SMUT FEST 2009 CONTINUES
Title: Daily Special
Author: magie_05
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: House takes Wilson out for lunch...in the middle of nowhere.
He should have known better than to let House take him anywhere.
But it had all happened so quickly - House barreling into his office as per usual, complaining loudly and annoyingly about something or other, and then plopping down in front of Wilson's desk, quirking his lips and flashing his eyes and casually asking "Feel like going out to lunch?"
Wilson should have protested, should have pointed out that the hospital did have reasonably edible food just downstairs and that he had three stacks of charts to sign off on before this afternoon -
"My treat," House had said, and started absentmindedly running a finger along his lips...
It wasn't exactly the sort of thing Wilson was capable of refusing.
Now he was stuck in the passenger seat of House's car, barely cooled by the twenty-year-old air conditioner and watching concrete overpasses give way to sprawling fields.
"Where the hell are you taking me?" he asked in the middle of House's long tirade about the hospital's cable policies. "We've passed at least ten restaurants in the past twenty minutes."
"All places we've been to at least once. My stomach rebels at stagnation." He fished around in the console and extracted what was once a peppermint, now de-crystallized into red-and-white goo wrapped in cellophane. "Here - this'll hold you over 'til we get there."
Wilson was more worried about the clock in House's cracked dashboard. "I'm supposed to be back at work in a half-hour."
"I was supposed to be in the clinic a half-hour ago. Cuddy'll be too busy pulling her hair out over that to worry about a little slip on your perfect-attendance record."
Wilson felt a sense of vague panic overpower the emptiness in his stomach. "Uh...how long are you planning to be gone?"
"Not too long." He turned his head and looked at Wilson over his sunglasses. "We have to be back in time for you to buy me dinner."
That expression had a negative effect on the ball of righteous outrage Wilson was working on, so he only sputtered a little while digging out his cell phone. "Do you think you could warn me the next time you decide to drag me into your insanity? It would be a lot easier on my patients - "
"Oh, relax," House said, taking the phone from him and slipping it into his own front pocket. "Your secretary and Cuddy both received emails from you this morning, indicating that you would be taking some personal time this afternoon. Your ass - and your patients - are covered."
He was about to unleash the righteous outrage at being kidnapped and having his email account hacked again...when House's fingers wrapped around his wrist.
"Relax," he said again, more softly this time, keeping his eyes on the road and his hand on Wilson's arm. "Half the fun is getting there, right?"
He couldn't read House's expression through the sunglasses...but he could see the ghost of a smirk around House's lips, could feel the fingers blindly unbuttoning his shirt cuff to stroke up and down the inside of his wrist, so softly that it raised goosebumps on his arm -
Really, in a way, House kidnapping him and violating his privacy was sort of - sweet.
He wasn’t sure that made sense.
Still, he sank back into his seat as House drove them further and further away from civilization, lulled into a dubious relaxation by the sounds of the road and the slow movement of House’s fingers along his own.
He was so relaxed by the time the car stopped that for a moment, he’d forgotten why they were out here among yellowing fields and giant grain silos.
“This is a gas station.”
“And deli,” House said cheerily, shutting off the car. “C’mon. They’ve got a great lunch special.”
He reached down to undo Wilson’s seatbelt, and Wilson was struck again by the easiness of his touch, the lack of hesitation as House leaned across him to open the passenger door.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, painfully suspicious. “You drive thirty miles to take me to a roadside hole-in-the-wall? What’s the - ”
He had to stop talking when House pressed their lips together.
It was brief, but public.
“Let’s go inside,” House said like nothing was out of the ordinary, like they weren’t in potential view of lunching truck drivers and it wasn’t the first time House had acknowledged anything physical between them outside his apartment or broom closets. “You gotta try their peach cobbler.”
Wilson floated through the heavy glass doors in a kind of daze, half-expecting House to turn around and yell “Punk’d!” at him with each step.
Instead, he led the way right up to the corner of the building designated as the ‘deli,’ a morose-looking establishment with Formica countertops and cheap barstools. An ancient chalkboard against one wall listed the daily specials, colorful options like fried chicken livers and beer-battered onion rings. House rang a service bell with the hook of his cane, summoning the annoyed-looking clerk from the store's front register.
“Help you?” she grunted, revealing a missing front tooth. Wilson smiled apologetically.
“Yes, I believe you can,” House projected, using the tone he reserved for insulting people without them realizing it. “What can you tell us about your specials today?”
She blinked. “They’re over there,” she said, jerking her head towards the chalkboard.
House squinted at it as if enthralled, his lips moving as he read silently. “So you get a large drink and potato wedges with every order, can’t beat that. How about dessert?” He leaned on the counter and spoke in a low, suggestive voice. “See, my friend was just telling me he’s in the mood for something really warm and filling. And I hear your apple pie is to die for.”
The woman scowled up at them through dyed dirty-blond hair. “Don’t serve apple pie.”
“Pity,” House said in that quietly sarcastic tone. “Well, everything looks so good - we’ll need a minute to decide. But first things first - could we possibly get the key to the men’s room? We’ve been on the road for a while and my friend here just can’t get used to going in the bushes.”
She looked at them skeptically. “It’s for customers only.”
“Oh, we’ll definitely be back.” He tapped a fingernail against a counter display of small brown paper bags, each apparently containing something called ‘boiled peanuts.’ “He’s a sucker for these hot nuts,” House said, clapping Wilson on the back and winking at the clerk.
She didn’t take her eyes off of them, even as she reached under the counter and extracted a key tied with shoestring to a small wooden block. “It’s outside and to your left.”
Wilson was blushing too hard to think about the pressure of House’s hand on his elbow as he was tugged back outdoors.
“What are you doing?” he whispered fiercely, just as soon as they were out of earshot of the nearest flannel-clad store patron. “We may be in farm country, but these people aren’t stupid, or deaf. I…you’re…” he couldn’t believe he was actually asking House to tone it down in public minutes after feeling so happy that he was toning it up in public…
He was still struggling with his own hypocrisy as House struggled with the bathroom’s old-fashioned door handle, his tongue visible at the corner of his mouth and sunglasses slipping down his nose. “Got it!”
Wilson barely had time to take in the tiny room’s single toilet before the door slammed shut and House’s arms circled his waist. “Finally,” House breathed into his ear, dropping his cane and his cool, breezy persona to push his face through Wilson’s hair.
“Wh-what are you doing,” Wilson stuttered again, although this time it wasn’t a question, not with House’s lips on his cheek, hands on his chest, hard-on pressing into his tailbone…
“You said no more sex at work,” House breathed in that same hot whisper, “and you would've said no if I took you to my place, and you wore this ridiculous sweater vest today…”
He ran his hands under it, knuckles slipping on the slick fabric, making tiny pleased noises in his throat as he sucked a spot on Wilson’s jaw, as his fingers toyed with Wilson’s nipples through the starched cotton of his shirt.
“House.” His voice may have caught on the vowel sounds, dragging them out into a half-moan. “We…can’t…” he panted, even as his hips pressed back into House’s, even as his hands groped behind him to grab at House’s t-shirt, pulling him closer -
“Door’s locked,” House said into his ear, unbuttoning Wilson’s shirt underneath the sweater vest, sliding bare hands all over Wilson’s bare chest and stomach. “You know how long it took me to find a place that still hands out bathroom keys?” He kissed Wilson’s neck somewhat frantically as he started tugging on Wilson’s belt. “Thirty miles away from home, so even if we do get caught, which we won’t, it won’t be by anyone you know.”
Wilson laughed airily, because this was the House he knew, the guy who’d drag him halfway across the state in the middle of a workday to do him in some grubby gas station, and all that casual touching from the ride over probably meant nothing.
Even if Wilson had wanted it to.
It was easier to let it go in favor of more pressing matters. “How long have you been planning this?”
House released him for a half-second to plunge his hand into his jeans pocket, extracting a handful of condoms and assorted pouches of lubricant. “Too long,” he groaned, and nipped a sharp line down Wilson’s neck.
They were in a locked room thirty miles away from consequences…
He turned in House’s arms, kissing him fiercely while one hand checked the door handle. It only took two steps backwards for him to bump into the sink, nearly sitting on it as House struggled urgently to get his hips into the right position, tugging his belt loose and dropping the supplies into the sink basin, freeing his hands to sweep up Wilson’s bare sides below the loosened shirt and vest.
With half of his weight supported by the sink, Wilson’s legs wrapped loosely around House’s hips, pulling him in while Wilson’s hands were busy on the clasp of his jeans, while their mouths were occupied with gasps or greedy kisses.
Eyes closed, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same hot air as House pressed him back against cracked porcelain…he raked his fingers through House’s short, crisp hair and slipped the sunglasses off, catching a glimpse of House’s eyes before his guard went up, something soft and raw and almost pained disappearing behind his usual electric glint as Wilson’s thumbs traced the tips of his ears, both hands pulling him back in for a hungry clash of lips.
House breathed hot words into his mouth, slid his hands down Wilson’s back, kissed him so hard that Wilson’s head thumped against the spotted mirror. He felt House’s cock straining against him through two layers of dampening cotton, House’s hands fumbling downwards to push the clothing down his thighs, House’s teeth tugging at his upper lip -
He swallowed a moan and reached back for the lubricant, only to have his fingers tangle in with House’s, both of them having apparently come to the same idea independently.
He coated his fingers while House unrolled a condom, slathered lube lingeringly up and down House's cock. He wasn't a fan of the latex, but he was less of a fan of having to sit on clenched muscles for the rest of the afternoon. The sensation was still so intense, House's taste in his mouth, scent in his lungs, fingers teasing around his eager, throbbing opening...
Wilson could only stand ten seconds of House's teasing, shoving his hand away and turning around after a last clash of lips, gripping the sides of that mildewed sink and bending over it shamelessly, angling his hips out as far as he could manage and whimpering low in his throat -
By the time House's hips were pressed against him, Wilson had completely forgotten they weren't at home.
He didn't think about being surrounded by surly truck drivers as House started to move, each tight thrust making his hands slip further up the sink. He could have pretended they were in House's apartment as he squeezed his eyes shut, if not for the smell of urine and disinfectant. And when the remarkably rigid head of House's cock slammed into his prostate, he lost all sense of their surroundings.
Too caught up in what was happening inside him - electricity building in his core, spine rolling with each hard thrust, House's hips slapping against him, House's hands white-knuckled on his hips. He bit his lip and bowed his head, a half-hearted attempt to stifle the grunts House was knocking out of him, the feral groans he felt building in his chest...
It became a hopeless endeavor when House pulled hard on the back of his hair, forcing eye contact in the tiny mirror, forcing Wilson to watch himself being fucked from behind in a dirty men's room off I-60, still mostly-clothed and bathed in flickering fluorescent light. He slapped his palms to the wall to hold himself upright, making embarrassingly high-pitched noises as the angle changed, as House's cock speared inside him to hit just...the right...spot...
He wanted to fold himself backwards over that perfect blunt pressure, but of course House’s leg had other ideas. He eased them forwards and pushed a fist into the wall next to Wilson’s left hand, taking the weight off his right side. The pressboard wall gave a few inches under his weight, and somewhere in his rational mind Wilson was concerned about acoustics -
“Oh, fuck…Wilson,” House moaned, loudly, and drove as deep into Wilson’s body as physically possible.
Wilson’s rational mind fled the building.
It was so much - the heat from being fucked through his work clothes, or because of his work clothes, sweating through his fateful wool vest. So much friction pistoning inside him, pleasure like a highly coiled spring behind his balls, threatening to burst. So much House - buried inside him, holding his hips steady with one hand, scraping the back of his neck with stubble and harsh curses. With a sharp note and a final nip at Wilson’s ear, he pressed his forehead in between Wilson’s shoulders blades and grabbed his biceps, thrusting crookedly, quickly, hard enough to make Wilson’s breath catch and his eyes water -
“Now,” he heard House rasp, “now.”
Wilson barely had to touch his own cock before semen was rolling down his knuckles.
House followed suit a heartbeat later, stilling his hips to hold on to the rush, his cock pulsing against Wilson’s smooth inner muscles. Wilson felt him trembling from the strain of holding himself upright, but he still took time to pull Wilson’s head up, kiss the corner of his mouth while Wilson watched in the mirror, half-dazed as House slipped out of him.
The toilet seat clanked, and as his vision cleared, Wilson caught sight of House sitting back against the tank with his jeans pulled up but still unbuttoned, resting his head against the wall and rubbing his leg, tossing back what had to be a sizable handful of pills.
Still, he had a tiny smile playing around his lips.
Shakily, Wilson washed his hands and ran a rough, wet paper towel over his thighs, using it to push the discarded condom farther down in the bagless wastebasket. Reality was starting to catch up with him as he cleaned himself up, as he finally noticed their little trysting shack’s dirty linoleum and suspicious stains - suggesting they weren’t the first couple to have had this idea -
House reached out and grabbed his wrist. “You know, this place opens at 4 a.m. for breakfast.”
Looking down at House splayed on a rickety toilet with his pants undone, his hair going in ten different directions as he tried to look cool and collected - Wilson couldn’t help but laugh.
He knew that he was probably reading too much into House kissing him in the car, House whisking him away to some remote truck stop for impromptu (albeit hot) sex in a bathroom. He was also aware that he looked like a smitten teenager as House made sure the coast was clear and led him back out into stifling sunlight, lacing just the tips of their fingers together and tugging him down the sidewalk. He let go when they turned the corner, and walked a half-step in front of Wilson on the way back inside, but that was okay, too.
Half the fun, after all, was getting there.
He was still flushed and sweaty and aching in all the right places, smiling dumbly to himself when the bell over the door announced their re-entry into reality, where they didn’t touch or talk or acknowledge what really mattered -
“Sorry,” House said loudly to the clerk, who looked like she might have been napping on the deli counter. He jerked his shoulder in Wilson’s direction. “He’s still regretting those burritos we picked up last night. All cleared up, now, though,” he winked. “Ready to order.”
Wilson mumbled out the least artery-blocking selection he could find, but he was more interested in the hint of dimples he could see in House’s cheeks, the relaxed lines around his eyes, the way his ass looked in those jeans. The fact that he had an entire afternoon to eat junk food with House in the middle of nowhere, to drive him home or anywhere else and not worry about definitions -
The clerk finished typing in their orders into an ancient register. “Together or separate?”
“Together,” they both blurted.
P.S. ......porn :)
P.P.S. Let's play 'spot the unsubtle Holmes reference' as a bonus round ;)
Author: magie_05
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: House takes Wilson out for lunch...in the middle of nowhere.
He should have known better than to let House take him anywhere.
But it had all happened so quickly - House barreling into his office as per usual, complaining loudly and annoyingly about something or other, and then plopping down in front of Wilson's desk, quirking his lips and flashing his eyes and casually asking "Feel like going out to lunch?"
Wilson should have protested, should have pointed out that the hospital did have reasonably edible food just downstairs and that he had three stacks of charts to sign off on before this afternoon -
"My treat," House had said, and started absentmindedly running a finger along his lips...
It wasn't exactly the sort of thing Wilson was capable of refusing.
Now he was stuck in the passenger seat of House's car, barely cooled by the twenty-year-old air conditioner and watching concrete overpasses give way to sprawling fields.
"Where the hell are you taking me?" he asked in the middle of House's long tirade about the hospital's cable policies. "We've passed at least ten restaurants in the past twenty minutes."
"All places we've been to at least once. My stomach rebels at stagnation." He fished around in the console and extracted what was once a peppermint, now de-crystallized into red-and-white goo wrapped in cellophane. "Here - this'll hold you over 'til we get there."
Wilson was more worried about the clock in House's cracked dashboard. "I'm supposed to be back at work in a half-hour."
"I was supposed to be in the clinic a half-hour ago. Cuddy'll be too busy pulling her hair out over that to worry about a little slip on your perfect-attendance record."
Wilson felt a sense of vague panic overpower the emptiness in his stomach. "Uh...how long are you planning to be gone?"
"Not too long." He turned his head and looked at Wilson over his sunglasses. "We have to be back in time for you to buy me dinner."
That expression had a negative effect on the ball of righteous outrage Wilson was working on, so he only sputtered a little while digging out his cell phone. "Do you think you could warn me the next time you decide to drag me into your insanity? It would be a lot easier on my patients - "
"Oh, relax," House said, taking the phone from him and slipping it into his own front pocket. "Your secretary and Cuddy both received emails from you this morning, indicating that you would be taking some personal time this afternoon. Your ass - and your patients - are covered."
He was about to unleash the righteous outrage at being kidnapped and having his email account hacked again...when House's fingers wrapped around his wrist.
"Relax," he said again, more softly this time, keeping his eyes on the road and his hand on Wilson's arm. "Half the fun is getting there, right?"
He couldn't read House's expression through the sunglasses...but he could see the ghost of a smirk around House's lips, could feel the fingers blindly unbuttoning his shirt cuff to stroke up and down the inside of his wrist, so softly that it raised goosebumps on his arm -
Really, in a way, House kidnapping him and violating his privacy was sort of - sweet.
He wasn’t sure that made sense.
Still, he sank back into his seat as House drove them further and further away from civilization, lulled into a dubious relaxation by the sounds of the road and the slow movement of House’s fingers along his own.
He was so relaxed by the time the car stopped that for a moment, he’d forgotten why they were out here among yellowing fields and giant grain silos.
“This is a gas station.”
“And deli,” House said cheerily, shutting off the car. “C’mon. They’ve got a great lunch special.”
He reached down to undo Wilson’s seatbelt, and Wilson was struck again by the easiness of his touch, the lack of hesitation as House leaned across him to open the passenger door.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, painfully suspicious. “You drive thirty miles to take me to a roadside hole-in-the-wall? What’s the - ”
He had to stop talking when House pressed their lips together.
It was brief, but public.
“Let’s go inside,” House said like nothing was out of the ordinary, like they weren’t in potential view of lunching truck drivers and it wasn’t the first time House had acknowledged anything physical between them outside his apartment or broom closets. “You gotta try their peach cobbler.”
Wilson floated through the heavy glass doors in a kind of daze, half-expecting House to turn around and yell “Punk’d!” at him with each step.
Instead, he led the way right up to the corner of the building designated as the ‘deli,’ a morose-looking establishment with Formica countertops and cheap barstools. An ancient chalkboard against one wall listed the daily specials, colorful options like fried chicken livers and beer-battered onion rings. House rang a service bell with the hook of his cane, summoning the annoyed-looking clerk from the store's front register.
“Help you?” she grunted, revealing a missing front tooth. Wilson smiled apologetically.
“Yes, I believe you can,” House projected, using the tone he reserved for insulting people without them realizing it. “What can you tell us about your specials today?”
She blinked. “They’re over there,” she said, jerking her head towards the chalkboard.
House squinted at it as if enthralled, his lips moving as he read silently. “So you get a large drink and potato wedges with every order, can’t beat that. How about dessert?” He leaned on the counter and spoke in a low, suggestive voice. “See, my friend was just telling me he’s in the mood for something really warm and filling. And I hear your apple pie is to die for.”
The woman scowled up at them through dyed dirty-blond hair. “Don’t serve apple pie.”
“Pity,” House said in that quietly sarcastic tone. “Well, everything looks so good - we’ll need a minute to decide. But first things first - could we possibly get the key to the men’s room? We’ve been on the road for a while and my friend here just can’t get used to going in the bushes.”
She looked at them skeptically. “It’s for customers only.”
“Oh, we’ll definitely be back.” He tapped a fingernail against a counter display of small brown paper bags, each apparently containing something called ‘boiled peanuts.’ “He’s a sucker for these hot nuts,” House said, clapping Wilson on the back and winking at the clerk.
She didn’t take her eyes off of them, even as she reached under the counter and extracted a key tied with shoestring to a small wooden block. “It’s outside and to your left.”
Wilson was blushing too hard to think about the pressure of House’s hand on his elbow as he was tugged back outdoors.
“What are you doing?” he whispered fiercely, just as soon as they were out of earshot of the nearest flannel-clad store patron. “We may be in farm country, but these people aren’t stupid, or deaf. I…you’re…” he couldn’t believe he was actually asking House to tone it down in public minutes after feeling so happy that he was toning it up in public…
He was still struggling with his own hypocrisy as House struggled with the bathroom’s old-fashioned door handle, his tongue visible at the corner of his mouth and sunglasses slipping down his nose. “Got it!”
Wilson barely had time to take in the tiny room’s single toilet before the door slammed shut and House’s arms circled his waist. “Finally,” House breathed into his ear, dropping his cane and his cool, breezy persona to push his face through Wilson’s hair.
“Wh-what are you doing,” Wilson stuttered again, although this time it wasn’t a question, not with House’s lips on his cheek, hands on his chest, hard-on pressing into his tailbone…
“You said no more sex at work,” House breathed in that same hot whisper, “and you would've said no if I took you to my place, and you wore this ridiculous sweater vest today…”
He ran his hands under it, knuckles slipping on the slick fabric, making tiny pleased noises in his throat as he sucked a spot on Wilson’s jaw, as his fingers toyed with Wilson’s nipples through the starched cotton of his shirt.
“House.” His voice may have caught on the vowel sounds, dragging them out into a half-moan. “We…can’t…” he panted, even as his hips pressed back into House’s, even as his hands groped behind him to grab at House’s t-shirt, pulling him closer -
“Door’s locked,” House said into his ear, unbuttoning Wilson’s shirt underneath the sweater vest, sliding bare hands all over Wilson’s bare chest and stomach. “You know how long it took me to find a place that still hands out bathroom keys?” He kissed Wilson’s neck somewhat frantically as he started tugging on Wilson’s belt. “Thirty miles away from home, so even if we do get caught, which we won’t, it won’t be by anyone you know.”
Wilson laughed airily, because this was the House he knew, the guy who’d drag him halfway across the state in the middle of a workday to do him in some grubby gas station, and all that casual touching from the ride over probably meant nothing.
Even if Wilson had wanted it to.
It was easier to let it go in favor of more pressing matters. “How long have you been planning this?”
House released him for a half-second to plunge his hand into his jeans pocket, extracting a handful of condoms and assorted pouches of lubricant. “Too long,” he groaned, and nipped a sharp line down Wilson’s neck.
They were in a locked room thirty miles away from consequences…
He turned in House’s arms, kissing him fiercely while one hand checked the door handle. It only took two steps backwards for him to bump into the sink, nearly sitting on it as House struggled urgently to get his hips into the right position, tugging his belt loose and dropping the supplies into the sink basin, freeing his hands to sweep up Wilson’s bare sides below the loosened shirt and vest.
With half of his weight supported by the sink, Wilson’s legs wrapped loosely around House’s hips, pulling him in while Wilson’s hands were busy on the clasp of his jeans, while their mouths were occupied with gasps or greedy kisses.
Eyes closed, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same hot air as House pressed him back against cracked porcelain…he raked his fingers through House’s short, crisp hair and slipped the sunglasses off, catching a glimpse of House’s eyes before his guard went up, something soft and raw and almost pained disappearing behind his usual electric glint as Wilson’s thumbs traced the tips of his ears, both hands pulling him back in for a hungry clash of lips.
House breathed hot words into his mouth, slid his hands down Wilson’s back, kissed him so hard that Wilson’s head thumped against the spotted mirror. He felt House’s cock straining against him through two layers of dampening cotton, House’s hands fumbling downwards to push the clothing down his thighs, House’s teeth tugging at his upper lip -
He swallowed a moan and reached back for the lubricant, only to have his fingers tangle in with House’s, both of them having apparently come to the same idea independently.
He coated his fingers while House unrolled a condom, slathered lube lingeringly up and down House's cock. He wasn't a fan of the latex, but he was less of a fan of having to sit on clenched muscles for the rest of the afternoon. The sensation was still so intense, House's taste in his mouth, scent in his lungs, fingers teasing around his eager, throbbing opening...
Wilson could only stand ten seconds of House's teasing, shoving his hand away and turning around after a last clash of lips, gripping the sides of that mildewed sink and bending over it shamelessly, angling his hips out as far as he could manage and whimpering low in his throat -
By the time House's hips were pressed against him, Wilson had completely forgotten they weren't at home.
He didn't think about being surrounded by surly truck drivers as House started to move, each tight thrust making his hands slip further up the sink. He could have pretended they were in House's apartment as he squeezed his eyes shut, if not for the smell of urine and disinfectant. And when the remarkably rigid head of House's cock slammed into his prostate, he lost all sense of their surroundings.
Too caught up in what was happening inside him - electricity building in his core, spine rolling with each hard thrust, House's hips slapping against him, House's hands white-knuckled on his hips. He bit his lip and bowed his head, a half-hearted attempt to stifle the grunts House was knocking out of him, the feral groans he felt building in his chest...
It became a hopeless endeavor when House pulled hard on the back of his hair, forcing eye contact in the tiny mirror, forcing Wilson to watch himself being fucked from behind in a dirty men's room off I-60, still mostly-clothed and bathed in flickering fluorescent light. He slapped his palms to the wall to hold himself upright, making embarrassingly high-pitched noises as the angle changed, as House's cock speared inside him to hit just...the right...spot...
He wanted to fold himself backwards over that perfect blunt pressure, but of course House’s leg had other ideas. He eased them forwards and pushed a fist into the wall next to Wilson’s left hand, taking the weight off his right side. The pressboard wall gave a few inches under his weight, and somewhere in his rational mind Wilson was concerned about acoustics -
“Oh, fuck…Wilson,” House moaned, loudly, and drove as deep into Wilson’s body as physically possible.
Wilson’s rational mind fled the building.
It was so much - the heat from being fucked through his work clothes, or because of his work clothes, sweating through his fateful wool vest. So much friction pistoning inside him, pleasure like a highly coiled spring behind his balls, threatening to burst. So much House - buried inside him, holding his hips steady with one hand, scraping the back of his neck with stubble and harsh curses. With a sharp note and a final nip at Wilson’s ear, he pressed his forehead in between Wilson’s shoulders blades and grabbed his biceps, thrusting crookedly, quickly, hard enough to make Wilson’s breath catch and his eyes water -
“Now,” he heard House rasp, “now.”
Wilson barely had to touch his own cock before semen was rolling down his knuckles.
House followed suit a heartbeat later, stilling his hips to hold on to the rush, his cock pulsing against Wilson’s smooth inner muscles. Wilson felt him trembling from the strain of holding himself upright, but he still took time to pull Wilson’s head up, kiss the corner of his mouth while Wilson watched in the mirror, half-dazed as House slipped out of him.
The toilet seat clanked, and as his vision cleared, Wilson caught sight of House sitting back against the tank with his jeans pulled up but still unbuttoned, resting his head against the wall and rubbing his leg, tossing back what had to be a sizable handful of pills.
Still, he had a tiny smile playing around his lips.
Shakily, Wilson washed his hands and ran a rough, wet paper towel over his thighs, using it to push the discarded condom farther down in the bagless wastebasket. Reality was starting to catch up with him as he cleaned himself up, as he finally noticed their little trysting shack’s dirty linoleum and suspicious stains - suggesting they weren’t the first couple to have had this idea -
House reached out and grabbed his wrist. “You know, this place opens at 4 a.m. for breakfast.”
Looking down at House splayed on a rickety toilet with his pants undone, his hair going in ten different directions as he tried to look cool and collected - Wilson couldn’t help but laugh.
He knew that he was probably reading too much into House kissing him in the car, House whisking him away to some remote truck stop for impromptu (albeit hot) sex in a bathroom. He was also aware that he looked like a smitten teenager as House made sure the coast was clear and led him back out into stifling sunlight, lacing just the tips of their fingers together and tugging him down the sidewalk. He let go when they turned the corner, and walked a half-step in front of Wilson on the way back inside, but that was okay, too.
Half the fun, after all, was getting there.
He was still flushed and sweaty and aching in all the right places, smiling dumbly to himself when the bell over the door announced their re-entry into reality, where they didn’t touch or talk or acknowledge what really mattered -
“Sorry,” House said loudly to the clerk, who looked like she might have been napping on the deli counter. He jerked his shoulder in Wilson’s direction. “He’s still regretting those burritos we picked up last night. All cleared up, now, though,” he winked. “Ready to order.”
Wilson mumbled out the least artery-blocking selection he could find, but he was more interested in the hint of dimples he could see in House’s cheeks, the relaxed lines around his eyes, the way his ass looked in those jeans. The fact that he had an entire afternoon to eat junk food with House in the middle of nowhere, to drive him home or anywhere else and not worry about definitions -
The clerk finished typing in their orders into an ancient register. “Together or separate?”
“Together,” they both blurted.
P.S. ......porn :)
P.P.S. Let's play 'spot the unsubtle Holmes reference' as a bonus round ;)