Flying Finn

Joel's ear perks up. he presses his finger to the line he left off, eager not to keep you waiting, before glancin up and pearing at you over his spectacles. "Hmm?"

You bite your lip "I found Tommy's Tinder."

Joel blinks at you a few times, silent.

"Tommy's tinker?"

you close your eyes. GOD he's so fucking old.

you flip the phone to him. The Tinder app shined brightly on his face, and he could make out the photo of his brother (of which you had made... and set the profile to inactive. Just to not take this joke one step too far for Maria's sake). Joel couldn't tell though. he smudged his fat finger against the screen and scrolled down, one brow raised.

The anticipation was killing you. Joel reading through all the little made up tibbits one by one, not saying anything. swiping on the photos, making some uncertain faces about the choices.

Then, finally, he asks, "I don't get it. What is this?"

"Its a dating app..." you hold your breath at the end.

He doesn't notice.

"Uh. okay."

You had to wait. It was something about men, things not always clicking the first time. Even as brilliant as the man in front of you was, he was no exception to the vegetative loading state--

'OH."

his jaw drops, and maybe, just maybe--!

"The heck he doin' on there? Maria know??"

He doesn't wait for you to interject before he's dialin' his little brother's nunmber. it rings once.

"yello," Tommy replies through the receiver.

"Hey man--you aint tell me you're on some datin app. What's goin' on?"

"I'm not? what're you talking about?"

'Its uh-" Joel picks up your phone again "grinder--"

"--WHAT??--"

"TINDER. Its TINDER," you rush to clarify loudly.

"Oh, 'tinder', she says." Joel shrugs. same thing.

But Tommy hearing you there told him everything he needed to know. Oh, Tommy Miller knew you. Knew the type of shit you'd do to drive Joel up a wall. Knew you were probably waiting on the edge of your seat for the last five minutes for Joel to 'get' it, you little devil.

Tommy sighs, deciding revenge to bite you in the ass would help get him back. "Hey Joel: why don't you ask your wife how she would even know i got a tinder profile? Hmm?"

Joel turns to you, a bright innocence in his eyes. "Hey babe, Tommy said i should ask how you would know he got a--"

And then the words die off. And Joel looks at the scream again. The fact that you were IN an app. that you had your own little set of home buttons...

Joel's eye's widen, the smile fading from his lips. "I'm gonna have to call you back," he says monotone to his brother, his gaze not dropping from you.

Tommy chuckles on the phone before hanging up. Job well done for him.

Not so great that Maria had been eaves dropping behind him, her arms folded, face scowled.

"You have a WHAT now?" she barks.

Tommy feels his face go pale. you fucker.

At home, Joel just stares at you. endlessly. vacantly.

That stare made you feel small . cornered.

like prey.

like a meal about to be devoured with all his mind body and so--

He folds his arms across his lap. There's a slight twinge of frown tugging at his lips with your smooth legs still touching him.

He takes a deep breath in, "Why you trying to set Tommy up with a gal who aint Maria? She do something to upset you, baby?"

Joel had started getting used to these kinds of questions from you. Something told him early on this is likely what life with you would be like, so might as well get used to it. He barely reacted aside from casually grumbling into your body: “S’never a time where you n’ me in the same room, and ya lookin’ at my dick, and it wouldn't be hard.”

But that wasn’t good enough for you. “That can’t be true. Roll over right now.”

But Joel didn’t budget.

So you used your surprising leg strength and flipped him like a pancake.

Joel tossed over easily, but the way your eyes laser beamed down at his crotch made him cover the area sheepishly with the pillow.

You saw it anyway, the clear print tent on his front jutting out.

“Are you hard right now??” You ask in disbelief.

“When ya lookin’ at me like that? Of course I am!” He retorts defensively, shifting his hardened dick to a more comfortable, more discrete location without his trousers.

“I’m not lookin at you any different way.”

“Every look ya give me makes me hard…” he admits. His ears turned red.

“But... When will I be able to see it soft…” you draw your eyes into a cute pout.

Joel rolls his eyes. “When I’m dead probably. I can't stay soft when I’m with you.”

“So you’re just walking around with a boner all day every day?”

“No. It’s only after I get to see you.” 

You suck your cheek in, looking away. You don’t want him to notice the unavoidable grin plastered on your face from his open and unashamed confession.

You tap your finger on your book for a moment.

"I want to see it soft," you declare.

Joel lets out a chuckle. "Never gonna happen."

"I've known you for a year. I have to know. its like. A milestone. Or something..."

He raises his brow.

You double down. "'Or something', I said! Its a thing. Look it up." When he doesn't relent, you get up on your knees, tossing the book aside. "What do I have to do to make it soft."

Joel laughs, leaning back with one hand behind his head. "You know, there you have been in the same room as me when i've been soft many times, babygirl. Always the same situation."

"Why don't I remember??"

"Cus you're always too fucked out droolin' in the sheets by then," he says cockily.

Something about his smug sexy grin riles you up, and you quickly find yourself straddling atop him.

His hands instinctively seek purchase on your thighs, stroking them up and down while his eyes racked up and down the gorgeous sight of you on top of him. "This ain't helpin' ya get any closer to seein' the 8th wonder of the world..." He hums. To emphasize his point, he drags your clothed mound against his bulge.

It made your insides warm and fuzzy for a moment, your brain slipping into that dizzy realm of pleasure. The one that makes you sway and melt, do whatever the hell Joel wants, and sleep so good afterwards--

No! you were determined to see that thing floppin' around like a deflated wet balloon, even if it was the last thing you saw!

"I need you to get soft."

"Its too late. Im rock hard."

"Make it go backwards!"

"Cant go backwards. Only go forward. Care to find out?" He teases with a smirk. Joel sucks his lower lip as he slowly starts a steady rhymth, rocking you in place, his feet planted a little more firmly so you had no chance of escaping.

You let out a low whine. The only way out, was through. For as long as Joel knew you, you never backed out of a challege.

You also never really win at these things... but he loved how that fact never stopped you.

1 hour later...

The most desperate, pained, pleasurable croak you could muster gets muffled into the betsheets as you bite down on the fabric.

"Ah huh. How ya doin' sweatpea?" Joel huffs. Powerful hips drive into your ass repeatedly, his hands gripping your waist like he meant to leave bruises there. Each thrust sent your forehead scraping forward against the mattress. It took all your night not to fall off the side of the bed.

This fucker! you thought. How the fuck does he do this?

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he expertly angles his cock down, smacking your g spot repeatedly.

Like always, you'd lost count of your orgasms. Like always, you stopped using coherent words and instead resorted to babbling whines to communicate. and Like always, Joel wasn't anywhere near slowing down.

"I ain't hear you, baby." He lays his body closer to yours, chest top your back, slotting against you like a mould. Slow, deep, method rolls keeps his tip planted deep inside you. He was so solid inside your body. Outside your body. all over you, all of him. His scent, his taste, his touch. Intoxicating and addicting over and over again.

That fucker!

You could feel his breath tickle your as he whispers: "You still waitin' to see it soft?"

Thirty minutes ago you would have ground your teeth and stuck it out with your middle finger up, ass even higher, and mind set to the sky.

But now?

Now you just hummed stupidly, eyes blurry with tears, and brain so switched off, its a miracle you could ever form a thought.

It took less than 20 minutes from that before you were face planted, unconscious in his pillow, a drooling sight he never got tired of.

Joel laid back next to you. He sighed heavily, body ablaze with sweat. You didn't notice it, but he had cum three times, and he was beat. That was usually his max, granted he had saved all week until he could get his hands on you. He was patient like that, waiting for when you'd be in the mood, and not pouncing on ya. Sex was better when you were a stubborn, determined little thing.

But he was exhausted. and true to his word, his cock sagged tiredly against his lower belly.

Joel raises his brow before brushing the hair from your face. If there was a chance you were awake to peak it, you would have shown sign of being alive right now. Instead, despite his best effort to poke your cheek awake, you snored deeply. A well earned rest.

A chuckle escapes his chest. "So much for milestones," he says to himself. He doesn't stop brushing your hair gently from your face. His thumb grazing the soft expanse of your cheek.

"My girl," he hums softly.

He remembered the first time you slept at his place over a year ago, and the thought of waking up to you like this every day plagued his mind.

Its the same thought that tumbles through his mind as he rolls the little velvet box in his hand. He keeps flicking it open, then closed, and the beautiful diamond ring flashes at him repeatedly.

"Whatdda think? You gonna like it?" He asks to your unconscious body, presenting the ring.

you let out an even louder snore.

"Yeah. let's hope that's a yes."

Joel tucks the ring back in his bedside drawer. Not today.

Some day.

Then, the thought dawned on him. A terrible, awful, unthought of one that could thwart that dream from every happening.

What if you said no, all because you never saw him soft???

- - - -

taglist

Y/N knew it before anyone else did.

Because she saw the moments nobody else did.

The way House froze whenever someone spoke from behind him.

How he stopped playing piano because he couldn’t hear the notes correctly anymore.

How he snapped harder than usual when conversations became exhausting tangles of half-read lips and guessing games.

And at night—

God.

At night hurt the most.

House used to fall asleep to her voice.

Even if he pretended otherwise.

She used to read beside him in bed, rambling about stupid articles or hospital drama while he muttered sarcastic replies into the pillow.

Now the room sat in silence.

Heavy silence.

The kind that made grief feel physical.

“You should try the hearing aids,” she signed slowly one evening.

House scoffed from the couch.

“I’d rather eat glass.”

“You can’t ignore this forever.”

“Yes, I can. I ignored my father for eighteen years.”

She sighed.

He was still beautiful when he was miserable.

That was the problem.

Grey sweatpants. Old Princeton-Plainsboro shirt. Cane abandoned beside the couch because he was too irritated to bother with it. Blue eyes fixed stubbornly on the TV he couldn’t properly hear.

He looked angry at the entire universe for betraying him.

Again.

“I don’t need them,” he muttered.

Y/N walked closer.

“You missed three pages calling your name today.”

“I was concentrating.”

“You walked into a glass door yesterday.”

“The door moved.”

“Greg.”

“I hate when you use my government name.”

Her chest tightened.

Because underneath the sarcasm—

He was scared.

Terrified, actually.

Not hearing people meant losing control.

And House without control was like watching a storm trapped inside a glass bottle.

He looked away from her.

“You know what happens when people see hearing aids?” he said quietly. “They start talking slower. Louder. Like you’re stupid.”

Y/N’s expression softened immediately.

“Oh.”

That was it.

Not pride.

Not stubbornness.

Fear.

House had spent his whole life being the smartest person in every room. Losing his hearing felt like losing the weapon he survived with.

She sat beside him carefully.

“You know what I see?”

He rolled his eyes.

“A middle-aged addict with emotional problems?”

“I see my husband,” she signed gently. “Who still scares surgeons into crying.”

That made the corner of his mouth twitch.

“A beautiful man who still solves impossible cases.”

“Debatable.”

“A jerk,” she added.

“True.”

“And someone I love very much.”

His eyes flickered.

House looked at her then.

Really looked at her.

And for one horrible second she saw how tired he was.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Like fighting the world every second of every day had finally become too much.

“I can’t hear you laugh anymore,” he admitted roughly.

The sentence shattered her.

Because House almost never admitted pain out loud.

Not this kind.

She reached for his hand immediately.

“You will again.”

He shook his head.

“And if they don’t work?”

“Then we figure something else out.”

“And if people pity me?”

“I’ll hit them with your cane.”

That actually made him laugh silently.

She felt tears burn behind her eyes because she couldn’t hear it properly either.

Just broken air.

Not his real laugh.

God.

She missed his laugh.

The next morning, House woke up alone.

Which was suspicious.

Very suspicious.

He limped into the kitchen squinting.

Y/N stood beside the table holding a tiny white box.

House stopped immediately.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even looked at them.”

“I’m looking right now. I hate them.”

She walked over slowly.

“They’re barely visible.”

“They’re tiny instruments of humiliation.”

“They’re hearing aids.”

“Same thing.”

Y/N cupped his face before he could retreat.

And suddenly House looked less argumentative.

Because his wife touching him always short-circuited his ability to function like a normal human being.

“You don’t have to wear them forever,” she signed softly. “Just try.”

House stared at her for a long moment.

Then at the box.

Then back at her.

“…You already bought them?”

“You think I’d survive this marriage without making reckless financial decisions?”

Another tiny twitch of his mouth.

God, she loved those tiny almost-smiles.

Finally—

With the suffering expression of a man being marched to execution—

House took the hearing aids.

“You’re evil.”

“You married me.”

“That was clearly a cry for help.”

She helped him put them in.

His hands trembled slightly.

That scared her more than anything.

Because Gregory House never trembled.

The room stayed quiet for a second.

Then—

House suddenly inhaled sharply.

His eyes widened.

The refrigerator humming.

The clock ticking.

Rain against the windows.

Small stupid sounds most people ignored.

He looked overwhelmed by all of it.

Then—

Y/N spoke carefully.

“Hi.”

House froze.

His eyes snapped to hers so fast it almost hurt.

Because he heard it.

Actually heard it.

Not muffled.

Not guessed.

Her voice.

His throat moved once.

Again.

And then House did something that almost never happened.

He cried.

Silently.

Completely devastated by it.

Y/N immediately wrapped her arms around him as he buried his face against her neck.

“I hate this,” he whispered shakily.

“I know.”

“I really hate this.”

“I know.”

But he held onto her tighter anyway.

And later that day, when Wilson walked into diagnostics and nearly screamed seeing the hearing aids—

House glared at him.

“One comment and I’m unplugging your life support.”

Wilson grinned.

“You can hear me again?”

House looked toward the hallway where Y/N stood watching nervously.

Then back at Wilson.

A softer expression flickered across his face for half a second.

“…Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “My wife’s annoying again.”

Totally professional.

Absolutely not nervous.

Across the room, leaning against the wall with his cane, Gregory House watched everything with mild boredom.

And then he noticed you.

You had gone suspiciously pale.

House frowned slightly.

He had worked with you long enough to recognize that look.

Your shoulders had stiffened.

Your breathing had slowed.

Your eyes kept flicking toward the syringe before quickly looking away.

Interesting.

Chase slid the needle carefully into the patient’s arm.

Dark red blood filled the vial.

Your stomach dropped.

You swallowed hard.

It’s fine.

You’re a doctor.

You’ve seen worse.

The room felt warmer.

Your vision blurred slightly at the edges.

House pushed himself off the wall.

“Chase,” he said casually, “are you planning to drain the patient or just collect a sample?”

Chase glanced up. “What?”

“You’re taking forever.”

Chase frowned but continued wrapping the tube.

You tried to focus on the chart in your hands.

The letters swam.

The room tilted slightly.

Oh no.

Your fingers tightened around the clipboard.

You took a slow breath.

“Okay,” you whispered quietly to yourself. “You’re fine.”

But your body disagreed.

Your balance shifted.

The floor seemed to move under your feet.

And suddenly—

Strong arms wrapped around your waist.

You gasped softly as someone pulled you back against them before your knees could give out.

House.

You recognized him instantly — the familiar scent of his cologne, the firm steadiness of his grip.

His voice was unusually gentle.

“Easy.”

Your head spun.

You tried to focus on his face.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

You opened your mouth to answer.

“I—”

Your vision went completely dark.

Your body went limp.

For a split second, everything froze.

Then House caught you fully as you fainted.

Your head fell softly against his shoulder.

Chase stared.

“…Did she just pass out?”

Foreman blinked in disbelief.

“She’s a doctor.”

House rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Foreman. Apparently doctors also come with an off switch.”

Your arms hung loosely as House adjusted his grip.

For a moment he simply looked down at you.

Your face was pale, your lashes resting softly against your cheeks.

You looked peaceful.

Fragile.

Something protective flickered across his expression.

Then he shifted his hold and lifted you into his arms.

Bridal style.

Chase’s eyebrows shot up.

“House—”

But House was already walking toward the door.

“She fainted,” he said flatly. “Try not to analyze the obvious.”

Your head rested against his shoulder as he carried you down the hallway.

Several nurses stared.

House ignored them completely.

⸻

The med bay was quiet.

House gently set you down on one of the beds.

Your hair had fallen across your face.

Without thinking, he brushed it aside.

Then he leaned against the nearby counter, arms crossed, cane resting beside him.

And waited.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

House didn’t leave.

He could have.

Normally he would have.

But instead he stayed, watching the slow rise and fall of your breathing.

His expression softened in a way no one else ever saw.

Finally, you stirred.

A soft groan escaped you.

Your eyes fluttered open.

The bright ceiling lights made you squint.

You blinked slowly.

Then you noticed someone standing beside the bed.

Your gaze focused.

“…House?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Congratulations. You’re alive.”

You blinked again, memory returning in pieces.

Chase.

The syringe.

Blood.

Oh.

“Oh no.”

House tilted his head slightly.

“That’s your first reaction?”

You slowly sat up.

Your face burned with embarrassment.

“I fainted.”

“Yes.”

“In front of everyone.”

“Yes.”

You buried your face in your hands.

“This is the most humiliating moment of my professional life.”

House snorted.

“You fainted dramatically. Points for style.”

You peeked through your fingers.

“You caught me?”

“Yes.”

You slowly lowered your hands.

“…Did you carry me?”

House hesitated.

“…Yes.”

“Bridal style?”

“…Yes.”

You stared at him.

Then groaned softly.

“I’m never showing my face in this hospital again.”

House shrugged.

“You’re the only doctor I know who passes out from blood.”

“The irony is painful.”

For a moment, silence settled between you.

Then you noticed something strange.

“…You stayed.”

House looked away.

“Someone had to make sure you didn’t fall off the bed.”

You smiled slightly.

“That sounds suspiciously caring.”

House shifted uncomfortably

“I’m not caring.”

“Right.”

You swung your legs off the bed.

The room tilted slightly again, but House immediately stepped forward.

His hand gently steadied your arm.

The touch was warm.

Careful.

You looked up at him.

He didn’t pull away right away.

For once, neither of you made a sarcastic comment.

The moment lingered.

House cleared his throat.

“…Wilson says I should tell you something.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“That’s already concerning.”

House rubbed the back of his neck, clearly annoyed with himself.

“I’ve liked you for a while.”

You froze.

He continued quickly, clearly uncomfortable.

“Actually… a long time. Which is stupid. And inconvenient. And probably your fault.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

“You’re confessing your feelings after I fainted?”

“Yes.”

“That’s your strategy?”

“You were unconscious. Less chance of rejection.”

You laughed softly.

House looked confused.

“You’re laughing.”

“Because you’re ridiculous.”

He frowned.

“That’s not encouraging.”

You stepped closer to him.

Closer than usual.

“You know something, House?”

“What.”

“I’ve liked you for a long time too.”

For once, Gregory House looked genuinely shocked.

“…That makes no sense.”

“Why?”

“You’re smart.”

You laughed again.

“That might be the worst compliment I’ve ever received.”

You reached out and gently took his hand.

House stiffened slightly, clearly not used to the softness.

But he didn’t pull away.

Your voice was quiet now.

“You caught me.”

“Yes.”

“You carried me.”

“Yes.”

“You waited here.”

“…Yes.”

You smiled warmly at him.

“That sounds like someone who cares.”

House sighed quietly.

“…Maybe a little.”

Your heart softened.

You stepped even closer.

Then you wrapped your arms gently around him.

House froze.

Physical affection was not something he was used to.

But after a moment…

Slowly…

His arms wrapped around you too.

Carefully.

Like you might disappear if he held you too tightly.

Your head rested against his shoulder.

“Next time I faint,” you murmured softly, “you should kiss me.”

House huffed quietly.

“That sounds medically irresponsible.”

You pulled back slightly and looked up at him.

“…So?”

He studied your face for a long moment.

Then, very gently, he leaned down.

And kissed you.

Soft.

Careful.

The kind of kiss that felt like something fragile finally falling into place.

When he pulled back, your cheeks were warm and your smile was brighter than he had ever seen.

House looked at you like he was still trying to understand how this had happened.

You squeezed his hand.

“Hi, boyfriend.”

He sighed.

“…This is going to ruin my reputation.”

You grinned.

“Too late.”

pt. 1 (One more): 7.8k - you and joel take your kids for ice cream on a restless night.

pt. 2 (persistent): 7.5k - joel is very intentional when it comes to getting what he wants.

pt. 3 (fruitful): 11.9k - you tell joel that he’s going to be a daddy again.

pt. 4 (sustained): 11.6k - joel plans an anniversary trip and has some tricks up his sleeve.

pt. 5 (cherished): 22.1k - joel’s schemes are far more elaborate than you had anticipated as you celebrate your anniversary.

pt. 6 (destined): 6.1k - (flashback) you and Joel recall how the two of you came to be.

pt. 7 (tethered): 7.4k - (flashback) Joel is so patient to take that next step in your relationship until you just can’t take it anymore.

pt. 8 (devoted): 12.8k - (flashback) you and past daddy Joel but not in that way navigate the new dynamics of your relationship.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Can’t get enough of them– figured they were due for their own masterlist!

Honestly, feel free to leave any specific thing you might want to see with them. Possibilities are endless and I’m feral for them. This is one-shot friendly, no linear storyline really besides baby makin’. Thank you for following their journey along with me.

Comments and/or feedback are highly appreciated!

More to come, as always.

You don’t technically belong here.

You’re not on the clock. You’re not on call. And the front desk nurse definitely gave you the stink eye when you flashed your visitor’s badge and breezed in like you owned the place.

But you do own one very specific thing in this hospital.

Well. One person.

One disaster of a man currently on his sixth hour of ignoring basic human needs like food, water, and common sense.

So you walk through the halls of Princeton-Plainsboro like you’re on a mission, lunchbox in one hand, water bottle in the other, and a familiar devil-may-care smile curling on your lips. You even wore the hoodie he pretends to hate—the one that’s technically his but smells like you now.

A few nurses smile at you. One intern stares like she’s seeing a unicorn. You’ve visited enough times that people know you, but still rarely enough that your appearance turns heads.

Especially when you burst into Diagnostics without knocking.

House doesn’t look up immediately. He’s lounging in his chair, feet on the desk, twirling a pen between his fingers with all the grace of a bored cat. His team—Chase, Cameron, and Foreman—are mid-bicker, voices overlapping, something about liver enzymes and blood cultures and, probably, the meaning of life.

“Tell me someone brought coffee,” House says without looking up.

You don’t say anything.

You just walk in, slow and deliberate, and place the lunchbox right on top of the folder in his lap.

And then the water bottle.

Then, you lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Hi,” you say.

There’s a pause.

Then he finally blinks, looks up, and sees you.

And for a moment, the mask slips.

His eyes soften—just a flicker—and his lips twitch into something less sardonic, more fond.

“I didn’t order a personal chef with boundary issues,” he says.

“No, but you’re getting one anyway.”

Chase coughs awkwardly.

Cameron pointedly avoids eye contact.

Foreman mutters, “Every damn time.”

You ignore them all and pull up a chair beside House like you own the place. Which, emotionally speaking, you do.

“You haven’t eaten,” you say, flipping the lunchbox open. “I know you haven’t eaten. And if I don’t shove food down your throat myself, you’ll subsist on nothing but ibuprofen and rage.”

House narrows his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Romantic,” he says dryly.

You smile sweetly. “Chicken teriyaki. And a granola bar, because I know you forget dessert exists.”

He squints at you. “You’re enabling my childish avoidance of nutrition.”

“I’m preventing your body from eating itself.”

He eats.

Grumbling, mock-insulting your cooking, muttering about sodium content—but he eats. And when no one’s looking, you slip your hand under the table and lace your fingers with his.

He squeezes once, hard. Doesn't look at you.

But he holds on.

You give him his water bottle with your other hand and wait until he rolls his eyes and takes a sip, just to shut you up.

When his team clears out—some excuse about test results, but really, it’s because no one wants to witness this—he finally glances at you properly.

“You know,” he says slowly, like drawing out each word, “you could’ve stayed home. Slept. Watched trash TV. Painted your toenails. I’m not exactly prime lunchtime company.”

You lean in, pressing another kiss to his jaw. This one lingers.

“I know,” you murmur. “But I missed you. And I like bothering you.”

He grumbles something unintelligible, but his arm slips around your waist. Just a little.

Just enough.

“Also,” you add with a cheeky grin, “I thought you might appreciate a few stolen kisses between patient charts.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are we in a 90s romcom now?”

You lean closer. “Only if you kiss me back when no one’s watching.”

And sure enough, when Cuddy passes by five minutes later, glaring through the glass with a look that screams Gregory, do your actual job, you’re sitting innocently beside him, lips kiss-bitten, cheeks warm, and House is chewing thoughtfully while looking suspiciously satisfied.

When the office empties again, he leans in and kisses you without a word.

Deep. Slow. Almost hesitant.

“You’re disgusting,” he mutters when you smirk.

“You’re making out with me in your workplace.”

“God help me.”

You grin, smug, resting your head on his shoulder. “Don’t need God. You’ve got me.”

He makes a show of groaning dramatically, but his fingers trail lazily up and down your arm. Like he can’t not touch you. Like he needs to be reminded you’re here, real, breathing beside him.

You stay like that until his pager buzzes again.

He sighs.

You steal one last kiss before he pulls away.

“Bring me leftovers tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder as he limps out.

“Tomorrow’s your day off.”

“Exactly. I’ll be hungry.”

You roll your eyes fondly, but your heart is full, stupid and warm.

You’ll bring him lunch again tomorrow.

And sneak another kiss, too.

Because even if he never says it in those exact words, you know the truth:

He works best when he knows you’re somewhere nearby—keeping him grounded, fed, loved.

..And hydrated.

---

The moment House’s cane tapped against the hardwood of the front hall, you were already in position like a military strategist. He was home. Finally.

You’d spent all afternoon preparing. Not because you were the type of person to wait on him hand and foot—House would’ve teased the life out of you if that were the case—but because you knew the way his shoulders slumped just a little lower after back-to-back shifts, the way his sarcasm came out slightly more biting when he was actually running on fumes. And because, somewhere deep inside his perpetually grumpy self, he would never ask for what he needed.

So, you gave it to him anyway.

He barely got through the door when his nose twitched.

“Something smells edible,” he grunted, tossing his bag to the side and half-stumbling into the living room. “And here I was expecting the usual ‘eat air and cry’ menu.”

You poked your head out from the kitchen doorway, wiping your hands on a towel dramatically. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know I slaved over a hot stove for at least thirty minutes. That’s premium effort.”

“Mm. You must love me or something,” he said dryly, dragging himself toward the kitchen by the scent alone. “Poor taste.”

“Absolutely tragic,” you agreed, grinning.

When he got close, you could finally take him in—creased button-down under his blazer, the stubble that had grown longer over the last few days, the weary creases by his eyes even as he smirked. He smelled like hospital soap, exhaustion, and the faintest trace of antiseptic.

He leaned in without a word and buried his face in your shoulder, the side of his nose brushing your neck. You didn’t even hesitate—your arms were already around him, pressing him close, fingers slipping up under the back of his shirt to stroke over his skin.

“You always smell better than the hospital,” he mumbled, voice muffled.

“I should hope so. I don’t exactly rub against the ICU on the daily.”

“Might be missing out.”

You laughed against his hair, squeezing him tighter. “You’re disgusting.”

“Your disgusting. You love this disgusting. And speaking of things I love—what did you make me?”

You finally let him go with a dramatic sigh, motioning toward the table. “It’s all ready, Dr. House. Go sit. Or fall. Either works.”

He dropped into his chair with a groan of relief, rubbing his thigh out of habit while you set the table. Pan-seared steak, garlic mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, and a tiny bit of something green you knew he’d push around but at least look at. You slid a beer beside his plate with a flourish.

“Who are you and what have you done with my partner?” he asked.

“I killed them. Now I’m the hot housewife.”

He took a sip of the beer, eyeing you over the rim. “You do realize this makes me want to skip dinner and go straight to dessert, right?”

You gave him a sly look and sat across from him. “Eat. Or I’m not letting you see the apron under this shirt.”

“You’re wearing an apron under the shirt?”

“No.”

He choked on a laugh, and something about the softness in his eyes when he finally started to eat made your chest squeeze. His sarcasm never went away, but when it was you, he let it soften at the edges. He let himself feel. That was more than he gave anyone else.

The meal passed with the usual banter—House throwing roasted carrots at you for being “a rabbit,” you threatening to “accidentally” pour gravy in his lap, both of you laughing like idiots over things that probably weren’t even funny. You cleared the table together, and when you were finally done, you leaned back against the sink and raised an eyebrow.

“Now,” you said, arms crossed. “Are you ready for me?”

He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Was this all just foreplay?”

“House. I literally lit candles. Do I ever light candles?”

“Only when something’s on fire.”

You threw the dishtowel at him. “I ran a bath. And I’m letting you shower with me. Which is generous, because you’re grabby.”

“You say that like it’s a complaint.”

He slid off the counter and limped toward you slowly.

“You’re mine to be grabby with,” he said as his hand snuck around your waist, tugging you in. “Domesticity looks hot on you.”

You leaned up to kiss his jaw. “Shut up and get naked.”

—

Steam curled against the mirror, blurring the edges of your reflections as House stepped in behind you under the stream of hot water. You gasped slightly when the water hit your shoulders—he had cranked the temperature all the way up. He always liked it too hot, and you always let him win.

“You’ll boil me alive one day,” you mumbled, grabbing the soap.

“Mm. Tenderized and ready to eat.”

His hands slid around your waist again, but this time they didn’t stop. Palms flattened against your stomach, fingers dipping low, tracing lazy circles that made you lean back against him. He kissed your shoulder, then your neck, and the scruff of his beard scraped lightly against your skin. One of his hands moved up, cupping your chest shamelessly.

“House—”

“I’ve been dealing with blood, idiots, and Cuddy all day,” he muttered against your ear. “Let me feel something good.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop him, leaning back further into his chest as both of his hands roamed. Not rough—just possessive. Comforting.

You turned in his arms finally and kissed him slowly. He tasted like beer, toothpaste and exhaustion, and he kissed you back with the hunger of a man who’d been living on bitterness and hospital coffee.

“Love you,” you whispered.

His forehead pressed to yours. “You’re an idiot.”

You smiled. “Takes one to love one.”

He grinned, and the way he looked at you in that moment—naked, wet, sleepy, and grinning like a man in love—was worth every moment you’d spent waiting for him to come home.

---

It started, as it often did, with you waking up to something pressing insistently against your backside.

You were warm. Wrapped in soft sheets. Limbs tangled with House’s. The air smelled like morning and him—skin and shampoo and something vaguely medicinal. You didn’t even open your eyes at first. Just exhaled a breath and shifted slightly in bed.

That was when you felt it again.

Thick. Hard. Warm.

Pressed right up between your ass cheeks, like it was meant to be there.

You didn’t need to turn to know House was still fast asleep. His arm was slung over your waist, his breathing even, that low rasp of sleep just starting to fade into wakefulness. But his body was already several steps ahead of him.

Typical.

You smiled to yourself, still barely awake, and wriggled a little closer. That earned you a low grunt.

“…if you’re gonna grind on it, at least commit to the bit,” he muttered sleepily into your hair.

You snorted, turning in his arms until you were face to face, and yup—there was that morning glare. Eyelids half-closed, hair a mess, scruffy jaw, and the world’s most unrepentant erection trapped between you.

“Not my fault you’re pitching a tent,” you whispered, grinning as your hand slid under the covers to palm him through his boxers. “Wanna tell me what you were dreaming about?”

“Medical malpractice.”

“Sure it wasn’t about me in nothing but scrubs?”

He opened one eye, his mouth twitching upward. “You in scrubs is hot. You out of scrubs is hotter.”

You slipped your hand past the waistband and wrapped your fingers around him, slow and firm, and his breath caught, teeth dragging across his lip.

“I could help,” you said softly, giving him a lazy stroke. “Before breakfast.”

“Are you the breakfast?” he asked, voice still gravelly, eyes now glued to your mouth.

You leaned in and kissed him softly. His hand tangled in your hair, and when you shifted to straddle him, his hips arched up immediately into your palm.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned.

“Mm. I’ll revive you. Doctor’s orders.”

You reached over to the nightstand and pulled out a condom from the drawer—because House was a bastard, but he was always careful. You opened the packet, and he watched you like he couldn’t look away, like the very sight of you half-naked in the morning light had short-circuited every sarcastic neuron in his brain.

You rolled it onto him with slow, practiced care, and he hissed softly, hands gripping your thighs. Once he was sheathed and you were slick enough to take him, you eased yourself down onto his cock with a breathless moan.

“Jesus,” he muttered, brow furrowed, “how are you this warm already?”

“Your fault,” you whispered, rocking your hips. “You started it.”

His hands found your waist, guiding your rhythm even though he barely had the strength to lift his head. His mouth fell open as you moved—slow, deep, lazy like Sunday mornings should be. No rush. No urgency. Just the warmth of skin, the roll of your hips, the softness of your hands on his chest, your fingers laced with his.

“God, I missed this,” he muttered.

“You had me last night.”

“Not like this.”

He let you ride him in silence for a few minutes—aside from the low, broken groans he couldn’t hold back when you clenched or angled just right. His thumb brushed your clit in lazy circles, coaxing pleasure from you with that same knowing touch he used in diagnostics—only now it was you he was unraveling.

When your moans started to climb and your thighs began to tremble, he bucked up once, hard, and you gasped.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come on. Come with me.”

You barely had time to nod before your orgasm hit, crashing through you in a wave of heat and release. You clung to him as you came, shuddering, and he wasn’t far behind—his grip tightened, and he thrust up one final time as he spilled into the condom with a low groan, forehead pressed to your chest.

You collapsed against him, both of you breathless, your bodies tangled and sticky with sweat and satisfaction.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Then, House grunted. “I think I broke a rib.”

“You’re such a baby.”

“You rode me like I was a prize bull.”

You laughed and kissed his shoulder, nuzzling against his neck. “Worth it.”

He reached up, brushed your hair back gently, and kissed your forehead with surprising tenderness.

“Definitely worth it.”

---

After a shared shower—filled more with sleepy kisses and soft touches than anything dirty—you both ended up back in the kitchen, dressed in soft pajamas, your hair still damp, House’s limp a little worse than usual.

“I blame you,” he said, sipping coffee while flipping a pancake with surprising skill. “I’m gonna need my cane just to sit down today.”

“You always need your cane.”

“Not the point.”

You leaned against the counter, watching him. He was still bleary-eyed, still grumbling, but there was something in the way he moved—lighter. More at ease.

When you handed him a plate and he brushed his fingers over yours, you smiled. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to.

It was all there in the way he looked at you over his coffee mug.

Grumpy. Sated. Home.

And as far as mornings went?

Lesson 1: Never Call Your Ex When You’re in Trouble

Lesson 2: Don’t Underestimate an Ex With a Plan

Lesson 3: Don’t Poke a Queen in Heels

Lesson 4: Don’t Show Up at Your Ex’s House Unannounced

Lesson 5: You Can’t Hurt Your Ex Without Bleeding Too

Lesson 6: Never Share a Room With Your Ex

story timeline (contains spoilers if you haven’t read up to Lesson 6)

Lesson 7: Denial Is Not a Strategy, Darling

Lesson 8: Never Enter a Battle You Can’t Win

Lesson 9: Ears Lie. Hearts Don't

Lesson 10: Pain is Shared, Not Borne Alone

Lesson 11: Love Answers Only to Itself

Lesson 12: Careful. Life Doesn’t Spare What You Love

Lesson 13: Love Doesn't Belong on the Balance Sheet

Queen moodboard

Lesson 14: Nothing Worth Having Is Simple

Lesson 15: Never Mistake Restraint for Weakness new

Next lesson loading… Stay Tuned babes...💋

small lessons (drabbles, bonus scenes)

I'm Yours. (from Lesson 12)