November 17, 2007 - Morning

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Foreman didn't wake up to the sound of an alarm clock. He roused slowly, his mind becoming aware of sensations before he opened his eyes. The heat of House's body pressed against him, the languid comfort of having slept himself out, the accommodating softness of the bed and pillows, and the slow, even rate of his own breathing. His body hummed with unhurried arousal, leftover from a dream he couldn't remember. Foreman rolled his shoulders, stretching lazily, not wanting to move more than he had to. When he extended his legs to work out a kink in his calf, his hips moved forward almost involuntarily, rubbing his dick against the material of his boxers and nudging House's leg. The undertone of pleasure coiled low in his stomach, warmer and slightly more insistent. Foreman wasn't hard--not more than halfway, anyhow--but it wouldn't take much, and it made him even less willing to open his eyes. He'd rather enjoy it for now, as long as he didn't have to wake up.

The only reason he could think that he hadn't been jerked out of sleep too early by the blare of the alarm was that it was Saturday. Had to be. He always set the alarm. The night before came back slowly. Taking House home. Being jolted awake when House's pain got bad. Arguing until he was exhausted, and finally forcing House to accept that he wasn't leaving when he didn't feel like walking out at two in the morning. But those memories brought back others, like finishing their lupus case the night before and learning about Thirteen's diagnosis, and Foreman finally opened his eyes when he remembered that yesterday had been Thursday, which meant it was Friday, which meant the last thing he should be doing was lying around in bed debating whether to do something about his hard-on now or in the shower, as if it was the weekend.

He was in House's bed. He'd known that, but he'd forgotten the corollary--House was always, always late to work. Foreman lifted his head, blinking. House was lying beside him, looking the worse for wear after the night he'd had, hair tangled with dried sweat, exhaustion darkening the bags under his eyes, his stubble looking even more unkempt than usual. Foreman firmly ignored the twinge of concern and tenderness at seeing House not in any immediate pain, and even more firmly told off his dick for still being interested. The light was strong enough in the room that it had to be well into the morning. Christ, it was probably ten or eleven, and they were both disastrously late, even by House's dismal standards.

Foreman scrubbed one hand across his face, stared at the nightstand, trying to figure out why the hell he hadn't set the alarm, even if it was House's. But he and House had been fighting most of the night, first over checking his biopsies and then over his pain, and Foreman hadn't thought of it. He hadn't even realized House had books and journals and pill bottles all over his bedside table, but no alarm clock. "You don't have a clock?" Foreman said, loud and incredulous, pushing away from House even though part of him definitely didn't want to go.

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He grunted, shouldn't have been surprised when Foreman told him no. He didn't give a damn that Foreman didn't seem to be doing it to spite him; it was still a refusal, and almost a challenge to get Foreman to do this his way. He let Foreman kiss him, but not very long, turning his head away before the kiss could really get going. The shift in Foreman's angle didn't do much--the same pleasure, slow-building, dull shots of it, was rippling through his groin. Only a fraction of what he wanted. But Foreman seemed to be getting what he wanted, and House managed a snort when Foreman told him so. "Yeah," he said, pausing to hitch his leg higher, around Foreman's thigh. "I bet."

The air was so damn hot around his body, a humid cloud over his face, Foreman's heat and breath covering just as fully as Foreman's body. But Foreman was going slow, hardly even moving, and it wasn't enough. Fuck. He'd already admitted it once, and he wasn't going to do it again. Once made him sound needy enough, and twice would make him sound pathetic. House tried to use his body instead, make Foreman want to do more. He pulled Foreman in harder, hands squeezing his ass as he clenched tightly around Foreman's cock. It made Foreman feel fucking huge, and House groaned at the sensation himself, loud in Foreman's ear. Foreman's body was sliding over his erection, making him wish he could touch himself, if Foreman was going to go this slow. God, he fucking wanted it, and as long as he wasn't actually saying it, he couldn't work up the sense to be embarrassed about it. He almost wanted Foreman to crush him, slam him down and keep him down, push in at just the right angle and force his orgasm out of him, giving him no other option but to give in to everything.

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"Frustrated's--a good look for you," Foreman said, panting lightly. Slow was working for him, chiseling away his control in small spurts. The spread of pleasure through his body making him feel perfectly concentrated, perfectly alert to every feeling. He smirked down at House, enjoying the up-close-and-personal view of House twisting away from his kiss. Foreman would have liked to continue it, but there was something to be said for scraping his teeth over the cords in House's neck instead, burning his tongue on House's stubble. He'd go faster. Eventually. When the payoff was worth it.

A second later, it was. The instant House clenched down, the Foreman froze for a second, stopped breathing entirely, not even able to thrust, focusing on nothing except the throb of pleasure, the intense, constricted heat around his cock. "Yes. Oh fuck." He didn't notice the words falling out of his mouth. The pleasure slammed through his stomach, spread to his entire body. Foreman barely heard House's groan, too lost in his own panting, desperate reaction. "If--" he started, and gulped for air, trying to remember how words worked in a sentence before he tried again. "If you're--going to do that, why should I--ah--go faster?" He was already convinced, though. Another squeeze like that and Foreman would be toppling over the edge, and he wanted House to come first, wanted to force it out of him.

As soon as he'd recovered enough to coordinate the move, Foreman reached up and grabbed the pillow out from under House's head, not bothering if he fell back against the mattress. Foreman wouldn't shove the pillow under House's hips himself--House might not be showing any pain, but Foreman wasn't going to risk wrestling him into exactly the wrong position to finish this--but he could make what he wanted pretty damn clear by stuffing the pillow half-under House's lower back. Foreman sat up on his knees, pulling out completely, biting his lip at the loss of sensation. Yeah, House could have what he wanted, as soon as he was in a better position to appreciate it. Foreman reached for the lube, pouring some into his hand and wrapped his hand around House's erection. He squeezed hard as he stroked, repayment, showing House exactly how good it had felt. Exactly how hard Foreman would fuck him, in just one second more. "Has it been longer than a minute?" he asked. "Think I can give you what you want yet?"

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

House's attempt to make Foreman speed this up, really let him fucking have it, seemed to have an effect, and House thought Foreman was going to give him what he wanted as Foreman shoved a pillow under him. House squirmed as much as he could, eventually working the pillow under his hips instead of his back and raising himself up. God, this angle would be amazing; each of Foreman's thrusts would go straight for prostate central, and if House wanted to make Foreman fuck him until he screamed before, he was burning with the urge now. But before he could do anything besides find a comfortable position over the pillow, Foreman pulled away. Worse, he pulled out, taking a pathetic whimper straight out of House's mouth as he went. House glared at him, even when Foreman reached for his dick, wrapped his hand around it. He couldn't maintain it, though, as soon as Foreman squeezed, and House dropped his head back down to the mattress, shuddering with the pleasure that shot through him, bright and sharp.

Foreman's voice pulled him down, out of the ecstasy of sensation, and he blinked at the ceiling. A minute? What the hell was Foreman talking about? He couldn't remember Foreman mentioning anything about a minute. "I think there's an--" Alarm clock on the table. House cut himself off before he could form the words. No alarm clock. That was why they were doing this. Why he was receiving phone calls. "--an egg timer in the kitchen if you need some help," he said, grinding his head back against the mattress, closing his eyes, feeling pleasure coil low in his stomach. God, he was so damn hot already; a few more strokes like that and he'd come all over Foreman's hand. No wonder Foreman pulled out. He'd probably been getting close, too, or was afraid he would too soon.

He ignored Foreman's other question, wondering if Foreman was trying to ask for permission again, as if the fact that House had positioned himself on the pillow wasn't a green light. "And if you're just going to do that," House said, trying not to pant, pushing against Foreman's hand, into his fist, "why should I let you fuck me?" He raised his head to look at Foreman. "Or is this a warm-up for something else? A trial run to see how I'd fuck you?" House used the leverage of his shoulders and his arms to thrust a few times, hard, fast, rolling his hips, just to help along Foreman's imagination. He nodded down to his erection, knowing it wasn't what Foreman wanted, but it might spur him to give him what he wanted anyway. "Go ahead. Hop on."

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

Foreman grinned at first, watching House adjust his position for him. He knew House wanted him. House was the one who'd started this, after all, even if he was only doing it to delay them. Foreman knew he was better than work; in House's mind, almost anything was. But when House squirmed to get on top of the pillow, spreading his legs so that Foreman could see every last inch of him from where he was kneeling between House's knees--that meant, as far as Foreman was concerned, that he was better than House making any attempt at maintaining his dignity, his bullshit barriers. House could still talk a good game, but his body, the way he pushed up into Foreman's touch, told the truth. It was incredibly hot to watch. Christ, Foreman wanted to give House exactly what he wanted, what he'd asked for. He'd gotten his control back, or as much of it as he'd be able to maintain while he fucked House hard and fast, and every part of him wanted to get on with it. Whether House had asked or not. Whether it was his way or not.

Foreman had leaned forward, letting go of House's erection and crawling over him, when House lifted his head and issued his invitation, meeting Foreman's eyes with a pointed stare. Foreman paused, his gaze jerking away House's face despite himself. "I don't think you want that," he said, but he'd spoken too soon, before he could hide his reaction. Instead of smug, he sounded fucking hesitant, as if he was afraid. It wasn't that. It was everything else, all the goddamn emotion that was written all over House's face when Foreman fucked him, everything Foreman liked seeing but nothing that he wanted to show himself. Foreman ignored House long enough to position himself and guide his erection as he pushed in again. God, yes, it felt even better after pulling back and feeling how cold the air was, after being pressed against House's body and feeling the heat in his skin, his breath, with every movement. Foreman drew back before thrusting in hard. "This," he said, bucking his hips forward again. No more hesitation. Make House forget what he'd said. And get lost himself while he was at it. Foreman supported himself on his knees, his hands propping him up beside House's shoulders, and abandoned his body to every last sensation thundering through him as he fucked House hard. "This is--what you want."

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

House didn't fail to notice the way Foreman watched him, stared at his dick as he thrust into the tight circle of Foreman's fist. Foreman's change in expression was almost as obvious, which didn't entirely surprise him. He knew Foreman liked to fuck him--he liked it when Foreman did--but the fact that Foreman seemed so hesitant to even consider the idea of reversing their roles was interesting. House forced himself to fix his attention on Foreman's face despite the urge to close his eyes and feel Foreman's hand stroking, concentrate on every little jolt of warm pleasure.

When Foreman let him go and crawled back over him, House stayed still, kept watching, trying to get himself back under control, ease off from his desire to let go and come so damn hard. Foreman's deflection was an easy target to focus on, something to distract himself with; it was the worst deflection he'd ever heard, and it gave Foreman away more that Foreman probably realized. Foreman didn't want to lose that control. Didn't want to give anything away, would rather fuck him and pull moans and gasps out of him, make him respond. Or maybe it wasn't actually giving something away that mattered; maybe it was that Foreman didn't want to show anything to him.

House didn't have much time to mull it over, because, a couple seconds later, Foreman was between his legs, rocking forward and pushing inside him. God, yeah, he liked it when Foreman fucked him, had trouble hiding it. He closed his eyes, finally, and his breathing kicked up almost instantly. Foreman's hard sudden thrust--fuck, yes--pushed a sharp groan out of him, and House had to grab hold of the sheets to keep from sliding off the pillow and cracking his head against the headboard. It was so fucking good when Foreman did this, acted without asking. The air was colder now, and Foreman's body was poised above him, almost too far away, and House, somehow, felt more helpless like this. He felt pinned even though Foreman wasn't even holding him down, and, God, yes, this was what he wanted.

"This is what--" House had to stop to gulp down shallow gasps of air. Moan. Roll his head against the mattress. Arch up--all he could fucking do--as Foreman pounded into him, Foreman's cock striking over his prostate. Over and over, and, fuck, he wouldn't be able to talk in another few seconds. "This is what--oh, God, yeah--what you want. You--want to fuck me. Like to fuck me. You need it this way." Sounds, high and gritty and desperate, were slipping out with his breaths, between words, and he couldn't help the way his body writhed, his shoulders pressed down into the bed, neck arched, legs spread to get Foreman in deeper. Harder. Faster. Fuck. "Oh, God, Foreman. Yeah. Yes. Foreman. Fuck."

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Foreman didn't listen to House's words--didn't want to hear them. He hated it when House was right. Hated himself for being so goddamn easy for House to figure out. Even when Foreman was pushing inside House, fucking him so hard that House arched up to meet every thrust, House could still strip him bare and point out every last flaw that Foreman didn't want to think about. He didn't need it this way. He didn't need anything, except for House to stop thinking. Foreman was doing everything in his power to tear House's control down, and House just couldn't fucking shut up. All Foreman wanted to hear was the broken moans that he could grind out of House with each slamming, jolting thrust. And there were plenty of those. House was begging for it with every inch of his body. Muscles tightening, eyes squeezed shut, mouth falling open around every last one of the sounds Foreman wanted to hear. God. Yes. Fuck. Foreman. It would be so goddamn good, if only House wasn't trying to grit out some fucking analysis of Foreman's character or his sexual habits or whether it would be good if Foreman let House fuck him.

God, it would be. Seeing House like this, seeing him twitch and moan and scrabble his fingers against the sheets just to get more--Foreman knew what that felt like. And if House was half as good with his fingers or his dick as he was with his mouth then he'd have Foreman writhing just like House was now. Foreman didn't doubt that House could do it. He'd be analytical, no different than the way he tried to figure Foreman out the rest of the time. He'd be watching Foreman for every gasp and shiver, getting his own smug pleasure out of forcing Foreman to react. He'd have Foreman loving it. Working for it, mindlessly, whimpering for it. That was the fucking problem.

It was better being in control. The sweet, needy build of pleasure, all through Foreman's body, rushing through his veins, making him groan wordlessly as he shuddered forward into another thrust, all of it felt amazing, but Foreman could still think. His arousal was at a furious height right now, and he could use it. Revel in every sensation but never let go of what he wanted--to force House's orgasm out of him, hard and shuddering and desperate. Foreman didn't bother to answer House except with his body. Foreman could tell House how hot it was, how hard Foreman wanted to fuck him, and he didn't have to give up a single thing to do it. Foreman pushed in, as deep as he could, and paused to grab House's wrist, squeezing tightly to make House pay attention before he brought House's hand to his dick. Foreman wanted to see House come all over his hand, while he was watching and pushing House to want more, need more. "Show me," Foreman said, each word emphasized by another insistent, jarring meeting of their bodies. "Do it."

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

House wasn't surprised that Foreman didn't answer, at least not with words. It wasn't long before Foreman pushed even harder, fucking him so hard that it was hard to breathe. Air hiccuped out of him with grunts and broken moans. One caught in his throat as Foreman's hand wrapped around his wrist, and his eyes flew open, finding Foreman's face only to look down at himself when Foreman drew his hand down to his erection, straining and warm against his stomach. His gaze snapped back to Foreman a moment later, words snaking into his ear. Show me. Do it.

House was tempted to listen and touch himself. Fuck his own hand while Foreman fucked him. Fuck his fist just like he'd fuck Foreman, let Foreman see just how good it would be. Heighten the power of his orgasm with sensation-overload. But he wrenched his wrist out of Foreman's grip, let it fall to the sheets again to hold tightly. His eyes met Foreman's with a gaze slightly less focused than he'd intended--House knew it had everything to do with the fact that Foreman was currently fucking him into a writhing, desperate, whimpering mess. It was hard to hold Foreman's gaze steadily when House's whole body was moving, being pushed in tiny increments over the bed with each of Foreman's breath-stealing, mind-numbing power thrusts. He couldn't remember ever being fucked this hard--his leg was going to hurt like a damn bitch when the endorphins and adrenaline wore off--and he wished he could keep this going, just for a little longer, but his orgasm was seconds away, already barreling down on him, his body tensing, balls heavy, the throbbing ache throughout his groin almost unbearable. Jesus. Yeah, now, he was more than willing to let Foreman fuck him like this--fuck him at all. Fucking Foreman would be good, amazing, he was sure, but he knew he wanted this more. Being able to feel his control slip away and not care. He knew he'd get a hell of a lot of pleasure in making Foreman feel this, react like this, but, God, it almost felt too good to want to share.

He managed to stave off his orgasm, hang on to the last shred of control, and pause an almost constant series of needy, breathy sounds long enough to speak, even if he had to stop mid-sentence whenever Foreman slammed into him. "If you--want to--know, you can--find out--for yourself." If Foreman was curious about or interested in being fucked, the only prep he'd get was enough slippery finger-fucking to make sure Foreman could take it as hard and fast as House cared--was physically able--to give it to him. "I don't--give free--previews."

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

"I don't--want a preview." Foreman wasn't going to think about it. Not yet. Not now. If House wanted to fuck him, he could show some initiative next time. It wasn't like Foreman would get in his way. He might be stronger but House could stop him in his tracks with just a sound, a word, anything that showed what he wanted. Foreman wouldn't like it if House pushed too hard--the instinct to push back was too strong--but House already knew what he liked. He could get under Foreman's guard, catch him before Foreman knew what was happening. Christ, just imagining it--House kissing the breath out of him and touching him before Foreman knew what was happening--was almost more than Foreman could take right now. It would be like a betrayal of himself, but if anyone could make that happen, it was House, who knew him too goddamn well. The sneaking sense of giving in to the pleasure would be too much, and Foreman didn't want to think about it. He couldn't think, not anymore. He felt too good, pleasure overloading his brain. All that was left was giving it to House, thrusting, turning over his control into pure movement.

Foreman was panting hard, sweat slipping over his shoulders and chest, his skin burning. His cock was tight and full, and the slick rub of the lube and the constriction each time he pushed back in was overwhelming, erasing every thought in his mind. All he wanted was to make House come, and then to collapse on top of him, let his orgasm take him over completely. God, he was so close, but meeting House's eyes when he spoke only made Foreman want to keep going. Never stop. House was trying so hard to be defiant, and Foreman knew he could wipe that expression away. Just a few more seconds. Long enough to make House forget his damn name. Foreman arched his back, his abs tightening, to close the last inch between them, so that his stomach brushed over House's erection every time he moved. If House didn't want to touch himself, fine, Foreman could give him that, too. Foreman could give him a hell of a lot and House goddamn well knew it. "I want you--" He stopped, took a breath, the sudden heat of the words too much for him. "To--come for me," he finished, pushing the words out, pushing as hard as he was could. "Come--on, House."

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

All the talk, the images of what it would be like to fuck Foreman, still feeling all the pleasure of being fucked, was starting to swim in his head. It made him want to make Foreman lose it--all that control he held on to so tightly--before House let go himself. He was so damn close, but if he did this right, it wouldn't take long; he'd be able to stave off his orgasm for another ten, twenty seconds. If he didn't, it would still be good, but, God, he hoped he could now. The release would be so fucking satisfying. Watch Foreman collapse because he made him, then do it himself. Let himself stop thinking then.

Foreman was already losing it. Sweating, panting, muscles straining. His arms would start shaking in a second. He could see the cracks in Foreman's control growing bigger and bigger; he'd snap any moment. House knew it. He'd seen how Foreman looked when he let himself gave in, but it was always after he had first, usually when he was too strung-out on the blissful aftershocks of orgasm to absorb much of it. But the urgency in Foreman's thrusts, in his voice was unmistakable. Foreman was probably as close as he was, heat of arousal, the desperate pressure to come pulsing through him. House could practically feel it as he reached up, dragging one hand over Foreman's chest, pinching a nipple before sliding both hands over Foreman's shoulders and tugging him down hard, not caring if the impact jarred either of them.

House raised his chin, tilted his head to brush his lips over Foreman's ear. Demands would ruin it, make Foreman restrain himself even more, so he breathed a stream of hot air into Foreman's ear instead, letting Foreman hear how fucking close he was, how breathless he was, groaning into the side of Foreman's face. His hands spread over Foreman's back, clutching at him, sliding down to his ass and forcing him in again. One slid back up, curving around the back of Foreman's head as his body arched, twisted beneath him, trying to meet his thrusts, show him how eager he was, how much he fucking loved this. It wasn't a stretch--hardly any more than what he normally let himself express when he was on the verge of orgasm, but now he was doing it all to try to make Foreman lose it, come before he wanted to, make Foreman stop thinking. He could hold off, just a few seconds...maybe, with Foreman's body rubbing, full-contact, against his erection now, and, God, it was so hard not to just give in, but he wanted to see this. Then, then, he could let go, and, fuck, it was going to be good.

"God, yeah, Foreman. Fuck--fuck me," he said, moaning again, half-distracted by the pleasure, the press of Foreman's weight, and half-ready to turn his head and watch Foreman let go, watch him fucking snap.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

As quickly as he'd said I want you, the words were ripped away from his memory. Foreman didn't care what he'd said, or what House had heard. He did want this, so strongly that it would fucking terrify him if he wasn't caught up in every last firing of his nerves. All Foreman could feel was the wild, frantic need to come, to let his orgasm spill over and flood through him, erase every last thought in his head.

The quick, jolting pleasure when House reached up and pinched his nipple startled a moan out of Foreman. It was a shot of electricity straight from his nipple to his balls, so fucking intense, and Foreman wasn't prepared to resist when House tugged him closer. His arms wouldn't hold his weight. Foreman let himself collapse on top of House, only barely to one side to avoid knocking House's breath out. Would've served him right. House was still pulling at him, and it only made Foreman more desperate. House's fingers dug into the muscles of his ass, pulling him closer, and Foreman hadn't thought that was even possible. "Ohh yeah. House. Fuck, oh God." Listening to House's shameless moaning, feeling the heat of his breath against his face, Foreman squeezed his eyes shut to just feel. Any second now. Lying on top of House changed his angle just enough, and made it so he didn't have to support himself, and Foreman reached blindly for House's dick with one hand. He didn't, couldn't, do anything coordinated, and he couldn't make himself care about pushing House over the edge first, but he could start a messy, jerky rhythm of strokes. Give House something to think about, something to feel that was as good as this.

Foreman gasped for air when the first wash of sensation burst through him. He let out a short, hoarse groan with each thrust. God, he was losing it. Bucking forward, balls tightening, his orgasm taking him over completely. "Oh, yes--House..." Foreman couldn't stop himself, not from saying House's name, not from letting his control dissolve as pleasure slammed to the forefront of his mind.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

Oh, fuck, it was working. All his efforts, starting with the quick pinch of Foreman's nipple, made Foreman react even more strongly. This was going to backfire if House couldn't get his own reactions under control, and he could feel himself tipping toward 'out of control' the more Foreman thrust into him, just as hard as before. Harder. Pushing House's breaths out as Foreman rocked him, pressed him down on each stroke. House could hear Foreman grunting, saying his name like he wasn't even realizing it. God, it was fucking incredible. Foreman really was losing it, which was making him lose it. Fuck, he had to hold on, had to watch this.

His body jerked, muscles tightening, clenching around Foreman as he felt Foreman's hand curl around his dick. He gasped, moaning and feeling himself cracking, even though Foreman's hand had no rhythm, hardly a consistent grip. Sweat and lube made them both slippery. Foreman's skin was so fucking warm, and House felt like his own was on fire, tingle-burns rolling waves over his skin, through him from the inside out, starting where Foreman's cock stroked over his prostate. Over and over, and fuck, he didn't want to hold on anymore. But he wanted to see Foreman break; he wouldn't be able to be nearly as smug about this if he couldn't see it. But, God, the way his body was already tensing, his brain shorting out to the point where he was having trouble thinking--no fucking chance words were even a possibility. Everything felt good. So damn good. Foreman's hand on him, sloppy and uncoordinated. The weight of Foreman's body, all the heat, almost so much of it that it was hard to draw a full breath. The hot throb of his dick, jolts of pleasure rocking up from inside him, connecting and moving through him, coming out of his mouth with strained, broken moans. Foreman's cock--hard, and huge, and fucking ramming him. Fuck.

And, God--oh, fucking God--Foreman's orgasm, finally breaking. House could feel it, heard when Foreman gasped and jerked, felt Foreman's hand pause on his dick. Heard when Foreman couldn't talk anymore, and House turned his head to look at Foreman's face, desperately trying to hold back his own orgasm just until he got a glimpse, and, fuck he wasn't disappointed. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, gasping for all the air he could get. Completely lost, and all because he'd pushed. Maybe Foreman would take a lesson, because, damn, watching this was such a big turn-on. Jesus. Foreman's body was still moving, bucking into him, not as strongly but still hitting his prostate. He wasn't sure if Foreman had started to ease down or not, but House stopped caring when he dropped his head back down and, with Foreman's hand still on him, his cock still in him, finally let go.

All he could think about, all he could feel was the crushing hot wave of his orgasm flooding every fucking part of his body, overloading his brain. So fucking intense. House was vaguely aware of his fingers digging into muscles, the low, gritty sound of his voice practically screaming. Fuck, this was worth holding out for. So good. So fucking good. Pushing Foreman, watching him, then letting go like this. So good.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

The bright, shattering crash of Foreman's orgasm sizzled along his nerves, drove him forward in a stuttering rhythm. So fucking good. Amazing. So strong that he felt like he'd been hit by a brick wall and couldn't even be bothered to pick up the pieces. He gave himself over to it completely. Let it take over. Mind and body working purely by instinct, striving to wring every last second of pleasure out of the rub and slide of his cock in House's body.

Foreman felt it the instant House came. He clenched down around Foreman's cock and it drove another surge out of him, the pleasure redoubling for an almost agonizing second. Foreman barely noticed the sudden spurt of House's semen over his hand, over both their stomachs. Instead there was only the bruising, desperate clutch of House's hands and his voice, hoarse and wordless and practically deafening. He'd never thought House could be so loud, or would allow himself to be, but as much as Foreman felt like he'd come so hard he'd fallen apart, there was still some corner of himself that had room to feel smug over how far he'd driven House. He kept thrusting, taking more time to stroke House's cock as the exhilarating rush of pleasure eased. His hand was slick with House's semen, with sweat and lube, and Foreman rubbed it into the silky skin of House's dick, enjoying how hard he was, and the slight jerk in his muscles as Foreman eased him through his orgasm.

Finally, Foreman moved enough to wipe his hand against the bedsheets. House could worry about the stains for once. Foreman just wanted to collapse. Ignore the world. And it would be so easy to do. Close his eyes and drift on the warm tide of endorphins. Let it all go. He groaned one last time, feeling aftershocks shiver through him. There was no way in hell he was going to move. He'd practically melted. Skin and bones disappearing, leaving behind nothing but his mind, disconnected and floating in the aftermath of sensation. No strength left even to push off of House and roll to his side, not that he'd want to. House's body was warm and sweat-slick, and Foreman wanted to nuzzle closer.

God, that had been intense. Foreman moved his head, barely enough to nudge his nose against the side of House's neck. He felt oversensitive, like every touch was magnified. The rasp of House's stubble against his cheek. The slight, almost unconscious twitch of his hips in incremental thrusts, prolonging the moment for as long as possible before he had to pull out. Some distant part of his brain reminded him that he should be worried about work, worried about a hell of a lot of other things besides cuddling with House--or maybe, more simply, worried that all he wanted was to cuddle with House--but they were thoughts that were easy to dismiss, and Foreman let his eyes close, breathing deeply as his heartbeat slowly settled towards something resembling a normal rhythm.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

House knew that his orgasm only lasted several seconds, but it felt so much longer. If Foreman wasn't probably half-distracted by his own post-orgasm aftershocks, House might have felt like he'd shown too much, really let himself get lost a little too much. If he had, though, Foreman probably would have said something--he probably wouldn't have been able to resist--and, so far, Foreman wasn't saying anything. He was still panting, body still quivering from the strength of his orgasm, but he noticed when Foreman let his hand fall away from him, wiped it on the sheets. House almost laughed. He wondered if Foreman thought that he actually cared about a little semen on his sheets. Wouldn't be the first time it ended up there. Tissues weren't always close, and hookers didn't always swallow. He'd change the sheets when he got around to it, or maybe he'd keep them on here until Foreman ended up here again, just to annoy him. Maybe Foreman would be so frustrated he'd change them himself.

House was surprised that Foreman was still lying on him. Was still in him. Foreman was sticking to him with a layer of semen and sweat. His leg was started to hurt--no big surprise, but, God, it was worth it this time. As much as he liked Foreman's weight and warmth, the way Foreman had his face tucked in against the side of his neck, and as much as he liked the way he was almost hugging him--what was up with that--he knew he wouldn't be able to stay like this. And if he started cuddling with Foreman after each time Foreman fucked his brains out, Foreman would start wanting flowers. Or something. House shimmied a little underneath Foreman, pushed against Foreman's hip. "Get off," he said. "Or I'll move first, break your--"

House would have been disappointed that he was robbed of the chance to deliver his rude and crude line for the morning if he hadn't choked on a lungful of air at the sound of the apartment door slamming closed. His mind instantly went to the phone call Foreman had ended, and he glanced at the phone, remembering Foreman had left the line open. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, damn it. Wilson's voice--of fucking course--sounded wary as it formed his name. The overprotective son of a bitch had come here to look for him. Check up on him. Jesus. House looked up at Foreman, not able to hide the panic that he could feel heating his whole damn face. Another few seconds and Wilson would catch him with Foreman's dick in his ass, and, no, Wilson couldn't find out like this. He started pushing at Foreman's shoulders; House wouldn't be able to go anywhere until Foreman moved and, if Foreman climbed off him in another second or two, House still had a chance of heading Wilson off before he even got to the bedroom, before Wilson could step inside the room and smell the sex, and Foreman. And the sex. "It's Wilson. Get off. Get off!"

So much for a fucking afterglow.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

Foreman didn't move immediately when House shifted underneath him, other than to grin smugly at House's suggestion that he get off. He already had, and he was feeling pretty damn good about it. Although at least he'd managed to get enough of his control back that he didn't blurt out a stupid line like that. Foreman sighed heavily when House pushed, as if House was asking too much of him, but actually, he knew he'd have to get up soon. He couldn't ignore the world for very much longer. He was sweaty and sticky. A shower was first on his list of priorities, then getting dressed, then coming up with some lie that Cuddy might actually buy. Opening his eyes, Foreman saw that clothes were probably going to have to go higher on his list. Shit. He hadn't even thought about it, but House had grabbed his clothes, and they'd had sex right on top of them. Fucking hell. They weren't just wrinkled, but covered in sweat, and who knew what else. They'd smell like House, and sex, and there was no goddamn way Foreman could wear them anywhere. He hadn't been serious about wearing House's clothes, but now it looked like he'd have to. Shit.

He was trying to see if he could salvage anything of his own to wear when House started shoving at him in earnest. "What?" Foreman snapped, but his heart stopped when he realized what House was saying. Wilson was about to walk in on them. House's panic, under any other circumstances, would have been funny, but right now Foreman agreed with him. The last thing he wanted was to be seen like this. No fucking way. Foreman almost sat up on his knees before remembering he was still practically glued to House. "Shit," he hissed, reaching down to hold himself and pulling out too quickly to be comfortable. The condom slid off easily and Foreman dropped it over the far side of the bed, where Wilson wouldn't see it immediately if he snooped. Foreman leaped off the bed and grabbed his shorts off the floor. Before even trying to pull them on, he snatched House's cane from where it was hanging on the footboard and thrust it into his hands. Gritting his teeth and trying to keep his voice low, Foreman demanded, "Why the hell is he here!"

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House was trying not to let his panic get the better of him, but it was a challenge when Foreman sounded just as frantic as he felt. God damn Wilson for having a fucking key. God damn Wilson's stupid need to come over and check that he wasn't passed out on the floor again. He was probably feet away from the bedroom door. Inches. Fuck. They didn't have time for this. House grimaced when Foreman pulled out, but adrenaline was keeping him from feeling too much discomfort, too much of anything besides the frenzied need to get Foreman out of sight. House managed to sit up by the time Foreman thrust his cane at him, heart pounding, blood roaring in his head. He grabbed it, hooked his boxers up with the cane and squirmed into them before standing up. "Shut up!" House hissed, trying to keep his voice down so Wilson wouldn't hear what was going on. Normally he'd argue, but he'd save it for later. He didn't exactly have the time right now. God, he probably looked ridiculous, wriggling and hurrying. He felt ridiculous. Jesus Christ, he was going to strangle Wilson for showing up, ruining a lazy morning and awesome sex, and probably making him stress his leg more than he needed to right now to cover it all.

But he knew that he had to play this cool, or he'd tip Wilson off immediately, and if he couldn't keep it together, he might as well let Wilson walk in and see them with their pants down. House wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he wasn't about to wait for Foreman to get dressed and amble into the bathroom, or wherever he picked for his hiding place. So House, lunging forward and grabbing Foreman by the arm, decided to pick for him. If Foreman fought him on this then he'd be caught here, hardly dressed, and he knew Foreman didn't want that to happen. House opened his closet and, glaring at Foreman as threateningly as possible, shoved him inside with as much strength as he could muster. Or, at least, tried to shove him inside, hoping Foreman would take the hint and cooperate.

Wilson's voice sounded from the hall. Oh, fucking Christ. House whipped his head around to glance at the door, then looked back at Foreman. "Just shut up," he said and swung the door in Foreman's face, moving back over toward the bed, frantically hiding Foreman's clothes under the covers. He had to get this under control. His brain whirled, trying to think of a cover. Pain. Bad pain. Bad pain morning. Couldn't make it in. Just got out of bed. Good enough. Breathing hard, House turned and plopped down onto the bed, leaning over to grab his leg, scrunching his face to try to exaggerate how bad the pain was at the moment, hoping like hell Foreman would keep quiet until Wilson left.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

Foreman had barely stumbled into his shorts before House grabbed at him and started shoving him. Foreman had no idea where House wanted him to go. He didn't want to get caught, either, but it was ridiculous to try and hide. There was nowhere to hide.

House apparently had other ideas, and Foreman bashed his elbow on the doorjamb of House's closet before he figured out what those other ideas were. "House, I'm not going to--" Hide in the fucking closet. Before he could finish, House's glare stopped him, and a second later, the door slammed in his face. Foreman rolled his eyes, but at this point it would look even more ridiculous to pop out of House's closet when Wilson was in the room, like the stupidest surprise party ever. He'd probably give Wilson and House heart attacks, and there was no way Foreman would be able to look Wilson in the eye again if Wilson found him nearly naked in House's fucking closet. The irony wasn't lost on Foreman, and he planned to rub House's face in it the instant this was over. Eventually they'd have to tell Wilson, if not everyone at the hospital, because otherwise moments like this were going to be way too common. Wilson had no problem walking right in and Foreman didn't intend to let House take over his apartment entirely. Foreman knew this was the wrong moment--when he had some clothes on would be better, for starters--but that didn't mean he didn't resent being shoved in the dark with House's button downs and whatever other junk he didn't have space for in the rest of the apartment. For now, he'd shut up. There was nothing else to do. But he wasn't fucking happy about it.

[wilson-james-md.livejournal.com]

It was past ten o'clock before Wilson started worrying in earnest about House. Cuddy had already called to see if House was in, but Wilson put her off. Some days House didn't get in until eleven. How he got away with it, only Cuddy knew. Still, House hadn't looked well yesterday when he was recovering from the transfusion fever, and it was possible that something had gone wrong.

It was the rhythmic thud against the wall of Wilson's office that made him relax. House must have made it in. Wilson checked his watch and calmed down. He could take a minute for a coffee break and reassure himself at the same time. He stood up and headed for Diagnostics.

Kutner was playing with House's tennis ball, launching it at the wall and then catching it again. "Uh, sorry," he said, offering a sheepish grin when Wilson came into the conference room and stared at him. "Is House going to be here any time soon? Or is this just a test, do you think?"

Wilson simply shook his head and reached for his cell phone. Ten rings later, he was nearly ready to sprint for his car, when House finally picked up. Before Wilson could even get out a sharp snap of his name, House had already hung up on him. Another call a minute later only got him a busy signal.

Something was wrong. Something had to be wrong. House hated it when Wilson checked up on him, but House also didn't ignore his calls. Well--usually. Wilson forced himself to go through every scenario in which he was being a mother hen and House would be right to mock him for worrying, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't convince himself.

Fifteen minutes later, he was on his way to House's apartment. Wilson steeled himself for House to laugh at him for even bothering to check up on him, and used his key to get in. "House?"

House wasn't on the couch or in the kitchen, and Wilson called his name again, cautiously, working his way down the hall. He checked the bathroom first--most likely place for House to have fallen, his brain insisted on reminding him--but House wasn't there either. Wilson wasn't sure if he wanted to brave the bedroom, but it was his last option, and by now, he was seriously concerned. "House?" he called again. Getting no answer, Wilson tapped on the closed door as he opened it. House was on the bed, clutching at his leg. Wilson let out a breath. At least it wasn't anything worse. As soon as he knew House wasn't in any immediate danger, he relaxed. "Practicing your flex time schedule?" he asked lightly. "I don't think Cuddy got the memo."

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

House waited, trying to do every single thing he could not to give himself away. He hoped Wilson wouldn't look too hard, wouldn't find something that caught his eye. Jesus, how did he even look when he was in pain? He'd never studied himself in a damn mirror. He wasn't a fucking actor. Granted, there was pain, and he didn't have to act that. He just hoped it would be enough for Wilson to buy. Be snippy. His usual self. Nothing different. Nothing new. Like what was in his closet. His fucking closet.

He didn't even look up when he heard Wilson's footsteps, saw Wilson's feet come into view on the floor. When Wilson spoke, House flicked his eyes up to meet Wilson's gaze without raising his chin, trying to channel all his frustration into his expression. He rubbed at his leg as an extra show. Not that it didn't help the pain that was already there. He wondered if Wilson could smell Foreman, sniff him out like a bloodhound, if he could smell the latex or sex or semen. If he could--fuck, how could he have fucking forgotten about his own fucking semen on his own fucking stomach, Jesus Christ--see it on him. House stood up and turned his back on Wilson, walked to his dresser and pulled out a t-shirt--black, nothing that would give away a little wetness very easily. "Cuddy got the memo," House said, pulling the shirt over his head before turning back to face Wilson, "when she ordered a team of surgeons to cut out a chunk of my leg. Missing muscle. Lots of pain. I think she knows about it." Cripple comments usually made Wilson shut up, or leave. Usually. Sometimes. It was worth a shot. "So do you."

[wilson-james-md.livejournal.com]

Wilson tilted his head, studying House closely. He'd had more than enough opportunities to see House when his leg was acting up, and something wasn't ringing true about his performance. House wasn't looking at him, which wasn't different from how he acted when he really was in pain. But he also wasn't moving with the tense deliberation that he used when he was trying to hide the fact that he was hurting. House didn't steady himself or sit down when he pulled on his t-shirt. House usually didn't try so hard to make his leg an excuse--in fact, usually only when he needed an excuse. Wilson narrowed his eyes when House turned to face him, tilting his head skeptically, and then looked at the bed.

The sheets were a mess, which could be the result of a very restless night, but combined with the distinct scent in the air, Wilson had a much better explanation for House's surly attitude and the lack of eye contact. He couldn't help it--he chuckled and shook his head. "I can't believe you," he said. House had made him rush over here when all he'd been doing was getting a little better acquainted with his right hand. "You couldn't have called if something, uh, came up?"

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

As soon as he turned around, House caught the expression on Wilson's face, and he worked to stifle the panic swelling up in his chest. Wilson didn't believe him. Crap. He hadn't even thought of a plan B. He needed a God damn plan B. It became even harder to think of one when Wilson started studying his bed. Jesus. He wished he could steer Wilson right back out of the room, but it would give him away. What if he'd left a piece of Foreman's clothes sticking out from under the covers? What if Wilson noticed the condom? What if Foreman got pissed off and came barreling out of the closet. House nearly laughed at his own thought, but immediately tried to remind himself that this was not fucking funny. He needed to get Wilson the hell out of here. It was his bedroom. Wilson didn't need to be in it.

House started walking toward Wilson, putting slightly more tension in his body as he did it, leaning a little heavier on his cane, doing everything he could not to look toward the closet and give things away, but Wilson's words stopped him fast. Oh, holy shit, had Wilson figured it out? Had House missed something? Forgot to hide something? He glanced over his shoulder at the bed, trying not to look too panicked, then looked back at Wilson, looking for signs that he might have figured it out.

But, no. No, he couldn't have. There was no way. For all Wilson knew, House was alone. Nobody else was here, or had been here. The worst Wilson would assume was a hooker. No reason to think Wilson had caught on to anything. House was tempted to keep his distance, but it might be better to get Wilson out of the room and risk Wilson picking up any...unusual signs. Like how he probably smelled like Foreman, since Foreman had nearly been melting into him less than ten minutes ago, probably rubbing his sweat and scent and leftover cologne all over him. Maybe the smell of his own semen covered it. Maybe Wilson wouldn't notice, especially if he did this fast enough. "Yeah," he said, looking at Wilson as if he was some kind of pea-brained moron, and started walking past him and out of the room, hoping he'd follow him. He lingered just outside the door to make sure Wilson didn't start snooping in places he shouldn't. "I'm going to call up Cuddy and explain that I'm taking a sick day because I'm planning to treat my leg pain with orgasm-induced endorphins." Although, that did sound like something he might do. "If that's what I was looking for, I'd get to work on time and ask her to administer that treatment for me."

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Wilson cast a dubious eye over the bedroom one last time. Something was definitely different. House was edgy, and Wilson had the distinct feeling that he was trying to hide something from him. He'd never find out what if he let House know that he was suspicious, though. Given time enough, House would destroy all the evidence, or possibly Wilson, to stop him from finding out. Wilson raised his hands defensively and made a show of allowing House to herd him out of the bedroom.

He rolled his eyes at House's joke as he started back down the hall. "Yes, because you trust Cuddy implicitly with hands-on medicine," he said, trying to cover as he peered around House's living room, looking for some other sign of what House wasn't telling him. "I wouldn't ask her if you want to keep your treatment option intact."

House wouldn't be fooled, though, if Wilson didn't ask a few questions. "Seriously, House. Is it...something that's not just your leg?" Wilson cast his mind over the last couple of weeks, trying to remember if House had been acting differently. They hadn't done much recently, but it wasn't like they were connected at the hip. Still, Wilson had seen less of House in the last little while than he usually did. And of course there was House's stunt with the transfusion, but risking his life for a diagnosis--or just on a whim--couldn't exactly be called out of the ordinary. Diagnostics hadn't been any busier than normal. House's pain--despite this morning's treatment--hadn't been different. And yet...House seemed agitated. Wilson headed for the door, as if House had really chased him away. Glancing down, he raised his eyebrows at the leather briefcase sitting in the entryway. It was definitely not House's style--professional, almost ostentatious. "Don't tell me you're giving up the backpack," Wilson said, watching House's face and covering his interest with a mild look.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

Jesus, he wished that Wilson would just let it go. He led Wilson out into the living room. He'd lead him out into the street and straight into his car if he thought he could, but--no, of course--Wilson wanted to linger. Stick his nose into his business. Like he always did. In fact, House seemed to notice it even more when House wanted a little damn privacy. He felt some of the tension ease out of his body when Wilson surprised him and headed for the door. It all came right back as soon as Wilson turned, though, and looked down. Right at Foreman's briefcase. It took about every fiber of self-control to keep his face from showing the panic that flew through him. The only way this could be worse was if Foreman had the pretentiousness to have his initials stamped into the leather. Christ. And House wouldn't even put it past him.

House glared at Wilson when he spoke, seeming only casually interested, but House knew that he was prying. Digging. "No, but I will tell you that now you don't get anything for the last night of Hanukkah," House said, bending over--he didn't care how much it contradicted his pain argument--to snatch up Foreman's briefcase. He carried it far enough down the hall to launch it into his bedroom, hearing its thud against the floor. Foreman was probably cringing in the closet. House didn't stick around to check, but walked back into the living room.

"I have no other would-be presents for you, here, so"--House stepped past Wilson and swung open the door of the apartment--"you can leave now." House knew that kind of behavior wasn't out of the ordinary if House didn't want Wilson around, so he didn't feel like he was giving anything away. He hoped Wilson wouldn't try to play some kind of good Samaritan and wait until he finished his shower to give him a lift to the hospital. He hoped Wilson wouldn't notice Foreman's car outside, or that he hadn't already and was just fucking with him. God, that would be even more embarrassing. House raised his eyebrows, staring at Wilson as he waited for him to leave, simultaneously working on getting his heart to settle the fuck down. He really didn't need to have a damn heart attack over this.

[wilson-james-md.livejournal.com]

Wilson's eyebrows shot up even further when House tried to play off the briefcase as a present. That was so unbelievable that it only convinced him he was right. House's quick attempt to get the briefcase out of his sight was just more evidence. Whatever House was up to, it was bigger than he'd thought, and he'd certainly just stumbled over a clue. That House had stolen the briefcase crossed Wilson's mind, but he had no idea why House would want such a thing; it looked like an item directly from House's catalogue of things to make fun of. "Just like all our Hannukahs," Wilson said. "My heart's aglow with the holiday spirit already." He shook his head, acting as if he was dropping the subject. Which he wasn't, and which he was certain House would know he wasn't, but they could both pretend. Wilson fought down a slight urge to conduct a complete search of House's apartment whether House objected or not, but he settled for fixing House with an admonishing stare. "Try not to make it a lost weekend," he said, pointing at House to emphasize the point. "Your team's going stir crazy. Foreman's not doing anything to keep an eye on them, either."

Sighing, since it was likely House wouldn't listen to him and he'd end up making excuses on House's behalf to Cuddy (again), Wilson opened the door and stepped out. He'd wasted enough time chasing House down. Although he wasn't about to forget about this. And sooner or later Wilson would figure out exactly what House was hiding.

[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

It couldn't have been more than a minute before House managed to get Wilson out of the bedroom, but it felt like a fucking eternity. Foreman could hear their voices fading, and he was not going to stand in the goddamn closet all fucking day. He already felt like a moron for agreeing to hide in the first place, although he couldn't think what else he might have done. When he tried to imagine the look on Wilson's face if he'd seen Foreman in bed with House, his brain automatically pushed away the image. He couldn't think of a single more humiliating situation. The closet just barely qualified as "better", but even so, Foreman wasn't going to keep hiding. He fumbled in the dark for the doorknob and turned it slowly, peering out to make sure that Wilson and House really had left. He could hear them in the living room, but at this point, House had to be pushing Wilson out of the apartment. Foreman flipped the covers back and found his pants, crumpled and sweaty. Disgusting, but he wanted to be wearing something, so he pulled them on.

He nearly panicked again when his briefcase came crashing in from the hallway. Shit, shit, shit. Wilson must have seen it, along with whatever other evidence of his presence Foreman had left in the rest of House's apartment. He couldn't remember anything, but he wasn't exactly thinking straight. Fuming, Foreman crossed his arms and waited for House to come back, after he'd shoved Wilson the hell out.

[house-greg-md.livejournal.com]

House wasn't sure if Wilson had bought anything he said; he should have. It wasn't as though House was acting any differently. Avoid conversation? Check. Get uninvited guests out of his apartment as fast as possible? Check. Act edgy because he was in pain? Check. If Wilson wasn't convinced, he didn't draw much attention to it, though House had to make sure he didn't react when Wilson dropped Foreman's name, not draw much attention to that. He restrained himself from pushing Wilson out into the hall and watched him go instead, slamming the door shut behind him. He locked it, just in case Wilson decided to stampede straight back inside if he happened to spot Foreman's car parked along the street. He kept it locked, even though he heard Wilson's car motor turn over a couple moments later, and started back to the bedroom.

He knew Foreman would be pissy, and he really didn't want to hear it. He wondered if Foreman had actually stayed in the closet--or if he'd found his alarm clock buried in his shoe--but he didn't care enough to find out at that very second. He needed some peace, and he didn't need Foreman in his face. Going into the bathroom instead or the bedroom, he closed both doors--the hall and bedroom access--and locked them. Sure, it was unsafe, and, sure, there was always a chance he'd fall in the shower, but it was no more of a risk now than when he lived her alone all the other times he showered. Foreman wouldn't be stupid enough to stay in that closet forever--he'd probably come out as soon as he heard the water start running, if he hadn't already--and House was too frazzled to feel guilty about it as he stripped down, turned on the shower, and stepped carefully into the tub.