Disclaimer: Playing with my House and Wilson dolls.
A/N: Spanish translations at the bottom of the page.
Enjoy!
b prepared for 4 hot lips
House traces a finger along his mouth, and snaps shut his cell. This last text message is enough to bring him to his feet and grab his backpack. Without saying a word, he flourishes his cane in mock salute, and leaves the children to piece together the diagnosis. Competition and sexual tension can only hold his attention for so long, especially when Wilson's at home and pumping out teasing texts throughout the day.
As soon as he pushes open the front door, a steamy, out-of-this-world aroma assails House's senses. Before he can close it, Wilson, red-faced and sweaty from the kitchen, does it for him, and pins House against the door—an arm on each side of his head. Caught by surprise, House is under attack. Moist hungry kisses tingle his lips. House licks his mouth and catches a hint of jalapeño before a tongue pries inside his, searching and exploring with feathery caresses, leaving behind a whiff of cilantro and spice. At the same time, nimble fingers undo buttons, then snake under his t-shirt. They ghost over his chest and stomach, arousing him.
Whispered words flutter next to House's ear, Wilson's lips are so close each syllable tickles his earlobe like a butterfly's wing. A flirtatious, "Te quiero" is followed by a sultry, "Te amo." He toes off his shoes as he hears his belt slither through his pant loops, and the barely perceptible zizz of tiny metal teeth. House involuntarily holds his breath as hands alternately knead and pinch his buttocks. Wilson guides him with small pushes and pulls into the great room, babbling while nipping and sucking at at House's biceps and shoulders. Wilson's erection is grinding into House's growing one, sending achingly sweet messages up his spine.
House never saw Wilson like this. The careful lover has turned into a color-blind Mexican cabbie recklessly driving through stop signs and lights. He's a two dollar hooker stoked on peppers and garlic. House and his leg thoroughly approve.
By the time they near the kitchen island, Wilson has them both stripped naked. The chatter never stops pouring from his mouth. House catches stray phrases, "Esta noche," and "Tengo celos," as they blindly bump into hall walls. A man possessed, Wilson never stops ravishing him with mellifluous and voluptuous vowels. Wilson's Spanish is not worth a damn in the clinic, but now, he wields the Romance language like his own personal aphrodisiac. Not the time to be distracted, House files the conundrum for later.
Even when he hears Wilson declare, "Quiero a tu bebé," House's ardor never falters. He's more interested in estimating the distance to the nearest bedroom. When he's sure they are never going to make it, he slams Wilson against a load-bearing wall. Wilson is oblivious and never stops his commentary. More phrases come quick and fast. Quickandfast. Quick and…Quick! Qui…!
A manly, unintelligible shout wrenches from House as Wilson yells, "Madre de dios!"
Music plays in the background. House is too tired to complain about Wilson's mixtape of Latin love songs, even with the preponderance of Ricky Martin. His back against the mattress, he contemplates the ceiling while Wilson putters in the kitchen. He turns on his side when Wilson pads into the bedroom, barefoot and bare bottomed, wearing nothing but Spongebob oven mitts, and holding onto an iron pot. Wilson rocks the bed as he climbs onto the covers and sits cross-legged, steadying the Dutch oven with his knees.
"Comfort Food," Wilson murmurs. "Chile verde." He offers House the first taste.
House shifts into sitting position and takes the wooden spoon from Wilson's hand. A chunk of pork breaks apart into savory, juicy threads on his tongue.
House withholds a smile. At last, Fred Mertz has replaced Zorro. He admits to himself that he enjoyed the evening, but prefers the status quo for the long-run.
Feeling magnanimous, he only eats two spoonfuls of the stew to Wilson's one before passing back the utensil. When House has enough, he puffs up his pillows and flops back onto them. He emits a long and multi-syllabic belch to signal his satisfaction.
Wilson accepts the accolade with a contented sigh, moves the pot to the floor, and stretches out next to him.
House steals a glance at Wilson. He looks far too complacent, his left hand idly twirling his wiry pubic hair into ringlets. There are no signs in the foreseeable future of Wilson offering an explanation. House settles into the bed. He's going to have to figure out Wilson's behavior on his own—an added perk to the evening.
His mind roams through his mental dossier of Wilson… there is only one kind of Spanish Wilson understands…
"You caught up on your telenovelas today, didn't you? What happened?"
"I told you." Wilson answers.
House just stares.
After a lengthy pause, Wilson raises his eyebrows in surprise, and props himself up on his elbow. "What did you think I meant when I said I wanted your baby?"
"You wanted my dick."
Wilson's mouth forms a small 'oh' before he nods his assent. "I did." His free hand reaches out and circles House's nipple. "Could be we both were distracted."
House shifts on his side, making Wilson's job easier. "How about if you start from the beginning and tell it to me again?"
.
.
Phrases used and translated to the best of my knowledge and the assistance of my friends:
Bésame Mucho, by Consuelo Velasquez. Means: Kiss me a lot.
Te quiero = I like you / I want you
Te amo = I love you
Esta noche = This night
Tengo celos! = I'm jealous
Quiero a tu bebé = I want your baby
Madre de dios = mother of god