It was the late, tangerine afternoon; warming, pastel streaks of golds and ambers smudged the dying sky as an ominous moon ironically crept from its slumber, rising with the equivalent speed of the sun's descent.
Cruel, unrelenting night loomed overhead as the afternoon would slowly slink away in shame until the earth would fully spin on its axis yet again, an unseen performance that seemed no more complex than the rapid clockwise motion of a surgical drill. As it happens once daily, vice publicly triumphs over virtue as the righteous, brilliant sun dims and the moon, like a light switch, automatically lights up with an equivalent, yet contradictory glow. Although these opinions are strongly based on the outlook of man. One man, perhaps.
It was simple enough; the sun was truth, diligence, worthy pride, and ever the optimist, the moon was cleanly a bastard. A dolorous, venomous bastard that would prove that sympathy was appropriate only when sympathy was expedient.
Day.
Night.
Day was a safehouse, a haven even. Night was pain and lust; secrets kept and rarely told. And as the thin strand that kept night from reigning supreme, two figures, insignificant and unaware, stretched the strand to its limits, and night fell.
They moved as a lethargic blur, legs tangled, beads of perspiration running loose into their tired eyes, wiping themselves clean of reason and pitiful morals. Night was lust, but hell, no one ever said lust had to involve love or intimate feelings. In fact, the pair's reactions to one another's touch were so cold and callous that the friction running between them and beneath them could not have been the result of any more than a sick, spontaneous event made to satisfy their desires simply for the sake of satisfying their desires.
It was almost robotic.
There's nothing else to it, no strings attatched, mused the man, despite the shooting pain crawling up his leg, once again signaling his lack of consideration of the possible (and likely) negative outcome.
Although, the younger woman, hopeful and pining, kept her clandestine, and at one point, professed, feelings in shallow water, mimicking the man before her in his careless, starving motion. She moved against him, her mouth lingering over his powerfully, in the most desperately emotionless way (she hoped). Her gentle lips cruised over the rough surface of his skin as his unshaven chin brushed against her. Not once had either one spoken or muttered a single word whenever they found themselves distressed and alone. Not a single word.
Even angels would deny these incidents as feats of affectionate longing.
Whether it was an accidental tangle in the web of fate or merely coincidental that the two were, more often than not, finding themselves alone in on-call rooms and supply closets, the man, a dejected, standoffish cripple, mused that God had collaborated with Santa Claus toward making his life a living hell because he was more than certain that he was on the both of their naughty lists for life.
The two of them still fully clothed, save the diagnostician's leather jacket that had been discarded carelessly underneath the gurney they were sprawled on top of, the uniquely attractive male shot the woman a pointed gaze, his dangerously beautiful, intimidating blue eyes looking upward towards her as the angle of his face remained fallen.
It cut straight through the core of her being, his stare, and she nervously pondered whether she would be able to refrain from grabbing him and pressing his tempting frame against her body entirely, groping against him in pure ecstasy, if he would allow.
Screw reason, she reflected and forcefully pressed one hand against his firm lower back and one around the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, ridding them of any proximity in-between.
It was an impulse when he responded before her, his masculine senses reacting to the feel of another woman after such a lonely while.
He crushed his mouth onto hers, kissing her harder this time and forcing his tongue to enter her mouth greedily. The man, a renowned diagnostician and overall desperado, groaned hungrily as he explored the lack of consciousness that he was finding himself lost within as he grazed the delicate features of the fervent woman pressed underneath him. It was an intriguing but electrifying realization, and he had never failed to embrace a challenge, let alone back down from one. Why change a good thing?
The man was much taller than she was; his impressive, slumped frame gave him a mystifyingly formidable aura that most logical people hinted as a reason to keep their distance. But terrifying as his presence might be, the young doctor had to admit, the man had a way with his hands; long, lean, and skilled, sparking just about every sensation in the younger doctor's body.
She closed her eyes and let out a timid cry, his name creeping from her lips almost inaudibly. A knowing, tingling rush leapt through the woman's fingertips.
Every ounce of strength and dignity fell upon the shoulders of her next move.
As Gregory House firmly pressed her against a chilling wall in the vacant on-call room, Allison Cameron allowed her hands, like eager spiders, to caress his chest with the most craving activity as she made to undo the cruel, secretive fastens of his cotton navy shirt.
HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE
A/N: Well, well, weeeell... how was it? This is my first ever House fic so feedback is almost like a necessity!! I can't really say whether its OOC yet since all House and Cam did was make-out and whatever. But anyways, I'd reallllly love to hear what everyone thinks since I'm most likely going to continue this fic. The actual storyline comes after some confessions and questions are addressed.
I'm such a huge supporter of House/Cameron that it's almost disgusting. Well actually, I lied. It is disgusting.
P.S. House is © to Fox, David Shore, etc.