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Five Times House Comes While Thinking About Wilson and One Time He Doesn't.
by mylexie
1. House makes it a point to masturbate at least three times a week. The reasoning for this is simple: one's sex drive gets higher the more one stimulates it, and with the pain, vicodin and non-existent love life, House wants to ensure that his libido doesn't dwindle into nothingness. Besides, it takes his mind off his worries for a moment (whether that be his leg or other aggravations) and feels good. So several times a week he takes matters into his own hands.
The times this happens aren't set in stone. It might be in the morning, if he wakes up early and his leg is playing along for once and not screaming for amputation. Most often though, he jerks off in the evening, when a shower, a drink and some vicodin have mellowed him somewhat.
Sometimes he treats it almost as an experiment. How long does it take to get hard this time? How long to come? Or, alternatively, how long can he keep from coming, especially when thinking about Cuddy's breasts, Stacy's tongue in his ear, Cameron's ass as she rides him? Other times he does it just to treat himself. He'll watch some porn, and refrains from touching himself until climax becomes absolutely necessary.
Today is different. He's at work, has been there for two days, stuck because his patient has an illness even he has so far been unable to diagnose. This wouldn't be such a big problem if he wasn't constantly on the verge of organ failure. The patient's got so many different medicines pumping through his veins by now that if organ failure doesn't kill him, the side effects just might.
Ever since the man came in yesterday morning, House nor his ducklings have left the hospital, and they're all feeling the strain. House isn't good with constant companions, especially if they want things from him all the time, and the ducklings do. That House wants the same thing from himself doesn't matter, he's still frustrated by their questions, and the criticism of his bedside manner. His self criticism makes him even more unbearable than usual. He knows it, and doesn't care. He's even stopped curbing his responses to Wilson's careful questions about how he's holding up.
It's the middle of the night, and House's leg is hurting like a bitch, and he's just had to stabilize the patient again. He is tired, and he knows that if he doesn't do something to calm down soon, his actions might just be drastic enough for Cuddy to fire him, no matter how brilliant a diagnostician he is. Not that he's feeling particularly brilliant at the moment. He knows he knows the answer to this puzzle, but his mind won't tell him what's wrong with Mr. Organ Failure. He's just been sent away from his white board by an irate Foreman, with an order to go get some sleep already. It's the best idea anyone has had in the last five hours, not that he'd ever tell Foreman that. Instead he pretends to stomp off insulted, and takes the shortest route to The Coma Guy's room. The room next to it is empty and has a nicely made bed in it, courtesy of Wilson, though Cuddy knows it's his prefered hide-out for all nighters like this too. One night on his office lounge chair is manageable, two are not, as he and everyone around him has found out.
On the pillow lays a lollipop. Probably Cuddy who made the bed, then, House thinks. Wilson is too anal retentive to hand out sweets when you should be brushing your teeth. For a moment, House grins through his pain. He's been yelling at Cuddy half the evening, and she's been screaming back. Still, she does this. It's probably why they get along so well. They push each other's buttons and get at each other's throats on a daily basis, but in the end, he does his clinic hours and she does things like this for him. Perhaps he'll make her a cup of coffee when she comes in tomorrow, early as always. That should be okay as long as none of the kids notice. Giving them a heart attack might be nice, but it might cost him his reputation as an evil bastard. And wouldn't that just be paradoxical in the extreme? House rolls his eyes at his own thoughts.
House strips down to his T-shirt and boxers. Sleeping in jeans is more uncomfortable than having to pull them off and on again, even if he'll be in bed for only a few hours. There's a glass of water and a box of tissues on the nightstand. He puts his vicodin bottle, pager and cell phone on it as well, together with the lollipop, which he's saving for tomorrow, and settles into the bed.
The pillow's lumpy and the mattress is harder than he is used to. House carefully arranges his leg into a relatively comfortable position, contemplating using the pillow to prop it up, but deciding against it. Then comes the next decision: a pill now, which might help him sleep easier but he doesn't really need, or just one when he wakes up? He still needs the pills, but ever since rehab he tries not to use them so much anymore. He might like causing trouble, that was just a little too much trouble, even for his tastes.
There is an alternative, of course. A good jerk off session should relax him enough to sleep well. Besides, he's yet to masturbate at all this week. A busy schedule has kept him from taking the time to touch himself so far, but right now he feels as if it might accomplish something. That is, if he's not too tired for it. His leg feels alright, laying down has done the trick after too many hours on his feet. The relatively low dose of vicodin in his system should ensure an erection is possible.
Experimentally, House brushes his fingers over his neck, along his collar bone. His other hand he slips under his T-shirt. He lets his fingernails scrape over his skin, from his belly up to his nipples. His nerve endings respond nicely and House shivers pleasantly, relaxing a little more into the mattress. He pinches his nipples and strokes them, and starts conjuring up a fantasy.
In his mind, he sees Cuddy coming into the room. The red blouse is opened far enough for him to get a decent view of her breasts, her skirt is wrinkled after a day of sitting in board meetings and chasing him through the hospital. Underneath the blouse he can see a hint of her bra, a lacy brown thing that complements her skin tone. Normally, Cuddy would say something about needing him upstairs, and he would comment on her undergarments being visible, but in his fantasy, neither of them speaks. He just raises an eyebrow at her, and she smiles at him, a naughty smile that makes his heart beat faster and sends his blood rushing to his cock.
Alone in the hospital room, House slips his hand into his boxers. Hm, yes, he's starting to get hard already. He palms his balls, presses down on his perineum, then takes his hardening cock in hand. In his thoughts, Cuddy has stepped out of her skirt, showing off her g-string and shapely thighs. She's opening her blouse, and oh how House wishes this was really happening so he could taste those fabulous breasts, grab her hips, pull her over him. He is fully hard now, and starts picking up the pace. It's not going to take very long today. He's too tired for a leisurely whack off session anyway.
He slides his thumb over the head, moving over the slit. His other hand is touching his balls, sliding along the vein on the underside of his prick. It feels good, but would be better if he had lube. Impatiently, House pulls open the drawer of his bed side table, but apparently lollipops are the extent of Cuddy's sympathy. The drawer is empty. Damn. House spits into his hand and resumes his rhythm, steadily going faster and harder, but keeping his hips firmly to the mattress to create a counterpoint.
Fantasy Cuddy, in the mean time, has gotten undressed, and he's touching her, sucking on a nipple, cupping her ass, sliding a finger into her slit. She's wet, and when he presses her g-spot her hips buck forward and she cries out. House feels himself getting closer, and lets his thoughts go where they want to, focussing on the feeling of his hand around his cock, around his balls, touching his anus. In his thoughts, Cuddy pushes him down and straddles him, riding him hard whilst touching her clit.
And then, suddenly, there is Wilson, standing in the doorway, watching him fuck Cuddy. Wilson's eyes are big and he's blushing and House can see a hard on appearing in Wilson's immaculately pressed trousers. Wilson is staring directly at him, biting on his lower lip. House's hand is almost flying over his prick, and he feels his balls drawing up and comes with a groan, Wilson's eyes and mouth and erection filling his mind.
It's been ages since he's come this hard, and he's relaxed and almost asleep, remembering just in time to clean himself up. For a moment the tissues on the nightstand make him wonder if Cuddy hasn't foreseen this, but his brain refuses to think about puzzles anymore. With a bit of luck he'll get some sleep before having to solve his medical mystery of the week. Also, he could use some fresh energy, or he might just start propositioning Cuddy or Wilson for real. Oh well, for now, that's neither here nor there. Visions of their possible responses to various ideas make House grin as he drifts off.
2. Whenever Wilson stays over at House's place, he's the first one up the next morning. Even if he's gotten drunk and House has stayed sober, and he has a killer hangover, like today. His internal clock has been set to six a.m. for so long now that no matter how late he's gone to bed, he wakes up at that time precisely.
Wilson goes to the bathroom, relieves his bladder, brushes his teeth and splashes some water onto his face, then heads to the kitchen. There he grabs a glass of water. Making breakfast would be futile - there's no way that House would get up this early. So instead he walks back to the couch, and is just pulling the blankets back up on it when he hears a sound coming from House's bedroom. Fuck. If it's a nightmare - and he's seen House have a lot of those over the years - he'd better wake him up or the tossing and turning will make his friend's leg hurt like hell for the rest of the day. He quickly walks to the bedroom and quietly opens the door.
House's eyes are closed, and he looks tense, but Wilson doesn't enter the room. Because House isn't having a nightmare after all. No, House is.. Wilson feels a blush creep up his face and bites on his lower lip to avoid making a sound. House is touching himself. Even though he's laying underneath the thick winter covers, Wilson instantly recognizes the familiar movements of a man jerking off.
He knows he should either leave or at least announce his presence, but he really, really doesn't want to. Because seeing House like this may just be the most erotic thing he's ever seen, and having had three wives and numerous girlfriends, that is saying something. And he can't even see anything, really. There's just the rhythmic movement under the covers, and House's face.
Who is he thinking of? Wilson wonders, and suddenly it strikes him as odd that he doesn't know this about House. The obvious answers are easy enough - Stacy, Cuddy, Chase, perhaps even Cameron - though he doubts that - but doesn't know. And he has even less of an idea of what House likes. If there's one thing that having had many partners has taught Wilson, it's that someone's day-to-day behaviour doesn't have to say a thing about what they like in bed.
"Uh.." House groans, and Wilson comes back to the present. House's eyes are still closed, but Wilson retreats into the hallway anyway. He leaves the door slightly open though, and continues watching. It is only when his hand slides over his own penis that he realizes he's hard. He stifles a moan and pulls back his hand. He can't do this, can he?
It's not as if you've never masturbated to thoughts of a friend before, a traiterous part of his mind reminds him. But he's never done it whilst watching that friend, and it's never been House, and he's just not sure it's a step he's ready to take. He sneaks a look at House again, and the decision is taken out of his hands - figuratively speaking, anyway - because the look on House's face sends a shiver down his spine and he just can't help but touch himself.
House is quite a bit ahead of him though. Wilson closes his eyes for a moment, in an effort to process the heady images, and it is then that House opens his. He's heard Wilson come into the room, and has heard him leave again. He hadn't cared - as long as Wilson didn't interrupt there was no need to stop as far as he is concerned - but now Wilson is standing there, just visible through the gap he left to look through.
And Wilson is touching himself. Wilson is jacking off and House is watching and then Wilson's eyes are open and their gazes lock and House comes with a shout. All through the orgasm he struggles to keep his eyes open. Because the one thing that would be even better than Wilson getting hard because of him is Wilson getting off because of him.
"Wilson," he groans, hardly able to catch a breath. Wilson looks at him again, and he says: "Come for me."
House likes it when he's proven right, and this time it's even sweeter, because indeed, Wilson sinking to his knees, cock in hand, still half covered by his boxers, and coming all over himself is the best thing he's ever seen.
3. H not being able to come b/c his usual happy thoughts of W are now guilty pained ones.
The fantasy is an old one. A simple one, as well, but guaranteed to get him hard. Perhaps he likes it so much because it might actually happen, because it is one of the more plausible scenarios to get Wilson into his bed. He imagines how it might happen.
They're both slumped on the couch. It's been a long day for both of them, and they speak little, trying to avoid getting into a fight because they are tired and their nerves are fried. House has been popping too many pills, but the pain is bad enough that not even Wilson's hurt look can dissuade him from taking the pill bottle out of his pocket again.
He's about to uncap the bottle when Wilson puts his hand over his, effectively stopping his movement.
"More pills isn't a solution, House. Come on. I've got a better idea."
House knows that if this really happened, he'd valiantly protest and deny needing help. This is fantasy, however, so he lets Wilson help him up and into the bedroom. Once there, he lets Wilson boss him into taking off his jeans while Wilson goes to get the massage oil both of them know is stashed at the back of House's medicine cabinet. It's fragrant stuff that, really, he never uses, though the bottle always seems to get emptier, until it's replced with a new one. If House were to count - which he doesn't, because he doesn't use the oil - he'd tell you that it must be about bottle #30 sitting there in his bathroom right now.
In his fantasy, House is lying on the bed, his eyes closed, his hands wrapped around his right leg. The cramps are almost unbearable, the thought of Wilson coming to his rescue making it both better and worse. He hears Wilson uncap the bottle, can smell the pine scent when Wilson pours some of the oil on his hands to warm it, then starts to carefully rub it into House's thigh.
Even in his fantasy, the mental pain of someone touching him like this is overwhelming. And there's something wrong with this fantasy. Normally, things would've gone differently. House would've kissed Wilson, or Wilson House, and hot, gratifying sex would've immediately followed.
Nothing in this fantasy feels even the slightest bit erotic, however. Intimate, warm, even loving, but neither House's nerves nor his brain are singing with sexual tension. And suddenly this feels uncomfortable. He's never wanted anything like this. It's always been pure sex in his fantasies, firm and hot, fast and inevitable.
House opens his jeans and takes his penis in hand, but if possible, this kills his mood even more. He doesn't want sex with Wilson, he wants to be watching TV with him, or to be playing juvenile games. Any situation in which they're not talking but things are good anyway would do. Anything but this reality, where House is sitting on the couch alone, knowing that it's more likely that Tritter is madly in love with him than that Wilson will come walking through the door.
House zips himself up again and moves to sit at the piano, but he doesn't play. He can hear the music just as well without coaxing sound from the instrument. No, he doesn't want sex with Wilson. at the moment, he doesn't even want to fantasize about it. He just wants someone to play for. He wants his friend.
4. He realizes he's dreaming just as some sound wakes him up. It's early - well, early for him anyway - and House knows he should be annoyed at being awake, but he's not fully awake yet. His dream was a good one: a dream of touches, of hands and lips and sweaty bodies and he feels mellow. His skin is sensitive, and his morning erection is begging for attention, so House decides to make the most of this rare occasion. He grabs his cock, slides his fingers over the sensitive head. The direct stimulation is almost too much already. In his dream he was fucking someone, or maybe being fucked by someone, all he knows is that it was hot and hard and my god he's so close to coming.
The sound that woke him up just a few minutes earlier returns. Someone is clattering away in his kitchen. House realizes it must be Wilson making breakfast, and yes, he can smell delicious pancakes being baked. The thought that Wilson is doing this for him without having been bribed, or even asked to makes his morning an even better one.
Then Wilson shouts from the kitchen: "House! Pancakes are ready. Your own choice, you can eat them warm or be an ass and sleep through my making you breakfast." He sounds something between annoyed and amused. House doesn't know what it is exactly what makes him come, but he does, spurting all over his sheets. He wipes himself off on them, takes a pill and labourously gets out of bed.
"Hold your horses already," he calls to Wilson, and with just a robe and boxers on limps his way into the kitchen. He's fairly certain that Wilson will smell the sex on him but doesn't care. The man's already my best friend and makes me breakfast. Perhaps he's up for sex as well, House thinks, and grins his most lecherous grin at Wilson, who just groans and rolls his eyes.
5. "Are you sure you want to do this?" Katarina asks, as she opens the door and enters the office. She searches for the light switch, but House, knowing it blindly, is quicker. Katarina looks around, notices the toys, the couch. "Is this your office?"
House grins. "Does it matters whose office this is? There's no one here and I do believe I'm paying you, so I get to decide our location, right?" He moves to sit behind the desk. "I've always wanted to do this."
"I'm not surprised," his prostitute mutters. "Not really an original fantasy." It doesn't sound unfriendly though. She's had House as her client before, and he always treats her decently and isn't very hard to please. She shakes her head at him, then gets on her knees to crawl under the desk.
House feels how she opens his trousers and takes his cock out, already half hard. He grips the desk, looks at the knick-knacks on it and forgets that it's Katarina whose hands and lips are drawing a moan out of him.
This is possibly the most daring thing he's ever done, getting a blowjob at work. Getting a blowjob at work from a hooker. Getting a blowjob, at work, from a hooker, in Wilson's office. It'll probably be the quickest orgasm from a blowjob since his first when he was eightteen, too. Katarina is good at this, and sitting here, surrounded by Wilson's things, the smell of his cologne in his nostrils.. House closes his eyes and bites on his lip to keep from shouting out Wilson's name as he comes almost violently.
Katarina wipes him clean and buttons him up. House sighs and takes out his vicodin, swallowing two pills dry. Then he manoeuvers himself out of the chair and walks to the door. He waits for Katarina to catch up to him, then turns off the light. Together they walk towards the elevator.
"So, whose office was that?" Katarina asks again, as they're on their way down. House hands her her money and says: "Just a friend's."
6. House has had a good day, which means that Wilson is having a good evening. A really good evening, he thinks, and groans as House skillfully tongues the vein on the underside of his cock.
"Christ, House!" he rasps, shifting his head so he can look at House as he goes down on him. He feels fingers ghosting over his anus and groans once more. House grins at him and swallows him to the hilt.
"Oh, oh Greg, oh, I love you," moans Wilson, now clutching the bed spread to keep from pulling on House's hair. He's getting close, and doesn't want this to end yet, but there's no stopping House when he's like this.
"Greg, I'm gonna... I love.. ohh.." Wilson tries to warn his lover, who ignores him and manages to wriggle a lubricated finger up his ass. Wilson comes with a shout that's probably loud enough to wake the neighbours. A moment later, House lies next to him lips still glistening with semen. Wilson rolls over to kiss him, and slides his hands down to check House's state of arousal.
He's just kissing House's chest when House says, calm as ever: "You know what I love most about you, Jimmy?"
Wilson sucks on House's nipple to keep from sighing, or saying something embarassing. Then he raises his head and asks: "No, what?"
House smirks. Apparently his attempt at being casual was a complete failure. "What I love, Jimmy," House says, his voice husky and seductive, "is that whenever the sex is really good, you can't help but proclaim your love for me." He doesn't sound very degrading. In fact, Wilson realizes, Greg sounds almost a if he's satisfied about it. He grins. This should be good.
"You know, Wilson says casually, stroking House's balls very, very softly, "what really like is how quiet you get in bed. Just about the only time I can get you to shut up." Wilson is almost laughing as he says it.
"I'm not silent in bed!" House immediately protests. "I'm speaking now, aren't I?" His hips are bucking to the rhythm with which Wilson is touching him, kissing him, sucking him. "I'm not quiet at aaah..." House gasps, then falls silent as Wilson sucks the head of his dick into his mouth. House's eyes roll back in his head and he comes with a soft moan.
Wilson waits until House is no longer shuddering, then moves to cover him and gives him a soft kiss. "That's okay," he says with a small smile. "You don't have to speak for me to know what you're saying."
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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