“You’re welcome,” he says, pausing only briefly as he ties Chase’s ankles up to his bound thighs. He hadn’t really expected a thank you, and he resisted the urge to snark and tell him not to thank him yet, because the fact that he’d said it was interesting. And he gets it.
He hasn’t done this in years, but back when he’d really been into it he’d had a long conversation with someone who liked being bound and they’d described the feeling of comfort and security that comes with being bound. That’s something House can understand, something he can identify with, needing boundaries to feel safe enough to rail against them. Needing some outer limit to your body in space, something to reign you in, to keep you grounded when your feet are off the ground. It’s not something he wants or needs, not like this, but he does need boundaries as much as he hates to admit it. Needs something pushing back to remind him where too far is. He gets that. Maybe there’s more to it than that for Chase, maybe it’s different, deeper, more twisted, but whatever it is, House can feel the way his body relaxes as the ropes grow tighter. He gets the kind of trust that’s there, laying between them, freely given to him.
There may not be safe words here, but that doesn’t mean House won’t know if he’s going too far. He’s known Chase too long and watched him too closely to not know when he’s too far outside his limits, outside his own mind. This is what he’s good at, what he so rarely gets a chance to really flex, is this ability to push and push and push on through and further and only stop just this side of dear God, please no more. It’s a line, or a series of lines, unspoken and nuanced, and there’s an odd hush about this moment before it starts that almost feels sacred.
Then House walks around Chase, leaves him suspended in the air, and walks to the bed and tosses Chase’s shirt and pants aside, going for that leather jacket. He rifles through the pockets, finds his wallet first, his keys, and tosses them to the center of the bed. He’s looking at Chase, eyes dark and interested and trained on those soft, wide pale blues as he fishes through the rest, and that’s when he finds it. He rolls it over in his palm and a glance at the label tells him everything he needs to know. Tells him he was right. Tells him this isn’t just punishment.
“Look what I found,” he brags and holds it up, waggles it at him, as if Chase doesn’t already know. “Looks like you’ve been a very bad boy, Robert…”
He makes a point to use his first name here. This isn’t a relationship, they’re not lovers, but this is intimate and he’s not calling him what he calls him in the office. He walks around the edge of the bed, goes to sit on the end again. Facing Chase. Chase facing him, dangling, very gently swaying from the hook in the ceiling.
He rubs his hand down over his bad thigh, subtle and compulsive, hardly aware he’s doing it, it’s that routine. He tosses the lube down on the bed next to him, and it’ll be in plain view for Chase the whole time.
“You know what I think?” he asks as he reaches for the crop that’s laying back on the bed. He’s running the chains over his bare, open palm, letting the metal clink together softly, feeling the way it drags cool along his skin, a hell of a lot softer like this than it’ll be for Chase. “I think before I’m done, you’re going to be begging me to fuck you. That’s what I think.”
no subject
He hasn’t done this in years, but back when he’d really been into it he’d had a long conversation with someone who liked being bound and they’d described the feeling of comfort and security that comes with being bound. That’s something House can understand, something he can identify with, needing boundaries to feel safe enough to rail against them. Needing some outer limit to your body in space, something to reign you in, to keep you grounded when your feet are off the ground. It’s not something he wants or needs, not like this, but he does need boundaries as much as he hates to admit it. Needs something pushing back to remind him where too far is. He gets that. Maybe there’s more to it than that for Chase, maybe it’s different, deeper, more twisted, but whatever it is, House can feel the way his body relaxes as the ropes grow tighter. He gets the kind of trust that’s there, laying between them, freely given to him.
There may not be safe words here, but that doesn’t mean House won’t know if he’s going too far. He’s known Chase too long and watched him too closely to not know when he’s too far outside his limits, outside his own mind. This is what he’s good at, what he so rarely gets a chance to really flex, is this ability to push and push and push on through and further and only stop just this side of dear God, please no more. It’s a line, or a series of lines, unspoken and nuanced, and there’s an odd hush about this moment before it starts that almost feels sacred.
Then House walks around Chase, leaves him suspended in the air, and walks to the bed and tosses Chase’s shirt and pants aside, going for that leather jacket. He rifles through the pockets, finds his wallet first, his keys, and tosses them to the center of the bed. He’s looking at Chase, eyes dark and interested and trained on those soft, wide pale blues as he fishes through the rest, and that’s when he finds it. He rolls it over in his palm and a glance at the label tells him everything he needs to know. Tells him he was right. Tells him this isn’t just punishment.
“Look what I found,” he brags and holds it up, waggles it at him, as if Chase doesn’t already know. “Looks like you’ve been a very bad boy, Robert…”
He makes a point to use his first name here. This isn’t a relationship, they’re not lovers, but this is intimate and he’s not calling him what he calls him in the office. He walks around the edge of the bed, goes to sit on the end again. Facing Chase. Chase facing him, dangling, very gently swaying from the hook in the ceiling.
He rubs his hand down over his bad thigh, subtle and compulsive, hardly aware he’s doing it, it’s that routine. He tosses the lube down on the bed next to him, and it’ll be in plain view for Chase the whole time.
“You know what I think?” he asks as he reaches for the crop that’s laying back on the bed. He’s running the chains over his bare, open palm, letting the metal clink together softly, feeling the way it drags cool along his skin, a hell of a lot softer like this than it’ll be for Chase. “I think before I’m done, you’re going to be begging me to fuck you. That’s what I think.”
And he’s right. He’d bet money on it.