Archive of Our Own ^beta

House writhes and pants under Wilson's touch, face scrunched up tight with pain.

“You're okay,” Wilson says, voice firm as if willing it into fact. He watches as the glass vase - a gift from House's mother from her last visit a few years ago, when they'd first gotten together - slips a little deeper inside him, his rim stretching wide around the base. “I know how much you can take. Don't you trust me?”

House, with a suddenly terrified expression, nods rapidly, lower lip trembling.

“Yes! I trust you, Wilson, I do,” he chokes out. Wilson marvels at his honesty.

“That's good. I know best, isn't that right?” Another nod. “Then that means if I say you can take it, you're going to take it. Understand?”

The question's a rhetorical. House doesn't get a choice in these sorts of matters anymore, and Wilson has him well-trained enough for him not to disagree anyway.

He pushes the vase a little deeper as a reward, glee trickling through him as House's hole flexes and stretches more to accommodate its width. The glass starts out relatively thinner at the base, maybe at about the diameter of his fist, then widens out into a slightly larger bulb before tapering back down. There's even a rim at the top - perfect for anal use. He's quite sure that House's mother didn't intend for it to be used in this way, but she's unintentionally given him the perfect tool to make House fall apart.

House is breathing hard now, eyes wide and vacant. What a baby. There's only about three inches out of the ten-ish pushed into him - he's not even halfway through. Wilson tells him as such, and laughs cruelly as House's breath shudders and hitches.

“Don't worry,” Wilson purrs, patting his stomach and spider-walking his fingers down to play lightly with his soft cock. “I'll go slow. Plenty of time for you to adjust. Plenty of time for you to feel it.”

A whimper. Wilson smiles.

He drizzles more lube onto the glass - he doesn't actually want to hurt him too badly, because how else would he have his fun? - and presses a little further in. He's enraptured by the way House's back arches and his mouth falls open, gaping wordlessly. He looks like he's not quite sure whether it feels good or not - whether to moan in pain or pleasure.

Wilson presses on regardless. It's a torturously slow slide, wringing the most delicious little whimpers from House's bared throat; he's nearly at the widest part now, about halfway in, when House's spine straightens.

“Stop!” he gasps, voice hoarse and wrecked. “Too big, Wilson, please, you need to stop-”

“No.”

“-please, please, please- Wilson!”

Wilson doesn't stop. He knows how much House's body can handle - he's molded him to his liking over the years. He knows he can take it.

His rim stretches wider, wider still, and as House sobs - a half-choked little thing - Wilson sees pure animal panic flash in his eyes.

House kicks him.

His foot lands solidly on Wilson's cheekbone, knocking his head to the side. He's still wailing as he does it, a string of babbling apologies falling from his lips, but Wilson doesn't care for his pitiful cries - he sees red.

How dare House hurt him? After all he does for him - writes his prescriptions, cooks for him, takes care of him - he goes and does this.

With rage overtaking his senses, Wilson shoves the vase an inch deeper inside him in a quick, cruel jab.

House clenches.

The vase shatters with a sickening pop.

Momentarily stunned, Wilson stares at House's hole, still stretched wide around the sharp edges; the lower half of it seems to be mostly intact, but the upper half is broken beyond recognition.

Oops.

Blood pours from House's rim as Wilson slowly and carefully pulls the broken vase out. He sighs. Luckily, most of the shattered pieces have collected in the still-solid bottom half of the glass, but cleanup is still going to be a pain in the ass (quite literally) - a steady trickle of red leaks from House's gaping hole, and there's still the glint of broken glass inside him.

“Oh, now look what you've done,” he snarls, ignoring the way House is whimpering and mewling pathetically in agony. “If you hadn't moved around so much - if you hadn't kicked me, which I'm absolutely going to punish you for later, by the way - then you would've been fine.”

Cowering in fear, House starts blubbering. More blood pools beneath his abused hole, and Wilson is already fuming about the thought of getting it out of the fabric.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it, I was bad, don't hurt me, please…”

Wilson clicks his tongue. The sight of this formerly proud and arrogant man crying like a baby would've once pulled at his heartstrings. Would've once made him coo and fuss over him, would've filled him with the urge to take care of him. Keep him safe.

Now, though, he feels nothing but sick excitement. How far can he push House before he breaks entirely? How far will he go before House tries to escape him?

And, in turn, just how far will Wilson go to bring him back?