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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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.

It’s interesting to watch Chase watching him. It’s clear that this isn’t the first time he’s been in this situation by the way he’d unblinkingly walked into it, but at the same time it doesn’t seem like it’s been recent. The fact that he’s here at all tells him that this isn’t something that Cameron’s into, and House could have told Chase that before the two of them had ever slept together. She may seem like she’s the type on the surface, in control and often controlling, but that’s not what she’s looking for. House wonders how long it’s really been since Chase had this, since he was able to find someone to give him this. Not since Cameron, because if he had, he’d have sought there first, just pushed House away after the whiskey stunt and gone to find that familiar person. Maybe. Unless the prospect of House being perhaps willing to step in and hurt him was more of a draw than tracking down someone he’d been with before. Both are interesting. The former says that for whatever reason, he hasn’t gone looking for this, maybe tried to tell himself he didn’t need it. The latter said that he was right, that Chase wanted him, and that would mean it was more than likely he would beg to be fucked.

Hell, it doesn’t even hinge on just that. To look at Chase is to know that he wants him. House watches him when he speaks, and when he said his name, called him a bad boy, he’d given himself away with something that would be subtle to anyone else. A slight dilation of his eyes and a startled upward gaze like he wondered if he’d been caught, wondered if House saw. For some people, this can be completely separate from sex, but House knows that it’s sexual for Chase. He can see it as much as he can feel it in the air around Chase, in the way he shivers to watch him let the chains caress his palms, and he’d felt it too in how he reacted to House’s still clothed body pressed against him as he tied him tight.

“-yet,” he adds without much pause. He doesn’t beg - yet. But he will. Maybe not to be fucked - maybe House is wrong (though he thinks he’s not) - but even if he is, he’ll still beg him to stop or beg him for more.

House stands, then, and he leaves the cane leaning against the foot of the bed, and moves over to Chase, around behind him. He could easily just turn him, move him how he’d like him, but he wants him to have a view of the bed and the lube sitting there, inches from the paddle and his strewn clothes. Wants him thinking about what’s yet to come. Thinking about the fact that House knows he’d purchased lube for tonight when he’d been sent in with the specific instruction to buy things for House to use on him.

House grabs the rope above Chase’s hips and holds tight to stop the slight, subtle swaying caused by how he keeps testing the ropes, and when he’s motionless again, he lets go. Then his hand moves over Chase’s ass without warning, right hand over the left cheek and he rubs slow and obscenely towards that rope that’s snug between his cheeks, drags a fingertip up alongside it just because he can. Because there’s no way he’s being given this opportunity and not going to grope him thoroughly. And then he spanks him, bare handed. It’s not too hard, but it’s not gentle either. He layers blows over both cheeks, back and forth, because Chase may have bought him toys to use but he’d never said that was all he wanted. And this isn’t all about him, either. This is about punishment, it’s about pushing him, making it hurt, making him feel it.

Then he stops, and there’s a cool, shivery sensation as the chains just caress over his bare ass, warm from the introductory working over he’d just had. He’s teasing him. And then that first strike comes to one cheek, and then the other, back and forth. He starts relatively light, but he’s quickly beginning to land it harder.

Chase always gives himself away when it comes to House. It's not a new phenomenon, just perhaps more telling like this than it had been before. He's less guarded, less able to pretend, to lie with his reactions. And House knows it, and Chase knows he's more than willing to take advantage of it. He says it, that one single word, that's like a threat or a promise. That House will make him beg. Chase doesn't bother denying it, and he's not sure if it's because he believes him, or because he doesn't.

He knows it's intentional, how House walks around him, keeping Chase's field of vision on the bed. His strewn clothes, the paddle, that bottle of lube. House had told him to buy things he wanted used on him, and the implication there is painfully clear. It's not even inaccurate, and they both know it, because they both know exactly how long Chase has wanted House. There's no point in denying that he wants him, because he does, the question is just whether that means more than his desire to hold on to that ideal of devotion. Was it even really a question?

House's hand moves over his ass, and he can't resist leaning into it, just a little. Having his hands on him, groping him, touching, heats his skin and teeth bite softly at his full bottom lip. He wants this, and for all his fear that there's a punchline in here somewhere, House seems to want him, and he doesn't know how to act like that doesn't matter, because it means more than anything. Chase makes an undignified noise as House's fingers drag along the rope that's between his cheeks, and his voice is just barely this side of wrecked.

Then House's hand impacts against his ass, and he gasps, sharp, vocal. He's not quiet as the other man layers the strikes against both cheeks, but he figures that if House had wanted him to be, he would have gagged him. It's fairly clear that he has the means to do so. Chase's pale skin shows color very well, pinking with each strike of his hand. It's not too hard, but not gentle. Even, firm, and his body jolts a little at each strike.

His breath comes fast and rough when he stops, and Chase whines softly at the way the cool metal of those chains feel against the heat of his ass. Not yet red, but a nice deep pink, and he can't help squirming a little at the contrast of heat and chill. And then House hits him with it. Those thin chains are wicked, and even with House starting out light, they sting, starting to leave welts as the impacts come harder, and Chase makes inarticulate noises, somewhere between pain and pleasure as he trembles in the confines of the ropes.

Watching Chase move beneath his hands is addictive. It’s actually distracting. He’s still thinking of the way he’d moved when he was groping his ass, the way he leaned into it, straining against the ropes to get more. And that sound he’d made as he rubbed down between his cheeks… he’d been half tempted to lord that over him, talk about ’and you say you won’t beg?’ But he hadn’t been sure he could find the voice to do so. So he stays silent.

Chase’s ass had been warm beneath his hand when he stopped, when he switched over to the crop. He knows it’s different, knows it’s not the hard, jarring slap of a hand or the harder blow of a paddle, but it’ll sting. Sharp and biting as he amps it up from light to harder, hard enough that he can see he’s beginning to leave welts. He’s careful and he has good aim, so they’re scattered. Evenly distributed across the deep pink of his ass. Here and there, the chains skim low enough that House can tell that he’s going to have a hell of a time sitting tomorrow. He’s trembling and he’s loud and it sounds like it hurts, but it’s definitely on the good side of pain, nothing alarming, nothing that is remotely telling House he should stop. So he doesn’t. He just keeps on going, varying the intensity and the timing until finally he stops and there are a few long seconds of nothing. Then, he trails those metal chains along the top of those striped pink cheeks, letting the tips of them trail up towards the small of his back. Then he stops. There’s nothing for a moment.

Then House is walking to the bed, tosses the crop down on the bed near the lube and picks the paddle up and turns, and if Chase is looking up as he approaches, he’ll see that House is unmistakably hard in his jeans. Watching Chase take everything he’s given him so far is turning him on, but this isn’t about him. It’s about Chase, it’s about pushing him as far as he needs to be pushed. That doesn’t mean he can’t get off on doing it.

The first blow comes without warning, and it’s hard and jarring. Everything up until now has been a warm-up, that’s clear now. The holes in the paddle mean it hits harder, hurts more, and it’s leaving circular marks on his ass. He varies how it hits, where it lands, and how hard. Sometimes it’s not so hard. Sometimes there’s a pause, so that Chase doesn’t quite know when it’s coming. Sometimes it’s harder, louder, shocking in the still quiet of the room. House is breathing harder now, audible, and if you’re listening close enough, you might be able to pick out the fact that he’s aroused. This isn’t easy, it’s taking a lot out of him. His arm is getting tired, but he doesn’t want to stop because he can tell they’re getting close, from the sounds that Chase is making and how he’s moving, squirming in the bonds like he is. They’re getting closer to that boundary of too much, and he’s going to carry him through.

As hard as this is, House is still careful, and Chase appreciates that. It's not in that frustrating way, but simply making sure he doesn't push him too hard too fast, that the crop doesn't break skin by layering welts on welts. Chase isn't against bloodplay, but he doesn't think that's what House is angling for here, right now. It hurts, stings, burns livid on his skin, but it's not remotely too far, enough, to the point where he wants House to stop, even just on the surface. His breath comes as half of a sob when House finally stops, and the stillness leaves him shaking, and then he does sob, voice rough and wrecked as he trails the tips of those chains up over the curve of his ass to the small of his back. His ass is burning hot and the chains still feel cool and he can't help the noises that slip from his mouth.

Chase might not beg, but he's incredibly reactive, although that fact likely doesn't surprise House. The blond's blue eyes are glassy, not quite to the point of tears, but House is pressing him hard, pushing him toward the breaking point, and Chase needs that. He watches him as he moved to the bed, setting the crop down and picking up the paddle and he can't help the way that his eyes linger on that bottle of lube and he wants it. He wants it more when House walks back toward him, and he can see that he's hard, and that fact makes his body jerk, wanton.

Then the paddle hits his ass and he cries out, sharp and loud at the impact, as it hits hard, lighting up the welts that the crop left scattered over his skin. It hits hard, leaving splotchy marks on his skin from the holes. House keeps the paddle moving, inconstant, varying both the force of it and where it lands, the pace, so that sometimes Chase almost thinks he's done only to have the paddle hit harder than before and steal another cry from his mouth. He can hear the arousal in his breath, and Chase is losing his grip, he's crumbling.

He's at that point where he wants it to stop, but he needs it not to, the point where everyone else gives up. He's at the limit, his ass a bright red, marked with welts and those speckled dots of lighter color. He's squirming, and Chase wont say stop, wont ask, but it's there in his body language as much as his arousal is. His cock is hard and aching, but thankfully the position holds it safe from the abuse of his ass. His face is damp, eyelashes wet as he shakes, the noises he makes almost incoherent. He's fraying, breaking, and it's terrifying, because he's never been pushed hard enough to where he can't hold on, where he comes apart.

He's not begging yet, but he wants to, he's close, so close. Pleas on the tip of his tongue.

He can’t see his face except sometimes, barely, hidden beneath the mop of hair and not quite at the right angle, but body language tells him a hell of a lot. He’s moving, body jerking and squirming like nerves are firing erratically, and then when he gets into it, when he’s layering that deep pink spotted with welts to a bright angry, uneven red, Chase seems to be made of motion. He’s breathing hard but the sounds beneath his breath still have arousal, and that’s impossibly erotic. As he goes, hard, harder, back and forth, he can hear pain and pleasure from Chase. He can feel that it’s too much, that he wants it to be over, that he’s right at that point where if House stopped, there’d be a sense of relief. But House also knows, somehow, that if he stopped, there’d also be a sense of loss. Like he’d stopped short, like he was almost there and didn’t follow through, like an almost-orgasm interrupted. He can tell that Chase is crying, see that he’s shaking, and he’s so damned incoherent that it’s getting close to dangerous. He’s tuned to the sounds he’s making, listening for something to tell him that it’s too much, definitely too much, stop now, but he’s not there yet. He’s shaking like he’s going to come apart, on every hard breath, almost sounding like he’s going to open his mouth and say something, open his mouth and beg.

But he’s not there yet. He’s close, so close, but not there yet.

So House continues. The hard crack of the paddle on his skin is painful to hear, and his ass is red and mottled from the holes in the paddle, from the chains on the crop, an odd, beautiful pattern that he’d created. His arm is burning, but he’s not stopping, not until it’s enough. Not until he’s brought Chase through to where he needs to be. Not until he begs.

House pushes him further, takes him past his limits, and Chase breaks, because there's nothing else he can do. He can't move, can't pull away, and House isn't stopping, and there's a sob that's almost a scream, rough against his throat and tears are hot and wet on his cheeks and he's whimpering, until noise shifts into words. A litany of pleasepleaseplease. Everything crumbles and he doesn't know up from down, doesn't know anything except for that fundamental truth that he needs House. He always has, even if he's tried to deny it for years now, ever since that one time where it seemed like House pushed him to it just to know, didn't really care, didn't really want him, and that hurt more than he's ever admitted to.

But that doesn't matter anymore. Nothing else matters anymore, except that House is so close he can hear his breath, feel him in that electricity of proximity and he's shaking in the binding of the ropes. It feels, ridiculously, as if House's knots are all that's holding him together. As if without them he'd literally fall apart in pieces. He's raw and broken and honest in a way that he's never been because no one's ever taken him this far before.

"Please, Greg, please.." His voice a whimper, and broken as he is, he still remembers to use his first name. Something that the other man set as a precedent, and names and titles are too important in scenes and it sticks in his head somewhere, even though thinking feels like it's beyond him. "I need you, need you to fuck me, please, I--" He's babbling, incoherent, begging because he needs this, he always has and there's a whimper in how his breath catches.

"Please."

House just waits because he knows he’ll know. He’s never been here with Chase, but he’ll still know it when he sees it, when he’s finally beyond what he can take. And then he’s there, and that near-scream of a sob tears at something primal inside House and he groans before he can stop himself from making an answering sound. He doesn’t stop yet, but they’re not as hard through the whimpering, through the first few babbled repetitions of please. That’s where he stops, where his arm falls to his side, the paddle pressed along his bad thigh and he just stands. Just stares. Just drinks Chase in as he shakes and sobs and babbles, broken and gone, floating, tied only to that point on the ceiling.

He watches so closely because he wants to know how it feels. Wants to learn it from the outside because there’s no way he’ll ever learn from within. It’s not his thing, not something he wants to try, not somewhere he can go. He doesn’t get off on pain and never will, but it’s still a place that’s fascinating and so he watches as Chase shakes and whimpers, and finally, begs. When Chase says Greg, there’s a dull thud as the paddle falls to the floor, out of his hand. Maybe he hadn’t expected Chase to use his first name. Maybe it’s just hotter than he’d imagine it’d be. Maybe a bit of both, but when he starts begging to be fucked there’s none of the typical House-gloating.

There’s just a low, guttural sound, a hard groan that sounds like longing. More than desire, more than lust, longing, like he just absolutely aches and has wanted this longer than the last fifteen minutes that he stood here, hard in his jeans, turning Chase’s ass red with his hand, a crop and a paddle.

Hands move over Chase’s hips, away from that angry red skin, and catch along the slipknot that keeps the ropes between his legs tucked into the girdle, and he’s working it undone, now while he’s got free hands to do so. He can’t help himself, can’t resist the indulgent press forward as he easily slips the few ropes undone, his denim-clad hips pressed against Chase’s hot, bare ass. Then he’s gone, tears himself away, because just standing there will do neither of them any good. He’s walking stiffly, not just because of his leg and the strain he’d put on his whole body in beating Chase, but also because he’s so damn hard. He picks up the lube and comes back, shaking hand peeling away the plastic wrapper, and there’s a damp spot at the bulge of his jeans that gives away just how fucking much he’d wanted this.

He unzips himself first, because he has to. Because it hurts not to, and it’ll be easier to now rather than waiting. The only part of Chase’s ass that’s not red are the parts between his cheeks, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt as his fingers slip down between them, slick and cool and rubbing against his entrance. It’s going to be tight, between the position that Chase is in and how sore his ass is, but he’s aware of it, and he’s careful. Not careful enough to even remotely remember to find a condom, but careful enough that he’s slowly easing one finger inside him, slow and steady and gentle.

There's that thud as the paddle hits the floor, hard and heavy, and it feels like some sort of punctuation, even if Chase isn't coherent enough to figure out about what. Hearing House groan like that though, low and rough and it hits him hard, makes him whine because as those pleas trail off, saying anything at all gets harder. Words take focus, and Chase can't really focus on anything that isn't how he feels. Maybe it's selfish, but House's hands are on his hips and that's all that he can think about.

Fingers are no longer touching over his red, abused ass, and instead they're on his hips. He wants to lean back into it more than he can, but the ropes have hardly any give. Which is good for suspension and bad for trying to get more of that touch on his skin. But, those fingers don't stay there long, instead working that length of rope that went between his legs, along the cleft of his ass free, and it makes him shake. His body trembling with want, anticipation, raw need. He needs this. He always has, but now it's open and obvious and undeniable, even for Chase. There's a soft cry as House presses in, pushing the rough denim of his hips against his heated ass, abusing raw nerves, but he can feel his erection and he moans softly, although it shifts into protest when House pulls away.

He can see how hard he is, see how he grabs the lube, and it might be important, but Chase is too out of his mind with everything. He needs it now, and now isn't coming soon enough. He can hear the zipper as its pulled down and it's like a promise, reassurance that House will give him what his body is aching for. He's never been this far gone before, and it's both freeing and humiliating all at once, except that Chase has never really cared too much about the later. He winces, unable to help the reaction, as House slips slick fingers between the cheeks of his ass, and he cries out as they brush against his entrance.

House is sinking a finger in, and it's slick and easy and good, but it's also not enough. He whines, trying to get House to give him more, because he can't move enough to do it himself, still held entirely at House's mercy by the ropes. There's no freedom to shift back and rock his hips. He's trying, but the motion is shallow and doesn't accomplish much. It's good, at least a little bit of a balm, but he wants more.

"Just fuck me, please Greg, I can't--" He's raw, needy, there's no patience, no tolerance, every moment feels like agony, and he's digging nails into the palms of his hands, just trying to hold on. His heart is pounding and everything just feels too hot. Of course, that doesn't make it any less of a bad idea; it's been a long time since he's been fucked, and he's so tight around House's finger, but he wants his cock pressing all the way in, wants to feel House fuck him hard and rough until his world swings back to center.

Take Me To Church

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