House could hear Foreman laughing at him. Fucking laughing at him, the bastard. His eyes stayed closed--he could hardly open them--but he could imagine the smug, satisfied look on Foreman's face. He heard it in Foreman's voice when he spoke, and he wished he had the breath to argue. He could get Foreman fired if he wanted. He really could. Drive Foreman away before he ever got settled in the department again. He wouldn't, but, damn it, he could.
Years ago, with all his strength and all the muscles he'd been born with, House could have been able to push Foreman far enough way to squirm out from beneath him, too. Between the tickling and the fact that he was already at a physical disadvantage, House knew that he didn't stand much of a chance, but he tried to keep resisting. God, it was like torture, and he could fucking stop laughing. Jesus. He was surprised he could laugh at all; he felt like he could barely breathe, drawing hiccuped gulps of air even after--oh, thank fucking God--Foreman ended the attack and spread his hands over his chest.
House could barely hear Foreman's words over the sound of his own breathing, but once they registered his arousal barreled down on him, strong and renewed. The quick tightening of Foreman's hands made his body jerk, and House opened his eyes, glancing at Foreman's mouth before Foreman lowered his head, meeting his mouth with a kiss that House couldn't return. He was still fighting for breath, but, fuck, Foreman's words sent his imagination reeling with thoughts of being helplessly pressed down, Foreman fucking him, pulling his orgasm out of him. Foreman already knew he fucking liked it, when Foreman actually did what he wanted without asking for permission, leaving House free to let himself go, let Foreman do every single sexy thing he was talking about. A little defiance probably wouldn't hurt, though, and House worked up a scoff--embarrassingly breathless. "Yeah, tickling makes you a rebel. I give you a minute before you start doing things my way."
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Years ago, with all his strength and all the muscles he'd been born with, House could have been able to push Foreman far enough way to squirm out from beneath him, too. Between the tickling and the fact that he was already at a physical disadvantage, House knew that he didn't stand much of a chance, but he tried to keep resisting. God, it was like torture, and he could fucking stop laughing. Jesus. He was surprised he could laugh at all; he felt like he could barely breathe, drawing hiccuped gulps of air even after--oh, thank fucking God--Foreman ended the attack and spread his hands over his chest.
House could barely hear Foreman's words over the sound of his own breathing, but once they registered his arousal barreled down on him, strong and renewed. The quick tightening of Foreman's hands made his body jerk, and House opened his eyes, glancing at Foreman's mouth before Foreman lowered his head, meeting his mouth with a kiss that House couldn't return. He was still fighting for breath, but, fuck, Foreman's words sent his imagination reeling with thoughts of being helplessly pressed down, Foreman fucking him, pulling his orgasm out of him. Foreman already knew he fucking liked it, when Foreman actually did what he wanted without asking for permission, leaving House free to let himself go, let Foreman do every single sexy thing he was talking about. A little defiance probably wouldn't hurt, though, and House worked up a scoff--embarrassingly breathless. "Yeah, tickling makes you a rebel. I give you a minute before you start doing things my way."