attitude: (flirt)
[personal profile] attitude
She doesn't say anything on the way back to her apartment. No sound offered save for the click of her heels and the rumble of her bike's engine, which dies as she neatly parks to one side of her reserved spot in the garage. Years of traveling across millions of miles, and never once has she invited a man back to her home, to an apartment she could arguably call hers and hers alone. There isn't any fear that stems from extending this invitation, no greater meaning that she's trying to surface.

It simply contrasts in its normalcy.

The lock clicks with a jangle of her keys, and Faye turns around, one hand groping for the handle as the other traces a line down the center of his jacket. Once he steps inside, he'll be able to see everything from her life on display, from case files for bounty heads strewn over the coffee table to evening dresses carefully draped over chairs in case of a sudden need.

Struck with a thought, Faye offers a small, amused grin.

"I'm Faye, by the way."

(no subject)

Date: 2013-09-20 01:13 am (UTC)
concluded: (thoughtful)
From: [personal profile] concluded
He breathes.

He steps in, filtering in the apartment around him, taking in out of the corner of his eye some laundry needing washed, takeout boxes in the trash, signs of a life either too busy for mundane chores or too filled with more interesting things. He sees the case files, knows immediately that she's an investigator of some kind. It isn't a far stretch to believe. She's perceptive, enough that she'd managed to crack House like a mirror.

Now she's got to deal with her bad luck.

Slipping his jacket off, he tosses it over the nearest piece of furniture, joined by his cane. He can get around the few rooms of an apartment, even a strange one, without. "House," he says, voice distracted, before he cups her face in both hands and kisses her again, like a long, deep drink of water. Something he's been wanting for a long time, something he hasn't had. It's clumsy passion, but not for lack of experience; only for lack of the finesse of detachment.

(no subject)

Date: 2013-09-20 02:01 am (UTC)
concluded: ('you look sad')
From: [personal profile] concluded
He hesitates, pulling away to study her face. His hands move to brush fingers along her ribs. Smooth; not a surgeon's hands, but the even, thin callouses of a musicin. They work down, over the planes of her belly. It's cool, from exposure to the air outside.

"Greg," he rasps, licking at his dry lips. "My name's Greg. But I don't use it."

Gripping her waist, he lifts her up and onto the corner of her bed. His leg may be damaged, but his upper body is all the stronger for the weakness below, and he's no small man.

(no subject)

Date: 2013-09-20 02:38 am (UTC)
concluded: (reading)
From: [personal profile] concluded
"Do what you want, then," House says; not as though he doesn't care, but as though he can't stop her. He can't, except by turning and leaving her apartment, and he is less ashamed of being Greg House than he is of being sent home alone, cold, horny and angry.

His hands slip away from her, moving hers out of the way to slip pants and briefs down over his hips and to his thighs, before stopping. He lifts her hands by the wrists, rests them against her chest, the fasten of her shirt between her breasts. Leaning forward for another kiss, as hungry as the first, he traps both their hands between their bodies. Even the darkness isn't enough to make him forget the scars. He isn't ready for her to see them.

"Condom," he says pointedly, "Lube. Unless you're interested in doing this some other way. I'm all ears. Actually, I'm pretty sure I'm all hands right now. But you know what I mean."

The joke is defensive, but not sarcastic, and not entirely uncaring.

(no subject)

Date: 2013-09-20 03:43 am (UTC)
concluded: (considering)
From: [personal profile] concluded
"Wait," he murmurs, voice half-strangled, as the heat of her lips touches against the anxious throb between his legs. He doesn't remember the last time a woman's done this -- to him, because she wanted to. As good as it feels, House can't forget the tremors running up his side, warnings of weakness in his leg, threatening to buckle from please.

"Wait," he says again, voice angrier this time. Annoyed with himself. He rolls away from her, onto her bed, where he sits heavily on the edge of it, one hand cradling his head and rubbing away a threatening headache, as the other gropes for her chest. Finds it. Strokes up under her shirt to find a firm, young breast.

"I can't stand. I can't ... " He doesn't want her kneeling there on her knees either, and uses the spread of his palm to work up over her shoulder and pull her forward, over his chest. On top of him.

(no subject)

Date: 2013-09-28 06:56 am (UTC)
concluded: (irritated)
From: [personal profile] concluded
Her hands are soft and well-manicured, young and graceful with sharp long nails, dark with lacquer and bare;y scraping against his skin, crisp when they brush through the wiry hair on his chest and follow his arms down their length. He isn't unconfident, and hardly unskilled, but he hasn't been with a woman quite this young in months or more, and everything about her puts everything about him in relief.

She lets go of his hands, and his fingers work quickly at her buttons, not with renewed confidence, but with desperate energy. He wants to hold onto it as long as he's able.

He sits up, gripping her hips and tracing the outline of the bone under them with his thumbs. "Do you know how lucky you are?" he asks, mouthing at the delicate skin and structure of her collarbone, feeling the strength of her pulse there against his tongue.

(no subject)

Date: 2013-09-28 07:39 am (UTC)
concluded: (irritated)
From: [personal profile] concluded
"You're lucky because you're young," House says, breathy as his head moves from her collar to her long neck, the throb there an answer to the throb and damp, curling heat there. He bites, tastes the salt of her skin between his teeth, without asking permission.

"You have a good excuse for treasuring your life. But if I wanted to read you, I would. People aren't as complicated as they like to portray themselves as in fiction. Nobody is. Everyone's simple."

He curls two fingers between her legs with a sigh, slipping in, still dry, to scratch blunt, short nails against the velvet softness there.

"Different shades of simple."

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Faye Valentine

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