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“Oh, Chase,” House says, voice dripping with sarcastic condescension. “Ever the stereotype. Daddy issues, older men — really?”
Chase feels his face get hot. He steadfastly keeps his eyes on the ground. Thinks about turning around, refocusing on analyzing the patient’s blood, but it seems dangerous to turn his back to House. He thinks about what he might do behind him, then imagines stubble brushing against the soft part of his neck, then thinks this is your boss and you are at work which doesn’t help as much as it should.
“Now this is just sad.”
“I,” Chase says. He forces himself to look House in the eye. It feels like a mistake but now it’s too late. “You’re insane, House. Are you gonna keep standing in front of the door, or am I free to go?” After a moment of silence, Chase takes the lack of reply as permission, and moves to walk around him.
House lifts his chin to level a gaze at Chase. When he’s right beside him: “Stay.”
Chase stops in place. Turns to look at him warily.
“Why’d you stop?” House asks.
He furrows his eyebrows. “Because you told me to.”
“That’s right,” House says. “Because I told you to. You like being told what to do, Chase?”
“Uh, no,” Chase says quickly, out of panic. He only considers a second later that the instant denial sounds worse. Stupid. He’s so stupid around House.
House raises his eyebrows. “Are you blushing?”
“No.”
He smirks. Chase thinks, over and over: there’s an angle, but what is it? What does House want from him? What’s he trying to find? He already told House his tragic backstory, already saw that his boss didn’t give a shit. House doesn’t care about anyone but Wilson, and maybe not even him.
Chase swallows. “House, what is this?”
House steps a little closer and reaches out for Chase’s tie. Chase forces himself to sit still — so as to not give his fear away, or the little curling emotion he feels that isn’t fear. “I like knowing,” he says, rubbing his fingers over the patterned silk. “I like to figure people out, and I almost couldn’t understand you.”
“What did you… figure out?” Chase stays still while House’s hand travels up from the tie to his face, calloused fingertips taking a loose hold on his jaw. It sends a shiver through him. House’s eyes are terribly blue, staring right through him. Into him. He can pry anyone open.
“That, for some reason, you’re going to let me do this.” House holds Chase’s face and kisses him. On the mouth.
Chase thinks whatthefuckohmygod but his mouth is moving just a bit against House’s, and the not-fear at the bottom of his stomach began to boil, heat launching like fireworks across his nervous system.
His mind is shocked silent for the rest of it, but as soon as House pulls back, Chase’s neurological processes resume. That was your boss, screams the loudest one. Your male boss who’s old enough to be your—
“Daddy issues,” House says. “Voila.”
“I didn’t,” Chase says, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. He keeps experiencing the phantom weight of House’s chapped lips against his. Again and again and again. “I— I don’t— with men— I like women.”
House’s eyes flick very intentionally downwards, then back up with furrowed eyebrows.
Chase’s face gets hotter. Fuck. “That doesn’t… I’m leaving.”
“Staaay.” House drags out the vowel condescendingly. Chase feels degraded but, like all good dogs, stays. “Good boy.”
“House,” Chase says weakly, looking at the floor. It’s all he can say. Half because he couldn’t find the words to say anything else if he tried — half because talking to House while he’s on a power trip is impossible. You get cut off, cut down, cut to size. It’s better to endure it. Give him power so he feels suitably positioned to grant you mercy.
“Heel,” House says, then turns to walk back to his desk.
Stomach rolling with heat, and unsure why he’s still listening, Chase quietly follows him.
House sits in his chair, leaning back. “Down. On your knees. Can you do that?”
Can he? Chase’s mouth is dry. He isn’t stupid but he’s having a hard time processing his new reality. “Why—”
“I’d love to make a joke about blondes in their twenties, but I’d like this to happen sooner rather than later. Can we do that, or do I have to pay extra for express?”
Chase stands in front of House with the sinking feeling of knowing you’re about to do something you won’t be able to take back. “I’m not a prostitute.”
“Sure,” House says. “Knees.”
He still thinks this must be an elaborate joke, that as soon as he gets anywhere near House’s dick, it’ll be gay prostitute jokes and quarters flicked into his back forever. But that thought collides with the second one: that really, Chase would do whatever House asked. It was how their hospital worked. He takes, says, and does what he wants, and if you worked for him, you gave, said, and did whatever he told you to.
Fragile ecosystem.
His heart thuds at twice the speed as he lowers himself to his knees. Looks up from the floor to meet the eyes of his boss, and then feels the gravity from kneeling twice as much.
“Do I need to walk you through this part?”
“House—”
“Chase,” House says. “Shut your mouth, kid.”
Chase swallows, then reaches up to undo House’s jeans. House rests his cane against the table and puts a hand on Chase’s head, fingers spreading through the roots of his hair. A heavy, warm weight pressing down on him. He tries not to think about it.
He slowly takes House into his mouth. The veiny weight is hot and musky and alive on his tongue. He didn’t say I’ve never done this before because House probably wouldn’t believe him, or would use it to embarrass him, but he really hadn’t done this before. His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth but he licks at House’s cock, the underside of it, the salty precome. How did people do this? What did he like when women did this?
He bobs his head on it, making a small sound when House curls his fingers, pulling on Chase’s hair, but he must be doing something right.
“Damn,” House exhales. “I was joking about the prostitute thing.”
I’m not a prostitute, Chase thinks, but when your actual boss is using you as a fleshlight, how thin is that line really? He keeps his eyes closed and keeps sucking, flattening his tongue, tracing his tongue tip along the thick veins.
After a minute of this, or maybe an hour, he has enough. “Off, off.” House pulls on his hair a little more insistently.
Chase pulls off, saliva dripping from his mouth. His jaw is sore. He blinks — realizes his lashes are sticky with tears — and feels just that much more pathetic. And, he realizes, hard. God.
House gets a hand on himself and starts jerking off. “Let me see you.”
Chase looks up at him. He must look ruined, because House leans his head back after only a second and paints Chase’s face white with come. Streaks hit his forehead, his cheek, a little lands his eyelashes.
“Cute little whore,” House says, with approval that sends shame and confused heat blazing through Chase again. Then, he puts himself away.
Chase drags a finger through the sticky come on his own face in a pointless attempt to clean up, but he doesn’t have any tissues to clean it up with. He feels a little wrecked. Empty.
“Oh, don’t look so sad,” House says, a hand on Chase’s jaw again. “I’m not cruel. I can reciprocate.”
Chase blinks up, lost for words and incapable of understanding House’s meaning. Then, House’s shoe makes light pressure against Chase’s dick through his pants. Chase full-body flinches, the only thing keeping him from reeling backwards being House’s hold on him.
Tears spring to Chase’s eyes. It feels so good. He’d been too busy feeling the shame of this insane scenario that he hadn’t spared a single thought for how hard he was — and he was. “Oh, God,” he chokes out.
“Go on,” House invites him.
Chase understands. “Do— do I have to?” he asks, looking up at House through sticky eyelashes. He can’t understand how he got here.
House just raises his eyebrows.
Chase thrusts his hips gingerly against House’s shoe. It’s an explosion of sensation. The shame and uncertainty and mixed feelings and insane lust all merge together to short wire his brain. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes out, then thrusts faster. House looks down at him with amusement so he closes his eyes and grinds against the sole of his shoe until he comes in his pants.
“Well,” House says. “Weren’t you easy.”
“House,” Chase pants, feeling jelly-limbed on the floor. “House, what the fuck.”
“I had a hunch,” House says. “And anyway, I think you need to find a new pair of pants before you start acting like you didn’t like it.”
Fuuuck, Chase just nutted in his pants at work. The reality of what he — they — just did settles across his shoulders. He just blew House. How was he gonna look House in the eye tomorrow?
“That was a hint. You can leave now.”
Chase stands up shakily, leaning a bit on his hands against House’s desk. “So, are we gonna—”
“Gonna what? Make it official?” House mocks him. “Ask what are we? Something like that?”
Chase shakes his head. His pants are fucking sticky. Thank God he’s going home now anyway. He tries to put his lab coat together in a way that might hide the come-spot, then takes some takeout napkins from House’s desk and wipes his face before leaving.