𝓖regory house ੭୧ fem! reader ┇ p in v ⋆ dėgradation ⋆ prone bone ⋆ spānking
GREGORY HOUSE was the worst part of your sex life.
Because he was also the best.
He fucked like he argued, all sharp edges and ruthless timing, always a step ahead and never kind enough to warn you. Cruelty came easy to him because of this, honed on the whetstone of your need, wielded with the same finesse as his cane. And right now, that very cruelty had you reduced to a mess of limbs, utterly soft and cock-dumb beneath him.
“God, you’re loud,” House muttered near your ear, his weight branded down along your spine as he hammered into your sweet cunt, prone boning you like a metronome with a vendetta. His fingers snarled stiff in your hair, knuckles grinding against your scalp as he shoved your cheek down into the rumpled sheets. “Bet your neighbors think I’m carving you open with a steak knife. Or auditioning for CSI: Bedframe Homicide.”
You didn’t even get the whole sentence out.
“F-Fuck off! I’m not—”
He cut you off with a thrust so violent it jarred straight through your bones and rattled the headboard. All air and pride stolen clean out your lungs, driving you flat into the mattress with merciless precision.
“Not what?” House drawled from above you, breath scorching the nape of your neck, every syllable a lash. “Not an attention-starved cumslut who gets wet the second I treat her like trash?”
“Please, you came the first time I called you a waste of potential.”
He punctuated his words by sheathing himself balls-deep into your weeping sex, forcing you to feel the sheer, staggering girth of his fat cock twitching inside you. You writhed beneath him. The heat it sparked between your legs splintered sharp and low, a throb that seemed to beat in time under the brutal onslaught of his pelvis meeting your rear. After all, House never moved fast when he could move mean.
The bed creaked, springs whining in protest as he pinned you down with a hand braced between shoulder blades. The hypnotic plap-plap-plap of his hips colliding with your plush ass bounced off the walls, melding into a chorus of your pretty mewls and his animalistic grunts.
Fuck. You hated how your pussy was drooling nonstop for this limp, spiteful son-of-a-bitch.
You gritted your teeth, fighting for some semblance of pride, even with your face smashed into his pillow. It was threadbare, scratchy, reeking of cheap aftershave and whatever brand of arrogance he sprayed on just to offend people in elevators.
“Agh! You’re such a fucking—-”
“Amazing lay? Genius? Local humanitarian?” He cut in, again—so fast it made your blood boil. There was that familiar curl of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth as he quickened his pace, practically bullying your brain through your cunt at this point. “Come oooon. Say it. You’ve never had trouble using that mouth before.”
And there goes your traitorous insides twisting tight around his cock. Pathetic.
Whatever snark you’d been choking out died somewhere in your throat once he yanked you back onto him, the grip on your waist bruising as he rutted into you faster on a series of vicious snaps and grinds, like a greedy mutt claiming something he didn’t plan on giving back—hellbent on teaching your gummy walls exactly what shape they were supposed to take around him whether you liked it or not.
“Because from where I’m standing—”
Thrust. Your body jerked, sweat sliding down the valley of your back.
“You’re dripping on my sheets—”
Thrust.
“And still trying to argue like you’ve got a leg to stand on.” House leaned in, his tone silk-wrapped blade. “Newsflash: you gave up that moral high ground as soon as you started creaming on a misanthropic drug addict.”
Your fingers curled in the tangle of sheets, knuckles bone-white. God he was insufferable, yet you still rocked helplessly to his rhythm while his cockhead battered that hypersensitive knot in you to a raw pulp again. And again. And again.
Why? Because deep down, House was right. Obnoxiously, inhumanly, always-so-goddamn-right. And worse—he knew you knew it too.
“Look at you,” he chuckled, blue eyes darkening as they drag over where you were joined. Slick shine glistened along the veiny base of his shaft, your arousal clinging in obscene webs every time he pulled back. Smug didn’t even begin to cover what he felt. “Squirming like I just dug up your favorite trauma and fucked it into a coping mechanism.” He smirked, lips ghosting down the arc of your clavicle, the scrape of stubble pricking at your skin.
“Lemme guess, daddy didn’t call you a good girl either?”
You choked on a sound—half sob, half moan, your frame wracked with white-hot sensation, caught between shame and delirious want.
“House—”
“Mmm, there it is,” he crooned mockingly, teeth grazing your pulse point. “That’s the real you, huh? Not the mouthy brat—this one. The one that only comes out when she’s pinned under a miserable bastard with a limp and zero respect for her boundaries.”
He let up just long enough to deliver a smack across your ass—hot, piercing, a crack that lit your flesh on fire—before he rammed back in, fucking you down hard into the mattress, dick jabbing so deep you swore he rearranged something vital.
“Mmmf—- ohmygod!! F-Fuck!” You cried out.
“Keep selling that ice queen act to idiots who buy it,” he rasped, voice laced with a razor-edged venom. “But judging by the mess you’re making on my cock? I know exactly what gets you off.”
His thumbs dug back harder right below the tender spot of your ribcage—almost punitively—enough to leave crescent evidence blooming there and make you wince. It only made the ache worse. Your cunt stretched taut around him, pleasure ricocheting through your core until it felt like your whole body was tuned to the point of shattering.
“And lucky for you, I’ve got the bedside manner of a goddamn saint.”
