Kelly (rwryter) wrote,

FIC: "Getting Dirty", Greg House/Stacy (early surname unknown)

Title: Getting Dirty
Author: hawkeyecat
Fandom: House, MD
Pairing: House/Stacy
Community: bubbleficathon
Word Count: 1,185
Rating: S for Smut
Warnings: PWP, bathtub hate, screaming, language
Disclaimer: Oh, if only. Then I could fire the person who stole a plot from the Pit.
Author's Notes: For powerof3, who wanted a loofah on a stick and “hot angsty slashy sex”. Difficult to incorporate slashy into these two, and I’m on the painkillers House doesn’t need in this fic (which make me really mellow), so the angst part didn’t happen, but the sex? You got it. At least, I hope it’s hot—I’m a slasher, and don’t write het sex, well, ever except now. This is pre-infarction, because I have issues with current House/Stacy, but. It is still House/Stacy. Unbeta-ed—she’s asleep.

One of Greg’s favorite parts of the house was the bathroom. Not because of all the amenities it offered—though the whole indoor plumbing thing was great—but because it meant Stacy was often naked. And Stacy being naked was something Greg could endorse wholeheartedly.

In fact, Stacy was naked now. She wasn’t in their big whirlpool tub—Stacy loved it because she could fill it with bubbles and soak for an hour or more, reading a trashy novel, but Greg hated it because of the bubbles that obscured his view of naked Stacy, and what was the point of being around Stacy while she was naked if he couldn’t see her?—but instead the wide shower, beads of water running down her body shining in the late morning light streaming in through the window, her shoulder-length dark hair plastered down. Not a sight Greg could resist, and why should he?

Shucking off his sweaty T-shirt and shorts (he’d gone for a long run with Wilson, and only relented when Wilson started bitching about a stitch in his side and rubbery quads), he balled them up and tossed them toward a corner of the bathroom, his socks and boxers following a moment later. Stacy glanced over at the sound of fabric hitting the ground, or maybe Greg had made a sound he wasn’t aware of, and smiled. It wasn’t her professional smile, reserved for clients and her partners, or the friendly one most of their circle got. No, this was the smile that meant Greg House was gonna get some.

He smirked back at her through the steamy bathroom—she’d left the fan off, probably on purpose, and he didn’t feel like flipping it on and risking annoying her. Instead, he padded barefoot across the bathroom, toes curling in the thick grey-blue rug Stacy had picked, claiming it matched his eyes, and opened the glass door. The shower didn’t smell like that body wash she liked yet—Tropical Rainforest or something equally non-girly—so she couldn’t have been in long. She didn’t turn to face him, instead tilting her face up into the spray, and he pressed up behind her, his hands running across the slick, wet skin of her belly.

Stacy rolled her hips back, pressing her ass against his thighs, and that had to mean he was going to get some, even if he’d misread the smile. “Good run?”

“Wilson gimped out on me.” Greg lowered his face to her hair. Just wet, no scent of that ridiculously expensive shampoo she bought.

“After you got him to keep up for six miles.”

“Barely keep up,” he corrected.

She twisted in his arms. “You’ve got longer legs. Of course he barely kept up.”

“And he still thinks he can beat me.” Greg managed to meet Stacy’s eyes instead of following that trickle of water running down between her breasts. He wanted to be that water. Sure was fun territory.

“His mistake. Are you going to let me finish getting clean, or impede my movement?” Her tone was teasing.

“But getting dirty is so much more fun.”

Stacy rolled her eyes, and he let go. “Not one of your better ones, Greg.”

“I’m distracted.” Which was true—Stacy was quite a distraction. Especially when his blood was still pumping from the run.

She turned back toward the front of the shower and took what Greg thought of as a demented fairy wand, and which Stacy claimed was a loofah on a stick, from the knob. In a move Greg was certain was intended to tease him, she ran her hand up and down the wood handle before pouring that scented gel onto the spongy end.

Greg snickered. That was his Utterly Perverse Thought of the Hour.

Stacy, probably completely unaware of what her showermate was thinking, rubbed the gel into a lather.

Or maybe she wasn’t as unaware as she seemed. That was…weirdly very hot. “You know, I’ve got far better wood you could use.”

“You’re incorrigible.” He could almost hear her smirk.

“A small, yet vital part of why you love me.”

“So confident. That’s an attractive quality.”

“I pride myself on it.”

She faced him again. “Anything else you pride yourself on?”

Greg pretended to contemplate that. “The way I can make you scream is pretty cool.”

“I do not scream.” She looked like she was fighting down a grin.

“We could test that claim.” He bent to kiss her, his hands dropping from the small of her back to cup her ass. Stacy responded ardently, taking control of the kiss, one of her hands on his cheek and the other stroking down his chest. Something seemed unfair about that—after all, her chest was far more fun—and his palms coasted up and around sides until he held a breast in each. As their tongues slid together, he rubbed his thumbs across her hard nipples, and she moaned into his mouth. Greg loved hearing that, knowing she was reacting because of him.

He slid one hand down her flat belly and dipped his fingers between her legs to find an entirely different kind of slippery wetness. She pushed her hips forward, rubbing the hard nub against his fingers, and he grinned, spreading his fingers just wide enough to catch her clit between and squeeze gently. Stacy broke the kiss with a gasp. “Fuck, Greg…”

“Too much?” He was pretty sure it wasn’t.

“If you stop, I’ll abandon you mid-blowjob next time.”

“Can’t have that, can I?”

Stacy was incomprehensible when he stopped, all moans and “fuck” and “more”, and she tried to glare up at him. The glazed look killed any effect it might have had. “Blowjob,” she managed warningly.

“Thanks for the offer,” he teased, “but I’ve got something better in mind.”

Some degree of rationality had to be returning, because she hooked one calf up around his hip. Greg was achingly hard but still thinking coherently, since Stacy hadn’t touched him yet, and he turned them toward the slate-tiled wall before lifting her by her ass. She wrapped her arms around in his neck and went back to kissing him as her other leg twined around his waist. He let her control the slide down, supporting her weight, and grunted when his dick touched her cool wetness before she angled her hips just so, and he was being slowly surrounded. At that point, his mind shut down, and he let instinct take over, Stacy between him and the wall, the gentle hot spray of the shower glancing off his back.

Stacy did, indeed, scream when she came, but fortunately for Greg’s ears, it was into his mouth and not the amplifying chamber of the shower stall. He would have made a triumphantly sarcastic comment about being proven if it hadn’t been just after his own white-hot orgasm, which trumped even the “snark” part of his mind.

After he’d put her down and they’d held each other for a moment, racing heartbeats and harsh breathing calming, she found the fairy wand loofah thing again.

“Damn, Stacy, can’t you get enough cock?”
Tags: greg house, greg house/stacy, house md

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