House MD Fanfiction

On the Couch

Hilson, smut, 1,276 words
By: yarroway

Wilson writhed on the bed. His fingers were clenched on the headboard and House was clenched in his ass. A warm hand held his cock, and a strong arm clasped his chest, and pleasure shot sparks across his vision.

More, he thought, and yes, oh there, and House, but the words vanished as soon as they formed, lost in a haze of ecstasy from the way House was fucking him.

He moaned, a long, high sound breaking from his chest. House held him tighter, and Wilson’s voice slid up the scale. They’d been at this forever, and Wilson never wanted it to end, but House was driving into him with more force and he didn’t want that to stop either. Every move filled him, took him, remade him into a shape large enough to contain all House’s love. It was as if House were telling him without words all the things he’d never said, reminding Wilson of their life and what it meant to him, all their history, everything they shared and were and did and loved. All these years together and House had never let go like this before, never been like this, and Wilson held onto it as hard as he could.

House was sweating and panting in Wilson’s ear, setting him on fire. Wilson jerked and shuddered, blindly searching for more. He felt a moan begin deep in his chest, felt it build into a howl as House shoved him harder. The headboard was hitting the wall, and bits of plaster flew. The bed rocked with them. Wilson felt his orgasm build. House was slamming into Wilson as if he wanted to go inside all the way, join them permanently and Wilson wanted that too, more than the pleasure and his slow-growing orgasm. More than anything else he wanted to be with House forever.

House’s fingers rubbed that one place on his cock with light, clever fingers, and Wilson was lost, bucking and coming and coming as House pistoned inside him and the world cracked beneath them, and Wilson fell to the mattress and felt it falling too as House clutched Wilson to himself and came in three long spurts.

Wilson was conscious only long enough to register House’s arms around him, the warm, sweaty body pressed against his and, content, he slid into sleep.

***

The throbbing in his fingers woke him. Wilson looked down at himself and realized his hands were covered with a fine dusting of plaster, and his knuckles were bruised and scraped.

Right, he’d been holding the headboard while House pounded him against the wall. Well, he’d pay for replastering. He settled back against House. Arms tightened around him.

Wilson smiled. House was awake. He put his hand on top of House’s, yawned, and closed his eyes.

***

Wilson was half lying and half sitting awkwardly against some kind of soft wall. It was uncomfortable. His legs were folded beneath him and that was uncomfortable too. He was tempted to ignore all that because he was very tired, but House was still there, holding onto him, and if Wilson was stiff then House must be in agony.

Wilson groaned as he rolled away. He lurched to his feet and held out a hand to House. Then he looked properly about himself, and froze.

House’s bed was broken. The mattress was half on its side, the support slats underneath were splintered and the bed frame itself was in scattered bits.

“I-” he said, at a loss for words. He blinked, and cocked his head. “How many pieces did your bed frame used to have? Was it…” Wilson counted and winced, “seven?”

House tilted his head back against the topsy-turvy mattress and laughed. His eyes shone up at Wilson. “You broke my bed, you brute.”

“Me? That was you,” Wilson said with a smile as he hoisted House to his feet. He was going to have to clean up and buy House a new bed, but it was worth it. He balanced the mattress against the wall and started to make a pile of trash.

House stopped him. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning up,” Wilson said.

House looked annoyed. “Go get out the air mattress. You can sleep on that.”

Wilson sighed. He hated the air mattress. It was ancient, smelled of old beer and older vomit, and had a slow leak he had never found but which, inevitably, lead to him having to re-inflate the damn thing at exactly 3:22 in the morning.

Not that he’d kept track.

“I’ll set up the air mattress for you if you want it, but I’m ordering you a replacement bed, and I’m cleaning up.”

“Leave it,” House said sharply.

“I’m not leaving you with no place to sleep and a mess to clean up.”

House whirled on him. “If you die, you mean. If you’re going to risk your life on some stupid experimental treatment then you should at least say the damn words. And if that does happen, don’t you think that maybe I’d like to remember the last place we ever fucked? Don’t you think that might mean something to me? I don’t want to come home the day after tomorrow and find there’s no sign--” his voice broke but House only paused “--no sign you were ever here.”

Were those tears in House’s eyes? Wilson looked away.

“If the treatment doesn’t cure you, a broken bed is going to be the least of my problems."

Wilson swallowed, and nodded. When he judged it safe he looked back at House, who was watching him with an expression full of wistful longing.

“I’m sorry,” Wilson said, because he knew that dying was the worst thing he could ever do to House.

“Not your fault.” House said, which was true, but it didn’t matter. Gone was gone.

“Yeah. I’m sorry anyway. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t leave you if I had a choice.”

“I know that,” House said dismissively, but Wilson knew House too well to believe for a moment that he didn’t need all the reassurance Wilson could give. Later he’d be distracted by the effects of the drug and his own illness. This might be the last moment he had to take care of House.

The very last.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said.

“That won’t be very comfortable.”

“It’s the first place you ever kissed me,” Wilson replied. He’d gotten drunk on that couch, sweated and peed on it, had dinners and played video games on it, and had slept there more nights than he could count. He’d sat here when Bonnie and Julie threw him out, when his girlfriends had broken up with him, and when Sam had left. It wasn’t the most comfortable bed in the world, but it was comforting all the same. “It feels like home,” he added. “There’s no place I’d rather be. As long as you’ll be with me.”

House nodded. “I’ll be here.” His voice sounded rusty, as if the words were dragged out of some dusty, disused place deep inside him.

***

Wilson wouldn't consider facing death naked and smelling of sex, so they showered. He took every opportunity to watch the play of light and water across House's face, until the water in his own eyes blurred House into a collection of angles with vivid blue eyes.

***

Wilson pulled the T-shirt over his head and sat on the couch. Each shift of position unlocked another memory. He always thought he'd be sitting here for many more years, more meals, more video games, more drunken nights. He always thought he'd be the one mourning House.

He held out his arm. "Let's get started."