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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For a moment, Foreman let himself fuck his hand, getting caught up in the sensation, pressing one heel against the bed as he moved his hips up into his touch. He was waiting for House to hurry the fuck up and get on the bed, and then Foreman might be persuaded to suck him, after House had gotten with the program. Slow, and soft, light as their kiss in the living room, to pay House back for taking so damn long.

Except the bed didn't dip under House's weight. He didn't hear House stepping closer, or saying anything. Foreman opened his eyes only to see that House wasn't even fucking looking at him, he was staring at the fucking floor. Foreman felt a wash of shame move through him. Here he'd been putting on some sort of fucking show and not only didn't House appreciate it, he wasn't even watching. Fuck. Foreman could have been jerking off for all the fucking involvement House was showing. This was completely humiliating. Foreman took his hand away from himself, suddenly wishing he could cover up. He remembered what House had said when Foreman had accused him of running away--You're not important enough to avoid, Foreman. You don't mean that much. God, was that what this was? That House wanted to get his rocks off and he'd do it with the first convenient person who threw himself at him, like a pathetic, needy moron? That being here was just easier than avoiding him?

Fuck him. Fuck him. Foreman couldn't do this. He sat up and braced his fists on either side of his hips, glaring up at House. His first instinct was to show him the fucking door, if House was so uninterested in being here. "What the fuck is your problem?" he said, not really caring about the answer. It wasn't like House was going to be honest--and if he was, and Foreman was right that House just didn't want to be here, then Foreman didn't want to hear it.

House raised his head, alarmed to see Foreman sitting up on the bed, hands clenched into fists that pressed into the mattress. Great. Foreman was not only staring at him, making House want to cover himself and slink away, out of sight, but Foreman looked as though he might leap off the bed and kick him out the door if he couldn't come up with an answer soon. Now he couldn't think, had no idea what he could say. He couldn't make sense of any of the phrases and thoughts rampaging through his brain, feeling the pressure to say something, his face growing hot under Foreman's hard glare. House was too nervous, too taken aback to be angry, and his respiration sped up, breaths coming fast and noisy through his mouth.

"I--" House forced himself to swallow all the saliva in his mouth, gently shaking his head to help along his words. He couldn't look Foreman in the eyes as he spoke, looking down at the floor. "I don't know. I--" I want this. I want to know that you want me. It's fucking terrifying. Terrifying that any of it matters. I want you to kiss me, and touch me, and fuck me, and just fucking let me stay because you won't spread this around, or make this more complicated than it would need to be--and why the fuck am I thinking about this? No use saying any of it, even if he could; Foreman wouldn't believe it. It wouldn't do any good. Foreman would believe what he wanted to believe.

House glanced towards the door of the bedroom before turning his head to face Foreman again, still cemented to the damn floor. He didn't want to leave. Not really. If he walked out this time, he had a feeling Foreman would refuse to ever let him in again, that it would be the one push that shoved Foreman too hard. He didn't know what the hell he should do--try to pretend nothing had happened, or kiss him, or keep standing there, wait for Foreman to do something for the both of them. He had no fucking idea. God, he was a moron. A real fucking moron. He was sure that he'd just ruined his chances of getting laid. He might have just pushed Foreman to take a new job in who the fuck knew where. He didn't fucking want that. But he didn't know what to do about it, if Foreman would even let him do anything about it.

Hell, if Foreman stood up, got in his face, or put any more pressure on him, House wasn't sure how he would respond, but at least he'd have something to go on. He might blurt out the first thought that came to his mind, and, as fucking scary as that was, he'd at least have a better answer than a pathetic 'I don't know'.

"You don't know," Foreman said flatly. He looked away for a moment, trying to work past the huge, incredulous anger knotting in his chest. When he looked back, House was glancing at the door, the floor, anywhere but at him. "You don't know," he repeated, scornfully. For once House didn't have a fucking answer. For once, right when Foreman didn't want to stop and think.

What the hell did House expect after saying that? For Foreman to kick him out? He'd be right. Foreman wasn't about to beg him to stay. He was stubborn, but he was also smart enough to know when he wasn't wanted. When it was pointless to even try. He could tell House what the hell his problem was. He didn't know a good thing when he had it. He'd do anything to fuck it up. Foreman glanced up at him. Maybe House really was just that self-sabotaging. All he was looking for was a fucking escape hatch. He looked like he was fighting with himself not to bolt, or else to get together the courage to make a run for it, and Foreman had no idea which. The thought that House seriously didn't know crossed his mind, and Foreman glared at him even harder. House wasn't leaving, hadn't dropped half a dozen insults on his way out the door, but he wasn't making a move, either. He didn't know. He--he was actually uncertain. Foreman scoffed again, at himself this time. Christ, if he was letting himself get pulled in to House's mindfuck again, he would never forgive himself. He hated that he was still willing to give House a chance, as if it wasn't fucking obvious what he'd meant, what he wanted and didn't want. But House's stance, his expression, everything about him screamed tension, maybe even panic. As if...as if it meant something, that he was here, that they were doing this. Foreman's eyes widened, and he swallowed. He hadn't wanted that. Except...he'd pursued House, forced him to acknowledge Foreman, made tonight happen. And House was either so good at toying with him that he couldn't tell, or House was being serious; he did want it, and he was freaking out.

"I know," Foreman said, standing up. He was still furious, and he was sure it showed; he had nothing to hide behind and no reason to hide it. He stalked forward, covering the space between them in two steps. He didn't really care that House was afraid. He wanted to know if he was the problem, or if it was House's cowardice. If it was him, then House could fuck off. If it was House's problem, then he could damn well get over it. Last chance, he promised himself, because after this it wouldn't be on him if House decided not to go any farther. Foreman kissed House again, the same spine-tingling, light touch from before. The harder, deeper kisses hadn't scared him. It was this tenderness that had unnerved him. Foreman pressed just close enough that he could feel the heat of House's body, skimming his hand down House's side to his hip only enough to hold him in place, letting the kiss grow into an invitation before pulling back. "And if you have a problem with that?" he said quietly, staring angrily into House's eyes, trying to decipher whatever the fuck he was thinking. "You can get the hell out."

Of course. Of course Foreman wouldn't believe him. Wouldn't take him seriously, or see any truth to what he'd said. It really was fucking ironic that nobody ever believed him when he told the truth. It fucking figured. House exhaled forcefully, seconds away from grabbing his clothes to dress again, let himself out, because there was no way in hell he was going to stand there and explain his feelings to Foreman.

He caught sight of Foreman's change of expression, though, and it made him pause. The widening of Foreman's eyes, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, as if he'd realized something important, and House wanted to know if Foreman actually had caught on to the fact that he'd been serious. But House straightened up, drawing a sharp breath as Foreman stood up and closed in on him with a couple long strides. Christ, Foreman looked intimidating, fucking scary, and House tried not to let that thought show on his face, pressing his lips together, trying to relax his features, smooth out the worried crease between his brows that he knew was there. He had no idea what to expect. He had a few guesses. A punch, somewhere--the gut, the face, a knee to the balls. He wasn't quite sure. Probably accompanied by shouting. That seemed likely.

So when Foreman surged forward and kissed him, it took a few moments for House to process what the hell was happening. Foreman kissed with a slow tenderness as if he were testing if House could follow through, participate in it without attempting to force it into something more aggressive. Mild panic still fluttered inside his stomach, but he tried to concentrate on Foreman's kiss, on returning it with the same kind of pressure. He let himself lean into Foreman's touch, though, and, by the time Foreman pulled away, House felt disappointed. God, he hardly knew what the fuck was going on inside his own head, and he couldn't muster up the same anger that Foreman was revealing in his eyes. He felt stunned as he looked at Foreman, watching his lips move as he spoke, trying to figure out what the hell Foreman was trying to accomplish.

House suspected it was a test and stared at Foreman, drawing a deep, shaky breath and swallowing around the knot in his throat. Fucking terrifying. This was fucking terrifying, but House couldn't let Foreman kick him out, reject him again. He wouldn't let Foreman do it, even if he played straight into what Foreman wanted, or expected him to do. Wouldn't. House couldn't arrive at any verbal reply, his thoughts scattered enough as it was, so he acted instead. Pushing down his God damned doubts and fears, he focused on the determination to meet Foreman's challenge, to prove, even just to himself, that he wanted this, and he bowed his head, tucking his face into the curve of Foreman's neck. He opened his mouth wide against Foreman's neck, pressing his lips firmly to Foreman's skin as his tongue smoothed over it, sucked gently before shifting higher, under Foreman's jaw. He could taste salty sweat on his tongue, the lingering, stray bitterness of Foreman's cologne, dragging his tongue over his jawline, for no other purpose than, underneath all of his doubts, he'd fucking wanted to take in his damn taste all night. No, I don't have a problem with that. No, I'm not going to get the hell out. Fuck that. No. House's heart felt as thought it slammed into the back of his sternum with each beat, determination to stay rising through his chest. Determination to make Foreman want him again. House closed his eyes, lifted his mouth barely more than a paper's width away from Foreman's neck, and flattened his hands over Foreman's back. One stayed spread out over the small of Foreman's back, his palm hot and damp, while the other slid around Foreman's body, over his hip to cover his erection.

God, it really was easier now, to do this when Foreman had come to him, when the only movement House needed to make was subtle, a short reach down. Not on orders, but on his own. On his terms. It nudged House nearer to his comfort zone, and he took advantage, gathering confidence. House raised his head to meet Foreman's eyes as he wrapped his hand around Foreman's dick, squeezing gently before he slowly, deliberately began to stroke him. "That seem like a problem?" he whispered, his voice thick, echoing none of Foreman's anger, but his arousal still evident, obvious in his tone.

Even though House met the kiss, returned it, Foreman wasn't certain if he'd gotten the message across, made himself clear. If House thought one kiss would be enough to convince him, then Foreman would still be tossing him out on his ass. This was a two-player game. He was determined to hold on to his anger, but when House started kissing his neck, his jaw, Foreman's mouth opened on a gasp without his permission. Breathing was becoming an issue, but Foreman wanted nothing more right now than to take in the hot, tickling sensation of House's mouth moving across his skin, the rasp of his beard. Foreman felt feverish as the heat of House's tongue was quickly replaced by cool air, making him shiver. It wasn't enough--it wasn't reassurance--but it felt damn good, and he let House take his time, not demanding an answer. He waited until House finally pulled back and faced him, his face still wearing that uncertain, wary look. Foreman had wanted him to open up--he'd wanted to force House to this, make him honest--but it scared the hell out of him to actually see it. What the hell were they doing?

Whatever it was, all his worries about it disappeared when House spoke, the sound of his voice more convincing than any look on his face. Foreman let out a short, shuddery sigh when House squeezed him. He'd lost some of his erection, but House's hand and the long, deliberate strokes building up the simmering heat in his body, brought him back to full, throbbing hardness. "You couldn't have done that in the first place?" he said, sarcasm lacing his voice, but the tension he'd felt was already melting away. Pleasure was quickly overtaking him. Foreman inhaled sharply and grabbed for House's shoulder, because if he stopped or backed away again then Foreman was going to kill him. Heat flashed across his skin, and Foreman pushed his hips forward, needing more, already aching for more than House was offering. He whispered, "House. Harder--" and then wished he hadn't said anything. He shifted his hand up to the back of House's neck, and pulled him into a kiss, so that he wouldn't be tempted to speak. Talking had gotten him into this mess. Kissing he could understand. Long, and intense, meeting House's tongue with his and sucking on it the way he wanted to suck his dick, swirling and teasing before he got so breathless that he had to break away, and then diving back for more.

The bed was two feet behind them and Foreman couldn't even be bothered to get there, too busy with both House's hand making him want to whimper, and the kiss that he couldn't seem to move away from for longer than a breath. Standing was definitely becoming an issue, though, his legs trembling as House worked him over, trying to make him collapse from the handjob before he was ready. Foreman kept his hold on House's shoulder and stepped backwards, trying to pull House with him without losing a second of sensation, but he still had no clue if House would be finally willing to actually lie down. Foreman wasn't going to ask. He reached for House's dick, his left hand bumping House's right before he pushed him away and brought their erections together and stroked them both at once. God, yes, he'd been waiting for this, House's cock hard and silky against his, sweat and precome easing his strokes. "Ohh...fuck, that's--" So good. Foreman ground against House, his forearm clenching as he sped up his rhythm. "You're...such a fucking pain in the ass," he muttered against House's mouth. It was the truth, but he couldn't find it in himself to sound resentful. He kissed him again instead, and tugged at his shoulder, trying get the message across that he wanted to be on the bed, now, without giving House some fucking personal crisis.

The more Foreman began to react, the more confidence House gained, the urge to make Foreman break and give in to him, want him, reigniting. He smirked, growing more and more pleased with himself, his doubts finally melting away. House snorted at Foreman's words, remember 'in the first place'. House had been too busy concentrating on what Foreman had been doing to him, and then panicking over the meaning of it in the first place. So, no, he couldn't have. His body had barely been able to move, never mind have the coordinating to kiss and stroke Foreman at once.

As Foreman pushed forward, House pressed on the small of Foreman's back, pulling him in, encouraging him to show that he wanted more, enjoying the look of Foreman's impatience. At Foreman's demand, he would have pumped Foreman harder, maybe not quite enough for Foreman, but his rhythm faltered, his grip loosened when Foreman pulled him down and into another kiss. Foreman's kiss made him dizzy, bordered on obscene, and it made House imagine Foreman's mouth on his dick, sucking that way. Whenever Foreman pulled away, House barely had enough time to breathe, forced to draw short breaths through his nose as Foreman met his mouth again. He noticed that Foreman wavered, seemed unsteady on his feet, and he wasn't sure that he wouldn't collapse soon, lunge for a cool lungful of air wherever he could find it.

The bed seemed a better option than the floor, and House stepped forward when Foreman urged him that way, realizing where Foreman was heading. He had no reservations about it now; he was too focused on this, making Foreman react this way and enjoying the boost to his ego to backtrack. He anticipated falling straight onto the bed and continuing what he'd started, but he raised his eyebrows, looking at Foreman questioningly when Foreman nudged his hand away from Foreman's dick. His confusion passed as he peered down to see Foreman wrap his hand around their erections, his eyes closing and his head tipping back at the sensation of the first stroke of Foreman's hand. The fog returned to cloud his head, the heat and pressure--all the pleasure sparking in his body--blurring his personal barriers. He nodded when Foreman spoke, silently completing his sentence. That's good, so fucking good.

"Yeah," he said, the word slipping breathlessly before Foreman kissed him again. As much as he didn't want Foreman to stop, the idea of moving to the bed was one that should have been executed more than a few minutes ago, and House took advantage of Foreman's tug on his shoulder. He grabbed Foreman's hips and gave him a hard shove, following him to the bed and sinking down onto it. He settled on his left side, reaching for Foreman with his right hand, wrapping it around the base of Foreman's shaft and stroking up to the tip, continuing with the handjob.

"Go ahead. Complain some more. We'll see if I do any more than this."

Foreman watched House's lips part slightly around his ragged yeah, his heart racing at that expression, the way his eyebrows lifted and his breath rushed out. Kissing him then, with his mouth open, his mind obviously distracted by Foreman's hand, by the sensation of their erections rubbing together, fuck, it was good. Good to make House forget about whatever bullshit had stopped him. Even better to jerk them both together, to know that he was making House just as lost and uncaring as he was.

Foreman stumbled back when House pushed him, but he didn't bother to catch himself, sitting heavily on the bed and then rolling to his back, propping himself up on his elbows. House was next to him a moment later, warm skin brushing against his shoulder and thigh as House settled next to him. Finally, for Christ's sake, and this time House wasn't stopping. His hand was large and hot, wrapping around Foreman's cock, his fingers tight and precise, and God, it felt amazing, too light to be perfect but the slight taunt was almost better than if House had somehow read his mind. Foreman panted hard as he watched House jacking him off. He couldn't move, couldn't stop staring--his hips lifted almost involuntarily each time House reached the top of his stroke, trying to thrust up into his fist. House sounded fucking smug when he spoke but Foreman ignored him, if that was what would make him keep going. Foreman wasn't complaining, not by a long shot, but he still wanted more contact. The air was cool where he wasn't pressed up against House's side, and Foreman wanted the kiss--even if it meant he was feeling way more for House than he should. Dropping his shoulders back to the bed, Foreman reached for House and hauled him closer, nearly pulling House on top of him, feeling House's dick against his hip.

"Lazy bastard," Foreman said before he kissed him, daring him to stop. He kept one hand on the back of House's neck to pull him deeper into the kiss. With the other, joined House's hand on his erection, linking their fingers together so that he could show House exactly what he wanted, how hard, how fast, and to prevent House from pulling away. His pleasure was growing, and he tightened his own hand, forcing House to move faster. God, after all that fucking teasing, that wait, he wanted House now, and the kiss and the handjob wound together, pleasure surging heavy and hot through his groin, spreading out to every part of his body. Intense, God, so hot. Foreman stopped to pant, pushing his head back against the pillow, a groan escaping him. "Fuck, I want--" Couldn't say it. Probably anything he asked for, House would feel obligated to deny him, and House's hand was good, working for him, so he wasn't going to ruin it by saying anything else. But it was still there, much as Foreman wanted to hold it back. Putting House's mouth to good use. Getting the lube out of the drawer, make House's hand slippery-slick and hot, fuck his fist that much harder. Anything. Just a little more, a little longer, oh God.

Foreman's reactions just kept getting better, and House was starting to berate himself for being so fucking needy, for not pushing like this in the first place. He let Foreman pull him closer and only had enough time to expel a short puff of air in response to Foreman's comment before Foreman kissed him. Foreman kept doing that, kissing him after he spoke to force him to keep quiet, and the worst fucking part of it was that House couldn't stop himself from falling into the trap of it. The only sound he made was a short groan as Foreman gripped the back of his neck, angling him deeper into the kiss. So fucking good.

He was lying half-over Foreman, nearly straddling Foreman's right leg, his erection throbbing, pressing against Foreman's hip. One arm, bent at the elbow, held him up enough to keep his weight off of Foreman, while the other worked still moved along Foreman's cock, guided by Foreman's hand. He barely had to do any of the work; he only had to keep his grip firm while Foreman controlled most of the movement, his hand pulling his along with it, his hips rising to thrust into their hands. Each time Foreman lifted his hips, little surges of pleasure raced through House's groin, and he moved his own hips to rub himself against Foreman's hip, push into the pressure that already heightened with Foreman's movements. It wasn't close to enough, and he wanted to either shift fully over Foreman, let him take both of their dicks in his hand again, or roll off him, lay back, and demand that Foreman suck him off before he--

Wait, no, this was about Foreman. Pushing him. Breaking him. Making Foreman want him and ask for him--beg him--not the other fucking way around. Foreman's voice cut into his thoughts, and House took the chance for another push, tearing his hand away from Foreman's dick and rolling to Foreman's side again. He made no other move to touch him, too focused on pushing and finding out exactly what Foreman wanted. He wanted to pull the words out of him to prove that he could, to prove that he could hear them and not freeze up. Prove Foreman wrong.

House lowered his mouth to Foreman's ear, not letting his lips touch him--not letting any part of him touch him. "Say it," he rasped out quietly. "Finish it."

Foreman's eyes flew open at the loss of contact. Panic crashed through him, making his heart skip a beat, before his anger caught up with him, making him feel vicious. "Don't you fucking dare stop," he started, before he heard House's harsh, low words in his ear. Foreman exhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut. Christ, he'd been close. Had thought that they were past all the fucking bullshit. "So that you can avoid it?" he sneered. He wanted to sound fucking pissed off, but he was breathing too hard, heat burning through his body, his groin pulsing with an aching clench of pleasure. His hand was still on his dick, but he pulled it away, not interested in being House's personal porn video. Foreman doubted House could take what he wanted, and he nearly rolled off the bed, turning his back on House and his goddamn games. If House thought Foreman had been angry before, he was about to see fucking furious. Foreman opened his eyes at the last second, though, and saw the intent look in House's eyes, the determined set of his lips, almost the way he looked when he was too stubborn to give up on one of his pet theories. All Foreman wanted was to get off, not to defend a theory or prove a point. This wasn't a fucking diagnosis, his symptoms weren't there for House to examine until he came up with some stupid, farfetched metaphor that was dead wrong.

When he'd fucked House, though, when he'd asked House to tell him when the angle was right, House hadn't believed him for a second. He'd scoffed at the idea that Foreman might actually try to make it good for him. And House wasn't moving away, and from the way he was watching Foreman he didn't intend to. Foreman let out a scoffing breath, not entirely trusting House to listen or to act on what he wanted. His orgasm still simmered under his skin, though, close and hot, and if he hadn't been willing to stop before then right now the images of what he wanted were overwhelming his brain. This had better be a very fucking serious offer.

"This," Foreman said, reaching up to touch House's mouth, brushing his precome from his fingers across House's lower lip. Foreman stared at him, studying exactly how House reacted. If that solemn look actually meant anything real. He panted once, hard, imagining that it was his dick instead of his finger nudging House's mouth, then hooked the tip of his thumb gently in House's lower lip, wanting to feel suction, the wet swirl of his tongue, the heat of his mouth. Foreman licked his own lips, only half-conscious of mirroring the action he wanted House to make. "I want you to make me come," he said, his voice scratchy, deeper and almost inaudible, but he pushed out the words, letting House see he could be implacably serious.

House had been determinedly standing his ground, despite the anger flashing through Foreman's eyes, and he was already formulating sarcastic retorts to anything Foreman might say, just for one last push before he forced Foreman's control to snap. When the pad of Foreman's thumb touched his lip, however, the path from his brain to his mouth shorted out--House swore he could hear the crackle-hiss; it could have been his breath, and he suddenly wasn't sure. House's lips automatically parted, and his eyes closed as Foreman's thumb brushed across his lip, leaving a wet trail behind it. House held his breath, felt it burn in his lungs, until Foreman bent his thumb over his lip, and a breath blustered out of him, hard and fast. His eyelids fluttered open as Foreman spoke again, whispered almost inaudibly. If House hadn't opened his eyes, watched Foreman's mouth form the words, he might have missed what Foreman had said. Jesus, he was glad he hadn't missed it, and he raised his eyes to meet Foreman's, mirror the serious expression he found on his face. He was too turned on to make a damn joke of it.

He had wanted Foreman to ask, but Foreman's tone and the press of his thumb on his lip, just inside his mouth was better. Damn. I want you to make me come. House couldn't stop the playback loop, and, fuck, it sounded so damn hot. It was so hard not to reach down and touch himself, but, even though he intended to comply, he couldn't let Foreman see how much those words had turned him on, made him this hot just to hear them. It hadn't been, 'I want to come'. No. 'I want you to make me come.' The echoing words combined with the persistent nudge of Foreman's thumb, the pressure on his lip, and, Jesus, it made him fucking throb, heat racing over his skin. Even the action spoke of how badly Foreman wanted him to do something, applying pressure almost as though he wanted to pull his jaw down, force his way into his mouth, like he would accept anything. Like he was desperate for whatever he could get from him. From him. Fuck.

Despite it, Foreman seemed incredibly in-control, his gaze and expression holding steady, and House suddenly wasn't sure who had broken. House barely felt in control of his body as it leaned forward, his lips parting wider to take Foreman's thumb, just past the knuckle, inside his mouth before his lips closed again. He couldn't tear his gaze away from Foreman's as he swirled his tongue around Foreman's thumb, sucking hard enough to draw blood to the tip underneath the skin. House could feel the pulse in the pad of his finger before he pulled back, only several seconds later, licking his lips, tasting the precome that Foreman had finger-painted there. Lifting his chin, he sucked the taste off his tongue and swallowed, letting Foreman see his throat work--a fifteen-second preview, beginning to end, of what House knew he wanted, what he'd admitted he wanted.

House already felt more in-control, still holding Foreman's gaze. He guessed he'd already proven Foreman wrong, just with that display, that small act of compliance, and House felt a wave of satisfaction from it. The idea of actually doing what Foreman wanted, the reaction that would earn, would make him feel like a fucking god. Watching Foreman writhe, and buck, listening to him try to hold back a groan and fail. Making him come. Fuck, yes.

House couldn't repress the faint smirk tugging at his mouth, and he quickly ducked his head so Foreman couldn't see his face as he pushed away from him. He shifted awkwardly on the bed, looking for a good, comfortable way to position himself and realizing it would be much easier if he had a little more room. He wasn't going to bend himself in half for this. When he managed to force the smirk off his face, he raised his head again. "Move," he said gruffly, nodding toward the head of the bed. He wasn't about to elaborate and if Foreman didn't want to listen, then he could take care of himself.

Foreman could feel the slick, obscene glide of House's tongue circling the tip of his thumb as he sucked. Every nerve in his body seemed tuned to that one spot, his cock throbbing in time with the movement of House's mouth around his thumb. Foreman's hand was sweating, his harsh, desperate breaths coming out noisy and uneven. He was barely able to keep his eyes open, wanting to sink down inside the sensation and focus on feeling it. At the same time, he couldn't look away. He knew House was good. He remembered House's blowjob last time, the way he'd been focused and intent on driving Foreman to orgasm as hard and as fast as possible. But Foreman hadn't been able to watch his face then, the movement of his throat and lips, the flutter of his eyelashes. The way House was meeting his eyes, steadily, seemed halfway between a challenge and some sort of promise, and Foreman couldn't break away from his stare, didn't want to. House's eyes were practically hypnotic, his direct gaze turning Foreman on almost more than the moist sound when he pulled his lips off Foreman's thumb.

"Yeah..." Foreman couldn't keep entirely quiet, the sight of House swallowing firing his imagination. And House had pretty much given him permission to talk, had stopped stroking him long enough to demand that Foreman tell him what he wanted. Watching House's eyes, the cloudy look of desire that had taken over his features when Foreman had first touched his thumb against House's lip, was incredible, making his heart hammer in his chest, feeling like he was coming to a flashpoint. It was so hot, watching House's breathing speed up just from what Foreman was telling him. He wanted to see the effect he could have, how much he could turn them both on just by talking. "Gonna fuck your mouth," Foreman said raggedly, working to keep his voice even and serious. "Come on your face, watch you swallow..."

House bent his head, and Foreman could already feel his breath against his stomach. He bit back a moan--there was no way in hell he'd live that down; House hadn't even touched him yet--and then gritted his teeth when House looked up again a moment later. One look at the bed, their positions, made it easy enough to see what House wanted, and if House thought Foreman was going to fight, or resist, when House was the one doing what he wanted, then he was very, very wrong. Foreman hauled himself up by his arms, bunching the pillows behind his head and shoulders, so that he was half-sitting against the headboard. He spread his legs--he knew it looked goddamn wanton, like he was begging for it, but if it gave House room to lie between them and finally suck him, then he didn't care. And Foreman knew he'd be able to see everything from this angle, the bob of House's head, the sight of his lips sealed around Foreman's cock. Fuck, he wasn't going to last; there was already hint of precome at the tip of his cock, and he was so hard that he hurt. Come on, he thought, keeping his mouth determinedly shut, at least until House touched him. He wanted to get his fingers in House's hair, jerk his head forward until he got some kind of relief, but he also wanted to see House do what he'd asked--demanded--without any prompting at all. Foreman couldn't imagine anything hotter than that.

House was hard pressed to recall a time Foreman responded so eagerly to a command and he would have told Foreman how needy and pathetic it was if Foreman's last words weren't echoing in his ears. He had made a point not to look at Foreman as he'd spoken, not wanting to see the cloudy desire he knew was floating across his eyes.

"Don't push it," House said, pretending that Foreman's words hadn't forced his whole body to tighten with arousal. It was dirty, and obscene, but hearing Foreman utter what he wanted to do, volunteer the information, nearly made House shiver. Foreman was kidding himself, though, if he thought that their roles wouldn't be reversed in the next fifteen minutes (and, if Foreman thought differently, House would fuck him to bring himself off, and would refuse to settle for a handjob). House wasn't Foreman's little whore, and, no matter how it made him react, another few words like that out of Foreman's mouth and House would be sure to prove Foreman wrong again, deny him what he wanted, let Foreman come all over himself in hot, messy streaks. It would probably rob him of his own chance to come inside Foreman's mouth, but denying Foreman what he seemed to believe was a sure thing would give him just as much pleasure. But, House admitted to himself, he hoped that Foreman would keep his intentions to himself for both their sakes; hearing Foreman tell him what he wanted--better yet, ask for it-- and hearing him boss him around were different, even though both of them were hot enough to make House want to touch himself. House just had a tendency to rebel against orders, and Foreman should know better to keep his words order-free.

He glanced down Foreman's body as Foreman spread his legs, inviting him--practically begging him--to lay between them. "Wow," House said, unable to resist the taunt as he crawled between Foreman's legs and settled on his stomach. "You are desperate."

He peered up at Foreman, feeling in-control, even as his face hovered an inch or two from Foreman's dick, his hand on Foreman's hip, so close to where he knew Foreman wanted it. He waited for a moment, looking intently at Foreman, before he lowered his eyes to take in the sight of Foreman's cock. Swollen, shiny with precome, involuntarily flexing with each hot breath of air House let flow over the skin. House ignored his own arousal, the strain of his own erection, anticipating how fucking high he would feel when he forced Foreman to react without ever thinking, when he made him come. He let himself imagine it for a moment, purposefully drawing out Foreman's wait. Then, without affording Foreman another glance, House curled his fingers around the base of Foreman's cock and took the head into his mouth, closing his lips around the shaft but keeping the pressure lighter, not nearly as powerful and firm as the suction he'd applied to Foreman's thumb. Not yet.

"Yeah, you really have room to talk," Foreman muttered. House was the one practically sprawling between his legs, looking pretty damn eager for someone who 'wasn't desperate'. If he didn't think it would scare House out of his bed and probably out of his apartment, Foreman would bring up how impatiently House had been moaning for it in the living room, when Foreman hadn't so much as stripped his pants off yet. And after Foreman came--and after he took a good long time recovering while House waited, tense and horny and untouched--then House would learn what desperation felt like. Foreman would be sated, relaxed, ready to be playful if it meant driving House out of his fucking mind. He deserved any revenge Foreman could come up with. His mouth was an inch from Foreman's cock, one hand gripping his hip, looking up with a smirk on his face instead of doing anything. Fuck, he hated it when House was right. Foreman was desperate. Wanting House's mouth, but more certain than ever that saying anything would only prompt House to draw it out interminably, leave him hanging.

A short, breathy yes was wrenched out of Foreman when House finally lowered his head and sucked him in. God, House was moving his mouth and hand in concert, and fucking taunting him with the light, almost exploratory touch. Foreman's thighs tensed, and he pushed his heels back against the bed, flexing upwards as if that would make House use some goddamn pressure. The head of his cock was incredibly sensitive, and he could feel House's every breath gusting from his nose, the hint of roughness from House's stubble when he lowered his mouth. Foreman touched the back of House's head, forcing himself not to grab or push; he wasn't the only one who could exact some payback once the tables were turned. He couldn't stop moving his hand--it was either that or crush the back of House's neck and thrust up into his mouth without warning--so he ended up nearly petting House's thin, fine hair, brushing his fingertips lightly around his ears and down the back of his neck, then kneading his shoulder as firmly as he wanted House's hand stroking his dick.

Foreman knew he wasn't going to be able to stay silent, wasn't going to get through House's teasing without asking for more. He hated himself for giving in, for feeding House's ego if only it meant getting something--anything--in return. That was a losing proposition where House was concerned. Ask and get nothing except insults and taunts. But Foreman had never been driven this far before, never gotten so close to the edge, with House's mouth wrapped hot and willing around his cock. "Yeah," he said, letting his head fall back against the headboard, ignoring the dull pain as it was washed away in the rush of tingling, nerve-searing sensation. "House. Suck it, ohh--"

If Foreman knew House at all, then he was waiting for Foreman to break, to beg. He bit his lip, his pride fighting with the slow, hot build of pleasure in the pit of his stomach, the heaviness in his balls. His hips twitched up, looking again for that final pressure that would be enough, that would let him come, the growing, impossibly good sensation when he finally tipped over into orgasm. Foreman pushed out another harsh breath. He didn't want to say it, God, but he wanted more, needed it. House was waiting for it. That fucking bastard, he was waiting for Foreman to ask nicely, as if House ever responded to politeness, ever did anything for someone just because they asked. Foreman almost laughed through his desperation at the idea of House responding to a civil request. He would now, though, Foreman was sure of it. He squeezed his eyes shut. If that's all he could win then he'd take it: getting House to act like a goddamn human being, probably without even thinking. "Please," he said tightly, and echoed it again in his mind, harder, please, now.

Last time, House hadn't had the opportunity to concentrate; Foreman had been too busy pushing his cock down his throat. House had been more concerned about breathing--not to mention suppressing his gag reflex and the urge to vomit--than giving Foreman decent head. Now, House focused on the taste of Foreman's cock, the texture of his skin, the fullness of him inside his mouth. The head felt blood-warm, even as it pushed against the heat of his tongue, slipped smoothly over the inside of his cheek. He repressed a grin when Foreman raised his hips, undoubtedly looking for more heat and pressure, more suction, and House raised his head, moving his lips to the tip of Foreman's dick until he lowered his hips again. He refused to rush, just because Foreman was aching to come; House wanted to know the touch, or flick, or kind of pressure that made Foreman's body arch off the bed, made him reach for his head, made him want more. House slowed when he felt Foreman's hand on his head, waiting to see if he'd push, try to force him, but Foreman never did. He practically petted him, stroked his hair like it was a plea, then tried to cover it with harsher words, telling him to 'suck it'. The tone of Foreman's voice, deep and heavy with desire and need, made House close his eyes and want to suck him harder. He could feel the pulse and twitch of his own dick and, God, it might have been the sexiest sound he'd heard from Foreman all night until--

Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck. Foreman had begged. Asked politely. His voice had been strained; House knew Foreman had forced the word out of himself, knew it had been hard for him to say, but he had. He had begged him to suck his dick, as desperate and needy as House had ever seen him, and, God, it was so hot that he had to gather a fistful of the sheets, grip Foreman's hip harder, to keep from touching himself. He'd imagined, but doubted, Foreman would beg him for it, utter that word, and the reality of it was better than he'd ever thought. House couldn't resist raising his head, letting Foreman's cock fall from his mouth with a wet slurp-suck. When House's eyes fell on Foreman's face, House's chest expanded with a sharp, quiet breath, and his cock swelled painfully where it was trapped between his body and the bed. Foreman's eyes were closed, his mouth open, head tipped back against the headboard. His body was tense--Jesus, he must have been close--his muscles flexed and defined, and God damn.

House had to close his eyes to force himself to look away from Foreman, sure that if he didn't resume the blowjob in another few seconds, Foreman might mutilate him. With the image of Foreman, desperate and waiting, in his brain, he would really, really rather a blowjob of his own than mutilation. He bowed his head and eagerly took Foreman back into his mouth, immediately applying the same suction he had used on Foreman's thumb. His head bobbed quickly, his hand stroking the base of Foreman's dick as House took in as much of him as he comfortably could, his breaths gusting out through his nose. His other hand pressed flat against Foreman's hip--a sign not to thrust up too much or too hard--as his lips tightened around Foreman's cock, tongue swirled around and pressed against the head, along the underside of the shaft. It was noisy, and a little messy, saliva sliding down onto his fist, but House didn't--couldn't--stop. Couldn't let himself stop until he made Foreman come, made him surrender himself completely to what he was doing to him. House seriously doubted it could get much hotter than this, but he was very curious to find out.

Foreman felt the heat of embarrassment the second he let out that word. He'd always prided himself on his control. Never let the situation get the better of him. He'd just ruined that in House's eyes, if House had ever believed it in the first place. And not that he cared what House thought. But Christ, he'd been close. It had been years since he'd gotten so stupid during sex. Asking took a hell of a lot of trust that Foreman wasn't ready to give to House, not by a fucking long shot. Foreman kept his eyes shut, halfway hoping that House hadn't even heard, knowing that there was no way House would miss that--Foreman didn't have that kind of luck. He could only cling to his idiotic, rationalizing thought, that asking would make House want to finish him off, either to prove himself to Foreman...or because he wanted to.

When House pulled away--a rush of air too cold against Foreman's dick--Foreman thought for an instant that he'd misjudged House completely, that his needy, humiliating please was the last straw--to House running, or else, more likely, to House stopping completely and laughing in his face until Foreman had to kick his crippled ass for being such a fucking cocktease. He couldn't count the seconds, not even by the pounding of his heart. He couldn't look.

Foreman felt even more pathetic at how fucking grateful he was when House didn't say anything, but dove back to the blowjob with a vengeance. Fuck, oh God, he was actually sucking now, taking Foreman in deeper, his hand squeezing and stroking, his mouth--Foreman couldn't hold back a moan, higher in his throat, and he rocked his hips up, staying as mindful as he could of House's restraining hand. Everything he'd been waiting for, everything he'd humiliated himself to get--Foreman couldn't spare a thought towards feeling pathetic, not when House was working his mouth, his tongue wet and swirling and fucking dirty. The wild, pulsing sensation grew until he knew he was going to come, the only thing holding him back was his own desire to keep House going, to keep feeling House doing everything in his power to bring Foreman off.

He was still able to think enough to know that he should warn House, gasp out now, oh fuck, I'm coming, give House enough time to back away. But Foreman wasn't interested in being polite. House had had enough of that out of him for one night. Foreman groaned, long and deep, and let go, right into House's mouth, coming in long, hot waves. His orgasm slammed through his body like thunder, sharp and hard at first and rolling away into heat and pleasure and shuddering aftershocks. For the first, eternal instant, Foreman couldn't breathe at all, his lungs seizing until the need for oxygen left him panting. By the time he finished, he had to press his hands against the bed to hide their trembling. Foreman collapsed back, suddenly feeling the discomfort of his contorted, half-sitting position, but not yet willing to move or think or care in the least about House's solution to the swallow or spit dilemma.

House knew that Foreman was approaching his orgasm fast, listening to the desperate, high-pitched moans, feeling the muscles in Foreman's legs, his abdomen twitch and tense. House listened closely, waiting to hear a warning over the wet, slick sounds of his own mouth, but Foreman groaned--the only warning House would get, apparently--and came in a one-two punch. The first spurt of semen against the back of his throat made him flinch. House froze, stopped bobbing his head, and held Foreman's dick in his mouth, not interested in pulling away now to get a face-full of Foreman's semen, feeling the involuntary pulses of Foreman's dick as he came, filling his mouth. Foreman's semen was warm, slippery, tasted bitter. For a moment, his options flashed in his brain--spit or swallow--and decided against the fumbling awkwardness of spitting, working his mouth and throat to swallow as quickly as he could. Jesus, it had been a long time since he'd even attempted it; he'd forgotten how it felt, tasted, and wished he'd somehow--he wasn't sure how--prepared himself for it. He tried to keep his lips tightly sealed around Foreman's cock, but it was difficult, with his tongue working in his mouth as he swallowed, and leftover semen dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, down his chin.

When Foreman finally relaxed and sagged back on the bed, House lifted his head, hoping Foreman wouldn't catch him wiping his face with the back of his hand. Making Foreman come, driving him to that point, had been exhilarating. Hot. But he felt mildly annoyed that Foreman hadn't even tried to warn him, and Foreman shouldn't expect him to extent the courtesy, if Foreman ever made a move to return the favor--touch him, blow him, anything to relieve the ache he felt in his groin, throughout the pit of his stomach. "I appreciated the heads-up," he said, shifting and falling back on the bed at Foreman's right side, breathing hard and doing all that he could to keep from touching himself.

Foreman chuckled breathlessly at House's complaint. The incredible feeling of House's throat working around his cock while he came had been worth it, even if House decided to get revenge on him in the next few minutes. He thought about saying then next time, don't stop, but that would be a disaster on so many levels. Probably get him into a war of who could annoy the other most during sex. Not to mention the stupid, baseless assumption that there would be a next time. Foreman felt too relaxed, boneless and satisfied, to want to get himself into that kind of trouble.

He turned his head on the pillow, smirking lightly at House's scowl, watching him pant. No matter how good Foreman felt physically--which, right now, was very, very good--it was better to see House struggle for control. "I suppose you want me to do something about that," he said, glancing down at House's erection. He let his smirk grow, visions of drawing out House's orgasm for as long as possible making their lazy way through his brain. See what confessions he could wring out of House--sounds, his name, anything. The fact that Foreman had said please, now that the moment was over, was fading from importance; what really mattered was showing House just what he'd be missing if he claimed he didn't want Foreman again.

Foreman shifted down the bed slowly, then rolled over until most of his weight was on House, chest to chest, his leg thrown over House's left. He kissed him, tasting the bitter remnants of his semen in House's mouth and not bothering much about it, since probably he'd be dealing with worse in a few minutes. Foreman wanted to keep the kiss slow, as warm and unhurried as he felt. Wanted to see if House was desperate enough to deepen it. He brushed his left hand down the center of House's chest and stomach before reaching for House's dick, squeezing him firmly but keeping the pace leisurely. House probably thought that Foreman was torturing him, but Foreman simply wanted to take his time exploring until he knew exactly what would make House come as hard as he had. He broke the kiss to see House's expression, and then dipped his head back, trailing his mouth along House's jaw to his throat, enjoying the slight burn of House's stubble on his lips.

"I could suck you," he murmured against House's ear, tightening his hand on House's dick at the same time. "Get out the lube, maybe fingerfuck you at the same time..." He smiled against House's shoulder, where he could hide it. "Know you like that." Before Foreman did any of that, though, he wanted to feel House's reaction to his words, whether in his voice or the tightness of his body.

House responded with a glare, scowling at Foreman even as he began to shift. His expression was difficult to maintain when Foreman climbed on top of him, impossible as Foreman caught his mouth in a kiss. He let himself get lost in the soft press of Foreman's mouth, the gentle slip of his tongue, all the while anticipating the moment that Foreman deepened the kiss, put more force and intent behind it. It never happened, and House wondered if this was Foreman's plan, drive him to a painfully heightened level of arousal because the bastard knew that he could, then draw it out. The thought was simultaneously torturous and really, really fucking hot, but House's body was too desperate for some sort of relief--the press of his erection against Foreman's body wasn't enough.

As Foreman's hand spread over his chest and trailed down his body, he tensed, drawing in a breath through his nose and holding it, waiting. He released the breath all at once, not caring if the air spread over Foreman's face, relief washing over him at the firm squeeze of Foreman's hand around his dick. Oh, yes. He let his head fall back when Foreman broke the kiss, waiting for Foreman to start stroking him, closing his eyes and exhaling a frustrated sigh when all Foreman gave him were several slow, relaxed pumps. He wanted a real touch, and it took every shred of control to keep from lifting his hips and fucking Foreman's hand.

When Foreman spoke, grasping him even harder, House could feel himself break, his control snapping, replaced with the intense, desperate need he hadn't wanted Foreman to see. He knew that Foreman was looking for a reaction. Knew he was fucking with his head, and House hated that his body reacted, that it gave Foreman a reaction to revel in, rub in his face if he wanted to do it. He was squirming under Foreman, his body shifting with tiny, split-second arches against Foreman's. The hot gust of Foreman's breath in his ear forced him to shiver, goosebumps rising on his arms. His hands rose up, reaching for Foreman, gravitating to his warmth, and slid over his sides, the muscles in his ass, his back. He was already panting hard and noisily, but he refused to speak, determined to keep the words flashing through his brain from slipping out of his mouth. Oh, God. Just do it. Suck me. Fuck me. Stop the fucking teasing and do it. Yeah, you're fucking right, I like that, so please, please do it. Anything. God, I need it. Jesus, he really fucking hated himself. For needing it so much. Wanting it so much. And he hated Foreman for teasing him. Making him wait like this. Hated himself for being so willing to wait.

His thoughts were making it all worse, his reactions growing stronger. His imagination filled with images of Foreman's mouth sealed around his cock, lips tights, tongue moving over the shaft, the head, sucking. The combined sounds of Foreman's mouth and the dirty squelch of his lubed fingers pushing inside him, finding his prostate, and stroking in time with the rhythm of his mouth. Oh, fuck. House couldn't imagine how Foreman would push him, force him to react when he put more of an effort into what he was doing, but House hoped that he'd be able to fucking breathe.

The more House imagined, the more Foreman teased and resisted, the more his mind and body were overwhelmed with the desire to get Foreman to do what he wanted. Push Foreman to match his urgency and eagerness and stop teasing without ever speaking the words that House knew Foreman wanted--an agreement, or verbal acknowledgment that Foreman was right. His body was already sending enough pathetic, needy messages; House refused to let his voice add to it, at least while he still had the presence of mind to prevent it. One hand squeezed Foreman's hip as the other rose up, curved around the back of Foreman's neck and wrenched his face closer. Without giving Foreman a chance to pull away, House arched up and covered Foreman's mouth with a rough kiss. His tongue pushed inside deeply, sliding against Foreman's, reminding Foreman of what he could do with his mouth--how damn good he was--and daring Foreman to prove that he was half as skillful.

Even though he'd already come, Foreman felt a twinge of excitement in the pit of his stomach as he watched House. It was exactly what he wanted to see, House moving helplessly under him, his face contorting as he struggled to lift his hips up, pushing his dick into Foreman's hand. Foreman was damn glad that he wasn't the desperate one now, because if he'd still been waiting, impatient, he doubted he could have held back exactly what he was thinking. How hot House looked, how much Foreman wanted to watch him. It didn't have anything to do with conventional attractiveness. It was how House changed when Foreman touched him, how expressive his face was, probably far more than House knew. He might not be begging out loud, but every twitch of his body and his unfocused, vulnerable expression both said more than enough. That Foreman was doing something for him no one else could--not in this moment, anyway; Foreman doubted House was thinking of anything except him, and his hand still palming House's dick slowly and firmly.

When House pulled him in to kiss him again, Foreman went eagerly, kissing House hard. House's hand clamped down on the back of his neck, warm and immediate. Foreman let House hold him however he liked, meeting House's tongue and pushing back just as hard, catching his lip and sucking on it. He was breathing quickly, sucking in House's air and then returning it to him. He finally reached up to pull House's hand away and broke the kiss.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said with a smirk, ramping up the smugness in his voice. House was obviously doing the best he could to stay silent, but Foreman didn't care. He still had plenty of time to hear what he wanted. He rolled away for a moment, long enough to fumble open the drawer of the bedside table and grab the lube. If they did keep this up, he was going to need to buy more. Foreman shook his head at himself--no stupid assumptions--and opened the bottle, spreading a handful over his fingers even as he shifted down the bed, where he could prop himself against House's left leg. He closed the lube, letting it fall between House's legs before looking up the length of his body and enjoying the view. "I should probably make you wait," he said, with a hint of sarcasm, even though he didn't intend to mess around as much as it had felt like House had with him. He held the base of House's erection in his lubed hand and lifted him to his mouth. He let his lips close around House's dick slowly, creating suction and tonguing the warm, firm head.

House hardly cared to fight against Foreman's smug tone of voice, but he managed a weak, breathless, "Didn't think--there was a"--he paused to draw a deeper, but harsh breath--"'yes or no' question in there." After he spoke, he wished he hadn't said anything at all, the quiet rasp of his voice, the stop-start rhythm of his words revealing more than House intended, and he squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head to the side, away from Foreman. He heard Foreman fumbling through the bedside table drawer, knowing exactly what he was looking for, and House tried to quiet the anticipation, the hot, tingling ache building low in his groin. He tried to force himself to stay still--stop fucking squirming and arching like he was begging for it.

He refused to spread his legs any further, as if he was that desperate, when Foreman moved down his body, but couldn't help the small, quiet noise that slipped out of his mouth at the sound of Foreman's words. He wasn't sure if Foreman was serious, if he really intended to make him wait even longer, but, God, he really didn't want to wait anymore. He touch himself soon if Foreman didn't, even though it really wasn't what he wanted. He raised his head to look down at Foreman, trying to determine if he was serious, and he stared, watching transfixed as Foreman didn't make him wait, but took his dick in his hand and brought it to his mouth. House's breaths exploded out of him in tiny, fast bursts as Foreman's lips closed around his shaft. Wet heat surrounded the head, and House tried to restrain himself from pushing his cock further into it, wanting more. He let his head fall back down to the mattress, a choked noise sneaking out of him between hard breaths. He didn't think Foreman would refuse such a good chance to tease him, draw out the torture as long as possible, but, now that he'd started, House hoped that Foreman wouldn't stop, or slow down, because, God, House wasn't sure that he could take it. He just wanted Foreman to keep going, suck him harder. He figured some verbal encouragement couldn't hurt if it meant that Foreman didn't stop, and he ground out a rough, whispered, "Yeah." One hand rose to Foreman's shoulder, and he wanted to make sure he kept him there, didn't let him back away.

With half his mind, Foreman paid attention to exactly what House was doing, now that he couldn't see him. He drank in every sound House was making, his shaky, half-formed sentences. House couldn't even hold on to his precious sarcasm, and Foreman fucking loved that he was the cause of that. House's hand clutched at his shoulder, his grip tightening each time Foreman raised up.

God, Foreman's jab must really have worried House, if he was that obviously holding Foreman down, if he was willing to let slip any encouragement at all to make sure Foreman wouldn't stop. Foreman didn't intend to. He had House frantic and craving his touch and he wasn't about to give that up. He swirled his tongue around the head of House's cock, sucking hard for a moment before he moved lower. He could feel House's pulse as he traced a vein along the underside of his erection, moving down as far as he could until his cheek rasped against the hair low on House's stomach.

Foreman knew that House expected him to keep taunting him, to hold back as long as possible. House thought he was predictable. Foreman had never had a problem staying with what worked--what would be good for himself, for his partner--but House's sneering jab at him earlier for being boring made Foreman want to be inventive, give in to all his impulses. Barely pausing in his blowjob, Foreman palmed House's balls, slicking them with lube as he slid his hand lower. In one firm movement he eased a finger inside, past his knuckle, stretching as far up and forward as he could. He pulled his finger back and thrust again, with the index and middle finger this time, slow enough to make sure House could take it, but confidently, relentlessly. He shifted slightly to get a better angle and reached again, the pads of his fingers rubbing against House's prostate. It took most of his concentration, coordinating his hand and his mouth, but he was able to start a rhythm, taking in House's dick as deeply as possible at the same moment that he thrust his fingers deep.

House was sure that Foreman would ease off, slow down, but he--surprisingly, unpredictably--kept going, pushing him. Constantly moving his lips, tongue. Sucking hard. Taking him in deeply, almost completely surrounded, base to tip, by the heat of Foreman's mouth. Never backing off or backing down for one half-second. House's mind fogged entirely. Couldn't fucking think. Could barely catch his God damned breath, his mouth open as he panted desperately. His hand fell from Foreman's shoulder and closed around a fistful of bedsheets, and he ground his head into the mattress as Foreman worked one finger inside him. Pushing even more.

House clenched around Foreman's finger as Foreman withdrew, a futile attempt to trap his finger inside him, force him to find his prostate and rub his damn orgasm right out of him. When Foreman thrust his fingers again, two this time, it was nearly more than House could take, and he strangled a groan low in his throat, the sound escaping as an aborted grunt instead. His hips rose off the bed, rocking up the moment Foreman's fingertip brushed over his prostate, and, forgetting his earlier determination, House spread his legs wider, opening himself up--more accessible, more, fuck, he wanted more. His orgasm was building fast, and House couldn't bear to hold himself back. Couldn't bring himself to care that Foreman was about to make him come in--he'd lost track of how long it had been, but it couldn't have been more than five minutes. Foreman would gloat, but the pleasure and the release would be fucking worth it.

Sensation overloaded House's brain, and his body couldn't decide in which direction to push--against the thrusts of Foreman's fingers or the heat of his mouth. His shoulders pressed down into the bed, his whole body bowing. Fingers and toes curled as House groaned, loud, and tight, and strained. "Oh, God," he said quietly, words between ragged breaths. "Fuck, yeah. Yeah. Oh." His orgasm was seconds away, barreling down on him, the pressure heavy, low in his groin, his balls, warming his entire body. He raised a hand to the back of Foreman's neck, squeezing, kneading muscles and tendons, needing something to grab, to hold on to as his brain clouded over with sensation and his body squirmed, writhed helplessly. It was fucking pathetic, but it was good. Foreman was good, and House couldn't stop himself from letting Foreman do whatever the hell he wanted, as fast and hard as he wanted, couldn't stop himself from letting go like this, no matter how much he would have to defend himself, no matter how much Foreman would rub his face in his own surrender later. It was just too fucking good.

The more House responded, the more Foreman wanted to make him respond. He hardly knew why it affected him so much. House's ragged, breathless words, the moans he couldn't--didn't--hold back, echoed in Foreman's ears. Yeah. Oh. Fuck. Each time he heard House's voice break Foreman felt the urge to suck even harder, to find that same spot and focus all his attention on it. Christ, Foreman should be able to take more control, to screw around and pretend he was only deigning to blow House, smirk as he let House's cock fall from his lips and make him wait. But he didn't want to; all he wanted was to make House come, to drag his orgasm out of him, to listen to those final, unstoppable sounds that he knew House wouldn't be able to repress. There was no way in hell House wasn't being honest right now. And maybe that was it. The fact that for once, Foreman knew that House's reactions were real. For him.

He sucked vigorously, getting turned on all over again by the sound of his slick, pumping fingers and the sloppy wet movement of his mouth. It was getting more difficult to keep up his rhythm, as House squirmed under him, his legs parting--Foreman moaned around House's erection, letting his throat vibrate. It was so fucking good feeling House submit to the sensations, to what Foreman was doing to him, and silently ask for more. His hips lifted each time Foreman found his prostate, and his stomach tensed under Foreman's cheek. He must be close; his hand squeezed the back of Foreman's neck, not to push him lower but as if he needed something to hold onto. Needed Foreman.

Foreman was breathing hard, barely able to get a full breath, his air bursting erratically through his nose. He wanted House to come, yeah, but not without a little struggle. On the next push of his fingers, instead of withdrawing, Foreman kept his fingertips against House's prostate. He stopped sucking, his mouth still closed around House's cock, letting the thick, hot weight of it rest against his tongue. The only stimulation House would get was by the movement of his body. Foreman closed his eyes long enough to take in House's desperate, jerky motion. For the length of a breath, maybe two, Foreman was completely still. Then, without warning, he started again, as fast and as hard as he could. The tiny break could only make the renewed sensation that much stronger, and Foreman was ready to force as much pleasure out of House as he could.

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