November 24, 2007 -- Late Afternoon

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For the past week, all during their case, Foreman had been trying to rein House in, demand he pick fellows, try to tell him how to conduct the case, look for a diagnosis, as if he'd respect his Cuddy-given-powers and listen. House had brushed him off (well, until he'd actually been right and his advice actually made sense), thinking that if this was Foreman's idea of retaliation--boss him around in front of his team--then it was pathetic. House wasn't even going to acknowledge it. He intentionally avoided Foreman any other time. After the car ride, and the forced avoidance that followed once they got to work, House realized that it was a tactic he could use. He felt smug about it, imagining Foreman brooding, fuming with possessive jealousy because he'd jerked off to memories of an ex-boyfriend that he didn't even know anymore, hadn't seen since his residency had ended decades ago. But apparently it was enough to get to Foreman; he already felt that possessive over him to get pissed off over something like that, as if people didn't fantasize about ex-partners, or even strangers.

Secretly pleased with himself--it helped that he conned Cuddy into getting the fellows he wanted, too--he'd made Foreman sweat it out. He'd resisted the temptation to knock on Foreman's door and get him so turned on he wouldn't be able to turn him away. He'd masturbated instead, certain that Foreman had jerked off to images of what he'd done in the car. Foreman had gotten so hard then, so horny that he hadn't been able to control himself, and House doubted he'd exercised much control when he was alone. It was all too good.

He sat around for most of Saturday, passing most of the afternoon, considering dropping by Foreman's place just out of curiosity, just to see what the hell Foreman would do. Why not, he thought. He had nothing better to do for the next day and a half and he hadn't had a chance to rub this in Foreman's face at work. He still had a grin on his face when he arrived at Foreman's door, sneaking in with a building resident--the cripple card really came in handy sometimes--and knocked on the door, waiting for Foreman to swing it open.

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[foreman-eric-md.livejournal.com]

Fuck, he couldn't do anything. House could push his hands down, kiss him and bite at his neck, taunt him with every word and movement, and Foreman was left struggling and panting helplessly. He hated it, except that the more he moved, the harder House had to push him down, and the more friction Foreman got. Foreman grunted and jerked away from House's mouth, and especially his insipid, phony tone of voice calling him honey. "Such a--manipulative--bastard," he spat out from between clenched teeth. House still hadn't started moving, until he drew away--too far, the air suddenly cold against Foreman' sweaty back--and Foreman gasped, fear clamping down on him again that House would shove in without warning.

Foreman was barely aware of more than a warm flood of relief at House's first long, slow thrust. "Ohh. Like that," he whispered, reassured again when House kept going at the same pace. Foreman didn't want to give House too much encouragement. House was already far too smug, no matter if he was letting moans and long, low whispers of yeah fall against Foreman's shoulder. But Foreman couldn't stop himself. Responding. Urging House on. Whether he wanted to or not. His hesitation disappeared with the first stroke of House's dick over his prostate, a spike of pleasure jerking a moan out of his mouth. Again and again, words tumbling over themselves, carried out of him on the incredible, flying sensation. "House. Oh, yeah. There, oh God."

Foreman groaned louder when House sped up, responding automatically, to House's breathing, the rhythm of his body. Foreman pushed against the bed, raising up to meet House's thrusts, rolling his face against the pillow. Christ, it felt so good, he couldn't remember the last time he'd really gotten fucked, and the jagged, sparking intensity of every push, every stroke was making him forget his name. "Oh fuck me," he said, not caring in the least how loud he was. Foreman's hips twitched against the bed, his dick chafing, precome leaving a wet spot on the sheets that he could feel against his stomach when he moved. He couldn't fucking come like this. He was close, he could feel the build, the hot cascade of sensation in his balls, concentrating in that one perfect spot that House hit dead-on with practically every thrust, but it wasn't enough, not without getting a hand on his dick. Foreman tried to jerk his hand away from House's hold, tried to work it under his body, but House was a fucking lamprey, wouldn't let him go.

Foreman nearly bucked House off when he stopped just long enough to mock him. It was just one more way to make him beg, and this time, Foreman wasn't going to. He'd bite his lip off first, before letting out another sound. But House's next words had him shuddering, he wanted it so bad. Wanted House's hand on his cock, tight, stroking just a bit faster than his thrusts. God, it would be good, exactly what he needed, the feeling strong enough to finally, finally push the pleasure over into orgasm.

Imagining it, while House sped up again, his thrusts just off-center enough to make sure Foreman knew exactly who was fucking him, was almost enough. Almost. Not quite, and then House was pulling away, leaving Foreman and rolling off him to land on his back. Foreman turned his head just far enough to stare at him, breath harsh in his throat. It had been bad enough letting House fuck him until he was out of control, until he was a writhing, pleading mess, but House was asking him to do it himself. To give House a full view of his face while Foreman drove himself to orgasm. Christ, he hadn't wanted House to see this. But he hadn't wanted House on top of him, either, and he'd survived that. Liked it. Hell, he'd been aching for more. Still was.