Need (House/Cameron) Adult
For get_house_laid.
*sigh* Not as graphic as I'd wanted to write it, but that'll change eventually, I'm sure. :P
Need
by surreallis
pairing: house/cameron
rating: adult
warnings: graphic sex, adult language
category: angst
spoilers: half-wit (season 3)
prompt: Cameron comes back without the needle… (You really need to have seen Half-Wit.)
a/n- Thanks to annerbhp for giving me some beta power. (I'm pretty sure that tense thing is correct. I think.)
++
He kissed back. And that’s why she goes back. (Without the needle, although she doesn’t bring a different sort of sample cup either.)
If he’d stood there like stone while she kissed him, hard eyes boring into her, trying to scare her away, and if he hadn’t relented, she’d have gone away and stayed gone. But the stone had yielded, and his eyes had blinked shut, and his mouth had slanted heavily against hers. So she goes.
It’s late and his office is closed off and dark, blinds pulled, but she knows he’s there.
He turns from the window as she slips in, door closing softly behind her. “Oh,” he says, overdramatic as usual, eyes cool. “It’s you.”
“We’re just waiting for the results,” she tells him. She knows something he doesn’t, he has one year to live. Inoperable.
His expression stays dark. “Great.”
She hesitates; she hasn’t come bearing arms this time. (And hadn’t that been a bright idea, trying to think clearly and stab him with a needle while kissing him for the first time.) She hasn’t come on a mission, or, at least, not one that will matter in the grand scheme of things. Still… Something broke between them earlier, some small brick in a wall of doubt. It hadn’t all come crumbling down, but she can see daylight.
“About earlier.” She moves toward him.
His expression gets darker. If that’s even possible. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, and she’s surprised that he doesn’t make a joke. He glances at her then looks away, and she wonders… Does he feel betrayed? He bought it, the whole thing: hook, line and sinker, from her words to her kiss. He’s taught her well.
Maybe too well for his own comfort.
Except she can fake the callousness, but she can’t feel it. And she doesn’t want him to think she can. She’s not much for walls of protection when it comes to him.
“Unless you’ve come back for the sperm sample, I’m going home.”
“Shut up,” she retorts, voice a little annoyed (because he’s going to make this difficult and he’s going to cheapen it and it’s going to hurt), and it’s enough to make him pause and look at her curiously.
He stops her though, when she gets close, one hand on her shoulder, the other dropping his cane and reaching for her wrist in a quick grab. “I already gave at the office,” he says, and she smirks a bit, because it is a good one.
“I’m unarmed.”
He holds her gaze and releases her wrist, hand dipping down into the pocket of her lab coat. “You don’t mind then… right?”
She rolls her eyes (He knows she wouldn’t try it twice. This is something else.), but stands still as he slides a hand into one pocket and then the other, searching her. “I don’t want your blood,” she says.
He snorts. “That’s what they all say.”
She sighs. “You’re an ass.”
He leans closer, looming over her, hand sliding inside her lab coat and skimming over the inner pockets. He glares a bit, trying to look fierce. It works. “They all say that too.”
His fingers brush her hip, and any words she might have flung back at him get stuck in her throat. He runs his hand over the pocket of her pants. Slowly.
“House…” she manages to mutter. “I don’t have-“
“Everyone lies,” he reminds her, quietly, and he’s watching her reaction.
So she shuts up and waits as he slides his fingers over one pocket and then the other, and then up to her vest.
“Why are you here?” he demands, voice low.
She lifts her gaze to his, and he’s so damn close… She can feel his breath, smell his damn laundry detergent, see the tiny patches on his jaw where the hair doesn’t grow as well. “You kissed back,” she says, simply.
“So? You’re hot.” He says it as if she’s an idiot.
She struggles for a moment with what to say. She hadn’t planned this out very well. A trickle of an idea in the lab while the rest sleep. His hand is still like iron on her shoulder, holding her in place. She swallows and then sighs. “You have cancer. Treatments are difficult. This could be the only time…” She feels awkward.
“You think I want to declare my undying love for you?”
She grits her teeth and ignores that. “Don’t put this all on me. You had plenty of time to get out of the way when I kissed you.”
“You want a quick fuck before I kick the bucket?” He offers, arching one brow.
She swallows and fidgets. No, that isn’t what she wants. (She’s not even sure what she wants from him anymore.) But even now, with his back up against the wall and his life draining in degrees, he’s a son of a bitch. And nothing will make him backtrack faster than thinking she wants some teary, emotional, confession-filled melding of the minds and bodies. She winces a little, involuntarily, at the thought of it. She doesn’t want that either… Jesus.
“Yes,” she proclaims. She’s lied to a dying man. She should feel worse than she does.
“Right,” he drawls, not believing (he never believes), and he stares directly at her, studying, gauging, assessing, trying to figure her out.
It’s unnerving, but she stands her ground.
“Oh, what do you care? You’re dying anyway! You don’t have to be around for the aftermath.” She’s not exactly lying but she’s trying to spit out that callousness again, and it’s so bad that it doesn’t even shock him. He just lifts a corner of his mouth in appreciation of her effort.
And then his fingers push just under the waistband of her pants, against her skin, and slide across her belly and around her side.
She nearly shivers. “How the hell would I hide a needle there?”
He eyes her. “You wouldn’t, I just wanted some extra cash. This is where you keep it, right?”
Somehow, in the push and pull of his search, and her fidgeting, he’s backed her up against the desk. She feels the straight edge against the backs of her thighs. He still has two fingers hooked in her waistband, but he eases up on her shoulder, switching his weight to his good leg.
“Are you really going to tell me you don’t want this?” Her mouth is dry.
He gets an odd expression on his face, and she can’t quite place it. It’s not a look he wears often. It passes as quickly as it came, but it digs at her. Concern? Regret? She tilts her head. Guilt?
His hand comes up, cups her chin, forces her head up so she has to look at him. “Don’t fuck me because I have cancer. It’d be the biggest mistake of your life.” He’s as serious as she’s ever seen him.
That isn’t the reason, of course; it’s simply the opportunity to indulge. But he still has a firm grip on her jaw and so she stays silent and glares at him. His brow furrows, eyes locked on hers, and the tension draws out taut between them. His jaw loosens, and then his fingers ease up on her chin and slip down, slowly, over the curve of her jaw and off. He stands there, nearly pushing her into the desk, and he just… waits.
He won’t start it, she realizes. Not even now. And she pushes away from the desk and into him, sliding one hand behind his neck and pulling herself up until their mouths are close. His lips part, but she pauses. His hands tighten on her hips, fingers curling in low against her back. It isn’t a push so much as a protest, but it pushes her forward all the same. She kisses him lightly, almost chastely, but then his hand lands warmly on her nape and he’s right there, leaning in, pressing his mouth hard against hers.
He crowds her, stepping in unevenly, until she’s almost leaning back over the desk. He exhales hard once, tongue sliding against hers, and his hand slips across the small of her back, fingers burrowing under her shirt to land on bare skin. When he gives her a moment to breathe, she opens heavy-lidded eyes and sees that his brow is still furrowed, his gaze still focused on her. Intense. Analytical.
“Is it everything you thought it could be?” He mocks her.
“You haven’t done anything yet,” she snaps back.
She has to keep her need out of her eyes. It can’t be there when he looks. So she tamps down that rising tightness in her chest, that deep tug inside, and kisses him again. He might be trying to scare her, or maybe he just really is this sharp. Either way, she’s not avoiding the edge.
His fingers start working buttons. He’s not calm about it. The fabric tugs and his knuckles brush her skin, and his mouth is hungry. She feels like he’s peeling that last figurative layer away from her even though she knows it’s not true. She’s a puzzle to him because she’s a puzzle to herself. He’ll never get all the pieces.
“On the desk,” he orders, and it gets her back up. She sort of wants to kick him. He gives her a mordant look of sadness. “You’d deny a dying man his last earthly wish?”
She does manage to kick him a glancing blow (To his left leg, she’s not a prick like he is.) as she nudges her shoes off. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t say anything. She drops her pants, and then his shoulders are turning to rock under her hands as he wraps one arm around her waist and hauls her up onto the desk. The lab coat is nice. It stops the cold wood from lying against her skin. When his mouth moves to her neck, she palms his nape again and feels the short, stiff hairs there. She scratches against them with her fingernails and he makes a sound. Something wordless and barely there, but it makes her stomach drop and the heat flare between her legs.
She grapples with his belt, and when she slides a hand down the front of his pants, he stops kissing her. He watches her instead, with serious, sleepy eyes, and she watches his throat work as she covers his cock with her hand and squeezes. When he slides two long fingers through the slickness between her legs, she can’t help the sharp inhalation. Or the way it shuts her brain down and the pleasure sparks outward.
“You are so fucked,” he says, voice low, as his hand bumps hers out of the way and he shoves his jeans down around his thighs.
She has to snort softly in amusement at the double entendre, because it’s so true. And it’s kind of funny. And then the breath is stalling in her lungs as he leans between her legs, weight shifting to his left, and she feels his fingers and then his cock pushing into her. He braces his weight on the desk with one hand. She leans back as he thrusts forward, and he slides deep.
She sucks in sharply as he blows out hard against her forehead, and she hears him swear breathlessly. He takes one slow, long stroke, and then he stops. He doesn’t move. She swallows as the rush fades a bit from her blood.
“House?” She murmurs it, trying not to jar him. She can hear the thick sound of saliva in his throat as he swallows hard.
He doesn’t answer her, but he’s still rock hard inside of her, and his breath still echoes in the small confines of the dark office. Slowly, he starts again, rocking against her, and his mouth lands, wet and warm, on her neck, and he sucks on her skin with alarming strength, unshaven jaw rasping a little too much like sandpaper. It makes her want to moan. Loudly. She doesn’t want marks, but she doesn’t have the will to stop him. She scrambles at his shirts, pulling them up so she can slide her hands along his bare back.
His fingers start at her neck, slide down over the hard ledge of her collarbone and then drag lightly over one breast. They drop lower and find her clit, and then she does moan. And he mutters against her throat, “So fucked. You have no idea…”
She doesn’t care. He’s moving faster now, strongly, and she feels like she’s being drawn tight, that pleasure inside of her becoming sharper and thinner and rising…
He shifts her and braces his hands behind her hips, taking the weight off his legs. She presses toward him, moving with him as she feels it start to overwhelm her. She loses it a bit when she comes, head arching back, swallowing her own moans, but he doesn’t let her fall. He slings an arm around her hips, holding her tightly to him as he thrusts forward, and then he’s huffing long, hard, hitching breaths into her shoulder, grinding against her so hard it almost hurts.
He keeps her pinned there for a while longer, while they both catch their breath. His temple is pressed against her ear, and his exhalations are tickling down her back. She curls her fingers into the fabric of his shirt. She feels oddly calm when she remembers that he’s dying, and that confuses her. She’s been here before, but she didn’t have the power to save her husband. She’s doing something about House. She’s changed.
“This doesn’t mean you get a raise.” He tries to be hard, but there’s something lacking in his voice.
“Don’t insult me while your pants are still down,” she warns, lips against his neck.
She hears him swallow again and expects him to pull away. He doesn’t.
“I didn’t have an ulterior motive this time,” she says quietly. “I just wanted you to know.”
He takes a moment to find his voice. “I’ll make sure and include it in my letter to Penthouse.”
She just presses her mouth against his shoulder and breathes, refusing to react, trying to commit his scent, his feel, to memory.
She didn’t fuck him out of need, she realizes, as he starts to pull away from her; and she doesn’t need to mask herself. He’s always given her what she needs whether he realizes it or not. This was about want and resurrection. There’s need there all right, when he straightens in front of her and meets her gaze…
But it isn’t in her eyes.
~end~
*sigh* Not as graphic as I'd wanted to write it, but that'll change eventually, I'm sure. :P
Need
by surreallis
pairing: house/cameron
rating: adult
warnings: graphic sex, adult language
category: angst
spoilers: half-wit (season 3)
prompt: Cameron comes back without the needle… (You really need to have seen Half-Wit.)
a/n- Thanks to annerbhp for giving me some beta power. (I'm pretty sure that tense thing is correct. I think.)
++
He kissed back. And that’s why she goes back. (Without the needle, although she doesn’t bring a different sort of sample cup either.)
If he’d stood there like stone while she kissed him, hard eyes boring into her, trying to scare her away, and if he hadn’t relented, she’d have gone away and stayed gone. But the stone had yielded, and his eyes had blinked shut, and his mouth had slanted heavily against hers. So she goes.
It’s late and his office is closed off and dark, blinds pulled, but she knows he’s there.
He turns from the window as she slips in, door closing softly behind her. “Oh,” he says, overdramatic as usual, eyes cool. “It’s you.”
“We’re just waiting for the results,” she tells him. She knows something he doesn’t, he has one year to live. Inoperable.
His expression stays dark. “Great.”
She hesitates; she hasn’t come bearing arms this time. (And hadn’t that been a bright idea, trying to think clearly and stab him with a needle while kissing him for the first time.) She hasn’t come on a mission, or, at least, not one that will matter in the grand scheme of things. Still… Something broke between them earlier, some small brick in a wall of doubt. It hadn’t all come crumbling down, but she can see daylight.
“About earlier.” She moves toward him.
His expression gets darker. If that’s even possible. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, and she’s surprised that he doesn’t make a joke. He glances at her then looks away, and she wonders… Does he feel betrayed? He bought it, the whole thing: hook, line and sinker, from her words to her kiss. He’s taught her well.
Maybe too well for his own comfort.
Except she can fake the callousness, but she can’t feel it. And she doesn’t want him to think she can. She’s not much for walls of protection when it comes to him.
“Unless you’ve come back for the sperm sample, I’m going home.”
“Shut up,” she retorts, voice a little annoyed (because he’s going to make this difficult and he’s going to cheapen it and it’s going to hurt), and it’s enough to make him pause and look at her curiously.
He stops her though, when she gets close, one hand on her shoulder, the other dropping his cane and reaching for her wrist in a quick grab. “I already gave at the office,” he says, and she smirks a bit, because it is a good one.
“I’m unarmed.”
He holds her gaze and releases her wrist, hand dipping down into the pocket of her lab coat. “You don’t mind then… right?”
She rolls her eyes (He knows she wouldn’t try it twice. This is something else.), but stands still as he slides a hand into one pocket and then the other, searching her. “I don’t want your blood,” she says.
He snorts. “That’s what they all say.”
She sighs. “You’re an ass.”
He leans closer, looming over her, hand sliding inside her lab coat and skimming over the inner pockets. He glares a bit, trying to look fierce. It works. “They all say that too.”
His fingers brush her hip, and any words she might have flung back at him get stuck in her throat. He runs his hand over the pocket of her pants. Slowly.
“House…” she manages to mutter. “I don’t have-“
“Everyone lies,” he reminds her, quietly, and he’s watching her reaction.
So she shuts up and waits as he slides his fingers over one pocket and then the other, and then up to her vest.
“Why are you here?” he demands, voice low.
She lifts her gaze to his, and he’s so damn close… She can feel his breath, smell his damn laundry detergent, see the tiny patches on his jaw where the hair doesn’t grow as well. “You kissed back,” she says, simply.
“So? You’re hot.” He says it as if she’s an idiot.
She struggles for a moment with what to say. She hadn’t planned this out very well. A trickle of an idea in the lab while the rest sleep. His hand is still like iron on her shoulder, holding her in place. She swallows and then sighs. “You have cancer. Treatments are difficult. This could be the only time…” She feels awkward.
“You think I want to declare my undying love for you?”
She grits her teeth and ignores that. “Don’t put this all on me. You had plenty of time to get out of the way when I kissed you.”
“You want a quick fuck before I kick the bucket?” He offers, arching one brow.
She swallows and fidgets. No, that isn’t what she wants. (She’s not even sure what she wants from him anymore.) But even now, with his back up against the wall and his life draining in degrees, he’s a son of a bitch. And nothing will make him backtrack faster than thinking she wants some teary, emotional, confession-filled melding of the minds and bodies. She winces a little, involuntarily, at the thought of it. She doesn’t want that either… Jesus.
“Yes,” she proclaims. She’s lied to a dying man. She should feel worse than she does.
“Right,” he drawls, not believing (he never believes), and he stares directly at her, studying, gauging, assessing, trying to figure her out.
It’s unnerving, but she stands her ground.
“Oh, what do you care? You’re dying anyway! You don’t have to be around for the aftermath.” She’s not exactly lying but she’s trying to spit out that callousness again, and it’s so bad that it doesn’t even shock him. He just lifts a corner of his mouth in appreciation of her effort.
And then his fingers push just under the waistband of her pants, against her skin, and slide across her belly and around her side.
She nearly shivers. “How the hell would I hide a needle there?”
He eyes her. “You wouldn’t, I just wanted some extra cash. This is where you keep it, right?”
Somehow, in the push and pull of his search, and her fidgeting, he’s backed her up against the desk. She feels the straight edge against the backs of her thighs. He still has two fingers hooked in her waistband, but he eases up on her shoulder, switching his weight to his good leg.
“Are you really going to tell me you don’t want this?” Her mouth is dry.
He gets an odd expression on his face, and she can’t quite place it. It’s not a look he wears often. It passes as quickly as it came, but it digs at her. Concern? Regret? She tilts her head. Guilt?
His hand comes up, cups her chin, forces her head up so she has to look at him. “Don’t fuck me because I have cancer. It’d be the biggest mistake of your life.” He’s as serious as she’s ever seen him.
That isn’t the reason, of course; it’s simply the opportunity to indulge. But he still has a firm grip on her jaw and so she stays silent and glares at him. His brow furrows, eyes locked on hers, and the tension draws out taut between them. His jaw loosens, and then his fingers ease up on her chin and slip down, slowly, over the curve of her jaw and off. He stands there, nearly pushing her into the desk, and he just… waits.
He won’t start it, she realizes. Not even now. And she pushes away from the desk and into him, sliding one hand behind his neck and pulling herself up until their mouths are close. His lips part, but she pauses. His hands tighten on her hips, fingers curling in low against her back. It isn’t a push so much as a protest, but it pushes her forward all the same. She kisses him lightly, almost chastely, but then his hand lands warmly on her nape and he’s right there, leaning in, pressing his mouth hard against hers.
He crowds her, stepping in unevenly, until she’s almost leaning back over the desk. He exhales hard once, tongue sliding against hers, and his hand slips across the small of her back, fingers burrowing under her shirt to land on bare skin. When he gives her a moment to breathe, she opens heavy-lidded eyes and sees that his brow is still furrowed, his gaze still focused on her. Intense. Analytical.
“Is it everything you thought it could be?” He mocks her.
“You haven’t done anything yet,” she snaps back.
She has to keep her need out of her eyes. It can’t be there when he looks. So she tamps down that rising tightness in her chest, that deep tug inside, and kisses him again. He might be trying to scare her, or maybe he just really is this sharp. Either way, she’s not avoiding the edge.
His fingers start working buttons. He’s not calm about it. The fabric tugs and his knuckles brush her skin, and his mouth is hungry. She feels like he’s peeling that last figurative layer away from her even though she knows it’s not true. She’s a puzzle to him because she’s a puzzle to herself. He’ll never get all the pieces.
“On the desk,” he orders, and it gets her back up. She sort of wants to kick him. He gives her a mordant look of sadness. “You’d deny a dying man his last earthly wish?”
She does manage to kick him a glancing blow (To his left leg, she’s not a prick like he is.) as she nudges her shoes off. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t say anything. She drops her pants, and then his shoulders are turning to rock under her hands as he wraps one arm around her waist and hauls her up onto the desk. The lab coat is nice. It stops the cold wood from lying against her skin. When his mouth moves to her neck, she palms his nape again and feels the short, stiff hairs there. She scratches against them with her fingernails and he makes a sound. Something wordless and barely there, but it makes her stomach drop and the heat flare between her legs.
She grapples with his belt, and when she slides a hand down the front of his pants, he stops kissing her. He watches her instead, with serious, sleepy eyes, and she watches his throat work as she covers his cock with her hand and squeezes. When he slides two long fingers through the slickness between her legs, she can’t help the sharp inhalation. Or the way it shuts her brain down and the pleasure sparks outward.
“You are so fucked,” he says, voice low, as his hand bumps hers out of the way and he shoves his jeans down around his thighs.
She has to snort softly in amusement at the double entendre, because it’s so true. And it’s kind of funny. And then the breath is stalling in her lungs as he leans between her legs, weight shifting to his left, and she feels his fingers and then his cock pushing into her. He braces his weight on the desk with one hand. She leans back as he thrusts forward, and he slides deep.
She sucks in sharply as he blows out hard against her forehead, and she hears him swear breathlessly. He takes one slow, long stroke, and then he stops. He doesn’t move. She swallows as the rush fades a bit from her blood.
“House?” She murmurs it, trying not to jar him. She can hear the thick sound of saliva in his throat as he swallows hard.
He doesn’t answer her, but he’s still rock hard inside of her, and his breath still echoes in the small confines of the dark office. Slowly, he starts again, rocking against her, and his mouth lands, wet and warm, on her neck, and he sucks on her skin with alarming strength, unshaven jaw rasping a little too much like sandpaper. It makes her want to moan. Loudly. She doesn’t want marks, but she doesn’t have the will to stop him. She scrambles at his shirts, pulling them up so she can slide her hands along his bare back.
His fingers start at her neck, slide down over the hard ledge of her collarbone and then drag lightly over one breast. They drop lower and find her clit, and then she does moan. And he mutters against her throat, “So fucked. You have no idea…”
She doesn’t care. He’s moving faster now, strongly, and she feels like she’s being drawn tight, that pleasure inside of her becoming sharper and thinner and rising…
He shifts her and braces his hands behind her hips, taking the weight off his legs. She presses toward him, moving with him as she feels it start to overwhelm her. She loses it a bit when she comes, head arching back, swallowing her own moans, but he doesn’t let her fall. He slings an arm around her hips, holding her tightly to him as he thrusts forward, and then he’s huffing long, hard, hitching breaths into her shoulder, grinding against her so hard it almost hurts.
He keeps her pinned there for a while longer, while they both catch their breath. His temple is pressed against her ear, and his exhalations are tickling down her back. She curls her fingers into the fabric of his shirt. She feels oddly calm when she remembers that he’s dying, and that confuses her. She’s been here before, but she didn’t have the power to save her husband. She’s doing something about House. She’s changed.
“This doesn’t mean you get a raise.” He tries to be hard, but there’s something lacking in his voice.
“Don’t insult me while your pants are still down,” she warns, lips against his neck.
She hears him swallow again and expects him to pull away. He doesn’t.
“I didn’t have an ulterior motive this time,” she says quietly. “I just wanted you to know.”
He takes a moment to find his voice. “I’ll make sure and include it in my letter to Penthouse.”
She just presses her mouth against his shoulder and breathes, refusing to react, trying to commit his scent, his feel, to memory.
She didn’t fuck him out of need, she realizes, as he starts to pull away from her; and she doesn’t need to mask herself. He’s always given her what she needs whether he realizes it or not. This was about want and resurrection. There’s need there all right, when he straightens in front of her and meets her gaze…
But it isn’t in her eyes.
~end~