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dariaslookalike · 8 months ago

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Needing Miller pt 5.

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

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

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: woohoo update lol. hopefully another update by end of may but im just a girl and this world (completing assignments that i was given two months to do) is too hard :'3. no beta readers so soz for any mistakes

Next Chapter:

Masterlist

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You don’t talk to Joel for two weeks. Not one word.

It eats him up inside, and you relish in that knowledge. He’s stubborn but you’re worse. He still makes you walk beside him as the group traverses through the city, trying to minimise whatever conspiracy he thinks might occur with Tommy. You simply nod and walk beside him like a soldier led to the firing line.

You walk along an abandoned highway, large cement dividers down the centre and overgrown shrubbery covering the furthest lanes. The lanes are cracked, and rubbles juts out from where the barriers had crumbled under the onslaught of bombing and mayhem in the outbreak. There is no movement, or the bustle of never ending traffic, or incessant honking of horns that you recall. The chime of songbirds and whistle of the wind has replaced them. Now, it is simply quiet, and still.

You walk through the empty husks of cars, feeling only the pang of your blistered feet in your shoes. The skin tears and weeps against your shoes, and you feel it split further again, staining the worn, holey material of your socks. Every so often someone from the group will run towards you, and you tense, bracing yourself for a deadly grapple. Your knife is always within reach of your hand, but like a scornful lover, each time you touch it you are reminded of its shortcomings; reminded of the blade digging into a shoulder, tearing through your cheek, useless and flimsy in your palm. Instead they veer around you, talking to Joel and pointing back to cars that hadn’t yet been picked over. The cars offer little value outside of small finds- a matchbook that hadn’t moulded yet, a first aid kit only half open next to a too-small corpse, and to your delight, a heavy winter jacket.

Joel takes the jacket from the man who had found it, not so quite snatching but not asking either. The man doesn’t look surprised, or even offended, and his eyes flick to yours before he turns and follows his path back.

Joel turns to you, eyes boring into yours when he raises his hand, the jacket clutched in his fingers.

You reach forward and take it, trying not to brush against his fingers, or worse, look at the sheer size of his fucking hands in comparison to yours. You shake the jacket out before quickly putting it over your thin hoodie, which has seen better days. Dark black material and lined on the inside, it instantly breaks off the chill wind that had been ripping through you and you zip it up. This winter hadn’t started with blizzards or ice, but still your breath plumed in front of you in soft clouds.

Joel scoffs. “No ‘thank you’?”

You tilt your head at him and stare, but your mouth remains in a thin line.

He rolls his jaw, and glares at you, stepping closer to put distance between the both of you and the rest of the group. They’re still picking over the cars, certain that this area hadn’t been combed over properly by others. You see the dark mop of Tommy’s hair poking out from a faded blue sedan, but he’s simply scavenging.

Joel leans over you and you try not to startle when you realise how close he had gotten. He glares down at you, scowling.

“You’re not gonna be able to ignore me forever.”

Your eyebrows draw in and your gaze hardens with what you hope he reads as Bite me Miller .

He reads you loud and clear, and scoffs, shaking his head. You try to keep your gaze angry, and stubborn, instead of taking him in now that he’s standing so close to you. You try not to memorise the way his tan jacket sits on his broad shoulders, or how his beard has grown longer, or the crease in between in brow as he glares at you, or the rise and fall of his chest as he thrums with annoyance. You try not to.

“Let it go, Dollface.” He spits, a wolfish flash of his teeth. “Get over yourself.”

You say nothing, and he stares at you for a second too long as if he really thought that pathetic attempt would break your vow of silence. He turns, storming off down the highway.

He tries again two days later, when you sit beside Tommy at the fire. The group has settled for the week in a dishevelled restaurant, and you warm your hands at a flaming pile of broken chairs and table legs. Earlier, when you had pointed at a scurrying rat, two of the men had grinned. Now, a skewer of fat rodents roasts atop the flames, and Tommy laughs at you when you scrunch your nose up.

“Drumstick or wing?” He asks, elbowing you in the side and pointing at the rats.

You wretch, even if your mouth waters. “Surprise me. I’d rather not know what I’m eating.”

Tommy laughs, raising a hand to scratch at the stubble that was growing across his face. “Not exactly ‘finger licking good’ but damn it’ll do.”

You laugh in agreement but the moment of hunger is quickly forgotten when Joel comes to stand beside you. You look up at him, and quickly wipe off any trace of a smile.

“Clean your knife and come to the back.” His words are gruff and short, and he doesn’t stay to tower over you, instead turning on his heel and striding out of the swinging staff door to the back of the kitchen.

You glance at Tommy, but he shrugs. “No clue. Better do as the boss says.”

You roll your eyes, but push yourself to your feet, ignoring the curious stares of the group. You untuck your knife from your jeans and wipe it down with your shirt- there’s nothing else to be done.

The door swings behind you, and the kitchen is a lot less impressive then you’d imagined. Dusty, and very much stained, stainless steel countertops and stoves, and littered rubbish that seemed to be present everywhere in the abandoned city.

Ryan leans against a countertop and offers you a small nod of his head. You open your mouth to speak but quickly close it when you see Joel, leaning against the large mirrored wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

You get an unsettling feeling in your gut, twisting and rolling around within you. It tells you that the both of them are crazy and are going to stick you on a skewer to roast beside the rats, but Ryan pats the countertop beside him. “C’mon. I’ll take out your stitches.”

You only remember your cheek then. The pain and swelling were a faded noise in the background of your body, and it no longer bled or weeped through the dressing bandaged to your face. Your tongue instinctively touches the inner side of the wound, feeling the jagged flesh and thread that was sewn through.

You nod, and walk over to Ryan, pushing yourself up to sit on the counter. Your legs dangle over the edge and looking down, you remember your knife. Oh.

You look back to Ryan, who waits expectantly and you hesitantly offer it to him. He takes it, thanking you quietly and moving closer.

“It’ll feel weird when I pull them out, but it shouldn’t hurt.”

You nod and he reaches to you, peeling back the tape and taking off the dressing, but you can’t find it in you to watch as he works. Instead your eyes wander off.

They land on Joel, and you curse internally. He wasn’t just casually leaning against the wall, he had picked the one spot in the room that would be directly in front of you.

So, if you wouldn’t speak to him, he would force you to at least look at him.

He looks straight at you, his dark eyes almost black in the dim kitchen. His hand grips his bicep, the fingers taut over the muscle. You almost want to laugh with how desperately he is trying to be impassive and brooding, but instead you just hold his gaze. You force yourself to not wince or flinch as Ryan brings your knife to your face and notches the tip under the knotted thread.

“Healed up well.” He murmurs beside you, but he is focused on his task at hand. You barely even register blinking as he cuts each stitch meticulously, and pulls the thread through your cheek. There’s a slight dribble of blood, but no torrential flow.

Ryan huffs out a sigh, and you flick your gaze to him. He smiles, and you can imagine him now, working in some hospital, all white coat and combed hair, as he says “Alright, all done. Just don’t mess with it, and it’ll be fine.”

Your lips tug up and you dip your head in thanks. He doesn’t wait for a flowery response, and instead claps his hands together, turning and walking out of the kitchen. You look back at Joel, and his head is tilted, still observing you.

Something coils and tightens deep within you, spurred on by the silence and tension stretching between the both of you. You grab your knife and push yourself off the countertop, standing.

“You look good without the patch, Dollface.”

His voice is quiet, and you wouldn’t have been sure that he had even spoken if it weren’t for tighter, tenser grip on his bicep. Your traitorous eyes dip down to his lips, and like a tonne of bricks, the memory of him against you, his hands on you, his lips on yours, is slammed into you. He knows what you’re thinking about, based on the slight tilt of his head and how his own gaze drops for a fraction of a second, before coming back to your eyes.

He notices the shift in you as well, when you not only recall the memory of the kiss, but afterwards. Recalling his regret, his embarrassment. Recalling how repulsive you must be to him that only a near death experience could overload his brain with so many endorphins to make him think that kissing you even resembled a good idea.

Your gaze breaks from his to over his shoulder, and you lock eyes with yourself. A dark jagged scar runs down your right cheek, from the apple to an inch above your jaw. Terry’s last words were a promise to make you ugly, to scar you so everyone else would see it. You flush with shame and hatred, and something makes the back of your neck burn when you think of Joel, and his stubbled beard speckled with your blood.

Joel was trying to bait you. Trying to anger you, trying to rile you up and get you to break your petty silent treatment by yelling and screaming at him.

You stare at the scar, at the red hue, at the path it carves down your face. And you force yourself to breathe, to not curse yourself, to not cuss out Terry’s ghost in Hell, to not cry and give in to the misery that this wound had given you.

You drag your gaze back to Joel, and his eyes are still on you. Still watching.

“I mean it.” His voice is rumbling, echoing quietly off the steel. “You’re beautiful.”

Baiting you. Lying to you. Trying to get a rise out of you.

Bite me Miller .

You turn and push past the kitchen doors, returning to the fire to sit beside Tommy and the charring rats.

You don’t speak to him for another three weeks. It allows for a lot of inner contemplation as you walk beside him in silence.

You decide to stay, for now, or at least until you figure out what else you could do, where else you could go, who else you could be. No longer were you waiting for Ryan to free you from your stitches or for your cheek to heal past the stage susceptible to infection. Now, you were here of your own accord, and this was wholly new, uncharted territory to walk through.

But… this was a good arrangement, and it benefitted you. You got food, warmth, a somewhat trusting eye over your shoulder as you slept, and all you had to do was follow whatever instructions were barked at you- and so far it was nothing. Just weeks of distancing yourself from the area of the city that had grown infected, weeks of stocking up for the winter.

Some of the men had been sent elsewhere by Joel. He had ordered them while you were trying, and failing, to fall asleep in a corner. Even still, he had kept his voice low, his words hushed. Days later, the men returned with dried splatters of blood on their clothes, but with new supplies. They don’t leer at you, or really acknowledge your presence at all, but the sight of them, with split knuckles and worn faces sent a disturbing chill down your spine. You didn’t want to ask where, or who they were from. So far, Joel hadn’t instructed you to do anything except walk beside him.

You had to admit, to the small (or very large) petty part of you, that this situation benefitted you more than just addressing your basic needs. It gives you ample opportunities for great personal satisfaction each time you annoy Joel.

You like to believe your silence is driving him insane by the time the group moves again, never settling in one exact spot in the city. You live for it, for the stupid scowl on his face, for the roll of his eyes, for the muttering as he near-sulks beside you.

He’s clearly more annoyed after hearing you talk to Tommy for the past week. After you had gotten your stitches out and returned to the fire, Tommy had whistled, low and loud.

“Damn, Dollface.” He said, and you didn’t find the same mocking that Joel had. “Looking good.”

Not beautiful , simply good. It reminded you of the rat skewers, and shitty, long gone KFC slogans. You rolled your eyes. “That’s the best you can do? ‘Looking good’?”

He laughed, leaning in close to you again. “I’m a simple man- I say it how it is.”

You try not to compare him to his brother, who speaks even less and means even more.

Joel hadn’t returned to sit by the fire, or ominously brood right next to you like you thought he might. You don’t see him at all that night, not after what he said to you in the back kitchen or rather what you didn’t say to him. Only when you tried to sleep, doing so fitfully and waking up still tired and worn in the early morning, did you see him. He sat by Ryan on the only remaining dining table left, hunched over with his palms clasped between his knees. But he watched, dark eyes trained on you like a hunter to prey. You didn’t shake his focus even after you had sluggishly escaped your sleeping bag.

Now, still being forced to buddy up with him as you travel, you don’t say a word. You tug the hood of your flimsy hoodie up, and zip your new jacket up all the way, shoving your hands deep in the pockets.

You turn your head slightly, looking at him from the corner of your eye. His gaze stays trained ahead, but you can feel his attention on you once more.

“How much longer?”

His voice is hushed, and nearly ripped away from you by the wind, but you still catch his words. You turn to him, faking confusion with furrowed brows. He steps closer, filling the space between the both of you, casting a glance behind him to the group. They’re too preoccupied by their own chattering teeth to pay attention to the two of you.

He looks down at you, his face stony. “How much longer are you gonna keep this up?”

You look up at him with your most innocent doe eyes. Keep what up?

His jaw clenches, and his nostrils flare as he hisses. “How much longer are you gonna keep being a brat?”

You pout out your bottom lip just to sell it, and he scoffs, shaking his head as looks out to the street in front of you.

“You wanna act like a brat ,” He growls, gaze dark. “Then I’ll treat you like one.”

That godforsaken feeling in your stomach, that you had fought and wrangled and just about killed with your own bare hands, teeth, and sheer willpower, comes to life at his words. You swallow at the pulse that jumps from your neck to right between your legs.

You roll your eyes at him.

Do your worst is what you say with a cocky tilt of your head.

Please do your worst is what that feeling between your legs begs.

He steps closer, and you instinctively step back slightly, keeping distance. He doesn’t let you go far, stepping with you until he’s looking down his nose at you, sneering.

“No more of this bullshit. You’re in this group. You’re in my group.”

His tones bites, and his words sting. You weren’t dead because of him. You had food because of him. You were part of this group because of him.

You were still here, even when you could have left. Even when you could have thanked Ryan for pulling out your stitches, and waltzed off on your own. You could have pretended you didn’t owe a debt, or some level of twisted subordination and gratitude to Joel before. Now? You were stuck with this insufferably moody man, and he was your boss. Leader. Protector. Dickhead who had kissed you unforgettably and then wanted you to forget it. All of the above.

And you were pissing him off.

“You’re with me from now on.” He says, voice harsher than before, and your attention snaps back to him. You thought he was going to kick you out, or pull rank and tell you to respect him. Not whatever he said.

He sees your wide-blown look and scoffs, nodding his head.

“Not just travel. Morning, day and night, you’re gonna stick with me until you can realise I’m doing you a fucking favour .” He bites. “‘M not gonna have you turning my fucking crew against me ’cause of your pissy attitude.”

You are fuming with anger. Just because you talked to Tommy and not him, just because you tried having one friend in this miserable, testosterone cluster fuck raiding group, Joel would say you’re trying to turn them against him?

You bite your tongue. Literally. You have to clamp your teeth down, and you bite harder when he continues.

“C’mon.” He barks, jerking his head towards the road.

You follow like a soldier, staying by his side, and keeping your head held high. You just chant to yourself silently. Boss. Leader. Protector. Dickhead. Dickhead. Dickhead.

He stays true to his word.

He doesn’t let you slow down pace, even when your feet bleed and parts of your shoe literally give out. Instead, he just looks at you, and in response to your silence, tells you to hurry up. Behind you, the group trudges along. Tommy veers closer to you, but with one foreboding glare from Joel, he rolls his eyes and backs off. Even his own brother wasn’t willing to piss him off more when he was this moody.

The city still sprawls ahead, and as the sun begins to set you assume you’ll continue travelling through the night, and you groan to yourself silently. Joel, persistent to prove you wrong, turns into a rundown pub on a corner as night falls.

You follow behind him wearily, and tempted to let the group trail him in first. He senses your hesitation somehow, and glares at you over his shoulder.

“Get going, Dollface.”

Your thumb flicks over your knife and you’re tempted to stab him, and show him just how bratty you can be. You resist however, and settle for holding it in your palm as you enter the pub. Wooden bar stools, tables and chairs collapsed in a pile in the furthest corner, as if the group had been here before and tidied up. The bar itself is empty, and the back wall mirror shattered. It is, thankfully, empty and you scan around the room, settling your pack and sleeping bag down against a wall. Satisfied, you slip your knife back into your jeans.

Joel doesn’t hide the fact that he watches you. When you turn to him, he doesn’t look away, and instead raises an eyebrow.

Tommy smiles at you across the room, and your eyes flick to him, lips involuntarily tugging up.

Your gaze flicks back to Joel, but his face remains stony. He jerks his head to a staircase, like you’re an obedient dog waiting on his command.

You tuck your tail between your legs and follow him.

The group’s eyes trail after you as you pass through them. Only Tommy steps into your path, and his hand grabs your elbow, stopping you.

“You all good, Dollface?”

His eyebrows are drawn tight together, and the beard he’s been growing in the winter makes him look older, more serious. He leans in closer, aware of the ears and eyes pinned to you as his voice lowers.

“He’s my brother, I know but…you say the word, and I’m beside you.”

You nod your head, swallowing and looking away from his eyes. “Thanks.”

Tommy opens his mouth to say something, but he closes it again and his hand retreats from your arm. You offer him a thin lipped smile, and then you step around him, to Joel who looks like he wants to murder you.

Joel doesn’t say anything, and instead turns, striding up the rickety and splintered staircase.

You glare daggers into his stupidly broad back, into the shoulder you want to scratch up, into the scalp you want to tug at. Dickhead, dickhead, dickhead, dickhead, dickhead.

You barely reach the landing by the time he’s pushing open a door. He stills scans the room, ever hypervigilant of some unknown threat.

Your eyes widen at the room. Specifically at the bedroom, where a faded, mildew smelling bed sits in the middle, surrounded by splintered, but intact drawers and a wardrobe. What the fuck?

You turn to him, nearly opening your mouth to say exactly so, but then in a split second his forearm is lodged against your throat and your back is slammed to the wall.

You garble out some sound in shock, and he reers his head in, sneering with his canines showing.

“What the fuck are you doing with Tommy?”

You sputter a bit more, and kick out at him, spearing your knee into his groin. He shifts his hips, and you land a blow against his sturdy thigh instead. He applies more pressure to your throat, not enough that you even get dizzy, but with enough power that you can’t break out of his hold.

“Speak.” He growls, eyes dark. “Enough with the silent treatment bullshit, answer my question.”

Your hand grips your knife and you yank it out of your jeans, angling it into the soft part of his stomach. He feels the edge of the blade, and he seethes.

“I fucking dare you. See what happens.”

Your other hand reaches up, and he shifts, bracing for the impact of your fist to his face. Instead you tap against his forearm, scowling at him the best you can while he nearly crushes your windpipe.

His eyes flick back to yours and you can see he wants to keep you pinned, angry and fuming with you. A gentle reminder by the sharp tip of your knife has him growling, but he eases the pressure against you.

“Speak. Now.”

You glare at him, but as much as you would like to gut him like a fish, you know that wouldn’t stop him from cracking your head open against the brick. You had been treading water since day one- while Tommy was your friend, Joel was everything but that. You weren’t going to push him to show you, again, just why everyone bowed their heads to him.

“Nothing’s fucking happening with Tommy.” You spit, the first words you’ve spoken to him in weeks.

“Yeah?” He leans in closer, mere inches away from you. “Tell me why there’s talk he wants out. Only since you’ve been here, buddying up to him.”

You don’t hide your confusion. In some part, you thought Joel was implying a relationship between you and his brother. But now, you’re completely lost.

“I don’t know what you’re on about, Miller.”

He sneers. “You hate me. Not hard to assume you’d try and make my brother do the same.”

You try your best to look down your nose at him, even with his forearm still pinned to your throat. “I’m pissed off with you Miller. I’m not trying to turn your brother against you.”

He stares into your eyes for a moment, the dark brown hard and unyielding beneath his brow.

“That’s it? You’re just being a fucking brat?”

You swallow, the movement painful against his forearm. You dig the tip of your blade into his gut, reminding him of its presence. He doesn't flinch, and simply stares at you, waiting for your response.

"There's no conspiring or fucking crazy conspiracy, Miller. I just didn't want to talk to you."

He clenches his jaw, his tongue running along his teeth. His eyes dart down to your cheek, and follow your scar to your lips, where his gaze lingers.

You expect it to soften him, to wipe away the brutal anger radiating off him. Instead, the pressure is back against your windpipe and he growls.

“I told you to let it go. Get over yourself. We kissed.”

"Exactly."

He rolls his eyes. "You've been ignoring me for weeks because we kissed? Jesus, Dollface you're in for a real fucking shock- that meant nothing."

You swallow, glaring at him. Willing yourself to not let tears well up. He continues.

"This isn't some fairytale- I'm not sure what kinda bedtime stories you got told growing up, but there's no happy ending out here. That died the day of the goddamn outbreak." His gaze is thunderous.

"Fuck. You." Like you hadn’t lived through the fucking outbreak too- like you were some stupid schoolgirl, with a sickening crush on him.

"Brat. ” He spits.

Dickhead. Dickhead. Dickhead.

"Just cause you think you can walk around, doing what you want, doesn't mean you can, Miller." You seethe, anger flooding out of you. "You might not give a damn, but I do."

"Why?! It was a kiss!" He barks. "So what? It’s not like you’ve never-

Like a rabbit trying to hide its wounded paw from a lion, you flinch back. A mistake that shows your hand more than hides it. His eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, all his anger and ire disappears, and it’s only your shared breathing to be heard, heavy and heaving.

“Oh.” He says.

Oh. Oh is his simple response to realising he was your first kiss. Oh is his one-worded response to realising that he had told you it was a mistake, that it shouldn’t have happened. Oh is what keeps ricocheting off the walls of your skull, over and over, as you watch in real time just how quickly he realises how much of a mistake it really was.

“Oh.” You whisper back to him.

He stares at you, his mouth open slightly. You press your lips together, draw your eyebrows in, making sure you do not shed one goddamned tear in front of this man.

His eyes dip down to your lips. “That was- I was your…” He trails off.

You can’t even nod your head, afraid the movement will break the careful strain you have on yourself. You just stare back at him.

His forearm is still at your throat. Your knife is still at his stomach. And yet, he leans in closer, breath fanning over yours, his gaze still pinned to your lips.

“No.”

That word breaks his focus, and his gaze snaps to yours.

“No, Miller. I’m not doing this with you. I’m not gonna be your little chew toy, waiting around until you decide to play with me again.” You shake your head, but there’s no anger or even sadness. You just find yourself hollow. “Fine. I’m over it, I’ll stop being shitty to you, whatever- but we’re not doing this. Ever.”

You draw back your knife, and in his quiet shock, you shove his arm off you, basically throwing yourself through the door. You pause on the flight of stairs, clinging to the damaged railing. He doesn’t follow you down, and you allow yourself this moment to suck in a heaving breath.

One breath. That is all you will commit to being upset over Miller.

You swallow, raising your head. No tears fall, and you won’t let them. Boss. Leader. Protector. Dickhead. He didn’t want to be your lover, he wanted to pick you up when he wanted and shove you to the side when he was bored. That was fine by you- like he said it was just a kiss, nothing more. You’d see where this raiding group led you, and that was it; you were not going to allow yourself to get your heart involved with him, you were not going to allow yourself to get hurt from a man who clearly didn’t want the same as you.

You don’t kick the staircase wall, as much as you want to. You set your shoulders back, and you step down each step, willing assurance into your feet.

You take your expected position, sitting beside your pack and sleeping bag. You join in a poker game, where you bet on dusty bottle caps and placemats. You observe the group, trying to memorise the faces and laughs and scowls as much as you can, rather than focus the thoughts flurrying around your mind. Tommy picks up on your mood, but he doesn’t say anything; instead, jabbing you in the ribs at certain jokes and trying to peer over your shoulder to see your deck.

You expect Joel to not come back downstairs, to instead sulk in that room all night.

Everyone else does too, because they nearly snap their necks in shock when the stairs creak. You force your gaze to stay pinned to the faded cards in your hand, to not look at him, to give him that satisfaction.

The tension is thick in the air, and some of the men try to start conversation back up again. Their words are hushed though, letting them still give some attention to the drama unfolding in front of them.

“Dollface.”

You grind your teeth as you clench your draw, dragging your gaze over everyone and back towards the stairwell.

He tilts his head to the stairs behind him, his hair messy and ruffled like he’d spent the past few hours running his hands through it. The offer isn’t as demanding as before, and something in his eyes is softer; even if his shoulders are still set back, even if he doesn’t beg in front of the group.

You pass your hand of cards to Tommy, who whistles loudly, displaying them to the group who erupts in a clamour of disbelief at how you were dealt them. You use the moment of eruption to walk up to Joel. He doesn’t lead you up the staircase, so you brush past him and walk up them.

When you get to the landing you realise you should’ve let him lead you, because now you’re unsure what door to go into. You don’t worry long however, when he catches up to you and pushes open the bedroom door once more.

You hesitate by the landing, and he looks over his shoulder at you.

“Attacking me again, so soon?” You glare at him.

He doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but rather seems to be looking above for something to give him strength.

“Don’t push it.”

You shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest, and his eyes track the movement. “Miller, I’m doing my best to…” You lick your lips, trying to figure out how to say the words. “Respect you. As whatever boss you are to me now. But right now, I don’t want to be near you.”

“As your boss ,” He says, clearly trying to hold back anger. “Get in. Now.”

Dickhead. Dickhead. Dickhead .

Your knife was still in your jeans. This time, you were ready for any lunge or grab from him.

You nod, stepping into the room and he closes the door behind you. You put distance between the two of you, and he notices as you walk across the room, leaning against a broken radiator and boarded up window. Now, with no light streaming in at all, the room is dark, lit only by a candle atop a dress, and he is a shadowy figure across from you. He leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. You think he must look a lot more intimidating, and stupidly attractive, when he does that compared to when you did.

“So what, Miller?” You break the silence, glaring at him. “We count down from three and see who can kill the other first?”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “No.”

“So…”

“I meant what I said earlier.”

“What part? That I’m a fucking brat?”

“Yeah, that part too Dollface.” His eyes darken, and the muscle in his forearm flexes. Your hands itch to throw your blade and see how far it will sink between his eyes. He sighs. “I said you were with me from now on. Mornin’, day an’ night.”

Your gaze breaks from his and you look around the room, suddenly caged. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

“You can sleep on the bed or the floor or hell, the goddamn closet. I don’t give a shit.”

“Downstairs.” You bite out.

“No.” He shakes his head, glaring at you. “I trust you enough that I’m not throwing your ass to the curb.”

“But not enough to stay by Tommy?”

He nods. “Right on the money, sweetheart.”

You want to rip his teeth out when he calls you that, and a glimmer in his eyes tells you that he knows.

“After everything,” You jerk your head to the side of the door, where only hours ago he had you pinned. “You wanna play BFFs?”

He rolls his eyes. “No. Partners.” He stares at you, holding you still with his gaze, his Southern accent rolling out between you. “We’re out tomorrow. You need to learn how to work in this group- I need to keep an eye on you. It’ll work for us both.”

“Highly doubt it.” You snap.

“Yeah, well if you drop the attitude you won’t have to worry about a hair on your pretty head.” He spits.

You both stare at each other, clenching your jaws, fuming.

“You know what you’re signing yourself up for?” You hiss. “You might think you’re punishing me- but it’s you who’s stuck with me .”

“Quit being a goddamn brat and I wouldn’t have to punish you.” He steps forward, sneering.

“Eat shit, Miller.”

His eyes dart down to your neck, and he looks like he’s contemplating strangling you or trying to throttle you. Instead, he takes three heavy breaths, and jerks his head to the bed.

“It’s late. You wanna argue, leave it for the mornin’.”

And with that he sits on the edge of the bed, and begins unlacing his heavy boots. He kicks them off, and in a fluid motion, reaches down and tugs his shirt off. You freeze, and wonder if you actually died, and this was a state of hellish purgatory, meant to punish you on loop, for eternity. Your eyes are glued to him. His broad fucking shoulders- what kind of workout could he even do to look like that, and run on a halfarsed can of soup every few days? He’s not well defined, but his muscles flex with each movement, drawing your eyes to his biceps. His stomach is softer, a trail of hair leading down to his jeans. His jeans. His jeans, which his hands are atop right now, unzipping.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer, Dollface.”

“Fuck off.” You roll your eyes, snapping your gaze away to stare at a part of the cracked wall and feeling the heat radiating off your cheeks. “It’s the middle of winter, Miller. Are you some kind of pervert?”

You don’t look back to him, but you can hear his exhale as he moves, and the shuffle of fabric. “I run hot.”

If anything, you shiver. When a few more seconds of silence have passed, you feel safer in looking over and not being attacked by the sight of his bare neck.

He’s under the thick covers of the bed, and you bite back a coo. He looks younger, softer- not a man who would hate you, swear at you, and keep you beside him because he thinks you’ll corrupt all that he loves.

He huffs. “Like I said. Bed, floor, closet, I don’t care.”

Your sleeping back was downstair, but when was the last time you actually slept on a mattress?

You don’t move.

“What if I stab you in your sleep?”

“What I stab you in yours?” He rolls his eyes.

You chew his words for a moment before you sigh. “No stabbing, from either of us. Deal?”

Joel scoffs, clearly thinking an agreement would be pointless and looks towards the ceiling but when you glare at him, he sighs.

“Deal.”

You nod, and step closer to the bed. You shuck off your winter jacket, still keep your hoodie tight around you. You keep your knife tucked into your pants, but you’re content to not sleep with it in your hands. You kick off your boots, a lot less gracefully than he had, and you hear him cover a chuckle with a cough. You can’t look at him as you step closer, lifting up the blanket and getting into bed. You tug the blanket up to your chin, instantly warmer and sink in the mattress. It smells like mothballs and dust, but no springs jut out at you and it doesn’t collapse; at this point, it was like sleeping on a cloud.

Neither of you say anything or even move for at least three minutes. You flinch when he finally does, but he simply raises himself on his elbow to lean over, blowing the candle out and washing the room completely in darkness.

“Go near me and you’ll wish I stabbed you, Miller.”

He huffs, and you can imagine him rolling his eyes in the dark. “No worries, Dollface.”

Silence wraps around the two of you once more.

“I sleep talk.” You whisper to him.

“I know.”

Your head snaps in his direction, your eyes trying to see the shape of his face in the dark. “What do you mean, ‘you know’?”

The sheets shuffle, and you can imagine him shrugging. “Not like everyone has their own room.”

Once more, quiet falls, and once more you break it. “What about you?”

“What about me?” His voice is lower, more groggy already.

“Do you sleep talk? Or are you just one of those serial snorers? Or-”

“This isn’t a sleepover.” He snaps. “We’re not playing 21 questions. Go to sleep.”

You stick your tongue out at him in the dark.

You’re not as restless as you thought you might be. Instead, once you’ve successfully blocked out the fact that you’ve nearly stabbed Joel, told him you wanted nothing from him, and are now sleeping in the same bed as him, it’s easier to fall asleep.

Considering the fact that you hadn’t been in a real bed in months, and with the chilled winter air seeping throughout the shambling pub, the thick blanket and soft pillow were simply lulling you into a deep sleep.

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

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dariaslookalike · 8 months ago

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Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 12: Hidden Fucks and Hidden Girlfriends

Summary:

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

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

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

A/N: two updates in one day because i'm nice like that

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter:

Word Count: 7.8k

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It’s odd, House driving you to work after everything. He doesn’t object when you rifle through his small binder of CDs and slip one into the stereo. Instead, he smiles slightly, lips tugging up.

You’re in your own clothes for the first time in what feels like forever.

Yes, you wanted to tear out your hair because your apartment was currently undergoing a preliminary investigation for violating a dozen health codes. Yes, you wanted to rip out House’s hair because he had reported it.

But at least Pops, seeing the flyer taped to the building and the cautionary tape across the small path leading to it, had gotten your belongings. Or what could be saved, at least. House was right, there was mould growing on the backside of your paintings, your cabinet, and even your beloved Ikea desk. But still, Pops had packed up what little things you had managed to unpack since moving in, and drove them back to House’s apartment; the alternative was emergency housing provided by the state, which you think would have worse health violations that your apartment and Chernobyl combined.

Pop had come bearing gifts too. When House had opened and nearly flung the door shut in his face, Pop had shoved a pot plant into his hands and told him to be grateful it wasn’t another fist. House, for once, had simply shut his mouth and stepped aside to let you greet Pop in a big hug.

Now, your boxes took up a corner of House’s living room. You didn’t want to ask what it meant- now that you were finished with the medication and officially lost your excuse for being House’s unofficial roommate. You didn’t want to ask what it meant that you were still living in his house. In his space with him. Sleeping in his bed with him. Asking would mean you drew his attention to it, which might make him realise you were in fact still living with him, and might make him reconsider that fact. Asking would mean that the past few days that you had spent, fucking each other, making each other cum again and again, might not have happened. So, you simply left your boxes taped up and sitting in the corner.

Maybe you should draw up a tenancy contract and make him sign it, so that way you had some stability. That is what the smart, logical voice in your head tells you, while it also screams at you to find your own apartment- never depend on a man, it tells you, much less House. You tell it to shut up, to let you enjoy this for however long it lasts, and simply reach a hand across the space between you two to rub along House’s thigh while he drives.

He doesn’t ask you to stop, but he pulls into a secluded part of the hospital car park when you arrive instead of his reserved spot, and kisses you until you’re breathless and having to drag yourself away from him to make sure you’re on time.

“You’re sure we can’t go in together?” He asks, eyes trained on you and his thumb smoothing along your cheekbone.

You shrug. “Hell, why don’t I wear a sign that says “House’s little lapdog” and you can walk me to Cuddy’s office where we admit to inappropriate workplace relationships?

“Sounds good to me. I think you’d look great in a collar.”

You shoot him a glare and he leans in quickly before you can pull away in annoyance to place a kiss against your lips. It eases the furrow in your brow, but you still shake your head.

“I go in alone.” You say sternly, and with as much professionalism as you can when you’re conspiring to hide the fact that you’re fucking your boss. “You can wait for fifteen minutes and then join us, all but annoyed to see my healthy return to work.”

He scowls. “Fifteen minutes? Babies in cars die in less time.”

“Good thing you’re not a baby then, and it’s also 40 degrees today. Plus, I’m sure you can occupy yourself for fifteen minutes.”

You tilt your gaze down to his pants, straining against him after your morning make-out session, and his gaze follows. In the brief distraction, you open the car door and slip out, whispering a quick “Bye!” to him.

You’re nearly tackled when you walk into the office.

Cameron clings to you like a koala to a tree, a stream of words rushing out of her mouth.

“I thought you were dead! Or that you hated us all after the ball or had thrown yourself under a car or thrown House under a car but then Chase said he ran into you and I couldn’t believe it and you were sick oh my god and this whole time I was worried you hated us when you were just ill and I’m a doctor how did I not see-”

“Cameron!” You hold her biceps, pinning her to the spot. “I’m okay, and yes it’s great to see you too.”

She just hugs you tightly before finally detaching herself, stepping back. “So you’re not dead? And you don’t hate us?”

“No. And no. Although helping Cuddy was pretty stupid, it’s whatever.”

She gives you a remorseful look, and you feel as if you just kicked a puppy. She doesn’t grovel more like you thought you might, instead flicking her head back to the kitchenette. “I got you a coffee. And a donut. Or maybe three.”

You smile, nodding. “Apology accepted.”

Behind her, Forearm and Chase are already sitting at the table. Foreman offers you a smile and a nod, but he never seemed one for apologies, and instead remains sitting and sipping his own coffee. Chase however, stands up and walks over to you, wrapping his arms tightly around you. Again, you’re struck with the thought you had at the fruit market, of how tall and warm he was.

Cameron is the one to clear her throat, and Chase steps back, a bashful smile across his face. He scans over you as if looking for any signs of illness, any signs that you’re not alright, but he finds none.

“Glad to see you back.” He says softly, and it holds a warmth to it that has the back of your neck heating up.

“Thanks. Glad to be back.”

Foreman snorts. “You sure? House is still here, lurking somewhere.”

Cameron winces, probably hesitant to discuss House with you after you had such a blowout with him at the ball. Instead, you try your best to not blush fully, thinking of his hands and his shoulders and his sheets around you and his legs wrapped around yours and-

Your brain automatically forces you to laugh just before your silence gets awkward. “No, no it’ll be fine. We… talked it out.”

You hope that your words don’t hold any obvious innuendo for the ducklings, but to your horror, Chase nods.

“Yeah, Wilson told us.”

“W-what?” You try to swallow the saliva in your mouth and instead your throat is dry and cracking.

Chase grins. “He said you slapped House, quit and House still asked for you to come back.”

Your heart stops beating out of your chest, and you chuckle softly, trying to feign calm. “Oh, yeah.”

“If Chase did the first part, House would have castrated him.” Foreman points out.

“If Chase so much as thought about slapping him, House would have castrated him.” Cameron adds, leaving the both of them, but not a sulking Chase, to chuckle.

You laugh, and slip over to the kitchenette, biting into one of the donuts Cameron had gotten you. You smile, both happy to have sugary goodness, but happy to see the three of them, squabbling and fighting like nothing had happened, even if your world had been flipped on its head recently.

You’re about to take a second bite when someone calls your name, and you quickly place the donut back to the plate as if it burned you.

Cuddy smiles at you from the glass doorway. It’s no flashy, toothy smile, but one that holds a serious note.

“I think we should talk.” Her voice isn’t domineering but still, authority clings to her tone.

Something curdles in your stomach, the same feeling when a teacher scolds you after perfecting your behaviour.

You will yourself to not succumb to it, to not bend under the shame of potential wrongdoing, to not break under Cuddy’s gaze.

You square your shoulders. “Yeah, I think we should.”

She gives the smallest tilt of her head, but simply smiles again and turns on her heel. She leads you through the hospital to her office, and you fight against the jittery nerves building up in you.

She sits at her desk, and you sit in front her, the perfect schoolgirl sitting on leather office chairs, prepared to be ripped by the principal. You count to six, breathing in, and count to six again, breathing out. Everything in you tells you that you should be apologising or diminutively shrinking, hiding from her gaze and whatever onslaught she has prepared.

Cuddy breathes in sharply, and it whistles through her nose slightly. “I’m glad to see you’re back. But, what happened the other week was-”

“I’d like to talk first. I have something I need to say.”

Cuddy blinks in surprise at your interruption, and you feel shocked too. But she is quick to close her slack jaw.

“Of course. Go ahead.”

You steady yourself, nodding. “What happened the other week was unacceptable.” Cuddy nods her head in agreement until your gaze turns sharp. “What you did was unacceptable. It’s one thing to put me in mandatory counselling, but another to bribe my boss to take me to a work event and lie to me about it.”

Her lips are in a thin line, but she doesn’t object so you continue. “To get everyone wrapped up in the charade was humiliating and embarrassing. My personal life is none of your concern, and you shouldn’t be meddling in anything but my work. I should have expected it from House- but I didn’t expect something like that from you.”

You huff, your small tirade finished and a silence falls over the two of you. For a beat, you think you’ve just ruined your career with one speech and you should be grovelling for her to pretend she was deaf, but then she nods. Her black hair sways with the motion, and she does it again, raising weary eyes to yours.

“You’re right. What I did was inappropriate, and a mistake. I’m sorry, even if it was coming from a place of concern.”

You let out a breath stuck in your lungs. “Thank you.”

Her lips tug up. “I’ll pretend there’s no security footage of you slapping House, and we’ll call it even?”

You laugh, giddy with surprise that she had discovered that. “Email the footage to me, and we’ll call it even.”

She sticks out a hand, smiling. “Deal.”

You shake her hand, lips tilting up.

She sits back in her chair and tilts her head, observing you with no shame. Her lips draw out into a line as she contemplates and she heaves a sigh before speaking again.

“It was a place of concern. You’re a fantastic doctor, and I know House has been hard on you. But you also…remind me a lot of myself.”

Now you blink in surprise. You, reminding Cuddy of herself? You, in all your crinkled slacks and frizzled hair?

“I was young, and I didn’t believe I deserved what I had- my job, my respect, my…love. Even if he hides it, I know House well enough to see that you bring out something better in him.” Her blue eyes pin you to your chair. “And I think you’re blocking yourself from that kind of happiness, because that’s what we’ve been told as intelligent women. That we can’t have it all. That we are intimidating to men and as such, the only focus we should have is on our careers. I just wanted to push you in the right direction.”

She must think you’re about to spit fire at her, mistaking your confusion for ire, because she quickly raises her manicured hands in an apologetic defence.

“That’s the last I will be speaking of it. It’s your personal life, and you are your own person.”

You smile robotically, thinking that must be the right response in this scenario, but your head races. Does she look at you now, and see herself years ago, following her footsteps that have led her to this very office? The actions that had led her to power, but ultimately solitude?

You smile again because you can’t think of what else to do, and rise out your chair, heading out of her office.

Cuddy lets out a shaky breath, and you startle with the thought that this might be as nerve racking for her as it is for you.

You think of her words the whole walk back to the diagnostic office, and the hours pass by in a flurry. House simply doesn’t show up for the morning meeting, and it eats away at you. Forearm quickly steps into his position, updating you on the case they were working on, and directing you to do a biopsy of the patient’s liver.

Hours later, you’re covered in what would make a petri dish scream, tired, and aching. All this time off being sick, and work was the hardest part of it all.

You’re content to fling yourself into an armchair in the break room, and rot for thirty minutes, but as you walk by a closet, your elbow is quickly pinned and you’re wretched inside.

You yell out but a hand slaps over your mouth as the door swings closed. Your knee is halfway through the air, about to inflict damage to this person’s grandkids, when you register who is holding you. House grins and lets go of your mouth.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You hiss, looking around. It’s a supply closet, with a shabby desk-turned-storage unit in one corner, and mops and buckets adorning the other. A bulb flickers overhead. He slides his cane under the door handle.

“It’s a crime to miss you, now?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s a crime to shove people into janitor’s closets, yeah.”

He grins, leaning in closer. “Different bylaws here. The case wouldn’t even make it to court.”

“What’s actually going on?” You look in his eyes, looking for something off, something that tells you there’s a red laser beaming at his back and this is all being surveyed by a blackmailing sniper.

“I missed you.” He reaches up, cupping your face. His thumb rubs circles along your cheekbone.

“Yeah?” You blush, looking up at him.

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

He smirks, leaning in and placing his lips to yours. It’s sweet and soft, and your hand reaches up to wrap around his shoulders. His hand smooths over your cheek, stroking the skin and you lean into his touch. When you tug at his hair softly, the kiss shifts from this domestic, easy, slow joining of your lips, and turns rabid. He nips at your lip, and you press yourself against him, chest to his. His tongue swipes against your teeth and you open yourself up to him. You’re both panting, and his hands shift to push at the small of your back, keeping you pressed to him.

You pull back, and his lips a soft, swollen red. You run your hand along his jaw, smooth from where he shaved this morning.

“How much did you miss me?” He asks, lips tugging up at the corner.

You grin at him, pushing his shoulders until he steps back, pressed against the wall. You lean closer, hands running along his shoulder and the joining of his neck. You place a soft kiss to his neck, trailing up and down, and he leans his head back, sighing in agreement. When he scoffs, mockingly saying this wasn’t much, you nip at him, and suck a mark onto his neck.

“Hey!” He hisses, looking down at you.

“What’s wrong?” You bat your lashes at him, doe-eyed.

“You don’t want us walking in together, but you’ll do that?” He scowls, but there’s no real ire. “What’s next, you’ll leave some lingerie in my pocket?”

He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and you roll your eyes. “No, I’m not doing that.”

He looks like he’s about to pout, so you lean up, placing a chaste kiss to his lips. He smiles like he’s drunk, and his hands rub a smooth line down your back.

“Just a bra?” He smirks. “You had such a pretty one this morning.”

He slips his hand under the collar of your shirt, toying with the strap of your bra.

“House…” You warn.

“What?”

“We’re at work.” You say softly, and his lips tug up like a wolf smiling at a little bunny.

“Tell that to my poor neck.”

You smile, eyes darting down to the red mark. “Say you tripped and fell on your cane. Something believable like that.”

“I have impeccable coordination.” He smirks down at you. “It’d be more likely that Wilson attacked me.”

“That works too.”

His fingers snap your bra strap, and you hiss. He mouths Sorry but a glint in his eyes tells you its payback. His other hand reaches up, and unbuttons the top of your blouse.

“House.” You hiss. “I mean it, we’re at work.”

“So? I’ll wait five minutes after you leave, and I won’t make a peep.” At your silence, his gaze snaps to yours.

“Who’s gonna get you in trouble sweetheart?” He looks at you mockingly. “Your boss?”

“HR.” You bite. “Cuddy. Any single person that respects me.”

“Aw,” He tsks, and unbuttons the next button of your blouse. You glare at him, but you don’t reach down to stop him, and he knows. “Afraid they’re gonna think you’re sleeping to the top?”

You blush, and even though he had been joking, he grins wolfishly. He leans in, eyes dark. “If they know you reached this high up, you’re doing something very right.” You scoff, looking away, but he reaches up, pulling your chin to make you look at him. “I mean it. C’mon, show me how good you are at it. How good you are for me.”

Your eyes flick back to his, and your tongue darts over your lip. “You could have just said you want a quickie in the closet.”

He clicks his tongue. “Would that have worked?”

“Yes.” You say, throwing your arms around him and kissing him again. He leans back with the force of you, but is quick to readjust, his hand reaching between the two of you to unbutton your shirt completely while he kisses you back. You moan softly against him when your shirt falls to the floor, and his hands grope over the lace of your bra.

He steps you back, and together you do an awkward shuffle. You pull back, laughing, and he smiles at you, walking you back until he leans against the desk. He turns, swiping his hand over the discarded junk, and clearing a spot.

He sits on the desk, and you step between his thighs, kissing him again. His hand fumbles at your pants.

“Fuck.” He hisses. “You couldn’t have worn one of those tortuous skirts today?”

You smile, nipping at his mouth and reach down, unbuttoning and unzipping your pants. “I only wear those when I have clinic.”

His hand reaches down, palming at his crotch and he groans, closing his eyes. “Damn, you’re making me miss the clinic. How is that possible?”

You squeeze your legs together at the sight of his, palming himself to the thought of you. He opens his eyes, and tugs at your pants. “Come on, Newbie. Prove that you’ve got what it takes. Might be a promotion in it for you too.”

You swat at his shoulder. “That is so not funny.”

He smiles. “You’re right. We’ll start small, and I’ll make you my second in command.”

You roll your eyes, but reach down, sliding your pants down your legs and stepping out of them, kicking your flats off in the process. He watches you hungrily, and he pats his thigh, settling back until he leans against the wall.

You raise your eyebrow at him, and he scoffs. “What, you want the cripple to climb onto your lap? Didn’t take you for such an ableist, but if the shoe fits.”

You’re tempted to throw your shoe at his head, but instead you kick a crate closer, using it to step up in front of him. It’s awkward and he chuckles beneath you as you clamber atop him, until finally you sit, straddling him (after you’ve elbowed him once accidentally, and twice on purpose in the process).

His hands settle at your hips, gripping the soft flesh. You glance down between the both of you.

“This isn’t fair. I’m practically naked.”

He shrugs. “Well, I don’t look so good without a shirt on.”

You’re about to protest and call his bluff, when he leans forward, mouth sucking onto the cleavage that spills over the cup of your lacy bra. Your hand rest on his shoulders for support, and you arch your back, pressing your breasts into him. He groans beneath you, hips rutting up into you. Just the sound of him has you grinding down onto his lap, and his hands tighten at your hips, digging into them. He can mark you anywhere he likes below the collar.

He realises it too, because he sucks a dark spot onto your breast before trailing up and stopping at your collarbone, nipping and biting and sucking at your exposed skin.

You roll your hips against him, panting. “Thought this was supposed to be a quickie?”

He drags his gaze from your covered breasts back to your eyes, painstakingly so. “Mm, but these are so much fun.”

“Yeah,” You grind down against him, feeling him harden in his pants. “But I’ve got twenty minutes tops until someone comes looking for me. You’ve trained your lackeys too well.”

“I hate when I do that.” He sighs, looking up at you with faux sadness. “Well, since you’re really twisting my arm here.”

One of his hands retreats from your hip to instead pull down his zipper. You smirk, brushing his hand aside and reach between the two of you to tug his cock out of his slacks. You pump him in your hand, and he groans, tightening his grip against you.

“Fuck.” He hisses when you pool your saliva and spit into your hand, returning to pump him up and down. He bucks into your hand, but it’s a bit awkward, pressed so close and trying to jerk him off.

That’s the excuse you use when you pull your panties to the side and line him up between your folds. You roll your hips, coating him in slick and he shudders in a breath.

“Already so wet.” He groans, low in the back of his throat. “All that for me, Newbie?”

“Let me do this for another minute and see how long you last, House.” You snip, and he looks up at you pleading.

You take pity on him, and raise yourself up slightly. You grasp the base of his cock, now hard, slick and weeping at the top and angle him to your entrance. You notch him there for a moment as you reposition, letting your arms fall back to his shoulders. His hands find the dip of your waist and he looks up at you, mouth open slightly.

You smirk, torturing him by drawing the moment out longer and not moving an inch. He realises what you’re doing and scoffs, opening his mouth to spout some expletives, when you lower yourself down over his cock.

It stretches, and burns, and you gasp atop him. Still, you push yourself down slowly, and he looks up at you, soaking in every reaction you give him. When you feel the fabric of his pants against your arse, and that snug, tight feeling of all of him pressed into you, you sigh contently.

“C’mon pretty girl.” He drawls, fingers pressing into your side. “Prove it.”

You grin at him, raising yourself up, dragging yourself against his cock until only the head is in you. You slam yourself back down, easier this time and he groans, eyes closing for a moment.

“Be quiet.” You chirp, leaning in to whisper at his ear. “Don’t want anyone hearing us.”

You raise yourself up, bouncing down on his cock just to make him groan again, louder this time. You bite against his neck softly, and bounce yourself on him. He stretches you with each movement, and when the initial pure bliss ebbs a bit, he focuses again, hands urging you up and down, up and down, as you ride him.

Your knees dig into the desk, and your thighs strain, but the burn, the pain, the tremor starting in your legs is delicious, and you keep bouncing yourself on him.

“‘T’s so fucking good, House.”

You bite your lips in a moan, and he takes it upon himself to draw it out of you.

“Yeah? C’mon show me how good it is.”

You’re not so much bouncing on him anymore as much as he’s fucking into you, thrusting his hips up and guiding you back down over his cock again and again.

He wins and you let out a whine, feeling the slick wetness dripping between the two of you, and likely staining his pants. He eases back, and you groan, shifting to bear more weight onto his shoulders as you pull yourself up and down, up and down, each time the head of his cock dragging at your gummy walls, notching slightly against that spongey spot in you.

“See? You’re doing fantastic.” He growls, rutting up into you. “Riding this dick like you were fucking made to.”

You clench at his words, and he lets out a low groan. “You like that? You like being told you were made to ride me? You do it so fucking well sweetheart. Such a good slut for me.”

You ride him harder, moaning into the crook of his shoulder. His hands smooth over your back, arching you against him. “There you go baby. Fuck, maybe after we’re done I’ll show Wilson how good you are, hmm?”

You murmur against him, and he grasps your hips, rolling you back onto him in a harsher movement. “That’s what good little sluts do- you said you’re sleeping your way to the top, huh? Wilson’s next. See who else wants a fucking piece of you.”

He angles himself harsher, his dick pressing right against that spot inside you, and you moan out. He does it again, and again, a wicked grin on his face, and you moan against him. One of his hands slips between you both, reaching down to circle at that bud of nerves.

“Fuck, House.” You moan, arching into his touch.

“C’mon baby, tell me how much you want it.”

“Please,” You whine, grinding down onto him, feeling him slide in and out, in and out, each time dragging against you, settling you onto the base of his cock and slamming you back down. “Please, House, make me cum.”

He coos at you. “So polite when you want to cum on my cock. Need to sit you on it all the time, no more of that bratty attitude.”

He rubs circles onto your slick clit, messy and loose. “I’ll have you sit on me in meetings, skirt up to your fucking waist. Let everyone see how nice you can be when you’re not desperate for dick.”

You moan against him, and your movements shudder. He fucks up into you, groaning and rubbing at your clit with more purpose. You moan, muffling your sounds against his shoulder, and he lets out a shuddering breath.

“Go on sweetheart. Cum on my cock, go on, baby. Take what you need, sweetheart.”

Sweet and fucked out of your brain, you do as you’re told, moaning against him as your orgasm washes over you in jolts of electricity. He bounces you on him the whole time, fingers not leaving your clit.

“There you go baby, good fucking girl.”

When the bliss subsides and you come back to earth, he’s still making you ride him, moving your hips up and down over his cock. The drag is fucking beautiful, and feels so much more after your orgasm.

“Fuck.” He groans, and you bounce yourself up and down him, invigorated as you chase his high.

“I’m nearly there, baby.”

“Yeah?” You sigh, leaning forward to kiss him. You reach a hand up, cupping his face. “C’mon House. For me, please.”

His breath is shuddering, and you keep a constant, brutal pace atop him. His lip grazes yours, both of you breathing onto each other.

“Where? Baby, fuck, where?”

You kiss him again, pressing closer to him, drawing his body against yours, slamming your hips against his. He doesn’t need an answer, his hands at your waist, dragging you up and down as he meets your movements with his own.

You want to hear him, want to have that sound carved into your brain, but the little part of logic remaining in you forces you to kiss him like your life depends on it, muffle the long, deep groan he lets out as his hips stammer, stilling. You keep moving even when you feel him pulse in you, even when his muffled sounds become more drawn out to a whine, even when his hands grip at your waist to slow you. You take him for every last drop he offers you, drawing it out.

When you do slow, you sit on his lap, breathing heavily, face pressed to his.

“Did I prove it?”

“Fuck.” His voice is wrecked, and he lets his head fall forward to your shoulder.

You laugh, feeling the sweat on your skin cool in the air. “Did I make you speechless, House?”

He just wraps his hands around your clammy back, not flinching, instead drawing you closer until you wrap your arms around him too.

“Did fucking amazing, baby.” He looks up at you, blue eyes electric. “I think I died and came back.”

You grin, chuckling. “I think you must have knocked your head.”

He shakes his head, leaning up to kiss you. When he pulls back, his lips tug up. “Fuck a promotion- do that again and I’ll make sure you get Cuddy’s job.”

You roll your eyes, unwrapping your arms from his. You take one of his arms in your own, angling his wrist to glance at his watch. You look back at him, smiling. “That’s time.”

He scowls. “This hospital depends on me- they can give us ten more minutes.”

You pull yourself off of him, his softening dick falling back to his stomach. The peak of your thighs is slick and you gingerly pull your panties back over it while he tucks himself into his pants.

“Help me down.” You look at him, pouting.

He rolls his eyes, but he offers his hands to you as you clamber off him, setting your feet to the floor.

You blush deeply looking at the mess on his lap. He follows your gaze and shrugs. “Whatever.”

“Whatever?” You swat at him, reaching down to grab your blouse and button it back up. You shoot him a look. “What are people gonna say seeing that?”

He shrugs. “That you’re sleeping to the top.” You glare at him, and he raises his hands in defence. “We are in a literal supply closet. I think I can find something to clean myself with.”

You grab a packet of body wipes off one of the shelves, and throw it towards him. He catches it perfectly, raising his brows in a cocky smile. You walk over to him, standing between his legs again.

“Do you need some help, House? ‘Made such a mess on you.” You take the packet from his hand, grabbing one out, and reaching forward.You look up with wide, innocent eyes.

His eyes are dark and his throat bobs. “Yeah.”

“Yes, what?”

His nostrils flare, but his eyes dip down to you, pantless and with your blouse clinging to you. Looking fucked out of your mind.

You expect to hear yes, please, but instead he groans, pushing off the desk. He wobbles on his leg for a moment, but his arms are steady as he spins you around, sitting you on the desk now. You give him a confused look, and he simply bends down, eyes on yours the whole time, gripping your hips to shift you closer to the edge. His hands grip your knees, spreading you wide. He pulls your slick panties back to the side, and you hiss as his tongue swipes broadly across your centre, hot and heavy.

He’s not desperate, or punishing. He simply licks against you, groaning softly each time you let out a soft whimper. His hands grip at your legs, keeping you spready. Your hands wring through his hair, tugging at his scalp. He just keeps lapping at you, cleaning you of everything you gave him and everything he gave you. You muffle your moans against your hand, and your orgasm shakes over you. You buck against his mouth, but he doesn’t budge, licking you through your orgasm, and then lapping up that wetness.

When he does pull back, you’re trembling. His mouth is slick with you, his hair pulled at. He takes the gentle cleaning wipe from your hand, that you somehow had clenched in your palm the whole time, and finishes the job, cleaning up any residue between your thighs. He tugs your panties back into place, and grins at you.

“Thank you, what?”

You roll your eyes, but you still mumble out, cheeks beet red with embarrassment. “Thank you, House.”

He cups your face, and you lean into his touch, his hand melding to your skin. He leans in, kissing you gently, and you taste yourself against him. When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours, gazing down at you, tenderly.

You push him back gently, sliding off the table and tugging your pants back up your legs. You smirk at him as you slip your shoes back on, smoothing your hands over your hair.

You grab the cane from the door and pass it back to him. His fingers linger against yours, and your eyes dip down to his stained pants.

“Wait five minutes, right? Good luck with that, House.”

You spin on your heel and slip out of the closet, laughing softly to yourself at his scoff you cut off with the closing of the door. You straighten your blouse, and try your best to pretend you weren’t still riding the high he had given you, and get back to work.

——————

When you arrive to work early the next day, adamant that you should catch the bus by yourself and not risk any suspicion, you’re so preoccupied in shaking out your jacket, wet from the light rain, that you don’t even register a person standing right beside the glass office until you bump into their back.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” You blurt out, even before they turn around to look at you.

A beautiful woman smiles at you, and there’s a familiar tilt to her lips that reminds you of someone.

She looks a bit out of place here, her black pantsuit too smooth to be a ruffled family representative of a patient, but too the buttons undone at the top a step too close to revealing to be hospital management.

She brushes back her dark hair, and huffs out a chuckle.

“No harm done, sweetheart.”

You blink at the term, looking down at yourself to double check that you were in fact wearing your Doctor’s coat, and not appearing like some teen that had wandered off from their parents.

You remind yourself to nod politely, and you move to step around her. She clears her throat however, and it stops your movement, and you look towards her expectantly.

She offers a bashful smile. “Do you know if Greg is around at all? Or is he off, hiding somewhere?”

You must look as confused as you feel at her words because she speaks again, eyes dipping down to scan you like as a specimen as she does so. “I mean House. Is House here today? Or hell, even Wilson? It seems that the two of them are avoiding me.”

You blink, shifting on your feet. “House should be here today.” You cast a glance into the office, where House’s desk sits empty, and the three ducklings are trying obviously to not look towards the both of you. “If I see him, did you want me to let him know you stopped by, Miss…”

“Stacy Warner.” She says, smiling and offering her hand out with a point of professionalism.

You shake her hand, trying to match the firmness of her grip.

“And yes. If you see House, let him know that I need to talk to him. And that I won’t slap him, this time.” Stacy says, her voice laced with mirth that tells you she’s familiar with House and his antics.

“Sure thing, Miss Warner.”

You both smile to each other, but you can feel her gaze follow you as you step into the conference room. By the time you turn and look at the glass divider, she’s striding down the hallway.

Cameron looks at you with wild eyes, and you nearly step back. In response to her conspiratory whisper, you sit in your chair at the table and lean closer to her.

“What did she say!?”

You shrug, confused. “That she wanted to see House. Why?”

“Fife!” Chase sputters, and you turn your gaze to him. He continues chewing one of your donuts and you reach out to give him a light slap to his wrist.

Foreman rolls his eyes, sipping his coffee. “What Mr Greedy over here is trying to say, is that was House’s ex-wife. Fiancee. Girlfriend. Something.” He says, ominously.

Your stomach sinks and you try to stop yourself from blanching. “Oh?”

Cameron nods, whispering as if House had everything wired- it was a possibility. “Yeah, she’s come around a few times. Wilson told us they were together for a few years and then she left him.”

Chase, finally having managed to swallow your food, speaks. “Yeah, and that he’s still in love with her. No wonder you couldn’t get freaky with him like you wanted.” Chase wriggles his brows at Cameron, and despite her flaming face she reaches over smacking him with full force. “Ouch!”

Foreman’s lips tug up and he shakes his head. “Do it harder next time.”

Chase sputters, aghast at Foreman’s betrayal. “What!?”

Once again it descends into fighting, and Cameron even lands another slap to Chase’s arm.

You try not to sound too desperate for information, or nauseous like you feel when you speak up. “So, what, are they getting back together?”

Cameron huffs, seemingly exhausted from the energy it takes to put Chase in his place. She scrunches up her nose though, as if the thought of House in a romantic context disturbs her now. “She’s married now but…I doubt it would stop either of them.”

Foreman tuts at her. “Wow, that’s a lot coming from the person who wouldn’t have stopped from HR.”

Your stomach sinks, a cement block tugging down all your organs with it. Cameron however laughs off his words, rolling her eyes. “I just mean that from what Wilson says, they were both mad for each other. And House is still obsessed with her.”

You’re going to vomit. You feel every part of you that House has touched light up in shame and embarrassment.

Foreman’s eyes flick to yours. “You alright? You don’t look too good.”

A laugh bubbles out from your nervously. “Yeah no, yeah I’m fine.”

Chase pats you on the shoulder. “It’s alright, we all get disgusted thinking of House ever having a girlfriend- the torture that poor woman went through.”

You laugh, this time trying to seep in more confidence to the noise. Cameron chuckles with you, but Foreman still watches you from the corner of his eye, unconvinced.

You don’t see House all day, and not even Wilson. Only when it’s three hours past your lunch break, and you have found a chance to slip away and scoff down a sandwich you had packed yourself do you see House for the first time.

You drag your eyes from your sandwich in the glass meeting room, back to him, sitting at his desk and in serious thought, judging by the harsh draw of his brow. Sandwich. House. Sandwich. House.

You curse yourself a little bit, walking over, and pushing open his office door.

“Not now, Wilson.” He doesn’t look up, scowling.

“I’m about to- Oh.” His lips tug up, and he sits back in his chair, easing into the fabric. “Newbie.”

“Hey.” You smile, your cheeks dusted with pink.

“Hey.” He echoes back, smirking.

You step forward. “I didn’t see you today.”

“Really?” He looks perplexed. “If I recall correctly, before you caught the bus we were about five minutes away from testing the suspension of my car by having you ride me til-”

You clear your throat, shooting him a look, and tilting your head to the glass office that was putting everything you did on display. This wasn’t some dingy supply closet, this was like a zoo display that invited all sort of observers.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s 4PM. No one’s at a hospital at 4PM.”

“Really?” You laugh. “Everyone’s at a hospital at 4PM.”

He stands up, limping closer to you. “Well, Cuddy’s not. She had a conference at 2.”

“So?”

“So,” He says, reaching you and grinning as his arm slips to your waist. “We can test the suspension of my desk.”

He tugs you closer, and you tell yourself to resist, but instead your feet follow his. He sits against his desk and draws you between his knees, hands splayed across your waist.

You want it to stay like this. For him to keep looking up at you with that drunk look, for you to keep throwing caution to the wind, for only the mingling of your breaths to be heard in the office.

Instead you blurt out. “I ran into Stacy today.”

“Oh.” His hands stop their movement against your waist. “Well I hope you knocked her over too.”

The last half doesn’t ease the tension as he tried to, and instead it feels like a weak attempt for him to sway away any thought of serious discussion.

Your breath is shaky. “Everyone was saying you were still in love with her.”

He swallows heavily, and looks away from you. You take a step back, and his hands drop from you to grip the desk.

“Is it true?”

His gaze flicks back to yours, but there’s an iciness held within it that wasn’t there a minute before. “What, do you believe everything people say? Chase told everyone that ducks were actually small geese. Do you believe in that avian ‘fact’ too?”

You frown, seeing through his diversion. “Answer the question, House.”

He pushes off the desk, grabbing his cane and standing now to face you. “What does it matter? Why do you care?”

“Don’t do that. Not after everything.” You scoff, shaking your head.

“‘Everything’? We’re sleeping together, Newbie, not discovering the meaning of existence.”

He barks out a bitter laugh. You bite your lip and his eyes zero in on the movement. “We’re only sleeping together. What does it matter if I love her or not?”

You’re unattached to your body, and instead all you are is your aching heart. “Because House, you might be proficient in prostitution culture, but for some of us ‘only sleeping together’ actually means something.”

He throws his hand up, like he was scolding an insulant child. “I told you at the start, that this was just sex.”

You stammer. “Well, yeah but-”

“I didn’t know it was that good to make you fall in love.” He sneers, and you know with the venom in his tone he’s expecting you to cry, to lash out at him, to storm off.

“Don’t be so full of yourself, House.” You spit.

He steps forward, scoffing and looming over you with a scowl etched onto his face. “Can’t help it- you were the one humping me to Timbuktu.”

“Yeah, and what did you have to do in your car by yourself this morning?” You glare at him, speaking to him with a tone you would use on a horny, uncontrollable teenage version of House.

He should be scoffing again at your, and replying with some witty retort. But instead, you see his eyes drop down to your lips, back to your eyes, and down to your lips again. And then he’s leaning forward, wrapping an arm tightly around you and dragging you into him as he latches onto your mouth. It’s a mess of his tongue and yours and gnashing teeth and none of it is smooth or perfect but it’s angry and brash, a clashing of mouths in a heated argument where each of you tells the other to piss off with a swipe of your tongue. You wrap an arm around his shoulder and the other goes to the back of his head, pressing him into you and scratching against his scalp.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath fanning across your face. You feel flushed and near lightheaded with how little you were breathing.

You want it to stay like this. Instead you speak.

“When we kiss, do you think of her?”

It’s your words that tumble out of your mouth, but the sound of them out in the open hits you like a tonne of bricks.

He looks at you disgusted, and it stabs you in your chest. “We’re not fucking married. It doesn’t matter if either of us want someone else. We’re not exclusive.”

You unwrap your hands from him, letting them rest limply against his chest in between the two of you. “It doesn’t?”

“No.” He snaps. “It doesn’t.”

You take a step back, and this time he doesn’t breach the distance. He just watches you, annoyance etched into his face, as if he was in disbelief you could think anything different.

“Good to know.”

Your voice doesn’t wobble or waver. You were no longer going to let yourself break because of the man in front of you. You just smile at him, tipping your head to him like you were just another employee thanking their boss.

He seems like he’s contemplating replying, but you turn on your heel and walk out of his office.

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

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dariaslookalike · 8 months ago

Text

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 11: Teasing and tit Jobs

Summary:

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

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

A/N: An update! Lol, this fic has been rotting in my google docs for too long. so i'm procrastinating my uni assignments due tomorrow, and i'm updating here. hope to get chapter 13 out by the end of may but we'll see how that goes lmao

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 12

Word Count: 4.2k

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

You’re off the medication, finally.

That’s what your rational brain should have thought when you woke up, and no longer saw the white pills on the bedside table. No more gulping them down, no more harsh cough or aches. You were better.

You’re not thinking that however.

You’re staring at House while he’s sleeping; which is odd, you can admit. Maybe creepy. You don’t admonish yourself, however. How could you? He’s entrancing. You wish you had some paper here, hell, even a napkin or tissue, so you could scrawl and sketch, to have something tangible to look at later.

You feel your heart twist at the notion. You might not wake up next to him again or ever; He might decide that just sex was horrible with you, and he never wants you in his bed again. Or he might have seen the way you looked at him last night, when you were rubbing his leg and easing his pain, and decided it was too much, too soon- decided that he was right at the start, and that there was no way you could ever stop your feelings for him from interfering with just sex .

Was he right? You knew that things had shifted in your heart after sleeping with him. Before, you could sidestep around the topic and push off any feelings as a simple whimsical thought, a school girl’s fantasy, and nothing more. Now, you want to kiss his lips and bite the apple of his cheek and suck his neck and tell him he’s yours and no one else's. Too much, too soon. You couldn’t do that, couldn’t tell him that- because House wasn’t yours. Sure, he seems intent on having more fun with you. But that was it. Just sex . He would never share the way you wanted him, he would never look at you with much else besides lust.

But you don’t have paper, or a napkin, or a tissue. So you lay there, and as you stare at him, in the back of your mind you think this will do. If I can’t have him the way I want him, this will do.

He looks at ease, for once. You know his leg is still bad and that even in his sleep, he’s probably scheming. But there’s no analysing gaze. He’s not staring down at some patient with mistrust and he’s not rolling his eyes at you and he’s not snapping at one of the ducklings. The notch in his brow isn’t so prominent and his mouth is open slightly as he breathes deeply. He’s relaxed, beside you. This will do.

His alarm goes off and you clench your eyes shut.

You hear him shift, fumbling to hit the clock and finally flicking the right button to silence it’s blaring noise. He lays back against the mattress and settles with a sigh. You listen to him breathe and the overwhelming stillness of the room.

“How long have you been awake and watching, newbie?”

You flick open one eye, and he has his arms tucked behind his head as he gazes up to the ceiling. “How’d you know?”

“I felt psychically attacked by you- or should I say ravaged?” He looks at you from the corner of his eye. “Also you snore when you’re sleeping.”

“I do not!”

He smiles at the ceiling. “Yes, you do. You sleep talk too.”

“No! You’re lying.” You swing out an arm, landing a light blow on his chest. He recoils from it with exaggeration and twists himself to face you.

“If it’s any consolation, you only say random things when you’re sleep talking. Like ‘House just like thaaaaa’.” He trails off into a high pitched moan.

You scoff, but bury your flaming face in your hands. You peek out, briefly. “Are you serious?”

He smirks. “Yep. You’re all over me, even in your sleep.” He reaches out a hand, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His hand rests on the side of your face, and his thumb smooths over your cheek. “But don’t worry. I’ll only tell Wilson.”

You laugh, but move swiftly and twist yourself to lean on your forearms and knees. House’s eyes flick between the dangling neckline of his shirt that you’re wearing, where your cleavage is showing, and your arse that you stick in the air.

“You’re not gonna tell Wilson anything.”

“Oh, yeah?” House cocks an eyebrow, flopping onto his back once more. He smirks at you. “What makes you so certain I haven’t already told him everything?”

“Because you were the one who had to stop a blowjob so you wouldn’t be a one pump chump. You can’t act like you didn’t want it just as much as me.”

He tilts his head, and tuts. “Yeah, I can. Last I checked, you were the one screaming- the one who lost the bet.” His smile drips with an overly sweet honey. “You still need to pay up, by the way. I take cash or checks.”

You sit back and his cool eyes track your movements as you sit on your heels. “I want a rematch.”

“Not a chance. I won, fair and square.”

“You won because you didn’t let me suck you off like I wanted.” You say bluntly. “You won because you were able to hulk out and keep me under you.”

His eyes darken at your words, but his lips still tilt up. “I’m a cripple and you’re playing the “you overpowered me” card?”

“No, I’m playing the “you had to top otherwise you would have been a goner” card.”

“Still not happening.”

“Double or nothing.” You clench your jaw. “But this time, I’m in control and you can sit there, and look pretty.”

House bats his eyelashes. “You know I’m the best at that. But trust me, you could tie me up and you’d still be the first one begging.”

You smirk, shifting on your knees slightly. “You wanna bet? Yesterday was a fluke on my part- I’ve been cooped up in here for weeks. It was cabin-fever induced touch deprivation.”

He scoffs, sitting up and crossing his arms with a level of self-absorbed-assurance you couldn’t master. But there’s a glint in his eyes. He knows what you’re getting at, but he’s letting himself play right into your hand.

“Tie me up. You won’t win.” He moves, leaning up to whisper in your ear.

You laugh, placing your hand on his shoulder and shoving him back against the bedding. “Let me find your belt first and you won’t be so sure.”

You scooch past him and his hand snakes out, pinching your arse as you stand up from the bed. You shoot him a withering look and he just grins.

When you return, he cocks his head slightly. “I didn’t think you were serious about the belt. Gonna whip me too?”

You give him a pout dripping with fake sympathy. “Only if you beg.”

You scan the bed with a disapproving eye and he tracks your gaze to the solid headboard. “I can’t really tie you to that. So turn around.”

His eyes flick down you. “Just because we’ve committed the most unholy of sins together doesn’t mean you’re my boss now. Don’t go on a power trip.”

“Ohh, you’re so right, House.” His lips tilt up even though it’s obvious you’re mocking him. You lean forward, ghosting your lips against his in a smile. “Now be good for me, please, and turn over.”

You see him swallow, but he laughs you off and gives in, twisting around. You shuffle closer to him on the bed, and move his hands softly behind him. You loop the belt in on itself and place it around his wrists before tightening it. He hisses slightly when the edge digs into his skin, and you press your palm into his shoulder, spinning him back around.

He sits with his back up to the headboard, arms twisted behind himself. House glowers at you from beneath his brow. “I didn’t think you were serious .”

He stretches his legs out in front of him, and you see him already twitching in his boxers. You smirk. “You just don’t want to admit how much you like it.”

His jaw clenches.

“But,” you say, your voice dropping in tone. “If you don’t want this, at any point, tell me. No hard feelings.” You cross your fingers over your heart in a promise.

“I’ve known since I saw you that it would end with one of us tied up.” He tilts his head, raising his eyebrows up in an obvious fashion. “Next time, it’s your turn.”

Sitting beside his thigh, you pat it with mocking comfort. “Sure thing.”

He scowls at you but it’s quickly replaced by a sharp inhale when your hands reach out, pulling down his boxers. He’s half hard and you spit on your hands the same way you did last time. The action makes him tense. You reach out ghosting wet fingers across him and House hisses beside you. His attention is torn between your hands and your face. Eventually, you feel him decide to glare at you, and you look at him, a sweet saccharine smile in place.

“You doing alright, House?”

“Not exactly. Feels like you’re trying to tickle my dick.”

You laugh, and the mask of power slips for a moment when you tuck your chin to your chest in a giggle. You look back at him coyly, and his jaw ticks. “‘M sorry. I don’t have to touch you there.”

House opens his mouth to protest when your hand abandons him, but the words are lost when you siddle in close to him and let your fingers dance across his chest. You lean in closer, face next to his and your lips ghost across his cheek. He says nothing, no cocky retorts or snarky remarks to be heard. You kiss his cheek, and trail down to his jaw, your hand making smooth shapes across the plane of his chest, his shoulder, his neck. You tug his shirt up and it stays wrangled up, showing the smattering of hair leading down his lower belly. You plant kiss after kiss on everywhere you can reach, soft and gentle.

You find a spot on his neck and bite it softly before you continue across the smooth column of his throat, leaving wet kisses and marks wherever you can touch. Your other hand sneaks up behind him, entangling itself in his hair. You scratch against his scalp as you bite down on the junction between his neck and shoulder. He’s breathing heavily above you, and you finally abandon your own resistance, and lean closer, skating your lips across his. He leans into the kiss awkwardly, unable to support himself with his hands tied behind him, but he still pushes forward to you. You push him back, chasing after his lips and deepening the kiss. It’s intoxicating and feverish and your hand reaches down, this time firmly grasping his cock. He’s not half hard anymore, instead pulsing against your palm with heat. He gasps into your mouth and you smile against him.

You pull back, setting yourself beside him again.

You pump him with your hand firmly, and he groans, hips bucking softly into your hand. You pull back, and he shoots you a confused look.

You just smirk, staying silent. You pump him again, and pull back once more when he moves. He catches on quickly, hissing. “That is not fair.”

“Says who?” You tilt your head at him.

“Me.” He scoffs, indignantly.

“I don’t listen to crazy, tied up men.” You say, pouting sadly.

“Untie me then. I’ll prove I’m not crazy.”

“Nice try, House.”

You pump him again, and like the quick learner he is, he just grits his teeth and stays still.

“Good job, baby.” You say sweetly, pressing a kiss to his neck. You stroke him again, this time tightening your grip each time you reach his head. You kiss at his neck, pumping him up and down, loosely and then firm in your fist.

He swears beneath his breath softly. Not admitting defeat, but he’s getting there.

You spit down onto your palm, swiping your thumb over his head. You pump him again, and again, your other hand reaching down to softly cup and squeeze his balls.

He rolls his head back, leaning against the headboard with shut eyes. “Fuck, Newbie. The brothel teach you that trick?”

You hand tightens to the point of just-uncomfortable around his cock, and his eyes snap open as he groans. You snicker.

“I’ve had a lot of free time- you’ve got so many pornos in your apartment.”

His eyes snap to yours, and even though he knows that he doesn’t own one porno that could have taught you any of this, his eyes get glossy with the thought. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.” You pump him in your hand, faster, quickening the speed. “You’d be gone for so long and I got so bored.”

He can’t even respond to you, and you let out a breathy, just for show, moan, face scrunching as you keep talking in a breathy tone. You pump him, bouncing on your calves slightly with the movement. “Had to fuck myself in your bed while you were gone. Did it when you were in the lounge room, sleeping on the couch.”

He’s enraptured, mouth open slightly and blue eyes pinned to yours as you continue. “Wasn’t enough. Just kept thinking I should go and wake you up and beg you to help me.”

His throat bobs. “You should have.”

You lean closer, running your mouth along his jaw. He just tilts his head back, giving you better access. “I will be.”

You pump him faster, the sound of his cock fucking into your hand obscene and filling the room.

“Fuck.” He says, voice breathy. “I’m close.”

“Just gotta beg for, House. C’mon, you can use your words.” You mumble against his skin. “I’ll swallow it all.”

Maybe a small part thought that would break his resolve, but he shakes his head and you grin against him.

“No.”

You lean back, smirking at him. “Then you don’t get to cum.”

He glares at you, his nostrils flaring, but he says nothing, fine to be blue balled if it means you don’t win so quickly.

He expects you to stop your movement but you don’t. You keep pumping him, faster, harder, smiling softly at him.

“W-what are you doing?” He asks, voice shaky, his hips stuttering into your hand- you won’t punish him for that right now.

“Nothing.” You look at him innocently. “Just don’t cum.”

“Well, sweetheart.” He spits, still managing to sound like he has the power here. “I don’t have the willpower of a buddhist monk, if you keep jerking me off like this I’m going to cum.”

“I know.” You smile sweetly, pumping his cock up and down with your fist.

He glances to your face, confused at what you’re playing at. He won’t understand until it’s too late, and so his gaze rips back down to where your hand is wrapped around him.

“I’m-” He stutters. “Fuck, I’m going to-”

He can’t finish his sentence, as you keep jerking him at a brutal pace, his head lolling back. He groans, throbbing in your palm.

You wretch your hand back at the last second and watch with a grin as his dick falls against his stomach, his cum splattering against his bare stomach. His voice is wrecked as he calls out, swearing. His breath is heavy, shuddering up and down.

His dick is still hard and red, and his eyes fling open, glaring at you as you smile back at him.

“What the fuck did you just do , Newbie?”

You cross your finger over your heart. “A magician never tells her secrets.”

He opens his mouth to protest or cuss you out, but falls silent when you reach out and wrap your hand around his still hard cock once more.

“Fuck! Fuck that’s so- fuck.” He groans, shaking his head. He lets out a wrecked sound from the back of his throat as you smear his cock in his own cum, using it to stroke him up and down once more.

He’s oversensitive, but ruined. You look at him, jutting out your bottom lip. “You alright House? D’you want me to jerk you off again?”

He shakes his head and your movements instantly still, but then he nods. “No, yes. Fuck, that just feels so much more .”

Your hands resume their gentle movement as you grin wickedly. “That’s the point.”

You pause, moving to nudge his legs apart and you resettle, kneeling between them. He sighs, relieved when your hand falls from his cock, giving him some reprieve. Instead, you spread your own legs, hand tracing down your soft stomach circle at that spot between your legs. You’re so wet, and you use the slick to run messy circles over your clit. You moan, your other hand falling to his non-injured leg for support. Your fingers dig into the skin as the pressure builds up in your core. He says nothing, and your eyes flick up to his, moaning out his name as you start to shudder. When you make yourself unravel in front of him, he doesn't say anything, but his cock bobs, neglected weeping at the head.

You use your free hand to tug your shirt up, over your head. You spit into your messy palm, and reach up smearing both yourself and him against your breasts.

“C’mon. Untie me.”

Your eyes flick up to his, which are glued to your chest. “Beg.”

“No.”

“Then no.”

You shuffle backwards on the bed, and pat the mattress in front of you. “Move it, House.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m a tied up cripple. Did you think that one through?”

You shoot him a look, and he sighs but shuffles closer until he finally lays flat against the mattress, head still propped up by the pile of pillows. You settle between his spread legs, placing a kiss to his thigh. “See? Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He scowls. “I got rope burn from my own belt.”

“Aw, you poor thing.” You look up at him, doe-eyed. “I’ll make it better.”

Your hand dips down to the apex of your thighs and once more you smear your slick against your chest. You spit into your hand too, and massage your breasts, squeezing them.

You lean down, until you’re positioned perfectly over his cock. It bobs at your attention, and you look up, grinning at House. He still scowls at you, but there’s an excited glint in his eyes.

You nudge his cock between your breast, and move yourself, back and forward. You have to find a good rhythm first, but soon you’re guiding your slick breasts up and down his cock.

“Shit. Fuck, Newbie.” He gasps, and you bat your lashes up at him, quickening your speed. Soft, wet slapping fills the room and you moan quietly.

He groans, cock still overstimulated. You just let drool pool onto your breasts, squeezing them tighter as give him a tit job.

You hear him shuffle against the sheets and you look up once more, still guiding his cock in and out.

He looks like he could murder you, but sucks in a sharp breath. “Please, let me cum.”

You tsk. “You call that begging?”

He groans as you keep fucking him, his own weeping pre-cum making it messier.

“Please, Newbie.” He growls, voice drawing out into a groan. “Please, fuck, make me cum.”

“You lose.” You say softly.

He nods, desperate, cheeks flushed, stomach tensing. He’s close, wrecked after his ruined orgasm. He needs this.

You take pity on him, and still your movements. He whips his head up to look at you, aghast, but he curses when you quickly straddle him, nudging his cock closer to your centre, and sink down on him.

You sigh as he bottoms out, while he groans loudly. He’s big, but with how wet and ready you are, you take him easier this time. He stills nudges up against your cervix, and you feel so full when you sit fully down on him. You don’t have it in you to play him any further, and instead begin bouncing yourself on him. It’s not harsh, but his moans have a desperation in them that coil that feeling in your stomach once more.

“F-fuck.” He gasps, cursing when you angle him deeper. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Or vicodin.” You say, teasing.

He shakes his head, face scrunched up in pleasure. “You. It’s going to be you.”

“Yeah?” You breathe shakily atop him.

“Yeah.” He moans. “You feel so fucking good. Fuck, you’re such a good girl for me.”

You lean down, pressing your chest to his, kissing his neck softly. “Mmhmm. Just for you, House.”

“Just for me.” He growls, beneath you. At this angle, his cock nudges against that spongey spot inside you. Not having to ask for permission or be the one to beg, you hold that angle, fucking yourself on him, making his cock hit that spot again and again.

He holds out well, but when you whine against his neck, and your orgasm rolls over you, clenching you against his cock, he lets out a loud groan. He bucks his hips into yours, and you sit back against him as he keeps cumming. He groans, and you feel his cock pulsing in you, throbbing against your walls.

When he finally stops, he lets out a heavy breath, his chest falling and rising rapidly.

“Fuck.” He says.

“Fuck.” You agree, chuckling.

You swing your legs off him, his cum dripping out of you. You don’t care about ruining his sheets, and instead help him sit up, untieing him.

Even with his spend dripping out of you, and your slick smeared against his crotch, when his arms are untied he wraps them around your waist and pulls you closer, drawing you into a deep kiss.

You smile against him. “Glad you’re not a sore loser.”

“‘M so glad you are.” He teases, lips tugging up.

139 notes · View notes

dariaslookalike · 10 months ago

Note

Your House Fic? I’m dying 😍😍😍

🙏🙏🙏 thoughts and prayers

but also glad youre enjoying it!! :3

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

15 notes · View notes

dariaslookalike · 10 months ago

Text

Needing Miller pt 4.

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

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N:

Next Chapter: pt 5.

Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

For the first time, he looks up to you.

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

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

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

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

Tap.

“Texas.”

Tap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You worked with carpets?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s one way to put it.”

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

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

“I know. You did the right thing.”

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

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

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

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

Was that an…invitation?

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

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

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

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

‘M not gonna be your fucking friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

Run. RUN. RUN!

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

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

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

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

He didn’t make it to the train lines.

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

You’re going to die.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘M not gonna be your fucking friend.

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

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

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

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

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

You huff out a laugh. “Fuck off.”

His jaw ticks. “Watch it.”

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

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

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

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

“Stop.”

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

“No, ya don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t fucking talk about Tommy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pull your head back.

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

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

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

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

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dariaslookalike · 10 months ago

Note

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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dariaslookalike · 10 months ago

Text

Needing Miller pt 3.

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

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 4.9k

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

Next Chapter: Pt 4

Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

Something’s not quite right.

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

Run. RUN. RUN!

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

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

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

“Redress that. We leave in ten.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear his sharp whistle before you see him.

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

“C’mon, move it.”

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

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

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

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

“First time?”

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

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

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

“No. Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No! I mean-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Ryan was under Joel’s thumb.

So, you were in a waiting game.

You’d try to make the most of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dick.

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You ready?”

“What for? A firing squad?”

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

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

“Lead the way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you know I won’t shoot you?”

Joel’s gaze is heavy. Dark. Unyielding.

“I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

“You wouldn’t though.”

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

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

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

“Bullshit.”

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

“It’s messier than you think.”

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

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

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

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

A beat.

Another beat.

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

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

“There was no magazine.”

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

“You dick.”

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

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dariaslookalike · 10 months ago

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

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Masterlist

Summary:

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

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Series Page on AO3

Completed Parts:

Part I: The interview

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

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

Part 4: Wet Dreams and Taxi Rides

Part 5: Bargains and Balls

Part 6: Chocolate Eyes and Decking Bosses

Part 7: Fever Dreams and Baths

Part 8: Bad Lungs and Choking

Part 9: Losing a Hundred Dollars

Part 10: Should you suck him or rub him?

Upcoming Parts:

Part 11: Untitled

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dariaslookalike · 11 months ago

Text

god send

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

Tumblr ‘How To’s Masterlist

(through Chrome browser on laptop)

(through Chrome browser on mobile)

How to Add Masterlist Link To Tumblr Bio

How to Copy Link of a Post

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

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

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

Your Masterlist. Your Wish.

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

Creating a Masterlist = Organizing + Copying and Adding Links

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

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

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

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dariaslookalike · 11 months ago

Text

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

Summary:

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

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 11

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

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

“You’re a creep.” You croak out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get a sugar daddy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come here, House.”

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

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

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

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

And then he’s beside you. Here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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dariaslookalike · 11 months ago

Text

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

Summary:

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

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grin widely. “Chase?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my god!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is that supposed to mean?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You chuckle. “Cumming in your jeans already?”

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

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

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

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

His eyebrows raise. “Shitty boss?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do the quickies Wilson give me count?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grunts softly. “Don’t be a tease.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh. “I’d probably like that.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re so fucking wet for me.”

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

You squeeze his bicep. “Fucking arsehole.”

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

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

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

He scoffs. “God, you’re so annoying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmhm. One.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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dariaslookalike · 11 months ago

Text

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

Summary:

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

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 9

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

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

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

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

Fresh sheets.

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

“Why?! And can you shut it up?”

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

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

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

“What fire?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—----------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not what that mea-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So why am I not at the hospital?”

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

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

“Yep.” He says, popping the p.

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

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

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

House nods inconspicuously. “Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles. “Slut.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right?

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

Right.

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

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

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

Right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pops. What are you doing here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that what Pops said?"

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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