House MD Fanfiction

Metaphorically Speaking

Hilson, phone!smut, 995 words
By: teyla

There are certain times when Wilson makes dead sure to check the caller ID before he picks up his office phone: one, when he’s doing something borderline illegal to a patient and needs to avoid Cuddy for just a little bit longer; two, during the first three weeks after a divorce; and three, on days when House stayed home from work.

The strategy has helped him become fairly skilled at avoiding unpleasant phone conversations, but nobody's perfect. Sometimes, even Wilson forgets himself.

"Doctor James Wilson, Oncology Department, what can I do for you?"

The phone line crackles and starts playing the opening music of The Office into his ear.

"You can explain to me why this guy looks like Taub. The similarity is uncanny. Did Taub have a secret acting career before he became a doctor? Maybe there's Taub-porn out there. "Midget Gangbang", part one to five. I should get him drunk and make him give me the tapes."

Wilson closes his eyes with a long-suffering sigh. He should really have known better than to unsuspectingly pick up the phone today--the third day of House being trapped at home by the improbable masses of snow that Princeton-Plainsboro has been buried in. The current weather conditions make driving difficult, walking dangerous, and walking with a cane downright impossible. Diagnostics don't have any current major cases, so Cuddy decided that House making his laborious way into work would be pointless. Personally, of course, Wilson is of the opinion that it would be much better for everybody's sanity if House weren't trapped in a three-bedroom-flat and bored out of his mind for days, but as usual, nobody’s asking him.

"Why, yes," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Taub-porn, not something I would ever want to miss out on. Maybe the Office-guy is Taub's secret twin. Maybe they shot some hot Taub-on-Taub action in their earlier days of acting. They were young and needed the money."

On the other end of the line, House snorts. "And people think I'm the pervert." There's a brief pause. "Speaking of perversion, what do you prefer, silk or hemp?"

Wilson raises an eyebrow. "I didn't know you could smoke silk."

"That's an idea, I could get you high, too. Lysergic acid diethylamide, perfect for over-stimulating the senses. I think I still have some lying around."

"What are you doing?"

"Planning our evening."

Wilson glances at his office door to make sure it's closed. "I didn't know we had plans."

"We do now. Want to hear about it?"

"I'm all ears."

The background chatter of the television gets quieter, and House's voice takes on a husky, story-telling quality. "You're going to come home to a dark, silent flat. The lights are off, everything is quiet. You try the switch, but the lights stay off. Just when you start to get apprehensive--what if it's not just the fuse, what if someone blew it on purpose, what if they're still in the flat--you feel the cool smoothness of my cane against your throat."

Wilson shifts a little in his chair and throws the door another glance. Yep, still closed. "Is that your actual cane, or is that a metaphor?"

"It's against your throat. Who do you think I am, Tarzan? Besides, my cane is always a metaphor."

"I see. Please, continue." Wilson's hand, which was resting on his thigh, is moving towards his crotch. He has an itch.

"You feel my cane against your throat and are pushed back against the wall. A dark, handsome figure emerges from the shadows."

"That's you?"

"No, it's Big Bird. Of course it's me. Stop interrupting."

"Right. Sorry. Continue." His hand is on his crotch now, applying gentle pressure through his pants.

"I have taken the flat screen hostage. What are you willing to offer me in ways of a ransom?"

It takes Wilson a moment to catch on. "Oh, this is aninteractive story. Um. I am willing to offer . . . myself."

He's not sure if he's imagining it, but House's voice seems to have taken on a slightly lower pitch. "That is acceptable. You feel the pressure of the cane shift to your shoulder, forcing you to your knees. A hand grips your hair and guides you. Don't disappoint."

Wilson's pants are getting uncomfortably tight. He undoes the button and slips a hand inside. "I won't, oh dark handsome stranger."

"You open your mouth to welcome my manhood--"

"That's a metaphor now, though, right?"

House makes a grunting noise. "Shut up, Wilson."

"Right. I'm welcoming your manhood."

"Are you using teeth?"

"Sparingly. A graze here and there, as I lick and suck and try to please to the best of my abilities."

"Now swallow."

"I hold my breath and swallow, again and again, your manhood buried deep inside the warm cave of my mouth, until you-- "

There’s a strangled sound on the other end of the line. It sends a shudder down Wilson's spine, and his fingers clutch harder around his cock. "Until you do that."

House is breathing heavily. "Fuck, Wilson. You're not bad at this."

Wilson can't help feeling a bit smug. "Always happy to help. I don't think the story was over yet, though."

"I think this is going to be a cliffhanger ending. I have to go wash my hands."

"House, don't you dare--"

"Good talking to you, Wilson. I'll see you tonight."

There's a click, followed by the dull sound of the dial tone. Wilson stares at the receiver for a couple of moments before he drops it back onto the cradle. "I can't believe that man!"

He shifts, wincing a little at the tightness of his underpants, and gives the phone a sour look before he buttons up his pants. Dark Handsome Stranger may have won this round, but revenge is a dish best served cold. He has all day to come up with something to pay him back in equal terms. He's already got something in mind . . .