Game Plan

by Kass

Very very tangentially related to 1 x 17, "Mob Rules," in which House makes use of football metaphors.

Many thanks to Nestra and Marzilla for looking this one over!

"Remind me again why we're watching this game?"

"I like rooting for the underdog. Makes me feel virtuous. That's why I'm a Jets fan." House crunched a tortilla chip.

Wilson snorted. "They're not the underdog."

House's offended look almost came off as genuine. "The Jets are always the underdog."

"Yes," Wilson said, letting the doubt show, "though isn't this the 2002 AFC East championship game? Which the Jets miraculously won?"

"The Jets beat the Packers? You've ruined the suspense of my game!"

"Give me a break. There is no suspense on ESPN Classic."

"Spoilsport. If you're going to be such a pain, go get me another beer." But House didn't budge from his sprawl across the couch, his legs stretched over Wilson's lap.

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "You want to raise the drawbridge, here?"

House stifled a snicker.

"God, you're juvenile," Wilson said, but he couldn't help smiling.

"Rub my leg, then."

"Because you're juvenile?"

"Because you're not getting me a beer."

"You're so sexy when you're petulant." But Wilson moved both hands to the top of House's thigh and started applying pressure.

House closed his eyes and exhaled long and slow. It occurred to Wilson, not for the first time, how alike pain and pleasure could appear.

"Christ, your adductor's tight." House's inner thigh was like steel cable.

"I know." Through gritted teeth.

Wilson's hands wanted to diagnose; his heart wanted to feel sympathy. Not pity, though sometimes House couldn't tell the difference.

He tried rubbing in a circular motion.

"Yesss," House murmured, eyes still closed.

"Is that for me, or for the field goal?"

"Fuck the field goal."

Wilson unzipped House's jeans.

House opened one eye. "Isn't this where you're supposed to say, 'I'd rather fuck you?'" He looked so smug, lying with his arms crossed behind his head and his t-shirt rucked up a little. And what fucked-up thing did it say about him that he found smugness devastatingly sexy on Greg House?

"I thought it was implied." Wilson tugged at House's waistband. House lifted his hips obligingly, and Wilson pulled his jeans and boxer shorts halfway down his thighs.

Wilson ran his palm down House's erection, and House's eyes fluttered closed again.

"I like this kind of massage," House said, lazily, pushing up into his hand.

"I think we knew that." Wilson was going to say something else, but then House's right hand slipped free from behind his head and came down to meet Wilson's, shaping his grip. When House bucked into their combined grasp Wilson bit back a moan. Suddenly he was rock-hard under the pressure of House's legs across his lap.

He brought his left hand down to rub lightly at House's balls and House groaned, almost too quietly to hear under the televised crowd noise. The sound made Wilson dizzy with desire.

"You like that," Wilson said, unnecessarily. If he didn't say something he might explode, and all kinds of wrong words were battering at the back of his tongue.

"Nngh," House said. Wilson would have laughed except that it was so absurdly hot: the feel of him under their hands, his long legs pinning Wilson to the couch. He started to pull his left hand away, meaning to steady himself on House's good leg, but House's other arm shot out and grabbed him, hand closing around his wrist.

"Don't you dare stop," he bit out, just after his head thunked hard on the arm of the couch. He didn't even seem to notice.

And then his thumb stroked a tiny circle on the sensitive inside of Wilson's left wrist, in time with the rhythm of their hands on his cock.

Wilson bit his lip. He felt tangled, his hands working House and House's hands divided between jerking his own dick and torturing Wilson's forearm with featherlight touches that seemed hardwired to Wilson's erection.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Wilson managed.

"God, please," House said, voice desperate, and that was what did it: he wasn't begging, not exactly, but it was close enough to make Wilson's hands tighten convulsively, and that made House moan, and jerk, and come like crazy.

There was a pause. A set of commercials played, and then the Packers took the field again.

"Um. Hey." Wilson lifted his hips a little to rub his erection against House's thighs.

"Watch the game," House slurred, eyes closed, the picture of post-coital satisfaction.

"Excuse me?"

"All those men in tight pants slapping each other on the ass...."

"Look, you can tell me about your weird Lycra fetish another time," Wilson said. House didn't answer. His face was slack.

"Motherfucker," Wilson muttered, annoyed beyond belief. And then House's eyes opened, and he swung his legs off of Wilson's lap, grinning. "Oh, you bastard."

"Your point?"

Before he could answer, House was palming him through his sweatpants. Wilson's neck really didn't want to hold his head up anymore.

"Come on, now." House's voice was a parody of solicitousness. "Did you really think I would leave you like this?"

House was enjoying this way too much. Wilson was going to tell him so, as soon as he regained the power of speech.

Until House yanked his pants out of the way, leaned over his lap, and slid his mouth over the top of Wilson's cock. With a speed that might have embarrassed him if he'd been thinking clearly, Wilson came in his mouth right that second.

He was dimly aware of House levering himself to standing, yanking his pants up and limping to the bathroom. When he returned he was all cleaned up: new t-shirt, jeans zipped, beer bottle dangling from the hand that wasn't holding the cane.

Wilson opened his eyes. "Don't I get one of those?"

"Last one," House said, brightly.

"Damn." Wilson scooted back to a normal sitting position and tried to focus on the game. Sam Garnes was running back that crazy interception and the crowd was going wild.

"I'm feeling magnanimous," House said. "Under the circumstances, I guess we can share."

(1000 words)

The End