» Title: Gambling Man
» Author: eggads, Horace! (e-mail: Fandom: House, M.D.
» Rating: M (for a reason!)
» On Going (WIP)/One-off/Series: One-off
» Classification(s): Slash
» Warnings: Some language, mild violence, and of course homoerotica.
» Pairing(s): House/Chase
» Disclaimer: Don't own. Bully for me.
» Summary: Chase finds that it probably isn't the best idea to challenge a gambling man on a winning streak… and that even when he isn't, House is always, always right.
AN: None of my stories really go together… they're all more about the hookup than the continuing relationship. Not that I'm apologizing!
Gambling Man
By eggadsHorace
It had started innocently enough, though Chase really should have known better. House was always right, even when he wasn't. Sooner or later, it would end up exactly like he said it would. Was it that manic brain of his, that deduced things so rapidly it bordered on precognition? Did his towering ego reshape the world in its image? Or was he just that bloody lucky?
Whatever the case, he had won and Chase was in trouble.
What had possessed him? He'd lost every hand of poker he'd ever played in his life. Double or nothing, he'd said, and kept saying, until it came to this. If it was a debt in dollars he'd have no trouble paying; he was a doctor, for chrissakes, he could afford to throw some money away. He breathed a little harder as House planted a hand next to his cheek, and a cane dug into his side, trapping him between extended arms. "I can't stand whelchers," the man confided, so close the warmth of his exhaled words made gooseflesh ripple across Chase's neck.
It had started with the cafeteria menu. What could be more innocent than that? But it had progressed through parking places and baseball, and, he was ashamed to admit it, every patient they had seen in the last month. He kept upping the ante, and House kept letting him. And now here he was, pinned against the x-rays that had been his downfall, Dr. Gregory House looking for his pound of flesh out of one Australian duckling. The viewing room felt hot and airless, the sound of Chase's breathing unnaturally loud. He licked his dry lips, and didn't know whether to be afraid or aroused when those bright eyes followed the moment with a narrow, searing gaze. His body chose a combination of both, and he shivered. Unconsciously, his hands had come up in a warding gesture, and now rested disconcertingly loverlike on House's chest.
"It could have been anything," he muttered, determinedly staring somewhere beyond House's right ear.
"It didn't have to be anything," House reminded him patiently. "It only had to not be marrow cancer—and?" He was too close. Chase, looking up, found himself caught in that electric blue gaze and couldn't move, had nowhere to go as House closed the small remaining distance between them.
"It wasn't," he whispered against House's lips, and shuddered at the contact.
"No." And now the brush of lips became a true kiss, the slide of House's hot tongue a personal epiphany in line with Elijah and the chariot. As a kisser and not kissee, Chase had done his fair share, and perhaps more (most recently with Cameron) and felt he could safely say that Dr. House far outstripped his modest skill at this particular gambit. Soft pressure made him sigh, light bites made him jerk, and just when he thought it might be over House went for the tonsils, wresting an embarrassingly high-pitched moan from his throat. House's arms were no longer bracketing him but had wrapped around him, cane abandoned, and Chase's were crushed between them where their bodies met in one long line from heated kiss to tangled legs.
God, it was good—sweet, and hot, even more so when House's groan vibrated between them and he brought a hand to grip Chase's chin, tightly, holding him still while he plundered his mouth. He leaned in to Chase, on his bad leg, and it gave a little under him so that they both slid down the wall to the floor, lips, tongue and teeth still locked together.
Chase had a hazy, questioning thought; how had House managed to maneuver so he knelt between Chase's widely splayed legs, and when had he spread the lab coat open and unbuttoned Chase's shirt? He had and he was, with a little derisive whisper of, "Purple?" when he saw its color. His hands where everywhere, rough and warm, and Chase would have responded but his coat and shirt were caught on his elbows and pinned under their weight. His increasingly violent struggles caught House's attention and had him laughing, darkly and with a feral edge. He made no move to free him but took full advantage of his incapacitated state, following the path of his fingers with his teeth as his hands moved to the top button of Chase's slacks. Flick.
Then the zipper.
Chase jerked and shuddered wildly as House stuck his tongue in his ear at the same time he stroked his fingers under the waistband of his boxers. They hooked into them and inched them down, slowly revealing Chase's arousal to the room. Chase was blushing cherry red and House whispered that he was adorable before he turned his hand and finally, finally fisted Chase.
He moaned, for a minute forgetting that his arms were still trapped in his discarded clothing, that a radiology showing room wasn't the safest place to be doing this, that this was House for crying out loud, and just vowed to himself and out loud that if the damnable man did not keep going and fuck him already he was going to kill him.
"Empty threats," House growled, and set to work.
House was good at multitasking. House was insanely good at multitasking. How the hell he managed to keep his focus when pulling off Chase's pants, kissing Chase nearly into a coma and doing really very interesting things to Chase's foreskin was a bloody mystery to him, but oh, oh he appreciated the effort.
It was almost embarrassing, how quickly he came, still tied by his own clothes (maybe that was part of the problem?) and thrusting desperately into that firm and knowing grip, head thrown back while House set his teeth just under Chase's jaw. He made a small noise and writhed, gasping, while the man milked him for all he was worth, until he could only twitch in response.
"That's the trouble with young people these days," said that gravelly, wicked voice in his ear. "No stamina." His hand, liberally coated in Chase's come, stroked the length of his own neglected erection, springing from his open fly. Chase's breath stuck in his throat and he stared into House's brilliant eyes, mute appeal in every open-mouthed pant. House caught and held his gaze, made sure he was watching as those same slick fingers trailed down from Chase's belly button, along the crease of his thigh to tease and circle lightly at a very sensitive point on his body. Chase's moan was swallowed whole by an eager, ready Gregory House who might have been trying to turn him inside out with those sure fingers and steady, rocking rhythm. When House found what he was looking for, Chase's entire body arched in his arms, breath clogging, vision graying, mouth moving of its own accord and cursing him, praising him, begging him for more, until House reclaimed it. When House withdrew, Chase's body tried to follow. House laughed, a little breathless himself. "Wait for it," he murmured, before hitching Chase's hips to just the right position and rubbing himself teasingly against him.
"House—!" But then it was too late, or finally enough, because House had eased past that tightness but paused, just the head inside, and, panting, grinned lopsidedly at Chase.
"Bet I can make you come twice," House gasped out.
"Do it," Chase begged, near delirious with pleasure, and cried out when House set to make good on his words.
The violence of their movements against one another was such that Chase finally managed to free himself, taking the opportunity to brace himself against the wall and wrap an arm around House's neck. The kiss they shared now could hardly be called that, House's tongue as ruthless as he was where he plunged into Chase, hard, fast, without temperance. But Chase answered him, bucked greedily into those merciless thrusts, breath tearing from his throat, and it was his turn to use his teeth on House as the man, almost as far gone as Chase, reached between them.
"Ha," was his only comment, and then Chase lost the ability to hear, see or feel anything but the titanic pleasure House forced on him. He choked on a scream, and seonds later House groaned softly in his ear with a note of surprise, as though somehow shocked it could feel that good.
Coming down was slow and delightfully obscene, with House, his knees under Chase, spreading him wider and lazily grinding up into him as he eased down. Chase shuddered, and kept shuddering, head falling limply onto House's shoulder and staying there.
"I win," said House in a rumbling whisper, lapping at the bruises he'd left in his intensivist's neck.
"No contest," Chase sighed.
There really wasn't one.
(A/N: A few moments later, Cameron barges in while both are still in various states of undress. She make a noise like, "Uhwa?" and House says, the air-conditioner's broken. Don't you have something better to do? Chase blushes, because it seems to be what he's good at. Cameron strides off with a bribe for management to never, ever fix the air conditioning in radiology show room number eight, because she just got to see House's pecs and Chase's abs, all in the same place. This is what I think happens, anyway... and after all, I am the author!)