Exquisite Anguish H/W Slash (part 2)

[triedunture]

Title: Exquisite Anguish (part 2)
Pairing: H/W
Rating: R
Warnings: masturbation, pornography, dirty talk
Summary: It's Wilson's turn.

<><><>

House sat at his messy desk, elbows propped up on uneven stacks of ignored paperwork. He stared at his computer screen with a curvy smirk on his face. He clicked his mouse’s roller with his middle finger (clickclickclick) and his smile grew. Distantly, he heard his office door swing open.

“House.” Wilson stood before the desk with his hands in his pant pockets, his eyes on the carpet. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Have you seen my video?” House interrupted, giddy with ego.

“Actually,” Wilson toed at the leg of the desk with the tip of his brown loafer, “that’s what I came here to talk about.”

“So you already know?” House swiveled his computer screen to face Wilson. “I’m a hit!”

Wilson finally looked up and blinked at House. “What?”

“Fifty-eight e-mails asking for a follow-up video,” House crowed. “Three of which contain marriage proposals. And two of those are from women.” He gave Wilson as exaggerated wink.

“Uh.” Wilson shifted on his feet and his arms came up to cross over his chest. “Huh?”

“They love me.” House wiped an invisible tear from his scruffy cheek. “They really, really love me.”

Wilson looked down at House’s inbox, which was overflowing as promised. “But—”

“And don’t even get me started about the message boards.” House turned back to the keyboard and grabbed the mouse, surfing around the Exquisite Anguish homepage. “Hundreds of posts, and that’s just today! They even gave me a nickname.” He peeked up at Wilson, who looked slightly ill, and batted his eyelashes. “Big Blue. Not bad, huh?”

Wilson’s jaw worked for a moment before he croaked out: “I—”

“And they’re just buzzing about me,” House said, clicking through message after message. “Listen to these: ‘I don’t care if he’s old enough to be my dad; I’d totally do him; I think I need a shower after that; is it wrong to want to stick my—’”

“House!”

House jerked his head back up and stared at the man before him: a red-faced, tight-lipped Jimmy Wilson. “What?”

“This video…” Wilson sighed and started again. “You…proved your point. I got your message, okay? Loud and clear. So, now, I guess, you can take the video down.”

House tried to keep his eyes from bugging out of his head. “Wouldn’t that sort of negate the point you so cleverly noticed?”

And House was stuck once more with slack-jawed Stammering Wilson. “…what?”

“Making this video made me realize something, Jimmy, ol’ pal.” House leaned back in his desk chair and spread his hands out at his sides like a martyr. “I’m an exhibitionist.” He reached over leisurely and grabbed his orange and grey tennis ball, bouncing it from palm to palm. “I just got in front of that camera and,” he chuckled, “came into my own, I guess you could say.”

Wilson continued staring blankly, so House kept talking.

“I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to post it when it was finished,” House said with a shrug. “I had just wanted to rile you; I didn’t expect to actually enjoy it. But then I watched it a few times and thought, what the hell?” He tossed the tennis ball at the trash can at the far wall: nothing but net. “Turned out great. I’ve never had so many chicks after me.”

“You have to take that video down, House!” Wilson cried, making a cutting gesture in the air with both hands.

House frowned, the lines on his forehead becoming exaggerated in a comical expression of bewilderment. “Why?”

“Because you, you, you say my name in it!” Wilson sputtered. “My full name! On a pornographic web site!”

House raised a finger in the air. “An artistic pornographic web site.”

Wilson turned even redder in the face and growled, “The only reason you’re enjoying this so much is because you’ve always wanted to hide yourself. Hide your leg. And now you can neatly cut it all out of the frame. These people are strangers, House! They don’t know anything about you. And if they did, believe me, they wouldn’t be asking to marry you!”

House said nothing as Wilson glared and turned abruptly in a flurry of white lab coat. Then, at the door, he paused with his hand on the jamb. “You really just did it to piss me off?” he asked over his shoulder, not turning around.

House’s eyebrow hooked into a confused curve. “It worked, didn’t it?” he returned.

Wilson shook his head and kept walking. House frowned thoughtfully, but his inbox dinged, signaling a new piece of fan-mail. And all musings about Wilson’s little fit fled his mind.

<><><><>

One week later.

House limped into his apartment and tossed his helmet on his overstuffed chair. He greedily reached for his laptop on his medical journal-decorated desk; it had been nearly two hours since he’d last checked his mail.

What a rush, House thought as he waited for Windows to kick in. Who would have thought getting a few notes from strangers would be so fulfilling? A real boost to the ego, that was for sure.

Not that Wilson would ever understand something like that.

He hadn’t even offered a high-five over the marriage proposals, House mused, drumming his fingers against the plastic shell of the Toshiba. His desktop, a crudely photoshopped picture of Foreman riding a pony with Chase’s head, loaded with the requisite start-up tone. House immediately clicked on his Exquisite Anguish bookmark.

He planned on searching through the message boards for any more mentions of his performance; the rest of the site didn’t really interest him. Some of the girls were hot, of course, but House just didn’t see the point in delayed, or rather, non-existent, gratification. He was a grown man! He deserved some boobs at the very least.

But before he could click on the sidebar menu, the newest videos loaded on the main page. And House’s eyebrows rose higher than they ever had before.

Sitting there in thumbnail form, smack dab in the middle of the field, was James Wilson. His hair was tousled, and his face was turned to the left as if looking at something far away, but it was undeniably him.

“You copycat bastard!” House laughed. He reached for his cordless phone, determined to call Wilson’s cell and berate him for playing follow the leader like a petulant child.

House had punched in the fifth digit of Wilson’s number when he paused. Looked at the screen again. Chewed on his lower lip. And finally, set the phone back in its cradle and clicked on the link.

“This’ll be a riot,” he murmured to himself as the video loaded. “You can’t even use a urinal in front of a stranger, Wilson. No way will you pull this off.” And he leaned back in his padded desk chair and stroked his scratchy chin absentmindedly.

The video began playing, and the vision of Wilson came to life. He stared off to the left, his bare shoulders lifting in a small, resigned sigh. Finally, his gaze drifted over to the center, toward the camera lens. He rubbed a hand over his jaw in a gesture that spoke of hesitation.

“Hey, House,” he said softly. House turned up the volume; Wilson was barely whispering.

“Enunciate!” he demanded of the grainy version of Wilson.

“I don’t really have anything to say to you,” Wilson continued, heedless of House’s suggestion. “So I’m just going to…” He sighed loudly through his nose. “Do this.”

House gave a chuckle; Wilson looked so serious, a faint frown twisting his lips in concentration, his jaw set like he was on a mission. All for something as simple as jacking off. It was like the man would never learn to relax.

Wilson’s eyes were wandering around, looking up, away, to the side, never settling on the camera longer than a second or two. That would never do, House thought.

“Eyes up here,” he muttered, snapping his fingers as if he could draw Wilson’s attention. And by some sort of magic, Wilson’s gaze finally settled firmly ahead.

House examined Wilson with mild interest. There wasn’t much difference between this Wilson and the one he saw every day at work. This one’s hair was a bit mussed, but deliberately so. And of course, he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Probably wasn’t wearing anything at all, House realized. Good for him.

House’s hand came up to rest on the fly of his jeans without any direction whatsoever from his brain. He turned up the volume a tad more.

Wilson’s mouth dropped open, showing a flash of pink tongue before it shut with a loud click of teeth. His eyes pinched shut, his brows furrowed in what looked like pain. His head thrashed from side to side on the pillow, and his right arm, the one not involved in any activity below, was thrown across his eyes.

“No, no don’t do that,” House admonished, grasping the sides of his laptop screen like he was shaking the man himself by the shoulders. “Eyes on me, Wilson.”

After a long moment, the arm fell away to reveal Wilson’s dark eyes: open and pupil-blown and full of liquid need. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and House’s gaze was suddenly drawn to them, so pink it looked like Wilson was wearing gloss. But now that he thought about it, House remembered they always looked like that. All bowed and red, just like that.

The heel of House’s hand dug into his jeans again, and now there was no denying the hardness there.

Wilson’s lips parted even more in a harsh gasp, and House watched, mesmerized, as he absorbed every detail: The lock of hair that had fallen over Wilson’s forehead. The twitch of a muscle in his cheek. The mole at the corner of his mouth.

On women, they’re called “beauty marks,” House thought idly while unzipping his fly.

House had watched his own video several times before posting it, and he could see the obvious differences in Wilson’s style. For House, the experience had been natural and primal and all that rawness had come across clear as day. But for Wilson, everything from the way his eyes blinked to the way he shook his head showed his reluctance. And that was what made Wilson, laying there, bare, his mouth open in a silent gasp, so attractive. For him, at this moment, it was about overcoming something, being consumed by something he didn’t fully understand or want to understand. It was almost as if he was a prisoner inside the frame of the video, and he couldn’t stop touching himself even if he wanted to.

And it struck House then, when his hand had fully enveloped his cock and was stroking it roughly, that Wilson was doing this for House. That House had made him do it.

“Okay,” House muttered to himself, to the grainy version of Wilson. “That’s kind of hot.”

As if spurred on by that private confession, Wilson’s eyes flew open again and he began speaking in a low, hushed whisper, a babble of words that House had to turn up the volume to catch.

“I’m coming, House, I’m coming,” he said. “Oh god, I came so hard before, with you, watching you, want to watch you. Your face, your mouth, oh god, I think about it all the time, can’t stop thinking of it.” He stared up into the lens, panting. “I’m thinking about it right now,” Wilson said softly, and shuddered.

It came as a shock to House that he was on the brink, too, so suddenly. He gripped the edge of the desk with his left hand, bracing himself in the chair, his cock twitching in time with the tremors passing through Wilson’s shoulders. House grunted, fighting to keep his eyes from squeezing shut so he could catalogue every change in Wilson’s face: shock, overwhelming pleasure, close-lipped ecstasy, and finally, boneless relief.

It was Wilson’s last release-filled sigh that pushed House into his own orgasm, coating his hand and streaking the age-softened denim of his jeans with sticky fluid. He stayed hunched in that awkward position in the chair and took deep breaths to recover his senses. When the buzzing in his ears died down, he realized that his lungs were dragging in air at the same labored rate as Wilson’s.

House stared at Wilson staring back at him, and if he wasn’t so addled, he would have laughed. They made quite a pair, sweaty and flushed and unable to catch their breath.

Wilson pushed his hair off of his forehead with his right hand. He looked up.

“I can’t believe I did that,” he said.

“Ditto,” House answered.

Wilson sighed and rubbed his fingertips across his eyelids. “I just wanted…” He sighed and shrugged. “Never mind.” He reached up towards the camera, his fingers fumbling for the off switch.

“Wait—” House fumbled for his own keyboard, thinking of pausing the video and keeping Wilson there for as long as he wanted.

Wilson gave the camera one last dark-eyed look and said, “See you in the morning, House.”

“See you,” House said automatically. And then the screen went black.

Continue to Part 3.



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