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fanfic: getting lucky
Title: Getting Lucky
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
phinnia
Rating: R-ish. Warnings for smut, silliness, sultry strippers and sugary cereals (so close to that alliterative sentence! d'oh!)
Disclaimer: not mine, still terribly broke, please don't sue.
Notes: Okay, so when I started this I was hopped sideways on headmedz and vacillating rapidly between crying jags, panic attacks and irrational depression.recrudescence informed me that porn has been known to prevent crying jags, and I wanted something insanely fluffy, so this is purely self-indulgence, but since my latest set of drabbles is on hold (coffee + laptop = definitely not OTP), I will share. (Owes a certain debt to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
elicia8's first aid.) <3 Not a songfic despite the cut text. I just have the song stuck in my head now.
Saturday morning. Wilson drags himself skyward from sleep to find an empty bed and the distant sound of cartoons on the television. House is sitting in the middle of the sofa wearing plaid pyjama pants, reading Penthouse and eating dry marshmallow cereal out of the box.
He stares at House for a moment and rubs the sleep out of his eyes as if he could somehow erase the contradictions inherent in this scene. It doesn't work. He coughs. "That's just wrong."
"This one has an interview with Lucky Charms." House shrugs, licking the sugar off his fingers and flipping to the next page. The magazine is glossier in the reflected light of the television, and Wilson sees well-toned tits and asses flicker by like some kind of perverse flipbook. "Thought I'd be thematic."
Wilson sinks down on the sofa next to House. The man is not making sense (not that he ever does, really) but maybe that's just broken sleep or maybe he's still dreaming. With House stacking crap like this it's hard to tell. He dips his hand in the cereal box. The marshmallows squeak between his teeth. "What?"
"Lucky Charms, the stripper." He points a long finger at one of the pictures - a tall, curvy redhead with palms flattened against her modest breasts, showing the barest hint of nipple. She has legs that won't quit and a wicked, promising grin that made Wilson wish he was twenty-five again.
"Wonder if they're both magically delicious." House grins a sidelong grin at him and throws another handful of cereal in his mouth.
"I don't know about the cereal, but goddamn, she sure is." He steals the magazine off House's lap to get a better look at the photo spread, and when he does, his hand brushes against House's half-awake cock.
"Hey!" House tries to tug the magazine back, but the grin on his face is getting wider. "I was busy with that."
"What are you, twelve?" Wilson laughs, one hand still playing between his lover's thighs. "I'm not your mom. I don't give a damn if you jerk off over magazines, but at least share."
"Never know it sometimes, the way you nag." Nevertheless, House sprawls back lazily against the arm of the couch, legs spread, and the swollen head of his erection peeks out over the elastic waistband of his pyjama bottoms.
Wilson grins, shucking his t-shirt onto the floor and setting the box of cereal and magazine on the coffee table, thoughts of naughty leprechauns ignored in favor of something more immediate. He slides between House's legs and kisses him; his mouth tastes like sugar and sleep, and their kisses are sloppy, warm, lazy-tongued. House's hands slide down his back and under the waistband of the well-worn boxers, snapping the elastic gently as he pulls them closer together. Their erections rub against each other and a spiralling tingle runs down Wilson's spine; House groans and bucks his hips, obviously feeling much the same.
They have no lube and he doesn't feel like breaking the moment so Wilson spits on his palm, and something about that action brings to mind odd childhood flashbacks and how the mingling of fluids was the preteen equivalent of a gentleman's agreement, a sacred promise signed and sealed with blood or saliva. He grins to himself and grabs House's other hand, licking a stripe against his own wet palm as demonstration, and House gets it, like he always does, and hands wrap around erections, bodies slide into slick, shimmering motion and the movement is bliss, it's perfect.
House comes first with that long, drawn out groan that Wilson never gets tired of hearing, but his hand doesn't stop, just adds a lazy twist at the head of Wilson's cock - once, twice, three times - and oh god, it's lazy, fuzzy, white-hot bliss and he melts forward and knocks the wind out of House and sighs, tongue flicking out to steal a drop of their mingled semen off the back of his hand.
They lie still for a few minutes, not moving, and then House stretches and grabs the remote. "Looney Tunes on channel five."
"Sounds good."
Author:
phinniaRating: R-ish. Warnings for smut, silliness, sultry strippers and sugary cereals (so close to that alliterative sentence! d'oh!)
Disclaimer: not mine, still terribly broke, please don't sue.
Notes: Okay, so when I started this I was hopped sideways on headmedz and vacillating rapidly between crying jags, panic attacks and irrational depression.
recrudescence informed me that porn has been known to prevent crying jags, and I wanted something insanely fluffy, so this is purely self-indulgence, but since my latest set of drabbles is on hold (coffee + laptop = definitely not OTP), I will share. (Owes a certain debt to elicia8's first aid.) <3 Not a songfic despite the cut text. I just have the song stuck in my head now.Saturday morning. Wilson drags himself skyward from sleep to find an empty bed and the distant sound of cartoons on the television. House is sitting in the middle of the sofa wearing plaid pyjama pants, reading Penthouse and eating dry marshmallow cereal out of the box.
He stares at House for a moment and rubs the sleep out of his eyes as if he could somehow erase the contradictions inherent in this scene. It doesn't work. He coughs. "That's just wrong."
"This one has an interview with Lucky Charms." House shrugs, licking the sugar off his fingers and flipping to the next page. The magazine is glossier in the reflected light of the television, and Wilson sees well-toned tits and asses flicker by like some kind of perverse flipbook. "Thought I'd be thematic."
Wilson sinks down on the sofa next to House. The man is not making sense (not that he ever does, really) but maybe that's just broken sleep or maybe he's still dreaming. With House stacking crap like this it's hard to tell. He dips his hand in the cereal box. The marshmallows squeak between his teeth. "What?"
"Lucky Charms, the stripper." He points a long finger at one of the pictures - a tall, curvy redhead with palms flattened against her modest breasts, showing the barest hint of nipple. She has legs that won't quit and a wicked, promising grin that made Wilson wish he was twenty-five again.
"Wonder if they're both magically delicious." House grins a sidelong grin at him and throws another handful of cereal in his mouth.
"I don't know about the cereal, but goddamn, she sure is." He steals the magazine off House's lap to get a better look at the photo spread, and when he does, his hand brushes against House's half-awake cock.
"Hey!" House tries to tug the magazine back, but the grin on his face is getting wider. "I was busy with that."
"What are you, twelve?" Wilson laughs, one hand still playing between his lover's thighs. "I'm not your mom. I don't give a damn if you jerk off over magazines, but at least share."
"Never know it sometimes, the way you nag." Nevertheless, House sprawls back lazily against the arm of the couch, legs spread, and the swollen head of his erection peeks out over the elastic waistband of his pyjama bottoms.
Wilson grins, shucking his t-shirt onto the floor and setting the box of cereal and magazine on the coffee table, thoughts of naughty leprechauns ignored in favor of something more immediate. He slides between House's legs and kisses him; his mouth tastes like sugar and sleep, and their kisses are sloppy, warm, lazy-tongued. House's hands slide down his back and under the waistband of the well-worn boxers, snapping the elastic gently as he pulls them closer together. Their erections rub against each other and a spiralling tingle runs down Wilson's spine; House groans and bucks his hips, obviously feeling much the same.
They have no lube and he doesn't feel like breaking the moment so Wilson spits on his palm, and something about that action brings to mind odd childhood flashbacks and how the mingling of fluids was the preteen equivalent of a gentleman's agreement, a sacred promise signed and sealed with blood or saliva. He grins to himself and grabs House's other hand, licking a stripe against his own wet palm as demonstration, and House gets it, like he always does, and hands wrap around erections, bodies slide into slick, shimmering motion and the movement is bliss, it's perfect.
House comes first with that long, drawn out groan that Wilson never gets tired of hearing, but his hand doesn't stop, just adds a lazy twist at the head of Wilson's cock - once, twice, three times - and oh god, it's lazy, fuzzy, white-hot bliss and he melts forward and knocks the wind out of House and sighs, tongue flicking out to steal a drop of their mingled semen off the back of his hand.
They lie still for a few minutes, not moving, and then House stretches and grabs the remote. "Looney Tunes on channel five."
"Sounds good."
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See, we can take over the world like this, you know? I'll write the fluff, and you write the not-fluff.