House MD Fanfiction

Duet

Hilson, smut, 1192 words
By: shuttterbug_12

Wilson could hear faint, melodic tones as he cracked open the door to House's apartment. He peeked inside, silently slipping his head past the threshold. His eyes fell on the far corner of the living room, where the soft glow of a desk lamp spilled across the surface of House's baby grand and delicately illuminated the side of House's face. 

Wilson rested his head against the door frame. He measured his breaths, struggling against a wave of affection that rushed through his chest. House, Wilson reflected, looked breathtakingly peaceful. He trailed his gaze from the fluid movements of House's arms to the features of his face--his relaxed brow, closed eyes, sealed lips. Wilson swallowed, repressing a sigh. 

He stood silently, tuning his ears to the slow, steady progression of resonating chords. At the height of its culminating crescendo, Wilson uprooted his feet and stepped soundlessly into the room. He vaguely heard the soft click of the door as his hand absentmindedly pushed it closed. He pressed his back to the door, hesitant to approach the piano and disrupt this private, stolen performance. 

House's hands lifted from the keys and rested on the piano's shiny surface. Wilson heard the release of a deep, content sigh. 

"I know you're there." 

Wilson's breath hitched silently as House raised his head and delivered a neutral stare. Wilson stammered in an attempt to utter a response. "I, uh. The, um, Flyers are on tonight."

House nodded, returning his gaze and fingers to the keys. 

Leaving his shoes near the door, Wilson padded to the piano. Arms loosely folded across his chest, he stood behind House and tracked the paths of House's fingers. A familiar, bouncy minuet bathed his ears, his fingers twitched, and a playful, mischievous grin spread slowly across his face. 

In a sudden movement that startled House, Wilson swung his legs over the bench and scooted House's hands from the keys, replacing them with his own. His skill far from rivaled House's, but he merrily tapped out the melody, reveling in House's wide, stunned eyes. 

He tilted his mouth to House's ear, speaking in a raspy whisper. "What? You think you're the only one who knows how to play? Granted, my repertoire isn't nearly as--"

Wilson's words died on his tongue as House nearly knocked him off the bench, covering his mouth with a crushing kiss. He shuddered and parted his lips to meet House's tongue. The position made Wilson a little uncomfortable, sitting side by side on the bench, heads turned toward one another. He tried to ignore the twinge in his neck as House's tongue probed his mouth, grazing his bottom lip. 

He pulled away, breaking the kiss, and swung one leg around the bench to straddle it. House followed his example and they faced each other, their eyes meeting and speaking silent, unblinking need. Reaching, Wilson entangled his fingers in the hair at the back of House's head and pulled him forward, snaking his tongue into his already open mouth. 

He kept his eyes open when they kissed, watching the subtle movements of House's eyebrows and the force with which House fought to keep his eyes closed. When he curled his right leg over House's left, drawing himself closer, he watched House's eyes flutter open, revealing an intense shock of color. He gripped the back of House's head, roughly grinding their lips together. House's hands slid from his knees, up his thighs, and he felt his groin stir. 

When he jerked his head away, he was breathless. He dropped his head to House's shoulder and planted hungry kisses in the hollow of his collar bone. His hands fell across House's chest and slithered under the hem of his t-shirt, pushing it up. He tugged and pulled until the shirt was on the floor and his fingers raked across the hot skin of his ribs, leaving red streaks. A low moan reverberated in House's throat and Wilson grinned against his neck. He dragged his mouth to House's ear and sucked greedily at the lobe, enjoying his taste. 

House kneaded Wilson's thighs, his hands grabbing at the skin and muscle under the fabric of Wilson's pants. Wilson heard House's sharp inhalations as his hand pressed against his hips and slid over his erection. House threw his head back and Wilson glided his tongue along his jawline, feeling rough stubble. House uttered a short, quiet groan, bucking his hips into Wilson's hand, and something inside Wilson snapped. Suddenly, the taste of his neck, his jaw, his shoulder, wasn't enough and he stood, hooking his hands under House's knees and pulling him to lay flat, letting House's legs dangle off the end of the bench. 

Their eyes met, burning, as Wilson leaned over him, unbuckling House's belt and loosening the button on his jeans. Grabbing the waistbands of his jeans and boxers, Wilson peeled them down House's legs and off his body, revealing his rigid, glistening erection. 

Wilson's clothes joined House's on the floor and, wetting his lips, he hovered above House, placing his hands on the smooth wood above House's shoulders and straddling the bench. He could feel the radiating heat of the their bodies, separated by inches. He wished he had the strength to tease. Make House beg and ache and curse. But he couldn't do that without torturing himself. Not when House's warm, humid breath swept across his face. Not when House's hands curled around his back, sliding across the slick sheen of sweat, pulling him closer. 

He lowered his hips, feeling a hot, tingling jolt of contact. Streams of incoherent mumbles escaped his lips and he pushed hard against House. He dipped his head, capturing House's mouth to silence a rumbling moan, swallowing it, before leaning his forehead against the damp skin of House's neck. He ground against him, listening to him suck air in between gritted teeth. He flattened his upper body against him, pushing down, wanting to be closer. He reached between them and wrapped his hand tightly around both of them. House pushed up against him, gasping, sliding more of his shaft into his hand. Wilson squeezed, pressing them together, and pumped, trying to establish a steady rhythm. They moved against each other in Wilson's hand, enveloped in a white-hot cocoon of friction. Wilson's chest heaved with shallow breaths. Near House's shoulder, he felt his hand sliding against the wood. He didn't care. All he cared about was House underneath him, meeting his thrusts, grunting into the air. He felt the room crumble around them, the world falling away, and he stared into House's face as House arched beneath him, spilling a rush of wet heat over Wilson's hand. A deep, guttural groan poured from House's mouth and the sound propelled Wilson to his own release, making him shudder as he came. 

They didn't look at each other when they separated, shrugging back into wrinkled clothes. They silently resumed their places, side by side, on the piano bench, each tinkering idly with the keys. They settled into a comfortable silence, broken only when House, turning slightly to face him, said, "So, what else do you know?"