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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

“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.

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

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

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

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

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

Chase usually comes apart at the end of a scene, but it's never been like this, where he just loses his grip on everything. There are usually at least some walls left, not to mention that grip on where he is, what's happening. The kink just takes away the problems, the stress, makes it so that he can cope, so that he can breathe in his own skin. This is that and more. It's what he'd been chasing when he was in the scene, and the reason that he'd eventually fallen out of it, his inability to find what he was looking for, no one that was willing to push him far enough without a safeword, and Chase couldn't take anything seriously that involved safewords.

He's delirious; if he was thinking, he's know what a bad idea what he wants is, but he can't help it. All he can focus on is how much he wants this, how much he needs House, need him to be fucking him already, and how his finger isn't enough. He wants his cock, both for the feeling, and how it's thicker, presses deeper, and there's a different feeling to being fucked compared to being fingered, and right now he needs the former. He needs it, but House is the more coherent of the two, enough to know what a bad idea it is, even as Chase begs him for it. When House can't manage two fingers, it all but proves his point, what a bad idea House just fucking him would have been.

When House tells him to behave Chase quiets with a soft whimper, his protest there in the sound that he makes, though it turns into a sharp cry when House swats at him ass. The force of it is gentle, but it still lights up his nerves. He's been just settling into the feeling of it, the lack of further stimulation making it slowly start to quiet. It's almost a sob, and he can't help the noises that he makes, how he jerks against the rope, tense with desire.

But at that threat, he quiets, goes as still as he can possibly manage. He's trying to behave, which honestly he's usually fairly bad at in a scene with other people, but House is different. He's always listened, always asks how high when he tells him to jump. And even as much as he needs to move, needs more, he tries to relax, stay still and behave. He needs House to fuck him. It feels like he'll just lose everything all together if he doesn't. He likes the feeling of his fingers, though. It's still pleasure, still feels good, a counterpoint against the sting of his ass and the tops of his thighs as House scissors his two digits.

He shakes, trembling, vocalizing soft noises as House stretches him open slowly, up to three fingers, and they're so close, it tests his patience, which Chase is honestly not good at in the best of circumstances and right now he's too overwhelmed. But House shushes him, tells him he's doing good, his voice soft and encouraging, and it makes him smile weakly, hold on a little longer. As much as House has always pushed instead of rewarded, Chase does respond well to encouragement. He stays still, relaxes, tries to lean his legs more into the rope to give House a smidge more space. He's trying to be good, trying so hard.

This is all he can do, and even still he's fraying.

Chase responds so beautifully to everything. He’s giving himself away with that soft whimper, how being told to behave isn’t too far, and that it works on him. When Chase reacted to the swat on his ass, House carried on working him open, but he also sort of leans his body away simultaneously, head tilted to get the best view of the way he jerks against the ropes, fighting them with all he’s got left. He definitely hasn’t gotten his fill of watching Chase squirm when he’s bound and being beaten. Not by a long shot. He’d only considered it in passing fantasy before, but now that he’s had a taste, he’s going to crave it.

The threat works, the warning that if he can’t ease him open then he’s not getting fucked. Truth be told, House was pretty confident that he could get him there, but if it took too long then his leg would start to throw a wrench in the proceedings. He’s glad that doesn’t become an issue, glad to feel Chase giving in, soft and pliant beneath his hands and guidance. He’s still shaky and nowhere near quiet as he works him open, and House can’t imagine a scenario he’d want to gag him for. He likes hearing him, he’s turned on by the soft moans and the little, frustrated sounds, like he’s not sure how much longer he can stand it. That’s not true of everyone, but Chase is just gifted in spades, gorgeous, kinky and fucking sexy to listen to.

He reacts well to the encouragement. Better, almost. He quiets, then, manages to relax a little more, and he’s moving - it looks like he’s trying to shift, spread his legs - as if he really could - but the thought there is almost endearing. It’s three now, and he lingers with just that, carefully avoiding his prostate just yet. Finally it feels like enough, like Chase could handle a little more, like he’s relaxed enough that it’s not going to hurt him more than it will to just have pressure against his tender ass. He makes a pass with his free hand over one sore cheek, rubbing gently, adding it to the mix to feel his reaction and be sure that he won’t flinch and tense up. He does a little, but it’s not too much, not enough that he’s concerned, and really he needs so badly to fuck him that he’d have been hard pressed to wait much longer.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, voice soft and low, and finally his hands come away from Chase completely, but the moves forwards just a bit so that his hip is pressed against Chase’s ass, that one bound foot brushes against his thigh, gives him a point of contact. When he’d had to go fetch the lube, he hadn’t had much option, but he’s aware of the probable need for contact, a connection, to know where he is in space especially now. He spreads lube over his cock, hand curled around himself to make sure there’s plenty of it, and then he’s not wasting time in coming back. He’d by lying if he’d said that he hadn’t tied Chase at this height for precisely this reason. The head of his cock nudges in-between Chase’s bright red cheeks and he grabs hold of him by the hips and pulls him back, feels himself beginning to sink inside him not quite easily. It’s slow, but it’s fucking good, and House pauses for a second, just takes a tight breath through gritted teeth and manages, “Just relax…”

Chase can't keep quiet, even though he tries. It's too much, he wants and it feels too much. House is still stretching him open, working him open on his long fingers that expertly miss his prostate. It's a fact that he's glad for, because Chase is already woozy enough he's not entirely sure how long he's going to last once House starts fucking him. He doesn't want to exacerbate the issue, although he doesn't really have any say in the matter. He can't help the way that his body jerks a little, as much as he's allowed to, how he tenses a little around the other man's fingers. The contact stings, and he can't help it, but it's not too bad, not enough to make the prospect of being fucked anything less than exactly what he needs.

He whines, murmurs in shy appreciation of the compliment. Good boy, like he's behaving, doing it right, and fuck, he's trying so hard that it's exactly the sort of encouragement that he needs. He shudders at the sensation as House moves in close, pressing his hip to his ass, but bracing one of the blond's bound feet against his thigh, and Chase can't manage the words thank you, but he means it. He craves the contact, the connection, the ability to feel him close, where House is. The fact that the height House had tied him at had to be intentional doesn't occur to him now, but it will later.

Chase groans as the slick head of House's cock pushes in between the abused cheeks of his ass, pressing against his entrance and then slowly starting to sink into his body. He tries to fight the urge to tense as House grabs him by the hips, and his thumbs just barely brush against his red cheeks. Worse is how House's body brushes against his ass as he moves in closer as the thick girth of his cock gradually sinks in. Chase is trying so hard to relax, not to tense, but it's hard. House stretching him open, spreading his body wide enough to take him as he presses into him, and Chase can't help the soft, obscene noises he makes.

He wants this, he needs this.

He’s glad he took a moment, just paused and took a deep breath. He needs it, the opportunity to steel himself against how unspeakably perfect Chase is right now, a near endless stream of truly obscene sounds and fruitless squirming against the tight black ropes. He’s going to replay this in his mind when he’s alone, he’s sure, all the soft, overwhelmed whining and shaky whimpers and the sight of all that bare and mottled colored skin. House rubs his hand over Chase’s hip without thinking about it, a gentle, soothing gesture, before he catches him again by the hip and moves him back again. He’s the only one with any control, setting the pace, literally taking Chase, and he’s acutely aware of the power inequality of the situation. He knows that Chase wouldn’t be any less willing if he untied him first, any less adamant about this, but right now? Right now, if he were untied, he’d be a puddle on the floor, too overstimulated and in no shape to be fucked. Even as he fights against them, strains to make it easier for House to fuck him, House can tell that these knots are the only things holding him together.

Slowly, so slowly, he sinks inside him, until the hot skin of his ass is pressed against his hips, and he can feel how Chase reacts to that, too, tensing, whimpering… it makes it more intense for the both of them. For House, just the reality of it, the awareness of how much Chase can take and how much he’s willing to give to get what he needs, and for Chase… he can only begin to imagine. The sensation, the overstimulation, the headspace…

He won’t be able to touch him if he wanted to. The way Chase is tied, there’s no easy reach around to cup or grope him as he fucks him, but he’s got a feeling that won’t make much difference in Chase’s enjoyment of this, in how fast he’s going to get off. Maybe it’s actually better. He doesn’t know, he can only think about how perfect he feels and sounds and how he’s reacting. He’s still for as long as he can be, needing to breathe again, but soon it’s clear that Chase is so far gone, so keyed up that giving him time to adjust is only considerate for so long. Then, he’s anxious, needy, desperate for more, so House gives it to him. Pulls back, pushes Chase away, hands on his hips, and then draws him back again. Slow at first, and then faster. The first time their bodies come together with a wet clap of skin against skin actually pulls a shudder from House, and a hard, low groan. So he does it again.

The lean lines of his suspended frame tremble almost invisibly as House rubs over his hip, the gesture soft and reassuring. Then House is pulling him back again, and Chase is intensely aware of the power dichotomy here, but he likes it. Giving up freedom, giving up power, and letting someone else be entirely in control. It was better with House. Better because he trusted him to insane degrees, better because it was him, better because of the way he uses the control, the inequality, always has. Their relationship has been about inequality since the day that House hired him, and this gloriously sexual expression of it feels like another type of high. But House is right, and however much he might strain, he needs those knots as surely as he needs House's hands on his hips.

Chase tosses his head back, gasping, crying out breathlessly as House slowly sinks inside of him. Their bodies slicked, but it's still tight, so long since Chase has been fucked, and it just makes him crave it that much more. Of course, once House is in all the way, he can't help that brief flash of abused nerves and hurt skin. He jerks in that brief moment, his body tightening, and he whines, squirms helplessly at the contact, but there's nowhere for him to go. He's entirely at House's access, and the fact is that slight jerk and the whine on his full lips doesn't actually mean no, and they both know it. Chase is deep in his head, deep in thrall to House's voice and the demands and the reassurances. He's overstimulated and House is the only thing that makes it make sense.

Chase does his best to stay quiet when House stills, taking a moment to catch his breath, but it's hard. The first few breaths are good, giving him a chance to get some admittedly tenuous grasp on his bearings. He's desperate, aching, craving it, needing this, and breathless sounds spill over his lips in wordless, half-incoherent pleas. He moans when House moves, pulling him back and then drawing him back in, and he all but squeals in answer to House's groan.

The man repeats the gesture, and Chase isn't any better at keeping quiet the second time. He needs this, needs House fucking him, needs it like this, House controlling how they move and how Chase feels.

House might be enjoying this too much, Chase, his body electric, tense, tight. His head falls back in a mess of blond hair, crying out loud and that’s when House realizes this isn’t going to last. It’s not going to stretch on and on. They’ll be lucky to last a few minutes at this rate, with Chase jerking at every brush, every thrust, whimpering with every contact, tensing around him and squirming like he wants to get away even though it’s obvious that’s the last thing that he wants. Practically from the beginning, he’s trembling, limbs tight in the ropes and tighter with the strain, shaking because he can’t do anything else.

House thought this would be harder than it is, with his leg. Thought that without anything to lean on or brace against, he’d lose balance, but he doesn’t. The timing of it, the swing of Chase’s body back against his works. Even as they’re moving faster, as House is fucking him deeper, it’s fucking perfect. House lets go of one hip and grabs him by the wrist, uses it like a handle, guiding him back, down on his cock again and again, slower now and deeper, using his grip on Chase to grind their bodies together. He wants more of that squirming, wants him louder than this, wants complaints from the neighbors in the morning. He doesn’t give a goddamn fuck about what happens after this, really, he just wants Chase to come apart all over again in a completely different way. Wants him boneless and floating not just from being beaten, but from being fucked so hard that there’s nothing left in him to hurt or feel guilt tonight.

That slow deep fucking changes, speeds up, but not before an abrupt swat to his raw, red ass, not hard, but not light either. Just hard enough to sound loud and startling through the sounds of their rough fucking, and then House is pulling him back again, harder and faster, letting the fact that he’s hanging suspended allow him to do things he couldn’t normally. Letting it bounce Chase down on his cock and he’s suddenly so close to coming that he can fucking feel it. He’s breathing hard and moaning as he keeps moving, keeps pulling Chase back on him, and gives another slap. This one lighter, and it comes without really thinking about it, just urging him on, and he grinds out a rough command, “Come on, come…”

This was never going to last long. Not for Chase, at least. Not when he was so keyed up, so oversensitive, when it had been so long since he'd been fucked at all, but especially like this. Tied up and pushed beyond what he can stand, and it's so very good. He's shaking, unable to really move, even if his reflexes crave it, to be able to arch his back and rock into House's thrusts, but he can't manage even that. It's a thrill, even as he shakes in those knots holding him together, the way that House handles his body.

Each rock of their bodies, accented by the slap of skin, makes Chase flinch. His ass is still bright red, and every hard rock that moves his body into contact with the other man's makes his skin feel like it's burning and tears high-pitched whines from his mouth. He's fucking him deeper, and Chase feels like he's starting to come apart all over again, but he tries not to. He wants to hold on, wants this to last, even if it's impossible. His voice getting louder, shifting into cries that are nearly screams. He's loud, only barely holding back from the edge and every time their bodies meet it becomes that much harder.

When House swats at his ass, Chase does scream. It's the mix of it, pleasure and pain, punishment and reward, freedom and restraint. The sound of it echoes in the room, a sharp crack and the ring of his hand on skin, and it makes Chase's eyelashes flutter, his head back as he tries to look at the ceiling through a hazy latticework of black ropes. There's something phenomenally erotic about the way that House bounces Chase's slim body over his cock. He feels small, insubstantial, almost weightless in House's hands. There are plenty of reasons that Chase loves suspensions, and this is one of them.

He jerks again at the slap, even though it's softer than the last, it still lights Chase's body up like a Christmas tree, and not necessarily in the pleasant way. He's so close, that when House tells him to come, all he has to do is stop fighting. Unclench his hands, uncurl his toes; relax and just let it hit him. He's screaming again when it does.

He likes Chase loud. He likes the odd poetry of it, how unrestrained he is like this when he’s tied up tight. He has nothing to compare it to, of course, no baseline, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is the way Chase manages to move in the narrow confines of the bonds, body jerking and squirming as much as he can manage, hands curled tight into fists as he struggles to hold on, to keep from entirely breaking apart. Then he lets it all go. He’d have had to eventually, it was only a matter of time before he came, but the fact that he does practically on command is hot.

When Chase comes, it’s like everything inside him that was held tight is suddenly let out, all the tension exploding outward, tearing from his throat in a harsh scream. House isn’t far behind him, and when he comes, there’s one more thrust, maybe two, then he holds Chase close. He’s not present enough to think, and soon all he can do is just hold Chase tight against him, hips grinding against the heat of his ass as that scream quiets into a string of moans that House hardly realizes he’s contributing to.

When he starts to come down he’s wishing he were laying down or at least sitting, wishes there weren’t so many steps to follow through to get to where he can collapse and breathe and enjoy the feeling that comes after. He grabs the rope that’s holding Chase suspended with one hand, for stability, because the cane is nowhere to be seen and he takes a few long moments to breathe, hand rubbing up Chase’s side, over the ropes that hold him bound. Finally, he pulls out but doesn’t move away, really. He stays near enough that Chase can still feel him there, so his body is leaning against his side as he peels off his t-shirt and uses it to clean himself up and gives it a toss towards the bed. He’ll use it, later, to clean Chase up, but now’s not the time. First, he’s got to get him down, get him to the bed, give him time to desensitize just a little bit before he cleans him up. He tucks himself back into his jeans and zips them up, and then he’s got his hands on Chase again.

“I’m gonna get you down… left leg first,” he says as he starts undoing the knots to free it, first his ankle and then his thigh. Loosened, he helps guide it down, shaking the rope free from his leg.

“Okay, now the right… lean into me,” he says, keeping an arm around Chase as he unties his right leg one handedly, holding him close as he tries to right him before continuing untying him.

Edited 2014-12-24 02:10 (UTC)

Chase shakes, can feel it down to the tips of his fingers, the shivers that run over his skin as his orgasm runs through him slowly. When it all finally stops, the world finally stopping, stilling long enough for Chase to suck in a long, shuddering breath, he can't find the words to speak. It was too much, too good, and he's limp and boneless in the restraints. The suspension the only thing keeping him from being a puddle on the floor. He becomes aware, slowly, of the fact that House is still holding onto him, an arm tight across his hips.

A murmur of protest hums on his lips when House pulls back, withdrawing from Chase's body, and he knows it's necessary, but it's also the last thing in the world that he wants. He knows, logically, that they have to undo the suspension and move somewhere else. But he wants to just stay in this moment. This is the part where it's good. The quiet, the pleasure as the orgasm and the intensity washes through him. Of course, this is House, and that makes this different. Chase doesn't even know what to expect from here. For now, he just lets himself focus on House as he moves, the sound of fabric and the zipper of his jeans.

There's that brief moment when he's not entirely sure that House will take him down. That maybe this is the punchline he was waiting for at first, but no. House starts undoing the knots, releasing his left leg and guiding it down to the floor. Chase doesn't really have any strength in his limb, and it tingles. There's obvious, red imprints in his skin, the rope leaving clear marks that Chase is going to have to try and hide later.

He tries to lean into House, but he's so uncoordinated in the moment that it's awkward, the support more of House's arm on him than his own ability. When he has two feet on the floor, the fact that he's not actually standing yet is fairly obvious. "Greg," he whispers softly, a flutter of eyelashes as he can finally manage it. "Thank you," he said it before, but he means it maybe even more now. It was perfect, is perfect, and even if House knows, Chase can't help the urge to say it.

House can tell that he’s not really standing on his own. It feels like he’s moving like a baby giraffe, like his legs are too new, too spindly to use. His feet may be on the floor, but he’s uncoordinated and awkward, hardly even able to lean into him.

“Don’t mention it. I’ve got you,” he says softly, voice low and reassuring.

House shifts the way he’s holding him, gets a better grip before he works to bring him down from the suspension. It takes a bit of effort, a fair amount of rearranging his grip again, but when he’s got him free from the ceiling, he starts to move him to the bed. He’s still bound, arms behind his back, and as unsteady as he is, there’s no way to get him untied until they get him onto the bed. It’s difficult to get him in bed. He’d just let him sit, but his ass is raw and sore and he’s not pushing him to sit just yet.

“Gonna lay you face down while I untie you,” he says, and he manages to get him in bed, on his side, angled mostly face down, and he works quickly at untying his arms, first at the wrists and then the upper arms, pulling the ropes away and off.

It's reassuring, makes him slowly lean more into House's body at the words voiced quietly between them. The words I've got you and how the other man holds onto him. Maybe even moreso than the beginning, when House was tying him up, this is all about trust. If House let him fall, Chase isn't sure that he'd even be able to get his hands up in time to try and break the impact.

But House has him, safe. He leans into him, tries to offer as much help as he can as House moves him over to the bed. He winces a little, predicting that he'll end up sitting on the edge while House unties his arms, but instead, the other man places him on his side, more or less. He ends up mostly face-down in the pillows, and lets House's fingers work over the ropes.

It feels good, the way they come away from skin, leaving red marks in their wake. There's a freedom in it, a feeling of all the tension and the hurt coming away with the ropes in those moments. His arm is floppy, unsteady, but he reaches out for House anyway, wanting to touch, to hold onto him, feel him.

It's all awkward at this point, and standing bent over the bed and over Chase like this in the wake of fucking and beating him has his leg aching to lay down, to relax, to stop supporting weight and being forced to move. Still, he's careful as he unties Chase, knows that it's not just his ass that's sore, but his wrists, his arms, sore where the rope rubbed at his skin, where he might have bruises in the morning.

Completely untied, Chase reaches out for him, and House lets him but looks at the bed, assesses the situation - Chase is too close to this edge of the bed for him to join him, and while he might normally take great pleasure in making him move, he's not now.

"Hang on," he says, fingers skimming over Chase's arm, and he makes his way around the bed, limp heavier than usual, and climbs in the far side. He struggles his way closer across the mess of sheets towards Chase, and he pulls a blanket up over him. He may not be cold yet, but he will be once he really starts to come down, once the sweat on his skin cools in the air.

This isn't something they've done before. But then, neither is impact play and kinky bondage sex. Still, for House, for whatever reason, this feels more wrong than fucking and beating him. Maybe it's because he's got the time and mental distance to really think about it. He's not caught up in the moment, in giving Chase what he needs and being wrapped up in the energy of it. They're in his bed together. That's different than standing in the bedroom together, than fucking in the middle of the room. It's intimate, but it's necessary. It doesn't matter to House that whatever this is may not be a relationship and may never happen again. It doesn't matter that, tomorrow, he's going to do everything in his power to lord this over Chase at work. All that matters is that he's opened something up in Chase, put his thumb on something that needed to come out and brought it to the surface and left it raw and angry and now there's work still to be done. He can't just let him go, or take him home. He's got to let Chase come down first. Really come down, come back into his skin and feel whole and okay again before he considers bringing him home.

They're facing each other, and he scoots a little closer, until their legs are touching, and he throws an arm around Chase's shoulders and hauls him in closer, cuddling him up against his chest because he can tell from the way he reached for him the second his arms were free that he needs contact. Maybe he doesn't usually like to cuddle - maybe he does - but he is now.

"C'mere," he says softly, talking mostly into Chase's hair.

Usually, Chase hated the whole conceit of aftercare. Usually. But tonight wasn't usual. Not in the stimulus that had triggered this, not in how things had gone with House and him, not in the fact that it was House at all. He craved the contact. Something to hold on, something to anchor him when he was still reeling. He felt lightheaded, knew driving was as out of the question as if he'd gone through a bottle of whiskey back at the bar. Things were too soft, too insubstantial, he'd be liable to end up through his windshield.

The words hang on are a comfort, in that when House pulls away, he's expecting it. It doesn't entirely feel like the world falling out from underneath his feet. He notices how heavy House's limp is, but he's still too out of it for it to really connect to what they'd just done, to feel bad for it. He cuddles into the blanket, and toward House's body as the man places a blanket over him. He's almost feverishly warm, but he knows it wont stay that way. There's something uncertain in his body, even as he leans toward House.

This is strange, makes his heart race, because Chase usually gets out and away as soon as possible. He should be putting his clothes on, heading outside, letting the cold air make his head stop spinning, and then taking a cab back home, pretending this didn't mean anything at all. Most of the time it didn't. But after years of wanting House, there was no way to pretend this didn't mean anything. It showed the cracks between Allison and him that he wasn't talking about, that he had spent two years trying to ignore. House had been the thing between them they couldn't address without falling apart. He knows that even if he walks away now, it wont stop House from holding this over his head. In fact, it just might make it worse. But that's not why he's staying.

It's because he needs this. So eventually the tension calms a little and he shifts, dragging his legs gently against House's as he leans in against his chest, an invisible smile against his skin. His hands are clinging to him again, against his sides, trembling fingers against skin, and a low murmur on his lips that he shyly kisses into House's flesh. He's still reeling, and having House holding him makes it feel better, makes it okay.

The shift out of subspace is always slow for Chase, and he usually doesn't like to let anyone else see it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Take Me To Church

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject