Fandom: House MD
Pairing: Cameron/Chase/Cuddy (and all permutations of that)
Challenge/Prompt: 100moods, 017. Confused
Copyright: “Spark” by Tori Amos (because there was no fucking way I was going to attempt to write this without her)
Summary: It’s Cameron/Chase/Cuddy. Because I think I’m the only one fucking crazy enough to write it.
Author’s Notes: Because karaokegal told me to, only did it in such a way that it sounded like it was my own idea. IT DOESN’T WORK. I’ll say that now. THIS THREESOME DOESN’T WORK. I can’t make it even vaguely in character. But, this is my attempt at making it work. (Mostly written late at night.) You know, if I could write R-rated fanfiction it wouldn’t matter. There could be basic sex and then that would be it. But I can’t. So. Read at your peril.
(You say you don’t want it again and again)
You think about laughing, and you don’t, because it’s too late for laughter and an entirely inappropriate time too. There are too many things in this room that shouldn’t be happening and too many complications and so you just stand there quietly and bite your fingernails, because there’s a distinct lack of anything else to bite here. Maybe one or two of Cuddy’s pens. Or hairgrips. Nothing anyone will appreciate you biting. Your mouth doesn’t really appreciate you biting it either. Your lips hurt and they sting a little from the alcohol you’ve been drinking. It’s awkward. Everything. The silence. The dark. The angle of Cuddy’s fingers on your shoulders, digging in a little but not enough to hurt. You think you must look terrified. You’re not sure if you feel it. It’s confusing too, not just awkward. It’s a lot of things.
Cuddy’s fingers dig in a little harder and you take your hand away from your mouth and raise your eyes to look at hers, blue and wide and with an edge of something you’re not sure you want to read.
“Chase,” she says softly, sort of a question, sort of a warning, sort of a definition of the last point where you can turn back. But you’ve never turned back before.
“Yes,” you whisper, like you do every time.
(But you don’t really mean it)
You can’t breathe, not at all. Chase’s fingers tangle in your hair and your breath just evaporates, and you get dizzy. Light-headed. As always. He doesn’t say Allison and you don’t say Robert simply because that’s not at all what it’s about. It’s not about meth or love or lust or House or anything; it’s about the gratification. As ever. You dig your fingernails into his back and your mouths connect desperately and his skin is warm against yours as his hands slide down your back and unhook your bra, pulling back to slide it off entirely, palms warm as he cups your breasts. It’s convenience. It’s need. It’s not love and you used to think it would have to be entirely about love before you let yourself do this. You’ve learned better. You don’t even need to have an emotional attachment.
It’s Chase for God’s sake.
But it doesn’t matter, because this is what you do whenever you need it or he needs it, because it gets lonely in diagnostics and you both take what you can get where you can get it. You’re sure you didn’t use to be like this. Perhaps you always were and it all it took were cruel men with blue eyes to show you the truth. You melt into Chase’s touch as his lips kiss softly down your neck (always so gentle) and decide that perhaps thinking is overrated.
(You say you don’t want it)
“God,” you moan, head tipping back, fingers gripping the edge of the desk, eyes clenched shut. “Oh God, please.”
Cuddy looks up at you, a smirk twisting her mouth.
“Do you have a problem, Dr Chase?” she asks, and you pretend that the word ‘Dr’ doesn’t send a jolt of hunger straight to your groin. You really don’t need any more down there as it is. Especially as Cuddy is taking her time, teasing you, lips barely touching your cock before drawing back to laugh at your need. Her laughter is becoming increasingly breathy, though, today’s lilac skirt riding up her thighs to reveal a ladder in her pantyhose and her dark hair messy around her shoulders. Her eyes are bright and for a few perfect moments it becomes really, really clear why you’re having sex with your boss on a regular basis.
Quite why she wants you is a completely different matter entirely, and not one you really want to think about. Her nails ghost up your thighs and she gives you another one of those wicked grins that make you wonder quite why she needs J-Date (ok, you have got to stop listening to House) before she bends down again, mouth warm against your skin, and you go back to whispering oh, oh God.
(This circus we’re in)
It only happens on Sundays. You can’t work out whether the two of you are comparing notes or if this is some kind of female equivalent of a pissing contest. Whatever it is, you whisper about Chase’s fingers on your skin while your own fingers trace Cuddy’s body, soft and certain and not shaking, not like they do with Chase. Maybe it’s a girl thing. And maybe you just shouldn’t be thinking like that. But whatever it is, on Sunday when you both have time, you end up in Cuddy’s bed with the too-many soft sheets and all sorts of touches and it’s strange that this doesn’t bother you.
With three of her fingers inside you you’re not thinking about Chase any more and it’s never a case of choosing between Cuddy and Chase (you’re not even sure if you could- they’re both needs of a different sort), it’s just about you and Cuddy and Sunday afternoons and sunlight and blinds and kisses and something else that heals you from a long week at work where everybody dies (or, sorry, should that be ‘lies’?) and the boundaries shift and blur and don’t form proper lines because everybody can cross them.
It’s not like you haven’t tried to cross them yourself enough times.
(But you don’t really mean it)
Your fingers twist a biro between them, seconds from snapping the plastic, and you recite all sorts of diseases that could sort of match the patient’s symptoms. Cameron looks tired and she’s drinking lots and lots of coffee but not in a manner obvious enough for House to make a remark on it (yet). You run your tongue over your teeth and concentrate on the biro and run out of words.
“Well, I see we’d better start saving up for a funeral wreath,” House mutters, tapping a board marker against the metal frame of the whiteboard. The sound makes you feel all headachey and from the looks on Cameron and Foreman’s faces they feel the same. “What do you guys think? Lilies? Or is that too predictable?”
You imagine Foreman saying something angry because you’re too passive and because Cameron never would. Instead, you mutter something about labs and testing and tumours and stuff, and brush your fingers against Cameron’s shoulder as you walk past, a moment of almost solidarity.
(How many fates turn around in the overtime?)
Cuddy’s lips crush yours and you take it because although it isn’t Sunday you like it too much to try and make her stop. The work lines are blurring and fading again and her hand creeps around your hip, warm and safe. Your own fingers push her skirt up her thigh, the silky smooth of her pantyhose soft under your hand. Cuddy’s tongue curls around yours and she pulls you closer. It’s late and under normal circumstances you would be turning to Chase for this, not Cuddy. Your routine is messed up and you think about this for a moment.
“Allison,” Cuddy murmurs. Do you call each other by first names? You can’t remember. You manage to open your eyes and focus properly. Cuddy gently strokes your hair back. “Do you want to go and find him?”
“He’s working,” you say inanely, because you have a sudden image of Chase and Cuddy and you and it’s not something you’d ever wanted before or even considered and now there’s a growing heat all over your skin.
“I’m his boss,” Cuddy points out. You consider this for another long, long moment, blushing. And then you nod and Cuddy takes your hand and you walk through the hospital to the Diagnostics department.
(Ballerinas all have fins that you’ll never find)
You look at them, fingers intertwined, identical grins on their faces, and try to work out whether this is an interesting development that happened when you started sleeping with both of them, or if it was some weird, bisexual master plan all along. You do realise, though, that whichever way the cookie crumbles, you’re never going to know. You’re the pawn here. They’re beautiful, powerful women hell-bent on- Oh God. Shouldn’t they be doing this to someone else? Shouldn’t Cuddy be dangling her car keys in front of someone else’s face?
It occurs to you that why aren’t I House? is perhaps not the best thing to say in this situation.
And then, of course, you find that you don’t actually have anything to say in this conversation. It never occurred to you that something like this would happen, oddly enough.
“Um.” You know that this is an incredibly bad idea. On the other hand, you are very good at incredibly bad ideas. Besides, this is something House will find it impossible to top- unless he calls Stacy back from whichever circle of hell it was that he sent her to. And then you swiftly push away the mental image of House smothered by Cameron and Cuddy and Stacy, and take the car keys from Cuddy’s hand.
(You thought that you were the bomb-)
Chase drives, hands trembling on the steering wheel of Cuddy’s very very nice silver car, while the two of you sit in the back. Cuddy unties your hair and you watch Chase watching you in the rear view mirror as lips crush together and the car weaves a little. You sort of like the idea that you could die right now if Chase’s arousal crashes you all into a truck or something, but you cross your legs tight against a wet throb of need anyway. You should be at home right now watching Law and Order reruns. Cuddy’s teeth graze your ear. You can’t breathe. You shift against the inseam of your pants and your fingers must leave bruises on her arms. Every inch of you is begging to be touched.
“Please,” Chase whispers, and it sounds more like an exhale than a word. You feel like a child even though you’re the one who’s supposed to be doing the controlling. Cuddy knows why you’re all there. Chase is happy enough to go along with it. And you- you’re dizzy and drowning and Cuddy’s hand is sliding up your thigh and you’re so wet and you don’t want to do this and oh fuck you do.
(Yes, well so did I)
You- you’re really- you have no idea why this is happening. But you didn’t crash the car. Just about. It was a near-miss a couple of times, what with Cameron and Cuddy making out in the backseat, but you can excuse yourself that. You’re not dead, and that’s the main thing. That’s always the main thing. Cuddy has these predatory fingernails that will leave marks because she’s more about the paperwork and she has this manicure that could probably shear the skin from your bones if she wanted (you want her to. You want scratches tomorrow). Cameron has these soft little fingers and cut-short nails like you. But oh, the way she bruises-
You flush as you remember House poking curiously around this bedroom, pulling out Cuddy’s underwear and enquiring about her tampons and other things he shouldn’t have been doing. And you went along with it but now you’re all tangled up in that bed with Cameron mostly on your chest biting at your mouth which is sort of like a kiss and it isn’t. That doesn’t matter. You’re both used to that part. The part you’re not so used to is the part where there’s a Cuddy as well. Lisa, you should probably call her, but it’s strange. She’s your boss and Cameron is your colleague and you’re all naked in a big bed in a tangle of mouths and hands and probable confusion.
You’re not drunk. You feel you should be. Perhaps this would all make sense (because, honestly, since when have Cameron and Cuddy been sleeping together? You get that this is slightly happening because Cuddy is bisexual and you’d never turn down the opportunity to sleep with two women and Cameron just wants to be touched and liked- but…).
Two mouths, two perfect, perfect mouths kiss their way down your chest, pausing occasionally to lick each other’s lips before returning to your body, and you tangle your fingers in two heads of dark hair and tip your head back and perhaps this really, really doesn’t need any kind of justification.
(Say you don’t want it- say you don’t want it)
You wake up in your own apartment and you feel dirty. You shower for about an hour until the water runs cold and you blush at the tiles as your fingers move over the marks on your skin (Chase’s teeth biting into your shoulder as his cock moves inside you; Cuddy’s hands tight on your hips, nails digging in, as her tongue slides over your clit). You wonder, vaguely, quite how you’re going to manage this; how you’re going to walk into the office with Chase knowing what you did because you couldn’t just close your legs, say I’m not that kind of girl and go home (to touch yourself in the shower, your own fingers inside you as you picture what you might have missed).
Your hands shake as you turn off the water, stepping out of the shower and pulling a towel around you, drying off your slick (tangled) hair for blow-drying. It’s still early (did you sleep? Maybe not. Although right now you can’t tell the difference between real life and dreams at the moment and my God the way Cuddy looked writhing underneath Chase with your mouth fastened to her neck biting her just the way she wanted.
You feel insane.
But you needn’t have worried. Cuddy smiles at you with an edge to the curve of her lips as she says “Good morning, Dr Cameron,” passing you in the corridor. Chase slides a cup of coffee across the table to you and winks when you can finally meet his eyes. House either doesn’t know or has decided to let things lie for the moment. You feel dizzy and confused and you really, really shouldn’t have done what you did. It was a mistake (and you’ll repeat that until you really believe it).
Will you do it again, though?