#arm amputee

[amputee-barbie]

Beautiful dae amputeegirl!

[amputeewomen]

Putting on Prosthetic limbs

[u10como]

[zarramba]

look at those cute toes!!

[prvsamps]

Arm amputee and perfect feet😍

[thebeutyofmissinglimbs]

So short

[amputee-barbie]

What a surprise to see she have a tiny arm!

[amputeewomen]

Girl without Hands Dancing

[u10como]

asymmetrical beauty

[deuteragonists-mismatched-socks]

Living Mirage - Gregory House x Amputee!Reader

Warnings: Amputee reader, possible medical inaccuracy, angst, arguing, House being House, I'm not an amputee so unfortunately I can't accurately convey the experience, symptoms of heart attack described briefly

Word count: 1.5 k

"Why do you choose not to feel anything?" The question is abrupt, out of place, as you open the door to his darkened office. You should be at home right now. Instead of driving, you've spent the last half hour chewing on a hangnail in the break room and thinking. That was always dangerous.

House looks at you quizzically, feet balanced on the desk and magic 8 ball in his hands.

You expect some sort of pithy remark that deflects the question and brings it all back down on your head. You don't care. You didn't ask the question just to be cute.

Instead, he just shakes the ball, eyes locked on the result as he answers. "I'm in pain," he says, which is obvious. "Given the option, most people would choose not to feel that."

You shake your head. You're a rheumatologist, you're no stranger to people in pain. "You're not most people," you argue, starting with a point you knew he couldn't disagree with. "And that's not what I meant."

He gives you a look that says, 'get on with it or get out.'

You take a deep breath. "I meant you run away," you say, and for some stupid reason the words sound small. You can already see him sneering and calling you pathetic.

You had some big speech and some well thought out argument all fleshed out in your head. But just like every discussion you've had with a boyfriend, every fight you've had with your mom, it flies out of your head the moment you open your mouth.

"Every time you get close to feeling something that isn't euphoria or misery, you shut down. You pop another pill. You get high."

He rolls his eyes at you. "Did Wilson recruit you?"

"Believe it or not, there are people beyond Wilson who are capable of caring about you," you say before you can think it through. You fidget with your fake hand—it's starting to feel heavy, and if you had thought of it, you would have taken it off before you came in here.

He levels you with another look. "Well, quit it," he demands; there isn't much fire to be had in the statement. "I already have Cameron's pity, and that's plenty."

"This isn't pity," you correct him. "It's concern. House, like it or not, we've worked together a while. People tend to… Develop attachments in that sort of situation. I've come to see you as a friend. Friends worry about each other."

"I don't worry about you," he shoots back, raised eyebrows challenging your perceptions—trying to hurt your feelings, trying to push you away.

"You're doing it again," you say, your voice becoming less confrontational.

He rolls his head to the side dramatically, rising from his chair. He doesn't reach for his cane. He just stands there. "What? What am I doing?"

He's irritated.

"You're trying to piss me off so I leave and you can wallow," you explain calmly, and you can tell by the flicker in his blue eyes that he knows you're right. "So you can feel guilty instead of reflecting."

"And you're, what? Altruistically trying to help someone who so desperately needs it but won't ask because they're embarrassed? What's in it for you? Am I gonna run into your arms for comfort and understanding?" He spits.

You fold your eyebrows at him. You want to tell him that yes, you will be there for him. You will help him. You will stand by him. But you know he'll twist it. "I'm not Cameron," you remind him.

At that, he does head for you. But he must not plan on leaving—his cane is still left balanced on the edge of his desk. He stops an foot away from you, right leg just barely trembling. If you weren't looking, you wouldn't notice.

"I don't pop pills because it's fun," he grates out, and you notice the way his hand discreetly kneads his thigh. "If I didn't, my patients would die. You know that. You saw it."

"You refuse to let yourself be anything but miserable," you insist, stepping closer. "And this self-pity is fake and a poor excuse. You and I both know it's because you're afraid," you say, emboldened and a little angry.

"Sure, you are genuinely addicted. That week was hell for you and everyone around you," you admit. "You almost killed your patient because you couldn't stop sweating and being an irritable piece of crap."

Maybe you were more angry than you thought.

"But you refuse to wean yourself off with the proper assistance because then what? Your withdrawal symptoms are lessened, and one day you might actually do it," you say surely. "You might actually, physically, be able to live without those stupid little tablets that control your whole life.

"But mentally?" You ask, taking another step towards him. "You wouldn't be able to take it. You'd be forced to be happy, God forbid. You'd be forced to confront the miserable emptiness of your life and realize it's a sham. Because we care about you. Me, Wilson, Cuddy, Foreman, Chase, Cameron, we care about you. Probably as much as you care about us," you remind him. "Don't think we all just forgot how you were ready to burn this hospital to the ground if it meant saving Foreman's life. Don't think we all just forgot that you just about let your heart get crushed just so you could have Cameron back at work. Don't think that I forgot that you spent weeks reading literature on phantom pains after I complained," you say more softly, flexing your elbow where your prosthetic attached. You massage it for a moment—it seems to be aching in sympathy with his leg.

"And for some reason that I can't wrap my head around, you don't want to know that all those gaping voids in your life aren't there at all," you huff. "Because then you're just boring. You're just experiencing life like a person who has friends that care what happens to him. You're miserable and in pain because you're numb," you conclude. "Not the other way around."

He's had his eyes on the floor while you talk at him. The anger in you has faded, but your heartbeat stays quick. You breathe quietly, waiting for him to say anything.

"Being happy makes me a bad doctor," he says conclusively when he finally looks up at you. His hands are clenched, but he doesn't sound angry. "And love," he says derisively. "Ain't gonna fix my leg."

You sigh in defeat. He shuffles away from you, back to his chair, back to his ball, back to his wallowing. You can't… damn it, you can't make him believe you just because you want him to so badly.

The thought makes a tear fall from your eye. You try to swipe it away before he notices.

"And that," he points at your face. "Is why feelings make you a bad doctor," he says, and you know he's trying to hurt you. He's trying to push you away, again. You wonder if it'll work this time. "What if you have a patient next week that you can't crack? Are you gonna bring him to me and save his life? Or are you gonna stubbornly refuse because you're trying to teach me a lesson, because you just care so much," he pouts at you. "And let him die?"

You don't have the energy to argue with him. Suddenly, you can't remember why you tried. Why you stayed. Why you aren't at home in bed right now with a bowl of mac n cheese.

"You are… The worst," you say, your voice reedy and thin. You can feel your chin trembling and figure there's no point in stopping it.

"I'm the worst? Or I'm misunderstood and in a deep cycle of self-destruction that I need help for?" He questions sarcastically. "Can't have it both ways, sweetheart."

"You won't help yourself or let anyone else do it," you make your logical, rational argument for your conclusion. "It's both."

"That's sweet," he says drily. "Thanks for taking the time to let me know all that."

You don't want to turn around and head for the door. But you have nothing left to say, and he's wanted you gone since you showed up.

The thought makes a dull pain overcome you, like the emotional hurt has become physical. "If I have a patient I can't help, you'll be the first to know," you promise, finally moving to leave. "I won't bother you again."

You hope he'll feel a little guilty at that, but you hardly expect him to do anything about it. He'd die before admitting he did something wrong.

You have one foot past the glass wall when it happens.

It's as if your legs are taken out from under you, your lungs are wrung out, the lights above go from dim to strobing.

House calls your last name. When you don't respond, you think you might hear his cane and your first name.

Well, then, it must be bad.

You want to say something, but your mouth clamps shut and your arm grasps at your chest instead. It isn't long before House's blue eyes fade into nothingness.

[zarramba]

[rimbaudsleg]

Cute one-armed guy

[thebeutyofmissinglimbs]

So perfect!

[amputee-barbie]

Don,t hide your body girl,because you are so beautiful!