"Sold Out" H/Ch, 1/1, NC-17
Title: "Sold Out"
Pairing: House/Chase
Rating: NC-17 or hard R
Prompt 78 for
get_house_laid: "Chase will do anything to keep his job. Anything. Preferably BDSM, but definitely under-the-desk!sex. Either during Foreman's reign of terror, or in the Tritter arc, please." Approx. 1000 words; one shot.
Warning: I cheated!
“You sold me out.”
Chase is gathering up his belongings, ready to go home for the day, when he hears the words from House’s darkened office. It happens that he didn’t--this time--but he knows saying that won’t help him. He swallows hard. He stands in the doorway, gripping the doorframe with one hand on each side. He knows he‘ll be silhouetted by the light from behind him; House, with any luck, will be able to see his posture, but not his expression. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I think the question is, what are you going to do about it?”
Chase licks his lips nervously. He can’t lose this job; he just can’t. Not now. “Anything.”
“Come in here,” House orders. “Don’t turn on the light. I don’t even want to look at you. And I don’t want to hear a sound out of you.”
“Okay,” Chase says nervously.
House reaches out and slaps him across the face. “Not a sound.”
This time, he just nods.
“Stand in front of the desk. Spread your legs, like the whore you are. Now drop your pants.”
Blushing in the dark, Chase does. His trousers puddle around his ankles, and goosebumps rise as the cold air hits his bare skin.
House stands up and circles around the desk. “Bend over. Hands on the desk.”
Chase wonders if House is going to fuck him like this. When he hears the rustle of House’s belt sliding out of the loops, his sphincter clenches in fear.
He’s almost relieved when the belt whistles through the air. It strikes his upper thigh, just under the curve of his buttock. The stinging impact forces a gasp of pain from between his clenched teeth.
House lashes out with the belt again. “What did I tell you?”
Now Chase is in a tight spot--if he speaks, he’ll be disobeying. But House seems to be waiting for an answer.
“Pick up your foot.” House taps his right calf with his cane.
He obeys, leaning on his hands for balance. House pokes at his trousers with the cane until they’re disentangled from his foot, then has him raise his left foot and repeats the process.
There’s a rustle, a whoosh, and a clatter as House balls up his pants and throws them across the room, and his keys tumble out of the pocket. Chase quickly realizes he has worse problems, though, as House crams a wad of fabric, which Chase recognizes as his underpants, into his mouth. “That’ll shut you up,” House says with satisfaction. “If it doesn’t, I’ll duct-tape ‘em in there.”
Chase is glad his pants are relatively clean, at least.
House goes back to whipping him, laying each stroke directly on top of the first ones. He counts as he wields the belt, but since Chase doesn’t know how high he plans to go, it isn’t much help. He hopes it’s almost over as House gets to ten strokes, and then fifteen, and twenty.
He finally stops at twenty-five. Chase straightens up, rubbing his sore bottom with one hand. He wonders if House left marks, and how he’ll explain them if he did.
“Did I tell you to move?” House asks.
Chase, his mouth still full of underpants, shakes his head.
“Then don’t.”
He bends over and puts his hands back on the desk.
House puts his hands on Chase’s hips, and he thinks maybe he is going to get fucked after all. House runs his hands over Chase’s ass cheeks, tracing the lines left by the belt with his thumbs. Then he reaches around and grips Chase’s cock in one hand.
It’s embarrassingly, achingly hard.
“You like this, huh?” House says contemptuously. “Should have known. Did you do this with Tritter, too? Did you play Bad Cop and Insolent Suspect? Did he give you a cavity search?”
Chase trembles under House’s hands.
House yanks the makeshift gag out of his mouth. “Get under the desk,” he says, shoving Chase in that direction.
Chase has an inkling what’s coming next, but it’s a little better than being fucked up the ass, at least. He crawls under the desk.
House sits in his desk chair, legs apart. There’s a little light coming in from the window behind the desk, enough that Chase can see a little of his expression--stern and inscrutable. “C’mere,” he says, patting the bulge in the front of his jeans.
Chase crawls toward him and brings his hands up to open House’s fly.
“No--not yet. I want that pretty mouth on me for a long time. Just lick--right here.” He traces the outline of his cock through the thick fabric.
It’s rough under his lips and tongue. He licks and licks, until his tongue is sore and the cloth is soaked through. Finally, House roughly shoves his head back and opens his fly, freeing his cock. “Suck it,” he says, succinctly.
Chase does. He takes it all in at once, not wanting to annoy House with any preliminaries that might give the impression he isn’t going to obey. House thrusts up into his mouth, leaving Chase feeling like he may never breathe again.
A moment later, House is tucking his softening cock away, and Chase is panting at his feet. “Get dressed,” he says roughly.
Chase wipes his face on his sleeve as he gets to his feet. He feels ridiculous, walking across the office wearing shoes, a shirt, and tie--and nothing at all in between. He bends at the waist to pick up his keys, on the way, then tugs on his trousers, wondering where his underpants got to.
“I guess I’ll keep you around,” House says grudgingly. “This time.”
Chase pauses in the doorway. “Thanks--and, didn’t you promise Wilson we weren’t going to have kinky sex at work anymore, after that time he walked in on us?”
House shrugs. “Everybody lies. See you tomorrow.”
“See you,” Chase echoes, and leaves the hospital with a smile on his face.