(no subject)
Title: The Upper Hand
Author: magie_05
Rating: NC-17
Summary: House and Wilson ~discuss~ some of the things they don't like about each other.
“I hate your sweater vests,” House said, right before jerking one over Wilson's head.
They made out vigorously in the bedroom doorway following this pronouncement, barely resurfacing for air. House had his hands firmly on Wilson's ass, or up his shirt, or tangled in his static-shocked hair. He was so turned on it almost hurt, his heart pounding, head spinning, vision narrowed to Wilson's mouth, Wilson's neck, Wilson's chest heaving under his half-undone shirt -
“I hated your flame cane,” Wilson confessed, and slammed House back against the wall.
He shivered as Wilson kissed him, practically devoured him, sucking greedily at a pulse point in his neck, unbuttoning House's shirt with one hand. It was easy to overlook Wilson's bad taste when he was horny and sweating and right there, letting House touch him, moaning softly each time House's hands wandered south -
He had Wilson's shirt off by the time they reached the bed; he was working on the pants when he was seized with another uncontrollable surge of honesty. “This haircut makes you look like a tax accountant,” he said, simultaneously running his knuckles over the tightening front of Wilson's shorts.
Wilson grunted, grabbed the collar of House's shirt, and kissed him several times in rapid, frantic succession. “At least I have enough hair to cut,” he said, and ran his fingertips gently across House's cheek.
The next logical step seemed to be to press Wilson bodily into the mattress and start sucking along his collarbone, one hand hard at work in the open fly of Wilson's pants. He only let go long enough for Wilson to yank off his t-shirt, snorting to himself when the garment ended up flying halfway across the room. Clearly Wilson was horny enough to let himself go, to give in to that all-too-rarely-seen inner slut - to, perhaps, put up with a few more cleverly-worded jibes at his expense.
“To cut,” House said, burying his face in Wilson's ridiculously manicured hair, “to blow-dry.” He spoke between deep, indulgent dips into Wilson's mouth, incapable of stopping long enough to speak in complete sentences. “To perm.”
Wilson threw a leg over House's hips and ground up against him, his hands sweeping up House's bare sides. “I've seen pictures of you looking like the guy from The Cure, so let's not go into past fashion mistakes.”
He lifted his head and licked the corner of House's mouth before he could come up with a good comeback, a move which progressed into a dizzying stream of kisses that left House naked and gasping for breath, an equally naked and desperate Wilson straddling his lap, pressing House's shoulders against the headboard. His body was warm and pulsating and slick with sweat, his pulse thrumming against House's lips, his cock dragging wetly across House's abdomen. Obviously he needed to push Wilson into the mattress and fuck him positively senseless as soon as possible, but the part of his brain which controlled mockery didn't seem to realize this.
“Good Lord, how much weight are you going to put on?” He hooked his fingers around the backs of Wilson's thighs and pulled, trying to take some of the weight off his lap (definitely not to pull him closer). “'All You Can Eat' isn't meant to be taken literally, you know.”
“I'll answer that question - ” Wilson's voice was fast and breathless, coming in short bursts as he ran his mouth up the thick line of muscle in House's neck - “once you decide to start wearing matching socks.”
As the tip of his quite enthused cock was now rubbing bluntly up against Wilson's ass, House didn't have a whole lot in the way of rebuttal. All of his energy was channeled into forcing himself to let go of Wilson's hips long enough to reach for the nightstand.
“Ohholyfuck” was a decided improvement in the conversation, especially when followed by the wanton little half-cries now leaking out of Wilson's chest. He arched his back for House's slick fingers, held on tightly to House's arms, opened his mouth for House's tongue. House kindly smeared a handful of lubricant over Wilson's cock, but it seemed a little superfluous, considering that most of Wilson's body was already doused in sweat. His muscles were tight and soft and wet and actually twitching in anticipation -
Finger-fucking Wilson while he shuddered and whimpered and wordlessly begged for it temporarily distracted House from the discussion, especially when he felt a pair of fingers that didn't belong to him join in his admirable quest. Wilson's head tipped forward and House had a perfect view of the dark, wet hairs sticking to his nape, the graceful arc of vertebra, the sweat beading along his back -
Normal people probably would have limited the insults at this point, but House prided himself on being decidedly non-normal.
“If your patients could only see - ” he had to stop talking for a second to lick the hollow of Wilson's throat - “what an unrepentant slut their dear Dr. Wilson really is.”
Wilson groaned, grabbed the headboard, and twisted himself more firmly on House's fingers. “If only yours could see that you're not half as much of a prick as you'd like them to think,” he said shakily, dragging his lips along House's temple.
He took this opportunity to suck Wilson's neck, grab Wilson's hips, and press sharply into him -
House was going to consider the loud, discordant note cutting through the suddenly too-hot air as a surrender. But then his vision swam and his heart rate skyrocketed, and he sort of lost sight of the argument.
Wilson trembled on his lap for several seconds, his slippery hands clutching at House's shoulders. The curve of his ass was resting perfectly against House's hips, his tailbone digging into House's pelvis, his thighs pressing against House's sides. He was making these low, insane-sounding noises in his chest, his eyes closed, his head tilted back -
House snickered into Wilson's collarbone. “You sound like you're having either a psychotic break or a religious experience.”
Wilson caught his breath, bit his lip, and looked directly into House's eyes. “What makes you so sure I'm not?” he said, and clenched his muscles so tightly it took House's breath away.
Okay, so the sound this pushed from House's lungs probably lost him some points. He ceased to care when Wilson started to move, grinding on House's lap in sharp little circles, breathing a low and continuous moan into House's ear. He had his fingertips pressed into Wilson's ass as they rocked together, bedframe creaking steadily, Wilson's hands wrapped around his wrists to control the angle. He caught glimpses of Wilson's skin in between the random flashes of color behind his eyelids, dark hair and pink lips and that sweat-gleaming skin, one of Wilson's legs spilling off the mattress and onto the floor, the ball of his foot pressed to the hardwood, giving him plenty of leverage -
The heat and the tightness and the speed were really all House could focus on, although he was currently fucking a fatally neurotic Jew with as many hang-ups as he had ugly ties, annoying mannerisms, puns, and Hitchcock movies. Really, it was a wonder House had put up with him for so long, though he'd analyze the reasons behind that...later. At a moment when the little bastard wasn't bouncing desperately on House's lap, peppering the thick air with moans and shouts and one-syllable curses -
Suddenly he paused, straightened up to grab the headboard, then sank back down on House's cock at one final, sharp, perfect angle -
He had his hand around Wilson's cock as he came, crying out to the ceiling, spurting warmth up House's chest. He had the kind of orgasm that distorted time and reality, his legs spread wide, his head tilted back, his brow furrowed in the best kind of pain. It was an image House intended to hold onto for all those moments when Wilson was lecturing him in hallways or hospital rooms, all crisp and sainted and put-together. Unfortunately, Wilson's hips started to buck wildly as he rode the waves, which (coupled with the view) left House with no choice but to follow suit -
His eyelids were too heavy to lift for several seconds after Wilson finally stopped moving. He sat back with a thoroughly satisfied Wilson on his lap and the back of his skull resting against the headboard, air cooling his lungs, electricity shorting out in his limbs. He wanted to say something that would re-affirm his dignity, but Wilson was kissing him before he could open his eyes, a soft and sleepy brush of lips that, for some unaddressed reason, sent a shiver down House's spine. “Mmmgod,” Wilson was saying, his voice hoarse from such continuous use. “You're...incredible.”
Heat rushed up from the pit of House's stomach and dangerously close to his cheeks. “And you,” he said, pulling Wilson's head off his shoulder by his damp hair, “are one pathetic sap.”
To his annoyance, Wilson smiled at him with sleepy self-confidence. “Shut up,” he said, one hand trickling down the back of House's neck, “asshole.”
He only kept his hands in Wilson's hair out of laziness.
He had to endure Wilson's soft touches and lame whispers and too-soft kisses for several more minutes, the after-effects of that orgasm amplifying his normal, baseline sappiness. He kept at it even after the lights were off, settling too close to House's side, wrapping his arm too solidly around House's chest. House hated the unexplainable affection from an undeniable dork with unrelenting bad taste and faults and emotional baggage -
Most of all, he hated all the things he couldn't hate about it.
Author: magie_05
Rating: NC-17
Summary: House and Wilson ~discuss~ some of the things they don't like about each other.
“I hate your sweater vests,” House said, right before jerking one over Wilson's head.
They made out vigorously in the bedroom doorway following this pronouncement, barely resurfacing for air. House had his hands firmly on Wilson's ass, or up his shirt, or tangled in his static-shocked hair. He was so turned on it almost hurt, his heart pounding, head spinning, vision narrowed to Wilson's mouth, Wilson's neck, Wilson's chest heaving under his half-undone shirt -
“I hated your flame cane,” Wilson confessed, and slammed House back against the wall.
He shivered as Wilson kissed him, practically devoured him, sucking greedily at a pulse point in his neck, unbuttoning House's shirt with one hand. It was easy to overlook Wilson's bad taste when he was horny and sweating and right there, letting House touch him, moaning softly each time House's hands wandered south -
He had Wilson's shirt off by the time they reached the bed; he was working on the pants when he was seized with another uncontrollable surge of honesty. “This haircut makes you look like a tax accountant,” he said, simultaneously running his knuckles over the tightening front of Wilson's shorts.
Wilson grunted, grabbed the collar of House's shirt, and kissed him several times in rapid, frantic succession. “At least I have enough hair to cut,” he said, and ran his fingertips gently across House's cheek.
The next logical step seemed to be to press Wilson bodily into the mattress and start sucking along his collarbone, one hand hard at work in the open fly of Wilson's pants. He only let go long enough for Wilson to yank off his t-shirt, snorting to himself when the garment ended up flying halfway across the room. Clearly Wilson was horny enough to let himself go, to give in to that all-too-rarely-seen inner slut - to, perhaps, put up with a few more cleverly-worded jibes at his expense.
“To cut,” House said, burying his face in Wilson's ridiculously manicured hair, “to blow-dry.” He spoke between deep, indulgent dips into Wilson's mouth, incapable of stopping long enough to speak in complete sentences. “To perm.”
Wilson threw a leg over House's hips and ground up against him, his hands sweeping up House's bare sides. “I've seen pictures of you looking like the guy from The Cure, so let's not go into past fashion mistakes.”
He lifted his head and licked the corner of House's mouth before he could come up with a good comeback, a move which progressed into a dizzying stream of kisses that left House naked and gasping for breath, an equally naked and desperate Wilson straddling his lap, pressing House's shoulders against the headboard. His body was warm and pulsating and slick with sweat, his pulse thrumming against House's lips, his cock dragging wetly across House's abdomen. Obviously he needed to push Wilson into the mattress and fuck him positively senseless as soon as possible, but the part of his brain which controlled mockery didn't seem to realize this.
“Good Lord, how much weight are you going to put on?” He hooked his fingers around the backs of Wilson's thighs and pulled, trying to take some of the weight off his lap (definitely not to pull him closer). “'All You Can Eat' isn't meant to be taken literally, you know.”
“I'll answer that question - ” Wilson's voice was fast and breathless, coming in short bursts as he ran his mouth up the thick line of muscle in House's neck - “once you decide to start wearing matching socks.”
As the tip of his quite enthused cock was now rubbing bluntly up against Wilson's ass, House didn't have a whole lot in the way of rebuttal. All of his energy was channeled into forcing himself to let go of Wilson's hips long enough to reach for the nightstand.
“Ohholyfuck” was a decided improvement in the conversation, especially when followed by the wanton little half-cries now leaking out of Wilson's chest. He arched his back for House's slick fingers, held on tightly to House's arms, opened his mouth for House's tongue. House kindly smeared a handful of lubricant over Wilson's cock, but it seemed a little superfluous, considering that most of Wilson's body was already doused in sweat. His muscles were tight and soft and wet and actually twitching in anticipation -
Finger-fucking Wilson while he shuddered and whimpered and wordlessly begged for it temporarily distracted House from the discussion, especially when he felt a pair of fingers that didn't belong to him join in his admirable quest. Wilson's head tipped forward and House had a perfect view of the dark, wet hairs sticking to his nape, the graceful arc of vertebra, the sweat beading along his back -
Normal people probably would have limited the insults at this point, but House prided himself on being decidedly non-normal.
“If your patients could only see - ” he had to stop talking for a second to lick the hollow of Wilson's throat - “what an unrepentant slut their dear Dr. Wilson really is.”
Wilson groaned, grabbed the headboard, and twisted himself more firmly on House's fingers. “If only yours could see that you're not half as much of a prick as you'd like them to think,” he said shakily, dragging his lips along House's temple.
He took this opportunity to suck Wilson's neck, grab Wilson's hips, and press sharply into him -
House was going to consider the loud, discordant note cutting through the suddenly too-hot air as a surrender. But then his vision swam and his heart rate skyrocketed, and he sort of lost sight of the argument.
Wilson trembled on his lap for several seconds, his slippery hands clutching at House's shoulders. The curve of his ass was resting perfectly against House's hips, his tailbone digging into House's pelvis, his thighs pressing against House's sides. He was making these low, insane-sounding noises in his chest, his eyes closed, his head tilted back -
House snickered into Wilson's collarbone. “You sound like you're having either a psychotic break or a religious experience.”
Wilson caught his breath, bit his lip, and looked directly into House's eyes. “What makes you so sure I'm not?” he said, and clenched his muscles so tightly it took House's breath away.
Okay, so the sound this pushed from House's lungs probably lost him some points. He ceased to care when Wilson started to move, grinding on House's lap in sharp little circles, breathing a low and continuous moan into House's ear. He had his fingertips pressed into Wilson's ass as they rocked together, bedframe creaking steadily, Wilson's hands wrapped around his wrists to control the angle. He caught glimpses of Wilson's skin in between the random flashes of color behind his eyelids, dark hair and pink lips and that sweat-gleaming skin, one of Wilson's legs spilling off the mattress and onto the floor, the ball of his foot pressed to the hardwood, giving him plenty of leverage -
The heat and the tightness and the speed were really all House could focus on, although he was currently fucking a fatally neurotic Jew with as many hang-ups as he had ugly ties, annoying mannerisms, puns, and Hitchcock movies. Really, it was a wonder House had put up with him for so long, though he'd analyze the reasons behind that...later. At a moment when the little bastard wasn't bouncing desperately on House's lap, peppering the thick air with moans and shouts and one-syllable curses -
Suddenly he paused, straightened up to grab the headboard, then sank back down on House's cock at one final, sharp, perfect angle -
He had his hand around Wilson's cock as he came, crying out to the ceiling, spurting warmth up House's chest. He had the kind of orgasm that distorted time and reality, his legs spread wide, his head tilted back, his brow furrowed in the best kind of pain. It was an image House intended to hold onto for all those moments when Wilson was lecturing him in hallways or hospital rooms, all crisp and sainted and put-together. Unfortunately, Wilson's hips started to buck wildly as he rode the waves, which (coupled with the view) left House with no choice but to follow suit -
His eyelids were too heavy to lift for several seconds after Wilson finally stopped moving. He sat back with a thoroughly satisfied Wilson on his lap and the back of his skull resting against the headboard, air cooling his lungs, electricity shorting out in his limbs. He wanted to say something that would re-affirm his dignity, but Wilson was kissing him before he could open his eyes, a soft and sleepy brush of lips that, for some unaddressed reason, sent a shiver down House's spine. “Mmmgod,” Wilson was saying, his voice hoarse from such continuous use. “You're...incredible.”
Heat rushed up from the pit of House's stomach and dangerously close to his cheeks. “And you,” he said, pulling Wilson's head off his shoulder by his damp hair, “are one pathetic sap.”
To his annoyance, Wilson smiled at him with sleepy self-confidence. “Shut up,” he said, one hand trickling down the back of House's neck, “asshole.”
He only kept his hands in Wilson's hair out of laziness.
He had to endure Wilson's soft touches and lame whispers and too-soft kisses for several more minutes, the after-effects of that orgasm amplifying his normal, baseline sappiness. He kept at it even after the lights were off, settling too close to House's side, wrapping his arm too solidly around House's chest. House hated the unexplainable affection from an undeniable dork with unrelenting bad taste and faults and emotional baggage -
Most of all, he hated all the things he couldn't hate about it.