November 11, 2008

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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.

Comments

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

Foreman opened his mouth, let House explore as much as he wanted. The kiss was still soft, slow, but deeper. It was so different from the pushy, angry urgency of Saturday night. Then, House had barely let Foreman touch him without a fight, all his obnoxious defiance at the forefront. Foreman had felt driven, as if his chance would have been snatched away from him if he hadn't met House's challenge. House hadn't given up, not until Foreman restrained him on the bed and fucked him. House had kissed him, then, like he was now, more open and softer even as Foreman thrust into him. He'd let himself open up--or Foreman had forced him to. It seemed as though House had reached that point far sooner this time, and it was exhilarating to feel it. House had actually let his cane behind, stepping forward from the door so that Foreman would be his only prop if he needed one. It felt like House was waiting for something, for some signal, to start touching Foreman back, but he'd gotten rid of his coat, and that was enough for now. Slow was good, as long as House was letting him lead the way, letting Foreman taste his mouth while the heated sensation moved through his body. Slow was better than he ever could have imagined.

Foreman spread his palms against House's stomach, over his hips, and then moved up to his chest. He wanted to get House's shirt off, forgetting for now about his own. There would be plenty of times for House to be contrary, to turn the sex into an argument, for Foreman to wrestle him down. Tonight Foreman was happy just to keep kissing. House's body was warm under his hands and when Foreman shifted his weight in tiny increments, he could feel House's erection low against his stomach. The light, brushing touches, almost accidental every time they happened, felt astonishingly powerful, so fucking good. God, they had to get to the bed, and soon. Foreman wanted House horizontal, wanted to press into him while they just kept on kissing, wanted to get all these goddamn clothes out of the way.

Foreman worked a bit harder at House's buttons, finally breaking the kiss so that he could see what he was doing. He paused, though, when he realized what he'd been thinking. Plenty of times. As if they'd agreed on the future just because Foreman had managed to drag House here tonight. He hadn't forgotten their argument, but it had taken a backseat to his horniness. Which was stupid. Too late now to do anything about it, and he wasn't going to stop. House's shirt was hanging open, and Foreman leaned in to kiss him again, still delicately, because he needed to confirm to himself that House really was being this unguarded. The kiss was almost a question, meeting House's tongue and searching out all the places that had evoked a reaction before. Sweeping his hands up House's body, Foreman pushed his shirt off, the suit jacket going with it, leaving just the t-shirt. "You have to stop wearing layers," he muttered, almost before he realized what he was saying. Pretty much admitting that he wanted this again, that he wanted easier access. He swallowed, but tried not to let it show, tugging at the hem of House's t-shirt impatiently. If House really was waiting for Foreman to do something before reciprocating, then maybe it was time to step up the challenge. "I want this off."

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

House was vaguely aware that he was getting lost in the kiss, leaning into Foreman's touches, but Foreman's voice, and the implication of his words, stunned House into full awareness. He raised his head to stare at Foreman's face, catching the sight of Foreman's throat working around a swallow. The tiny action confirmed any suspicions that House had about the meaning behind Foreman's blurted statement, and House felt his anticipation skyrocket, his head fogging with desire as he let Foreman push his jacket and button-down onto the floor. In his brain, Foreman's words began to morph. You have to stop wearing layers. You have to stop wearing layers so it's easier for me to get all your clothes off. I want this off. I want this off because I want you. Next time I'll take it off you faster if you don't wear so many damn layers. He hated that his mind went there, filled in those blanks. He tried not to think too much about what Foreman meant but, as he raised his arms to let Foreman lift his shirt over his head, he couldn't help the flooding desire to hear what else Foreman wanted. Jesus, was he really that needy?

He closed his eyes, consciously trying to counteract his own reactions to Foreman, the pathetic neediness that seemed so obvious to himself, and said, "Kind of early to start making assumptions about repeat performances." He hoped he sounded less desperate than he felt, already wanting a repeat performance himself.

Foreman's implied admission urged him on, and he brought his mouth down to Foreman's again, his hands moving to Foreman's hips to hold himself steady. The fact that Foreman had accidentally let slip that he had no real intention of walking away from him, or pushing him away, that he wanted House around in the future, encouraged House enough to reciprocate, gathering handfuls of Foreman's shirt and pulling it up, out of Foreman's pants. He pushed his hands underneath, like he'd wanted before, and lightly spread his fingers over Foreman's sides. He could feel the warmth of Foreman's skin, could feel Foreman's ribcage expand with his breaths as he kissed him; it made his own breaths come faster, made him kiss a little harder, made him tighten his hands on Foreman's body without fully realizing it, negating all his previous efforts to keep his reactions under control and restrained. Little things were beginning to give him away, and House knew it was only a matter of time before big things gave him away, so he pulled back, out of the kiss, and tried to raise his guard back up. He furiously worked at the buttons of Foreman's shirt, hoping Foreman wouldn't catch on to the shift in his mood and try to tear his guard back down again.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

Foreman's face heated. House had caught the implication and thrown it back at him without missing a beat. It was incredibly annoying that he could do that, especially since Foreman had been working since they'd come in to make sure that House couldn't think at all. He wanted to offer some scathing retort, deny that he'd meant that, but before he could, House was kissing him again. Foreman let a muffled groan escape into House's mouth. His challenge had worked, and House's hands were suddenly all over him, climbing under his shirt, his palms broad and hot against Foreman's back. The contact was too brief, too light, but the kiss more than made up for it, hot and intense. Foreman could feel the echo of every line House drew on his skin, nerves firing in response. He mirrored House's touch, glad to have his shirt gone so that he could feel the muscles working in House's back, rub the knots of tension that lined House's spine and travelled under his shoulderblades.

When House pulled back to tug at his buttons, frowning in concentration, Foreman resisted the urge to drop a kiss on the back of House's forearm, the only place he could reach. Too much. Too soon. He didn't want to get tied down to a relationship, and certainly not with House, but he couldn't stop himself from saying these things. He wasn't lying, but at the same time, Foreman had no idea what he did want, beyond having House's hands on him and kissing him for all he was worth. Foreman brought his hands down to House's hips, slipping his fingers under House's waistband, kneading the top of his ass. As soon as House's fingers fumbled open the last button, Foreman shrugged his shirt off his shoulders. He pulled House in to kiss him again, hauling him as close as he could without pulling him off-balance. Warm. God. So hot.

"No assumptions," Foreman said, finally. He had to keep reminding himself of that, he had to be far more careful than he'd been so far. He'd never been the crazy one in a relationship, never been the one that needed to pursue someone, and it bothered him, scared him. He wanted to forget what he'd said, but he couldn't contradict himself. He slid his hand across House's stomach, and finally--fuck, it felt like he'd been waiting so long--touched him, light and slow, over his pants, leaning up to kiss House at the same time. After a moment, he pulled back to speak. His words might be confrontational, but he kept his touch the same as they'd had so far, gentle and tentative. "You seem pretty persuaded, though."

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

If Foreman noticed the change, he failed to acknowledge it. It made House believe that Foreman actually hadn't noticed, probably too distracted by the prospect of getting rid of his shirt. Foreman wouldn't have hesitated to let him know, to shove his face in his own cowardice, and House covered his surprise when the taunt never came, focusing on opening Foreman's shirt to get it off of him. He felt Foreman's hands creeping under the waistband of his jeans, his underwear, and his concentration slipped. He had to fumble to get the rest of the buttons unfastened, and let Foreman actually take the shirt off as House's hands returned to Foreman's hips, gripping harder, urgency bleeding into the touch.

He scoffed at Foreman's words, looking down at him, but a dozen retorts danced straight out of House's head at Foreman's touch, Foreman's hand brushing over his erection through his jeans. His eyes blinked closed as a gusty breath left him in a hurry, cut off by Foreman's kiss. He barely had time to return it before Foreman pulled away. House felt his body sag forward as Foreman's hand moved over him, too lightly, one hand rising to grip Foreman's shoulder, his head drooping to the side of Foreman's. Fuck, it was torturous, that slow touch, the sensation dulled by the denim. His focus narrowed to it, taking in as much as he could. He hardly comprehended Foreman's words, the sound of Foreman's voice muffled in his ears by his own breathing.

"Yeah." The word slipped with a shaky whisper as House pushed into Foreman's hand, and House squeezed his eyes shut, hearing his own voice, hating himself for breaking first. He'd had a plan, damn it. Hold off from touching Foreman where House knew he wanted it until Foreman admitted it, asked for it, and it could still work. Almost. Turning the tables on Foreman would be gratifying, too, but damn it, he couldn't seem to tear himself away from Foreman's touch long enough to execute his own moves. His hips kept pushing forward, wanting more pressure, a fuller touch, and he helplessly held on to Foreman, ducking his head to the curve of Foreman's neck, caught between gathering himself and getting lost in Foreman's touch, the warmth of him. God, it would be so easy. Fighting was harder, and his body wasn't making it any easier.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

House's agreement almost shocked Foreman into stillness, before he let out a short, incredulous breath. Yeah, he was persuaded? That they should do this again? But House didn't seem to even know what he'd said, focusing more on pushing his cock into Foreman's hand. That was even more convincing than if he'd agreed without a fight. Foreman's breath exploded out of him in shaky gasps as he realized just how lost House was in that subtle, uncomplicated touch. He moved his hand a bit faster, tracing House's inseam with one fingertip, then cupping his erection and pressing rhythmically with the heel of his hand. He'd stripped away everything House was hiding behind along with his clothes, and knowing that made him feel fucking powerful.

Foreman could feel House's breath gusting against his shoulder and the side of his neck, each puff of air making his skin stand up in goosebumps. Foreman shivered and turned to the side just enough that he could kiss the side of House's neck, laying open-mouthed, soft-lipped kisses behind his ear. If this was how House acted when he was sober, then Foreman was more glad than ever that he'd insisted, demanded that they do this again. He'd been right, it was better, and he couldn't decide if he wanted to just keep standing here--not three feet from his front door--touching House, maybe opening his jeans and getting his hand inside, or if he wanted House to start touching him back. His cock throbbed, heavy and full, and fuck, he wanted House's hand there, not on his back or his shoulder.

As good as it felt to have House practically melting on him, Foreman still wanted more. His mind was full of images of House arching up towards him, so that Foreman could see that hazy, desperate look that House was probably hiding from him right now. "God, I want to suck you," he said, whispering the words into the side of House's neck, having no idea if House would hear him. It wouldn't do anything for his own arousal, but the idea of having House completely at his mercy, underneath him, while Foreman made him react, made him raw and frantic with pleasure, was stronger than his own need to be touched. "I think--" He cleared his throat, trying to find his normal register. He hated sounding so desperate himself. "This won't work standing up."

Foreman licked his lips and pulled away reluctantly. He wanted to drag House to his bedroom, but he didn't want to force him; House was too prickly about walking. Foreman only glanced at House's cane, behind him, and figured he'd get the message. As incentive, Foreman sat on the arm of the couch and pulled off his shoes and socks, tossing them into the heap where his jacket and shirt had ended up, before starting to open his belt.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

Thank-fucking-God Foreman couldn't see his face, House realized, and tucked it against to Foreman's neck, further out of sight. He parted his lips against Foreman's neck, pressed his tongue to his skin, and sucked gently, shifting closer. House's hand spread over Foreman's chest before it slid down his body, stopping at Foreman's hip to pull him harder against him. His need was fucking embarassing, but he couldn't help the way his body moved closer, wanting more. Wanting Foreman to want more from him.

And, Foreman did want more, and told him exactly what 'more' he had in mind. I want to suck you. Oh, God. Fucking God, the words were dirty and hot coming out of Foreman's mouth, and House groaned into Foreman's neck, the sound muffled and strained. Fuck. House leaned his forehead against Foreman's shoulder, leaning on him so heavily that House wondered if his weight would cause Foreman to stumble back, fall over. House wanted to believe it was more than physical strain in Foreman's voice when he spoke, reminding him of the obvious point that this wouldn't work while they were still standing.

Yeah, no kidding, House nearly said, doubting that he would be able to stand for much longer. It was already humiliating enough that he was depending on Foreman to keep himself standing; verbalizing it would make it worse. House steeled himself, willing his feet to remain planted on the floor, only wavering slightly as Foreman pulled away. He caught a glimpse of Foreman's glance at his cane, and House nodded silently, reaching for it before he walked as gracefully and steadily as he could to Foreman's bedroom. Fuck, he had to lie down, or sit down, and get out of the rest of his God damned clothes. Foreman would catch up; he knew the way to his own bedroom.

House couldn't shake Foreman's words, and the images made him pulse, his erection thick and heavy, straining painfully against his jeans. He craved more contact, real contact, but it occurred to him that Foreman could probably make him come just by talking to him, telling him what he wanted. House knew he would get absorbed in it--Foreman's words, his tone, the closeness of his mouth when he spoke. His imagination would kick into overdrive, wild, dirty images filling his brain. A part of him felt safe to let go around Foreman. He knew that Foreman was aware that, if he did, House would tense up and refuse to let go again, and it was better for Foreman not to rub his behavior in his face. Another part, however, reminded him of the arsenal of personal information Foreman could use later, but the echos of Foreman's voice in his head, the tense, burning ache in his groin made him disregard any concern about 'later'. Pushing the thoughts out of his mind, House set his cane on Foreman's dresser just inside the door and moved to Foreman's bed. With his back to the door, he worked open his jeans, sighing quietly at the release of pressure against his erection, then pushed his jeans with his boxer briefs down to ankles before he leaned down to step out of them, bracing himself on Foreman's bed with his hand as Foreman took his time in joining him.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

Foreman took a moment to watch House making his uneven-gaited way down the hall. He shook his head and laughed to himself while he slipped his belt free of its loops. God, what was he doing? Leading House on? Leading himself on? Maybe House had been right to worry that he'd leave--it made a lot more sense than hooking up the man who was in all practical ways his boss, not to mention a dozen years older, and a guy. None of those would be problems, except they weren't paired with discretion. Everything he'd said tonight, he was certain House would use against him at some point--maybe not soon, maybe it would be good for a week, a few months--but eventually, House would throw his words in his face. In front of as many witnesses as he could find. Foreman had lost track, had stopped being subtle several whispered assertions ago. He was setting himself up, with every move, every word.

Foreman bowed his head, pressing his hand against his erection, willing himself to calm down, to restrain himself. He still couldn't make himself care, couldn't shut up. He stood up and made his way to the bedroom, opening his fly as he went. By the time he stepped into the room, he'd pushed his pants and boxers off his hips, letting them fall to the floor. House was naked, too, and Foreman took in his back, his ass, his long legs. Except for his uneven stance, he looked perfectly whole. His head was bent slightly, and Foreman hadn't had this chance last time, just to look. Jesus Christ, Foreman didn't care about how he came off, how he sounded, and that almost made him want to stop. House would know--probably already knew--how badly Foreman wanted him, how turned on he was. It should feel a lot more dangerous than it did.

He stepped forward, lifting his hands to House's shoulders and then sweeping them down his arms. A quick grasp at his wrists, a squeeze as a reminder that he could pin House down if he wanted to--and fuck, he wanted to--and then Foreman moved his hands to House's torso, around to his stomach and down to his erection and started stroking him again. Slowly. Firmly. Purposefully. Running his hand over House's entire length, from balls to tip, his thumb rubbing over the head. Foreman kissed the back of House's shoulders, tasting his sweat, brushing his lips higher up House's neck, as far as he could comfortably reach. He was breathing hard, and he thrust his hips forward, rubbing his cock against House's ass. Pleasure surged through him, twisting through his stomach, gathering just behind his balls. So close, and he thought again of Saturday night, of coming while he was thrusting into House without a thought for how he'd looked. He wanted to ask, Is this what you want? because it felt like he'd already said too much himself, revealed too much of what he wanted. Any question he asked would only give House an opportunity to shoot him down, anything he said would be too much. And they were still standing, but Foreman had lost track of his goals the minute he'd stepped foot in the room.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

When House heard Foreman's footstep behind him, he stood straighter, his weight shifted to his left, but kept his back to Foreman. As much as he hoped to see a hazy expression of desire on Foreman's face, standing apart from Foreman like this, alone near Foreman's bed, made him feel a twinge of doubt. He couldn't possibly be attractive, and he was certain that Foreman could pick up any muscle-t-shirt-wearing gym-member guy that Foreman wanted--more Foreman's type, House guessed--or any sleek-haired, high-heeled woman that caught his eye. Someone less problematic, and someone Foreman hadn't disliked so much that he'd had to leave. Someone whole. House had lost some of the more developed lean muscle he'd once had--literally--and moments like this, set apart and on display, reminded him that he still was a fucking cripple. The reason that Foreman seemed to want him was beyond him, and, still standing alone and waiting, House felt his doubts swirl through his head. It distracted him from his own arousal, and House couldn't decide if he should bolt now, before Foreman realized what the hell he was doing, or if he should stay to see how much--and why--Foreman wanted him. House touched his hip with his right hand, sliding it down, but not far enough to feel the physical reminder of his handicap--he could feel that without touching it--and felt his curiosity, his pathetic need to keep Foreman wanting him, push his doubts to the background of his thoughts. Staying.

Behind him, he heard no reaction from Foreman, only the rustling sound of clothes falling to the floor, and closed his eyes. He could feel Foreman's gaze on him, knew it was there, and his ears suddenly burned with self-consciousness. He had to beat it down, push through it and not let Foreman see it, and he squared his shoulders, raising his head, refusing to glance over his shoulder. When House heard the sound of Foreman's footsteps, he let his arms fall to his sides, drawing a breath and waiting. He was still aroused, still aching, and the first touch of Foreman's hand on his shoulders--smooth, and warm, and fuck--almost made him sink down to the floor. His breath caught at the squeeze of Foreman's hands on his wrists, and House braced himself to be thrown down to the bed, pinned down and covered. It took a moment for him to realize that Foreman hadn't done it--was he fucking messing with him?--and the rest of his thoughts, doubts included, vanished when Foreman's hand wrapped around his dick. Oh, God.

House did feel his muscles weaken this time, his body leaning backwards to rest against Foreman's as a soft, quiet moan slipped out of his mouth at the first long stroke of Foreman's hand. God, he really was fucking pathetic, taking anything Foreman would give him. He angled his head, inviting the heat of Foreman's mouth on his neck as he kissed him. He pushed back against the dry rub of Foreman's cock, pleasure and anticipation streaming through him, wishing Foreman would fucking talk again. He hated himself for wanting it, as if it meant something. As if Foreman couldn't take it back, throw it all in his face.

Reaching behind him, House found Foreman's hips, his ass, and spread his hands wide, forcing himself not to urge Foreman closer--it would make him look even more needy--but House kept his touch light, just to keep Foreman where he was, warm, and wanting him, and touching him. He didn't want any of it to stop. He was sure he wouldn't be able to keep standing for long without Foreman physically holding him up, but he didn't break away yet. It felt too good to stop--it made him forget to think, and, God, House didn't want to think right now--and House let himself lean on Foreman as much as he'd allow, pressing his back to Foreman's front, letting himself concentrate on Foreman's touch, on the pleasure rolling through him, instead of keeping himself standing.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

Foreman closed his eyes as he kissed the back of House's neck. He fucking loved the way House tilted his head, inviting his touch, letting him in. He loved that he could do this, make House act differently, make him shut up. When House let out a low, hoarse moan, Foreman rested his forehead against House's shoulder just to breathe, his chest heaving as he struggled with his own frustrated arousal. He scraped his teeth across the point of House's shoulder, then kissed him again, sucking and licking. He moved his hand faster, his grip tightening and twisting each time. He wanted to know what it looked like. Fuck, he couldn't see nearly enough. He wasn't tall enough to peer over House's shoulder, watch his own hand moving on House's cock. More importantly, he couldn't see House's face, watch his expressions chase each other across his features, watch for the moment when House truly stopped thinking.

When House reached back to grasp his ass, his fingers spread and gripping lightly, Foreman couldn't help letting out a short, needy "Fuck, yeah," nearly a moan against House's neck. He pushed his hips forward, needing more friction, more heat, more pressure. God, it wasn't enough. He wanted to know that he was turning House on so much that he couldn't help but pull Foreman even closer, but House wasn't cooperating. Holding, not pulling. Too fucking patient by half, even if he was leaning his back into Foreman's chest, off-balance and trusting Foreman to hold him up. His first moan had been gratifying, but it wasn't enough any more, slow wasn't enough, seeing only House's back was definitely not enough.

"I want to see you," he said, his voice harsh and low. Foreman frowned fiercely, hiding it as he ducked his head and rested it against the top of House's arm. House still hadn't said anything, and what the hell was Foreman supposed to do, keep on being the one putting himself out there, exposing everything he wanted? Last time House had been far more vocal--maybe just because he'd been drunk--snapping out comments, and, at the end, saying Foreman's name, his voice rising and broken when he'd asked Foreman to fuck him. Foreman wanted that, wanted House to admit what Foreman was doing to him, admit that it was Foreman doing it.

"Lie down," he said, nudging House, kissing the point of his shoulder one last time before stepping back. He didn't know if House would do as he said; so far, House had been so much more compliant, but at the same time he'd done less. One kiss in the living room when he'd actually touched Foreman, slipped his hands under his shirt, and that was it. Foreman's frustration was beginning to build, because he hadn't exactly signed up to do this solo, to provide for all of House's needs and leave himself hanging. Was it because House didn't really want to be here? That Foreman hadn't really convinced him, that he was humouring him somehow? That he'd take his orgasm and then just check out? Well, fuck that. Foreman could have jerked off if that's all he'd wanted, and avoided the entire humiliating fight with House in the parking lot. If House really was here for him, with him, then he'd damn well listen when Foreman told him what he wanted. He sat down on the bed himself, closing his eyes for a moment--as much as he wanted to see House, he didn't need to see his reaction to Foreman admitting how desperate he was. He lay down, rolled to his back, and reached for his erection, stroking himself to full hardness, groaning once, sharply. "You should--be doing this," he panted out between his teeth, trying to speak through the relief, the pleasure, of finally getting the touch he needed--if not the touch he wanted. I want you to be doing this. It was too much, though, he couldn't say it, and he simply rolled his head back against the pillows and kept going.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

When Foreman spoke, House's body tensed, and he suddenly took back his wish for Foreman to tell him what he wanted. He'd felt self-conscious enough when Foreman was staring at the back of him. Letting him see the front, just letting Foreman look at him, made House's insides squirm. They had been too occupied, too drunk, to care to do much studying last time, and now that House was sober, aware of everything, the prospect of having Foreman really look at him made him nervous. House wouldn't be surprised if Foreman suddenly remembered who was standing in front of him and told him to put his clothes back on and get the hell out. Stupid. That was stupid. Foreman wasn't a moron. He especially wasn't an oblivious moron, but House couldn't stop those thoughts from rushing through his head.

I can't, he wanted to say, when Foreman told him that he should be touching him, but his voice didn't want to work. House fixed his eyes on Foreman's hand and watched as Foreman touched himself, stroked himself. Oh, God. He'd wanted to see evidence that Foreman wanted him, but this, this made him want to run. Made him wish he could run. He couldn't take the step to the bed, make himself sit down and do what Foreman wanted. His knees seemed to be locked in place. He couldn't get his body to fucking move, no matter how hot Foreman looked and sounded. (God, and it was hot.) No matter how much he wanted to make Foreman break because of him. That thought should have excited him--having Foreman at his mercy, under his control--but it was different when Foreman practically told him to do it. If he'd done it on his own, when Foreman wasn't expecting it, it would have been better. Acceptable. He could pretend it was just a way to push Foreman, nothing else, if he needed to. This should have been a big stroke for his ego, but he couldn't get his brain to stop working. Thinking. Fuck.

It was so much easier when Foreman pushed and didn't give him much of a choice. He'd rather Foreman reach out, grab his arm, and yank him down to the bed. If he willingly did what Foreman wanted, he'd have to admit that he wanted this just as much. He'd lose his out, all his rationalizations if Foreman decided to ditch him after all. House's body was frozen, his feet rooted to the floor as he stared down at Foreman, battling with himself and his arousal at seeing Foreman like this, hoping Foreman wouldn't get pissed off at him for standing like some kind of moron, but hoping he would, and then kick him out to save him the trouble of explaining himself. God, this was all so much easier when he was drunk, when he couldn't think clearly. He really didn't want to be able to think, and he bowed his head and closed his eyes, trying to shake his thoughts away, taking his attention off of Foreman for a few seconds.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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'.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

"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."

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

"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.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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.