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As the wind beneath each other's sail—or rather the heavy anchor to each other's sinking ship, one doing most of the sinking—they were undeniably friends, best friends in fact, of over a long-suffering decade, however the circumstances weren't always horrid, especially now being as the two department heads at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, Head of Oncology, and Head of Diagnostics together mulled over a current diagnostics case—lymphoma patient, Wilson's forte, with indirectly linked cardiomyopathy, a delicious calamity derived straight from House's drooling puzzle-solving fantasies—and though found relatively easy to crack, concentration deemed elusive clearly required a certain amount of perseverance disavowed with the debauchery of fleshly desires swiftly acted upon searing against flushed skin, a mind-fogging diversion left with waning interest in the poor kid's ailment as breathy moans and panting grunts filled the air, nails biting into sweat-slick flesh and polished wood, both figuratively and literally speaking, thoroughly fucked.
Wilson had an obligation, somewhat so—he could've objected, but that never worked out in his favor—after House's clear paging for a consultation to, as usual, challenge House's genius theories by arguing new information upon a wild goose chase the limping twerp would send him on solely to contradict his own beseeches, though that responsibility of his seemed to evanesce the second the doorlock to House's glass-walled office clicked and the lights dimmed with Wilson bent over his desk, papers and pens strewn across the carpeted floor, his large, calloused hands gripping Wilson's bare hips, pulling him back onto his sharp, unrelenting thrusts and pounding deep into the oncologist's sensitive, slightly swollen prostate, turning the younger man into a shivering, whimpering mess.
"Jesus, listen to you, moaning like a bitch in heat," House teased with a grunt of effort, the writhing hips before him meeting his in a stinging smack of skin that made Wilson bite down on his lab coat's sleeve, tears prickling in his perpetually glossy, doe-like eyes, pre-come dripping from his flushed, swollen tip as his best friend rutted into him from behind like a wild animal. "I tell you to be quiet, and you get louder?"
A muffled, frustrated sound escaped from behind the fabric of Wilson's lab coat, and his eyes fluttered shut against the sensation, a part of him trying to maintain some semblance of the polished, professional oncologist everyone else saw, but the heat of House's hands on his hips, his ass bouncing off of his pelvis with each slick connection of flesh, made it impossible to think about anything other than the fierce rhythm of their bodies.
"Easy for you to say," Wilson managed to gasp out, voice trembling from the sheer sensory overload, the slight cross of his puppy-ish eyes making his vision blur, and his manicured nails dug into the wood of the desk as waves of pleasure crashed over him. "Just hurry before someone knocks. I'd prefer it if our colleagues didn't see the Head of Oncology losing his dignity in the middle of lunch break." He tilted his head to the side, exposing more of his throat in a silent, submissive invitation, his breath hitching as the pace quickened.
A fleeting moment spent focusing on the pediatric cardiomyopathy case, and the next, the veneer of professionalism completely shattered with Wilson's pants a bunched-up heap around his trembling ankles, his hands white-knuckled against the edge of a desk, House's slender fingers buried deep in his hair that took twenty minutes of meticulous styling that morning, and a stinging, sudden smack of House's palm against his ass sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to his gut—how did they end up here with a decade beneath their belts as the quintessential platonic duo, two supposedly heterosexual men navigating the clinical sterility of PPTH, now crossing every boundary they've ever built?
House scoffed derisively. "Dignity? Please. You've had three divorces, Wilson. At this point, your dignity is practically a myth, right up there with 'honest patients' and 'Cuddy's patience,'" his sharp retort cut through the air of the darkened office, his clutch tightening on Wilson's hips, fingers digging into the soft skin, and he smirked against the younger man's neck, inhaling the faint scent of ivory soap and some prestigiously expensive cologne mixed with the salt of his skin, feeling the vibration of his moans like a symphony, every little shift in his hips making Wilson tremble in oversensitivity. "And what if someone knocks?" House muttered, breath hot and uneven across his skin. "It might actually give people something interesting to talk about in the cafeteria."
A breathy, unbidden moan fell from Wilson's lips, the lewd sound House anticipated from the deliberate force of his thrust, and he again clamped his teeth down on the fabric of his lab coat, his face flushing a deep, mortified crimson. House was insufferable, truly. "You're an idiot," Wilson rasped, voice thick with a mix of pleasure and bubbling panic. "Just— please, House, finish what you started before my reputation officially hits rock bottom."
House slowed down to a lazy roll of his hips, torturous in his intentional effort not to give the whiny pup what it craved in the moment. "You know," he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, gravelly low that clashed with Wilson's soft panting, "You talk about your reputation as if it's a fucking relic. 'Do no harm,' 'Be the moral center,' 'Make sure the patient feels heard.' Jesus, it's a wonder you have any personality left at all."
Wilson groaned. "God, I should've never—" He bit his tongue before choking out, "We should really focus on the case." The words were shaky and uneven, heat pooling in his stomach, and in response, House scoffed, a low, rough chuckle vibrating against his spine as he leaned down to press his forehead between his shoulder blades. "The kid's heart rhythm. We need to—" House deliberately drove deeper, fucking the protest out of Wilson's throat and mind.
The case? What the hell is a case right now?
"'Focus on the case,'" House mocked in a high-pitched imitation of his voice. "While you're bent over my desk with my dick buried in you like it's home base." He smacked Wilson's ass again; he couldn't help himself. "The kid'll survive at least another day. His heart is beating just fine, unlike yours, which is currently trying to exit your sternum," House teased, the sarcasm a necessary shield against the sheer, overwhelming heat of his friend, the feeling of his skin, the scent of his hair, more stimulating than any puzzle a patient could ever throw at him as the friction grew nearly unbearable, a white hot tension coiling tight in their lower bellies.
Neat, polished, clean-shaven, perfectly crisp and ironed clothes, everything about James Wilson screamed "responsible adult," a carefully constructed façade which made the sinful chaos of this moment all the more deliciously wrong as his stomach clenched painfully at House's crudely filthy words, the friction of his thrusts stripping away every layer until all that was left was a messy, exposed version of himself. Every time Wilson tried to bring up medicine, every time he tried to retreat into the safety of his doctor persona, it only made House want to break him more.
A sharp, jagged swear ripped from Wilson's flushed throat, a sound so uncharacteristic and unrefined that it startled even him, and before the cry could echo off the glass walls, House's warm, rough palm clamped over his mouth, stifling the noise. "We wouldn't want Cuddy hearing her two favorite department heads going at it on hospital time, now would we?" House mockingly hummed in his ear, voice dripping with smug pride. His other hand slipped lower down Wilson's lean body, feeling the slick throbbing of flesh in his grip, adding pressure where it counted as he pumped him in his fist. Wilson's eyes rolled back, his sobs muffled beneath House's palm, his hips greedily pushing back, relishing the stretch of being split open, the wetter they got with every stroke inside him, the slick heat making House's brain feel fuzzy.
Gregory House doesn't short-circuit—he calculates probabilities, mocks emotional vulnerability, deflects with cynicism and sarcasm, but this? This was pure instinct; raw, animalistic hunger dressed up in wrinkled jeans and a blazer now on the floor.
"How are you even real? James 'Principles-And-Ethics' Wilson, moaning into my hand like a slut while I wreck his ass in my office," House muttered, gruff, almost disbelieving as his thumb swiped over Wilson's leaking tip. Seeing him like this, unraveled, swearing, and completely unmoored from his morally righteous ideals, far outranked the thrill of any successful diagnosis. House's hand stayed clamped over his mouth, feeling the panting heat of his breath, the fine tremors of a man who was concomitantly terrified of losing control and absolutely addicted to the sensation of it. The switch in Wilson's head flipped, his hips mindlessly writhing and bouncing off of House's, who chuckled darkly at his eagerness, his wantonness, the sight making his own stomach quiver as he damned the tension in his thigh, the dull ache in his bum leg, and welcomed the desperate heat culminating in the heavy, rhythmic drive of his hips.
"There he is," House whispered, his voice barely a rasp against Wilson's ear. "There's the real Wilson. Not the saint, not the martyr. Just you."
And Wilson's orgasm hit like a shockwave, spilling hot over House's fist with a ragged moan against his palm, hips continuing to push back hungrily, body tightening around him in heated spasms as if it were trying to milk the very soul out of him—too much, too hot, too everything.
House groaned, low and guttural, losing what little control was left, and hissed through clenched teeth, his hips snapping forward faster, no finesse left, just pure need. Wilson gasped, a loud moan tearing from his throat, causing tingles down House's spine and his balls to tighten, heavy and smacking against Wilson's ass as he continued slamming into that oversensitive spot, Wilson, half-limp and twitching helplessly against the desk. "You're so loud, everyone's gonna know what we're doing." But even as House said it, his hand slipped from Wilson's mouth to grip his hip in a bruise-forming hold, the other pressed flat against his lower back. "Keep it arched."
Wilson whined at the gruff command, biting his lip, his back bowing into a deeper curve, arching like he'd been waiting his whole life to be bent over that desk, spread open, and House watched the way his body trembled beneath him—every muscle taut, every breath shallow—his palm slamming down on Wilson's ass again, firmer this time, leaving a blooming red sting against his soft flesh. Their lips crashed into one another over Wilson's shoulder in a sloppy, deep kiss, all tongue, teeth, and heat.
"House..." The name was a broken, breathless thing, a sob against flushed, kiss-swollen lips. "God, why are we doing this?" Wilson questioned amidst the wreckage of his composure, his inquiry born from a decade spent dancing around hypotheticals, hiding behind friendly banter and polite smiles, the subtext of every sarcastic remark and late night drink humming with tension now finally, violently snapping, and felt the weight of his own contradictions, the amiable oncologist, the martyr, the man who'd spent his life trying to be "good," crumbling under the undeniable truth of how much he wanted this, melting from the heat of House's answer in the way he pulled him closer, as if trying to kiss the doubt out of his mind.
"Shut up," House huffed between kisses, fisting a hand in Wilson's hair as the desk creaked beneath them with every movement. "And stop thinking so damn much." His thrusts grew sharper, hitting that sweet spot inside. "Bet you dreamed about this when we were just drinking beers on my couch after work." His nails dug into Wilson's hips, leaving crescent moon shapes against flushed skin in their wake. "Every time we played poker at my place, when you wore those stupidly tight jeans, when you leaned over the coffee table... Jesus." His voice dropped lower, every word deliberate, edged with the kind of crude intimacy they'd never allowed themselves before, "Fantasized about bending you over that same table, pinning your wrists down and making you beg for it, making you scream my name."
Wilson let out a strangled, high-pitched sound halfway between a sob and a laugh as House's explicit words stripped the last of his pretenses away. "You insufferable, arrogant bastard," he breathed out, his knees threatening to buckle, his pulse hammering beneath his skin. House was watching him, analyzing him, and wanting him all this time, and it was terrifying being seen so clearly, to have all his carefully manicured "goodness" laid bare and mocked, yet it was the most alive Wilson had felt in years. His body tensed, overstimulated, overwhelmed, clenching like a fist, his breath hitching in short little gasps, and he whined, reaching back with one arm to grab the hand behind him for support and grounding as if he might float away without their fingers intertwined.
House laced his fingers tightly through Wilson's, and pinned his hand against the desk, his chest aching with the realization that the friction between them was no longer just physical, but psychological—a collision of everything they'd suppressed for the last ten years. "You're doing so well, letting me fill up every inch of that pretty ass like I own it," he murmured, teasing yet darkly tender. "You're gonna be sore later."
Wilson's fingers clamped around House's with a crushing force, a wonder the bones didn't creak, the soreness promised a triviality compared to the way he was stripping him bare to the bone, exposing every lie, every suppressed desire, losing the concept of the moral compass he'd spent decades trying to be. House groaned, a feral sound vibrating in his chest, his breathing a series of ragged, heavy hitches, his muscles corded with tension, and his leg throbbing in time with the pounding of his heart as he pulled Wilson even tighter against him, trying to eliminate every microscopic sliver of air between them.
Though the feeling of his feral energy was intoxicating, an overwhelming desire to see the man behind the sarcasm, to look into those piercing blue eyes instead of just feeling the heat of his chest against his back, sent a new impulse through Wilson. He was tired of being the one pinned, tired of being the passive recipient of House's chaotic whims; he wanted to be the one doing the unraveling.
"Stop... just stop for a second," Wilson gasped shakily, wrenching himself away from House's warmth, and grabbed his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt to steady himself as he navigated the wreckage of his desk. "Sit down. In your chair. Now."
House's eyes widened in a genuine moment of surprise that vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a dark, predatory glint, and gave a low, guttural laugh, the sound of a man handed the ultimate prize, as he slumped back into his desk chair, spreading his legs to accommodate Wilson. Before he could even offer a witty retort, Wilson was moving, clumsy but determined as he straddled his lap, and slowly lowered himself with a hiss.
"So the doormat finally has a spine," House rasped, his voice thick with amusement and rising heat, his hands sliding up to grab Wilson's waist, observing him with intense, analytical fascination, riding the length of him, Wilson's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and his gaze searching the older man's. House let out a long, shaky breath, his eyes closing for a second as the heat of his friend's weight and the rhythmic friction sent waves of pleasure through him, the angel descending into beautiful, heavenly sin before him.
The friction was maddening, the sound of skin slapping against skin, Wilson's slick, stiff erection thudding rhythmically against his stomach with every heavy, driving plunge filling the small space between them. Wilson leaned forward, chest brushing against House's, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers coiling in his hair, and swore, the curse heavy and illicit on his tongue. House's eyes snapped open, the intense blue piercing through the dimness of the office like a laser. He didn't look away; he couldn't, pulling back a little to watch the way his friend's face contorted, the way his jawline tightened, the gorgeous, feverish mess of his blissed-out expression, seeing himself reflected in Wilson's raw, unadulterated pleasure.
Wilson's pace increased, driving him harder into the leather of the chair, and House's hands moved to his hips, guiding him up and down, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch away, breathing in his hot moans. "Mhm," House hummed, a dark grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I know," he cooed in that infuriatingly smug tone that made Wilson's blood boil with frustrated arousal, a response to his keening sobs. "Keep going, you can take it."
Wilson moaned wantonly, high-pitched and needy, almost girly, a sound he'd be mortified by if it weren't for how good his best friend felt inside him, relishing the tight stretch around him, the way he filled him over and over with every slide. "House..." he whimpered, hot and breathless. "You feel incredible."
House's head lolled back, his brow furrowed, his bottom lip bitten between his teeth, a hot, guttural sound escaping his throat. The compliment wasn't akin to the witty banter or the intellectual sparring he was used to, but rather a raw, animalistic truth bypassing his senses, heading straight for his ego and libido. "Yeah?" A dark, prideful grin spread across his lips. "You like being bounced on my cock like a toy, hm?" he teased, a low and gravelly timbre as he began to thrust upward, meeting Wilson's pace with a force that had the desk chair groaning in protest. The pleasure was mounting, a tidal wave of sensation making their spines tingle. "The most respected man in oncology, acting like you can't get enough of a bastard like me."
He watched the way Wilson's mouth hung open, the way his eyes struggled to focus, the way he was completely, beautifully undone by the very man he claimed to be morally superior to. "Show me exactly how good I make you feel," House softly encouraged.
Wilson let out a broken, shivery sob, his hips moving with a hungry, uncoordinated speed that mocked his usual poise, the sound of their bodies connecting wet and unapologetically loud with liquid heat, the abundant slickness of pre-come making their stomachs flutter, and on an especially deep plunge, the friction gave way to a sudden, jarring lack of resistance. The sensation of being filled vanished abruptly as House slipped out of Wilson, leaving a hollow, aching void. A shaky, embarrassed chuckle escaped Wilson's lips, his cheeks flushing even deeper, his hands trembling where they gripped House's shoulders who let out a sound between slight frustration and amusement, a short, breathless bark of a laugh vibrating through his chest and into Wilson's, because even in the midst of this absolute, gorgeous chaos, the utter, unpolished humanity of the moment, the slip, the awkwardness, it was enough to make him smile, and far more interesting than a clean, textbook description of intercourse.
House didn't hesitate much longer—no time for Wilson to find him with the tentative grace of a gentleman—his clutch tightening on the slim hips in his lap, guiding with a firm, possessive strength, forcing the connection to reestablish with a blunt, heavy thud that drew a fresh, startled cry from Wilson's throat.
"There you go," House groaned, the slick, tight heat leaving butterflies in his stomach. "Found me." He smirked, eyes darkening, gaze heavy-lidded and drunk on pure sensation.
Wilson buried his face into the crook of his neck, his breath coming in hot, jagged gasps against his skin as he clung to the hairs on his nape, fingers curling tight as if to keep from falling apart entirely with every deep plunge making Wilson sob, his body yielding to the singular, fierce desire of being filled, leaking a slick, messy trail of pre-come against the skin of House's taut abdomen, and the older man wrapped his arms around him, cradling the back of his head as if he were something precious. A choked sound, half chuckle, half moan, fell from Wilson's lips, and he murmured, low and teasing against his friend's shoulder, "Can't believe you spent the last decade staring at my ass in jeans. And here I thought you hated wasting time."
House's eyes flared, his pupils blown wide until the blue was almost entirely swallowed by a dark void, his pulse thundering in his neck, right where Wilson's lips pressed against him. "Maybe I was trying to respect your relationships. Ever thought about that?" The excuse was flimsy; House hated Wilson's ex-wives, all three of them, and he always made damn sure to make that clear to both them and Wilson.
A slow, incredulous smile spread across Wilson's face. "Respect my relationships?" He laughed, soft but pointed, pulling back to look House in the eyes as his hips rolled slowly, sensually, eliciting a hot moan from the parted lips beneath him. "Face it—you didn't stay away out of respect. You stayed away because even you couldn't diagnose your own denial."
House scoffed. "As if you were any better. Tell me, how did it feel living in the closet for three suffering marriages?"
Wilson's expression hardened, eyes narrowing as House's words echoed in his mind. "You want the truth?" he asked, his voice a soft, regretful whisper. "I married women because I thought I was supposed to. Because that's what normal people do."
"You're saying what we're doing isn't normal?" House spoke in a low, intimate murmur, "You, me, this desk chair we're about to break because you can't stop riding my dick like a cock-drunk whore?"
Wilson chuckled breathlessly, leaning forward to rest his forehead against his, close enough to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. "People expect things from people like me. But you, on the other hand, are far too much of an arrogant, self-centered prick to waste your life doing something for anyone else. You'd rather waste it on a life of pills and isolation instead."
"Better to be unhappy living my truth than to be unhappy living a lie, Mr. Antidepressants," House countered.
A bitter laugh escaped Wilson, sharp and breathy, his fingers digging hard into his shoulders in response, the heat between them burning brighter with each jerky motion. "I hate you," he gritted out. "I hate you so much." He leaned in, voice low and ragged, an almost reluctant admission as he rolled his hips in a relentless rhythm, "God, why does this feel so good?"
House gave a soft, deep chuckle, rumbling in his heaving chest. "Uh-huh." He grinned pridefully, eyes glazed over with lust, hips bucking up.
"Could you possibly be more full of yourself?" Wilson panted, the words coming out breathless, undermined by the way his body arched greedily into each movement.
House's smirk widened, a flash of white teeth in the dim light of the office. "Statistically? Yes," he retorted wryly. "But you're the one currently riding the most interesting man in this entire hospital. You're not here to critique my ego, Wilson. You're here to feel it." He pressed his palms firmly into the soft, tender flesh of Wilson's waist, effortlessly lifting and slamming him back down onto his lap as if he weighed nothing, punching out broken moans from the younger man's chest, a beauteous siren's song luring him closer onto the edge of sweet ecstasy as the first tremors of his release began to coil tight in his aching gut.
The air felt heavy, thicker than fog, charged with the scent of sweat and sex and the slapping of skin, Wilson's face buried in House's shoulder as he sobbed, while House's hands moved the man on his lap, back turned to the door, shielding their frantic, rhythmic sin behind his desk from any possible prying eyes pacing the corridors, and Wilson left facing the glass, his knuckles white as he fisted the fabric of House's rumpled collared button-up, his body trembling with every desperate bounce of his hips.
"Right there, right there," House softly chanted, a whimper hitching in his throat, his clutch tightening, guiding the pace faster, deeper, teetering on the precipice of a glorious peak, the heat more craveable than any Vicodin high he'd ever chased, as breathy pants fell from swollen, red-bitten lips.
And the tip off the edge was exhilarating, reached within a few more bounces and tight, fluttering clenches of Wilson's eager body, milking every drop from House as he groaned loudly, spilling inside him in hot, thick pulses, left with the shivers of aftershocks and heaving chests slumped against one another, catching their breaths.
House smirked, drunk on bliss, not giving a single damn about diagnostics for once as the thought annoyingly reintroduced itself.
Jesus. The cancer kid with heart problems—important medical stuff.
"I think the team's got this one. What do you think?" House decidedly murmured into his friend's hair. Wilson chuckled softly, nuzzling deeper into the crook of his neck.
"Yeah, I think so too."
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