Chapter Text
“Spanked in Seattle. Terrible Meg Ryan wig. But points for the pun.”
House, sprawled on the floor of his apartment, was flicking through his considerable VHS porn collection. Keepers gathered behind his left elbow, the weeded went into the trash bag in front of him.
“Shouldn’t it be ‘Spankless’?” Wilson pointed out from his vantage on the couch, half-perusing the day’s paper on automatic.
“But that wouldn’t be any fun.” Still, House tossed it in the garbage pile for the crime of wordplay laziness. “Her Square Peg, His Round Hole. A sophisticated pegging extravaganza. Getting rid of this would be sexist.”
“Another win for feminism,” Wilson agreed.
“Girls Gone Wild, the Golden Collection.”
“Classic.”
“Girls Gone Wild, the Silver Collection.”
“Well, you can’t separate the set.”
“The Good Dogs Home. Missing the possessive apostrophe—or perhaps, an artistic choice—this full-length, full-frontal feature film explores the world of petplay with over a dozen doggies both good…and bad.” House glanced up to waggle his eyebrows. And thank god he never failed to yuk-up an entendre, or he might have missed the tissue-thin flush to Wilson’s cheeks, the way his teeth just caught on his lip, the newspaper creaking beneath slightly tightening fingers.
“Oh? Doctor Wilson? Bark bark?” House enunciated the onomatopoeia with a wicked grin.
“Sorry, did you say something?” Wilson artfully tilted the front page up to obscure his giveaway expression, “I was reading.”
“About?”
“Huh?”
“Reading,” House repeated, beginning to scoot closer across the rug, “about…what?”
“The…situation. In Europe.”
“Which situation?”
“There’s always something going on over there,” Wilson said, and stood abruptly. “I need a drink.”
“Feeling…thirsty?” House levered himself upright to stalk his prey.
“Yes.”
“Anything I can do to quench that thirst?” House was reveling in the teasing possibilities here: puns, humiliation, generally getting a butter knife into a crack of the Normal Guy Wilson façade… “I could put you on a leash. Get you a nice, diamond-studded collar. BAD DOG—wait, no, BAD DOC in rhinestones—”
Wilson spun around as House reached him at the fridge. He met House’s eye with a look that was both icy and completely molten. “I think we both know who would be the dog in this relationship.”
And he walked past House and back into the living room with his head held high.
After a moment of heavily if unwillingly aroused confusion, House spun off-kilter on his heel, intent on correcting this misapprehension with all due speed.
“You want proof?” Wilson asked, before House could grapple for the right argument. “I’ll give it to you.”
Yeah, give it to me, a foreign and terrifying voice in House’s head murmured.
“Sit,” Wilson commanded, and House’s legs simply folded under him.
That wasn’t a big deal. Probably just this cane-less behavior catching up to him, was all.
Wilson advanced. “Stay.”
So. It’s not like House had anywhere to be.
Wilson reached out to tentatively pet House’s hair. House considered biting the hand that fed him, but figured that would actually be too dog-like and therefore akin to following the rules, so instead he started to make a snide remark, “You really—”
Clamping a hand down on House’s jaw, Wilson hissed, “I didn’t say ‘speak.’”
Sex sizzled up House’s spine where shame should be.
Wilson released him to march with a superior air around the couch. He sat himself down slowly and pinned House with a gaze. “Come over here. On your hands and knees.”
Listen, House had no rationalization for this one. Although he could drag himself along on hands and one knee without aggravating his leg too badly (he found this out when his body responded immediately to Wilson’s order while his brain was still processing the absolute fucking gall of it), it’s not like it was comfortable. Or dignified. Or the kind of thing he should be doing just because Wilson said so with such tangible fire in his eyes.
He crawled a slow and lightly painful path, joints waking up to ask what fresh hell this was and palms decrying the shift from smooth hardwood to unvacuumed rough carpet. The clink of a belt buckle and metal sigh of a zipper opening pricked up his ears. Finding himself at Wilson’s feet, some fragment of his self rebelled and urged him to grab onto the couch and try for altitude.
“Hey,” Wilson grabbed House by the paw (hand!) and snout (jaw! Fuck!) and directed him back to the ground. “No pets on the furniture.”
House opened his mouth to protest with volume and vigor but Wilson filled it with his cock instead.
Wilson was thick, hot, half-hard from the scene and shedding that modifier fast. He didn’t wait for House to get used to it, he just started plunging in at speed so House had no choice but to bob along with it or choke.
He choked a little anyway, and the noises made Wilson buck with fresh frenzy.
House didn’t use his hands. Animals didn’t have the correctly jointed fingers to stroke a cock. Wilson didn’t complain. He just sank both his hands into House’s hair and stroked and scratched and House was getting off on having his mouth fucked in a way he never had before.
“Good boy,” Wilson murmured, and House whimpered. He petted House oh so gently as he pulled out. House whined and, not exactly on second thought but perhaps second completely deranged instinct, panted with his tongue hanging out.
It worked—not that he’d been capable of keeping a real goal in mind—because Wilson made a high, desperate sound and gripped his cock to rub the shiny-wet head frantically against House’s tongue while House had little choice but to slobber and taste it.
“Down,” Wilson ordered, and House wondered how much more or what other kind of ‘down’ he could want. Wilson reached over House to shove the coffee table aside and then grabbed House by the scruff and pushed his face into the floor. Ah, that kind of down.
Wilson crawled off the couch to straddle House from behind. Thinking harder (oh, House was so hard now), Wilson backed up and grabbed a couch pillow to shove under House’s groin. House appreciated this the next moment, when Wilson wrestled House’s pants open and yanked them down to his knees, because carpet burn on his dick would end the situation—the fantasy? The delusion? The break with reality?—on a low note.
Wilson spread his cheeks with both hands. House’s legs were practically tied down by his tangled jeans. The tip of Wilson’s cock, wet with precome and liberal spit, pressed urgently against his hole.
“I’m gonna fuck you like this.” Wilson’s voice was shaky with desire but absent concern. House was pretty sure that’s not how consent was supposed to work, which made his mouth go dry with fear-spiked lust. Then, Wilson added, “Bark for me if you want it.”
Bark? Fucking bark? House rolled his hips in anguished want and growled, “Bark yourself, you cheeky bastard.”
Wilson’s hand went cold and too tight in House’s hair. He yanked House’s head back to whisper in his ear, “Bad dog. Gonna have to punish you.” And he forced his barely damp cock inside House and started to fuck him.
House writhed on the length of Wilson’s cock (to say nothing of that neglected dimension, girth). It was too much and it hurt and it was also exactly what he wanted and if it stopped he was gonna turn himself in to one of those kill-shelters PETA was always bitching about.
His body was translating signals bizarrely. Pain wasn’t pleasure, but it wasn’t pain and it wasn’t not pleasure. His head was spinning. Damn, he needed to have this rug cleaned. Wilson was huge inside him. Would Wilson do this to him again? Would he make him beg for it? Could House convince Wilson to not give him anything unless he begged for it? God, Wilson was merciless on his prostate. He really needed to get a more powerful vacuum for this heavy weave carpeting, if he was gonna be spending this kind of time down here. Maybe Wilson would let him sleep on the floor. Maybe Wilson would make him sleep on the floor.
“Oh god, fuck, House, you’re such a bad dog, you make me wanna do these things to you…” Wilson was thrusting wildly into him, hips snapping and the slap of his balls obscenely loud, as he punished House to the brink of ecstasy. “How—how am I supposed to, ah ahh, control myself, fuck, House, I want to mount you every time I see you—”
House didn’t know if dogs could scream, but he sure did. He came hot and sticky on the pillow (another thing he needed to clean! Maybe he should take Wilson up on the maid service) as his hips pumped helplessly and then he was taking Wilson’s load, Wilson gripping him and forcing himself as deep as he could as he held House still beneath him and filled him with every last drop of his pleasure until they were both empty and sated and shaking.
“Bow wow wow,” House concluded, rolling over to pant for breath on the living room rug.
Wilson (engaged in a similar panting-on-back routine) agreed with a quiet, wrung-out sound.
House’s brain buzzed. His limbs tingled. He felt sky high and the familiarity of that was what alerted him to the threat on the horizon.
But Wilson, his Wilson, who always took care of him, was there. Ahead of House on the feelings stuff, as usual. “You were so good,” he murmured, kissing House’s cheek, “you were such a good dog for me.”
House wanted to make a joke. At least another humorous sound effect. But as the sun-hot pleasure of the scene receded, his extremities started to shake and wouldn’t stop no matter how firmly he told them they were stupidly overreacting to a little bit of rough carpet sex.
Wilson snuggled in against House’s back and ran a warm hand up and down his side. “I want to do this again.”
Aha, now House could speak. “Gimme a minute between fucks, you lech.”
“I don’t mean now,” Wilson laughed and kissed his shoulder. “I mean, in the future.”
“Whatever,” House grumbled, as if he didn’t crave it down to his bones already.
“You were right.” (House shivered. His favorite words.) “I really like this…stuff. Apparently. And I think you do too…” His left hand strayed to House’s soft cock, making House squeak and twitch, then soothing him with a gentle hand on his abdomen. “Which means we need to set some ground rules.”
House tried to bolt away but his sticky, syrupy limbs impeded movement. Wilson was strong enough to hold House’s buzzing body down with one hand. Then Wilson pressed that hand onto the nape of House’s neck and firmly laid his face into the pile of the carpet. “Stay,” Wilson ordered, and House’s molecules stopped trying to rip themselves apart.
“Rule one,” Wilson continued pleasantly, “you have to let me take care of you when you’re…I don’t know the word. But this. Like detoxing.”
Sub drop. Aftercare. House thought, but didn’t share his BDSM SAT terms—Wilson hadn’t told him to speak.
Wilson’s grip gentled into a swaying stroke. “Good boy. Puppy need a bath?”
“Fuck you, and yes.”
“You’re not exactly a pup, are you,” Wilson considered as he helped House to his feet. “More a grizzled old hound I rescued even though you shed and bite and growl.”
“Keep on this track, and I’ll add vengeful incontinence to my list of admirable adoption qualities.”
Wilson chuckled like this was just the cutest thing and kissed House through the bathroom door.
Wilson cranked the hot water to life and got House and himself naked in the tub. Thus trapping House, reclined in steamy comfort against Wilson’s chest, he kept up the interrogatory barrage. Was this okay, was that alright, would this be too far? Wilson may not be able to cite the “safe, sane, and consensual” guidelines, but he was well on his way to a convergent evolution nonetheless.
“Just use the lights system,” House interrupted as Wilson struggled with how he could check if House was alright mid-scene without destroying the sexy psychology of it. “Green means good, yellow means don’t stop yet but slow down and watch out, red means fuck off immediately because something’s wrong.”
“I’m not as well-versed as you, but I think red probably involves the opposite of fucking off, which is taking care of you.”
House’s skin prickled pleasantly. “Would you do that? Drive me to red on purpose just so you could be the one to comfort me?”
“Of course, not,” Wilson flushed, and House tilted his head to nip at Wilson’s fingers where they rested against his cheek.
“Wilson. I just let you call me a dog and mount me raw on the floor. You’re allowed to be turned on by the idea of going rough on purpose so you can play doctor.”
“Okay. The idea has an…” he coughed, like the shame was physically collapsing his throat, “…appeal. But I would never do it without talking to you about it first.”
“If you talked to me about it, I probably couldn’t go all the way to red. I’d know you wouldn’t really hurt me…which would be no fun for either of us.” He sank his weight meaningfully back into Wilson’s arms and wriggled. Wilson’s grip tightened around him.
“Let’s, um, put a pin in that. Stick to figuring out this thing where you’re my dog first.”
House shrugged, turned his head, and licked Wilson’s shoulder with the flat of his tongue.
“Hey!”
“Bark,” House deadpanned.
*****
House sat in wait beside the door. The line of his shoulder ran perfectly perpendicular to the frame, his legs stuck straight out on the floor in the hopes they’d be minimally sore and thus capable of completing his desired scene. The snick of Wilson’s key in the lock jolted his nerve endings to life.
He scrabbled onto hands and knees and peered hopefully upwards. As soon as the door began its inward swing, he started to bark.
The vibrant woofs and arfs and yips (House hadn’t quite figured out which breed he was yet) echoed instantly down the corridor and Wilson rushed to scramble the door shut behind himself. His eyes glowed and lips parted as he peered down at House.
“Who’s my good boy?” Wilson asked cautiously.
House growled.
“Not you,” Wilson corrected. “You’re my bad, grungy, misbehaving mutt with bald patches and a touch of mange.”
House made a different, equally disapproving noise, but Wilson just grinned and started ruffling House’s hair and face with both hands. “Oh, so naughty. Did you chew up my newspaper and shoes while I was gone?”
Damn, missed opportunity. “No, but I did violate several traffic laws coming home, so I’ve probably jacked up our insurance premiums.”
The smile escaped though Wilson tried to bite it back as he joined House on the ground, knees cracking but hands never leaving House’s skin. “How should I reward this behavior?”
“Punish it,” House corrected.
Wilson shook his head, “Oh, no, I have to save punishment for really bad stuff. Or you’ll start to like it too much. Think you can get me to punish you just for breaking a dish or whistling at a jogger.”
House pouted. Wilson leaned in and kissed the expression off his face, until House caught up and started licking him back with big swipes of tongue. Now, Wilson was laughing and scuffling with him and oh, yes, now he was gently wrestling House onto his back.
He dragged House’s shirt over his head and bent to kiss his abdomen. “Puppy want belly rubs?” he asked, lips still brushing House’s skin, and he began roughly rubbing palms along House’s torso without waiting for an answer.
The peculiar form of affection made House’s eyes roll unexpectedly back in his head. He panted, tongue lolling out, basking in the simple pleasure. Wilson murmured soft, two-syllable compliments peppered with kisses to House’s exposed underbelly.
House recognized very distantly and vaguely, like a high school ex spotted at a hometown grocery store four aisles away, that he’d definitely intended something really kinky and bordering on violent for this first surprise pup attack. Like, maybe Wilson would silence his barking at the neighbors by choking him out with his thick cock. Or maybe he’d hit House for being such a bad dog. Or maybe he would tie House down so he couldn’t scamper away and he’d jerk off onto the ground and make House lick it up, every drop—
Fuck, House thought dizzily, I need to write this shit down. What station had this train of thought departed from? Oh, yeah. He wasn’t being punished, he was having his belly rubbed like a good, good boy. And it wasn’t even sexual. He wasn’t enjoying being pinned under Wilson’s warm gaze and touched endlessly by his lotion-soft hands, not at all. If he wasn’t slapped around a bit and soon, he’d never get hard.
“Oh, is this for me?” Wilson asked in delight as he unwrapped House’s raging erection. (Okay. Well. Clearly there was some miscommunication between the upstairs management and downstairs staff.) “Thank you, puppy, it’s just what I wanted.”
But he didn’t touch House. Not a stroke, not even a swipe of palm against the swollen head. He just went for his own pants and pulled out his own, not yet fully stiff cock. House’s mouth watered and the fantasies of being blacked out by dick-in-esophagus surged.
Wilson heaved his leg over House’s to settle between his parted thighs and half-straddle him. Their groins aligned. House’s desperate cock—Jesus, how had he not noticed how much he fucking ached—brushed against Wilson’s length. He punched his hips up and whined for more.
“C’mon,” Wilson whispered, kissing House’s cheek, “rub yourself off on me, make a mess, you naughty boy.”
House tried. He couldn’t find the angle he needed for real friction. He slipped a hand down to try and line up their cocks for a real good frotting session—and that finally activated the dominating instinct in Wilson he’d wanted to break free.
Wilson snatched up House’s wrist and slammed it back into the ground next to his head. “I didn’t say you could use your paws.”
House’s breath caught in his chest. Wilson blazed down at him. Then, he started to slowly fuck his cock along the divot between House’s hip and groin. He moaned with relief and House whined with the opposite. The angle hardly gave him anything.
Would begging work? How could he do that? The utter humiliation of asking Wilson for pressure on his throbbing cock, when all he had to do was use his own damned human hands to get what he wanted…
Fuck.
House began to pant desperately and whine deep in the back of his throat. His hips rocked for touch he couldn’t get, and his one free, clumsy hand pawed helplessly at Wilson’s back.
“Yes, yes,” Wilson groaned, working himself up to a frenzy as he still held House down. His hot cock burned against House’s hip. House wanted it inside him, his hole, his mouth, even just his hand, he didn’t care, he was desperate and the goal of that desperation was hopelessly confused when he was pinned open like this…
Wilson wrapped his hand around both their cocks. House’s head snapped back against the hardwood as his back arched. “Finish us,” Wilson ordered. His fingers didn’t stroke, his hips didn’t thrust. “Rut against me like a bad dog until we both come.”
House’s hips obeyed without question. He fucked himself up against the weight of Wilson’s palm and his arousal. He rutted like an animal in heat because he was an animal in heat and he couldn’t help the breathy little moans slipping from his lips as their precome smoothed the rough fuck down to a perfect friction and oh, oh, he was going to come, oh, god, Wilson please—
How much of that he’d said out loud, he didn’t know, but Wilson didn’t reprimand the human speech, just murmured back, “Yes, my favorite puppy, I wanna see you spill your come all over me…” House had no choice but to comply. He spurted on Wilson’s hand and stomach and cock and Wilson gripped both of their lengths tight and jerked himself off with House’s come, House’s spent prick still caught torturously in his grasp.
“Fuck, fuck, yes, House, so…fucking…ah!” Wilson shot into his palm and House finally, mercifully slipped free as Wilson focused on muddling the head of his own cock to its peak of pleasure. Wilson’s desperation didn’t stop him from capturing most of his own come and House’s in his hand. Which he then offered at House’s lips and said, voice sex-rough and brooking no alternative, “Eat up. Don’t leave a drop.”
House shuddered. No part of him could imagine doing anything but what Wilson said. He tilted up and licked Wilson’s palm completely clean, chasing the flavor of their release down his life and love lines and up his fingers and laving over it all once he was done because he loved this and he needed this and he loved getting it from Wilson and this was how he showed it—
“I’m here, House. I’ll always be here to give you what you need. Because you’re mine.” Wilson’s murmurs fractured the shallow bubble protecting House from himself, refracting back whatever House had been saying with words or actions, he didn’t know.
House collapsed. It wasn’t much of a collapse considering he was splayed on the floor, but still, he put in an effort. “Cheesy bastard.”
“That’s me,” Wilson agreed, and petted House’s cheek with his damp palm, and it wasn’t cheesy at all. Commanding. Sensual. Almost aggressive, but only with the intent to care.
“That should be your warning,” House pursued this loose thread of thought, “‘aggressively caring.’ ‘Beware radioactive compassion.’”
“I’ll get it printed up on a nametag,” Wilson fake-promised, because he wouldn’t, he would keep spreading his warmth wherever he went and no one would get a chance to run for it before his kindness had them hopelessly addicted. Like House was.
“Did I do something good to deserve this?” Wilson intervened politely—fucker!—in House’s internal spiral. “Or did you do something bad?”
House hadn’t even done anything particularly heinous. Nothing to excuse wanting to be disciplined like this. (Though, Wilson had been awfully stingy on the discipline front, mind you. Maybe that was why…)
“If I’d left ramen on the stove and burnt a hole through the ceiling again, what would you have done to me?”
Twining fingers into the short, messy curls of House’s hair—and he was sensitive that the texture was changing as gray shifted the tide against brown—Wilson considered. “I’d probably have done the same thing here at the door. And once I found out…” He tugged hard and House’s body, perversely, relaxed. “I’d probably sleep on the couch for a day or two. Let puppy lay in bed all alone.”
“Gotta say, I was hoping for something less sad and martyred, more sadomasochist.”
“I know. But I really don’t want to encourage wanton destruction of our shared property. If you want me to slap you or choke you, just tell me, don’t light any of our belongings and/or dwelling on fire.”
“Hey, Wilson?”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to slap me and choke me.”
House closely monitored Wilson’s reactions. He needn’t have bothered breaking out the spyglass. Wilson’s pupils flared and his hips shifted and everything about his body sank into and on and around House, caging him in and gripping him hard.
“We can…work up to that,” Wilson hedged, like he wasn’t already imagining the sting of House’s face under his palm. “I should do some,” he coughed, “research.”
“I don’t know the Dewey Decimal code for sadomasochism off the top of my head.”
“I guess I’ll be having some uncomfortable conversations with a librarian. Or, you know, just googling it like every other starter pervert.”
*****
House had Showing You the Ropes, Bondage Basics, and The Heart of Dominance mailed to Wilson’s office. Unpackaged, requiring signature. Wilson’s blush could have set off his radiation badge.
“Giving me the tools to punish you and something to punish you for, all in one fell swoop,” Wilson clucked at House in the hallway once he’d finished fending off a coronary and most of his giggling nursing staff. “Bold. Maybe not smart.”
“Very smart. Considering my end goal,” House smirked.
Wilson glared. Narrowed his gaze over spinning mental wheels. Leaned abruptly over to push open the glass door to House’s fishbowl conference room, where the fellows were poring over their latest case. “Think you can wrap this up quick?” Wilson asked them lightly. “Your boss is eager to get home to his bubble bath and a glass of white wine.”
“I’ll kill you,” House said through a grit-tooth smile as Wilson let the door swing shut on the snorts and sniggers.
“Then who’ll run your bath?” Wilson returned, chucking House’s chin and flouncing off.
Unfortunately, House’s patient went and got liver failure—so inconsiderate—and House completely forgot about punishing Wilson for his trespasses or getting Wilson to punish him for his own. At least, he forgot for about 48 hours of emergency transplant committees and concentrated whiteboard time.
Once House had slept for twelve hours and done a few stretches, the plan was back on.
House stood in front of Wilson. Wilson’s eyes made no move to abandon their leisurely couch-bound perusal of the paper. House went on all fours before him. Wilson’s eyes were no longer in the least interested in today’s crop of newsworthy misdoings and misfortunes.
“I did the dishes,” House announced.
Wilson’s gaze barely flicked to the kitchen. “I can see the food processor is still full of basil.”
“I did one dish,” House amended. “A glass. I don’t have the machinery licensing to deal with your pesto-making bullshit.”
“You sure enjoy eating the pesto bullshit.”
“The prosecutor’s remarks are incompetent, inconsequential, and immaterial,” House quoted the legal drama they’d fallen asleep to the night previous. “I’m trying to do a sex thing. Can we focus?”
“Sure,” Wilson tickled House’s ear fondly.
“I have done something good.”
“One dish?”
“One dish,” House confirmed. “So, now you can reward me. It’s clear that the idea of hitting me as punishment scares you. Ergo, hit me as a reward for good behavior.”
“Well,” Wilson played for time, “at least that means I won’t have to do it very often.”
“Maybe you’ll smack me into some helpful habits. Positive reinforcement. C’mon,” House brushed his stubble in a fire-starting friction against Wilson’s abruptly chilled fingertips. “Why so freaked?”
“I’ve never approved of animal cruelty.”
“Afraid you’ll enjoy it too much? Afraid it’ll get you into a new habit?”
“And what if it did?” Wilson’s wandering fingers curled into House’s loose shirt collar, pulling tighter-tighter-tighter. House’s eyelids fluttered and his core throbbed. “What if it turns out that I like how hot your skin feels after the abuse of my palm?”
“Oh…” House swallowed hard against his body’s visceral, unauthorized reaction. “You’ve thought about this.”
Wilson shuddered through a breath. “You’ve convinced me.” And with a chill lack of presaging movement, he snapped his left hand across House’s face.
Sensation burst from the impact point on the corner of House’s jaw to flame along bone and pepper skin. It was too intense, too padded with expectation-laced shock, to immediately register as pain. When it finally did, House couldn’t swallow the moan of relief.
“How’s my good dog like that? Is that what you want?” Wilson’s voice scraped so, so low. “When you’re good for me, all I want to do is give you everything you ask for.”
Swimming in the glut of endorphins and dizzied concentration, House could only ask for one thing: “Again.”
Wilson hit him again. Definitely calculated for maximum stun, minimum material effect. It was working. Was it working? “Again.”
The same strong left, but a backhand this time, striking the other side of his face. It was less pleasant with knuckles and Wilson knew it even before House did, shifting back to lucky first position and retouching with stiff palm the growing pink-red beneath House’s stubble.
House had to force himself to pant because breathing hard was the only alternative to not breathing at all.
“Is that good, puppy?” Wilson asked again. “Can you give me a light? Where are you?”
His hand was blessedly cool on House’s cheek now. The dark side of the moon against a summer-hot pillow in a long, dreamy, violet night.
But House’s leg still hurt. That was the unwelcome, prosaic truth. He’d read digital excerpts from all those books he’d sent Wilson (jokes were excellent cover for earnest research endeavors) and hoped all that malarkey about endorphins and shifted focus and pain thresholds would ring true. He’d done it by himself, hadn’t he? Activated his brain’s gating mechanisms? How hard would Wilson have to hit him to mimic the success of a stone pestle smashing metacarpals?
It wasn’t that it didn’t work at all, it was simply that the slaps weren’t magic. Anger spilled bitter onto House’s tongue at the unsettling realization that he’d believed in S&M fairies instead of the real fact of muscle damage and the inescapability of his own body.
“Harder.”
“That’s not a color.”
“Green. Harder.”
Wilson wasn’t touching him at all now. “Gonna ask how I’m doing?”
“That would be a serious left fielder coming from me.”
The longer he kneeled, the more unpardonable the pain in his leg insisted on becoming. Firecrackers of perpetually strained nerves lit up the murky waters of dead cells crying out from unyielding purgatory. Resentment and disappointment and self-recrimination were spiking his suffering to levels even morphine would struggle to contain.
Wilson saw all, knew all. Fucker. “It’s not doing what you wanted it to do.”
“Vicodin,” House said. His favorite color.
“No,” Wilson said. He slid off the couch and took House in an iron grip before his zero-gravity limbs could respond, forcing his back to the floor.
“Red,” House tried instead.
“Liar,” Wilson replied calmly. “You’re alright.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re alright,” Wilson repeated firmly. “You’ll get your meds when we’re done. You’ll wait. You’re a good dog. You did everything I said. You did a whole dish, remember? Now, you’re going to feel better.”
“Right,” House snarled, a dog remembering he was a wolf not too many evolutionary steps ago, “pray the pain away. That’s gonna work as well as the bitchslaps.”
“I can’t make it go away. But I can tell the pain to stay in its fucking place.”
Wilson kissed him roughly. House tried to fight him off and just as quickly tried to reciprocate, but Wilson didn’t allow either. He just took House. House had no say. The pain screamed for a moment when Wilson grabbed House directly at the singularity’s center, but then his thigh was slung in an unyielding grip at Wilson’s waist and sure, it was still there, but it was just as much under Wilson’s domain as the rest of House’s body. Wilson’s mouth moved off center, laving and nipping at sensitive skin still reeling from experimental violence. He bit down, hard enough that House’s fellows would probably have some unwelcome questions come morning, but he didn’t stop at House’s sharp exhale or abruptly straightened spine.
The sing of Wilson’s teeth along his jaw made House’s hips punch upward in a drugged haze. This, he thought with astonished relief, was what he needed. The whole of Wilson’s body, his attention, his empathy, all working obsessively and completely into him. It wasn’t about pain or force—just totality.
House tried to kiss back with a vengeance now and Wilson rewarded him with a tongue fucked hard into his mouth and hips grinding rough, hands still savage and unrelenting wherever they touched ground. It took too long for House to realize his clothes were disappearing. He only noticed when the nudity wave impacted Wilson too—their chests rubbing bare, a blood-hot cock brushing his own.
“Fuck me,” House muttered, bleary and still vaguely pissed, in addition to being magnificently hard.
“No. More pain isn’t what you need.”
“Bossy…”
“Did I say ‘speak’?”
House barked. Wilson grinned. “Good boy.” He spread his legs over House’s crotch and House started to paint in the numbers on a very good picture.
“Suck,” Wilson ordered, fingertips pressed to House’s lips, and House’s tongue complied without consulting the home office. He wet Wilson’s fingers and Wilson wasted no time jamming them inside himself, not nearly enough, this was gonna hurt him, but oh, he wasn’t slowing down. The only time he wasn’t over and on top of House was when he made an ungainly but swift trip south to swallow House’s erection.
House tried not to shout or thrash and failed on both counts. Wilson’s spit dripped down his length in a poor approximation of lube but a grand version of pleasure. His hand stayed steady on House’s thigh. The palm that had beaten his face now held the infarction site at bay. It treated the pain like he would a party crasher: you can stay if you don’t make a fuss, but if you leave your assigned corner, I will sic the bouncers on you with prejudice.
With a final wet lave of tongue, Wilson returned to perch over his freshly damp labors, aligning House’s tip at his entrance.
“We’ve gotta start keeping lube out here,” House’s brain scheduled the shopping aloud and Wilson bent to kiss him so sweetly it ached.
“I’ll add it to the list. Kind of glad I’m taking you raw right now, though.” He began to lower himself onto House’s cock and House let himself melt into the ground and accept what Wilson was giving him.
“Oh, fuck,” someone said. It really could have been either of them at that point, as Wilson sat on House’s cock, stuffed and breathless. He lifted weakly and collapsed back down with a low noise. He tried again and his muscles—politely inadequate to the task, he usually rode House on a mattress with lots of helpful bounce, not a plain of unforgiving hardwood—screamed a little and barely allowed it. Wilson grabbed House’s shoulders, adjusted his angle, dug his knees in for leverage and fucked himself down hard.
“Wilson!” (Definitely House that time.)
“I’ve got you,” Wilson murmured, body glowing with exertion just a few thrusts in but clearly loving it. Altitude and intensity took on inverse properties; he couldn’t get up high without middle-aged joints crunching uncomfortably, but he could shock himself onto House’s erection under his own power, because screw gravity.
House lay perfectly still and let Wilson work his whole body just to pleasure House’s immobile cock. Because Wilson hadn’t told him to thrust. Wilson wanted him to not-hurt. This experience not-hurt beautifully. Just a hot vise stimulating his length with perfection borne of experience and his favorite person in the whole world sweating, writhing, brow drawn in concentrated ecstasy, filling his sightline.
House’s cock throbbed. His balls ached. All the sensation in his body was bleeding center, like a splash of watercolor seeping in reverse. His numb hands—truly as limited in use as paws right now—brushed against the familiar swell of Wilson’s chest, heaving in time with the bucking pleasure, chasing off everything else loitering unwelcome in range.
“Good dog,” Wilson said it like an order. He gripped House’s chin in an unrelenting hand. “You’re my wonderful puppy, my perfect House. You’re everything to me. And you’re gonna take it until I say we’re done.”
It didn’t even occur to House to come. He had been told what to do. He didn’t have to do anything else. Life was so simple here, under Wilson, inside Wilson.
Beginning to strip his own cock brutally, Wilson rocked and clenched on House’s engorged prick. Sweat slicked House’s chest and his head hadn’t really stopped spinning since the first time Wilson hit him. “Please, Wilson…” A targetless plea. Wilson guided it home.
“My good boy. Come.”
Awestruck, House came.
His hips barely moved. Not so much pumping as being pumped, Wilson extracted House’s price as his relentless body made him spend and spend and spend. Once House’s limbs took on the rigor of an underdone souffle and his spine tried to become another board in the ground, Wilson changed gears.
Wincing delicately, he extracted himself from House’s cock and knee walked up his chest. His swollen dick bobbed against House’s slack lips.
“Puppy, open.”
House did so in a fresh rush of relief. Oh, yes, finally. Just a little rough use. Penetration. Enough desire to keep the debt collectors of House’s soul from repossessing his sense of worth.
He yipped just as Wilson’s thickness caught in his throat and choked gloriously. Wilson grabbed him by the hair with a desperate keen and, sounding just as strangled as House, shot his load with sharp, dragging thrusts against House’s hungry tongue.
Wilson stayed inside him until neither of them threatened to shake anymore.
He pulled out carefully and then collapsed without any grace in a half-sitting slump against the bottom of the couch. House was just fine where he was, corpsing in comfortable repose.
“Can I have a light, now?” Wilson asked, voice wrung out.
“…Purple.”
“Yeah.”
“You?” House asked, not because he cared or anything, but because he was curious.
“Also shades of lavender.”
“Pansy.”
“I just hit you. And then made you suck my cock.”
“Pansy,” House repeated, and got the laugh he wanted. “Are you going to hit me again?”
Wilson’s hand landed tenderly on House’s ankle, the nearest bit of him in caressing-distance. “I might. Sometime. If I feel like it. But if you want pain management, you tell me. No more…off-label use. Okay?”
It would’ve been shocking for House to agree, so he didn’t, but his toneless grunt let the issue slide aside like a pat of butter sizzling off the too-hot surface of their feelings.
Wilson tried to stand and instantly regretted this foolish notion. “God. Ow. Need to start stocking lube in every room of the place. I should stop taking you so rough, if it feels like this—”
“Don’t you dare,” House interrupted. “I want it like that. Just because you’re a total pansy, as we’ve established…”
“Alright,” Wilson’s grin was a July ice cream cone, soft and melty and sweet. “If that’s what you want. Does that mean you’ll run the bath today?”
“Nope.”
Wilson heaved an old man sigh and creaked as he stood, kissing the top of House’s head automatically as he did so. “Fair enough.”
*****
House learned all the standard house-pet commands: sit, stay, speak, swallow (okay, that one might be a unique addition). They established scene parameters. Pretty simple ones, consisting of one of them doing something doggie-related and the other getting hard as a result, and then the both of them doing whatever they fucking felt like. Probably this wasn’t the safest, sanest, or most consensual way of going about their new secret practice, but they both got off on the surprise and shock of their kink coming out of nowhere—House making a puppy-ish noise in Wilson’s ear at the grocery store and forcing him to abandon the cart to drag House home to be fucked, Wilson exerting the gentle pressure of his palm on House’s neck in passing at work and earning himself a sloppy janitor’s closet blowjob.
The give and take of domination and submission which felt so natural inside their scenes, however, could be jarring outside the boundaries of dirty talk and ejaculation.
“No dogs at the table.”
House froze, more raccoon in the backyard security spotlight than puppy as he ground to a halt in the kitchen. “Huh?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not puppy,” House sneered, but it had a fracture of uncertainty running through it. “I’m Doctor Greg House, and I’m here for my human dinner.”
“Doctor Greg House missed his chance. If puppy wants to eat, he’ll do it on the floor.” Wilson tapped the tip of his fork against the plate, generating a food-muffled clink, and then pointed the utensil towards the ground at his feet.
No way.
But there was House’s dinner, the meaty spaghetti he’d demanded Wilson make and then let get cold as he played “just one more level” on the PlayStation while Wilson tutted and frittered in the background of his attention. Plated neatly, minus silverware, and sitting on the damn ground between Wilson’s socks.
Now, Wilson had his attention.
“You think I’m that easy?” House used his cane to gesture to the humiliating floor-plate, like Wilson had with his dainty little fucking fork. “Toss a scrap of beef on the ground and I’ll go on my knees for you?”
Wilson’s grin smoldered, sunburn to House’s abruptly raw feelings. “I don’t even need that meat.”
House huffed and, with as much speed and grace as he could muster (not much, granted), tried to use his handy human fingers to make a grab for his dinner. Wilson made a disgusted little noise and snatched the plate up before House had crossed even half the distance to his goal.
“Naughty puppy.” Wilson clicked his tongue, hoisting the handmade feast beyond House’s reach. “You know what naughty puppies get for dinner?”
“The food they paid for?” House snapped, feeling hot all over and pretty sure it wasn’t in the good way…unless it maybe was.
Wilson’s glare was desiccating. “Naughty puppies—who did not make the grocery trip or contribute to the budget—don’t get any dinner.” He let the plate tip sideways in his grasp and spill its bounty onto the floor beside him and in front of House. Jesus. Sauce all over the tile. Wilson would have a hell of a time cleaning that up. Because—
“I’m not cleaning that up,” House declared loudly.
“Of course, not,” Wilson cooed low, setting the empty plate aside and spearing his own last forkful of oregano, tomato, and sauteed onion. “Puppy doesn’t know how to use a dustpan. Puppy is remedial.”
House had to admit it. As much as he wanted to be considering domestic partner violence right now, he was almost certainly developing an erection instead.
Wilson chewed thoughtfully. House stared at his spoiled supper. He could still eat it—he wasn’t exactly above nibbling noodles off the ground…
Fuck. Yes, he was. He was.
“If you really want something to eat…” Wilson broke into House’s increasingly panicked thought spiral, “Here.” He lifted his own plate, picked clean of noodles but sticky with crimson smears of sauce, and held it out to House. Then nestled it between his spread thighs. Under the table. House felt his lips part and his tongue dart out, sensation ringing into consciousness too late to stop.
“Get down on all fours. Slowly,” Wilson cautioned, almost gentle, now that he’d seen the release of human inhibition in House’s features.
House got down on all fours. Slowly. He crawled under the table, rolling his cane out of the way, knocking his elbow on a wooden leg and loosing a pathetic wounded whine that he was pleased to find made Wilson shift with arousal before him.
“Good boy,” Wilson beckoned, “come here. Lick it clean.” He tilted the face of the dripping plate towards House and House opened wide and did as he was told.
He licked a long stripe up the middle of the plate. Sweet, only a background of spice. Wilson was like that himself, all sugar coated, only burning your palate once you were hooked… House caught hold of that internal monologue by the scruff and tossed it aside before the obvious fact (who, exactly, had crawled under the table to service whom) got its teeth in.
Cleaner and cleaner, he bathed the ceramic surface with his tongue. He hadn’t made a dish sparkle like this in years. If only all chores could involve this kind of sexy depersonalization!
House dragged his tongue in a final semi-circle around the plate’s rim. Nothing left. He angled his head up to pant and whine.
“Still hungry?” Wilson asked. “I’ll give you a treat.”
Please, let it be his dick, House hoped fervently. (Like it would be anything else? his sarcastic self noted from a great distance.) Wilson’s fingers slipped under the table to unzip his fly. Yay! House felt strange and light-headed and not himself, and also like slobbering all over Wilson’s cock was the only thing in the world that held any appeal.
“Sit,” Wilson commanded, growing erection cradled in one hand. House eagerly arranged himself at Wilson’s feet. “Open.” House opened his mouth and Wilson fed him his favorite treat. (You are such a dumb fucking slut, that faraway voice that sounded a little like himself shouted, but he couldn’t care about that now, with Wilson’s wonderful dick filling his mouth.)
House’s owner was so hard, just from watching his dog go under the table and do as he was told. Wilson took him by the jaw and fucked into his throat. Of course, House choked on it, and of course, that made Wilson moan and pet his hair and do it again. Then he settled back in his chair and let House just make a mess of the head of his cock. It was so sloppy, spit and precome gathering and dripping obscenely as House lapped and swirled and let his mouth hang open, ready and waiting for Wilson to give him more.
Wilson’s left hand gripped tight at House’s fur (hair?) and the other stayed out of sight on the table’s surface. He could only just see House between his legs, partially obscured by the wooden edge. House’s knees were absolutely fucking killing him on the kitchen tile but he was too wired to notice or care. He kept his palms flat on the cool floor—a well-behaved dog who didn’t jump up on people, even when his people jumped him.
“Is that good?” Wilson asked, voice deep and wrecked, “Do you like your treat?”
House whined around his mouthful and Wilson scratched behind his ear. “Good boy, you keep taking it. All of it. Oh, you’re a happy puppy as long as you have my cock, aren’t you?”
More whining, and slobbering (it was a good thing tile was easy to clean). It was becoming near impossible for House to avoid thinking about his own hardness. He was committed—he wouldn’t use his thumbs. But he started pawing fiercely over the bulge in his pants at first just to take the edge off and then because he couldn’t stop.
Wilson noticed. House swallowed his erection deep and moaned—a noble attempt at distraction. It worked to the degree that Wilson swore and held him down to fuck him deep for a too-long, breathless moment. But then he pushed House off to pant helplessly around his tip and said, “You’re hard just from letting me use your mouth? Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
House made a desperate noise. He couldn’t take that, not that. Then Wilson said something even worse: “You can hump my leg. Be my bad dog. Make a mess.”
It was humiliating. It was an easy ‘not in a million years and also fuck you forever.’ It was not even in the realm of possibility.
House shuffled forward and wrapped himself around Wilson’s leg and began to hump him like a randy bulldog. Wilson carefully cushioned House’s skull with a palm so he didn’t smack up into the table as he got friction on his cock through his jeans. House’s whole head was in Wilson’s lap now, easy for Wilson to guide his prick back between House’s lips and thrust the short distance into his throat. Wilson took his pleasure and so did House. He rubbed himself frantically against Wilson’s calf and felt orgasm gain momentum. He really was going to come like this: swallowing Wilson’s cock under the kitchen table while rutting like an animal against his damn leg.
“Oh, House, oh—fuck, that’s…oh god, House, you’re so—ah, ahh—you’re so good for me—” Wilson’s climax punched out of him and filled House to the brim. He swallowed as best he could but it still dripped out down his chin to catch in his stubble. Wilson finished with a last pour of come on House’s tongue and House bravely took it. This was beyond sloppy. He’d need a fucking bath. Especially once he—
House panted and whined and humped Wilson’s leg to a long, embarrassing, gorgeous completion. He spilled into his briefs, inside his jeans, erection rutting against Wilson’s slacks, Wilson’s hand a soothing tangle in his hair.
“Bad dog,” Wilson murmured, soft and amazed. “Your ruined my pants. And yours.” House nuzzled helplessly into him. “There you go, clean up your mess,” Wilson urged, and House began to try and lick Wilson’s spent crotch clean. It was hopeless but he tried so earnestly, Wilson petted him again, and now it was, “Good boy, so good. Let’s clean up together. Let’s have a bath. You like baths, don’t you?”
House barked. Yes! He loved baths! Wilson scratched him behind the ear again and House’s knee thumped to the ground and oh, this freedom to be spoiled was its own kind of ecstasy.
He suspected he was in trouble when he flickered back into awareness in the tub. The minutes between his knees spiking pain on the kitchen floor and his current slump back into Wilson’s arms, covered to the chest in perfectly-warm water, were absent.
“House?!” Wilson asked, no other words necessary or possible when the sleepy post-puppy coma patient in his arms suddenly thrashed as if in the grips of a night terror.
“What—” House crunched down on whatever useless human speech had tried to vomit out. He breathed hard through clenched teeth. The utterly fantastic high that Wilson had brought him to (yes, good, this is Wilson’s fault) had dissolved in a perceptual instant, leaving an immobile shiver itching inside his bones and his mental vault dangling open with its most top-secret double-red-stamped FOR NO ONE’S EYES ONLY emotions spilling out onto the floor of his centrifugal psyche.
“Hey, hey…” Wilson tried to grip House tight in an orderly’s hold. Bad move.
Scratching, biting, kicking, it was all fair game as House fought his way out of his own bathtub and his lover’s arms like it was the embrace of Hades. He made it as far as the transition between bathroom tile and bedroom hardwood before the glut of panic left his muscles without the energy to go on. He collapsed, naked and dripping with his fingers barely clutching the hem of the bedclothes where they just-almost-didn’t touch the ground, as he just-almost-didn’t get a handle on the violent mêlée of disgust, violation, and simple fear holding him hostage.
“House. Baby. I need you to breathe, okay?” Wilson’s hand landed in the middle of House’s back, stroking over his lungs like he could coax out an exhale with pure touch.
“Baby?” House snarled, voice coming out oddly high in his confused shock, “Who the fuck is ‘baby’?”
“Good,” Wilson murmured, still rubbing tenderly. House wanted to ask if Wilson thought he was suffering from romance-novel-style hypothermia, and needed to be massaged back to life by lithe oiled hands, but first he had to follow up—
“Did the spirit of Patrick Swayze possess you? Or did I look like one of your ex-wives for a minute there?” The joke landed like a soapy, fumbled knife, point buried between tiny, vulnerable bones. “You did this with them, didn’t you. Did you? Did you humiliate your women on the kitchen floor, and now you get off on making me your bitch too?”
Wilson answered calmly, but let just a touch of acid eat through his professional tones. “No, House. I’ve never done anything like this with anyone else. You know that. Julie thought doggie style was exotic and dangerous, and Bonnie wasn’t even sure oral sex was legal in the United States.”
“Sam?” House prodded hopefully. “Closet dominatrix?”
“We were both in med school. Most of the time we passed out in the middle of heavy petting. And no,” Wilson turned House to face him with all the impressive gentility contained in his handsome hands, “that’s not a euphemism. I’ve never had a pet like you. I could never have this with anyone but you.” His tenderness helped, but couldn’t heal. Jealous rage had been such a reassuring fire; tamping it out with Wilson’s bucket of freezing devotion left House back in the same wretched, defenseless ashes.
“Go away,” House tried. “Let me have one minute of peace in my own damn apartment.”
“If I thought isolation would help, I would leave. But I don’t think sinking into your miserable pit of self-hatred will be particularly useful.”
“Fuck you.”
“Any time you like,” Wilson sighed, getting comfortable as he—also naked and wet—shuffled into a leaning sit against the bedframe. “You know, I read about sub-drop. And I know an addict’s crash when I see one. I know your detox when I see it.”
“Your love is my drug,” House simpered. “I think I heard that in the club.”
“The whole point of what we do is to…” Wilson searched for the right words, thoughtlessly getting his hand in House’s hair. That was what House was to him, a possession he didn’t need to ask to touch. Or, something so beloved that his body reached for it without needing his mind. House didn’t know. But what evidence could ever clinch such a bullshit metaphysical question, in either direction?
Wilson huffed, frowned, and started over. “We play this game, for the same reason we always play games. To get beyond the daily dynamics of our jobs. Our lives. We need something different, and we can give it to each other. But it’s intense. That’s the point. It has a price.”
“One that only I pay?”
“You get the brunt of it,” Wilson agreed, taking House’s face in both his hands. “But it’s not free on my side, either.”
“Oh?” House shoved himself out of his puddle of gloom and into a half-crouch of vindictive curiosity. “What’s the market value on dom-drop?”
“Ah, and he’s fine.” Wilson rolled his eyes and let go of House to push himself to his feet. He padded a return to the bathroom without a backward glance.
House smiled and, completely oblivious to any stratagems successful or otherwise, gave chase.
*****
So, Wilson didn’t love being in charge all the time? Fine. Time for him to be on his knees, for once.
House stalked up to the couch, lopsided and menacing. Wilson’s brow didn’t unfurrow by even a millimeter over its focused inspection of yesterday’s sports’ section.
“It’s your turn,” House announced, dialing up the gravel in his tone.
“To take out the trash? I know, it’s been my turn for years.”
“No,” House hurled himself onto the couch and man-spread until Wilson had to cross his legs primly out of the way, “it’s your turn to submit.”
“...Oh?” Only mild intrigue sounded in Wilson’s voice. His eyes remained in the general direction of the paper spread across his lap, but they stopped zinging across the lines of text.
“Yeah. You should be the dog tonight.”
Wilson smirked and idly turned a new page, smoothing it over his leg. “Should, huh? I don’t know if you’re ready for giving orders.”
“I boss people around all the time!” House protested. Even as he did so, he felt he was proving Wilson’s argument somehow. “It’s literally my job.”
“Okay. Tell me what to do.”
“I will. I have no problem telling people what to do.” So, House hadn’t actually planned as far as the initial order. Wilson was reading his paper in earnest again…aha!
“Put your stupid fucking paper down,” House commanded—okay, more of a whine—and smacked the newsprint out of Wilson’s grasp. Wilson watched it disappear with minimal interest. His gaze, when he finally deigned to offer it to House, was warm and indulgent.
“Okay, puppy. Whatever you say.”
“Don’t call me—you’re puppy! Or, no,” House flinched, “you can be…doggie.” House was puppy. There were rules, after all. “You’re my dog, tonight, and I’m in charge.”
“Okay,” Wilson nodded equably, and stole in to kiss House’s neck.
House’s body told him to melt. His mind wasn’t against the idea, either. But his stubborn streak was at the wheel and hollered, “Doggie has to do what I say. Get off me.”
Wilson obeyed. He put a foot of distance between them on the couch. House still felt petulant, and now also chilly.
“Get on the floor.”
Wilson got on the floor. “All fours?”
“Obviously. And quiet, doggie doesn’t speak.”
Wilson put a finger to his lips as he shuffled onto hands and knees.
“I think doggie is not really getting the point of this exercise,” House complained. “Doggie doesn’t have human language. Doggie doesn’t have articulated metacarpals.”
“Doggie is just trying to help.”
“Doggie shut up.” House huffed, irritation itching from toes to scalp, but also, Wilson looking so smug and bossy at his feet was starting to seriously turn him on. “Okay, take off your clothes.”
“I thought I didn’t have thumbs—”
“Temporary thumbs! And I still didn’t tell you to speak.”
Wilson bit down on a bigger smile as he began to strip down, quick and practical.
“Hey, tap the brakes…doggie,” House added awkwardly. “Let me enjoy the sights.”
“I don’t think there’s a big market in canine strip teases,” Wilson pointed out. “We run up against the thumb issue again.”
House tossed his hands in the air, “You are a terrible dog!”
“A dog is only as good as his master.”
House growled.
“Very method,” Wilson replied dryly, “have you considered puppy tryouts yourself?”
It took everything in House not to fling himself on the ground and start nipping and slobbering all over Wilson’s stupidly edible, all-too-human expression until Wilson saw sense and fucked him. But pup—House—had a goddamn point to make.
“No. More. Talking.” House snapped his fingers between his spread knees. “Get over here.”
Wilson finally got naked and with the program. He kicked his slacks off his ankles and crawled over to crouch nude and intrigued between House’s thighs. Relaxation pushed a sigh from House’s lungs. This was a scene he could deal with.
“Open wide, doggie. I’ve got a treat for you.” The dialogue didn’t sound so smooth and erotic delivered from this end, and his jeans zipper got a little caught and he had to wrestle it down with both hands, but eventually he got his still fairly soft cock out and Wilson’s mouth was there and obediently open, and okay, this could still work.
He took Wilson by the hair—it wasn’t fur, not yet, at least—and brought him in. Wilson began to suckle happily at his first inches. His hand came up in an automatic attempt to jack what he wasn’t licking and House grabbed it.
“Just your mouth,” House insisted, “no hand—I mean, no paws.”
Wilson complied. There was no accompanying charge of sexual satisfaction. House grabbed Wilson more roughly, pulling his hair until he moaned, and choked him with what erection he could muster. Wilson very politely and pleasantly gave him noise and compression around his cock.
It wasn’t that House didn’t enjoy it. His prick started to fill. Wilson was giving his gag reflex a tougher workout with every swallow.
It was just that House so badly wanted Wilson to tell him what to do next. Which was fucking surreal—it was wrong, what was wrong with him, why couldn’t he summon the capacity (or was it just the interest) to choose his own next move?
He could fuck Wilson. Wilson would do it, he knew. Lay down on the floor if told, part his legs, let House pump his cock in his poor, unprepared ass until he came, and Wilson wouldn’t complain. He would probably even enjoy it. Unlike House. Fuck. House couldn’t even keep it up like this. Talk about sub drop. Or, dom drop? Dom scared of heights? Sub altitude sickness?
On the edge of a panic attack, it was naturally—infuriatingly—Wilson who pulled off and talked him down.
“It’s okay, House.”
“It’s not.”
“You don’t have to like this side of things.”
“I have no problem giving orders.”
“Of course not,” Wilson soothed. His hands came up to massage over House’s thighs, because when it came to orders, he evidently couldn’t follow them any better than House could give them. “You’re strong and confident and commanding…when you know what you’re doing.”
“You’re saying I’m stupid in the sack?” House balked but Wilson held him firm.
“No, you’re great in bed, and you know it. You can even be all dominant if you want…just not in this scene. You’re my dog.”
“Why can’t I pull the leash for once?” House pouted.
Wilson hummed a pleased little kiss against House’s inner thigh at the signs of shifting polarity. “Because you know what role you’re suited for. Just like at work, you’re the smartest man in the room, and you know how to delegate.”
“I…delegate authority? Sex authority?”
“You’re lazy, House,” Wilson informed him with a gentle kiss to the neglected head of his prick. “And why shouldn’t you be? That’s what I’m here for. To do the work and make you feel good. I know what gives you pleasure so you don’t have to.”
House was starting to like the sound of this. And for the first time since the stumbling initiation of the scene, his arousal was getting hard to ignore.
Wilson licked sweetly over him as House’s blood finally started to sing. “Puppy can be in charge. As a treat.”
Something collapsed in House, and the relief was instantaneous. “Wilson…” he moaned. Begged.
Wilson moaned too, shoving all he could in his mouth. He gagged himself on House and pulled off just to jack him hard, panting, “That’s my good boy.” Another suck to the tip, making House jump and whine. “Puppy wanted my clothes off. Do you want to come on me? Make a mess of my skin?”
House nodded, pawing helplessly at Wilson’s face, his shoulders.
Wilson ducked back down for a vicious minute of fellatio, and oh god, House was going to come down his throat—
“Not yet, puppy,” Wilson lectured. Rocking back on his heels, he presented his torso and House wheezed in strangled desire. “Okay,” a laugh sprinkled Wilson’s tone, “you wanna come on my chest, puppy?”
“Tits!” House barked enthusiastically. Oh, it felt so good to be in the collar again. Metaphorically speaking.
“Tits it is,” Wilson grinned, and flicked his tongue over House’s cock until House had no choice but to shout. It was simple, then, to aim House’s cock with Wilson’s sure left hand stroking him over the threshold to ecstasy. Wilson ensured House blew his load all over his chest, getting in the patch of hair at his sternum and dripping over both nipples, a complete destruction and stunning visual that gave House a final, extra jolt of wet pleasure.
“I need puppy’s mouth, now,” Wilson intoned, voice rough. “Can puppy give me what I need?”
House tossed himself with enthusiasm, if not much coordination, down onto Wilson. He flattened them both and started licking his mess off of Wilson’s softly planed chest without needing further orders.
Wilson kept his moan locked in his lungs. Considering his position, House felt its deep rumble anyway. He pinned Wilson harder with clumsy paws and the weight of his body. His tongue left Wilson’s chest a sticky kind of clean, his nipples standing tall from the rush of attention. He waited. Wilson would tell him what to do.
“Oh, puppy, you’re being so good. You’re never this good.”
House grinned a very un-dog-like grin.
“Contrarian bitch,” Wilson sighed, sounding both pained and aroused. House yipped his agreement. “Fuck.” Wilson petted House a little wildly. “So…malleable. Jesus. Okay. Go down, puppy, go down on me. Wait—start lower. You always get excited, wanna play with your favorite balls…now’s your chance…”
House gave a breathy little bark and pressed deeper, lower, under. There was something dirtier, a hint more humiliating, about this. Ignoring Wilson’s swollen cock to attend exclusively to his balls. Not that House neglected them! He’d file slander charges if anyone said so. But he couldn’t remember the last time he did this: filled his mouth with one and sucked until Wilson choked on a “guh” noise of over-sensitive pleasure, and then moved on to stuff his mouth with the other. He laved over every dip and fold and crevice of skin and oh, yes, this was intimate. This was not a place he could’ve arrived at on his own. Only Wilson could bring him, them, to these new heights—and lows. Mmm.
“Rub…your face…” Wilson was red and overwhelmed but he kept his hand on the wheel and tight in House’s fur. House complied. He gently rubbed the grit of his stubbled mouth and jaw and cheek against Wilson’s delicate skin. Wilson sounded like he was going to make himself sob with what he made House do. House was charged and starting to shiver all over.
“Fuck,” Wilson whispered hoarsely, and cranked open House’s jaw. He shoved his stiff prick onto House’s tongue, but then, “No, no sucking. Good puppy. Just…take…it…” His voice trailed off and tightened as he fucked House’s mouth hard but refused any suction or the friction of his active tongue. He held House open and raw and used the wet heat of him to pleasure his hard cock. House whimpered, eyes threatening to roll back in beautiful, bizarre ecstasy. Wilson fucked himself in deep after the noise and filled House’s throat with his flesh and come.
House had no choice but to swallow, and then no choice but to choke. He enjoyed both thoroughly.
Wilson worked House’s mouth off of himself slowly, both of them fighting it a little, playful tussle extending the sparks of completion.
“Mmph,” Wilson commented from where he was splayed half under the coffee table.
“Hrrmph,” House agreed, splayed half on top of Wilson.
After enough time for House to grow drowsy and consider passing out, Wilson abruptly broke the contented quiet with a thought clearly plucked from his own obscure train of thought: “Talk about a rock and a hard place.”
“Are we…talking about dicks?” House guessed.
“Nope. Your pathologies.” Wilson patted House’s cheek when his head popped up to deliver a glower. “You can’t stand to have an adult conversation about your feelings. But you also can’t ever let a mystery go unsolved. So, what do you do when you can’t solve the mystery of your own feelings?”
“I suck your cock, evidently.”
“…Okay.” Wilson stroked over House’s face with a soothing palm until he laid back down. “Maybe less of a pathology, more of a…fringe benefit. For me.”
“D’you know…how many people…would kill to get me collared, like you do?” House slurred, his exhausted bodymind start to close up shop for the night. “Count your damn blessings.”
He passed out to the feeling of Wilson’s fingers tracing the lines of his throat.