House Fic: there is no christmas sweater
there is no christmas sweater
The door closes and he’s standing there, just standing there. she quit smoking after college, in between schools and tests and new degrees; but every once in awhile, she falls in love with pack of cigarettes again. house, m.d. house/cameron. 1982 words, hard r. general spoilers.
for the hc_smut_a_thon. way past the 800 word limit - i kind of just kept going. maybe, it was the sugar and the coffee and the sugar and more coffee. happens.
The door closes and he’s standing there, just standing there, before she can even fake amusement. She hides herself behind a yawn, a curious move into her purse for her wallet.
“Christmas shift?”
She barely glances up; what she has are skirts of memory, how to handle herself comes and goes, relates only when it’s too necessary. Her hair spills over her eyes and she digs for cash, but comes up with thin bills.
“Feeling festive,” she turns dryly.
“Oh, ouch.” He’s long against the lockers, twisting his fingers around the handle of his cane. A gaze is lost between them and she straddles the bench, rubbing the back of her neck.
She doesn’t say much anyway; there’s nothing more to warrant any sort of conversation between the two of them, it passes and stays, over dry wits and brief exchanges. She doesn’t miss it. There’s no subtle enjoyment to any sense of vulnerability around him. It’s House and people are merely curiosities to satisfy his self-infringement. At least, this is what she tells herself.
He clears his throat. “Chase here?”
“Sleeping.”
She ignores the sudden surge of careless phrasing. It’s not about being too careful, it’s about being smart and she’s lost a bit of footing over par. Maybe because she always knew. Her hand brushes over her eyes and she turns, grabbing her purse. There’s nothing that she’s looking for in particular, the need for cash lost to moments ago, and the excuse is weak as is.
“Where?”
“Why?”
His smirk is clear and her annoyance thick as she stands, opening the locker again. Her purse drops haphazardly into the compartment and she closes the door on the strap, wincing as she misses her fingers. She sighs, bites back a yawn, and opens it to fix it as he leans close.
“Why not?”
Her turn is dry. “You’re giving me a headache.”
The filler is awkward and he kind of just gives up a quick glance, stepping back and turning away. There’s no sense for any lingering and then again, there’s never been. It’s a proxy of annoyance and really, she slips back to sort of watch him. She presses lightly against the door to her things, her hair framing the curve of her face. He stops and turns and there’s more then just a sense of reluctance, but he stays.
“I want a drink.”
She raises an eyebrow. “So go get one.”
“Nope.” House rolls a shrug and shifts his weight to the frame of the door, pressing his shoulder into the wall.
She sighs, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Her lips press and she turns back to her locker, grabbing her things for the third time. Her fingers curl tightly, her knuckles white, and she’s thinking yes before she even says it. She’s second best, fine, but motivations still make her wary.
“Wilson?”
He snorts. “Is a Jew.”
And suppose, for the moment, she plays. She swings her bag from side to side, letting it ease lightly against her hip. There’s sigh between the two of them and she’s shifting forward, her steps resting in front of him.
“No,” she murmurs.
The word slides off of her mouth dull and weighted; she blinks, her boot sighing against the floor. There’s a snort, but he keeps watching her. She finds herself looking up, the sense of the moment falling from her. Her eyes turn and settle away then, dropping quietly.
“Oh, come on,” he snaps, “You’re being stupid.”
She laughs - the sound is thin and shifting, her gaze back to him. The corners of his mouth start to pull up and it’s an odd, little moment, her eyes turning away from him too quickly to break it.
The shrug rolls of her and she’s in the hallway, willing to create space. It’s easier to adjust a rationale to this. She can. She’s not ready to go home. It’s Christmas. She’s not festive and she’s cranky - she almost laughs at this one because, even ideally, this is the biggest excuse out of all of them.
She turns a fine, right over her shoulder, and beats him to his office instead of outside. It’s neutral and he’s predictable, even smirking, as he follows her inside. She drops the bag, drops her jacket, and lets her hair loose against her shoulders. The elastic snaps over her wrist. She doesn’t bother watching him, sitting and rubbing her eyes. There’s a click and it’s the bottom drawer, the right, and under seven issues of Penthouse that never failed to send Chase and Forman into awkward giggles way back when.
“Scotch?”
Her lips curl into her hand. “You don’t have anything else.”
“True.”
He ignores her then, leaning back into the seat and downing the first glass. She has to stand to get hers and walks quietly, ignoring him back and wrapping her fingers against the glass. She’s waiting, for what, is the question, but nothing comes. She brings it to her mouth, her lips pressing over the rim and it’s a little too much for her. She swallows.
“This is exciting.”
She snorts. Two years, she thinks - the last was just a copout. It’s strange, looking back at her naivety and over a period of time, she imagines she would’ve still pushed it. It’s Christmas. She’s from a family that -
She shakes her head, easing into another sip and leaning back onto the desk. There’s groan, the chair, from behind her and House is standing, shifting, and moving to sit next to her. They stare at the glass, the blur of their reflection shifting as his hand extends out.
His voice is dry. “Do a little a dance.”
“Not drunk enough.” It’s easy and she rolls her eyes, her hair framing her face as she looks up at him. Her chin tilts and she feels almost defiant, in the scheme of things, her thigh brushing against his.
But it’s a peculiar amusement as he dips forward, leaning into her space. His gaze settles as he murmurs, “You need to loosen up,” and it passes over her as she shrugs, her fingers skimming over the glass.
“Right.”
“Really,” the dry curiosity surfaces from him again, “What happened to your Christmas love?”
She doesn’t want to talk about Chase. She doesn’t want to talk about Chase and she’s starting to become convinced that Chase really doesn’t want to talk about her. It’s semantics, but moreover, there’s a lack of trying back here. He said it before her - coming back, no, and with no expectation was a bad idea. And her move of thinking later isn’t going to cut it.
It’s weak. “Are you drunk already?”
“Funny girl.”
His glass steadies somewhere between them, his fingers dry over her lips. She doesn’t move, away or close, but watches as his palm cups her cheek. The scotch is light and there’s a softness starting to rise from her. She tries to swallow it back, but her hand drops and her fingers stare against his hip and then to his face.
Her lips brush against his thumb. “I think I’m charming.”
“Not so much today.”
It fades easily here - she’s a little braver, standing slowly and then right between his legs. There’s a crack and a twist in her throat and she shouldn’t be doing anything close to this, but she leans forward. Her mouth skims his and his lips are parched, but she loses her attention to the hand facing her hip. His fingers curl and she sighs against his mouth as her balance steadies.
“What are you doing?” This is him, the direct cue of his voice still against her mouth. But he kisses her again and the scotch is brushed against her tongue.
She ignores him then, her hands moving to his shoulders. Her fingers curl and she slides her tongue back into his mouth, soft and curious against his. She feels a moan and his palm slide to her breast. His finger skirts across her t-shirt, his thumb rolling against her nipple.
Cameron tries to breathe, but the arousal rolls against her skin and she’s flushed, annoyed, and completely bated by this. “I’m curious,” she murmurs, watching and she dares him right back.
“Of course.” It’s faint.
She leans forward again, ignoring the sense of prove and point as she slides her mouth against his. Her tongue slips against his lip again, into his mouth, and strokes his as his palms cup her hips. They tighten and there’s a growl, under her laugh of delight. Maybe, she’s a little bit tipsy. Maybe not.
But there’s a shift and she’s bewildered after the quick turn, finding herself sitting back on his desk between skewed papers and their glasses. He looms over her, his mouth turning quickly and then forward to press against her throat. He gets it this time because she can’t hold back, the moan shifting between a growl and a sigh. Her neck dips back, her hand curling in his shirt.
He says something like anatomy lesson and she doesn’t care enough to roll her eyes, hearing the pop of her jeans. The office is dark, the glass opening them to something more, but stopping is and will always be that issue; again, it seems to repetitious but it is what it is. She moans softly as his fingers spread against her stomach, dipping forward and under the elastic of her panties.
“Now’s that time,” he sings, his finger too soft over her clit. Her hips jolt forward and she’s growling again into his smirk.
Her eyes close as she kisses her fuck you into him, her legs spreading wider as his fingers start to stroke her clit. There’s no particular rhythm, merely a collective fancy of her reactions. Her hips seem to sway when he uses two fingers, a lazy half-roll pushing a gasp.
“Want it back?” rolls right against her neck, his teeth scraping against her skin. It drops, of course, and she can’t ignore it - he’s taunting her, the subscript never faint enough to ignore. He’ll give something to her, but it won’t be enough and she’ll play right back, right into him.
“You can’t keep ask-ing,” she has to pause, mewing as his finger slides inside of her. Her hips arch into his hand, “me that question.”
She shifts her balance onto her palm, shaky as she leans up to kiss him again. Her guilt’s starting to hide itself more and she kisses him fiercely, her teeth snagging his lip between them. She sucks softly, then shakily, as he twists his finger inside of her and she’s left drawing her palm against the front of his jeans. The sensation of his erection against her hand is brief - she loses her balance and he’s pressing over, two of his fingers deep and then deeper inside of her.
She aches, she thinks.
He growls. “I’m bringing a little Christmas cheer.”
There is nothing after that and she feels herself come hard, her muscles clenching around his fingers as twists into him and she gaps his name out. Her eyes are closed and her position is more than just awkward, but for a moment, right now, she doesn’t want to think.
“You’ve got to make that decision,” he says against her neck - he’s breathing heavily, the sound coarse and uneasy.
The words are weighed, lacing quietly over something else. She doesn’t think about it, her fingers slip against the desk as he stands. He’s still breathing heavily as she moves to sit up. His gaze follows her hands as her jeans are closed and she licks her lips, almost smirking as he turns himself and away from.
“You’ve got to let me.”
She leaves him then, the smile turning slightly; let it snow gets stuck in her head in the elevator.
The door closes and he’s standing there, just standing there. she quit smoking after college, in between schools and tests and new degrees; but every once in awhile, she falls in love with pack of cigarettes again. house, m.d. house/cameron. 1982 words, hard r. general spoilers.
for the hc_smut_a_thon. way past the 800 word limit - i kind of just kept going. maybe, it was the sugar and the coffee and the sugar and more coffee. happens.
The door closes and he’s standing there, just standing there, before she can even fake amusement. She hides herself behind a yawn, a curious move into her purse for her wallet.
“Christmas shift?”
She barely glances up; what she has are skirts of memory, how to handle herself comes and goes, relates only when it’s too necessary. Her hair spills over her eyes and she digs for cash, but comes up with thin bills.
“Feeling festive,” she turns dryly.
“Oh, ouch.” He’s long against the lockers, twisting his fingers around the handle of his cane. A gaze is lost between them and she straddles the bench, rubbing the back of her neck.
She doesn’t say much anyway; there’s nothing more to warrant any sort of conversation between the two of them, it passes and stays, over dry wits and brief exchanges. She doesn’t miss it. There’s no subtle enjoyment to any sense of vulnerability around him. It’s House and people are merely curiosities to satisfy his self-infringement. At least, this is what she tells herself.
He clears his throat. “Chase here?”
“Sleeping.”
She ignores the sudden surge of careless phrasing. It’s not about being too careful, it’s about being smart and she’s lost a bit of footing over par. Maybe because she always knew. Her hand brushes over her eyes and she turns, grabbing her purse. There’s nothing that she’s looking for in particular, the need for cash lost to moments ago, and the excuse is weak as is.
“Where?”
“Why?”
His smirk is clear and her annoyance thick as she stands, opening the locker again. Her purse drops haphazardly into the compartment and she closes the door on the strap, wincing as she misses her fingers. She sighs, bites back a yawn, and opens it to fix it as he leans close.
“Why not?”
Her turn is dry. “You’re giving me a headache.”
The filler is awkward and he kind of just gives up a quick glance, stepping back and turning away. There’s no sense for any lingering and then again, there’s never been. It’s a proxy of annoyance and really, she slips back to sort of watch him. She presses lightly against the door to her things, her hair framing the curve of her face. He stops and turns and there’s more then just a sense of reluctance, but he stays.
“I want a drink.”
She raises an eyebrow. “So go get one.”
“Nope.” House rolls a shrug and shifts his weight to the frame of the door, pressing his shoulder into the wall.
She sighs, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Her lips press and she turns back to her locker, grabbing her things for the third time. Her fingers curl tightly, her knuckles white, and she’s thinking yes before she even says it. She’s second best, fine, but motivations still make her wary.
“Wilson?”
He snorts. “Is a Jew.”
And suppose, for the moment, she plays. She swings her bag from side to side, letting it ease lightly against her hip. There’s sigh between the two of them and she’s shifting forward, her steps resting in front of him.
“No,” she murmurs.
The word slides off of her mouth dull and weighted; she blinks, her boot sighing against the floor. There’s a snort, but he keeps watching her. She finds herself looking up, the sense of the moment falling from her. Her eyes turn and settle away then, dropping quietly.
“Oh, come on,” he snaps, “You’re being stupid.”
She laughs - the sound is thin and shifting, her gaze back to him. The corners of his mouth start to pull up and it’s an odd, little moment, her eyes turning away from him too quickly to break it.
The shrug rolls of her and she’s in the hallway, willing to create space. It’s easier to adjust a rationale to this. She can. She’s not ready to go home. It’s Christmas. She’s not festive and she’s cranky - she almost laughs at this one because, even ideally, this is the biggest excuse out of all of them.
She turns a fine, right over her shoulder, and beats him to his office instead of outside. It’s neutral and he’s predictable, even smirking, as he follows her inside. She drops the bag, drops her jacket, and lets her hair loose against her shoulders. The elastic snaps over her wrist. She doesn’t bother watching him, sitting and rubbing her eyes. There’s a click and it’s the bottom drawer, the right, and under seven issues of Penthouse that never failed to send Chase and Forman into awkward giggles way back when.
“Scotch?”
Her lips curl into her hand. “You don’t have anything else.”
“True.”
He ignores her then, leaning back into the seat and downing the first glass. She has to stand to get hers and walks quietly, ignoring him back and wrapping her fingers against the glass. She’s waiting, for what, is the question, but nothing comes. She brings it to her mouth, her lips pressing over the rim and it’s a little too much for her. She swallows.
“This is exciting.”
She snorts. Two years, she thinks - the last was just a copout. It’s strange, looking back at her naivety and over a period of time, she imagines she would’ve still pushed it. It’s Christmas. She’s from a family that -
She shakes her head, easing into another sip and leaning back onto the desk. There’s groan, the chair, from behind her and House is standing, shifting, and moving to sit next to her. They stare at the glass, the blur of their reflection shifting as his hand extends out.
His voice is dry. “Do a little a dance.”
“Not drunk enough.” It’s easy and she rolls her eyes, her hair framing her face as she looks up at him. Her chin tilts and she feels almost defiant, in the scheme of things, her thigh brushing against his.
But it’s a peculiar amusement as he dips forward, leaning into her space. His gaze settles as he murmurs, “You need to loosen up,” and it passes over her as she shrugs, her fingers skimming over the glass.
“Right.”
“Really,” the dry curiosity surfaces from him again, “What happened to your Christmas love?”
She doesn’t want to talk about Chase. She doesn’t want to talk about Chase and she’s starting to become convinced that Chase really doesn’t want to talk about her. It’s semantics, but moreover, there’s a lack of trying back here. He said it before her - coming back, no, and with no expectation was a bad idea. And her move of thinking later isn’t going to cut it.
It’s weak. “Are you drunk already?”
“Funny girl.”
His glass steadies somewhere between them, his fingers dry over her lips. She doesn’t move, away or close, but watches as his palm cups her cheek. The scotch is light and there’s a softness starting to rise from her. She tries to swallow it back, but her hand drops and her fingers stare against his hip and then to his face.
Her lips brush against his thumb. “I think I’m charming.”
“Not so much today.”
It fades easily here - she’s a little braver, standing slowly and then right between his legs. There’s a crack and a twist in her throat and she shouldn’t be doing anything close to this, but she leans forward. Her mouth skims his and his lips are parched, but she loses her attention to the hand facing her hip. His fingers curl and she sighs against his mouth as her balance steadies.
“What are you doing?” This is him, the direct cue of his voice still against her mouth. But he kisses her again and the scotch is brushed against her tongue.
She ignores him then, her hands moving to his shoulders. Her fingers curl and she slides her tongue back into his mouth, soft and curious against his. She feels a moan and his palm slide to her breast. His finger skirts across her t-shirt, his thumb rolling against her nipple.
Cameron tries to breathe, but the arousal rolls against her skin and she’s flushed, annoyed, and completely bated by this. “I’m curious,” she murmurs, watching and she dares him right back.
“Of course.” It’s faint.
She leans forward again, ignoring the sense of prove and point as she slides her mouth against his. Her tongue slips against his lip again, into his mouth, and strokes his as his palms cup her hips. They tighten and there’s a growl, under her laugh of delight. Maybe, she’s a little bit tipsy. Maybe not.
But there’s a shift and she’s bewildered after the quick turn, finding herself sitting back on his desk between skewed papers and their glasses. He looms over her, his mouth turning quickly and then forward to press against her throat. He gets it this time because she can’t hold back, the moan shifting between a growl and a sigh. Her neck dips back, her hand curling in his shirt.
He says something like anatomy lesson and she doesn’t care enough to roll her eyes, hearing the pop of her jeans. The office is dark, the glass opening them to something more, but stopping is and will always be that issue; again, it seems to repetitious but it is what it is. She moans softly as his fingers spread against her stomach, dipping forward and under the elastic of her panties.
“Now’s that time,” he sings, his finger too soft over her clit. Her hips jolt forward and she’s growling again into his smirk.
Her eyes close as she kisses her fuck you into him, her legs spreading wider as his fingers start to stroke her clit. There’s no particular rhythm, merely a collective fancy of her reactions. Her hips seem to sway when he uses two fingers, a lazy half-roll pushing a gasp.
“Want it back?” rolls right against her neck, his teeth scraping against her skin. It drops, of course, and she can’t ignore it - he’s taunting her, the subscript never faint enough to ignore. He’ll give something to her, but it won’t be enough and she’ll play right back, right into him.
“You can’t keep ask-ing,” she has to pause, mewing as his finger slides inside of her. Her hips arch into his hand, “me that question.”
She shifts her balance onto her palm, shaky as she leans up to kiss him again. Her guilt’s starting to hide itself more and she kisses him fiercely, her teeth snagging his lip between them. She sucks softly, then shakily, as he twists his finger inside of her and she’s left drawing her palm against the front of his jeans. The sensation of his erection against her hand is brief - she loses her balance and he’s pressing over, two of his fingers deep and then deeper inside of her.
She aches, she thinks.
He growls. “I’m bringing a little Christmas cheer.”
There is nothing after that and she feels herself come hard, her muscles clenching around his fingers as twists into him and she gaps his name out. Her eyes are closed and her position is more than just awkward, but for a moment, right now, she doesn’t want to think.
“You’ve got to make that decision,” he says against her neck - he’s breathing heavily, the sound coarse and uneasy.
The words are weighed, lacing quietly over something else. She doesn’t think about it, her fingers slip against the desk as he stands. He’s still breathing heavily as she moves to sit up. His gaze follows her hands as her jeans are closed and she licks her lips, almost smirking as he turns himself and away from.
“You’ve got to let me.”
She leaves him then, the smile turning slightly; let it snow gets stuck in her head in the elevator.