private afterparty
title: private afterparty
author: phinnia
rating: nc-17 for boysex
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing.
author's note: for jane_hidell because she deserves something awesome.
Wilson makes him stupid, clearly.
That's the only way to explan why he's here at this wine tasting, watching people spit into buckets and talk about 'oaken breath' and 'whispers of coffee' and 'faint woody
aftertaste'.
Seriously. Woody aftertaste and he's supposed to keep a straight face and act like he gives a good goddamn, and what's worse, he's actually doing it. Okay, he's only spitting the ones that taste like freshly pissed-in riverwater, but still.
Although he's obviously behaving well enough if Wilson's hand on his leg is any indication, teasing the inseam of the expensive slacks he was forced into.
Hel-lo. Captain Commander Respectable is apparently turning into Captain Commander Naughty Fucking Cocktease, right here at the table, left-handedly stacking bullshit about mouthfeel and bouquets and the medical benefits of red wine while his right hand traces lazy lines up House's thigh.
The cliche at the head of the table - head vintner, aka the little gay man in stupidly expensive artfully distressed playclothes who probably has an obnoxious little dog named after an obscure royal title - starts clapping his hands and doing a pretentious little song and dance about how the weather on the south-facing hills is going to make for a fabulous crop this year and would they like to see it?
Truth is House barely knows a wine grape from a pingpong ball and doesn't give a flying fuck about it, but Wilson probably wants to go, so they'll be going. He sighs, rolls his eyes, and tries not to hate hills so loudly that anyone else can tell.
"I think we'll pass." Wilson says, all society smile and dark eyes. "We really must be going, wouldn't you say dear?"
Expectant silence. Polite coughs.
Oh, right. He's 'dear'. At home Wilson just calls him 'House' or occasionally 'asshole' or less occasionally 'God'. He's not used to this 'dear' thing, but he supposes that society fags - the kind that go to wine tastings - have different rules about names.
"Sure." Hey. Not like he's arguing.
The others make their chattery goodbyes, filled with half-assed wine puns and lots of invisible kissing and handshaking, and then they are alone, and House turns to go toward the parking lot; thinks about maybe getting a quick handjob to take the edge off before they get back to the hotel.
Except that he's steered the other way past the giftshop instead, into the single bathroom (or 'unisex toilette' as it says on the door in swirly gold letters) and shoved up against the wall so hard the tacky reproduction paintings rattle in their faux-gold frames
and Wilson is trying to climb his way up House and into his skin, pawing his way past clothes like they'd spent three weeks apart instead of three hours next to each other talking about grapes, but there's no way he's complaining.
"God, that was boring." Wilson hissed in his ear, biting down on the lobe.
"Uh-huh." He honestly meant that to be more insightful, but Wilson had unzipped his pants and so the whole thing came out as a moan.
"I spent the whole second half thinking about you fucking me." Wilson's whispers were hot against his throat. "Wanted to bend over that damn table with your cock up my ass, everybody watching you fucking me so hard all those fucking spit buckets of sludge wine tip over and get all over their fucking ... thousand dollar ... suits."
Wilson's hand muffled the moan that comes out of his mouth as though Wilson knows him better than he knows himself (which is entirely possible) - this is the best offer he's heard all day and he spent the morning thinking free drinks would be awesome. Wilson's hand is slick with lotion and he's sliding it over his fingers and House's dick and oh god whatever force replaced his usual oncologist with this satyr in sensible shoes may make him rethink his stance on religion.
Wilson bends over the snotty french Louis the somethingorother-th reproduction chair in the corner of this incredibly posh bathroom and presents his ass with three fingers already slicked up and if it had been more than the two steps required to get from one side
of the room to the other he probably would have collapsed from blood loss to critical regions of the brain, but luckily it was narrow for a toilette; and then he's hard in Wilson's hand being slicked with lotion and trying desperately not to come before they get to the actual fucking.
It's fast and hard and rough; the chair is squeaking slightly as it slides, unused to this type of overwork - and House has his fingers tangled in Wilson's hair, his teeth in the back of Wilson's shoulder through the almost-casual-for-Wilson weekend green polo shirt and when he comes he yanks on Wilson's hair so hard Wilson almost screams except he bites into the fleshy pad of House's palm instead and then falls sluggishly against the genuine reproduction
Louis the whateverth chair - and then looks utterly shocked and embarrassed because he just shot his wad all over the back of a genuine reproduction something or other.
House hustles him out of there fast, before he can do something stupid like apologise or offer cleaning tips.
"Does that winery have a website?" he asks, when they're halfway back to the hotel.
"I think so, why?" Responsible Oncologist is back in place of the satyr, carefully signalling a turn.
"Because I'm ordering a case of their white. And maybe one of those fake ugly chairs." He grins at Wilson's shame-faced blush. "It's our first vacation together. We'll want to relive the memories."
author: phinnia
rating: nc-17 for boysex
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing.
author's note: for jane_hidell because she deserves something awesome.
Wilson makes him stupid, clearly.
That's the only way to explan why he's here at this wine tasting, watching people spit into buckets and talk about 'oaken breath' and 'whispers of coffee' and 'faint woody
aftertaste'.
Seriously. Woody aftertaste and he's supposed to keep a straight face and act like he gives a good goddamn, and what's worse, he's actually doing it. Okay, he's only spitting the ones that taste like freshly pissed-in riverwater, but still.
Although he's obviously behaving well enough if Wilson's hand on his leg is any indication, teasing the inseam of the expensive slacks he was forced into.
Hel-lo. Captain Commander Respectable is apparently turning into Captain Commander Naughty Fucking Cocktease, right here at the table, left-handedly stacking bullshit about mouthfeel and bouquets and the medical benefits of red wine while his right hand traces lazy lines up House's thigh.
The cliche at the head of the table - head vintner, aka the little gay man in stupidly expensive artfully distressed playclothes who probably has an obnoxious little dog named after an obscure royal title - starts clapping his hands and doing a pretentious little song and dance about how the weather on the south-facing hills is going to make for a fabulous crop this year and would they like to see it?
Truth is House barely knows a wine grape from a pingpong ball and doesn't give a flying fuck about it, but Wilson probably wants to go, so they'll be going. He sighs, rolls his eyes, and tries not to hate hills so loudly that anyone else can tell.
"I think we'll pass." Wilson says, all society smile and dark eyes. "We really must be going, wouldn't you say dear?"
Expectant silence. Polite coughs.
Oh, right. He's 'dear'. At home Wilson just calls him 'House' or occasionally 'asshole' or less occasionally 'God'. He's not used to this 'dear' thing, but he supposes that society fags - the kind that go to wine tastings - have different rules about names.
"Sure." Hey. Not like he's arguing.
The others make their chattery goodbyes, filled with half-assed wine puns and lots of invisible kissing and handshaking, and then they are alone, and House turns to go toward the parking lot; thinks about maybe getting a quick handjob to take the edge off before they get back to the hotel.
Except that he's steered the other way past the giftshop instead, into the single bathroom (or 'unisex toilette' as it says on the door in swirly gold letters) and shoved up against the wall so hard the tacky reproduction paintings rattle in their faux-gold frames
and Wilson is trying to climb his way up House and into his skin, pawing his way past clothes like they'd spent three weeks apart instead of three hours next to each other talking about grapes, but there's no way he's complaining.
"God, that was boring." Wilson hissed in his ear, biting down on the lobe.
"Uh-huh." He honestly meant that to be more insightful, but Wilson had unzipped his pants and so the whole thing came out as a moan.
"I spent the whole second half thinking about you fucking me." Wilson's whispers were hot against his throat. "Wanted to bend over that damn table with your cock up my ass, everybody watching you fucking me so hard all those fucking spit buckets of sludge wine tip over and get all over their fucking ... thousand dollar ... suits."
Wilson's hand muffled the moan that comes out of his mouth as though Wilson knows him better than he knows himself (which is entirely possible) - this is the best offer he's heard all day and he spent the morning thinking free drinks would be awesome. Wilson's hand is slick with lotion and he's sliding it over his fingers and House's dick and oh god whatever force replaced his usual oncologist with this satyr in sensible shoes may make him rethink his stance on religion.
Wilson bends over the snotty french Louis the somethingorother-th reproduction chair in the corner of this incredibly posh bathroom and presents his ass with three fingers already slicked up and if it had been more than the two steps required to get from one side
of the room to the other he probably would have collapsed from blood loss to critical regions of the brain, but luckily it was narrow for a toilette; and then he's hard in Wilson's hand being slicked with lotion and trying desperately not to come before they get to the actual fucking.
It's fast and hard and rough; the chair is squeaking slightly as it slides, unused to this type of overwork - and House has his fingers tangled in Wilson's hair, his teeth in the back of Wilson's shoulder through the almost-casual-for-Wilson weekend green polo shirt and when he comes he yanks on Wilson's hair so hard Wilson almost screams except he bites into the fleshy pad of House's palm instead and then falls sluggishly against the genuine reproduction
Louis the whateverth chair - and then looks utterly shocked and embarrassed because he just shot his wad all over the back of a genuine reproduction something or other.
House hustles him out of there fast, before he can do something stupid like apologise or offer cleaning tips.
"Does that winery have a website?" he asks, when they're halfway back to the hotel.
"I think so, why?" Responsible Oncologist is back in place of the satyr, carefully signalling a turn.
"Because I'm ordering a case of their white. And maybe one of those fake ugly chairs." He grins at Wilson's shame-faced blush. "It's our first vacation together. We'll want to relive the memories."