Fic - Eye-Patches and Bottles of Rum
Title: Eye-Patches and Bottles of Rum
Author: LadyMurha
Pairing/Fandom: House M.D. - House/Wilson
Rated: NC17
A/N: prompt - 097. House/Wilson -- pirate sex! For get_house_laid Round #2. Self-beta'd and fresh out the oven! (That means, any mistakes are mine. Feel free to slap me upside the head or just point them out.) Also, this is a crack!fic because pirate!sex just begged to be written as such.
Summary: House and Wilson get sent to a cruise on the Caribbean waters. House, meanwhile, is attempting to find a way into Wilson's pants. What follows is... well, pirate!sex. Disclaimer: I would so love to see House and Wilson doing this for real. However, that's only the case if Shore decides it is so for he is the mighty ruler of the House universe. For now, this lives in my imagination. And yours. Tehee.
“This is a joke, right?” House stood to his feet, clutching his cane, face displaying disbelief. “No one in their right mind would do that.”
“Firstly, sit down. And secondly, I just did. What’s wrong with that?” Cuddy had a different sort of disbelief across her visage.
“You’re the Queen of Crazy for suggesting that. No boss would send a struggling diagnostician and the head of Oncology on a cruise to the Caribbean while people are sick and possibly dying.”
“Would you rather I’d go?” Cuddy asked, feigning seriousness. “Actually, don’t answer that. It’ll be hell to pay for whatever stunts you pull when I’m away.”
“Aw, don’t say that. I’m very well trained.”
“Not on my watch, apparently.”
“It is on your watch, actually. It’s your paperwork that prevents you from seeing the actions of my kind heart.” He tapped his cane against the floor. “So why do I and Wilson get the privilege?” House really was bewildered about that point, and it is not often that he’s bewildered about something. He only pretended refusal to find out what she was planning, anyway.
“The last accounted for holiday leave that you and Wilson took was nearly two years ago. About time, I’d say.”
Well, if she was willing to send them aw- wait a minute. Brain clicking into gear, House settled backwards into his chair. “You’re either hiding something from me or you want something from me.”
Cuddy, amazingly, shook her head. “Believe it or not, I’m being mature and altruistic for once.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “Just go. You need it.”
House rose almost immediately and limped to the door. He nearly closed it when Cuddy heard a faint “you definitely have ulterior motives!” and then the door shut, and silence fell.
Alarmingly to whoever would have been present in her office at that exact moment, Cuddy grinned wickedly.
“This is pretty roomy,” House said conversationally to Wilson as he entered the space that was to be their cabin for the next five days. “Oh, look, there’s even a hammock.” He glanced sideways, noticing the bed frame for two and then over to Wilson, who appeared to be attacked by a pair of suitcases on wheels. “This means I get the bed. Disability spaces and all that, you know.”
Wilson only panted in return, laying the luggage against the wall. Leaning his arms on the dresser and nearly doubling over, he replied with a jumbled sentence that sounded like “Oh, yes, completely fair.” It took him a few inhales to regain the power of organised speech. “There’s no reason we can’t share the bed. It’s big enough.”
House shrugged while making his way around the room, careful to stop his shoulders rising too fast, too high. “Fine by me.”
Wilson took a peek at this nonchalant, explorative House, shrugged himself, and set about the task of unpacking.
Wilson! Same bed! Four nights! House’s mind (the tiny analytic-cum-sensible part) roared triumphantly. How long had he waited for this? Good thing Wilson got rid of his last wife. Or vice-versa, it really wasn’t important now. Well, House plotted, he’ll be ensuring there won’t be any future wives to get rid of. He congratulated himself (mentally) with a manic cackle on bringing along his fake eye-patch, the only one of two remnants to the best Halloween party Princeton Plainsboro ever hosted. That’ll make for the back-up strategy if all else fails.
Now… how is he going to execute his grand (non-detailed) scheme without freaking Wilson out?
Three days of Caribbean sunshine and exotic cocktails. Three days of lounging on the deck-chairs and tormenting innocent children (they must’ve done something in their past lives. He’s just helping karma along).
Three whole days of numerous plans gone to waste.
With two days and a night to go, House was getting a teensy on the impatient side.
Come on, O brilliant brain. Gimme something!
The one plan he really didn’t want to use was the “I like you, let’s bang” one. He tried using it before and knew - oh, how badly he knew - that it can end with a painful toe for at least three months. If Wilson really took umbrage at his suggestion, probably four.
Okay, plan B. Or Z, depending on your point of view. Really bottom of the barrel kind of plan.
Bathing skins in warm sunlight and UV rays, he lowered his sunglasses half-way down his eye-line. “Hey, Wilson,” he said. “How long do you think that party thing they’re preparing tonight is gonna last?”
Wilson lowered his own sunglasses, looked around the deck. There really weren’t that many people significantly younger than the both of them. “With their stamina? I’m not giving it any hour past one.”
“I was going for after eleven, actually. Are you so desperate to par-tay that you’re giving them that long?” House slid his glasses back up his nose.
“Nah, I just hoped they’d be capable of showing a little more life than they are currently displaying.”
“You know, if it really doesn’t last that long, we can always do our own party.” And Wilson will ask him what he means; he’s gonna pull his best Marilyn Monroe cutie-pie expression, Wilson melts, back to the cabin…
“I somehow doubt that there are strippers anywhere on this vessel, House.”
Oh, damn.
The night was warm and the thump-thump-thump of music radiated through the floor-boards of the deck, for some reason. Or House imagined that last bit, for dramatic effect. He could still very definitely hear it, though. He turned around, seeking Wilson- there he was, a slight imbalance in his step. The reason for the funny walk nestled in his arm, a half-full bottle of rum they snuck out of the hall where everyone danced and enjoyed themselves in the heat that began to stifle. House just exclaimed he needed fresh air and limped outside - three, two, one and Wilson was hot on his heels. They walked (or rather, one limped and the other stumbled) about the deck, observing the soft whooshing of the waves as they crashed against the helm and sides of the cruise.
“I can really see pirates attacking us, you - hic! - know,” Wilson said. He lifted the bottle above his head and spun a full circle. “Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of rum!” he took a hefty swig and wiped his mouth. House lounged against one of the hand-rails circling the entire edge of the deck. “You want some?” Wilson pointed the bottle in his direction.
“No, thank you, Secret Keeper of the Treasure,” House remarked. “Any more of that and you might need a map to get downstairs. Assuming, of course, that you can read it.”
“’M’fine without maps.” He hiccupped again. “You could make a good pirate. You’re charming enough. And you have a sword.” He pointed to House’s cane.
House lifted it up and started examining it. In truth, he already hatched his most daring plan to date, which goes without saying that it was also the stupidest plan to date, while they were getting dressed before dinner: he slipped the eye-patch into the inner pocket of his jacket and really hoped he wouldn’t need it. However, since Wilson already decided his cane was a sword, there was no better moment to use it; the time for the Grand Back-up had come. He made a show of turning around and quickly put it on, hoping Wilson wasn’t watching. (Wow, sight with this thing really was as hindered as it appeared.) He returned to face Wilson and lifted up his ‘sword’. “How’s this?” he asked.
“Whoa! Where’d you come from?” Wilson hiccupped twice in a row, probably from the sheer shock of his new attire.
“From the seven seas,” House couldn’t resist. After all, it’s not as if he didn’t have any alcohol. He was allowed a little silliness of his own.
“Prove it,” Wilson said and looked doubtful.
“No problem.” House cleared his throat and elevated his cane to a horizontal stance. “On your guard, ye scurvy-ridden scallywag!” well, the accent was a little off, but he didn’t suppose Wilson would realise. He pretended to launch a few jabs into the air while standing as though in a sword-fight. He was very glad he was behaving foolishly for a noble cause - that is, eliciting a laugh from Wilson, who started dancing drunkenly towards him. “Stop, stop,” he said when Wilson crashed into him. “I don’t have any pieces of silver for you or your services.”
“What services may those be?” House was slightly bemused when Wilson’s tone had lowered an octave or so, into the realm of seduction.
“Uh… any services… that, uh, involve provocative dancing?” Wilson’s arms came to rest around his neck. “Away, wench! I’ll slice you with my sword!” It was no use to threaten an inebriated Wilson, because all he did was to tighten the wrap of his arms and dance even more provocatively, humming along. And while House was resistant to many things (fluffy kittens and the urge to vomit after drinking one of Cameron’s coffees first thing in the morning included) he was not capable of being impervious to Wilson’s body, especially in such a close proximity.
“I think I found the pistol, oh mighty- hic!-” he stumbled back a little and returned to his position against House, “where was I? Oh, yeah, mighty parrot?”
“You mean pirate?”
“Yes, you’re right, I mean pirate.” He swayed a little, using House’s neck as support.
It really seemed as though Wilson wasn’t going to remember a thing. So House did the only thing he could think of in this situation, and kissed him. Very hard. With a hint of tongue snaking between their teeth. It felt good, more than good, felt screamingly blissful. House slithered his hands over Wilson’s back, dragging him closer, shutting off all and every space between them. Indeed, he was pleased to note through the haze of alcohol and gratification, he was not the only one carrying a pistol.
Wilson’s mouth sucked marks and labels on his throat as he pushed him down the stairs to the cabin-deck. The music thumped a little louder here, but not so much that it caused a major disturbance to their interactions. Wilson pushed him against their door and caught his mouth in a hurried kiss again, hands striving to undo the belt or the buttons, whichever his hands tackled first in their constant search of his body. House, on his behalf, simply felt the luxuriant touch of Wilson’s hair. He wanted to do that for too long.
“Keys,” he finally said.
“Don’t you have the keys?”
“No, you have them. Both sets.”
“Oh, right.” Wilson fished in his inner pocket, looking for one or both, and managed to extract one card-key.
The door unlocked easily and they tumbled in. Wilson, out of a reflex cultivated over a long friendship, seized House before he fell - though due to the alcohol, even long-time reflexes can miss their aim; Wilson overshot his grab and they toppled onto the bed. Wilson looked up, a little bleary, into House’s eyes.
“Your eyes were never this blue,” he said. It struck House that this near, Wilson’s voice had some sort of an echo to it. It made him feel quite cosy.
“You never looked too closely,” he made his quick reply to the sudden sappiness which permeated Wilson’s voice. “You’re never this emotional, Jimmy.”
“I blame Byron,” Wilson said. His eyebrows furrowed. “Had to study the bastard at school. Romantic poets. Bah.”
House had to giggle at that, although in truth Wilson had said funnier things before. He internally blamed the alcohol, and kissed Wilson cravingly, pushing his weight forward into him. The half-done buttons on Wilson’s shirt dug into his skin, and he lifted himself to open them all; a stretch of tanned flesh and a thin trail of hair into places forbidden met his eyes. He whistled - he couldn’t help himself. Wilson narrowed his eyes.
“I’m not a wench!”
“No, of course not.”
“I am a pirate!”
“So where’s your sword?”
“You took it.”
“I didn’t. That’s my sword. Go find your own.”
“I have a pistol, I don’t need a sword.” That was true, House smirked. His fingers tingled as they walked over Wilson’s stomach, gently dragging his nails through the hairs, shoving them underneath the belt-buckle. He spent too many moments breaking it open, sensing Wilson’s eyes on him, urging him on silently; the tenting of his trousers was quite obvious. Determined to tease, he slowed down his dealings with the jeans’ zipper, tugging the tab down one bronze tooth at a time.
“Aaagh! Would you hurry up?” Wilson whined lengthily and since House couldn’t stand not touching him (plus the noise was starting to grate) he unlocked the zipper completely, latching onto the waist-band of Wilson’s jeans and pulling the trousers down roughly.
Wilson reached a hand into House’s hair, capturing the string of the eye-patch with one careless digit. It came off easily with his insistent plucking and House found his sight suddenly restored. All the better to see all of Wilson with.
“Now, what shall I do with you?” he said to a very bare Wilson. It turned out that oncologists’ boxers were stuck to the inside of their trousers, as demonstrated by the fact that Wilson was no longer wearing his. House enjoyed running lecherous eyefuls over his tense body, providing meandering hands to go along with the looks.
“I thought we agreed I am not a wench?” Wilson asked, the edge of breathlessness just peeking through.
“We agreed that you were not a wench. We didn’t agree that you weren’t my booty to do with as I please.” House attempted sitting on his haunches; when that proved unsuccessful, he simply pulled his whole body backwards on the bed-covers. His head bobbed above Wilson’s navel and he licked points of warmth around it, tip-toeing inside.
The rumble of Wilson’s moan resonated throughout his whole body, reaching House’s lips. He wouldn’t mind having that on a daily basis. Recklessly, he dipped his head down to Wilson’s cock and painted a streak on the rigid organ with his tongue. He didn’t pause to savour the silkiness or the heat of the hard flesh; he wanted to keep going, just to do it. There will be another time for careful explorations - right now, he needed this. It’s a good thing alcohol makes inhibitions evaporate.
Wilson was busy moaning his head off. Each and every vibration arrived promptly at his mouth and throat as he encapsulated Wilson’s cock, stiff and hot; he liked this. Liked it a lot. He more or less knew the idea - he’s a doctor, he doesn’t need diagrams - and led a pendulum motion with his head, sucking deeply, thoroughly, passionately.
Wilson’s hands somehow found their path into his hair and his neck and held on for dear life as his hips began to buck. House pushed them back down, thumbs at the hip-bones, and felt the explosion of climax.
Leaning on his elbows, he gazed at a rapidly-breathing, sated Wilson. He waited for something like this for a long time - longer than he cared to admit - and now that he saw this, this released Wilson, he wanted to see it again.
His shirt was already dangling at his shoulders, belt already unbuckled, trousers fit to split at the seams. Judging by Wilson’s interested looks, he arrived at the same conclusion.
“Well, we can’t let the chief pirate go without at least checking out his booty.” He forgot Wilson, however much alcohol went into him, was still able to retort quips back at their owners.
It’s happening very fast - clothes torn off him, hands all-over him, touching and almost gouging and wanting him- that was strange, but he supposed it was the alcohol talking for now. He didn’t mind - Wilson was around him, skin on skin, mouths fighting peacefully, tongues violent against one another in this desire, opening him and then he was in him, driving against him. House’s back scraped slightly against the bed-covers - a small price to pay. He didn’t care; the heat, the blessed heat of fervour in him, in him, in him was enough now. Wilson’s hand tilted his head backwards a little, his lips locating the recently-made marks again on his neck and zooming onto his clavicle - Wilson’s thrusts hitting the target over and over, frustratingly not enough, wonderfully - the globules of perspiration sliding together from body to body, yes, like this - he thought he heard someone scream, he wasn’t sure who it was but he didn’t care, this was too fucking good and - one last thrust, one last grasp of Wilson’s hand at his cock and he was done for, white rivulets streaming swiftly onto his and Wilson’s stomachs, the only feeling received one of extreme elation and the fever of Wilson coming within him, scalding like sweet fire.
House relaxed his body muscle by muscle. Wilson’s body, slumped like a sack, was draped over him, and if it weren’t for his leg he was sure it would be most comfortable. Right now, it would be a good idea to get Wilson to lie beside him, not on him. He pushed him a little, discovering that he was pliant enough to assist him. He used a corner of the bed-cover to wipe the congealing semen off their bellies, didn’t bother returning it to its previous state. They weren’t cold right now.
“Told you I’m fine without maps,” Wilson suddenly murmured, right into his ear. “I don’t need maps when I want to find booty.”
“You’d make a very good pirate, then.” House yawned and tried to stifle it.
“Better pirate than wench.”
“Possibly. Haven’t quite decided about that yet.”
“Maybe you should keep me around. Might help you make up your mind.”
Score! Wilson walked into his trap of his own volition. House celebrated his success with a brief mental manic laughter before deciding that the combination of rum and sex was good, but when the sex was earth-shattering it was better avoided.
He fell into sleep with an arm secured over Wilson’s torso. Can’t have the booty walking somewhere on its own.
It surprised House the next morning that Wilson plunged into their relationship rather than friendship… as though he remembered everything. This was a good thing, he supposed, as he stuffed his eye-patch somewhere Wilson couldn’t find it. He had a feeling he might need it in the future, and enjoyed the rest of the day until the cruise docked by poking Wilson’s ass with his cane when he wasn’t busy staring at it. He even forgot to be evil to the little kids.
It wasn’t until much later, when the cab dropped both of them off at House’s apartment that House thought there was something a little fishy with Cuddy’s allowance for the trip that didn’t fit into any public holiday and Wilson’s immediate acceptance of a relationship. Not that he was complaining about the last part.
Of course, until Wilson told him - cunningly, five months later - House didn’t know that prior to the impromptu holiday Wilson, in absence of a sympathetic shoulder, had gone to Cuddy, blabbed it all out and begged her to do something about the situation. Not very like Wilson, he admitted to himself when he heard the story, but at least Wilson’s Grand Scheme had far surpassed his own. In future, he told himself, he’d either leave clever schemes to Wilson or go straight to the back-up plan and behave like a pirate, since that seemed to work. Especially when it came to seducing Wilson into the bedroom.
Author: LadyMurha
Pairing/Fandom: House M.D. - House/Wilson
Rated: NC17
A/N: prompt - 097. House/Wilson -- pirate sex! For get_house_laid Round #2. Self-beta'd and fresh out the oven! (That means, any mistakes are mine. Feel free to slap me upside the head or just point them out.) Also, this is a crack!fic because pirate!sex just begged to be written as such.
Summary: House and Wilson get sent to a cruise on the Caribbean waters. House, meanwhile, is attempting to find a way into Wilson's pants. What follows is... well, pirate!sex. Disclaimer: I would so love to see House and Wilson doing this for real. However, that's only the case if Shore decides it is so for he is the mighty ruler of the House universe. For now, this lives in my imagination. And yours. Tehee.
“This is a joke, right?” House stood to his feet, clutching his cane, face displaying disbelief. “No one in their right mind would do that.”
“Firstly, sit down. And secondly, I just did. What’s wrong with that?” Cuddy had a different sort of disbelief across her visage.
“You’re the Queen of Crazy for suggesting that. No boss would send a struggling diagnostician and the head of Oncology on a cruise to the Caribbean while people are sick and possibly dying.”
“Would you rather I’d go?” Cuddy asked, feigning seriousness. “Actually, don’t answer that. It’ll be hell to pay for whatever stunts you pull when I’m away.”
“Aw, don’t say that. I’m very well trained.”
“Not on my watch, apparently.”
“It is on your watch, actually. It’s your paperwork that prevents you from seeing the actions of my kind heart.” He tapped his cane against the floor. “So why do I and Wilson get the privilege?” House really was bewildered about that point, and it is not often that he’s bewildered about something. He only pretended refusal to find out what she was planning, anyway.
“The last accounted for holiday leave that you and Wilson took was nearly two years ago. About time, I’d say.”
Well, if she was willing to send them aw- wait a minute. Brain clicking into gear, House settled backwards into his chair. “You’re either hiding something from me or you want something from me.”
Cuddy, amazingly, shook her head. “Believe it or not, I’m being mature and altruistic for once.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “Just go. You need it.”
House rose almost immediately and limped to the door. He nearly closed it when Cuddy heard a faint “you definitely have ulterior motives!” and then the door shut, and silence fell.
Alarmingly to whoever would have been present in her office at that exact moment, Cuddy grinned wickedly.
“This is pretty roomy,” House said conversationally to Wilson as he entered the space that was to be their cabin for the next five days. “Oh, look, there’s even a hammock.” He glanced sideways, noticing the bed frame for two and then over to Wilson, who appeared to be attacked by a pair of suitcases on wheels. “This means I get the bed. Disability spaces and all that, you know.”
Wilson only panted in return, laying the luggage against the wall. Leaning his arms on the dresser and nearly doubling over, he replied with a jumbled sentence that sounded like “Oh, yes, completely fair.” It took him a few inhales to regain the power of organised speech. “There’s no reason we can’t share the bed. It’s big enough.”
House shrugged while making his way around the room, careful to stop his shoulders rising too fast, too high. “Fine by me.”
Wilson took a peek at this nonchalant, explorative House, shrugged himself, and set about the task of unpacking.
Wilson! Same bed! Four nights! House’s mind (the tiny analytic-cum-sensible part) roared triumphantly. How long had he waited for this? Good thing Wilson got rid of his last wife. Or vice-versa, it really wasn’t important now. Well, House plotted, he’ll be ensuring there won’t be any future wives to get rid of. He congratulated himself (mentally) with a manic cackle on bringing along his fake eye-patch, the only one of two remnants to the best Halloween party Princeton Plainsboro ever hosted. That’ll make for the back-up strategy if all else fails.
Now… how is he going to execute his grand (non-detailed) scheme without freaking Wilson out?
Three days of Caribbean sunshine and exotic cocktails. Three days of lounging on the deck-chairs and tormenting innocent children (they must’ve done something in their past lives. He’s just helping karma along).
Three whole days of numerous plans gone to waste.
With two days and a night to go, House was getting a teensy on the impatient side.
Come on, O brilliant brain. Gimme something!
The one plan he really didn’t want to use was the “I like you, let’s bang” one. He tried using it before and knew - oh, how badly he knew - that it can end with a painful toe for at least three months. If Wilson really took umbrage at his suggestion, probably four.
Okay, plan B. Or Z, depending on your point of view. Really bottom of the barrel kind of plan.
Bathing skins in warm sunlight and UV rays, he lowered his sunglasses half-way down his eye-line. “Hey, Wilson,” he said. “How long do you think that party thing they’re preparing tonight is gonna last?”
Wilson lowered his own sunglasses, looked around the deck. There really weren’t that many people significantly younger than the both of them. “With their stamina? I’m not giving it any hour past one.”
“I was going for after eleven, actually. Are you so desperate to par-tay that you’re giving them that long?” House slid his glasses back up his nose.
“Nah, I just hoped they’d be capable of showing a little more life than they are currently displaying.”
“You know, if it really doesn’t last that long, we can always do our own party.” And Wilson will ask him what he means; he’s gonna pull his best Marilyn Monroe cutie-pie expression, Wilson melts, back to the cabin…
“I somehow doubt that there are strippers anywhere on this vessel, House.”
Oh, damn.
The night was warm and the thump-thump-thump of music radiated through the floor-boards of the deck, for some reason. Or House imagined that last bit, for dramatic effect. He could still very definitely hear it, though. He turned around, seeking Wilson- there he was, a slight imbalance in his step. The reason for the funny walk nestled in his arm, a half-full bottle of rum they snuck out of the hall where everyone danced and enjoyed themselves in the heat that began to stifle. House just exclaimed he needed fresh air and limped outside - three, two, one and Wilson was hot on his heels. They walked (or rather, one limped and the other stumbled) about the deck, observing the soft whooshing of the waves as they crashed against the helm and sides of the cruise.
“I can really see pirates attacking us, you - hic! - know,” Wilson said. He lifted the bottle above his head and spun a full circle. “Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of rum!” he took a hefty swig and wiped his mouth. House lounged against one of the hand-rails circling the entire edge of the deck. “You want some?” Wilson pointed the bottle in his direction.
“No, thank you, Secret Keeper of the Treasure,” House remarked. “Any more of that and you might need a map to get downstairs. Assuming, of course, that you can read it.”
“’M’fine without maps.” He hiccupped again. “You could make a good pirate. You’re charming enough. And you have a sword.” He pointed to House’s cane.
House lifted it up and started examining it. In truth, he already hatched his most daring plan to date, which goes without saying that it was also the stupidest plan to date, while they were getting dressed before dinner: he slipped the eye-patch into the inner pocket of his jacket and really hoped he wouldn’t need it. However, since Wilson already decided his cane was a sword, there was no better moment to use it; the time for the Grand Back-up had come. He made a show of turning around and quickly put it on, hoping Wilson wasn’t watching. (Wow, sight with this thing really was as hindered as it appeared.) He returned to face Wilson and lifted up his ‘sword’. “How’s this?” he asked.
“Whoa! Where’d you come from?” Wilson hiccupped twice in a row, probably from the sheer shock of his new attire.
“From the seven seas,” House couldn’t resist. After all, it’s not as if he didn’t have any alcohol. He was allowed a little silliness of his own.
“Prove it,” Wilson said and looked doubtful.
“No problem.” House cleared his throat and elevated his cane to a horizontal stance. “On your guard, ye scurvy-ridden scallywag!” well, the accent was a little off, but he didn’t suppose Wilson would realise. He pretended to launch a few jabs into the air while standing as though in a sword-fight. He was very glad he was behaving foolishly for a noble cause - that is, eliciting a laugh from Wilson, who started dancing drunkenly towards him. “Stop, stop,” he said when Wilson crashed into him. “I don’t have any pieces of silver for you or your services.”
“What services may those be?” House was slightly bemused when Wilson’s tone had lowered an octave or so, into the realm of seduction.
“Uh… any services… that, uh, involve provocative dancing?” Wilson’s arms came to rest around his neck. “Away, wench! I’ll slice you with my sword!” It was no use to threaten an inebriated Wilson, because all he did was to tighten the wrap of his arms and dance even more provocatively, humming along. And while House was resistant to many things (fluffy kittens and the urge to vomit after drinking one of Cameron’s coffees first thing in the morning included) he was not capable of being impervious to Wilson’s body, especially in such a close proximity.
“I think I found the pistol, oh mighty- hic!-” he stumbled back a little and returned to his position against House, “where was I? Oh, yeah, mighty parrot?”
“You mean pirate?”
“Yes, you’re right, I mean pirate.” He swayed a little, using House’s neck as support.
It really seemed as though Wilson wasn’t going to remember a thing. So House did the only thing he could think of in this situation, and kissed him. Very hard. With a hint of tongue snaking between their teeth. It felt good, more than good, felt screamingly blissful. House slithered his hands over Wilson’s back, dragging him closer, shutting off all and every space between them. Indeed, he was pleased to note through the haze of alcohol and gratification, he was not the only one carrying a pistol.
Wilson’s mouth sucked marks and labels on his throat as he pushed him down the stairs to the cabin-deck. The music thumped a little louder here, but not so much that it caused a major disturbance to their interactions. Wilson pushed him against their door and caught his mouth in a hurried kiss again, hands striving to undo the belt or the buttons, whichever his hands tackled first in their constant search of his body. House, on his behalf, simply felt the luxuriant touch of Wilson’s hair. He wanted to do that for too long.
“Keys,” he finally said.
“Don’t you have the keys?”
“No, you have them. Both sets.”
“Oh, right.” Wilson fished in his inner pocket, looking for one or both, and managed to extract one card-key.
The door unlocked easily and they tumbled in. Wilson, out of a reflex cultivated over a long friendship, seized House before he fell - though due to the alcohol, even long-time reflexes can miss their aim; Wilson overshot his grab and they toppled onto the bed. Wilson looked up, a little bleary, into House’s eyes.
“Your eyes were never this blue,” he said. It struck House that this near, Wilson’s voice had some sort of an echo to it. It made him feel quite cosy.
“You never looked too closely,” he made his quick reply to the sudden sappiness which permeated Wilson’s voice. “You’re never this emotional, Jimmy.”
“I blame Byron,” Wilson said. His eyebrows furrowed. “Had to study the bastard at school. Romantic poets. Bah.”
House had to giggle at that, although in truth Wilson had said funnier things before. He internally blamed the alcohol, and kissed Wilson cravingly, pushing his weight forward into him. The half-done buttons on Wilson’s shirt dug into his skin, and he lifted himself to open them all; a stretch of tanned flesh and a thin trail of hair into places forbidden met his eyes. He whistled - he couldn’t help himself. Wilson narrowed his eyes.
“I’m not a wench!”
“No, of course not.”
“I am a pirate!”
“So where’s your sword?”
“You took it.”
“I didn’t. That’s my sword. Go find your own.”
“I have a pistol, I don’t need a sword.” That was true, House smirked. His fingers tingled as they walked over Wilson’s stomach, gently dragging his nails through the hairs, shoving them underneath the belt-buckle. He spent too many moments breaking it open, sensing Wilson’s eyes on him, urging him on silently; the tenting of his trousers was quite obvious. Determined to tease, he slowed down his dealings with the jeans’ zipper, tugging the tab down one bronze tooth at a time.
“Aaagh! Would you hurry up?” Wilson whined lengthily and since House couldn’t stand not touching him (plus the noise was starting to grate) he unlocked the zipper completely, latching onto the waist-band of Wilson’s jeans and pulling the trousers down roughly.
Wilson reached a hand into House’s hair, capturing the string of the eye-patch with one careless digit. It came off easily with his insistent plucking and House found his sight suddenly restored. All the better to see all of Wilson with.
“Now, what shall I do with you?” he said to a very bare Wilson. It turned out that oncologists’ boxers were stuck to the inside of their trousers, as demonstrated by the fact that Wilson was no longer wearing his. House enjoyed running lecherous eyefuls over his tense body, providing meandering hands to go along with the looks.
“I thought we agreed I am not a wench?” Wilson asked, the edge of breathlessness just peeking through.
“We agreed that you were not a wench. We didn’t agree that you weren’t my booty to do with as I please.” House attempted sitting on his haunches; when that proved unsuccessful, he simply pulled his whole body backwards on the bed-covers. His head bobbed above Wilson’s navel and he licked points of warmth around it, tip-toeing inside.
The rumble of Wilson’s moan resonated throughout his whole body, reaching House’s lips. He wouldn’t mind having that on a daily basis. Recklessly, he dipped his head down to Wilson’s cock and painted a streak on the rigid organ with his tongue. He didn’t pause to savour the silkiness or the heat of the hard flesh; he wanted to keep going, just to do it. There will be another time for careful explorations - right now, he needed this. It’s a good thing alcohol makes inhibitions evaporate.
Wilson was busy moaning his head off. Each and every vibration arrived promptly at his mouth and throat as he encapsulated Wilson’s cock, stiff and hot; he liked this. Liked it a lot. He more or less knew the idea - he’s a doctor, he doesn’t need diagrams - and led a pendulum motion with his head, sucking deeply, thoroughly, passionately.
Wilson’s hands somehow found their path into his hair and his neck and held on for dear life as his hips began to buck. House pushed them back down, thumbs at the hip-bones, and felt the explosion of climax.
Leaning on his elbows, he gazed at a rapidly-breathing, sated Wilson. He waited for something like this for a long time - longer than he cared to admit - and now that he saw this, this released Wilson, he wanted to see it again.
His shirt was already dangling at his shoulders, belt already unbuckled, trousers fit to split at the seams. Judging by Wilson’s interested looks, he arrived at the same conclusion.
“Well, we can’t let the chief pirate go without at least checking out his booty.” He forgot Wilson, however much alcohol went into him, was still able to retort quips back at their owners.
It’s happening very fast - clothes torn off him, hands all-over him, touching and almost gouging and wanting him- that was strange, but he supposed it was the alcohol talking for now. He didn’t mind - Wilson was around him, skin on skin, mouths fighting peacefully, tongues violent against one another in this desire, opening him and then he was in him, driving against him. House’s back scraped slightly against the bed-covers - a small price to pay. He didn’t care; the heat, the blessed heat of fervour in him, in him, in him was enough now. Wilson’s hand tilted his head backwards a little, his lips locating the recently-made marks again on his neck and zooming onto his clavicle - Wilson’s thrusts hitting the target over and over, frustratingly not enough, wonderfully - the globules of perspiration sliding together from body to body, yes, like this - he thought he heard someone scream, he wasn’t sure who it was but he didn’t care, this was too fucking good and - one last thrust, one last grasp of Wilson’s hand at his cock and he was done for, white rivulets streaming swiftly onto his and Wilson’s stomachs, the only feeling received one of extreme elation and the fever of Wilson coming within him, scalding like sweet fire.
House relaxed his body muscle by muscle. Wilson’s body, slumped like a sack, was draped over him, and if it weren’t for his leg he was sure it would be most comfortable. Right now, it would be a good idea to get Wilson to lie beside him, not on him. He pushed him a little, discovering that he was pliant enough to assist him. He used a corner of the bed-cover to wipe the congealing semen off their bellies, didn’t bother returning it to its previous state. They weren’t cold right now.
“Told you I’m fine without maps,” Wilson suddenly murmured, right into his ear. “I don’t need maps when I want to find booty.”
“You’d make a very good pirate, then.” House yawned and tried to stifle it.
“Better pirate than wench.”
“Possibly. Haven’t quite decided about that yet.”
“Maybe you should keep me around. Might help you make up your mind.”
Score! Wilson walked into his trap of his own volition. House celebrated his success with a brief mental manic laughter before deciding that the combination of rum and sex was good, but when the sex was earth-shattering it was better avoided.
He fell into sleep with an arm secured over Wilson’s torso. Can’t have the booty walking somewhere on its own.
It surprised House the next morning that Wilson plunged into their relationship rather than friendship… as though he remembered everything. This was a good thing, he supposed, as he stuffed his eye-patch somewhere Wilson couldn’t find it. He had a feeling he might need it in the future, and enjoyed the rest of the day until the cruise docked by poking Wilson’s ass with his cane when he wasn’t busy staring at it. He even forgot to be evil to the little kids.
It wasn’t until much later, when the cab dropped both of them off at House’s apartment that House thought there was something a little fishy with Cuddy’s allowance for the trip that didn’t fit into any public holiday and Wilson’s immediate acceptance of a relationship. Not that he was complaining about the last part.
Of course, until Wilson told him - cunningly, five months later - House didn’t know that prior to the impromptu holiday Wilson, in absence of a sympathetic shoulder, had gone to Cuddy, blabbed it all out and begged her to do something about the situation. Not very like Wilson, he admitted to himself when he heard the story, but at least Wilson’s Grand Scheme had far surpassed his own. In future, he told himself, he’d either leave clever schemes to Wilson or go straight to the back-up plan and behave like a pirate, since that seemed to work. Especially when it came to seducing Wilson into the bedroom.