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  Devolution 
 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.