House MD Fanfiction

Phantasmorgasm

Hilson, smut, 4497 words
By: magie_05

Whenever he imagines sex with House—that is to say, most days and nearly every night he spends on cold sheets next to a cold wife—everything is…perfect. 

There’s lots of kissing, of course. Wilson feels like there can never be enough kissing. In his twisted little fantasies, House tastes more like coffee than Vicodin. He kisses slowly, at first; delicate hairs dragging across Wilson’s chin send chills up his spine. Then long fingers slide slowly under his shirt, short nails over his sides, palms coming to rest on his shoulder blades. The kiss deepens and their hips are flush, and the next thing Wilson knows, clothes are being shed neatly and gracefully. Then there are hands and lips and mouths and semen and Wilson can forgive himself for being a forty-year-old married guy fantasizing about his male best friend. They’re just fantasies, after all. 

Reality, as it turns out, is almost always wrong. 

“Ouch!” 

For example, he hadn’t counted on House biting his lip that hard. 

“Pansy,” House accuses, but his tongue darts out to soothe the bite mark. 

Wilson’s trying not to get caught up in the implications, the past or future, what led them here and what happens next. He wants to focus on the moment, on the firm, warm mouth and the obscene noises it’s now making against his arched neck. 

He never could have imagined it being this good. His mind couldn’t have imitated this raw electricity, this need, the way it feels to have House finally shut up and give in. He doesn’t have to guess what House wants, not with that hand moving in slow circles over his crotch, rubbing him through layers of expensive fabric. There’s no sarcasm in the way he’s twisting his fingers into Wilson’s hair, possessing him, pressing him bodily into the rickety leather couch. This is real, it’s happening, it’s amazing, it’s— 

“Crap!” House pulls back suddenly to pick up the bottle of beer one of them has accidentally elbowed off the coffee table, directly onto a stack of scribbled-on medical journals and some patient files taken illegally from the hospital. He carelessly throws Wilson’s coat over the mess and for a brief moment of insanity, Wilson wants to call him a jerk and demand to be reimbursed for the dry cleaning. Instead, he sits back up and pulls House into a kiss before either of them has time to second-guess what’s happening. 

He’s moaning this time, or House is; it’s hard to tell when their mouths are open and sealed together like this, when they’re breathing each other’s air. All he knows is the three-dimensional reality of broad shoulders under his palms and long, rough fingers in his hair, holding him in place. Oh, god, the sounds, the suction, the wet smack of lips and tongue, moans and the puff of hot breath in his ear. Even in his most pornographically twisted fantasies, Wilson never imagined how much the noises would do for him, butterflies in his stomach and chills over his skin. Now House is pulling him to his feet and Wilson’s sure he’s going to throw up. He really shouldn’t be so nervous; he’s imagined this enough: House abandons his cane and nudges Wilson back with jostled steps, too busy to think about his pain with his hands clenched in Wilson’s shirt collar. Wilson thinks they might be floating, this walk is so natural, so inevitable, finally being pushed towards House’s bedroom after a decade of court— 

“Shit!” He nearly falls backwards over House’s damn backpack, which has ended up in the middle of the hallway entrance by the desk. Honestly, the man’s handicapped; you’d think he’d make an effort to keep tripping hazards out of the way. Wilson wants to install hooks. 

Later, of course, as right now he’s doing a very painful pirouette and probably pulling something in his groin, all to avoid falling on his ass or House’s leg. Well, this never happened in his dreams: blushing to the roots of his hair, House leaning awkwardly against the opposite wall, smirking with his entire body. “Shut up,” Wilson says preemptively, eyes on the floor molding.