Phantasmorgasm
Title: Phantasmorgasm
Author: Magie
Word Count: 4,497
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: Wilson has imagined his first time with House so many times, he just knows that when it happens, it's going to be perfect. This is the longest PWP ever, inspired (again) by a single word: 'phantasmagoria,' which means fantasy or illusion, and often refers to things which do not exist. Like perfect first times with House :)
Whenever he imagines sex with House-that is to say, most days and nearly every night he spends on cold sheets next to a cold wife-everything is…perfect.
There’s lots of kissing, of course. Wilson feels like there can never be enough kissing. In his twisted little fantasies, House tastes more like coffee than Vicodin. He kisses slowly, at first; delicate hairs dragging across Wilson’s chin send chills up his spine. Then long fingers slide slowly under his shirt, short nails over his sides, palms coming to rest on his shoulder blades. The kiss deepens and their hips are flush, and the next thing Wilson knows, clothes are being shed neatly and gracefully. Then there are hands and lips and mouths and semen and Wilson can forgive himself for being a forty-year-old married guy fantasizing about his male best friend. They’re just fantasies, after all.
Reality, as it turns out, is almost always wrong.
“Ouch!”
For example, he hadn’t counted on House biting his lip that hard.
“Pansy,” House accuses, but his tongue darts out to soothe the bite mark.
Wilson’s trying not to get caught up in the implications, the past or future, what led them here and what happens next. He wants to focus on the moment, on the firm, warm mouth and the obscene noises it’s now making against his arched neck.
He never could have imagined it being this good. His mind couldn’t have imitated this raw electricity, this need, the way it feels to have House finally shut up and give in. He doesn’t have to guess what House wants, not with that hand moving in slow circles over his crotch, rubbing him through layers of expensive fabric. There’s no sarcasm in the way he’s twisting his fingers into Wilson’s hair, possessing him, pressing him bodily into the rickety leather couch. This is real, it’s happening, it’s amazing, it’s-
“Crap!” House pulls back suddenly to pick up the bottle of beer one of them has accidentally elbowed off the coffee table, directly onto a stack of scribbled-on medical journals and some patient files taken illegally from the hospital. He carelessly throws Wilson’s coat over the mess and for a brief moment of insanity, Wilson wants to call him a jerk and demand to be reimbursed for the dry cleaning. Instead, he sits back up and pulls House into a kiss before either of them has time to second-guess what’s happening.
He’s moaning this time, or House is; it’s hard to tell when their mouths are open and sealed together like this, when they’re breathing each other’s air. All he knows is the three-dimensional reality of broad shoulders under his palms and long, rough fingers in his hair, holding him in place. Oh, god, the sounds, the suction, the wet smack of lips and tongue, moans and the puff of hot breath in his ear. Even in his most pornographically twisted fantasies, Wilson never imagined how much the noises would do for him, butterflies in his stomach and chills over his skin. Now House is pulling him to his feet and Wilson’s sure he’s going to throw up. He really shouldn’t be so nervous; he’s imagined this enough: House abandons his cane and nudges Wilson back with jostled steps, too busy to think about his pain with his hands clenched in Wilson’s shirt collar. Wilson thinks they might be floating, this walk is so natural, so inevitable, finally being pushed towards House’s bedroom after a decade of court-
“Shit!” He nearly falls backwards over House’s damn backpack, which has ended up in the middle of the hallway entrance by the desk. Honestly, the man’s handicapped; you’d think he’d make an effort to keep tripping hazards out of the way. Wilson wants to install hooks.
Later, of course, as right now he’s doing a very painful pirouette and probably pulling something in his groin, all to avoid falling on his ass or House’s leg. Well, this never happened in his dreams: blushing to the roots of his hair, House leaning awkwardly against the opposite wall, smirking with his entire body. “Shut up,” Wilson says preemptively, eyes on the floor molding.
The grin only grows wider as he walks with his palms down the hallway towards Wilson. The spontaneity broken, anything can happen now, as Wilson’s heart begins to race; House might play it off, make a joke, push him away just when they came so close…
But House curls his fingers around Wilson’s elbow. “You’re supposed to be the one that can actually walk,” his tone lighter than his words, spinning Wilson roughly towards the bedroom with a look of purpose on his face, like they’re going in there to look at scans or do a differential. This works, Wilson thinks, whatever gets them there, and it’s not like walking down hallways together, shoulders bumping, eyes locked, mixed scents in a small space is anything new. Except that now, they’re actually getting somewhere.
He’s thrust into House’s room with little ceremony, attacked with kisses just inside the door. He groans because this is more perfect than he ever imagined it would be, because he can taste how much House wants him. This time, he throws a cautious glance over his shoulder as House eases him backwards, but there’s nothing to trip over except the bed.
It squeaks suggestively under his weight, and he’s scrambling towards the pillows before he knows what he’s doing. All he knows is what he wants, House’s strength pressing him into the mattress, or House under him, looking at him, trusting him, or House just lying next to him and letting him touch-
But he’s forgotten about physics, about mechanics, and he tries not to let concern flash through his eyes as House presses his three working limbs deep into the bed, discomfort evident in his hesitancy. It’s almost shameful to watch him drag his leg up behind him, too much room for Wilson to pity and for House to notice it.
So he averts his gaze, toes off his shoes and knocks them under the bed, out of the way, since he won’t need them, since he’s about to have sex with House. Nerves kick in once more now that House isn’t touching him, and Wilson tastes fear and his used turkey sandwich from lunchtime, as he fumbles with his socks and listens to House settling on the mattress beside him.
His heart is racing in his throat as he continues to undress, this brief, unexpected pause in activity giving him time to doubt himself. This just isn’t fair. Wilson is always so composed in his dreams, so suave. Things just flow, and it’s gorgeous, and he doesn’t feel like a fucking virgin all over again, and he certainly doesn’t get stuck in his sweater vest.
He’s willing himself not to panic. That would probably just anger it. But the fact is, maroon wool is closing in on him, obscuring his view, pinning his arms over his head and he’s not sure he can get out on his own. He’d been too eager to get back to the kissing, back to the fantasy, back to rough lips and hot breath and broad hands, and he’d tried to (very smoothly) divest himself of the sweater vest with both hands and now he’s officially trapped and there is no way to get out of this without subjecting himself to endless mockery.
After much wriggling of his upper body and using his elbows in creative ways, he manages to free himself, tossing the burgundy death trap to the floor and resolving to seriously rethink his wardrobe. He’s certain his face has reddened to match the sweater vest, his hair has surely suffered from the yanked-off wool and he’s cursing the bedside lamp for its light-
Until he turns his head and sees that House has removed his own t-shirt.
Fantasies are useless. They have nothing on real life, on thick biceps kissed by lamplight, a heaving chest, the trail of faint hair leading southwards from House’s navel and disappearing below his waistband. He’s most stunned by those eyes, darkened to a shade of blue that he’s sure didn’t exist before, glittering faintly with lust and unspoken sweater-vest jokes. Wilson’s biting on his own lips and staring fixedly at the smirk on House’s. This causes his slacks to tighten considerably.
House notices, because House always notices, raising his eyebrows, “More wardrobe issues? Corporate casual just isn’t conducive to hot-"
Wilson bumps their jaws together and sucks in the rest of the jibe. He’s fully on his side and pulling House with him, braced on his elbow so House can snake both arms around him, making a single, cut-off, high-pitched noise in his throat when House pulls their bodies flush.
God. The noises are back now, more frantic, louder, deeper. House is everywhere, sucking Wilson’s upper lip, whiskers sandpapering his chin, hands briefly squeezing Wilson’s shoulders from behind before sliding down his back. He can’t get close enough to House’s hips, since there’s an extra erection fantastically in the way, and he’s debating the relative merits of throwing his leg over House’s waist.
“Gmph,” okay, that works, the pressure of House’s abdomen to grind softly against, the returning poke brushing lightly in the direction of his balls, the Wilson murmured into his mouth. But he’s thinking there should be more skin. In his fantasies, there’s always skin.
House learned to read minds somewhere in Egypt or Asia, he’s certain, as his hands are suddenly abandoning Wilson’s ribcage and ripping his pinstriped shirt out of his pants.
His heart and brain and penis are throbbing as he’s pushed onto his back, shivering even though he’s beginning to sweat, gasping at the intensity on House’s face. He barely notices the horizontal limp as House moves to straddle him, never breaking eye contact, leaning awkwardly on one knee as his hands scramble over Wilson’s torso.
Buttons pop out of their holes, bottom to top, cool air replacing starched cotton. He’s fiddling with the clasp of House’s jeans, hands shaking, chest heaving, keening ridiculously just from the brush of House’s knuckles against his skin. Long fingers start ripping at his tie, the last thing holding his shirt on. Once it’s off, Wilson is going to roll them over and take off House’s pants and find out just how much better this is than fantasy.
Just as soon as House gets his tie off.
He wants to make House moan his name.
It’s going to be so amazing.
Any second now.
“House, try pulling from the other side, you’re just making the knot worse-“
“What the hell? Is there a combination?”
“Ow! Ok, now you’re choking me.”
“Not into the kinky stuff, Jimmy?”
“Just…lemme…” He finally pries House’s fingers away, raises up and pulls the taut loop over his head with difficulty, not allowing himself to think about the wrinkles he’ll have to deal with later, his shirt fluttering to the floor with a sense of finality.
He’s grateful when House immediately crushes their mouths back together, both for the probing tongue and the chance to picture what they must look like, half-naked and House on top of him, sweat beginning to break out under the low light, the slow movement of their hips against the mattress-
“God, House,” the dream version of Wilson says that quite often. Wilson just doesn’t remember it sounding so desperate and pathetic.
But House is unzipping his own jeans, so Wilson’s not going to complain. He scoots back towards the head of the bed, his hands falling to his own belt, absolutely no idea what he intends to do when the pants are off. He’s not exactly in his element here, and apparently he can’t count on those fantasies to give him a guideline.
Denim and khaki land on the carpet with two distinct flumps. House wears boxer shorts, those loose-fitting ones with the wide front opening, the easier to slip on and off over his leg, Wilson figures, as the last drops of blood leave his brain, as loose-fitting boxers pool around House’s knees.
The scar’s there, and it’s ugly, and it pulls a drop of bitterness into Wilson’s stomach. But it’s hard to focus, hard to breathe, as he kneels inches from House, his eyes rake up and down, from half-lidded blue eyes to the mass of scarred tissue.
He suddenly notices just how constrictive his own briefs are.
There’s only one solution, really: slide them off, ball them up, toss them in the corner and grab House by the waist. He’s looking at House with what he knows is an idiotic expression, because this is better than he could have hoped, House’s fingers cupping his face, erections finally brushing, moving slowly in for an honest-to-goodness slow, romantic kiss, and House hasn’t even made a smart-ass comm-
“Tighty-whiteys?”
He huffs, and House is grinning, and even being made fun is perfect. This doesn’t have to be a scene from one of those guy-on-guy pornos Wilson very emphatically doesn’t own, it’s House, it’s better than any of that. It’s strong arms slipping around him, solid chest against his heart. It’s teeth in his shoulder and fingers in his completely destroyed hair. It’s House touching his cock for the first time and making Wilson cry out helplessly.
He leans his head back, mouth open, eyes closed, and lets House devour his neck and jaw and collarbone, complete nonsense slipping out of his throat, his fingertips ghosting down House’s ribcage to the tops of his thighs.
Kneeling this way has got to hurt. Wilson knows; he’s planned for this. His hands skim back, and House groans satisfyingly when Wilson cups his ass briefly. He pulls back when Wilson shifts him gently to the right, a flicker of mistrust, but Wilson slides their cocks together, and he relents.
He’s breathless by the time Wilson nudges him to sit down with his back against the headboard, but somehow he still manages to look smug and composed. “Hmm. Think you can get through the rest of this without serious injury?”
Straddling him, looking down, torn between concern of rubbing against House’s leg and not-rubbing against his erection, Wilson is somewhat less confident. “I’m sure we can figure this out.”
Except the only image that’s coming to mind is that one year, that first year with Julie, when she manipulated him into putting up his first-ever Christmas tree. After fighting endlessly with strings of white lights, he somehow ended up with two ironically female power cord ends and nowhere to put them.
He always knows what to do in fantasies, but this isn’t a fantasy. Obviously. He’s trying to decide between kissing House on the mouth or moving lower when suddenly there’s a fist around his cock that most definitely isn’t his own.
He moans. “You don’t have to treat everything like geometry homework,” House rasps into his ear, in a tone of voice Wilson’s only dreamt of, and he can’t help but relax.
He grabs the top of the headboard with one hand and leans in to moan into House’s neck. He practically whimpers when he feels a tongue graze his earlobe. This is…good, since all other adjectives are quickly fading away, it’s very good, House’s thumb over his tip, spreading out the drops of fluid there, working up the shaft with agonizing slowness…
Agonizing, well, that’s another adjective. Not that it hurts. That much. It’s just a little rough. Rough is good. Just…dry. If he’s…sort of…starting to chafe…
“Ah,” he hisses when the friction becomes too much, after House has them parallel with a loose fist wrapped around them both. “House, do you…do you have any, um…” Heat creeps into his cheeks. Damn it. People never blush in those guy-on-guy pornos. Not that Wilson would know this.
House has that smug, bastard-like, I’m-so-much-cooler-than-you look on his face. He jerks his head toward the bedside table.
Wilson straightens up cautiously but hurriedly, excited now that something’s going his way for once tonight and he won’t have to get dressed and run down to the drug store. House’s hands are roaming over his hips and ass and sides as he leans over to dig around in the drawer.
There are lots of…interesting articles in here. Way more half-empty pill bottles than he cares to count just now…loose tissues…something that looks suspiciously like a voodoo doll…red silicone, which Wilson will investigate later, all of these items nestled on old magazines and stuck together with some questionable substance. Finally, triumphantly, his fingers curl around a cool plastic bottle and he turns with a loud, excited, “Got it!”
“OW!”
House has his eyes squeezed shut and oh, God, it’s his leg, Wilson has to get off-
But House has him by the wrist. His other hand is plastered over his right eye.
It’s really basic physics. Apparently House had decided to lean in, with the admirable goal of either kissing Wilson’s navel or (he shudders) satisfying his oral fixation by taking Wilson in his mouth. This would have worked swimmingly, had Wilson not canted his hips as he turned and lost momentary control of his favorite appendage-
House states the now quite obvious. His tone is menacingly neutral, and the eye not covered by his hand is clever and calculating, searching Wilson’s expression. “Did you just poke me in the eye with your penis?”
“I-I’m sorry,” he murmurs. This is the final mishap. The mishap to end all mishaps. Somehow his dreams and fantasies have morphed into this embarrassing, surrealistic nightmare. He’s going to crawl off House, get dressed, and go hide under his desk for the rest of his life, contemplating how in hell he ruined both a friendship and a sexual relationship in one fell swoop, so to speak-
Then House snorts, then he’s actually laughing, and something lets go of Wilson’s heart. It’s that quiet, restrained laugh, hint of dimples in his cheeks; it’s one uninjured eye glittering with mirth. It’s the laugh that makes Wilson forget for a moment that anything bad has ever happened.
He can’t help but release a few nervous chuckles himself, letting his forehead sink to House’s shoulder. “I swear I’m usually better at this.”
“For the sake of half the hospital nursing staff, I hope so. Ow!” He flinches against the disciplinary bite Wilson lays on his neck, but his noise of pain turns into a soft moan, fists clenching on the tops of Wilson’s thighs.
He’s licking the stubble and sweat, both grateful and regretful he can’t see House’s face, curling his fingers around thick biceps. “It’s just…this is…”
He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. House pushes him back enough to slam their mouths back together, and if their teeth clash unpleasantly, Wilson’s too happy to care.
His flanks are burning from maintaining this position so long. His jaw hurts and he’s pretty sure he’s got bruises in various locations. He nearly blinded House with his dick. And yet, he’s still harder than should be humanly possible after a series of injuries and humiliations.
He flips open the lubricant, palms sweating, tongue in House’s mouth. It’s cold, probably too cold, but he fills the cup of his hand anyway, slips it between their bodies, leaving no more time for catastrophe.
House stops kissing him and makes a noise like he’s just been dunked into ice water and is quite happy about it. Oh, wow. Wilson licks sweat off his upper lip. He goes back and forth on the moaning issue in his dreams: would House withhold his pleasure as much as he does his pain? Or would he give in, would he moan, would he call Wilson’s name?
Or maybe a mixture of both, he thinks, as House bites his own lower lip and lets the back of his skull bump heavily against the headboard, eyes dark and drifting back into his head. God, that image; it’s all Wilson can see as he jerks them both together under the slick, warming fluid, nearly blacking out at the sensation of their joined, heavy erections sliding together. He knows random syllables are bubbling out of his mouth each time he thrusts into the wet cocoon, and it probably sounds ridiculous, and Wilson couldn’t care less.
House is squeezing random handfuls of Wilson’s thighs and hips, and Wilson yelps when the attention moves to his ass, a rough massage and a teasing finger in between. Then the calloused pads of House’s thumbs are sliding over his pelvic bones, sliding in, drawing firm circles all around the base of Wilson’s cock-
He’s more willing to blame the Vicodin. It’s not that Wilson got so overexcited that he came too early like a fifteen-year-old; it’s that House takes so many pills, it takes him longer to get there. He wasn’t early; House was just a bit late.
At least that’s what he’ll tell himself later; now, he’s too busy spreading thick warmth over House’s abdomen. But whatever the reason, Vicodin or virginal regression, Wilson’s willing to call this an unexpected bonus.
“Hou-so-oh my God,” is probably the most articulate thing he’s said since the lube got involved, but House doesn’t seem interested in conversation at this point, too intent on coaxing every last drop from Wilson’s body, breathing out short, sharp noises as Wilson melts under his fingertips.
Wilson’s still trembling, already aware this is his most intense orgasm in recent memory, back creaking, wrist aching, but this is the best part, the part of the guy-on-guy porno he’ll pause and rewind. If he owned any, of course, which he doesn’t. He crawls backward, avoiding House’s leg like it’s going to burst into flames, and grips the base of House’s penis, deciding at the last second to bend down like some kind of weird, naked, four-legged creature and suck House’s tip into his mouth.
He never imagined that much heat, that groan vibrating through House’s whole body, the sudden fullness in his mouth nearly triggering his gag reflex. But it’s good, weirdly good, clean skin and salt, fingers in his hair and “Jesus Christ.”
It’s a night of first times, so Wilson puts all his weight on his overworked knees, guides his other hand in and pushes up behind House’s balls, nailing his prostate through layers of warm tissue-
Then House does moan his name, and he’s stupidly flattered, and he wants to smile, but he’s suddenly choking.
He’ll just push all images of clinic kids’ mucus out of his head, and he won’t compare the taste to anything. He’s shuddering, and he’s really not sure he can physically swallow all of it; he’ll have to breathe eventually. But finally House settles his hips back onto the bed with a deep sigh and lets his spent cock fall out of Wilson’s mouth.
Wilson wipes his lips with the back of his hand and clears his throat, and automatically wonders if that’s bad manners, coughing your partner’s semen into your hand. But House doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, so Wilson settles onto his back in exhausted satiety.
Now he’s supposed to wake up. He’s supposed to snap out of the daydream and go downstairs for a biopsy. He’s not supposed to lie here in silence, with both nothing and everything hanging between them.
He could reach out and touch the warm, sticky, sweaty body next to him, explore it in more detail, map every bone and birthmark, graze his fingers over that deep, out-of-place wound. He could also have his hand batted away, a cutting remark and no remorse, leave this apartment and go back to his wife and never be allowed to touch House again-
“Gimme.”
House seems to have roused from his post-coital cataplexy, laying an outstretched palm across Wilson’s stomach as if it’s too heavy to hold up.
Slightly dazed, he reaches for the only thing he can think of. He leans awkwardly over House’s unresponsive body to the still-open drawer beside him, fishes out a pill bottle and before he can stop himself, presses it to House’s chest, holding his fingers there as long as he dares.
House’s eyelids finally slide open and stares at the orange plastic in confusion. It’s nearly thirty seconds before he murmurs, “Well, that works. I was actually reaching for a towel or something.” He gestures to the drying mess Wilson left on his lower abdomen. “But this works.”
Wilson’s eyebrows lift with his mood. “Oh.”
House keeps eye contact as he fishes his discarded boxers from the sheets and wipes himself off. He’s not smiling. He looks like he does in his office, sitting in the dark, staring at a whiteboard and not suspecting that Wilson’s watching from behind glass walls. He’s thinking, and if Wilson knows him, that means House is talking himself out of happiness.
“House?”
“Turn off the light.”
He’s not sure if that’s an invitation or rejection. “Not yet.”
House sighs petulantly and starts yanking the sheets over his legs. “We’ll get married tomorrow, okay?”
Wilson’s quite sure his lips just pursed, but there’s nothing else for it. “House.”
“What? Isn’t that what you want to talk about? Useless labels and social conformity?”
Now his face is getting warm. “No. I was proposing that we actually talk about what just happened. You were just…proposing.”
House rolls his eyes and starts trying to work open his pill bottle.
Wilson sits up, desperate to make himself more important than House’s chemical distraction. “Just tell me one thing before you start lining up divorce lawyers.” His heart is racing, because this could mean that his new non-relationship with House is over before it has begun. “Is this going to happen again?”
House makes a show of swallowing the Vicodin, putting the bottle cap back on, and turning the bottle over and over in his long fingers. Finally, “Well, I dunno about the mess,” he gestures to small damp spot between them, “or the penis-induced black eyes,” a ghost of a smirk. “But,” and Wilson can barely hear him, because he’s speaking to his pill bottle, “I think…I could get used to this.”
It’s said off-hand, like House could take it or leave it. But it’s the closest to a return of his feelings Wilson can expect. For now, at least.
House’s next question is so gruff and soft, Wilson almost mistakes it for a grunt. “You?”
He thinks about the humiliation, the sweater vest, the bruises. He thinks about the build-up, the years he’s spent picturing this moment, and how completely wrong this whole thing is. He thinks about Julie and wishes he didn’t. He mentally takes an inventory of the strained muscles, chafed body parts, the sticky acid in his throat. He looks at House, blue eyes open and searching, waiting for the next puzzle piece. He thinks about his screwed-up job, screwed-up marriage, screwed-up sex with his screwed-up best friend.
“I thought…it was perfect.”