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Wilson grabs the back of House's neck and squeezes. Hardly thinks about it because he’s mad, and it's a move he always uses with men - easy way to make clear upfront how he likes to play.
House doesn’t say anything, doesn’t gasp or yelp or startle, but Wilson feels the muscles in his neck and shoulders go almost slack, so he goes in for a kiss.
And House kisses him back, hands slipping lightly up Wilson's back like he isn’t sure what to do with them. And then Wilson pulls back, stares into unblinking blue eyes and smirks.
Oh. So that's what you want.
House says nothing. Hardly breathes. Freezes. Wilson can see him groping for snark.
So he kisses House again, this time with tongue. And House lets him, moves with him, opens and yields like he's been doing it all his life. The thought flits across Wilson's brain - did Stacy know? Did Cuddy? How did they kiss him?
By the time he pulls away, Wilson's breathing a little harder. House's eyes are all pupil, and Wilson automatically glances at the Vicodin bottle on his desk.
Wilson. House's voice is as raw as he's ever heard it. Like a hangover on top of a dozen cigarettes. Like he's dredging the words up from somewhere deep and hitherto undisturbed.
House. He says it like an answer. House's eyes flit, taking him in from head to toe. Wilson counts his blessings; at least he's not visibly hard. Yet. He keeps his gaze steady until House's eyes meet his once more. House reaches a hand out towards the desk and wraps his fingers around the top of his cane without taking his eyes off Wilson.
Take me to bed, House says.
It is, James knows, the most vulnerable House has ever made himself. There is no possible gift big enough for an equal exchange, so he turns without a word and strides for the door, knowing House will have to work to keep up.
There are only two other cars in the staff parking lot, one of which is Wilson's own, but he doesn't head for it. Something is alight in his chest, something that understands the fragility of the moment and how little it will take to break it. He strides toward House's bike, seamlessly throws a leg over it and rocks it up off the kickstand. House is only a few paces behind him, but by the time he reaches the bike, Wilson's holding out his hand expectantly for the key.
You look like an idiot, House says, hand stuck in his jacket pocket, crowding Wilson, trying to intimidate him. You're not built for a bike like -
Wilson's hand flies out to the back of House's head and grabs a good fistful of his hair. He's aware of the clumsy angle, how easy it would be for House to duck out of the way, humiliate him, make him look like a moth trying to attack a porch light.
House lets him. Closes his eyes, sinks into it like it eases something deep in his brain. The tiniest smirk plays over his lips. Wilson wants to bite him and leave a mark where everyone can see.
Wilson releases his hair and extends his hand once again. This time, House drops the key into his palm. He picks his helmet off the back of the bike and sets it in front of Wilson, balancing it on the gas tank before swinging his leg over the back seat and slipping his arms around Wilson's waist.
Go, before I change my mind, he mutters into the back of Wilson's neck. Wilson thinks about arguing, then pulls the helmet down over his head and puts the key in the ignition.
The ride to House's is uneventful, save for the part where it feels like the two of them were born on a bike together. House's body is warm against Wilson's back, leaning into the turns with him. He keeps his hands clasped chastely around Wilson's middle, his cane wedged between them. Wilson wonders how much he'd really mind working until 11pm every night if it means getting to go home like this.
He has to let House get off the bike first, and knows that his hair's going to look ridiculous once the helmet comes off, but House takes off for the door as soon as Wilson stops the bike, giving him a minute to rake his fingers through his hair. House leaves the door open behind him; Wilson sees the living room lights come on and hustles up the walkway, not wanting House to be alone with his thoughts for any longer than he has to be.
He shrugs his jacket off and hangs it on the inside of the front doorknob, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he comes inside. House is in the kitchen, still in his boots and leather jacket, pulling glasses down from a cabinet. Wilson flies across the room in huge strides, coming up behind House and slapping his hands down on the counter, bracketing House's body with his own.
Not with the Vicodin, he says, his voice low and serious, edging close to breaking the mood.
House begins to scowl - he can tell without even seeing it - and Wilson shifts his weight and hip-checks House into the counter. His bad leg buckles. One of the glasses skids and tips over.
We do this my way, or I leave, Wilson says. He can feel the certainty behind it, knows without a doubt that he means it. House can hear it, too. He grunts as he shifts his weight to his good leg and tries to stand up fully, but Wilson has him pinned. Wilson takes the gesture for assent and turns his head until his mouth is at House's ear.
You said I should take you to bed, he says, lifting one hand and bringing it back to House's hair. He steps back, pulling House's head towards him. House stumbles, gets his balance. Wilson hands him his cane without letting go of his hair and starts to drag him out of the kitchen, making sure House can put enough weight on the cane with his torso bent forward.
He relishes the moment when he shoves House onto his bed and the cane clatters to the ground. Now they can get started.
Wilson bends down to untie House's shoes and starts to pull them off. He considers taking off his own, but he likes it like this: House in his stocking feet while James still has his feet firmly on the ground.
We should talk, he says in his normal voice as he undoes the knots slowly. About what you want. What you don't want. Safewords. He knows he's asking for a sarcastic answer, and that's half his intention. He wants to make sure House wants this as much as he does, that he can still consent in a more sober state of mind.
Spare me the Bathhouse Kinky Intro Course For Latent Bisexuals, House says, sitting up but making no move to stop Wilson from taking his shoes off. I know what a safeword is, and I won't let you do anything to me that I don't explicitly invite.
James sets House's second shoe down, relieved at the level of clarity in House's voice. He doesn't look up, but reaches for House's bad thigh and puts as much weight as he can into his hand, using House's leg to stand up.
House swears and clutches at his leg, too blinded by pain to take a swipe at Wilson. He looks up wildly, sweat broken out across his forehead. Wilson crosses his arms and looks down at House.
See, he says, if you'd told me what your limits were and had a safeword, I wouldn't have done that, and I'd have stopped when you said to.
Should've known you're a sadist AND a top, House grumbles, massaging the outside of his thigh. Fine. Safeword is 'Amber.'
Wilson knows better than to take the bait and nods evenly. Limits?
Well, don't jam anything into the place where muscle goes to die, which apparently I have to tell you explicitly because your medical license isn't worth the construction paper it's printed on or the crayons used to write it.
No touching it, or just no impact?
House shakes his head, a little more seriously. Normally yes, but now that you've woken up all the nerves, don't touch it for the rest of the night.
Got it. Can you kneel?
Isn't that a little cliche? House spits back. No, I can't fucking kneel. You'll have to get up on a ladder if you want me to blow you.
You liked it when I pulled your hair, Wilson says, moving the conversation along, uncrossing his arms and sitting down next to House, pressing his shoulder and thigh against House's. House tries not to lean into it and fails. Wilson makes a mental note of it and wonders what House really gets from the women he hires. Does he let them touch him in more than one place at a time?
You liked it when I grabbed the back of your neck, Wilson continues, sliding his hand up House's back. House slumps forward, leaning one elbow on his good knee and resting his forehead in his hand. Wilson takes the opportunity to tug on the back of his jacket until House wordlessly sits up and lets Wilson pull it off him. His arms are softer than Wilson thinks they look.
Do you like being tied up or pinned down? Wilson asks the way he might ask about a patient history or symptoms list. House shakes his head, then shrugs. Have you tried either?
What is this, 20 questions, spicy vanilla edition?
How do you feel about having your genitals temporarily pierced?
House finally looks up at him, his sarcastic-amused face fully intact. Only if I get to pick the jewelry.
Can I hit you?
There's a long pause as the question sinks in. Finally, House says, You can try.
Ass, back, shoulders, face?
Gonna bend me over your knee, Daddy?
Oh, thank you for reminding me: I hate being called Daddy. James is fine. Wilson will do but it's harder to say when your mouth is full. Now, he slides his hand back into House's hair and grips it firmly, not pulling, just holding him still. Where do you want me to hit you?
House closes his eyes and takes a slow inhale. His answer is so quiet it's almost reverent. Anywhere you want.
It's easy to turn House's head towards his while he's got his hand fisted in House's hair, but James doesn't expect the eagerness with which House chases the kiss. He knows he wants to take it slow, as much as he's itching to see how deep he can take House, how much House can take. He kisses slowly, sucking House's lower lip into his mouth and biting it. House rewards him with a gasp, a sharp inhale through his nose, but doesn't wince or pull away. James breaks the kiss long enough to whisper, You can touch me, House, and feels a tentative hand slide up the side of his neck, cradling the back of his head and pulling him closer.
James has long loved the feeling of beard burn on his chin and cheeks, and has an embarrassing urge to nuzzle House's face, but chooses instead to focus his attention on House with the same devotion to detail with which House pursues a case. Biting: gasp. Hair-pulling: subspace. He moves his head, starts kissing down the side of House's neck and finds the spot where his neck meets his shoulder and chooses his words carefully.
I want you to wake up with marks tomorrow.
House shrugs almost imperceptibly. That's fine. Is that supposed to be a threat?
No, it's a warning, Wilson replies before sinking his teeth into the meatiest part of House's trapezius and sucking at the skin as hard as he can.
House actually groans. Something hot flickers in Wilson's belly as he catalogs the sound to replay later. He releases the bite, admires the bruise already forming. Want another one?
I thought you were supposed to be the dominant one here, House complains.
Wilson shoves him down and climbs on top of him, straddling House's waist. House's legs dangle over the side of the bed, feet barely touching the floor. Wilson grabs House's wrist and pins it over his head; takes the other and shoves it between his knee and House's body. House looks amused and doesn't fight him until Wilson uses his free hand to slap him across the face.
He loves the blush in the shape of his hand more than he can say, but loves even more that as House gasped and tried to twist away, he tried to weakly thrust his hips up, alerting Wilson to the erection he's been suspecting but hasn't yet seen or felt.
He hits House again. It feels like doing shots: warmth, fire, the heady rush. He leans his weight into the hand pinning House's wrist to the bed so he can shimmy back, rolls his hips against House's.
See how much I like hurting you? he rasps. And how much you like it when I do? He rolls his hips again, and this time House raises his good leg high enough to get his foot on the edge of the bed, enough to really raise his hips and thrust up into Wilson. It's almost the move a wrestler would use to throw an opponent, but House's weight isn't balanced correctly, so he just ruts up into Wilson desperately, eyes screwed shut, mouth open.
Wilson enjoys it for a few seconds and then abruptly lets go of House's wrist and climbs off him. He knows the sudden loss will hit House hard. He wants to see what House does with it.
House's eyes fly open; in the dim light, Wilson sees a concern flicker across his face almost like he's assessing Wilson for -
I'm fine, Wilson promises him. He casually shoves House's good leg back down and reaches between his thighs, cupping him through his jeans. These seem a little tight, don't they? He reaches up and unbuttons House's fly with a flick of his fingers - a skill that extends equally to bra straps, thanks to hours of practice in his mid-teens. It takes some doing to wrestle them over House's hips and he moves slowly over the site of the infarction, careful not to touch anything more than necessary. He hooks his thumbs into House's socks to peel them off along with the pants, leaving House in his boxers and t-shirt. Wilson's still fully dressed, and judging from the blush that's spreading across House's chest, he's not the only one who appreciates the contrast.
Move back, Wilson says. House obliges, scooting himself toward the middle of the bed until his whole body is on the mattress. Wilson follows, crawling over him, settling once again with their hips together. He bends over House, rests his forearms on either side of House's head, and leans in to kiss him again. House meets him eagerly, tipping his head back to give Wilson access to his neck. Wilson licks and nips his way down, grazes a nipple with his thumbnail, which makes House twitch - he'll have to remember that for later - and then moves until he's kneeling between House's spread legs. He leans over to grab the cane from the floor and holds it out in two hands, spread apart.
Take it like this, he tells House. And hold it over your head. Don't let go.
Ooooh, what happens if I break the rules? House asks, voice dripping with sarcastic deference as he takes the cane and does as he's told. Wilson immediately reaches for House's balls and gets them in a firm grip, squeezing just enough to make House's eyes go wide.
Oh, you think I won't. But you don't know yet. You have no idea how hard it would make me to hear you scream. You know what it means to get the best sound out of an instrument. You know how utterly satisfying it is when the notes ring loud and clear. Well - he squeezes just enough, and quickly enough, to hear House's breath hitch - we all play in different ways. So think carefully about your next words and consider just how happy I'd be for an excuse to tune you like a loose-strung guitar.
He holds House's gaze, glaring at him, focusing on keeping his fingers tight (but not too tight.) House licks his lips and takes a deep breath. Wilson sees a wet spot emerge on his boxers and gives House a wolfish grin before letting go.
Where do you keep your lube? he asks.
House shakes his head.
Seriously?
I ran out.
There's all sorts of ways I can think I'd like to punish you for that, but we'll have to save it for next time, Wilson says.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of House's shorts and works them down, using the time to take stock of House's physical state. The sight of his cock - leaking, twitching, red - makes his mouth water. He's been holding off too long for both of them. This part needs to end soon. He makes a few decisions, notes the full-length mirror on the closet door, just off of the foot of House's bed, and climbs back over to sit up and lean back against the headboard.
Take your shirt off, he tells House. You look ridiculous with just a shirt on. He watches House's reaction carefully, but doesn't note shame, irritation or arousal at the light humiliation. Something to talk about later. House pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it to the floor.
That's good, Wilson says, and House looks like he's about to say something snarky, so he cuts him off with, Get over here and lean back against me.
House makes his way up between Wilson's legs, and immediately gets the point. You know I put that mirror there just for this occasion.
Of course you did, Wilson croons, reaching a hand around to House's weeping cock, gathering as much slick as he can before starting to stroke. You've wanted this for longer than you care to admit.
House leans his head back against Wilson's shoulder and says nothing, but his breathing starts to quicken. Wilson keeps a steady, even pace, thankful that the lack of lube isn't an issue tonight. He ducks to House's other shoulder and leaves him a matching hickey on the other side, which earns him several deep, shuddering grunts that go straight to his own neglected cock.
You needed this, he says, coming back to whisper in House's ear. Needed someone else to be in charge, someone else to be the smartest one in the room, someone who knows more than you do, for once, because the one subject you've neglected to master is your own - fucking - needs. He punctuates the last few words with a twist of his hand. House groans.
Luckily, he says, reaching his other hand to slide up House's chest, tugging at a nipple and prompting a sound he recognizes as a stifled whimper, I've been studying you for years. And I know everything - everything - about what you need. He finishes by bringing his hand up to House's throat and wrapping his fingers around it. He avoids the trachea and carotid and squeezes his fingers so that House will feel the pressure and the panic without actually touching his airway. House gasps involuntarily.
Let it go, Wilson says, putting just enough force behind the words to erase any gentleness from it. Come for me, House.
Wilson can see House's stomach muscles clenching, feels him holding his breath to feed the fantasy of being choked. It takes another minute of Wilson's stroking, but then House is jerking forward and Wilson releases his throat so he can curl over, shuddering gasping, but otherwise quiet. Wilson's surprised. He'd have taken House for someone louder.
Fuck, yes, he says softly, not sure if House will be able to handle anything more sincere or sweet, though the words so good for me linger at the back of his tongue until he swallows them. Next time. Maybe. If there is a next time.