Osmosis

Your eyes are closed. You are warm and well. You feel weightless and mellow, like a little piece of cotton floating in the almost balmy summer air, carrying you somewhere and nowhere.

You hear sounds; first, like soap-bubbles bursting, delicate, silent, wet, right next to your ear. You take a deep breath and when you exhale you realize that the air is heavy with humidity and you can pick up the fragrance of bath soap and something else, with a heady, inebriant, dizzying feel to it.

You become aware of other sounds; it's like someone is pointing them out to you, your hearing becoming more distinct, tuning in. You hear a shower running, and the echo of the spray and whooshing water bouncing of tiles. A fine moist film settles on your skin.

You open your eyes, the weightless feeling replaced by an inner pull, an inexplicable urge to follow scent and sound, to see.

You are in a locker room, blue tiles, gray lockers, wooden banks, neon lights above, giving off a ghostly blue hue. You must be dreaming, this is no place you have seen before. In the gap between opposite wall and a dividing wall to the showers foggy wafts lick the floor, illuminated by a chartreuse shine from the room beyond. Something beckons you into the unknown behind wall and wafts.

You rise and take a step, breathing deeply. You can feel your bare feet on the wet tiles, your naked body moving with the thick, humid air into the gap.

There, you hear it, a small sound among the hiss of the water, a human sound, like a muffled gasp. You stop dead, you tilt your head and listen. It doesn't come again, but you don't need to hear it again to know. Your body reacts before your rational mind. You feel a stab in your chest that rushes down to the pit of your stomach, and then to your loins.

Suddenly you know what's behind that wall in the shower, you know what you will see when you enter. You try to repress the images forming in your mind, and fail as you hear a single keening moan mingled with harsh breathing, reverberating, and the unmistakable wet sounds of lips on skin and skin on skin.

You know the timbre of that voice oh so well, would recognize it anywhere. This is a new setting for that voice, for his voice, House's voice.

You didn't realize you've moved forward, and taking the first step into the room, you are overwhelmed by what encounters you right there, what comes crashing down on your poor senses. You feel like someone thrown into a trench in the middle of an attack. Numb and hyper-aware at the same time.

You see and hear everything at once, the onslaught almost unbearable, except it isn't; it's gut-wrenchingly beautiful. House is, they are. It's what you expected, and it's not. You soak up sound and scent and sight, gulping, feeling connected through the thick, sultry air. Every new move and sound makes you shudder and your knees go weak. Your insides sympathize with them.

You see House, his naked body shielded by another, another man's, also naked, pressing House against the wall under the gushing shower head. The man is taller and bulkier, and he has House picked up, holding him firmly. He thrusts between House's wide-spread thighs, hips snapping, muscles flexing, House's long, shapely legs are wrapped around the other's. House's beautiful slender hands gripping at shoulders, his head tipping back to show his long neck, lips parting in a series of gasps as his mate enters him again and again with new, sharp thrusts in a perpetual and primal rhythm. The blue eyes you know so well are heavy-lidded and unfocused, every so often widening slightly with ever new onslaughts.

Your feet have carried you nearer as you watch in fascination. You are almost near enough to touch. Oh, and you want to – touch. You feel a deep longing, a tearing and tugging inside. You are so near, you can feel their heat, feel the disturbance of their bodies' motions stirring the air, hear them pant right next to you. You look down and see the smooth skin of House's inner thighs where they clamp around the other's hips; you follow their motions that have become slower, more thorough, deeper. Your eyes settle on the dark, shadowy place between House's legs where their bodies join and watch the in and out and in again. You close your eyes. You can hear the obscene, slick sounds, you hear the speed and intensity of the thrusts pick up, you inhale soap and sex, you hear House groan, then make a high-pitched whimpering sound. Your eyes fly open when you feel a breath of air on your face and find yourself looking into House's bright blue eyes, wide open, staring back at you. You feel the stab again, taking in his thrown back head, the moist, parted lips, the involuntary, guttural sounds coming from his mouth, while the man's thrusts become hard and almost ruthless. House's mate grips his hips to hold him still, throwing himself gruntingly into his last powerful thrusts, making House shout out in surprised pain, emptying himself convulsively into House's body, snapping his hips in the aftershocks, stabbing House again and again deep inside. You watch House's face, watch him grimace in pain, then go slack, lifting his lids, so slits of blue peek out. His eyes are on you again, his gaze calm and clear, a small amused twinkle – uniquely House – in his eyes. You love that. You can't hold yourself back, you have to touch, to touch him, you want all that you have witnessed moments ago. You want House desperately, his mind, his smooth skin, his lips, his scent, the sounds he makes, it's driving you wild. Your desire. You want him to come for you. In every way. You want to tame him, he's supposed to be yours, and you his.

Your lips touch and you can feel him open his mouth against yours, you feel like there's too much air in your lungs and you exhale long and shakily into his mouth, air hissing between both your lips. It's warm and slick as you press against his mouth and enter him with your tongue. When you open your eyes again and break your first kiss with a silent wet sound, you realize with a start that you are holding him up by his thighs now, the stranger gone, you in his place. You are still joined, you can feel the lingering slickness of release, House's silky heat engulfing you. You lift your eyes to look into House's. He's so beautiful. And his eyes are smiling slightly, dreamily, then you see that twinkle again, mischievous and kind at the same time. This is House's very core. Beautiful, naked kindness. You love him, and what he's doing to you. You open your mouth to tell him that. His hand is on your shoulder and he's shaking you lightly, and, oh, he's saying your name. Warm and silky and a little rough, you love that timbre, would recognize it anywhere. You feel that rush southwards again and your eyes close.

"Wilson! Hey!" His voice, soft and low, to get you to open your eyes. You marvel in it. Just a little longer.

"Hey! " He taps you on the shoulder, a little too harsh. "You're gonna be late."

Your eyes snap open and you feel like being dipped in cold water. You're in your bed in your room and it's morning. "Oh, God!" – The very man of your dreams is standing at the foot of the bed, tall and slender as ever, clad in dark, tight jeans and blue button-down, not all the way buttoned, cane at his side, looking at you not in post-coital bliss but with eyes narrowed in suspicion.

The lingering feel and scent of a recently taken shower must have come into the room with House.

He smiles and scoffs a little at your exclamation,"Relax, it's not that late…"

You scramble to sit up and hide your condition from wary eyes, embarrassed, but it's no use. In the moment of turning away House stops at the sudden movement and fixes you with his gaze. With a slight tilt of his head and one eye squeezed shut he asks, voice honeyed and playful, the amused twinkle back,"Wilson, you weren't picking lint out of your belly button, were you?"

END