House Fic: seconds above the water
note: for oxoniensis‘ porn battle. this is totally your fault, surreallis. you encourage me. prompt is house/cameron and once. could, if it really wanted to, come before all our gods are copyrighted
seconds above the water
"I don't know what you're talking about," she mutters. and even if she did, an admission is costly. it’s always been costly. it’s just a fact that all of them have to understand. the two of them understand nothing, know this. house md. cameron, house/cameron. spoilers for painless and some creative assumptions, lol, about the coming episode. 2,182 words, nc17
-
Fifteen minutes is grained tightly on her lip, even as her hands push her hard out of the emergency room, the doors flapping angrily behind her.
The pressure in her eyes are unfolding into a headache and she grits her teeth, making a turn and heading away to the stairs; the locker room is too far, too open in a cluster of doctors and nurses that pass through these hallways in a charge. She can't remember what she's angry about, if there's anything to be angry about, and if this day, unlike the rest of the week, is going to be the one that does her in.
It’s happens. It just happens.
She reaches the door to the stairwell, pressing her palms into the bar. It clicks and then pops open, letting her squeeze through. It stays cocked for a few seconds and then rushes shut, slamming tightly behind her.
Her eyes close. Finally, she breathes.
"I was just coming for you."
It's too quick to let her react. He sounds his entrance casually, his voice hitting her from the stairs on the floor above. There’s amusement, but it's a ploy. She still remembers what it's like to see him furious. Good, she thinks. She still can get her kicks. It’s different, too, when there's nothing to prove. There's nothing about empowerment, but something that says hey, see I'm here. It’s not that it bothers her that sometimes he doesn't know. Or does - it really can't matter.
Her eyes open. He ignores him, shifting and sitting on the stairs. She doesn't ask about the patient. She can hear the ring of the argument in her head. He starts. She starts. He says something stupid. She tries to pretend she's not angry. He’s amused. The end, the end. Instead, she's greeted by the sound of him heading down; his steps are slow, hesitant, and lighted by a sharp hiss.
Of course, she thinks.
Her eyes close again, her palms covering them from view. She keeps listening. He reaches the last step or the floor, his sneakers scraping against the concrete. The bottom of his cane squeaks and presses into her side briefly as he sits down next to her. Not today, not today. But of course, she's brought this to him. She should've known that he'd go and bring something back to her.
"You were just coming for me?" the skepticism falls, open, and her voice is a little too husky for her liking.
He scoffs, says nothing. She looks up at him then, wisps of hair falling and framing her cheeks. It's soft, itchy. Her ponytail's loosened, a casualty of a sudden rush this morning. She’s still flushed from her brisk fifteen minutes to a nurse that she passed, shaking her head.
"It's your fault."
She snorts. "Right."
He shrugs too, looking away. His cane drops between them, the handle grazing her hip. She shifts, only moving closer. She’s distracted and uncomfortable. She hates that. She hates that she's faced with every measure of her regret, which both comes and goes, and no clue to figure out where she stands and wants to stand in the spectrum of everything. It brings back her words from when she came back - I want to figure this out.
She’s waiting for him to say something, but he doesn't. A hiss falls again and she watches as his hand drops to his leg. He rolls his fingers into his jeans, distracted. The idea of his vulnerability is a little frightening. She makes half a choice. Just ignore it. She needs to ignore it.
"Get a refill?"
His mouth twists at her question and he meets her gaze, his fingers still steady against his leg. It’s fascinating, as if he's trying to stroke it away. Or something - she needs to stop, she decides, get up and go. She should get up and go and leave this as it is, as it's always been.
"Worried?"
Her eyes roll at his question and she breaks first from his gaze. His fingers have slowed. Her fingers are starting to curl. Her hand shifts, pressing into her own leg. They drop and then crawl onto his cane, her thumb running against the wood. Her throat is dry. She can't remember if she said something else to the nurse, something about coffee or going to go see Chase. She usually goes to see Chase.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she mutters. And even if she did, an admission is costly. It’s always been costly. It’s just a fact that all of them have to understand.
There’s a sigh. It could be him, it could be her. His hand drops, then curls, and she doesn't mean to watch it, but it moves over hers, his palm too warm. Her lips part. Skin against skin feels too much like a promise. Her gaze flies to his. He wants a distraction. It’s not a guess, it's the way his mouth slides up. She needs a distraction. It’s how he knows.
His fingers play along her skin, tracing the arch between her finger and thumb. She shivers, leaning forward. The stairwell is too empty, soundless except for the occasional murmur behind the door. People do forget that it's here. She watches his mouth though, trying to clutch at what little rationality she has left: this isn't right.
"You do," he says softly.
There’s a change in his expression, wrestling with something between pain and intensity. She almost mistakes it for softness, for seeing what she wants to see. It's too much of an old habit. Her throat is drying slowly though, her tongue pressed between her teeth. She wants to lean forward. She doesn't.
She kisses him first.
Anger completely misses the point, even as it struggles inside of her. Her mouth is soft against his, halfway between shyness and a tease. She took charge the last time. She still remembers the last time. But she doesn't melt, her skin flushing as his hand rises to cup her face. It feels awkward. It doesn't and his mouth starts to open against hers, deepening the kiss.
You should stop, she thinks. But all she can reason is distraction, distraction. It’s entirely too selfish and fuels the drop of her hand against his thigh. He hisses against her mouth, his teeth tugging at her lip. She feels his lips wrap around it then, sucking and nearly too insistent as her hand starts to rub against his leg.
It’s dangerous, but her fingers copy his motions. Her thumb is hard into his thigh, her fingers crawling up and down his jeans. She starts with circles. She stops with circles. They become lines and a motion that feels like it needs to be familiar, like it can be familiar. He shifts forward and the kiss becomes harder, her tongue sliding into his mouth. She laps away at his and sighs, letting the brush of air burn over his lips.
Above them, a door opens and closes. It opens again.
Her eyes are ringing, her heart pounding into her chest. She hears the footsteps, but cannot break away from House. Real, not real. There’s no desire to. And his hand cups hers, drawing it up his thigh. It’s strange and intimate, the pretense something strange and easy. She lets him guide her hand, breaking away to breathe.
Her lips are parted. She doesn't know how to say something.
From him, there's no smile. His eyes are dark. She recognizes the need, she feels the need. He keeps moving her hand to the front of his jeans. Distraction, distraction - it's the only thing she can't think. Once, twice. The cycle of things to come isn't exactly the most comforting thought, but there's nothing to stop her. She doesn't want to stop.
"I think I like it here," he tells her. There’s a crack in his voice, a whistle of air breaking through his teeth. It’s both a warning and a declaration, too shaky to be anything else.
His hips shift forward and finally, her palm presses against his erection and his jeans. Her lips stay parted, her tongue drawing over them. Half-dry, half-sticky, she understands. She wants him too. She’s always wanted him, the issue being what she understands and doesn't, something very far away from this.
She’s quiet, letting her thumb slide against the zipper. It’s cool against her skin. There’s a pop and she tugs his jeans open, pushing her fingers inside. She's greeted by the fabric of his boxers, running her fingers against his bulge. She's both fascinated and repelled, mistake looming over her head. There’s no going back. She doesn't want to go back.
But she doesn't want to give him everything either.
"Stand up."
Her voice is thick, low, and she watches him underneath her lashes. She says it again, almost an order. "Stand up."
There’s a glimpse of amusement, old and casual, as his gaze faces some surprise. But he obeys anyway, standing shakily. His hands are heavy, dropping into the railing and she feels this strange surge of power. It’s different from today's offer. It’s different what Cuddy's asked. This is personal, intimate, and walking that fine line that the two of them have seemed to be unable to forget.
She shifts from sitting moving to her knees. The stairs are hard, pressing and scraping back. She ignores the pain, reaching forward and tugging at his jeans. She gets them halfway down, licking her lips and looking back up at him. To make sure, maybe. To dare, maybe even more.
"Who would've thought?" he breathes.
She shakes her head, "Shut up," and it's a second order, as she pulls his boxers down. She’s a little breathless, feeling a little coy, and stares at his cock hungrily. There’s a shaky chuckle from above her, even as she ignores it, leaning in and brushing her mouth against his thigh.
The thrill to this is more than apparent, her mouth slick against his skin. Her hand reaches for him, her fingers curling slowly against his cock. She lets her thumb run lightly against the head, drawing her mouth away from his skin and letting it circle around the base of his cock. This is a bad idea, more than a bad idea, and his shit only seems to further prove her. He won't forget. She won't let him forget.
"You're lucky."
Her mouth moves along his shaft, her lips sliding against the skin. She lets her tongue trail too, purposely punctuating each word breathlessly.
"You're lucky," she says again. "That I'm pissed off."
It means absolutely nothing, but when he moans, she's absolutely gone. She tastes a sigh against him and then drawls back, watching him, as her fingers keep moving. His arms are shaking, his hands tight and his knuckles bare over the railing. He doesn't reach for her. It's like he can't. There's something too to the fact that anybody, anybody could come looking or stumbling in. She tries to care. She doesn't. He keeps starting this.
He growls. "Brat."
Her mouth takes a funny smile, twisting even as she keeps stroking. It’s the motion of his hand against his leg. She sees it: her fingers follow against his cock, slow circles. She stops. She goes. She stops again. Her knees hurt like hell, but she moves forward, glancing up at him.
"Maybe."
She takes him inside of her mouth, letting her lips run slowly. He makes another sound and then another sound, husky and filling the stairs with a crack. She almost smiles. She pushes instead, letting her mouth and tongue taste and steal his reactions. Her eyes stay open, watching as he twists into the railing. His weight is buckling. His hips thrust forward. The anticipation of tasting him, really tasting is building inside of her too. Her mouth moves faster and then faster.
"Maybe," she breathes again. Quick, hard. All for the last word.
When he comes, the taste runs sharply into her mouth. Her lips are sticky, but she doesn't care. She doesn't care at all. He's breathing heavily too, rotating between watching her and now. She lets her tongue drag against her lip, pulling away whatever's left and to keep it to herself. His hands don't move and he says nothing. She could say something.
She chooses not to yet. It's a smart play.
Her hands run over his legs. Briefly, she takes a glance at his scar. It’s an ugly distortion of skin and pride, the angle both sharp and cruel. She doesn't get it. It’s not hers to understand. He reaches forward though, finally, and brushes her hands away. It's to stop her from looking. She still tastes him and the pain in her knees is more apparent, even as she watches him draw his jeans and boxers up with trembling hands.
He eyes her. His cane still sits between them.
"Patient," he says finally. His voice is still low with nothing to spare.
"I know," she shrugs. It's what she has.
seconds above the water
"I don't know what you're talking about," she mutters. and even if she did, an admission is costly. it’s always been costly. it’s just a fact that all of them have to understand. the two of them understand nothing, know this. house md. cameron, house/cameron. spoilers for painless and some creative assumptions, lol, about the coming episode. 2,182 words, nc17
-
Fifteen minutes is grained tightly on her lip, even as her hands push her hard out of the emergency room, the doors flapping angrily behind her.
The pressure in her eyes are unfolding into a headache and she grits her teeth, making a turn and heading away to the stairs; the locker room is too far, too open in a cluster of doctors and nurses that pass through these hallways in a charge. She can't remember what she's angry about, if there's anything to be angry about, and if this day, unlike the rest of the week, is going to be the one that does her in.
It’s happens. It just happens.
She reaches the door to the stairwell, pressing her palms into the bar. It clicks and then pops open, letting her squeeze through. It stays cocked for a few seconds and then rushes shut, slamming tightly behind her.
Her eyes close. Finally, she breathes.
"I was just coming for you."
It's too quick to let her react. He sounds his entrance casually, his voice hitting her from the stairs on the floor above. There’s amusement, but it's a ploy. She still remembers what it's like to see him furious. Good, she thinks. She still can get her kicks. It’s different, too, when there's nothing to prove. There's nothing about empowerment, but something that says hey, see I'm here. It’s not that it bothers her that sometimes he doesn't know. Or does - it really can't matter.
Her eyes open. He ignores him, shifting and sitting on the stairs. She doesn't ask about the patient. She can hear the ring of the argument in her head. He starts. She starts. He says something stupid. She tries to pretend she's not angry. He’s amused. The end, the end. Instead, she's greeted by the sound of him heading down; his steps are slow, hesitant, and lighted by a sharp hiss.
Of course, she thinks.
Her eyes close again, her palms covering them from view. She keeps listening. He reaches the last step or the floor, his sneakers scraping against the concrete. The bottom of his cane squeaks and presses into her side briefly as he sits down next to her. Not today, not today. But of course, she's brought this to him. She should've known that he'd go and bring something back to her.
"You were just coming for me?" the skepticism falls, open, and her voice is a little too husky for her liking.
He scoffs, says nothing. She looks up at him then, wisps of hair falling and framing her cheeks. It's soft, itchy. Her ponytail's loosened, a casualty of a sudden rush this morning. She’s still flushed from her brisk fifteen minutes to a nurse that she passed, shaking her head.
"It's your fault."
She snorts. "Right."
He shrugs too, looking away. His cane drops between them, the handle grazing her hip. She shifts, only moving closer. She’s distracted and uncomfortable. She hates that. She hates that she's faced with every measure of her regret, which both comes and goes, and no clue to figure out where she stands and wants to stand in the spectrum of everything. It brings back her words from when she came back - I want to figure this out.
She’s waiting for him to say something, but he doesn't. A hiss falls again and she watches as his hand drops to his leg. He rolls his fingers into his jeans, distracted. The idea of his vulnerability is a little frightening. She makes half a choice. Just ignore it. She needs to ignore it.
"Get a refill?"
His mouth twists at her question and he meets her gaze, his fingers still steady against his leg. It’s fascinating, as if he's trying to stroke it away. Or something - she needs to stop, she decides, get up and go. She should get up and go and leave this as it is, as it's always been.
"Worried?"
Her eyes roll at his question and she breaks first from his gaze. His fingers have slowed. Her fingers are starting to curl. Her hand shifts, pressing into her own leg. They drop and then crawl onto his cane, her thumb running against the wood. Her throat is dry. She can't remember if she said something else to the nurse, something about coffee or going to go see Chase. She usually goes to see Chase.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she mutters. And even if she did, an admission is costly. It’s always been costly. It’s just a fact that all of them have to understand.
There’s a sigh. It could be him, it could be her. His hand drops, then curls, and she doesn't mean to watch it, but it moves over hers, his palm too warm. Her lips part. Skin against skin feels too much like a promise. Her gaze flies to his. He wants a distraction. It’s not a guess, it's the way his mouth slides up. She needs a distraction. It’s how he knows.
His fingers play along her skin, tracing the arch between her finger and thumb. She shivers, leaning forward. The stairwell is too empty, soundless except for the occasional murmur behind the door. People do forget that it's here. She watches his mouth though, trying to clutch at what little rationality she has left: this isn't right.
"You do," he says softly.
There’s a change in his expression, wrestling with something between pain and intensity. She almost mistakes it for softness, for seeing what she wants to see. It's too much of an old habit. Her throat is drying slowly though, her tongue pressed between her teeth. She wants to lean forward. She doesn't.
She kisses him first.
Anger completely misses the point, even as it struggles inside of her. Her mouth is soft against his, halfway between shyness and a tease. She took charge the last time. She still remembers the last time. But she doesn't melt, her skin flushing as his hand rises to cup her face. It feels awkward. It doesn't and his mouth starts to open against hers, deepening the kiss.
You should stop, she thinks. But all she can reason is distraction, distraction. It’s entirely too selfish and fuels the drop of her hand against his thigh. He hisses against her mouth, his teeth tugging at her lip. She feels his lips wrap around it then, sucking and nearly too insistent as her hand starts to rub against his leg.
It’s dangerous, but her fingers copy his motions. Her thumb is hard into his thigh, her fingers crawling up and down his jeans. She starts with circles. She stops with circles. They become lines and a motion that feels like it needs to be familiar, like it can be familiar. He shifts forward and the kiss becomes harder, her tongue sliding into his mouth. She laps away at his and sighs, letting the brush of air burn over his lips.
Above them, a door opens and closes. It opens again.
Her eyes are ringing, her heart pounding into her chest. She hears the footsteps, but cannot break away from House. Real, not real. There’s no desire to. And his hand cups hers, drawing it up his thigh. It’s strange and intimate, the pretense something strange and easy. She lets him guide her hand, breaking away to breathe.
Her lips are parted. She doesn't know how to say something.
From him, there's no smile. His eyes are dark. She recognizes the need, she feels the need. He keeps moving her hand to the front of his jeans. Distraction, distraction - it's the only thing she can't think. Once, twice. The cycle of things to come isn't exactly the most comforting thought, but there's nothing to stop her. She doesn't want to stop.
"I think I like it here," he tells her. There’s a crack in his voice, a whistle of air breaking through his teeth. It’s both a warning and a declaration, too shaky to be anything else.
His hips shift forward and finally, her palm presses against his erection and his jeans. Her lips stay parted, her tongue drawing over them. Half-dry, half-sticky, she understands. She wants him too. She’s always wanted him, the issue being what she understands and doesn't, something very far away from this.
She’s quiet, letting her thumb slide against the zipper. It’s cool against her skin. There’s a pop and she tugs his jeans open, pushing her fingers inside. She's greeted by the fabric of his boxers, running her fingers against his bulge. She's both fascinated and repelled, mistake looming over her head. There’s no going back. She doesn't want to go back.
But she doesn't want to give him everything either.
"Stand up."
Her voice is thick, low, and she watches him underneath her lashes. She says it again, almost an order. "Stand up."
There’s a glimpse of amusement, old and casual, as his gaze faces some surprise. But he obeys anyway, standing shakily. His hands are heavy, dropping into the railing and she feels this strange surge of power. It’s different from today's offer. It’s different what Cuddy's asked. This is personal, intimate, and walking that fine line that the two of them have seemed to be unable to forget.
She shifts from sitting moving to her knees. The stairs are hard, pressing and scraping back. She ignores the pain, reaching forward and tugging at his jeans. She gets them halfway down, licking her lips and looking back up at him. To make sure, maybe. To dare, maybe even more.
"Who would've thought?" he breathes.
She shakes her head, "Shut up," and it's a second order, as she pulls his boxers down. She’s a little breathless, feeling a little coy, and stares at his cock hungrily. There’s a shaky chuckle from above her, even as she ignores it, leaning in and brushing her mouth against his thigh.
The thrill to this is more than apparent, her mouth slick against his skin. Her hand reaches for him, her fingers curling slowly against his cock. She lets her thumb run lightly against the head, drawing her mouth away from his skin and letting it circle around the base of his cock. This is a bad idea, more than a bad idea, and his shit only seems to further prove her. He won't forget. She won't let him forget.
"You're lucky."
Her mouth moves along his shaft, her lips sliding against the skin. She lets her tongue trail too, purposely punctuating each word breathlessly.
"You're lucky," she says again. "That I'm pissed off."
It means absolutely nothing, but when he moans, she's absolutely gone. She tastes a sigh against him and then drawls back, watching him, as her fingers keep moving. His arms are shaking, his hands tight and his knuckles bare over the railing. He doesn't reach for her. It's like he can't. There's something too to the fact that anybody, anybody could come looking or stumbling in. She tries to care. She doesn't. He keeps starting this.
He growls. "Brat."
Her mouth takes a funny smile, twisting even as she keeps stroking. It’s the motion of his hand against his leg. She sees it: her fingers follow against his cock, slow circles. She stops. She goes. She stops again. Her knees hurt like hell, but she moves forward, glancing up at him.
"Maybe."
She takes him inside of her mouth, letting her lips run slowly. He makes another sound and then another sound, husky and filling the stairs with a crack. She almost smiles. She pushes instead, letting her mouth and tongue taste and steal his reactions. Her eyes stay open, watching as he twists into the railing. His weight is buckling. His hips thrust forward. The anticipation of tasting him, really tasting is building inside of her too. Her mouth moves faster and then faster.
"Maybe," she breathes again. Quick, hard. All for the last word.
When he comes, the taste runs sharply into her mouth. Her lips are sticky, but she doesn't care. She doesn't care at all. He's breathing heavily too, rotating between watching her and now. She lets her tongue drag against her lip, pulling away whatever's left and to keep it to herself. His hands don't move and he says nothing. She could say something.
She chooses not to yet. It's a smart play.
Her hands run over his legs. Briefly, she takes a glance at his scar. It’s an ugly distortion of skin and pride, the angle both sharp and cruel. She doesn't get it. It’s not hers to understand. He reaches forward though, finally, and brushes her hands away. It's to stop her from looking. She still tastes him and the pain in her knees is more apparent, even as she watches him draw his jeans and boxers up with trembling hands.
He eyes her. His cane still sits between them.
"Patient," he says finally. His voice is still low with nothing to spare.
"I know," she shrugs. It's what she has.