house fic: On Second Dates 1/1
Title: On Second Dates
Pairing/Characters: cameron, house/cameron
Words: 1557
Spoilers: Kinda sorta Love Hurts.
Rating: I call it introductory!NC-17. Because it's p0rn. But it's Level 1 p0rn.
Summary: In the beginning, it’s more about the need of throwing her off.
Prompt: BEGINNINGS
A/N: I figured I'd kick off P0rn!Saturday with my first prompt for fanfic100. Because I'm crazy like that. And look treacle_a! There's now two under the porn tag. *grins*
I'm not sure who's fooling who here
Tori Amos, Pancake
In the beginning, it’s more about the need of throwing her off.
She’s too close and she knows it. He watches her like a caged animal, waiting for the right moment to either kill her or take her. He can’t do anything in a public setting, so he uses words.
He almost won.
She stares at her glass of wine silently. You need me because I’m damaged. She isn’t angry, although she should be. She’s tired. Tired of the assumptions. Tired of the circles he continually forces her to move in. Tired of doing the same damn dance with him.
“Where’s the check?” He mutters.
She rolls her eyes, reaching for her glass of wine. White. Not Red. Red wine is far too intimate for him. She presses it to her lips and lets the welcome sourness slide down her throat. He’s watching her. Again.
She places the glass back down on the table. “What?”
Her voice is calm. Too calm. She’s not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her uneasiness or her anger. And for a moment, she thinks she can taste his disappointment. His gaze is too intense.
“There’s something on your mouth.”
She almost doesn’t pick up on what lingers behind his response. Her eyes widen slightly and she tries to formulate a comeback but fails. The worst part about this entire night is that she now belongs to him more than ever. True, she manipulated the circumstances in the illusion of her favor. But, inevitably, the situation belonged to him.
She reaches for napkin, but he’s much faster and reaches across the table. He cups her chin in one hand and brushes a finger against her lips, carefully and not shy of obvious intentions.
She swallows. “Thanks.”
Intentions, good or bad, are successful. She doesn’t know what to think around him anymore. Yet again.
The check comes and he pays. The waiter watches them as if they were just another couple and asks the obligatory question along the lines of how long and is this your anniversary. House leaves her to be intentionally vague about the response and watches her with obvious amusement.
She glares.
He grins.
And she tries to ignore him. She gathers her purse, murmuring something about waiting in the car and sends a lavish wink in House’s direction. She smirks inwardly when the waiter proceeds to continue with more questions and turns, with her purse on her arm, to walk outside.
It’s terribly cold outside.
She curses at herself for not bringing a sweater and wearing too high of heel. For not thinking things through. She leans tiredly against the hood of his car. She is already planning her answers for tomorrow’s inquisition by Chase and Foreman. No. Yes. No. No. Yes. I don’t know. It seems simple enough. She’s too good with smiles to be able to pass one over the two of them.
“The waiter offered us a free dinner for next time.”
Looking up, startled, she realizes that he’s standing in front of her. He seems to be struggling with something to say. She can’t blame him, although a part of her wants to. It’s been entirely too awkward for the both of them. She’s trying- tried- too hard and he’s trying too much [little] to fit into the context of the night.
She licks her lips. “Did you take it?”
“Nope.”
“Good,” she murmurs, pushing herself up. She winces at the ache in the soles of her feet and straightens her dress. “I like Chinese food better.”
“Hmm.” He steps forward, forcing her to leaning back onto the hood of the car again. She shivers as he stops, barely brushing her knees and invading her space.
He needs to control this.
She can do nothing but wait.
He leans his cane against the car. “It wasn’t so bad of a night,” he murmurs. “I got to stare at your tits all night.”
An indignant response starts to worm its way out of her mouth, but she’s stopped when he rests his hand against her leg with his fingers moving in circles. He’s still staring at her with the same look he’s carried all through out dinner. The fabric of her dress moves with the pattern of his fingers, whispering against her skin.
“You’re a pig,” she manages.
He chuckles, leaning forward. His lips barely skim her forehead. “Just trying to make conversation.”
“So I’m supposed to applaud your attempt?” She hides her trembling well.
He moves his hand off her leg and braces it on one side of her, the other following its example. He traps her. She doesn’t move. This confrontation has been brewing for quite some time.
Her smile is cruel. “I’m not having sex with you.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” His smile is crueler.
“First,” she murmurs, reaching for him. “You’d have to warrant a second date.”
Her fingers brush tentatively against his face. He doesn’t move, perhaps out of shock or out of curiosity to see how far she’d go. Biting her lip, she draws her fingers across his lips.
She swallows when his tongue darts out to taste them. “Second, I’d actually have to somewhat like you in the moment.”
“You don’t like me now?”
It’s a stupid question and she knows he knows it. She stops caring the moment his hands pull her closer. He lowers his head and she almost stops breathing the moment his lips press against her neck.
She hisses when his teeth graze the dip between her neck and shoulder and her hands grip the front of his shirt. “No,” she manages. “Not enough to have sex in public.”
“Well, what am I going to do with this free dinner?”
She swears she hears him moan when her fingers hook in his pants, but his hands manages to distract her when they cup her breasts through her dress. “You’ll think of something,” she tells him.
“I wasn’t lying when I said you looked nice.”
One of his hands rests on her thigh again, pushing the ends of her dress up. The air is frigidly cold against her skin, but she stops caring the moment his finger slips in her underwear and strokes her clit.
“Hmm.” It isn’t an answer, but it turns out to be one.
His amusement is obvious. He slips his finger inside her cunt and she hisses, her head falling against his chest. “I wasn’t lying when I said your earrings were nice too.”
“We’ve taken ourselves out of context.” Except it really doesn’t sound like this. She moans softly and the words come out long and drawn, like ouuuurselves and contexttttt. At least, that’s what she remembers herself saying.
“True.” His answer is lost in the clattering sound of his cane falling to the street. She finds herself wondering what they look like. A desperate couple? Happy? In love?
Her lips part and she tries to force a response out, but his finger begins to move inside of her and she can’t think. “Oh.”
“I like Chinese food.”
Her legs spread a little wider to accommodate the ministrations of his hand. She hisses. She rocks. And she keeps thinking to herself ohgodohgodi’mgettingfingeredintheparkinglot. “Good.”
She’s surprised that she can still talk.
“I hate chick flicks,” he murmurs against her neck. His teeth scrap her skin in a display of male possessiveness. Vaguely, she can hear the faint murmurings of conversation in the distance. They are in public. In a parking lot. And he’s-
“You’re a melodrama fan.” Her voice trembles.
There is a truth behind his lie. “Within reason.”
“Right.” Her legs quiver and she’s having a hard time concentrating on anything. She’s aware of people passing and talking. Sometimes she thinks she’s hearing whispers and should pull away, but he’s somehow managed to blanket her [and him] in this ill-repressed energy.
She can feel him smiling against her neck. “You won’t have sex in public, but you’ll let me-”
She doesn’t care. Her hand slips into his pants and his finger stops moving, but doesn’t leave its place. She bites her lips to hide her protest and instead focuses on curling her fingers around his cock.
“It’s a nice dress,” she murmurs, her fingers trailing against his cock. “It was expensive too. I’d like it to last more than a night.”
“You bought it for tonight.” Except, his answer ends up sounding like youboughtitforme when she squeezes his cock.
“Mmhm,” she murmurs. She mourns the loss of sensation as he pulls his finger from out of her cunt and places his hand back on the hood of the car to steady himself.
She shouldn’t have worn any underwear, she thinks as she continues to move her hand against his cock. His head falls onto her shoulder.
His failure at a steady comeback is almost endearing. She’s too distracted by the warmth of his breathing on her skin. “Well, we should get-”
“Second date,” she reminds him. She slips her hand out of his pants and brings it to her mouth, licking her fingers. “I can wait. I’ll just finish myself off when you drop me off at home.”
“Not playing fair.” He moans, resting his forehead against hers. “I know a good Chinese place.”
And she laughs.
She laughs because she ends up throwing him off anyway.
fin.
Pairing/Characters: cameron, house/cameron
Words: 1557
Spoilers: Kinda sorta Love Hurts.
Rating: I call it introductory!NC-17. Because it's p0rn. But it's Level 1 p0rn.
Summary: In the beginning, it’s more about the need of throwing her off.
Prompt: BEGINNINGS
A/N: I figured I'd kick off P0rn!Saturday with my first prompt for fanfic100. Because I'm crazy like that. And look treacle_a! There's now two under the porn tag. *grins*
I'm not sure who's fooling who here
Tori Amos, Pancake
In the beginning, it’s more about the need of throwing her off.
She’s too close and she knows it. He watches her like a caged animal, waiting for the right moment to either kill her or take her. He can’t do anything in a public setting, so he uses words.
He almost won.
She stares at her glass of wine silently. You need me because I’m damaged. She isn’t angry, although she should be. She’s tired. Tired of the assumptions. Tired of the circles he continually forces her to move in. Tired of doing the same damn dance with him.
“Where’s the check?” He mutters.
She rolls her eyes, reaching for her glass of wine. White. Not Red. Red wine is far too intimate for him. She presses it to her lips and lets the welcome sourness slide down her throat. He’s watching her. Again.
She places the glass back down on the table. “What?”
Her voice is calm. Too calm. She’s not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her uneasiness or her anger. And for a moment, she thinks she can taste his disappointment. His gaze is too intense.
“There’s something on your mouth.”
She almost doesn’t pick up on what lingers behind his response. Her eyes widen slightly and she tries to formulate a comeback but fails. The worst part about this entire night is that she now belongs to him more than ever. True, she manipulated the circumstances in the illusion of her favor. But, inevitably, the situation belonged to him.
She reaches for napkin, but he’s much faster and reaches across the table. He cups her chin in one hand and brushes a finger against her lips, carefully and not shy of obvious intentions.
She swallows. “Thanks.”
Intentions, good or bad, are successful. She doesn’t know what to think around him anymore. Yet again.
The check comes and he pays. The waiter watches them as if they were just another couple and asks the obligatory question along the lines of how long and is this your anniversary. House leaves her to be intentionally vague about the response and watches her with obvious amusement.
She glares.
He grins.
And she tries to ignore him. She gathers her purse, murmuring something about waiting in the car and sends a lavish wink in House’s direction. She smirks inwardly when the waiter proceeds to continue with more questions and turns, with her purse on her arm, to walk outside.
It’s terribly cold outside.
She curses at herself for not bringing a sweater and wearing too high of heel. For not thinking things through. She leans tiredly against the hood of his car. She is already planning her answers for tomorrow’s inquisition by Chase and Foreman. No. Yes. No. No. Yes. I don’t know. It seems simple enough. She’s too good with smiles to be able to pass one over the two of them.
“The waiter offered us a free dinner for next time.”
Looking up, startled, she realizes that he’s standing in front of her. He seems to be struggling with something to say. She can’t blame him, although a part of her wants to. It’s been entirely too awkward for the both of them. She’s trying- tried- too hard and he’s trying too much [little] to fit into the context of the night.
She licks her lips. “Did you take it?”
“Nope.”
“Good,” she murmurs, pushing herself up. She winces at the ache in the soles of her feet and straightens her dress. “I like Chinese food better.”
“Hmm.” He steps forward, forcing her to leaning back onto the hood of the car again. She shivers as he stops, barely brushing her knees and invading her space.
He needs to control this.
She can do nothing but wait.
He leans his cane against the car. “It wasn’t so bad of a night,” he murmurs. “I got to stare at your tits all night.”
An indignant response starts to worm its way out of her mouth, but she’s stopped when he rests his hand against her leg with his fingers moving in circles. He’s still staring at her with the same look he’s carried all through out dinner. The fabric of her dress moves with the pattern of his fingers, whispering against her skin.
“You’re a pig,” she manages.
He chuckles, leaning forward. His lips barely skim her forehead. “Just trying to make conversation.”
“So I’m supposed to applaud your attempt?” She hides her trembling well.
He moves his hand off her leg and braces it on one side of her, the other following its example. He traps her. She doesn’t move. This confrontation has been brewing for quite some time.
Her smile is cruel. “I’m not having sex with you.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” His smile is crueler.
“First,” she murmurs, reaching for him. “You’d have to warrant a second date.”
Her fingers brush tentatively against his face. He doesn’t move, perhaps out of shock or out of curiosity to see how far she’d go. Biting her lip, she draws her fingers across his lips.
She swallows when his tongue darts out to taste them. “Second, I’d actually have to somewhat like you in the moment.”
“You don’t like me now?”
It’s a stupid question and she knows he knows it. She stops caring the moment his hands pull her closer. He lowers his head and she almost stops breathing the moment his lips press against her neck.
She hisses when his teeth graze the dip between her neck and shoulder and her hands grip the front of his shirt. “No,” she manages. “Not enough to have sex in public.”
“Well, what am I going to do with this free dinner?”
She swears she hears him moan when her fingers hook in his pants, but his hands manages to distract her when they cup her breasts through her dress. “You’ll think of something,” she tells him.
“I wasn’t lying when I said you looked nice.”
One of his hands rests on her thigh again, pushing the ends of her dress up. The air is frigidly cold against her skin, but she stops caring the moment his finger slips in her underwear and strokes her clit.
“Hmm.” It isn’t an answer, but it turns out to be one.
His amusement is obvious. He slips his finger inside her cunt and she hisses, her head falling against his chest. “I wasn’t lying when I said your earrings were nice too.”
“We’ve taken ourselves out of context.” Except it really doesn’t sound like this. She moans softly and the words come out long and drawn, like ouuuurselves and contexttttt. At least, that’s what she remembers herself saying.
“True.” His answer is lost in the clattering sound of his cane falling to the street. She finds herself wondering what they look like. A desperate couple? Happy? In love?
Her lips part and she tries to force a response out, but his finger begins to move inside of her and she can’t think. “Oh.”
“I like Chinese food.”
Her legs spread a little wider to accommodate the ministrations of his hand. She hisses. She rocks. And she keeps thinking to herself ohgodohgodi’mgettingfingeredintheparkinglot. “Good.”
She’s surprised that she can still talk.
“I hate chick flicks,” he murmurs against her neck. His teeth scrap her skin in a display of male possessiveness. Vaguely, she can hear the faint murmurings of conversation in the distance. They are in public. In a parking lot. And he’s-
“You’re a melodrama fan.” Her voice trembles.
There is a truth behind his lie. “Within reason.”
“Right.” Her legs quiver and she’s having a hard time concentrating on anything. She’s aware of people passing and talking. Sometimes she thinks she’s hearing whispers and should pull away, but he’s somehow managed to blanket her [and him] in this ill-repressed energy.
She can feel him smiling against her neck. “You won’t have sex in public, but you’ll let me-”
She doesn’t care. Her hand slips into his pants and his finger stops moving, but doesn’t leave its place. She bites her lips to hide her protest and instead focuses on curling her fingers around his cock.
“It’s a nice dress,” she murmurs, her fingers trailing against his cock. “It was expensive too. I’d like it to last more than a night.”
“You bought it for tonight.” Except, his answer ends up sounding like youboughtitforme when she squeezes his cock.
“Mmhm,” she murmurs. She mourns the loss of sensation as he pulls his finger from out of her cunt and places his hand back on the hood of the car to steady himself.
She shouldn’t have worn any underwear, she thinks as she continues to move her hand against his cock. His head falls onto her shoulder.
His failure at a steady comeback is almost endearing. She’s too distracted by the warmth of his breathing on her skin. “Well, we should get-”
“Second date,” she reminds him. She slips her hand out of his pants and brings it to her mouth, licking her fingers. “I can wait. I’ll just finish myself off when you drop me off at home.”
“Not playing fair.” He moans, resting his forehead against hers. “I know a good Chinese place.”
And she laughs.
She laughs because she ends up throwing him off anyway.
fin.