scaredywombat | Take Me To Church

Entry tags:

house/chase,
s6e5

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 can see that House doesn't buy it, doesn't believe him, but Chase doesn't really care, because he's not planning on going anywhere. He's going to sit here and drink his whiskey until he's waster, and then he'll go home to Cameron's accusing eyes, and he'll watch his life twisting around him and stare blankly. But then House grabs the shot glass away from him and there's a sharp sound of shock that shifts into a brief murmur of protest as House puts it to his lower lip and tips it, forcing him to drink it.

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.

Shock and protest turns soft and pliant and House sees the minute it changes, like a switch being flipped. It's not just giving in, but it's relief, like this is what he wanted, what he'd been waiting for, looking for, and here it is, finally. He's seen this look before but it had never held his interest quite this much. Most people only hold his interest just so long. And it's one thing, it's easy enough to find someone who'll submit, but it's something else entirely to find someone who'll stand up to you as well. Chase is better now that he's got a backbone, now that he'll push back rather than folding at the slightest pressure.

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.

Edited 2014-12-17 06:08 (UTC)

Chase is awkward, his cheeks flushed, because that hadn't been supposed to happen, but it had, and now he's left here standing in the aftermath. He tries to straighten his shoulders and brush it off, because House had already known, hadn't he? That night all those years ago when House had cornered him, tossing sharp, cutting insults and Chase had clutched to them like praise until he'd been back against the wall and House had been too close and he'd pushed too far, and House has always known.

"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.

There’s a thrill he always gets from being right. At this point in his life, everyone around him knows it. Knows that when he unravels a mystery, solves a puzzle, and finally gets it right that there’s a high, a spike of pleasure, something that finally bites into the pain. Here, it’s not really a high. Not yet, anyway. It feels like the promise of a high, like a fresh prescription or a new drug that he hasn’t had a chance to take yet. Chase is blushing, obvious, saying yes, breathless, and he looks so disheveled for so little having been done to him that Chase doesn’t need to ask for House to know he’s right.

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.

Edited 2014-12-17 08:05 (UTC)

Chase knows.

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.

House is parked across the street. He slips a hand into his pocket and the four-ways flash, and he hasn’t looked back to see if Chase is coming or not, because he is. He can hear him walking behind him. He opens the driver’s door and moves to get in but stops, turns to face Chase as he approaches, and leans against the body of the car after tucking his cane down along between the seat and the door.

“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.

House is everything he expected, in all the little ways. The way that he holds himself, that he doesn't look back, the way that he grabbed his wrist, but didn't hold on. They're walking out to the man's car, and Robert still isn't sure if there's a punchline, a moment when House pushes him away with that glitter in his eyes. But then House says hey, grabbing his attention, and the words that come after catch him by surprise, almost awe for a moment.

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.

House sees the moment that Chase switches from just listening to what he’s saying to really digging beneath. It’s when he leans in a little closer, head tipped to the side like he’s an inquisitive, floppy haired puppy trying to work out what language the people speak and figuring it out with alarming precision. He’s right this time, too. House knew. He’d known for a long time. But there’s a difference between wanting and thinking it’s a good idea. A big difference between desire and indulging that desire at the probably cost of a marriage. But then, House also knew that marriage wasn’t going to last anyway. He’d never tried to do anything to break them up because he knew he didn’t need to, and he’s not, here, either. He’s only pushing at the fact that he knows Chase wants to punish himself, and now, now he’s asking if he’s sure. If Chase gets in the car, that’s all on him. Hell, he hadn’t even offered to hurt him. Chase had asked.

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.

House hadn't pulled him into this. Chase couldn't blame this on anyone else. But, it wasn't like he wanted to. He didn't need to blame this on someone. He knew this was his choice. Right now even more than back in the bar. He was just incapable of choosing Cameron over House, if he was honest with himself, which he wasn't always. She'd pushed him away, and Chase had clung on to her in reaction like he was incapable of letting go. The problem was that Cameron was too, and that she held on to him just barely tight enough to keep him from giving up. Chase was blind to the reality, but he felt it, even if he couldn't face it.

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.

Then they're driving.

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."

Chase picks up on the fact that they're not going to House's apartment, and he doesn't question it. It could be a motel, or any number of other explanations. And it doesn't matter where they go, because getting in the car was an acceptance of being willing to play by House's rules. Not that he doesn't always, but there's a commitment in the acceptance. It's an offer of obedience, of desire.

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.

He thinks Chase is coming back, but he can’t be quite sure if the reality of the porn store will jar him out of this. It’s not even ten minutes, and he’s back, and House watches as he walks around the front of the car and approaches the passenger door again. He’s fiddling with something, and House catches the fact that something was tucked into his jacket pocket. Interesting. He makes a mental note to look for that later.

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.

Chase lets House steal the bag from him and just watches House as he opens it and digs through the things he bought. House glances at him, a lifted eyebrow that's questions and curious, but not horrified. There's no trace of too much or too far and that's fairly rare. Because Chase is at heart way past the lines of sane, but he still has an aversion to the ones liable to end him up in pieces in a gutter somewhere. So usually, usually, he deals with people that aren't as kinky as he is. And that's okay.

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.

House doesn’t offer up any details about what he might or might not have. Let Chase wonder.

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.

Edited 2014-12-18 10:11 (UTC)

Objectively, Chase knows that House is aware that he's lying, even if he's trying not to think of how much he's lying. He's trying not to address the fact that he's wanted House since that interview, since whatever that first cruel comment was that made him smile and shiver all at the same time. For seven years he's wanted him, whether it was on his knees, sucking on his cock like he does the candy canes that always end up laying around en mass come Christmastime, or bent over and getting fucked so hard his toes curl and he can't string two words together. He's married now, but none of that has changed.

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.

House leads the way, unlocks the door, goes inside. He hooks his cane on the coat rack and shrugs out of his jacket, hangs it, and takes back the cane. Only then does he give a glance back to Chase, not that he thinks he’s changing his mind at the last minute, but just to see where he is. When he’s in, House gestures to the dark living room.

“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.”

Chase does as he's told, and aside for the energy around him, how he moves, how he holds himself, it's not really too much different. It's like rewinding a few years, back before House fired him and he took the job in surgery. The door shuts behind him, and there's a finality to that, too. But he knew that already. He doesn't want to back out of this.

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.

Chase is staring at the rope and House knows without even asking that Chase knows exactly what it means, knows why House has it, that it’s more than casual, that it’s not just for looping around an adventurous lover’s wrists and tying them to the bed frame. This is one more thing that House has done to excess, obsessed over until he’s almost terrifyingly skilled at it. Chase looks excited by the prospect of what he sees, and House is pleased to see that reaction, both knowing and wanting.

“…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.”

Chase grins at the reproach, and he lifts an eyebrow. "You going to punish me for having terrible taste in restraints?" That's a tease too, of course, because he doesn't. He has more than a few sets, nice ones in leather and velvet and metal, lined and hard leather, some that lock, some that don't. The pleather pieces of crap in the bag had just been for security. Because he needs the restraints, to be held down and captive. And even as sure as he was that House would have something, he needed to make sure.

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.

“No,” he says, because they both know why Chase wants to be punished, and they both know he doesn’t have terrible taste in restraints at all. House doesn’t need to see proof to know that Chase has better stuff at home somewhere, maybe stored away in an attic.

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.

Edited 2014-12-19 06:44 (UTC)

Chase is easy and obedient as House works with the rope, working it into a harness that fits snug against his skin. Not too biting, and not too loose. One of the things that annoys him on occasion is people who tie too loose, admittedly usually out of a sense of concern, but Chase needs to feel it tight. Firm against his skin, being wrapped up and held in the knots that House made. He could feel them through the line. Slow, and then hard, and it keyed him up with this sense of anticipation and then caught his breath all at once.

It was slow, the way that Chase came unraveled. And he did. The more securely the ropes bit into his skin, the more that his walls came down. Chase has always had walls, things he didn't talk about, even when he first started here. This is the only way he knows to let someone take him apart, to be defenseless. He knows it's risky, dangerous around someone like House who always sees too much to begin with, but it's far too late to worry about details like that. Objectively, he knew in the bar that this was a bad decision. He just couldn't help making it.

He lets House move his body as he needs to, and relishes every small touch. Fingertips that pull at his elbow, and the way palms sometimes brush skin as he makes the knots. He can't quite help the murmur when he can just relax into the rope instead of having to hold his hands in place, the knots of the rope taking it instead. His eyes are already dilated, the blues darkening because he wants this. He needs this. He hadn't exaggerated. This was integral to who he was, even if it's been about two years since he's allowed himself to have it, and it shows. His need is a tight, tangible thing.

Chase's breath stutters on his lips as House draws the rope down between his legs, helping to frame the curve of the cheeks of his ass, and then black cord makes a contrast against the blond curls around his cock. Rope attaches to the girdle of rope at his waist, and he shivers, flexes his body a little, just to lean into it a little and then relaxes. It's hard to ignore the fact, but Chase tries, because his cock is already showing interest, despite that spoken insistence that this not be sexual.

But House just claps him on the ass, and Chase doesn't flinch so much as lean into the contact. He hadn't considered it at first, not even when they'd been talking about shibari. He'd assumed he was just looking at ropework, maybe being anchored to the bed while House used the toys he'd bought on his pale ass. He's watching him again, watching as he makes a variation on a classic suspension knot, and he knows. His gaze flicks upward and catches on the hook mounted there. Oh.

There's surprise, but there's also acceptance. This isn't too far, not even approaching it. Chase actually likes shibari suspension, honestly. Skin hooks not so much, but he loves this. Usually there is more than just one person around, and the fact that it's just him and just House gives a different feeling to it, a different energy to the scene. There's a kind of intimacy, a vulnerability. His eyelashes flutter and he looks down toward the floor even as his heart races.

Edited (fucking italics) 2014-12-19 07:56 (UTC)

House watches as he finishes the suspension knot. He sees the moment that Chase sees the hook. He’s surprised, but it’s not too much. There’s not even a flicker of an expression on his face to indicate that this was more than he was okay with. Good. Because he doesn’t want to start outside of his comfort zone, he wants to start inside and push through it. It doesn’t escape him, the way Chase changes with this, the way that he reacts beneath his touch, beneath the drag of the ropes as he tightens the knots. He’s so much less guarded, like the hard walls he’s built all fall away with every passing moment. He’s finishing up the suspension knot, testing the strength of it, and he’s momentarily a little lost watching Chase standing there, half bound in front of him, looking down at the floor.

He stands, takes his cane, and moves around Chase until he’s directly beneath the hook and he loops the metal ring on the derby handle of his cane and stretches it up above his head and lets it catch. Then he takes the handle in hand again, leans as he pulls down hard on the dangling ring to test that it’s solid enough to bear Chase’s weight. When it’s clear that it is, he reaches for Chase, fingers brushing along a patch of bare skin framed in black jute, and he catches hold of the harness and gently tugs. Not forcing him to move, not dragging him, but just urging him to back up wordlessly. He starts tying the harness to the ring. There’s a little slack, enough that when he’s finally completely bound with legs up, he’ll be at about the height of being bent at the waist, just suspended in midair.

“One leg at a time,” House says as he starts looping a new length of rope around one of Chase’s thighs, and once he’s got enough, he rests a hand on his shoulder to help him balance and nods, “Lift your leg.”

When he does, House works it up to that ring, securing it up snug so that it’ll help support his weight when he goes to bind that last leg. He’s so close behind Chase that he can feel the brush of cotton of his t-shirt, the rough denim of his jeans against his skin, and House’s hands are strong and sure, gentle even as he ties him up tight. When he’s up and secure, he starts the loops of rope around the remaining thigh, getting the sling ready to attach up along with the first leg. When he finally urges him to lift that last leg up, he knows it’s a tough moment, a moment of trusting the strength of the knots and the placement of rope, and he’s careful, moves quickly and steadily as he secures him. A few more looping passes of rope between the suspension point and around both thighs ensure he’s comfortable and supported, able to sink down into it and strain against it with equal ease. There’s not much left to finish up, just his feet, and he starts, taking one ankle in his hand and working the rope to tether it up close to his thigh, and the other follows shortly.

Chase watches softly, looking through blond lashes as House uses his cane to put the ring with the suspension knot onto the hook mounted into his ceiling. He watches as he tests the knot, making sure that it will hold. He likes how good House is at this and how careful. Chase likes being hurt, needs to be hurt, but it's not a reckless thing. He wants to be hurt intentionally, not through mistakes or mishaps. He's all for avoiding the ER, and not having to explain this to anyone else. At least not yet.

He shivers at the touch of House's fingers, the way they brush along bare skin framed in the dark color of the ropes that contrast so nicely against his lily-pale skin. House tugs at the ropes that bind his chest and Chase moves softly, backing up obediently. He stands easily, letting the other man wrap rope around his thigh. He tries to not lean into the touch on his shoulder too much, even though he wants to. But he also doesn't want to make tying him up any harder for House.

He lifts his leg, and House runs it through the ring, pulling it up a little higher than he could quite manage to hold in place. There's a soft sound, that's almost a whine and almost a moan at the simple fact of having House's teeshirt brush against his skin as he works. His entire body is like a live wire, he's on edge, aching, even if he's trying not to admit to it. For Chase, bondage has never in his life not been about sex, and his body knows that even if he's trying to convince it otherwise. It's why he bought the lube, not even really thinking about it.

House's hands are gentle, but strong, confidant. It's a rare mix and Chase finds himself craving it. He needs this, needs him, needs this to be more than once, ridiculous and fucked up as the very thought of it is, but this is too good. It's too much of what he needs. And then comes the moment of trust, when House lifts his other leg up, and his weight is on the ropes, on House's knots, and it's the only thing keeping him from the floor. It catches his breath and he shivers, letting House work until he can lean into the ropes and the way they hold him steady, hold him still. The ropes strip down his walls, but it also makes it feel okay. The knots feel like some strange sense of security. House is taking one of his ankles and starting to tie it to his thigh when the words come out, soft and timid and honest--

"Thank you." They haven't even started, and House is already everything he's always needed. He's known that for years, even if he never understood it, really.

“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.”

And he’s right. He’d bet money on it.

The fact that House says your welcome feels important, if for no other reason than the lack of sarcasm or snark or barely-concealed insult. It makes it seem as if House understands why this is so important to him, or at least the fact that it is. And maybe, potentially, that this means something to him more than just an intellectual curiosity, though Chase doesn't hold on to that thought. He nods slightly in quiet thanks for House just accepting what he'd offered.

But in hindsight, it almost seems like a trap. That moment when House paces around him like a predator, then goes for his jacket, and Chase feels like a moron for thinking he could hide it. Rationally, there's nowhere safe he could have put it that House wouldn't have noticed, but that doesn't change how it feels. There's a hint of a whimper of protest, and he squirms against the ropes, his face flushing helplessly pink as House holds up the container. The fact that having House call him not just by his first name, how how he calls him a very bad boy does something utterly horrifying to him, makes his cock twitch. But it's something he tries not to focus on.

House sits on the bed, and Chase looks at him, but his head is slightly bowed, meeting his eyes through his blond eyelashes, a little timid, because he doesn't know where things go from here. House picks up the crop, letting the beaded metal tails drag over his open palm, and Chase shivers, swallowing hard as he watches. There's a quiet threat there, and he likes that. It's a wordless reassurance that he's not going to stop. That fear was obviously illogical, after all, it's not like the lube says anything House hasn't already known for years.

At the accusation that he's going to beg for it, beg House to fuck him, that flush deepens and he leans into the ropes a little, craving that security. "Why? So you can mock me for it?" He says it before he can think better of it and then his head jerks to the side, breaking that gaze. "I don't beg," he adds after a few moments of silence, and there's something odd in how he says it. It's not false bravado, not pushing, trying to get a reaction, trying to get House to push back harder. There's an honesty to it, a revelation that might not be surprising, that Chase doesn't know how to give up control.

As much as he needs this, the pain and the punishment and the humiliation, he has trouble honestly giving up control. In order to get there, he needs to come apart, he needs to break, but no one's ever been willing to take him that far, to where he loses everything, except the trust. Of course, there's an implicit clause in that statement that goes unsaid: for people who aren't you.

Because House has never shied from pushing people past the breaking point before, and Chase doubts he's going to start now. He doesn't believe he's that much better.

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