by Baked Goldfish
Foreman was fucking the smug right out of Greg House.
Apartment on the corner of the building, bed up against two outside walls, and he was glad for it with the headboard slamming hard enough to chip paint. Hands pressed hard between shoulder blades, pushing House into the mattress even as House tried to curl back, even as House was making noises that would start out grinding-deep and end trebled and broken. Foreman knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what he needed to do to make lats ripple like that under hot, slick, flushed skin.
Air and teeth scraped over bottom lip in a half-formed, half-forgotten curse, and Foreman went back to where it had begun. Those same lips, smirking cocky and snarly, even after he'd grabbed House's cane and thrown it to the side. Sit, he'd said, and he'd said it firmly and House had sat on the couch. Pulled House's face to his crotch, watched him undo the fly of his slacks, and then House had just mouthed him, wet and teasing, through cotton boxers, tongue moving just above the elastic and just below his navel, useless and frustrating until Foreman's hand had twisted his hair hard enough to hurt. And Foreman had said, angry, Stop Playing, and House had just laughed, deep and right against Foreman's half-hard cock. Khakis and boxers pooled on the carpet, and House sucking noisily and hard, hands on his ass and balls, devious and condescending blue eyes staring up at him from beneath shadowed brow. And he had been standing, and he had been fucking that smirky mouth, and House had been in charge of it all anyway, and dammit-
But now, those eyes were screwed shut, brows knotted, face red and mouth panting and slack. Blushing from scalp all the way down his neck and back, fingers so tight around the sheets that his knuckles were almost bone-white and his forearms were trembling. Foreman snarled a grin, nostrils flaring as his lips curled viciously away from his teeth. He slowed, going shallow as he slid his hands down to House's waist, fingers digging into lighter flesh, and he clenched his teeth against the tight heat around his dick. House responded primordially, a quiet, mournful gasp like the end of the world, half a second of naked and open begging; Foreman grinned wider.
Leaned down, changed angles. House bucked up against him, tightened and spasmed with hitched breath and suddenly wide eyes looking lost at the left wall. Yeah, Foreman thought he said. Yeah, You Like That. Licked and nipped at that pink lower lip until House turned away, keening like hungry dogs with his face half-pressed into pillow. Pale arms jerked closer to pink torso, shoulders bunching as Foreman put his hands on the mattress. It was good heat, and good ache. It was good, the way House was out of his head, overfocused and twitching like an animal.
You Want It, he said, and House's response was a muffled broken yes please yes. Sped back up, going deeper, harder, blood rushing to his own head, reached between House and the pillows propping him up, thumbed the head of House's cock, tugged firm. Arm braced on the bed, hand slid up to thread fingers through damp, iron grey hair. Tongue to neck, feeling steady thrum of pulse below skin, soft wet trail down shoulder until teeth screamed into flesh and House screamed into cloth and featherdown.
Foreman was pushed to stardust. Control lost, nearly blacked out for the burst of light behind his eyes and shuddering flood of heat in his core. Fell, belly to the sweat-slick small of House's back, let out the breath he forgot he was holding. Pulled out and buried his nose in the crook of House's neck. Warm, salt musk, and he pushed his arms below House, wrapping around that boneless, oversensitive body that was still trembling and swallowing and clawing desperately for the end of the aftershocks.
You Remember This. His voice was wind on sand. Contentment rolled back, grudge rolled back in, and he put his mouth to House's ear with a smirk on his face and a devious flash in his dark eyes. What I Make You, he said. You Remember.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.