Current mood:	awake
Current music:	Between The Wheels - Rush

Fic: Carpet Burn
Title: Carpet Burn
Rating: Hard R, perhaps even NC-17
Pairing: Houson
Summary: Wilson is rocking into him like he's a quarter-pony and he only has ten seconds left.
Disclaimer: This account is completely, utterly true. Except for the bits I made up.
Beta: cueballex Thank you for being the Nazi I needed.
Warnings: PWP, no bloody plot in sight. No, not even between the couch cushions, try as you might.
Feedback: Surely.
Author's notes: The style here is choppy and in the vein of James Ellroy, one of my favorite authors. Hopefully I didn't hack it all to hell. Cross-posted to: house_wilson




Just gingerly. Just carefully. Not to be known—furtive: Greg's fingers in Wilson's hair. Subtle. Strands of silk, short and cropped and smoothing through the nooks where his fingers meet his palm.

Dark and dim, light from the kitchen but it's not even enough to show him the color of his own carpet, much less the profile of a sleeping James Wilson.

Fingers around his wrist, swift and tight—he falters but his breathing is normal. He'd congratulate himself. Only the sleeping James Wilson isn't so sleeping—

Caught. Red-handed. Hair-handed.

"James," soft-sharp like a warning except that it isn't and Jimmy is all rustling movement coming out of that blanket, moving off those cushions; faster than any sleeping man ought to.

Only: "You fucking fak—" James' mouth tastes like lingering whisky, heat, and lust.

It's grappling in the dark, this. Cane to the floor, curses to the air when lips part, and James is fucking tumbling him—and that's his cane. Right there, under his ass. That's his carpet, too—and a ceiling he can't see in the dark and Jimmy biting into his exposed throat.

His fingers are smooth—he's only used them to heal the sick, to mop the tears of the dying—but they scrabble. Hard. Tug, pull—snap, pop-pop, all Greg's pretty buttons right in a row until all that nice Jimmy Wilson breath is on his chest, followed by tongue and teeth.

Greg bites off curses, “Son-of-a-bitch,” “Fucker,” 'Slutslutslut.' Only he doesn't say the last one out loud because it's merely a self-inverted view and Wilson doesn't need to know he'd give it up for a half a cold Reuben as long as said Wilson was on the receiving end.

He's not a pushover. Fuck, his leg hurts… He can make James gasp, too. Hah, see there? No more cane pressing indents in his ass, just him struggling to not be on his knees and yet be on top at the same time. It'd be easier if Jimmy weren't doing all that damn squirming.

Wincing, pushing, grunting—carpet burns in the dark, this. Hah.

The world turns, and fuck all Jimmy, it isn't a race—but his tongue doesn't say that because it's too busy pushing into that broad mouth and counting teeth and slicking off enamel.

Greg's shirt parts like the fucking sea—hi, Moses—Jimmy kiss-biting at his mouth and doing that biblical trick to his pants, too. He doesn't mind so much, he lets Wilson know that by grabbing all that lovely hair into his fists and tugging to the beat of 'mmm-mmm.'

He's pushing off the carpet instead of into it—and wow, James is quite good at this. He was on top last he looked. Oh, yeah…the world did turn, after all.

Breathing like pistons in an overworked engine—stop-go, stop-go, moan-stop-curse-mouthfuck-go again. He can almost dance to the rhythm. Except he'd rather just push up, up, up and yes-okay; Jimmy’s fingers all inside his jeans, making those boxers feel unwanted and, really, they are. They are.

His jeans roll, catch, all tight on his hips and it doesn't really matter as long as his cock is free enough for Wilson to get familiar with it and—oh, that's quite nice—fuck, now that is even better.

Pre-come on a thumb that isn't his—brief sound of suction in the dark and are men supposed to moan like that when they're tasting another guy's pre-ejac? Does it matter? No—teeth in his shoulder, fingers in his hair—oh, yeah and…right. Forgot. Jimmy has a jimmy, too.

Greg's fingers trip-tripping over underwear elastic, just boxers… No shirt, no shoes, no fuss. Jimmy comes sex-on-best-friend's-carpet ready.

Owowow—twinging up his thigh and Jesus, not now, okay? It snaps. He thinks he's broken something—Wilson's boxers. Well, he didn't need them just as much as Greg didn't need his and—huh, that's a cock pressing into his thigh. Hot. Hard. Definitely hard.

Shove, shove—goes Jimmy. "Oh, motherfuck,"—goes Greg.

This is fun. Jimmy on his knees—because he can and what a fucker, show the cripple up, will you? Only, aagh, jeans scraping over his ass, hips canted up because Wilson is just all 'offoffoff' about these fucking jeans. Greg struggles a little, his hand and the edge of the coffee table have an argument. It's brief, but the coffee table wins and Greg just digs his fingers into the curve of Wilson's ass through rumpled, half gone underwear. Because, really, it's his fault anyway.

He's gonna have carpet burn on his ass. He's getting cock-burn on his thigh.

Teeth again, he's all about the teeth for someone so…nice. Right into a nipple and—ohholymotherofGod, where'd he get a tongue like that?

Wilson is rocking into him like he's a quarter-pony and he only has ten seconds left. Push, rub, pull, grunt—all over again. Vicious cycle. Vicious heat up his spine, his head tipping back, carpet scuffing against his skull and Jesus, really, he's gonna look like he spent the night getting tongue-bathed by a snow tiger.

Speaking of—claws. Claws in his hips, Jimmy's panting against his damp neck and it's all, "Greg—" this and "Fuckme" that, and “Ohohoh” in this little ragged, hiccupping way that makes everything below Greg's waistline all nice and tight and, 'Please, sir, can I have another?'

Jimmy's squirming again. Active little fuck—only he isn't a little fuck because that's his cock against Greg's now somehow. All this moving, he can't think, but he can swear just fine and his hips don't need any instructions whatsoever, thank you.

Pushing, moving—thrusting, he's thrusting and Jimmy's trying to ride him through the fucking floor. All bowed head and messy, damp hair. Limbs all over the place, bare skin—too much to touch, too much to kissbitelickfuck so he just clings.

Nails in Wilson's back, and he must really like that because he's arching his lower body and his head is all tilted back and he's a taut bow of muscle and bone and “Greeeggg!!”, strained and whiny like House started this shit in the first fucking place. Don't throw stones, fucker.

It's close; down to the wire now—neck and neck. Necks with bite marks. That's not here nor there, really because it's getting all slippery down there and Wilson's thighs are gonna be bloody with the way they're scraping up and down the parted teeth of Greg's zipper like that.

That's neither here nor there, either, because he's just along for the ride now. Fuck his leg, fuck his cane, fuck the ceiling he can't see and the carpet burn he's not gonna be able to hide—thrustthrustpushpushfuckfuckfuck Jimmy Wilson right back to the lusty hell the man came from.

Hand from his hip to his shoulder now; heavy, pinning. Jimmy was the type that always needed a supporting hand on the shower wall when he jacked off, Greg's suspecting, because he's being held down and fucked dry.

Vicious heat. Vicious circle, again: "Ohfuckohyes", Jimmy goes—breathless like. "Nnngghh!" goes Greg—nothing left to say.

Sweat, heat, carpet burn in the dark—harder, faster, hearts like drums and that's his Jimmy, that's his Wilson, choking his name and coming in shots; Greg's cock, Greg's waist, Greg's stomach: paintedpaintedpainted white.

He has one good leg, he puts it to use: around Jimmy's bare waist, slick-slide and thrust and push and it's “Fuck!” all loud against the ceiling he can't see.

Shotgun-orgasm, that's what it is. Head to toe, man, no lie—quick and hot and hard. Intense. It's lights behind his eyes, pictures rattling off the walls, full fucking fifty-five-piece orchestra in his ears, neighbors-lit-up-cigarettes-20-minutes-back sort of good. The whole fucking shebang—coming. Everywhere.

"Greg…" Muffled and tired in his damp, bitten, abused, pulse-throbbing throat. He's wearing a Jimmy Wilson blanket. The buy-one-get-sex-free sort.

It's all sticky, sweaty, just-had-sex-on-the-carpet-in-the-dark-and-can't-move-now sort of quiet in the room. Except for the breathing. And, of course, Greg's mouth—the one that doesn't know how to shut up—muttering while sounding accusing but so very sated: "Fucking faker…"


-The End-