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.

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[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.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

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-greg-md.livejournal.com]

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.

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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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House pressed his head back against the mattress, his eyes squeezed shut, body tensing on the edge of his orgasm, waiting for it to break over him. God, come on. Come on. His hand slid down to Foreman's shoulder, squeezing once before falling down to the bed to fist the sheets, his hand opening and closing with the rhythm of Foreman's mouth. Just one more second. One more hard suck. One more thrust of those God damned fingers. One more brush against his prostate. One more--

It took a moment for Foreman's stillness to register, but, as it did, House raised his head to stare, too confused to cover it, anger creeping into his expression. He was panting hard. His body was shaking. He wanted to come, had been a second away. Needed to come. Fucking aching for it, and his body jerked with the desperate attempt to prompt Foreman into motion. The pressure on his prostate, the heat of Foreman's mouth still around him, felt good, but not enough. He needed more, one more action, another tiny push from Foreman. Oh, God, he needed it. "Foreman," House warned, completely serious despite the uneven, husky quality of his voice. Move. Do it. Make me come, you bastard.

Foreman started again, as abruptly as he'd stopped, and House let his head fall to the bed, a ragged sigh floating out of his mouth and toward the ceiling. In the second that Foreman began moving again--mouth working, fingers pushing inside, stroking inside--the whole fucking world seemed to condense to the heavy ache in his groin. To the throb and pulse of his dick. To the jolts of pleasure from his prostate. To Foreman. Fuck. A second later, all of House's focus narrowed even further, to the breath-stealing slam of his orgasm. The hot pleasure, the release of tension made his body jerk and quiver, his hands clutching at the sheets as he came. Came hard, too hard for his voice to work beyond a wordless, broken moan. The sound of it still echoed in his ears when he collapsed, relaxed against the mattress, his eyes closed, lips parted, chest and abdomen rising and falling with his shallow, fast breaths. A soft, sated groan slipped out of his mouth with an exhaled breath before he realized he'd done it, and he turned his head to the side, away from Foreman, but didn't bother to move yet, feeling too fucking boneless, and mindless, and content to give up the satisfaction of his lingering aftershocks.

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Foreman closed his eyes when he heard House say his name. It wasn't what made him start sucking again--he wasn't about to let House wait, not when it would probably earn him a punch before it would make House beg--but it was exactly as good as he'd hoped. Short and sharp and quickly cut off. House sounded like he wanted to be angry but just couldn't focus long enough to put together a coherent objection. That's all Foreman really wanted; that proof that he was on House's mind. That House was knew Foreman was the one good enough to get him off.

He missed House's hand when it dropped down from his neck to curl in the sheets. He didn't get any warning when House came--nothing beyond the tremble of House's body and the broken moan he let out--but he hadn't been expecting one. Not just because House wouldn't give up a chance to get back at him, but, Foreman suspected, simply because House hadn't thought of it. Hadn't been thinking of anything. That idea was fucking satisfying and Foreman took a smug, lazy pride in knowing he'd made House, of all people, stop thinking. The jerk of House's dick and the warm spurt of his come wasn't exactly a surprise, not after he'd moaned like that. Foreman swallowed as quickly as he could, trying to clear his throat of the cloying texture. He kept sucking as he pulled his fingers out slowly, letting House ride the high of his orgasm for a little longer. Finally, Foreman pulled away completely, stretching a bit--God, he still felt the lingering endorphins himself, and the excitement of making House come had only added to the easy, comfortable feeling that filled him.

House was trying to recover his breath, and not looking at him. Foreman didn't bother interrupting him, just lay down next to him and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of his body slowly cooling, perfectly relaxed but not yet sleepy. Couldn't be later than ten o'clock. Foreman was vaguely aware that he'd missed supper. And, he thought, wincing mildly, he might have promised to feed House. Yeah, he didn't care to force House into moving or speaking, not just yet. Easier to be quiet and enjoy whatever peace he'd get.

His doubts were already creeping back. As much as he'd wanted it--as good as it had been--Foreman had done more than persuade House to come back to his place. He'd pretty much thrown himself at House. He didn't know what to make of that. Knowing he'd been right felt good, winning was good, but if House felt coerced then who knew how he'd react when there wasn't the prospect of an orgasm in his immediate future? Was he going to stay the night? Did Foreman want him to?

Foreman grunted softly to himself, interrupting his own thoughts. No way to know except to deal with the consequences. That was something he'd learned the hard way, last time. Except he didn't know how to start the damn conversation. He opened his eyes, facing away from House, and saw the drawer of the nightstand sitting open, where he'd left it after grabbing the lube. Last time, House had left his Vicodin sitting there when he'd stormed out, and Foreman had shoved them into the drawer trying to forget about the entire night. He rolled onto his stomach and reached in, finding the prescription bottle easily. "Here," he said quietly, dropping the pills on the bed near House's hand. This was something Foreman thought he knew: House needed his pills; he was eventually going to get up and grab them; Foreman was just cutting out the middle step, as well as testing the waters of House's reactions.

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House kept his face turned away from Foreman, drawing deeper, slower breaths now, as he felt the bed shift with Foreman's movements. Even though it felt strangely soothing, the lingering heat of Foreman's body reminded House that Foreman was there, that House was lying in Foreman's bed, drowsy with his post-orgasm glow. Still naked, legs still sprawled out, sweat cooling on his body, the air creeping over his skin forcing him to shiver. Foreman's bed. Foreman's apartment. House squeezed his eyes shut, trying to convince himself that he hadn't wanted to end up there, hadn't wanted Foreman to want him, half-disgusted that he'd went with Foreman so damn willingly. It was pathetic. Pathetic. It shouldn't matter. Foreman shouldn't matter. Shouldn't matter if Foreman wanted him or not, if he left or stayed, took off for California, or the Amazon rainforest, or the fucking African safari--wherever on the globe Foreman felt he needed to go to in order to get away from him. It should matter even less if Foreman kicked him out or not; he had every right to boot him into the street, and House hated himself for hoping that Foreman wouldn't do that.

Foreman's grunt and movement distracted House, and he rolled his head to watch Foreman reach into the drawer of the table, his eyes following the trajectory of his Vicodin bottle as it left Foreman's hand and fell onto the bed. House left the bottle where it landed, despite the building ache in his leg--he'd been trying to ignore it, not wanting to make the trip off the bed to retrieve the bottle in his pants pocket. Looking up at Foreman, he narrowed his eyes, studying Foreman carefully. Foreman had never really made a point of withholding his meds, or lecturing him about them; he seemed to get that House functioned better when he wasn't in agony, which was more than House could say for others, but House wondered why Foreman had offered them now in the first place. House hadn't made a show of the pain. It hadn't interfered with--House tried to fight back the images of it--what they'd just done. More than anything, House was interested. Interested in how Foreman would react now, what he'd do, or say, and House watched him, closing his fist around his pill bottle, popping the lid and fishing out a pill without having to look away from Foreman's face.

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It was strange to see House naked and relaxed, his chest moving evenly with his breathing. Like there was no connection at all between who House was here, in Foreman's bed, and who he was at work. House didn't try to cover up, which Foreman wondered at. The heat in Foreman's body was fading, but he didn't bother with the sheets either. He was taking in House's body, trying to keep his studying glances subtle. He hadn't had the chance, earlier.

It was easy to ignore House's scars during sex. Now they seemed so much more obvious. The bullet graze on House's neck had faded and nearly disappeared by now, and it was mostly hidden by his stubble. The seamed depression in House's thigh, the pucker of the bullet scar on his abdomen, made Foreman feel like House was...not fragile; House would never accept that. But not untouchable, either. Like there was something human under all the armor. Three years with the man was more than enough time for Foreman to learn to disregard House's leg completely, even as he was making allowances for House's range of movement and chronic pain. Giving him his pills was a simple step to avoid House getting bad-tempered when all the exercise caught up with him. Foreman carefully ignored the thought that it was a simple step to keep House from getting up, too. To keep him from leaving.

House didn't pick up his Vicodin right away. He watched Foreman in return, and Foreman didn't know what he was looking for. He tightened his lips and tried to look neutral as House studied his face. It wasn't really Foreman's business if House took the pills or not. Making them available was as far as he cared to go. The rest--all of House's reckless behaviour--was House's responsibility.

Foreman didn't like the feeling of being the slide under House's microscope. He reached for the bottle of lube, which he'd left between House's legs. There was an oily spot on the sheets where the lube had dripped, but not, Foreman hoped, worth fighting over. He turned away again to drop it in the drawer and slide it shut. When he settled on his back, their shoulders pressed together, and his calf brushed against House's. Warm. Foreman was strangely reluctant to move, even though the silence was growing uncomfortable, reminding him all over again of what an idiot he'd made of himself seducing House. Christ, seducing House. Foreman blinked at the ceiling, trying to find his footing again. "If you want to shower," he said, and shrugged awkwardly where he was lying instead of finishing that sentence. The image that popped into his mind--licking warm drops of water from House's throat--was not helpful at all.

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As he studied Foreman, House got the feeling that he was making Foreman uncomfortable, which was interesting in and of itself. He tossed a pill into his mouth as Foreman laid down again, still watching him.

House felt his eyebrows dip with confusion, his brain interpreting Foreman's unfinished sentence as a casual suggestion that they shower together. The idea of it made House look away from Foreman, up at the ceiling, his mind already imaging just how that would go--not that far, since he couldn't manage a whole lot standing up in a slippery-wet shower for a long period of time, but groping and kissing could go a long way. House vaguely wondered what his chances were of getting laid twice in the same evening. Foreman's shoulder moved against his with the shrug, and House realized that there was no way that Foreman had been implying anything but the free use of his shower. That alone was surprising enough, though--practically an invitation to stay in Foreman's space. Stay naked in Foreman's space. And House felt simultaneously satisfied and nervously on-guard that Foreman wasn't kicking him out. On the one hand, he felt the need to establish some distance, but, on the other, he was curious as to how far he could invade Foreman's space before Foreman got fed up with him and kicked him out after all. He could always take up Foreman's offer of using his shower. The warm water would do his leg some good. It would give him some space, and he could use up all of Foreman's hot water before planting himself in Foreman's living room with the half the contents of his fridge spread out like a buffet.

Sounded like a plan. He looked back at Foreman, pushing himself to sit up, noticing that he wasn't the only one who'd been imagining things, from the looks of it. Foreman had a far-away expression on his face, and House couldn't resist interrupting his thoughts. He hadn't really rubbed Foreman's eagerness in his face yet, and figured now was a good opportunity. "I hope the rest of that sentence isn't something like 'then I'll meet you there in five minutes to enact my prison-rape fantasy'," he said as he swung his legs to the side of the bed. "'Cause I'm not really into that."

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Foreman felt like he was walking on eggshells. There was a hesitant quality to House's silence, to this whole moment. Foreman was uncertain, which made him frustrated, almost angry, because he had no idea what was going to happen next. He'd learned to handle House pretty damn well at work, and obviously Foreman knew enough about him to get what he wanted, but the consequences were completely unforeseeable. He'd gotten ahead of himself, let his dick do the thinking, and now he was stuck with House, who was behaving almost civilly. Foreman didn't know what to make of that. He knew he didn't want to kick House out, and that only confused him more. Offering the shower was one way of, well, keeping House around, but not in his immediate space. Foreman wanted five minutes just to breathe, and think, and he couldn't do that with House's dissecting stare trained on him.

Foreman looked up quickly, meeting House's eyes when he hear the words I'll meet you there in five minutes, wondering if he was just that obvious about what he wanted, or if House was inviting him. Shower sex wasn't realistic in the slightest, but then, a week ago if someone had told him that he'd be lying naked next to House--for the second time--he would have laughed in their face. Who the hell knew what was possible now? When the rest of House's comment registered, Foreman rolled his eyes and snorted disdainfully, even though House had already sat up and turned his back. The joke didn't bother him. He supposed nobody lasted long in House's employment if they couldn't get over whatever sore spots House found to needle. Besides, the fact that House's comment was the equivalent of waving a bat around instead of striking with surgical precision--which he did a lot more when the topic was Foreman's career--made it barely worth reacting to.

The thing was, he could join House in a few minutes. Out of concern for the amount of hot water, if nothing else. He was itchy with sweat and he wanted to close his eyes and just feel the water running down his body for a few minutes. "Guess that's a risk you'll have to take," he said. The prison-rape scenario wasn't his fantasy; he'd call House on his obvious projection, except now that House had suggested it, Foreman couldn't stop thinking about it.

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A sense of awkward self-awareness fell over House as he stood up, naked and unsupported, nothing to grasp onto or guide him through the room. Without moving his head too much--he'd rather Foreman not catch him searching out support--House glanced through the parts of the room that were in view, looking for his cane. Where the hell had he left it? He couldn't remember, and, deciding to forgo it, made his way across the room, slowly heading for the bathroom door. His hand flattened against the wall as soon as it was close enough, and he paused as Foreman spoke, not turning to look back at him and not responding. He didn't care to see the expression on Foreman's face now, not when he was doing the cripple-hop across the room. He wasn't sure if Foreman was intending to barge in on his shower, and he was curious, though he hoped that he could have a little time to himself. Foreman hadn't left him the fuck alone ever since he'd gotten back. Granted, a part of him was very satisfied by that, by the knowledge that Foreman couldn't leave him alone, couldn't keep his hands off him. He just needed to regroup, get his bearings. Get the drying lube off his ass, for fuck's sake.

He didn't look back before finally making it into the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it. If Foreman wanted to come in, he'd have to work harder for it. He eyed Foreman's vanity, the neatly folded towels, the single toothbrush in the holder near the clean sink. After he turned on the shower, he quietly opened Foreman's medicine cabinet and found--Jesus, nothing interesting. Nothing but old standbys. He wondered if Foreman kept anything more interesting in another place, his mind moving back to what Foreman might keep in the bedroom--unique lube, sex toys--and made a mental note to see if that stash was any less boring. If there was a stash. Leaving the door of the cabinet slightly ajar, just to let Foreman know he'd looked through it, maybe prompt some paranoia about where else he'd look, he moved across to the shower and carefully stepped into it. He held tightly to the towel rail on the wall, just outside the shower, as he maneuvered himself inside and leaned his hand on the tiles once he was there, letting the water run over his back. He stood there for a moment, just enjoying the warmth before he started to wash himself, scrubbing shampoo into his hair and wondering if Foreman would actually try to join him.

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Foreman folded his hands behind his head and watched House get up slowly and head for the bathroom. He thought lazily about rolling to his feet and catching the bathroom door before House closed it, insist on climbing into the shower with him. But that would be way too much. Too close. Too much pressure.

He waited until he heard the water running before he got up. Going to his dresser, he pulled out clean boxers and a pair of sweatpants he usually took to the gym, doing without a shirt, since he didn't want to sweat through another change of clothes before he showered. House's cane was lying on his dresser. Foreman glanced over his shoulder at the bathroom door. Heat rushed through him, half unease and half satisfaction, at the physical reminder that House was still here and not leaving soon. He'd need the cane; he'd limped heavily crossing the room. Foreman tilted his head, questioning his own motives, whether he was looking for an excuse to interrupt House's shower. Well, House could just deal with it. Trying the doorknob, Foreman found it locked, and scoffed quietly to himself. That message was more than clear. He hung the cane on the doorknob and left the room, heading for the kitchen.

He didn't know if it was worthwhile to actually cook. The food in the fridge was enough for one guy who didn't eat at home much, but he could probably throw something together. Frowning, Foreman opened the door and stared in. Leftover lasagna. Vegetables, enough to make a salad. A bottle of white wine in the door, a few beers in the back. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink and started taking things out, perfectly aware that he was doing it to postpone actually thinking.

The real question was, did he want this to happen again? More importantly, did he want it to happen again so badly that he'd keep on pursuing House? Because so far he'd been the one making all the advances. Foreman didn't believe for a second that House's outright refusals had any truth to them. House had kissed him back, had sucked him off, eagerly and attentively. Foreman might have given the whole thing up as a mistake, if it weren't for that.

House's indecision was more real. Probably he had all the same doubts Foreman did. But it was Foreman's pride on the line, not House's, every time Foreman tried to convince House to get over his damn reluctance. Anybody else--Wendy, or Sharon a few years ago--they didn't need to be convinced that Foreman was worth spending time with. Foreman knew he was successful, intelligent, and hardly the kind of guy who needed to go out with a bag over his face. House respected him, fine. Leaving him in charge proved that. And Foreman knew he turned House on. Christ, he could replay every minute of the evening in his mind and know that. But if it was going to be a fight every time Foreman wanted more, then maybe it wasn't worth it. Maybe he should stop, react as little as possible when House tried to jerk him around, and let the whole thing lie until House got the point that it was over, no discussion needed.

Foreman faltered. That was the easy way out. Exactly what House had accused him of. Fuck, he hated second-guessing himself, even more when he was second-guessing himself because of something House had said. Would it be avoidance, or just good sense, to stop now? Automatically, Foreman started chopping up vegetables, trying to push the question out of his mind.

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House hadn't yet rinsed the shampoo from his hair as he heard the sound of the doorknob--a brief try to open the door, but nothing more than that. A closed-mouthed smile pulled across his face as he stepped under the spray to rinse his hair. Foreman had tried to come inside to, House assumed, join him. He didn't want to think too much about that. It mattered enough--although, it shouldn't, damn it--that Foreman had wanted him at all, still seemed to want him, and House didn't want to think too much about the extent of that want. He had to admit that he was curious about why, but he'd rather piece together information for himself at this point. He let himself think about the sex--the really fucking good sex--and the hunger nagging at his stomach at the moment, the latter winning his full attention by the time he got out of the shower.

His search through Foreman's bedroom would wait in favor of food; he had the feeling this would happen again, that he'd be here again, but, again, tried not to think about it too much, at least not on his part. As he stepped out of the bathroom, toweled off, Foreman's deodorant borrowed and applied, he wasn't surprised to find Foreman gone. He was surprised, however, to find his cane hooked over the doorknob, and he took it with a scowl, wondering if Foreman had put it there as a condescending move. A reminder to get back at him for locking him out of his own bathroom. House wouldn't put it past him. He glanced around the floor, looking for his clothes, as he moved farther into the room. He only found his pants, underwear, and socks, and considered going out into the living room, shirtless, to fetch at least one of his shirts, but decided against it. As long as he was pushing boundaries, he decided to ignore his own clothes and moved to Foreman's dresser. He found a pair of pajama pants--he guessed that Foreman never actually wore them to bed--and, not bothering with underwear, slipped them on. They fit well enough, just an inch or two shorter than his own lounge pants at home. He rifled for a t-shirt, finding a collection that he figured Foreman wore to the gym--solid colored t-shirts, nothing personal--and pulled a light gray one over his head. It fucking smelled like Foreman. Foreman and laundry detergent, and House nearly took it off again--it was bad enough smelling like Foreman without the shirt, thanks to his deodorant--but he told himself Foreman's reaction would be worth it. Any reaction--or no reaction, since that was just as valuable--would be worth it.

Taking his cane, he walked through the hall, his bare feet padding across the hardwood, and into the kitchen, where he found Foreman working at the counter. The scent coming from the kitchen made him even more hungry. He stayed silent, parking himself in the archway and waiting for Foreman to notice he was standing there, carefully watching Foreman's face.

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Foreman had the lasagna reheating in the oven, and a green salad tossed together from the vegetables that seemed most likely to go off if he left them a few more days. He'd heard the shower stop running, so it seemed like House wasn't going to drain the building's hot water tank just to prove a point. Foreman was surprised again that House wasn't being more obnoxious. He didn't know if it was the sex or the uncertainty that did it. Either way, it seemed like Foreman was the one who'd had that effect, the power to make House less of a bastard. Chuckling quietly, Foreman turned around to put the rest of the ingredients away, and saw House standing in the kitchen doorway.

Wearing his clothes. His gym t-shirt, his pajama pants. Foreman stopped short. House's hair was sticking up in damp, messy spikes--messier than usual--and his stubble was darker with water. All Foreman's thoughts of cornering him in the shower, of dragging his lips along the path of droplets running down House's throat, slammed back to his attention. Somehow the fact that House was wearing his clothes made it worse--or better, hell, he didn't know. He felt furious, wildly and pointlessly, because House had gone through his drawers and who knew what else, but Foreman had left him alone in his room so what the fuck did he expect? He'd been worried not five minutes ago that House wasn't making any advances, but this felt like a bigger leap than Foreman ever could have expected, going way further than he was comfortable with. The casual air House had about appropriating his stuff, the way the shirt was a bit loose at the neck so that House's collarbone showed; the fact that he was barefoot, even, added to the bewildering, frustrating mix of hot and way too invasive. Foreman found himself wondering if House had stolen his underwear along with the rest and suspecting that he probably hadn't. The fact that he wanted to check couldn't possibly be a good sign.

Foreman threw the last of the vegetables into the fridge and slammed the door shut. "Comfortable?" he asked, with a scowl he didn't even try to suppress. He wanted to strip the clothes off House. Proof of ownership. They were his and House shouldn't be wearing them. But Foreman suspected if he even started to make a move like that he'd end up doing other things instead. Tasting his soap on House's skin. Putting off dinner again. Letting House see that he wasn't, actually, angry. He turned away instead and grabbed plates and cutlery. "I thought private property was important, but maybe that's only when it's yours."

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House never could have imagined the swell of satisfaction and unparalleled glee that built inside him at the sight of Foreman's reaction. He couldn't even repress his grin, despite the fact that he was sure that he was showing off his ridiculous dimples, as Foreman froze, as motionless as a rabbit on-guard, only his eyes and chest moving, almost imperceptibly. House forced himself to stay still, leaning against the archway, watching Foreman take in his appearance, his gaze moving over his body. Foreman couldn't possibly be that angry if he was looking at him like that, his eyes lingering long enough for House to guess that his imagination had kicked in along with his libido.

House pushed himself away from the archway, leaning on his cane now, but not walking, and watched Foreman toss food into the fridge, almost as if he was trying to show him that he was angry. House raised an eyebrow, giving Foreman no other response to his question. He let his gaze follow Foreman as he turned back toward the counter, taking a second to watch the muscles in Foreman's back shift as he moved, admire the way the broadness of his shoulders tapered to a slim waist. God, he loved when all that refined muscle and smooth skin was pressing him down harder than--fuck, he had to stop, or Foreman would catch him watching and would have something else to throw in his face. He shook his head, just hearing Foreman's words, and raised his eyes to Foreman's face--his profile.

He knew there was a lot of truth to Foreman's words. If Foreman had ever pulled something like this, rifled through House's clothes, his things, House would have unapologetically shoved him onto the street, dressed or not. House, however, would never have been trusting--stupid, close enough--enough to leave Foreman unsupervised in his bedroom. Or his bathroom. House pretended that a decision like that would have absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the closer Foreman was, the closer House could monitor his behavior, the more House would learn, the more Foreman would slip, the more House could push--as long as House thought it was convenient, of course. Regardless of the double-standards he seemed to enforce, House wasn't going to let Foreman believe he'd figured him out, or that he was one step ahead, even if he dished out a lie to accomplish it. Maybe if it was crude or evocative enough, Foreman wouldn't see through it.

House stepped across the kitchen, coming to a stop behind Foreman where he stood at the counter. The close proximity just helped prove his point; it had nothing to do with wanting to be there. He leaned his head over Foreman's right shoulder, "If I thought my private property was important," he said, angling his head to push his breath across Foreman's ear as he spoke, "then I never would've let you shove your dick up my ass. Good thing for you."

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That fucking, smug, shit-eating grin. Foreman knew that it meant House figured he'd scored a point, or more likely won a whole game, off his reaction. House simply didn't smile like that unless he was laughing at someone. As if the fact that Foreman liked what he was seeing was some huge secret. The only secret that was really out in the open now was that House clearly liked his reaction, enjoyed winding Foreman up with his weirdly careless familiarity.

That was only confirmed when House stepped up behind him. The apartment was cool enough that Foreman immediately felt the difference in temperature, his skin warming when he felt the softness of cotton covering the firm heat of House's body behind him. He glared down at the plates on the counter, something so ordinary that they looked completely out of place with House looming over him. He was supposed to be angry. Had been angry. Now, though, Foreman wanted to push back from the counter, press his back against House's chest. He knew he could break free--it would be easy--but when he breathed in, his willpower crumbled. Foreman could smell himself on House. Soap and deodorant and his clothes, all over top of the clean, body-warm scent of House himself, and mingled with his own sweat and the lingering odour of sex. His dick twitched, as if he'd be already getting hard if he hadn't come less than half an hour ago, and there was no way he was going to turn around and show off that reaction to House.

His head jerked slightly, involuntarily, to the left when House leaned over him, arching his neck as if he was inviting House to do more than just hover. House's chin was close enough that Foreman could feel that his skin was warm and damp, exactly as he'd imagined, and he knew he'd fucking love the rough scrape of House's stubble against his neck; his skin already felt sensitive, anticipating it. His air left him in one short pant that there was no way House wouldn't hear. God damn it. Foreman had been better at controlling his reactions before. He should be better now, with all the practice he'd had, except now he knew he wasn't hiding some futile, half-acknowledged attraction. There was a chance that reacting, and showing it, would get him something. Yeah, House would still make fun of him, but Foreman was more than capable of making House squirm, too.

"Let me?" he asked. Foreman at least had enough control to keep his voice level. The way he sounded when House was playing some infantile practical joke and Foreman had to be the voice of reason. Except lower, and with far more intent. "More like asked me." He could remember it far too clearly, House's broken voice saying God, just--just fuck me, Foreman. The memory was enough to make Foreman feel like he wasn't giving anything up, not even with House pinning him against his own kitchen counter with nothing more than his voice. Foreman was the one who could make House practically come apart; he was the one in control. And right now Foreman wanted to make House admit that the only reason he was doing this--pushing--was because he wanted Foreman to react. To do it again. "I think that was a lot less to do with personal property and a lot more about you liking the way I fuck you."