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He slammed the apartment door harder than usual. You could tell from the sound of his cane hitting the floor — clipped, angry, rushed — that today had been especially bad. Maybe Cuddy had ridden his ass about something. Maybe Wilson had tried another “intervention” disguised as lunch. Or maybe some idiot patient had lied until the last possible second and nearly died on the table for it.
Whatever the cause, Gregory House was now leaning against the doorframe, blue eyes shadowed, lips pulled tight, shoulders stiff as stone. You didn’t speak. Not yet. You just watched him from your spot on the couch as he unshouldered his bag, tossed his cane aside, and dragged himself across the floor with the air of a man being punished for every breath he dared to take.
“I’m taking two Vicodin,” he said flatly.
“You always do,” you replied, soft.
He grunted and didn’t look at you. The bottle rattled. A swallow. He didn’t move to the kitchen. Didn’t ask for food. Didn’t demand the TV remote. He just dropped onto the couch beside you like gravity had finally caught up, legs splayed, eyes closing briefly with an exhausted sigh. You gave him a few beats. Then stood.
House cracked one eye open. “Leaving me already? No kiss for the broken man?”
You bent, brushed your lips over his forehead, then whispered, “Stay. Don’t move.” Your voice, low and sure, carried just enough promise to still him.
You were back before he could blink, on your knees between his thighs, fingers reaching for his belt.
He arched a brow. “Oh?” His tone was amused but wary. “Trying a new method of pain management?”
You didn’t answer. You just undid his belt slowly, sliding the leather through the loops with purpose. Then the button. Then the zipper. His pants gaped open, exposing boxers tented with the earliest signs of interest — reluctant, lazy arousal that barely twitched under your touch.
“You don’t have to…” he began.
You curled your fingers around the waistband of his boxers and looked up at him. “Shut up, Greg.” He shut up.
You mouthed over the cotton, hot breath making him twitch harder. You tugged his boxers down, watching the soft weight of him flop free, half-hard, uninterested… for now. He was tired. You could tell. Not just physically — though his leg probably felt like hell — but emotionally, down to the marrow. He needed to be taken apart and rebuilt. You kissed the underside of his cock first, slow and reverent, just a breath above his balls. He let out a sound — almost a scoff, but then your tongue licked up the length of him and he choked on a groan.
“I thought you were mad at me this morning,” he murmured.
“I was. Doesn’t mean you don’t get this.”
“This?” he echoed.
You wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock and didn’t answer. His hand immediately threaded through your hair, not tight, not controlling — just grounding himself. Your tongue was slow, messy, almost lazy in the way you worked him. He was getting harder now, heavy against your tongue, throbbing just enough to tell you you were doing it right. You didn’t rush. You never rushed with House. He wasn’t the kind of man you sped through. He was the kind you devoured. And devour you did.
You sank lower, spit slipping from the corner of your mouth as you bobbed your head with more pressure, more suction, more control. You moaned against him, letting him feel the vibrations in the pit of his stomach. His hips jolted. One hand flew to the armrest of the couch, gripping until the veins popped in his forearm.
“Jesus,” he hissed, breath ragged. “You’re not gonna—fuck—treat me like I’m fragile?”
You pulled off with a lewd pop, lips glistening. “Patience, Greg.”
Then you really got to work. You spit into your hand and pumped the base of him as your mouth took him deep again — deeper than before — until the head of his cock bumped your throat. He cursed, full-bodied and sharp, head thrown back, Adam’s apple bobbing with every half-swallowed moan. You didn’t gag, just hummed, swallowed, let yourself drool on him like you had nothing else in the world to care about. He was bucking up now, but you held his hips down.
“You don’t get to do anything tonight,” you murmured, lapping at the tip before sinking down again. “You just sit back and take it.”
It didn’t stop there. You pulled off entirely, hand still working his slick cock as you bent lower and dragged your tongue along his balls, licking and sucking until they were wet, shining. He was panting now — completely undone, stripped of his usual snark and armor. You licked lower. Beneath. Further. He froze.
“Wait, you’re not—”
You licked his rim once, teasing, then flattened your tongue and moaned into it like he was the best meal you’d ever had.
“Holy fuck—!” His thighs trembled. He tried to twist away, hips lifting like he didn’t know whether to run or rut into your face. You just spread him wider, tongue working sloppy circles around his hole, every pass wetter, deeper, hotter. You slid one hand up to stroke his cock while your mouth devoured him from behind, spit trailing from your chin to his taint as you pressed in again and again. House was whimpering. Not moaning. Not groaning. Whimpering.
“God—fuck, please, I—Jesus, what the hell, you’re gonna kill me—” His cock jumped in your hand. You could feel how close he was. Not just from the twitching but the way he was mumbling nonsense now — stuttering your name, praise, curses, all mashed into a hot, broken mess. “Gonna come,”
he warned. You didn’t stop. You doubled down. Tongue fucking him, jerking him, squeezing around the head just the way he liked, and with a strangled, throat-tearing groan, House came — shuddering violently, cock spurting against your hand, thighs quaking around your head. You didn’t move until his hand weakly tugged your hair. He was slumped on the couch like a man newly exorcised. Chest heaving. Hair damp with sweat. Mouth open but saying nothing. You wiped your mouth, climbed into his lap, kissed his temple.
“Still mad at me?” he rasped, eyes fluttering half-shut.
You smirked. “Mad enough to do it again if you don’t let me baby you properly.” And that would be tomorrow’s problem.
You were already on the couch when he returned from the bathroom — hair damp from a lazy rinse, T-shirt loose, plaid pajama pants clinging low to his hips. He walked slower now, the edge of pain dulled by both pills and orgasm, though the tightness in his leg hadn’t disappeared entirely. But the worst of it — the sharp, poisoned weight of his day — had faded. Not all of it. But enough. Enough for him to let out a long, quiet sigh as he collapsed beside you and let himself fold into your side. You didn’t say anything at first. You just opened your arms, and he sank into them with a low grunt, cheek pressing to your chest like it belonged there — like his head had always known your breasts were meant to cradle it.
The weight of him slumped against you fully, not a single ounce of pride left unpeeled. He let you wrap around him. One arm draped across your waist. One of his legs tangled between yours. His stubbled jaw rested just below your collarbone, scratching softly as he breathed. Your hand went straight to his hair, carding through the soft, messy strands — still damp, still warm. You dug your fingers gently into his scalp, scratching in slow, careful motions, watching his whole body melt inch by inch.
“Fuck,” he muttered into your chest. “You’re trying to kill me. Death by softness.”
You smiled against his forehead, pressing a kiss there. “At least it’s a good death.”
“Boobs,” he mumbled, “make an excellent coffin.”
You snorted. He didn’t lift his head again. Your hand kept moving — slow, methodical — grazing his temple, down behind his ear, then back up again. He let out a hum. Not quite a purr, but close. You shifted beneath him, tucking a throw blanket over the both of you, and he moved with you like a pliant cat, never leaving the warmth of your chest.
“Y’know,” you whispered, “I think you’re a little spoiled.”
He snorted without lifting his head. “I’ve been in chronic pain for over a decade. I’ve earned the right to cling to your tits like a Victorian ghost.”
“I don’t think that’s how ghosts work.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m never moving again. You’ve got good pillows. And head scratches.”
You kissed the top of his head again, lips lingering there, your voice low and honeyed.
“You can have all of it. Always.”
That made him go quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t just tired or relaxed — but a little stunned. Like the words had reached deeper than you meant them to, and he didn’t know what to do with the feeling. You scratched behind his ear in response, a silent I know, it’s okay, don’t run from it. His fingers curled into your side like he was anchoring himself there.
“You did good today,” you murmured. “Even if it sucked.”
“I was a bastard.”
“You’re my bastard.”
He exhaled a huff of laughter — muffled, but real. You leaned down and nuzzled your nose into his hair, letting your lips graze the crown of his head as you whispered,
“You’re brilliant, brave, and tired. And I’m so proud of you, Gregory.”
He made a strangled sound. Not a sob. Not quite. “You don’t get to say that.”
“I do. Especially when you’re weak and cuddly and have no means of escape.”
“You’re evil,” he groaned.
You hummed and slipped your hand down, fingertips massaging the nape of his neck. “And you love it.”
“I do.” That came quieter. The kind of quiet that was dangerous and raw. The kind of truth he rarely let himself say. You didn’t tease him for it. You just kissed his hair again and whispered, “I love you.” He was silent for a long stretch after that. Breathing. Letting the words sink in like balm over bruises. His shoulders twitched slightly as if the emotions were trying to escape through muscle memory — but your hands steadied him, soothed him back into stillness. A few minutes later, your other hand reached for the small plate you’d set beside the couch. Carefully, one by one, you brought a piece of soft-cut apple to his lips.
“Mm,” he grumbled. “What’s this? A ritual sacrifice?”
“Snack.”
“I just came so hard I forgot my name. You’re feeding me like I’m convalescing.”
“You are,” you replied gently. “Now open.” He rolled his eyes but parted his lips just enough. You popped the slice in, brushing your fingers along his jaw. He chewed slowly. Quietly.
“Too soft,” he muttered.
“Liar.”
“I am,” he agreed. Another slice. Another slow chew. He let you keep doing it — feeding him like he was something sacred. Like you weren’t just giving him food, but forgiveness. Rest. Reprieve. Eventually, he turned his head just enough to press a lazy kiss to your sternum.
“You’d make a great nurse.”
“I’d make a terrible nurse,” you said, smirking. “But a very good lover.”
“Mmh. Debatable. I haven’t seen your resume.”
“Want me to write one on your skin?” He chuckled, deep in his chest.
“You’re insufferable.” But his cheek pressed harder against your breast, and his grip on your waist tightened. You fed him the last slice of fruit, wiped your fingers on the napkin, and returned both hands to his head. He was heavier now. His breathing long and even, and the sarcasm had started to taper off in that familiar way that only came when sleep crept close. Your fingers twirled his hair, scratched his scalp, made gentle circles around his temple.
“You’re safe,” you whispered. “You’re mine, and you’re home.”
He didn’t answer. His chest rose. Fell. Rose again. You pressed one last kiss to his temple, let your hand rest against his back, and closed your eyes. He slept on your chest like the whole world had finally let him go.
---
He woke up with his mouth already watering. The dream was one of those slow, aching ones — the kind that didn’t hit with a jolt of arousal, but rolled in like a rising tide, heavy and thick, crawling over every nerve ending until he could feel you in the center of his body. You were underneath him, thighs spread, slick and soft and flushed, your fingers tangled in his hair while he feasted on you like a starving man. He could hear your voice — those broken little gasps, the catch in your throat when he sucked just right, the way you whimpered his name when you came — and fuck, he’d woken up hard and wanting, his face still nestled between your breasts, and his mouth dry with need. But it wasn’t your tits he wanted.
He stirred gently, careful not to wake you just yet. The room was still dark, painted in soft blue light from the streetlamp outside the window. His hand hesitated just above your hip, eyes scanning your sleeping form. Then he remembered—your voice from nights ago, sleepy but firm. "You can touch me when I’m asleep, Greg. I trust you. Always." The permission had been explicit, serious despite the softness in your tone. He hadn't taken it lightly then, and he didn't now. His head was heavy on your chest, one arm draped across your waist, and the blanket had slipped low enough to leave your stomach bare. You were so warm. He could smell your skin — that sweet, salt-skin scent with just the faintest hint of whatever lotion you’d put on before bed. His dick pulsed against the inside of his thigh, but he didn’t touch it. Didn’t care. He was hard enough to ache, but the craving had nothing to do with his own release. He needed to taste you. Slowly, he peeled himself from your body — inch by inch, lifting his head from the soft pillow of your chest, hand steadying his weight.
You stirred faintly, murmuring something incoherent, but didn’t wake. Your face was tilted toward the couch back, hair falling across your cheek, and your breathing was slow, steady, just beginning to shift with the deeper rhythm of dreaming. Good. He pressed a kiss to your sternum before slipping down — careful with his bad leg, slow and methodical — easing himself between your thighs. The blanket slid lower, bunching at your hips, and when he lifted the hem of your shirt, he found you bare underneath.
“Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, running a reverent hand over the plush softness of your thighs.
He nudged them apart and settled in like a man with a purpose. He kissed your inner thigh first — open-mouthed, slow — then again, closer to the crease, his stubble catching lightly on your skin. You squirmed faintly, a sleepy sound leaving your lips, but it was instinctive, not awake. His hands curled beneath your thighs, lifting them gently over his shoulders, and he breathed in deep — nose brushing your mound. The scent hit him like a drug. Salty-sweet and slick and unmistakably you, warm and heady with the scent of sleep and sex and everything he’d craved in that dream.
He licked a slow stripe up your slit. Your hips jerked. You let out a half-conscious whimper, eyelids fluttering. But he didn’t stop. He licked you again — longer this time, flat of his tongue dragging from the base of your pussy up to your clit, savoring every drop of the slick that had already started to gather there. You were wet — not soaked, not dripping, but soft and dewy. He groaned low into your cunt, tongue circling your clit with teasing pressure. That pulled you into the waking world. Your breath caught. Eyes fluttered open.
“Greg?” your voice came out thick with sleep, hoarse and confused.
His mouth closed around your clit before he answered — slow suck, warm and firm — and you gasped, spine arching sharply.
“What—oh my god—”
He chuckled, deep and guttural, sending vibrations straight through your core. He didn’t speak, didn’t lift his head — just slipped his arms tighter around your thighs and dove back in. Your hands scrambled for his hair on instinct, tangling hard at the roots as your legs fell further apart. He licked you open with deliberate slowness, dragging his tongue over every inch of your folds — soft, wet, thorough — before sealing his lips around your clit again and sucking with sinful precision.
“Jesus, fuck—Greg, what the hell—?”
“Had a dream,” he muttered between kisses. “Woke up starving.” Then he buried his face in you again like he meant to live there. His tongue licked in deep now — not just teasing the surface, but pressing into your entrance, gathering your slick and groaning. He nuzzled into you like he couldn’t get close enough, open-mouthed kisses on your folds, sucking and licking and dragging his stubbled jaw across your inner thighs until your skin was red and flushed with heat. You whimpered something half-formed, one hand fisting in the couch cushion, the other still rooted in his hair.
“Gonna cum—Greg—fuck, you’re gonna make me—”
He doubled down. His mouth closed around your clit with purpose now, tongue flicking with fast, precise pressure — just the right rhythm, just the right amount of pressure, the kind of motion that dragged orgasms out of you whether you were ready or not. Your hips bucked. He held you steady, arms like iron bands around your thighs, nose buried against your mound as he moaned into you like your pleasure was his own. You came— sudden, violent, shaking. Your thighs trembled against his cheeks. Your back arched off the couch. You cried out his name, loud and raw, and he held you through every second, licking you gently through the aftershocks, tongue soothing over your folds as you panted and trembled beneath him. But he wasn’t finished. He didn’t let go of your thighs. Didn’t move. Just kissed your pussy again, slower now, softer — almost reverent.
“Again,” he whispered. Your breath caught.
“House—”
“I’m not done with you.”
Your stomach twisted. The good kind. The molten kind. He spread your folds with his thumbs and went back in. This time was slower. Not gentler — just more methodical. His tongue moved in wide, lazy circles, flicking and lapping and sucking with a control that made your toes curl. He alternated now — broad licks along your slit, followed by sharp, direct flicks on your clit. He learned every reaction. Every gasp. Every twitch. He drank them in like they were gospel. And the way he moaned? Like your pussy was his favorite food.
When you came again — not quite as violently, but just as sweet — he pulled one of your thighs over his shoulder and angled his mouth just so, dragging the orgasm out like honey from the comb. He didn’t stop licking until you were too sensitive to bear it, hips twitching away from his mouth, hands pawing at his hair. Only then did he finally lift his head. His lips were swollen, chin slick, eyes wild. You looked at him through hazy, fucked-out eyes, chest heaving, skin flushed.
He smirked. “Good morning.”
---
He was sprawled out beneath you, one arm over his eyes, breathing slowly through parted lips like he hadn’t just spent the last half hour wrecking you with his mouth. You were still shaking a little. Your thighs were tacky with slick, inner muscles trembling faintly every time you moved. He'd worked you open with tongue and teeth like he was starving, leaving you boneless and flushed and soaked. He hadn’t even asked for anything in return. He’d just eaten you like a man with no other purpose — licking you through two orgasms, murmuring things into your pussy, and then collapsing against your thighs with a hum of satisfaction. It was time to return the favor.
Your hand slid over his stomach — bare, warm, marked by age and strength and lazy muscle. He flinched slightly at the touch, not out of discomfort, but from how sensitive he’d become in the aftermath. You smiled softly and leaned over, kissing his stomach just below the curve of his ribs.
“You awake?” you murmured, lips brushing his skin.
He cracked one eye open. “No,” he rasped. “Still dreaming. Except now the angel’s on my side of the bed.”
You huffed a quiet laugh against his hip, then kissed lower, just above the waistband of his boxers. His body twitched.
“I’m gonna take care of you,” you whispered. “Lie back.”
He smirked. “You always say that before things go obscenely well for me.”
You didn’t bother responding. You just slid your fingers beneath his waistband and tugged down slowly — revealing inch after inch of him, from the faint trail of hair at his pelvis to the heavy weight of his cock resting hard and flushed against his stomach. Still hard. Still leaking.
“Fuck,” you whispered, wrapping your hand around the base, giving him one long, slow stroke.
His hips jerked. A soft grunt punched from his throat. You leaned in and pressed your lips to the head, barely a kiss — just the softest, warmest brush of your mouth against him. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. You kissed him again, and again, slow and open-mouthed, dragging your tongue over the slit to taste the bead of precum gathered there. He groaned, deep and raw. And then you sank your mouth over him. You didn’t rush it. Didn’t bob your head or force the rhythm. You just lowered yourself slow, inch by inch, wrapping your lips tighter as you slid down, your tongue swirling under the shaft, hand stroking the rest while you sucked.
“Fuck,” he breathed, hand coming to your head instinctively. “Jesus Christ.”
You hummed in response, the sound vibrating down his length, and he bucked up just a little, hips twitching. You took him deeper. Your throat opened, breath slow through your nose, and you swallowed around him with practiced care, letting spit drip from your lips to coat what you couldn’t reach. You loved this. Loved the way he sounded — breathless, ragged, low growls and choked curses. Loved how his stomach clenched beneath your hand. Loved the stretch of him in your throat and the salty-slick taste of him on your tongue. But more than anything, you loved the way he watched you.
When you glanced up, his eyes were half-lidded, glazed with lust, lips parted, hair mussed against the couch pillow. He looked completely undone. And you weren’t even finished yet. You pulled off with a pop, breath ragged, mouth shiny with spit.
“You good?” you asked, eyes gleaming.
“Not unless you’re planning to kill me by suction,” he rasped.
You grinned. “Not quite.”
You kissed down his shaft, over the base, then lower — nuzzling into the soft skin of his balls, licking slow and deep until he let out a desperate, half-strangled groan. You suckled one into your mouth, hands stroking his thighs slowly, firmly, holding him in place as he twitched and gasped. “Holy fuck—” Then you went lower. You lifted his legs slowly — one hand hooked behind his knee, the other stroking his thigh — and spread him open with care. He froze for a second, breath catching. You looked up at him.
“Okay?” you asked softly, voice low, reverent.
His jaw flexed. His eyes locked with yours. “…You better not stop.”
You kissed the inside of his thigh, then again, lower, tracing a slow path with your tongue down to that sweet spot just below his balls. You licked there — broad and wet — then dipped lower, watching the way his whole body jerked, the way his breath punched out of him like he’d been struck. And then you licked his ass. Soft at first — one long, deliberate stroke from base to rim — and then again, firmer, flicking the tip of your tongue around the tight ring of muscle, teasing, pressing just enough to make his hips twitch. “Jesus—fuck—oh my god—” He sounded absolutely wrecked. You ate him slowly, methodically — tongue lapping over his rim in slow, steady circles, then dipping in shallowly, pulling out to suck and tease and lick again.
His thighs trembled in your hands. His cock pulsed against his stomach, leaking and flushed dark. You reached up with one hand and began to stroke him again, slow and firm, while your mouth worked him open. You moaned softly against him, tongue pressing deeper, and he cried out, voice broken.
“God, you’re gonna make me—fuck, I’m—”
But you didn’t stop. You licked him harder, faster — mouth fucking him with desperate hunger now, your hand stroking him faster in rhythm, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet room.
“I’m coming, I’m gonna—”
His whole body shook. His thighs snapped tight around your head, one hand fisting in the couch cushions, the other covering his mouth as he came hard over his stomach, hips jerking up off the couch. You kept stroking, kept licking, swallowing every twitch and gasp and grunt like you were starving for him, only pulling back when his body went limp beneath your mouth. He collapsed. Utterly, completely wrecked. You kissed your way back up his thighs, then over his hip, and laid your head on his chest, hand trailing up to scratch lightly at his side. His fingers curled in your hair.
“You,” he rasped, still breathless, “are a menace.”
You smiled against his skin. “Love you too, Greg.”