triedunture (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
triedunture) wrote2008-04-25 11:28 pm
triedunture) wrote2008-04-25 11:28 pm
The Big Blue Part 2
<><><>
Here's the thing about inanimate objects: you can't take them on dates. You can't expect them to care about your childhood, or your high school years, or your thoughts on religion and politics. Inanimate objects will never understand you no matter how hard you try. They just sit there. Doing nothing.
Very similar to some people, Wilson thought. The fact of the matter was, he'd never felt comfortable using such an object in a sexual way. His first wife, Lucy, had owned a vibrator once upon a time; he could dimly recall that it had sat in the drawer of the nightstand, freaking him the hell out every time he opened it looking for a tissue. Lucy had agreed to stow it away in a box under the bed. "Emergency medical conference backup plan," she called it. "Although I sometimes wonder if I should promote it to first string."
Lucy had been kind of a bitch.
Anyway.
Wilson sat on the edge of his hotel bed, turning the plastic casing around and around in his hands. The brightly colored copy on the box, done in a snazzy oceanic theme with tidal waves and white-capped foam, proclaimed the following:
"Sassy and satisfying, The Big Blue (tm) boasts a realistic size and shape that will bring pleasure to the most discerning lover. The space-age silicone is soft and supple, yet firm. Can be used alone or with a harness. A true sense experience, sure to entice and delight!"
And then, in smaller type:
(For safety reasons, lubrication is recommended.)
From his experience in the ER rotation during his residency, Wilson knew that the warning could probably be bigger. The number of people that came through the doors of hospitals with things lodged in their orifices was staggering. PPTH, for example, had a device whose sole purpose was to punch holes in wine bottles that had been stuck in someone's ass or vagina. The suction, of course, made it impossible to remove the bottle by force, so the pressure had to be relieved before removal. Wilson knew this because he and the rest of the committee had approved the $800 purchase of said device. Its industry name was something like the TR-300, but the ER doctors simply called it the Whore Puncher.
Wilson looked up from the box. "This is a terrible idea," he muttered to himself. "A terrible, horrible idea."
He placed the box on the side table and got up to pace. He folded his hands behind his back and spoke aloud to the empty room; another product of living alone: talking to yourself to fill the quiet.
"Okay, I'm a doctor. I know what I'm doing. I'm not going to end up in the ER with this stuck in my ass." He turned on his heel, pivoting around to pace in the opposite direction. "But why the hell am I doing this? Because my shrink thinks I need to change my life around? Do I really believe palpating my prostate is going to do that?" He turned around again, walking faster. "She thinks I need more change, but I honestly don't know if I can take any more. For Christ's sake, House is kissing me and dragging me into bed with him."
Another turn. "Except Pollingsworth doesn't know about any of that because you wouldn't tell her."
Spinning around again. "She'd have me committed in a second. Just what you need, Jimmy: a snug jacket that ties in the back."
To the left: "I'm not crazy."
To the right: "I am if I want House."
Wilson stopped pacing in the middle of the room, his head pounding. He went to the picture window and leaned on the writing desk, gazing through the crack in the curtains at the dark parking lot below. This is what it all came down to, really: it wasn't the idea of putting some toy inside himself that bothered Wilson. It was the idea of putting that toy inside himself and imagining it was House.
"Bothered" in both senses of the word.
Wilson sighed and reached for his briefcase. In it, he found the unopened tube of medical grade lubricant (ML-6700, the label read, but the ER guys called it Slip N' Slide). He had taken it from the supply room that afternoon, just slid it into his lab coat pocket as nonchalant as can be. Of course he wanted to do this; he'd already planned for it.
The tiniest of murmurs from the back of his mind said, "This is only a poor substitute for the real thing, Jimmy."
And a barely perceptible whisper said, "Take what you can get."
Wilson took off his pants.
He turned down the covers and lay down on the bed. He opened the Big Blue's packaging and slid the small toy out, examining it closely. Just smooth aqua-colored silicon. Slightly curved at the tip. "For maximum prostate pleasure," the shop girl had confided to him.
Wilson placed the dildo on the bed, tucking it under his thigh to warm it up. He unbuttoned his shirt, cursing his trembling fingers. This wasn't any more crazy than jerking off; why was he so nervous? Also, why was he so hard?
"Idiot," he muttered down his torso at his dick. It didn't defend itself.
He slicked up his fingers with the lube and gave it a minute to warm up between his rubbing palms. Then he reached down and slipped a digit behind his balls, up into that dark space. That wasn't so abnormal; he'd be a complete hypocrite if he hadn't been getting his prostate checked since his fortieth birthday. It wasn't scary. It just wasn't all that pleasant.
"You're still thinking like a doctor," he whispered to himself. "Start thinking like House."
House wouldn't be so wrapped up in the mechanics of this, would he? He'd just be laying back and enjoying the sensations, maybe even wriggling around to get some more contact. Or, if House's fingers were the ones feeling him right now, they'd be mischievous. Causing trouble, teasing back and forth, in and out.
Wilson closed his eyes and moaned. His finger dug in deeper. He felt his cock leak a solid drop of fluid on his stomach.
House would avoid the prostate, Wilson was sure. He'd do it with a grin on his face, an innocently raised eyebrow. "What is it, Jimmy?" he'd say. "Ready for me already?"
Wilson gritted his teeth and inserted another finger. He felt slow and light, like he was no longer under the rule of gravity. His blood hummed under his skin. His mouth opened in a gasp and closed in a silent formation of House's name.
His right hand flailed out, reaching under his leg for the bright blue toy. It was skin-warm, soft and supple just like the package promised. Wilson removed his thrusting fingers long enough to cover it in lube. If only House could see him now, Wilson mused.
Would he laugh? Screw up his face in disgust? Just tap his cane against the floor and raise an eyebrow?
Wilson lowered the dildo between his legs, spreading them apart on the cream sheets. Would it be too pathetic to believe House would go slowly if he were here? Wilson tried to convince himself it wasn't. He pushed the toy in gently at first, then as relaxing his muscles became easier, larger distances were filled. As it went deeper, Wilson's eyes widened. He could feel it approaching that sacred space, that point in a man's body that nature had included in the blueprints as a sort of hidden bonus. Though Wilson had never been touched there in anything but scientific inquiry, his prostate was obviously a Very. Cool. Thing.
His mouth fell open against his will. His breaths were coming hard and fast. He blinked rapidly.
Closer. Closer... There. The curved tip of the toy reached its destination, and Wilson briefly believed he was already coming. But it was a trick of the nerves. A really fantastic trick.
Why had he been worried about this, he wondered as he pumped the dildo in and out of himself, his head thrashing on the pillow. It was fantastic, worth every stupid cent. He deserved it, to feel like this, even for just a moment, even if it was just a fantasy.
House would growl: "You need to feel me inside you, you little slut."
"Yes," Wilson gasped to the empty air.
"You know what's funny though?" House would lean down to hiss in his ear, "I'm already inside you, Wilson. All the fucking time."
"Yes!" Wilson cried. He gave his cock two rough jerks with his right hand and orgasmed harder than he ever had, so hard it actually hurt.
After he cleaned himself up, he fell asleep and didn't dream of anything at all.
<><><>
At the hospital the next day, Wilson walked the halls with a cheerful whistle and a bounce in his step. He waved to a janitor that he knew vaguely and wished him a good morning in his beginner's Spanish. Lou responded with a smile. An elderly woman stopped him to ask for directions to her husband's room, and Wilson escorted her himself, chatting about the weather. A young girl in the waiting area cursed at her dead cellphone; Wilson lent her his new iPhone to make the call, and they discussed the various merits of open-source apps.
It was just one of those strangely good days.
Of course, House sniffed out 'strange' like a pig did truffles, and he came barreling into Wilson's office that afternoon with suspicions rampant in his eyes. "What the hell is the matter with you?" he accused.
Wilson blinked pleasantly. "I heard your new guitar," he said instead of answering the question. "Sounds good. Are you taking requests?"
"Cuddy is breathing down my neck to hire a new team, which I don't need," House continued, "and you're floating around with that stupid grin on your face. Have you made a deal with her or something? Is it two against one, or can I actually rely on you to watch my back?"
Wilson put down his iPhone, which he had been playing around with in between consults, and cocked his head. "Why don't you just make it easier on everyone, House? Hire some people. Get some fresh blood around here. Change can be a great thing, you know."
"I don't need a new team," House spat. "I worked out that Parrot Guy case, didn't I?"
Wilson shrugged. "What's the worst that can happen if you get a new team? They don't work out and you fire them."
House glared at him for a long moment, as if looking right into his body to watch the moving parts.
"What is it?" Wilson asked.
"I need to pee." House stomped out the door.
Wilson followed quietly and poked his head into the hallway. He watched House's lean frame hobble around the corner towards the men's room. Through the glass walls of House's office, if Wilson craned his neck to look, the new guitar was sitting in plain sight.
Wilson's eyes lit up with something akin to maniacal glee. Slip into House's office. Nab the Flying V. Scurry downstairs into the basement locker room, which was only accessible by the stairs. Lock it up in his old locker, which he hadn't used since the days of after-work basketball games with House. Run back upstairs to sit innocently at his desk before House was out of the restroom.
Oh yeah. Today was a good day.
<><><>
It was the first time Dr. Pollingsworth had actually smiled at him. Wilson could see why it was a rare event; she looked a little like a shark.
"So," she said, all toothy, "I can already tell it worked. You've taken my advice and made some changes in your attitude. You look so relaxed."
Wilson lounged in his armchair, slapping his hands against his knees in a thoughtful manner. His eyes roved the ceiling and a smile curled on his lips. "Oh yeah. I feel great."
"So what happened?" The older woman leaned forward. Her pen wavered above the notepad eagerly.
Wilson grinned brightly. "I took up the guitar."
<><><>
It was nearly midnight when Wilson was interrupted by an insistent beeping. His pager, on the desk, chiming at him nonstop. Wilson lurched out of bed to silence it and peer at the small screen. Shit. He needed to get to the hospital. He glanced down at himself: naked, his cock stiff and hard. He'd been about to take Big Blue out for a round of fun before going to bed. God, the last thing he wanted to do was go in to work in this state. But a page was a page.
Pausing to quickly toss the sex toy into its small holding box and shove it under the bed, Wilson then rushed into the bathroom and ran a toothbrush over his teeth. His hair could wait (and he couldn't even believe he'd just thought that). An old pair of sweat pants and a hoodie, plus some old sneakers, and Wilson was out the door, grabbing his pager, phone, wallet, and keys in a whirl of haste. His arousal had fled, leaving him cranky and tired.
He drove through the quiet Princeton streets, fighting back yawns all the while. His mind raced to figure out which patient of his might be having any complications, but none sprung to mind. He hoped to god it wasn't Officer Dover's boy; the kid was supposed to make a full recovery. Shit, please don't let it be the Dover boy, he prayed.
Wilson pulled into the nearest parking space to the hospital entrance and dragged himself into the building. He made his way to the on-call desk and found Chris, the late-night nurse, on duty.
"I got a page," he mumbled, reaching for his pager where it was clipped to his waistband.
"No you didn't," said Chris, not even looking up from his paperwork.
"They called a code." Wilson showed him the pager's screen.
Chris shrugged. "You got a page, but not from us."
Wilson could feel his teeth grinding together. House. He turned on his heel and jogged back towards the exit.
"Good night, Dr. Wilson!" Chris called after him with a faint bite of sarcasm. But Wilson was already out the door.
He gunned his Volvo's engine while dialing his cell phone with his other hand. He was already well on the road when House's bright voice answered blithely. "Did you ever see Raid on Entebbe?"
"Did you ever see that other classic?" Wilson spat into his phone. "I think it was called Don't Ransack Your Friend's Place Because if You Do, You're a Dick."
"Hmm. Didn't that get beat out for the Oscar by I Might Be a Dick, But You're a Bigger One for Stealing My Guitar?" Wilson could hear something smashing on House's end of the line.
"House! Stop breaking things!" Wilson cried, taking a hard right at the light. He pressed the pedal to the floor; if House had just begun snooping around, then maybe he could get back before he found...It.
The familiar BOOP BOOP sound of the TiVo filtered through the phone. "What's Fuego del Amor, and why do you need—"
"Just stop for a second, House," Wilson cut in. "Do you really want to know where the guitar is?"
The noises of the TiVo ceased. "You going to talk? No more of this coy shit?"
Wilson twisted the wheel, pealing into the hotel parking lot and careening into a spot. He needed to buy some more time. "I don't know what you mean by 'coy.'" A calculated gamble; if he could just keep House riled and on the phone, then maybe he wouldn't keep looking around.
No dice. He heard the sound of drawers opening, their ball-bearings squealing in protest. House growled in the phone: "I'm sick of this game, Wilson. It's not cute, it's not witty, and it's definitely not going to teach me a lesson."
Wilson ran into the hotel and slammed into the stairwell. He took the steps two at a time, panting into his cell. "House, please, just stop!" He couldn't keep that edge of panic out of his voice. He swung himself around the corners, climbing up and up. Four more flights to go. "If this friendship has any sort of value to you, please stop going through my stuff." His words echoed in the stairwell's close quarters.
"Huh, that's funny," House sneered into his ear. "I was going to say the same thing to you. How is it hunky dory for James Wilson to pilfer and steal from his best buddy, but it's not okay for anyone else? What makes you think you're so entitled to me?"
Two more flights. "I don't think that. I just—"
"You just inject yourself into my life. This was between Cuddy and me. I didn't ask for your opinion." There was a thumping noise, perhaps a cane striking a cardboard box of some sort. A box under the bed. "And I sure as hell didn't ask to lose my new V."
Wilson reached the sixth floor and exited into the hallway, letting the heavy door bang shut behind him. He flew down the carpeted hall as fast as his feet would carry him. "I'll give it back!" he shouted into the phone. He reached the door and slid his key card in the slot. "Just don't—"
He pushed open the door, his phone still pressed to his ear. Across the room, House crouched beside the bed with his own cell still in his hand as well. An open box sat at House's feet. For a long moment, they were both silent.
Finally, House picked up the bright blue dildo and turned to face Wilson.
"Um. Huh?" he asked.
The door shut behind Wilson's back. Wilson, for his part, wished he could somehow not be here. Like a do-over in a video game. He slowly took his phone away from his ear and put it on the desk.
"What the hell?" House snapped his phone shut and pocketed it, then wiggled the phallic toy between his fingers like it was an oversized pencil. "Jimmy, you dog. You told me you weren't dating anyone. Who's the kinky gal?" He peered into the depths of the cardboard box, which Wilson knew also contained a semi-squeezed tube of lube and wet wipes.
A million lies piled up in Wilson's throat:
Her name is Mandy. She's getting her doctorate in linguistics. You know what they say about people who study tongues. Or:
I've been seeing an exotic dancer named Kayla. She's from Brazil. OR:
Lorna. I think that's her name. Or it might have been Sandra. It's so hard to tell, what with all the normal heterosexual sex I've been having.
But they all went unsaid. He just stood there, feeling his face getting hotter and redder.
House frowned. "Okaaaaaay," he drawled, and made a big show of putting the toy back in its box and wiping his hand on the carpet.
Wilson made a break for the bathroom. He didn't need to stick around to hear House mock him, snort at him, sneer or scoff at him. He kept his head down and kept moving.
Not fast enough. House somehow headed him off at the pass, a hand grabbing his elbow and whirling him back around.
"Say what you want," Wilson blurted out, his eyes still fixed on the ends of his shoes. "Make whatever grand joke you have saved up for an occasion like this. Just get it over with and let me go."
House slowly retracted his grasping hand, and it joined his right hand on the head of his cane. "I wasn't gonna say anything," he said.
"I'm sorry about the guitar," Wilson whispered. "I'll bring it back to your office tomorrow. Just . . . go." He turned to flee into the bathroom, where he could step into the warm spray of the shower and try to drown himself.
But House moved quickly for a cripple, stepping in front of the bathroom door to block his exit. "This guitar thing. It was really ballsy."
Wilson swallowed. He looked somewhere over House's shoulder.
"Some might call it daring, and that's not like you," House continued. "You were talking about change the other day. Is this what put that grin on your face?"
Twisting his head to the side, so he wouldn't even have to see House's shoulder, Wilson sighed. "House . . ."
From the corner of his eye, Wilson could sense House running a thumbnail above his eyebrow, a familiar gesture of unease. "Look," House said, "if you got yourself a boyfriend, that's great. I'm not going to give you shit for it."
Wilson slowly turned his head back to face House, but now the older man was the one avoiding eye contact.
"I mean, it was pretty obvious now that I think of it. It always feels like you're hiding something, Wilson; that's the best thing about you. I just thought," House pulled a face, an exaggerated wince, "that you'd tell me if anything, I don't know, life-altering ever happened to you."
"A boyfriend?" Wilson mumbled, brow creased in confusion.
House limped away towards the window, where he parted the curtains slightly with his cane. "Good red herring. I always thought it was too obvious to be true, you know. The hair, the clothes, the unashamed love of musical theater. But you throw me a curve ball once again." House's voice was trying for light and airy, but Wilson could hear an undercurrent of strangely cold anger. The cane was removed, and the curtains fell shut again.
"Sorry to end up so boring for you," Wilson snapped in return, "but you're wrong. I don't have a boyfriend."
House turned to scrunch up his face at Wilson. "Then who's the dildo for?"
Wilson placed his palms over his face and groaned into them. "You are such an idiot sometimes," he said, still muffled by his hands.
Though he refused to watch the dawning realization on House's face, Wilson heard it loud and clear. "Oh," followed by an "Oh!" House chuckled. "Weird how I just assumed..."
"Yeah, you just assumed I wasn't a completely pathetic loser. Now please go." For a third time, Wilson made a dash for the bathroom door. And for a third time, House blocked his way.
"Oh no. This I gotta see."
"What?" Wilson blinked up at him, his jaw slack.
"Goodie two-shoe Jimmy Wilson fucking himself with a plastic cock," House clarified. "This I gotta see."
"It's silicone," Wilson said automatically. He stood completely still.
"Potato, poe-tot-oh," House said, stepping closer, a sly grin on his lips.
Wilson gave a bubbling sort of laugh, a near-hysterical sound. "I'm not going to show you," he said.
House pursed his lips and gave a slight shrug, then moved as if to leave. But it was just a ruse; as soon as Wilson relaxed his guard, House dropped his cane to the floor and attacked him with a slightly lop-sided tackle. His arms went around Wilson's waist and they both fell to the carpeted floor. Air whooshed out of Wilson's lungs as his back hit the floor, doubly so when House's frame landed on top of him.
"House! What—" Wilson managed to gasp.
House grabbed the hem of Wilson's worn sweatshirt and wrenched it up and over his head and arms. "Get with the program, Wilson," he said with a cheerful raise of his eyebrows. He balled the hoodie in his hands and tossed it towards the bed. Wilson looked down his naked chest; House was now reaching down to tug Wilson's sneakers off his feet, bypassing the laces.
"Wait," Wilson croaked. "Don't."
House made a noise of disbelieving dismissal. It sounded like psssssh. Wilson's right New Balance was thrown into a corner, followed by the left.
"I'm serious! What— House, stop!" Wilson's voice went up an octave or three when House's fingers snatched at the waistband of Wilson's sweatpants. Wilson's own hands scrabbled to stop House, and they ended up with a sort of tug-of-wag over the drawstring.
House scowled down at him, but Wilson could detect the faint gleam of humor in his fevered blue eyes. Wilson was now regretting those small doses of antidepressants; apparently, they made House absolutely insane.
"Come on," House murmured into his ear. "You can drop the swooning southern belle act. I got you figured out."
"Oh do you?" Wilson retorted, trying to calm his heaving lungs. "What, pray tell, am I?"
"You're blind," House pronounced, still fighting for dominance of Wilson's sleepwear. Their hands were locked in a fierce grip and House jerked them away, pinning Wilson's wrists to the carpet on either side of his head. "If there's chick within Jimmy Wilson's grasp, then he gets her. I know. I've seen it in action. So the only reason you would sit around diddling yourself is because there's something out of your reach. Someone you can't have." House's voice dropped low and growly. "Someone you think you can't have."
Wilson swallowed and turned his head to rest his burning cheek on the rough carpet. His gaze traveled along the long stretching savanna of gray fibers. The cardboard box sat a few feet away, taunting him.
He didn't say anything.
"Is it me?" House asked.
Wilson shut his eyes. And he didn't say anything.
"I . . ." House sighed and lower his body a bit, his breath ghosting over Wilson's chest. "I want it to be me. Is it?"
Wilson's eyes snapped open and he looked up at House as if he'd been bitten by something. "What?"
House was the only man Wilson knew who could shrug with just a quirk of his lips. "If it's not me, that's fine. I get it. But if it is . . . Jesus, you're blind. I kissed you, didn't I? I damn near cuddled with you. Doesn't any of that register with you?"
Wilson blinked slowly. "I, I guess not."
House licked his lips. "Okay then." He glanced down at Wilson. "So it is me, right?"
Wilson laughed and rolled his eyes. "You've got to be joking." He met House's eyes and saw, briefly, a melting sadness. "Oh wow," Wilson whispered. "You seriously aren't sure? And you're going ahead with it anyway?"
House looked down and fiddled with Wilson's sweatpants' elastic.
"House," Wilson said, "of course it's you." He wiggled his hands where they were held down by House's. "Um, I'd do something sweet right now like pet your hair, but you're kind of keeping me immobile."
House grinned. "Pet my hair?"
"Or something."
With a flourish, House released Wilson's wrists and sat back, straddling Wilson's lap. "Do your worst, then."
Wilson sat up to, his face now inches from House's. His left hand rose, a little shakily, and cupped House's cheek. It felt strange, that painful prickle of stubble as House nuzzled into the touch. Wilson basked in that for a moment before sliding his hand down to House's neck, where he was able to pull him in for a kiss.
If kissing a woman takes finesse, Wilson mused, then kissing House took stamina and speed. The amount of energy the man poured into the simple press of lips was astonishing. And he changed pace constantly, one minute slow and sensuous, the next animalistic and hungry. It took all of Wilson's brainpower just to keep up with the erratic tilting of House's head and the darting of his warm tongue.
Wilson was completely prepared to continue practicing until he got it perfect, but after a few moments, House reared back with a strained hiss. His palm went to his right thigh and rubbed at the damaged muscles there.
"Sorry," Wilson said quickly. "Oh god, I'm sorry. Here." He eased House off his lap and back onto the floor, where he could stretch out fully. "Do you need...?"
House was already fishing a pill bottle from his blazer pocket. "It'll be fine in a minute. But Wilson," he paused to swallow a couple Vicodin, "it's good that you bought that thing." He nodded toward nearby the cardboard box.
"What, the toy? Why?" Wilson asked, propping himself on an elbow next to House on the carpet.
House contorted his face in a squidge of embarrassment. "You know what I mean." He gestured to his lame leg. "The spirit is willing, yadda yadda yadda. I can't always do what I want to do."
"We don't have to—"
"We might not have to, but you should," House cut in. "I've been imagining this for too long; I'm not going to be happy with sitting around watching reruns tonight. I want to see you." He hoisted himself up into a sitting position with his hands behind him on the floor. "So show me how you play with your little toy, Wilson."
Wilson bit his lip and looked over at the nondescript box. House sounded serious. And this might be my only chance, Wilson thought. Take what you can get; change can be good; insert other positive affirmations here. "All right," he said finally. "Come on." He stood fluidly and offered House a hand. Together, they hobble-walked over to the bed. House flung himself onto the bed, which was still in disarray from Wilson's hasty dash to the hospital. Hanging half over the edge of the mattress, House rummaged in the box until he lifted the dildo high in the air in triumph.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he intoned in a deep announcer voice. "Tonight, James Wilson plays the blues." And he handed the toy over to Wilson as if it were a microphone.
Wilson rolled his eyes and joined House on the sheets. "Hand me the, erm," Wilson snapped his fingers in the direction of the tube of lubricant, which House also passed to him, but not without a raised eyebrow.
"Hanging out in supply closets, stocking up?" House asked. "Impressive."
"Well, you know. Saves both time and money." Wilson's fingers played with the waistband of his soft sweatpants. This was a barrier that he suddenly felt nervous about; even though there had been locker room showers between the two of them, this was different. This was sensual nudity, a non-utilitarian display of skin.
House must have sensed the hesitation, because he took it upon himself to start tugging the pants down over Wilson's hips. "I've known you forever," he said quietly. "You think I'm going to care about muscle tone or tan lines?"
"Maybe I'd feel better if you got naked too," Wilson suggested. The sweatpants were dragged down his knees and off his ankles. House tossed the article aside, and Wilson steeled himself for the close inspection of House's bright eyes. They passed over his frame, sweeping up legs, down arms, across the torso, lingering somewhat on a half-hard cock. How strange it is, Wilson thought, being naked in front of someone after being covered in clothes for so long. It was almost another plane of existence where his bare stomach, chest, and hips were allowed to be watched. It felt like something huge should happen, or the lights should go down, or music should start playing to signify that this was the different world where intimacy might be allowed to happen. But everything stayed pretty much the same while House looked him over. Finally, House met his gaze.
"I wouldn't want to upstage you," House said with a grin. Wilson smiled, looking down and fighting the blush on his face. God, like a schoolgirl, he thought. And yet he could hear House's own concerns about disrobing: the scar hung on him like an albatross.
"Okay," he finally answered, knowing. "But I expect a private show in the very near future."
"Deal." House tossed the lubricant onto Wilson's stomach. "Now get going."
As Wilson slicked up the fingers of his left hand, he wondered if he had ever done this before, performed for someone like this. His past wives and girlfriends hadn't seemed that interested in watching the male body in its separate contorted glory, and he couldn't blame them. There was something about a man's genitalia that didn't exactly call for a spotlight and fog machine. In short, he felt a little self-conscious.
He gave his semi-interested cock a tug or two with his lubed hand and watched House's face carefully. The blue gaze flicked up to meet his eyes. "That's good," House said quietly, and if Wilson hadn't known him like he did, he might have thought House was remarking on the weather. But he caught the slight hoarseness in his voice, the slight flicker of a tongue to the corner of his mouth. He was turned on.
"You really do like watching this?" Wilson asked. He had been very close to theorizing that this was about power for House, about making Wilson do something he normally wouldn't do. Pushing boundaries. Manipulating circumstances. But now, Wilson thought perhaps House honestly might want him. His blood sang, hidden away in his veins.
House answered with a soft, "I do."
Wilson gave him a small smirk and, emboldened by the confession, snuck his fingers lower. He lay on his back and took deep breaths as he worked a finger into himself, one knuckle at a time. He looked to the left, where House sat propped up on his elbows, watching with rapt attention, eyes wide like dishes of cool water.
The room was very quiet. Neither of them were breathing, it seemed.
"House?" Wilson swallowed and twisted his finger deeper. "Could you . . . ?"
House must have heard the need in Wilson's unfinished plea, because he shifted closer on the bed and placed his hands against Wilson's chest, rubbing slowly. A weird tingly sensation of skin on hot skin. House's right hand drifted lower, joining Wilson's left between his legs.
"This?" he asked simply.
Wilson hadn't been thinking of that, not at first. He just knew he wanted to feel House touching him, to know that he was doing something right. But this was good too, so he nodded. House's index finger slid around in the excess lube coating the inside of Wilson's thighs; it joined his finger inside of him.
Wilson's eyes slid shut. It was already amazing, he realized, feeling their crooked fingers sliding in and out of him. Could it really get any better?
House pressed closer, his rough denim jeans and soft cotton t-shirt coming into contact with Wilson's bare, sweaty skin and leaving sparks of pleasure there. His breath puffed out moist against Wilson's neck as he whispered, "Good?"
"Mmm," Wilson said by way of answering. His eyes fluttered open to search House's face for clues about what he was thinking, but House's hooded gaze was directed downward, where their hands entwined weirdly. It struck Wilson that they were being too quiet. Well, House was being too quiet, for House.
"Talk to me," he murmured, arching up briefly into a particularly wonderful twist of House's finger. He felt his own following suit on instinct, falling into a pleasant rhythm.
House quirked a brow at him as if to say, You sure? Wilson licked his lips at the look. "Please," he added.
"You're incredibly tight," House said slowly, as if unsure of how Wilson would react. Wilson placated all fears by easing his hand out from between his legs and encouraging House to continue with two fingers. House did so, and kept up his running commentary. "I'm betting you haven't ever let anyone else fuck you like this. Just me. You only want me, don't you?"
Wilson fought a keening whine that built in the depths of his throat, turning his head into the pillow to muffle the small noise. House's chuckle vibrated from his chest into Wilson's. Then the probing fingers were gone, and House directed, "Sit up for a minute."
Wilson wasn't entirely happy with this sudden cessation, but House kissed him for a long moment, and Wilson complied. Guided by House's masterful hands, they arranged themselves again on the mattress: House sitting against the headboard with Wilson tucked into the V of his spread legs, chest to back, lips to nape. Wilson turned to look over his shoulder, catching House's glinting blue eyes.
And there was that strange sensation again, that feeling of falling slowly into a pool and not being able to climb out, of being dragged downward into someplace deep inside. Wilson leaned back and lolled his head on House's shoulder. He felt his now-hard cock leak warm droplets of fluid on his stomach and in the crease of his thigh. His hand scrabbled for the blue sex toy that lay tangled in the sheets, but House's steady fingers retrieved it first.
"Just relax," House said, "and let me."
The lube was re-found, the toy was thoroughly covered; Wilson watched it all like he was seeing a movie, perhaps from behind a one-way mirror. It didn't feel real. This couldn't be House's hand, gently working him open again. This couldn't be House's heartbeat, pounding frantically against his back through layers of clothes. This couldn't be House; House wouldn't place a small kiss on his temple as he positioned the dildo against Wilson's opening.
House wouldn't ask, "Ready?" But he did.
Because turnabout is fair play, Wilson tilted his head and bit House's arm just above the bicep, in the fleshy place connecting to his shoulder. House had to fight his yelp; Wilson could feel it jump in his lungs. Then they laughed, and House nipped him on the back of his neck, and the toy was slipped into Wilson's body, propelled by House's hand. Wilson's heady giggles morphed seamlessly into a low moan, and House's chuckles turned from amused to self-satisfied.
Wilson let himself fall even further into House's embrace. House's free arm now came across his chest, pulling him even closer. His other hand kept up a maddeningly slow pace, the blue toy going in a few inches, then out, then in again.
"More," Wilson demanded to House's clavicle.
"Give it some time," House murmured into his hair. "We have all night."
Wilson's bleary eyes immediately sought out the beside alarm clock, which proclaimed it to be an absurdly late hour. But Wilson didn't feel like fighting House on this point; he brought his arms up to twine around House's neck and opened his legs wider.
The sound the dildo made as it breached Wilson's body was completely obscene. House had poured enough lube onto the thing to ease it into a piece of penne pasta, Wilson was certain. It squelched noisily between his legs, forcing the fluid to run down his thighs and soak into the bedsheets below. Wilson would have protested the messy practice, except it felt so damn good.
House was obviously as focused on this as he was with any task. His clever fingers guided the toy in and out, varying the speed and the angle of the thrust enough to keep Wilson guessing. But he still deftly avoided the prostate, just as Wilson knew he would, the son of a bitch.
"House." Wilson didn't care if it was begging. He arched into House's touch, his fingers gripping the soft hairs at the back of House's head. "I need more. Please."
Quick fingertips twisted Wilson's left nipple, and Wilson gasped. The hand traveled lower, brushing against his painfully hard erection, cupping his balls briefly. It was too much, like House had eight hands instead of one. Yet nothing was enough; it was all too fleeting. Wilson writhed in House's hold, dragging his nails down House's neck, his shoulder, finally clutching at the other man's elbows, which held him in place like brackets. His legs shook with the strain of not coming.
"Lean forward," House said suddenly, bringing a hand up to push at Wilson's shoulder. Wilson fell forward on command, his hair falling in his eyes. "On your knees," House said, and Wilson followed his orders. The toy stayed inside him, held in place by House's hand, except now he was bent over on his hands and knees, and House was fucking him from behind with it. It went deeper, twisting deliciously, striking that chord inside him, that delicate bundle of nerves.
"Ahh!" Wilson jerked, his head snapping back. His arms quivered. They wouldn't be able to support him for long. Being spread out like this before House, completely open and vulnerable to him, it was more than he'd ever imagined. His hands groped for something to hold onto, and he grasped one of House's ankles, a constellation of small bones above his Nike. He kissed House's jean-clad calf. The dildo slid out, then in deeper.
"Going to come for me?" House asked, his voice nearly unrecognizable, it was so strained and low. His legs moved out of Wilson's reach, and Wilson listened to the bed creak; House was now kneeling behind him, working the toy in and out faster.
Wilson's elbows failed, and he pressed his face into the cool sheets, his ass offered high in the air. He felt House's other hand reach underneath him to grasp his leaking cock, to fondle his tightening balls. In this position, Wilson could almost imagine it was House's cock in his ass, thrusting away into his body, a hand around the base to keep it steady.
House's hips brushed the back of Wilson's legs briefly, crisp denim, stiff and rough. Wilson shuddered at the feeling. He, naked. House, still fully clothed and fucking him.
"Yes," he finally confessed, turning his head to rub his cheek on the bedsheets. "Yes, yes, I'm coming," he panted.
"Do it. Now," House growled, and unerringly hit the spot inside Wilson that made his heart leap in his throat. His nerves jangled, shooting conflicting messages everywhere, to every limb, until his body responded the only way it could. Wilson dug his fingers into the mattress, his toes curling under him, and he came. House's hand pumped him, the toy stroked him, and he came. He was still coming when House said, in an awed tone, "Oh my god."
Wilson collapsed in a heap, sticky, sweaty, totally spent. He gave no wince of pain when he felt House slip the dildo out of him; he was too boneless to register it as anything but a blissful aftershock of pleasure. He blinked his eyes open and tried to catch his breath, his vision swimming back into focus. He looked over his shoulder and saw House contemplating the thick pool of semen in his palm.
House looked up with wide eyes.
"Jesus," he whispered. "Where did you get it all?"
Wilson laughed, breathless and lightheaded. House was glancing around at the sheets and his own t-shirt as if at a loss, and it was too funny not to laugh at.
"I don't know where to put it!" House said.
Wilson struggled to turn around again, and he grasped House's hand in his to raise it like a cup between them. He tongue darted out to lap up a string of the sticky fluid. House raised a surprised eyebrow. Wilson raised a challenging one. House shrugged and licked at the come in his hand.
"Well?" Wilson asked.
House smacked his lips. "It's no Pabst's Blue Ribbon," he finally said, "but it's not so bad."
"Ass," Wilson said, thwacking House in the side with a wayward pillow.
In retaliation, House smeared his hand across Wilson's chest and down to his belly.
"What the hell!" Wilson jumped at the feel of the cooling liquid on his skin. "Why did you do that?"
"I'm an ass," House answered simply. "And because now maybe you'll take a shower with me."
Wilson leaned forward, a serious look in his eye. "All you have to do is ask, House, and I'll do anything with you. Anything at all." He slowly cupped the back of House's head, kissing him with gentle affection. Then he pulled away and smeared a handful of semen on House's cheek, a wide grin on his face. "Now you're dirty too. Jerk."
"You little—" House made a grab for him, but Wilson was already bounding off the bed and into the bathroom.
"Better hurry," he called over his shoulder. "Or I'll use up all the hot water."
House did follow him in a hurry, and he did strip down in the small hotel bathroom. It took some coaxing from Wilson to get every layer off. ("Pants. Now. Gimme.") The scar wasn't pretty, and House still wasn't aroused, but Wilson couldn't care less. He tugged House under the hot spray and kissed him while twisting his soft hair into weird shapes.
"Sorry," House muttered at one point, glancing down at his unresponsive lower anatomy. "It's not you, it's the stupid pills. If I it was up to me, there would be a round two right here, right now."
Wilson used his thumb to wipe the come from House's prickly cheek. "It's fine. There'll be time later." He kissed him again, and imagined all the things that they'd have to do later. There would be time to talk about what this was, what their friendship had become. There would be time to confess and come clean. There would be time to watch House lose himself in the throes of orgasm. There would be time to drown in the best possible way.
fin.
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cybel.
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*giggles slightly at House's mention of PBR*
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P.S.: I am so sorry about what happened to your journal! That's just...OMG. Not right. I'd have been pulling my hair out. Anyway, I'm glad you got everything back up, and hey, this gives me an excuse to go back and reread your stuff (like I needed another reason, lol).
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Anyway! I'm glad you came back to the fic. Thanks for the re-mem.
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Fell in love with this story all over again :D
And...I think I need a shower now!
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That would be AWKwaaaaaard.
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Nope. A single person solitare type game that highlighted all my possible moves. TOTally mindless :D
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this is simply one of my favourite House fics.
I just had the time to read it again and... GUH.
I was so happy when I read that you took up my prompt for get_house_laid!
The slow realization of what was the cause of Wilson's nightmares, and that scene of him using the dildo on himself is just incredibly HOT!
But, of course, I loved even more when House used it on him, and even if I would have liked to see House come too, I love how realistic you kept it till the end. And that angst that remains and says that not everything is perfect, even if they are together, and definitely happier than before, is such an essential part of their relationship.
Though I definitely wouldn't mind reading a sequel of this, with a more satisfying ending for House as well. ;)
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anyways, it's such a lovely story and so much vivid imagery!! I can definitely picture the last scene in my head, them together, gawd. it's so freaking hot!
*mems*
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My favorite part:
"Is it me?" House asked.
Wilson shut his eyes. And he didn't say anything.
"I . . ." House sighed and lower his body a bit, his breath ghosting over Wilson's chest. "I want it to be me. Is it?"
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Did you ever write any sequels?