(no subject)
What the hell? I'll do this meme. From like..every writer on my flist <3
“This is the grand fantasy you’ve been dreaming about all week? You have watched way too much late-night HBO soft-core porn.”
Wilson felt blood rushing into his cheeks but was powerless to stop it. "Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
House pretended to look scandalized. “Hey, now. My fetishes are healthy and old-fashioned; you’re the one who’s confused Better Homes with Playgirl.”
"Actually, he's my....you know...partner." Wilson shut his eyes. Even he thought that sounded too gay. 'Partner' was definitely out. "You know, as in...uh...we're...a couple." He exhaled shakily. "We've been together a long time....it's...great. Yeah."
“Oh, get over yourself. So the entire clinic knows about your bedroom vocabulary. There are worse things in life.” One example was the Phil Collins song Wilson was currently inflicting upon him.
“I don’t want to fight, House.”
This was clearly untrue; Phil Collins was a definite act of aggression.
Wilson sneezed all the way back to the shower, where he spent the next half-hour scrubbing baby powder out of every pore and orifice with increasingly cold water.
It was with lazy contentment that he pulled House to him in the hallway, kissing him slowly, unable to stop himself from humming very lowly in his throat. When he slid his hands under House’s t-shirt and started pivoting toward the bedroom door, House pulled away and smirked at him. “It’s seven-thirty.”
Wilson managed a coy grin. “I know. Hope you didn’t have any important plans for tonight.”
It’s humiliating but convenient, being this needy. Wilson can’t help but eat it up. And he stays. It’s probably unhealthy, it’s definitely not perfect…but he stays. House guesses that means this is working. The needier he is, the more Wilson will want him.
The pills can wait today.
“You’re not funny, House.”
“Aww, whatever do you mean, schnookums?”
“No more games. You’re making them-and me-uncomfortable.”
“I thought this was what you wanted, my little cuddlemuffin.”
He’s never going to get laid again, but the increasingly pronounced tick on Wilson’s face is almost worth it. “Would you stop it with the pet names?” He colors his request by adding a few of House’s more accurate sobriquets.
“Looks like you’ve got strep, genius. What the hell have you been putting in your mouth?”
A long, withering glare from glassy eyes. “Don’ worry. Not putting ‘nything in there for a long, long time.”
Oh, threatening to withhold oral sex. He must be sick.
Technically some of these are in post-op and basically finished, but eh. Now if I could just, y'know, finish these.
“This is the grand fantasy you’ve been dreaming about all week? You have watched way too much late-night HBO soft-core porn.”
Wilson felt blood rushing into his cheeks but was powerless to stop it. "Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
House pretended to look scandalized. “Hey, now. My fetishes are healthy and old-fashioned; you’re the one who’s confused Better Homes with Playgirl.”
"Actually, he's my....you know...partner." Wilson shut his eyes. Even he thought that sounded too gay. 'Partner' was definitely out. "You know, as in...uh...we're...a couple." He exhaled shakily. "We've been together a long time....it's...great. Yeah."
“Oh, get over yourself. So the entire clinic knows about your bedroom vocabulary. There are worse things in life.” One example was the Phil Collins song Wilson was currently inflicting upon him.
“I don’t want to fight, House.”
This was clearly untrue; Phil Collins was a definite act of aggression.
Wilson sneezed all the way back to the shower, where he spent the next half-hour scrubbing baby powder out of every pore and orifice with increasingly cold water.
It was with lazy contentment that he pulled House to him in the hallway, kissing him slowly, unable to stop himself from humming very lowly in his throat. When he slid his hands under House’s t-shirt and started pivoting toward the bedroom door, House pulled away and smirked at him. “It’s seven-thirty.”
Wilson managed a coy grin. “I know. Hope you didn’t have any important plans for tonight.”
It’s humiliating but convenient, being this needy. Wilson can’t help but eat it up. And he stays. It’s probably unhealthy, it’s definitely not perfect…but he stays. House guesses that means this is working. The needier he is, the more Wilson will want him.
The pills can wait today.
“You’re not funny, House.”
“Aww, whatever do you mean, schnookums?”
“No more games. You’re making them-and me-uncomfortable.”
“I thought this was what you wanted, my little cuddlemuffin.”
He’s never going to get laid again, but the increasingly pronounced tick on Wilson’s face is almost worth it. “Would you stop it with the pet names?” He colors his request by adding a few of House’s more accurate sobriquets.
“Looks like you’ve got strep, genius. What the hell have you been putting in your mouth?”
A long, withering glare from glassy eyes. “Don’ worry. Not putting ‘nything in there for a long, long time.”
Oh, threatening to withhold oral sex. He must be sick.
Technically some of these are in post-op and basically finished, but eh. Now if I could just, y'know, finish these.