He gets a hand under her so he can fill one palm with her rock-scraped tit, mounts her like an animal, teeth in the skin of her back to keep her there, keep her good for him. Fucks her like that — like he'd fuck Danny, brutal slap-slap-slap against her ass without a thought for anything except how her body can make him cum.
When he feels that bright peak drawing closer from his mercantile determination, he simply does what he did to try and wake her, slips into her nerve endings and electrocutes her clit, swells her cunt up hot and ready, kickstarts an intense little orgasm. She's awake to feel it, this time, the possessive way he simply takes what belongs to him, the perfect execution of pleasure she has no control over her, one peak barely subsiding before he forces her into another, this time joining her, flooding her ass with a broken sob.
When he's done, he's crying softly against her back. "Sorry," he finally tells her in a ragged whisper. "Baby, I'm so sorry." For letting House die. For not being there to wake her up. For using her to offload a little of his screaming grief.
She’s shaking through the orgasms, thinks maybe she screamed a little through the shock of the second, and feels a little embarrassed about it. But she’s breathing hard too, and John’s crying at her back, and she doesn’t have time, really, to sink all the way into whatever cottony, cloudy headspace is coming on her.
Instead she reaches for the hand over her tit, coaxes it into her own and threads her finger through his. She squeezes it tight, holds it close to where her heart is hammering in her chest, thumb gently stroking over his knuckle. She’s aching everywhere, not all of it is pleasant. Not all of it is terrible. “Don’t pull out yet,” is what she manages to say, voice hoarse, and realises, belated, that she’s crying too. “Stay like this with me, please.”
Close, she means. Skin to skin. It takes more energy than she really has to twist a little, just enough to knock her forehead against his. This somehow feels more deeply intimate than his cock inside her, than the wet stick of their flesh together. She says, and maybe she means it reassuringly, maybe she just means to make him laugh despite how horribly unfunny it all is: “You fucked me nicer than you fuck Danny. But I’ll forgive you, if you stay here with me for a little longer.”
"Okay," he snuffles, wet. "Okay, I won't — go anywhere, but I gotta, mm."
He shifts, weight onto a different knee, shuddering a little whine as he does in fact ease slowly out of her ass, replaces his dick immediately with his fingers just to heal where he's hurt her somewhere deep inside, the bright thalergy of her blood smeared between them.
"I won't go," he promises, but he just, he needs her — closer, wants to be able to hold her tighter, maybe climb in under her lovely skin. "I won't, I'm with you." She's with him, awake and alive, thank god thank god. He kisses her shoulderblade, her neck, tries to peel her around a little so he can kiss her throat and face and mouth.
She feels a little like a doll right now. She’s never been especially easy to direct, she thinks; before, when she was still just raw nerves and broken, she would have rather bit than roll over with her belly up. This is nice, though, even if she and John are both crying, and even if there are parts of her that ache and sting. This is safe, this is trust.
She lets him twist her around, and she would go all the way if she could bear to lose the fingers stuffed inside of her. She can’t. Not yet. Half around, she goes very sweet under his mouth, and then kisses him sweeter with a hand on his cheek, and after that sweeter still when she kisses his nose.
He's going to cry again, which should be more embarrassing than it is; he barely ever cries, had thought that level of emotion lost to him, but it's here now between the tangle of their bodies. It's here for Jem kissing his nose, for the image of House's slumped body that he sees every time he closes his eyes for any length of time, for the aftershocks of sex still rippling through his nerves alongside the cold. He tucks his face away and sniffles and weeps hot tears, impossible to ever mistake for a god.
"Sorry," he says again, muffled, even with her reassurances, this time apologizing for being an ugly wreck, for taking his suffering and using it to make things worse for everyone, like always. "Sorry, I just need to — splash my face." The water is right there, and he wants to retreat to it, not running away but trying to shock himself out of his misery with the clean cold.
“Okay.” There’s not much else for it. When he’s pulled away, created enough space between then for her to slip back down into the cold, Jem winces and splashes her own face, wipes at her cheeks and sinks down to her chin.
When Kieren died, Jem didn’t leave her room for seven days. She barely ate a thing. She cried so much her eyes stopped being wet. She knows now that he was back within weeks. She knows now that House will be back with them within weeks.
It doesn’t feel reassuring, today. The loss is too new. The grief is too raw, and Jem doesn’t know House the way John does, and Jem cannot possibly love House the way that John does, but loss is loss, and she feels a horrible swell of guilt for having been right there. That she fell asleep at all.
She watches John for a long time, doing what he has to do. He doesn’t look like a god at all, but Jem’s really only ever saw a man, even with his eyes.
She ducks her head under the water. Counts and holds her breath until her burning lungs force her back to the surface. After this she reaches for John’s arm, pulls him back towards her and wraps herself around his middle, presses her face to his chest and holds on very tight. “I think,” she says, with less of a tremble in her voice. “That we should have tea, and eat something. And then we should drag Danny back inside and lie down for a little while, until it’s late enough to drink something stronger. Then we should all be really morose while listening to the cannibal album, because I think House would find it really funny and a huge ego boost if we all get really drunk about it.”
John gathers her in, kisses the top of her head, and holds her. He feels a multifaceted kind of awful, but this is nice. Carefully, he heals her - physically, the only kind he can manage. Washes her up with gentle hands.
"Okay," he says quietly. He feels strangely peaceful. "Let's do that."
She’ll never really be used to the way John is able to make the physical sting and the aches disappear; the way he’s able to get down into the flesh, straight through the muscle and into the nerve endings to make it all better. It’s nice. It’s nicer to be held.
She doesn’t bother dressing, really, when she drags him out of the cold water. She’s holding their clothes against her front like a shield against the wind with one arm, taking his hand with the other hand and leading him home. From there it’s harder, she knows, to exist or be peaceful. It’s a house without House. It’s a bed missing a key component. There are so many corners of this cabin which House should occupy and simply is not.
It’s not easy to ignore. It’s easier to pretend he’s at work while she fixes the tea, still naked, thawing out only by the grace of the fire. It’s easier to imagine he could come back later, in a matter of hours, to cook, to fill up the terrible silence that he’s left behind. Jem’s never been good at grieving, or comforting - she’s decent at tea making, though, so that’s what she does. She makes them a pot, lets it heat them through. She sits on John’s knee for a while, with her face pressed to his shoulder and her fingers stroking his back. After this she drags Danny back inside and puts them all to bed, either side of John, and she strokes John’s hair like she’s doing a dozen times before.
It feels a little like waiting for the clock to hit 5pm, but of course there’s no clock, and of course House isn’t coming home. At the very least, for the rest of the night, she doesn’t cry again.
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no subject
When he feels that bright peak drawing closer from his mercantile determination, he simply does what he did to try and wake her, slips into her nerve endings and electrocutes her clit, swells her cunt up hot and ready, kickstarts an intense little orgasm. She's awake to feel it, this time, the possessive way he simply takes what belongs to him, the perfect execution of pleasure she has no control over her, one peak barely subsiding before he forces her into another, this time joining her, flooding her ass with a broken sob.
When he's done, he's crying softly against her back. "Sorry," he finally tells her in a ragged whisper. "Baby, I'm so sorry." For letting House die. For not being there to wake her up. For using her to offload a little of his screaming grief.
no subject
thinks maybe she screamed a little through the shock of the second, and feels a little embarrassed about it. But she’s breathing hard too, and John’s crying at her back, and she doesn’t have time, really, to sink all the way into whatever cottony, cloudy headspace is coming on her.
Instead she reaches for the hand over her tit, coaxes it into her own and threads her finger through his. She squeezes it tight, holds it close to where her heart is hammering in her chest, thumb gently stroking over his knuckle. She’s aching everywhere, not all of it is pleasant. Not all of it is terrible. “Don’t pull out yet,” is what she manages to say, voice hoarse, and realises, belated, that she’s crying too. “Stay like this with me, please.”
Close, she means. Skin to skin. It takes more energy than she really has to twist a little, just enough to knock her forehead against his. This somehow feels more deeply intimate than his cock inside her, than the wet stick of their flesh together. She says, and maybe she means it reassuringly, maybe she just means to make him laugh despite how horribly unfunny it all is: “You fucked me nicer than you fuck Danny. But I’ll forgive you, if you stay here with me for a little longer.”
no subject
He shifts, weight onto a different knee, shuddering a little whine as he does in fact ease slowly out of her ass, replaces his dick immediately with his fingers just to heal where he's hurt her somewhere deep inside, the bright thalergy of her blood smeared between them.
"I won't go," he promises, but he just, he needs her — closer, wants to be able to hold her tighter, maybe climb in under her lovely skin. "I won't, I'm with you." She's with him, awake and alive, thank god thank god. He kisses her shoulderblade, her neck, tries to peel her around a little so he can kiss her throat and face and mouth.
no subject
She lets him twist her around, and she would go all the way if she could bear to lose the fingers stuffed inside of her. She can’t. Not yet. Half around, she goes very sweet under his mouth, and then kisses him sweeter with a hand on his cheek, and after that sweeter still when she kisses his nose.
Softly, she admits: “There’s nothing to forgive.”
no subject
"Sorry," he says again, muffled, even with her reassurances, this time apologizing for being an ugly wreck, for taking his suffering and using it to make things worse for everyone, like always. "Sorry, I just need to — splash my face." The water is right there, and he wants to retreat to it, not running away but trying to shock himself out of his misery with the clean cold.
no subject
When Kieren died, Jem didn’t leave her room for seven days. She barely ate a thing. She cried so much her eyes stopped being wet. She knows now that he was back within weeks. She knows now that House will be back with them within weeks.
It doesn’t feel reassuring, today. The loss is too new. The grief is too raw, and Jem doesn’t know House the way John does, and Jem cannot possibly love House the way that John does, but loss is loss, and she feels a horrible swell of guilt for having been right there. That she fell asleep at all.
She watches John for a long time, doing what he has to do. He doesn’t look like a god at all, but Jem’s really only ever saw a man, even with his eyes.
She ducks her head under the water. Counts and holds her breath until her burning lungs force her back to the surface. After this she reaches for John’s arm, pulls him back towards her and wraps herself around his middle, presses her face to his chest and holds on very tight. “I think,” she says, with less of a tremble in her voice. “That we should have tea, and eat something. And then we should drag Danny back inside and lie down for a little while, until it’s late enough to drink something stronger. Then we should all be really morose while listening to the cannibal album, because I think House would find it really funny and a huge ego boost if we all get really drunk about it.”
no subject
"Okay," he says quietly. He feels strangely peaceful. "Let's do that."
no subject
She doesn’t bother dressing, really, when she drags him out of the cold water. She’s holding their clothes against her front like a shield against the wind with one arm, taking his hand with the other hand and leading him home. From there it’s harder, she knows, to exist or be peaceful. It’s a house without House. It’s a bed missing a key component. There are so many corners of this cabin which House should occupy and simply is not.
It’s not easy to ignore. It’s easier to pretend he’s at work while she fixes the tea, still naked, thawing out only by the grace of the fire. It’s easier to imagine he could come back later, in a matter of hours, to cook, to fill up the terrible silence that he’s left behind. Jem’s never been good at grieving, or comforting - she’s decent at tea making, though, so that’s what she does. She makes them a pot, lets it heat them through. She sits on John’s knee for a while, with her face pressed to his shoulder and her fingers stroking his back. After this she drags Danny back inside and puts them all to bed, either side of John, and she strokes John’s hair like she’s doing a dozen times before.
It feels a little like waiting for the clock to hit 5pm, but of course there’s no clock, and of course House isn’t coming home. At the very least, for the rest of the night, she doesn’t cry again.