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Deconstructing the Bang
by Laura
Deconstructing the Bang
Disclaimer: Not mine, I'm just sexing them up a bit.
Rating: NC17
Feedback: Okay.
Summary: Read the title and disclaimer.
She felt like taking Foreman out to lunch, getting him drunk, and then fucking him the back seat of her nicely affordable sedan. It wouldn't be Chase because his Dutch boy haircut really annoyed her and she imagines he'd be more interesting in fucking himself. Wilson was never really an option. Disregarding the fact that he's married, she thinks he'd end up loving her to some extent and she already has one brother. Then there's House. She's seen his hands and he'd leave her raw in more ways than one. The next day she'd feel him in marks on her skin and aches when she walked. And she would love it.
He'd been staring at her all day. It wasn't just staring; it was as though he was trying to fuck her with his eyes. She'd get goose bumps, a tightening low in her gut, and some clenching of severely underused muscles.
Her job isn't exactly conducive to any sort of love life but she'd like to remember what it's like to absolutely trust someone to break her apart while she's watching through the skin of her eyelids.
She was in the middle of imagining a scenario in which she'd have a mouthful of his shoulder when he walked into the room. She glanced at her watch and realized she had been going through his mail for almost two hours.
"Aren't you finished with that yet? A man with one hand would've been done by now."
She looks up from the unsorted pile of mail. His tone had been all business but the look in his eye suggested nothing of a work environment. Her nipples harden under his gaze and she adjusts her lab coat so he doesn't notice. The material brushes across her breasts while she's tightening it around herself and she decides to leave well enough alone.
"What about a man with one leg?" she replies.
He smirks and walks closer to the desk.
"Just finish that. If you don't I may have to keep you after school and show you what real doctors do."
He made it halfway to the door.
"You've got me shivering in my pristine white lab coat," she counters.
He turns around, walks right up to her, and leans into her personal space.
"Judging by the current state of your nipples, I'm sure I can have you shivering out of a lab coat, too."
He heads once again towards the door and she stares at his retreating figure, deliberating centers of balance and how one manages to become aroused sorting mail.
The next time he finds her she's eating lunch while reading a medical journal's article on encephalitis. He sits down in front of her with a sandwich and half empty can of Coke.
"That's bullshit."
She sighs and puts down the journal.
"Is that how you say hello?"
"I don't waste time making sure people are pleased to see me," he says.
"I'd love to see the numbers on that."
He glares at her, puts his cane on the table between them and picks up his sandwich.
"That article is recycled from an even worse article from three years ago," he comments while staring at her chest.
"It's not-"
"And don't wear that shirt anymore," he stops to swallow, "just because I'm a doctor doesn't mean I want to see your breasts all the time."
She stands up and grabs her tray.
"You could look at my face when we speak." She tosses the journal at his chest; it lands on his lap. "Don't wear pants around me anymore. Then we'll be even."
As she leaves she circles around the table and trails a hand along his shoulders. Her touch leaves him rock hard, straining against the confines of his loose-fit jeans. More shocking was the fact he was also speechless.
He comes back from lunch late. No one says anything when he adjusts himself three times while talking about bone density and thoracic vertebrae. But when Cameron mentions encephalitis for no particular reason he curses (Fuck.) and leaves the room.
Fifteen minutes later he comes back into the room and immediately starts writing on the whiteboard. His hand is shaky as he writes and the hair at his temples is damp with sweat.
The hospital is almost empty by the time she's leaving for the night. She has the door to his office open when he runs into her. Literally. He was looking down while walking, didn't see her, and ended up slamming into her. He dropped his cane but managed his hands around her waist to keep her from falling. He smells too good for the bad thoughts she's been having and as she tries to move away from him he tightens his grip.
"I thought you left already," she attempts, trying to distract herself with meaningless conversation.
"The good porn doesn't come on until midnight. I have a few hours to kill."
He backs her into the wall behind the door. She lets him.
"I, uh ..."
He's hard against her waist. She'd kill for him.
"Uh oh," he whispers in a slight singsong voice.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a candy bar. King size. She'll kill him.
"Your body heat did some wicked things to my candy bar. It's melting."
He opens the candy bar and takes a bite.
"Want some?"
She's pissed off and very aroused. It's all the same thing to her body because she's wet and more than ready for him. Also, she doesn't care that they're in his office. The location makes her more excited.
"You're a bastard," she responds, snatching the candy bar from him.
She grabs the back of his head so he can't move and smears the candy bar along his jaw and underneath his mouth. Looking around, she sees the trashcan by his desk. The candy bar is tossed in the general direction of the trashcan. She turns his head to the side and licks the chocolate off of his face. Her tongue is hot and practically molds against his jaw. His grip tightens on her waist.
This time it's him and not a candy bar. She rubs her thigh against his erection. Then she turns them around and shoves him against the wall, pressing her body flush with his.
"You do like me," she whispers, snaking a hand underneath his shirt. She pinches his nipple until he winces.
He inhales quickly.
"What's a little more pain, House?"
She squirms against him and feels his erection hot and throbbing against her abdomen.
"You really like me. Don't worry, I like you too." She reaches down and squeezes him through his jeans, "Every inch."
She leaves quickly before she tears his clothes off and shows him the business end of his own cane. He manages to get into his office and sit down. Later he gets a headache and curses milk chocolate.
Afterwards, at home, sufficiently liquored and drugged up, he feels better. The lights are dim, which they always are, and Janis Joplin is wailing from his stereo, adamant that she needs `one good man'. Eyes closed, he's sitting in his favorite chair. Said chair is so comfortable he has the urge to confess after sitting in it.
"Hello."
He's hearing things. This is a new level of inebriation. Fascinating.
"Hey."
A hand is shaking his shoulder. Getting kind of scary. He opens his eyes.
"Didn't you hear me?"
It's Cameron. Who apparently does a little breaking and entering when she's not working? He isn't drunk enough to deal with this.
"You've already done the entering. Now just break something and you can be on your way."
She crosses her arms. If this were a dream she'd be pissed at him but also naked. She's wearing an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Huh. No dream.
"Dressed to impress?" he laughs.
"The door was unlocked," she replies, curtly.
"And you just walked through the door?"
"Yeah." She nods to the glass in his hand. "Are you done with that?"
He glances at the long ago empty tumbler in his hand. "Uh-"
"Good." She snatches it from him and throws it across the room.
His gaze follows its arc and ensuing violent contact with the floor. He grimaces when he hears fifteen dollars worth of glass shatter.
"I will never say you throw like a girl."
She shrugs and takes her t-shirt and bra off in a span of five seconds. Then she stands between his legs and reaches for his belt. He's not alarmed.
"You're very forward," he says. He slides a hand to the back of her head.
She looks up at him with a fistful of his pants and he's not in the mood for talking anymore. He bends at the knee somewhat awkwardly, shifting to the left to get his pants off quicker. The pants come off and she reaches for the hem of his shirt. She doesn't really try to take it off of him; she just pulls until she hears fabric tearing. He takes it from there, not wanting his clothes to turn into scraps. She takes off her remaining clothes so fast it makes him uncomfortable. He's always trying to catch up to her.
"Move." She steps around his clothes and gets on her knees in front of him.
As she leans forward hair covers her face while she runs her hands up his bare thighs. She rolls her eyes when she reaches his boxers; there's always something in the way. He lifts his hips to help her off with the boxers. His cock springs free of his underwear and almost hits her in the face. He laughs.
The laughter dies in his throat, more accurately her throat, when she runs her tongue along his length.
"Thank God," he says to his ceiling.
With an exaggerated swipe of her tongue she licks the moisture off of the tip of his cock, and then wraps a hand around him and takes him in her mouth. Her wrist starts to twist and turn, gliding in sync with her mouth and tongue while her breasts rise and fall against him with the movement.
"Slow down a minute, Flash." If she doesn't stop soon he's going to come and blow the head clean off of her shoulders.
She feels him firm in her mouth and stops moving. He sits up and pulls her to him by the cuff of her arm. She falls on top of him and the chair reclines. Nice. He leans forward and palms and squeezes her breasts, then lets go. His hands are replaced with his mouth as he trails his lips and tongue underneath and between them.
"Don't ever shave," she whispers before biting down on his collarbone.
She sits up to straddle his thighs and puts her hands flat on his chest. He's got a hand on her hip and one on his cock.
"Push up, I'm not an acrobat."
"Good to know you're consistently a prick," she says, trying to reach for him.
"I'm not here for a life lesson."
"Then stop talking for once-"
He slams into her as hard as he can and starts to thrust. She grunts loudly as her pelvis arches to meet him.
"I knew you'd be a screamer."
She leans down and kisses him, if for no other reason than to keep him from talking. His mouth opens up under her lips, and she's had him all this time.
The thrusts are getting more desperate; he's sticking to the leather chair and they're sticking to each other. She stops moving suddenly and her entire body goes rigid. His eyes are closed but he can feel how tense she is underneath his hands. His thrusts become long and exaggerated; she slips her arms around his neck, tucks her head into the crook of his shoulder, and braces herself, not moving a muscle.
"Come on," she urges against his neck.
He grabs her hips hard enough to bruise and replies with several grunted thrusts. The last one breaks her and his shoulder muffles her scream when she comes. Seconds later he's got stars on the insides of his eyelids and she's got five fingertip shaped bruises on both of her thighs. His arms drop to his sides as he tries to catch his breath.
"It's easier to breathe when someone isn't lying on top of you," he whispers into her hair.
"I didn't hear your dick complaining."
He chuckles.
"It was complaining, but happened to be in the back of your throat at the time. You probably didn't hear."
She kisses his collarbone but then pinches his side. "You left the toilet seat up four days this week."
"Yet the Earth spins on," he says, resting his hand on her lower back.
"We should probably get some sleep."
"Yeah," he looks at her, "we should probably do a lot of things."
"Probably."
That was the third glass she'd broken by launching into flight. She never offers to replace them because, after all, she's the one who bought them. They come in a set of six, so he's not worried.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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