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House’s long pink face is wet with tears and his eyes - his mariana-trench deep eyes are blown wide with faux-innocence and a mouthful of Wilson.
He’s high out of his fucking mind and Wilson’s making House give him a blowjob. Yeah. Sounds right. All is well with the world.
“Oh, oh, yeah, that’s—” Wilson intakes a polite breath, petting through thinning oak hair, baby grays glimmering in the moonlight. He’s so pretty, so pretty - pretty, pretty, pretty over and over and over rings in Wilson’s mind, a mind-piercing echo. "You're doing so well... So nice for me..." He croons, mulling over House's bambi act.
Funny, House is the one with a gullet full of dick, but Wilson’s the one that’s at a loss for words.
“Yeah… um, wow…” He blinks for good measure, tries to see if he’s on LSD or if he’s dreaming. Shallowly thrusts a little to check if this is really real and oh —
It’s unsexy, really, House makes these dying-animal sounds, strangled, suffocating — porny. House looks so afraid when he realizes it’s actually in his throat now. His muscles contract in shock, a split second delay of confusion - fight or flight.
He sounds like he’s been shot and it makes Wilson want to hurt him more - makes him want to buck his hips and make House choke on his behemoth of a cock, makes him want to have House scratch at his thighs and hips while he throws his head back, mouth open, marathon-panting and,
During sex, you’ve got a preview of how it feels like to die. Pupils dilate, your heart rate goes up, muscles go haywire; you’re at your most vulnerable. If God hadn’t made it so fun, he’d never do it.
“House — house, house, house, hah—” Only ha keeps leaving his mouth until he babbles and there’s sloppy saliva trailing his dick to House’s mouth, again and again he prays to his crippled god, “House, holy shit, fuck, oh my god, you’re so good to me, s’good, so good, my beautiful fuckingnhhf—" He groans loud and obscene because this is House's apartment, and he's sure everyone's heard worse. "Take it, take it, yeah, cram this dick in your fuckin' throat, shit—stupid fuckmeat,"
Wilson’s dick jackrabbits into House’s esophagus and batters his poor, spasming gullet that is so hot and tight and wants him out — House’s body is rejecting him, ejecting him, flushing him out, forbidding him, banning him. Ironically, it shoots itself in its own foot, because
Wilson likes it when House struggles. He wants it when House doesn’t. He loves it when House is coughing and gurgling and drooling and squirming and and and
“Pretty, so pretty, I’m gonna—oh my god, shit,” He grunts gruffly and, “I’m gonna fucking—fffuck, I want to kill you, m’gonna kill you, I have to, oh, I love you so much, I love you, I love you,” I love you I’m gonna kill you you stupid pretty beautiful bitch I love you I love you, Wilson is just like every other american white man — a soon to be Dahmer. “I’ll fucking kill you House, shit, shit, you feel so good, oh my god, I’m gonna put you in a bodybag and bury you where no one’s gonna find you, I’m gonna fucking kill you, god I love you—”
It’s so fucked up, it’s so fucked up but his words sound like one big valentine-red love letter. A violent worship, an inverse religion. His God is in the form of something he can bend in two.
House actually starts crying. His baby blues get all sparkly with tears, then he starts sobbing and flailing goreflick-victim style and Wilson has to hold him in place, as if to say down boy, down! “I love you, I love you, no one’s gonna find you, I’m gonna fucking kill you, oh my god, shit, House, House,” Wilson soprano-whines all high pitched and House’s ugly little weeping gets gurgled out, lungs rattling luridly, inhumane muffled wails trafficked at the back of his throat. “I’m gonna kill you, mine, mine, mine,”
He cries. He cries scared and afraid with slimming breath, barely able to inhale before that pink, cut cock slides through his saliva-soaked lips and slams home — House is breathing hot air through his nose and on Wilson, all sorts of liquid mixing up; tears, precum, the condensation of his sweat. He’s struggling. He’s out of breath. Wilson could suffocate him with his dick if he could. Bile tickles the head of his dick and it’s one risky game that Wilson’s addicted to.
How much is too much?
How much is too much? He repeats in his mind, grabbing a fistful of dry hair and fucking House’s throat silly, letting him scrabble, gag, hurl — teeth graze Wilson’s cock and it’s nothing short of amazing. Kitty’s got fangs.
Are they sharp enough to stop me? Are you strong enough to stop me? You’re six foot, but you’re lanky and thin and your diet consists of beers and half-baked sandwiches.
He's never really liked how porn looked - how the actresses always seemed to be getting penetrated as in, being speared — He just couldn't believe anyone could get off to a screaming broad, till House. Till House and his lanky, thin body, deceivingly skinny where you can see his ribs jut out if you stretch and bend him enough. Till House and his expectant asking-for-it eyes, till House and his do-me low-cut blouse.
Wilson fucks that fighting throat one last time, one final time, cum blasphemizing his gummy insides, tainting it, ruining it, corrupting him - he grunts, eyes screwed shut, one strand of hickory hair falling over his sweat-soaked forehead. House’ll taste him for days. Feel him for days. Inflamed and aching. House won’t even be able to swallow his saliva without it hurting.
He pulls off and House starts coughing damply, body shaking and dewy-eyed, greedily sucking in big gulps of air and lets out a series of punched-out, rushed exhales. He sounds like he's about to croak, aforementioned needy fat gulps of air batting through his lungs. He retches, tries to vomit it out because he feels so dirty, so filthy, grime is in his internals and he wants someone to cut him open and disinfect his organs.
“You—” Violent inhale, sharp, lacerating knife jabbing in him - "You fucking freak! You depraved pervert!" He lashes out in an ugly, teenage girl way, a juvenile spirit dipping its toes into the disgusting world of adults and being shocked with pure revolt.
“Well,” Wilson bides his time, takes time to catch his breath like he's the one who nearly got throatfucked to death. “I’m sure you’re just crippled, not deaf and crippled, unless you’re not telling me something.”
“Fuck you. God, you’re such a jerk — the least you could’ve done is give me a heads up.” House rolls his eyes, settling his face to sit idly on Wilson’s thigh. Fucked out, glazy post-coital eyes staring at him through a rosy haze.
“Well, you did tell me that you hate unsurprising-surprises."
Wilson gives an experimental little thrust into House’s sunken-in, stubbled cheekbone, grunts a little when that hollow is tender as ever. He’s always liked House, for all his sharpness, his dishevelled-ness.
He’d like to make House more jagged. He’d like to make House look like those first-page victim-girls, grotesquely unidentifiable.
"You're such a fucking freak. I don't know why I'm letting you off like this." House mumbles, hand lazily razing over Wilson's hairy thigh — the fat pink head of Wilson's dick peeks every now and then, but you can always turn the other cheek (ba dum tss). Hardly noticeable, save for the absolutely raunchy squelch.
"I don't know... because I'm your best friend and, hm, you might owe me maybe... half a million dollars?"
House is his. If he'd been ran over like roadkill and split open splat, every organ in his body would probably have a little initial of JW on it.