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Smitten, You Know Me
by Druin
Note: Title from REM's Crush with Eyeliner.
Wilson was a little shocked: prior to today he'd seen no signs from House of reciprocation in the attraction department, and still the man was more confidant about kissing than Wilson himself was. It didn't seem fair, and Wilson smiled a little, mischievous smile as he decided to fix it. Looking up at House, their eyes locked for a moment, and House murmured, "What are you smiling at?" as if in anticipation. Wilson said, "You," and it was simple; the guy's night atmosphere, so to speak, had changed and it was softer, still friendly but warmer and hotter; Wilson grabbed House's shirt and pulled him forward, towards him, kissed him while his careful fingers undid the buttons of House's shirt. House shrugged off the shirt, said nothing because he was more than happy to have Wilson initiate their kiss, set the pace; he rather though it was wonderful to be kissed, though he'd never admit to it.
Wilson's hands were roaming under the t-shirt House always wore under his button-down - today's was dark blue under red - fingers memorizing and mapping and they brushed a nipple and he heard House gasp a little. They had to break their kiss to remove the shirt; Wilson took his time, running his hands up House's sides and they were kissing until they couldn't, and when the fabric was out of the way they were kissing again, neither and both initiating, no hesitation.
It wasn't long before House's hands were pulling Wilson gently down so he was lying carefully atop House, hips between his legs, and still kissing, tasting, sucking, nipping; wasn't long before House's curious mouth moved from lips to jaw to ear to neck to shoulder; wasn't long before Wilson, shameless and quiet moans on his parted lips, found the clasp of House's belt, and House, in turn, found Wilson's. Pants slid to the floor, and boxers followed; the only pause came when, for the first time, they felt full skin-on-skin, all the way down: stomachs, legs, hips, cocks: House moaned, Wilson's breath hitched auditable. Their eyes met. Wilson looked awed, afraid, euphoric, all at once; House's lip twitched and he tried not to smile though it was helpless, and he slid his hand, palm open, down Wilson's chest and stomach and navel and groin, and their eyes were still locked even as Wilson's widened.
All Wilson could do as House felt and fingered and squeezed was dig his nails into House's shoulder; House eyed him, brought his free hand to take hold of one of Wilson's, and ran his tongue up the middle finger. Wilson moaned, louder than he had done before; House smiled wickedly against his hand before repeating the action, languid, thorough; he let go of Wilson's hand and brought his own up to Wilson's lips. Between his ministrations of the other man's fingers and cock, he was almost surprised Wilson understood what to do with them, but he took the middle and forefinger into his mouth slowly, running his tongue between them.
House, ever competitive, brushed his thumb back and forth over the head of Wilson's cock, and was rewarded with an almost-choke from his friend. Wilson tried to retaliate with his free hand, but House took his hand away altogether, a thing which Wilson vowed to never have happen again - thus, he replaced his hand onto House's shoulder. "Keep sucking," House said, rather hoarsely, "because I'm not leaving this couch for anything else."
At first Wilson didn't understand this; blame his naivety in House's sex mannerisms, or perhaps blame his diluted, blissful state of mind. In his confusion, however, he stopped his play with House's fingers - "Okay," House was saying, "we can do it that way" - and they'd slipped down his shoulders, back, ass, and he gasped as one entered him. "Shit," he breathed, though it wasn't a bad thing. It was a rough pressure, dry, not quite comfortable, but it was House, fingers on him, in him; while he should have listened and kept sucking, it wasn't a bad thing at all.
Belatedly, Wilson realized the fingers were gone - all of them; the ones from his cock went to his hip, steadying him; the ones from inside him, he felt those brush against his own fingers in House's mouth, felt his tongue lave them, and when they were back inside him - there were two now - they were slick and easy. They teased for a while, scissoring, driving in and out; another went in; they pressed against his prostate and he shuddered and tried not to moan so helplessly.
"Gregg," he said, and he wasn't sure he'd meant to; at the same time he needed to say it again, "Gregg, stop fucking around."
"It's just nice seeing you so undone," and the fingers were gone. Wilson nearly screamed. The sure fingers on his hips were moving to his stomach, chest, pushing him up until he was sitting, straddling House's hips and lowering himself down onto his cock.
It was slow, careful, precise - the couch was narrow, after all - and it was uncomfortable only for a bit. House, too, was patient; he was still but for a steady hand on Wilson's hips that helped guide his strokes. But slow can only last for so long. Wilson's discomfort had turned to pleasure; he rode down faster, more firmly, with lustful urgency until he felt House ejaculate inside him, moan and jerk beneath him, and he, too, came, unmindful of the mess it would make on the couch.
They stayed still for a while, breathing heavily and watching one another, until House pushed lightly at Wilson's hips, asking him to lay back down - and he did, for all he could he tried not to fall asleep on House, but it was late; they were tired; and the couch was exactly that, a couch. House said nothing, too, about the arm around his neck; Wilson smiled and tangled his fingers in House's hair before he closed his eyes.
"Three? You're taking three?" House glared at him briefly before popping the Vicodin.
"It seems," he replied flatly once he'd swallowed the pills, "It's worse than usual today. I suppose that happens, when people fall asleep on you."
Wilson rolled his eyes and took another sip of coffee; when he lowered the cup, his eyes were fixed on House. Specifically, his chest.
Wilson smiled. "Hey, is that a new shirt, Gregg?"
--End--
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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