House curled his arm in front of him, still refusing to touch himself--God, he wanted Foreman to do it. Wanted Foreman. Jesus. The pop of the lube cab made him close his eyes, angle his hips with anticipation, but was hardly thinking clearly enough to position himself. Rolling nearly onto his front, House reached for a pillow, pressing his face into it as he hugged it close. Something to hold on to, muffle the rumbling, gritty groan--he had given up on trying to stop himself--that rolled up his throat with the press of Foreman's fingers, the firm rub. As good as it felt--and, God, it felt good--House needed Foreman to get to the damn point. Work him open, slick him up, make him relax enough to take Foreman in without too much of a slow, teasing build. He impatiently mumbled into the pillow, "Get on with it." He doubted Foreman had made out the words, even if he'd heard his voice. House felt his urgency building, and, even though he didn't want Foreman to skip the prep, he wanted it, for Foreman to fuck him. God, he fucking wanted it. He couldn't keep back his gasp-sigh when Foreman pushed his fingers inside him, starting to stretch him. Oh, yeah. He still wanted Foreman to grab his cock, but he'd wait if it meant Foreman would fuck him and stroke him at the same time, finally giving him exactly what he wanted. Fuck, yeah.
At the withdrawal of Foreman's fingers, the urgent press of Foreman's erection--hadn't expected it so soon--House lifted his head, drawing suddenly nervous breaths. He'd wanted it, but not to hurt. Foreman's several-second fingering wasn't enough. Hadn't been enough. He wasn't a damn pro, as much as he liked being fucked like this, and he wasn't ready yet. Not relaxed enough, and House winced, letting a high, sharp noise slip out of his mouth as Foreman pushed inside in a single, long stroke. Foreman probably hadn't heard him; he seemed too busy releasing noises of his own--a moan that, if he wasn't so distracted, House would have paid far more attention to, fucking reveled in as it flooded his ears. House tensed, pain crawling from his ass, down the back of his legs, up his back--not too sharp, but more than enough to feel--and he gritted his teeth, trying to work through it, let Foreman pull him closer, stretch him open this way. Foreman had used enough lube to prevent any real tearing, but, God, it was fast. Foreman was moving too fast, too soon. The ache in his groin had faded for the moment, but he knew it would flare up again, and an even longer wait would start to drive him crazy. He didn't want to tell Foreman to stop--he might stop, get pissed off, and never continue--but, as he bit back a whimper as Foreman thrust in, fast and deep, he couldn't stop from reaching back, finding Foreman's hip again. "Foreman," he choked out, pushing lightly against Foreman's hip to keep him from thrusting in again too fast or too hard, hoping Foreman would pause completely. "Wait, wait. Not too--I need to--" House tried to gather air, a deep breath. "Too much."
He sounded so fucking desperate, like he was pleading, and maybe he was, but he felt on unsteady ground, resorting to desperate urging now. He needed to get back on familiar, solid territory, needed to relax, and, keeping his grip firm on Foreman's hip--didn't want him pulling out, stopping entirely--turned his head to peek at Foreman over his shoulder. Sarcasm was familiar, a safe tactic to help him get his bearings, and he already knew that it was a language Foreman could dissect as it was, understand without a problem. "Didn't your mother ever tell you to let a girl adjust first?"
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-01-02 08:56 am (UTC)At the withdrawal of Foreman's fingers, the urgent press of Foreman's erection--hadn't expected it so soon--House lifted his head, drawing suddenly nervous breaths. He'd wanted it, but not to hurt. Foreman's several-second fingering wasn't enough. Hadn't been enough. He wasn't a damn pro, as much as he liked being fucked like this, and he wasn't ready yet. Not relaxed enough, and House winced, letting a high, sharp noise slip out of his mouth as Foreman pushed inside in a single, long stroke. Foreman probably hadn't heard him; he seemed too busy releasing noises of his own--a moan that, if he wasn't so distracted, House would have paid far more attention to, fucking reveled in as it flooded his ears. House tensed, pain crawling from his ass, down the back of his legs, up his back--not too sharp, but more than enough to feel--and he gritted his teeth, trying to work through it, let Foreman pull him closer, stretch him open this way. Foreman had used enough lube to prevent any real tearing, but, God, it was fast. Foreman was moving too fast, too soon. The ache in his groin had faded for the moment, but he knew it would flare up again, and an even longer wait would start to drive him crazy. He didn't want to tell Foreman to stop--he might stop, get pissed off, and never continue--but, as he bit back a whimper as Foreman thrust in, fast and deep, he couldn't stop from reaching back, finding Foreman's hip again. "Foreman," he choked out, pushing lightly against Foreman's hip to keep him from thrusting in again too fast or too hard, hoping Foreman would pause completely. "Wait, wait. Not too--I need to--" House tried to gather air, a deep breath. "Too much."
He sounded so fucking desperate, like he was pleading, and maybe he was, but he felt on unsteady ground, resorting to desperate urging now. He needed to get back on familiar, solid territory, needed to relax, and, keeping his grip firm on Foreman's hip--didn't want him pulling out, stopping entirely--turned his head to peek at Foreman over his shoulder. Sarcasm was familiar, a safe tactic to help him get his bearings, and he already knew that it was a language Foreman could dissect as it was, understand without a problem. "Didn't your mother ever tell you to let a girl adjust first?"