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“House, please,” Wilson gasps, desperately trying to yank his wrists free from his restraints - but it's no use. He's not going anywhere.
House knows, is the thing, that he shouldn’t be getting off on this. It’s the sort of hard kink that’s meant to be talked about beforehand - safewords established, limits discussed, the whole works - and the way he's going about it is illegal and definitely immoral. He’s no stranger to drugging Wilson, but this is taking it to a whole new level - he's fucked up beyond belief, and he knows it.
But there's just something about having Wilson like this that makes all rational, sane thoughts fly out of the window.
Those shiny doe eyes welling with unshed tears, his typically so put-together hair all messy and damp with sweat, the way his cock leaks and strains against his stomach despite his protests… and fuck, the noises he makes, those sweet little whines and breathy whimpers. Utterly delectable.
It’s just so easy to hurt him. How the hell is House supposed to resist when Wilson cries so damn pretty?
He’s still gasping beneath House’s touch, squirming and writhing as House trails the scalpel lightly across his chest - not enough to cut him, not yet, but the promise is there.
“Please,” Wilson whispers wetly, his voice desperate as he strains against the leather cuffs. “This isn’t you, House. Don’t- don’t do this.”
For a second, the words strike a pang of guilt somewhere buried deep in House’s heart. Because Wilson really does look terrified - as if he doesn’t even recognise House. As if he didn’t know this is something he could be capable of.
But more powerful than that is the sheer overwhelming lust that his fear cultivates. It floods through his body, tingling down his spine and quashing any semblance of pity or remorse: it’s powerful, invigorating, electrifying. And Wilson’s at the center of it: his every pitiful gasp and futile struggle and needy twitch fuels House forward, urges him to carefully press the blade against the edge of one of his collarbones, to force the tip down and watch as a wine-dark drop of blood wells from the puncture, to drink in the sight and sound of Wilson crying out in terror. To press deeper, following the line of the bone and slicing through layers of skin and tissue; he names them all in his head as the muscle separates. The elastic epidermis, the spongy dermis, the soft subcutaneous fat layer - they all part before his scalpel as he carves.
"Stop it!" Wilson gasps out, his breaths turning into soft hiccups. "House, please, I don't understand, I don't- I don't want this!"
He's openly sobbing now. House suspects it's actually more to do with betrayal rather than the pain - but he's in too deep now, both figuratively and literally. He couldn't back out now even if he wanted to. So he just keeps cutting, watches the scalpel as it traces a warm bloody line down Wilson's clavicle, across his sternum, coming to a stop in the center of his sweat-slick chest.
"Beautiful," House murmurs to himself as Wilson hiccups and trembles like a newborn deer and bleeds so prettily onto the bedsheets. House is going to have some explaining to do to the dry cleaners, but he couldn't care less about that right now. Not when Wilson keens and arches his back like he's offering himself up, a lamb baring its throat to a butcher.
House's hungry eyes catalog every detail.
It almost looks as though Wilson's having an orgasm, he notes with a flicker of amusement - but he's not, of course, it's just the pain; the pain that House is inflicting onto that gorgeous, vulnerable body. And fuck, does it feel good to have so much power over him - to have him helpless, pinned like prey.
Wilson’s breathing fast now, his heartbeat erratic - House finds that he's much the same, though he suspects it's for a slightly different reason - and his eyes are wide and glossy, darting about the room as if looking for a way out.
There isn't one, though. Not until House is done.
He sets the scalpel against Wilson's other collarbone, once more pressing down and slicing along the bone in a mirror of the first cut. Wilson jerks and whimpers, his cock still flushed and drooling despite the pain - perhaps even because of it - but as much as House would love to tend to that, he's far too fixated on the rivulets of blood that well up with every inch that he carves, cleaving through the tissue and capillaries with a captivating ease.
The end of the cut meets up with the tail of the other, dead in the center of Wilson's sternum. Wilson is staring blankly down at his own body with a faraway look in his eyes now, likely high on endorphins and adrenaline. So pretty and hazy. House wonders if he's even registering what's happening at this point - he might be going into shock, actually. Oops. That's something he'll have to deal with later.
House twirls the scalpel in place at the point where the two lacerations meet, digging in a little harder just to hear Wilson whine again. Then it's back to business: he holds Wilson down firmly with his free hand and begins to carve his way down his chest. Wilson jerks and twitches in his hold, but House just shushes him, presses him further against the mattress. He doesn’t actually want to kill Wilson, of course, so he needs to be careful not to cut into the abdominal cavity. Even if a vivisection is a distantly tempting thought.
House inches the scalpel down further, cutting into the soft padding of his stomach, his eyes glued to the way the layers part to reveal the bubbly yellowish texture of the hypodermis. More blood oozes to the surface in the wake of his blade, staining the soft furring of his belly red; with careful, reverent fingers, House wipes it away, letting the scalpel come to a stop just above Wilson’s bellybutton.
“Mm... h-hurts...”
House glances up as Wilson speaks for the first time in a while, smiling at the feebleness of his words. Poor thing. He gently extracts the scalpel from the steadily bleeding wound and reaches up to cup Wilson’s cheek, leaving bright red fingerprints in his wake.
“It’s okay,” he soothes, sick satisfaction curling in his chest as Wilson relaxes into the touch despite everything House has done to him. “I’m finished for now. I’ll patch you up, okay?”
There’s another lost little hum that escapes Wilson’s throat as he blinks languidly up at House, his breathing slowly leveling out.
“Feels...” he mumbles in a confused daze, the words slurring as he tries desperately to cling to consciousness. “S’good, House...”
It’s House’s turn to shudder now, the thrill that zips up his spine and tingles down through his fingertips almost overwhelming. Fondness wells up his chest, mirroring the blood that drips from Wilson’s – the knowledge that even though it’s so utterly wrong, so damn depraved, Wilson is somehow enjoying this? It’s gratification like no other, and the feeling rushes through his veins, soars through his deviant heart.
“That’s good,” he whispers back breathlessly. “That’s good, Wilson.”
Sleepy eyes stare back at him, lingering fear warring with want in those blown-wide pupils. He knows that soon, he’s going to need to stitch Wilson up, lest he actually bleed to death – but for now, just for a moment, House is content to stay lost in his gaze, in this twisted little bubble he’s carved out for them.
It feels like home.