From the creators of 'I couldn't tell Charlie and Knox apart the first time I watched' we present 'A fic made me realize Nolan and McAlister were actually different characters'
Summary: Ever since you started taking SSRIs you had troubles in your sex life. Basically... You haven't got a proper release for months, not mentioning an actual good sex you haven't had for the past few years. One day you decide that your friend James Wilson might be a good chance to help you out...
Whoever dropped this plot in in my askbox fellas I'm so grateful this really made me feel funny :>>>
You don’t really know why you invited James Wilson over tonight. Maybe because your apartment has been too quiet lately, maybe because the kettle was already on, maybe because he said something stupid-but-sweet in the cafeteria earlier that made you feel less like the shell of a woman you’ve been walking around as these past few weeks.
Now he’s on your couch, long legs folded neatly, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that you’re ninety percent sure he doesn’t even like, but he’s polite enough to drink it anyway.
“Okay,” he says, eyeing you over the steam. “You’ve been sighing for the last ten minutes. Either you’re auditioning for an opera, or something’s wrong.”
You try to laugh, but it cracks in your throat. “I’m fine.”
Wilson lifts one eyebrow — that infuriatingly patient, oncologist expression that says he’s already spotted the tumor and he’s just waiting for you to stop denying the symptoms.
“You’re not fine.”
The silence between you stretches. You clutch your mug like it’s a lifeline. You tell yourself not to say it. It’s humiliating, pathetic. The words buzz in your throat anyway, like a swarm waiting to sting.
Finally, you put the mug down on the coffee table before your hands can betray the shaking. “It’s just—” You stop, swallow. “God, this is embarrassing.”
Wilson softens. “Hey. It’s me. Embarrassing is my middle name.”
“Pretty sure it’s actually Evan,” you mutter.
“Touché. Now talk.”
You stare at your lap. “I’m… frustrated.”
“That’s vague.”
“Sexually frustrated.”
The words fall out of you like a confession at gunpoint. Your face burns so hot you almost want to hide under the couch cushions. You expect him to cough, to laugh, to excuse himself politely and never come over again.
Instead, Wilson goes still.
You keep talking, because if you stop you’ll implode. “It’s the meds. SSRIs. They kill your sex drive, and if they don’t kill it, they kill your ability to… you know. Finish. I haven’t had sex in months. And it’s been years since it was actually good. I just—” Your throat tightens, traitorous tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I feel like I’m broken. Like I’m not even a real woman anymore, just this useless doll who can’t—”
Your voice breaks. You slap a hand over your mouth, horrified.
Wilson sets his mug down gently. He leans forward, reaches across the small space, and takes your hand. His palm is warm, grounding.
“Hey,” he says softly. “I know what that’s like.”
You blink at him, disbelieving.
He gives a small, self-deprecating smile. “When I was on antidepressants after… well, after my second divorce. Same problem. It’s not your fault. It’s not some moral failing. It’s brain chemistry playing a cruel joke.”
The tears finally spill, hot and humiliating. You try to pull your hand away, but he holds on.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re okay.”
There’s a beat of silence where you just breathe, trying to stitch yourself back together. Then Wilson sighs, hesitant, his thumb stroking over your knuckles like he’s weighing something dangerous.
“Look,” he says finally. “This might sound… insane. But, as your friend—” He winces a little on the word, like he knows it’s always meant more. “I could… help.”
Your breath catches. “Help? You mean… me and you?”
Wilson blushes. Actually blushes. He looks away for a moment, ears pink, then back at you. “Yeah. I mean. My ex-wives never complained. Quite the opposite, really. Statistically speaking, I’ve got good reviews.” He attempts a weak smile. “I’m not saying I’d cure the side effects of your medication, but… I could give you some release. If you wanted.”
You’re stunned into silence. The offer, the casual-but-not-casual way he says it, the sheer audacity of this man who can’t even choose a brand of coffee without agonizing — it’s overwhelming.
And yet, you hear yourself whisper, “Well… okay.”
His shoulders drop with relief, though his eyes are still cautious, searching. Then he whispers, almost conspiratorial: “Come here.”
You shift closer, heart hammering, until his arm snakes around your waist and suddenly you’re in his lap. The position makes you gasp, but then his mouth is on yours, gentle, testing. He tastes like tea and hesitation.
You kiss back, trembling, and that’s all the permission he needs. His hands move — steady, practiced — sliding your sweater up and over your head. Before you can even protest, your bra is unhooked with one-handed oncologist precision.
You pull back, breathless. “Show-off.”
“Fine motor skills,” he says against your throat, before his mouth closes around your nipple. The sharp, wet heat makes you moan.
Wilson’s hand lingers at your waist for a moment, hesitant, before sliding lower. He fumbles with your zipper — muttering a quiet curse into your hair.
“Why do women’s jeans have more locks than Fort Knox?”
You laugh, a nervous hiccup of a sound, but it breaks the tension. Then the zipper yields, and his fingers slip inside.
The first brush of his hand against you makes your whole body jolt. His fingertips graze over thin cotton, warm and searching, and he pauses like he’s giving you one last chance to say no. But you can’t. You don’t want to.
“James…” It comes out as a whisper, shaky and needy.
That’s all the encouragement he needs. He slides beneath your underwear, and suddenly there’s nothing between his skin and yours. His fingers find you wet — embarrassingly wet, considering how nervous you are — and he lets out a surprised little hum against your lips.
“See?” he murmurs. “Not broken.”
The words unravel something inside you. You kiss him harder as his thumb presses gently over your clit, circling, clumsy at first but quickly finding a rhythm that makes your hips buck into his hand. You moan into his mouth, a sound you didn’t expect to make, and he swallows it like it’s a secret meant only for him.
One finger eases inside, slow, careful. You gasp at the stretch, not from discomfort but from the intimacy of it — the shocking realization that this is James Wilson, your friend, filling you. He watches your face closely, his own cheeks flushed, like he’s cataloging every flicker of pleasure and filing it away for later.
“Okay?” he asks softly.
You nod quickly, words tangled in your throat. “Better than okay.”
He smiles at that, almost boyish, and slides the finger deeper before curling it. The angle makes you shudder, a sharp, involuntary cry escaping your lips.
Encouraged, he adds a second finger, stretching you further. His movements are deliberate, steady — not rushed, not rough, just insistent enough to drive you crazy. He kisses along your jaw, your neck, while his wrist works between your thighs. You clutch at his shirt, nails digging into the fabric, pulling him closer with every roll of his hand.
“Oh god, James—”
“Shh,” he soothes, though he’s breathing hard too. “I’ve got you.”
The pressure builds, delicious and unbearable, but the meds dull the edge. No matter how close you feel, something holds you back. Your body tightens around his fingers, desperate, but release doesn’t come.
You whimper in frustration, forehead pressed to his. “I— I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t—”
He stills for a second, then kisses you gently, reassuringly. His fingers don’t leave you; they just slow, stroking instead of thrusting.
“Don’t apologize,” he whispers. “You’re doing amazing. We’ll get there. Together.”
He lets you grind against his hand at your own pace, thumb teasing, fingers filling you, giving you the illusion of control. His eyes never leave your face — focused, intent, like he’s more captivated by your reactions than the act itself.
By the time his wrist starts to ache and his movements falter, you’re both flushed, panting, trembling against each other. He chuckles lowly, pressing a kiss to your swollen lips, his voice rough but warm:
“Okay,” he smirks, pulling his hand free with a soft, wet sound. “That’s round one. Let’s take this to the bed before my wrist files for workers’ comp.”
The joke makes you laugh breathlessly, but your body is still humming from his touch. When he stands, offering you his hand, you take it without hesitation.
The bedroom feels suddenly smaller when you both step inside. Your heartbeat is too loud in your ears, and you keep expecting him to trip over his own feet, declare this is a terrible idea, and flee. But Wilson doesn’t. He just looks at you, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and almost luminous in the low lamplight. There’s a shine there — not lust alone, but something gentler, deeper.
It makes you melt, and it terrifies you at the same time.
On the bed, he climbs over you carefully, like he’s afraid to press down too hard. Missionary feels safe, familiar. His lips find yours again, sweeter now, less frantic. He eases into you slowly, stretching you open inch by inch, his forehead pressed to yours. The first deep push makes your body gasp against his, your nails clutching at his back.
“Okay?” he whispers, eyes searching yours.
You nod, breathless. “More than okay.”
He exhales shakily, then starts moving — slow at first, rocking his hips into yours, the kind of rhythm that feels good but never quite tips you over. It’s maddening. You clutch his shoulders, tilting your hips to meet him, trying to catch the spark.
It’s there. It’s always just there. On the edge. Teasing you. But it won’t break.
After a few frustrating minutes, you shake your head, desperate. “James… wait. Stop a second.”
He freezes instantly, concern flooding his face. “Did I hurt you?”
“No—no, god, no. You’re amazing. It’s just…” You swallow, embarrassed. “I think we need to try something else. If I’m on my stomach… it’ll be deeper. That might help.”
For a second, he just blinks. Then a crooked smile tugs at his lips. “You know, for someone who was embarrassed five minutes ago, you’re awfully good at giving me directions.”
You swat his shoulder, laughing breathlessly. “Shut up and help me roll over.”
He obeys, adjusting you gently onto your stomach. You feel the mattress dip as he settles behind you, spreading your legs with careful hands. When he slides back inside, the difference is immediate. You moan into the pillow, the angle stretching you in ways that make your toes curl.
Wilson braces himself, leaning down to kiss between your shoulder blades, then your neck, his breath warm on your skin. His hand flattens against your stomach, pressing down so you feel him deep, every inch of him filling you.
“Oh god, James…”
“You feel incredible,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost reverent. “So tight around me… You’re perfect.”
The praise makes you shiver, makes you ache more, makes you want to give him something back — but still, the release won’t come. You’re hovering, body trembling with the strain of being held just shy of it.
You whimper, frustrated. “It’s close, but it’s not… enough.”
Wilson stops, breath ragged, sweat glistening at his temple. His eyes are impossibly soft when you glance back over your shoulder.
“Okay,” he pants, nodding quickly. “We’ll change it again. I’ve got an idea. Come here.”
You blink, dazed. “What?”
He sits back on his heels, hair mussed, chest rising and falling. There’s a shyness in his expression that makes him look almost boyish, though his cock is still hard and slick with you. “Ride me. You’ll have more control — your muscles will do most of the work. It might… tip things over.”
“You… really thought this through,” you say.
“Three marriages,” he quips, hands stroking your hips. “You pick up a few tricks.”
You hesitate, biting your lip. But the hope in his eyes, the certainty in his voice — you can’t resist. You straddle him, and he steadies you with hands at your hips, guiding you slowly down onto him again. The stretch steals your breath.
This time, you set the pace. You roll your hips, testing, searching for friction. Wilson groans beneath you, head falling back against the headboard. His hands trail up your sides, cupping your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples until your body jolts with every touch.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, looking up at you like you’re something holy. His big, shining eyes are wide, dark with lust but still so tender it nearly undoes you. You could drown in that gaze.
You try to keep moving, finding a rhythm, but it’s exhausting. The muscles in your thighs burn, your pace falters. Your head drops forward, sweat dampening your hairline.
“James,” you moan, trembling. “I’m almost there… I can’t— I can’t keep moving.”
His grip on your hips tightens. His own chest is slick with sweat, his face flushed, eyes glassy with effort and devotion.
“Yeah, yeah— I’ve got you,” he pants, and suddenly he’s thrusting up into you from below, hard, fast, driving the air from your lungs. “Don’t stop. You’re right there, sweetheart. Just a little more.”
The words — praise, filthy, desperate — pour out of him, and it lights something inside you.
“So tight for me. Taking me so well. You’re perfect. You’re not broken, you’re mine right now.”
Your body finally, finally gives. The tension in your core snaps like a wire pulled too tight, and the release crashes over you so hard you cry out his name, shaking in his arms.
Wilson holds you through it, hips pumping, one hand circling your clit, the other pinning you down as if he’ll carry you through to the very end by force of will alone.
When it fades, you collapse against him, boneless, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His heart thunders against your chest.
He kisses your hair, voice rough and trembling. “Told you I was good in bed.”
You laugh, breathless, clinging to him. “You’re insufferable.”
But when you finally dare to look at him, his smile is soft, almost shy — and his eyes, big and glistening, are so full of care it makes your chest ache.
prguitarman
andulkaphoto
2087
origamiaround
titsay
