House MD Fanfiction

Rhythm and Blues

Hilson, smut, 1,600 words

By: magie_05

All it took was the blues.

Wilson had recently decided that they needed to slow down in the sex department; they'd been at full steam for months, and there was no reason to peak too soon. As part of his new resolution, he secretly planned on at least two non-sexual hanging out sessions with House per week. He was convinced it was the right thing to do; they could spend more time doing normal things together, and that way when they did have sex, it would be that much more incredible. Wilson was quite pleased with himself for thinking this up.

The plan was going well for the first hour or so. Chinese food and talking about nothing, followed by a round of zombie-shooting on the X-Box. Just normal guy stuff...unless you counted the hand creeping up Wilson's inseam every few minutes. Still. Plan was working.

Right up until House decided to play some music.

Vibrant notes leaked across the room as Wilson cleared the remains of dinner off the coffee table, pointedly not looking in the piano's direction. It was a control mechanism. He didn't want it to just be assumed that they would have sex whenever Wilson came over; that was a scary pattern to establish. And, well, it was not all about the sex, not this time, at least. He needed House to remember that.

Even if that was becoming harder for him by the second.

He found himself paused in the kitchen doorway, watching those long fingers coax loud, lively sounds from the keys, close enough to trace all the working bones and tendons and in House's hands. He was wearing a thin, navy blue t-shirt that fit snugly over his arms and shoulders, doing nothing at all to hide the way his muscles were rising and falling in time with the music...

"I thought you said you had to go home early tonight?" House murmured suddenly at a low point in the music, his bright and inquisitive blue eyes focused on Wilson.

"I do," Wilson insisted, mostly to himself. House smirked at him before slowly pulling his eyes back to the keys. His wrists were curled at graceful angles, shoulders hunched and moving, music pouring out of him with practiced ease.

"Early...early meeting," Wilson added unnecessarily.

House nodded once, already lost, his eyes slipping shut as the music swelled. The notes slithered into Wilson's skin, warming him from inside out, sinking into his muscles. He watched House give in, his head tilted back slightly, brow relaxed, features changing every few seconds in time with the music's bright rhythm.

Having too much sex was...bad. Surely it was. So there was just no reason at all for Wilson to be standing there gawking, watching House's arms moving in the lamplight, tracing the angles and curves, firm skin and twisting veins...

As he walked over, he told himself it was just to hear House play. When he wound up on the bench next to him, it was just because he needed a place to sit. And when House paused long enough to lean over, it was just a kiss goodnight.

Moments later, when the lamp House knocked them into toppled over, Wilson forgot all about his clever plan.

It shouldn't still be this exciting, breaking things on the way to the bedroom, pressed against the bookshelf so House could rip off his shirt. They're too old to still be making out like this in the hallway, his hand down House's jeans, no time to get enough air, House's song still in his ears. It makes no sense that he can't keep his hands off this man he's known for years, as if they hadn't woken up just this morning to hands and mouths and slow satisfaction.

Now the bed squeaks under his weight and Wilson forgets to care about anything else, palms memorizing House's face and chest and ribcage. He lets out an embarrassing shuddering noise as House's hands slide over him, calloused pads of fingers over his nipples, navel, fiddling with his belt. Playing a whole new kind of music.