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Sweet Dreams
by lilyleia78
`Life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep.'
House rolled over in search of a more comfortable position, irritated that random quotes were popping into his head to torment him about his inability to get some rest. What the hell does Fran Lebowitz know about it anyway? He grumbled to himself. She'd probably never lain awake waiting for Vicodin to numb her chronic pain while her annoying best friend slept just a hallway away on the couch.
Not that Wilson was doing anything overtly annoying. The man didn't even have the decency to snore so House could feel justified in his irritation. No, he was just laying there in his sweatpants and that strangely alluring McGill shirt, probably looking sweet and innocent, damn him.
Giving up on the idea of sleep for the moment, House got gingerly out of bed and limped, cane-less, to the living room. He had the vague notion that if he could just see how ridiculous Wilson looked - drooling all over his couch - he could find some peace of mind and actually get some rest.
Unfortunately for House, Wilson didn't look ridiculous. And he definitely didn't look sweet and innocent. Mussed hair, clothes in disarray, shirt ridden up to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of skin - Wilson was the very definition of temptation. Of course, the obvious tenting in his sweatpants probably added to this impression.
House studied the tableau through narrowed eyes. There were probably rules of conduct when coming across your best friend sporting an erection in his sleep. The polite thing to do would be to go back to bed and forget he'd ever seen anything, not really House's style. A more tempting option would be to grab a camera and set up a Myspace account. The one reaction that really wasn't acceptable was to move closer. But House hated to play by the rules, so he rounded the couch to sit on the coffee table.
Wilson moaned softly in his sleep and stretched his legs, pushing against the far armrest with his toes and shifting up the couch. The motion had the regrettable result of covering the exposed expanse of stomach, but forced his pants down low on his hips. The temptation was too great. Slowly, one eye on Wilson's face, House reached out and ran a single finger from the sleeping man's naked right hip to the left, just above his waistband. Wilson shivered under the touch and House felt an echoing shudder run through him.
"House," Wilson said softly, desire and anticipation evident in a tone House had only ever heard in his wet dreams. He jerked his hand back as if burned, but Wilson remained sound asleep.
"Interesting," House said aloud. Things got even more interesting when Wilson's hand slid down his chest, obviously heading for the campout in his pants. He got caught up on the elastic of his sweats and whimpered in frustration.
House hesitated for a second and then leaned forward to gently pull the pants away from Wilson's body, allowing the other man free reign on himself. House suffered a brief flare up of conscious; he almost covered Wilson and retreated. But it was a short lived lapse, and he pushed the pants and boxers down to mid-thigh so that he could see exactly what Wilson was doing.
Exactly what Wilson was doing turned out to be more general rubbing than concerted stroking. "You suck at this," he informed Wilson's hand.
"Want to show me how it's done?"
Wilson's voice, even through a sleepy yawn, seemed unusually loud in the quiet room. House would have jumped, but that would hurt his leg and he'd learned to kill those instincts years ago. Instead his hand stretched forward of its own volition to hover inches above the erection while Wilson idly ran his left hand over it. House glanced up and met questioning brown eyes; the heated desire he found in them stirred his own cock to half life.
"You're being calm about this," House remarked conversationally.
"I'm not entirely convinced I'm awake."
House pulled back, but Wilson grabbed his wrist. "I was joking. I'm fully aware. You're not molesting me; I won't forget in the morning."
"Oh, yeah? What are the names of your ex-wives?"
"Repression, denial, and oh-god-not-again."
"Close enough." House smiled involuntarily and wrapped his hand around Wilson's cock. It was thicker than House's own; the weight of it felt strange in his hand, but smooth and firm and oh-so-exquisite. "What were you dreaming about?"
"You," Wilson hissed, arching into the touch. "This."
House's heart skipped a beat, but he kept his voice mocking. "Obviously." His hand moved upward, thumb seeking the knob of the glans, rubbed, slipped slightly higher to collect the drop of precum forming there. Wilson's breath caught, and he stretched his arms above his head to grip the armrest. House's heart skipped a beat at the image of Wilson stretched out in front of him, completely trusting and open to his touch. "I was looking for specifics."
Wilson reached down and covered House's hand with his own, encouraging a firm, slow pace before returning his grip to the armrest. House obliged for a few strokes, listening to Wilson's breathing growing heavy before stilling his hand. "Tell me."
Wilson bucked a few times in search of continued friction; House relaxed his grip. Wilson let out a frustrated sound before answering, "We were here, on the couch, watching some inane program about spoiled, large chested rich girls."
"I like it so far," House said, tightening his hand again. Wilson hummed appreciatively, and House rewarded him with one warm glide up and down his cock.
Wilson closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation and flashed House a smile. "I stole the remote from you."
"Impossible," House growled indignantly, giving Wilson a hard tug.
"My dream," Wilson reminded him, unfazed by the change in House's grip. "You reached to steal it back and..." He trailed off, embarrassment obvious on his face. House loosened his hold slightly, forming an O with his thumb and forefinger and let Wilson thrust. Something about the scenario in Wilson's dream was niggling at a memory.
"I reached for the remote and grabbed something bigger and harder instead?" he ventured with a smirk. Wilson stilled but his blush was answer enough. "You've been watching way too much porn Wilson."
"My left hand agrees," Wilson said. House let out a huff of laughter and let his hand reform a fist around Wilson's hard flesh. House studied Wilson with an intensity usually reserved for the whiteboard, letting Wilson's breathing, his whimpers and moans, the unconscious movement of his hips cue him- playing the younger man like a piano.
House kept the tempo with his right hand, his mind mapping the hidden contours of Wilson's body, before he remembered that he had permission to touch. He let his other hand wander up Wilson's clad left leg, lightening his touch when he came into contact with bare skin. His fingernails gently tracked to the inside of Wilson's thighs; the oncologist obligingly bent his knees and opened his legs as wide as his pants would allow so that House could stroke the path from Wilson's balls past his perineum to the tantalizing tight heat hidden there. He gently, reverently massaged around and over the puckered opening, wishing for lubrication.
As the crescendo built in Wilson's heaving body, House sped up, loving the soft, smooth feel of Wilson's erection slipping through his fist. Wilson was bucking, muttering mindlessly, "Please, House. I need. House, please."
"You need what? Tell me," House ordered, slipping his left hand back up to massage the perineum.
Wilson's head thrashed back in forth, his pleasure walking the razor's edge of pain. "Please," he begged, too far gone to be fully coherent.
"What did I do next in the dream?" House asked, trying to draw the words out of the younger man, hand never ceasing its relentless rhythm.
"You," Wilson gasped, the word ragged with need. "You leaned down and, and..."
Tired of waiting for Wilson to spell it out for him, House moved his left hand to gently roll the balls tightening between Wilson's parted thighs, then bent over and licked the cock from base to tip. Wilson groaned his name, thrust up, the head of his erection just slipping into House's open mouth. House pulled his head back swiftly as Wilson's release spilled onto his stomach and sweatshirt and House's still-fondling hand.
Wilson came down in stages, the trembling subsided first, next his breathing returned to a semblance of normalcy, and the death grip on the back of the couch easing last of all.
When he appeared fully recovered, Wilson's eyes snapped open with such force that House was surprised that the movement wasn't audible. He sat up abruptly in the next second, turning his body so that his left leg was between House knees. Wilson's eyes flicked down to House's lips before he spoke. "I was gonna say you leaned over and kissed me." He pulled House roughly to him and met him halfway in a kiss that was more challenge than passion.
House was momentarily stunned; opening automatically to Wilson's probing tongue with no input from his nervous system. It wasn't completely shocking to discover that Wilson wanted him; he'd been diagnosing and dismissing symptoms of that for years.
But this wasn't just kissing, it was kissing. The intense fierceness under which Wilson had crushed their mouths together had been swiftly gentled as House willingly surrendered to Wilson's ministrations. It became less about possession and was now a warm wet slide of tongues and teeth, gentle and leisurely. Wilson was saying more with the kiss than House thought he was ready to believe.
The contented sighs coming from his best friend were just as arousing as the moans and gasps of pleasure House had been eliciting a few moments before. Deliberately shutting off his brain and giving himself to the moment, House lifted his right hand to run it through Wilson's temptingly mussed hair.
Wilson released his mouth with a laugh as the stickiness drying on House's hand got caught up in his hair. "I think I'd better hit the shower before we have a Something about Mary moment." House grinned despite himself.
Wilson leaned in for another kiss that turned into a series of small slow kisses before standing. He dropped his soiled sweats and boxers around his ankles. The sight of Wilson's penis, soft and spent and at eye level was profoundly erotic, and House had the urge to offer to lick it clean. His eyes shot up to meet Wilson's amused smile. The smug bastard looked like he knew exactly what House was thinking.
Wilson sidestepped out of the pants and quickly peeled off his McGill sweatshirt as well, dropping it onto the pile. House's eyes followed the path they took to the floor and locked there, refusing to face Wilson in his full naked glory.
"You're gonna pick those up," House complained half-heartedly. He caught a glimpse of a perfect pale roundness as Wilson turned and walked to the end of the couch.
"Coming?" Wilson asked over his shoulder.
House started to follow but found himself inexplicably walking right past the open door and returning to his bed, cursing himself for a stupid old fool the entire time. He wanted to be in the shower right now, running his hands all over Wilson's wet slippery body. There was really no explanation for why he was laying alone in his bed instead. He should be grabbing this chance now, before Wilson came to his senses. But House needed to give Wilson the opportunity to walk away. In the morning, he could pretend to laugh off a midnight hand job. Pain was an old friend, and he could live with more if that was what Wilson needed.
The quiet sound of the shower taunted House. Wilson seemed to be taking an awful long time, even for a man with his elaborate grooming rituals. Giving House time to join him? Or trying to wash off the evidence of his lapse of judgment? Eventually, the calming rain-like quality of the shower drowned out House's fears and self-recriminations; he drifted into a light doze.
The cessation of sound woke House an indeterminate amount of time later. He kept his eyes closed as footsteps sounded in the hall, only opening them when he felt the bed dip. Wilson was lying next to him, on top of the covers, still dripping wet, and completely nude. House's faded erection immediately took notice.
Wilson was staring at the bulge in House's pajama bottoms. When he noticed House was awake he said, "So, what were you dreaming about?"
House licked his lips nervously, mouth suddenly dry. "You."
Wilson's face split in a genuine grin of pleasure. "Obviously." He reached out confidently and began lightly sweeping his fingers across House's quivering stomach, leaning over to ghost his lips across House's ear as he whispered, "Tell me."
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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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