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A scant few minutes in John's eager mouth and Wilson was ready, more than ready, sweating and shaking as his climax built until it was inevitable. He touched John's head as gently as he could to warn him, gasped, "I'm—John—" but John didn't pull off, just tightened his hands on Wilson's hips and sucked him in again, and again, and—
And, oh, Jesus, the balcony door swung open and House stepped inside. Wide-eyed with feigned astonishment, House leaned against the opposite wall and watched John go at him.
"Dammit—" Wilson swore, but he was past the point of no return; his breath caught, and, hyperaware of House watching him, he curled forward and came into John's mouth.
John pulled off and swallowed, releasing him in favor of unbuttoning his own jeans and shoving a hand inside. When Wilson managed to look up again, House was staring at him.
"House!" he groaned. At his feet, John stilled. "Out."
"At least you're moving on from the dying ones," House replied without moving. John turned his head, presumably to see who he was dealing with. House raised an eyebrow. "And the women."
"Really not the time," Wilson ground out from between clenched teeth.
"How do you know I'm not dying?" John asked, breath ragged. His lips were deep red now, slick and swollen.
"It's too early in the day for Wilson's terminal cases to be coming in. That, and you're too pretty to be going through chemo or radiation therapy. In fact..." He looked John up and down. "What branch?"
John stiffened.
"Oh, like I'm going to say anything and get this moron in trouble," House said, nodding at Wilson, and Wilson felt John relax under the hand he hadn't moved from the man's hair. "You wouldn't believe how many times I've covered for his ass. This time it just happens to be literal."
"House," Wilson repeated. "I'm suitably humiliated. Can the blackmail, inappropriate questions and smug lecturing wait until lunch?"
"I'm busy trying to decide if letting Sonic the Hedgehog here blow you in the middle of your office makes you more or less of an idiot than when you were doing Debbie in Accounting in the third-floor supply closet."
Wilson flushed. "Out. Please."
"You so owe me," House said, but he pushed the door open with his cane and went out.
"I'm—I don't even know how to start apologizing," Wilson said when he'd seen House hop over the brick ledge back to where he belonged. Cloth rustled; Wilson sighed, figuring John was doing up his jeans. "He's a genius, but he can be—oh." He'd expected John to be angry, maybe humiliated, certainly with a flagging erection; he hadn't expected to look down and find him jerking off as swiftly and fervently as if they hadn't been interrupted. He blinked. "I—don't think many people have that reaction to him."
"Reminds me of someone I know," John gasped. His eyes were still closed, lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, his mouth open wide as he breathed harshly. Wilson stroked that soft, messy hair; John pressed his face into Wilson's bare stomach, and within a minute he was coming, groaning into Wilson's skin.
We now return you to our regularly scheduled ficlet. :)
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