Title: His Best Friend's Closet
Prompt: For Wilson_Fest, Round 3, prompt 20 over on LiveJournal - Wilson happens upon a porn tape starring college!House
Rating: NC-17...obviously :P
Character(s)/Pairing(s): House/Crandall/OFC, then HOUSE/WILSON!
Warnings: Threesome, hawtness, no real spoilers I think
Disclaimer: I am the Empress of Everything, but I still don't own House & Co. Darn it!
Summary: The unreported side effects of eating week-old shrimp tempura.
Wilson woke up freezing, half lost until he remembered that he had fallen asleep on House's couch. A quick glance at the DVD player confirmed that it was way too early to actually be up, barely two in the morning, but at least he no longer felt like he might puke up his intestines without a moment's notice. Stupid leftover Chinese food. He should have known better. At least House had eaten most of the squicky shrimp tempura, though that was only because Wilson hadn't been able to stop him from sticking his chopsticks in Wilson's carton a dozen times. Served him right.
House had retired long before Wilson to nurse his rebellious stomach in private with a trash can and a bottle of Pepto Bismol, so Wilson didn't have a blanket spread haphazardly over him. It didn't quite hit him until that moment that House usually lasted longer than Wilson did, and for some reason, he always tucked Wilson in without it seeming as if he had done so. Wilson smiled to himself as he sat up and tested his resilience to unexpected movements. His tummy stayed where it belonged, so he lumbered to his feet and felt his way through the dark to the closet where House kept the couch pillow and blanket.
The closet was a mess, as usual; evidently, Lady was no longer coming over to clean the place, or if she was, the closets were just too much for her to handle on top of the rest of the chaos that House flung around the apartment. When some exploratory groping didn't yield a hint of anything pillow-like, Wilson clicked on the desk lamp so that he could see what the hell he was doing. He spied the blanket stuffed up in a corner of the shelf above the coat rack, a corner of the pillow peeking out from within the soft white fold like House had bundled the pillow up in the blanket and then just crammed in all in there by brute force. Wilson grabbed an end and tugged, and when the bedding popped out, a rain of clutter followed in its wake.
"Dammit!" Wilson leapt back just in case anything dangerous fell out, the blanket trailing out of one hand and the pillow caught up on the floor. The resultant pile of detritus looked like nothing more than old photos and keepsakes which had spilled from a ratty old box on the shelf. House keeping mementos…well. The man was a packrat. His collection of old belongings and remembrances, while a sign of fondness or nostalgia in a normal person, was probably just another indication of neurosis in House, perhaps a compensation for having moved and shed belongings so often as a child.
Wilson scowled to himself and knelt down to gather everything up when some of the objects caught his eye. They were yearbooks, House's college yearbooks. Or, more accurately, bound collections of college fare like pictures and such – a high class scrapbook. Someone must have made it for him, because there was no way Gregory House would sit down with an album, squiggly scissors, construction paper and a glue stick. Stacy, maybe; trying to bring order to the mess of photos, articles and clippings piled in the flimsy, age-softened cardboard box. Wilson had seen most of the photos inside at one point or another, but there was a VHS tape mixed in with all of the loose pictures and pages. Wilson turned it over to see if it had a label, and indeed it was marked as simply GH DC project.
It was probably a video of House, and he guessed Crandall, being idiots in grad school, perhaps messing around with that band that House had once accidentally mentioned. Or maybe it was a project for one of their classes. Either way, it left Wilson curious. House hardly ever talked about college, except to boast over his one night stand with the nubile undergrad version of Lisa Cuddy. Seriously – House embellished that tale more and more as they got older. Last time he told it, he cast Cuddy as an impoverished college student moonlighting as a call girl for a Disney costume-themed agency. Actually, the thought was pretty hot in a demented, sick sort of way.
Wilson smirked at the dark interior of the closet at the mental image of a barely-legal Lisa Cuddy dressed up like Lady the cocker spaniel, star struck over the imitable Gregory House, legendary grad student extraordinaire. Honestly, though...he had heard from so many sources now that House had been some sort of a legend long before graduating med school that he wondered what, exactly, House had been like to obtain such a reputation. House seemed to hate recognition like that, and he openly scoffed at the notion of idols and looking up to people. The dates on the journal articles in the box hinted at plain old brilliance, though; Wilson hadn't realized that House once published so often, and a few of the clippings named him as first author during what had to be his junior year as an undergrad. Either that, or House blew through his first degree in less than three years.
Wilson set the tape aside with the bedding and finished cleaning up the mess before he quietly shut the closet door. Then he snuck down the hall and poked his head into House's bedroom, just to make sure that the ruckus hadn't woken him. House was curled peacefully around a stack of pillows and a faint hint of vomit tinged the air, mingled with dirty laundry and House's own somewhat peculiar scent. He must have fallen asleep before all the abdominal cramps subsided, but at least he hadn't puked on himself. The odor must have been coming from the trash can he had been using as an emesis basin. House seemed calm enough now. And dead to the world. Score.
Wilson pulled House's bedroom door all the way shut and then crept back to the living room, turning off all the lights as he went. It took some fumbling, but he knew the layout of House's apartment as well as his own, so he spent less than a minute setting up the video. He pulled the coffee table right up in front of the television and kept the volume on its lowest setting to minimize the risk of waking House and having his new treasure stolen away from him. He was going to mock House something fierce in the morning. A video project for school? This was gold. Wilson leaned in close to the television with the blanket wrapped over his shoulders, and hit play.
First, blackness and some of that digital static stuff that all old VHS tapes sport in the beginning. Then a room blinked onto the screen, fuzzy and slashing all over the frame. Wilson winced at the racket made by the inept cameraman, clicks and scrapes right next to the microphone, then jumped when a much younger version of House's face suddenly snapped onto the screen, sideways. His clean-shaven chin loomed large on the television, and then a cavernous nostril, complete with stray hairs, and finally his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth while he fiddled. Wilson snorted to hide a smile.
"Dill hole," House said. "You're holding it crooked."
The man behind the camera, probably Crandall, snapped, "Then quit trying to play with the lens, jerk. And don't call me a dill hole."
"Then stop acting like one." House made a face over the lens and then the two of them squabbled for a second. Wilson dropped his face into his palm to stifle a laugh at finding that House had been an overbearing asshole even back then. "Okay, okay," House barked, backing away with his hands in the air. "Do it your damn self. Just don't fuck it up."
The camera kept shifting until finally, everything went stock still. "Okay," Crandall said, his tone hesitant. "I think it's ready."
House backed farther into the room, bent over at the waist to peer intently at the camera. "Is that thing already on?"
Another head appeared right up in the lens, so close that Wilson could see the pimple in the crease of Crandall's nose. "Oh. Um…doesn't matter." Crandall turned to look at House, and Wilson was treated to a view of the back of Crandall's John Lennon shirt. "Look, are you ready? Where's this girl you said you got?"
"I dunno. Said she'd be here." House plopped down onto the bed on the other side of the room. Wilson scanned the rest of the shot and realized that it was a hotel room, not a dorm as he had first thought. Crandall wandered around the frame, arranging things like a child playing grownup in a board room, as if he knew what he was doing. House watched him with an air of disinterest, reaching up to scratch his cheek or stomach every now and then.
After a minute of this, Crandall came back to the camera and shut it off. A second elapsed, and then the television screen lit up again. There was a woman in the room now, a pretty co-ed from the looks of her. Wilson cocked his head to one side and raised an appreciative eyebrow. The girl was dressed to kill, and by kill, he meant razor-sharp stilettos on a street corner. And god, was she gorgeous – not your average hooker, if she was a hooker; Wilson couldn't tell. Maybe that was the part she was here to play. Hooker. Which…made this a porno.
"Oh my god," Wilson mumbled. "House made a porno." The thought of House producing an amateur porno in college didn't actually surprise him all that much; it seemed like something he might do. Wilson should have turned it off, put the tape back where he found it, and never thought of it again. But the girl on screen was shedding her jacket to reveal a slinky little black dress that, while tasteful, still should have been illegal in the contiguous United States. Wilson moistened his lips and admired her for a moment. Dark brown hair, creamy white skin, legs up to her arm pits… She had to be nearly as tall as House. Wilson decided to watch for just a few more minutes. It couldn't hurt.
"Okay, hey. Dill hole." House was behind the camera now, and his fingers snapped outside of the picture. "Put your tongue back in your mouth and get a move on. This tape only holds like sixty minutes of footage."
Crandall looked at House with a silly ass grin on his face and gave the camera an enthusiastic thumbs-up. The guy looked like a complete dork. From the sound House made, Wilson imagined him rolling his eyes and calling Crandall a moron under his breath, but Wilson's attention had been eclipsed by the girl in the back corner of the frame. Wilson admired the shapely curve of her ass as she bent over to unzip a high heeled boot, god, at the perfect angle…he could almost see up the back of her criminally short, form-fitting dress. Wilson drew back abruptly when he realized he was gaping and in danger of getting drool on the television screen. Wow. Hell, if Crandall was the one acting in this thing, there was no harm in watching all of it. Wilson didn't know the guy, so it was like any other amateur porn film. Hopefully, House wouldn't get all controlling from his position as director, because the snark and sarcasm would really put a damper on the festivities. It occurred to Wilson to wonder why House might keep a film of his old roommate having sex with some girl, but hey. As he'd reflected while stuffing the contents of the closet back behind the door, House had turned into a packrat; he might not even know he still has it.
House's arm appeared in the corner of the screen. "Hey. Are those Louboutin?"
The girl grinned over her shoulder, eyelashes batting, ass wiggling in House's face from all the way across the hotel room. "You said dress classy, Greg." Off camera, House hrmphed in appreciation. Wilson just shook his head and tossed a fond smile over his shoulder, toward the bedroom. Only House would ignore a girl's deliciously curvy ass in favor of ogling her footwear.
Crandall turned back to the girl and craned his neck for a better view of her behind. She played her part by noticing his stare, smiling coyly over her shoulder, and then shifting her extremely attractive backside toward him while she slid her boots off, all performance and sex appeal. The fact that she would be doing this barefoot actually pleased Wilson. He winced whenever he watched a porno where the girl kept her stilettos on; all he could picture was one ill-thought, spontaneous flail of limbs, and the next thing anybody knew, some poor guy's balls would be skewered in the heat of passion. Just…shiver.
"Crandall, move your fat ass over," House snarked. "You're blocking the shot."
"Yeah," Wilson agreed. "Move."
Crandall glared past the camera but obediently moved toward the bed. The girl straightened up and turned around, then posed with her hands on her waist, one hip cocked. Classic, cliché sexy pose, but still…this girl pulled it off so well that Wilson couldn't possibly have found it cheesy. Trust House to pick them. The girl advanced on Crandall and ran her hands up his chest, from his navel to his shoulders, then down his arms. Crandall moved with her touch, a little awkward at first, and then they started kissing. It didn't look natural, though; every few seconds, Crandall would open one eye and glance at the camera, then make way too much of a show out of trying to angle them just so. It was distracting.
College-House read Wilson's mind. "Quit looking at the damn camera. What the hell's wrong with you?"
Crandall broke off and threw an arm up. "Do you have any idea how hard this is?"
House snorted and half of his torso appeared in the frame. "Dude, at this rate, nothing is going to be hard. You're the one who wanted to do this. How difficult can it be to have sex?"
"It's on camera!" House must have made some rude gesture because Crandall flared his nostrils and snapped, "Fine! If you think it's so easy to get it up in front of a camera, then come show me."
"You're fucking impossible." House stomped out from behind the camera and poked Crandall out of the way, then peered at him over his shoulder to say, "You make out with a woman"—typical House-ish spread of a hand, mocking even in gesture—"thus." Then he proceeded to demonstrate.
Even on grainy, late-seventies film, Wilson could see House's tongue tracing the girl's bottom lip, could hear their breathing pick up, could tell when House suckled her tongue by the slight hollowing of his cheeks. The girl arched her back and leaned into him, one foot toeing the floor, her head tilted to allow him the best angle for access. She must have been just shy of six feet tall, even without the heeled boots, and she looked delicious stretched up along House's front, pushing her body harder against him as they made out. This went on for a full minute, until even Wilson felt a slight flush, and just as House broke away from her, Wilson heard the faint but unmistakable noise of disappointment that escaped House's lungs at having to leave off. The girl tried to follow his mouth before she fluttered her eyes back open, and then she licked her lips with a decidedly sultry air, savoring the taste of him.
House set her back on her feet – god, he'd nearly picked the girl up off the floor toward the end, he had been crushing her to him so fiercely – and then stepped back. He wiped off his mouth, glared at Crandall, and indicated the girl with a flourish. "Now, does that look so hard?"
Crandall crossed his arms and proclaimed, "Ass."
The girl shifted her shoulders coquettishly at House as he passed her to go back behind the camera. House smiled back at her, cocky and appraising, and Wilson almost wished that they would kick Crandall out and make the film themselves. Crandall wasn't nearly as sexy and self assured –
No. Wilson did not just think of House as sexy. That did not happen. Emphatically not. Hey, go Crandall! He was duplicating the make-out session. Cool. Wilson focused on that. He did not allow himself to note that it was markedly less hot than when House had done it. Nope. Not a chance. Cuticles…Wilson needed to moisturize more regularly; his fingers were dry and cracked. That would not do. Where was the VCR remote anyway? Eh, video. May as well watch some more if he couldn't turn it off.
It looked like the girl got bored with her new partner, and after a few minutes of inept smooching, she maneuvered Crandall backwards and toppled him onto the bed. Best to move on, Wilson figured. Behind the camera, House was probably yawning, or playing with rubber bands. Crandall scooted back and craned his mouth up to meet hers again as she crawled over him and straddled him, and then Wilson heard a loud, obnoxious groan from off screen.
"Could you be any less of a turn-on?" House demanded.
Crandall rolled his eyes and flopped back, and the girl sat up on his stomach, obviously more interested in House than in the man sprawled under her. She kept rolling her shoulders back so that her chest stuck out, alluring and sexy as hell, putting herself on display, her eyes fixed on the man behind the camera. It put Wilson in mind of a prowling kitten, except not harmless. "You should probably show us again," she teased.
House chuckled off frame and purred, "You'd like that, wouldn't you. But no. I don't do cameras."
Crandall propped himself up on his elbows at that, and Wilson sensed some sort of ploy in the works. He wasn't sure what gave it away, but he didn't find Crandall nearly as clumsy as he had seemed up until then. And the girl's flirtations were way too blatant. "What, suddenly you're not interested in showing me up?" Crandall demanded. "You? Greg House?"
The girl climbed off the bed, careful not to do anything damaging to the oddly placed limbs she had to crawl over, then sashayed up to the camera. Her abdomen filled the screen, and then she tugged House into the shot by his shirt collar. "I can't picture you as shy," she remarked, casual and dripping seduction.
"I'm not shy," House protested just for form's sake. He reluctantly allowed the girl to lead him to the side of the bed, and then Wilson jumped back from the screen as Crandall lunged and dragged him down on the mattress.
Taken off guard, House's first instinct was to fight, but Crandall had the element of surprise. He got House in some kind of an upper body lock, like a wrestling move, his arms cinched under and around House's, pulling them back to immobilize him. House struggled for a second, furious by the looks of it, then froze when the girl laid her hand over his crotch. She started rubbing and House jerked in a random direction, his arms tensing in Crandall's grasp. "Hey, not…not cool, you fucker!" House gasped.
Wilson frowned, watching House fight to pull free, wondering what the hell this was. It soon became apparent that House was losing the impetus to stop his cohorts from essentially molesting him. His struggles turned into a sort of squirming, and then he stiffened, his head digging back into Crandall's chest. The girl had settled between his legs, her hand kneading and stroking him through his dark brown…were those corduroys? They looked exactly like a pair that House still owned. Whatever. Irrelevant.
Wilson watched House's legs tremble on either side of the girl, one foot planted firm on the mattress, his breathing rapid and shallow. Ever so slowly, House's upraised knee fell to the side and he flexed into the girl's hand. "Mnghuh."
The girl giggled. "Like that, do you?"
"Whaderyoo doin'?" House demanded, but his voice had weakened and gone up an octave, and when Wilson heard that, he stared wide-eyes at the television, shamelessly riveted to the scene in front of him. College-House wasn't exactly the most attractive guy – Wilson secretly thought that his looks had gotten better with age: less nerdy, more proportioned to the shape of his face – but he wasn't hard on the eyes either. It was just…House, this was House getting fondled in front of him!
Crandall shifted his hold to splay House's arms wide where he couldn't do anything with them. "We decided you needed this more than I do."
"Happy…hm…Bastille Day?" The girl leaned up over House's stomach, affording him a clear view down the front of her dress. "I think that'll work."
House lowered his head and blinked at the sight, then suddenly clenched all over. It took Wilson a second to realize that the girl had tightened her grip over the obvious bulge in his trousers. She didn't let up until House writhed and whined something unintelligible and slightly ecstatic, his face buried in one of Crandall's arms. Then she loosened her fingers and rubbed apologetically, like soothing a booboo. House's hips twitched up and he panted for a moment, recovering enough wits to say, "Bastille Day's in July."
"Quit nitpicking," Crandall said. "Just take it like the present it's supposed to be."
"Some present," House replied, his voice strained and his eyes fixed on the girl kneeling between his legs. "Since I paid for it."
"There you go again," the girl cooed. "Naughty boy. You're supposed to thank people when they give you something."
House blinked at her, slow on the uptake, then twisted his neck to regard Crandall, who was watching over his shoulder. "This is weird," he mumbled.
Crandall snorted. "Come on, G-Man, I've lived with you for two years. I know damn well nude girly magazines only make up half your porn stash."
"So I'm curious. Big deal. And I find it bothersome that you've been through my stuff."
Crandall shrugged. "You've been through mine. Isn't that one of those unspoken House Rules? We can snoop just as long as we don't bring it up in conversation?"
House grunted at something the girl did to him, his eyelashes fluttering. She kept on doing her thing and House flexed his back, head tipped toward the ceiling. In spite of the blatant distraction between his legs, House managed to gather impetus enough to keep on arguing. Or trying to, at least. "But…you're not…uh…oh fuck…"
"Relax. I'm just here to make sure you go through with it."
House let out a rough groan, then his eyes snapped open. "What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means you're a tease," the girl answered for Crandall. "All flirt, no action since you broke up with what's-her-name, the born-again vegan? And you really, really need some action."
"It's an intervention," Crandall put in. "Just one guy lookin' out for his buddy. You need this, man. You've been a cranky son of a bitch for two months, and I have to live with you."
House made a valiant attempt to sneer, but he only barely made it past gruff and bleary. "And you think sex will make me all warm and personable? You're an idiot."
The girl just kept right on teasing him, verbally and physically. "All that repression…nothing to play with but your own right hand – "
"Sometimes, I use my left."
" – it isn't healthy for a man. Sometimes…he just needs a little more...hm...personalized attention. Something to take his mind off things, to relax him before he snaps under the pressure. Heck, you know all about the dangers of that, being pre-med and all. Stress and blood pressure, nervous breakdowns…"
"You forgot gout." House blinked stupidly. "And the hanta virus. All very bad things caused by prolonged bouts of blue balls. It still doesn't excuse whatever the hell you think you're going to do to me. On video. Which I didn't sign up for." He ruined the effect of his snark by inhaling sharply and then biting his lip, his breath rushing out to flare his nostrils.
The girl gave a devilish grin and rose up over House's body, planting one hand in the mattress so that she hovered less that an inch above him. "If it makes you feel better, this is still a present for Dylan. You bought him a few weeks of a more relaxed you. You'll be more pleasant to deal with."
House peered up at her, then convulsed with a low moan. Her hand was still latched between his thighs, and Wilson really, really wished he knew what she was doing to him down there. He watched House's legs move, muscles contracting in a gradual wave from his stomach to his ankles, hips rolling up of their own accord, and then Wilson shook himself. Something was…off. Wilson tore his eyes from the television and found himself looking down at his own lap. Oh… No, this was not good.
Wilson lunged for the video player and jabbed the eject button. House's aroused, squirming body vanished from the screen and the room went pitch dark while Wilson freaked out a little bit. Crap, crap…crap. Wilson fumbled to pull the VHS tape from the player, and then he stood up with the insane notion of somehow disposing of it forever, along with any and all evidence that he had gotten an erection while watching somebody fondle House.
Wilson practically jumped out of his skin when he heard footsteps thumping around in House's bedroom, and for lack of any better hidey-hole, Wilson stumbled over to his briefcase and stuffed the tape in there. He could get rid of it in the morning, but at least for now, it was out of sight, and House would never know he'd found it. House's bedroom door creaked open just as Wilson dove back onto the couch, and since he couldn't fake sleep worth shit, he dragged the blanket over his lap and somehow jabbed enough buttons on the remote that the television switched onto an infomercial for some sort of magic expandable organizer purse. House would mock him for watching it, but there were worse thing to be caught staring at in the middle of the night while camped out on your best friend's couch.
House stumped into the living room and paused on the threshold. Wilson studiously avoided glancing over his shoulder, utterly convinced that his expression screamed, You got me hard! As it was, he couldn't see how House could miss the fact that Wilson was sitting there, sporting a boner over an infomercial. Wilson folded the blanket and fluffed it over his lap in the hopes of concealing any untoward peaks.
"Hey, Wilson." House's voice sounded rough from sleep…which resembled the purr of his flirty voice on the video. Twenty years older and more gravelly, maybe, but the same. Oh god, Wilson was so dead. There was no way he could hide this.
Wilson waved over his shoulder, but he didn't trust himself to speak. To his everlasting gratitude, House didn't come sit next to him. Tripod footsteps carried him into the kitchen where he pulled something out of the fridge, probably a bottle of water, and then he disappeared back down the hall without another word. Wilson slumped on the sofa and smashed his hands over his face, sighing in silent relief. Now all he had to do was take care of the problem in his lap, throw the VHS tape into the incinerator at the hospital, and then he could consider himself rid of this entire incident.
Well. First things first. Wilson reached under the blanket and got down to business. And no, when he finally came, he was not picturing House writhing on the television screen, nor was he mentally replaying the low moans he had heard less than five minutes ago. Absolutely not. Just…no.