Ficlets by Request -
Clearing out some old fic requests - some for fandoms I haven't written in for quite a while. I don't know if these people are still in these fandoms or even still reading my journal. Heee.
For aliyaskie -
House/Cameron/Wilson
He’s not sure how they end up here or how they got this drunk. He understands the physiological as well as physical requirements that involve several bottles of very good scotch and a cab ride that he thinks might be the most expensive thing of the night, given that he thinks he tipped the driver with a hundred dollar bill.
Still, it’s all worth it right now to be sitting here on the piano bench watching Wilson go down on Cameron like he hasn’t been near something that wasn’t his own hand job in years. Cameron, for her part, is as noisy as House thought she’d be, moaning and writhing on the couch. Her skirt slithers against the fabric and the sound makes him nearly as hard as the wet slide of Wilson’s mouth against Cameron’s skin.
His dick is in his hand, wet and slick at the head and thick against his palm. He wants to participate but fate and physics work against him, so he just keeps his legs spread and enjoys the show, murmuring encouragement just under his breath. He knows Wilson well enough to know that too much would come across as criticism, hitting that distinction Wilson can’t seem to make of House asking him to fuck her and House telling him to do it. Cameron is watching him with hazy, drunk eyes following the motion of his hand with her gaze. Her lips are parted and he knows she tastes like smooth whiskey and he wishes like hell he could get down on his knees and drink her down just like Wilson is.
Cameron moans softly as Wilson slides his fingers inside her and House’s cock jerks hard beneath his hand. She follows the moan with a laugh, husky and deep, and lets her gaze drop down to House’s hand. “Should come over here, House.”
“Better view.”
“Of me or of Wilson’s ass?”
“Does it matter?” He smiles and she laughs again, the sound faltering as Wilson does something that makes her gasp halfway through. House shifts his grip on his cock, tightening it slightly. He waits until Cameron’s eyes open, nailing her with his gaze. “Does it?”
She comes hard against Wilson’s tongue. House can tell by the way she moans, by the way Wilson echoes her. His own cock aches, and he keeps stroking, trying to bide his time until Wilson falls away and Cameron slides off the couch, crawling over to him to wrap her mouth around him while Wilson thrusts inside her. The bench is just tall enough that she has to arch her back to accommodate Wilson and Wilson holds onto her hip with one hand and the piano with the other.
House figures someone, at some point, will say something about making beautiful music, but no one does. He lays back on the bench, his body shuddering just enough that pain pierces through his leg. He can’t bother to care though, too busy coming deep in Cameron’s throat, too busy feeling every thrust Wilson makes.
For xphile101 -
House/Cuddy
He wakes up at home and it takes him a minute to figure out where exactly he is. Partially because he’s been in the hospital for so long and partially because Lisa Cuddy is in bed right next to him, curled up against his side. Her hand is on his chest, and he watches it move with the rise and fall of his breath.
He came home earlier today. He remembers that. He remembers everything, which is part of his problem. Now that he remembers, he remembers every goddamn thing, and he wishes like hell he could forget. It’s not just the fact that it was Amber, and that it was his fault that it was Amber. He can live with his own screw-ups, his own failings. He has for his entire life. What he can’t live with is the look on Wilson’s face when House figured out who it was he couldn’t remember, and Wilson realized he hadn’t thought about Amber at all.
“You’re thinking again. You need to stop thinking.” Cuddy hasn’t moved, and he hadn’t realized she was awake. Her head is nestled against his shoulder and he wants to say something rude or crude or…well, typically House, to her, but she’s the only one who’s actually talking to him right now, so he probably shouldn’t. He probably will, but he probably shouldn’t. “Of course, at least right now you’re thinking without wiring yourself up to electrical charges and frying your brain, so I guess that’s a step in the right direction.”
“It would be too much to hope you’d do something else with your mouth while in bed with me, huh?”
“Yeah. It really would.” She sits up and he looks at her, watching her dark hair fall in her face. Of all the visions he spent time talking to, the hardest one to let go of - besides Amber, who he’s pretty sure is going to haunt him for the rest of his life - is Lisa Cuddy, stripping off her clothes to get his head back in the game. Both of them. She’s dressed down in a t-shirt and jeans and it’s strange to see her out of her uniform of tight skirts and low-cut tops. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I jabbed an electrical current in my brain, almost died and caused my best friend’s girlfriend to die in a horrible crash. How are you?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Go away. Don’t you have a hospital to run?”
“Yeah, I do.” She slides off the bed and he regrets his words immediately, not sure he wants to be alone just yet. Even sparring has to be better than living in his own head. Lisa pads around the bed and sits next to his bad leg, rubbing it gently with her fingers. “Does it still hurt?”
He remembers the fire that coursed through it during his first days of consciousness and weaning off the anti-nausea meds. Limbs that feel everything wrong are even worse when sensation comes back to them. “It always hurts.”
She raises an eyebrow slightly and he realizes he’s told her the truth about something that isn’t hers to know. He clamps his lips together and curses new courses of drugs that don’t let him stay as tightly in control. He also curses the feel of her hand against his leg, fingers sliding beneath his boxer shorts and grazing dangerously close to his burgeoning erection. “Does this hurt?”
“We’re a little old for playing doctor, aren’t we?”
“You never play doctor, House. You play God.” She lets her hand slide down, her palm pressing against the numb tissue, causing sparks of pain to shoot out on the periphery. “Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
“Does it feel good?” She pushes her hand up again, slower this time, deeper pressure that bridges the gap between pain and pleasure. He fists his hands in the sheets as her fingers graze the base of his shaft.
“Cuddy…”
She shakes her head. “You never answered me.” Her hand down again, and he huffs a breath that’s half disappointed and half relieved. He closes his eyes, focusing on the light touch of her fingers, her nails as she works down to his knee and then back up. Pain and feeling are surging through his leg and he bites his lower lip to keep from making another noise. His leg feels alive in a way the rest of him doesn’t and he nearly draws blood as she wraps her hand around the base of his cock.
“An-answered what?” His breath is caught in his chest and his head falls back as she begins stroking him. “C…Lisa?”
“You never answered me.” She leans into him, her mouth above his so that he can almost taste her. “You want to play...House?"
For svilleficrecs -
Horatio/Archie
“What do you do on your long walks?” Archie doesn’t look at Horatio, doesn’t look up from the tattered book Horatio had brought from his dinner with the Don, the one he has spent the morning staring at, not seeing any of the words.
“We talk.” Horatio stares at the ceiling, his arms resting low on his stomach, and he appears at ease, though Archie can sense the tenseness and alertness that seems to never dissipate.
“What do you talk about?”
“Books. Plays. Society. She tells me of Lords and Ladies that I should make sure to duly impress should I find myself in their company. She tells me of buildings that are worth seeing and buildings worth being seen in. She’s quite knowledgeable on all things of society.”
“She thinks you’ll be in their bosom soon, does she? Instead of rotting away in a Spanish prison?” Archie wants to do more than glance at him out of the corner of his eye, wants to look at him head on and confront this feeling that tugs at his gut - this hard, painful realization, this self-same feeling that makes him inherently sick to his own stomach. He noted it when Jack first turned his attentions to Horatio, and named it one night in the cold drench of fear, attempting to swallow it along with his tongue during his seizure. It is jealousy, eating him alive like consumption. Not of Simpson’s attentions to Horatio but that Horatio, in dealing with Simpson, was no longer exclusively his own.
“I would assume she thinks I have promise. Or perhaps she hopes that by showing me the high society that possibly awaits me, I will feel invigorated to break out of here and rush to the bright lights of London.” There’s mockery in Horatio’s tone, though it is not directed at Archie, or even at the Duchess. It is simply society that Horatio spurns, unwilling to want something that he is so sure could not want him back. “Foolishness all around.”
“You don’t wish to be the pinnacle of society, Horatio?” Archie lies back on the cot, feeling the roughness of the canvas beneath him through his too thin clothes. “To be respected and admired and coveted?”
“You know me better than that, Archie.” Horatio slides off his bed, moving to Archie’s cot to sit beside him. His hand lights on Archie’s stomach, fingers warm against the fabric. Archie closes his eyes and reflects that he does know Horatio better, and it is that sole reason he knows the words that evoke this reaction. “Or do you truly think me the type to seek the good favor of society?”
“I think you are the type whom will one day have society seeking to curry his favor.” He lays his hand carefully on top of Horatio’s, careful not to apply untoward pressure. It is enough to be touched like this, with warmth and innocence and honest affection. To desire more would be to become like Simpson, to take what he wants at the risk of harm to everyone else. He will take this, what Horatio gives him willingly, and ask for nothing else.
For aliyaskie -
House/Cameron/Wilson
He’s not sure how they end up here or how they got this drunk. He understands the physiological as well as physical requirements that involve several bottles of very good scotch and a cab ride that he thinks might be the most expensive thing of the night, given that he thinks he tipped the driver with a hundred dollar bill.
Still, it’s all worth it right now to be sitting here on the piano bench watching Wilson go down on Cameron like he hasn’t been near something that wasn’t his own hand job in years. Cameron, for her part, is as noisy as House thought she’d be, moaning and writhing on the couch. Her skirt slithers against the fabric and the sound makes him nearly as hard as the wet slide of Wilson’s mouth against Cameron’s skin.
His dick is in his hand, wet and slick at the head and thick against his palm. He wants to participate but fate and physics work against him, so he just keeps his legs spread and enjoys the show, murmuring encouragement just under his breath. He knows Wilson well enough to know that too much would come across as criticism, hitting that distinction Wilson can’t seem to make of House asking him to fuck her and House telling him to do it. Cameron is watching him with hazy, drunk eyes following the motion of his hand with her gaze. Her lips are parted and he knows she tastes like smooth whiskey and he wishes like hell he could get down on his knees and drink her down just like Wilson is.
Cameron moans softly as Wilson slides his fingers inside her and House’s cock jerks hard beneath his hand. She follows the moan with a laugh, husky and deep, and lets her gaze drop down to House’s hand. “Should come over here, House.”
“Better view.”
“Of me or of Wilson’s ass?”
“Does it matter?” He smiles and she laughs again, the sound faltering as Wilson does something that makes her gasp halfway through. House shifts his grip on his cock, tightening it slightly. He waits until Cameron’s eyes open, nailing her with his gaze. “Does it?”
She comes hard against Wilson’s tongue. House can tell by the way she moans, by the way Wilson echoes her. His own cock aches, and he keeps stroking, trying to bide his time until Wilson falls away and Cameron slides off the couch, crawling over to him to wrap her mouth around him while Wilson thrusts inside her. The bench is just tall enough that she has to arch her back to accommodate Wilson and Wilson holds onto her hip with one hand and the piano with the other.
House figures someone, at some point, will say something about making beautiful music, but no one does. He lays back on the bench, his body shuddering just enough that pain pierces through his leg. He can’t bother to care though, too busy coming deep in Cameron’s throat, too busy feeling every thrust Wilson makes.
For xphile101 -
House/Cuddy
He wakes up at home and it takes him a minute to figure out where exactly he is. Partially because he’s been in the hospital for so long and partially because Lisa Cuddy is in bed right next to him, curled up against his side. Her hand is on his chest, and he watches it move with the rise and fall of his breath.
He came home earlier today. He remembers that. He remembers everything, which is part of his problem. Now that he remembers, he remembers every goddamn thing, and he wishes like hell he could forget. It’s not just the fact that it was Amber, and that it was his fault that it was Amber. He can live with his own screw-ups, his own failings. He has for his entire life. What he can’t live with is the look on Wilson’s face when House figured out who it was he couldn’t remember, and Wilson realized he hadn’t thought about Amber at all.
“You’re thinking again. You need to stop thinking.” Cuddy hasn’t moved, and he hadn’t realized she was awake. Her head is nestled against his shoulder and he wants to say something rude or crude or…well, typically House, to her, but she’s the only one who’s actually talking to him right now, so he probably shouldn’t. He probably will, but he probably shouldn’t. “Of course, at least right now you’re thinking without wiring yourself up to electrical charges and frying your brain, so I guess that’s a step in the right direction.”
“It would be too much to hope you’d do something else with your mouth while in bed with me, huh?”
“Yeah. It really would.” She sits up and he looks at her, watching her dark hair fall in her face. Of all the visions he spent time talking to, the hardest one to let go of - besides Amber, who he’s pretty sure is going to haunt him for the rest of his life - is Lisa Cuddy, stripping off her clothes to get his head back in the game. Both of them. She’s dressed down in a t-shirt and jeans and it’s strange to see her out of her uniform of tight skirts and low-cut tops. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I jabbed an electrical current in my brain, almost died and caused my best friend’s girlfriend to die in a horrible crash. How are you?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Go away. Don’t you have a hospital to run?”
“Yeah, I do.” She slides off the bed and he regrets his words immediately, not sure he wants to be alone just yet. Even sparring has to be better than living in his own head. Lisa pads around the bed and sits next to his bad leg, rubbing it gently with her fingers. “Does it still hurt?”
He remembers the fire that coursed through it during his first days of consciousness and weaning off the anti-nausea meds. Limbs that feel everything wrong are even worse when sensation comes back to them. “It always hurts.”
She raises an eyebrow slightly and he realizes he’s told her the truth about something that isn’t hers to know. He clamps his lips together and curses new courses of drugs that don’t let him stay as tightly in control. He also curses the feel of her hand against his leg, fingers sliding beneath his boxer shorts and grazing dangerously close to his burgeoning erection. “Does this hurt?”
“We’re a little old for playing doctor, aren’t we?”
“You never play doctor, House. You play God.” She lets her hand slide down, her palm pressing against the numb tissue, causing sparks of pain to shoot out on the periphery. “Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
“Does it feel good?” She pushes her hand up again, slower this time, deeper pressure that bridges the gap between pain and pleasure. He fists his hands in the sheets as her fingers graze the base of his shaft.
“Cuddy…”
She shakes her head. “You never answered me.” Her hand down again, and he huffs a breath that’s half disappointed and half relieved. He closes his eyes, focusing on the light touch of her fingers, her nails as she works down to his knee and then back up. Pain and feeling are surging through his leg and he bites his lower lip to keep from making another noise. His leg feels alive in a way the rest of him doesn’t and he nearly draws blood as she wraps her hand around the base of his cock.
“An-answered what?” His breath is caught in his chest and his head falls back as she begins stroking him. “C…Lisa?”
“You never answered me.” She leans into him, her mouth above his so that he can almost taste her. “You want to play...House?"
For svilleficrecs -
Horatio/Archie
“What do you do on your long walks?” Archie doesn’t look at Horatio, doesn’t look up from the tattered book Horatio had brought from his dinner with the Don, the one he has spent the morning staring at, not seeing any of the words.
“We talk.” Horatio stares at the ceiling, his arms resting low on his stomach, and he appears at ease, though Archie can sense the tenseness and alertness that seems to never dissipate.
“What do you talk about?”
“Books. Plays. Society. She tells me of Lords and Ladies that I should make sure to duly impress should I find myself in their company. She tells me of buildings that are worth seeing and buildings worth being seen in. She’s quite knowledgeable on all things of society.”
“She thinks you’ll be in their bosom soon, does she? Instead of rotting away in a Spanish prison?” Archie wants to do more than glance at him out of the corner of his eye, wants to look at him head on and confront this feeling that tugs at his gut - this hard, painful realization, this self-same feeling that makes him inherently sick to his own stomach. He noted it when Jack first turned his attentions to Horatio, and named it one night in the cold drench of fear, attempting to swallow it along with his tongue during his seizure. It is jealousy, eating him alive like consumption. Not of Simpson’s attentions to Horatio but that Horatio, in dealing with Simpson, was no longer exclusively his own.
“I would assume she thinks I have promise. Or perhaps she hopes that by showing me the high society that possibly awaits me, I will feel invigorated to break out of here and rush to the bright lights of London.” There’s mockery in Horatio’s tone, though it is not directed at Archie, or even at the Duchess. It is simply society that Horatio spurns, unwilling to want something that he is so sure could not want him back. “Foolishness all around.”
“You don’t wish to be the pinnacle of society, Horatio?” Archie lies back on the cot, feeling the roughness of the canvas beneath him through his too thin clothes. “To be respected and admired and coveted?”
“You know me better than that, Archie.” Horatio slides off his bed, moving to Archie’s cot to sit beside him. His hand lights on Archie’s stomach, fingers warm against the fabric. Archie closes his eyes and reflects that he does know Horatio better, and it is that sole reason he knows the words that evoke this reaction. “Or do you truly think me the type to seek the good favor of society?”
“I think you are the type whom will one day have society seeking to curry his favor.” He lays his hand carefully on top of Horatio’s, careful not to apply untoward pressure. It is enough to be touched like this, with warmth and innocence and honest affection. To desire more would be to become like Simpson, to take what he wants at the risk of harm to everyone else. He will take this, what Horatio gives him willingly, and ask for nothing else.