HOUSE Fic: House/Cam pr0n, for anamin's BDay.
You’ve Got to Finish What You Start
Author:
starhawk2005
Date: March 2007
Pairing: House and Cameron.
Rating: Adult.
Summary: PWP. House is sexually-frustrated and (finally) decides to DO something about it.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Only in sexual daydreams.
Please note that “
starhawk2005cannot be held responsible for any brain melting, spontaneous combusting, or ovary exploding that occurs before/during/after reading this fanfiction. Thank you.” (credit to
_vicodinfor the detailed legal disclaimer. *snerk*).
Author Note: Starts with the now-famous ‘event’ from Half-Wit, and snowballs from there. So avoid if you don’t want to be spoiled.
For
anamin’s BDay. Hope you have a great day, hon! *hugs*
House hasn’t felt this way in a long time. Needy. Hungry.
He doesn’t know if that was part of Cameron’s plan. Yes, she obviously intended to stick him with that fucking needle. But had she also planned this?
Had she planned for him to be rock-hard and pulsing in his jeans all day? Touching his fingertips to his mouth, remembering the feel of hers, the taste of her lips and tongue?
He wonders.
House does his best to diffuse the tension the way he always has, by snarking at the author of his misery. He makes a crack about her getting a ‘sperm sample’ from him (he tries not to imagine the various positions she might employ to obtain said sample), and later about how if they’d slept together, they would’ve used condoms (he’s not interested in being up for a Daddy of the Year Award any time soon).
But it doesn’t work. At the end of the day he goes for a walk, still thinking about that kiss. Trying not to think about that kiss.
He wanders by a bar and happens to glance in - people-watching, it’s a favourite past-time of his - and he sees the three of them together, his nosy minions. He pauses.
House remembers what Wilson said about pizza and friends. And he realizes that he does want to see them. Or rather, see her. Has she been as affected as him, by her own ill-thought-out ploy? Enquiring minds large and small (so to speak) want to know.
He finds himself sitting next to her, which doesn’t help. He can’t study her as effectively as he’d like to, not from the corner of his eye. Damn.
He ripostes with Foreman, insults Chase, and makes a few more loaded comments to Cameron: “Speaking of condoms, do you prefer ribbed or studded?” and “How many drinks before I can get you to come back to my place for that sperm sample?” He makes sure to say it sarcastically, and right in front of Chase and Foreman. So it won’t seem like he means every word.
Two hours later, he’s slightly light-headed and no closer to answering the question he went in there with. Hell, he doesn’t even remember the question he went in there with. Ooops.
When Cameron suggests they share a cab, he agrees. He doesn’t say much during the ride - he’s still replaying the movie reel of their kiss in his head - but Cameron’s staring out the window like the Princeton scenery is utterly fascinating.
It makes him wonder muzzily if there’s something in her eyes that she doesn’t want him to see.
“G’night,” he says dismissively when they get to her place and drop her off.
The cab drives just around the corner before he changes his mind. “Stop!” he barks. He throws bills at the cabbie and throws the door open, limping back towards Cameron’s place.
She threw herself at him, got him all hot and bothered, he reminds himself, for reassurance. He remembers the breathy note in her voice, saying: “You kissed back.”
He climbs the stairs with a kind of manic energy. He’s going to do more than kiss, if she’ll let him.
He raps sharply at her door. It feels like an eternity before she opens it. “House? Everything OK?”
“No,” he says, limping forward and forcing her to either give way before him or try to block him. She opts for the former.
“No,” he repeats once she closes the door behind them. “We have a problem. You need to finish what you start, Dr. Cameron.” He edges slowly closer to her. It’s the scene in his office all over again, except now it’s him slowly shifting closer and closer, gradually invading her personal space.
“Really? What exactly do I need to ‘finish’?” she asks. Her tone is light, amused, but her eyes tells him a different story. They tell him that he’s not the only one who’s been thinking about this all day.
“This,” he says shortly, and then he leans in. Their tongues soon are dueling back and forth, fingers twisted into each other’s hair.
Clothes start to come off, before they even make it into her bedroom. But they make it. Her lips still taste good, but so do her nipples, he decides. So does the side of her neck, and the inside of her wrist, and the delicate curve of her belly, and the sweet creaminess of her thigh. The soft, musky folds of her sex taste the best of all, though, if he had to pick one single spot.
He’s surprised and yet not when she touches his scar. First with careful fingertips, then by running her tongue up along it, before running that slippery tongue up a much more sensitive part of him. Wow, she’s better than any of his hookers. Cheaper, too, but he figures it would be way too much of a mood-killer to point that out to her at the moment.
House lets her press him back onto her bed, lets her roll a condom onto him - “Just a plain one, what a bore,” he opines - and then climb astride.
“Am I finishing what I start now, House?” she asks wickedly, as he moans and grasps her hips.
He doesn’t answer. He can’t, really. He’s too busy meeting her thrust for thrust. Priorities.
House climaxes first, but that doesn’t seem to bother her. She pulls off of him before he can go limp, lays down right next to him, and treats him to a delightful show as she gets herself enthusiastically off with both hands. He thinks he might actually have it in him for another go. Especially with that kind of incentive.
When they’ve finished and she’s snoring quietly against his shoulder - he’ll rib her about the snoring later - that’s when the irony comes to him. That all it took was a kiss, and his resolve crumpled like wet paper.
So much for all his attempts to distance himself. Wimp.
And yet, he doesn’t really mind all that much.
Ah, irony.
FIN
Crossposted to AO3
Author:
starhawk2005
Date: March 2007
Pairing: House and Cameron.
Rating: Adult.
Summary: PWP. House is sexually-frustrated and (finally) decides to DO something about it.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Only in sexual daydreams.
Please note that “
starhawk2005cannot be held responsible for any brain melting, spontaneous combusting, or ovary exploding that occurs before/during/after reading this fanfiction. Thank you.” (credit to
_vicodinfor the detailed legal disclaimer. *snerk*).
Author Note: Starts with the now-famous ‘event’ from Half-Wit, and snowballs from there. So avoid if you don’t want to be spoiled.
For
anamin’s BDay. Hope you have a great day, hon! *hugs*
House hasn’t felt this way in a long time. Needy. Hungry.
He doesn’t know if that was part of Cameron’s plan. Yes, she obviously intended to stick him with that fucking needle. But had she also planned this?
Had she planned for him to be rock-hard and pulsing in his jeans all day? Touching his fingertips to his mouth, remembering the feel of hers, the taste of her lips and tongue?
He wonders.
House does his best to diffuse the tension the way he always has, by snarking at the author of his misery. He makes a crack about her getting a ‘sperm sample’ from him (he tries not to imagine the various positions she might employ to obtain said sample), and later about how if they’d slept together, they would’ve used condoms (he’s not interested in being up for a Daddy of the Year Award any time soon).
But it doesn’t work. At the end of the day he goes for a walk, still thinking about that kiss. Trying not to think about that kiss.
He wanders by a bar and happens to glance in - people-watching, it’s a favourite past-time of his - and he sees the three of them together, his nosy minions. He pauses.
House remembers what Wilson said about pizza and friends. And he realizes that he does want to see them. Or rather, see her. Has she been as affected as him, by her own ill-thought-out ploy? Enquiring minds large and small (so to speak) want to know.
He finds himself sitting next to her, which doesn’t help. He can’t study her as effectively as he’d like to, not from the corner of his eye. Damn.
He ripostes with Foreman, insults Chase, and makes a few more loaded comments to Cameron: “Speaking of condoms, do you prefer ribbed or studded?” and “How many drinks before I can get you to come back to my place for that sperm sample?” He makes sure to say it sarcastically, and right in front of Chase and Foreman. So it won’t seem like he means every word.
Two hours later, he’s slightly light-headed and no closer to answering the question he went in there with. Hell, he doesn’t even remember the question he went in there with. Ooops.
When Cameron suggests they share a cab, he agrees. He doesn’t say much during the ride - he’s still replaying the movie reel of their kiss in his head - but Cameron’s staring out the window like the Princeton scenery is utterly fascinating.
It makes him wonder muzzily if there’s something in her eyes that she doesn’t want him to see.
“G’night,” he says dismissively when they get to her place and drop her off.
The cab drives just around the corner before he changes his mind. “Stop!” he barks. He throws bills at the cabbie and throws the door open, limping back towards Cameron’s place.
She threw herself at him, got him all hot and bothered, he reminds himself, for reassurance. He remembers the breathy note in her voice, saying: “You kissed back.”
He climbs the stairs with a kind of manic energy. He’s going to do more than kiss, if she’ll let him.
He raps sharply at her door. It feels like an eternity before she opens it. “House? Everything OK?”
“No,” he says, limping forward and forcing her to either give way before him or try to block him. She opts for the former.
“No,” he repeats once she closes the door behind them. “We have a problem. You need to finish what you start, Dr. Cameron.” He edges slowly closer to her. It’s the scene in his office all over again, except now it’s him slowly shifting closer and closer, gradually invading her personal space.
“Really? What exactly do I need to ‘finish’?” she asks. Her tone is light, amused, but her eyes tells him a different story. They tell him that he’s not the only one who’s been thinking about this all day.
“This,” he says shortly, and then he leans in. Their tongues soon are dueling back and forth, fingers twisted into each other’s hair.
Clothes start to come off, before they even make it into her bedroom. But they make it. Her lips still taste good, but so do her nipples, he decides. So does the side of her neck, and the inside of her wrist, and the delicate curve of her belly, and the sweet creaminess of her thigh. The soft, musky folds of her sex taste the best of all, though, if he had to pick one single spot.
He’s surprised and yet not when she touches his scar. First with careful fingertips, then by running her tongue up along it, before running that slippery tongue up a much more sensitive part of him. Wow, she’s better than any of his hookers. Cheaper, too, but he figures it would be way too much of a mood-killer to point that out to her at the moment.
House lets her press him back onto her bed, lets her roll a condom onto him - “Just a plain one, what a bore,” he opines - and then climb astride.
“Am I finishing what I start now, House?” she asks wickedly, as he moans and grasps her hips.
He doesn’t answer. He can’t, really. He’s too busy meeting her thrust for thrust. Priorities.
House climaxes first, but that doesn’t seem to bother her. She pulls off of him before he can go limp, lays down right next to him, and treats him to a delightful show as she gets herself enthusiastically off with both hands. He thinks he might actually have it in him for another go. Especially with that kind of incentive.
When they’ve finished and she’s snoring quietly against his shoulder - he’ll rib her about the snoring later - that’s when the irony comes to him. That all it took was a kiss, and his resolve crumpled like wet paper.
So much for all his attempts to distance himself. Wimp.
And yet, he doesn’t really mind all that much.
Ah, irony.
FIN
Crossposted to AO3