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It starts off - like all good kinks do - as a joke.
See, House is usually pretty good at hiding his reactions. His many years of playing poker have served him well, not to mention - y’know. The whole chronic pain thing - and most of the time, he can stay stoic through what most people would break down crying over. It’s a useful skill that’s saved him from many an embarrassing predicament more times than he can count.
Keyword: usually.
Because - unfortunately for him - the one person who can actually see through that indifferent mask to the true reaction underneath is also the one person he happens to spend the most time with. Funny how that works.
What he’s trying to say is that Wilson is unreasonably perceptive - especially when they’re trying to have sex, and double-especially during that time about a week ago when he’d said, "good boy,” in that half-joking, flirtatious, unfairly attractive voice.
House had tried his very best to look nonchalant about that. He really had. But Wilson had picked up on that near-imperceptible hitch of his breath, on that ever-so-slight dilation of his pupils, and had latched onto it like a pitbull to a small child.
He had been merciless with that piece of information, taunting and teasing House and keeping him pinned down so he couldn't even get away (not that he'd particularly wanted to, mind you), to the point where House had bit him in retaliation. And after that little stunt Wilson had snarled and called him bad dog, all low and rough and insanely hot, and House came so embarrassingly quickly that he almost felt like he was twenty years younger.
He was rather mortified, of course, and had shut down every single one of Wilson’s attempts to talk about it afterwards. Digging deeper into his own psyche is the last thing he wants to do - ever. But Wilson, the stubborn bastard, refused to let it go. He pestered and badgered and withheld sex (truly, the man's evil knows no bounds), to the point where House had to finally concede lest he stay blue-balled forever.
The ensuing conversation was... interesting. Embarrassing, mostly, because despite the fact that they’ve been sleeping together for about a year now House still hates opening up about his feelings, ugh - but it had also opened the door to try something new.
Which leads them to now, just a few days later. House shifts anxiously on their bed, shirtless and rubbing his thigh through his jeans, while Wilson stands beside him with a raised eyebrow. A nondescript paper bag sits on the nightstand, the elephant in the room; House both dreads and eagerly anticipates its contents in equal measure.
"You're sure about this?" Wilson says, all earnest and wide-eyed, and as much as House hates to admit it the expression is incredibly endearing. It makes him want to answer honestly, which is an unfortunate fact that Wilson loves using to his advantage.
It's not like it’s their first foray into BDSM, is the thing. Been there, done that, multiple times. It’s great! It’s fun! House had been delighted to learn that Wilson’s always been a kinky little freak (it’s always the normal-looking ones that you have to watch out for), and vice versa.
But it still doesn’t make the whole voluntary submission thing any easier. Especially not for something so- so embarrassing. So intimate.
He’s willing to give it a go, though. He can convince himself later that it’s purely for Wilson’s sake - plus, he’s always lived by the ‘don’t knock it until you try it’ rule. So.
"Yeah, I'm sure," House replies after a moment, just long enough to make Wilson nervous. Gotta keep him on his toes. "Stop coddling me and just get on with it."
Wilson nods somewhat jerkily, grabbing the paper bag and rustling through it while House makes himself comfortable against the headboard. He pops an extra Vicodin while Wilson’s distracted, partially to ward off the pain he knows will hit him hard later on and partially because the familiar motion helps settle his nerves.
He doesn’t even know why he’s so anxious about this. It’s only Wilson, for fuck’s sake - the man’s seen him be vulnerable more than anyone else in his life. He’s not going to betray House’s trust. He’s not going to hurt him (well, not unless it’s prenegotiated, anyway). Maybe it’s the whole pet aspect, or whatever - something about being owned, or at least playing the part of it. It’s… tantalisingly appealing, and that scares him.
He doesn't get much time to dwell on that, though, because soon enough Wilson’s triumphantly holding up the items from the bag.
The first is relatively innocuous, out of context - it’s a sleek dog collar, black leather with shiny silver buckles. A round tag dangles from the front, engraved with the letter H (because Wilson always has to go the extra mile, the sap). It’s simple but pretty, and it wouldn't be anything weird if they actually owned a dog.
The second item is nowhere near as easily explained. It's a black and blue neoprene muzzle fashioned after a canine snout, complete with a shiny nose. There's straps that fasten behind the ears and over the top of his head, with two floppy dog ears sticking out from the upper strap – not a full hood, though, because Wilson knows how much House loves having his hair played with during sex. Just the thought of wearing it sends a little thrill down House's spine and straight into his dick - though it's chased by a flush of shame hot on its heels.
And the third… well, House is simultaneously the most excited and apprehensive about this one.
It’s a sleek silicone tail attached to a buttplug, the springy material curving upwards in a neat arc. The plug itself is a decent size, the same blue as the muzzle, maybe a little thicker than the ones they’ve used before - he squirms in anticipation, imagining how it’ll feel inside him; the width of it pressing against his walls, the tail shifting with every tiny movement, forcing it deeper…
"Alright," Wilson says, breaking him from his thoughts and suddenly sounding far too put-together for House’s liking. "Collar first, I think. Colour?"
House inhales somewhat shakily to steady himself, before taking the plunge and giving Wilson the go-ahead.
"Green."
With a smile that somehow manages to be both wolfish and ridiculously sappy, Wilson settles down too, propping himself against the headboard on the other side of the bed. He puts the muzzle and tail to one side for the moment, then gestures for House to come closer.
House eagerly obliges, practically scrambling across the comforter until he’s pressed against Wilson’s side. Wilson reaches out with one hand to guide House's chin upwards, exposing his neck, then takes hold of the collar and guides it to his throat.
At the first caress of cool leather against his skin, House’s breath hitches, his shoulders tensing instinctively; his pulse flutters at the intimate touch, torn between jerking away and leaning into it, but he forces himself to stay still.
Wilson seems to understand his struggle, though, shushing him softly and rubbing little circles against House’s collarbones with his thumbs until his shoulders relax again. He's ever-so-gentle as he loops the collar around House’s neck, every little brush of his fingers feeling like a brand against his skin. House swallows heavily as Wilson tightens the buckle and tugs the tag round to the front, looking so unbearably fond that it's almost sickening.
"All good?" Wilson asks quietly, as if he's afraid raising his voice will scare House off like a spooked horse. He's probably not far off, to be fair; House feels a little jittery, nerves thrumming just below his skin. The collar sits heavy around his neck, tight enough to be constantly reminded of its presence but not enough to obstruct his breathing.
…Not that he'd necessarily be opposed to that. Masochism is one of his defining traits, after all.
Still, despite how weird this all feels, it's undeniably nice. The leather is cool and heavy - grounding, almost - and he can feel his body relaxing minutely, much to his own chagrin.
"…Yeah," House responds after a moment, refusing to meet Wilson’s eyes. "S'good."
Wilson nods once, and House is grateful that he doesn't comment on that admission because he feels altogether pretty fragile right now. Wilson just files that information away and picks up the muzzle again, holding it out and looking at House hopefully.
Not trusting himself to speak, House inclines his head the slightest bit as permission, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. The muzzle is ceremoniously lifted over his head, and after wrangling with the straps for a moment, Wilson fits it to House’s face.
The neoprene sits flush against his cheeks, tapering out into the dog-like snout shape that covers his mouth and nose. The straps and nose bridge are a shiny black, while the sides of the muzzle itself are a pretty light blue colour. It's got that new fabric sort of smell too, not entirely pleasant but still pretty breathable, and for some inexplicable reason the feeling of it over his face is incredibly calming.
Wilson flicks one of the floppy dog ears atop his head, causing it to bounce, and House feels himself flush, all wide-eyed as Wilson chuckles at him.
"You're so cute," he marvels, patting House’s head fondly, and House wills his breathing to even out as his brain flip-flops between humiliation and arousal. Alarm bells start ringing somewhere in the back of his mind – this is definitely worst-case scenario. He's enjoying this, enjoying being treated like a damn dog, and House is sure he'd never hear the end of it if Wilson weren't so clearly affected too, with hungry, blown-out pupils and the outline of his cock visible through his slacks.
Despite how aroused he is, Wilson keeps himself in check, always one to put his partner first. He runs his fingers through House's hair, soothing away the nervous trembles House hadn't even noticed were running through his body.
House wouldn't admit this under penalty of death, but he adores the tender touches and loving glances Wilson gives him, always grateful for the excuse to bask in his attention despite how much he grumps and pretends to merely tolerate it. Wilson probably sees right through the act, to be fair, but they don't talk about it.
House clears his throat before he gets too sidetracked, though the sound is muffled by the muzzle.
"Still green," he tells Wilson pointedly, because although he enjoys the attention if this doesn't start moving along within the next few minutes he might actually explode. Infuriatingly, Wilson just smiles and hums in acknowledgement, not letting up his incessant (but very gratifying) petting for a moment. House lets out a little noise of half-pleasure, half-irritation.
"Seriously. Get a move on. If you keep up with this mushy shit I will bite you."
"That's why you've got the muzzle on."
"I'll find a way."
Wilson chuckles again, but he does eventually pull back, gently batting at House until he shuffles out of the way.
“Alright,” he says, one hand starting on House’s fly and the other rifling blindly through the nightstand drawer for lube. House watches him struggle to multitask for a few amused seconds before taking over, hurriedly replacing Wilson’s hand with his own and kicking off his jeans and boxers in one go.
Wilson’s eyes stray to his scar for a moment, then to his face in a silent question: you okay? House - quite rightfully, in his own opinion - scowls at him in response. Seriously, he’s not a baby. He can handle himself.
Speaking of which.
House wraps a rough palm around his cock and gives himself a few lazy strokes, grinning as Wilson seemingly forgets his quest for lube for the moment; those dark eyes zero in on him like a hungry hawk. Then he shakes himself off and finally emerges victorious with the bottle in hand.
“You’d better stop that,” Wilson warns with a quirked eyebrow, reaching down to grip House’s wrist and stop his movements in their tracks.
“Or what?” House challenges back. The feeling of those warm fingers digging into sensitive skin sends something fluttery in his chest – he always loves riling Wilson up, seeing how long it takes to make him snap.
“Or I won’t let you cum.”
Oh. Okay. Maybe no more provoking for today. The last time he’d tested whether or not Wilson would stick to his threat he had been left sore and aching and very, very blue-balled. It was a fun experience, but not one he’s willing to repeat for the moment, so House obediently (if sullenly) drops his dick.
“Much better.”
Then those infuriatingly gentle hands are manhandling him and pushing him around, pressing him to lay down on his front with his ass in the air. Wilson slides a pillow under his hips to prop him up; House peers over his shoulder eagerly, the muzzle pressing against his face as he does so. Now comes the fun part.
Wilson slicks up his fingers, drizzling a little extra lube between House’s cheeks without bothering to warm it first. The sudden shock of cold has him twitching forwards involuntarily; the feeling is only amplified by the first drag of Wilson’s blunt fingernail along the tender underside of his balls, and the motion forces a wobbly exhale from his throat. Wilson does it a few more times, his touches teasing and feather-light, before House gets impatient.
“Are you gonna put your fingers in my ass, or what,” he grits out, dropping his head and wiggling his hips in what he hopes is an enticing way. It clearly works, because Wilson soon stops dawdling and presses the pad of his finger against House’s hole.
He doesn’t give any warning before he pushes his way inside, a slow but unrelenting slide as he sinks all the way down to the base. House sighs in relief when he immediately begins to pump in and out of him, not waiting or giving him time to adjust – it’s rough and hard, just how he likes it, but with just enough lube to make sure he won’t tear.
It's not long before Wilson slips another finger in alongside the first, stretching and scissoring him open with a litany of slick, filthy sounds. He’s definitely avoiding House’s prostate on purpose, probing everywhere except where he wants him most; it’s infuriating, but he keeps his protests to himself, the earlier threat still fresh in his mind. It doesn’t stop him from trying to angle his hips just so, grinding surreptitiously against the pillow, but Wilson cottons on to his plan fairly quickly and puts a stop to it with a firm, heavy hand on House’s hip.
“Behave,” he warns again, his tone brooking no argument. Something about the way he says it – low and rough, and a little mean – has House shuddering slightly. His first instinct, of course, is to brat again, but something more than the threat of punishment stops him this time. A pleasant wave of submission goes through him at the clear, concise command, and he’s somewhat startled to find that he actually wants to be good, for once.
Then all at once Wilson pulls his fingers out, wiping them off on the sheets, and the moment is gone.
“Hey,” House whines, frowning behind the muzzle as he turns to look over his shoulder once more. “I was enjoying that.”
“You’re about to enjoy this a lot more.”
Snapping the lube open again, Wilson holds up the tail, wiggling it for House to see. He watches with bated breath as lube is smeared over the plug end, then releases that breath all at once when the tip is pushed lightly against his hole.
The plug is thick. It sinks into him with relative ease, though there’s the perfect amount of friction to make him shudder pleasantly; House clenches around it, letting out a noise of satisfaction as it just barely scrapes against his prostate.
“Good?” Wilson asks, smoothing his hands over House’s ass appreciatively.
“Yeah,” comes his mumbled response, voice thick with desire. He goes willingly when Wilson guides him upright on all fours, urging him to crawl closer; his tail wags behind him as he does so, and House feels heat rising to his cheeks at the sensation. It’s a weird feeling – humiliating, certainly – but a good one nonetheless.
He settles himself down beside Wilson once more, the action jolting the plug inside him. He lets out a muffled yelp, which only makes Wilson laugh at him – the bastard’s always had a bit of a sadistic side.
“Can we fuck now, or what,” House grumbles, unamused.
“So impatient. But I want to ask you a couple questions first.”
House pouts at him, but Wilson barrels on undeterred.
"What do you want me to call you?"
...Ugh, what sort of question is that? There are much better things they could be doing right now instead of wasting time. Namely, each other.
"Uh, my name, duh. It's what most people refer to me as."
"I meant like a pet name. Y’know, to get you into the mood.”
He’s already in ‘the mood,’ and he’s about to say as much, but Wilson raises an eyebrow in warning and the protest dies in his throat.
“We've already established that you like being a good boy for me, so..."
Someone makes a very embarrassing noise at those two fated words. Definitely not House, no siree. Unrelated, but maybe this whole ‘talking to each other’ thing isn’t so bad after all.
"...case in point," Wilson continues, amused. "How about 'puppy,' is that one okay?"
House takes a moment to think about it. Or at least he makes a show of thinking about it, because the answer is a big fat yes on that front and he doesn't want to look overly enthusiastic. He's got an image to maintain, after all.
He also very quickly realises the futility of that statement, because he has in fact just let Wilson collar and muzzle him like a dog.
...Whatever.
"Yeah," he manages to rasp out coolly, and his voice does not waver, thank you very much. "It’s alright."
“Pet? Mutt?”
A nod, then another, slightly sheepish.
And then Wilson gets that wicked gleam in his eyes, the one that always spells trouble for House, as he carefully takes House’s muzzled face in his hold, forcing him to maintain eye contact. His heart thrums nervously as he mentally braces himself for whatever the other man’s about to say.
“How about good girl?”
Oh. Oh, fuck.
No amount of inner fortitude could’ve prepared him for that, and a wounded, punched-out sound makes its way out of his throat unbidden. House feels himself flush, traitorous cock straining painfully between his legs, as he frantically shakes his head in an effort to deny the obvious.
“No? You don’t like that one?”
Wilson’s tone turns mean and patronising as his fingers trail down to the loop on House’s collar, pulling him in; House has no choice but to lean forward, unable to resist since he’s pretty sure his bones have just been replaced with jelly. He lets himself be tucked closer against Wilson’s side as an arm wraps around him, holding him flush to the other man’s body and caging him in; the angle forces him to look up, and suddenly House feels very, very small.
“C’mon, puppy,” Wilson murmurs roughly, still holding onto his collar, and the words send a hot shiver down House’s spine. “You think I can’t tell when you’re lying? Tell me the truth. Do you want to be a good girl for me?”
And House whines, powerless to stop himself as he feels his will evaporating before his very eyes. He presses his muzzled face against Wilson’s neck, unable to look at him, and he’s probably blushing like a schoolgirl but honestly he’s finding it hard to care by this point. The swirling mix of shame and arousal is almost overwhelming, burning bright and fervent in his stomach, as he finally nods, squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment.
“Look at me.”
Opening his eyes again feels like an impossible task, but Wilson’s commanding tone leaves no room for argument. House uncurls slightly, just enough to look up at Wilson through his lashes, and the adoring, hungry gaze he gets for his efforts sends a dizzying wave of heat through his body.
Wilson’s pupils are blown wide, only a slim ring of those gorgeous brown irises visible; House thinks his own icy blues are probably the same way. It’s almost intoxicating, the way Wilson looks at him. House thrives off his attention, his enabling, his caring; having all of that focused solely upon himself like this, clouded through a haze of lust, makes the humiliation worth it a thousand times over.
With another little whine, House twitches his hips up against the empty air, the plug sinking further into him while his cock bobs and leaks precum against his stomach. He feels more than sees the way Wilson swallows at the sight, throat clicking loudly in the otherwise quiet room. Something in House preens at cracking him that slightest bit, so he does it again, fluttering his lashes as coquettishly as he can.
“C’mon, Wilson. Touch me,” he pleads, voice quiet and strained as he leans further into Wilson’s side. He uses the snout shape of his muzzle to nose just under his chin, relishing in the soft grunt of barely-restrained arousal he gets in return.
Then Wilson shakes his head, pulling him away by the back of his collar. House makes a hurt noise in return, confused at the sudden rejection, but Wilson’s hand is in his hair again and suddenly it’s not so bad.
“Dogs don’t talk,” he chides firmly, and oh, yeah, okay. “If you want to get off you’re going to have to beg me properly.”
House’s eyes widen a fraction. As if the rest of this isn’t already the most embarrassing thing he’s done with Wilson - being forced to beg is just the humiliating (but very, very exciting) icing on the cake.
So he slowly moves backwards until he’s settled on his knees, next to Wilson’s thighs. He can already feel the strain in his own thigh - it's going to hurt like a bitch later - but the Vicodin’s still fresh in his system, and for now, it’s manageable.
With the most demure look he can muster, House loosely curls his fists up like paws, bringing them up to his chest. Wilson’s breathing audibly hitches, which only encourages him; he tilts his head to one side while arching his back the slightest bit, emphasising the curve of his aching cock. Then, he whines, long and low and desperate through his muzzle, pleading with his half-lidded eyes for Wilson to hurry up and fuck him already.
“Oh,” Wilson murmurs shakily, “oh, good puppy, that’s it,” and House feels something soft and pleasant spark in his chest at the praise. Keeping his hands curled up, he paws at the front of Wilson’s slacks, making another pretty little noise as he feels just how hard the other man is - and suddenly House is trembling with want, panting softly, and if he doesn’t get some sort of stimulation within the next five seconds he feels like he might actually combust.
Luckily, Wilson’s got years of reading his expressions under his belt - that’s how they got into this whole mess in the first place, after all - and he shushes House, always so gentle.
“Here, boy, that’s it,” he coos, pulling him in with one hand on his collar and the other broad and warm over House’s waist, and he practically collapses against him. Wilson manhandles him until House is straddling his thigh - mindful of his bad leg, like he always is - and runs his hands up House’s sides as though he’s something precious, then down his front, so gentle and caring.
Paradoxically, it makes his heart pound with a sudden nervousness. It’s always a side effect of being so close to subspace – he’s constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Wilson to back out and say he never wanted any of this. It’s an irrational fear, of course. They’ve been together long enough for House to know that he would never do that; they're both far too codependent. But no amount of logical reassurance can quiet those lingering doubts – not until he’s fully tipped over the edge, at least.
“Hey,” comes Wilson’s soft voice again, pulling House from his thoughts. He reaches out and gently turns House’s chin upwards to look him in the eyes. “I’ve got you. It’s okay, House, I’ve got you. So good for me.”
His ability to always know just the right thing to say in these situations is almost uncanny. House can feel his whole body melting at the praise, and a small, choked noise dangerously close to a sob escapes his throat. There’s something tight in his chest - some combination of fear and hope and panic and warmth, all rolled into a swirling tide of emotion, and it’s just so overwhelming that he can barely think - but Wilson holds him through it, gives him the space to breathe and parse it out.
He just cares so much. House knows that, of course, it’s practically written in Wilson’s DNA to take care of people – but House has spent so long being independent, not letting anyone look past the carefully crafted persona that he’s built for himself, that it’s hard to let go of it all. Even when Wilson sees through it all anyway.
But then Wilson’s hands are on his face again, real and warm and alive and so, so gentle with him, and House melts into his touch. He presses his head into Wilson’s shoulder, nuzzling fervently under his chin; every point of contact, the heat of their bodies pressed together, the tender affection in every little movement - it makes him feel alive. And maybe - just maybe - he can let himself be vulnerable for once.
For Wilson.
He pulls back the slightest bit, and he’s loath to do it but he wants to be able to look at Wilson, wants to gaze into those pretty doe eyes, to see his adoration reflected right back at him. So he does, and it’s everything he could ever want: Wilson looks at him like he’s the sun, like he’s the moon and stars, like nobody else in the world has ever mattered.
The roiling ball of emotion in his chest dissipates. The fear of vulnerability is washed away by something undefinable; it’s soft and hazy and House feels like he’s floating. Every sensation is amplified, every brush of Wilson’s warm fingers against his skin leaving sparks in their wake.
“Oh, there you are,” Wilson murmurs as House finally lets himself fall. “There’s my good boy. There’s my puppy.”
Fuck. A noise that can only be described as pathetic escapes his mouth involuntarily as House trembles and jolts forwards, furthering himself into Wilson’s hold. Another involuntary twitch and a groan come when Wilson reaches up to tweak his nipple, sparking a delicious wave of pain-pleasure through his ribcage; he is once again made achingly aware of his own arousal as his cock spurts precum, dripping all over Wilson’s nice slacks. The contrast between them – Wilson all put-together, still in his work clothes with not a hair out of place despite everything that’s happened so far; and House, fully nude save for his leather gear, shaking and whining and panting with need – sends a hot flush of tantalizing humiliation tingling beneath his skin.
Another pinch to his nipple has House grinding shamelessly against Wilson’s thigh, further smearing precum on his clothes, though neither of them particularly care at this point. His hands scrabble for purchase, eventually landing on Wilson’s shoulders, and he's clutching so hard that Wilson’s probably going to bruise. Something primal and possessive in his chest twists pleasantly at the thought.
“Oh, look at you,” Wilson breathes, going for his other nipple this time, and House lets out a soft groan. “Making such pathetic noises for me. Gorgeous. My pretty little mutt.”
The words are a double-edged sword, degrading and praising at the same time, and House finds himself mindlessly nodding along, heat swirling through his mind and stomach. With every thrust of his hips the plug grinds into his prostate; his rutting stutters for a moment, and he can’t decide whether to clench back against it or to keep up the stimulation on his cock – the overwhelming sensations from both sides make it too hard to think, too hard to choose, until all he can do is sit there and rock against Wilson, ducking his head and keening softly.
Then Wilson’s hand is pressing against his stomach, fingers brushing teasingly at the base of his cock, and the contact has House panting beneath his muzzle.
“Poor thing,” Wilson coos. His eyes are dark with lust, his voice dripping with condescension, and fuck, it’s hot. “You wanna get off, huh, puppy? You need me to help you?”
And House can barely breathe, he’s so dizzy with sensation - all he can do is whine and press further against Wilson, against his hands, against his warmth. It’s so much, but not enough - not until Wilson finally trails his fingers down in a teasing path over his cock, from base to tip.
House gasps as his thumb dips into his slit. He stills his movements, breathing heavily as he looks up at Wilson. He’s shaking, fingers trembling where they’re clutched tight onto Wilson’s shoulders, and when Wilson wraps his hand around House’s flushed and leaking cock he just about sobs with relief.
“Wilson,” he gasps, unable to stop his hips from automatically seeking friction as he fucks into Wilson’s tight grip, watching the sensitive head peek out from his fist.
“I know, pet, I know,” he soothes, letting out a groan as House spurts precum over his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so good for me.”
Wilson’s other hand struggles with his own zipper as he fumbles to pull his own dick out, clumsy and eager. Distantly, House feels a flash of pride at seeing that usual put-togetherness crumble under the force of sheer lust - all for me, he thinks fleetingly - but mostly his mind’s concerned with chasing that white-hot pleasure growing low in his belly. Wilson swipes his thumb over the sensitive spot beneath the head, dipping ever-so-slightly into his slit once more, and House chokes on his next breath, hips faltering.
Wilson finally manages to get himself out of those pesky slacks and boxers, his cock slapping up to leave a wet little mark on his shirt. He looks downright debaucherous, lower lip bitten red and eyes half-lidded with lust, and God, he’s so pretty. Wilson pulls him closer, adjusting his grip until he’s holding both of them in his tight fist, and the hot line of his cock pressed flush against House’s rips a punched-out moan from low in his throat.
He starts jerking them off in earnest, then, and House falls forwards into him, almost wishing he didn’t have the muzzle on so he could mark up that unfairly gorgeous neck. Wilson twists and squeezes just right with every pass of his slick hand, spreading their precum together, and House can feel the heat in his stomach growing hotter and tighter every second.
“House,” Wilson grunts softly, using his free hand to tug at the back of his collar - not to pull him away, but instead to keep a steady pressure on his throat, cutting off his oxygen for few dizzying seconds. Fuck, it’s good. His eyes flutter shut at the sensation, every nerve alight with that delicious, panicked pleasure as his blood pounds in his ears. House is vaguely aware that he’s whining again, strangled little noises wrung out by Wilson’s talented fingers, but by now he’s way past the point of caring.
Wilson lets go of the collar again, allowing him to suck in a few deep, grateful breaths, before he pulls it again, harder this time. Tears pool in the corners of House’s eyes. The pressure is unyielding, and he paws uselessly at Wilson’s chest, wordlessly begging for more.
“What’s wrong, pup?” he pants, adding a particularly mean flick of his wrist over their cocks that has House’s brain drawing a complete and utter blank. “You wanna cum, hm?”
It’s all he can do to nod, hips juddering in a shaky rhythm. He’s so, so close now, and he watches through half-lidded eyes over his muzzle as Wilson dips his thumb into his slit again, precum oozing out.
“C’mon, then,” Wilson murmurs, voice low and husky in House’s ear. “Cum for me, puppy, that’s it. Good girl.”
Oh, God, fuck.
House’s orgasm tears through him violently. His whole body shakes as he spurts sticky ropes into Wilson’s hand, feeling as though every single cell is singing with white-hot pleasure. All throughout, Wilson keeps a steady grip on his now-sensitive cock, wringing out every drop of bliss and then some - so much that it’s almost painful, but in the best sort of way.
At some point, he passes out, hardly even able to think - one moment he’s sat slumped over Wilson’s lap, watching him Wilson’s fist flying over his own cock as he brings himself to orgasm; the next he’s tucked on his side, blinking sleepily as a now-naked Wilson wipes a wet rag over his stomach. The plug's been removed too, he notes distantly.
"Hey," Wilson says softly, pausing in his movements for a moment. "How're you feeling?"
House just looks at him through confused, hazy eyes as he reorients himself, unable to muster the energy to speak. His limbs are heavy and leaden, weighed down with a bone-deep satisfaction - the way they only get after a really great orgasm. The most he can manage is a somewhat shaky thumbs up.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Ah, yes. It. The ‘good girl’ thing, House presumes. The answer is a resounding no, and he shakes his head grumpily, still unable to voice his thoughts. Wilson drops it for now, though he knows it’s going to come up later.
“...Did I manage to literally fuck you into silence?”
His voice is light and teasing, but there's an element of smugness that has House grumbling. He buries his head in the pillow, muzzle smooshing up against his face adorably, and lets out a muffled groan. Wilson is going to be insufferable about this.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”
He finishes wiping House down and gives himself a perfunctory wash, before tossing the rag aside to deal with later. Then, because he's a neat freak, he sighs and immediately gets up to pick up the rag and put it in the wash. If he were perhaps a little more cognizant, House would definitely be poking fun at him for that, but fucked-out as he is it’s all he can do to track Wilson’s movements out of the corners of his eyes.
He blinks languidly, and suddenly Wilson’s in front of him again, hands in his hair.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, searching for the muzzle’s straps. “Let’s get this off you now, yeah?”
The muzzle comes off no problem, but when Wilson reaches for the collar something indignant in House’s chest sparks at the thought, and he recoils, shaking his head firmly. It’s probably just the endorphins talking, but the comforting weight of his collar so clearly marks him as Wilson’s - the thought of having that taken away, of having to think for himself again, sends a little flutter of panic through his body.
“...No?” Wilson asks, hands hovering hesistantly near House’s neck. House brings his own hands up to curl protectively over the leather, and Wilson chuckles at the action, sliding into bed beside him.
“Alright, then, we’ll leave them on. You’re gonna have marks on your neck in the morning, though.”
Quite frankly, House could not give less of a shit about that. He’s more concerned with cuddling up to Wilson, laying half on top of him and slotting their legs together. He presses his face into Wilson’s shoulder and lets his eyes flutter closed, just breathing for a moment. They’re both still a little sticky with sweat, sated and happy, and House swears he’s never felt this peaceful in his life. The typically-loud buzz of thoughts has quieted, and his leg is merely aching rather than the full-blown stabbing sensation he’s used to.
He knows that once the endorphin high wears off, it’ll be back to the status quo. But he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth - so for now, he’s content to curl up in Wilson’s arms, letting the soft embrace of sleep drift over him.