fic: Candy Hearts
Title: Candy Hearts
Author: Magie05
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; useless, sappy fluff
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I don't own House, M.D. (sadly) or Neeco's 'Sweethearts,' (thankfully).
Summary: Wilson gives House the most cliched Valentine's gift he can think of. I have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to slash, so concrit is much needed and appreciated!
The small box of conversation hearts rattled happily in Wilson's coat pocket. He had picked them up on an impulse in line at the grocery store. Valentine's candy had been screaming at him from store windows since just after New Year's Day. Roses, stuffed animals, huge, heart-shaped boxes of chocolate. Carnations and red cellophane. Each reminded Wilson of some year and some woman, each 13th of February he'd spent preparing for the 'most romantic day of the year.' He supposed that was all over, now that the person he was involved with was possibly the least romantic man on the planet.
Wilson had picked up the tiny, multi-colored conversation hearts merely for the irony. It was the most clichéd possible Valentine gift for the most unconventional man he’d ever met. As the girl at the counter scanned the box of cheap candies, Wilson had to suppress a grin. House was going to mock him endlessly for this, just to cover up how freaked out he was that Wilson had gotten him something for Valentine’s Day.
House was already pressed into the couch cushions when he heard Wilson’s key in the door. He was annoyed by how accustomed he was getting to having Wilson around. It bugged him that this thing between them had gotten so easy, so natural. It annoyed him that he was annoyed whenever Wilson chose to spend the night back at his hotel. “I am so not putting out tonight,” he said by way of greeting.
Wilson just smirked, irritatingly unmoved. “Hello to you too.” He carried plastic grocery bags into the kitchen, through which House was both surprised and relieved to see no sign of chocolate-covered cherries or red tissue paper. He’d had no idea that today held any significance until he’d been unable to find anything that was not tainted by Valentine’s Day on TV. Not that he’d have bothered with the traditional celebrations if he had known. He was not about to spend money and effort trying to show Wilson he gave a damn.
Wilson already knew that.
He returned from the kitchen and sat down to watch the poker tournament that House was currently fixated on. Wilson wondered if he dared ask about that ‘not putting out’ thing. It had only been three months since their friendship had evolved into what it was always supposed to be. No one else knew or needed to know. Their lives were already so hopelessly meshed together that adding this new level to the relationship was just a natural progression, an added bonus…most days. Judging from House’s comment and current demeanor, Wilson wasn’t sure anything more than barbed comments was going to pass between them tonight. “Bad day?”
“It is for you.”
Wilson’s eyebrows drew together. “Uh-huh. And…why exactly?”
“Valentine’s. It’s just too predictable.”
Wilson thought he got it. House had sworn off sex for the evening simply because couples were supposed to have sex on Valentine’s night. To do it would not only be cliché, it would be like admitting that they were, in fact, a couple, something they had thus far avoided discussing. House didn’t just dislike Valentine’s Day; he was afraid of it. Which made what Wilson was about to do all the more interesting.
A small red-and-white box landed on House’s lap with a loud rattle. He recognized them immediately: the tiny, brightly-colored candy hearts with their short, sweet messages, staples of Valentine’s Day for the past fifty years. ‘Sweethearts,’ the box read. The box of candy that Wilson had gotten him. For Valentine’s Day. He couldn’t tell if this was serious or not. House looked at him, for once at a loss for words.
Wilson just shrugged. “Got you something.” He watched House staring at the box, watched a myriad of emotions cross his features and hoped at least one of them was something other than repulsion or embarrassment.
It was several seconds before House found his voice. “I hate these things.”
Wilson stared at him, grinning inwardly at House’s inability to deal with situations that he could not control.
“What?” House asked defensively. He’d torn open the box and was glaring at a small, mint-green heart in the palm of his hand, as if it were to blame for all this. It had the pink message ‘Be Mine’ printed clumsily into the sugar. “Nobody likes these. They taste like dried-out toothpaste.”
“Fine. More for me,” Wilson tossed out carelessly. He grabbed the box from House’s hands and stuck a few in his mouth, letting them dissolve slowly.
House made a face. “You seriously like those things?”
In truth, Wilson agreed with the 'dried toothpaste' assessment, but rather than admit it, he just shrugged. “They’re a tradition.”
House rolled his eyes. “You mean they’re boring. You could have at least gotten those dirty ones,” he suggested. “You know, the ones that say things like ‘Eat Me,’ or ‘I’m Horny.’” He raised one eyebrow suggestively. “Those we could have had some fun with.”
“I’ll remember that next year.”
The implication-that Wilson would be here next year, and the next-hung comfortably in the air for a few seconds, just long enough for House to come up with something to ruin the sentiment.
“So were you expecting roses? Champagne? One of those Valentine cards that plays Elvis songs when you open it?”
Wilson picked up the real question: ‘Are you disappointed?’ “No,” Wilson said. “Although I am slightly surprised at the absence of fur handcuffs and porn.”
Wilson could tell House was relieved, as hard as he tried to hide it. “Well, if that’s what you wanted, all you had to do was ask. Didn’t have to wait until tonight, unload last year’s clearance-aisle fodder on me.”
Wilson shrugged and popped another candy, this one reading Sweet Talk. House was staring at him, watching the bones and muscles in his jaw working, the tiny hint of a smile that was playing around his lips.
“Valentine’s Day was invented by the candy companies,” House continued, his voice soft and preoccupied.
“You say that about every holiday.”
“It’s true about every holiday.”
Wilson turned to his side and leaned into the back of the couch, relaxing as House settled into the expected holiday rant. It was typical of House to be annoyed by holidays, but Wilson had thought Valentine’s might be different. “I thought you’d enjoy a day devoted to sex and candy.”
“Not when it’s so commercialized and fake. I mean, look at this,” he snatched the box of candies and poured a few into his palm. “‘Love Me,’ that one’s just pathetic.” He tossed a blue heart to the floor and chose another. “‘All Star,’ who’s that one for? Your favorite NBA player?” A pink heart sailed across the room. “‘Fax Me?’ Seriously?” A yellow candy joined the pile.
“What’s your point?” Wilson asked, ducking as the message Kiss Me sailed over his head.
“My point is: people spend too much time and money trying to buy something they think will communicate how they feel about someone, but the whole thing’s meaningless, just lame little messages on pastel hearts.” The whole box of candies landed heavily on the coffee table.
“I didn’t know you were such an expert on romance.” Wilson didn’t like where this conversation was going. House was trying to say that relationships and love were empty; that all the emotions and sensations, the twisted, terrifying, thrilling feelings Wilson had held back for years meant nothing.
“I didn’t say that,” House said, and Wilson wondered for the millionth time if House could read his mind. “It’s just Valentine’s Day,” he said the word with a sneer. “People are so wrapped up in the gifts and the candy and the tradition, they forget what’s real.”
“Which is what, dare I ask?”
House grinned. “This.” He wrapped strong fingers around Wilson’s neck and pulled him close. Wilson’s eyes fluttered shut at the very real sensation of House’s lips against his.
Sometimes their kisses were fierce, desperate, needy. Sometimes they were angry and rough, the way it was the first time. Increasingly, they were slow, soft, wonderfully new on nights when they took their time, making up for all the years they missed out on. But Wilson had never felt anything like this before.
Their lips were barely touching, but bursts of sensation were tingling their way from Wilson’s lips, spreading warmth into his cheeks; stirring something in his chest on their way down to his groin. He’d never been kissed this softly by anyone. It was amazing that House, always so stubbornly closed off, could do this, could kiss in a way that carried so much emotion behind it.
Wilson felt his mouth open in quiet surprise. House took it as a cue to deepen the kiss; pressed his mouth, still closed, to Wilson’s upper lip with that same tender intensity that was sending shivers up and down Wilson’s spine. The kiss-the caress--turned into a line of soft, tingling patches of flesh as House trailed his lips across Wilson’s cheek, stopping when he found the delicate curve just below his ear.
It was House’s favorite spot to kiss. Well, one of them. He could feel Wilson’s pulse beating rapidly in his throat as he breathed in the scent of Wilson’s hair. He could tell from the slight shudder Wilson gave that he appreciated it just as much. This was what House was good at; this he could do. Gifts, gestures, words, they all got screwed up or misinterpreted. He’d rather touch than speak. He didn’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing. Plus, he added to himself as Wilson twisted fingertips into the hair at House’s temple, this is way more fun. Thoughts of abstinence were chased away by Wilson’s breath on his cheek and the tiny bit of powdered sugar House had picked up from his lips.
House was tempted to leave a mark in his favorite spot, just to have the fun of Wilson telling him off for it tomorrow, but he did not. Instead he kissed his way down, his cheek scraping against Wilson’s jaw as he swallowed the heartbeat at his throat.
Wilson arched his neck into the soft, slick surface of House’s tongue. He’d begun to breathe heavily as soon as House’s lips moved against him. Every part of his body was now begging for the same attention. He was pretty sure House was going to leave a mark on his neck, but he was damn sure he didn’t care at the moment, not when the tension was building up in his muscles, not as House was sliding a hand up his shirt.
House felt a shudder of his own beneath his skin as Wilson’s fingers ran through his hair, down his neck, underneath the collar of his shirt to trace firm circles into his shoulders. It was suddenly way too hot for clothing.
Wilson’s pressed, white button-down clashed oddly with House’s rumpled gray t-shirt as they fluttered into a heap on the floor. Two sets of eyes, brown and blue, both filled with desire roamed over newly exposed flesh for a moment before House leaned in slowly, his gaze flicking back and forth between Wilson’s eyes and his lips. As if he were asking for permission, as if it were the first time. Wilson met him in midair with open mouth, open everything, willing him to just let go, to understand that he was wanted. Chills erupted over his bare torso as House traced languid, deep circles and lines into his skin, his tongue slippery-warm and sliding delicately across Wilson’s. He let out a smothered moan as House’s exploring fingers found a nipple and started rubbing, squeezing-
The sound vibrated in House’s mouth, tickling his throat. His tongue became jealous of his fingertips. He pulled back from the sweet-tasting warmth of Wilson’s mouth and crashed into his chest, raking his fingertips down to narrow hips that were now pressing against his own. He laid hard, wet, open-mouthed kisses against the solidity of Wilson’s chest; free, here, to mark him as he pleased. A short grunt escaped Wilson as he laced fingers through House’s hair, leaned his head down to press kisses into the hairline, into the sweat that was beginning to gather there. It was intoxicating, lost in silence, tasting soft skin as Wilson left kiss-scorched flesh along his forehead. It was House’s turn to make noise.
Wilson felt an extra surge of blood rush south as House groaned against his chest. Suddenly he was firmly but gently pushed back into the couch cushions, his hips angled upwards on a pillow as House scrambled downwards. He let out a shuddery breath as his belt was undone. “I thought you were rebelling against Valentine’s Day,” he said breathlessly, knowing that House was at the moment way too goal-oriented to second-guess himself.
“Now, now,” House breathed, trying to take on the tone of a reprimand. “Where’s your holiday spirit?” He peeled off Wilson’s slacks and underwear. “Oh, wait, I think I found it,” he smirked down at Wilson’s now exposed and unguarded desire.
Wilson’s laugh became a choke, became a moan as his erection was engulfed in warmth. House’s breath rose in hot, thick spirals as his mouth moved up and down, and the entire lower half of Wilson’s body was given over to intense sensation. He arched his back into a force field of firm suction, not bothering to stem the flood of moans and breathless half-words that poured out of him when House’s hand joined his mouth, covering Wilson’s entire length in ripples of pleasure. He grabbed handfuls of House’s shoulders, leaving white fingerprints in blood-rushed skin. Wilson tore his eyes open as white-hot flames spread up his stomach, the gorgeous visual reality of House going down on him nearly enough to make him lose it completely all by itself. House’s bad leg was folded beneath him as he braced himself with one hand on the back of the couch, a position Wilson was sure must be uncomfortable, yet he was showing no signs of slowing down.
Wilson had wanted to know what was more real than gifts or words. This, House had whispered. This is real. His actions spoke more honestly than he ever could. No matter what he said, no matter what lies he used to cover for fear, here they were: House putting himself in discomfort, heedless of his owns wants or pain as he tried to make Wilson happy.
It occurred to him that he was reading way too much into House giving him a blowjob on the couch. It occurred to him that if House could actually read his mind, he’d be indignant and probably stop the mind-blowing attention that was currently pulling droplets of anticipatory fluid to Wilson’s tip. It also occurred to him that if this was some sort of conversation through actions, Wilson had plenty to add in the way of a response.
House found himself being urged upwards by Wilson’s hands on the backs of his arms. His jaw was tired and his leg was getting pissed off, so he let himself be dragged back into a crushing, candy-heart-flavored kiss. He moaned hungrily at the firm poke against his lower abdominals and fingers clawing at the fasten of his jeans. He leaned further into Wilson’s mouth, held to his shoulder for support as he maneuvered clumsily out of the rest of his clothes. A hip brushed his liberated erection as Wilson rolled to his stomach, propped both elbows up against the back of the couch, knees spread wide, pale muscles moving subtly in his back as he leaned over. The image was painfully inviting. House ran a palm up the arched spine, over soft skin--hips, ribs, shoulder blades, neck-felt Wilson tremble at the touch before settling close, settling in, closer, deeper until Wilson’s body was wrapped like warm, damp silk around his shaft, tight, muscular, as unexpectedly perfect as it was the first time. His lips found that same soft curve beneath Wilson’s ear as his hand traveled greedily from Wilson’s chest downwards, to the place where smooth skin gave way to warm, sculpted texture, eager to finish what he had started.
Wilson bit his lip at the pressure, his muscles quivering as House moved exquisitely slowly inside him, stretching, pushing. Always stretching and pushing, always stretching the relationship, pushing buttons, pushing boundaries even he laid kisses on Wilson’s neck, even as a hand gently but firmly stroked him, reminding him to relax, to trust, to stop thinking and just feel. He felt House’s moans vibrating against his back, felt his muscles burning with the effort of meeting each increasingly rapid thrust, exhilaration prickling in his chest until the tension exploded as waves of sensation and a hot, sticky release over House’s hand and leather couch. Teeth in his shoulder and fast puffs of warm breath in his ear made the muscles clench around his entrance. House shuddered silently against his back for several seconds before exhaling heavily. He laid a soft, satiated kiss on the back of Wilson’s neck, and then his warmth and pressure were gone.
House settled onto his back in the couch cushions, too spent to sit upright, his legs tangling momentarily in Wilson’s before he too crumbled in exhausted satisfaction. He pressed his sweat-moistened back against House’s front, settling between his thighs, the back of his head crashing against House’s chest. It amused him to see Wilson this way, his precious composure rattled, breath still coming in gasps, pink-skinned and just so adorably fucked. “Better than candy?” House breathed into his ear.
Wilson chuckled soundlessly, breathlessly, his smile lingering as he nodded against House’s chest.
“Told you so,” he muttered and kissed Wilson’s temple.
Wilson shut his eyes, enjoying the closeness of House’s arm around his waist. He felt the pull of sleep, drops of orgasm still floating through his blood, the warm, soft, sticky pressure in the small of his back. House’s right thigh was at Wilson’s hip. He could feel ridges of the scar against him. House wouldn’t be comfortable like this for long, Wilson knew, but he was hesitant to spoil this rare, silent display of intimacy. His eyelids were too heavy to lift. “Don’t fall asleep,” he muttered.
Wilson slipped into a doze about ten seconds after he told House not to. His breathing had slowed into a gentle rhythm, in and out, their chests rising and falling in time.
In a few minutes, House would need to get up, stretch his leg, take a pill. He’d pretend to be annoyed that Wilson had fallen asleep, then drag him into a quick shower to get cleaned up. In the morning, he’d wake to the sound of the hair dryer and wonder again why Wilson bothered, when it was clear that his hair looked best the way it was now: sweaty, disheveled, and splayed over House’s chest.
They would have to get up soon. But not yet.
His eyes fell on the box of candies that lay open on the coffee table. After a moment’s hesitation, he slid his hand up Wilson’s chest, held him tightly to his own and leaned over, stretching an arm to grab the box. Wilson didn’t wake, just sighed contentedly in his sleep and turned his head. House dug a finger into the thin cardboard, trying subconsciously to limit the rattling.
He fished out an orange heart. ‘I Love You,’ it proclaimed.
It melted with its minty, saccharine slowness in House’s mouth, its message absorbed into his tongue. He’d always disliked these things, even as a child.
He grinned to himself as he remembered the taste of candy hearts in Wilson’s mouth.
Some things were worth getting used to.