*Bites nails*. This is my first time ever writing... smut. And I feel all tingly inside.
This isn't my favorite chapter so far, but it was light and fun and sexy. Or at least, I like to think so. With two incredibly attractive doctors in their birthday suits, how can one go wrong?
Slumped across the couch, House mashed the power button on the remote control, and the television gave one final click and flash before turning off. His soap ended at seven, and all the pointless reality shows began soon after. Under normal circumstances, Wilson would already be home to entertain him, but the oncologist was staying late tonight, and the garage door had not yet sounded its grinding cue.
House drummed on his knees, glancing over at his guitar. He hadn't really ever been a performer, unless you counted the bemused hospital staff members who happened to glance into his office while he was riffing. But tonight, he wanted to play for Wilson. He would have done so last night, but he had been stuck at the hospital well into the small hours of the morning.
It hadn't been long since the bar incident. Wilson would know the exact number of days, hours even, but House wasn't that kind of guy.
Even several months into their relationship, House flat-out refused to set foot in a gay bar. He no longer thought of himself as "closeted", seeing as his colleagues were fully, though not explicitly, aware of his and Wilson's relationship. But he took steps to forbid this knowledge to spread any further. Not to his parents, not to Wilson's friends, and certainly not to the media. As well-known as House was in the medical field, it would be the biggest coming-out scoop since Dumbledore. Needless to say, he wasn't going to willingly publicize his sexuality.
Consequently, the two doctors spent a couple of inconspicuous hours in a run-of-the-mill bar to recognize their six-month anniversary. They planned to return home afterwards, of course, to spend the vast majority of the night celebrating in a far more private way. But it had never been about physical contact or lovey-dovey PDA for House and Wilson. Just to be together, just to talk about everything and nothing, was enough. Most of the time.
That being said, Wilson wasn't thinking very clearly after two blue-tinted, fruity-tasting drinks. He had absentmindedly closed his fingers over House's hand, giving his lover that deliciously adorable chocolate doe-eyed stare. And then they heard it.
"Wish all the fuckin' faggots would stay where they belong."
It had been a hiss from the man sitting behind Wilson, a not-so-subtle message that he drawled to the bartender, but was aimed elsewhere.
Any other time, House would've stood up and punched this bigot into the next decade. He glared briefly at the middle-aged, beer-chugging man before locking eyes with Wilson once more. The muscles in his chest tightened involuntarily.
Wilson had a look in his eyes that House immediately recognized. It was the expression Wilson bore whenever he delivered a terminal diagnosis to a child, or watched helplessly as an elderly patient died alone. And it shook House to the absolute core. I hate the world we live in. This isn't fair.
In that moment, all House could think of doing, all he wanted to do, was to pull Wilson to his chest and hold him there until all his pain dissolved away. So he placed a rebellious hand on Wilson's shoulder, led him out of the bar, drove him home, and did just that.
Now, as House heard the rattle of keys and the creak of the door, he plucked his acoustic from its stand. A rare half-smile spread across his face as the younger doctor stepped through the doorway.
Wilson's "hello" froze on his tongue when he realized that House was cradling his guitar. He simply grinned and walked over to the couch, planting an affectionate kiss on House's lips. "You gonna play something for me, hotshot?" He was fully prepared for the inevitable mocking, cynical response.
House shifted and smiled wider. "Maybe."
Surprise flashed over Wilson's face. "R-really?" he stuttered.
"Depends. I don't perform for free."
Wilson raised a thick eyebrow and scooted closer to House, slipping his arm through House's elbow. "Oh, I see. You're looking for some sort of… compensation." He pressed a trail of tender kisses along House's neck.
"Hey, I wasn't gonna ask for my payment in advance," he told Wilson, who stilled for a moment. There was silence for a beat. "But I wouldn't turn it down," House whispered. He reached over to place his guitar back on its stand, then turned his head to capture Wilson's lips, beginning to feel himself stiffen. He wrapped his arms around Wilson's abdomen, and Wilson placed his own around House's neck in response.
After a few breathless kisses, Wilson pulled away and tugged House's tee-shirt over his head, then watched helplessly as the older man grabbed one side of his button-down shirt with each hand and pulled fiercely. Several buttons flew into the air, then bounced across the floor. "House!" he began to scold, but the object of his accusation was peeling the damaged shirt from his arms, then tossing it onto the coffee table.
"Shut up about your damn shirt," House whispered sexily. He cupped the back of Wilson's head in his hands and kissed him again, shoving his tongue into the younger man's mouth.
Wilson responded whole-heartedly and simultaneously groped for House's waistband. His fingers unfastened the button and the zipper on House's jeans, then moved to his own. He struggled for a moment with his belt buckle, then unzipped himself, relieving some of the pressure.
"In a rush to hear my song, are we now?" House inquired, his voice low and dripping with lust. He stood up, using the arm of the couch for support, then slid his jeans and his boxer shorts onto the ground.
Wilson got to his feet and did the same, admiring House's physique. Even for someone half his age, House had an incredible body. His arms were long and muscular, his chest firm, his abdomen toned and broad. "Yeah, your song. That's it," Wilson panted. He closed the distance between them and smashed his mouth into House's, pressing his body to the older man's.
After a minute or two, neither man could stand it any longer. Wilson placed his hands on House's shoulders and turned him around, then guided him back to the couch on his hands and knees. "You ready for me?"
House twisted his neck to look up at Wilson. "Always."
With that, Wilson sunk onto his knees on the couch behind House, then spit anxiously into his hands. The bottle of lube was tucked away in the bedroom, and there was no way he was going to wait any longer. Wilson slicked himself up unceremoniously and gripped House's abdomen on either side, then entered him with a passionate cry.
House echoed Wilson's cry twofold. He felt soft, slender fingers digging into his sides, heard Wilson's rhythmic panting, smelled that glorious tropical shampoo that he would never admit to liking. Even after hundreds of times, thousands of times, this could never get old.
"House…" Wilson groaned, his face collapsing to his lover's spine. His fingers stretched further, grasping House's ribcage, as he thrust and grinded and convulsed, enveloping the older man in the gaps and crevices of his front.
Closing his eyes tightly shut, House moved his hands to the arm of the couch and clutched it desperately. He moved in harmony with Wilson's body, meeting his every movement. It wasn't long before he felt himself get dangerously close, but he tried with all his might to hold off.
House's efforts paid off. He heard Wilson inhale sharply, felt him thrust one last time, and cried out in unison with his lover. Light flashed before his eyes for a blinding, brief, blissful moment. And then it was over.
Wilson waited for House to turn over and reposition himself, careful to avoid the sticky stain on the left-most cushion. They hadn't really thought that one out, Wilson supposed, but he wasn't particularly concerned as he collapsed into the older man's lap. He rested his forehead on House's collarbone for a few beats, panting euphorically, smiling into House's neck. "You're amazing, you know."
"You shouldn't say that," House whispered breathlessly. "It'll all go to my head one of these days."
Wilson sputtered with laughter. "Yeah. Wouldn't want you to develop a giant ego."
With one last deep, audible sigh, Wilson thumped House's chest and sat up. "Okay. Your turn. Impress me."
Now it was House's turn to laugh. "You're kidding, right? That's it, Mr. Why-Don't-We-Ever-Cuddle-Afterwards?" He glared incredulously over at the oncologist.
Wilson ran a hand through his hair and smiled, bearing an undeniable resemblance to a kid in a candy shop. "That's Doctor Why-Don't-We-Ever-Cuddle-Afterwards to you, young man," he scolded. With the brief wag of a finger, he settled into the cushions and gestured for House to commence his performance.
Rolling his eyes dramatically, House reached over and plucked his acoustic gingerly from her stand, then rearranged it in his grasp. He strummed once, frowning, then adjusted one of the turning keys by what looked to Wilson like a tenth of a degree. "You're insane," Wilson chided, but House just ran the pads of his fingers across the strings once more and smiled.
Wilson smiled back at him. He crossed his hands in his lap and waited.
"The world we live in isn't fair," House sang quietly, picking steadily at the strings. His voice was low and slightly gruff, and his ice-blue eyes were closed. "There's crime and hatred everywhere."
Wilson tilted his head back and bit his lower lip and watched House, completely enchanted.
"I don't know how it got this way." House transitioned into a series of complex chords. His calloused fingers danced effortlessly across the fretboard, and he inhaled deeply, as if he was about to plunge into water. "I'll just make sure that you're okay."
From that moment on, Wilson couldn't concentrate properly. He seemingly bare body was enveloped in blissful, comforting warmth. Moments like this one came so rarely, moments when House willingly, openly, if not blatantly, declared his love and caring for the younger doctor. And said doctor couldn't imagine a feeling of greater ecstasy.
When House had strummed his final, plangent string, he remained stationary, eyes still closed. His fingers remained poised in midair, and his mouth was slightly open, as if he would continue with the press of a play/pause button.
Wilson didn't need to be asked twice, or even once for that matter. He slowly got to his feet, knelt down in front of House, placed a hand on each of the older man's knees, and kissed him. He felt House flinch in surprise, but they both gradually relaxed into each other. It was nothing like their hungry, wet kisses from before; this wasn't about sex, or lust, or impressing each other. It was just about them.
When Wilson pulled quietly away, his glimmering brown eyes met House's blue, translucent ones. He grinned, whispering but one word. "Encore."
Yes, it was my first attempt at...
Let's just call it what it is: Pornography without the camera.
I feel so dirty now.
... Not really.
Anyways, REVIEW! I would love to know your thoughts about... whatever the hell that was.