I do not own House M.D.

Wilson decided it didn't count as sex if he wasn't enjoying it; it was just a coping strategy, a distraction to keep House off the Vicodin. Something the other man could get high off without popping open the pills. And as long as Sam didn't ask about the bruises, the bites, the scratch marks then maybe he could just pretend it wasn't happening.

Pretend that every time House needed a fix he didn't drag Wilson into the nearest free room and lock the door like a padlock on a cage. Pretend House didn't throw his cane across the room until it clattered against the floor like a premonition. Pretend he didn't shove Wilson up against the nearest surface, didn't call him a cock whore as he fought with the buckle of the oncologist's belt and shoved his pants down.

Maybe he could pretend it didn't fill him with a hot searing pain when House would suddenly wrench him up and enter him without warning. Pretend that blood wouldn't slip down his thighs, pretend he didn't have to bite his lip so hard he could taste iron on his tongue.

That House hadn't pulled the tie round his neck until it nearly choked him, hadn't hissed in his ear to remove his shirt until he was standing there with nothing but his pants around his ankles, while House – jeans just loose enough – was ramming him into the surface in front of him; his large rough hands pulling at Wilson's dick while he bit into his shoulder.

Pretend House wouldn't empty into him, before leaving him humiliated upon the floor as he stalked back out into the corridor with barely a backwards glance. Maybe if Wilson curled up long enough on the floor, maybe if the blood and semen dried before he had the chance to register it, maybe then it had never happened at all.

Maybe if he pretended hard enough it would never happen again.