Title: Lies No More
Author: Alice J. Foster (a.k.a. shipperfey)
Fandom: House M.D.
Pairing: House/Cameron
Summary: The end of self-destruction.
Warnings: this is probably my darkest fic ever, so beware.
Rating: NC-17/M
Thanks to: houseketeer for the wonderful smut she always writes that makes me feel inspired.
Spoilers: Season 4, up to 4x02
Started: 10/13/07
Finished: 10/13/07
A/N: I had this story in my mind since watching 4x02, and I decided not to fight the muse. Things are always easier that way.
Feedback: is like Vicodin without the migraine.
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters and situations you recognize, and I own the ones you don't.
He fucks her on the couch in Wilson's office, wishing he could amputate her damn finger, just so that ring would stop glittering in the dim moonlight. It's tasteless, it's stupid and it's fucking ridiculous, but he doesn't say a word because she's bent over the arm of the couch…
… and she's looking back at him, eyes deep into his, deeper than his erection could ever go inside of her. As he's coming, he briefly wonders how many orgasms she had, if any at all - then he reminds himself he shouldn't care.
She can get her fiancée to finish the job.
"We shouldn't do this anymore," he points out, keeping his voice steady as he reaches for his cane.
"Why not?" she asks in that newfound confident voice of hers that he hates so much.
"You're engaged," he replies coldly, zipping up his jeans and reaching for a Vicodin.
Her voice as she replies makes his testicles shrink. "Stacy was married."
The pain doesn't cross his face as he gives it to her in return. "You're not Stacy."
He makes it back to his empty office before he breaks down.
She hears guests outside the door as she rides him. She should've insisted to keep him off the guest list for the wedding, but Chase would've been suspicious.
So it's really Chase's fault that she's in a storage closet on their wedding day, riding their former boss and orgasming for the first time in a whole month.
Truthfully, she never thought House would come to the wedding; as expected, he never R.S.V.P.'d; it was pretty rude, but she guesses not as rude as fucking someone else's bride on her wedding day.
The white lace rubs against her nipple but the pain is dulled by the sharp bolts of pleasure shooting down to her clit. She's clenching tightly around House but he still doesn't come, probably due to the fact that he's been taking advantage of the open bar all night.
His hand reaches under her dress, blindly finding the bundle of nerves that her husband can't find with a map and GPS. She gasps against his throat, trying to keep quiet but past the point of actually caring.
She wants Chase to find them, but he never does.
Old habits die hard, he repeats to himself as she expertly takes him in her mouth, lips tightly wrapping around his girth.
Her shift ended at three and he spent twenty minutes staring at the clock, bouncing that stupid ball off the glass wall until she showed up.
She doesn't talk anymore.
He talks too much.
"Married life letting you down, Doctor?"
Her teeth tell him he should watch it, so he keeps quiet except for the moan that escapes him when she takes him in deeper than usual.
She's lost weight, and a quick look at the pharmacy log told him she's been self-prescribing anti-anxiety medication.
He wants to fix her, but she won't let him, so he keeps fucking her.
She stumbles into his apartment when he holds the door wide. The old couch looks inviting, and she falls down, trusting the furniture to catch her – why wouldn't it, when it's his furniture?
"You're drunk," he points out.
Her head's hanging off the end of the couch, so she stares at him upside down, taking in his striped pajama pants and tight tee, hugging his muscles perfectly. Her mouth is probably watering but she's lost sensation there.
"What are you doing here?"
Her eyes tear up, because he sounds so mad, so unhappy.
"Cameron--" he tries, softly, reaching for her face.
She lifts up her hand to show him her ringless finger, hoping he'll get the message.
He does.
The world slowly returns to normal as he moves her to a sitting position. He's gone and when he returns, he's holding a cup of coffee. She takes it, sipping it slowly without breaking eye contact with him. A blonde strand falls over her eye and he moves it back in place; his hand lingers against her cheek and she presses into it.
"I love you," she says to him, and it's probably the first thing she's said to him in years.
His lips taste of truth and she promises never to lie to herself again.