“I’m not doing it.”

You sat perched on the edge of his desk, fingers resting under your jaw, head tilted in mock innocence. “But you have the kit. And the lidocaine. And I know you’ve done worse things with a catheter needle.”

House squinted at you from across the room, where he was flipping a pen through his fingers like a weapon. “This is what you want from me? Not medical insight. Not diagnostic genius. You want me to mutilate you with a sixteen gauge just so you can feel cute?”

Your grin widened. “I’ve felt cute before. This is about trust. And a little pain kink.”

House froze. Your eyes glittered. He groaned like a man in agony. “I should lose my license for even entertaining this.”

But you didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just kept looking at him with that stupid, coaxing expression you wore whenever you were about to get your way.

He gave in. Of course he did.

He swiped a tray clean with alcohol, tossed gloves on like he was prepping for surgery, and grumbled the entire time. “You’ll probably faint. Then sue me. Then tell Wilson. Then I’ll have to bury you behind Princeton Plainsboro with all the other bodies of poor judgment.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you said, voice warm. “I trust you.” That got him.

“That’s what they all say. Then they cry in my bathroom.” His hands slowed as he cleaned your earlobe with professional precision. You were so close now — his fingers surprisingly gentle, eyes narrowed in concentration as if this was a real procedure and not a favor for a woman he couldn’t stop wanting. You could feel your pulse flutter in your neck. He could too. You knew he could.

“Alright,” he murmured, holding the catheter just right, “don’t move. Or moan.”

“Can’t promise either,” you whispered, and he almost dropped the needle.

You bit your lip as you hear him exhale, as he take the needle between his gloved finger