Title: Mending Wilson
Chapter: 02
Author: Rippertish
House poured. Fast. Sloppy.
The bottle tilted too far.
Whiskey sloshed against the glass, high and careless.
His hands were still trembling.
He drank without thinking.
Didn't wince.
It went down like fire.
Did nothing.
He'd knocked back worse to forget less.
He poured more.
Way more.
Tossed it back like it might drown the thought already chewing through his brain:
Mouth. Tongue. Heat.
Too fucking good.
Wilson's mouth had taken him apart.
Clean, methodical destruction.
That was the pivot.
Where it stopped being interesting and started being personal.
And House hadn't agreed to personal.
He'd let it happen.
Let Wilson kiss her.
Let the night tilt into madness.
That had been the plan, hadn't it?
Patch up Wilson with a breath and sympathy.
Great plan.
Give the broken boy some comfort. Affection. Physical.
Cuddy had nodded.
House had nodded.
A quiet permission passed in a glance.
But he hadn't planned this.
The sound that slipped into the kitchen.
A moan. Low. Hers.
House froze mid-pour.
The bottle hovered over the glass.
Another sound.
A kiss. Wet. No shame.
A shift on the couch.
A breath pulled between teeth.
He didn't need to look.
He knew exactly what was happening.
Wilson's hand creeping beneath her skirt.
Cuddy's blouse slipping further open.
Her hips lifting into his touch.
He stared at the half-full glass like it owed him a reason not to go back in there.
If Wilson did it right, he'd have her jaw now.
She'd tilt.
She always tilted.
Exposed her throat like a fucking offering.
The couch creaked.
Skin on skin. Fabric shifting.
And Wilson… Christ. Wilson was lit up.
Breathless. Intent.
A strangled grunt.
Did she bite him?
Her teeth dragging along his lip?
She loved that.
House had loved that.
Her teeth on his mouth.
Now on Wilson's.
Wilson's lips—
Soft. Slick.
Fuck.
Another gulp. Bitter. Useless.
His fingers clenched around the glass.
Tight.
He'd used them for better things.
Knotted in hair. Held him still.
Mouth wrecking him slowly.
Fucking fuck.
Gulp.
Short locks. Long curls.|
She liked a tug. Not rough. Just enough to shut down the overthinking.
Just enough to remind her—
She was his.
She liked being owned. Not always.
But when she wanted it, she wanted it.
And House? He pulled it off. Every damn time.
Another sound.
She only gasped like that when his hand was just beneath her ribs.
Wide palm. Slow drag.
Then higher—
Fingers seeking the fullness she always pushed into.
He'd tested that himself.
Scientific method. Empirical. Whatever.
He clenched his jaw.
This wasn't spiralling.
It had already spiralled.
His prefrontal cortex was just late to the party.
A thin stream of whiskey missed the glass.
Ran down his fingers.
He didn't blink.
Wet, golden and pointless.
He told himself this was a gift.
Let it happen.
Play the benevolent spectator.
He'd benched himself. Second-string weeping quarterback. A busted leg and just enough blood rushing to the wrong place.
His groin. Naturally.
Open plan living?
Modern architecture.
So considerate.
He needed a wall.
A door.
And an iPod.
Max volume.
Pause the porn.
And still. He heard it.
A groan. Deep. Wilson's.
His jaw locked again.
He wanted to be the one dragging that sound out of him.
Stupid fucking thought. He drowned it with another swallow.
But his body remembered everything—
Teeth.
Tongue.
Heat.
The way Wilson had done him like he meant it.
Like he knew how to bend, break, and even mend him.
Now Wilson was on top of her.
Or in her.
Or very very close.
And House—
House was still in the kitchen, pretending he hadn't staked more than he meant to.
Too late to fold. Not even his turn anymore.
The knot twisted.
Not jealousy.
God, no. Of course, not.
Worse.
Possession.
Of her.
Of him.
Like watching someone drive your car.
With your girl in the passenger seat.
Your best friend behind the wheel.
And you handed over the keys—
Waved them off like a prom queen who caught chickenpox on prom night.
He wanted them to feel good.
That had been the point.
And now?
Now he wanted to crawl under their skin.
Thread himself through it.
Leave bruises where no one would see.
Make them remember whose couch this was.
Sure, Wilson had paid for it.
But House was the one who'd clocked obscene PlayStation hours on it.
He'd jerked off there more times than Wilson had bothered to dust.
Images hit him like a right-cross to the gut.
Wilson on his knees.
That mouth.
Wet. Greedy.
That fucking mouth.
Fuck.
Something pulled him back. A gasp. A shift.
A low sound that could've been his name.
Or wishful thinking.
He looked up.
Finally.
Her legs had parted.
Just a little.
Just enough.
Cuddy arched beneath Wilson, blouse gaping, hair spilled across her cheek.
Wilson's hand moved under her skirt. Rhythmically.
Cuddy was flushed.
Eyes closed.
Mouth open.
Wilson fixed on her lips.
Reading.
Fingers coaxing.
Her hips lifted once—
Slow.
Instinctive.
Welcoming.
House downed the rest of his drink.
Set the bottle down.
Too hard.
And so was he.
Which was medically impressive. Morally disturbing.
He could've walked away.
But that wasn't the kind of night this was.
He took one step forward.
Then another.
Towards the couch.
His couch.
Beneath the other two things he'd never learned to share.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
His hand moved to his belt.
He was done watching.
End of chapter 2