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Sharing
by Kass
House bangs on the apartment door for a full three minutes before Wilson comes to open it.
He looks deeply annoyed. "I have a doorbell, you know."
House shrugs and pushes past him. "Didn't feel like using it." He knows, without looking back, the precise way Wilson's face blends frustration with resignation. It's a look he's seen often.
"So. What brings you here at --" Wilson makes a show of checking his watch -- "this delightful hour of the night?"
It's not even that late. House rolls his eyes. "You're supposed to ask if there's a banana in my pocket, or if I'm just happy to see you."
"There isn't a banana in your pocket." Wilson sounds dangerously close to killing him.
House grins. "Nope. But there is this." He worms a hand into his front pocket -- these jeans are tighter than they really ought to be, but he knows Wilson likes them -- and withdraws the new cockring, gaudy nubbled rubber in an obscene shade of pink.
Wilson's cheekbones flush, but his voice stays even. "Ah."
House twirls it around a finger. "You did say something about sharing toys," he points out.
"I guess I did," Wilson admits. He's walking toward House now, with intent. Cornering him.
The jeans are suddenly, without a doubt, too snug for comfort. House spins on the pivot of his cane and heads for the bedroom. "Coming?" he calls over his shoulder.
It's a puerile question, but Wilson doesn't disappoint. "Damn right," he says, affably, shrugging out of his shirt.
Wilson's naked first -- not surprising; the return of leg pain means House is slow on his feet again -- and he watches House undress. There's a hunger in his eyes that's still absurdly flattering.
Better than the seventeen-year-old. Because unlike Little Miss Sunshine, Wilson actually sees him, and against all odds, occasionally wants him anyway.
"I think you'd look good in pink," House says, to distract himself from his own dangerously emotional train of thought. Wilson reaches for the cockring but House bats his hands away. "Allow me," he says, mock-gallant, and Wilson clambers onto the bed, legs splayed.
On purpose, he doesn't quite stretch the ring enough, and he drags it snugly over Wilson's cock. Wilson inhales, hard, and one hand clenches on the tangled bedspread. House smirks and lets his fingers caress swollen flesh in a pretense of making adjustments. When he rubs one hand along the underside of Wilson's balls, Wilson bites back a groan.
Christ. House wants to suck him, with all the lewd and tender skill he can muster, but he pulls back. "You'd better have lube around here somewhere."
Wilson twists to reach the bedside table, pulls out the Astroglide, then shifts, hissing slightly, to make room for House. He piles pillows where they need to be and House climbs onto them, glad for once that Wilson can't see his face, won't see how much he wants this.
The first slick press of fingers nearly undoes him. He shudders, already more aroused than is reasonable. All the way over here, the low rumble of the bike was like a vibrator against his perineum, and now Wilson is teasing him, running a finger around and around before finally, God, finally pushing inside.
"What are you waiting for?" He hopes he sounds irritable, not desperate.
"You know what I was doing before you got here?" It's a non sequitur, except that it isn't.
"I can guess."
"I almost didn't answer the door." Wilson's voice is lower than usual. It makes House even harder. "I've had about all the tease I can take."
"Then fuck me," House snaps, and wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, Wilson does: one long slow thrust that makes House want to sob with pleasure. And then Wilson does it again.
It's a struggle to stay upright, to protect his thigh. Also to keep from coming. Nothing else is this good and he doesn't want it to end.
Except that when Wilson returns his slick hand to House's dick, gripping and sliding, House can't stand it: he squirms to climax, pinned between Wilson's cock and his palm, gasping. It doesn't take much grinding away before Wilson too shudders and stills. Shouldn't be so easy to come with the ring on; maybe his next purchase should be something tighter, more elaborate. Leather, maybe.
He stays there, faceplanted into Wilson's feather pillow, as Wilson gets up, wordlessly walks out of the room, and returns with the telltale rattle of House's pill bottle from his jacket pocket. Grudgingly he rolls over to pop a pair of Vicodin: he's got Wilson well-trained.
In more ways than one. The thought bubbles up like laughter and it's all he can do to keep it inside. "'M not driving home," he mutters, and tugs the blanket up.
"Fine," Wilson says, "I'll be clipping my toenails at 6:45."
House groans. "Way to spoil the buzz."
He can feel Wilson chuckling as he snaps off the light and rolls, carefully, to curl around him. "You're the one with the questionable judgement to bring me sex toys. I'm just what you deserve."
"You may be right," House admits, and closes his eyes.
(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 NBC/Universal, 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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