Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain hadn’t stopped all day. It streaked down the wide glass windows of Lecture Hall B like the sky was trying to rinse the building clean of whatever sins had taken place inside it. Robert Chase sat in the second row, hoodie slightly damp from his sprint across the quad, hair a little messy from the wind. He hadn’t expected to make it on time. He hadn’t expected House to already be lecturing when he opened the door. And he certainly hadn’t expected those sharp blue eyes to track him across the room the moment he stepped in.

House didn’t stop the lecture. He didn’t acknowledge him aloud. He just paused mid-sentence, quirked a brow, and resumed talking with a look that said:

Late. Try again. But I’m entertained.

Chase kept his head down and slid into his seat, heart hammering for reasons he chose not to examine.

“…So unless you enjoy watching people slowly suffocate while you fumble through textbook chapters you didn’t read,” House was saying, “you should probably remember that clear lungs and hypotension with elevated JVD means you’re missing the obvious. Or you’re just dumb.”

A few students laughed. Some typed faster. Chase tried to focus on the projected EKG on the board, but all he could focus on was House’s voice.

It was careless, gravelly, and somehow more intimate than it had any right to be. Everything he said sounded like a dare.

⸻

When class ended, House dismissed them with a flick of his cane and a muttered, “Don’t touch anything on your way out. I’d like this room to retain some dignity.”

Chase lingered.

He told himself he just wanted to ask a question about the case. Clarify the notes. Maybe argue the differential a little, just for fun. But the truth sat low and heavy in his chest: he wanted House to look at him again. He wanted to be seen. Called out. Burned by it.

“You got a question, or are you just loitering because your dorm’s lonely?” House’s voice snapped him back to attention. The room was almost empty now. Chase glanced around, swallowed, and stepped down toward the front.

“I had a thought about the pericarditis case,” he said, ignoring the way his hands felt colder than they should’ve. “If the BNP was normal but he had Kussmaul’s sign—”

House leaned back against the edge of the desk. His cane dangled from two fingers.

“You think if you say enough big words, I’ll let you stay?”

Chase blinked.

“…Stay?”

“Here. In my office. After class. On Thursday. Six o’clock.” House tilted his head, eyes scanning him like he was a patient under fluorescent light. “Unless you’re busy watching Grey’s Anatomy reruns and practicing your brooding.”

Chase’s heart dropped to his stomach, then started thudding its way back up like it had somewhere to be.

“I—I’m not busy.”

“Didn’t think so.” House turned away, already done with the conversation. “Wear something less pathetic.”

⸻

That night, Chase lay on his bed in his dorm, staring at the ceiling, laptop half-open and forgotten. He hadn’t replied to the follow-up email yet. Just one sentence:

Bring your brain. Or don’t bother.

His finger hovered over the trackpad, but he didn’t click anything. He didn’t need to. The decision had already settled itself somewhere deep in his chest, low and warm and inevitable.

He was going.

And God help him—he didn’t think it was for the extra credit.

Thursday came too quickly.

The rain hadn’t left. It was heavier now, hanging in sheets across the pavement like the universe itself was sweating. The walk from Chase’s dorm to the diagnostics wing was short, but by the time he reached the hallway leading to House’s office, his shoes were damp and his hoodie clung to his skin. He’d debated changing three times. First into something cleaner, then into something older, then back into the hoodie. In the end, he gave up. He told himself it didn’t matter.

He wasn’t dressing up for a professor.

He wasn’t.

The hallway was quiet. Most of the lights were off—just one long strip buzzing faintly down the center. House’s office door was closed. Chase checked his phone.

5:52 p.m.

He hesitated.

Then he knocked.

Nothing.

He tried again, softer. Then the door creaked open on its own, unlocked.

Inside, the lights were dim. One desk lamp, warm and golden, lit the corner of the room. House sat at the desk, legs stretched out, cane resting across his lap. He didn’t look up.

“You’re early,” he said, without turning.

Chase stepped inside. Closed the door behind him. He wasn’t sure why, but he did it slowly. Quietly. Like if he made too much noise, the tension might snap.

“It’s raining,” he replied. “Didn’t want to wait around outside.”

“Mm.” House finally glanced up. His eyes dragged over Chase’s figure with clinical detachment. But his gaze stayed a second too long on the damp curve of Chase’s collar. “Hoodie again. Shocking.”

Chase flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t know there was a dress code.”

“There isn’t. But if you’re going to whine about pericardial knock in my office, the least you can do is not look like you’re here for free therapy.”

Chase sat down in the chair across from him. The desk between them was cluttered—case files, coffee cups, prescription pads. It smelled like coffee and ink and something sharper underneath. Something like cologne, but faint, worn in.

House leaned forward and pushed a folder toward him.

“Patient. Female. Thirty-four. Hypotension. Abdominal pain. No fever. Go.”

Chase opened the file. His hands were steady, but his pulse wasn’t. He read quickly, absorbing the details: vitals, lab results, history. His voice was even when he spoke.

“She’s tachycardic but afebrile. Could be internal bleeding, maybe splenic rupture, but there’s no trauma history—”

“Boring,” House cut in. “Try again.”

Chase looked up. “You want me to guess?”

“I want you to think. You’re supposed to be one of the smart ones, remember?”

Chase swallowed. “Ruptured ectopic?”

“She’s not pregnant.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t. But I wanted to see if you’d ask.”

Chase blinked. Then, slowly, a corner of his mouth tugged into a smile. “So this is a game.”

“No,” House said, eyes glinting. “This is a test. You just like being played.”

Something in Chase’s stomach twisted. Not badly. Not fear. Something closer to heat.

He looked back down at the file. Cleared his throat. Tried again.

⸻

It went on like that for forty minutes. House throwing questions like knives, Chase dodging them, fumbling some, catching others. When he got one wrong, House didn’t say “no.” He just stared. Let the silence speak for him.

It was maddening. And addictive.

By the end, Chase’s notebook was half-full. His leg bounced under the desk. His palms were a little damp, but he refused to wipe them on his jeans. That would show nerves.

He didn’t want House to see nerves.

“Not bad,” House said finally, closing the file with a snap. “For someone who looked like he cried during his admissions interview.”

Chase rolled his eyes, but there was a flush rising at his neck. “Thanks.”

House stood up. He moved to the window, looking out at the rain. He didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, softly:

“You want something from me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Chase stilled.

“…What?”

House turned slightly, but not all the way. His profile was sharp in the lamplight.

“You’re not here because you care about case studies. You want something. What is it?”

Chase opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I want to learn.”

“Bullshit.”

House turned now, slow and deliberate, and leaned back against the windowsill. Arms crossed. Cane gone, balanced against the desk behind him.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “If you want attention, ask for it. If you want mentorship, be honest about it. If you want to fuck your way into a residency—well. At least own that.”

The words hit like a slap.

But Chase didn’t look away.

“I don’t want to fuck my way into anything.”

“No?” House’s voice was light, mocking. “So you’re just naturally gifted. And this—” He gestured lazily between them. “This is just education.”

Chase stood up.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Chase said, voice quiet,

“I just wanted you to notice me.”

House’s face didn’t change. Not much. But something behind his eyes flickered. Brief. Dangerous.

“…You’re not hard to notice,” he said.

Chase didn’t reply.

He left the office without another word.

Chase didn’t sleep much that night.

He laid in bed with the lights off, hoodie still on, sheets twisted around his legs like restraints. His mind replayed the conversation over and over — House’s voice, the way he leaned against the window, the glint in his eyes when he said “You’re not hard to notice.”

He wasn’t sure what he expected. A follow-up email? A message canceling future meetings? A snide comment in front of the class? Something.

But Thursday came again, and with it, another one-liner in his inbox:

You coming or not? Bring a working brain this time. Thursdays. 6.

– G.H.

That was all.

And just like before, Chase went.

⸻

He got there early. Again.

Not by accident this time.

The hallway was dim, the same sickly fluorescent lighting humming overhead. He stopped in front of House’s door at 5:44 and stood there like an idiot for nearly a full minute before knocking.

Nothing.

He tried the handle.

It opened.

“Seriously?” House’s voice drifted from inside — not annoyed, just amused. “You break in now?”

Chase stepped in. Closed the door behind him, slow and quiet.

“You didn’t lock it,” he said.

House looked up from behind his desk, lips curled faintly.

“Next time I will.”

He stood up. Walked over. And this time—he did lock the door.

Chase’s throat went dry.

“Sit,” House said simply, nodding toward the chair. Same one as last time. Same lamp. Same silence thick with unspoken weight.

Chase sat. Opened his notebook. Pretended he was here to learn.

House didn’t move behind the desk again. He leaned against it instead, perched on the edge, ankles crossed in front of him. The cane was across his lap like a weapon.

“So,” he drawled, “ready to impress me this time?”

Chase didn’t look up. “I didn’t know this was an audition.”

“It’s not.” House’s voice was lower now. “But you’re treating it like one.”

Chase’s pencil hovered above the page.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“Doing what?”

“This. Keeping me late. Locking the door. Calling me out in front of the class one day and then telling me I’m not hard to notice the next.”

House tilted his head. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

That came out too fast.

Way too fast.

House smiled. Just a little. Like he was pleased. Like he was waiting for that.

“Good,” he said.

Then: “Case file. Read.”

He tossed the folder onto the desk, paper sliding out across the surface. Chase blinked, startled, but caught it with one hand.

He hated how warm his face felt. Hated how easily his hands shook, not from fear, but from something else entirely.

Anticipation. Maybe. Or something darker.

He flipped open the file. “Fifty-six-year-old male. Severe fatigue. Muscle cramps. Intermittent confusion. Labs show low sodium—”

“Stop.”

Chase looked up.

House was staring at him.

“That shirt,” he said. “That’s new.”

Chase froze. “What?”

“Under the hoodie. It’s different.”

Chase’s hoodie was zipped down a little lower today. Just slightly. Not on purpose. At least, that’s what he told himself.

The black shirt underneath was snug. Cotton, worn thin. It clung to him a little more than it should’ve. He suddenly became aware of every inch of skin it touched.

“I—yeah. I guess.”

House didn’t look away. “Looks good on you.”

Chase couldn’t speak.

He couldn’t think.

Not while House looked at him like that. Not while the air in the office seemed suddenly ten degrees warmer.

“You wore it for me?” House asked, voice almost lazy.

Chase’s mouth parted. “No.”

House smiled. Sharp. “Liar.”

The silence stretched.

“I—” Chase tried, but the sentence died before it began.

“Relax,” House said. “I’m not going to eat you.”

Chase looked up then, finally. Met his eyes.

And said, without thinking,

“…Would it be so bad if you did?”

House didn’t smile this time.

He just watched him.

And for the first time, Chase realized he might have gone too far.

Or maybe not far enough.

The office felt smaller every week.

Or maybe Chase was just getting better at noticing the walls. The way they pressed in. The way House didn’t move much, but somehow still managed to be everywhere—in the air, in the silence, in the way Chase’s breath caught every time he heard that cane click against the floor.

He didn’t ask why House had locked the door this time.

And House didn’t offer an explanation.

They went through the case like normal. Sort of. House pushed, Chase answered. Not always well. He fumbled when House got close, when he leaned across the desk with a loose file in hand, voice low and amused.

“You flinch like I’m going to hit you,” House muttered once, too close. “Or kiss you. Not sure which.”

Chase didn’t respond. He didn’t trust himself to.

⸻

The tension broke like glass near the end of the hour.

Chase had stood up to stretch. His back hurt. His hands ached from writing. And House watched him like he was something on a screen—backlit and slowly falling apart.

“You’re getting twitchier,” House said.

Chase didn’t turn. “I’m tired.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

He did turn then. Too fast. Heart racing.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because you lie.”

House pushed off the desk. Walked closer. Not a lot. Just enough to make Chase freeze.

“You pretend this is just about medicine. You pretend this is about learning,” House said, voice quieter now. “But every time I look at you, you tense up like you’re hoping I’ll do something.”

Chase’s throat worked. His heart was a drumbeat gone rogue.

“…And if I am?” he asked.

House stilled.

It was a slow silence. Like the world paused for breath.

Then:

“Then you’re even dumber than I thought.”

Chase’s stomach dropped.

But House didn’t leave. He stepped closer.

“You think I don’t know how this ends?” he said. “You think we keep meeting like this, and eventually it turns into something romantic? You bring me coffee and I teach you how to do CPR with our lips?”

Chase blinked hard. “No.”

House leaned in. “You sure? Because you look like you’ve been thinking about it since September.”

“I haven’t.”

“You’re lying again.”

House’s breath was so close it made the hairs on Chase’s arms stand up.

“…Why are you doing this to me?” Chase whispered.

There it was.

The moment.

House looked at him for a long time. Unreadable. Sharp.

“Because you want me to.”

⸻

The words echoed.

Chase stepped back, just slightly. His knees hit the edge of the chair. He didn’t sit. Couldn’t. He felt like he was vibrating from the inside out.

“I don’t—” he started.

But House tilted his head.

“Say it.”

“What?”

“Say what you want.”

Chase’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. His breath stuttered.

House’s eyes flicked downward.

“You can’t even say it,” he said. “You walk into my office every Thursday, wearing tighter clothes, asking all the right questions, looking at me like you want to be ruined, but when I ask you to speak—”

“I want—” Chase choked.

House waited.

“…I want you to touch me,” Chase breathed.

House didn’t move.

“You don’t even know what that means,” he said.

Chase looked up, finally meeting his gaze. “I’m not a kid.”

“No. But you’re playing like one.”

Then, after a pause:

“Kneel.”

Chase froze.

His breath hitched.

“Excuse me?”

House said nothing. Just stared.

It wasn’t a command, not really. Not a suggestion either. It was just a word, placed delicately between them like a blade.

Chase didn’t move.

But his knees buckled slightly.

And House noticed.

He stepped back.

“Thought so,” he said, voice unreadable.

Then he picked up his cane, walked to the door, and unlocked it.

“We’re done for today.”

⸻

Chase didn’t move.

Not right away.

He stood in the middle of the office like something unraveling. House didn’t look at him again.

Just said, over his shoulder:

“See you next Thursday.”

And the door closed behind him.

This time, he showed up late.

Not by accident.

He told himself it was tactical. Strategic. Power shift.

House always got to say when they started, how they sat, how long it went. Not this time.

Chase arrived at 6:09, hoodie off, shirt a bit wrinkled, hair unkempt like he’d run his hands through it too many times on the walk over. His heart thundered in his chest, but he held it together until he reached the door.

He knocked once. No answer.

Then opened it.

House was already seated.

Not at the desk this time.

He was in the low chair near the bookcase—legs spread, cane balanced across his knees, and eyes already on Chase before the door was halfway open.

“You’re late,” he said casually.

Chase stepped inside. “I figured you’d enjoy the suspense.”

House smiled. Just faintly. “Mm. And the attitude. Very grown-up.”

Chase hesitated, hand still on the door handle.

“Close it,” House said. “And lock it.”

Chase stared at him. Briefly.

Then obeyed.

The click of the lock echoed like a starting gun.

⸻

House didn’t move. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Chase stood awkwardly by the door, hands flexing at his sides. It felt like everything he’d rehearsed on the way here—the lines, the control, the cool detachment—evaporated the second their eyes met.

House leaned back slightly in the chair.

“You look tired.”

“I am.”

“Did you sleep after last week?”

Chase swallowed.

“…No.”

House tilted his head. “Why not?”

Chase let the silence stretch. Then stepped forward. “You know why.”

“Oh, I do. I just like watching you admit it.”

⸻

Chase stood in front of him now. The desk was behind them. The light low. Only the desk lamp in the corner glowed, casting golden shadows on House’s face.

Chase didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

Because House did.

“Did you get on your knees after you left?”

The words hit like a pulse through Chase’s spine.

“What?”

“After you left my office last week. After I told you to kneel. Did you?”

“I—” Chase faltered. “Why would you ask that?”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

House’s voice was low. Slow. Cruel in the way it peeled people open.

Chase’s face was flushed now. Fully. His chest tight. He hated how easily House could do this. How quickly he became transparent.

“No,” he said finally.

House raised a brow. “No?”

Chase’s voice cracked a little. “Not until I got home.”

House exhaled softly through his nose.

Then tapped the cane once against the floor.

“Come here.”

Chase hesitated.

But his feet moved anyway.

Two steps closer.

Now he was between House’s knees, practically.

Too close.

Not close enough.

⸻

House didn’t reach out.

He didn’t touch him.

He just looked up and said:

“Do you even know what you’re asking for?”

Chase’s breath was shaky. “I think I do.”

House leaned in. Not to kiss. Not even close.

He brought his lips to Chase’s ear and whispered,

“If you kneel for me now… you don’t get to pretend this is about education anymore.”

Chase’s knees trembled.

“I’m not pretending.”

“Say it.”

“I want you.”

House leaned back.

Still didn’t touch him.

He just looked… and waited.

Chase’s hands shook as he lowered himself down.

Slow.

Controlled.

Onto his knees.

In front of him.

The carpet wasn’t soft.

That was Chase’s first thought when his knees hit the floor—just rough enough to burn through his slacks if he stayed too long. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not with House looking down at him like that. Not with the silence thick between them and his own breath trembling out in shallow bursts.

House still hadn’t touched him.

Not even once.

He just stared, cane balanced between his legs, the tip grazing the floor. His eyes dragged across Chase’s face, slow and deliberate, like he was taking inventory.

Then he spoke.

“Look at you,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “Didn’t even hesitate this time.”

Chase’s cheeks burned. His palms pressed to the floor, trying to ground himself, trying to keep from losing what little control he had left.

“This isn’t about learning,” House murmured. “You said it wasn’t. You know what that makes you?”

Chase swallowed. “Pathetic.”

House’s mouth curved.

“No,” he said. “Honest.”

That should have felt better. It didn’t.

“You want me to use you,” House continued. “That’s what you came here for. Not advice. Not mentorship. You want to be used. You want me to sit back and tell you what to do, and you’ll do it. No questions.”

Chase’s throat bobbed. He didn’t deny it.

“Take off your shirt.”

His hands moved before his brain did. Hoodie already gone. T-shirt next. He pulled it over his head and tossed it aside, chest heaving slightly from how fast he’d obeyed.

House didn’t comment on the body—didn’t leer, didn’t compliment. He just looked. Like it was a medical chart. Like it was his.

“Kiss the inside of my knee.”

Chase blinked. “What?”

House leaned back slightly in the chair. Legs spread just a little wider.

“I said what I said.”

Chase crawled forward. Slowly. Heat rising in his chest, shame mixed with want. He didn’t even know why that command made him tremble harder than the rest, but it did.

He pressed his lips to the inside of House’s pant leg, just above the knee, slow and reverent.

“Good boy.”

His breath stuttered.

“Again.”

He kissed higher. Warm. Slow. House’s leg didn’t move.

“Higher.”

He obeyed.

And again. Again. Until Chase’s lips were just below the inner crease of House’s thigh, his face close enough now to feel the heat radiating off his body through the fabric.

Then House finally unzipped.

The sound was deafening in the quiet room.

Chase didn’t look up.

“Do you want this?” House asked.

Chase’s voice was hoarse. “Yes.”

“Say what you want.”

He blinked. “I want to suck you off.”

“Look at me.”

He did.

And House—still seated, still unreadable—nodded.

“Then do it.”

⸻

He pulled House’s cock out gently, careful like it was holy. His hands shook. Not because he was afraid, but because this was the moment he’d imagined every Thursday since the semester began. Every time House leaned too close, every time his voice dropped, every time he called him “golden boy” with that smirk like he already knew how Chase would fall apart.

It was heavy in his hand, half-hard already. Chase leaned in and pressed his mouth to the base, kissing like he was worshipping it. House exhaled sharply above him.

“Don’t tease.”

Chase didn’t. He opened his mouth and took him.

Slow at first.

Breath through his nose, hand gripping the base, tongue flat and wet and eager as he slid down, inch by inch, until his throat tightened.

House didn’t moan. He didn’t need to. His hand went to Chase’s hair, not pulling, not forcing—just resting.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “So much better than pretending you’re top of the class.”

Chase moaned around him, and House groaned.

“Yeah. That’s it. Let me hear you.”

He bobbed his head slowly, building a rhythm, jaw aching already but he didn’t care. He needed this. Needed the weight of it, the taste of it, the humiliation of being on his knees for a man who didn’t even ask—just expected.

House started to get louder. Not groaning. Talking.

“You like this. Filthy little thing. You’d do anything I said if I asked nice enough, wouldn’t you?”

Chase moaned again.

“Bet you jerked off after last week. Did you? On your knees in your dorm room, thinking about me?”

Chase pulled off, spit shining his chin.

“Y-Yes.”

“Did you come?”

He nodded.

House smirked.

“Open your mouth.”

He did. Tongue out. Obedient.

House gripped the back of his head this time.

And fucked his mouth.

Not hard—not yet—but deep. Deliberate. Testing how far he could go.

Chase gagged once. Regained control. Took more.

“Jesus,” House muttered. “You’re perfect for this.”

The words shouldn’t have made Chase moan. But they did. Loud.

It spurred House on.

Faster. Deeper. Now his hand was really gripping, pulling his head forward just a little rougher, forcing him to take it.

“You look so pretty like this. So fucking pretty. Bet the other professors have no idea.”

Chase whimpered. His throat was burning, tears stinging his eyes.

He wanted more.

He meant it when he said he wanted to be used.

House groaned. Then hissed. Then warned:

“I’m gonna come. Don’t move.”

Chase didn’t.

And House came. Deep. Loud. Fingers curling in his hair. Thrusting once. Twice. Holding him there until he swallowed around it, desperate and messy and ruined.

When he finally let go, Chase pulled back slowly, mouth wet, face flushed, eyes red.

House stared down at him like he was trying to memorize the image.

Then said—

“Still think this is about school?”

Chase was still kneeling.

His face flushed, mouth slick, breath shallow. His hands trembled just slightly on his thighs, and his eyes—god, his eyes—were glassy, dazed, ruined.

But House didn’t move.

He let the silence sit.

Watched the way Chase tried to catch his breath, hands twitching like he didn’t know what to do with himself now. But he stayed there. Quiet. Obedient.

Waiting.

House leaned forward slightly, voice low.

“…You think we’re done?”

Chase blinked slowly. “You—” His voice cracked. “You came.”

House smirked, leaned closer.

“I did.”

Then:

“You didn’t.”

The words hit like fire under Chase’s skin.

And then—House stood. Slowly. Letting his chair roll back slightly as he reached down and dragged the pad of two fingers along Chase’s flushed cheekbone.

“You think you’re walking out of here with your knees shaking and your dick still hard?” he whispered. “That’s cute.”

Chase exhaled hard.

House’s hand moved down, two fingers under his chin. Tipping it up.

“Stand up.”

Chase did. Staggered slightly on unsteady legs, flushed and shirtless and hard in his jeans. He reached for the zipper but House stopped him.

“No,” he said. “Turn around.”

Chase obeyed.

Turned.

Faced the desk.

And when he didn’t move fast enough, House stepped in behind him—warm, steady, quiet—and whispered against his ear:

“Bend over.”

⸻

Chase’s palms landed on the wood. The desk was cold under his skin. The zipper of his jeans dragged when House finally undid it, slow and cruel, pulling everything down just enough to bare him.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

The silence was full of everything they hadn’t said all semester.

House stepped in closer. Pressed against the small of his back with one palm and said—

“Arch.”

Chase whimpered. Shifted. Did it without thinking. Back arched, spine curving downward, his hips rolling back into House’s grip.

“Good boy.”

The praise made him choke on breath.

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” House said, low. “Me behind you. Making you take it. No lectures. Just this.”

Chase moaned softly.

House’s hand dragged down his spine, slow and possessive, stopping at the base.

And then—pressure.

A lubed finger—when had he gotten lube?—pressing in gently. Testing. Stroking.

Chase’s hips jerked slightly. “F-fuck—”

House shushed him. “Quiet now. Or I’ll stop.”

Chase bit his lip. Let it happen.

One finger. Then two. Slow. Stretching. Easing in with deliberate care but no hesitation.

And all the while, House muttered things against the back of his neck:

“Tight little thing.”

“You were made for this.”

“Bet you’ve never been filled right.”

By the time House finally pushed in—slowly, deeply—Chase’s fingers were gripping the desk like a lifeline. His mouth fell open. A broken sound escaped him that wasn’t quite a moan.

House cursed under his breath.

“God, Chase…”

The stretch burned. The fullness made him dizzy. But it was perfect. It was everything he’d wanted—needed—for weeks.

“More,” Chase whispered. “Please—fuck, please—”

House began to move.

Not rough. Not fast.

Just deep.

Rhythmic. Controlled. Pushing all the way in, pulling back slow, setting a pace that had Chase trembling from head to toe.

“You’re taking it so well,” House said, voice ragged now. “Such a good fucking boy.”

Chase whimpered, back arching more, ass pushing into every thrust without shame.

“Please,” he breathed. “I wanna come.”

“Not yet.”

“House—”

A sharp thrust shut him up.

“Say my name again like that,” House growled. “See what happens.”

“House,” Chase gasped. “House—fuck—House—”

The rhythm broke.

House snapped his hips forward, deeper now, each thrust punching a breath from Chase’s lungs. His fingers dug into Chase’s hips. He was swearing under his breath, losing composure for the first time.

And Chase?

He was gone.

Mouth open, eyes fluttering, moaning like he’d never been touched before. All control gone.

“Please—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” House said, voice low and filthy and final.

“Come for me.”

Chase moaned—loud and desperate—as he came untouched, shaking apart against the desk, hot release dripping down as House fucked him through it.

House groaned as he followed, thrusting deep once, twice more, spilling inside him with a sound like relief and something darker.

⸻

They stayed there a long time.

House still inside.

Chase barely breathing.

And when House finally pulled out, slow and careful, Chase whimpered at the loss.

But didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

And behind him, House’s voice came again—soft now.

Almost kind.

“Still think you’re getting extra credit?”

Chapter Text

Three days.

Three days since House had bent him over that desk.

Three days since he’d grabbed Chase’s hips like handles and thrust into him like he had no intention of stopping. Since he’d called him good boy under his breath, like it wasn’t even meant to be heard. Since he’d pulled out, zipped up, and left with a smirk like it meant nothing.

And House hasn’t mentioned it once.

Not once.

Not in class, not after, not even when Chase lingered like a fucking idiot in the hallway—half-hoping for a look, a comment, a cruel remark that would at least mean it happened.

But there’s been nothing.

No follow-up.

No “you good?”

No “nice ass, by the way.”

Nothing.

Chase didn’t even know what he was to House. An accident? An experiment? A bad idea?

Whatever it was, Chase was wrecked.

⸻

It was just after 10 p.m. when he gave up pretending to study.

The room was dim, lit only by the blue glow of his laptop, still open on some half-read PDF about neuroinflammation. But Chase couldn’t think about science. Couldn’t think about anything except how his body still ached. How every movement reminded him of House’s hands, House’s voice, House’s fucking smirk when he’d said—

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want this.”

Chase groaned into his hands.

He wanted it again.

More than anything.

His cock twitched beneath his sweatpants, already half-hard. He shifted on the bed, trying to ignore it. He couldn’t.

Fine.

Just once.

Fast.

Just to get it out.

⸻

He slid down against the headboard, legs falling open. The second his hand slipped under the waistband of his sweats, a moan hit his throat like a reflex.

He was already so fucking hard.

It was embarrassing how little it took.

He licked his lips. Closed his eyes. Let the image of House pressing him into the desk take over—gripping his hair, pulling his head back, muttering in that low, cruel tone, “This what you wanted?”

“Fuck—” Chase breathed, pumping faster.

He tried to stay quiet. The dorm walls weren’t thick. But his breath was stuttering already. It had been three days. Three days of nothing—no eye contact, no closure, just silence and the taste of it still in his mouth.

His hips bucked. His back arched slightly off the bed.

The edge was close. He needed it.

He was going to—

Click.

The door opened.

Not a knock. Not a warning. Just a—

“Chase?”

He froze.

Like froze.

Still completely hard. Hand still inside his pants.

And House?

Standing in the doorway.

Holding a file folder.

And a very familiar smirk.

⸻

“…Seriously?” House said flatly, eyes scanning the scene with zero shame.

Chase tried to move. Tried to yank the blanket up.

But it was so obvious.

The tent in his sweats. His flushed face. His hand.

The look on House’s face.

“Jesus,” Chase gasped, heart in his throat.

“I didn’t—I didn’t think anyone was—”

House shut the door behind him.

Didn’t even look surprised.

Just… amused.

And maybe—just maybe—a little intrigued.

“What were you thinking about?” he asked.

Chase’s mouth opened. Closed.

His face burned.

House took a step forward.

“Be honest, or I’m going to guess.”

Chase’s throat was dry.

House stood by the door. The air in the room felt like static—too hot, too charged. Chase’s cock was still straining against his sweats, and he hadn’t moved an inch.

Couldn’t. Not with House looking at him like that.

“What were you thinking about?” House asked again.

Chase opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

His heart pounded so hard it felt like it shook the bedframe.

House stepped closer, one slow click of his cane at a time.

He stopped at the edge of the mattress.

“Was it me?”

Chase let out a quiet breath. His hand still under the blanket.

House tilted his head. Smiled like he already knew.

“That night, maybe?” he went on. “My hands on your hips. Your voice all wrecked. The way you begged.”

Chase whimpered.

“You’re hard again,” House observed casually, eyes flicking down.

“You really are pathetic.”

Chase flinched. But his cock twitched at the words.

House sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Go on.”

Chase blinked.

“…What?”

“Finish.” House’s voice was calm. Icy. Dangerous.

“I caught you. Might as well enjoy the show.”

⸻

Chase didn’t move.

He couldn’t tell if this was a game. A test. A joke.

But House’s eyes didn’t waver. They just stayed fixed on him. Hungry.

“Unless you want me to do it for you,” House added, like it wasn’t the cruelest sentence Chase had ever heard in his life.

Chase swallowed hard.

Then—trembling—he pulled the blanket down.

His cock sprang free. Red. Leaking.

So exposed it made him shiver.

He glanced at House.

House’s eyes were locked to it like a goddamn sniper scope.

But he didn’t touch.

“Do it right,” he said.

“Slow. I want to see your hand.”

Chase obeyed.

Fingers curling around the base, he started stroking—slow, deliberate, like his body was obeying House more than him. The sensitivity made him gasp.

“Good boy,” House muttered, almost too soft to hear.

Chase’s stomach fluttered.

⸻

“Don’t close your eyes,” House said.

Chase’s lids flew open.

“Look at me.”

He did.

Bright pink. Breathing uneven. Cock twitching in his hand.

House’s gaze was ravenous.

“Faster,” he said.

Chase sped up.

His wrist moved smoother now, slick sounds filling the room. He bit down on a moan. Failed.

“Let me hear you,” House said flatly.

“Don’t act shy. I’ve already been inside you.”

Chase whimpered. Louder.

“Yeah, like that.” House leaned back, cane across his lap. “You’re so easy.”

⸻

Chase was already close. Too close.

He slowed down automatically.

But House caught it.

“Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

Chase’s hand sped up again, teeth sinking into his lower lip to muffle himself. His hips bucked. His whole body was shaking now.

“Please—” he gasped.

House’s eyes narrowed.

“Please what?”

“I—” Chase panted. “I’m gonna—”

House leaned forward.

“You don’t get to come yet.”

Chase froze.

“Take your hand off.”

He did. Whimpering. Barely holding back.

His cock twitched violently in the air, red and leaking and twitching with denied release.

House reached out—fingers wrapping around the base.

Slow. Controlling.

“You’re not coming,” he whispered.

“Until I say so.”

House’s hand was warm.

Too warm.

It wrapped around Chase’s cock like it belonged there—loose, lazy pressure, deliberately not enough. Chase’s breath hitched in his throat, hips jerking upward, desperate for friction.

House squeezed once, just enough to make him gasp.

Then he let go.

Chase almost sobbed.

“Relax,” House murmured, like he wasn’t destroying him on purpose. “You’re going to get what you want.”

He set his cane aside.

That did something to Chase—watching House deliberately put it down, like he needed both hands free for this.

House patted his thigh.

“Come here.”

Chase blinked. “House—”

“Get. Up.”

His voice was low, steady, the kind that wasn’t loud but shook you anyway. Chase scrambled upright, still shaking, cock flushed and leaking against his stomach.

House tugged him closer by the wrist.

“On your knees.”

Chase’s brain stalled.

Not because he didn’t want to—

but because something about hearing it punched him right in the spine.

He sank to the floor.

Carpet digging into his knees.

Heart pounding.

House spread his legs, slow, casual, like he was settling into a chair rather than preparing to be worshipped.

He undid his zipper with one thumb.

Pulled himself out.

And holy fuck—Chase forgot how to breathe for a second.

Thick. Heavy. Already hard. A glistening bead at the tip.

House saw the way Chase stared.

He smirked.

“Yeah. That’s what you were thinking about.”

Chase swallowed.

He didn’t get a chance to decide what to do next.

House took him by the jaw—thumb pressing into one cheek, fingers into the other—and tilted his head up.

“Open.”

Chase opened his mouth automatically, lips parted, tongue flat, eyes wide and glassy.

House didn’t say “good boy.”

He just… slid into him.

Slow, torturous inches.

Chase’s throat fluttered around him, eyes watering, hands gripping House’s knees.

Halfway in, House hummed.

“Mm. Still tight.”

He pushed deeper.

Chase gagged—quiet, soft, involuntary.

His lashes fluttered. His thighs tightened.

House’s fingers threaded into his hair, not yanking—just holding.

“Breathe through your nose. Don’t be dramatic.”

Chase obeyed.

Inhale. Shake. Push down the reflex. Take more.

House felt the moment he relaxed.

The moment he accepted it.

That’s when House thrust.

Not brutally.

Just enough to make Chase choke around him.

Drool spilled down Chase’s chin.

House hissed through his teeth.

“Oh, you like that way too much.”

Chase tried to shake his head, tried to protest, but the sound came out wet and muffled, swallowed by House’s cock.

House leaned forward, voice a warm gravel against Chase’s scalp.

“Look at me.”

Chase dragged his eyes up—tears at the corners, cheeks flushed, lips stretched around him.

House moaned.

Low. Unfiltered.

“Fuck, there you are.”

He started moving—slow at first, hips rolling forward, letting Chase adjust. Each pass slid slicker, deeper, the wet heat of Chase’s mouth turning obscene.

Chase braced his hands against House’s thighs and let him in.

Let him take.

House’s grip on his hair tightened.

“Too quiet,” he muttered.

He pulled Chase forward, burying him in to the base.

Chase’s throat convulsed—wet, sloppy, desperate sounds filling the room.

House groaned—head tipping back, chest rising.

“That’s better.”

He fucked into Chase’s mouth now—controlled, measured thrusts that forced his jaw open wider, made his lips shine with spit. Chase’s eyes went glassy, unfocused, drunk on it.

He sucked harder, instinct kicking in—tongue curling, cheeks hollowing around him—

House’s breath stuttered.

“Jesus—”

His hand tightened in Chase’s hair, holding him in place, hips grinding once, twice—

He came.

Hot. Sudden.

A thick pulse against the back of Chase’s tongue.

Chase choked—then swallowed, because his body didn’t give him a choice.

House’s fingers trembled in his hair as he rode it out—slow shudders, breath harsh through his nose.

When House finally pulled back, Chase gasped for air, spit and cum smeared down his chin.

He tried to wipe his mouth.

House caught his wrist.

“Leave it.”

Chase froze, panting, dazed.

House reached down—thumb dragging along Chase’s wet lower lip, gathering the mess.

Then he pressed that thumb into Chase’s mouth.

“Clean it.”

Chase sucked his thumb instinctively, eyes half-closed, hum vibrating in his throat.

House’s voice broke into a low laugh.

“Good boy.”

House didn’t even let Chase fully recover.

One second, Chase was on his knees, lips wet and eyes dazed—

and the next, House had him pulled into his lap.

Chase landed with a small gasp, straddling his thighs.

His cock was still hard—painfully, desperately hard—and House’s was thick against his thigh again, already hardening for round two like nothing had just happened.

Chase tried to speak.

House kissed him.

No warning. No teasing. Just one brutal, heated drag of his mouth over Chase’s—tongue inside, claiming, filthy.

Chase moaned into it, fingers clinging to House’s shirt like he might fall apart otherwise.

House pulled back first.

“Gonna ride me?” he asked, breath warm, voice dark.

Chase nodded. “Yeah.”

“Say it.”

“I—” Chase swallowed. “I wanna ride you.”

That earned him a fucking groan.

⸻

House laid back on the bed, legs spread, arms behind his head like he was settling in for a show. His cock stood hard between them—slick at the tip, thick and flushed.

Chase stared down at it, lips parted.

House raised an eyebrow. “Problem?”

Chase shook his head. Crawled up.

His thighs straddled House’s waist, knees pressing into the mattress.

He hovered, reaching behind himself to line it up. The head pressed against his hole—hot, blunt, terrifying.

House watched every second.

“You ever done this before?”

Chase’s breath hitched. “Not like this.”

House smirked. “Good.”

⸻

It hurt, at first.

Not sharp—just that wide, stretching ache that made Chase gasp and stop halfway down.

“Take your time,” House murmured. But his voice was tight. Strained.

Chase breathed through it. Rocked his hips. Lowered himself another inch.

“Fuuuuck—” he moaned.

House’s hands gripped his thighs. “You can take it. You took it before.”

Chase nodded, desperate, his body burning. He rocked again, and slid deeper.

Until finally—he was seated fully.

House’s cock inside him. All the way. Deep.

Chase whimpered. Back arched. Chest heaving.

“Look at you,” House whispered. “Full of me.”

⸻

He started to move.

Slow at first. Rocking his hips, experimenting. The stretch was deep. Thick. Every angle made sparks shoot up his spine.

House didn’t say anything.

He just watched.

Chase’s moans grew louder with every bounce. Sweat clung to his chest. His fingers dug into House’s shirt, needing something—anything—to hold onto.

“Faster,” House grunted. “Don’t be shy.”

Chase obeyed.

He bounced harder now—hips slapping down, thighs burning, breath ragged.

House reached up. Gripped his waist.

Then he slammed Chase down.

Chase screamed.

“Ride it,” House growled. “Take it all. Show me how fucking desperate you are.”

⸻

Chase fucked himself on it now—full speed, no shame, the wet sound of skin on skin echoing off the dorm walls. His own cock slapped against his stomach, untouched, leaking.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Could only ride.

House started thrusting up into him now, matching his rhythm—deeper, faster, sharper—

Chase sobbed.

“Gonna—House—”

“Do it,” House growled.

“Please—”

“Come on my stomach like a good little slut.”

That broke him.

Chase cried out, body convulsing—his cock twitching as he came hard, white streaks landing across House’s abs and chest.

He didn’t even stop riding.

⸻

House grunted.

“Fuck—just like that—”

Chase kept bouncing, wrecked and trembling, overstimulated but too high to stop—

And then House slammed into him from below, one final thrust—

And came inside him.

Hard.

Chase felt it—hot, deep, pulsing in thick waves that made his eyes roll back.

They stayed like that for a second.

Breathless.

Ruined.

Fucking wrecked.

⸻

House exhaled. “You really were made for this.”

Chase collapsed forward.

Sweaty. Shaking. Mouth open against House’s collarbone.

“Shut up,” he mumbled weakly.

House smiled.

But didn’t disagree.

Chapter Text

Chase had been treating House’s office like it carried the plague for three solid days. Not outright avoidance, just exquisitely timed unavailability. Last Thursday he’d strolled in twenty minutes late, hair mussed, carrying the faint scent of someone else’s perfume like a souvenir. House had catalogued it immediately, filed it under “symptoms to dissect later.”

This week the text arrived like a clinical note.

Can’t make tonight. Dinner plans. See you in lecture tomorrow.

House stared at the screen until it went black, then typed one glorious syllable.

Fine.

He spent the evening in his dimly lit office, pretending the stack of ungraded papers was fascinating while Coltrane wailed through the speakers and vicodin rattled like maracas in his pocket. By ten he was pacing. By eleven he was furious at himself for pacing. By midnight he was behind the wheel, heading toward the sad off-campus apartments where med students slowly fermented.

Professional curiosity, he told himself. Chase was probably getting blackout drunk with Cameron or some wide-eyed undergrad. House needed to verify the kid wasn’t flushing his future down the toilet. Purely academic.

He parked a block away, limped through the cold. Chase’s third-floor window glowed, curtains half-drawn. No movement.

House leaned against a lamppost, cane tapping an impatient rhythm. He waited.

One-thirty. Headlights. A sedan pulled up. Chase stepped out laughing, loose and easy. Then Cameron—black dress, hair down, looking like she’d borrowed softness from someone else entirely. Chase murmured something. Cameron laughed, touched his arm. They hugged—close, lingering just long enough to make House’s grip tighten on the cane.

She drove off. Chase watched the taillights fade, shoulders relaxed, like the night had handed him exactly what he needed.

House stepped into the streetlight’s circle.

Chase froze on the stairs.

“Professor House,” Chase said, voice carefully neutral. “Fancy meeting you here.”

House limped closer. “Romantic stroll? Or did you forget how to use a phone?”

Chase swallowed. “Just got back from dinner.”

“Dinner,” House repeated, letting the word curdle. “With Cameron. How quaint. Did you split dessert, hold hands under the table, whisper sweet nothings about differential diagnoses?”

Chase’s cheeks flushed, but he held ground. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh, enlighten me, golden boy. I’m dying to hear the touching platonic explanation for why you smell like Clinique and bad decisions.”

Chase sighed. “Come up. If you’re going to be dramatic about it, at least do it inside where the neighbors can’t film us.”

House followed. The stairwell reeked of old takeout. Chase’s apartment was the usual disaster—textbooks, empty coffee cups, laundry that had achieved sentience. He flicked on a lamp, kicked his shoes off.

House stayed planted by the door, cane like a scepter.

“So,” Chase said, crossing his arms. “Go ahead. Unleash the sarcasm.”

House tilted his head. “Why her? Of all the people you could waste an evening on, you pick the one with the moral compass and the tragic backstory. Very on-brand for you.”

Chase laughed, short and surprised. “You’re jealous.”

“Please. Jealousy requires me to care. I’m merely… scientifically intrigued by your sudden interest in heterosexual domesticity.”

Chase stepped closer. “You drove here at one-thirty in the morning because you’re scientifically intrigued.”

House’s eyes flicked to Chase’s mouth, then lower. Shirt untucked, collar open, faint lipstick mark on his cheek like a taunt.

House reached out, thumbed the mark away with deliberate roughness. “Answer the question, or I start guessing. My guesses are rarely kind.”

Chase licked his lips. “It was dinner. She needed someone to talk to. That’s it.”

“Needed someone,” House echoed mockingly. “How noble. Did you hold her while she cried about her feelings? Buy her ice cream? Tell her she’s pretty when she’s sad?”

Chase’s jaw ticked. “You really think I’d—”

“I think you’re twenty-three and pretty, and people like you get bored easily. I think you let her touch you because it felt safe. And I think you’re standing here lying to my face because you know exactly how much it pisses me off.”

Chase met his gaze, defiant. “Make me stop lying, then.”

House moved fast. Grabbed Chase’s shirt, yanked him in. Mouths slammed together, bruising, teeth clacking. Chase gasped, then opened wide, hands fisting House’s jacket like he’d been waiting for permission.

House shoved him toward the couch. Chase hit the cushions with a grunt. House followed, cane clattering to the floor.

Chase spread his legs automatically. House settled between them, ground down once, hard. Chase’s head fell back, a raw moan tearing out.

“You let her touch you,” House snarled against Chase’s neck, biting down.

Chase arched. “It was a hug.”

“Still touched.” House shoved Chase’s shirt up, nails scraping skin. “You smell like her. Like cheap perfume and bad choices.”

Chase laughed, breathless. “You’re unhinged.”

“Certified.” House ripped the shirt open, buttons flying. He sucked a vicious mark over Chase’s collarbone. Chase yanked House’s hair, pulled him closer.

House bit harder. Chase moaned loud enough to wake the building.

“Keep it down,” House growled. “Unless you want your neighbors to know exactly what kind of teacher’s pet you really are.”

Chase shivered. “Maybe I want them to hear.”

House palmed him through denim, rough. Chase bucked, chasing it.

“Bedroom,” House ordered.

Chase scrambled up, dragged House after him. Bedroom was chaos—unmade bed, clothes everywhere. Chase shoved House against the wall, kissed him filthy, tongue deep.

House flipped them, slammed Chase’s back to the plaster. Belt open, jeans shoved down. Chase was hard, leaking, desperate.

House gripped him, stroked slow, torturous. “Did you think about her while you were eating overpriced pasta? Wonder if she’d let you fuck her on the first date?”

“No,” Chase panted. “Thought about you. All night. Every second.”

House squeezed. Chase whined.

“Liar,” House said sweetly. “Prove it.”

Chase dropped to his knees. Mouthing House through fabric, then zipper down, pulling him free. House thick, heavy. Chase licked the head slow, eyes locked upward.

House fisted Chase’s hair. “Open that pretty mouth.”

Chase obeyed. House thrust shallow, then deeper. Chase gagged once, relaxed, took him to the hilt. House fucked his mouth with steady, punishing rhythm, groaning low.

“Knew you’d be good at this,” House muttered. “All that eager-beaver sucking-up in class finally pays off.”

Chase hummed, vibrations ripping a curse from House. House pulled out, cock slick and shining.

“Bed. Ass up. Now.”

Chase climbed on, presented. House kicked his pants off, grabbed lube from the drawer—Chase kept it ready these days.

Fingers slick, one in. Chase rocked back greedy.

“Pathetic,” House said fondly, adding a second, scissoring. “Already begging without words.”

Chase moaned into the pillow. “Been thinking about this since Monday.”

House crooked his fingers, nailed the spot. Chase jerked, sobbed.

“Missed it?” House asked.

“Yes, fuck, yes.”

House withdrew, lined up, slammed home in one brutal thrust. Chase keened, stretched full.

House didn’t give him time to adjust. Pounded hard, deep, bedframe protesting. Chase shoved back, met every snap of hips.

House’s hand collared Chase’s throat, possessive. “Who owns this?”

“You,” Chase gasped. “Only you.”

House sped up, vicious. Sweat dripped. Chase’s arms buckled, face in mattress, muffling cries.

House yanked him up by the hair, kissed him sloppy while railing.

“Come for me,” House commanded. “Show me how much better I am than your little dinner date.”

Chase sobbed, hand flying to his cock, stroked frantic. Came hard, spilling over House’s fist, walls clenching like a vice.

House fucked through it, chased his own release. Pulled out at the last second, came across Chase’s back in hot, claiming stripes.

They collapsed, panting, wrecked.

House rolled away, limped to the bathroom. Returned with a warm cloth, wiped Chase down with surprising care.

Chase lay sprawled, boneless, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

House sat on the mattress edge, tugged boxers on.

Chase pushed up on elbows. “You were jealous.”

House snorted. “I was performing a public service. Someone has to keep you from making catastrophic life choices.”

Chase grinned, lazy. “You drove across town at one-thirty because you’re a public servant.”

House glared, no real heat. “Keep talking. See where it gets you.”

Chase sat up fully, sheets pooling at his waist. “By the way…”

House lifted an eyebrow.

Chase leaned in, voice casual, smug as hell. “Cameron’s a lesbian.”

House froze mid-breath.

Chase kept going, smile widening. “So the hug? Completely platonic. She spent the whole night crying on my shoulder about her ex-girlfriend. Not trying to get into my pants. At all.”

House stared. Blinked. Then barked a laugh—real, startled, head thrown back.

Chase watched, mesmerized. House laughing unguarded was a rare, dangerous thing.

“You absolute little shit,” House said when he could speak. “You let me think—”

“You assumed,” Chase corrected, innocent as sin. “I just didn’t correct you. Figured it’d be hilarious to watch you spiral.”

House grabbed Chase’s ankle, yanked him into his lap. Chase yelped, landed straddling.

“Brat,” House muttered, kissed him slow, claiming.

Chase melted, hands on House’s shoulders.

They broke apart. Chase whispered, “Worth it.”

House smirked. “Don’t get cocky, princess. Next time I catch you within ten feet of anyone who isn’t me—”

“There won’t be a next time,” Chase said, suddenly serious. “Not like that.”

House studied him. Nodded once, sharp.

“Stay,” Chase murmured.

House paused. Then lay back, pulled Chase down against his chest.

Chase curled in, head tucked under House’s chin, listened to the heartbeat slow.

“Thursday,” House rumbled. “Six sharp. And if you’re even thirty seconds late, I’ll make you regret it in ways that violate at least three ethical codes.”

Chase smiled into his neck. “Wouldn’t miss it, professor.”

Chapter Text

Finals week hit like a freight train.

Chase hadn’t slept more than four hours in three days. His apartment looked like a war zone—flashcards taped to walls, empty energy drink cans forming a small mountain, laptop screen glowing blue against bloodshot eyes. Thursday at six had come and gone without a single text from House. No snarky “where are you” message. No cane tapping outside his door. Nothing.

It hurt more than Chase wanted to admit.

He stared at his phone for ten minutes straight before typing. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted. Finally settled on something that sounded casual enough to hide the way his stomach flipped.

Hey. Finals are killing me. Need a break. You free tonight? Dinner or something? My treat if you’re not too busy hating humanity.

He hit send before he could overthink it further. Then threw the phone across the bed like it burned.

It buzzed thirty seconds later.

House.

“Dinner or something.” How romantic. Fine. 8pm. That Italian place on 14th. The one with the decent chianti and the waitstaff who pretend not to notice when professors bring students. Don’t be late or I start without you.

Chase stared at the screen. Heart hammering. He’d done it. He’d asked House on a date. Sort of. And House had said yes. Sort of.

He spent the next two hours panicking in front of his closet. Ended up in dark jeans, a fitted black button-down rolled to the elbows, hair still damp from the shower. Tried to look like he hadn’t spent twenty minutes practicing a smirk in the mirror.

The restaurant was dimly lit, booths tucked in corners, candles flickering on every table. House was already there—back to the wall, cane leaning against the seat, glass of red half-empty. He looked up when Chase approached. Eyes flicked over him slow. Appraising.

“You clean up almost acceptably,” House said by way of greeting. “Sit. Before I change my mind and make you eat takeout on the sidewalk.”

Chase slid into the booth opposite. Tried for smug. “Thought you’d say no. Figured you’d be grading papers or plotting world domination.”

House smirked. “World domination is on hold until after finals. And I never say no to free food. Especially when it comes with the entertainment of watching you pretend this isn’t a date.”

Chase’s ears went hot. “It’s not a date. It’s… food. With someone who isn’t trying to quiz me on renal failure.”

“Uh-huh.” House sipped his wine. “So the fact that you showered, shaved, and wore something that actually fits is purely coincidental.”

Chase rolled his eyes. “You noticed.”

“I notice everything.” House leaned forward slightly. Voice dropped. “Including the way your hands are shaking. Nervous, pretty boy?”

Chase forced a laugh. “Just hungry.”

The waiter appeared. House ordered without looking at the menu—pasta primavera for himself, steak for Chase (“rare, like his attention span”), another bottle of chianti. Chase added garlic bread because why not.

When the waiter left House’s knee brushed Chase’s under the table. Deliberate. Stayed there.

Chase swallowed. “So. How’s your week been?”

“Tedious. Yours?”

“Brutal. Haven’t slept. Haven’t eaten anything that didn’t come from a vending machine.”

House tilted his head. “Poor baby. Need me to spoon-feed you?”

Chase’s thigh tensed against House’s knee. “Maybe.”

House’s smirk sharpened. “Careful what you ask for.”

—

The food arrived. They ate in relative silence at first—House dissecting the sauce like it owed him money, Chase trying not to stare at House’s mouth every time he took a sip of wine.

Then House leaned back. “You invited me here to what—de-stress? Or to beg for extra credit in person?”

Chase cut into his steak. “Can’t it be both?”

House laughed low. “Honest. I like that.”

Another brush of knee—this time higher. House’s foot nudged Chase’s calf. Slow slide up.

Chase’s fork paused. “You’re evil.”

“You’re blushing.” House’s voice was velvet. “Tell me what you really wanted when you texted.”

Chase met his eyes. “I wanted… this. You. Not just Thursdays in your office.”

House’s expression flickered—something almost soft—then vanished behind sarcasm. “How touching. Next you’ll be asking me to prom.”

Chase smirked despite the heat in his cheeks. “Would you say yes?”

“I’d say you’re delusional.” House’s foot pressed harder against Chase’s inner thigh. “But I’m here, aren’t I?”

Chase shifted—half-hard already. “Yeah. You are.”

The waiter came back to check on them. House’s foot didn’t move. Chase had to bite the inside of his cheek to stay composed while ordering dessert.

When the waiter left House leaned in. “You’re hard under the table.” Statement. Not question.

Chase exhaled shaky. “Your fault.”

“Good.” House’s hand slid under—fingers grazing the bulge through denim. Slow stroke. Once. Twice.

Chase gripped the edge of the table. “House—”

“Quiet.” House’s thumb circled the head through fabric. “Or I stop.”

Chase whimpered soft. Eyes darting—nobody looking. Booth too dark. Too tucked away.

House kept the pressure light. Teasing. “You wanted a date. This is date foreplay.”

Chase’s hips rocked minutely. “You’re gonna make me come in my pants like a teenager.”

“Maybe.” House squeezed. “Or maybe I’ll edge you until you’re crying. Then take you home and fuck the desperation out of you.”

Chase’s breath hitched. “Please.”

House withdrew his hand. Smirked. “Finish your wine. We’re leaving.”

The door slammed shut behind them with enough force to rattle the frame.

Chase didn’t give House time to set the cane down. He spun, shoved House back against the wood, and kissed him like he’d been starving for it all week. Mouths collided—hot, messy, teeth grazing lips. House growled low in his throat, one hand fisting Chase’s damp hair, the other gripping his hip hard enough to bruise.

“Bedroom,” House rasped against his mouth. “Strip. Slowly. I want to watch.”

Chase pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—pupils blown, cheeks flushed from wine and want. He obeyed without a word.

Shirt first—buttons undone one by one, deliberate, letting the fabric slide off his shoulders. House’s gaze tracked every inch of revealed skin like he was cataloguing symptoms. Jeans next—zipper dragged down agonizingly slow, hips rolling as he pushed denim and boxers off together. He stepped out naked, cock already flushed and heavy between his legs, glistening at the tip.

House didn’t move from the door. Just watched, cane tapping once against the floor like punctuation.

“You’re shaking,” House observed, voice velvet and cruel. “All that studying, all that restraint, and one dinner later you’re trembling like a virgin on prom night.”

Chase swallowed. “Been thinking about this every night I should’ve been reviewing.”

House limped forward, closing the distance. Pushed Chase backward until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. Chase fell onto the bed, propped on elbows, legs spread instinctively. House climbed over him—still fully dressed except for the jacket he’d shed somewhere in the hall—caging him in.

He kissed Chase again, slower this time. Deep, claiming. Tongue sliding against tongue, tasting wine and desperation. House’s hand trailed down Chase’s chest—nails scraping lightly over nipples, making him arch and gasp—then lower, wrapping around his length with a firm, deliberate grip.

Chase moaned into the kiss, hips jerking up into the touch. House stroked once—slow, twisting at the head—then again, thumb circling the slit to spread precome.

“Look at you,” House murmured, lips brushing Chase’s ear. “So hard just from sitting across a table from me. Pathetic.”

“Please—” Chase’s voice cracked. “House—”

House bit the shell of his ear. “Beg properly.”

Chase’s head fell back against the pillow. “Please touch me. Fuck me. Anything. I need—”

House released him abruptly. Flipped him onto his stomach with surprising strength. Chase scrambled up onto hands and knees, ass presented, thighs trembling.

House knelt behind him. Slick fingers—cool lube—circled his entrance once, teasing, before pushing in with two at once. Chase keened, rocking back onto them immediately. House scissored slow, deliberate, curling to brush that spot inside that made Chase’s arms buckle.

“Fuck—right there—”

House added a third finger, stretching him open with patient cruelty. “You clench so prettily. Like you were made for this.”

Chase sobbed into the sheets. “Please—need your cock—”

House withdrew his fingers. The loss made Chase whine. Then the blunt head pressed against him—slow push—inch by torturous inch—until House was seated fully, hips flush against Chase’s ass.

They both groaned. House held still for a long moment, letting Chase feel every thick inch splitting him open. Then he pulled back almost all the way—only to slam back in, hard and deep.

Chase cried out—voice muffled in the pillow. House set a brutal rhythm—snapping hips, skin slapping skin, bedframe protesting. One hand braced on Chase’s lower back, the other wrapping around to stroke him in time with each thrust.

“Who do you belong to?” House growled, voice rough with possession.

“You—” Chase gasped, shoving back to meet every punishing drive. “Only you—fuck—professor—”

House’s pace faltered for a second at the title—then he fucked harder, deeper, chasing the edge. “Come for me. Show me how much you missed this.”

Chase shattered—back arching, cock pulsing over House’s fist in thick ropes, walls clamping down like a vice. House fucked him through the aftershocks—groaned low—then buried himself deep and came with a shudder, filling him hot and messy.

They collapsed forward—House still inside, chest to Chase’s back, breathing ragged against his neck.

—

House stayed buried for long minutes—soft kisses pressed to Chase’s shoulder blades, hand stroking down his side in lazy circles. When he finally pulled out, Chase whimpered at the emptiness, cum already leaking down his thighs.

House rolled him onto his back with surprising gentleness. Spread his legs wide—hooked them over his own hips. Settled between them, cock still half-hard and slick.

“Again?” Chase rasped, voice wrecked, eyes glassy.

House smirked down at him. “You begged for a date. Dates don’t end after one round.”

He pushed back in—slow this time—watching Chase’s face the whole way. Chase’s eyes fluttered shut, mouth falling open in a silent moan as House bottomed out again.

This round was different—deliberate. House rolled his hips in deep, languid circles, grinding against that spot inside until Chase was trembling, babbling nonsense. He leaned down—kissed Chase open-mouthed, slow and filthy—tongues sliding together while their bodies moved in perfect sync.

House’s hand found Chase’s cock again—stroked in time with each lazy thrust. “Feel that?” he murmured against Chase’s lips. “Every inch of me owning you.”

Chase nodded frantically—legs tightening around House’s waist. “Yours—fuck—always—”

House sped gradually—building the rhythm—deep, steady snaps that made Chase’s toes curl. His free hand pinned Chase’s wrist above his head—possessive.

“Come with me this time,” House whispered, voice softer than he meant it to be. “Let me feel you.”

Chase shattered again—quieter this time—spilling between them in weak pulses, body shaking. House followed seconds later—groaning low into Chase’s neck—filling him once more.

They stayed locked together—sweat-slick, breathing hard—until House finally eased out.

But he wasn’t finished.

He rolled Chase onto his side—spooned up behind him—lifted one of Chase’s legs over his own thigh. Slicked himself again—pushed back in from behind—slow, deep grind.

Chase moaned brokenly—overstimulated, cock twitching uselessly. “Can’t—too much—”

“You can,” House murmured against his ear, rocking gentle but relentless. “One more. Just feel it.”

He reached around—fingertips feather-light over Chase’s spent length—teasing more than stroking. Kissed the nape of his neck—shoulder—earlobe.

“Mine,” House breathed. “Even when you’re wrecked. Especially then.”

Chase trembled—tears pricking his eyes from the intensity. House’s slow grind kept hitting that spot—building something impossible. Chase came again—dry, shuddering, a quiet sob escaping—walls fluttering around House. House buried deep—came with a low groan—pulsing inside one last time.

They collapsed—tangled—sweaty—completely spent.

House kissed Chase’s temple—soft. “Sleep.”

Chase curled back against him—hand finding House’s over his heart. “Thursday?”

House huffed a tired laugh. “Thursday. And if you keep asking me to dinner like a shy schoolboy… maybe more nights than that.”

Chase smiled into the dark—eyes closing.

Chapter Text

The office smelled like old coffee and antiseptic. Thursday at six sharp.

Chase arrived ten minutes early, two paper cups steaming in his hands. Black for House, two sugars. Latte for himself—extra shot, because finals were still haunting his sleep even though the exams were over. He pushed the door open with his hip, smiling like this was just another Thursday.

House sat behind the desk, cane hooked over the arm of his chair, staring at a stack of residency recommendation letters like they were evidence in a murder trial. His tie was loose, sleeves rolled, hair slightly disheveled. He looked tired. Older than usual.

“Black, two sugars,” Chase said, setting the cup down carefully. “Figured you’d need it after reading my last differential. I know I butchered the vasculitis section.”

House didn’t touch the coffee. Didn’t look up at first. When he did, his eyes were flat—clinical, distant.

“Sit.”

Chase sat. The smile faltered a little. He waited for the usual: the snark, the cane tapping his knee, the slow slide of House’s hand up his thigh under the desk before the door got locked.

Instead House pushed the coffee away an inch.

“We’re done.”

Chase blinked. Laughed once—short, nervous. “What?”

House leaned back, fingers steepled. “This. Whatever we’ve been doing. It ends tonight.”

The room felt smaller. Chase’s chest tightened. “You’re kidding.”

House’s gaze never wavered. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Chase searched his face—looking for the tell, the twitch that said this was a game, a test, another layer of House’s bullshit. Nothing. Just exhaustion and resolve.

“Why?” Chase asked, voice quieter than he meant.

House exhaled through his nose. “Because you’re weeks away from submitting residency applications. Top programs—Johns Hopkins, Mass General, Mayo. Letters from me are supposed to open doors, not slam them shut. If anyone finds out—if a single email leaks, if someone sees us together outside these walls, if a whisper gets back to the wrong committee—you’re done. Radioactive. Untouchable. I’m not torching your future because you’re horny for your professor.”

Chase leaned forward, elbows on knees. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Is it?” House’s voice stayed even. “Let’s run the differential together, shall we? Age gap: twenty years. Power imbalance: I grade you, I write your letters, I control your recommendations. Institutional policy: explicit prohibition on faculty-student relationships. Potential scandal: one photo, one rumor, and your name gets dragged through every medical forum from here to Sydney. You’re brilliant. You’re young. You’re going to land anywhere you want. I’m not the hill you die on, Robert.”

The full name again. It landed like a slap. Chase flinched.

“I’m not asking you to be the hill,” Chase said. “I’m asking you to stop pretending you don’t care.”

House laughed—dark, hollow. “You think I don’t care? That’s the problem. I care too much. I care enough to know this ends badly. For you. Not for me—I’m already a washed-up cripple with a pill habit. But you? You still have a shot at something clean. Something good. I’m not clean. I’m not good.”

Chase stood. Walked around the desk. Dropped to his knees between House’s spread legs. Looked up—eyes pleading.

“I don’t care about clean,” he said. “I care about you.”

House’s hand twitched—rose halfway, like he wanted to touch Chase’s face, then fell back to the armrest. “Get up.”

Chase shook his head. “No.”

“Robert.”

The name again. Chase’s eyes stung.

House closed his eyes for a long second. Opened them. “Go home. Study your applications. Get the hell out of my office before I say something I can’t take back.”

Chase stayed on his knees another beat. Then rose slowly. Walked to the door. Paused with his hand on the knob.

“I’m not giving up on you,” he said quietly.

House didn’t answer.

Chase left.

-

Three days dragged like weeks.

Chase threw himself into applications—polished essays until the words blurred, begged Cameron and Foreman for extra letters, avoided House’s office like it was a crime scene. He slept four hours a night if he was lucky. Cried once in the shower—quiet, angry tears that mixed with the water and disappeared down the drain.

House didn’t text. Didn’t call. Didn’t show up at Chase’s apartment with sarcasm and soup like he had after the flu last semester.

Friday night Chase broke.

Rain hammered the city. He walked the ten blocks to House’s building—no umbrella, hoodie soaked through by the time he reached the door. Knocked hard—knuckles stinging.

House opened the door shirtless, cane in hand, hair damp like he’d just showered. Eyes bloodshot.

“You’re dripping on my floor,” House said flatly.

Chase stepped inside without asking. Shut the door. Locked it. Water pooled at his feet.

“I’m not here to beg,” Chase said. Voice raw from disuse. “I’m here to tell you you’re wrong.”

House snorted. “First time for everything.”

Chase advanced. House backed up until his calves hit the couch.

“You think you’re protecting me?” Chase asked. “You’re protecting yourself. Because if this ends, you don’t have to admit you actually give a damn. You don’t have to risk being the one who gets left.”

House’s jaw ticked. “And if I do give a damn? What then? You think I’m capable of normal? Of not ruining you? I ruin everything I touch. That’s my diagnostic specialty.”

Chase grabbed the front of House’s open shirt—twisted the fabric. Pulled him close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

“I don’t want normal,” Chase said. “I want you. The bastard who makes me laugh when I’m exhausted. The genius who sees things no one else does. The asshole who makes me come so hard I forget my own name. I want all of it—the sarcasm, the pills, the cane, the walls you put up. I want you.”

House stared. Breath shallow. Pupils blown.

Chase kissed him—slow, desperate, tasting salt and rain. House didn’t push away. Hands came up—cupped Chase’s face—thumbs brushing wet cheeks.

When they broke apart House whispered, hoarse, “You’re going to regret this.”

Chase smiled—small, wrecked, beautiful. “Then make it worth regretting.”

House kissed him again—harder. Deeper. Backed him toward the bedroom. Hands tearing at wet clothes.

Wet fabric hit the floor in a sloppy trail—hoodie, shirt, jeans, boxers. House’s shirt already gone.

House pushed Chase onto the bed—climbed over him—kissed him like he was drowning and Chase was oxygen. Mouths open, tongues sliding, teeth grazing lips. Chase moaned into it—hands roaming House’s back, nails digging in.

House kissed down his neck—slow—sucking bruises over the pulse point, collarbone, chest. Took a nipple between his teeth—tugged gently—then harder. Chase arched—gasped—fingers tangling in House’s hair.

“Missed this,” Chase breathed. “Missed you.”

House looked up—eyes dark, unguarded for once. “Me too.”

He trailed lower—kisses over ribs, hipbones, inner thighs. Nuzzled the base of Chase’s cock—inhaled deep—then licked a slow stripe from balls to tip. Chase whimpered—hips jerking.

House took him in—slow—deep—hollowed cheeks. Tongue swirling around the head on every upstroke. Chase cried out—hands fisting sheets—thighs trembling. House worked him with patient cruelty—edging him close—pulling off right at the brink—kissing the crease of thigh—then back again.

Chase sobbed. “Please—need you inside—need to feel you—”

House slicked fingers—cool lube—circled the rim once, teasing—then pushed two in at once. Chase keened—rocked back immediately. House scissored slow—curled—brushed that spot. Chase’s arms buckled.

“Fuck—right there—”

House added a third—stretched him open with deliberate care—crooking fingers in rhythm until Chase was babbling—begging—tears pricking his eyes.

House withdrew—lined up—pushed in—one long, steady thrust. Chase gasped—back arching—legs wrapping tight around House’s waist. House bottomed out—held still—let Chase feel every thick inch splitting him open.

Then moved—slow rolls at first—deep grinds—hitting that spot on every pass. Hand wrapped around Chase’s cock—stroked firm—perfect rhythm.

“Look at me,” House murmured.

Chase’s eyes fluttered open—locked on House’s. Blue on blue.

House sped gradually—snaps turning sharper—skin slapping skin—bedframe creaking. Chase shoved back—met every thrust—moaning continuous—soft—broken.

“Who do you belong to?” House growled—voice rough with possession.

“You—” Chase gasped. “Only you—always—”

House’s pace faltered—then he fucked harder—deeper—chasing the edge. Hand sped on Chase’s cock. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

Chase shattered—quiet sob—spilling hot over House’s fist—walls clamping down like a vice. House fucked him through the aftershocks—groaned low—buried deep and came with a shudder—filling him hot and messy.

They panted—tangled—House kissing Chase’s temple—cheek—corner of mouth.

House rolled them—Chase on top now.

Chase straddled him—cock still hard—eyes glassy with tears and want. “My turn?”

House smirked—hands settling on Chase’s hips—thumbs stroking hipbones. “Show me what you’ve got, pretty boy.”

Chase sank down—slow—taking House inch by inch. Head fell back—long moan ripping free as he bottomed out. House groaned—thumbs digging in—hips twitching.

Chase set the pace—slow rolls—grinding deep—circling hips to feel every ridge. House watched—mesmerized—hands roaming up Chase’s chest—pinching nipples—tugging gently.

“Fuck—you feel—” Chase gasped—voice wrecked.

House thrust up—meeting him halfway. “Ride me like you mean it.”

Chase sped up—harder—faster—hands braced on House’s chest for leverage. House stroked him—firm—perfect—thumb circling the head on every downstroke.

Chase leaned down—kissed House messy—open-mouthed—tongues sliding. House’s hands slid to Chase’s ass—spread him wider—helped him bounce.

“Come with me this time,” House whispered against his lips. “Let me feel you clench around me again.”

Chase nodded—frantic—pace turning erratic. Came first—quiet sob—spilling between them in weak pulses—walls fluttering. House followed seconds later—deep groan—filling him once more—hips stuttering.

House wasn’t done.

He rolled Chase onto his side—spooned up behind him—lifted one of Chase’s legs over his own thigh. Slicked himself again—pushed back in from behind—slow—deep grind.

Chase moaned brokenly—overstimulated—cock twitching uselessly against his stomach. “Can’t—too much—”

“You can,” House murmured against his ear—rocking gentle but relentless. “One more. Just feel it.”

He reached around—fingertips feather-light over Chase’s spent length—teasing more than stroking. Kissed the nape of his neck—shoulder—earlobe.

“Mine,” House breathed. “Even when you’re wrecked. Especially then.”

Chase trembled—tears slipping down his cheeks from the intensity. House’s slow grind kept brushing that spot—building something impossible. Chase came again—dry—shuddering—a quiet sob escaping—walls pulsing weakly. House buried deep—came with a low groan—pulsing inside one last time.

They collapsed—sweaty—spent—completely spent.

House pulled Chase close—chest to back—arm draped over his waist. Kissed the back of his neck.

“Stay,” House murmured—voice rough.

Chase smiled—eyes closing—hand finding House’s over his heart. “Always.”

House huffed a tired laugh. “Sap.”

Chase laced their fingers. “Your sap.”

House pressed a kiss to his shoulder—lingering. “Get some sleep. Residency letters won’t write themselves.”

Chase laughed soft. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” House agreed.