Summary, disclaimer, etc. in Chapter 1.
CONTENT WARNING: This chapter is rated M for explicit sexual content and some language. Please don't read this if you're underage or bothered by explicit sexual content or language. I can't stress that enough. This isn't a chapter you can skim to avoid the explicit content—you simply can't, so please don't read it. It's not as explicit as it could have been, but it's still extremely explicit. I can't be held responsible for people who dislike explicit sexual content and still choose to read this chapter.
CHAPTER 5 IS A CLEAN VERSION OF THIS CHAPTER. If you are underage or otherwise bothered by explicit content, please go to chapter 5 now. Chapter 5 contains everything here except the explicit sexual content.
This chapter also contains the adult theme of sexual dysfunction. If that bothers you, please don't read this chapter.
The only two characters in this chapter are House and Stacy. If you don't like read about House being with Stacy, please don't read this chapter.
This chapter is the reason I said in the first author's note that I didn't think many people would like this fic. As I said in the last chapter, House doesn't decide in the middle of things that he'd rather be with Cameron or Wilson or Cuddy. And while this isn't a House/Stacy fic per se, it's more House/Stacy than House/anyone else. I don't personally believe this could happen on the show; that's why I tagged this AU. But it's something I wanted to write, so here it is.
If you have even the slightest inkling that you won't like this chapter for any reason at all, please don't read it. I'd rather you didn't read it than get complaints about it not being a ship of your liking. I didn't write it to convince anyone that this is the way things should be on the show; this isn't the way I want things to be or think things should be. It was merely something I wanted to explore.
Finally, I'm not male. Everything I know about male sexual function and dysfunction comes from personal experience and general knowledge. I did not research this chapter in any way. I'm not trying to "get it right." I don't have a theory or an explanation for why things happen the way they do in this chapter. I left it deliberately vague. Human sexuality is so much more complicated than I could ever explain, hence I make no attempt.
Again, this chapter is rated mature. It contains explicit sexual content and portrays an unpopular relationship. If you're skeptical, don't read it. I'm serious. Don't read it.
Chapter 4: Sailor's Delight
Playboy: House is described as the thinking woman's sex symbol. But really, why would anyone want to sleep with this guy or spend any time with him afterward? Can a damaged man be fixed?
Laurie: That's an interesting question, but it's not the same as asking if a damaged man can be fixed by women having sex with him. Repeatedly. Why would they make that leap? I don't get it myself.
—20 Questions with Hugh Laurie, Playboy, Jan. 11, 2006
Sometimes you don't want to love the person you love
you turn your face away from that face
whose eyes lips might make you give up anger
forget insult steal sadness of not wanting
to love turn away then turn away at breakfast
in the evening don't lift your eyes from the paper
to see that face in all its seriousness a
sweetness of concentration he holds his book
in his hand the hard-knuckled winter wood—
scarred fingers turn away that's all you can
do old as you are to save yourself from love
—Grace Paley, "Anti-Love Poem" New Yorker Dec. 12, 2005 p. 64
"Greg," she said through a shudder, "stop."
Reluctantly he did, lifting his head to look at her, but he couldn't stop himself from idly kissing her inner thigh. What? his eyes said.
"I want you to fuck me," Stacy said. It was seductive, the way 'fuck' came out of her mouth, violently asking for violence, but gentle also.
He gazed at her and began nibbling her thigh, his left forefinger replacing his tongue, shoving with the violence she'd requested. Then another finger joined the first one, and another, and the rhythm quickened though it was still languid, and the force increased, and he didn't take his eyes off of her, and she was loving it. He watched her head go back again, the length of her neck as it arched, how utterly helpless and vulnerable she was as she came again, unable to stop it. He slowed, giving just enough force to intensify the afterglow, then took his fingers back, trailing them up her thigh to his nose so he could inhale the intoxicating scent. He shifted his weight, wanting to taste one more time.
He had just started lapping when she came down enough to say "Stop."
He did, looking up at her again as she raised her head to look down at him.
"I want you to fuck me," she said, this time with more emphasis, more violence, more need.
He said nothing, not breaking eye contact as he got up on his left knee and shoved his pants down. Stacy sat up and moved so he could sit and work his jeans to his ankles. She pulled them the rest of the way off and then lay down on her right side to kiss him.
She'd seen that he wasn't ready yet. Kissing was one way to get him there and she did it happily, lovingly, savoring the scratch of his stubble and his soft lips and tongue.
When she felt like it was time, she leaned across the bed for her purse and retrieved a condom.
House watched her—the very action of her producing a rubber, the premeditation of it, excited him—but he still wasn't there. He turned onto his back and tried to relax and let his senses take over while he stroked himself.
Now she watched him and, smiling seductively, tossed the condom aside and started touching herself, remembering what he liked to see. She made the noises he liked to hear and saw him respond. She enjoyed this, driving him wild. What he was doing drove her wild too.
After a little while, she bent down and took him in her mouth, not yet impatient because she enjoyed this also.
He closed his eyes and savored the sensation. He always enjoyed it no matter who was giving, but Stacy knew what he liked and was more willing to deliver than anyone else he'd ever been with—they'd spent too much time together not to be experts in each other's sexual habits and preferences—and he could tell by the pace at which she was hitting his favorite points that she was ready for this to happen now. And he didn't worry yet that he was still only half-hard because he couldn't worry when she was doing what she was doing. The kernel of anxiety was still there, though, waiting.
He wanted to. It wasn't a question of want. It was that sometimes he just couldn't make it happen.
When he was younger, the cause was too much masturbation or performance anxiety or too much alcohol or those rare occasions when it just didn't happen for reasons he couldn't discern, and there had been times during his relationship with her that for one reason or another he couldn't make it happen, but that was why he'd gotten good at oral—especially with Stacy. He knew what she liked and wanted and needed and when to give it as well as she knew what he liked and wanted and needed, and she was proving right now that she'd forgotten as much as he had: nothing.
She was speeding up and he was fighting harder than he'd fought in a long time not to give in, and he must have made some indication because suddenly her weight shifted and he heard the quiet tear of foil.
He still wasn't there—two-thirds of the way at most—but she'd done everything she could and they both knew this was as good as it was going to get unless whatever was holding him back gave way. The introduction of latex never helped a situation like this but he wasn't going to argue. He concentrated on maintaining what he had.
She was quick—he had to give her that, but then he knew she was quick: how many times had they only had a few moments in some indiscreet location?—and she was an expert, making sure the tip was deflated to prevent breakage. The final touch she gave him helped, in just the right place, but he wasn't…
He kept his eyes closed, trying harder than he'd ever tried to make this work, as he felt her trying also to make it work but being gentle. He pictured flipping her over and pounding into her until he was covered with sweat and his chest was tight and she was screaming, but the latex. The latex. He couldn't feel anything through it except heat.
Finally he opened his eyes, sensing she was about to give up the struggle.
"Maybe in another position?" she suggested.
He could see her trying not to let on how disappointed she was. He tried not to let on that he knew. But he knew that she knew he knew she was trying not to let on. Too much history stood between them.
He rolled onto his left side and got to his knees while she moved quickly to the right place, doing her best not to throw off his balance. He was ready; she was ready; but he was an earthworm.
He tried every trick he knew—tried them all twice. Three times. Four.
"Lose the condom," he heard her say.
"You sure?"
She turned around, peeled it off, and took him in her mouth again so quickly he was actually startled and had to grab her shoulder for support. Just as quickly her fingers were finding their way into the right spot. Prostate. He gasped.
"I'm gonna come if you keep doing that," he said raggedly. He felt her ease off.
But she was still doing it and it was working better than anything else had so far, and he was in heaven.
"You're sure…you want to do this…without a condom?" he got out after a while. Picturing the infections he could pick up was the only way he was keeping things together right now.
The slap he received on the ass answered that question.
Then she was pulling away and getting into position again and he shoved into her as soon as the mechanics were right, hoping he could stay like this long enough to satisfy her—and himself, because so much of his satisfaction depended on hers.
He tried to get a good rhythm going and felt her trying, but he could already feel himself softening. This was so good, it felt so good, but it wasn't working. He tried to give her what she wanted, pushing as hard as he could, and he heard her beginning to feel it, the quickened breaths and little gasps, and he thought it might work when he fell out.
He felt her patience as he quickly repositioned himself, but when he tried to push in the resistance was too great. He was too soft again.
He tried his tricks again and she tried hers, both watching each other, and they both looked down as he attempted to make it happen. Earthworm.
She sat up and was reaching for him again when he leaned to his left and sat down, palms flat on the bed to hold himself up, breathing hard and sweating, but from the wrong kind of exertion.
"I can't," he said. He didn't look at her.
"Yes, you can," she said.
He felt her eyes on him.
"Greg. Look at me."
He glanced over briefly before letting himself fall back.
"No," he said, eyes on the ceiling, "I can't." He rubbed his flaccid penis once, glanced at her as she lay down on her side next to him, and said again to the ceiling, "I can't."
"Not even if I do this?" she said coyly and reached for the area that had gotten him hard earlier.
"Don't."
Her hand paused in midair and she looked at him questioningly.
His gaze flickered to hers momentarily. "I can't," he said again.
"Can't?" she asked, "or won't?" And her hand began moving again as she leaned down to kiss him.
"Stop!" He twisted the upper half of his body away and she recoiled.
Her hand fell on his chest as she drooped on the mattress in frustration.
"Why not?" she asked, voice muffled by the comforter.
He didn't answer.
She propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him.
"You never had any problems before," she said. "Even after your surgery."
"Yes, I did," he said. "You just don't remember."
But she did remember. "Is it still easier in the morning?" she asked.
He waited, breathing in and out, remembering. "Yeah," he said after a while. He glanced over at her. "But even then…sometimes…"
She smiled a small wry smile. "I'd ask if you'd tried Viagra but I know you."
House said nothing for a moment. Her hand was still on his chest, playing with the hair there. He hadn't had so much intimate physical contact in a long time. It felt great. He didn't want it to end.
"It's…uncomfortable," he said after a while.
If she was surprised at his admission, she didn't show it.
He pushed himself up on his elbows and her hand fell away.
"Look," he said, "if you just want me back for sex, I don't think it's going to work."
She searched his face. "I don't," she said. She studied him, gauging his reaction. "I miss more than just the sex."
He sat up and stood as quickly as he could, awkwardly bending to retrieve his underwear.
"Either way," he said, "I don't think this is going to work."
She sat up too now and watched him wriggle into his briefs.
"Do you know why I came over here tonight?" she said.
He glanced at her as if she'd asked the most obvious question in the world.
"Other than to sleep with you," she clarified.
He refused to look up but she knew he was listening.
"When…I saw you again for the first time…a few months ago…you were just like I remembered you being before your leg…happened." She paused, thinking, watching him pull a shirt over his head. "You were…just as funny…and irritating…and cocky…as you were when I met you. And even more sexy."
She smiled warmly to herself at the recent memory and how good it felt to say these words.
He'd stopped dressing. He turned to look at her, one hand on his night table to keep himself steady.
"And over the past few months…you've become even more the way I remembered you." She smiled again, looking down for a moment. "You're a nuisance. You're a pest. You're more reprehensible now—" she looked up at him again, "stealing my file, I still can't believe you did that, but God, it's so you."
He had that stunned look on his face she'd seen so often recently.
"Part of the reason I left—a lot of the reason probably—was that you weren't yourself anymore. You had become someone else—someone miserable and mean…and irritable and bitter—but now you're back." Directly she looked at him, explaining and beseeching, asking him to understand. "That's why I came over. I missed you." She looked down again. "It took me a long time to stop fighting it."
House was silent for a moment, his eyes turned to the floor, taking in what she'd just told him.
Then he looked up at her—directly; almost fiercely.
"What makes you think I wanted you back for any reason other than that I couldn't have you?"
She slid to the edge of the bed and stood up.
"Because I know you," she said.
She moved closer to him so that their bodies were almost touching.
"I know what you want," she said.
He could feel her breath on his shoulder through his t-shirt and he was very much aware that she was naked and he was half-dressed. The sight of her and her proximity; it still did things for him even if he couldn't go all the way right now.
"I'm still miserable and mean and irritable and bitter," he said. "More now than I was then."
She put her arms around his shoulders. "I've grown a harder shell," she said and leaned in to kiss him.
He kissed back, tentatively, before breaking it. "You can't just leave Mark," he said.
"You don't give a damn about Mark," she said.
"I don't want someone else to go through what I went through."
"That's a lie," she said.
He stared into her eyes for a long time.
It was a lie. They both knew it.
Then he said, "I don't want to go through it again," and took a step away from her.
She let him go. "I don't believe that," she said evenly.
He limped to his dresser and found a pair of pajama bottoms.
"I can't," he said, not looking at her.
He limped back to the bed and sat down to put them on.
Stacy slipped into her blouse and panties quickly, then sat next to him while he struggled.
She caressed the back of his neck. "I still love you," she said.
House got the bottoms over his right leg and leaned to the left in a quick motion to get them over his hips. "I know," he said.
She sat next to him for a moment longer while he tied the string. Then she got up and finished dressing quickly. He sat and watched her. The scene was so domestic. He was tempted to ask her to throw him a pair of socks and his Vicodin like they were living together again. It felt so much like home.
She leaned down to kiss him. "I'll see you tomorrow at work," she said. She kissed him again: the quick, familiar goodbye kiss of long-time lovers.
He heard her let herself out and fell back on the bed again, eyes on the ceiling.
The apartment was silent and fully lit: a home with no one in it. He was utterly alone.
But strangely enough, he thought as he closed his eyes and recalled the taste of her on his tongue and lips, he felt good.
Yes.
He felt good.
END