FIC: Need [House, M.D.]
TITLE: Need
DISCLAIMER: I don't own James Wilson. David Shore created him, and I'm only borrowing him. I made no money off of this, and I only did this for fun.
FANDOM: House, M.D.
PAIRING: None
RATING: NC-17
WARNINGS: Kink, Masturbation
WORD COUNT: 1,147
NOTES: From what I can tell, there's been a few serious treatments of Wilson having a kink, but it seems to me that no one has really explored it. While this was originally written for house_sup, I realized that this could really work as a non-AU piece as well. Hopefully, this might entertain someone.
***
Erica wasn't home. He wasn't expected in until around one o'clock that afternoon for back-to-back-to-back appointments, and he'd woken at 10:30.
It was more than enough time.
He had developed a ritual over the years, as strange as that sounded. First, a relatively new development, due to his marriage with Christine: the call.
"Erica Wilson's office, how can I help you?"
"Hey, it's James." He had the phone to his ear as he stared up at the ceiling of their bedroom, running a hand through his hair. It was getting longer, he noticed. "Could you put me through to my wife?"
"Sure thing," the secretary answered, and after some annoying hold music, Erica picked up.
"Hey, honey. What's up?"
"Hey." He smiled a little at her warm tone. "I was just thinking of you. Did I call at a bad time?"
"No, no," Erica reassured him quickly. "I'm glad that you did, actually. From what Lisa tells me, today is going to be another gauntlet. Do you know if we have enough leftovers for tonight? I might be home late."
"I think so. If we don't, I'll pick up a pizza from the store."
"Thanks, James. You're a doll." A pause. "Damn, looks like the gauntlet's already started. Wish me luck."
James smiled. "Good luck. Love you."
"Love you, too, honey. See you when I get home tonight."
"See you." James looked at the phone before replacing it on the jack on the nightstand.
Erica wasn't going to be home until late. And that suited him fine.
Step two was checking all of the locks in the house to make sure everything was secure, which they were. He'd already checked them when Erica left earlier that morning, but it never hurt to double-check.
Step three. The note.
It was a simple note that he'd updated over the years. Something he'd always had just-in-case the worst happened, and his wife found him in bed when she got home, instead of waiting for him like she usually did. Calm, succinct, straight to the point. No room for misinterpretation, no blame assigned. Just a simple apology for an accidental suicide, should one occur. He laid it on the bedside table, unfolding it so that whoever found him would see it.
The next was the clothes.
They weren't *specific* clothes he used for this -- even *he* wasn't that particular about how he did this -- but it was a button-down shirt, a pair of slacks he didn't mind not wearing until he had to take his clothes to the dry-cleaners again, comfortable boxers (silk worked best), and, of course, the tie.
He changed, finishing off with taking off his socks and padded into the walk-in closet. A click of the light, and shoving a few shirts that he never wore that often out of the way, he found his ties.
He'd accumulated ties over the years. There wasn't anything unusual about this. Men had ties; it was a fact of life. Especially men who were going to be the head of the oncology department at a teaching hospital.
Granted, his collection was more of an eyesore than anything else, but he hadn't bought these for style. If he had, they would've been flimsy, soft, unreliable. Yes, they were ugly, some of them, but they served their purpose, and that was really what mattered. He'd weeded his tie collection to the point where he had the "presentable" ones closer to the front of the closet, placed so he could grab one on his way out, and the sturdier ones toward the back. He grabbed a tie from the rear, examined it for tears or holes, tested it in his hands, and nodded to himself.
Years of long practice looped the tie around his neck, tied the Windsor knot efficiently. Straightening it minutely, James nodded to himself before heading to bed. Laying down on his side of the bed, he stared up at the ceiling, his left hand stroking his tie, the texture against his fingertips a little rough, a little smooth -- it was probably one of his older ties -- and he pressed his fingers down, feeling for the buttons underneath.
His fingers caught on one, and then then next, and as he traveled down, he could feel his boxers getting tighter. When the texture of the Oxford became smoother, both hands undid the button fly, his right hand unzipping himself. It took some adjusting, but soon, his left hand wove through slacks and inside boxers, touching warm, rigid flesh.
His right hand traveled back up, past the undone fly, counting the buttons back up -- one, two, three -- and then taking hold of the tie at the knot. He took a deep breath, and sighed.
His left hand moved inside, wrapping around his hardened member, freeing it from his boxers gingerly, his eyes closing as he hissed. Cool air hit heated skin, and he sighed.
Stroking once from root to tip, James let go, sliding his left hand up to join his right, taking a firm hold of the knot, and slowly tightening it. Closing his eyes, he took slow, even breaths, feeling the pressure increase, feeling his erection start to throb.
When he felt the light-headedness, he reached down and took himself in hand, his right hand staying hooked around the top of the knot.
When his hand made contact, he gasped, the touch like fire, electricity, sparks, warmth, all at the same time. Squeezing it forced a weak moan, and then he began in earnest, straightening his fingers and running his palm up the length, sliding over the sensitive head until the tip rested against the center of his palm.
He wanted to drag it out, make the feeling last forever, but he knew the longer he delayed, the more of a chance that something could go wrong. When he was younger, the thrill of doing this was playing chicken with Death, daring Death to come and take him as a teenager. Now, he was older, and he knew the consequences, even if old habits died hard.
He felt the wetness, and he palmed the head quickly. A twist of the wrist, and he was holding himself, squeezing as he stroked quickly, up-and-down-and-up-and-down, as if he were still a teenager and completion was the only part of the ride he was concerned with.
With a gasp, he came.
His right hand jerked at the knot, and James sucked in a deep, audible breath.
He stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, getting his breath back, his left hand still wrapped around himself. He could feel the flesh softening, but he didn't much care. He laid there for a long time, the scent of sex heavy in the air.
It was over. The need was sated. He could go back to his life.
At least... until the next time.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own James Wilson. David Shore created him, and I'm only borrowing him. I made no money off of this, and I only did this for fun.
FANDOM: House, M.D.
PAIRING: None
RATING: NC-17
WARNINGS: Kink, Masturbation
WORD COUNT: 1,147
NOTES: From what I can tell, there's been a few serious treatments of Wilson having a kink, but it seems to me that no one has really explored it. While this was originally written for house_sup, I realized that this could really work as a non-AU piece as well. Hopefully, this might entertain someone.
***
Erica wasn't home. He wasn't expected in until around one o'clock that afternoon for back-to-back-to-back appointments, and he'd woken at 10:30.
It was more than enough time.
He had developed a ritual over the years, as strange as that sounded. First, a relatively new development, due to his marriage with Christine: the call.
"Erica Wilson's office, how can I help you?"
"Hey, it's James." He had the phone to his ear as he stared up at the ceiling of their bedroom, running a hand through his hair. It was getting longer, he noticed. "Could you put me through to my wife?"
"Sure thing," the secretary answered, and after some annoying hold music, Erica picked up.
"Hey, honey. What's up?"
"Hey." He smiled a little at her warm tone. "I was just thinking of you. Did I call at a bad time?"
"No, no," Erica reassured him quickly. "I'm glad that you did, actually. From what Lisa tells me, today is going to be another gauntlet. Do you know if we have enough leftovers for tonight? I might be home late."
"I think so. If we don't, I'll pick up a pizza from the store."
"Thanks, James. You're a doll." A pause. "Damn, looks like the gauntlet's already started. Wish me luck."
James smiled. "Good luck. Love you."
"Love you, too, honey. See you when I get home tonight."
"See you." James looked at the phone before replacing it on the jack on the nightstand.
Erica wasn't going to be home until late. And that suited him fine.
Step two was checking all of the locks in the house to make sure everything was secure, which they were. He'd already checked them when Erica left earlier that morning, but it never hurt to double-check.
Step three. The note.
It was a simple note that he'd updated over the years. Something he'd always had just-in-case the worst happened, and his wife found him in bed when she got home, instead of waiting for him like she usually did. Calm, succinct, straight to the point. No room for misinterpretation, no blame assigned. Just a simple apology for an accidental suicide, should one occur. He laid it on the bedside table, unfolding it so that whoever found him would see it.
The next was the clothes.
They weren't *specific* clothes he used for this -- even *he* wasn't that particular about how he did this -- but it was a button-down shirt, a pair of slacks he didn't mind not wearing until he had to take his clothes to the dry-cleaners again, comfortable boxers (silk worked best), and, of course, the tie.
He changed, finishing off with taking off his socks and padded into the walk-in closet. A click of the light, and shoving a few shirts that he never wore that often out of the way, he found his ties.
He'd accumulated ties over the years. There wasn't anything unusual about this. Men had ties; it was a fact of life. Especially men who were going to be the head of the oncology department at a teaching hospital.
Granted, his collection was more of an eyesore than anything else, but he hadn't bought these for style. If he had, they would've been flimsy, soft, unreliable. Yes, they were ugly, some of them, but they served their purpose, and that was really what mattered. He'd weeded his tie collection to the point where he had the "presentable" ones closer to the front of the closet, placed so he could grab one on his way out, and the sturdier ones toward the back. He grabbed a tie from the rear, examined it for tears or holes, tested it in his hands, and nodded to himself.
Years of long practice looped the tie around his neck, tied the Windsor knot efficiently. Straightening it minutely, James nodded to himself before heading to bed. Laying down on his side of the bed, he stared up at the ceiling, his left hand stroking his tie, the texture against his fingertips a little rough, a little smooth -- it was probably one of his older ties -- and he pressed his fingers down, feeling for the buttons underneath.
His fingers caught on one, and then then next, and as he traveled down, he could feel his boxers getting tighter. When the texture of the Oxford became smoother, both hands undid the button fly, his right hand unzipping himself. It took some adjusting, but soon, his left hand wove through slacks and inside boxers, touching warm, rigid flesh.
His right hand traveled back up, past the undone fly, counting the buttons back up -- one, two, three -- and then taking hold of the tie at the knot. He took a deep breath, and sighed.
His left hand moved inside, wrapping around his hardened member, freeing it from his boxers gingerly, his eyes closing as he hissed. Cool air hit heated skin, and he sighed.
Stroking once from root to tip, James let go, sliding his left hand up to join his right, taking a firm hold of the knot, and slowly tightening it. Closing his eyes, he took slow, even breaths, feeling the pressure increase, feeling his erection start to throb.
When he felt the light-headedness, he reached down and took himself in hand, his right hand staying hooked around the top of the knot.
When his hand made contact, he gasped, the touch like fire, electricity, sparks, warmth, all at the same time. Squeezing it forced a weak moan, and then he began in earnest, straightening his fingers and running his palm up the length, sliding over the sensitive head until the tip rested against the center of his palm.
He wanted to drag it out, make the feeling last forever, but he knew the longer he delayed, the more of a chance that something could go wrong. When he was younger, the thrill of doing this was playing chicken with Death, daring Death to come and take him as a teenager. Now, he was older, and he knew the consequences, even if old habits died hard.
He felt the wetness, and he palmed the head quickly. A twist of the wrist, and he was holding himself, squeezing as he stroked quickly, up-and-down-and-up-and-down, as if he were still a teenager and completion was the only part of the ride he was concerned with.
With a gasp, he came.
His right hand jerked at the knot, and James sucked in a deep, audible breath.
He stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, getting his breath back, his left hand still wrapped around himself. He could feel the flesh softening, but he didn't much care. He laid there for a long time, the scent of sex heavy in the air.
It was over. The need was sated. He could go back to his life.
At least... until the next time.