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I Need To Pee
Summary: An alternative ending to After Hours, written to fill one of my kink_bingo squares.
Word Count: ~600.
Rating: R.
Warning: Cracky kink (or kinky crack). Smutty. You may find it gross. Very gross.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the House, MD characters, which is good because I tend to kill them.
"I need to pee. Now."
Wilson stood up and grabbed the plastic item from the table.
"No. I'm a big boy. No peeing in plastic for me."
Wilson sat back down, and put his hands through his hair. "You can't stand up yet, House. You read your chart."
"So I’ll have pee into something which is not plastic. Or glass or metal, for that matter."
Wilson lifted his eyes, and was met by House's hard, cold stare. He didn’t know what to say, what House could possibly want now.
"Are you still hard of hearing when I ask you for help? Or do you have trouble understanding?"
Guilt pushed blood in Wilson's cheeks, as he remembered being woken up by Cuddy’s phone call, and the anguish that had taken hold of him when he understood how much earlier House had called him than her. He had compared notes with House’s team - his had been the first number House called. It had broken his heart.
Then his brain moved on to parse House’s last sentence - and eventually a crazy possibility came through his mind. Oh God. House couldn’t mean that, surely? He looked at House with wide-opened eyes, and was rewarded with a smirk. A smirk that seemed to say "You got it, finally."
He stood up on uncertain feet, and walked to the hospital bed without breaking eye contact. He pulled back the blanket, lifted back the hospital gown, and looked at his friend’s exposed body, wondering whether he would be able to do it. House looked way too thin and fragile: even the penis, curled up and wrinkly, seemed in need of help and comfort.
Wilson looked up at House's face again. House’s eyes were still fixed on him, his smirk had been upgraded to a gentle, encouraging smile. Wilson was so deep in his thoughts he almost jumped when House spoke.
“Urine is sterile, you know. And if I had an STD, they would have found out when they did all the pre-op tests.” The blue eyes seemed to be radiating tenderness and trust, and Wilson knew that he could do it. He could give House what he wanted, he wouldn’t let him down again.
He could hear a small "Aaahhh…" of satisfaction surging uncontrolled from House's throat, as the foul-tasting liquid started to fill his mouth; he tasted it carefully, every drop reminding him of the too many medications House's kidneys had had to filter from his system since the infarction.
He thought as he drank that he could distinguish the bitterness of Vicodin and the rich background of bourbon, and wondered whether the particularly nasty flavor was due to the last amounts of rat medicine being finally expelled, or to the residues of the anesthesia drugs. The intense stream slowed down, became a sequence of splurges, then a trickle, then just a few last drops. Wilson was relieved that he had made it to the end. And, surprisingly, he felt better. Cleansed. Forgiven.
When no more drops arrived, he pulled down the foreskin delicately, and made sure his tongue cleaned everywhere properly. And then two miracles occurred simultaneously: House’s cock started twitching a bit, grew a little, began to feel more solid in his mouth; and House’s hand enveloped the back of his head, the thumb delicately playing with the hair on Wilson’s left temple.
“I think you might want to... continue that.” The taste of urine lingered in Wilson’s mouth, but he didn’t notice it.
Word Count: ~600.
Rating: R.
Warning: Cracky kink (or kinky crack). Smutty. You may find it gross. Very gross.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the House, MD characters, which is good because I tend to kill them.
"I need to pee. Now."
Wilson stood up and grabbed the plastic item from the table.
"No. I'm a big boy. No peeing in plastic for me."
Wilson sat back down, and put his hands through his hair. "You can't stand up yet, House. You read your chart."
"So I’ll have pee into something which is not plastic. Or glass or metal, for that matter."
Wilson lifted his eyes, and was met by House's hard, cold stare. He didn’t know what to say, what House could possibly want now.
"Are you still hard of hearing when I ask you for help? Or do you have trouble understanding?"
Guilt pushed blood in Wilson's cheeks, as he remembered being woken up by Cuddy’s phone call, and the anguish that had taken hold of him when he understood how much earlier House had called him than her. He had compared notes with House’s team - his had been the first number House called. It had broken his heart.
Then his brain moved on to parse House’s last sentence - and eventually a crazy possibility came through his mind. Oh God. House couldn’t mean that, surely? He looked at House with wide-opened eyes, and was rewarded with a smirk. A smirk that seemed to say "You got it, finally."
He stood up on uncertain feet, and walked to the hospital bed without breaking eye contact. He pulled back the blanket, lifted back the hospital gown, and looked at his friend’s exposed body, wondering whether he would be able to do it. House looked way too thin and fragile: even the penis, curled up and wrinkly, seemed in need of help and comfort.
Wilson looked up at House's face again. House’s eyes were still fixed on him, his smirk had been upgraded to a gentle, encouraging smile. Wilson was so deep in his thoughts he almost jumped when House spoke.
“Urine is sterile, you know. And if I had an STD, they would have found out when they did all the pre-op tests.” The blue eyes seemed to be radiating tenderness and trust, and Wilson knew that he could do it. He could give House what he wanted, he wouldn’t let him down again.
He could hear a small "Aaahhh…" of satisfaction surging uncontrolled from House's throat, as the foul-tasting liquid started to fill his mouth; he tasted it carefully, every drop reminding him of the too many medications House's kidneys had had to filter from his system since the infarction.
He thought as he drank that he could distinguish the bitterness of Vicodin and the rich background of bourbon, and wondered whether the particularly nasty flavor was due to the last amounts of rat medicine being finally expelled, or to the residues of the anesthesia drugs. The intense stream slowed down, became a sequence of splurges, then a trickle, then just a few last drops. Wilson was relieved that he had made it to the end. And, surprisingly, he felt better. Cleansed. Forgiven.
When no more drops arrived, he pulled down the foreskin delicately, and made sure his tongue cleaned everywhere properly. And then two miracles occurred simultaneously: House’s cock started twitching a bit, grew a little, began to feel more solid in his mouth; and House’s hand enveloped the back of his head, the thumb delicately playing with the hair on Wilson’s left temple.
“I think you might want to... continue that.” The taste of urine lingered in Wilson’s mouth, but he didn’t notice it.