Yvi

Title: Frigiferous
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 3,369

Summary: Wherein...hell, this is just flat-out porn. I can say no more. Co-starring rimming and the abuse of ice cubes.

Notes: Written for prompt 131 at get_house_laid: House/Wilson -- the hottest day of the year.





He comes out of the shower and half expects to evaporate on the spot. Towel off anyway, like a good creature of habit, grimace under too-stifling terrycloth, then yank on an undershirt and a pair of shorts. It’s not doing any good—humid, no breeze whatsoever, sun blazing down and the apartment soaking up all the heat it can. He’d been idiotic enough to compare the place to an oven, and when House had grinned and started up with “So, what’s the difference between a Jew and—“ Wilson had cut him off with “A Jew can withhold sex,” and stalked into the bathroom.

The thing is, he can only avoid House for so long while he’s hoarding all the portable fans in the bedroom.

Nothing on TV, no breeze through the open windows, no ice in the freezer. He stands in front of the open door for a good minute or two anyway, reveling in the cold blast of air. It’s too lazy a day to go anywhere even though the air conditioning won’t be fixed till Tuesday. He could go run errands, or to a movie, or out for dinner—anywhere air conditioned—if it weren’t too hot to walk, too hot to eat, and he and House weren’t both marinated in sweat and sulkiness from bickering most of the day. Sticky and squirming for a few minutes because the couch is leather and the additional heat is making him even more irritable. Jab one final time at the remote, pry himself off the cushions, glancing towards the bedroom but still determined to keep enough distance between them to circumvent any more blowups.

Wilson goes down the hall anyway, exasperated to find House sprawled out with the missing ice bucket, eyes closed, a cube settled in the hollow of his neck. “H…ouse?” Vowels getting all mangled and muzzy thanks to the whirring fans.

“It’d probably tear open too many old wounds to suggest getting a hotel room, right?” House mutters without opening his eyes, skin glistening with sweat and melted ice.

Wilson sighs. There’s already a patch of dampness behind his head.

“Bed’s a mess anyway,” House says preemptively, lifting a shoulder and not appearing to notice when the ice spills onto the covers.

“I don’t want to sleep on a soggy mattress.”

“Fortunately, I know a guy who can clean it.”

“I hope you know a guy who’s going to pay for it.”

“Don’t be a pansy. It’ll dry in two seconds. This kind of thing happens when it’s two hundred degrees. I swear they covered that on the Magic School Bus once.” The previous week, House had rigged the V-chip to block every channel except QVC and WETA and been delighted to find Wilson sitting raptly on the couch as Ms. Frizzle orchestrated a field trip into outer space. He’d gotten an unholy amount of amusement out of it for a guy who Tivoed SpongeBob.

He clears his throat pointedly enough to drive the message home whether House looks at him or not. “We don’t both have to go to a hotel.”

“Yeah, I miss room service too. Go do something useful, hm?”

It’s more resigned than vituperative. He can deal with that. Wilson goes into the bathroom again and comes back with towels. “Move.” With minimal assistance from House, he layers them underneath him.

“So not the room service I had in mind.”

“I’m not really up for hand-feeding you frozen grapes and wiping the manly sweat from your brow, sorry.” He surveys the bed, pursing his lips when House settles another ice cube onto his chest, rivulets slipping down his sides almost immediately. “It’d probably be smarter to get a tarp or something…”

“We’re not camping, for Christ’s sake.”

Giving up, Wilson shrugs and flops down next to him. House theatrically pops open one eye. “Explain to me why you’re wearing a shirt?” Deftly lifting a new ice cube and pressing it to Wilson’s nipple through the flimsy cloth.

Wilson rolls his eyes. It feels nice, but they aren’t that sensitive and House knows it. “You’ll have to try harder.” So House does, which he really should have foreseen, because the next thing Wilson knows there’s a handful of ice getting shoved down his shorts and he’s practically caterwauling.

Hair humidity-fluffed on the crown and wetly slicked against his forehead, pop of an elbow as House stretches out like a large cat. “That was entertaining for all of one point three seconds.” A hot-damp arm settles uncomfortably over Wilson’s stomach like the coil of a boa constrictor. “Wanna do it?”

Wilson harrumphs and scoots over, fitful from the weather and the fact that thrashing around to get the ice out of his underwear only sent another sheet of heat rocketing through him. Too hot for sex, even, and he mumbles something along those lines as he turns onto his side, pawing House’s hand away when it undoes his shorts and slips inside.

Undeterred, House keeps fiddling at his waistband. “I don’t think you’ve ever withheld sex in your life.”

And what the hell, he lets House keep at it, lifts enough for him to work them off until he’s bare; it really is cooler that way and it’s not as if he hasn’t had plenty of practice at tuning him out. “I don’t think you could even if you wanted to. You like showing off how amazing you are in bed.” It’s spoken far too earnestly to be sincere, because House going out of his way to sound honest is one of the most hopeless endeavors in the world. Wilson can’t keep back a snort. It’s warm and muggy having flesh against his own and when House trails an ice cube over his hip this time, he grabs it before it goes any lower. “C’mon,” House complains, as if he doesn’t have a mental Fort Knox of alternate molestation tactics, “be a man and fight back.”

So he strips off his shirt because he knows House is watching and because it’s ridiculous to have it on without anything on his lower half—it makes him feel like a toddler or Winnie the Pooh or something—and lays the ice cube in House’s navel. “A real man knows when to walk away from a fight.” He lies back down and doesn’t even pretend not to expect it when House kisses him.

It’s playful and overheated, near overwhelming, and somewhat rough since of course House hasn’t bothered to shave lately. He’ll bring that up when he has the energy for all the inevitable badinage. Lazy-muggy for now, everything sweat-dabbed, all heat-blanketed indolence with the fans vainly trying to waft enough of a breeze across for it to matter.

He cups House through his boxers anyway, undulates against him even though it’s more inconvenient a position than anything, but at least they aren’t hurling insults. House’s breath catches and Wilson grins—logistically, no matter how much the temperature rises, the room will seem much more tolerable by comparison once they’re done. Slick his tongue over ridges of teeth, keeping his touches above the waist till House is completely hard and, as usual, seeing House aroused gets him there too whether he was in the mood or not. As if being able to do this to House is some sort of a privilege his body automatically has to acknowledge. Not that House is ever hearing a word of that.

“Actually,” he begins, hovering a hand over House’s groin without actually touching anything, unable to resist a glance at the tormented expression twisting those raw-boned features, “real men probably aren’t sup—“ He’s cut off when House’s mouth seals over his own. House kisses like a teenager when he’s like this, hard and sloppy and uninhibited, and Wilson curves into every second of it like a plant soaking up sunlight.

“’Real men do men.’ Sounds good to me. Bumper-sticker worthy.” Line-pleated forehead, bare chest heaving, boxers slipping halfway down to ring his thighs, red-curving erection nudging eagerly at the cloth. “Wilson…”

Tug-wrench, pull them off because House either doesn’t have a clue how he sounds or he knows way too well and plans to milk it for all it’s worth. Free his skin to the cooler air, make it a moot point anyway by shifting himself until his knees are pushing into the covers on either side of House’s legs. Jaw slack, gasping every hot breath into that mouth, slickfirm press and push of thin lips and yielding tongue, each movement under him hard and rolling and craving some kind of touch. Sweat-streamed temples, open lips, hissing and shuddering at the feel of ice being drawn down his back, and yeah, it’s refreshing and all, but that…oh, that makes anything fair. fucking. game.

Rattle and faint screech of ice cubes against plastic and each other, dip his hand down to the bottom where he can feel cold water, pass shimmering fingers over his own nape before determinedly taking some ice of his own. He can feel House’s smirk before he even looks down with raised brows, feel that long form stretching out a little more underneath him, anticipating. “Wait, I thought you knew when to walk away?”

The ice is melting fast, faster still when he traces it over a sweat-beaded collarbone, and House curses even though he clearly knew it was coming. Down: flatly over the sternum, skirt the navel, in the grooves of hipbones. One slippery fragment skitters out of from between his fingers, settling in scar tissue. House writhes a lot for someone so quick to combat one extreme with another. Wilson would feel triumphant if the air didn’t seem almost too thick to breathe.

Huff of impatience, shift of the mattress, a hand in his half-dried hair as House stretches up to urge his head back down. Cup his own hand further back between House’s legs, sending him falling back onto his forearms, eyelids flickering wildly and an unformed sound catching in his throat. Body bowing as Wilson palms a few new pieces, taking the time to bite delicately into the flushed curve of an ear until he hears a high, closemouthed noise that still sounds suspiciously like a supplication.

The ice slivers go gliding over House’s skin like small silvery boats: dipping low, sinking over his abdomen, down the crevices between body and thigh, trails of cool water dripping down, disappearing into the rumpled blankets and dark stiff hair. Follow the paths with his tongue and fingertips over sweethotsquirming flesh, relish the head-to-toe bucking he gets for finally tightening a fist around House’s cock. Rub the cold blunt tip of an ice cube into the slit with his other hand, melting and mingling with warm-smearing fluid there, streaking and dripping on his stomach, and House is arching up too erratically for him to focus on teasing for much longer. Draw back, draw a breath, watch wide-eyed, House gasping and leaking a little more, swearing when Wilson’s tongue deliberately licks there—earthy-bitter tang on his tongue, House pushing and wriggling into his touch, flesh burningpulsing in his hand, fingers slippery and soiled. Too damned stifling for this, but nothing can come close to the way House nearly growls as Wilson sucks him slowly and deeply…and then just as slowly stops.

Take another of the nearly-melted ice shards, aware of glittering eyes watching his every move. Slowly drawing the flat of it along House’s ribs till his stomach is glittering with droplets. Up over each nipple, taking his time there, noting the darker flesh stiffen even more, continuing to circle one while gradually lapping against the other before sucking it deliberately into his mouth. Skate his free hand over House’s hips and stomach, at the last second grasping his cock with freezing fingers, and House breathes out hard, thrusting up and coming quietly against him with closed eyes. Wilson contently crunches a fresh piece of ice between his teeth.

It takes a minute or two before House slits open his eyes and grimaces. “Have fun sitting there being smug; you’ve got about ten more seconds.” He works a towel out from under his shoulders, dips a corner into the ice bucket to wipe himself off, then draws it over the mess on Wilson’s thighs—House’s standards of cleanliness aren’t quite as abysmal as he lets on. It feels good, ice water against him, dripping and drizzling over his too-heated skin, and he hums and leans a little more into the contact, murmuring incoherently but appreciatively when that cold wet towel molds against his cock and House thoughtfully pumps it once or twice, the edge dragging tantalizingly along his scrotum. Apparently intrigued, House discards the towel and tries the same with an ice cube.

Shiver into the feel of it, sweat still cooling on his body, which can’t seem to decide whether it wants to feel refreshed or overtaxed. Move up a little closer to kiss the incipient half-smile tugging at House’s lips. “Still smug here. Try harder,” and he ends up clenching his jaw against a wail when House bares his teeth and tightens his hand, thumbing just once over the head before letting him go.

Shift to straddle his shoulders instead of his hips now, letting those hands roam more thoroughly, squeezing his ass, a finger now and then pressing gently around the tight clutch of skin, just scarcely massaging enough to stimulate. House’s hands are grasping him by the hips, then, steering him up to coldly tongue the head of his cock, and Wilson squirms. Telltale rattle and scrape of the plastic bucket, and cold hands and water go slipping down his spine, making damp trails from his nape to the cleft of his ass. He can feel his breath picking up; it feels strangely dirty even though it’s nothing but water, and he can’t help trying to get a little friction by rubbing the underside of his cock against House’s chest. Moan quietly when House’s hand probes a little deeper, the ice melted into a small misshapen lump, pressing it there. Wilson crying out, fisting the sheets—huff-laugh, “Oh, no way…”—and going in and House smirking like that’s what he’d planned on all along. The fucker.

Sitting up a little straighter, clenching suddenly, flushing, gaping, feeling it move. A high hum escaping him, interrupting his indignant “Did you just stick an ice cube—” before he can get the first word out. House skims them up his thighs until he’s trembling, and he’s openmouthed and gasping, can feel it moving deeper inside him. Following it with a slick finger, House keeps an intent watch on his face, and Wilson whines faintly, involuntarily, because water isn’t so much lubricious as it is just plain wet and it’s not particularly comfortable at first. Work through it: buck his hips a little, wriggle until he can urge that finger deeper, and he scoots forward a bit more over House’s shoulders and has him suck him off.

Tries to, at least. House steers clear of his prostate, licks too-lightly at his erection, and Wilson clenches. Cock red and slippery, damply rubbing against his own stomach as he keeps frotting against House’s chest and squirming on his finger, kneading himself in a fist, close, wiry grit of chest hair adding just an edge of roughness, then slipping it back into House’s mouth so he doesn’t come on him. House indulges him for a few moments, not sucking nearly as hard as Wilson would like, then clasps the base of his cock firmly and draws it out, kissing the inside of one thigh when Wilson begins to protest. Somehow, with a little shrugging and a significant cinch of his hand, House maneuvers him off. “Turn over.”

His hips are still snapping forward into pressure that isn’t there anymore, but he manages anyway. House lets him go, popping a couple ice shards into his mouth and sucking so loudly it’s near obscene—no question of near when that tongue licks icy trails down Wilson’s neck, back, thighs. And…God, another one skimming outside him, rubbing against the underside of his cock and then back a little further, the tiny piece of coldness pressed to clamped-tight muscle. “Mm?” House is teasing for all he’s worth and Wilson’s gasping and nodding in reply because damned if thwarting House’s pride is worth it now, and there it is, slipping in.

“I…fuck…I,” he’s babbling without really hearing himself. This time, he can feel it more acutely somehow. Strong, splayed hands on his ass and he’s held the fuck open and it feels incredibly exposed but also incredibly hot, ohfuck, he’s practically whimpering. Cool trickles of fluid escaping down his thigh, hips trying to be still, turning his face into the pillow and moaning, jerking himself off, then not even needing to, just the friction against the sheets enough when his legs give out and he drops from his knees to lying full-length on his stomach.

House is as sedulous and detail-oriented as ever, nose nudging up the back of his knee, scrape of facial hair over shifting tendons, coaxing his legs further apart, lithe velvety texture of tongue edging over skin. He almost misses the sound of House spitting into his hand, but it’s clear enough when damp fingers are slowly pushing in, pumping too shallowly, playing. Withdrawing, too soon, and House moves further back, grunting as he arranges his legs over the footboard. The ice fragment between Wilson’s shoulder blades goes slipping and skimming all down his back, and he’s still trying to remember how to go about getting back onto his knees, but House doesn’t finger him this time. Tonguing flatly, dangerously high between his legs instead, and Wilson’s breathing hitches audibly. He’s shifting and writhing, the remaining ice settled in the hollow of his back now, squirming as cold streams of it drip down his sides. House drags it down, over the backs of his legs, can feel it bracketed by House’s lips when he kisses his hip. Fingers slickly spreading him, his face is positively burning, can feel the ice cube nearly melted, and that gets eased into him as well, hot breath and quickly-warming tongue following in its wake. Pliant, seemingly licking it further into his body, and fuck, that’s intensely intimate and filthy and amazing, though he’s going to throttle House for springing this on him. Later, whenever he can actually move again. “Shit.”

He can feel it when House’s hands tense on his buttocks. “No, seriously, can you be a little more inappropriate?”

Wilson whines with embarrassing need, trying to force himself back into more of that lapsed contact. “Yeah, okay then,” House mutters, sounding a little breathless, and resumes.

Not much needed, at this point. He’s dissolved into inarticulate gasping, stuttered monosyllables. Shove his legs open wider, rocking his hips into the mattress, biting down on the damp pillowcase, twisted sheets rubbing against his slick cock. Warm pulses of liquid are smearing against his body and the sheets, and he keeps shiftmoving even though it makes him hotter and sweatier but there’s still the ice, has to heat up to cool down, hothardsoftslick, hot, ohfuck, hot. He can feel rather than hear when House groans, low and rough and somehow resonating, and that’s all it takes. Every muscle in him clenches and he comes in hot spurts that smudge unpleasantly against his skin, but he can’t care.

He does, however, manage to point a finger in the general direction of the precariously tilted ice bucket. “House, the…thing.”

House grunts, but moves it from the pillows to the floor, and Wilson lets his eyes fall shut. Worn out entirely, squirming into the unexpected but not unpleasant stroke of fingertips down the length of his back, dragging ticklishly over the curve of his ass and kneading briefly into the back of his thigh before House shoves himself to his feet. Wilson stays where he is, sprawled and sated atop damp towels amidst frantically whirling fans. He swears he can hear House gargling ostentatiously in the bathroom over the sound of them anyway. As he slips into sleep, he thinks maybe it feels a little bit cooler now.