FIC: "This Is {not supposed to be} How It Goes", House/Wilson, Wilson/Cuddy, Wilson/Others
Title: This Is {not supposed to be} How It Goes
Author: hawkeyecat
Fandom: House, M.D.
Pairings House/Wilson, Wilson/Cuddy, mention of Wilson/others
Community: 30_lemons
Theme: 03. Loss of Control
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 1,403
Warnings: Liberal use of the f-bomb, some crudeness, and, of course, sex.
Author's Notes: Minor spoilers for S3, specifically "Meaning" and "Cane and Able", but only if you look for them. Thanks to cerieblue819, sarcasticsra, and sunsetsinthewes for the betas.
This is how fucking goesHe’s with a man. {With a woman, he’s gentle, even if she wants rough, because she’s small and he’s always half-afraid she’ll actually break if he moves her wrong. He’s been with enough women over the years to know that, no, they’re actually tougher than men, but that doesn’t mean he’s anything less than gentle, even if she wants hard and rough.}
So. He’s with a man. Whether he’s fucking or being fucked depends on the man. There are some, like that time with Chase, that there’s no question that he’ll fuck, because letting Chase fuck him would almost be like handing Cameron a strap-on and letting her take control, only with even less power behind it. And there are other times, like the one with the guy who reminds him of Foreman, that he had to be fucked, because it takes a kind of balls Wilson doesn’t have to fuck a man like Foreman.
But the man he’s usually fucking now, or being fucked by, however it works, is different. This man has sharp eyes and sharper wit, a hand calloused from the labor, not of crafting or harvesting, but of keeping himself upright, uneven balance of muscles in his right arm and shoulder and left leg.
{Was fucking, not is, because House’s peculiar moral code won’t let him fuck someone who’s with someone else. Unless money changes hands. Maybe Wilson can argue all those lunches have bought a backlog of sex, but engaging House in a battle of wits like that is fruitless.}
There isn’t much foreplay; at the end of the day, after all the telling people they’re dying and running from a five-foot-six iron-fisted demon in heels and bending helpless before the schedules and strictures of the nursing staff, they’re still Men, and so they don’t need foreplay. Or something equally ridiculous. It’s one of those rules so old that the origins don’t matter, like not leaving the Vicodin in the living room or not leaving marks above the collar, except those make sense.
{So does the foreplay one, if Wilson bothers to think about it. Making out with House can’t be easy, all that stubble and sharpness and angles no one can quite curve around. Maybe that’s part of why Stacy left the first time, but actually saying so is a sure way to make hospital life hell for everyone, especially Lisa, and really, that isn’t a good idea right now.}
When it’s a man like House, there are signals to watch for to figure out who’s fucking and who’s getting fucked. Sure, there’s the obvious crotch grabs and lewd comments, but there’s also the looks, the edges to words, and when the hell did fucking get to be as complex as making love, anyway?
And there is never, ever cuddling.
This is not what fucking is supposed to beTheir eighth or eleventh time together, Lisa breaks the pattern. She’s been following his lead, and it’s been nicely carrying over to the hospital, but for some reason Wilson doesn’t quite see it coming when they get back to her house after dinner and she backs him against the wall, kissing him firmly. He isn’t ready for her to even try to take control, and so she seizes it effortlessly, and within minutes they’re on the floor of her foyer, her blouse half-open and panties shoved to the side, his pants not even off and his cock out, and she’s riding him hard, and he’s loving every second of it. He comes almost embarrassingly fast, especially considering how long he’s lasted every other time they’ve been together, and she doesn’t, but she’s still sweaty and flushed and pleased, and Wilson wonders what the hell happened to the line between fucking and making love, and why Lisa wanted it gone, anyway. Maybe it’ll matter more when he’s not trying to catch his breath on the hardwood, near her basically pointless entry table, watching her get up and go into the kitchen for a glass of water.
This is how making love goesHe’s with a woman. {Men don’t like gentle and slow, and even if they do, it makes Wilson feel ridiculously faggy to do it, so men get fucking. Women get slow and easy and are you sures and as many orgasms as he can wring out of her.}
He seduces her, because if she’s going to seduce him, things aren’t going to go the way he wants, and he might as well find that strap-on and bend over. It’s deft compliments and swift mannerisms, as easy and quick as holding open the door or opening her car door or pulling out her chair. It seems special and unique to every woman, when really it became rote when he was in his mid-twenties, already working on seducing Tanya while Sheila’s back was turned at her sister’s wedding.
There’s never a question of who’s doing what, because as fun as the strap-on thought might be, there’s one cunt and one cock and they fit together. {See? Easier than with a man. Fewer logistics.} It’s getting to the making love that’s the interesting part.
There’s always foreplay. Always. It’s the soft, slow kisses, gentle touches, and drawn-out undressings. It lasts as long as Wilson wants, because hello, she can’t do much with his cock if he doesn’t want to, and by the time he wants to move on, half the time she’s all but begging for more. {And even if she isn’t begging, she does want it. Wilson’s a lot of less than pleasant things, but that’s way beyond him.}
He’s reading her the whole time. People think House is a good judge of people, but they always overlook Wilson, who’s at least as good and can actually do something with it besides piss people off. He knows the exact next move she wants by the slight hitch in her breath, or the arch of her throat, or the way her hand tightens on him. There are no real questions, just ones to make her think he’s unsure and verifying everything, when really he’s planning the whole thing. {Once, he wondered if that made him worse than House, and since he was drunk, the man himself got asked. But instead of waiting for an answer, he moved it to fucking. It wasn’t that he was afraid he knew the answer.}
The only rules with a woman are make it last and make her come. Oh, and be gentle, of course. It’s never failed him before.
There should probably be cuddling, too.
This is not what making love is supposed to beTheir last time together-and Wilson doesn’t know how House knows it’s their last time, but he does-House changes things on him. He leans in for a kiss, and instead of the rough fight for dominance Wilson expects, he keeps it slow and easy, almost needy except House doesn’t do needy. It’s when House has his leg but is going to lose it again, and House uses that to manipulate everything. Wilson ends up with House straddling him, intent on leaving a mark on his throat, and Wilson can’t quite come up with a way to stop him. When they get to the bedroom, House doesn’t let him move fast, keeping control of everything. The recovered leg lets them try something they haven’t before, Wilson on his back with his legs over House’s shoulders, and he can’t remember the last time it was so good. House is slow and easy about it, drawing it out until even Wilson can’t stand it, and he’s about ready to beg House to finish it already when something inside House seems to snap, and he finishes hard and fast, enough to make Wilson almost sob in pleasure. House gets him off after he’s pulled out, a few quick jerks of his wrist and he’s done, and then House is on the bed beside him, and Wilson turns toward him for some reason. It’s light touches and soft kisses, and then House lets him stay the night, and when they wake in the morning, they’re weirdly tangled. But it all goes cold when those sharp eyes turn sad and House says, “If you screw around on Cuddy, she’ll get your balls in formaldehyde and keep them on her desk,” and he pulls away and retreats to the shower.
Author: hawkeyecat
Fandom: House, M.D.
Pairings House/Wilson, Wilson/Cuddy, mention of Wilson/others
Community: 30_lemons
Theme: 03. Loss of Control
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 1,403
Warnings: Liberal use of the f-bomb, some crudeness, and, of course, sex.
Author's Notes: Minor spoilers for S3, specifically "Meaning" and "Cane and Able", but only if you look for them. Thanks to cerieblue819, sarcasticsra, and sunsetsinthewes for the betas.
This is how fucking goesHe’s with a man. {With a woman, he’s gentle, even if she wants rough, because she’s small and he’s always half-afraid she’ll actually break if he moves her wrong. He’s been with enough women over the years to know that, no, they’re actually tougher than men, but that doesn’t mean he’s anything less than gentle, even if she wants hard and rough.}
So. He’s with a man. Whether he’s fucking or being fucked depends on the man. There are some, like that time with Chase, that there’s no question that he’ll fuck, because letting Chase fuck him would almost be like handing Cameron a strap-on and letting her take control, only with even less power behind it. And there are other times, like the one with the guy who reminds him of Foreman, that he had to be fucked, because it takes a kind of balls Wilson doesn’t have to fuck a man like Foreman.
But the man he’s usually fucking now, or being fucked by, however it works, is different. This man has sharp eyes and sharper wit, a hand calloused from the labor, not of crafting or harvesting, but of keeping himself upright, uneven balance of muscles in his right arm and shoulder and left leg.
{Was fucking, not is, because House’s peculiar moral code won’t let him fuck someone who’s with someone else. Unless money changes hands. Maybe Wilson can argue all those lunches have bought a backlog of sex, but engaging House in a battle of wits like that is fruitless.}
There isn’t much foreplay; at the end of the day, after all the telling people they’re dying and running from a five-foot-six iron-fisted demon in heels and bending helpless before the schedules and strictures of the nursing staff, they’re still Men, and so they don’t need foreplay. Or something equally ridiculous. It’s one of those rules so old that the origins don’t matter, like not leaving the Vicodin in the living room or not leaving marks above the collar, except those make sense.
{So does the foreplay one, if Wilson bothers to think about it. Making out with House can’t be easy, all that stubble and sharpness and angles no one can quite curve around. Maybe that’s part of why Stacy left the first time, but actually saying so is a sure way to make hospital life hell for everyone, especially Lisa, and really, that isn’t a good idea right now.}
When it’s a man like House, there are signals to watch for to figure out who’s fucking and who’s getting fucked. Sure, there’s the obvious crotch grabs and lewd comments, but there’s also the looks, the edges to words, and when the hell did fucking get to be as complex as making love, anyway?
And there is never, ever cuddling.
This is not what fucking is supposed to beTheir eighth or eleventh time together, Lisa breaks the pattern. She’s been following his lead, and it’s been nicely carrying over to the hospital, but for some reason Wilson doesn’t quite see it coming when they get back to her house after dinner and she backs him against the wall, kissing him firmly. He isn’t ready for her to even try to take control, and so she seizes it effortlessly, and within minutes they’re on the floor of her foyer, her blouse half-open and panties shoved to the side, his pants not even off and his cock out, and she’s riding him hard, and he’s loving every second of it. He comes almost embarrassingly fast, especially considering how long he’s lasted every other time they’ve been together, and she doesn’t, but she’s still sweaty and flushed and pleased, and Wilson wonders what the hell happened to the line between fucking and making love, and why Lisa wanted it gone, anyway. Maybe it’ll matter more when he’s not trying to catch his breath on the hardwood, near her basically pointless entry table, watching her get up and go into the kitchen for a glass of water.
This is how making love goesHe’s with a woman. {Men don’t like gentle and slow, and even if they do, it makes Wilson feel ridiculously faggy to do it, so men get fucking. Women get slow and easy and are you sures and as many orgasms as he can wring out of her.}
He seduces her, because if she’s going to seduce him, things aren’t going to go the way he wants, and he might as well find that strap-on and bend over. It’s deft compliments and swift mannerisms, as easy and quick as holding open the door or opening her car door or pulling out her chair. It seems special and unique to every woman, when really it became rote when he was in his mid-twenties, already working on seducing Tanya while Sheila’s back was turned at her sister’s wedding.
There’s never a question of who’s doing what, because as fun as the strap-on thought might be, there’s one cunt and one cock and they fit together. {See? Easier than with a man. Fewer logistics.} It’s getting to the making love that’s the interesting part.
There’s always foreplay. Always. It’s the soft, slow kisses, gentle touches, and drawn-out undressings. It lasts as long as Wilson wants, because hello, she can’t do much with his cock if he doesn’t want to, and by the time he wants to move on, half the time she’s all but begging for more. {And even if she isn’t begging, she does want it. Wilson’s a lot of less than pleasant things, but that’s way beyond him.}
He’s reading her the whole time. People think House is a good judge of people, but they always overlook Wilson, who’s at least as good and can actually do something with it besides piss people off. He knows the exact next move she wants by the slight hitch in her breath, or the arch of her throat, or the way her hand tightens on him. There are no real questions, just ones to make her think he’s unsure and verifying everything, when really he’s planning the whole thing. {Once, he wondered if that made him worse than House, and since he was drunk, the man himself got asked. But instead of waiting for an answer, he moved it to fucking. It wasn’t that he was afraid he knew the answer.}
The only rules with a woman are make it last and make her come. Oh, and be gentle, of course. It’s never failed him before.
There should probably be cuddling, too.
This is not what making love is supposed to beTheir last time together-and Wilson doesn’t know how House knows it’s their last time, but he does-House changes things on him. He leans in for a kiss, and instead of the rough fight for dominance Wilson expects, he keeps it slow and easy, almost needy except House doesn’t do needy. It’s when House has his leg but is going to lose it again, and House uses that to manipulate everything. Wilson ends up with House straddling him, intent on leaving a mark on his throat, and Wilson can’t quite come up with a way to stop him. When they get to the bedroom, House doesn’t let him move fast, keeping control of everything. The recovered leg lets them try something they haven’t before, Wilson on his back with his legs over House’s shoulders, and he can’t remember the last time it was so good. House is slow and easy about it, drawing it out until even Wilson can’t stand it, and he’s about ready to beg House to finish it already when something inside House seems to snap, and he finishes hard and fast, enough to make Wilson almost sob in pleasure. House gets him off after he’s pulled out, a few quick jerks of his wrist and he’s done, and then House is on the bed beside him, and Wilson turns toward him for some reason. It’s light touches and soft kisses, and then House lets him stay the night, and when they wake in the morning, they’re weirdly tangled. But it all goes cold when those sharp eyes turn sad and House says, “If you screw around on Cuddy, she’ll get your balls in formaldehyde and keep them on her desk,” and he pulls away and retreats to the shower.