Title: Conversion
Author: julefontane/ anouk zucker
Rating: NC-17, smut
Disclaimer: I become a transparent eyeball; I own nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me - yeah. House belongs to David Shore, lucky guy, David, not House.
A/N: Where there're references to a clear shower curtain, John Steinbeck and the Flintstones.
Some "quality" sex talk *snort*, all smutty, satisfaction guaranteed. Twice.
I imagine House's genuine laugh sounds like Hugh Laurie's, as heard either in Autopsy, season 2 (getting his drink-on with LLCoolJ); or in the season 2 & 3 bloopers; or Distractions, season 2 (van Lieberman lecture). He huffs and scoffs and snorts, of course, but this high pitched chuckle is something else… The quality sex talk is to be read as a dialect, own grammatical rules and all!
Thanks for reading!
Summary: Wilson watches House, it changes him and he remembers something from his childhood.


He gasps and jerks. It's dark. He's in his bed, awake now. Something woke him. He listens. The front door, slamming shut. And there, keys thrown on a table, then the familiar uneven gait of sneakered feet plus cane. He glances at the clock – 2:04 a.m. With a groan he lets his head fall back heavily into the fluffiness of his pillow, kneading his eyes with the heals of his hands. Not the ideal time to be woken.

He listens to House opening the fridge and without a doubt finding the Tiramisu Wilson made as a dessert for dinner, eating it right from the serving dish to save time and dishes, or just for the sake of it. He hears the orange juice container being wrestled out of the door. Again, he doubts House is bothering with a glass, he can practically see him gulp down the juice from the container, chin raised. He sighs; incorrigible.

House must have solved the case; or came home to get some rest while waiting for something to change in the condition of the patient.

Wilson hears House limp into his room next door, hears the clang of the cane being hooked to one of the wall lamps, the thump of sneakers being dumped to the floor carelessly and a muffled sneeze; and another. He smiles to himself. In unguarded moments House's sneezes sounded a tad different from the slightly exaggerated and deliberately thunderous ones in public. Higher in pitch and more subtle, just like his genuine laugh. Wilson loves House's laugh, or rather his chuckle. Wilson can make him laugh that way sometimes, when he is particularly nasty and sarcastic on the expanse of others, or making a fool of himself. They both have to be in the right mood. He couldn't get enough of House's laugh, it's so rare.

He hears the sound of naked feet slapping on the hardwood floor in the direction of the bathroom, hears the rattle of the shower curtain being drawn, the first hiss of water and another sneeze.

He suddenly becomes aware that he's thirsty, his mouth dry from the equally dry air in overheated buildings and the dry, frosty air outside. He gets up and drowsily shuffles into the kitchen. He hesitates, but then takes a glass out and pours some orange juice into it. He takes a sip and marvels at the slightly sweet and sour taste that lets his still sleeping taste buds explode, and at the liquid coolness that quenches his thirst.

He can hear the shower still running; can smell the scent of his own soap waft through the open door. He grabs his glass and a fig from the bowl with fruits and heads for the bathroom. He just wants to ask House if he's OK and maybe use the toilet before heading back to bed.

The bathroom is filled with steam, the mirror fogged. He listens to the uneven splashes of water hitting the shower floor and the curtain, of water collecting in body caverns and then being released in cascades as House runs his hands over his body, soaping up. Wilson leans against the door frame. He can see inside the shower from there. The curtain is transparent, almost as clear as a window pane. He's never really thought about it until now. He can see all of House.

Wilson doesn't move; doesn't make his presence known. He doesn't want to look away, he wants to look at House, wants to watch him, watch over him, see if he's OK. He doesn't want to disturb this moment, House's moment of privacy and peace, but he wants to be there with him, observe him, witness this moment. It calms him, the mundanity of it, the intimacy. He hasn't had this since Amber. Watching someone in the shower, or just be in their presence, or shower together. A shiver runs through him. House.

House is facing the room, eyes closed, his tall, slender form swaying slightly, his hands slowly massaging soap into his short hair, then down his neck, moving his head from side to side. His hands roam over his slightly muscled chest, his flat belly and softer sides, down to his thighs and between his legs. Looking briefly down at himself, he lathers some more soap into his dark pubic hair, gently cups his soft balls and penis and pulls back the foreskin to clean there. He tips his head back under the spray, the tendons in his long neck standing out, foam gliding down his body over soft, gleaming wet skin and light hair, and muscles, and dips, and he is groaning silently, his mouth opening around the sound. He let's his arms fall to his sides and just stands under the hot spray, rolling his head and shoulders to loosen a crick or relieve general tension. His eyes are still closed. He looks tired around the eyes, but not in a bad way. He's exhausted but contented; seems like the case is solved. A little smile settles on House's lips, tugging at one corner of his mouth. Wilson feels warmth spreading through his body, he's so glad he is here with House. To see him without his mask of smugness and snark; naked, unaware, vulnerable. And so beautiful. Wilson feels a pang in his stomach, rushing downward.

Wilson thinks about sex. Sex with House, wondering.

He walked in once on House and Stacy having sex on a 'couple's weekend' in Vermont. It was their last day and his girlfriend had been bitter from the start, because she couldn't stand House's and Stacy's kind of constant carnal courtship and banter. She thought it was Wilson's fault that their nice romantic weekend was ruined by those two impossible sex fiends. Wilson felt sorry for her. He wanted to talk to House and Stacy and barged into their room; House was thrusting deftly with her legs over his shoulders, bent over her, looking into her moaning face. It was harsh and beautiful and sexy. He didn't know if he should be jealous of House or if he was actually jealous of Stacy. It is burned into his memory; also it has been neatly tucked away.

But would he imagine House with Stacy in there, in the shower, or rather someone else. Someone taller and stronger who could do things to House Stacy couldn't; the curtain concealing nothing. A slow burn has settled low in his stomach, warmth pulsating through his body and he feels his calmness dissolve into a sharp arousal as his mind does it for him and sends him the image of another man in there with House, naked, both slick with water, sliding against each other, gasping, House's head thrown back, the other's face buried in his neck.

"What are you doing?" Wilson twitches at the sudden low rumble of House's voice. Silence. The water's been turned off, faucet dripping and Wilson hadn't even noticed.

House looks at him warily, but his gaze lacks fierceness, he's too tired. He has drawn the curtain open, now nothing between them except the humid air. He is unashamed of his nakedness. Wilson feels breathless, the fantasy still lingering. His eyes flick down to House's groin, his scar, then back up again.

"Looking at you." His own honesty surprises him a little, the heat of embarrassment creeping up his skin, mouth dry again.

House's face is unreadable; he nods in the direction of the towel rail and reaches out his arm, no longer looking at Wilson.

"'Pass me the towel?" Wilson stares at him, processing, before pushing away from the door frame, putting down his glass and the uneaten fig.

Wilson pulls the towel from the rail and moves in front of House. They stare at each other. House is dripping wet; skin soft with little crystal drops of water everywhere, eyes no longer unreadable. They are narrowed slightly, in curiosity, the wariness gone.

When House reaches out for the towel, Wilson reaches out for House.

His knuckles brush House's belly, from his navel down, skin on wet, warm skin, the gesture clearly suggestive. House gasps, the muscles in his loins twitching. Wilson lifts his eyes to meet House's.

House's eyes are on his hand, knuckles still resting lightly above the nest of hair. His lips are parted and his breathing shallow. He slowly lifts his eyes, licking his lips, swallowing thickly. A flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Wilson has suddenly never been more certain in his whole life. He leans forward into House's warm, soap-scented aura and lays his cheek against House's. They breathe together, slowly, tentatively rubbing the corners of their mouths together, nuzzling, until House inclines his head ever so subtle and they pull apart for a second to swiftly meet again, lips on lips. Soft and moist, with a hint of Tiramisu and orange juice on them.

Wilson lets his knuckles brush delicately over curls of soft, wiry hair and the silky, hot skin on House's penis, resting there. House's breath hisses through his nose as he gasps. Then he opens his mouth to exhale harshly against Wilson's, and his moan sounds in the silence of the bathroom as Wilson brings one hand to his nape and licks into his mouth, again and again, while caressing House down there with feather light touches. His fingertips fondle the slowly filling penis and sac, the insides of his thighs, marveling at the silky smoothness. All his to touch.

He gently pulls back and looks at House's chest, bringing both hands there to brush over pebbled nipples, hearing House hiss and feel him arch into the touch. He looks up.

"Are you cold? We could…" He whispers close to House's face, inclining his head in the direction of their rooms. He loves to be oh so close and intimate and speaking to House. He shudders as House answers breathily; holding his mouth against House's to feel the words.

"Yeah. Need to lie down." Wilson groans at the sharp arousal flashing through him; the delicate puffs of air, House's lips brushing his, the heady scent, it's all too much; this is House! He grabs House's neck with one hand, slinging his other arm around him, kneading his butt, grinding against him, ravishing House's mouth, making little noises of rapture in his throat. There is a feeling he remembers having as a child when his parents got a kitten for them; it was so sweet, so precious, so vulnerable, so lovely and trusting that he had the simultaneous urge to protect it and to squeeze it to death. His mom read 'Of Men And Mice' to him and he was shocked by Lennie's deeds, of course; later he read an article about Steinbeck saying something about Lennie representing the inarticulate and powerful yearning of all men.

He feels House's hands come up and push at him.

"Wilson!" House has his hands on either side of Wilson's face, looking at him, worried.

"I… Sorry, I… got carried away, I think." He pants and leans his brow against House's cheek, nuzzling his neck. He feels House relaxing, his cheek twitching in a smile.

"Really?" House asks softly, skeptically, but also a tiny bit flattered.

Wilson smiles. "Yeah." He kisses House's chin, his dimples, under his eyes, lingering presses of his lips, whispering. "I want you… so much… watched you in here, hands running over your body…touching yourself everywhere… so beautiful… want you to let me fuck you…please…let me show you… just… how badly I want you… please." He feels House tense and gasp, pulling back slightly. When Wilson meets his bewildered eyes, he can't help but snort a little.

"I'm sorry, again! – Your speechless. That's rare. Bad sign for me?" He breathes heavily.

"It's, …It's OK." House looks down at both of them. "Come on, let's… seal the deal…"

He is on House, thrusting between his long legs, groaning loudly with every stroke, his penis buried in slick, silky heat. It's the luckiest penis in the world. He is holding House's wrists down on either side of his head. Hips alternately snapping in short, sharp thrusts and gliding in long, thorough, deep strokes, Wilson luxuriously lets himself go, driving into this sweet body, feeling him yield underneath him, open up, for his cock to take, the dizzying thought that this was House striking him hard again. He wails at the onslaught of lust that twists his insides and busts his marrow.

House is chanting in a breathless tenor voice in time with Wilson's almost brutal thrusts "ah – ah – ah – " his head tipped back, face shining with sweat, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded, watching Wilson fuck him for the first time. As Wilson picks up the speed he sucks in a breath and whines, spreading his legs wider, hooking them over Wilson's shoulders to let him have his way; he wants him to pound into him, the thought of Wilson's cock inside him, Wilson spurting his semen inside, is making him groan harshly. He feels Wilson go deeper even, making his thrusts longer, he feels Wilson's hand on his face, his lips, just touching, feather light; then he feels his open moaning mouth on his own, just holding there, until both their tongues dart out, licking, twining.

House feels Wilson rub his hand hard down his body, from his mouth, to his thighs, kneading possessively, breath hissing between clenched teeth, snarling even, his thrusts becoming sharper, stabbing him. He whimpers in protest, then hisses, his hands twisting in Wilson's grip. He pants, then finding his voice, thin and breathless and breaking, but there.

"W'lsn, ngh, ah." Wilson immediately stops, wheezing, sputtering.

"DidIhurtyou? Sorry, sorry… jus' you fffeel so good, 'ncredible!" He slowly resumes his thrusting, looking at House.

"'s OK, jus' eeasy… ngh…don't kill me…go…ngh…on."

"S'fuckin' sexy, you talkin' whil-I fuck you."

"Shut up!" Wilson darts down and plunges his tongue into House's mouth, kissing him, feeding on him with new fervor, his lust for House driving him insane, his thrusts quickly becoming erratic and shallow, his penis reveling at the slick, easy slide. He cries out almost in pain as his balls draw up, and the small gland inside him opens the gates for the long strings of come, everything convulsing and pumping to deliver his essence into the hot, wet place inside House.

Wilson collapses, makes pitiful little whimpering noises, his buttocks and pelvic muscles still contracting, shoving his cock into House, flashes of pleasure shooting through him, feeling House beneath him, so smooth and bathed in sweat, his penis trapped between them, still hard.

Wilson pushes himself up on his elbows, kissing House's mouth languidly, kissing and biting down his chest, sliding his hand around his beautiful, straining erection, caressing him. As Wilson carefully lets his penis slip from House's body and reaches between House's legs to gather some of his own semen, he briefly dips two fingers in the hot slickness. House moans and hisses at the slight soreness. Wilson shudders at the thought that he did this, feeling his ego swell. He wraps deft, slick fingers around House, holding him firmly, while lying down next to him, slinging his arm around his neck, facing him. He draws his legs up so his thighs touch House's buttocks. He nuzzles the side of House's face, plunging his mouth, sniffing and biting his neck, while jerking him with long strokes and rubbing his thigh softly against House's balls. He whispers in House's ear how sexy he is, how much he loves fucking him, how good it felt to come inside him, how beautiful he is, how he's going to fuck him again in a moment. He watches House's face, the slack, panting mouth, lips looking all full and smooth, his eyes are closed; intermittent groans escape him, face contorting, until his breathing becomes fast and shallow. Wilson feels the slide of his hand become easier, the Cowper's fluid lubricating it. House thrusts his hips into Wilson's grip, faster, then Wilson hears him make a series of staccato moans, his penis swelling that much more. Wilson looks into House's face, watches it happen as he groans, eyes flying open, searching Wilson's, his wide-eyed, shocked gaze boring into him, the broken "W'ls'n!" whispered, the strings of come dripping on House's chest and belly, the musky scent befuddling, as he comes, convulsing, shuddering, repeatedly.

Wilson kisses House. His lips, slightly dry from panting, his neck covered in saliva; he smells behind his ear, his short hair, still carrying that soapy scent from showering. He wraps himself around House, sighing contently. House's breathing has evened out. He feels House turn his head probably looking at him. For a millisecond he feels like something isn't right, as if he can sense House's doubts, questions, insecurities. He doesn't want to think about tomorrow and what consequences this might have on their lives.

He lifts his head to look at House and meets sleepy blue eyes, smiling blue eyes, slightly-in-awe blue eyes.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to freak out or anything. Your sex mad skills are way cool. So I'm gonna stay." House croaks, voice low and gravelly. Wilson smiles with his mouth pinched together at the compliment. "Although, you're a little possessive…"

"I'm sorry I hurt you, House." He rubs his eyes and sighs noisily, then looks into House's eyes. "Honestly, I don't know what this is about, I'm not that much of a caveman, usually. I'm sorr – "

"Do you want kids?"

"What?? House, we're both – "

"I just wanted to throw you off topic, Fred, don't make such a fuss."

"Thanks, …Wilma, I'm glad. So, Pebbles, Dino and Baby Puss won't get all jealous about new offspring." House laughs, short, light and high; genuine.

"See you at breakfast tomorrow."


They fall asleep within seconds.