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Summary: Months after Aurora’s arrival, the quiet rhythm of normal life returns, but you are left fighting a silent, exhausting battle with your own reflection. When Gregory notices the subtle shifts in your behavior, he does what he does best: he investigates, he confronts, and he proves to you that love doesn't care about statistics or pre-pregnancy jeans.
Pairing: Gregory House x f!reader
Genre: Postpartum body insecurity, body dysphoria/distress, mirror angst, soft/protective Gregory House, domestic intimacy, emotional healing.
[]-Holding the Sun masterlist-[]
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It started with small, calculated movements.
Gregory House was, by trade and by curse, an observer. He noticed the micro-expressions of lying clinic patients, the subtle gait changes of a hiding cardiac patient, and the exact second his team was trying to pull a fast one on him.
So naturally, he noticed you.
At first, it was the clothes. The fitted sweaters and tailored blouses you used to wear around the apartment were replaced by his oversized, discarded flannel shirts and thick, heavy knit cardigans that swallowed your frame whole. When he reached out to pull you into his lap on the couch, your hand would reflexively drop to smooth down the fabric over your stomach, subtly pushing his arm up toward your shoulders instead.
Then came the doors. The bathroom door, which had remained unlocked for years of marriage, was suddenly clicking shut whenever you changed.
House sat in his recliner in the living room, a half-empty glass of scotch on the side table, watching the faint line of light under the closed bedroom door. The baby monitor on his lap gave off a soft, steady hum—Aurora was sound asleep in her nursery down the hall after a grueling three-hour fight against her own fatigue.
He set his glass down, picked up his cane, and pushed himself up.
In the quiet sanctuary of the bedroom, the air was thick with a suffocating, silent grief.
You stood in front of the full-length mirror, clad only in your undergarments. On the bed behind you lay three different pairs of pre-pregnancy trousers, all rejected. The last pair sat at your feet, dropped after a humiliating ten-minute struggle to pull the zipper past your hips.
You stared at the glass, your breath hitching.
The woman looking back at you felt like a stranger. The sharp waist you once had was replaced by a soft, rounded curve that hadn't snapped back. Silvery, pale pink lines stretched across your lower abdomen like fine, jagged lightning bolts—the permanent ink of a body that had expanded to shelter a human life. Your breasts were heavier, your skin looser.
Logically, you knew why. You had spent years grieving lost pregnancies, weeping over clean ultrasound screens, praying for a baby to hold. Aurora was a miracle. You loved her with every single cell in your body.
But emotionally, looking at the soft, altered tissue, a cold, terrifying voice whispered in your ear: How could he look at this and still want you? How could a man as intense, as visual, as unapologetically critical as Gregory House look at this softness and feel anything other than disappointment?
A tear slipped down your cheek, hot and fast. You grabbed one of House’s flannel shirts off the back of the vanity chair, hastily trying to shove your arms into the sleeves to cover yourself.
The door handle turned.
Clack. Tap. Clack.
You froze, wrapping the flannel tightly across your chest, overlapping the sides until you were completely cocooned.
House stood in the doorway. His sharp blue eyes swept over the room with clinical speed—the discarded jeans on the floor, the open wardrobe, the tear track glistening on your skin under the dim lamp light, and the rigid, defensive posture you had immediately assumed.
"You're doing it again," he said softly. His voice lacked its usual raspy sarcasm, grounded instead in a low, quiet gravity.
"Doing what?" you murmured, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on the floor near his cane tip. "I was just... I was trying on clothes. Getting ready for bed."
"Lying," House replied, taking two slow steps into the room. He set his cane against the bedside table with a muted clack and leaned his weight onto his good leg. "You've been dodging me for three weeks. You change behind locked doors. You flinch every time I put my hand on your hips. And right now, you look like a suspect caught red-handed in an interrogation room."
"Greg, please. I'm just tired," you tried, your voice cracking on the last word. You reached up to button the flannel, your fingers trembling so badly you couldn't thread the fabric through the hole.
Before you could finish, House was right in front of you.
He didn't grab the button. Instead, his warm, calloused hands reached out and gently closed around your wrists. Slowly, firmly, he pulled your hands away from your chest. You tried to pull back, to turn your shoulder away from him, but he held fast, refusing to let you shrink out of his sight.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
You kept your eyes glued to the collar of his shirt. "No."
"Look at me," he repeated, a little firmer, reaching up with one hand to cup your jaw, his thumb softly resting against your cheekbone. He guided your face up until your tear-filled eyes met his.
"I don't want you to look at me right now," you sobbed, the dam finally breaking. Fresh tears spilled over your lashes, soaking into his thumb. "I look... awful, Greg. Nothing fits. My body is ruined. It's soft and loose and covered in marks and I can't—I can't bear the thought of you looking at it."
House stared at you for a long, silent moment. His expression didn't shift into pity—he hated pity. Instead, his blue eyes darkened with an intense, fierce protection that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
"Ruined," he repeated, testing the word on his tongue as if it were poison.
Without a word, he reached down and unbuttoned the top two buttons of the flannel shirt you were clinging to.
"Greg, don't—"
"Quiet," he murmured, his voice thick and commanding as he slid the heavy flannel off your shoulders, letting it pool onto the carpet at your feet.
You instinctively went to fold your arms over your stomach again, but House caught your forearms, holding them at your sides. He stepped closer, eliminating every inch of air between you, until his chest was brushing yours.
"I spend sixteen hours a day surrounded by human bodies," House said, his gaze locking onto yours with an almost scary intensity. "I look at lungs that fail, livers that rot, hearts that quit, and legs..." He paused, casting a brief, dark glance down at his own withered right thigh. "...that decay from the inside out. I know what a broken, ruined body looks like. I live in one every day."
He lowered his hands from your arms down to your waist, resting his broad, warm palms directly against the curve of your hips, his fingers pressing firmly into your soft skin.
"This?" he whispered, his voice dropping an octave as he looked down at your stomach. "This isn't a failure."
He sank down slowly, lowering himself until he was kneeling on his good knee right in front of you on the bedroom floor—a position that was agonizing for his leg, but he didn't care. He leaned in, pressing a long, warm, lingering kiss directly over the cluster of silvery stretch marks on your lower abdomen.
A sharp gasp hitched in your throat.
"Greg..."
"This body built my daughter," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot against your stomach. He traced the silver lines with the tip of his finger, his touch light and reverence-filled. "When we thought we were broken, when we thought we’d never get to hold a child of our own, this body rewrote its own biology to keep her safe for nine months. It stretched, it adapted, it fought."
He looked up at you from his spot on the floor, his eyes fierce and unyielding.
"Every single mark on your skin is a record of a battle you won," he said firmly. "They are the braves' scars I've ever seen. And you stand here in front of a piece of mirror glass telling yourself you're ruined?"
He placed his hands on your thighs, using you for support as he pushed himself back up to his feet, ignoring the sharp wince that crossed his face as his bad leg took the strain. Once he was standing, he pulled you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around your back and burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"I don't want the body you had five years ago," he whispered into your skin, his hands pressing flat against your lower back, holding you so tight you could feel the heavy, steady thud of his heart against your ribs. "I want you. The woman who survived. The woman who gave me Aurora. The woman who stays with a bitter, crippled diagnostician every single night."
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands moving to frame your face.
"If you think for one second that I desire you any less because your body carried my child," House said, his voice dropping into that familiar, arrogant, absolute certainty, "then your brain is the only organ in this house that needs an immediate diagnostic workup."
A watery, breathless laugh bubbled up from your throat, breaking through the heavy angst that had gripped you all evening.
House didn't smile, but the tension in his shoulders finally eased. He leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, possessive, intoxicating kiss—one that didn't leave any room for doubt, insecurity, or fear. He kissed you until your knees felt weak, until your hands were tangled tightly in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.
When he finally pulled back, both of you breathing heavily, he leaned his forehead against yours.
"No more locked doors," he rasped softly, his thumb sweeping over your lower lip. "No more hiding under my shirts unless you're stealing them because you're cold. Understood?"
"Understood," you whispered, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his jaw.
House reached back, snagging his cane off the nightstand, before looping his arm securely around your waist, pulling you toward the bed. "Good. Now get under the covers. My leg hurts like hell from kneeling, and you owe me a back rub for making me give an inspirational speech."
You smiled against his shoulder, letting him lead you into the warmth of the blankets, the heavy, dark clouds in your mind completely scattered by the man who loved every single piece of you.
WARNINGS!: Suicide, death, cussing, BREIFE sexual themes(lap dance/stripper). robbing/burglary, GAY MEN KISSING! Dr. Wilson’s cancer. House being himself, and emotionally closed, but also OPEN?!
Spelling check has NOT been done!!
(probably won’t be done tbh)
After Dr. Gregory House faked his death, by showing himself inside a burning building that soon collapsed on top of him- yet, at the least second he escaped through the back door of the old, abandoned building.
Dr. House had his funeral, friends, family, and past lovers, and present ones-, all gathered to show how much each cared about House.
Yet one man in particular, only spoke the truth.
Dr. James Wilson.
During Wilson’s speech about how much of an ass House was, he got a text from and unknown number. But he knew- deep down, it was House.
He found house infront of an apartment and smiled, a grin that was one of a child. One that would hurt your cheeks if you held it for few seconds to long- but Wilson didn’t mind. Of course he wouldn’t mind. House, his boyfriend was alive.
Wilson stepped out of his car and ran to his boyfriend, almost as if not to care for other cars that were coming. House wobbled up from the concrete step, and waited only a few seconds before being engulfed by hug, tag was soon followed by a deep, and passionate kiss.
Kisses like those were rare for House, not just from Wilson, but from all.
After the kiss with released House told his boyfriend, exactly how he got away with faking his death. Wilson’s face distorted in anger.
“How are you supposed to live huh? How are you gonna buy a house, buy a car?” He asked his boyfriend, he took a breath as House spoke over him.
“I don’t care about that Wilson. A dead man can’t go to jail-“ He takes a pause, avoiding eye contact with his boyfriend, whose eyes widen.
Not because of fear, because he could see House was trying to be vulnerable- and he was.
“I’m not trying to spend months behind bars without knowing if you’re alive or not.” He admits, his blue eyes glazing Wilson’s dark ones.
“I’m not going to let you die without me in the room. Without me holding you.”
House’s eyes almost seemed glazed with tears. His blue watercolored eyes, not framed by tears. Like a Picasso painting framed with gold. House took one more deep breath before speaking, Wilson did not dare to cut him off on his words.
“I’m not going let you- the man i seem to love and care about, die alone. No, not if i ca help it.”
He tells Wilson, his cane wobbled underneath his arm, he was so..open right now- and Wilson liked it.
This wasn’t like a puzzle House loved to solve, and creat.
This was House. No walls, or boarders protecting him- just him and his true emotions.
“I know..I know.”
Is all that escaped Wilson’s lips before pulling house in another hug.
From that day forward House and Wilson spend days and nights together, driving through American checking things off Wilson’s bucket list.
Even the craziest things, were done- like how Wilson and House both signed up to be stripers for a night.
The bridesmaids to the bridal party loved them, or the young twinks that kept shoving money in their ass for a lap dance.
Or House’s favorite memory on the bucket list “Steal something: a store, person.”
House could remember this one like it was a few months ago- maybe because it was, or maybe because it was awesome.
We now see the couple at a diner eating, with a sheet of paper they look over reading, as each take bites of their breakfast, and sips of coffee.
“Hm, what about this one? Adopt a cat or dog?” Wilson says excitedly reading one off his bucket list. It’s been nice, just spending time together, not a care in the world, almost made them both forget that Wilson was slowly dying.
“That’s stupid.” House said bluntly to his boyfriend, before taking a bite out of his eggs.
“How is that stupid House? I haven’t seen you say anything” Wilson retaliated to his partner.
“First off, you’re allergic to cats. And secondly, you’re dying, remember? Dog would become attached to something that’s gonna die in a few months.”
“Well what do you suggest we do? Steal an elderly woman’s purse? Rob a convenience store?!” Wilson quickly asks his boyfriend.
A smirk grows on House’s face. And this grin meant nothing good.
“No, no, no, NO! House we are NOT robbing a convince store, or anything in general!”
“OH, why not?! Scared of fun?”
House asks him crossing his arms and leaning back in the booth’s chair
“I’m scared of ‘fun’, once it becomes illegal” Wilson states taking bites out of his breakfast, as House flagged over the waitress for the check.
“Your scared of being caught, like your always are. Hence, why you never cheated on any of wives, like- Taub.” He says digging in his wallet and putting cash on the check, and getting up.
“You’re dying for christ sake! Fucking live a little!!” He yells at him before limping away on his cane to their bikes that waited for them outside the diner.
Wilson with a sigh followed House. “Fine! Want me to live a little? Let’s go rob a convenience store!” He tells House throwing his arms up as he sees House already seated on his motorcycle. With Wilson’s words he smirks.
“THAT’S THE SPIRIT!!” He yells out making people walking in, and out of the diner look at them. House gives Wilson a quick peck before making their way to the nearest convenience store.
Long story short they succeeded- partly. Not before getting hit with a bamboo broom by an old, small, homophobic, Vietnamese woman. Thankfully House and Wilson managed to talk to the woman’s much younger son, and he found the situation funny, yet felt sorry for them.
“I can remember it like it’s yesterday Wilson”
He says holding his weak boyfriend in his arms.
Wilson now has deep bags under his eyes, his hair- or what’s left of it very thin. His clothes drenched in sweat, as he let House hold him softly.
“Yeah” He mutters back, not without a cough afterwards. “That Asian woman not happy about it.”
“Well at least i got some new pornos.” House says half jokingly.
He soon stops his laughter seeing Wilson’s coughing fit grow worse and worse, the worse it’s ever been. He closed his eyes and held him, taking in breaths of his sent.
“House..i..” He cuts himself off with another few coughs
“I think it’s time House”
“Stop doing that shit. You did it last week, can’t pull on over on me this time!” He jokes with sass, yet her partly ment it.
“No House- I mean it..for real this time.” He took a deep breath. “I can feel it.”
He sighs as House held him closer.
“Okay.” Is what he mutters, as tears fall from Wilson’s eyes.
“I’m not ready House. I thought i was. I’m not..” He cries to him, as House wipes his tears with his thumbs.
“No one is Wilson, no one is.” He tells him kissing his tears and worries away.
“No House. I’m not ready..i can’t..the list isn’t even complete!”
“It’s as much as we could do, hun”
“Im sorry House..”
“For what?”
“For not listening to you. I should have done chemo! We would have had years together, maybe actually has time to adopt a dog!” He cries to him.
“Or cat” House jokes softly, wiping a tear away, as he tilts Wilson’s head up.
“Yeah..or a cat..” He whispers against his lips.
“I love you Gregory House.”
“I love you too James Wilson”
The kiss soft yet, passionate. Something that you only see in movies, or shitty rom-coms.
Soon House realizes that Wilson isn’t kissing back. His lips already feel cold.
He withdraws his kiss, and touches his fingers to his neck.
No pulse.
Tears shred from his eyes, like thick icy rain dripping from the blue sky at night.
House holds Wilson for a bit longer, before getting up com the bed.
He walks over the safe that laid inside the motels closet.
With a few simple clicks of the keypad, it opens to reveal a gun.
House had kept this gun away from Wilson, afraid he would get mad at him, or turn it in the police so he wouldn’t do anything stupid.
With tears fogging up House’s bison he picks up the gun, walks over to Wilson’s cold body, giving his forehead on last kiss. He sat in the chair across from the bed, looking at Wilson between his tears.
He lifts the gun up to the side of his head, and pulls the trigger.
BANG!
Is what echoed out into the dark, immediately people dialed 911.
Medics, and police arrived to the scene.
Two men dead.
One by cancer.
And one who couldn’t live without his best friend, and best lover.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
some random stuff
first image is lowkey me this month
(edit: oh my god i flipped the canvas and therefore didn't draw the chickenpox scar on the nose, forgive me for my crimes /j)
i believe in hilson n forehouse n huddy at the same time ok. house and wilson DO have a fucked up thing going on not quite lovers or friends w benefits but a secret third thing. house was foreman's bitter ex that is still hung up on him n trusts him implicitly without ever having dated. n he's cuddy's shitty boyfriend who matches her freak. these are not mutually exclusive to me. Okay.
