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“You’re hiding something.”
Interesting. When Wilson can tell House has a secret, he usually doesn’t voice it. House can’t be sure if that’s because Wilson likes to consider himself a nice, respectful person that doesn’t trample all over his friends’ boundaries- or if it’s because Wilson’s a manipulative bastard, and it’s easier for him to clamber right over those emotional barriers when he thinks House can't tell that he’s scheming. The “why” behind his question can be a puzzle for later. For now, the key concern is that Wilson is right, and House needs to convince him otherwise before the flickering lightbulb in his head can blink all the way on.
“Yeah, of course I’m hiding something.” House calls out, keeping his voice carefully careless, pivoting on his heels with the laundry basket between his arms. “It lives in my pants, it’s 8 inches long, and you should consider yourself lucky that I keep it concealed, or none of the nurses would ever look twice at you again.”
“Hysterical.” Wilson replies flatly, stepping out of the kitchen to meet House's gaze. House isn’t sure why he’s using that tone- objectively, it was. But he’s still giving House that look, the narrow-eyed, cross-armed thing he does when he knows House is up to something but can’t figure out what. “Why aren’t you using your cane?”
Shit. House had been in such a good mood that he hadn't even thought about his leg. Not that he can tell Wilson that- because Wilson is still Wilson, regardless of how oddly forthcoming he's being. He's deceptive like that. Good at making people feel like giving in to his probing will bring an end to it, that confessing to him will provide some kind of relief.
Really, acquiescing to Wilson’s attempts to pry out an honest answer will only beget more concern, more questions. "What's making your leg feel better?" will become "Really? What could you possibly enjoy about staying home, doing my laundry, and making me dinner?"; which will become an incredibly awkward silence, the end of two decades of friendship, and House having to find another couch to bum around on until he can be trusted in his own apartment.
Not that House can be trusted in Wilson's apartment either, if the events of this morning were any indication- but that's the sort of thing House needs to keep to himself if he wants to stay there.
“Well, like I said, I try to keep it in my pants to give you a fighting chance with the ladies. But I could whip it out for you if you really insist.” House misdirects, and gives it a beat, expecting Wilson to follow their customary rhythm; crack a smile despite himself, roll his eyes, or launch into a diatribe that’s part psychoanalysis, part lecture. But it seems House's distraction worked, just not as he had thought it would. Instead of sniping back, adding another hit to the volley, Wilson just goes quiet, descending into himself. Not shrinking, necessarily- just fading, going elsewhere, emotions filtered with a hazy veil as he turns House’s words over in his head.
“Oh! You mean this old thing?” House prompts eventually, just to break the silence, tilting his chin to indicate his cane where it hangs loosely from the back of a chair.
The stilted dialogue seems to jar Wilson out of whatever weird fog he'd entered, prompted the other man to remember his role like a whispered cue from backstage. Wilson hits his next pose right on beat, stance wide, finger pointed, mouth tight and accusing as he stares House down.
“You’re not back on drugs, are you?” he questions, and it's a classic stage 2 in the evolution of one of Wilson's sermons, almost textbook- but there's something wrong about it. A misplaced brushstroke, an off-key chord that rings strangely sharp in this context.
Honestly, it would be better if House was back on drugs. It would be much easier to explain than the truth. But this is still good; a familiar, well-trodden argument that puts House on the front foot again, gives him the opportunity to investigate that odd chromaticism lingering in Wilson's behaviour.
"Nope," House fires back, popping the plosive like a warning shot as he advances towards the other man, "And you know I'm not on drugs. If I was, you wouldn't ask outright, because if you did, I'd just lie."
"And you're not lying now?" Wilson tries, and with anyone else, it might have succeeded. The posturing of it all, the broad shoulders and don't-fuck-with-me eyes- but to House, it just looks like someone following the advice you'd use in case of a bear attack. Make yourself bigger, pretend you're intimidating. Convince it that you're the apex predator in the situation, something more than a naked ape.
Unfortunately for Wilson, House is smarter than the average bear. And even though their friendship gives Wilson a unique advantage for knowing when House is keeping a secret, it also means the reverse is true- that House's perceptiveness is twice as sharp when it's combined with his Wilson obsession.
"No, but you are." House says, and takes another step closer as he shifts the laundry basket to his right hip, freeing up himself up to go on the offensive. "Enough about me. What are you hiding, Wilson?"
"Me? I'm sorry, I'm not the one who just got out of rehab, and I'm not the one swanning about like the lady of the manor after I just left said rehab-" Wilson sputters, objecting with both palms raised, and the action is as good as an admittance in House's book. If Wilson was as innocent as he proclaimed, he wouldn't even bother to defend himself. He wouldn't have said anything in the first place, let alone gotten this twitchy about it. Being honest about things isn't how Wilson conducts an investigation, despite the way he frames himself as an open book- it's how he deflects. It’s the admirable, although futile, way he tries to ready his defence before House can notice there's one for him to break down.
"I think the lady doth protest too much," House sneers, drawing up his full height to remind Wilson who's in charge as he cuts the other man off. "Your poker face is awful, Wilson, and you know that, too. That's why when you're playing a game, you don't announce it- the fact that you did means that you're up to something, and it's making you paranoid that I'm up to something. Which begs the question: what are you up to, anyway?"
It's not entirely true- after all, House is up to something. Or at least, he had been before Wilson had arrived. But it's true enough to rattle Wilson, to imbue him with an odd silence, a strange stillness in contrast to the live wire of panic that sparks in his throat when he swallows in response. It makes House think of bear attacks again; if it's black, fight back, if it's brown, lie down. In the aftermath of his failed posturing, Wilson's playing dead, avoiding any sign of life that could alert House to his true motivations in this moment.
Bad news for Wilson again. Like most of his efforts to put House off, it only makes him want to pursue Wilson even more, puzzle him out. When he slips, it’s so fast that only House would be able to notice it- with a glance towards the basket still propped up in House’s arms. The basket filled with the fresh laundry that House has, ostensibly, spent the past few hours washing and gathering, with absolutely nothing else occurring to interrupt the process.
"The laundry." House echoes Wilson's mistake with his words. "What, you don't want me here?"
It's a pretty good imitation of someone being flippant- especially considering it's coming from a guy whose heart just dropped into his ass. Of course. It's the laundry, the cooking, the spring in House's step (or limp, as the case may be) that's accompanied it: if Wilson hasn't figured it out already, he must be well on his way.
Maybe not all of it, though. As smart as House will (begrudgingly, under duress) admit Wilson is, there's a number of leaps between You like doing my housework for me because you're a freak to You're turned on by doing my housework for me because you're a freak to You jerked off thinking about how much doing my housework for me turns you on because you are, again, a total freak- perhaps more leaps than someone as thoroughly vanilla as Wilson would be able to make. There's some solace in that idea. Although, the first conclusion alone is probably more than enough to get House unceremoniously booted from his best friend's home, if not his life.
"You do, don't you?" House's brain is exploding with data, gaze swarming like a horde of ants over every inch of Wilson from the tips of his twitching fingers to his low, knotted eyebrows. Seeking anything that could help with damage control, that could cauterise the wound this will create before their friendship can bleed out. "You want me gone."
"No, House- I don't want you to leave." Anxious energy ricochets through the hitch in Wilson's breath, rebounding across his jittery prey-animal eyes as he stumbles all over himself to respond. Standing this close, House can feel it like something physical; bouncing around between them as though they're trapped in a cosmic pinball machine. "Just drop it, would you? Forget I said anything. And it's not about the laundry."
"Lie." The word comes before the feeling even hits- but House is right. That much is obvious in the way Wilson flinches in response. House shakes his head, reorienting himself, working his jaw back into shape before he can launch into another retaliatory blow. "Not the me leaving thing, that was true. It's the laundry thing. You don't want me gone, but you are freaked out by what I've been doing while I'm staying here. Why?"
More silence; another tell. So House's secret is safe, for now, at least. What's more- whatever Wilson's hiding, House has nearly figured it out. He’s chipped close enough that the last layer between himself and the truth is almost gone.
"It's not that you don't like it, isn't it?" House begins, and this time, the realisation doesn't smack him over the head right away. Instead, it's a creeping thing, rising in his bloodstream with the growing rush of his pounding heartbeat. "Which can only mean-"
"For fuck's sake, House!"
After so much quiet, such unnerving immobility, Wilson's reaction feels like a gun going off, coiled hammer giving way with a world-ending bang. Shocking, yes- impressive, especially coming from a perpetual doormat. But it's nothing compared to what Wilson does next. Just as suddenly as he'd spoken, practically yelled, his hands are around House's waist. Stepping in to close the last of the gap between their bodies; and then, Wilson's on him, lips just as furious as his words had been, kissing House as though he has something to prove.
At least that means there's something in Wilson's head right now. House's own mind is uncharacteristically mute- no endless, pattering, sarcastic internal monologue, not even one snarky comment to speak of. It's a blank canvas, tabula rasa. Nothing to add script except for the distant, ricocheting echo of the laundry basket falling to the floor beside him. Everything else is pure sensation; body heat and fingertips through the fabric of his shirt as Wilson presses so firmly against him it's like he's trying to move through House, or merge into him. Like no matter how close he gets, it'll never be enough.
By the time Wilson remembers himself, he's shaking, panting from exertion against House's mouth as he pulls back with an abrupt wince. It wasn't a bad kiss; not at all. If anything, it was up there amongst House's favourites of the ones he hasn't had to pay for, all passion and spit. Too bad he'd been too rattled to reciprocate, too overwhelmed by yet another flood of information. Even now, the only reaction House can give is, as is his way, entirely inappropriate for the situation at hand.
"It took me an hour to fold that." Distantly, House is aware that he's motioning towards the upturned basket at their feet, at the clothes cascading across the floor like spilt milk. Not that Wilson's following the movement; he's fixated on House, stricken and tense, expression reflected in the fearful flex of his hands around House's waist. "Seriously, Wilson, did you treat your wives like this too? Or is this kind of carelessness reserved for when you're banging the help?"
At that, Wilson groans, forehead dropping to House's shoulder. "Fuck, House, don't."
He's hard- House can feel it against his good thigh. No way to pretend it's not there, as much as Wilson is clearly trying. Although his face is mostly obscured, heavy as lead against House's collar, the edges of his closed eyes are still visible, screwed up like a discarded candy wrapper that just missed the trash can.
"House, I promise I will let go of you soon. You'll get five minutes to make fun of me as much as you'd like, and then we will never speak of this again. Just- please don't make any references to being my wife, or compare yourself to a woman in any way for the next thirty seconds." As hidden as Wilson's face is by his positioning, House can just make out his jaw; gets to watch the way it clenches jaggedly as he cringes at himself. "Maybe the next minute. Okay?"
Staying quiet isn't generally House's strong suit. That is, unless, he's doing his actual strong suit, which is thinking, turning new knowledge over in his head; so that's what he does, feeling merciful enough to at least pretend to give Wilson a second to collect himself.
Of course Wilson's turned on by this, the kinky little creep- by House playing around like this, acting like his trophy wife. He likes seeing House knocked down a peg in every other way. He might as well actually get off on it, not just metaphorically. House can work with that. After all, he'd been getting off to that same idea, just from the other side; or at least, he'd been close to getting off before he'd heard Wilson coming down the hallway to the apartment. As usual, they're two sides of the same coin. Heads, House wins- tails, Wilson loses.
It kind of explained Wilson's string of marriages to women he didn't care about, too. Clearly, having a wife, not just a girlfriend, someone bound to him in a permanent sense who would always be home to cook his dinner and clean his clothes and bend over when required, got him horny. That, and the fact that loveless, affair-riddled marriages were a time-honoured tradition for heterosexual men: or whatever Wilson was going to call himself after this.
That's a freakout for House to ignore and Wilson to have later. Or now. Wilson certainly looks like he's on the verge of having it now, uneasiness bleeding across his face in tie-dye ripples where he's turned to look at House. Delaying the inevitable is ideal, at least in the name of getting laid; that thought is what finally spurs House into motion.
Where Wilson is rigid everywhere, not just in his pants, House makes himself fluid; loose at his hips, eyelids low. Coy, downright girlish, he raises his hand, walking his fingertips up Wilson's chest over his button-up. Doing his best impression of every femme fatale that's captivated him from the other side of a screen.
"I'm not going anywhere. And I already know you don't want me to leave."
Wilson's gaze slips, leaving House's face to greet the digits creeping up his ribcage. The moment of distraction would be a great opportunity to pull a classic prank, for House to flick his fingers up and get him right on the nose. Fortunately for Wilson, House suppresses the urge to be childish for possibly the first time in his life; instead, he goes in with his other hand, moving quick and serpentine. Coiling Wilson's tie around his knuckles so he can drag him in until their lips are almost close enough to touch.
With this level of proximity, the way Wilson gasps at the action is as physical as it is audible, breath fever-hot against House's mouth. "So my mama was wrong." House continues. "The way to a man's heart isn't just through his stomach- it's through his laundry basket as well."
"House…” Wilson starts, an aborted little thing that goes absolutely nowhere. House can't be sure if it's his coquettish tone that’s earned the reaction, or if Wilson has finally noticed that House is hard too, erection pressed to the other man's hipbone. "House, what..."
"Of course, I'm the kind of girl that takes a different approach." House keeps going, like Wilson hadn't even spoken. "But I have the feeling that if someone gets a finger up their ass today, it'll probably be me."
Jackpot. Wilson’s eyes burst with energy, sharp and hot like a solar flare, and then he’s kissing House again; just as desperate as he’d been before, but twice as bold, hands sliding down House’s waist until he’s gripping his hips to crush their chests together. This time, House reciprocates, angling his jaw to accommodate for the way Wilson surges against him.
House is surprised how easy it feels to just take it, parting his lips to let Wilson pant against his mouth as he grinds up against him. Receptive, soft and pliant, it’s an unusually submissive position for him to be in. It compliments Wilson’s uncharacteristic greediness, the covetous motions of his body against House’s. He’d thought it might be difficult to give up his control, to let the other man lead- but House’s urge to push, to see how far he can manipulate, is strangely dormant. Perhaps it’s just subdued by how fucking nice it feels to outsource his entire sense of control to Wilson, to be kissed until any thoughts of being in charge melt to burnt sugar on his tongue.
As indulgent as he’s being, House can only stay good for so long. If he can’t push, he’ll pull- and he does, using his hold on Wilson’s tie to yank him until they both topple over onto the couch behind them, going under like they’ve been hit by a cresting wave. House finds himself splayed on his back, ass hitting the arm of the seat as his shoulders fan out across the cushion, Wilson landing between his spread legs with a shocked mmph that House swallows open-mouthed.
Like this, Wilson is a pleasant weight. Something heavy and hard for House to buck his hips against as he drags the other man down to his level. One hand still wrapped in Wilson’s tie, the other already pawing ravenously at his jacket to try to remove the barrier between them. Wilson is, as usual, completely unhelpful, too busy winding his arms around House’s waist like nothing else in the world exists. He doesn’t pause the kiss until House makes him, sinking his teeth into Wilson’s lower lip; not enough to break skin, make him bleed, but just enough to make him jolt.
"You little minx," Wilson hisses, finally letting go of House to help him with the blazer, and of course he talks dirty like Sean Connery. Not that it’s not working on House. Wilson, with his finicky kitchen habits and enduring love of musical theatre, has never exactly been what House would consider a paragon of machismo- but in this moment, it’s undeniable that he carries himself with a certain old-Hollywood masculinity. It’s there in the sight of his strong hands as he strips himself, casting his jacket across the room behind him, the feeling of his broad body stretching House’s hips where he claims the space between his thighs, every inch of a leading man to House’s swooning damsel in distress. "I knew you were hiding something."
I knew there was a reason you were in such a good mood, is the unspoken part, the discussion that will inevitably come once they’ve fucked this out of their system. I knew you were just as into this as me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” comes House’s airy reply, and he reinforces his grip on Wilson’s tie with his other hand, tugging him in until their noses meet. “No secrets in our marriage. Isn’t that right, darling?”
Wilson growls, ducking his head to get at House’s neck, inhaling deeply before he bites down right above his collar. It’s a spot that will be impossible to hide; it makes House dizzy to think about. The concept that Wilson’s mark on him is indelible, that his claim over House will be as physical as it is psychological.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Wilson replies, rough and deep, breath over House's jugular like a finger on the trigger. “You can hide it from everyone else, pretend you’re so tough, and so smart, and so independent, but you can’t fool me. What you really need is a big, strong man to hold you down and show you your place.”
House whimpers- he can’t help himself, can’t keep it down when Wilson’s talking to him like that. Wilson huffs out a smug laugh in response. “Am I wrong?” He goads, fingers lithe yet stern as they go for the buttons on House’s shirt, baring even more of his skin to be bitten and kissed.
Between them, House and Wilson will probably set feminism back fifty years by the time they’re done on this couch- but when it feels this good to be talked down to, to be treated like he can’t think for himself, House can hardly bring himself to care. “Good thing all you need is a pretty little thing waiting at home- cooking your dinner and folding your shirts and sucking your cock for you.” He fires back; it’s kind of funny how easy Wilson is. How quick he is to react when House finds the right buttons to push, the way his mouth falls open against House’s throat at the words. “Am I wrong?”
Wilson doesn’t respond with more teasing this time. Instead, he arches back like a coiling whip, hands fisted on either side of House’s shirt. Wilson is the type of person to treat everything with care, someone who folds napkins and opens gifts slowly so the wrapping remains intact- but there’s no sign of any such caution as he grips the fabric and tears, shredding it at the centre until House is exposed from his flushed collarbone to the hair at the base of his stomach. The fact that Wilson is so into this that he’s reached the point of literal bodice-ripping is honestly ridiculous. It would be a good thing to mock him for; but unfortunately, House is just as embarrassingly turned on, feeling his hips twitch automatically in response to Wilson’s little chest-beating display of power.
“My shirt,” House pouts, and the way Wilson’s eyes darken at his purposeful simpering is immediately noted, filed away in his mental spank bank. “I liked that one, you brute.”
“That’s my shirt.” Wilson counters, his palms sliding covetous and deliberate down House’s stomach to his belt. “And I’ll buy you another.”
House’s impulse is to keep the banter going, but Wilson’s lips are on his happy trail, a flame licking at his skin so gently it leaves him unable to do anything but squirm impatiently underneath it. Wilson follows it up with a kiss to each of his hipbones, soft, almost worshipful, smooth in contrast to the clumsy, fervent way he tugs off House’s jeans. All that’s left for House to do is wriggle out of what remains of the shirt, leaving himself bare before Wilson’s burning gaze.
Most of the time, House is a lights-off kind of guy, even when he’s with someone he paid good money to pretend he’s attractive. Being naked in front of Wilson, who remains mostly clothed minus his jacket, should be awkward; uncomfortable, even. But if anything, it’s weirdly freeing to be stripped clean, reduced to an animal rolling to show its submission to the leader of the pack. There’s an odd sense of balance to it, another way that they complete each other. Wilson getting to release this greedy, nasty, neanderthal side of himself is its own form of vulnerability; it’s only fair for House to let his guard down, show Wilson how much he likes it in return.
Besides, Wilson’s enjoyment of the view is clear as crystal, and just as addictive. House stretches out, back arched over the arm of the couch, arms thrown behind his head- displaying himself like something ornamental. A porcelain plaything, a purely decorative object before he’s a functional item, let alone a human being. Above him, Wilson’s eyes are hollow moons, blackness radiating from their core as his pupils eclipse his irides at the way House preens for him. Furthermore, there’s a tent in Wilson’s pants as he rises from where he’d knelt to pull House’s clothes off; an intensity that borders on insanity in the way his fingers claw up House’s forearm until his hand is locked with one of Wilson’s own, all bound into a knot when Wilson crushes his wrist against the seat above them.
House owes Wilson a hickey in return for the one he’d left under his jaw- something to send with him back to the hospital after this, for the nurses to gossip about behind their clipboards. Something to let them know Princeton-Plainsboro’s most sought-after divorcé is thoroughly off the market. With his free hand, House wriggles the fussy half-Windsor of Wilson’s tie until it dissipates, working dextrously at the first few buttons of his shirt until he can sink into his neck with his teeth- pay Wilson back what he’s earned and more with a string of insatiable bites down the column of his throat. The pain seems to do it for Wilson, makes him throw his head back with a groan and lean into it, seeking out more. Another surprisingly freaky characteristic House wouldn’t have picked for him, one that makes him desperate to press his teeth down harder when he feels Wilson's pulse quicken against his tongue.
Fuck, House has needed this forever; he must be leaving a wet patch where his cock rubs against Wilson’s erection, glossiness dripping from the head at how riled up this whole scenario has gotten him. Slickness. The thought lights up House’s hazy mind, a reminder of a time that existed before now. That’s what spurs him into action, the thing that’s finally enough to make him abandon his quest to undo more of Wilson’s shirt.
Ignited, House slips his right hand down, brushing over Wilson’s abdomen on his way as he reaches between the back of the couch and the seat; at first, Wilson just shivers from the touch. But when House retrieves his prize from its hiding place, pressing the tube against Wilson’s ribcage in a wordless challenge, he stops dead. Stilled everywhere from his rutting hips to his tense palm, where it’s grasped like a castaway to House’s own hand.
As Wilson’s spare wrist trickles down to confirm what House is offering him, it makes him think of liquid bromine; fluid yet volatile, as smooth as it is liable to accelerate a burn. Once Wilson manages to haul himself upright, staring at the tube of lube he now holds like it’s an unanswerable question, House edges on the verge of nerves from how subdued the reaction appears- concerned that the realities of gay sex will burst the bubble of lust he's trapped Wilson in and send this whole thing spiralling until it's undone.
Of course, the pause only lasts a moment. When the gears turn in Wilson’s head, it’s a rapid acceleration, all the parts coming together as he, at last, realises exactly what House was doing before he came home.
“You can’t be serious.” Wilson does a good job of pretending to be mad- the only giveaway is the way the corner of his mouth tilts up, unable to disguise how pleased he is by the reveal. The performance is further undercut by his jittering hands when he lets go of House, uncapping the lube with visible eagerness as he shifts his hips hungrily between House’s thighs. “Is this what you do while I’m at work? Lie on your back playing with yourself?”
“Oh, please.” House feigns boredom; yes-anding his way into the part of Wilson’s overindulged kept woman with the exaggerated roll of his eyes, the vampish grind of his ass against Wilson’s boner as he tangles his ankles idly behind the other man's back. “You know what you signed up for. You let me sit around looking pretty all day, and I spread my legs whenever you tell me to. I think it’s more than a fair deal.”
“Spoiled brat,” Wilson mutters, more to himself than to House. One of his hands wraps underneath House’s good thigh, hoisting it up for easier access- when his other thumb brushes against House’s hole, he must find it wet, tacky with lube from where House had been touching himself there before he’d arrived. Based on the way Wilson jolts, anyway, in time with House’s own undulating reaction at the sudden, brusque contact. “Filthy whore.” Wilson corrects himself, a touch raspy, the discovery leaving him ragged at the edges.
It’s a fair point, House thinks. It’s hard to deny it when he moans like he’s being paid for it at the way Wilson opens him up, makes him take all of one slicked-up finger in a single, disciplining motion.
“Your whore.” House baits him, and Wilson falls for it without thinking. Cinnamon eyes narrowing to spiderweb cracks, he pulls his wrist back, only to push another finger right in beside the first. “Your personal slut-“ House manages to coo and jeer all at once, even as his voice trembles between octaves at the punishing stretch, almost more than he can take, “-you’re the one that put a ring on it.”
“Mine.” Monosyllabic, close to a grunt, it tumbles from Wilson’s lips, caveman hindbrain kicking into gear before his metrosexual, sensitive 21st-century-man persona can filter it out. Guilt follows swift and retributive, jumping in Wilson’s throat as he swallows; a silent, futile denial of every fucked up thing he clearly wants out of this, out of House.
Fortunately, its life isn’t long- burnt out too quickly by House’s own reaction, the rabid instantaneity of his fingers twisting into Wilson’s hair as he arches his back with a high whine. A garbled affirmation, a blasphemous prayer, blatant evidence of his agreeance with Wilson’s ownership of him. A corrupting force that eats through Wilson’s shame like rust through iron, one that makes him bite his lower lip in an apparent mental fuck it as he curls his fingers up inside of House.
Curse Wilson’s stupid fucking medical degree, the evil, merciless precision of his surgeon’s hands- he pushes right against House’s prostate and has the nerve to smile when he does it, the bastard, sliding his other hand to House’s hip to hold him down, make him really feel it.
House curses, legs flailing in the air behind Wilson, tugging him in by his hair until he’s not quite close enough to kiss. “All yours,” he manages to get out, “aren’t you lucky? All you have to do is keep me in the manner I’ve become accustomed to, and I’ll stay wet and ready for you to use me however you want.”
It’s nearly enough to get Wilson to crack- gets him to make that handsome, tortured, pathetic face he does when House has him in one of his many traps. His wrist stutters between House’s thighs, a sharp little thrust of his fingers that seems to come automatically at the thought of getting to use House up, take him in whatever nasty, degrading way he wants, treat him like a toy. The motion comes again, and again, harder each time, Wilson doubling down as he closes the gap between himself and House until their lips meet.
Wilson kisses him open-mouthed, fucking his tongue between House’s snarling teeth- so ravenous it’s almost down his throat, replicating the movement with his fingers as he splits House open. House reciprocates with all of the repressed, ferocious lust for his best friend that’s been swirling inside of him for two decades- moaning into it as he bucks his hips up against the press of the digits inside him, the fullness of it. The reminder that Wilson is absolutely everywhere around him, internally as well as externally, the possessiveness of it all. The confirmation that as much as House has coveted Wilson for all of these years, to the point where he’s ruined every relationship the other man has had, Wilson has, apparently, wanted him just as badly all along; if not more so.
When Wilson pulls out, it’s a frustrating distraction; one that leaves House off his game, throwing his knuckles over his eyes as he groans at the loss. It’s not until he feels a palm wrapping around his wrist, tight enough to be threatening, that he begins to realise the full extent of his miscalculation. Even more so when he can see again, when he notices where Wilson’s other hand is- retrieving his tie from the back of the couch where House had thrown it before.
Sluggish from arousal, Wilson’s next moves are faster than anything House’s addled brain can keep up with. Pushing House’s wrists together, then following the action up with his tie, wrapping it around the pair of them and securing them together with a flick of the fabric. It seemed Wilson’s knot-tying experience extended beyond the sartorial realm; House files that away for later, a story to pry out of the other man next time he can get him drunk enough.
“However I want, huh? That’s a dangerous thing for a girl to promise a man.” Wilson grins, sharp and cruel. House scissors his wrists, testing the strength of the knot; surprisingly solid. Not that he wants to get out of it, absolutely not. It’s just his natural urge to push, to see how far he can take it, to force Wilson to go even harder to accommodate for his brattiness. Maybe if he can break out of the tie, Wilson will use his belt to hold him down- the idea makes House bite the inside of his cheek to hold back a moan, although he’s certain the catlike arch of his body against Wilson’s hands as they slide down his chest does the talking for him.
“Good thing I didn’t marry you for your brains.” Wilson finishes, eyes lighting up like a burning building at House’s evident enjoyment of being restrained. That nets a verbal reaction from House, a hiss between his teeth as they snap together with a juddering thunk; the closest he can get to outright begging when he’s so worked up that he can hardly form a thought, let alone a coherent sentence.
It’s not like House can truly protest. He feels dumb, utterly unlike himself, every shred of intelligence fucked out of him by Wilson’s beautiful, awful fingers. House doesn’t know if he could recite the periodic table right now, if pressed, or utter even a syllable of beginner’s Mandarin; all he knows how to do is open up for Wilson, let him make all the decisions. Show House how he deserves to be treated until his mind and sense of self dissolve entirely.
Wilson laughs, then, sounding downright mean; although the sadism is diminished by the impatient way he fumbles to get his belt off, almost embarrassingly fast. Palpably needy in a way that House feels deeply sympathetic to in this moment. Wilson's bravado has been unwavering so far, impressively so- but he falters when he goes for his boxers, doubt rising across his tense shoulders.
“Should we- do you want-”
“Condom?” House finishes for him, raising a brow. “Don’t bother. I already poked holes in all of them.”
House had meant it as a throwaway line, a gag to make Wilson roll his eyes. Remind him how much he wants to show House his place, hit pause on his crisis of morality. But it seems like it worked too well; Wilson outright shudders at the words. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, pupils huge.
Cool. Another weapon for House, although not one he can wield immediately. Wilson’s already recovered. Resuming his previous action with renewed vigour, he tugs his underwear down, just far enough to get his dick out. Then, there’s two warm, broad palms pressed to the undersides of House’s thighs; in this position, ass in the air and wrists tied above his head, House feels it more than he can view it when Wilson slides the head of his cock inside of him, hot and relentless and exactly what he’s needed for what feels like forever.
“You want that?” Wilson questions, and House feels his lips part in a silent gasp as another inch slips in, spreading him wider than both Wilson’s and his own fingers had stretched his hole before. “Want to feel me filling you up?”
It’s not the real question. House can see it in the cautious motion of Wilson’s palm as it trails across the hair on his stomach, just missing his erection when it comes to press on his lower abdomen; the nervous tic in his brow as he looks down at House. Can I want that? Is what he’s really asking. Is it okay that it’s weird? Is it okay that it’s wrong? Is it okay if that’s what gets me off?
The question had been indirect- it’s only fair that House’s answer is as well. “I know you,” he tells Wilson, crossing his legs so they’re locked behind the other man’s back. Pushing Wilson even further inside of him with the movement, watching his eyes squeeze shut against the feeling as House tightens deliberately around his dick. “I can’t just rely on good housekeeping to stop your eye from wandering. I need something permanent- something to make sure you’re never getting rid of me. Or at least, not for eighteen years.”
At that, House feels Wilson’s cock twitch. And then, all at once, it’s all in him. So deep it makes House choke, throwing his head back against the couch with a strangled shout.
Though the hand on House’s abdomen stays still as Wilson fucks into him, a steady, insistent weight, Wilson’s other palm is everywhere. Roaming across his bound forearms to the tie, pressing both of House's wrists down to force his back to tilt up, creating an angle that makes Wilson’s cock grind punishingly against his prostate- then, he’s gripping House’s hair, dragging him into a ferocious kiss that’s more canine than human, all teeth. Full throated and sonorous, dirty, wet sounds punctuated with tiny frustrated noises of pure hunger from both of them.
House wants to tangle his own fingers into Wilson’s hair again. He wants to slap him across the face. He wants to wrap both hands around Wilson’s throat, claw his way down his back, tear away his shirt to bare those muscled, handsome shoulders and bite- carve his name into Wilson’s thigh with a scalpel as he whimpers and begs, give them matching scars, just like he did in that weird wet dream he had one time and never quite managed to forget. But House’s hands are literally tied; all he can do is loll his head back and sigh pitifully as Wilson takes his lower lip between his own and sucks. Like this, he’s utterly at Wilson’s mercy, utterly his. Wilson’s to use, to fuck however he wants, fulfilling House’s prophecy from earlier to the letter.
It’s barely enough time for House to adjust to the stretch of Wilson’s cock before the other man starts moving, a quick, frantic rut. It’s a savage rhythm, brutal and rapacious, crude and base in a way Wilson is usually desperate not to be. Fuck, House is so full; Wilson bears down on him with all his weight, feeding off the high, helpless, needy sounds House makes as he’s taken to pieces by the firm, dominating pace.
When Wilson breaks the kiss, he looks almost wounded, panting and bruised everywhere from his neck to his lips like he’s just lost a fight- beneath him, truly defenceless for the first time in years and so turned on he’s nearly out of his mind with it, House is sure he can’t be much better.
“I could just pull out,” Wilson mutters, sounding as crazed as House feels. House is so hazy it takes him a second to work out what Wilson’s talking about, the particularly filthy place that this game of chicken has brought them to. “Pull out and leave you aching for it.”
It’s, quite frankly, ridiculous. House isn’t sure who Wilson is trying to convince- he already knows it’s bullshit, and even Wilson doesn’t look like he fully believes it, dark eyes flickering back and forth between House’s face and the generous view he must have of the way he’s ruining his hole.
“Yeah? Good luck with that.” House teases, and Wilson speeds up, gritting his teeth and pushing through it the way he always does when he’s trying to stop House from getting to him. “Keep pretending you don’t want it too- I’m sure it’ll make you feel better when you empty your balls inside me anyway.”
At that, Wilson moans powerlessly, a betrayal of everything he claims himself to be. God, his lips are pretty- pink and plush and overkissed, stuttering wordlessly as he tries in futile desperation to find a way to deny it. To deny himself, to find the boy-scout persona he uses to hide the fucked up parts of his brain and drag it over his face like a veil. No chance of that now. House has seen too much, knows him too completely to allow it; especially not when he’s just found another way to play his favourite game, to push Wilson until he can get him to break.
“Better tilt my hips up to make sure it takes.” House murmurs, low and wicked, and Wilson’s pelvis bucks automatically; pushing House further down the couch, following the command without even needing to think.
If Wilson had fucked him savagely before, he’s feral now. Pounding into House like he wants it to hurt, leaning so far forward that House’s knees slide up his back, snapping and licking at his mouth. Like this, Wilson can hook an elbow under House’s good thigh, press down with his forearm when he puts that big, strong hand back on his stomach- the angle is brutal, hitting relentlessly against House’s prostate with every thrust, forcing him to trade his sarcastic barbs for a litany of deeply embarrassing sounds. His untouched dick drools against his abdomen, bouncing with the movement of Wilson’s cock inside of him, leaving a trail of wetness that gathers in the hair there like dew.
There’s another noise, too- it takes a moment for House to realise that it’s Wilson rambling, growling against House’s mouth as he takes his jaw in his other hand. “Fill you with me, put my fucking baby in you, make sure you can never leave-”
“Fuck yes,” House rasps back. He’s not quite sure what possesses him for the next part- or if it’s even sexy, if it’ll be too weird to work. But Wilson’s freakiness has him inspired, and besides, the idea of it certainly seems hot to House. “Cum so deep inside of me, want to feel you cum in my pussy-”
“Holy shit.” Wilson curses, dropping his chin until his wild eyes meet House’s own, crushing their foreheads together. Bingo. House doesn’t get a second to gloat- Wilson’s thumb is too quick, forcing its way past House’s lips, pressing down on his tongue until he sucks instinctively. Wilson’s other hand moves too, creeping forward just enough to make contact with the head of House’s dripping, neglected cock and rub.
House knows that move- Wilson’s circling his fingers, the way you’re supposed to play with a clit. Fucking evil, but House wouldn’t expect anything less: it’s the way things always end. When House goes low, Wilson just limbos underneath him and goes directly to hell.
In the end, that’s all it takes. Just that one single, precise action; everything it symbolises, about Wilson, about House, about this twisted game they’ve been playing with each other. House cums all over himself, thrashing in his bonds, held down by the weight of Wilson’s body as he follows him over the edge and collapses. Biting down on House’s shoulder, forcing his thumb deeper into House’s mouth until he gags from it; full everywhere, brain melting out of his ears as his orgasm rakes down his spine in a burning, unbroken trail.
In the aftermath, House gets a moment to take stock; honestly, not the strangest sex he's ever had. It’s up there, certainly, but peanuts compared to some of the stuff he’s paid for. It is, however, also up there with some of the best: transactional, and otherwise.
Seemingly, it’s the same for Wilson (although truthfully, it probably is the strangest sex of his life for him). He’s still gasping through the rush of stimulation, juddering as he fucks his cum deeper into House’s hole; the slick feeling of it, little streaks already slipping down the back of his thighs where it spills from inside of him, nearly makes House glad his hands are still bound. If it wasn’t for the tie, he might do something insane, like reach down and try to push it back in beside Wilson’s cock. Or hold his legs open and beg Wilson for another round, just in case the first load wasn’t enough to knock him up.
Wilson doesn’t still until House is writhing urgently, nerves ragged with oversensitivity. When he withdraws his teeth from House’s shoulder, sliding his thumb out of his mouth, Wilson drops his face back into his neck- not ready to make eye contact just yet.
Good. House isn’t sure he’s ready yet either. He’s certainly not ready to talk about this in any serious capacity, even if it might mean getting untied.
Although it’s hard to see him, Wilson must be a mess. All covered in two people’s spit and cum, teeth shaped bruises stamped from collarbone to jaw. House certainly feels like a wreck himself. When he looks up, his wrists are red, rubbed raw from the woven fabric of Wilson’s tie; below the elbows encircling his waist, House’s scar is complaining at him from where his thighs have been wrapped around Wilson’s hips for what feels like eternity at this point.
“Horrible day for women’s rights.” House comments eventually, just to break the silence. Wilson laughs despite the tension, a gravelly, humid huff by House’s ear. “So much for supporting the sisterhood. We really hit on every stereotype from Madonna through to whore- Butler must be turning in their grave.”
“Judith Butler is still alive.” Wilson corrects him tiredly. Although he still can’t look at House, he has his shit together enough to move. Tracing his fingers up House’s bound forearms, Wilson's hand slips under the tie. Not to undo it, not yet, but to gently rub at House’s distressed skin. The warmth of his touch is comforting; affirming in a way that makes House relax into it, releasing tension he hadn’t even realised had formed within his fucked-out body. “And I won’t tell Cuddy if you don’t.”
At that, House finds himself laughing too. Against his bitten throat, he feels Wilson’s lips curl into a familiar smile. In general, House doesn’t hope, and he certainly doesn’t believe- but he can’t help but get the feeling that, despite all of the weirdness, the two of them are going to be okay.