Foreman stalked to the car, trying his damnedest to block out House's casual, amused voice telling him exactly what he didn't want to hear. So he'd had a fucking amazing time. Foreman didn't need details to spur his imagination on; he was already picturing it far too vividly. House on his stomach, rubbing his cock against the bed, moaning for it while the guy shoved in. Not asking, taking it for granted that House was desperate for it. Leaning down over him, whispering roughly in House's ear God, you're fucking hot for it, aren't you? I know how bad you want it. How much you like it. And House answering with his whole body, thrashing, pushing back in uneven, needy thrusts. Foreman hated the whole scenario, hated himself for not having the self-control to think of something else, anything else. It didn't matter.
But this wasn't the same thing as House exchanging a few juvenile comments with Terzi. Foreman didn't care what the hell House had done in the past. It was over, it hadn't meant anything, and House had asked him for reassurance, had wanted to make sure that Foreman wouldn't leave him. House had been--and still was--jealous over Marty, and that was the stupidest thing Foreman could imagine. The L.A. position was a job he didn't even want with a man who was a casual friend at best, but House had treated it like Foreman was conducting some cross-continental romance of the ages just because Marty had left a goddamn phone message.
He wasn't going to throw that in House's face. He was better than that, and besides, House didn't need any fucking confirmation that his little story had frustrated Foreman. Foreman might be acting like a jealous, possessive prick, but he had a reason to; it wasn't some little fantasy he'd conjured up in his own head. It was infuriating that he knew he was reacting the way House wanted. House was spilling details as if he was trying to prove just how good he'd had it with a man he'd paid. The guy couldn't have given a shit about House. He'd been doing a job, and no matter how hard House had come, the guy had only been doing what he had to in order to get his hands on some cash. Foreman wasn't using House--that was the last thing on his mind, and House knew it, since Foreman had told him he was with House despite a whole hell of a lot of issues. It wasn't just sex between them. Christ, he couldn't believe that it was House's random fuck with a sex worker that made Foreman realize that, but it was true. He didn't care about House's exploits; he cared about whether he measured up, and whether House was mocking him for any reason other than it amused him to piss Foreman off.
Foreman was sure his anger showed on his face, as much as he tried to bottle it up. He forced his features into his most neutral expression, but House knew him too fucking well, and he'd see Foreman's jaw clenching, his shoulders knotting, the impatient way he unlocked the car and pulled the door open, sliding into the driver's seat, glaring at the steering wheel as he turned on the car and waited for House to get in. No matter how sulky it made him look, he wasn't interested in answering House's taunts.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-03-26 10:18 pm (UTC)But this wasn't the same thing as House exchanging a few juvenile comments with Terzi. Foreman didn't care what the hell House had done in the past. It was over, it hadn't meant anything, and House had asked him for reassurance, had wanted to make sure that Foreman wouldn't leave him. House had been--and still was--jealous over Marty, and that was the stupidest thing Foreman could imagine. The L.A. position was a job he didn't even want with a man who was a casual friend at best, but House had treated it like Foreman was conducting some cross-continental romance of the ages just because Marty had left a goddamn phone message.
He wasn't going to throw that in House's face. He was better than that, and besides, House didn't need any fucking confirmation that his little story had frustrated Foreman. Foreman might be acting like a jealous, possessive prick, but he had a reason to; it wasn't some little fantasy he'd conjured up in his own head. It was infuriating that he knew he was reacting the way House wanted. House was spilling details as if he was trying to prove just how good he'd had it with a man he'd paid. The guy couldn't have given a shit about House. He'd been doing a job, and no matter how hard House had come, the guy had only been doing what he had to in order to get his hands on some cash. Foreman wasn't using House--that was the last thing on his mind, and House knew it, since Foreman had told him he was with House despite a whole hell of a lot of issues. It wasn't just sex between them. Christ, he couldn't believe that it was House's random fuck with a sex worker that made Foreman realize that, but it was true. He didn't care about House's exploits; he cared about whether he measured up, and whether House was mocking him for any reason other than it amused him to piss Foreman off.
Foreman was sure his anger showed on his face, as much as he tried to bottle it up. He forced his features into his most neutral expression, but House knew him too fucking well, and he'd see Foreman's jaw clenching, his shoulders knotting, the impatient way he unlocked the car and pulled the door open, sliding into the driver's seat, glaring at the steering wheel as he turned on the car and waited for House to get in. No matter how sulky it made him look, he wasn't interested in answering House's taunts.