This is just an idea I needed to share. It's set during season six, no specific episode, but in the Lucas context.
Please let me know your opinion about it!
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sexual situations.
The scent of cheap sugary perfume filled his nostrils as a constant, rather cruel, reminder of the company currently kneeling between his legs. Darkness enwrapped the room except from the slight trace of moonlight outside the window, and at first he had thought the lack of light would have made the situation simpler. Shutting his eyelids, he tried to convince himself it was her hands covering him, and her movements - that by now were becoming more forceful and focused - trying to bring him to hardness. Out of frustration or despair, he tried using the violent approach in the form of memories, their burning hot college affair that once upon a time was enough to have him nearly done.
But as her breath neared his crotch, Jolie's or Cherry's breath, not hers, he realized this wasn't working, wasn't going to, and it was then that he pushed her away.
"It's okay." She coaxed him, her tone as nauseatingly sweet as her smell. Staring back at her, he mentally debated how the shade of her eyes wasn't the right smoky blue, neither did her hair had enough volume to mold the delicate, almost teen-like features of her face, instead of high cheekbones and strongly marked jaw.
He pulled up the front of his jeans, the shuffling sound enough of an answer to Jolie, a message informing that this was a lot of things, but okay wasn't one of them.
The bitter taste on his tongue had nothing to do with all the whiskey he'd consumed. Somehow it was this sickening flavor - together with the repulsive aroma - that encouraged his mind into a festival of self-loathing remarks.
He'd always known detoxing came with a price.
It so happens he could take a decade of drug abuse, several near death experiences and an epic mental breakdown; but when all the bad habits were gone, his dick would pay the costs. The irony of that makes him want to laugh hysterically while punching something repeatedly. The fact that he doesn't trust himself to that something not being the prostitute was sufficient to frighten the last sober pieces of his inebriated brain.
Their eyes met in the dark, her big sea color eyes, now so obviously fake, letting him realize how scared she was - how scary he must look. With no interest or patience to try and reassure the girl, he just fished into his pocket for the bills previously separated, making an effort of not throwing the money and lift it towards her now standing silhouette.
"You can go." he managed to crack, voice hoarse and uninviting. The curvy body modeling in front of him made him remember times when he wouldn't mind forcefully fucking her, a time when he could use a person that way and find some sort of release.
And maybe because she was actually gorgeous - not to say expensive - the whore still didn't seem to understand his wish, despite all the given signs. "Did I do something wrong?"
Latching forward, he took one of her manicured hands and harshly put the money inside. The thought of seeking help again had a horrific appeal to him - at this point he'd tried porn, a number of different girls, a collection of different fantasies, and none of it worked.
A part of him was highly convinced he'd never be able to say the words out loud. Hey Jimmy, remember the time when I was seeing your dead girlfriend and we had to rule everything else before I could finally blame the Vicodin? Well, I've done the same now, and the thing is, detox has made me soft.
As the door was shut with extra force - in the name of all humiliated prostitutes out there - House rationalized what Wilson most certainly would:
Physical reactions alone weren't what he craved any longer.
Which would lead his friend inevitably to talk about feelings, and as he heard the knock on wood, again and again, House felt there wasn't really a way out of this except he'd be willing to speak to Nolan or Wilson - and both options made him want to puke his lungs out while eating them back up.
But hey, what you know: he might end his miserable life right this instant and kill the pissy whore at his threshold and be sent to jail forever.
When he made it to the entrance, however, it took him a few seconds to brush the image his mind was expecting in place of what was actually on his line of sight. It wasn't a whore, and her eyes were the right shade of smoky blue and deep down he reflected whether her face was only that beautiful because he couldn't have her for himself.
It was staring at Cuddy, pink nose from the cold, undefective eyes consumed with worry, that House realized he hadn't ruled out every solution to his condition.
Too drunk or too stunned to organize his thoughts, she had the chance to take him in, lines of concern suddenly multiplying by the corner of her eyelids. And if he hadn't lost track of time, the woman of his dreams and the woman who was there to fulfill them had crossed paths in the hallway. He wondered what that meant.
The palm of her hand, cold, albeit so warm, made him doubt if all of this was real, and his heart wouldn't really take another one of those setbacks hadn't Cuddy spoke, proving with her tone how painfully real she was.
"Are you high?" She asked, the sound of her purse thudding against the floor almost distracting him. And even though he wasn't inclined to look at her, even though her words stung more than he let on, he did.
He stared at her as if to prove a point - that he wasn't high, and he was better than the other man she'd chosen. The lie didn't even convince him, but House took her wrist and set it away from him, acting as if it did.
"You're in my apartment." He pointed; not so subtly implying she was the one high.
Immediately, what seemed to be accusation dropped her features, giving room to those same lines that simultaneously hurt him and angered him. Because no matter the amount of alcohol he'd consumed, or the amount of preoccupation he swore stained her gaze; Cuddy didn't care.
If she did, it was because he'd finally reach the pathetic level of receiving her pity.
Taking another bold step inside, he could almost feel her soft palm cupping him again, before she gave up the idea altogether. Quietly, a little pleading, she confessed, "I'm worried about you."
She hadn't even finished talking the moment he scoffed, "Oh, wonderful."
"You look like shit." Cuddy continued, oblivious or unfazed by his barb "This whole week you looked like... I wanted to check on you."
Her scent - unique, exquisite, good - made him wish he was high; only drugs would make this girlish ache for her fade away, or at least subside. There wasn't any overly sweet smell any longer, just her, and the promise of her fragrance to linger forever.
"House?" She tentatively called. For a second he knew he had let his guard now, and to know that he couldn't trust her pained him more than expected.
Then again, everything hurts nowadays.
Discrediting every lesson Nolan had been teaching him the past few months, he hid behind a wall of sarcasm and nonchalance he knew so well. He jumped in there so easily, so deeply; it almost felt like home. "Like what you see?" House asked, arms opening wide for effect.
In case she did, it wasn't showing. Shaking her head no, she pleaded, an octave lower "Just talk to me.."
Her sudden intake of breath exposed how unexpected it was to have his body lurching forward, too close to not be puncturing their comfort zone. "Why?" He snapped, anger born out of a heaviness in his chest that never seemed to dull, but with her begged for undivided attention. The ghost of a decent life of sobriety had made him forget how inconsequently freeing toxics can be. "So you can go home and tell your pet of a boyfriend?"
Her jaw flexed, teeth parted at a swift loss for words. He could almost hear her brain babbling. It was the rush of shame crossing her features that had him mutely dropping his weapons as well. And in matters of seconds, the ire that was so long concealed, now vanished like steam of hot water over the air. It was dark although he saw her, and she saw him and he saw the waver of her throat while she gulped, their proximity a distraction and an excuse; and it was that what he used when his palm cupped her cheek and her hand splayed on his chest.
The battle had been doomed for years.
His last name slipped out of her lips as another one of her many pleas. But still, after her eyes danced over his face for a fraction of a second, her weight shifting on her tiptoes was the solo catalyst to seize the minuscule space between them.
Eyes wide open and gazes glued, more out of insecurity than anything else, his half parted lips had ended up trapping the upper part of hers as they stood for an everlasting second this way. The hand holding one side of her face snaked inside her hair, and an intake of sharp air was enough to blow their minds and throw caution to the wind beyond. There weren't masks left to wear, neither induced illusions to hide behind. Limbs that didn't seem enough to grip all of him together only fisted his t-shirt as he kept her head in place with five fingers outside her skull, lips enfolded, sucking, teeth biting and tongues fencing a fight of only winners (or losers, if you prefer).
A moan she moaned through his mouth urged his arm to circle her waist, the strength of his hold almost casting her off the floor. Part of him couldn't help but dream of lifting her entirely while her legs wrapped around him, flesh to flesh, nerve to nerve. He kissed the corners of her mouth several times as if the act was supposed to tell her something, which she understood, and they inevitably kissed again and again, because to stop would mean to reason. It was stumbling that he used her back to close the door - a one sided déja vu - his broad frame pressing against hers, never so resentful of the clothes that was supposed to keep her warm and ultimately left him cold.
Both hands leaving her to the rope of her trench coat, Cuddy tried to deal with her buttons at the same time, their mouths never accepting to give up the other. Once opened, his forearm inside crashed her closer by the waist again, feeling the incredible heat that radiated off her skin, not seeing her but knowing she looked more beautiful than ever, feeling her beauty like he did her sighs and contours. He thought having her in his arms would make the ache for her disappear, but it was there just as insanely as the day before. His brain asked for more patience, his body asked for more soul; what he knew was he couldn't stop.
She gasped once his cold fingers found the flesh inside her sweater, giving him space to delineate her jaw with searing kisses. He bent to move down her neck, the attention welcomed, the marks he was sure to leave forgotten. A hungry groan filled the air, louder than her own note of satisfaction as he palmed her full breast. And it was only when his mouth closed over hers once more, tongue buried deep into her warmth, as he felt her nipple hardening through one lacy bra that was already his favorite, only then, when he grinded against her by reflex was that he realized:
Throbbing, alive, nearly bursting - he was hard. And the thought alone could make him ecstatic, though what was about to happen run miles deeper. What he wanted, what he needed: it was all here, and with the alcohol gone and the depression absent, there was only her, her and nothing else and he wanted to take her right there right now but forever.
Regrettably or not, his hand left her sweater so both could cup her face, quick pecks on whatever skin he could find barely easing his appetite. Her two arms held him by the waist and he could swear nothing in the world would feel better than this. Only this... Amplified.
"Please," she whispered the word he'd been thinking for months. His front teeth sunk on her lower lip tantalizingly, pulling on it to cause the right amount of pain.
"Right here?" He asked, already nodding and tugging the shoulder of her coat down.
She didn't ask if he could do it. She didn't show concern or doubt or anything other than compliance as her winter clothe hit the floor and she impatiently sought another lingering kiss. Her sweater was just as easily discarded, and even when he thought he was leaving her no room to move locked inside his body and the wall, she managed to pop his jeans open, an erection with a lot to prove insistent to touch her hand. Every muscle inside of him tensed as her fist pressed back against his boxers.
He stepped away enough to lift her skirt over her hips, her perfect, toned thighs sillhoutted in the dark, and when he touched her there, soaked through, he had an urge to get down on his knees and taste her until those same thighs closed around him, again and again. But unsynchronized, Cuddy rocked against his hand as her fingertips found the elastic of his underwear, leaving no room for foreplays any longer.
It happened all at once. The barriers were out of the way and soon his thigh was aching with the extra weight of her until the bliss of sliding inside her clenching pussy made his whole existence unexist. It became this: hunger, painful control, insatiate love; and she was all three.
One hand on the wall and the other under her ass, time didn't look so promising. It felt too sensitive, too tight, too wanted; and he craved for nothing but that (un)sacred burst of chemicals by her side. She clamped hard around him, gasping a "God, House" that made him wonder if this was as right as it felt. He traced down her neck to have a millisecond-long moment of disappointment at facing her bra, but forgetting all about it once he move the slightest bit only to be able to slam till the hilt again. They started fucking, slapping, wet and pounding, the gods taking mercy on him as Cuddy quit holding his shoulders long enough to pull her bra over her head. He had to slow his thrusts so he could savor her properly, her nipples wired to her core, that now seemed wired to him as well.
Frenzied, his heart pounded hard against his ribcage, demanding a harder pace, him heaving against her neck while listening to the compositions she sang against his stubbly cheek. He buried inside her, over and over, and she trembled against him like their experience was a single one, ignoring biology, rationality, life.
He was close to dying as his loins started to burn, about to warn her when her neck spasmed and she clutched him from arms to legs to dripping sex: there was no going back. He saw light, yet lifted his eyelids to her in the utter darkness, one sudden, violent explosion making him cry out. It wasn't enough but it was too much and she screamed, overpowered by the strength of his desire, his devotion, his fantasy.
It was little by little.
Very subtle at first.
Until it was overwhelmingly, unmistakably sweet.
When House opened his eyes, he was fisting dark locks, similar enough to confuse him for a beat. But as the face lift up from his groin, fingers kindly easing his grip on her hair...
It was the wrong pair of eyes.