Listening to House come was just as satisfying as Foreman had hoped. One word, please or not, wouldn't have made a difference, not to the way House's whole body shuddered under him, or to the way he moaned. He kept stroking until it seemed that House was finished, his semen all over Foreman's hand and his erection starting to fade.
Foreman wiped his hand the sheets--they were a lost cause by now, since he and House had had sex on them twice. Twice, as if they were teenagers, which Foreman hadn't been for years, and which House certainly wasn't. Still, there was that lazy, smug contentment with everything they'd done, and Foreman couldn't shake it. He closed his eyes, resting on House's back since he hadn't been elbowed off. House had come so hard, his body writhing nearly enough to lift Foreman off the bed, his voice cracking on Foreman's name. Squeezing his hand. God. What did that mean, really? Easier to fall asleep than think about it.
He'd have to give House room eventually. He was probably crushing him, even though House hadn't complained. That in itself was suspicious. House had pulled his hand away from his, though, and Foreman knew how to take a hint. He rolled over slowly. It only made sense to roll to his left side, because the way their right arms were tangled they'd probably dislocate something moving that way. Besides, House probably wouldn't appreciate having more weight put on his leg. It wasn't the best plan, since Foreman ended up in the mess. The easiest revenge he could think of was to pull House with him, keeping him close--if Foreman was going to end up in the wet spot, then House was coming with him. Anyway, it would be cold when House pulled away, the air suddenly rushing against his sweaty chest. Foreman grinned again. He kept wanting to laugh; it was like he was drunk, that same warm sense of rightness with the world. Coming twice in an evening would do that to a man.
That reminded him of the condom, and Foreman grimaced a bit. It would be awkward pulling out. He'd need to hold the condom, since he'd softened enough that it wouldn't stay on by itself. He reached between them--Christ, he'd been right, the air was freezing when he pulled back from House even a little bit--and managed to withdraw, going slowly. He pulled the condom off and tied a knot in it, dropping it in the trashcan on his side of the bed. House was closer to the bedside table now, where his Vicodin was--Foreman assumed House remembered that; like a junkie, he wouldn't forget where his stash was. So Foreman wouldn't bother about getting it for him. Wouldn't bother about much of anything. He felt drained, suddenly exhausted, and chilled. The simplest solutions to all those problems was to press up against House again--instant warmth--and close his eyes, letting his breathing slow--nothing to think about, nothing to confront.
no subject
Foreman wiped his hand the sheets--they were a lost cause by now, since he and House had had sex on them twice. Twice, as if they were teenagers, which Foreman hadn't been for years, and which House certainly wasn't. Still, there was that lazy, smug contentment with everything they'd done, and Foreman couldn't shake it. He closed his eyes, resting on House's back since he hadn't been elbowed off. House had come so hard, his body writhing nearly enough to lift Foreman off the bed, his voice cracking on Foreman's name. Squeezing his hand. God. What did that mean, really? Easier to fall asleep than think about it.
He'd have to give House room eventually. He was probably crushing him, even though House hadn't complained. That in itself was suspicious. House had pulled his hand away from his, though, and Foreman knew how to take a hint. He rolled over slowly. It only made sense to roll to his left side, because the way their right arms were tangled they'd probably dislocate something moving that way. Besides, House probably wouldn't appreciate having more weight put on his leg. It wasn't the best plan, since Foreman ended up in the mess. The easiest revenge he could think of was to pull House with him, keeping him close--if Foreman was going to end up in the wet spot, then House was coming with him. Anyway, it would be cold when House pulled away, the air suddenly rushing against his sweaty chest. Foreman grinned again. He kept wanting to laugh; it was like he was drunk, that same warm sense of rightness with the world. Coming twice in an evening would do that to a man.
That reminded him of the condom, and Foreman grimaced a bit. It would be awkward pulling out. He'd need to hold the condom, since he'd softened enough that it wouldn't stay on by itself. He reached between them--Christ, he'd been right, the air was freezing when he pulled back from House even a little bit--and managed to withdraw, going slowly. He pulled the condom off and tied a knot in it, dropping it in the trashcan on his side of the bed. House was closer to the bedside table now, where his Vicodin was--Foreman assumed House remembered that; like a junkie, he wouldn't forget where his stash was. So Foreman wouldn't bother about getting it for him. Wouldn't bother about much of anything. He felt drained, suddenly exhausted, and chilled. The simplest solutions to all those problems was to press up against House again--instant warmth--and close his eyes, letting his breathing slow--nothing to think about, nothing to confront.