Foreman fucking loved it when House gave in. They were off-set just enough that House's hipbone dug into his stomach, and when House pushed back, struggling under his weight, Foreman had no compunction about shoving him again, harder. Squeezing House's wrists as he held his hands down on the counter. Foreman was almost laughing, or at least, the warm, amused glow in his chest was the same. A lot like he was getting the better of House, that same satisfied heat, but with something gentle underneath that he definitely wasn't showing. House wanted him aggressive so Foreman kept kissing long past the moment when he needed more oxygen than he could get in a few snatched breaths, hoping to make House just as dizzy. House wanted him. In a way he hadn't before. He was giving up almost too much, resisting without really putting up a fight. As if House had finally let himself want Foreman. Given in to the idea of them continuing whatever it was that Foreman had started. He still didn't know if he wanted that, all of those implications, and Foreman could feel his own half-angry anxiety contributing to the strength of his grip, to the shove and press of his body.
Foreman had always liked women who were assertive, who could hold their own in bed, who enjoyed being playful, and maybe, now and then, who got off a little something out of the ordinary--but it had never been about power, not for Foreman. Maybe he was a chauvinist--and he'd been called that during more than one breakup--but he felt protective, softer around them, careful of his strength. With men he'd always been a bit more conservative, raising an eyebrow across a room and seeing if the invitation was accepted. His only longer relationship had been based on mutual benefit more than any sort of deeper feeling, and the sex had been good but hardly forceful. With House, though, Foreman had pushed because House was so fucking annoying when he didn't, only to find, now, that he was pushing because it felt so damn good. Hearing the edge of House's moan over the sound of his breathing was fucking hot, and it turned him on to make House react, to have him fighting and willing at the same time. To get the upper hand, even if House had offered it. He didn't know how House did this, made him completely forget about the consequences, but when they were kissing like this Foreman's biggest worry about the future was how he was going to pin House down in bed and still have a hand free to jerk them both off.
There was a shrill beep from the oven. The timer. Foreman barely remembered turning it on, although the scent of the lasagna had filled the room. It was the only reason Foreman pulled back, but he didn't give up his grip on House's wrists right away. "You're not," he said, before he had to pause to breathe, "wearing those clothes in my bed." He knew he was playing into House's provocation. Showing that it bothered him. But it was the closest Foreman was going to come at this moment to telling House what he'd been imagining, stripping House naked again and climbing on top of him. Licking his lips, which felt bruised from the kiss, Foreman finally let go of House's wrists long enough to worry about the state of his kitchen.
Grabbing for a cloth to protect his hand, Foreman pulled the pan out of the oven. He took a minute just to ignore House and served himself, gathering his control back and covering the shakiness of the kiss with an air of annoyed impatience. Usually he ate at the dining room table, but he winced at the idea of making small talk with House with the whole evening hanging between them. He headed for the couch instead, turning on the television for ambient noise once his plate was settled on his lap, and started eating.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 11:13 am (UTC)Foreman had always liked women who were assertive, who could hold their own in bed, who enjoyed being playful, and maybe, now and then, who got off a little something out of the ordinary--but it had never been about power, not for Foreman. Maybe he was a chauvinist--and he'd been called that during more than one breakup--but he felt protective, softer around them, careful of his strength. With men he'd always been a bit more conservative, raising an eyebrow across a room and seeing if the invitation was accepted. His only longer relationship had been based on mutual benefit more than any sort of deeper feeling, and the sex had been good but hardly forceful. With House, though, Foreman had pushed because House was so fucking annoying when he didn't, only to find, now, that he was pushing because it felt so damn good. Hearing the edge of House's moan over the sound of his breathing was fucking hot, and it turned him on to make House react, to have him fighting and willing at the same time. To get the upper hand, even if House had offered it. He didn't know how House did this, made him completely forget about the consequences, but when they were kissing like this Foreman's biggest worry about the future was how he was going to pin House down in bed and still have a hand free to jerk them both off.
There was a shrill beep from the oven. The timer. Foreman barely remembered turning it on, although the scent of the lasagna had filled the room. It was the only reason Foreman pulled back, but he didn't give up his grip on House's wrists right away. "You're not," he said, before he had to pause to breathe, "wearing those clothes in my bed." He knew he was playing into House's provocation. Showing that it bothered him. But it was the closest Foreman was going to come at this moment to telling House what he'd been imagining, stripping House naked again and climbing on top of him. Licking his lips, which felt bruised from the kiss, Foreman finally let go of House's wrists long enough to worry about the state of his kitchen.
Grabbing for a cloth to protect his hand, Foreman pulled the pan out of the oven. He took a minute just to ignore House and served himself, gathering his control back and covering the shakiness of the kiss with an air of annoyed impatience. Usually he ate at the dining room table, but he winced at the idea of making small talk with House with the whole evening hanging between them. He headed for the couch instead, turning on the television for ambient noise once his plate was settled on his lap, and started eating.