i

 

He could handle the little everyday insults. Almost endearing, undeniably predictable, and it kept him witty--sort of--having to throw back retorts on a dime whenever House aimed a barb at him.

Not that it was a perk, per se, having someone who knew him well enough to make fun of his exes, his family, his religion, his appearance, his intelligence, his department, and any other openings that presented themselves. Wilson had just acclimated enough not to rise to the bait. Lately, though, it had gone from habitually annoying to undeniably cruel, even by House’s standards.

Still. House couldn’t talk when he was giving head.

Not with Wilson’s heels digging into the mattress, hips pushing, that skilled pink tongue licking and curling, silk-smooth, over the hot-damp tip and making him cry out louder than he would normally allow. Giving a little more encouragement couldn’t hurt--hips arch-pressing up into the heat of House’s mouth, Wilson's thoughts blurred and jaw slack--especially since, more and more often, House was holding off on sex, usually partway through the actual act.

Never apologetic about it at all. Wilson knew better than to expect anything else. Pills and pain threw wrenches into the works sometimes, but neither of these appeared to be the source, since House was completely fine apart from simply losing interest. And, being House, he showed no inclination whatsoever to discuss what was bringing on this new bout of petulance, so Wilson had been responding by stalking off to finish himself in the bathroom and going along with House’s silence by adding his own. House seemed almost disappointed he couldn’t just pick a fight with him. There wasn’t an “off” switch, something Wilson told himself he should be used to by now, but he’d never found himself groping for one in this particular situation.

Usually, House loved getting fucked—easier on his thigh that way—but lately even while gasping and shuddering into the mattress, he would find time to growl complaints over his shoulder. After one “Come on, I’m falling asleep here” too many, Wilson just slid off the bed and left to get a glass of water, brow furrowed.

It happened again while House was going down on him a few weeks later, sucking slow and deep and God, he could almost forgive him for everything else, really, he could. Wilson’s hands were splayed wide and white over the covers, breathing rattling steam-engine loud in his ears; he would never get over how good House was at this. Then…it was stopping. “Sorry.” House’s voice was thick with amusement and heaping insincerity. “Gotta get some sleep,” he declared as he went rolling over onto his stomach, leaving Wilson frustrated and nonplussed.

Wilson hesitated. If that was what he wanted…

Yawning exaggeratedly, House was shifting to step back into his pajama pants. Before he could reconsider, Wilson lifted a hand, caught his wrist and yanked him down onto the bed again. Shoved him onto his back, glared down at him—waited.

And House hissed, wriggled against the sheets a little. Not a word. Wilson seriously thought of just muttering an apology and leaving the room, calling it all forgotten.

“House,” he heard himself say instead, “what the hell?”

“Good night.” Irritably, House shook him off and resumed retrieving his pants, face averted.

Shit. “I’m not going to…to rape you because you make fun of me. I’m a little better conditioned than that.” He knew better than to say you could have just told me. House could never just do anything.

“Seriously. Busy day tomorrow. Gotta sleep.”

”You don’t need to piss me off to get things to happen.” Stabbing in the dark all over again, not sure what this entailed, but only knowing he was on the right track with it.

"Why mess with what works? Seriously, you're the most predictable person on the planet."

"If you don't actually tell me what works, maybe I should give Julie a call and see how she's doing. I heard she broke up with her boyfriend, so she could probably use some company." Even empty threats about hooking up with any of his exes were, by default, hitting below the belt, but it was no worse than the running commentary of all his shortcomings that might as well have been playing in his sleep lately. 

“Fine,” House said flatly. Leaning forward with a monumentally disturbing leer, he declared, “I like it rough,” in an exaggerated Southern drawl.

“Congratulations. Now you’ve ensured I never sleep with you again and will most likely assume a kung fu stance if you ever make that face again”

“Please, you never took kung fu.”

“Three years when I was a kid, actually. And that’s so not the point.”

But for House, it was. That was as far as the conversation progressed that day.

 

ii

 

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something. Something…important. I want to try something…more…y’know. Since my brutal, affectionless upbringing starved me for love and I need to know not all abuse is a product of hatred.”

House was apparently planning to audition for an episode of General Hospital with a script composed solely of the clinic’s domestic violence pamphlets. Wilson snorted. “Is that the best you can do?”

Then those bright eyes were glancing at everything in the room but Wilson’s face and House’s own was contorting into map after map of severe lines. Oh. Was he actually serious?

“So, that patient I had, that guy…when it first presented...” House pursed his lips, narrowed one eye while still keeping both of them glued to the opposite wall. “You remember gold guy?”

The one whose wife had been poisoning him with gold sodium thiomalate. It took him a minute to recall, but Wilson nodded. “Gold guy?”

“Never mind, forget gold guy.” House waved a hand dismissively. “Say, hypothetically, you’re reading one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books. Only with porn involved. Everything’s way more fun that way. So you get to page nineteen and the person you’ve been screwing for a while and known way longer, in this book, comes up to you and says, ‘Hey, I want you to hurt me. Seriously, go to town, make me do whatever you want even if I’m screaming for you to stop.’ What do you do?”

Wilson didn’t answer.

“If you run away and call the cops, turn to page thirty-four. If you put on your leather bustier and make them run away and call the cops, turn to—“

“And…like…hit you?" Wilson blurted out. He couldn’t even begin to articulate the alarming images that conjured.

“Domination,” House said witheringly, the word ringing in Wilson’s ears, “does not necessarily entail discipline.”

He couldn’t stop picturing it in his head, being able to overpower House. Way, way different from lying to him and getting away with it. This wasn’t just a step beyond that. This was a few staircases, at least. Rickety, winding, lighthouse-type staircases; the kind House wouldn’t have a prayer at climbing even on a good day. “You’d need to have a safe word,” he said. He knew that much. House’s eyelids flickered and he didn’t retort, apparently having expected Wilson to falter or flat-out refuse. “I don’t really know much about this,” he began, but House seemed to have filled his quota for confessing and the conversation switched to sports.

But it was out in the open now, and he wasn’t going to ignore that. For someone who trumpeted his own arrogance from the rooftops, House rarely spoke up about what he actually wanted. Wilson refused to let this slip under the radar.

So he Googled it. He hemmed and considered it, researched “impulsive sex” and “surprise sex,” but didn’t think House would be amused if he hopped up behind him and yelled “Surprise, buttsex!” And the element of surprise was hard, too…couldn’t just grab House at any old time for sex, had to make sure he wasn’t moody or in pain.

He Googled domination and submission and force fantasies. Then he Googled House.

As he skimmed bibliographies, articles, and conference itineraries, he wondered. What made someone like that? There was no gene for submissiveness, a concept as nebulous as what made one person prefer the color red over blue. But at the same time, no one was capable of picking and choosing what sent endorphins rushing through the brain, made the heart race, set pleasure receptors off. Another inscrutable nook in biology. Wilson hit the back button and returned to Wikipedia. He was fucking House, not diagnosing him.

Though, honestly, diagnosing him was looking easier and easier by comparison.

Most of the fantasies he read about featured women in the submissive role. That was a problem. Women could put up a fight and play through a scene with gusto, but still be wet and aroused enough for it to culminate in sex. With House, he’d have to wrestle him down and get lube somehow, unless House wanted it unprepared, which Wilson hadn’t considered and which made him wince. Or maybe House just wanted Wilson to make him give a blowjob. That would be easier, unless something went wrong and one of them wound up in the hospital after an embarrassing incident regarding biting or choking. None of the sources he consulted said anything about forcing a middle-aged man with a bad leg and a foul temper.

  

iii

 

There was only so much practicing Wilson could do without actually implementing it. He’d steeled himself up to dive in as soon as House came home one evening, but House had been grimacing and grumbling and it just hadn’t seemed like a wise idea.

He actually started, another time when they were already in bed, and things even got off the ground. Face firm, he’d borne down on House’s wrists when he tried to turn over, one knee pinning his good thigh. House swallowed and trembled and grew dark-eyed and, fuck, that was sexy, until Wilson pushed his legs apart, sucked a finger, and started to press it inside him. “Christ, stop!” House roared, and Wilson hesitated.

“I…are you okay?”

“What’re you doing?” House snapped. “Keep going.”

“You said to stop!”

House’s sigh was near explosive. “You suck at this!”

“Fine!”

In the end, they sat down and did exactly what House had clearly been hoping to avoid. Wilson slapped a legal pad onto the table. “You want me to call the shots? I’m calling them. Sit. We’re going to talk.” Emphasizing that word never failed to make an impression.

Wilson had previously cast off the thought of making a list. It seemed ridiculous for something like sex, in which he’d always relied on instinct before. He picked up a pen. “Safe word? You need to pick one in advance.” In case this happened again and they didn’t think to pick one at all in the heat of the moment.

“Been prowling Doms R Us?” House snipped.

Wilson met his eyes, determined not to be embarrassed about this. It wasn’t his predilections they were dissecting. “Prepared or unprepared?”

House looked at him as if he were insane.

“Ooookay.” That made it easier. Less risk of actually hurting him. Though there was still the issue of getting the lube in place while keeping House in place. One thing at a time. “Now do you want…a scene, or just…”

Just House’s style: throw him into a situation he knows nothing about and it’s his fault, of course, when it doesn’t work out. Fighting to keep from sounding nervous or pissed off or any combination thereof, Wilson clutched the pen so hard his hand hurt and choked out the first questions that occurred to him. ”Do you want me to…talk to you? How…rough…do…?”

Slouching further in his seat, House was apparently trying to become at one with the upholstery. Wilson was fairly certain he didn’t look much happier himself, but they had to set rules. Not something House usually espoused, but it wasn’t as if they normally sat down and talked about how kinky he was either. But gradually, just to have it all written out in bullet form, just for someone more concrete than guessing and hoping to get it right. Surreal, getting this out of him.

“And you’d want me to…have sex with you like that. Like I’m…do you want me to act like a stranger? Like we don’t even know each other? Should I use your name? Should you use mine? I get to call it off, too, if I don’t feel comfortable, or if you hurt me. Same for you.”

“What,” House griped from behind the newspaper he’d dropped over his face, “are you going to put the list on the refrigerator?” It was a thought. At least then House would be forced to look at it.

“If it’s a bad time,” Wilson glared at the beaming image of Rihanna that was currently obscuring House's eyes, “if your leg’s hurting or you’re just not in the mood…if you need to call it off before it gets off the ground, just...” It still worried him—what if House forgot it?

Finally lowering the arts section, House squinted at him. “If I say stop, don’t.” 

“I won’t.” Even at this point, Wilson hadn’t been able to stop wondering what this meant about House. He’d done his psych rotations—and still got sneered at regularly for psychoanalyzing even while House used his own brand of it just as often—but still couldn’t help wanting to find out more.

There was one last question. “Have you ever done this before?”

“Nope. Never thought anyone would be able to pull it off,” significantly. “I’m ready to try it out, though.” House knew what he was doing, putting it like that. It was a good indication of trust and of course Wilson wouldn’t want to turn that aside. God damn it.

“Maybe I’m not ready yet, then,” Wilson admitted, recalling the stories and articles he’d read online. All “on your knees, bitch” and “lick my boots.” He couldn’t imagine House willingly complying with either command. He couldn’t imagine wanting him to.

  

iv

 

“Fucking slut.”

Wilson’s voice was low and deliberate. No yelling, no hesitating, just heated and sinful and scary.

It had taken a few tries. He tended to warble when he was nervous; not very intimidating. And watching porn alone with a clinical eye, it was like reading Hustler for the articles. “Know what I’m gonna do to you? Get you on your knees with your ass in the air like a whore, fuck your tight little hole till you forget your own goddamn name.”

He could feel his face stinging with embarrassment and irritation. This all sounded way better when an actual porn star was saying it. And getting House on his knees to begin with could be a precarious process.

He’d thought of researching a way to keep House’s ears covered so it wouldn’t matter whether he talked at all.

He'd thought of just playing music and to hell with talking at all.

He’d thought of asking Chase.

The best way to succeed at anything was to practice, even if it meant just going into it cold. When they ended up kissing in the kitchen and Wilson started heading down the hall, an arm around House’s middle in lieu of a cane, he murmured, “Come on,” without even thinking about it.

House looked at him fleetingly, then away. “No.”

And maybe he didn’t expect that, but he went with it and let impulse take over. Pushed him up against the wall, held him in place, forced his jaw down to kiss him and shoved back when he resisted. Wilson was panicking. It was good, but how was he supposed to get House into the bedroom?

He ended up muttering, “C’mon, I know you want it,” and tugging lamely at House’s arm.

“Did you write out a script for this?”

Wilson’s jaw tightened as he resignedly stalked back into the living room and flopped down on the couch. “I write them out for everything else.”

 

v

 

 

The cuffs made everything much easier.

Nothing fancy. Nylon rope fastened around the bedframe and threaded under the bed with a cuff attached to either end. In all fairness, he’d done this with Bonnie.

Once. Kind of.

It had been one of many optimistic last-ditch efforts to imbue an already-doomed relationship with a little excitement.

He wasn’t gauche enough to use the same ones over again, but the process was still the same even though thinking about Bonnie now just made him cringe inwardly. House didn’t have much reason to rifle around underneath the bed, so he probably hadn’t encountered it on his own, but Wilson was trying to avoid that line of thought entirely.

Later the same night, when House finished showering and wandered out of the bathroom, Wilson was strategically reading in bed. If this was actually going to happen, it might as well be at a time when House was relatively relaxed and not wearing much to begin with. He didn’t want to deal with the ramifications if yet another attempt ended anticlimactically because he accidentally ripped House’s favorite shirt or something.

Padding up behind him, letting his lips trace along the droplet-dotted sweep of his nape while House opened a dresser drawer—nothing out of the ordinary—and then slipping an arm over his shoulder to turn him and kiss him on the mouth. Slow, easy, one hand gradually coasting down to loosen the towel tucked over House’s hips. Stepping back towards the bed—slowly—with his heart throbbing in his throat, Wilson cinched both arms around House’s middle and tipped them onto it.

This wasn’t going to be like before, when he pursed his lips and tried again even though his face was burning and House was just sneering at him. It had almost made him annoyed enough not to care—he’d worked hard to be understanding and do what he thought House wanted. If House was going to bitch at him about this again, Wilson was going to damn well bitch back at him. There was too much going into this.

No disdain or disgust, just curiosity in House’s face. Okay. He could handle that. Steeling himself up, brushing his lips against House’s mouth first—nothing out of the ordinary—smoothing palms over his shoulders, side, stomach before pressing between his legs. He let House shift just enough to get comfortable in the middle of the bed, and then immediately closed back in over him, legs parted on either side of House’s hips. When House tried to throw him off to reverse their positions and met nothing but resistance, Wilson could almost taste the realization hitting him.

“Civilized conversation isn’t for the weak.” Trying to keep his voice light, since House with his mouth shut was unnerving. “Do you like this?”

House was shaking his head, teeth clenched, jaw tight, but still curving into his every touch.

“You’re such a liar.”

He brought out restraints and House’s eyes widened. Plain black loops. Jammed a hand down to fumble for the rope, clip the cuff over one wrist too quickly for him to resist.

Gratifyingly, House looked floored, not quite managing to swallow a groan as his head went falling back into the pillow. Wilson moved, straddling him still while House bucked and twisted under him, and clamped them both in place. The two of them had never really experimented with restraints—he’d held House’s hands down once or twice to keep him from being a micromanaging jerk and getting in the way, and House had done the same to him, but this was different. Maybe he should have been paying better attention.  

House bound and writhing, a rippling seiche of skin and anxiety—yeah, worth it—face turned away at first; Wilson kept grasping it, hissing look at me, half to be assertive and half to see—as House’s own hands strained at the cuffs to no avail. His finger slipped once into House’s open mouth and he sucked instead of nipping painfully. Okay. That was encouraging. If he could stop analyzing it and just do it, they might even get somewhere.

Taking his time, licking wherever he liked and pinning him down with a hand clamped below each knee. Watching carefully, he didn’t make out the safe world amidst groans and gasps, trained himself not to react when House resisted. It had been surprising at first, that House talked so much outside of bed but was damn near silent in it. No dirty talk, almost no moans, just quiet gasps and shudders and sometimes a grunted command or a grunt of pain. The porn stars had it wrong—it was hotter going off nonverbal cues alone. The way House’s stomach clenched when he left fingernail scratches below the navel, the way he shuddered when Wilson pressed his weight onto him to smother a bout of struggling. Much better that way, as opposed to clambering overtop him while House virtuously pressed his knees together and keened, “Don’t!” like a harlequin-novel heroine.

Wilson couldn’t help it. A puff of nervous laughter slipped out of him. House frowned.

No. They were not losing the mood now, when things were finally getting somewhere. Wilson glared down at him, challengingly, and crushed his mouth against his neck over the pulse point, feeling the frantic pumping against his tongue.

“Bite,” House was hissing, almost too quietly to be mistaken for anything but a breath.

Work with it, walk it off. Don’t let him think he can call the shots, but do it anyway. “Shut up,” he grunted in return, and took his time tracing a trail down House’s neck with his tongue. Lower, testing with his teeth, over the tight peak of a nipple, over flexing stretch of a side.

The bottle was where he’d left it, stashed under one of the pillows. If House noticed, he didn’t say, just looked on with narrowed eyes and a disturbingly wary expression as Wilson tipped out a palmful. Set it aside, eased down, cupped House’s cheeks in his hands—slicked fingers slipping messily, glistening. House was spreading his thighs. Head tipped back, body arching up. Wilson couldn’t breathe.

 “Don’t.”

Fuck. Oh, fuck. Not again, not now. “House…” As neutral a reply as he could manage, not stopping the slow stroking of his hand.

House looked absolutely murderous. “Wilson. God damn it, Wilson, don’t even fucking think about it.”

Barked out, all of it, in a voice he almost didn’t recognize, making him hesitate for half a second. He took a deep breath and it sounded like a death rattle to his over-wired mind. Leaning in, pressed a kiss below House’s ear, traced the rim of it with his tongue, teased the tip inside. “You can’t stop me, but you can make it hurt if you try—don’t.”

It was the tone he used when he pointed out House’s diagnosis made no sense, or that he had been knocking back more Vicodin than usual—calm and matter-of-fact and always guaranteed to get a rise out of House whether he intended it or not. Wrestling his good leg where he could pin it to the bed, licking along a hip that tasted slick-salty under his mouth. “You’ll like it , I promise, it’ll be good,” low and rushing out of him in a steady stream; easy to imagine how that was being translated on House’s end to relax and stop trying to take control, let me take care of it, admit that you’re out of your depth here and I know better. Passive-aggressive patronizing at its best. He closed his fist around House’s erection, hard, and House shuddered, eyes closed, looking tense but turned on and fuckfuckfuck, why did he want to do this? To lose control because he was forced to lose it, since he could never give it up voluntarily without also giving up his pride?

It would be so easy to break out the bitterness and make a tirade of it while House couldn’t move: you know how much I like to take care of things, so let me take care of this too. If you need this—getting shoved down, tied up, screwed until you can’t hold back anymore, then that’s right up my alley. So let me do it. Let me do this to you because I’d never trust anyone else to do it. Sweaty-red and squirming underneath him; Wilson still sweating bullets, still scared, but—God—loving the look on House’s face, being able to give him everything he needed, even in this setting, even though that had to be kind of sick in and of itself.

Until House was arcing under him and straining for contact, forgetting he was supposed to be fighting against it. Nothing but euphoria surging through his veins then. Rubbing his fingers lower, slipping them between his cheeks, pressing and slipping over his entrance. House was panting and it made his heart leap with pride. Skimming fingers of his other hand all along the length of him; warm, pearlescent fluid under his fingertips. Dark bands of the cuffs still holding firm, both arms stretches of straining veins, damp-hot skin, fingers contorted into fists like knots. Pink skin, nipples hard, cock hard, throat working around swallows and small sounds—House grunting and pushing back against him, trying to make that finger slip inside him. Whimpering when Wilson drew back instead, sounds like glass breaking, sounds House never made, but was now, and that was good, wasn’t it? That was the objective, to make him?

He twisted his slippery hand, grazed down the cleft of House’s ass with two fingertips tightly pressed together before pushing both in at once. Barely dipping down, barely in, then withdrawing all over again to rub the base of House’s cock with his thumb in hard small circles. His own erection warm and pulsing against his knuckles, in his fist. Wilson couldn’t keep back a groan, nudging his nose behind House’s ear and letting his tongue trace there, jerking and squirming against his own hand for a little longer before he eased his fingers back in. If House’s legs both folded over to one side, his thighs perpendicular to his body, he could fuck him that way. Assuming House let him. They’d already made a list, why not draw a diagram, too?

He took his time with the condom, casually resting a knee against House’s better leg and leaning into it so he couldn’t shake him off. Eyes blue-ringed darkness, watching him, and Wilson watched him watch. Shoving House once was all it took for him to understand. His right leg was already stretched out and bent at the knee, and by turning his lower body he could carefully rest the other over it. He turned his head aside when Wilson tried to kiss him, but he gripped his jaw and held him in place, trying not to think of how distressing it was that House actually did look worried. It was a matter of being this close, and House letting him. Carefully easing deeper inside, three fingers now, drawing it out. House’s breaths were ragged.

A small smile flitted over his face as he traced the tip of House’s cock with a finger. No touches, no fingers in his hair trying to urge him down; free to take as much time as he wanted for whatever he wanted—if he’d ever had to guess, he would have assumed House would rather be on the giving, as opposed to the receiving end of this, just to have the pleasure of tormenting him.

House, taut-tensed limbs and flaming cheeks as Wilson lapped over the hollow of a hip, hands broad and bearing down on sweaty skin—teeth, when House struggled; bite marks down his inner thigh. Desperate little gasps in the air, House’s eyes half-closed when he looked at him. Jesus. Every line of his body straining; cursing and curving into Wilson’s hand clasping the hard length of his cock. Hard. Red-flushed and hard and fighting to twist away even as Wilson was bracing a hand on his knee and pushing into him. Fuck. Clench and resistance of hotslickohgod muscle, fighting to keep hold of his good leg without hurting him as House was striving to turn. Quick, hard jerks, hips thrusting and withdrawing, skin against skin, a whine building in House’s throat—a whine— wrists trapped and twisting. Crying out against his own arm and coming in Wilson’s hand as he fucked him, all in less than two minutes, pulses of heat and heartbeats against his palm. Underneath him, the opposition ceased, and Wilson let go. Simultaneous orgasms didn’t happen often enough, and he deserved it.

Wilson wanted to look him in the eye when he was finished and be honest, to say, I don’t know if I can do this again. Matching House blow for blow on a daily basis was one thing, but this was about making House relinquish the impulse to match, and about House enjoying it without forfeiting his pride. If someone was literally making him do it, he had no other choice; that was what made it safe for him. He could give him that, the same way he’d rationalized giving him everything else.

But unclasping the cuffs, inspecting his wrists, nothing but worst-case scenarios were filling his mind. Wetting his lips, pushing back damp strands of hair. Waiting for him to do something, to react.

“Rules,” House said finally, stretching, still out of breath. “No pissing your pants with joy over how this proves everything you learned in Psych 101, no following me around and trying to be understanding. It’s just sex.”

Something in Wilson’s chest slowly untwisted. “You know, I never would have realized—“

“Next rule. No half-assed comebacks.”

“You’re awfully bitchy for someone who just got l—“

“I’m thinking maybe this should go on the refrigerator, too.”

“House,” squirming in to sling an arm over his side, pressing the words right up against his lips, “just shut the fuck up.”

House grinned at him. “There ya go.” 

“I mean it; next time there’s going to be a gag.” Humming into the crook of his neck, voice blurred and muffled by nicely heated skin. He didn’t look up to see House’s reaction, but there was no immediate derisive comment. Wilson wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Go get a washcloth or something.”

House just snorted and curled on his side with apparent contentment. One of Wilson’s hands traitorously slid to rest at the small of his back. “Make me.”