'You have a beer belly,' says Wilson, lying naked on his right side, softly trailing his fingers over the skin below House's navel. They are on top of the covers.
'No, I don't,' says House. 'A beer belly is a distended abdomen caused by a build-up of visceral fat in the abdominal area. This,' he cups his own stomach in his hands and holds it, looking oddly proud, 'is a belly full of beer.'
They're both pleasantly drunk, though House has put away far more to achieve that state than Wilson.
Wilson has had three bottles of Coors. House has finished off that six pack and then worked his way through another. He rarely drinks this much beer. It takes a lot of Coors to get a good enough buzz. He prefers to get drunk on Scotch - quicker and far more efficient - though lately it's begun to feel too sordid. The high from half a bottle of Scotch is far more squalid. If more exciting.
The drunkenness that wraps itself around you after a six pack or two is warmer, gentler, less acerbic. It makes you feel loved.
His stomach is full and tight. It almost hurts, though not quite. It protrudes unnaturally from his middle, a little below his ribs, to the top of his groin. He's undone his belt and pants so that he can be more comfortable.
They've moved to the bed because the television began to bore them, though they aren't tired enough to sleep. Wilson is feeling lazy and affectionate, and House is in a fairly amiable mood. The full press of the beer extends down to his privates, and he is nursing half an erection.
'You look five months pregnant,' says Wilson, chortling into House's neck. House hasn't taken off his jeans, but he has shed his shirt and t-shirt. Wilson is too hot - he's stripped right down to his boxers and argyle socks. He hooks his bare leg over House's leg, bringing his crotch into light contact with House's hip.
His prick stirs.
House shifts on the mattress.
'Are you turned on?' he asks, astonished. Gleefully disbelieving.
'No,' says Wilson, defensively. Then he says, 'well, yes. I'm in bed with you. You have your shirt off.' He draws his socked foot up House's calf, and then back down again.
'Ladies and Gentlemen,' says House, in a compere's voice, 'the winner of this year's 'State the Obvious' award - Mr. James Evan Wilson!' His leg twitches, tickled by the motion of Wilson's foot.
'Thank you,' says Wilson. 'Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen. This is the result of years of training. Which of course is obvious.'
House lets out a genuine, delighted laugh. The kind that only Wilson can wring from him. He's still trailing his fingers across the skin of his taut abdomen. It feels better than it should.
'What I mean is,' says House, looking down, 'You're turned on by this.' He strokes a slow, flat palm over his belly, between his navel and his groin. 'You pervert. You no longer get to criticise me for any sexual armadillo.' House calls sexual peccadilloes 'sexual armadillos.' It's an in-joke. Far cuter than House intends it to sound.
'I'm not quite sure what you're accusing me of,' says Wilson, even as he subtly rubs the front of his boxers against House's hip. He breathes in the smell of House - draws it deep into his lungs. Imagines it dissolving into his bloodstream through his alveoli. Lynx Ice body spray, dry sweat, hops and peanuts. House was eating peanut butter straight from the jar a little earlier.
'I'm accusing you,' says House, 'of getting off on the idea of me with a bun in the oven.'
Wilson releases a bark of laughter at this, though it isn't entirely derisive, and it's a little embarrassed.
'I'm not,' he says, 'honestly.' Then he decides he might as well be truly honest. 'I just like the idea of over-indulgence.'
House grins widely.
'Then I'm your fetishist's jackpot,' he says, pleased with himself. Wilson huffs a warm laugh into House's shoulder and then kisses it, open-mouthed, with lips, teeth and tongue.
House lets out a burp.
He's suspected that Wilson was tickled by this sort of thing. Wilson has a very limited collection of sexual deviances, though he keeps it closely guarded, well-dusted and largely untouched. Most are still in their original boxes. It's always nice when he lets House take one out to play with.
And House had actually been itching to get his hands on this one, in particular. Wilson is a self-righteous prick, but a hypocritical one. He disapproves of every Vicodin House swallows and every shot of Scotch he knocks back, every Hooker he pays to perform exorbitantly salacious acts on his person. At the same time, Wilson envies it all. He envies House's physical nonchalance. His disregard for his own mortality. The way he spoils his body rotten, like one might spoil an obnoxious child who milks its chronic illness for everything it's got.
He places his left palm flat on House's swollen belly and squeezes very gently.
House lets out a low, languorous sound, halfway between discomfort and gratification.
'Does it hurt?' asks Wilson? 'I can't believe you fit that much in there.'
'No,' says House. 'It feels good.'
Wilson stands up his hand on his fingertips, like a crawling spider. He draws his fingers in to bunch around House's navel, and then spreads them back out slowly, gently scraping his nails against the sensitive flesh.
'Mmmm,' says House. The sound starts strong in his throat, but then stutters, like a car engine giving out. 'I think you're lying,' says House. 'You kinky bastard. You want me barefoot and pregnant.'
House feels Wilson harden obscenely quickly against his hip. Wilson slides down the mattress to disguise it, though his body won't let him pull away - his crotch jerks forward, searching out the heat of House's outer thigh. House feels the hot length of Wilson's cotton-clad erection all the way along it.
This is the strangest of the lovers' games they've ever played. If they can call themselves 'lovers.' House still sees hookers. Wilson still sees... People. If either harbours any feelings of jealousy at this, they haven't yet taken them out to look at in the light. Bizarrely, House is less blatantly jealous of Wilson's romances than he was before they began this odd 'romance.' Though perhaps not so bizarrely. Now House gets everything the women get, too. He always did hate being left out.
It's interesting, because they aren't shy of each other. Increasingly, they admit things they want. Things they've always wanted to try, but have been too polite, or too stubborn, or too lazy and uncommunicative, to ask for from a woman. Once they played a drinking game, trading lewd acts for embarrassing confessions. One embarrassing confession earned one lewd act. A refusal to perform a lewd act was penalised by two shots of vodka - it had been vodka that night, for some reason. After an hour, it had dawned upon a plastered Wilson that House was embarrassed of nothing and willing to do anything.
This, though, is unusual enough to be thrilling in an entirely new way.
'If it turns you on,' says House, softly, with a wicked smile in his voice, 'I could play pretend for you, Wilson.' Wilson isn't sure what to think of this. He feels he shouldn't be aroused by it. He feels he should think it is incredibly, repellently odd.
Though the cotton of his boxers is growing damp with his excitement.
House breathes deeply, deliberately, slowly. Coaxing his stomach to rise and fall more obviously than his chest.
'I think it's moving,' he whispers. Oh. Good grief. He's really going to do it. They're going to play this game.
House breathes out a small, curious sound and reaches for Wilson's hand. 'Do you want to feel?' He flattens his hand against Wilson's and draws it up over his abdomen to a spot high up, near his rib cage.
Wilson can feel the tickling flutter of gas bubbles shifting in House's gut.
'You're insane,' says Wilson, though he doesn't move his hand.
'You're incredibly turned on,' says House, with a little awe.
When he was five, Wilson used to play Doctors with Shelly Travers in the playground sports shed. He'd sat on the basketball rack and asked her to pull her pants down. That tingle he couldn't put a name to at the time - he knew now that it came from the sordidness of the whole thing. Physical experimentation. Doing things with your body that you weren't supposed to. Playing around and seeing what happens.
No doctor would ever admit that they chose their vocation to keep playing guiltlessly.
Apart, perhaps, from House.
'What is it?' asks House, quietly.
'What's what?'
'What is it that's turning you on about this? Really? Apart from the idea of over-indulgence? Is it the way it looks? Do you miss curves? Do you...' his hesitation is almost non-existent, 'do you want to have a baby?'
'None of the above,' replies Wilson. 'It just feels...'
'Good?'
'Naughty,' says Wilson.
'Naughty,' says House, turning his head to eye Wilson assessingly. Then he nods. 'Help me up,' he says, holding his arms out like a child wanting to be carried. He encourages Wilson with small motions and grunts to manoeuvre them so that Wilson is sitting beneath House, Wilson's back to the headboard. They are facing each other, and House is straddling Wilson's hips, kneeling on the mattress, his bad leg bent carefully, the thigh pressed up against a pillow.
House relaxes his full stomach between them, until it distends fully, round and heavy. Looking down on it from above, it appears larger. House shifts forward just a little until the paunch rests gently on Wilson's privates.
Wilson's hips twitch upwards, brushing the head of his erection against the underside of House's belly. They both moan.
'Touch it,' says House, looking down at his stomach. 'It's so full.'
This is the strangest and most alluring dirty talk Wilson has ever heard.
He reaches between them confidently and runs his hands in circles over House's tummy, spreading warmth and a light sheen of sweat across the skin. He tickles above House's navel with the backs of the fingers of his right hand. Uses the thumb of his left to trace the faint desire line of hair that runs from House's belly button to disappear into the open crotch of his jeans. He rubs against the direction of hair growth - makes it stand on end.
House makes low, appreciative sounds in his throat, and looks down brazenly at what Wilson is doing, more wicked fire in his eyes than he has when he watches Wilson suck his cock.
Wilson runs his thumb back up from House's groin, up the line of hair. Stops before he reaches House's navel. Then circles it.
House's breath comes heavier. Slightly faster.
Wilson circles his belly button with his thumb again.
House's breaths are too deep, slightly too slow to be panting.
Wilson makes concentric circles around his navel with his thumbnail, moving inwards, inwards, inwards slowly.
When he finally slips the pad of his thumb into House's stretched navel to massage, he might've touched House's cock. They groan in unison, House's head falling forward to land with impact against Wilson's, forehead to crown. Wilson keeps massaging.
Until House can finally stand no more.
'Take off your boxers,' he says, shuffling backwards to struggle out of his own jeans. Wilson works his boxers frantically down his legs, hissing as his turgid erection slips out past the waistband into the cool air. He tosses the boxers away, begins to tug at the ankles of House's jeans to help him. House arches his back, his ass lifted off the mattress, to worm his way out of the pants - it pushes his stomach out further. Wilson leans over, reaches out a hand to fondle his belly button again. House isn't wearing underwear.
House grabs at Wilson's neck, pulling himself back up to straddle Wilson's waist again.
'This is so bizarre,' says Wilson, though he isn't quite laughing. He thinks for a moment, and House too is still, waiting impatiently at a small crossroads, wondering where to go from here. Then Wilson reaches down and picks up his own prick. He shuffles backwards slightly, so that there is a little room between them. He holds his prick firmly in his hand, feeling it throb, looking at the bead of moisture quivering at the very tip.
He uses the wet tip of his prick to paint lines of moisture across House's belly. At the top and the bottom. In wide circles around the edges. Close in near his navel. And then, his prick leaking fresh Cowper's fluid, he finally pokes it inside the button, miming the motion of fucking, though the hole is tiny and shallow.
'You're filthy,' says House, 'you're kinky, you're nuts.' His voice is thick.
Wilson slaps his hand onto the bedside table for the tube of lavender moisturising cream he keeps there. House buys lube, lots of it, though Wilson never goes for that, which they keep hidden in the top drawer. The cream seems more spontaneous, less clinical.
Wilson squeezes it directly onto his prick, sets the tube aside, slathers himself decadently. Rubs the excess into House's stomach, which is already shining with pre-come.
Then he hoists House further up onto his body, and House helps, shifts forward, lets Wilson spread his cheeks and then sits down heavily on Wilson's crotch.
'Ah,' says House, 'oh. Mh.' His rounded stomach brushes against Wilson's soft, flat one.
House adores his prostate. He invites Wilson inside him readily, greedily, repeatedly, not out of any spirit of acquiescence or thought for Wilson's pleasure, but simply because he wants his prostate touched. Hard, firmly, again and again, sending quakes of pleasure down his limbs to his fingertips and toes.
'Oh,' says Wilson, astonished every time by the heat and the tightness. He rocks up into House's ass.
After two firm strokes, he takes House's cock in his fist and begins to jerk it, slicking it with the remaining cream on his palm.
And House begins to talk. House always talks. Turned on incredibly as he approaches orgasm by stating the reality of what they are doing, hearing it said aloud, in a low, broken voice, nearly destroyed by pleasure.
'How weird is this, Wilson,' he starts, softly, 'fucking me, and my... Your cock in my ass, and... My belly... Pregnant... between us.'
'Ah!' says Wilson, electrified completely by the bizarre and fantastic scenario.
'I knew... You'd love it. You love to see it, don't you? I'm... What am I, Wilson?'
House is holding his belly gently in one hand, cradling it, as though it truly does contain a growing foetus.
'Oh God,' says Wilson, desperate to come. 'Pregnant. You're pregnant. And you're so sexy.'
Wilson pounds up into House, and House rises and falls, up and down, one hand on the headboard, one on his belly.
'Tight,' he says. 'Tight, and full, and big, and full of you. You... You fucking... Came inside me. You came inside me Wilson, and then,' House buries his face in Wilson's sweat-slick neck, finally, for the first time in his life, embarrassed by the bizarre and erotic filth spilling from his mouth. Embarrassed by something he finds sexy. 'Then you made me pregnant, and oh... Oh... Fuck. I'm going to come.'
He does, incredibly hard, suddenly mortified, his eyes going wide at the sight of his semen splashing against Wilson's chest and neck.
Wilson curls forward and throbs, spurts, long and warm inside of House, making no sound, clutching at his shoulders, ecstatic and sick with pleasure.
Neither of them is entirely sure what to say, after that.