[house/cameron, wilson/cameron] there, we will find our doom
Title: there, we will find our doom
Fandom: house, md
Characters/Pairings: house, cameron, wilson, house/cameron, wilson/cameron
Word Count: 3,266
Rating: r for sexy words and images
Summary: it reminds him of dark nights and sweat and sex and the feel of bare skin underneath his finger tips.
Author's Notes: This is for the backsexy ficathon. I’m nearly two months late, and for that I apologize immensely. I’m just so happy to have this finished, finally. Thanks to _vicodin for the plot help; this wouldn’t have been half as good if it weren’t for your idea, darling. Much kisses. Thanks to gabesaunt for the fantastic beta job - love ya! And for the rest of you: I hope this is at least a little bit worth the wait. ♥
06. "All men by nature desire to know. An indication of this is the delight we take in our senses; for even apart from their usefulness they are loved for themselves; and above all others the sense of sight. For not only with a view to action, but even when we are not going to do anything, we prefer sight to almost everything else. The reason is that this, most of all the senses, makes us know and brings to light many differences between things." Aristotle, Metaphysics.
there, we will find our doom
SMELL
It starts with her perfume.
Every morning, as he ambles into the diagnostics office, House is greeted with the lingering scent of Cameron: lavender, rosemary and a touch of patchouli. She wears the same perfume every day -- it never changes -- and he’s come to find it as something like a comfort. It’s a fragrance that is inherently Cameron; so entirely her and for some reason (one he doesn’t want to think about or explore), the smell of her perfume almost makes his day complete.
Today, he ambles into the office and is instantly struck with a new scent; one that seems to dance around the room and make his head spin. It’s musky and full and it leaves a sweet taste on his tongue. He blinks, trying to clear his head, but this smell seems to swirl even inside of him, and he can’t focus. He looks around, trying to find the source. He feels as though his pulse is jumping and his heart is racing and it’s all because of this damn perfume...
And then she enters the room, and walks past him. Cameron walks past him, and he’s hit with a brand new wave of the perfume. It assaults him, every sense, and his grip tightens on his cane. He swallows and begins to think about the effect her smell seems to have on him, but then he squelches the thought.
Or tries to.
She notices him staring. “Something wrong, House?”
His eyes narrow and the corners of his lips twitch a little as he looks at her. “You’ve changed perfumes.”
Cameron opens her mouth to reply but no words come out. She seems surprised but after a moment she simply closes her mouth and nods. “Yes, I have.”
House doesn’t say anything more and she looks at him, folding her arms over her chest.
“Is that a problem?”
He turns his gaze downwards to the carpet. He’s having trouble keeping a clear mind, with her standing so close. The smell of her -- the new smell of her -- is wafting around him and filling his nostrils and getting under his skin. The scent itself is heady and intoxicating; it reminds him of dark nights and sweat and sex and the feel of bare skin underneath his finger tips.
It’s driving him insane.
“House?”
She stands in front of him, arms folded across her chest with one eyebrow quirked and it’s like she’s daring him.
So he steps forward and kisses her.
He thinks that she tries to stop him a little, at first. He feels her hands come up to his shoulders, palms flat and pushing at him. But he wraps his arms around her, pulling her closer towards him as he kisses her harder. Then he feels her relax, and her lips begin to move against his. She’s all softness and warmth and the smell of her is all around him.
He pulls away to catch his breath (he feels like he can’t breathe; all he can draw into his lungs is her damn perfume) and she watches him as he tries to breathe. He tries not to stare back at her, but her lips are swollen and bright pink and he can smell her and taste her and he just can’t help it.
Then her lips curl ever so slightly and she smiles at him.
“I should change my perfume more often.”
He almost laughs.
SOUND
”Greg.”
It begins to mean more when she says his name like this.
They’re standing in her doorway, her door half open and the keys still hanging from the lock. She’s pressed up against the door jamb, and his lips are on her neck. Her fingers clutch at his shoulders, pulling him even closer to her, and he complies. He shifts so that his hip is against hers and he catches a growl in his throat when she arches and grinds against him.
His teeth graze her skin; the sensitive spot just above her collarbone and he sweeps his tongue across the red mark that he leaves. It’s then that she rolls her head back against the wood and opens her mouth, his name spilling from her lips.
“Greg.”
It’s a whisper, a moan, a sigh, a beg and a promise all rolled into one and it makes his gut clench up inside of him.
They’ve done this before, a few times now (since that day in the office with her and her perfume), and it still manages to make him dizzy when he touches her. But this? It’s the first time she’s said his name and he wonders if he really is going insane because he wants to hear her say it again, over and over and over, and he thinks that he’ll do anything to make her.
His hand rests at her thigh and the silk of her dress spills over her skin. It glides easily along from the touch of his fingers as he moves his hand slowly, slowly up. She hooks her leg around him, careful not to place too much pressure on him, and he rounds his hand along the curve of skin and squeezes her backside.
Her bare backside.
She giggles in his ear-- low and husky, her breath ticking the side of his face, as he realizes that she isn’t wearing anything underneath her dress.
He pulls back and looks at her, raising an eyebrow. Her lips curl into a smile and she steps away, moving to lead him into her apartment.
“It’s all for you, Greg.”
And he wants to make her scream.
TASTE
He doesn’t understand it.
It’s strange, and he doesn’t understand how it happens. How at random points during the day, he’ll taste her.
He’ll be walking down a corridor, or sitting at his desk, or watching General Hospital when suddenly and unexplainably, the taste of her will fill his mouth. He tastes the strawberry of her lips, the musk of her skin, the tang of her sweat. He tastes her on the tip of his tongue; when he swallows he tastes her all the way down the back of his throat.
It can happen at any time. Hours and hours after they were last together. Hours and hours since he last saw her. He doesn’t even have to be thinking about her at all; it’ll simply hit him. And he can’t escape it.
Today, it happens while he’s in the clinic.
He’s treating a five year old boy who has been throwing up since three in the morning. It’s a simple case of food poisoning, he can tell straight away, but the mother is hysterical. He writes them a prescription for maxolon and the mother starts asking him another five million questions about if he should eat crackers or bread and if he should drink flat lemonade or milk. House presses the prescription paper into her palm and leaves the room.
And he’s hit with the taste of Cameron.
It causes him to stop walking. To stand in the middle of the walkway, and roll his tongue around his mouth. To the roof. To the sides. Against his teeth. He can taste her, as if it had only been a minute since he last swept his tongue across her collarbone. But it has been hours. He has brushed his teeth; eaten a Reuben and downed three cups of coffee. He shouldn’t be able to taste her like this.
It won’t go away. He scratches at his head; frustrated and in need of something to take the lingering taste away. He looks around and begins walking down the corridor. He’s not sure where he’s going, but he needs something.
He passes Wilson on the way. He thinks that he stops and tries to say something to him, but all House notices is that he’s holding a bottle of orange juice in his hands. So he grabs it, continues walking, ignoring Wilson’s cries of protest. He throws down the entire contents of the bottle, hoping to wash away Cameron. He leaves the empty bottle on a trolley as he passes, and stops to click his tongue against the roof of his mouth.’
He can still taste her.
Images of the last time they were together flash underneath his eyelids. Skin, sweat, her satin underwear, the curve of her neck as she threw her head back and he pressed his lips to the swell of her breasts and -- he shakes his head. He hates how this is beginning to take him over. He needs more control than this.
He rounds the corner, and his eyes catch a glimpse of navy blue from inside the lab. She’s wearing a navy blue skirt today, with a cream coloured blouse that has little frills around the neck. He wonders briefly, as he pushes against the cool glass of the door, when he started to care about what she wore.
She hears him before he reaches her. She stops her work, sets her glasses down on the counter top. But she doesn’t turn around to face him.
“The results aren’t ready yet, House. I need more time to run the blood again and I --”
“I don’t care about the results.”
She turns around. She folds her arms across her chest, and sighs. She looks tired. “Then what do you want?”
He stands before her, watching as she studies him. He swallows absently, and is struck with the taste of her again. He frowns, overwhelmed.
Cameron drops her arms slowly and looks at him. “What’s the matter?”
He shakes his head, not looking at her. “I can’t get rid of you.”
“I’m sorry?” She cocks her head to the side suddenly, her brows furrowing deeply and quickly. “If I remember correctly, it was you who came to my door last night and --”
But he doesn’t let her finish her sentence. Because the taste of her fills his mouth and he needs to stop thinking about it. So he does the first thing that comes into his head.
He kisses her. And she tastes of Cameron; but she also tastes of coffee and yogurt and something else slightly tangy that he can’t name. She moves her lips against his, her tongue sweeping across his lips. He’s hard and insistent against her, pushing and pressing and wanting more of her. But then as quickly as it started, he pulls away and breaks the kiss.
He narrows his eyes as she looks back at him, confused. Then he turns and walks out of the lab. Satisfied that now, he’ll be able to get through the rest of the day.
Until tonight.
TOUCH
It’s late at night when he craves it most.
When he’s lying in bed alone, on top of the sheets. He thinks of her, and how he wants to touch her.
His thigh begins to ache, so he reaches over to the bedside table for his Vicodin. He unscrews the lid, palms two pills and throws them down the back of his throat, dry swallowing. His throat burns (it always does) but he ignores it, placing the bottle back on the table. He closes his eyes, waiting for the numbness to take over from the pain.
Concentric circles swirl beneath his eyelids in flashes of light and darkness and twists of colour. His head feels heavy and all he can think of is her.
He thinks of the feel of her hair between his fingers. Soft and silken and it curls through his fingers when he runs his hands through it. He thinks about how it feels, knotted in his fist when he grabs her and yanks her head back; exposing the delicate, pale skin of her neck.
He thinks about how her skin feels under his lips. Hot and fragile and burning; and he thinks of how she arches her back when he scrapes his teeth roughly across her nipple.
He thinks of her body underneath his. The feel of her bare flesh pressed against him; how every dip and curve and swell feels under his fingertips. Her skin is soft and he can feel every move that she makes when he’s against her -- every tremble, roll and squirm.
House feels his cock begin to stir with just the thought of her. She manages to have this effect on him. He can’t control how he reacts to her; it’s something he can’t stand. She makes him feel out of control, useless, unable to handle how he feels and the things he does and what he says. She makes him insane.
And yet, he can’t stay away.
His hand rests on his stomach, idle and heavy. His fingers start to itch and it happens almost without thought when his hand trails down his stomach and under his boxer shorts to wrap around his (already) hard cock.
His strokes are slow and lazy and his eyelids flutter as he thinks about touching Cameron. It’s a perfect vision in his head and he realizes that he’s memorized how she feels; that he’s stored every inch of her velvet skin in his mind. It’s so easy to conjure her up, so easy to have her kneeling over him, naked and willing and wanting.
Rough, calloused palms slide over his shaft but it’s easy to pretend and to feel gentle, delicate fingers instead. It’s effortless, and he can feel her straddling him, one hand braced on his chest and the other moving up and down, faster and faster.
He’s grunting a little now, because she’s good, she’ssogood, and it feels fucking fantastic and he wants her now. It doesn’t take much. A split second to spit on his palm and he’s sliding into her and she’s wet and warm and ready for him and fuck. She feels so good.
When he comes, he comes hard; with a groan and his breath in shattered little puffs. It takes him a moment or two to realize that he’s alone (again) on his bed. By himself. His breathing calms down and he rolls over, trying to sleep.
His sheets are sticky.
SIGHT
He’ll admit it now. Because it’s going to kill him if he denies it any longer.
He looks forward to seeing her each morning.
She’s becoming a reason to get up in the morning and make the effort to come to work. He’s not sure if anyone has noticed yet (Cuddy probably has, she’s hard to fool) but he’s been coming in earlier and earlier each morning. A week ago, he was in at 10. Today, he wanders into the diagnostics office at nearly 9. It’s five to. Technically, he doesn’t even have to be here for another five minutes.
And he doesn’t mind. Because he knows that she’ll be here. With a coffee and a slight curl of her lips that’s only for him.
But she’s not here. Not in the office, anyway. House paces the room, tapping his cane as he walks, his eyes narrowing. He’d figure that she was in a lab, except for the fact that they didn’t have a case at the moment. And she wasn’t due for clinic duty -- today was Foreman’s turn. Cameron was never late, either. Well, besides that one time after their first night together. He smirks at the memory; she couldn’t even move that morning.
As he contemplates beeping her (god, he has no self restraint when it comes to her) Chase enters the room, a piece of toast in his hands. He spots House standing in the middle of the room, next to the white board, and his eyebrows rise immediately.
“House. Good morning. Why are you here so --”
“Where’s Cameron?”
Chase pauses, deflates a little. Then shrugs. “Just left her in the cafeteria. She’s finishing her breakfast.”
House walks towards the door, head cocking towards Chase as he passes. “You always ditch your dates before they finish eating?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s filled with the need to see her, to touch her, to taste her, to hear her speak, to smell her. He plans on dragging her from the cafeteria into the nearest closet, and having his way with her. He needs her, and he can’t deny it any longer. Not even to himself.
He makes his way down the cafeteria, rehearsing in his mind what he’ll say to her. “We’ve got a case. Need you right away. Leave your cereal.” or “Get up. Shut up. Follow me.” or maybe he won’t say anything at all. Maybe he’ll slide in next to her, take a hold of her hand and place it on his straining erection over the denim of his jeans. So she can see for herself how much he needs her.
He turns a corner, almost at the elevator and he strides past Wilson’s office. And the door is open slightly, just a sliver, and he hears a voice. A female voice. She’s speaking softly; it’s almost a whisper. But she’s talking quickly and quietly and then there’s a female moan and a pant and House moves to the door before he can even think twice about it.
He stays close to the wall, and moves his head to peer inside. A nurse walks past and gives him a dirty look, so he growls at her and waves her away. “Go find your own gossip,” he hisses.
When she walks away he turns his head back to the gap in the door, eager to see what’s happening inside. Jimmy and his love life is always a rich source of entertainment, after all.
He makes out Wilson’s form, his back to the door and his pants pooled around at his ankles. He’s thrusting frantically and his head his thrown back, eyes closed and moans slipping over his lips. His hands are splayed against the back of the woman; her skirt hitched around her waist as she bends over his desk, her blouse lying on the floor beside them.
House smiles as he catches a glimpse of her bare backside, enjoying the show. He still has Cameron in the back of his mind, but decides that this will provide a sufficient distraction for a few minutes before he makes his way down to her.
The woman cries out as Wilson thrusts hard and deep, one of his hands sliding around to her chest to cup her breast in his palm. She turns her head to the side to look back at him, and her caramel hair tumbles over her shoulders with the movement. “James,” she whispers. “God, fuckmeharder.”
House can’t see her face. But the tone of her voice makes his lungs twist and his cock harden. He tries to maneuver himself so that he can see into the room more, but as he does, his eyes fly back to the skirt that’s hiked up around the woman’s hips. The navy blue skirt that’s hiked up around her hips.
He frowns heavily as his heart starts to pound, because he can’t see her. Wilson is in the way. Wilson, whose cock is deep inside of her cunt, pushing and thrusting and she’s pushing back into him and crying his name and his hands are everywhere on her, squeezing and caressing and then he moans and says, “Yes, Allison... feels so fucking good...”
And House feels something inside of him explode.
Fandom: house, md
Characters/Pairings: house, cameron, wilson, house/cameron, wilson/cameron
Word Count: 3,266
Rating: r for sexy words and images
Summary: it reminds him of dark nights and sweat and sex and the feel of bare skin underneath his finger tips.
Author's Notes: This is for the backsexy ficathon. I’m nearly two months late, and for that I apologize immensely. I’m just so happy to have this finished, finally. Thanks to _vicodin for the plot help; this wouldn’t have been half as good if it weren’t for your idea, darling. Much kisses. Thanks to gabesaunt for the fantastic beta job - love ya! And for the rest of you: I hope this is at least a little bit worth the wait. ♥
06. "All men by nature desire to know. An indication of this is the delight we take in our senses; for even apart from their usefulness they are loved for themselves; and above all others the sense of sight. For not only with a view to action, but even when we are not going to do anything, we prefer sight to almost everything else. The reason is that this, most of all the senses, makes us know and brings to light many differences between things." Aristotle, Metaphysics.
there, we will find our doom
SMELL
It starts with her perfume.
Every morning, as he ambles into the diagnostics office, House is greeted with the lingering scent of Cameron: lavender, rosemary and a touch of patchouli. She wears the same perfume every day -- it never changes -- and he’s come to find it as something like a comfort. It’s a fragrance that is inherently Cameron; so entirely her and for some reason (one he doesn’t want to think about or explore), the smell of her perfume almost makes his day complete.
Today, he ambles into the office and is instantly struck with a new scent; one that seems to dance around the room and make his head spin. It’s musky and full and it leaves a sweet taste on his tongue. He blinks, trying to clear his head, but this smell seems to swirl even inside of him, and he can’t focus. He looks around, trying to find the source. He feels as though his pulse is jumping and his heart is racing and it’s all because of this damn perfume...
And then she enters the room, and walks past him. Cameron walks past him, and he’s hit with a brand new wave of the perfume. It assaults him, every sense, and his grip tightens on his cane. He swallows and begins to think about the effect her smell seems to have on him, but then he squelches the thought.
Or tries to.
She notices him staring. “Something wrong, House?”
His eyes narrow and the corners of his lips twitch a little as he looks at her. “You’ve changed perfumes.”
Cameron opens her mouth to reply but no words come out. She seems surprised but after a moment she simply closes her mouth and nods. “Yes, I have.”
House doesn’t say anything more and she looks at him, folding her arms over her chest.
“Is that a problem?”
He turns his gaze downwards to the carpet. He’s having trouble keeping a clear mind, with her standing so close. The smell of her -- the new smell of her -- is wafting around him and filling his nostrils and getting under his skin. The scent itself is heady and intoxicating; it reminds him of dark nights and sweat and sex and the feel of bare skin underneath his finger tips.
It’s driving him insane.
“House?”
She stands in front of him, arms folded across her chest with one eyebrow quirked and it’s like she’s daring him.
So he steps forward and kisses her.
He thinks that she tries to stop him a little, at first. He feels her hands come up to his shoulders, palms flat and pushing at him. But he wraps his arms around her, pulling her closer towards him as he kisses her harder. Then he feels her relax, and her lips begin to move against his. She’s all softness and warmth and the smell of her is all around him.
He pulls away to catch his breath (he feels like he can’t breathe; all he can draw into his lungs is her damn perfume) and she watches him as he tries to breathe. He tries not to stare back at her, but her lips are swollen and bright pink and he can smell her and taste her and he just can’t help it.
Then her lips curl ever so slightly and she smiles at him.
“I should change my perfume more often.”
He almost laughs.
SOUND
”Greg.”
It begins to mean more when she says his name like this.
They’re standing in her doorway, her door half open and the keys still hanging from the lock. She’s pressed up against the door jamb, and his lips are on her neck. Her fingers clutch at his shoulders, pulling him even closer to her, and he complies. He shifts so that his hip is against hers and he catches a growl in his throat when she arches and grinds against him.
His teeth graze her skin; the sensitive spot just above her collarbone and he sweeps his tongue across the red mark that he leaves. It’s then that she rolls her head back against the wood and opens her mouth, his name spilling from her lips.
“Greg.”
It’s a whisper, a moan, a sigh, a beg and a promise all rolled into one and it makes his gut clench up inside of him.
They’ve done this before, a few times now (since that day in the office with her and her perfume), and it still manages to make him dizzy when he touches her. But this? It’s the first time she’s said his name and he wonders if he really is going insane because he wants to hear her say it again, over and over and over, and he thinks that he’ll do anything to make her.
His hand rests at her thigh and the silk of her dress spills over her skin. It glides easily along from the touch of his fingers as he moves his hand slowly, slowly up. She hooks her leg around him, careful not to place too much pressure on him, and he rounds his hand along the curve of skin and squeezes her backside.
Her bare backside.
She giggles in his ear-- low and husky, her breath ticking the side of his face, as he realizes that she isn’t wearing anything underneath her dress.
He pulls back and looks at her, raising an eyebrow. Her lips curl into a smile and she steps away, moving to lead him into her apartment.
“It’s all for you, Greg.”
And he wants to make her scream.
TASTE
He doesn’t understand it.
It’s strange, and he doesn’t understand how it happens. How at random points during the day, he’ll taste her.
He’ll be walking down a corridor, or sitting at his desk, or watching General Hospital when suddenly and unexplainably, the taste of her will fill his mouth. He tastes the strawberry of her lips, the musk of her skin, the tang of her sweat. He tastes her on the tip of his tongue; when he swallows he tastes her all the way down the back of his throat.
It can happen at any time. Hours and hours after they were last together. Hours and hours since he last saw her. He doesn’t even have to be thinking about her at all; it’ll simply hit him. And he can’t escape it.
Today, it happens while he’s in the clinic.
He’s treating a five year old boy who has been throwing up since three in the morning. It’s a simple case of food poisoning, he can tell straight away, but the mother is hysterical. He writes them a prescription for maxolon and the mother starts asking him another five million questions about if he should eat crackers or bread and if he should drink flat lemonade or milk. House presses the prescription paper into her palm and leaves the room.
And he’s hit with the taste of Cameron.
It causes him to stop walking. To stand in the middle of the walkway, and roll his tongue around his mouth. To the roof. To the sides. Against his teeth. He can taste her, as if it had only been a minute since he last swept his tongue across her collarbone. But it has been hours. He has brushed his teeth; eaten a Reuben and downed three cups of coffee. He shouldn’t be able to taste her like this.
It won’t go away. He scratches at his head; frustrated and in need of something to take the lingering taste away. He looks around and begins walking down the corridor. He’s not sure where he’s going, but he needs something.
He passes Wilson on the way. He thinks that he stops and tries to say something to him, but all House notices is that he’s holding a bottle of orange juice in his hands. So he grabs it, continues walking, ignoring Wilson’s cries of protest. He throws down the entire contents of the bottle, hoping to wash away Cameron. He leaves the empty bottle on a trolley as he passes, and stops to click his tongue against the roof of his mouth.’
He can still taste her.
Images of the last time they were together flash underneath his eyelids. Skin, sweat, her satin underwear, the curve of her neck as she threw her head back and he pressed his lips to the swell of her breasts and -- he shakes his head. He hates how this is beginning to take him over. He needs more control than this.
He rounds the corner, and his eyes catch a glimpse of navy blue from inside the lab. She’s wearing a navy blue skirt today, with a cream coloured blouse that has little frills around the neck. He wonders briefly, as he pushes against the cool glass of the door, when he started to care about what she wore.
She hears him before he reaches her. She stops her work, sets her glasses down on the counter top. But she doesn’t turn around to face him.
“The results aren’t ready yet, House. I need more time to run the blood again and I --”
“I don’t care about the results.”
She turns around. She folds her arms across her chest, and sighs. She looks tired. “Then what do you want?”
He stands before her, watching as she studies him. He swallows absently, and is struck with the taste of her again. He frowns, overwhelmed.
Cameron drops her arms slowly and looks at him. “What’s the matter?”
He shakes his head, not looking at her. “I can’t get rid of you.”
“I’m sorry?” She cocks her head to the side suddenly, her brows furrowing deeply and quickly. “If I remember correctly, it was you who came to my door last night and --”
But he doesn’t let her finish her sentence. Because the taste of her fills his mouth and he needs to stop thinking about it. So he does the first thing that comes into his head.
He kisses her. And she tastes of Cameron; but she also tastes of coffee and yogurt and something else slightly tangy that he can’t name. She moves her lips against his, her tongue sweeping across his lips. He’s hard and insistent against her, pushing and pressing and wanting more of her. But then as quickly as it started, he pulls away and breaks the kiss.
He narrows his eyes as she looks back at him, confused. Then he turns and walks out of the lab. Satisfied that now, he’ll be able to get through the rest of the day.
Until tonight.
TOUCH
It’s late at night when he craves it most.
When he’s lying in bed alone, on top of the sheets. He thinks of her, and how he wants to touch her.
His thigh begins to ache, so he reaches over to the bedside table for his Vicodin. He unscrews the lid, palms two pills and throws them down the back of his throat, dry swallowing. His throat burns (it always does) but he ignores it, placing the bottle back on the table. He closes his eyes, waiting for the numbness to take over from the pain.
Concentric circles swirl beneath his eyelids in flashes of light and darkness and twists of colour. His head feels heavy and all he can think of is her.
He thinks of the feel of her hair between his fingers. Soft and silken and it curls through his fingers when he runs his hands through it. He thinks about how it feels, knotted in his fist when he grabs her and yanks her head back; exposing the delicate, pale skin of her neck.
He thinks about how her skin feels under his lips. Hot and fragile and burning; and he thinks of how she arches her back when he scrapes his teeth roughly across her nipple.
He thinks of her body underneath his. The feel of her bare flesh pressed against him; how every dip and curve and swell feels under his fingertips. Her skin is soft and he can feel every move that she makes when he’s against her -- every tremble, roll and squirm.
House feels his cock begin to stir with just the thought of her. She manages to have this effect on him. He can’t control how he reacts to her; it’s something he can’t stand. She makes him feel out of control, useless, unable to handle how he feels and the things he does and what he says. She makes him insane.
And yet, he can’t stay away.
His hand rests on his stomach, idle and heavy. His fingers start to itch and it happens almost without thought when his hand trails down his stomach and under his boxer shorts to wrap around his (already) hard cock.
His strokes are slow and lazy and his eyelids flutter as he thinks about touching Cameron. It’s a perfect vision in his head and he realizes that he’s memorized how she feels; that he’s stored every inch of her velvet skin in his mind. It’s so easy to conjure her up, so easy to have her kneeling over him, naked and willing and wanting.
Rough, calloused palms slide over his shaft but it’s easy to pretend and to feel gentle, delicate fingers instead. It’s effortless, and he can feel her straddling him, one hand braced on his chest and the other moving up and down, faster and faster.
He’s grunting a little now, because she’s good, she’ssogood, and it feels fucking fantastic and he wants her now. It doesn’t take much. A split second to spit on his palm and he’s sliding into her and she’s wet and warm and ready for him and fuck. She feels so good.
When he comes, he comes hard; with a groan and his breath in shattered little puffs. It takes him a moment or two to realize that he’s alone (again) on his bed. By himself. His breathing calms down and he rolls over, trying to sleep.
His sheets are sticky.
SIGHT
He’ll admit it now. Because it’s going to kill him if he denies it any longer.
He looks forward to seeing her each morning.
She’s becoming a reason to get up in the morning and make the effort to come to work. He’s not sure if anyone has noticed yet (Cuddy probably has, she’s hard to fool) but he’s been coming in earlier and earlier each morning. A week ago, he was in at 10. Today, he wanders into the diagnostics office at nearly 9. It’s five to. Technically, he doesn’t even have to be here for another five minutes.
And he doesn’t mind. Because he knows that she’ll be here. With a coffee and a slight curl of her lips that’s only for him.
But she’s not here. Not in the office, anyway. House paces the room, tapping his cane as he walks, his eyes narrowing. He’d figure that she was in a lab, except for the fact that they didn’t have a case at the moment. And she wasn’t due for clinic duty -- today was Foreman’s turn. Cameron was never late, either. Well, besides that one time after their first night together. He smirks at the memory; she couldn’t even move that morning.
As he contemplates beeping her (god, he has no self restraint when it comes to her) Chase enters the room, a piece of toast in his hands. He spots House standing in the middle of the room, next to the white board, and his eyebrows rise immediately.
“House. Good morning. Why are you here so --”
“Where’s Cameron?”
Chase pauses, deflates a little. Then shrugs. “Just left her in the cafeteria. She’s finishing her breakfast.”
House walks towards the door, head cocking towards Chase as he passes. “You always ditch your dates before they finish eating?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s filled with the need to see her, to touch her, to taste her, to hear her speak, to smell her. He plans on dragging her from the cafeteria into the nearest closet, and having his way with her. He needs her, and he can’t deny it any longer. Not even to himself.
He makes his way down the cafeteria, rehearsing in his mind what he’ll say to her. “We’ve got a case. Need you right away. Leave your cereal.” or “Get up. Shut up. Follow me.” or maybe he won’t say anything at all. Maybe he’ll slide in next to her, take a hold of her hand and place it on his straining erection over the denim of his jeans. So she can see for herself how much he needs her.
He turns a corner, almost at the elevator and he strides past Wilson’s office. And the door is open slightly, just a sliver, and he hears a voice. A female voice. She’s speaking softly; it’s almost a whisper. But she’s talking quickly and quietly and then there’s a female moan and a pant and House moves to the door before he can even think twice about it.
He stays close to the wall, and moves his head to peer inside. A nurse walks past and gives him a dirty look, so he growls at her and waves her away. “Go find your own gossip,” he hisses.
When she walks away he turns his head back to the gap in the door, eager to see what’s happening inside. Jimmy and his love life is always a rich source of entertainment, after all.
He makes out Wilson’s form, his back to the door and his pants pooled around at his ankles. He’s thrusting frantically and his head his thrown back, eyes closed and moans slipping over his lips. His hands are splayed against the back of the woman; her skirt hitched around her waist as she bends over his desk, her blouse lying on the floor beside them.
House smiles as he catches a glimpse of her bare backside, enjoying the show. He still has Cameron in the back of his mind, but decides that this will provide a sufficient distraction for a few minutes before he makes his way down to her.
The woman cries out as Wilson thrusts hard and deep, one of his hands sliding around to her chest to cup her breast in his palm. She turns her head to the side to look back at him, and her caramel hair tumbles over her shoulders with the movement. “James,” she whispers. “God, fuckmeharder.”
House can’t see her face. But the tone of her voice makes his lungs twist and his cock harden. He tries to maneuver himself so that he can see into the room more, but as he does, his eyes fly back to the skirt that’s hiked up around the woman’s hips. The navy blue skirt that’s hiked up around her hips.
He frowns heavily as his heart starts to pound, because he can’t see her. Wilson is in the way. Wilson, whose cock is deep inside of her cunt, pushing and thrusting and she’s pushing back into him and crying his name and his hands are everywhere on her, squeezing and caressing and then he moans and says, “Yes, Allison... feels so fucking good...”
And House feels something inside of him explode.