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sabinetzinTitle: Four Ways That Won't Work (And One That Did)
Summary: The ways to not do it are almost limitless.
Fandom: House
Word Count: 1728
Rating/Contents: NC-17, partner betrayal
Pairing: House/Wilson/Cuddy
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: Enjoy this. It fell off the back of a truck. Be advised that I started writing this in, like, season three, so it has nothing to do with anything that's presently going on in canon (how could it, when I stopped watching a season and a half ago).
Order Up
"You can't just order a person like a steak," Cuddy tells him while she rolls her stockings on.
"Sure you can," he replies. "Just make sure mine's pink in the middle."
Feeling too blissed out, she doesn't bother to roll her eyes. "Alright, then, what are we having?"
"Black hair," House says, using his cane to snag his wayward shoe. "Blue eyes. Nice ass. That one's imperative."
"I thought for sure you'd have said big breasts," she says, zipping up her skirt.
"With Flopsy and Mopsy there?" he says, indicating her own. "I might die of happiness. Or priapism." Something about that phrase gives an evil glint to his eye. After years of knowing him and months of dating, Cuddy knows that look way too well. He's made his choice; whatever it is, it's absolutely mad and hilariously brilliant.
"Just as long as it's not Ashley from oncology," she says, capitulating. "She talks too much."
Fully dressed, he makes his way over to her. "Not interested in talking? Damn, woman, people have feelings." He gives her exaggerated puppy dog eyes.
"Go," she tells him, kissing him on the cheek. "Try not to get sued today."
--
Cuddy's innocently reviewing a patient file when House comes up behind her and pulls her close, using his cane like a shepherd's crook.
"Got you a present," he growls in her ear.
She can feel the blush swiftly cover her face. "Already?"
"I work fast," he replies, taking her by the arm and pulling her away toward his office. She hopes like hell that no one important happens along. She's pretty sure the entire nursing staff already knows, but she'd like to maintain the polite fiction that she has control over this situation for as long as she can.
House steers her into the office. The shades are pulled, and, to heighten the effect, the lights are off. As if that weren't enough, he draws his arm over her eyes before flicking on the light.
"I thought you said black hair," is the first thing that comes to mind when he pulls his arm away, and she blurts it out.
Wilson looks askance at House, as if he can't tell if it's safe to laugh.
Dinner and a Show
The restaurant is crowded and a bit loud, but Wilson barely notices. It has been exactly two days since, completely innocently, he showed up at House's place for beer and Chinese; it has been approximately 44 hours since House took him to bed and fucked the living daylights out of him. It's laughably far from being the first time he's cheated, but the first on Cuddy, who he's fairly certain he's still in love with. He normally has the decency to wait until things are doomed anyway.
He's eaten up with guilt, though he's hiding it well, and Cuddy's beatific smiles at him tonight couldn't feel worse if they were poison darts. Over tiramisu, Wilson very nearly tells her everything, but the waiter comes back and he clams right up. He really just wants to go home, but Cuddy gives him that look that he's never quite learned to refuse, and so they're off to her house. They almost don't make it; Cuddy's whispering things into his ear that are severely impairing his ability to drive.
Cuddy's far past the point of pretending; as soon as they arrive, she hightails it for the bedroom. His intention is to make a detour to the hall bathroom, but then Cuddy lets out this positively inhuman shriek. He bounds down the hall, intending to save her from whatever it is.
Sprawled out on her bed, casually reading last month's Cosmopolitan, is House, shoes kicked off, cane propped up against the end table. It is with every ounce of his self control that Wilson manages to keep himself from gaping. He really wants to swear, but he doesn't know if he can risk opening his mouth.
"What the hell?" Cuddy manages to stammer, inarticulate in her indignation.
"I think you two need to have a talk," he says, calmly closing the magazine and throwing it onto the nightstand. "And you need to buy new magazines."
Wilson knows that he is- completely, utterly, and without a doubt- fucked. He still doesn't say anything, just stares at House as if he's trying to burn through his skull.
"But," House continues, folding his arms behind his head, "I believe the appropriate adage is, ‘No harm, no foul.'"
It takes a full thirty seconds for his brain to click back over from fight-or-flight mode and actually interpret what he's just said. Rather belatedly, he looks at Cuddy, who looks like she's going to kill someone, identity to be determined. He can't be pissed; he's too befuddled to be anything.
"When?" he finally manages to ask.
"A week ago," she answers, beating House to it.
"In the parking garage," he adds, with a proud little smile.
There's a long pause, as Wilson tries to stuff his brains back into his ear. "Well done?"
Cuddy swears under her breath. "I don't have time for this. You're am asshole," she says to Wilson, "and you're a bastard," to House. "But right now, I just want to have sex with my gay, cheating boyfriend and go to sleep. So get out."
"No," he says, challenging.
"Fine. Stay. Whatever. But if somebody doesn't fuck me right now, I'm doing it myself."
House reaches her before Wilson has a chance to think about it, drawing her into a kiss. When Wilson makes a noise like he's going to protest, House grabs him by the tie, turning from Cuddy to kiss him.
For once in his entire life, cheating has turned out to be the right decision.
My Polyamorous Friend
The way it's supposed to work is that House is dating Cuddy, and Cuddy is dating Wilson, and never the twain shall meet. It's supposed to be the respectable, adult solution to their particular problem, with the minimum of drama involved.
Except that, after her third glass of merlot, she lets some rather inventive fantasies slip to Wilson, who's off to House fast as his legs can carry him.
Just as soon as House can finagle them all a night off at the same time (a Herculean task that involves questionably experimental medicine and a sizable bribe paid out to a patient's wife), they're at Cuddy's house, pagers thrown irreverently behind the sofa and enough alcohol laid in to last them for a solid week.
She catches on to the "make it look like we're drinking to lull Cuddy into a false sense of security" plan a little too quickly, and Wilson gets condemned to two shots of rum. Counterintuitvely, it weakens his revolve; House is giving him dangerous looks from across the couch, reminding him.
At some point the television gets turned on; it's a movie they've all seen half a dozen times, which is just what the doctor ordered. While Wilson's sliding his hand up her thigh like a nervous schoolboy and Cuddy's pretending to be focused on the film, House just grabs her by the hair and kisses her hard. He takes Wilson's tentative hand and holds it to her breast, kneading it with his hand over Wilson's.
Cuddy puts up an admirable fifteen seconds of resistance before making a barely audible moan and kissing him back. Wilson can't do anything but watch them for a moment, see what it is that he's been missing. It's only a moment, because Cuddy wants him next; her mouth tastes like House, just like he's always expected, and he melts into it.
After that is a blur of hands and mouths and discarded clothing. Cuddy's draped over his lap, her hair spilling over his thighs as she wraps her lips around his cock; House is on the other side of the couch, guiding himself into her, his grip tight on her hips. Wilson clutches at the arm of the couch, unsure where to put his hands, unsure about this whole situation, but he'll be goddamned if he's going to stop it. Cuddy's mouth is soft and hot and warm, and House just looks so good when he's fucking her, lost and totally in control at the same time.
From the noise of it, Cuddy comes long before they're done with her, moaning so loudly Wilson can feel it, hear it even though her mouth's full. Wilson can't help it; he laces his hand into her hair, trying not to push but thrusting into her mouth all the same. It's a ridiculously short period of time before he comes, and House is right behind him, his fingers going so tight on Cuddy's skin that it seems like she'll bruise.
At the end they're sweaty and exhausted and too damn old for this. Wilson wipes his forehead with one hand, sitting back against the couch; Cuddy puts her legs up in his lap, leaning back against House.
She has the best ideas.
The Bet
"That's the great thing about threesomes. If one person drops out-"
"Yeah, Greg, that was really clever the first time you said it," Cuddy cut in, laying down her cards. "When was that, exactly? 1982?" She picked them back up and adjusted them slightly. "Hurry up and bet."
"Care to make it interesting?" House said with a leer.
"What did you have in mind?"
"If I win this hand, you go home with me."
Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Why the hell not?" She turned to Wilson. "And if you win this hand, should I go home with you?"
"Why the hell not?" Wilson echoed, shrugging.
"Lay 'em out boys," Cuddy said, confidently, putting down four queens. House smirked, laying down a straight flush.
Before she had time to gape, Wilson laid down his hand. "What a coincidence," he said, looking at House.
Straight, No Chaser
House tilts his head down, giving her that piercing stare that always hits her about two feet lower than she should let it. Cuddy purses her lips, looking away instead of answering, which House knows means an easy victory.
He turns it on Wilson next, and Wilson just throws up his hands. "Hell with this. I call the middle."
Summary: The ways to not do it are almost limitless.
Fandom: House
Word Count: 1728
Rating/Contents: NC-17, partner betrayal
Pairing: House/Wilson/Cuddy
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: Enjoy this. It fell off the back of a truck. Be advised that I started writing this in, like, season three, so it has nothing to do with anything that's presently going on in canon (how could it, when I stopped watching a season and a half ago).
Order Up
"You can't just order a person like a steak," Cuddy tells him while she rolls her stockings on.
"Sure you can," he replies. "Just make sure mine's pink in the middle."
Feeling too blissed out, she doesn't bother to roll her eyes. "Alright, then, what are we having?"
"Black hair," House says, using his cane to snag his wayward shoe. "Blue eyes. Nice ass. That one's imperative."
"I thought for sure you'd have said big breasts," she says, zipping up her skirt.
"With Flopsy and Mopsy there?" he says, indicating her own. "I might die of happiness. Or priapism." Something about that phrase gives an evil glint to his eye. After years of knowing him and months of dating, Cuddy knows that look way too well. He's made his choice; whatever it is, it's absolutely mad and hilariously brilliant.
"Just as long as it's not Ashley from oncology," she says, capitulating. "She talks too much."
Fully dressed, he makes his way over to her. "Not interested in talking? Damn, woman, people have feelings." He gives her exaggerated puppy dog eyes.
"Go," she tells him, kissing him on the cheek. "Try not to get sued today."
--
Cuddy's innocently reviewing a patient file when House comes up behind her and pulls her close, using his cane like a shepherd's crook.
"Got you a present," he growls in her ear.
She can feel the blush swiftly cover her face. "Already?"
"I work fast," he replies, taking her by the arm and pulling her away toward his office. She hopes like hell that no one important happens along. She's pretty sure the entire nursing staff already knows, but she'd like to maintain the polite fiction that she has control over this situation for as long as she can.
House steers her into the office. The shades are pulled, and, to heighten the effect, the lights are off. As if that weren't enough, he draws his arm over her eyes before flicking on the light.
"I thought you said black hair," is the first thing that comes to mind when he pulls his arm away, and she blurts it out.
Wilson looks askance at House, as if he can't tell if it's safe to laugh.
Dinner and a Show
The restaurant is crowded and a bit loud, but Wilson barely notices. It has been exactly two days since, completely innocently, he showed up at House's place for beer and Chinese; it has been approximately 44 hours since House took him to bed and fucked the living daylights out of him. It's laughably far from being the first time he's cheated, but the first on Cuddy, who he's fairly certain he's still in love with. He normally has the decency to wait until things are doomed anyway.
He's eaten up with guilt, though he's hiding it well, and Cuddy's beatific smiles at him tonight couldn't feel worse if they were poison darts. Over tiramisu, Wilson very nearly tells her everything, but the waiter comes back and he clams right up. He really just wants to go home, but Cuddy gives him that look that he's never quite learned to refuse, and so they're off to her house. They almost don't make it; Cuddy's whispering things into his ear that are severely impairing his ability to drive.
Cuddy's far past the point of pretending; as soon as they arrive, she hightails it for the bedroom. His intention is to make a detour to the hall bathroom, but then Cuddy lets out this positively inhuman shriek. He bounds down the hall, intending to save her from whatever it is.
Sprawled out on her bed, casually reading last month's Cosmopolitan, is House, shoes kicked off, cane propped up against the end table. It is with every ounce of his self control that Wilson manages to keep himself from gaping. He really wants to swear, but he doesn't know if he can risk opening his mouth.
"What the hell?" Cuddy manages to stammer, inarticulate in her indignation.
"I think you two need to have a talk," he says, calmly closing the magazine and throwing it onto the nightstand. "And you need to buy new magazines."
Wilson knows that he is- completely, utterly, and without a doubt- fucked. He still doesn't say anything, just stares at House as if he's trying to burn through his skull.
"But," House continues, folding his arms behind his head, "I believe the appropriate adage is, ‘No harm, no foul.'"
It takes a full thirty seconds for his brain to click back over from fight-or-flight mode and actually interpret what he's just said. Rather belatedly, he looks at Cuddy, who looks like she's going to kill someone, identity to be determined. He can't be pissed; he's too befuddled to be anything.
"When?" he finally manages to ask.
"A week ago," she answers, beating House to it.
"In the parking garage," he adds, with a proud little smile.
There's a long pause, as Wilson tries to stuff his brains back into his ear. "Well done?"
Cuddy swears under her breath. "I don't have time for this. You're am asshole," she says to Wilson, "and you're a bastard," to House. "But right now, I just want to have sex with my gay, cheating boyfriend and go to sleep. So get out."
"No," he says, challenging.
"Fine. Stay. Whatever. But if somebody doesn't fuck me right now, I'm doing it myself."
House reaches her before Wilson has a chance to think about it, drawing her into a kiss. When Wilson makes a noise like he's going to protest, House grabs him by the tie, turning from Cuddy to kiss him.
For once in his entire life, cheating has turned out to be the right decision.
My Polyamorous Friend
The way it's supposed to work is that House is dating Cuddy, and Cuddy is dating Wilson, and never the twain shall meet. It's supposed to be the respectable, adult solution to their particular problem, with the minimum of drama involved.
Except that, after her third glass of merlot, she lets some rather inventive fantasies slip to Wilson, who's off to House fast as his legs can carry him.
Just as soon as House can finagle them all a night off at the same time (a Herculean task that involves questionably experimental medicine and a sizable bribe paid out to a patient's wife), they're at Cuddy's house, pagers thrown irreverently behind the sofa and enough alcohol laid in to last them for a solid week.
She catches on to the "make it look like we're drinking to lull Cuddy into a false sense of security" plan a little too quickly, and Wilson gets condemned to two shots of rum. Counterintuitvely, it weakens his revolve; House is giving him dangerous looks from across the couch, reminding him.
At some point the television gets turned on; it's a movie they've all seen half a dozen times, which is just what the doctor ordered. While Wilson's sliding his hand up her thigh like a nervous schoolboy and Cuddy's pretending to be focused on the film, House just grabs her by the hair and kisses her hard. He takes Wilson's tentative hand and holds it to her breast, kneading it with his hand over Wilson's.
Cuddy puts up an admirable fifteen seconds of resistance before making a barely audible moan and kissing him back. Wilson can't do anything but watch them for a moment, see what it is that he's been missing. It's only a moment, because Cuddy wants him next; her mouth tastes like House, just like he's always expected, and he melts into it.
After that is a blur of hands and mouths and discarded clothing. Cuddy's draped over his lap, her hair spilling over his thighs as she wraps her lips around his cock; House is on the other side of the couch, guiding himself into her, his grip tight on her hips. Wilson clutches at the arm of the couch, unsure where to put his hands, unsure about this whole situation, but he'll be goddamned if he's going to stop it. Cuddy's mouth is soft and hot and warm, and House just looks so good when he's fucking her, lost and totally in control at the same time.
From the noise of it, Cuddy comes long before they're done with her, moaning so loudly Wilson can feel it, hear it even though her mouth's full. Wilson can't help it; he laces his hand into her hair, trying not to push but thrusting into her mouth all the same. It's a ridiculously short period of time before he comes, and House is right behind him, his fingers going so tight on Cuddy's skin that it seems like she'll bruise.
At the end they're sweaty and exhausted and too damn old for this. Wilson wipes his forehead with one hand, sitting back against the couch; Cuddy puts her legs up in his lap, leaning back against House.
She has the best ideas.
The Bet
"That's the great thing about threesomes. If one person drops out-"
"Yeah, Greg, that was really clever the first time you said it," Cuddy cut in, laying down her cards. "When was that, exactly? 1982?" She picked them back up and adjusted them slightly. "Hurry up and bet."
"Care to make it interesting?" House said with a leer.
"What did you have in mind?"
"If I win this hand, you go home with me."
Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Why the hell not?" She turned to Wilson. "And if you win this hand, should I go home with you?"
"Why the hell not?" Wilson echoed, shrugging.
"Lay 'em out boys," Cuddy said, confidently, putting down four queens. House smirked, laying down a straight flush.
Before she had time to gape, Wilson laid down his hand. "What a coincidence," he said, looking at House.
Straight, No Chaser
House tilts his head down, giving her that piercing stare that always hits her about two feet lower than she should let it. Cuddy purses her lips, looking away instead of answering, which House knows means an easy victory.
He turns it on Wilson next, and Wilson just throws up his hands. "Hell with this. I call the middle."
(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-14 02:30 pm (UTC)