(no subject)
I've fic in the works folks.
And Christ, I could use some encouragement.
Despite the winning finale, life has not been conducive to creativity for me lately. Especially today. I don't know if things have gotten harder of if I've just gotten worse at handling them. I mean, something's got to change.
Alas, I wrote crackfic a while back that I never posted. So. Here it is:
Title: Dramatic Irony
Author: melissaisdown
Pairing: Uh...
Summary: All the world's a soundstage.
Rating: R. It's not as superfluously smutty as I'd originally endeavored.
A/N: Hmm. I started this with the intent of making it crackfic. I have no idea if it really is now though. I apologize in advance if my first delve into this genre fails miserably. In my defense it seemed like crack at the time: I wrote it in 43 minutes, prompted by silent_snark's challenge and a parenthetical therein. I did try to inject as many cliches as possible and do find the scenario (er, twist) implausible. (Not that I don't wish it weren't) If this doesn't qualify as crackfic, I understand. Though this a/n has me talking in circles which, of and by itself, is quite cracktastic.
Please read and enjoy regardless. And let me know what you think. Thank you
Dramatic Irony
In his dream they were actors, and students.
Acting students.
Wilson the wingman was busy vainly attempting to add ballet to his repertoire. House was about to stop by the dance studio and wave with a loose wrist and valley girl voice for his sole friend at this new school to "COME! here already," lisping 'James' just to cement Wilson's failed efforts in his true reason for taking the
class (the blonde that smiled at him after rehearsal last week) when House was distracted--caught like a fly in a stunning and stacked spider's web--by a brunette.
It might have been love at first sight, or something less. He needed to fill the gaps collegiate pandering had left in him, the bullet holes of the liberal arts. The metaphor segued inevitably into something dirty about filling her holes which reminded him too vividly of the cheap low fidelity VHS porn titles he had stacked in his claustrophobic apartment.
So he ran to catch up to her but tripped on some inappropriately placed prop, falling head over feet, at her feet, less lyrical than philosopher Jagger's footloose man.
At least he had her attention, no matter the dubiousness of the stunt. The stakes were raised, the odds rising that he'd get what he wants.
She stopped, and he saw her name on the school ID in her purse. Lisa Cuddy reached out a hand to help him stand, tipping up her chin and smiling in the shadow of his infamy.
"Thanks," he muttered. I'm--"
"I know who you are, House. Where are you going in such a hurry?"
"With you," he answered unblinking. Even injured he was all smug confidence.
"Really?" She beamed incredulous.
Anyone else and she'd have called campus security. With him the risk seemed worth it. He'd just tumbled comedic and brushed himself off chivalric. She knew nothing she could say would end the chase.
"Nice place, Lise."
The dream jumped ahead, past the hurdles of transitions. No fade, no dissolve, no star wipe with a retro underscore. Just cerebral editing, her eyeslashes fluttering for a response and his tongue in her mouth keeping the words from coming out.
His fingers dug into her hips, urgent as he let her lead him to the bed. He struggled her out of her blouse and flung off his tshirt, plummeting to the mattress. In the darkness she stood brave, defiant because the script read shy.
He reached for her wrist and pulled her down to him and then it was all improvisation, unzipping her skirt, kicking away his jeans, tangling in the sheets. She bit his bottom lip and it almost shoved him over the precipice and into oblivion that she wanted this as much as him.
But gravity never came and she kissed him, long and deep and deliberate, take after take until it was perfect. They were young and ignorant and her skin was warm against his, his beard grazing her breasts as she rose, weightless, and eased him in slow, wanting to say something, wanting to scream, she could only gasp, and rock, eyes closed into a steady rhythm.
He thrust, rolling his hips rough, his voice hoarse when her muscles clenched and he cursed. He felt it when she came, the way she trembled, their last kiss. He stilled her and held her and tried to make it real.
The sound of the slate clapping shut synced only to the end of the dream.
When he woke the cameras were rolling. Overworked, exhausted, he'd dozed off. It was still early morning. His eyes fixed on her, playing her part, the character she's made come to life.
He'd never be able to be himself and be with her. How long could he leave it like this? Their roles had become reality enough. He pined empty when all he had to do was trip and fall and tell her.
Was it fear her hand wouldn't reach out or of the consequences being publicized? Guilt? Regret? No.
He'd made a stray mistake before and knew this wasn't the same.
There she stood, Lisa as Lisa, at the corner of the soundstage reading lines for her next scene. Contemplative, beautiful.
Six years closer and still out of reach.
----
And Christ, I could use some encouragement.
Despite the winning finale, life has not been conducive to creativity for me lately. Especially today. I don't know if things have gotten harder of if I've just gotten worse at handling them. I mean, something's got to change.
Alas, I wrote crackfic a while back that I never posted. So. Here it is:
Title: Dramatic Irony
Author: melissaisdown
Pairing: Uh...
Summary: All the world's a soundstage.
Rating: R. It's not as superfluously smutty as I'd originally endeavored.
A/N: Hmm. I started this with the intent of making it crackfic. I have no idea if it really is now though. I apologize in advance if my first delve into this genre fails miserably. In my defense it seemed like crack at the time: I wrote it in 43 minutes, prompted by silent_snark's challenge and a parenthetical therein. I did try to inject as many cliches as possible and do find the scenario (er, twist) implausible. (Not that I don't wish it weren't) If this doesn't qualify as crackfic, I understand. Though this a/n has me talking in circles which, of and by itself, is quite cracktastic.
Please read and enjoy regardless. And let me know what you think. Thank you
Dramatic Irony
In his dream they were actors, and students.
Acting students.
Wilson the wingman was busy vainly attempting to add ballet to his repertoire. House was about to stop by the dance studio and wave with a loose wrist and valley girl voice for his sole friend at this new school to "COME! here already," lisping 'James' just to cement Wilson's failed efforts in his true reason for taking the
class (the blonde that smiled at him after rehearsal last week) when House was distracted--caught like a fly in a stunning and stacked spider's web--by a brunette.
It might have been love at first sight, or something less. He needed to fill the gaps collegiate pandering had left in him, the bullet holes of the liberal arts. The metaphor segued inevitably into something dirty about filling her holes which reminded him too vividly of the cheap low fidelity VHS porn titles he had stacked in his claustrophobic apartment.
So he ran to catch up to her but tripped on some inappropriately placed prop, falling head over feet, at her feet, less lyrical than philosopher Jagger's footloose man.
At least he had her attention, no matter the dubiousness of the stunt. The stakes were raised, the odds rising that he'd get what he wants.
She stopped, and he saw her name on the school ID in her purse. Lisa Cuddy reached out a hand to help him stand, tipping up her chin and smiling in the shadow of his infamy.
"Thanks," he muttered. I'm--"
"I know who you are, House. Where are you going in such a hurry?"
"With you," he answered unblinking. Even injured he was all smug confidence.
"Really?" She beamed incredulous.
Anyone else and she'd have called campus security. With him the risk seemed worth it. He'd just tumbled comedic and brushed himself off chivalric. She knew nothing she could say would end the chase.
"Nice place, Lise."
The dream jumped ahead, past the hurdles of transitions. No fade, no dissolve, no star wipe with a retro underscore. Just cerebral editing, her eyeslashes fluttering for a response and his tongue in her mouth keeping the words from coming out.
His fingers dug into her hips, urgent as he let her lead him to the bed. He struggled her out of her blouse and flung off his tshirt, plummeting to the mattress. In the darkness she stood brave, defiant because the script read shy.
He reached for her wrist and pulled her down to him and then it was all improvisation, unzipping her skirt, kicking away his jeans, tangling in the sheets. She bit his bottom lip and it almost shoved him over the precipice and into oblivion that she wanted this as much as him.
But gravity never came and she kissed him, long and deep and deliberate, take after take until it was perfect. They were young and ignorant and her skin was warm against his, his beard grazing her breasts as she rose, weightless, and eased him in slow, wanting to say something, wanting to scream, she could only gasp, and rock, eyes closed into a steady rhythm.
He thrust, rolling his hips rough, his voice hoarse when her muscles clenched and he cursed. He felt it when she came, the way she trembled, their last kiss. He stilled her and held her and tried to make it real.
The sound of the slate clapping shut synced only to the end of the dream.
When he woke the cameras were rolling. Overworked, exhausted, he'd dozed off. It was still early morning. His eyes fixed on her, playing her part, the character she's made come to life.
He'd never be able to be himself and be with her. How long could he leave it like this? Their roles had become reality enough. He pined empty when all he had to do was trip and fall and tell her.
Was it fear her hand wouldn't reach out or of the consequences being publicized? Guilt? Regret? No.
He'd made a stray mistake before and knew this wasn't the same.
There she stood, Lisa as Lisa, at the corner of the soundstage reading lines for her next scene. Contemplative, beautiful.
Six years closer and still out of reach.
----