Work Text:
"House, would you like to have sex with me?"
Wilson said it so casually. It was delivered with the same mundane tone one might use to point out a passing fly. House thought of dozens of biting comebacks in his head before finally settling on just one.
“...Sure.”
Why did he agree? Who knows—maybe it was a bet, or maybe it was an opportunity. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't an appropriate conversation for the hospital cafeteria. But Wilson merely gave a single nod and silently chewed his sandwich.
“Great. I’d like that, too.”
Wilson wiped his mouth with a napkin as he spoke. House reached for his cane out of habit, expecting their usual post-lunch routine. But breaking their rhythm, Wilson pulled his car keys from his pocket. House limped slowly behind Wilson, following him straight into the parking lot.
The gray Volvo chirped as the doors unlocked. House leaned heavily on his cane, peering suspiciously into the car before clumsily folding himself into the passenger seat as Wilson got behind the wheel. The seatbelt clicked into place.
“No, House. Unbuckle it.”
Wilson said smoothly, turning the key in the ignition.
“The engine needs to be on for the AC.”
Suddenly, the passenger seat reclined sharply. House watched the car roof spin before his eyes, instinctively flailing for the dashboard. Cool air blasted from the vents. Before House could pull his hand away, Wilson’s fingers covered his, the sharp mechanical sound of the seatbelt release echoing in the tight space. House stared up in dumbfounded shock at Wilson, who was now casting a heavy shadow over him.
“Whoa, whoa, James. Time out.”
House shoved his palms against Wilson’s chest. Dammit, he desperately needed the reach of his cane, which was resting uselessly against the dashboard.
House gasped in mock horror. “Jimmy, are you trying to rape a cripple? Did I accidentally drink the coffee you spiked with Vicodin this morning?”
“Consensual sex isn't rape. And I parked in the handicapped spot because I knew you'd consent.”
Wilson easily ignored House’s resistance, shifting his center of gravity over the center console and into the passenger space. Wilson’s tie dangled, brushing teasingly against House’s chest.
“I’m asking seriously, when was your last MRI? I suspect a decline in your frontal lobe function. Impulse control disorder is an early sign of dementia—”
“There are no security cameras in the handicapped spots.”
Wilson’s knee dug into the edge of the passenger seat. House tilted his head back, only to find his neck pinned flush against the leather headrest. House scowled at the thigh pressing down heavily near his bad right knee.
“Ow, my leg. Don’t you care about my damn leg? Parking in a handicapped spot doesn't make the handicap magically disappear.”
“Sexual pleasure is a medically proven method for alleviating phantom pain.”
House grabbed Wilson’s wrist as the oncologist began to tug at his shirt collar, grumbling.
“Let’s see, frontal lobe tumor? A manic episode? It can’t be a hallucination, because in my sex fantasies, you’re wearing a bikini.”
“You’re wrong on all counts. The diagnosis is impulse, and I’m administering the treatment right now.”
“This is a blatant violation of medical ethics. In the hospital parking lot? Between attending physicians? If Cuddy finds out, she’ll shred your pristine medical license and sprinkle it on her salad.”
“Cuddy is in a board meeting right now. She won’t be down for at least two hours.”
Wilson lowered his head. His warm breath ghosted over House’s face. The sandwich was completely forgotten, replaced by the faint, intimate scent of coffee and fresh fabric softener. The sarcastic remark about to burst from House’s mouth was effectively silenced by a pair of lips.
A soft suckle, then a tongue gently tapping against his teeth coaxed him to part his lips. The ticklish, wet sensation against the roof of his mouth made House feel like a sound might tear from his throat. House tried to push Wilson’s shoulders away, but his grip eventually went slack, his hands clenching tightly into the fabric of Wilson’s shirt instead. As they pulled apart with a wet, obscene smack, House let out a breathless, hollow chuckle.
“The tint on this model is too light. People can see inside. Foreman will walk by and write a thesis on my sex life instead of my leg.”
“I had this car custom-tinted myself. And Foreman is in the outpatient clinic right now.”
“Dammit, how long have you been planning this? Did you organize a schedule on Excel?”
Wilson’s hand slid down smoothly, unbuckling House’s belt and moving to his shirt buttons. He peeled House’s shirt open. House flinched as the cool blast of the AC hit his bare skin. Wilson’s hand immediately went to House’s atrophied right thigh, massaging it gently.
“It’s the most tense right here.”
“That’s the rectus femoris, not an erogenous zone.”
House replied, swallowing a pained groan. But as Wilson’s fingers pressed down firmly and traced circles around the scarred tissue, his thigh involuntarily trembled. The chronic, agonizing pain blended strangely with a blossoming pleasure, creating a dizzying, narcotic sensation. Wilson’s soft hair tickled the underside of House’s jaw.
“You use pain to cope with your anxiety.”
House let out a low, involuntary hum. “Your fingers... damn it, James.”
Wilson buried his lips into House’s exposed collarbone. At the searing heat of his breath, House swallowed a harsh grunt, wrapping his arms around the back of Wilson’s neck. The sound of leather seats shifting under their weight in the cramped car was deafeningly loud. As the relentless hands and mouth continued their assault, House’s fingers clawed blindly at the leather upholstery. The sharp pleasure shooting up his spine turned his ears a burning red.
House’s breath hitched, the words tearing from his throat. “Wait—”
“Send me the dry cleaning bill. I’ll pay for it.”
Oh, fuck. I never had a rape fantasy. House felt his cock hardening stiffly under Wilson’s rubbing hand, straining desperately against his boxers. Wilson’s hand slipped beneath the waistband, wrapping entirely around the throbbing, hot erection. House’s head snapped back, his mouth falling open toward the ceiling as he gasped for air. A ragged moan tumbled past his lips. Wilson’s mouth curled into a smirk, his hand moving in a slow, firm, and agonizingly perfect rhythm.
A ragged curse tumbled past his lips. “Fuck.”
House buried his forehead hard into Wilson’s shoulder, trying to muffle his own voice. His pinned leg was going numb, and sharp, blinding spikes of pleasure shot up his spine. Suddenly, Wilson reached over to the door panel. The electric hum of the window lowering filled the car as sunlight streamed in through a finger-width gap.
House’s voice cracked in sheer panic. “Fuck, are you crazy? Are you out of your mind? Close that, fuck, right now...”
Wilson didn’t stop his hand, simply humming a quiet tune to drown out the panicked noise.
“You get turned on by the idea of being seen. It’s for efficiency.”
When the fuck did I ever— The pace of the strokes quickened mercilessly. House instinctively arched his hips off the seat, biting down hard on his own fist to keep quiet. Wilson gently pulled that hand away, replacing it with his own mouth in a wet, silencing kiss. House closed his eyes, accepting the tongue as a muffled, desperate noise vibrated deep in his chest. Wilson’s lips trailed down his jaw to his neck. House sucked in a sharp breath at the wet scrape of a tongue against his Adam’s apple. His own hand reached down blindly, trying to grab his cock to finish it. Wilson swatted the hand away and retreated slightly to admire the view.
House could only manage a breathless, broken exhale in response.
“You look so fucking beautiful.”
House’s shirt was splayed open, baring his pale chest and lean stomach, his dark, engorged cock twitching violently above it. Shoulders curled inward defensively, he buried his face into James’s neck, calling out his name in a barely audible whimper. The breathless, rhythmic hitching of his voice right below Wilson’s ear—half-instinct, half-deliberate—made Wilson’s own slacks tent noticeably.
House arched sharply, a strangled cry tearing from his throat as he flexed his abs hard, climaxing and shooting thick ropes of cum across his own stomach.
Wilson stared blankly for a moment, his finger tracing the sticky, warm fluid splattered across the pale skin. House blinked rapidly, his body going completely limp against the seat. Wilson let out a slow exhale, seeming to snap back to reality as he quickly rolled the window back up.
“You crazy bastard.”
“Your diagnosis was quite accurate.”
Wilson replied smoothly, popping open the glove compartment to pull out a pack of wet wipes. The plastic cap snapped open with a cheerful, entirely inappropriate sound. With careful, meticulous movements, he began to clean up the mess on House’s stomach. As the shockingly cold wipe hit his skin, House flinched, tightening his abdominal muscles.
“That’s too cold, James. Your aftercare is atrocious.”
“If you have a complaint, please contact customer service. Oh, wait, the representative is currently on their lunch break.”
Wilson neatly tied the used wipes into a small plastic bag. Then, he pulled the edges of House’s shirt together, covering his stomach. House watched the infuriatingly domestic process in silence, catching his ragged breath.
“So, let’s hear the reason. Why the sudden heat? Did your third wife slap you with an alimony suit?”
House asked, clumsily re-buckling his pants with shaking hands. Wilson leaned back against the driver's seat, letting out a deep, heavy sigh.
“Just because.”
“Liar. You’re an obsessive-compulsive who needs a reason to pick the color of his tie.”
“...I just wanted to make sure you couldn’t run away.”
“My leg hurts too much to run, idiot.”
“I didn’t mean physically.”
Whether the guy had some fallen angel metaphor tangled in his head or was just drawing a precarious line as a 'friend,' House didn’t care. All he knew was that in his hazy, half-aroused state, the highly noticeable bulge in Wilson’s crotch was severely annoying him. House grabbed his cane, which had been haphazardly leaning against the dashboard, and tossed it into the backseat. It landed on the floorboards with a heavy, dull thud. Before Wilson could even shoot him a questioning look, House’s hands were diving for Wilson’s waist.
Wilson’s breath caught as House’s hands moved. “House? Wait, look at the time...”
House undid Wilson’s buckle and dragged the zipper down in one fluid motion. The heat swelling beneath the underwear had already soaked a dark patch of pre-cum through the cotton. Wilson panicked, trying to scramble backward, but the driver’s seat offered zero escape routes. The door was flush against his back, and House was practically crawling over his right side.
“Shut up and hold still. It’s distracting.”
House forcefully twisted his bad leg to lower his posture. Cursing the cramped legroom of the Volvo, he ducked his head. He could feel Wilson’s thigh, completely rigid with tension, brushing against his cheek. Wilson’s protests were instantly severed the moment House opened his mouth and swallowed him whole. The hot, wet mucous membrane enveloped the highly sensitive head, causing Wilson’s hips to jerk upwards violently. House gripped Wilson’s thighs tight to keep him anchored and began to bob his head back and forth.
Wilson’s head fell back against the headrest, a wrecked sound escaping him. “House....”
Wilson’s hands eventually found their way into House’s short hair, gripping the strands tightly. House let out a guttural hum at the rough touch, swirling his tongue around the ridge. Every time Wilson let out a low, wrecked groan as House took him deep, the back of House’s neck burned hotter. The upright, strictly moral Head of Oncology is losing his damn mind getting his cock sucked in a hospital parking lot.
Wilson’s fingers tightened painfully in House's hair. “It’s too—”
Wilson’s breathing turned ragged. House, feeling his own half-spent cock twitching with renewed interest, deliberately opened his throat to take him as deep as physically possible, then pulled back, tightening his lips to scrape along the heavy shaft. A wet, obscene, sloppy sound echoed quietly in the cabin. Wilson’s hips stuttered against the seat. One of his hands was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were stark white.
House peered up through his lashes to check Wilson’s expression. Wilson’s breath shuddered violently as their eyes met, and he quickly turned his flushed, wet face away. Fuck... House picked up the pace. Increasing the suction, he flicked his tongue right over the slit, sending violent, spasmodic tremors down Wilson’s thighs.
“I’m gonna... House, wait, pull off, pull—”
House completely ignored him, burying his head even deeper. Successive gag reflexes forced a stray tear to roll down his cheek. Wilson tried to push House’s head away, but upon seeing that single tear, he bit out a harsh curse and practically pulled House closer instead. A second later, his body locked up completely, and he came hard down House’s throat. House scowled at the thick, heavy pulses of cum hitting the back of his throat. He didn’t pull back until the very end, giving the shaft one final, thorough lick.
Wilson rested his forehead heavily against the steering wheel, his chest heaving. “Crazy bastard...”
House casually wiped the messy mix of tears and semen from his mouth with the back of his hand and sat up. His jaw ached fiercely.
“Tastes awful.” House deadpanned.
Wilson stared at him blankly for a second before letting out a weak, utterly exhausted laugh. He hooked his arms under House’s armpits, pulling him up for a kiss. A slick, bitter coating transferred to his tongue.
“I should cut back on the caffeine.”
“Eat some fruit,” House said, flopping heavily back into his own seat.
Wilson smacked his lips as if he was disappointed it was over, straightened his rumpled clothes, and cracked the windows slightly to ventilate the car. The heavy, sharp scent of sex scattered into the fresh AC breeze.
“Holy— You came again?”
Wilson paused mid-turn, his jaw dropping as he looked down at House’s lap. A fresh, dark dampness had seeped through the hem of House’s unzipped trousers. House opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, while Wilson covered his own mouth with one hand, his cheekbones rising in an undeniable, shit-eating grin.
“...Shut up.”
“...I’ll go buy you some new pants.”
Wilson turned up the volume on the radio, the tips of his ears burning bright red as he gripped the steering wheel. The car vibrated smoothly as he shifted into reverse.