![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zulu posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
house_foremanBecause ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shutterbug_12 told me to.
Have you guys been following![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wooedforyears? If not, I eye you suspiciously! I think the pretty graphic says it all:
wooedforyears takes place starting in early season four. Foreman has just returned from New York, resentful and discouraged after being fired from Mercy Hospital. House is weeding down his potential fellows and resents Cuddy hiring Foreman as his watchdog. They know they're not going to stop arguing. They know that they're likely to drive each other insane. But they also realize there might be something more between them.
And also? IT IS FULL OF TENSION AND HOT.
Foreman was hovering on the edge of sleep, almost but not quite deep enough to ignore the sounds drifting in to the bedroom. There was something missing. He wasn't quite warm enough. He rolled over, frowning, sweeping his arm across the sheets. No other body. House should've been there.
There was a loud thunk from the other room, and Foreman woke up fully, squinting at the clock. Four in the fucking morning, Jesus. He lifted his head enough to confirm that House wasn't there, and he wondered for a quick, confused moment if House had grabbed his clothes and snuck out after all. He swallowed down a stupid, pointless tinge of disappointment at the thought. But no, House's jeans were still on the floor. And another noise had Foreman getting to his feet.
Shit. House--awake in his apartment--while Foreman wasn't there to watch his every move. Shit. Foreman should have known better than to go to sleep when House was anywhere near his stuff. He grabbed his shorts off the floor and yanked them on, almost stumbling in his haste to stop House from whatever the hell he was doing.
He found House in the office--no surprise there, of course House would gravitate to where Foreman kept all his personal documents. House was sitting behind the desk, bare chested, the glow of Foreman's laptop washing over him and paling his skin. "What the hell are you doing?" Foreman demanded, his voice cracking louder than he'd meant. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, his heart was pounding from the adrenaline of seeing House prying into his stuff, and he was pissed off about being woken up--about having House around at all. He had no fucking right to disrupt Foreman's home like this, to interfere in Foreman's life.As Foreman's voice, sudden and loud, sounded through the room, House glanced up with narrowed eyes to see Foreman, squinting with sleep, dressed in his boxers, standing just inside the door. House had been sifting through file folders in the bottom drawer of the desk, searching phone bills and credit cards statements for clues as to Foreman's plans--dialed phone numbers, unfamiliar area codes, airline tickets, hotel receipts, anything that would give him more information.
At the sight of Foreman, the sound of his words, all of House's confusion and hurt transformed into anger, bubbling inside his stomach and rising up his throat despite House's attempts to swallow it back. He felt no guilt or remorse for nosing through Foreman's documents. He felt no need to justify himself. If Foreman had left him his space in bed, House wouldn't have wandered away from the bedroom, and if Foreman hadn't anticipated this after three years of working for House, breaking into patients' homes, House had no sympathy for him; Foreman should have known better.
"Going somewhere?" House asked as he stood from the chair, his voice much stronger and clearer than Foreman's, no longer thick with sleep. House turned the laptop towards Foreman, gesturing to it. "Last time you had the decency to notify your boss before you started asking for recommendations and lining up interviews."
Foreman's eyes widened at the sight of his CV on the laptop's screen. He'd forgotten to shut it down when he'd left for the bar. The last thing on his mind had been password security. At that point, he'd been thinking that if he never saw House again after practically assaulting him, it would be too soon. Escape had been a knee-jerk reaction. He'd only been thinking of finding a job that wouldn't involve coming out at work--because kissing House had meant, inevitably, that everyone would find out. Wilson first, then the fellow candidates, then Cuddy, Cameron, and Chase--and from there, the rest of Princeton-Plainsboro's well-developed gossip chain. The idea of taking a job where he'd be practicing medicine, rather than all his crash-course-acquired techniques of House-wrangling, had also been on his mind. But it was futile, he knew. Even the email he'd sent to Marty Hamilton had been mostly explorative; the very idea of going back to California, of admitting defeat, had nagged at him even as he was sending it.
Not that House deserved to know any of that. He was the reason Foreman had been thinking about running away, as if he wasn't adult enough, responsible enough, to face his own problems. "You're not my boss," Foreman said dismissively. Cuddy had hired him, and Foreman was damn glad of it. At least it removed one of the problems with sleeping with House, even if there were a million others that were worse. "And you were so helpful last time, of course you'd be the first to know."
Foreman shook his head, resisting the urge to rub the sleep out of his eyes. It didn't make sense that House was angry. It wasn't even a secret Foreman had been trying to keep--those emails were five hours old at most, and he and House had certainly had better things on their minds in the meanwhile. He thought House would've been happy to see the back of him, if it meant House could avoid the fact that they'd had sex. A flush of arousal moved through Foreman at the memory, as he realized that they were both wearing nothing but their boxers, that they were arguing while nearly naked. God, all he really wanted was to go back to bed, and he wasn't even against dragging House back there with him. "It's none of your business," he said, anger still bleeding through his tone. Exhaustion really was setting in, if he thought things like personal boundaries would stop House. "I'm not one of your minions, so you can keep your damn hands off my computer."
House raised his hand to let it fall with a slap against his thigh, scoffing at Foreman's remark, pretending the reference to Foreman's resignation didn't sting, ignoring it. Foreman was right; House wasn't Foreman's boss, but Foreman wasn't his equal, either. It was still his department, and he had a right to know who stayed and who left, involuntarily or not, especially when that 'who' had just attacked him with a kiss, then had very eager, enthusiastic--hot, his brain echoed--sex with him. He know he shouldn't care, because, if roles had been reversed, House never would have supplied a reason, but now House felt entitled to one, staring at Foreman as if it would intimidate a reason out of him. "Oh, right," House said, sneering, inching closer to Foreman, "you're Cuddy's lapdog."
When Foreman was less of a watchdog and more of a doctor, Foreman was an asset, helped House's thought process. Foreman hardly ever agreed with him, continually fought him and pushed his thoughts in new directions, down new avenues. The new bunch were so focused on keeping their jobs that none of them seemed to have the guts to make any kind of push, and, in the midst of it, Foreman was actually refreshing. But when Foreman started pussyfooting around him, House couldn't conjure up any respect for him, didn't want to work with him. Foreman was no good to him as a doormat.
Still, House wasn't sure why this had surprised him. Foreman had a history of running, running from his upbringing, his family, running from mistakes, from anything Foreman feared to become--him, apparently. When Foreman had resigned, he had been running from him, and that knowledge hadn't been flattering. He'd been convinced that whatever he had to say wouldn't affect Foreman's decision to leave, and he'd pretended to be unaffected by it when he'd been right. It hadn't mattered. Now, House was sure that it still wouldn't matter, and was just as convinced that Foreman's choice to explore his job options was because of him. Again. It still wasn't flattering; it seemed worse. He knew it shouldn't, but it did. Last time had felt personal, but this, the two of them face-to-face, more than half-naked, and Foreman ready to run again, felt more personal.
It was ridiculous that it felt anything at all. House knew he should be glad for the opportunity to dismiss it all, take his easy out, torment Foreman until he fled to another job. He would never be forced to address anything, because it hardly had a consequence. He didn't want a change, at least not one he couldn't control, but Foreman was being more dramatic than him, turning tail and fleeing to an entirely different state, based on the documents that glowed on Foreman's laptop. It didn't suit him.
House glared at Foreman, his lips tightening and eyes narrowing in the faintly lit room as Foreman said that none of this was his business, to keep out of it. "My department, my business," House hissed, lurching across the room with as much speed and force as he could, walking without his cane and always coming down hard on his left leg, bare foot slapping on bare wood. "What did you tell Cuddy? Having second thoughts? Kissed your boss"--House used the word just to piss Foreman off, stepping closer to Foreman, able to feel body heat, the fabric of their shorts almost touching, just to make him as uncomfortable, or alternatively, as turned-on as possible--"and can't deal? Or the truth, that you're a coward?"
Turning slowly, House started back towards the desk. He hadn't checked out Foreman's 'sent' folder and he was interested to rub Foreman's face in his own bullshit. "Let's see," House said without looking at Foreman, nearing the laptop."Stop trying to make this about work," Foreman snapped. Yeah, it was House's department, but that had absolutely nothing to do with this argument. House couldn't care less about how his department ran, as long as he had bodies around to run his tests and take his insults. He hadn't wanted Foreman back; Cuddy had forced the change on him, and Foreman knew he wasn't pleased. He didn't want Foreman almost as much as every other hospital didn't want him. Foreman was tainted goods, last week's news. If House could get around Cuddy and out from under Foreman's oversight, he'd take the opportunity in a second. "I didn't tell Cuddy anything. I can manage to keep things professional." He let out a disgusted sound. "Kissing you was a mistake," he said. "I told you that in the car. You're trying to tell me you didn't want to forget about that? That you wanted to 'deal' with that?"
Foreman stabbed a finger at House when he got close enough. House leaning into his space, getting up close, his anger warming the air between their bodies--it was suddenly completely familiar, and Foreman felt the urge to kiss him again. The first kiss had been a mistake. Everything since then was different. The fact that House had actually responded, had been eager and turned on by it, that he'd pushed Foreman back and abandoned himself in the heat of the moment--that had made things different. Kissing House now--grabbing and pushing and insisting--that would prove something that Foreman knew his words wouldn't. Foreman wasn't interested in leaving, in uprooting his life for the third time in as many months. He wasn't interested in leaving House. His lips thinned as he realized what that meant. He'd felt something. He'd let the sex matter. That, as much as anything, made him even angrier.
"You're calling me a coward?" he demanded. There was no way in hell that House was putting this on him. "You couldn't deal with me leaving. You think what you did to Cameron and Chase solved anything? I'm back, so you have to deal with me, and you don't want to. The fact that I'm looking for a better job than 'Cuddy's lapdog' is not your problem. You'd rather I hung around and took your shit, as long as you didn't have to worry about anything changing. Well, guess what, House? It has changed."
His fury grew when House turned his back on him and headed for the laptop again. Foreman grabbed House's arm and yanked him back, forcing him to face him, glaring as hard as he could as he met House's eyes. "If you're having regrets, then tell me that," he said. "Don't make up some bullshit about my career, because I know you don't give a shit about it."
***
Foreman had never felt so self-satisfied in his life. House was struggling under him, turning his face away, the tendons standing out in his neck as he threw his head back. Little, aborted sounds that he was trying to contain were sneaking their way out. No matter how hard House was trying to hold them back, they vibrated in his throat and Foreman could hear it, each time he twisted his fingers, each time he pushed a tiny, teasing bit closer.
Foreman rubbed more strongly with his fingers, circling and exploring. He nudged House's right leg out further with his knee and crooked his elbow to get a better angle. He watched House's face, the way his eyes slid closed, his eyebrows lifting, his mouth opening around a soundless groan. "Yeah," he muttered, listening to the slick sound of his fingers, reaching up to cup House's balls and squeeze once at the base of his erection, then went back to his ass, trying to provoke him in anyway he possibly could. Christ, yes, he could do this all day, watch this all day. Light, barely there touches, then a quick hard push that he pulled short before it went anywhere.
The moment when House's voice cracked, Foreman laughed again. Yeah, House really didn't understand him if he thought Foreman wasn't getting anything out of this. He had no problem with being selfish, and no problem waiting, if it meant he could watch House practically begging Foreman with every movement to do more.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'll take care of myself." He was already getting more from this than he ever could have dreamed. Grinning, he lowered his mouth to House's throat, sucking his skin just below where his stubble ended. He kept twisting his fingers, the tip of his middle finger now and then nearly pushing inside. Climbing up on his knees, Foreman bent lower, trailing his mouth down House's chest, tasting salt and the hint of leftover alcohol. Didn't hurt that he was pulling away from House's dick, giving him even less direct stimulation. He kissed his way lower until he reached House's nipple and sucked hard, scraping with his teeth and then using his tongue again, back and forth. "I told you what I want," he said at last, lifting his head for a moment. With that, he pushed one finger into House's ass, slowly but not stopping, reaching forward and up until he found House's prostate. Keeping his eyes on House's face the entire time. "Just waiting for you to agree."
House nearly reached up to Foreman's face to claw away his God damned, shit-eating grin, but his brain signals didn't appear to be making it to his muscles. His chin lifted, his free hand reached to curve around the back of Foreman's neck instead as Foreman lowered his head, that hot, open mouth sucking on skin. All the sensations made House shift, attempt to push into each point of contact--Jesus, it was pathetic, but it had been so fucking long since anyone had been all over him like this, and it still wasn't enough.
Then Foreman lifted away, House's hand fell back to the bed, and it definitely wasn't enough. House turned his head sharply to the side, breathing a frustrated, strained sound, his body still squirming, trying to guide Foreman's finger against him, inside him, anything more than these infuriatingly light touches. Cool air rushed over his body, making him shiver, as Foreman shifted, knelt over him. He felt an even greater strain now, barely being touched at all, and his hips lifted with tiny, rhythmic movements, his cock finding nothing to rub against but air. God damn it. Damn Foreman. He'd sucked Foreman's cock; the least Foreman could do was touch his. When Foreman began kissing lower, it occurred to him that Foreman might actually return the favor, but--fuck, who was he kidding? Foreman stopped at his nipple, sucking hard and, fuck, running teeth over it, making House jerk, his breath catch, before he relaxed into the flat press of Foreman's tongue.
House felt Foreman's breath when he spoke, but barely had enough time to absorb the words as Foreman pushed a finger inside him, pushing a short, loud groan out of him. House berated himself for it, even though he hadn't been able to stop it, and he pressed his lips together to stop another at the feeling of Foreman's fingers sliding deeper. He could feel the muscle resisting slightly, staying tight around Foreman's finger--if Foreman hadn't used so much lube, it probably would have hurt. But it didn't. God, it didn't. When Foreman slid his finger deeper, sliding inside and--oh, God. Oh, fuck. Fuck yeah.--stroked just there, it felt even better, made House gasp, arch his neck, and press his head into the mattress. His lips parted as another unstoppable groan slipped out, longer and lower. He felt his face flush with heat, and he wasn't sure if it was from the pleasure or the embarrassment at opening his mouth with that sound, but maybe, he thought, Foreman would actually keep going. He'd better keep going.
But no, he didn't. Foreman's voice distracted him, and House nearly snapped to tell him to shut up and work, but he expelled a frustrated harsh breath instead. House was rapidly running out of ways (and the brainpower) to push Foreman, and he struggled with a reply. "I agree," House ground out, clenching his teeth around the words in desperate hope that Foreman would, even for a second, believe that House was giving in to what Foreman wanted, was about to ask for it. He struggled to ignore the sensations caused by Foreman's finger, the strain in his body for more; he resisted the urge to wrap his free hand around himself, unwilling to allow Foreman to see how badly he wanted--needed--the relief of contact, pressure--it was beginning to hurt. Instead, after he'd given Foreman what he hoped were several seconds of empty satisfaction, House raised his head and glowered at Foreman before he clarified, keeping his voice as even as possible, "I agree. You want to suck me and fuck me, but I'm beginning to wonder if you're ever going to do it."
House stared at Foreman for another few seconds before letting his head fall back to the mattress, realizing with frustration that the metaphorical ball really was in Foreman's court. His last 'push' had hardly been a volley, too much impatience had seeped into his voice, and it had sounded more like a veiled plea and less like an insult in his head. Fuck. He couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten to this point, breathing this fast, wanting this much for Foreman to suck him, fuck him--at this point, it hardly mattered which one, as long as at least one happened. He'd trapped himself; if he waited and let Foreman tease him like this, just enough to strain and squirm, he'd lose, but if he pushed, told Foreman to stop the fucking teases, he'd lose. Either way, Foreman would laugh in his face. He might as well satisfy himself, then, get some kind of additional pleasure besides the occasional brush of Foreman's finger on his prostate.
Uninterested in seeing the smugness on Foreman's face, House closed his eyes, curling his free hand around his erection and squeezing before giving his cock several swift, firm strokes. The relief, the pleasure of it, drew a deep sigh out of him, and it, combined with the sensation of Foreman's finger inside him, suddenly made him care less about Foreman's reaction. Let the bastard think what he liked, but he wasn't going to wait around for this long for Foreman to take advantage of what he wanted; if Foreman wanted to do what he claimed, then this might propel him to follow through, not just talk about it. If not, he would get himself off, get dressed, and leave to let Foreman deal with himself. Would only be fair.
House's groan, the sound of him defeated and needy, went straight to Foreman's cock. He reached down awkwardly with his right hand, giving himself a few strokes, enough to take the edge off, but he was still concentrating with everything in him on making House break. Oh, yeah. Yes. House's body was tight, not accommodating at first, but Foreman went slowly. This wasn't about pushing rough into painful. He let out a shuddery exhale, his own hips working slightly in sympathy for the way House was lifting up and getting no friction whatsoever. He wasn't going to do anything about it, though. Not yet. This was too good, and Foreman couldn't force himself to give up one second of watching House thrash, caught underneath him.
Foreman nearly lost what breath he had left when House finally--finally, the stubborn masochist--agreed. He would have loved to hear House say 'please', but I agree would do just fine. Even House's qualifier couldn't touch Foreman's smug sense of winning. "Follow-through isn't my problem, remember, House?" he asked, but it didn't look like House heard him, let alone cared what he was saying. House had finally remembered that he had a hand free, and he grabbed his erection, groaning again as he began to stroke it.
Foreman's eyes widened, his chest working, as his eyes moved from House's face down to his hand on his cock. House's hand was moving fast, fisting his erection and pumping his hips upwards into his hand, the muscles in his forearm clenching with every thrust. Fuck, it was hot, seeing House completely undone. He wasn't defiant now, wasn't saying no to anything. Foreman had pushed him so far that he'd made House forget exactly what he was fighting against and give in.
"Yeah," Foreman said, encouraging him, loving every moment of it. "Like that, you bastard, do it." He crooked his finger, pushing it in deeper, trying to match House's rhythm, letting him fuck himself on Foreman's finger. He wasn't hitting House's prostate with every stroke, but he could see House's reaction every time the angle worked and the force was just right. If this was the kind of show he got just because he'd pushed a little, spurred House on, he couldn't imagine how good House would look when Foreman was actually inside him, pounding away, fucking him.
Foreman felt dizzy, he was breathing so fast, and his aching cock reminded him of exactly where he wanted this to go. He pulled his finger out slowly, leaving House to keep jerking himself off, and reached for the lube, coating his fingers again. He wanted to order House not to come yet, but that would probably just encourage House to finish himself before Foreman was ready. He leaned closer and pushed back in, using two fingers this time, and fuck, the way House clenched around him, so hot, so fucking tight, made another twinge of need tighten low in his groin.
"You should see yourself," he said, gravelly and low. Maybe it was a taunt--tell House just how lost he looked, how euphoric--but mostly it was the truth. House looked sweaty, broken, desperate, and Foreman couldn't think of anything he'd rather see. He thrust with his fingers again, opening House up, trying to work a third finger in. God, he hoped House was ready, because Foreman's frustration was building again, his excitement nearly strangling him. He pulled his fingers out, and clutched at House's arm, stopping him from jerking off and pushing his wrist down to the bed, holding it there. Foreman wanted to laugh at House's frustration, but he'd run out of breath. Instead, he worked his fingers back in, three this time, reaching for the spot that had made House groan, unable to hold back. "Don't think," he said, breathing harshly around the words, "I don't keep my promises," and bent down to take House into his mouth, sucking him at the same time as he thrust his fingers deeper.
***
What's that, you say? You want to find out what happens next? THEN I THINK YOU KNOW WHAT YOU MUST DO.
wooedforyears *\o/*
shutterbug_12 told me to.Have you guys been following
wooedforyears? If not, I eye you suspiciously! I think the pretty graphic says it all:wooedforyears takes place starting in early season four. Foreman has just returned from New York, resentful and discouraged after being fired from Mercy Hospital. House is weeding down his potential fellows and resents Cuddy hiring Foreman as his watchdog. They know they're not going to stop arguing. They know that they're likely to drive each other insane. But they also realize there might be something more between them.And also? IT IS FULL OF TENSION AND HOT.
Foreman was hovering on the edge of sleep, almost but not quite deep enough to ignore the sounds drifting in to the bedroom. There was something missing. He wasn't quite warm enough. He rolled over, frowning, sweeping his arm across the sheets. No other body. House should've been there.
There was a loud thunk from the other room, and Foreman woke up fully, squinting at the clock. Four in the fucking morning, Jesus. He lifted his head enough to confirm that House wasn't there, and he wondered for a quick, confused moment if House had grabbed his clothes and snuck out after all. He swallowed down a stupid, pointless tinge of disappointment at the thought. But no, House's jeans were still on the floor. And another noise had Foreman getting to his feet.
Shit. House--awake in his apartment--while Foreman wasn't there to watch his every move. Shit. Foreman should have known better than to go to sleep when House was anywhere near his stuff. He grabbed his shorts off the floor and yanked them on, almost stumbling in his haste to stop House from whatever the hell he was doing.
He found House in the office--no surprise there, of course House would gravitate to where Foreman kept all his personal documents. House was sitting behind the desk, bare chested, the glow of Foreman's laptop washing over him and paling his skin. "What the hell are you doing?" Foreman demanded, his voice cracking louder than he'd meant. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, his heart was pounding from the adrenaline of seeing House prying into his stuff, and he was pissed off about being woken up--about having House around at all. He had no fucking right to disrupt Foreman's home like this, to interfere in Foreman's life.As Foreman's voice, sudden and loud, sounded through the room, House glanced up with narrowed eyes to see Foreman, squinting with sleep, dressed in his boxers, standing just inside the door. House had been sifting through file folders in the bottom drawer of the desk, searching phone bills and credit cards statements for clues as to Foreman's plans--dialed phone numbers, unfamiliar area codes, airline tickets, hotel receipts, anything that would give him more information.
At the sight of Foreman, the sound of his words, all of House's confusion and hurt transformed into anger, bubbling inside his stomach and rising up his throat despite House's attempts to swallow it back. He felt no guilt or remorse for nosing through Foreman's documents. He felt no need to justify himself. If Foreman had left him his space in bed, House wouldn't have wandered away from the bedroom, and if Foreman hadn't anticipated this after three years of working for House, breaking into patients' homes, House had no sympathy for him; Foreman should have known better.
"Going somewhere?" House asked as he stood from the chair, his voice much stronger and clearer than Foreman's, no longer thick with sleep. House turned the laptop towards Foreman, gesturing to it. "Last time you had the decency to notify your boss before you started asking for recommendations and lining up interviews."
Foreman's eyes widened at the sight of his CV on the laptop's screen. He'd forgotten to shut it down when he'd left for the bar. The last thing on his mind had been password security. At that point, he'd been thinking that if he never saw House again after practically assaulting him, it would be too soon. Escape had been a knee-jerk reaction. He'd only been thinking of finding a job that wouldn't involve coming out at work--because kissing House had meant, inevitably, that everyone would find out. Wilson first, then the fellow candidates, then Cuddy, Cameron, and Chase--and from there, the rest of Princeton-Plainsboro's well-developed gossip chain. The idea of taking a job where he'd be practicing medicine, rather than all his crash-course-acquired techniques of House-wrangling, had also been on his mind. But it was futile, he knew. Even the email he'd sent to Marty Hamilton had been mostly explorative; the very idea of going back to California, of admitting defeat, had nagged at him even as he was sending it.
Not that House deserved to know any of that. He was the reason Foreman had been thinking about running away, as if he wasn't adult enough, responsible enough, to face his own problems. "You're not my boss," Foreman said dismissively. Cuddy had hired him, and Foreman was damn glad of it. At least it removed one of the problems with sleeping with House, even if there were a million others that were worse. "And you were so helpful last time, of course you'd be the first to know."
Foreman shook his head, resisting the urge to rub the sleep out of his eyes. It didn't make sense that House was angry. It wasn't even a secret Foreman had been trying to keep--those emails were five hours old at most, and he and House had certainly had better things on their minds in the meanwhile. He thought House would've been happy to see the back of him, if it meant House could avoid the fact that they'd had sex. A flush of arousal moved through Foreman at the memory, as he realized that they were both wearing nothing but their boxers, that they were arguing while nearly naked. God, all he really wanted was to go back to bed, and he wasn't even against dragging House back there with him. "It's none of your business," he said, anger still bleeding through his tone. Exhaustion really was setting in, if he thought things like personal boundaries would stop House. "I'm not one of your minions, so you can keep your damn hands off my computer."
House raised his hand to let it fall with a slap against his thigh, scoffing at Foreman's remark, pretending the reference to Foreman's resignation didn't sting, ignoring it. Foreman was right; House wasn't Foreman's boss, but Foreman wasn't his equal, either. It was still his department, and he had a right to know who stayed and who left, involuntarily or not, especially when that 'who' had just attacked him with a kiss, then had very eager, enthusiastic--hot, his brain echoed--sex with him. He know he shouldn't care, because, if roles had been reversed, House never would have supplied a reason, but now House felt entitled to one, staring at Foreman as if it would intimidate a reason out of him. "Oh, right," House said, sneering, inching closer to Foreman, "you're Cuddy's lapdog."
When Foreman was less of a watchdog and more of a doctor, Foreman was an asset, helped House's thought process. Foreman hardly ever agreed with him, continually fought him and pushed his thoughts in new directions, down new avenues. The new bunch were so focused on keeping their jobs that none of them seemed to have the guts to make any kind of push, and, in the midst of it, Foreman was actually refreshing. But when Foreman started pussyfooting around him, House couldn't conjure up any respect for him, didn't want to work with him. Foreman was no good to him as a doormat.
Still, House wasn't sure why this had surprised him. Foreman had a history of running, running from his upbringing, his family, running from mistakes, from anything Foreman feared to become--him, apparently. When Foreman had resigned, he had been running from him, and that knowledge hadn't been flattering. He'd been convinced that whatever he had to say wouldn't affect Foreman's decision to leave, and he'd pretended to be unaffected by it when he'd been right. It hadn't mattered. Now, House was sure that it still wouldn't matter, and was just as convinced that Foreman's choice to explore his job options was because of him. Again. It still wasn't flattering; it seemed worse. He knew it shouldn't, but it did. Last time had felt personal, but this, the two of them face-to-face, more than half-naked, and Foreman ready to run again, felt more personal.
It was ridiculous that it felt anything at all. House knew he should be glad for the opportunity to dismiss it all, take his easy out, torment Foreman until he fled to another job. He would never be forced to address anything, because it hardly had a consequence. He didn't want a change, at least not one he couldn't control, but Foreman was being more dramatic than him, turning tail and fleeing to an entirely different state, based on the documents that glowed on Foreman's laptop. It didn't suit him.
House glared at Foreman, his lips tightening and eyes narrowing in the faintly lit room as Foreman said that none of this was his business, to keep out of it. "My department, my business," House hissed, lurching across the room with as much speed and force as he could, walking without his cane and always coming down hard on his left leg, bare foot slapping on bare wood. "What did you tell Cuddy? Having second thoughts? Kissed your boss"--House used the word just to piss Foreman off, stepping closer to Foreman, able to feel body heat, the fabric of their shorts almost touching, just to make him as uncomfortable, or alternatively, as turned-on as possible--"and can't deal? Or the truth, that you're a coward?"
Turning slowly, House started back towards the desk. He hadn't checked out Foreman's 'sent' folder and he was interested to rub Foreman's face in his own bullshit. "Let's see," House said without looking at Foreman, nearing the laptop."Stop trying to make this about work," Foreman snapped. Yeah, it was House's department, but that had absolutely nothing to do with this argument. House couldn't care less about how his department ran, as long as he had bodies around to run his tests and take his insults. He hadn't wanted Foreman back; Cuddy had forced the change on him, and Foreman knew he wasn't pleased. He didn't want Foreman almost as much as every other hospital didn't want him. Foreman was tainted goods, last week's news. If House could get around Cuddy and out from under Foreman's oversight, he'd take the opportunity in a second. "I didn't tell Cuddy anything. I can manage to keep things professional." He let out a disgusted sound. "Kissing you was a mistake," he said. "I told you that in the car. You're trying to tell me you didn't want to forget about that? That you wanted to 'deal' with that?"
Foreman stabbed a finger at House when he got close enough. House leaning into his space, getting up close, his anger warming the air between their bodies--it was suddenly completely familiar, and Foreman felt the urge to kiss him again. The first kiss had been a mistake. Everything since then was different. The fact that House had actually responded, had been eager and turned on by it, that he'd pushed Foreman back and abandoned himself in the heat of the moment--that had made things different. Kissing House now--grabbing and pushing and insisting--that would prove something that Foreman knew his words wouldn't. Foreman wasn't interested in leaving, in uprooting his life for the third time in as many months. He wasn't interested in leaving House. His lips thinned as he realized what that meant. He'd felt something. He'd let the sex matter. That, as much as anything, made him even angrier.
"You're calling me a coward?" he demanded. There was no way in hell that House was putting this on him. "You couldn't deal with me leaving. You think what you did to Cameron and Chase solved anything? I'm back, so you have to deal with me, and you don't want to. The fact that I'm looking for a better job than 'Cuddy's lapdog' is not your problem. You'd rather I hung around and took your shit, as long as you didn't have to worry about anything changing. Well, guess what, House? It has changed."
His fury grew when House turned his back on him and headed for the laptop again. Foreman grabbed House's arm and yanked him back, forcing him to face him, glaring as hard as he could as he met House's eyes. "If you're having regrets, then tell me that," he said. "Don't make up some bullshit about my career, because I know you don't give a shit about it."
***
Foreman had never felt so self-satisfied in his life. House was struggling under him, turning his face away, the tendons standing out in his neck as he threw his head back. Little, aborted sounds that he was trying to contain were sneaking their way out. No matter how hard House was trying to hold them back, they vibrated in his throat and Foreman could hear it, each time he twisted his fingers, each time he pushed a tiny, teasing bit closer.
Foreman rubbed more strongly with his fingers, circling and exploring. He nudged House's right leg out further with his knee and crooked his elbow to get a better angle. He watched House's face, the way his eyes slid closed, his eyebrows lifting, his mouth opening around a soundless groan. "Yeah," he muttered, listening to the slick sound of his fingers, reaching up to cup House's balls and squeeze once at the base of his erection, then went back to his ass, trying to provoke him in anyway he possibly could. Christ, yes, he could do this all day, watch this all day. Light, barely there touches, then a quick hard push that he pulled short before it went anywhere.
The moment when House's voice cracked, Foreman laughed again. Yeah, House really didn't understand him if he thought Foreman wasn't getting anything out of this. He had no problem with being selfish, and no problem waiting, if it meant he could watch House practically begging Foreman with every movement to do more.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'll take care of myself." He was already getting more from this than he ever could have dreamed. Grinning, he lowered his mouth to House's throat, sucking his skin just below where his stubble ended. He kept twisting his fingers, the tip of his middle finger now and then nearly pushing inside. Climbing up on his knees, Foreman bent lower, trailing his mouth down House's chest, tasting salt and the hint of leftover alcohol. Didn't hurt that he was pulling away from House's dick, giving him even less direct stimulation. He kissed his way lower until he reached House's nipple and sucked hard, scraping with his teeth and then using his tongue again, back and forth. "I told you what I want," he said at last, lifting his head for a moment. With that, he pushed one finger into House's ass, slowly but not stopping, reaching forward and up until he found House's prostate. Keeping his eyes on House's face the entire time. "Just waiting for you to agree."
House nearly reached up to Foreman's face to claw away his God damned, shit-eating grin, but his brain signals didn't appear to be making it to his muscles. His chin lifted, his free hand reached to curve around the back of Foreman's neck instead as Foreman lowered his head, that hot, open mouth sucking on skin. All the sensations made House shift, attempt to push into each point of contact--Jesus, it was pathetic, but it had been so fucking long since anyone had been all over him like this, and it still wasn't enough.
Then Foreman lifted away, House's hand fell back to the bed, and it definitely wasn't enough. House turned his head sharply to the side, breathing a frustrated, strained sound, his body still squirming, trying to guide Foreman's finger against him, inside him, anything more than these infuriatingly light touches. Cool air rushed over his body, making him shiver, as Foreman shifted, knelt over him. He felt an even greater strain now, barely being touched at all, and his hips lifted with tiny, rhythmic movements, his cock finding nothing to rub against but air. God damn it. Damn Foreman. He'd sucked Foreman's cock; the least Foreman could do was touch his. When Foreman began kissing lower, it occurred to him that Foreman might actually return the favor, but--fuck, who was he kidding? Foreman stopped at his nipple, sucking hard and, fuck, running teeth over it, making House jerk, his breath catch, before he relaxed into the flat press of Foreman's tongue.
House felt Foreman's breath when he spoke, but barely had enough time to absorb the words as Foreman pushed a finger inside him, pushing a short, loud groan out of him. House berated himself for it, even though he hadn't been able to stop it, and he pressed his lips together to stop another at the feeling of Foreman's fingers sliding deeper. He could feel the muscle resisting slightly, staying tight around Foreman's finger--if Foreman hadn't used so much lube, it probably would have hurt. But it didn't. God, it didn't. When Foreman slid his finger deeper, sliding inside and--oh, God. Oh, fuck. Fuck yeah.--stroked just there, it felt even better, made House gasp, arch his neck, and press his head into the mattress. His lips parted as another unstoppable groan slipped out, longer and lower. He felt his face flush with heat, and he wasn't sure if it was from the pleasure or the embarrassment at opening his mouth with that sound, but maybe, he thought, Foreman would actually keep going. He'd better keep going.
But no, he didn't. Foreman's voice distracted him, and House nearly snapped to tell him to shut up and work, but he expelled a frustrated harsh breath instead. House was rapidly running out of ways (and the brainpower) to push Foreman, and he struggled with a reply. "I agree," House ground out, clenching his teeth around the words in desperate hope that Foreman would, even for a second, believe that House was giving in to what Foreman wanted, was about to ask for it. He struggled to ignore the sensations caused by Foreman's finger, the strain in his body for more; he resisted the urge to wrap his free hand around himself, unwilling to allow Foreman to see how badly he wanted--needed--the relief of contact, pressure--it was beginning to hurt. Instead, after he'd given Foreman what he hoped were several seconds of empty satisfaction, House raised his head and glowered at Foreman before he clarified, keeping his voice as even as possible, "I agree. You want to suck me and fuck me, but I'm beginning to wonder if you're ever going to do it."
House stared at Foreman for another few seconds before letting his head fall back to the mattress, realizing with frustration that the metaphorical ball really was in Foreman's court. His last 'push' had hardly been a volley, too much impatience had seeped into his voice, and it had sounded more like a veiled plea and less like an insult in his head. Fuck. He couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten to this point, breathing this fast, wanting this much for Foreman to suck him, fuck him--at this point, it hardly mattered which one, as long as at least one happened. He'd trapped himself; if he waited and let Foreman tease him like this, just enough to strain and squirm, he'd lose, but if he pushed, told Foreman to stop the fucking teases, he'd lose. Either way, Foreman would laugh in his face. He might as well satisfy himself, then, get some kind of additional pleasure besides the occasional brush of Foreman's finger on his prostate.
Uninterested in seeing the smugness on Foreman's face, House closed his eyes, curling his free hand around his erection and squeezing before giving his cock several swift, firm strokes. The relief, the pleasure of it, drew a deep sigh out of him, and it, combined with the sensation of Foreman's finger inside him, suddenly made him care less about Foreman's reaction. Let the bastard think what he liked, but he wasn't going to wait around for this long for Foreman to take advantage of what he wanted; if Foreman wanted to do what he claimed, then this might propel him to follow through, not just talk about it. If not, he would get himself off, get dressed, and leave to let Foreman deal with himself. Would only be fair.
House's groan, the sound of him defeated and needy, went straight to Foreman's cock. He reached down awkwardly with his right hand, giving himself a few strokes, enough to take the edge off, but he was still concentrating with everything in him on making House break. Oh, yeah. Yes. House's body was tight, not accommodating at first, but Foreman went slowly. This wasn't about pushing rough into painful. He let out a shuddery exhale, his own hips working slightly in sympathy for the way House was lifting up and getting no friction whatsoever. He wasn't going to do anything about it, though. Not yet. This was too good, and Foreman couldn't force himself to give up one second of watching House thrash, caught underneath him.
Foreman nearly lost what breath he had left when House finally--finally, the stubborn masochist--agreed. He would have loved to hear House say 'please', but I agree would do just fine. Even House's qualifier couldn't touch Foreman's smug sense of winning. "Follow-through isn't my problem, remember, House?" he asked, but it didn't look like House heard him, let alone cared what he was saying. House had finally remembered that he had a hand free, and he grabbed his erection, groaning again as he began to stroke it.
Foreman's eyes widened, his chest working, as his eyes moved from House's face down to his hand on his cock. House's hand was moving fast, fisting his erection and pumping his hips upwards into his hand, the muscles in his forearm clenching with every thrust. Fuck, it was hot, seeing House completely undone. He wasn't defiant now, wasn't saying no to anything. Foreman had pushed him so far that he'd made House forget exactly what he was fighting against and give in.
"Yeah," Foreman said, encouraging him, loving every moment of it. "Like that, you bastard, do it." He crooked his finger, pushing it in deeper, trying to match House's rhythm, letting him fuck himself on Foreman's finger. He wasn't hitting House's prostate with every stroke, but he could see House's reaction every time the angle worked and the force was just right. If this was the kind of show he got just because he'd pushed a little, spurred House on, he couldn't imagine how good House would look when Foreman was actually inside him, pounding away, fucking him.
Foreman felt dizzy, he was breathing so fast, and his aching cock reminded him of exactly where he wanted this to go. He pulled his finger out slowly, leaving House to keep jerking himself off, and reached for the lube, coating his fingers again. He wanted to order House not to come yet, but that would probably just encourage House to finish himself before Foreman was ready. He leaned closer and pushed back in, using two fingers this time, and fuck, the way House clenched around him, so hot, so fucking tight, made another twinge of need tighten low in his groin.
"You should see yourself," he said, gravelly and low. Maybe it was a taunt--tell House just how lost he looked, how euphoric--but mostly it was the truth. House looked sweaty, broken, desperate, and Foreman couldn't think of anything he'd rather see. He thrust with his fingers again, opening House up, trying to work a third finger in. God, he hoped House was ready, because Foreman's frustration was building again, his excitement nearly strangling him. He pulled his fingers out, and clutched at House's arm, stopping him from jerking off and pushing his wrist down to the bed, holding it there. Foreman wanted to laugh at House's frustration, but he'd run out of breath. Instead, he worked his fingers back in, three this time, reaching for the spot that had made House groan, unable to hold back. "Don't think," he said, breathing harshly around the words, "I don't keep my promises," and bent down to take House into his mouth, sucking him at the same time as he thrust his fingers deeper.
***
What's that, you say? You want to find out what happens next? THEN I THINK YOU KNOW WHAT YOU MUST DO.
wooedforyears *\o/*
