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One is Silver

Title: One is Silver
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 4,836
Summary: This, right here, is pretty much porn, wherein chicken is consumed, Dostoevsky is derided, and Wilson does not want eternal glory.
Notes: Thanks very much to nakeno who went from "Heh, ‘polishing silver’" to "Finish this, damn it" and heckled me into trying my hand at writing House.
Spoilers: Eh. Wilson's third marriage?

It’s kind of pathetic. Noon on a Saturday and he’s partway through polishing Julie’s silverware. This particular set was a wedding present from some aunt or cousin he can’t recall, the best one they received, the one they’d used back when they would set the table nicely at any opportunity. There was a lot of that sort of thing, early on, making a show of using the gifts, having friends over. Like most of the things that happened early on, it was a habit that wound down alarmingly over time to the point that it’s been over a month since they last sat down for a meal together and even then it was only because they both happened to be heating oatmeal at the same time one morning.

Definitely pathetic. Julie’s not even home, which explains why he is. Wearing lined polishing gloves that make his hands feel trapped and sweaty but keep them clean, rubbing away at knives and plates that are only half his, since she’s out of town, ostensibly on a business trip to Atlanta but for all he knows actually spending the weekend crying at a friend’s across town. Feeling guilty, Lady not due in until Monday, getting swept onto the sort of train of thought that results in things like standing in the kitchen, stupidly and stubbornly trying to convince himself that the real reason for not using the wedding dishes anymore isn’t really because he and his wife can’t stand each other. Deciding instead that it must be because it’s been a while since anyone’s cleaned the things, and then concluding even more stupidly that doing so will somehow make coming home feel less like living with a stranger.

He’s wondering if Julie will even notice, if they’ll ever have an opportunity to use the good silver again, when House shows up bored and unannounced, as if Wilson’s expected to drop everything and launch into a song and dance routine to liven things up. He imagines snatching House’s cane out of his hand and doing just that, if only for the look on House’s face, but he’s already holding a platter and instead just raises an eyebrow. “Jell-O wrestling starts out back in half an hour. Make yourself at home.” Which just results in Greg helping himself to leftover chicken, blithely tearing holes in some article he’d read in that month’s Journal of Experimental Medicine, and pointing it out with great diligence whenever Wilson misses a spot.

He goes for an exaggeratedly exasperated gesture, then remembers the damn gloves and just ends up looking ridiculous. “Don’t tamp down your hidden talents on my account; you’re welcome to take over and prove how much more efficient your methods are.”

But House is suspiciously eyeing a large urnlike object sitting off to the side on the neatly laid paper towels. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s a samovar.”

“Are you actively trying to own one of every useless piece of dinnerware ever invented?”

“It was her grandmother’s.” Doesn’t even call her by name; can’t be a good sign. He scrubs a little harder at the bowl in his hand, so intent on it that he hardly notices when Greg goes springing into an invective about Russian literature.

“…have a kind of interactive teaching approach. Take an English class of glassy-eyed sixteen-year-olds, give each one a bottle of Ikon and one of those Dostoevsky doorstops, have them take a shot every time someone mentions a samovar. Another one each time a character gets called by a new nickname, another for incest, another for homoerotic subtext...”

And he’s smiling in spite of himself, which he suspects was the aim of the tirade to begin with. He adroitly diverts himself from thinking too hard about that, since dwelling on unsubstantiated prospects only makes for awkwardness and the last thing he needs now is another awkward relationship. House is never conventional, but he’s consistent. “Incest and homoerotic subtext?”

“Asks the man wearing a frilly apron and holding a teapot. Did you sleep through your global lit requirement or was that one of the forty-five courses you tested out of?”

Rolls his eyes, no point in mentioning there’s no apron in sight. “If this is your way of saying you need a French maid fix, you’re at the wrong address.”

“In that case, a handyman fix is good enough.” House facetiously swings a proprietary arm around his waist. Wilson staunchly keeps his breathing steady. “Nothing like a man willing to do the dishes.”

“Well, yeah, considering there are so many others who’d rather buy paper plates than decipher their dishwasher.”

“It’s not going to work,” House declares, and it’s perfectly clear he isn’t referring to his dishwasher. “You’re a little too far along to be pulling the ‘do the housework and wait for her to fall at your feet’ routine.”

Take a breath, nothing new about House overstepping himself. “Thank you for your input,” is all he can think to say; spine rigid, jaw tight, Greg standing so close beside him, close enough to pick up a serving spoon and scoop into the tension. Instead he just twitches a corner of his mouth and gestures for Wilson to set down the teapot, hand shifting up to his shoulder for a second before dropping away, and James relaxes a little. Greg doesn’t touch him often aside from bumping shoulders in the halls and brushing fingers over a file or a beer, and he can never quite get the hang of pretending not to notice when he does.

Greg’s grumbling that he should have the cleaning woman do this, and who actually polishes silver outside the nineteenth century anyway, clearly they don’t use it. Flips open a cupboard, hefts the samovar, grudgingly conciliatory. “Where does this thing go?”

He points. “Weddings will unfailingly get you an education as far as dishes go. You should think about it, broaden your horizons.”

“Right, after you’ve proven the merits of the institution so fluently. Several times over. Do the re-gifting and the online auctions even come close to breaking even with the alimony?”

“Not in the mood for this,” he says simply, facing straight ahead.

“Wilson. Where does this go?” Hand on his shoulder again and he’s turning without a second thought. House’s head jerks back in the direction of the opposite counter, ostensibly towards some plate or other, which isn’t anything close to the connection being drawn in Wilson’s mind. Where does this go? It’s not as if he’s been pondering the possibilities for years or anything that pathetic. More pathetic than immersing himself in silverware, dodging a messy confrontation again. Clear enough where one thing is going, at any rate; having been through this routine before, he’s willing to bet quite a bit of money that there’s no business trip to Atlanta. Easier to try, though, try to believe it and keep doing the dishes.

House could never take the easy route with anything. Wilson swallows hard, drums his fingers beside a few salad forks, dredges up a double entendre and hopes for the best. Eye contact this time. “Don’t know. Does it matter to you?”

And he guesses that’s a yes, because they wind up kissing, forks falling noisily to the floor, House crushing him back against the kitchen island, Wilson’s hands scrabbling at House’s shoulders. His head is tilting back, some combination of force between the two of them hefting him up on the countertop, mouths sliding frantically and messily over each other. At some point or another, a napkin holder gets knocked to the floor as well.

Strange, the things James finds himself noticing—the smoothness of the countertop under him, the wild glint he catches in Greg’s eyes before his own slide closed, the fact that his hands aren’t as steady as usual when they clench around fistfuls of Greg’s shirt and practically yank him in as close as he physically can. No point in pausing to analyze anything, way past that stop now, and since his head isn’t being very useful as far as brainpower is concerned he just angles it a little more to one side, mouth opening wider, kissing deeply and sloppily, making the most of things before House comes to his senses. Because, damn it, even if this isn’t such a good idea and never ends up happening again after the next five seconds, he’s at least going to remember every last detail of it: prickly facial hair scuffing his face, the way his legs are parted so House can stand between them, warm hands on his back pressing him closer, warm lips over his own. It’s obvious that House has been working his way through the leftovers and the phrase “tastes like chicken!” jauntily bounds through James’s brain; he’s sure that for a second or two he has the strangest look on his face, torn between shellshock-edged want and hysterical laughter. But it’s a quandary averted, because Greg’s hand is working him through his jeans and he’s just plain gasping, already hard over a grope and a kiss and way too much time wasted on hesitation. Pants parting, lips pressing into empty air, eyes curiously flitting open; Greg’s mouth on him, fuck, starting to suck him off, and he’s got one hand bracing himself upright, the other in Greg’s hair; one glove on the floor, the other still on. Everything happening lightning-fast, rapid-fire flashes one after the other, and he hardly has time to register each sensation as it hits him.

Then House is yanking himself up, head pulling away whiplash-quick when Wilson lets out a soft strangled moan. Almost humorous look of belated “oh, shit” on his face, Wilson can practically see each thought tearing through his head: gone too far, too fast, rode on impulse too long, no backing off now, already got his best friend unzipped, should’ve thought of the consequences beforehand instead of just diving in and hoping nothing screws this up, but too late now. To hell with that. No backing out, not that easily, not after this. Wilson’s tearing off the other glove, both hands grasping his friend’s shoulders, smoothing down over his biceps. “Do it; keep going, please keep going,” voice sounding young and scared in his ears, eyes entreating, nerve endings raw.

Greg’s mouth is wet, eyes wide, looking into his face as if everything will automatically make sense, fall facilely into coherency. “Jesus Christ, James...”

Crushing his lips back against Wilson’s, then, answer enough for both their comforts, fingers twisting in his hair, palm rubbing into his scalp, and Wilson actually whimpers. Greg’s mouth is rough and greedy on his own, his hands are heated when they start smoothing beneath his shirt, not long before both pairs of hands haphazardly twist and tug the cloth over James’s head and it gets tossed over towards the toaster. Warm breath and fascinated fingers mapping his skin—seen it before, but never touched, never dared—and he’s arching into the feel of it like there’s no tomorrow; fingertip rubbing over a nipple in a light circular movement, soft tongue and prickling chin over his chest, teeth closing, mouth working, sucking lightly just above the collarbone, breath rasping in his ears, through his teeth. Reciprocity is in order, might as well make it good, compensate for doing nothing but sitting and shuddering dumbly, not that Greg’s complained about it. So he skates one hand down over the crotch of House’s jeans, a tiny unidentifiable sound squeezing free from his throat when Greg’s breath rushes out and he pushes his hips forward into the contact.

Indication of encouragement, definitely; work his way down, over forehead and earlobe and down Greg’s rough neck, laving his tongue over the grittiness underneath his chin and the smoothness of his throat. Eyes closed, face definitely warmer than usual, recalling the brief, intense feel of Greg’s mouth on him. And then Greg, always intuitive, has one lithe hand smoothing down over his stomach and wrapping around him, fingers of the other slowly tapping down his spine until he’s not so sure he can keep himself upright and if he ends up flopping over onto the kitchen floor that’s bound to be a mood-killer, so… “Y-y’think we could go in the other room?”

Doesn’t call it a bedroom, not his room, not the room he shares with his wife, but he can tell House knows, catches the smaller insinuation along with the more pressing one. Catches it and doesn’t say a word at first, just looks at him intently—doesn’t meet his eyes for very long, but nods, kisses him lightly, gripping his arm above the elbow, then above the wrist, and starts to move. Slap of rubber soles on tiling, clack of a cane collected from beside the sink, sharp intake of breath when Wilson urges the hold on his wrist down a few inches until he’s clutching House’s fingers like his life depends on it. It feels like his hand (could be both their hands) is shaking, but he’s too distracted by vertigo to tell and just chooses not to believe it on the basis that it seems a little too much like something out of a romance novel. Not that it matters; it’s an almost innocent gesture, but there’s no escaping the fact that the grip is a little too hard, knuckles white. Greg’s face is a mirror image of the emotions he’s sure are playing across his own, guileless and almost unnerved, tongue rapidly flickering out to wet his lips. James is torn between feeling anticipatory and vulnerable—Greg is fully dressed, while he’s bare-chested and exposed, pants still open and only hastily hitched back up; he ends up pressing a kiss to the corner of Greg’s mouth as they step through the door.

Sunlight filtering through the curtains there, bed large and perfectly made and neatly driving the fact of the matter home, framed photographs on shelves and jewelry boxes on the bureau driving another fact home, reminding them both just whose room this is. Plenty of fodder for second thoughts, but House is detracting from the awareness very nicely by pulling his T-shirt over his head almost defiantly, looking at Wilson afterward as if he’s expecting the latter to babble out some excuse about needing to go pick up the dry cleaning. Easy enough, at least, to lay that trepidation to rest. Wilson just steps in closer, draws a finger down the center of his chest, light and slow, taking in the texture of skin and muscle and wiry hair. And again, tonguing his way down this time, stomach muscles tightening under his touch. Again, and before he knows it he’s well on his way to getting on his knees and can’t think of a single reason why he should stop himself. Doesn’t have to think at all, then, because Greg’s hands are on James’s hips, pushing the already unfastened pants down, boxers on but rumpled, James stumbling out of his shoes as Greg steps out of his own. Greg’s hand is hesitant on his waist. “So. You’re not gonna cry to Julie that I forced my evil will on you?”

“It’s been a while since we had a good conversation,” he says dryly.

Evidently it occurs to Greg that mentioning the wife of the person he’s been going down on and is presumably about to have sex with isn’t the brightest of ideas. “Talking too much,” he grumbles, but it lacks any real conviction and it’s hard to understand him anyway with his mouth sealing over the side of James’s neck, and they’re both eyeing the flawlessly made bed as if it’s going to eat them alive if they get too close.

James moves first—it’s his bed, damn it—shifting on top of the covers until he’s lying on his back, fists and eyes involuntarily closing. He must look like he’s facing a firing squad because Greg, sliding up after him, laughs into his ear and makes some crack about thinking of the Empire. When James’s lips quirk ruefully and he slits open his eyes, he catches a glimpse of Greg looming over him, hands braced, tongue warmly laving over a nipple, and they just instantly slip closed again as he arches his back. Bedside manner notwithstanding, House knows a thing or two about putting a person at ease, because his hand is on James through his boxers again, thumbing over hardened flesh through damp, soft fabric before so, so slowly working them down to his thighs and working his mouth lower. Curiously flicking tongue, moist suction, hand still encircling the base of him, and James is breathing out slowly and heavily, almost like a sigh of relief. He’s hard-pressed to convince himself he’s not having a particularly sophisticated wet dream, that he’s not going to wake up on the couch in his office and have to see if he has an extra pair of pants to last him the rest of the night.

Enough time spent writhing into the sensation and he’s persuaded, or at least reconciled to the fact that it’s not worth contemplating. Hands clenching at Greg’s hair, shoulders, and the increasingly mussed blankets, then urging Greg up entirely because there’s not a chance he’ll be able to speak properly otherwise. Not that this is proving much better. “Want to…you…want.” Greg’s looking on with amused tolerance and James just hopes it comes off as more endearing than irritating that he’s getting all red and awkward just trying to say this.

Greg tilts his head inquisitively. “Want what? Pizza? Eternal glory? New wallpaper? ‘Cause I’m sorry, but silver is one thing and climbing ladders is another, and picking out wallpaper together is kind of gay, don’t you think?”

All James can do is shove him back down, smile twitching his mouth, eyes narrowed. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” gasping when Greg takes him in harder and deeper than before. Funny, he’d always assumed the man was straight, considering every relationship he’s been aware of House having has been with a female, not to mention mentally emphasizing his friend’s heterosexuality was always one of the most effective methods of derailing certain lines of thought. But now, however, he’s just not sure, to the point that he’s wondering just how many opportunities he missed by toning down his optimism, since Greg’s really not bad at this—tongue curling and rubbing against the underside of his cock just so, James letting out a sound both incoherent and encouraging—really, really not bad at this. But then, House always was quick on the uptake, and he makes a mental note to grill him later. For now, though… “Wa-want to do this, to you.”

Greg tenses up, and when he pauses again his voice is rushed and raspy around the usual jibing tone. “Little busy here. Don’t think an interruption would be taken kindly, and I don’t want to compromise my reputation as a people pleaser.”

Wilson hesitates, clenching and unclenching his fists, wetting his lips, forcing his eyes to settle on Greg’s face. “What about your reputation as a multitasker?” And nothing but flat-out gorgeous, the second that implication sinks in and Greg’s eyes grow gratifyingly wide, eyebrows straining towards his hairline. James is grinning, lightheaded, ridiculously proud of this small victory. He sits up, reluctantly forcing himself to relinquish contact with Greg’s mouth, and his voice is lower than usual. “Take your damn pants off.”

Just to make sure Greg gets the message, he shifts down towards the foot of the bed to move things along, and it’s enough of a struggle just getting his own boxers the rest of the way off, but he manages after nearly falling on his face as they catch around his ankles. Glint of amusement in Greg’s eyes, glint of a belt buckle, defiantly unfastened by James’s hands, and suddenly nothing’s funny at all anymore. Rustle of denim, let House shove the pants down past his knees before Wilson reaches out and works them off the rest of the way. The scar…yeah, the scar; seen it before, always edging beneath the surface of Greg’s every gripe. Nothing he’s not expecting, that’s for damn sure; hard to forget, most days. More interested in the areas he’s less familiar with, hard flesh and a stomach that shudders when he brushes the backs of his nails below the navel. Don’t give House a chance to get surly, just ignore the concave tissue entirely and immerse himself in the latter.

He keeps himself busy by mouthing over stomach and hips, which House, though silent, seems to appreciate, at the same time thinking distantly they should probably be starting out with something a little less ambitious. But he’s gone over this in his mind many a time and besides, the last time they saw a movie he’d bought the popcorn, so he figures they’ve been through all the boring formalities since they’ve known each other and can skip straight to the wild sex now anyway; they’ve earned that right. Up again, mouths rough on each other, Greg’s hands in his hair, dragging him down, his hand on Greg, thumb circling, palm sliding. Burn of short stiff hair rubbing against his face, sharp gratified gasp sending warm breath soothingly over it, himself involuntarily responding in kind.

House’s voice, tongue, at his ear, steady but more gravelly than usual: “’m all about multitasking. C’mon,” and James is pretty sure he must look scandalized and eager at the same time, in spite of being the one who brought up the idea in the first place. He’ll work through it.

Talking is suddenly a lot more difficult than it was a few minutes ago, so he just nods, wets his lips, and starts to move. Knees brushing shoulders, body bending, hoping to God this actually works out while also doing his best not to think too long or hard about how other, more significant things are going to work out. It takes a little cursing and shifting before they settle things into working order, erection flagging slightly in the meantime, face feeling hot enough to set his hair on fire. Hard to focus at first, given the initially uneven rhythm, and James is starting to think this really wasn’t the best choice when everything starts sliding into place. There’s a long, rough hand on him, his own tongue lapping almost nervously before his mouth parts open further, and…yeah; they’re resourceful, they can do this.

He still can’t help his nervousness about the precariousness of the positioning, hasn’t done it since shortly after graduation, no clue if Greg ever has—it never exactly came up in conversation—but they’re muddling through well enough, all things considered, or at least without horribly embarrassing themselves, and if nothing else it’s easy on Greg’s leg. And then Greg’s letting him slip from his mouth for a moment and the next thing he knows there’s a wet finger probing further back between his legs, licked into slickness, and he’s lifting his head and crying out before he can stop himself—an aborted yelp, but a yelp nonetheless—and Greg is hesitating. Damn, damn, damn; either go without or spell it out, but it’s not as if Greg can see how red his face is, not as if there hasn’t already been enough crossing of lines and testing of limits, so: “No—“ Greg taking that the wrong way, pausing completely; damn it. Grit his teeth, voice cracking a little when he takes another stab at clarity. “No, I didn’t mean…can you…go ahead.”

Dark, surging heat undulating through his body as the finger continues inching into him and he tries not to forget about getting Greg off as well—curves his tongue, flexes his fingers, the works, all he can do with his head as light as it is, not sure this is happening, here, in his house, on Julie’s side of the bed. Then Greg’s finger curls inside him and all he can do is groan, hands digging hard into the mattress. The mechanics never work out quite right in this without practice, and Greg’s getting the short end of the stick, but he’ll make up for that, they have time. For now, just focus on not collapsing or doing anything too awkward, don’t think too hard about the fact that it’s Greg’s mouth on him, Greg’s finger working inside him, eliciting an impressive variety of mildly embarrassing and wholeheartedly appreciative sounds. Don’t think too hard or think about nothing else but that; he can’t decide which one is more healthy, but it’s not worth deliberating because nothing with House is ever cut and dried, he knows this, and then he can’t think of anything and it’s too fucking nice to bother deliberating at all.

Inhale, exhale, blink his way back down. Force himself to shift around so he can fall over onto his back instead of onto Greg, head turning automatically, gracelessly catching his breath, hot and rapid in the hollow of House’s neck. He’s determined to finish what he started, make up for falling behind, and begins wondering if it’s too soon or too tasteless to see about getting fucked. Greg has a hand around himself and is looking at him pointedly, albeit with a hint of indulgence and something both unfamiliar and exhilarating, Jesus, stroking himself, and James moves determinedly back down to finish the job properly. He’s got condoms somewhere, not that he’s had any use for them in this house lately, lotion in the bathroom, but a bigger part of him doesn’t want to leave Greg’s side, half-afraid he’ll come back and find he’s disappeared, reassessed the situation and limped away as fast as he can. Still, he starts stuttering out this information, and there’s Greg’s mouth quirking, one hand easing through his hair, pressing his head back down, indication that breaking for conversation isn’t appropriate just now. “Later,” he says, voice low, and Wilson shivers.

Later…tomorrow? This evening? Next year? Eyes narrowed, hair damp and messy on his forehead, he meets House’s gaze just as hard. “Soon,” he insists, and swallows. He’s a little out of practice, but nothing wrong with getting reacquainted with the act. No complaints forthcoming, anyway, so it must be passable. Hand and mouth on him, the other hand sketching a lazy zigzag up his torso to tease and twist at a nipple, lightly scratching back down to curve over a hipbone, making Greg arch and tense as if there’s a wave of warmth rippling through him. Ease up a bit, glide his tongue over the head, and when Greg comes he’s so busy staring at the way his neck arches and his hands tighten in the covers that he chokes and has to pull back and swipe a corner of the blanket up to cover his mouth in an effort to keep from looking completely hopeless. Greg doesn’t seem to care, is actually looking quite content, eyes barely open, one corner of his mouth barely curved. Too sated to be worried, already done and over, and he lazily twists to face House, giving him a kiss that tastes awful and feels wonderful.

No conversation now either. His eyes are closed, the bed is an absolute mess, and there’s an arm thrown haphazardly over his stomach—more possessive than pliant, but strangely endearing, though damned if he’s ever using that word out loud to House’s face. Funny things, priorities. After a while, he ventures a glance at House, meeting unblinking, heavy-lidded eyes. “You realize you’ve wasted a lot of boring afternoons by not trying this method out sooner.”

“You realize this really isn’t going to score you any brownie points with your wife.”

“I tried,” he says. Which is true, because he did, this time. He really did. Kept things in his pants, in his mind, but Julie’s not stupid. He got a hint things were going wrong months ago when she suggested spicing things up with a third party and seemed to watch his reaction a little too closely when they deliberated between female and male. He never was sure if she’d meant it or if it had all been a test, and at the time he’d done his best to laugh off the notion completely.

Teeth on his earlobe, effectively derailing an onslaught of pensiveness. House knows how his mind works a little too well sometimes, but that doesn’t mean they have to talk about it. “Any manly household chores left on the agenda?”

“Laundry, looks like.” Half-smiling, shoulders involuntarily lifting. “Probably a shower.”

House exaggeratedly raises his eyebrows and Wilson feels himself grinning back like an absolute idiot.

It gets him a smirk and a slowly shaking head. "You're pathetic," House declares, and Wilson shrugs good-naturedly.

"Hasn't scared you off yet, has it?"

"Please. You're gonna have to try way harder."

Wilson pulls a pillow under his head and decides he can live with that. Wherever it ends up going.


( 67 comments — Leave a comment )
Page 1 of 2
<<[1] [2] >>
Dec. 9th, 2006 09:35 pm (UTC)
A+. Rushing off somewhere, no time for longer comment, so just A++++++++++++++++++++++++
Dec. 10th, 2006 10:49 pm (UTC)
Awesome first review. Thank you.
Dec. 9th, 2006 09:37 pm (UTC)
Fucking hell. *memories*
Dec. 10th, 2006 10:51 pm (UTC)
Aaaand it's memory-worthy! *grins* Thanks.
Dec. 9th, 2006 09:42 pm (UTC)
Oooh, this is gorgeous-the characterizations are spot on, and the sex is hot and realistic. *Sighs happily*
Dec. 10th, 2006 11:18 pm (UTC)
Whew. It's relieving to hear the characterization isn't completely off, since House is kind of a bitch to write and this is my first real effort at trying it. If they're going to have impulsive and slightly awkward sex while the wife is away, they can at least do it with some vestiges of accuracy. *smiles*
(no subject) - empressaurelius - Dec. 10th, 2006 11:39 pm (UTC) - Expand
Dec. 9th, 2006 10:28 pm (UTC)

Wonderful. IC. And totally hot.
Dec. 10th, 2006 11:19 pm (UTC)
Thanks very much; glad you liked it. Lovely icon, also.
Dec. 9th, 2006 10:41 pm (UTC)
Oh my. This was spectacularly hot. And really well done. Like, showing and not telling and just... yum.
Dec. 10th, 2006 11:22 pm (UTC)
Thank you! I'm not a huge fan of technical "point A to point B" smut; I think it's more fun leaving some things to the imagination if that can be done without completely losing the mood.
Dec. 9th, 2006 11:15 pm (UTC)
Love your writing style! Nice job; looking forward to reading more from you!
Dec. 10th, 2006 11:25 pm (UTC)
The current project is being difficult--don't you hate it when you start out with femslash and it turns into a really verbose threesome?--but I've got some other works in progress that should eventually see the light of day. *smiles*
Dec. 9th, 2006 11:35 pm (UTC)
This is very, very good - the first fic I've read where reading 'James' and 'Greg' instead of 'Wilson' and 'House' doesn' detract at all from the piece.

VERY good.

Dec. 10th, 2006 11:32 pm (UTC)
That used to be a huge pet peeve for me, the use of first names, since it doesn't really fit canonically. I'm never sure if House is being serious when he calls Wilson Jimmy (though I like to think he is because it's strangely adorable), and I don't think Wilson has ever called House by his first name. They're used to going by their surnames with each other, given that they work together, but I imagine that, considering they've known each other for a while, the habit could loosen up every now and then.

And there's also the fact that narratively calling them sometimes by their first names and sometimes by their last names prevents me from trying to get in a little more variety by starting in on epithets, which never ends very well. But whichever.

This has gotten kind of long...erk. Thank you for reading!
(no subject) - asynca - Dec. 10th, 2006 11:40 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - recrudescence - Dec. 10th, 2006 11:53 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - asynca - Dec. 11th, 2006 12:17 am (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - recrudescence - Dec. 11th, 2006 12:23 am (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - asynca - Dec. 11th, 2006 12:43 am (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - recrudescence - Dec. 11th, 2006 01:14 am (UTC) - Expand
Dec. 10th, 2006 01:19 am (UTC)
and breathe...
i love smut that lets you fill in the blanks.

Dec. 10th, 2006 11:37 pm (UTC)
I like that kind of thing, too, and I've found it's more fun to write. I've also found I fail at being horribly explicit when I'm writing solo, so this is my happy medium.
(Deleted comment)
Dec. 10th, 2006 11:37 pm (UTC)
w00t! Thankya.
Dec. 10th, 2006 05:17 am (UTC)
I had a feeling this was going to be great when I read your summary, and you didn't disappoint. This is one of the longest, hottest sustained H/W sex scenes I've read, with extra credit for moments where things in bed aren't perfect. Fantastic build-up, spectacular payoff, and most of all, wonderful writing the whole way through.
Dec. 10th, 2006 11:40 pm (UTC)
Heh. Funny, that, since I hate coming up with summaries. I guess it's hard to go wrong with the phrase "pretty much porn," right? And, oy, high praise and extra credit (perpetually perfect sex bugs me, too). *blushes*
(no subject) - bironic - Dec. 11th, 2006 12:07 am (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - recrudescence - Dec. 11th, 2006 05:05 am (UTC) - Expand
Dec. 10th, 2006 05:23 am (UTC)
That was amazingly hot. Wow.

I needed that.
Dec. 10th, 2006 11:42 pm (UTC)
Happy to be of service. *tips hat*
Dec. 10th, 2006 07:59 am (UTC)
Brilliant, as always. And so hot.
Dec. 10th, 2006 11:42 pm (UTC)
*grins* Thanks very much.
Dec. 10th, 2006 08:16 am (UTC)
:: This user can't reply at the moment, and will get back back to you when she can breathe normaly again.
Dec. 10th, 2006 11:42 pm (UTC)
No problem. I'm flattered that I merit the use of this icon.
Dec. 10th, 2006 09:45 am (UTC)
*iz ded*

Very very lovely!
Dec. 10th, 2006 11:44 pm (UTC)
Eep! *wrings hands and orders a lumbar puncture or something*

Thank you!
Dec. 10th, 2006 02:07 pm (UTC)
Guh. That was extraordinarily hot.
Dec. 10th, 2006 11:46 pm (UTC)
Glad you liked it. *smiles* It was also extraordinarily annoying to write; for a while I got stuck at "take your damn pants off" and didn't know where to go from there.
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