games
title: games
author: phinnia
rating: nc-17 for smexings
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing.
author's note: written for porn battle six. prompt: closet.
"Remember. Not a sound."
House nodded.
Pitch black, claustrophobic; the acidic pong of lysol and fake lemon disinfectant. Wilson's breath ragged in his ear.
The gentle pop of fly-buttons, denim parting, cool recirculated air licks the swollen tip that escaped plaid flannel boxers. Delicate scrape of elastic.
Palm, soft with sweat and scuff-shiny callouses from paper and ink and forms in triplicate, measures and weights his erection with too-tender fingertips; he shivers back a moan and Wilson grins into the tiny prickled hairs at the back of House's neck.
A near-silent murmur of praise. "Good."
The hand strokes him once, firm, fingers fanning a rolling ripple, and then it vanishes.
Something clicks.
A new smell - almond - and one finger, slick now, slides inside. Teases. Bends and tickles, excites nerves already tilting on anticipatory edge. He pushes back, swallows the whimper in his throat, and is rewarded with a second finger.
Squeezes his eyes shut, swallows the sounds. Teeth pinch the tip of his tongue.
"Good. Good." Three fingers now; his hips slide back toward them but they are maddeningly slow. The rules - and his pride - preclude begging, but his pride is going up in smoke; the rules, however, are still inviolate. He remains silent.
Fingers disappear. Soft tearing sound of a zipper, rumple and shuffle of clothes; skin behind him, hot-naked in the dark and the musk invades his nose; he feels high, short of breath, especially when the warmth invades him; there are hands encircling his cock, one stroking and teasing and the other trying to serve as an impromptu cock-ring, cradling his balls and the hot, thick base of him, one nail trailing along the delicate skin.
Too-even teeth nip the base of his neck and a wedge of his own cheek slides between clamped jaws - he can't talk, he can't make a sound, he can't; he can't do this, it's torture, being stroked both inside and out, buried in softness, burying hardness, he's panting, Wilson is panting, the fog of their breaths combines with the fake lemon and the lysol and the slippery tangible excitement and when he comes, slamming himself back on Wilson hard enough to nearly knock him over and spilling white heat over that soft hand along with copper-penny-blood into his own mouth, and Wilson's hips slam forward against his and there's sticky wet heat inside of him and Wilson collapses against his back with a drawn-out shuddering breath.
House clears his throat. His voice is a sandpaper rasp. "I win."
Wilson collapses onto a supply cart. "Best two out of three?"
author: phinnia
rating: nc-17 for smexings
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing.
author's note: written for porn battle six. prompt: closet.
"Remember. Not a sound."
House nodded.
Pitch black, claustrophobic; the acidic pong of lysol and fake lemon disinfectant. Wilson's breath ragged in his ear.
The gentle pop of fly-buttons, denim parting, cool recirculated air licks the swollen tip that escaped plaid flannel boxers. Delicate scrape of elastic.
Palm, soft with sweat and scuff-shiny callouses from paper and ink and forms in triplicate, measures and weights his erection with too-tender fingertips; he shivers back a moan and Wilson grins into the tiny prickled hairs at the back of House's neck.
A near-silent murmur of praise. "Good."
The hand strokes him once, firm, fingers fanning a rolling ripple, and then it vanishes.
Something clicks.
A new smell - almond - and one finger, slick now, slides inside. Teases. Bends and tickles, excites nerves already tilting on anticipatory edge. He pushes back, swallows the whimper in his throat, and is rewarded with a second finger.
Squeezes his eyes shut, swallows the sounds. Teeth pinch the tip of his tongue.
"Good. Good." Three fingers now; his hips slide back toward them but they are maddeningly slow. The rules - and his pride - preclude begging, but his pride is going up in smoke; the rules, however, are still inviolate. He remains silent.
Fingers disappear. Soft tearing sound of a zipper, rumple and shuffle of clothes; skin behind him, hot-naked in the dark and the musk invades his nose; he feels high, short of breath, especially when the warmth invades him; there are hands encircling his cock, one stroking and teasing and the other trying to serve as an impromptu cock-ring, cradling his balls and the hot, thick base of him, one nail trailing along the delicate skin.
Too-even teeth nip the base of his neck and a wedge of his own cheek slides between clamped jaws - he can't talk, he can't make a sound, he can't; he can't do this, it's torture, being stroked both inside and out, buried in softness, burying hardness, he's panting, Wilson is panting, the fog of their breaths combines with the fake lemon and the lysol and the slippery tangible excitement and when he comes, slamming himself back on Wilson hard enough to nearly knock him over and spilling white heat over that soft hand along with copper-penny-blood into his own mouth, and Wilson's hips slam forward against his and there's sticky wet heat inside of him and Wilson collapses against his back with a drawn-out shuddering breath.
House clears his throat. His voice is a sandpaper rasp. "I win."
Wilson collapses onto a supply cart. "Best two out of three?"