House pressed his head back against the mattress, his eyes squeezed shut, body tensing on the edge of his orgasm, waiting for it to break over him. God, come on. Come on. His hand slid down to Foreman's shoulder, squeezing once before falling down to the bed to fist the sheets, his hand opening and closing with the rhythm of Foreman's mouth. Just one more second. One more hard suck. One more thrust of those God damned fingers. One more brush against his prostate. One more--
It took a moment for Foreman's stillness to register, but, as it did, House raised his head to stare, too confused to cover it, anger creeping into his expression. He was panting hard. His body was shaking. He wanted to come, had been a second away. Needed to come. Fucking aching for it, and his body jerked with the desperate attempt to prompt Foreman into motion. The pressure on his prostate, the heat of Foreman's mouth still around him, felt good, but not enough. He needed more, one more action, another tiny push from Foreman. Oh, God, he needed it. "Foreman," House warned, completely serious despite the uneven, husky quality of his voice. Move. Do it. Make me come, you bastard.
Foreman started again, as abruptly as he'd stopped, and House let his head fall to the bed, a ragged sigh floating out of his mouth and toward the ceiling. In the second that Foreman began moving again--mouth working, fingers pushing inside, stroking inside--the whole fucking world seemed to condense to the heavy ache in his groin. To the throb and pulse of his dick. To the jolts of pleasure from his prostate. To Foreman. Fuck. A second later, all of House's focus narrowed even further, to the breath-stealing slam of his orgasm. The hot pleasure, the release of tension made his body jerk and quiver, his hands clutching at the sheets as he came. Came hard, too hard for his voice to work beyond a wordless, broken moan. The sound of it still echoed in his ears when he collapsed, relaxed against the mattress, his eyes closed, lips parted, chest and abdomen rising and falling with his shallow, fast breaths. A soft, sated groan slipped out of his mouth with an exhaled breath before he realized he'd done it, and he turned his head to the side, away from Foreman, but didn't bother to move yet, feeling too fucking boneless, and mindless, and content to give up the satisfaction of his lingering aftershocks.
no subject
It took a moment for Foreman's stillness to register, but, as it did, House raised his head to stare, too confused to cover it, anger creeping into his expression. He was panting hard. His body was shaking. He wanted to come, had been a second away. Needed to come. Fucking aching for it, and his body jerked with the desperate attempt to prompt Foreman into motion. The pressure on his prostate, the heat of Foreman's mouth still around him, felt good, but not enough. He needed more, one more action, another tiny push from Foreman. Oh, God, he needed it. "Foreman," House warned, completely serious despite the uneven, husky quality of his voice. Move. Do it. Make me come, you bastard.
Foreman started again, as abruptly as he'd stopped, and House let his head fall to the bed, a ragged sigh floating out of his mouth and toward the ceiling. In the second that Foreman began moving again--mouth working, fingers pushing inside, stroking inside--the whole fucking world seemed to condense to the heavy ache in his groin. To the throb and pulse of his dick. To the jolts of pleasure from his prostate. To Foreman. Fuck. A second later, all of House's focus narrowed even further, to the breath-stealing slam of his orgasm. The hot pleasure, the release of tension made his body jerk and quiver, his hands clutching at the sheets as he came. Came hard, too hard for his voice to work beyond a wordless, broken moan. The sound of it still echoed in his ears when he collapsed, relaxed against the mattress, his eyes closed, lips parted, chest and abdomen rising and falling with his shallow, fast breaths. A soft, sated groan slipped out of his mouth with an exhaled breath before he realized he'd done it, and he turned his head to the side, away from Foreman, but didn't bother to move yet, feeling too fucking boneless, and mindless, and content to give up the satisfaction of his lingering aftershocks.