Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s close to nine when the front door clicks open. Wilson glances up from the armchair, a paperback folded over his knee. The lamplight makes the lettering on the cover glint, something by Jane Austen, the dork. The apartment smells faintly of tea and the old couch they never replaced. House stands in the doorway, shoulders tight, jacket half-slipped from one arm. He doesn’t say anything, just closes the door with a dull thud and leans against it for a beat too long.

“Long day?” Wilson asks, already knowing the answer.

Weakly, House shrugs. “Define long.”

“Any day you come home after the cafeteria closes.” Wilson’s voice is gentle, but his eyes track every detail: the faint tremor in House’s hand as he tosses his cane aside, the crease between his brows that hasn’t eased all week. He looks like someone who’s been running on fumes and caffeine, too proud to admit it. “You eat?” 

“Had coffee. That’s a food group.”

“Mm-hmm.” Wilson closes the book and sets it on the side table, rising with quiet efficiency. He crosses the room, already rolling his sleeves up. “Sit.”

House makes a face. “I just got home. Don’t start with-”

“Sit,” Wilson repeats, softer but more certain. He nudges House toward the couch with a steady hand on his shoulder.

House sighs but lets himself be guided down. “You really need a hobby.”

“I have one,” Wilson says, disappearing briefly into the kitchen. “It’s keeping you alive.” He returns with a glass of water and a pill bottle from the cabinet, though he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he sits on the coffee table in front of House, close enough that their knees touch. “You look like you wrestled a hurricane,” he says lightly.

“Lost, too,” House mutters. But when Wilson reaches up to undo the buttons of his overshirt, he doesn’t pull away.

“Let me,” Wilson murmurs, fingertips brushing his throat.

For a few seconds House holds rigid, every muscle poised to argue. Then the tension slips away in increments: the tilt of his shoulders, the slow exhale through his nose. Wilson works quietly, loosening the shirt, sliding it off of his shoulders, smoothing the fabric of his t-shirt down with practiced care.

“Better,” Wilson says.

House doesn’t answer, just leans back against the couch, eyes half-closed. When Wilson rests a hand on his shoulder, thumb tracing an absent circle through the fabric, House tilts his head slightly toward the touch. “Don’t make a thing of it,” he mumbles.

“I’m not,” Wilson says, smiling faintly. “Just… let me.”

For once, House does. The storm cloud hovering around him softens, and the room settles into a warm, quiet kind of peace; the kind that only exists when someone who knows you best refuses to leave you alone with yourself.

The air shifts. It’s a subtle, almost imperceptible thing, but Wilson notices. He always does. The quiet peace of the room thickens, charged with something older and far more hungry than simple comfort. His thumb is still tracing that slow, hypnotic circle on House’s shoulder, but the touch changes intention. It’s no longer just soothing. It’s testing.

House’s eyes, which had drifted shut, slit open. He watches Wilson’s face, that sharp, analytical gaze missing nothing. He sees the focused calm, the way Wilson’s lips are slightly parted, the faint flush of arousal coloring his own devotion. House’s own exhaustion is still there, a heavy blanket, but beneath it, a spark of something else ignites. A challenge. A need to own this moment, to twist the caretaking into something he commands.

He moves first. His hand, which had been lying limp on the couch cushion, slides up. His fingers, strong and calloused from his grip on his cane, wrap around Wilson’s wrist, stilling his ministrations. Not to push him away. To hold him.

“That all you got?” House’s voice is a low, rough scrape, devoid of its usual sarcastic bite. It’s pure, undiluted intent, a need to be in charge. Wilson needs him to need him, and House needs to be able to take control. He can’t stand the way his chest twists when Wilson takes care of him like this.

Wilson’s breath hitches. A jolt of pure, hot electricity shoots straight down his spine. This is it. The unspoken thing that hums between them on the best and worst of days. Yes. This is what he needs. What he fucking lives for. “What do you need?” he asks, his own voice dropping to a husky whisper. It’s not a genuine question. It’s an offering.

“Don’t ask. Just do.” It’s a command, a demand for the very service Wilson is aching to provide.

The permission, wrapped in the guise of an order, is everything. Wilson’s hands, always so careful, so clinical, become something else entirely. They move to the hem of House’s t-shirt, fingers slipping underneath to find the shockingly warm skin of his abdomen. He feels the hard ridge of scar tissue, the tense flutter of muscle beneath. He pulls the soft cotton up, and House, with a grunt that’s more effort than protest, lifts his arms, allowing Wilson to peel the shirt from his body and toss it to the floor.

Now bared from the waist up, House is a map of pain and survival. Wilson’s gaze drinks him in, not with pity, but with a kind of ravenous reverence. He leans in, pressing his lips to the center of House’s chest, right over the sternum. He feels the frantic, hammering beat of his heart against his mouth, a wild rhythm that betrays his controlled mask.

House’s breath catches, a sharp intake of air. His hands come up, not to push Wilson away, but to nestle themselves in his nice styled hair. The grip is firm, almost painful, and it sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through Wilson. This. This precise push-pull. The tenderness offered, met with a controlled roughness that says House needs this, but has to own it.

“Shoes,” House rasps, his voice gravelly with a need he’d never verbalize.

Wilson drops to his knees on the worn rug without a second thought. The position is inherently submissive, and a flush of pure arousal heats his skin. He’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. He works on the laces of the sneaker on House’s good leg, his movements efficient but not rushed. He pulls it off, his hand cupping House’s foot for a moment, massaging the arch. He repeats the process with the other shoe, his touch ever-careful around the damaged leg, his ministrations a silent promise of care wrapped in the act of undressing.

He looks up. House is watching him, his eyes dark and intense, his chest rising and falling a little faster now. The dominance is a shield, and Wilson can see the cracks in it, can see the raw, desperate appreciation shining through. “Now the rest,” House says, his tone leaving no room for debate, even as his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly in Wilson’s hair.

Wilson’s hands go to the button of House’s jeans. The denim is rough under his fingers. He pops the button, the sound loud in the quiet room, and slowly drags the zipper down. The reveal is slow, deliberate. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of both jeans and underwear and tugs. “Lift your hips,” he asks softly, and House does, a small, cooperating grunt escaping him as Wilson pulls the last of his clothing down his legs and off.

And then he’s there. Fully naked on the couch, his cock hard and drooling against his stomach. The picture of vulnerability and power, all at once. Wilson stays on his knees between House’s legs, just looking for a moment, committing the sight to memory: the pale skin of his thighs, the stark evidence of his desire, the way he’s trying so hard to look bored while his body screams its need.

Wilson doesn’t ask. He just leans forward and closes his mouth over the head of House’s cock. The sound he makes is hardly voluntary, a raw, guttural groan that seems to surprise even him. His hips jerk instinctively, and his hands fly back to Wilson’s hair, fisting tightly. “Fuck, Wilson.”

The taste of him is all salt and sweat from a too-long shift at the hospital, and it’s more than intoxicating. Wilson moans around him, the vibration pulling another choked sound from House’s throat. This is everything to both of them. The slide of his lips, the weight on his tongue, the way he can use his mouth to pull these ragged, involuntary sounds from the man above him. He works him slowly, thoroughly, one hand cradling the base of his cock while the other strokes his inner thigh.

He pulls off with a wet sound, breathless. “Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the length of his shaft. He needs to hear it. He needs the command.

House’s control is fraying. His breathing is ragged. “I want you to stop talking and use that pretty mouth for something useful.”

It’s all Wilson needs. He takes him deep again, swallowing him down until his nose presses into the coarse hair at the base. House’s back arches off the couch, a strangled cry torn from him. Wilson sets a relentless rhythm, bobbing his head, hollowing his cheeks, his own pleasure building from the sheer act of giving it. Every gasp, every twitch of House’s abdomen, every tightening of his fingers is a reward.

He feels House’s body begin to tighten, the muscles in his thighs going rigid. The vibration of his own groan hums through Wilson’s skull, a secondary pleasure to the one of having House come completely, gloriously apart beneath his mouth. He can feel it; the telltale tension coiling in House’s abdomen, the tremor in his thighs, the way his fingers are almost painfully tight in his hair. He’s so close.

And then the grip in his hair changes. It’s not just a clench of pleasure anymore. It’s a direct, unyielding pull, drawing Wilson back by the roots, forcing his mouth off House’s cock with a wet, protesting pop.

Wilson gasps, air cold on his wet lips, his own need a sharp, aching throb between his legs where he’s sure he’s soaking his boxers. He blinks, dazed, looking up the line of House’s body. House is propped on his elbow, chest heaving, his face a mask of strained control and raw hunger. His eyes are black with it. “Enough,” House rasps, the word a command that brooks no argument. His hold on Wilson’s hair isn’t harsh, but it’s utterly in charge. It’s a leash. It’s ownership. 

“But you were-” Wilson starts, his voice wrecked.

“I know I was,” House cuts him off, his thumb stroking almost absently against Wilson’s temple, a shocking contrast to the firmness of his grip. “I’m not finishing like that. I need… I need you on top of me.” He tugs, just enough to make Wilson’s scalp prickle. “Up. Now. Clothes off.”

The command liquefies Wilson’s bones. He scrambles to obey, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of his own shirt as he gets to his feet. His own arousal is a slick, desperate heat causing his underwear to rub uncomfortably against his sensitive clit, and his hands shake as he tries to work the buttons. He sheds his shirt, fights off his binder, lets his pants pool at his feet, and kicks them aside, standing naked and trembling before the couch, before House’s intense, assessing gaze.

House’s eyes drag over him, a slow, possessive inventory that feels more intimate than a touch. Wilson would feel horrified if it were anyone else. He’d be covering his chest, terrified at the idea of anyone seeing him without tape or a binder. But House doesn’t see him like that. He just sees the body of a man he loves, and Wilson knows that. Wilson knows that House admires him: even the soft curves of middle-age, even the way years of worry have creased his forehead and eyes, and even the fact he’s been putting off top surgery for something like thirty years.

It doesn’t stop the shiver of discomfort that runs down his spine at being so bare and exposed, but it soothes it. A salve on the burn of feeling so disconnected from his body.

House’s gaze lingers on the soft lines of his hips, the curving plane of his stomach, the dark hair trailing from his navel down between his legs. The wet evidence of his own building need threatens to run down his thighs, cold where the air touches it. 

A low, approving sound rumbles in House’s chest. “God, baby.” He shifts his weight on the couch, spreading his legs wider in a clear, unspoken invitation. His cock, still hard and glistening from Wilson’s mouth, stands against his stomach. “C’mere.”

Wilson kneels in the space between his knees like it’s his sole purpose. He braces a hand on the back of the couch, leaning down to capture House’s mouth in a searing kiss. It’s all teeth and desperation, a clashing of tongues that tastes of coffee and tiredness and desire and love. House kisses back with a ferocity that steals the air from Wilson’s lungs, his free hand coming up to grip Wilson’s hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh there.

When House breaks the kiss, they’re both breathless. “Sit down,” he murmurs against Wilson’s lips, his voice a dark promise. His hand on Wilson’s hip guides him, pulls him. “Ride me.”

A shiver wracks Wilson’s frame. He obeys, moving with a grace that feels both practiced and entirely new. He swings one leg over House’s thighs, settling himself over House’s lap, kneeling over him. The position leaves him exposed, vulnerable, completely on display, and the thrill of it courses through him like a drug. He can feel the heat of House’s cock against his inner thigh, a brand.

House’s hands settle on his hips, his thumbs stroking his love handles. His gaze is locked on where their bodies are about to meet. “Do it,” he orders, his voice thick. “Slow.”

Wilson reaches between his own legs, his fingers finding himself first. He’s so wet, his own slickness coating his fingers, a testament to how much he’s wanted this. He moans softly at his own touch, then guides House’s cock, positioning him right at his entrance. The hot pressure there makes them both still for a heart-stopping second.

He looks down, meeting House’s eyes. The command is there, the demand, but beneath it, in the slight part of his lips, the frantic pulse in his throat, Wilson sees the raw, unchecked need. He sees the trust. It’s this that makes his chest tighten almost painfully, and he sinks down.

It’s an unbearable slow slide, just as House demanded. The stretch is perfect, a delicious, filling pressure that makes Wilson’s head fall back on a choked-off cry. He feels every inch, a slow, burning possession that steals his breath. He sinks until he’s fully seated, House buried deep inside him, their hips flush. A deep, guttural groan is torn from House, his fingers biting into Wilson’s plush skin hard enough to bruise.

“Jesus, James…” House grunts, his head pressing back into the couch cushion, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he adjusts to the tight, wet heat surrounding him.

Wilson doesn’t move. He just breathes, feeling the incredible fullness, the way House fits inside him like he was made for it. He rolls his hips in a tiny, experimental circle, and the sensation is so intense it fizzles out his vision for a second. A high, broken sound escapes him.

House’s eyes snap open. They’re blazing, icy cold blue flooded with heat. “Look at you,” he breathes, his voice full of awe and dark possession. His hands slide from Wilson’s hips to his ass, gripping him, kneading the flesh. 

“Yes,” Wilson gasps, the word barely more than a whisper. He’s drowning in sensation, in the feeling of being so completely taken, so utterly needed.

“Now move,” House commands, giving his ass a sharp, encouraging slap that makes Wilson jolt and clench around him. 

Wilson rises up, almost until House is nearly out of him, the cool air a shock against his sensitized flesh, then sinks back down in one smooth, devastating roll of his hips. A moan is punched from both of them this time. He sets a rhythm, a slow, deep, grinding rise and fall that has him riding the length of House’s cock with agonizing precision.

His hands find purchase on House’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the hard, uneven muscle there. The room fills with the sound of their ragged breathing, the wet, slick sound of their sex, the soft creak of the old couch. 

House’s control is shattering. His hips begin to meet Wilson’s downward strokes, driving up into him, going deeper. His hands are everywhere: gripping his ass, sliding up his back to pull him closer, skimming over his sweat-slicked chest to thumb at his sensitive nipples, making Wilson cry out and shudder above him.

“That’s it,” House grunts, his voice strained, breathless. “Take it. You take me so fucking good.” He thrusts up harder, sharper, and Wilson’s rhythm falters into a frantic, bouncing ride, chasing his own pleasure now as much as he’s granting House’s.

The pressure is building to a screaming peak inside Wilson. He can feel his own climax hovering, so close, sparked by the relentless friction inside him and the filthy, praising words spilling from House’s mouth.

“Gonna come,” Wilson warns, his voice a broken sob, his body tightening, clenching rhythmically around the hard length filling him. “House, I’m going to come, you’re gonna make me come…”

House’s hand snakes between them, his fingers finding Wilson’s clit with unerring accuracy. The contact is electric, ruthless. He circles the swollen nub once, twice, with a firm, demanding pressure.

Wilson shatters.

His orgasm crashes over him with a force that robs him of sight and sound. He cries out, a raw, ragged sound he doesn’t even recognize as his own voice as his body convulses around House, pulling him deep. The waves of pleasure are endless, wracking his frame, leaving him trembling, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. Not when House needs him. Not when he’s finally letting him give this to him.

So Wilson rides him through his orgasm, even as his thighs shake violently, even as a fresh rush of slick coats House’s cock. He whines at the sensation as House lessens the pressure on his clit but doesn’t remove it. Strings of his slick connect their hips every time he pulls off, smearing on House’s pubic bone and collecting in his happy trail.

House thrusts up, a slower, more deliberate roll that grinds deep into the heart of Wilson’s sated heat. The sensation is too much, a borderline pain that is already, terrifyingly, beginning to morph into a new, blunt pleasure. A flicker of heat sparks deep in Wilson’s gut, so soon after the inferno that it feels impossible.

“You feel that?” House breathes, his own rhythm never faltering, a relentless, deep pumping that doesn’t allow for Wilson’s recovery. Each withdrawal is a vacuum begging to be filled. “You’re so tight. Still clenching around me.”

Wilson whimpers, the sound muffled against House’s skin. He is. His body is acting on its own, rhythmic flutters he can’t control, each one wringing a groan from the man beneath him. The friction is becoming less of an assault and more of an insistent, building thrum. The spark in his gut flares, spreading a low, dangerous heat through his veins.

House’s pace quickens, becoming less controlled, more frantic. His grip on Wilson’s hair tightens. “Look at me.” Wilson forces his head up, meeting House’s intense, glazed eyes. The connection is visceral. He sees the absolute focus there, the raw, unraveling need focused entirely on him. On this. “You’re going to come again,” House states, as if dictating a diagnosis. It’s not a question. It’s a prognosis. A certainty. His thumb finds Wilson’s clit again, and this time the touch isn’t a surprise; it’s an inevitability. He doesn’t circle. He presses. A firm, unrelenting pressure right on the hypersensitive nub, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

No, Wilson thinks, I can’t, it’s too soon, it’s too… His internal protest is drowned out by a wave of sensation so potent it borders on agony. The dual assault of the deep, pounding fullness and the targeted pressure is building something new, something terrifyingly intense. His breath hitches, his eyes widening.

House sees it. Sees the exact moment resistance turns into inevitability. A savage, triumphant grin twists his lips. “That’s it. There it is. Give it to me.”

The orgasm doesn’t crest; it detonates. It’s a shockwave that rips through Wilson with a violence that steals his voice. His body seizes, back arching painfully, a silent scream locked in his throat. His vision tunnels, everything fading except for the feeling of House pounding up into him, triggering endless, ruthless contractions that feel less like pleasure and more like a fundamental rewriting of his nervous system.

Through the haze, he feels House’s own climax finally break. A guttural, animalistic roar fills the room as House slams up into him one last, final time, pouring himself deep inside in hot, pulsing waves that seem to go on forever, each spurt fueling the endless, shocking contractions of Wilson’s own secondary climax.

They collapse together, a tangled, sweating, breathless heap on the old couch. Wilson is aware of nothing but the frantic hammering of two hearts and the overwhelming, full-to-bursting sensation of House still twitching softly within him.

He doesn’t know how long they lie there. Seconds. Minutes. His awareness returns in patches: the smell of sex and sweat, the rough fabric of the couch against his cheek, the heavy weight of House’s arm thrown across his back.

Finally, House’s voice breaks the silence, a rough, satiated murmur. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Wilson breathes into his shoulder, a soft smile tugging at his lips.