Title: Sterilized (The Purification Remix)
Summary: Why House really likes his runs — and what happens after.
Fandom: House, M.D.
Pairings: House/Wilson, House/Stacy
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything.
Notes: Huge thanks to my beta — I couldn’t have done it without her.
“House, stop, please... can’t... I’m... slow down!” Looking over his shoulder, House swears that the wheezed-out exhalations creating steam puffs in the still-crisp spring air are actually from an overworked smokestack and not just a result of Wilson’s overly-labored breathing. Give a quick eye roll, and figure the man’s got to be exaggerating — he doesn’t even have asthma. When Wilson lets out a quick cough, House stops, but treads in place on the hill.
“Another half-mile and then we sprint back.” Checks the face of his waterproof watch. “Some of us want to keep our thirty minute time consistent. Besides, you need it.” Poke Wilson’s stomach; feel the beginnings of softness there and reach to squeeze a love handle.
“Hey! Hands off,” and Wilson jogs a few paces, then clutches his side. House covers the short distance easily.
“You’ll never get married if you don’t get rid of that.” House resumes running as if Wilson is right beside him, but stops and turns when he realizes there are only one pair of heavy, thumping footsteps on the pavement.
Wilson’s staring at him, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted. “I-I’m... already married.”
“Can’t blame me for not keeping track. It’s hard. Although you’ll never get married again if you let yourself get all chubby. I’ve heard the girls don’t like that.” Looks impatient, taps his foot while he waits for Wilson. “...The fuck are you looking at me like that for?” when Wilson’s eyes stay focused on House.
“Nothing, it’s... you look good. When you run, I mean.”
Scoff, stretch his arms above his head and roll his neck before speaking. “Right. I think the cold is affecting your brain. If you can make it up the hill, I’ll let you take a break. I know a place where you can pretend you’re exhausted from actually keeping up with me.” Take off full speed, and hear Wilson huff behind him.
The “place” is a half-finished building (some upscale apartment complex). Chain-link fence, meant to keep intruders out, but House isn’t having any of that. It's always the same with House; everyone has that rebellion inside them, only with him — it's kicked into overdrive. If it says 'Keep Out', he wants in. If it says 'Do Not Touch', he's gonna touch until his fingers go numb. 'Do Not Smoke'; he lights up — and the man doesn't even smoke. (Chewing the ends of cigars for the flavor doesn't count.) It's always the same, no surprise at all.
Duck behind it; tarp on the wire of the fence; good to lean against, nothing to dirty their clothes (Wilson can’t have that. He showers before and after runs, so of course the only thing to touch his clothes is sweat — which is clean.) It's Sunday, so the crew is off — just a bare skeleton of a building; wheelbarrow here, piles of lumber there. That fence leaningleaningleaning under House's weight. Just jerk-tug; pull Wilson along — urgent-feverish kisses right up against that wobbly structure. Planks creaking, and their mouths are a focus of heat in all the morning coolness. Chilled fingers up under layers of clothes. Don't bother pulling down his shorts or Under Armour, just slip his hand right in; too cold for all that undressing.
“Shit, House, do you keep your hands on ice?” Wilson flinches away from House’s grip; crosses his legs to try to keep warm.
“Don’t you know? Ice is the new cock ring.”
“And trespassing is the new...?”
"Trespassing will always be trespassing, Jimmy — if it wasn't trespassing, it wouldn't be fun." Fun, he says. Flirtation with the illegal. It's House’s idea of fun. After all, they weren't formally introduced until Wilson was being sprung from a jail cell, so it sort of fits.
“If you’re planning on doing something taboo while we wait for the cops to come and haul us downtown, be my guest.” That's Jimmy for you — stole the last cookie in the jar and ready to throw himself down sobbing, hands at the ready for cuffs, when the fuzz shows up. What House lacks in the way of conscience, Jimmy makes up for it. Never the type to think to make a run for it. Thoroughly deciding he deserves what he gets. Well, House will give him his due — damn sure.
"'Doing something taboo' would kind of require your involvement. Or willingness, at least. Or, at the very least, you not screaming 'rape, rape.'"
"You're supposed to scream 'fire' nowadays, y'know..." Drolly, with that lazy amusement in his brown eyes.
House with that smirk on thin lips and even more supple hands sneaking under his waistband, eyebrows waggling, and murmuring, "Fire, fire..." At least his hands are warming up, thanks to the growing bulge in Wilson’s shorts. The morning sky is still chalky blue, dappled with wisps of thinned-out clouds like low-hanging smoke in one of those jazz bars House is so fond of — so odd, really, head tipped up to the openness of the sky with that thrill of arousal running down the ladder of his spine. Overwhelming, too much space when your brain has equated sex to the views of various bedroom ceilings. Makes him self-conscious and twitchy; someone could see. But that also elicits a low tightness in his gut, an exaggerated delight from an exaggerated fear.
"House..." With his voice pitched low on a puff of steam, face twisted up with almost a look of discomfort; shoulders hunched and the shoddy fence giving under the weight of him. Feet shuffling in loose gravel for support.
The pleasure isn’t exaggerated anymore, not when House withdraws his palm and returns it seconds later, saliva-slick and curling around Wilson, moving up, down, up, twist, repeat. Wilson’s fingers trying to hold onto House’s shirt, attempting to grip the slipperysmooth fabric, licking off House's body; frustrating; get his hand under it and sneak it up.
“Still think trespassing was a bad idea?” and there’s no way Wilson can answer that. Not when House grins wickedly, and certainly not when House ducks his head and takes Wilson’s cock in his mouth in one smooth move. Chalky concrete dust on House’s sneakers, smearing onto the seat of his shorts when he tucks his feet underneath him — evidence of bad behavior.
All House wants is a long, steaming-hot shower with a rinse of cold water at the end, but he can see Stacy through the glass door; her head’s tipped back and she’s softly humming something he can’t recognize. The sun is slanting in through the small window, the frosted glass refracting the light, illuminating the beads of water — bouncing off her like glitter, making her all the more desirable. Tantalizing glistening in very naughty areas.
He quickly peels off his sweaty T-shirt and shorts, then the less-damp frictionless micro-fiber underneath. The erection he’d (barely) managed to talk himself down from earlier returns and pokes through the slit of his boxers; he toes off his shoes and socks, kicks them in a corner, and yanks his boxers down.
Stacy opens her eyes and peers through the fogged-up door, smiling the one that’s reserved for him. God, she's beautiful — black hair slicked back, skin bare and peachy-cream and slick-shiny in the rush of the water. Beads of water caught in the sleek triangle of hair between her legs, glittering like watery gems waiting to be caught on the tip of his tongue. Licked away.
He’s getting seriously lightheaded, what with the slight soreness from the run (and two hard-ons in an hour). Step into the shower, enjoy the feel of water beating down on his back and running off his legs. His hand on her shoulderblade changing the direction of the currents of water. Slipping down, down, down; that pretty little dip where small of her back crests into the swell of her ass. Stacy's voice, amused and resolute (the most perfect word for her; resolute) drifting over her shoulder and the sound of running water, "Good run?" Smoky-smooth and indicating... her sex-voice. God, yeah.
When he's in her (and he will be in her) it won't be slow-lazy morning sex, oh, no. It'll be that hard-quick, c'mon, c'mon, nownownow sex. Pushing forward against his hips, riding on adrenaline and desire.
“Wilson couldn’t keep up with me.” Press his face into Stacy’s hair, stuck to her neck and not yet smelling like that nine-dollar-a-bottle shampoo (the one she buys with his money) and inhale the barely-there scent of water. Just the faint smell of mango-apple soap drifting up with the steam, and then nothing but clean-pure skin. Nothing but Stacy. Nothing getting in the way of him, her, just washed clean and getting dirtier by the minute as his fingers spider-walk upupup her smooth-sweet thigh. Freshly-shaved, so there’s no short, prickly hairs to impede his hands when they slide up.
“I’m not surprised. Give the poor guy a break — you’ve got longer legs, and... what is it, two inches on him?”
Two inches. Heh. Officially his Dirty Thought of The Moment.
“More or less.” Wrap his arm around Stacy’s belly and let the water flow through his fingers.
“How far did you guys run, anyway?”
“Six miles. Wilson panted like a dog the whole time.” Nudge her ass with his erection, settle it there and press just enough to make sure she feels it.
Stacy gives a quick smack to his arm; he doesn’t recoil, but links their fingers together to prevent any further assault. “I’m sure he did. Could I get clean, please?”
“I like you better when you’re not.”
"You even make getting clean dirty somehow. It shouldn't be a talent..."
“I’m special. Could’ve done better, though, if I wasn’t distracted.”
"Greg, stop. I need to finish showering." It's a tease, of course — stopping is not on her mind at all with the dipping-forward slope of her neck. The slanted line of her shoulders — leaning back into him.
"I would, if you actually wanted me to..."
She rubs some soap onto the end of her ridiculous loofah-on-a-stick, and bends her elbow to scrub her back. House giving that loofah a skeptical eye — why buy the shower equivalent of a fairy's wand when obviously he is on reserve to wash her back personally. Bad investment, as far as he's concerned.
“You don’t really need that... thing to wash your back — that’s why I’m here. Although I think there’s something a little harder somewhere around here.” Knock the wooden stick out of Stacy’s hand; give her an, “It was an accident” look and smile when she glares at him.
“It’s what I do.” Shift so that Stacy’s facing him, adjust his arm against the small of her back and look down at her slightly-parted lips, pink and wet-slick with water. “I’ve got lots of other special talents.” Lean down to plant a kiss on that mouth, his own fitting neatly against it.
“Mmm... making you scream.”
“I do not scream!”
“‘Oh my God, Greg, right there’: at the top of your lungs seems like screaming to me. And the neighbors beg to differ, if the pink noise ordinance cards I’ve been getting are any indication.”
“Really? From who?” Tilts her chin up expectantly, locks her eyes on his and just waits for a response.
"Okay, I might have sent them to myself — what of it?" Cheat her of a proper response by twining his capable fingers into the black thickness of her wet hair and slant his mouth full and firm over her own.
"You're a liar. Let me guess: you wanted our neighbors to see you at the mailbox with the cards and then they'd think you're a stud? Good plan. The only thing you forgot is that you already have a girlfriend,” as soon as she pulls away to catch a breath.
He silences her by saying, "Want to make them actually send me those 'shut the fuck up' notes?"
"We could, if you don't have any better ideas."
“That sounds like one of my best.” He bends to kiss her, his hands dropping from the sloping small of her back to cup her ass. Rounded and sitting perfectly against his broad hands, he couldn’t help but let distraction get the better of him, leaving Stacy to take control. Her hand travels up to his cheek, resting there; the other slides down his sternum.
House’s hands wander up and over the curve of her hips, reaching her breasts and palming them, teasing her nipples into hardness. Trace his fingertips across the slight muscle of Stacy’s stomach, her skin slipperywet from the spray. Ribbons of water crisscross her back, trails snaking down in a hundred different directions, and House can’t resist licking one up.
Dip one hand down her belly, moving it south about as slowly as he can stand, and Stacy squirms under his touch, urging it down with her own delicate fingers. She tilts her hips forward; House grins smugly and splays his fingers out to rub her clit in small circles.
“Fuck,” she gasps into his mouth.
“That? I can do that.”
“If you don’t soon, I’ll have to use the loofah, and I’m not so sure you’d like that.”
“No way it’s taking my place.” Even with all the blood flow directed to his groin, House is rational enough to know that she’ll do it if he keeps stalling. Set one of Stacy’s calves against his hip; press her back to the cold white tiles for support. Lean down when she wraps her arms around his neck, coax her lips open and work his tongue in while he lifts her up. Hook her other leg around his waist, and finally push in, slowly, all the while supporting her weight.
He was right, earlier (as he is most of the time, and when he isn’t, damned if he’ll admit it). It is fast, and there’s an urgency about it — her nails digging into his shoulders, her heels into his ass — and Stacy’s squeezing around his dick, making it hard to avoid slamming his hips forward and knocking her head against the wall.
He skims both hands over her lower back after carefully setting her down; he may be a reckless bastard, but not when it comes to getting laid. His palms slide lower again, mapping the contours of her ass, and even in his post-orgasmic state, the firmness in his hands sends a tingle to the base of his spine. Stacy turns and bends to retrieve the loofah, which earns her an eye roll from House. He gives a quick squeeze before lazily batting that fairy thing out of her hands and extending an arm for the soap to wash her back himself. She tips her head back to rest on House’s shoulder, letting him use too much and working up a ridiculous lather, but when he pops the cap on the shampoo bottle and twists her hair into knots, she throws him out with the foam still on his hands.
“Move your shoes and shit so I don’t fall and break my neck.”
“Maybe,” he calls, but he tosses his clothes in the hamper; his expensive sneakers are chucked down the hall for easy access, should he want to get Wilson all red and flustered.
When he spies them next time, sitting askew by the front door, they make him smile. House passing the hall, glancing to the side — concrete dust on his special-order Nike's. Staring for a second before calling out to Stacy, "How do you feel about sex in public?"