House MD Fanfiction

Spit Polish

Hilson, smut, fairly short,
By: Slipstream

The thing about House that Wilson always seems to forget (and that always seems to get him into all sorts of trouble) is this: if you give the man an inch, he’ll gleefully snatch several hundred miles.

They’re sitting in Wilson’s office. Wilson is at his desk, charts spread out before him. House is lounging on his couch, both hands resting contemplatively on his cane. To the casual observer the scene would seem calm, tranquil, but Wilson, who has many years’ experience with such deceptive tableaus, knows that this is merely the calm before a very destructive (though no doubt entertaining) storm.

“So what you’re saying—” House drawls, his mouth twisting into a devilishly perverted grin. “—is that you want me to give you a blowjob.”

Wilson groans and buries his head in his hands in mortification. This is just the sort of thing he’d expect from House, and exactly what he doesn’tneed right now. It’s only 10 in the morning but already his workday is hell. He’d been called in early after one of his chronic patients coded out, only to be greeted with a small mountain of paperwork on his desk when he finally made it to his office. He’d barely begun to shift through it all when House showed up, and since then its been one distraction after another. “I do not want a blowjob!” he insists, the words slightly muffled. 

House cocks his head to the side. “This I do not believe. You are a red-blooded American man. Of course you want a blowjob.” He gestures at the pile in Wilson’s inbox. “You need one, and I have it on good authority from one of the night nurses in pediatrics that our Jimmy Wilson never turns down a free suck.”

“I do not want a blowjob from you,” Wilson clarifies, lifting his head up long enough to glare at his best friend. House doesn’t take the hint to let the subject drop.

“But you asked me to!”

“I did not!”

“I believe the particular phrase you used was ‘blow me,’” he says, replacing Wilson’s previously exasperated utterance with a breathy, lusty turn of the phrase. When Wilson stoically turns back to his work, House sighs dramatically. “You dangle sex in front of me and then you pull it away. These mixed signals of yours are getting incredibly frustrating, Jimmy. This must be why all your wives have left you.”

“Context, House, context.” Carl Thornburn (52, at the end of a tricky battle with colon cancer) has requested a Do Not Resuscitate form. “And I’m still married.”

“Not for much longer.”

“This is ridiculous.” Wilson slams the file shut, frustrated with everything, but especially House. “Humorous, yes, but you’re missing out on most of your potential shock value because I know you aren’t gay.”

“Oh do you now?” House raises a dramatic eyebrow. “And here I thought I was the local man of mystery: the wounded, ruggedly handsome doctor with the tragic past. If this was General Hospital my repressed homosexual urges would be the cause of all of my doomed flings with the female cast.”

“But this isn’t General Hospital,” Wilson points out. “And I’ve seen your porn collection. Lot of girl-on-girl action for a gay man.”

House shrugs, forced to concede to a point. “Okay. Maybe not gay gay.” He twirls his cane flamboyantly. “Maybe only a little gay.”

“’A little gay’? Is that like being a ‘little’ pregnant?”

“Maybe I’m only gay for you,” House winks.

If Wilson could beat himself to death (or at least unconsciousness) with paperwork he would. “Stop. Talking.”