Ye Merry Gentleman (2/2)
Title: Ye Merry Gentlemen (2/2)
Author: vampmissedith
Disclaimer: So totally not mine, yo.
Ship: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Spoilers for season eight; Jell-O.
Summary: “‘Are we five,’ he asks in a bouncy castle filled with Jell-O.”
Notes: Much, much thanks to dissonata, who not only fixed the horrendous amount of typos due to me typing this in a car driving down a bumpy road with the sun glaring so hard on the screen I couldn’t see, but even did this at the very last minute while I partied my ass off instead of making it more legible for him to read before sending it off (although he was tired as hell). What have you learned from this? He’s a god amongst men, and I’m pretty selfish.
This was part of the Texts From Last Night prompt challenge, although I’ve posted it fashionably late--sorry about that.
Previous Part
When House awoke, he was alone.
He panicked for a moment and didn’t know where he was, but knew that someone--namely, Wilson--should’ve been there beside him but wasn’t. He was on his back, arm outstretched as if someone either had been sleeping on it or he was expecting someone to be, and staring at a ceiling of plastic. He knew that it shouldn’t have been dark, he’d gone to sleep with the living room lights on, but it was; he had a vague memory of Wilson muttering about it being too bright and wrapping his elbow over his closed eyes, and that he’d agreed so he’d crawled out and turned off the lights before crawling back in to plop beside him.
It was that memory that unlocked everything; image after image slid into focus and he groaned, head buzzing and heavy with alcohol still so that he couldn’t stop them although he tried; it was more painful waking up alone knowing what had happened than if he’d just forgotten. It wasn’t that he regretted anything and it was possible that when he sobered up the memories would fade, but now they were as clear as day.
Torn between wanting to forget and wanting to hold onto every last minute obsessively, they flashed through his mind again; playing I Never with Wilson, the questions getting more and more personal and finally ending it with admitting he’d had sex with men before and sliding a Jell-O shot into his mouth; bouncing crazily and chucking the Jell-O he’d intended to eat at Wilson, who’d reciprocated; fireworks of red spider-webbing across Wilson’s torso and face before he slipped out of his shirt to escape Wilson’s clutches and feeling the cool thwack of being assaulted repeatedly.
Chuckles bubbled out at the memories of them hurling bomb after bomb at each other, laughing insanely, mixed in with thoughts of him wanting to lick and suck every last bit of dessert off Wilson’s chest, partly out of sexual want but also because he liked Jell-O and he had intended on eating it. Finally, memories of him attacking Wilson’s mouth with his own; kissing and nipping and licking him, so vivid and intense in his mind he knew it couldn’t be a dream although the very fact it had happened made him wonder if it could’ve been.
Wiping at his face and regretting it when his hand stuck to his cheekbone, he cleared his throat and blinked; although he definitely wasn’t sober, it was nothing compared to the drunkenness of last night. His throat was a little sore when he swallowed, dry and burning the slightest bit from the vodka, and were it not for the slowed responses and dullness of being drunk, he probably would’ve been too crushed to function or too angry. Instead, the fact he was upset only niggled in the back of his mind like a conditioned response to a half-forgotten memory, and he kept blinking, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark but he couldn’t.
He remembered Wilson’s phone going off in his dream, but couldn’t remember if it was real or not; didn’t know if he’d invented it out of want for there to be a reason for Wilson to have disappeared or if the hospital had called him in and Wilson had hastily left, which was ridiculous considering that if House was still drunk then Wilson had to have been as well, and getting into a car and performing any sort of job would’ve been irresponsible.
And maybe Wilson wasn’t gone; maybe he’d just rolled away from him. It was stupid to think that, since the floor was sensitive enough that he would’ve been able to tell if anyone was in the castle with him, but he patted his pockets and pulled the phone from his sticky pants and used it for a light; cast the already-blue castle in a somewhat unearthly glow of white-blue; saw the cluttered, sticky, disgusting mess they’d made and snorted, then settled on the fact Wilson’s pants were strewn near the entrance.
He remembered whipping them over his head after fumbling with his button; the way Wilson’s breath felt against his cheek and how it had felt to have him moan deep into his mouth, reverberating through his chest and his slick fingers scrabbling for purchase against his back.
Sighing, and deciding that if Wilson wasn’t going to sleep beside him then there was no reason for him to be in the castle, he moved to sit up. His back stung when his skin ripped free from being stuck to the floor and he hissed in pain; it was like bare skin on leather on a hot summer day and he wrenched himself upward, figuring it would be like a Band-Aid--the faster, the better.
The sudden and searing pain that ripped through his thigh was worse than his skin pulling free; he cried out and fell to his back, clutching at his scar. He regretted spending last night overtaxing his thigh with running and jumping and tackling Wilson and he couldn’t even pretend he hadn’t known this would be the result. He’d figured it would all be worth it though; had assumed that even if Wilson didn’t get the hint that they should bone extravagantly in a castle, that maybe they’d still have ridiculous amounts of fun and since they both had Christmas off, he could spend the day nursing it with macadamia nut pancakes.
However if Wilson had run off when he woke up, then it wasn’t worth any of it.
Then again, Wilson wasn’t going anywhere without his pants. (Well, not quite true, he had wandered the streets looking for the apartment he’d just left pants-less, so it wasn’t completely out of the question).
His thigh throbbed and stabbed with agony so he began a new text; he was grunting and hissing loudly in pain and didn’t want Wilson to hear that, nor return purely out of concern for his thigh. If Wilson came back, it had to be because he wanted to for reasons other than pity.
Please bring me a paper towel asap. I was drinking wine in bed and spilt some on my chest.. and I cautiously guided it into my belly button but now I don't know what to do.
He stared at the text, biting down on his bottom lip partially in thought but partially in pain, and then hit send, dropping it so he could clutch his thigh.
He hissed, squeezed his eyes, and--
“Suck mah dick, suck mah motherfucking dick!”
His eyes snapped open as the techno-beat looped, the outrageously offensive words coming from somewhere in the apartment. The text-tone stopped earlier than it should’ve, which meant someone--Wilson, obviously--had answered it.
Wilson hadn’t left? Then where was he?
Sexy Back blasted by his ear suddenly and he jumped, scrabbling for the phone. He heard Wilson laugh and he knew where it was coming from; the bathroom. House would’ve smiled if he wasn’t in so much pain and read the text.
kk
House snorted then shut the phone, rubbing at his jean-clad thigh.
He could hear movement throughout the apartment; Wilson running into things and he wouldn’t deny that if he’d attempted walking he would’ve run into objects too.
It was too dark to see properly, but Wilson popped into the castle and walked gingerly towards House, the floor dipping and tilting with his movements. Although it was dark, his eyes had adjusted enough for him to see that Wilson was still only wearing boxers and although the smudges looked dark grey instead of red against his skin, he was clearly a mess just as House was.
Wilson knelt beside House, dropping a few things beside the phone. “Heyyy.” His greeting was barely above a whisper and he grabbed House's hand from his scar; held it in his own, palms wet with water but sticky at the same time.
Wilson’s blurry half-silhouette filled his vision and this time, he smiled through the ache. “Hey,” House responded just as quietly.
Wilson pulled his hands free and pushed a bottle of water into his hand before busying himself with House’s button to his pants. House popped open the tab to the lid and lifted his head enough to properly suck the cold water out; he hadn’t realized how parched he was until its silky, smooth chill slid down his throat and filled each crack with perfection. He sucked and swallowed until his stomach started to protest and he used his chin to push the tab closed, all the while lift his behind and moving his legs to help Wilson, who was delicately removing his pants.
He didn’t have any problems until the cuff bunched around the ankle monitor. House closed his eyes and let the world drift and spin and leg throb while Wilson worked it out for himself; his fingers tripped clumsily over themselves across his ankle and feet trying to tug it free without jostling him too much. House simply pushed the heel of his hand against his scar and rubbed, easing the ache.
Finally his pants were free and Wilson tossed them somewhere; the phalpt of it hitting the ground somewhere made House half-chuckle. It was an odd sound.
He opened his eyes and watched Wilson squirt some lotion into the palm of his hand before rubbing his hands together; the slicking suction noises the action made were familiar and he remembered when he refused to let anyone but Wilson near his thigh to massage it; remembered the time he’d clearly gotten an erection and they’d both dutifully ignored it. Wondered if this would be the same.
“How’d you know?” he asked when his cool hands slid across his skin; it was uncomfortable for only a second.
“Like you’d care about spilling wine. Plus, s’total mess already.”
House hummed to show he’d heard but did nothing else; just stared at what he could see of Wilson’s face, which wasn’t much. Too drunk to see properly already, plus it was dark, but he’d take what he could get. Wilson knew where to knead and where to push; how hard and soft and where he needed. The floor rocking beneath him in time with Wilson’s ministrations relaxed him; vision teetered rhythmically, too.
“What’s with the new tones, House?” House shrugged as he chuckled. “Now c’mon, answered your question. Your turn.”
“It’s hints,” he garbled, muscle twitching and stinging beneath Wilson’s palms; he hissed and Wilson shifted his weight.
Wilson pulled his hands away and House whined; Wilson tsked before squirting more lotion to his palm and kneading it into his skin. “For what you want for Christmas?” House didn’t say anything because admitting to it was still difficult, even with alcohol coursing through his veins and muddling his brain. Not that it really mattered, as he’d attacked his mouth and tried to suck him off a few hours ago. Wilson made a noise; it was a happy-sounding noise, so House didn’t worry too much about it. “It’s just like you to want to embarrass me at Blockbuster for a present,” he muttered a bit too casually.
“You’re over pronouncing again,” House chastised. He grunted and clenched his teeth when his scar burned. “Where were you?”
“Mom called to wish me a merry Christmas. Then I peed.” He massaged the tense muscles around the scar. “I was only gone for two minutes.”
It must’ve been Wilson leaving that had caused him to wake. Even drunk, Wilson knew that he must’ve worried if he’d asked and that he really hadn’t spilled wine all over his chest. Despite the fact they’d made out covered in Jell-O, he still didn’t mind; still came to his side when asked.
The pain had ebbed to a tolerable point but House didn’t say anything to let Wilson know he could stop. The fact his fingers danced along the inside of his thighs, rubbing the ends of his boxers, caused a familiar pull in his lower stomach to stir. Wilson’s surprisingly rough hands stopped kneading and simply massaged; fingers sneakily pushing the boxers higher and caressing his inner thighs for absolutely no reason.
Wilson cleared his throat and shifted his weight again; the floor moved too and House spread his legs to give him better access if he wanted; he thought of the grunts Wilson had made underneath him and how his lips had tasted; how willingly he’d allowed his tongue entrance and how he’d asked if they could kiss sober.
He was hardening, but not at the point where he would have to do something about it; he could will it down, if he wanted. Wilson would probably notice too, considering his hands were sliding up his thigh and scratching lightly at the sensitive skin there.
House bucked his hips and Wilson pulled his hands out of his boxers and stared at him; his eyes had adjusted enough to see that. He rested his hand lightly on the lower part of House's stomach; stroked his fingers as one would absently pet a cat and let out a huff of air. “House.”
“What?”
“Do you . . . Last night. Earlier. Um. Do you . . . remember?”
House put his hand over Wilson’s and swallowed the lump in his throat. He’d been plastered enough earlier where he very easily could’ve forgotten; it was a fifty percent chance at that level of drunkenness that he’d forget. He hadn’t, and clearly neither had Wilson. The memories were more like highly-coloured dreams, but he knew they were real; the taste of Wilson and how he’d felt writhing beneath him was too specific to be anything else.
Although he was drunk, his mind was clearer than before; enough that he could understand the implications, even though he cared a hell of a lot less than he normally would have. Instead of answering him, he pushed Wilson's hands into his boxers and swallowed loudly--loud enough he wondered if Wilson had heard--and his fingers curled around House’s shaft and pumped.
Wilson moved around on his knees and bent over, pressing his lips to his softly; stroking him lightly and slowly.
He’d only been semi-erect, but with each twist of Wilson’s palm more blood rushed southward; his dick hardened more. Wilson's lips were as gentle as his hands had been against his ripped-apart muscle; coaxing his mouth open and flicked his tongue to his bottom lip; brought it in and nibbled, sucked, kissed.
House lifted his hands and planted them above Wilson’s ears; pulled him closer and thrust his hips upward again, grunting when Wilson gave him a tentative squeeze.
The mixture of alcohol and kissing Wilson and getting a hand job made it more difficult to think clearly; to feel anything but the dazed rush of dizziness as Wilson sped up the rhythm; pushed his tongue further and shoved his boxers down, enough for his cock to be in the open air.
Wilson turned his head to deepen the kiss and House wrapped his arm around the back of Wilson’s neck. He thrust his hips harder into Wilson's palm, who tightened his grip and twisted near the head before pulling his hand away. House voiced his displeasure by grunting and biting Wilson’s lip; Wilson simply responded by whisking House’s boxers off as quickly as he could (and clumsily, too) then swinging his leg over House’s body so that he straddled him; thrust downward to grind their cocks together and House clutched at his shoulders; without the slippery Jell-O he could actually hold onto him. The fabric of Wilson’s boxers rubbed against his inner thigh and cock, sending sparks of pleasure through him with each thrust.
Before their kiss had been frantic and demanding and hasty; he’d pounced impulsively without any thought of repercussions and when Wilson had responded, he’d worried that it was the last possible chance he’d ever have. Now though, he let Wilson set the speed; let Wilson take control. It was nice not to have to be the one making all the decisions constantly; nice to know that Wilson wanted it as much as he did; enough to take the reins.
He gripped Wilson’s ass and squeezed; forced their pelvises together. Wilson pulled away to breathe, then started kissing down his chest; licking the dried bits of Jell-O and biting at his skin.
If he’d been sober he would’ve been embarrassed at the noises he was making; Wilson only made it worse by encouraging him with mirrored grunts and moans. He sucked and licked and kissed down his chest, House's cock slipping across Wilson’s torso; resting against his collarbone while he rolled the skin beside his pelvis between his teeth; laved it with his tongue and gasped against his wet skin.
He lifted his head up enough to see Wilson grab his cock and start pumping away; lick from shaft to tip and flick the tip; swirl his tongue around the head and stroke the shaft firmly with his hand; tease the underside with little flicks of his tongue.
He stared as Wilson finally enveloped his cock; saw his mouth slide downward and suck back upward; hollow out his cheeks and go back down again, tongue swirling and licking and House dropped his head back to the floor; thrust up and grunted when Wilson didn’t resist; kept stroking and sucking and humming; the vibrations zoomed through his cock and into his abdomen; heart thudded against his ribcage like a prisoner banging his way to freedom and he scrabbled at the ground; scratched at the dried bits of Jell-O and kept thrusting his hips upward; wanting to be deeper, feel the hot wetness all over him, surrounding him; faster, harder--
He was vaguely aware of issuing commands; begging; crying out and he lifted his head again to see Wilson’s hand stuffed in his boxers, pulling at his own dick in tandem with House‘s and moaning around his cock; House plopped his head back down against the floor and the waves of it bounced underneath him.
The wet plop pulled House out of his haze of pleasure; whined a bit when Wilson rolled away and instead started jerking himself; felt too good to stop and Wilson’s boxers flew; landed on House‘s shoulder and he pushed them away with his free hand.
Wilson batted away House’s hand; replaced it with his own, slicking lotion up and down quickly, the silky smooth feel of it gliding over his cock; shooting heat and shocks up his spine and he hissed and grunted in anticipation when Wilson swung his legs over his waist again.
He steadied himself so he wasn’t bucking wildly; bit down on his lip at the image of Wilson above him, panting and grunting and holding House’s cock, guiding it into himself.
He pushed past the first ring of muscle and cried out; clenched his hands into a fist and tilted his head back when Wilson sunk all the way down, tight warmth surrounding him. He pulled up again, slowly, drawing it out; muscles contracting until they just surrounded the head before sinking down again. Wilson let out a long cry, the sound of it echoing back at him as he pulled up again, and thrust downward; harder than before and he swore loudly; grabbed himself and started stroking before sliding up and slamming back down.
The floor bounced; forced House upward when Wilson rocked up as well; slamming him deeper than he’d expected when Wilson impaled himself on his cock, harder and harder, and House bucked; clutched at his hips and forced him downward while Wilson kept rocking and sliding up and down; knees pushing at the ground and it rebounding; forcing House up into him, pushing into him; harder and faster into him; nails digging into his hips while he swore and yelled and thrashed his head back and forth.
Wilson’s hand was blur on his own cock, letting out a surprised yelp almost every time House was inadvertently pulled deeper into him; shoved harder by the ground beneath him, Wilson’s knees squeezing and shoving against the unstable floor; forcing it to bounce them higher.
By thrusting his waist into Wilson he also forced them higher; split seconds of time in air; nothing beneath his back. Flying, freedom, if only for snippets so brief he might not have noticed and could have imagined it.
Harder and faster and louder until he was sure they were airborne just for a moment; Wilson leaned forward a bit, probably for balance, hand speeding up and blurring; House babbled and felt tears in his eyes, fiery heat and pleasure spreading, blooming in his chest; pounding through his heart, swimming through his veins, bursting into an explosion of bright white pleasure; erupting forth, shouting out, and Wilson kept riding; rode out his orgasm, pinpricks of colours and spiky bliss splintering across his skin.
He gulped in breaths, images flashing in front of him; mind connecting small bits of information, as much as he could focus on; Wilson riding him until his penis softened too much for insertion; Wilson lifting himself off of House’s cock and squeezing the head of his cock, blurring over the shaft and thrusting into his own palm.
Tiredly, impulsively, drunkenly, House knocked Wilson’s hand away and pumped it for him; impossibly hard, wet from pre-ejaculate, he stroked and stroked; watched Wilson’s face, eyes closed and mouth open, chest heaving out vowel sounds until he slammed his hands down on the floor on either side of House’s head; yelled out and thrust forward, coming all over his chest; spurting across his abdomen in long, thin ropes; grunting and whimpering and sighing.
His elbows gave out and he fell to House’s chest; House reached up and stroked his filthy hair with his clean hand, not that it mattered since it was clogged with Jell-O, sticky and dry and clumpy.
Wilson breathed as heavily as House did and their chests pushed together.
Head spinning, a faint grey light filtering in through the net, Wilson pulled away and stared down at him; his pupils were blown and he could see that perfectly. Wilson tilted his head and furrowed his brows, as if he didn’t recognize House and maybe he didn’t; this was a completely new angle and neither of them were sober enough to really keep up with the new information.
Wilson touched the tips of his shaking fingers to House’s brows, then slid them down his face; flicking at his lip and dragging across his cheek. A somehow pleasant ache zoomed through his chest and he couldn’t pinpoint why.
Wilson merely smiled and rolled off his chest. He plucked the boxers House had pushed off his shoulder and used it to wipe the semen from their chests and hands before tossing it aside.
Whoever curled up against the other first didn’t really matter, because in the end they were so tangled up in each other, naked and smiling and kissing each other lazily, that by the time House felt himself drift off he could hardly remember their names.
* * *
This time when he woke up, angry hammers tried to pry their way out from his skull; tore apart and pounded against his brain. His throat ached and burnt as if someone had stuffed flaming balls of cotton forcibly down his throat and then smacked him in the face a few times for good measure.
Stomach roiling, he forced himself into a sitting position. His leg protested and head inflated four times its size before shrinking. Vision slightly blurred, and sun far too bright, he crawled over to the entrance; dribbles of Jell-O and smudges of juice stained every inch of the floor of the castle; his shirt, pants, and boxers were sticky with the Jell-O (and semen as well for the boxers) and whipped cream stuck to various parts of the netting, crimson strings hanging precariously from them.
His skin stung while it pulled away from the castle floor; his body was stained as horribly as the castle itself was and with half-closed eyes, he crawled to the entrance and fell out face first, a bottle of wine clunking along the floor and Wilson's atrocious sweater wrapping itself around his head.
He staggered nakedly to his feet and grunted in pain; the stability of the floor, the reassurance that it was stationary, was somewhat disorienting after spending all night bouncing back and forth every time he moved. Despite being a little strange, though, it was actually comforting, and he stumbled to the bathroom, rubbing his thigh while he peered around at his apartment.
He shoved open the door and pulled himself to the shower; plopped in the shower chair and let the hot, steaming water rain over him; lazily scrubbed every last part of his body, aware of the lingering scent of shampoo that wasn’t his and vaguely remembering one towel missing from the rack. Clearly Wilson had showered and that he was glad of; the castle smelled disgusting and he could hardly stand it on himself; Wilson, who was by nature far cleaner, probably had wept uncontrollably in the corner while scrubbing himself down with a Brillo pad.
Despite the fact he very easily could’ve stayed in there for days, eventually the water ran cold so he turned it off and stepped out, drying himself off with the towel Wilson had left behind and slipping into an old robe.
Using his hand to block out the light that remained although everything was turned off, he followed the sounds of sizzling into the kitchen. Wilson was wearing the other robe, one that House hadn’t worn for years because he preferred the blue one, but the white didn’t look too bad on Wilson. It didn’t fit him quite right, but it was nice to see him in the kitchen, cooking at the stove as casually as he always had; as if they hadn’t had mind-blowing, fast sex in a bouncy castle bathed in Jell-O.
Wilson glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Hey,” he rasped and blinked sluggishly.
“I hate you,” he whined, going over to the table and sitting at it; grabbing a pancake that had been cooked and dropping it on his plate.
Wilson walked over to the table and used the spatula to slide bacon onto House’s plate. “And why is that?”
“I’ve gotta blame someone for this hangover.”
Wilson walked over to the sink and put the plate in it. “Right, because I’m the one who forced you to buy all the alcohol and drink it.” He was hardly talking louder than a whisper, but was loud enough to be heard. “Besides, I thought we had a good time?” He turned back around and made his way towards House; brows raised questioningly.
House shrugged. “Yeah, it was okay.”
Wilson stopped in front of him and ran his hand through his damp hair. “Okay enough to . . . do it more often?”
House smiled. “Maybe. Less alcohol next time.”
“Or none at all,” Wilson added, sliding his fingers through his hair again; tracing his cheek before leaning down and kissing him; pressing their lips together softly before pulling away and going over to his side of the table.
House watched; couldn’t tear his focus from him as he pulled a pancake to his plate and started cutting it with his fork. Although his head and leg ached and eyes burned at the very existence of light, something else bloomed in his chest; something far less painful. Staring at Wilson in a robe that fit him awkwardly, a soft smile on his face and eating pancake he’d made the night after riding him like a stallion, filled him with a sense of something not unlike domestic bliss.
“Hey, you know that ring tone I assigned you?”
Wilson looked at him and finished chewing. “Which one now?”
“The Mariah Carey one. What’s the song called again?”
“All I Want For Christmas is You,” Wilson answered habitually. House waited for it to click, and was rewarded a second later when Wilson chuckled and blushed; looked down at his plate and poked at his pancakes idly.
House was grinning hard enough for his cheeks to hurt but he didn’t mind; it was okay because Wilson wasn’t looking anyway.
“Hey Wilson?”
“Hmm?”
House shifted in his seat. “A PlayStation 3 would be nice, too.”
* * *
A/N: I'm sorry I haven't posted anything for such a long time. It was time for me to get back on the fic-horse and get back into the swing of things. I have a twitter you can follow, as well as a facebook, if you want.
The texts were:
“Change of plans. There's a bouncy castle set up in my apartment.”
“Please bring me a paper towel asap. I was drinking wine in bed and spilt some on my chest.. and I cautiously guided it into my belly button but now I don't know what to do.”
Text/ring tones lyrics were: Suck My Dick by Dickheadz, All I Want For Christmas is You by Mariah Carey, and Relight My Fire by Take That.
Author: vampmissedith
Disclaimer: So totally not mine, yo.
Ship: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Spoilers for season eight; Jell-O.
Summary: “‘Are we five,’ he asks in a bouncy castle filled with Jell-O.”
Notes: Much, much thanks to dissonata, who not only fixed the horrendous amount of typos due to me typing this in a car driving down a bumpy road with the sun glaring so hard on the screen I couldn’t see, but even did this at the very last minute while I partied my ass off instead of making it more legible for him to read before sending it off (although he was tired as hell). What have you learned from this? He’s a god amongst men, and I’m pretty selfish.
This was part of the Texts From Last Night prompt challenge, although I’ve posted it fashionably late--sorry about that.
Previous Part
When House awoke, he was alone.
He panicked for a moment and didn’t know where he was, but knew that someone--namely, Wilson--should’ve been there beside him but wasn’t. He was on his back, arm outstretched as if someone either had been sleeping on it or he was expecting someone to be, and staring at a ceiling of plastic. He knew that it shouldn’t have been dark, he’d gone to sleep with the living room lights on, but it was; he had a vague memory of Wilson muttering about it being too bright and wrapping his elbow over his closed eyes, and that he’d agreed so he’d crawled out and turned off the lights before crawling back in to plop beside him.
It was that memory that unlocked everything; image after image slid into focus and he groaned, head buzzing and heavy with alcohol still so that he couldn’t stop them although he tried; it was more painful waking up alone knowing what had happened than if he’d just forgotten. It wasn’t that he regretted anything and it was possible that when he sobered up the memories would fade, but now they were as clear as day.
Torn between wanting to forget and wanting to hold onto every last minute obsessively, they flashed through his mind again; playing I Never with Wilson, the questions getting more and more personal and finally ending it with admitting he’d had sex with men before and sliding a Jell-O shot into his mouth; bouncing crazily and chucking the Jell-O he’d intended to eat at Wilson, who’d reciprocated; fireworks of red spider-webbing across Wilson’s torso and face before he slipped out of his shirt to escape Wilson’s clutches and feeling the cool thwack of being assaulted repeatedly.
Chuckles bubbled out at the memories of them hurling bomb after bomb at each other, laughing insanely, mixed in with thoughts of him wanting to lick and suck every last bit of dessert off Wilson’s chest, partly out of sexual want but also because he liked Jell-O and he had intended on eating it. Finally, memories of him attacking Wilson’s mouth with his own; kissing and nipping and licking him, so vivid and intense in his mind he knew it couldn’t be a dream although the very fact it had happened made him wonder if it could’ve been.
Wiping at his face and regretting it when his hand stuck to his cheekbone, he cleared his throat and blinked; although he definitely wasn’t sober, it was nothing compared to the drunkenness of last night. His throat was a little sore when he swallowed, dry and burning the slightest bit from the vodka, and were it not for the slowed responses and dullness of being drunk, he probably would’ve been too crushed to function or too angry. Instead, the fact he was upset only niggled in the back of his mind like a conditioned response to a half-forgotten memory, and he kept blinking, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark but he couldn’t.
He remembered Wilson’s phone going off in his dream, but couldn’t remember if it was real or not; didn’t know if he’d invented it out of want for there to be a reason for Wilson to have disappeared or if the hospital had called him in and Wilson had hastily left, which was ridiculous considering that if House was still drunk then Wilson had to have been as well, and getting into a car and performing any sort of job would’ve been irresponsible.
And maybe Wilson wasn’t gone; maybe he’d just rolled away from him. It was stupid to think that, since the floor was sensitive enough that he would’ve been able to tell if anyone was in the castle with him, but he patted his pockets and pulled the phone from his sticky pants and used it for a light; cast the already-blue castle in a somewhat unearthly glow of white-blue; saw the cluttered, sticky, disgusting mess they’d made and snorted, then settled on the fact Wilson’s pants were strewn near the entrance.
He remembered whipping them over his head after fumbling with his button; the way Wilson’s breath felt against his cheek and how it had felt to have him moan deep into his mouth, reverberating through his chest and his slick fingers scrabbling for purchase against his back.
Sighing, and deciding that if Wilson wasn’t going to sleep beside him then there was no reason for him to be in the castle, he moved to sit up. His back stung when his skin ripped free from being stuck to the floor and he hissed in pain; it was like bare skin on leather on a hot summer day and he wrenched himself upward, figuring it would be like a Band-Aid--the faster, the better.
The sudden and searing pain that ripped through his thigh was worse than his skin pulling free; he cried out and fell to his back, clutching at his scar. He regretted spending last night overtaxing his thigh with running and jumping and tackling Wilson and he couldn’t even pretend he hadn’t known this would be the result. He’d figured it would all be worth it though; had assumed that even if Wilson didn’t get the hint that they should bone extravagantly in a castle, that maybe they’d still have ridiculous amounts of fun and since they both had Christmas off, he could spend the day nursing it with macadamia nut pancakes.
However if Wilson had run off when he woke up, then it wasn’t worth any of it.
Then again, Wilson wasn’t going anywhere without his pants. (Well, not quite true, he had wandered the streets looking for the apartment he’d just left pants-less, so it wasn’t completely out of the question).
His thigh throbbed and stabbed with agony so he began a new text; he was grunting and hissing loudly in pain and didn’t want Wilson to hear that, nor return purely out of concern for his thigh. If Wilson came back, it had to be because he wanted to for reasons other than pity.
Please bring me a paper towel asap. I was drinking wine in bed and spilt some on my chest.. and I cautiously guided it into my belly button but now I don't know what to do.
He stared at the text, biting down on his bottom lip partially in thought but partially in pain, and then hit send, dropping it so he could clutch his thigh.
He hissed, squeezed his eyes, and--
“Suck mah dick, suck mah motherfucking dick!”
His eyes snapped open as the techno-beat looped, the outrageously offensive words coming from somewhere in the apartment. The text-tone stopped earlier than it should’ve, which meant someone--Wilson, obviously--had answered it.
Wilson hadn’t left? Then where was he?
Sexy Back blasted by his ear suddenly and he jumped, scrabbling for the phone. He heard Wilson laugh and he knew where it was coming from; the bathroom. House would’ve smiled if he wasn’t in so much pain and read the text.
kk
House snorted then shut the phone, rubbing at his jean-clad thigh.
He could hear movement throughout the apartment; Wilson running into things and he wouldn’t deny that if he’d attempted walking he would’ve run into objects too.
It was too dark to see properly, but Wilson popped into the castle and walked gingerly towards House, the floor dipping and tilting with his movements. Although it was dark, his eyes had adjusted enough for him to see that Wilson was still only wearing boxers and although the smudges looked dark grey instead of red against his skin, he was clearly a mess just as House was.
Wilson knelt beside House, dropping a few things beside the phone. “Heyyy.” His greeting was barely above a whisper and he grabbed House's hand from his scar; held it in his own, palms wet with water but sticky at the same time.
Wilson’s blurry half-silhouette filled his vision and this time, he smiled through the ache. “Hey,” House responded just as quietly.
Wilson pulled his hands free and pushed a bottle of water into his hand before busying himself with House’s button to his pants. House popped open the tab to the lid and lifted his head enough to properly suck the cold water out; he hadn’t realized how parched he was until its silky, smooth chill slid down his throat and filled each crack with perfection. He sucked and swallowed until his stomach started to protest and he used his chin to push the tab closed, all the while lift his behind and moving his legs to help Wilson, who was delicately removing his pants.
He didn’t have any problems until the cuff bunched around the ankle monitor. House closed his eyes and let the world drift and spin and leg throb while Wilson worked it out for himself; his fingers tripped clumsily over themselves across his ankle and feet trying to tug it free without jostling him too much. House simply pushed the heel of his hand against his scar and rubbed, easing the ache.
Finally his pants were free and Wilson tossed them somewhere; the phalpt of it hitting the ground somewhere made House half-chuckle. It was an odd sound.
He opened his eyes and watched Wilson squirt some lotion into the palm of his hand before rubbing his hands together; the slicking suction noises the action made were familiar and he remembered when he refused to let anyone but Wilson near his thigh to massage it; remembered the time he’d clearly gotten an erection and they’d both dutifully ignored it. Wondered if this would be the same.
“How’d you know?” he asked when his cool hands slid across his skin; it was uncomfortable for only a second.
“Like you’d care about spilling wine. Plus, s’total mess already.”
House hummed to show he’d heard but did nothing else; just stared at what he could see of Wilson’s face, which wasn’t much. Too drunk to see properly already, plus it was dark, but he’d take what he could get. Wilson knew where to knead and where to push; how hard and soft and where he needed. The floor rocking beneath him in time with Wilson’s ministrations relaxed him; vision teetered rhythmically, too.
“What’s with the new tones, House?” House shrugged as he chuckled. “Now c’mon, answered your question. Your turn.”
“It’s hints,” he garbled, muscle twitching and stinging beneath Wilson’s palms; he hissed and Wilson shifted his weight.
Wilson pulled his hands away and House whined; Wilson tsked before squirting more lotion to his palm and kneading it into his skin. “For what you want for Christmas?” House didn’t say anything because admitting to it was still difficult, even with alcohol coursing through his veins and muddling his brain. Not that it really mattered, as he’d attacked his mouth and tried to suck him off a few hours ago. Wilson made a noise; it was a happy-sounding noise, so House didn’t worry too much about it. “It’s just like you to want to embarrass me at Blockbuster for a present,” he muttered a bit too casually.
“You’re over pronouncing again,” House chastised. He grunted and clenched his teeth when his scar burned. “Where were you?”
“Mom called to wish me a merry Christmas. Then I peed.” He massaged the tense muscles around the scar. “I was only gone for two minutes.”
It must’ve been Wilson leaving that had caused him to wake. Even drunk, Wilson knew that he must’ve worried if he’d asked and that he really hadn’t spilled wine all over his chest. Despite the fact they’d made out covered in Jell-O, he still didn’t mind; still came to his side when asked.
The pain had ebbed to a tolerable point but House didn’t say anything to let Wilson know he could stop. The fact his fingers danced along the inside of his thighs, rubbing the ends of his boxers, caused a familiar pull in his lower stomach to stir. Wilson’s surprisingly rough hands stopped kneading and simply massaged; fingers sneakily pushing the boxers higher and caressing his inner thighs for absolutely no reason.
Wilson cleared his throat and shifted his weight again; the floor moved too and House spread his legs to give him better access if he wanted; he thought of the grunts Wilson had made underneath him and how his lips had tasted; how willingly he’d allowed his tongue entrance and how he’d asked if they could kiss sober.
He was hardening, but not at the point where he would have to do something about it; he could will it down, if he wanted. Wilson would probably notice too, considering his hands were sliding up his thigh and scratching lightly at the sensitive skin there.
House bucked his hips and Wilson pulled his hands out of his boxers and stared at him; his eyes had adjusted enough to see that. He rested his hand lightly on the lower part of House's stomach; stroked his fingers as one would absently pet a cat and let out a huff of air. “House.”
“What?”
“Do you . . . Last night. Earlier. Um. Do you . . . remember?”
House put his hand over Wilson’s and swallowed the lump in his throat. He’d been plastered enough earlier where he very easily could’ve forgotten; it was a fifty percent chance at that level of drunkenness that he’d forget. He hadn’t, and clearly neither had Wilson. The memories were more like highly-coloured dreams, but he knew they were real; the taste of Wilson and how he’d felt writhing beneath him was too specific to be anything else.
Although he was drunk, his mind was clearer than before; enough that he could understand the implications, even though he cared a hell of a lot less than he normally would have. Instead of answering him, he pushed Wilson's hands into his boxers and swallowed loudly--loud enough he wondered if Wilson had heard--and his fingers curled around House’s shaft and pumped.
Wilson moved around on his knees and bent over, pressing his lips to his softly; stroking him lightly and slowly.
He’d only been semi-erect, but with each twist of Wilson’s palm more blood rushed southward; his dick hardened more. Wilson's lips were as gentle as his hands had been against his ripped-apart muscle; coaxing his mouth open and flicked his tongue to his bottom lip; brought it in and nibbled, sucked, kissed.
House lifted his hands and planted them above Wilson’s ears; pulled him closer and thrust his hips upward again, grunting when Wilson gave him a tentative squeeze.
The mixture of alcohol and kissing Wilson and getting a hand job made it more difficult to think clearly; to feel anything but the dazed rush of dizziness as Wilson sped up the rhythm; pushed his tongue further and shoved his boxers down, enough for his cock to be in the open air.
Wilson turned his head to deepen the kiss and House wrapped his arm around the back of Wilson’s neck. He thrust his hips harder into Wilson's palm, who tightened his grip and twisted near the head before pulling his hand away. House voiced his displeasure by grunting and biting Wilson’s lip; Wilson simply responded by whisking House’s boxers off as quickly as he could (and clumsily, too) then swinging his leg over House’s body so that he straddled him; thrust downward to grind their cocks together and House clutched at his shoulders; without the slippery Jell-O he could actually hold onto him. The fabric of Wilson’s boxers rubbed against his inner thigh and cock, sending sparks of pleasure through him with each thrust.
Before their kiss had been frantic and demanding and hasty; he’d pounced impulsively without any thought of repercussions and when Wilson had responded, he’d worried that it was the last possible chance he’d ever have. Now though, he let Wilson set the speed; let Wilson take control. It was nice not to have to be the one making all the decisions constantly; nice to know that Wilson wanted it as much as he did; enough to take the reins.
He gripped Wilson’s ass and squeezed; forced their pelvises together. Wilson pulled away to breathe, then started kissing down his chest; licking the dried bits of Jell-O and biting at his skin.
If he’d been sober he would’ve been embarrassed at the noises he was making; Wilson only made it worse by encouraging him with mirrored grunts and moans. He sucked and licked and kissed down his chest, House's cock slipping across Wilson’s torso; resting against his collarbone while he rolled the skin beside his pelvis between his teeth; laved it with his tongue and gasped against his wet skin.
He lifted his head up enough to see Wilson grab his cock and start pumping away; lick from shaft to tip and flick the tip; swirl his tongue around the head and stroke the shaft firmly with his hand; tease the underside with little flicks of his tongue.
He stared as Wilson finally enveloped his cock; saw his mouth slide downward and suck back upward; hollow out his cheeks and go back down again, tongue swirling and licking and House dropped his head back to the floor; thrust up and grunted when Wilson didn’t resist; kept stroking and sucking and humming; the vibrations zoomed through his cock and into his abdomen; heart thudded against his ribcage like a prisoner banging his way to freedom and he scrabbled at the ground; scratched at the dried bits of Jell-O and kept thrusting his hips upward; wanting to be deeper, feel the hot wetness all over him, surrounding him; faster, harder--
He was vaguely aware of issuing commands; begging; crying out and he lifted his head again to see Wilson’s hand stuffed in his boxers, pulling at his own dick in tandem with House‘s and moaning around his cock; House plopped his head back down against the floor and the waves of it bounced underneath him.
The wet plop pulled House out of his haze of pleasure; whined a bit when Wilson rolled away and instead started jerking himself; felt too good to stop and Wilson’s boxers flew; landed on House‘s shoulder and he pushed them away with his free hand.
Wilson batted away House’s hand; replaced it with his own, slicking lotion up and down quickly, the silky smooth feel of it gliding over his cock; shooting heat and shocks up his spine and he hissed and grunted in anticipation when Wilson swung his legs over his waist again.
He steadied himself so he wasn’t bucking wildly; bit down on his lip at the image of Wilson above him, panting and grunting and holding House’s cock, guiding it into himself.
He pushed past the first ring of muscle and cried out; clenched his hands into a fist and tilted his head back when Wilson sunk all the way down, tight warmth surrounding him. He pulled up again, slowly, drawing it out; muscles contracting until they just surrounded the head before sinking down again. Wilson let out a long cry, the sound of it echoing back at him as he pulled up again, and thrust downward; harder than before and he swore loudly; grabbed himself and started stroking before sliding up and slamming back down.
The floor bounced; forced House upward when Wilson rocked up as well; slamming him deeper than he’d expected when Wilson impaled himself on his cock, harder and harder, and House bucked; clutched at his hips and forced him downward while Wilson kept rocking and sliding up and down; knees pushing at the ground and it rebounding; forcing House up into him, pushing into him; harder and faster into him; nails digging into his hips while he swore and yelled and thrashed his head back and forth.
Wilson’s hand was blur on his own cock, letting out a surprised yelp almost every time House was inadvertently pulled deeper into him; shoved harder by the ground beneath him, Wilson’s knees squeezing and shoving against the unstable floor; forcing it to bounce them higher.
By thrusting his waist into Wilson he also forced them higher; split seconds of time in air; nothing beneath his back. Flying, freedom, if only for snippets so brief he might not have noticed and could have imagined it.
Harder and faster and louder until he was sure they were airborne just for a moment; Wilson leaned forward a bit, probably for balance, hand speeding up and blurring; House babbled and felt tears in his eyes, fiery heat and pleasure spreading, blooming in his chest; pounding through his heart, swimming through his veins, bursting into an explosion of bright white pleasure; erupting forth, shouting out, and Wilson kept riding; rode out his orgasm, pinpricks of colours and spiky bliss splintering across his skin.
He gulped in breaths, images flashing in front of him; mind connecting small bits of information, as much as he could focus on; Wilson riding him until his penis softened too much for insertion; Wilson lifting himself off of House’s cock and squeezing the head of his cock, blurring over the shaft and thrusting into his own palm.
Tiredly, impulsively, drunkenly, House knocked Wilson’s hand away and pumped it for him; impossibly hard, wet from pre-ejaculate, he stroked and stroked; watched Wilson’s face, eyes closed and mouth open, chest heaving out vowel sounds until he slammed his hands down on the floor on either side of House’s head; yelled out and thrust forward, coming all over his chest; spurting across his abdomen in long, thin ropes; grunting and whimpering and sighing.
His elbows gave out and he fell to House’s chest; House reached up and stroked his filthy hair with his clean hand, not that it mattered since it was clogged with Jell-O, sticky and dry and clumpy.
Wilson breathed as heavily as House did and their chests pushed together.
Head spinning, a faint grey light filtering in through the net, Wilson pulled away and stared down at him; his pupils were blown and he could see that perfectly. Wilson tilted his head and furrowed his brows, as if he didn’t recognize House and maybe he didn’t; this was a completely new angle and neither of them were sober enough to really keep up with the new information.
Wilson touched the tips of his shaking fingers to House’s brows, then slid them down his face; flicking at his lip and dragging across his cheek. A somehow pleasant ache zoomed through his chest and he couldn’t pinpoint why.
Wilson merely smiled and rolled off his chest. He plucked the boxers House had pushed off his shoulder and used it to wipe the semen from their chests and hands before tossing it aside.
Whoever curled up against the other first didn’t really matter, because in the end they were so tangled up in each other, naked and smiling and kissing each other lazily, that by the time House felt himself drift off he could hardly remember their names.
* * *
This time when he woke up, angry hammers tried to pry their way out from his skull; tore apart and pounded against his brain. His throat ached and burnt as if someone had stuffed flaming balls of cotton forcibly down his throat and then smacked him in the face a few times for good measure.
Stomach roiling, he forced himself into a sitting position. His leg protested and head inflated four times its size before shrinking. Vision slightly blurred, and sun far too bright, he crawled over to the entrance; dribbles of Jell-O and smudges of juice stained every inch of the floor of the castle; his shirt, pants, and boxers were sticky with the Jell-O (and semen as well for the boxers) and whipped cream stuck to various parts of the netting, crimson strings hanging precariously from them.
His skin stung while it pulled away from the castle floor; his body was stained as horribly as the castle itself was and with half-closed eyes, he crawled to the entrance and fell out face first, a bottle of wine clunking along the floor and Wilson's atrocious sweater wrapping itself around his head.
He staggered nakedly to his feet and grunted in pain; the stability of the floor, the reassurance that it was stationary, was somewhat disorienting after spending all night bouncing back and forth every time he moved. Despite being a little strange, though, it was actually comforting, and he stumbled to the bathroom, rubbing his thigh while he peered around at his apartment.
He shoved open the door and pulled himself to the shower; plopped in the shower chair and let the hot, steaming water rain over him; lazily scrubbed every last part of his body, aware of the lingering scent of shampoo that wasn’t his and vaguely remembering one towel missing from the rack. Clearly Wilson had showered and that he was glad of; the castle smelled disgusting and he could hardly stand it on himself; Wilson, who was by nature far cleaner, probably had wept uncontrollably in the corner while scrubbing himself down with a Brillo pad.
Despite the fact he very easily could’ve stayed in there for days, eventually the water ran cold so he turned it off and stepped out, drying himself off with the towel Wilson had left behind and slipping into an old robe.
Using his hand to block out the light that remained although everything was turned off, he followed the sounds of sizzling into the kitchen. Wilson was wearing the other robe, one that House hadn’t worn for years because he preferred the blue one, but the white didn’t look too bad on Wilson. It didn’t fit him quite right, but it was nice to see him in the kitchen, cooking at the stove as casually as he always had; as if they hadn’t had mind-blowing, fast sex in a bouncy castle bathed in Jell-O.
Wilson glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Hey,” he rasped and blinked sluggishly.
“I hate you,” he whined, going over to the table and sitting at it; grabbing a pancake that had been cooked and dropping it on his plate.
Wilson walked over to the table and used the spatula to slide bacon onto House’s plate. “And why is that?”
“I’ve gotta blame someone for this hangover.”
Wilson walked over to the sink and put the plate in it. “Right, because I’m the one who forced you to buy all the alcohol and drink it.” He was hardly talking louder than a whisper, but was loud enough to be heard. “Besides, I thought we had a good time?” He turned back around and made his way towards House; brows raised questioningly.
House shrugged. “Yeah, it was okay.”
Wilson stopped in front of him and ran his hand through his damp hair. “Okay enough to . . . do it more often?”
House smiled. “Maybe. Less alcohol next time.”
“Or none at all,” Wilson added, sliding his fingers through his hair again; tracing his cheek before leaning down and kissing him; pressing their lips together softly before pulling away and going over to his side of the table.
House watched; couldn’t tear his focus from him as he pulled a pancake to his plate and started cutting it with his fork. Although his head and leg ached and eyes burned at the very existence of light, something else bloomed in his chest; something far less painful. Staring at Wilson in a robe that fit him awkwardly, a soft smile on his face and eating pancake he’d made the night after riding him like a stallion, filled him with a sense of something not unlike domestic bliss.
“Hey, you know that ring tone I assigned you?”
Wilson looked at him and finished chewing. “Which one now?”
“The Mariah Carey one. What’s the song called again?”
“All I Want For Christmas is You,” Wilson answered habitually. House waited for it to click, and was rewarded a second later when Wilson chuckled and blushed; looked down at his plate and poked at his pancakes idly.
House was grinning hard enough for his cheeks to hurt but he didn’t mind; it was okay because Wilson wasn’t looking anyway.
“Hey Wilson?”
“Hmm?”
House shifted in his seat. “A PlayStation 3 would be nice, too.”
* * *
A/N: I'm sorry I haven't posted anything for such a long time. It was time for me to get back on the fic-horse and get back into the swing of things. I have a twitter you can follow, as well as a facebook, if you want.
The texts were:
“Change of plans. There's a bouncy castle set up in my apartment.”
“Please bring me a paper towel asap. I was drinking wine in bed and spilt some on my chest.. and I cautiously guided it into my belly button but now I don't know what to do.”
Text/ring tones lyrics were: Suck My Dick by Dickheadz, All I Want For Christmas is You by Mariah Carey, and Relight My Fire by Take That.