New House/Cam fic!!!
Informed Consent
Author:
starhawk2005
Date: October 2007
Pairing: House/Cameron.
Rating: Adult (18+). Just say NO to drugs, kids.
Summary: How I think the meth!sex scene in S2 should have gone…with Chase nowhere in sight.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. I only own the dirty thoughts I have about them. Until the Thought Police come for me, anyhow.
Beta: Many thanks and chocolate chip cookies to the ravishing
katakombs.
Written in response to the tenth smut!challenge at the House/Cameron Smut-A-Thon comm.
The challenge was: to write a scene with House missing Cameron. It can be a fantasy he's having, memories of a past encounter with her, or just himself all alone missing her...
“You remind me of someone,” you’d said to the unnamed - not that you ever bother with names - ER doctor.
You remind me of Cameron, you’d almost added, but stopped yourself. Not because this new girl would probably have little idea who you were referring to, but because you didn’t want to say it out loud. You didn’t want to make it more real.
Not that this is unusual. Ever since the three of them left (were fired, quit, resigned), you’ve been ‘seeing’ them everywhere. You hear someone with an accent, you think of Chase. You see a black patient, you think of Foreman. You see caring female doctors, you think of Cameron.
Somehow, it’s the thoughts of Cameron that stay with you, though. That haunt you. That start the memories churning in your head.
Your thigh aches tonight, and you limp around your living room without your cane, too restless to sit at the piano or to cradle your new guitar in your hands and coax chords out of it. Instead, you grab the bottle of Scotch and lie down on your couch to see if there’s anything interesting on TiVo.
But the scene that plays out in front of your eyes has nothing to do with the boring drama playing out on the screen. It’s those memories, unfolding in your mind, replaying themselves behind your eyes, that hold your attention…
The call surprises you.
“I’m home, all alone,” she says.
“And why should I care?” you ask, grumpy.
“Because I’m tired of the games between us. I’m tired of waiting.” She says.
Something in her voice catches your attention, interests you, but you stall. That’s what you do. “You’re just saying that because you got sprayed in the face with HIV-infected blood today, and it’s making you question how you’ve been living your life.”
If that makes her falter, she doesn’t let you hear it in her voice. “If you want to know why,” she says archly, “You’ll need to come over.”
You don’t know what makes you say it, but you counter with: “Right. Make the cripple come running. Why don’t you come over here, if you’re so ‘tired of waiting’?” It’s a dare, and you should know better than to dare Allison Cameron, but you’re pretty sure she’ll chicken out.
There’s a pause, and you pump your fist silently in victory. House, 1, Cameron, 0.
“Fine,” she replies. You can’t tell what emotion she’s feeling, can’t read it from her voice. Then she hangs up.
You hang up yourself, sure that it’s over, that you’ve won the battle between you and Cameron for another day.
Two hours later, there’s a loud knocking at the door.
You curse, getting up off the couch. When you open the door, you’re only half surprised to see it’s her.
You try to play it cool. “Well, Dr. Cameron, fancy seeing you he-“
She pounces on you. Later, that’s how you think of it. At the time, it’s more than a bit startling.
She grabs you by the front of your shirt and pushes you until you’re pressed to the wall next to your front door (forgotten, it closes and locks the rest of the world out). Your leg protests, but you’re so startled you barely notice.
“What the-“ you start, but it’s cut off by Cameron tangling her fingers in your hair, dragging your head down, and pressing her lips to yours.
It’s been a long time. You don’t want to think about how long. So for a few moments, you actually give in, go with it. Her tongue is hot and much more eager and wicked than you would have predicted. You’re drowning in the scent and taste of her.
It takes awhile, but you suddenly come to your senses and grab her by the upper arms, forcing her away at arm’s length.
Dilated pupils, rapid pulsebeat beneath your fingertips. “You…you took something,” you say, astounded. “What was it?”
“Speed,” she says matter-of-factly (just the way you talk about your own addictions). She looks up at you and licks her lips.
Christ. You want her, but you know better. “Then that means we can’t do this,” You say firmly. Whatever this is.
“Yes, we can,” she insists. She tries to lean in, but there’s nothing wrong with your arms and you’re able to hold her away this time. “C’mon, House, don’t wimp out on me now.”
It pisses you off to be called a wimp, but your logical side wins out. “You’re on speed, Cameron. You’re not in your right mind. It wouldn’t be right to take advantage.” Funny, if anyone’s taking advantage, it’s her. You’re the one who got pounced on, the one who’s being pinned to the wall right now. If you didn’t want this so bad, you might be tempted to cry rape. The thought amuses you in a twisted way.
“I knew you’d react like this,” she says. She lets go of you, and starts digging in her pockets. Jacket pockets, then jean pockets.
You watch her, bemused. As these things often do, random thoughts pop into your brain and then out your mouth. “How did you get here, anyways? Don’t tell me Little Miss Responsible drove here high as a kite.” You know it’s a defense, but not against her. Against yourself. Because that one passionate kiss is already making you want more, despite your earlier words. It’s like potato chips, you can never have just one.
“Cab,” she replies succinctly, but she’s frustrated. Whatever she’s looking for, she hasn’t found it yet.
“Let me call you one to take you home,” you say firmly, and it’s as much to yourself as to her.
“Wait, I found it!” She pulls a piece of crumpled paper from the front pocket of your shirt and hands it to you.
You take it, eying her cautiously in case she’s going to pounce on you again. She shifts from foot to foot, agitated, but she stands her ground while you read the note.
You still have the note, in fact. You get up from the couch, ignoring the television still, and cross to the piano. The note is in the piano bench, right at the bottom, under a bunch of musical scores you keep telling yourself you'll make the time to learn.
It’s brief but to the point.
House,
I wrote this before I took the meth. I want to live, and I want you to help me. Don’t use the fact I’m high as an excuse. I’m giving you permission.
Allison
You remember thinking, just as you did then, that she knew you pretty well.
You read the note, then stare at her. “It doesn’t matter that you wrote this when you were sober,” you say firmly. You’re not sure if you’re saying this more to her, or to yourself. “You’re drugged now, there’s consent issues now.”
She shakes her head and steps towards you again. “I knew you’d say that. That’s why I wrote the note. Point is, I came over here of my free will. Nobody’s forcing me to be here. Not even the meth.” She pauses, watches you. “And the other thing is, you want me.”
It’s all true, and it’s not like you expect her to press charges against you anyway. Even for taking advantage. Would you be taking advantage of her? Or is she taking advantage of you?
It’s no longer quite so obvious, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t want to let anyone else in. “I don’t want you,” you rasp, lying.
She laughs, and you realize you’ve never heard her like that, so uninhibited. “Liar,” she says, fondly. She takes two more steps forward, chest-to-chest with you, and curls her hand firmly around the very evident bulge in your jeans. “This says otherwise.”
You knock her hand away, but not as hard as you could. “Doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t be right. And didn’t you yourself say I do things because they’re right?”
She shakes her head. “I did say that. But I know now I was wrong. You don’t do things because they’re right - you do them because they interest you. Distract you. Don’t I interest you?”
Cameron slides her coat off, and starts to unbutton her shirt.
You should stop this, throw her coat over her shoulders and shove her out the door. Turn your back and call her another cab. Or call Wilson and somehow get his help to get her under control and back to her apartment where she belongs.
But you don’t. Because she’s right, you are interested. By the time she’s down to her underwear and slinking towards you, you’ve lost all will to resist.
You let the note and the cane drop, and wrap your arms around her, meeting her eager mouth with yours.
Fuck resisting. You’ve never been good at turning down pleasurable sensations, be it drugs, alcohol, gambling, whatever. You’ll deal with the negatives in the morning.
There’s a lot of kissing and groping. There’s a lot of Cameron - Allison - naked and soft and begging to be explored, and you oblige. She’s got your pants open and her hand down the front, stroking your cock with abandon, even as her tongue thrusts suggestively into your mouth. You caress her, slipping your fingers over her shoulders and arms, dipping into the cups of her bra, until she undoes it and throws it across the room.
She tears at your t-shirt, but she’s so impatient and rough that you lose your balance. Still being nice, even high, she tries to prevent your fall but you both wind up on the hardwood floor.
She doesn’t apologize, though - now that’s unlike her - she just finishes yanking your shirt off. Your thigh is angry, it didn’t like the high-velocity impact with the floor, but there’s a set of bare nipples in front of you, and you’ve always been a breast man. That takes precedence. You pull her into your lap on her back, so you can lean down and suck one pink tip hard into your mouth. She squirms and moans and digs her hand into your jeans again.
You tease her nipples until she can’t take it anymore. She surprises you by pushing you down onto your back, tearing your jeans open all the way, and taking you deep into her mouth. You curse and almost come right then and there, it’s such a sensual shock to your system. Sweet little Cameron, sucking on your cock like a pro on the floor in the middle of your front hallway, and there’s a kind of twisted beauty to the moment.
She’s really good at this, quickly picking up on what motions of her tongue and hands make you twitch violently and moan loudest. You wonder if it’s the meth or if she’s always this attentive to her bedmate’s needs.
Her tongue rubs slickly around the head of your cock, and her hand starts to caress your aching balls, and that’s it. You explode. It’s almost worthy of all the money-shots you’ve watched on video and online over the years.
She licks you off the corner of her mouth and her fingers, and winks at you saucily. She chuckles and starts to say something, but you sit up abruptly and cut her off with a kiss. Conversation is bad, conversation will slow things down enough for you to question this, and you don’t want to.
You somehow manage to drag her into your bedroom. You snatch a bottle off the night table and dry-swallow two Vicodin, and then you shove her down onto the bed and snatch her panties down off her hips and legs.
You spread her thighs wide, feasting on her with your eyes first. You push your face into her, licking and sucking on her swollen folds, concentrating on her clit, concentrating on her pleasure so that you won’t have the leisure to step back and wonder what the fuck the two of you are doing.
She comes quick and hard when you rub her clit hard in circles with your thumb, and you don’t know if it’s the meth or your studly performance or the fact she hasn’t gotten any in awhile (or some combination of all of the above). There’s some condoms in the top drawer of the night table, still left over from your last ‘romantic encounter’, and you grab one. In the back of your mind, you still remember the HIV exposure that started this whole crazy sequence of events.
Despite the Vicodin you’re tired and sore, so you roll over and pull Cameron on top of you. She doesn’t need to you to draw her a map, thank God.
It’s hard and fast, and quite the show. She’s got her head thrown back, squeezing her own nipples, stabbing you into her heat with rough strokes. You reach for her clit again, rubbing it, wanting to watch her flush and shake and come all over again. Soon to follow with your own mind-melting explosion.
You turn the note over and over in your hands. It hadn’t been so bad the next morning. She’d been pretty slow and sluggish, thanks to the meth. So she hadn’t said much, just put her clothes on and let you make her some coffee. You’d told her to take the day off, and called her a cab.
By the time she came back to work, you’d decided it was best to distance yourself. That she deserved better than an old cripple with a drug problem, who had taken advantage of her when she was high.
So when she approached you in private in your office, you’d let her know that it was a mistake and that you were sorry. That it wouldn’t happen again. When she tried to get a word in edgewise, you’d either cut her off or limped away. Or both.
And in public, you made a big show of acting as if her HIV scare was worthy of disdain. You joked about it to the rest of the team, and to Wilson and Cuddy. You didn’t think about how it might hurt Cameron.
You just told yourself it was better for all concerned. When she seemed to accept it, to become more confident, even to snark back at you, you told yourself that you were relieved and that it was better this way. And even when she used the excuse of the blood test to kiss you, you didn’t let her seduce you this time. Didn’t let her take things any further.
Somehow, however, you were still blindsided when she resigned. You hadn’t expected that. Chase deserved firing, Foreman gave plenty of warning, but Cameron? Somehow you thought she’d still stick around, despite the distance and the barriers you’d put up. You wonder sometimes if what you really wanted was for her to come over and force the issue again (preferably without meth this time).
The truth is, you miss all of them. It’s fun to torment the new army of fellows, but it’s hollow at the same time. They were your team, and now they’re gone.
But it’s still mostly about her. She’d had the balls you never did, to try to take things to another level.
And now it’s too late.
FIN
Crossposted to AO3
Author:
starhawk2005
Date: October 2007
Pairing: House/Cameron.
Rating: Adult (18+). Just say NO to drugs, kids.
Summary: How I think the meth!sex scene in S2 should have gone…with Chase nowhere in sight.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. I only own the dirty thoughts I have about them. Until the Thought Police come for me, anyhow.
Beta: Many thanks and chocolate chip cookies to the ravishing
katakombs.
Written in response to the tenth smut!challenge at the House/Cameron Smut-A-Thon comm.
The challenge was: to write a scene with House missing Cameron. It can be a fantasy he's having, memories of a past encounter with her, or just himself all alone missing her...
“You remind me of someone,” you’d said to the unnamed - not that you ever bother with names - ER doctor.
You remind me of Cameron, you’d almost added, but stopped yourself. Not because this new girl would probably have little idea who you were referring to, but because you didn’t want to say it out loud. You didn’t want to make it more real.
Not that this is unusual. Ever since the three of them left (were fired, quit, resigned), you’ve been ‘seeing’ them everywhere. You hear someone with an accent, you think of Chase. You see a black patient, you think of Foreman. You see caring female doctors, you think of Cameron.
Somehow, it’s the thoughts of Cameron that stay with you, though. That haunt you. That start the memories churning in your head.
Your thigh aches tonight, and you limp around your living room without your cane, too restless to sit at the piano or to cradle your new guitar in your hands and coax chords out of it. Instead, you grab the bottle of Scotch and lie down on your couch to see if there’s anything interesting on TiVo.
But the scene that plays out in front of your eyes has nothing to do with the boring drama playing out on the screen. It’s those memories, unfolding in your mind, replaying themselves behind your eyes, that hold your attention…
The call surprises you.
“I’m home, all alone,” she says.
“And why should I care?” you ask, grumpy.
“Because I’m tired of the games between us. I’m tired of waiting.” She says.
Something in her voice catches your attention, interests you, but you stall. That’s what you do. “You’re just saying that because you got sprayed in the face with HIV-infected blood today, and it’s making you question how you’ve been living your life.”
If that makes her falter, she doesn’t let you hear it in her voice. “If you want to know why,” she says archly, “You’ll need to come over.”
You don’t know what makes you say it, but you counter with: “Right. Make the cripple come running. Why don’t you come over here, if you’re so ‘tired of waiting’?” It’s a dare, and you should know better than to dare Allison Cameron, but you’re pretty sure she’ll chicken out.
There’s a pause, and you pump your fist silently in victory. House, 1, Cameron, 0.
“Fine,” she replies. You can’t tell what emotion she’s feeling, can’t read it from her voice. Then she hangs up.
You hang up yourself, sure that it’s over, that you’ve won the battle between you and Cameron for another day.
Two hours later, there’s a loud knocking at the door.
You curse, getting up off the couch. When you open the door, you’re only half surprised to see it’s her.
You try to play it cool. “Well, Dr. Cameron, fancy seeing you he-“
She pounces on you. Later, that’s how you think of it. At the time, it’s more than a bit startling.
She grabs you by the front of your shirt and pushes you until you’re pressed to the wall next to your front door (forgotten, it closes and locks the rest of the world out). Your leg protests, but you’re so startled you barely notice.
“What the-“ you start, but it’s cut off by Cameron tangling her fingers in your hair, dragging your head down, and pressing her lips to yours.
It’s been a long time. You don’t want to think about how long. So for a few moments, you actually give in, go with it. Her tongue is hot and much more eager and wicked than you would have predicted. You’re drowning in the scent and taste of her.
It takes awhile, but you suddenly come to your senses and grab her by the upper arms, forcing her away at arm’s length.
Dilated pupils, rapid pulsebeat beneath your fingertips. “You…you took something,” you say, astounded. “What was it?”
“Speed,” she says matter-of-factly (just the way you talk about your own addictions). She looks up at you and licks her lips.
Christ. You want her, but you know better. “Then that means we can’t do this,” You say firmly. Whatever this is.
“Yes, we can,” she insists. She tries to lean in, but there’s nothing wrong with your arms and you’re able to hold her away this time. “C’mon, House, don’t wimp out on me now.”
It pisses you off to be called a wimp, but your logical side wins out. “You’re on speed, Cameron. You’re not in your right mind. It wouldn’t be right to take advantage.” Funny, if anyone’s taking advantage, it’s her. You’re the one who got pounced on, the one who’s being pinned to the wall right now. If you didn’t want this so bad, you might be tempted to cry rape. The thought amuses you in a twisted way.
“I knew you’d react like this,” she says. She lets go of you, and starts digging in her pockets. Jacket pockets, then jean pockets.
You watch her, bemused. As these things often do, random thoughts pop into your brain and then out your mouth. “How did you get here, anyways? Don’t tell me Little Miss Responsible drove here high as a kite.” You know it’s a defense, but not against her. Against yourself. Because that one passionate kiss is already making you want more, despite your earlier words. It’s like potato chips, you can never have just one.
“Cab,” she replies succinctly, but she’s frustrated. Whatever she’s looking for, she hasn’t found it yet.
“Let me call you one to take you home,” you say firmly, and it’s as much to yourself as to her.
“Wait, I found it!” She pulls a piece of crumpled paper from the front pocket of your shirt and hands it to you.
You take it, eying her cautiously in case she’s going to pounce on you again. She shifts from foot to foot, agitated, but she stands her ground while you read the note.
You still have the note, in fact. You get up from the couch, ignoring the television still, and cross to the piano. The note is in the piano bench, right at the bottom, under a bunch of musical scores you keep telling yourself you'll make the time to learn.
It’s brief but to the point.
House,
I wrote this before I took the meth. I want to live, and I want you to help me. Don’t use the fact I’m high as an excuse. I’m giving you permission.
Allison
You remember thinking, just as you did then, that she knew you pretty well.
You read the note, then stare at her. “It doesn’t matter that you wrote this when you were sober,” you say firmly. You’re not sure if you’re saying this more to her, or to yourself. “You’re drugged now, there’s consent issues now.”
She shakes her head and steps towards you again. “I knew you’d say that. That’s why I wrote the note. Point is, I came over here of my free will. Nobody’s forcing me to be here. Not even the meth.” She pauses, watches you. “And the other thing is, you want me.”
It’s all true, and it’s not like you expect her to press charges against you anyway. Even for taking advantage. Would you be taking advantage of her? Or is she taking advantage of you?
It’s no longer quite so obvious, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t want to let anyone else in. “I don’t want you,” you rasp, lying.
She laughs, and you realize you’ve never heard her like that, so uninhibited. “Liar,” she says, fondly. She takes two more steps forward, chest-to-chest with you, and curls her hand firmly around the very evident bulge in your jeans. “This says otherwise.”
You knock her hand away, but not as hard as you could. “Doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t be right. And didn’t you yourself say I do things because they’re right?”
She shakes her head. “I did say that. But I know now I was wrong. You don’t do things because they’re right - you do them because they interest you. Distract you. Don’t I interest you?”
Cameron slides her coat off, and starts to unbutton her shirt.
You should stop this, throw her coat over her shoulders and shove her out the door. Turn your back and call her another cab. Or call Wilson and somehow get his help to get her under control and back to her apartment where she belongs.
But you don’t. Because she’s right, you are interested. By the time she’s down to her underwear and slinking towards you, you’ve lost all will to resist.
You let the note and the cane drop, and wrap your arms around her, meeting her eager mouth with yours.
Fuck resisting. You’ve never been good at turning down pleasurable sensations, be it drugs, alcohol, gambling, whatever. You’ll deal with the negatives in the morning.
There’s a lot of kissing and groping. There’s a lot of Cameron - Allison - naked and soft and begging to be explored, and you oblige. She’s got your pants open and her hand down the front, stroking your cock with abandon, even as her tongue thrusts suggestively into your mouth. You caress her, slipping your fingers over her shoulders and arms, dipping into the cups of her bra, until she undoes it and throws it across the room.
She tears at your t-shirt, but she’s so impatient and rough that you lose your balance. Still being nice, even high, she tries to prevent your fall but you both wind up on the hardwood floor.
She doesn’t apologize, though - now that’s unlike her - she just finishes yanking your shirt off. Your thigh is angry, it didn’t like the high-velocity impact with the floor, but there’s a set of bare nipples in front of you, and you’ve always been a breast man. That takes precedence. You pull her into your lap on her back, so you can lean down and suck one pink tip hard into your mouth. She squirms and moans and digs her hand into your jeans again.
You tease her nipples until she can’t take it anymore. She surprises you by pushing you down onto your back, tearing your jeans open all the way, and taking you deep into her mouth. You curse and almost come right then and there, it’s such a sensual shock to your system. Sweet little Cameron, sucking on your cock like a pro on the floor in the middle of your front hallway, and there’s a kind of twisted beauty to the moment.
She’s really good at this, quickly picking up on what motions of her tongue and hands make you twitch violently and moan loudest. You wonder if it’s the meth or if she’s always this attentive to her bedmate’s needs.
Her tongue rubs slickly around the head of your cock, and her hand starts to caress your aching balls, and that’s it. You explode. It’s almost worthy of all the money-shots you’ve watched on video and online over the years.
She licks you off the corner of her mouth and her fingers, and winks at you saucily. She chuckles and starts to say something, but you sit up abruptly and cut her off with a kiss. Conversation is bad, conversation will slow things down enough for you to question this, and you don’t want to.
You somehow manage to drag her into your bedroom. You snatch a bottle off the night table and dry-swallow two Vicodin, and then you shove her down onto the bed and snatch her panties down off her hips and legs.
You spread her thighs wide, feasting on her with your eyes first. You push your face into her, licking and sucking on her swollen folds, concentrating on her clit, concentrating on her pleasure so that you won’t have the leisure to step back and wonder what the fuck the two of you are doing.
She comes quick and hard when you rub her clit hard in circles with your thumb, and you don’t know if it’s the meth or your studly performance or the fact she hasn’t gotten any in awhile (or some combination of all of the above). There’s some condoms in the top drawer of the night table, still left over from your last ‘romantic encounter’, and you grab one. In the back of your mind, you still remember the HIV exposure that started this whole crazy sequence of events.
Despite the Vicodin you’re tired and sore, so you roll over and pull Cameron on top of you. She doesn’t need to you to draw her a map, thank God.
It’s hard and fast, and quite the show. She’s got her head thrown back, squeezing her own nipples, stabbing you into her heat with rough strokes. You reach for her clit again, rubbing it, wanting to watch her flush and shake and come all over again. Soon to follow with your own mind-melting explosion.
You turn the note over and over in your hands. It hadn’t been so bad the next morning. She’d been pretty slow and sluggish, thanks to the meth. So she hadn’t said much, just put her clothes on and let you make her some coffee. You’d told her to take the day off, and called her a cab.
By the time she came back to work, you’d decided it was best to distance yourself. That she deserved better than an old cripple with a drug problem, who had taken advantage of her when she was high.
So when she approached you in private in your office, you’d let her know that it was a mistake and that you were sorry. That it wouldn’t happen again. When she tried to get a word in edgewise, you’d either cut her off or limped away. Or both.
And in public, you made a big show of acting as if her HIV scare was worthy of disdain. You joked about it to the rest of the team, and to Wilson and Cuddy. You didn’t think about how it might hurt Cameron.
You just told yourself it was better for all concerned. When she seemed to accept it, to become more confident, even to snark back at you, you told yourself that you were relieved and that it was better this way. And even when she used the excuse of the blood test to kiss you, you didn’t let her seduce you this time. Didn’t let her take things any further.
Somehow, however, you were still blindsided when she resigned. You hadn’t expected that. Chase deserved firing, Foreman gave plenty of warning, but Cameron? Somehow you thought she’d still stick around, despite the distance and the barriers you’d put up. You wonder sometimes if what you really wanted was for her to come over and force the issue again (preferably without meth this time).
The truth is, you miss all of them. It’s fun to torment the new army of fellows, but it’s hollow at the same time. They were your team, and now they’re gone.
But it’s still mostly about her. She’d had the balls you never did, to try to take things to another level.
And now it’s too late.
FIN
Crossposted to AO3