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House grunted.
Pleasure boiled in the base of his spine. His muscles clenched. His knee twitched. House clawed at the pillow by his head and fisted his dick as he ground his hips backwards into the hard line of Wilson’s body slicked and sweat-matted to his back. They were sideways on the bed, Wilson with a leg wrapped around House’s own and an arm cinched across his middle as he thrust into him like a bolt stunner.
House gritted his teeth, groaning with every rough, jackhammered strike against his prostate. The relenting, rock-hard heat pulsed between his cheeks and plunged into his body, trying to fuck his organs out of his mouth.
The hand on his stomach pressed down, hard, possessive, and Wilson’s dick rippled through his skin. House choked on the pressure. He could feel Wilson in his ass, in his chest, pressed against the back of his throat.
It was intoxicating. With Wilson plastered to House's back and his hot breath in his ear, House could barely think, let alone manage such basic functions as breathing.
House pushed back with the little leverage he could manage with his legs practically locked to the bed. Distantly, his bad leg protested; an endorphin-numbed ache rolled slowly through the gap in his thigh. The pain didn’t matter. House needed Wilson in him, on him, with him. His ass would be stinging for days after this and he wanted it to, slammed his hips back on a mission for it.
Sometimes, the pain was the only reminder that Wilson ever touched House like this at all.
This was all House ever needed; Wilson with him in every feasible way possible. His hands on House’s skin. His lips on his neck. His body curled into his where it belonged.
House tried to fight the sparks bursting in his groin. He dropped his dick and grasped the sheets with shaky hands. The longer he lasted, the longer Wilson would stay with him. If he could just hold on forever, then Wilson would never have a reason to leave.
House gasped as Wilson strangled his dick. He tugged it halfway off House's balls like a pull cord on a lawnmower. House’s nerves soared back to life, exhausted and overrun, but two feet from the finish line. Wilson set a punishing pace. He would have rope burn on his dick tomorrow, and Wilson’s pelvis bruised into his ass.
All reminders, House told himself. Ways to keep Wilson close.
The pleasure built without House’s permission, biting like frostbite, so cold it lit ablaze. His chest filled up with something heavy and immovable. House’s head spun as he tried to suck the air back into his body and chase away the concrete block pressing down on his lungs.
Then his dick spurted thick strings of cum up his chest and down the mattress and House couldn’t breathe at all.
Wilson clamped his jaw down on House's shoulder. House curled into his knees as a cry rang out like a bullet. Heat pooled in his ass.
Wilson spared all of three seconds for House to bask in the feeling before his warmth disappeared. House stared at the white streaks staining his sheets as Wilson’s fingers around his waist slipped away, as his hair-dusted legs drifted out of sight, as the grounding presence once perfectly tucked into the curves of his body like two pieces of a whole fell apart, and frozen air hit his back in a blizzard.
Absently, House pulled the blankets up and over his body.
Fabric rustled in the background. Shoes hit the floor. A door clicked shut.
Pain mapped the parts of House that Wilson had explored, entered, marked. But laying on his bed all alone, House still felt empty.
***
House’s face stung. His cheekbone thrummed with the beginnings of a bruise, tender beneath his skin. The pulse in his temple beat into his ears and his heart slipped up under his eyelids, discomforting and invasive, like a catheter grazing his veins. A tear climbed past House’s defences and rolled down his nose. It could have been the pain; a reflex to the jolt of his body and his lashes squashing up into his eyes.
Just his body being stupid, House told himself.
Wood creaked underneath him. A steady back and forth as House swayed with the weight of Wilson’s office desk rocking against the carpet. His head was bracketed by the desk and Wilson’s palm pressed firmly against the side of his face. Wilson’s blood swished like a seashell where his hand met House’s ear.
The edge of the desk dug into House's stomach, slicing down his middle with every thrust. House's nose throbbed where a lamp had shifted across the desk and fallen onto his face. A pen had lodged itself under his jaw, the cap cutting into House's lip. Remnants of something sharp and pointed- crumbs, dirt, splintered wood- buried itself into House's skin and chafed a rash across his cheek.
“That ass, House. Fuck!”
Wilson smacked House's ass in time to a sharp thrust that sent House sliding up the desk. House huffed harshly through squashed lips. The slap pounded in his ears and sent shockwaves ricocheting up his spine and through the cavity in his thigh. His legs shook as they struggled to hold up his weight.
House clung to the desk edge, his arms spread above his head where Wilson had asked- told him- to stay put.
“Fuck,” Wilson gasped. “Take it, House. Take it.”
The hand around his dick sped up, faster, harder, so tight it hurt. Wilson pounded into his ass. House’s face slammed into wood. Fingers sunk through his hip and anchored to the bones underneath, trimmed nails wet with House’s blood.
House’s leg cried.
“That’s it, fuck!”
House yelped. Red bloomed across his ass. Wilson’s dick pierced through him from the inside out.
House tensed. His fingers fought for purchase and his back arched into the air. With nothing but a hitch in his breath, House shuddered and came across the front of Wilson’s desk.
He collapsed like a junkie, overdosed on his fix, as Wilson continued to ram into him. Again. And again. And again, until Wilson’s hips stuttered and his dick twitched inside of House, so fucking close to him, but not near enough to close that gaping hole he had carved out behind House's ribs.
Then, Wilson was gone, and House was left spread and splayed open in more ways than he could count, panting the life back into himself.
House blinked the tears away and sat in the aftermath of Wilson’s loss.
That’s who House was. An addict. And that’s what Wilson was. An addiction. House needed him. Wanted him. Craved him like a fish craved water. But addictions didn’t care about how much they hurt you. They just used you until you broke, then used you a little bit more.
The worst part was that you begged them to.
“House, I have work to do.”
Slowly, House hauled himself to his feet, wincing at the twinge in his lower back and the soreness of his ass as he tried to balance on flimsy legs. Wilson had his pants back up around his hips, his belt still undone, and was tying the condom overtop of his waste basket. House pulled his own pants up. He brushed the grit from his face and popped two Vicodin dry.
House looked at Wilson. At his big, dopey, brown eyes and his pouty lips. The ugly spotted tie swinging from his neck and way he rolled up the cuffs of his sleeves to show off the thick forearms hiding beneath. The way his hair flopped over his face. How House wanted to walk over and fix it into place the way Wilson liked. Wrap his arms around Wilson's waist. Kiss him. Take him home.
Wilson caught his eyes and House’s heart fluttered.
“Lunch at two?” Wilson asked.
House nodded at the ground, picked up his cane, and walked out the door.
***
“My leg hurts,” House had said.
It had been a lie. But it had led House here, Wilson having arranged him out on his back with his legs pretzeled around Wilson’s waist and strong arms clenching the headboard above his head, veins and muscles popping and clenching. It took all of House’s strength not to lean over and pluck the wiry blue out of Wilson's arms and knot them into the threads of his own vascular system so they could live off of each other.
House was horribly romantic like that.
Wilson on top of him was a close second to that fantasy.
Wilson’s chest heaved. Sweat glistened down his sternum, across the furrow of his brows, and shone against the tanned V of his hips like a gold frame. His thighs were rock hard where they powered each roll of his hips into House’s ass. A slither of sunset crept through the bedroom curtains and painted Wilson in the light of a Greek statue.
He was the most stunning man House had ever laid eyes on.
House’s mouth fell open as Wilson battered his prostate. He couldn’t control the moans and soft, breathy sounds escaping him if he wanted to. His entire body opened up for Wilson. He felt good. More than good. Amazing. Fucking perfect.
House hadn’t yet had the privilege of watching Wilson as he sought his pleasure. Wilson's expression contracted into something tight and unrestrained. His eyes would flutter shut when his balls slapped House’s skin. His nose would crinkle and his lips would pinch in synch to the faltered thrust he gave before growling and ramming into House ever harder.
Wilson gasped, a choked, rattled noise when House thrust his hips up to meet him unexpectedly, and tossed his head back. The muscles in Wilson’s shoulders rippled like a stone breaking the surface of the water. Blackened pupils drowned out the brown of his eyes like a black hole. House tried to catch Wilson's gaze and suck himself up inside.
But most of all, House wanted to kiss him.
Wilson hadn’t kissed him before. The opportunity had never opened up, not with how Wilson usually took House from behind. But House’s lips prickled in yearning. He wanted to know what Wilson tasted of; the beer they had drank at dinner, the mints he always popped after every meal, the handful of cocoa puffs Wilson had shovelled into his mouth to quell his sugar craving when he thought House hadn’t been looking.
Heat and trust and home.
Wilson had fucked House speechless. Imprinted teeth marks and crescent nails and bright, red handprints all over his body. Taken House at his office desk. Pushed House to his knees in the fourth floor bathroom. Thrown him onto the mattress in House’s apartment like he owned it and came inside of House like he owned him.
All House was asking for was a kiss. To be enveloped by Wilson. For Wilson to smother him with his lips and draw the air out of his lungs and leave him dizzy and gone.
It should have been pathetic. It was pathetic. Lovesick, teenaged fantasies for people who foolishly believed in happy endings and gold-band futures. But if Wilson just cradled House elbow in his hand and set his palm on his cheek and looked at him, actually, finally looked at him with something more than lust in his eyes as he leaned in to kiss that something more into his mouth, House might not hurt so much anymore.
He could even be happy.
Wilson’s lips were right there, no more than an arm's length away. And what do you know? House had a pair of unoccupied arms at his disposal.
House wrapped his arms around Wilson’s neck and pulled him down. Inch by inch. Breath by breath.
“What are you doing?”
Wilson’s lips were a hairsbreadth away. His eyes dimmed, his face pulled back, and he stopped moving, his dick stuffed deep inside of House.
“Giving your lips a blowjob,” House said.
Wilson scanned over him quizzically. House’s heart rabbited as Wilson clasped each elbow on either side of House's head, softly, tenderly, and began to lower them. He was so close. Right there in front of House. Holding on to him like a treasure with their hands and arms melded together.
Wilson dropped House’s arms.
They fell to the bed with a muffled thump.
“How’s your leg?” Wilson asked.
“Fine,” House muttered unthinkingly.
The rusted, clunking machine of House's mind churned slowly, thickly. Too many thoughts hit him at once. Too heavy to hold and too many to count. He felt Wilson’s absence like he felt the hole in his leg. His thigh ached and his arms hurt, cold as ice where Wilson had stolen the warmth away. It took all of House energy to bottle up the sticky wetness swelling in his chest into something safe and contained as Wilson rolled him onto his stomach.
A pillow was tucked under his waist. Another under his bad thigh.
Pins and needles numbed House into a lifeless puddle. He hovered above himself, watching in a haze as he stuffed his face into the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut to the shadow of Wilson spilling across the bed.
Wilson braced himself on the headboard again. The distance between his hands and House’s body spanned miles.
The head of Wilson’s length pushed past the ring of House ass and House blinked to find himself back on the bed. His head spun. His ass was raw and throbbing. His insides simply hurt.
Wilson pushed inside of House and House's body accepted him. House wanted to call his body a traitor to his mind, but his mind wanted Wilson just as much. It was this or nothing. House couldn’t bear to say no.
Wilson stuffed House full to bursting. House felt every inch of him. Every twitch, every thrust, every burst of heat and every rough slide. Every punch to his gut.
But House was drained.
Completely and utterly empty.