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The Happy Adventures of Louie The Lipid
by leiascully and sangrialila
She was deep into her biochem textbook when she was startled by a noise beside her. It was Greg, and the noise was the clink of a full mug of something that on close inspection looked and smelled suspiciously like strong Irish coffee.
"Since when do you make coffee?" She was sitting cross-legged at his desk, dressed in socks and soft pajama bottoms and his UMich sweatshirt that now passed between them so much that it was just as much hers as his. Finals were two days away, and she had come to his apartment because she couldn't stand the thick air of silent panic in the dorm rooms anymore. Also, if she had any last minute questions, Greg was sure to answer them a little more thoroughly than she needed or wanted.
"Since you were too busy figuring out biochem to notice it's 3 a.m. You usually make coffee at two, Lise - I'm disappointed in you." She rolled her eyes and took hold of the mug. It was too hot and scalded her hands. But it was cold in his apartment, and despite the numbness in her brain and wrists from hours studying, the heat of the coffee jolted her awake.
"If you found out two days before the final that you don't know anything about the metabolization of lipids, you'd forget to make coffee at two a.m. too." She took a sip of the coffee and promptly scalded her tongue. It was good though, the coffee and the liqueur just right.
"Oh relax. If you don't know it, what's the chance that all the other jackasses in your class will know them? Besides, you've got me. I know all fifty-six factual errors in that textbook and another ten theoretical ones. If all else fails, cheat like all normal people."
"Easy for you to say," Cuddy took another sip of coffee, pushed the mug away and picked up her highlighter again. She skimmed through another paragraph and knew the information was going over her head. She threw the highlighter away and buried her face in her arms. "Oh fuck this, I'm going to fail."
She felt large hands massaging her shoulders, the thumbs working away at the knot that had formed in the muscles near her neck from bending over the textbook for so long.
"There now, missy, no need to cry," Greg's voice curling into an Irish brogue like her father's. She looked up, incredulous.
"I am not crying."
"You might as well be. Self prophesying failure. You'll be fine. Now stop whining or I'll kick you out."
She rubbed her eyes and sighed, picked up her highlighter again and prepared to tackle the textbook again, when Greg's hand shot out and clamped down on her hand. The other hand was just as quick in clamping down on her other hand, and he shifted his so that he had one hand around both her wrists.
"No more studying. Studying makes you whiny. And I don't want you dying of cold." Greg flipped the textbook shut and tossed it away, pretending not to be careful though it landed on a pillow, and Cuddy pretended that it was really the prickling in her eyes and the fatigue that prevented her from stopping him, though she knew, like she always did, like she always would, that he was right. She reached for the mug again and took a long sip.
"This is good coffee."
"As if anything I do is ever sub par. Come on," he tugged at her wrist. "Desk is depressing. Who knows how much damage those desk lights have done to your eyes?" And he half led, half towed her into the living room, where the curtains were drawn and the only light came from candles burning on the coffee table. Greg made her sit down on the couch and she tipped her head back and closed her eyes. He was across the room somewhere, fiddling with something, and then she heard a needle drop onto a record and jazz flooded into the room.
"God," she said dryly, taking another sip of coffee. "You're nice today. How badly do you want me?"
"Almost as badly as you will want me in a few minutes. Finals. Panic. Stress. You're in desperate need of winding down." He raised one eyebrow suggestively and leaned in to kiss her neck.
She squirmed, trying to get away and not get away and not spill the coffee all at once. "I can't have sex during finals! I need to...work." His hand was wandering up her thigh. Her resolve was weakening.
"Oh please, can't you come up with a better excuse?" He moved over and kissed her in earnest, pinning her against the cushions, making her spill the coffee onto her sweatshirt sleeve.
"Greg!"
"Finish that. I want to have sex with you, and though you smell pretty hot all drenched in coffee, it's a waste if you don't taste what I spent time making. "
She looked at him through her eyelashes and leaned deliberately forward against him, reaching around him to put the coffee on the table, pushing her breasts against his ribs and dragging her wrist up the back of his thigh as she settled back onto the couch. He smirked and kissed her roughly, his mouth not quite lined up with hers, and it was urgent and sexy and she was suddenly hot all over. She put her arms around his neck and pulled him down against her, all that lean muscle and the bulge of his erection hot against her leg. God, he was just so alive. She let her back arch as he kissed her throat. "I could drink it mmmmmlater," she whispered as his teeth scraped against her collarbone, and she slipped one hand down the front of his jeans. "Mmmmmaybe in the mmmmmorning?" and "morning" came out with a squeak in the middle as she let her fingers curl around him and he shifted so that his thigh rubbed between hers.
"You make an interesting proposition," he said, squeezing her breast gently. She kissed him, nipping at his lip, fierce in her desire and he matched her hunger. She'd wanted him all night, but she'd needed to study, and so she'd blocked his presence as he studied at his own books. He pushed up the sweatshirt - she was braless underneath it, anticipating their few hours of sleep in his broad bed. She wrestled one-handed with his t-shirt, scraping her nails up his back so that he moaned into her mouth and rocked his hips against her and she moaned too. He pushed a hand roughly under the waistband of the pajama pants and she was so grateful to the inventor of elastic as he shoved her underwear aside and pressed his fingertips against her. She squirmed in anticipation, but he didn't push into her, just dabbled at her entrance, his thumb ghosting over her clit.
"Grreg," she said after a few minutes, but he braced himself over her hips so she couldn't move and continued to just barely touch her.
"If you want something, you're going to have to ask for it," he said, his mouth very close to her ear. He pulled her earlobe into his mouth and grazed it with his teeth. She whimpered in frustration, throbbing against him. He flicked his thumb against her clit once and then went back to the vague circling. All she could do was rock her hips sideways, which pushed the pajama pants down further, and she used her feet to shimmy them off, trying to re-situate him. Greg was clever. He moved only enough to allow her to bare her legs, not enough to increase their contact. She fretted, noises of protest forming in her throat that came out as exclamations of desire. Her brain was slowing, the edges of her thoughts staticky, but she realized two could play and she slipped her hand back into his pants, the moisture from his head making a slick across her palm. The skin of his cock was like hot satin. She tried to review the anatomy of the penis and its structures, but she could smell her own arousal on the damp tips of his fingers, and the faint musk of him, and it was too distracting.
"Do you want to go back to studying?" he murmured against the sensitive skin of her throat. "Lisssse?" She tightened her fingers around him and he hissed.
"Nnnnooo," she said. Her toes were curling. She strained toward his fingers, wanting more pressure, more contact, more more more. She pushed her thigh against his, rubbing along his shaft as she stroked up the underside.
"What dooo you want?" he asked the words rasping out of him. His breathing was getting faster. Hers was already shallow and irregular, changing as he pressed his fingertips against her, almost into her, or let them move along her cleft. He kissed her, breathing her in, his tongue sliding hard against hers as if he were fucking her mouth. She kissed him back hard, needing it. She ought to remember that whenever they started this, they had to finish. She would never be able to study now.
"Want you," she said against his teeth, struggling to form the words. She moved her thumb over his head, spreading the wetness down the shaft so that her fingers slid against him more easily. There was a spring in her stomach coiling tighter and tighter and she needed the release.
"Hmm?" he said, and his hips were moving against hers, unevenly, as if he couldn't help himself. She wriggled against him as best she could.
"Fuck me," she said after a moment, breaking the kiss so her lips could form the words. She was too close to focus on his eyes, but she could feel the thrill that went through him. He slid down her body for a moment and took her nipple in his mouth, and she made an indecipherable keening sound and rolled her body against him. His fingers rubbed inside her, finally, finally, just in her up to the first joint, but the pressure was so welcome, and she wanted him so much.
"Bed," he said against her lips, and she nodded, reluctantly letting go of him as he got up, dragging his hand slowly out of her underwear. The sweatshirt was still bunched over her breasts and she skinned it off and left it on the cushions. She felt a moment of neglect, the feeling of abandonment that came from not being in direct contact with him, but then she stood up, slung her arms around his neck and jumped. He caught her perfectly, his strong arms braced against the backs of her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist, his hands kneading her ass through the thin cotton of her underwear. She cupped her hand over his cheek and leaned in for another fierce kiss, his stubble rough against her palm and the tender skin around her lips. The bulge and throb of his erection jolted her clit as he carried her into the bedroom.
He set her down on the bed and she peeled him out of his clothes as fast as she could, fumbling, frantic, kissing him anywhere and everywhere. He almost ripped her underwear getting it off and had three fingers inside her before she could get him out of his jeans. Fuck me, said the mantra in her head to the rhythm of his fingers. His mouth was on her breast again and she thought his lips would scald her as he found her g-spot with his fingertips and she clutched his ass, trying not to fall over. The condoms were in the bedside table and she let go with one hand to scrabble for them, putting the corner in his mouth so that he could start the rip. The foil scratched her breast and he licked at the place before tugging at the corner with his teeth. She ripped it the rest of the way and shook the condom out, rolling it over his cock with trembling fingers as he sucked at her breast.
"Now!" she said, high and sharp, and he pushed her up against the headboard and pressed into her as he pulled his fingers out. She hissed at the momentary stretching pain and clutched hard at his ass, holding him in her. He stilled, but he was quivering, and she ground her hips against his, the roughness of bone and hair agonizingly pleasurable against her oversensitive clit, until the pressure was too much to bear and her consciousness splintered into confetti and tinsel, bright sharp fragments of ecstasy. She could feel the muscles of his stomach and thighs trembling as he tried not to move. She tried to remember to breathe, let the clutching of her muscles subside mostly, prolonging the moment before she let him move.
"Okay," she said, kissing him. He kissed her back and started to thrust slowly. But it was awkward the way they were, and her head banged against the wall.
"No good," he said, and pulled out of her so that she could move.
"How?" she asked, and he motioned her down and onto the bed, propping her hips up with a pillow. She opened her legs for him and he kissed his way up her inner thigh, dragging his cheekbone over her skin, lapping briefly at her clit to make her gasp, leaving a damp trail of kisses up her stomach. "Greg," she moaned. "You fucking tease."
"That an adjective or a verb?" he murmured against her mouth as he reached it.
"Just do it!" she said, and he chuckled and moved against her, his head nudging her, and she wrapped her leg over his hip and pushed him in. He hummed in satisfaction.
"You're pretty demanding when you're naked in bed with me," he said. "Also almost unbelievably sexy."
"Take me...away...from what I'm supposed...to be doing," she said, panting a bit as he began to thrust again. "Got...to...pay the price." He wasn't at the best angle, but she was so sensitive, and it was good enough. She put her nails into his lower back to goad him on. "Oh God, faster." He was almost slamming into her and she would be sore in the morning, but for now she couldn't get enough of him, needed to feel the studs on the condom, needed his grunting, needed the ferocity of his want for her. A second orgasm smashed through her unexpectedly, and this time he didn't stop thrusting, just kept moving and moving as she scratched his back by accident, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping her in one piece, trying hard to keep breathing.
"Good?" he said, the word roughened by effort.
"Mm!" she said, her fingers still digging into his back, her pleasure flattening out into something that tasted like tin and made the dim light glint. He groaned and pushed hard into her, panting desperately, burying his face in her hair. He was heavy and they were both sweaty and puffing, but God, it was good to lie there under him, flushed and happy and slowly, slowly relaxing. He shifted his hips enough to pull out of her and rolled onto his side, pulling her close so that he could toy with her breasts.
"Want a bedtime story about the metabolization of lipids?"
"Tell me in the morning," she said drowsily, the edges of pleasure rounding off into sleepiness. "I want a different bedtime story."
"Like what?"
She thought for a minute, biting her lip to stop Greg's fingers on her nipples from distracting her. Why do you like me? was her first thought. But he would make some comment about her breasts or it being totally obvious and wouldn't answer if she pressed further. Besides, she knew why he did, or thought she knew. So she settled for another question.
"Why did you want to become a doctor?"
His eyes lit up a little, in a curiously nostalgic way that she hadn't seen before. His fingers stopped rolling her nipples for a second. When they began again, it was slower, the same brooding rhythm he followed when he was deep in thought, tinkling at his keyboard. There was a long pause before he spoke, all the teasing gone out of his voice.
"When I was fourteen, my dad was stationed in Okinawa. I went rock climbing with this kid from school. Robin whatshisface. Fell. I got this - " he flicked at the scar on his chin, a thin white line that only showed in certain kinds of light. "He was a lot more serious. I brought him to the hospital. We came in through the wrong entrance, passed this guy in the hallway. He was the janitor. And I remember that even for a janitor, he didn't dress right. His shirt looked like he'd slept in it for days. He shuffled down the hallway. Almost didn't move when we had to get past him. Anyway. Friend came down with an infection. The doctors didn't know what to do. So they called in the janitor. He was a doctor. And a baraku. One of Japan's untouchables. Ancestors had been grave diggers or slaughterers or whatever. This guy knew he wasn't accepted by the staff, didn't even try, didn't even pretend to. The people around him didn't think he'd have anything they wanted" - and here a touch of pride entered his voice, steeled it, made it harder - "except. When they needed him. Because he was right." The last word came out fierce and solid, like he was throwing a stone to the ground.
"They had to listen to him. And nothing else mattered after that."
It was strange to see Greg like this, blue eyes solemn and thoughtful, quiet and almost tender. She stared at this man who only minutes ago had been fucking her like there was no tomorrow, who made her howl with pleasure and forget everything that was proper. So he had yesterdays after all, as little as he talked about them. She tried to imagine him as a fourteen year old boy, pubescent and gangly and maybe timid, and had a hard time seeing it. She had never known him before rightness mattered, before he had found his footing and his path, and she never would. But it had happened. He was human just like she was and he had been a baby once, and a toddler, and an aimless teen. Someday he would be old, and she would be old, the way she couldn't imagine now, and all this youth would be a dreamy memory, and they would be different people. She thought they would still know each other. She thought she wanted to see what he would become. She thought maybe he felt the same.
"What did he have?" she asked quietly, reaching down to take his hand, twining her fingers with his.
"Who?"
"Your friend. What did he have?"
"I don't know. They didn't tell me and it wasn't like I was allowed to read his charts. I've been trying to figure it out, but memory's a bitch. Don't even remember all of the symptoms. Other than his wound turned black and crusty."
"You'll figure it out," she said, tracing her fingertips over the lines of his palm. He would solve the mystery, she imagined: he was so dedicated to rightness and curiosity, and so gifted. It was frightening and it was beautiful. Some part of her thought she understood, hoped that she too, had a little piece of that genius in her. She looked at him in the dark across the pillow and found she was smiling.
"And if I don't?" His eyebrows quirked in amusement.
She shrugged, leaned over and kissed him. He kissed her back, slow and sleepy.
"Next time," he said, "you're not getting a choice. It's the happy adventures of Louie the Lipid or nothing. All this confiding gives me hives."
She laughed, rolled over, and made sure the alarm was set before wrapping her arms around the pillow. Behind her, Greg kissed her shoulder and she could feel him smile against her skin. She reached for his hand, kissed his palm, and pressed it to her breast. He sighed and dragged the covers up. "Once upon a time, there was a happy little lipid named Louie." The murmur of his voice lulled her to sleep.
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A/N: Cowritten with sangrialila of LJ.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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