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If you ask Lucas, sleep opens an observational window to the soul.
Less poetically — and a lot higher up on the creep scale — watching a person sleep can tell you a surprising amount about them. He’s not quite sure how to quantify it, but there’s something mysterious and simultaneously telling that can come from a body at rest.
It’s not about their chosen position or the words they might mumble, though. Even he isn’t that tedious. It’s more about how many times they toss and turn; their physical, uncontrolled disturbance. It reveals how much of their stress is subconscious.
Now, Lucas’ psychoanalysis comes to him easier with a responsive person, but in applying this logic, he can safely say that Gregory House is a very troubled man, conscious or not.
It isn’t evident through his soft snoring or the way his arm is often thrown over his face, but rather how he can’t keep still. He’s shifting every few minutes, his movements ranging from a subtle tilt of his chin to a full body turnover. His mattress looks comfortably slept in, the sheets creasing in a way that indicates that this is very much the norm.
Huh. Considering the first personal assignment from him had involved Lucas stalking a possible best friend replacement, the root cause being a compromised emotional state is more than plausible.
Despite the extent of Lucas’ knowledge, peeping a sleeping client isn’t exactly something he frequents. Someone he’s being paid to watch? Sure. He’s dealt with plenty of split marriage halves asking him to watch their partner overnight. But never has he messed with the dynamic like this. Not with a client.
Backpedal. Messed with the dynamic? God, that sounds insane.
This whole thing is insane, Lucas realizes. Standing in House’s dead asleep room, recounting his own past escapades as he considers the morality of this one. It hangs over the edge of too much, a rare and almost impressive feat for Lucas. Voyeurs have limits too, his brain unhelpfully supplies.
His conscience referring to him like that is not a good sign. The thoughts are beginning to spiral and he should really be leaving by now, but the curiosity is becoming unbearable in equal parts.
What if House has a dream? What if he says something important, something raw, aided by the promise of an empty room? It could be mundane, or boring, or so crucial to his life that very few people know about it. The possibilities are endless.
It’s like an urge Lucas needs to satisfy. To gather information he’s yet to determine the value of, even if it means standing in silence for hours on end just to walk away with nothing. What should be discomfort and disgust in himself is instead morbid infatuation that’s enough to twist his stomach.
Before he’s able to turn and do what is definitely the right thing, House has moved again. He’s gone from facing away from Lucas to forcing him right into his line of sight, a position that is considerably less comfortable than he could’ve imagined. If House’s eyes were to pry open even a few millimeters, he’d be met with quite the wake up call.
Lucas feels his own body stiffen, staring across at the wall to avoid anymore visual input. It’s a preventative measure, one that he takes pride in, though he’s quick to realize sensory deprivation kind of defeats the purpose of watching.
How about another sense? The smell of stale coffee and subtle untidiness, the sound of House’s breathing, maybe. Lucas’ tongue lathes over his teeth, trying to determine exactly what he’s tasting. So far he’s unsatisfied, his eyes twitching with the need to lock back onto his target.
He shakes his head slightly as he considers a new approach, the sense he hasn’t yet covered. As his brain focuses on where his hands are, what he can feel under his skin, all of a sudden he finds himself clammy. Itchy, almost. Hot.
Is he touching himself? Huh. He’s touching himself. That might just be the last thing he was expecting. He cups himself in his palm, feeling how easily he fills it out under the fabric.
What’s funny is that his frontal lobe clearly saw it coming, enough to signal the movement of his hand, which means he should’ve seen it coming. And yet, he’s the furthest from clued-in he can be. Diagnosis is House’s thing, sure, but it seems like Lucas has his own little medical mystery to solve.
He thrives on clues visible in those around him, so this internal, lust-infused punch to the gut isn’t something he can speak to at all. Even if it’s justifiable, which he doubts, he’s blind to his own needs and instead accepts guidance from his brain, so his opinion would be considered biased anyway.
Damn. Is he already losing concentration? With his dick basically in his hand? Great. Just fantastic. He must look like a massive pervert right now; all that’s missing is drool at the corners of his lips and more skin-on-skin.
Although, this would be much more humiliating with an alert audience, a fact that’s lining the mindless rise and fall of House’s chest with silver. Lucas can almost taste the metal as he bites down on his tongue, finding that pain is a rather convenient distraction.
Not so convenient is the damp spot spreading between Lucas’ thighs, a sensation that’s becoming impossible to ignore. Distantly, he wonders if House would notice the absence of some boxers and a pair of pants from his laundry basket.
Absence, permanent, because the likelihood of them returning is as low as it gets. It’s not like he does his washing anyway.
Lucas doesn’t get to finish crafting his ingenious plan. Dipping into the bed, House turns onto his back with far too much intent for it to be a subconscious movement. His shirt is rucked up, like he’s been passed out for hours, and his eyes are low-lidded with sleep. Low-lidded and, more alarmingly, open. Lucas might just die.
So, House is awake and aware. No investigation required to deduce that. He hasn’t started screaming yet, though, which is where Lucas is a little stumped. Should he use this silent time to prepare? Maybe reel his own arm back before there’s any attention on it?
Who’s he kidding; why fight or fly when he can freeze? Perhaps if he breathes silently enough, House will just fall back to sleep and leave him to walk his shame to the window.
Funnily enough, this does not happen, because there’s no way he can stay still. He wouldn’t be all that surprised to find out his own panic is potent enough to smell. House blinks up at him, then down at the hand that is still, not so delicately, palming over his cock. It’s a knowing look.
At first, House regards it with nothing but a deep sigh. Something far too thoughtful for this, like he’s considering rather than judging, and the hope that sparks is dangerous. Then, in a low, rumbly tone, he mumbles, “How long have you been doing this?”
Lucas swallows thickly. How long has he been doing what? Stalking House? Watching him sleep? Touching himself? He really hopes it isn’t the third one, because he can’t quite remember, and he’s not all that great at coming up with answers on the spot.
“Hey,” comes House’s voice again, lax and sleepy, perhaps even a little hypnotic. “Focal point’s down here, pal.”
Good god. Talk about putting Lucas on the spot. Not to mention how he made that last word sound… sultry. Inviting. You’d almost think he’s into—
“Oh yeah, um,” Lucas chokes out, not only to answer, but also to distract himself from the noticeable twitch he feels through his pants. “Definitely, ah... some time.”
House is silent for a moment. He closes his eyes with a slight tilt of his head, and Lucas keeps his breath held. His palm takes the opportunity to grind down before he can think. A pitiful whine slips out, and House’s eyes open again at the noise.
“You’ve been...” he starts, practically analyzing Lucas where he stands, “investigating my sleep cycle while touching yourself for ‘some time’?”
Lucas thinks he can feel his vision blurring. Is that even possible? He thought it was just an exaggeration popularized by porn. “You got it,” he breathes, unsure where the words are even coming from. “That’s how it happened. Is happening. I mean, I’m still going, aren’t I?”
He looks down at himself, a subconscious reach for confirmation. Yes. He’s still going.
“The fact that you’re not Wilson suggests this isn’t a dream,” House continues, ignoring him, “and that mortified look on your face confirms it.”
Lucas leaves the words to hang for a moment, daring to let his eyes slide back down as he takes House’s lack of disgust as a green light. Once he’s caught up, he shakes his head, trying to ignore the heat curling in his gut. “Wait, you’ve dreamed about—”
“Shh,” House interrupts, waving him off. “Your hand is doing a lot more for you than your words right now.”
Lucas isn’t sure whether to interpret that as an insult or another invitation. He doesn’t dare meet House’s eyes again, his gaze lingering right where the blanket covers his lower abdomen. The cut off is a sure tease, one that must be intentional. Lucas might’ve just scoffed if he wasn't so distracted. Invitation it is.
“Is it okay if I... can I touch you? Are you, y’know...?” he trails off, feeling himself flush deeper. He sighs, trying his best to look away, but House’s presence alone is heavy enough to sear his better judgement. "God, this is really hot. Are you hot?”
House scoffs, the covers creasing in his grip as he slides them up and further obscures the view. "You seem to think so."
“Hah, yeah, this would be pretty strange if I didn’t,” Lucas muses, his mouth running like a faucet even as he continues to drip elsewhere. He isn’t able to mourn the loss of what he was just seeing, letting the words continue to flow out without forethought. “I guess it’s already strange, though. Which is fine! But, like, I don't— It's not... I can't stop talking.”
“You also can’t stop touching yourself,” House adds, which is just great. Super helpful, bringing the attention back onto the worst of the two things making this conversation weird.
“You’re right, yeah,” Lucas rambles, not bothering with denial. “And I totally understand if you want me to— stop doing that. And leave. So you can pass it off as a dream, maybe forget it entirely...”
He’s being so, so obvious, but of course, House doesn’t give a concrete answer. He just has to make it difficult, perceptive, interesting, because that’s how he is. “You know,” he says, “it’s unprofessional to think of your boss in such a way, let alone to act on it.”
Lucas flushes deeper, wondering whether it’s worse to look at the source of his embarrassment or the source of his pleasure. “Yeah, well.” His fingers fumble, no longer applying enough pressure for it to be satisfying. “I’m not actually sure if I was thinking at all,” he admits. “I kinda just—”
“Take it out,” House interrupts. It’s a decisive, clear-cut instruction, one that contradicts the bleariness of his whole half-asleep thing.
Lucas’ mouth hangs open for a moment. “What…?”
“How specific do I need to be? Drop your pants.”
“House—” he chokes out, looking up. It sounds a little silly, now that he’s thinking about it. “Is it alright if I call you that when I'm... um."
The sentence immediately dies on his dumb, loose tongue, because holy shit. They’re eye-to-eye. Lucas is still palming himself and they’re eye-to-eye. This goes beyond embarrassment and pleasure. Seems to be some sick, twisted combination of the two.
“‘Is it alright’?” House mocks him, a hint of a laugh under it. “I’m not sure that question holds any value considering you’ve been jerking off over my beauty sleep for god knows how long.”
Lucas thinks to correct him on the exact amount of time, but he’s unable to come up with a number he’s sure of. “I wasn't, ah, jerking off,” he blurts out instead. “That makes me sound like some sort of— disgusting freak.”
“How would you describe it, then?” House snorts. “Politely readjusting your erection over my unconscious body?”
“You’re conscious now,” Lucas mumbles, twitching again. “Wait, politely?”
House doesn’t answer him. “Lose the pants, perv,” he says instead. “Can’t see all that much when they’re in my way.”
Something low and hot turns in Lucas’ gut. His eyelids feel heavier, but his body is the exact opposite, perking up like a puppy that heard the word walk. The conclusion strikes him, exciting and enticing at once: “You want to see?”
Another scoff, this time low and considerably less mocking. Breathy. “If I say yes, will you shut up and let me?”
It’s a little alarming how quickly Lucas nods. His flush spreads down from his cheeks to his neck and chest, the heat pressing against his shirt. He’s dizzy by the time he processes the question in full and realizes what he’s just agreed to.
“Okay,” House sighs. “Yes. I want to see.”
Oh well. Lucas figures it’s much too late to turn back now. He has trust in his own deductive reasoning.
He does as he’s told without another word, shucking his pants and boxers off completely before kicking them aside. The sheer awkwardness of it makes his ears burn alongside another, much more embarrassing part of his body — one that’s now also visible.
“God, you didn't have to make a show of it,” House teases, his eyes glued to where Lucas is exposed. His words are low and raspy, dragging behind the weight of sleep. “I just meant down to your knees or something.”
Lucas hears his own responsive moan and accepts that he’s lost total control of his mouth. “I can— I can get down on my knees,” he says breathlessly, wrapping his hand around himself and watching how House’s eyes lock onto it. “If that's what you want.”
House hums, nowhere near as hesitant. He doesn’t correct the mistake. “Yeah, that thought’s got you wet, hasn't it?” he taunts, and fuck, he’s right. “I could say no and you'd still fist your dick like you just learned how to.”
Oh, god. That’s… dirty. So dirty. And scarily accurate, though accuracy is very far besides the point—
“Mhm,” Lucas manages, trying to ignore the lewd noise pollution coming from below. He worries at his lip, keeping his eyes screwed shut as his hips jerk and he feels himself thrust into his hand once, twice, over and over until he loses count.
Just as he’s building a proper rhythm, House’s voice cuts through his concentration. “Slow down.”
Lucas’ movements stutter as his mind runs circles around the command. He fucks into his hand, pushing his cock through the cup of it and holding himself there for a moment. “I— what?”
“Slow down,” House repeats, sickeningly patient about it. “You want to savor this, don't you?”
A new noise slips from Lucas that he hopes never returns. He resumes, but at a gradual pace, much like House requested. “Slowing down.”
All the compliance earns him is a single word. “Good.”
“Oh, fuck, okay—” Lucas’ eyes flutter shut and he thinks he might be swallowing air. He thrusts hard, applying more pressure at the base as that dumb word alone makes his knees buckle. “Yeah, that’s. Good,” he repeats.
“Jesus, you are a pervert,” House quips, though his surprise is nowhere near genuine. “You get this hot and bothered on all of your house calls?”
Even despite his situation, Lucas rolls his eyes at that. “They don't normally ask me to, um, unzip my fly.”
“Right,” House drawls. “Didn't realize Peeping Tom was on your business card.”
“It usually isn’t. Usually.”
“What, do you charge extra for it?” House scoffs. Before Lucas can even comprehend the absurdity of that, he continues, “And were you going to walk out of here sticky, or was I going to wake up in it?”
“Well, I’m sure you could sneak paint job onto the hospital invoice… godwhydidIsaythat—?” Deep breaths. And one moan. This is fine. “I— I don't think I can answer any more questions.”
House’s eyes rake over him again. “Fine,” he acquiesces. He shifts slightly, just enough for his lower half to slip out from under the blanket. “Your turn.” From this angle, Lucas can see the underside of his stomach leading down to his v-line, the rest hidden under the waistband of his pants. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty to ask.”
There’s a very prominent strain in the fabric between his legs, one that Lucas can’t help but fixate on. “Please,” he breathes, not quite a question. “I mean, I already… I asked before, didn’t I?”
House rolls his eyes. “I know,” he mumbles. “It’s just for clarity. Still not sure if I’m awake or rolling around in a very nice dream.”
Very nice. Lucas might just be dreaming too. “Yeah, okay,” he breathes, trying to swallow his own hesitance down. “Please let me touch you? Properly?”
“You are polite,” House fucking purrs. It’s a low rumble, one that goes straight from Lucas’ ears to his cock. It’s not even praise, really, it’s just a statement, but that doesn’t change how it hits. And god, it hits good. “Come here. On your knees.”
There’s something both innocent and perverse about how Lucas obeys. He doesn’t want to come across as too eager, but at the same time, fulfilling the loose promise he made earlier is igniting something in him. He follows the instruction, kneeling over House where he still lays. The sight of his own cock over the covers, even in the darkness, is making him dizzy.
The high ground isn’t his for long. House sits up, one of his hands immediately sliding up Lucas’ shirt and staking its claim on his back. His skin prickles at the contact, an unusual reaction to the warmth that he’s not sure how to feel about.
With a comforting ease, House’s other hand tugs on the hem, coaxing Lucas’ shirt up and off of him entirely. It’s tossed aside, completely forgotten, and Lucas shivers at his sudden full body exposure. The air is cool against his skin, and even despite his hot flush, the sensation makes him twitch where his cock sits untouched.
Slow and delicate, House’s hands feel all over him, the touch explorational at first before the placement shifts into something that’s drenched in wanton need. Lucas isn’t sure what to do first, what touches to acknowledge, what to say. He just whines as he feels his cock drool over the blanket, trying his best not to make a mess of himself after hardly a minute.
Soon, one of House’s hands cups his jaw, bringing his face close before closing the gap entirely.
Their first kiss is soft, patient, filled with promise. Lucas moans into it, the sound leaving him naturally as he slides a hand into House’s hair to ground himself. His mouth is pried open then, and he lets House in, savoring the breathy hum it earns him. He thought the taste might bother him, but it’s quite the opposite, only serving as further proof of House’s sleepy stupor.
None of Lucas’ past one-sided trysts of voyeurism have led to anything like this. There’s no point of comparison that comes close, no other client that’s closed their end of the deal in this way. It’s far too intimate to fall under business, and far too impersonal to be anything but, so all Lucas can do is stop fucking thinking and feel.
Breaking away for air, he tries not to squirm too much, even as House’s clearly practised fingers slide up his waist and over his chest. His breath hitches as they brush one of his nipples, a response against House’s lips that he’s unable to quell or hide.
The movement has purpose. It has intent. It’s an indication of experience that emphasizes Lucas’ severe lack of it, and that’s making him feel things that he’d usually consider crass and degrading.
Well, it’s not that the crassness and degradation is absent, it’s more so that Lucas’ reception to it isn’t normal. The shame is definitely there, but fuck, his body’s reaction is unlike anything he’s ever felt. It’s not awful or embarrassing. It’s amazing. It’s perfect.
He’s so caught up in trying to rationalize everything that he loses time to prepare for House’s next move. His nipples have peaked in response to the stimulation, and House quickly takes the opportunity to pinch one between his fingers.
The sudden pressure is gentle at first, a slow, easy roll of his fingertips as he pays close attention to what he’s doing rather than the reaction it may be coaxing out. May be, because Lucas isn’t even sure if he’s breathing at this point. His hips fuck up into nothing and his head lowers slightly, feeling House’s skin under his breath.
The warmth coming from it urges him to bite, to get a proper taste, maybe, but he can’t bring himself to make contact. All he ends up biting is his own bottom lip, sinking his teeth in hard enough to leave it raw. The taste is almost sweet. When House’s mouth takes over instead, a steady hand tilting his chin up, he gives in again without thinking about it.
His hands tremble as he feels blindly under the blanket. It takes a moment, but the harsh outline of House’s cock meets his palm, and he feels House grunt against his tongue. It’s like an admission, a plea for more, and it tastes good.
House lets him stretch the waistband, pulling away and lifting his hips until he’s finally bare. Lucas goes to touch him, to feel just what his own impact has been, but House stops him with a soft, “Wait,” and tug on his wrist.
Lucas’ lips part. He can only watch as House spits in his own palm and reaches down to wrap it around himself. At first he seems to mimic Lucas’ rhythm on himself, one that was admittedly not all that consistent, but then he pulls it away and looks back up with a smirk.
“Go on,” he urges, gesturing down at his cock. When Lucas hesitates, he continues, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. That was just a demonstration. Figured you’d need a… tutorial.”
Lucas closes his mouth, which was probably agape for far too long, before opening it again. “What?” he scoffs, making a wholehearted attempt not to stutter. “Are you calling me a closet case?”
“Are you denying it?” House deadpans. “More importantly, are my coats nice and warm?”
“You don’t store coats in your closet,” Lucas squeaks out, for some stupid fucking reason. He scrambles for a recovery, squirming in House’s lap and hoping the slip up goes unnoticed. “I mean, who does that?”
“Freaks that wanna hide their coats,” House answers simply, not pushing it. He reaches back up, the pad of his thumb finding Lucas’ nipple again in an instant. Leaning forward, he breathes over Lucas’ neck, his stubble rough and scratchy. “Focus, Lucas.”
“Mhm,” Lucas offers lazily. With much less shame than he should probably have, he spits into his palm, just like House had, before wrapping it around him like he was told to.
House inhales sharply, and regardless of whether it’s from the excess slickness or Lucas’ touch, Lucas can’t help but whine himself. “Start slow,” House tells him, twitching in his hand as his fingers flick over Lucas’ nipple.
Lucas has to restrain himself. He takes a deep breath, and then in one, smooth motion, slides his fist over House’s cock, the sensation so familiar and yet so foreign.
He builds up a steady, patient pace, the filthy sound of it only serving to make his own cock ache with need. House moves with him, rocking his hips up and panting over Lucas’ mouth as their lips drag lazily. Not quite kissing, but oddly just as warm and perhaps even more erotic.
As Lucas’ confidence builds, so does the rhythm of his wrist. He feels House getting harder in his palm, an unexpected and unbelievably hot feeling that makes him shudder. His fingers tense and his concentration breaks just like that, but he fights to stay put, to stay focused like House said.
His hesitance must be noticeable, because he feels another one of House’s hands come up, applying the same amount of pressure to his other nipple, abusing it in the same way. The movements sync with Lucas’ eager fist, and he tries not to sob at how overwhelming it is.
“House, I’m—” Lucas shakes his head, unable to find the right words. His entire world has been reduced to the very sensation of House’s cock in his hand, the heat and weight of it something he’s already committed to memory. It’s a detail more intimate than anything he’s previously found out. He twitches, dangerously close already even as he deprives himself of touch. “God, this is embarrassing...”
“For you, yeah,” House agrees. His breath catches, followed by a raw, desperate sound as he thrusts forward and rolls Lucas’ nipples roughly. “You’re lucky it’s getting me off.”
If the stimulation isn’t what does it, the admission is. That's the nail in the coffin. Lucas groans and shudders as he comes, untouched and sore, onto the bedsheets below. His back arches, almost painfully so, and he catches himself from falling forward with his other arm around House’s shoulder. He continues to pump House’s cock, feeling it pulse under his skin as his vision blurs at the edges.
House doesn’t ease the merciless pinch of his fingers, his thumb dragging over Lucas’ oversensitive nipple like he’s unable to let go of the feeling. Lucas whines but he doesn’t do anything to stop it, doesn’t want to, finding himself trapped in a loop of overstimulation that he can easily lean into.
He tucks his head into House’s collarbone, an involuntary movement that causes each and every breath to ghost over House’s ear. House groans then, his grip tightening as he finally spills over Lucas’ hand and adds to the mess staining the blanket.
Their heavy breaths mingle for a long, tranquil moment, the sensitivity now clinging to Lucas like sweat. He can’t let it go, and he thinks he might be saying that out loud, but he’s not bothered enough to try and make sense of his own words. House’s fingers stop, his hand lowering as he kisses Lucas one last time.
“Fuck,” he sighs, a little breathless. He flicks his bedside lamp on, and the harsh light makes for a dramatic reveal. “Will you at least pay for the dry cleaning?”
Lucas reels back as much as he can in defense. “Hey, this is your fault just as much as mine,” he insists, finding himself reluctant to compromise but not in any position to be stubborn. “I’ll put half on your bill.”
House raises a brow. “And the handjob?”
“On the house.” Lucas tries not to snort at the unintentional wordplay. “Mostly because it’s not my profession, so it can’t really fall under paid labor, but also a little bit because I, um. Liked it.”
“You liked it,” House repeats, eyeing Lucas up and down. His sarcasm is watered down by the fuckdrunk haze that seems to be loosening them both. “I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t said anything.”
Lucas groans, reluctant to move but no longer comfortable enough to let himself sit in their mess. “Just change your sheets,” he mumbles. “You can gloat about what you like another time.”
House begins to wipe himself up with a tissue, not bothering to lift his head. “Is that a promise?”
“I don’t make promises,” Lucas fires back, turning and sliding out of bed before reaching over to untangle the blanket.
“Of course you don’t. Oh well.”
House is sound asleep again the moment he’s changed his sheets, and Lucas resists the urge to sit and watch for another few hours. He instead slips his own relatively clean clothes back on, his gaze lingering on House before he forces himself to walk back into the hallway.
On his way out, he plucks a pair of pants and boxers from the laundry, slipping through the door with a satisfaction he probably doesn’t deserve before locking it behind him. He’ll return the key tomorrow.