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He could both laugh at the way they look right now. Both of them, writhing around, red and sweaty and fucking like rabbits.
He couldn't tell why this was happening or when this began. All he knows and can feel is burning pleasure. Pleasure so intense that it almost hurts, searing against their skin, it's uncomfortable. It's uncomfortable how fucking good it feels.
They're on their left sides, House is spooning the other. His hips are moving slowly against the male before him, who is desperately throwing himself down onto the cock inside of him.
He's practically drooling, unable to rip his eyes off of the almost pornographic scene in front of him. Every time he pulls himself off of his dick, strings of lube, spit, and precum follow him and smear back against his pubes when he slams back down.
He remembers this is this coworker. No, his friend. He unfortunately acknowledges this will create a sense of closeness he historically has issues with. He wants to roll his eyes and groan–not unreasonable considering the situation–at his own brain trying to 'ruin the moment,' but it intrigues him how instead of getting repulsed by the idea of having sex with someone he's close with, he feels his cock throb. He almost loses himself in the pleasure, he could feel his balls tightening in that tell-tale sign of an impending orgasm.
He grasps the situation again, and he can't tell if he wants to savor this moment, wait to see how this all plays out, or if he wants to cum and then leave– to never speak to him again. He can feel himself getting softer as he thinks about the second option; and god, he was not going to let his depressive thoughts take away his orgasm as it did most things in his life.
He feels his gut burn with desire after his mind paints him a picture; letting the hospital know that he is his. Maybe walking him around the campus by leash, although he can't tell if it's his narcissism or his own personal fetishes causing the fantasy. FYI, It's a mix of both.
No, no. He wants to do it now. He has the ability to humiliate him and god does he disgust himself with the way it makes him throb. He knows he trusts him, it makes him smile against his will, sinister but also genuinely happy that this connection between them even exists.
His thoughts are on standby suddenly.
The other male's moans are getting whinier. Images of times where House was put in place by him flash in his head, the contrast so extraordinary that an embarrassingly loud cry of pleasure rips through his chest and throat. He doesn't care how stupid he just sounded, his ego is getting stroked hard. Similar to his cock, it makes his body burn with euphoria. He has power here. He could do anything to him. He feels their relationship change, now that he's seen him in this state–he's never letting him forget this.
His body is almost going on autopilot. His arms wrap around his coworker swiftly, he struggles a bit, but surprisingly quickly succeeds in rolling him on his stomach still inside of him.
He doesn't think before he's nearly jackhammering himself into the inviting wetness, burying his face into the crook of his mate's neck; mate being the only appropriate term for this circumstance with how primal the both of them were. They were acting on pure human instinct right now. Nothing about this was conscious, both brains filled with blaring “REPRODUCE” signals in a flashing red.
“Fuck, House, don't–”
He's biting down on his neck. He doesn't even remember when this began.
His eyes open just a little bit to assess the situation. Is this a kinky “don't” or a “don't” punctuated with a lawsuit, he thinks. He also notes to use that line later.
“Fuck– f-feels really good. I can't–I can't go to work like this, Cuddy'll kill me. Dammit.”
Oh how convenient. He didn't even need to open his eyes in the first place, his answer was just given to him. He smiles at the classic “oh this is so wrong… but so hot!” trope between them, he is definitely going to embarrass him with that.
His cock twitches. The same images of walking him around on a leash and letting the hospital know that he's his flashes in his mind again. This is how he'll humiliate him now.
He bites just a little harder, careful and inviting. He's telling him he hears him, but he isn't going to stop, and he knows that he won't stop him either.
The guttural moan he earns finally makes him realize how close he is, how tight and wet and how fucking hot it is on his dick. His balls are hugging closer and closer toward himself each thrust. He thinks about warning the other about how close he is but the words lose him when he feels his mate orgasming around him.
It's like a wave, he's teeter-tottering, but it doesn't quite spill over yet, but the second time is the charm and hits him like a bullet train. His mind completely blanks. His eyes are rolled back, all he sees is patterns and he can vaguely hear the echoes of his own sob of pleasure.
His mind clears just barely and he's still jolting, getting squeezed to the last drop. One last thrust makes his muscles give out.
“Fuck you.” House quirks an eyebrow at this.
He picks his head up a little to look at his face.
“No, I did the fucking.” House just barely winces at the dryness in his throat.
“You made me bleed.” Feigned annoyance laces his words.
“You're a masochist. It's kinda your thing.” He smiles when he gets a laugh out of the man below him.
He opts to savor this. His heart throbs with love–too much love, he frowns.
“You're kinda cute like that.” House scoffs at the statement.
“Like what? Frowning? You like seeing me suffer?”
“I'm a bit of a sadist too.”
House outwardly laughs at this. No, it's a perfect amount of love.