The document editor has rejected my edits and formatting 5 times. I've deleted the story and republished to no avail. If the story makes no sense to you (and it won't due to the utter lack of formatting) you can read it at my livejournal (link also getting rejected, so It's in my profile now).

Warnings: Smut! Hookers! Smut with Hookers! Masturbation! Wilson! Smut with Wilson! Cuddy acting like Cuddy, House acting like House, and Wilson bearing the brunt of everything! (Oh, and it's entirely too long, the structure loudly announces my random/insane/disorderly thought process, it contains fluff [blech], and the actual sex is nearly identical to the only other sex fic I've posted.)

A/N: This began life as a 367-word angsty ficlet. Then it got away from me. 6,012 words – good luck!

Latent Interest – House's Two Confidants

The suction is just right and he's floating above the pain, above the frustration of a missed diagnosis, above the loneliness that drove him to this point. She's squeezing his balls and licking his shaft even as she's increasing the suction and it feels so good, so perfect and he's riding that edge, wants to fall off, and the old familiar frustration is returning. He groans, thrusts his hips against her hands, seeking release and not finding it. She presses a finger against his perineum and it feels good, but not good enough, and he groans in frustration again.

He knows the hooker shouldn't be able to read his sounds the way she does, but he's long since come to terms with this abnormal situation. The nature of the relationship appeals to his selfish personality – all he has to do is take what he wants and never give anything in return. Well, he has to give money, but that's nothing important. In rare introspective moments, he acknowledges that she knows his body better than anyone, understands him in a way no one else does, and he could even acknowledge that he chooses hookers over dating and relationships because it doesn't matter what a hooker thinks about him.

He's hard and leaking inside her mouth and can't come, despite her skillful sucking and constant ball squeezing . He gets like this sometimes, but never fails to come when she presses her finger at that spot just between his balls and anus. She traces a fingernail along the nerve there and he thrusts his hips again but still can't get off. She glances up at him and is filled with sadness at the sight. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted back a little. Sweat is pouring from his temple and running down his face in rivulets, disappearing under the collars of his shirts. She has to remain detached from her customers, but in the darkest corners of her mind she concedes that she finds him incredibly sexy and wants to please him because it seems like his life lacks pleasure. It isn't just that he's a regular customer or that his apartment is devoid of any personal pictures. It's something more, something in his eyes, something in the way he carries himself, his clipped sentences and apparent refusal to allow anyone into his life.

She dips her finger lower and gently presses. They can read each other, something else that saddens her. He looks at her a bit wide-eyed and she's caught off guard by his surprise but gently presses again, seeking an answer.

He nods and she brings her finger to her mouth, sucks it, and then she's sucking him again and she slides her finger in slowly, expertly. She homes in on his prostate just as she doubles the suction on his cock and he's coming with a shout and she keeps sucking until she knows he's done.

Every time she leaves, she hopes she'll never see him again, but selfishly looks forward to their next encounter anyways.

House had been in rare form; he was particularly abusive to the ducklings and Cuddy bullied Wilson into settling him down.

"I don't care if it means you two have to take the afternoon off," she told him. "Just get him under control. Make him human again. Or, as human as he can be, I guess."

When Wilson left her office, he took a deep breath to help prepare himself for the confrontation ahead of him.

He entered the conference room just as House's fellows were scurrying out and Foreman tosses a "Good luck" over his shoulder as he passed him.

House was staring at the whiteboard and muttering to himself and Wilson knew it wasn't as bad as it can get, but damn close. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck in a futile attempt to dispel the tension coiled there. House routinely causes more stress for Wilson than his entire caseload and Wilson sometimes finds himself questioning his sanity for continuing the friendship.

"Let's go," House greeted him.

"Uh, okaaaay," Wilson replied. "And where are we going?"

"You're buying me lunch."

"Of course. I forgot that's why I was here. For a moment I thought I was here to call you off your fellows, but I see now that I was misguided."

House didn't spare him a glance as he moved toward the door.

"Let's go out to eat today," Wilson suggested.

That finally got a response. House regarded him suspiciously for a moment, the soundlessly changed direction, headed into his office, presumably for his coat.

Wilson followed and watched as House gathered up a mess of papers, journals, and files and scooped them all into his backpack.

"You're going to work while we eat?"

"No. You're going to take me home, order Chinese, and watch TV while I work on the couch in my house."

"House, you can't just leave work! You have a case!"

"And you're trying to get me out of here, so I'm going. And you're coming with me. And Cuddy probably already approved it since she's been hovering in the hallway since about 30 seconds after you walked in the door." With that, House left his office and made his way towards the elevator without a glance in Cuddy's direction. Wilson followed and gave Cuddy a small shrug before rushing to catch the elevator House disappeared into.

House couldn't remember a time when his conscience didn't sound like Wilson. Both could be fairly annoying, but he had the luxury of walking away from Wilson. Most times, anyways.

"You need to let up on your team."

No answer from House.

"You'd be surprised how hard people will work for you when they're given positive feedback. It's this little concept called 'reinforcement' and it's all the rage."

"I've never been one to keep up with the Jonses."

"Imagine all the work they'd get done if you just –"

"Imagine all the work I'd get done if you'd just shut up. And what is this crap you're watching?"

"It's called the news, House."

"I do get the soap opera channel, you know."

"Yeah, but then I'd feel sorry for you because you can't watch it, due to all that work. And I know how much you hate pity."

House snorted and made a note in the patient's file.

"You know it's been 10 years since your last physical?"

House extracted his honey bun from the vending machine and ignored Wilson.


"Oh, hi there Wilson. What brings you to this end of the hall?" Fake cheerfulness with a touch of mock innocence.

"House, it's been 10 years since your last physical! At your age you require one at least every 5 years."

"I examined myself yesterday. Everything in working order. Except the leg, of course." House headed into the conference room.

"House," Wilson began.

"Can't talk. Got a patient. They're dying. Or something."

"You have a patient? But didn't you just have one 2 weeks ago?"

She knew she'd be here again. He seemed angrier tonight. More withdrawn than usual. He didn't make much eye contact. It was almost like being with any other john, except he was becoming dependent on prostate stimulation to reach orgasm. She hopes it never fails because she doesn't know what else to do for him.

She brings him to an unspectacular finish, straightens her clothes, takes the money from the coffee table, and leaves.

"I need your help." Wilson was in Cuddy's office because that was the only place he knew where to go when he'd reached the end of his rope.

"I don't know what you expect me to do about it."

"Can't you order him to do it?"

"Yes. And he will ignore me like he does when I order him to do his paperwork, or see a patient, or treat his team with courtesy or dress like a doctor. You're his prescribing. Deny him Vicodin until he submits."

"Do you really think that will work?"

"Only one way to find out."

"I'm running low."

"You're years behind."

"Well, you know. I work out. Eat healthy. Avoid booze and drugs and it preserves my youthful good looks."

"No script."


"You need a physical."

"No." House settled on the couch in Wilson's office and stared at the floor, resigned to a game of tug of war.

"House, you're over 40! You need a physical at least every 5 years, and due to your high risk lifestyle and checkered medical history, you shouldn't go more than 2 years between exams!"

"What will you do for me?"

"House, you can't be serious! You'll submit to the exam if I give you something?"

"I never submit. And you already told me I would get my Vicodin if I let you do a physical. So what else?"

"Nothing else, House."

House got up from the couch and wandered to the balcony door. He twirled his cane in his hand absently while staring at the plant on Wilson's side of the balcony.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Your blood pressure is good. Your weight is a little low, though God only knows how. The way you eat, I'd expect you to be at least 20 pounds heavier."

"I run. Keeps me in shape."

Wilson regarded him with a disapproving look then made some notes in House's file. When he looked up House was putting on his sport jacket.

"You're not leaving. I still have to check your prostate."

"No, you have to give me my Vicodin prescription and get back to you precious little baldies."

"Have you ever even had your prostate checked? Your last physical was before you were 40 and you hadn't had the infarction yet."

"Of course. I'm seeing another doctor on the side. Jealous?"

"Come on, House."



"Not as tasty. At least, I don't think it would be."




"Vicodin. Noticing a pattern yet?"

Wilson just stood there.

House held his stance but after about 45 seconds, he began fidgeting with the button on his jacket. He never was good at standing still.

"House, just do this, okay? It's not a big deal to have it done, but it could be a very big deal if you don't get it checked." Wilson thought a moment and then continued, "Is it me? Are you uncomfortable with me doing the exam? Because I could have Brown come down here and-"

"Do you threaten all the patients you blackmail with letting Brown sexually assault them?"

"House! A prostate exam is not sexual assault! Stop being a baby and just let me do this."

House took off his sport jacket and turned towards the exam table. "You didn't deny blackmailing me," he said petulantly as he began unfastening his belt.

Wilson sighed and reached for gloves and lubricant. "Yeah, I'm a right bastard for insisting you take care of yourself. Drop the shorts and bend over."

House scowled over his shoulder at him but complied.

Wilson sat on the stool, put on the gloves and coated his finger with lubricant. Leaning forward he warned House, This isn't going to hurt, but it will be a bit uncomfortable. Just breathe normally."

"I know. I have had this done before, you know!" House snapped.

"Not according to your file," Wilson muttered.

"Hey! You couldn't warm it up a little?"

"Just relax, House. And shut up."

House was taking deep breaths and studying the patterns on the crinkled paper covering the table. He was struggling not to react, so he began listing the stats of every patient he'd had as a resident. He was up to his third year before Wilson spoke again.

"Alright. Everything's fine. Now turn around and we'll be done in a minute."

"What do you mean turn around and we'll be done in a minute? We're done now. My prostate is fine and my Vicodin supply is severely depleted and after this little episode I need at least 3 to take the edge off."

"House, I'm an oncologist. And your doctor. I need to check you for lumps."

"I can check myself for lumps." Stall. Stall! Need time. Just keep fighting. It will be fine.

"It's part of the exam. Incomplete exam means no Vicodin." Wilson put his hand on House's right hip and attempted to turn him around.

"What are you doing? Jesus, Wilson! Don't you know to keep your hands off a naked man?" House was struggling against Wilson, fighting to keep his balance, and struggling against his body's reaction to Wilson's previous touch. He was losing on all fronts. He lost his balance entirely as he was spun around and would have landed on the floor if Wilson hadn't caught him.

Wilson watched House's face for any sign of pain and kept his hands on House's hips to keep him steady. House's eyes were tightly closed and his mouth was a thin white line.

"You ok, House?"

Houses nodded but didn't open his eyes.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, goddammit!"

Wilson let go and took a step back, reaching behind him for the stool. That was when he saw what was going on.


House hadn't moved and didn't acknowledge Wilson at all.

"It's normal. I mean, uh, it's completely natural." Wilson moved to the counter and removed his gloves, tossing them in the trash and resolutely not looking in House's direction at all.

"I'll just, uh, clean up and, uh, get going. You can, you know. I'll leave your script with my assistant."

Wilson's hand was an inch from the door handle before House spoke.


Wilson paused but kept his back turned.

"I'm not dressed yet, you moron."

Wilson stood with one hand on the door handle and the other clutching House's file. He waited for House to give him the all clear and mentally reviewed his grocery list. He was not thinking about seeing House with his jeans and shorts around his ankles. He was not thinking about House's erection. He wasn't.

After what felt like 2 hours but couldn't have been more than 3 minutes, Wilson was growing impatient. "I'm opening the door," he warned.

"Not yet."

"You're not – you're not doing – you're not, uh-"

"I'm stuck."

"It's a zipper. You pull it up. So easy a 3 year old can do it."

"I'm not stuck like that."

"Well then how are you stuck?"

House didn't answer and Wilson sighed.

"House, if you're messing with me…" he let the empty threat trail off.

"Not messing with you." House's voice was slightly muffled and Wilson could hear the rustle of fabric. When the paper on the exam table started crackling his curiosity got the better of him. He was just about to sneak a peek at House when the man muttered, "Shit!" under his breath.

"House, what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm stuck, okay? I already told you that. I'm trying to get unstuck! This is your fault, you know. If you hadn't felt the need to throw a cripple on the ground I'd be in my office playing video games right now!"

Wilson heard some scuffling noises and more fabric rustling before he finally heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper.

"Good?" he asked.

"Yeah. You can turn around and give me my script now."

"I haven't even written it yet! You can get it from-"

"Grow up, Wilson." House put on his sport jacket and arranged it carefully over his groin, just in case. "It's natural, perfectly normal response," he mimicked. "I'm a doctor, too, y'know. Gimme my Vicodin," he demanded.

Wilson sighed and turned to face House with slumped shoulders and made his way back to the counter. He set House's file down and pulled his prescription pad from his pocket. He heard House fidgeting as he wrote it out, and he glanced over to see House playing with a roll of surgical tape. Wilson shook his head, signed the prescription and gathered up his pad and House's file before walking out of the exam room without another word to House.

House threw the tape in the general direction of the biohazard can, hobbled to the counter, picked up his prescription and headed to the pharmacy.

He's enjoying this more than he can ever remember. She's perfect and he's really into it tonight. He's a bit surprised when he realizes he's moaning but damn it's good. He doesn't care if she notices anything different about how he's acting. Tonight it isn't about a distraction; it's about pleasure. And there's just one thing that could make this better.

He's hesitant to say anything. This is so good and if he focuses on how good it feels, he won't think about how much better it could be. She'll think he's gone off his rocker if he says anything. He looks down at her and her brown eyes are focused on his and he feels his balls tightening. Fuck it. He doesn't care what she thinks.

He was always quiet before. Tonight he was moaning a lot and had even threaded his hands into her hair. He was very gently guiding her and thrusting his hips upwards. He wasn't being aggressive, unruly, or threatening, but if he were she'd be less surprised than she was when he gasped "Oh, yeah."

He'd never talked before other than the most necessary few words when she first walked in. She's shocked when he speaks.

"Get up. I want to try something. We'll discuss cost after."

He's never fucked her. One of the first things he'd ever said to her was that he never would.

She stands and takes a step back to give him room. She has condoms in her bag on the coffee table, but she suspects he'll have his own so she waits to follow his lead. He gets on his feet and pulls his pants on, pulling them up to his thighs and holds them in place as he limps behind the couch. She moves to follow him down the hall when he stops and bends over the back of the couch.

"Use your finger. I'll do the rest."

This isn't the first time she's ever done this for a customer, but she is surprised to do it for him. As she moves behind him and coats her finger in lube she wonders what has happened in his life that caused all these changes in him.

He's bent over the back of the couch, his pants and shorts are down around his ankles, his legs are spread as wide as they'll go, and his ass is thrust in the air. She slides her finger in and homes in on his prostate. She isn't sure if he wants her to pump her finger in and out or not. She'd always just left it in place before, but everything about tonight was new.

He humps himself back and forth on her finger slightly and she immediately begins slow, gentle thrusts. She massages his prostate for two strokes, misses it on the third, two more strokes, another miss and he's jerking off to the same rhythm.

He's moaning louder now and gasping when she hits his prostate. It's hot and they're both sweaty and she's alarmed to find herself suddenly more aroused than she's ever been with a customer. Her mind is reeling from the heady scent of his sweat and the sound of his balls slapping against his thighs and his moans and the realization that he has placed more trust in her than he's probably given to anyone else.

And then a low moan: "Wilson." And she can feel his muscles clenching around her finger spasmodically and he's shouting, a senseless, unintelligible sound that has her desperate to satisfy her own cravings.

She masturbates in the car before pulling away from the curb.

"House is frighteningly chipper today. Did you absolve him of his clinic duties?"

Cuddy looked up from her paperwork and studied Wilson's face, looking for a tell, something to confirm he was joking. She couldn't detect anything out of the ordinary.

"House is chipper?"

"House is chipper."

"Is it raining fire? Are there horsemen galloping through the lobby?"

"So you don't know anything about this?" Wilson had fervently hoped Cuddy would have an explanation because if she didn't, he would have to confront House directly.

"No, I don't. But I'll notify security."

"Security?" Wilson echoed.

"Standard procedure any time House exhibits signs of human behavior."

Wilson stood outside House's door with a pizza, six-pack, large bag of chips and a carton of buffalo wings precariously balanced in one hand while he rummaged in his coat pocket for his keys with the other.

House was in his usual spot on the couch when Wilson walked through door.

"No, no. Don't get up. I've got it," Wilson greeted him.

"If you insist," House replied. "I need a beer."

"I'll get right on it."

Wilson went into the kitchen and began getting the napkins, plates, and utensils. He took the pizza out to the living room and pointedly did not bring a beer with him. His second trip brought the other mealtime flotsam but still no beer. He settled onto the couch next to House and opened the pizza box.

House jabbed him in the ribs.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"I need a beer."

"Then get a beer. You're a big boy. I can tell without looking at you license that you're at least 20 years over the drinking age." He began cutting his pizza with his knife in his right hand and the fork in his left.

"I'm crippled," House whined.

"I'm eating," Wilson responded. He brought the bite of pizza on his fork to his mouth and made a show of putting it in his mouth.

"You're eating like a pansy. Doesn't count. Beer is a manly thing and trumps pansy eating."

"A pansy?"

"No one uses a fork and knife to eat pizza."

"Insulting me is the surest way to get what you want, House."

"I know."

Wilson shook his head, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and stood. He glared at House as he walked by and may have spent 5 seconds more than necessary in front of the TV which earned him an annoyed look and put a smug smile on his own face. He brought back 2 bottles of beer and settled back onto the couch.

"Sip it slowly, Oh Great Crippled One; I'm not getting up again until I finish my own."

House chugged his beer and made a show of smacking his lips and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before expelling a loud "Ahhh!" of satisfaction.

Wilson took another bite of pizza.

"Hey!" House snagged Wilson's beer, took a healthy drink from it, licked the top of the bottle and then tried to put his tongue into the bottle in case Wilson had designs of recovering the beer.

"What are you, five?"

"I have it on good authority that I'm at least 20 years over the legal drinking age."

Wilson sighed and ate another bite of pizza.

House cradled the bottle between his hip and the arm of the couch, then helped himself to a slice of pizza. They ate the remainder of the food in companionable silence.

He's bent over the back of the couch again, his pants and shorts puddle around his ankles as before. He's spread wide, ass thrust in the air, already stroking himself frantically and she hasn't even penetrated him yet.

She slides it in slowly and he's groaning and humping back against her and she always worries when he does that because she feel inside of him like this like when she uses her finger.

She finds her depth and sets a rhythm. He's matching her thrust for thrust and challenges her to increase the tempo as he nears his pitch. He's moaning loudly, gasping and panting and she knows he's there when he growls "Wilson!" and he'll never know that she always comes, too, from the pressure of the dildo and harness against her clit and the sound of his moans and that final admission he saves for her alone.

She enjoys giving him what he wants, but regrets her obvious role as stand-in.

"There's no way that thing could run down a man!"

"I've seen it."

"No you haven't"

"Yeah, I have."

"House, you're telling me you've seen a komodo dragon kill a man?"

"No, I'm telling you I've seen one run a man down. He didn't kill him. Well, not really."

"Not really?"

"The guy died, but the ora didn't rip him apart or anything."


"Ora. That's what the locals call komodo dragons."

"You're making that up."

"Am not."


"If you were paying attention to the smart narrator with the script in his hands, you'd know that. You'd also know that human victims of ora don't always die. When they do, it is because of the virulent bacteria in their saliva. If they get antibiotics quickly, they'll have a really cool scar they can brag about for life."

"So they aren't poisonous?"

"Venomous. Yes, they are. But just a little. Typically not enough to prove fatal to full-grown humans. The venom causes rapid swelling, localized disruption of blood clotting, and shooting pain up the limb."

"Huh. Cool. And where is this?"

"Were you paying attention at all? Indonesia. Specifically on 4 of the islands in East Nusa Tenggara."

"And you've been there?"



"We need more beer."

"There is no more beer."

"Then go get some."



Wilson cursed himself the entire walk to the store for not buying a 12-pack the first time.

He cursed House the entire way back from the store for having so much control over him.

Wilson woke up on the couch and checked his watch. He still had a few hours before he had to get up from work, but he was clear-headed, though sore. He sometimes thought House purposefully bought the least comfortable couch to sleep on just for Wilson's sake.

He got up and headed to the bathroom, planning to head home and sleep in a real bed. It would also buy him some time in the morning if he went home now.

He was about to flush when he heard House tossing about and talking in his sleep. He rushed to House's bedroom door and peered through the crack, but couldn't see anything.

"House?" he stage-whispered. "House, are you ok?"

"Nnggghhh" followed by thrashing.

Wilson pushed the door open and took a step inside.

"House," he said at normal volume. "House, wake up."


Wilson approached the bed and clasped his hand on House's shoulder, shaking him gently. "Wake up, House."

House's eyes popped open and he picked his head off the pillow, rapidly scanning the room. When his panic had run its course, he focused on Wilson standing above him.

"What are you doing in here?"

"You were having a nightmare. I woke you up."

"Now go away." House turned over and pulled the covers over his head.

Wilson sighed and went to collect his stuff, thoughts consumed by a vision of his bed.

House waited until he heard the front door, and then cursed himself for his stupidity. What was he thinking jerking off with Wilson in the house? It wasn't like he was a horny kid who couldn't keep his hands to himself, or off himself, as the case may be. He was so focused on his fantasy, he hadn't heard Wilson in the bathroom, and Mr. Care-A-Lot had thought he was having a nightmare and rushed to rescue him from it. So like him, really.

House threw the covers off and took himself in hand. He wasn't limber enough to finger himself, but he enjoyed touching the area around his entrance while he stroked himself.

He found himself increasingly thinking of Wilson when he was masturbating. He imagined Wilson's hands were his hands. He paused to add lube to his hands and sighed with the first full stroke up and down his dick. He imagined his slick hand playing with his ass was Wilson's hand, that Wilson was teasing him while spreading lube on him, preparing him for when Wilson would slide his finger inside of him and stroke his prostate, then add a second finger and lightly pump them in and out.

His hand was a blur on his cock and he was thrashing his left leg, moaning loudly now that Wilson went home. Wilson. He remembered the feeling of Wilson's finger probing his prostate and he was muttering Wilson's name and his come was landing on the pillow beside his head with the first contraction of his balls and the subsequent spurts landing on his heaving chest and convulsing stomach.

Wilson stood dumbstruck in the door. His brain refused to process what his eyes were telling it. He was confused, nervous, and aroused.

He'd returned when he realized he hadn't flushed the toilet. He was only a block away and he thought it would be easier to return than to hear House bitch about it for the next 5 years. House was thrashing again and moaning and Wilson was going to let him sleep through it until he saw House from the corner of his eye as he passed the room.

It was hearing his name that had done it. House was thinking about him! Wilson felt a huge swell of pride and more than a touch of smugness.

Which were immediately replaced with panicked embarrassment when House pulled the covers over himself and started yelling at him about knocking and the two things men do alone.

Wilson took a step into House's room, but paused when House recoiled from him. He took a deep breath and took another step. When House didn't throw anything at him, he closed the distance and stood next to the bed looking down at House.

"What are you doing?"

Wilson calmly unbuckled his belt, pulled it free from his pants with a whoosh, and dropped it to the floor.

House watched in wide-eyed horror.

Wilson unfastened his pants and House scrambled to the far side of the bed. Wilson pushed his pants below his knees and House didn't move. When Wilson pulled his briefs down, House rapidly blinked several times. Wilson wrapped his left hand around his erection and lightly stroked it while he unbuttoned his shirt with his right. House's eyes remained on Wilson's left hand. When his shirt was open, Wilson stopped stroking to let the shirt fall free of his body, the reached forward and grabbed the bottle of lube House had abandoned there. He poured a few drops on his left hand and resumed stroking.

House licked his lips and his gaze flickered up to Wilson's face for a moment before returning to Wilson's hand. Wilson's mesmerizing hand. The hand stroking his dick.

"You like it?" Wilson's voice was deep with lust and caught on his breath.

House nodded minutely.

Wilson gasped and began stroking himself faster. "I didn't know. You didn't say. That day – that day in the clinic – when I, ugh! when I examined you – was that – was that because of, ugh! of me?

House nodded minutely.

"I'm gonna come."

"Not yet." So quiet Wilson thought it was his imagination. If House hadn't begun moving closer to him, he would have dismissed the breathy sentence as just a few hitched breaths.

House pushed the covers off and Wilson was surprised to see he was hard again. Not as hard as before, but it grew even as Wilson watched. House spread his legs wide and stroked his own erection.

"Better down here," he mumbled.

Wilson raised a questioning eyebrow, then lowered himself to the bed when House nodded his ascent. They were side by side and Wilson was looking at House beside him. He regretted the poorer view from this angle.

"Not what I meant," almost unintelligible. He spread his left leg wider, nudged Wilson with it.

"You serious?"

Nearly imperceptible nod.

Wilson was off the bed in a flash and grabbing the lube from the nightstand. He coated his hands and knelt down on the bed between House's legs. He smeared a generous portion around House's entrance and ran his hand over himself once more. He levered himself above House and used his hand to guide himself against him.


"Please." A whisper.

Wilson held his breath and gently pushed forward. All the air in his body rushed out of him when he felt House's tight heat swallow his tip. House was whimpering and if Wilson didn't know him as well he would mistake it for pain. He pushed in steadily until his cock nestled against House's prostate and it felt nothing like when he'd had his finger there.

House was squirming, trying to find leverage to hump back on him, so Wilson began pumping in and out, slowly increasing the pace. He was pistoning in and out of him and House was whimpering "faster!" and Wilson began to slam him in earnest, fighting to hold back his orgasm but it had been so long and now House was screaming his name and his muscles were clenching Wilson's cock and Wilson's balls were contracting even as they were banging against House and he was coming inside of him and the world was gray as he rode the high.

"Wilson, how many times do I have to tell you?"

"I didn't wear one the first time," he replied.

"I remember. I also remember having to get blood removed from my body and checked for nasty little parasites and other unpleasant things you may have picked up while sleeping your way through the hospital."

"Fine. I'll stop what I'm doing, walk to your bedroom, get a condom, walk back, and then start over. Will that make you happy?"

House shot him a dirty look. Heaving a put-upon sigh, Wilson trudged down the hall.

"I haven't seen you in a while." It was the first time she has ever spoken as she's walking in. He's unaccustomed to her voice but tries to mask his surprise.

"Been busy," as he heads around to the front of the couch. "Looking for the original recipe tonight."

She isn't able to mask her own surprise.

"Don't worry; you're still standing in for Wilson. But he's not willing to get on his knees. Figured while he's at a conference…"

That's when she notices the changes. Nothing major, nothing overt. The casual observer would never know, but she picks up the subtle hints: a paperback fiction novel, drink coasters on the coffee table, a framed picture on a bookshelf, and a new tidiness to the usual clutter. He still trusts her with his secrets.

And she knows he's finally happy.


Comments are appreciated

~mrs z