Chapter Text
"I was promised favors of the sexual variety if I put on the penguin suit and I am currently feeling distinctly unravished." It was House that broke the silence. His tone had lightened, but his gaze was still heavy with all the things left unspoken.
Something almost like a giggle threatened to spill out of Wilson. All the tension coiled in his bones, suddenly releasing and flooding him with endorphins and an eager sort of joy.
House's words were a blatant attempt to lighten the mood, to draw Wilson back from the ledge he had danced his way onto. Wilson was well aware of House's allergy to talking about his feelings (and that was if he ever admitted to having them) and normally he would ignore it, push past this facade of resistance and force House to confront the depth of the situation.
But this wasn't House running, this was House pulling them back onto stable ground, back to that tuxedo fantasy and the lust that had pulsed between them in Cuddy's office.
Wilson could do that. He could pretend his entire world hadn't been cut open and remade for long enough to get them both off. There would be time for emotions and processing later. He had pretended he didn't love House for years, this couldn't be any harder.
And he wanted this, wanted to sink back into that daydream of him and House that fueled so many guilty orgasms, wanted to make it real this time.
"And what did I say I would do to you?" He stalked towards House, growing more confident as House's pupils dilated, mouth opening around a pant. Somewhere in the back of his head was a tiny Wilson doing a very unflattering happy dance because he was finally going to get everything he wanted.
He wanted to kiss House, he was going to kiss House. The anticipation almost left him breathless.
"I recall a strip tease and then a very sexy blow job and--" House's recitation was cut off as Wilson finally stepped into his space, breath catching in his chest. It was overwhelming to be this close. House seemed larger than life, his face was the only thing Wilson could see, so many tiny details he wanted to take in, wanted to memorize, the way the skin wrinkled at the corners of his eyes, the way the blue of his iris had thinned to the tiniest ring around a well of black, the color of his lips, the tiny flicker of his tongue as it wet them.
And Wilson wanted to shove him up against the wall (or more realistically down onto the couch where the cane could be forgotten) to ravish House, but he got there, got his hands on the soft wool of the House's rented coat, felt the warmth and solidness of House's shoulders and tenderness welled up in him unbidden. How could he pretend this was only lust when his heart was still tripping over itself in giddy joy?
"You knew it was me and you came anyway," he couldn't help the disbelief turning again to wonder in his veins. His hand shifted up to House's cheek and that was his scruff under Wilson's palm, sharp and itchy and real. Not a dream, not a fantasy.
House's eyes softened, something like fondness overcoming the urge to hide. Wilson felt a hand on his hip, and a blinding flash of need surged through him, to feel that warmth on his skin, and not through layers of wool and cotton. He regretted the tuxedos for the briefest moment, wished he was a in a t-shirt, in nothing at all.
"Not anyway. Because." House's words were quiet, fragile, capitulating to Wilson's tenderness, but he was looking at Wilson with such intensity, willing him to get it, to understand that he meant it even if he never found the words to say it again.
Understanding sparked through Wilson, starting from the hand tightening on his hip with poorly concealed vulnerability, and spreading like liquor, like stepping from a winter night into a hot tub, so much it almost hurt. That feeling that had been burning under Wilson's skin, tucked next to his bones, just as irremovable, became tangible, was mirrored, reflected, multiplied between them. The same in House as it was in Wilson.
Suddenly, the need for gentleness disappeared. Not because House didn't deserve it (he deserved everything), but because this wasn't fragile. Wilson wasn't going to break it, was never in danger of breaking it. The fear that had dogged his heels since Cuddy's office evaporated and in its place was just desire, clean and free of hesitation.
"You beautiful man," Wilson grinned, stroked his thumb over the hard plane of House's cheekbone, relishing the prickle of stubble. His other hand he slid beneath House's coat to settle in the small of his back, so he could pull. House stumbled into his chest, cane falling to the floor with a clatter, grin spreading under Wilson's hand.
Beautiful, he said and he meant the way House's words echoed through Wilson's chest, filling him up with this new feeling of being wanted in return. But he also meant the way House looked now, poured into his black jacket, white shirt crisp and fitting, his black bow tie contrasting against it like a painting that Wilson wanted to sink his fingers into.
What had House said so many hours earlier it felt like another life? Positively edible in black tie. It was true. House was biting his bottom lip again, half overt seduction and half a mocking caricature of it. Wilson couldn't help but kiss him.
And damn was it a kiss. House kissed like a man starved, open-mouthed and devouring. There was a note of caramel whisky on his breath as Wilson drew that abused bottom lip into his own mouth, matching House's fervor with his own urgency. Stubble scraped his cheeks and his lips and the sharpness only made the soft wetness of House's tongue that much hotter. He pressed closer, needing House's body flush against his own, wanting to be pressed so tightly together that no one could ever separate them.
He wanted more, wanted it all, could not bear to wait any longer. Wilson tried to turn, to herd House towards the bedroom, towards a bed where he could already see the picture House would make all spread out just for him. He refused to release his grip, supporting House's weight without letting go of his mouth, without letting their hips drift apart a fraction of an inch, instead drinking in the sounds that spilled into his mouth when House's hardness shifted against his own with every step.
House's arms went out to either side, pushing them off walls and directing them like a single clumsy pinball towards the door, trusting all of his weight to Wilson. It was all encompassing, House in his arms, stumbling together like one body (with very uncoordinated limbs), like the line where Wilson ended and House began was immaterial, irrelevant.
They reached the bed in a graceless tangle. Wilson shoved House onto it, aching to press his body down into the mattress and rut against him.
"No no no! You're going off script." Wilson halted in his tracks, instinctively freezing with one leg still in the air. Then the tone registered, the lewd grin on House's face. He was looking up at Wilson, reclined and decadent, shifting his weight onto one elbow so the other could start to palm lazily over his crotch.
Tension leaked from Wilson as fast it had arrived, replaced by amusement. "And what did the script say I should be doing?" And maybe he shouldn't indulge House's terrible schemes, but if not now, then when? Wilson shook his head as he stepped back from the bed, but even he knew it was more fond than reprimanding.
"You're supposed to be naked already, so I can ogle your ass." It startled a laugh from Wilson. House winked, "I believe the words 'strip' and 'tease' were used," and damn but unashamed was a good look on House.
Wilson couldn't help but grin, shedding jacket and pants in rapid fashion, unbuttoning his shirt only to stall at the shirt cuffs and give up, leaving his white shirt on and open from collarbone to navel. He might have been skimping on the 'tease' part of the instructions, but no one could fault him on the stripping. And maybe another day (and there would be many others, he promised himself) he'd take his time and strip down real slow just to watch House get worked up and eager, but right now every second he spent away from House's mouth was torture.
His hand went to his cock, a single tight stroke from base to tip, just to tide him over as he took a second to admire House reclined on the bed. He wanted to capture this moment, the long lines of black tracing House's legs to the obscene tent of his erection ruining the line of his pants. House was leaning back on his elbows, jacket splayed wide around him like a midnight cloak and his mouth was spread in a wild grin, like the sun, so bright it nearly hurt to look at it. House had his own hand pressed firmly to his crotch, eyes locked on where Wilson's hand stroked his cock.
Wilson couldn't wait any longer. God he wanted to do wonderful, terrible things to this man.
He stumbled to follow House onto the bed, reaching again for that mouth, reddened from his kisses. He straddled House, pushing his shoulder back down onto the mattress and following him down to bite at his lips. Wilson pushed his coat from his shoulders, leaning back into the hardness under him, swallowed House's groans as Wilson ground his bare ass down against House's cock.
House's hands explored his body, stroking over the planes of his back and hips, grasping two handfuls of his ass and squeezing.
"Fuck," Wilson gasped, breaking away from House's lips so he could focus on pressing back into House's hands.
House just kept squeezing, clenching and releasing, spreading them wider, then wider as Wilson whimpered and rutted against House's stomach. His eyes had closed at some point and when he opened them it was to see House staring up at him, hungry and flushed, and then to see his own cock, equally flushed, leaking onto the used-to-be-pristine dress shirt under him. There was something mesmerizing about it, the way the head of his cock caught against the nice shiny white buttons with little flashes of pleasure, the precome welling from the tip and dripping to leave transparent spots in the fabric, how happy House looked to have a naked Wilson in his lap.
But god, as much as Wilson enjoyed ruining this shirt, he wanted to see House naked more.
He reached for the tiny buttons on House's shirt and for all that his eagerness should've made the buttons a struggle; urgency and desire had nothing on a surgeon's fingers. The shirt parted beneath his hands with ease, revealing House's panting chest, pale from hours spent in a hospital and not outside in the sun, a dusting of salt and pepper hair in the center of his sternum.
Wilson had to stop and stare again, brushing his hands with something nearing reverence, stroking up House's sides just to feel all that skin warm under his palms. It was like getting to use the good China, or going behind the scenes in a museum, all that untouchable exterior shed away so he could …well, touch.
"C'mon panty peeler, stop drooling and ravish me," House urged, impatience covering a thread of nervousness. Wilson brushed a thumb over the soft bud of House's nipple and was surprised by the jolt that he felt go through House's body, like a shock. House frowned up at him, surprised maybe or betrayed by his body, so Wilson did it again, with both thumbs this time. Wilson felt his cock twitch where it was nestled under him and grinned, diving down to attack House's nipples with a single-minded determination.
He pinched the left nipple between his index finger and thumb, rolling it gently until it pebbled in his grip. He latched his mouth onto the right nipple, sucking it between his teeth and nipping lightly, teasing the tip of his tongue over the firm bud, while he stroked his thumb back and forth over the other with a metronome's steady pace, watching as it drove House insane.
Wilson's entire vision narrowed to the plane of House's chest in front of him, to the tight grip House had on his hips, to the slow rolling grind of House's thick cock against his ass. House was letting out little gasps as he teased his nipples, and Wilson drank them in, rubbing harder and nipping as House writhed under him.
"The letter didn't say anything about abusing my nipples until they're too sensitive for me to wear a shirt tomorrow," House's complaint cut off with a whine as Wilson bit down. House was definitely squirming now, half-controlled thrusts getting more frantic, his breaths getting faster. He had both hands pulling Wilson down more firmly in his lap. Neither hand doing a single thing to actually attempt to stop Wilson.
"I thought you wanted me to ravish you?" Wilson released his nipple long enough to speak and then leaned forward again to nip at House's pectoral. He laved over it with his tongue, feeling coarse hair and the slightest hint of salt, then sucked on the mark a bit more for good measure.
When he sat back up again, House was staring up at him with eyes blown wide with lust. Wilson drank in the flush on House's face, grinding down and forward to feel the firm ridge of House's cock under him and to rub his own erection into the firm plane of House's stomach.
One of House's hands slid up his side, sending tingles of sensitivity spreading across Wilson's skin as he arched up into the touch. It traced shivers along his neck, then threaded into the short hair at the base of his head and drew him down for a kiss that was more tongue than anything else.
"I know I said I would suck you off in the letter, but right now I need your fingers inside me," Wilson gasped into House's mouth. Those long fingers were scratching along the fine hairs on the back of his neck, sending sparks of pleasure shivering down his spine. Even just imagining those fingers spearing him open was enough to have his cock jerking.
"Ooo, naughty," House's voice was all gravel, Wilson could feel it rumbling against his chest, adding to the growing fire in his core. "Have you thought about my fingers before?" House's sly grin was unmistakable, gleeful and excited enough for Wilson to confess the truth.
"You should be asking how often," he mumbled, more embarrassed by this somehow than all the rest.
How many nights had Wilson watched House playing the organ, hands flying to the tune of some fast and complicated song? How many nights had he stripped his cock raw thinking about those long skilled fingers plunging deep into his ass and playing him instead? Too many to count.
House's grin only grew, "Get the lube."
Wilson made an educated guess that he would find a bottle of lube in the night stand and scrambled for it. He fumbled with the drawer, eagerness and desire making a fool of his normally steady hands. Behind him, he could hear the sound of House shucking his pants and boxers and when Wilson turned back around, triumphant with the lube, it was see House's cock sticking straight up, tall and flushed and leaking. Wilson's mouth went dry as he crawled back over to the center of the bed.
None of his fantasies had anything on this. The velvet over steel feel of his skin as Wilson wrapped his hand around it, so similar to his own cock and yet remarkable just by virtue of being attached to House. The resonant groan that spilled from House's lips as he started to stroke, the way his mouth had gone slack, it was a wet dream come to life.
He hardly noticed House taking the lube from his other hand, Wilson's vision was focused down to the ruby head of his cock as it peeked through his fist, a pearl of pre forming at the slit. His thoughts narrowed to the rhythm of his hand and the sounds House couldn't help but make. He varied his tempo, the pressure of his grip, thumbed gently at his frenulum, laser focused on what made House squirm and pant and moan.
"How many times did you get off to the letter?" Wilson couldn't help but ask.
"Twice. Once while reading it. Again while getting dressed," House met Wilson's stare as he spoke, humping his cock harder into Wilson's hand as he took in what those words did to him. Wilson couldn't help but moan, imagining House half dressed, letter in hand, rapidly stripping his cock. House coming just from thinking about Wilson in his bed.
He was so consumed by it all, that the finger teasing at his ass came as a complete surprise. It slipped in, gliding smoothly in to the knuckle and Wilson choked on his gasp. There was no pain, just the strange heady sensation of House stroking him from the inside, pumping his finger in and out and in and in so Wilson couldn't catch his breath.
House unerring sought his prostate and attacked it with the kind of sadistic glee Wilson had come to expect, but he hadn't expected how good it would feel. He collapsed forward into House's chest, hand falling slack around his cock. The pleasure was warm and staticky, urging his hips to grind deeper into it, spreading through his whole body like lightening.
The second finger felt divine, stretching him just that little bit more, so he could feel the bumps of House's knuckles as they pressed pass his rim. House was just as good at this as Wilson had imagined, driving his fingers in deeper, stretching him wider, plucking at Wilson's prostate until Wilson couldn't think of anything beyond the pleasure building and spreading from his hole. Every ounce of House's stunning intellect was laser focused on Wilson, and he could feel it, the burn of House's gaze on his panting mouth, the way House took in every moan and whine and twitch of his hips like little clues in his quest to take Wilson apart.
The third finger nearly undid him.
It burned a little, but more than that, he just felt open. Rim fluttering around House's fingers as it was forced to accommodate the stretch, internal muscles clenching down just to feel the friction as House pulled out and then pushed in even deeper, spearing his prostate like a bullseye.
Wilson gasped into the slick skin of House's throat, grinding his hips back and down, throat clicking as he tried to swallow. Bare chests pressed together, slick with sweat, Wilson's cock sandwiched between them. It took every ounce of will power he had left to sit back up, rather than melt deeper into the pleasure and the firm chest below him. House was staring up at him with an eager grin and Wilson suddenly could not wait any longer.
"What did the script say was supposed to happen next?" Wilson remembered, remembered the blood pooling in his face and in his dick just from imagining it. But he wanted to hear House say it, wanted to watch his face as he realized Wilson was serious.
"You were going to ride me," House responded, almost flippant, more focused on taking Wilson apart than the words coming out of his mouth. Then he froze, fingers halfway out of Wilson's ass, and met his gaze with wide eyes. For all that he had joked about the letter as a script, it seemed he hadn't believed Wilson would actually go this far. When Wilson only held his stare, grinning, his intention to do just that finally seemed to dawn on House. "Fuck."
"Yes, that's generally the idea." It was hard for Wilson not to feel smug, as House flushed even deeper and eagerly removed his fingers to help position Wilson over his cock.
They shared a long glance, a whole conversation about condoms and testing, a quirked eyebrow, a comment about right hands, and Wilson huffed a laugh before rising up to guide House's cock to his entrance, where he abruptly fell silent. The heat of it was very different from House's fingers, blunter, larger. It was going to be inside him, was going to be stretching him wide open and fucking him.
Wilson closed his eyes and started to lower himself down, focusing on bearing down around the intrusion.
The head popped inside with a burning pull that left Wilson groaning. Even with three fingers worth of stretching, House was large, making space inside Wilson, forcing his body to open.
He pushed down lower, letting gravity pull his weight. Wilson slid down smoothly, his mouth caught open around a breathless gasp. It took forever, slowly falling down House's cock, feeling every inch as it went wider, deeper, deeper than House's fingers ever reached, carving him open and ready to fuck. A shiver trailed up his spine, leaving goose bumps in its trail.
Wilson hadn't realized his eyes were closed until he opened them to see House, panting, with eyes half lidded, staring up at him like something holy (to whatever degree House believed in the divine). He felt full to bursting, like he couldn't possibly take anymore, but it was outweighed by the greed to have all of House. Wilson could feel the stretch, the burn, but it was irrelevant. A low moan rumbled in House's chest and what he really felt was powerful.
Wilson sank the last inch with a shudder of pleasure, ass pressed to House's groin, as deeply connected as they could be. House continued to stare up at him as he started to raise his hips, slowly at first as he searched for a tempo. There was something incredibly seductive about being watched. It drove him to go faster, harder, slamming his ass down again and again, taking every inch just to see House's mouth fall open with each thrust.
House planted his feet on the bed and started to drive up into Wilson, each pump of his hips meeting Wilson as he fell and rattling the bed with the force of it. Wilson was overcome with sensation in minutes, eyes falling shut as his world narrowed to the push and pull of their bodies. House's cock barreled into Wilson's prostate with every other thrust and his own slapped wetly against his belly; Wilson could only hang on for the ride, focusing whatever was left of his brain power on riding House into the bed.
It was everything. Fast and hard and deep, the slapping of skin merging with the growl coming from House, becoming white noise in Wilson's head. Every sense filled with sex, with House. A whine crawled out of his throat, high and breathy, the sort House could spend a full five minutes mocking on a good day, but here it only caused him to groan deep in his chest.
Wilson redoubled his pace, chasing his own pleasure and the sounds House couldn't seem to hold in.
"Wilson, Wilson, fuck." House was saying his name, low and repeated, calling him back from the edge whether intentionally or not.
It took a second to force his eyes to flutter open, longer still to finally focus on House whose own eyes were deep and burning. Desire was clear to read in House's face, which was flattering even now with his entire cock buried deep in Wilson's ass, but there was also something strangely tender in the angle of his eyes, the softness of his brow. Wilson couldn't help reaching up to trace his thumb over the arch of his eyebrow, until he was cupping House's whole face in his hand. House was smiling up at him and, belatedly, Wilson realized he was smiling too.
Their pace slowed. The pleasure was still there, pooling heavily in his core, but it felt less urgent. It could wait while he traced the laugh lines and frown lines and age lines in House's face, while he admired the redness of his lips. He wanted to kiss House again, but he always wanted to kiss House, so it wasn't really anything new. But this was new, the time to just look and touch and revel in the fact that House was his now.
"You're thinking sappy thoughts, aren't you." The words should have been derogatory, but House's voice was so soft, barely a whisper, like he was trying not to disturb them.
"I'm thinking sappy thoughts," Wilson confirmed and House rolled his eyes, but he was smiling fondly and looking up at him with a face so full of love that Wilson wondered how he had never seen it before. It dawned on him slowly, as House used a hand on the back of his neck to draw him down for a kiss, that House was thinking sappy thoughts too.
The kiss was deep and slow, thorough and claiming. Wilson slid his tongue against House's just to revel in the smooth glide of it, their mouths so familiar to each other that they stopped tasting of anything except warmth. They kissed and kissed and somewhere along the way Wilson started to roll his hips again, letting the banked embers of desire build back up again, hotter than before.
House shifted his hands back to Wilson's waist, arms flexing as he guided Wilson up and back down. The drag of his cock all the more intense at a slow pace. His orgasm had been close before, but it built even faster now, like some connection between them had clicked into place and now every movement of House's hips had him moaning.
It wasn't that they weren't on the same page before, but Wilson still felt like something had shifted, and what was good before was suddenly exceptional. House thrust up as Wilson lowered himself down with a steady rolling pace that should have felt languid but was instead building like a rolling wave, growing and growing without stopping. The kiss was broken as their breaths turn to panting, their pace solid as a sinus rhythm. House's cock dragged over his prostate constantly, in and out and in, over, and over, until it was thrumming, the tension growing with each slide.
Their eyes locked and it was almost more than Wilson could bear. It felt too vulnerable, to be feeling everything he was feeling, all this energy and pleasure sparking under his skin, the pressure building in his balls, while being looked at so intensely. He was flayed open, every single sensation playing out on his face. It was too much.
He wanted to hide, wanted to close his eyes so he didn't have to watch himself being watched -- only he couldn't. Wilson was mesmerized by the same feelings dancing across House's face, mirroring his own, and he was greedy for more. The connection between them grew, watching and being watched, desiring and being desired, energy pulsing like a live wire as the pressure continued to build without relief.
Wilson was shaking, not from exertion (though his thighs would be sore tomorrow) but from the overwhelming pleasure, from riding the cusp of release for so long. Every thrust was sending involuntary shudders down his limbs and up his spine. He felt orgasm creeping up on him, but part of Wilson didn't want this to end, wanted instead to stay here forever, shivering from how good it felt and watching House fall apart beneath him.
House's eyelids fluttered a moment, mouth caught around a gasp. He was close, Wilson knew and the pride he felt at that revelation was second only to his sudden need to make House come. House was writhing on the bed, one fist clenched in the sheets and the other tight on Wilson's hip, his cock throbbing in Wilson's ass. Wilson redoubled his efforts, slamming down harder and clenching as he dragged his hips back up, resting his hands on House's chest for balance and leverage.
One second, House was moaning around Wilson's name and bucking upwards, then suddenly he was coming and using both hands to drive himself as deep into Wilson as could. His face was blissed out, cursing repeatedly under his breath, a steady stream of fucks as he filled Wilson. And Wilson could feel it, the shuddering in House's body with each pump of come, the wetness at his backside; he almost came just from the thought of House spilling inside him. He reached a hand for his own cock, only for House to bat it away and start stroking him, fast and tight.
Fuck. It felt so good. The friction of his palm rubbing over the skin, his hard dick still buried deep in his ass; every nerve from navel to hole was alight with sparks. Wilson's arms holding him up spasmed and lost muscle tension as his climax hit him like a freight train.
A strangled groan was torn from House's throat as Wilson's ass clamped down like a vice around House's oversensitive cock. Orgasm rolled through him in waves and the stretch of being filled was only sending him higher, dragging it out like House's hand stripping his dick. His vision pulsed with waves of white and at some point he must of have collapsed on House's chest, because he returned to himself twitching through the aftershocks with his face buried against House's neck.
All the tension drained from his body, both the energy that fueled his fucking and the stress from the previous hours. It was nice, all warm skin and the soft drag of House's fingers through his hair. It was sticky and sweaty and kind of gross, but also it was really nice. Wilson hadn't thought he would ever get this.
It took a minute to muster the energy to get up, but the desire to not have come drying in his chest hair eventually won out.
He went about cleaning up in a sort of daze: picturing the smile on House's face when they first kissed as he used a washcloth to wipe the semen off his ass and stomach, thinking about the sounds House made when he came as he tossed it to House, imaging them kissing and fucking and making love again and again and again as he stripped the top sheet from the bed. Wilson finally dealt with his shirt cuffs, setting the cuff links on the night stand next to House's; his mind gleefully poring over everything that had happened and everything that could happen, all of his dreams suddenly possibilities instead of fantasies.
He ditched his shirt, grabbed a pair of boxers for them both, and was half way back into the bed before he thought to hesitate, to wonder if he was allowed.
He moved slowly, like House was a wild animal he didn't want to startle, like that myth he heard as a kid about how the T. Rex's vision was based on movement and if you moved slowly enough they won't notice.
"Stop dawdling, not every decision requires three years of therapy and a signed invitation." The tension fell away from his body at House's words, replaced with a buoyant sort of relief. House was smiling up at him from the bed and he couldn't help but match it as he tossed a pair of boxers at him.
"I did get you one though." This right here was how they were supposed to be. Exactly the same as before, just a little to the left.
"Get me one what?" House flopped around on the bed (a bit like a fish but Wilson kept that to himself) as he struggled to pull on his boxers without angering his already stressed leg any further, expression like an angry cat.
"A signed invitation." When the flopping stopped, Wilson crawled onto to the bed right up alongside House. He leaned down for a kiss, just because he could.
"Should've signed it with your own name rather than Cuddy's." They both must have looked like fools, matching dopey grins, heart eyes and all.
"Realize that now." Happiness welled up in Wilson as he laid down and let his body curl around House's. Legs entangling, warmth spreading between their bodies.
There was a long stretch of quiet, just their breaths slowly syncing up, and the rustle of skin as Wilson stroked his thumb along House's chest. That giddy sort of joy filled his chest again, soft and certain; Wilson pressed a kiss to the back of House's neck like he could share this feeling between them.
'I'm gonna get it framed and hang it up in my office." House's voice was deep with sleep, but horrifically, it did not sound like he was kidding.
"You wouldn’t dare."
"Wanna bet?" No, Wilson did not.