Foreman snorted at House's suggestion that he needed practice with his cover letters. The first year he'd worked for House, he'd written one nearly every week, and he'd ended up trashing all of them. He'd always decided before that working for House made up for the hassle and the petty insults. Writing the letters was a way to cope as much as anything, although he'd never gone so far before as to actually send any. Foreman didn't know what he'd do if anyone actually offered him a job, but at this point he couldn't imagine it happening anyway.
He kept his glare steady, even after faltering over exactly what he'd expected out of this encounter. House had it easy if he wanted to follow through on his threat to walk out. It wasn't his place; he had somewhere to go, something to do to occupy him, even if it was only dressing. Foreman watched House pull on his pants, and suddenly felt more naked than ever. House looked damn good. The jeans shaped to his legs and the trail of hair leading down his stomach to his fly only looked more appealing as it disappeared under the line of his belt. As House turned on the lamp, the light played over his biceps and the hint of hair on his forearms. The closer House got to leaving, the more Foreman wanted to stop him. It had been so easy to kiss House when he'd been driving into him. So easy to make him beg. Foreman wanted to see that again, but he had no intention of kissing House to make it happen. Mistake, he insisted to himself, as if repeating it enough would make it true.
Foreman wanted to back up when House stalked towards him, limping without his cane and yet somehow more in control now that he had a question of his own to ask. Foreman straightened his shoulders as House came even closer. House's eyes looked ocean grey in the dim light, but they were steadier than Foreman would have expected of him, and House was studying him closely. Fuck. He'd given House an opening, an opportunity, and he knew he wouldn't escape without satisfying House's curiosity, even if he did it by lying--House would take that as proof of something.
He hadn't wanted House to leave. And the only words Foreman could say would probably drive House out his door even faster. But he hated the way House was pushing, as if Foreman was the only one who had anything to admit, and fuck it, he still wanted to push back. It wasn't like he could salvage anything out of the argument, so he might as well make it as uncomfortable for House as it was for him. "I didn't expect you to give it up so easily," he said, staring directly into House's eyes. "I didn't expect you to beg." The movie-reel in his head was starting up again, replaying all the highlights, and Foreman felt his penis twitch at the memory, the hot, prickly-sweated feel of his body responding to his own words. "I didn't expect you'd come so hard from getting fucked." Behind every sentence was the echo: I didn't expect it to be so fucking hot. If House could hear that in his voice, the low, husky arousal, then Foreman wouldn't be able to stop him from leaping to conclusions. And he didn't care.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-11-30 07:13 am (UTC)He kept his glare steady, even after faltering over exactly what he'd expected out of this encounter. House had it easy if he wanted to follow through on his threat to walk out. It wasn't his place; he had somewhere to go, something to do to occupy him, even if it was only dressing. Foreman watched House pull on his pants, and suddenly felt more naked than ever. House looked damn good. The jeans shaped to his legs and the trail of hair leading down his stomach to his fly only looked more appealing as it disappeared under the line of his belt. As House turned on the lamp, the light played over his biceps and the hint of hair on his forearms. The closer House got to leaving, the more Foreman wanted to stop him. It had been so easy to kiss House when he'd been driving into him. So easy to make him beg. Foreman wanted to see that again, but he had no intention of kissing House to make it happen. Mistake, he insisted to himself, as if repeating it enough would make it true.
Foreman wanted to back up when House stalked towards him, limping without his cane and yet somehow more in control now that he had a question of his own to ask. Foreman straightened his shoulders as House came even closer. House's eyes looked ocean grey in the dim light, but they were steadier than Foreman would have expected of him, and House was studying him closely. Fuck. He'd given House an opening, an opportunity, and he knew he wouldn't escape without satisfying House's curiosity, even if he did it by lying--House would take that as proof of something.
He hadn't wanted House to leave. And the only words Foreman could say would probably drive House out his door even faster. But he hated the way House was pushing, as if Foreman was the only one who had anything to admit, and fuck it, he still wanted to push back. It wasn't like he could salvage anything out of the argument, so he might as well make it as uncomfortable for House as it was for him. "I didn't expect you to give it up so easily," he said, staring directly into House's eyes. "I didn't expect you to beg." The movie-reel in his head was starting up again, replaying all the highlights, and Foreman felt his penis twitch at the memory, the hot, prickly-sweated feel of his body responding to his own words. "I didn't expect you'd come so hard from getting fucked." Behind every sentence was the echo: I didn't expect it to be so fucking hot. If House could hear that in his voice, the low, husky arousal, then Foreman wouldn't be able to stop him from leaping to conclusions. And he didn't care.