Pairing/Rating: House/Wilson/Pancakes. NC-17.
Notes: I went nuts. I’m sorry. This is incredibly long, but I guarantee you, it’s worth the read. Unbetaed, so there might be typoes, but I’ve been working on it forever, so I’m quite happy with the flow, etc.
Prompt: 126. House/Wilson – Pancakes.
WILLSON: HEER R SUM PANCAEKZ.
HOUZE: O RLY? I DUN LIEK UR WIERD FUD. *NOM NOM NOM* O, DEM PANCAEKZ R RLY GUD. PLZ, SIR, CAN I HAZ SUM MOAR?
WILLSON: NO, BUT U CAN HAZ SEXX0RZ NAO.
That did not happen here. It’s more like this:
WILLSON: I R MACKIN SUM PANCAEKZ 4 MUH BEST FREND HOUZE.
HOUZE: O HAI. I LIEK MAI SEXX0RZ LIEK I LIEK MAI MANZ. COVRD IN RAW PANCAEKZ. *FLING*
WILLSON: ZOMGWTFBBQ, NO!
HOUZE: U HAZ FLAVOR? *NOM NOM NOM*
WILLSON: O YESSSSSSSSSSS.
"I’m not going to jump you," House said.
Wilson looked over at House, eyebrows raised. “Oh… kay,” he hung onto the last syllable, waiting to find out what the angle was here. Was he suggesting Wilson was gay? Was he responding to some signal Wilson didn’t know he was sending?
“I didn’t expect that you were going to…” Wilson let it trail off.
“Of course you didn’t,” House countered. “But just so you know, I’m on to your little game.”
“Dare I ask?”
“Don’t be coy with me,” House said, leaning closer, half grinning.
Wilson looked up from the bowl of pancake batter he was mixing and shrugged his shoulders in question.
“Pancakes,” House said, as though that was more than enough explanation to make his case.
“Yes, I’m making pancakes…” Wilson replied, speaking slowly as though to a very dense child.
“You’re making my favorite pancakes,” House explained further.
“Hmm. Strange, yes, considering I’m making them because you asked for them,” Wilson said, stirring slowly and leaning back against the counter.
“I asked for pancakes months ago,” House countered, leaning heavily on his cane.
“Yeah…?” Wilson asked, wondering what House was getting at with this.
“So why do I get pancakes now?”
“Does there have to be a reason?”
“There’s always a reason.”
Wilson sighed. “Sometimes pancakes are just pancakes. I was hungry.”
“If you’re hungry, you make a sandwich. If you’re hungry, you make pancakes.”
“Oh, of course, the inflection makes all the difference. Wait, let me guess…”
“Your pancakes bring all the girls to the yard. Well, the boys, actually. We can’t resist the nuts.”
Wilson rolled his eyes and dropped a pat of butter into the bottom of a pan.
“Macadamia,” House added belatedly, looking very adolescent with his dirty joke pride.
“Oh, that was a pun. I hadn’t noticed,” Wilson said with more than obvious sarcasm, turning the heat on and letting the butter melt before spooning batter into the pan, and the kitchen was filled with the sound and smell of sizzling pancake batter. He was trying not to get terribly alarmed by this. After all, House often did and said strange things. Still, this was rather more unusual than usual.
House looked on intently as the pancake cooked, apparently planning his next move, as well as lusting after the pancakes. Out of the blue, House spoke up again.
“So is this your gay version of serial monogamy?”
“Excuse me?” Wilson turned to face House, turning his attention away from the pancake.
“You heard me. The women get plays and museums. Do the men get pancakes?”
“What men?” Wilson stressed men, “I’m not gay,” he floundered under House’s intense stare, and pressed for more sarcasm to cover his discomfort, “I know, the fact that I date and marry women must have thrown you…”
“Of course you’re not gay,” he said, “You’re metrosexual or something. Still doesn’t answer my question.”
“What makes you think that… this…” he gestured helplessly to House, “is just another in my so-called ‘serial relationships’?”
“Well, for one, because you give me what you think I need.”
“Oh, do I? I was under the impression that you take what you need,” he said with a scowl, “I’m sure you don’t remember, not too long ago, taking my pad and helping yourself to the pharmacy.”
“You lied for me.”
“Yeah, well…” Wilson looked uncomfortable all over again.
“You think I’m broken, so you butt into my life and try to help me, for my own good. You know, trying to fix me, like you fixed the wives. Seems to me like you’re doing that little thing I like to call caring.”
“Heaven forbid I care about a friend.”
“Friends don’t make friends heavenly pancakes.”
“I’m making them for myself!” Wilson shot back, “I’m just making more than I want because I know that you’ll steal mine if I don’t.”
“Right. Of course you are.”
“I am not seducing you with a pancake, House.”
“Your lips say no, but your pancake says eat me!”
“Oh, grow up,” Wilson said, setting the bowl on the counter, flipping the pancake and reaching into the cupboard for a plate to put the pancakes on as they finished cooking.
As Wilson’s attention turned from the batter to the cupboard, House dipped his hand into the batter and scooped up a handful of it and flung it Wilson, pleased to see most of it go down the front of his shirt. He watched as Wilson jumped back in shock, looking down at himself and then glaring up at him.
“House! What was that for!?” he yelled more than asked, “It’s going down my shirt!” he yelped and stepped away from the stove and from House, pulling the front of his shirt away from himself and looking down inside it. “Shit,” he muttered, “You’re such an ass!”
House just smiled as he watched Wilson struggle to deal with the pancake batter in his shirt, but took a moment to turn the burner off and rescue the lone pancake from burning, putting it on the plate Wilson had brought down.
“Chill out,” House said, leaning back against the counter like a contented cat. He licked the batter off his fingers as he watched Wilson, who was glaring back at him as though he was seconds from killing him. “It’s just batter. You’re acting like I assaulted you, or something…”
“You assaulted me with batter!” Wilson shouted, pulling a gob of batter out from his shirt and dropping it in the sink, turning on the tap to wash the dough from his fingers.
“So. Take revenge.” House pushed the bowl towards Wilson.
Wilson looked at the bowl, at the finger shaped marks left in the dough from where House had gathered ammo.
“No. No, I’m not stooping to your level. This is sick… is this like before, you’re just doing this because it makes you smile? You really need—AHHH!” Wilson leapt back, too late, as House grew bored of refusals and lobbed another handful of batter at him, this time landing it in his hair. He’d meant to get him square in the face, but Wilson had ducked at the last second.
“YOU BASTARD!” Wilson bellowed and lunged for the bowl, batter dripping onto his face from his hair, and he reached into it with both hands to pull out a great mass of batter. House was grinning at him maddeningly, squinting to protect his eyes, knowing that he’d would go for the face. He was right. Wilson wanted to wipe that stupid grin right off.
House laughed and tried to dodge it, but Wilson was smearing the batter rather than throwing it, and House suddenly found himself with a mouthful of it. He sputtered as Wilson kept rubbing the cold batter over his face, and House felt a finger slide into his mouth, apparently innocently. When it stayed put, though, he suspected this might not be so innocent.
He didn’t react right away. He stood there in shock, blinking to look into Wilson’s face, jaw slack, backed up against his kitchen counter, unable to escape. Not that he wanted to. But Wilson was asking for it, and he began sucking slowly on his finger, consumed with thoughts of continuing, of moving lower.
Wilson gasped as he realized what House was doing, his expression softening from anger to shock. He pulled his hand away slowly, freeing his finger from House’s lips and tongue, and stood staring. House wanted more. House wanted things he’d had been unable to put into words. How do you tell someone like House that you want to try being more than friends? He had spent so much time running through scenarios, and all of them ended with House belittling him and telling the entire hospital that he liked men. He couldn’t honestly imagine a different outcome. He’d only ever fantasized that House might feel the same, but never would have dreamed that House would initiate.
He leaned in to kiss him, went out on a limb to let him know that he felt the same, that he wanted more. It was at just that moment, before Wilson had even gotten close to him, that House managed to get another handful of batter and clapped Wilson wetly on the cheek with it, pleased to see it squelching down his neck and dripping into his shirt again.
Jaw dropping open, he gaped at House. “Stop that!” he yelled, peeling off his doughy shirt and started to beat House around the neck and torso with it.
House curled to the best of his ability to deflect the beating, and took up the whole bowl of batter as a shield. In an act of true desperation, and to keep Wilson’s harsh beating at bay, he flung the most of the contents of the bowl at Wilson, caking the shirtless man’s chest with batter that dripped down his stomach and the front of his pants.
House tried to push past Wilson in the scuffle of bowls and sodden shirts, but was prevented from doing so. Without missing a beat, Wilson began to fling the excess batter at House, and felt justified as he saw gobs of it stick in his short graying hair. He continued, and House raised his arms to shield his face from the brutal batter onslaught.
The attack slowed as Wilson grew distracted taking in the details; House, with his strong arms curled in front of his face, shaking with silent laughter even as dough dripped from his hair onto his sneakers.
House was laughing, and Wilson was struggling not to give in so soon again. House never laughed like that. He was enjoying himself. Wilson couldn’t ignore how young he looked, laughing, the rush of adrenaline and serotonin showing obviously on his smiling face. It was endearing, but he didn’t trust that House wouldn’t batter him again. Frustrated, Wilson hit House with a palm full of batter, smearing it over his would-be casual rock t-shirt. “This isn’t funny,” he snapped.
House’s laughter died quickly and left them in the near silence of the room, just the intermittent sound of batter dripping onto the floor like too thick rain. House hadn’t wanted to push it too far, but he had wanted this to startle Wilson, and more than just because of the intent. He wanted it like everything else he did, abrupt, messy, exacted. He did not, however, want to leave Wilson angry for too long.
Wilson kept telling himself that this must be House’s warped way of admitting his feelings, some kind of childish schoolboy come-on. He might just as easily have pulled his hair or hit him and run away. He wouldn’t have gotten far, though. He knew all this, but he still couldn’t let himself take the risk again, lean in only to be slapped back.
He felt House’s warm hands moving against his bare stomach, and the last of his anger and doubt began to fade. He hated himself for sighing with relief to feel those strong hands on his body. He’d needed this acceptance, and his mind was racing, body tingling as he imagined what it meant. He convinced himself to move forwards, fitting their bodies close together as House dipped his fingers into the waist of Wilson’s pants, tugging.
It was when they were pressed flush that his breath caught in his throat. He could feel the other man’s erection pressed against him, and knew just how much House wanted this. Wilson needed House’s need, only able to let go and get into it when he knew he was wanted, needed. Even so, Wilson was hesitant to try and kiss him again, after his first try moments ago had failed so. Partly, he didn’t want to be pushed away again if House had decided it would be fun to make a game of allowing and denying kisses, and partly because he wanted House to take it from him, if he wanted it so badly. God, could he possibly want it as badly as Wilson did?
He met House’s eyes and looked down, wetting his lips and catching sight of House maneuvering the buttons of his fly one-handed. Each jerk and movement of his hand rocked Wilson’s body, and he felt himself sway close and back as that hand snuck his pants open, finding bare skin. Brushing Wilson’s belly with the back of his hand, he leaned in to kiss him, apparently sensing Wilson’s need to know for sure.
House wanted him always like this, anger fading and half naked and confused. He slid his hands over Wilson's bare sides, pushing his jeans further down. Wilson felt him dipping his hands between skin and fabric, felt those intoxicatingly strong hands cup his ass solidly, squeezing. He arched his back in response, gasping, leaning back into House’s tight grip, all but begging for more. Forced to pull from the kiss for air, he blinked at House. How could House have known that he loved when a lover touched him like this? He couldn’t have known, and god, how long had it been? His girlfriends and wives rarely indulged this, they imagined, the odder of his kinks. When they had, then only jokingly, only in passing, and never like this, with such obvious intent and that delicious hint of domination. Those hands lingered, pulling him back up close until House could feel the solid bulge of Wilson’s erection pressed up against his hip again, giving him away.
In a flurry of movement, Wilson had his fists buried in House’s soppy shirt to keep him close, and kissed him again. He was hardly aware that he was tearing at House’s clothes, pulling the shirt up to his armpits. Wilson wanted him naked, wanted to strip him just as bare as he’d been stripped emotionally. It hadn’t all happened today, either. It had happened over years. It felt like these years knowing House had been an elaborate testing of the waters, a stripping of defenses, wearing Wilson raw until House could see what was left. Until he could tell what the disease was by inspecting the wounds he’d created. Wilson voiced his desperate frustration into the kiss, in needy moans of desire, and tried to push House back against the counter even as he was being manhandled by him.
House raised his arms more or less obediently, letting Wilson have what he wanted. Well, at least let him have the t-shirt. Seconds later, the shirt fell to the tile floor with a wet splat, and Wilson’s hands were sneaking down over House’s body, trying to turn the tables.
House wanted none of that, and curled his hand around the back of Wilson’s neck moments after the shirt was discarded, drawing him close and kissing him roughly. He wondered, did Wilson like it rough or did he go along with anything, just wanting to please? At the moment, he didn’t care which was the case, because Wilson sounded beautifully whorish, moaning as House groped his ass, fingertips sneaking their way between his cheeks.
“Pants off,” House growled against his lips, wanting to watch Wilson finish undressing himself.
“You first. You owe me,” Wilson breathed, hands already working at House’s jeans clumsily. He was too aroused to focus on it, and fumbled with the button more than once.
House closed his hand around Wilson’s wrist, lingering there when he felt Wilson’s sharp intake of breath. It was intoxicating to feel how reactive he was. Finally pushing his hand away, he looked past him and at the kitchen they were still in. This couldn’t happen here, not with his leg, not if he wanted to be able to move once it was over.
“Bedroom…” House commanded softly.
Free of his grasp, Wilson made a dive for House’s fly again, and was justly swatted and pushed. The look on House’s face was dark, and Wilson heard his voice, cooler than he’d have expected, and more demanding, “Get in the bedroom. Now.”
The sound of his voice shook him to the core. There was always an edge to House, but this was something new. Dominant in a way he’d never heard him.
Wilson left the room with hesitation and headed for the bedroom, holding up his jeans with one hand to keep them on while he walked. House followed, stumping along behind him, cane striking the floor rhythmically.
House wished he could sneak up on him, move quickly enough that he could grab him from behind, take him by surprise. He wanted to hold him close, press his face to the back of his neck and stand with his arms around his torso, hands splayed over his abdomen, easily dipping lower, not needing to bother with the cane.
But he couldn’t. In lieu of that, he poked Wilson in the ass with the rubber end of his cane, taking pleasure in his alarm and the way he turned, eyes wide, a hand moving instinctively to his ass. His jeans were barely on, still undone, dangerously close to falling off of his slim hips. House smiled slowly, predatorily.
Uncharacteristically keeping his promise, House finished undoing his jeans after leaning his cane carefully on the nightstand and out of the way. With Wilson as audience he felt awkward. His confidence had carried him through all of his advances, and had abandoned him here on the edge of it all, practically on the lid, leaving him alone in his dimly lit bedroom with able bodied Wilson and his own incompetence. He couldn’t look down at himself as he stepped out of his jeans knowing that if he looked at the withered scar at the same time Wilson did that he’d lose his nerve.
Ignoring it he could pretend he was coping, pretend he was okay with it, and try for nonchalance. He limped a step closer, unable to fake a smile that seemed as carefree as those prior. His voice was still aroused, but had lost that edge of superiority, now naked as his legs, and he murmured, “Take off yours now.”
Wilson could feel the change in him. He knew House too well to imagine that he was coping now that he was exposed. He said nothing. Saying something, calling him on it, would make it worse. Instead he obeyed, pushing his unfastened jeans off over his hips, letting them pool around his ankles. Stepping out of them, and out of his demure leather loafers, he moved closer to House, looking him in the eye, blatantly avoiding looking at the gnarled scar visible under his boxers. Wilson boldly pressed his hand between House’s legs, cupping his arousal through the thin fabric, smiling as he heard the man’s sharp gasp.
House’s hands snuck around Wilson’s hips, feeling the smooth skin of his upper thigh and the tight fabric of his underwear. Smiling a little more easily than seconds before, he teased, “Bikinis? Seriously?”
“Shut up,” Wilson couldn’t keep the smirk out of his voice as he hooked his fingers into the elastic waist of his boxers, pulling them down slowly, pulse racing with how real this was becoming. Wilson was just sliding his hand inside when he felt a sharp slap land on his ass, and jumped, eyes wide.
House grinned wickedly, and leaned to bite at Wilson’s lips, “Make me…” he cooed, grabbing the bikini material and tugging it a little, pleased as it wedged between Wilson’s cheeks. Wilson, unsurprisingly, was not so pleased. Also unsurprisingly, Wilson pushed House back towards the bed, pulling from the rough kiss and tugging his own underpants off before House could finish giving him a wedgie.
House’s gaze slid lower. He was distracted by how perfect Wilson’s body was, muscled and strong and capable, with that light dusting of hair, the perfect erection. House wanted to push him down and take that cock into his mouth. He was already imagining how it would feel, when all of a sudden Wilson advanced on him, and pushed him back onto the bed without warning.
He landed with a groan, having flexed his leg unpleasantly as he fell, but had no time to recover because Wilson was instantly on him, straddling his hips. Before he’d even reacted, House felt Wilson’s hands pin his wrists, forcing him down. His eyes flashed, and if Wilson noticed he didn’t let on, just kissed him hard and rubbed himself against House slowly, rocking his hips.
House froze, wondering if Wilson would try and top him, wondered if he’d try to fuck him. He moaned into the kiss, trying to pull away, but there was nowhere to go, and he struggled in vain as Wilson used his body weight to hold him down. His writhing only brought him more in contact with the other man, and slowly the motions of their hips started to feel like dry humping.
House shivered. He let his mind go there then, imagining letting Wilson have that control. Part of him wanted to know how it felt, but this wasn’t how he’d planned for it to go. It couldn’t be like that the first time. He hadn’t imagined Wilson would be so aggressive after fucking with his head for so long.
Pulling form the kiss for air, Wilson let go of one of House’s hands to push his boxers down once and for all. Gasping, House stammered, “Not like this…”
“I’m not,” Wilson breathed, knowing what House must be thinking, “Trust me…”
House nodded without hesitation, and lay there wondering why. He didn’t trust anyone, not even Wilson, he’d thought. And yet, here he was, still half pinned beneath him, trusting that Wilson didn’t intend to turn the tables on him when all evidence said that he did.
Raising himself up off of House’s hips, Wilson pushed the boxers down from House’s hips, leaving them bunched on his thighs. They were as off as they needed to be, as far as he was concerned. He wasted no time in pressing up against House again, grinding against him slowly, bare skin on skin. House watched Wilson’s face flush with color, and he arched upwards, just to see the way that Wilson gasped, lips parting.
“Do you have lube?” Wilson stammered, doing this odd little move with his hips as if he were lap dancing, or wanted to be.
“The nightstand…” House murmured.
House watched as Wilson moved to get the lube, watched his muscles flex, long and lean. Wilson pressed the lube into his palm, and House blinked up at him. After a moment’s hesitation he grabbed Wilson’s hips and drew him closer, slicked his fingers and began to rub slow circles against Wilson’s entrance. He watched the way he reacted, the tensing of his muscles, the way his eyes slid closed with a sigh. He wondered how many times Wilson had done this, if he ever had. He had to have, if he was so easily allowing it to happen now. Maybe it wasn’t with men. Maybe he convinced a wife or a girlfriend to get kinky. Maybe he did it by himself. That was hotter to imagine, Wilson spread out alone on his hotel bed…
House tested the waters, letting a fingertip dip inside slowly and watched the way Wilson arched his back. He heard the low moan as he slid his finger in further, to the next knuckle. Wilson tensed and shifted a little bit, muscles flexing, and House swallowed thickly. He was just gorgeous, kneeling, supporting his weight effortlessly on perfect thighs, as House penetrated him slowly. House could never have done the same now, never have knelt on a bed like that, all touching aside.
Soon his whole finger was inside Wilson, and he curled it slowly, relishing the way Wilson squirmed atop him, breathing more heavily now. His other hand rested momentarily on Wilson’s hip and slid down to cup his ass, toying with the sensitive ring of muscle that was already clamped tight around House’s intruding finger.
Wilson pressed his hands against House’s belly to steady himself as House began to work a second finger into him, only once did Wilon curl his hands into fists, tense with discomfort. He was already breathing heavily when House teased along between his slick cheeks with his free hand and slowly curled the two fingers inside him. Perhaps a little too soon, he nudged a third inside, and lay breathless as Wilson groaned, leaning to make the angle better, less painful, rubbing himself desperately against House’s body. House watched him losing his composure, all moans and breathlessness as House spread him open.
Wilson’s hands were curled into tense fists and he was rocking back against House’s fingers. House began to thrust to meet the slow rocking, relishing the sounds Wilson was making, wanting him to beg. Wilson seemed to think that House would take what he wanted, that he wouldn’t need to wait, or ask, but after a few moments his need got the better of him and he reached a hand back to grab for House’s wrist, torn about whether he wanted to pull his fingers away or not.
“I need it now,” he breathed, “Please… fuck me…” he begged, and even still House wasn’t going to let Wilson have what he wanted easily. House spread his fingers a little, and Wilson’s body jerked almost violently. House tensed as Wilson curled closer to him, aggravating his leg. He hadn’t taken nearly enough vicodin for this, but at least he wasn’t on top. He wanted to be on top. He watched Wilson squirm desperately atop him and felt a pang of jealousy.
“Please…” Wilson gasped desperately, “Let me…” he stammered, stroking the pads of his fingers over House’s hand, whimpering softly, riding House’s fingers in lieu of his cock. It was only then that House withdrew.
Wilson inhaled sharply, but didn’t waste time. He reached down and grabbed House’s cock and lowered himself slowly, struggling to position himself against the head of his erection. House rubbed his palm up over Wilson’s thigh, feeling the dampness of the sweat on his skin, and his other hand moved down to help Wilson position himself.
Wilson managed to line himself up correctly, feeling the head of House’s cock spread him open and begin to slide inside him. He looked into House’s eyes and steadied himself again, lips parted as he lowered himself a little more, watching House’s expression change. House felt high. It wasn’t the kind of feeling he got from vicodin. This wasn’t taking the edge off of his pain, it was making him not care so much about the pain, push how far he was willing to go through the pain. He existed only for the way Wilson flushed so pink, and those delicious sounds he made.
Wilson lowered himself slowly until they were pressed flush together, and wriggled a little to test things out, to feel the way House’s cock shifted inside him when he did so. Wilson’s lips parted with an expression close to ecstasy. House was close to losing his mind. He wanted more than this. He wanted to be on top, holding Wilson down, taking control of him, fucking him hard, but instead he was flat on his back. Wilson had every ability to control the situation, and it was nearly as though House was bottoming. Needing to exert some control, he arched his hips, thrusting into Wilson, and smiled a little when Wilson cried out.
“Oh…” Wilson grabbed House’s hips roughly, and rocked against him, wanting to feel that thick length jerk inside him again, rubbing at raw nerves.
House hissed softly as he felt Wilson clench around him, his hands falling on those perfectly smooth thighs, caressing the firm skin, dipping his fingers behind Wilson’s knees and tugging him closer, pleased to see him flinch.
He slid his hands up Wilson’s thighs slowly, and traced the pads of his fingertips along the length of his cock, watching it twitch beneath his touch. Wilson inhaled sharply. House curled a hand around it, slowly, and began stroking him almost in time with the way Wilson was moving, fucking himself. It was driving Wilson mad, he could tell, by the way he kept losing his rhythm and jerking his hips. It was with a last, final groan that Wilson came over House’s hand and stomach, arching and jerking and grinding himself down hard against House.
House didn’t look away. It was like looking directly into a fire. Wilson was flushed a dark reddish pink, cheeks and chest and cock, and god, even his hands. House gasped softly when he felt how much tighter Wilson was now that he was coming. Wilson’s body was tightening around him in waves. He gripped those firm thighs to keep Wilson from moving away as he arched up, working into him with effort.
Wilson was coming down from his orgasm, but he wanted House to come. He imagined that with the pain of his leg, it might be harder to get there. He leaned forwards and pressed a hand on either side of House, and started rocking against him, watching the way his face changed. He was in rapt attention, blue eyes wide. He tried to raise his hips and thrust. His body wanted to thrust, but it wasn’t working at this angle, with Wilson leaning down so close to him. He groaned and shifted, wetting his lips before leaning upwards to try and catch Wilson in a kiss that was evaded. Wilson grinned down at House and moved closer, nuzzling at his neck, and he murmured, “Tell me what you need… faster?”
“Mm… no,” House breathed, overwhelmed by the talking. This felt so intimate, so give and take. He was used to playing the man’s role in sex, biting back the strain it put on his leg, used to being with women, hookers, or himself. But what was the man’s role here? There was no comparison. This was new, uncharted territory, a puzzle to be worked through. Or, more aptly, fucked through, and the newness was arousing.
“Just… slow,” he murmured, hands roaming Wilson’s skin, tracing the curve of his back, “Sit up so I can see,” he rasped against Wilson’s ear, fingers raking through damp hair, “And go slow…”
Wilson leaned back, sitting up again, and pressed a steadying hand to House’s torso as he started to move slowly and deliberately, lifting himself up and nearly off before coming back down, flush against House’s hips. He heard the husky groan and knew he’d found what House liked, and continued. He watched as House began to lose control, completely drawn in to the expression on his face, desperate and so aroused. House was writhing, grabbing the sheets, making sounds, and Wilson felt stirrings of new arousal already.
Suddenly, House made an uncoordinated grab for his hands and wrists, alternately holding on and fumbling tensely, and he knew that he must be close. Wilson watched as House’s body stiffened and felt the exact moment when he came. He could feel the jerking of his cock and the warmth that spread through him in pulses, and he shivered as House breathed his name.
The next morning, House awoke in pain. He groaned and turned to his left side, groping for a pillow to stuff between his legs to support his thigh when he realized he was naked. He blinked his eyes open, and remembered immediately what had happened the previous night. The initial rush was curbed by the fact that he was alone. Wilson had left.
Maybe he hadn’t really wanted to do it. Maybe the next morning, it had seemed like a mistake. Maybe he hadn’t done anything like it before, and was freaking out or injured. Maybe Wilson thought it was just a one night stand.
House sighed and drew the covers up, looking over at the empty place in his bed, and the depression in the pillow. He didn’t want to work this puzzle out and find out why Wilson had left. None of the answers were going to make him feel better. He delayed the inevitable, and stayed where he was longer than he needed to, but finally his leg forced him to sit up and take some pills.
He groaned as his feet hit the floor, and the stiff morning pain settled into his body. As he poured two vicodin into the palm of his hand, he caught a whiff of pancakes.