Dr. Chase (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scaredywombat) wrote2014-12-15 11:35 pm
scaredywombat) wrote2014-12-15 11:35 pm
Entry tags:
Take Me To Church
Chase felt empty, fingers playing with the rim of an empty shotglass as he tried to find an answer to a question that wasn't there to ask. There was no question. He didn't feel that what he'd done was wrong. It didn't mean that he didn't feel like shit about it, that he didn't want someone to forgive him. That was a lie. What he wanted was someone to punish him, someone to make him hurt, to take all the acidic feelings inside of him and take it out on his body, until he could take solace in that, bleed these feelings out of him. Foreman kept telling him to talk to Cameron, and Allison kept trying to tell him that they could get through this together, but Chase knew that she couldn't be what he needed. Not for this.
There had been a time when he'd thought that maybe she was, maybe she could be, and they'd tried it once. His wrists, handcuffed to the bed. It was nothing, as far as Chase was concerned, but he never told her that. Not when even that dissolved into alternating giggles and awkwardness. He never brought it up again, and she never asked why he had a pair of handcuffs. He never brought up how much it meant to him, that when things pulled him too taut, it was the feel of restraints, the pain, the biting words, the feeling of having someone guide him through a scene with a hard touch, and catching him after when he crumbled that made it all make some kind of sense. It was what put him back together.
He knew he was hurting Allison, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't call her, because he had no explanations, nothing to offer that she'd accept. He needed to get drunk because he just... couldn't right now. He was pushing her away because he didn't know what else to do, and he couldn't tell her. She wouldn't understand. He knew her well enough to know that once she'd decided not to kill Dibala that she wouldn't forgive him when he did. He was okay with that. It just meant he couldn't tell her, that this was something that would always be between them.
And so he was here, at a bar, trying to find any other answer. Whiskey wasn't an answer, but it was something. A balm, maybe. It made the hurt feel less sharp. He wasn't drunk, even if he was working on it. He was just tipsy enough to dull the pain, and some of his inhibitions, but sober enough to be coherent.
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He gestures to himself and nods, "I'll have the same," he says to the bartender. Then, it's back to Chase.
"Long enough to know that you're about a shot away from sinning all over whatever salvation you found on your last stop," he says.
He eyes the new drink that the bartender left. He knocks back the shot and then pushes the empty glass away. It's not shitty shot whiskey, but sipping whiskey. Chase isn't just looking to get desperately drunk, he's wasting perfectly good booze on punishing himself. Now, House just looks disapproving.
"You don't just knock back whiskey like this. What are you, some kind of heathen?"
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"Of course I'm a heathen, I am Australian," he quips back, but his heart isn't in it. It's flat, devoid of inflection or humor or even the pleasure he usually takes in batting jibes with the other man. He knocks back half the shot at once, fully willing to sit there and prove House's point.
He intends to let House sit there, until he gets what he came for or actually asks a question that means something, but Chase isn't that patient. He can't look away from him, but his tone is sharp, almost annoyed, but not really, a different emotion to it. "Why are you here?"
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“Now you’re stealing my lines. I’ll just add that to your list of sins,” he says with what can only be described as a sarcastic, condescending half-nod.
Then he’s just watching Chase. Just staring back at him, the same hard, hawkish look on his face that Chase has, stony and staring, like a dare. When Chase asks him why he’s here, he almost smiles. Just a quirk of his lips, and then it’s gone.
“I’m just wondering where we’re going next. We’ve got self-loathing’s greatest hits so far… confession, wasting really good whiskey trying to get wasted… what next? Going to go home and watch the fur trade documentary and torture yourself watching your long distant wombat cousins be turned into coats?”
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"I don't regret the choice that I made, or what I did. If I had to, I'd still do the same thing over again, just better." His voice is soft, raw, alcohol making him a little too honest. He does, however, seem to fold to House's needling about the whiskey that he's drinking and instead of just downing the second half of his shot, this time he sips at it. "That doesn't mean I don't feel anything."
"And there is no next. I stay here until I can't put one foot in front of the other, and then I go home, and Cameron yells at me for not calling, even though that's not actually what she's pissed about." There is deception there. Something he's trying to hide, obscure. He's committed to staying at the bar, but it's not what he wants. There is a next, something that Chase has dismissed, and is doing his best not to think about.
Mired in the pain, there's also temptation.
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House nods once, lip shrug saying he doesn’t buy Chase’s lie, but he’s going with it. Acting like he does while making it clear that he doesn’t.
“Alright, then. Better get going with that before your buzz wears off,” he says, and he reaches over and picks up Chase’s glass and presses the rim against his lower lip and tips it, all but forcing him to drink it. “Sipping never got anybody faced. Drink up.”
It’s not passive aggressive, it’s just plain aggressive. He tips the glass enough that it spills in rivulets down Chase’s chin, spatters over his jacket and soaks a part of the collar of his shirt. The look on House’s face is dark and hard, and he’s pushing like he never has before, pushing into Chase’s space, past his boundaries. Except he has before, just once he’s gotten this close, this far beyond the trench of no-man’s-land that lay between them that he’s crossing enemy lines and making a bid for war. The look in his eyes is hard and dark, challenging, like he’s entitled to this and whatever else he dares lay claim to, like Chase is just undiscovered country and his hand a flag.
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Something changes. It's in his eyes, in his body language, how he holds himself, the way that he looks at House. He's softer, he's not fighting, and he's not hurting. House is aggressive, and Chase doesn't protest. Instead, he's tilting his head, sticking his tongue out to try and catch as much of the liquid as he can, even as it spills down the skin of his throat, soaking into his shirt and dripping from his jacket. They've been here before. Years ago. Just close enough to make it real.
"I- I'm sorry," Chase gasps once he's swallowed, off his tongue before he can think better of it, resist the urge. There's that look in House's eyes and it catches on all of the raw, broken parts of Chase that he's trying to ignore, deny, pretend that this isn't exactly what he needs. That he doesn't need harsh words and getting shoved up against a wall. And more than that. It's a secret that House already knows, and as much as he might have been able to ignore it in concept, he can't when it's House.
Then it hits him what just happened and his body tenses, but he doesn't pull away. He resists the urge to say something because anything he says can only make it worse.
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And this is what's left. Chase is changed, jaded, and yet they're here again. He can see it again in his face, what he saw then, and it's a hell of a lot more interesting than it was before. The first time he'd half chalked it up to all that hero worship, a dumb crush and a brown nosing desire to be whatever was wanted of him. But now? Now he knows him. Now, there are layers peeled away, and he can see that it's so much more than that. It's deep and it's nagging, clawing at him, it's a raw desire to be pushed like this and harder, to be taken past the lines he's drawn almost until it's too much, and then farther.
The bartender is looking at them when House finally puts the glass down. It's empty and his hand is wet with whiskey. He knows, and the expression is all over his face, in the glittering expression in his eyes. He reaches over, reaches inside Chase's leather jacket and wipes his hand dry on his shirt, probably his tie, too. Because the leather wouldn't do any good.
"Not as sorry as you want to be..." it's soft, and it's a push. It's almost a question, almost asking, do you want to take this further? And it's a guess, a quiet bet, a way to say I know what you want, so just ask for it.
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"Yes," he agrees, soft and breathless. And maybe it doesn't quite answer what House said, but it answers the implied question, the way that he's pushing, asking him that question with his eyes. The answer should be no. He should say no for all the reasons that he hadn't scrolled through his cell phone and called one of his old partners, or swung by that club that he liked. Although knowing House had been following him, he's suddenly very glad he didn't. He'd say that House is safer, that with House it's less likely to be sexual, but he's not sure that he believes that.
He swallows, and he slips from his stool at the bar in order to press back into House's personal space. He catches a hand in his shirt, and his hands don't push, but his body, the proximity does. He wants this. He's not sure if it's enough and he swallows, bites his bottom lip softly.
"I want you to hurt me, please," he says softly. It seems important, that he says you, doesn't try to depersonalize it. But doing so makes him feel like he's back against the wall, waiting with a racing heart and parted lips. Waiting for House to lean in and say something ugly.
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He glances down, sees Chase move to stand, press into his space, a hand fisted in his shirt, tugging at the fabric as he pushes into his space and asks. Says what he wants. Says please, and it’s better than a pill dangled in front of his nose. Power is a high, especially when it’s played like this, fast and loose, just this side of dangerous, and the smile that crosses House’s face is just that.
Now he’s gotten him to say it, he wants him to prove it. Wants him not just to admit but to lay that desire bare, make it explicit what exactly he wants.
“Since you asked so nicely…” and it definitely seems like there’s more to that sentence than just that, seems like he’s left a chunk off of the end. The rest of it, what’s left unsaid, that’s in his eyes. The way he looks at Chase is like he’s peeling away the layers of leather and fabric and stripping him bare. And then he grabs hold of Chase’s hand to knock it away from his shirt, but before he lets go, briefly holds his wrist in a tight grip. Once he lets go, he pulls out cash, more than enough to cover both tabs, and then he tucks his wallet away. The look he shoots Chase all but says follow me, and then he takes up his cane and stands, leading the way to the door, and he expects that Chase is going to follow.
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He knows how much House likes solving his puzzles, he knows how much he likes power. But Chase likes giving power away, and he likes that glow that he gets about him, that look in his blue eyes when he sees the pattern, how things fall together. He shouldn't have said please, in an objective, dealing-with-House sense, but he's on the edge of that place where he can't help it. Please is substituted for titles like Sir and Professor, depending on the particular kink.
House smiles, and Chase knows that he's in trouble. But that's what he wants. He wants this dangerous, wants someone who isn't going to lecture him about safe sane and consensual or judge him for him inability to have a safe word. At least like this, tonight, right now. Looking into House's eyes, he thinks the other man already knows that. It's ridiculous, the feeling that surges in him when House says since you asked so nicely. It's ridiculous, because Chase knows there's an invisible clause there.
There's an if or a however; something trailing with contingencies. But Chase can't bring himself to worry too much, not with House's eyes on him, stripping him with the heat of his gaze and he swallows hard, wide-eyed, softer than he's allowed himself to be around House in at least three years, maybe longer. He pulls Chase's hand from his shirt, but briefly tightens his fingers around his wrist like an echo of restraint. He knows, in a vague sort of way, that House covered his tab, but it's hardly a concern.
House doesn't need that look to make Chase follow, but it commands obedience, and Chase likes that. He likes how House seems so easily to step into this, like he knows exactly what Chase is offering and asking, and Chase quietly thinks that maybe he does. It's not like it's much of a stretch.
The autumn night is warm for New Jersey, the days just starting to cool, and it makes how flushed Chase is more obvious. He suspects it's less about the alcohol and more about House. There are a half dozen questions he wants to ask, but he doesn't. He's quiet, soft. This had always been part of who he was, but never the entirety.
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“Hey,” he calls as he approaches, to slow him, stop him from just going around and getting in. “Listen, you can change your mind, but you’ve got to tell me now,” he says. “Because you need to be sure that this is really what you want. If it’s not, I’ll take you home.”
There’s a kind of finality about this that almost seems like this is the moment of safe wording out. House is watching him, neck craned in to make out every shifting expression, every flicker of emotion in the dim street lights. This is how it’ll be if he says yes, too, not the questions and waiting to see if he’ll lie, but just keeping tabs on how close he is to his limits through body language, through all the little things that give him away. It’ll be safe word enough, because House has this sense that Chase isn’t looking to jump with a net beneath to catch him if he really falls, he’s looking for a blind leap, a free fall, one where the only failsafe is trust and entirely out of his own hands.
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There's that finality, something in the tone and the look, and he recognizes it as one of those gateway moments, one of those last breaths where you can still say no, say stop. Chase never does, and this is no exception, except that the question in itself seems strange. He doesn't say anything at first, just walks in closer, until he's pushing into House's personal space. His head tilting slightly, like he's trying to put together some puzzle that doesn't quite fit together. It's a bad habit, and a dumb thing to get caught on, but he wants to know what he's really asking.
"You know the answer to that. You've known that for seven years. You know what I want. You've always known what I wanted." There could be a flicker of something bitter there, but there isn't. If anything it's a little resigned, but also a little breathless. And the answer, he supposes, is obvious, even if it takes a little too long for it to click in his slightly-tipsy head.
You can want something without acting on it. Chase has several reasons to tap out of his own desires, but he isn't that good a person, even if he wants to be. Part of it is that his relationship with Cameron has always been broken. But this... he can't back out. He doesn't even want to try.
"But I need this. If that's what you're asking." He says this instead of you because the later seems both too intimate and almost redundant.
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House isn’t leading him into a goddamn thing. He’s just giving him what he’s asking for, and even offering him an out. An out he’s not taking.
House smiles, slow and almost predatory. Proud. More than a little smug. There’s a nod, agreement. Yes, he knows what Chase wants. He knows this is what he needs.
“Good. Get in the car,” he says with a nod and one last sliding look over Chase’s body as he gets in the driver’s seat and shuts the door.
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House isn't some tempter, isn't taking advantage of him, isn't some devil at the crossroads leading him into temptation. House isn't offering anything Chase isn't choosing for himself. Chase doesn't need a vessel for his guilt. He just needs someone to make him suffer for it. He can't walk away from this. And even if he could have, that moment quickly vanishes in smoke.
It's the way that House smiles, predatory, dangerous, and worst of all, is that flash of pride. Even Wilson harassed him about his need for House's approval, which was how you knew it was bad. And now they're standing by his car, he's asking House to hurt him on the tailend of murdering their patient, and he can almost taste it. There's nothing to say and so he smiles, and there's a sly sort of warmth to it that hasn't been there in weeks.
He gets in the car.
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They're not headed for House's apartment. Chase will know that, since he's been there before on occasion. He might not realize it right away, buzzed as he is, however.
House glances Chase's way as they're approaching a light, and he's waiting to turn onto a busy strip, a main road. By his guess, Chase has had five, maybe six drinks. He may be drunk, but he won't still be when they get back to his apartment. He's definitely under the influence, but he's not incapable of making decisions. If he'd thought he was well and truly impaired, he'd be taking him back to his home rather than to the 24 hour porn store on the boulevard.
The blinker is going, a slow, annoying click, click, click, and still House says nothing. It's not until they're finally pulling in to park beneath the neon sign that lets them know that the back side of the store is a strip club while the front sell porn and sex toys. House leaves the car running, the lights on, but he doesn't unbuckle his seatbelt. Just turns to look over at Chase.
"Go get what you want me to use on you. You've got fifteen minutes."
He glances at the clock. It's just about quarter to ten.
"If you do decide to change you mind after all, call a cab. Don't bother coming back out."
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Chase might not be capable of driving safely, but he is capable of making decisions. He knows what he's doing, even if his head is a little fuzzy around the edges. His gaze looks at the porn store, then at House, waiting on his instructions, knowing there's going to be something. And then it's there, hanging in the air and he nods, getting out of the car and slipping into the store.
It's not long when he comes back out, maybe seven or eight minutes. However, depending on how close attention House is paying to the slim figure, he might notice him slip something from the bag into the pocket of his leather jacket. It's a small motion, easily overlooked, unless you were looking, mostly covered by how he briefly fidgets with the receipt before dropping it into the bag. The bag isn't particularly heavy; he only got a few things, but he expects it to be more than enough.
He's also curious to see just how into this House is. Chase is used to being the kinky one, the one that wants it harder than most people are comfortable giving. He wants to lose control of the situation, and not in a controlled, the scene ends when I say lollipop sort of way. He wonders what House has, if there are things he's already planning to do to him... the thought alone catches his breath.
"I'm not changing my mind," he offers softly as he slides into the car, setting the bag in his lap and it jingles.
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Chase gets in and tells him he’s not changing his mind. He’s sure about this.
“Good to know,” House says, and without missing a beat, reaches over and snatches the bag from Chase and sets it in his lap and opens it, glancing at Chase before he dives in.
“Let’s see what you’re into,” he says, rifling around in the bag, pulling things out unceremoniously. He pulls out the riding crop first, making a face at the chains dangling from the end, and glances at Chase, an eyebrow raising in silent question and amusement. He sets it on Chase’s lap, using him like a shelf, and pulls out the paddle and the grin on his face then is like a goddamn Cheshire cat.
“Nice,” he says, dropping that on top of the crop and digs around more. Tosses the blindfold on top of the paddle with a nod, and then he pulls out the cuffs. The receipt catches under his thumb and briefly, in the dark car, he tries to figure out what the other item was, but it’s an old-school register that doesn’t list items, just prices. Whatever it was was probably $12.95. Not substantial enough to be the price for any of these, but not nothing either. He’s curious. And he’s not impressed with these cuffs. He drops them in the bag and tosses the whole thing back to Chase.
“Those are some shitty cuffs. I can do way better. Buckle up,” he says, and he’s already got the car in reverse.
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So he appreciates that House isn't put off. The look in his eyes didn't say freak, even if he is. Chase shivers and leans a little closer at the way that House lights up when he pulls out the paddle. It's a laquered hard wood, with small holes drilled through to make it hit that much harder. It looks like something that might have hung in a Principal's office back when corporal punishment was still institutionalized.
"They are," Chase agrees about the cuffs, "I wasn't sure what you have." It's a vague explanation as he grabs the seatbelt and clicks it, leaning back in the seat as he rearranges the things back in the bag, holding it in his lap. He's quiet for a few moments, then his awkwardness from the lube in his pocket gets the better of him. Because it's more wrong than Chase can allow himself in moderately full control of himself.
"I'm really just interested in the kink and the pain," he says softly, although his face says that he's lying his pretty blond head off. He also knows it's too late to try and set boundaries, and that if it comes down to what House says and that ideal of commitment he actually believes in, more or less, it's not even a fight. Maybe he doesn't want it to be a boundary.
Just another thing to be broken.
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They drive in silence until Chase feels the need to make it clear what he wants, as if it wasn’t clear enough already. It’s interesting that he’s trying to make it clear that he’s not looking for sex, when House has known since the day they met that that’s exactly what he does want. He’s never thought it was anything more than sex, the desire to be fucked or get on his knees, never thought that Chase wanted anything like a relationship. And if he had, then getting to know him, working with him all this time should have thoroughly knocked the fantasy off the pedestal. Relationships with House weren’t something to pine for. But sex… he understood that. Even if he doesn’t think he’s the most attractive guy, he knows there’s more, there’s a magnetism that draws people in, but it’s the same force that eventually pushes them away.
“Okay,” House responds, as if he’s humoring him and not pushing, which is, he hopes, more annoying than calling him on the lie or acting like he really bought it. It’s almost sincere enough to let fly, really, so if Chase wants to leave it be, it’ll be left be. House thinks he’s lying, but if all he wants tonight is pain, that’s all he’ll get tonight. House won’t push for more than Chase wants, so if what he wants is to be pushed to his limits and beyond, beaten with the things in the bag and tied up, that’s what he’s going to get. Unless he gets an inkling that Chase wants more…
They park at his apartment and he turns off the car.
“Come on,” he says, and he gets out, takes the cane, and starts heading to the door.
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House doesn't push it, which means that Chase doesn't have to bother trying to defend his position. To try and come up with some explanation as to why the kink is less cheating than the sex would be. Offer cheap excuses about how the only path he has to save his marriage is to deal with the fact that he killed Dibala, and that he needs this in order to do that. This isn't altruistic, and he wants House as much as ever, maybe more, and they both know both of these things. Chase knows that, but it's easier to deny as long as House isn't pushing at it.
He slips out of the car, closing the door behind him, the bag in hand as he follows after House.
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“Come on in. Shut the door,” he starts to the bedroom, not wasting any time. He’s not offering Chase a drink because he doesn’t want him more drunk than this. The point isn’t to dull the pain, to drown out how he’s feeling, but to finally let himself embrace it.
“Power’s off, don’t bother with the lights,” Chase knows he’s been living with Wilson. It means the power’s off here and no one’s been in to clean, so there’s a light layer of dust around that in combination with the darkness, gives it an odd, abandoned feeling.
First things first, he opens the curtains, and it brings enough light from the street that the room isn’t pitch black. With their eyes adjusted, it’s good, comfortable actually, if not ideal. House goes to the closet and is rummaging around on a high shelf and brings out a box. He steps to the side holding it, awkward to move without the cane, and sets it on the dresser and then comes back for something else. Another box, smaller, the size to hold CDs. He moves to the dresser with that one, too, and opens it first, pulling out a couple small pillar candles and lights them, setting them in a little cluster on the edge of the dresser.
He takes the lid off the other box and pulls out a couple of neatly coiled and wrapped lengths of rope and turns, tossing them on the foot of the bed that’s uncharacteristically made. Chase barely has a chance to react to the fact that what House had up his sleeve was rope bondage before House announces, “Put the bag on the bed and strip.”
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There's a stillness, a soft chill to House's apartment. No lights, that layer of dust that gives it an almost solemn air, like a church in the middle of the day. Chase stands still and he watches House. He watches him as pulls out a box, and then another. There's a soft smile as he pulls out some candles, lighting them. It gives the place a warm, almost gentle kind of feeling as the candlelight glints off the disturbed dust.
It takes Chase a moment, because for that stretch of time he's still staring at the coiled lengths of rope. Chase has always been good with details, and he can recognize rope, which probably says something about him, but it's nothing they don't both know by this point. It's jute rope. His blue-eyed gaze slips to House, and his look is curiosity that's trying to hide eager excitement, wanton desire.
"Of course you're into Shibari," he comments as he smiles. He puts the bag on the bed and then he starts to shrug out of his clothes, leather jacket, his tie, his shirt, pants, and so on. There's no self-consciousness in it. He holds himself like someone that's been put on display before; it's probably not his first time in ropes.
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“…and you bought shitty pleather cuffs,” he replies with a sly, knowing grin and an almost playful tone. He’s still joking, they’re still them, there’s still this barrier of bullshit and harassment between them. It’s going to fall away soon enough.
House watches him as he moves, as he sets the bag down and starts to strip out of his clothes. His jacket is laid out on the bed, and it’s followed by his tie, his shirt and pants and the rest, and House is watching. He quietly envies the easy way he undresses, completely unselfconscious. Completely comfortable in his skin. And rightly so, he’s just as gorgeous as he’d imagined he’d be beneath his often stylish and always dorky clothes. Pale perfect skin, and long, slender limbs. They haven’t talked about safe words, and they’re not going to. Chase hasn’t brought it up, and House can tell he doesn’t want to. That he needs not to. That the whole allure to this is not being able to escape, of giving everything.
House unbuttons his shirt and tosses it over onto the bed, one sleeve draped over the pile of Chase’s discarded clothes, leaving him in jeans and a pale blue t-shirt as he goes to sit down on the end of the bed. He picks up a length of rope and undoes the end that holds it tied together, and gestures at Chase to come over, stand in front of him. When he doesn’t move quite fast enough, he speaks up, tone curt.
“Come here.”
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He likes how House looks at him, his blue eyes on his pale skin as if House wants to devour him, and he likes that. It's different than Allison, different from how she wants to be adored, to be in control without controlling, and while she regularly strips his clothes fast and insistent, she's never looked at him like this. Never watched his body like he was something valuable, something worth holding on to. It's one of the many little things that Chase has tried not to notice.
And then House takes off his shirt and Chase can't help the way he looks, intent and that flicker of lust in his eyes. House is handsome, even if he doesn't see it in himself, Chase does. He always has. Those blue eyes, the line of his jaw, how he holds himself, the strength in his arms and his chest, how the limp doesn't diminish the weight of his presence. He's not the sun. He's too sharp and too cold, but it doesn't stop Chase from being caught in orbit.
He starts to move at the gesture, but he'd been staring, and it takes him a little too long, until he says it, voice sharp, and Chase moves until he's standing in front of him. His arms at his side, but well within reach for House. His head is slightly bowed, and he hasn't said it, but he's offering him everything. No safe words, and whatever House wants to take from him.
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House is starting the knots before Chase even moves in front of him, making a secure loop for the harness to tie through. He’s working quickly, testing the knot with long, capable fingers as Chase comes to stand in front of him. It’d be easy to reach out and just touch, but that’s not what’s happening yet. He’s not stupid. He doesn’t think this is just about pain and punishment. It’s obvious that Chase wants more from him than that, that he’s wanted to fuck him since they’d met. But this is easier for him. It’s something he can ask for that doesn’t feel like cheating, because in many ways it isn’t, especially if he’s used to frequenting play parties where it’s not uncommon to come and take what you need from someone willing to give it when someone you love is unwilling to even entertain it. If House had to bet, he’d put money on Chase begging for it when he breaks, shaking and desperate and red from the crop and the paddle (and his hands, let’s be honest).
House starts forming the harness, and he’s moving Chase as he needs to in order to do it. He’s bumping his arms as he works the rope around and around, taking him by the elbow to turn him when need be. It’d be easier if his leg wasn’t the way it was, but he’s never had any problem making others pick up his slack. With some of the harness formed, he keeps Chase facing away from him and pulls his arms behind his back, checking as he goes that he’s comfortable. It may be punishment, but he’d like not to actually hurt him, because while he plans to torment everyone with the fact that this happened, he’d like not to need to bring the party to the E.R. Slowly, Chase has to hold his arms in position less and less, and can rely on the tight grip of the ropes as he finishes. There’s a significant amount of this rope left, so he loops it around his midsection and down between his legs like an afterthought, just because he’s got room to, just because he can, until there’s a snug strap three ropes thick between his legs that are held secure in the rope around his middle. Secure, but easy to release if need be.
Like this, he could just push him down over the bed and start, but that’d be too easy. House gives a gentle, almost friendly clap to his ass as he gets up and moves across the room because there’s just so long he can be expected to keep from touching him. When he comes back, it’s with something else he’s pulled from the box, two heavy steel rings. Then he’s sitting down on the bed, taking another length of rope and working to create a strong suspension point that won’t require him to figure out how to reach the ceiling every time he has to anchor a part of Chase to the suspension. Maybe Chase didn’t realize there was any possibility of being suspended, but if he was familiar enough with Shibari to recognize the rope, he’ll know what he’s doing now and look up. And when he does, he’ll see that in the center of his ceiling is a heavy duty hook anchored into a beam in the ceiling.
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