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Entry tags:
lunch break
title: lunch break
author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
phinnia
pairing: house/wilson
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing.
rating: nc-17 (sex, people being tied up (or down), all that good stuff.)
spoilers/warnings: no spoilers. this is kind of kinky so if that's not your thing, s'okay.
author's note: this is forarhh for her birthday - well, okay, it's late for her birthday. but the intent is/was to get it to her for her birthday. SO. Happy birthday Autumn <3 ilu.
Fourth floor closet again: they might as well redirect their mail there by now. At least the skin mags. Slowly shinking tube of lube, finger-dented stashed behind boxes of tongue depressors; it calls him every time he walks by, a beckoning, soft-edged glow lighting him up from the inside out like some perverse uranium salt. He'd call it romantic if he hadn't forsworn the word after Stacy tore it out of his mental dictionary and left bloody-fingered prints in her wake.
Besides, this is sex, not romance. Romance is about doing the dishes and leaving treacly little notes in desk drawers and it has nothing to do with sex.
Lunch break: Wilson's got him sitting on the floor and bound to the wire shelving, trussed up like ham in a meat freezer. his dick hanging out, and he was hard before the second snap slid home. Wrists in soft leather looped and buckled; Wilson is grinning, rocking back on his heels, and his voice is a whisper that nonetheless rings around the narrow walls.
"I could just - " lazy roll of a hand - "leave you here. I could, you know. Leave the cock ring on, lock the door, go downstairs for lunch, eat all my fries for myself this once. I'd come back and you'd still be here, still be hard - and half out of your mind, I bet." Leans forward, hisses coffee-sweet breath into House's ear. "Is that what you want?"
Doesn't move anything. His eyes trace the laser path of a slender stream of light, left and right again. No.
“Or I could not lock the door. Wouldn’t that be interesting, to have one of your fellows wander in and find out who really makes the rules around here. Is that what you want?”
Again, a silent reply. No.
“What do you want then?”
Words forbidden, he takes the only way out left to him: glances down and thrusts his hips forward; the restraints pull and twist, tugging the shelves, making them shake. He’d be worried about things falling if he weren’t about to die - but they've done this before and everything stays. Wilson is always very meticulous.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Wilson turns, hand on the door. “Eating my own fries is sounding pretty appealing.”
It gets out before he can stop it – a whimper, soft and needy and followed with his teetth slamming down on his tongue as if that could retract it – but Wilson turns and in the sliver of light House can see him smirking. Spreads his legs one on each side of House's thighs, zipper slides down with its breath like a soft sigh and in the dim light House can see the graceful near-curve of Wilson's erection.
It's maddeningly slow, especially since House knows he's not allowed to come until after Wilson does: slick fist sliding slow and sure over hot skin, on and on and on until he wants to scream (but he can't, because that stops the game) - and it's almost forever until Wilson's rocking his hips forward and pant-grunting with every thrust - oh and oh and oh hot wetness running down his cheek and chin and his hips twist, rutting into empty air.
Ragged, empty breathing. Calmer. Calm. Hand runs through his hair, attempting to soothe but his blood's tick tick ticking overdrive and his breath fighting to stay smooth.
"Good." Wilson murmurs. "Good."
The snap-slide of the cock ring echoes around the room and he's bit his lip hard enough to bruise, to scrape, to wrench it out of shape; then Wilson's hand is there, two brush-tickles and one hard, firm stroke, and he's gone, howling silent syllables twisted into a sob.
He looks down. Wilson smiles and wipes off his face. "Lunch?"
Out of breath, he nods. "Lunch."
author:
phinniapairing: house/wilson
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing.
rating: nc-17 (sex, people being tied up (or down), all that good stuff.)
spoilers/warnings: no spoilers. this is kind of kinky so if that's not your thing, s'okay.
author's note: this is for
arhh for her birthday - well, okay, it's late for her birthday. but the intent is/was to get it to her for her birthday. SO. Happy birthday Autumn <3 ilu.Fourth floor closet again: they might as well redirect their mail there by now. At least the skin mags. Slowly shinking tube of lube, finger-dented stashed behind boxes of tongue depressors; it calls him every time he walks by, a beckoning, soft-edged glow lighting him up from the inside out like some perverse uranium salt. He'd call it romantic if he hadn't forsworn the word after Stacy tore it out of his mental dictionary and left bloody-fingered prints in her wake.
Besides, this is sex, not romance. Romance is about doing the dishes and leaving treacly little notes in desk drawers and it has nothing to do with sex.
Lunch break: Wilson's got him sitting on the floor and bound to the wire shelving, trussed up like ham in a meat freezer. his dick hanging out, and he was hard before the second snap slid home. Wrists in soft leather looped and buckled; Wilson is grinning, rocking back on his heels, and his voice is a whisper that nonetheless rings around the narrow walls.
"I could just - " lazy roll of a hand - "leave you here. I could, you know. Leave the cock ring on, lock the door, go downstairs for lunch, eat all my fries for myself this once. I'd come back and you'd still be here, still be hard - and half out of your mind, I bet." Leans forward, hisses coffee-sweet breath into House's ear. "Is that what you want?"
Doesn't move anything. His eyes trace the laser path of a slender stream of light, left and right again. No.
“Or I could not lock the door. Wouldn’t that be interesting, to have one of your fellows wander in and find out who really makes the rules around here. Is that what you want?”
Again, a silent reply. No.
“What do you want then?”
Words forbidden, he takes the only way out left to him: glances down and thrusts his hips forward; the restraints pull and twist, tugging the shelves, making them shake. He’d be worried about things falling if he weren’t about to die - but they've done this before and everything stays. Wilson is always very meticulous.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Wilson turns, hand on the door. “Eating my own fries is sounding pretty appealing.”
It gets out before he can stop it – a whimper, soft and needy and followed with his teetth slamming down on his tongue as if that could retract it – but Wilson turns and in the sliver of light House can see him smirking. Spreads his legs one on each side of House's thighs, zipper slides down with its breath like a soft sigh and in the dim light House can see the graceful near-curve of Wilson's erection.
It's maddeningly slow, especially since House knows he's not allowed to come until after Wilson does: slick fist sliding slow and sure over hot skin, on and on and on until he wants to scream (but he can't, because that stops the game) - and it's almost forever until Wilson's rocking his hips forward and pant-grunting with every thrust - oh and oh and oh hot wetness running down his cheek and chin and his hips twist, rutting into empty air.
Ragged, empty breathing. Calmer. Calm. Hand runs through his hair, attempting to soothe but his blood's tick tick ticking overdrive and his breath fighting to stay smooth.
"Good." Wilson murmurs. "Good."
The snap-slide of the cock ring echoes around the room and he's bit his lip hard enough to bruise, to scrape, to wrench it out of shape; then Wilson's hand is there, two brush-tickles and one hard, firm stroke, and he's gone, howling silent syllables twisted into a sob.
He looks down. Wilson smiles and wipes off his face. "Lunch?"
Out of breath, he nods. "Lunch."
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