A/N: This story contains explicit slash and graphic homosexual content. Please refrain from reading if this sort of thing offends you.
The second part of this story was written accompanied with fanart. However, because this site doesn't embed img tags, the fanart can't be included. If you wish to read the story with the art included, please go to my homepage linked on my personal profile.
Everything they do is done in silence.
From the moment Wilson's mouth meets House's, there's not a sound, except for their breath, even and controlled from their noses as they kiss. That's how it's always been, for as long as they've been doing this, and it seems like they've been doing this for a long time. Silence has a way of dragging time out. When it started isn't what matters, really; how it started is all that matters.
Wilson initiated it, just after Stacy left the second time; a hesitant kiss to House's lips that was met with House shoving him back, at first.
Before Wilson found his shirt seized in House's trembling hands and House's mouth crushed against his in a needy kiss and, yes, god, yes, was all that was going through Wilson's mind. Yes, god, House needs me, House needs me so much. He fed back into the kiss until they both found themselves with their hands down each other's pants, stroking each other fast and desperately. House had been the first to come; a silent, open-mouthed orgasm that Wilson swallowed when he placed his mouth onto House's and kissed him as he, too, climaxed.
They didn't speak after that incident and they didn't speak about it, either. Not that time, not the time after, or the time after that, and it quickly developed into a habit, a routine that has never been spoken of; just carried out. Because they both know that the moment something is said, they'll have to acknowledge what they're doing, and they don't want to acknowledge it. They just want it when they need it, and what good is there in simply taking what they need if there are words that come with it? Words complicate things. House likes complicated but only if he can handle it, and Wilson is just plain complicated. Best to keep something they need and want that's as deep and intimate as this, silent so there are no complications at all.
It usually starts on the sofa; a wordless touch of hands, or thighs, or sometimes hands on thighs, eventually them moving in towards each other to kiss. Sometimes the kiss begins tenderly, lazy and slow like they're learning each other as their hands smooth over arms, shoulders, chests, fingers slipping through each other's hair. Wilson likes it when it's like this. He likes the way House can be so affectionate and gentle. He likes the way House knows all the right places to touch, all the right places to kiss and suck, all the right times to thrust just hard enough, if he's on top. There's never a fight for who's on top, and god forbid, they never talk about it -- they just know who wants to fuck and who wants to be fucked, by the way one of them rolls on his back and lets the other take charge. If it's Wilson on top, he loves the way House arches up against him as Wilson holds his hips and fucks him slowly and deeply, how House grips at the pillow or the bed sheets and clenches around his cock when he orgasms.
This is the only time House is ever Greg to Wilson, though Wilson has no idea if he's ever James to House because they never speak. Not before, not during, not after. It's just in Wilson's mind that House is Greg. Greg, he thinks, Greg, Greg, oh god, Greg, as he silently comes.
Other times the kiss starts frenzied, hard and lustful as their tongues dual for dominance and their teeth clash and gnash against each other. Their hands grab roughly at clothes and their fingernails scratch at exposed skin, mercilessly and selfishly. Wilson bites when it's like this. He bites House hard, on the shoulder, on the neck, anywhere that he can clamp his teeth onto, and House always struggles against it, no matter how much he loves it. Loves the way Wilson marks him, possesses him, labels him as his.
There's no mutual and silent agreement when it comes to fucking when they're like this, except for the one silent understanding that they both want this. They grab, grit their teeth, fight it out savagely until one of them has managed to get the other faced down on the bed, and enter him fast and greedily. Their thrusts are always hard and forceful, House's cock honing in on that sweet spot in Wilson that makes him claw at the bed sheets animalistically as he comes, and Wilson's cock relentlessly pounds into House if he's on top, even after House has already come. It's sweaty, it's raw and it's brutal, when they fuck like this, and Wilson loves it this way, too. He loves how unforgiving House can be in bed, how much it can hurt to be fucked so hard he can barely breathe.
They don't make a sound when it's like this, either. It's just ragged breathing, rustling sheets, squeaking bed springs; they're the only sounds that ever fill the room, no matter how much Wilson wants to snarl and gasp and groan deeply as he climaxes.
Afterwards, however they've fucked, they roll away from each other, panting and sweating, staring up at the ceiling in stereophonic silence, House there on that side of the bed and Wilson here on this side, and Wilson focuses on the aftershocks of his orgasm rippling through his muscles. They don't cuddle, they don't touch and when sleep finally settles over them, they silently face away from each other. If they touch, if they cuddle after they've fucked, they might as well use words, because affection after sex, no matter how slow or rough the sex has been, means there's emotions involved, and emotions just make things complicated.
That's how it's always been and that's how it's always going to be. That's the routine. Until the silence is finally broken.
It seems like any other time they've fucked.
They'd started with one of those slow kisses, the ones that send shivers down Wilson's spine and cause that feeling of hot-cold to tingle through his body. After House peeled Wilson's shirt off and teased his nipples with his tongue while Wilson rubbed House's hardness through his jeans, they made their way to House's bedroom. In silence, of course. Even House's cane had been quiet against the floor as he walked. They'd shed the rest of each other's clothes slowly in the darkness, the only light coming from the door left ajar, filtering in from the hallway. They'd lain down, the rumpling of sheets and the squeak of bedsprings the only sounds to break into the air, and resumed the slow kiss.
Wilson's on top of House now, hips cradled between House's thighs, skin pressed against skin. He's kissing House, sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth and nibbling on it while he feels House's hands running up and down his back. He lets his lip go and kisses him deeply as he braces his hands either side of House to prop his upper body up, and he gives a firm roll of his hips that House meets with an arch of his back. Just as House's hands smooth over the swell of his ass, Wilson breaks the kiss to look down at him as he keeps the steady rocking motion against him.
He loves how House's hands feel on his ass; the way he squeezes, grips, pulls his cheeks apart and how he sometimes swipes his finger up over his entrance, just like he's doing now. Wilson closes his eyes and lets his head fall back as he continues to rock against him, House's finger rubbing in soft circles on that spot. Yes, god, yes, Wilson wants to say. Push your finger in me, push it in me, Greg. Please.
Perhaps they don't even need to talk, Wilson thinks, because it's just like House has read his mind. His finger breaches him, carefully, slowly and Wilson lets out a shuddering breath. Oh yes, god yes, he thinks. More, deeper, please. He lags his head forward again and peers down at him as House fingers him slowly, pushing in inch by slow inch, and then out again. In, out, in. Out. In. Deeper. Out.
His eyes fall shut and he presses his eyebrows together, concentrating on that finger, wishing that finger was more, deeper, wider, harder, fucking him. Wishing it was House's cock. Which is strange because it's never happened like this. When House is beneath him it means he wants Wilson to fuck him. Yet…
Wilson lowers himself back down onto House and their mouths meet again, hot and moist as they kiss. He rests his weight on one elbow as he uses his other hand to start exploring House's body; from his neck, to his shoulder, down his arm, back up again, down over his chest, his side, his waist, his hip, House's finger moving in and out of him all the while. He grips House's hip and gives a firm, hard roll of his hips against House's, hard enough that it makes House expire sharply and, oh god, oh god, Wilson suddenly has this craving to hear House groan. He doesn't know why he does, he just does. He has this urge to break this silence, just to hear what it sounds like when House climaxes. Wilson rolls his hips again, and again, in the hopes that it'll elicit a sound from the back of House's throat, while House's finger presses deeper into him and, Jesus, Wilson has this desire to moan. But… nothing from House. Just deeper breathing, that's all.
Breaking his mouth away from House's he leans down and kisses his cheek, his jaw, down to his neck, the stubble scratching against his lips and chin, and when he moves down to House's collarbone he feels that finger slip free from him. God, no, Wilson thinks. Greg, please, please. House doesn't seem to hear his thoughts this time, or if he does he's ignoring them, because both his hands are swarming up over Wilson's back again.
Wilson thinks about going down. Kissing his way down House's body and taking his cock into his mouth, sucking and sucking until House is arching up off the bed in a silent beg to come. He presses kisses along House's chest, down to his left nipple, feeling it swirl and harden against his lips and tongue as he licks and sucks it. Wilson can hear House's breathing picking up in anticipation, as though he knows Wilson's going down on him, and another desire to hear House moan rolls through him. He suddenly longs to hear James, James, or oh god, oh god, spilling from House's lips. He has this sudden desire to break this silence, he doesn't care how complicated it might make things.
Sliding a warm, moist trail up from House's nipple to his neck with his tongue, Wilson slithers back up his body and he can tell by the way that House's hands suddenly stop moving over his back that House is caught off guard. He rolls his hips against House's, rubbing their cocks together firmly and just as he feels House's hands sliding back down to his ass, Wilson abruptly pushes himself up onto his hands so he can swing one leg over House's hips. He then swings the other over House's other hip and straddles him, hands now pressed against his chest, and as he peers down at him he sees House looking back up at him in confusion.
Wilson leans forward until their cocks are touching and starts to rock his hips again, keeping his eyes on House as he does so. Moan, he thinks, moan for me. Moan, Greg, moan my name. Instead, it's Wilson almost moaning when he feels House's hands back upon his ass and that finger pressing against his entrance again. He bites back the urge to make a sound as House sinks his finger in as far as he can push it with the angle his hand is at, and Wilson's muscles flex and contract against it, making his toes curl. That finger draws out and then pushes back in and Wilson's neck is now arched, his mouth open in a silent groan. House keeps doing thrusting his finger in and out, slowly, deliberately slowly, and soon Wilson is rocking back against it, that finger no longer enough.
Please. Greg, please, please fuck me, please, he babbles in his head, and this time, House seems to read his mind again. He draws his finger out and Wilson opens his eyes when he hears the sound of House spitting onto his hand, and then reaches back around Wilson to slick his cock. Wilson stares down at House staring back up at him and suddenly the dull, thick press of House's cock is against him. Not in the right place, at first; it digs against his inner thigh, against his perineum and when it thrusts against his balls, Wilson sits up and reaches behind him, closing his hand around House's to guide him. He shuts his eyes as he feels the head of House's cock pushing against his entrance, and when he feels the thickness pushing and stretching him, he curls his toes so hard his feet and calves begin to cramp.
Oh god, oh god, he cries out in his mind as he arches his neck. Oh god, Jesus. Both his hands slap onto House's chest for support and balance, digging his nails into his skin as House pushes deeper into him, and he catches a faint grunt from House, like the tightness and firmness of Wilson's entrance is too much to bear. He hears it again when House pulls out and then pushes back in, deeper, and Wilson can't help it, he can't help it when he suddenly lets out a sharp groan. God, it hurts, it fucking hurts to be stretched like this, but it feels so good at the same time. Wilson bears down to force his muscles to relax when House pushes deeper into him and as if to force House as deep into him as he can go, Wilson suddenly shifts his hips down until he's seated fully upon House's cock.
House suddenly groans. Finally breaking the silence between them.
Oh god, yes. Yes, god, Wilson thinks, and he lags his head forward again to look down at him. Just to hear that groan again, he clenches his burning muscles around House's cock, which makes Wilson grit his teeth to stop a hiss from escaping, and yes, god yes, that makes House groan, again. He feels House shift his hips to thrust into him, and Wilson lets out a strangled sound that's somewhere between pain and pleasure, bracing his hands firmly against House's chest. House thrusts again, and again, until the pain barrier is broken and all Wilson can feel is a heady rush of pleasure, oh god, oh god, Greg, oh fuck.
House's cock strikes that spot in him, harder and deeper than he's ever struck it before and Wilson throws his head back as sparks of white heat shoots up his spine like lightning, almost making him come there and then. God, again, again, please again, he thinks, and House does, again. And again. And, Jesus, again, until Wilson is clumsily meeting House thrust for thrust; clumsily because he's never fucked like this before, bottoming from the top, and the way House's cock is pounding against him, sliding over the nerve endings inside him, is causing his body to lose control of itself.
The pleasure mounts so much so fast that Wilson almost can't take it and he thumps his fist against House's chest just as House moans again. The force of his fist on his chest cuts off House moan with a short wheeze, and they lock eyes again just as House thrust back in.
"Greg," Wilson mouths, but no sound comes out. Maybe that's a good thing. Because words, even just names, especially first names, make things personal, and when things like this become personal they become complicated. But still. The inexplicable desire to break the silence is almost overwhelming, because how long do they plan on keeping this silence between them? How long before House suddenly decides that he doesn't need Wilson? That, Wilson suddenly realises, is fundamentally why he wants to moan House's name: because he wants House to moan his. He wants House to never stop needing him and he's scared that one day, soon, he will.
"Greg," he tries again, and still no sound.
House seems to see this, too, because suddenly he's thrusting even harder as if to stop Wilson from saying anything at all, and Wilson wonders for a split second if his leg's alright, if House is straining himself too much. That thought vanishes from his mind when his prostate is struck again, and before Wilson can control himself his whole body seizes up as his orgasm rushes through him like a roar of white noise. He arches off House, frozen, seized up in the thrall of pleasure so intense it hurts, and his muscles clamp hard around House's cock. His come spurts up to his stomach in two hard pulses before tapering off into weaker throbs, and House's thrusts keep him suspended in that plateau of orgasm before he edges out of it.
His senses slowly come back, and another hard jolt of House's cock against that spot in him causes Wilson to arch his back again. God, it's too much now, too much, too fucking much, but House hasn't come yet. He's almost there, but not quite, and god, Greg, please, please, oh god, please come, please. Wilson scratches at his chest like he's scrabbling to hold onto him as House keeps thrusting, firmly, hard, harder, even harder still, and finally, just as Wilson is about to beg him to come because he can't fucking take it anymore, he utters a deep-throated groan as his body caves to climax.
Wilson holds onto that groan, clings to it fiercely in hopes that House will do it again. But he doesn't, he doesn't groan again, he only slumps breathlessly when released from the thrall of orgasm and Wilson flops on top of him, head against House's chest. Sweating, panting, his whole body feeling both alight with adrenalin and boneless at the same time.
They lie like that for a few long moments until the sound of their rapid breathing finally slows. Wilson feels House's cock slip out of him, followed by the wet trickle of House's come, and he has that urge to break the silence again. Because they can't be silent like this forever. They just can't.
He feels House stiffen beneath him, and Wilson almost holds his breath to hear House's reply. Anything, anything at all. James, Jimmy, Wilson, yes, anything.
It feels like an eternity passes before Wilson says again, more insistently this time, "Greg?"
"Don't," House sharply replies. Wilson could ask what he means, but he knows what House is saying: Don't speak. Don't say another word.
Wilson lifts his head from House's chest to look down at him, and House stares back up at him, glaring hard.
"Greg?" Wilson tries again.
House's glare hardens, as does his voice when he replies, "Don't."
Wilson's hand starts to move up to House's face. "Greg--"
House is quick in seizing his wrist and wrenching it away from him. "James," he replies, and Wilson can't work out if House is mocking him or being serious, "don't."
He continues to stare down at House, and he swallows thickly. Please, just talk to me. Just say something other than don't. Something, anything. "I--"
Before Wilson can retort to that, he's suddenly being shoved off House roughly, onto his back and it's not until he stretches his legs out that he realises how cramped they are. He lets out a grunt of discomfort as he tries to flex his feet to work the cramping out, and then rolls his head to the side to look at House.
House has rolled onto his side, away from Wilson, as if implementing the unspoken rules himself that they'd put in place with each other when all of this began. As if reminding Wilson that they're not supposed to speak about this.
Seeing House like that makes something inside Wilson's chest twist, like he's been rejected, like House suddenly doesn't want him anymore and he tries to work out why it suddenly matters now. Why it didn't matter before. It's not like anything is different. Except it is, because he broke the rule, because he found himself wanting to acknowledge this. Because, he suddenly realises, he's been wanting to acknowledge this for a long time. Since it began, if he's to be truthful to himself. He just can't stand the silence any longer.
He turns his head the other way to look at the wall. He listens to House's breathing, and he can tell that House is far from asleep; by the way his breathing is too shallow. The air wafts over Wilson's body, cooling and drying the sweat on his chest and shoulders, drying the come that had spurted up onto his stomach, and he listens to the stereophonic silence that has settled between them. That cold, familiar silence that's been broken. Wilson suddenly thinks that he never should've pushed, never should've spoken, that he should've been happy with what he had. Because what is there left, now that the silence that kept this thing at a safe distance between them is now shattered?
As quietly as he can, he shifts onto his side to fully face the wall and curls up, aware that House's release is dribbling out of him. He swallows and grips the pillow, listening to the silence that now suddenly feels deafening. He closes his eyes and tries to push it from his mind, tries to drown it out completely and after what feels like an endless stretch of time of willing sleep to overcome him, finally sleep does.
What Wilson doesn't realise is that House watches him sleep, silently watches him for a long time, before he reaches out and lightly strokes Wilson's hair.
The silence has broken. And maybe Wilson will never realise that it has, because House may never let on that the silence has broken for him, too. He may never let on that he stroked Wilson's hair for a long while, as he watched him sleep.
Or maybe he will.
to be continued