Foreman's eyes widened when House didn't answer him--no quip, no defensive joke at Foreman's expense, despite House's scowl--but stepped forward instead. Foreman had no idea what he'd done to provoke this, unless this was House's way of asking. Maybe he'd actually listened for once in his damn life. But it couldn't be that. House's mouth on his was rough and insistent, and his hand sliding under Foreman's arm to his back was clutching tight enough that it felt like each finger was leaving its own imprint on his skin. He couldn't escape, not with House's hand on the back of his head; not that he particularly wanted to. Foreman opened his mouth to ask what the hell? and got his answer in the form of House's tongue, sliding hot and invasive against his. Foreman kissed back, responding to House's urgency and the assertive touch, wrestling a bit with him to tilt his head to a better angle, kissing House deeper. Before he knew what was happening, Foreman had a fistful of House's shirt in his hand, pushing it up his back, while the other hand gripped House's hip, his thumb slipping just under the elastic waistband of the pajama pants to discover that, no, House hadn't stolen his underwear after all. Jesus.
He might have no idea what was going on, but he wasn't about to give this up. The counter was digging into his ass, and House was pushing against him, leaning what felt like more than his fair share of weight onto Foreman and expecting to be held up. He'd lost his cane somewhere, Foreman realized vaguely, or else he'd set it aside. Leaning on Foreman. And wearing his clothes, and kissing him, without being asked, without being forced. It was far more like House was trying to force him, trying to make some point that could probably take a lot less time and effort if he'd just fucking say it...except Foreman liked this method a hell of a lot better. He could almost forgive House for raiding his dresser, if this was the result. And even though the kiss was firm and demanding, Foreman was calm enough, relaxed enough that he could afford to simply enjoy it. It bothered him that he didn't know what House wanted, and he was still irritated over House's fucking hypocrisy, to accuse him of being pathetic and then to kiss him like this, like a fucking invitation, but Foreman was beginning to recognize the way House kissed and this was new. Not really a fight. Just a very, very thorough, detailed argument, the kind you could only have with House, full of diversions and the occasional, playful sidetrack.
Foreman knew that the only way to win an argument with House was to disengage, to walk away. House absolutely hated that, when he couldn't force a reaction. And right now he was certainly getting one. Foreman thought about stopping, just to prove that he could, even though he felt warmer now with House pressed against him and his pulse was picking up, his body responding to the kiss. His hand was up under House's shirt now, his fingers rubbing small circles over House's spine, but with the other Foreman reached up and pulled House's arm down, freeing himself of his grip enough to pull back. "Yes," he said, looking into House's eyes deliberately, as if he'd been right all along and the kiss had been some sort of question. You see, he wanted to say. It's not that difficult.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-12-27 08:50 am (UTC)He might have no idea what was going on, but he wasn't about to give this up. The counter was digging into his ass, and House was pushing against him, leaning what felt like more than his fair share of weight onto Foreman and expecting to be held up. He'd lost his cane somewhere, Foreman realized vaguely, or else he'd set it aside. Leaning on Foreman. And wearing his clothes, and kissing him, without being asked, without being forced. It was far more like House was trying to force him, trying to make some point that could probably take a lot less time and effort if he'd just fucking say it...except Foreman liked this method a hell of a lot better. He could almost forgive House for raiding his dresser, if this was the result. And even though the kiss was firm and demanding, Foreman was calm enough, relaxed enough that he could afford to simply enjoy it. It bothered him that he didn't know what House wanted, and he was still irritated over House's fucking hypocrisy, to accuse him of being pathetic and then to kiss him like this, like a fucking invitation, but Foreman was beginning to recognize the way House kissed and this was new. Not really a fight. Just a very, very thorough, detailed argument, the kind you could only have with House, full of diversions and the occasional, playful sidetrack.
Foreman knew that the only way to win an argument with House was to disengage, to walk away. House absolutely hated that, when he couldn't force a reaction. And right now he was certainly getting one. Foreman thought about stopping, just to prove that he could, even though he felt warmer now with House pressed against him and his pulse was picking up, his body responding to the kiss. His hand was up under House's shirt now, his fingers rubbing small circles over House's spine, but with the other Foreman reached up and pulled House's arm down, freeing himself of his grip enough to pull back. "Yes," he said, looking into House's eyes deliberately, as if he'd been right all along and the kiss had been some sort of question. You see, he wanted to say. It's not that difficult.