FIC: "No Takebacks" House/Wilson, NC-17
Sure has been awhile since I posted my last fic. Just in case anyone on the friends list was wondering what happened to MissV, I’m still around, just in stealth mode! I never stop writing, but it can be slow going sometimes, what with work, martial arts, volunteering, physical therapy, and working for my martial arts school one night a week, plus a little freelancing. I’m usually so busy that if I’m at home, I’m probably asleep. But sometimes I just need time to write, so I’ll stay up till 1 or 2 a.m., knowing I’ll be exhausted the next day, or spend a gorgeous Sunday indoors typing away just to get my fix.
For the longest time I was working on two stories, expecting that I’d abandon one and keep the other, but as it turns out, I decided to keep both. One is the “pizza-with-a-friend” fic I’ve been tinkering around with for ages. I like it well enough, it has a plot, sort of (as much as any of my fics do, which is to say, some sort of vague framework upon which to drape the sex). But I came to a complete halt, even though it’s nearly done. I can’t seem to set the spark to the sex scene. So I put that one on the back burner for awhile and finished the other, which has the opposite flaw - not even a shred of a plot- it’s all about the sex. So here it is.
Title: No Takebacks
Author: missviolet
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: PWP-ish (because of all the wonderful feedback, I've changed the previous 'filthy plotless smut' warning)
Disclaimer: All characters belong to David Shore, Fox, et. al. No infringement or disrespect intended.
Summary: Freshly-showered House smells rather nice, so he and Wilson get naughty on the infamous sofa. That’s about all there is to it.
Notes: Takes place at some vague time after “Safe,” after Wilson moves into a hotel.
Feedback: Always welcome, and I’ll be glad to fix any typos or errors, but remember this is porn, not literature!
House rises from the sofa with no small effort. He doesn’t say why he walks away; he never does, and Wilson never asks. It isn’t rudeness, though he has plenty of that, too. House is unaccustomed to company. He might later find him asleep in the bedroom or having a snack in the kitchen. Once, after he’d been gone for many minutes, Wilson had found him leaning on the wall outside his bedroom, rubbing his leg in discomfort. He remembers that night especially because he’d put his arm around House’s shoulder, helped him to bed. He’d even taken off his jeans and sneakers, tucked him in, and then sat on the edge of the bed until House fell into a deeply drugged sleep.
It’s that fleeting window between solving one case and obsessing over the next one. House is cheerful, high on beer and Vicodin, and doesn’t bother to use his cane. He grabs the furniture to steady himself and maneuvers his way to the bathroom. Wilson hears the shower running. He knows the hot water relaxes his muscles, tight from limping. Idly he picks up a newspaper from the coffee table, turns to the financial section. A good time to think about his stock portfolio, quell his imagination. But he glances at the paper without reading it; his mind is preoccupied, imagining House under the hot spray, sighing with relief, rubbing the back of his neck…
I could do that for him, he thinks, but immediately pushes the thought aside for later. When he’s alone in his hotel room, under the hot sheets, he’ll retrieve this thought of House in the shower. This prospect does nothing to cool his ardour. Showering with House is merely a fantasy, but a long hot jackoff session thinking about him was a reality - inevitable, pleasurable, and entirely inappropriate. Wilson studies the Personal Finance section more diligently, trying to steer his mind to a safe, fiscal train of thought.
At that moment House emerges from the bathroom, toweling his dripping hair. He wears loose linen slacks under his damp cotton robe, and smells strongly of citrus. He limps across the room, settles himself slowly and awkwardly back onto the sofa, much too close, but Wilson does not ask him to move. Because he’s crippled, of course, Wilson tells himself. Not because he smells like Wilson’s own shampoo, but he knows this isn’t quite the truth. And why exactly does he find that so thrilling, House’s hair scented like his own?
“Is that my shampoo?” Wilson asks, to ease his discomfort. He knows it is; he left all his toiletries when he moved out.
“Finders, keepers,” says House. “But you can take your conditioner. It makes my hair greasy.” He reaches into the pocket of his robe and hands Wilson a small plastic bottle. House towels his hair vigourously, flinging a few drops of water onto Wilson’s face.
“It’s shea butter, not conditioner. It’s for your body.”
House says hm, but without real interest, and puts the bottle on the coffee table. His leg is still aligned with Wilson’s. A shoulder or foot might be accidental, but an entire leg… Wilson suddenly knows it’s not a coincidence. It’s going to happen.
He is still processing this idea when House asks bluntly, “Still got a hard-on?”
“What? No!”
“You’ve got that Wall Street Journal spread over your lap. Is the Personal Finance section that riveting?” House snatches the newspaper away, tosses it aside. Wilson shifts himself uncomfortably. It’s not too obvious, he thinks, then looks down and realizes it is. He curses himself for wearing boxers instead of briefs.
“Pitching a tent, are you?” says House, amused.
“My mind wandered,” says Wilson, but his face is flushed with embarrassment.
“I could help.”
“Purely selfless act?”
“Just a favor.”
“No, it’s got to be both ways,” Wilson says casually, as if the idea had never before occurred to him. A small victory - he’s left House speechless. They look at each other for a long moment.
“Right then, even-Steven,” says House at last. He slides closer, rests his fingers delicately on Wilson’s knee. His hand wanders up Wilson’s thigh. It’s a slow deliberate ascent, his palm finally coming to rest on Wilson’s erection, and the gentle pressure makes Wilson exhale sharply. With two fingers, House traces a firm line up and down his cock, straining through his trousers. Wilson’s breath quickens. He’s hot for House, nervous as hell and envies his boldness.
“Kiss me first,” he says suddenly, impulsively. House stills his hand. Wilson sees the hesitation in his eyes. He turns his head, and House leans to meet him; not halfway, just a few inches. Wilson slips one hand around House’s neck to draw him close. Their lips touch; House’s are dry and motionless. Wilson kisses him again; this time there is a response, a spark of promise. Their kiss is slow and heated, suggestive. When Wilson opens his mouth, House slips in his tongue. His hand rests between Wilson’s legs, enjoying his soft sighs, the way his hips hitch when he teases his prick through the thin fabric.
House unbuttons Wilson’s oxford shirt, taking his time with each button. He slides his hand inside, over Wilson’s chest, his ribcage, and his nipples, which he pinches slightly, so that Wilson exhales sharply and breaks the kiss. The sudden flush of heat, the knowledge that this is truly happening - it’s intense, dizzying. Wilson shrugs out of his shirt, tosses it aside, leans back into the sofa. House unzips him, pulls him out of his boxers. Wilson moans when his fingers first touch his bare cock. More kissing; the dirty kind, as House strokes him a few times, slow and tight, and Wilson’s kiss is lost in a huff of breath.
House releases his aching prick; Wilson can’t help a small moan of thwarted lust. House leans forward to pick up the little bottle from the coffee table. He squeezes a thick ribbon of lotion over his stomach; it’s creamy white and blatantly erotic. They both stare at the sight for a moment before House remembers its purpose; he slicks his hand through it, slides it over Wilson’s cock, encircling it in a tight slippery sheath. The feeling is exquisite, Wilson groans, thrusts his hips to push himself deeper into House’s grip.
“Yeah?” House asks him softly, as he starts to stroke.
“Yeah,” he whispers, and it feels so good, House’s slickened hand gliding up and down his stiff prick, caressing his balls, teasing the sensitive head, and those nice long strokes that leave him breathless. House watches his face intently, panting in erotic sympathy as Wilson’s pleasure increases.
“You want to see me come, don’t you?” Wilson says quietly, almost as if asking himself. House stops stroking him, but it’s still so good, his cock throbs inside the tightness of his hand. House does not reply, so he asks again, his voice low, “You want to-”
“Yes,” House says, cutting him off. “It’s hot.” He turns Wilson’s chin, looks into his eyes with blatant lust. He jerks him lazily, feeling with pleasure the sweet reaction: Wilson spreads his legs eagerly, head tilted, lower back arching into each stroke. House slides his slippery palm all over the head of his cock, returning to glide up and down his shaft. Then he uses both hands, one after the other, milking him. Wilson moans into it, feeling all the hot lust rising within, that sweet fiery ache that means he’s losing control.
House returns to one-handed jacking; Wilson’s soft little puff of breath is disappointment, but they kiss again, and that’s even better, House slicks his hand faster, giving the head of his cock a little twist before sinking back down to the base, threading his fingers through Wilson’s hair as he kisses him. House’s tongue is in his mouth, biting his lips, ravishing him, making him pant and moan.
House edges him closer to his climax, jerks him fast until he’s aching to come and thrusting his hips like pistons, then backs him off with slow steady strokes, teasing, enjoying Wilson’s frustrated sighs. Then he quickens him again…on and on until Wilson’s so hard it hurts. He feels the blood thrumming in his lower body, his face is flushed scarlet. He swears softly, but his voice breaks and he arches into House’s hand.
“Nice, huh?” whispers House.
What a tease; Wilson wants to give him some tart response, but it’s sheer bliss, he trembles as that hot sweet feeling rises, his legs tense, he moans in delightful anticipation.
“Fuck, just do it to me,” he gasps out.
House strokes his aching, leaking cock, squeezes the base, and that maddening twist of his hand as his palm reaches the head….oh, but House is finally stroking him faster, he’s taking Wilson right over the edge, not backing down and it’s ecstasy. Wilson can’t stop himself from crying out, he wants to come so badly.
“Give it up, Jimmy,” House murmurs lasciviously. Wilson arches off the sofa and explodes in House’s hand, groaning hard, delirious with pleasure as his come jets all over his belly, arcs in huge spurts up to his chest. House is so excited by this that he moans ohhh, that’s hot, sending another jolt of pleasure through Wilson’s body. His balls tighten, his cock twitches and he spurts again. House strokes him firmly while he gasps and shudders and his cock pulses and spills, until his stomach is a creamy mess. House strokes out the last few drops, gently, almost soothingly, until he can tell it’s too much. Then he lets go of his spent prick, fondly rubs his hand over Wilson’s slick stomach, obviously pleased at his hard climax.
Wilson leans his head back into the sofa, exhales deeply. He’s intensely satisfied, it’s the best fucking handjob of his life and he hardly knows what to say. Thank you seems insufficient, but his emotions are high, and he doesn’t trust himself to say anything more sensible. Instead he rests a hand on House’s leg, rubs it affectionately, wishing he could find the words. House’s erotic tension is tangible. Wilson leans into him, still panting for breath, fingers trailing suggestively over House’s inner thigh.
“Want me to-” he begins to ask.
“You don’t have to,” says House swiftly.
“No takebacks,” Wilson says firmly. He slides himself closer, rests a hand on the loose linen of House’s trousers. He looks into House’s eyes, sees uncertainty there. House is blushing, and Wilson takes a perverse pleasure in his embarassment. He boldly slides his hand between House’s legs to cup his erection, and it’s an impressive one; House is stiff as iron, and he catches his breath when Wilson squeezes him slightly. He pushes aside House’s robe, unzips his fly, and underneath, House is bare, his cock is smooth and hot in Wilson’s hand.
House groans as Wilson cups his balls, circles his cock with thumb and forefinger, slides his hand up and down, palms the leaking head. He kisses House, slow and relaxed, because he’s nicely sated, but House is hot; he opens his mouth eagerly, pants as Wilson jerks him. Wilson breaks the kiss, looking with satisfaction at House’s flushed face, the way his hips arch to work his rigid prick in and out of his tight grasp. He caresses his neck, his collarbone, slides his fingers down to his chest, tweaks each nipple. House parts his lips; his cock throbs in response to the caress. He opens his eyes, looks at Wilson with a curious combination of aggressive lust and naked vulnerability. It cuts right through Wilson’s reserve, makes him suddenly realize how much he wants him to feel good.
Wilson rises from the sofa, stepping out of his trousers, which he leaves crumpled on the floor. He pulls on House’s pants, until he obligingly lifts his ass from the sofa and Wilson tugs them down to his ankles. He takes his boxers off, too; House is completely naked, and Wilson pauses to consider this remarkable turn of events.
“Are you -?” House asks nervously.
“I’m going down on you,” Wilson assures him, as if it weren’t already obvious. He kneels, pushes House’s legs apart, lays a gentle kiss on each thigh, the good and the bad, and another on his stomach, and finally touches the tip of his tongue to his straining cock, which makes House flinch. He wraps a hand around the base of his shaft, draws the head to his lips, and tongues it softly. House shifts his hips, draws a sharp breath as Wilson starts to suck. He does so lightly, slow at first, until House is arching into it. Then he takes him a little deeper, gliding his lips up and down, licking the sensitive head, tonguing the slit. House looks down at Wilson’s lips wrapped around his aching prick. Their eyes meet, and House groans with pleasure, watching him.
“You’ve got a sweet mouth,” he whispers, and threads his fingers through Wilson’s hair, gently thrusts his hips. Wilson sucks him artfully, driving him wild with hot suction, with his soft wet lips and teasing tongue. House won’t last, not after watching Wilson come. And Wilson has discovered that he likes this: House, vulnerable, craving release, spurring him on in a voice strained with pleasure, ah, yeah …Jimmy… suck … his childhood name so erotic when whispered with rough desperation. House has a vise grip on Wilson’s head, fingers buried in his hair. He plunges himself deep into Wilson’s hot wet mouth, rocking his hips until all that sweet blissful ecstasy washes over him and he surrenders himself to it.
“I’m coming,” he says breathlessly, and Wilson knows it’s a warning, but he wants to make him fall apart, lose control. House thrusts hard, his cock pulses, his moan is pure lust as his climax overtakes him. His body stiffens, he pulls Wilson’s hair, groaning with passion as he spurts. Wilson licks that sweet spot under the head of his prick, making him come harder, flooding his mouth. Wilson doesn’t stop licking and sucking, sliding his lips up and down his quivering shaft, until House’s soft cries, his deep sighs of contented bliss, tell him that the crisis of pleasure has subsided.
With a few last loving sucks, Wilson lets his spent prick slip from his mouth. He rises, and his left knee cracks loudly. House laughs softly. “Too old for the floor,” he says. Wilson sits next to him, and now they are on the equal terrain. Everything has been spilled, whatever last bit of private emotion they possessed has been shared between them. He leans into House, rests his head on his shoulder, and House quite naturally puts his arm around him.
“Mmm, Wilson,” he says, with deep satisfaction. “Oh, my.” His arm is comfortable, reassuring. He squeezes Wilson’s shoulders, rubs his leg affectionately. He leans in for a long kiss, gentle, sated, and unexpectedly tender. Wilson’s heart skips a beat; this has nothing to do with any sort of favor.
“I’m so sticky,” Wilson says, looking down at his stomach. House climbs to his feet, and this time, Wilson helps him.
“Come on,” says House, limping off to the bathroom, and Wilson is beside him. House leans on him as they walk, for support, or just because he likes to. And when House turns on the hot spray and climbs under it, it’s only natural that Wilson should follow. They soap each other, exchange watery kisses, share House’s last towel. Wilson does not ask if he can stay. He slips into bed after House, allowing a little room between them, but distance has a whole new meaning. House tells him not to be such a stranger and slides himself over to close the gap.