Title: Lit
Authors nakeno and recrudescence
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 5,439

Summary: Pre-infarction fic. Getting stoned and getting laid.






Before Stacy, before his leg; lazy-eyed and giggly, rolling around on the carpet in some adolescent wrestling/pinning-down game that somehow ends up with both of them red in the face, House still gripping those arms and rubbing, pressing against Wilson's ass-- sound of denim against denim just as sandpapery as their breathing-- and House breathlessly asking, "Can I fuck you?"

And Wilson with all that hair, sticky-dark against the skin of his neck, brow, temples; unsteadily nodding, smelling the flowery scent of carpet cleaner because he’s panting against the itchy threads of the rug. A little confused, a little riled up and rumpled from roughhousing but still jerking against the floor and his own underwear and jeans all the same.

It takes him a little off guard, can tell from the ragged half-laugh Wilson sighs out underneath him, breaking into an almost disbelieving snort as House's palm slips hotly up under that already rucked-up T-shirt—not even getting his jeans tugged entirely off with all the frantic fumbling going on. Tests his mouth against the small of the back, messy and a little clumsy before House is pressing down on him with a splayed-clutching hand; breathing heavily and seeming to try to convey the meaning of "stay right there" without actually saying it. Jerky press-lifts of his hand-fist; House stumbles to his feet then stumbles back a moment later, hitting hard on his knees and straddling the other. All heavy heat and weight on Wilson, jittery and sweaty-- going between petting of skin and clutching of clothes, stuttery in motion, like there are missing frames from a running film.

He can feel before he sees those legs pressing open wider, that rumpled ring of denim still hooked around one calf, Wilson's head ducking down, shoulders heaving, and they're both too fucked up to bother with speaking. Slick and full in his palm when his fist clenches tentatively--can't seem to stop touching it, absorbing how Wilson writhes and gasps at each little movement, hot hitches of sound cutting themselves off before any words can ever be formed. One slicked finger extending, tongue curling slowly up behind the reddened curve of Jimmy's ear. "Push back now..." Heavy-lidded and riveted, openmouthed, as that damp-warm back arches.

Has the most incredible urge to rub, push, rut against the pressure of it; to shove Wilson flat to the floor with his own weight and keep pushing. Breathing hot and hard, everything a little fuzzy around the edges but it doesn't matter at all because Wilson is slick and tight and willing; came up on him all of a sudden, can't explain it, won't explain it, just going with the flow and it just... happened. Neither one is capable of too much speech, but the soft, strained, urgent little sounds House is releasing against a blood-warm, sweat-sticky nape are enough. It sort of slurs together from the pressing of his fingers and the fumbling with cellophane and latex, but the pressure and heat coalesce the moment into focus, it's all he can feel, see, hear. Breath halting and expelling hard over and over again, trying to cope.

And Wilson...he tries to stay levered up on his hands, but his elbows can't seem to stay locked. He'd laugh if he could get his breath, if House wasn't...oh. A stunned little sound escapes him, hips pushing automatically; it lets House slip in a little deeper, and Wilson's arms are shaking harder, hair in his eyes. Doesn't see how it would matter if he falls onto his forearms instead, though he wishes he could see House's face like this. Like this, while he's on the floor like a slut, letting House do this to him, letting it happen and encouraging it--no scruples, no second-guessing, the sweet-thick scent of smoke still lingering heavily in the air as a reminder. Humming approvingly, curving his neck into lips tickling there, shuddering into the feel of it when House's tongue laps slowly over his nape. Turn his head enough, needs to feel that, needs it closer, but all he manages once he twists back far enough to meet House's lips is a gasp.

--

Wilson's hips surge up to meet him, and he's not exactly expecting it-- the cut-off sound he gives is fair evidence of that, along with the drawing back and pushing again. A little more earnestly; his head's all abuzz and he can't keep his eyes open and he's trembling with the effort to hold himself up. Seems easier just to collapse against and wrap around that other body, so he gives that a try, shuddering, still hum-groan-grunting his wordlessly concise ideas and emotion against hothotskin. Struggling along, as it were, but Wilson's trying to get to his mouth so House opens it up, leans in for it; messy and inaccurate but occurring all the same; some primal, basic rhythm carrying him along; bite down on Wilson's bottom lip, then suck on it instead. He's all cramped up with tension, can't catch a breath, but moving forward somehow or other and whine-humming about it all the while.

"Wa--lemme..." Wilson practically whining the words against House's lips, neck straining to turn just a little more. "Can't see," he distantly hears himself murmur, wriggling against the hot bulk of House's form pressing down on him, squirming out from where House has him practically pinned, wincing at the sudden loss of contact. Kick off his pants the rest of the way as soon as he's free, then squirm back in closer, on his knees, arms around shoulders, chests and stomachs slipping together, much easier now to taste the remnants of smoke and vodka in House's mouth. Thighs shoving apart, hitch his hips forward a little until he can guide the head of Greg's cock against him, ease down a little harder. "'s way's better," not realizing at first that he's said it out loud.

Wilson talking against his mouth. Into his mouth. Murmur-stuttering; slick-warm body wriggling away from him, pushing and thrashing and Greg's just now understanding how strong the other is, despite what one might think at a glance. Feel the carpet threads against his arms now instead of Wilson-- press his hands to the floor, sit back on his knees; barely gets a second to breathe before the other's there. Tilted sideways some, caught by the edge of the bed's mattress against his shoulder, mouth opening, accepting; moan-humming into the wetness found there, eyes closed and brows drawn down. Wilson pressing over his lap, his thighs and his own arms circle the other readily, clutching him in tighter-- releasing only long enough to duck his head with an irritated sound and rid himself of his crumpled, wrinkled shirt. It'll be stretched in places from the grappling and pulling and yanking. He doesn't care. 'S way's better: He's not about to argue, though he wasn't aware seeing had been an issue.

--

Laugh a little as House's tongue goes flicking out to wet his lips, hazily noting the faint flush staining his cheeks, which is just plain funny because it's the closest Wilson's ever seen him come to blushing. From anything other than exercise or alcohol, anyway. And okay, maybe they've gotten a fair amount of both under their belts (no belts now, no pants, no shirts, that last article of clothing stripped off and hurled towards the headboard), but that's not the same, because he's grinding against his friend’s lap on the floor in a too-hot bedroom and House is crimson.

"Your face is red," he gets out, laughing until it turns back into kissing, liking the way House lets him bite lightly down on his lower lip. Thrust forward with his hips a little, Greg's cock slick against his thighs, rubbing further back, slick and heated along the cleft of his ass. Can't resist adding, "Don't be embarrassed, I can go slow." Though from the strain in his voice and the way his own cock throbs in his fist when he bucks into his own touch, he's not so sure he can.

--

Greg's mouth opens, then closes, brow furrowing and eyes slitting open; some sort of muffled growlgroan as he buries his face against the side of Wilson's neck and bites down brief and hard. Draw back and grip that nape and angle their mouths together roughly, jerking into the feel of that body rubbing, grazing, sliding against him. What there is to be embarrassed about, he doesn't know; all he knows is that he's on his knees, settled back on the floor and... Wilson... is doing a fairly good impression of a position mostly witnessed only in porno by straddling his hips and bearing down against his erection; almost sitting but not quite.

This position, even for himself, isn't overly comfortable and after one, two, three (maybe four) times trying to keep himself from eagerly capturing that mouth, he finds the wherewithal to clumsily grip at those strong, slick, flexing hips and urge back. Push Wilson off of him as best he can, panting hard and shaky-stuttered in his movements. Lean into the bed, press his side, his elbow down and haul himself up, get seated on the edge, trying to pull Wilson aboard all the while. If he could slide back, Wilson could straddle him and then... Christ. Fuck.

--

House shifts free, those searing eyes gone darkdarkdark, leaving Wilson gazing up at the mattress edge once he navigates through the tipping and rippling of the room around him. Slipping a hand between his legs, give a few long, slow strokes as his own eyes slide shut, writhing into his own fist and House sitting there watching.

Don't bother getting to his feet, crawl forward a little unsteadily until he gets up on his knees with the help of a palm clasped over House's thigh. Breathe in long and tremulously, survey those long legs parted in front of him, the throb and glisten of House's cock, the faint film of latex there. He might kiss there if it hadn't been practically in him a minute ago. Ends up dragging his lips up the tender skin inside the thigh, groaning deeply once he reaches the furrow where House's leg meets his body. Stumble-shudder to his feet just long enough to topple back down, onto the bedcovers this time, clumsily wrapping around House with every limb he can, then just as abruptly twisting to face the other way--get one leg bent a bit more, shove back a bit harder until he's writhing his back against House's front and begging fuckmefuckmefuckme in every way but verbally.

--

He can't not make attempts to grab at the other, to pull and coerce and draw him closer, closer. But Wilson doing things at his own time, if nothing else: hard to sit and watch as the other strokes himself, all bared, lovely, sweat-glittering pale-flushed skin, sleek and hard against his stomach and pressed up on his knees there at Greg's feet. Bite down on his own lip, smothering a whimper as he jerks at himself, harder and quicker than Wilson is doing; more impatient, far more brash, just like he would be in any other situation.

Struggle-grapple on the bedsheets, his breathing coming in quick and hard, still shivering and giving cut-off little noises of pleasure and approval, still able to feel where Wilson had practically buried his face against his leg and groaned. It feels so fucking good having such an active, strong, sleek-slippery, lithe body moving against him so anxiously with more strength and verve any woman could ever provide him. He thinks that's what is clouding his head with lust the most-- the frantic feel of it. GoodfuckingGoddon'tletitstop. Wilson in his arms, chest-to-chest-- grunt, tug, push, squirm and it's suddenly chest-to-back and Greg buries his teeth into an exposed shoulder before he binds the other in two contracting arms. Yes, he is red in the face: so hot it feels as if that color is burnt there forever or if it might actually catch flame from all the exertion and excitement and arousal.

He realizes they're still wrestling somehow; still playing a game. And he realizes that Wilson is giving up in the name of good sportsmanship; and Greg rolls that wriggling body beneath his own, squeezing him tight and lapping against the back of his neck and grinding his hips down against the other; choke-groaning, loving every second of it: scramble up until he can grip the base of his condom-slick erection and press the other hand-- flat and wide-- on one side of Wilson's ass and bear down; bear him open and exposed so he can give a hardvicious little surge of his hips and bury himself inside the other. His throat closes up; no room for curses or profanities, only able to eke out Wilson's name on the tail-end of a breath, his own larger hands desperately squeezekneading the shifting, bunching muscles in those broad, strong shoulder blades.

The breathless question still bounces around inside his skull: can I fuck you? What the fuck has he done?

--

Let himself be pressed and pinned and groped, large strong hands holding him in place, holding him apart and not fucking doing anything. He’s shoving his face into the pillow and making some half-smothered sound of need that House apparently gets the gist of because—God—all of a sudden, that’s House, all of House, pressing ininin all at once without ceasing until he’s inside to the hilt. And Wilson can’t stop groaning. God. Barely able to breathe with the way he’s got his head burrowed against the pillows. Knees folded beneath him, ass shoved into the air, rocking back to meet House each time the latter thrusts in. Slow at first, and hard, unrelenting.

He gets one arm out, thrashing aimlessly until he catches a wrist, then drags House’s hand up to his lips. Turns his head enough to get access, slips two fingers into his mouth, wet-hard and almost obscenely starting to lick, tonguing messily over the soft-padded fingertips before sucking both fingers in hard.

--

"Ah" is what he lets out, only it's deep and husky and harsh as that body ripples and pushes against him, around him, leaving him gasping for air, for some semblance of control. Not with those sounds that are coming up to his ears, muffled by cotton and pillows and skin. Can feel those moans shake through his own chest through Wilson's back, coaxing up deep-throated, wordless responses of his own. Deep, jarring strokes of his erection inside of the other, through that mercilessly clutching ring of muscle. It's leaving him sweaty-cold with want, leaving him shake-shivering with exhaustion and leaving him wantingwanting wanting.

He's ready to murmur this is good or just like this or fuck, so fucking tight-- any number of crude, husk-edged things he can think of to make it that much better, that much sweeter. Only. Only he loses the power of speech altogether as a hand gets jerked out of his control and against Wilson's lips. Against his tongue. Into his mouth and Greg's brow is pressed to the other's shoulder, mouth hanging open, forehead furrowed and the moan following long after the lips have been parted.

Here he is, on his fucking knees, in the bedroom of an apartment Wilson shares with his girlfriend-- who isn't here, isn't here, notherenotherenothere-- the blankets bunched and rucked up under his kneecaps from the urgency and force, with his cock pressed up inside him and his fingers being sucked at the other end. In Wilson; inside... on both ends. It's dirty, ridiculous, feverish, obscene and yet so fucking erotic he knows he's about to lose it in short order. Wilson allowing himself to be fucked from behind and sucking on Greg's fingers all the while—only it's not at all funny, it's fucking hot: Chinese fingercuffs.

Fucking whore, he wants to accuse, but with nothing at all like derision and everything like veneration and helpless pleasure. His other hand is splayed to the point of ache, gripping a hold of that hip and Greg bears down, thrustingshovingpistoning his hips and working his fingers in and out of Wilson's mouth; mimicking fucking there just as earnestly as he's actually fucking the other.

It's too much; way over intolerable-- the words 'fucking' nor 'whore' leave him, but one word in particular is hissed against the sweat-sweet nape of Wilson's neck. Yes. Over and over again, building in urgency, to the breaking point-- yesyesyes fuckingfuckyes and coming quick and hard, shuddering and gasping for it against the sweaty, salty hairs he finds against his lips, tongue, teeth. OhGod.

--

Groaning around House's fingers, and he seems to like that a lot, judging by the shudders wracking through both their bodies, the way those fingers slip in a little further. Deliberately setting the same cadence there as he is elsewhere, filled in two places and ripping apart between them. Crying out brokenly around House's fingers even as House's face nudges warmly into the nape of his neck, House's cock settled in him so, so deep; his own still pressed and aching against his navel.

"C'mon." Hair in his eyes; determined to get that hand from his mouth and pump their joined hands quickly down over his cock, urging him on. Back arching, fingers curling; he's had some amazing sex while high before, a pattern that apparently isn't in any danger of breaking whatsoever. Fuckharder, scrambling up until he's nearly aligned against House, fucking himself back on his cock, whiningshivering at lips and tongue and hot breath against the back of his neck. Scrabbling behind himself with the other hand, getting a good hold of House's hip, fingers splayed and digging in, straining to shove them still closer, grinding them together as he's wriggling down onto House's cock still harder. Words, somewhere in there, pleading or demanding or both at once. C'mon and jerk me off and just like that; the orgasm building fast until he's all but thrashing from it, spilling hotly over House's hand.

Groan-humming quietly as the energy seeps out of him, sinking complacently back against House, practically in his lap by now, and he squirms a little because he can. Just driving home the feel of it a bit more, still stretched and oversensitive around him. It's...weird--now that he's at least capable of putting a word to this, however unsophisticated--the hard, broad pressure of House's chest against his shoulder blades, but it's not...unpleasant. Twist enough to sloppily get that mouth against his again, noticing the fading red blotches tracked all down the side of House's throat. Definitely not unpleasant.

--

He's breaking and shuddering and sobbing into the dampness of a shoulder, the overheated warmth of a nape and yet Wilson is "c'mon." As if he could do anything else. The air is thick-hot around wet fingers that are pulled from Wilson's groaning mouth, pulled free and pushed elsewhere. Almost-not-quite familiarity of an erection against his hand whether he likes it or not; and he doesn't dislike it, he simply can't pull together the energy yet to do anything about it. To react.
C'mon says Wilson-- can hear him somehow, even muffled by skin and cloth and humid air as he is-- and jerk me off. Okay. Okay. Bear down his top row of teeth into the oceanic taste of resilient skin; anchor himself and push forward just as urgently as Wilson is pushing back. He doesn't have to move much, really; just shudder and moan and breathe as Wilson rocks backbackandback and fucks himself-- no need for Greg's help at all, really. He could very well be sitting there, minding his own business, save for the fact a particularly reactive part of his anatomy is involved.

Wilson jamming them closer and Greg bares his teeth against the sweat-sharp nape, moans and tips his chin downward and tries to accommodate Wilson's mouth searching for his own. He doesn't want to draw back just yet. He wants to take a moment to gather his senses before he can step back and try to review damage estimates and the flaws in the road that caused the entire messy collision to begin with. He's fairly sure part of it had to do with the way the other's hair flopped over across his eyes and the impish manner in which he grinned.

A re-enactment or demonstration might be in order to pinpoint the wheres and whys. For the moment, though, still panting like a marathon runner, Greg is perfectly content to hold the other against him with a press of his come-slicked hand against Wilson's twitching abdomen and collapse hard into the mattress with their shoulders and sides down. It's a bit of a respite for both of them, he's sure, despite the fact Wilson still has a clutching hand on the hip now pressed into the bed and is still wriggling intermittently against the intrusion of Greg's body into his own.
"Okay..." he says out loud, and breathlessly, to no one in particular.

--

"Mmph?" Shift over enough to let House slip out of him, albeit without disengaging the messy press of his hand. His nose is pressing into the sheets, smelling fabric softener and debauchery--he'll have to wash them sometime before Sonia comes back tomorrow.

Of all the girlfriends he'd had, Sonia was the one House seemed the closest to actually liking, not improbably because she was a sous chef and had steadily been improving Wilson's abysmal cooking skills. The fact that she was actually familiar with most of House's record collection quite possibly helped, too. "She's gonna think this is hilarious," he mumbles muggily against the covers, smothering a yawn. Mentally contemplating: this is about the same as getting drunk and making out with a friend of the same sex on a girls' night in, right? And he'd found that particular anecdote way hotter than disconcerting. There's a good chance she'll just laugh off the idea of him sleeping with House. Unless sex, drugs, and exhaustion have had the effect of making him a little too optimistic in that assessment.

"W'should...get..." he begins, not entirely sure what he's trying to say. Get food, get dressed, get comfortable, get accustomed to the fact that they've just had rather amazing sex...doesn't matter, not while House is sprawled out along his back, hot fingertips slipping against his stomach. "Mm...'s...feels good. Keep doing that?"

--

"A'right," he finds himself muttering mildly into a moist, comfortable slab of shoulder, huff-hiccuping just a touch as errant tremors work their way through him even now. It's not as comfortable being outside and against the other as it had been inside and against the other; but he's not going to complain. Not yet. He's not sure he gets to complain; it's not every day you screw a friend-- who happens to share, if not your specialty, then your profession-- on a mere whim. Can I fuck you? Inwardly grimace at the blunt, sordid casualness of it all.

He's not so sure she is going to find this hilarious; not to mention that he's not so sure she should even find out. Not so sure he even wants to find out. Nope, it's not every day... but it damn well should be, as far as experience value is concerned.

Now that he's finding and recounting his limbs, he's noticing he's sticky and hot and more than a little non-presentable. But Wilson seems to be just fine plastered along his front just so, so Greg purses his mouth against the neat little slope where shoulder turns into neck and keeps his eyes closed, breathing deeply and idly petting slippery fingers at Wilson's stomach. The other he's drawn up, out from under them, able to press his elbow into the bed and prop up his head on his hand if he likes-- but he'd rather pet through all the damp, thick locks of hair, turning his face there and humming in a sort of nonverbal contentment for the moment.

He knows there's probably quite a few things that "th'should" do, but, for right this second, he doesn't see why one of those things can't be just to enjoy the afterglow of what was, in his opinion, some very nice interaction. As intimate interaction goes between two guys; not something he knows too much about. But, even if he did, he's fairly sure this would be in the category of "very nice."

"Mmm..."

--

There’s not much to it, really. Sleeping like a log, then cleaning up after House leaves; it doesn’t truly hit him until the next evening, when Sonia comes back, and he finds himself hoping the apartment doesn’t reek of sex and guilt even though he’d practically scoured the place.

He tries to work this…experience to his advantage. Sonia’s open-minded enough, doesn’t falter at all when he asks her to finger him. It’s just…she’s smaller and House is stronger, more evenly matched, all hard muscle and roughness and ohgod the way his cock had felt, shoving up inside him so deep, filling him, stretched and shoving, and Wilson not knowing what to do but squirm and clench until he could’ve screamed for it. Face hot, blushing just remembering it, that boldness and spontaneity evaporating so quickly after all was said and done.

Which doesn’t keep him from thinking of House’s sure hand wrapping around him and bringing him off while he has a hand around himself. Tightening it, eyes closed, recalling, pretending... slip a finger into himself and try to believe it’s as good as House doing it. Two weeks later, he still isn’t convinced.

A few months earlier, one of the interns had been having a bachelor party and he’d gone out with some of the other residents to stock up on the appropriate assemblage of lewd accoutrements. He didn’t think he’d ever be mustering up the courage to go back to that shop alone, but being around House has always engendered unpredictability. Wet his lips, take a breath—he has the apartment to himself for at least a few hours, no sense in putting it off. Slip on a condom, let the lubricant warm between his palms before slicking over it (try not to feel too mortified). He can’t figure out how to do this at first—too awkward on his back or on all fours or on his side—before settling for steadying it behind himself while he balances on his knees. Biting the inside of his cheek, sinking down, fucking himself on the hard, curving shape and (most definitely notnotnot silently rasping for House to fuck him harder), spilling onto the sheets from jerking hard at himself with his other hand. Settle back down with it still in him—remember how House hadn’t pulled out right away—shamefully burying his face in the pillow.

It’s not supposed to be how things turn out. He’s been with Sonia for almost a year now. He likes that; he’s happy with that, and even when he’s humming all the right things against her ear, more like that, feels good, as he slips inside her from behind, loving that her back ripples and her clit dampens under his fingertips, he still can’t shake the fact that this is same position he’d been in with House. Don’t think about that; focus on his girlfriend, for God’s sake, the feel of her breasts under his hand, the hot little gasp she gives when his knuckles brush the undersides of them, nipples sensitive when he thumbs over them, his cock easing in a little deeper, imagining being able to do this with House.

Wilson can’t take it anymore. I’ve been getting myself off every day thinking about you. About those fingers in his mouth, on his nipples, pinching him, stroking him, kneading his balls, fucking him—one, two, three, four if he can fit that many inside him, and he’d writhe on his stomach, legs spread as far as possible, and take it and beg for it and rub his cock against the covers till he came. House going down on him, maybe, those large sure hands pressing down on his parted thighs and holding him in place—fuck, just the image makes his eyes roll back in his head; too, too easy to remember loving the way House had held him down and shoved into him like he owned him. Claiming him.

Sonia’s been making fun of him for working too hard, being so busy, saying once she’d have to tie him down to spend any time with him. He’d swallowed, smiled cheekily, and said, you can if you want to. And all he could think was that maybe being restrained like that would remind him of House’s strength, the ease with which he’d handled him. Having his hands bound to the headboard was fun while Sonia sucked him, fun until he realized he wanted her to fuck him.

Him to fuck him. Legs up on his shoulders and House’s cock nudging against him, teasing at his entrance until his whole body was red and trembling and streaked with sweat and he was tearing at the cloths around his wrists and moaning for release, pleasefuckmefuckmeGregplease, coming with a loud groan as soon as House thrust fully inside him. Thinking of things like this while he’s with Sonia does help, sometimes, but it isn’t enough; sometimes it just amplifies the same contrast he’s supposed to be forgetting.

And…he never intended to, but he’s caught himself occasionally imagining confessing all of this. Always confident, in his mind. Striding right up to House—always in his bedroom, which James has only seen a handful of times—and giving the porn industry a run for its money without batting an eye. Get so hard for you, hard right now, let me show you what you do to me. Stripping naked, squirming and slipping into his own grasp, lying there on House’s bed. You like watching me? Like knowing you do this to me? Never been fucked like that before, never really thought I’d want that. Come on, do it again. Grinning, flushing, and so hard. Please? You can suck me if you want. Or…I’ll suck you. I’ve never given a blowjob, but I can try. Always ending with House practically tackling him, muffled groans, and skin sliding against hot bare skin.

Of course, that’s not how it turns out. He swings by House’s place to watch “the game” and can’t for the life of him remember who’s playing because it’s the last thing on his mind. A beer in his hand, unopened, because he doesn’t want House to think he can’t do this without some mild-altering substance in him. There’s a lame-ass Ricola commercial on and he clears his throat like House doesn’t know he’s right fucking there (so close, too close, just a few inches between their shoulders and knees; he hasn’t been able to sit still the entire time he’s been over).

“Hey. You remember when you came over and we…” Stupid way to start off, because of course he remembers. House is no fool; they’ve been keeping it simple by not mentioning it, a good idea in theory. There’s also the fact that House is almost a decade older and for all Wilson knows, he’s had tons of casual gay sex. Maybe these things aren’t ever supposed to come up in conversation. “Love that dare not speak its name” and all…

Pull a mental double-take at the phrasing; pull himself together.

“I’ve been…thinking about that. Um. A lot. More than thinking.” And the next thing he knows, he’s blurting out, “I mean, I had Sonia tie me up to see if it would feel like you holding me down, but it just made me want that even more,” and dead sure he’d rather die than meet House’s eyes right now. “I…I can tell her we got high, she’ll get that. But I don’t know how to tell her my best friend fucked me up the ass and I liked it. And I keep thinking about it and I really want him to do it again,” voice hoarse, lowering until it’s almost too quiet for him to hear it himself, tightly twisting the hem of an afghan between his fingers. “I’d let him do it right now if he said he was game.”

And there’s nothing at all except silence and his own stuttered breaths and the sports announcer guffawing the same way he’s petrified House is going to, right here, right to his face.

Lit II