(no subject)
Title: Perfectly Flawed
Author: magie_05
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: Wilson's mannerisms would be incredibly annoying...if he wasn't such a good lay ;) For theunknownsoul, just because :)
Fucking Wilson had never exactly been perfect.
Physically, yes, it was pretty damn close, but to even approach the reality of fucking one James E. Wilson, one had to overlook some major, crippling personality quirks. (Which, of course, House himself had none at all). Minus the fact that Wilson was functionally incapable of a healthy relationship, he had an endless list of irritating personal habits which House had to put up with any time he wanted sex.
Like tonight.
“You okay?” Wilson asked softly, his eyes hooded and smoky, his mouth dragging along House's neck, fingers plucking at the hem of House's shirt. It was stupidly obvious what Wilson wanted, but of course he had to be a douche about it for as long as possible.
“Fine,” House said shortly, claiming Wilson's mouth between words. “Good.” He tugged Wilson into the bedroom by his stuffy blue button-down. “Perfect.”
This shut Wilson up just long enough for them to make it to the bed, but there his self-assurance failed him. “The leg?” he mumbled into House's collarbone.
The only dignified response to that was to tackle Wilson bodily into the mattress.
He basked in self-satisfaction when Wilson pushed him onto his back, pressing himself firmly against House's side, kissing him in rapid succession, pushing one hand up House's shirt. Clearly Wilson wanted this enough to keep his insecurities to himself, a hand clenched in the sheets, his erection pressed against House's thigh, his tongue dipping into House's mouth. It was difficult to be annoyed with Wilson's obsessive concern for everyone's well-being but his own when he was this good of a kisser, when his hand was ever-so-subtly cupping House's crotch -
Not that it lasted long.
Wilson leaned back with this dopey smile on his face. “Be right back,” he said huskily, and rolled away with a sudden squeak of mattress coils.
House swore to himself that if Wilson was stopping in the middle of foreplay to call his mom again, he was just going to roll over and go to sleep. Fortunately, Wilson was back relatively quickly, turning off the light, turning on the lamp, setting a damp washcloth on the nightstand. He opened the drawer with the same heavy nonchalance that was suffusing all of his movements, radiating a certain sultry confidence about what was about to happen between the sheets, like a golfer casually ignoring the track of what he knew to be a perfect swing.
His blatant self-poise was maddening, yes - but in this sense, forgivable.
Wilson turned back to him when he had all the supplies he thought he needed stacked up in a neat line on the bedside table. There was a calm little smirk on his lips that House couldn't wait to wipe off as he slowly repositioned himself on the bed, kneeling between House's thighs, reaching up to unknot his loosened tie. “I've been thinking about this,” Wilson told him, his words soft and clipped, “all day. Thought that board meeting was never going to end,” he ended with a sheepish little laugh.
House rolled his eyes at this confession. “I know,” he said, tugging Wilson's shirttail out of his pants, “I could tell. You've been clearing your throat since noon.”
Wilson got that irritating crease between his eyebrows. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“You clear your throat a lot when you're horny,” House told him with great pleasure. “It's fucking annoying.”
Wilson dipped his chin and, apparently unconsciously, cleared his throat. “I don't see what that has to do with anything.”
For a while, House figured the constant, time-inappropriate throat-clearing was Wilson's way of keeping his voice from cracking at awkward moments; the first time Wilson had gone down on him, House almost taken offense at Wilson's continual attempts to clear his epiglottis of debris. But over time, he had developed a new theory: that Wilson honestly didn't realize how annoying it was.
He seemed to be contemplating this idea with lowered eyebrows when House reached up to tug him down by his shirt collar. “Relax,” he said, his mouth brushing along Wilson's earlobe. “You need to focus on the task at hand.”
It seemed to work, for the moment - Wilson started kissing him with great determination, leaning forward with his crotch pressed against the front of House's jeans, holding House's face in both hands. The taste of it was almost enough to make House ignore the aggravating little mannerisms, just as long as Wilson didn't start with the -
“Mmm,” Wilson growled a little, clearing his throat with his tongue still mostly in House's mouth, “mmpf.”
Okay - House wasn't going to deny that the noises and the heavy breathing were, in the right context, sort-of mildly hot, but they'd been making out for barely twenty seconds and already Wilson was breathing like he'd just run the Boston Marathon. At some point, House was going to have to start questioning his sincerity -
Later, of course, at a moment when Wilson wasn't rapidly unbuttoning his shirt.
One benefit to fucking a nerdy oncologist: Wilson was exceptionally good at multi-tasking. He pushed his tongue and sharp little grunts into House's mouth while his fingers skimmed down House's torso, making quick work of the buttons. Pressed the tented front of his slacks forward as he undid House's jeans. Sucked greedily at House's lips while unbuttoned his own shirt and lay forward, his chest pressed against House's bare skin. This was the part that made dealing with Wilson's eccentricities totally worth it, and House comforted himself with this knowledge as he slid his palms lingeringly up Wilson's back, reaching up to pull his shirt off -
Wilson suddenly grabbed his forearms. “Oh, hold on,” he said briskly, sitting back on his heels, “let me do that.”
His voice was remarkably self-possessed now that the safety of his clothes was involved. House watched in horror as he carefully slipped the shirt off his shoulders, straightened its collar and sleeves, smoothed the fabric, and folded it neatly over the foot of the bed frame next to his tie. Then he started - very carefully - undoing his pants.
House couldn't even enjoy the view because he'd had to press his palm over his eyes. “What are you doing?”
He moved his hand when he felt Wilson's mouth on his collarbone. “Aren't you supposed to be some kind of genius?” he asked huskily, and started slipping out of his underwear.
House decided he could deal with Wilson's pathological fear of wrinkles.
The image of Wilson naked and on top of him was enough of a distraction, so House tossed his own shirt across the room, pushed his jeans and boxer shorts down only as far as absolutely necessary, then yanked Wilson down by his bare shoulders. It was enough - for now - to feel Wilson's skin against his chest, Wilson's mouth on his neck, Wilson's erection pressed thickly against his own -
Wilson looked up and down House's torso, bit his lip, and cleared his throat heartily. “Mmpf.”
He was going to take that as a positive sign.
It didn't even annoy him (that much) when Wilson slowly tugged the rest of his clothes off and very neatly placed them on the floor, even separating the dark fabrics from the lights. All that really mattered was Wilson's mouth on his chest, hot and wet and moving steadily downwards as Wilson's hand slid up his left thigh, very subtly coaxing his legs further apart. Heat suffused his limbs and a tingle ran up his spine and he was quite ready to start being drilled into the mattress, but Wilson seemed rather content with his head resting on House's chest and his tongue lapping insistently at House's nipple.
The fact that House didn't actually have breasts or a vagina or a pressing physiological need for foreplay always seemed to escape Wilson's attention at the worst possible times. “Wilson.”
He was too busy to formulate a real response. “Hmpf.”
Not that the slow, indulgent strokes didn't feel pretty good. Not that those short little flicks of the firm tip of Wilson's tongue weren't causing a sympathetic reaction in a much larger organ down south. Still wasn't the point.
“Wilson,” he said determinedly, and reached up to pry him off by the hair -
It wasn't his fault his fingers ended up getting tangled there instead.
Wilson, thus encouraged, slid a hand up House's side and started toying with the opposite nipple. “OhHouse,” he gasped, and reached down with his free hand to fist House's cock, “ohgod.”
He decided to let Wilson's girly seduction techniques play out a little longer.
Wilson sucked his way back up the cord of muscle in House's neck, bit carefully around his earlobe, and blew a hot stream of words into his ear. “Sit up for a second.”
House only obeyed this request without mockery because Wilson's hand was slowly stroking him and Wilson's cock was pressing against his balls, which basically left House void of protests. He allowed Wilson to pull the pillows out from under him, leaving him flat on his back under Wilson's warm weight; lifted his hips so Wilson could shove the pillows under him, positioning his hips at just the right angle; allowed the blanket to be pulled back enough for Wilson to slip underneath it, settling his soft, naked form fully on top of House, a tiny, smug grin on his lips that was both annoying and inexplicably arousing.
“Much better,” Wilson whispered, and then leaned down to run his tongue up the corner of House's mouth.
The bedspread just barely covered the hints of love-handles at Wilson's back, the almost too-soft flesh of his hips. Fucking Wilson since he hit forty had been a learning experience in terms of anatomy -
But House had always been a curious kind of guy.
He let his hands drift along each imperfection, the soft pectorals, the less-than-defined abs. Wilson cleared his throat (again) and grabbed the sides of House's face, kissing him briefly but hungrily before straightening up, grabbing the tube from the nightstand, and resuming his detailed exploration of House's nipple.
He had formulated an entire argument based around Wilson's insistence on the foreplay, focusing primarily on his deep-seated need to be liked coupled with his fear of rejection which was exacerbated by his megalomania -
But by the time Wilson's head had disappeared below the blanket, all words had dissolved into a series of low whimpers.
He could see Wilson's head moving under the covers. Could feel Wilson's cheek scraping across the inside of his thigh. Could hear the soft sounds of his lips as he kissed his way around House's pelvis, from the points of each hip to the tops of his thighs and up the entire length of his now highly impatient cock -
“Wilson,” he blurted, and he may have had to clear his own throat at this point, “if this is going to take much longer, could you let me know? 'Cause I'll go grab a crossword.”
“Mmmmpf.” Wilson very slowly pulled his mouth away from House's balls, taking what seemed to be great pleasure in his laziness. “Can't rush perfection,” he said, hot breath against House's dick, his tongue darting out along the tip -
“Awfully cocky, aren't we?” House's words were only rushed and breathless because he was getting pissed off. “What makes you think I even - ohh - ”
With the interminable delay, House had half-forgotten that Wilson had a brand-new bottle of lubricant under the sheets with him, which he had apparently been warming in his hand for some time. So House wasn't suspecting those soft, slick fingers suddenly pressing into him, making him arch slightly off the mattress, a fist clenched in the sheets. It was a cheap, Wilson-like move to finally take progressive action while House happened to be talking, but this was the kind of crap he'd had to become accustomed to over the years. It was pure instinct that kept his mouth (mostly) shut while Wilson's fingertips crept slowly deeper, while his lips pressed hot little punctuation marks into House's skin. “Oh,” he murmured somewhere in the vicinity of House's navel, “just a wild guess.”
The angle was too off for House to punch Wilson in the face, so he settled for a milder rebuke for the smugness - tugging firmly at those obsessively maintained strands of brown hair, not letting go until Wilson's mouth was slamming back against his, Wilson's teeth pulling the taste of copper to his lips, Wilson's cock much more conveniently located. He pried the bottle out of Wilson's hand and - after a quick inspection - pressed the button on the top, releasing a sizable amount of lube into his palm -
“Isn't that neat?” Wilson whispered, kissing slowly around House's mouth. “I thought it would be a lot less - ”
House pulled back in horror. “Neat?”
Wilson, of course, blinked down at him in confused innocence. “What?”
As House was happily accommodating a warm, slick triangle of fingers by this point, he figured it wasn't the time to quibble over Wilson's blatant dorkishness. “Nevermind,” he sighed, and spread a handful of lube over Wilson's cock.
“Mmmm,” Wilson groaned softly, barely disguising another throat-clearing. His fingers trickled down House's side to pull at the back of his thigh, pulling House's left leg securely over his hip, extracting his fingers, pressing forward just enough to push the tip of his cock against House's relaxed opening, just enough to make House shudder. His mouth dragged slowly up House's jaw to his ear. “Ready?”
Before he could even begin to address the rage brought on by this idiotic question, Wilson was in him, and House pretty much forgot what he was going to say.
Wilson lay on top of him trembling for several seconds, his exhales coming out as low moans - but even this House could let slide, if just because it covered up his own accidental noises. Thanks to Wilson's tortoise-and-the-hare approach to sex, House's nerves were edge, leaving him twitchy and hypersensitive, but pinned against the mattress the way he was, he wasn't in much of a position to do anything about it.
Something which Wilson was, apparently, acutely aware of.
“Ohhhouse,” he groaned, pressing their foreheads together, his thumbs wiping sweat from House's temples. His hips remained pressed firmly against House's ass but he refused to move, at least not before slobbering profusely along House's neck, rubbing their lips together, crooning wordless nonsense into House's ear -
House only put up with it because he had no choice, of course.
He had almost reached the limit of human endurance when Wilson reached down to grab his hip, pulled out a few inches, then thrust in sharply enough to fully redeem himself for the delay.
He rocked his hips carefully against the stack of pillows, never pulling back farther than a few inches, never letting the hot tinge of pleasure in House's veins die down between thrusts. His movements were slow but shallow, underscored by his deep, drawn-out moans, by the rhythm of his age-softened abdomen against the underside of House's cock. Physically, he was in the perfect position to finish this quickly - a few well-aimed thrusts and that would be the end of it - but, being Wilson, he had to take the scenic route.
And what a scene.
A tuft of hair was falling into his eyes and his brow was furrowed, one corner of his bottom lip held between his teeth. The look of concentration on his face each time he pushed forward was something House was determined to memorize, for all of those moments during the day when Wilson was yelling at him in his office, all upright and superior. That stern voice of his reduced to these low, carnal moans, the bed rocking with each deep, indulgent, whole-bodied thrust, House's name rolling out in short bursts -
That was about all House had time to observe before his eyes fluttered shut.
His blood felt more like honey, thick and sweet and solidifying in his veins. He started to hear these pitiable little whimpering sounds that couldn't possibly be coming from his own chest, not when his lungs were burning with the mere effort of drawing breath. Wherever they came from, the sounds seemed only to encourage Wilson, who made a sound like a wounded cow and grabbed House's face, shoving his tongue in House's mouth and increasing his almost-geriatric pace by a half-note -
It was ridiculous - absolutely insane that two minutes of these wimpy little thrusts had House more wound up than even the most vigorous fuck-fest, but logic didn't seem to apply here. He started coming before he even realized it, a slow burn that started in the pit of his stomach and spread like Biofreeze through his muscles, forcing him to grab at Wilson's hair to stave off a shaking fit. He had to make a split-second decision to either keep his mouth shut or stop breathing, but he figured Wilson wouldn't be able to hear over his own ridiculous grunting. In the end, House just sat back and enjoyed the ride, enjoyed the hot thickness pistoning into him until his release splattered up his chest, almost as an afterthought.
Wilson finished a second later but it seemed to take forever for him to stop shuddering, for his cock to stop pulsing, for his breathing to even out. Even then, he moved with at glacial speed, sitting up on his elbows, rearranging his hair, wiping sweat from House's forehead. “Mmm,” he said, his voice deep and lazy, “you okay?”
House attempted to roll his eyes, but for some reason they were too heavy, fixed instead on Wilson's face. “Ask me that again, and you won't be.”
Wilson gave him the smile that had, for so many years, been House's downfall. “Sorry,” he said softly, probably just to be a dick, and then pressed forward to kiss House chastely on the lips.
He would bitch about Wilson's shortcomings tomorrow.
Wilson would pull slowly out of him and wipe him clean with a too-cold washcloth, humming an unconscious, formless tune to himself as he worked. Then he would bustle noisily around the apartment getting ready for bed, brushing his teeth, turning off lights, setting the alarm clock for some ungodly hour. He would settle in a little too close, touch House a little too much, whisper a little too softly.
House wouldn't have it any other way.
Author: magie_05
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: Wilson's mannerisms would be incredibly annoying...if he wasn't such a good lay ;) For theunknownsoul, just because :)
Fucking Wilson had never exactly been perfect.
Physically, yes, it was pretty damn close, but to even approach the reality of fucking one James E. Wilson, one had to overlook some major, crippling personality quirks. (Which, of course, House himself had none at all). Minus the fact that Wilson was functionally incapable of a healthy relationship, he had an endless list of irritating personal habits which House had to put up with any time he wanted sex.
Like tonight.
“You okay?” Wilson asked softly, his eyes hooded and smoky, his mouth dragging along House's neck, fingers plucking at the hem of House's shirt. It was stupidly obvious what Wilson wanted, but of course he had to be a douche about it for as long as possible.
“Fine,” House said shortly, claiming Wilson's mouth between words. “Good.” He tugged Wilson into the bedroom by his stuffy blue button-down. “Perfect.”
This shut Wilson up just long enough for them to make it to the bed, but there his self-assurance failed him. “The leg?” he mumbled into House's collarbone.
The only dignified response to that was to tackle Wilson bodily into the mattress.
He basked in self-satisfaction when Wilson pushed him onto his back, pressing himself firmly against House's side, kissing him in rapid succession, pushing one hand up House's shirt. Clearly Wilson wanted this enough to keep his insecurities to himself, a hand clenched in the sheets, his erection pressed against House's thigh, his tongue dipping into House's mouth. It was difficult to be annoyed with Wilson's obsessive concern for everyone's well-being but his own when he was this good of a kisser, when his hand was ever-so-subtly cupping House's crotch -
Not that it lasted long.
Wilson leaned back with this dopey smile on his face. “Be right back,” he said huskily, and rolled away with a sudden squeak of mattress coils.
House swore to himself that if Wilson was stopping in the middle of foreplay to call his mom again, he was just going to roll over and go to sleep. Fortunately, Wilson was back relatively quickly, turning off the light, turning on the lamp, setting a damp washcloth on the nightstand. He opened the drawer with the same heavy nonchalance that was suffusing all of his movements, radiating a certain sultry confidence about what was about to happen between the sheets, like a golfer casually ignoring the track of what he knew to be a perfect swing.
His blatant self-poise was maddening, yes - but in this sense, forgivable.
Wilson turned back to him when he had all the supplies he thought he needed stacked up in a neat line on the bedside table. There was a calm little smirk on his lips that House couldn't wait to wipe off as he slowly repositioned himself on the bed, kneeling between House's thighs, reaching up to unknot his loosened tie. “I've been thinking about this,” Wilson told him, his words soft and clipped, “all day. Thought that board meeting was never going to end,” he ended with a sheepish little laugh.
House rolled his eyes at this confession. “I know,” he said, tugging Wilson's shirttail out of his pants, “I could tell. You've been clearing your throat since noon.”
Wilson got that irritating crease between his eyebrows. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“You clear your throat a lot when you're horny,” House told him with great pleasure. “It's fucking annoying.”
Wilson dipped his chin and, apparently unconsciously, cleared his throat. “I don't see what that has to do with anything.”
For a while, House figured the constant, time-inappropriate throat-clearing was Wilson's way of keeping his voice from cracking at awkward moments; the first time Wilson had gone down on him, House almost taken offense at Wilson's continual attempts to clear his epiglottis of debris. But over time, he had developed a new theory: that Wilson honestly didn't realize how annoying it was.
He seemed to be contemplating this idea with lowered eyebrows when House reached up to tug him down by his shirt collar. “Relax,” he said, his mouth brushing along Wilson's earlobe. “You need to focus on the task at hand.”
It seemed to work, for the moment - Wilson started kissing him with great determination, leaning forward with his crotch pressed against the front of House's jeans, holding House's face in both hands. The taste of it was almost enough to make House ignore the aggravating little mannerisms, just as long as Wilson didn't start with the -
“Mmm,” Wilson growled a little, clearing his throat with his tongue still mostly in House's mouth, “mmpf.”
Okay - House wasn't going to deny that the noises and the heavy breathing were, in the right context, sort-of mildly hot, but they'd been making out for barely twenty seconds and already Wilson was breathing like he'd just run the Boston Marathon. At some point, House was going to have to start questioning his sincerity -
Later, of course, at a moment when Wilson wasn't rapidly unbuttoning his shirt.
One benefit to fucking a nerdy oncologist: Wilson was exceptionally good at multi-tasking. He pushed his tongue and sharp little grunts into House's mouth while his fingers skimmed down House's torso, making quick work of the buttons. Pressed the tented front of his slacks forward as he undid House's jeans. Sucked greedily at House's lips while unbuttoned his own shirt and lay forward, his chest pressed against House's bare skin. This was the part that made dealing with Wilson's eccentricities totally worth it, and House comforted himself with this knowledge as he slid his palms lingeringly up Wilson's back, reaching up to pull his shirt off -
Wilson suddenly grabbed his forearms. “Oh, hold on,” he said briskly, sitting back on his heels, “let me do that.”
His voice was remarkably self-possessed now that the safety of his clothes was involved. House watched in horror as he carefully slipped the shirt off his shoulders, straightened its collar and sleeves, smoothed the fabric, and folded it neatly over the foot of the bed frame next to his tie. Then he started - very carefully - undoing his pants.
House couldn't even enjoy the view because he'd had to press his palm over his eyes. “What are you doing?”
He moved his hand when he felt Wilson's mouth on his collarbone. “Aren't you supposed to be some kind of genius?” he asked huskily, and started slipping out of his underwear.
House decided he could deal with Wilson's pathological fear of wrinkles.
The image of Wilson naked and on top of him was enough of a distraction, so House tossed his own shirt across the room, pushed his jeans and boxer shorts down only as far as absolutely necessary, then yanked Wilson down by his bare shoulders. It was enough - for now - to feel Wilson's skin against his chest, Wilson's mouth on his neck, Wilson's erection pressed thickly against his own -
Wilson looked up and down House's torso, bit his lip, and cleared his throat heartily. “Mmpf.”
He was going to take that as a positive sign.
It didn't even annoy him (that much) when Wilson slowly tugged the rest of his clothes off and very neatly placed them on the floor, even separating the dark fabrics from the lights. All that really mattered was Wilson's mouth on his chest, hot and wet and moving steadily downwards as Wilson's hand slid up his left thigh, very subtly coaxing his legs further apart. Heat suffused his limbs and a tingle ran up his spine and he was quite ready to start being drilled into the mattress, but Wilson seemed rather content with his head resting on House's chest and his tongue lapping insistently at House's nipple.
The fact that House didn't actually have breasts or a vagina or a pressing physiological need for foreplay always seemed to escape Wilson's attention at the worst possible times. “Wilson.”
He was too busy to formulate a real response. “Hmpf.”
Not that the slow, indulgent strokes didn't feel pretty good. Not that those short little flicks of the firm tip of Wilson's tongue weren't causing a sympathetic reaction in a much larger organ down south. Still wasn't the point.
“Wilson,” he said determinedly, and reached up to pry him off by the hair -
It wasn't his fault his fingers ended up getting tangled there instead.
Wilson, thus encouraged, slid a hand up House's side and started toying with the opposite nipple. “OhHouse,” he gasped, and reached down with his free hand to fist House's cock, “ohgod.”
He decided to let Wilson's girly seduction techniques play out a little longer.
Wilson sucked his way back up the cord of muscle in House's neck, bit carefully around his earlobe, and blew a hot stream of words into his ear. “Sit up for a second.”
House only obeyed this request without mockery because Wilson's hand was slowly stroking him and Wilson's cock was pressing against his balls, which basically left House void of protests. He allowed Wilson to pull the pillows out from under him, leaving him flat on his back under Wilson's warm weight; lifted his hips so Wilson could shove the pillows under him, positioning his hips at just the right angle; allowed the blanket to be pulled back enough for Wilson to slip underneath it, settling his soft, naked form fully on top of House, a tiny, smug grin on his lips that was both annoying and inexplicably arousing.
“Much better,” Wilson whispered, and then leaned down to run his tongue up the corner of House's mouth.
The bedspread just barely covered the hints of love-handles at Wilson's back, the almost too-soft flesh of his hips. Fucking Wilson since he hit forty had been a learning experience in terms of anatomy -
But House had always been a curious kind of guy.
He let his hands drift along each imperfection, the soft pectorals, the less-than-defined abs. Wilson cleared his throat (again) and grabbed the sides of House's face, kissing him briefly but hungrily before straightening up, grabbing the tube from the nightstand, and resuming his detailed exploration of House's nipple.
He had formulated an entire argument based around Wilson's insistence on the foreplay, focusing primarily on his deep-seated need to be liked coupled with his fear of rejection which was exacerbated by his megalomania -
But by the time Wilson's head had disappeared below the blanket, all words had dissolved into a series of low whimpers.
He could see Wilson's head moving under the covers. Could feel Wilson's cheek scraping across the inside of his thigh. Could hear the soft sounds of his lips as he kissed his way around House's pelvis, from the points of each hip to the tops of his thighs and up the entire length of his now highly impatient cock -
“Wilson,” he blurted, and he may have had to clear his own throat at this point, “if this is going to take much longer, could you let me know? 'Cause I'll go grab a crossword.”
“Mmmmpf.” Wilson very slowly pulled his mouth away from House's balls, taking what seemed to be great pleasure in his laziness. “Can't rush perfection,” he said, hot breath against House's dick, his tongue darting out along the tip -
“Awfully cocky, aren't we?” House's words were only rushed and breathless because he was getting pissed off. “What makes you think I even - ohh - ”
With the interminable delay, House had half-forgotten that Wilson had a brand-new bottle of lubricant under the sheets with him, which he had apparently been warming in his hand for some time. So House wasn't suspecting those soft, slick fingers suddenly pressing into him, making him arch slightly off the mattress, a fist clenched in the sheets. It was a cheap, Wilson-like move to finally take progressive action while House happened to be talking, but this was the kind of crap he'd had to become accustomed to over the years. It was pure instinct that kept his mouth (mostly) shut while Wilson's fingertips crept slowly deeper, while his lips pressed hot little punctuation marks into House's skin. “Oh,” he murmured somewhere in the vicinity of House's navel, “just a wild guess.”
The angle was too off for House to punch Wilson in the face, so he settled for a milder rebuke for the smugness - tugging firmly at those obsessively maintained strands of brown hair, not letting go until Wilson's mouth was slamming back against his, Wilson's teeth pulling the taste of copper to his lips, Wilson's cock much more conveniently located. He pried the bottle out of Wilson's hand and - after a quick inspection - pressed the button on the top, releasing a sizable amount of lube into his palm -
“Isn't that neat?” Wilson whispered, kissing slowly around House's mouth. “I thought it would be a lot less - ”
House pulled back in horror. “Neat?”
Wilson, of course, blinked down at him in confused innocence. “What?”
As House was happily accommodating a warm, slick triangle of fingers by this point, he figured it wasn't the time to quibble over Wilson's blatant dorkishness. “Nevermind,” he sighed, and spread a handful of lube over Wilson's cock.
“Mmmm,” Wilson groaned softly, barely disguising another throat-clearing. His fingers trickled down House's side to pull at the back of his thigh, pulling House's left leg securely over his hip, extracting his fingers, pressing forward just enough to push the tip of his cock against House's relaxed opening, just enough to make House shudder. His mouth dragged slowly up House's jaw to his ear. “Ready?”
Before he could even begin to address the rage brought on by this idiotic question, Wilson was in him, and House pretty much forgot what he was going to say.
Wilson lay on top of him trembling for several seconds, his exhales coming out as low moans - but even this House could let slide, if just because it covered up his own accidental noises. Thanks to Wilson's tortoise-and-the-hare approach to sex, House's nerves were edge, leaving him twitchy and hypersensitive, but pinned against the mattress the way he was, he wasn't in much of a position to do anything about it.
Something which Wilson was, apparently, acutely aware of.
“Ohhhouse,” he groaned, pressing their foreheads together, his thumbs wiping sweat from House's temples. His hips remained pressed firmly against House's ass but he refused to move, at least not before slobbering profusely along House's neck, rubbing their lips together, crooning wordless nonsense into House's ear -
House only put up with it because he had no choice, of course.
He had almost reached the limit of human endurance when Wilson reached down to grab his hip, pulled out a few inches, then thrust in sharply enough to fully redeem himself for the delay.
He rocked his hips carefully against the stack of pillows, never pulling back farther than a few inches, never letting the hot tinge of pleasure in House's veins die down between thrusts. His movements were slow but shallow, underscored by his deep, drawn-out moans, by the rhythm of his age-softened abdomen against the underside of House's cock. Physically, he was in the perfect position to finish this quickly - a few well-aimed thrusts and that would be the end of it - but, being Wilson, he had to take the scenic route.
And what a scene.
A tuft of hair was falling into his eyes and his brow was furrowed, one corner of his bottom lip held between his teeth. The look of concentration on his face each time he pushed forward was something House was determined to memorize, for all of those moments during the day when Wilson was yelling at him in his office, all upright and superior. That stern voice of his reduced to these low, carnal moans, the bed rocking with each deep, indulgent, whole-bodied thrust, House's name rolling out in short bursts -
That was about all House had time to observe before his eyes fluttered shut.
His blood felt more like honey, thick and sweet and solidifying in his veins. He started to hear these pitiable little whimpering sounds that couldn't possibly be coming from his own chest, not when his lungs were burning with the mere effort of drawing breath. Wherever they came from, the sounds seemed only to encourage Wilson, who made a sound like a wounded cow and grabbed House's face, shoving his tongue in House's mouth and increasing his almost-geriatric pace by a half-note -
It was ridiculous - absolutely insane that two minutes of these wimpy little thrusts had House more wound up than even the most vigorous fuck-fest, but logic didn't seem to apply here. He started coming before he even realized it, a slow burn that started in the pit of his stomach and spread like Biofreeze through his muscles, forcing him to grab at Wilson's hair to stave off a shaking fit. He had to make a split-second decision to either keep his mouth shut or stop breathing, but he figured Wilson wouldn't be able to hear over his own ridiculous grunting. In the end, House just sat back and enjoyed the ride, enjoyed the hot thickness pistoning into him until his release splattered up his chest, almost as an afterthought.
Wilson finished a second later but it seemed to take forever for him to stop shuddering, for his cock to stop pulsing, for his breathing to even out. Even then, he moved with at glacial speed, sitting up on his elbows, rearranging his hair, wiping sweat from House's forehead. “Mmm,” he said, his voice deep and lazy, “you okay?”
House attempted to roll his eyes, but for some reason they were too heavy, fixed instead on Wilson's face. “Ask me that again, and you won't be.”
Wilson gave him the smile that had, for so many years, been House's downfall. “Sorry,” he said softly, probably just to be a dick, and then pressed forward to kiss House chastely on the lips.
He would bitch about Wilson's shortcomings tomorrow.
Wilson would pull slowly out of him and wipe him clean with a too-cold washcloth, humming an unconscious, formless tune to himself as he worked. Then he would bustle noisily around the apartment getting ready for bed, brushing his teeth, turning off lights, setting the alarm clock for some ungodly hour. He would settle in a little too close, touch House a little too much, whisper a little too softly.
House wouldn't have it any other way.