(no subject)
Title: House Keeping: Assurances
Author: magie_05
Pairing: House/Wilson domestic
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: More tales of House/Wilson domesticity*. Wilson is incredibly stressed out, and House, being the sweet and caring kind of guy that he is, figures out exactly what he can do to ‘help.’
*If you’ve recently added me to your friends list or just wandered in here, thanks and welcome! This is my ~*~super secret~*~ domestic-type series, if you were wondering: a series that takes place in a psychotic (but happy) AU in which House and Wilson have decided to live together for good. You can read previous installments here, but each can be read on its own. Or ignored altogether, lol.
Thanks to bmax67 for being my poison-tester on some of the more idiotic of these stories - she's not dead yet ♥
Wilson was starting to wonder if it was possible to die from paperwork.
His neck was killing him. His back creaked every time he managed to get up from his desk, a luxury that was becoming progressively more infrequent. His eyes felt as though someone had squeezed all the liquid out of them. This grant proposal was sucking the life force out of him - mostly because everyone involved was miraculously busy when it was time to get the damn thing down on paper. Between constant paperwork and meetings and patients and having a new water heater installed, Wilson hadn’t had a moment to spare for anything else all week.
Especially not for House’s immaturity.
“Not now,” he found himself saying for what had to be the third time in as many hours, reaching back and plucking House’s hand off his ass.
“You do realize that ‘now’ implies there will be a ‘later?’” House said into his ear (in what was supposed to be a seductive, breathy whisper and ended up being unpleasantly warm and tickly). “Personally I’m hoping for this afternoon right after lunch: you, me, the supply closet downstairs, boxes of tourniquets and medical-grade lubricant…”
Wilson snorted and twisted away from House’s mouth, slamming his file cabinet shut and returning to his desk. “Sure, House. And afterwards, you’ll realize that deep down you’ve always loved daisies, unicorns, and clinic duty, and you and I will turn our home into a safe haven for rescued kittens. Any other grand fantasies you’d like to add, or can I get back to work?”
He reached for a copy of last year’s financial report, wanting to check a figure that couldn’t be right; he’d have to adjust the budget - when House’s ass plopped right down on his Very Important Papers.
“Someone’s cranky,” he announced, crossing his wrists over the handle of his cane, getting comfortable. He spoke conversationally - in the exact tone he used to employ when annoying Wilson about his wives. “What’s the matter, Jimmy? Problems at home under the sheets?”
Wilson shut his eyes to keep them from twitching. “No, actually, problems at work with a huge project and a certain troublesome coworker.” He pushed at House’s hip and started tugging at the already-wrinkled page. “Get off.”
House raised his eyebrows. “Love to.” Wilson barely suppressed the urge to slam his forehead repeatedly against the desk. “Unfortunately, my ‘bedmate’ and I are experiencing a little difference of opinion; seems he’s suddenly and inexplicably decided he’s not having sex with me.”
“I’m not ‘not’ having sex with you, House.” He turned back to his computer and started clicking through his saved files, since he’d have to replace the page with House’s ass-print on it, anyway. “I’m not having sex with you right at this moment because I’m busy, and we’re at work, and you’re being a dick. Off the desk.”
He did climb down, but slowly, taking great care to be as obnoxious as he could, swinging his ass as exaggeratingly close to Wilson’s face as possible as he turned away. “So you’re saying this is an issue of location?” he said loudly from the center of the room, leaning jauntily on his cane, trying to figure this imagined problem out like it was one of his cases. Wilson felt his head starting to pound. “That would make sense…except for the fact that you haven’t been busy or at work every waking moment during the two weeks you’ve been mysteriously chaste.”
“You, on the other hand, have been a dick every waking moment for that long. And it hasn’t even been two weeks-”
“Twelve days,” House told him, his voice low with sincerity.
“That’s not...” …there was no way it had been that long without Wilson realizing it…surely he hadn’t reached the age where he couldn’t remember the details of the last time he’d had sex… “We just -” he was going to remind House about that night over the weekend with the beer and the recliner…but then he remembered he’d gotten paged in the middle of it. “Tuesday!” he finally asserted, relieved for some reason he couldn’t identify. “Tuesday night during that stupid ‘Deadliest Catch’ marathon, remember? You got all pissed off because we forgot to set the TiVo.”
House blinked at him. “That was last Tuesday.”
Wilson stared down at his desk for a moment, covered in its highlighters and empty coffee cups and crumpled bits of paper.
So maybe he had gotten too caught up in the paperwork, and maybe he didn’t have the energy he once did to balance work with the full-time, soul-vacuuming task of keeping House content, but he did not have time to beat himself up about it. “Cancer research trumps your little ‘problem.’ And no offense, pal, but I have a feeling you’ve gone a lot longer than this without sex in years past.” Of course, he had this feeling primarily because he himself had lived like House’s eunuch for months before a surge of alcohol, testosterone, and fear put an end to it. Still. “You’ll survive.”
“Sure, I will,” House said annoyingly. “But I know all too well what happens when Little Jimmy doesn’t get any play - you get all clench-y and frustrated and start overreacting to everything that comes out of my mouth…”
“I’m not overreacting! House!” He bit the inside of his cheek when he realized he’d raised his voice and eyebrows. “If I’m frustrated,” he started again with forced calm, “it’s because you’ve been in here all morning pawing at me - distracting me from my work while avoiding yours. Go put in some clinic hours until I’m done, and if you still want to discuss this private matter once we get home...”
“Why wait?” House plopped down into the seat in front of him, slouched down and spread his legs a little too far apart, tapping the cane rapidly up and down between his knees - a true master of subtlety. “I don’t have a case. You don’t have any appointments ‘til four.” There was no reason to ask how or why House knew that. “You’ve been obsessing over this clinical trial-”
“Grant proposal,” Wilson reminded him for at least the sixteenth time.
“ - for weeks now. I’m not a doctor or anything, but it can’t be healthy.” He leaned forward in his chair and pulled out all the stops, flashing those eyes and lowering his voice seductively. “How about hanging up the lab coat for the afternoon, hmm? We’ll get out of here for a few hours, take a quick trip to the ‘Netherlands’. Make us both feel better.”
Oh, God, he had to start with the euphemisms. “Did you ever consider that there might be ways for you to express your sudden concern for me other than sexual harassment?”
The eyes kept flashing. “Come on; you know I’m right. A little ‘rolling the kishke’ could do both you and your patients a lot of good. Don’t you wanna be able to hand out those patented ‘sorry-you’re-dying’ fake grins of yours?” House was grinning calmly at Wilson’s numb, slack-jawed annoyance. “You need to relax. Preferably on your back, with your ankles around my - ”
“As irresistible as you’re making yourself right now,” Wilson snapped and slammed a drawer shut, “I do have responsibilities other than your sexual gratification.”
House opened his mouth indignantly and Wilson cut him off, having reached his capacity for bullshit. “And no, I’m not getting tired of you, or cheating on you, or whatever crap you were going to invent to try and make me feel guilty. Nothing’s changed with how I feel about you. It’s much simpler than that: I’m a grownup, I’m busy, and I don’t need to satisfy every passing sexual urge the moment that I have one because I am not a horny, emotionally stunted fourteen-year-old boy!” he finished, slightly out of breath with spots of heat in his cheeks.
He watched House deflate a little, his shoulders sinking, scowling at Wilson with those bright, impudent eyes. “Fine. I’ll leave you to your work, since you’re obviously having so much fun.” He stood and stalked across the room, wrenching the office door open with an almost audible rush of air. “Let me know when you get tired of playing grownup.”
The door slammed shut behind him and Wilson rolled his eyes, diving back into the sea of papers.
The next morning was the first in days he awoke without being felt up or slobbered on.
He wasn’t entirely surprised to find himself alone; House had been quiet and moody all evening, holing himself off in dark rooms and speaking only in low, irritated grunts. Which was just as well, as Wilson wound up dozing off on the sofa before dinner, and again while lying in bed, half-heartedly waiting for House to join him.
He felt more annoyed than guilty, waking up to nothing but a screeching alarm clock. House could be more pouty than Wilson’s past two ex-wives put together when it involved sex - as if one refusal constituted a rejection of House entirely. Obviously it was more about House’s need for reassurance than the act itself, and Wilson tasted the tiniest bit of guilt, staring at the unused pillow next to him, remembering House’s slumped, defeated posture last night…
But he wasn’t going to apologize for being an adult.
Everything would settle down in another week or so and they could work on getting out of this brief slump. Meanwhile, Wilson resigned himself to maturity, making his way down the hall and dreading the upcoming eight hours of paperwork -
He had to stop in the kitchen doorway to confirm that he wasn’t still dreaming.
House was awake at 8:02 in the morning. Not only awake, but dressed. Not only dressed, but showered, if the still-damp curls of hair at the nape of his neck were anything to go by. He was standing over the counter with his back to Wilson…making coffee.
Something was distinctly wrong.
“Hey,” he said cautiously, inching slowly into the room, taking small steps in case of booby traps.
House glanced back over his shoulder and said “Morning,” but in a clear, booming voice, not in the sullen grumble Wilson had come to expect after last night.
“Did you sleep?” he asked, certain that House was only conscious because he’d stayed up all night feeling sorry for himself.
“Guest room.” He watched House open a cupboard and extract two coffee mugs. “Though technically, I guess that’s a misnomer, since we don’t exactly welcome a lot of overnight visitors. ‘The Room With All Our Old Crap In It,’ anyway.”
He turned around and handed Wilson a cup of black coffee. His shirt wasn’t ironed (to Wilson’s relief), but it was a particular color - a deep indigo - that masked any rumpledness, brought out his eyes, made him look five years younger…
“You could’ve come to bed,” Wilson blurted awkwardly, dragging his eyes away. As he reached past House for the sugar, he caught the scent of clean skin and shampoo, toothpaste and maybe an infinitesimal drop of cologne.
He made a mental note to check the thermostat when he felt a chill trickling down his spine.
“Actually, I couldn’t have.” The toaster suddenly popped up, and House sidled towards it, using the counter for support. “You were sprawled across the bed like some kind of dead farm animal,” he said lightly as he squeezed frosting onto two sugar-loaded, nutritionally worthless, frozen pastry-like rectangles. Wilson watched him licking the excess frosting off his fingertips. “It was either the guest room or the two inches of free space by your feet.”
Wilson frowned at him. “You don’t usually have a problem with shoving me out of your way in the middle of the night - you seem to take great pleasure in it, in fact. Sure this wasn’t a convenient excuse to avoid talking to me?”
House shrugged and thrust the plate into Wilson’s face. “Blueberry,” he said simply, and started limping towards the door.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Wilson stuttered when he finished staring dumbly at the plate in his hands. “You spend all day yesterday trying to molest me at my desk, sulk like a four-year-old when you don’t get your way, sleep in the spare room…and now you’re…making me breakfast? How does that work?”
“I already had breakfast.” This apparently being reason enough in House-logic, he smirked and grabbed one of Wilson’s toaster pastries, biting off a corner before dropping it back to the plate, still unable to withstand the temptation of stealing Wilson’s food.
“House.”
By that long sigh and the way he was looking at the floor, Wilson could tell he was bracing himself for the truth. “You’re busy,” he eventually murmured. “Stressed out over saving the planet from cancer or whatever it is you’re working on. Maybe I thought you needed to eat and sleep through the night. Got a problem with that?”
He looked at House for a long time, trying to catch that diabolical expression of an eight-year-old boy dropping cherry bombs into toilets, and he didn’t see it. So either House was getting better at hiding his insanity…or he was being sincere.
The frozen breakfast pastries actually weren’t half-bad.
After rounds, Wilson spent one of the most productive mornings in recent memory.
House didn’t barge in once. He didn’t get a visit from any annoyed fellows or a call from Cuddy, telling him that House had insulted a concerned mother or broken any large pieces of hospital equipment. Undisturbed, he made a lot of headway with the proposal, completing whole sections before his first appointment. At this rate, he could have everything signed, stamped, and stapled by the end of the week. Amazing what one could do when he wasn’t being plagued by an immature partner.
Still, as the hours ticked by with no interludes of insanity, he couldn’t get over a certain feeling of loss. He hadn’t meant to hurt House’s feelings, or to imply that work was more important. All he’d wanted was for House to show a tiny hint of self-control, not to turn it into some grand gesture designed to make Wilson feel like the bad guy. Things would be so much simpler if House would just drop the act, barge in here, and start trying to cop a feel like any normal afternoon.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted sex. After all, they were still pretty damn fantastic at it, never having mastered all the other functions of relationships. Wilson scribbled his signature on another chart and smirked a little to himself, remembering that night a few weeks ago when they were both on the sofa, and there was nothing on TV, and House was channeling his vast stores of curiosity into his hands and mouth, and…
And - uh - hello.
That was…unexpected. He figured it was a good thing he was safely behind his desk, because these slacks really didn’t offer a lot of room for these - situations.
Wilson shifted in his seat, cleared his throat and pushed all thoughts of sex from his brain. Cancer. Cancer, cancer, cancer. And research. That was the task at hand. He had to focus on finishing these charts so he could continue working on the proposal, and any conciliatory acts between House and himself could wait until after business hours…
…right after business hours, maybe, when he could still taste coffee in the depths of House’s mouth, still hear the afternoon sounds of kids playing down the street as he slowly undid that dark blue shirt, shedding clothes while warm angles of sunlight bled through the rattan blinds, illuminating every minute detail of House’s skin -
After work. Right now, he was busy writing prescriptions for a patient with rectal cancer whose solid waste drained into a plastic bag. Very painful and unappealing, so there was really no reason whatsoever for Wilson's body to be slipping out of control right now, demanding his higher brain’s attention more forcefully than it had done in years…
Or maybe not years. There was that banquet a few months ago at the Hilton barely a half-hour away, when he had the three glasses of merlot and House was wearing a tux; he remembered nothing else about the dinner except that they slipped off before dessert was even brought out, and that he ended up blowing both $200 on an emergency last-minute room…and House.
Twice.
This was ridiculous. There was no reason for him to be this stupidly turned on just because House put on a nice shirt, made him a processed breakfast…and was actually making an effort to control himself, even though his all-or-nothing cosmology made that so difficult…was letting his hair grow out lately, so that it fluffed up around his ears, or clung to his forehead in sweaty spikes while Wilson watched from above, rocking desperately on top of him…
Somehow he ended up in House’s office.
“Hey, House, what’s…oh.”
House was doing research.
And not even the kind that involved zoophilia and hard-to-explain credit card bills. Actual, medical research - currently, he was staring at a screen of sample MRIs on his computer screen, a couple of open hardcover books on his desk, a pen in his mouth and reading glasses slipping down his nose. No TV, no blaring iPod, no toys. House was just…working.
Wilson had to sit down.
“What’s up?” House asked, leaning back in his chair with that open and curious look on his face, and Wilson grimaced a little at his unconscious pun. “Figured you’d be busy all day.”
“Yeah,” he said without really hearing himself, too focused on the movement of House’s Adam’s apple, the folds of denim around his crotch, the pen he was now twirling between his long, artful fingers… “Just…taking a break. You look like you’re keeping yourself busy.”
“Uh-huh.” His voice was casual and breezy, as if he hadn’t noticed Wilson’s flushed face or loosened tie. “Thought I’d give that ‘adulthood’ thingy a shot. You know - be a professional.”
“That’s great, House.” He didn’t even convince himself with that detached, dreamy tone of voice. “Very…impressive.” But all he could think about, as his eyes settled meaningfully on House’s lap, was going home tonight, and all the interesting things he could do between those lean, spread legs…
He had no idea how this had suddenly gotten so out of control, why his ears were ringing, pulse throbbing, eyes swimming in and out of focus. Physiologically, it didn’t make much sense that he was squirming in his chair just because his imagination was going into overdrive, because every nerve ending was firing sweet nothings at his hypothalamus, bypassing logic and the knowledge that it would be at least six more hours before he could do anything about it -
“Right,” House told him, as if in confirmation. “So, I guess I’ll be seeing you in about an hour? Grown-ups still take lunch breaks, don’t they?”
“Sure.” Wilson did his best to hide his panicky disappointment, ignoring a particularly forceful rush of adrenaline. “Sounds great.”
House stood, almost as if to show Wilson out. “Okay, then.”
“Okay,” he agreed hazily, even though he was moving closer to House rather than the door. “See you later.”
“Later,” House nodded, right before leaning in for what Wilson promised himself would be a simple, midday kiss between discrete professionals, since there was no way he could act on his sudden, time-inappropriate desire now, especially after everything he’d said…
But his penis always had been a hypocrite.
Several seconds later, he was panting and House had let go of his cane to rest both hands on Wilson’s back. Before he could dive back in to pick up where that slow, indulgent kiss had left off, House leaned over to gaze exaggeratedly over Wilson’s shoulder. “Why, Jimmy. We are at work. Try and control yourself.”
That fake scandalous tone left no doubt in Wilson’s mind that House had planned this entire thing, from the guest room to the pastry to the reading glasses. “Shut up,” he rasped but was incapable of anger, crushing a small grin against House’s mouth.
Once he had House pressed into the opposite wall and unable to escape, he could dial it up a notch or seven, his heart rate skyrocketing, the brief contact turning his vague imaginings into full-out, pulsating urgency. House offered little reciprocation, apparently content to let Wilson ravish his mouth, neck, ears, collarbone -
“You know, I have to say - I’m picking up on a few mixed signals here,” he said shakily during one of the brief stints in which he had the full use of his mouth. “First you yell at me for distracting you, and then when I finally give you all the time and space you need to work, you’re all over me like flies on - ”
“No talking,” Wilson asserted, gently biting House’s lip to drive the point home. Of course, House’s misgivings didn’t extend further than his mouth, as his hips slid easily forward under Wilson’s hands.
Pressing against him, buried in his scent, Wilson felt their surroundings melt away, unconcerned about nosy nurses and glass walls. His blood was boiling, cells pulsing with want as it fully hit him just how long it had been -
“Hmpf,” House made an amused noise and slid his hands up Wilson’s back. “You just don’t know what you want, do you?”
Really, it would have been rude to ignore a straightforward prompt like that. “I know exactly what I want,” he pushed one word at a time into House’s ear while one hand worked open the top two buttons of that dark blue shirt.
He laughed silently when Wilson started sliding a palm over his thin, cotton t-shirt, chortling into the kiss. “Wilson.”
Those two, heavy syllables sent a renewed flare of heat down Wilson’s spine. He lost himself in a frantic stream of kisses, heart pounding, blood rushing through his ears as he tried to work both hands down the back of House’s pants. “House.”
He felt a strong tug at the back of his hair. “Wilson.”
“Oh, God, House,” he answered huskily, and made soft needy noises as he ground his hips against the impressive bulge of House’s jeans.
Suddenly House gripped both of his shoulders almost painfully, pushing him back. “Wilson.”
It was around this point that Wilson noticed the room’s sudden shift in light. While panting and staring dazedly at House’s mouth, he became aware of a large blur in the corner of his eye. When House’s gaze moved towards the door, he had no choice but to turn his head with the arthritic timing of someone in a Hitchcock film.
Wilson’s recently hired assistant stood in the doorway, her normally energetic and fresh-faced demeanor replaced by a look of abject horror, clutching file folders to her chest. “You…weren’t in your office, and you said you needed these ASAP, and I was going to ask Dr. House if he’d seen you, and I didn’t know you were….uh…”
After apologizing profusely and giving the girl the rest of the day off to deal with this revelation, he turned around to dare House to say anything about hiring voyeuristic morons or workplace propriety…
But below the amusement, House was obviously still aroused, heavy-lidded and breathing deeply, leaning back against the wall with a dark look in his eyes. His lips were bright pink and his neck was wet and shiny from Wilson’s attention -
“We’re going,” he said, tugging House in by his loosened collar. “Meet me out front in ten minutes.”
He didn’t think about the ethics or hypocrisy of going home with House at eleven o’clock in the morning, just stuffed all the necessary paperwork into his briefcase and made some calls to cover his patients. He was a department head, after all; he could delegate. It was part of being a good boss.
…Speaking of bosses, he detoured through the parking garage to avoid passing Cuddy’s office.
There was a long, torturous drive across town with House’s hand plastered to his thigh, a slamming front door, and a trail of clothing that stopped somewhere near the kitchen. If House made any smart-ass remarks, Wilson’s ears were ringing too loudly to hear, masking his own short grunts and harsh curses as he moved against House with hot, primal friction - straddling him to control the rhythm, thrusting against hard but silken flesh until House groaned and bucked up against him, until his own orgasm ripped through him like lightning.
As he collapsed panting into the sheets, it occurred to him that House was looking way too smug for a guy who’d come explosively about three seconds after Wilson touched him…
But in another breath, he was dozing, a leg draped over House’s damp stomach.
Wilson was pleasantly unsurprised when their post-nap caresses evolved into a post-nap make-out, which evolved several more times until House was pulling Wilson on top of him with a clear intent.
“Just think,” he said in a choked voice as Wilson slid eagerly inside him. “You could be slaving over a Xerox machine or making a spreadsheet right now.”
He grinned sheepishly, but House had a point. If they were going to leave work to have sex, it only made sense, Wilson decided, trembling as he started to move, a hand on House’s hip. For all the trouble they went to, might as well work in something a little more substantial than a two-minute, high-school-style romp…
The only thing that confused him was how fast this was going, why his ears were ringing again, and how incredibly hard he was -
Not that it was anything to complain about.
He timed his thrusts to the sleepy worship of House’s hands: slow and shallow while fingers worked through his hair, deep and rhythmic when House’s palms slid over his shoulders, hard and erratic and playful as the attention moved ever southward. By the time House’s blunt nails were digging into his hips, Wilson was fucking him hard enough to make their sturdy, Swedish bedframe tap the wall.
This time, the orgasm may have actually been lightning, as Wilson could have sworn his vision went blue during those final, breathtaking, world-shattering seconds -
“God!” House whisper-shouted at the end of a series of deliciously reckless moans, panting and positively drenched in sweat against the sun-lit sheets. “Okay,” he said between breaths, running fingers through Wilson’s damp hair, “Little Jimmy has almost redeemed himself for his behavior these past two weeks.”
Wilson pried his forehead off of House’s chest as a short laugh bubbled out of his over-taxed lungs, leaning forward for both a kiss and a last press of hips that made House’s whole body jerk.
He was going to take that comment to mean that House was successfully Reassured.
House fell asleep again afterwards, sprawled on his stomach with half of his limbs draped across Wilson’s body. He waited until House was making soft snuffling noises into the pillow before disentangling himself gently and going on a scavenger hunt for his clothes.
Even walking (or perhaps strutting) around half-naked in the dining room, digging under furniture for discarded socks and ties, Wilson could not wipe the rather idiotic grin off his face. If anything, his back and neck should be feeling exponentially worse after two vigorous sessions of bedroom aerobics, but somehow he felt better and more energetic than he had in weeks. He found himself whistling as he retrieved his briefcase and phone from the car, humming as he dialed the hospital to check on his staff.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to admit that House’s stupid, juvenile, sex-cures-nearly-everything theory was correct, but, well - the results spoke for themselves.
He was even feeling better about his grant proposal, spreading (slightly wrinkled) papers across the dining room table, taking a bite of his sandwich while his laptop booted up. Within an hour, figures starting making sense, sticky sentences were reworded, and the thing started to sound halfway coherent; another hour or so after that, he’d gotten more work done than in the past two weeks, and was in a much better mood.
He felt the idiotic grin return when he heard an obscure lounge song bouncing off the walls in House’s booming voice, presumably his oh-so-subtle way of announcing to the world that he’d just gotten laid.
Wilson was standing over the table organizing paperwork when House suddenly grabbed him from behind. “Hey,” he said, though it came out more like a gasp.
“You’re wearing clothes? You suck at the whole ‘Ditching Work To Have Outrageous Sex All Day’ thing.”
“I started late,” he mumbled, leaning his head back to let House bite at his neck.
House, it turned out, was dressed more appropriately - wearing his thin cotton bathrobe and (what felt like) nothing else at all underneath.
Well…not nothing.
This morning’s ‘situation’ had been an understandable anomaly, a combination of Wilson’s stress and guilt, House’s artful manipulation, and two weeks of abstinence. What followed was a perfectly natural progression, but…
This was getting a little insane. Chills were working down his spine, heat rising in his abdomen, that now-familiar ringing filling his ears. They weren’t teenagers, for God’s sake. There had to be a reason he was getting so overwhelmed at the mere thought of House touching him…
Or maybe he honestly was that horny.
“House, I’ve got - oh,” he felt his eyes drifting shut as House’s fingers teased his belt. “I’m not saying that this afternoon wasn’t exactly what I needed.” House made a smug, appreciative noise and started tonguing Wilson’s shoulder. “B-but, this proposal is due Friday. I can’t really afford to spend the whole day lying around half-naked with you…”
Of course, no sooner had it passed his lips than he realized what an excellent idea it was.
Later, much later, dressed in boxers and House’s previously discarded t-shirt, it occurred to Wilson that this whole day was very suspicious.
Not that he regretted it, or minded the laid-back atmosphere: his side pressed casually against House’s on the sofa, lights turned off, enjoying a thoughtless movie and a dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches and Coke. Surely it was just the massive amount of oxytocin currently coursing through the atmosphere that was making House’s hand sneak around his back to cup his hipbone, making it feel so natural to lean back against him. It was perfectly innocent when House started pushing his nose through Wilson’s hair, his breath and stifled laughter raising chills on Wilson’s scalp.
It wasn’t until Wilson’s vision narrowed and his heart rate sped up that he was forced to admit there might be some sort of a problem.
Of course, by this time, he was also shifting the plate of sandwiches aside to position himself over House’s lap, straddling him and prying his mouth open, hands sliding up and under that thin robe to latch onto House’s shoulders.
He started working on a theory when his ears began to ring, trying to pinpoint the moment when he had turned into some sort of sex fiend - but he was momentarily distracted by House’s hands slipping up the back of his shorts, the spit-slick finger working in rapid, needy circles around his opening.
By the time he buried himself face-first into the mattress, naked and panting and holding himself open for House’s cock, it had all become crystal clear.
At the moment, however, he was too busy to do anything about it. “House - oh - there…”
He felt House’s arms snake around his chest to hold on to his shoulders, House’s mouth on his back, House’s hips slamming against him as the minutes ticked by, striking every chord perfectly, gradually building up a ball of energy at the base of his spine -
He came so hard it almost hurt, and whimpered as House fucked him through the aftershocks.
It had taken longer this time, not surprisingly - and not like he was going to complain, seeing as how this shouldn’t have been physically possible in the first place. Still, Wilson had a theory, one that explained today’s cataclysmic events, the multiplicity, even his blue-tinged orgasms.
But it took several minutes of staring at the ceiling with House’s arm cushioning his neck until he regained the power of speech.
“Did you put the Viagra in my coffee or the pastry?”
House let out a long, shaky breath. “Coffee.”
Wilson made a sleepy noise of bitter triumph in his throat. “And if I had refused to drink out of the cup you gave me?”
“Put it in both,” came the sullen mumble from the other side of the bed.
Wilson sighed but made no move to shift away. “How many bottles? Should I be worried about bluish vision or morbid tumescence for the rest of my life?"
“Only twice the normal starting dose.”
“Really?” He was impressed at House’s restraint. “Wow.”
“Yeah. Worked like a charm. Probably exacerbated by your repressed suburban sexuality these past few weeks.”
“So the whole giving-me-space thing was just, what, foreplay? Did you ever intend to take me seriously?”
“Can we not ruin a perfectly nice afternoon by talking? Viagra needs natural sexual stimulation to work, right?”
“So?”
“Soooo - would you have jumped me in my office if I hadn’t given you space?”
He thought he got House’s point; if he hadn't jumped House in his office, then they wouldn't have ended up here, their sex life back on track and Wilson's frustrations sweated out into the now exceptionally dirty sheets. Poisoning Wilson with Viagra was actually a manifestation of House’s love and concern for him. Touching, really, if you put it under a microscope and squinted.
“You’re an asshole,” Wilson commented casually to the ceiling.
Then he rolled over to rest his head on the asshole’s chest.
Author: magie_05
Pairing: House/Wilson domestic
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: More tales of House/Wilson domesticity*. Wilson is incredibly stressed out, and House, being the sweet and caring kind of guy that he is, figures out exactly what he can do to ‘help.’
*If you’ve recently added me to your friends list or just wandered in here, thanks and welcome! This is my ~*~super secret~*~ domestic-type series, if you were wondering: a series that takes place in a psychotic (but happy) AU in which House and Wilson have decided to live together for good. You can read previous installments here, but each can be read on its own. Or ignored altogether, lol.
Thanks to bmax67 for being my poison-tester on some of the more idiotic of these stories - she's not dead yet ♥
Wilson was starting to wonder if it was possible to die from paperwork.
His neck was killing him. His back creaked every time he managed to get up from his desk, a luxury that was becoming progressively more infrequent. His eyes felt as though someone had squeezed all the liquid out of them. This grant proposal was sucking the life force out of him - mostly because everyone involved was miraculously busy when it was time to get the damn thing down on paper. Between constant paperwork and meetings and patients and having a new water heater installed, Wilson hadn’t had a moment to spare for anything else all week.
Especially not for House’s immaturity.
“Not now,” he found himself saying for what had to be the third time in as many hours, reaching back and plucking House’s hand off his ass.
“You do realize that ‘now’ implies there will be a ‘later?’” House said into his ear (in what was supposed to be a seductive, breathy whisper and ended up being unpleasantly warm and tickly). “Personally I’m hoping for this afternoon right after lunch: you, me, the supply closet downstairs, boxes of tourniquets and medical-grade lubricant…”
Wilson snorted and twisted away from House’s mouth, slamming his file cabinet shut and returning to his desk. “Sure, House. And afterwards, you’ll realize that deep down you’ve always loved daisies, unicorns, and clinic duty, and you and I will turn our home into a safe haven for rescued kittens. Any other grand fantasies you’d like to add, or can I get back to work?”
He reached for a copy of last year’s financial report, wanting to check a figure that couldn’t be right; he’d have to adjust the budget - when House’s ass plopped right down on his Very Important Papers.
“Someone’s cranky,” he announced, crossing his wrists over the handle of his cane, getting comfortable. He spoke conversationally - in the exact tone he used to employ when annoying Wilson about his wives. “What’s the matter, Jimmy? Problems at home under the sheets?”
Wilson shut his eyes to keep them from twitching. “No, actually, problems at work with a huge project and a certain troublesome coworker.” He pushed at House’s hip and started tugging at the already-wrinkled page. “Get off.”
House raised his eyebrows. “Love to.” Wilson barely suppressed the urge to slam his forehead repeatedly against the desk. “Unfortunately, my ‘bedmate’ and I are experiencing a little difference of opinion; seems he’s suddenly and inexplicably decided he’s not having sex with me.”
“I’m not ‘not’ having sex with you, House.” He turned back to his computer and started clicking through his saved files, since he’d have to replace the page with House’s ass-print on it, anyway. “I’m not having sex with you right at this moment because I’m busy, and we’re at work, and you’re being a dick. Off the desk.”
He did climb down, but slowly, taking great care to be as obnoxious as he could, swinging his ass as exaggeratingly close to Wilson’s face as possible as he turned away. “So you’re saying this is an issue of location?” he said loudly from the center of the room, leaning jauntily on his cane, trying to figure this imagined problem out like it was one of his cases. Wilson felt his head starting to pound. “That would make sense…except for the fact that you haven’t been busy or at work every waking moment during the two weeks you’ve been mysteriously chaste.”
“You, on the other hand, have been a dick every waking moment for that long. And it hasn’t even been two weeks-”
“Twelve days,” House told him, his voice low with sincerity.
“That’s not...” …there was no way it had been that long without Wilson realizing it…surely he hadn’t reached the age where he couldn’t remember the details of the last time he’d had sex… “We just -” he was going to remind House about that night over the weekend with the beer and the recliner…but then he remembered he’d gotten paged in the middle of it. “Tuesday!” he finally asserted, relieved for some reason he couldn’t identify. “Tuesday night during that stupid ‘Deadliest Catch’ marathon, remember? You got all pissed off because we forgot to set the TiVo.”
House blinked at him. “That was last Tuesday.”
Wilson stared down at his desk for a moment, covered in its highlighters and empty coffee cups and crumpled bits of paper.
So maybe he had gotten too caught up in the paperwork, and maybe he didn’t have the energy he once did to balance work with the full-time, soul-vacuuming task of keeping House content, but he did not have time to beat himself up about it. “Cancer research trumps your little ‘problem.’ And no offense, pal, but I have a feeling you’ve gone a lot longer than this without sex in years past.” Of course, he had this feeling primarily because he himself had lived like House’s eunuch for months before a surge of alcohol, testosterone, and fear put an end to it. Still. “You’ll survive.”
“Sure, I will,” House said annoyingly. “But I know all too well what happens when Little Jimmy doesn’t get any play - you get all clench-y and frustrated and start overreacting to everything that comes out of my mouth…”
“I’m not overreacting! House!” He bit the inside of his cheek when he realized he’d raised his voice and eyebrows. “If I’m frustrated,” he started again with forced calm, “it’s because you’ve been in here all morning pawing at me - distracting me from my work while avoiding yours. Go put in some clinic hours until I’m done, and if you still want to discuss this private matter once we get home...”
“Why wait?” House plopped down into the seat in front of him, slouched down and spread his legs a little too far apart, tapping the cane rapidly up and down between his knees - a true master of subtlety. “I don’t have a case. You don’t have any appointments ‘til four.” There was no reason to ask how or why House knew that. “You’ve been obsessing over this clinical trial-”
“Grant proposal,” Wilson reminded him for at least the sixteenth time.
“ - for weeks now. I’m not a doctor or anything, but it can’t be healthy.” He leaned forward in his chair and pulled out all the stops, flashing those eyes and lowering his voice seductively. “How about hanging up the lab coat for the afternoon, hmm? We’ll get out of here for a few hours, take a quick trip to the ‘Netherlands’. Make us both feel better.”
Oh, God, he had to start with the euphemisms. “Did you ever consider that there might be ways for you to express your sudden concern for me other than sexual harassment?”
The eyes kept flashing. “Come on; you know I’m right. A little ‘rolling the kishke’ could do both you and your patients a lot of good. Don’t you wanna be able to hand out those patented ‘sorry-you’re-dying’ fake grins of yours?” House was grinning calmly at Wilson’s numb, slack-jawed annoyance. “You need to relax. Preferably on your back, with your ankles around my - ”
“As irresistible as you’re making yourself right now,” Wilson snapped and slammed a drawer shut, “I do have responsibilities other than your sexual gratification.”
House opened his mouth indignantly and Wilson cut him off, having reached his capacity for bullshit. “And no, I’m not getting tired of you, or cheating on you, or whatever crap you were going to invent to try and make me feel guilty. Nothing’s changed with how I feel about you. It’s much simpler than that: I’m a grownup, I’m busy, and I don’t need to satisfy every passing sexual urge the moment that I have one because I am not a horny, emotionally stunted fourteen-year-old boy!” he finished, slightly out of breath with spots of heat in his cheeks.
He watched House deflate a little, his shoulders sinking, scowling at Wilson with those bright, impudent eyes. “Fine. I’ll leave you to your work, since you’re obviously having so much fun.” He stood and stalked across the room, wrenching the office door open with an almost audible rush of air. “Let me know when you get tired of playing grownup.”
The door slammed shut behind him and Wilson rolled his eyes, diving back into the sea of papers.
The next morning was the first in days he awoke without being felt up or slobbered on.
He wasn’t entirely surprised to find himself alone; House had been quiet and moody all evening, holing himself off in dark rooms and speaking only in low, irritated grunts. Which was just as well, as Wilson wound up dozing off on the sofa before dinner, and again while lying in bed, half-heartedly waiting for House to join him.
He felt more annoyed than guilty, waking up to nothing but a screeching alarm clock. House could be more pouty than Wilson’s past two ex-wives put together when it involved sex - as if one refusal constituted a rejection of House entirely. Obviously it was more about House’s need for reassurance than the act itself, and Wilson tasted the tiniest bit of guilt, staring at the unused pillow next to him, remembering House’s slumped, defeated posture last night…
But he wasn’t going to apologize for being an adult.
Everything would settle down in another week or so and they could work on getting out of this brief slump. Meanwhile, Wilson resigned himself to maturity, making his way down the hall and dreading the upcoming eight hours of paperwork -
He had to stop in the kitchen doorway to confirm that he wasn’t still dreaming.
House was awake at 8:02 in the morning. Not only awake, but dressed. Not only dressed, but showered, if the still-damp curls of hair at the nape of his neck were anything to go by. He was standing over the counter with his back to Wilson…making coffee.
Something was distinctly wrong.
“Hey,” he said cautiously, inching slowly into the room, taking small steps in case of booby traps.
House glanced back over his shoulder and said “Morning,” but in a clear, booming voice, not in the sullen grumble Wilson had come to expect after last night.
“Did you sleep?” he asked, certain that House was only conscious because he’d stayed up all night feeling sorry for himself.
“Guest room.” He watched House open a cupboard and extract two coffee mugs. “Though technically, I guess that’s a misnomer, since we don’t exactly welcome a lot of overnight visitors. ‘The Room With All Our Old Crap In It,’ anyway.”
He turned around and handed Wilson a cup of black coffee. His shirt wasn’t ironed (to Wilson’s relief), but it was a particular color - a deep indigo - that masked any rumpledness, brought out his eyes, made him look five years younger…
“You could’ve come to bed,” Wilson blurted awkwardly, dragging his eyes away. As he reached past House for the sugar, he caught the scent of clean skin and shampoo, toothpaste and maybe an infinitesimal drop of cologne.
He made a mental note to check the thermostat when he felt a chill trickling down his spine.
“Actually, I couldn’t have.” The toaster suddenly popped up, and House sidled towards it, using the counter for support. “You were sprawled across the bed like some kind of dead farm animal,” he said lightly as he squeezed frosting onto two sugar-loaded, nutritionally worthless, frozen pastry-like rectangles. Wilson watched him licking the excess frosting off his fingertips. “It was either the guest room or the two inches of free space by your feet.”
Wilson frowned at him. “You don’t usually have a problem with shoving me out of your way in the middle of the night - you seem to take great pleasure in it, in fact. Sure this wasn’t a convenient excuse to avoid talking to me?”
House shrugged and thrust the plate into Wilson’s face. “Blueberry,” he said simply, and started limping towards the door.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Wilson stuttered when he finished staring dumbly at the plate in his hands. “You spend all day yesterday trying to molest me at my desk, sulk like a four-year-old when you don’t get your way, sleep in the spare room…and now you’re…making me breakfast? How does that work?”
“I already had breakfast.” This apparently being reason enough in House-logic, he smirked and grabbed one of Wilson’s toaster pastries, biting off a corner before dropping it back to the plate, still unable to withstand the temptation of stealing Wilson’s food.
“House.”
By that long sigh and the way he was looking at the floor, Wilson could tell he was bracing himself for the truth. “You’re busy,” he eventually murmured. “Stressed out over saving the planet from cancer or whatever it is you’re working on. Maybe I thought you needed to eat and sleep through the night. Got a problem with that?”
He looked at House for a long time, trying to catch that diabolical expression of an eight-year-old boy dropping cherry bombs into toilets, and he didn’t see it. So either House was getting better at hiding his insanity…or he was being sincere.
The frozen breakfast pastries actually weren’t half-bad.
After rounds, Wilson spent one of the most productive mornings in recent memory.
House didn’t barge in once. He didn’t get a visit from any annoyed fellows or a call from Cuddy, telling him that House had insulted a concerned mother or broken any large pieces of hospital equipment. Undisturbed, he made a lot of headway with the proposal, completing whole sections before his first appointment. At this rate, he could have everything signed, stamped, and stapled by the end of the week. Amazing what one could do when he wasn’t being plagued by an immature partner.
Still, as the hours ticked by with no interludes of insanity, he couldn’t get over a certain feeling of loss. He hadn’t meant to hurt House’s feelings, or to imply that work was more important. All he’d wanted was for House to show a tiny hint of self-control, not to turn it into some grand gesture designed to make Wilson feel like the bad guy. Things would be so much simpler if House would just drop the act, barge in here, and start trying to cop a feel like any normal afternoon.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted sex. After all, they were still pretty damn fantastic at it, never having mastered all the other functions of relationships. Wilson scribbled his signature on another chart and smirked a little to himself, remembering that night a few weeks ago when they were both on the sofa, and there was nothing on TV, and House was channeling his vast stores of curiosity into his hands and mouth, and…
And - uh - hello.
That was…unexpected. He figured it was a good thing he was safely behind his desk, because these slacks really didn’t offer a lot of room for these - situations.
Wilson shifted in his seat, cleared his throat and pushed all thoughts of sex from his brain. Cancer. Cancer, cancer, cancer. And research. That was the task at hand. He had to focus on finishing these charts so he could continue working on the proposal, and any conciliatory acts between House and himself could wait until after business hours…
…right after business hours, maybe, when he could still taste coffee in the depths of House’s mouth, still hear the afternoon sounds of kids playing down the street as he slowly undid that dark blue shirt, shedding clothes while warm angles of sunlight bled through the rattan blinds, illuminating every minute detail of House’s skin -
After work. Right now, he was busy writing prescriptions for a patient with rectal cancer whose solid waste drained into a plastic bag. Very painful and unappealing, so there was really no reason whatsoever for Wilson's body to be slipping out of control right now, demanding his higher brain’s attention more forcefully than it had done in years…
Or maybe not years. There was that banquet a few months ago at the Hilton barely a half-hour away, when he had the three glasses of merlot and House was wearing a tux; he remembered nothing else about the dinner except that they slipped off before dessert was even brought out, and that he ended up blowing both $200 on an emergency last-minute room…and House.
Twice.
This was ridiculous. There was no reason for him to be this stupidly turned on just because House put on a nice shirt, made him a processed breakfast…and was actually making an effort to control himself, even though his all-or-nothing cosmology made that so difficult…was letting his hair grow out lately, so that it fluffed up around his ears, or clung to his forehead in sweaty spikes while Wilson watched from above, rocking desperately on top of him…
Somehow he ended up in House’s office.
“Hey, House, what’s…oh.”
House was doing research.
And not even the kind that involved zoophilia and hard-to-explain credit card bills. Actual, medical research - currently, he was staring at a screen of sample MRIs on his computer screen, a couple of open hardcover books on his desk, a pen in his mouth and reading glasses slipping down his nose. No TV, no blaring iPod, no toys. House was just…working.
Wilson had to sit down.
“What’s up?” House asked, leaning back in his chair with that open and curious look on his face, and Wilson grimaced a little at his unconscious pun. “Figured you’d be busy all day.”
“Yeah,” he said without really hearing himself, too focused on the movement of House’s Adam’s apple, the folds of denim around his crotch, the pen he was now twirling between his long, artful fingers… “Just…taking a break. You look like you’re keeping yourself busy.”
“Uh-huh.” His voice was casual and breezy, as if he hadn’t noticed Wilson’s flushed face or loosened tie. “Thought I’d give that ‘adulthood’ thingy a shot. You know - be a professional.”
“That’s great, House.” He didn’t even convince himself with that detached, dreamy tone of voice. “Very…impressive.” But all he could think about, as his eyes settled meaningfully on House’s lap, was going home tonight, and all the interesting things he could do between those lean, spread legs…
He had no idea how this had suddenly gotten so out of control, why his ears were ringing, pulse throbbing, eyes swimming in and out of focus. Physiologically, it didn’t make much sense that he was squirming in his chair just because his imagination was going into overdrive, because every nerve ending was firing sweet nothings at his hypothalamus, bypassing logic and the knowledge that it would be at least six more hours before he could do anything about it -
“Right,” House told him, as if in confirmation. “So, I guess I’ll be seeing you in about an hour? Grown-ups still take lunch breaks, don’t they?”
“Sure.” Wilson did his best to hide his panicky disappointment, ignoring a particularly forceful rush of adrenaline. “Sounds great.”
House stood, almost as if to show Wilson out. “Okay, then.”
“Okay,” he agreed hazily, even though he was moving closer to House rather than the door. “See you later.”
“Later,” House nodded, right before leaning in for what Wilson promised himself would be a simple, midday kiss between discrete professionals, since there was no way he could act on his sudden, time-inappropriate desire now, especially after everything he’d said…
But his penis always had been a hypocrite.
Several seconds later, he was panting and House had let go of his cane to rest both hands on Wilson’s back. Before he could dive back in to pick up where that slow, indulgent kiss had left off, House leaned over to gaze exaggeratedly over Wilson’s shoulder. “Why, Jimmy. We are at work. Try and control yourself.”
That fake scandalous tone left no doubt in Wilson’s mind that House had planned this entire thing, from the guest room to the pastry to the reading glasses. “Shut up,” he rasped but was incapable of anger, crushing a small grin against House’s mouth.
Once he had House pressed into the opposite wall and unable to escape, he could dial it up a notch or seven, his heart rate skyrocketing, the brief contact turning his vague imaginings into full-out, pulsating urgency. House offered little reciprocation, apparently content to let Wilson ravish his mouth, neck, ears, collarbone -
“You know, I have to say - I’m picking up on a few mixed signals here,” he said shakily during one of the brief stints in which he had the full use of his mouth. “First you yell at me for distracting you, and then when I finally give you all the time and space you need to work, you’re all over me like flies on - ”
“No talking,” Wilson asserted, gently biting House’s lip to drive the point home. Of course, House’s misgivings didn’t extend further than his mouth, as his hips slid easily forward under Wilson’s hands.
Pressing against him, buried in his scent, Wilson felt their surroundings melt away, unconcerned about nosy nurses and glass walls. His blood was boiling, cells pulsing with want as it fully hit him just how long it had been -
“Hmpf,” House made an amused noise and slid his hands up Wilson’s back. “You just don’t know what you want, do you?”
Really, it would have been rude to ignore a straightforward prompt like that. “I know exactly what I want,” he pushed one word at a time into House’s ear while one hand worked open the top two buttons of that dark blue shirt.
He laughed silently when Wilson started sliding a palm over his thin, cotton t-shirt, chortling into the kiss. “Wilson.”
Those two, heavy syllables sent a renewed flare of heat down Wilson’s spine. He lost himself in a frantic stream of kisses, heart pounding, blood rushing through his ears as he tried to work both hands down the back of House’s pants. “House.”
He felt a strong tug at the back of his hair. “Wilson.”
“Oh, God, House,” he answered huskily, and made soft needy noises as he ground his hips against the impressive bulge of House’s jeans.
Suddenly House gripped both of his shoulders almost painfully, pushing him back. “Wilson.”
It was around this point that Wilson noticed the room’s sudden shift in light. While panting and staring dazedly at House’s mouth, he became aware of a large blur in the corner of his eye. When House’s gaze moved towards the door, he had no choice but to turn his head with the arthritic timing of someone in a Hitchcock film.
Wilson’s recently hired assistant stood in the doorway, her normally energetic and fresh-faced demeanor replaced by a look of abject horror, clutching file folders to her chest. “You…weren’t in your office, and you said you needed these ASAP, and I was going to ask Dr. House if he’d seen you, and I didn’t know you were….uh…”
After apologizing profusely and giving the girl the rest of the day off to deal with this revelation, he turned around to dare House to say anything about hiring voyeuristic morons or workplace propriety…
But below the amusement, House was obviously still aroused, heavy-lidded and breathing deeply, leaning back against the wall with a dark look in his eyes. His lips were bright pink and his neck was wet and shiny from Wilson’s attention -
“We’re going,” he said, tugging House in by his loosened collar. “Meet me out front in ten minutes.”
He didn’t think about the ethics or hypocrisy of going home with House at eleven o’clock in the morning, just stuffed all the necessary paperwork into his briefcase and made some calls to cover his patients. He was a department head, after all; he could delegate. It was part of being a good boss.
…Speaking of bosses, he detoured through the parking garage to avoid passing Cuddy’s office.
There was a long, torturous drive across town with House’s hand plastered to his thigh, a slamming front door, and a trail of clothing that stopped somewhere near the kitchen. If House made any smart-ass remarks, Wilson’s ears were ringing too loudly to hear, masking his own short grunts and harsh curses as he moved against House with hot, primal friction - straddling him to control the rhythm, thrusting against hard but silken flesh until House groaned and bucked up against him, until his own orgasm ripped through him like lightning.
As he collapsed panting into the sheets, it occurred to him that House was looking way too smug for a guy who’d come explosively about three seconds after Wilson touched him…
But in another breath, he was dozing, a leg draped over House’s damp stomach.
Wilson was pleasantly unsurprised when their post-nap caresses evolved into a post-nap make-out, which evolved several more times until House was pulling Wilson on top of him with a clear intent.
“Just think,” he said in a choked voice as Wilson slid eagerly inside him. “You could be slaving over a Xerox machine or making a spreadsheet right now.”
He grinned sheepishly, but House had a point. If they were going to leave work to have sex, it only made sense, Wilson decided, trembling as he started to move, a hand on House’s hip. For all the trouble they went to, might as well work in something a little more substantial than a two-minute, high-school-style romp…
The only thing that confused him was how fast this was going, why his ears were ringing again, and how incredibly hard he was -
Not that it was anything to complain about.
He timed his thrusts to the sleepy worship of House’s hands: slow and shallow while fingers worked through his hair, deep and rhythmic when House’s palms slid over his shoulders, hard and erratic and playful as the attention moved ever southward. By the time House’s blunt nails were digging into his hips, Wilson was fucking him hard enough to make their sturdy, Swedish bedframe tap the wall.
This time, the orgasm may have actually been lightning, as Wilson could have sworn his vision went blue during those final, breathtaking, world-shattering seconds -
“God!” House whisper-shouted at the end of a series of deliciously reckless moans, panting and positively drenched in sweat against the sun-lit sheets. “Okay,” he said between breaths, running fingers through Wilson’s damp hair, “Little Jimmy has almost redeemed himself for his behavior these past two weeks.”
Wilson pried his forehead off of House’s chest as a short laugh bubbled out of his over-taxed lungs, leaning forward for both a kiss and a last press of hips that made House’s whole body jerk.
He was going to take that comment to mean that House was successfully Reassured.
House fell asleep again afterwards, sprawled on his stomach with half of his limbs draped across Wilson’s body. He waited until House was making soft snuffling noises into the pillow before disentangling himself gently and going on a scavenger hunt for his clothes.
Even walking (or perhaps strutting) around half-naked in the dining room, digging under furniture for discarded socks and ties, Wilson could not wipe the rather idiotic grin off his face. If anything, his back and neck should be feeling exponentially worse after two vigorous sessions of bedroom aerobics, but somehow he felt better and more energetic than he had in weeks. He found himself whistling as he retrieved his briefcase and phone from the car, humming as he dialed the hospital to check on his staff.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to admit that House’s stupid, juvenile, sex-cures-nearly-everything theory was correct, but, well - the results spoke for themselves.
He was even feeling better about his grant proposal, spreading (slightly wrinkled) papers across the dining room table, taking a bite of his sandwich while his laptop booted up. Within an hour, figures starting making sense, sticky sentences were reworded, and the thing started to sound halfway coherent; another hour or so after that, he’d gotten more work done than in the past two weeks, and was in a much better mood.
He felt the idiotic grin return when he heard an obscure lounge song bouncing off the walls in House’s booming voice, presumably his oh-so-subtle way of announcing to the world that he’d just gotten laid.
Wilson was standing over the table organizing paperwork when House suddenly grabbed him from behind. “Hey,” he said, though it came out more like a gasp.
“You’re wearing clothes? You suck at the whole ‘Ditching Work To Have Outrageous Sex All Day’ thing.”
“I started late,” he mumbled, leaning his head back to let House bite at his neck.
House, it turned out, was dressed more appropriately - wearing his thin cotton bathrobe and (what felt like) nothing else at all underneath.
Well…not nothing.
This morning’s ‘situation’ had been an understandable anomaly, a combination of Wilson’s stress and guilt, House’s artful manipulation, and two weeks of abstinence. What followed was a perfectly natural progression, but…
This was getting a little insane. Chills were working down his spine, heat rising in his abdomen, that now-familiar ringing filling his ears. They weren’t teenagers, for God’s sake. There had to be a reason he was getting so overwhelmed at the mere thought of House touching him…
Or maybe he honestly was that horny.
“House, I’ve got - oh,” he felt his eyes drifting shut as House’s fingers teased his belt. “I’m not saying that this afternoon wasn’t exactly what I needed.” House made a smug, appreciative noise and started tonguing Wilson’s shoulder. “B-but, this proposal is due Friday. I can’t really afford to spend the whole day lying around half-naked with you…”
Of course, no sooner had it passed his lips than he realized what an excellent idea it was.
Later, much later, dressed in boxers and House’s previously discarded t-shirt, it occurred to Wilson that this whole day was very suspicious.
Not that he regretted it, or minded the laid-back atmosphere: his side pressed casually against House’s on the sofa, lights turned off, enjoying a thoughtless movie and a dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches and Coke. Surely it was just the massive amount of oxytocin currently coursing through the atmosphere that was making House’s hand sneak around his back to cup his hipbone, making it feel so natural to lean back against him. It was perfectly innocent when House started pushing his nose through Wilson’s hair, his breath and stifled laughter raising chills on Wilson’s scalp.
It wasn’t until Wilson’s vision narrowed and his heart rate sped up that he was forced to admit there might be some sort of a problem.
Of course, by this time, he was also shifting the plate of sandwiches aside to position himself over House’s lap, straddling him and prying his mouth open, hands sliding up and under that thin robe to latch onto House’s shoulders.
He started working on a theory when his ears began to ring, trying to pinpoint the moment when he had turned into some sort of sex fiend - but he was momentarily distracted by House’s hands slipping up the back of his shorts, the spit-slick finger working in rapid, needy circles around his opening.
By the time he buried himself face-first into the mattress, naked and panting and holding himself open for House’s cock, it had all become crystal clear.
At the moment, however, he was too busy to do anything about it. “House - oh - there…”
He felt House’s arms snake around his chest to hold on to his shoulders, House’s mouth on his back, House’s hips slamming against him as the minutes ticked by, striking every chord perfectly, gradually building up a ball of energy at the base of his spine -
He came so hard it almost hurt, and whimpered as House fucked him through the aftershocks.
It had taken longer this time, not surprisingly - and not like he was going to complain, seeing as how this shouldn’t have been physically possible in the first place. Still, Wilson had a theory, one that explained today’s cataclysmic events, the multiplicity, even his blue-tinged orgasms.
But it took several minutes of staring at the ceiling with House’s arm cushioning his neck until he regained the power of speech.
“Did you put the Viagra in my coffee or the pastry?”
House let out a long, shaky breath. “Coffee.”
Wilson made a sleepy noise of bitter triumph in his throat. “And if I had refused to drink out of the cup you gave me?”
“Put it in both,” came the sullen mumble from the other side of the bed.
Wilson sighed but made no move to shift away. “How many bottles? Should I be worried about bluish vision or morbid tumescence for the rest of my life?"
“Only twice the normal starting dose.”
“Really?” He was impressed at House’s restraint. “Wow.”
“Yeah. Worked like a charm. Probably exacerbated by your repressed suburban sexuality these past few weeks.”
“So the whole giving-me-space thing was just, what, foreplay? Did you ever intend to take me seriously?”
“Can we not ruin a perfectly nice afternoon by talking? Viagra needs natural sexual stimulation to work, right?”
“So?”
“Soooo - would you have jumped me in my office if I hadn’t given you space?”
He thought he got House’s point; if he hadn't jumped House in his office, then they wouldn't have ended up here, their sex life back on track and Wilson's frustrations sweated out into the now exceptionally dirty sheets. Poisoning Wilson with Viagra was actually a manifestation of House’s love and concern for him. Touching, really, if you put it under a microscope and squinted.
“You’re an asshole,” Wilson commented casually to the ceiling.
Then he rolled over to rest his head on the asshole’s chest.