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mistakes we knew we were making i
by leiascully
Only Wilson would get married on a day like today, he murmured as they stood off to one side.
It's a beautiful day, she whispered, trying to ignore the brush of his lips against her ear and managing at least not to shiver. What are you complaining about?
Last good golfing of the season, he said, before all the greens are covered with those oh so picturesque drifts of dead leaves in shades ranging from blood to puke. I can't believe all those idiot Southerners drag themselves up here to go leaf peeping. Sounds perverted.
No one has ever come to Jersey to go leaf peeping, she said, stepping on his toe, her thigh brushing his through the layers of dress and tux. And Wilson's terrible at golf.
That's the best part. His breath was hot behind her ear.
Shut up, she hissed under her breath, this is the best part.
'Til death do you part? asked the priest, and Wilson, with his eyes shining, looked at his new bride and said, I do.
House startled her by actually staying quiet through the end of the ceremony, until the bride and groom had gone down the aisle and the guests had begun to file out as well. They moved along with the crowd, but there were too many people: Wilson was popular. House grabbed her hand and pulled her into the shadow of a confessional, and then inside the booth proper.
House! she said, and he put a hand over her mouth.
You want people to find us in here? They'll think we're doing wicked things, and in church, too. I'm surprised at you.
She bit his hand but he kept his palm pressed over her mouth. You know he's going to step on a wine glass at the reception and pretend it's not on purpose, he said quietly but conversationally, as if nothing were happening. Catholics and Jews are a bizarre classic combination. Is it the guilt that makes the sex good? Is that why they keep getting married? Did you ever ask your parents?
He had sat down on the little bench as he talked, and pulled her into his lap, and he was stroking her bare back with his free hand. The dress laced from hips to shoulders and was really too chilly for the weather, but that's what the future Mrs. Wilson had wanted for her bridesmaids, and as the maid of honor, Cuddy hadn't been able to refuse. Now it seemed like a better idea, with House's fingers wandering up and down her back, and weddings always made her think of her own poor prospects, and how long it had been since she'd had a decent boyfriend. She thought of guilt, and of good sex, and she had been fighting a hormone rush anyway, thanks to the dubious wonders of the female body. House smelled good, and he was wearing a tux, and she wanted him, church or not. She shouldn't. The confessional wasn't the best venue, and though she couldn't imagine the church being double booked for weddings and confessions, someone was bound to come looking for them. It was dark and all she could see was the gleam in his eyes and the glow of his white shirt.
Stop, she said, we can't do this here, but it came out as a series of mumbles, and as her tongue moved against his palm, his eyes narrowed, the glitter in them sharpening, and she felt his erection against her ass. She licked his hand again, experimentally, dragging her tongue across the faint salt of the creases, and he shifted under and against her. She liked it. She liked the power she had over him in this moment, and she moved so that she was straddling his lap, hitching up the long skirt of her dress. Her little bag slid down her arm onto the bench of the confessional and made a thunking noise.
Shhh, House said. Are you going to be quiet? He took his hand away from her mouth with seeming reluctance, but his other arm was firm around her waist.
We'll see if you can be quiet, she said. While I'm fucking your brains out.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, he murmured. I thought you cared that this was a church.
I'm Jewish, she said. I stopped caring. Shut up and kiss me or let me go.
You know I'm bad with multiple choice, he said, so she kissed him instead, crushing her mouth to his as she undid enough shirt buttons to give her access to his chest. She spread her fingers out over his ribs, under cotton, over cotton, breathing in his aftershave and tasting mint in his mouth. Considerate House, popping breath mints at Wilson's wedding. She feels his hips rise against hers and lets her hands slide down to the buttons of his pants, shoving his cummerbund up roughly.
Condom? he said breathlessly against the side of her mouth.
Bag, she said, and he fished through it, coming up with lipstick, aspirin, stockings, and finally the condom.
You plan ahead, he said, and she moved to one side so that he could shove down his pants and boxerbriefs as she ripped open the foil and rolled the condom down over him.
Oh, he said as she sank down over him, and God, she said, and then he said, you weren't wearing any panties?
I plan ahead, she said, and they ruin the line of the dress.
No bra either, he said, cupping her breasts through the silk.
Don't you have a best man speech to be giving? she asked as she started to rock, his hips jerking against hers.
Don't you have maid of honor appearances to make? he countered. Guess we'd better make this fast.
As if it was ever going to be anything else, she retorted, and slipped a hand between her legs just as he did. He pushed her fingers away impatiently and kissed her.
You do your bit. I'll do mine, he said. His hands were good, so good, and already it felt as if there were flames licking up the insides of her thighs. The heat under all the fabric was incredible and he hadn't stopped kissing her, though her mouth was occasionally out of reach as she moved over him, and oh, she was glad she'd bought the mutual pleasure condoms despite their stupid packaging, because he was putting the studs in all the right places as his fingers moved between her legs and his other hand was inside her dress somehow. At least the kissing kept anyone from hearing her moans: House swallowed them all, his tongue sliding against hers until she wished she didn't need to breathe. She could hear the sounds of cars faintly from outside the church. She and House were riding together (she giggled into his mouth and then gasped as his fingers moved), but they'd need to leave soon to get to the reception. He was gasping too, and humming into her mouth, and she could feel his thighs tensing.
Not without me, she said into his mouth, and slipped her hand down to join his, and this time he made no protest, and the combination of their fingers on her was oh, god, worth any amount of guilt and any hours of frustrated foreplay and a number of hours of working with him, because with the smell of sin and old wood all around, she was rising on a blaze of heat and color that outdid summer and autumn and all the years of penance she'd pay. She shuddered, coming down a little, her knees gripping his hips too hard, but he didn't complain, just thrust up against her and all the colors were changing to a white heat that was almost painful. He bit her lip, accidentally, she thought, and then he was burying his hot face in her shoulder and breathing hard.
Tissue in the bag, she said after a long moment, moving off his lap, smoothing her skirt down. He reached for the pack of tissues, wrapped the condom in one and cleaned himself off with another before stuffing both in his pants pocket as he dragged the trousers back on.
What, he said, I have to get them cleaned anyway. Are we going to be late?
Terribly. She held out her hand for her bag and he looked her over critically in the dim of the booth and passed a hand over her skirt, flattening a few wrinkles.
Are we going to leave early? he asked, pressing up against her as he buttoned his shirt and tucked it in. She fixed his skew tie and resituated his cummerbund before finding the door.
I would say there's a good chance of that, she said, but first you've got a toast to give.
I hate weddings, he said, his hand on her lower back as he escorted her out of the church.
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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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