Chase/House, Chase/Wilson -- Be Careful What You Wish for

[vanillafluffy]

Title: Be Careful What You Wish For
Author: vanillafluffy
Pairing: Chase/House, Chase/Wilson
Rating/Work-safeness: R for coersion and semi-non-con
Approximate word count: 2800
Disclaimer: If I owned any of these guys, I'd be too busy elsewhere to write fan-fic. Any recognizable characters belong to David Shore and Fox TV.
Summary: Spoilers for the Season One Vogler arc. This is the kink follow-up to "Babies and Bathwater". Wilson is as dark here as he is in Season Three. Another version of Chase-punishment is here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3170269/1/. (They begin almost identically, then veer in wildly different directions. Schizophrenic much?)


Be Careful What You Wish For


Robert Chase hikes the strap of his backpack over his shoulder as he prepares to leave for the night. Vogler is gone, thank You, God. Okay, House is going to make things difficult for a while, but there's nothing he can do to equal Vogler's brand of Hell. I'm safe now.

Passing House's office, he sees his boss standing in front of a lightboard. "Chase. Get in here." House's voice carries to him, and he comes to a halt. "I've got a question for you," House says, still studying the MRI film. "And this time, I want an adult answer. How do I work with you?"

Chase feels oily sweat slick his skin and his Adam's apple bobs. Saying he's sorrying is pathetically inadequate, but what else is there? House's blue eyes sear him with the intensity of his gaze, and Chase glances downward, focusing on the faded gray-black of the tee showing above House's partially unbuttoned shirt.

"What, no snappy comebacks? Apologies? Contrition?"

The last word triggers old instinct. Without conscious decision, Chase drops to his knees. A hand rests atop his head; for a moment, it's exactly like receiving a blessing...but this is House: it isn't going to be that easy. The fingers twine into his dark golden hair and wrench his head back. "That's a nice look for you," House murmurs, malice twitching the corners of his lips upward. "You'll have to do it more often."

"You'd have to keep me around for that," Chase points out hopefully. Anything to keep my job. I'll happily play House's bitch. Hell, I do that anyway.

"If you'll cooperate." House releases him, limping to the corner with the controls for the blinds. In a moment, no one in the corridor or the conference room can see them. House makes his way to the corduroy-cushioned chair in the other corner. House puts his feet up on the matching foot stool, resting his cane against the wall.

"Come here," House orders, and when Chase automatically starts to stand, snaps, "No. On your knees." House gives an elaborate stretch. "It's been a long day," he says. "I've been running around all day long...in a manner of speaking," he adds with a smirk. "You know what would be really great right now?"

I can think of a lot of things that would be really great right now. And I'm pretty sure whatever you're about to ask me to do isn't on my list. Chase is a statue, saying nothing. He doesn't raise his eyes higher than the level of House's knees.

"A blow job!" House proclaims. "Dr. Chase, if you would do the honors...."

Be careful what you wish for.... He didn't expect to be House's bitch quite this literally, but from the smirk on his boss's face, he means it. Chase looks away from the keen blue eyes that measure his willingness, down to the crotch of House's pants, which already sports a noteworthy bulge. He reaches out, hesitating, and slowly unbuckles the other man's belt. He has above-average dexterity, can thread a slender wire through a narrow artery, but this simple procedure makes his hands shake.

Chase lets his fingers explore the texture of the soft cotton briefs, tracing the contours of the erection that's expanding beyond the confines of House's fly. He's never done anything like this cold sober before, and he keeps hoping House will smack his hand and say it's all a joke.

"Get on with it," House says, leaning back against the headrest.

There's no point in trying to beg off. He takes a deep breath and fumbles House's dick free of its swaddling, giving it a couple of experimental tugs. A bead of pre-cum has formed at the tip, and Chase slides his fingers through it, spreading it across the head of House's cock. A glance upward shows that House is watching him, blue eyes intent, and the older doctor gives him an impatient scowl as he hesitates.

For my sins, thinks Chase wryly as he lowers his head over the upthrust hard-on. A trace of salt and the satin smoothness of the other man's corona glide against Chase's parted lips. He's careful to shield the tender skin from his teeth, brushing his pouting lower lip against the underside of the cock. He tightens the "O" of his mouth around the ridge at the back of the glans, and House exhales. A flicker of his tongue, swirling it around the corona...House reacts with a start, and Chase takes him deeper.

Bobbing his head up and down, licking, sucking---Chase remembers why he used to enjoy doing this. It's the feeling of power he has as he listens to House's heavy breathing, the involuntary twitches his partner makes as Chase massages the straining column of flesh. This may not have been his idea, and it's liable to make working for House a nightmare in the future, but right now, Chase is only thinking about making House moan. Too bad he doesn't dare pleasure himself while he's at it; he's turned on, and it would be even hotter to satisfy them both at the same time.

No way will House allow that. Chase feels schizophrenic; part of him knows he's being punished---House wants him miserable---but there's another aspect of himself that revels in what he's being made to do. I just want to suck his brains out through his dick....

There's a sound, and for a moment, he's confused---what was...? then House's fingers clench themselves in his hair and force Chase's head down to the base of his cock. He gags---he's not used to this, hasn't done it in years, but his boss doesn't care. Chase's eyes are watering and he coughs---he thinks he's going to retch, then House relaxes his grip slightly. Okay, House, you've made your point, you're in control.... Or is he?

When he's not being forced down on it, Chase is fine. With his head free to move, he can achieve the right angle to swallow it all, until his lips circumnavigate the base of House's rigid member. He's worked his left hand into House's pants, playing with his balls. His right hand teases the wiry hair of House's pubes, pressing against the pubic bone. House is groaning continually, and Chase is in an agony of arousal. He devours the erection that fills his mouth, his fingers busily kneading the other man's ball-sac. The noises House makes excite him. It isn't like House to be out of control, but from the jerking half-thrusts of his pelvis, he's almost there.

All it takes is...Chase's fingers find the tender perineum and drum insistantly against it, with rewarding results. House growls, a primal rumble that grows louder and deeper as he half-rises out of the chair. A hand descends upon the back of his neck, but Chase already has the length of the shaft embeded in his face to the hilt. He tries to swallow the gush of House's climax, trying to suck and breathe through his nose at the same time, drowning in an anguish of unsatisfied desire.

When House's erection subsides, Chase rests the side of his face against the flagging tissues, the taste of bitter salt in his mouth. He's light-headed. House is also short of breath, but after his respiration returns to normal, he says, "So, what did you think?"

Chase opens his mouth to answer, when behind him, Wilson's voice says thoughtfully, "That's one good reason for working late."

The door wasn't locked. That's what I heard. Chase is mortified. He draws back from House's exposed crotch, tucking the older man's genitalia back where he found them. A caress brushes his hair...House's hands are relaxed on the armrests, so, clearly, it's Wilson who's toying with him. Chase knows his face is scarlet with humiliation, but he continues straightening his boss's garments until he's as respectable as House ever gets.

"And cheaper than a hooker," House comments, nothing in his tone to indicate that there's anything odd about the scene. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

"Putting my office back together," says Wilson. "I'm going to be trying to figure out what I did with things for a month."

"Take Chase," offers House, and the young Australian freezes. "It's his fault."

"Me?" Chase yelps, stung by the unfairness of it.

"No, that one was all your fault, House," says Wilson, not sounding too happy about it, and the kneeling intensivist feels slightly mollified. "Public speaking, or the lack thereof, remember?"

"Okay, okay, so I screwed up," House grumbles. "But the choirboy here has already volunteered to keep me serviced to keep his job, so you might as well get some use out of him. Chase, show the man a good time. Or help him straighten up his office. Whatever."

"Chase, stand up," Wilson commands him, and he does. "Greg, you can be a real bastard at times."

Chase sees House's grin out of the corner of his eye. He's too embarassed to look directly at either of them, and he hopes they don't notice how tented his trousers have become. He isn't the only one...Wilson's pants aren't as well-tailored as usual, and Chase wonders whether that's from watching him blow House, or if the other man is contemplating House's offer. He remembers to grab his backpack as Wilson holds the door for him.

Wilson's office is a place he's seldom ventured. Tonight, there are boxes stacked here and there, bare bookcases, more post-Vogler fallout. Chase steals a glance at the other doctor, who's regarding him thoughtfully.

"I take it that was some kind of payback?" the oncologist asks, and he nods, blushing. "Well, I may as well take advantage of the help and put you to work." He gestures to the boxes, and the younger man feels relief at a normal request. "Take off your clothes."

"Excuse me?"

"I want you naked." Wilson's voice is matter-of-fact. Yes, he's serious. And he's locked the door.

Standing there naked is worse than what House wanted. The sense of vulnerability is excruciating. At the same time, Chase's cock strains upward, twitching with desire. Should he go down on Wilson, or does the other man have something else in mind?

Wilson rummages in a box, shakes his head, tries another one. Finds what he's looking for and smiles. He presents Chase with a worn tee shirt and a can of furniture polish. "Dust my shelves for me, please."

Dust...? There's a tall bookcase beside Wilson's desk. It's taller than he is, and has half a dozen shelves and the top of it as flat surfaces.

Chase takes the cleaning supplies as Wilson sits down in his office chair to watch. He has to climb onto a step-stool to reach the top of the bookcase, and gives it a quick spritz of polish. He hears the scritch of a zipper as he industriously swipes the rag back and forth. As he turns his attention to the topmost shelf, he risks a fast look toward the figure seated in the chair.

As he expects, Wilson is masturbating. He catches Chase looking, and smiles at him, slowly stroking his cock as he watches the young intensivist at work. Apparently, the senior doctor enjoys the flesh on display as Chase buffs the cherry wood to a mellow glow. This is weird. Sucking off House was a bit on the kinky side, but this is just strange. Naked domestic duties? I'll never be able to laugh at those jokes about French maid costumes again, that's for sure.

Maybe Wilson won't mind if he satisfies himself, as long as he keeps dusting. God---the smell of Lemon Pledge is going to make him hard for the rest of his life, an olafactory Pavlovian response. Touching himself is in itself a relief. He tries to be unobtrusive about it, working his cock left-handed and plying the polishing cloth with his right. Down a couple more shelves, he stands on solid floor again and has to lean over to access them.

Behind him, the chair squeaks. Looking downward, polished brown wingtips appear in his line of sight, so he doesn't jump when Wilson presses against his bare backside, something warm and hard sliding between his thighs to rub his balls. Wilson takes the rag from him and draws his hand away from his cock. Chase straightens up in surprise, and finds himself bent forward, legs spread wide, his hands pushing against the back of the bookcase, while Wilson frots his cock against the underside of Chase's shaft. The twill of his slacks is harsh against Chase's rump as he increases the tempo.

When Wilson wraps the rag around Chase's cock and begins pumping it in his fist, the younger man feels his scrotum tightening. The friction is all the more exciting at someone else's hands..both hands...the one around his cock and the one sliding between his asscheeks to probe him. An insistant finger dilates the taut ring of muscle. He makes a frantic noise, trying to say he can't last much longer, but the only thing that emerges is a choked groan. He tenses, completely at Wilson's mercy, his climax seizing him and shaking him as he spurts his load into the rag that covers him.

Wilson folds the old shirt so that the fresh jism is inside, and hands it back to Chase. "You're not finished," he points out curtly. "There are two shelves left." He's still hard, and the look on his face scares Chase a little. Dominant Wilson is a stranger to him; he's never imagined the mild-mannered oncologist could be so brusque.

Now that he's not in the grip of sexual tension, Chase feels a little sick. He manages to wipe off the next-to-last shelf. Wilson's hands are rough as he explores the younger man inside and out. To get at the bottom shelf, he's bent double, his ass in the air, a prime target for Wilson's attentions He winces as the older man pinches his nipples, moans in actual pain as a second finger enters his ass without preamble.

All the while, Wilson's hips rock harder and faster, his erection banging painfully against Chase's perineum. Chase tries to clench his thighs, hoping the added friction will get Wilson off. The drawback to this is, Wilson takes it as an invitation to finger-fuck him, and he's not being any too gentle about it.

Chase is seeing stars from the prostate manipulation It's half pain, half pleasure, and it's all he can do not to collapse. His legs are trembling, and his lungs burn from the effort of gasping. The head-down position he's in only makes everything worse; he's light-headed and drifting lights cloud his vision when something hot and wet oozes down his backside.

Cautiously, he looks around. Wilson's shot his load all over him, the gooey discharge slithering down his buttocks and his legs. Chase staggers as he tries to stand up---he has to lean against Wilson's desk for a moment until the buzzing in his ears goes away.

Wilson hands him his shirt, and he shrugs it on clumsily. "I'm sorry," Chase mutters. He's shaking. "Low blood sugar."

The other man helps him dress, as if that episode of severity never happened, as if he's the nice doctor he's always appeared to be. Servicing House wasn't this traumatic, he thinks, because House is a bastard most of the time anyway, so you expect it from him. It's Wilson who's really punished him.

"It's not your fault," Wilson says as Chase finally shoulders his backpack, wanting nothing more than to go home and wash away the pervasive feeling of being unclean. "Thanks for you help." He smiles, and Chase isn't sure if that's an apology or an invitation, and he's afraid to find out. "See you tomorrow."

Chase scurries to the elevator hoping no one else will waylay him. Tomorrow. I'm not looking forward to that. But it could be worse. At least there's no more Vogler.