Sort of drabble (really an excerpt)
Title: No title.
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: R, maybe?
Disclaimer: Mpf.
A/N: Practically unbeta-ed, but morgana82 helped me fixing something. I think this doesn't make any sense just taken alone, but I liked it anyway. It's a little excerpt from my new whenever-will-I-end-it fic, "House vs. Godfather". Enjoy it, if you can.
The first time had been incredibly awkward, and quite embarrassing. They were still trying to decide some preliminary rule without having to talk about it (who’s top, who’s bottom, where to put House's leg, who gives what to whom), when, starting again an interrupted kiss, they had crashed against each other, nose against nose. It'd ended with hankies and blood, Wilson laying down on the bed, a hankie pressed on his nose, and House sitting next to him counting how many platelets he'd lost. They were both laughing.
Then hilarity had slowly gone and they had stayed still watching each other, studying each other. Restarting now could be dangerous; there was every clue for a failure.
«Let's try again tomorrow, House» had tried Wilson, calmly. It wasn't a defeat: just a strategic retreat.
«No» had been the answer. House had moved away the hankie from his face, and placed a kiss on his upper lip, feeling the ferrous taste of blood on the tip of his tongue. He'd felt Wilson trembling a little, too, almost imperceptibly, but he had kissed him back. They'd started again, more slowly, approaching towards each other with little movements.
It's like skating. If you fall you have to get up and try again immediately, otherwise you'll never learn.
And then there had been that wish to eat him, like a cannibal, to melt himself indissolubly with his flesh, because God, in those weeks he’d missed him a lot. Too much. He’d pulled his tie away, biting his lips, and he’d slipped a hand under his shirt.
Warm.
«House… Greg…»
Maybe he loved him, but it wasn’t the most important thing at the moment. Wilson moved under him, a hand firmly grabbing his hair, vaguely uncomfortable.
House thought to tell him, as another thousand of things people just say, but he managed to stop. «… trust me» he just murmured.
If something goes wrong, I’m not going to blame you. Nevermore.
Wilson closed his eyes, letting his head fall on the pillow and swallowing noisily. His naked throat was a too explicit offer for the other man to refuse. Wilson’s voice trembled against House’s lips upon his Adam’s apple. «I trust you. But…»
«But nothing.» He undid the belt, the button, the zip. Maybe he loved him.
Wilson opened his eyes again, without stopping him.
One last attempt.
«Maybe… maybe we’re going… too…»
«No.»
If it’s a dream, don’t wake me.
… fast.
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: R, maybe?
Disclaimer: Mpf.
A/N: Practically unbeta-ed, but morgana82 helped me fixing something. I think this doesn't make any sense just taken alone, but I liked it anyway. It's a little excerpt from my new whenever-will-I-end-it fic, "House vs. Godfather". Enjoy it, if you can.
The first time had been incredibly awkward, and quite embarrassing. They were still trying to decide some preliminary rule without having to talk about it (who’s top, who’s bottom, where to put House's leg, who gives what to whom), when, starting again an interrupted kiss, they had crashed against each other, nose against nose. It'd ended with hankies and blood, Wilson laying down on the bed, a hankie pressed on his nose, and House sitting next to him counting how many platelets he'd lost. They were both laughing.
Then hilarity had slowly gone and they had stayed still watching each other, studying each other. Restarting now could be dangerous; there was every clue for a failure.
«Let's try again tomorrow, House» had tried Wilson, calmly. It wasn't a defeat: just a strategic retreat.
«No» had been the answer. House had moved away the hankie from his face, and placed a kiss on his upper lip, feeling the ferrous taste of blood on the tip of his tongue. He'd felt Wilson trembling a little, too, almost imperceptibly, but he had kissed him back. They'd started again, more slowly, approaching towards each other with little movements.
It's like skating. If you fall you have to get up and try again immediately, otherwise you'll never learn.
And then there had been that wish to eat him, like a cannibal, to melt himself indissolubly with his flesh, because God, in those weeks he’d missed him a lot. Too much. He’d pulled his tie away, biting his lips, and he’d slipped a hand under his shirt.
Warm.
«House… Greg…»
Maybe he loved him, but it wasn’t the most important thing at the moment. Wilson moved under him, a hand firmly grabbing his hair, vaguely uncomfortable.
House thought to tell him, as another thousand of things people just say, but he managed to stop. «… trust me» he just murmured.
If something goes wrong, I’m not going to blame you. Nevermore.
Wilson closed his eyes, letting his head fall on the pillow and swallowing noisily. His naked throat was a too explicit offer for the other man to refuse. Wilson’s voice trembled against House’s lips upon his Adam’s apple. «I trust you. But…»
«But nothing.» He undid the belt, the button, the zip. Maybe he loved him.
Wilson opened his eyes again, without stopping him.
One last attempt.
«Maybe… maybe we’re going… too…»
«No.»
If it’s a dream, don’t wake me.
… fast.