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dariaslookalike · 2 months

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Needing Miller pt 4.

Summary: It's a shit hole of a world that you're living in, and it gets even shittier when you're ambushed in your sleep. It's a slippery slope that leads you from being tucked cozily in your sleeping bag to joining the raiding group lead by the most infuriating (and intimidating) man you've ever met. You need to survive, above all else- either in this group (without smacking its leader over the head), or in the world alone after somehow escaping. Easier said than done, when your mind loses all sense of focus, tactics and skills the second that Joel Miller rolls up his sleeves and shows his godforsaken forearms.

Warnings: Violence, swearing, adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N:

Masterlist

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Front sight. Barrel. Release. Back sight. Grip. Hammer. Slide stop. Magazine.

Joel loses any sense of teasing or testing as he walks you through the gun’s components- a 9mm pistol, semi-automatic. His tone is even, and his words are systematic and factual. There are no anecdotes or mnemonics or anything remotely unscientific, spare the occasional Never hold it like this if you don’t want to shoot your foot and your ears will ring like hell.

You try to keep your gaze focused on the gun, matching each name to each part, and then each explanation to each name. But, against your wishes, your body betrays you, and you risk glances at him. Only to see what he’s thinking you tell yourself. You briefly study the crease in his forehead, the steady focus of his eyes, his tanned skin, the hair that is starting to grow too long at his temples. Focused. Assured.

“How do you know all this?” The question slips out quietly before you can even stop it.

For the first time, he looks up to you.

He’s so close with the both of you hunched over the gun, and you can see the dark ring of his iris enclosing warm, earthy tones.

Coffee, you think. Not the shit that FEDRA tried to ration, that was bitter and off-putting. But the warm, rich one that your mother used to drink in the mornings- intoxicating, and sweet and home. You wonder what he sees when he looks into your eyes.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk.” His voice is low, and rough, rising out of his chest.

“Fine.” You scoff, shaking your head. You turn your attention back to the gun, watching his finger tap against the barrel.

Tap.

“Texas.”

Tap.

You keep your eyes trained downwards, afraid that if you look at him while he speaks, you’ll scare him away.

“My father. He owned some property, needed security when I was growing up. Said it would be good f’me too. Make me a man.” He scoffs. “He was dead hours into the outbreak.”

The words sound bitter when he says it, and you tentatively raise your gaze. His jaw is set and his brow isn’t furrowed from concentration but old, worn anger. All that and for what? Is what you read in the curl of his lip and flare of his nose. All that apparent authoritarian and masculine parenting only for Joel to be the one standing here.

“My dad was a drunk.” You offer, carefully trying to extend words of understanding. I get it. Joel doesn’t jump at your words, but the tension in his face fades a little, and he looks into your eyes. You clear your throat and continue.

“He wasn’t that useful, though. Never taught us anything like this. I mean, I know how to patch up holes in the wall ‘cause of him. But nothing that would help out here.”

Joel’s lips raise slightly, even if you see a darkening in his gaze when you mention your dad’s wall-punching habits. “Yeah, well I’m sure that’ll be handy one day or ‘nother. I was a carpenter.”

“Oh. Cool.” You nod, trying to seem understanding.

He sees right through you and rolls his eyes. “You don’t know what that is, do you?”

“You worked with carpets?”

He laughs briefly and you want to hear it more, hear it when he’s not holding back. “Mm, with building houses.”

You huff out a snort. “So we both have the perfect skills for an apocalypse then.”

“You can fight dirty. Thank FEDRA for that at least.” He shrugs, the movement casual, but his tone holds back curiosity.

You indulge him. It didn’t seem often that Joel Miller was one for conversation, and if he was up for it today and never again, you would curse yourself for telling him to piss off preemptively.

“It wasn’t FEDRA. I mean they taught us the basics- how to spar, how to use someone’s stance to your advantage. But my knife was,” You hesitate, trying to find the right words. A dead man’s belongings? “A gift from my brother. He taught me how to fight, and not in a clean way.”

Joel huffs, and his hand flexes against the gun. There’s a scabbed wound on the back of his hand, still red and healing. You had almost forgotten you had tried to stab him.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Look at you!” You glare at him, gesturing with your hands to him- his broad shoulders, his height, his fucking biceps. “You were a big man in front of me after someone had already attacked me. I wasn’t gonna wait ‘til the count of three and start boxing.”

His eyes find yours again, and there’s a heaviness to them, and his voice is quiet, hushed; surrounded by the grass, the soft breeze, and the blue sky seem to soften him.

“I know. You did the right thing.”

You stare at him, trying to remind yourself to breathe, to not blush, to not think about how his thighs felt around you or his hands on yours. Think of anything else. Think of the scar on your cheek, the heat and pain that was still present around the stitches, and the uncomfortable sense of itching that had begun as it started to heal. Your eyes dip down to his neck. The scratches on his skin are still there, even if they’re less angry and jagged. You want to lick them. Mark up his neck again and kiss it better.

“You’re weak though. You should work out more.”

You clench your jaw, thoughts of him with any sense of longing being replaced by annoyance. “Right, because there’s so many gyms here. I’ll get on a treadmill next to a stalker.”

Joel’s lips stay in that infuriating, wolfish grin. “I train in the mornings. Don’t need equipment.”

Was that an…invitation?

“Right. I’ll make sure to train at night then.”

He rolls his eyes and huffs out a breath, but his lips still tug up at your joke. You smile at him before you can stop yourself, pride welling in you that he might find you funny. You feel your cheek strain, but you ignore the pang of pain. His eyes crease and for a split second, it seems like he’s going to smile back at you.

He doesn’t. His lips fall, and the lines deepen on his face as his brow furrows. He tilts his gaze back down to the gun, and the conversation doesn’t simply die- it shrivels and burns into ashes. Back to business.

You feel your stomach drop slightly, and anything in it curdle in a soup of shame. What was all that? Was that a pleasant conversation with Joel Miller? What the fuck were you thinking? Distance, you hiss to yourself. Distance is what you need, not sharing stories about your parents or crappy jokes to try and make him laugh.

‘M not gonna be your fucking friend.

That was what he said when you met him. That is what you wanted. You shouldn’t have been feeding into any possibility of something different.

You don’t talk again after that. He shows you how to hold the pistol, and you nod along. He makes you practise tucking it into your jeans, into your pack, and taking it out, over and over, quicker and quicker, each time thumbing the safety on and off, on and off. You don’t offer any words or answers, and your lips stay in a closed line. You don’t do any real shooting. It’s a waste of ammo, and ten shots wouldn’t be enough practice for you to be perfect anyway.

The sun is lowering by the time you finish. Not quite dark, but the grey dusk of late afternoon that is a harbinger of a storm. You shoulder your pack once more and set out, stepping away from the field.

Joel doesn’t walk ahead of you this time. He walks beside you, matching your pace. When you stubbornly slow down or quicken, he continues to mirror you in his long strides. He doesn’t talk to you though. He simply stays beside you, watching ahead.

You ignore him. If he wanted silence, then he could have it.

So what if you liked talking to him, so what if you liked that calm, quiet part of him more than the snapping, angry raider that everyone else knew, so what? You knew that nothing could come from this; knew that he was hotheaded and had to be partially insane to survive out here. You knew that being friends with Joel, or anything else for that matter, was not a possibility. Survival was all you had to be focused on.

You are still adamantly ignoring him when he grabs your elbow. You turn to him, already scoffing and preparing to break your vow of silence to tell him to fuck off when he tugs you closer. In just a few rushed steps, you’re in an alleyway, with your back pushed harshly to the brick wall. You open your mouth, once more ready to use expletives to ask him if he wants his balls kicked again when he firmly grips your lower face.

Your cheeks are smushed beneath his hand and you hiss in pain, feeling your torn, stitched cheek throb and bleed beneath its bandage. When you bare your teeth to bite him, he grips you tighter. You had lapsed in your comfortability around him; forgotten the real strength that he had, where he could crush you before you could even resist.

Your hand reaches up to his, and you dig your nails into the scabbed wound on the back of his hand. You dig in deeper and feel the wet of blood greet you. He still doesn’t let go of you.

“Stop.” He hisses through his teeth, leaning in closer to you with wide eyes. He jerks his head to the side, back to the street you were walking on.

You’re trying to tell him to eat a dick with your eyes, but your gaze snags on what he gestures to. There. At the entrance of the alleyway. Just shambling into view, dragging its feet. The sound of popcorn popping at the back of its throat.

Fuck.

You didn’t mean to inhale so sharply, but it turns its head so rapidly, looking straight at you. It has no face, no eyes, nothing to reconcile its lost humanity with. Fungi bloom from its skull, and its skin is torn, bloodied and thin. Clothes, or the worn remnants of them, hang off its body. It takes a step closer, letting out a shriek of a dying cat.

Run. RUN. RUN!

Joel presses himself to you, his pelvis against your lower stomach, and you realise you’re shaking. His body crushes into yours, and you feel yourself squished between him and the wall. He keeps you still and upright. His other hand pins at your waist, holding you steady to the wall. You let him support your weight, afraid that if you try to balance yourself you’ll accidentally scuff your shoes to the ground. You grip his bloodied hand tighter, squeezing onto it; not trying to make him let go of you anymore, but begging him not to.

You think of the gun, tucked into your waistband. Still with no magazine. Fuck. There was no way you had the skills nor expertise to quietly and efficiently lock it back in place. And Joel’s gun was tucked into the back waistband of his jeans, snug to his spine.

The clicker steps closer, and it tilts its head, trying to pin the sound it had heard. It screeches again.

You think of your brother. Dragging you through the QZ's perimeter when flames had consumed buildings in the riot. Not letting you trip or stumble, but always keeping a firm grip on your arm and tugging you on. On towards the rest of the city, towards the train lines that would take you somewhere better, somewhere safer, somewhere where your mother wasn’t lying dead in her shit hole apartment and where your other siblings weren’t strung up by revolutionaries and where you still had a home to return to. Head East. Head East and start again and when everything was alright, when everything was normal, grieve and mourn and cry. But for now, just head East.

He didn’t make it to the train lines.

Didn’t make it past the goddamn library you had stepped in, just to rest, just to let your feet stop for a second, just to sit down and eat something. That same crackling popping was what you heard before he was suddenly on his back, his chest being ripped into, his flesh being shredded, his neck being torn like pieces of mache. His knife is quickly thrown to you. His screams, his guttural voice yelling at you to Run. Run! RUN!

You’re going to die.

Your other hand slips down, to Joel’s lower back. If you can grab the gun, get it out from beneath his jacket and jeans without making a sound, maybe you stand a chance. Your fingers press against the gun beneath the layers of fabric, feeling it there.

Joel tenses, and turns to face you. He shakes his head softly, and his eyes have a clear message. No.

You shake your head with a minuscule amount of movement, still clutched tightly in his hand. You have to. At least try.

Your fingers begin to fumble at his back, searching silently for the edge of his jacket. They’re shaking. The fabric rustles slightly and you feel your blood run cold.

Fuck. You’re going to die, with two guns in arms reach. You’re going to die with your brother’s knife tucked into your pack. You’re going to die. Fuck.

A bird caws somewhere, and the clicker turns. You stare at it from the corner of your eye, and you can’t tell if you’re still breathing.

The sound of flapping wings and high-pitched hissing. A fight between crows.

The clicker drags its feet, and screeches, loud and piercing; so loud you would think it’s right beside your ear, tunneling into your skull and engraving into your brain. You stop looking at it, shaking even more. You’re going to die. You’re going to die, staring at Joel. His eyes are trained on the clicker. That same furrow in his brow. You feel something bloom inside of you when he shifts his weight, and you’re suddenly hidden from view, tucked behind him and against the wall; protected.

The shuffle of dragging feet rips your gaze back to the side. You can barely make out anything over Joel’s shoulder and he shifts impossibly closer to you, exposing his back to the infected and tucking you into him. The jacket’s zipper digs into your skin through your clothes and you think if you could control the panicked tilt of your breath, you might be able to hear his heart beating in his chest.

The clicker moves, and if you could move, you would bury your face into Joel. Instead, you watch, a notch caught in your throat and tears stinging your eyes. It was going to turn and hear you breathing and it was going to shred you to pieces. Tear into your chest. Eat your heart. Your blood runs cold and fear pins you in place. You’re going to die.

But…it shambles back out of the alleyway. Into the street. The clicker continues before the brick wall obscures your sight and you no longer see it.

You can’t believe it. You’re not sure if you should.

Joel drops his hand from your face, and your cheeks throb with the sudden loss of pressure. You feel blood dribble onto the gauze tapped to your face and begin dripping down to your chin. Your hand follows his, still gripping it. He’s still pressed against you.

He turns his gaze back to you, swallowing and chest moving heavily.

“Fuck.” He whispers, and if anything he leans his head in closer to you.

You don’t, can’t, form any words, instead letting out a wrecked, relieved sigh that bubbles out with a quiet laugh.

He leans closer, and you look up at him, trying to hold back the tears welling in your eyes. His dark eyes bore into yours, his breath fans across your face. It fades- the fear, the alleyway, the clicker that is a block away already. It’s only his ragged breathing, the loud pulse of your blood in your ears, the feeling of his hips pressed so tightly against you, the bricks digging into your shoulders, his hand still at your waist gripping you like he doesn’t know how to let go.

“Fuck.” He says again, this time barely audible. A ghost of a word.

His head dips closer, angling to the side and you don’t know what to do when his lips press against yours. You don’t know your name, don’t know your body, all you know is that his lips are warm his beard scratches against your chin and the hand at your waist squeezes even tighter.

Your hand at his back grips his jacket as if you need even more support to stay on your feet. His tongue swipes out, licking against your lower lip. The fear that was chilling you to your core is replaced by something fiery and hot that warms you instantly. Adrenaline courses through your bones and your mind feels fuzzy and warm, and there’s not one cohesive thought other than Oh my god he’s kissing me. After what feels like an eternity of stillness, your brain kicks into gear and you kiss him back, pushing yourself against him even more; feeling his broad chest against yours, his shoulders hunching over as he deepens the kiss, his leg stepping in between yours. His other hand reaches around you, tugging you closer to him and pressing firmly to you. It’s a tangle of heated breaths and a whiny sound from the back of your throat and a deep rumbling from him and all you can feel, all you can taste, all you can think is Joel, Joel, Joel.

He bites against your lip, drawing it between his teeth and everything feels natural; this was the same as anything else the two of you had done. He was pushing and teasing with each swipe of his tongue and movement of his lips, and you were biting back and giving him all you had.

When you break apart, you’re not sure you know exactly what just happened. You knew about kisses, sure. Knew that two people were supposed to put their lips together and feel butterflies. Whatever this was, was not that. This was crushing exhausting and exhilarating. This was not a fairytale kiss from a prince but something that was raw celebrating and terrifying.

Your eyes dip down to his lips, and you like the plump, blushed look they’ve gained. Your blood is smeared slightly across his cheek, through his bead; he doesn’t reach up to wipe it away. Your face is aflame and you look up at him. He’s looking down at you, breathing somehow more ragged than before, and his gaze is heavy, consuming and pinning you in place. Again, you wonder what he sees when he looks into your eyes.

You see the shift even before he pulls back from you.

‘M not gonna be your fucking friend.

“Don’t.” You say, and you hate how pleading it sounds, how pathetic.

He swallows, and unwraps his hands from you, untangles himself from you and steps back. Your hands fall from him, hanging limply by your side.

You shake your head, and the tears are back once more, threatening to spill over. You don’t allow them to. You are not going to cry in front of Joel Miller. Not because of something as stupid, as immature as a kiss that he immediately regretted. You are not going to do that. You swallow past the notch in your throat, you replace the quiver of your lip with a straight line, and you tense your eyes into a hard glare.

He watches you, only a metre away but feeling a million miles from you. He bites his lip, and his face is hardened, and worn.

“We-,” He clears his throat with a deep cough. “I shouldn’t have-”

You huff out a laugh. “Fuck off.”

His jaw ticks. “Watch it.”

“Fuck. Off.” You shake your head, pushing off from the brick wall, straightening yourself, trying to be every bit as big and intimidating as you can be. “You don’t get to play me like that, Joel.”

He opens his mouth to rebut, but you step closer, cutting him off. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to be a dick,” Another step closer, “An arsehole,” Another, “A fucking prick and then do that!”

You shove against his chest and he doesn’t step back; a reminder that he was stronger, that you were not, and that he was the one consistently who called the shots. The one who decided if you kept kissing, if you talked more, if you lived. He looks down at you with…sadness? Regret? It vanishes quickly, whatever it is, and is replaced with a hard, blank face.

You shove against him again, angry and with as much force as you can muster to bruise him, and this time his hands whip up, grabbing yours and pinning them to his chest. He leans closer, growling.

“Stop.”

You glare up at him, seething, digging your fingernails into his chest. “I hate you.”

“No, ya don’t.”

He smiles, but there is no kindness; all just self-assured cockiness. You gouge your fingers in, practically begging him for a reaction; a wince, a hiss, a cry, anything to show that you had any sort of effect on him.

Your nostrils flare, and you spit. “You are the most temperamental and psychotic person I’ve met. One minute you’re threatening me and shooting people, and the next you’re,” You glare at him, throwing his own words in his face. “Trying to get in my pants.“

“You think you’re some peach?” He snarls, canines showing. “All you fucking do is run your mouth. Where’s that gonna getcha? Do you want me to hate you?”

You laugh, you laugh right in his fucking face. “You’re trying to say you don’t? Everything you do is about keeping people under your boot. Making sure I don’t fuck up. Making sure Tommy doesn’t run off because he hates your fucking-”

Suddenly you’re back against the wall, and it happens so fast you get whiplash. He leans closer, snarling.

“Don’t fucking talk about Tommy.”

“You know. You know that he’s not happy here.”

Joel’s jaw ticks, locked heavily in place. He shakes his head, rearing in closer to you. “Newsflash- I don’t give a shit if he’s happy. If I’m keeping him alive, that’s all that matters. Stay out of it.”

“I hate you.” The words come out quieter than you thought but still laced with venom.

“I’m not a big fucking fan of you either, Dollface.” He spits the name like it burns his tongue.

“Sure seemed like it a minute ago. Miller.”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He blinks, and his brow hunches, but he still doesn’t know what to say, seemingly lost for words. Everything that swarms between the two of you, your shared breaths, your heat, your anger and ire is tense and rigid. And then his gaze flicks down, to your snarling lips. And everything on his face melts for a second, and he’s leaning closer, and tilting his head to the side and then his mouth is on yours and his hatred is in every swipe of his tongue and his annoyance is in every bite to your lip and his ire is in every movement of his mouth and you can’t breathe and you’re kissing him back like it’s the last thing you’ll do and again it’s JoelJoelJoelJoel-

You pull your head back.

“Go fuck yourself.” Your voice sounds more wrecked than you let it be

You wrench your hands out from under his, hating how he was able to cover them completely, hating that he could have stopped you if he wanted to, hating that he didn’t. You shove him back and barge past him. You boil with anger and you think that right now if the clicker showed its face, you would be the one sinking your teeth into its skin and tearing its flesh apart.

You don’t bother looking back to see if he follows you. You just turn onto the street and walk back in the direction of the church.

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #the last of us fanfic #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

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hello I hope that you are fine and that you are doing great. I just wanted to let you know how grateful I am for founding your work about Dr House. Stumbling on your work felt like founding water in a desert , I could not found one work this long and this well written about this fandom . OK the fandom is kind of old but come on Dr Gregory House is SO HOT give this man more love.But seriously your work was so good . the characterization of each character was top tier especially House felt like I was watching the show . And I loved his and reader interaction it was so good ,we love the enemies to lover trope . they were so sassy and mean with each other( especially House) I was having the time of my life reading your dialogue . Anyways I really enjoyed reading your work THANK YOU for sharing it with us . Also I would not want to be a burden but could you please give me recommendation of some Dr House X reader Fanfiction please . HAVE A GOOD DAY OR NIGHT ,SENDING YOU A LOT OF HUGS

thank you so much!!! Literally agree with all of that, like when my House obsession had me in a chokehold, it was so hard to find the sort of fanfiction that was what i was looking for- like don't get me wrong, smuts great but sometimes I wanted to sit down for a few hours and be delusional. So i was like okay fuck it I'll write it, and that was my first ever published fic. AND FR he is that hot like to this day I still have edits saved to my phone. my friends literally made me a dilf scrapbook for my birthday and he was across like five pages

I'm really glad you're enjoying my writing!! it always makes me so giddy to hear something like that, so thank you for all the compliments <33

i want to continue with that fic eventually, and i have plans of at least another 3 chapters to finish it off, it's just trying to find the motivation to get back to it. i just checked and i originally posted on AO3 back in 2023 January, so it's been awhile. im doing well, but i've just started my first year of uni so im a bit swamped.

not a burden at all for the request!! i will say the place to be is AO3- you can filter the results by the chapter lengths, likes, word lengths etc. i really liked beetective's fic there, called 'friday i'm in love' though i think it is a wilson x house x reader and a wip. i think honestly i read maybe one or two fanfics until i was like okay ive just gotta write what im looking for atp, so i don't have a heap of recommendations sorry.

TYSM LOTS OF LOVE !! and have a good day or night too :))

#gregory house #gregory house x reader #house md #gregory house fic #house md fanfiction

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

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Needing Miller pt 3.

Warnings: Violence, swearing, adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: i start uni on monday :'). tried to whip out this chapter so apologies for any mistakes- I do have further chapters planned up until the end, but no distinct upload date.

Next Chapter: Pt 4

Masterlist

-----------------------

Your mother’s laughing, and the sight makes you smile so widely that your cheeks hurt. The room is warm and cast in a sunny glow, hazy and yellow like a faded picture. But this picture isn’t scratched or wrinkled. The image is clear and detailed to you.

You want to call out to her but you can’t think of the words, and instead you just watch her. The frills on her faded, worn apron. The grey hairs peeking through her scalp. The lines at the corner of her eyes. The chip on her corner tooth. She was so beautiful it hurt. You turn and see your brothers bounding closer, shoving each other in the small apartment. Your mother’s forehead creases, but her scowl is half teasing. She says something to them, and they straighten and dust themselves off. When she turns back around, one of them elbows the other, and you can hear your mother chuckling at the sound.

You sit there, at the scratched kitchen table and take it all in. You want to watch your mother, view the meticulous and efficient way she moves at the stove top, like you would a flip book; eyes straining to focus on the one individual image before finally accepting the fluidity of the continuous motion. But, something in your mind urges you to turn away, and you have to force your head to move.

Your oldest brother is staring at you. He’s got your mother’s eyes and his renowned smirk in place and you take him in. His dirty shirt, the worn leather of his belt, the scars of acne across his cheeks. His eyes are glassy. He doesn’t stare at you, he stares past you- through you, really. It unsettles you, and you feel your stomach curl in on itself at the sight.

Something’s not quite right.

He reaches up, and taps his right cheek. His finger comes away bloodied. He’s not smirking anymore. His mouth is drawn into a thin, tense line, but you can still hear a wrecked voice, screaming hoarsely at you to run.

Run. RUN. RUN!

You jolt awake and the image is ripped away from you. You involuntarily call out, and are half way through it before you clamp your mouth shut. Your eyes are damp and your cheek is throbbing.

Joel’s boot nudges your shoulder and you jerk back so hard your head connects with the fountain behind you. You groan, and sit up, hand rubbing at your sore skull.

You think you hear him stifle a snort before he steps back and towers over you. You quickly wipe at your eyes, pretending as if you were rubbing sleep out of them before you look back up at him. His jaw is clenched, and he tosses something down to you, gauze and tape landing in your lap.

“Redress that. We leave in ten.”

Then he turns, and walks away from you. You scowl at his back, but he doesn’t turn to face you.

You don’t have a mirror to work off as you gingerly peel away your bandage. It’s damp and bloodied, and you cringe away from it. But you force yourself to focus, to not brush against your stitches accidentally as you dress your wound again. You don’t like the idea of what it looks like- what you look like now.

When you’re done, you shove the materials in your bag, winding up your sleeping bag once more. You settle against the fountain, gazing out to the rest of the group, who are stamping out the bonfire and packing up their own supplies.

Tommy catches your gaze from across the makeshift clearing in the mall. He looks so different in the daylight- broad shoulders, lean arms, all tucked away under a thick winter jacket. He smiles broadly, and gives you a mock salute. Your lips turn up and you look away.

A Miller. There was an ocean of words ebbing in front of you and you didn’t know if you should trust it to dive in. How much could you trust Joel, and what he said? Sure, actions speak louder than words and he clearly clung to some form of morals; drawing new lines in the sand somewhere after killing and somewhere before assault. But he was a raider. He would lie and cheat and murder and stab and do it all again if it got him what he wanted.

Was he honest in telling you that Tommy was someone to steer clear of, or was he simply not wanting you to get comfortable? Was he honest in telling you he’d teach you how to use a gun or was he going to shoot you when you turned from him to make a point to his group? Was he already regretting asking you to join?

You would have to toe this line very carefully. Relax around these raiders enough to fall asleep. Trust them enough to watch over your back at night or in any situations you run into. Keep an eye on all of them, and especially the brutal one they followed, to keep yourself alive.

You hate fucking politics. The dishonesty of it all, and the way you would have to please everyone with ingenuity. The way you would have to analyse their words and their actions and their desires and their biases, just to make sure you didn’t piss off anyone who was too trigger happy. You take a deep breath and stand, shouldering your backpack.

You hear his sharp whistle before you see him.

Joel is standing by the mall’s glass doors. Long ago they might have been automatic, but now their glass is broken in and shattered on the floor, and they stand motionless. He steps over the bottom metal lip and flicks his head to the outside.

“C’mon, move it.”

Everyone sets into motion to follow him and soon you all are trailing behind him as you stride through the city.

It’s not like you really knew the world before the outbreak. Everything that you saw, you did so while holding onto your mother’s hand. Some things stand out to you in memory more than others. The crackling and buzzing of the television in your lounge room. The crash of the waves over you and your siblings, and the lingering feeling of swaying in the water as you tried to fall asleep. The sparkled blue princess dress you used to demand to wear everywhere.

But not the cities. This new landscape, in the years past the outbreak, had overtaken any lingering memories of your surroundings and was now all you knew. It had changed the same way you had. You lost your teeth and new ones grew in while buildings cracked and slipped into a deeper angle. The roundness of your cheeks had dropped into a smooth plane and sunk in even further at the rations imposed in the QZ, yet the animals began to thrive in the new greenery that appeared everywhere. Dark bags clung under your eyes and your hands were blistered, worn and weathered as the roads split and trees shot through abandoned homes.

You breathe it in as you walk. The climbing vines over bricks. The overgrown weeds you have to hop past on the cement. You’re too focused to notice Tommy slip beside you and match your stride. He snorts at your wide eyes and you whip your head, glaring at him. He just smirks.

“First time?”

You roll your eyes at his sultry voice and ignore his innuendo. “No. Believe it or not, but I had to get through cities to make it to that mall.”

“Sure. But I bet you didn’t get to drink it all in like this. Or were you traveling with someone?”

You look at him from the corner of your eye but keep your head forward. You see the slope of Joel’s shoulders at the front of the group. You keep your answer short, clipped, as Joel’s words ring through your ears. A Miller.

“No. Why?”

“‘Was just wondering if you had a boyfriend, that’s all. Do you?”

He quickened his pace so he’s walking in your line of view and raises his hands in defense. His cocky grin is nothing near apologetic however. You don’t answer him and instead roll your eyes again. The group turns a corner and you’re thrust onto a main road, surrounded by towering shops and dilapidated offices. You grip the strap of your pack tighter.

“Isn’t this dangerous? Shouldn’t we be keeping to the back roads?”

Tommy catches on to how you ignore his question, but he says nothing. He falls back into step with you, and looks around to the intertwined landscape of cement and plants and glass. He shrugs.

“Nah. No one else would even think about trying to get at us. It’d be a bloodbath- but only on their side.”

You swallow slightly. You didn’t know if this was just a raider’s ego talking, or if Tommy, Joel, the whole group really could ensure that- make it unscathed while killing and slaughtering anyone who defied them. Again, you are struck with the notion that you don’t want to find out. You don’t want to stick around long enough to be involved in turf wars that are really massacres.

Tommy must see the way you pale because he steps closer to you, his voice dropping low. “I don’t like it either,” He whispers. “There’s..other people who agree. People who want to do things differently.”

You shoot him a curious glance but he doesn’t say anything further. When it’s apparent to you that he won’t expand anymore, you clear your throat.

“What about infected?” There’s one too many beats of silence, as if Tommy’s words were caught in his throat and you snap your head to him. “Tommy. Are there infected here?”

His eyes widen at your raised voice and sharp tone, and hushes you instantly, using his hands to calm you like he would a bucking horse.

“No! I mean-”

He glances at the group ahead of you and slows his pace deliberately, putting more distance between the two of you and them. He heaves a sigh, and you see his jaw tick.

“Joel didn’t want this getting out. So it’s my head on the line if he finds out it did.” He says, looking at you pointedly. “But.. he found some clickers. Looked like a group of travelers who had stumbled into the city.”

You wait with baited breath as he continues. Suddenly the vines, the weeds, the rubble, the dirt, don’t seem so endearing as they do deadly- Hiding the building structures and maybe something more sinister.

“He dealt with them.” Tommy’s tone is flat, unyielding as he says it and you wonder if that was what Joel’s actions were. Brutal. Decisive. Clinical. “But if they made it this close, and were here long enough to get to that point, then there might be others. That’s why we’re on the move, not just to get ahead of the season.”

Not just to avoid the incoming blow of snow and ice, but to get away from whatever else might be winding into this city.

You feel the hairs on your arm stand up. You’re going to run into bad things out here. Not bad people. Bad things. Joel wasn’t trying to trick you with the threat of raiders, he was trying to warn you about this.

Your head swirls with the politics of it all. Was he lying? What about? Was he honest? What about?

You don’t reply to Tommy, and he doesn’t press you on the issue. You both are preoccupied with your own thoughts.

Fucking FEDRA and their stupid posters; always plastered on wall or a gate or a burnt pile of corpses. Infected Stage 1. Infected Stage 2. Infected Stage 3- Clickers; catchier and easier to shout if you were being ripped to shreds by a corpse.

Your brothers used to make bets on who could bring home the most posters. Leaflets about rations, warrants, infection control, curfews, symptoms, labour shortages and more were stacked into high piles in your home. Not out in the open, but tucked under old mattresses, inside faded drawers, behind rotting shelves. Once, your oldest brother came home after curfew, adorned with a split and swollen lip, blooming purple on his inflamed eye, and a splatter of blood across the collar of his shirt. And in spite of it all, in spite of your mothers gasp and in spite of your sibling’s wide eyes, he still clutched a pamphlet defiantly his hand and his stupid smirk persisted after a soldier’s beating.

Your thoughts shift back to your dream, and you forcefully brush them away. Nightmares were nothing new. Especially that one.

You risk a glance at Tommy. His jaw is set and tense, and you wonder what he’s reminiscing on. Or who.

You don’t ask. Tommy’s easy to talk to, but you want the distance to remain. Need it, actually. Distance would keep you alive. Distance would mean that you don’t get attached, that you don’t spill your heart out, that you don’t get hurt. There was no use becoming close with anyone here until you had made your decision about what to do.

As if summoned by the mere thought of it, your cheek throbs. Eleven stitches. Eleven stitches that were sewn into you, and that you would need to get cut out of you. You don’t worry about having to take them out, with or without Ryan’s medical training. A knife is a knife, and if you could cut into infected and people alike, you could cut through some pieces of glorified string. Right now however, your pressing concern was infection. All it would take is one spec of dirt or debris in your wound, and with no antibiotics in this destroyed city, you would be dead. Only Ryan would have any clue of where to find any or what to use or just how.

And Ryan was under Joel’s thumb.

So, you were in a waiting game.

You’d try to make the most of it.

You walk for hours, and the sole of your feet feel flattened and blistered in your cheap shoes. The conversation eventually picks up again with Tommy, but neither of you veer the talk back towards infection. It seems the both of you would rather pretend that you were oblivious to what may be lurking in the city. He points out the landscapes around the city. Not ones for tourists, but ones like the apartment block that the group secured for themselves, or the cinema where Tommy spent a week on the lookout. The information pointedly lacks significance. Tommy plays the role of a charming fool easily, but you catch onto his purposeful restriction- he doesn’t tell you about any stores of food or crappy artillery, nor any territory lines or buildings that are locked down due to spores. He keeps you wool blind, letting your own lack of knowledge keep you oblivious.

You listen to him talk regardless. It’s a luxury you didn’t realise you had lost; simply the voice of another person to fill the silence. It helps take your mind away from what is festering in your heart, and you simply focus on his words and stepping forward.

You lose track of your position however. You don’t know when everyone else’s pace started lagging or their feet started dragging, but soon you and Tommy are right behind Joel. You blink as if only now realising how you had overtaken everyone, and you slow your pace hoping to drop back undetected.

Just my luck rings through your head when Joel turns his head back for the first time, as if sensing your presence.

He makes no show of dramatised surprise; his eyes don’t widen and his jaw doesn’t drop. But you still catch the straightening of his spine, the minuscule tense to his brow.

Tommy laughs, and the look Joel shoots him could kill- not just kill, but rip him limb from limb, castrate and then cremate. Tommy, perhaps valuing his own safety then opposing his brother who seems to be in a foul mood, stops laughing. He looks at you for a second, and his eyes are almost saying Sorry. You open his mouth to ask him what he’s on about, before his footsteps slow and he is overtaken by other people in the group and abandons you with Joel.

Dick.

You turn back, careful to not stumble. Joel glances at you as you keep pace with him at his side. You shouldn’t take pleasure in knowing that if you turned, you would have to tilt your head up to look at him. You do, though. It licks up inside of you and settles in your stomach, purring.

You realise he’s still looking at you now, more pointedly. This time you look over him, and the thing in your stomach isn’t purring, it’s howling and scratching and rabid as you look at him; his dark eyes, the crows feet creeping out, his hair, his lips, his-

“Huh?”

He rolls his eyes, repeating his question that you hadn’t heard. “What did I tell you about Tommy?”

Whatever was going on in you dies then at the gruff, condescending tone of his voice; like he was some teacher and you were sleeping in class.

“I didn’t approach him. He was the one who started talking to me.” You huff, glaring at him.

He steps in closer to you, and to anyone behind you it might have seemed normal, protective even. But his voice is angry and low. “And what did I say about mouthing off in front of others? D’ya want me to have to show you who’s in charge?”

You want to bite your cheek, chew on the ruined flesh but you resist. You force yourself to breathe. To cool the anger and sudden bout of lust that flurries inside you. Yes. Fuck you. Show me who’s in charge. I’m going to hit you. Ask me that while you whisper in my ear.

You swallow past everything in your head and focus on him, the angry notch in his brow, the glint in his eyes.

“Sorry.” You say, and it takes everything to force the word past your tongue and to not take it back instantly.

He stops leering over you, but he still remains close, arm brushing against yours.

“See? Wasn’t so hard, Dollface.” He’s smirking and his voice is still low, still gruff, but there’s a teasing note to it. You try not to stumble back with the emotional whiplash he gives you.

“You’re a dick.” You hiss at him, still quiet in mind of his words, but with enough ire that he knows you’re serious.

He looks down at you, and he smiles so briefly that you’re not even sure it happened. But then the easy smirk replaces it once more.

“Yeah.” He says, almost proudly. His voice drops once more, and his gaze flicks back to you. “I mean it though. You’ll walk with me from now on. Don’t get mixed up in what you shouldn’t.”

You huff, and look forward once more, eyes trained onto the cracked pavement. You kick a rock that happens to be in your path, and it skids down the street.

“I thought we agreed that after today we don’t have to talk with each other. Keep everything to business.”

He shrugs. “You don’t have to talk. But if we’re out like this, you stay where I can see you.”

“What? Worried I’m gonna sneak off with Tommy?”

He glances down at you, and you swallow. Oh. He was. Why? What had Tommy said earlier, something about people wanting to do things differently? Was Joel aware of his brother’s distaste for their survival, of his desire for things to change?

Lost in your thoughts, Joel bumps his shoulder into yours, and it makes you stumble. He stifles a snort and you shoot him a withering look.

He plays oblivious, looking at you in faux confusion. “What?”

You shake your head and bite your tongue. Distance, you remind yourself. Distance would keep you unattached, distance would keep you alive. Play fighting with the man who nearly bite your head off would most definitely not end well.

Finally, the group stops by a decrepit church. Amidst all the craters and fallen buildings, the weathered and cracked face of stone blends in. But, when you finally trail in, the inside is fairly pristine. Some of the stained windows are shattered, and replaced with old boards and rusted nails. The pews remain intact, albeit gathered in a corner, and a large cross still looks out from the front. It seems that since the outbreak, people ran to convenience stores and banks and clothing shops yet left the centers of religion relatively untouched.

One of the men spits at the foot of the cross before slumping against a wall. You don’t blame him.

This church was not untouched out of respect but out of disappointment. When the virus that overtakes the body of its host, petrifying their consciousness and snatching control of their body, spread across the world, not one god answered anyone’s prayers.

You don’t feel sacrilegious when you step in. No one is watching down on you now, judging you for the crime of living in this dystopia. If there was anyone at one point, they have since abandoned you and everyone else.

You look to the cross, and the pinned man stares down at you. He says nothing and you don’t expect him to. You turn your back to him.

Tommy catches your eye across the room. He’s talking with two other men, but he nods to you- an invitation to join them.

You ignore him and settle down against the brick wall, close to the large oak doors; one of them hangs on by a hinge and the other is splattered with something dark. You sit on your arse and stretch your legs in front of you, feeling the taunt pull of your hamstrings and the ligaments in your feet as you point your toes. The ache is welcome. It means that your body is working, fighting to move you rather than let you halt. You roll your shoulders and stretch your neck. Your back cracks and out of habit, you crack your knuckles. It’s methodological. You fist your hand against the other and push, then repeat on the opposite. Crack the first knuckles of each hand against the palm of the other. Finally tuck in your thumbs and crack.

It leaves your hands a bit stiff, but you make no attempts to break the habit.

The group is split once more. Many of the man roll out what they have in their pack, or simply lay themselves against the stone floor, preparing to sleep. Only a select few remain awake, alert, taking the day shift it seems.

You tuck your chin to your chest and close your eyes, allowing yourself to rest for a moment. Your ears are still trained on what goes on around you. Across the room, Tommy chuckles at something. Closer to you, someone huffs and sets themselves on the floor. The murmur of voices and the quiet tones of conversation and the even breathing of sleep fill the air.

You hear him but don’t open your eyes. His steps are distinct- his boots heavy and shuffling slightly against the stone floor, as if he was trying not to stomp. The rustle of his jacket. The click of his teeth.

Joel has his gun drawn when you finally open your eyes.

You tense, and slowly sit yourself up straighter. He’s not pointing it at you, but he clutches it, dropped down at his side. All it would take is a flick of his rest, and he could have it aimed between your eyes.

Your gaze flicks from the gun up to him. He’s staring down at you, which he seems to be doing a lot of recently. His expression is impassive and blank. You lick your lips. His voice is gruff when he finally speaks, tilting his head towards the bloodied doors.

“You ready?”

“What for? A firing squad?”

“No. This is your lesson, remember?” He rolls his eyes at you, and it breaks the blank facade. He shakes the gun a bit in his hand, and the casualness of the action makes you swallow.

You push to your feet, and shoulder your pack once more. Joel’s eyes track your movement, but he says nothing. You gesture to the doors.

“Lead the way.”

His jaw ticks, but he turns and pushes open the doors. You trail behind him, and this closely you can study him more. His broad shoulders. The wide expanse of his back. The grey hairs creeping in at the back of his scalp. His long legs.

You catch yourself eyeing his arse and tear your gaze away. Joel walks away from the church, and you follow him, staying a step behind him. He doesn’t look back at you, not even to confirm that you’re still walking with him. He keeps his gaze forward, and you watch as he tilts his head almost imperceptibly when you emerge from each corner; scanning the street, always watching and weary.

It’s not exactly a clearing that he leads you to, but a run down park. Maybe at one point it was used for soccer, or some other field sport. Now, the grass rises to your knees, and there are trees and plants sprouting haphazardly across the expanse. Joel walks further, brushing through the grass and scattered undergrowth. He stops, seemingly with no reason, by a wooden fence that separates the field from a steep tumble into a creak.

He turns to you, and you force yourself to match his gaze. You keep your eyes trained on his; dark and piercing.

Finally, he clears his throat and extends his hand. He offers the handle of the gun to you, and you stare down at it, before looking back at him. He raises his brows. “Ya said FEDRA taught you. Show me whatcha got.”

You reach forward tentatively, waiting for him to snatch the pistol back, like teasing an insolent child. When he doesn’t, you grasp the grip in your hand and step back. Joel watches you like a hawk, but he doesn’t step forward with you. You swallow, and the sound of birds, the rustling of the grass, your own breathing fades.

“How do you know I won’t shoot you?”

Joel’s gaze is heavy. Dark. Unyielding.

“I don’t.”

You raise the pistol. Your hand doesn’t shake, surprisingly. You level it first at his chest, but think better of it and raise it to his eyes.

You have your bag with you. The supplies to redress your wound. You’re far away that the sound wouldn’t carry back to the church. You could leave now. Stop before you go any further with fucking raiders, return to your own journey and pretend this never happened. Survive. Live. Do it on your own without some domineering, testosterone filled men on your flanks.

All for what though? What did you honestly have to look forward to in this desolate universe? The QZ was in ashes. You were alone. There was no one coming to save you, no one telling you that it would be alright, that everything will be fine. This was your life, and the one that everyone left was living too. You didn’t know this city, you didn’t know where to avoid infected, you didn’t know where raider territory lines were drawn, you didn’t know, you didn’t know, you didn’t know.

You grip the gun tighter, your knuckles turning white. He doesn’t rush forward, or begin begging. He doesn’t even blink.

“You wouldn’t though.”

You clench your jaw, and your voice is a lot softer than you expected. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He says, nodding. “‘You ever shot anyone before?”

“Yeah.” You don’t know if you’re trying to convince him or yourself. His lips tug up at the corner, only slightly.

“Bullshit.”

Your finger wraps around the trigger. Your thumb flicks back the safety.

“It’s messier than you think.”

“You shot Terry in front of me, remember?”

Now he’s definitely smirking. “It’s different when you’re the one behind the bullet. It felt good to shoot Terry. Are you gonna feel good shooting me?”

You stare at him silently, not letting any motion sway you. A Miller. A whole different kind of evil. A man who took pleasure in delivering the justice he deemed others deserved. Would you feel good? What had he done that you judged as worthy of a bullet between the eyes? If you pulled the trigger now, what would it be for- the nature of any raider, his shit eating grin, or just the fact that he pissed you off? You still grip the gun, he’s still standing in front of it. His eyes crease at the corners when he smiles.

“Go on Dollface.” His voice is rough, like rocks tumbling against each other. “What are we waiting for? Pull. The. Trigger.”

A beat.

Another beat.

You thumb the safety back on. You stare at him, and lower the gun.

He grins, and throws you something. You barely catch it, but when it’s safe in your grip you look down at it. Black, smooth and weighted.

“There was no magazine.”

Your nose flares, and you whip your head up to glare at him.

“You dick.”

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fic #the last of us fanfic #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

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I remember being in a CHOKEHOLD when I was watching the series and I was omfg someone needs to write this fic. but im so glad you like it!! <33

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Masterlist

Summary:

It seems, oddly enough, that Gregory House lives to annoy you. He takes 'arseholish boss' to the next level. Wake up in the morning, ready to have breakfast, and drive to the hospital where you both work? Nope, you're getting a text that says you're late to his impromptu 4:30 AM meeting where he's had the 'breakthrough of the century' on the team's latest case. Get your hair cut and walk into work, for once feeling confident? Nope, he's saying that he would have done a better job blinded, hands tied and going through Vicodin withdrawals. Finally, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, prove him wrong and attempt to wipe the cockiness off his face? Nope, you're simply slow because you didn't get to your diagnosis quicker and weak-willed because you didn't fight him for it in the beginning. Everything House does infuriates you, and it seems everything you do infuriates him. No wonder you end up pinned to the wall of your apartment and groping him like your life depends on. And knowing House, it very may well.

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagnist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Series Page on AO3

Completed Parts:

Part I: The interview

Part 2: The Proof is in the Pudding. Or the Banana Bread

Part 3: Is he hot, or are you just lonely?

Part 4: Wet Dreams and Taxi Rides

Part 5: Bargains and Balls

Part 6: Chocolate Eyes and Decking Bosses

Part 7: Fever Dreams and Baths

Part 8: Bad Lungs and Choking

Part 9: Losing a Hundred Dollars

Part 10: Should you suck him or rub him?

Upcoming Parts:

Part 11: Untitled

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

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god send

How to Create a Masterlist on Tumblr (on Tumblr app)

Tumblr ‘How To’s Masterlist

(through Chrome browser on laptop)

(through Chrome browser on mobile)

How to Add Masterlist Link To Tumblr Bio

How to Copy Link of a Post

This is in accordance with software updates of Tumblr until 17th October 2020.

There are honestly SO MANY WAYS to organize your Masterlist! You can organize it into sections and sub-sections (and some more sub-sections). Assuming you’re fanfic/fanart/gif set creator, you can organize it fandom wise, character wise, finished/unfinished status wise, fluff/smut/angst wise, blah blah blah…and then add subsections to organize it further - or don’t if you don’t want to!

You can have a ‘Masterlist of Masterlists’ of sorts if that’s your thing, where you have links of masterlists of different fandoms/characters/whatever at one place. Or you can have the links of all your works in one single post. You can choose to include the summaries or warnings or anything else in the masterlist. Or you can only include the names of your works.

Your Masterlist. Your Wish.

I’m sure sure you’ve already seen some masterlists and you have some ideas of your own. Basically,

Creating a Masterlist = Organizing + Copying and Adding Links

You can organize it however you want, and for copying the links, the link of those instructions is given at the top. As for adding links and creating a masterlist from scratch, the instructions are given below.

I am going to make a copy of my existing masterlist to demonstrate the process. Since I write for only one fandom at the moment, it’s organized character wise.

Step 1. Click on the ‘pencil’ icon at the bottom right corner.

Keep reading

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

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Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 10: Should you suck him or rub him?

Summary:

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter:

-----------------------

You jolt awake in the night; a chilly breeze through the window or an odd nightmare that was already fading from your memory. Whatever it was, you thrash against the blanket and suck in sharp breaths of air. You blearily gaze around the room when a shiver creeps up your spine and you find him sitting in the corner armchair.

“You’re a creep.” You croak out.

House raises his glass of bourbon in admission. You can only see the vague silhouette of him lit up by the light drifting in from the street; the glint of his glass, the dark shadows of his brow and cheekbones. You stay like that for a few minutes, gazing at each other. Your eyes gradually adjust to the darkness, and while he sips, you drink in the sight of him. The new stubble lining his face, the whites of his eyes, the curl of his lip.

You break the silence with a quiet question. “How was work?”

You realise it’s dumb as soon as you say it. So much had happened from work to here, where you lay, naked in his bed. You roll yourself over to your side, fully facing him.

House stares at you, and nothing is revealed on the stony plane of his face. “Cameron asked about you.”

You blink. Not like House to avoid the question, but you play into him. “What’d you say?”

His jaw clenches. “I didn’t know what to say.”

You hear his glass clink against the bedside table, and he groans. He shifts in his chair, and you can make out his hands being dragged down his face. His voice is muffled behind his palms, and you squint. “Huh?”

House just groans again, and you’re blinded when he reaches over swiftly and flicks on the lamp. You stop yourself from hissing, and just fling the blankets over your head. Only when you stop seeing white on the dark of your eyelids do you gradually lower it again.

House is staring at you, and while your eyes still sting from the brightness, you appreciate being able to see him. He grinds his teeth. “I said, do you know how annoying that is?”

You blink, stopping yourself from trying to memorise the detail of his neck, and draw your eyes back to his. “What, Cameron asking you a question? Scandalous, I know.”

House scoffs in disbelief, but it doesn’t hold the same bite it used to. It’s softer somehow, here in the pillowy, blanketed expanse of his bedroom. “Even now- Even now, when you’re running on a few hours of sleep and you’re not even fully awake yet, you’re a smart arse.” You clench your jaw as he throws his hands up softly, defeated. “No, no, not Cameron asking. It was not knowing what to say.”

You don’t say anything, and his eyes flick to yours. “I know a lot of things; more than every patient in the clinic combined, more than the snot nosed kids and helicopter parents. But I didn’t know what to say to Cameron.” He leans back in the chair, and scoffs at the ceiling. “I could’ve said your pimp raised your hours or that you were being treated next door by Wilson, and she could go shave her head with you, if she likes. And instead I stood there, and couldn’t think of anything.”

You don’t know how to reply, and he clenches his jaw, blinking away something in his eye, before he takes another sip of his drink.

“House.” Your voice is soft but it still sounds too loud in the sudden silence that envelops you both.

You don’t know how to say it, how to ask. You can feel the words lodging in your throat, trying to bubble out and instead being barricaded inside. So, you shift yourself back towards the edge of the mattress, and raise the blanket up with one arm as an invitation. You see his adam's apple bob and his eyes flick to yours. It’s one thing to fall asleep in the same bed after exhausting sex. It’s another to consciously make the decision to lay with each other- somehow, it felt more vulnerable, more raw, more intimate than what you two had done earlier.

It’s just sex. House’s words from earlier ring out and you can almost see them fluttering through his head right now.

Fine. It’s just sex. You start to lower your arm, rescinding your invitation. But House moves, staring into your eyes all the while, raising himself to his feet and you smile at him. Not a toothy, cocky smile, but a soft one that has your dimple showing.

House groans, his hand whipping to his leg. “Argh!” He’s unsteady on his feet and falls back with a ‘hrumph’ into his chair.

You don’t realise how hard you’re gripping the sheet until you sit yourself up and drag half the bedding with you. “Are you okay?”

House scoffs. “If you call missing muscle and cripple inducing pain okay, then yes, I’m okay.”

You roll your eyes, relaxing slightly. House sees your reaction, and sighs. “It’s just- it’s just a bad pain day. Trying to fuck the shit out of gorgeous women puts a bit of a strain on me.”

You gulp, slightly. “I’ll have to tell that woman off when I meet her.”

House’s breath is sharp and hissing through his nose, but he still manages to scoff. “Don’t do that.”

You can feel your pulse jumping in your neck. “Do what?”

“Don’t sit there and act like some insecure teenage girl who didn’t get asked to prom- you’re gorgeous, and if you pretend you’re not, it makes you look like a gorgeous idiot.”

You laugh, but still feel your cheeks flushing. “House, one time I walked into work, you asked me if a dog chewed me up and spit me back out.” You raise your hands in defence. “I’m not trying to fish for your compliments- I know I’m not the girl in magazines and I’m not like Cameron or Cuddy. I learnt that a long time ago and I’ve learnt to live with it.”

House looks repulsed. “You actually are an idiot then.” You roll your eyes, and he shakes his head in disbelief, still hissing in pain. “Yes, you’re not anorexic or bulimic or some giraffe looking model. And I can’t get enough of you. If you think that I’m not going to compliment you, and tell you truthfully that you’re beautiful, because you weigh more than some pubescent teenage girl beauty standard bullshit, you’re an idiot.”

He’s staring at you from beneath his brow, “Get me a bottle of vicodin from the cupboard, and I’ll show you what I really think about you.” You can practically see the dirty images across his mind. You, pinned beneath him, getting praised and worshipped and adored by House’s depraved self.

Your cheeks are definitely aflame now but you manage to force out a soft laugh. “I don’t know how you managed to say all that when you’re in that much pain.”

As if remembering his pain, House groans loudly, deep from the back of his throat, as his hand rubs over his leg. You try not to focus on the way that sounds make you throb, and you swing your feet over the side of the bed. You see House’s eyes cling to you, to the skin hidden by the bed sheets covering you. You smirk, and simply grab a discarded shirt from the floor, slipping your arms into it. The bedsheets drop, and you hear House inhale sharply at the sight of your bare chest, but then you poke your head through successfully and cover yourself again with the t-shirt.

House’s t-shirt. It’s got some sort of graphic across the front and you vaguely recall it from House’s so called ‘fashion week’ that occurred after Cuddy demanded he wear a doctor’s coat. You slide to your knees in the space between House and the bed, and he shifts his hips slightly towards you.

“Round two?” He asks, smirking down at you.

You laugh, and reach towards the bedside table. “How can you be that horny in that much pain?”

House’s blue eyes track your movements. “It’s one of my many talents.”

You grab the small tube and close the drawer, turning back to House. His eyes flick down to the Deep Heat tube, and trail down you, snagging on your bare thighs. His breath is uneven as he speaks. “How’d you know that I kept that there?”

You look up to him from beneath your lashes. “I’ll be honest- I’ve gone through your entire apartment by this point. I know where you keep your birth certificate, let alone some cream.”

He huffs. “‘Should have expected you to be a detective too.”

“As if you didn’t do the same thing at my place.”

House stares down at you for a moment before he speaks. “You’ve got me there. You found my birth certificate and I found your collection of raunchy pornography, so I guess we’re even.”

You unscrew the lid and squeeze some cream onto your hands. It warms near instantly. “Ha ha. I don’t keep porn, only a box of sex toys.”

Your eyes flick back up at his silence to see House’s hooded gaze as he stares at the apex of your thighs, seemingly entranced, and you shake your head. “Take your pants off, House.”

He blinks, shuddering in a breath. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

He shimmies himself out of his pyjamas- some flannel pants that you might have called him an old man for another night. But tonight, when he shakes and his leg spasms as he finally strips his pants, you resist.

You don’t comment on his laboured breathing when he leans back against the chair, and you simply scooch closer until you’re enclosed by his knees. His hand reaches forward, threading into your tousled hair and pulling it, gently enough to drag your eyes up to his.

House stares down his nose at you, and you remain like that for a moment, staring at each other. You could stare at him forever, you think. Study the lines of his face and the blues of his eyes for your whole life, the same way a cartographer memorises the planes and the dips of a landscape or a crazed artist obsesses over the cool blue of the ocean. Memorise the notch in his brow or the lines under his eyes or the sharp slope of his cheekbone.

A smile tugs at his lips. “You are gorgeous.”

Your brow crinkles. “Now you’re only saying that because I’m on my knees.”

His hand tightens at the roots of your hair, and his grip is more sharp. “You’ll believe me. Eventually. It’ll take me fucking that insecurity out of you and maybe getting Wilson to join, but it’ll work.”

You laugh, cheeks aflame. “‘You sure you could handle that? Last I checked you hated the idea of me taking on Chase by myself, let alone your buddy.”

His jaw ticks, and you can’t tell if his sharp inhale is his pain or the mention of Chase. “That’s because Chase is a snot-nosed ‘yes-man’.”

You roll your eyes half-heartedly. “Stop with the squabbling and let me work.”

His hand loosens at your head, and you lean forward, gingerly smoothing the cream down his bare leg. House flinches at the touch, and you hear him grunt when your fingers trail over the silvery mass gouged out of his thigh. You work gently, and even softer when the grip on your hair tightens, stinging your scalp, and his breath racks through his chest, leaving him heaving. You massage the heated cream into his skin, working in circles and with both hands, pushing into the surrounding muscle and working it into the silvery scar. When it’s absorbed, and his thigh is warm to the touch, you continue working him with your hands, pushing down on the muscle and easing back in a soft massage.

House swallows above you. “I think this is better than the blowjob.”

You smile up at him, mockingly. “Really?”

His head falls back against the chair, and he groans. You clench your legs at the way the sound makes your core tighten, and focus on ensuring your hands continue to work. “Actually, we should do both to test it.”

You laugh at his hopeless attempt, and his head tilts back down as he looks at you. “How’d you learn this? I’ve had masseuses do much worse.”

You narrow your eyes in a faux-glare, applying more pressure to his thigh. “I thought you knew everything about me.”

His hands abandon your hair, and he runs them through his own hair, his adams apple bobbing as he does so. “There’s always things to learn. I didn’t know what you were like in bed, and now I know you’re a slutty little thing that loves to-”

“I got a certificate in massage therapy,” You cut him off. “While I was studying. It was easy enough and I thought it would come in useful if I ended up flunking out of being a doctor.”

“You? Flunking out? In your dreams- or nightmares, I suppose.”

You shrug softly. “It’s always good to have a back-up plan.”

He chuckles. “By that logic, what was your backup plan for your backup plan?”

“Get a sugar daddy.”

House’s eyes drop to yours immediately, searching for facetiousness. You simply smirk up towards him and lean forward, pressing a kiss to his thigh. Your staple, you suppose. You couldn’t argue against it. Kissing House’s thigh and getting that pupil-blown reaction was worth it. “Did that help at all?”

He blinks. “You can kiss it again and I’ll tell you. Or I have something else you can kiss.”

You ease your massage, now only working softly and lightly. “I meant the massage.”

His blue eyes are soft when he gazes down at you, staring at you appreciatively.. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Do you want me to get you some vicodin too?”

He sighs fully. “I could kiss you, you addict-enabling goddess.”

You roll your eyes, easing yourself to your feet. House leans forward as if shocked by the separation of your hands from his thigh, and you stand between his legs, letting your hands rest on his cheeks. They must reek of the cream, but he makes no move to resist you as you rub your thumbs against his stubble and trace the edges of his face. His shirt falls past the apex of your thighs, but his hands reach forward, slinking under the material and grasping your arse. You gasp, and move closer to him, his face coming closer to your breasts.

He squeezes your cheeks, fingers digging into the supple flesh. He gazes up at you, drinking in your reaction and hiss when his hand slaps against your arse, leaving a stinging sensation and a light, blotchy mark. He does it again, and you nudge into him, gasping lightly. You squeeze your legs together. “That wasn’t a kiss.”

He smirks. “My mistake. I’ll remedy it.”

His hands shift to your hips, gripping them and tugging you down slightly. When you’re lower, one hand reaches up, wrapping around your neck and pulling you towards him. It’s a bit awkward at that angle, but you bring yourself closer, lower, until you’re level with him. He leans forward, placing his lips against yours, and your hands move from his face to run through his hair as he deepens the kiss. He licks against your teeth and you give into him, letting him explore your mouth as his hand threads into your hair, pinning you in place. He’s warm and he’s demanding and he’s House, and you feel your core tighten.

When you pull apart, you rest your forehead against his, sucking in air. “I’ll go get your pills.”

“Forget about ‘em.” He says, trying to drag you back to his lips. You laugh, and pull back, and he lets you step back, away from him.

When you return, and pass him two pills, to which he glares at you mockingly for not bringing him the whole container, you retreat back to bed. You feel his eyes on your bare legs, and especially on the rosy print on your arse. You tug the blankets up and gaze at House as he throws back the pills and groans. He thumbs his glass, finishing the dregs of his drink, and then he lifts his head and stares at you with his cool eyes.

You’re back to where you started. This time, you find the words.

“Come here, House.”

He furrows his brow. “And if I don’t? You’ll… what? Tie me up and make me?”

You roll your eyes in mirth. “Turn the lamp off and come to bed. Please.”

His cool gaze remains on you, and it’s almost calculating- weighing the pros and cons, the possibilities and the certainties of what your request entails. But maybe it’s the light yawn you let out, or the bleary blink of your eyes, or the not so subtle inhale of his shirt. Whatever it is, House’s gaze softens, and he reaches over, flicking off the lamp.

You can’t see anything as your eyes adjust to the sudden darkness, but you can hear him. He still winces when he raises himself to his feet, but the sound is soft and nowhere near his prior pained yelp. He hobbles the slight distance to the bed and there’s the sound of shuffling and twisting sheets and blankets as he gets into the bed.

And then he’s beside you. Here.

You listen to each others breathing, neither one of you saying a word. Your eyes adjust, and you see the shape of him, darkened and identified by the sharp cut of his cheeks and the whites of his eyes. He’s staring at you too, and you wonder how much he can make out in the dark. Does he see the faded scars on your face or the tilt of your lips? Or does he see further, into you, and see all the thoughts and desires and twisted wants filling your head as you stare at him?

House is the first to break the silence, and does so by scooching closer. “Get over here.”

You chuckle quietly at his demand, but obey, shuffling closer until your arm brushes his. “I never took you as a cuddler.”

Somehow, even in the dark you can tell he’s rolling his eyes. But he doesn’t resist your observation, and rather he slips his hand under you, clinging to your back and drawing you even closer. You swing your arm out, to make sure you don’t suffocate in his shoulder, but more importantly to wrap around him too. There’s more shuffling and twisting from the both of you, but eventually, you find a comfortable position. You’re tucked into his side and his other hand rests on your thigh, drawing you leg across his hip. You ask him if that’s alright, if it hurts his leg, if he’s fine, and he scoffs lightly. “My leg won’t ever stop me from having you this close.” As if to emphasise your position, he rolls his hips forward, dragging himself against your bare core. But even House, it seems, is tired, because he relaxes and takes it no further.

Both of your hands are wrapped around his waist, and you nuzzle your face into him, inhaling him and the smell of whiskey, detergent, and House. He laughs down at you, softly. “And you said I was the cuddler.”

“‘Shuddup.” You say, but the word is muffled in the fabric of his shirt. You twist your head, and kiss his bicep where his sleeve has risen up. He swallows, and you get the sense the rise and fall of his rib cage stutters.

You drift off like that, clinging to House. His breathing deepens, and as you fall asleep, you feel him shift slightly, before he kisses your head.

#house md x reader #house md fanfiction #house md #gregory house x reader #gregory house #greg house x f!reader #gregory house fic #gregory house smut

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

Text

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 9: Losing a Hundred Dollars

Summary:

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 10

-----------------------

For someone who wanted you here to nurse back to health, House does his best to avoid you.

Days pass in tense awkwardness. You spend most of the time sleeping, half from fatigue and half to avoid House when he returns from work. You wonder if he’s told the ducklings about your odd arrangement. You wonder what they think of your absence after your abrupt departure from the ball, let alone what they would think of you living with House.

You decide he hasn’t told them. How could he? How does he explain that, without explaining everything in between? The bedroom, Pops, his absence?

The first night you slept in his room, he didn’t return home. You stared up at the ceiling for hours, and only when you turned yourself over, inhaling the cotton fabric and his smell did you fall asleep; it’s the mixture of the hospital, and the faintly scented soaps in his bathroom, and the cool New Jersey air, and the clothes from his linen cupboard and him and a million other things that you couldn’t begin to decipher that send you to sleep.

He doesn’t tend to you or even ask how you’re feeling. Everyday when you awake like clockwork, there’s two white pills on the bedside table and a full glass of water. At first, you would inspect it to see if he spat in it or tampered with it, but you’ve grown to just gulp it down. They continue to be the only thing to greet you in the morning.

Sometimes you’ll step out too soon, and see the silvery crop of his hair from where he’s fallen asleep on the couch. Or sometimes you’ll stay up too late, and hear him limping to the bathroom. Even when you’ve wandered out, his eyes stay trained on the television. No words pass between the two of you, spare the occasional grunt of ‘pizza in the fridge’.

Two more pills. You take to rummaging around his room when the click of the door signals he’s left for the hospital. You don’t find many sentimental items although you spy notations spiralling throughout some of the novels on his bookcase.

Two more pills. The days continue to turn over, and you spread your venture outwards; you raid his kitchen and find he barely has anything outside of peanut butter and bread in his pantry.

Two more pills. His bathroom is unappealing, and you’re tempted to flush all the pills in his cabinet and closet. Piss him off, send him into a rage, pull his attention back to you. You resist.

Two more pills. The lounge room, you decide, is your favourite. You watch the recorded episodes he’s saved of medical dramas and bitchy reality tv for hours and get very creative with the snacks you eat while you watch (toasted breadsticks dipped in peanut butter, a packet of two minute noodles from the back of his cabinet that you fry up). You play a half arsed jingle bells on his piano and find yourself sitting at it for hours, looking at the keys.

Two more pills. Two more pills. Two more pills. Two more, two more, two more. Again and again and again.

You’ve lost count on how many pills; the days blur into each other, and you know the treatment is still long.

The door handle glints from where you sit at the piano in the early morning light. The sun’s just rising, and surprise surprise, House isn’t here. Every few days, you find him asleep on the couch, but for the majority of time, you’re left alone. You wonder where he is on those nights; a woman’s bed or the hospital or Wilson’s. While you’re stuck here, caged with your own feebleness and shortness of breath.

But…your breath doesn’t feel short. You don’t feel feeble. Hell, you feel better than you have in weeks, as if the medication was finally restoring you to your former self.

The door handle is practically waving you over, and you abandon the piano with a final tap to the keys.

It wasn’t like House said you couldn’t leave, rather, you just hadn’t. One day you would be aching, the next fatigued, and the next coughing. But today? Your legs are steady beneath you and they stride you across the apartment to the built-in cabinet in the hallway. You practically fling it open in your excitement, and delve past the shoeboxes of vicodin, and to the rack of clothes.

You grasp a long coat, one that would’ve gone to House’s knees and instead brushes against your ankles. You look down at the sleeves, overhanging on your arms, and decide fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

And so, you stroll out of the apartment in House’s engulfing coat and beanie, and a pair of your own leggings. You didn’t have any clean shirts of your own, so cross your fingers to the integrity of the coat’s button, and hope you don’t flash anyone your black, laced bra.

The days are brighter than you remember, starker- but you still breathe in deeply when you step firmly onto the sidewalk. The air is softer, fuller; spring. You look around like a nervous deer, and steel yourself as you set down the sidewalk. You vaguely recognised the streets from when Pop had driven you to the markets and shopping centre a suburb over front your own apartment. You don’t make any move however, to follow a direction, and rather just walk.

You see pigeons pecking at scraps on the path, and overgrown weeds bursting through the pavement, and cars bustling on by. You smile until your cheeks hurt, and savour the feeling of the morning sunlight on your skin.

You keep walking, and find yourself drawn to a bustling fruit market. Even in the early hours of the day, people are scavenging the stocks of fruit and veggies, and you slip into the crowd, unnoticed. You weren’t the precious thing that Pops treated you as nor the shameful object of avoidance House saw you as; instead, you were simply a woman looking at the sales on mandarins.

You peer closer at the sign and scoff. They weren’t good sales, and you almost appreciate the fact that you have no money with you- at least you weren’t going to waste it on overpriced citrus.

You’re rolling your eyes next at the price of kiwis when you hear your name called out and you straighten.

You look around for the source and can’t place it amidst the colours, stalls and people. But then the person calls out to you again, and your eyes meet.

You grin widely. “Chase?”

He doesn’t smile or return your grin. He steps forward, and you think it odd to see him here, in a soft jumper and a basket full of produce (you spy the overpriced mandarins sitting neatly at the top, and groan inwardly). Somewhere in the back of your head, you think this makes sense. Spring and Chase and warm jumpers and fresh fruit; soft and calm and sweet.

Chase’s eyebrows are drawn in tightly as he speaks. “Where have you been?”

Ah. Suspicions confirmed about House’s silence. “Sick.” You raise your hands in defence. “Honestly. I wasn’t just avoiding you.”

At that, his face somehow sinks even more, and the memory of the charity ball is brought forth again. He huffs, and doesn’t meet your eyes. “I’m sorry about that, by the way. I- I don’t know. I guess I thought telling you was the best thing to do but then Wilson said you were super upset and-”

You step closer, and press a hand to his arm. “Chase.” You smile. “It’s fine. Really. If I’m being honest… It doesn’t mean anything to me right now.”

He scoffs, but a sheepish look quickly overtakes it. “How can you say that? I thought you were going to murder me, or House that night.”

You sigh. “Like I said, I’ve been sick. Being that ill and still not being a hundred per cent, nothing was comparable. When you’re vomiting to the point that it’s burning your throat, you stop caring about petty things from work.”

Chase, to your surprise, doesn’t cringe away at your words. He nods, almost earnestly. “So…we’re alright?”

You nod. “Yes. Even though I don’t care anymore, I really do appreciate that you told me. At least someone did.”

Chase nods again, and he seems to relax. But then his face twists, and he looks down at you. “What are you wearing?”

You just laugh. “So, how’s work been? How is everyone?”

Chase sighs, and puts down his basket beside him. “It’s crazy. House wouldn’t tell us anything about you- we had to pry it out of Wilson that you were still working with us, let alone alive.”

You chuckle, but have to swallow the lump forming in your throat. “I’ll be back soon. I’m finishing my medication soon and hopefully my, uh, doctor clears me for work.”

The blonde man in front of you nods, and doesn’t dig further into your frail explanation. “That’s great, we need you back. It’s like the balances of good and evil are out of whack. House has been in sane .”

Your eyebrows raise and Chase nods in confirmation. “Really! The other day he locked Cameron in a clean room and told her to either get infected by the patient or figure out what’s infecting them.” Your jaw drops and Chase keeps rambling. “And y’know, if he’s biting off suck-up-his-arse-Cameron’s head, then Foreman and I are on the verge of being cut up into small pieces.”

You purse your lips. “That does sound like something House would do.”

“Even Wilson can’t reel him in right now, he’s manic I swear.” Chase’s eyes meet yours. “You were the only one who could get him to calm down.”

You huff, shocked. “You’re lying, right?”

Chase shakes his head. “I hate to say it too, but I mean it. He’s always been a dick, yeah, but since you’ve got here, he’s mellowed. He listens to you, even if it’s you telling him to stop being a prick. He doesn’t deserve it- you, trying to bring out the good in him. I think he’s just rotten at his core.”

“Chase. You’ve got to be joking. The only times he listens to me is when he’s about to tell me to shut up.”

Chase chews his cheek, and shakes his head at you. He sighs, looking at you almost sadly, as if you just don’t understand what he’s saying. ‘He doesn’t deserve it-you’. What had happened in the past few weeks, that would cause him to think something so incredulous, that he wasn’t telling you?

But then he huffs as if to shoo away the thought of House, and grabs his basket again. He plucks a handful of kiwis to the side of you both. “Here. You should be getting all the vitamins you can, and you can take them as an apology. For the charity ball, and for saying you could tame the wildebeest House. Really… I am sorry about everything.”

“And really,” You smile, “It’s fine. But I will definitely take the kiwis.”

Chase laughs, and you realise you missed this. Interacting with a friend, laughing and joking and just talking. You wish you were done and over with all this sickness, and back at work. Not ‘taming’ House but bitching with Foreman or snickering with Cameron.

You walk the markets together for longer. Chase tells you some crappy jokes, and even though you were expecting pity laughs to emerge from yourself, you find yourself snorting genuinely. He's adamant on buying you more fruits; you get a banana, an orange and even one of his overpriced mandarins. When you thank him, he leans down and gently hugs you. He’s tall, and wraps his arms around you easily in your oversized coat.

When he leans back up, pink is gently dusting his face. “Get better.” He demands, with a notch in his brow. “Or when you come back to work, you might just find my corpse and House with a bloodied knife.”

You laugh again, and nod. You part ways, and as you retrace your steps to the best of your ability across streets and pathways, you’re left smiling. You don’t even notice the motorbike parked outside of House’s apartment, and you push through the front door, too giddy to realise it was unlocked.

You bring your green bag of gifted fruits to the kitchen, and begin sorting them on the counter top. You set the beanie down beside it. But when a hand reaches out and grabs a kiwi, you turn and swing, bag still grasped.

“Oh my god!”

House looks down to his chest, where you landed a pathetic blow. The bag is crumpled on the ground, and you hope, pitfully, that your banana hasn’t exploded.

He scoffs. “ ‘Oh my god’? I was the one who just got assaulted.”

“You sneak up on me,” you groan, “and expect me to do what? Stand there like a statue?”

House rolls his eyes. “Statues are usually silent, unlike some people, so no, I don’t.”

“Funny.” You clench your jaw. “I can’t remember the last time in the past few weeks I talked to you.”

His eyes flick to yours, intense and flaming ice. He grunts and reaches forward, tugging at your coat. “Are you wearing my clothes?”

You bite your cheek. “Yep. Wasn’t like I had a whole lot of variety after being whisked away in the night.”

House scoffs, and drops his hand. Your neck is burning at the spot where he had kissed you, and where his knuckles had just brushed. “You look homeless.”

“Gee, I wonder who I got inspired by.”

House breezes past your comment. “You’re not caged here. Clearly, you went somewhere.”

He pauses, expectantly and when you realise he’s waiting for an answer, you huff. “The fruit market.”

House tilts his head, and you feel like a rabbit, under the gaze of a hawk. You shuffle your feet back, but your back presses against the kitchen counter. House matches your movements and closes in on you more. “With who?”

You blink. “What, I can’t just go somewhere by myself? God forbid a woman escapes from here with her own free will, right?”

House smirks. “Trust me, women aren’t usually begging to leave here. They’re begging for something different, sweetheart.”

That damned name again. What happened to the cold way he called your last name or spat out Newbie?

A blush starts to reach up to your ears, and House finally takes a step closer, placing his hands on either side of you against the countertop. There. For all your complaining, he would finally cage you in.

You have to remind yourself to breathe, and you only just tune back in to hear House speak again. “Of course you have free will; the greatest gift given to mankind, second to a reach around.” You scoff, and he leans in closer, smirking. “But you practically danced into here, in a world of your own. Which either means, while you were rummaging through my closet, you took a handful of pills just for shits and giggles, or you were with someone. So spit it out.”

You chuckle, and shake your head, looking away. Curse him though, because when you look to your side, all you see is his forearms flexing against the counter. “Fuck off. You’re not my bodyguard, it doesn’t matter if I met up with someone.”

House drops his smirks, and clenches his jaw. “Yes. It does.”

You meet his eyes with your own fiery gaze. “Oh gosh, you’re right! I wonder what kind of catastrophe awaits when the world realises I can actually talk instead of just these,” You raise your hand and flip him off. “Weird hand signals!”

“Wow. I can’t believe you’d go into medicine when you have such ,” He spits, “A talent for comedy.”

“I could say the same about you and missing your opportunity in drag.” You flash him a toothy grin and he leans in closer. You try to rear your head back, but one of his hands snakes around, landing on your throat like it never left.

“Remember the last time this happened- how desperate you were? Now, who did you meet up with?”

You let out a laugh, looking down your nose at him to the best of your ability, trying to maintain a semblance of power when he’s choking you.. “Remember the last time this happened? How you got absolutely decked?”

House’s jaw ticks to the side and he applies pressure against you. He doesn’t bruise, god no; despite all of this, he’s still light enough to give you the chance to escape if you really tried. But he presses down with his palm in the right spot against your windpipe, and you let out a harsh gasp. He’s staring into your eyes, and it feels like he’s daring you to throw yourself to the side, break the hold.

Your pulse is racing, and it’s only when you start to feel light headed do you wheeze out, “Fine. It was Chase. Happy?”

House scoffs and loosens his grip. “The Kangaroo? Really?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes. Really. Is it that crazy to think I like talking to him? Or are you just jealous?”

His eyebrows cinch in. “You think I’m jealous?”

You say nothing, and instead let your eyes flick down to his hand, still decorating your throat like a necklace.

House blinks, and recoils almost instantly as if he realised only now what he had done. You laugh, crossing your arms and leaning back against the counter. “You avoid me like the plague but the second you sense another person with me, you’re all ‘macho-man-intimidation’. What’s next, I don’t have dinner on the table and I get a black eye?”

House scoffs, and mirrors you, crossing his arms across his chest. If any god was listening now, they would hear your prayers to smite him and his stupid fucking forearms. “I wasn’t avoiding you. And we both know that if you really wanted to, you would have stopped that. You’re not some little housewife- I know you like giving it as much as you like taking it.”

Your face is aflame, but you brush past his comment. “Right. You think that sleeping over at Wilson’s for three weeks isn’t avoiding me?”

His eyes widen ever-so-slightly, confirming your thoughts. No hooker or hospital for House’s bed. You’re sure he spent the last few weeks driving Wilson up the wall, alongside his team.

You throw your hands up. “Forget it. Go back to pretending I don’t exist. I’m nearly better, not that you care, so I’ll find a way to get out of your hair soon.”

You push off the counter, and House chuckles. “You’re always a pain in my arse. Doesn’t matter if you’re sick or not, the only thing you can find a way to do is annoy the shit out of me. Oh, and fuck up every blood sample you’ve ever taken.”

You wring your hands through your hair. “That was one time! When you gave me the wrong patient’s info!” You scoff, and walk away, certain that you leave a cindering trail behind you as you shout over your shoulder. “But sure House, I’m the one who annoys the shit out of everyone.”

You hear the click of his cane on the floorboards and speed up your pace. It’s comical almost, him catching up to you as you begin to quicken your steps. You reach the bedroom, and step inside. You turn to slam the door shut and instead take a step back, huffing when you see him standing in the doorway. “House, I’m really not in the mood to do this right now. If you want to choke someone again, go find a little puppy like you usually do.”

He snorts, leaning against his cane. “You’re never in the mood. You’re always pissy or bitchy or snippy or crabby. There’s always something with you.”

You clench your jaw. “That’s rich coming from you.”

His eyes glint. “What, I’m the one acting like a hormonal thirteen year old girl?”

You throw your hands up. “Listen to yourself! You leave me here, all alone, after forcing me out of my place and then the first time you do see me, you fight with me!”

House runs his tongue along his teeth. “You call this a fight?”

You let out a groan. “How can you do this? Honestly, how!? How can you avoid me after everything in here,” You spit, gesturing to the bed behind you. His eyes follow your movement, and darken. “And then act like I’m in the wrong for finally talking with someone?! For leaving here!?”

“Because it’s Chase!” House yells, and his eyebrows are furrowed deeply.

“What is that supposed to mean?!”

“Oh, don’t be so dense! Don’t act like you can’t tell that he’s been wanting to fuck you since Day 1.”

You laugh. “He’s right, you are crazy .”

House narrows his eyes. “You’ve got to be blind to miss it. Every meeting he’s practically creaming his pants just looking at you and every day since you’ve been away, it’s like a yappy dog at my heels. ‘Where is she?’ ‘When will she be back?’ ‘Is she alright?’”

You clench your jaw. “Maybe I should take him up on the offer. At least if he starts to fuck me, he won’t leave me for weeks just to show up and yell at me.”

House scoffs. “You think we had started to fuck?” You say nothing. His blue eyes look dangerously dark. “If we had started, we wouldn’t have stopped. You wouldn’t have been able to.”

You chuckle, and something in your stomach curls tightly. “I doubt it.”

“You wanna bet?” His voice drops, and neither of you are yelling anymore. “I bet I’ll have you screaming my name before it’s over.”

“I bet you wouldn’t even last to that point.” Your heart is racing in your ears.

He grinds his teeth. “You’re on, sweetheart.”

You can’t even register his movement in time before he’s crashing his lips against yours in one sweeping movement. It takes you a moment of standing there, dumbstruck to realise what’s happening. But House uses that to his advantage, licking against your lips and deepening the kiss, while he steps the two of you back. You feel the back of your knees hit the bed, and you hear his cane thunk to the ground somewhere.

Your hands wind up, snaking around his neck and drawing him closer. Traitorous fingers gripping him as if your life depends upon it. House uses his body weight to force you down against the mattress, and you tug at his hair, twisting the short locks between your fingers. He detaches from you, and you suck in great heaves of air.

You look at him above you, and you’re reminded of the last time you were both in a position like this. His slow kisses, wandering hands, steady gaze. But this wasn’t like last time. There are no tender looks to be seen here or soft smiles.

Instead, House’s brow is still furrowed and his chest is rising up and down heavily. He leans back down, his lips against yours. He pushes past again, licking against your teeth and dominating your mouth. You’re certain your brain is becoming oxygen deprived by the time he pulls back, and scoffs.

“Take all this off.” He tugs at the fabric of his own coat that you’re wearing, and unbuttons it with deft hands. You wriggle your arms out, and the cool air that hits your skin sends goosebumps rippling down it. House hisses in air above you, and you track his gaze down to your bra, where your full breasts are spilling over the top. “Finally dressing the part of the hooker, I see.”

“Mmhm,” You chuckle, your head thrown back against the mattress. “I thought I’d finally let you see what you’ve been dreaming of, Doctor.”

House doesn’t fight you on that, and your eyes trail from the ceiling back to him. His palm is pressed against his jeans, stroking himself through the layers of fabric. Your jaw ticks, and you try to not let yourself stare. You fail.

House smirks. “How much foreplay are we doing? On a scale from rose-petals on a bed for Valentines to truck-stop-fuck?”

“Depends. Do you usually leave all your partners unsatisfied and finishing themselves off in the bathroom?”

House looks at you from below his brow. “Don’t be so vulgar. Leave the obscenities to me.”

You smile, and make sure its sweet enough to drip with honey. “Sorry.” Your hand trails down to your leggings. “I was just starting to get,” Your hand slips into the junction of your thighs, and presses down. “So bored.”

Now it’s House who stares at you, as you begin rubbing circles between your clothes. It’s only when you press down harsher, and you gasp quietly, does his entrancement break. He leans forward, and your hands are forced to retreat when he tugs down your leggings and discards them to the side.

He’s breathing harder, and it seems neither of you are ready for a quick witted comment when he surges forward, and licks a strip against your panties. You clench, confused on the odd combination of barriers and sense, but he pushes your panties to the side and relieves you of your confusion by pressing his mouth directly against you. When he licks against you, from your core to where he trails on your clit, you moan harshly.

He does it again, and again, as if he’s trying to memorise the sounds he’s drawing from you. You eyes flick down to him, and you see him working himself through his jeans from where he’s kneeling between your legs- his hands palming against himself harshly with each moan you release.

You don’t even realise you’re trying to pull back as his mouth continues to work against you, until House’s arms are locking around the peak of your thighs and holding you down. His hand grips the soft flesh of your hip, and if you trusted your ears, you would swear he just groaned against you. Your mind is a blur as your hands grip against the blanket, and you can’t focus on anything but the pleasure he’s giving you.

You let out a loud gasp, and groan when House raises his head to look at you. His chin is slick with you, and he licks his lips before he speaks. “Screaming out my name yet?”

You chuckle. “Cumming in your jeans already?”

House smiles, and there it is again- this odd, tender and fragile thread that hangs between the two of you in this moment, where you’re both smiling at each other. But then House’s smile slips into a smirk, and his eyes become hooded as he leans back down and begins his relentless onslaught. It’s as if with each swipe of his tongue and suck on your puffy clit, he’s asking you to scream out. When you gasp after one movement, he repeats it over and over until you’re moaning- stubbornly still not screaming. Your hips roll against his face as he laps at you, and when his tongue delves into you, your heads whip over to grip his hair. Now, he moans against you as you tug on his hair and your fingers delve into the strands.

You can’t even register what you’re saying to him. There’s a stubborn reminder in your mind to not give into his bet, but you allow words to slip, telling him how good it, no, he is.

His right hand abandons your thigh, and snakes around. Even in the lust haze covering your mind, you know what’s coming, but you can’t stop the moan tumbling from you as he pushes one finger into you. He works it in and out and in and out, all the while sucking on your clit, and then he adds another. His free hand shifts to stretch across the plane of your lower stomach and pin you down. You thrust against his hand, trying your best to grind against him, and he leans back to chuckle. “God, you’re needy.”

Your voice is breathy and light. “Haven’t- Haven’t had a lot of time to myself recently. You know how it is- shitty job, shitty boss.”

His eyebrows raise. “Shitty boss?”

You moan again when his hand deliberately quickens, but still try to pretend like you’re coherent, and not on the edge of falling apart. “Y-yeah. Absolute arsehole.”

His jaw ticks. “Just for that, I’ll only stop if you beg me to.”

You laugh in disbelief, but it’s cut short when his head dips back down. He’s harsh against your clit, sucking and licking against it, and his fingers work in tangent, pumping in and out, over and over again. You drawl out a long moan, and his fingers quicken until he’s practically fucking you with them. He keeps at it relentlessly, and you struggle to fill your lungs up with air. His teeth scrap against you, and it’s rough and sweet and oh fuck-

He groans against you. “You’re fucking addictive. Who needs vicodin?”

Your eyes flick down, and he’s looking up at you, piercing blue eyes staring into your own. That’s what does it. You gasp, and muffle your sounds against the palm of your hand, and you cum against House’s face and hand brutally. He keeps lapping against you the whole time, working your clit and drawing out your orgasm. Your legs begin to shake, and your knees try to clamp against each other, trying to stop the attention that he continues to give. His hand slips from your stomach, and instead grips at your thigh, forcing it to the side and forcing your legs to spread wide.

“Mmmh,” Your sound is muffled against your hand. “Please.”

He doesn’t stop, and if anything, quickens his pace. You moan loudly again, and it’s harsh in the quiet of his apartment. You have to force your hand to leave your mouth and grip against his hair again.

“Please,” you moan. “Please, House. That’s enough. It’s too much.”

How much begging did he want? He keeps working you, licking up anything you have to offer as if he was a starving man. It’s only when you’re babbling incoherently, with ‘please please please’ and ‘’ts too much I’ll do anything’ does he begin to relent. Finally, he raises himself back up, wiping his mouth with the back of his palm. He has a wild look on his face and his eyes are blown wide.

He looks drugged almost, but he blinks himself back to reality, and smirks. “Glad you found your table manners, sweetheart. Now,” his eyes darken. “Time to return the favour.”

You tilt your head, and raise your eyebrows. He leans forward, kissing you again, and it’s with a more frantic frenzy. You can taste yourself on him, against his lips and tongue. He pulls you forward as you’re still kissing, and you follow him as if he’s leading a dance. Only when you break apart do you find yourself standing by the edge of the bed. He sits on the edge, and leans forward, arms reaching behind you to unclasp your bra.

His chin rests on your abdomen, and he looks up at you as you slip your arms through the straps, and it falls to the floor. His hand reaches up, squeezing against your tit, and he groans. He doesn’t waste any time, his mouth against your nipple, tongue swiping over it. He pinches your other nipple, and you barely gasp before he’s squeezing your breast again.

He licks at your nipple but leans back to admire his handiwork as both hands squeeze your tits. They overspill in his hands, and he massages them. He looks up at you from beneath his brow and chuckles. “I want to ruin you. All those tight shirts and collar-high buttons. You’ve been holding out on me.”

You lower yourself, tucking your legs beneath you as you kneel. His hands lose their grip on your tits but he happily grips your hair and tugs at it, smirking. “That’s a good girl.”

Anyone else, and the phrase would have made you recoil and laugh. Maybe gag. But House’s voice is deep and sultry, and you’re simply trying to stop yourself preening at the praise. You lean forward, the same way he did to you, and lick a long strip against his jeans. He sucks in a breath, and reaches down to unbuckle his belt, and tug down his jeans.

“You look excited. Was I right in guessing you hadn’t been blown since highschool?”

“Do the quickies Wilson give me count?”

“Do the quickies Chase give me count?” You retort.

House scoffs. “Are you always this chatty or is it just when you’re on your knees?”

Your hand is gentle against his scarred thigh, and you move forward, pressing a kiss to the jagged muscle, the same place you had when he bathed you. You look up from beneath your lashes at House, giving him mock innocence. “Just when I’m kneeling for you. Could talk for hours if that’s what it takes to suck you off.”

He groans softly at the sight of you between his legs, doe-eyed and foul-mouthed. He’s not starstruck enough to be frozen however, and tugs down his dark boxes, kicking them away. His dick is half hard already, and you take him in; the wide girth and already formidable length. Fuck, you’re already clenching at the thought of him in you, pounding mercilessly and stretching you open and splitting you and hammering in over and over and-

You gulp slightly, and House chuckles above you. “Don’t get shy. It won’t bite.” You shoot him a look, and his eyes narrow. “I hope you don’t either.”

You decide to silence him, and place your hands against his thighs as you lean forward, making sure not to put much pressure on his right leg. This time, when you run your tongue from the base to the head you feel him twitch against you as House hisses in a breath.

You reach forward, stroking him. House does his best to remain quiet, but you quicken your pace, spitting into your hand for lube, and then he’s groaning with each upward movement. Only when House is thrusting gently into your hand, his cock swollen and red, you lean closer, taking him into your mouth. You can taste the precum leaking out of his head, and you lap against it, swirling your tongue.

He grunts softly. “Don’t be a tease.”

You look at him from beneath your lashes again and moan softly against him in response. It seems from that, House lets you take control for some time. You bob gently against him, dragging your tongue up and down and being mindful to not scrape against him. You hollow your cheeks, and move quicker, digging your nails into his skin for support. But when you force yourself lower on his hard cock, and his light dusting of pubic hair brushes against your nose, he’s far down your throat. He fills the space up easily and you gag, going to withdraw.

House’s hands stop you, gripping the back of your skull. He holds you there at the base of himself, and groans. “There you go, just like that.”

Tears spring to your eyes but he pulls you back, letting you adjust to the feeling of him in your mouth. He doesn’t pull you away from him completely, and instead starts to move you at his own pace. “Just like that,” he groans again. Up and down, and up and down. Each time he draws you to the base of his cock, testing you.

He begins to thrust into your mouth, fucking your face. You’re held still by his grip, his hips reaching for your lips and his length filling your mouth, your throat, you. When his pelvis brushes against your nose, you force yourself to swallow past the urge to gag, to blink past the tears clouding your vision.

“Fuck.” House groans out above you, holding you in place as you swallow again. “Finally shutting up with my cock in your mouth, huh? Such a good girl for me. So good.”

You squeeze your legs together, feeling the mess you’d made between your thighs. You squeeze even tighter as he face fucks you. Only when you reach down, slipping your hand between the apex of your thighs, trying to give yourself some relief to pressure rebuilding there, does he pull you away.

A trail of saliva connects you two, and you look up at him, gasping. Your lips are swollen and your cheeks are stinging. House is panting above you, looking down at you with feverish eyes. Your voice is breathy and hoarse when you speak. “I would have swallowed.”

House’s hand grips himself at his base, pumping himself languidly, such a contrast to the brutal pace he set with you. “I know. But how would I have won that $100?”

“$100?” You laugh. “I’m betting at least double that, that you’ll be finished soon old man.”

House smirks down at you, and his silence is the worst answer you could have anticipated for. Gloating, you could push off as over-cockiness, one that would be remedied soon. Defence, you could categorise as uncertainty. But silence? House was in it to win it.

House pulls you up to the bed, and you fall to your back, naked. He stands up, facing you and you watch him draw his shirt off slowly. He’s not ripped, he’s not carved from stone or some Greek god. But he’s House, and you drink in every inch that he’s never shown you. The hair across his chest, the lean arch of his neck, his toned arms. You’re about to try to fuck his brains out and instead you’re thinking about how it would taste if you bite down on the flesh of his forearm or how he would react if you kissed him everywhere you could reach. You gulp, and have to squeeze your legs again- it does nothing, and rather make the slick between your thighs more prominent.

He’s unsteady on his leg, and when he wobbles slightly his eyes flick to yours, searching for something. You shrug. “What? Get a pillow and fuck me, House.” His limp, his scar, his wobble, whatever- it wasn’t going to stop you from

His jaw ticks. “What did I say about the swearing?”

But he does as you say, reaching for a pillow and placing it on the edge of the bed. He leans his bad leg on it, kneeling into it. He taps his thigh. “Get closer. Or do I need to drag you?”

You laugh. “I’d probably like that.”

You begin to scooch yourself forward and now he does smile. “I know. Slut.”

You backpedal, and give a mock gasp, hand clutched to your heart. His eyes snap back to your bare breasts. “Well, if you think I should save my modesty, sir,” His eyes darken, “Then really, we shouldn’t be doing thi-”

He leans forward and grips you by your hips, yanking you forward easily. You land with a ‘hrmph’ against the edge of the bed, and your hands fling out against him to steady yourself. You grip his arms tightly and shoot him a look, but he just smirks, eyes creasing.

He shifts his hips, rutting against you. He reaches between the two of you, guiding himself between your folds. You sigh at the feeling, and he leans forward, resting his forehead against yours as he looks to where you two meet.

“You’re so fucking wet for me.”

You let out a breathy chuckle, mumbling out “Hypocrite.”. He keeps teasing you, slicking himself as he moves forward and back, nudging against you hole but never pushing in. He adjusts his grip on you, moving to raise you right leg over his hip, pinning it there. His cock catches on your hole, and he breaches it slightly before retreating. He does the same thing, over and over, nudging into you, and stopping just as the feeling starts to burn.

You squeeze his bicep. “Fucking arsehole.”

He thrusts into you, and you seize up with a gasp. He groans, pushing his hips forward, and thrusting his cock into you. It’s easier with how wet you are from earlier, but he still grunts against you, mumbling a ‘t’s so tight’. He stretches you, and his cock fills you with a sweet burn.

You moan as he bottoms out, pressing himself fully into you. When he speaks, he tries to sound cocky, but there’s a slight shudder to his tone. “Gotta relax. You’re strangling me.”

“You’re just-” You cry out when he rolls his hip, moving slightly in you, but you force your muscles to ease slightly. “Bigger than I thought. Y’know. Me and Cameron bet you had a micropenis.”

He scoffs. “God, you’re so annoying.”

You laugh in his face. “What? You’ll be devastated to know Foreman bet on it too.”

He drags his hips out and you gasp at the movement. “Shut up,” he scoffs, and slams his hips back to yours. You grip him, trying to steady yourself, but he sets a brutal pace against you, slamming into you again and again. “Always fucking running your mouth. Trying to act tough.”

House grips you leg, hiking it higher on his hip. “Slut needs to be taught a lesson, huh?” He must see you start to open your mouth to reply, because he slams into you with more force, practically moving the bed. “Needs to learn to shut her mouth? Was my dick in it not enough to teach you?”

You could tell him to fuck off or go to hell or just really hammer in the micropenis joke. But instead, a breathy moan escapes you and your head tilts back. “N-no. Need to get taught.”

House smiles tenderly. “Yeah, sweetheart you do.”

He’s not tender in the way he fucks you. This wasn’t making love or even hooking up, House was fucking you and he was fucking you hard. He’s pistons into you, and you feel him against your cervix. It’s painful, but you just find yourself groaning and thinking about how you’ll be reminded of him tomorrow.

He swipes against your smooth calf with his thumb and you relish in the feeling. You want his hands all over, touching you, gripping you, and he somehow reads your mind. House uses his position to lean you back, and he lays you against the bed. He hunches over you, abandoning his grip on your calf, and grabs your arms from where they still grip his own. He yanks your hands above you head, and pins them to the mattress with one hand, leaning over you.

The other hand grips at the softness of your hip, trying to use it for leverage as he slams himself against you. You wrap your legs around his lower back, drawing him closer, caging him in. You cry at the new angle, and he hits that spongey part inside you that has you writhing beneath him.

His face is so close here, and you feel his breath hit your cheek when he chuckles. “You like that? How many times do I need to do that for you to scream, sweetheart?”

You laugh but it gets drawn out to a high winded whine when he shifts his hips, hitting deeper and harder and at that same soft spot. His grip tightens on your hands for a moment as if he’s debating, but he lets go, instead snaking his hand to your throat. Your own hands land against his shoulders, bracing yourself as he rocks you back and forth. “I said how many times?”

“Mm,” You groan out loudly. “Um.” It’s drawn out again as he thrusts with such force and precision you’re certain he’s somehow cheating- maybe hyped up on so much vicodin that he’s become enlightened on the female anatomy and just how to make his employee feel euphoric.

House chuckles. “Have I already fucked you dumb, sweetheart?”

You mumble incoherently, and he squeezes his hand against your throat. The blood rushes to your ears and your stomach tightens. His voice is smooth and sugary as he leans closer to you, pressing your chests together. “We’ll count together. See if you can do that.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he thrusts harder, bruising your hips and squeezing your throat tighter. “One.”

“Mmhm. One.”

House shifts himself, placing his elbow beside your head and tucking it in- getting closer and closer to you, as if before wasn’t enough, as if nothing’s enough. He’s brutal, hitting that spot in you again. “Two.”

Your toes are curling, and your hands abandon his shoulders, going to claw at his back. You leave angry, red marks, and you’re sure you draw blood at points but it’s all you can do. House shudders against you, groaning into your shoulder when you scratch down to the base of his spine and grip his hips. You can’t even make out what he’s saying anymore, it’s all too much, too quick, too rough.

It’s only when he snakes a hand between the two of you, somehow slipping through, and he rubs at your clit do your ears tune back into the number he’s saying to you. Well, he’s barely saying it. He’s groaning it into your shoulder between kisses and moments where he bites his teeth into your skin, and you hear your own voice, high above his when he rubs sloppy, frantic circles against your slick clit. “Fuck House, fuck, fuck.”

He pounds into your harder and abadons his number-game, instead fucking you mercilessly. You keep babbling out incoherent ‘fuck’s and only when House bites down, hard and sharp into you, do you change your wording. “Please.”

He chuckles against your skin, but it’s quickly lost behind his own deep groan. “That’s better, use your manners. Ask me for it.”

“Please, House, please, please.” Your nails draw down his back again and again but then they find themselves in his hair, and you’re pulling at the locks with the same force he’s fuckign into you with. He groans out, and leans his head back, looking at you.

His hand becomes faster against you, his blue eyes piercing, “You just gotta scream. Just gotta scream on my cock, tell me how good it feels.”

Your mind is fuzzy and you’re nodding your head and calling out “Please, please, please.” His hand is fanatic against you, and his hips are bruising yours, and his lips are on your neck, muffling the deep groans he’s calling out, and then he shifts his fucking position, drawing his thighs closer to yours, so he’s not as much in between your legs as he just slamming straight into you, with no resistance.

Then he applies more pressure and he’s harsh on your clit, and suddenly your legs are tensing around his waist and your toes are curling and your nails are scratching at his scalp, holding his head to you, and your chest is heaving and oh fuck you’re cumming, and you’re cumming all over his cock. Lewd, wet noises sound out from where you too are joined but if anything it encourages him. He doesn’t relent and quickens his pace, hand curled under you and squeezing you to him as your stomach tenses and your eyes roll back.

You can only hear a high pitched ringing but when his hand doesn’t abandon you, instead continuing to circle your puffy clit and draw out your second orgasm you cry out to him. You would think you should be sighing to yourself, hands on hips and committing some self reflection. Instead you just scream out his name again and again and his hips start to stutter against you as his hand eases.

“Please,” you cry out, suddenly aware that there’s wet tears trailing down your cheeks.

“Yo-you lost the bet.” House’s voice is weak and airy and he groans into your skin. “Fuck.”

“House, please, please, cum in me.” You draw your legs over him again, tightening where your grip began to slacken and tugging at his hair. His hips still slam into you, but his pace falters, and he loses his rhythm. “Oh my god, please.”

He slams his hips again, gripping you tightly, and all you see, all you can smell, all you can feel is him. “Is that what you want, huh? Want me to fill you up like a good little slut.”

You shudder. “Please. Yes, please. Ne- Need to feel you in me, need you to cum in me.”

He groans into your ears as he firmly bottoms out again. “Fuck, you’re gonna take it, huh? Take it like a good girl? Yeah, you’re gonna fucking take it.” This time he doesn’t withdraw, and you swear you’re cumming on him again at the deep sound he calls out as he cums. You feel him, warm as he spreads himself in you and he shifts closer, pushing himself in further.

You stay like that, panting and heaving for a moment together. He pumps slowly into you, shifting his hips back and forth, and fucking his cum into you with languid movements. He keeps fucking you slowly like that until he pulls out with a wet sound, and you collapse against the bed beneath him, sinking into the mattress. You’re content to pass out right there, fall asleep and die happy knowing you got your brains fucked out finally.

But House returns, and you don’t even remember him leaving the room until he’s kneeling between your spread legs again. You don’t even have the strength to protest, even though you know you’re spent, so you watch as he reaches forward, wiping his cum from where it had leaked and slipping his finger back into you, pumping it.

Only when you start to close your legs does he withdraw, pressing a warm cloth to you and wiping up your shared mess. Your brain is fuzzy and you still feel fucked out, but you feel him when he presses a kiss to the bruised part of your inner thigh, mumbling “Such a good girl for me.”

#greg house x f!reader #gregory house fic #gregory house smut #gregory house x reader #gregory house #house md fanfiction #house md x reader #house md

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

Text

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 8: Bad Lungs and Choking

Summary:

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 9

-----------------------

You wake up with a harsh gasp, but the pain is barely present and your fever is gone. The sleep in your eyes makes your vision blurry and you rub at it lazily. You’re still half asleep and if you relax yourself just a bit more, you’ll slip back into your dreams.

Usually, your dreams were an awkward combination of things: going to your grandparents house in your swimmers or being back at highschool and forgetting algebraic factorisation. Of course, in the past few months many had been about House. He had been looming over you in your waking hours, so it made sense he did it while you slept too. But really, what kind of fucking dream did you just wake from? House, in your house?

You walk with bleary eyes to your bathroom. You brush your teeth for the first time in days, and scrub your tongue, and repeat the process until all you can taste is toothpaste. You stare at the centre of your tiles. It all seemed so vivid in your fever. Standing there with House. Undressing. Your eyes trail over to your bathtub and you send a prayer out, thanking whatever higher being, that biting House was a dream. You make your way back to bed, but decide you don’t want to fall back into that dream. House was still a prick. No way in hell would you have gone ten feet near him after the charity ball, even with a fever, and you want to scold your brain for thinking something so ludacris. Instead, you stretch out in the warmth of your bed, sunning yourself in the light drifting through your windows. You roll over, snuggling your face back into your pillow but you stop with a jolt.

Fresh sheets.

Your heart makes itself known by pounding against your ribcage, and you sit up as silently as you can. You study your room with new eyes. Your top draw is open. Your desk chair is pulled back. Even the final box that you have been promising yourself to unpack is tipped over, its contents spilling out against the floor. Suddenly your throat feels tight and you drag your hands down your cheek. Then you look down at your pyjamas, and flashes of your ‘dream’ rush back to you. Vomiting. Naked. Watched.

Fuck.

You tip your legs over the side of your bed and pad silently out of your room. You’re still weak, and you stop every few steps to lean against a wall with a heaving breath. Like a fugitive being tailed, you peek your head around each corner and slowly edge out.

It’s only when your smoke alarm goes off do your muscles grant you enough power to race towards your kitchen. You expect a great, grand fire, but you stop suddenly and stare at what you’re met with. House is standing atop one of your ikea chairs in the middle of your kitchen, with a screw driver jammed to your smoke alarm.

“What are you doing?” Any thought of the previous night is pushed aside for now, as the high pitched ringing continues to sound out.

He huffs and says something that is lost in the sound, but at your quizzical look he repeats himself. “I wanted to test if it worked.”

“Why?! And can you shut it up?”

Your hands fling to your ears but House simply lowers the screwdriver and the screeching stops. House stares up at it as if he wants to jam the screwdriver back to one of the crevices, so you stride forward and yank out of his hand. He wobbles atop the chair and scoffs. “That’s the thank you I get for saving your life?”

He gingerly lowers himself, but you don’t reach to help him down. You take a step back and lean against one of your kitchen counters. “I would hardly call last night saving my life. I was already over the worst of my sickne-”

House raises a hand to silence you. “I wasn’t talking about last night yet, vomit-comet.” Your eyes bulge, but what he says next has your jaw dropping. “Your smoke detector is clearly faulty, because it didn’t detect the smoke from the fire. Who knows when you would have been caught in an inferno?”

“What fire?”

He gestures over his shoulder to your toaster, which you suddenly realise has fading smoke the top. “You have a lot of CDs for me to pick through. Very distracting when I’m trying to make toast.” You deflate against your counter and pinch the bridge of your nose. When you look back up, you see House staring intently at you. Studying you.

You’re the first to break in your weird staring competition, and your eyes trail off to the side where you see House’s cane propped up against a cupboard. You exhale. “Thank you, I guess for last night. And for destroying my broken smoke alarm. And my toaster.”

House doesn’t take the hint, and across the small space of your kitchen he pushes himself up to sit on the top of a counter. Your eyes catch on the flex of his forearms and you curse yourself when he smirks at you. “All in a day’s work for the world’s greatest doctor.”

You stand in awkward silence for a moment before you jut your head at him. The movement makes you dizzy, but you steady yourself against the counter. House’s brows pinch together before he exclaims, “Oh! That wasn’t you thanking me, that was you trying to get to me to leave. I’m like a mould, sweetheart. I’ll grow on you.” He tilts his head. “Or in you, I suppose.”

“What? What are you talking abou…” Your words slur off into a trail and you raise your hands in front of your face. They’re shaking. “I thought- Was better. Whass happing?” Your tongue is heavy in your mouth.

House clicks his tongue and slaps his hands against his thighs. “Well that’s the exciting part! I thought you were getting better too!”

Your head starts to loll forward and you lose sight of him as he keeps speaking. “But that’s because I thought you had something boring. A flu. A cold. Maaaaaaaybe pneumonia. But then I saw your bathroom. Let me guess, the mould was there when you moved in? That’s what made this shithole so cheap right?”

You’re using all your willpower to stay standing but then your knees buckle and you lower yourself to the ground as gently as you can. Still, you thud to the floor. House tuts from somewhere above you, and you hear him push off the counter. “It was everywhere though. Even on the back of some of your canvases. I thought I paid you well enough that you could at least afford a sponge and some bleach. Clearly not.”

From the floor, you manage to raise your head. You can only look at his ratty sneakers as he limps closer. “Walking home in the snow should have killed you, with what’s being festering in you by now. But I guess I-” He clears his throat, “you got lucky.”

Your vision blurs and you hear House groan, as he reaches down and drags your limp body upwards. “You can’t stay here anymore though. You’ll be a walking fungi by noon.”

—----------------

You expect to wake in the hospital. Most people do when they collapse.

Instead you wake in a dark room under heavy blankets. You lay there for a moment, letting your eyes adjust to the lack of light. You turn your head to your right, taking in the empty armchair and small cabinet beside you. There’s a phone handset, a clock and a lamp that is no help in the dark. It’s a weird jolt of terror that you get when your eyes trail down to the end of the bed, and only after seconds of staring into the darkness do they make out the form of House, perched on the end. You scramble up as fast as you can, tucking your knees close to you.

House rolls his eyes. “This isn’t my sex dungeon.”

“Oh,” you scowl, “Do you prefer the term basement? Or oubliette? Where am I?”

House squints his eyes and you can tell he’s debating whether or not to tell you. You kick out deftly under the covers and land a softened blow against his arm. He swats at your foot and you retreat. House clicks his tongue. “Mine.”

You laugh. “No, no, no. Not yours. Where are we actually? Where did you kidnap me to?”

House pins you with a glare. “It’s not kidnapping if its done for a perfectly medical reason and you can’t really call yourself a kid anymore, can you?”

“That’s not what that mea-”

He cuts you off and effectively silences your words with his own. “Mine. We are at my apartment.”

At his words, your eyes trail away, instead surveying the room with a new hunger. The bookcase is filled to the brim with novels and texts, and there’s a cluttered desk opposite you. You’re trying to digest that you’re probably in House’s room. House’s bed.

You run your hands down your face and groan. “What the fuck is happening, House?”

He huffs and looks away from you, head tilted back to stare at his ceiling. “You literally have mould growing in your lungs. But, a handy dandy course of pills and you’ll be fine. I already gave you the first two doses while you were out. You’ll be good for a few hours and have to keep taking some if, you know, you don’t want to breathe like a deformed pug.”

“No, no, I don’t give a shit about any of that. Sure, hypersensitivity pneumonitis or aspergillosis, whatever. But what the fuck is happening right now?” You lower your hands and glare at him. “Why did you bring me here? I pass out and your first reaction is to drag me to your apartment?”

And really, how? You get an image of him dragging your down the stairs, thumping the whole way, and shoving you into the boot of his trunk. House doesn’t sound quite as cocky or self-assured as he usually does when he speaks. “Your place is basically a cesspool of fungi. You won't be able to get better there.”

“So why am I not at the hospital?”

There’s a heavy beat of weighted silence, and he still doesn’t look at you. “Because I wouldn’t be able to take care of you there.”

You deflate almost against his pillows, like a tire with a slow leak. “Oh.”

“Yep.” He says, popping the p.

“House. I can’t actually stay here, with you, after…everything.” ‘Everything’. What an odd way to sum up the feelings in your chest, the screaming matches between you two, and all that lay in between.

He sucks in air and it hisses through his teeth. “You kinda have to. According to the state of New Jersey, reported cases of severe aspergillus mould have to go through months long strenuous, and I mean rip-up-the-carpets-just-to-rip-up-the-floorboards-just-to-clean-the-foundation kind of strenuous process for a place to be legally habitable.”

You clench your jaw. “But that’s only reported cases, right?”

House nods inconspicuously. “Right.”

“Mm,” You nod along, “And no one reported anything, right House?” Silence. “Right, House?”

His blue eyes flick to yours. “I mean…. I think I might have accidentally sent a text to someone. Or a phone call to an office. Or a 32-page email with photographic evidence to the New Jersey state health department.”

You groan, and throw yourself at him. You grab onto his shoulders and with surprising strength, or perhaps a lack of resistance, push him down against his own bed. You swing yourself over him, straddling him deftly, and you squeeze your hands lightly against his throat. “I can not fucking believe you!”

House’s hands reach up and steady themselves against your hips. “Glad to hear it, Newbie. I was always told I was mythical.”

You apply pressure against his throat, and lean down, sneering. “You’re not mythical, you’re goddamn infuriating.”

You expect him to spit something back at you or to swat your hands away easily, but instead he lets out a near-inaudible groan. He shifts against you, and his hands tighten on your hips and you suddenly realise the very compromising and very close position the two of you were in. He rocks against you now, with more force, and you feel him drag against you between your legs. You suck in a harsh breath, and let your hips roll as he grinds you down against him.

He says your name quietly, a whisper echoing between the two of you. You freeze, and stare at him, his own pupils blown wide and looking back at you. He’s breathing deeply underneath you, and you’re nearly certain that you’ll both stay like this forever, too scared to stop and too scared to continue. But then House knocks you onto your back and now it's you who falls back against the mattress, with the wind knocked out of you. You gasp, and try to push against him, clawing like a feral cat to sit up, but he shifts his weight against his good leg and manages to manoeuvre himself quickly into the position you were in.

He laughs at how easily you’re defeated, and quickly places his hands against your neck. While both your hands were barely wrapped around his throat, House’s palm presses against your windpipe and his fingers curl around your neck with ease.

He applies the same, soft and mocking pressure you did. You both know you could get out of it if you tried, and that he would let you; a deep flush settles on your cheeks when you make no move to do so. He leans closer, his breath fanning against your ear. “You like that, Newbie? Which one’s better, choking me or getting choked by me?”

When you don’t answer, House tilts his head, leaning to nip against the corner of your mouth. He speaks your last name into your skin. “I asked you a question.”

You laugh, soft and breathy. “You were the one practically humping me, I didn’t think you had it in you to interrogate me too.”

He gnashes at the corner of your mouth now, and you desperately want him to move a little bit to the right, to connect your lips. Instead, you try to focus on not whimpering in front of him; only one of you should be pathetic in this situation, and it wasn’t you.

“Interrogation? That must be why I found those fluffy little handcuffs at your apartment.” House tilts his head, and you hold your breath, waiting for him to land against your lips. Instead, he drags his head down, and you feel him breathe against your neck. Your hands land against his shoulders, and you briefly think of them as traitorous. They could be pushing him away right now, or slapping him, or scratching his eyes out. Instead, they dig into the fabric of his shirt, and grip it as if your life depends on it.

House’s mouth is oddly soft against your neck. You don’t know why you were expecting it to feel rougher, but he’s slow and meticulous against your skin. He sucks at a spot, and even though you clamp your mouth down, he still hears the embarrassingly loud noise you make. You feel him smile against you, and you dig your nails into his shoulders in response.

He only has to press down with his palm against your throat to remind you who’s in power, and you can’t close your mouth in time to stop the groan spilling out. House looks up at you, blue eyes piercing through you with electricity. “Rethinking that question, sweetheart?”

You don’t like the thing that curls in you at his words- sweetheart. “Nup.”

He leans down, sucking against your throat and squeezing it with the other hand at the same time. He still stares up at you, and this time when you moan, you feel him rut against you. He releases your skin, biting at it only to soothe it with his tongue. “You sure? Cause, I can stop. I’m sure I could find something better to do; chase some poor undergrads around at the hospital or annoy Cuddy. If you don’t like it-”

His hand begins to loosen at your neck and your head is reeling, and you can’t believe you’re even answering, but the words tumble out in a blubbering mess. “Choked by you. Mmhm.”

He chuckles. “Slut.”

You laugh, staring down your nose at him. “So says the manwhore.”

He smiles but still squeezes against your neck, forcing you to exhale harshly. He props himself up, looking down at you. You can’t imagine the mess you are right now. You’re more than ecstatic that you’ve showered and scrubbed your teeth after being sick for so long, but you know your hair is sprawled beneath you and you’re losing miserably against the flush spreading across your face.

House’s eyes are…tender, almost, as he looks down at you, where his hand connects the two of you. It strikes you as out of place, that look. It was too tender, too love-like, to be seen in this dark bedroom where he was still choking you. You wondered what your own eyes were revealing, blown wide and gazing up at him.

But then he smirks and that look is lost, replaced by something darker. “This is just sex, right?”

You blink, shocked by his question. “Um, I-”

A knock sounds out, and you stop, head craning to look over House and towards his door. He doesn’t turn, still staring down at you and seemingly content to leave the unknown guest alone. But then another knock rings out, and another, and another, each with more force than the last.

When your eyes flick back to House’s you nod towards the doorway. “You should probably go check that. Might be one of your hookers.”

He doesn’t miss the snark in your tone, eyebrows furrowing, but before he responds, you scramble out from beneath him and drag yourself away. He stares at you where you sit, and you gulp lightly, trying not to betray any emotions across your face. But when another knock thuds somewhere from his apartment, House breaks eye contact with you and slips out of the bedroom door.

You sit on his bed, and try to slow your breathing. Holy shit. Holy shit.

Was this happening? After all your stupid wet dreams and stupid pining, was this happening? You feel your core throb in confirmation, and you flop against the bed, squeezing your legs tightly.

You stare up at the ceiling and your thoughts are projected against it. You were about to fuck House. And, if you’re honest with yourself, you think you still will. When he pops back into the room, tear off his clothes, ravage him and destroy him. But ‘This is just sex, right?’

Right?

You breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Right.

It’s not like that question pissed you off. It’s not like he was bringing up everything you two had fought over, about you possibly feeling something for him and him hating you for it, and waving it in your face like a pathetic schoolgirl who couldn’t control her heart. It’s not like he admitted he felt nothing for you but just wanted a quick fuck.

You could do this. Push aside everything that lay inside your bleeding heart and push aside all your fights and all you hatred, and finally get laid again.

You nod in determination. You were going to fuck House, and you were going to make sure it was everything you wanted, and you were not going to let any miniscule emotions get in the way of it.

Right.

Now, with your own pep-talk done and dusted, you register the voices ringing out in the hallway. Loud. Angry. Deep

You push yourself off the bed, grateful for whatever medication was coursing through you right now. You tiptoe to the doorway, casting a look out into the hallway. To your left is a bathroom, bare of anything but the real essentials. You peer the other way, and past a desk and bookshelf, you see House standing at the door.

You toe forward, trying to make sure he doesn’t see you spying on him. You hear House speak, back to the monotone, dry voice of his. “First Wilson and now you. I am helping her, not stringing her up in my attic for occult rituals.”

You miss the first part of the deep reply, but manage to catch the second. “She hates you, Mr Home. She’s coming with me, now.”

Your heartbeat picks up and House laughs, “Oh, she hates me so much that she was practically riding me back there-”

There’s the deft thud of knuckles on skin, and House stumbles to the side. Your stomach twists, and you push yourself forward, rushing forward on suddenly shaky legs. “House!”

House’s head whips to you, and you see the dark mark already appearing on his cheek from where he was punched. But then you spy the source of the deep voice, and stop in your tracks.

“Pops. What are you doing here?”

The burly man rushes forwards in spite of House’s exclamation, and wraps you in a tight hug. Your face is smothered in his chest, and you hear him above you. “Are you alright?! I haven’t seen you since that night and then I see him,” he spits, “taking you away! We go now, you’ll be safe.”

Finally, Pop’s puts you back to the floor, and you heave in the air that rushes forward. House grunts from where he stands. “You really are a bumbling idiot, aren’t you.”

Pop’s whirls, and you see fury on his face. You’re struggling to draw in breath. “I should hit you again, you dogish-”

House laughs. “Really? And then who’s going to help her when she collapses?” He gestures to you, and Pop whips his head back. “You and that awful moustache?

Your hands are at your chest, and you’re rattling in breaths. Pops face is filled with worry. “Kid, are you okay? What’s going on? What’s happening?”

House rolls his eyes. “She’s sick. That’s why she’s here, and why if you gave me three seconds, I would have told you not to pick her up and squeeze her like a stress toy.”

You wheeze out soft words, “He’s right. He’s getting me medication and getting me better,” You draw in more air, “But I’m still bad, Pops.”

Pops looks at you with concern. “You need to stay here? With him?”

You nod, abandoning words and focusing on drawing in breaths. Pops clenches his jaw. “Okay.” You can see the millions of thoughts that he wants to speak, but he simply says it again. “Okay.”

Pops steps forward, still wary of breaking you it seems, but places a gentle kiss to your forehead. He peers down at you. “You need me, or Ella, we’re there. No matter what.” He throws a look at House as if to say no matter who, too.

You smile weakly, and Pops retreats from the apartment with a fleeting glance towards you. House quickly steps forward, and locks the door.

You speak softly, with evening breathes. “Are you okay?”

Your eyes flick to the mark on House’s face, and he turns the other way. “You should go to bed. You’re gonna need the rest, especially after that.”

You blink. Just like that, you’re dismissed. "Are you...serious? After all that, I'm sent to bed like a bad kid?"

House rolls his eyes. "Don't make this into some big deal."

You laugh, and it sends you into a coughing fit. "Big deal? We're about to have sex and you get decked, and don't think it's a big deal?"

House's gaze flicks to yours and he sneers. "Exactly. No big deal. Because you hate me and there's no need to get worked up over someone that you 'couldn't stand being near'."

"Is that what Pops said?"

His jaw clenches. "You're not even denying it, are you?"

Your eyebrows cinch in. "You can't act surprised. You're the one who picks fights with me at work or at the ball! You're the one who hates me and hated that I even thought about loving you!"

Silence.

House stares at you, but you get the sense that he's looking through you, far away. "Take two of the tablets beside the bed before you go to sleep."

And with that, he grabs his cane and coat from beside the door and leaves.

#greg house x f!reader #gregory house smut #gregory house fic #gregory house x reader #gregory house #house md fanfiction #house md x reader #house md

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

Text

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 7: Fever Dreams and Baths

Summary:

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 8

-----------------------

You walk home. You don’t know how, hell you don’t really remember it, but you stand at the stoop of your apartment and slot your keys into your door.

You lock it behind yourself and step out of your dress gently. You want to tear it off, rip it to shreds, and gnash it up with your teeth like a rabid animal. But you force your hands to work meticulously, patiently. They’re shaking and red, and you tug at clasps and hooks even when you can’t feel them. The dress makes you want to sob and scream. It clings to you wetly from melted snow and almost suffocates you by the time it drops to the floor.

You kick your heels off, and let yourself sit down beside them. You pick them up and your feet throb. Really, your feet should be killing you. But the snow and ice dulls the pain. You vaguely register that blood is dribbling from somewhere on your sole, yet you make no move to bandage them.

The heels are black. Glittery. Perfectly sized. They had sat aside your shoe rack since Chase had given them to you, and each time you saw them you became so excited to be able to wear them. Chase. Chase gave them to you. Chase who knew. Chase who kept quiet with the rest of them until it was too late. Chase who told you while Cameron stared at you like a wounded animal and Foreman couldn’t even at you. You throw the shoe as hard as you can, and it thuds against your coffee tables. You pelt the other and don’t see where it lands.

You should probably take a shower. Wipe the makeup off your face. Warm up. Why aren’t you warming up?

Instead, you scratch your nails down your face, not hard enough to draw blood. You can’t feel the contact through your fingers or your cheeks and you do it again and again and again and again until stinging sensations begin to break through the numbness.

You don’t know how long you sit there, in the middle of your entryway, next to your crumpled dress. You stare into nothing. The floorboards warp and merge with each other and eventually you don’t see them.

Hours feel as if they’ve passed but in all actuality it could only be a few minutes. You don’t know. You don’t care. You walk on heavy feet towards your bedroom, leaving behind a fleckered trail of blood and water, still dripping from you.

You collapse onto your bed, surrounded by complete darkness. Even your neighbours are silent; you hate them nonetheless. You should reach around in the darkness, grab a blanket and warm up. You just lay there, your skin rippling with goose bumps and your lungs drawing in shallow breaths.

You expect the tears to come. You expect them to burst from your eyeballs and flood your room and drown you in a terrible end. They don’t. Not even one.

It’s worse this way. You would have been spared if you cried. You were an ugly crier, and by that you meant that you heaved and sniffed and sobbed and wobbled and dribbled; you were loud and messy and distracting. Now, in the silence of your room and the dryness of your eyes, you were left alone with your thoughts.

You slapped him. Your lips almost tilt up at that, at the incredulous look on his face and the stinging in your hand. You don’t smile though when you remember that you quit. You had to though. You either slap your boss and quit or slap your boss, get fired and arrested.

You should have done it harder. You should’ve taken that silver key and jammed it up his nostril; twisted it too. Or maybe kicked his cane out from under him and dragged him down the hallway by the handle. All that shit he said.

Is that what he thought? Is that what he saw? Were you really the same girl that you had left behind in the town you grew up in? Were you the same girl who sobbed into her pillow at night and screamed at her father and hated him and still wished he had been different? Were you the same girl who in spite of her nervous stutter and shaky hands would lap up any attention given to her by a coach, a teacher, a stranger?

You run your blue fingers down your face and shake your head. The movement makes you keenly aware of your soaked hair resting against your neck. No. You weren’t that girl anymore. You wouldn’t let yourself entertain the idea of it. House wasn’t right about jack shit. You knew the experience of liking men when you were still that girl; the giddy smiles, the breath caught in your throat, the butterflies caged in your stomach. Liking House, if that was truly what you did before he threw it in your face, was nothing like that; it was shameful and annoying and pathetic. Because that’s what House was. That’s what House wanted everyone to see him as.

He got what he wanted. The rose tinted glasses were now off and the harsh reality was seeping in. If House didn’t want to be loved, he never could be.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. He doesn’t matter. Yes, you were vulnerable and exposed for once. You didn’t know what it was; lust, attraction, boredom? You would have to wrestle through feelings and dumpster dive through emotions just to grab that little, fading kernel of attraction and label it, and that wasn’t worth it. Once again, you had proven to yourself that it, lust, attraction, boredom or something else, was pointless. You were better off alone.

You don’t register when the dark ceiling becomes the dark of your eyelids, and you fall asleep naked atop your bed sheets.

———————

Hours pass by feverishly, and you wrestle atop your thin cotton bed sheets. You soak through them with sweat but shiver the whole night. Everything aches. The bleeding blisters on your feet now feel like stab wounds that are being pinched and your joints grind and grate against each other with each movement. You don’t lay long on one side because your muscles begin to scream out and you’re awoken in fits of pain before you restlessly slip back to sleep.

You don’t remember getting out of bed but suddenly you’re lurched over the toilet bowl and retching. You vomit until you reach bile and even then, your body is wracked with shivers and your stomach curdles until you vomit again.

You fall asleep against the toilet bowl until you’re awoken again and tip your head forward as acid burns your throat. You don’t know how you make it back to your bed, but the next time you awake from thrashing and kicking out at your wall, you’re atop your mattress again. You must have grabbed at clothes in your freezing mind because you have a stained, inside out pyjama shirt on now. You soak through that too, and the wet material makes you colder.

Hallucinations visit you vividly in the night. Some are fleeting and you can only grasp at vague recollections of them in your mind. Others are as real as day. You see your grandmother’s cat lying at the foot of your bed, but no matter how much you beg her to come and sleep by your side while you shiver uncontrollably, she doesn’t move. Later you see your childhood best friend; you had stopped speaking over something so trivial, so pointless, but it feels as if you’re back to being sisters again. She smiles at you and shakes her head. Her voice sounds melodic when she speaks, “What are you doing, goof? I thought we agreed that only Prince Charming and Daniel-from-school’s older brother are the only ones we’ll be with.” You want to tell her that Daniel’s older brother wasn’t actually that hot, he just knew guitar, but she’s gone by the time you creak open your dry mouth.

You’re slick with sweat and yet somehow in your fever you knew House would show up, and he does. He says nothing for a while. He just stands, leaning against his cane. You try to focus on his face but it warps and becomes twisted the harder you try. Your lips are cracked and you rasp out unintelligible words. He just rolls his eyes. “You shouldn’t be upset. It was more Cuddy’s fault then mine.” You garble angrily at him and he huffs. “Fine, it was kind of mine. But you slapped me. We’re even.”

You don’t know if you are. You want to tell him all the reasons you hate him and all the reasons you like him, and how you might need to slap him a few more times to be even, but instead you mumble out, “Prick.”

The night feels endless and torturous. You’re met with more pain and visions and only when you manage to crawl to the kitchen and dry swallow medicine and panadol do you pass out fully on your lounge room rug.

———————

You’re going to throw up. Again.

You thought you had made it past the worst of this sickness, albeit aided with medicine and drugs. But instead your head is pounding, pounding, pounding, like a harsh knock at a door, and with each knock, butcher’s knives split your brain. You can practically see the knives, feel their sharp tips and dull handles slamming against your skull. You groan and lay there, clutching at your head until you realise it is a knocking at your door.

You stagger in near delirium across your house, and whip open your front door. “Will you be quiet!?”

Your head is reeling. Hallucinations are back, you decide promptly, because Gregory House is standing at your door. You groan.

“Huh.” He says, looking downwards.

Your head is a dumbbell against your neck but to the best of your ability, you tilt it up and squint at the hallucination. He’s got the same silver stubble, the same long face, the same blue eyes. It makes you dizzy but you repeat his words to him. “Huh?”

He suddenly bends at the waist, leaning his weight onto his cane. Near theatrically, he whips his head up to look at you. “You have painted toenails. I thought that was only for 16 year old girls and the fitness bloggers who spend more time on pedicures than teaching their kids the difference between left and right.”

Its weak, and scratchy, but you still bite back. “Aw, someone sounds upset that Mummy likes her nail polish collection more than her neurotic son.” Your words lose their weight when you drawl and garble out a few of them.

Hallucination-House understands you perfectly. “'Sounds like you're projecting, Mummy.”

The snarkiness. The rudeness. The downright cockiness. You reach out a hand and swing at him for pure shits and giggles. It kills your muscles to move, but you image the contact of a professional boxer and force your body to follow through with the movement. Instead, you make a pathetic fist against his shoulder and he stares down at your hand like a bug.

“Oh, you’re real?”

He raises back to his full height and splays his hands out in front of himself. “Last time I checked, yes. But if you like, I’ll let you do a full body search and you can come to your own conclusion.”

Its the fever. Definitely the fever. You flush more than you like at his words, and the sensible voice in your head is quick to remind you that this is House. You hate him right now. But, after spending hours or days- what day was?- in agony, the charity event seems an eternity away. The fever however, doesn’t seem to care about that.

House pauses, awaiting your reply. He cocks an eyebrow and you can almost see the exact words lined up, ready to spill, so you rush to speak. “I’m. Sick.” The words make your head pound. “I couldn’t call out of work.”

His eyes narrow. “You’ve haven’t shown up to work for three days. Like an idiot, I'm sure you got sick from walking home in fucking snow.”

Ah. Shit. Three days had past in your delirium?

Not that it mattered. You quit, right? He’s looking at you like you’ve just grown a second head but you continue to ramble on. “If you’re here to rip me a new one about hospital policy and ‘letting my team down’,” You do mocking air quotes with your shaking fingers, “Then I’m sorry to disappoint but I’ll probably end up throwing up on your sneakers more than anything else.”

He looks almost bewildered, which is an odd expression to see on House. “What?”

You blink back at him as he continues speaking, almost incredulously. “For one thing, I know I’m a cripple but god,” He pops out the last syllable, “I’m still able to dodge vomit as well as the next doctor. And in what world do I show up to your house just to berate you?”

“This world. You would show up to my house just to berate me, in this world.”

He chews his cheek for a second, seeming to debate the best line of insult and mockery he can reply. But in the gap he leaves, you deflate. His sudden appearance was rejuvenating, momentarily, but now you feel just as weak and tired as you did before, if not more. You sigh, “Why are you here, House? Fire me if you’re going to fire me.”

Now it's his turn to tilt his head, and he huffs out your last name “You're sick. You might not register that under all the cough medicine you’ve been huffing during your fever, but you are. And you’re alone.”

You shift to lean on the doorway. “Yes. Don’t tell me you’ve come to warn me of the dangers of living a miserable, lonely, ‘stick in the mud’ life.” His jaw clenches when you throw his words back at him from the other night, and you wheeze out a laugh. “You should go. You hate me, right?”

There’s a beat of silence and he looks angry, his jaw still clenched and a vein bouncing on his temple.

And then he says something you wish that you had CIA recording technology prepared for.

“I’m sorry.”

There was no bells and whistles or shiny strings attached to House’s apology. No explanation. No reasoning. Simply sorry.

You lurch to the side and vomit; House stays true to his gloating and steps back immediately. You lean back up and wipe at your mouth with a shaking hand. There’s a moment of silence between the two of you, the same moment of peak tension before a bubble pops or the crest of a roller coaster where you’re not sure that you’re still moving.

But then he leaps past the puddle you created and through your door. You turn and see him surveying your entryway. “Bedroom?”, he calls out.

You could kick him out. Throw his sorry arse back into your vomit. But, you close your front door and in your feverish state, it almost feels as if that was an action of forgiveness. As if you accepted his apology. Not that you would tell him that.

“Take me out to dinner first, Doc, jeez. Oh but we did that already, right?” You point both of your thumbs down and make a raspberry sound.

At that, his eyebrows cinch together. He reaches forward, and you try to raise a heavy hand to bat his away, but you’re too slow. He touches your forehead and swears. “You’re burning up, jesus. How did you even get out of bed?”

“Well,” You pause, breathing deeply and trying to ignore that his hand was now cupping your cheek. “Someone was pounding on my door and wouldn’t leave til I answered it.”

You turn from him, and he hastily drops his hand from your face, as if he didn’t realise what he was doing. Without saying anything, you shuffle down the hallway.

Your ratty, old and oversized band tee was slick with sweat, you smelled like vomit, and you had deep bags under your eyes. But as you walked away from him, you could feel his eyes trailing up your calves, your thighs, your little bed shorts. Still the same, perverted House.

You’re sure that another time, when you’re feeling better and not looking like you want to murder him as you do now, he’ll tease you about this. Your wrestled-with bed, your stuffed animals in the corner (a large bear, a fat duck and a round cat, all peering at him intensely), your faded, dusty pink walls, your cluttered desk and overflowing drawers, your artworks haphazardly strewn in a corner.

At those, he pauses. “You paint?”

You sigh, crawling onto your bed. You don’t get under the covers, and you can see by the slight squint of his eyes that he notices. “I thought you knew everything about me. Don’t talk so loudly, it hurts.”

House reaches out, and begins to flip through the canvases and painted boards. There’s a pair of calloused, ageing hands. Blue and bloodshot eyes. The back of a silvery, short cropped head.

It appears that he’s not so idiotic that he can’t recognise himself across all your artworks. He turns to you, but you’re not looking at him, instead lethargically fanning yourself and panting.

“House,” A deep, shuddering breath. “It’s so hot.”

You don’t register him striding towards you, but you feel his hand against your forehead again. “Come on, Newbie, where’s your bathroom? Do you have a bath?”

You pale, and before he can even stop you, you lurch out of bed. He goes to steady you, but you run on shaky legs towards an adjoining door to your room. He follows you, just in time to see you lurched over the toilet bowl and heaving up bile again.

You feel him draw closer, and tears sting at your eyes with the acidity in your throat. You thought he would stay in your room or simply watch you from afar but he reaches forward to grab at your hair and hold it at your neck. He doesn’t rub your spine or smooth down your hair, but that gesture alone was tender for House.

There’s moments where you stop, but your body is quick to hunch back to the toilet and continue vomiting. Finally, after what feels like forever, you are able to breathe and lean against the rim. It’s gross, and unhygienic, but the porcelain is cool against your burning cheeks and you couldn’t care less.

You feel House retreat, and you wonder if that pushed him too far. The vomit down your chin, the sweat on your back, the shivers through your body. But then you hear running water and you turn to see him twisting the taps for your bathtub.

He hobbles back to you and his face swarms your vision. You don’t reply when he states “Up,” but you let him reach under your armpits and pull you up to stand on wobbly knees.

He frowns when you don’t fight him or make a snarky comment or try to slap at his hands. “Can you undress yourself?”

You blink at him, and you try not to gag again. Instead your shaky hands reach for your top, and you pull it over your head. You can’t find it in yourself to care. He had seen far better and far worse bodies, you were sure of it. And what you were even more certain of, was that he would have no reason to care. His apology didn’t change the fact that he was insistent that there was nothing between you, that he didn’t like you or even remotely think of you that way. Maybe he would make a joke about you acting like a hooker. Whatever.

When your shorts and underwear pool at your feet, you don’t hesitate to reach forward and lean against House. His hand rests against the small of your back, and if you were more cognitive at the moment you would have been almost shocked it didn’t dip further down. But he’s respectful and leads you to the bathtub, which is now full with cool water.

He winces when you put more weight on him, and raise yourself over the lip of the tub. But then you detach yourself from him, and you ease yourself down, laying in the water and placing your head at the end as your eyes droop. Behind you, there is a variety of soapy formulas, conditioners, shampoos, body washes, all tucked into the corner.

He clears his throat and tsks. “Don’t fall asleep. I won’t be able to carry you back to bed, and wouldn’t that be a mediocre death? Drowning in your own bathtub? You deserve something better. Serial killer patient on the loose or Foreman’s pisspoor attempt at cooking.”

You rattle out a tired laugh but find you don’t have anything to reply. For a moment, you sit in silence. Almost comfortable.

But then there’s the clink of his belt hitting the floor and despite your easing fever and tired self, your eyes snap open. “Wow House. Despite all the comments and stares, I never took you as a predator.”

He snorts and you see he’s already kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks. His hands are still at his jeans and you track his movement. His eyes flick up to yours. You feel like prey being observed and you still yourself. Whatever he finds there is confirmation enough, and he peels his pants down. Your eyes trail down and you keep yourself still as you take in the silvery and mangled scar tissue of his thigh. When it’s apparent he’s not reaching to take off his boxers, you gently close your eyes and it seems to break the silence by spurring House to speak again. “I don’t stare at you.”.

“Mmhm. Do you hate me so much that you don’t realise it? Everytime I speak in the conference room or hell, even when I’m not speaking, you look at me with so much…Contempt.”

You feel him now, sliding against the tub and coming to sit behind you. His feet sit beside you, the water going up to his lean calves. You decide you want to see his reply and what he’s doing, so you stare up at him, resting your face against his thigh.

He peers down at you, and the line in his brow, that appears when people are being stupid, appears. You’ve seen it when parents deny a certain medicine, or when patients omit part of their history in embarrassment, but oddly enough, you haven’t seen it directed at you. Until now.

“It’s not contempt.”

“Then what is it?” Your eyes bore into him.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, and you can feel your heartbeat against your ribs. You’re not sure what you’re anticipating. You had wanted this at the charity event, wanted him to tell you the truth. And he did. So why were you wanting him to tell you a different truth?

But the moment slips away and he simply says, “You have vomit in your hair. Lean forward.”

A deep, almost shameful blush settles against your cheeks, and you’re happy to oblige in order to hide it. You hear him uncap one of the bottles to your side, and pour the solution into his hands. He gathers your long hair into his hands and lathers the shampoo across your scalp. It’s almost clinical, his actions. As if you were another patient.

You go to speak, but as if he senses that, he places a hand on your bare shoulder and leans forward. He cups at the water by his feet, and pours it onto your head. He repeats the process at least another three times, and you decide to just settle against his thigh again. Your skin doesn’t feel so clammy anymore, but you feel you must still be delirious because you get the insane urge to turn, and bite him. Bite a bruise into his skin and kiss it better.

He stills behind you, and his deep voice fills the room. “I’m going to wash you. Or I can hose you down, but seem too clingy for that.”

You’re too tired to think about it as he moves your hair over your shoulder. There’s a damp cloth over your back, scrubbing gently in circles. Your breath hitches as House leans forward, and the cloth is wiped across your front. For such a sexually inappropriate man, he attempts to avoid your breasts, and is quick to retreat.

“Thank you,” You mumble against his leg, closing your eyes.

“Don’t worry. You can make it up to me. How does taking my clinic hours for a week sound?”

Prick. At that, you really do turn and bite his thigh. He sucks air through his teeth and tenses, but doesn’t push you off as you place a soft, almost mocking, kiss where you nipped at.

“That’s a no, then?” he clears his throat before you can reply or bite him again. “Well, you can make it up to me by not quitting then. I’ll be back.”

He leaves you swiftly, dripping water across your bathroom and quickly dragging his jeans back up his lean legs. The door clicks shut behind him. You’re left in silence, only interrupted by the dripping of a faucet and your own groans of embarrassment.

He was asking you not to quit? After you had slapped him and now bit him? Really?

God you could see it now. Strolling into work in a few days, and the second you’re in the conference room, House proudly produces a rabies shot and tells everyone how vicious you were.

You drag your wet hands down your face and you’re almost tempted to do exactly as you spoke of earlier and drown yourself in your own bathtub. Instead you settle for leaning your face into the water and screaming out bubbles.

You’re only stopped when a hand pulls your shoulder back. House peers down at you. “Clearly, you need to go back to sleep. C’mon.”

It’s almost in a haze that you step out the tub. Both you stand on your fluffy white bath mat, but while he’s dressed now, you’re strikingly naked.

The fever, which has now receeded to a manageable level, has instead left embarrassment in its wake. First biting him and now flashing him again? What will be next?

You gratefully take the towel he offers you, and wrap yourself in it quickly. You see his staring at the growing patch of mold on your roof and you groan. “Don’t judge me. I couldn’t reach it to clean it.”

House rolls his eyes. “We’ll talk about that when you’re more lucid.”

He grabs his cane from where it is propped up by your sink, and together you walk back to your bedroom. You stop however, and turn to him. “You…changed my sheets?”

Was that why he had left earlier? He’s no nonsense and blunt in his response. “They were filthy.”

“How do you even know where my linen is kept? Or my washing machine?”

He dipped his hand into his pocket and produced a thin box of panadol and a vial of cough syrup. “Next you’re going to be asking me how I know where your medicine cupboard is.”

You stare at him, and debate asking him that very thing. But you’re tired and sore, and instead grasp at the medicine, dry swallowing two pills again and using the syrup’s cap to take a shot of it. He stares at you, almost admirably in a sense. For once, you didn’t argue about the treatment.

You settle against your bed and watch as raps his cane against your drawers. “Pajamas are where?” He draws out the last syllables almost in a whine, looking at you quizzically.

“Top drawer.”

He opens it, and whistles, holding up the sheer piece of lingerie that had never seen the light of day.

Shit.

It’s almost comforting when House’s improved bedside manner slips away and he turns to you with his signature smirk in place. If he’s being rude and unbearable, it’s not so embarrassing or difficult to fight back. “Doctor, what are the odds you can give me some treatment wearing this? You see, I’ve got this horrible swelling down below, and I think this would be the perfect remedy.”

You roll your eyes. “God, you act like a thirteen year old boy who has never seen boobs before, let alone had someone else to take care of his boner.”

House theatrically slaps a hand against his chest. “Excuse you, as of today, I’ve seen one pair of boobs. Try not to generalise us thirteen year old boys.”

You flush, and decide to not bite back at him, afraid he might remark more on your chest. It’s not bad, really, but you don’t like how your core clenches at the thought of House seeing you naked.

He stares at you for a moment, but then he’s digging in your drawers and pulls out a pair of cotton bottoms and a t shirt (in considerably better condition than your last one). He hands them to you, and he turns away, beginning to thumb through your paintings again as you weakly get changed.

You climb into bed, ready to turn to him and admit defeat by thanking him. Annoying as he is, you’re grateful for his help. Holding your hair. Washing you. Changing your sheets. Bringing you medicine. If you thought about it hard enough, you would almost think that for once, he did care about his patient.

But under the duvet covers, warm and recovering, your eyelids are heavy and you quickly slip off to sleep; the last thing you can see is House sitting down at your desk, like a guard ready to begin his shift. You stare at him for a moment. He’s wrinkled and his hair is greying, and it seems like he hasn’t shaved in the past few days, but he’s oddly…Beautiful.

And then you’re soundly asleep for the first time in days.

#house md fanfiction #house md x reader #gregory house x reader #gregory house #house md #greg house x f!reader #gregory house fic #gregory house smut

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

Text

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 6: Chocolate Eyes and Decking Bosses

Summary:

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 7

-----------------------

You realise very quickly that even your anger can’t warm you outside, where snow is falling in a thickening flurry.

Fuck. Why didn’t you bring a jacket? Now your boobs were going to get frostbite.

You make no move to cover yourself, however. You let the cold air whip around you, the wind practically piercing through your body. Your skirt is getting picked up in the flurry and your hair is crashing against your face. You’re fucking furious, and you simply stand there, trying to slow your brain down enough to think.

You should be asking yourself what you’re doing. Are you calling a cab? With what money? Are you calling Pop, begging him to come pick you up? With what phone? Ever so forgetful, your one was left conveniently at home. Instead, you’re staring out at the snow covered car park and not really seeing it. Your eyes are glazed over and all you can see is House in your head. Laughing at you. Blanching when he realised that you wanted tonight to be a date.

Was it that horrible? It’s not like you said you were in love with the man, for fuck’s sake. You had just finally let slip the tight grasp you had on your feelings, and suddenly you were back to 17, staring at people’s arms and hands, and wondering what it would be like to be held. Regrettably, yes, you were wondering about House, but it was still a crushing blow to find out he found you so repulsive, that the little flicker of a school-girl crush in you was worrisome enough to be stomped out immediately.

Your mind isn’t slowing down like it should be, it’s speeding up tenfold. You see Chase telling you that it was Cuddy who actually wanted you here. Cuddy speaking to House, thanking him for being kind. House replying that he wasn’t altruistic. Did they all know? Did everyone know what Cuddy’s plans were, is that why Cameron was telling Chase to shut up and Foreman telling him to stay quiet? Oh god, did they all pity you that much? Were you that readable? Surely you weren’t. Surely, they couldn’t see how much it had hurt to be belittled over and over again by House. Surely, they didn’t believe you just needed to see the good side of House to have some faith in him. Surely, they didn’t think you were that pathetic that you needed your fucking boss to take you out. Surely, they didn’t-

You flinch when something heavy wraps around your shoulders and you whip around.

Wilson raises his hands in defense, and you let go of the breath you were holding, a small icy cloud billowing out between the two of you. You glance down to yourself, and see his suit jacket slung around you.

Even though he breathes in shallowly in the cold, Wilson does his best to not shiver. You roll your eyes and reach up to your shoulders. “Thanks, but I-”

“Keep it.” He pins you with a stare. His chocolatey eyes are still warm. “If you try to give it back to me, I’ll scream.”

You huff. “Fine. Fine. Be all chivalrous then- it’s not making all of that,” you gesture with your head back to the hospital, “any better.”

Wilson bounces on the balls of his feet. “Yep.”

“Yep?”

“House is an arsehole. He’s probably the biggest dickhead I’ve ever met. I’m agreeing with you."

You tuck Wilson’s suit jacket tighter around yourself when the wind returns. You feel bad, but Wilson makes no attempts to retrieve his clothing. “I thought you two were best friends.”

“We are. That’s why I’m here.”

You roll your eyes, feeling that it will become a habit when talking about House. “He basically just said that he would never consider taking me out in a million years. Cuddy was conspiring with him to make sure I didn’t quit and had to pay him, just so that he could bear being my date for the night. If you’re trying to convince me that he’s not as bad as he seems, I’m sorry to say that you’ll have no luck Dr.Wilson.”

Wilson nods along, and laughs, his eyes crinkling. “God no. What Cuddy did was horrible; what House did was downright nasty. I thought I’d come out here to tell you that I was hoping to see you deck him.”

You flounder like a fish for a second, but then force your mouth to close. “What?”

Wilson blows warm air onto his cupped hands. “House deserves it. He’s been deserving it for a while, but no one wants to take a swing. Me too, I suppose. I like having my hands not-broken for surgery but it's becoming more tempting recently. Ever since you got here he's become worse, somehow. I think he's afraid of you; afraid that you could change him or make him better. Make him want to be better.” You're listening with a clenched jaw and his eyes sidle to you. “I’m sorry, by the way. I’m not going to say that I can’t understand why Cuddy orchestrated that whole thing but… You’re young. Beautiful.”

You feel yourself flush, but ever the gentleman, Wilson’s eyes are only on yours, not dipping down lower. He continues talking, “Of course you would want someone to think that, and take you out on a date. I’m just sorry that House’s chronic ability to screw things up got in the way.”

You nod. “Thank you…I guess. It’s not just that but-” You blink away the sudden tears springing up, and will your voice not to break. “He seemed horrified that I would want to be on a date with him. Scandalised.” You turn away from Wilson, and look up to the sky. This way, you can watch the snow fall and use gravity to make sure your tears don’t run down your cheeks. Your voice is quieter. “I didn’t realise he hated me that much- I think you're wrong about him being afraid of me. He's repulsed.”

Wilson huffs from somewhere behind you. “Now I really want to deck him. Look,” he calls out your last name, and you turn back to him with a weak smile. “He’s not repulsed by you. Far from it.”

You chuckle, and feel the anger rise up in your chest as you let out a sarcastic drawl. “Yeah. He’s just so madly in love with me that he can’t stand to be around me if he’s not berating me.”

You turn back, but Wilson says nothing and just stares intently at you, as if trying to make you convinced of your own words. You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

As if catching yourself, your eyes widen. Wilson was still a coworker, and a respected one at that. This was only one of your few conversations; you had chatted with him in passing in the cafeteria a few times, and with the team in cases. “Sorry, I-”

Wilson waves you off. “It’s fine. That was definitely a ‘shut up’ moment. Just make sure you can say the same thing to House.” He grins, giddy for a second. “Or deck him.”

Even though it’s quiet, you still manage to laugh. “I’d get fired. But it’d be worth it, for all of three seconds, I think. Just to see his face.”

Wilson does a mock impression, with wide blown eyes and gaping mouth. When you laugh with more confidence, his eyes soften. “We’re going to get hypothermia. Do you want to come back inside?”

You breathe in sharply, as if the cold had finally hit you. “I don’t think I’ll stay for long; it's a bit hard to make small talk after yelling at House in front of 50 doctors.”

Wilson’s smile is kind. “I’d think it would make it easier. You just did something that everyone in the building has fantasised about.”

You nod, but he seemed aware that wweren't eased by his words, and leads you through a different entrance. The two of you observe the event from afar, and you silently thank him. No one has spotted you, and you’re able to warm your fingers up and gain feeling back in them.

Wilson shakes his head softly. “Brown from Oncology is literally doing laps trying to find me. I think I’ll have to love you and leave you.” His head whips to yours and you feel a flush crowding over your cheeks and nose. "I mean not love! Not that I don't want to love you! Ugh, I didn’t mean like that, just leave you-”

You snort. “It’s fine, I know what you meant. " You clench your jaw, willing your blush to fade away and not become a blaze of fury. Being lovesick with handsome doctors had done you enough damage for the night. "Before you go, could I please borrow your phone? I need to make a call.”

Wilson runs a hand down his suddenly flushed face. “Oh I’m sorry, my phone’s in my office. But look, there’s a really bad painting in the hallway. I mean, it’s against policy, but I keep a key behind there.” Even though he’s still blushing, he pins you with an attempt at an intimidating stare. The effort's lost in the rich ,dark tones of his eyes. "Don’t tell anyone that. Suddenly I’ll have House sleeping in my office 24/7.”

You nod. “I won’t. I’m not really planning on being a social butterfly now.” You shoot him a small smile. “Thank you. Really.”

Wilson opens his mouth as if he’s going to say more, but he closes it, eyes dipping down to yours. Instead, he simply nods, and strides away, once more becoming part of the bustling party in the foyer. You retreat the way Wilson brought you, finding a staircase and climbing it. Your heels make it somewhat difficult, and you’re trying you best to gather your hefty skirt and not eat shit.

You huff, but eventually exit on the right floor. Then, after a series of twisting turns, you spy it.

The really bad painting.

You stand in front of it, and tilt your head. It’s a portrait of…something. Honestly, it looks like a clown to you. But then you tilt your head the other way and see a weird blob of colours, vaguely resembling a dog. You try to take it all in, the days of your highschool art class coming back to you. Fleeting words like composition and practice float through your head. When they eventually trail out, you sigh.

You reach up, still having to go on the tip of your toes in your heels. Your fingers trace the gilded frame, and you lift the edge from the wall, and peer under. It’s an awkward position, trying to make sure the frame is still attached to the wall and not crashing down on your head. But then you spy a silver key and grab it earnestly. You ease the frame back against the wall and gaze down at the small key in your palm.

You’re interrupted by a cough from behind you.

“Fucking hell!” You shout, and spin, prepared to give the creep a piece of your mind. “You do NOT need to sneak up on people like that, I nearly-” Your words are lost however, when you see the creep himself. You let out a guttural groan and squeeze your eyes shut, as if you can block out the figure of House. “I can’t do this.”

He sounds closer when he sneers. “Can’t or won’t?”

You open your eyes and pin him a glare, feeling the same fury from rush through you. It’s not the red hot daggers but rather the icy flurry of snow you found yourself in earlier. “Both.”

You try to steel yourself, and smooth your hands down the front of your dress. House’s eyes track your movement. The tip of the silver key pokes out for a split second and your eyes snaps to House’s.

There’s a moment of baited breath. Did he see it? Did he see you scrambling at the painting? But then he raises an eyebrow and confirms your suspicions. “Do you really think I didn’t know Wilson kept a key there? I know where he keeps his spare underwear at work.”

You roll you eyes, trying to rein yourself in. “Good for you, House. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” You make a move to step around him, but his hand shoots out like a snake and grips your arm. He still clutches his cane with his other hand.

“Not so fast,” he drawls out your last name and you clench your jaw.

“Let go of me.”

“So what? You can go run outside and hook up with Wilson again?”

Your eyes bulge out of your head. “What?! Is that really what you think happened?”

House rolls his eyes. “Well, if you were desperate enough to want to go on a date with me, then you’re desperate enough to have a go at anything that walks on two legs.”

You seethe. “You’re unbelievable. First you can’t stomach the thought of taking me tonight without being bribed and now you’re jealous that I might have hooked up with someone else?”

He scoffs. “I’m not jealous.”

You nod down at his tightening grip on your arm. He lets go as if it burns him suddenly.

“Like I said, House. I’m not doing this. I’m not going to stand here and be berated for being upset at you.”

“Right,” he shakes his head. “You’ll just go home and call up your mother and bitch about it for an hour. How much you hate me, how disgusting I am, how you can’t believe I would do something like that. But you can’t do that, can you?”

Anger is rolling through you in dull waves. “What are you talking about?”

House stares at you, his blue eyes electric under the hospitals lights. “You’re my employee. Do you really think I would employ someone that I didn’t know everything about? Hell, I know the preschool you went to, let alone your family.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, House.”

He stares at you and you have to resist the urge to fidget. His calculating eyes sweep up and down your form, and you steel yourself to steady your gaze on his worn face. Don’t show weakness. Don’t show fear. He was a rabid animal, and you knew he would sense the second that you slipped up. "Really? You think you’re so good at being secretive and blocking people out? That’s my forte, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t let you speak, launching into his own words instantly. “I know about your older brothers. About your mother. EEvery timewe have a sick mother in, you turn away when you think no one is watching and do; what was it? A breathing technique? Or to wipe at your tears?” He waves the notion away, and your eyes start to bulge out of your head at his incredulousness, “At one point in time, you were close to your siblings, to your mother. And yet, you moved across the country. Left ‘em behind. Or, maybe you left even before you moved here. Now, away from home, all alone in the big city, you’re alone. But your father?”

At this, he whistles low. “Whole nother basket of fruit, right there. I can see it on your face everyt ime I tell you’re wrong and even moreso when I tell you that you’re right. Was daddy not proud of you? Spent his time working away, maybe at a hospital somewhere, and you just had to prove that you were worthy of his love and attention by becoming a doctor?”

You bark out a laugh but its humourless and cold. “No, daddy wasn’t too busy working. He was too busy drinking and smoking and screaming at mummy. I don’t give a shit about that man’s attention or praise or whatever it is that you think you have pyscho-analysed out of me. I haven’t spoken to him since I was thirteen.”

But House doesn’t relent at your revelation. If anything it spurs him on, and he speaks in a frenzy. “Uh-uh. I said I can see it. So what if you haven’t spoken to him? It’s pretty fucking obvious to everyone here what you’re pushing onto any older guy. Myself included. That’s why you wanted me to take you tonight. Do you want me to tell you that I’m proud of you, to tuck you in at night and say you did a good job? Or to kiss you and give you all that love that you never got?”

You flush deep with shame and anger and you can’t even stop yourself when you say, “Fuck you, House.”

He mockingly places a hand to his heart. “You wound me. But we’re not done.”

You can feel tears welling in your eyes and they’re threatening to burn down your face as he keeps speaking. “Do you want to talk about how in the time I’ve known you, you haven’t even looked at Foreman, or Chase, or hell, even Cameron with so much as lust? Sure, you see the way that Chase looks at you- but you were never going to give into him, were you? What is it, huh? Got touched as a kid or do you just like being a stick in the mud, ‘holier than thou’ virgin everywhere you go?”

Your hand connects with his face in an instant and it’s with so much force that his head whips to the side. It wasn't quite the deck you promised Wilson, but now your fist clenches. You can feel your face is wet and blotchy with tears now, and you’re not sure when you started crying in his horrible rant, but the tears continue to flow.

He’s staring at you, and his own hand raises up to touch where you slapped him. It's odd, admist the pure, unbridled rage flowing through you, you're struck with the thought to take a picture of is dumbstruck face and save it for later.

“Fuck. You.” You spit.

“Did that make you feel better? If you want I’ll make a space for you in the office and when you’re angry you can go have a tantrum there.”

You huff out a laugh. “I don’t know. Let me try again and I’ll see how I feel.”

You swing your hand at him again but the bastard grabs at your wrist an inch from his face. “Let. Go. House.”

“So what, you can hit me again?”

You’re still crying and you feel your lip waver. “You’re horrible.”

He sneers, yanking you closer to his face. “And what do you think that makes you, looking up to someone as horrible as me? Wanting to go out on a date with me?”

You wrench your wrist out of his grasp and stumble backwards. Cockily, he leans against his cane, and tilts his head.

“Why, House? Why hunt me down, why start this, why mock me, why be such an arsehole? Do you actually care that much about my feelings? About what I think of you?”

His smirk drops into a frown and you keep speaking, the words tumbling out of you like a hot mess. “You think you have me all worked out, but I think Wilson was right about you. Just the possibility of me being interested in you has you scared shitless. Because, if I like you, it must mean I think you have some redeeming quality, some semblance of good in your twisted heart. Even with all that daddy issue bullshit you brought up, if it was just the fact that you’re older, I would’ve only wanted to fuck you, right? That’s what you think happens when I take one stepo outside and start trying to hook up with Wilson, right?" You laugh, and it chokes out into a sob. “But tonight, me wanting to be on an actual date with you? How terrifying.”

House’s jaw clenches, but his eyes remain stormy and still. “I’ve had lots of terrifying things happen to me. A short and annoying girl wanting to date me is not one of them.”

You throw your hands up in the air. “Stop lying! You can’t even say that with a straight face. Because it does scare you. If I want to date you, it means you’re not this horrible, ghastly monster you keep making yourself out to be. It means you’re not unloveable, and that means that all this effort you go to, to push people away, to make them hate you as much as you hate yourself, is wasted. You’re so fucking miserable that when everyone else has left you, you try to push me away too. And when that doesn’t work, you try to make me as miserable as you are, to show me that there is no redeeming you.”

You’re heaving out air and trying to remind your lungs to work properly. “Guess what? It’s finally worked.” He chews his cheek but you just shake your head. “I’m done. I’ll get you my two weeks notice tomorrow.”

For once, you see House surprised. Shocked, almost. But then you turn, and you leave him all alone in the hallway. Like he always wanted.

#gregory house x f!reader #greg house x f!reader #gregory house fic #gregory house x reader #gregory house #house md fanfiction #house md x reader #house md

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

Text

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 5: Bargains and Balls

Summary:

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 6

-----------------------

The white envelope sears a hole into your pocket during your journey home. You toss it against your bedside dresser, and imagine it sizzling and scorching the wood.

It sits there for another week before you pick it up again. You blame work, of course. House hadn’t given up completely on making your life a living hell, but it seemed he had relented somewhat. Still, you were running around. Chasing after MRIs and lumbar punctures and CT scans and bloodwork and all the sorts. Cuddy, after your last conversation, seemed determined to make sure you weren’t about to collapse under House. She set up work counselling (that you skipped. Admitting that House was affecting you was admitting defeat, right?), and, by his snarky “Tattle to mummy? You’re just lucky I like seeing her with a whip” comment, she had reamed House out.

Any spare time that you did have at the hospital was taken up with clinic duty. Kids with snotty noses, men with sore backs, women with rashes, teenagers with acne; you had dealt with more incredulous patients in one week than you had during your residency.

So yes. You blame work.

You sit on your bedroom floor, your back pressed to one of the boxes. It has DESK STUFF scrawled across the side in sharpie. Of course, you couldn’t start unpacking until the rest of your bedroom was clean. Starting with the envelope.

You slide open the top and pull out the invitation. Small. A slight silver tinge. An embossed stamp of the hospital’s logo. Overwhelmingly underwhelming.

Still, your stomach curled, and you reread it, over and over. A charity ball, to celebrate the end of winter and more importantly, raise money for some of the hospital’s foundations. It had raffles, auctions, and games. A long list of celebrated donors and a longer list of speakers. You scan the list, and while you see Dr Wilson’s, House’s isn’t shown. Maybe he was shy, beneath all that boisterous toxicity.

You snort to yourself. Not likely.

It takes two more days for you to drag your feet to Pop’s. He’s tinkering away at something by his counter; too many screws and bolts for you to really guess what. But when he sees you, he drops it all, and rushes around the counter to crush you in a hug. You laugh, but it’s swallowed up by the scratchy flannel he’s wearing. He sways you on the spot, and you hug him back, clutching at his back.

When he releases you, his hands land on your cheeks. “You look horrible!”

You laugh and push away at his hands. You can imagine the flecks of dirt and iron on your cheeks, but you make no move to wipe them away. “Gee, thanks.”

He nods, and you follow him back to the counter. You lift yourself up, and sit on the edge, your feet dangling off like a child’s. He picks up what he was working on earlier, and grumbles. “Not rude. Just the truth. You look terrible. Like a ghost.”

You nod, swinging your shoes in front of you. “Work’s been a lot recently.”

His eyes swivel to yours, and his tinkering pauses. “Is it that man again? Home?”

In the past few months, even though you had slowed down on your impromptu home renovations, you had still visited Pop. On slow days, he taught you card games and how to shuffle a deck. In his large hands, the cards were like magic, disappearing and flying through the air. He had not been impressed at the news of your boss. Of course, you omitted some details (like how at one point, you were convinced you wanted to jump his bones), but he got the general gist of House’s behaviour.

Laughing, you shake your head half-heartedly. “A little bit. Even without him though, the job’s just tiring.”

He huffs. “You need food. Sleep. If you go home and get to bed, me and Ella will drop you soup.”

As if summoned, you hear her telltale shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. Ella, Pop’s wife, appears through the small door in the corner that leads to the back. She’s a beautiful woman. Dark, greying ringlets of hair frame her sun-kissed, weathered face, and a store apron is draped across her frame. You push yourself off the counter to stand and her smile is instantaneous. Just as Pop did, she rushes forward to hug you. It’s not as bone-crushing, but you squeeze her back tightly nonetheless. Her green eyes twinkle, and you have to force yourself not to stare at the full lashes that frame them. “It’s good to see you, sweetheart.”

You smile. “You too, Eleanora.”

Her smile drops, and she swats at your arm. “Ah, so you call him Pop and all I get is Eleanora? Call me Ella, at least.”

You duck your head and raise your hands in apology. “Of course, of course.”

You had this conversation numerous times in your past visits. Something about her nickname was too endearing. Of course, she was an endearing woman; a wide, toothy smile, rosy cheeks, and golden jewellery hanging across her neck. Yet, she was formidable and intimidating when she wanted to be. That’s what drew you to call her Eleanora. Ella was an amazing cook, and on some of the nights you stayed chatting with Pop until closing, she would push a plate into your hands and demand you eat it. For such a small woman, she could be intense. It was a demand you were willing to oblige.

Happy with your promise to concede, Ella turns and busies herself by tidying Pop’s counter. She replaces the screwdrivers and Allen keys that he has lying about to their home and is a flurry of cleansing movement around the two of you. You know better than to try to help; she had nearly had a hernia the last time you tried sweeping the floor. Ella was a self-sufficient woman and survived alongside Pop without taking advantage of others.

You raise yourself back onto the counter and sigh, looking towards Pops. “I don’t need sleep. I need a dress. At work, we have this biiiiig,” You stretch your hands over your head in a sweeping motion. “Charity event. I have nothing to wear; is there a dress shop around here? Or even a clothing shop?”

No way would you be able to meander into town near the hospital before or after work; the shops opened too late and shut too early. The thick caterpillars that are Pop’s eyebrows, scrunch together, but it’s Ella who stops her flurry and speaks. “No, no, I’ll have something for you.”

You tilt your head to the side and look at her quizzically. She taps your knee and bustles off to the back door. You shoot Pop a look, but he just shrugs his shoulders. “Best if you follow her, kid. She’ll drag you up there anyway.”

You nod and push through the back door. It leads to a larger back room, filled to the brim with filing cabinets, and thick, manilla folders that are bursting at the seams. To your left, you turn just in time to see Ella trudging up a sagging staircase. You spare one last fleeting glance at the room and follow her.

While she is able to make it up quietly, the stairs creak in protest underneath you. You sheepishly hasten your steps when Ella makes it to the next floor. There’s a small wooden landing and adjoining doors. Ella has already disappeared into one, so you gingerly open each. The first is a small, but pristine and ornate bathroom. There’s a lounge room, filled with bookshelves and a VHS player. The third is a small kitchen; a window looks outwards to a simple backyard, but you can imagine it in the summer, pushed open and welcoming all sorts of warm sunlight and songbird melodies. Finally, after feeling like the biggest intruder to their home, you find Ella in the bedroom.

She’s plunged into a large, wooden cabinet, and you toe off your shoes to abandon them by the landing before you cross onto the soft carpet. You sit on the edge of the large bed awkwardly, but when you clear your throat, Ella spins around and tuts. “No, up, up!”

Like a soldier, you stand to attention, but Ella doesn’t seem as offended at you sitting on her bed as she does seem interested in poking at you. For a moment, she stands in front of you and surveys you, her green eyes sweeping across your face, your torso, down to your legs and back up again. She steps forward on nimble feet and reaches up to push your chin up and your shoulders back. Now you really do feel like a soldier.

She pulls both of your hands in front of you, and you think it best to just let her play around with you like a doll; right now she was Eleanora, not Ella. She turns your palms upwards, and then back down. Then she guides your arms out to the side, and nudges your leg apart with her own, all while staring with a calculating eye. Now, standing in the centre of her room like you're in the middle of a jumping jack, she circles around you. Your head involuntarily turns to follow her, but she tuts again, and you look forward. She shifts your hips to the centre and places the palm of her hand against your back, pushing to even your posture.

She does odd measurements with her hands. She closes one eye, holds a hand parallel to your throat and shifts it down, lining it up against your waist. She gauges the width of your shoulders and mirrors it against your hips. She tuts at your chest, and you look at her with worry. She shakes her head, “It’s fine. Your mother and God were just kinder to you than they were to me.” She continues her measurements and when she circles back around to face you, she nods with determination. “It should be perfect.”

—--------- The days pass by in a flurry of snowy weather and icy roads. The charity event is quickly approaching, and your stomach is curling at the thought of it. Cameron, Foreman, and yourself are bundled into a small cafe booth. It’s overpriced and has horrible sandwiches, but it’s inside the hospital and most importantly away from the mini blizzard outside.

You poke at your sandwich and sip from your hot chocolate. Cameron got a pastry, which while you would usually expect to be burnt on one side and undercooked on the other, looks like sweet goodness. Foreman wretches at his salad. “This has got to be a health violation. Who puts anchovies in caesar salad anymore?”

You laugh. “Who buys anchovies from the hospital anymore?”

Foreman shakes his head and pushes his plate away from him. You reach across and push your own towards him, and he looks towards you with wide eyes. “Really?”

You nod. “Yep. I asked for no mayo and got mayo, so they’ll go to waste if you don’t have them.”

Cameron laughs. “When Chase shows up, they won’t go to waste. He’s like a tall, skinny, bottomless pit.”

You all laugh, and Foreman humbly accepts. In a mouth full of sandwiches, he speaks. “Fu wot, aryu affergeec?”

Cameron scoffs beside you and shakes her head. “Finish chewing, Foreman. I don’t want your crumbs spat in my coffee.”

He swallows and turns back to you. “I was asking if you’re allergic. To mayo? Or would it be eggs, then?”

You shake your head, feeling a blush creep over your cheeks. “I’m not allergic. It’s just gross and makes me gag. I used to be force-fed sandwiches which were basically drowned in mayo, and now I can’t eat it.”

Foreman nods. “I get it. My mum used to make us tuna pasta- she was a great cook, but something about that dish she could never get right. I think we were so broke at one point, even the tinned tuna was out of date. Just the smell of tuna makes me gag now.”

You sip your hot chocolate, trying to chase away the thought of fish and mayo. You stop when you spy Chase, weaving between tables, looking like Frosty the Snowman. When he slides in across from you, Foreman laughs. “What happened to you, man? Did House send you outside as a punishment?”

Chase scoffs, and whips his beanie and scarf off. It sends flecks of snow flying, which quickly melt against the table. “Nope. I went to five different stores, and the first three were closed.” He groans, rubbing at his side. “I think I busted a rib on the ice.” Cameron coos. “Did you slip over? Before we go back up, I’ll see if you’ve actually broken something, or if you’re just being a baby.” Chase locks eyes with you across the table,\ and rolls them. You stifle a snort.

Foreman speaks between mouthfuls this time. “What. Were. You. Shopping. For?”

Chase inhales and produces a white shopping bag. He places it on the table and slides it towards you. Now you’re the one locking eyes with him, and mouthing ‘What?’ He gestures towards the bag with a hand. Even Foreman’s put down his sandwiches to watch. “Open it.”

You’re sceptical, and gingerly reach a hand inside the bag, pulling out a box. You look back to Chase for confirmation, and he nods. “Go on.”

You open the box, and push past plain tissue paper. There’s a pair of glittery, black pumps. You look back to him, frantic. “Chase, I can’t, these are gorgeous and-”

He nods. “I barfed on your shoes. Literally barfed. And I was meaning to get you a new pair a few weeks back, but then I didn’t know what you liked.”

“No, really, I can’t take these, this is too much-”

“I tore up the receipt. Shredded it, actually.”

You blink. “Huh?”

Cameron nods along. “I saw him burn it too. And black’s not Chase’s colour, so I guess you’ll just have to take them.”

You shake your head, but Chase speaks first. “I’m serious. I’m not taking them back.”

You stare at him, willing him to break, but he pokes his tongue out at you. You furrow your brow. “Okay. You know these aren’t really practical for work, right?”

Foreman reaches over, plucking a heel and holding it up to examine it. “Look at it! You’ll finally be able to reach the top medicine shelves in the clinic.”

“Ha ha.” You laugh humorlessly, taking back the shoe, and returning it to its box.

Chase speaks. “Well, we’ve got that charity thing coming up this week…I was hoping it went with your dress, and that maybe, you’d like to-”

“Sit with us!” Cameron interjects. Chase shoots her a look and begins to open his mouth but she continues. “Cuddy’s asking us for table arrangements, so we thought we’d sit together as a diagnostic team. Right, Foreman?”

Foreman squints at her, but when there’s a resounding thump under the table and he winces, he nods. “Yep. Right.”

Chase chews his cheek, staring at Cameron. “You sure, Cameron? Maybe we should let her make her own decisions and not force her into something.”

Cameron shakes her head. “She’s not being forced into something. She’s being asked, and can say yes or no.”

You lean forward. “I’m lost. What am I saying yes or no to?”

Chase doesn’t look towards you anymore, staring down at the table. Cameron turns to face you. “Well, do you want to sit with us?”

You nod. “Of course; the only other people I know here is Cuddy and House.”

Cameron smiles, and if anything, Chase’s face turns even more sour. “Perfect. We’ll see you there.” —------ Chase avoids you for the rest of the week. You thought, maybe the shoes were a sign of something more. But he’s adamant in separating at every chance from you. Before, he used to seek you out at the coffee machine and talk to you about everything from you shouldn’t trust the creamer to how aliens must be real. It’s disappointing. Cameron shoots you sad smiles when no one else is around. “He’s just stressed. House has been riding his arse, but after this charity ball, it should be fine.”

Your logic wants to question her, and demand to know why she thinks that. But, you feel like you’ve lost a friend in less than four days, and nod, clinging to some semblance of hope. Yet, two days being the dinner-ball-charity-anxiety inducing-thing, it’s House that seeks you out.

‘I’ve been told to ‘talk’ with you.” He makes quotations with his fingers in the air.

You scoff, and spin back to the microscope, where about a minute ago, you were analysing liver cell enzymes in peace. “Oh, so no hitting this time? I’m glad, I thought your cane could use a break.”

House makes a weird noise in the back of his throat, and your eyes flick back to him. He coughs….almost awkwardly? “Mother superior says you’re skipping counselling.”

“Ohhh.” House had to talk about feelings. No wonder the narcissistic robot was feeling awkward. “Yep.”

He rolls his eyes. “Most people wouldn’t be so snippy with their boss.”

You nod along, staring back at the glass slide. “Yep. Then again, most bosses wouldn’t be the reason that most people need work counselling, but hey.” You don’t mention that you’re upset Chase is managing to ghost you at work.

He scoffs. “You don’t need it because of me. I’m sure there’s some weird, hormonal, womanly disaster you’re hiding.”

“So we agree. I don’t need it.”

“Don’t twist my words like that, newbie, I-”

You sit up, facing him fully. “The only reason Cuddy wants me in counselling is because she’s afraid you’re hurting my feelings. You’re not.” Lies. “It doesn’t keep me up at night when you act like a dickhead.” Lies. “Hence, I don’t need counselling.” Lies.

House runs his hand down his face, and you have to stop yourself from tracking the movement. Just stare at the pale wall to the left of his head. Just like that- no, no you’re staring at his face again.

He sighs. There’s a beat of silence, then two, and then three. You’re about to ask him why he’s still interrupting the task he ordered you to do when he speaks with a lively vigour. “So! If you’re not wanting to throw yourself down a set of stairs because of me,” Lies. “You could totally manage to go to the charity thingamajig with me. Something about dying babies or dying grandmas, I don’t know.”

You blink. “It’s for the hospital’s Domestic Violence foundation and Childhood Cancer.”

“Ah, so men acting like babies and children dying like grandmas. I’ll take that as a yes.”

“No!”, you blurt out.

He blinks, frazzled. “No? You don’t think abusive men act like immature babies?”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up. Why are you inviting me?”

His jaw flexes for a moment, and he stares at you. The silence is loud, but you see the chord of electricity connecting the two of you thrumming. Your thoughts are pulsing at the same beat. Say it. Chase didn’t say it. No one’s ever said it to me. Say that you’re inviting me because you want me with you. Not Cameron, not Cuddy, not some leggy blonde. Me.

Instead, he says “It’s the one apology you’ll ever get for me making you want to throw yourself down a set of stairs.”

Your thoughts zap and fizzle out with a pop. Even their absence is shameful, and you dumbly nod your head. It’s a work event. What were you expecting? Moreso, why were you expecting it from House? “Fine.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and you scoff. “Don’t make me take it back.”

“Hey!” He places a hand to his heart, faux wounded. “No refunds on sponsoring domestic abusers with me.”

“What? That’s not what the charity do-”

He’s already limping out of the lab and you’re left in silence. —------- There was no frumpled jacket, fraying sweater, and an untucked shirt. No coffee-stained jeans or pen-scratched slacks.

The black dress clung to your waist, cinching in, and widening out into a breathy, floor-length skirt fleckered with embroidered flowers and trailing leaves. God, you prayed no one thought this was too slutty; sure, there wasn’t a thigh-high slit or even any leg showing, but your full breasts were practically shoved up to your chin.

Ella’s dress. She was ecstatic when she handed it to you, and demanded that you try it on at their home and that Pop drive you to the ball. She helped you wriggle into it; almost a claustrophobic process, but Ella would laugh each time you hand stuck through the neckline or the skirt. “You’re like a silly monkey. When my daughter and my sons grew up, I thought there would be no silly monkeys left here.” She pinches your cheek tenderly while you're wrapped in odd angles of the dress. “But then you came. I’m so glad you did.”

Eventually, you stretch and jump and slide into the dress. Pop’s already waiting for you outside, by his old, clunky truck. He envelopes you quickly, squeezing you and resting his head on your own. “You look beautiful. Ella was right, the dress is perfect.”

You laugh. “She always is.”

You thank him again and again for driving you all the way, but his reply is a gruff laugh. You insist that you’ll be fine later tonight, and will get a lift home with someone or call a taxi. It’s two late for Pop to be driving out on icy roads. When he parks in the bay of the hospital, he turns to you. “You sure? I rather you get home with me then not at all.”

You nod. “I’m sure. Don’t worry, I’ll get home.”

He runs his hands across his moustache, and nods. The seriousness dissipates from his face, and he smiles tenderly at you. “Have a great time.”

The dress was beautiful, you think when you shuffle from the car and quickly into the warmth of the foyer. But Ella had been right in saying that your mother and god were kinder. Your boobs were nearly spilling out of the top, and as you step through the doorway, you cross your fingers that you wouldn’t give the whole hospital staff a nip slip.

The hospital’s foyer had been completely converted. There was no stuffy receptionist or odd potted plants. There was draped, flowing curtains along the wall, obscuring the view of the clinic and offices. There was a faux chandelier for god's sake, dangling down from the floor above. Even the floors seemed to gleam. The foyer seemed bigger somehow. There were large, circular tables, covered in white cloth, that bordered the edges, yet there was still room for (presumably) a dance floor in the centre. Furthest away, there was a large catering table, and you stomach was already growling.

The second you think of beelining to the food however House sidles into view. He whistles, staring at your chest. “Wow. I’d say you clean up nicely, but those sure do.”

You resist the urge to cover up, and a blush flames across your cheeks. “You don’t look absolutely repulsive yourself, House.”

That was far from the truth. House was wearing a form-fitting black suit. Had his hair been combed? Was his cane polished? Whatever it was, he looked…handsome. You would have to be wary.

He holds out his left hand. “I hope you don’t have rabies.”

You gingerly reach out, feeling his rough palm against your own. His fingers are against your pulse. “I do. Air-borne gonorrhoea, too.”

House smiles, and you find that you can’t look away from it. He realises you’re staring at him in awe however and a scowl quickly covers his face. He yanks you to his side and spins for the both of you to face the room.

You hiss, “You’re lucky I didn’t trip. I would have brought you down with me.”

“I have the cane as an advantage. Now,” you inch closer, til your shoulders are pressed together. Or rather, it’s your head by the tip of his shoulder. You tilt your ear, listening as he whispers conspiratorially. “The best thing I will ever teach you is how to get in, and out of a Cuddy-event.”

You snort. “I thought that you wanted to support domestic abusers?”

He peers down at you, scoffing. “You must have me confused for someone else.” He looks back out to the foyer, and gestures with his head, first to the catering table, “You get food. Not a lot, but enough to seem that you’re interested in staying for the evening. You dance, and make sure that someone remembers that you’ve danced.”

You nudge him in the ribs, and he looks back at you. “How do you dance? I’ve seen you avoid walking to an OR because of your leg.”

He grins and reaches into the pocket of his suit. He produces a pill bottle and rattles it. “I have enough of these bad boys to endure Cuddy’s torture tonight. I’m going to tear it up on the dance floor.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, dancing, eating, what other great tips do you have?”

“Well, I have a great tip in my pants but another one is also to do the worst thing on earth- small talk. Luckily for me, I have Wilson.”

You huff out a laugh torn between humour and disgust at his innuendo. At that, he loops your arms together, and he walks towards one of the outlying tables. Wilson sits there, and you spy the ducklings a few tables over. You wave at them, and while Foreman and Cameron both smile back, Chase blanches.

Wilson draws you back to where you are when he says your last name. “It’s good to see you here. And with House! I thought by now, he would have made you a bitter enemy.”

House scoffs, and you feel where your arms are linked burn when he speaks. “I have. This is all a ruse to get her guard down.”

You roll your eyes, but smile at Wilson. “He roped me in. Something about dying babies and dying grandmas.”

Wilson squints. “That sounds like House, especially because tonight is for Domestic Violence-”

“And childhood cancer!” House interjects. “I bet you’ll see a lot of your little friends running around tonight, Wilson. Or is it more like wheeling around?”

Now Wilson rolls his eyes and turns back to you. “If you ever need a break from him, I’ve got a free seat at my table.”

House’s elbow seems to pull you in tighter, but you smile. “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll swing by later.”

House doesn’t say bye to his friend, already leading you away. It’s odd; Wilson and House bicker and fight, yet you get the sense they’re the closest friends in the hospital. You try to tug his elbow back towards the ducklings' table, but he tuts. “Small talkis donee. Food now.”

You shake your head. “That was hardly small talk. We were there for two minutes before you were an arse.”

You realise you’re saying we. What was the etiquette of bosses asking out employees on a not-date date? Or, moreso, dates in general? Were you supposed to leave him alone? Separate and enjoy the night before reconvening. Or, like you were doing now, be paraded around on his arm and cling to him like a hopeless bird clings to a dangling birdseed treat?

You’re brought out of your own head when House speaks. “It’s Wilson. He’s used to my arse if you know what I mean.”

You bark out a laugh. That would make sense on to why Wilson put up with House’s shit. Old flames always burn dully. House is weaving you in between tables, and directing you towards the catering table.

He swears and begins yanking you around like a getaway driver. “Shit. Left, left! No, now right. Oh, fuck-”

Cuddy marches up to you two and beams at you. She glares at House. “Were you trying to avoid me?”

House puffs out air from his cheeks. “No, why would you ever think that?”

“You’re behind a fake palm plant.”

He uses his cane to reach up and poke at the plastic shrubbery beside you. “Darn. I thought it was the real thing.”

Cuddy sighs, and turns to you. “You look beautiful. I’m glad you came.” She pins House with a stare. “Even gladder that you tried being kind for once.”

House gags. “Not altruistic though.”

Cuddy shakes her head slightly at him, and smiles at you. You scan her scarlet dress with an approving nod. “You look amazing. That dress is gorgeous”

A slight dusting colours Cuddy’s cheek, and she smiles again; smaller, but far more sincere. “Thank you, kid. Try to have a good night. You’ve worked hard, especially with a boss like that.” Her eyes slide to House, and he bares his teeth at her mockingly.

You nod, “Thanks, I’ll try.”

With that, House huffs and sidesteps Cuddy, practically dragging you with him. You shoot her an apologetic look, but for a man with a cane, House hobbles fast and you’re quickly crossing the room towards the catering table.

Finally, he untwines your arms, and you look down at his absence. You feel oddly bare. House is staring down at his own elbow, but then he shakes it out like it’s gone numb. He straightens his shoulders and nods towards the table. “Small talk is definitely done now. Food. The second best thing to drugs. Actually, third, to drugs and monster trucks.”

You pick up a plate from the end. “In that order?”

House scoffs, and mimics you, grabbing a plate. “God, no. Have you seen a monster truck? Those things are awesome.”

In silence, you both move along the table, scooping heaps of vegetables, roasted meats, and desserts. He’s the one to stand, and debate over the deserts; quite literally listing off the pros and cons of cream, fruits, chocolate, and pastries. He must sense you staring at him, and he straightens to his full height, looking down his nose at you. “What?”

You raise your spare hand in defence. “I just think that this is the longest you’ve talked to me. Definitely, the longest you’ve been nice to me.”

A strange mixture crosses his face. His mouth slightly opens and his eyes almost soften, but then it’s gone, and he’s clenching his jaw, and rolling his eyes so far back into his head you’re worried he’s having a seizure. “Don’t worry Newbie, I’ll make sure to ride your arse on Monday.”

You snort. Spoke too soon, huh? “I’m sure you’d like that, House.”

He stills and stares at you. “And if I would?”

You chew your lip, looking at him through your lashes. It’s all on the tip of your tongue, about to burst over the edge in a flood of words, but then, somewhere in the room, you hear Cameron’s laugh and remind yourself of her heartbreak. Was House worth that?

You shake your head. “I need to sit down while we eat, otherwise I’m gonna wear chocolate fondue down the front of my dress.”

House doesn’t follow you when you walk to the ducklings' table, and you force yourself to not turn and look for him. You plop into one of the chairs and smile at the three doctors sitting down. You sigh, “Hi. You all look fantastic. Odd, without the lab coats.”

Cameron laughs. She’s in a blue dress with a sweetheart neckline. It makes her eyes vivid, and you mean it when you say she looks fantastic. “Thanks. You look really nice too.”

You grin, abandoning your plate and whipping you leg upwards. You raise your skirt, feeling like a scandalous 1860’s woman, and point your toes at Chase. The ducklings all peer down, and Chase’s face becomes quickly flushed when you speak. “The heels are killer. They were a perfect find, Chase. Thank you.”

He nods, averting his eyes and staring at the table. “No problem.”

Okay. So still weird. It’s Foreman who clears his throat, dissipating the awkward air that had settled. He wriggles his brow. “So, House?”

You groan, and pick at some of the food in front of you. “Don’t get me started.”

Cameron peers at you. “Has he been…tolerable?”

“Um, yeah.” You nod. “At least to me.”

Her eyes dart across the table, but they’re quick to return to you. “I’m glad you’re having a good night then. Maybe it’ll show you that beneath it all, he has some humanity.”

You duck your head, bashfully. “Yeah. He was the one who asked to join me tonight; he said it was an apology for being a dick basically. I know it doesn’t mean he’ll never be a dick again, he’s House for gods sake, but… It’s a good reminder that he has a little bit of a soul.” You clear your throat, trying to blink away the tears springing up in your eyes. “I was thinking of transferring. Giving up. I never even started to make plans, and I’m not sure if I was actually going to.”

Cameron smiles. “I’m glad you didn’t. It’s been great working with you; House isn’t all thunderstorms and rain clouds.”

Foreman laughs sarcastically but Chase scoffs, crossing his arms against his chest. “Really?”

A beat passes, and he stares at Cameron, who shakes her head. “Don’t.”

Chase’s eyes dart back to the skirt of your dress, to where your heels are hidden again. “I think she should know.”

Foreman’s firm voice rings out across the table. “Don’t ruin it, Chase.”

Your eyes narrow. “Know what?”

Cameron begins to open her mouth, but Chase turns in his seat and faces you. “House didn’t ask you to tonight.”

You laugh softly, staring at him. “I was there Chase. He did.”

Chase shakes his head, his hands flying up. “No. Cuddy did. You were skipping counselling and getting withdrawn. You stopped coming out to drinks with us. She knew something was up. Maybe knew what you were planning.”

Cameron’s voice is stern. “Chase, stop it.”

Chase shakes his head, almost in a frenzy. “No!” He locks eyes with you, staring intently. “Cuddy asked him to invite you tonight, weeks ago. When he couldn’t even do that, she had to make a fucking trade with him. He is your date for one night, shows some sort of niceness,” He spits the word, “And gets a month and a half off of clinic duty. He’s not being kind or tender, or human, he’s being House.”

Your eyes flicker towards the rest of the table. Foreman is staring down at the table, shaking his head, and Cameron is practically murdering Chase with her eyes. Her eyes dart towards you, and the soft pity that you find there is enough confirmation. The mouthfuls of food in your stomach turn to lead, and you blanch, pushing up from the table.

Chase is still saying something, and it’s almost apologetic, but you can’t make out the words. There are definitely tears in your eyes now and they make your vision blur.

One of them calls out your name, but you’re already halfway across the room. Doctors at other tables stare at you, and you see Wilson's head perk up. He calls out your last name, but you storm past.

House is standing by the fake palm plant. His plate is jammed into the soil, and his fork stabbed through one of the plastic leaves. He smirks when you appear, and grabs your hand, spinning you. “Just in time Newbie.” He leans his cane against the pot plant. “One dance, and we get to go home.”

You don’t register that he’s leading you to the centre of the foyer. There are a few other dancers there, twirling gently and swaying to the music playing through the announcement system overhead. His hand burns against the curve of your waist and the other one guides your hand to the side of your body. You’re struggling to breathe, but huff out the words. “Are you high?”

He squints one eye and tilts his lips to the side. “A little bit. How else would I be dancing with no cripple stick?” He leads you around the floor, and your feet simply follow him. You clench your jaw. “Or are you just that desperate to get out of here?”

House nods and barks out a laugh. “I’ve already seen two people barf from the seafood. Of course I am.”

You shake your head. “Or is it just me that you want to get away from?”

House scrunches his face. “What? Do you actually have rabies?”

You try to escape his grip, but his hand is firm against your back, caging you in. You stop moving, stilling alongside the edge of the floor. In your peripheral, you think you see Wilson standing up. You drop House’s hand. “I know Cuddy asked you to take me tonight. Although it wasn’t really asking, was it? You had to be fucking paid for it.”

You shove against his chest, and his hand grips yours against his suit. “Did Cuddy say that?”

“What does it matter? Are you denying it?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Well, I wasn’t paid.”

You laugh humourlessly. “You got out of fucking clinic duty for this! Did you have to raise it? Did she offer one week and you demand fucking six of them?”

He scoffs, and drops your hand. “What did you think tonight was? A date?”

You clench your jaw, willing the tears to not fall. They wobble at the edge of your eyes. He blinks in realisation. “God, you wanted this to be a date, didn’t you?’

He soldiers on even when you shake your head. “Yes, you did. That’s why you were smiling and laughing and for once, not being a pain in my arse. You wanted to believe that I had asked you out.”

You have. “I didn’t think you found me so repulsive that you had to be begged to take me tonight.”

“What does it matter what I think? Did you want me to actually ask you out from the bottom of my heart? Pretend that I actually want to be here, and that out of everyone, I would want to be here with you? On a date?”

Wilson reaches you at the edge of the dancefloor, and you finally wrench yourself out of House’s grip. You spit venom at him. “Fuck you, House.”

House laughs your last name bitterly. “I’m sure you wanted to.”

Wilson calls out your last name. “It’s not what you think, he-”

You laugh, your shoulders hunching over. “No, I know exactly what it is. Forgive me for thinking that for once in your miserable life, House, you wanted to apologise to someone or do something kind for them. I’ll make sure to thank Cuddy for the great,” You hiss the word, “night.”

House just stares at you, his jaw flexing and Wilson’s the one rambling a long explanation that you couldn’t give less of a shit about. You turn on your heel and stride across the room, and out of the hospital doors.

#house md fanfiction #house md x reader #gregory house #house md #gregory house x reader #gregory house x f!reader #house md fic #gregory house fic #gregory house smut

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

Text

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 4: Wet dreams and taxi rides

Summary:

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 5

-----------------------

You lie in bed for hours, watching where the wall and roof blend together and the occasional light streaks through your blinds from a passing car. Your stomach is coiling around in your abdomen, and it pinches painfully when you think too hard. The bed is abandoned, and you tread to the kitchen on light feet. The tap water is cool and you gulp it down gratefully.

Your mouth is still dry, and you lean against the kitchen sink, resting your head onto your crossed forearms.

You nearly fucked House.

Okay. Sure, that was a gross over exaggeration. You were a sex-deprived woman, so the mere fact that you nearly asked him to pull over was shocking. You were supposed to be in control of impulses and urges and you had spent years cultivating that skill. You were supposed to be serious. Focused on the job. Focused on paying your bills. Not being in control scared you, and it scared you more than it was because of House.

But maybe it was the intoxication of the night. Laughing and chatting and smiling with your three colleagues was addictive- even though you were shy, and feeling timid on the new ground you stood upon, they made it easy. It had been a long time since you had friends; true, genuine friends who weren’t old ladies or postmen. But you still recognised the beginnings of them.

So maybe it was that. They finally cracked you out of your shell, bit by bit over the night, and House knew exactly what cracks and fractures to push and poke at- stare at your chest, make sexual joke after sexual joke. You couldn’t though. He was your boss, and you can imagine after the one measly orgasm, if that, he gives you, he would lord it over your head and force you to be his doting underling.

You gulp down another glass of water, as if you’re trying to bury the thoughts of him under a deep ocean. Padding back to your room, you bury your face into your pillow. You force your eyes to close and try to shut down the whirring machinery in your head. When you fall asleep, it’s yet another restless night. Yet again, it’s filled with dreams of House. You’re in his car, but like most dreams it doesn’t quite make sense. The car isn’t moving, but he still moves the wheel to and fro. Your brain is kicking into speed, and starting to pick apart the inconsistencies- why is he in Chase’s lab coat? Why is his stereo blasting Careless Whisper? Why is he singing along?

You shut down your own questioning, sick and tired of yourself. You ask him to pull over. There’s no snarky remark, no analytical eyes, and no mean commentary. He twists the wheel to the side and turns to you and then you’re climbing over, straddling him, bouncing hard and fast and you’re slick and wet and he’s groaning and gripping your hips and fucking into you hard and-

You wake up rutting against your own hand.

His name is a curse on your lips when you throw your blanket to the side and storm to the shower. It felt like you hadn’t slept at all, and yet the alarm clock that you leave behind tells you otherwise.

It’s one thing to have a dream of your boss. It’s another thing to have a sex dream of your boss. It’s a ��you need psychiatric help’ thing to lean against your shower wall and muffle your moans when you climax hard to the thought of the sex dream of your boss. You’re replaying the sound of him groaning into your ear and the feeling of him clinging to your hips. What if wasn’t a dream? Would he be gentle, kissing you with slow strokes or rough, biting you when you get overstimulated? You’re clenching desperately against nothing as it all throws you over the edge. Your legs wobble, and you slide down the wall, gasping.

Oh, god.

That was not a measly orgasm.

To be fair, he didn’t have any direct involvement. A deep shame settles in your gut almost immediately after the action, and you keep the handle twisted to the left, where the water stays frigid; maybe you can drown yourself in the icy water and never have to face the man again, who you jerked off to after one half-arsed, barely tension-filled moment and a dream. Honestly though. You didn’t have the effort to rent some shitty, c-par VHS porno and this was the first, and by far most-fulfilling, wet dream you’d had in months. You’re sure you could be excused for taking advantage of that.

Despite how excused you are, the shame creeps over your shoulders and the back of your neck the whole bus ride to work. He is your boss. He is also your boss who is nearly double your age. And Cameron had given you plenty of warning- House was not the man you should develop feelings for. He was cold and callous and mean, and you tried to pride yourself on being the opposite. There was Foreman and Chase. God, why couldn’t you have had a sex dream of them? It would have been so much simpler, so straight-forward. Although Foreman did have his ‘friend’, Chase was nice. He was practically a puppy last night. He would be easy to like. Easy to fantasise of. Hell, you may even have a chance with Chase.

That made it so much worse that even now, you were squeezing your thighs tightly at the thought of House. You didn’t like House, no. But your body did. The bus acts as a punisher; you lean your head against the window and it retaliates by rattling and going across as many potholes as possible.

At work, you tentatively walk into the conference room, practically tiptoeing across the threshold. Foreman sits in the corner, nursing a mug of coffee and nods at you. Cameron looks up at you and smiles, letting out a soft “Good morning.”, to which Chase, who had his head slumped in his hands, whips towards her like a cranky librarian. “Shh!”

You laugh quietly and Cameron rolls her eyes towards you. “If you couldn’t tell by everything about him, Chase has a hangover.”

Snorting, you say, “I could tell.”

Foreman snickers into his coffee and Chase slumps back against the table.

You expected House to be cold. Distant. Withdrawn. You expected him to act like a boss who got an erection from staring at his new employee’s tits; scared and shaking in his boots that HR might be coming to see him (regardless of whether or not said employee got off to him that very same morning). What you did not expect was for him to be obnoxious.

You bend under the sink, assuring yourself that yes, your forgotten bag is where you forgot it. A sharp wolf whistle enters the room, and Chase groans loudly when House follows. “Wow!” House practically drools your last name, and you stand up quickly and sheepishly. “First the bra and now the thong? Are you trying to seduce Mr Light-weight over here or me?” He crosses his fingers theatrically, and makes puppy dog eyes, “Please let it be me.”

You’re not sure if the blush that lights across your cheeks is from his words or because you already feel your dirty deeds weeping out of your pores like sweat. You aren’t able to decide before he uses his cane to push you unceremoniously to the side, paving his path towards the coffee maker. You quickly slide in beside Foreman and Cameron shoots you a look across the glass table, as if to say ‘What was that?’

You pretend like you didn’t see her, and tuck your nose into one of the case files strewn across the table, trying to make sense of the words. At some point, when the coffee machine is desperately sputtering for its life, you glance up. Everyone at the table followed your lead and was immersed in the files. You look towards House where he leans his palms against the counter, trying to make the machine work through pure will and spite alone.

You wonder vaguely how he spent his night. Your brain was conjuring up images and sounds and touches of him. You were coated in a thick, heavy quilt of embarrassment and shame but really, you wondered if he was coated in it too.

His eyes quickly flick towards yours, and you’re too stunned to look back down to your file and pretend you weren’t staring at him. His jaw flexes and his brows inch closer to each other. He knows. Oh, god he must know. He had picked you apart perfectly yesterday by some flour on your neck, what was stopping him from picking you apart perfectly today by the redness on your cheeks?

The thick coil of shame in your stomach tightens, and at that, you break away and stare back down at the file. The words are swimming on the page and you try to even your breathing. You only look back up when House hobbles towards the whiteboard and bangs his cane against it. Chase sits up straight like a shocked sergeant, and even Foreman groans at the loud noise.

“Wakey-wakey! We have work to do.”

—————— House doesn’t bring up the car ride. Ever.

You’re grateful; you were worried if he talked about it, somewhere in your worried ramble of a response, you would let slip something like “Just a dream about us in your car had me weaker in the legs than most of my ex-boyfriends!”

So when one week passes by and he doesn’t bring it up, and then two weeks, and then three, you’re grateful. You don’t have any more dreams of him, and try to keep your distance to ensure it remains like that. It must have just been a fluke- just one time, where your hormones were all over the place, and it wasn’t your brain doing the thinking. You continue learning your way around the hospital and how to tackle the cases; you do the dirty work that the trio of doctors and House don’t want to do. House says its fantastic experience to be getting stool samples and induce vomiting and doing allergy scratch tests. You know it’s not the experience as it is letting them all do the ‘cool’ procedures like lumbar punctures or biopsies.

Cameron sees your downturned face one morning when you hand her the freshly drawn blood, and smiles at you softly. “It’s a crappy form of hazing, but we all did it. House gets us to treat you like an intern, and if you survive, you get to treat the next person like an intern.”

Foreman scoffs from where he leans over a microscope. “The cycle of abuse continues.”

Indeed it does.

You thought you would survive the ‘internship’; sure, it was dull and blatantly unfulfilling, but give it a month or two and you would have a patient bound to have heart problems, and your time to shine would have arrived.

House, however, had other ideas. When it becomes apparent that you’re happy, or at least content to be involved in helping the team rather than running the show, you sense a shift in him. He pointedly asks you questions about the new cases, regardless of if the ducklings have an answer. When you’re wrong, he laughs at you. When you’re right, he shakes his head and says “Obviously. I could have asked an illiterate three-year-old, and they would have been able to point that out in shapes and colours.”

You’re two months into your job when your pager practically buzzes off the bedside table. There are still boxes that remain stubbornly unpacked in your bedroom, and you nearly trip over the pile of them as you scramble out of bed. You dress as quickly as humanly possible and sprint to the bus stop. You’re nearly dry heaving and clutching at a stitch in your side when the bus pulls up, and you collapse onto one of the seats.

The neon, blinking clock at the bus's front makes you thump your head back against your chair.

4:37. Fuck.

You race into work while it’s still dark, and whiz past tired night-shift nurses. Chase yawns when you enter the room, and for once, Cameron remains blearily staring down at the table. Foreman doesn’t even try to look awake, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly agape.

House spins from the whiteboard and pins you with a glare. “You’re late.”

You tuck yourself into one of the chairs. “I got here as fast as I could. ” He rolls his eyes and turns back to the whiteboard. “‘As fast as you could’ is not fast enough. Lucky for you, the patient wasn’t stung by a box jellyfish, or they would have been long gone by a third of your commute.”

You scoff. “Ah, whatever will they do in a hospital surrounded by other doctors and nurses?”

Chase snickers, but House silences him with a look and turns back to you. “Be on time. Or next time you’re late, you’re fired.”

Ouch. What crawled up his arse and died?

You could tell him off; tell him that he knows exactly where you live and that you had gotten here literally as fast as you could. But the sky is still dark and you’re focusing on fighting back a yawn rather than House. So, you settle back into the chair and rub at your drooping eyes. Foreman snores softly beside you.

When the sun begins rising, and the cacophony of the hospital becomes louder, House finally puts down his marker. He had been firing question after question to the table and scribbling like a madman. The whiteboard looked like the inside of a psycho’s cell where words were scratched and etched into the walls frantically. You imagine his home looked the same. Concrete walls barred windows and deeply grooved words. Perhaps a carved to-do list reading ‘1) Be Rude 2) Be insufferable 3) Offend someone 4) Solve a case”

He limps across to the small kitchenette, abandoning number 4. He makes four coffees and grimaces sarcastically across to you when the machine begins spluttering on the last one. You’re certain that somehow he had calculated the amount of water, and decided for once to make coffee for others just to deny you some. “You just lucked out. Maybe next time.”

You smile. “That’s fine. I prefer tea, anyway.” You omit the fact that, as much as you disliked it, you had been sculling coffee since med school.

He snorts. “The poor man’s caffeine.”

Cameron perks up across the table. “Caffeine?”

House hands her a cup, and slides one to both Foreman and Chase before leaning against his back against the sink and sipping on his own. Chase turns to you with House engrossed in his own mug, raising his mug in question. He mouths the word “Poison?” and you nod your head earnestly. He drinks it anyway and pokes his tongue out at you when he’s finished.

You all spend the remainder of the day barricaded in the conference room, slouched over. House doesn’t let anyone leave, even when Cameron insists she needs the bathroom. He scowls. “You can go potty when you all use your brains and figure out what's going on with this patient. Come on!”

Your brain is so sleep deprived, you just blurt out something. House turns to you, with an eyebrow raised. “What? Do you need to go potty so bad that you’ll just make something up?”

Your brain clicks into gear, and you drag your hands down your face. “It makes sense. The blood pressure. The elevated SED rates. The culture results.”

Foreman shakes his head. “Not the tox screen by that thinking or the chest pains.”

Chase scrunches his eyebrows. “Yes. It does. It caused a secondary infection, which explains that perfectly. That’s why the white blood count was down and is now way up.” House is silent as he listens to them bicker for a few more minutes. He turns to you, and the lines of his face deepen. “If you’re wrong, he dies. Do you really want to hang that on your pride?”

“It’s not my pride. It’s what I think.”

He near-whispers your last name as if it pains him to do so. “Fine. Start treatment; if you’re right, its too late to wait for confirmation tests and if you’re wrong. Well, you won’t have to worry about showing up on time anymore.”

Energised by the sudden breakthrough, Chase and Foreman scramble off and you and Cameron are quick to follow. You deliver the treatment in a drip, and the three doctors surrounding you smile when the patient’s wheezing immediately lessens.

Foreman claps you on the back. “You were right.”

Chase crosses his arms, and leans against the wall, surveying it all. “You know House won’t let it slide, right? Newbie, showing him up in the unbreakable case?”

Cameron laughs and begins walking out. “Just because he hates you, Chase, doesn’t mean he hates everyone who’s right.”

———— Cameron was wrong, apparently.

Cuddy nudges you with her foot, and you jolt awake. She peers down at you. “What are you doing down there?”

You look around yourself, trying to figure out exactly where ‘down there’ was. You let out a soft sigh and push yourself up from the floor. “House has us on watch. Wants us to be here if anything goes wrong.”

Cuddy pinches the bridge of her nose. “I thought you cured the guy- congrats, by the way. But I thought you cured the guy?”

You blink the sleep out of your eyes. “We did. He should be discharged when he’s fully recovered in a week.”

Cuddy narrows her eyes. “So if all of you are ‘on watch’ for a relatively fine, recovering patient, where are the other three kids?”

Biting your lip, you sigh. “Okay. House has me on watch.”

Her response is short and clipped. “Why?”

“Why does House do anything? I think he gets a kick out of it.”

“No.” She purses her lips. “You wouldn’t be here if House didn’t have a reason, and if he didn’t, you would have fought him for it. So what is it?”

You chew your cheek. “He hates me. I was late today and I messed up on lab results last week and screwed up on routine histories the week before that. It’s like he has a catalogue in his head of every mistake that I make. I can’t do anything right by him.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sweetheart, every doctor has screw-ups. House, out of everyone, has many; he just gets away with it the most. You’re still new, and you have House as a boss; I would have quit one week into it, so I know you’re doing well. And, if you weren’t making mistakes, and most importantly weren’t trying to learn from them, then I’d be worried- no one is infallible under House.”

She shakes her head, and her black hair bounces with the action. “Go home. It’s nearly 11. I’ll deal with House if he has an issue with it- which I’m sure he will. You did well today, kid. You shouldn’t be punished for that.”

You decide not to make her second guess herself. Smiling gratefully, you say, “Thank you.”

Cuddy nods her head at you, and you begin walking down the hallway, towards the elevators. “If House had been hell-bent on torturing you, I’m assuming he didn't mention anything about the dinner?”

You shake your head. “Uh, no, what dinner?”

She tuts.”Bastard. He probably shredded them.” She pauses in the hallway and turns to you, her shoes clicking smartly against the floor. “We have our annual Princeton-Plainsboro charity ball coming up. It’s short notice thanks to House, but you’ll be expected to wear a formal dress. Cocktail or whatever floats your boat. Come with me, we’ll actually get you the invite with all the details.”

You stifle a yawn, and follow her, your feet dragging behind you. When, after what felt like the most torturous journey, you arrive at Cuddy’s office, she leads you inside. Drawers are slammed and papers shuffled, but triumphantly she raises a white envelope.

You open it, and your eyes flick across the page. Cuddy’s more intuitive than you thought, or perhaps you were more easy to read because she purses her lips. “What’s wrong? I know it says it goes for a while, but as long as you show up you can leave whenev-”

“I don’t think I should be invited to this.”

Cuddy blinks, and leans against her desk, crossing her arms. “And why not?”

You try to blink back the slight tears forming. You could not be getting this emotional over something so minor. “It says, esteemed guests. It’s got guest speakers, for gods sake. This is something incredibly fancy, and something that I don’t think I fit well into.”

She scoffs. “Are you serious?”

Now it’s your turn to blink in shock. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you but-”

Cuddy cuts you off. “You’ve been a medical prodigy since you were twelve. I got your resume and was nearly going to offer you the job on the spot. You’re part of the best diagnostics team. You just solved a case that had even House stumped.”

You laugh. “I didn’t solve it though. I suggested something that we had talked about earlier! New symptoms confirmed it and I was just able to put it together.”

“Exactly! You put it together! Not House, or Cameron, or Foreman, or Chase. You. What happened to your spitfire attitude when you first got here? You said you’d be able to deal with House.”

Your lip trembles, and suddenly you feel very small. Pathetic. “I can. But I feel like nothing I do is enough for him. I do what he tells me to, and I’m wrong. I get a case right, and I’m wrong. It’s infuriating!”

Her eyes soften. “Nothing you do will be good enough. Nothing is ever good enough for him. But that’s on him, not you. You’re a good doctor; don’t let House make you feel any less than that. “ She pins you with a colder glare. “So you’re going. End. Of. Story.”

You nod, and slip out of her office, trying to not feel dejected.

You cross your fingers where they’re tucked into your coat. Hopefully, Cuddy’s opinion of you doesn’t change; you could deal with House. You just thought things would get better when you were able to show your skills, to be right when all else was wrong. Whatever. You clench your jaw, steeling yourself. If House, no matter what efforts and achievements you make, would always be an arsehole, you could manage.

The universe, however, is out to test you.

The hospital’s awning offers little protection from the cold wind whipping past as you wait in the taxi zone. You tighten your coat around yourself and blanch when the tell-tale sound of his cane resounds behind you.

You remain facing forward when he stands beside you. Oddly enough, you’re thankful that he’s taking the brunt of the wind, and you can escape it momentarily.

“11 PM. Saved by Cuddy.”

You could manage. You could manage. Just don’t cry, after such a long, tiring, difficult day. Don’t cry. You nod, watching as a small family bundles themselves into a reserved taxi and speeds away. God, why couldn’t that be you?

When you don’t say anything, House continues speaking. “Would you have stayed there all night?”

You lick your chapped lips, trying to soothe them, and turn to him finally. “What do you want me to say? Yes? No?”

He tilts his head, blue eyes peering intently at you. “I want you to answer. Would you have stayed there all night?”

“Yes. Is that a bad thing?”

Now he turns away from you, peering out to the cars whisking people away. He tilts his head to and fro as if weighing the possibilities. “Chase's was a coma patient- he didn’t make it one hour. Foreman had a skin graft receiver and made it to 6 PM. Cameron stayed til 9 with a cancerous woman.” He turns back to you, and your breath catches in your throat. “You stayed, until told otherwise. Is it an obedience thing?”

“What, like a dog?”

“Exactly.”

Infuriating. Anger rises up in you like a wave and you tame it. You roll your eyes. “No.”

“What was it then?”

You huff and watch as the air billows out in front of you in a cold cloud. “I thought that maybe I was wrong. Maybe you actually had a reason for me to monitor him, rather than to punish me or to test me. Apparently,” You gaze into his eyes. “Not everything you do is trustworthy. Lesson learnt.”

He nods in satisfaction as if you had solved his master plan. “Do you need a lift?”

You blink and your eyebrows cinch towards each other, but he doesn’t repeat himself. There’s a sudden stillness between the two of you as if you’re both holding your breaths as you await your own reply. It’s the soft, fuzzy charge before the electric zap of static. Your anger ripples below the surface, but electricity begins to crackle above it.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, House.”

“Why? Do you think cripples can’t drive, or is it something else?”

Cracked out of your shell. Pushed. Poked.

You breathe out shallowly. “It’s something else.”

“Which is?” His eyes don’t stray from yours.

“I don’t trust myself.”

There were so many unsaid things at the end of that sentence. I don't trust myself- not to yell at him. Not to hit him. Not to grab him by the collar and kiss him until you pass out. By the way his eyes darken, you reckon he knows why you don't trust yourself; now you're certain he knew the reason for your embarrassment after your last car ride together.

You clear your throat, and finally look away from him, breaking the building static. He pauses for a moment and stares at you. If you look in your peripheral, you swear you can see the thoughts racing through his head.

But then he pivots from you, and his cane clacks against the concrete as he walks away.

It snows for the first time in the whole dreary winter that night. After the taxi has dropped you home, you stay sipping water in your kitchen, too scared to go to sleep and see his face in your dreams again.

#greg house x f!reader #gregory house fic #gregory house x reader #gregory house #greg house #house md fanfiction #house md x reader #house md

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

Text

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 3: Is he hot, or are you just lonely?

Summary:

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 4

-----------------------

The night is cool, practically verging on freezing, but the bar is teeming with people and chatter. You weave in and out of bodies and follow the three doctors ahead of you. The bar’s within walking distance of your work, so no one has changed. Albeit, their white coats are abandoned. They lead you to a table, set deep into the corner of the bar, and together you squeeze into the tight space. Your thigh is flush with Chase’s and if you stretched out an inch further, you would be playing footsy with Foreman.

Cameron breathes out a sigh of relief and relaxes in the faux leather booth. You try not to cringe when you place your palms down and feel the table is sticky or that the light fixture above you flickers every few minutes. Chase seems like a proud patron of the bar, nonetheless; he folds his hands behind his head and closes his eyes in contentment.

Cameron’s nose is tinged red from being out in the cold air, but she follows suit as you all take off coats and scarves, prepared to bask in the warmth of the crowded bar. Beside her, Foreman smiles and faces you. “So… give us your rundown, Newbie.” He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that obviously mimics House.

You laugh. “I don’t really have much to say.”

Chase chortles to your left. “You managed to get the patient’s complete history when Foreman and I could only get three words outta her. What, no family, or pets or boyfriends?”

“Girlfriends?” Cameron says, and Chase practically sputters, whipping his head to you.

You raise your hand in defence. “At the moment, no one. It’d be pretty hard to do so; I just moved to the city about a week ago. As for family, I’m not really in contact with them.”

“Ohh,” says Chase scandalously beside you. “They didn’t approve of their brainiac daughter becoming a brainiac doctor?” Foreman kicks at his shin and he painfully exclaims “Ow, man! What was that for?” Foreman scoffs. “Don’t ask people stupid questions, man. Do you want her to ask about your dad?” Chase tuts and Foreman replies. “That’s what I thought.”

You scrunch your nose. “Brainiac?”

Chase nods in confirmation. “Yeah! When House told us we had a new doctor, he said they were a real nerd! I mean, he also said he thought they’d get confused between the textbook and the real, living patient, but you seem like you’re doing great so far.”

When your eyes widen, Foreman is quick to jump to your defence. “That’s a good thing, coming from House. He told us he’d rather have a team full of nerds than full of Chases.”

Chase’s jaw drops and he starts interrogating Foreman, who smugly repeats himself. Cameron rolls her eyes at their squabbling. “So, you moved here recently? Whereabouts are you staying?”

You tell her your neighbourhood, and she gasps. “House lives about 15 minutes from there.”

The table erupts in sound as Chase exclaims “How do you know that?!” and Foreman shouts “Oh my god, you’ve been to his house?! House’s house?!”

Cameron flushes darkly and buries her face in her hands. “It’s not like that! Remember when we went on that date?”

Chase gags and wretches like a cat. “Ohmygodpleasedon’ttellusyoufuckedHou-”

“Chase! I did not sleep with him, my god!”

Foreman’s eyes are blown wide like an owl and he faces you as if to say ‘what the fuck is going on?’. You just laugh, “Cameron, you dated House?”

“It was one date. One. And, he’s made it clear there won’t be any more. I think I dodged a bullet.” She still has the faint flush you saw on her cheeks earlier, but you realise you diagnosed her too quickly.

Cameron wasn’t in love with House. She was moving on from him. Slowly, painfully, but one shaky step at a time.

She waves her hands in front of her as if to physically brush away the conversation. “If we’re going to talk about House, I need to be drunk. Let’s order.”

Foreman nods and breathes deeply. “I think I need to be five steps past drunk to hear about you and House.” Chase fake wretches again.

The food you order is the cheapest option, but above all, it’s hot, greasy, and melts in your mouth. It’s heaven after the day you’ve had, running around for House like a lapdog. You sip from your soda, and eye Foreman when he guzzles down his beer.

“What?” He says, putting it near-empty on the table.

“Rough day?”

He huffs and sips again at his drink. “House is just. The biggest pain in my arse. ‘Do this. Do that. No, you did this and that wrong, you should’ve done it like those.’,” he side-eyes Cameron. “I don’t know what you saw in him.”

Chase sips from his own beer and reaches over to grab at one of Cameron’s cheesy fries. She swats at his hand but he puts it in his mouth triumphantly, and he replies for her, still chewing obnoxiously. “Obviously, it was his kind heart and tender words. And massive dick.”

“W-what?” You say, near scandalised.

You pin Chase as a lightweight very quickly (and that was coming from someone who didn’t drink). His nose is rosy, and he laughs loudly before repeating himself. “I mean it! I see the way Cuddy looks at him. For such an arsehole, he’s got to have something going for him, right?” You see his leg shift and he nudges Cameron across the table. “Amiright?”

Cameron scoffs and swipes at his food now, pulling away a chicken tender. “What is it with boys, and their obsessions with dicks?”

Foreman laughs alongside you, and the age-old question is again left unanswered.

The conversation gradually shifts around the table. Foreman tells you of the time Chase had piss thrown on him by a patient. Chase tells you of the time Cameron nearly vomited at the sight of maggots in a wound. Cameron laughs and tells you of the time Foreman did vomit after watching House lick a patient’s swab. Eventually, it returns back to you, when the three doctors are more tipsy and filled with liquid courage.

“So,” says light-weight Chase, who seems to be battling to keep his head steady. “Why do you not have a boyfriend?”

You chuckle. “You’re all doctors. When was the last time you got to go out, meet someone and have time to put in effort with them?”

Chase wiggles his eyebrows back at Cameron and she swats at his arm again. Now, she turns to you and speaks. “Well, you’ve seen the hospital now. Anyone catch your eye?”

Foreman bursts out a laugh. “Just because you want someone to share in your House-being-loveable delusion doesn’t mean it’ll happen.”

You shake your head. “I’ve been around more blood and guts today than people.”

You decide to omit the part where you dropped off patient results to House and a hastily scribbled recipe.

It was nothing. Honestly nothing. You didn’t even know the man. You had a total of three conversations with him.

Despite that, your body had committed a crime when you handed both papers over. A near felony. Your hands had brushed against each other, for the briefest second. And you blushed. Like a goddamn school girl. It was bound to happen. You were almost…pathetic in a sense. No, no that was too harsh, but you still thought there was some truth to it. Studying and working were more your thing than dating or flirting. It had left you, expectedly, alone. Relationships were a far-off fantasy that you let yourself indulge in occasionally. Sex was not so much a fantasy as it was a frantic, feverish desire that ebbed and flow; some days, you could deal with the fact that you had no one to return home to, or to tell about your day or to simply touch and hold. Other days? You were a self-loathing, horny wreck that wanted nothing more than to find someone who would fuck you and stay in the morning for breakfast.

It was bound to happen that one day your body reacted before your brain could. No action in a few years would do that to most people. Make you giddy and blushing over the smallest things.

There was nothing to worry about though. Your blush, your tingling hand, your giddy feelings that had only sprung to life in the flash of a second. They all died when House recoiled and said “Ew. Girl Cooties.”

You shake your head and draw yourself back to the table. Chase is practically making out with his food, and Cameron is watching him with intense disgust while Foreman laughs.

It’s later in the night when you all decide it's time to head home. You barely open your mouth when Cameron shakes her head at you. “We take turns shouting. Tonight’s my go, so it’s on me. No fuss.”

You blink but nod when you see she’s unrelenting. “Okay then. Put me into the roster and I’ll shout when it’s my turn.” Something you would have to set aside money for, but you would get paid in a fortnight- if you made it that far at your new job. The money was far better than what you had previously received, and even though it would pain you to some extent, you’d be able to do your part in the team’s weekly outings.

You walk out of the bar together and stand alongside the sidewalk. Cameron slings an arm under Chase, who nearly topples her with his weight and height. She sighs, but she speaks with a smile on her face. “I’m gonna get him home. He can’t be driving like this.”

Foreman chuckles and nods along. “What was it, Chase? Three beers?”

Chase’s eyes widen and he jabs a finger at Foreman’s chest. The movement nearly throws Cameron off balance, but she steadies him as he slurs, “New record!”

Chase swivels his head to you now, and he drawls out your last name. “You! Pretty lady! Why don’t you take me home? She,” He swings his head back to Cameron, “Slept with House! Yuck!”

Chase detaches himself from Cameron with flailing limbs and races towards you. The rapid movement seems to upset him however because, by the time he reaches you, he bends at the waist and vomits.

You step back, but the damage is done and you stare down at your shoes with disgust.

“Dude!” Shouts Foreman, and Chase wipes at his mouth, before looking back at you. “Preetty ladyyyy. Don’t fuck House.”

You nod along with his drunk ramblings and grab him under his armpits to pull him up. Cameron takes him from you and you can see her contemplating letting Chase drop onto the concrete. But her jaw just twinges. “I am so sorry about him. I hope he didn’t ruin your shoes.”

You shrug and try not to breathe through your nose when the acidic smell of vomit drifts up. “It’s fine. A patient would have done it eventually.”

Cameron smiles, but you can see she still feels guilty. Chase is practically asleep on her shoulder “It was great getting to talk with you. We’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”

Foreman groans and runs his hands down his face. “Don’t remind me.”

With that, Cameron and Chase hobble off into the night. Foreman turns to you, and breathes a warm puff of air. “I’m getting picked up by a friend.” By the pause in his voice, you’d guess the friend was a bit more than just his buddy. “Are you alright to get home?”

Almost as soon as he’s finished speaking, a car glides up to the sidewalk, and Foreman turns to it. You spy glinting acrylic nails on the steering wheel. He’s torn, however, and turns back to you. You wave him off. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

His eyebrows are drawn together. “Are you sure? It’s a new city and dark and cold and-”

“Foreman. I appreciate the concern, but I didn’t even drink. The worst I’ll have to deal with tonight is cleaning my shoes. I’ll be fine.”

He nods at that, eyes dipping down to your feet before he throws one fleeting glance at you. But then he’s in the car with his ‘friend’ and driving away. You tuck your hands into your coat pocket and begin walking. While the bar was crowded, the streets you navigate are quiet. It’s only the moon and the stars staring down at you now. Their gaze is heavy and you quicken your pace.

The air quickly takes away any warmth you found when you were eating. It nips at your ears, and your nose, and you vow to be more prepared next time you go out this late. Maybe some gloves. A balaclava. A scarf. Anything to add to your coat’s limited warmth.

You make your way back to the bus station near the hospital and blow heated air onto your red fingers, and down your own neck. The metal seat stings when you tuck yourself atop it, and you hiss quietly when the cold sinks into the back of your thighs. You wait for a few minutes, before you decide to do the clever thing, and check your watch. You curse, and it’s loud and angry, and for good measure, you curse again. No one is around to see you, so you allow yourself to scream into your palms. There were no buses now; the route to lead you anyway near your apartment had stopped nearly 45 minutes ago.

You could call a taxi. But that would need a phone, and a wallet, which you realise with a startle, you have neither. You still had to set up a phone with one of the local providers, and your wallet, while thinner than most, was in your bag- your bag that was sitting in the conference room.

“Fuck,” you say and begin walking again.

It begins raining when you’re halfway there, and you decide to run. In spite of your efforts, sheets of rain slide down your spine and freeze your body. Your teeth are chattering, you’re dripping and your hair is plastered to your scalp when you finally reach the foyer of the hospital. Despite the lack of people out on the streets, the hospital is still thriving. It’s different at night, you think, as you step around nurses and cleaners and patients. The lights are dimmer. The halls are quieter. It’s as if the hospital, while still alive, is holding its breath.

You duck into one of the washrooms and cringe as you step out of your shoes. Your socks are soaked and squelch against the floor, but at least it's some barrier of protection. You don’t let your brain catch up with you while you scrub at your shoes. The smell, however, catches up with you and you gag. No matter how much you scrub, the smell resists. Eventually, you’re defeated and relent, drying your shoes with paper towels before slipping them back on.

You get turned around from there and have to retrace your steps twice. Each white corridor seems to mirror each others, but you recognise one floral plant and use it as your guide. Soon enough you find yourself outside the conference room, and you push at the door.

It’s locked.

“Fuck. Fuck.” You say again, running your hands down your face. If you braced outside now, walking all the way, you’d freeze or drown before you even saw your suburb. Fuck, indeed.

A voice startles you. “That’s not very nice language. Didn’t Daddy teach you better?”

You whip around, and your gasp catches in your throat. House is leaning against his cane. He stands next to the very chairs you met him by and raises both eyebrows in shock. "Oh my! I forgot my belly dancing skirt! Again!” He face palms, and you have to breathe through your nose to not snap at him.

“Can you unlock this door? Please?”

He clicks his tongue. “No can do. That’s the janitors job.”

You swallow dryly and try to keep the rising annoyance from your voice. “Please. I forgot my wallet, and it’s in there.”

“Saying please with a pout won't make me say yes any faster. That was stupid.”

Your jaw drops open. “It wasn’t intentional. Haven’t you ever forgotten something?”

His lips purse and he looks off in the distance as if he’s contemplating it. But then his eyes draw back to you. “Nope. If you’re forgetful enough to forget your wallet, how can I know you’ll be attentive enough to give a patient 2ml of medication instead of 20?”

Your eyebrows nearly reach your hairline. He was questioning the integrity of your work, because you forgot your wallet? “Because one of those is something I tucked into a dark corner that no one ever touches, and the other could literally kill someone.”

“Mmmhmm,” House’s eyes scan you. “But you’re also showing back up to work drunk, which says more about your character than any forgetfulness could.”

“W-what?!”

“You’re. Drunk. Had a little bit too much fun on the duckling’s night out?”

You huff. “I’m not drunk. I don’t, jesus I don’t even drink.”

His lips flatten. “You’re red in the face. You smell like alcohol. You’re stumbling over your words. Therefore, drunk.”

At that, you laugh. And laugh some more. “I’m nearly hypothermic from the torrential rain. Chase threw up his beers on my shoes. I stumble over my words when people accuse me of things I don’t do. For such a great detective, I would think that would be pretty obvious.”

He shuffles forward and leans in. You’re finding it a very annoying and invading habit of his. He stares at you intently, inches away from your face. You feel his breath fan over your cheek, and you shiver (certain it is only the air and cold water reacting on your face. Nothing else). He draws back, leaning onto his cane again. “Fine. Your pupils aren’t blown. You’re off the hook, newbie.”

There’s no use in fighting him and you just speak curtly, “Can you just unlock the door before hassling me more, House?”

His voice turns somewhat serious. “Honestly. The janitor’s job. They lock up everything and then go home for the night. Did they not teach you how to pick locks in all those courses you did?”

You’re reminded of his ‘nerd’ comment that Chase passed onto you earlier, and feel yourself shrink a little bit. Your head fall back against the glass and you slide down the glass until you’re a puddle on the floor. House peers down at you. “That’s not really sanitary. Cuddy was walking through here earlier, and you never know what kind of diseases she’ll track through.”

When you don’t respond, he sighs gruffly, as if he would prefer to be anywhere else. “Why do you need your wallet?”

You blink away tears that suddenly spring up. Foreman was right.

It’s dark.

It’s cold.

It’s a brand-new city.

And you’re entirely alone.

“There’s no night bus routes and I’ll have to catch a taxi. I need my wallet to pay.”

“I’d give you cash, but I just spent it all on drugs.”

“Wow.” You say bluntly. ”I hope you have a great bender.”

House rolls his eyes. “Get up. Really. It’s gross down there.” When you make no movements, he pokes at your leg with his cane. You have the idea to kick it out from under him. Instead, you raise yourself and glare at him. He glares back at you and pokes his tongue out, turning away. He speaks over his shoulder, “Come on. My car’s down in the parking lot.”

There’s a second where he continues walking, not even glancing back at you, and you wonder if you should follow him. You could stay here. Find a comfortable couch or chair. Try to fall asleep to the droning beeps of machinery and hacking coughs of patients.

Instead, you cross your fingers, hoping that curiosity doesn’t kill this cat, and follow him.

He does in fact lead you to the car park and to a blue-grey Dodge Dynasty. It would suit any other doctor; practical, comfortable, and overtly pedestrian. But, for House, you think it an odd choice. There weren’t even furry dice hanging from the mirror.

He unlocks the car with a flick of his keys and turns to you. “Well come on. You’re being slower than the cripple.”

You stare at him confused and he limps towards the driver's side. Across the roof of the car, you raise yourself onto your tippy toes and manage to maintain eye contact with him. “What’s going on, House?”

“I’m kidnapping you, duh. Don’t look now, but I already have a bag and some cuffs in the trunk.” You don’t laugh or even chuckle, and he sighs. “I’m taking you home. Get in.”

Do you trust him? You didn’t know him. Today you had seen him trick a patient and give the medicine she didn’t want, just to confirm his diagnosis. Cold. Dark. New city. What options did you really have?

You open the door and slide in. You tug your soaked coat off, and fold it over your lap, shivering when his AC blasts cold air towards you. House turns towards you, seemingly ready to mock your poor thermoregulation, but instead, he whistles low. “Wow, Newbie. That’s what you wear under those button-ups?”

You follow his gaze directly to your chest and blush madly when you see your laced, black bra visible through your top. His AC pushes a new breeze past, and your nipples pebble and raise even more. You try to save face and scoff at him. “What happened to girl cooties?”

He licks his lips, and faces forward again, muttering a ‘cooties-schmooties’. He peels out of the parking lot rapidly and you can’t make eye contact with him as you mutter your address to him. He makes no move to turn the AC off.

It’s ten minutes into the drive when he looks over at you and sneers slightly. “Stop that.”

You freeze. “Stop what?”

“Bouncing your knee. It’s distracting.”

You look down, not even realising your knee was moving. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be nervous about. I’m not actually kidnapping you; I think it would make work lunches complicated if you were my sex slave at home.” You huff. “Do you really have to be so inappropriate?”

He flicks his head towards you momentarily. “Do you really have to think that everything to do with sex is inappropriate? Newsflash, your boss gets horny like everyone else.” His eyes dart back to your chest and linger. “I may seem like it, but I’m not a saint.”

Your cheeks were on fire, and you turned to face the window, adamant to not let him see. “Talking about sex is not the same thing as bringing up me being a sex slave for you. And newsflash, most bosses don’t tell their employees when they’ve got a hard on.”

He laughed. “Double newsflash, sweetheart. I don’t have a hard on.”

You turn back to him and your eyes dip to him, “You sure about that?”

You whip back to the window, afraid to see his reaction. But, a streetlight passes by, and the interior is reflected perfectly in the dark reflection. You see House’s head peer down at his tightening pants. He swallows dryly and turns his face back to the road, with a simple “Ah.”

It’s at that moment when Chase’s face springs into your mind. It's vomit-covered, but he slurs the words 'Massive Dick' towards you

You squeeze your legs tightly and try to quiet your breathing, ignoring the sudden coil tightening itself in your stomach. You could reach over. Ask him to stop somewhere. Finally address that decaying hole in your heart that you’ve been avoiding- not fix it with the love and warmth you need, no, but patch it up with lust and sweat and desire. Have him touch you and stroke you and fuck you until you forget everything. But then you remember this is your boss you're thinking of; above all it's House. He had proved himself to be arrogant and rude in the few days you had known him, and you didn't want to put yourself through the same pain Cameron did. You weren't strong enough for that. You simply tuck your hands under your thighs and pray you’re not stupid enough to reach for him.

There’s awkward silence and minutes of absolute stillness. When you’re confident that the tingling in your stomach was just car sickness, your hand finds it’s way to the radio. You flick through all the stations and settle on Country. You see House’s eyes dart to you when you relax back into your seat. “Really? I didn’t take you for a farm girl.”

The streets whip by and rain begins to pour against the rooftop of the car. “I’m not. It’s just the only channel that won’t play ads every five seconds.”

“Ah,” he says, and you’re trying not to think about him groaning it in your ear. “So bad music is better than none?”

You nod. “Yes. It’s either that or I can talk your ears off.”

His only response is reaching for the radio and raising the volume, and you cross your arms, pushing yourself into your chair. He doesn’t say anything when you mumble some words to the songs, and you don’t say anything when you hear him humming along to one of the songs.

You rub at your arms where goosebumps have raised and force your body to not shiver. He seems to know where he’s going, and you’re grateful for that. You’re not confident you would be able to direct him if necessary. Street lamps whizz past and the car is repeatedly illuminated and then immediately left in darkness. Your eyes are drawn to his hands. The tendons flex as he tugs at the wheel.

You look back to your window and focus on breathing steadily.

House pulls up to your apartment soon after, and there's only a slight sprinkling raining down. You unbuckle quickly like the seatbelt is molten metal, and step out. On the pavement, you turn back, more confident with the distance between you, him, and your lustful thoughts, you prepare to bend down and thank him through the window.

His car is already halfway down the street and you stand there, long after his headlights have faded into the night.

You don’t see it, but House reaches into the pocket of his jeans, where his thick, full wallet was digging into his hip bone, and sets it on the, now empty, seat beside him.

#greg house x f!reader #gregory house fic #gregory house x reader #gregory house #house md fanfiction #house md x reader #house md

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

Text

Masterlist

Joel Miller

Series

Needing Miller- Raider!Joel x F!Reader

Oneshots

Gregory House

Series

Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Oneshots

#fanfic #fanfiction #tlou #the last of us #the last of us fanfic #the last of us fic #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #gregory house #gregory house x reader #house md #house md x reader #house md fic #masterlist

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

Text

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Masterlist

Summary:

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagnist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Series Page on AO3

Completed Parts:

Part I: The interview

Part 2: The Proof is in the Pudding. Or the Banana Bread

Part 3: Is he hot, or are you just lonely?

Part 4: Wet Dreams and Taxi Rides

Part 5: Bargains and Balls

Part 6: Chocolate Eyes and Decking Bosses

Part 7: Fever Dreams and Baths

Part 8: Bad Lungs and Choking

Part 9: Losing a Hundred Dollars

Part 10: Should you suck him or rub him?

Upcoming Parts:

Part 11: Untitled

#house md fanfiction #house md x reader #gregory house x reader #gregory house #house md #masterlist #house md masterlist #greg house x f!reader #gregory house fic #gregory house smut #dariaslookalike masterlist #dariaslookalike fic

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dariaslookalike · 2 months

Text

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 2: The Proof is in the Pudding. Or the Banana Bread

Summary:

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 3

-----------------------

There's an odd numbness that you feel on the bus ride home from your interview(s). Almost like shell shocked. When you step onto the bus, the driver smiles at you, and your brain fights to conform your lips into one. But, when you sink onto the fabric chairs, you let your eyes go out of focus and tune out the murmurings of other passengers. It's expected of course, from the day you've had. You have been picked apart and put back together again, over and over, and experienced a dizzying amount of emotions.

There was anxiety, of course; but also an odd sense of pride and happiness from your interview with Cuddy. You spoke confidently. You had the credentials, the experience, and the eagerness to learn that allowed you to win over the Dean of Medicine herself. She had praised you on all of the above.

But there was also anger. Annoyance. And an overflow of self-doubt from your interview with House. Honestly, you thought Cuddy's warning of the Diagnostic doctor was exaggerated, simply to keep you on edge for the remainder of your evening. But after meeting him yourself, the sincerity of her warning became apparent.

He was rude; egotistical; and most definitely infuriating. Your first interaction with him was not during the interview, but rather under the guise of making awkward small talk with a patient waiting for House. He had then proceeded to degrade you; and later, belittle and mock you. All within less than half an hour.

And then he did something incredibly surprising. He hired you. It was awkward, sitting back down to his desk and collecting manilla folder after manilla folder of official guidelines, resources, and random paperwork. You had half a mind to slam it on his desk and tell him where he could shove his paperwork. But, like you said: You were willing to put up with rudeness, as floor mat-y as that sounds.You needed this job.

Moving across the country, leaving behind (admittedly, a small amount of) friends, and paying off a collective ten years of medical training and education had left you broker, than you were willing to admit. Two-minute noodles had become your new five-star meals. The heels you were wearing were gorgeous. You haggled for $12 for them from an op shop; you had reattached the heel itself through superglue and determination alone.

Hence, the rackety bus you were now on. It was near comical. The broken air conditioning, which was heaving out pathetic warm puffs, dripped steadily onto the back of a man's jacket. When the driver took a corner too quickly, one of the doors swung open an inch only to slam close again when the bus straightened out. There were four speakers in the bus and there was only one that worked; it had been scratching out 'Careless Whisper' on a loop for thirty-seven minutes.

How many times would Geroge Michael never dance again? More importantly, how many times could you hear him sing about it before you banged your head against the glass and tried to give yourself an aneurysm through blunt force trauma?

You were lucky in some aspects; being a 'gifted child' had you speeding through courses in high school and graduating from tertiary education extremely early. Most specialists were in their early-mid thirties. You were still in your late twenties.

The demands of school, your previous residency, and various jobs meant that you didn’t leave many people behind. There was Bailey, who you would occasionally have coffee with; when you worked together and were desperate to waste hours at a stifling desk job, he would make riddles that you could never solve. And Ms Delon, your greying and wrinkled neighbour, who, every fortnight, would bring out her yellowed recipe book and teach you something new and pour you cup after cup of English tea. If it was relevant, you would have put your ability to make four different kinds of pie, seven cakes, nine pasta dishes, and one hell of a banana bread from scratch on your resume. The mailman that would slip you a postage stamp every time he stopped outside of your building (this one was odder than anything; you had never asked him to do, but smiling at him and receiving a 10-cent stamp with a photo of a furry kitten was nice, nonetheless).

You’re stumped for a moment, and wonder if you missed anyone; but no. Pathetically, the only friends you had left were an old coworker, a widower, and your mailman. God, you needed to get out more. Maybe the crazy alcoholic extroverts in high school were onto something. Or at least, on something.

Clubbing could wait until you had settled into your new job, however. You had been scrambling for a stable job and to pay off your debts. When the diagnostic position at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital was advertised, you crossed your fingers and prayed to gods you didn't believe in, and applied.

You couldn't tell yet if it was a malevolent force that had twisted fate around. You were stuck working side by side with House for the foreseeable future. You grumble to yourself as you step off the bus and the cold night surrounds you. Of course, when House gets mentioned, even within the mental confines of your psyche, it begins to rain. Malevolent force indeed. It's not long before the droplets become torrential, and you make the decision to cover your 'oh-so-important' paperwork with your coat and sprint down the streets as fast as your heels will allow you.

By the time you reach your fading, cracking, and slightly mildew-smelling apartment, you look like a drowned rat. Hissing as you turn on the bright overhead lights, you sound like one too. The paperwork, clutched in your numb hands is pristine, save for a few crinkled edges and crumpled folders. You set it down, and lock the heavy deadbolt across your door.

Sighing, you kick off your heels and detangle yourself from your suffocating clothes. You grimace as you pad across your apartment, leaving a wet trail of footprints in your wake. Your apartment is still in the very early stages of moving in, but it’s become a ritual of sorts to turn on your kettle, reuse the one bowl you dug out from somewhere, and make chicken noodles.

You breathe the salty, artificial flavouring in, but, when you feel goosebumps across your chest and arms, you decide the noodles can cook for a while longer.

Connected to your bedroom, the bathroom door needs to be shouldered to open, and you almost want to yell out an apology to your neighbours when it screeches against the tiles. You don’t however. You’ve been sleeping here for a week now, and every night, without fail, there would be banging, crashing, and lots of moaning from the apartment next to you. The ritualistic orgies they must have been having meant that they could deal with your squeaky doors.

Your eyes skim across the bathroom. Your brain isn’t familiar with your housing yet. It’s like you except for the same tiles, the same paned windows and shining taps of where you left. Instead, there’s a spattering of dark flecks against the roof. You stubbornly advert your eyes from the mould. You’ll clean it tomorrow. Or the next day. Fine- whatever day you were able to fish a stepladder and bleach out of your arse.

The hot water burns away the evidence of the day. Your cheap makeup, vanilla perfume, sweat; everything is down the drain. You drag your hands down your face and hold your breath until your lungs begin to burn. Maybe you should have been more assertive in your interviews. Maybe if you had been funnier, nicer, prettier, smarter, perkier, ruder, or one of the million things you weren’t, House would have taken a liking to you. Maybe you should have been less willing to blatantly cop his abuse, now and every future Monday-Friday. Maybe, maybe, maybe. It fills your head, and you practice breathing in deeply. And breathing out. Repeat. Breathe in deeply. And out. Repeat.

The maybes don't disappear but they become quieter in your head. By the time you’re in the middle of an epic concert finale, near screaming “Guilty feet have gaaat no rhythm!”, the maybes are just static, background noise.

Stepping out of the shower, you wrap yourself in the lone, fluffy towel hung in your bathroom. The shower head drips behind you, matching your heartbeat steadily. You brush your teeth, and gag when you scrub your tongue. The warm water has left you tired. Sore. The paperwork can wait until tomorrow.

For now, you collapse onto your uncovered mattress, naked and still wet from your shower. Mountains of boxes surround you; the tape containing them hasn’t even been cut open yet. You tell yourself that unpacking can wait until tomorrow too, and you drift off into a restless sleep.

It’s filled with images of House in a wheelchair, wearing very provocative clothing. “Premium Cripple Hooker rates apply,” he whispers seductively to you. —--------- The next morning you curse yourself, and begin to pick up the heavy, wet pile of clothing by your front door, and eat a pathetic, slimy breakfast of your forgotten noodles. You’re determined that this weekend your apartment will look like the cover of some overpriced magazine or at the very least, be unpacked. But come Sunday night, you’ve only assembled one ikea coffee table and still have a third of your boxes remaining.

To be fair, the ikea table took the longest of those two chores; you had a packet of nails when you needed screws, dowels that splintered into pieces when you jammed them into the wood, and a hammer when you needed a screwdriver. An abrupt walk around your busy, dingy neighbour led you to a corner ‘mum and pops’ hardware store. By the fourth trip, when you needed a box of lightbulbs (because, in your excitement to have finally finished the table, you swung your hands up and your brand new screwdriver performed an acrobatics routine, perfectly sticking the landing in your overhead light), the Pop of the ‘mum and pops’ shop greeted you by name.

After the scarring ikea incident, your stomach was growling. Noodles couldn’t cut this kind of hunger any more; maybe your body was building a resistance to the starchy goodness. So, sliding on your shoes one more time and slipping your keys and wallet into your coat, you walked along the icy pathway. You stopped at the one place you knew so far, and raised your hands in defence when the bell chimed, announcing your arrival.

“I am NOT here to buy anything again. Well. At least for today.”

‘Pop’ let out a hearty laugh, clutching at his gut. He was a heavy, older man, and a smoker from the smell of it. You hoped you didn’t see him at work anytime soon. He sure saw you enough at his.

“Honey,” His Slavic accent was thick. The nickname wasn’t the same sneering word that some men yelled at you, but rather kind and endearing, as if he was chortling at his young grandaughter. “If you keep coming back, I’ll be able to retire soon. But,” He gestures at you, in big sweeping movements, ”You didn’t break another bulb? Or build another desk?”

“Thankfully, no. I need groceries, and I was hoping you’d know if there was store around here? I still haven’t learnt my way around yet.”

Pop looks around the store, empty aside from you. You supposed not many people ventured outside in these frigid weathers. He smiles, and you watch in amusement as his moustache tickles his cheeks. “I’ll show you. I have to have break now anyway. Otherwise,” His voice drops low, “The wife will murder me. Says I need to ‘take it easy’. Psh.”

He hangs his apron up, and places a sign on the locked door, saying he will be back within the hour. Together you walk down the winding and cracked pathways. He reveals his name isn’t Pop, but rather Josef. You laugh and tell him you might just keep calling him Pop. He laughs, and says “Why not? I already have four grandchildren who do.”

It’s easy to talk with him. Both of your breaths fan out in front of you, in plumes of warm air. You tell him about your new job and deep lines appear in his forehead. “So far away. Hard work too.” he says and you can’t help but nod. You can’t imagine Pop as a young man, or in his youth; he seems like the man designed to be a grandfather. Regardless, he tells you lots of things. His migration here, when he was younger than you. The years of taxi driving and late nights he did to buy his store and settle down with his bookkeeping wife. His beautiful, but busy children. You smile and nod along, and you quickly arrive to the small grocery store.

There’s not much to choose from but you get the essentials: milk, flour, bread, sugar, cereal, pasta, sauces, and spices. As a last-ditch attempt to appear as if you care about your nutrition, you grab some fruits and vegetables. The woman ringing you up, at the store's lone register, wishes you a good, warm day, and you thank her.

Pop waits for you outside, smoking a cigarette. When he sees you return, he quickly blows away the smoke and stamps the butt out on the ground. Sheepishly he says, “My wife wants me to quit.” He leaves it at that, and you don’t bother telling him the risks and the benefits of quitting. His wife sounds smart enough.

You’re sceptical when he offers to carry some of your groceries, but relent when he insists. Just like that, you walk back to his store and continue trading stories. When you tell him that yes, you will be fine and that yes, you’re strong enough, he hands you your remaining bags of groceries.

“Come by, anytime you need something, kid. The store’s quieter in winter, and I’m always there if you need a hand.”

You smile and try to ignore the tears that spring to your eyes. “Thanks, Pop. I appreciate it.”

He claps you on the shoulder, unlocks the door and shuffles back towards his counter as if he had never left.

You pack your groceries away in the quiet of your apartment. Thinly dicing some onions, garlic and carrots, the methodological chopping of your knife is all that is heard. When you’re finished cooking, and feasting on what tastes like heaven after weeks of two-minute noodles, you shuffle to your bed. It now has a sheet on it and a blanket, and you supposed that was an upgrade from the previous night.

You stared up at your ceiling for half an hour.

One hour.

Two.

By the third, you whip your blanket and send it flying into your wall, where it crumples to the floor.

No rest for the wicked. Or the anxious.

It’s not like you could prepare for your first day of work any more. You had your clothes hanging up. Your lunch was packed. But, your feet lead you back to the kitchen. You pop your tongue from the roof of your mouth and heave. Stress baking was the best alternative to laying in bed awake. At least it was somewhat productive. Okay, that may have been a lie. At least the sugar would make you feel better.

By the end of your so-called ‘productivity’, your kitchen looked like a bomb site. But you were satisfied with your creations. You begin to walk back to your room, but high pitched and near frantic moaning echoed through your walls. Jesus. Did they have to get it on right next your pillows?

You grab at your blanket and pillows where they sprawl across the floor, and huff, returning to lay on the rug in the lounge room. No couch yet. You had traded $35 dollars for your table, and your bank account was screaming gainst that, let alone a new, or even old, couch. You wriggle like a drowning worm and scooch until your head is under the table examining your handwork. There’s no jutting screws or splintering cracks. You're content with your examination and intend to crawl back out. But your blanket is too cozy and the pillow you clutch at, too soft. Against your will, you drift off to the warm smell of cinnamon and timber. —----- You bolt awake and slam your head against the table.

“Fuck!” You yell out, and clutch at the piercing pain in your forehead. For It’s more humiliating this time when you worm-wriggle out from the table. You turn back to the table, sitting up and massaging at your temple. “I should bring some termites home now. Just for you.”

You know you must not have slept long if you’re insulting your table, but you gingerly raise yourself anyway and peer at the clock hung high on the wall. Not even dawn yet. You were so nervous that your brain forced you awake, with ample time. You take a shower, letting cool water run across your face. Your hand wipes at the foggy mirror, and you decide that yes, you will wear more cheap makeup today. At least to cover the angry red line crossing over your forehead.

You lock the door on your way out and walk gently down your stairs, trying not to slip and eat ass on the sidewalk. You place a container outside of ‘Mom and Pop’s’, and scrawl out a message onto a note. ‘Thank you for all the help! Hope you like banana bread’. You sign your name next to a small smiley face.

The ride was uneventful and quiet. The driver did give you an odd look, but you thought it was fairly justified. You were bundled in your thick coat, and desperately balancing a plastic container, your binder of paperwork, and your bag across your arms. You let it all sprawl across the seat next to you when you sat down. There weren’t many commuters this early in the morning; the windows were fogged, and the streets still dark.

Your shift started at 7, but the commute was long. The sun is just rising when the drops your at the hospital’s stop, and you hop off, thanking the driver. Despite the empty streets you were cruising through a minute ago, the hospital is bustling. It never sleeps, it seems. You smile at the nurses you pass and beeline for the elevators. Your stomach twists in on itself, and you sigh, starting to walk towards the conference room. You reach it, but peer into House’s office. The light’s are off and it’s devoid of the snarky man.

You breathe a sigh of relief, and slip into the conference room. You tuck your bag under the sink and out of sight. It doesn’t have anything valuable, but you have a mean coffee mug in there that you would hate to get stolen. By 'mean' you meant it had a sticker on it and had survived more potential spills than you could count. Next, your container is set next to the small kitchenette and you debate if you should put a note on it, like you did Pop’s. But you decide against it. You’ll be able to tell the team in person and hopefully, the banana bread acts like an ice breaker of sort. No more awkward questions of your hobbies or your family, but simply sweet, bready goodness.

You scan the small kitchenette area but quickly come to the conclusion that you have nothing left to procrastinate with. To Cuddy it is.

You spin, and instantly scream, raising your binder over your head and ready to swing it down. House blinks at you, like you’re a startling bug crawling across his cane.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, lowering your binder and clutching at your chest. “Do you sneak up on all your new workers? Jesus.”

He shakes his head like a bird dusting off its feathers. “Oh, my apologies, I didn’t realise I had to walk into my meeting room with a belly dancing skirt on. Maybe I should. Help people hear me more.”

"I'm sure it would bring out your eyes."

Your eyes flick up to his. God they're blue. They're the paradoxal chilly sky on a sunny winter day. Maybe you were right about the skirt.

“Door?”, he says as he cranes his neck forward and peers at you.

“Huh?”

"God, are you actually deaf?" He snaps his figures in front of your face, and you startle, ripping your eyes away from his as he speaks slowly. “Did.You. Hit. Your. Head. With. A. Door?”

Your eyes widen and you scoff. “I'm not deaf. And how did you-”

Impatiently, he cuts across you. “Slight swelling. Redness, which your concealer doesn’t hide as well as you think it does. So was it a door you ran into or what? A pole?”

You chew your cheek. “...A table.”

“Ah,” he spins, and begins to limp away from you.

You stare at his back, puzzled. You decide you don't want to delve further in your embarrassing morning, or ponder his oddness; rather, you race after him. He doesn’t slow down, even when your shoes slap across the vinyl floor. Curse him and his height. Even with his cane, you jog slightly and reach him when he’s turning a corner.

“Um, look can I give you something?”

He doesn’t stop, but turns his head to you as he strides past the conference room. “Don’t say um. It makes me want to say no.”

“Oh, well, can I-”

“Don’t say oh either. Or well. Or- actually. It’s not the words making me want to say no. So no.”

You grit your teeth but try to cover it with a nod of your head. “Fine. I won’t ask then. I have paperwork to give you. From our interview.”

At that, he pauses and turns to face you. “And you think I would want that because..? Give it to Cuddy. Or don’t. Either way I won’t look at it.”

You blink. He just strides away from you and you huff at his retreating form. “Thanks, Doc.”

Cuddy is much more pleasant to visit. She doesn’t mention your forehead, even though you catch her eyes flicking up to it. She simply smiles at you and welcomes you into her office. You give her your paperwork and she thanks you. You think she is like a regal queen; kind but a ruler that demands respect. That is until you hand her House’s paperwork and she rolls her eyes and says “Arsehole. Did he give you a hard time about it?”

You just laugh. “No, he’s fine. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but it wasn’t too bad.”

She scoffs. “There isn’t a right side of the bed when it comes to House.”

When you leave Cuddy and return to the conference room, you find there are three people in there. They seem to be bickering about something, and you catch the words "No way in hell!" and "-can't cook for his life!". When you step into the room though, they fall silent and turn to you with quizzical eyes. You introduce yourself quickly. “Hi. This is my first day, I’ll be working with you all on diagnostics as a cardiologist.”

The team amazingly welcomes you with open arms. Quite literally. The beautiful, smiling woman sitting at the desk practically leaps from her chair and hugs you. Allison Cameron is the first to introduce herself to you and she pulls back from the hug slightly, to whisper conspiratorially to you. "Finally. I have been stuck with these boys for far too long."

You laugh, and find yourself doing so genuinely. Robert Chase is next and he walks over to shake your hand briefly. He too leans in to whisper, “I hope she’s not turning you against us already.”

Foreman introduces himself and has a firm grip as he shakes your hand. “It’s nice to meet you and get some fresh blood on the team. Have you met House yet?”

“Yep,” You pop the P, and slide into of the chairs across from Cameron and beside Chase.

Foreman sighs. “I hope he hasn’t scared you off. He can be…”

“An arsehole?” chimes Chase.

“Hey.” Cameron pins Chase with a stare. “He baked us banana bread today. Isn’t that showing us that he’s putting in an effort? Even if it’s just because we have a new hire.” She turns to you and her lips dip down slightly. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, or he’s trying to poison us.” Laughs Chase.

You blink, and are about to interject when Foreman speaks up. “C’mon Chase. Cameron’s right, it might be a good thing. Maybe if he’s able to bake banana bread, he’ll be able to take out all his anger in the kitchen rather than on us.”

Chase chuckles, and shakes his head half-heartedly. “At that rate, we’ll be getting tira misu and trifle every Wednesday.”

Foreman lets out a sigh and turns to you, moving the conversation along before you can correct them. "We have drinks and dinner tonight and most Mondays. It's easier to deal with the week- scratch that, it's easier to deal with House if you're nursing a hang over. It's like two negatives, they cancel out. Do you wanna join?"

You smile. "I'd love to. I'm not a big drinker, but I'd like to check out the food that's here. I'm still acclimating, I suppose."

Chase drags his eyes up and down you, settling on your face when he speaks. "Don't worry. We won't throw you in the deep end like House will."

You nod at him, and wonder if he's always so blatant in staring at people's tits, when the man of the hour walks in.

“Good morning,” says Cameron. You see Chase roll his eyes slightly, and Forman and him make fish-like kissy faces at each other. House’s eyes flick towards them and they stop in an instant like schoolboys caught throwing paper at each other.

“Morning.” He busies making himself a coffee and doesn’t offer anyone any. “I’m not going to bother with introductions. I think newbie has that covered. I will however, tell you all to put on your big-boy pants and start thinking. 24-year-old female. Drowsiness. Erratic behaviour when she is awake. No schizophrenia, depression or anything of the sorts.”

He sips from his fresh mug and replaces it with a whiteboard marker, which he uses to write the remainder of her symptoms up. Foreman offers up one explanation, but Cameron is quick to say it doesn’t fit all the symptoms. Chase offers another, but at that, House scoffs. “No. God no. What 24-year-old woman have you met with that?”

Chase shrugs. “She’d be the first. But it’s possible.”

House tuts. “Possible is not what I’m looking for. I want probable. Newbie,” He pins you with a stare. “Any ideas? Or did you hit your head too hard? Again?”

You flush and try to steady your breathing when all their eyes become trained on you. “Uh, it could-”

“What did I say about ‘uh’?”

The flush deepens and you feel embarrassment creep over your shoulders, even moreso when Cameron winces in sympathy. “It’s probable that it’s multiple conditions affecting her at once.” You spout off Foreman's idea, and another infection, and House keeps staring at you, as if he’s waiting for you to wither away under his gaze.

But Cameron nods before you crumble. “I mean, it’s more likely than everything else. And it would make sense for her sudden personality shifts and drowsiness.”

House finally looks away from you and sighs. “Fine. Fine. Foreman and Chase, get a MRI. Newbie, you can get a lumbar puncture, if you can manage that. Cameron, get every known substance that could cause that reaction in her, and test for it. Not just newbie’s idea.” When no one moves, he makes a chopping motion with his hand. “Go on then. I’ve got a soap to catch.”

Everyone’s quick to gather their things. Chase and Foreman practically dash out of the room, as if House’s presence burned them. As Cameron stands up she calls out. “And House?”

He’s half-scowling and turns back to face her from the conjoining office door. “What?”

She smiles, and you swear you can see a light dusting of pink on her cheeks. “Thank you for the banana bread. It’s good to know you are capable of caring, to some extent.”

Ohhhh. She’s got it bad. So bad. And for House, out of everyone? The thought makes you almost sick. Not because he was an unattractive. Hell, you'd go to bat that he handsome. But there was nothing romantic or even kind about his words. Now you know why Chase and Foreman had their mocking kiss contest.

House squints at her as she strides out the door and down the corridor, and you take that as your sign to beeline for the door. You practically scramble up and your foot is half way out the door when he says your last name. “Here. Now.”

You sigh, steeling yourself, and spin back around. “Yes, House?”

He looks perplexed. “Why do the ducklings think I made banana bread?”

You chuckle. “Why should I know? I’ve been with Cuddy all morning. Y’know, giving her your paperwork.”

He rolls his blue eyes and they return to stare at you. “I’m not sure if you understand the whole thing of ‘genius doctor’ or not, but I pick up on things others don’t. You smell like cinnamon. Your folder of paperwork had crumbs on it. You have flour on the side of your neck. You’ve been baking, and” He strides over, opening your tupperware container on the kitchenette’s counter. “From my team’s fantastic deduction skills, it’s banana bread.”

Your eyebrows draw closer in an instant. “You smelt me?!”

House scoffs. “That doesn’t matter. Why didn’t you tell them it was your banana bread? I’m assuming you wanted to make a good first impression, but that all goes to waste if they think I baked it. It makes me look bad, too. Sappy. Caring." He shivers. “I think I might gag.”

“I didn’t tell them,” You huff, “Because they thought that you making something for them meant you were finally being nice to them.”

His lips flatten and he shakes his head at the floor. “God, they really should have known it wasn’t me then.” He raises his head and peers at you. “So when are you going to break the news?”

“I’m not going to.”

He sarcastically nods along. “Ah yes. The best start to workplace friendships is with a lie.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “It’s banana bread. Not perjury.”

His eyebrows shoot up and he dips a hand into your container, breaking off a corner. He pops it in his mouth. “Well, it sure tastes like perju- oh my god.” His hand whips to his mouth and he slowly chews, and then groans.

Your breath catches in your throat. Broken tooth? Abscess in his gum? Severe allergy to bananas? “Are you okay? House?”

“What, in the name of Cuddy, did you put in this?” His tone makes it clear he’s not in pain and the tips of your ears go red.

“Look, if it’s that bad you don’t have to be rude abou-”

He shakes his head and spits out, “No, it’s good. The best banana bread I’ve had. And that’s saying a lot, seeing how it’s the Tuesday special in the cafeteria.”

There’s a beat of silence. You blink at each other from aross the room, as if you’re both processing his words. Your eyes betray you, because for a moment, it looks like he's blushing. But then he clears his throat, covering the container and stepping away from it. You track his movements, studying him. Was he lying to you, and trying to hide his repulsion of your baking skills? Was it all mockery?

House just raises an eyebrow. “Well? Get to it newbie.”

You breathe in and nod, turning around. Strange and awkward encounters with House would become your normal.

Again, when you’re halfway through the door he calls out your last name. “Get a copy of the results to me by the hour. And that recipe…Please.”

The flame spreads from your ears down to your cheeks and you nod as if it’s the only thing you know how to do.

Who knew that House’s weak spot was banana bread?

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