Vitamin S
Title: Vitamin S
Author: Magie
Word Count: 1,411
Rating/Warnings: A very 'NC' NC-17 ;)
Summary: Smut again, because there's something wrong with me. My first fic for an amazing new comm, wilsons_hair, where we are all obsessed with Wilson's hair and the things we can put in it. In this one, House has a little trouble with his aim ;)
House is sitting on his sofa, and Wilson is blowing him.
He’s sure other things are going on in the world. He’s got a patient somewhere. Songs are being written, babies are being born, Cuddy is shopping for her next see-through skirt. He’s relatively certain those warm, red lips around him haven’t actually stopped time or the Earth’s orbit. Then again, he’s got no proof. Because Wilson is blowing him.
This particular little detail of his day renders all other facts immaterial. Ten minutes ago, he was flipping channels and ordering pizza, oblivious. Then again, barely six months ago he was oblivious to the idea that the Wilson he’d been idly fantasizing about and the real one were so alike, that somehow nailing his best friend actually made sense. Now Wilson’s blowing him, and the only reality is the whirling tongue over his tip and the hand on his balls. He forgets about pills, the past, forgets his own name, forgets the outside world full of liars and people who aren’t blowing him, and twists his fingers in the convenient safety grip of Wilson’s hair.
Wilson hums around him in (what he’ll pretend is) approval, so he guides that mandarin-scented head in closer, deeper, groaning at the moving smoothness and hint of teeth. Wilson’s letting him fuck his mouth slightly, gently, arching his back off the cushions and moving farther in, seeking tighter space, nearly there when-
The sound of light gagging interrupts his blowjob and soft hair pulls out of his fingers. House grunts in disappointment when Wilson’s mouth is replaced by cool air on his cock, but before he can complain, Wilson wraps a warm fist around it and leans back in to run his tongue over House’s balls.
“Ah.” He whines helplessly and doesn’t care, because Wilson’s head is in his lap, because his penis is pressed against a high cheekbone and bumping into Wilson’s ear. That fist pumps him slowly, firmly, while Wilson buries his face further in between House’s thighs, nipping at the place his pain-free leg meets his body, the only available response being a sacrilege directed at the wrong faith. “Christ, Wilson.”
His hips buck forward again, but if the obscene noises of happiness Wilson’s making are anything to go by, he doesn’t care. He’s enjoying this way too much, laying noisy kisses on the inside of House’s thigh, thumb steadily working his dampening slit, Wilson’s other hand speeding down suddenly to the top of his own dorkish slacks.
In truth, House spending an evening in his dark apartment, receiving oral sex while Wilson jerks himself off isn’t that out of the ordinary. But, as House reflects very briefly, as Wilson starts groaning loudly against his testicles, this may be the first time they’ve done these particular activities together at the same time.
Wilson’s voice is an octave higher, “Erm…House.”
In the back of his mind, House is thinking he should probably mention that his balls are drawing in, that electricity is springing up like a coil in his abdomen. But he forgets as Wilson scrapes an evening-stubbled cheek against his pelvis, and lays open-mouthed, suckling kisses all along the side of the cock in his fist, his opposite shoulder working furiously as Wilson jerks himself inside cloistered khaki-
“Wils--!”
Too late.
It happens in slow motion, because everything looks cooler in slow motion. The first shot hits Wilson’s ear. Startled and a bit confused, Wilson clambers on instinct to his haunches. Which of course puts him more directly in the line of fire. He screws his eyes shut and ducks his head to his chest, going so far as to put up a palm in defense. Things suddenly go back to normal speed and Wilson doesn’t have time to pull back, and House is a bit too mesmerized to think about aiming at something other than Wilson. They’re making respective noises of orgasm and surprise while House comes on the top of Wilson’s head.
Silence reigns as the realization (and ejaculate) sets in. Wilson raises his head and blinks. A single shining trail runs down his forehead and between his eyes. Then, of course, it begins to rain, gravity driving what hasn’t soaked into Wilson’s saturated hair down his temples, over his eyebrows, covering his forehead with a milky gloss as he shuts his eyes resignedly.
House is biting the inside of his cheek against the hilarity. “Tissue?”
A single drop falls sullenly from the tip of Wilson’s nose. He opens his eyes, which are wide in some kind of dazed panic. “Is it in my hair?”
He must feel it. Already the thick substance has glued thick clumps of hair into a row of short dreadlocks, a few of them curving awkwardly away from his head, locked in a hold more secure than any hairspray ever managed. But House decides to let the man hold onto his delusions. “A little.”
Wilson swipes a hand across his brow to protect his vision from the flood. “You couldn’t have warned me?”
House decides he’s really not at fault here. He might have warned Wilson if he known ahead of time about the ridiculously intense blowjob. “Don’t start pouting. I just saved you fifteen bucks.”
Wilson’s wiping at his ears. “Yeah? How do you figure?”
House’s reply is momentarily halted by the image of Wilson’s tongue darting out to catch the fat beads of come off his upper lip. He has to give himself a mental shake. “You’re always buying that protein-enriched crap and telling me it’s good for your scalp.” After a second-long debate, House reaches out and twists his finger in a piece of sodden hair. “Doesn’t get more vitamin-enhanced than this.”
House is thinking of marketing it, bottling his semen for fun and profit. Wilson’s hair looks better now than it ever did.
The strand stays where he puts it, twisted in a spiral in midair. Wilson groans and pulls himself up, leaving House with his pants around his ankles and a throw pillow between his feet.
House rolls his eyes when he hears the water running. One day, he’s going to get to the bottom of Wilson’s deep-seated fears of bad hair. It’s not like House did it on purpose-this time. He’s not stupid enough to make light of Wilson’s hair issues, at least not when sex is on the line.
He decides to fake an apology. Wilson’s pathetic and vain and overly sensitive, but really good in bed. Besides, even after the mind-blowing orgasm, House is feeling a little deprived: Wilson’s hand had been having all the fun in those boring slacks.
He stands gingerly and yanks up his jeans. Limping caneless down the hallway gives him time to figure out what he can say to ensure a continued supply of orgasms from Wilson, carefully calculating which phrase will allow the sex to resume as soon as possible. He’s not going to accept any actual blame, of course, and he’s certainly not going to say something like ‘I’m sorry I busted a nut in your hair--’
“I’m sorry I busted a nut in your hair,” he grumbles from the bathroom doorway, watching Wilson bend down over the sink to run his hair under scalding water.
“No, you’re not,” Wilson states truthfully, but his tone is neutral. He straightens up and starts push a black comb through the white goo in his brown hair. “I just want to get this out before it dries and I end up with really unhygienic dandruff.”
House suspects his lips may have quirked up in a grin. “You could have moved.”
A bright brown eye sparkles at him in the mirror. “Yeah, I could have.”
This time House knows he’s grinning.
He sits on the lowered toilet seat as Wilson fiddles with his hair in front of the sink, the creepy domesticity of it only slightly betrayed by the clumps of ejaculate building up on the comb. Suddenly Wilson abandons the come-removal and turns around, a sticky eyebrow raised mischievously. “Still want to make it up to me?”
House’s blood seems to bubble. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
Wilson doesn’t break his grin or eye contact as he pads across the tile, stands over House on the toilet and unbuttons his slacks again. Turnabout is fair play, after all.
When the pizza delivery guy arrives six minutes later, neither of them is in a fit state to answer the door.
jane_hidell IS AMAZING
Author: Magie
Word Count: 1,411
Rating/Warnings: A very 'NC' NC-17 ;)
Summary: Smut again, because there's something wrong with me. My first fic for an amazing new comm, wilsons_hair, where we are all obsessed with Wilson's hair and the things we can put in it. In this one, House has a little trouble with his aim ;)
House is sitting on his sofa, and Wilson is blowing him.
He’s sure other things are going on in the world. He’s got a patient somewhere. Songs are being written, babies are being born, Cuddy is shopping for her next see-through skirt. He’s relatively certain those warm, red lips around him haven’t actually stopped time or the Earth’s orbit. Then again, he’s got no proof. Because Wilson is blowing him.
This particular little detail of his day renders all other facts immaterial. Ten minutes ago, he was flipping channels and ordering pizza, oblivious. Then again, barely six months ago he was oblivious to the idea that the Wilson he’d been idly fantasizing about and the real one were so alike, that somehow nailing his best friend actually made sense. Now Wilson’s blowing him, and the only reality is the whirling tongue over his tip and the hand on his balls. He forgets about pills, the past, forgets his own name, forgets the outside world full of liars and people who aren’t blowing him, and twists his fingers in the convenient safety grip of Wilson’s hair.
Wilson hums around him in (what he’ll pretend is) approval, so he guides that mandarin-scented head in closer, deeper, groaning at the moving smoothness and hint of teeth. Wilson’s letting him fuck his mouth slightly, gently, arching his back off the cushions and moving farther in, seeking tighter space, nearly there when-
The sound of light gagging interrupts his blowjob and soft hair pulls out of his fingers. House grunts in disappointment when Wilson’s mouth is replaced by cool air on his cock, but before he can complain, Wilson wraps a warm fist around it and leans back in to run his tongue over House’s balls.
“Ah.” He whines helplessly and doesn’t care, because Wilson’s head is in his lap, because his penis is pressed against a high cheekbone and bumping into Wilson’s ear. That fist pumps him slowly, firmly, while Wilson buries his face further in between House’s thighs, nipping at the place his pain-free leg meets his body, the only available response being a sacrilege directed at the wrong faith. “Christ, Wilson.”
His hips buck forward again, but if the obscene noises of happiness Wilson’s making are anything to go by, he doesn’t care. He’s enjoying this way too much, laying noisy kisses on the inside of House’s thigh, thumb steadily working his dampening slit, Wilson’s other hand speeding down suddenly to the top of his own dorkish slacks.
In truth, House spending an evening in his dark apartment, receiving oral sex while Wilson jerks himself off isn’t that out of the ordinary. But, as House reflects very briefly, as Wilson starts groaning loudly against his testicles, this may be the first time they’ve done these particular activities together at the same time.
Wilson’s voice is an octave higher, “Erm…House.”
In the back of his mind, House is thinking he should probably mention that his balls are drawing in, that electricity is springing up like a coil in his abdomen. But he forgets as Wilson scrapes an evening-stubbled cheek against his pelvis, and lays open-mouthed, suckling kisses all along the side of the cock in his fist, his opposite shoulder working furiously as Wilson jerks himself inside cloistered khaki-
“Wils--!”
Too late.
It happens in slow motion, because everything looks cooler in slow motion. The first shot hits Wilson’s ear. Startled and a bit confused, Wilson clambers on instinct to his haunches. Which of course puts him more directly in the line of fire. He screws his eyes shut and ducks his head to his chest, going so far as to put up a palm in defense. Things suddenly go back to normal speed and Wilson doesn’t have time to pull back, and House is a bit too mesmerized to think about aiming at something other than Wilson. They’re making respective noises of orgasm and surprise while House comes on the top of Wilson’s head.
Silence reigns as the realization (and ejaculate) sets in. Wilson raises his head and blinks. A single shining trail runs down his forehead and between his eyes. Then, of course, it begins to rain, gravity driving what hasn’t soaked into Wilson’s saturated hair down his temples, over his eyebrows, covering his forehead with a milky gloss as he shuts his eyes resignedly.
House is biting the inside of his cheek against the hilarity. “Tissue?”
A single drop falls sullenly from the tip of Wilson’s nose. He opens his eyes, which are wide in some kind of dazed panic. “Is it in my hair?”
He must feel it. Already the thick substance has glued thick clumps of hair into a row of short dreadlocks, a few of them curving awkwardly away from his head, locked in a hold more secure than any hairspray ever managed. But House decides to let the man hold onto his delusions. “A little.”
Wilson swipes a hand across his brow to protect his vision from the flood. “You couldn’t have warned me?”
House decides he’s really not at fault here. He might have warned Wilson if he known ahead of time about the ridiculously intense blowjob. “Don’t start pouting. I just saved you fifteen bucks.”
Wilson’s wiping at his ears. “Yeah? How do you figure?”
House’s reply is momentarily halted by the image of Wilson’s tongue darting out to catch the fat beads of come off his upper lip. He has to give himself a mental shake. “You’re always buying that protein-enriched crap and telling me it’s good for your scalp.” After a second-long debate, House reaches out and twists his finger in a piece of sodden hair. “Doesn’t get more vitamin-enhanced than this.”
House is thinking of marketing it, bottling his semen for fun and profit. Wilson’s hair looks better now than it ever did.
The strand stays where he puts it, twisted in a spiral in midair. Wilson groans and pulls himself up, leaving House with his pants around his ankles and a throw pillow between his feet.
House rolls his eyes when he hears the water running. One day, he’s going to get to the bottom of Wilson’s deep-seated fears of bad hair. It’s not like House did it on purpose-this time. He’s not stupid enough to make light of Wilson’s hair issues, at least not when sex is on the line.
He decides to fake an apology. Wilson’s pathetic and vain and overly sensitive, but really good in bed. Besides, even after the mind-blowing orgasm, House is feeling a little deprived: Wilson’s hand had been having all the fun in those boring slacks.
He stands gingerly and yanks up his jeans. Limping caneless down the hallway gives him time to figure out what he can say to ensure a continued supply of orgasms from Wilson, carefully calculating which phrase will allow the sex to resume as soon as possible. He’s not going to accept any actual blame, of course, and he’s certainly not going to say something like ‘I’m sorry I busted a nut in your hair--’
“I’m sorry I busted a nut in your hair,” he grumbles from the bathroom doorway, watching Wilson bend down over the sink to run his hair under scalding water.
“No, you’re not,” Wilson states truthfully, but his tone is neutral. He straightens up and starts push a black comb through the white goo in his brown hair. “I just want to get this out before it dries and I end up with really unhygienic dandruff.”
House suspects his lips may have quirked up in a grin. “You could have moved.”
A bright brown eye sparkles at him in the mirror. “Yeah, I could have.”
This time House knows he’s grinning.
He sits on the lowered toilet seat as Wilson fiddles with his hair in front of the sink, the creepy domesticity of it only slightly betrayed by the clumps of ejaculate building up on the comb. Suddenly Wilson abandons the come-removal and turns around, a sticky eyebrow raised mischievously. “Still want to make it up to me?”
House’s blood seems to bubble. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
Wilson doesn’t break his grin or eye contact as he pads across the tile, stands over House on the toilet and unbuttons his slacks again. Turnabout is fair play, after all.
When the pizza delivery guy arrives six minutes later, neither of them is in a fit state to answer the door.
jane_hidell IS AMAZING