DISCLAIMER: House is not mine, no copyright infringement intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Because xx_housecat_xx told me to post it and made me all agiggle with her "Whoa"s. Idea jotted down on my hand during work about a month and a half ago, forgotten about, remembered, written a few weeks later when it served as a handy procrastination excuse, forgotten about, remembered, realized it was actually finished, polished, posted.
WARNING: A smidge of het (as vehicle for the slashygoodness).
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.

By CrashCart9


You feel hair brushing your thighs and you sigh as her mouth settles between your legs. There's a hand on your left breast and your own on the other and you're unconsciously stretching your legs apart wider because if you do maybe she'll get there faster, press harder with her tongue. She does and your clit is throbbing; you still need more. She must have sensed that, however, because now she's away, your wet clit cooling as it's no longer covered with her mouth; then it's one finger, two, dipping in and out teasingly before you're suddenly filled with her, thumb on your clit, lips now on your breast. She moans at the feel of you under her, stretched out across your body as her leg rocks into yours, bumping the hand between your legs into a firmer pressure that sends your head flying back and tears her name—Lisa!—from your lips as you're almost there. . . .

She slows, then stops, and you can feel eyes boring into your face.

"What'd you say?"

Wrong voice.

Your eyes open. Illusion shattered.

"Less. I said less. Slow down," you lie, and you're almost disgusted that he believes you as his mouth ducks between your legs again for a few leisurely swipes.

Now every difference is highlighted. The hair against your thighs is all wrong—too short, wrong texture, wrong color—and where it was arousing before, now it's just an uncomfortable tickle. The tongue on your clit isn't quite right either—he's not nearly the God's gift to women that he thinks he is—and then he settles inside of you. And you know the rhythm he now sets isn't going to get you off, but you don't protest because though tonight started out as your idea, at this point you just want to go home.

Though your own fingers remind you of hers more than Chase's ever could, there's something to be said about the presence of another body, and so you'll keep coming back, keep thinking of her. Though you've reiterated a million times that it's just sex, you're not a heartless person, and though you don't feel guilty about thinking of her while in bed with him, there's something almost sad about how he hasn't picked up on it. You know he's falling in love with you and you know you'll have to crush him at some point, and you're not looking forward to that. But a little heartbreak is good for a man, or so your mother told you when you were agonizing over dumping your first boyfriend, unknowing that it was because you had developed a crush on his sister.

And then he's done and he's rolling off of you and as you pick yourself up, he gives you this look that you know is the least crude way he could come up with of asking if you came. You've got half a mind to tell him that that's the stupidest fucking question in the universe as it's obviously too late now, but you've had partners that didn't care at all, so his concern is notable. You smile at him—it's not his fault you slipped and tried to cover yourself—and allow him to take that as a yes. He moves to the bathroom as you gather up your clothes.

You're dressed and out of the door before he's out of the shower, and as the door slams to his apartment, you see a car drive by that looks just like hers. You squint to see who's inside, but then pull back—you don't want her to see you here, coming out from being with him.

It's probably not her anyway. Probably just another illusion.

The End

Return to House, MD Fiction

Return to Main Page