Author: Lady_of_the_Refrigerator

Title: Artistic Nude

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

Notes: Written for the michigandreams Livejournal community for House/Cuddy college!fic.

Rating: T/PG13

Prompt: House models nude for Cuddy's art class

Oh, God. Why the hell is he here?

If you were to ask me where you would be most likely to run into Bookstore Boy, figure drawing class (which I took to get a better feel for anatomy) would have been pretty low on the list. But here he is all the same. And, judging by the, um... stylish terry-cloth robe he's wearing, it looks like he's going to be our model today. Our nude model. Joy.

Why him? The smug, arrogant bastard probably already thinks he's God's gift to women, and anyone who will strip down in front of a whole room of college girls (and a few guys) certainly doesn't have a problem with self-confidence. It seems like a pretty stupid idea to encourage him like this.

Hmm. I will admit, he has really nice arms. Muscular and well-developed, but without that kind of creepy beefcake, bodybuilder bulgyness. And his chest, with a smattering of hair across the middle, well... it's not bad, either.

OK, maybe he has a point with this God's gift thing. He has the most beautiful legs I have ever seen. Those thighs... I could dream up some pretty amazing fantasies with those thighs playing a starring role.

Speaking of material for fantasies... (Why am I doing that again? I thought I decided that day in the bookstore never to give the guy the time of day.) I guess I can't really delay the inevitable anymore... I should just look and get it over with, be a mature and professional art stude--goodness.

So much for being professional. I must be blushing all the way to the roots of my hair. My face certainly feels like it's burning up. At least he isn't looking at me. With those devastatingly beautiful eyes that I could just dive into like the crystal blue pools they so closely resem--Shit. Shit.

It's not like he is the first male model I've ever had to sketch nude. In fact, this should be old hat by now. Between figure drawing and my med classes, I should be completely desensitized to the naked male form in a non-romantic environment, but nooooo. I'm sitting here struggling to finish this infernal sketch with my hand shaking and my face as red as it was when I had that horrible sunburn from dozing off reading in the yard last summer and I can't help ogling Greg "I-Know-Everything-About-You-From-Skimming-Your-Syllabus" House's package and I feel like a complete fucking pervert.

He's got me so flustered, I'm thinking in run-on sentences now. Great.

Capturing that puckish little smirk he's got going on is proving to be very difficult, especially with my mind on... other things. Damn him. Damn him. And damn my professor, too. Charcoal just doesn't do Greg House justice. Without those clear blue eyes, my attempt at a likeness is just Not Right.

Well. At least my attention is focused where it should be, now. Maybe I'll get this sketch finished after all.

Oh, lovely. Remember how I said he wasn't looking at me? Well, he so totally is now! I must have made a noise or something, because his eyes swiveled carefully over in my direction and my beet-red face drew his attention like a fucking beacon in the night. 'Cause, yeah, of course I needed the added stress of him watching me.

Class is almost over and I'm just about finished with the sketch, so at least I can't be held responsible for him breaking his pose. Because, seriously, he looks like he's fighting off a full-on smile looking at my very obviously embarrassed face. Which, in turn, embarrasses me more and I blush redder, and the skin crinkles around his eyes because he can't really suppress his amusement properly.

And then it's finally over and he disappears before I can even sneak one last glance at his whatever-my-mind-would-have-fixated-on-at-that-moment. Whatever fleeting disappointment I felt then is quickly replaced with sheer relief. I take a deep, calming breath and start to gather my supplies as the room slowly empties around me.

Then, as quickly as he left, he's back. I hear him before I see him. He's a little out of breath as he comes up behind me and he compliments my sketch. I turn to face him. All the discomfiture that had left when class ended comes crashing back. He's dressed now, in jeans and an old t-shirt--he must have run to change out of his robe, which explains his breathlessness--but now I've seen what he looks like naked and I can't get the image out of my head. The way his jeans hang on his hips, the way his short-sleeves cling to his biceps only serves to emphasize what I know the clothes are hiding.

He knows why I'm distracted beyond belief--I haven't responded to a single thing he's said--and he ribs me for it mercilessly. Now that he's free to move, his grin encompasses his whole face. It's the most mischievous grin I have ever seen and it's very clear he's getting entirely too much joy out of teasing me. I want to make him suffer for it, but I can't figure out how.

The next thing I know, he's introducing himself to me and offering me his hand. I try to brush him off--my hands are covered in charcoal and I'd rather not give that kind of lasting impression--but he's persistent. He grabs ahold of one of my smudge-covered hands and shakes it anyway. I shake back on autopilot, still caught up in the moment, and in his eyes. They're doing that crinkly thing again and I am... enchanted.

Enchanted? Shit. I've got it bad for this one. I smile in spite of myself and I'm sure it's a shy, awkward smile, not the confident one I would have tried for if I could control it. He's still holding my hand, I'm still holding his; however you put it, neither of us has pulled away. And it's long past a reasonable length of time for a Nice To Meet You handshake. My stomach flutters.

I can't help feeling this is the start of something new and scary and unpredictable.