Chapter Text

Obviously, House told you this can’t be about feelings. Obviously!

Funny, you think, because he’s the one who always pulls you close after sex. He’s the one who buries his face in your hair while he comes down.

Right now is no different.

You can feel his hot breath against the side of your neck. You look at the ceiling, satisfaction still coursing through your veins, and put one hand on his arm, gently rubbing it.

You can feel House tense for a moment when you do, but you both know fully well that he whimpered a little too loud earlier to pretend he doesn’t like it. Especially with how tightly he’s still holding on to your thigh.

After another long moment, you turn your head and kiss his temple, and then sit up, letting out a little groan at how sore you feel.

Slowly, you get off the bed and collect your clothes and make your way to the bathroom to freshen up. You know, you always feel it, that House is observing you, but you never turn around to find his gaze. Instead, you close the door to the bathroom behind you and go through your usual routine: putting up your hair, wiping off whatever got smudged of your make-up, peeing, cleaning between your legs, washing your hands and neck to cool down, and put your clothes back on.

You exit the bathroom while you straighten out your clothes and fasten your belt and start to talk about the case.

“Do you think the consult with-“ You pause when you see that House is still lying in bed. Usually, he’s already in his sweatpants and put a shirt back on, maybe leaning against the dresser, or sitting on the side of the bed and taking a Vicodin.

Irritated, you look at him: “Everything okay?”

He rips his gaze off the floor and finds your eyes. “What? Yeah, yeah…”

He’s so obviously lying that it’s almost laughable. But for some reason, you don’t have it in your heart to call him out on it.

So, after a pause you go on: “I don’t think the consult from the CDC will be any faster than me in the lab. You know it’s not infectious. Especially you know that it’s not infectious.”

He rolls his eyes: “Yes, but especially I know how long your waiting list is. You’re too good at your job to only work one case at a time.”

“No need to flatter me. I’ll work your case first anyway.”

House opens his mouth as if to disagree, but he just closes it and looks away.

Gods he’s…different today and you’re not sure if you’re weirded out or amused or concerned.

“Anything happen?” You ask eventually.

House just scoffs and finally moves to put his clothes back on.

“What?” You furrow your eyebrows.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. I’m just…” He finally settles on “tired.”

You decide to give him an out and chuckle: “No wonder after what we just did.”

He lets out another scoff, this one sounding a little more lighthearted.

“Alright, well.” You awkwardly move towards the bedroom door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Usually, he sees you out. Which you like. But his behavior starts to make you nervous.

House somewhat ignores it and limps towards you, putting his hand on the small of your back and walks you to the door. Business as usual.

You smile at him and peck his lips while he unlocks the door. Business as usual.

He smiles back and goes in for a second, deeper kiss. Business as sometimes.

“Night, House.” You say and walk out.

“Night!” He calls after you and closes the door.

You’re already halfway down the stairs when you notice that something is missing.

A noise. He always locks the door right behind you. You always hear it while you walk down.

This time he didn’t.

You try to shrug it off and wave over a taxi.

Title Song: Red Flags and Long Nights by She Wants Revenge

My Carrd: Rye's Carrd

Chapter Text

Part I: Let’s Start in The Middle

Your hands are still drying after you disinfected them when you walk up to your workstation and see a note sticking to one of test results that came in overnight. You had set up the mass spectrometer before you left (to see House), and now find print outs of the reports, neatly stacked by the early shift.

One of them is printed on blue paper. Which is good, because that means you’ll need to sign it – because you landed a hit. Now, that print is one with the note stuck to it.

Cuddy called. It reads.

You let out a deep sigh and decide to ignore the note and look at the tests first.

You had hoped the blue one is for House. But it’s for nephrology. You’re still glad you caught it – you really didn’t feel like handling more urine today – but obviously you had hoped it would be for House’ case. Obviously!

You roll your eyes at yourself and go over everything else that came back.

The declining Natrium you keep seeing in the tests you run for House don’t sit right with you. He told you off twice already because of it, the rest if the team only shrugged their shoulders, appearing not only unwilling to argue with House but genuinely disinterested.

To be fair, they already are irritated that a lab worker personally comes by to talk to them. The first time, Chase dismissed you so rudely that you got in his face about it. He even apologized, looking almost terrified. Which you found quite entertaining, considering he works with House. Foreman, who witness the interaction, commented ‘He’s scared of women already’.

Now, don’t twist the reason for your personal visits. Since you started to work for the Plainsboro, you had made it a habit from the beginning to, if warranted, personally talk to whoever ordered an analysis. Of course, not for simple tests; but you’re not the one who runs the simple tests.

You’re the one who runs the ‘we need it NOW’ tests. Occasionally, the ‘we need ANYTHING’ tests. House’ tests usually are the first category, right now, though, they are the second.

Well, apparently declining Natrium isn’t SOMETHING, so you’re seemingly supposed to go fuck yourself and figure something else out.

Anyway; the reason you personally sometimes visit House’ team is not because you’re sleeping with House. You started to sleep with House because you’re occasionally visiting his team. Something about you not being the slightest bit intimidated by him or his team set something off in him that gave you his undivided attention for long enough that you could subtly but directly flirt with him.

Next thing you know, he followed you around when you’d run into each other in the hallways to talk to you about whatever he could come up with, until you asked: ‘your or my place tonight?’. 

While your thoughts drift back to how strange House behaved when you were over, clicking your pen absentmindedly, your phone rings. “Shit.”, you curse when you see that it’s Cuddy. You still hadn’t called her back.

“Lab speaking.” You greet her.

You expect her to reprimand you for not having called back yet, but she surprises you by saying: “If you have the time, would you mind coming down to my office?”

“One sec.”

Your eyes dart to your schedule and over the paperwork in front of you, then to your computer screen that shows the progress of the centrifuge that’s running.

“If you-“

“In twenty minutes?”

“Oh, yeah, great. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

You hang up, positively bewildered. You can’t remember the last time Cuddy called you to her office. Let alone in such a courteous manner.

Still, it makes you uneasy and you do your best to finish what you wanted to in the next twenty minutes. After ten, you just give up and sign out, go through the usual decontamination process and then make your way downstairs. For the first time, you consciously actually go downstairs and not use the elevator; something in your gut makes you want to avoid House. At least right now.

“You wanted to see me?” You say while you enter Cuddy’s office.

She gives you a smile and gets up from her chair to gesture towards the one opposite her desk and then sits back down.

“Do I have to be worried?” You ask.

“Oh, no no.” She shakes her head with another smile. “You see, you work and commitment has been noticed.”

“By?”

“Me, of course. But also, the board. You also have very special qualifications, with your background in forensics.”

You nod along, leaning forward in your chair, interested.

“We want to offer you the opportunity to give house-intern lectures. Since we’re a teaching hospital, students will be invited too, of course. But so are the established tenure holders.”

You pause, and then say: “Obviously, I am very flattered and interested. But don’t you think ‘established’ personnel will take it…personally, if they are asked to attend a lecture?”

“Are you talking about House?”

“No, surprisingly. He’s been taking my presence quite well.” You cannot help but have a slight smirk on your face when you say that. “I was talking in general.”

Cuddy pauses and asks: “So, I understand that you are interested?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll figure everything else out as we go.”

-

“Did Cuddy sleep with you too?” House asks, sitting on your kitchen counter.

“What?” You look at him irritated while you put the pizza in the oven. He’s obviously joking, but there is a certain edge to his voice that is not lost on you.

“Why on earth did you agree then?”

“Money.” You shrug your shoulders, making House chuckle. “And I enjoy lecturing. I’m good at it.”

“Chase can vouch for that.”

“Anyone who annoys me can.” You snort.

“Don’t you mean disrespect?”

“Disrespect annoys me.”

House raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything for a bit. You don’t either and instead open the fridge. Beer for House, white wine for you.

When you hand him his bottle he asks: “Why did you never mention your background in forensics?”

You take a sip of your wine and look at him over the rim of his glass. It’s not that you’re not happy to answer his questions, making personal conversations in general with him; it’s always interesting, obviously. It just rarely happens.

“You didn’t ask.”

He rolls his eyes: “Come on now.”

“I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Why not?” Now he sounds genuinely surprised.

You think about it for a moment. “Not sure, honestly.”

“Well, how does a Quantico girl end up in the lab of a teaching hospital?”

“Quantico girl?” You laugh. You like the nickname but also realize: “I see you did research.”

“Stole your personnel file, yes.”

Now you raise an eyebrow at him.

“What? That’s not something you find on google.”

“Right, and the only logical step is to violate laws instead of asking me.”

“Had to make sure you won’t be lying to me. After all, you’re probably able to withstand torture or something.”

“I’m a lab tech.”

“Sure…” He takes a sip of his beer as you laugh. “So?”

“I decided that I prefer to help the living instead of the dead.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”

“That sounds too easy.”

“Here I was thinking you’re an Occam’s razor type of guy.”

House smiles at you, apparently excited by the sparring session, but also clearly intrigued.

“You’re good. Now answer my question.”

You sigh, equally amused with his flattery and annoyed with his demanding tone.

But why not, you decide. You haven’t talked about this in forever and House seems like the right person to discuss it with.

“There is always that one case.” You start.

“That one case?”

“That breaks you.”

House stares at you for a long moment.

“For me, it just came a little earlier into my career than for others…I had three options: keep going until I kill myself which would have been in the near future, find a different place to apply my skills, or change profession entirely. And then I saw the position open at the Plainsboro. It made the decision easier.”

House wets his bottom lip with his tongue before he takes another sip of his beer, seemingly mulling over the information you offered up, continuously looking at you.

Eventually, he speaks up: “Is that why you’re always so calm?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t get angry.”

“I get annoyed, upset.”

“Yes, but I’ve never seen you lose it.”

“I hadn’t had a reason to.”

“But have you ever? Lost it, I mean?”

You clear your throat: “No.”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting?”

House takes another sip and narrows his eyes at you. You know him well enough to know that that’s the equivalent of him swinging for a punch.

“Huh. You really aren’t a psychopath.”

You blink, dumbfounded. You saw something coming, but nothing could have prepared you for that.

“Why on earth would you think that?”

“You’re aloof, cold, painfully diplomatic, calculated, never intimidated, highly intelligent, show little emotion while being extremely observant of other people’s emotions…”

“In other words, I’m professional.”

“Smartass, I forgot to add smartass to the list.”

“Can we circle back to the fact that you just called me a psychopath?”

“I called you not a psychopath.”

“Now who is being the smartass?”

“That’s not all.”

You scoff: “Oh, the list goes on?”

“Even in private, you’re extremely reserved and practical. You never talk about personal interests and-“

“How would you know? We’re not friends. We have sex, share dinner occasionally, and work together.”

“Case in point.” He retorts, giving you a ‘got you’ look.

“No. I don’t buy it.” You shake your head.

“You don’t buy it?”

You take a moment to check on the pizza and drink more of your wine before you look back at him. For a second, you get distracted by his pushed-up sleeves and the bulging upper arm he leans on.

“What is actually bothering you?” You find his eyes.

He opens his mouth to probably protest, but you go on.

“First off, half of what you listed is either irrelevant for the pathology of a psychopath or directly contradicts it. Don’t try to bullshit a Quantico girl with half-ass psychoanalysis. Furthermore, a lot of these qualities you find in the medical field, they are necessary traits to be good. Also, most of what you listed you are yourself, and you are obviously not a psychopath. So, what is actually bothering you here?”

“Damn.” House mutters.

“Damn indeed.”

He sighs and rubs his face.

You let him sit in his discomfort and instead open the oven and declare: “Pizza is done.” Ignoring the scoff House lets out, you take it out and cut it, putting slices on two plates.

“Here you go.” You say and put one plate on the counter next to where he’s sitting, not even bothering to hand it to him directly.

Instead, you walk to the bar and sit on one of the stools and begin to eat.

House usually sits directly next to you, maybe his hand on your thigh, rubbing it. But he stays where he is and eats quietly, looking like he’s deep in thought but equally done with the conversation.

It highly annoys you how he’s behaving. First, he makes completely out of pocket comments and then pouts when you dissect them. You cannot remember being this serious with him outside of work. Ever.

He said he likes how calm and practical you are. He said he likes how you’re kind but not clingy. He said how much he enjoys sex with you, and how nice it is that it comes without any emotional baggage attached to it.

You said you like how intense he is, but never overbearing. You said you like how he’s direct but not cruel. You said how much you enjoy sex with him, and how nice it is that it comes without any emotional baggage attached to it.

Your head shoots up.

“That’s it, isn’t it?”

House turns to look at you.

“It bothers you that I don’t seem emotionally attached to you, and you desperately try to come up with an explanation.”

“I wouldn’t call it desperately.” He agrees without agreeing.

“And the best you could come up with is that I’m a psychopath? My god, House.”

“I-“

“No, no. Let’s stay on that topic for a bit. You are seriously bothered that I haven’t turned this into an emotional mess yet, aren’t you?” You lean towards him. “Why?”

He gets off the counter to fully face you and lean against it too, towards you.

“Because it’s interesting.”

“Not good enough.”

He rolls his eyes. “I just never…had that happen. Can you blame me for trying to figure it out?”

You lean even closer: “Bullshit.”

“Because I want you to, okay!” He shouts. “I WANT you to lose your composure around me! I WANT YOU TO BE EMOTIONAL!”

He gasps for air. “I want this to be messy. I need this to be messy.”

You sink back into the chair and look at him quietly.

“Happy now?” He snides.

“So, when you made the rules about not getting involved too much emotionally, you made them more for yourself than for me, huh?”

“Can you for once, just for once, react like an actual human being!?”

“Really?” You slightly raise your voice. “We’re questioning my humanity now?”

“Fuck you!” House barks.

He does it loaded with so much raw emotion and earnest hurt that it completely changes your attitude from one moment to the other.

You take a deep breath and then say: “I’m sorry, I should not have pushed you so far.”

“You’re doing it again.” House says, but calmer now.

You bite your tongue to hold back the snarky comment you had immediately at the ready and say instead: “That is how I solve conflicts. Being emotionally intelligent and mindful. If you’re not used to that, that is your problem.”

 “Goddamnit.” He rubs his forehead. “You’re right.”

Again, you bite back a snarky comment.

“Still…I-“ He looks at you. “I don’t know.”

“Me neither.” You admit.

Which somehow breaks the tension, making House let out a quiet laugh and shake his head.

“Damn you, woman.” He sighs, but there is no real malice behind the words.

After a longer pause, you ask: “…soooo, you still want to have sex, or…?”

House looks at you with a smirk on his face: “Obviously. Get your annoying ass to the bedroom.”

Part II: Somewhere Around the Beginning

It’s five in the morning. There is no reason for you to be here. Neither still nor already. Yet, you’re currently staring into a microscope. You’re not even sure if you’re looking at anything. You’re just staring. There might be a blood sample, there might not.

Eventually, you lean back to close your eyes and rub them with your thumbs. They feel dry, and your head heavy. But you can’t, for the life of you, get yourself to sleep; or even be home.  Thank gods your cat has an automatic feeder…

With a groan, you lean back in your chair and stretch, letting your head fall back, and look at the dimmed overhead lights. You notice a dead fly sticking to it. It should make you think about the implications that has for the sterile parameters of your lab. But instead, your mind wanders to a poem. Something about a fly on the wall and inside a typewriter?

 With another groan, you get up and shake out your legs. Like that will magically rid you of the sleep deprivation that has been hunting you for the past week.

You’ve been doing well. You had it together. But there is something about the smell of early autumn that throws you off. It’s not even the time the case that- no no. Don’t go there.

You decide to just give up and nap in your office. Well, it’s not really an office. It’s your desk in the entry room of the research department that you only use when you have to fill out a longer report; which is annoying to do in all your lab attire.

Below it, you have stored a yoga mat. Because, obviously, this isn’t your first rodeo.

Wearing your usual scrubs, without the double coat and gloves and mouth protection…, you pull your Georgetown sweater over your head and crawl into the small space. It’s small but you’re pretty much invisible to anyone who enters. Especially, when you pull your desk chair in front of your little cave.

Then you lie there. Taking deep breaths, eyes closed, the blood rushing in your ears slowly quieting down, and just listen. Listen to the soundscape of the lab. The quiet rumbling of all the equipment that’s on standby. The ones that are running tests overnight you don’t know about because it’s from a colleague. To the faint steps you can hear from somewhere down the hallways.

You just lie there, fully conscious nor asleep. Until you hear the automatic doors unlock and swish open. You consider scrambling to sit at your desk to appear normal and like you’ve simply have been here early. But you decide to basically hold your breath and stay quiet. It should be around seven-thirty by now. Which is when the early shift comes in.

You lie there, a little more conscious now, and listen to the soundscape change. The beeping of the equipment that is being activated. From what you can tell, it’s the mass spectrometer booting up as well as a centrifuge starting a cycle. Gods, you hate gravity.

~

You can barely see straight when you go to see Dr. Wilson. He ordered a test. And since you, like a madwoman, already finished your work for basically the rest of the week during the night, you did it right away. You could have ignored it and done it tomorrow. Shit, you could have not done anything for two whole days, and no one would have questioned it – aware of your usual workload. The only reason you stayed at all, and did anything except stare at your empty workstation, is because you could not bring yourself to actually leave. For several reasons. One, maybe something urgent would have come in. Two, it somewhat would have been embarrassing to you, whyever. Three…going home would not have solved anything.

When you knock on his door, you don’t get a reply. You knock again, even though you know this means, he simply is running around somewhere.

“Shit.” You mumble to yourself and rest your forehead against the wooden door, the file you have for him almost slipping out of your hand.

Then, of course, you hear the clicking of a cane and Dr. House speak up: “My, my. How badly do you want to see pretty boy?” You can hear him inhale for another annoying comment, but when you turn around to glare at him, he falls silent.

“What happened to you?” He asks, sounding incredulously surprised. Hell, he sounds shocked.

You just let out a huff and roll your eyes at him.

But when you try to walk past him, he takes a step to block your way.

“Woah there.” He stops you.

“What?” You snap. A lot harsher than you intended and immediately backpaddle. “Sorry, I’m tired.”

House scoffs: “I gathered that much.”

You finally look at his face and are not only stunned by how stupidly pretty he looks today, but only how earnestly worried. You try to chalk both of your observations up to sleep deprivation, but you know damn well that they are correct.

You hear him say something. Well, you see his lips move. But nothing registers.

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked how long you’ve been awake.”

“I don’t know. What time is it?”

“Four.”
“Shit.” You curse. “Like thirty-six hours.”

“Why?” His voice keeps switching between bewilderment and worry. It disorients you and you’re not sure how you’re supposed to reply.

You shrug your shoulders: “Can’t sleep.”

“Still?”

You freeze at that comment and look into his eyes. There is no way he caught on to your sleeping problems. As in, your chronic ones. He does not see you regularly enough for that.

When you don’t reply, he pulls out his prescription pad from the inside pocket of his blazer. You furrow your eyebrows: “You don’t have to- You carry this around with you?”

Now he shrugs his shoulders, holding the prescription pad with the hand that’s also leaning on the cane while scribbling something onto it.

“I don’t-“

“It’s not sleep meds. It’s relaxants.”

Confused, you take the slip he holds out to you and read it.

“House, you can’t just prescribe me that. I’m not your patient, you’ll get in trouble.”

“No, I won’t.” He replies with a grin. And you know he’s right.

“Take two and go to bed.”

You want to reply something annoyed, something snarky about him patronizing you. But then you realize that this is House. Doing you a favor. Just because he can.

You stare at him for a moment, still wondering if he might be joking, but he looks deeply serious.

He nods down the hall, towards the pharmacy. “Go on.”

“Right…” You look down at the prescription and back at his face.

House gives you another nod and you finally walk past him and down the hallway. In the elevator, you look at the paper in your hand again. You furrow your eyebrows when you realize that he gave you two prescriptions. Confused, you look at the second.

Despite your state you start to chuckle when you realize what he did.

He wrote down his number for you.

Part III:  Can’t Pretend

That was extremely smooth. You text House, lying in bed, chuckling to yourself.

He replies surprisingly quickly. I am quite proud of it, thank you.

You’re thinking about a reply, when he sends you a second message.

You have not slept yet, have you?

You consider lying, but then just text back. No, but I’m trying to at least rest.

No way you think texting ME is resting.

Why? You think you’re such an exciting person?

We both know I am.

Rolling your eyes, you chuckle at his answer, wondering if he’s home too. If he’s on his couch. Does he have a couch? Probably…Maybe a glass of whiskey in his hand…You wonder if he types with both thumbs, or just one. Like most people in their late thirties…

Again, he is quicker with a second message than you are with a reply. You really should sleep.

You let out an audible sigh. I know, I know. It’s not that easy.

I know. Try a little harder.

You’re not sure why. But that sentence hits you in the chest full force and you gasp for air. You stare at it for a long moment as you cycle through so many emotions so quickly that you get dizzy in your already disoriented state.

It’s ridiculous. The whole thing is. House gave you his number. He made a move. Like a move.

You flirted with him, obviously. He flirted back. Which you didn’t expect, but he did and you both did it a bit more strongly. But you have no reason to see each other often, so every time you do, it’s like a balancing act to figure out if the other person still wants to flirt. If they are still interested. If they still feel like smothering you with kisses until you’re dizzy for a very different reason than you are now.House Hou     

Because you certainly do. And every time you look into House’ dangerous, crystal eyes, you hope with all you have he does too.

And now he gave you his number, and you’re texting while you’re nearing forty hours without sleep and you have no idea what to do.

You reread all the texts again desperately trying to figure out what to say. You settle on, I will. Which feels equally adequate and lame.

Message me when you wake up.

You stare at that text even longer. ‘Message me when you wake up’.

“What the fuck.” You mumble to yourself.

But you want to. You want to. Which means you have to sleep first.

It suddenly dawns on you that that’s why he said that.

You’re good. You reply. I will.

 ~

You wake up fourteen hours later, dehydrated and confused. You also drooled onto the pillow and feel hot and cold at the same time. But most importantly, you’re well rested and still on time to get ready for work without stressing too much.

God, you feel so much better. Your brain actually works, your thoughts make sense, and you’re not constantly walking through a fog. Especially not after you downed half a bottle of water.

Standing in the kitchen, you stare at the wall for a bit, sipping on your second coffee, trying to get your thoughts in order. You’re still a mess, obviously, but you don’t feel as pathetic. Or out of control. And half-dead.

You check the time again; even when you show up half an hour late, you’ll probably be able to work slowly, since you’ve done so much yesterday. With a groan, and after rubbing your eyes, you drag yourself into the bathroom to shower. First, you shower so cold almost scream, to then turn the warmth of the water up and let it rain down your back, leaning your forehead against the tiles.

Slowly, you start to feel your body again. It’s like every strand of muscle is coming back online one after the other. You roll your shoulders and stretch your wrists and do whatever else you learned to ground yourself and focus easily.

You’re not sure, but you think the sleeping meds left your system first, and now the muscle relaxants are. You, honestly, didn’t really read the instructions, you just did what House told you and took two.

You chuckle to yourself rinsing your hair and are about to turn off the water when you register what you were just thinking about.

House.

You’re sure you imagined everything in your delirious state. But then you frantically grab your phone and there they are: the messages you exchanged yesterday.

“No way.” You mumble to yourself.

You put your phone down just to pick it back up. And then, before you can listen to your lengthy inner monologue how this is weird and stupid and not a good idea and how you misunderstood the situation, you text him:

Pick me up at 7?

You instantly regret it. You probably should have flirted more. Danced around a little. But yet…that’s what you did for the past months.

While you dry your hair House, thank goodness, replies.

I was worried you accidentally killed yourself with those pills.

You burst out laughing at his blunt response, more than relieved. Even more when his next message reads

How about we meet outside the hospital at 5? After work?

I’d like to get ready, maybe?

I would have clocked you for a morning-shower person.

Yeah, well. I still like to not smell of disinfectant and blood on a first date.

This is a date?

What would you like to call it?

There is a small pause before he replies.

No, you’re right. It’s a date. See you at 5.

~

You wait a few meters away from the entrance, feeling somewhat awkward to just stand around. You even considered having a smoke just to look less out of place. Instead, you got yourself a coffee from the cafeteria and sip on it while closing your eyes now and then to enjoy the last rays of autumn sunshine, the sky already getting dark.

Since House made the executive decision to go out right after work, you packed an extra undershirt and some make up to freshen up after your shift, hoping your perfume smells nicer and overpowers the scent of the lab you usually carry for a few hours every day after work.

When you hear the sounds of his cane on the pavement, you ignore it for a moment and keep your eyes closed a little longer, taking a few deep breaths, before you turn your head and look at him.

For some reason, it surprises you that House looks excited to see you. You expected him to look sterner, but he actually has a smile on his lips.

Before you can greet him, he says quietly, and you’re not sure if to you or himself: “God you’re pretty.”

“Hello to you too.” You reply as if he hadn’t just flustered you and put a stupid grin on your face.

He stops a few feet away from you, his backpack over his shoulder, leaning on his cane. When he does not reply otherwise, and you’re done ogling at him, you ask: “Where are we going?”

“Diner down the street?”

“Alright, sure.” You smile at him again and then start to walk in the direction he’s going, following him. You focus so much on making sure not to walk faster than him that you forget to say anything else; anything at all, really.

Eventually, House speaks up: “I’m somewhat disappointed that you don’t smell of disinfectant and blood.”

“Shit, I had hoped you would prefer perfume.”

He lets out a small chuckle. You’re not sure if he’s just humoring you or actually found that amusing, but it’s the first time you heard him make that sound, so you’re not complaining.

After a pause, you ask: “How’s the case going? I can always only guess based on the tests you order.”

House rubs his forehead and for a moment you fear he’ll be annoyed by the question itself or you trying to make small talk in general.

“Still nothing.” He finally replies, making you somewhat relax your shoulders. “If you want, I can tell you more about it.”

“Sure,” You nod, “I often find that discussing a case and structuring it in my head to talk about it helpful.”

House glances at you and nods, then asking: “What do you mean work on cases, though? You somewhat do by proxy, but…”

You almost stop walking, realizing your slipup. You basically started to talk about your former job, and how worked that.

“Well,” You save it, not even really lying, “I prefer to…get more involved than lab workers usually do. It helps me with my own work. Like, it makes it easier to know what I’m actually looking for, if that makes sense.”

Nodding along, House replies: “It does…It also makes your approach somewhat unique.”

“I made the mistake of telling that Cuddy during my interview and now I have to keep it up.” You comment.

It makes House let out a snort: “Rookie mistake.” And then stops in front of the diner. You barely registered that you’re already there, too focused on him.

You manage to not make it uncomfortable, however, by immediately throwing your empty cup of coffee you had fumbled with the entire time, and open the door for him. He walks past you without thanking you and then chooses at a table in the corner.

When you slide into the booth and take your jacket and scarf off, House makes the comment you had hoped he wouldn’t.

“You seem nervous.”

You glance at him and try to control your facial expression but then give up with a sigh and say: “Well, I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m on a date with you.”

A smirk tugs on the corner of his lips but before he can say something smug, the waiter approaches you.

After you both ordered, you ask: “Aren’t you? Nervous, I mean.”

House looks back at you, his crystal eyes boring into you.

“Yes.” He then replies.

You hide your smile behind your glass as you take a sip.

“Will you actually tell me why you get so involved with the cases you work on?” House asks later on.

It was confusingly easy to make conversation with him while you ate your pies, talking about work, your favorite places to eat, discussing which is Van Morrison’s best album…but now he hits you with the question that makes you shift in your seat.

You settle for the technically true answer again.

“Habit from my former job. I worked in DC, Georgetown mostly. It was standard basically. And I like it.”

“What made you move here?”

“The new job.”

He rolls his eyes: “Don’t be a smartass.”

“I’m serious, though. Higher salary and cheaper rent. Better weather…”

“No lovers that wanted you to stay?”

You chuckle: “No.”

“No lovers or they didn’t want you to stay?”

“I didn’t stay.”

House pauses and looks at you for a longer moment before he goes on: “I’m surprised that the Plainsboro pays more than Georgetown.”

“I’m very convincing.”

“Oh, I know.”

You grin at him, biting your bottom lip to not make an even more suggestive comment than he just did.

Changing the topic, you ask: “Does Wilson know you’re here?”

“Yeah, why?”

“What did he have to say about that?”

“He said ‘finally’.”

Amused, you ask: “Really?”

“Oh yeah. Apparently, he had enough of us hopelessly pining for each other.”

“It wasn’t that hopeless, was it?”

House smiles: “No it wasn’t.”

~

The sound of leather jackets hitting the ground can be heard while House walks you towards his bedroom.

“God we’re stupid.” You say between kisses. “This is stupid.”

“Which part exactly?” He asks, nibbling on your bottom lip.

“I- I don’t even know.”

House lets out a hum and pushes you onto the bed, immediately going for your belt.

“Impatient?”

“Want me to slow down?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.” He smirks and yanks it open.

You almost giggle with delight and lift your hips to let him pull your pants down before you tug on his shirt to not only make him take it off but also join you in bed.

He throws it aside and you can rake your eyes over his chest before he crawls onto you, pushing your legs apart with his knee.

It makes you groan, and you immediately grind against it. Which, in return, makes House curse under his breath before he smashes his lips onto yours again.

Gasping at his urgency and what feels almost like neediness, you clasp his face and push your tongue into his mouth. House moans against your lips and, while propping his hands up left and right of your head, kicks your knees further apart so that he can settle between them; grinding down on you as soon as he can.

Despite him still wearing his jeans, you can feel his hard dick and automatically buck up into him.

“Fuck, House.” You mumble while he latches on to your throat, kissing down to your collarbone, impatiently shoving your shirt aside to expose your shoulder and bite into it.

“God, I want you bad.” He murmurs. “It’s insane.”

You’re just able to reply with a half-moan, half-grunt, before you shove him over to roll onto him. He lets out a surprised, dark chuckle and runs his hands up and down your sides while you take your shirt off. HeHe

Soon, he’s tightly holding onto your hips and guides you while you grind down on him, leaning over so that you can kiss him again.

With every pant, your kisses get deeper and sloppier and more intense; until, eventually, House flips you back over. You close your eyes for a moment and just take deep breaths, before you watch him sit on the edge of the bed and take his pants off, kicking them aside.

The moment he turns back to you, you see the scar. It’s deep and looks brutal. Your eyes widen before you can control your facial expression, and House says: “Just ignore it.”

“It’s hard to ignore.” You say without thinking and immediately bite your tongue. House, however, laughs at your comment before he assures you: “I’m fine. I took a Vicodin before we met up.”

“Is that why you didn’t seem as nervous as me?”

He rolls his eyes and lies back down on top of you, now only your underwear separating your groins. “Shut up.”

You roll your eyes back at him and pull him in for another deep kiss. At the same time, House slithers his hand between your heating up bodies and pulls your panties down. You shiver; and moan into his mouth when he runs his fingers through your drenched labia.

“Oh my…” He murmurs. “You want me bad too, hm?”

“Obviously.” You reply and reach down to cup his groin. It makes him inhale sharply and let go of you to reach over and rip open the drawer of the nightstand and get out a condom. You use the time to push your panties down fully and reach into his boxers to free his dick.

House sputters when you touch him skin to skin and almost drops the condom.

“Christ, woman.”

You grin at him and watch as he sits back on his heels to roll the condom over his notably dripping dick before he leans over you. One hand propped up next to your head, the other tilting his dick up to find your entrance.

In unison, you inhale sharply when he pushes the tip into you. Already the smallest stimulation sending jolts down your spine.

House lets his head hang, and you spread your legs further as you both glance at his dick further disappearing into you; before you make eye contact and stare at each other, slack-jawed, as while he fully pushes into you, bottoming out without resistance.

“Fuck, you’re so wet and warm.” House tells you through gritted teeth as he leans in for a kiss.

You moan into his mouth, tilting your hips to feel him press against your g-spot, and it makes you lose your mind. He fills you up perfectly, stretches you to just on the verge to painful; and your head falls back, and you eventually reply breathily: “You feel so good. Like, really good.”

House hums and kisses over your jaw, dipping his head down to suck on the skin above your breasts. It makes you arch into him and put your hands on his back

Then, finally, he starts to move in and out of you. In reaction, you let out an embarrassingly loud moan. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent of muffling the noises you make. You’re also closer to his mouth that way and can hear all the little pants and groans he lets out.  

“Can I go harder?” He whispers.

You nod frantically, already moving your hips down to meet his thrusts.

You’re torn between staring at him, basking in the fact that it’s actually House you’re having sex with right now, and closing your eyes and fully indulging in the feeling of him fucking into you with long, hard strokes.

The moment, however, your body begins to tense and you feel yourself clench around him, your eyes fly open and you make eye contact.

“God, I- fuck, House.”

“Hm?”

“It’s-“ You take a deep breath. “It’s embarrassing how quickly- oh Christ.”

He nudges your jaw with his nose before he kisses you surprisingly softly and asks quietly: “You’re going to cum for me?”

“Yes, yes.” You pant, trying to hold his intense gaze.

With a smile, he reaches between you and finds your clit with his thumb, making you clench even harder and move your hips with his more urgently.

“Come on, show me.” He murmurs.

Your mind is too fuzzy to reply anything, and you just finally fully close your eyes and let your head loll to the side, lips parted, cheeks flushed.

Part IV: I’m Starting to Think I Care

You take a drag of your cigarette and look at House, shrugging your shoulders at his question: “I think I might be only seeking out intimate contact after I fail. But then again, I usually don’t experience failure.”

He stares at you for a long moment, the emotions in his eyes switching several times until he snorts: “Did you just quote a serial killer?”

“A fictional one, but yes.”

“Are you serious?”

“No, that was the joke.”

“Imagine if I hadn’t gotten it immediately and looked it up later…Can you imagine what I would have though if my- you, would have quoted Dexter to my face? After I asked you why you so randomly turn up at my door.”

“I did indeed put much faith in your pop cultural education there. But you also once made a Pokémon reference during a differential diagnosis.”

House stares at you: “You caught that?”

You gesture towards his shelf with books, DVDs, and game cartridges: “I’ve seen your DS. I get it when you mention Arceus creating the universe.”

House looks where you point and looks back at you: “You’re wasted in that lab.”

Taking another drag of your cigarette, you lean back against the cushions of his couch and raise an eyebrow.

“Don’t give me that look. I told you before you’re overqualified.”

“And I told you that intelligence and perceptive capabilities are not proven with degrees.”

“No,” He nods, “and I told you that you’re making up excuses to not leave your lab.”

You look at him for a long moment before you drown the rest of your cigarette in your almost empty glass of wine. You can see him tense the moment you let it fall and put the glass down.

“Drop it.” You tell him.

“Why?” He leans towards you, elbows on his knees.

“Because I’m telling you to.”

House lets out a huff.

You sigh and rub your face, letting your head fall back.

After a pause, he scoots a little closer and says: “Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

“That’s the point.” You ever so slightly raise your voice. “It’s not that bad.”

“Then why-“

“It didn’t have to be. Nothing has to be that bad to- to-“ You clear your throat and look back at the ceiling.

“To what?”

Your eyes snap to House, who is looking at you with his almost childish curiosity, but also deeply concerned.

“I think you know the answer.”

His eyes narrow: “Why would I?”

Now you huff.

“Why do you have to be so stubborn?!” He throws his hands up.

“Why do you care?”

“Because I- Wh- What?”

“What do you want to hear House, really?”

He pauses, eyes darting over your face. He had opened his mouth immediately as if to reply instantly, but then closed it again and now just stares.

“I would like to hear why…why you do not strive for more.”

“More? I’m head lab tech in the same hospital as you, and-“

“Stop. Just answer.”

You straighten your back, hand resting on your own shoulder. “I don’t like what a fair question that is.”

House chuckles at that, making you let out an amused huff.

“I-“ It takes you a few tries before you say the full sentence, trying to convey the gravity of it. But the look in House’ eyes tells you that he immediately gets what you mean when you finally answer: “Because I’m tired, House. I am so tired.”

After a pause, he says: “People get burnt out, you can-“

You shake your head. “Some people burn out. Others just burn.”

House looks at you, aghast, for a moment and then says: “That can not possibly be as profound as it sounded.”

You laugh: “I’m afraid it is.”

House smiles to himself and rubs his chin, eyes darting around his apartment and eventually back to you.

“There was this case.” He starts, immediately gaining your full attention. “Male, fifties, reduced to minimal brain functions, in a wheelchair. He came to us after he tried to drown himself – which, of course, his family wasn’t hearing it…”

You roll your eyes and nod along. “I was so convinced I got it. I knew that just one injection

could make him walk again, talk to his family again…but Cuddy said it was a hunch. Wilson said I had no proper medical reason. And they were right. But so was I.”

“They didn’t let you do it?”

“No…but then Cuddy did it.”

“And?”

House groans and takes a sip of his drink.

“It worked.”

“It worked!?”

“Yes, but they didn’t tell me for weeks. They…” He sighs deeply. “Wilson said, eventually, that if they told me that I solved that case without any medical evidence, I would think I am god... And he was worried that my wings would melt."

“God doesn’t limp.”

House blinks and looks at you with an expression you cannot quite place. Somewhere between amusement and genuine affection. Then he snorts.

“What?”

“That’s what I said.”

You rub your forehead. “Of course…”

Then, after a pause, you look at him again and add: “He smiled though.”

“Who?” House asks, intrigued.

“Icarus. As he fell.”

Now House just stares at you, and you have no idea if he’s about to cry or laugh in your face or roll his eyes for five minutes straight.

“So did Sisyphus, by the way.”  You go on, nonetheless. “He didn’t have to try to keep rolling the boulder up that hill. He could have just left it, but he liked it.”

“You-“ House starts.

“Sartre. Mostly.”

He rubs his eyes: “Goddamnit, woman.”

“Hm?”

“You’re too smart.”

“That’s like-“

“If you downplay what you just said and how clever it was, I will hit you with my cane at the next opportunity.”

You can’t help but smirk at it, and sadly you now don’t have a glass of wine to hide it behind since you so dramatically used it to put out your cigarette.

“Why did you tell me that anyway? About the case, I mean.”

House shakes his head: “I don’t...”

You straighten your back and look at him for a long moment.

“I think, because finding out I was right, didn’t…somehow it didn’t mean as much as I thought it would.”

“It didn’t put out any fires, hm?”

“No.” He chuckles bitterly and finishes his glass.

Book II coming your way.

My Carrd: Rye's Carrd

Chapter Text

Part V: Can I Be Your Type?

“So…You and House, huh?” Wilson asks quietly you when you meet in the line of the cafeteria.

You raise an eyebrow at him: “House and I?”

He clears his throat and leans closer as if you were conspiring. “I mean, you went out, no?”

“Yes.” You reply in an equally hushed tone, as you grab your coffee. Wilson nods, appearing deep in thought, and follows you back to the lobby.

“And you…you know?” He goes on eventually.

Your lips twitch: “We what?”

He lowers his voice even more: “You slept together?”

“Mind telling me why you’re asking these very inappropriate questions?”

“Well, several reasons.” Wilson rubs the back of his head, now really having your attention.

“Go on.” You say, looking at him over the rim of your coffee cup as you take a sip.

“Jesus, House was right…You are intimidating.”

You bark out a laugh. “He said that?”

“Well, his exact words were ‘go see what happens when you try and talk to her about it’.”

“And what is ‘it’?”

“The two of you.”

“You do realize you’re talking in circles?”

Wilson gives you a sheepish smile and a nod before he takes a deep breath and says: “So, you slept together?”

“Is that what House told you?”

“Repeatedly.”

You laugh again, causing Wilson’s shoulders to relax.

“Yes, we did. Repeatedly.” You reply finally, enjoying how hard he tries not to look flustered. “Why are you asking?”

“I just-“ He sighs, making you tilt your head. For the first time during this conversation, you’re not simply amused, but nervous.

After another long pause, he finally blurts out: “He’s not as tough as he looks.”

You look at him, surprised by how earnestly worried he sounds.

“I know.” You nod.

“You do?” Wilson’s eyes widen a little.

“I’ve seen him naked.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Me neither.”

“Oh…Oh.”

You laugh softly and keep looking at him until he cuts his eyes away, not adding anything.

So, you do.

“I think it’s sweet of you that you’re looking out for him.”

“You do!?” His eyes flick back to your face.

“Yes.”

“You don’t think it’s overbearing?”

“That too.”

Wilson gives you a nervous chuckle.

“What else did he say?”

“Who? House? About what?”

“Me, of course.”

“Oh, erm-“

“Scale one to ten, how indiscrete was he?”

“Less than you might expect.”

“So, you don’t know what color my pubic hair is?”

Wilson makes a sound somewhere between a squeal and a yelp at your words, immediately going completely red in the face.

“I- I-“ Wilson stutters and mumbles eventually, “I can see why House likes you.”

You tantalize him a little longer with your gaze until you say, honest and quietly: “Don’t worry even more than he does.”

“Alright…” Wilson nods.

You look at him, questioningly, and he repeats with a little more conviction: “Alright.”

~

“Wilson came to talk to me today.” You tell House while he hands you a beer from his fridge. He looks at you, more than surprised. “He pretended it was by chance. In the cafeteria.”

Amused, House leans against the counter, looking at you. “What did he want?”

“Basically, told me not to mess you up further.”

House rolls his eyes: “Of course.”

“Don’t roll your eyes. You caused that by telling him we slept together.”

“Do you mind that I did?” He sounds lighthearted, but there is an edge to his voice.

“I wish you had asked me.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, I don’t.”

House nods and takes a sip of his beer before asking: “Why not?”

“Why should I?”

He shrugs his shoulders: “Not every hot, young lab worker wants to be known for sleeping with the mean cripple.”

“Okay, first off, not a lab worker.” You point at yourself. “I’m bosswoman of those people. Second, what do you mean ‘known for’? Who else did you tell?”

“Only Wilson.”

“Right…and also ‘mean cripple’? Really?”

House sighs, rubbing his forehead, “…I can’t believe Wilson snitched.”

“He just worries.”

“He always worries.”

“So do you.”

House groans. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m only trying to match your energy here.”

“Well, you’re succeeding.”

You smile at him while you take a big sip of your beer. You notice House watch your throat move while you drink and you roll your eyes at him, playfully. “Let the woman have her beer in peace.”

“Not my fault you’ve done things to me with your throat so ungodly, I can’t not think of it when you…swallow.”

“I don’t constantly stare at your hands, do I?”

“You do when you think I’m not looking.”

After a short pause, you reply: “Touché, pussycat.”

House snorts and takes a big gulp of his beer, before he asks what feels very sudden to you: “Would you like to go to a bar? With me, I mean.”

Your eyes slightly widen.

“Now?”

Checking the clock, he chuckles: “I meant the weekend, but now works too.”

“Oh.” You laugh softly, realizing how weirdly eager you sounded, even though you were simply caught off guard.

House gives you a small smirk and adds: “I think an actual date would be nice.”

“An actual date?”

“Yeah.”

“We called the first time we went out, to the diner, as well as when we had coffee after work dates too.”

“I know, I know.” He rubs the back of his head, trying his darndest to appear nonchalant; which is amusing to you and the way he acts right now reminds you oddly of Wilson.

When he doesn’t add anything to explain himself further, you reply: “Okay, I agree.”

“Yeah?” His eyes flick from his hands to your face.

“Yeah, sure.” You smile.

His mouth opens and closes but then he only nods; though a smile on his lips.

Which makes you fully focus on them. He, of course, notices, and wets his bottom lip with his tongue before he takes another sip of his beer.

Your eyes dart from his eyes to his lips a few times, smiling.

“What?” He asks with a smirk.

“You look good.”

“I- What?” Now sounding a lot more incredulous.

“You look good.” You repeat even though you know he understood you perfectly well.

His usual demeanor returns as quickly as it went, and he grins: “You’re shameless.”

You raise your eyebrows at him: “I’m shameless?”

“I didn’t say you’re the only shameless one.”

You snort and drink more of your beer before you ask: “Want to make out?”

“God, yes.” House replies and immediately puts his beer down to pull you in by your wrist and press his mouth to yours.

You smile against his lips before you part yours and actually kiss him back. It makes him let out an almost inaudible sigh and let go of your wrist to run his hand over your side, and then let it rest on the small of your back.

Tilting your head back and to the side, you deepen the kiss, snaking one hand around him, letting it rest on his back too, and the other on the side of his neck.

Soon, you find yourself crowded against the counter, his hands left and right of you. Then he bites your bottom lip, and you go into a frenzy, grabbing onto his shirt roughly, pulling him down even harder.

House groans and helps you up on the counter and stands between your legs. With a tug, he makes sure you sit right on the edge and he can grind against you.

“Fuck, House.” You breathe out, your chest heaving.

He groans: “My name sounds so pretty on your lips.”

“You should hear how I talk about real estate.”

Rolling his eyes, he groans: “Shup up.” And kisses you again.

When your lips are red and swollen and you’re starting to push his shirt up, it suddenly occurs to you that you’re sitting while he is standing. Which is rather obvious, but the implications of it only now register with you.

“Your leg.” You mumble while you throw his shirt aside, running your hands over his chest as soon as possible.

“Don’t worry about it.” He immediately dismisses it, sounding like it’s more out of reflex than anything else.

Hands on his shoulders, you pause for a moment, making him sigh and lean back to look at you.

“You make me feel shitty when you do that.”

“When I do what?”

“Pity me.”

You have to bite your tongue not to snap at him and instead change the tone and cup his dick that is currently straining his jeans. “I’m simply caring about the person I have sex with. That’s not pity. That’s the bare minimum of consideration.”

He rolls his eyes again at you but quickly gives up and grabs your hand to pull you to the sofa; apparently not even willing to make it to the bedroom. But you absolutely do not want to argue about that and follow him with an almost embarrassingly excited giggle.

It makes him grin and push you down on the sofa, almost rough. Certainly impatient.

“Desperate?” You tease.

“Painfully hard.” He replies deadpan while he watches you push your pants down and undoes his belt. You grin and soon get to see what truly must be painfully hard.

You’re about to ask for a condom when he picks his pants up again and gets one from his pocket.

“You just carry that with you at all times?”

“Since I met you, yes.” He grins and watches you watch him roll the condom on.

“Since you met me?”

House crawls onto you, his bad leg stretched, the good one slightly bend to carry his weight.

“You would like that wouldn’t you.” He murmurs, leaning in again to nibble on the skin above your breasts while he lines himself up. “The idea of me being so desperate for you that I carry a condom at all times, just in case. Even before we ever really talked to each other.”

You shiver at the thought but don’t admit that that does, in fact, turn you on.

House, though, doesn’t let your get away with it and pushes into you just an inch, making you groan and spread your legs further, but then has the self-restraint to pause and ask again: “Come on. Admit it. The idea of me being so pathetic makes you even wetter, doesn’t it?”

“Well, did you? Did you carry one ever since we met?” You shoot back, but then don’t have the willpower to wait for an answer from him and just admit, “Yes, yes. It turns me the fuck on.”

He pushes in further, maybe halfway, stretching you deliciously; and then waits until you pry your eyes open and look at him to tell you: “I did.” And then pushes in all the way.

You’re not sure which of those two things make you moan louder, but you do. Pathetically loudly so.

House smirks but seems too lost in the feeling of you around him to really tease you again. Instead, to your delight, he leans in for more sloppy and needy kisses and begins to roll his hips.

“Holy shit.” You moan, eyes fluttered shut.

House’ head falls forward and he rests it against your shoulder, gently pushing until he’s fully inside of you. It makes you gasp and hold on to him tighter, your nails digging into the muscles of his back.

You arch into him, seeking more skin contact, losing any train of thought…You just hold onto him as he thrusts harder and faster.

Usually, you like to be on top more, but House is really good in this position, and you wonder if it’s because it’s the most comfortable for him, or because it’s his favorite…anyway, you’re not complaining and just mumbling senseless affirmations into his ear.

“Oh god.” House breathes out, shivering and clenching his jaw when you clench harder.

“You okay?” You whisper even though you can barely focus.

“Yes, yes…” He’s groaning and moving slower now, muffling himself by pressing his lips to your skin.

You’re moving your hips down since he’s going slower, not willing to stop the momentum that is currently pushing you closer and closer to your release.

“Shit, wait, wait.” House tells you through gritted teeth.

“What is it?” You ask, forcing yourself to still.

“I- I’m going to cum if you don’t stop that.”

“But me too.”

“Like now.”

You grin to yourself, feeling House bite into your shoulder. “Fuck.” He moans as you begin to move your hips again.

“I-“ He grunts and his hips stutter. You clench harder, willing to just let him stumble over the edge before you cum yourself, more than happy to feel his fingers in a bit.

“Fuck!” He curses, louder this time and then suddenly stops moving, twitching inside of you before he collapses onto your chest.

He’s panting and holding your upper arms tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh while he seemingly tries to calm himself. You give him a moment and run your hands over his back.

“Sorry.” He eventually mumbles; and then chuckles. “I feel like a horny teenager not lasting more than five minutes.”

“Come on, it was at least six.”

House chuckles again and pulls out of you, carefully taking off the condom and putting a knot into it. You watch him and can see how much he came.

“Yes, yes, I know.” He comments, seeing your smirk.

“I don’t mind.”

“You don’t have to say that to make me feel better.”

“I don’t mind because I know what you’re about to do with your hands.”

He lets out a laugh, now sounding a lot more relieved; but then he also takes your hand and says: “Bedroom.”

“Yes, Sir.” You get up, legs a little wobbly and feeling somewhat sore.

He rolls his eyes at your reply but also notices how you’re moving. “I didn’t go too hard too quickly, did I?”

“No, no. I would have said something.”

“Good, okay.” He says, seemingly more to himself than you; while he pushes you towards his bedroom, having you in the sheets within what feels seconds to your high brain.

Then he, however, does not use his hand but begins to kiss down your body. You glance at him and watch him, meeting his gaze.

“Can I go down on you?”

“Be my guest.” You chuckle.

“I’m really good.”

“Oh, I can imagine.” You say, amused by his serious tone as he spreads your thighs, conviction in his eyes.

Merely one minute later, though, you believe him wholeheartedly.

Hand in his hair, tugging on it, you make sure to keep his face pressed against you while he devours you.

Of course, you received head before and it was good many times…but by god does House go in. You’re arching off the bed, panting, cursing, and your entire body thrumming with lust and desire.

Somehow, he makes his tongue feel rough and stiff, while also being warm and pleasurable.

Both hands on the outsides if your thighs, making you bend your knees and holding on to your tightly, House keeps going tirelessly; not that it takes particularly long until your legs start to shake, and your body goes rigid…

Heat explodes between your legs and spreads through you, making you let out sounds somewhere between moans and yelps.

House keeps rubbing your thighs and hips, calming you while you shiver; one of your hands resting on your forehead, the other still tangled in his hair.

Slowly, House moves up your body, kissing the top of your thighs and then your sides, and then your shoulder and neck before he eventually arrives at your lips.

Still a little breathless, you kiss him back. His kiss is a lot softer than you expected and it makes you smile.

Part VI: Third Date

“Truth or dare.” House declares when you return from the restroom and find that he ordered shots while you were gone.

“You can’t possibly be serious.” You say while you sit back down in the booth, even though you know he’s serious – and want him to be.

“I fear I am.” He replies with a grin, pushing three of the six shots towards you.

“Alright.” You agree, not sure yourself why.

House’ eyes twinkle with mischief and excitement when you do and he sits up straighter, leaning both arms on the table across from you.

“Truth.” You decide to start.

House nods, his eyes boring into yours before he says after a few seconds: “Have you ever cheated on a partner?”

You sputter, the question coming totally out of left field for you. However, you’re more than willing to reply truthfully. “No. Never. I believe myself to be above such cowardice.”

He nods, seemingly satisfied with your answer.

“You pass.” He sips on his whisky, his shots not touched yet. “My turn.”

A smirk tugs on your lips, and you ask: “Truth or dare?”

He pretends to think for a moment but then answers quickly: “Dare.”

You don’t even hesitate to say: “Give me all the cash in your wallet.”

House barks out a laugh and pulls out his wallet to hand it to you.

“Here you go, there’s about fifty in there.”

You laugh when he does it with zero hesitation and take the money – even though you know very well you’ll end up using it to pay for the drinks.

House crosses and uncrosses his arms over his chest, watching you take the money out of his wallet, still amused.

“Dare done, my turn.” He eyes you, putting his now empty wallet back into the inside pocket of his blazer. “Truth or dare?”

You lean back in your seat for a moment but then lean against the table again, closer to him, and say: “Truth again.”

“Alright then…What’s your secret kink?”

This one feels less unpredictable to you, and you reply, grinning: “What makes you think I have a secret kink?”

House mirrors your grin and raises and eyebrow: “Come on, a girl like you. There’s no way you don’t.”

“A girl like me?”

He looks you up and down; whatever he can see across the table anyway.

“Yeah, a girl like you. You know…you’re interesting. Smart. Good looking. You got confidence.”

“Alright. You’ve charmed me…” You giggle and take a shot even though you don’t have to. After commenting on how you like the alcohol he chose for the shots, you answer his question. “Spit. I like spit.”

House’ eyes widen, and he looks briefly taken aback. “Spit…like-?”

Somewhat satisfied with his reaction, you try to get him to say it. “Like…?”

Clearing his throat, he looks almost flustered. Which excites you even more. Cause he appears the kind of flustered that makes you think he’s not opposed but intrigued.

“You like- spit. Like, as in…” He gestures between the two of you. “You like being spat on?”

You nod: “On occasion.” Shivering at the mental image of House spitting on your cunt before shoving himself into you.

“Interesting.” He gets it together a bit. “Anywhere specific, or…?”

You take a breath, feeling the alcohol making you overheat just as much as the topic. Which you enjoy.

“The chest, the face, between my legs…”

House smiles, his demeanor becoming a bit darker, a slightly feral quality to his gaze.

“Have you ever had-“

You interrupt him: “That was more than one question. Your turn.” You smile and tap your fingers on the table, noticing how you’re both leaning against it, towards each other. “Truth or dare?”

House smirks: “Dare.”

You don’t even have to think about it before you dare him: “Show me the last message you sent to a woman.”

He snorts and gets out his phone.

You add: “That wasn’t me or someone from work.”

Now he pauses and stares at you. Raising an eyebrow, you watch him look at you, his phone, the shots on the table in front of him, and back at you.

“Ah, fuck it.” He declares and hands you his phone.

The message is over three months old, you note; Way into you knowing each other and flirting whenever you met, but also far away from when you first went out two weeks ago.

It’s also not a saved contact, just a number.

“Want to come over?” You read the message out loud. It stings a little, but then you notice something. “No reply?”

House sighs and takes the phone away from you. With any annoyed undertone, he says: “No, no reply.”

Pursing your lips, you observe his face. He looks annoyed, but mostly vulnerable, almost embarrassed.

On cue, he takes a shot for no reason but apparently wanting to; before he asks: “Truth or dare?”

You pause for a moment, wondering what he’ll do to get back at you. You, honestly, did not expect to read that kind of message. Nor that he’ll show it to you at all.

“Truth.” You choose a third time.

House leans back, rubbing his stubbly beard. You can tell that he is a little tipsy by now, but he’s also way too in his head to let that truly get to him.

“When was the last time you slept with someone that wasn’t me?” He asks finally.

You laugh at the question, deciding to mess with him: “Two days ago.”

His eyes widen so far, you’re worried they might pop out of his head. And his mouth falls open. And one of his hands clenches the edge of the table.

His reaction is a lot more intense than you expected and you immediately say: “With myself, that is.”

House is tense for another long moment but then lets out a small breath and fights to regain his composure by rolling his eyes at you and saying: “I meant with another person, smartass.”

“About a year ago.” You reply honestly.

He looks surprised again, but this time a lot more pleasantly so.

“A year ago!?”

“Yeah.” You shrug your shoulders.

“So…” He does the math in his head. “Before you started to work at the Plainsboro?”

“Yes.” You nod, observing him vigilantly. You’re not sure, at this point, if he’s relieved or simply amused.

“With whom?”

“You ask a lot of follow up questions when I already told you the truth.”

“Come on, you keep dropping bombs and then expect me not to follow up on them?”

You actually don’t really mind telling him, so you say: “Then partner.”

“But?”

“What do you mean ‘but’?”

“But you broke up?”

“Obviously.”

House chews on his bottom lip and it’s apparent that he wants to ask so many more questions but finally manages to stop himself and instead takes his second shot.

You’re not sure why, but you also do so, shivering as you feel the alcohol run down your throat.

Now, both of you are definitely tipsy and also have one shot left each.

“Alright.” You sit up straight. “Dare.”

House gets a boyish grin on his face and says immediately: “Take off your bra.”

You laugh and look down yourself, thinking of how you’ll do that with the clothes you’re currently wearing. You start by taking off your blazer which makes House let out a choking sound.

“What?” You ask while you lay it aside.

“I thought you’d do it in the restroom.”

That makes you giggle and shake your head: “Where would be the challenge in that?”

“And here I was thinking you couldn’t get more fun.”

“More shameless, maybe.”

“Same thing to me.”

“Well, I’m glad.” You chuckle and snake your arms out of your pullover without taking it off so that you’re still covered. Since you’re in a booth in the corner, and it’s not particularly bright and people are way too focused on themselves and either drunk or close to it, you don’t mind doing this as long as you don’t flash anyone.

House watches you like a hawk, his lips parted, his tongue darting out to wet them, eyes dark and following your every movement.

Finally, you manage to take it off and slither it down your body and out of your undershirt. You fold it under the table and then push it across it, looking around like you’re conspiring or exchanging drugs.

“I’d like it back though.” You grin when House immediately grabs it, putting the rest of your clothes back on properly. You don’t particularly like the feeling of wearing no bra (outside) since it will hurt your back eventually, but for now and for the bit you don’t care. “And careful with the underwire.”

House’ smile widens as he rubs the fabric between his fingers and then struggles to find a place to fit it in his jacket.

“You can pick it up at my place if you catch my drift.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

You laugh quietly, “I think I might.”

House raises his last shot and you raise yours. After clinking glasses, you both down them. This time it makes you full on grimace and shudder and you take a sip of the coke you ordered at some point and has been sitting idly on the side of the table since. Which you’re very thankful for.

“Okay, your last turn too. Don’t think I didn’t notice we skipped you once.” You gesture towards House. “Truth or dare.”

He raises his hands: “Hey, hey. I’d be willing to keep going all night.”

“That’s what she said.”

He laughs loudly: “Are you a sixteen-year-old schoolboy?”

“You’re the one who wanted to play truth or dare!”

After he took a sip of the coke too, he clears his throat and leans closer again: “Truth.”

It makes you freeze for a moment, because he hasn’t done that so far. “Alright, aright.” You nod and push your hair out of your face, trying to think coherently as all the possible questions storm your mind. You want to ask anything from the story about his leg to pry as much as possible about his past relationships.

Eventually, you settle on: “What’s your secret kink?”

Book III coming your way.

My Carrd: Rye's Carrd

Chapter Text

In the beginning there was pain.

It had always been a part of him.

He can’t remember a different beginning.

In the beginning there was hell.

He visited it every day.

He can’t remember a different beginning.

In the beginning there was laughter.

And in the beginning there was rain.

In the beginning there was courage.

And in the beginning he was god.

A god that cried. A god that moaned.

A god that healed, and god that groaned.

He can’t remember a different beginning.

Sometimes, though, he wondered.

If he got lucky,

And made the most of his luck,

Could he get what he needs?

Chapter Text

Part VII: Let’s Pick Up in The Middle

House has his face buried in your chest, teeth grazing your skin.

“You really meant it when you said marking, hm?”

He only lets out a grunt as you feel him suck another bruise into the supple flesh above your boobs.

House just called you a psychopath. Well, he called you ‘not a psychopath’ and you somehow still ended up here.

The only rule you made was ‘not the neck’ but otherwise you just waited to see how House would mark you. It made him shiver almost as much as yourself when you agreed and now, he’s holding your hands above your head with one of his, the other on your hip to keep you still. You writhe anyway, panting and arching into him.

“You like this a lot, don’t you?” He asks, breathless, and glances up at you.

You blink to focus on his face and nod.

“The fact that I’m marking you or the sensation?”

“The sensation.” You breathe out.

Humming, he goes back at it, but now licks over all the bruises and bite marks he left. It makes them sting at first but then calms the burning sensation. You inhale sharply and are too aroused to even try to lie still any longer. Instead, you snake your legs around him and buck your hips up.

House groans, lifting his head now to fully look at you.

“God, you’re pretty with your flushed cheeks and all marked up by me.”

Your jaw clenches because you don’t want to reply anything pathetic; instead, you just groan and rub yourself against him again.

“And those ‘fuck me’ eyes of yours…” He adds and finally lets go of your hands so that you can clasp his face and pull him in for a deep, longing kiss.

House is quick to reciprocate it, pushing his tongue into your mouth almost immediately.

When you break the kiss to breathe, you tell him: “You always look at me with ‘fuck me’ eyes.”

He grins: “That might be wishful thinking on your part.”

You chuckle and flip him over, straddling him. “Doesn’t feel like that.” You comment as you reach down and grab his dick to stroke it.

“I- oh shit.” House’ head falls back.

Looking at him intently, you stroke him languidly, while he just lies there for a moment, clawing into the sheets.

“Tell me, Quantico girl…”

You chuckle: “Hm?”

“What does it say about me that I like to-“

“Shush,” You roll your eyes playfully but are completely serious when you say, “don’t make me psychoanalyze you. You won’t like me when I psychoanalyzed you.”

“Oh, come on, I- Jesus!” He sputters when you interrupt him by running your thumb over his tip and hold him tighter.

“Shut up now.” You tell him, little bite behind it.

House finds your eyes and begins to grin: “You better get up here then. Give my mouth something better to do.”

Hadn’t he tugged on your hips, you would have assumed he’s asking for a kiss. Instead, you freeze for a moment but then start to smile and scoot up his body.

It takes a moment for you to get into a comfortable position, whereas House seems to have little regard for his need to breathe, his nose just barely above your clit.

Otherwise, he makes you hold on to the headboard and holds you in place by clawing into your thighs.

You guessed he was a thigh man the first time he checked you out and his eyes stayed on your upper legs and hips a little longer, but gods were you right…He runs his hands over their outside, his thumb digging into the taut flesh.

When you begin to pant, he presses your thighs closer around his head and gives himself better access; his tongue that was lapping your up and down now fully focused on your clit. House, also though, seems to have noticed earlier how intensely you react to his nose pressing against you, so now and then he tilts his head to do exactly that.

When your thighs begin to shake and unfiltered noises escape your lips, House reaches up and cups your breasts, squeezing them lightly before he reaches up even higher and runs his fingers over the marks he left. It stings and is soothing and makes your eyes roll back and it hurts and is pleasant and effectively takes your mind off any coherent thought you had left.

The next few seconds you’re barely conscious, just completely engulfed by pleasure and you can’t really feel anything else, going pliant and limp…

It makes it easy for House to maneuver you to lie down next to him, gently extending your legs and rubbing them.

“Fuck, House…” You rub your face with a chuckle, aftershocks of your orgasm still making you twitch. He lets out a hum and kisses your neck and shoulder and sucks and bites another mark into the muscles above your collarbone. You’re still overly sensitive and gasp at it, your hands finally able to move again, clasping his face to pull him off you and instead in for a kiss.

As you break it to breathe, both still buzzing with sexual tension, he asks: “Can you keep going?”

~

“House?” You ask quietly, drawing lines on his chest while he holds you pressed against him.

“Hmh?” He sounds like he’s still out of it. Which makes you pause and swallow the question you had.

Instead, after a pause, you say: “I have to get going.”

You can feel him freeze next to you. Looking up at him, you can see the protest written across his face, but then he just nods.

After another long moment, you turn your head and kiss his temple, and then sit up, letting out a little groan at how sore you feel.

Slowly, you get off the bed and collect your clothes and make your way to the bathroom to freshen up. You know, you always feel it, that House is observing you, but you never turn around to find his gaze. Instead, you close the door to the bathroom behind you and go through your usual routine: putting up your hair, wiping off whatever got smudged of your make-up, peeing, cleaning between your legs, washing your hands and neck to cool down, and put your clothes back on.

Today though, while you let the cold water run over your wrists and splash it on your neck, you realize that you are wasting time. That you’re not that overheated, but just want to stay in his space a little longer.

With a sigh, you sit on the edge of the tub and stare at the tiled floor for a bit, spacing out.

The emotionally loaded conversation, one might even call it a fight, you had with House earlier stuck with you, now reaching the forefront of your mind again. He was so desperate to get a reaction out of you. So set on making you lose your composure that he threw at you whatever he had. He purposefully acted against the one rule he made: Love is not an option. He acted like that’s what he expects you to want.

You wonder if this is a power play for him. When he said he needs this to be messy, did he mean he needs you to make it messy? Is he trying to get you to confess something you’re not sure you’re feeling even remotely?

Of course, you like him. Of course, you like to spend time with him, and talk to him, and mostly have sex with him. But actual, deeper feeling had not crossed your mind until just now.

And now, the thought that he did this on purpose makes you want to shut him out. You’re not sure if as a punishment for him or out of fear for your own wellbeing.

When you exit the bathroom while you straighten out your clothes and fasten your belt and start to talk about the case, you pause as you see that House is still lying in bed.

Usually, he’s already in his sweatpants and put a shirt back on, maybe leaning against the dresser, or sitting on the side of the bed and taking a Vicodin.

Irritated, you look at him: “Everything okay?”

He rips his gaze off the floor and finds your eyes. “What? Yeah, yeah…”

He’s so obviously lying that it’s almost laughable. But for some reason, you don’t have it in your heart to call him out on it.

He looks like you feel. And for a moment, you have a quiet understanding. An understanding to not say anything about it. But maybe you are misreading his closed off demeanor.

So, after a pause you go on: “I don’t think the consult from the CDC will be any faster than me in the lab. You know it’s not infectious. Especially you know that it’s not infectious.”

He rolls his eyes: “Yes, but especially I know how long your waiting list is. You’re too good at your job to only work one case at a time.”

“No need to flatter me. I’ll work your case first anyway.”

House opens his mouth as if to disagree, but he just closes it and looks away.

Gods he’s…different today and you’re not sure if you’re weirded out or amused or concerned.

“Anything happen?” You ask eventually.

House just scoffs and finally moves to put his clothes back on.

“What?” You furrow your eyebrows. You know that it’s a somewhat silly question. You know that a lot happened today. But you cannot help but question why.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. I’m just…” He finally settles on “tired.”

You decide to give him an out and chuckle: “No wonder after what we just did.”

He lets out another scoff, this one sounding a little more lighthearted.

“Alright, well.” You awkwardly move towards the bedroom door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Usually, he sees you out. Which you like. But his behavior starts to make you nervous.

First, he provokes you for a reason you still haven’t figured out, then he fucks you like his life depends on it, and now he’s all awkward about it. You are not sure, though, if he’s awkward because he realized himself how out of line he was earlier, or because of how needy he was in bed just minutes ago.

You, however, don’t mind, really. How desperate he was, you mean. You like when he moans for you, when he kisses you so hard your teeth clash and your lips swell. You like when he holds you so tightly, the imprints of his fingers are visible until the next morning. Which you told him, actually. You told him you like sex with him – as if that wasn’t obvious. But he has this look in his eyes sometimes. It shows when he undresses you, and you undress him. By now, you can almost predict the exact moment he’ll give you an ‘are you sure?’ look. Usually, it’s when you open the third button of his shirt. And it’s not the asking for consent kind of ‘do you really want this’ look either. It’s vulnerability that shows up briefly and sometimes makes you say things like ‘I want you, House’.

When you do say these things, he tries to hide his relief by covering it with a smirk. And not once have you called him out on it.

You remind yourself of what Wilson told you: “He is not as tough as he looks”. You figured that out pretty quickly. Probably even before you started sleeping together, but only now. Just now. The moment you saw him still lay in bed while you already get ready to leave, it dawned on you how fake his toughness really is.

Not that you’re calling him weak, no no. You can only guess how much pain he is able to endure on a daily basis. You can also tell, though, how he’s about to come apart at the seams every time he feels anything else. You wonder if he finds comfort in the physical pain when emotional turmoil is about to take over.

Then, however, you realize that you have no right to question any of that. It’s none of your business, really. It’s his mess, not yours.

House somewhat ignores your nervousness and attempt to leave quickly, and limps towards you, putting his hand on the small of your back and walks you to the door. Business as usual.

You smile at him, earnestly, and peck his lips while he unlocks the door. Business as usual.

He smiles back, earnestly, and goes in for a second, deeper kiss. Business as sometimes.

“Night, House.” You say and walk out.

“Night!” He calls after you and closes the door.

You’re already halfway down the stairs when you notice that something is missing.

A noise. He always locks the door right behind you. You always hear it while you walk down.

This time he didn’t.

You try to shrug it off and wave over a taxi.

Part VIII: Deep Honey

The door to the lab hisses open as you enter, hands held up in front of you to let the disinfectant dry before you put on your gloves. The small sting reminds you of the cold storm raging outside that dried out your hands.

You have the Friday afternoon shift. Actually, you had the past three days the afternoon shift, which you don’t mind. The last night you saw House was exhausting and you’re glad you were able to sleep in.

You’re usually always a little drained after you spent the evening with House – physically. Now you also had been out of it emotionally. You didn’t lose sleep over it, but you woke up tense and stiff. You had to shower hot and do some stretches for god’s sake!

Finally, today, you feel a little more like yourself again.

Not that any of this stopped House and you from having sex yesterday; in the utility closet in the basement no one seems to have used in a decade.

It went like this:

You ran into each other in the cafeteria; You were talking to a lab colleague, he was there with Wilson. Despite how awkwardly you had parted ways, you immediately felt the urge to be close to him the moment you locked eyes. And House seemingly felt the same, because a smile tugged on the corners of his lips. He also apparently had stopped listening to Wilson, because he noticed and turned to see what House was looking at. When he saw you standing in line to get coffee, looking right back at him, a knowing smirk spread on his face, and he had looked back at House with a raised eyebrow. Who rolled his eyes at Wilson and said something you were not able to hear. The entire exchange lasted maybe ten seconds, but it was long enough for House to follow you when you left the cafeteria.

You smiled to yourself when you heard the sound of his cane hitting the floor behind you. It made you slow down and let him catch up to you. You didn’t even have to say anything to your colleague; as soon as they realized House wanted to talk to you, they basically fled the scene; It was highly amusing for you to see how others reacted to House…

“Got a moment?” He asked.

“Business or pleasure?” You replied, already knowing the answer.

House just chuckled and followed you to the elevator around the corner. Not the one in the lobby, but next to the clinic that usually isn’t used as much.

Luckily, it was not used as much that day either. Because as soon as the doors closed, House and you were all over each other. He crowded you in the corner of the elevator, pressing the button for the basement blindly, his eyes fixed on you.

You did not even have it on you to provoke him with a quip or say something witty. All you felt was the overwhelming urge to kiss him breathless, so that’s what you did.

You barely heard the doors open between the pants and curses you both let out, and just when they were about to close again, House used his cane to stop them.

When you had made it to said supply closet, House let the cane fall to the side and had finally both of his hands all over you.

“Have I ever told you that you look great in your scrubs?” He mumbled while cupping your breasts.

“No, but I think I told you how good you look out of your shirt.”

House grinned at that and leaned in for another hungry kiss while his hands grasped and squeezed and held on to whatever part of your body he could reach as you unbuttoned his shirt.

“Did you wear this for me?” You whispered between two bruising kisses. “Because you know I like how you look in dress shirts?”

“Hmh.” House hummed in affirmation, making you smile against his mouth.

“Slut.”

House laughed out loud at that comment as he shrugged his shirt off, throwing it to the side to land on one of the shelves around you.

While he did so, you took off your scrubs, exposing your undershirt with a deep cleavage, hence, all the marks he left on you.

“Holy shit.” He breathed out.

“Oh yeah…” You replied with a heaving chest and nipples so erect, it was almost painful.

“Does it hurt?” House asked, eyes darting between the bruises and your face.

“A little. But in a good way.”

He let out a small sigh and then leaned in to spread kisses over the marks, making you tilt your head back with a sharp inhale.

When he sucked in a fresh one, into the valley between your breasts, your hand shot out and you cupped his groin.

“You’re so fucking hard already.” You murmured into his ear.

“Of course I am.” He replied so casually that it sent a shiver down your spine. ‘Of course’ he was hard in your presence.

“Please, House.” You breathed out. “I need you now.”

“Yes, yes, okay. Me too.” He nodded and hastily yanked his belt open while you undid your bottoms.

“Lean against the shelf.” He told you.

“But your-”  

With a groan, he spun you around and pressed you up against it.

You couldn’t help yourself but moan and hold on to the shelf, arching your back for him, tilting your hips while he ripped open a condom and put it on.

You heard the plastic packaging fall to the floor, landing next to his pants.

“You think you can give me those eyes again, in the middle of the cafeteria? Do you have no shame?” He said through gritted teeth while he lined himself up with your entrance.

“We talked about this…I don’t. And neither do you.”

“Fucking smartass.” He replied and shoved himself into you as far as possible in this position.

It pushed you harder against the shelf and made you let out a mix of a yelp and a moan.

“Fuck.” House cursed again, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his hands on your hips. He just stayed buried inside of you for a long moment, giving you both time to breathe and adjust. You, though, were greedy and began to move your hips back into him. You wanted to feel him in your guts and see how much your pussy could take.

It made House groan and nip on the skin of your back, grazing his teeth over it, as absolutely obscene noises spilled out of him.

“You- you- fuck!” He began to move with you, even though it felt like he was about to collapse onto the floor.

Eventually, you said between two slow thrusts: “I never heard you curse so much.”

“We never had sex in this position before…” He replied. “And thank god I’m wearing a condom. If I would feel any more of your delicious cunt, I would have cum already.”

Funny enough, those words made you cum.

Your thighs began to shake and you had to lean more against the shelf, while your hips still thrusted backwards, and your clenched and shivered.

“Oh my god, House.” You breathed out, barely able to register how he began to quicken the pace, holding you harder, and cumming himself.

“Christ, woman.” He said, his head resting on your back again, his hands caressing your sides, up and down, staying inside of you for another long moment.

When he pulled out, you hissed. How sore you felt was the price you paid for being so greedy. But you didn’t care. God, you wanted to feel like this for the rest of the day while you sat in the lab.

While House put a knot into the condom, you grabbed a random box of tissues from one of the shelves to clean up between your legs and then pulled your pants up.

When your sight finally fully cleared up and you looked at House, you almost let out a gasp.

“Shit, are you okay?”

Even though his eyes were glazed over, and he was clearly blissed out, he looked pale and like he was about to fain.

He just groaned and nodded, but you could tell that his leg was clearly bothering him.

Your mood instantly switched, and you took a step towards him to offer yourself as support. Despite your expectation that he would tell you off, he grabbed your arm and shoulder and let you help him. A little awkward, you both sank down to the floor so that he could sit. His pants were back up, but his belt and zipper undone and his chest exposed.

While he let his head fall back and rest against a shelf, you grabbed his t-shirt and made him put it back on so that he wouldn’t get too cold.

“Tell me what I can do to help.” You said quietly.

“You’ve already done enough.”

You blinked at that, leaning back a bit.

“No, that’s not how I meant that.” He let out a chuckle, even though he was obviously still in a lot of pain.

“Pills?”

“Left pocket.” He replied, gesturing towards his discarded blazer.

Quickly, you grabbed them for him and watched as he dry-swallowed two.

~

Now that you feel like yourself again, you have the energy to talk to House’ team. Well, to prove your hypothesis of the declining Natrium being the main reason for the patient’s change in behavior and not the tumor they found in their vertebrae.

“Afternoon.” You greet the team as you walk into the conference room. Chase and Foreman look up from the papers they were reading, Cameron probably somewhere with the patient. House is sitting in his office next door, making eye contact with you through the glass wall, giving you a small smirk before he gets up to enter the conference room too.

“To what do we owe the honors?” He asks while he limbs towards you.

You watch him for a moment, thinking of how good he felt inside of you yesterday, or how you rode his face and…You clear your throat and force yourself to look back at Chase and Foreman.

“I had a phone consult with a psychiatrist from the Trenton earlier.” You declare.

“You can’t be serious.” Chase replies. “You’re still set on the Natrium theory?”

“Yes, because I am right.”

“You are-“

“No, no. Let her talk.” Foreman interrupts Chase.

You suppress a sigh, glaring at Chase and Foreman alike.

“Come on, Quantico Girl.” House says. “Tell us.”

You flinch when he calls you that in front of the others and you turn to look at him with wide eyes. House immediately realizes his mistake and presses his lips together. You both stare at each other with panic in your eyes until Foreman asks the inevitable, his eyes darting between you and House: “Quantico Girl?”

You close your eyes for a moment and then turn to him: “I used to be in forensics.”

“You what?” Chase gapes at you.

Trying to be nonchalant and aloof, you shrug your shoulders: “Wasn’t for me, so now I’m here.”

“Wait, wait, you-”

“Is that why you get so involved with the cases?” Foreman asks. “Because-”

“Can we talk about the patient?” You interrupt.

House gestures for you to go on, which makes Foreman and Chase shut up (thank gods).

"I know the vertebral tumor feels like the obvious culprit—it’s tangible, alarming, and, let’s be honest, it draws our attention because it fits the narrative of an obvious pathology causing systemic chaos. But I’m asking you to consider the evidence in its entirety. The patient’s Natrium levels have been in free fall for weeks, consistently dipping below critical thresholds. Hyponatremia isn’t just an incidental finding; it’s a biochemical upheaval that can profoundly affect brain function. Confusion, irritability, mood swings, even full-blown psychosis—these are not vague associations. These are well-documented, direct consequences of severe Natrium dysregulation.” You start, with every word getting surer of yourself and back into work mode.

"Think about it. The scans and biopsy reports show a localized tumor, yes. But it isn’t impinging on any major nerves or vascular structures, and there’s no evidence of significant neurological compromise. A tumor like this, while serious, would not typically explain the dramatic behavioral changes we’re observing. On the other hand, the patient’s lab results tell a very different story—serum Natrium levels plummeting, serum osmolality completely out of balance, and antidiuretic hormone activity skyrocketing. It’s a metabolic storm, and it’s been brewing unchecked.”

You take a deep breath, eyes wandering from House to Chase and Foreman. They are all listening intently and fucking finally give your theory the attention it deserves.

"I know how tempting it is to pin everything on the tumor because it feels definitive—it’s something we can point to. But treating the tumor without addressing the underlying Natrium imbalance is like trying to fix a ship’s mast while water pours through a gaping hole in the hull. If we stabilize the Natrium levels first—correct the hyponatremia—you’ll not only see the behavioral symptoms improve but also be in a better position to assess what role, if any, the tumor is actually playing in all of this. I’m not saying the tumor isn’t important. I’m saying the Natrium is urgent. The smallest ions in the body can cause the biggest disruptions, and in this case, I believe it’s the key to unraveling this patient’s condition. Please, let’s not overlook this. Stabilize the Natrium, stabilize the mind.”

“Okay, okay.” House says.

“I’m not done.” You go on. “One of my subordinates actually worked on a similar case some time ago, they told me about it, and I looked into it.” You hand each of them a copy of the file.

“Consider the case of Mr. Anderson, 55-year-old engineer admitted six months ago with symptoms strikingly similar to your current patient. Initially, his uncharacteristic aggression, confusion, and paranoia were attributed to a suspected brain lesion, but imaging revealed nothing of note. The focus shifted to an incidental adrenal mass, assumed to be producing excess hormones. Yet, despite targeted therapies, his condition worsened until routine labs revealed profound hyponatremia. It turned out he had Syndrome of Inappropriate Antidiuretic Hormone Secretion—SIADH—triggered by a chronic respiratory infection. Correcting his Natrium levels with hypertonic saline and fluid restrictions led to a near-complete reversal of his psychiatric symptoms within 48 hours. What’s critical here is that the adrenal mass, while concerning, was unrelated to his acute presentation. His case is a stark reminder of how easily Natrium imbalances can mimic or exacerbate neurological or psychiatric conditions, often diverting attention from their true cause. What if you’re making the same mistake here? Are you fixating on the tumor at the expense of addressing the biochemical emergency staring us in the face?"

Foreman, who scribbled down a few notes, and looks like he agrees, still speaks up: “Listen, I understand the urgency of addressing the patient’s low Natrium levels, but we cannot ignore the potential risks involved, especially in the context of their bone cancer diagnosis. Rapid correction of hyponatremia can lead to osmotic demyelination syndrome, a devastating condition that causes irreversible neurological damage. This risk is particularly high in patients whose low Natrium levels have been chronic-“

“I know what ODS is!” Now you interrupt him. Which you aren’t proud of. But you cannot help yourself.

Foreman sighs and goes on: “Additionally, we must consider the tumor's role in the Natrium imbalance. Bone cancers, particularly those in the vertebrae, can release parathyroid hormone-related protein or induce systemic inflammation, leading to secondary conditions like SIADH or hypercalcemia of malignancy. If the tumor is driving the Natrium imbalance, treating the symptom without addressing the cause could mask critical signs of tumor progression or metastatic activity.”

Groaning, you rub your eyes: “You’ve been watching this man get worse and worse for days. I understand that this is a risk, but I – as someone who saw this happen several times before – can only urge you to at least try.”

~

“You were exceptional today.” House tells you while handing you back the cigarette. “The patient is doing better already.”

You nod and take a deep drag, pulling up your sweatpants and opening the door to your bedroom to let your cat in.

She lets out a loud meow and prances in, immediately jumping onto the bed and demanding attention. It makes House smile, and he pets her while you open the window for a moment, letting the smell of cigarettes and sex dissipate.

Standing by the window, shivering in the cold November night, you watch House in your bed; his hair disheveled, his chest showing red streaks where you clawed into him, the blanket covering the lower half of his naked body.

“I mean it, you know.” He says when you make eye contact.

“What?”

“That you were exceptional.”

“Thanks.” You smile and finish the cigarette, closing the window.

After a pause you ask what you wanted to a few days ago: “When you say that I am wasted in the lab,” You sit on the bed, your cat jumping towards you to have you pet her, “is that your way of offering me to be on your team?”

House tilts his head: “Would you like to be on the team?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t either.”

“Don’t be so difficult.”

Slowly, you shake your head: “No, I don’t want to be on your team.”

“Why not?”

“Like you said: I was exceptional today. As a lab scientist. Not as part of your team.”

House nods, gnawing on his bottom lip. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

“And besides...” You go on, “we’re too involved with each other for that to possibly work out.”

“You think so?”

“We just barely can be in the same room and do our work when it’s for a few minutes. Imagine having to be in the same room for hours, pretending nothing is going on.”

House lets out a snort: “Good point.”

When he goes to ask, gesturing towards the door: “Should I-“

“You can stay the night, if you want.” You offer, surprising even yourself.

It makes him stare at you, mouth open. “Are you sure?”

“It’s cold outside.” You reply with a smile. “Can’t bring myself to kick you out on a freezing Friday night.”

“I have an apartment, you know.”

“Yeah, and you probably haven’t heated it properly in a week.”

“You know me too well already.”

“What a burden that is…”

House rolls his eyes and then reaches over to tug on your wrist, pulling you closer.

“Yes, I’d like to stay the night.” He murmurs before he kisses you.

You smile against his lips and whisper: “Good.”

When you fully break the kiss, House says: “Now I have a question for you.”

“Hm?” You tilt your head, running your fingers through his hair absentmindedly.

“I wanted to ask if- god that feels nice.” He groans when you lightly massage his scalp.

It makes you chuckle and kiss his cheek.

“What did you want to ask?”

“Right…” His eyes flutter open. “When I called you ‘Quantico Girl’ in front of the others…I thought you panicked, I mean, didn’t like it, because it…” He rubs his face and straightens his back to properly look at you. “At first, I thought you didn’t like it because it gives away that we talk to each other outside of work. But that wasn’t it, was it?”

You look back at him for a long moment. “No, I don’t mind that.”

“It was because you didn’t want them to ask questions about your former job, right?”

“…yeah.”

House lets out a hum and looks around the room, his eyes lingering on your cat that lies at the other end of the bed by now, curled up, before he continues: “So you just don’t want to talk about it in general? It hasn’t to do anything with me?”

“No, it hasn’t.” You push your hair out of your face, running your hands over your cheeks and jaw before you go on: “I just don’t talk about it.”

“With no one?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that when I…looked for a different job, I talked about it. With a friend, with my therapist, when it was…fresh.”

“You have a therapist?”

“Used to. Before I moved.”

House looks deep in thought for a bit, and just before you are about to say something, he asks: “Did it put out any fires?”

Book IV coming your way.

My Carrd: Rye's Carrd

Chapter Text

Part IX: Stay The Night

“Here you go.” You hand House a beer.

“Thanks, babe.” He tells you with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, making you chuckle and roll your eyes.

“No problem, honey.” You reply teasingly while you sit down on the couch next to him.

House smirks and puts his arm around you, pulling you to sit a little closer.

He rests his free hand on your thigh and rubs it absentmindedly while commenting sarcastically: “I can hardly imagine something more arousing than watching the Silence of the Lambs.”

“You asked me to show you one of my favorite movies! The alternative would have been Dead Poet Society. And the last time I watched that, I cried so hard I almost threw up.”

“Okay, wow.”

You let out an exasperated sigh: “What about Alien?”

“What is wrong with you?”

You laugh loudly and finally point towards your DVD shelf: “You choose then.”

Now he sighs dramatically and gets up to limp over to it.

You feel stupid for missing his embrace and make yourself focus on what he might choose. Even though seeing House browsing your collection feels stupidly domestic in itself. You clear your throat inconspicuously and ask: “And?”

“You don’t have any Western.”

“Nor Monster Truck shows.”

“And here I was thinking you’re the perfect woman.” He chuckles and keeps going through your DVDs.

You, however, freeze. There is no way he just said that. He said it so carelessly…which is the problem. He didn’t tease you; he mumbled it casually and without a second thought.

Telling yourself that you’re reading too much into it, you busy yourself by sipping on your wine and checking your phone. You’re so desperate to distract yourself that you reply to an email at 10pm on a Friday night…

When the credits roll, you’re both drowsy and more than ready for bed. Even though you sat incredibly close to each other and touched each other for basically the entire movie – holding hands, caressing legs, heads on shoulders – you kept it pretty chaste. The day was long and you’re both sore from earlier; Cause by god did you work through some sexual tension.

Brushing your teeth next to House feels even more domestic and it takes all you have not to leave the bathroom while you do so. Instead, you pace around in the bathroom, walking back and forth next to the tub.

“Are you always so antsy in the evening?” House asks, sounding funny because he has his mouth full of toothpaste foam.

“Only when I have you over.” You reply with a laugh even though it’s pretty much the truth.

You half expected him to tease you, but he simply gives you a smirk in the mirror; and you cannot help yourself but smile back.

Despite your tiredness, you feel awfully giddy. The fact that you have Greg House in your bed makes you shiver – it always does – but this time you get full on goosebumps at the fact that he won’t leave it till the morning.

The careful, awkward, tilted path you’ve been treading the entire evening dissolves the moment House and you fall into said bed.

“I can feel every single of my muscles.” House groans as he rolls over to scoop you into his arms and keep you against his chest.

You cannot help but nuzzle into him, relishing his warmth, and laugh softly at his comment.

“Yes, yes, laugh at the old man.” He grumbles.

“I’m sore too!”

“Between your legs doesn’t count.”

You bite into his shoulder: “It’s also my throat, thank you very much.”

House groans again, this time a lot deeper: “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No, no. I’ll behave.”

House only lets out a grunt.

It surprises you how he drapes himself around you, like an octopus, to hold you close. Even when his limbs go limb, he does not fully let go of you, but has his arms and legs snaked around you; the weight of them lull you into a deep sleep.

Usually, you move a lot more in your sleep, but House’ embrace keeps you in place, not in an uncomfortable fashion either. Usually, you’re a lot more tense and move to release the tension from your muscles, but House’ embrace keeps you warm and your muscles relaxed.

So, when you come to, you feel well rested in a way you haven’t in forever. Your content is almost startling.

What you notice next is the absolute hard on House is sporting.

‘Hmpf’ is the noise he makes when you move in his arms.

“I thought you’re too old for morning glory.” You mumble.

He lets out a hoarse chuckle.

“I’ve been lying here like that for way too long.”

You tilt your head and find his eyes, squinting at him in the morning light.

“You serious?”

“You smell nice…”

Grinning at him, you tilt your head further and press a kiss to his neck. You can feel House’ body react intensely; how he shivers.

“Show me.” You whisper.

“I- what?”

Instead of repeating yourself, you move the blanket down until it’s below his hips and you can see the bulge in his boxers. Next you tug on the waistband, looking at House expectantly.

His pupils are wide, and his breathing fastened, and his hands a little shaky when he reaches down.

Propping yourself up on your elbow, you watch him excitedly, your eyes darting from his flushed face to his now exposed dick.

It’s almost shameful how your mouth begins to water at the visual; the pulsating veins, the dripping tip, the velvety skin at the bottom of the shaft, House holding it up with three fingers, slowly, almost timidly, stroking it. You watch the skin move, stretching up the shaft until it collects at the tip and back when House moves his hand down.

You have to actually swallow to not drool, observing how House speeds up ever so slightly, earning himself a twitch from his dick and a ripple of his stomach muscles.

Entranced, you watch him pleasure himself and slither your hand between your legs, putting light pressure on your clit. House curses when he realizes what you’re doing, letting out a shuddering breath.

Your eyes flutter shut for a moment as you bathe in the feeling between your legs and the sounds House makes. The sound of skin moving, liquid being spread, breath coming out in pants…

“I would have never thought-“ He gasps out.

You open your eyes to focus on him.

“Shit.” His head rolls back, his hand now fully wrapped around his dick.

You lean over and kiss his shoulder, his skin hot against your lips. He shivers again.

“You’re so responsive.” You whisper.

House lets out an amused scoff. “I never did this. Let alone in the morning when I’m barely conscious.” He pauses. “Everything feels more intense in a dream.”

Your eyes roll back at that, touching yourself more intensely, forehead resting against his upper arm.

You both get more daring; dare to move more, dare to adjust the blanket, dare to make louder noises; as you lie next to each other, just barely making skin contact in a few spots, touching yourselves.

You begin to sweat, your legs twitching and your eyes fixes on House’ dick. How it grows even harder, how it keeps dripping, how he fists it tighter.

“Everything feels more intense in a dream.” He repeats and your eyes fly open.

House is lying in bed with you, arm and leg still around you. You’re disoriented by the sudden change in position and scenery, blinking repeatedly and lifting your head.

Then it suddenly dawns on you, that you just woke up. Woke up from an absolutely obscene dream.

“Doesn’t it?” He murmurs.

“Oh god.” You groan and bury your face in the pillow, cheeks flushing.

“You make the most delicious noises in your sleep.” He goes on.

Groaning louder, you put your hands on the back of your head, covering that too.

“Come on, tell.” He lightly pokes your side.

“Hey!” You blindly swat his hand away, partially annoyed and partially giddy at the insane situation.

You hear him chuckle darkly and cannot help but laugh into the pillow.

“What did you hear?” You ask, voice muffled.

He doesn’t reply and instead grabs your shoulder and flips you over.

“House!” You protest when he rolls himself onto you and grabs your hands to put them over your head.

“Couldn’t hear you properly. Much better.”

You bite your bottom lip to keep your noises under control, looking up at him defiantly. His hair is tousled, his face still slightly puffy from sleep, but his eyes are wide awake and full of wolfish excitement. A smirk spreads on his lips.

“Did you dream about me?”

You roll your eyes but see no point in denying it: “Yes, yes…I did.”

“And what did I do, in your dream?”

“I- oh god…” You close your eyes. “This is what I get for letting you stay over…”

House chuckles and leans down to spread kisses over your jaw, and down your neck.

“Come on, pretty girl. Don’t leave me hanging.”

You inhale sharply, already melting, and his words don’t make it any better.

“What did you hear?” You ask again.

“You mumbled and whined. And the way you moved…”

You wiggle your hands out of his grasp to rub your face and fully clear your sight, pushing your hair out of your face.

House is still on top of you, observing you closely.

“I had a very explicit dream.” You offer up, even though you already know it won’t be enough.

He runs one hand over your side, propping himself up on his other arm, looking at you intently. “And?”

You sigh: “My unconscious seemed to really…integrate your presence into my dream.”

“You can’t psychoanalyze your way out of this.”

“I-…fine.” You decide to flip it on him and pull him down. Putting your lips to his ear, you describe in vivid detail what you saw in your dream and how it made you feel, your voice quiet and sultry.

When you’re done, House is basically trembling on top of you, clawing into your side. With a groan, he rests his forehead against your shoulder.

“Goddamn.”

You let out a chuckle and tilt your head to kiss the side of his neck.

It makes him shiver, harder than in your dream, and smash his lips onto yours. You gasp in surprise but immediately kiss him back, relieved.

When he slithers his hand between your legs, you flinch and inhale sharply.

House’ head shoots up: “Still sore?”

“Yeah…” You nod, equally glad and frustrated when he takes his hand away.

After a pause, he lets out a chuckle.

“What’s so funny?”

“Thank god, cause I don’t think I would have survived a round right now.”

Now you laugh too, a little harder. House shakes his head, amused, and rests his forehead against your shoulder.

You smile to yourself and trace his spine before offering: “Coffee?”

“Yes, god, yes.” He mumbles and nods.

~

You’re sitting on one end of the couch, House at the other, you both with a mug of coffee in hand. You thoroughly enjoy the moment; enjoy to just savor the coffee and the view; the view of House on your couch. In his shirt from yesterday, which is a little wrinkled, and the sweatpants he forgot at here, at your place, the other day.

For a few minutes, you just sit there in comfortable silence while your minds clear up fully, thanks to the coffee. It also makes your thoughts pick up in pace and you begin to wonder what this means. Will it become a regular occurrence to sleep at each other’s places or is it a one-time thing? It certainly does not feel like it will be a singular occurrence. It’s too much fun. Too nice. Too…You don’t even know. You just like it.

“What do you usually do on a Saturday?” You ask him, curious.

House takes a moment to process your question, looking at you instead of your bookshelves and posters on the walls.

“I usually read.”

“Read what?”

“Medical journals, most of the time.”

You nod slowly and say: “I can offer you the newest edition of the journal of medical toxicology.”

House smiles and points towards the shelf with all the journals you collected. You nod again.

“Do you have any…from your time in Quantico? Which ones would you read?”

“Well, the one I mentioned but also more that focus on forensics.”

“I’d like to read those.”

“I- well, okay.”

You get up from the couch and crouch in front of said shelf, browsing the collection, wondering which one House could be interested in. Or why he even is interested. It feels like more than professional curiosity. Anyways, it’s nice.

“Would you-“ When you turn around to ask him a question, you notice House checking you out. You grin and raise an eyebrow.

“Immaculate ass.” He comments.

You snort: “Why, thank you.” And take a sip of your coffee before you say: “Here, I think this one is something you should read anyway.”

House takes it from you and reads out: “Journal of Forensic and Legal Medicine.” He looks at you: “Haha, very funny.”

“I do think there is an article about medical malpractice in that one.”

“Oh, fuck off.” House rolls his eyes at you. “Not my fault when people don’t realize I’m right.”  But then actually opens the journal to scan the list of articles.

“Okay, you know, I might actually get my glasses for this one.”

“You wear glasses?”

“I have reading glasses.” He tells you while he limps to his backpack in the hallway and calls over his shoulder: “Don’t you dare make an age joke now!”

“I would never!” You call back, smiling to yourself at the lighthearted banter.

To your surprise, House actually reads what you gave him. With great interest, it seems. He even goes so far as to ask you questions. House asks you medical questions!

You’re reading too, but a novel. Usually, you would probably watch something, but the conversation and professional exchange with House is way more interesting right now.

So, you read, pause when he asks something, maybe discuss the topic, and then you both go back to reading quietly.

You’re still sitting on opposite ends of the couch, but your legs are stretched out on it and interlaced. It makes so that House can reach down and rub your shin and ankle, and you can rest your free hand on the back of his foot.

“I forget how much goes into declaring the time of death when it does not happen in a room with clocks.” House says while reading an article on ‘soil temperature and rigor mortis’.

You finish the paragraph in your book and then put it down to look at him, nodding.

“It’s a whole science in itself, basically. Rarely, though, it’s used to its full extend.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s seldomly necessary to figure out the time of death down to the minute.”

“You can do that?”

“On occasion.”

“So, you did that before?” House asks, now fully attentive, journal put down, back straight.

You nod, but then laugh: “Want to hear a funny story about how I once figured that out within second of seeing crime scene photos?”

House nods enthusiastically.

“Okay, so the case itself is obviously not funny.”

“Obviously.” House smirks.

“But I made everyone believe I have some sort of superpower for a week before someone realized how I figured it out so quickly.”

“I’m listening.”

You sit up fully, legs crossed.

“So, we had a dead guy, seemingly had been tortured before death.”

House’ eyes widen.

“Right, sorry. I forgot to warn you.” You cringe at your own desensitization. 

House clears his throat: “I just did not…think about what this,” he gestures at the pile of journals and then at you, “means in actuality.”

“Sorry.” You apologize again.

“No, it’s fine. I’ve cut up people before.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “To be fair, while they were under and with their consent.”

You go on: “He had wire around his chest, car batteries connected to them.”

“He was electrocuted?”

“Good thought, but no.” You point at House. “Actually, the car battery would not have been strong enough to prove deadly. So, what do you think happened?”

House thinks for a moment and then smiles when he thinks of the answer: “He was asphyxiated. The wire squeezed and he couldn’t breathe.”

“Very good, very good.”

“And how did you figure out the time of death? Just from looking at the pictures, I mean.”

You grin widely: “He had a watch on his wrist.”

House grins too when he understands: “The electroshocks made it stop, didn’t they?”

“Yup.”

He chuckles. “Clever.”

“Thank you.” You bow your head. “When you think about it, it’s rather obvious, but I noticed it quicker than anyone else.”

“You know,” House says, “this could be the topic of your first lecture.”

“At the Plainsboro? The one I promised Cuddy?”

“Yeah. Something about how factors outside the body give hints to what happens inside.”

“Damn, that’s a great idea. And maybe something other doctors won’t be annoyed by.”

“Annoyed?”

“I was worried that some MDs are too stuck-up to listen to what a mere mortal such as I has to say about medical practice.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be in the last row, shooting spitballs at anyone who dares so much as sigh.”

“You would attend?” You ask.

“Of course, I get to ogle at you, thinking about how you look naked.”

You pinch his calf: “Stop it.”

“Hey!” He pinches you too, making you squeal and scoot away from him.

“Get back here!” House grabs your ankle.

You laugh and try to pull your leg away, but not hard enough to actually get rid of his grip. He uses the leverage to yank you towards him, making you fall onto your back, laying in the middle of the couch, legs left and right of him.

House’ grin widens, and he grabs both of your ankles to pull you closer until he can wrap your legs around his waist and lean over you.

“Well, hello.” He murmurs and smiles down at you.

You’re still giggling and writhing but pull House closer too.

“Hello there.” You smile at him, hand on his cheek. “You come here often?”

“I have cum on this couche before, in fact.” He replies with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Oh my god.”

“Well, not onto the couch, but-“

“Oh, shut up.” You silence him with a kiss.

House smiles against your lips and murmurs: “You know, it was a five out of five stars experience, and I would do it again.”

You cannot help yourself but laugh at that, head falling back onto the couch. House leans down and presses open-mouthed kisses to your neck, making you feel very hot very quickly.

When you feel your nipples harden and your back arches, you ask breathlessly: “What happened to not surviving another round?”

“What happened to being sore?”

“I have lube.”

“I had coffee.”

You both chuckle and unison and then silence each other with a deep kiss.

“So, where is that lube you speak of?” House asks after a minute of your tongues tangling and teeth clashing.

“I fear we must leave the couch for that.”

“You say ‘we’…”

You roll your eyes but laugh softly and untangle yourself from House.

By the time you make it back to the living room, he is stripped completely, making your pupils widen and you lick your lips.

“You look at me like you want to devour me.” House says while taking the lube and condom from you and helping you straddle him.

“I kind of do.” You grin and lean in to kiss him, reaching between your bodies to stroke him.

He is hot and twitches in your hand. He shivers and you moan, running your thumb over the tip of his dripping dick.

“Shit.” House curses and leans back into the couch. “When you do that…the first time you did that I almost came on the spot.”

“Really?”

“Yeah…just like…” He pauses “That thing you sometimes do with your tongue when you kiss me…”

Smug but also genuinely flattered, you move your hand a little faster, your hot breath ricocheting off his skin.

“Anything else?”

“Oh, a lot of things, but I cannot boost your ego too much. It might make you realize you deserve better than me.”

You freeze and lift your head to look at him, caught off guard.

House’ eyes widen as he seems to register that he said the second part out loud.

“Forget it. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“You-“

“Forget it, really.”

It takes you a long moment to process what he just said, what he told you without meaning to. And another long moment to stop yourself from arguing with him or asking him what the hell he-

“No self-deprecation on this couch.” You declare instead.

“What?” House blinks, his hands tight and clammy on your hips.

“In fact, no self-deprecation in this entire apartment.”

He just keeps staring at you, his eyes dating between yours; until you lean in for a kiss and they flutter shut.

House groans and kisses you with more hunger than ever before. He puts his hand on the small of your back and turns with you until he can press you into the couch, him on top of you.

He barely gives you time to breathe with how quickly he undresses you, his lips all over your neck and chest.

“Please…” He whispers.

“Hm?”

“I want to feel you so bad. I- I’ll be good, I can take it. I won’t come quickly, I promise, I just-“

“House.” You frame his face with your hands and make him look at you. “What are you talking about?”

He swallows hard, his wide, bright blue eyes boring into you, making you shiver in return.

“I’m sterilized.” He says.

Oh.

Oh.

“Are you now?”

He nods, leaning over you so that your faces are level.

“For years.”

You gnaw on your bottom lip, the offer more than tempting. And not that you don’t desperately want to feel him fully. Feel his heat. Feel him fill you up. Him pulsate inside of you, all the veins, the velvety skin…

“House, I-“

“I only have sex with you.” He says. “And if you want for it to stay that way, I’m game. I’d do anything, just-“

“You want to be with just me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? This isn’t just your arousal speaking?”

“No, really. I just-“ He leans in closer, your lips almost touching. “I want just you. All the damn time.” He kisses you softly and then asks, even quieter now: “Do you want me too? Just me?”

Part X: Yesterday Was Hard on All of Us

“The deceased was a 23-year-old woman, found in a remote, snow-covered area of the mountains. She was discovered lying on her side, sparsely clothed, with a pool of blood surrounding her head. No external injuries were visible—no signs of blunt force trauma, no abrasions or lacerations, and no indications of struggle. The scene itself was unremarkable, aside from her own footprints, a solitary trail leading to where she collapsed.”

You begin the final part of your lecture.

Everything went well so far. No impolite interruptions, no one leaving early. It’s not full by any means, but still easily thirty people. Which is more than you expected to show to a rather experimental endeavor – a week before Christmas.

Cuddy and House’ team are sitting in the second row to your left, House and Wilson in the second to last row on the right.

None of them interrupted or asked a question, but all of them seem extremely attentive. Cuddy gives you smile whenever you glance in her direction, which you find endearing. Foreman and Chase went from looking maybe politely interested to genuinely intrigued; which gave you a boost to keep up the energy.

House had his eyes on you the entire time. Funny enough, the fact that you have been intimate with him made it not worse but easier. You know this energy, you know what’s beneath it.

Now for the hard part.

The concept is based on what House suggested: showcase how external factors are just as important as examination and test results. The specific case though...

“Initial findings posed more questions than answers. Her body was cold, but postmortem analysis revealed that hypothermia wasn’t the primary cause of death. Her core temperature, while low, indicated she had succumbed before the effects of prolonged exposure could fully take hold. Toxicology screening was negative—no ethanol, no recreational or prescription drugs, no toxins that might impair consciousness or physiology. Internally, her cardiovascular system appeared intact—no evidence of coronary artery disease, myocardial infarction, or arrhythmias that might cause sudden death. Her brain showed no signs of hemorrhage or ischemia, and her spinal cord was unremarkable.

Yet, there was one striking finding: blood in her upper and lower airways, with significant alveolar involvement. Hemoptysis—pulmonary hemorrhage—was evident. This pointed us to her lungs as the primary site of pathology. Naturally, this shifted our focus to potential causes. Could it have been an infection? Bronchopneumonia, tuberculosis, or another process resulting in diffuse alveolar damage? Cultures returned negative, and histology revealed no neutrophilic infiltrate or evidence of chronic inflammatory disease. Could it have been trauma? But her ribs were intact, her diaphragm uninjured, and no external force could account for the damage.”

You pause and show a photo of the crime scene. It’s mostly censored, you only want to show the splatter of blood around her head and mouth. Still, you can tell that everyone tenses.

“Any ideas?” You ask.

It’s the first time you address the audience directly and it takes everyone a moment to gather themselves before a few hands go up.

“Yes?” You point at a medical student in the fourth row.

“Could it have been a vascular event? Pulmonary embolism is a common cause of sudden death in young adults.”

You nod: “Good idea. But no thrombi in the pulmonary arteries or evidence of venous thrombosis.”

"Coagulopathy?” Wilson, to your pleasant surprise, speaks up. “Alveolar rupture can also result from rapid altitude shifts. You said she was found on a mountain. Did she bleed out?”

“Also not the case.” You reply and wait for a moment; but when no one else raises their hand, you go on.

“At this point, we were left with a phenomenon that seemed to lack a proximate cause. Her lungs were hemorrhagic, but the mechanism eluded us. Everything in the postmortem workup suggested an otherwise healthy individual who had succumbed to a cascade of events we couldn’t yet explain. The absence of findings, coupled with the presence of hemoptysis, begged us to look beyond the pathological and into the circumstantial.”

You take a long pause and show the next slide. A map of the mountain area she was found in. The closest reference point being a town in the valley.

“Something happened to her.” You say.

“Not here.” You point at where she was found. “But here.” You highlight the town.

You make another pause, having to take deep breaths and blink rapidly.

Then you make eye contact with House.

He’s been sitting there silently, feigning indifference. His arms folded like a shield, as if he were bracing for impact. But his eyes give him away. Sadness sits there, unmistakable, heavy in its honesty, but it’s layered – complicated. There’s anger too, yes, hurt, but underneath it all there is a pull. That unbearable softness. The way his gaze lingers just a little too long. Like he’s afraid to blink and lose you.

“She ran.” He says into the quiet, tense room.

Everyone turns to look at him, the silence settling again, making it feel like his voice echoes.

Finding his eyes, you give a small nod and continue: “At first, this seemed unrelated, even innocuous. But physiologically, it was catastrophic in this setting. Intense physical exertion generates significant metabolic heat. Combine this with the freezing mountain air, and you have an extreme thermal gradient between the external environment and the delicate structures of the respiratory system. Each deep breath she took delivered frigid air directly to her overheated alveoli, causing repeated thermal stress. This led to capillary fragility, microtears, and eventually widespread alveolar hemorrhage.”

Everyone looks at you again, their eyes wide and pens scribbling notes.

“This is where the intersection of environment, physiology, and behavior became fatal. She didn’t die of hypothermia, foul play, or an intrinsic defect in her body. She died because her environment and actions created a physiological cascade she couldn’t survive.”

You let your eyes wander over the rows.

“Let this case serve as a reminder: we often focus on the body, the labs, and the imaging—and rightly so. But the story of what happened outside the hospital matters just as much. The context in which symptoms or death arise is not a peripheral detail. Sometimes, it’s the entire explanation.”

Finally, your eyes rest on House again.

“Because sometimes it’s a necrotic muscle.  And sometimes it’s a girl, scared to death, who ran six miles barefoot in the snow.”

Book V coming your way.

My Carrd: Rye's Carrd

Chapter Text

Part XI: Delicate

The Christmas party came and went.

It was several hours of you and House glancing at each other from across the room, awkward and longing.

Wilson, obviously, tried to get you to talk to each other. Not that it worked. Cuddy, kindly, didn’t say anything about the tense situation she had to have noticed. For the rest of House’ team: they talked to you briefly. They were nice to you, and you felt bad for giving them one-worded replies.

Otherwise, it was you looking good in your blouse and slacks and heels and make-up, and then you left early.

Christmas, and the beginning of Hanukkah for that matter, came and went in a similar fashion. You were content with celebrating with your colleagues that were part of the skeleton crew at the lab, and a few phone calls and messages to friends whom you sent gifts in the mail.

You have a gift for House too. It’s been laying on the dinner table for two weeks now, daunting you. You have overthought it again and again. And at this point you want to give to him just to spite the doubtful side of yourself.

Furthermore, at this point, the whole thing feels overdramatic to you; Like something you could have solved with a simple conversation. You simply, for once, didn’t run into each other because of a case though. Which you welcomed a week ago, and now it just annoys you that you’ll probably have to seek him out actively.

All because you…well, you don’t even know.

And then there is a knock on your door.

It’s the weekend after Christmas, you’re on your couch in sweatpants and a college shirt, no bra, reading. And there is a fucking knock on your door at 9pm.

You freeze, consider ignoring it, but then a voice from the other side says: “I know you’re in there. I can hear you caring.”

You laugh. You laugh! at that and get up. You even have a small smile on your face when you open the door to find House standing there.

He’s in a coat and hat, and some snow caught on his scarf.

You didn’t even notice that it was snowing and here he was, coming over anyway.

“Come in.” You immediately say and make room.

House looks surprised, like he expected he would have to argue with you before you let him enter. He walks past you, nonetheless, avoiding eye contact.

After you close the door, he stands in the middle of your hallway for a moment, looking somewhere behind you and then the floor. Then he leans his cane against the wall, and you can see the change in posture you became so used to. The way his good knee bends a little and his shoulders tilt while he rids of his coat. He limps one step to hang it up, and then grabs his cane again to lean on it as he takes off his hat and scarf with one hand.

Halfway through this procedure, you grabbed a sweater to put on, feeling naked in a t-shirt.

When you reenter the hallway, House fishes something out of the pocket of his coat, and at first you think it might be a pack of cigarettes, but then he holds it towards you and says: “For you.”

Stunned, you take it, looking at the small, white box in your hands.

“I-“ You have no idea what to say, completely caught off guard.

Positively surprised, however, you finally make eye contact with House. His face is like stone, but his eyes are terribly vulnerable.

His wide, watercolor eyes look at you and for the fraction of a second you see House as a kid. He looks at you with the nervous excitement of a child making a friend a gift for the first time. Maybe a crush. A child in time, in the moment of understanding the concept of gift giving and how much it can possibly mean. You see a child desperately wishing to be liked and forgiven for being late to dinner.

Then you blink and you find yourself looking at a man who holds so much gravity he bends the entire room towards him. Makes it denser. A man with so much pain, not even Atlas could shrug it off.

And all you can do is offer him to sit on your couch.

You’re still fidgeting with the box in your hand but cannot bring yourself to open it just yet. It feels too loaded.

Instead, you declare: “I’ll make some coffee.”

And even though it’s late, House does not protest. You’re relieved to do something with your hands, something you can just go through and have a good result.

With two steaming cups in hand, you make your way back to the living room. You sit down on the couch, hesitating a moment before settling somewhat next to House. It feels simultaneously familiar and completely foreign to have him in your space again.

The sight of him on your couch feels right, but it also unearths the sharp sting of what happened the last time he was here. It’s like the past few weeks have both vanished entirely and dragged on for eternity.

When your hands brush as you pass him his cup, neither of you pulls away. You just look at each other, eyes locked, and maybe—just maybe—there’s the faintest hint of a smile on both your faces.

“Your hands are ice cold.” You say softly, your voice almost getting lost in the quiet.

“It’s cold out.” He replies matter-of-factly, his tone gruff but not unkind.

You let a small chuckle escape as you reach for the box you had set on the side table earlier. It sits there innocently, its weight now feeling far more significant than it should. Your fingers hesitate on the lid, but before you can lift it, House speaks up.

“It was Wilson’s idea,” he says, his tone laced with an exaggerated nonchalance. “If you hate it, blame him.”

You laugh at that, shaking your head because it’s so obviously a lie.

When you finally open the box, your breath hitches. Your mouth falls open slightly as your gaze lands on what’s inside. It’s a bracelet—simple, beautiful, and expensive. The sleek design catches the light, glinting subtly.

“You rarely wear jewelry.” House remarks, his voice careful.

Your eyes flick to him, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. “So you got me some?”

“It’s titanium,” he explains, his tone just shy of defensive, like he’s bracing for rejection.

Understanding dawns on you, and your smile deepens. “It won’t dull from disinfectant.” You glance back at the bracelet, touched by the thoughtfulness of the gesture. “You got me something I can wear at work.”

His posture is tense, shoulders drawn tight, but his eyes, his eyes…—there’s a flicker of excitement, a hopefulness he can’t quite mask.

“I like it,” you tell him. “I really do.”

“Do you want to put it on?” He asks carefully, his voice quieter now, almost tentative.

“Yeah.” You nod, shifting closer to him as you hold out your wrist.

House’s hands tremble slightly as he picks up the bracelet. You wonder if it’s nerves or the lingering cold in his hands. Despite the slight tremor, his practiced, nimble fingers manage to fasten the clasp with care. Once it’s secure, he lingers, his fingers tracing over the cool metal and then drifting lightly down to your palm and back up your wrist.

The gentle contact makes your breath catch, a near-inaudible sigh escaping your lips.

The restraint it takes not to close the gap between you, to not let everything you’re feeling spill over, is monumental.

House’s eyes flick between your wrist and your face, searching for something—confirmation, reassurance, maybe both. Slowly, almost timidly, he takes your hand in his, giving it a light squeeze. His hand is warming up in yours, and you hold it.

“I got you something too.” You say, breaking the silence, though your voice is too breathy to entirely rid of the tension.

“Yeah? You did?” He asks, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.

“Yeah…” You nod, reluctant to move but knowing you have to.

House is the first to pull away, reaching for his coffee and taking a measured sip.

You clear your throat, rising to walk to the dining table where his present has been sitting. It’s a file. No, it’s the file.

House watches you closely, his eyes following your every movement. His gaze is heavy, expectant, and it makes your pulse race. You pause for a moment, staring down at the file, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Your palms feel clammy as doubt creeps in.

But then you glance back at him, and there’s something in his expression—a softness, an affection—that banishes your hesitation. You return to the couch and sit down, this time much closer.

“It’s sealed,” House notes as you hand it to him, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Standard procedure.” You reply evenly.

“Standard pro—oh.” His eyes widen as understanding dawns on him, and he runs his finger along the seal.

He straightens his back, his gaze now scrutinizing you with something between awe and disbelief. “You never read it?”

You shake your head, your voice low: “I just couldn’t.”

“But you’re letting me?” He asks, his tone stunned. “You’re really letting me read it?”

You nod, shifting slightly under his gaze. Somehow, seeing him so moved feels oddly validating, like a weight lifting between you.

House fumbles with the seal, his fingers hesitant. He doesn’t open it immediately. Instead, he asks, his voice tinged with wonder: “Does that mean everything you talked about during the lecture…you remembered that? You knew it all by heart?”

“Yes.” You answer simply.

“God, I’m so sorry.” House breathes out, and before you can respond, he pulls you close, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

You stay like that for a moment, your face buried in his shoulder, your hands coming to rest on his sides, holding on to his shirt. You’re breathing deeply, but unevenly.

“I’m so sorry, pretty girl.” House murmurs into your hair, stroking it. It elicits a sound from you somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Let me see you.” House gently grabs your chin and tilts your head back so that you have to look at him.

He gives you a smile, pushing hair out of your face and wipes the wetness of your eyes away. Despite the slightly awkward sitting position you are in, neither of you moves. You’re halfway in his lab, House good leg off the couch completely to hold himself steady as he’s turned towards you.

After a long pause of you just looking at each other with wide, soft eyes, you ask quietly: “Do you want to kiss me?”

“I always want to kiss you.” House replies without hesitation.

Now you fully smile: “You do?”

“All the damn time.” He tells you, mirroring your smile.

The kiss is slow, tentative, lips ghosting over each other, barely moving. Neither of you breathes, you just gently move your heads until you can fully press your lips together.

“House…” You mumble before the kiss even has the chance to get heated.

“I brought condoms.” He says, completely serious but you smile, nonetheless.

“That’s not what I- I mean that…” You adjust how you sit, close but only holding hands. House instantly puts both of his hands around yours, cupping them, and traces the bracelet with his thumb.

Suddenly, you register another implication to his words: “You brought condoms?”

“Before you call me a calculated bitch, I told you I always carry them since we met.”

You laugh aloud, letting out a snort. “Right, right.”

House smiles, fully smiles, when he hears your laughter, and his posture relaxes ever so slightly.

You clear your throat and say: “Listen, House.”

“I’m-”

“No, no. Let me talk…I got overwhelmed. I think we both did.” You try to gauge his reaction but then cut your eyes away to be able to keep talking: “I want you. Just you. All the way.”

It quiet after you said that, the words hanging in the air and you wonder if you said them at all.

Then, however, House tugs on your wrist and you look at him.

“Are you sure?”

“I had too much time to think about it.” You reply. “I’m sure.”

Part XII: My Oh My

“I haven’t done it raw in years.” House murmurs, his voice low and gravelly as you walk him toward the bedroom.

“Me neither.” You pant, already crawling onto the bed and slipping beneath the sheets. The anticipation thrums through you like a live wire.

House is close behind, his belt discarded somewhere along the way, pants gone by the time he reaches the bed. “God, I want to feel you so badly,” he mutters, his hands trailing up your leg, slow and deliberate. His lips press a line of kisses along your thigh, and when he reaches the hem of your panties, he pauses to toy with it using his teeth.

“House?” Your voice wavers, half-breathless.

“Hm?” His gaze flicks up to yours, pupils blown wide with desire.

“No foreplay?” You arch a brow, the ghost of a teasing smile tugging at your lips.

For a second, he just stares at you, a gleam of mischief sparking in his eyes. Then, with a predatory smile, he crawls up your body, moving with an intent that sends a shiver racing down your spine. His weight presses you into the mattress, and you prop yourself up on your elbows, caught between amusement and arousal.

“Come here, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his voice a velvety rasp. He slips an arm beneath you, tugging you closer until you lose your balance, falling back fully onto the mattress. He maneuvers you, scooting you until you’re entirely under him.

“Hey, stranger.” You tease, your smile widening as your hands find his shoulders. You tug him down, your lips meeting his in a heady, urgent kiss.

“God, I missed this.” He murmurs against your lips, the words so quiet you almost miss them. But the weight of his confession hits you in the chest. You nod, whispering back: “I was going insane.”

“You were?” His lips curl into a grin, teasing but tender.

“Oh yes,” you chuckle, the sound muffled between hungry kisses. Your hands roam over his back and shoulders, pulling him closer. Your fingers find the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down with a single-minded determination.

He strips you just as eagerly, your sweater tossed to the floor, your shirt shoved up over your chest. His eyes light up when he notices.

“No bra?” He smirks, his tone dripping with approval before he dips his head, dragging his tongue over your nipple, making you gasp.

“I masturbated like crazy.” You confess breathlessly, your hands tangling in his hair as his mouth explores your skin. “In the past weeks.”

His laughter is a low rumble against your chest. “Me too. I’m surprised my dick is still attached.”

You laugh, and the sound comes out more like a moan. Flipping him over, you straddle his hips, drinking in the sight of him—House in your bed. Naked, flushed, desperate. His cock is rock-hard, and his chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths.

The sight overwhelms you, and before you can stop yourself, you slide down and take him into your mouth. The weight of him on your tongue, the way he throbs as you move—it’s intoxicating. You suck hard, your motions messy and unrelenting.

“Fuck! I thought no foreplay,” he groans, his hands clawing at the sheets. His head falls back, baring the line of his throat.

You come up for air, smirking. “I lied,” you rasp, then dive back down.

It’s not pretty or practiced—it’s raw and desperate, a reflection of just how long you’ve been waiting for this. You don’t care about the tears pricking your eyes or the way you gag slightly when you take him too far. All that matters is the way he reacts: the guttural groans, the way his hips jerk involuntarily, and the way his fingers grip the sheets like his life depends on it.

“Christ!” He gasps. “I don’t think anyone’s ever been this enthusiastic about giving me head.”

You pause just long enough to shoot him a wicked grin. “You should know that by now.”

“Yes—yes—but it’s still insane every time.” He pants, his voice breaking into a laugh.

Grinning, you lean further down, your tongue flicking out to tease his balls. You carefully nip at the delicate skin before taking them into your mouth, your movements slow and deliberate.

“Wait, wait, oh god!” House cries out, his voice pitching higher. His hips jerk as a few drops of cum spill from him. His reaction is visceral, his body trembling like he’s been struck by lightning.

Panting, you lift your head, wiping your chin as you watch him try to recover. His chest heaves, and his eyes are wide, pupils blown, his expression somewhere between amazement and disbelief.

“I’ve never felt that,” he admits, his voice a husky murmur.

“You edged yourself?” You ask, your own breathing uneven.

“Apparently…” He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief as he collapses back against the pillows. “I really need to feel you now.”

You smile softly, crawling back up his body and straddling his hips. His hands find your waist, his fingers digging in with just enough pressure to make your heart race.

“No more teasing, please.” He pleads, his voice raw with need.

“I couldn’t if I wanted to.” You reply, your voice thick with your own desperation.

“Thank fuck.” He groans, pulling you down into him as if he’s afraid to let go.

You hover over him, his hands firm and steady on your hips, grounding you as you align yourself. The anticipation between you is almost unbearable, the air thick with tension and desire. Slowly, you lower yourself onto him, your breath hitching at the stretch, the exquisite sensation of him filling you inch by inch. It’s been too long—too long without this connection, too long without him.

And even more important: you feel him completely. You feel his heat, all the veins, the velvety skin. Everything you fantasized about is currently thrusting into you from below.

House’s head falls back against the pillows, a deep, guttural groan escaping his throat. “Fuck,” he rasps, his voice low and unsteady, as his fingers dig into your skin. “You feel… unreal.”

You pause for a moment, your hands braced on his chest, your breathing heavy as you let the sensation wash over you. His chest rises and falls beneath your palms, the heat of his skin branding you.

When you finally begin to move, it’s slow at first—just a testing roll of your hips that sends a jolt of pleasure through both of you.

His response is immediate, his grip tightening as he groans. “Jesus, you’re going to kill me.”

A smirk plays on your lips as you roll your hips again, harder this time, drawing another curse from his lips. His hands wander, sliding over your thighs, up to your waist, and then higher to your breasts. He kneads and strokes, his touch igniting every nerve ending in your body. The rhythm between you builds quickly, each movement a little more urgent, a little more desperate.

You lean forward, your foreheads pressing together as you move faster. His eyes meet yours, intense and filled with something deeper than lust. Your breaths mingle, your gasps and moans blending into a symphony of raw need.

“God, you’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer as his lips crash into yours. The kiss is messy, desperate, a reflection of everything you’ve been holding back. His teeth catch your bottom lip, his tongue tangling with yours, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth.

The sound of your moan seems to ignite something primal in House. Without warning, he pushes you onto your back and forcefully bends your legs, gripping the backs of your thighs to pull you closer. Your hips align with his knees as he leans back on his heels, his posture commanding, his breath heavy. The sudden shift makes your head spin, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. You're dizzy, overwhelmed, and utterly insatiable.

House’s eyes rake over you, dark and hungry, his chest rising and falling with effort. His lips curl into a smug, almost predatory smile as he takes in the sight of you beneath him—flushed, trembling, and ready. He holds your gaze as he grips his cock, guiding it to you, the head pressing against your swollen clit with a deliberate, teasing tap. The soft slap resonates through the room, and your body jolts at the sensation, a sharp gasp slipping from your lips as your eyes flutter shut.

“Keep looking at me.” He says, his voice rough and laced with dominance. You force your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze as he smirks and leans forward slightly. Without breaking eye contact, he spits onto your cunt, the warmth of it sending a shockwave through your body. The sheer audacity—and the fact that he remembers just how much you love it—makes your breath hitch, a whimper escaping you.

Then he presses into you, just the tip at first, stretching you with maddening slowness. It’s enough to make you cry out, your hands clawing at the sheets. House growls low in his throat at the sound, his grip on your thighs tightening as he pulls back and pushes in again, going deeper this time. He tilts his hips, the head of his cock pressing against your inner walls in a way that makes your entire body arch toward him.

“Fuck, you’re so wet.” He mutters, his tone a mix of awe and possessiveness as he glances down at where your bodies meet. His movements are deliberate, almost methodical, as he repeats the motion—pulling out, pressing back in—each thrust taking him a little further until he’s buried inside you to the hilt.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, tears welling in your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure. Wet sounds fill the room, obscene and utterly intoxicating, each thrust sending ripples of sensation coursing through your body. His pace is slow but unrelenting, his hips rolling with a precision that leaves you trembling, toes curling, and desperate for more.

“God, look at you.” He murmurs, his voice thick with arousal as he watches you fall apart beneath him. His thumb brushes over your clit, a teasing flick that makes you cry out again, your body writhing against him.

“House…” You gasp, your voice cracking, but he doesn’t let up, his rhythm steady and languid, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He’s consuming you, and you’re helpless but to let him.

House adjusts his grip on your thighs, pulling them higher up against his sides, and the new angle sends a jolt of pleasure so sharp it leaves you breathless. He leans over you now, his face hovering just inches from yours. The weight of his body presses against you, pinning you to the mattress in a way that makes you feel utterly his.

“God, you’re tight,” he groans, his voice hoarse as he thrusts deeper, his pace still slow but deliberate. “You’re going to make me lose it.”

You can barely form words, your head thrashing back against the pillows. “Don’t stop,” you manage to gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders, desperate to anchor yourself against the onslaught of sensations. “Please don’t stop.”

A smug grin tugs at the corner of his lips, and his eyes glint with something wicked. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he murmurs, lowering his head to capture your mouth in a bruising kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips, tangling with yours, his thrusts picking up speed as he loses himself in you.

The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, your breathless moans, and his guttural grunts. He pulls back slightly, his forehead pressing against yours, his gaze locking onto yours as his rhythm becomes erratic.

“Come for me,” he growls, his voice raw. His hand slides between your bodies, his thumb circling your clit with just the right amount of pressure. The combination of his touch, his words, and the relentless thrust of his cock is too much. Your body tenses, your back arching off the bed as your orgasm crashes over you, wave after wave of pleasure leaving you trembling and gasping.

House groans loudly as your walls tighten around him, his hips stuttering before he thrusts into you one last time, as deep as he can go. His entire body shudders as he comes, spilling into you with an intensity that leaves him trembling. The sound he makes—a low, guttural moan against your shoulder—sends a final ripple of pleasure through your already overwhelmed body.

For a long moment, you both remain frozen in that intimate tangle. House stays bent over you, his weight comforting rather than heavy, your legs wrapped loosely around his waist. His forehead rests on your shoulder, his warm breath fanning over your damp skin as your chest rises and falls in unison. You lift a hand, fingers gliding through the hair at the nape of his neck, then tracing slow, soothing circles down his back.

“Fuck…” He mumbles, his voice muffled and hoarse, still pressed against your shoulder.

“Fuck indeed.” You manage to reply, though your own voice is barely above a whisper, your breath still catching in your throat.

Then, it hits you like a tidal wave—a sudden aftershock of your orgasm, a mix of overwhelming emotion and the desperate need to be held. A soft, involuntary sob escapes your lips.

House’s head snaps up at the sound, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours. The expression on his face surprises you—it’s raw, open, and vulnerable, mirroring the feelings inside you. Seeing him like this makes your chest ache.

Without a word, he carefully pulls out, his movements gentle, as if afraid to hurt you. You wince slightly at the emptiness left behind, but before you can dwell on it, he shifts onto his side, drawing you into him. His arms wrap around you securely, pulling you against his chest as he settles onto the mattress. His touch is unrelenting, refusing to let even the smallest gap form between your bodies.

Shivering slightly, you curl into him, your face burying against his throat. Your lips brush against the curve of his jaw as you press soft kisses to his warm skin, savoring the taste of salt and sweat. His chin rests on the top of your head, and you can feel his chest vibrating faintly with each heavy breath he takes.

You’re acutely aware of the sensation of him dripping out of you. Strangely, it doesn’t bother you; in fact, you welcome it.

His embrace tightens around you, his hand moving to your wrist where his fingers find the cool metal of the bracelet. Slowly, almost absently, he traces its edge with his index finger, grounding you in the quiet aftermath. You close your eyes.

Book VI coming your way

My Carrd

Chapter Text

“House.” You mumble, half awake. He lets out a sigh.

Your eyes flutter open, and you look around. You’re still both naked, chaotically intertwined in your bed.

“House.” You whisper his name again.

“Yeah?” He whispers back.

“I need to pee.”

He chuckles, voice rough from sleep. “Fiiiiine. Go on then.” He sighs again and untangles himself from you to let you get up. “What time is it anyway?”

“Almost nine.”

“Hmpf.” He turns his head and glances at you. “You look nice.”

“Hmm, sure.” You get off the bed with a soft laugh and grab a shirt from the dresser, pulling it on, and take a fresh pair of panties to the adjacent bathroom with you.

House buries his head in the pillow again, limbs sprawled out, but his eyes stay on you until you close the door behind you.

You throw the panties on the counter and wash your face and neck, combing through your hair with your wet hands. Somehow, you do look nice. Happy, even.

When you do actually go to use the toilet, something occurs to you, and you yell: “Stop listening to me pee!”

You hear House let out a bark of laughter before he yells back: “I wasn’t, you freak!”

“I don’t believe you!” You laugh and reach over to turn on the faucet to let the water run while you pee.

“Are you serious!?” House laughs loudly and you giggle to yourself while you clean up.

The giggle is such a foreign sound to you, that it startles you and you blink in surprise at yourself while you wash your hands.

You try not to think too much about it when you leave the bathroom and find House still in bed. He has the blanket up to his waist, but you know he’s still fully naked, and you smile to yourself. For now, you just enjoy the view of his chest.

“You know,” he speaks up. You have to tear your eyes away from his chest and arms to look at his face. “You could easily go for someone who-“

“Nope.” You interrupt him. “I like how you look.”

House smirks at your interruption, his head tilting slightly as he watches you make your way back to the bed. “You didn’t even let me finish,” he says, his tone teasing but with a hint of something deeper beneath it.

“I didn’t need to,” you reply, climbing onto the mattress and settling yourself beside him. Your hand instinctively reaches out to trace the curve of his collarbone, fingertips skimming over the faint ridges of his skin. “You were about to say something self-deprecating, weren’t you?”

“Me? Never,” he quips, though the corner of his mouth twitches in a way that betrays him.

You lean closer, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his chest, just above his heart. “I like how you look,” you repeat, your voice gentle but firm.

His eyes darken, and for a moment, he looks almost vulnerable. “You’re weird,” he murmurs, but his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair.

“Maybe,” you admit, resting your chin on his chest so you can meet his gaze. “But you’re stuck with me now.”

House lets out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest beneath you. “I guess I could do worse.”

You smile, your fingers dancing along his arm until they find his hand. You intertwine your fingers with his.

“I’m serious,” you say softly. “No one else. Just you.”

“Bold statement,” he mutters, but his voice carries a warmth that wasn’t there before. He squeezes your hand lightly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Guess I’ll have to live up to that.”

“You already do,” you assure him, leaning up to kiss him gently. His lips are soft and warm, and for a moment, the world feels perfectly still.

When you pull back, his eyes are softer, his usual sharpness dulled by something that looks a lot like affection. “You’re trouble,” he says, but the grin that follows tells you he wouldn’t have it any other way.

You settle back against him, letting the quiet comfort of the moment stretch between you.

Chapter Text

You wake up slowly, warmth wrapping around you like a second skin. The sheets are a tangled mess, trapping you in place, but the real weight pinning you down is House—his arm slung lazily over your waist, his chest pressed firm and solid against your back. His breathing is slow and even, his face buried somewhere near your shoulder, and for a few precious moments, the world outside this bed doesn’t exist.

You blink against the soft morning light filtering through the blinds, your mind still sluggish with sleep. It takes a few seconds to register where you are. And then, like a slow tide creeping in, last night comes flooding back. The heat of his hands mapping your body, the rasp of his voice against your skin, the way his eyes darkened when he looked at you, like he was drinking you in and still wasn’t satisfied.

Your fingers twitch against the pillow, instinctively reaching for something, but before you can move, House shifts. He stirs slightly, lets out a quiet groan, but doesn’t wake—at least not fully. His arm tightens around you instead, pulling you just a fraction closer, as if even in sleep, he refuses to let go.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is thick with sleep, rough and low, murmured against your shoulder.

You smile to yourself, eyes slipping shut again. “Coffee.”

“Nope.” His grip tightens just enough to keep you from slipping away. He exhales, nuzzling against you in a way that’s almost instinctual. “You’re warm.”

You let out a quiet laugh, your body relaxing back into him despite yourself. For someone who claims to hate people, to hate feelings, he’s impossibly clingy in moments like this.

But then, as you stare at the ceiling, that quiet, nagging thought creeps in. What now? Last night had been unexpected, but it had also been inevitable in a way. Still, is this just a moment? A night? A mistake waiting to happen?

Before your thoughts can spiral further, House presses a slow, lazy kiss to the curve of your shoulder, his stubble scraping your skin. It’s absentminded, affectionate, and enough to make your chest tighten.

“I still need coffee,” you mumble, voice softer now.

“Fine,” he sighs dramatically, finally loosening his hold. “But only if you bring me one, too.”

You roll your eyes, slipping out of bed and reaching for the first thing you can find—a shirt crumpled on the floor. As you pull it on, you realize it’s his.

House watches you through barely opened eyes, his lips tugging into a smirk as he shifts onto his back. “That’s mine.”

“Yeah, well, finders keepers,” you say, running a hand through your hair.

His smirk deepens. “Guess that means I get to keep you, then.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head as you pad toward the door.

“Needy,” you tease, glancing back at him.

House stretches, his smirk still in place, but there’s something softer in his expression now. Something almost… content. “Yeah, but you like it.”

And the scary thing? You do.

~

You had your coffee. The bed is warm. House is still, sprawled on his back with an arm draped over his eyes.

You’re tucked into his side, basking in the strange, rare quiet. The world outside doesn’t exist yet—just the soft hum of breath, the faint scent of him lingering on the sheets, and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Then, the shrill buzz of his phone shatters the peace.

House groans dramatically, reaching blindly toward the nightstand, but you get to it first. A glance at the screen makes you grin.

“Wilson.” You announce. “Your boyfriend’s calling.”

House doesn’t even open his eyes. “Toss it out the window.”

You press the green button instead and put it on speaker.

“House,” Wilson’s exasperated voice fills the room immediately. “Tell me you’re not still in bed.”

House smirks lazily, rubbing a hand over his face. “Would it disappoint you if I was?”

There’s a long pause.

“…Are you alone?” Wilson finally asks, voice dripping with suspicion.

House opens his eyes then, glancing over at you with amusement. “Define alone.”

You roll your eyes and try (and fail) to smother a laugh.

Wilson groans. “Oh, God. Oh no. House. No.”

House grins. “Oh yes.”

“Are you kidding me?!” Wilson makes a strangled sound. “How—when—no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. But also, I have to know.”

You grab House’s coffee from the nightstand and take a sip just as Wilson’s voice gets sharper. “Wait, is she there right now?”

House lifts his head slightly to look over at you. “Nope, I’m talking to myself. The sex was so good I decided to hallucinate her.”

You snort into the coffee and swipe at his arm.

Wilson is silent for a moment, then sighs deeply, as if physically preparing himself for the consequences of your collective decision-making.

“You’re both idiots,” he finally says.

House smirks. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I just… House, listen, I don’t want to say ‘I told you so,’ but I definitely told you so. This is a disaster waiting to happen. Have you even thought about—”

House makes an obnoxious buzzing noise to drown him out.

You shake your head and take pity on Wilson. “Wilson, relax. It’s fine.”

Wilson barks out a humorless laugh. “Oh, sure. Now it’s fine. But what happens when—”

House hangs up. Just like that. No warning. No hesitation. Just presses the button and tosses the phone onto the nightstand like Wilson never existed.

You stare at him. “Wow.”

He shrugs. “He was ruining my afterglow.”

“You hung up on Wilson.”

“Yeah, he’ll get over it.” House smirks, fiddling with the bracelet on your wrist. “He always does.”

The phone starts ringing again.

You grin. “You gonna get that?”

House pulls you down on top of him instead, kissing you lazily, and mumbles against your lips, “Get what?”

You let out a soft laugh, but it quickly fades as his lips brush against yours again, this time with more pressure. His hand slides up your back, fingertips grazing your skin as he deepens the kiss. It’s slow, languid, like the entire world is on pause, and it’s just the two of you.

The phone rings once more, but House doesn’t flinch, doesn’t acknowledge it. His hands travel down your back, pulling you closer, the heat of his skin seeping into yours. You let your own fingers trace the outline of his jaw, the roughness of his stubble beneath your fingertips making your pulse quicken.

“House…” you murmur, breaking the kiss but not pulling away. You rest your forehead against his, your breaths mingling in the air between you.

“Yeah?” he whispers, his voice a low rasp that sends a thrill through you.

You don’t know what you want to say, there’s too much to process, too much to feel; you settle for pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Forget the phone,” you say, letting your lips hover near his.

He smiles, his eyes half-lidded with that lazy, contented look he only seems to get when he’s with you like this. He’s warm, completely unguarded, and for a moment, you forget everything except him.

His hands move, sliding beneath your (his) shirt, fingers brushing over the curve of your waist. You shiver at the contact, your skin prickling with the sensation of his touch. He pulls you closer, the pressure of his body against yours sending a surge of heat through your veins.

House tilts his head slightly, his breath warm against your lips as his hands splay against your back, fingers pressing just firmly enough to make you arch into him. His thumbs skim the sides of your ribs, teasing the sensitive skin beneath the fabric of his shirt—your only barrier. The way he touches you is slow, unhurried, like he’s memorizing you all over again.

You shift, straddling his waist, and he lets out a low hum of approval, his hands sliding down to your thighs. The sheets rustle beneath you, the morning light spilling in through the window, casting a golden glow over his bare chest. You take a moment to look at him like this—completely relaxed, watching you with that sharp, unreadable expression that still somehow makes your stomach twist with anticipation.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs.

“You’re letting me.”

He smirks, dragging his hands back up your legs, thumbs pressing circles into your skin. “Maybe I like the attention.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse stutters when he suddenly shifts beneath you, rolling you onto your back with practiced ease. His body settles over yours, propped up on his elbows, his weight a delicious warmth against you. He dips his head, pressing slow, lingering kisses to your jaw, down the column of your throat, pausing just long enough for you to feel his smirk when your breath catches.

You tug at his hair, tilting his face back up to yours, and when he meets your gaze, there’s something unreadable in his eyes—something almost hesitant, like he’s trying to commit this moment to memory.

His fingers slide under the hem of the shirt, skimming higher, and he watches you carefully, giving you the chance to stop him if you want. But you don’t. You never would.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs again, his voice softer this time, like a promise. Maybe to you, maybe to himself.

And the scary thing? You believe him.

~

The smell of takeout lingers in the air, mixing with the remnants of coffee and the faint scent of House’s cologne. You’re both at the kitchen table, cartons of Thai food spread between you. House is poking at his pad thai with his chopsticks, looking vaguely unimpressed.

“I told you we should’ve gotten burgers,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes, taking a bite of your own food. “You’re the one who refused to leave the apartment.”

“I was otherwise occupied.” He smirks at you over his chopsticks.

You shake your head, hiding a smile, but the warmth between you dims slightly as you remember Wilson’s call from earlier. You set your fork down, watching him. You know you have to talk about it. You have to mention it, because House sure as hell won’t.

“He called me too.”

House doesn’t look up. “Tragic.”

“He’s worried.”

He shrugs, still not meeting your eyes. “Wilson’s always worried.”

You exhale, shifting in your chair. “He thinks we’re going to hurt each other.”

That makes him pause—just for a beat, just enough to confirm that he’s thought the same thing. He finally looks up, expression unreadable. “Well,” he says, voice laced with dry amusement, “he’s not wrong.”

You cross your arms. “House.”

“What?” He leans back, tilting his head. “You want me to tell you he’s overreacting? That we’re great together? That this—” he gestures between you with his chopsticks “—isn’t a slow-motion trainwreck?”

You steady yourself before speaking. “Do you think this is a mistake? Because last night that sounded very different.”

He lets out a long breath, spinning his chopsticks between his fingers. “I think Wilson has watched me burn enough bridges to assume I’ll set this one on fire too.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He smirks, but there’s no real humor in it. “Maybe because there isn’t one.” He sets his chopsticks down, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look, we’ve been here before. We push and push and push…before things even have a chance to work.”

You meet his gaze, unwavering. “Because you never let them.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sighs. “Or because we both know it will end badly.”

There’s a quiet moment between you, the only sound the soft hum of the fridge.

“I don’t believe that,” you say finally.

He raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“No.” You shake your head. “We’re both a mess, yeah. But that doesn’t mean we’re doomed.”

He studies you, fingers tapping idly against the table. “And what if we do hurt each other?”

You hesitate, but not for long. “Then we deal with it.”

House exhales, picking up his chopsticks again and stabbing half-heartedly at his food. “Wilson’s gonna lose his mind when he realizes we’re actually trying.”

You smirk. “Let’s not tell him yet. Let him think we’re still a disaster waiting to happen.”

House chuckles. “That won’t be hard. We are still a disaster.”

“Maybe,” you admit, taking another bite.

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Chapter Text

"Time of death," you begin, your voice steady, deliberate. A statement that commands attention. “It’s one of the first things we try to determine in forensic investigations.”

A brief pause—intentional. You let the words settle, scanning the room, letting them feel the weight of what’s to come. House is in the front row, legs stretched out, cane leaning against his chair. He smirks, knowing where you’re going with this.

"When did they die? How long has it been? And, perhaps most importantly, what clues can their body give us about what happened?" Another pause, then you lean in slightly. "But what if I told you that the very same principles we use to estimate postmortem interval—the progression of rigor mortis, the settling of livor mortis, core temperature changes—can also be used to diagnose and save the living?" You let that sink in. "Today, I want to show you how techniques meant for the dead can be just as vital in the world of medicine."

A few people shift in their seats, intrigued. Wilson is sitting near the back, Foreman and Chase beside him, their expressions somewhere between curiosity and mild skepticism. Cuddy is here, too, arms crossed, listening intently.

"A 42-year-old woman was found unresponsive in her home. Paramedics arrived to find her cold, nearly pulseless, barely breathing. By the time she reached the ER, her skin had become mottled, and her extremities showed noticeable rigidity. Blood had pooled in her back, creating the illusion of livor mortis. To the untrained eye, or even to a seasoned physician moving quickly in a chaotic resuscitation scenario, she looked dead."

You glance at your notes—not that you need them.

"In forensic pathology, rigor mortis—the stiffening of muscles after death—sets in within two to six hours due to ATP depletion. It follows a predictable pattern, progressing from smaller muscle groups to larger ones. But in living patients, certain conditions can mimic rigor."

A few hands go up when you ask: “Can someone give me an example?” You point at a woman in the thirteenth row.

"Extreme hypothermia," she offers.

You nod—not a bad answer, if not the most inspired. Foreman raises a hand next.

"Severe cases of hypocalcemia," he says.

Also good. You nod again, waiting.

And then—House raises his hand.

You feel a flicker of amusement. The moment stretches as the room turns toward him.

"Yes, Dr. House?" you say, keeping your tone even.

His blue eyes are locked onto yours, unreadable but sharp. "Neuroleptic malignant syndrome," he says matter-of-factly. "A reaction to antipsychotics."

You raise an eyebrow, gesturing for him to continue. You already know he wants to. "However," he continues, "that would also mean a fast heart rate. But there was barely a pulse. How’s that?"

A slow smile pulls at the corner of your mouth. "Good question, Dr. House." You keep your voice level, but you know he heard the teasing emphasis. His expression doesn’t change, but you don’t miss the slight twitch of his fingers on his cane.

You switch to the next slide, filling the screen with close-up images of skin in livor mortis.

"Our second clue—one that should explain why she’s dead. Not why she’s still alive."

The room is silent except for the scratching of pens on paper. House, however, doesn’t look at the slide. His gaze stays on you. You wink at him before turning to the projected image.

"Now, livor mortis—postmortem lividity—typically appears within 30 minutes to two hours after death. Blood settles in dependent areas due to gravity, creating the telltale discoloration. However, in a true postmortem state, once livor mortis becomes fixed—usually around six to eight hours—it no longer shifts when the body is repositioned." You glance at the audience. "Our patient? Her 'lividity' changed."

There’s a murmur of realization.

"That told us she wasn’t dead; she was in circulatory collapse. The discoloration wasn’t livor—it was the result of severe shock-induced hypoperfusion. Her blood was failing to circulate efficiently, but it had not stopped moving entirely."

You let them sit with that for a moment. The tension, the curiosity, the shifting of thought patterns.

Then, you switch slides again. This time, it’s a scene—her body, curled on the floor of her living room.

A few doctors lean forward, confused.

"When you now think: why does that look like a crime scene photo? That’s because it is one."

Silence.

"What I left out in the beginning is that when paramedics arrived, they weren’t the first responders. They were called by the forensic scientist who was already on scene."

Eyes widen. Wilson shifts in his seat. Chase stops twirling his pen.

"When I first examined the body, I saw the signs we discussed. But I also noticed everything that was wrong. Which meant going from calling the coroner to calling 911." You cross your arms, looking at them. "At this point, the question wasn’t if she was alive—but why this was happening."

Another click of the remote. The screen changes.

"Once in the hospital, blood work revealed profound hypothyroidism—she was in full-blown myxedema coma. Her core temperature was barely 30°C. The ‘rigor’ was actually a combination of electrolyte imbalances and severe cold-induced muscle stiffness. The ‘livor’ was pooling blood due to prolonged hypotension. What she needed wasn’t a time of death estimate—she needed aggressive warming, thyroid hormone replacement, and electrolyte stabilization."

More murmurs. More pens moving. House shifts slightly in his seat.

You let the room breathe for a moment. And then, you finish:

"Sometimes, the difference between life and death isn’t a diagnosis—it’s simply the ability to recognize that death hasn’t actually arrived yet."

You set the remote down. House watches you, fingers tapping against his cane. The smirk is back.

~

“Fuck, you were so good.” House groans, pushing you onto your bed.

Clothes come off, quick and hasty.

“And the way you talked to the suits from the board after…? My god, woman.” He kisses your neck and shoulder, panting, his breath hot on your skin.

You laugh breathlessly, fingers tangling in his shirt as you yank it up over his head. “That got you hot?”

“Oh, absolutely.” House’s voice is rough, lips dragging along the column of your throat. “The way you shut down that idiot from cardiology? I nearly dragged you out of there then and there.”

Your back hits the mattress, and he follows, pressing down against you, his body flush with yours.

“I could tell,” you murmur against his lips, nipping just enough to make him groan. “You kept staring.”

“Not my fault you’re obnoxiously brilliant.” His hand slides down, fingers skimming your thigh before pushing higher, palms against skin. “And—fuck—you know it.”

You arch into him, half a laugh, half a moan, as his mouth moves lower. His stubble burns against your skin in the best way, dragging over your collarbone, your chest.

Your fingers bury in his hair, tugging just enough to pull him back up, until his lips are on yours again—hot, desperate, consuming.

“House,” you gasp.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters against your skin. “I’m getting there.”

His mouth crashes back onto yours, all heat and urgency, his hands rough and knowing as they push you further into the mattress. There’s no patience left—there never really was. Not with him. Not when he’s like this, wound tight from the lecture, from the tension that had been thrumming between you all day.

“You have no idea,” he mutters against your lips, fingers digging into your hips as he grinds against you, “how fucking unbearable it was—sitting there, watching you.” His teeth graze your jaw, then your throat, before he bites down just enough to make you gasp. “So goddamn smug, like you knew I was losing my mind.”

You smirk, legs tightening around him. “I did know.”

His breath hitches, a low, ragged sound in his throat, and then he’s kissing you again—harder this time, like he’s trying to take back control. But you don’t let him. You roll your hips up against him, dragging a groan from his lips, and you smile against his mouth.

“Yeah,” he pants, pulling back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, hair already a mess. “Definitely unbearable.”

His hands move, gripping at your thighs, dragging them higher around his waist, his body pressing down into yours, and for a second, neither of you speak. Just breathing, just feeling.

Then he smirks. “You gonna gloat about it?”

You hum, fingers tracing down his back. “Maybe.”

House huffs a laugh, but it turns into a groan when you roll against him again, slow and deliberate.

His fingers tighten on your skin, his control slipping, and it’s intoxicating to watch.

“God, you drive me insane,” he mutters, before his mouth is on you again, hot and desperate, swallowing the sharp gasp that escapes your lips.

House growls against your mouth, the sound vibrating straight through you. His hands are everywhere—gripping, dragging, claiming—like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

His mouth is just as greedy—kissing, biting, dragging hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, lower still.

“Been waiting all damn day for this,” he rasps, his voice thick, wrecked. His lips ghost over your chest before he takes your nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking, teasing, drawing a sharp gasp from you. His stubble scratches against sensitive skin, adding just enough of an edge to make you shiver.

Your fingers curl in his hair, tugging him up so you can kiss him again, swallowing his groan as you roll your hips against him. He’s hard against you, barely holding himself together, and you revel in the way his control frays with every deliberate movement you make.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice strained. His forehead rests against yours for half a second before he moves, pushing your legs further apart, pressing himself flush against you. “You this smug in bed with everyone, or is it just because you know I’m completely losing my mind over you?”

You smirk, running your nails lightly down his back, savoring the way he shudders.

House groans, his hands gripping your hips as he moves against you again, slower this time, teasing, until you’re the one losing patience. He grins when you whimper, then kisses you deep, lazy and consuming, like he’s savoring every second of this, of you.

“House, please…” You whisper, your plea making him moan into your mouth.

“You need me, hm? Need me to fuck you? Make you feel good?”

“Yes, yes…” You breathe out, hands on his shoulders.

He lets out a hum and then moves down your body until his face is between your thighs.

His mouth is a whisper of heat against your skin, a gentle tease that makes you shiver as his warm breath dances across your sensitive flesh. His fingers part your thighs further, holding you open with a gentle yet firm pressure, as his tongue darts out, a slow, languid stroke that makes your breath catch in your throat. The soft, wet tip of his tongue glides effortlessly across your skin, sending shivers down your spine as it explores every curve and contour. You feel his eyes on you, watching your reaction, and you know he's savoring every moment of this intimate connection, his gaze burning with desire and intensity.

"House..." You whisper, your voice barely audible, as his tongue dances across your skin, sending shivers down your spine and making your toes curl in response. The sound of your own voice is almost lost in the pounding of your heart, which is racing with anticipation and excitement. His fingers dig gently into your thighs, holding you in place, as he explores you with his mouth, his tongue probing and caressing every sensitive spot.

He's relentless, his tongue and lips working together to drive you crazy with desire. You feel yourself building, the tension coiling inside you like a spring, as he sucks and licks, his mouth knowing exactly which buttons to press.

Your hands are in his hair, tugging gently, as you arch into him, your hips moving of their own accord in a slow, sensual rhythm. The soft strands of his hair tickle your palms, a gentle reminder of his presence, as you pull him closer, deeper, urging him to continue his exquisite torture.

"More..." You breathe, your voice a plea, as he increases the pressure, his tongue stroking faster, harder, the sensations building. You're on the edge, teetering, as he adds his fingers to the mix, sliding them inside you, curling them just so, the gentle friction sending sparks of pleasure through your entire body. The combination of his tongue and fingers is almost too much to bear, the sensations overwhelming, as you feel yourself being pushed closer and closer to the edge.

You come apart, your body shuddering, as he holds you there, his mouth and fingers working together to draw out your orgasm. The waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you breathless and trembling.

You feel him smile against your skin, his eyes gleaming with triumph, as you ride out the waves of pleasure, your body surrendering to the sheer intensity of the moment. The sound of your own ragged breathing is the only thing you can hear, the only thing that exists, as you bask in the glow of your release.

While you come back down, he moves up your body, his mouth claiming yours, his tongue tangling with yours in a slow, sensual kiss. You taste yourself on his lips, a musky, sweet flavor, as he deepens the kiss, his tongue probing the depths of your mouth. His body is hard against yours, his erection pressing into your belly, as he grinds against you, his hips moving in a slow, sensual rhythm that sends shivers down your spine. The heat of his body, the hardness of his erection…

"Need me now?" He whispers, his voice a low, husky growl, as he pulls back, his eyes locked on yours, burning with intensity and desire.

Your heart is still racing, your body still trembling, as you nod, your voice lost in the pounding of your heart, your response a silent, fervent yes.

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Chapter Text

The rhythmic rise and fall of your cat’s frame is the only sound in the room, a soft, steady snore barely audible over the rustle of pages as you flip through a journal. You’re hunched over your desk, brow furrowed in concentration, absorbed in case studies, letting the words blur and rearrange in your mind as you refresh your memory on—

A shrill noise cuts through the stillness. It takes a moment for your brain to register it. Your phone.

You blink, tearing yourself away from the medical text as you reach for it. Wilson’s name flashes on the screen. You half-smile, already preparing to make some quip about how he’s getting way too invested in yours and House’ relationship.

But the moment you answer, his voice slices through any pretense of normalcy.

"Have you seen House?" No greeting. Just urgency.

"Hello to you too."

"I'm serious," Wilson says, and there’s something off in his tone—almost frantic, threaded with barely contained worry. You sit up straighter, fingers tightening around the phone.

"Not today, no." You press the phone closer to your ear, suddenly uneasy. "He told me he’s busy with the case."

"Shit." The curse is quiet but heavy.

Your pulse picks up. "Wilson?"

"He hasn’t come into work. He won’t pick up his phone."

A cold weight settles in your chest. House was off yesterday, distracted but still House. He had met you for coffee, rattled off some theories about the patient between sips, but nothing seemed…wrong. Not wrong enough to worry.

You push to your feet, already pacing. "I saw him yesterday afternoon. He seemed preoccupied with the case… Shit, I probably should have—"

"So, you have no idea where he could be?"

"At home, probably?"

"I'm standing in front of his apartment," Wilson says, and you can hear the tight edge to his voice. "It’s dark. He’s not answering the door."

"You went there before calling me?"

"Yeah, well… This whole ‘House has a girlfriend’ thing is new to all of us."

Despite the circumstances, you let out a chuckle.

“Okay, well…I’ll call him.” You tell Wilson. “I’ll call you back after.”

Before he can answer, you hang up and dial House’ number.

Whereas all the small things you chalked up to him being busy – no texts, no running into him in the hallways, no visit in the lab during your shift – now evokes the most horror inducing scenarios in your mind. Did he overdose? Did he have an accident on the way to work? Did he have a bad episode you somehow didn’t notice? Did he-

“Fuck! Pick up!”

He doesn’t.

You pace around in your bedroom; your cat looks at you, irritated.

You call Wilson back; he picks up before the first ring.

“And?”

“No answer.”

“Shit.”

“Okay, okay. He has a spare key in his office.” You tell him.

“He does?”

“Yeah, in the book about Lupus.”

“Of course.”

“You stay at the apartment, I will get the key. I meet you there, okay?”

“Okay.”

And you’re off.

~

“What are you doing here? Have you seen House?” Foreman asks when you storm into the office.

“No.” Is all you reply before you grab aforementioned book and the spare key.

The team watches you.

“You know where his spare key is?” Cameron asks.

“Yes.” You pause to look at them all, sitting around the conference table. They are evidently working on the case while simultaneously looking like they are all about to throw up from stress because House isn’t here. Or maybe you’re projecting.

“You really are his girlfriend?” Chase asks.

You snort, lingering for a second: “I’m sure he told you.”

“Repeatedly.” He sighs. “And does he-”

“I have to go.” You walk out, half-jogging to the elevator.

~

“Hey.” You pant as you reach Baker Street. Wilson is still there, standing in front of House’ apartment building, his shoulders hunched, his foot tapping anxiously against the pavement.

“Still nothing?” you ask, voice tight from the sprint.

“No.” Wilson exhales sharply, shaking his head. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, but you notice the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

There’s something in his expression—something more than worry. A quiet, gnawing fear. You want to ask what he knows that you don’t, but now isn’t the time.

“I have the key.” You don’t wait for a response before heading inside. Wilson follows close behind, nearly tripping over his own feet in his hurry. His hands are shaking.

You exchange one last look with him before turning the key in the lock and pushing the door open.

The smell of blood hits instantly.

Thick. Metallic. Wrong.

Your stomach drops. Wilson stiffens beside you, his face paling as your eyes meet in silent horror.

And then you’re moving. The apartment is dim, eerily still, but a faint light spills from under the bathroom door.

You don’t think—you just run.

The door swings open with a force that makes it slam against the wall.

“Greg!”

The sight before you knocks the breath from your lungs.

House is slumped in the bathtub, deathly pale, his body unnaturally still. His skin glistens with sweat, his damp hair sticking to his forehead. Scattered on the tile floor are medical instruments, a scalpel slick with blood.

Your gaze drops to his leg, and bile rises in your throat. He tried to operate on his own scar. The wound is raw, angry, bloodied—how much damage has he done?

“Oh, god,” Wilson breathes.

You don’t think, don’t hesitate—you drop to your knees beside the tub, one arm slipping around House’s neck, pulling him against your chest. He’s warm. Thank gods, he’s warm.

Your fingers tremble as they stroke through his damp hair, your other arm tightening around him, desperate, protective.

“Greg,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Wilson is already moving, snapping into doctor mode, his fear pushed aside as he crouches by House’s leg, assessing the damage with clinical precision. But you can’t focus on that—you can’t focus on anything except the man in your arms, barely there, barely breathing.

“What did you do?” The words fall from your lips, barely audible. Tears spill down your cheeks as you press your face against his temple. “Please, baby.”

You press frantic, desperate kisses to his cheek, his forehead, his damp skin.

You feel it before you see it—the faintest change in his breathing, the rhythm shifting ever so slightly. Your heart lurches.

Your hands fly to his face, cupping his clammy cheeks, thumbs brushing over his too-cool skin. “House.”

His head lolls to the side, unresponsive for a terrifying second, and you think you might actually break apart right here, but then—

A low groan rumbles from his throat.

Your breath catches, and then—

“Did you just call me baby?” His voice is rough, raw, barely above a whisper, but it’s there.

A wet, choked laugh bursts from you, relief crashing into your chest so hard it almost hurts. Tears are still slipping down your cheeks, but you can’t stop the grin from breaking through.

“Yeah,” you breathe, still cradling his face like he might disappear if you let go. “Yeah, I did.”

House’s lips twitch, something like amusement flickering behind the exhaustion in his glassy blue eyes. “Sap.”

His gaze finally locks onto yours, a little unfocused, but aware. There. Still there.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice thick with emotion. You stroke your thumb along his jaw, grounding yourself in his warmth, his presence. “Hey, stay with me, yeah?”

He blinks—slow, sluggish—but you take it as a yes, as the best he can give.

Leaning forward, you press a soft kiss to his lips, barely touching, just enough to remind him, to remind yourself. He responds—just barely—but it’s enough to make your chest ache.

Your eyes flick down to his leg, where Wilson has managed to wrap a makeshift bandage around the wound. There’s still blood, too much, but Wilson is keeping it under control. For now.

“What did you do?” you whisper, looking back at House.

His eyelids flutter, and he exhales a weak, frustrated sigh. “Stupid…”

You swallow hard. “Stupid?”

“Mhm…” His head tilts ever so slightly, the ghost of a nod.

“Something stupid?”

“Very,” Wilson chimes in, wiping sweat from his forehead. His hands are stained red, his movements shaky but efficient.

House barely reacts, just lets his eyes slip shut for a second too long. Panic spikes in your chest, and you shake him gently. “No, no, come on. Stay awake.”

He grunts, forcing his gaze back to you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, but his hand twitches weakly where it rests against the edge of the tub. “No ambulance.”

You freeze. “But—”

“Please.” His voice is thin, desperate, his eyes searching yours.

It’s the please that undoes you. House never pleads.

You exhale sharply, pressing your forehead against his for the briefest moment. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay. But we need something to numb the leg.”

He exhales in something like relief, then sluggishly gestures toward the chair next to the tub.

Wilson immediately moves, rifling through the scattered bottles and supplies, his expression growing darker with every second. Finally, he pulls out a syringe and holds it up, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Christ, House,” he mutters. “How the hell did you get this?”

~

“Here.” Wilson hands you a cup of coffee, his hand on your shoulder for a brief moment.

“Thanks.” You say quietly, taking a sip without removing your gaze from House, who is lying in bed. You’re sitting on the edge, holding his hand, while Wilson sits in a chair next to the bed.

House is resting, but conscious and awake.

Wilson exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. The tension in the room is thick, heavy with everything unsaid.

House shifts slightly against the pillows, his fingers weakly flexing in yours. His eyelids are half-lowered, but his gaze is on you, sharp even through the haze of exhaustion and pain.

“You’re staring,” he rasps, voice still rough, but a little stronger than before.

You huff out a soft laugh, squeezing his hand. “You scared the hell out of me. You don’t get to complain about being stared at.”

His lips quirk up in something that’s almost a smirk. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

Wilson scoffs from his chair, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Says the guy who tried to perform DIY surgery on himself.”

House shrugs one shoulder, winces slightly, but doesn’t look remotely apologetic. “It made sense at the time.”

Wilson glares at him. “It never makes sense, House.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, just enough to make your point. “You could have died.”

Something flickers in House’s expression—something too fast, too fleeting for you to name—but then he exhales, glancing away. “Didn’t.”

You sigh, pressing your free hand to your forehead. “Greg…”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” you snap, frustration finally breaking through. “You never are. And you keep doing this, and—” Your voice wavers, and you stop, pressing your lips together, forcing yourself to breathe.

House watches you, silent for a long moment. Then, quietly:

“…I didn’t want you to see.”

Your heart clenches.

“Too bad,” you murmur, voice raw. “Because I’m here.”

You lift his hand, press a kiss to his knuckles. His fingers curl slightly, holding onto you.

Wilson clears his throat, looking away, giving you both a moment. Then he shifts forward, voice gentler than before.

“You need to rest. And you need to let us take care of you.”

House sighs heavily, but he doesn’t argue. Not this time.

You stroke your thumb over the back of his hand. “Sleep, Greg.”

His eyes linger on you for a few seconds longer, something unspoken passing between you. Then, finally, he lets his body relax against the bed.

His grip on your hand doesn’t loosen.

My Carrd (I now also offer commissions!)

Chapter Text

Part XVII: Volcano

House's breathing is slow, steady, but his fingers twitch restlessly in your grasp.

Wilson shifts in his chair, rubbing his face before exhaling sharply. “This isn’t sustainable,” he mutters, quiet but firm.

You don’t look at him. “I know.”

“You say that, but do you?” His voice is sharper now, edged with something raw and frustrated. “Because this is House. He’s going to keep doing this—pushing himself too far, refusing help, playing god with his own body like it’s just another medical puzzle.” He gestures vaguely toward the bed. “And you’re sitting here, holding his damn hand like this is normal.”

You squeeze House’s hand instinctively. “I’m not saying it’s normal.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “I just—I don’t know what else to do right now.”

Wilson scoffs under his breath, shaking his head. “What else to do? Jesus.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping lower. “This is how it starts, you know. The endless cycle. He does something reckless, you patch him up, you tell yourself it’s okay because this time was different, this time he’ll see that you care, that he doesn’t have to destroy himself, and then—” He exhales sharply. “Then it happens again.”

You look away, staring at a crack in the floor. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Wilson’s voice is softer now, but still insistent. “Because you think you’re prepared for this, but you’re not. No one is. Not even me, and I’ve been dealing with him for years.” He runs a hand through his hair. “He will push you away, or he will pull you in just enough to make you think you can save him. But you can’t. And if you keep trying, it’s going to tear you apart.”

A lump forms in your throat. “So, what, Wilson? I should just leave?”

“I don’t know.” His answer is almost immediate, and somehow, that hurts more than if he’d told you yes. “But I know you can’t fix him. And I don’t want to watch you break yourself trying.”

After a pause, Wilson adds: “You love him.” It’s not a question, and you don’t reply.

The quiet stretches between you.

Wilson rubs at his temple, then sighs. “But love doesn’t fix him.”

“No,” you whisper. “It doesn’t.”

Wilson exhales, tired, resigned. “Then what’s your plan?”

“You think I have one?”

“You should. Because this?” He gestures toward House’s unconscious form. “This is going to happen again. And next time, what if you’re not the one who finds him?”

The thought sends a sharp, cold panic through you, but you don’t let it show. “I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Wilson studies you for a moment, then nods, like he expected that answer. “Just… be careful.”

His voice is quieter now, less frustrated, more like a plea. “I know you think you can handle him. I know you want to. But if it gets to be too much…” He hesitates, then sighs. “Don’t let him drag you down with him.”

You don’t respond, because what can you even say? You just nod, and Wilson nods back, like some silent agreement has been made.

A rustling sound from the bed makes you turn back. House’s eyes are cracked open now, his gaze flickering between you and Wilson. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s something in his expression—something tired and knowing.

You don’t know how much he heard.

Or maybe you do.

And maybe that’s why, in the dim light of the bedroom, he squeezes your hand.

Part XVIII: Good Man

“Hey.” House says with a groggy voice, startling you awake. You’ve been sitting in the chair next to the bed for the better half of the night, dozing while he slept.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” He asks.

You rub your face to clear your sight and sit up, taking a deep breath. Your eyes dart over him, he doesn’t seem in too much pain and the color returned to his face.

“I didn’t want to accidentally touch you.” You reply. “Your leg, I mean.”

House sighs but doesn’t reply for a long moment.

“Come here.” He eventually says, holding out his hand. You get up from the chair and take it, sitting on the edge of the bed again.

House interlaces your fingers and kisses your knuckles, making you smile for a brief moment.

“I sent Wilson home.” You tell him.

He nods and closes his eyes for a bit before he lifts his head to look at you fully.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” House murmurs.

You give him another smile and lean over to gently kiss him. His lips are dry, but you don’t care; You just want to be close to him.

House kisses you back with a small hum, his hand sliding up your arm and into your hair.

“I mean it.” He whispers.

“I know.” You whisper back and reach for the bottle of water on the nightstand and hand it to him. He silently drinks from it, looking at you before he sets the bottle down with a small wince.

You stare at each other for a long time, not saying anything.

Eventually, you speak up: “I have to change the bandage.”

“I can do that myself.”

You just nod, too exhausted to fight him, and get up to go to the bathroom and bring him the gauze. House grabs your wrist to stop you.

“Later.” He says and tugs you closer again.

You almost stumble but House just tugs on your wrist again until you get into bed next to him, scooting over to give you space. He puts his arm around you as you rest your head on his shoulder, inhaling his scent. It’s laced with blood and sweat, but also still very much him.

~

“He’s doing alright.” You tell Wilson on the phone. “He’s in the shower right now. It takes forever cause he doesn’t let me help him.”

Wilson sighs: “Stubborn ass.”

“I get it.”

“Of course you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, I’m sorry. I’ve been working too much, and worrying about House and-“

“It’s alright, James.”

He pauses.

“He doesn’t let you see the leg at all?”

“No. He sleeps in sweatpants and changes the bandage himself.”

Another pause until you speak up.

“Has he done this before?” You ask.

“What? Operated on himself?”

“Cut himself.”

You hear Wilson inhale sharply before he admits: “Yes.”

“Oh god.” You bury your face in your hand. “Is that why you were so worried? You thought he accidentally killed himself, didn’t you?”

Wilson stays quiet.

“Didn’t you?” You repeat.

“Yes.”

“You could have warned me.”

“I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You didn’t want to scare me, or you wanted to protect House?”

“I-“ Wilson pauses. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t make it so easy for yourself.”

“I- I just feel like, I shouldn’t share those things with you. It’s up to House.”

Wilson sighs heavily, and you hear the exhaustion in it. "Look, I'm not trying to keep secrets from you. I just... I've spent years managing House, covering for him, talking him off the ledge, or picking up the pieces when he falls off it anyway. It’s not something I can just unlearn overnight."

You close your eyes, gripping the phone tighter. "I get that, Wilson. I do. But if I'm going to be with him, I need to know what I'm walking into. You can’t just decide what I should or shouldn’t hear."

"I know," he admits, voice quieter. "But I also know that sometimes, knowing everything doesn’t help. It just makes you feel more powerless."

"I already feel powerless, Wilson."

There’s a pause, a long stretch of silence between you. Finally, he speaks again, softer this time. "Does he talk to you about it? The pain, the… other stuff?"

"No," you say honestly. "Not really. Not like he does with you."

"He doesn't talk to me about it either," Wilson says. "Not anymore. He used to, sometimes. After Stacy left. And then when the infarction happened, when the pain got really bad… He would slip, now and then, say something that told me just how much it was eating him alive." Wilson exhales sharply. "But over time, he stopped. He figured out that pushing people away was easier than admitting how much he was hurting."

Your stomach twists. You glance toward the bathroom door, where the sound of running water fills the quiet. "Do you think he'd ever—?" You can’t finish the sentence.

Wilson doesn’t make you. "I don’t know," he says after a long moment. "I used to think no. But then he started doing things like this. And every time, it gets harder to believe that he wouldn't."

You swallow the lump in your throat. "Wilson."

"I know." His voice is rough, like he’s barely holding himself together. "I know."

Part XIX: Tear You to Parts

“Fuck, you were so good.” House groans, pushing you onto your bed.

Clothes come off, quick and hasty.

“And the way you talked to the suits from the board after…? My god, woman.” He kisses your neck and shoulder, panting, his breath hot on your skin.

"Need me now?" He whispers, his voice a low, husky growl, as he pulls back, his eyes locked on yours, burning with intensity and desire.

Your heart is still racing, your body still trembling, as you nod, your voice lost in the pounding of your heart, your response a silent, fervent yes.

His smirk is wicked as he trails his fingers down your torso, teasing, barely touching. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I could tell. The way you looked at me across the room—like you were barely holding it together.”

He presses his body against yours, skin to skin, heat to heat. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, splaying over your ribs, tracing the curve of your thigh. “You think I didn’t notice?”

Your breath hitches as he drags his mouth down your throat, biting, licking, soothing the marks he leaves behind. His stubble scratches against your skin, adding just enough of an edge to make you shiver.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he mutters, his voice thick with lust. “Standing there all confident, shutting those idiots down with that sharp tongue of yours—made me want to drag you out of there and do this hours ago.”

You gasp as he moves lower, his fingers pressing into your hips, his mouth mapping a path down your body. He’s slow now, savoring, teasing, like he’s in no rush now that he made you cum once already.

“Tell me,” he murmurs against your skin. “How bad do you need me?”

Your breath hitches as he hovers just above where you need him most, his lips barely brushing over your skin, teasing, waiting. His breath is hot, fanning against your already burning flesh, and the anticipation alone has you trembling beneath him.

You shift instinctively, pressing your hips upward, silently begging, but his hands tighten on your waist, holding you still.

"Impatient, are we?" His voice is a low, husky drawl, thick with amusement, but also something darker, something possessive. His lips graze the sensitive skin of your thigh, leaving a trail of barely-there kisses, each one igniting another spark of need.

"House," you breathe, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging—not enough to hurt, but enough to get his attention.

He groans at the contact, the vibration of the sound thrumming against your skin. "Say it," he murmurs, his voice rasping with control he’s barely holding onto. "I want to hear you say it."

Your heart pounds against your ribs, your body aching, burning with the need for more, for him. "Please," you whisper, then louder. "Please, House."

He smirks against your thigh, kissing his way up agonizingly slowly. "Please what?" His tongue flicks out, barely touching, just enough to make you arch against him, a strangled sound escaping before you can stop it.

"You bastard," you gasp.

His low chuckle is dark, teasing. "Sweet talk me all you want, but I want to hear you say it," he murmurs against your skin.

You tug his hair harder, and the growl he lets out is almost feral, sending a sharp jolt of heat through you. "I need you," you finally admit, voice raw, desperate. "I need you, House."

Something shifts in his expression then—something wicked and satisfied, but also reverent, like he’s wanted to hear you say that for longer than even he’s willing to admit.

"Good girl," he murmurs, the approval in his voice making your stomach tighten.

He growls, a low, primal sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. The tenderness from moments ago vanishes, replaced by a raw, primal hunger. He grips your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh, and flips you onto your stomach. You gasp at the sudden movement, your heart pounding with anticipation.

He looms over you, his body pressing you into the mattress, his breath hot on your ear. “I want to hear you beg,” he growls, his voice thick with lust and dominance. “Tell me you want me to fuck you hard.”

You can feel his hardness pressing against your ass, the heat of his body searing into yours. Your breath hitches, your body trembling with need. “Please, House,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “Fuck me hard. I need it.”

He groans, the sound filled with dark satisfaction. He sits back on his heels, pulling you up with him so you’re on your hands and knees. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. He positions himself at your entrance, rubbing the head of his cock against you, coating himself in your wetness.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, his voice a low growl. “You want me to fuck you like this? Hard and deep?”

You nod, your breath coming in short gasps. “Yes,” you manage to say, your voice hoarse with desire. “Please, House. Fuck me.”

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. With a powerful thrust, he enters you, filling you completely. You cry out, the sudden intrusion sending waves of pleasure and pain through your body. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, pulling out and slamming back into you, his hips moving in a relentless, punishing rhythm.

Each thrust is hard and deep, his body slapping against yours, the sound echoing in the room. You can feel every inch of him, the thickness of his cock stretching you, filling you completely. Your body moves with his, your hips meeting his thrusts, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he grunts, his voice strained with effort. “So tight. So wet.”

His hands grip your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your flesh, leaving bruises. You can feel the pleasure building, the pressure coiling in your stomach, the heat spreading through your body. His thrusts become more urgent, more desperate, his body slamming into yours with a force that makes the bed shake.

“Harder,” you gasp, your voice raw with need. “Fuck me harder, House.”

He obliges, his hips moving faster, his thrusts becoming more powerful. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mingling with your moans and gasps. The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard banging against the wall.

He reaches around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts. You can feel the next orgasm approaching, the pressure in your stomach coiling tighter and tighter.

“Come for me,” he growls, his voice hoarse with effort. “I want to feel you come around my cock.”

His words push you over the edge. With a cry, you come, your body convulsing, your inner muscles clenching around him. He groans, his own release following closely, his body shuddering as he finds his own pleasure.

He collapses on top of you, his breath ragged, his body slick with sweat. You can feel his heart pounding against your back, his body heaving with the effort of his release. He rolls off you, taking you with him, so you’re both lying on your sides, his body spooning yours.

His arm wraps around your waist, holding you tightly, his breath slowly returning to normal. You can feel his cock, still semi-hard, pressed against your ass.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers, his voice soft, filled with wonder. “Every time with you is…”

He shakes his head, as if at a loss for words. You smile, your fingers tracing patterns on his arm. “Every time with you is incredible,” you finish for him, your voice barely above a whisper.

He kisses your shoulder, his lips soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the rough, demanding way he just took you. You can feel his body relaxing, the tension from earlier fading away, replaced by a sense of contentment and satisfaction.

But House isn’t done. And the moment you feel him grab his half-hard dick and prod your entrance with it, you realize you’re neither.

“Shit.” You hiss when he slips into you.

“Oh god.” He groans from what must be incredible overstimulation.

You stay still for a moment, the feeling of his dick inside your already messy cunt even more obscene.

Slowly, you begin to purposefully clench around him. He twitches every time you do, his fingers digging into your skin, his breath hot against your neck. You can feel him getting fully hard again, the harder the longer you keep up the rhythm of your clenching muscles around him.

His breath hitches, a low groan escaping his lips as he feels you tightening around him. "Fuck, that feels good," he murmurs, his voice thick with renewed desire. He begins to move slowly, his hips rolling in a deliberate, measured rhythm. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, filling you completely.

You match his pace, your body moving in sync with his, the slow, hard rhythm building a different kind of tension. His hands roam over your body, tracing the curves of your hips, your waist, your breasts, his touch gentle yet possessive. He leans over and down, his lips finding yours in a slow, deep kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with the same deliberate slowness.

"Look at me," he whispers against your lips, pulling back slightly. His eyes lock onto yours, the intensity in his gaze making your heart race. "I want to see you when you come this time."

You nod, your breath hitching as he increases the pressure of his thrusts, the slow, hard rhythm. His fingers find your clit, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles, the sensation sending waves of pleasure through your body.

"House," you gasp, your voice barely a whisper. "That feels... incredible."

He smirks, his eyes never leaving yours.

His thrusts become more insistent. You can feel the pressure building, the pleasure coiling in your stomach, the heat spreading through your body. His fingers never stop their slow, deliberate circles, the sensation driving you wild.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispers, his voice hoarse with desire. "The way you look at me, the way you respond to me... it's fucking intoxicating."

His lips find yours again, the kiss hard and intense, his tongue exploring your mouth with a fierce possessiveness. You kiss him back with equal fervor, your tongues clashing, your breaths mingling. The kiss is long and deep, a battle of wills and desire.

As he continues to thrust into you from behind, his hips moving in that slow, deliberate rhythm, you can feel every inch of him, the thickness of his cock stretching you, filling you completely.

"I love how you take me," he whispers against your lips, his voice a low growl. "So tight. So wet. So fucking perfect."

"You feel incredible," you gasp, your voice breathless. "So hard. So deep."

He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "That's it," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours. "You take me so well. You were made for me."

His fingers find your clit again, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles, the sensation sending waves of pleasure through your body. You can feel the pressure building, the pleasure coiling in your stomach, the heat spreading through your body.

When you moan loudly, he rolls you both over so you're now facing each other, your legs wrapped around his waist. He kisses you hard, his tongue exploring your mouth, his breath mingling with yours. You can feel his cock, still hard and thick, pressing against your entrance, the anticipation building.

"Ride me," he whispers, his voice a low growl. "Take what you need from me."

You do, lifting your hips and slowly lowering yourself onto him, the sensation of him filling you completely making you gasp. You start to move, your hips rolling in a slow, deliberate rhythm, your body taking him deep and hard. The pleasure is intense, the sensation overwhelming, but you don't look away, your eyes locked onto his, your breath hitching with each powerful thrust.

His hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, his thrusts meeting yours, his cock hitting you deep and hard. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice filled with awe. "You look so fucking beautiful like this. Riding me. Taking me deep."

You lean down, your lips finding his in another hard, intense kiss. Your tongues clash, your breaths mingle, the kiss long and deep, a testament to the raw, primal connection between you. "You feel so good," you whisper against his lips, your voice breathless. "So hard. So deep."

He groans, his fingers digging into your hips, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate. "You're so fucking perfect," he growls. "The way you move, the way you respond to me... it's fucking addictive."

You smile, your fingers tracing the lines of his chest, your body moving in sync with his. "So are you," you whisper. "The way you touch me, the way you look at me... it's like you see right through me."

He groans, his hips bucking upward, his cock hitting you deep and hard. "I do see you," he growls. "Every fucking inch of you. And I want more. I want all of you."

So you give it to him.

Chapter Text

It’s surprising, actually, that House even lets you stay with him. That he opens the door when you come over.

“Hey.” He murmurs and kisses your cheek when you turn up at 10pm after the late shift in the lab.

He’s been out of work for three days and by now he can walk again without his leg bleeding. At first glance, he seems to limp as usual, but by the way his face pales whenever he stands longer than a minute, you can tell that it’s still bad.

You set your overnight bag down, your trusty companion for the past days, and are about to ask about dinner when House says: “I ran you a bath.”

You pause and look at him: “A bath?”

“Thought you might want to relax.”

“I- yeah, okay. Thank you.” You chuckle, positively surprised.

House smiles. It’s a tired smile, and the corners of his mouth don’t go all the way up, but it’s a smile.

“You just want to see me naked.” You tease while you begin to take your scrubs off in the bathroom, glancing at the bubble bath. Your heart flutters.

This time, House smiles wider.

You laugh softly, tossing your clothes into the hamper and stepping into the bath. The warmth wraps around you instantly, loosening the knots in your shoulders, your back, your thighs—places you hadn’t even realized were aching. The scent of lavender and something woodsy fills the air. He used the good bath stuff, the kind you know he keeps buried behind cheap aftershave and ancient shampoo.

You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in the steam, and let yourself forget about sodium panels and broken centrifuges and House’s stitched-up leg.

You hear House shifting, then the soft thump of him settling onto the closed toilet lid. He doesn’t speak, just sits there while you soak in silence. It’s strange, but not uncomfortable. He’s not a man who does quiet well, but when it comes to you, he seems to try.

When you finally open your eyes, he’s staring at the floor.

“You okay?” you ask, your voice softer now, the steam from the bath curling around the edges of your words.

He looks at you, startled a little. “You’re asking me that?”

You nod. “I always ask you that.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales through his nose and mutters, “You shouldn’t have to.”

You don’t respond, not directly. You splash a little water at him, grinning when he scowls. “Tough. Comes with the territory.”

He watches you a moment longer, then rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “You’re too good at this.”

“This?”

“Caring.”

You sigh, more fond than frustrated. “Someone has to.”

“I don’t make it easy,” he murmurs.

“No,” you say, meeting his eyes. “But you let me. That’s something.”

House looks away again, like it’s too much. Maybe it is.

After a while, he stands up slowly, wincing just a little. “I’ll warm up the leftover Thai.”

“Thanks,” you reply, letting your head fall back against the edge of the tub.

~

House sits on the couch next to you, idly rubbing your leg while you eat. He put on a movie, and you quietly sit together as it plays, you devouring your meal.

When you’re done, you lean to the side and House puts his arm around your shoulder, shifting so you can rest against him.

He kisses the top of your head and murmurs: “Do you want to go to bed?”

“Can we just sit here a little while longer?”

“Of course.” He kisses your hair again and plays with the strands.

You let out a hum and return your eyes to the screen where Ripley is currently flamethrowing the Alien.

Then, after a few minutes, House suddenly asks: “Could you inject the painkiller?”

You still, not breathing: “What?”

He looks at you, eyes darting between yours. They are wide and glassy. You straighten up and look back at him.

“I got some local anesthetics.”

You blink.

“Tame.” He adds.

Gnawing on your bottom lip, you eventually ask the obvious question: “Why can’t you do it yourself?”

House sighs and lets his head fall against the headrest of the couch. Staring at the ceiling, he tells you: “I’m scared that…” He sighs again and finds your eyes. “What if they don’t work?”

Your eyes dart over his face and horror floods your veins when you realize what he did. Or rather didn’t: “You went without painkillers the entire time since…?”

“I took Vicodin.” He already sounds defensive.

“Oh god, House.” You clasp his face. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” He blurts out and puts his hands on yours. “Why?”

“Oh god…” You repeat and fight tears.

“Hey, no no. Why are you crying? Don’t cry!”

“I thought you were just…in a little more pain than usual. You hid not taking anything?? Fuck!” You rub his cheek with your thumb, more to sooth yourself than him.

“I-“ He stares at you, floored.

After a long moment, he asks with a voice that’s way too small for him: “You’re not mad?”

You almost laugh at such an absurd question.

“No, no. Of course not. Come here.” You pull him in and kiss his temple.

House sits a little stiff but puts his arms around your waist.

House sniffs and shifts awkwardly in your arms. “You’re hugging me like I just got back from war.”

“You are at war.”

He lets out a short laugh, dry and bitter. “And losing spectacularly.”

“I should’ve known,” you murmur.

House blinks at you. “You couldn’t have.”

“I should’ve. You were in pain, and I didn’t push. I thought I was giving you space, but I was just ignoring the signs…sorry. I shouldn’t make this about myself. I’ll get you the painkillers.”

House almost playfully rolls his eyes at you and pulls you in to kiss you briefly. He doesn’t say anything, but the kiss means everything to you. It’s slow and a lot more sensual than you expected.

Eventually, you break apart and he tells you with a rough voice: “Syringe is in the bathroom. Second drawer on the right.”

~

House is sitting on the edge of the bed, holding on to the mattress with both hands while you disinfect a spot above the bandage. He didn’t allow you to look underneath it, but you couldn’t care less. He lets you do this for him…

“Ready?” You ask.

He exhales through his nose and gives the faintest nod. His knuckles are white where he grips the sheets.

“Okay. Just a second…” you murmur, holding the syringe steady. You glance up at him, giving him one more chance to change his mind, but he doesn’t look at you. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, the muscle twitching near his temple.

You gently press your free hand to his thigh. “It’ll be quick.”

He nods again, once.

You inject the anesthetic, slow and careful. He doesn’t flinch, but you can feel the tension vibrating through him, like a wire stretched too tight. When it’s done, you pull the needle out and press a cotton swab to the site.

“All done,” you say softly.

He exhales shakily and lets go of the mattress. One hand comes up to drag over his face, and you can tell he’s trying not to look like the pain—or the fear—got to him. But it did. You saw it all.

You toss the syringe into the sharps container he’s stashed under the sink, then return to him, crouching in front of where he still sits on the bed. You place your hands on his knees, gently rubbing your thumbs along the inside seam of his sweatpants.

“Does it feel any different yet?” you ask.

He hesitates. “Too early to tell.”

You nod, trying not to show the way your heart twists. He reaches down and covers one of your hands with his own.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, voice low.

“You asked me to.”

“Still.”

You look up at him. “House… I’d do anything to help you.”

He doesn’t respond for a long beat. Just watches you, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering.

“Thank you.”

You slide your arms around his waist and rest your head gently against his leg. He lets you stay like that, one hand drifting up to comb through your hair.

Minutes pass in silence. He doesn’t speak again, but you feel him finally exhale—really exhale, like he’s letting something go.

Eventually, you look up at him. “Do you want to lie down?”

He nods, quietly.

You help him ease back onto the pillows. He lets you pull the comforter up over him, and just as you’re about to leave to clean up, his fingers wrap around your wrist.

“Stay.”

You smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

You climb into bed next to him, careful of his leg, and he shifts just enough to let you curl up at his side. His body is still tense, still wary, but there’s a crack in the armor now—and you’re right there, doing your best to fill it with warmth.

The movie’s long since ended. The apartment is quiet.

Chapter Text

Part XXI: Heart To Heart

You wake up to kisses being pressed to your neck.

Letting out a small groan, you blindly reach for House. He is propped up on his side, stubble scratching your shoulder, lips trailing over your pulse point and up to your ear.

“Morning.” He murmurs.

“Hey…” You sigh and pry your eyes open to find him smirking at you.

“You look cute.”

You roll your eyes and scoot closer to him to bury your face in his chest. He smells good. No longer of blood or sweat. Just House.

“How’s the leg?” You ask, voice muffled by his shirt.

House puts his arm around you, rubbing your back: “Better.”

“Better than…?”

“Yesterday.”

You don’t push it and close your eyes again, already drifting back to sleep.

House lets you, but not fully. He keeps caressing your shoulder and back, pushing his hand under your shirt to trace idle patterns on your skin.

Eventually, you mumble: “Are you horny?”

He lets out a bark of laughter: “Can I not simply be affectionate?”

You roll to your back and look at him properly, raising an eyebrow.

“A little.” He admits.

You snort.

“Hey! We’ve been around each other almost constantly for four days and didn’t have sex once!”

“And whose fault is that?” You shoot back.

He rolls his eyes and grumbles something about you being mean to a cripple.

After a pause, he says, more serious: “I miss touching you.”

He says it so earnestly that any smartass reply immediately dies on your tongue.

You reach up and brush his hair back gently, letting your fingers trail along his temple. “Then touch me.”

House studies you for a moment, eyes searching yours like he’s waiting for some caveat, some sign you don’t mean it—but you do. Completely.

He leans down and kisses you, slow and warm. It’s not rushed or heated like it sometimes is with him; it’s careful, like he’s memorizing the way you taste, the way your lips move with his. His hand under your shirt spreads wide across your back.

You wrap your arms around his neck and tug him closer until he’s almost on top of you, careful not to jostle his leg. He hums into your mouth and presses another kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then down your neck again where he started earlier.

“I forgot how soft you are,” he murmurs against your skin.

“You say that like I’m made of marshmallow.”

“You kind of are.” He grins against your throat. “Sticky and sweet.”

You huff a laugh, but it’s broken by a shiver when his fingers slide up the curve of your waist beneath your shirt. He looks up at you again, eyes soft. “Tell me if it’s too much. If you’re tired. I don’t—”

You shake your head and cut him off with a kiss. “Just don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

House shifts to hover above you, kissing you again, deeper this time. His hand moves slow, exploring like he’s reminding himself of every inch of you. His touch is reverent, almost hesitant, and when he finally pulls your shirt over your head, he pauses to look at you, really look, like he’s seeing you for the first time in days.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

You feel your cheeks warm but you don’t look away. You don’t want to miss the rare softness in his eyes. The vulnerability. The honesty.

He presses his mouth to your collarbone, dragging his lips down your chest as he shifts lower, taking his time. Every move is slower than usual, more intimate, more about being close than fast gratification. It feels like worship.

You thread your fingers through his hair, letting yourself sink into the feeling—his mouth, his hands, his weight, his breath warm against your skin. You can feel his pulse thudding where it touches yours, and for once, it’s not sharp or frantic, but steady. Calming.

When his hand slips between your legs and you gasp, he lifts his head just enough to say: “Still okay?”

“Yes.” Your voice comes out breathless, needy. “God, yes.”

He grins—smug but gentle—and kisses your stomach. “Just checking.”

House kisses your stomach again, then lower, his stubble grazing over your skin as he moves with careful intent. His hands slide under the waistband of your sleep shorts and underwear at once, tugging them down slowly, watching your face the whole time.

You lift your hips to help, your breath hitching when the cool air hits your skin. House’ eyes darken with something that makes your heart pound in your chest.

He shifts down, groaning softly as he settles between your thighs, and the sound of it sends heat pooling low in your belly. He runs his hands along your hips, your thighs, parting them gently before pressing a kiss to the inside of one.

You twitch at the contact, the anticipation making every nerve ending buzz. His fingers trace light lines just above your knee before gliding up, warm and deliberate. You can feel how he’s holding himself back, savoring the moment, his breath warm against your skin.

And then his mouth is on you.

It’s soft at first—almost experimental—but then you feel him hum against you, as if confirming something to himself. His tongue moves slowly, languidly, as though he has all the time in the world to unravel you. You whimper, your hips lifting slightly, and his hands press gently down.

“God,” he mutters between licks, “you taste so good.”

You let out a broken sound, one hand flying to the back of his head. He takes it as encouragement and deepens the pressure, tongue and lips working in tandem, patient and maddeningly thorough.

He’s not teasing you—not this time. There’s something almost reverent in the way he moves, like he’s doing this less to turn you on and more because he needs to be close to you like this. Like he’s missed you in a way that only this can fix.

Your breath catches when he adds a finger, the stretch just enough to make your spine arch off the mattress. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going, slow and steady, building you up like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.

Your body starts to tremble, your thighs clenching around him, and he knows—of course he knows—so he doubles down, holding you through it, never pulling away, letting you fall apart on his tongue with a quiet, desperate cry of his name.

Only when you start to twitch from overstimulation does he ease back, pressing one last kiss to your inner thigh before dragging himself up your body and settling beside you.

You’re gasping, dazed, still trying to come back to earth. He brushes your hair from your face and kisses you, deep and unhurried, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

You’re still catching your breath when you feel House’ hand stroke slowly down your back, then dip lower. He’s grinning—smug, of course—but there’s something softer behind it too. Something like awe.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low, slightly raspy.

You nod, eyes fluttering open to meet his. “More than okay.”

His thumb traces the curve of your hip. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

You arch a brow, smirking despite yourself. “You’re awfully confident for a man who just spent four days limping like a pirate. Well, you always do but-“

“Shut up.” He kisses you.

Before you can throw another quip at him, he’s already moving—rolling carefully on top of you, bracing some of his weight on his forearm. His mouth meets yours again, and it’s different this time. Hotter. Hungrier. Still tender but now laced with a quiet urgency.

You feel him against your thigh, hard and pressing insistently, and something low in your belly coils tight again. The heat between you sparks right back to life, almost embarrassingly fast.

You shift under him, wrapping your legs around his waist, and he groans at the friction.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “The things you do to me…”

“You started it,” you whisper, smiling as you roll your hips against him. “Finish it.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. One hand guides himself to your entrance, and he pauses—just barely—eyes flicking up to yours.

You nod.

He sinks into you slowly, inch by inch, a soft moan escaping both your lips as he fills you. His movements are careful at first, still mindful of his leg, but he finds his rhythm quickly, the slow grind of his hips sending sparks dancing behind your eyes.

You cling to him, your arms looped around his shoulders, your nails digging slightly into his back every time he thrusts deeper. He’s murmuring against your skin—your name, curses, half-formed thoughts that dissolve as quickly as they come.

You tilt your head and kiss him again, catching the edge of a groan in his throat, and that’s when he picks up the pace. Each movement is more certain now, his restraint unraveling. He grips your thigh and pulls it higher, opening you more, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat.

Everything melts together—his breath, your whimpers, the sound of skin on skin, and the low creak of the bed. Your hands roam his back, his arms, memorizing the heat of him, the tension in his muscles as he drives into you with a rhythm that makes your head spin.

You feel it building fast, already too close again, and by the way House groans into your neck, so is he.

“Come with me,” he murmurs, and you nod, eyes squeezed shut, clinging to him as the pleasure peaks, sharp and sudden. He follows with a low, broken sound that sends shivers down your spine, his body jerking once before he stills, buried deep inside you.

“Oh god…” House mumbles. “Oh fuck…”

“You okay?” You ask, still breathing heavily, rubbing the back of his damp neck.

“Yes, yes…” He trails off again.

After he laid down next to you, wiping carefully between your legs with his discarded boxers, you ask again: “What is it?”

“I just-” Reluctantly, he finds your eyes. “I never felt this good after sex, okay? Or during it, for that matter.”

You stare at him, equally surprised and flattered.

“Maybe-” You start.

“It’s more than the leg. This isn’t intense just because of the pain relief. It always is intense with you. I told you before. But I didn’t realize how serious I was.”

Part XXII: Partners in Crime

All heads turn to you as your heels announce your arrival. Well, it also could be Cuddy, but the eyes stay on you, because you’re pushing House in his wheelchair in front of you. He has a wide grin on his face as you park him in the first row and put your hand on his shoulder for a moment before you walk up to the front.

He could easily have used the wheelchair by himself, but he insisted that you do it. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he wants to show you off. And it also doesn’t take one to figure that you really, really don’t mind it.

There’s a subtle thrill running through you—not nerves, not entirely. It’s House. The way he’s watching you with that shit-eating grin, as if you’re the only thing in the room worth looking at. As if he knew this was going to rattle the status quo.

You can feel the whispers ripple behind you. You don’t need to turn around to know who’s already trying to do the math. When did this start? Why weren’t they told? Is this serious? And maybe most importantly—how the hell did House land her?

You flip open your folder and glance at the crowd. Residents, fellows, a couple of nurses who snuck in. Cuddy sits off to the side, trying to look like she’s only here for the academic content. Foreman and Chase are chatting quietly in the back, and Cameron is perched on the edge of a seat near the aisle, arms crossed, clearly interested.

The screen behind you flashes to life. You press the clicker and clear your throat.

“Thanks for being here,” you say, clicking to the first slide—a simple hospital room, sterile and unremarkable. “This is Room 246. You’ve all walked past it at some point. Maybe even glanced in and kept walking. I wouldn’t blame you. Until recently, it housed a Jane Doe—yes, we still use that term when we have no viable ID. A woman in her early thirties, brought in after a car accident nine years ago. Severe head trauma. No family. No visitors. The chart said persistent vegetative state.”

You pause, letting that sink in. The photo clicks away, replaced by a scan of a very messy patient file.

“She’s been on life support for nearly a decade. Monitored. Maintained. Forgotten. It was only by accident that I found her. I was combing through archived coma cases for a research project. But when I pulled her file, something caught my eye.”

Click.

The EEG scan appears. “This is her initial scan, done in the first forty-eight hours. Nonreactive. No surprise there. Now…” Another click. “This one was taken six years later, during a routine check. It’s fuzzier, yes. Less detailed. Because no one was looking for anything. But look here—beta wave activity.”

A murmur ripples through the room. You pace once across the front, then turn.

“Beta waves are associated with active, conscious thought. The scan was filed, noted as artifact, and forgotten. But I went back. Cross-referenced every EEG she had over the past decade. Five of them showed the same pattern.”

Another click. A timeline graph.

“Turns out, she was never in a persistent vegetative state. She was in a minimally conscious state—meaning her brain was trying. Her file didn’t get updated, because no one checked beyond the basic markers. She blinked once, and it was noted as ‘involuntary.’ Her finger twitched — again, dismissed.”

You take a breath.

“I brought the data to Dr. House.” A few people glance toward him. He gives a mock-innocent shrug. “We ordered a new EEG, a functional MRI, and an evoked potential test. All of them showed the same thing: she wasn’t brain-dead. She was aware. Trapped. And because no one believed it, no one stimulated her brain properly for years.”

You click once more. A photo fills the screen—a woman, pale and thin, lying in a hospital bed. Her eyes are open.

“She woke up. Last week. Her name is Polly. She remembers music. A nurse reading to her. And one orderly who used to hum while mopping the floor. She can’t speak yet, but she cried when we told her what year it was.”

Silence fills the room.

You look over at House, who’s watching you like he already knows the effect this will have.

“She didn’t need a miracle,” you say. “She just needed someone to pay attention.”

Click.

End of presentation.

~

“Well?” You ask House when you walk over to him, the room slowly emptying. The discussion was lively; he also only interrupted to add something.

He reaches for you: “Amazing.”

You step closer, hand on his shoulder again, looking down at him. He gives you a soft smile, which he quickly replaces with a smirk when Cuddy and Wilson come over.

Cuddy crosses her arms as she approaches, but there’s a telltale glint in her eye. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

“Why would I start now?” you reply, tone pleasant but edged with just enough bite to make her smile despite herself.

Wilson glances between you and House. “I’m still trying to decide what’s more impressive: the fact that you woke up a patient who was written off for nearly a decade, or the fact that House actually sat through a full presentation without heckling.”

House shrugs, fingers toying with the edge of your sleeve. “Hey, I heckled with my eyes.” He shoots a look at Wilson.

Cuddy raises an eyebrow. “Is this why you wanted her to push you in?” She gestures between the two of you, clearly amused. “Was that part of the show?”

“Oh, absolutely,” House replies shamelessly. “I figured I’d roll in with the hottest scientist in the building. People are more likely to listen to her if they’re wondering how she ended up with me.”

You try not to laugh, but it bubbles up anyway. “He thinks I’m good for PR.”

“You’re terrible for PR,” Cuddy says, half-exasperated, half-impressed. “But you’re a damn good scientist.”

You nod once in thanks, meeting her eyes. “The hospital’s had her in a coma for nine years. That shouldn’t have happened.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Wilson agrees. “But it happens all the time. You just happened to be the one who caught it.”

House leans back slightly in his wheelchair, his hand sliding around the back of your thigh as casually as he can get away with in front of Cuddy. “She didn’t just catch it. She proved it. She fixed it.”

You glance down at him, his smirk softer now, almost sincere.

Cuddy sighs, already anticipating the mountain of internal inquiries and media requests this case will trigger. “We’ll need to do a press release. Polly’s family—once we find them—will want answers. We’ll need to make sure the records are airtight.”

“Sounds like fun,” you say dryly.

“You up for it?” Wilson asks.

You glance at House, who’s now unapologetically holding your hand, like the question somehow includes him too. You squeeze his fingers once and look back at Wilson.

“Absolutely.”

Cuddy gives a satisfied nod and heads off, already pulling out her phone. Wilson lingers a moment longer, then gives House a look that says behave before following her.

Once they’re gone, House tugs your hand gently, and you crouch a little so he can murmur in your ear: “Seriously. That was hot.”

You smirk. “You like it when I play with dead files?”

“I like it when you make the world look stupid,” he says. “And when you wear heels.”

You take it, laughing under your breath, and begin to wheel him toward the elevators. You can’t help the way your hand brushes his shoulder again, or the way he subtly leans into it.

“Dinner?” he asks as the elevator doors close.

“You mean takeout at my place while you pretend to hate the movie I pick?”

“Something like that.”

My Carrd

Chapter Text

You hand a beer to House and open your own bottle, watching him as you take a sip. The low lighting in your apartment throws soft shadows over his face, making him look almost younger, almost more vulnerable—but you know better. You know the walls he hides behind, the ones you’re about to try and climb over.

You don’t really want to bring it up again. You’d rather pretend everything was normal. But the words are heavy in your chest, and you know you’ll suffocate if you don’t say them.

House sits on one of the bar stools, his injured leg stretched out stiffly, absently rolling the bottle between his palms. His eyes are on you, steady, cautious. He knows something’s coming. He always knows.

You set your beer down, steadying yourself with both hands on the counter, and meet his gaze.

“Don’t say it,” he warns, voice low, almost pleading.

Your mouth opens, then shuts again. Part of you wants to listen—to let it go, to spare him and yourself the weight of this conversation. But you can't. You won’t.

“I have to,” you say quietly.

“You don’t,” he insists, almost sharply this time, as if he can will it away by sheer force.

“House…” You say his name softer now, almost a sigh. A plea for him to let you do this.

He exhales heavily, scrubbing a hand down his face in frustration. When he drops it, he looks exhausted. Not physically—emotionally. Like he’s been fighting something long before this moment.

You stare at him for a long, loaded moment.

“I have to,” you repeat, your voice firmer this time.

Something shifts in his posture—barely noticeable, but you catch it. His hands grip the bottle tighter. His shoulders tense. His eyes, those endlessly sharp eyes, betray him. He’s bracing for impact.

You take a breath.

“You scared me,” you say, the words barely above a whisper.

He blinks once, slowly, like you’ve spoken in a language he doesn’t quite understand.

“Really scared me,” you say again, voice shaking slightly now that the dam’s broken.

“Oh,” is all he says.

You frown, feeling a stab of confusion. “What?”

House shifts uncomfortably on the stool, looking anywhere but at you. His fingers tap anxiously against the neck of his bottle.

“I just—I expected you to say something else,” he mutters.

“Like what?” you ask, brow furrowing.

He shakes his head, a tiny, defeated motion. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It kinda does,” you insist, taking a step closer to him, unwilling to let him retreat behind half-truths.

He sighs again, heavy and reluctant, the sound carrying years of regret and fear. His voice is rough when he finally speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, the words so quiet they’re almost lost to the hum of the fridge.

“Sorry about what?” You ask softly.

“Everything, okay!?” He suddenly raises his voice, making you take a step back.

It takes you a long moment to catch up with his sudden shift in demeanor. Or maybe it wasn’t as sudden as you’d like.

“Why are you angry with me?”

“I’m not angry with you! I’m angry with myself.”

“About what?”

“Stop with the probing! You know what.”

“Oh, I’m sorry that I want some clarity!” You’re immediately annoyed with yourself for getting passive-aggressive, for losing your head.

House groans in frustration and leans forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his face again like he could scrub the whole conversation away if he just tried hard enough.
You stay where you are, arms folded protectively over your chest, heart pounding. You hate fighting with him. Especially when it feels like it’s not even really about you.

After a long, tense silence, he finally drops his hands and looks up at you. His expression is raw, stripped bare in a way House rarely allows.

“I should’ve told you I was worse off than I let on,” he mutters. “Should’ve told you the pain was out of control. That I was scared.”
The words sound forced, like he’s choking them out just to get it over with.

You narrow your eyes. “Why didn’t you, then?”
He glares at you like the question is unfair, even though you both know it’s not.

“Because that’s not how I work,” he snaps. “I’m not built for... for sharing feelings and trust falls.”
Your jaw tightens. “You think I don’t know that? I never asked you to change who you are, House. I asked you to let me in.”

“Well, maybe I didn’t want you to see how bad it was!” he fires back, voice rising. “Maybe I didn’t want you looking at me like some goddamn charity case!”

You feel like he just slapped you.

“Is that what you think this is?” you ask, voice low and shaking with anger. “You think I stay because I pity you?”

He says nothing.

You press your lips together, trying to hold it together, trying not to yell, but it’s hard.

The pretense you had built up in the past week crumbles away. The wonderful sex you shared, the fun at your presentation…it all folds like paper under the heavy weight of your combined desperation.

"You’re such an asshole sometimes," you bite out, voice shaking. "You think so little of me that you really believe I’m here because I feel sorry for you?"

House leans back on the stool like he’s trying to get distance, arms crossed defensively over his chest. "Wouldn’t be the first time someone stuck around longer than they should because they felt guilty."

You laugh, a sharp, ugly sound. "God, you’re unbelievable. You think you're doing me some kind of favor by being miserable and alone? By shutting me out?"

"I’m protecting you," he says through gritted teeth.

"From what?!" You throw your hands up. "From seeing that you’re human? From seeing that you’re scared and in pain and—and fallible?"
Your voice cracks on the last word and you hate that it does, but it’s too late. You’re too far in now.

"I don't want you to wake up one morning and realize you're stuck with a broken, bitter old man who can't even take care of himself properly," House says, low and furious. "I don't want you to look at me and regret every choice you made that led you here."

You stare at him, chest heaving. "You absolute idiot. I chose you. I keep choosing you. Every goddamn day."

His mouth opens like he wants to argue, but nothing comes out.

"And you—" you take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. "You have to let me make that choice. You don’t get to decide for me that I’d be better off without you."

House rubs his hand roughly over the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at you. His leg is twitching anxiously under him.

"You don’t get it," he mutters.

"Then explain it to me!" you snap, stepping closer. "Because all I see right now is a man so convinced he’s unlovable that he’s trying to burn everything down before anyone else can."

His head jerks up at that, eyes blazing. "Maybe because I am unlovable!"

"You’re not," you say fiercely, cutting him off. "You’re not. You’re difficult, you're infuriating, you’re... exhausting. But you are not unlovable."

For a moment, he just stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Like you speaking those words is some impossible, foreign thing he doesn’t know how to process.

"I don’t know how to do this," he says finally, voice hoarse. "I don't know how to be... what you need."

You soften, stepping closer again, until you’re right in front of him.
"I don’t need you to be perfect," you whisper. "I need you to be honest. I need you to trust that I’m not going anywhere just because it gets ugly."

His hands twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. You close the distance yourself, placing your hands lightly on either side of his face, feeling the rough stubble against your palms.

"You don’t have to protect me from you," you say quietly. "I’m already in. I’m not scared of the worst parts of you, House. I just want all of you. The good, the bad, the stubborn, the broken—everything."

For a long, agonizing moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.
You can feel the tension vibrating off of him, feel the war going on inside his head — that instinct to pull away, to shut down before he can get hurt.

Then, slowly, like it costs him everything he has left, House leans forward, pressing his forehead against your chest. His hands come up to your waist, gripping you with a bruising kind of desperation.

"I'm scared," he admits, so soft you barely catch it, the words trembling against your skin.

You close your eyes and wrap your arms around him without hesitation, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other stroking his tense shoulders. You hold him tighter, feeling the way he melts into you, stubborn but ultimately helpless against the comfort you offer.
"I know," you whisper into his hair. "Me too."

You stay like that for a long time.
House’s face buried against your shirt, your fingers gently carding through his hair and rubbing the nape of his neck. You can feel your heartbeats slowly syncing, the frantic pulse between you settling into something calmer.

Now and then, you press a kiss to the top of his head, light and lingering, each one making him exhale a little more of the tension he carries.

Eventually, you feel him huff a quiet chuckle against your sternum, the sound vibrating against your chest.

“What?” you ask, a small smile tugging at your lips, amused both by the noise and the way it tickles through the fabric of your shirt.

House shifts slightly, not moving away but angling his face just enough that you can hear him more clearly. "I’m nuzzling your boobs," he deadpans.

You snort, unable to help yourself.

"Like, full-on have my face buried between them," he continues, voice dry but lighter, "and you’re not doing anything about it."

"Why would I do anything about my boyfriend enjoying my physical features?" you tease, brushing your fingers affectionately through his hair.

He lets out a genuine laugh, the sound rough but real, and tilts his head back just enough to glance up at you, blue eyes shining with something far softer than his usual mischief.

"You’re insane," he says, shaking his head slightly.

"Why’s that?" you challenge gently, your thumb stroking the curve of his jaw.

"Even after all my bullshit, you still call me boyfriend."

"Crazy, right? An adult sticking around even after a fight," you say, feigning dramatic wonder.

"Don’t patronize me," he grumbles, but there’s no heat behind it, just a faint, almost boyish pout.

"You know you like it," you murmur.

He rolls his eyes at you in response; a familiar, endearing gesture.
You’re weirdly, completely, absolutely fond of him.
Even when he's impossible.
Maybe especially then…

You tilt your head against his for a moment longer, just breathing him in, feeling the quiet tremors still working through his body.
Slowly, his arms loosen around your waist, and he shifts back just enough to look up at you properly.

“Come on,” you say softly, threading your fingers through his. “Let’s sit somewhere less... vertical.”

He doesn’t argue — a small miracle in itself.
Instead, he lets you tug him gently off the bar stool, his movements stiff, careful, his leg dragging slightly as he follows you toward the worn couch across the room.

You sit first, pulling him down beside you.
He grunts a little as he settles, but then he leans back, his body slouching into yours almost immediately, like gravity itself decided you were the safest place to land.
You lift his injured leg to rest carefully along the couch, and he gives you a look — half gratitude, half stubborn pride — but doesn’t complain.

For a few minutes, neither of you speak.
You just sit there, tangled up, your head resting against his shoulder, his arm slung low across your waist. His thumb strokes absent-minded little circles over your hip, a subconscious tic that somehow says more than all his outbursts from earlier.

"You’re exhausting," he mutters eventually, voice dry but affectionate.

"You’re worse," you mumble against his shoulder, smiling into the fabric of his shirt.

He chuckles low in his chest — the kind of sound you feel all the way through you — and you tilt your head up, catching him looking at you: soft, unguarded, still a little wary like he can’t believe you’re really here.

You reach up and touch his face again, brushing your fingertips along the edge of his jaw, across the stubble roughening his cheek.
His breath catches slightly, almost imperceptibly, when your hand trails down the side of his neck.

Without thinking too much, you shift closer, straddling one of his legs carefully.
House raises an eyebrow at you, but his hands immediately find your hips, holding you there like he’s scared you’ll change your mind.

Your fingers drift lower, tracing the open collar of his shirt, brushing along the base of his throat.
His pulse is fast under your touch.

He leans up into you, closing the distance, and kisses you with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. Slow, languid, no urgency.

You kiss him back, sinking your hands into his hair, tugging gently until he groans low against your mouth.
The sound shoots straight through you, heat pooling low in your belly.

When you shift against him, the friction pulls a hiss from between his teeth, and he tightens his grip on you, guiding your hips subtly against his.

"Careful," he murmurs against your lips, voice rough and teasing.

You pull back just slightly, your breath catching in your throat as you meet his gaze. There’s a wicked gleam in his eye, a challenge that’s almost playful, almost daring. But it’s the way he holds you that keeps you tethered—like he’s never letting you go, like you’re exactly where he wants you.

“I don’t want to be careful,” you whisper back, your voice soft but laced with a hunger that matches his.

He smirks, just the slightest curve of his lips, before his hands slide down your hips, fingers digging into the curve of your waist as he pulls you closer, his body pressing hard against yours. You can feel the weight of him, the heat radiating off him, and it sends a thrill straight to your core.

“Then don’t be,” he breathes, his lips trailing down to the sensitive skin just below your ear. He places a kiss there, gentle at first, but it deepens quickly, becoming more urgent as he kisses his way down your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

A small, involuntary shiver runs through you, and you gasp as he nips lightly at your skin, teasing, making you gasp again.

His hands slip under the hem of your shirt, warm and steady as they move upwards, brushing the skin of your lower back with a reverence that only makes you want more. You shift closer, pressing your chest to his, and he groans at the contact, his grip tightening on you.

“You feel so damn good,” he mutters, his voice rough with desire.

You let out a small laugh, breathless, your lips curving into a smile against his skin. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm against your skin. Then his lips are on yours again, insistent, desperate in their need. He pulls you even closer, your bodies fitting together like they were always meant to. You kiss him back with the same intensity, your hands roaming across his chest, feeling the way his heartbeat quickens in response to your touch.

His mouth leaves yours, trailing kisses down the side of your neck, and you tilt your head back, giving him more access. His hands move again, this time sliding down your back and over your hips, urging you to move with him, guiding your body against his in a rhythm that feels all too natural.

He stops for a moment, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “You drive me crazy.”

You smile, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him back to you. “Good,” you reply with a breathless laugh, your lips meeting his again, deeper this time, the kiss wild and urgent.

He groans into your mouth as your hands start to work at the buttons of his shirt, one by one, pulling the fabric loose, your fingers brushing against the heat of his skin with every movement. You don’t waste time. His shirt falls to the floor, and you immediately run your hands over his bare chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath, the slight tremble of his skin under your touch.

House’s breath hitches, and his hands go straight for the hem of your shirt, tugging it up over your head in one fluid motion. You both pause for a brief second as you take each other in, his eyes dark with desire, his chest rising and falling in quick breaths.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he mutters under his breath, his hands moving to your back, fingers grazing the delicate skin there, sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

You smile at the compliment, a small, teasing laugh escaping your lips. “Careful, House. I might think you’re softening up.”

“Don’t push it,” he replies with a grin that’s all mischief, but his voice falters slightly as he takes in the sight of you. His hands are all over you again, sliding over your body, his touch like fire.

You lean down, capturing his lips with yours once more. The kiss deepens, becoming even more frantic as you both try to strip away what’s left between you. His hands move to the waistband of your jeans, undoing them quickly, and you can’t help the shiver that runs through you when his fingers graze the soft skin of your stomach.

“Impatient,” you breathe against his lips, your hands working at the button of his jeans.

“Shut up,” he grumbles in mock annoyance, but there’s a heat in his voice that betrays the playfulness. He pulls you closer, shifting his legs beneath you, the friction making you both groan in pleasure.

He lifts you slightly, just enough to remove your jeans, leaving you in just your underwear. You do the same for him, pushing his jeans down until they’re discarded on the floor, and for a moment, all you do is look at each other, catching your breath.

“You know,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “I think we should move this to the bedroom.”

You push yourself off his lap, giving him a mischievous look as you grab his hand, tugging him toward the bedroom. The anticipation is electric, crackling between you as you both move toward the bed, shedding what little remains of your clothing.

Once you reach the edge of the bed, House spins you around, pinning you against the mattress, his body hovering over yours. His lips claim yours again, harder this time, the kiss filled with a fierce, urgent need that makes your breath catch.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough and demanding.

“I do,” you whisper, your hands threading through his hair, pulling him closer. “God, I want you.”

He pushes himself up, kneeling between your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity in his gaze makes your heart race, and you can feel the heat radiating off his body. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low growl. "I'm going to taste you now. Every inch of you."

His hands slide down your thighs, pushing them apart gently but firmly. He settles between your legs, his breath hot against your skin. He starts at your inner thighs, kissing and nibbling his way up, his stubble rough against your soft skin. You can feel your body responding, your hips lifting slightly, seeking more contact.

House looks up at you, a wicked smile playing on his lips. "You're so responsive," he murmurs, his fingers tracing patterns on your thighs. "I love how your body reacts to me."

He leans down again, his tongue flicking out, tasting you lightly. You gasp, your hands fisting the sheets beside you. He chuckles against you, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through your body. "So sweet," he murmurs, his tongue exploring you more deeply this time. He takes his time, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate circles, building the heat within you.

He slides a finger inside you, then another, his thumb circling your clit in perfect sync with his tongue. "You're so wet," he growls, his voice thick with desire. "I love how ready you are for me."

You moan, your hips bucking against his mouth, seeking more. He obliges, increasing the pressure, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, driving you wild. He looks up at you, his eyes locked onto yours, the intensity in his gaze pushing you higher and higher. "You taste incredible," he murmurs, his voice muffled against you. "I could do this all night."

He continues his ministrations, his dirty talk never stopping. "Your body is so perfect," he growls, his fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place. "I love how you respond to me. I love how you taste. I love how you make me feel."

He brings you to the edge, his tongue and fingers working magic, but he always pulls back at the last second, leaving you desperate and aching. "Please," you beg, your voice a desperate whimper. "I need more."

He chuckles, his breath hot against your skin. "Patience," he murmurs, his tongue flicking out, tasting you lightly.

You groan, frustrated.

“Please.” You say again, an annoyed edge to it.

“Tsk tsk tsk.” House shakes his head. “Ask nicely.”

Defiantly, you look up at him: “No.”

“No?”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together to keep up the stern appearance.

House tries to look serious too but starts to grin and murmurs: “That’s my girl.”

You shudder and finally laugh too, tugging on his wrist: “Come here.”

He smirks, a mischievous glint in his eyes, as he crawls up your body, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of you. He lowers his head, his lips capturing yours in a slow, sensual kiss. You can taste yourself on him, and it only heightens your desire. His tongue explores your mouth, matching the rhythm of his hips as he grinds against you, the hard length of him pressing against your thigh.

He pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged. "Is this what you want?" he murmurs, his voice low and husky. You nod, your hands reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him back to you. He kisses you deeply, his body pressing against yours, the heat between you intense.

House reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He teases you, rubbing the tip of his cock against you, coating himself in your wetness. You moan, your hips lifting, trying to take more of him. He chuckles, the sound low and throaty. "Impatient," he teases, his voice a low growl. "I love it.“

He pushes into you slowly, inch by inch, his eyes never leaving yours. You can feel every ridge, every vein of his cock as it fills you completely. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear and you can hear every single breath and whimper that escapes him.

He starts to move, his hips rolling against yours in a slow, sensual rhythm. He's teasing you, drawing out the pleasure, making you ache for more. You moan, your hips lifting to meet his, trying to increase the pace. He chuckles, pulling back slightly, his cock almost slipping out of you before he pushes back in, slow and deliberate.

"You're torturing me," you whisper, your voice a desperate plea. He smirks, his hips moving in a steady, maddening rhythm. "That's the idea," he murmurs, his lips capturing yours in a fierce kiss. His tongue explores your mouth, matching the rhythm of his hips, driving you wild.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes locked onto yours. "You like this, don't you?" he teases, his hips moving slower, his cock sliding in and out of you with excruciating slowness. "You like how I make you wait. How I make you ache."

You nod, your hands reaching up to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. "Yes," you gasp, your hips lifting to meet his, trying to speed up the pace. He chuckles, his hips moving even slower, his cock teasing you, torturing you.

"You're so beautiful when you're like this," he murmurs, his lips capturing yours in a soft, gentle kiss. "So desperate. So needy." He pulls back slightly, his eyes locked onto yours. "Tell me what you want," he demands, his voice a low growl. "Tell me how you want it."

You moan, your hips lifting to meet his, your body aching for more. "I want you," you gasp, your voice a plea.

"More specific," he teases, his hips rolling in a slow, deliberate circle, grinding against you but not giving you the depth you crave. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you."

He leans down, his teeth nipping at your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine. "Do you want me to fuck you slow and deep?" he whispers, his voice a low growl. "Or do you want it fast and hard? Tell me, baby. Tell me what you need."

You whimper, your body squirming beneath him, trying to take more of him. "Both," you manage to gasp out, your hands clutching at his back, desperate for more friction. "I want both. I want everything."

He chuckles, a dark and sexy sound that sends another wave of heat through your body. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?" he murmurs, his lips trailing kisses down your neck, his hips still moving in that maddeningly slow rhythm.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes locked onto yours. "Well,” he say, voice low with promise, “let’s start slow and deep.”

My Carrd: Rye's Carrd

Chapter Text

He doesn’t sleep easily anymore—hasn’t in years. Pain, thoughts, ghosts. They all keep him company while the world quiets down.

Tonight it’s different, though. Not quieter—just fuller. He sits at the edge of the bed now, watching her sleep with her face half-buried in his pillow, and thinks, Damn it, not for the first time, how the hell did this happen?

He remembers the first time he saw her. Really saw her.

They met on a Tuesday. He remembers that. Not because the day was remarkable—Tuesdays were usually a cesspool of clinic duty and bureaucratic stupidity—but because she had the audacity to smile at him. Not just at him. Through him. Like she saw something behind the sarcasm and the cane and didn’t even flinch.

That alone should’ve been his first warning.

She wasn’t assigned to his team. She wasn’t even supposed to be in Diagnostics. Just passing through—consulting on a case. But she stayed. Kept circling back. Asking smart questions. Challenging him without turning it into a pissing contest. And somehow, she made him laugh. Real laughs. The kind he hadn’t trusted in years.

She wasn’t supposed to matter. Some new hire Cuddy insisted on looping into a consult. Bright, observant, annoyingly unshakable. The kind of person who doesn’t back down when you bark or stare too long. Everyone else flinched, backed off, got the message. But her? She just blinked at him like she was cataloguing the chaos.

And of course, he hated her for it. Hated how quickly she carved out space in his routine, his thoughts, his goddamn bloodstream. Like she belonged there. Like she’d always been there.

He bit back every impulse. Made her chase. Pushed her away. Called her names in his head—optimist, do-gooder, idiot. Told Wilson over and over again, “She’s not my type.”

Wilson would just smile that smug little therapist smile. “You keep talking about her,” he’d say.

House had rolled his eyes, called him delusional, changed the subject. And then found himself bringing her up again the next day. And the day after that.

He hated that.

Hated how quickly she became a constant in his head. How she’d linger after conversations, how he’d find himself replaying her words long after she left the room.

“She’s nosy.” He had said to Wilson.

Wilson just looked at him with that knowing face. “You mean she listens.”

“Same thing,” House had muttered.

It became a pattern. House would bitch about something she did—how she pushed too hard, asked too many questions, looked at him like she could see the things he didn’t say—and Wilson would sit back, arms crossed, and say, “So what are you going to do about it?”

House never had an answer.

Until she kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed her. Neither of them remembers. What they do remember is that first night—how it felt like setting a match to a dry forest. The heat of it. The inevitability.

Sex with her wasn’t just sex. It never was. It was frustrating, addictive, and terrifying. Sometimes slow and reverent, sometimes fast and rough like they were trying to exorcise whatever haunted them both. She’d touch him like she knew his limits, and push him just past them. Murmur things that cracked his composure. Hold his face when he tried to hide it. She made him feel things. Goddammit.

He told Wilson that too. Sort of.

“You’re seeing her,” Wilson said one night.

“Sleeping with her,” House corrected.

“There’s a difference?”

“There’s supposed to be,” House muttered, but the words tasted like a lie.

Now she’s asleep in his bed, wearing his shirt like it’s hers, breathing steady like she belongs here. Like he’s not a grenade waiting to go off in her hands.

And that scares him more than anything else ever has.

Because he’s let people close before. He’s let them orbit, burn up in his atmosphere, leave him colder than before. But she never orbited—she landed. Took root. Uninvited, yes, but so gently he didn’t even notice until he couldn’t breathe without thinking of her.

And now she knows the worst of it. The spirals, the pills, the pain. The fear he wraps in arrogance, the vulnerability he disguises with insults. She’s seen him snap and crack and unravel—and she’s still here.

She kissed him tonight like he wasn’t broken. Like he wasn’t difficult or infuriating or a guaranteed disaster.

God, the things she does to him.

The way she gasped his name when he pulled her over him on the couch. The way her thighs clenched around him. The way she trembled when he moved his mouth between her legs, her fingers tangling in his hair, breathless and soft and utterly his in that moment.

Now, he can’t get enough of the way her breath hitches when he murmurs filth in her ear, the way her hands clutch at his back like he’s the last solid thing in the world. She moans his name like a secret, drags him under with her, and it’s not about control anymore. It’s about connection. Skin, sweat, that unbearable closeness. Every time they touch, she peels another layer off of him—and he lets her.

And afterward, when the tension fades, when their heartbeats start to slow together… she always kisses him. Softly. Like a promise.

He didn’t mean to keep sleeping with her. Not at first. But the way she touched him—like the scars didn’t matter, like the pain didn’t scare her—it unspooled something in him. The first time was wild, half-clothed, all teeth and tension, but somehow even then, even as she straddled him and whispered obscenities into his ear, it felt safe. Like her body knew how to meet his without asking for more than he could give.

And when she slowed down, took her time, ran her hands over every inch of him like she wanted to memorize it?

He almost fell apart. She didn’t just want his body—she wanted him.

Wilson noticed the difference. Asked fewer questions. Gave more knowing looks.

“She’s good for you,” he’d said once, when House showed up with a coffee that wasn’t bitter enough and no reason for being late except that he’d stayed in bed too long with her wrapped around him. “She makes you less of an ass.”

“I don’t want to be less of an ass,” House had snapped.

“You already are. Deal with it.”

And now… now they’re here. After everything.

After his meltdown. After the shutdown, the pushing, the refusal to admit he was scared—she’s still here. Still curled up in his bed, her body relaxed, her lips parted slightly in sleep like nothing in the world could possibly go wrong.

He touches her arm gently, just the tip of his finger grazing her skin.

“House?” She mumbles.

The way she says his name…god help him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He says softly; but it’s kind of a lie. He wants her to be with him.

And she can tell, of course she can.

She squints at him, barely awake, and asks: “You okay, baby?”

His heart clenches at her words, her care, and he almost begins to sob on the spot. With a lot of effort, he blinks the tears away and rubs her arm instead.

“I can’t sleep.” He admits eventually.

She hums sleepily at his admission, scooting a little closer, pressing her body into his side without hesitation. One leg tangles with his, warm and lazy. Her arm loops around his middle, palm splayed against his ribs.

“Wanna talk about it?” she asks, voice scratchy with sleep.

“No,” he says automatically, then adds, quieter, “Maybe.”

She doesn’t push. Just kisses his shoulder and rests her head there, cheek against his bare skin. They lie like that for a while, breathing in sync, the room dim and still except for the quiet thrum of the city outside.

“Your ceiling has a crack that looks like a dinosaur,” she murmurs into the silence.

He glances up. “Triceratops.”

“Obviously.”

A beat. “Or a turtle that’s seen some shit.”

There’s a stretch of silence after that. Her fingers trace slow, absent patterns against his ribs—mindless, soothing.

He finds himself staring at the ceiling again, his hand resting at the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her hair. He doesn’t want to ruin this moment. He never does. But it’s there again—that damn buzzing beneath his skin, the one that sleep can’t quiet.

“I keep seeing it,” he says finally. His voice is so low, it barely stirs the air.

She doesn’t ask what he means. She just shifts again, lifting her chin enough to look at him, even in the dim light.

“The pain?” she asks softly.

He shakes his head. “No. Not that.” A pause. “Well, that too. Always that.”

Her hand slides across his chest slowly. “Then what?”

He swallows. His throat feels dry, too tight.

“The moment I thought you were going to leave,” he says, and it comes out almost too fast. “The look on your face when I yelled at you. I keep replaying it.”

Her brows pull together gently, lips parting like she might protest, but he keeps going.

“You stood there, and for a second I saw it. The crack. The... shift. Like you were remembering how much easier things would be if you weren’t stuck with someone who pushes everyone away and then throws a tantrum when he’s alone.”

She presses a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“I know that now,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath.

She doesn’t say anything else. Just watches him in that way she does—completely present, patient, like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. Her gaze doesn’t flinch, doesn’t flicker. No pity, no judgment. Just her—solid and unwavering.

He takes in every inch of her face. The curve of her smile, soft at the corners like she’s holding something gentle between her lips. The light in her eyes, dark but warm. Her skin, still kissed by sleep, lit only by the faint glow of the bedside lamp. Her. Always her.

“I think…” he begins, but the words fail him, slipping through his hands like smoke.

So instead, he moves.

With a quiet grunt, he shifts and rolls, gently guiding her onto her back. She doesn’t resist—just goes with him, eyes locked on his, her expression curious, open. He braces himself above her, one forearm beside her head, the other hand cupping her cheek. His thumb strokes across her skin, and he feels her lean into it, soft and trusting.

Then he kisses her.

It’s not lust—not entirely. It’s slow. Deep. Messy in the way emotion is messy. His mouth moves against hers like he’s trying to say all the things he doesn’t know how to verbalize. He pours himself into the kiss, tongue brushing hers, lips lingering like every second matters.

She kisses him back just as deeply. Her hands come up, sliding over his back, nails dragging lightly through the fabric of his shirt. One of them finds the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. She makes a soft sound—barely a hum—and it wrecks him. He didn’t know you could kiss someone like this. Didn’t know he could feel this…undone.

At first, he thinks the kiss is just intense. Maybe too intense. He’s breathing through his nose, trying not to make a fool of himself by losing control completely. But something’s off. The taste in his mouth is different. Familiar.

Salt.

He pulls back, just an inch, just enough to feel the tear slip down his cheek.

Ah.

So that’s what that is.

He tries to wipe it away quickly, tries to pretend maybe she didn’t notice—but her hand is already there, fingers soft as they brush the tears from his skin. She doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t tease or console. Just meets his eyes again, and in her gaze, he sees it:

Understanding. Real, wordless, gut-deep understanding.

He lowers his head and rests his forehead against hers. He’s breathing too hard. His chest rises and falls like he’s just sprinted through a storm.

“Sorry,” he whispers, hoarse.

“Don’t be,” she whispers back, running her fingers over his neck.

My Carrd: Rye's Carrd

Chapter Text

Sleep doesn’t come easy to you anymore. It hasn’t in years. It’s mostly colored by heartache, ugly grey and dark blue. The kind of tint that makes you restless. Somehow, you lie still, though, in his bed. Maybe it’s the scent, maybe it’s his warmth. Or how he is just as troubled but tries his best anyways.   

When his fingers brush your skin, your eyes flutter open immediately, and you glance at him. His eyes are reddened and he’s blinking slowly, and you can tell that he hasn’t slept yet.   

“You okay, baby?” You ask, worriedly.   

The question comes naturally to you, but you can tell what an impact it has on him.   

It becomes even clearer when he starts to cry.   

“Don’t be,” you whisper back, your fingers sliding into his hair, slow and careful, like you’re trying to soothe a frightened animal.  

He’s trembling just slightly. Nothing dramatic, but you can feel it—through the tension in his arms braced on either side of you, through the deep pull of his breath as it shudders across your skin. He’s trying so hard to keep it together, and you wish, selfishly, that he wouldn’t. That he’d fall apart just a little more. Because maybe then he’d see that you’re not going anywhere.  

You brush another tear from his cheek with your thumb, let your palm cradle the side of his face. He’s so warm. Alive and present and so heartbreakingly vulnerable like this. You’re not used to seeing him like this—few people ever have, maybe none. But it feels like a gift. Heavy and sacred.  

When he rests his forehead against yours, you close your eyes, breathing in with him. You match the rise and fall of his chest like your lungs are tethered to his, like you have to teach him how to breathe again.  

“I’ve got you,” you murmur into the space between you, soft enough that it could be mistaken for a thought instead of a promise.  

And when he lets out a breath—long and uneven—you feel his weight shift. He settles into you a little more, not physically but emotionally, as if some invisible wall inside him has finally cracked.  

The kiss he gives you after that is unlike the others. Slower. Grateful. Like he’s kissing you not just because he wants to, but because he needs to—because it’s the only language he trusts himself with right now.  

You respond in kind, sliding your arms around him, fingertips pressing lightly against his back, tracing the ridge of his spine through his shirt. Every inch of him feels wired, electric with unspoken grief and relief and want. You want to take it from him—all of it—and tuck it away somewhere quiet. Safe.  

When he pulls back, lips just barely brushing yours, he looks at you like you’ve done something impossible.  

You just keep looking at him—really looking—like maybe if you stare long enough, he’ll start to believe he deserves this. Deserves peace.  

Your hand, still cupping his cheek, drifts slowly down to his jaw, your thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth. You can feel how tightly he’s holding everything in, even now. Always half-braced for the floor to vanish from under him. So you lean up and kiss him again, gentle at first. But when his mouth opens beneath yours, it deepens almost instantly. His hand finds your hip, his fingers curling there.  

The kiss turns messy in that way it does when it means something—when it’s less about desire and more about want. Raw and unfiltered and completely mutual.  

You shift beneath him, and he groans into your mouth at the feel of your thighs parting, the subtle press of your hips tilting up into his. It’s not urgent, not frenzied. Just a slow, unspoken yes.   

You feel it in the way his lips trail from your mouth to your jaw to your throat, the soft, dragging pressure of his mouth painting heat across your skin. Every inch he touches feels deliberate, reverent.  

Your hands slip under his shirt, pushing the fabric up inch by inch until you can feel the warmth of his back under your palms. The way he tenses when you touch him there—like it surprises him every time that someone wants to. That you want to.  

“You’re shaking,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his hair again, tugging gently so he’ll look at you.  

“Am I?” he asks, voice gravel-edged, breath catching in a way that makes your stomach flip.  

You nod slowly. “You don’t have to be scared right now.”  

He lets out something between a laugh and a sigh, and it huffs against your collarbone. “That’s the problem,” he murmurs. “You make me forget that I am.”  

And then his mouth is on yours again—firmer this time, more confident. His weight presses into you just a little more, his thigh slotting between yours in a way that draws a quiet gasp from you. His hand skims the edge of your shirt, slipping under to rest against your bare waist. You can feel the heat of his palm there.  

Your own hands are restless now, exploring his ribs, the hard line of muscle under soft skin. He feels real like this. Heavy and breathing and yours. You kiss him deeper, letting yourself get lost in the feel of him above you, the steady rhythm you’ve both begun to fall into.  

He breaks the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to yours again, his breath warm and ragged.  

“Tell me you want me,” he murmurs.  

“I do,” you breathe, your voice low and sure. “God, House, I do.”  

The moment the words leave your mouth, something shifts in him. It’s like he’s been waiting to hear it—not because he didn’t know, but because he needed to feel it. To believe it in his bones.  

He exhales a shaky breath, and then he kisses you again—deeper, hotter, his lips crashing into yours with the kind of hunger that’s been building for far too long. His hand flexes at your waist, pulling you tighter against him as if he could merge the spaces between your bodies. His thigh presses up firmly between yours, and you move against it instinctively, chasing the friction, the pressure, the thrill of how easy it is to want him.  

“Jesus,” he breathes against your lips, voice low and wrecked, like you’ve somehow undone him just by existing. “You’re gonna kill me.”  

You smile, but it’s shaky, laced with want. “You’re the one climbing on top of me.”  

“I didn’t hear you complain.”  

You arch up into him, your hand sliding beneath his shirt again—only this time, you push it up, baring more skin. He helps, fumbling briefly, yanking it over his head and tossing it to the side like it offended him. You drink in the sight of him—rumpled and lean and scarred, real in the way only someone like him could be. It hits you somewhere deep, the vulnerability of it, how unguarded he is right now.  

You touch him slowly, palms gliding over his chest, savoring the feel of him, the way he tenses and softens under your hands. And when you lean up to kiss along his collarbone, to press your lips to the side of his throat, he shudders against you.  

“God,” he mutters, threading a hand into your hair, gently tugging until your mouths find each other again.  

You can feel him now—hard against you, his hips shifting just enough to grind into yours in a way that steals the breath from your lungs. You moan softly into the kiss, and he swallows it like it’s something he’s been starving for.  

His hand slides up under your shirt, dragging the fabric slowly along your skin as he kisses his way down your jaw, your neck. You lift your arms, wordlessly giving him permission to undress you, and he does—so slowly it almost feels like reverence. When he finally pulls your shirt off, his eyes roam over you, dark and heated.  

“Fuck,” he whispers, almost like a prayer.  

Your hands tangle in his hair again as you pull him back down, kissing him with a kind of urgency you can’t bottle anymore. Every part of you aches to be closer. To feel all of him.  

And when he presses you down into the mattress, his mouth trailing heat along your skin, you don’t resist. You welcome it.  

Because you’ve never felt more wanted.  

The clothes between you become too much—an obstacle to closeness, to everything you both suddenly can’t bear to go without. He strips you slowly, eyes never leaving yours, like he needs to see your reaction to every inch of exposed skin. There’s no rush. Just this dizzying, aching desire to feel.  

And when his body finally settles against yours, skin to skin, warmth to warmth, your breath catches in your throat. You wrap your arms around him instinctively, clinging, grounding. He feels incredible like this—solid and real and trembling slightly from the weight of it all.  

He kisses you again, slower now, deeper. Like he’s not just kissing you, but everything you’ve lived through. Everything he’s tried not to feel.   

Your legs tangle with his, and when he shifts, when he presses closer, your breath stutters out again in a broken whisper of his name.   

“Still okay?” He asks.  

“More than okay,” you whisper, your hand at his cheek. “I want you.”  

The last of his hesitation falls away.  

And as your bodies move together, the rest of the world blurs. There is only this: the rustle of sheets, the low rasp of his voice in your ear, the way your name sounds when he says it like it means something. The tension and tenderness braided together between each kiss, each breath, each desperate grasp at closeness.  

You lose track of time. Of everything but him.  

You never understood the idea of sex being healing. That is, until this moment. Until House looks you in the eyes as he pushes into you. As your breaths mingle and your moans sync, your head rolls back, and you gasp out his name like it suddenly bears the meaning of everything you ever wanted.   

“Oh my god.” You whisper, close to tears.  

House kisses over your neck and jaw until his lips are almost on yours and he whispers: “I feel it too. God, I feel it too.”   

Your whole body arches toward him like you’ve been waiting your entire life for this exact moment.  

Because nothing has ever felt like this before—not the weight of him above you, not the sound of his voice unraveling against your skin, not the way your name breaks from his lips like a confession. He’s everywhere. In your lungs. In your heartbeat. In the way you tremble with every slow, deliberate thrust.  

You wrap your arms tighter around him, pulling him impossibly close, burying your face in the crook of his neck as his rhythm rocks through you, patient and deep. The world could burn outside this room and you wouldn't notice—there is only this. Only the two of you tangled in sweat and need and something that feels suspiciously like salvation.  

He cups the side of your face again as he leans back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and vulnerable, raw in a way that makes your chest ache. And the kiss he gives you then—it’s almost too much. All tongue and teeth and heat, like he’s trying to consume you and hold you together all at once.  

Your hands slide across his back, fingers digging into his shoulder blades when the pleasure tightens and coils inside you like something inevitable. Like gravity. You break the kiss with a gasp, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth, soothing it instantly with his tongue.  

“Stay with me,” you whisper, not even sure what you mean—but he nods like he understands anyway.  

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, voice cracked and trembling.  

And when you fall, you fall together—hands clutching, bodies locked, everything slowing and shaking and shining all at once.  

You brush your fingers along the back of his neck and press a kiss to his temple. His skin is damp, flushed, and unbelievably soft there.  

You don’t speak, and he doesn’t either. There’s nothing to say yet.  

My Carrd: Rye's Carrd

Chapter Text

The morning is quiet. Dim light filters through the curtains, casting a soft gold hue across the bedroom. The air is still, warm from your bodies tangled beneath the covers.  

House’ arm is heavy around your waist; the rise and fall of his chest is slow and steady, but you know that he’s not asleep. 

You shift a little, curling closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Greg?” 

His hum is low, raspy from sleep and silence. “Mmm?” 

“Can I look at your leg today? Really look?” 

He stiffens beneath you, barely, but enough for you to feel it. 

“I know it still hurts,” you continue softly, “and I know you don’t want me seeing it, but…I’d like to stop pretending now.” 

“Pretending what?” 

“That I don’t mind that you won’t let me have a look.”  

He lets out a sigh and you brace for a sharp comment, but then he mutters: “Fine.” He pulls the blanket down and shifts awkwardly, adjusting his leg so you can get to it. “Don’t make it weird.”  

You sit up, pulling the covers off both of you. “I already make everything weird.” 

That earns you a snort, a smirk even, though the tension in his jaw doesn’t quite leave. 

You gently tug the fabric of his boxers aside to reveal his upper thigh, and your heart clenches.  

The scar is angry and red, the sutures he put in himself still holding but messy. It’s clearly been tended to in the days since, but it’s also clearly not healing as well as it could. There’s bruising along the edges of the wound, and the surrounding skin looks irritated. It’s a war zone carved into flesh. 

You don’t say anything at first. You don’t gasp or wince or curse. You just breathe. 

Then you glance up at him. “It’s not as bad as I feared. But it’s not good, either.” 

House rolls his eyes, staring at the ceiling. “You should see the other guy.” 

You reach for the small medical kit you stashed in the nightstand a few days ago—just in case. Without another word, you swab the site, inject a low dose of painkiller, and begin to clean around the stitches with practiced, careful hands. 

“You always this gentle?” he asks, voice low, watching you now. 

“Only with people who almost kill themselves out of spite.” 

He grumbles but doesn’t pull away. 

When it’s finally cleaned and bandaged—fresh gauze, new tape, and a cooling cream worked into the skin—you sit back on your heels and look at your work. Then your eyes rise to meet his. 

He’s still watching you. Still tense. 

And maybe it’s the way he won’t look directly at the scar, or maybe it’s just the look in his eyes, but something inside you aches. 

So you lean forward again, lower this time. And then, gently, you press your lips to the edge of the bandage. 

His breath stutters, face unreadable; and for a second, you wonder if you went too far. 

He exhales shakily, whispering: “That was either incredibly sweet or completely deranged.” 

You smile. “It’s possible to be both.” 

He reaches down and brushes your hair behind your ear. His fingers hesitate near your jaw. 

You let your eyes flutter close for a moment, enjoying his careful touch.   

Then you crawl up beside him, pulling the blankets over both of you again, lying face to face. 

~ 

He’s propped up on one elbow now, lazily watching you with eyes still rimmed in sleep but sharper than they were earlier. You’re not sure how long he’s been doing that. 

“Stop staring,” you murmur, your voice hoarse but fond. 

“I’m not staring,” he says. “I’m conducting a neurological exam.” 

“Oh?” You arch an eyebrow, smirking. “What’s the diagnosis?” 

He leans in just a little, his breath brushing your cheek. “Early onset poor judgment. Symptoms include kissing battle wounds and voluntarily waking up next to me.” 

You laugh softly and shake your head. “I don’t regret it.” 

His expression flickers, just briefly—like he doesn’t know what to do with the sincerity in your voice. So, instead of answering, he reaches out and trails a finger down the bridge of your nose. It’s absurdly gentle. Almost hesitant. 

“You’re not what I expected,” he says after a pause. 

You smile faintly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

“It’s terrifying,” he admits. 

The room goes quiet for a beat. The kind of quiet that feels like it might tip one way or another depending on what’s said next. 

You let the moment hang for a second longer before nudging him gently in the ribs. “You’re kind of terrifying, too.” 

“That’s just the limp. Adds menace.” 

You roll your eyes and stretch beneath the covers, muscles sore in the good way. “Do you want coffee?” you ask, not quite ready to leave the bed, but knowing you eventually have to. 

House groans dramatically. “Do I want coffee, or do I want to risk hobbling into your kitchen and breaking something in pursuit of it?” 

You snort. “I’ll get it.” 

Before you can throw the blanket off, his hand finds yours beneath it, his fingers wrapping around your wrist—not stopping you, not gripping hard. Just… holding. 

“Five more minutes,” he says. 

You playfully narrow your eyes: “Five more minutes of what?” 

“When you say it like that, maybe fifteen?” He wiggles his eyebrows.  

“You’re unbelievable.”  

“Don’t give me that, I know you’re into it.” He chuckles and tugs your wrist. 

You fall back into bed next to him, his arm snaking around you instantly. 

When he leans down for a kiss, you whisper: “Don’t think sex will distract me from the fact that you enjoy cuddling with me.”  

He scoffs and rolls his eyes: “Shut up and kiss me.”  

You do. 

You kiss him, slow at first—lazy and lingering like you’ve got nowhere else to be. His lips are warm, familiar already, and the stubble along his jaw scrapes deliciously against your skin when he tilts his head and deepens it. His hand slides from your wrist to your hip, pulling you flush against him, and you feel the subtle tension in his body melt into something softer.  

His tongue flicks against yours with just enough insistence to make your breath catch. The blankets shift around you, forgotten, as your leg hooks over his. His fingers skim up beneath the hem of your shirt, resting against your bare skin like he’s waiting for you to stop him. 

You don’t. 

Instead, you move closer, kissing him harder this time—less teasing, more want. Your hand moves to his chest, fingers splayed over the muscles there. 

He pulls back only enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, dilated, fixed on your face like he’s memorizing it.  

Then his mouth crashes back into yours before you can say anything. 

The kiss turns messier, deeper, need tugging at both of you like gravity. His hands slide up your back, under your shirt, drawing it higher until he breaks the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head. He tosses it aside without looking, eyes already drifting back to your skin like he’s starving for the sight of you. 

His hands find your waist first, fingers spreading wide like he’s trying to steady himself—or maybe to keep himself from going too fast. But then one hand slides up, gliding over your ribs, fingers warm against your skin until he cups one breast gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your body arching toward the touch, and his mouth quirks with something between smugness and awe. 

“Still not staring,” he murmurs, even as his gaze drops to watch his own hand move, slow and deliberate. 

You breathe out a soft laugh, but it melts into a moan when he lowers his head and kisses the top of your chest, just above your heart. His stubble rasps along your skin as he kisses lower, across the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking out to taste. When his lips close around your nipple, your fingers tangle in his hair. 

He takes his time, switching to the other side with a kind of reverence that surprises you. Each flick of his tongue, each graze of teeth, pulls another breathless sound from your lips, and your thighs shift restlessly under the covers. 

When he finally lifts his head, his mouth is pink, his eyes dark with focus. “Still good?” he asks, his voice gravel. 

You nod, unable to speak. You’re more than good. You’re undone. 

Then he starts to kiss his way down your body. Each press of his mouth is deliberate: your sternum, your ribs, the curve of your stomach. One hand stays on your hip, and the other helps ease your underwear down your thighs, his movements slow, teasing. 

You shiver at the cool air on your skin, then again when his stubble brushes the inside of your thigh. He nuzzles there, just briefly, like he’s savoring the scent of you, and then finally—finally—settles between your legs, exhaling warm against you. 

Your breath catches, hips tilting involuntarily. His hands slide under your thighs, anchoring you open. And when his mouth finally meets you there, you gasp—hands flying to the sheets, to his hair, to anything that might keep you from falling apart completely. 

He hums softly at your reaction, tongue moving in slow, unhurried strokes, tasting you like it’s something he’s craved for days. You writhe under him, moaning his name, and he pulls you closer, deeper into the moment. 

You bend your knees for him, opening yourself up further for his mouth and hands, gasping and writhing as waves of sensation ripple through you. He murmurs something low against your skin—something you don’t catch, but the vibration of it nearly sends you spiraling. One of his hands slides up to your waist, holding you steady as his mouth continues its steady, deliberate rhythm. 

Every flick of his tongue, every subtle shift in pressure, sends a jolt of pleasure through your core. You arch into him, your fingers tangled in his hair now, the sheets twisted beneath you as you lose track of everything but the feel of him. He’s slow, methodical, maddening in the best way—never rushing, just coaxing you higher with every breathless second. 

“Greg,” you whisper, your voice barely there, trembling with need. 

He lifts his eyes, just briefly, and the look he gives you is pure, hungry focus. His lips are glistening, mouth slightly parted as he drags his tongue along you one more time before shifting the angle—just enough to have your back arching, a choked moan escaping your throat. 

Your thighs begin to tremble, breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts as that heat builds low in your belly, coiling tight. You don’t want to close your eyes. You want to watch him—his shoulders moving between your legs, the lines of tension in his arms as he holds you down. 

You’re close. So close you can barely form thoughts, let alone words. His fingers curl around your thigh as he presses in deeper, the rhythm of his tongue relentless and skilled and so damn patient. 

Your body tightens, hips lifting off the bed, and your fingers clutch the sheets like a lifeline. It’s all too much and somehow not enough—each motion from him carving you closer to the edge. 

“Greg,” you gasp again, voice catching on his name like it’s the only word you remember. 

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets more focused—his mouth moving in just the right way, his grip on you firm, grounding. Your breath comes faster, broken and high-pitched, as everything inside you coils impossibly tight. 

And then it happens—your back arches, your thighs quiver against his shoulders, and a cry tears from your throat as the tension snaps all at once. The pleasure rolls through you in waves—hot and staggering—your entire body shuddering beneath him. Your fingers dig into his shoulders now. 

He slows as you come down, mouth softening against you, easing you through it with care you wouldn’t have expected from him days ago. When your body finally slackens and your breath evens out, he presses one final kiss to your inner thigh and lifts his head. 

His hair’s a mess from your hands. His lips are red and damp.  

You can’t help it—you reach for him, still flushed and trembling, and he comes easily, settling over you without hesitation. He doesn’t say anything, just slides his arms around you and presses a kiss to the space just below your jaw. 

Your hand finds his cheek, thumb brushing over the stubble there. “You okay?” you whisper, a teasing lilt in your voice. 

He huffs a quiet breath against your neck. “I think I just had a religious experience.” 

You laugh softly, still catching your breath. “And here I thought you were an atheist.” 

“I’m reconsidering,” he mutters, and the smile that curls at the edge of his mouth makes your chest feel full. 

You shift slightly beneath him, still breathless but grinning now, something slow and wicked curling in your smile. Your fingers trail down his chest, over the lines of muscle and the soft curve of his stomach, until he glances down at you, eyes narrowing just a little. 

“What are you up to?” he murmurs. 

You tilt your head, lips brushing his jaw as you reply, “Returning the favor.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“I want to.” 

He huffs a soft laugh, but there’s a hitch in it when your hand slides lower, grazing over him through the fabric of his boxers. He’s already stiff, and growing harder beneath your touch. His breath stutters, and he lifts his hips slightly, wordlessly giving you room as you shift to kneel beside him. 

You ease the fabric down, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already aching. For a moment, you just look at him, admiring the way he reacts to your touch, how his abdomen tenses under your palm, how his fingers curl in the sheets like he’s trying to keep control. 

When you finally lean down, he watches you with a barely restrained hunger, lips parted. You kiss the inside of his thigh first, just a brush, just enough to make him tense. Then a kiss a little closer. And another, just beside the base of him. Your tongue flicks out, teasing, and he groans low in his throat. 

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he mutters, voice rough. 

“Of course I am,” you murmur, lips brushing the head of his cock before you finally take him in, slow and deliberate. 

His hand tangles in your hair almost immediately, fingers tightening as you sink lower, your tongue pressing along the underside of him. You work him slowly, savoring every reaction: the way his jaw clenches, how his breathing turns ragged, the quiet, almost involuntary sound he makes when you moan around him. 

You look up at him once, and the sight makes you salivate even more: his head tipped back, lashes low, mouth slack with pleasure. Completely undone. For you. 

“Jesus,” he breathes, and you hum in response, sending a ripple of sensation through him. 

His hips twitch, just slightly, and he tries to still them—tries to be good, tries not to push. But you want him to. You want to watch him unravel. 

And he does. Bit by bit. With every slow stroke of your mouth, every swirl of your tongue, until his breath is coming fast and his hand tightens just a little more in your hair. 

“You need to stop,” he says suddenly, voice strained and barely audible. “Unless you want me to…” 

You pull back just enough to look up at him again, lips swollen, breath warm against him. “I want you to.” 

The curse he lets out is guttural, and then he’s gone—his eyes fluttering shut, every muscle taut as he spills into your mouth with a raw, broken sound. You stay with him through it, until his hand finally loosens and his body softens beneath you. 

“Oh god, oh fuck.” He pants, head fallen back, staring at the ceiling.  

Smiling, you wipe your chin clean and kiss up his body. He shudders and absentmindedly strokes your hair, letting his eyes flutter shut. 

You crawl back up slowly, deliberately, laying kisses over his stomach, then his chest, then his shoulder—each one softer than the last. His hand stays tangled in your hair, thumb brushing lightly over your temple like he can’t quite stop touching you. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, still breathless, his voice gone gravelly. “That was…” 

You nuzzle in close, tucking yourself half on top of him, head resting against his chest where his heart is still hammering against your cheek. “Yeah,” you murmur, a small smile on your lips. “I could tell.” 

He huffs a laugh, then falls quiet, his arm curling around your back. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is his breathing gradually slowing and your fingers lazily tracing patterns on his ribs. 

“You okay?” you ask softly, tilting your head up just enough to catch the edge of his expression. 

He glances down at you, eyes still half-lidded. “More than okay. Just…” He gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Overstimulated. Underslept. Deeply terrified.” 

You grin and kiss the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to be scared of me.” 

“Not scared of you,” he says. “Scared of how fast this is unraveling me.” 

You prop yourself up on your elbow, hair falling forward, and give him a look that’s teasing and tender all at once. “And here I thought you liked unraveling people.” 

“I do,” he says. “Just not when it’s me.” 

You laugh gently and kiss him again, softer now. He hums into it, lips parting for you lazily. The kiss deepens, slow and searching, his hand slipping up your back, fingertips gliding over your spine. 

“I should let you rest,” you whisper against his mouth. 

His hand tightens slightly on your hip. “Don’t.” 

You blink, caught off guard by how immediate it is. His voice is low, a little hoarse, but there's something raw in it too. “Don’t go anywhere. Not yet.” 

“I wasn’t going to,” you say. “But you look like you’re about to fall asleep.” 

“I’m not,” he lies easily, though his body is loose and sated beneath you. “I’m regrouping.” 

“Oh?” You smile. “Planning your next move?” 

His eyes darken again, just slightly. “Exactly.” 

And then, before you can say anything else, he flips you—smooth but unhurried, bracing most of his weight on his good leg and elbow as he rolls you onto your back. His mouth finds yours again, more insistent this time, his hand sliding under the blanket to cup your breast. 

You gasp softly, arching into his touch. 

“Round two,” he mutters, voice rough and edged with heat, “is going to be slower.” 

His fingers graze over your breast, light and unhurried, the pad of his thumb brushing softly against your nipple until it pebbles under his touch. You inhale sharply, your hands sliding instinctively up his arms, fingertips tracing the defined curve of muscle and the heat beneath his skin. 

“Slower, huh?” you murmur, lips brushing his as you speak. “That supposed to be a threat or a promise?” 

His mouth quirks into a half-smile—mischievous, but darker now. “Both.” 

You shiver beneath him, and he clearly feels it. He leans in closer, his nose nudging yours, breath warm against your lips. 

“You were so confident a minute ago,” he murmurs, his voice like smoke, low and coaxing. “Look at you now.” 

You narrow your eyes in playful defiance, even as your legs shift restlessly beneath the covers. “I’m still confident. I’m just… patient.” 

“Patient,” he echoes, dragging the word out as his fingers trail slowly down your side. “That’s cute. You think you’re gonna last longer than I do?” 

“I already did,” you say sweetly, biting your bottom lip. 

That earns a quiet laugh from him—a real one, low and husky. He dips his head to kiss your neck, slow and warm, lips dragging against your skin just below your ear. “Patient and smug. Dangerous combination.” 

His hand slips lower, settling just below your hip, thumb drawing slow circles there like he’s mapping out how far he wants to go—how long he’s going to make you wait. 

“I like when you talk like that,” you whisper, your voice catching slightly as he grazes his teeth against your collarbone. “All cocky and half-asleep. Makes you kind of irresistible.” 

He nips lightly, and your breath stutters.  

“You like a challenge.” 

“I like you,” you say quietly. 

He pauses just for a second. You feel his body still against yours, his lips hovering just above your skin. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs, like it costs him something to ask, but he has to anyway. “Even like this?” 

You press your palm to the side of his face, guiding him up to meet your eyes. 

“Especially like this,” you say. “Wrecked, grouchy, trying not to be sweet about any of it.” 

He stares at you for a moment longer, then leans in and kisses you again—deeper this time, slower, like something’s shifted. His hand moves back to your breast, squeezing gently, thumb flicking against the sensitive peak, and you moan softly into his mouth. 

“God,” he breathes, “you drive me insane.” 

Your lips curve into a smile. “Good.” 

His hand slips between your legs again, touch featherlight, teasing, and you gasp softly. 

“Fuck…” He groans against your lips. “You’re still so wet…so wet and warm. Just for me.”  

You breathe out a moan as he teases you with his fingers, his words sending a shiver down your spine.  

“Just for you.” You nod. 

He rolls you onto your back, his eyes never leaving yours as he positions himself between your legs. You can feel his hardness pressing against your entrance, and you rock your hips up, inviting him in. He leans down, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot on your face. 

"Ride me," he growls, his voice a low, demanding rumble. "Show me what you've got." 

You push him back gently, a smirk playing on your lips as you straddle him. You can feel him, hot and hard, pressing against your thigh as you position yourself. You take him in your hand, guiding him to your entrance, and you slowly lower yourself onto him, inch by inch, until you're fully seated. 

He groans, a deep, guttural sound that comes from the back of his throat. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging in, holding you in place as you begin to move. You start slow, rolling your hips in a circular motion, feeling every inch of him inside you. His eyes are locked on yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 

"You feel so fucking good," he mutters, his voice hoarse with desire. "So tight and wet." 

You lean forward, your hands pressing against his chest for leverage as you increase your pace, your hips moving faster, your breaths coming in short gasps. He meets your thrusts, his hips moving in sync with yours, his hands gripping your ass, urging you on. 

"That's it," he growls. "Fuck me like you mean it." 

You smile, a wicked, playful glint in your eye as you pick up the pace, your body slamming down onto his, your breasts bouncing with the effort. He groans, his head falling back, his eyes clenched shut, his body tensing beneath you. 

"You like that?" you ask, your voice breathless but teasing. "You like it when I take control?" 

He opens his eyes, his gaze intense and hungry. "Fuck yes," he moans. "You're so fucking sexy when you're on top." 

His hands move to your breasts, his thumbs brushing against your nipples, sending sparks of pleasure coursing through your body. You moan, your head falling back, your body moving faster, more urgently. He leans up, his mouth capturing one of your nipples, sucking and biting, his tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. 

"You're so fucking perfect," he mutters against your skin, his voice muffled but intense. "So fucking mine." 

His hands grip your hips again, his fingers digging in, holding you in place as he begins to move his own hips, meeting your thrusts with his own, his body slamming up into yours. You cry out, your nails digging into his chest, your body on fire, your mind lost in a haze of pleasure. 

"Fuck, you're so deep," you gasp, your voice hoarse with effort. "So deep inside me." 

He groans, his body tensing, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. "I'm close," he mutters, his voice a low growl. "So fucking close." 

You lean down, your mouth capturing his in a fierce kiss, your tongue invading his mouth, claiming him. He meets your kiss with equal fervor, his hands tangling in your hair, holding you in place as he devours your mouth. 

Your body tenses, your orgasm building, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "I'm close too," you whisper against his lips. "So close." 

He tears his mouth away from yours, his voice a low growl in your ear. "Come with me," he demands, his hips moving faster, harder. "Let me feel you come all over my cock." 

Your body obeys, your orgasm crashing over you in a wave of pleasure. You cry out, your nails digging into his back, your body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. He groans, his body tensing as he finds his own release, his hips moving in short, sharp thrusts. 

He falls back onto the bed, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body slick with sweat. You collapse on top of him, your body sated and spent, your heart pounding in time with his. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his lips pressing soft kisses to your forehead. 

"Round two is a wrap," he says, his voice hoarse but content.  

You smile, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "Round three?" you ask, a playful glint in your eye. He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. "Give me a minute, woman. You're insatiable." 

My Carrd: Rye's Carrd

Chapter Text

“You don’t have to hover the whole time.” You tell House, leaning back in bed as you sip on the tea he brought you.

“Don’t give me that. You were the one who-”

“I have the flu! I didn’t massacre my-”

“Shush.” House kisses your forehead.

You snort, which sends you into a coughing fit, which makes House give you a ‘see, you need help’ look.

You roll your eyes at him but accept defeat with a sigh and hold his hand that has been resting on the bed next to yours.

“You look cute with those fever-induced rosy cheeks.” He tells you.

“Okay, now you’re laying it on thick.”

“I’m just trying to make my sickly, Victorian girlfriend feel better.”

“Shut up.” You chuckle, this time without wheezing.

House gives you a smile, one with dimples that makes your heart flutter.

He notices, of course he does, and smiles wider: “Delirious and weak and still susceptible to my charm.”

“You’re unbearable.”

He smirks but doesn’t respond. Instead, he shifts slightly closer on the edge of the bed.

“You really don’t have to stay.” You say, softer this time.

“I know.” He replies just as softly.

You look at each other for just a breath too long before he cuts his eyes away for a second.

“Move over.” House nudges your side.

“You really are going to annoy me back to health, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes.” He grins and lies down next to you, putting his arm around your shoulder so that you rest your head in the crook of his neck.

With a dramatic sigh, you relax into him, a traitorous smile tugging on your lips.

You’re drifting in and out of consciousness but are ripped from your state of relaxation when House’ phone rings loudly.

He sighs and looks at the caller. “I have to take this.” He picks up. “Did you kill him yet?”

“Surprisingly no.” Foreman deadpans on the other end.

“House, we need you here.” Cameron says.

“Tough luck.” He replies.

You smile to yourself, cuddling up a little closer to him.

Chase speaks up: “We cannot get the fever down, and the vertigo persists, and…”

Even though you’re barely able to think straight, you keep listening to the conversation unfold; to the symptoms being listed; to the back and forth…

Suddenly, something occurs to you: “Have you tested for venom?” You speak up.

There is a beat of silence. House glances at you, a smile tugging on his lips.

“Hello to you too.” Foreman replies finally.

“You heard her.” House says. “Have you tested for venom?”

“No, of course we haven’t.” Chase chimes in, sounding annoyed.

“Why not?” House asks.

“Because- oh, for f-” You can hear chairs scraping. “We’ll call you back.” Foreman says and hangs up.

You let out a hoarse laugh, coughing. House kisses the top of your head. “Look at you being miss smarty-pants while on the brink of death.”

You poke his side: “You thought of it too, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“You wanted me to speak up, didn’t you? Let them know I’m here and know better?”

House smirks: “You got me.”

“They’ll think you’re just hanging out with me instead of going to work! What if Cuddy-”

“They think we’re doing a lot more than ‘hanging out’.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“I don’t care.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“Come on, let me flaunt my girlfriend.”

You snort. “Fine.”

~

You awake with a gasp, cold sweat on your forehead. You’re disoriented, and it takes you a moment to remember that you’re sick, in your bed, with House sleeping next to you.

It takes another moment for you to remember that your sick body isn’t what woke you up. You hadn’t had a bad dream like this in weeks, and it shook you deeply. With a small curse, you sit up against the headboard, stifling a cough. You rub your eyes, pulling your knees to your chest.

Suddenly, House’ hand is on your shin, and you flinch.

“Hey.” His voice is gravelly. “It’s just me.”

It doesn’t really matter, and you withdraw your leg from his grasp. He stills for a moment before he turns over and switches on the lamp on the nightstand.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

Avoiding eye contact, you reply after a long moment: “Bad dream.”

House stays quiet until he eventually asks: “Can I touch you?”

You glance at him and shake your head, telling him with a rough voice: “Not yet.”

Gnawing on his bottom lip, his eyes dart over your huddled up body.

“Want to tell me what it was about?”

You shake your head again, your forehead coming to rest on your knees.

“Come on.” House scoots a little closer without touching you. “Talk to me.”

Sniffling, you turn your head to look at him: “Nightmare.” Is all you get out.

He sees your glassy eyes, and his face softens. “Oh, baby.” He murmurs. “Come here.” He opens his arms for you.

Ever so slowly, you let yourself sink to the side and into his embrace. He immediately puts his arms around you, kissing your temple. It makes you inhale sharply, almost overwhelmed by the comfort he offers.

“Sorry for waking you.” You mumble.

“Don’t be.” He whispers, kissing your temple once more.

You sniffle again, rapidly trying to blink away tears. “Oh, sweet girl,” he whispers, “what happened?”

You shake your head, burying your face in his shirt, inhaling his scent.

“It’s just…” You try but have to take a few deep breaths. “I feel like there is a lion in the room ready to pounce.” You try to explain.

House lets out a hum, holding you a little closer, and presses more kisses to your face and neck until you let out a small chuckle.

It doesn't break the tension, but it makes it a little more bearable.

~

You feel well enough to have breakfast in the kitchen and sit patiently at the table as House cooks for you.

While you’re enjoying the soundscape of the pancakes sizzling in the pan and music quietly playing in the background, House suddenly begins to talk.

“I know what that lion feels like.”

You blink, your brain needing a moment to catch up. He said it so quietly and without turning to look at you, keeping his eyes on the pan, that you wonder if he meant to say it at all. But then he glances at you over his shoulder, finding you attentively looking at him.

He focuses back on the pancakes but keeps speaking: “Ever since I woke up from the surgery…” He interrupts himself with the sigh, putting the pancake on a plate, turning off the stove, and braces himself on the kitchen counter with both hands, back still turned to you.

“The moment I woke up from the surgery, from the induced coma, I knew what she did. I knew that…” He takes a deep breath. “And that exact moment, the moment I realized she signed off on the surgery against my will, I never got over it.”

You let the words linger for a very long moment until you dare to ask: “Stacy?”

“Yes.” He replies quietly.

He finally turns to you, his eyes deep and vulnerable.

“Ever since, there is a lion in the room every time I wake up. Like the feeling still lingers.”

You nod slowly, offering your hand to him across the table. Surprisingly, he takes it.

“The last time I…” He clears his throat, meeting your gaze for just a second. “…it left me crippled for life.”

“The last time you what?”

“I think you know the answer.”

“I’d like to hear it anyway.”

He looks at you, at your entwined hands, and back at your face.

“Not while the lion is in the room.”

You press your lips together before you finally speak: “Won’t it always be here?”

House exhales deeply: “I don’t know. That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.”

Squeezing his hand, you look at him. The dark circles under his eyes because he stayed up half the night with you. The stubble that always feels so good when it scrapes your skin. The band shirt. The hair on his lower arms. His nimble fingers clutching yours. Back up to his crystal eyes that observe everything you do and seem to absorb every little detail you have to offer.

“I love you.” You say.

House doesn’t react at first. He just stares back at you. Your heart is pounding in your chest, and you cannot tell if he just dissociated or is trying to come up with a reply.

His mouth opens and closes.

“So much.” You go on. “And I think that’s amazing. And I wish you could see how amazing you are.”

House’ eyes dart over your face. He looks like he’s about to cry and laugh and yell all at the same time.

“You’re an idiot.” He replies eventually.

That makes you laugh. Loudly.  “So what.”

“So what? I just called you an idiot for loving me and ‘so what’ is all you got to say?”

“Sometimes it’s just that easy.”

“I’m not an easy man to love.”

“That’s not what I said.”

He pauses.

“Why me?”

“Why not you?”

He takes his hand away from yours to rub his face. “Idiot.” He mumbles again.

You just sit there, watching him.

“And now you’re giving me those eyes! Goddamn you, woman.”

After a pause you go on: “But you already knew that.”

“That you’re an idiot? Yeah. You made that quite clear when you started dating me.”

“That I love you.”

He flinches when you say it again, eyes widening like he cannot believe you have the guts to do so.

“Yes.” He eventually admits.

“I knew,” He says. “But it’s one thing to know. Another to hear you say it while looking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’d mean it even if I ruined everything.”

His words hit you in the chest; your heart clenches, your breath stutters as you finally understand.

“That’s what you think love is, don’t you? A countdown to ruin.”

There is a long silence following your words.

Then he nods: “But it is.”

Your lips tremble: “It isn’t.”

House glances at you: “You’re still feverish. You’ll see that you’re wrong as soon as the Nyquil wears off.”

You smile at his attempt to ease the mood.

When he sees your smile, he mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘Jesus Christ’.

“You’re going to break my heart.” He speaks up, finally – finally – meeting your eyes.

“I’ll be careful.” You whisper. It’s the only thing you can think of to offer reassurance.

He searches your face like he’s waiting for the catch, the punchline. But all you show is your stubborn and warm honesty.

“I’m an idiot too.” He murmurs.

“You are?”

“I tried not to be. But I can’t help it.”