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Not Funny
by Jane Carnall
The first time Wilson touched House, he felt House freeze. Not just go still, but as if all his muscles were locking at once. It was ... offputting.
Wilson had been feeling quite pleased with himself up to then. He'd got House just the right amount of drunk, made sure his Vicodin were just out of reach so that House wouldn't absently take one for the night, and spent an evening - not getting close: House would have shoved him away and made rude comments about encroaching, or else got up and moved somewhere else - but putting himself on display. Watching as House's eyes focussed on him: his ass, his belly, his hands: his dick. Wilson had been doing this for weeks, half-teasing, half-testing, letting House think he was unaware - just so that when House stumbled into his bedroom and Wilson took hold of him, House would ... melt, had pretty much been the plan.
Not freeze.
But the freeze was only momentary. House turned in Wilson's grasp, caught hold of Wilson's head by hair and ears, and kissed his mouth like beardburn was coming into fashion. Wilson clutched him back and kissed him back, loving the big sloppy kissing with two mouths wide open and both men using tongues, relishing the whimpering grunt his hands on House's ass forced out of House's mouth into his own.
Then House was turning him and pushing him back on to the bed, more aggressive that Wilson had expected, still kissing him, hands scrabbling at Wilson's clothes, - God, House had huge hands, calloused and hard - and Wilson lost track of what he was doing as House went down on him.
That was more control than Wilson meant to surrender. He pulled away from the blowjob. "Let me get you undressed."
"Who's stopping you?" House grunted. Mouth open, he was about to descend on Wilson's dick again, but Wilson wriggled out of the way and got House down on the bed and jerked his pants down. House let him, let Wilson remove the t-shirt, but there was a tension about him that said he wasn't letting Wilson near the boxer shorts - and his hard dick was nothing to be ashamed of: it was the scar. Their eyes met, House's mouth stiff and unyielding, and Wilson decided already not to argue: he'd get around it some other way. He pulled House down to lie on top of him and ran his hand down House's side -
and saw him freeze, this time: almost an involuntary reaction. Wilson grinned, briefly, and tried a more definite touch, like playing a musical instrument, and House's squirm and choked noise hit the perfect note.
It was more than possible that House was trying to say "Wilson, don't do that," or "Wilson, stop" but Wilson's hands had found his weak points and House wasn't managing to be coherent enough to get any words out. Under his arms, against his ribs: Wilson's fingers played against House's skin, watching him squirm and jerk, making noises that were nearer shriek than laughter, losing his breath and choking.
Wilson knew he would have to stop soon, and guessed it would be a while before - if ever - he got to do this to House again. One hand keeping House squirming on his back, head jerked back into the pillows, making noises that filled Wilson with delight, he used his other hand to jerk down House's boxer shorts.
House was still hard. Wilson went down on him. He guessed once House had come in his mouth, the argument about whether Wilson should have tickled him into submission and taken his shorts off just wouldn't come up. As it were.
-
Wilson was right.
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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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