Chase is so out of his mind it’s hard to imagine that he’s the same man at all, sweater vests and expertly clashing patterned shirts and ties under his neat, white lab coat. He’s like an animal, some wild thing practically beyond language, aware of nothing outside of what’s happening right now, like nothing at all exists outside his body and what he feels. That experience is something that House has chased, but not like this, not the way that Chase finds it. He’s looked for his highs self-destructively, with drugs. There’s a rush he gets with this, being on this side of the ropes and the toys, and while it’s not the same as the one Chase is caught up in, it’s good nonetheless. It moves the ache from his thigh to his arm, across his chest, down his torso, all those muscles you don’t realize go into that swinging motion until after. This gives him something else to focus on, gives him Chase, a puzzle in his own right, to take apart. And here he is, an unraveled mess, desperately trying to squirm in such a way as to increase the contact between them, hips against hands and then greedily and fruitlessly trying to get more of that slick finger.

He’s rocking back, managing just a little bit, but he’s making no real headway— and then suddenly he’s begging again, desperate and on edge. He sounds like he’s inches from breaking away, maybe still broken and only just managed to string together enough words to get what he needs across. But the bottom line is that Chase is out of his mind. Regardless of what he wants, he’s too out of it to make that kind of a decision safely. Hell, the fact that House actually considers it for a second is a bad sign, but he’s still able to think rationally. Chase is so damn tight and god knows how long it’s been since he’s been fucked, and especially as much as he’d worked him over, he needs more than one finger slipped inside him for ten seconds to prepare him.

“You can wait. Behave,” and he swats his ass with his free hand, lightly, because he knows it’ll feel anything but light now. When he calms enough, he fucks him with that finger, slow and deep, and while he’s taking his time and making sure he’s ready for the next finger, he’s maybe still pushing a little faster than he should. When he tries to press a second finger into him, he’s way too tight for it, so he just switches, middle finger instead, a little thicker, a little longer.

“Relax or you’re not getting fucked tonight,” he warns, voice a stern mix of threatening and aroused. Then, slowly, he manages to press a second finger inside him, and he opens him up slowly. Just moves them at first, shallow and then deeper, then scissors them slowly, trying to gauge if he’s ready for a third. This is agony for him, too. He’s so hard and having Chase all tied up and at his mercy is overwhelmingly erotic, and it’d be so damn easy to just take him now. He’s even asking for it. But he needs to know he’s ready for it. It’s a long time before he tries for three, and when he does he manages it, going slow, pressing in, easing him open just that little bit more.

“Shh… you’re doing so well,” he says now, voice completely changed. Soft and encouraging, because Chase is being good.