When Foreman spoke, House's body tensed, and he suddenly took back his wish for Foreman to tell him what he wanted. He'd felt self-conscious enough when Foreman was staring at the back of him. Letting him see the front, just letting Foreman look at him, made House's insides squirm. They had been too occupied, too drunk, to care to do much studying last time, and now that House was sober, aware of everything, the prospect of having Foreman really look at him made him nervous. House wouldn't be surprised if Foreman suddenly remembered who was standing in front of him and told him to put his clothes back on and get the hell out. Stupid. That was stupid. Foreman wasn't a moron. He especially wasn't an oblivious moron, but House couldn't stop those thoughts from rushing through his head.
I can't, he wanted to say, when Foreman told him that he should be touching him, but his voice didn't want to work. House fixed his eyes on Foreman's hand and watched as Foreman touched himself, stroked himself. Oh, God. He'd wanted to see evidence that Foreman wanted him, but this, this made him want to run. Made him wish he could run. He couldn't take the step to the bed, make himself sit down and do what Foreman wanted. His knees seemed to be locked in place. He couldn't get his body to fucking move, no matter how hot Foreman looked and sounded. (God, and it was hot.) No matter how much he wanted to make Foreman break because of him. That thought should have excited him--having Foreman at his mercy, under his control--but it was different when Foreman practically told him to do it. If he'd done it on his own, when Foreman wasn't expecting it, it would have been better. Acceptable. He could pretend it was just a way to push Foreman, nothing else, if he needed to. This should have been a big stroke for his ego, but he couldn't get his brain to stop working. Thinking. Fuck.
It was so much easier when Foreman pushed and didn't give him much of a choice. He'd rather Foreman reach out, grab his arm, and yank him down to the bed. If he willingly did what Foreman wanted, he'd have to admit that he wanted this just as much. He'd lose his out, all his rationalizations if Foreman decided to ditch him after all. House's body was frozen, his feet rooted to the floor as he stared down at Foreman, battling with himself and his arousal at seeing Foreman like this, hoping Foreman wouldn't get pissed off at him for standing like some kind of moron, but hoping he would, and then kick him out to save him the trouble of explaining himself. God, this was all so much easier when he was drunk, when he couldn't think clearly. He really didn't want to be able to think, and he bowed his head and closed his eyes, trying to shake his thoughts away, taking his attention off of Foreman for a few seconds.
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I can't, he wanted to say, when Foreman told him that he should be touching him, but his voice didn't want to work. House fixed his eyes on Foreman's hand and watched as Foreman touched himself, stroked himself. Oh, God. He'd wanted to see evidence that Foreman wanted him, but this, this made him want to run. Made him wish he could run. He couldn't take the step to the bed, make himself sit down and do what Foreman wanted. His knees seemed to be locked in place. He couldn't get his body to fucking move, no matter how hot Foreman looked and sounded. (God, and it was hot.) No matter how much he wanted to make Foreman break because of him. That thought should have excited him--having Foreman at his mercy, under his control--but it was different when Foreman practically told him to do it. If he'd done it on his own, when Foreman wasn't expecting it, it would have been better. Acceptable. He could pretend it was just a way to push Foreman, nothing else, if he needed to. This should have been a big stroke for his ego, but he couldn't get his brain to stop working. Thinking. Fuck.
It was so much easier when Foreman pushed and didn't give him much of a choice. He'd rather Foreman reach out, grab his arm, and yank him down to the bed. If he willingly did what Foreman wanted, he'd have to admit that he wanted this just as much. He'd lose his out, all his rationalizations if Foreman decided to ditch him after all. House's body was frozen, his feet rooted to the floor as he stared down at Foreman, battling with himself and his arousal at seeing Foreman like this, hoping Foreman wouldn't get pissed off at him for standing like some kind of moron, but hoping he would, and then kick him out to save him the trouble of explaining himself. God, this was all so much easier when he was drunk, when he couldn't think clearly. He really didn't want to be able to think, and he bowed his head and closed his eyes, trying to shake his thoughts away, taking his attention off of Foreman for a few seconds.