(no subject)
Title: Two's Company
Author: magie_05
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; Possible spoilers for Season 6.
Summary: The Couch explained, in a completely ludicrous and porny way :)
Twelve minutes as roommates, and he already had Wilson panting and half-naked on top of him.
His mouth was soft and wet against House's neck, lips, forehead. His hands were everywhere, reaching up to unknot his own tie, fumbling with the buttons of House's shirt, desperately stroking his hair and the sides of his face.
He never knew being missed would feel this damn good.
Wilson groaned rather frantically and nibbled along House's lower lip, his muscles clenched and his eyes squeezed shut. The bed moved silently as their hips rocked together, as Wilson quite shamelessly dry-humped him through layers of chino and sweat-soaked denim. House released his death-grip of Wilson's hair long enough to tug off that sensible white shirt, drenched in the scent House had gone without for three months, shave gel and toothpaste and Wilson-flavored pheromones. His hands grappled their way down the smooth skin of Wilson's back, caressing familiar muscles, savoring every skin cell. Then Wilson whined deep in his chest as they kissed and he had to move this along now -
"Mm," Wilson gasped as House started fumbling with his belt, reaching down and halting the progress. He pulled back (with difficulty, as House wasn't interested in talking - call it three months in the company of shrinks) and pressed his forehead against House's, looking at him with wild hair and dilated pupils. "Are you sure you're up for this?" he asked in the voice of a kid going through puberty. "Your leg? I don't want to rush you into - "
He cried out a little as House pushed him to his back, hands pinning Wilson's wrists to the bed, erections pressing together.
House suspected he may have actually growled as he bent down to recapture Wilson's lips, but three months without this made it irrelevant. He very purposefully left marks along Wilson's collarbone, a trail of purple half-moons leading down to his chest, where he could inhale that scent, the taste, where he could feel the beat of Wilson's heart against his lips.
He savored it, bathed in it, the heat and skin and presence he'd sworn he would never lose again. Wilson made increasingly endearing sounds in his throat as House indulged himself, rediscovering Wilson's chest, a thumb playing over one nipple, fingers trickling down his abs. He unzipped Wilson's pants and pulled out his cock, groaning softly at that hot length filling his hand, quite enjoying the increased manual dexterity that came along with clear-headedness - stroking up and down, feeling every ounce of sweat and sweet friction -
If he hadn't missed his guess, Wilson very nearly came right then, grasping desperately at House's shoulders. He set his jaw and bit his lip, little whimpering sounds issuing from his throat, thrusting a bit frenziedly into House's hand.
A scene from House's most pornographic daydreams.
The next shot featured him urging Wilson onto his stomach, throwing his own clothing over his shoulder, tugging at the loose material on Wilson's thighs. He pressed forward just enough to kiss behind Wilson's ear, drowning happily in the scent of his hair. He felt his cock drop fluid onto Wilson's hip.
"W-wow," Wilson stuttered, panting, smirking at House over his shoulder. "You are 'up' for this."
House passed up the chance for sarcasm for a taste of Wilson's mouth, kissing him harshly at this exciting angle, pushing his hips to the mattress. Once he could breathe, Wilson stretched toward the nightstand, grabbing a suspiciously well-worn bottle of lube from the depths of the top drawer. He held it in front of his face for a second, as if reading the directions. "You're sure?" he finally blurted to the sheets.
House bit his earlobe and pulled the bottle out of his hand.
Nolan had said it was time to change things, take things slow, one day at a time. Somehow, fucking Wilson into the mattress on their first night as roommates felt too spontaneous for a newly-sane person...
But hey, baby steps.
A sound exploded out of Wilson's lungs when House's fingers pushed into him, muscles tensing around the intrusion, wet flesh holding him in. House was driven momentarily crazy (again) by that heat, the skin moving against his, the muscles rippling in Wilson's back. Being crazy, it was alright for him to babble things into the back of Wilson's neck, curses and grunts and possibly confessions, all while his fingers worked through layers of feathery muscle, as he rubbed the tip of his cock against that warm, wet entrance...
He was so busy kissing his way along damp shoulders, it took him a second to realize that Wilson had gone stock-still.
"You know, this sex thing works a little better if all parties are participating," he said, kissing down Wilson's face to the corner of his mouth. "Otherwise, it's just jerking off for an audience."
Wilson didn't so much as blink.
"You okay?" he asked, and the unveiled concern felt strange on his tongue.
Strange, but not as repulsive as expected.
It might have been his tone of voice that roused Wilson out of his blank stare. He glanced at House briefly over his shoulder and then slowly slipped out from under him, sitting with his back turned on the edge of the bed.
After a split-second's hesitation, he reached out and dragged his palm down Wilson's slumped back, any awkwardness melting away into a passive kind of comfort. Wilson let out a sound halfway between a gasp and a sigh, maybe an undercurrent of shame. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled to his lap. “I didn't think I - I mean, I - ”
He sighed again and lay down on his side, curling into a loose ball. “I haven't been with anyone in this bed since...”
Of course, there was no need for him to finish. This was the mattress that symbolized his first halfway-healthy relationship, the physical manifestation of all Wilson had convinced himself he wanted...of how much she had cared about him.
Now he was sharing it with the guy who had led her into that bus.
“It's okay,” he said, and slowly pulled his hand from Wilson's shoulder. “I'll sleep on the couch.”
Wilson sighed, looking as tired as House had ever seen him. “You don't have to do that, I'll - ”
“I may not have to, but I should.” He tugged up his jeans and grabbed a pillow, telling himself this was for the best. Crazy people belonged on couches, anyway.
"No sarcasm?" Wilson was staring at him from the bed, pants undone, hair spread out against the pillow. "You're not going to tell me how irrational I'm being in the most blunt, caustic way you can think of?"
House shrugged, and, if he wasn't mistaking the feeling, smiled. "Not unless you want me to."
He said goodnight and watched Wilson fail to suppress a grin, felt eyes following him out the door. Wilson's couch was a step up from hospital beds, at least, and it wasn't like he wasn't used to sleeping alone. As for the sex, well - it could wait. Touch would return eventually.
For the first time in years, he felt like there was time.
He had made himself quite comfortable on his back, one thumb sliding thoughtfully along his lips, watching shadows move across the ceiling...when he sensed Wilson in the hall behind him.
He moved to the couch in pure silence, one hand trailing across House's arm, too dark to see his expression. But he got the message when Wilson pulled the blanket back and slowly - carefully - straddled him.
"This okay?" he breathed, hands sliding up House's chest. "For now, at least?"
He could get used to this human connection thing.
As it turned out, the couch had its own private virtues: he could sit in plush-filled comfort while Wilson rocked furiously on his lap, using the back of the couch as a convenient handlebar - could rest his head in the cushions as Wilson sucked at his neck, pushed his cock against House's abdomen and came explosively, crying out into the cushions.
He fully expected Wilson to go to bed afterwards, but he didn't seem to want to move, to have any desire to pull his head off House's shoulder or his arm from House's waist. It actually was a little uncomfortable, half-sitting on the sofa with Wilson's weight sprawled against him, but somehow he figured it was more comfortable than that particular bed could ever be.
Out here, it was just the two of them.
Author: magie_05
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; Possible spoilers for Season 6.
Summary: The Couch explained, in a completely ludicrous and porny way :)
Twelve minutes as roommates, and he already had Wilson panting and half-naked on top of him.
His mouth was soft and wet against House's neck, lips, forehead. His hands were everywhere, reaching up to unknot his own tie, fumbling with the buttons of House's shirt, desperately stroking his hair and the sides of his face.
He never knew being missed would feel this damn good.
Wilson groaned rather frantically and nibbled along House's lower lip, his muscles clenched and his eyes squeezed shut. The bed moved silently as their hips rocked together, as Wilson quite shamelessly dry-humped him through layers of chino and sweat-soaked denim. House released his death-grip of Wilson's hair long enough to tug off that sensible white shirt, drenched in the scent House had gone without for three months, shave gel and toothpaste and Wilson-flavored pheromones. His hands grappled their way down the smooth skin of Wilson's back, caressing familiar muscles, savoring every skin cell. Then Wilson whined deep in his chest as they kissed and he had to move this along now -
"Mm," Wilson gasped as House started fumbling with his belt, reaching down and halting the progress. He pulled back (with difficulty, as House wasn't interested in talking - call it three months in the company of shrinks) and pressed his forehead against House's, looking at him with wild hair and dilated pupils. "Are you sure you're up for this?" he asked in the voice of a kid going through puberty. "Your leg? I don't want to rush you into - "
He cried out a little as House pushed him to his back, hands pinning Wilson's wrists to the bed, erections pressing together.
House suspected he may have actually growled as he bent down to recapture Wilson's lips, but three months without this made it irrelevant. He very purposefully left marks along Wilson's collarbone, a trail of purple half-moons leading down to his chest, where he could inhale that scent, the taste, where he could feel the beat of Wilson's heart against his lips.
He savored it, bathed in it, the heat and skin and presence he'd sworn he would never lose again. Wilson made increasingly endearing sounds in his throat as House indulged himself, rediscovering Wilson's chest, a thumb playing over one nipple, fingers trickling down his abs. He unzipped Wilson's pants and pulled out his cock, groaning softly at that hot length filling his hand, quite enjoying the increased manual dexterity that came along with clear-headedness - stroking up and down, feeling every ounce of sweat and sweet friction -
If he hadn't missed his guess, Wilson very nearly came right then, grasping desperately at House's shoulders. He set his jaw and bit his lip, little whimpering sounds issuing from his throat, thrusting a bit frenziedly into House's hand.
A scene from House's most pornographic daydreams.
The next shot featured him urging Wilson onto his stomach, throwing his own clothing over his shoulder, tugging at the loose material on Wilson's thighs. He pressed forward just enough to kiss behind Wilson's ear, drowning happily in the scent of his hair. He felt his cock drop fluid onto Wilson's hip.
"W-wow," Wilson stuttered, panting, smirking at House over his shoulder. "You are 'up' for this."
House passed up the chance for sarcasm for a taste of Wilson's mouth, kissing him harshly at this exciting angle, pushing his hips to the mattress. Once he could breathe, Wilson stretched toward the nightstand, grabbing a suspiciously well-worn bottle of lube from the depths of the top drawer. He held it in front of his face for a second, as if reading the directions. "You're sure?" he finally blurted to the sheets.
House bit his earlobe and pulled the bottle out of his hand.
Nolan had said it was time to change things, take things slow, one day at a time. Somehow, fucking Wilson into the mattress on their first night as roommates felt too spontaneous for a newly-sane person...
But hey, baby steps.
A sound exploded out of Wilson's lungs when House's fingers pushed into him, muscles tensing around the intrusion, wet flesh holding him in. House was driven momentarily crazy (again) by that heat, the skin moving against his, the muscles rippling in Wilson's back. Being crazy, it was alright for him to babble things into the back of Wilson's neck, curses and grunts and possibly confessions, all while his fingers worked through layers of feathery muscle, as he rubbed the tip of his cock against that warm, wet entrance...
He was so busy kissing his way along damp shoulders, it took him a second to realize that Wilson had gone stock-still.
"You know, this sex thing works a little better if all parties are participating," he said, kissing down Wilson's face to the corner of his mouth. "Otherwise, it's just jerking off for an audience."
Wilson didn't so much as blink.
"You okay?" he asked, and the unveiled concern felt strange on his tongue.
Strange, but not as repulsive as expected.
It might have been his tone of voice that roused Wilson out of his blank stare. He glanced at House briefly over his shoulder and then slowly slipped out from under him, sitting with his back turned on the edge of the bed.
After a split-second's hesitation, he reached out and dragged his palm down Wilson's slumped back, any awkwardness melting away into a passive kind of comfort. Wilson let out a sound halfway between a gasp and a sigh, maybe an undercurrent of shame. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled to his lap. “I didn't think I - I mean, I - ”
He sighed again and lay down on his side, curling into a loose ball. “I haven't been with anyone in this bed since...”
Of course, there was no need for him to finish. This was the mattress that symbolized his first halfway-healthy relationship, the physical manifestation of all Wilson had convinced himself he wanted...of how much she had cared about him.
Now he was sharing it with the guy who had led her into that bus.
“It's okay,” he said, and slowly pulled his hand from Wilson's shoulder. “I'll sleep on the couch.”
Wilson sighed, looking as tired as House had ever seen him. “You don't have to do that, I'll - ”
“I may not have to, but I should.” He tugged up his jeans and grabbed a pillow, telling himself this was for the best. Crazy people belonged on couches, anyway.
"No sarcasm?" Wilson was staring at him from the bed, pants undone, hair spread out against the pillow. "You're not going to tell me how irrational I'm being in the most blunt, caustic way you can think of?"
House shrugged, and, if he wasn't mistaking the feeling, smiled. "Not unless you want me to."
He said goodnight and watched Wilson fail to suppress a grin, felt eyes following him out the door. Wilson's couch was a step up from hospital beds, at least, and it wasn't like he wasn't used to sleeping alone. As for the sex, well - it could wait. Touch would return eventually.
For the first time in years, he felt like there was time.
He had made himself quite comfortable on his back, one thumb sliding thoughtfully along his lips, watching shadows move across the ceiling...when he sensed Wilson in the hall behind him.
He moved to the couch in pure silence, one hand trailing across House's arm, too dark to see his expression. But he got the message when Wilson pulled the blanket back and slowly - carefully - straddled him.
"This okay?" he breathed, hands sliding up House's chest. "For now, at least?"
He could get used to this human connection thing.
As it turned out, the couch had its own private virtues: he could sit in plush-filled comfort while Wilson rocked furiously on his lap, using the back of the couch as a convenient handlebar - could rest his head in the cushions as Wilson sucked at his neck, pushed his cock against House's abdomen and came explosively, crying out into the cushions.
He fully expected Wilson to go to bed afterwards, but he didn't seem to want to move, to have any desire to pull his head off House's shoulder or his arm from House's waist. It actually was a little uncomfortable, half-sitting on the sofa with Wilson's weight sprawled against him, but somehow he figured it was more comfortable than that particular bed could ever be.
Out here, it was just the two of them.