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Too Long
by bironic
"Good news, Colonel," Wilson said as he opened the door to his office, where his new patient was waiting. "All your..."
He trailed off. The man sprawled in the chair across from his desk wasn't the sort of spit-polished, straight-spined, silver-haired gentleman he'd been picturing when he'd received this file for confidential review. Quite the opposite: with his shock of cowlicked black hair, five o'clock shadow and languid posture, Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard looked more suited to a magazine ad than the Air Force. Still, there was no mistaking the coiled power in his body; Wilson found his gaze wandering appreciatively to the Colonel's arm, slung over the back of the chair, where the sleeve of his black t-shirt rode up to display capable-looking biceps--down the muscled forearm to his wrist, oddly vulnerable beneath a large watch--to the jeans low around his hips, emphasizing a long torso and trim waist--to his thighs, spread a little too far apart to be decent.
"Hey, Doc," the Colonel said--drawled, really, and Wilson fixated on the man's mouth, full to puffiness, the upper lip perfectly bowed. "Call me John."
Wilson cleared his throat, subtly moved Col--John's file in front of his pants, and walked over to shake the man's hand. "John," he amended, and tried not to stare at the intelligent and slightly worried hazel eyes that met his. He took his seat carefully and placed the folder on the desk between them. "As I was saying, it's good news. All your tests came back negative." A tension he hadn't noticed drained from John at that. "Your tumor is benign, and it's small, self-contained and in an easily operable location. I'm referring you to an excellent general surgeon..."
The rest of the consult went by in a haze of lips and eyes and spread thighs and the outline of what was cradled between them, distracting him whenever John shifted in his chair; sinuous and frequent, and if he hadn't known better, Wilson would have thought he was doing it on purpose. Conversing on autopilot, he barely registered when John thanked him for his time and expertise and said he was going to have it taken care of by one of the military surgeons back home. By the time they were done talking, Wilson was sweating.
"Thanks again, Doc," John was saying. Wilson watched him get to his feet and tried to decide whether to strategically adjust his lab coat and see him out or risk being rude and stay where he was to save himself from embarrassment.
Too late; John leaned forward to shake his hand again and Wilson half-rose automatically to meet him. This close, his desperation must have shown in his eyes (or maybe it was the perspiration beading at his temples and nose and palms), because John glanced down at Wilson's crotch, and those sinful lips parted with what Wilson could only assume was shock and disgust. Wilson was stammering out an apology--"I'm so sorry, this is incredibly inappropriate, you're entirely within your rights if you want to file a complaint against me," something along those lines, God--before he realized that John wasn't backing away or even glaring at him in accusation, but was instead taking his time as his gaze meandered back to Wilson's face. When he finally got there, there was a look in John's eyes that mirrored his own, naked want and the urgency of need too long suppressed. Wilson fell silent, his pulse quickening and his groin tightening at the unexpected echo of desire.
John was still holding his hand, trembling a little now, and he began to circle his thumb over Wilson's knuckles; no possibility of misinterpretation there. When Wilson offered no resistance, John looked deliberately at the door. "Is it locked?" he asked, voice gone low and gravelly.
"No one will come in without knocking," Wilson managed, and John licked his lips, and Wilson swallowed audibly, and that was all it took: John was around the desk by the time Wilson stood up the rest of the way, his chair hitting the bookcase hard enough to rattle diplomas and trophies, and then John took Wilson's head in his hands and they were kissing, unrestrained pressure and stubble and heat and John's nose squashed against his, unbearably good.
Between hard, wet, frenzied kisses, Wilson gasped, "We really--shouldn't--" But he was grabbing John's head with one hand to hold him in place and shoving the other up under his shirt through soft chest hair to finger a nipple.
"I'm not your--patient anymore," John replied, teeth scraping around Wilson's mouth, and the rasp of arousal in his voice went straight to Wilson's dick. Their arms tangled as John yanked his lab coat down his arms and off, and then his elbow nearly sent the coat stand toppling to the floor as John pivoted and shoved him against the wall. The poster frame dug into his shoulder but he hardly felt it, he was so focused on pressing his tongue back into John's mouth and getting his hands up John's shirt again to stroke the hardening, silky skin that made John gasp against his lips. John was working at his tie and then that came off, too, and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone, and John was sucking at the skin over his collarbone, where the marks wouldn't show.
John pushed his crotch into Wilson's, making them both draw apart just enough to breathe heavily, damp hair and foreheads pressed together. Wilson reached for John's fly. "Let me--" he started to say, but John had already dropped to his knees and was unfastening Wilson's belt and pants with a scrambling haste that made Wilson suspect he'd been right before about how long it'd been since John was able to do this. "Okay, that works too," he said, and hissed with relief as John tugged down Wilson's underwear so his erection sprang free. Then John rucked up his dress shirt, took him by the hips, held him firmly against the wall, and went down on him without preamble.
Merciless suction and heat; Wilson closed his eyes and groaned and let his head thunk back, hands curling into fists at his side; it'd been months since he was last with anyone, the longest dry spell of his adult life, and longer than that since he'd had a blow job, let alone one as fierce as what John was giving him, and longer still since he'd allowed himself to have one from a man. John zig-zagged his tongue across the underside of Wilson's dick as he took him in again, and after he'd successfully stifled a moan, Wilson looked down so he could watch the spiky dark head bob steadily forward and back. John's eyes were closed, and he was making tiny, low noises deep in his throat each time he pulled back. He stilled Wilson's reflexive thrusts without any seeming trouble, barely a ripple of muscle visible in his arms as he continued to hold Wilson secure and draw him to a quickly approaching orgasm.
A scant few minutes in John's eager mouth and Wilson was ready, more than ready, sweating and shaking as his climax built until it was inevitable. He touched John's head as gently as he could to warn him, gasped, "I'm--John--" but John didn't pull off, just tightened his hands on Wilson's hips and sucked him in again, and again, and Wilson's breath caught and he curled forward and came into John's mouth, bucking ineffectively into that immovable grip.
John pulled off and swallowed, immediately releasing Wilson in favor of unbuttoning his own jeans and shoving a hand inside. Through his usual post-coital sluggishness, Wilson watched as John braced himself against the wall with one arm and jacked himself swiftly with the other. John's eyes were still closed, lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, his lips--deep red, slick and swollen now--open wide as he breathed harshly, his hand working frantically under the denim. Wilson stroked that soft, messy hair with the hand he hadn't moved from John's head; John pressed his face into Wilson's bare stomach, and within seconds he was coming, groaning into Wilson's skin.
John's hand slowed, then came to a rest, and gradually their breathing evened out. Wilson let his hand drop to his side with a final caress. John sat back and wiped himself clean with a tissue from a box they'd knocked to the floor earlier. He did up his jeans and got to his feet, helping Wilson tug and tuck himself back to normal.
"Thanks," John murmured when they were both set to rights, though still looking flushed and somewhat disheveled. "I don't get to do that where I'm stationed."
His eyes were bright; Wilson kissed him, a brief, gentle press of lips. "I don't usually... either," he said, a little lamely, but John seemed to understand. "Thank you, too."
At the door, they shook hands again. "Be sure to call for a consult if you're in town again," he said, mindful of people in the hallway. John smirked at the line, but he let his hand trail along Wilson's as he stepped past him through the door.
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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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