House MD Fanfiction

Instant Gratification

Hilson, smut, 1287 words
By: yaoimusings

Collapsing on the couch next to House, Wilson bounced his feet while his taller companion flipped through the channels. He was still panting fiercely and on a whim shot to his feet and took the cup of House’s urine to empty, rinsing and washing it liberally. On the way back to the living room couch, he shed his jacket because it was just too damn hot and should have been startled when House yanked him down to sit beside him.

“You realize the Vicodin isn’t going to help if you work yourself into a heart attack, right?”

“I really could have had one in the hospital, House, you weren’t there, I felt like like like--I could’ve died and then where would you have been, huh? I could have just dropped dead--when’d you get a new table? No, I’m talking! You--you would have--you’d’ve--” the oncologist spewed at three times his normal speaking speed, breaking off to pant. God, there wasn’t enough air and he was going to keep talking even if all he wanted was to stop. “You’d just find someone else to care about you, but no one would because no one’s a sucker like I am, are they House? They wouldn’t let you try to kill them just to prove some stupid theory! And buy them coffee! No more coffee! No more anything, how can I trust you not to drug me ever again? This is so stupid, House, how could you do that--”

If he wasn’t before, he was definitely almost hyperventilating while trying his best to suck oxygen from the air because he needed more. More, more, more. More air, more thoughts, more coherency, more words, more movement, more blood pumped to his brain, more to do, more to see feel smellheartouchwantneedget. House’s hand on the back of his neck burning, searing through his skin while he hung his head between his knees to allow more blood to flow to his brain. The thumb stroking circles, his brain sending signals so fast it felt like several minds working in tandem because the thoughts were all coming at once and his whole body thrummed with it because House never touched someone unless he wanted to and never, ever let it linger.

“Wilson.”

Immediately, he snapped up to look at House, the hand falling when he sat up so quickly. He wanted to whine for its loss and did so in House’s mouth because--holy shit, he was kissing him. Kissing him kissing him kissing him, mouth open before House had even run his tongue along his lip in request for permission and it was good. Better than anyone before because he needed this so bad, needed their tongues dancing, wanted it despite the raspy stubble and the fact he couldn’t take enough breath quick enough through his nose didn’t matter. All that mattered was that House overwhelmed the taste of the espresso or coffee or whatever it had been that he’d drank with the uppers in it and he’d been tasting it all. Damn. Day. Now all he tasted was House with the peanut butter and jelly sandwich the man had had for dinner and heat and wet and Wilson groaned so loud he was sure everyone heard it, twisting his hand’s in the diagnostician’s shirt like it was a lifeline when he sucked hard on his lower lip. God, the sensations. He could feel everything.

Stubble faintly burning against his cheeks, heat with a molten prod invading his mouth, House burning through the cotton of his shirts with the smallest touches, the smooth, smooth feel of the band logo his hand was wrapped up in contrasting almost painfully with the cotton beside it, and the shirt, blue. Had it always been that bright? Jesus. What the hell had House done to him?

This was awesome. There was no other real word for it (although he could name some really big ones he couldn’t think of right now) because Wilson and the sounds he was making were intoxicating. It also crossed House’s mind to always have uppers on hand when he was bored and always to mix them with Wilson because any other way they would not be nearly as interesting. Interesting being to watch the man’s pupils consume his iris while clouded with want, panting, ready to beg with one kiss.

House was nothing if not the tiniest bit in love with control.

He hated admitting when he wasn’t in control, when he was vulnerable, when he needed help. He hated it to show how much pain his leg really gave him. Was giving him. So, kneeling over the man writhing for contact, he wouldn’t let him see it. Vicodin wasn’t exactly the best thing for performance and the man doubted very much even if he and Wilson’s positions were reversed, with both the Vicodin and the ache in his leg, he would be able to join him in reaching Nirvana. Damn, better act quick or he’ll go all guilty on me: especially as soon as that Vicodin starts knocking his thought process back into rational. At least this way he’ll probably pass out and we can delay it until morning.

Air was coming a little easier for Wilson now, but still not as slow as he would like. House was staring at him like he had three heads--was he having a bad reaction or something? Was his nose bleeding? Had the vessels in his eyes popped? Looking down--he wasn’t quite sure when he ended up on his back with his shirts pushed up as far as they would go (when had that happened?)--he jerked when House’s long pianist fingers brushed through the hair on his lower stomach, between his belt and his bellybutton. Wilson dropped his head back and swallowed convulsively at the same time his hands spasmed to grip the couch cushion beneath him. He couldn’t help his hips surging up, House’s harsh laugh pouring like boiling water over his inflamed nerve endings, balls of his feet pressing against he arm of the couch in anticipation because it was something to do. Something big was going to happen and he needed it so bad--

Oh, Christ, Oh God, he’s going to jerk me off--maybe suck me off--I guess it doesn’t really matter; either way, I’m going to get off. I just want to come. Please, House, please let me come. Please. House, God, House, please--

Wilson’s groan when his prayers were answered died in his throat, eyelids fluttering when House licked the leaking head, pressing his tongue hard in the slit. Stars burst behind his eyelids when he clenched them so tightly shut it hurt, and if he had almost lost it in his slacks from kissing, this was nothing in return. Liquid pleasure consumed his spine, turning it to mush and his hands trembled from gripping the couch cushions so hard. He could feel everything so much more than usual--his nerve endings had to be frayed and scraped raw past any hope of recovery--and watching House hollow out his cheeks did it.

White burst and throbbed behind his eyes, a kind of white noise distorting any sounds he was making. He figured he was probably keening or whining or something, but he couldn’t be sure and God he could feel House swallowing around him. Wilson’s back was arced tightly off the couch like a spring, a spring so tightly wound it broke and shot off, allowing him to finally collapse with only moderate twitches of aftershock.

Smirking to himself, House shook out a blanket and covered his half-naked and half-conscious friend. A small laugh bubbled up and he hobbled off to have a nice, long, hot shower per demand of his leg.