Fic: Damaged (sunday_reveries)
Fandom: House/Fringe/Sherlock
Pairings: Cameron/Peter Bishop (pre-series); Cameron/Husband; Cameron/House; Cameron/Chase; Cameron/Sherlock Holmes
Rating: M
Summary: Cameron has sex.
Notes: I somehow wrote 1300 words using a name only once so this might be slightly confusing...hence the addition of titles for the italicized bits. Unnamed husband has been named Chris for ease. I've had it in my head that Peter and Cameron knew each other because JM was in 2 episodes of Dawson's Creek ( art). Cameron and Sherlock have an ongoing storyline (some links and follows this conversation).
Prompt: 1. "I'm terrified that I can't fix this. That this is just who I am."
--Olivia Dunham, Fringe
He was her first time, but she wasn't his. She was raised to care but she didn't. She wasn't married and this wasn't going to last and she didn't care about that, either. In fact, it made it better. This was their stolen moment, all they'd get so they had to give it all they got. Everything had this heightened sense of urgency and intensity and high romance and it didn't matter that it wasn't true because it felt true. It felt real and raw and she understood it. And he did, too. They'd talked about it once. He didn't talk very much but when he did it had that same sense of urgency and intensity. Like it really mattered to say it and it really mattered to listen, even if none of it made any sense.
They'd been drinking, which she also wasn't raised to do, and which she shouldn't do because it turned her father mean and she didn't want to be anything like her father. But he was drinking and she wanted to be like him and she wanted him to like her and it made her feel grown up. She was 17, what she did know about anything.
She was 17 and he was 20, just barely, and he even had a baby face, but he knew how to get what he wanted. She admired that trait, that ability to not only know his desires but to chase them. She wanted to bask in the glow of that confidence and she wanted it to light her up. She wanted him to want her.
They'd been drinking but she wasn't drunk. Not on alcohol at least. She was drunk on desire, on breaking rules and not caring, on being 17. He wasn't drunk, either, because he wanted to remember her. There was something real about her, something that grounded him. She reminded him of someone, with her blonde hair and her wide eyes and that way she stood with a strength she didn't even know she had because she wore vulnerability like a shield. She succeeded, he wanted her. And she didn't know that, either.
Peter
They were kissing, and tipsy, and giggling and she doesn't remember who slipped but they ended up on the floor. He laughed and tried to pull her up but she pulled him down instead. And suddenly they were fumbling with buttons and pushing clothes away and his hands were spreading her apart and she bit his ear. Tears sprung when he came inside her and she felt real.
It wasn't a relationship, it was a tryst. That's all he could give her and that's all she could take. But sex without love isn't sex without passion. It was all passion. Their stolen moment. Her first time.
--
He tired easily. The combination of illness and treatment wore him down and even when he didn't want to show it, he was too tired not to. And she was too observant not to notice. It's something he loved about her, that awareness of suffering. He loved it and he wished he could steal it from her. Banish her pain forever. That's what he wanted to give her, but he wasn't strong enough.
The wedding was perfect. One perfect day. Maybe that's all they got, maybe that's all anybody got. Whatever the truth, he was grateful for that day. He hoped she was, too. Hoped that when she looked back on that day it would be a gift. That's what he wanted to give her.
The honeymoon was short and quiet. He tired easily. They spent hours entwined in bed talking about everything and anything except the future they would never share. He ran his fingers through her dark hair and she listened to his heart beating, proving life. She clung to her white hot flame of self-sacrifice and he clung to her.
Chris
The morning sun poured through the curtains and patterns of light danced across her bare back. His hands were cold but gentle, too gentle, as he traced the light, pulling her closer, closer, closer. Never close enough. She pressed her body into his, giving, giving -- she closed her eyes and pretended he was someone else and they were somewhere else and this would all end differently. And she felt him release and drift away. She gave him pleasure. She made him happy. And she pulled away, curled into the pillow, and cried herself to sleep.
They lived knowing and held nothing back. And it hurt anyway so she learned to hold everything back.
--
It's easy to confuse sex with love. It's even taught that way. It's easy to use sex when what you want is love. It can be learned that way.
She wanted and it made her crazy. It made her feel and it was easier when she didn't. But she didn't want easy. Easy was easy. Anyone would do. Except when anyone becomes someone. Then it spirals quickly into hard.
She wanted him to like her.
She wanted it to light her up.
She wanted him to want her.
She wanted passion.
She wanted.
He didn't like her. He told her so. But everybody lies.
House
His hands slipped from her cheeks to her breasts and she let them. She welcomed them. She moved slowly, afraid to break the spell, tipping her body up to meet his. It was the end of a long day, another stolen moment born in mutual desire and mutual need. She pulled him away from the furniture and into her body. It was long and slow and there was as much pain as passion and as much desperation as desire. And under it all was the truth in the lie and a heartbeat proving life.
--
It wasn't a tryst and it should have been. It wasn't a relationship and it should have been. It should have been all passion. The wedding should have been perfect. That's what he wanted to give her, but he wasn't strong enough. But she didn't want perfect. She didn't want should. He never understood that.
Chase
He held her as if she might break. He held her as if she was the most important thing in the world. She'd never felt so loved, so special, not even on her first wedding night. And she hated it. She wanted him to throw her up against the wall. She wanted to run. She wanted to stop this feeling, this feeling, this overwhelming feeling. She turned her head down into his shoulders and closed her eyes and wondered why House wasn't at her wedding. The thought calmed her and she was able to let it go and fall into his embrace and let him love her the way he wanted to love her.
He understood her. He saw right through her. She wanted passion. She got love. She threw it back.
--
She'd read somewhere we spend our lives trying to get over our childhood. The thought was incongruous with the occasion but there it was.
He found her intriguing and that's more than interesting. He'd give her what she wanted and she didn't have to worry about falling for him because she already had. And he even knew it and didn't mind. It was probably intriguing or at least interesting. It was interesting to her. She thought she should be angry but she didn't want should and he understood that. He understood her. Or he wanted to. He wanted.
Sherlock
The planning of it all gave her a confidence bordering on impudence. It gave her both patience and playfulness. It lit up her eyes. It was almost as good as drugs. She was both cat and mouse in turns, advancing and retreating, but always in control. Until the climax when she became suddenly and oddly shy. But she kept her eyes wide open.
An intriguing experiment. Further exploration suggested.
Pairings: Cameron/Peter Bishop (pre-series); Cameron/Husband; Cameron/House; Cameron/Chase; Cameron/Sherlock Holmes
Rating: M
Summary: Cameron has sex.
Notes: I somehow wrote 1300 words using a name only once so this might be slightly confusing...hence the addition of titles for the italicized bits. Unnamed husband has been named Chris for ease. I've had it in my head that Peter and Cameron knew each other because JM was in 2 episodes of Dawson's Creek ( art). Cameron and Sherlock have an ongoing storyline (some links and follows this conversation).
Prompt: 1. "I'm terrified that I can't fix this. That this is just who I am."
--Olivia Dunham, Fringe
He was her first time, but she wasn't his. She was raised to care but she didn't. She wasn't married and this wasn't going to last and she didn't care about that, either. In fact, it made it better. This was their stolen moment, all they'd get so they had to give it all they got. Everything had this heightened sense of urgency and intensity and high romance and it didn't matter that it wasn't true because it felt true. It felt real and raw and she understood it. And he did, too. They'd talked about it once. He didn't talk very much but when he did it had that same sense of urgency and intensity. Like it really mattered to say it and it really mattered to listen, even if none of it made any sense.
They'd been drinking, which she also wasn't raised to do, and which she shouldn't do because it turned her father mean and she didn't want to be anything like her father. But he was drinking and she wanted to be like him and she wanted him to like her and it made her feel grown up. She was 17, what she did know about anything.
She was 17 and he was 20, just barely, and he even had a baby face, but he knew how to get what he wanted. She admired that trait, that ability to not only know his desires but to chase them. She wanted to bask in the glow of that confidence and she wanted it to light her up. She wanted him to want her.
They'd been drinking but she wasn't drunk. Not on alcohol at least. She was drunk on desire, on breaking rules and not caring, on being 17. He wasn't drunk, either, because he wanted to remember her. There was something real about her, something that grounded him. She reminded him of someone, with her blonde hair and her wide eyes and that way she stood with a strength she didn't even know she had because she wore vulnerability like a shield. She succeeded, he wanted her. And she didn't know that, either.
Peter
They were kissing, and tipsy, and giggling and she doesn't remember who slipped but they ended up on the floor. He laughed and tried to pull her up but she pulled him down instead. And suddenly they were fumbling with buttons and pushing clothes away and his hands were spreading her apart and she bit his ear. Tears sprung when he came inside her and she felt real.
It wasn't a relationship, it was a tryst. That's all he could give her and that's all she could take. But sex without love isn't sex without passion. It was all passion. Their stolen moment. Her first time.
--
He tired easily. The combination of illness and treatment wore him down and even when he didn't want to show it, he was too tired not to. And she was too observant not to notice. It's something he loved about her, that awareness of suffering. He loved it and he wished he could steal it from her. Banish her pain forever. That's what he wanted to give her, but he wasn't strong enough.
The wedding was perfect. One perfect day. Maybe that's all they got, maybe that's all anybody got. Whatever the truth, he was grateful for that day. He hoped she was, too. Hoped that when she looked back on that day it would be a gift. That's what he wanted to give her.
The honeymoon was short and quiet. He tired easily. They spent hours entwined in bed talking about everything and anything except the future they would never share. He ran his fingers through her dark hair and she listened to his heart beating, proving life. She clung to her white hot flame of self-sacrifice and he clung to her.
Chris
The morning sun poured through the curtains and patterns of light danced across her bare back. His hands were cold but gentle, too gentle, as he traced the light, pulling her closer, closer, closer. Never close enough. She pressed her body into his, giving, giving -- she closed her eyes and pretended he was someone else and they were somewhere else and this would all end differently. And she felt him release and drift away. She gave him pleasure. She made him happy. And she pulled away, curled into the pillow, and cried herself to sleep.
They lived knowing and held nothing back. And it hurt anyway so she learned to hold everything back.
--
It's easy to confuse sex with love. It's even taught that way. It's easy to use sex when what you want is love. It can be learned that way.
She wanted and it made her crazy. It made her feel and it was easier when she didn't. But she didn't want easy. Easy was easy. Anyone would do. Except when anyone becomes someone. Then it spirals quickly into hard.
She wanted him to like her.
She wanted it to light her up.
She wanted him to want her.
She wanted passion.
She wanted.
He didn't like her. He told her so. But everybody lies.
House
His hands slipped from her cheeks to her breasts and she let them. She welcomed them. She moved slowly, afraid to break the spell, tipping her body up to meet his. It was the end of a long day, another stolen moment born in mutual desire and mutual need. She pulled him away from the furniture and into her body. It was long and slow and there was as much pain as passion and as much desperation as desire. And under it all was the truth in the lie and a heartbeat proving life.
--
It wasn't a tryst and it should have been. It wasn't a relationship and it should have been. It should have been all passion. The wedding should have been perfect. That's what he wanted to give her, but he wasn't strong enough. But she didn't want perfect. She didn't want should. He never understood that.
Chase
He held her as if she might break. He held her as if she was the most important thing in the world. She'd never felt so loved, so special, not even on her first wedding night. And she hated it. She wanted him to throw her up against the wall. She wanted to run. She wanted to stop this feeling, this feeling, this overwhelming feeling. She turned her head down into his shoulders and closed her eyes and wondered why House wasn't at her wedding. The thought calmed her and she was able to let it go and fall into his embrace and let him love her the way he wanted to love her.
He understood her. He saw right through her. She wanted passion. She got love. She threw it back.
--
She'd read somewhere we spend our lives trying to get over our childhood. The thought was incongruous with the occasion but there it was.
He found her intriguing and that's more than interesting. He'd give her what she wanted and she didn't have to worry about falling for him because she already had. And he even knew it and didn't mind. It was probably intriguing or at least interesting. It was interesting to her. She thought she should be angry but she didn't want should and he understood that. He understood her. Or he wanted to. He wanted.
Sherlock
The planning of it all gave her a confidence bordering on impudence. It gave her both patience and playfulness. It lit up her eyes. It was almost as good as drugs. She was both cat and mouse in turns, advancing and retreating, but always in control. Until the climax when she became suddenly and oddly shy. But she kept her eyes wide open.
An intriguing experiment. Further exploration suggested.