rivers_bend

Title: Superstar
Pairing: House/Wilson
Words: 2125
Rating: R (sex, language)
Sequel to Reservoir Docs. House has his own fantasy.
Thank you to karaokegal for the plot bunny, the beta and not threatening to leave me, and to skyblue_reverie for input, suggestions and pointers.


Wilson had been to New York City enough times to know what a bike messenger looked like. He just had no idea why one was walking out of his office. He was eager to find out, but hadn’t even made it as far as his door when his pager went off with a code blue. By the time he returned from the afternoon’s crisis, he’d forgotten about the messenger and the box on his desk was a surprise.

About the thickness of a shirt box, but twice as long, it was wrapped in brown paper and was addressed formally: Dr. James Wilson, Head of Oncology, Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital etc. Wilson was due to speak at a conference in Paris in a month’s time. He assumed that the organizers had sent him some materials. The distinctive smell of expensive leather asserted itself as soon as he tore into the paper. OK, maybe not from the conference. He lifted the lid off the box with growing curiosity.

Nestled in a bed of tissue was the softest pair of leather pants he’d ever touched. Not that he’d touched many pairs of leather pants, but he’d sat in a few luxury automobiles in his time and even the European auto makers had nothing on these. When he lifted them out of the box he noticed some scraps of leather. On closer examination they proved to be a pair of unadorned cuffs and a collar crafted from same buttery softness as the jeans. Wilson recalled a magazine he’d found under House’s bed not long after he moved in. He ran his hands over the leather and smiled.

* * * * * *

Crandall was not an easy man to get hold of. Wilson found a cell phone number in the stack of papers next to House’s phone and left three messages before getting a recorded message saying that the cellular user’s voicemail box was full and he should try again another time. Two weeks passed with the leather living it its box, Wilson not saying a word to House about it, and House never mentioning a thing.

When Crandall finally called back, he was full of gossip. Wilson spent ten minutes listening to where Crandall and Leona had been and what they’d been doing before he could get a word in edgewise. He couldn’t help but think it was just as well Crandall wasn’t a woman. If House had married the guy he’d have been miserable. Finally Crandall stopped for breath.

“I called to ask you a favor,” Wilson began.

“Hey, a friend of the G-man is a friend of mine, ask away.”

“It’s about him actually. He’s been talking about the old days in the band, and I thought, well, with your contacts and everything…” Knowing why he was really asking, Wilson got flustered and forgot his cover story. He took a deep breath and focused his mind on the antique letter opener that his mother gave him rather than the leather jeans in a box in his credenza. It’s for House. I can do this., “I was hoping that you could arrange to get the guys together again, maybe book a club in the City for the night, do a reunion concert. A surprise party as it were.” Wilson was glad no one could see him blushing.

“Wow! Great idea! I know just the place. Friend of mine has a club. Shut on Tuesdays, we could use that I’m sure, if I asked –“

Wilson interrupted before Crandall could talk for another ten minutes. “Fantastic. Can you sort out some details and get back to me?”

* * * * * *

House was surprised to hear from Crandall. When his old friend asked if he’d been keeping the Fender in tune, he was even more puzzled. He hadn’t played in years. His acoustic rested uncomfortably on his thigh and it seemed vaguely ridiculous for a man of his age to play electric guitar alone in his apartment. Thanks to Ketamine, his leg could handle more pressure. He got his Special Edition Stratocaster down from the wall. When Wilson came home and found him playing, he didn’t ask what House was doing, he just smiled. House pulled off a particularly dramatic chord with a flourish, knowing then that Crandall hadn’t called out of the blue.

* * * * * *

House pretended to believe Wilson’s “excuse # 15: having a dinner he couldn’t get out of” the night of the reunion concert. He’d promised to get there as soon as he could. The band was half way through Proud Mary when House looked up to see Wilson standing in the back of the club. He was wearing leather jeans that fit him as though he’d attended the tailoring sessions himself, a tight, white t-shirt and the cuffs and collar. House didn’t think it was possible for a grown man to look more uncomfortable. He missed two whole bars at the sight.

“G-Man” caught Wilson’s eye and managed to signal his approval with a leer from the stage. When Wilson saw House staring, he visibly relaxed. He still looked more like a doctor than a groupie, but at least he looked like he might have been a rock fan in his youth. He’d ordered his first beer by the time the band started the opening riff of Brown Sugar.

Two beers later, House was having trouble keeping his chords straight. He couldn’t take his eyes off Wilson swinging his leather-clad hips to Crystal Ship in a way that Jim Morrison himself would have envied. House loosened his neck strap so the guitar would hide the effect Wilson’s hips had on him. Wilson was standing next to the stage and staring up at him as though he really were a rock hero. House was grateful they only had one song left in their set.

The club had three tiny dressing rooms. House didn’t know how the other guys were divvied up, but was glad to have a room to himself. He was adjusting his fly buttons over the growing ache trapped behind them when a knock sounded on the door. “Mr. House, there’s a man here to see you. He says he’s a fan.” House smiled.

“Come in, door’s open.”

The club manager stood there, looking even more like a rodent than he had earlier in the evening. Behind him stood James, in all his sweaty, leather-clad glory. The contrast between them nearly made House laugh aloud. “Don’t worry. He’s on the list.”

Wilson scooted past the manager and shut the door in the man’s face. He frowned at the hook and eye lock and betrayed his casual cool by fumbling with it. When he turned around he held out a permanent marker. “Greg House. Oh my god. I can’t believe I’m in the same room as you! Can I have your autograph?”

House took the pen, suppressing a grin. “Sure. Do you have a piece of paper?”

Wilson pushed his shirt up, revealing a wedge of pale stomach framed by the twin curves of hipbone and rib. House felt his mouth go dry at the sight. The leather jeans were worth every penny and all of the dollars.

“Or, you could sign here?” Wilson trailed a finger over the exposed skin, teasing with as much dedication as the new stripper at The Camelot Lounge. Sitting on the stool in front of the mirror, House was at perfect stomach signing height. Wilson’s waist was hot under his hand as he steadied him against the slight pressure of the Sharpie. He couldn’t miss Wilson’s reaction to the scratch of the pen against his skin.

House resisted the urge to unzip the leather and peel it away from Wilson’s hips. His fingers shook a little as he put the pen on the dressing table. Seeing his name on Wilson’s skin was almost more than he could take and remain upright. Wilson pulled his shirt up further to see the autograph, and then, staring into House’s eyes, slowly pulled it off completely.

“I’m such a huge fan.” Wilson was practically whispering.

House cocked an eyebrow as he ran a finger down the mile of hard pressing against the leather in front of his face. “I guess you’re right about that.” House was not above a bit of ego stroking under the circumstances. He very much hoped to see this particular pair of pants again some day.

The corner of Wilson’s mouth twitched slightly, but he maintained his gushy demeanor. “Please, G-man, let me show you how much I love your music.” He put his hands on House’s knees as he lowered himself to his own.

House’s gaze was arrested by the leather encircling Wilson’s wrists. The cuffs made his hands and forearms look more delicate and yet more masculine at the same time. Before he could consider this more closely, those hands moved to the buttons on his jeans and his mind was suddenly riveted on what they could do rather than what they looked like.

House slid to the edge of the stool as Wilson pulled him free from the confines of his pants. Wilson’s hands were hot, his mouth even hotter. If this was music appreciation, he should have picked a different major in college. Pre-med didn’t have any appreciation like this.

Wilson suddenly pulled his hands away and sat back. He ran a finger down House’s jaw. “You don’t have some kind of rule about not fucking groupies, do you?”

“I only fuck the hot ones.”

“Just as well I’m hot then, because I want you to fuck me. Now.” Wilson stood and faced the wall, bracing his hands on either side of his head. House picked up the Sharpie when he stood.

“There’s something I want to do first.” House signed his name on Wilson’s right shoulder blade, eliciting a shiver. Another autograph on Wilson’s ribs resulted in a full-body shudder. Wilson’s breathing took on a distinctly ragged edge, making House’s own respiration speed up. He was definitely keeping the pen. He dropped it into the open top of his backpack, and reached around to attend to the button of Wilson’s leather jeans.

When he got to the zipper he realized that Wilson had gone all in and wasn’t wearing anything underneath. House was very careful not to re-create a There’s Something About Mary moment. He slid his fingers over the silk of the skin he was protecting, and eased the zipper over his knuckles. Wilson sighed as House pushed the leather off his hips.

“You ever been fucked by a rock star before?”

“No.”

“I think you’ll like it.” House pressed forward with the head of his cock, still slick from Wilson’s earlier attentions. Wilson thrust back against him, taking him halfway in.

House pressed forward the rest of the way and Wilson groaned. “Oh yes, I like it.”

“Good.” Neither of them spoke after that, concentrating instead on the rhythm of fucking, and, at least on House’s part, the smell of leather, the feel of Wilson thrusting into his fist, and the sight of his name scrawled on Wilson’s back.

He felt like a real rock star as he came, Wilson spilling over his fingers moments later.

* * * * * *
As House checked the latches on his guitar case he thought of something. “I thought you didn’t like Crandall.”

“I don’t. But your special delivery by bike messenger wasn’t exactly subtle. I thought he would be the best person to help with all this.”

“You were right.”

“I had a lot to live up to. When we started swapping fantasies, I never thought you would actually try and act mine out.” Wilson shook his head in wonder at the memory of the warehouse and everything that went with it.

House picked up his backpack and handed Wilson his guitar. “At least everything in my fantasy is legal.”

Wilson looked at the pair of them in the mirror. “You really think pants this tight are legal?”

House cupped Wilson’s ass appreciatively. “Legal? I think they should be mandatory."

Wilson caught sight of the pen in the top of House’s bag. He pulled up his shirt, looking at the signature on his abs. “This is going to take ages to come off isn’t it?” Wilson didn’t sound entirely unhappy.

“All those nurses trying to get in your pants are going to know you’re taken. Hope that doesn’t cut too much into your social life.”

“I have a rock star boyfriend. What do I want with nurses?”

“I could have sworn that other fantasy of yours had at least three nurses in it.”

“House,” Wilson sounded gratifyingly nervous, “we are not doing that one.”