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The page comes in so late at night that Chase almost doesn’t bother. Half-asleep, he thinks it would be easier to apologize in the morning, even if he ends up punished with boils and STIs in the clinic all day for it.
But the anticipation of what House might be planning has him crawling out of bed, leaving behind the remains of his dignity.
A lot of people in his life believe that House has corrupted him in some esoteric manner, but in truth Chase has always been like this on the inside. The only tangible difference between pre-House and post-House Robert Chase is that his threshold for self-restraint has gone down the drain.
But House might be the only person in the world who could know these dark, morally reprehensible parts of him and accept him anyway. So the choice is clear, and it was already made for him the day he was hired at PPTH.
He slowly opens the door to the observation room above the OR, where a patient is actively in surgery. House is sitting against the back wall and watching the monitors along either side of the glass: close-ups of the surgery, blood reds and fleshy pinks and off-whites using up every pixel.
House doesn’t say anything, and Chase decides to just take a seat and wait. Though now he’s hoping that this isn’t a game or a trick or a scheme, because the doctors and nurses can definitely see them, at least from the waist up, and if House pushes the button on the wall, they’ll be able to hear them as well. And those are very tempting implements of torture that House is not at all above taking advantage of.
“It’s really cool,” House says suddenly, making Chase’s heart rate spike from the unexpected sound. “They thought she had cancer, but turns out it’s just a bunch of endometrial tissue. Just have to cut out the yucky stuff and she’ll live.”
“That’s… Good for her.”
“Yup.”
“...So why did you page me?”
House smiles a little, but not fully. “I didn’t account for a very important variable in our last experiment.”
Something heavy and shaped like dread drops down into Chase’s abdomen with a thunk! “What?”
House finally turns to look at him. “So glad you asked!”
“That’s not what I meant–”
“That little flick we watched has passably good special effects, but I had this feeling that it just wasn’t good enough, and I couldn’t figure out why. But then I came down here to take a nap, and boom. Lightbulb!”
Chase puts his flushing face in his hands.
“It didn’t count because it wasn’t real!” House exclaims, catching the attention of one of the nurses below. As if the problem was he hadn’t said it loud enough.
Chase finally lifts his head. He looks at House, then the monitors, then House again. “No,” he says, very seriously. “Are you out of your mind?”
House merely waggles his eyebrows.
“I explicitly told you–!”
“When have I ever listened to you, or anyone, ever?”
Chase clamps his jaw shut, stewing in his anger. And yet he’s also slipping off of the edge, hanging on by just the tips of his fingers, as his brain wanders.
He knows what House is implying. He wants Chase to get off on the real surgery happening live right in front of them. That will be as close to ‘proof’ that he actually does have these weird sexual desires as House can get, without telepathy or something. And it’s clever, because it has the additional effect of satisfying House’s self-proclaimed pervert fetish.
Chase is, objectively, a strong man. But right now, he is also sleep-deprived, horny, embarrassed, and House wants him to do this–and that last fact, that is the most damning of them all.
“What,” Chase says, hating himself, swallowing, his throat clicking, “What do you need me to– to do?”
House finally lets himself smile smugly, and points down to the floor between his legs as he spreads them apart to make room.
Chase hesitates. He has one finger still on the ledge, and if he really tries then maybe he can walk away, maybe he can walk away and never ever come back.
But then he realizes that House is asking him to sit on the floor because he’ll be completely out of view of anyone in the OR, and that makes him feel safer, makes it more likely that they’ll get away with it.
So his body moves without his express permission, as it almost always does when House has demanded something of him. After he locks the door, he’s slipping onto the floor, on the verge of hyperventilating by the time House sets a hand on his shoulder and pats him there.
He’s sweating bullets, his sweater vest suffocating him. He needs to take it off, so he reaches for the hem and pulls. House makes a lazy attempt to help him toward the end, and then tosses it on the chair where Chase had been.
“This is so messed up,” Chase whispers.
“Isn’t that why it’s hot?” House asks.
Chase nods, reaching for his belt. He’s been staring at the faint reflection of themselves since he sat down, but now his eyes flick back to the column of screens to his right.
“It would be easier if I didn’t know,” Chase admits, wrapping his hand around his soft cock and shuddering at the feeling.
Already he’s feeling needy, just from House’s presence behind him, his own hand lightly working him to hardness, the images of blood and medical equipment and organs and clamps.
Chase gasps as they cut a strip of dark, purplish tissue away from her abdominal wall, and as their limbs move around the space they reveal the slick bulbs of her uterus and ovaries.
The scalpel hangs in the frame, one filthy gloved hand clenched around it, poised for action.
He feels nauseous and dizzy. He feels like he might pass out. He sort of hopes he does. And then he breaks through it, his last fingertip slips off the edge, and he is plummeting down a very dark, very immoral pit of arousal and temptation and need.
There is no coming back from this. He knows that now that he’s here, now that he’s violating this patient’s basic rights, violating the room itself, that he has stepped over a threshold that he won’t ever be able to crawl back through again.
But in the ache of shame and self-loathing is the ominous warmth of desire. The vacuous pit that is House is pulling him in, wrapping a hand around his throat, dropping a sachet of lube onto his lap.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” House says. His voice is low and soft, but it is still evident that there is no room for arguing, if Chase were even capable of it.
He squeezes out the lube onto his cock, slicks himself up and shivers from the coldness of it. “I dunno,” he mumbles. “I– I don’t really, it just looks so…”
“Wet?” House offers.
Chase groans, “Mhm… Warm ‘n wet… Sticky… Fuck.”
House’s fingers flex around his throat, not squeezing, just applying an even spread of pressure. It makes him feel better. It makes him feel like he isn’t responsible for his actions. It makes it easier to lose himself in what he’s seeing and feeling and thinking.
“Think about– fucking it.”
House hums, contemplating, acknowledging.
“Wrap myself in there… The sounds it would make…”
“Is she awake, in your fantasies?”
“Yes,” Chase breathes, whining at the end. He’s stroking himself faster now, squeezing the tip as he slides his foreskin over it, then slightly twisting on the way back down.
“Is she in pain?”
“Yes!” Chase gasps, choking it off to keep his volume down. “Have to stop. I can’t– ‘m too loud…”
“It’s okay,” House tells him. “I’ve got my hand here for a reason.”
Chase’s balls constrict, his vision blurs, he’s nearly there just from those words, just the concept of House using such a cruel method to make sure he doesn’t blow their cover.
“Don’t come yet,” House snaps.
Chase has no choice but to take his hand away to prevent his orgasm, and even then, it’s a close call. He heaves and lolls his head against House’s thigh, his body twitching and vibrating from the lack of relief.
“Please,” he says uselessly. Begging never works with House, because begging is the same as moaning; it’s just another sign that whatever House is doing is working, encouraging him to keep doing it. But it’s the only word that will come out, the only thing he can bring himself to say or do. “I’ll keep going after,” he offers. “Please.”
House takes his hand away from his throat, sitting up. Then Chase hears him open his belt, unzip his fly, and he’s reeling, trying to stop himself from turning around so he doesn’t ruin it for either of them.
House moves up with a grunt, leaning forward, and then he sits down again. Chase watches through their reflection, sees his trousers slip down and settle behind his back, on the floor.
Then House grabs his head and nudges him to look to his right, where House’s injured leg is exposed under the blue-tinted fluorescent lighting.
Chase’s hand moves back to his cock of its own accord, but House does not stop him, and it sends a thrilling rush of need and adrenaline down his spine.
“What about other tissues?” House asks.
“Yes,” Chase replies instantly, emphatically, sweeping his gaze over every curve and dip and grain of House’s scar tissue as if to memorize it.
“Yes what?”
“‘S hot,” Chase slurs, and then House lets go of his head and he slumps forward, kissing and licking and biting the side of his thigh, getting nearer to the edge of the scar but not touching. He can see every detail like this, close enough that he could brush his eyelashes against the old wound if he tipped his head down.
“House,” Chase pleads. “Can I–?”
House doesn’t answer him yet. All that fills the air is the slick, slapping sounds of Chase’s hand on his cock and his ragged breathing. He can smell House’s natural scents, from his laundry detergent to his hygiene products. He breathes it all in, placing open-mouth kisses to House’s thigh all the while, whining and gasping, getting closer and closer.
“Go ahead,” House says.
Chase moans desperately, and House’s hand wraps around his throat again, for which he’s grateful, because he’s pretty sure he actually has lost control of most of his faculties at the moment.
He presses his tongue gently to the very edge of the scar tissue. House hisses in pain, and Chase’s eyes roll to the back of his head. He just barely registers the sound of plastic crinkling above him, but he quickly forgets it as he has to stop himself from moaning again, holding his breath. Some air breaks through anyway, little crackling squeaks, but at least he didn’t ruin everything by screaming.
House’s other hand combs through his hair from the base of his neck to the crown of his head, gripping tight there, and Chase resorts to more squeaking as he laps at the crevices and contours of House’s leg.
He yelps as his head is wrenched in the opposite direction, and he’s gearing up to ask what the fuck House is doing when he sees the line of blood drippling from his other leg.
“Oh, god. Fuck,” he gulps intelligently, hand stuttering to a stop on his aching cock. “H-House. House. What the fuck.”
“Taste it,” House says simply, pushing his head forward until he’s so close to the thin stream his eyes cross for a second. “Come on, Chase. I know you want to.”
Chase feels like he’s going to have a heart attack when he first tastes the sharp tang of House’s blood. As he goes back for more, he licks the whole line from where it ends at the underside of his thigh, stopping just before the open wound.
It’s a very short gash, but deep enough that he thinks it goes down into the muscle, though it’s hard to tell with the puddle of blood inside the hole.
He can’t stop himself. And it’s House’s fault, so he can’t be mad. And they’re both doctors, so they’ll be fine no matter what happens. Right?
He licks the edges of the cut, circling it, then dips his tongue inside. House is trembling under his hands, making sharp sounds of discomfort and pain, straining his muscles to the point that blood keeps bubbling up again.
He glances down at his cock to find that House’s blood is dripping onto it, from his leg and Chase's face, and he lurches forward toward that peak, right at the edge of his orgasm.
Chase rubs his tongue and lips and nose in House’s wound like he’s eating pussy, like he’s fucking House open, preparing to take him, and he’s never been this turned on in his life, his whole body almost numb with endorphins as he thrusts his cock into his fist with brutal force, feeling the changes in texture and temperature with his tongue as he explores the layers of House’s insides, hot blood covering them and cooling rapidly in the cold air, so cold against his flushed skin it feels like ice-cold rain is pouring down as his breath bounces between their bodies.
His orgasm bursts through him, has his ears ringing, his eyes rolling. He’s vaguely aware that he can’t breathe, that there’s this immense pressure against his throat, but it just makes his cock throb harder.
“Fuck,” he repeats, over and over, though only the consonants have any audible effect.
And then he slumps back against House’s body, the chair, the floor. The smell, the taste of blood and sweat and cum consume his senses entirely as he gasps for air, finally free from House’s crushing grasp on his windpipe.
He feels like he’s floating for a moment, and then House’s arms are around his shoulders, holding him, stabilizing him, and everything is dark, and he wonders somewhere in the back of his mind if he’s fallen asleep, but he feels way too good to be dreaming. Right at the edge of his skin is this fluttery, buzzing feeling, like riding in a car on a bumpy road, but it’s coming from within, from his veins.
“Chase.”
He feels something warm slap his face and groans, blinking his eyes open.
“Need you to sew me up.”
“On it,” he says weakly, groaning as he pushes himself up to his knees before he’s really ready for it. His legs feel like melting plastic, but he pushes through it, taking whatever House is holding out to him.
When he’s finished cleaning the wound, he’s sobered up significantly. His mind is racing with panicked thoughts, with fear and tremendous guilt. He thinks it might be time to consider a new job. Maybe even a new country.
But he also has never felt better in his entire life. He’s never felt more satisfied, more physically calm, more present.
It is a troubling combination of emotions, disorienting, but House grounds him.
“Chase,” House says shakily. “Blood looks good on you.”
Chase blushes. How he can possibly have such a childish reaction to a messed up compliment, after everything he just did– Chase shakes his head and gets to work on the sutures.
Once House is bandaged up, Chase goes to stand, but House stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Suck me off,” House says.
Chase feels laughter bubble up in his chest, and heat, and something else. House’s erection is sticking out of the waistband of his boxers, and Chase licks his blood-stained lips as he considers it.
“Yeah, sure,” he says.