Title: One Night With You
Fandom: House MD
Notes: Written for mmom Day 8. Prompt from photoash. House - kinky submissive fantasy. Thanks to leiascully for some hard-core, much-needed beta. Remaining suckiness is mine. Takes place after ODOR. Comments and concrit welcome.
Warnings: BDSM imagery in a fantasy context. Fluff-free zone.
Summary: House gets in touch with his inner masochist.
He’d lied about his father to help the patient, but in some weird way, he almost wished the story was true. Maybe he would have developed a better tolerance for pain if he’d actually been hit a few times. In reality, Mom had kept the old man from laying a glove on her only son, even when a spanking was probably well-deserved, leaving House singularly unprepared for the daily hell that Stacy and Cuddy had inflicted on him.
He only dragged those grievances out of the closet on especially bad days. Well, this day had been a doozey, thanks to Cuddy’s attempts to help him. He didn’t appreciate having to deal with anyone else’s pain, and the day had been ended up being about nothing else.
All he wanted was a few hours of rock-solid unconsciousness, but his leg had other ideas. House knew his enemy, and he could tell the pain had settled in for a long siege. Not only was the thigh throbbing, radiating sharp needles of pain down his calf and up to his back, but his treacherous mind was in over-drive, creating a Youtube-style montage of low-lights from his fucked up life.
Cue the music and watch the show. Nothing like a good wallow to make a bad day worse.
It was amazing how well his father’s cruelty, barely couched as devotion to honesty, segued into the over-wrought drama of Stacy letting herself be driven away by House’s anger and her own guilt, and if that didn’t make him shitty enough, the trip down memory land culminated in the sorest point of all, the abscessed tooth he’d never be able to leave alone: Wilson.
House thought he’d made peace with the fact that Wilson would always go back to a wife or girlfriend or any stray female he could use to deny what he really was, but the thing with Tritter, the fact that Wilson had even considered testifying against him, that pain was barely starting to scab over. Still, it was only emotional brutality. When it came to hurting House physically, Wilson was a wuss.
Except that one time.
His leg actually twitched at the memory.
And let’s go to the video-tape!
He saw himself walking down a hall with Wilson, as they had so many times, and winced at the knowledge of what was about to happen.
House relived the momentary disorientation as he felt the cane give way and the mixture of shock and humiliation as he found himself on the floor, but also his admiration that Wilson had actually done it. Even though it had hurt both his leg and his pride, at least it hurt differently.
The pain was a given; he just needed it to be different. Apparently, Wilson was the only one who had the balls to give House what he needed.
Despite the amount of pills he had taken, trying to get through the day, House could feel a glimmer of arousal, like the quietest whisper half-heard through the cacophony of agony. He coaxed it out of hiding by reaching under his sweatpants for a few tentative touches, like petting a scared animal. He tried feeding the incipient erection some well-chosen images of Wilson taking off his belt and snapping it emphatically.
That definitely got a reaction.
“You kinky bastard,” House muttered, amused, but not terribly surprised to find this little pocket of deviance in his own subconscious. Over the years, he’d learned to go with what worked.
He let the image of Wilson fill his mind. Instant replay, this time slowed down to focus on Wilson’s eyes, as he doubled the belt and stroked the leather sensuously. House felt his cock hardening further, inching toward his waiting hand.
Yeah, baby. Come to daddy.
He arched upwards, letting out a low moan, while using his other hand to ease the sweatpants over his hips, risking a firmer squeeze, as he imagined himself naked on his stomach, legs spread wide.
He could see Wilson dropping his jacket to the floor, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves, all the better to wield the belt.
“Please,” House said to his imaginary Wilson.
”What? Tell me what you want, House.”
Wilson’s voice. Not his angry voice or the disappointed one, but that voice. The one he hadn’t heard for far too long.
“Please, hurt me.”
Saying the words was hard, but so was his dick and that was far more important. He found the lubricant in the bed-stand, untouched for months, just like him.
“Because you deserve it, don’t you?”
“And you need it?”
Wilson’s lecture voice was starting to creep into his head. House adjusted it to the slightly husky tone that told him Wilson was getting as excited as he was.
Part of him wanted to tell his deranged mind to cut to the chase, but he knew enough about the power of fantasy not to rush things.
Wilson had a hand on House’s buttocks, caressing gently for now, but poised to deliver the punishment House had coming. The belt hung loosely in his other hand.
“You deserve it because you hurt people. “
Of course he hurt people. Payback was a bitch and the whole universe could suffer for all he cared.
“You hurt me.” Wilson’s voice was stern.
Fuck. He’d hurt Wilson. He’d hurt Wilson so many times. Mostly while trying to help him or just keep him from leaving, but still. That was why he needed to be punished; that was why Wilson was the only one who could do it.
“You hurt me,” Wilson repeated, raising his arm and bringing the leather down directly on House’s ass, making him gasp.
House let his head fall backwards on the pillow as he started jerking off in earnest. He closed his eyes tightly, keeping his imagination focused on the sight of the belt hitting his skin, leaving red welts, the burning streaks of pain, and the orgasm that was building, taunting him with its elusiveness. It felt like a case he couldn’t solve. His hand was moving quickly, and he could practically hear Wilson grunting as he continued to punish House with the belt, giving him what he deserved, but there was still something missing.
They both needed to cross a line, and House gave the Wilson in his mind permission to do the unthinkable. He rolled onto his back, as gingerly as he would in reality, exposing himself to the physical manifestation of Wilson’s anger.
Wilson raised the belt high, and slapped the leather along the side of House’s thigh, creating a pain so white hot it eclipsed every other thought, at least until he heard the whispered forbidden words.
“I love you.” The hint of a break in Wilson’s voice told House how much Wilson meant it, or at least believed he did.
“That’s it baby,” House gasped, feeling the dam begin to break.
Wilson dropped the belt and joined House on the bed, holding him tightly as pleasure flooded his body and he shuddered through each tremor of hard-won release. Fantasy and reality blurred for those few precious seconds where the pain couldn’t touch him and Wilson would never leave.
It wouldn’t last.
Even when he didn’t actually feel the pain, he could sense it, hovering, waiting for the pleasure to dissipate so it could regain its rightful place in his life, reminding him that Wilson was still in the hotel and House was alone.
I am not alone, he insisted, refusing to let the pain have the last word before he gave in to hazy, blissful sleep.
He had the two friends who would never let him down: Vicodin and fantasies.
What else did he need?