House just waits because he knows he’ll know. He’s never been here with Chase, but he’ll still know it when he sees it, when he’s finally beyond what he can take. And then he’s there, and that near-scream of a sob tears at something primal inside House and he groans before he can stop himself from making an answering sound. He doesn’t stop yet, but they’re not as hard through the whimpering, through the first few babbled repetitions of please. That’s where he stops, where his arm falls to his side, the paddle pressed along his bad thigh and he just stands. Just stares. Just drinks Chase in as he shakes and sobs and babbles, broken and gone, floating, tied only to that point on the ceiling.
He watches so closely because he wants to know how it feels. Wants to learn it from the outside because there’s no way he’ll ever learn from within. It’s not his thing, not something he wants to try, not somewhere he can go. He doesn’t get off on pain and never will, but it’s still a place that’s fascinating and so he watches as Chase shakes and whimpers, and finally, begs. When Chase says Greg, there’s a dull thud as the paddle falls to the floor, out of his hand. Maybe he hadn’t expected Chase to use his first name. Maybe it’s just hotter than he’d imagine it’d be. Maybe a bit of both, but when he starts begging to be fucked there’s none of the typical House-gloating.
There’s just a low, guttural sound, a hard groan that sounds like longing. More than desire, more than lust, longing, like he just absolutely aches and has wanted this longer than the last fifteen minutes that he stood here, hard in his jeans, turning Chase’s ass red with his hand, a crop and a paddle.
Hands move over Chase’s hips, away from that angry red skin, and catch along the slipknot that keeps the ropes between his legs tucked into the girdle, and he’s working it undone, now while he’s got free hands to do so. He can’t help himself, can’t resist the indulgent press forward as he easily slips the few ropes undone, his denim-clad hips pressed against Chase’s hot, bare ass. Then he’s gone, tears himself away, because just standing there will do neither of them any good. He’s walking stiffly, not just because of his leg and the strain he’d put on his whole body in beating Chase, but also because he’s so damn hard. He picks up the lube and comes back, shaking hand peeling away the plastic wrapper, and there’s a damp spot at the bulge of his jeans that gives away just how fucking much he’d wanted this.
He unzips himself first, because he has to. Because it hurts not to, and it’ll be easier to now rather than waiting. The only part of Chase’s ass that’s not red are the parts between his cheeks, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt as his fingers slip down between them, slick and cool and rubbing against his entrance. It’s going to be tight, between the position that Chase is in and how sore his ass is, but he’s aware of it, and he’s careful. Not careful enough to even remotely remember to find a condom, but careful enough that he’s slowly easing one finger inside him, slow and steady and gentle.
no subject
He watches so closely because he wants to know how it feels. Wants to learn it from the outside because there’s no way he’ll ever learn from within. It’s not his thing, not something he wants to try, not somewhere he can go. He doesn’t get off on pain and never will, but it’s still a place that’s fascinating and so he watches as Chase shakes and whimpers, and finally, begs. When Chase says Greg, there’s a dull thud as the paddle falls to the floor, out of his hand. Maybe he hadn’t expected Chase to use his first name. Maybe it’s just hotter than he’d imagine it’d be. Maybe a bit of both, but when he starts begging to be fucked there’s none of the typical House-gloating.
There’s just a low, guttural sound, a hard groan that sounds like longing. More than desire, more than lust, longing, like he just absolutely aches and has wanted this longer than the last fifteen minutes that he stood here, hard in his jeans, turning Chase’s ass red with his hand, a crop and a paddle.
Hands move over Chase’s hips, away from that angry red skin, and catch along the slipknot that keeps the ropes between his legs tucked into the girdle, and he’s working it undone, now while he’s got free hands to do so. He can’t help himself, can’t resist the indulgent press forward as he easily slips the few ropes undone, his denim-clad hips pressed against Chase’s hot, bare ass. Then he’s gone, tears himself away, because just standing there will do neither of them any good. He’s walking stiffly, not just because of his leg and the strain he’d put on his whole body in beating Chase, but also because he’s so damn hard. He picks up the lube and comes back, shaking hand peeling away the plastic wrapper, and there’s a damp spot at the bulge of his jeans that gives away just how fucking much he’d wanted this.
He unzips himself first, because he has to. Because it hurts not to, and it’ll be easier to now rather than waiting. The only part of Chase’s ass that’s not red are the parts between his cheeks, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt as his fingers slip down between them, slick and cool and rubbing against his entrance. It’s going to be tight, between the position that Chase is in and how sore his ass is, but he’s aware of it, and he’s careful. Not careful enough to even remotely remember to find a condom, but careful enough that he’s slowly easing one finger inside him, slow and steady and gentle.