"The Heartaches I Caused You" House/Wilson angst-smut Rating NC17 Wordcount-2000
Title: The Heartaches I Caused You
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: House/Wilson
Genre: Angst/Smut
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 2000
Notes: Written for hllangel's Amazon-inspired Porn Battle and because photoash thought that Simple Explanation deserved some guilt-ridden smut. No beta. Too much shpilkes.
Warnings: Spoilers for Season 5 through Simple Explanation and a whole lot of angst.
Summary: Post ep for Simple Explanation. Wilson keeps his promise, but Wilson is a liar.
Wilson had lied.
No surprise there. At this point, Wilson lying was a given and a gift in a way. Another puzzle for House to figure out, since the puzzles were pretty much the only thing that mattered anymore. Why this particular lie, on this particular night? Practically a fifth question, since they were so close to Passover.
Kutner was dead.
House didn’t care to mourn or acknowledge any loss beyond the opportunity for years worth of Gandhi jokes and maybe the sheer waste of the time House had put into the idiot already. He did care to get drunk. Very, very drunk. Falling down, hitting on waitresses, starting fights with morons, calling old girlfriends and ending up with at least one citation drunk. Wilson had promised him that. In a bar. Telling tales of Kutner’s adventures with electricity.
So far, only the drinking had come true, and not nearly enough. No bars. No floozies. No jukebox. Just Wilson’s apartment, Wilson’s couch, Wilson’s booze, Wilson’s lame-ass record collection and alcohol being doled out. Wilson was getting him drunk, but in his typical, methodical, good-guy way. He’d somehow gotten hold of House’s pill bottle as well, the bastard, and probably knew exactly how many Vicodin House had downed since Foreman and Thirteen had returned to PPTH with the news.
“You’re a liar,” he said firmly, trying to test his own inebriation by listening for signs of slurring.
Wilson didn’t bother denying; just shrugged and poured. The bottle was half empty, House thought, and smiled, because that was what life had taught him anyway. No, that was the glass. The glass is half empty. No, he argued back. Why bother with a measly glass when the bottle is far more symbolic of the whole world.
“You said we’d get drunk and pass out. I don’t see you drinking.”
“Sure you do,” Wilson replied, picking up a glass whose level didn’t seem to have changed much in the last however many hours they’d been at this.
“That’s sipping. “
“The fluid is entering my body via my mouth. Ergo drinking.”
House was inclined to say something scathing in Latin, but he’d gotten caught up in staring at Wilson’s mouth. And then his eyes. And then his face. And then Wilson as a whole. Something he’d tried to avoid doing lately because it was too painful. Looking at Wilson made him think of the past, when it was really good, and the recent past when it was terrible. The present was some kind of limbo and the future…well, House didn’t do future. He woke up and checked his eyes in the mirror and went about every day surviving the best he could. The last time it hadn’t been like that was when Wilson…which was why he didn’t look at Wilson anymore. Not like this. Now he couldn’t look away.
It wasn’t the same Wilson he’d met in New Orleans. That Wilson was almost too good to look at, but back then House knew he’d been something to look at too. Stacy was waiting for him and home, but nearly forgotten as he’d taken a good look at his new friend and gotten an idea of what he might have gotten in return for his bail money. His first kiss with Wilson had tasted like Southern Comfort and felt like guilt and the only difference between now and then was ten years and one missing thigh muscle. There was still guilt and alcohol, leading him to kiss Wilson, because even if Wilson had gotten older, put on weight and developed bags under his eyes, he was still Wilson and that was still worth the pain.
Wilson didn’t resist. Wilson never resisted, he just waited for House to want him more than he cared about the other things. Passive-aggressive bastard. If House felt like it, he could have pushed Wilson away and called him on his bullshit.
This was why Wilson had lied. Because he wanted this. He wanted House back on his couch, kissing him, moving a hand under his shirt, and fondling one responsive nipple. He wanted House drunk enough not to make emotional demands, and sober enough to be able to function. House could function all right. Pain and pills and anger and addiction and he could still raise wood when he had the right stimulation. He kept a few blue pills around for hooker night, but when Wilson was this close, and moaning gently against his mouth, moving a hand over his crotch, there was no need for anything else.
He told his brain to shut the fuck up when it tried to ask why now, when Wilson had practically declared his body off-limits to House since Amber’s death. He was supposed to be drunk, and drunk meant not thinking about that. Think about the softness of Wilson’s skin, and the fact that Wilson didn’t seem to mind the roughness of House’s whiskers. Think about buttons that he needed to get undone to get to the rest of Wilson’s body. Think about Wilson’s hands, still rubbing over the bulge in his jeans. Think about nothing, especially the slight twinge in his thigh, because Wilson had the pills and wouldn’t let House mix quite enough for total numbness.
House wanted to close his eyes and let this time melt into memories of the other times when it had been so good. The times it had been reckless. When the sheer joy of fucking this beautiful man who responded to him so perfectly was enough to make House believe it could mean something besides Wilson's various pathologies finding their perfect match. Instead he kept them open, because he couldn’t stand to miss the sight of Wilson undoing the buttons on House’s jeans and reaching in to find out that he still had that effect. Oh yeah, there was smugness there, and maybe a bit of relief, and House forgave it all because of the feeling that came after. Those lips on the tip of his cock, reacquainting themselves, and House hardening even further, as if to say Welcome home. This is where you belong.
Porn was great, but nothing in any magazine or movie would ever be as good as the sight of Wilson, bent over House’s cock, head moving up and down, hair falling over his forehead. Wilson would never tell him where he learned to suck cock like that and House’s non-Wilson weeks or months were often taken up with lurid fantasies of Young Wilson working his way through school the hard way, or being some sugar daddy's boy-toy. Only now Wilson was his, even if it was temporary.
Shut up.
He drowned out the voice of reason with a throaty groan, letting Wilson know he was close, giving him some kind of choice as to what would happen next. Wilson looked up at him, eyes sensual and knowing, with House’s cock still in his mouth and if he wanted something else to happen, then Wilson definitely shouldn’t look at him like that. Ever.
How had he gone this long? Why had Wilson deprived him like this? Even the pain was a dull buzz against the rising tide of pleasure that was building up as Wilson continued to suck, with one hand cupping House’s balls and the other stroking his good thigh, an oddly gentle motion, a caress, a hint of the tenderness of what they could have if Wilson wasn’t Wilson, and of course if House wasn’t House.
House felt it coming, so close, so close, as Wilson’s mouth tightened around him, and his own mix of passion and anger spewed out in a hoarse mixture of filth and emotion, because only Wilson could do this to him, and House both loved and hated him for it.
His eyes finally squeezed shut and his head fell back against the couch, panting and gasping, words gone with the intensity of the orgasm, and the relief that came with it. The only thing he could say was “Wilson,” both a gasp, and a plea, and maybe even a prayer, wrenched from House at his most vulnerable moment.
He let himself relax into the sweaty haze of post-sex endorphins, until the sound of Wilson’s own ragged gasping broke through and he opened his eyes to find Wilson with his pants open, jerking off, eyes staring at House, with a smile that House couldn’t quite place. Smug, of course. Smug always. But something else.
Innocent.
Wilson was sweating and disheveled. His lips slightly puffy and face sticky with House’s come and he still looked innocent.
House watched, fascinated by Wilson’s blissful face, as it contorted closer and closer to release. He offered a few foul words of encouragement, reminding Wilson that he was a whore and slut and House’s bitch and the more he was verbally abused the happier he looked, until he let out one deep-chested grunt and came, managing to maintain his eye contact with House until he fell against him, seemingly trying to burrow in House’s body, and House put a reassuring arm around Wilson’s shoulder.
They stayed there, held together by sweat and emotion and subsiding lust, until House felt the first throb of real pain, and made a sound in his throat. Within seconds, Wilson was fumbling for his jacket to get House the pills, and the look of concern on his face gave House the answer.
“You felt guilty, didn’t you?”
“I’m Jewish. Comes with the territory.”
“You feel guilty about your wives and your brother and your patients and your girlfriends. You’ve done an admirable job of treating me like something you’ve scraped off your shoe, except when you’re drunk and horny and willing to admit that your Dr. Pussy Hound costume is getting a little tight.”
“So maybe I was just horny.”
“When you’re just horny, you want to get off first. It’s the only time you let yourself be truly selfish, which is why you can’t do it with your women, because you can’t risk being another scumbag who’s more interested in your own pleasure. “
“House…”
Wilson was shaking his head, which House translated into “Drop it, House.” But he couldn’t.
“Guilty for what? For Amber? For your new Mommy substitute? For putting me and Julie through the hell of your last marriage? If you ever fucked Stacy, I’d say the statute of limitations has run out. Although the least you could have done was let me watch. “
“There’s more to me than that, believe it or not.”
He did. That was the problem. If Wilson was going to start making amends for the ways he’d really hurt House over the years, they were going to die in that apartment and the cops would have to announce the first known case of death by fucking.
People don’t change.
Whatever had made Wilson do this tonight, it wasn’t the beginning of a down payment. Wilson still refused to believe he had that debt to pay.
“It’s Kutner, isn’t it.”
“You think I was screwing Kutner?”
The self-righteous indignation was Sean Penn caliber.
“I did, but now I don’t. But it wasn’t because he didn’t try. He approached you, didn’t he? Had a few doubts about himself. Maybe his gaydar was better than your façade. I knew he’d made a good diagnostician some day. He begged you for something. A little cuddle. Some hope that he wasn’t about to end up like you. And you had nothing to give him. Not even a blow job. Just your denial and your sad, guilty face. I suppose I should be grateful you like to limit your cheating to women.”
House suspected that Wilson was going to throw something. Or vomit. Or call House a son of a bitch and tell him to get the hell out of his apartment.
Getting up excruciating and pulling his clothes on was worse, but at least he had the answer to the mystery.
Not such a bad night after all.
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: House/Wilson
Genre: Angst/Smut
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 2000
Notes: Written for hllangel's Amazon-inspired Porn Battle and because photoash thought that Simple Explanation deserved some guilt-ridden smut. No beta. Too much shpilkes.
Warnings: Spoilers for Season 5 through Simple Explanation and a whole lot of angst.
Summary: Post ep for Simple Explanation. Wilson keeps his promise, but Wilson is a liar.
Wilson had lied.
No surprise there. At this point, Wilson lying was a given and a gift in a way. Another puzzle for House to figure out, since the puzzles were pretty much the only thing that mattered anymore. Why this particular lie, on this particular night? Practically a fifth question, since they were so close to Passover.
Kutner was dead.
House didn’t care to mourn or acknowledge any loss beyond the opportunity for years worth of Gandhi jokes and maybe the sheer waste of the time House had put into the idiot already. He did care to get drunk. Very, very drunk. Falling down, hitting on waitresses, starting fights with morons, calling old girlfriends and ending up with at least one citation drunk. Wilson had promised him that. In a bar. Telling tales of Kutner’s adventures with electricity.
So far, only the drinking had come true, and not nearly enough. No bars. No floozies. No jukebox. Just Wilson’s apartment, Wilson’s couch, Wilson’s booze, Wilson’s lame-ass record collection and alcohol being doled out. Wilson was getting him drunk, but in his typical, methodical, good-guy way. He’d somehow gotten hold of House’s pill bottle as well, the bastard, and probably knew exactly how many Vicodin House had downed since Foreman and Thirteen had returned to PPTH with the news.
“You’re a liar,” he said firmly, trying to test his own inebriation by listening for signs of slurring.
Wilson didn’t bother denying; just shrugged and poured. The bottle was half empty, House thought, and smiled, because that was what life had taught him anyway. No, that was the glass. The glass is half empty. No, he argued back. Why bother with a measly glass when the bottle is far more symbolic of the whole world.
“You said we’d get drunk and pass out. I don’t see you drinking.”
“Sure you do,” Wilson replied, picking up a glass whose level didn’t seem to have changed much in the last however many hours they’d been at this.
“That’s sipping. “
“The fluid is entering my body via my mouth. Ergo drinking.”
House was inclined to say something scathing in Latin, but he’d gotten caught up in staring at Wilson’s mouth. And then his eyes. And then his face. And then Wilson as a whole. Something he’d tried to avoid doing lately because it was too painful. Looking at Wilson made him think of the past, when it was really good, and the recent past when it was terrible. The present was some kind of limbo and the future…well, House didn’t do future. He woke up and checked his eyes in the mirror and went about every day surviving the best he could. The last time it hadn’t been like that was when Wilson…which was why he didn’t look at Wilson anymore. Not like this. Now he couldn’t look away.
It wasn’t the same Wilson he’d met in New Orleans. That Wilson was almost too good to look at, but back then House knew he’d been something to look at too. Stacy was waiting for him and home, but nearly forgotten as he’d taken a good look at his new friend and gotten an idea of what he might have gotten in return for his bail money. His first kiss with Wilson had tasted like Southern Comfort and felt like guilt and the only difference between now and then was ten years and one missing thigh muscle. There was still guilt and alcohol, leading him to kiss Wilson, because even if Wilson had gotten older, put on weight and developed bags under his eyes, he was still Wilson and that was still worth the pain.
Wilson didn’t resist. Wilson never resisted, he just waited for House to want him more than he cared about the other things. Passive-aggressive bastard. If House felt like it, he could have pushed Wilson away and called him on his bullshit.
This was why Wilson had lied. Because he wanted this. He wanted House back on his couch, kissing him, moving a hand under his shirt, and fondling one responsive nipple. He wanted House drunk enough not to make emotional demands, and sober enough to be able to function. House could function all right. Pain and pills and anger and addiction and he could still raise wood when he had the right stimulation. He kept a few blue pills around for hooker night, but when Wilson was this close, and moaning gently against his mouth, moving a hand over his crotch, there was no need for anything else.
He told his brain to shut the fuck up when it tried to ask why now, when Wilson had practically declared his body off-limits to House since Amber’s death. He was supposed to be drunk, and drunk meant not thinking about that. Think about the softness of Wilson’s skin, and the fact that Wilson didn’t seem to mind the roughness of House’s whiskers. Think about buttons that he needed to get undone to get to the rest of Wilson’s body. Think about Wilson’s hands, still rubbing over the bulge in his jeans. Think about nothing, especially the slight twinge in his thigh, because Wilson had the pills and wouldn’t let House mix quite enough for total numbness.
House wanted to close his eyes and let this time melt into memories of the other times when it had been so good. The times it had been reckless. When the sheer joy of fucking this beautiful man who responded to him so perfectly was enough to make House believe it could mean something besides Wilson's various pathologies finding their perfect match. Instead he kept them open, because he couldn’t stand to miss the sight of Wilson undoing the buttons on House’s jeans and reaching in to find out that he still had that effect. Oh yeah, there was smugness there, and maybe a bit of relief, and House forgave it all because of the feeling that came after. Those lips on the tip of his cock, reacquainting themselves, and House hardening even further, as if to say Welcome home. This is where you belong.
Porn was great, but nothing in any magazine or movie would ever be as good as the sight of Wilson, bent over House’s cock, head moving up and down, hair falling over his forehead. Wilson would never tell him where he learned to suck cock like that and House’s non-Wilson weeks or months were often taken up with lurid fantasies of Young Wilson working his way through school the hard way, or being some sugar daddy's boy-toy. Only now Wilson was his, even if it was temporary.
Shut up.
He drowned out the voice of reason with a throaty groan, letting Wilson know he was close, giving him some kind of choice as to what would happen next. Wilson looked up at him, eyes sensual and knowing, with House’s cock still in his mouth and if he wanted something else to happen, then Wilson definitely shouldn’t look at him like that. Ever.
How had he gone this long? Why had Wilson deprived him like this? Even the pain was a dull buzz against the rising tide of pleasure that was building up as Wilson continued to suck, with one hand cupping House’s balls and the other stroking his good thigh, an oddly gentle motion, a caress, a hint of the tenderness of what they could have if Wilson wasn’t Wilson, and of course if House wasn’t House.
House felt it coming, so close, so close, as Wilson’s mouth tightened around him, and his own mix of passion and anger spewed out in a hoarse mixture of filth and emotion, because only Wilson could do this to him, and House both loved and hated him for it.
His eyes finally squeezed shut and his head fell back against the couch, panting and gasping, words gone with the intensity of the orgasm, and the relief that came with it. The only thing he could say was “Wilson,” both a gasp, and a plea, and maybe even a prayer, wrenched from House at his most vulnerable moment.
He let himself relax into the sweaty haze of post-sex endorphins, until the sound of Wilson’s own ragged gasping broke through and he opened his eyes to find Wilson with his pants open, jerking off, eyes staring at House, with a smile that House couldn’t quite place. Smug, of course. Smug always. But something else.
Innocent.
Wilson was sweating and disheveled. His lips slightly puffy and face sticky with House’s come and he still looked innocent.
House watched, fascinated by Wilson’s blissful face, as it contorted closer and closer to release. He offered a few foul words of encouragement, reminding Wilson that he was a whore and slut and House’s bitch and the more he was verbally abused the happier he looked, until he let out one deep-chested grunt and came, managing to maintain his eye contact with House until he fell against him, seemingly trying to burrow in House’s body, and House put a reassuring arm around Wilson’s shoulder.
They stayed there, held together by sweat and emotion and subsiding lust, until House felt the first throb of real pain, and made a sound in his throat. Within seconds, Wilson was fumbling for his jacket to get House the pills, and the look of concern on his face gave House the answer.
“You felt guilty, didn’t you?”
“I’m Jewish. Comes with the territory.”
“You feel guilty about your wives and your brother and your patients and your girlfriends. You’ve done an admirable job of treating me like something you’ve scraped off your shoe, except when you’re drunk and horny and willing to admit that your Dr. Pussy Hound costume is getting a little tight.”
“So maybe I was just horny.”
“When you’re just horny, you want to get off first. It’s the only time you let yourself be truly selfish, which is why you can’t do it with your women, because you can’t risk being another scumbag who’s more interested in your own pleasure. “
“House…”
Wilson was shaking his head, which House translated into “Drop it, House.” But he couldn’t.
“Guilty for what? For Amber? For your new Mommy substitute? For putting me and Julie through the hell of your last marriage? If you ever fucked Stacy, I’d say the statute of limitations has run out. Although the least you could have done was let me watch. “
“There’s more to me than that, believe it or not.”
He did. That was the problem. If Wilson was going to start making amends for the ways he’d really hurt House over the years, they were going to die in that apartment and the cops would have to announce the first known case of death by fucking.
People don’t change.
Whatever had made Wilson do this tonight, it wasn’t the beginning of a down payment. Wilson still refused to believe he had that debt to pay.
“It’s Kutner, isn’t it.”
“You think I was screwing Kutner?”
The self-righteous indignation was Sean Penn caliber.
“I did, but now I don’t. But it wasn’t because he didn’t try. He approached you, didn’t he? Had a few doubts about himself. Maybe his gaydar was better than your façade. I knew he’d made a good diagnostician some day. He begged you for something. A little cuddle. Some hope that he wasn’t about to end up like you. And you had nothing to give him. Not even a blow job. Just your denial and your sad, guilty face. I suppose I should be grateful you like to limit your cheating to women.”
House suspected that Wilson was going to throw something. Or vomit. Or call House a son of a bitch and tell him to get the hell out of his apartment.
Getting up excruciating and pulling his clothes on was worse, but at least he had the answer to the mystery.
Not such a bad night after all.