," he reassures, but doesn't look so confident in his answer. He wants to kill House.
His colleague shrugs, deciding to give Wilson, who clearly needs it, some space, zipping up his fly and flushing the urinal. Once he's gone, Wilson sighs in relief as the vibrator stops vibrating. As the bathroom door closes, another one opens behind him; a stall door. Out, unsurprisingly, comes House, who's wearing a way too cocky smirk on his face, a small remote in his hand. The vibrators' remote.
Wilson, fly down but dick thankfully in his pants, turns, glaring at House. "You had no right to do that," he hisses through grit teeth, stumbling forwards to House, backing him into the stall.
House hums as the back of his knees hit the toilet, gaze drifting down to the bulge in Wilson's boxers, which is visible through the unzipped fly and undone button. "It doesn't seem like you were too opposed to it," he says cockily, meeting Wilson's glaring eyes, a soft pink blush spreading across his cheeks.
"It doesn't matter. How was I supposed to explain myself if he saw that? If he heard that?" Wilson says, the door shutting behind them. Wilson blinks, the click bringing him to awareness. But instead of backing off, realizing that maybe it's just a dumb joke, he turns around, only to lock it before facing House again. House seems to notice Wilson's change in demeanor, smile faltering slightly. The curve of his lips doesn't reach his eyes.
"Come on, Wilson. Don't be like this. It was a joke. A joke you agreed to," House argues slowly. Wilson's kind of hot, towering (metaphorically, of course) over him like this.
"I didn't agree to letting you torment me in the middle of a conversation," Wilson says back, gripping House by the collar of his blue button-up under his blazer. "He probably thinks I'm a weirdo," he continues, even as his hand snakes down to grip House's waist, thumb rubbing idly along his waistline. When Wilson makes eye-contract, House doesn't, looking anywhere but those accusing, lustful eyes. "A freak." Wilson's hand dips, tracing House's zipper before undoing it, popping open the button of his fly at the same time. House tenses, but doesn't pull away. "A slut."
Wilson yanks down House's trousers to let them pool around his ankles, leaving him clad in his boxers; there's a damp patch in-between House's trembling thighs, so Wilson continues.
Mercifully, as Wilson yanks the thin pair of boxers down, he lets House lean against the wall of the stall next to theirs to balance himself in a less painful way. "But we both know that's not really the case, is it, House?" Wilson taunts, voice laced with undertones of amusement as he trails a finger through the wetness of House's cunt, collecting slick on his index finger.
House swallows hard, gaze locked on to where Wilson is clearly preparing to finger him. House is soaked; slick coats his inner thighs, which are trembling with need.
"Wilson—" he tries. "Shut up," Wilson snaps, and House does as he's told for the first time in a long time.
"You're so wet, you probably don't even need lube. You don't deserve it, anyways," Wilson hums, using the slick that he's collected to easily push into House's hole. House grunts, body tensing for only a brief moment before relaxing around the intrusion. Wilson doesn't fail to notice the way his pussy is practically sucking him in, and laughs. "God, you're more of a slut than I thought you were," he mutters, slightly to himself as he pumps his finger in and out of House's heat, easily adding a second and a third only a few moments later.
When Wilson finally pulls them out, his other hand is already shoving his own boxers down. Wilson's cock springs out, flushed and erect with need. "Dripping like a stupid whore," Wilson taunts again, even as he tears the taped-on pill vibrator off of his own dick, drawing a needy, pathetic whine out of House, who hadn't even known he could make those sounds before now. Wilson nudges the tip of his cock against House's entrance, encouraging a willing House to spread his legs a little more before pushing in with one harsh thrust— no warning.
Wilson easily sets a harsh pace, pounding House against the stall wall. "Stupid, mindless slut," he grunts, forcing House to grip onto Wilson's trembling shoulders for stabilization. "Taunting me all day only to be this wet yourself like a cheap. store-bought whore. God, you disgust me," Wilson rants. House, on the other hand, stays quiet for the most part, lips parted in silent ecstasy. His eyes shut long ago, too focused on the pleasure Wilson so roughly delivers. It feels amazing as he pounds into House's cunt, the wet squelching of skin slapping against moist skin echoing throughout the bathroom stall.
"Thinking you're so smart, so clever, only to be brought this low in a fucking bathroom stall. Yeah? Isn't that right, whore? Say it. Say you're a whore," Wilson demands, voice roughening at the edges. Even through the haze, he can tell Wilson is close. In all fairness, he is as well or else he never would have said: "I'm y-your whore, James, all yours!".
With a guttural groan, Wilson comes deep inside of House with one final, cruel thrust, the warm and wet substance that fills him sending House himself over the edge. He spills on Wilson's dick and between his already slick-soaked thighs, coming with a cry of pleasure.
When they're recovered from the rough treatment, House leaned against the wall with Wilson collapsed on top of him, the silence is comfortable. Oddly comfortable, since they'd just had rough bathroom sex. House doesn't feel the need to mention this detail, surprisingly. "...You alright?" he slowly asks instead, feeling Wilson's racing heartbeat against his own chest. Reluctantly, House lets one hand raise to brush through Wilson's hair, and Wilson, just as surprisingly, leans into the touch. "Fine," he reassures, heartbeat slowly beginning to come back down once House begun talking. "Just tired. And embarrassed." House doesn't interrupt, letting Wilson pause before continuing. "...Do you think that dude could tell I was hard?"
House laughs; almost a brief, full-body laugh. They'd just had sex, and Wilson is worried about the projection of his self-image on others? Sounds accurate, House thinks with a gentle grin. "Definitely."
Wilson groans into his chest, gripping at House's already crumbled blazer. "Fuck you, House. Truly."
"Love you too, Jimmy."