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“Two months,” she begins, and she knows that this lecture will go exactly nowhere but it’s good for keeping House placated to have a periodic stream of arguments with his boss. Having an employee she can yell at is also good for her. “How is it possible to finish two months of clinic duty in half a week–”
House, from where he’s sitting at his desk, flinches like he’s been caught and tucks his head back. Cuddy’s growing righteous rant on intimidating nurses into falsifying paperwork stutters at the uncharacteristic reaction.
“What are you doing here,” he says, his voice pitching up with a squeak.
Cuddy blinks. “Is… this a bad time?”
“Yeah, actually.” The security light catches on a sheen of sweat painting his face, the distracted darting of his eyes. All uncharacteristic.
Cuddy’s gaze sharpens like a hawk’s. “Is there something going on?”
“No,” House says vehemently, his voice tight. His hands shake as he balls them in front of his face. Then he catches the disbelieving arch of Cuddy’s brow, worries his bottom lip, and then glances away. ”Can this wait for tomorrow?” His brow pinches upward. “Please?” Cuddy blinks again. Please is new, especially with the genuine note that it held. Suddenly, whatever is plaguing him becomes more pertinent than paperwork complaints, because House is never like this.
“House?” Cuddy asks cautiously. “House, are you okay?”
House shakes his head again, wobbly and lethargic like he’s moving through honey, before catching himself mid-movement and nodding. “Yeah,” he breathes, the tail end of the sound pitching up. “I– can’t. Talk. Right now.”
Cuddy takes measured, clicked steps toward House’s desk, slow and careful, acting as if she goes too fast he’ll get skittish and bolt. “Are you going to tell me why?”
“Later,” House says, almost pleadingly, and Cuddy is briefly distracted at the novelty of it.
House flinches, makes an aborted sound, and braces himself harder on the desk, his knuckles turning white. “Fuck–” he hisses, his body buckling, spine arched so that he’s bowed over his lap. Cuddy’s first thought is pain, and she moves over to check before House waves her off frantically with the hand that isn’t tightened into a fist on his desk.
“Don’t,” he rasps, his teeth gritted, Really like he’s in pain, and Cuddy’s forehead knits with concern as he gasps out a few labored breaths. “Cuddy, ju–fhhhh, just trust me, don’t.” He’s not acting right, he’s– cagey, like Cuddy is making him nervous, like–
He’s embarrassed, she realizes incredulously. His whole face is an interesting shade of red, his breaths puffed out like he’s fighting for each one.
“Oh,” she says. That’s not pain.
House struggles through another breath. “You should really go,” he pants, his voice shaky.
Cuddy lets the air settle, listens hard with the same concentration she uses when she’s trying to find a breathing pattern in a stethoscope, and– there. A faint hum. A buzz, more like. A ridiculously familiar one.
“Oh,” she breathes. House stares at the floor, his nose scrunched, his whole face set aflame.
Cuddy waits for the horror to coagulate in her stomach– the revulsion, the disgust, the calling-HR reflex. This is a ways further than workplace sexual harassment– this is–
This is House on his desk, shaking, getting off. She thinks that any rational person and hospital administrator would be disgusted.
But she’s… not. It’s so rare to catch House off guard, really off guard– that Cuddy feels an odd sort of amazement. At the shameful brilliant red flush that’s spreading from his face to his neck (who knew that even House can even feel shame after all these years), the sheen of sweat that’s been gathering on his forehead throughout the conversation, the persistent tap-tap-tap of his good leg as he fidgets and squirms to– well, now that she’s thinking about it (and she hates that she likes thinking about it), to redirect the sensation, trying to focus on something else.
Humiliated is a fantastic look on him, Cuddy thinks absently, as he white-knuckles the edge of his table and glances everywhere but up, looking like he’s trying to find the most convenient method of escape short of flinging himself off the balcony.
“Look,” he squeaks, before clearing his throat. “Cuddy, I don’t–”
“Wilson?”
House's eyes shoot open; he almost looks up, but Cuddy’s laser-eyed stare forces his gaze back down, still burning red. “What?”
She can catch herself rationalizing in the act but it doesn’t make the excuses she makes up seem any less appealing.
No, she doesn't feel disgusted. She feels want.
“This–” she waves at House’s desk instead of his body, or in between his legs, “–is from Wilson?”
Really, the only thing she finds a little horrifying is how much of a thrill she’s getting from this– this sort of power that even being Dean of Medicine doesn’t give her over House.
He glares at the opposite wall mutely– quiet enough to hear that buzz again, which is making heat crawl up the back of Cuddy’s neck despite herself.
“Yes,” he says, as steady as he can. “Can we get to the part where you yell at me and we forget about this?”
Cuddy’s tongue darts out to wet her lips.
That needling, insistent greed that she refuses to sate under any circumstances lunges into her sternum. She wants it. He’s here, open and pathetic, his big blue eyes filled with shame and the tiniest bit of panic and so much arousal, and it’s playing out like every single hedonistic thought that she keeps locked up in a birdcage in the back of her conscious. The functional center of her brain that stops her from reckless self-indulgence like daytime drinking or doing recreational drugs or pinning House to the table and fucking him senseless feels blissfully absent.
“No.” She steps closer. Slowly, carefully, with practiced steps, she crosses over to his side of the desk, into his personal space. House watches him warily, eyes looking up through his lashes with defiance and a healthy dose of humiliation. “I think I want something else.”
House blinks. His jaw actually drops a few centimeters– the dim light catches on his widened eyes and Cuddy can see that they’re wet, almost glassy. Shit, how long has Wilson had House like this, then? All day? His eyes dart back and forth, trying to analyze, trying to find a rationalization– good luck with that, because Cuddy isn’t even sure why she’s letting this happen. Isn’t sure why tonight is the night that she’s decided to become basal, self-indulgent.
“You’re jumping my bones? Here?” He blinks a few more times. The same strange satisfaction at catching her star doctor off-guard curls in her gut. “Me and Wilson’s? Collective bones?”
He chooses the bluntest words possible– immediately his eyes scan her whole face, trying to catch something shifting in her expression. It must be that nothing appears, because a moment later House's gaze darts down to Cuddy's mouth, avoiding eye contact.
“You're both on hospital time,” she says lightly. House's eyebrows jerk up questioningly. “You're in my jurisdiction for the evening. Spread your legs.”
His gaze rakes her up and down, narrowed with suspicion, trying to find any sign of her doubt– or worse, her lying. He doesn’t find anything. Slowly, suspiciously, his knees fall apart.
“Why are you doing this?” He says dubiously– of course, he’s the only doctor in the world to be trying to conduct psychoanalysis on Cuddy as she tells him to open his legs. The embarrassed haze has fallen away too quickly as he gets his claws into a new question, a new puzzle for him to dissect, and Cuddy wants it back. As soon as possible. “You’re not looking for a sperm donor anymore, you don’t smell like alcohol, your pupils–”
“Shut up.” Step one she’s learned from their Giovannini’s patient in being the dominant personality in a room– be the one that interrupts. And it works– House’s mouth freezes and makes a few stupid fish-like movements. “And to answer your question–”
She puts the tip of her heel in between his legs, right against the tent in his pants, and cants upward.
“–because I want to see something.”
House’s leg twitches and his eyes flutter and roll up a little before he can stop himself. His hips buck into nothing, a desperate and uncontrollable spasm as he strangles a tiny, helpless sound. His hands fly to her leg, fingers digging into the muscles of her calf.
The left side of her brain that’s been chanting a long list of HR names and workplace ethic rules flickers and shorts out, similar to the sound of a speaker being disconnected mid-set. She’d be lying if she said that it wasn’t devastatingly attractive. House gazes up at her through his eyelashes, cheek resting on her shin, his fingers trying not to shake where they're clamped to her leg. His hips jag up and down in bare, residual movements, like he's just barely resisting grinding against her.
Tonight is a night for self-indulgence, then. Cuddy leans into him, stroking a hand over his hair to get him to come down from the shock.
“We’re going to go see Wilson,” she says definitively.
___
The knock on his door makes Wilson flinch hard– his pen jumps out of his hand to disappear somewhere below his desk. “Come in,” he says distractedly, rooting around in the dark for it, House is going to have to suffer for a bit longer if he has to go through this emergency consult which makes Wilson’s chest twinge with a sliver of sympathy, a fair amount of guilt, and a lot of anticipation–
He glances up briefly, catches the sight of Cuddy’s heels and– horror of fucking horrors, House’s cane –in the gap between the floor and the table legs, and jerks his head up so fast he slams it into the underside of his desk.
“Careful, Wilson,” Cuddy says easily, like she isn’t dragging House behind her by the wrist, like House isn’t– oh, fuck, Wilson has to look away from House the moment his eyes land on him because even the sight of him sends a bolt of heat through his gut. His eyes are misty and far away, his hands shaking where he’s making contact with Cuddy, the obscene tent ruining the line of his pants as he leans heavily on his cane and breathes through his teeth. Wilson resists the urge to bury his face in his hands and never emerge.
The door shuts behind them, and Wilson hears it lock with a definitive click. Well, at least he can indulge half of that urge.
“Oh, hell,” he mumbles into his palms. He wonders absently if mortification can be considered a cause of death. Peering between his fingers he can see Cuddy carefully leading House as he half-limps to Wilson’s couch. He wobbles, trying to rest himself against the arm of the seat. A sudden wash of sensation seems to take him and he curls forward slightly, his fingers scrabbling into the fabric of the sofa, his exhale turning into a thin whine, and Wilson focuses very, very hard on not being turned on.
“I am– so sorry, Dr. Cuddy, it was my idea, it was unprofessional, I didn’t–”
House stirs, his voice still thin and strained but nevertheless jumping at the opportunity to rag on Wilson. “Don’t be an idiot, the public indecency is–”
She holds up her hand, and both of their mouths snap shut automatically. Wilson takes a second to marvel at the fact that House had listened.
“Two decisions,” she says, with an unpromising Dean of Medicine voice. She’s still holding House’s wrist behind her as if he’s not even part of the conversation. Wilson nods, trying desperately to not look over at House, who’s starting to pant and sway in place. His remote is in his back pocket but he’s terrified of moving his hands with Cuddy’s gaze still trained on him, as if he moves she’ll suddenly remember that House exists and kill both of them.
“One: I leave. Now. We forget about this, I take this to HR, and we never speak about it again.”
Wilson nods again furiously to show that he’s listening. House makes a miserable little sound, blindly reaching for something to brace himself on as his hips twitch. He’s never this quiet, not until he’s hazy and endorphin-riddled and gone.
“Two.” She leans closer. Wilson leans further away, mostly out of fear. “I resolve this issue. Here. With you two.”
His throat feels parched. It takes one, two coughs to clear out his vocal tract, and Cuddy is still staring at him expectantly.
“Resolve this?” He says hoarsely.
“I’ll resolve it,” she says sweetly. “And you get to watch.”
Oh, fuck. Wilson thinks he might pass out with how quickly the blood escapes his brain and floods south.
“You’re– we’re– during work hours?” He sputters, feeling his face flare up bright red.
“Technically,” House says, annoyingly. Not nearly as gone as he could be, then. “Way after my work hours. I usually leave at 5.”
“We’re in my office!”
“Scared your boss is going to find out?”
“Shut up,” Cuddy says sharply. House’s jaw snaps shut.
Wilson gapes. “That worked?”
“What?” House squirms, clearly embarrassed but trying to play it off. “Looking to get off, here.”
Cuddy appraises them both for a second– it’s a miracle that this is the only instance where she can render them both self-conscious– before crossing the room in three long strides to turn the window shades on Wilson’s balcony. She turns back to sit on Wilson’s couch, rucking up her pencil skirt the slightest bit to give her the range of movement to part her legs– the legs on that woman, it’s ridiculous. Wilson has to look away on reflex as if he’s trying to preserve her modesty, which seems to be a moot point at the moment. House leans his weight on the arm of the couch, shaking a little, his breaths sucked through his teeth.
“If you want me to kneel,” he pants, trying to one-handedly remove his blazer while fighting through a fit of sensation, “Gonna need a pillow.”
She arches her brow and seems to consider that idea. “Don’t need you to kneel. Maybe another time.” One perfectly manicured hand reaches to pat between her thighs. “Here.”
In what must be a once-in-a-blue-moon-event, House obeys. He lays his cane down on the floor with deliberate slowness, his eyes flickering unsteadily as he tries to take stock of the situation. Scalding red in the face, he settles between Cuddy’s legs, on the edge of the couch, chin ducked down as if it will match his height to hers, his eyes focused toward the ground. Briefly, his gaze darts up to catch Wilson’s before it disappears down again, hot and shameful. He’s actually shy.
Wilson shifts in his seat, moving to get up like he’s being gravitated toward House, but Cuddy puts up a hand to halt him in his tracks. “Hey– you stay there. I'm still the boss on company time.”
He’s sitting down before he’s even conscious of doing so. “She’s got you on a short leash, Jimmy,” House mumbles. That wording is not doing any good for Wilson’s blood pressure.
Cuddy brackets House’s body, her thighs lying over his to pin his legs in place. Her ankle tangles with his good calf, prising it away from his body so that he can’t clamp his legs closed, her other hand laid gently just above where the scar begins. Carefully delineating it, providing boundaries on an area she knows she can’t touch. House grunts, low and humiliated, involuntarily put on display. A museum exhibit meant to be admired. He’s ridiculously tall in her lap, and still, she’s able to move him so easily, manipulate him into doing exactly what she wants.
Her hands move to rest enticingly on the tops of his hips, framing the plane of his waist, just as a suggestion of what is to come. House twitches self-consciously under the force of Wilson’s stare, his legs trying to draw closed but stopped by the elegant line of Cuddy’s shin. “If we’re just going to stare at each other–”
Cuddy flicks him in the side of the head. “I said I’m the one resolving this. Pay attention.”
House huffs, the sound left a little heated on the exhale as he readjusts his hips, trying to find a way to sit comfortably with the sensation, or maybe trying to entice Cuddy into doing something with the hand she has laid on his upper thigh.
“You have the remote?” Cuddy asks Wilson lightly, over House's shoulder, like they’re discussing paperwork. Wilson needs a second before he’s able to drag his eyes away from the vision of House with his legs pried open.
“Yeah,” he says weakly. He can feel his face turning red as he fishes around in his back pocket for the offending device. “Um… here.”
House shrinks up against Cuddy’s front reflexively like he’s trying to get away from the remote, unsettled by the simultaneous ignorance and attention that he’s receiving from both of them. He’s just a mantlepiece in the office now, something pretty on his coffee table to look at while they talk to each other.
“Keep it.” She relinquishes that little control to him, and Wilson takes it gratefully. He swallows, his tongue thick in his mouth, as he watches Cuddy rest her hand in between House's legs possessively. The sight doesn’t irritate him nearly as much as he thinks it should.
Then gently, so gently, she begins to touch him.
House flinches hard at first, not expecting the movement. Cuddy is slow, methodical, bordering on calculating with her deconstruction of House. She doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t pause, only aiming with a single-minded determination that makes Wilson’s knees weak from across the room. She takes her sweet time, unzipping his jeans so slowly that Wilson can count each metal tooth uncoupling. Almost curiously she runs her hands along his twitching inner thighs, trailing up his length, stopping at the very end to press her thumb against the pink bullet-shaped vibrator attached there. House twists, moans from between gritted teeth.
“So,” she says conversationally, not stopping her movements. House is tilting himself, trying to find a beat in the conversation to inject himself into, but the slow twisting of her palm against the head of his cock is serving to distract him. “Why at work?”
Wilson’s eye twitches and it takes a second for his brain to reboot, to switch off the track that is singularly focused on the image of Cuddy’s manicured hand taking House apart with the barest amount of pressure. She’s a doctor, with a doctor’s precision– up to five thousand nerve endings in the glans alone, and she takes advantage of that knowledge effectively. “I. Uh. Just wanted to get him hot and bothered.” His mouth stumbles as he flushes in his attempt to recount his fantasies. There’s some sort of hot, deep-rooted shame that twists inside him when he says I want, a selfish sting that never seems to leave, so he clips the beginning of the sentence as if it will take the edge off. “Knock him down a peg.”
Cuddy’s eyes gleam and Wilson trips over his words.
“Just wanted to see what it would look like,” he finishes lamely, embarrassed and overwhelmed with shame and so horrifically turned on that he can barely breathe.
“You’re a real freak, Wilson,” House pants out. Cuddy frowns disapprovingly at him, her hand stilling, and then turns to Wilson.
“Turn it up.”
Wilson takes an embarrassingly long time to figure out what Cuddy means. House gets it first– his eyes go wide, and he turns to Wilson in disbelief, but Wilson’s already got his hands on the remote without considering disobedience for half a second. The vibrator increases its shrill whine and House’s head hits Cuddy’s shoulder with a thud, arms twisting, abdominal muscles jumping as his spine tries to arch beyond his constraints. His hands fly to grip Cuddy's thighs behind him, fumbling for something to ground himself with, inadvertently exposing more of himself to her. Cuddy, ever cruel, moves her thumb up to press the device more severely into his frenulum just to watch the way he thrashes, to drag the pretty moan that escapes him out by six syllables as she refuses to let up on him.
“All this nurse’s gossip about you giving your wives what they want,” Cuddy continues, over the dumb, fucked out noises House is starting to make, his frantic squirming worsening the effect, “Has anyone given you what you want, Dr. Wilson?”
Wilson blinks muzzily. “Huh?” He says, sounding stupid even to his own ears, lightheaded with arousal.
Cuddy giggles, and her eyes cast over to him, almost fondly.
“Is this what you want?” She asks. She presses two fingers against his glans, making delicate circles above where the nerves are most concentrated. House jerks hard, stutters on a moan that sounds like he’s been electrocuted. “A good show? Someone else to do the work?” Her head rolls in his direction, all mirth in her gaze. Every time her eyes find Wilson’s he shudders, being given something he isn’t even aware that he needs until he has it. “You already do so much.”
In an impressive show of dexterity, she undoes the first three buttons of House's wrinkled dress shirt with one hand, revealing the way the fever flush on his face stretches all the way down to his chest. She cups a free palm against House’s body, her movements careful and explorative, thumb traversing the length of his side before circling to brush over the sensitive nub on his chest– Wilson wasn’t expecting much, but as always, House surprises.
“Ghh–” he chokes, body suddenly flexing in Cuddy’s grasp like he’s trying to get away from her wandering hands. Eyebrows raised, she passes her hand over the front of his body to drag the pad of her thumb across his other nipple, and House whimpers– he fucking whimpers! –a tiny, unutterably attractive sound, his hips jerking erratically against nothing. “Are you– nnh! A–are you fucking serious–”
“Didn’t peg him as the sensitive type,” Cuddy says thoughtfully, talking to Wilson over House's shoulder again, her voice clinically detached like she’s conducting a routine lab test. One of House's shaking hands snakes up to find Cuddy's, pathetically trying to pry her fingers away from him, and she swats him just as easily. “Look at him.”
“You actually haven’t pegged me at all,” House bitches, his brain scattered and stumbling in a situation that has rapidly left his control, “Which is– which– unnhhhh–”
She palms his length gently, smearing wetness all along to increase the glide. Wilson is enraptured by the way Cuddy is barely touching him and still, House is falling apart. Her hands zero in on the spots with the highest nerve concentrations, trying to see how far she can get him to fall with just the pads of her fingers and expertise in anatomy; she’s playing him like a goddamn piano. A careful fingertip on his frenulum, tracing across his peaked chest, pressing into the vibrator, treating him as if he's fragile. House is so blurry-eyed and high-strung that when she finally closes her hand around him and begins to stroke he's already too far gone.
“Wait, h–hold on, I’m gonna–” House stutters, straining his body away from her, his brow pinched upward in such a pretty picture of desperation that Wilson wants to snap an image, possibly brand it into the white matter of his brain. “I’m gonna come, Cuddy, I’m–”
“Ask.” Cuddy grips down on him, her hand cinching him to the spot. House flinches, making a wounded noise, his hands scrabbling for Cuddy. He rocks himself backward, trying to writhe away from the inescapable pressure she's putting on him but going nowhere.
“Why'd,” he chokes, his eyelids fluttering open and shut. “Why’d you stop, fuhh–ffuck off, come on, let me–”
Cuddy glances over at Wilson– he’s so well trained, at her beck and call, he doesn’t even hesitate before flicking the remote.
“Hnn–!” House twists, moans like he’s been fucking shot (and Wilson knows what that sounds like), his whole body seizing. His mouth opens and shuts a few times as he tries to weather through the sensation long enough to form a witty thought, at least a coherent sentence. Wilson can practically see the way his brain is melting out of his ears. Cuddy leans over his shoulder, hand still locked at the base of his cock, her face twisted with mock sympathy. She looks good in charge, anyone with half a brain would see, but she looks knee-weakeningly gorgeous like this, her dark hair draped over House’s arms and neck, preening at having House under her thumb.
That's a rare trait that she shares with House, Wilson thinks. Needing to get what she wants.
She glances upward at him, her eyes faintly amused like they’re sharing an inside joke that House isn’t in on, and Wilson feels a wash of dry heat race down his spine. Her gaze is intoxicating, low and heady and sparkling with affection. His head may as well be stuffed with cotton.
“You were right,” she says. “He does look good knocked down a peg.”
Oh, fuck, he really does. House is well and truly gone, gasping into her neck and trying to fuck into her fist with no success. Cuddy makes a demeaning cooing sound in the back of her throat as she pets his hair and he just takes it, too fuzzy to bitch about it. Jacked up on the third-highest setting, just enough to make forming thoughts impossible but not enough to overcome the tension of Cuddy’s hand, the vibrator makes House stupid, makes him scatterbrained and squirmy and unable to form full sentences. His mouth opens and closes and a few fragmented, choked syllables escape before it becomes more of a punched-out moan.
Cuddy leans over his shoulder, twisting her wrist just right so that her hand covers the tip of his cock, forcing the vibrator flush against him.
“Ask.”
It doesn’t take any fighting this time. “Fuck, please,” House cries, no, sobs, his head tilting back as he bucks up helplessly into Cuddy’s cruel grip. He’s outright begging now, his eyes wet and glazed. His hands fumble for hers, moving to clasp beseechingly on her wrists– Cuddy gently shakes him free without looking. Not letting him get away with it that easily. His breath hitches on a broken noise as she presses his hips down with her free hand, not letting him move any further. “Hhhffuck, I’m– Cuddy, I can’t–”
Cuddy laughs, her eyes crinkling. Wilson knows what the power trip feels like, getting the mouthy and annoying revered diagnostician to roll over and submit, to beg, to cry– but this is different. It’s a different sort of headrush, fanning under the concentrated attention of Cuddy’s ice-blue stare– she has her hand on House but is staring at him. He’s her butterfly pinned to a corkboard.
“Look at him,” she croons, and Wilson can’t tell if she’s talking to him or House. Her hand migrates to House’s chin, forcing his neck up so that he’s looking up at Wilson through his eyelashes. It’s almost too much to bear at once. House looks ruined, his eyes rimmed in red, lashes batting as he fights through an unbearable wave of heat. His eyes dart back and forth, unfocused and frantic with his need to come, Cuddy’s lipstick scattered on the column of his neck, his teeth clamped around his bottom lip.
“Please…” he whines, more of an exhaled sound than a real word, nearly unable to hold eye contact. Wilson is so hard that it hurts.
“Ask him,” Cuddy tells House, right against the shell of his ear, her lips curling into a smile of satisfaction. At finally getting what she wants. “Ask him nicely.”
She punctuates her demand with a rapid stroke– House outright sobs into the sensation, his spine arched. He’s unbelievably sensitive like this, held so close to the edge, his entire body a live wire. “Please, let me come,” he moans, high and shaky and rough in his throat, and he looks up through his tear-wet eyelashes to find Wilson’s gaze and hold tenuous eye contact. His eyes are glazed over with pupils blown out into discs, his lower lip trembling, so far gone that he doesn’t even complain about being made to beg. To beg properly. He needs to ask Cuddy how she gets him here so effectively. “I– I wanna come, need it, please, Wilson.”
Cuddy looks up, her eyebrow arched in question. They could be a painting together, a ringlet of her hair standing out starkly against the flushed sweat-sheen of House’s skin, the perfect line of her arm looped around his abdomen, his heaving chest. Her ankles twisted around his legs, prying them open and vulnerable. Her hand between his thighs. Her searching, laser-sharp stare, dark eyelashes half-lidded; House’s blue eyes, wet and pleading, still flickering restlessly as he tries to remain still enough to beg properly. Beg pretty.
Both of them, looking at him.
Wilson thinks he might pass out.
“You can come, House,” he rasps, his voice hoarse. “Make it good for her.”
Wilson stabs the remote with his finger without looking– Cuddy smiles, full-mouthed, thin and wide, and just a little bit insane. It kind of scares him, which turns him on even more.
House cries out, hands scrabbling for purchase, and then Cuddy lets go to press the vibrator insistently with her thumb. Wilson feels a sympathetic rush of heat at the way House jerks hard, a sudden hot flash of too much lancing through him, as he cants his hips and writhes and still manages to go nowhere.
“Come on,” Cuddy coos, her voice finally sounding affected, a lance of unrestrained arousal leaking through. “Come on, House, give it to me. Give it to us.”
Wilson doesn’t even have a word to describe the sobbed, open-mouthed sound that escapes from House’s throat as his eyelids flutter and he spasms and then he finally comes, helplessly, all over his chest and thighs. The noise is wrung out of him, thin and reedy and dangerously loud, loud enough that Cuddy clamps her hand over his mouth so that his head is forced back onto her shoulder and his chest puffed out as he shudders through it. Wilson wants the image seared on the backs of his eyelids.
Cuddy waits until his cries have become truly pathetic to stop moving, and even still Wilson stares for so long that House twists over on himself, his voice edging on hysterical, fighting to string words together– oh, the remote. He jolts to attention and turns it off guiltily, and House slumps back against Cuddy, still twitching, blinking away tears. Real tears.
In an almost absent gesture of affection, Cuddy cups the side of his shaking jaw with her hand and kisses his cheekbone, leaving a smeared lipstick mark there. The sight is so real and so gorgeous that Wilson can hardly stop himself from jolting to his feet, his knees hitting the table with how quickly he’s trying to get up. The horrifying idea that they may suddenly disappear after this strikes his mind, and he needs his hands on them now.
“C’mere,” Cuddy beckons, resting her chin on House’s shoulder. Struck dumb by her command, Wilson is on them in an instant.
He situates himself between House’s spread legs, hands coming up to cradle his face, just looking to touch something. House blinks up at him blearily, still shivering through aftershocks, his eyes not all the way clear. Wilson kisses his temple, kisses the shell of his ear, leans over his shoulder to kiss Cuddy. His body presses up against House’s front, crushing him there between them. Shamelessly, he undulates his body against House’s good thigh, lazily grinding with no real goal. House flinches his hips up anyway, his nerves strung out and oversensitive.
"You two alright?" He says hoarsely, breaking apart from Cuddy just enough to breathe.
From behind him, House huffs a breath. "Here comes Mr. Aftercare," he mumbles, the tremor in his voice just starting to recede. "'M fine."
"Better than fine," Cuddy purrs, satisfied and indulgent. She gives Wilson a one-eyebrowed look. "You, on the other hand, looked like you were about to faint."
"Believe me," House sighs, the afterglow haze making him clingy and warm as he trails a hand up Wilson's back. "He just looks like that when he's horny."
Wilson laughs, quiet and lazy, still keyed up but eagerly leaning into the syrupy warmth of the moment. “Can’t believe she got you to cry,” he says, close to the back of House’s head. Cuddy huffs a laugh against his lips, moving one hand to smudge away a lipstick stain from his mouth. Moving out of his office to the parking lot is going to be a nightmare.
“She’s stupid good with her hands,” House mutters sleepily, nosing his way into the gap between Wilson’s neck and his shoulder. “And–”
He pauses to hiss, mostly because of the dry drag of Wilson’s slacks against him, but Wilson can feel the way heat flushes through his face from where his cheek is pressed against his neck.
“And what?”
House grumbles at his deltoid muscle. “And fuck you.”
Coming until he cries really takes the sting out of House’s insults. “And what?”
“And– you were watching.”
Wilson smiles, slow and catlike. His eyes flick up to Cuddy’s, who’s grinning into a lipstick mark on the back of House’s neck.
“Don’t smile like that. I can hear it from here.”
“You wanted to be good. To put on a show?” Wilson laughs fondly, rubbing his cheek against the unruly scruff of House’s silvering hair. “You’re a slut.”
“Yeah, yeah. Pot, kettle.” His teeth scrape over Wilson’s shoulder, a salacious invitation with his mouth. “Want me to return the favor?”
Wilson shudders at the sensation and presses harder against House’s front, just to feel the gratifying little yelp of House trying to twitch away from it. “Sorry,” Cuddy says. “Only one of us can leave the hospital looking debauched. Some of us have reputations.”
Wilson pauses his lazy conquest of Cuddy’s neck, resting right over her clavicle. “My place?” He offers hesitantly. “Tomorrow, I mean. When your babysitter’s there.”
“Say yes,” House tells Cuddy. “He’ll fold your clothes and eat you out like his life depends on it.”
Wilson blushes, hard enough that Cuddy and House can both feel the heat of his skin from their points of contact, and they both laugh.
“His place it is,” Cuddy says affectionately, leaning forward just to catch another kiss from Wilson. “Would like to get my hands on you, too.”
“The mouth on that woman, you’d think she’s been reciting for months,” House groans, and he pronounces it like a complaint even if it’s a compliment. Cuddy pauses from where she’s slowly ruffling Wilson’s hair, deer-in-headlights stare and all.
"Holy shit.” House squints, and then gapes. “You’ve been thinking about this!”
"I didn’t– hey, you–”
“You wanted us,” House swoons, draping his neck over Cuddy’s shoulder like a besotted teenager, grinning at having found his next mark. “What, you daydream about it? Did we meet expectations?”
Cuddy grumbles, a red flush traveling up her neck. “Shut up," she snaps, swatting the top of House's head so his hair scuffs up into strange shapes. Wilson kisses the corner of Cuddy's mouth placatingly.
“We're going to have to talk about this, you know,” he says eventually. Cuddy nods, conciliatory– House groans, but he's trapped between them, unable to escape a frightening conversation about feelings.
“Even you, House,” Cuddy says warningly.
He puts his face in the curve of Wilson's neck. “I would be more open if there was the promise of post-communication outrageous sex."
She laughs and promises nothing, but also doesn't deny him.
They’re going to have to move soon. Wilson hopes that soon doesn't mean any time in the next thirty years. He rubs his cheek against the side of House's neck, warm under the peppering of kisses Cuddy is giving him. “Tomorrow, my place, then."