Further Birthday Wishes.
The second part of my birthday gift to kassrachel is my inaugural House fic (actually, my first ever slash story), set just after "Sex Kills" and called, perhaps rather obviously, "Sex Heals." You gals with the forearm fetish will find a little something for your taste here.
And so, a hearty welcome to those of you who are here from kassrachel's journal, and I hope you like it. Feedback is welcome, but remember, it's my first time, so please be gentle.
Title: Sex Heals
Author: Nyssa23
Rating: NC-17
Summary: House and Wilson first time, post-"Sex Kills."
Disclaimer: Words are mine, characters are not.
House couldn't quite believe his eyes. How many times had he wished for just this thing to happen: Wilson, on his couch, suitcase at his side, beer in his hand? And now it had happened. He felt quickly for the ever-present bottle of Vicodin in his pocket, just to make sure it wasn't a dream; after all, he figured, in a dream he wouldn't need Vicodin. And maybe in a dream, Wilson would already be stretched out on his couch, or, better yet, in his bed, not just sitting and looking down at his beer bottle. House couldn't completely stifle a laugh at that thought, but tried his best to make it sound a bit more like a cough as it burst forth.
"Well. I'm glad one of us can still laugh." Wilson narrowed his eyes as he glanced up from his reverie.
House felt a twinge of--what? Regret? Embarrassment? Or maybe just wanting to take the hurt out of Wilson's eyes, even if it meant ruining the closest thing he had to a real friendship. He looked down at Wilson, at the sleeves rolled sloppily up just above his elbow, at the loosened tie hanging down between his knees as he hunched over the coffee table, and felt a wave of longing at the thought of those arms bare, braced against the head of his bed, veins bulging ever so slightly with the pressure.
"So, is there a reason you're not sitting down?" Wilson grinned despite that sadness in his eyes. "What's wrong, afraid I'll make a pass at you?"
House snorted, sat down carefully in a chair. "If one beer gets you that drunk, you must be a hell of a cheap date." What was that saying? The difference between a straight man and a gay one is six beers. He did a quick mental calculation based on the number of beers left in the fridge, resolved to keep the bar a little better stocked in the future.
Wilson stared straight ahead, tugging a little at the corner of the label on his bottle. "You know, Julie and I--"
"Fuck Julie," House snapped. "Oh, I forgot, someone else already did." As soon as he'd said them, he regretted the words, but not enough to admit it.
This time, to House's surprise, it was Wilson who laughed. "Dr. House and his bedside manner. You're a silver-tongued devil, Greg, you know that?" The sound of his first name on Wilson's lips always caught House a little off guard, the parting of his teeth, the way his mouth curled almost into a smile as the sound left it. House stole a glance at Wilson in an attempt to gauge his mood.
Wilson looked straight at him then, and, as their eyes met, his voice suddenly sounded hoarse. "Hey. We don't have to talk. About Julie, I mean. Or anything. If you don't want to." Silently, he patted the couch next to him.
House pulled his head back almost imperceptibly, trying to assess the situation. Wilson, plus couch, plus alcohol, plus the vulnerability of yet another breakup, had to add up to something. Maybe the something he'd hardly dared to hope for. A stray thought entered his head at that moment: Can you really know someone for so long, spend so much time with them, hour after hour, day after day, and not have any idea how they feel about you? Slowly, House stood and moved over to the couch, sank down into it. His knuckles were almost white with their tight grip on his cane. It was dangerous to lose control; he knew that, knew that he couldn't let Wilson know how much he wanted this.
And then, just as slowly, Wilson placed his hand over House's, gently eased the handle of the cane out, brought House's hand up to his mouth. House leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes as Wilson kissed the back of his hand. Then, his eyes snapped open again as Wilson's lips encircled the tip of each of his fingers in turn, slowly suckling up to the first knuckle before releasing and moving on to another. As Wilson kissed his way up House's arm, House felt his cock stir and stiffen in his pants; moaning, he turned towards Wilson and extricated his arm, pulling Wilson close for a long, deep kiss. How satisfying it was, finally, to taste those lips, to feel Wilson's tongue running along the length of his own.
While they kissed, House pushed one of Wilson's hands down over his aching cock. Might as well go for broke, he thought ruefully. When Wilson rubbed his hand gently over House's erection through the fabric, it seemed as though he were striking sparks up the length of House's spine. And when he moved his lips to House's ear and whispered, "Greg, I want you to fuck me," it was all House could manage not to come right then and there.
They moved to the bedroom then, and even though House was trying to force himself to memorize every detail as it happened, all he could recall later were a series of still images, sensations, whispers and moans. He remembered Wilson's slow, sure hands undressing him, sliding his pants down his legs. He thought he remembered Wilson's lips making wet sucking kisses up one leg and down the other, even brushing with a much lighter touch over the withered place on his thigh. Had he really let Wilson do that? Nobody had touched his legs like that, not since the infarction. Not even Stacy.
He knew he remembered the bottle of Astroglide on the bedside table which usually presided over his late-night masturbation sessions, remembered splashing it over himself and rubbing it into Wilson, remembered balancing precariously over Wilson at the best angle to push himself in, and the sight of Wilson's arms--those arms!--braced against the headboard of his bed, tensing ever so slightly as House thrust into him. And he remembered the release he'd dreamed of for so long, his breath sounding ragged and uneven as he came and Wilson pushed back against him, tightening his muscles to milk every drop from House's cock.
Perhaps it hadn't been so bad to lose control, at least for a little while. Hell, it was almost as good as Vicodin...and he was pretty sure it would prove just as addictive.
Well, kassrachel, my father always said you were a bad influence! So here's to 20 years of bad influence and hoping for many more to come.
And so, a hearty welcome to those of you who are here from kassrachel's journal, and I hope you like it. Feedback is welcome, but remember, it's my first time, so please be gentle.
Title: Sex Heals
Author: Nyssa23
Rating: NC-17
Summary: House and Wilson first time, post-"Sex Kills."
Disclaimer: Words are mine, characters are not.
House couldn't quite believe his eyes. How many times had he wished for just this thing to happen: Wilson, on his couch, suitcase at his side, beer in his hand? And now it had happened. He felt quickly for the ever-present bottle of Vicodin in his pocket, just to make sure it wasn't a dream; after all, he figured, in a dream he wouldn't need Vicodin. And maybe in a dream, Wilson would already be stretched out on his couch, or, better yet, in his bed, not just sitting and looking down at his beer bottle. House couldn't completely stifle a laugh at that thought, but tried his best to make it sound a bit more like a cough as it burst forth.
"Well. I'm glad one of us can still laugh." Wilson narrowed his eyes as he glanced up from his reverie.
House felt a twinge of--what? Regret? Embarrassment? Or maybe just wanting to take the hurt out of Wilson's eyes, even if it meant ruining the closest thing he had to a real friendship. He looked down at Wilson, at the sleeves rolled sloppily up just above his elbow, at the loosened tie hanging down between his knees as he hunched over the coffee table, and felt a wave of longing at the thought of those arms bare, braced against the head of his bed, veins bulging ever so slightly with the pressure.
"So, is there a reason you're not sitting down?" Wilson grinned despite that sadness in his eyes. "What's wrong, afraid I'll make a pass at you?"
House snorted, sat down carefully in a chair. "If one beer gets you that drunk, you must be a hell of a cheap date." What was that saying? The difference between a straight man and a gay one is six beers. He did a quick mental calculation based on the number of beers left in the fridge, resolved to keep the bar a little better stocked in the future.
Wilson stared straight ahead, tugging a little at the corner of the label on his bottle. "You know, Julie and I--"
"Fuck Julie," House snapped. "Oh, I forgot, someone else already did." As soon as he'd said them, he regretted the words, but not enough to admit it.
This time, to House's surprise, it was Wilson who laughed. "Dr. House and his bedside manner. You're a silver-tongued devil, Greg, you know that?" The sound of his first name on Wilson's lips always caught House a little off guard, the parting of his teeth, the way his mouth curled almost into a smile as the sound left it. House stole a glance at Wilson in an attempt to gauge his mood.
Wilson looked straight at him then, and, as their eyes met, his voice suddenly sounded hoarse. "Hey. We don't have to talk. About Julie, I mean. Or anything. If you don't want to." Silently, he patted the couch next to him.
House pulled his head back almost imperceptibly, trying to assess the situation. Wilson, plus couch, plus alcohol, plus the vulnerability of yet another breakup, had to add up to something. Maybe the something he'd hardly dared to hope for. A stray thought entered his head at that moment: Can you really know someone for so long, spend so much time with them, hour after hour, day after day, and not have any idea how they feel about you? Slowly, House stood and moved over to the couch, sank down into it. His knuckles were almost white with their tight grip on his cane. It was dangerous to lose control; he knew that, knew that he couldn't let Wilson know how much he wanted this.
And then, just as slowly, Wilson placed his hand over House's, gently eased the handle of the cane out, brought House's hand up to his mouth. House leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes as Wilson kissed the back of his hand. Then, his eyes snapped open again as Wilson's lips encircled the tip of each of his fingers in turn, slowly suckling up to the first knuckle before releasing and moving on to another. As Wilson kissed his way up House's arm, House felt his cock stir and stiffen in his pants; moaning, he turned towards Wilson and extricated his arm, pulling Wilson close for a long, deep kiss. How satisfying it was, finally, to taste those lips, to feel Wilson's tongue running along the length of his own.
While they kissed, House pushed one of Wilson's hands down over his aching cock. Might as well go for broke, he thought ruefully. When Wilson rubbed his hand gently over House's erection through the fabric, it seemed as though he were striking sparks up the length of House's spine. And when he moved his lips to House's ear and whispered, "Greg, I want you to fuck me," it was all House could manage not to come right then and there.
They moved to the bedroom then, and even though House was trying to force himself to memorize every detail as it happened, all he could recall later were a series of still images, sensations, whispers and moans. He remembered Wilson's slow, sure hands undressing him, sliding his pants down his legs. He thought he remembered Wilson's lips making wet sucking kisses up one leg and down the other, even brushing with a much lighter touch over the withered place on his thigh. Had he really let Wilson do that? Nobody had touched his legs like that, not since the infarction. Not even Stacy.
He knew he remembered the bottle of Astroglide on the bedside table which usually presided over his late-night masturbation sessions, remembered splashing it over himself and rubbing it into Wilson, remembered balancing precariously over Wilson at the best angle to push himself in, and the sight of Wilson's arms--those arms!--braced against the headboard of his bed, tensing ever so slightly as House thrust into him. And he remembered the release he'd dreamed of for so long, his breath sounding ragged and uneven as he came and Wilson pushed back against him, tightening his muscles to milk every drop from House's cock.
Perhaps it hadn't been so bad to lose control, at least for a little while. Hell, it was almost as good as Vicodin...and he was pretty sure it would prove just as addictive.
Well, kassrachel, my father always said you were a bad influence! So here's to 20 years of bad influence and hoping for many more to come.