Warnings: Dark!House and dub con
Author's Notes: Written for the "Everybody Lie!" challenge on house_wilson.
Wilson nursed his Scotch, feeling a dull despair and resentment build in his belly, as his only friend sniggered at some especially stupid remark on the show that he was watching. "For God's sake, House," he finally burst out, setting the glass down too hard on the coffee table so that the amber liquid sloshed over the sides.
House scowled, glancing over at him in annoyance. "What is it now?"
"What is it ever? Just because you like to pretend to have no feelings doesn't mean that other people do." Wilson could hear the slur in his own voice and wondered foggily just how many drinks he'd had.
"This again? I thought you were over it weeks ago. Three strikes and you're out." Then House waggled his eyebrows at him. "Maybe you should consider batting for the other team."
"Shut up," Wilson responded automatically before his sodden brain actually caught up to what House might have meant.
Suddenly House was sitting right beside him, far too close, and his hot breath brushed against Wilson's lips just before he parted them with a determined thrust of his tongue. Wilson froze in surprise; to his considerable horror, he could feel an answering thrill that started deep in his pelvis and spread quickly into his cock.
"What the hell?" he demanded once he could breathe again, twisting his face away from House's bristly lips with an indignant grimace.
"There's really only one way to console a widow," House rasped genially in his ear.
"I'm not a widow! We're just separated!" Wilson pushed at him ineffectually, his head reeling as much from shock as the alcohol. "Get off me!"
"Oh, no. Trust me, this is exactly what you need. And I may be a cripple, but right now you're too drunk to stop me," House responded with a nasty smile. His arm shot out, pinning Wilson against the back of the sofa, putting pressure on his larynx until Wilson began to wheeze, colorful sparks swimming in his vision. Sweat breaking out on his forehead, he scrabbled clumsily at House's forearm to no avail while the other man methodically unzipped his fly and grabbed his traitorously bobbing cock.
Wilson sucked in a startled breath when House's arm relaxed a little, restoring his airflow, even as skillful fingers squeezed along his length. Before he could close his mouth, House leaned in and thrust his tongue into it again, intensifying the taste of Scotch and smoky undertones. He pushed Wilson back into the couch, kissing him with a hunger brutal enough to bruise, even as he pumped his hand with a steady rhythm that threatened to spill him over the edge.
Surrendering to the inevitable, Wilson moaned into House's mouth and slid his hands up his friend's sides, marveling at the powerful muscles knotting in the other man's back. His fingers clenched, sinking into House's skin, holding on desperately to the last remnants of his dignity. Wilson was humiliatingly hard in House's hand, throbbing with every stroke, but despite his desperation to climax, he couldn't quite seem to get there.
House broke the kiss to pull back and appraise his progress. "Come on, Jimmy," he encouraged Wilson in a low voice, the almost-purr sending tingles down into his captive's cock.
"…can't," Wilson whispered, even as he rocked with greater urgency in House's grip.
"No?" House said with a crooked grin. "Then maybe this is what you need." With no more warning, he let go of Wilson's cock, grabbed him roughly under the armpits, and flung him over his knees, pushing his face into the smooth leather of the sofa. The world spinning around him, Wilson slumped unresisting as House shoved him further along and yanked his slacks and boxers halfway down his thighs.
He felt the cool kiss of air on his bare backside for only a second before his ears rang with a resounding slap, followed by a bright burst of pain that made his eyes sting and every hair stand on end. "Ow! What the fuck?"
"You're-a-miserable-excuse-for-a-husband," House ground out, punctuating each word with a deliberate smack that brought fresh tears to Wilson's eyes. "You-neglectful-adulterous-bastard. You-lying-stupid-son-of-a-bitch."
House ignored his pathetic pleas and whimpers, keeping one arm locked in an iron vise over the backs of Wilson's thighs, the other raining down relentless blows, accompanied by ever-more-vicious insults. Wilson squirmed beneath him, at first in a futile attempt to avoid the blows, then with a more regular rhythm as his arousal rubbed pleasurably against the rough denim of the other man's jeans.
He was so close now; every time House's hand bit into his tender flesh, his swollen cock ached in sympathy. Wilson groaned helplessly, twisting his head to look back up at House, whose mouth was set in a thin line, his eyes glittering in the dim light. At last he was utterly undone; he pressed his face hard into the musty leather and howled, bucking his pelvis against House's thighs as he came, pulsing wet warmth sticky along his belly.
Wilson woke with a gasp, still shuddering in the throes of orgasm. He found himself lying on his back, on House's lumpy leather couch, alone, his left hand under the blankets clasping his rapidly deflating cock through the damp front of his sweatpants. Except for his ragged breaths and the blood pounding in his ears, the apartment was absolutely silent.
Fuck. He thrust a hand distractedly through his hair, his whole body hot with embarrassment and afterglow, considering his options. It was barely light out; House wouldn't be awake yet unless he'd been having a particularly restless night. He could sneak down the hall into the bathroom, take a shower, and smuggle his soiled clothes into his car without anyone the wiser. Not that House would really care if he knew – hell, he'd probably congratulate him – but he'd never let it go without teasing him, maybe asking an awkward question, and Wilson knew that right now his face couldn't fail to give the game away.
Wilson tiptoed down the hall, a change of clothes over his arm, allowing himself a quick glance into House's bedroom as he passed. The other man was stretched out on his side, loose-limbed with unconscious athletic grace, his head cradled on one arm, breathing deeply and regularly. In sleep, he seemed years younger, vulnerable, and almost heartbreakingly alone; Wilson's breath hitched with the sudden ache in his chest and lower down, and he swallowed hard and continued on into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind him.
Wrinkling his nose at the reek of musk that rose as he peeled off his sweatpants, Wilson wondered whether he would even be able to have lunch with House as usual without revealing too much. Maybe he could beg off today with the excuse of overwork.
He scrubbed himself thoroughly in the shower, wishing that he could wash away the confusion and disgust leftover from his dream. When he lifted his cock, the lingering sensitivity brought a fresh blush of shame. Wilson realized that he couldn't stay here another night. House couldn't possibly be fooled for long; he would have to find another place as soon as possible.
He reviewed his list of appointments mentally as he dressed, a soothing ritual he used regularly to prepare himself for the day ahead. Grand rounds, then interviews with two candidates to replace Nurse Moore, who was retiring. After lunch he had twelve-year-old Brady Michaels, scheduled for a follow-up after two months of chemo. Maureen Johnson, diagnosed with cervical cancer following a routine pap smear. Jerry Feinstein, who required regular reassurance that his enlarged prostate didn't signify anything more serious. A free half hour to catch up on paperwork. And then his final patient of the day, Grace Palmieri, who was having problems with her pain management regime.
By the time Wilson left House still sleeping peacefully in his bedroom, he had regained his composure and felt ready to face the day. This was really no big deal. Just one more thing that he was going to have to hide.
That night, Wilson returned to the apartment after midnight to find House apparently asleep, slouched on the sofa with an empty glass and a bottle of Scotch on the coffee table, an infomercial babbling on the tv. For a second he was tempted to collect his things and leave as quietly as he'd come in, but when he reached for his suitcase, House's hoarse voice pinned him in the dark.
"Hot date?"
"No," Wilson lied, his voice sounding reassuringly steady to his own ears. "I found a new place. I think I've overstayed my welcome long enough."
"Fine," House responded evenly, although his eyes expressed something unfamiliar – disappointment? Hurt? – before they shuttered. "Be nice to get a good night's sleep again." He hauled himself to his feet with the help of his cane and started haltingly for the bedroom.
Over his shoulder he added, "There was pizza, but since you didn't come home, I ate your half." A few seconds later, the bedroom door was closed with more finality than seemed strictly necessary.
Wilson sighed and scrubbed at his face for a moment before picking up his bags and letting himself out.