House fic: a night in london on your escape to paris
a night in london on your escape to paris
house, m.d, cuddy/cameron, nc-17, title taken from ted hughes’ 18 rugby street. apocafic. 727 words.
It’s that summer with explosions in the sky! where your vision is painted pink when she settles between your legs.
Take me over
Pale blue water
Take me under
Take me home
PJ Harvey, Darling Be There
It’s that summer with explosions in the sky! where your vision is painted pink when she settles between your legs.
Her mouth is lazily because, by now, she’s starting to learn you and what you know about her is that she likes to indulge. She makes you arch against her mouth as she sucks your clit and you stop thinking all together.
You’ve been happening long enough to forget. You still can’t call her Cameron and won’t touch Allison, but you’re going to keep telling her that she’s yours because you’re that selective about who you fuck.
But it doesn’t matter now, lives are in pools of glass and the only thing that you hear nowadays are troops advancing and camps are being set up along coastal points and her favorite:
stay out of the red zone.
Your lives are still in pieces when you’re done.
*
“There are too many windows in your house,” she says quietly, leaning against the table as your hand passes against her hip.
You wait, shrug.
And then: “Just stay with me.”
*
There’s traffic on the freeway, like people are still around to take weekends at the shore.
She’s in the passenger seat (someone slashed her tires three days ago), her legs tucked against her chest and her gaze pasted to the window. She watches the sky and you ignore it (spare my rationality, damn it) and try to forget who’s already ended.
“Maybe there’s something we can do,” you say awkwardly. Because you’re proactive, you’re still used to being in charge, and you’ll go insane if there’s nothing.
She turns her gaze to you, her hair spilling over her eyes. Your hand raises and your fingers brush against her cheek, then her forehead, only so that you can see her. You won’t tell her things like god, i’m glad you’re here because you don’t do desperate- it’s a habit you broke.
“Stop it, Lisa.”
She’s faster than you and she leans over, pressing her lips against yours. You kiss her back, reacting, your tongue slipping and sliding into her mouth.
There’s a horn and she pulls back, smiling almost, and you remember people are still desperate.
*
There is one rule:
You don’t talk about who, what, and how (THINGS) were lost.
*
In the end, the sky is still painted pink, and then red, and then a kaleidoscope of colors that are very, very wrong.
You know sickness and health and what they’ve cost you- lust and greed are two sins of the pathological but everyone, by default, is selfish anyhow.
And so, in the long run (speculative), you’re allowing yourself to have this, if only to keep yourself rational, alive, and breathing.
You’re ____________ for about seven months and a day now.
The two of you are in a room, in a basement, alone and listening to radio broadcasts that cry we’re dying! we’re dying underneath please, we ask you not to panic. The old man upstairs lets cigar smoke drift through the vents and might chuckle- he’s been ready to go.
Your bed is warm, the sheets are twisted around you, and you turn, shifting over her as her eyes open. You’ve been awake for hours, used to little sleep, but just watching her. And wondering.
(But you won’t say anything to her.)
“I’m going to-” You stop because you really only could say things like fuck and shit in your head. And she’d laugh because it’s kind of funny when you curse and you want to be serious (when are you not? she laughs in your head) right now.
Her lips part and you dip your mouth between her breasts, sliding your hand against her this.
“You’re going to?”
You laugh huskily and your mouth continues moving, your tongue lapping away with mine, mine, mine. Your fingers brush against her clit and she’s wet, for you, always, which is why you don’t waste time. Time has lost the metaphor and while you’re all still little girls in dress-up clothes, you know when you need will to be selfish.
You slide a finger into her cunt, moaning against her stomach because she’s wet and here’s how you forget.
She only helps. “Lisa.”
And that’s what you need.
(remember:
“Dr. Cameron.”
She stops, turning in the middle of absently handing a file to a clinic nurse. You watch her curiously.
But sighing, “Thanks for staying.”)
finished.
house, m.d, cuddy/cameron, nc-17, title taken from ted hughes’ 18 rugby street. apocafic. 727 words.
It’s that summer with explosions in the sky! where your vision is painted pink when she settles between your legs.
Take me over
Pale blue water
Take me under
Take me home
PJ Harvey, Darling Be There
It’s that summer with explosions in the sky! where your vision is painted pink when she settles between your legs.
Her mouth is lazily because, by now, she’s starting to learn you and what you know about her is that she likes to indulge. She makes you arch against her mouth as she sucks your clit and you stop thinking all together.
You’ve been happening long enough to forget. You still can’t call her Cameron and won’t touch Allison, but you’re going to keep telling her that she’s yours because you’re that selective about who you fuck.
But it doesn’t matter now, lives are in pools of glass and the only thing that you hear nowadays are troops advancing and camps are being set up along coastal points and her favorite:
stay out of the red zone.
Your lives are still in pieces when you’re done.
*
“There are too many windows in your house,” she says quietly, leaning against the table as your hand passes against her hip.
You wait, shrug.
And then: “Just stay with me.”
*
There’s traffic on the freeway, like people are still around to take weekends at the shore.
She’s in the passenger seat (someone slashed her tires three days ago), her legs tucked against her chest and her gaze pasted to the window. She watches the sky and you ignore it (spare my rationality, damn it) and try to forget who’s already ended.
“Maybe there’s something we can do,” you say awkwardly. Because you’re proactive, you’re still used to being in charge, and you’ll go insane if there’s nothing.
She turns her gaze to you, her hair spilling over her eyes. Your hand raises and your fingers brush against her cheek, then her forehead, only so that you can see her. You won’t tell her things like god, i’m glad you’re here because you don’t do desperate- it’s a habit you broke.
“Stop it, Lisa.”
She’s faster than you and she leans over, pressing her lips against yours. You kiss her back, reacting, your tongue slipping and sliding into her mouth.
There’s a horn and she pulls back, smiling almost, and you remember people are still desperate.
*
There is one rule:
You don’t talk about who, what, and how (THINGS) were lost.
*
In the end, the sky is still painted pink, and then red, and then a kaleidoscope of colors that are very, very wrong.
You know sickness and health and what they’ve cost you- lust and greed are two sins of the pathological but everyone, by default, is selfish anyhow.
And so, in the long run (speculative), you’re allowing yourself to have this, if only to keep yourself rational, alive, and breathing.
You’re ____________ for about seven months and a day now.
The two of you are in a room, in a basement, alone and listening to radio broadcasts that cry we’re dying! we’re dying underneath please, we ask you not to panic. The old man upstairs lets cigar smoke drift through the vents and might chuckle- he’s been ready to go.
Your bed is warm, the sheets are twisted around you, and you turn, shifting over her as her eyes open. You’ve been awake for hours, used to little sleep, but just watching her. And wondering.
(But you won’t say anything to her.)
“I’m going to-” You stop because you really only could say things like fuck and shit in your head. And she’d laugh because it’s kind of funny when you curse and you want to be serious (when are you not? she laughs in your head) right now.
Her lips part and you dip your mouth between her breasts, sliding your hand against her this.
“You’re going to?”
You laugh huskily and your mouth continues moving, your tongue lapping away with mine, mine, mine. Your fingers brush against her clit and she’s wet, for you, always, which is why you don’t waste time. Time has lost the metaphor and while you’re all still little girls in dress-up clothes, you know when you need will to be selfish.
You slide a finger into her cunt, moaning against her stomach because she’s wet and here’s how you forget.
She only helps. “Lisa.”
And that’s what you need.
(remember:
“Dr. Cameron.”
She stops, turning in the middle of absently handing a file to a clinic nurse. You watch her curiously.
But sighing, “Thanks for staying.”)
finished.