Stacy/Cuddy
Title: Shouldn’t.
Pairing: Stacy/Cuddy
Rating: R
Warnings: Badly written femmeslash.
Summary: It happens when it shouldn’t- it’s wrong and right at the same time.
Disclaimer: If I owned House, House and Wilson would have lots of angsty sex, and Cuddy would let her lesbianism run wild and free. And Chase would wear a pink shirt more often.
Notes: Not 100% why I wrote this. I hate Stacy.
It shouldn’t be like this. It’s wrong, not because some religion says so, and not because one of doesn’t want it, because they both want it, and they want it bad, and they want it now, but because of their history with House and because Stacy’s married, and she’s both House’s and Stacy’s boss. But somehow, they find themselves in this position; Stacy slammed up against Lisa’s desk in her one-story home, legs wrapped around her waist, and Lisa’s mouth pressed hot against her neck.
And Lord fuck it, it feels good.
And what’s worse, because Lisa feels a twinge somewhere in the back of her spine whenever this occurs, this isn’t the first time they’ve found themselves in this predicament, nor will it be the last. Lisa has never shied away from her sexuality- she likes men, she most certainly does, but a particularly attractive female with gorgeous legs and a fine rump will make her turn her head and she has frequented a gay bar more then once. She even once had a three-year relationship by a woman by the name of Michelle with waist-length dark red hair and bright green eyes and quite a talent for-
Stacy gave a load cry, her head thrown back, her collared white shirt riding up her stomach. Lisa ran her hand down the other woman’s side, over the waistband of her formal, black skirt and to her knee. Moving her mouth from Stacy’s neck, Lisa ran her lips over the woman’s cheek and to her temple. Her hand, at the same time, trailed up Stacy’s skirt and thigh and to her underwear.
‘Lisa…’ Stacy whispered.
So maybe it was wrong, Lisa continued to think as she pushed aside the married woman’s underwear. After all, Stacy was married, her husband in hospital, and House… well, it shouldn’t matter, should it? House was Stacy’s ex-boyfriend, after all, and they hadn’t seen each other in the longest of times. And it was Stacy’s decision to pursue this affair after all.
Stacy’s hands were brushing down the open lapels of Lisa’s shirt, pushing it over her shoulders and down her arms. Her breathing was short and ragged, chest heaving. Lisa’s free hand slipped up Stacy’s shirt, cupping her left breast, her thumb pulling down her bra ever so slightly. Stacy’s hands trembled ever so slightly, fingers digging into Lisa’s weight.
Stacy whispers when they do this, and often Lisa has wondered if maybe it’s because she’s trying to keep her mind off the happenings around her. Lisa is always quiet- always. Her brow narrowed, eyes focused, hands busy and learned and experienced. Stacy’s are more nervous, hesitant and needy. Her hands tremble when she pulls Lisa closer, Lisa’s fingers pushing and rubbing Stacy closer and closer to the edge, her breath becoming shorter and needier, her fingers clenching into Lisa’s skin.
‘Lisa…’ she mews, legs curling around Lisa’s hips, her black court shoe falling down her foot and landing with a dull thunk on the floor. Her head tilts and brushes around Lisa’s lips, their mouths meeting and catching in a light albeit desperate kiss. Lisa’s rubbing becomes quicker, her hand that cups Stacy’s breast pressing firmer, the tips of her nails digging in. Stacy gave another cry her head rolling back, thighs clenching around Lisa.
It’s wrong. Lisa knows this. Stacy is married and Lisa knows better than to have an affair with her. If anyone ever found it, the rumors alone would destroy their otherwise honorable reputations. It should bother Lisa- it should- but it doesn’t. And it’s obvious it doesn’t bother Stacy as much as it should. So they find themselves, like this, tangled in some sordid lesbian love affair, Stacy pressed up against Lisa’s home desk, Lisa pushing her to orgasm.
And it shames Lisa that she gets some sick thrill out of it, that she’s doing this and Mark doesn’t know, and House doesn’t know, and no one- no one at the hospital, save them- know about it. And when Stacy leaves her house to go home to her empty home and her empty bed, Lisa lies on her own, rubbing herself, and whispering Stacy’s name over and over until she shivers and comes, Stacy’s name a murmur on her lips.
Pairing: Stacy/Cuddy
Rating: R
Warnings: Badly written femmeslash.
Summary: It happens when it shouldn’t- it’s wrong and right at the same time.
Disclaimer: If I owned House, House and Wilson would have lots of angsty sex, and Cuddy would let her lesbianism run wild and free. And Chase would wear a pink shirt more often.
Notes: Not 100% why I wrote this. I hate Stacy.
It shouldn’t be like this. It’s wrong, not because some religion says so, and not because one of doesn’t want it, because they both want it, and they want it bad, and they want it now, but because of their history with House and because Stacy’s married, and she’s both House’s and Stacy’s boss. But somehow, they find themselves in this position; Stacy slammed up against Lisa’s desk in her one-story home, legs wrapped around her waist, and Lisa’s mouth pressed hot against her neck.
And Lord fuck it, it feels good.
And what’s worse, because Lisa feels a twinge somewhere in the back of her spine whenever this occurs, this isn’t the first time they’ve found themselves in this predicament, nor will it be the last. Lisa has never shied away from her sexuality- she likes men, she most certainly does, but a particularly attractive female with gorgeous legs and a fine rump will make her turn her head and she has frequented a gay bar more then once. She even once had a three-year relationship by a woman by the name of Michelle with waist-length dark red hair and bright green eyes and quite a talent for-
Stacy gave a load cry, her head thrown back, her collared white shirt riding up her stomach. Lisa ran her hand down the other woman’s side, over the waistband of her formal, black skirt and to her knee. Moving her mouth from Stacy’s neck, Lisa ran her lips over the woman’s cheek and to her temple. Her hand, at the same time, trailed up Stacy’s skirt and thigh and to her underwear.
‘Lisa…’ Stacy whispered.
So maybe it was wrong, Lisa continued to think as she pushed aside the married woman’s underwear. After all, Stacy was married, her husband in hospital, and House… well, it shouldn’t matter, should it? House was Stacy’s ex-boyfriend, after all, and they hadn’t seen each other in the longest of times. And it was Stacy’s decision to pursue this affair after all.
Stacy’s hands were brushing down the open lapels of Lisa’s shirt, pushing it over her shoulders and down her arms. Her breathing was short and ragged, chest heaving. Lisa’s free hand slipped up Stacy’s shirt, cupping her left breast, her thumb pulling down her bra ever so slightly. Stacy’s hands trembled ever so slightly, fingers digging into Lisa’s weight.
Stacy whispers when they do this, and often Lisa has wondered if maybe it’s because she’s trying to keep her mind off the happenings around her. Lisa is always quiet- always. Her brow narrowed, eyes focused, hands busy and learned and experienced. Stacy’s are more nervous, hesitant and needy. Her hands tremble when she pulls Lisa closer, Lisa’s fingers pushing and rubbing Stacy closer and closer to the edge, her breath becoming shorter and needier, her fingers clenching into Lisa’s skin.
‘Lisa…’ she mews, legs curling around Lisa’s hips, her black court shoe falling down her foot and landing with a dull thunk on the floor. Her head tilts and brushes around Lisa’s lips, their mouths meeting and catching in a light albeit desperate kiss. Lisa’s rubbing becomes quicker, her hand that cups Stacy’s breast pressing firmer, the tips of her nails digging in. Stacy gave another cry her head rolling back, thighs clenching around Lisa.
It’s wrong. Lisa knows this. Stacy is married and Lisa knows better than to have an affair with her. If anyone ever found it, the rumors alone would destroy their otherwise honorable reputations. It should bother Lisa- it should- but it doesn’t. And it’s obvious it doesn’t bother Stacy as much as it should. So they find themselves, like this, tangled in some sordid lesbian love affair, Stacy pressed up against Lisa’s home desk, Lisa pushing her to orgasm.
And it shames Lisa that she gets some sick thrill out of it, that she’s doing this and Mark doesn’t know, and House doesn’t know, and no one- no one at the hospital, save them- know about it. And when Stacy leaves her house to go home to her empty home and her empty bed, Lisa lies on her own, rubbing herself, and whispering Stacy’s name over and over until she shivers and comes, Stacy’s name a murmur on her lips.