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“How come we never do anything for Valentine’s Day?” Wilson asks, breaking the silence of their sleepy evening in. There are sounds of violence and destruction from the monster truck rally on the TV, but what’s more offensive to the ear is House’s indignant little huff.
“Because you bought me a teddy bear three years ago and I told you why Valentine’s Day is a corporate holiday meant to breed relationship upset and make little fat girls cry.” House doesn’t even look away from the TV when he says it, like this is a conversation he’s already decided he’s going to win. Wilson rolls his eyes and sets down the mug he’s been nursing for the past half hour.
“Right, because nothing says ‘romantic’ like watching cars explode,” he mutters. “You could at least pretend to care about normal relationship stuff.”
“I care deeply,” House replies, scratching at his chin. “About torque. And explosions. And not wasting money on overpriced roses that’ll be dead before the week’s out.”
They stare at each other for a beat. Then Wilson sighs and folds his arms. “You know, sometimes it wouldn’t kill you to do something nice for the sake of it. Flowers, dinner, maybe a card that isn’t sarcastic.”
“Valentine’s isn’t for a week,” House says, ignoring that. “Why do you care now?”
Wilson rubs his forehead. “Thought I’d get a chance to get ahead of it. My bad for forgetting your pathology.”
Rolling his eyes, House gestures between them. “You’re still here. Which means you either love me or you’re a masochist.”
“Maybe both.”
“Then why do you need a holiday to prove it?”
Wilson opens his mouth, ready with another retort, but the look on House’s face, half smug, half genuinely curious, makes him stop. It’s not really about Valentine’s Day anymore, and they both know it. He slumps back on the couch, defeated. “Fine. We don’t have to do anything. Jesus.”
House grins faintly, victorious in that quiet, irritating way of his, but he already knows this conversation isn’t over. How could it be, when he can make Wilson regret ever bringing it up?
House spends most of the week pretending the conversation never happened. He’s unusually well-behaved about it, which should’ve been Wilson’s first clue that something was off. By Thursday, Wilson’s almost forgotten all about Valentine’s Day, until a nurse appears in the doorway of his office, clutching a glossy pink Victoria’s Secret bag large enough to hold something deeply embarrassing.
“Uh, Dr. Wilson? This was just delivered. They said you had to sign for it.”
Every head in the bullpen swivels toward him. He forces a polite smile, signs the slip, and mutters a strangled “thanks” before shutting his office door fast enough to rattle the windows on the other side of the room.
The bag sits there on his desk, aggressively pink. He stares at it like it might explode. Of course, there’s no card, just a folded packing slip tucked under the handles, and the sender’s name printed clearly at the bottom.
Gregory House.
Wilson exhales through his nose, long and slow, then drops into his chair, rubbing his temples. He knows he shouldn’t look. He knows it’s exactly what House wants. But curiosity and, apparently, his masochistic streak win. He peeks inside.
The color drains from his face, then floods back twice as red.
By the time House limps back into his office that afternoon, Wilson’s already waiting for him, jaw tight, hands folded with practiced restraint.
“You sent me lingerie.”
House’s eyes light up. “So it arrived!”
“In my office.”
“Couldn’t have them deliver it to the hospital pharmacy, Wilson. HIPAA violation.”
Wilson leans in, voice low. “You think this is funny?”
House looks pleased with himself. “No, I think it’s festive. You wanted something for Valentine’s Day. I got you something for Valentine’s Day.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“Thank you,” House says, completely sincere as he maneuvers around him to sit down at his desk. “I was worried it wouldn’t fit, but I figured you could model it before returning.”
Wilson groans, shoving a hand through his hair. “We are not doing this here.”
“Oh, so later, then.”
“House…”
House’s smirk widens, all teeth. “That’s not the reaction of a man who doesn’t want to wear it.”
Wilson exhales slowly, counting to three, the way he does when House is being especially insufferable. “You’re deranged,” he says finally. “Completely deranged.”
“Yet still more thoughtful than the average boyfriend,” House points out, twirling his cane. “That’s what they call growth, hon.”
Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose. “You sent lingerie to a department head’s office. Do you realize how many people saw that bag?”
House looks smug. “Enough to make you blush, apparently. Which, incidentally, was the point.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s cute when you pretend to be scandalized. You get all red and righteous and then take it out on me when we get home.”
“It seriously takes away from the end goal if you tell me your plan.”
“That’s what you think,” House says with a grin, spinning slightly in his chair.
Wilson decides this conversation is going nowhere, and leaves. Still, he can’t bring himself to throw away the pink bag. He hides it in his cabinets during patient visits, but during a particularly long lull, he finds himself taking it out and peering into it again. House’s choice is certainly a racy one: the tiniest little lacy red thong (is it crotchless?) paired with a matching bralette with a mesh negligee draping down the bottom.
He even goes so far as to pull it out of the bag, holding it up to the light to take in how sheer it is. And then, because he’s going insane, he holds it over his chest. God damn it, this would totally fit him. It's one thing for House to have bought him lingerie. It's another to have (presumably) measured him in his sleep to get the right size.
The thought makes him kind of tingly.
He spends the rest of the afternoon pretending to work, staring at charts he doesn’t read, signing forms he barely skims. Every time he tries to focus, his brain flashes back to the feel of that silk between his fingers. He’s furious… he should be furious, but mostly he’s just mortified that House somehow managed to get him this off balance.
By the time he gets home, the sky is dark and the roads slick with the remains of February snow. He pulls into their condo’s driveway with a sigh heavy enough to fog the windshield. His coat is still half on when he calls out, voice tight from a long day and longer humiliation.
“House?”
No answer. Of course. He sets down his briefcase, shrugs off his coat, and toes off his shoes, already preparing the speech he’s going to give; something about professionalism and decency and boundaries, though even he doesn’t believe he’ll get through half of it without House derailing it completely. He finds him in the living room, sprawled on the couch with his laptop balanced on his stomach, the picture of smug relaxation.
“You’re home late,” House says without looking up. “Traffic? Or were you too busy accessorizing?”
Wilson’s glare could melt steel. “You sent me lingerie. To my office.”
House sets the laptop aside, expression deceptively mild. “You’re welcome.”
“House, it was humiliating!”
“Really? You didn’t seem humiliated when you were holding it up to yourself.”
Wilson freezes. “What?”
“How do you keep forgetting I can see you through your window?”
“What, you just sit there and stare at me all day?”
House smirks. “Of course I do. You’re infinitely prettier than all the gnarled-up organs I have to look at all day.”
Wilson groans, dragging his hands down his face. “Thanks, babe.”
“Don’t act so horrified,” House pushes himself up, limping closer. “All I did was celebrate a holiday you said we were ignoring.”
“That’s not celebrating, that’s psychological warfare.”
“Semantics.”
Wilson huffs, shoulders slumping. “I swear to God, House, sometimes I think you enjoy making me insane.”
House’s grin softens a little, enough that Wilson almost misses the shift. “Sometimes?”
Wilson exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. You win. We don’t have to do anything. You’ve made your point.”
“Good.” House leans back on his cane, eyes glinting. “But for the record, you’d look great in red.”
Wilson glares at him for a long moment before heading toward the bedroom. “I’m taking a shower.”
“Make sure it’s cold,” House calls after him. “It’ll be hard to put that on with a boner!”
Stilling, Wilson turns on his heel. “I’m not putting it on, House. Please don’t tell me you actually thought I would.” He can feel the flush crawling up his neck again, a hot, prickling wave of mortification and something else, something darker and more thrilling that he desperately tries to ignore.
House just watches him, the smug grin never leaving his face. He leans heavily on his cane, enjoying the power, a king observing his flustered courtier. “I didn’t think you would,” he says, his voice dropping into that low, hypnotic register that always seems to bypass Wilson’s rational mind. “I knew you would. Because you’re curious. And because you’re a good boyfriend who appreciates a thoughtful, if unorthodox, gift.”
“It’s not a gift, it’s a provocation,” Wilson insists, but his voice lacks its earlier heat.
“It’s both. The best things usually are. Go on. The shower’s waiting. Unless you’d like an audience.”
Wilson flees into the bathroom, locking the door with a scared little click. He leans against it, breathing heavily. The mirror shows a man on the edge, his professional composure utterly shattered. He strips off his suit, the fine wool feeling suddenly like a costume he’s been wearing all day. The shower is indeed cold, but it does nothing to quell the restless energy under his skin. His mind won’t stop supplying the image of red lace against his skin.
He can’t help thinking that House is right. There’s an overpowering urge in him to put it on, to see, just get the tiniest little taste of what it would feel like to be dressed up all pretty for him.
Eventually, he steps out of the shower, skin damp and cool, and towels himself off with sharp, efficient movements. He pulls the offensive pink bag from his briefcase, where he’d hidden it like contraband, and upends it on the counter. The lingerie spills out, a whisper-soft heap of scarlet fabric.
He picks up the bralette first. The lace is intricate, delicate. He fumbles with the clasp, his surgeon’s fingers feeling thick and clumsy, but he finally gets it fastened and looks in the mirror.
His breath hitches.
It does fit. Perfectly. The cups are a soft, stretchy mesh that conforms to the firm planes of his chest, the lace edges a stark, feminine contrast against his skin and the slight amount of dark hair that dusts his pectorals. A flush, entirely separate from the shower’s steam, blooms across his cheeks.
Next, the thong. He steps into it, pulling the flimsy scrap of fabric up his legs. The lace band sits low on his hips, and the front panel, which he now confirms is definitely crotchless, is a teasing, open frame. The sensation is alien. The whisper-soft lace against his thighs, the way it outlines and presents him, is… It’s…
He can’t look away from his reflection. The man in the mirror is him, but not… him. The juxtaposition is jarring, and a bolt of pure, undiluted heat flashes through him, straight to his cock, which twitches against the open front of the thong, already beginning to swell. No. No, this is part of the joke. You’re not supposed to…
But his body isn’t listening. The sheer audacity of it, the secret thrill of wearing something so forbidden, so explicitly not for him, is terribly potent. He’s fully hard now, his erection straining against nothing, and he’s achingly aware of the cool air and the soft drag of lace on his sensitive skin with every slight movement.
He’s so lost in the shocking image of himself that he doesn’t hear the telltale tap of House’s cane. The bathroom door opens; he’d forgotten House had picked the lock last week and he’d never gotten around to fixing it.
Wilson whirls around, instinctively crossing one arm over his chest and the other on his crotch, a gesture that is heartbreakingly, beautifully feminine in its modesty.
House freezes in the doorway, his sharp eyes taking in the entire scene in less than a second: the discarded pink bag, Wilson’s horrified expression, and most importantly, the way the red lace looks against his skin, and the unmistakable, eager hardness the garment does nothing to hide.
The smirk on House’s face melts away, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated hunger. His gaze is a physical weight, scalding hot. “Well,” he says, his voice rough and low. “Look at you.”
“House, get out,” Wilson demands, but it comes out as a strangled plea.
House ignores him, limping fully into the room, his eyes never leaving Wilson’s body. “I was wrong. Red’s not your color.” He stops just inches away, his presence overwhelming. “It’s your calling.” He reaches out, not touching Wilson, but tracing the air just above the lace of the bralette. “You like it.”
“I don’t,” Wilson whispers, his voice trembling.
“Liar.” House’s finger finally makes contact, a feather-light stroke over the lace covering his nipple. Wilson jerks as a jolt of pleasure, sharp and electric, arcs through him. His nipple hardens instantly under the touch, pebbling against the intricate pattern. Oh, God.
“See?” House murmurs, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. He does it again, a little firmer this time, circling the nub until Wilson’s breath is coming in short, sharp gasps. “Your body’s a much more reliable narrator than you are.” His other hand comes up, circling Wilson’s wrist and gently pulling his arm away from his chest, exposing him fully. “Stop hiding. Let me see you.”
Wilson feels exposed, vulnerable, and more turned on than he can ever remember being. The clinical bathroom light leaves nothing to the imagination. He’s on display, and the intensity in House’s eyes is not mocking anymore. It’s reverent. Ravenous.
House’s gaze drifts lower, over his stomach, down to the thong. His focus zeroes in on Wilson’s erection, jutting proudly through the open front. A low, appreciative groan rumbles in House’s chest. “And you really like that part.”
He sinks to his knees with a grunt of effort, his bad leg stretching out to the side. The change in altitude is shockingly intimate. Wilson looks down, watching the brilliant, infuriating man he loves kneel at his feet, all because of a scrap of red lace. “Babe… your leg…” he tries feebly, his instinct to worry only taking the wheel long enough to say those three words before House’s hand is on his thigh, thumb painfully close to his erection.
“Shh.” House doesn’t touch him there yet. He just looks, his hot breath ghosting over Wilson’s straining flesh. He hooks a single finger under the lace band at Wilson’s hip, tugging it gently. “Such a pretty little thing,” he whispers, the words vibrating against Wilson’s skin. “All wrapped up for me in a bow.”
The words (pretty? Little? Thing?) should be insulting. Emasculating. Instead, they flood Wilson’s system with a fresh wave of dizzying arousal. He moans, a soft, broken sound, and his hips give an involuntary little thrust.
In response, House finally, finally closes his hand around him. Wilson cries out at the contact, his head falling back. House’s grip is firm, knowing, his thumb swiping over the slick head, spreading the bead of moisture that has gathered there.
“You’re dripping, sweetheart,” House says, his voice thick with want. He leans forward and flicks his tongue, a hot, wet stripe from base to tip.
Wilson’s knees buckle. He braces himself against the sink, a shudder wracking his entire body. Sweetheart. The endearment, so at odds with House’s usual sarcasm, undoes him completely.
“That’s it,” House coaxes, his mouth hovering just inches from Wilson’s throbbing cock. “Let go. Just feel it.” He doesn’t take him in his mouth. Not yet. He just keeps up the agonizingly slow stroking, his eyes fixed on Wilson’s face, watching every flicker of pleasure and shame and surrender.
“House…”
“You want me to stop?” House asks, though his hand never stills.
“No,” Wilson gasps, the word torn from him. “God, no.”
“Tell me what you want then, princess.”
The new name sends another violent thrill through him. His composure is in tatters. “I want… I want you to…”
House raises an eyebrow, waiting, his thumb circling the frenulum with torturous precision.
“I want your mouth,” Wilson begs, the admission leaving him breathless.
A low, approving hum vibrates against him, and then House’s mouth is on him, hot and wet and perfect. Wilson’s head thuds back against the bathroom door with a sharp crack, but he doesn’t feel any pain, just the overwhelming, consuming sensation of that clever, wicked mouth. House doesn’t just take him; he worships him. His tongue swirls around the head, lapping at the slit, before he sinks down, taking him deep in one smooth, practiced motion.
House’s years of whoring around before settling in with Wilson are paying off, to say the least.
Wilson’s vision goes blurry, a strangled whimper tearing from his throat. His fingers scramble for purchase on the sink, his entire body tensing as pleasure, raw and shameful, arcs up his spine. House’s mouth is a slick, tight heat that draws him in and threatens to undo him completely. He can feel the scratch of stubble against his tender inner thighs, a deliciously rough counterpoint to the devastating softness of his lips and tongue.
House works him with a focused intensity, one hand firmly wrapped around the base of Wilson’s cock, the other sliding around to cup his ass, fingers digging into the firm muscle. He pulls back slowly, until just the tip is nestled between his lips, then plunges down again, setting a relentless, decadent rhythm. The obscene, wet sounds fill the small bathroom, a stark contrast to Wilson’s ragged, desperate panting.
“F-fuck, House,” Wilson moans, his hips stuttering, trying to thrust deeper into that incredible warmth. “Right there…”
House’s only response is another deep, throaty groan of approval, the vibration traveling straight through Wilson’s core. He feels owned, consumed, completely at the mercy of the man on his knees. The lace of the bralette feels absurdly delicate against his heaving chest, a constant, tickling reminder of the weird contrast. He’s hard and male in House’s mouth, yet swathed in something soft and feminine, and the dissonance is dizzying in how good it feels.
Just as he feels the pressure in his gut begin to coil into an inevitable knot, House pulls off with a wet, popping sound that makes Wilson whimper in protest. He looks down, dazed, to see House staring up at him, his lips swollen and glistening, his eyes dark with a predatory gleam.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” House murmurs, his voice wrecked. He gives Wilson’s length a firm, possessive stroke. “The night’s young. And this…” He leans forward, nuzzling the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, his breath hot. “This isn’t good enough for how good you look.”
He pushes himself up, groaning with the effort his leg costs him, and captures Wilson’s mouth in a searing kiss. Wilson can taste himself faintly on House’s tongue, and it sends another jolt of pure lust through him. House’s hands are everywhere, sliding over the lace of the bralette, pinching his nipples through the mesh until Wilson is squirming against him, before sliding down to grip his hips.
“Bedroom,” House commands against his lips, his tone leaving no room for argument. He spins Wilson around with surprising strength and gives him a light push toward the door. “Move that pretty little ass for me. Now, princess.” He punctuates it with a little smack to his rear.
The command, the demeaning-yet-thrilling pet name, spurs Wilson into motion. He stumbles out of the bathroom, his bare feet padding on the cool hardwood floor, hyper-aware of the ridiculous, revealing outfit and his own aching need. He hears the familiar taps of House’s cane following close behind him, a relentless, rhythmic promise.
The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp on the nightstand. It feels like a different world, a private arena where the rules of the outside no longer apply. House closes the door behind them with a soft click, the sound final and absolute. He leans his cane against the wall and approaches Wilson, his movements suddenly fluid and silent.
“On the bed,” he says, his voice low. “On your back. I want to see all of you.”
Wilson obeys, sinking into the soft duvet, the red lace a stark, sinful contrast against the pale bedding. He feels utterly exposed, his erection curving up towards his stomach, the open front of the thong doing nothing to hide his desperation. House stands at the foot of the bed, just looking, his gaze a physical caress that feels more intimate than any touch.
“You have no idea how beautiful you look,” House says, the words almost a whisper. He climbs onto the bed, straddling Wilson’s legs, and leans down. But he doesn’t go for his cock. Instead, his hands slide under Wilson’s thighs, pushing his legs up and apart, opening him up completely.
Wilson’s breath hitches, a fresh wave of vulnerability washing over him. House’s thumbs rub soothing circles on the sensitive skin of his inner thighs before sliding higher, to where the lace of the thong bites into his flesh. He hooks his fingers into the delicate fabric.
“This has served its purpose,” House murmurs, and with a slow, deliberate tug, he pulls the thong down Wilson’s legs, tossing it aside. The cool air hits Wilson’s exposed skin, and he feels himself flush from head to toe. He is completely naked now but for the lacy red bralette and negligee, his erection jutting up, and his legs spread obscenely wide.
House’s eyes are locked between his legs, his expression one of rapt fascination. He runs a single, teasing finger from the base of Wilson’s balls, back over his perineum, and then lower, to circle his tight, clenched opening.
Wilson jolts, a shocked gasp escaping him. “House…”
“Shhh,” House soothes, his finger pressing just a little more insistently. “Such a tight, pretty little pussy you have, sweetheart. All clenched up and waiting for me.” The word is a shockwave, absurd and electrifying. It shouldn’t do this to him. But coupled with the possessive look in House’s eyes and the slick pressure of his finger, it makes Wilson’s head spin.
His cock gives a desperate twitch, pre-cum beading anew at the tip. The crude, gendered term, applied to this most intimate part of him, unlocks something deep and submissive inside him. He feels a dizzying sense of surrender, of being remade into whatever House wants him to be in this moment.
House leans down, his mouth replacing his finger, but not on his hole. He takes Wilson’s cock back into his mouth, sucking hard, and Wilson cries out, his back arching off the bed. The dual assault on his senses: the hot, wet suction on his cock and the whispered, filthy praise against his skin, is too much. He’s teetering on the very edge.
Just as he’s about to fall, House pulls off again, breathing heavily. He reaches into the nightstand drawer, the sound of it opening horribly loud, and pulls out a small bottle of lube. The snick of the cap opening is the most erotic sound Wilson has ever heard.
House pours the cool liquid onto his fingers, warming it for a moment before his hand returns to its previous position. This time, his slick finger doesn’t just circle; it presses, and with a gentle, insistent pressure, it begins to push inside.
Wilson’s eyes fly open wide. The intrusion is foreign, a slight burn amid the overwhelming pleasure. He’s usually the one on top, and the few times House has fingered him, he’s usually not dressed like a pinup doll. He gasps, his body tensing for a moment before instinctively relaxing, allowing House in. The sensation is incredible: a deep, filling pressure that seems to amplify every other feeling.
“That’s it, princess,” House whispers, his voice thick with lust as he works his finger deeper, curling it ever so slightly. “Just relax for me. Let me open you up. Let me make you feel so good.”
He leans forward again, his mouth finding Wilson’s, kissing him deeply as his finger continues its slow, rhythmic thrusting. The kiss is desperate, messy, all tongue and teeth and shared breath. Wilson can only moan into it, his body singing with a pleasure so intense it borders on pain. House is everywhere, consuming him, owning him, from the inside out.
He breaks the kiss, dragging his mouth down Wilson’s jaw, his throat, his chest, stomach, before pressing another open-mouthed kiss to Wilson’s cock, his eyes burning with a dark fire. “You’re going to come for me like this, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice barely audible. “With my finger in your sweet little cunt and my mouth on your pretty clit?”
Nodding furiously, Wilson tries to squeak out something affirmative, but before he can even get a single syllable out, House has removed his mouth and hands from his body. He whines, an actual, real, pitiful whimper of loss, thick brows furrowing in frustration.
House just chuckles, a dark, low sound of pure satisfaction. He shifts his weight, his bad leg stretched out beside Wilson’s hip as he finishes slicking himself with lube. The sight is obscene and mesmerizing: his own arousal, thick and flushed, gleaming in the lamplight. “Patience, princess. I need to feel you come around my cock.”
He leans down, bracing one hand by Wilson’s head, his face so close their breath mingles. His other hand guides himself, the blunt, slick head of his cock pressing not against Wilson’s entrance, but against his perineum, rubbing slowly, torturously, up and down. The friction is maddening.
“Please,” Wilson gasps, his hips lifting off the bed, trying to force contact where he needs it most. “House, god, please…”
“Please what, baby girl?” House murmurs, his voice a rough, hypnotic caress. He drags the tip of his cock through the wetness beading at the tip of Wilson’s, a gesture so filthy and possessive it makes Wilson’s toes curl. “Use your words. Tell me what this pretty pussy needs.”
The vulgar term, whispered against his lips, shatters the last of his resistance. “You,” he chokes out, the confession ripped from the deepest, most submissive part of his soul. “Please, fuck me. I need you inside me.”
A predatory grin spreads across House’s face. “That’s my good girl.”
The praise hits him like a physical blow, warming him from the inside out. He feels House’s hand grip his hip, the hold bruising and absolute. The blunt pressure returns, but this time, it’s right where he needs it. House pushes, just the head, and Wilson’s breath seizes in his chest at the sweet, stretching burn.
“So tight,” House groans, his own composure cracking. He holds there for an agonizing moment, letting Wilson feel the exquisite pressure, the fullness, the undeniable intrusion. Then, with a low, guttural sound, he sheathes himself in one slow, relentless thrust.
Wilson’s cry is involuntarily pulled out of him, a raw, broken sound of pure sensation. It’s a stretch that borders on pain, a deep, filling ache that quickly ignites into a blinding pleasure. His eyes roll back, his fingers clawing at the duvet as he’s literally and thoroughly taken.
House doesn’t move for a long moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against Wilson’s, both of them panting harshly. “Christ, Wilson… you feel… fucking perfect. Such a gorgeous body for me to fuck…”
He begins to move, a slow, agonizing drag out until just the tip remains, then a hard, deep push back in. It’s a rhythm designed to madden, to worship, to claim. Each thrust punches a ragged moan from Wilson’s throat. The lace of the bralette scratches deliciously against his oversensitive nipples with every rock of their bodies, the delicate mesh a constant, humiliating reminder of what he’s become.
House’s pace quickens, his thrusts becoming harder, less controlled. The bed creaks in protest. He shifts Wilson’s legs higher, pushing them back towards his chest, opening him up even more, allowing himself to go even deeper. The new angle is devastating, hitting a spot inside him that makes stars burst behind his eyelids.
“Yes! Right there, God, right there-!” Wilson babbles, his voice high and thin, stripped of all dignity.
“You take me so well,” House grunts, his own breathing ragged. His hand slides from Wilson’s hip, skimming over the lace and up his torso to pinch roughly at a nipple through the mesh. The sharp burst of pleasure-pain makes Wilson jolt and clench around him, drawing a ragged groan from House. “Such a greedy little slut for my cock, aren’t you? Dressed up all pretty just to get fucked stupid.”
The degradation is a brand, searing and perfect. Wilson can only nod, his mind blank of everything but the feeling of being filled, owned, unmade. His own cock, trapped between their sweat-slicked stomachs, drools steadily, leaving a slick trail on his skin.
House’s thrusts become erratic, powerful, driving Wilson up the bed with their force. He leans down, his mouth finding Wilson’s ear. “Come on, angel,” he rasps, the words a hot, desperate command. “Be a good girl and come all over my cock. Let me feel you.”
It’s the final trigger. The coil of heat in Wilson’s gut snaps. His orgasm crashes over him with a violence that whites out his vision, a silent scream tearing from his throat as his body convulses. Hot stripes of cum paint his stomach and the red lace still adorning his chest, his inner muscles clamping down on House’s cock in a rhythmic, pulsating vise.
The intense, milking pressure is too much for House. With a final, guttural shout of Wilson’s name, he stills, driving deep as his own release floods into him. Wilson feels the hot pulses, the most intimate claiming of all, and a secondary, weaker shudder wracks his spent body.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of their harsh, ragged breathing. House collapses on top of him, his full weight a comforting, possessive blanket. Wilson wraps his arms around him, holding on as if to a lifeline, his face buried in the sweat-damp crook of House’s neck.
House shifts slightly, and Wilson winces at the sensation of him softening, slipping out. He feels impossibly empty, but then House’s fingers drag up his inner thighs and fucking push his cum back in. He doesn’t waste it, doesn’t let it run down Wilson’s legs and stain the sheets. He makes sure that it stays where it belongs: inside Wilson's fucked-out pussy.
“Holy… shit,” he whispers into House’s skin, who chuckles in response before wiping his fingers on the already soiled negligee.
“Definitely can’t return this now,” he sighs, landing an aimless kiss somewhere in Wilson’s hair.
“I think I’m okay with that.”