FIC: Pizza With a Friend, House/Wilson NC-17
Hurray for 4-day weekends which allow for marathon smut-writing sessions! But don't be fooled into thinking I am a writing machine; I started this one over the summer. I apologize for spelling errors and typos; the Spell Checker is corrupted and doesn't work and the online Spell Checkers don't work so great.
Title: Pizza With a Friend
Author: missviolet
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: PWP, broken Spell Check (sorry, I did the best I could manually!)
Disclaimer: All characters belong to David Shore, Fox, et. al. No infringement or disrespect intended.
Summary: Takes place after “Half-Wit.” House takes up Wilson’s offer of pizza with a friend, and they explore alternatives to getting a pleasure-chip implanted in his brain.
Notes: The first half is House’s point of view, the second half is Wilson’s.
Spoilers: “Half-Wit”
House sat in his armchair, his bad leg propped up on the footstool. His depression was starting to weigh on him, and lately he’d been staying later and later in the office to avoid going home to his dark, empty apartment. He’d dismissed the fellows; their patient was stable, he was 90% sure of the diagnosis, but they would not know if the treatment was going to work until the following morning. There was no point in having them stick around to watch the patient sleep; the nurses could do that. Which didn’t explain why he was still in the office, with the patient’s file in his hand, pretending to himself that there was some sort of work to be done, but there was nothing to do but go home, and that was the last place he wanted to be.
Start small, House. Take a chance. Maybe something that doesn't involve sticking stuff in your brain. Pizza with a friend. A movie. Something.
He remembered the way Wilson had pointed to himself and bowed on the word “friend.” It was an obvious invitation but he’d ignored it, and Wilson left his office with his characteristic mix of disgust and concern for his friend. And on his way home, House had seen his team in the local pub, laughing and smiling together as they ordered dinner. He’d thought of Wilson’s advice, thought about going in, even went so far as to put his hand on the door. But he remembered their reactions when he told them about trying to forge his way into the cancer drug study, and the look of disgust on Cameron’s face, Forearm’s anger, even unflappable Chase looked aghast at his deception. He wanted to take Wilson’s advice, but the fellows could not provide that companionship. Impulsively, he picked up the interoffice phone and called the main desk, requesting a page. Doctor Wilson, report to Diagnostics…
Wilson put down the thermometer he’d just pulled from the child’s mouth. His strep throat wasn’t serious; he quickly wrote the mother a prescription for antibiotics and advised a few days’ bed rest. As he walked out of the clinic, he noted a full waiting room. They’d have to wait a few minutes longer
“What’s up?” he said, poking his head into the glass-walled conference room. The fellows were gone, and House sat at the table with his red coffee mug and a copy of People magazine.
“It’s not leukemia. It’s TSS,” he said. “I haven’t seen a case since that big tampon scare in the 80s. They’re treating her right now.”
“So why did you page me?”
“I wanted to ask you something.”
“Why didn’t you just call?”
“Because you don’t answer when you’re with a patient, and you’re always with a patient.”
“Yes, well, I don’t have three lackeys to do all the grunt work. So what is it? I have to get back to the clinic,” he said impatiently. Sometimes he felt that House had it too good; copping out of clinic duty if his patient wasn’t recovering, mulling over mysterious ailments while the fellows did all the dirty work, leaving plenty of time for napping and watching his soaps.
“What do you think about having pizza with a friend? I heard it’s better than heroin,” said House blithely, but Wilson sensed that his invitation was well-practiced.
“I didn’t say better than heroin. Just a possible alternative to getting a pleasure-chip implanted in your brain. Are you asking me out for pizza?” Wilson was pleased; he’d thought that House had discounted his suggestion altogether, and whenever House took his advice, he felt a strange and inexplicable affection for him.
“In, not out. I thought you could pick up a pie from Nino’s and bring it to my place. And maybe a six-pack or two. I’ll get the movie,” said House.
Wilson thought it was typical of House to spring for the $4 movie and leave him to get the $20 pizza and beer. But he didn’t mind; he was just glad of the invitation. His hotel room wasn’t the coziest place to spend an evening. He’d been restless there, watching too much television, feeling as if his life was too much in transition. Hanging out at House’s place would be a welcome reprieve.
“Fine, but can you rent something without car chases and explosions for once?” House had lowbrow taste in movies.
“All right, just for you, I’ll try to find a chick-flick I can tolerate, Wilson. I’m going now, I’ll meet you at my place later.” House eased himself out of his armchair, picked up his cane.
“Around seven, then. And House - it’s good, you’re taking a step in the right direction.”
House stood up, looked at Wilson dismissively. “It’s just pizza, don’t read too much into it.”
House, ignoring Wilson’s movie preferences, bought a bootleg copy of Casino Royale from a teenage entrepreneur who had his wares spread on out a blanket at an intersection. He knew that Wilson preferred drama to action-adventure, and idly considered buying The Pursuit of Happyness, but he decided that tonight was supposed to be about making him feel good, and besides, it was Bond, how could Wilson object?
Wilson arrived a little earlier than he had expected; he had just stepped out of the shower and was still toweling dry his hair. Wilson had a six pack and a large pie, which he placed on the kitchen counter. House lifted up the cardboard lid of the box.
“What, no pepperoni?” he asked.
“I got mushrooms. Pepperoni is too fattening, I’m trying to slim down,” said Wilson. “And you should be watching your cholesterol.”
House made a dismissive gesture and took a beer from the six-pack. “Corona Light? Are you trying to sap all the pleasure out of pizza and beer?”
“It has a low alcohol content. You have take it easy with alcohol and Vicodin. The combined effects are pretty strong.”
“I know,” said House, “That’s the idea - I plan to get loaded. Isn’t this evening supposed to be about making me feel good?”
Something about the way he said it made Wilson blush, and he didn’t even know why. “Yes, but we accomplish that with the movie and pizza, not drugs and alcohol.”
“All right, let’s do it,” said House. He opened the pizza box and removed a slice. He was going to limp over to the couch with it but Wilson handed him a plate and napkin. Ever so tidy, Wilson was. He carefully blotted the excess grease from his slice of pizza before putting the pizza and the beer on the coffee table and joining House on the sofa.
“I got the new Bond,” said House, handing it to Wilson. “Would you do the honors?”
Wilson set up the DVD, lowered the lights, and they started to watch. House ploughed through three slices; it was an improvement over his usual supper of canned soup and peanut-butter sandwiches. Wilson slowly ate two, leaving the crusts. He was still sipping at his first beer when House cracked open his third.
“Take it easy with those, or you’ll pass out before he gets the girl,” said Wilson, touching House’s hand briefly.
“Shush,” said House, briefly irritated, though he knew Wilson was right; already he was feeling loopy and euphoric from the combined effects. He laughed a little too loudly at a death scene, and Wilson gave him a meaningful glance and quietly moved the remaining beers off the coffee table. When Daniel Craig emerged from the water in his blue swim trunks, droplets of water glistening from his rippled muscles, he inadvertently made an appreciative noise that sounded like very much like Mmm. By the time the ending credits rolled, House was feeling high and woozy. He leaned back into the sofa.
“There’s some bonus features, want to watch?” asked Wilson, but his voice sounded faraway to House, who was floating somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling. The last thing he was aware of before falling into a deep slumber was Wilson removing the beer bottle from his hand.
***
It was typical of House to get drunk and high even as he was claiming to try alternative means of pain management. Now he was passed out, dozing peacefully, while Wilson idly watched the bonus features. He thought about Daniel Craig, who had looked pretty good in those swim trunks, but since when had House had an eye for men? He almost didn’t want to think about the possibility, it was too tempting. Perhaps it was just an “mmm, this pizza is good” sound. He wished he could find out without asking, but House was fast asleep, leaning heavily into Wilson. Tentatively, he put his arm around House. It felt nice, comfortable. He could almost imagine that House was awake, that they were sitting this close because he wanted to. But what if he woke up, felt Wilson’s arm wrapped around him? It was a risk, but House was out cold. Cautiously, he maneuvered his leg so that it was touching House’s. Just a brushing glance, but it felt good, and Wilson was shocked by his daring. He was taking advantage of House’s peaceful slumber to touch him. But he had to know this about himself, these thoughts of his friend, he wanted to know what they meant, and whether they would lead to anything but pain. When he felt House’s head drop onto his shoulder, his heart leaped a little. He’s asleep, he reminded himself, but it didn’t matter. He imagined things were different, that House was awake, that he was the one who slid his leg closer, who sank into Wilson’s arms. He could almost believe it. House’s steady breathing didn’t calm him so much as excite him. He could smell the shampoo in House’s hair, still damp from his shower. He was wearing that blue tee-shirt that highlighted his eyes, and worn jeans that clung to his legs. Nice legs, even with the damaged thigh, thought Wilson irrationally. He closed his eyes, just feeling the steady in-and-out of House’s breathing.
The DVD ended and the screen returned to the menu. House slept, and Wilson sat motionless, idly fantasizing. In his imagination, they talked about Daniel Craig’s body, and how hot he was dripping with seawater, then House nestled down next to him, and Wilson put his arm around him, but he was awake, aware, and it was House who slid his leg next to Wilson’s. He thought about how they might kiss; soft and gentle, inexperienced, or hard and dirty, desperate. His hand wandered idly through House’s damp curls. House jerked himself awake.
“Whoa. What time is it?” he asked groggily. Wilson removed his hand quickly, shifting himself to hide his embarrassment.
House struggled to rise off the sofa; half-asleep, his leg stiff, it took a painfully long time for him to lift himself, to find his cane, and steady himself enough to walk. Wilson did not offer to help him, nor did House ask.
“I’m going to bed,” he said, limping toward the bedroom. “Lock up when you go.”
Wilson felt pity for House, who could use a little help from friends, mixed with irritation at the way he pushed everyone away. The fake brush with death - a low even for House. He waited until he was halfway to his room, then stood up and followed him. Together they made their way to the bedroom, and House ignored him, said nothing, though Wilson was inches behind him. Turn around, House, he thought. But House merely limped to his nightstand and turned on the light. Wilson put a hand on his shoulder and turned him around roughly. Expecting him to be surprised, angry, dismissive - not calm and steady, almost resigned, eyes gazed at him flatly.
Wilson closed the gap; there was nothing else to do. He took the cane from his hand; House yielded it, and Wilson dropped it to the floor. House tried to steady himself against the night-table but Wilson took his arm and put it around his own waist. He moved his legs slightly apart; they stood together, too close to be a casual accident. House was passive; woozy from drugs and alcohol, or just tolerating Wilson’s latest intervention? And Wilson felt that storm of emotions that always surrounded his relationship with House; irritation and pity, lust and love, some irrational desire to make him feel anything other than pain and bitterness, even if it was anger, insult, revulsion - anything but this dull resignation.
He kissed him; House was neither angry nor surprised. He met Wilson with open mouth, and the sharp shock of pleasure was so immediate that Wilson groaned with lust. So he had been waiting - for how long, Wilson wondered. His lips were warm, inviting, their kiss was sensual and slow. House breathed heavily, one hand on the bed, the other gripping the fabric of Wilson’s shirt around his waist. Wilson stepped closer, aligning their bodies. He hadn’t time to process what they were doing; no gap between his drowsy fantasy and this hot reality of House opening his mouth so willingly, hips wide apart to welcome him.
House gripped his waist, inched himself forward. Wilson kissed him lightly, maintaining the distance, but one hand dropped to House’s ass, just resting there, after all that quick pleasure, the anticipation was killing him, but he drew away, looking with satisfaction at House’s flushed face, his eyes intense with want.
House looked at Wilson with narrowed eyes, he took an unsteady step closer, and Wilson stopped him with his lips. He kissed him again; deep and slow, tongues twining, until they were both flushed hot.
“Say you like it,” Wilson said, but his voice was rough, breathless with lust and emotion, it was more of a plea than the demand he had intended.
“Or you’ll stop?” whispered House confidently. He dropped one hand to Wilson’s waist, resting a thumb on his belt, fingers skimming over his erection, once or twice, then rhythmically, until Wilson drew a sharp breath and caught his wrist. Wilson stepped forward, pressed him close. He met House’s gaze, saw that it was bravado, fed by his own insecurity.
He unbuttoned House’s fly, unzipped him, then undid his own belt; his trousers slid to the floor. Their bare cocks slid together, creating a spark of pleasure so luscious that Wilson thrust his hips into it, wedging House into the small space, knocking him against the small night-table. The lamp swayed and its shade wobbled.
“Oh, fuck,” said House. Wilson wasn’t sure if it was the lampshade, or their silky cocks sliding together. Wilson unbuttoned House’s shirt, slipped his hand inside, and his fingers trailed delicately over House’s ribcage, his nipples and collarbone. Their kiss was hard and rough; their hips rocked together unevenly, but Wilson’s touch was feather-light, and House writhed against him in unbridled enjoyment.
“You like this,” said Wilson assertively; it was no longer a question. Wilson rocked against him, both were hard, panting, expectant. Wilson ground himself against House, feeling with pleasure the hot length of his body; his lips sought House’s, a little off-kilter, but close enough to kiss him crookedly. When House exhaled loudly, Wilson slipped his tongue inside his half-open mouth.
House tongue-kissed him with more enthusiasm than Wilson expected. It hadn’t taken long at all to move House from apathy to hot-blooded excitement. House kissed him, rocked against him, making small noises of excitement, stirring Wilson’s passion until he finally pinned House’s arms to his sides and again tried to assert himself.
“We’re doing this,” he said, although it wasn’t as decisive a statement as he intended. He pushed House, hard, forcing him on the bed. One of House’s legs was still on the floor but Wilson didn’t care, he used his body weight to pin House to the bed and leaned in for a long, dirty-minded kiss. House’s mouth gaped, and Wilson slipped his tongue inside, twining it suggestively. He was breathless, and felt an intense heat from somewhere deep in his belly, spreading to his thighs, his groin. Everywhere their bodies touched, he felt a damp, hot spark of pleasure.
Their cocks were exactly lined up, enough for both to feel how stiff the other was. Wilson rocked a little. “Ohhhh..” House groaned around the kiss. One leg was still draped over the bed and Wilson carefully pulled it until House was lying back beneath him, legs on either side of his body. Wilson opened his shirt, revealing House’s chest, rising and falling with his mounting excitement. He leaned down, touched his tongue lightly to one of House’s nipples. House groaned and ran his fingers through Wilson’s hair. Wilson teased him, sucking and biting, pleased at how sensitive he was. House tossed his head, his fingers pulled Wilson’s hair gently, encouraging him. Wilson moved to the other nipple but used his fingers to tease the opposite one, sending waves of pleasure through House’s body.
He licked and sucked his taut nipples for a long time, switching from one to the other, and all the while House’s cock grew harder, his fingers grabbed Wilson’s hair tighter, and every so often he couldn’t stop himself from moaning aloud, spurring Wilson on, asking him to suck and lick and bite, until House was thrusting up into him, panting with excitement.
House was flushed and beautiful, his eyes half-closed, lips wet and parted. Wilson took off his own shirt, and lay on top of him so that there was nothing between their straining bodies. They kissed again and Wilson enjoyed House’s desperation, his questing tongue, the way his hips rocked upwards, pressing himself as close as possible to Wilson’s body.
House was feeling it more intensely; his cock was already slick, and he moaned softly. He reached up and tweaked Wilson’s nipples, deliberately, he put one finger in his mouth, wet it, and traced one, then the other, stiff little points, making Wilson inhale sharply, and then House pinched them both at the same time, just enough to hurt a little, but not too hard, so that Wilson groaned at the pleasurable ache which seemed to be hotwired directly to his stiffening prick.
“Ahhh…” he sighed, and brushed House’s hands away so he could lean down for another hot, open-mouthed kiss. He couldn’t stop himself from moaning around the kiss, as House’s eager tongue twined around his own. How good it felt, House’ body pressed so tightly to his own, and the beauty of House’s arousal, his hot, flushed body, his wet lips and teasing tongue. He hadn’t realized exactly what he was doing when he first kissed his best friend; now he knew exactly what was going on. The last missing piece fell into place, this was what their relationship had lacked. He kissed House joyfully, relishing the sweet sighs, the electric sparks as their cocks brushed together.
He thought he might come just from the friction, the delightful pressure, but there was no reason it couldn’t be even more delicious. He slid their pants down further. House canted his hips to allow Wilson to undress him. He didn’t bother to slip their pants all the way off, and both were restrained by the fabric bunched around their ankles, but it didn’t matter, because he fully expected that they’d both come quickly.
He reached down, grasped both of their cocks in one hand, making House gasp, and arch up, and push himself deeper into Wilson’s hand. He stroked them back and forth, their cocks getting wetter, and stiffer, and he moaned loudly as his hand glided back and forth.
“Let me do it,” whispered House urgently, and he slipped his hand between their bodies, and grasped them tightly. He jerked them expertly; Wilson propped himself up on one arm to thrust his hips faster. House was reaching over to the night-stand with his other hand; Wilson heard him open the drawer and fumble around inside. Suddenly he switched hands, and Wilson felt a cold shock as his slick, creamy fingers glided over them.
“It’ll be better,” said House, and Wilson realized he had been reaching for a bottle of lotion. It was better, as soon as House started to stroke them with his slippery hand, Wilson groaned loudly. How good it felt, House jerking him just right, squeezing their swollen heads, his large hands incredibly stroking both of them simultaneously, the feeling of House’s throbbing prick mashed against his own so erotic, so hot and pleasurable. Wilson cried out, and jerked his bottom faster, plunging his cock into House’s tight grasp, relishing the creamy sweetness of House’s straining prick gliding against his own.
“Feels good,” moaned House, stroking them faster. Wilson felt awash in pleasure, the tight, burgeoning feeling in his groin, the satisfaction of hearing House say how good he felt. He gasped freely, worked his hips, leaned down to kiss House deeply, tongues tangling, and all the while losing control, breathless, and quickly too drenched in pleasure to even kiss properly.
“Ahh, House,” he said, and stilled his hand. House gazed up at him, naked lust in his eyes. Their cocks throbbed together wetly. House tried to stroke them, but Wilson stopped him. He leaned down to whisper, “Admit this is better than drugs.”
“Don’t be such a moralizer, Wilson,” whispered House in a ragged voice. Wilson jogged his hips, House groaned softly.
“Good, isn’t it?” asked Wilson, hoping for some affirmative reply, because he couldn’t hold off much longer. In response, House grabbed him around the neck, dragged his head down close, kissed him hotly. “Fuck, yes,” he gasped around their open-mouthed kiss. When he squeezed their cocks together, Wilson didn’t stop him. He was too far gone, and House was kissing and biting and plunging his tongue into his mouth with increasing loss of control.
Wilson moaned, loudly, again and again, thrusting his hips, feeling his cock swell and throb as House took them to the very peak of delight. His slippery hand stroked and jerked them, squeezed their swollen cock heads together, glided up and down, smearing lotion and their own slick excitement into a froth. Wilson’s eyes were closed, his mouth had gone slack against House’s, and he was awash with pleasure.
“Oh, God, it’s too much!” he cried out, feeling the sweet ache as his balls tightened and his ass clenched and he pushed his sodden prick deep into House’s hand, and House tightened his fingers obligingly, and with a hard short groan of his own, he pitched them over the edge, first Wilson, whose entire body had gone rigid as the first creamy jets pulsed onto House’s fingers, and then House, groaning sympathetically and finding his own release. His strokes became longer, slower, tighter as he prolonged their pleasure, feeling with satisfaction the wet come spurting from their cocks, and the way each of them responded to the other. Wilson groaned as his cock pulsed, which made another white-hot jet of come erupt from House's quivering prick.
It seemed to take forever for them to finish, Wilson groaning loudly, pushing his half-hard cock into House’s slackening hand, and House, panting as his cock throbbed out the very last of his spend. He continued to stroke them gently, tickling and cupping their balls, palming the heads, pressing firmly on that sweet spot beneath the head of Wilson’s prick just to hear one last voluptous groan as Wilson swore and jerked his hips and finally pushed his hand away. He groaned hard, and his body collapsed on top of House. He was pleased to feel House breathing hard beneath him, their bodies synchronizing and corresponding until they were panting like one creature.
“Mmmm…” he sighed, burying his face in House’s neck. He didn’t know what else to say; he had no plan for this to happen, it had been completely spontaneous and more wildly successful than he had imagined.
They lay side-by-side, restoring their breathing, relishing the spent, satisified feeling of softened, moist pricks and deeply relaxed muscles. To his surprise, House quietly took his right hand in his own, held it loosely, cautiously.
After many long minutes, Wilson inevitably felt the urge to speak. “Are we going to do this again?” he asked, wishing immediately that he’d said something else, but it had just slipped out without any thought.
“Why not? Felt good, didn’t it?” said House in a tired voice. Wilson loved that sex-weary voice, satisfied, free of tension; he wanted to hear House speak like that all the time.
“Oh, yes!” Wilson answered, laughing, because it was completely obvious he’d enjoyed himself, the way he moaned, and cried out lustfully. He remembered with satisfaction House’s own cries of passion, his industrious fingers wrapped around both their cocks, grasping them, teasing, squeezing, stroking them to completion.
House was full of surprises. He leaned over, kissed Wilson tiredly, but with intent. His soft little tongue pried open Wilson’s lips and he kissed him deeply, tonguing his mouth, gently biting his lips. Wasn’t this man spent yet? Wilson thought, as his own body was so thoroughly satisifed, he hadn’t a spark left in him.
“Let me know when you’re ready to go again,” said House fondly, and he lay back, hand still clasping Wilson’s fingers. Wilson felt a shock go through his body at House’s willing words. He felt a small stirring; he might just barely get himself going again. He looked at House, whose eyes were closed, chest falling gently up and down. House murmured something indistinguishable and pressed his head into Wilson’s shoulder. He was asleep; his lustful plans for a second go-round would have to wait.
Wilson felt his eyes drift shut, his mind at utter peace. He hadn’t known this was missing from their relationship, this physical, sensual delight, it was ecstasy, really, and there would be another bout when House woke up. He slipped into a drowsy, half-asleep state, wanting the feeling of House’s tired limbs against his own to last and last.
“Ready when you are,” he whispered, but they were both too ambitious. House was already dozing, and Wilson was half-conscious, and finally drifted off, the sweet promise of their next encounter running through his dreams.