Jan. 14th, 2006 10:09 pm
Title: Do You Wanna Touch Me?
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lovely_ambitionTitle: Do You Wanna Touch Me?
Fandom: House M.D.
Pairing: House/Chase
Prompt: Touch
Word Count: 461
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: Title from the Gary Glitter song. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fanfic100.
There’s a certain art of touching.
The art of getting someone incredibly worked up in public with precise little touches is even harder, but House is nothing if not a master of the difficult. He and Chase are returning from an intensive care conference with Dr. Perkins – gorgeous redhead who was always so perky. Chase had been brought as the piece of meat to toss to the dogs; a pretty face for an ugly job.
They’re huddled in the corner of the crowded Minnesota airport, Chase holding House’s cane, studying it in a show of boredom. House reaches over, index finger and thumb grabbing Chase’s wrist. Chase freezes and turns towards House.
“What?” Chase demands, his eyes just as wide as ever, ocean of confusion lurking there. “House?”
House lets his fingers – calloused against Chase’s smooth skin and is Chase’s skin smooth everywhere? – slide up and down the wrist, feeling Chase’s heart race.
“The French have this great word,” House begins, hearing the catch in Chase’s breath, the soft sound that escapes. “It’s called frottage. Almost like fromage, but sexier, I guess.” That little sound from Chase’s throat becomes a little more strangled and House moves his hand off Chase’s wrist and gives his cane a stroke on the way to resting one whole palm on Chase’s thigh, drifting further inside, brushing there now.
Chase sputters quietly, but doesn’t protest and House brushes his shoulder against Chase’s bicep, back and forth. He removes his hand, but continues to brush his forearm past Chase’s, elbows touching occasionally, House’s fingers hovering over Chase’s. It seems to be working, as Chase is completely speechless, staring at House.
“I’m…” he stammers, pointing to the bathroom and making his quick escape.
Of course, miracle of all miracles, House needs his little boy’s room break too. He walks in, only one stall occupied, and he hooks his cane over the door. “Let me in, I’ll bring you off.” There’s a pause and for a moment, House wishes he’d gone to the women’s washroom and made the same offer.
The door draws open to reveal Chase, half out of his jeans. House shoves a hand down his boxers, stroking at his cock.
“Frottage,” House explains helpfully, “is the French art of getting off by touching someone.”
“Obviously,” Chase scowls.
“The art of getting off on otherwise innocent touches.”
“You’ve never been innocent,” Chase gasps, hips bucking into House’s hand. He’s scrambling to loosen House’s jeans and contribute to all the touching. House isn’t about to stop him.
They bring each other off in a small cubicle and neither of them say anything as they redress, wash their hands at the sink, and return to their seats.
There’s silence for a good fifteen minutes.
“Voyeurism! The American act of…”
end
Fandom: House M.D.
Pairing: House/Chase
Prompt: Touch
Word Count: 461
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: Title from the Gary Glitter song. For
fanfic100.There’s a certain art of touching.
The art of getting someone incredibly worked up in public with precise little touches is even harder, but House is nothing if not a master of the difficult. He and Chase are returning from an intensive care conference with Dr. Perkins – gorgeous redhead who was always so perky. Chase had been brought as the piece of meat to toss to the dogs; a pretty face for an ugly job.
They’re huddled in the corner of the crowded Minnesota airport, Chase holding House’s cane, studying it in a show of boredom. House reaches over, index finger and thumb grabbing Chase’s wrist. Chase freezes and turns towards House.
“What?” Chase demands, his eyes just as wide as ever, ocean of confusion lurking there. “House?”
House lets his fingers – calloused against Chase’s smooth skin and is Chase’s skin smooth everywhere? – slide up and down the wrist, feeling Chase’s heart race.
“The French have this great word,” House begins, hearing the catch in Chase’s breath, the soft sound that escapes. “It’s called frottage. Almost like fromage, but sexier, I guess.” That little sound from Chase’s throat becomes a little more strangled and House moves his hand off Chase’s wrist and gives his cane a stroke on the way to resting one whole palm on Chase’s thigh, drifting further inside, brushing there now.
Chase sputters quietly, but doesn’t protest and House brushes his shoulder against Chase’s bicep, back and forth. He removes his hand, but continues to brush his forearm past Chase’s, elbows touching occasionally, House’s fingers hovering over Chase’s. It seems to be working, as Chase is completely speechless, staring at House.
“I’m…” he stammers, pointing to the bathroom and making his quick escape.
Of course, miracle of all miracles, House needs his little boy’s room break too. He walks in, only one stall occupied, and he hooks his cane over the door. “Let me in, I’ll bring you off.” There’s a pause and for a moment, House wishes he’d gone to the women’s washroom and made the same offer.
The door draws open to reveal Chase, half out of his jeans. House shoves a hand down his boxers, stroking at his cock.
“Frottage,” House explains helpfully, “is the French art of getting off by touching someone.”
“Obviously,” Chase scowls.
“The art of getting off on otherwise innocent touches.”
“You’ve never been innocent,” Chase gasps, hips bucking into House’s hand. He’s scrambling to loosen House’s jeans and contribute to all the touching. House isn’t about to stop him.
They bring each other off in a small cubicle and neither of them say anything as they redress, wash their hands at the sink, and return to their seats.
There’s silence for a good fifteen minutes.
“Voyeurism! The American act of…”
end
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