wooedforyears | November 11, 2008

November 11, 2008

When House had arrived in Langley, he had been looking for a distraction, but he had imagined that he would have been forced to look harder for it. It had fallen into his lap--not literally, and it was too bad--when he had been introduced to the attending physician, Dr. Terzi. Tall, quick with a retort, and hot. If House hadn't been as interested in the medicine as he had been, he probably would have spent even more time and effort convincing her to jump into bed with him and accept a fellowship opening--at the time, the order hadn't particularly mattered. Between the case and doctor, he'd had little spare thoughts for Foreman, or the previous few days, although it had pleased him to know that Foreman hadn't believed him when he'd told him the truth about where he'd been; it had almost been as though Foreman had wanted him back at the hospital. The reason had hardly mattered. If Foreman couldn't handle the medicine or the fellow-wrangling without him, House could inform Cuddy and push to have Foreman dismissed. He had doubted Foreman wanted him around, unless the fellows fell short when it came to heated personal arguments, but House had suspected Foreman had enough of those before he'd gone. There could be reasons he hadn't considered, but, while he'd been away, all House had enough brainpower to care about was the gorgeous woman strutting around and returning his euphemisms, and the fact that she had the potential to offer an incredibly nice distraction for the next few years of a fellowship. Plus, it had occurred to him, at one point where the thought of Foreman had crept into his brain, her presence might accomplish the goal of either driving Foreman completely away or provoking him to act. Either one would work well, and she could provide the aesthetically pleasing means to do it.

Terzi hadn't said 'no', but he'd left with the feeling that he probably wouldn't be hearing from her again, which had been disappointing. That disappointment had been replaced with genuine shock that his fellows--and Foreman--hadn't been able to wrap up Speed Racer's case in less than an afternoon. He'd not only come back to find it still up in the air, but that Brennan--more of a manipulate rat than House had ever given him credit for--had managed to fake and fake-cure polio. Every now and then, the shit that happened when he wasn't there amazed him, and House had to admit, he never would have called this one. Foreman had managed it, though, catching Brennan's fake-out, and House hadn't been able to hide his interest--the whole situation was even a little too crazy for his tastes, but it was fascinating--or his respect for Foreman for questioning it down to the end. He hadn't been surprised that his fellows had looked surprised when he'd reminded them that he'd put Foreman in charge for a reason. Sure, it had been with the hopes they'd all get on his back about the big reveal of the morning, but it had also been because Foreman really did get shit done.

As much as he wanted to forget about Foreman altogether, shove him out the door and onto a plane headed for California himself, he couldn't ignore the respect he felt for Foreman when he kept pushing like he had. Didn't mean he had to express it anymore than he already had, and he didn't hang around the lecture hall to take in Foreman's reaction beyond a brief glance. He headed up to his office, anxious to execute the plan he'd had two mornings ago: Go home, get drunk, and crash for the night. Too bad Terzi hadn't worked out. He'd still have something to fixate on other than Foreman and his incompetent bunch of new fellows. Fuck. He leaned against the back wall of the elevator, closing his eyes as he waited for it to stop on the fourth floor, hoping nobody--Wilson, Cuddy, Foreman, nobody--would be waiting to chat him up about his impromptu visit out of state.

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House barely felt the drift of Foreman's fingers on his arm; he was far too distracted by the sensations and pressure in his own body, the hot, hot air of Foreman's breath in his ear, even warmer feeling of Foreman's mouth. The heat and weight of Foreman's body. It all spurred him on, and he felt himself tumbling toward his orgasm. So fucking close. Foreman knew it, too--he said so--and House managed to answer with a nod, a small groan, hoping like hell that the smugness in Foreman's voice was nothing more than the satisfaction of his orgasm. Alarm began creeping into his brain the first time Foreman paused. No. No, God, no. Please, don't stop.

He shifted with Foreman, more of his weight on his right side--he would take an extra Vicodin later--and he tried to push his dick into Foreman's hand, give himself some control, just a little more friction, but he collapsed weakly with no way to gain any leverage. Foreman was heavy on top of him and, even though Foreman wasn't making much of a conscious effort to hold him down, House struggled to move at all. Desperation clawed its way up his throat as Foreman slowed, burst out of him in a strained, breathy cry when Foreman stopped altogether, his hand loosely curled around his erection. He grasped at the bedsheets, squeezing his eyes shut, his head shaking with small motions. Oh, God, he wouldn't. He'll keep going in a second. Just give it a second. Foreman wouldn't do this to him. Not when his dick was so hard, throbbing so much that it fucking hurt. Not when he was on the cusp of orgasm, almost dangling over the edge, just waiting for one last push. But, no, Foreman would, the bastard. He would. Fuck, he wanted to come so badly, so damn badly. Wanted to let go, feel that last, breath-stealing rush of pleasure break over him. God, he needed it.

The kiss on his neck, then his shoulder, seemed like nothing but a tease, and all House's mind could focus on was the heavy feeling in his groin, the tension and need for release. His breaths were fast, uneven, catching in his throat around small, pathetic whimpers, and House wet his lips, tried to speak, words mixing in his head, not quite making it to his mouth. Keep. God, keep going. Please, I need--Make me. Make me come. Need to come. Need. Please. He knew those words were the ones Foreman wanted to hear, wanted to drag out of him, and, fuck he was so close to saying them. Blurting them all out in one breathless rush. He would hate himself for it. He swallowed, closing his eyes, refusing to catch even Foreman's blurry profile at the edges of his vision. "Foreman--" he started, his voice not nearly as demanding as he'd hoped. Pathetic. Needy. Desperate. He could hear it, even in his own ears, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, hoping he wouldn't have to say anything else. He tried again to jerk his hips enough to let his erection slide just enough in Foreman's hand, but he hardly moved. Not enough. He wouldn't be able to do this for himself; Foreman had him fucking trapped, and every second that passed made House more desperate. "Foreman," he repeated, his voice higher than a moment ago. Fucking pleading, but it might make Foreman crack, give in; it already had once. God, he hoped it was enough. He didn't trust himself to hold himself back if Foreman refused to let him come--let him come, Jesus--until he said more than Foreman's name.

Foreman's smile widened when House said his name, everything he wanted so clear in his voice. God, it was so hot, and he waited to hear everything else, that last word that would make him move. House didn't say it, though, and after a moment, when House only repeated his name, Foreman wondered exactly what kind of price he'd be paying if he pushed House too hard. The satisfaction of it, the unbridled pride in his own ability to make House break, would feel fucking amazing. Having the power to do that, to make House say whatever Foreman damn well wanted him to say. Please was only the start of that list.

He'd done this to House before, though. When he'd left. House had been right when he'd accused Foreman of drawing out his escape. House didn't give a shit whether Foreman had given notice. Foreman could have left the minute he'd said he'd had enough. But he'd hung around, waiting, and he'd finally gotten what he wanted. House said that he was important, that House wanted him to stay.

For all of three seconds, that had felt good. Before House hadn't been able to contain himself any longer and had burst out with exactly how he really felt. House could be happy for two minutes, sure, but when the moment was over he went right back to being the same miserable jerk he always was.

Foreman hesitated a second longer. He knew House was on the verge of giving in, he knew it. But that was just it: he already knew that. Of course he could make House beg, but then what? If this didn't mean anything, if it was just fucking, then that wouldn't matter. House could hate himself, and Foreman, and it wouldn't matter in the least because it was just bodies, just getting off. The way Foreman had draped himself over House, though, the way he was--still--sucking and licking at his neck--the way he'd practically entwined their fingers under the pretense of holding House down. That was pretty hard to dismiss as purely physical. What the hell was he doing?

Foreman swallowed. If he wanted more, then he couldn't do this to House. There'd be plenty of opportunities to tease the hell out of him, hold him down and taunt him, but that opportunity was not the same night when he'd barely convinced House to even give him the time of day.

He didn't know what the hell he wanted. But after coming so hard, after fucking House like that, it was pure self-interest to ensure that they'd be doing this again. Foreman let out a breath and tightened his hand. "Yeah," he said, as if he was answering House. He closed his eyes and let the way House had said his name--moaned it, high pitched and desperate--replay in his mind as he started stroking House again. Finding every spot that he'd learned, using the pressure that made House respond the most, and then going just a hint harder, and faster, and this time, he didn't stop.

House didn't hold back a blustery sigh when he heard Foreman's 'Yeah'. Even less concerned about the broken, high-pitched moan when Foreman began moving his hand again, jerking him off, thumb rubbing just there until House exhaled sharply around Foreman's name, his body jerking with rigid spasms as his orgasm finally, finally crashed over him. Wiped his brain clear. Clear except for the burning-white sparks of pleasure firing in his whole fucking body. God, House could barely breathe, mouth open and trying to draw as much air as possible. Instinctively, House upturned his hand and clasped Foreman's, needing something solid, something real to fucking ground him. He squeezed Foreman's hand, punctuating the breathless, gasped words that had bypassed his brain and were sneaking out of his mouth. "Yeah. Yes. Yes. Oh. God." Not once sparing a thought to how much Foreman saw, how much he heard. All that mattered at that moment was the amazing release of all the pent-up tension and pressure, the overwhelming, almost paralyzing pleasure. Nothing else.

Those thoughts, however, came rushing into his head as soon as his orgasm ebbed and he sagged against the bed, under Foreman's weight. Foreman. He couldn't help but wonder what the hell he thought, how he'd react. He'd practically begged Foreman to finish him off, begged to get fucked, then begged for more. House tried to tell himself it had only been because he knew that Foreman could fuck, could get him of--no other reason--but the argument fell short when House opened his eyes, glanced at their intertwined fingers. The way he'd reached for Foreman's hand--the only part of Foreman that he could easily reach--had been purely instinctive. Automatic. Now, as his body trembled with the exertion and aftershocks of his orgasm, breaths finally beginning to slow and even out, House had no excuse for the fact that he was still grasping Foreman's hand. Like it mattered. Like this had mattered. What the fuck was he thinking? He wasn't, apparently. Couldn't be, if he was fucking holding onto Foreman's hand like he wanted to stay, wanted to actually depend on Foreman to want him around. It was ridiculous, and House opened his hand, releasing Foreman's and gathering a handful of the sheets instead. Stupid. Ruining his post-orgasmic euphoria, and--

No. No. He wasn't about to keep thinking about it. Wasn't going to look at Foreman. He shook his head gently to clear away his thoughts, focusing on the warmth inside his chest, the blissful satisfaction relaxing, loosening his muscles. Foreman was heavy, still inside him, and he should have tried to nudge him off of him--he'd have to clean up soon, at least, peel himself away from the sweaty sheets, the wet spot he'd left--but he let Foreman stay where he was. Something else he wasn't about to think of too much as he let his eyes close, trying to bask in the afterglow of his orgasm as long as possible.

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.

House was relieved that Foreman hadn't been waiting for him to ask that Foreman roll off of him, at least far enough to give him some room, and he drew a slow, deep breath--God, it felt like the first full breath he'd taken in hours--feeling the expansion of his body as the air filled his lungs. Regular, normal feeling started to seep back into his body, slowly replacing the contentment of a moment ago. His leg began to ache, dull for now, by his standards, and, as more time passed, he wished Foreman would pull out of him. He needed to move, needed his Vicodin before the ache flared into searing, hot bolts of pain. As he opened his mouth, about to snap at Foreman to get his dick out of his ass, Foreman eased away and slowly withdrew, sending a rush of cool air against his back, the heat of Foreman's body gone. House shivered, tempted to pull a couple pillows closer, steal all of the blankets to get warm again. But he'd wait; he had to clean himself up, grab a couple Vicodin to let him fall asleep.

He'd already decided he wasn't dragging himself back to his apartment, that he'd be spending the night in Foreman's bed whether Foreman liked it or not. He wasn't going to ask. Better to talk about as little as possible at this point. He just wanted to get the hell to sleep while he was still feeling the lazy, drowsy effects of a half-day's worth of--House had to admit--pretty mind-blowing sex. It had left his muscles loose, tired, and he realized just how tired when he slowly shifted away from Foreman, sitting up and reaching for his pills, taking them with him as he stood and made his way into the bathroom.

He found a washcloth in the bathroom, the one he'd used for his shower, and cleaned himself up. Downing a couple Vicodin, he took a quick look around for a spare toothbrush and wasn't surprised when he found one. Once he was finished--cleaned up, bladder empty, pain at bay, teeth brushed--he set the spare brush on the counter, a folded tissue keeping it off the surface. He was sure it was clean--immaculate like every other surface in the house, except for Foreman's bedsheets, he thought with a grin--but he set it on the tissue anyway before heading back out to the bedroom and collapsing back on the bed. He settled on his left side, pressure off his right, and pulled up the covers, his back to Foreman, refusing to say anything, hoping he could just fall asleep.

Foreman was more than half-asleep before House moved away from him. He frowned, letting out a small mmph sound, but he opened his eyes long enough to see House heading for the bathroom. He didn't really want to know what chaos House might possibly cause in there; he was too tired to deal with any of it. Besides, he'd be surprised if House did more than clean up. That was all he wanted, for the moment, and he was right. House came back and hauled the covers up, not saying a word. Foreman couldn't quite avoid the thought about how domestic this was, taking turns in the bathroom, brushing his teeth after House had--obviously--helped himself to Foreman's spare.

Not going to think about it. Not going to worry. Foreman just hoped it wouldn't be like last time; hoped that House could actually sleep without elbowing him in the ribs. He wished he could change the damn sheets, but of course, House was rolled up in them now, and he'd probably fight tooth and nail if Foreman rolled him out of bed just for that.

No. Tonight was definitely not the time for confrontations. Forget about it. Foreman climbed back into bed after turning out the lights, nudging close to House without actually touching him, so that he could avoid the mess. He wasn't about to cuddle, but right now, the shared warmth under the sheets felt good, easing through his muscles, and Foreman was asleep almost before he had time to worry about tomorrow.

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November 11, 2008

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