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Right Now, Right Here
by Topaz Eyes
A/N: Major props to wanderingwidget, evila_elf and bironic for suggestions!
~~~~~
Nothing's changed?
Nothing's changed.
This is insane, he thinks in a daze.
Utterly and completely bat-shit insane; but to his shock, and to his amazement, nothing else matters, and there is no other place he'd rather be.
If someone, anyone, had told him a few months ago, even a few weeks ago, that he would end up like this again, with his best friend after coming out of rehab, House would have hauled off and pounded them into the ground with his cane.
If they had told him at this moment, House would still haul off and thrash them, just for the hell of it. Then he would get right back to what he's doing.
What he's doing, is lying on his bed, in his apartment: naked, on his back, with Wilson looming over him.
With Wilson, who is also naked and damn-near glowing with exertion in the warm light of the bedside lamp; who, right now, is wrapping his mouth around House's cock, while his butt wiggles in House's face.
House licks his lips in anticipation as a throb of pleasure pulses across his pelvis. The curve of Wilson's ass in front of him is so unbelievably arousing that he has to wonder how the hell he has come to want this so much. It still pisses him off royally that he can't figure it out. He's not even sure what events transpired to lead them to this point--where it all started, or when, or how. Just that they've ended up here.
The thought pleases, confuses, and excites him all at once. Though for now he'll forget the confusion, and just focus on the pleasure and excitement.
He spreads Wilson's ass-cheeks apart with his fingers, gently, almost reverently, to expose the skin between. Wilson arches just so, and a gasp hums around his already-aching dick that Wilson is eagerly sucking.
"You fart, and I'll kill you," House warns.
Wilson only chuckles, a deep and resonating thrum in his chest. House feels it reverberate through his whole body. He laughs too, a welcome, though almost foreign sound to his ears, and feels Wilson's pleased smile curving around his dick.
House knows Wilson's not that stupid; this is his secret vice and he's not willing to give this up when it comes his way. Before, when House was in too much pain to fuck him properly, this was how they compensated. The bonus was that House got off too despite the jangling nerves in his leg. Now, he's thrilled to know it still works despite everything that has happened since.
House cannot believe that he does this, is willing to do this, for Wilson. He supposes it's a small concession for the usual crap he puts Wilson through daily; for the major shit Wilson endured for him not so long ago. He smirks at his choice of words. Though it's probably not something to think about in this position.
Nor are the other, more mundane and sanitary reasons as to why it's probably not such a great idea either. But he wants to do this, because it gives Wilson so much pleasure, and that, oddly enough, makes all the difference.
His fingers gently knead and massage the warm firm flesh. He blows puffs of air into the cleft in front of him, watching how Wilson arches and shivers as the air cools his skin. Wilson at least is scrupulous about cleanliness, which makes this more bearable; there is only soap, and salt, and musky sweat. Wilson's cock is heavy and firm against his chest; he feels Wilson rubbing on him, the sweet friction of smooth hard flesh against his wiry hair. Christ if that doesn't send an answering echo down all the way to his groin and he thrusts upwards with the jolt. Downstairs, Wilson steps up his rhythmic pulls on House's dick in response, his tongue swirling around the oh-so-sensitive junction of tip and shaft.
House's thumbs slide up and down the sensitive skin inside the cleft, the skin that is unbelievably soft and delicate. Wilson trembles violently against him, drawing House's cock even deeper into his mouth. House smirks again, this time with satisfaction. With Wilson's mouth full, he can't speak or curse, only moan and groan and gasp, and House prefers it that way. Words lie, but actions don't. Most of the time.
House can feel Wilson's lust build, knows how close he is by the way his cock slides against him. He teases and taunts for a few minutes, using his fingers and his lips until he knows he has Wilson to the point of begging. He knows because the whimpers around his dick grow ever more high-pitched and intense; and because Wilson lets up on the pressure and rhythm of his suction to focus on his own spiraling desire.
House saves his tongue for the final coup de grace. It flicks out, wet and pink, tracing a moist trail all the way up to the puckered anal opening. Wilson's keening now, shuddering and rubbing against the slide of warm dampness. Then House pushes his tongue inside, flicking it in and out and Wilson breaks wide open, coming like a shot with warm jets against House's chest.
As his orgasm subsides Wilson sucks with renewed vigor, harder, wetter and faster, and that finally drives House over the edge too. He bucks up with a muffled cry as he empties himself into Wilson's mouth. House realizes only distantly that Wilson doesn't swallow, but the pleasure of climax flowing through his veins is so overwhelming that that doesn't matter.
Afterwards, they lie sweat-drenched and panting, inhaling the mingled scents of musk and sex emanating from both of them. Words are lost in the thrall of afterglow, and really there's not much to be said, so House does not mind the silence. He nuzzles Wilson's inner thigh, his fingers moving in small circles. Wilson leans forward on his hands, resting his forehead on House's good leg as House's dick slowly shrinks against his cheek. The rest of the world returns from the void; the firmness of the mattress beneath House's body, the sounds of the neighborhood outside the bedroom window, the squeak of Steve's wheel from the kitchen, the low light of the bedside lamp, the slight chill of room air starting to raise goosebumps on their skin. And for House, the almost-forgotten pain worming its way back into being.
Wilson raises himself up on shaky legs and climbs off to House's side, losing his balance and almost pitching forward on his face.
"Don't fall off and break your neck," House says at last, his voice rough and fond.
"Yes, God forbid that you end up having to fend for yourself," Wilson retorts, but good-naturedly.
Wilson recovers and rises to fetch Kleenex, a shot of whiskey and a plastic beer glass from the night table. He passes the whiskey to House, who drinks the shot and swishes the alcohol in his mouth before spitting it in the glass. Wilson wipes up the pearly white semen on House's chest, then dabs at the cooler, slimier mix of saliva and ejaculate in House's pubic hair. House watches through half-lidded eyes, the gentleness of Wilson's ministrations almost staving off the growing clanging in his thigh.
Wilson passes the used tissue to House, who stuffs it in the cup and drops the cup to the floor. Then House pulls Wilson down on top of him again and they kiss, languorous and deep. Wet and swollen lips mash softly as he tastes the combined flavors of whiskey and semen and Wilson on his tongue. Wilson's fingers are threading through his hair, and Wilson's tongue is tracing around his mouth, and he is clutching at Wilson's shoulders; and somehow this kiss is more intimate than the sex they just had. House prefers not to think about what that might mean yet.
The pain flares, and House grimaces against Wilson's mouth. Wilson draws back, more diffident than House would like.
"I'll get you a Vicodin."
House hears the slight resignation in Wilson's voice too, and barely suppresses a curse as Wilson stretches over again and plucks a pill from the table. He accepts the pill from Wilson's outstretched hand and dry-swallows it, wondering why he should feel a flash of resentment.
Wilson stretches up one final time to douse the lamp, then settles back down on his side beside House, facing away from him. House pulls up the sheets and blankets, making sure they are both covered. They don't embrace or cuddle or talk after they do this, but they do lean tightly against each other, and that means almost as much.
House waits for the Vicodin to take effect and allow him to drift off. After several minutes the relief kicks in, and he hears Wilson already breathing deeply in the rhythm of sleep. House scrubs his face with his hand and lets out one long, thoughtful sigh. He's apologized to Wilson, but he has made no promises. He will not make any promises he's not sure he can keep. In that, nothing has changed. Or maybe, it has'"but that's not something to think about right now. So he doesn't, instead choosing to succumb to his own post-coital slumber.
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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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