life is short (eat dessert first)
title: life is short (eat dessert first)
author: phinnia
rating: nc-17 for sex, dirty talk and provocative use of groceries
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel i, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing.
author's note: i kind of ran awry from the prompt (which was about house stealing wilson's lunches) but it involves food, house and wilson, so i hope it's okay. spoilers for s4 finale, but no s5 spoilers even though this is set sometime after the events in s4.
It started on a relatively ordinary day. It might have been a Thursday (Douglas Adams was right; Thursdays did have a tendency to be confusing) but he honestly couldn't remember.
Considering the events of the day, he could scarely blame himself.
When he got to work (the usual two hours late) Wilson was sitting on the edge of his desk, casually reading a file; he had a peach in one hand. He looked up when House came in, greeted him with a small smile, and nodded toward the fruit. "Brought you breakfast."
House nodded, dropped his backpack on the floor and sat down.
Wilson leaned across the desk, a soft smile barely touching the edge of his lips. "You know what they say about peaches?"
House took the piece of fruit from his hand; their fingers brushed together. "What?"
"That the flesh of a perfectly ripe, juicy peach is almost like going down on a woman. Think about it.' His voice was slow, almost hypnotic. "How delicate it feels in your mouth. The perfect, soft skin of it - the delicious trickle of peach juice over your lips and chin; how later on you suck on your fingers and taste it and the memory just floods right back." Wilson got to his feet again and adjusted his lab coat. "I love picking out peaches. There's an art to it." He left the room and turned down the hall.
House froze in mid-bite with shocked-open eyes. Wilson was long gone before he realized he was half-hard under his desk, and hindbrain survival instinct was the only thing that reminded him how to breathe.
Later, when he could think again, he realized there was really only one explanation for his friend's utterly bizarre behavior.
*
"You've just gotten laid."
Wilson looked at himself, and then at House. "Thanks for telling me, I hadn't noticed. Actually I hadn't noticed getting laid at all, which means it was probably pretty mediocre." He pushed a small box across the desk. "Have a cookie."
House ignored the box of cookies and continued stubbornly on. "If you haven't just gotten laid, what was with all that smugness?" Better not to mention the peaches except obliquely. Even thinking about them - about the sticky nectar of the fruit, about Wilson's tone of voice, soft and sweet - the whole thing was making his mouth dry again. Best not to think about it at all.
"I'm trying out a new look. It works so well for you." Wilson picked up the box of cookies and took one out, regarding it with a bemused expression: it was one of those tubular rolled cookies, he couldn't quite remember what they were called. Cigar cookies or something like that, a thin rolled biscuit with vanilla and chocolate swirls in the dough. He dipped it in to a small container on his desk and held it up again. One end was heavy with thick, creamy whiteness.
OhGod.
"Sure you don't want a cookie?" Wilson smiled, rolling his tongue around it and licking it off. He eased the tip of his tongue into the end of the cookie, carefully coaxing the pudding into his mouth, his red lips pursed kissably around the tube. He bit it gently - ever-so-gently - chewed, and swallowed, smiling at House. "They're really good with pudding. It's a strange combination, but it works surprisingly well." He winked. "Kind of like us, wouldn't you say?"
House, again at a loss for words, simply fled.
*
By a combination of sheer force of will and an insane newfound enthusiasm for clinic hours he managed to get through the rest of the day unscathed (there was a minor incident involving a toddler eating mashed peaches, but a quick side trip to the bathroom got rid of that - the last thing he needed was Cuddy thinking he was some kind of kiddie perv, and he didn't think she'd take the truth very well, even though it so clearly was Wilson's fault.
He sighed deeply as the tumblers clicked in the lock and pushed the door open, tossing his backpack and jacket on the sofa. Time to relax. A long shower (complete with the orgasm he'd had to talk himself down from all day), a glass of whiskey, a couple of Vicodin and bedtime; the perfect plan. Yes. What could be better? The door swung shut and he reached for the light switch.
"You've been avoiding me all afternoon."
His hand stilled over the switch: as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting he caught sight of Wilson sitting on the piano bench, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.
"Why is that, House?"
House caught the edge of Wilson's smile in the reflected light of someone's high beams as they turned the corner.
He cleared his throat, staring at his shoes. "Not hungry."
"Oh, I think you are."
House started to pace in the narrow area behind the sofa, shaking his head. "Have I just walked into a porn movie or something? I mean, I think this is my apartment, and you look like the same Wilson you've always been. Why this, why me, why now? I don't remember any earthquakes recently - you been buying your sensible bran cereal with new Viagra flakes in it or something? That stuff on the sugar cubes is LSD, Jimmy, it's not there for flavoring and I'm not a hot redhead with a body that won't quit."
"So what, you've just been flirting with me for years for no reason?" Wilson countered, the sly smile not leaving his face. "The 'I love you' meant nothing? I think you're just afraid of really being called on what you want and think you can't have. If everybody lies except you, then tell me you don't want me to fuck you so hard you can't sit down for three days without thinking about why and I'll stop and we can just watch the game like always and I'll never mention it again. Forgive me for wanting to do something about it instead of just dancing around it like we have for so long. Life's too short." His voice echoed in the dark room. "If I learned one thing from what happened with Amber, that was it."
House froze in midstep at the mention of Amber's name, his eyes returning to his shoes, unable to meet Wilson's fierce gaze. When he dared look up again, Wilson was standing in front of him, hard breath sharing his space.
"Tell me you don't want this." Wilson murmured. "And I'll drop it."
House felt his mouth go dry, again. "I - "
Wilson leaned forward to brush their lips together and House kissed back frantically, hoping that was enough of an answer, since words seemed to be deserting him at the moment.
It seemed to be enough. Wilson's hands slid around his waist, searching for skin, and then there were trailing fingers up the length of his spine and he molded his body against Wilson's, a soft moan escaping as his lips freed themselves between kisses.
"Yes, yes." Wilson murmured as he dragged them toward the bedroom, his hands sliding down again to grope House's ass through the fabric of his jeans. "Oh god, yes, yes, yes, I want you, do you know how long I've wanted you? So long, so many fucking years and I was too stupid to do anything about it, how many times have you fucking died and I was terrified that I'd never get to tell you ..."
"More nudity." House muttered, trying to fumble open Wilson's buttons. "Less girly confessions of feelings."
"Right, right. Forgot it was you I was talking to."
"Well, if you forgot it was me I can just lea-" The world tilted on its axis and House found himself lying on his back on the bed with Wilson kneeling above him, straddling his hips. "Hello there."
"Don't you dare." Wilson growled, his dark eyes hazy with lust as he stripped away what remained of House's clothing. He was bare- chested, wearing nothing but his suit pants: House was about to protest this imbalance in clothing when a couple of small objects hit the bed with soft thumps.
House looked to the side and saw a bottle of lube and a strip-pack of condoms, and his eyes widened.
Something about Wilson's deliberateness, the intense, methodical nature that he moved away clothes and rearranged their bodies on the mattress - especially in contrast with frantic kisses that turned into bites and erections that begged for heat and warmth, that slid along creases and crevices... it was so overwhelmingly arousing that House forgot his usual stoic nature and split the air with a ragged moan when Wilson's lips slid down around his cock, and he felt that mouth curve into a quick, mischevious grin.
And holy hell, the cookies were a poor low-resolution preview to this. When Wilson's lips pulled away he almost cried - he would have, except the next thing out of that mouth was even better: Wilson's voice, dark and husky, purring. "How do you want to do this?"
"Fuck me." House gasped, barely able to get his breath under control; his eyes widened in surprise at his own admission, but Wilson's pleased grin made it all worthwhile.
And if he told the truth to himself (something which, all pat phrases and innocent claims aside, he actually tried to avoid) nearly losing Wilson had scared him, too.
The cold slickness of lube on Wilson's probing fingers startled him back to the present. Those dark eyes were staring into his own.
"Have you done this before?" Wilson murmured softly.
"Been a while."
Wilson nodded, trailing one hand's short nails over House's inner thighs as he positioned himself; House's hips bucked off the bed as the hot bluntness of Wilson's cock nudged inside him, slowly filling him with heat. He reached up and grabbed Wilson's hips, encouraging him to move forward, and then it was all slickness, sweet friction and lightning-hard shocks of pleasure; Wilson's soft moans and his own ragged panting loud in his ears.
He'd been half-hard all damn day and Wilson's hand wrapping around his dick was pure bliss as it stroked counterpoint rhythm to that delicious thrusting that alternately avoided and slammed against his prostate; but it was Wilson's voice, rough and smoky, that pushed him over the edge into bliss; that voice he'd always heard in his dreams, fantasized about, and assumed he could never have.
"Come for me, you gorgeous bastard." Wilson growled, even white teeth catching on sensitive skin. "Come for me."
House's hips arched into Wilson's hand and the orgasm flowed through him like a breaking dam, the flood of heat and pleasure and tightness pulling Wilson along and House's dark groans of pleasure mingled with Wilson's howl of ecstacy.
Afterward they lay together, panting and spent, dripping with sweat.
House licked his lips, trying desperately to wet his dry throat. "You still have any of those peaches?"
"Nope." Wilson sighed, trailing his fingers through House's chest hair. "Got a bunch of bananas though - they're in the fridge with the creme brulee."
House gave him a confused look. "What?"
"Well, I needed something else in case you needed more convincing." Wilson grinned. "So I left work early and came over here to do a little sculpting. They weren't quite the right shape yet."
House was still a little confused - until he saw the platter of carved bananas in the fridge, some with artfully carved foreskins and some without.
As it turned out, Wilson was even better with bananas than he was with cookies or peaches - but he wasn't averse to sharing his secrets.
author: phinnia
rating: nc-17 for sex, dirty talk and provocative use of groceries
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel i, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing.
author's note: i kind of ran awry from the prompt (which was about house stealing wilson's lunches) but it involves food, house and wilson, so i hope it's okay. spoilers for s4 finale, but no s5 spoilers even though this is set sometime after the events in s4.
It started on a relatively ordinary day. It might have been a Thursday (Douglas Adams was right; Thursdays did have a tendency to be confusing) but he honestly couldn't remember.
Considering the events of the day, he could scarely blame himself.
When he got to work (the usual two hours late) Wilson was sitting on the edge of his desk, casually reading a file; he had a peach in one hand. He looked up when House came in, greeted him with a small smile, and nodded toward the fruit. "Brought you breakfast."
House nodded, dropped his backpack on the floor and sat down.
Wilson leaned across the desk, a soft smile barely touching the edge of his lips. "You know what they say about peaches?"
House took the piece of fruit from his hand; their fingers brushed together. "What?"
"That the flesh of a perfectly ripe, juicy peach is almost like going down on a woman. Think about it.' His voice was slow, almost hypnotic. "How delicate it feels in your mouth. The perfect, soft skin of it - the delicious trickle of peach juice over your lips and chin; how later on you suck on your fingers and taste it and the memory just floods right back." Wilson got to his feet again and adjusted his lab coat. "I love picking out peaches. There's an art to it." He left the room and turned down the hall.
House froze in mid-bite with shocked-open eyes. Wilson was long gone before he realized he was half-hard under his desk, and hindbrain survival instinct was the only thing that reminded him how to breathe.
Later, when he could think again, he realized there was really only one explanation for his friend's utterly bizarre behavior.
*
"You've just gotten laid."
Wilson looked at himself, and then at House. "Thanks for telling me, I hadn't noticed. Actually I hadn't noticed getting laid at all, which means it was probably pretty mediocre." He pushed a small box across the desk. "Have a cookie."
House ignored the box of cookies and continued stubbornly on. "If you haven't just gotten laid, what was with all that smugness?" Better not to mention the peaches except obliquely. Even thinking about them - about the sticky nectar of the fruit, about Wilson's tone of voice, soft and sweet - the whole thing was making his mouth dry again. Best not to think about it at all.
"I'm trying out a new look. It works so well for you." Wilson picked up the box of cookies and took one out, regarding it with a bemused expression: it was one of those tubular rolled cookies, he couldn't quite remember what they were called. Cigar cookies or something like that, a thin rolled biscuit with vanilla and chocolate swirls in the dough. He dipped it in to a small container on his desk and held it up again. One end was heavy with thick, creamy whiteness.
OhGod.
"Sure you don't want a cookie?" Wilson smiled, rolling his tongue around it and licking it off. He eased the tip of his tongue into the end of the cookie, carefully coaxing the pudding into his mouth, his red lips pursed kissably around the tube. He bit it gently - ever-so-gently - chewed, and swallowed, smiling at House. "They're really good with pudding. It's a strange combination, but it works surprisingly well." He winked. "Kind of like us, wouldn't you say?"
House, again at a loss for words, simply fled.
*
By a combination of sheer force of will and an insane newfound enthusiasm for clinic hours he managed to get through the rest of the day unscathed (there was a minor incident involving a toddler eating mashed peaches, but a quick side trip to the bathroom got rid of that - the last thing he needed was Cuddy thinking he was some kind of kiddie perv, and he didn't think she'd take the truth very well, even though it so clearly was Wilson's fault.
He sighed deeply as the tumblers clicked in the lock and pushed the door open, tossing his backpack and jacket on the sofa. Time to relax. A long shower (complete with the orgasm he'd had to talk himself down from all day), a glass of whiskey, a couple of Vicodin and bedtime; the perfect plan. Yes. What could be better? The door swung shut and he reached for the light switch.
"You've been avoiding me all afternoon."
His hand stilled over the switch: as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting he caught sight of Wilson sitting on the piano bench, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.
"Why is that, House?"
House caught the edge of Wilson's smile in the reflected light of someone's high beams as they turned the corner.
He cleared his throat, staring at his shoes. "Not hungry."
"Oh, I think you are."
House started to pace in the narrow area behind the sofa, shaking his head. "Have I just walked into a porn movie or something? I mean, I think this is my apartment, and you look like the same Wilson you've always been. Why this, why me, why now? I don't remember any earthquakes recently - you been buying your sensible bran cereal with new Viagra flakes in it or something? That stuff on the sugar cubes is LSD, Jimmy, it's not there for flavoring and I'm not a hot redhead with a body that won't quit."
"So what, you've just been flirting with me for years for no reason?" Wilson countered, the sly smile not leaving his face. "The 'I love you' meant nothing? I think you're just afraid of really being called on what you want and think you can't have. If everybody lies except you, then tell me you don't want me to fuck you so hard you can't sit down for three days without thinking about why and I'll stop and we can just watch the game like always and I'll never mention it again. Forgive me for wanting to do something about it instead of just dancing around it like we have for so long. Life's too short." His voice echoed in the dark room. "If I learned one thing from what happened with Amber, that was it."
House froze in midstep at the mention of Amber's name, his eyes returning to his shoes, unable to meet Wilson's fierce gaze. When he dared look up again, Wilson was standing in front of him, hard breath sharing his space.
"Tell me you don't want this." Wilson murmured. "And I'll drop it."
House felt his mouth go dry, again. "I - "
Wilson leaned forward to brush their lips together and House kissed back frantically, hoping that was enough of an answer, since words seemed to be deserting him at the moment.
It seemed to be enough. Wilson's hands slid around his waist, searching for skin, and then there were trailing fingers up the length of his spine and he molded his body against Wilson's, a soft moan escaping as his lips freed themselves between kisses.
"Yes, yes." Wilson murmured as he dragged them toward the bedroom, his hands sliding down again to grope House's ass through the fabric of his jeans. "Oh god, yes, yes, yes, I want you, do you know how long I've wanted you? So long, so many fucking years and I was too stupid to do anything about it, how many times have you fucking died and I was terrified that I'd never get to tell you ..."
"More nudity." House muttered, trying to fumble open Wilson's buttons. "Less girly confessions of feelings."
"Right, right. Forgot it was you I was talking to."
"Well, if you forgot it was me I can just lea-" The world tilted on its axis and House found himself lying on his back on the bed with Wilson kneeling above him, straddling his hips. "Hello there."
"Don't you dare." Wilson growled, his dark eyes hazy with lust as he stripped away what remained of House's clothing. He was bare- chested, wearing nothing but his suit pants: House was about to protest this imbalance in clothing when a couple of small objects hit the bed with soft thumps.
House looked to the side and saw a bottle of lube and a strip-pack of condoms, and his eyes widened.
Something about Wilson's deliberateness, the intense, methodical nature that he moved away clothes and rearranged their bodies on the mattress - especially in contrast with frantic kisses that turned into bites and erections that begged for heat and warmth, that slid along creases and crevices... it was so overwhelmingly arousing that House forgot his usual stoic nature and split the air with a ragged moan when Wilson's lips slid down around his cock, and he felt that mouth curve into a quick, mischevious grin.
And holy hell, the cookies were a poor low-resolution preview to this. When Wilson's lips pulled away he almost cried - he would have, except the next thing out of that mouth was even better: Wilson's voice, dark and husky, purring. "How do you want to do this?"
"Fuck me." House gasped, barely able to get his breath under control; his eyes widened in surprise at his own admission, but Wilson's pleased grin made it all worthwhile.
And if he told the truth to himself (something which, all pat phrases and innocent claims aside, he actually tried to avoid) nearly losing Wilson had scared him, too.
The cold slickness of lube on Wilson's probing fingers startled him back to the present. Those dark eyes were staring into his own.
"Have you done this before?" Wilson murmured softly.
"Been a while."
Wilson nodded, trailing one hand's short nails over House's inner thighs as he positioned himself; House's hips bucked off the bed as the hot bluntness of Wilson's cock nudged inside him, slowly filling him with heat. He reached up and grabbed Wilson's hips, encouraging him to move forward, and then it was all slickness, sweet friction and lightning-hard shocks of pleasure; Wilson's soft moans and his own ragged panting loud in his ears.
He'd been half-hard all damn day and Wilson's hand wrapping around his dick was pure bliss as it stroked counterpoint rhythm to that delicious thrusting that alternately avoided and slammed against his prostate; but it was Wilson's voice, rough and smoky, that pushed him over the edge into bliss; that voice he'd always heard in his dreams, fantasized about, and assumed he could never have.
"Come for me, you gorgeous bastard." Wilson growled, even white teeth catching on sensitive skin. "Come for me."
House's hips arched into Wilson's hand and the orgasm flowed through him like a breaking dam, the flood of heat and pleasure and tightness pulling Wilson along and House's dark groans of pleasure mingled with Wilson's howl of ecstacy.
Afterward they lay together, panting and spent, dripping with sweat.
House licked his lips, trying desperately to wet his dry throat. "You still have any of those peaches?"
"Nope." Wilson sighed, trailing his fingers through House's chest hair. "Got a bunch of bananas though - they're in the fridge with the creme brulee."
House gave him a confused look. "What?"
"Well, I needed something else in case you needed more convincing." Wilson grinned. "So I left work early and came over here to do a little sculpting. They weren't quite the right shape yet."
House was still a little confused - until he saw the platter of carved bananas in the fridge, some with artfully carved foreskins and some without.
As it turned out, Wilson was even better with bananas than he was with cookies or peaches - but he wasn't averse to sharing his secrets.