blake kathryn
One Nice Bug Per Day
YOU ARE THE REASON
wallacepolsom
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
we're not kids anymore.
Three Goblin Art
occasionally subtle
Sade Olutola
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Andulka
Xuebing Du
i don't do bad sauce passes
tannertan36
No title available
AnasAbdin
@theartofmadeline
Love Begins
Janaina Medeiros
Mike Driver
seen from Malaysia
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seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
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seen from Germany
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@galadoesart
Hello and welcome to my blog where I post my artwork and written works for various male characters/celebrities, if you do enjoy seeing my creations here, your likes/reblogs are very much appreciated. 🤎
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Writing status: on hiatus, but will return eventually.
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Newly Discovered Desires
Cruise x Reader
~★~❤︎~✦~
“Why don't you come back to my place and we can recreate last night’s activities”
You spent most of your time cooped up in this building. Drinking terrible coffee and eating take out. Even when you left work all you wanted to do was relax, a stressful job will do that. So your social life outside of work was completely non existing, and your romantic life only existed in the books you read. You were okay with that though because your books were plenty or at least you thought they were.
After a rough day at work T.C. invited everyone out, offering to buy the first round. After the first round there was a second round and by the four your night started to blur. That was your first mistake. The mistake that led to the main mistake, the huge mistake.
All you needed was your romance books, at least that's what you thought. Now at this moment you're beginning to doubt your previous belief. Cause the feeling of his hands running up your shirt, and his lips grazing your neck sent your senses into overdrive in a way words on a page never could.
The alcohol in your system only amplifies your reaction to his touch. Never in a million years did you think you would let HIM of all people kiss you. He's a cocky ass, the only reason you tolerate him is because he's good at his job, but tolerating someone is a long way from letting them see you naked. Yet here you are moaning into his mouth. Unbuttoning his shirt and begging him to hurry up.
That's the last thing you remember, the next day. As soon as you wake up a headache immediately greets you making you groan. The previous night was a blur but the things you did remember couldn’t possibly be true. There's absolutely no way you would kiss him let alone take him back to your apartment. That's what you believed until you opened your eyes and saw him lying next to you. The sight has you jumping out of bed.
The sudden movement has him, Cruise lifting his head. He lazily flips over making eye-contact with you. He takes a moment to process what's happening and when he finally does he doesn’t seem horrified. In fact he seems the opposite, he's cocky, his signature smirk on his face. “Well isn’t this a sight to see” he eyes you up and down. You finally take a second to see what you're wearing and the sight has you cringing. You're dressed in his white button up and only his white button up.
You reach for the blanket only for Cruise to yank the blanket back. Of course even in a situation like this he's a jerk. “Jesus, how much did I have to drink to overlook your being a jerk?”
“Probably the same amount as me since I forgot just how bitchy you can be.” you openly gasp at him. Before staring at him with a glare that would send anyone running but Cruise just smiles at you before falling to your bed again.
“I’m going to shower and when I come out you're going to be gone and we will never mention this again to anyone” there was an underlying threat to your words one you made sure he picked up on.
“I need to shower too so why don’t we save water”
“Cruise I’m being serious for all we know nothing happened so there's no need to bring it up again” Yeah maybe the two of you only kissed and you're wearing his shirt because you got hot in the middle of the night and his shirt was the closest thing to you. You were already forcing yourself to believe your unlikely narrative.
“Yeah you're right I’m sure we just passed out and this condom in the trash is unrelated” Your heart stops your rounding the bed and checking in the trash can to find said condom. “Oh my mistake there's actually two condoms still it could be just a coincidence.”
“Okay fine we slept together, still this changes nothing.” You were determined to sweep this under the rug. If anyone ever found out about this you would never hear the end of it.
“Understood, I wouldn’t want anyone finding out about this incident either” You knew why you didn’t want anyone to find out about you and him but you didn’t think he wouldn’t want people to know. What's so bad about sleeping with you? STOP! You clear your mind, take a breath, you don’t care why he doesn’t want people to know. It's good for you that he wants to keep this secret too. Now you can take your shower and not worry that when you get to work everyone will be whispering.
With one final look at Cruise you slip into the bathroom. You're finally able to take a survey of your appearance. Your hair is a mess and a trail of purple marks on your neck slips below the neckline of your, his shirt. You're slipping off the shirt in a hurry, allowing you to see the full extent of last night's activities. Your body is decorated with various purple marks, a mixture of bruises and hickeys.
He's quick to pull your shirt off, trailing kisses on the newly exposed skin. With every kiss you feel yourself get more and more lost in his touch.
The memory has you shivering you just need to wash off last night. Put it behind you and never think of it again.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK
“I need my shirt” you pick up the shirt cracking the bathroom door and slipping it through the bathroom door. You wait by the door waiting to hear the click of the front door. Once you hear it you finally get in the shower.
~~~
Cruise said he wouldn't tell anyone and while you wanted to believe him you still found yourself hesitant to actually walk into work. If you didn’t hurry you would be late, gathering all your courage you finally pushed open the doors.
You're thankful that you made it all the way to your area without anyone giving you knowing looks. It seems he was able to keep his mouth shut after all.
The rest of your day went smoothly, an average normal day. After your morning/night you're more than thankful for your boring day. Now your going to go home and end your day with delicious food and a good movie.
“Hey sweetheart, are you heading out?” Of course he has to ruin your night.
“Since when do you call me sweetheart?”
“It seems only fitting now that I know just how sweet you taste” a blush covers your face at his words. Cruise smiles at your reaction, taking pride in making you blush.
“I thought we both agreed to not mention last night ever again”
“That was before I remembered all about last night” that wasn’t fair, you could only remember snippets from last night but if Cruise could remember all of it he has the upper hand. “Why don't you come back to my place and we can recreate last nights activities”
“Cruise, i thought i made this crystal clear i want nothing to do with you” you words were harsh but you needed to make sure they cut through his thick skull.
“Okay fine I’ll just return your underwear tomorrow then” it took you a moment to process his words but when you did your gasping. He stole your underwear, what a pervert.
“You stole my underwear?”
“Of course not I borrowed them, as insurance”
“….” You pause for a moment trying to process his words. As insurance, what sane person steals someone's underwear as insurance. Just as you're about to tell him to bring them tomorrow you freeze for a moment. If the last five seconds of this conversation is anything to go by, Cruise is insane. You could already picture him strolling into work and dropping the item in your lap for everyone to see. Even thinking about it was making you embarrassed. No you would have to get them yourself which unfortunately meant going to his place.
~~
Cruise had been talking non-stop as soon as you sat down. Making the drive to his place excruciatingly long. You were already pouting at the thought of having to do it again. Cruise refused to give you his address so you were forced to ride in his car. Finally you arrive at his place, it's nicer than you thought it was going to be. “Go get them” you don’t plan on spending a second longer here than you have to.
“Why don’t you have a drink first?”
“I don’t plan on drinking ever again” he chuckles a little, mumbling something along the lines of ‘oh well I tried’. He heads to the back part of the apartment opening what you're assuming is his bedroom. You wait as patiently as you can for him to reemerge. He comes from the bedroom, your underwear hanging off his pointer finger. As soon as he’s close your reaching for them only for him to yank them away from you. You should have known it wasn’t going to be easy. You reach for them once more, even if it is futile. His 6’0 ass is holding them way above his head. Before you resort to kicking him in his groin you decide to try and sneak attack him. You pretend to give up walking away from him. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, he’s still holding them way above his head. He barely has time to register you running full speed at him, jumping into his arms. Both of you go crashing into the fall, at the last second Cruise is able to steady the two of you. “Are you trying to kill me?” His words are breathless as he tries to catch his breath. You're not focusing on him, however your attention on the underwear balled in his hand that now rests on your hip. You're pulling them from his grasp before he even knows what's happening.
“I win” you say cheerfully, tucking your newly found clothing item in your pocket. Cruise is too focused on your smile to be mad about you winning.
“Did you? I’m the one that has you in my arms” his fingers dig into your hips reminding you of the bruises that already rest there.
“That's enough of that, just put me down so you can drop me back off” You try to wiggle out of his grasp but his grip only tightens. You're prepared to tell him off for not putting you down. The words die on your tongue as soon as you lock eyes with him. ‘He has no business looking at me like that’ you think to yourself.
“Can’t I have a kiss, you did almost kill me” You didn’t feel bad, he deserved it for holding your underwear hostage, so why are you leaning in.
The kiss turns heated instantly, your hands tangling themselves in his soft hair. While his fingers continue to dig into the flesh of your hips. He pulls away, placing kisses over neck. In between each kiss you hear him mumble ‘Can’t believe that worked’
You can’t believe you fell for that cheesy line either. Yet here you are in Cruises arms once again. Turns out his mouth is useful for more than snarky remarks. Your curious what other things he’s been keeping secret…
★⋆ Carpe Diem, Dummy⋆ ★
Neil Perry x GN!Reader
word count: 1.7K summary: You’re the only one who seems to notice how Neil isn’t quite himself after his father’s visits. One late-night chat in a secluded spot on the campus turns into a heart-to-heart about dreams, fears and choosing oneself. a/n: First Neil Perry fanfic! I got the DPS book for Christmas and I can’t stop thinking about him. warnings: Angst with comfort and a happy ending. Neil doesn’t shoot himself after A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Mr. Keating isn’t fired.
Today was one of those days that Neil’s father decided to show up unannounced.
You were all hanging around in Neil and Todd’s room, studying for an upcoming Latin test that you were all sure you were going to fail. You hadn’t been able to go out to the cave since it was pouring, and the study hall was packed with those who usually studied outside, so Meeks had managed to sneak some whiteboards from the lab into the dorms and had started to attempt to teach everyone the Latin content.
The only ones actually paying attention were Neil, Todd, and you. Charlie was too busy doodling women’s busts in his notebook, Knox was writing poems for Chris, and Pitts was just there. Cameron hadn’t been invited to the club this time, since Charlie was pissed at him.
“I still don’t get it.” Charlie actually looked up at Meeks, who huffed.
”Charlie—you’re not even paying attention. It’s Agricola, Agriculturae, Agriculturae, Agriculturāum—“
”I give up!” Charlie collapses backward against the bed and you can’t help but chuckle.
”You’ll get the hang of it soon, Charlie.” Neil speaks up. Suddenly, a knock was heard on the door.
“I’ll get it.” Todd stood up from his bed, waiting for Meeks to hide the whiteboards, in case it was a teacher, before opening the door. On the other side, looming over him, stood Mr. Perry, with his signature frown. Neil immediately noticed him, tensing up.
”A word, Neil?” Mr. Perry spoke up. Neil stood up with a faint frown, that nobody but you seemed to notice. He walked over to the door and exited the dorm, with Mr. Perry closing the door right behind him.
Nobody spoke about what had happened, and you couldn’t help glance at Todd, who was staring back at you with a concerned expression.
You didn’t see Neil until well into dinner.
When the bell rang, all of you left the dorm and headed towards the main lunchroom, but Neil was nowhere to be seen in the dorm building’s halls. Even when all of you arrived in the lunchroom and grabbed your dinner trays, you couldn’t focus on Charlie’s bickering or Knox’s lovesick comments. The only thing on your mind was Neil, and where the hell he was.
You picked at your food, your mind so preoccupied that you didn’t notice Neil arrive and sit down next to you until you heard his voice.
”Hey guys, missed me?” Neil smiled, yet you noticed how it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
You jumped a little, fork clinking against the tray. For half a second, relief flooded your chest, warm, dizzying, and stupidly intense.
“Wow,” Charlie said, leaning back. “We thought you got abducted by your father.”
Knox laughed a little too loud. “Or ran away to Broadway without telling us.”
“Tempting, but impossible.” Neil chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “The Broadway part, not the ‘being abducted by my father’ part.”
You didn’t laugh. You just stared at him, eyebrows furrowing together before you could stop yourself. “Where were you?”
The whole table went silent. Suddenly Charlie became very interested in his plate, and Meeks and Pitts stopped talking about free radio. Neil hesitantly took a bite off his plate and spoke up without looking up.
”Just had to talk with my father.” He practically muttered.
You tilted your head. “Neil.” One word. That was all. But it landed heavily.
He finally met your eyes, and his smile faltered the slightest bit. Close enough that if you weren’t looking for it, you’d miss it. But you were looking. You had been looking all night.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, too quickly. “Promise.”
Charlie opened his mouth, probably to say something sarcastic, but Todd shot him a look and he shut up, which was rare. Instead, Charlie started chatting again with Knox, and everyone seemed to drop the subject. Everyone except for you.
You leaned closer, lowering your voice as you whispered into his ear. “You don’t look fine.”
Neil exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. Almost.
“You sound like my dad.” He said, too quick to process it.
Then immediately, regret flashed across his face the second he noticed what he had said.
Oh. There it was.
Your chest tightened. You didn’t push; you knew not to. Instead, you nudged his knee under the table, a quiet “I’m here” without making a whole scene.
“Okay,” you said softly. “Then eat. We’ll talk later.”
Neil’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction. He nodded, grateful, and for the first time since he sat down, his smile looked a little more real.
“Yeah,” he said. “Later.”
Dinner went by as usual. You talked about what to do at the next society meeting, criticized Dr. Hager and Mr. McAllister, and even practiced your homework verses for Mr. Keating’s lesson. When the bell rang and everyone started to get up and take their trays back to the kitchen, Neil tried to get away, but you grabbed his arm before he could.
”You agreed to talk later.” You stop him from leaving with Todd, which earns you a groan.
”Where do you want to talk? We’re going to get killed if we’re caught sneaking out,” he protests.
”Which is why we’re not sneaking out. We’re staying inside the campus. There are no rules that prevent us from being outside our dorms until midnight.” You slightly pull on his arm. He looks up at the clock at the entrance of the lunchroom. It was 9:30 PM. Damn it.
“Okay okay—“ he grumbled. “Lead the way.”
You allow him to set down his tray on the kitchen window before pulling him out the side door, the group long forgotten behind. The cool night air hit both of you, and you couldn’t help but shiver. With a fierce determination to get the answers you so desperately needed, you dragged Neil to a secluded bench in the courtyard, the only light illuminating both of you was the one of the distant full moon.
”Seems like there’s a full moon today.” Neil comments as he sits down.
“Stop avoiding the elephant in the room.” You cut him off, standing up in front of him with your arms crossed. “What’s going on?”
He looked down, his feet kicking a pebble on the path, and your expression softened. You sigh and uncross your arms, sitting next to him and gently setting your hand on his shoulder.
”Come on Neil, you know you can talk to me. We’re all worried about you. I’m worried about you.” You speak up tenderly, rubbing his shoulder.
“My dad has my whole life planned already.” He pauses. “Medical school at Harvard for ten years and then a doctorate in whatever obscure thing he finds. He doesn’t even ask what I want to do!” He kicks another pebble harder.
You remain silent, bordering on speechless. The silence stretches.
”Not like he cares what I want anyways.” He mutters dejectedly.
“That’s not true—“ You start, but he interrupts you.
”Yes it is! It’s like—no matter how hard I try, it’s never enough for him.” He lets out a choked sigh. “It never will.”
Neil is quiet for a long time. His jaw tightens, and you can feel the tension in his shoulder beneath your hand. He stares straight ahead at the path, eyes unfocused, like he’s somewhere else entirely.
“My dad doesn’t listen,” he finally says. His voice is low, careful, like if he speaks too loudly everything might shatter. “He decides what I’m going to be before I even get a chance to figure it out myself.”
He lets out a humorless laugh and shakes his head. “He calls it concern. Says it’s for my future. But it feels like I’m suffocating.” His fingers curl into the fabric of his pants. “When I played Puck in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’—on top of the stage—I felt alive. Something I haven’t felt in ages.”
Neil swallows hard, blinking rapidly. “I keep wondering what I did wrong. Why can’t I just be what he wants?” His shoulders sag, exhaustion written all over him. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending this doesn’t matter.”
The silence between you is so thick, someone could cut it with a knife. Seeing your lack of response, Neil sighs.
”Forget it. It’s stupid.” He stands up, but you stop him halfway through.
”Carpe Diem.” You finally speak up.
Neil pauses, expecting anything but you quoting Mr. Keating. “What?”
”Carpe Diem, dummy! Seize the day!” You stand up in front of him, and he stares at you in utter bewilderment.
He blinks twice, letting out a shocked chuckle. “You actually mean it.”
”Of course. Our time here is limited; who cares what the rest thinks?” You reach out both hands for him to take, but he hesitates.
”You think that I can just… choose?” He finally looks up at you and you smile, nodding.
“I’m being serious, Neil. You don’t have to live your life for anyone else.”
He blinks hard twice, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I thought you were just trying to make me feel better.”
You shake your head softly, voice steady. “No. I wouldn’t lie to you about this. You can do it. I know you can.”
His laugh is small, shaky, almost disbelieving. “And you… really mean that?”
“Yes,” you say, smiling gently. “Every word. Even if it scares the crap out of you.”
Neil exhales slowly, letting his shoulders relax for the first time in hours. His eyes meet yours, and he smiles, taking both of your hands and standing up.
”Carpe Diem then.” He nods with a wide smile. You yank him toward the grass, but your feet tangle and suddenly you’re both toppling, landing against the cool blades of grass. The world disappears under your laughter.
Both of you know that if anyone sees you outside, the trouble you’ll be in won’t be small, but under the stars and laying on the damp grass beside each other, you can’t bring yourselves to actually care.
With a faint smile, you look at him. “Carpe Diem, Neil Perry.”
And with an expression matching yours, he replies.
”Carpe Diem, dummy.”
Pharmaceutical Pining
James Wilson x Reader
Part two
Summary: After starting as a pharmacist at PPTH, a small romance starts to bloom between you and one of the doctors there.
Gn!Reader, brief mentions of drugs (in a pharmaceutical setting)
"And then you have to write it on this document here, so we have the records, and it's done," your new boss said, finishing her demonstration of how you gave out the medicines and recorded it. You already knew all of this, but you smiled and nodded politely. When she left you alone in the small store, you spent a few minutes mentally cataloguing where everything was when you heard the bell at the front desk ring.
You practically skipped over there, eager to have your first client at this hospital. When you got there, you were met with the sight of the most beautiful man you have ever seen. He had short brown hair with some waves running through it and some of the most kissable-looking lips you had seen on any person.
You must have been staring because eventually, he cleared his throat, bringing you back to reality. He handed you he note, saying that he needed some paracetamol. You blinked a few times before you smiled at him and went to find the medicine.
"Are you new here?" He suddenly asked while you were writing. You hadn't expected him to talk to you, leaving you to stumble over your words before you finally replied.
"Yes, I am, uhm..." You looked down at the paper he gave you, searching for his name. "... Doctor Wilson. Pleasure to meet you," you said with a triumphant smile once you found it.
"Nice to meet you too," he replied with a smile before taking the pill bottle and walking away. You knew then and there that you weren't going to forget him anytime soon.
~•●°●•~
The next days go by without anything exciting happening, just sorting the new medicine deliveries, keeping records, and giving out correct dosages. You were about to clock out and go home when Dr. Wilson (or James, as you saw his name was from the presciption note) came running to your front desk, nearly slipping before basically slamming down the prescription on the counter.
"You okay?" You asked him worringly. He nodded, out of breath. "Yeah, I just wanted to catch you before you closed. I didn't want to go all the way to the other side of the hospital. Plus, you're nicer than that other guy." You felt your mood jump up a million steps when he said that. You knew it probably mostly was to avoid walking, but he remembered you and thought you were nice.
Your heart was racing. You were sure that if you were connected to a heart monitor right now, it would explode. You got the prescription he had written down, nearly dropping the bottle from excitement when you gave it to him.
Somehow, your heart sped up even more when your fingers brushed each other.
~•●°●•~
Weeks pass, and you bump into him more often, nearly every day at some point. Today, you were sitting in the cafeteria, eating your lunch when you saw him appear in your field of vision. "Mind if I sit here?" He asked.
"No, go ahead," you replied, with minimal stumbling over your words. You looked down into your food, trying to hide the blush that spread on your face.
"How are you liking Princeton so far?" He asked, taking a bite of his food. "It's pretty good," you replied. "It might be because I work during the day now, but I feel like people are nicer here."
"You used to work night shifts?" He looked surprised.
"Yeah, I just needed the money back then, so night shifts were the easiest way," you admitted with a chuckle.
The conversation flowed easily from there, talking about your earlier jobs, life stories, and anything that popped up in your minds.
Eventually, Wilson's pager went off, and he excused himself, leaving you to yourself with only the memory of his voice stuck in your head.
~•●°●•~
A/N: I don't know anything about how phamacies in the US work, so I apologise for any mistakes, please feel free to correct me :)
Also this is kinda short, I might make a part two soon
"Giving Back"
[James Wilson x GN!Reader]
Warnings: nsft, wilson gets a b.j., reader has no specified gender but is called 'beautiful' Summary: Wilson always gives-- now it's time to receive. Or; you give Wilson a bj. Pairings: James Wilson x Gender-Neutral!Reader A/N: guys I love james wilson so much its not even funny. ive been fixated on him for like two years. help Fandom: House M.D. Word count: ~2300
“H-honey, what’re you—?” a muffled gasp interrupts Wilson’s question when his hand clamps over his mouth, fingers flexing tautly around his lips. His eyes are wide, almost wet with the way his eyes seem to glimmer, gazing down at you— and you? You’re knelt between his thighs, hardwood digging sharply into your knees without care from you. You had more important things to pay attention to… namely, the man sat in front of you on the plush couch with his knees already trembling.
Your hand trails up his slacks, taking the time to map along the seam of his thigh. You tear your eyes from his only to watch how his pants are beginning to tent. You cup the forming bulge, delighting in the way it kicks against your palm. His legs flex subtly, twitching to welcome you further in. His chubbed cock kicks again against the meat of your hand as you finally rub him through the fabric. “What do you mean?” you ask innocently, gaze flicking up to meet his through your lashes. You have half a mind to bat your eyes at him.
His eyes flutter shut briefly, a muffled grunt cushioning against his palm before his gaze meets yours again, now lidded. His warm eyes trail along your features, resting on your lips before moving to your hand, still curling around his rapidly hardening cock. “Y-you don’t have to…” his breathless reassurance trails off when you trace a single finger up his length, teasing his cock and the zipper of his slacks with the tip of your nail. You’re rewarded with a sharp gasp from him, his thighs jolting from the sensation.
“I want to,” you remind him, making a show of pinching the zipper before inching it down painstakingly slow. You shift to rest your cheek against the inside of his thigh, warmth seeping through the fabric and into your flushed skin. His hand drops from his mouth to worm underneath your cheek, cupping your face delicately. “Relax, Wilson,” you nuzzle into the palm of his hand, sighing softly as if you aren’t currently tugging his cock out of his slacks.
“Sorry,” he breathes out absently, pupils blown wide as you drag the pad of your finger teasingly over the tip of the straining bulge in his boxers, “Not very used to— ah—…“ He cuts himself off with a shaky gasp when you finally drag the waistband of his boxers down, “—Shit, this.”
His cock bounces free of the fabric, resting heavy on your palm as you admire how it twitches. You swear you can see him throb, pre-cum already drooling from the slit of his tip invitingly. “Exes never sucked you off?” you ask with a raise of your brow, letting the pad of your finger press against the bead of precum on the head, smearing it across the slit and making his hips kick up, “No wonder they’re exes.”
“They did, it’s just…” he trails off briefly and you watch his throat bob, “…been a while, is all.”
You hum noncommittally, raising your hand to admire the sticky line connecting your finger to his tip. You raise your finger higher, letting the slick break apart on its own before popping your finger into your mouth. You can hear the way his breath hitches, supported by his hand climbing from cupping your cheek to carding through your hair. You let your jaw drop open, letting him see the way your tongue curls around your finger, tasting him.
“Jesus,” his eyes are lidded with awe as he chuckles breathlessly, his cock twitching in front of you, “You’re…”
“Amazing? Groundbreaking?” you offer playfully after popping your finger out, a titter escaping you before you shift closer to his aching length. You don’t give him time to rebut your words before you’re wrapping your palm around his cock once again. You give him a nice, slow pump accompanied with a kitten lick to his slit and are rewarded with a moan from him— one that cracks halfway and leaves his voice suspiciously close to a whimper. Snapping your gaze up at the sound, you watch mischievously as his gaze darts away from you, clearing his throat.
“…Ignore that.”
“Absolutely not,” your grin widens when he groans, lifting a hand to cover his quickly reddening cheeks.
“Look, sweetie, you’ve been teasing me all day, o-of course I might—“ his words are quickly twisted into a strangled moan when you suddenly take the head of his cock into your mouth, one hand slipping up to cup his balls. You can see his eyes fluttering shut, giving up on the weak defense as his eyebrows pinch up in that familiar, delicious expression he gets whenever you tease him for a bit too long. A thought strikes you, and you can’t help the smirk that curls your lips from around his tip— he didn’t want to be teased? You could do that.
You take a deep breath in through your nose, pausing your ministrations and drawing his attention back down to you. Once his eyes meet yours, and only then, in one gulp you take his cock down your throat. You welcome the hot, swollen head of his dick to drag up your tongue and towards the back of your throat, nudging uncomfortably against the walls of your mouth. You barely suppress a gag, focusing on breathing in through your nose, relaxing your mouth… Still, you can’t help how your throat constricts around him with each swallow.
When you finally look back up at Wilson, his head is thrown back, jaw agape in a strained, broken moan. His fingers are flexing in your hair, still careful to not tug even in his blissed out state— his chest is heaving, pushing out each breath with effort as his thighs tremble and shake around your head.
“F-fuck, [Y/N]—!” he groans, hips twitching when you steady your forearm over his hips, restraining him from bucking up into your mouth, “Oh, shit, mhm—…” Wilson moans breathily as you swallow around his cock again, and you can feel the veins of his length throbbing where they rest against your tongue.
“If you keep going I’m gonna—“ he pauses to give a shuddering breath when you swirl your tongue around the underside of his cock, fingers clenching on your scalp as he gives a weak whine, “—c-cum way too soon…”
Instead of responding you meet his gaze through your lashes, gulping teasingly around his cock. His eyes are already on you, and you can’t help but think he looks beautiful like this: cheekbones flushed a delicate red, lips parted in his vain attempt to catch his breath, large brown eyes inspecting every feature of your expression… his cock kicks in your mouth just as he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he begins, a breathless moan tracing his words as he spreads his thighs further apart, “You want me to cum in your mouth? Like sucking me off? Yeah?”
Your hum of “mhm” sends vibrations through his thick cock, leaving you delighted in how his dick throbs in your mouth at the new sensation. You watch his eyes flutter shut briefly.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, carding his fingers through your hair as he attempts to grinds his hips further into your mouth, stopped only by your firm arm, “Absolutely gorgeous.”
You reward his praise by easing back off his length, slobbering your tongue over him until only the tip is settled in your mouth. You only give him a moment before bobbing your head all the way down again, hands tightening their bracketing of his thighs and forcing his hips still as you bob your head.
“Oh shit,” he gasps out, hands flying out to clench at the plush cushion of the couch, steadying him from your onslaught, “Y-you haven’t—“
“You haven’t cum yet,” are are the words he’s trying to choke out— you know all too well, as he practically demands you cum first every time you go down on him. If Wilson is anything, it’s considerate, almost painfully sweet— but you refuse to let him lift a finger right now. The thoughtfulness has a warmth swelling in your chest, a lewd mimicry of his cock swelling on your tongue, dribbles of pre-cum splashing into the back of your mouth.
Ignoring the burn in your nose, you gaze up at him, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around his length. He looks gorgeous like this, you think once again: cheeks flushed a deep red, thick eyebrows pinched up to match the way his mouth hangs open. Hair sticks to his forehead from the exertion, framing his big, wet brown eyes as they meet your gaze. His tongue slips out, wetting his lips as his gaze roams over your face. You don’t think you could ever get tired of seeing that.
His fingers move card through your hair, gentle in nature despite how they shake and tense. His eyes flutter shut as you constrict your throat around him, his head tipping to rest on the back cushion of the couch. “S-sweetie, slow down,“ he pants out, cock twitching violently inside your mouth, “I-I’m not gonna last if you keep—…”
His words have the opposite effect than intended. The idea of him spilling down your throat this fast? From you? God, you’re going to milk him dry tonight. You lift a hand to cup his balls, massaging them delicately in the way you know drives him crazy, corners of your mouth stretched into the closest form of a smile you could get. Your other hand slips down to pump the length of him that isn’t in your mouth, eliciting a strangled moan from above you.
His dazed, glassy eyes flutter shut at the action, and you can feel his thighs tremble from where they were framed your head. You hum around his cock, sending vibrations through the length as you work your hands tirelessly over his throbbing length. His cock kicks in your mouth at the same time his hips stutter, bucking and grinding into your mouth best he can. The way his voice is cracking into an almost whimper… he was close, and you could tell.
You take a long, deep breath through your nose, preparing yourself for your next action to tip him over the edge. You drop your head down once again, though this time your nose brushes against the coarse, trimmed hair at the base of his abdomen. He lets out broken moans and gasps, cock twitching violently on your tongue as his hands flex around the couch cushion. You let your hand that was previously pumping him slip around to cup his lower back, encouraging him deeper.
That finally tips him over the edge, hot cum spilling into your mouth as his hips grind up into you. His breathing is ragged, interrupted by cracked moans and whispered encouragement. “God, so good, always so good,” he breathes out as you keep your head down for a moment, swallowing with difficulty as his cum dribbles out of the corners of your mouth.
It’s only when you feel his thighs start twitching that you pull back, the breathy noises from him turning quickly to overstimulation. You let your jaw drop agape, showing him the head of his cock sitting pretty on your tongue as your hand pumps the rest of his cock, milking the last few drops from him.
Wilson’s chest is heaving as he empties himself into your mouth, his eyes struggling to choose between admiring you or squeezing shut at the intensity of the orgasm and how you work him through it. As he flops back against the couch, boneless, you delicately let his cock drop from your lips. One of his hands abandons clutching the cushion to thread through your hair, soothing.
“Thank you… I’ll… I’ll return the favor in a second,” he nearly wheezes, slumping back further into the couch before running his other hand through his damp locks, “Just gotta… catch my breath…”
“Don’t worry about it,” you snicker breathlessly, rising to your feet with a small grunt, knees sore from the hard floor. You plop down beside him as he fixes you with an incredulous look, eyebrow raising in that way you know will end with a playful argument from him. It’s sweet, but you want to take care of him for once. “Seriously,” you cut him off before he can begin his tirade, an amused smile growing on your lips, “Tonight was about you.”
He stares at you for a long moment, eyebrows furrowing contemplatively before he heaves a large sigh. “…Fine,” he groans begrudgingly, stretching his arms above his head with a crack of his back, “I’ll let it go… this time.”
You blink in surprise. Not that you had expected anything in return from him, but you’d had this “argument” many times before— and he’d never let it go that quickly. Maybe you wore him out? A smug grin worms onto your face at the thought, and you shift to meet his gaze again, posture relaxing at your win, “Really?”
“…No.”
He’s flipped you onto your back before you can process the (typical) response, his lips already attaching to the sensitive spot on your neck that he knows drives you crazy.
“Hey!” you laugh in surprise, wriggling in his hold as he peppers kisses along your jawline. You can feel his smile against your neck, stuttered huffs of his laughter following the sensation as he coils his arms tighter around you, trapping you in his embrace. You struggle against his hold until he trails his lips to your face, and you fall limp in his hold with a faux groan. You don’t even try hide the grin on your face or the laughter in your voice as he, once he notices your lack of resistance, eagerly fumbles with the waistband of your bottoms, “You’re an ass.”
“I’m also about to be in an ass—“
“Wilson.”
“Or somewhere else.”
“Wilson!”
Caught Red Handed (AO3)
James Wilson x Reader
WC: 1.2k
Summary: Making out with your boyfriend on the couch in his apartment when his roommate comes home unexpectedly leads to an interrogation of sorts.
A/N: I'm on week 3 of absorbing nothing but House-related media. I am on season 4 and read so many fics of these two. Am I confident in my writing for these two, ehhh, but I needed to get this out of my system.
The soft glow of Wilson's apartment lamp cast warm shadows across the living room as you found yourself pressed against the familiar comfort of his couch cushions. His lips moved against yours with a gentle urgency that made your heart race, his hand cupping your face with that tender care. The world outside seemed to fade away as you lost yourself in the moment, fingers threading through his hair as he deepened the kiss.
The sound of keys jingling in the hallway barely registered through the haze of contentment, followed by the distinctive thump of a cane against the door frame. Neither of you pulled away—not until the front door swung open with its creak.
"Wilson, I need to borrow your—" House's voice cut through the quiet apartment like a knife, stopping abruptly as he takes in the scene before him.
You and Wilson spring apart as if electrified, Wilson's face flushing crimson as he scrambles to sit up properly on the couch. You can't help but bite back a smile at his flustered expression, hair mussed and lips still slightly swollen from kissing.
House stands frozen in the doorway for exactly three seconds before his face breaks into the most insufferably smug grin you'd ever seen. His cane hits the floor with a heavy tap as he steps fully into the apartment, closing the door behind him with deliberate slowness.
"I KNEW IT!" House declares, pointing his cane dramatically in Wilson's direction. "I KNEW you were seeing a woman!"
Wilson's mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, his hands gesturing helplessly as he tries to form words. "House, I—this isn't—we weren't—"
"Oh, you absolutely were," House interrupts, limping closer with obvious delight. "The mysterious phone calls, the sudden unavailability for our usual Tuesday night monster movie marathons, the way you've been humming—actually HUMMING—while making coffee in the morning."
You settle back into the couch cushions, thoroughly entertained by the spectacle unfolding before you. Wilson shoots you a look that was part embarrassment and part plea for help, but you simply raise an eyebrow and wait to see how this will play out.
"And the cologne!" House continues, "You've been wearing cologne, Wilson. You, who once told me that artificial scents were 'an assault on the senses.'"
"I never said that," Wilson protests weakly.
"You absolutely did. It was during the Great Elevator Perfume Incident." House turns his attention to you, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "So, mystery woman, how long have you been corrupting my innocent roommate here?"
Wilson makes a strangled sound. "House, please—"
"Oh, this is rich," House says, settling into the armchair across from you both with obvious satisfaction. "Wilson's been sneaking around like a teenager."
You finally decide to take pity on Wilson, whose face had progressed from red to something approaching purple. "We've been seeing each other for about two months," you speak calmly, enjoying the way House's eyebrows shoot up.
"Two months!" House exclaims. "Wilson, you magnificent bastard, you kept this secret for two months?"
"It's not a secret," Wilson manages to croak out. "We just... wanted to keep things private."
"Private," House repeats, savoring the word. "Is that what we're calling making out on the communal furniture now?"
Wilson buries his face in his hands with a groan, and you couldn't help but laugh. The sound seems to break some of the tension, and even Wilson peeks at you through his fingers with a reluctant smile.
"You know," you say to House, "he talks about you constantly. I was beginning to think you were some sort of mythical creature."
"Oh, I'm very real," House assures you. "And now that I know about you, I have so many questions. Starting with: what exactly do you see in this walking anxiety disorder?"
"House!" Wilson objects, finally finding his voice again.
"It's a legitimate question! You're clearly intelligent—you'd have to be to put up with him for two months. You're attractive—I have eyes. So what's the appeal? The puppy dog eyes? The pathological need to fix everyone around him?"
You glance at James, who is curious about your answer. "He's kind," you say simply. "And funny, when he's not overthinking everything. Plus, he makes excellent pancakes."
"Pancakes," House repeats flatly. "You're dating him for his pancakes."
"Among other things," you grin, which makes Wilson blush all over again.
House studies you both for a long moment, his expression shifting from amusement to something that might have been approval. "Well," he says finally, "this explains why he's been insufferably cheerful lately. I was starting to worry."
"Are you... okay with this?" Wilson asks hesitantly.
House waves a dismissive hand. "Wilson, you're a grown man. You can make out with whoever you want on our couch. Just maybe warn me next time so I don't walk into what looked like a very PG-13 romantic comedy."
"We weren't—it wasn't—" Wilson starts to protest again, then seems to give up. "You know what? Fine. Yes, we were making out on the couch. Are you happy now?"
"Ecstatic," House says dryly. "Though I do have one request."
You and Wilson both look at him warily.
"Next Tuesday is monster movie night. She's invited." House points his cane at you. "I need to properly interrogate—I mean, get to know—the woman who's turned Wilson from a stress-riddled workaholic into someone who actually remembers he has a life outside the hospital walls."
Wilson looks at you hopefully, and you find yourself nodding. "I'd like that."
"Excellent," House smiles, pushing himself up from the chair. "And maybe next time I come home, you two can be doing something less likely to traumatize me. Like discussing the weather. Or Wilson's extensive collection of medical journals."
As House heads toward his room, he pauses at the hallway entrance. "Oh, and Wilson? Next time you want to keep a secret, maybe don't leave restaurant receipts for two on the kitchen counter. I'm a diagnostician, not an idiot."
With that parting shot, he disappears down the hall, leaving you and Wilson alone again. Wilson turns to you with an expression of relief.
"Well," he says finally, "that went better than I expected."
You laugh, reaching over to smooth down his still-mussed hair. "Your roommate is exactly as advertised."
"I'm sorry about—all of that," Wilson says, gesturing vaguely toward where House had been sitting. "He doesn't really have boundaries."
"I noticed," you say, settling back against his side. "But he cares about you. In his own weird way."
Wilson is quiet for a moment, then smiles. "Yeah, he does." He looks over at you. "So, monster movies on Tuesday?"
"Wouldn't miss it," you assure him. "Though I have a feeling I'm going to be subjected to a very thorough interrogation."
"Probably," Wilson agrees. "But hey, at least now we don't have to sneak around anymore."
"True," you say, tilting your face up toward his. "Though the sneaking around was kind of fun."
Wilson's smile turned mischievous—an expression you didn't see nearly often enough. "Well, we could always find new places to sneak around to."
"Dr. Wilson," you grin, "are you suggesting we engage in inappropriate behavior in semi-public locations?"
"Maybe," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you again.
From somewhere down the hall came House's voice: "Keep it PG, people! Some of us are trying to maintain our innocence!"
You and Wilson break apart, laughing, and you realize that maybe having House know about your relationship wouldn't be such a bad thing after all. Complicated, certainly. But not bad.
Masterlist
Fuck, Marry, Kill
Pairing: James Wilson x Reader, JamesWilson x pediatrician!reader
Summary: In the middle of a terrible shift, you're approached by Dr. House, insisting you answer the age-old question Fuck, Marry, Kill, with him, Cuddy, and Wilson. Your answer spreads through the entire hospital and inevitably makes its way back to Wilson, the man you've been into forever but never worked up the nerve to tell him.
word count: 2,785
Notes: hiya! this work is inspired by a comment by @wingspan2050 from FOREVER ago. sorry it took me so long, but it's a pretty long one-shot, so i hope it makes up for the delay. i really enjoyed writing this one a lot. i haven't engaged in anything house md in soooo long, but this made me realize how much i've missed my lovely rsl and dr. wilson. i hope y'all enjoy this one <3.
AO3
Nothing could help you escape a really shitty day. Usually, you loved being around kids. They were always so innocent and funny, but today you found yourself with the worst of the worst. One boy around the age of ten was aggressive, throwing things around his room, screaming at his parents and other nurses, and refusing to speak to you or any of your colleagues. It took three nurses and his parents to hold him down long enough to give him the shot he needed.
An older teenage boy would not stop making passes at you. It was anything from a wink to a thinly veiled innuendo to a comment about your chest. His poor mother was mortified, attempting to get him to stop, but he was persistent and ignored every threat she threw at him. After checking his vitals, you went to walk away when he pinched your ass. You spun around in pure shock, your jaw dropped, and you were unable to come up with anything to say. All he did was wink, and it took every bit of strength in you not to slap him across his smug face.
The final straw was a six-year-old girl. She seemed nice at first, but when you attempted to introduce yourself, she started crying and wouldn’t stop. You had to diagnose her while she was wailing uncontrollably. At one point, she finally stopped, giving everyone a moment of peace, but then she sucked in a breath and made the loudest, ear-piercing scream you’d ever heard in your entire career. Usually, you could handle a lot from children, but today, you were over the edge, and her screaming and crying made you run out of the room and sob on the floor of a bathroom stall. When you’d finally pulled yourself together, you made your way out of the bathroom and toward the doctor’s lounge to grab some much-needed caffeine. You could still feel how puffy your eyes were. Your gaze was low to the ground in an attempt to avoid eye contact with anyone. One “Are you ok?” might’ve made you break down all over again.
Your distractedness led you to run straight into someone.
You stumbled back, mid-apology, when you finally looked up.
“Sorry, I–”
Of course, it was House. It just had to be House.
He rocked back on his cane in fake shock as if you’d done it on purpose. “Wow. If you wanted to throw yourself at me, you could’ve at least bought me dinner first.”
You groaned and attempted to walk past him. “Not today, House, I—”
He stuck his cane out at your hip level, stopping you from passing him and avoiding whatever insane conversation you were about to have.
“Absolutely yes, today,” House said with a smirk. “What I’m about to ask you is much more enjoyable when you're already emotionally vulnerable.”
“Oh god,” you sigh, already annoyed at what's going to come out of his mouth. “Fine. What?”
“Fuck, Marry, Kill.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he said with a smirk, “Me, Cuddy, Wilson.”
You stare at him, “I don’t have time for this—”
“No one has time for it,” he shrugs, “And yet, here you are. Answer the question.”
“House,” you warned, trying to push past him. He stuck his cane out and whacked you in the knees.
“I’m not letting you go until you give me an answer.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I once put a patient in a full-body scanner because they annoyed me. I’m always serious.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. Your eyes still burned from crying earlier. You did not have the emotional bandwidth for this.
“Fine!” you burst out. “Wilson, Cuddy, you. Happy?”
House slapped a hand over his heart as if shot. “NO? Kill me? Kill me? After everything we’ve been through? After all the touching moments we’ve shared? I let you take the last cupcake that one time!”
“You asked the question. You can’t complain about the answer.”
“Fine. Fine, keep your secrets.” He moved his cane out of the way, letting you pass. “Wilson’s gonna LOVE hearing about this!”
You froze mid-step.
“…What do you mean, hearing—House? House!”
He was already limping away, humming, which was how, two hours later, you discovered that yes, everyone knew.
~
You didn’t think that a day could get any worse, but somehow, House proved you wrong, because of course he did. He seemed to have told every single person in the hospital. Everywhere you went, doctors, nurses, and janitorial staff were all whispering and giggling or side-eyeing you. Every nurse's station on every floor either went silent when you walked by or burst out into a fit of giggles. It was humiliating and made you want to curl up and die, and the best part was that House was, of course, nowhere to be seen.
But you were still a doctor, and your pager didn’t care that your personal life had spontaneously combusted. You forced yourself to straighten your coat, swallow the shame, and head to the next room on your list.
Pediatrics, Room 412.
Easy follow-up. Sweet kid. Zero emotional landmines.
You could do this.
You knocked gently, pushed the door open, and nearly sagged with relief when you saw only the patient, his mom, and a nurse finishing up vitals. The nurse glanced at you, smiled politely, and stepped aside to let you in.
No whispering.
No giggling.
No pointed stares.
Thank god. Finally, someone is acting normal.
You checked on your patient, listened to his lungs, and noted that his temperature was trending down. His mom thanked you. The kid gave you a sleepy thumbs up. Everything felt almost… normal. As the nurse finished logging vitals on her tablet, she headed toward the door. She passed behind you. For one blissful second, you thought you were safe. Then she paused in the doorway.
“Oh, and—” she said lightly, “tell Dr. Wilson congratulations.”
You froze, stethoscope halfway into your pocket. The kid’s mom looked confused. The kid giggled. Your soul practically left your body. The nurse gave you a cheerful little smile—just short of a wink—and walked out. You stared at the empty doorway in utter horror.
Nope. That was it. You were done. This had officially reached Cuddy-level intervention. Someone needed to muzzle House before he started printing wedding invitations.
Fine.
FINE.
If the entire hospital wanted to act like this was a telenovela, you were going straight to the showrunner.
~
You didn’t bother to knock politely. You tapped once, more of a warning than a request, and pushed the door open before Cuddy could answer.
She looked up from a stack of budget reports, eyebrows lifting at the sight of you: frazzled, red-faced, vibrating with righteous fury.
“Wow,” she said dryly. “Either someone coded twice or House did something.”
“House did something,” you snapped, eyes wide with rage. You dragged both hands through your hair. “House did everything. House has ruined my life!”
Cuddy sighed and set down her pen. “That’s a little dramatic.”
“No, it is in fact NOT dramatic,” you said, pacing in front of her desk. “Because now every single person in this stupid hospital thinks I’m—”
You broke off with a yelp of frustration, throwing your hands in the air in helpless mortification.
Cuddy pinched the bridge of her nose, bracing. “All right. Start from the beginning.”
You told her everything. The story and the mortification slipped out of your mouth, only stopping to catch your breath when you completely ran out of air. You paced back and forth, not even looking at her. The only thing that told you she was still there was an occasional hum, scoff, or laugh. Once you finally finished, your face was redder than when you came in, and you were catching your breath as if you’d just run a marathon.
You finally stopped moving. “But… I guess it didn’t get to you yet,” you said hopefully. “So maybe Wilson hasn’t heard, right?”
Silence.
Cuddy stared at you, guilty, sympathetic, and very much like someone caught with insider knowledge she wished she didn’t have.
Your stomach dropped. “Cuddy?” you asked slowly. “Please tell me you haven’t heard.”
She winced. “Well…” she said, voice going sheepish, “at least I’m getting married.”
You blinked at her.
“What?”
Cuddy lifted both hands in a helpless gesture. “House was… VERY enthusiastic in his retelling. By the time he made it to my office, the story had evolved into a full romantic saga. With vows.” She pointed at her own chest. “Apparently, I’m the lucky bride.”
You stared at her in horror.
“So—you HAVE heard,” you said faintly.
“Oh, I’ve heard,” Cuddy confirmed. “And judging by how red Wilson got when House walked past him humming ‘Here Comes the Bride,’ I’m going to guess he heard too.”
You felt your soul depart your body. Just before you could say anything, the door to Cuddy’s office opens.
“Cuddy, I need to—” You didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
You turned around to face him, your face still bright red from anger and now pure embarrassment. “It’s fine. I’m done.”
He nodded and turned to leave.
“Actually,” Cuddy stood from her desk, “I think you two have something to discuss, and I’m late for a meeting.” She grabbed a file from her desk and made her way to the door.
“Wait, Cuddy—” Wilson said.
“Have fun.”
And just like that, she’s gone, and you and Wilson are alone.
“So…” you looked over to Wilson, “What do you know?”
Wilson paused for a long moment, looking anywhere but you. “What, uh, what do you know?”
“Well, I know what actually happened. I’m not sure what House decided to tell everyone.” You laughed, trying to relieve the tension engulfing the room.
“Uh, well, all I know is that you said something about killing House, marrying Cuddy, and, well…” He trailed off, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yeah, well, it was a stupid question.” You said quickly, your face getting hot. “I was just trying to get House off my back. He wouldn’t let me go if I didn’t give him an answer.”
Wilson nodded his head. “Yeah, of course. It’s not like it means anything. It's a-a juvenile game.”
“Yeah. It’s dumb.” By now, both of you were staring at each other. You broke eye contact first, looking down at your feet.
“Well, uh, I’m gonna get back to work. Busy…busy day,” Wilson said, footsteps moving toward the door. You didn’t want him to leave. Not yet. There was more you wanted to say, but you just couldn’t get yourself to say it. You hear the door open before you finally yell out.
“WAIT!” Your head snapped up, meeting Wilson’s gaze. “I meant it.”
His eyebrows shot up, but before he could say anything, you started to ramble.
“Not about killing House or marrying Cuddy, but now I’m considering the latter. I was serious about you. Well, not just, uh, having sex with you. I do want to, god I would love to, but that's not—I mean, I don’t only want to have sex with you, I would want to go out and, uh, get to know—”
You’re interrupted by Wilson’s hands cupping your face. You looked up at him. His smile was soft, and his eyes were warm and inviting.
“Hey, breathe for me, yeah?” He asked softly.
You matched his breathing. Slow and steady, bringing your heart rate back to normal. You hadn’t realized how worked up you’d gotten. You’d been agitated the entire day, and now you were finally getting some reprieve. Wilson’s warm hands and soft voice melted away the stress.
“God, you’re good at that,” You said, smiling up at him.
He matched your smile. “Comes with the job.”
You let your head fall against his chest, feeling his heartbeat against your forehead. Wilson’s hand stroked your hair gently while the other rested on your back, his thumb drawing small circles at the base of your neck. You let out a stifled laugh. And then another. And then another, until you descended into a fit of giggles.
“Are you okay?” He asked, confused.
Your laughter started to calm down as you lifted your head from his chest. “Yeah, I just…It’s been a rough day.”
“I understand. I’m sorry. House is an ass.”
“He’s a complete ass, but…” You trailed off for a moment, “I’m kind of…grateful for it, I guess.”
“Really? Why would you be grateful? He’s made today hell for you?” Wilson asked, shocked.
You smile shyly. “If he hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah, I’ll give him that.” A silence fell across the room. It was a comfortable silence, rather than a tense one like before. Wilson’s hand moved from the back of your head to cradle your cheek. Your eyes flitted between his eyes and his lips.
“I would really like you to kiss me,” you said unabashedly.
He laughed lightly, “I would really like to kiss you.”
He leaned in, your eyes fluttering shut. His lips brushed against yours timidly. Your hands moved up his arms, holding softly onto his sleeve-covered biceps. He pulled away slightly, his breath warm on your lips.
“Why’d you stop?” You asked, your words coming out in a breathless rush.
“I’ve wanted this, you, for so long,” He smiled, sincerely. “I don’t wanna rush anything and mess it up.”
“As much as I appreciate the respectfulness,” You gripped his biceps tighter, digging your nails into him, “I need you now. Please don’t make me beg.”
Wilson’s eyes darken. “Fuck baby.”
Without a second thought, Wilson’s lips crash into yours. You met him with just as much fervor. His hand slipped under your lab coat and drifted down to the small of your back, tugging you into him, your bodies pressed together. He bit your lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough that you let out a soft moan, your mouth falling open. He glided his tongue into your mouth, swirling it around yours. Your hands slid down his chest, admiring every inch of him, stopping just above his belt. Your fingers drifted across the waistband of his slacks, tugging at the belt loops. Wilson let out a low moan, making you smile against his lips. He pulled away, letting out a shaky breath.
“You’re killing me,” Wilson murmured against your lips.
“Yeah?” You purred. He let out a loud groan and pulled you back into a kiss. His hand on your cheek moved to fist your hair at the base of your now messy ponytail. His other hand gripped your ass through your pants, kneading gently. Your knees buckled, and Wilson was the only thing keeping you standing.
You almost don’t notice the door swing open.
“House, why are we—WOAH.” A woman’s voice calls out from the doorway. You and Wilson pull apart so suddenly that you almost end up on the floor. You stumbled back, and Wilson turned to find House leading Cameron, Chase, and Forman into Cuddy’s office. House looked smug, both hands resting on top of his cane. Cameron’s jaw was on the floor, Forman was staring intently at his shoes, and Chase’s eyes were wide.
“See, I told you they’d be here,” House said, gesturing to you and Wilson.
“House, get out!” Wilson bellowed.
“I mean, I’m not the one making out in Cuddy’s office.”
“House out NOW,” You snapped.
“Fine, fine, let’s leave them to their debauchery,” House says, ushering the other three out.
“Have fun,” House smirked, shutting the door behind them.
“God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how he knew we were here,” Wilson apologized.
“It’s House. You can’t hide from him,” You sighed. “Well, I should probably get back to my patients.”
“Yeah, me too,” Wilson’s voice trailed off. Neither of you moved, not wanting to leave the other. You reluctantly took a few steps toward the door before Wilson reached out and grabbed your waist, pulling you into another kiss. It was deep, but ended sooner than you wanted.
“Sorry, I had to,” He smirked.
“I know, I’m irresistible,” You laughed.
“You really are.” He kissed you quickly before finally letting go.
“Okay, now you can leave.”
“Thank you.” You took a few steps to the door before looking over your shoulder.
“Do you want to grab a drink?” You asked.
“I would love to. Tonight?”
“I can do tonight,” You smiled. Wilson smiled back at you. There was something about his smile that warmed your entire body. “I’ll stop by your office after my shift. I get done at eight-ish.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
After hours
House m.d characters x gn reader
gregory house, james wilson, lisa cuddy, eric foreman and robert chase
Sfw ish (very suggestive, no sex)
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
(ФωФ): NO SEX BUT BORDERLINE NSFW!!
making out at the hospital late at night😝 gn reader, suggestive, groping, established relationship.
its suggestive..yurr..im edging yall ig💔 i could probably make a part2 or sum if yall want it. anyway yes hi hello im back. this time yes cuddy no cameron bc ion wanna
⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･
Sterile Rooms, Dirty Minds
The lights above were dimmed—unusual for Princeton-Plainsboro’s diagnostic department, but not unusual for House’s office at this hour. His cane was leaning crooked against the desk, a half-empty Vicodin bottle sat beside an abandoned file, and the air smelled faintly of takeout and hospital-grade disinfectant. You were sitting on his desk—legs spread just enough to accommodate his body between them, the sharp edge biting into the back of your thighs through your clothes, though you could barely register the discomfort.
House's mouth was on yours, and it was messy. Sloppy. His stubble scraped against your skin, his teeth tugged at your bottom lip in a way that was too practiced to be accidental. One of his hands gripped your jaw, holding you in place, fingers spread over your cheek and under your ear like he was memorizing the shape of your face by touch alone. The other hand had slid under your shirt at some point—fingers splayed wide across your stomach, calloused and hot and shameless.
You could feel the push of his thigh between your legs as he leaned in, chest brushing yours with every breath, his pelvis flush with yours. You were gasping against his mouth now, struggling to keep up, especially with the way his thumb kept stroking upward, inch by inch, toward your nipple, only to stop short. He enjoyed teasing himself more than he enjoyed teasing you. Bastard.
"How many hours do you think we’ve got before Cuddy starts wondering why I haven’t caused a catastrophe today?" he muttered against your lips, words muffled by the way he kept kissing you between phrases. “Two? Three? Long enough for me to disappoint you thoroughly in an on-call room?”
“Long enough,” you breathed, sliding your hands under the back of his shirt and dragging your nails up his spine, just to hear the grunt it pulled from him. “But I think you like the desk more.”
“I do.” He grinned. “It’s sturdy. Handles trauma well. Like me.”
He ground down just slightly, just enough that you could feel him, hard and insistent through his jeans, pressing right where you needed him. You let out something between a sigh and a groan, and he rewarded you by kissing you deeper—tongue parting your lips, hand moving to grab your ass over your clothes, fingers digging in.
You let your head fall back, mouth open as his teeth scraped down your neck. “Fuck, House…”
“Is that a request or just a lament?” His voice was low, rough, edged with amusement and arousal and something else underneath that he never liked to name. “Because if it’s the first one, I can be very accommodating.”
“Not here,” you said, even as your hips rolled up against him. “We shouldn’t.”
House huffed a breath against your throat, pressing a kiss there that lingered just a second too long. “You’re on my desk, legs around me, and I’ve got my hand down your pants. I think we crossed that line twenty minutes ago.”
“Your hand is not down my pants.”
He leaned back slightly, smirking, eyes glinting in the low light. “Would you like it to be?”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. He kissed you again, harder this time. When his fingers returned to your stomach, they dipped lower this time—over the waistband of your pants, tracing the line of your underwear, knuckles brushing where you were hot and needy for him. He didn’t move further. Didn’t need to. Just the hint of it had your whole body tensing.
“You’re not exactly making a case for patience,” he muttered, lips brushing the corner of your jaw. “I could fuck you right here and blame the mess on Foreman.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Say that again when you're not grinding on me.”
He was right. Of course he was. You didn’t care. His name was on the door. The blinds were mostly closed. The hall outside was quiet except for the faint buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant squeak of a janitor’s cart. It was just you and him, and the pressure of his mouth, his hands, his body pressing yours into wood and glass.
House kissed you again, but slower now. Less biting, more tasting. He kept his hand resting low on your belly, thumb dipping just beneath the waistband, teasing—not quite enough, never enough. He pulled back only when you were breathless again, and even then, it was only a few inches. His face was flushed, lips red, pupils wide with want. He looked at you like he was reading you—diagnosing something beneath your skin that had nothing to do with blood or bones. You’d never seen him look at anyone that way before.
“I want to fuck you,” he said, blunt and low and close to your ear, voice cracking just slightly with how tightly he was holding himself back. “Not here. Not rushed. Not with the janitor two doors down and my team probably fucking up a case without me.”
You swallowed hard, nodding, your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt. “Your place?”
“My place,” he echoed, breath warm on your cheek. “My couch. My bed. My kitchen table if you’re good.”
“You are such a piece of shit.”
“Yeah. But you’re coming home with me.”
His hand slid fully under your waistband now, palm cupping you through your underwear, slow and deliberate. You gasped, back arching off the desk, hand flying to his wrist—not to stop him, just to feel. He leaned in and kissed you again, gentle this time. Soft, like an apology for stopping. Or maybe a promise to continue later. Either way, it was the kind of kiss that said you’re mine, and not here, and soon.
When he pulled away, he didn’t step back right away. Just rested his forehead against yours, breath warm and shared, both of you flushed and trembling and way too aware of how wet both your underwear probably were, how hard he was still pressed against you, and how badly this needed to happen somewhere else.
“You still gonna come home with me,” he asked, voice rough and barely above a whisper, “or do I have to kidnap you?”
You laughed softly, tilting your head just enough to brush your nose against his. “Get your coat, House.”
He pulled back finally, hands sliding out from under your clothes, adjusting himself shamelessly while you fixed your shirt and tried to stop trembling.
He winked, already limping toward the door. “Come on, babe. Let’s get the hell out of here before I lose all self-control and fuck you on top of my MRI results.”
You followed him, cheeks still hot, heart still racing, legs just slightly unsteady. And god help you—you couldn’t wait.
Close the Door
The soft clack of the door latching behind you was louder than expected in the quiet of the oncology department. It was nearly midnight—long past when the fluorescent lights should still be on in Wilson’s office, long past when either of you should still be there. But the low hum of the computer screen cast a dull glow over the desk, illuminating his tired eyes as he looked up from a file, pen paused mid-sentence.
“You’re still here,” he said, voice roughened from disuse, tinged with surprise but no disapproval. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loose and crooked, the first two buttons of his shirt undone like he'd tried to breathe for once but couldn’t quite manage it.
You crossed the threshold without answering, let the door close behind you with a soft click. Something about the air between you shifted—subtle, but charged. He watched you approach with careful eyes, the edge of a smile twitching at his mouth. He already knew what was coming, he was just waiting for you to admit to it.
“So are you,” you murmured as you came to stand beside him. Your fingers brushed against the back of his chair. “All your patients asleep. No emergencies. No excuse to still be hiding in this office.”
Wilson leaned back in his chair slowly, pen set down, hands resting on the arms. You stepped closer.
“I didn’t want to go home yet,” he admitted, tone quieter now, more honest. His gaze dropped to your mouth and lingered there. “Not without you.”
The silence pressed tight between you, thick with things left unsaid and all the things already known. You bent down slowly, your hand curling around the edge of the armrest just above his, the fabric of his dress shirt warm against your knuckles. His breath hitched. You could feel the tension coiling up in both of you, the way his thighs stiffened slightly beneath his slacks, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.
“You’re not even pretending to do paperwork anymore.”
“No,” he said, and his voice trembled just faintly. “I was waiting for you.”
The kiss was inevitable. Desperate. Your lips met his hard, mouths pressing together in something that couldn’t be mistaken for a greeting or a thank you or a goodnight. It was hungry. It was impatient. His hands flew to your waist as he stood abruptly, the wheels of his chair skidding behind him. You staggered back a step, but he followed, pressed you against the wall just beside the bookshelves, hands gripping your hips.
He kissed you like a man starved. His mouth opened against yours, tongue sliding in without hesitation, devouring you in ragged, open-mouthed kisses that left both of you gasping. His fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt, pushing it up just enough to feel the heat of your skin, and his groan against your mouth was hoarse, raw, needy.
You arched into his touch as he dragged his palms up your torso, thumbs brushing the sides of your ribs, not quite frantic but close. It was careful for half a second—then it wasn’t. His mouth traveled down to your throat, teeth scraping across your pulse point with a pressure that sent heat racing low in your gut.
“You taste like coffee,” he murmured into your skin, voice low, almost reverent, before his teeth sank into your collarbone. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt.
“And you taste like desperation,” you muttered back, breathless, tilting your head back to let him have more.
His laugh was choked, nearly a groan. One of his hands slid down between your legs, cupping you over your clothes with a firm grip that made you whine before you could stop yourself. He squeezed, slow and deliberate, watching your face with eyes gone dark.
“Fuck,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “You like that?”
You nodded. You were already half undone, pressed hard against the wall with his body between your legs, his hands everywhere—one rubbing you with just enough pressure to make your thighs twitch, the other up under your shirt, fingertips teasing at your chest, grazing your nipples until you gasped into his mouth.
Your own hands finally moved, clumsy with urgency, dragging his shirt up and over his hips, slipping beneath the fabric to trace the trail of soft hair down his stomach. He shivered, cock twitching against your thigh through the layers of fabric still separating you. You reached between you, palmed him through his slacks, felt how hard he already was.
“Jesus,” he hissed. “We’re in the goddamn hospital.”
“So lock the door,” you said, not stopping.
He laughed, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re going to kill me.”
Your fingers dragged down his zipper, slow enough to tease, not slow enough to be patient. He groaned into your mouth again, hand tightening in your shirt. He was trying to decide whether to stop you or fuck you right there on the floor.
His hips jerked forward when you brushed over the outline of his cock, and he bit your bottom lip hard enough to sting. “If you don’t stop now,” he warned hoarsely, “I’m not going to stop either.”
You stilled, lips swollen, chest heaving.
Then, slowly, you leaned up and kissed him again—deep, hot and slow.
“We should go to your place,” you said when you finally pulled back, voice low, rough, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “So we can fuck properly.”
Wilson’s groan was full-bodied and exasperated and turned-on all at once. He rested his forehead against yours for a long moment, both of you breathing hard.
“God,” he muttered. “You’re insufferable.”
“Mm. And you love me for it.”
“Shut up.”
You grinned and kissed him again.
He shut the office lights off on the way out.
Overtime
The blinds were half-shut, casting long slats of shadow across her office walls, broken by the soft golden spill of her desk lamp. Outside, the hospital had gone quiet in the way it only ever did past midnight — the buzz of daytime urgency traded for the occasional distant beep of monitors and the dull roll of a gurney wheel down some far-off corridor. The air smelled faintly of her perfume, sharp and expensive, tinged by the paper scent of hospital files piled high beside her elbow.
Cuddy’s fingers tapped a soft rhythm against her glass desk surface, eyes scanning the page in front of her without really reading it. She could feel your stare. Not overt, not hungry, but insistent. You sat across from her, ankle hooked over your knee, pretending to be focused on the budget projections she’d asked for — or maybe just giving yourself a reason to stay. You always found a reason.
She didn't look up when she spoke. “You’ve been in here a long time.”
“Mm. So have you.”
Her pen paused. She leaned back slowly in her chair, gaze lifting at last to meet yours, eyes flickering with that clinical scrutiny she always wore like armor—until something else softened it. The sharp edge rounded. You could see it in the way her eyes dragged down your face, to your mouth, her thoughts were only half about whatever line item she was supposed to be signing off.
“Still pretending this is about work?” she asked, her voice low, too smooth for how tired she should be.
Your lips twitched. “That depends. Are you?”
Cuddy arched a brow, lips curling at the corners as she stood, drawing herself up from the chair with that deliberate grace that made you ache. She was all authority—pencil skirt taut across her hips, blouse unbuttoned just enough to make your mouth dry, dark waves of hair falling just loose enough to tell you she’d run her hands through it more than once tonight. She stepped around the desk with slow, practiced ease, heels quiet against the floor.
Her hand settled on the back of your chair before you could move. The heat of her so close made your back straighten without thinking. Her perfume was stronger here. Jasmine, clean skin, and something darker underneath. Her thumb traced a line across your shoulder, just once.
“I could write this off as a supervisory meeting,” she murmured, low against your ear. “Late-night strategy session. But then someone might ask why I’ve got you sitting here looking at me like you’re seconds from climbing across the desk.”
You turned your head slightly, enough to see the gleam of amusement — and want — in her eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to lie for you.”
Her smile was sharp. “I don’t pay you enough for that.”
“You don’t pay me enough at all.”
“Then you really have no excuse.”
Before the words had finished leaving her mouth, you’d reached for her waist, fingers hooking just above the curve of her hips, pulling her down onto your lap with one smooth tug. She didn’t resist—didn’t flinch—only let out the faintest hum of approval, her weight settling onto your thighs, one knee slipping to the outside of yours. Her arms went around your neck as naturally as if she’d done it a hundred times, which she had, and still you felt your heartbeat slam harder like it was the first.
“God, you’re smug,” you whispered against her mouth, just before you kissed her.
The first press was slow and lazy. The kind of kiss that asked without begging, that lingered more than it searched. But Cuddy didn’t do soft for long, not when it came to you. Her fingers curled in your hair, dragging your mouth harder against hers, the rhythm of it tipping fast from exploratory to demanding. She’d been waiting hours for this, and was finally done pretending.
You didn’t mind the heat of her breath or the way her hips shifted subtly against your lap. She wasn’t trying to grind down, but couldn’t help herself. Your hands slid down her back, greedy, tracing every inch of her spine like it might ground you, anchor you somewhere in this too-bright, too-quiet office where she smelled like sin and looked like something you should never have been allowed to touch.
But she let you. She always let you.
Your hand found the edge of her blouse and slipped under it, warm palm against bare skin. Her breath hitched. She didn’t stop you. You moved higher, hand flattening just under her ribs, then trailing up—slow, deliberate—until your fingers brushed the swell of her breast. She made a sound against your mouth, low and half-caught, not quite a moan but nothing polite either. Her nails dug into the back of your neck.
“You’re not shy tonight,” she whispered, mouth ghosting your jaw.
“I’ve never been shy with you.”
She laughed, soft and breathless, then caught your bottom lip between her teeth, tugging, just enough to make your fingers twitch where they rested beneath her bra. Her hips rolled again, this time slower, more controlled, and you felt her exhale. She was trying not to lose control too quickly.
“Lock the door,” she murmured, dragging her mouth down your neck. “Do it.”
You didn’t argue. She slid off your lap in a motion as fluid as her entrance, and you stood, heart thudding so loud in your chest it made your hands shake slightly when you twisted the lock. When you turned back, she was leaning against the desk, blouse half-untucked, one leg crossed over the other, lips kissed pink and eyes darker than before.
She crooked a finger at you.
It took you three strides to reach her. Your hands were on her waist again before you could think. You kissed her like the office would dissolve if you didn’t, like the whole hospital might catch fire and you’d still need more. Her hands were under your shirt now, fingers cool against your skin, dragging your hips flush against hers with none of the usual hesitation. It was all friction now — mouths messy, bodies tighter, hungrier, her thigh slotting between your legs.
You palmed her breast fully this time, thumb brushing over the sensitive point through lace. She gasped, the sound raw and real, and didn’t stop you when your other hand slid down, curved over her ass, pulling her tighter to you. She rolled her hips again, breath hot in your ear.
“You make me stupid,” she hissed. “Do you know that? I have meetings at eight. A board call. And you—” she kissed you again, hard, messy “—come in here and make me forget every reason I’m supposed to say no.”
“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Don’t say no.”
She kissed you again instead. You both groaned when you pressed her harder against the desk, her hands fisting in the fabric at your back, dragging your shirt up. She wanted to take it, or tear it, or just feel skin, god, any part of you she didn’t already have.
“Take this off,” she said, tugging at your shirt.
“You first.”
Another smirk, one she didn't bother to hide as she reached for her buttons. One by one, she slipped them open, slow despite everything, watching your face as pale skin was revealed inch by inch. She shrugged the blouse off her body. The sight of her in just her bra, breath shallow and pupils blown wide, made your stomach lurch with something close to worship.
“I should make you beg,” she whispered, pulling you back in. “Make you sit there while I finish my paperwork. Watch me touch myself at my desk. Maybe let you help if you’re good.”
You groaned against her collarbone. “Jesus, Cuddy.”
“No,” she said, cupping your jaw in one hand. “Lisa.”
She kissed you again, rough and open-mouthed, and your hands were everywhere—up her sides, down her hips, one slipping between her thighs and pressing just enough to make her tremble. She pulled you closer, rocked against your hand, and when you felt how wet she already was through her underwear, you cursed under your breath, forehead dropping to her shoulder.
“God, you're unbelievable,” you whispered.
She dragged your mouth back to hers with a hiss of approval. “Then prove it.”
After Rounds
The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a pale glow across the empty diagnostics office. The floor was mostly dark by now—nurses whispering at stations, the odd intern scribbling notes at a computer, but otherwise, the hospital had finally dipped into that rare, late-night quiet that only came when the adrenaline tapered off and the chaos slowed to a crawl.
You stood near the desk, arms crossed, shifting your weight between your feet while trying to look preoccupied. You weren't on call anymore, not technically. You had finished your last rounds over an hour ago, but the idea of going home hadn't really crossed your mind. Not when you knew who else was still here.
The door creaked open behind you. You didn't turn, because you didn’t need to.
“Still here?” Foreman asked, voice low, the kind of tired drawl only twelve hours of diagnostics could draw out of him.
You hummed, grabbing a folder off the desk without looking at it. “So are you.”
He didn’t reply at first. Just stepped farther into the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. You could feel the change in the air before he even crossed the space between you. The shift in tension, the silence too full for two people who weren’t thinking about each other. You turned finally, catching the shadow in his gaze, his usual stern composure looser now that the rest of the team was gone.
“You’re not supposed to still be here,” he said again, quieter this time, though there wasn’t any real protest in his voice.
"I know.”
He stood a foot away now, hands in his coat pockets, brow drawn but soft. You held his gaze, the fluorescent light above flickering once, then holding steady. The silence stretched again, and neither of you broke it. He didn’t move at first, too used to calculating his every step, too careful about what people might say, what someone might see. But his restraint never lasted long when it came to you.
His hand reached up, brushing your jaw first. Not rushed, not overly firm—just a touch meant to anchor. Then his fingers curled, and he leaned forward, lips meeting yours in one long pull, breath steady but heated. You kissed him back instantly, pressing closer, his coat brushing your chest. The folder fell out of your hand to the desk with a soft thump, forgotten.
His other hand came up to your waist, palm warm through the thin fabric of your scrubs. The door was locked—he always checked. Still, there was a thrill that shot down your spine as he pushed you slowly against the edge of the desk, your hips nudging against the wood. You felt him exhale into the kiss, the tension in his jaw melting just slightly, though his grip on you didn’t waver.
Foreman always kissed like he was trying not to. Like there was a part of him still holding back, still worried someone would open the door or catch him slipping. But not tonight. Not after the stress of three consults, two difficult differentials, and a full day under House’s impossible standards. Tonight, he let go.
Your back pressed to the desk now, your hands sliding up under his coat to feel the crisp shirt beneath, fingers curling into the fabric. You could feel the strength in his arms as he leaned into you, tongue brushing against yours in slow, deliberate strokes. His fingers dug slightly into your waist, anchoring you to him as he kissed harder, deeper, tasting the parts of you he had missed all day behind patient charts and professionalism.
He broke the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to yours, his breath hot and uneven.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual, hand slipping down to the curve of your hip. “Couldn’t get anything done with you walking around in those damn scrubs.”
You bit back a smile, tilting your head just enough to kiss him again. This one was messier. Slower but desperate. His hand slid lower, gripping your thigh, fingers flexing through the fabric, the pressure enough to make your breath catch. You let out a soft sound against his mouth, rewarded with a soft groan from him, his fingers dragging up again to tug at the waistband of your scrubs.
He didn’t pull them down—not yet. But the way he touched you, you could tell he was thinking about it. His hand palmed your ass through the fabric, firm and unapologetic, the motion deliberate.
You gripped the back of his neck, nails lightly grazing his skin as his mouth trailed down your jaw, then lower, to the base of your throat. Warm lips, soft drag of teeth—not enough to bruise, but close. He breathed you in, his voice low against your skin. “You’ve got no idea how hard it is, keeping my hands off you all damn day.”
“You could’ve snuck me into the on-call room.”
He laughed under his breath, lifting his head to meet your eyes again. “You would’ve moaned loud enough to get us fired.”
“Would’ve been worth it.”
He kissed you again, faster this time. His tongue pushed into your mouth without hesitation, his hips pressing closer. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt now, fingertips dragging up your side, hot against your skin. You arched slightly under the touch, his body pinning yours more fully to the desk.
His breathing got heavier the longer he touched you, and you could feel the restraint breaking again in the way his hand gripped your waist, tugging you tighter against him. His thigh nudged between yours, his other hand sliding back down to your ass, this time giving a firm squeeze that made your breath hitch and your nails dig into his back through the shirt.
Foreman groaned softly into your mouth, kissing you with the kind of hunger he rarely let show. “You keep making those sounds,” he muttered, “and I’m not stopping.”
“Mmh—don’t. Don't stop."
That broke something in him. His hand slipped past the waistband now, dipping into your underwear just enough to grope you properly. His touch was rougher now, more confident, more impatient, and the way he held you made it impossible to think. You gasped against his mouth, bucking slightly into his hand as he kissed you again, swallowing the sound greedily.
He didn’t let up—kept touching, squeezing, dragging his fingers in just the right way while his other hand held your face, thumb brushing the edge of your lip. His kiss turned feverish again, devouring, mouth wet and hot and open over yours. You could barely hold yourself up with how he was working you over, and he knew it. His thigh shifted to support your weight, hands steady, body locking you in place.
You pulled him closer by the collar, grinding up against him in the heat of it, and he let out a breathy curse, pressing into your movements without hesitation. His hand gripped your ass tighter, guiding the motion, helping you find that friction you both needed so badly.
“I’m not taking you on the desk,” he whispered against your ear. “Not here.”
You groaned in protest, breathless, half out of your mind. “Why not?”
“Because I want more than five minutes with you. I want your legs over my shoulders. I want to take my time.” His voice was gravel now, so full of need and want it made your knees weak. “And I can’t do that here.”
“Then get us out of here.”
He kissed you one more time—long, slow, and deep. Then he stepped back just enough to fix your waistband, the heat of his hands lingering. He smoothed his palms down your sides, breathing heavy, forehead still pressed to yours for a beat longer before finally stepping back fully.
You adjusted your shirt with trembling fingers, heart pounding as you looked at him. His lips were slick with spit, jaw flexing as he stared at you like he wasn’t finished—because he wasn’t.
He ran a hand down his face, then picked his coat off the back of the chair. “My place.”
You nodded, still dazed, following after him when he unlocked the door.
The hallway was quiet again.
But this time, it felt charged.
And you knew you weren’t sleeping tonight.
Sterile Sheets and Quiet Sins
The office was quiet in that muffled kind of way hospitals always managed when it was well past midnight. Phones muted. Voices hushed. No code blues echoing through the halls. Just the sound of tired fluorescent lights humming above and the occasional rustle of papers or nurses’ shoes down the corridor. The diagnostics office was dimly lit, only the soft glow from the desk lamp painting a halo of warmth over reports and files spread across the table, long forgotten in the wake of your arrival.
You stood behind him in the cramped space, close enough that your hips brushed the back of his chair. Robert hadn't turned when you'd entered—he’d glanced up, blinked those tired eyes at you, lips curling faintly—but hadn’t said much, already knowing you weren’t there to talk about patients. He wasn’t stupid. The tension had been brewing for hours.
"You’re not supposed to be in here," he said lowly, voice rough from exhaustion or anticipation—you weren’t sure which, maybe both. He shifted a little in his chair, straightening, but made no real move to stop you when you reached over his shoulder and slowly pushed the folder on his lap off to the side of the desk.
"Then kick me out," you murmured near his ear, letting your hand drift down the front of his chest—his tie loosened, top buttons undone, the rise and fall of his breathing giving away the rest of his restraint. Your fingers paused just above his belt.
He let out a shaky breath. Didn’t move.
"Didn’t think so."
You leaned down and kissed the side of his neck, soft and slow, just enough to make him swallow hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed under your lips. One of his hands came up, slow, a little unsure, to touch your thigh where you’d rested it beside the chair. There was the smallest squeeze, nothing confident, nothing that made you feel like he was in control. It was sweet. Desperate. He just wanted to feel where you were.
"You’re such an ass," he muttered, though it had no real bite to it. If anything, it trembled at the end, he already knew he wasn’t going to win.
"You love it," you whispered against his ear, and then sank your teeth just a little into the soft skin there, making him hiss.
He jolted, knuckles tightening where his hand held your leg now. "Fuck—"
You moved around the chair slowly, stepping between his legs until he was looking up at you. That exhausted, beautiful face flushed with something warmer now, lips parted slightly, his blond hair slightly messy from hours of shift work and now the fingers you threaded into it as you tugged his head back. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, long lashes catching the low light, and then he looked up at you, almost pleading.
"You’re gonna get us caught," he whispered.
"Only if you can’t keep quiet."
You kissed him hard, without patience, you’d been thinking about it since the minute the sun went down. His hands flew up to your hips, gripping hard, and you could feel the way he pressed into you instinctively—he couldn’t help himself—already half-hard beneath those tight, creased slacks. You could’ve laughed at how fast he responded, but it felt too good, too hot, to pull away even for that.
He kissed back like he’d been starving for it all night, tongue sliding against yours in slow, eager strokes. There was no performance in it. No arrogant show. Just raw need.
You dropped into his lap, knees pressing into the cushion on either side of him, your hands on his jaw, his throat, his hair. He groaned into your mouth, a little choked-off sound, hips twitching up against you before he bit down on the sound too late. You didn’t slow down. You just pressed harder, rolled your hips forward, and kissed him deeper. His hands flew to your ass, squeezing tight—needy, grasping, more desperate than he probably realized.
“You’re shameless,” he mumbled breathlessly against your mouth.
“You’re hard,” you shot back.
He flushed deeper, mouth falling open again, and you took advantage of it immediately. Kissed him until he whimpered, until he was shifting underneath you, one hand still gripping your ass. He couldn’t decide if he wanted you closer or if he was trying to hold himself together.
You slid a hand between the two of you and pressed your palm against him through his pants. He jolted, gasping into your mouth as you rubbed slow, firm circles over the bulge in his lap. His breath stuttered against your lips.
“Fuck—ah—don’t—”
“Don’t what?” you whispered, dragging your mouth to his jaw as your hand squeezed a little harder, palm rubbing over the fabric with just enough friction to make his thighs tense beneath you. “Don’t touch you? Don’t make you feel good?”
He shook his head helplessly, breath shuddering. “I’m—fuck—‘m already close.”
You grinned against his skin. “That’s cute.”
He groaned, loud this time, and you reached up to cover his mouth with your hand while your other kept working his lap. You could feel the way he trembled beneath you, the way his hips couldn’t stop bucking up, chasing the pressure, chasing the edge. You were so close to ruining him right there, and he knew it. You could see it in his eyes. That dazed, ruined look. Embarrassed. Completely at your mercy.
But you didn’t give him the satisfaction.
You pulled your hand back suddenly, leaned away just enough to make his head thunk back against the chair in disbelief.
“Wait—wha—” He sounded wrecked, voice wrecked, and he blinked up at you like he couldn’t comprehend why you’d stopped.
You stood slowly, smoothing your clothes as if you hadn’t just had him seconds from falling apart under your hands.
“Get your stuff,” you said, breath still ragged but steadying. You smirked at the disbelief on his face. “We’re going to your place.”
He stared at you like you’d just slapped him, jaw slack, chest heaving. “You’re—are you serious?”
“You want me to make you come in your office?” you asked, arching a brow. “You want House to walk in and find you like that? Humping the air? Whimpering like some desperate intern?”
He looked away quickly, face burning as he adjusted himself with a shaky hand, mouth still parted, lips red and swollen from how hard you’d kissed him.
“…You’re evil,” he said finally, still not meeting your eyes.
You grinned. “You like it.”
“…Yeah.” His voice cracked, almost a whisper. “Yeah. I do.”
You held the door open for him, lips curling.
“Then hurry the fuck up.”
❪ 小薇 ❫ I’M NOT A BAD MAN : I’M JUST OVERWHELMED
— 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝚑𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝚑𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 .
𝓘ames wilson ੭୧ f! reader ┇ p in v ⋆ somno ⋆ non-con
this is a work of fiction and I don’t condone this irl. don’t like? don’t read. policing comments gets you blocked
JAMES WILSON’S larger frame drapes over you, pulling you close in your unconscious state. His warmth envelops you like a blanket of fire, the heat of his body melding into yours in a way that makes your pulse spike before your mind can even catch up. The room is hushed, every sound muted by the gravity of his presence—except for his breaths. Hot and uneven, they tease the shell of your ear, stirring the hair along your temple with a hunger that feels barely leashed. His hand tightens on your hip, fingernails leaving a trail of crescent-shaped imprints into your flesh, as if his very skin demands yours.
His cock stirs, painfully hard beneath the confines of his pants, the dull throb of arousal building into something that demands attention. Each rapid thump of his heart feeds the tension coiling tighter in his core, a steady pulse of white-hot need spreading from the pit of his stomach down to the ache between his legs. He bites down on a groan, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, but the sound still claws free anyway—a feeble, borderline pathetic noise that makes him feel as though he's coming undone, thread by thread.
The image of him plunging his cock into your tight little cunt plays on an endless loop in his head, delirious and unrelenting, like the world’s worst porno he can’t turn off. It’s agonizing, this carnal itch he was powerless to soothe, a hunger gnawing at him from the inside out. And it’s your fault—cruel, unknowing, perfect you. Why did you always have to look so devastatingly, effortlessly fuckable? Even now. Even like this. He's supposed to be better than this. He swears he is better than this. Or at least, he was. But you're ruining him, turning him into something base, something unrecognizable—a mutt in heat, panting after scraps of you like his life depended on it.
With trembling hands, he shoves his pants down just enough to free himself, a stinging hitch of breath catching in his throat as the cool air hits his angry, leaking cock. It stands thick and flushed in a mess of brown, slapping against his belly with a humiliating, wet sound that reminds him of how far gone he is—and yet it only spurs him on, the tingling buzz in his ears swelling akin to static, drowning out the last whispers of reason.
His jaw locks as he carefully eases himself between your legs, gliding the slippery head of his shaft over your folds with a slow, surgical precision only a doctor could have. A weak moan betrays him when your entrance flutters helplessly, involuntarily clenching around the aching emptiness he’s yet to fill. It's a maddening kind of torture, one that leaves his knees jittery and his resolve fractured.
He hesitates, guilt rising like a bitter, choking weight in his throat. This is wrong—he knows it's wrong. You're asleep for god's sake. Sweet, innocent, and unaware, probably lost in some dream about kittens and puppies with that peaceful smile gracing your lips. But as the shame churns deep in his gut, it's quickly eclipsed by something much worse: the ugly truth—he doesn't care.
However, even at his worst, there is this tenderness in the way he moves that refuses to vanish. He wants to make you feel good—needs to, as if somehow, this could be something you’d never hate him for, no matter how far he falls. It’s a twisted kind of redemption, one that only someone like Wilson can dream about.
Slowly, he grinds into you, inch by torturous inch, flesh to flesh, your slick depths stretching to welcome him in. A shuddering sigh flees his lips as he buries himself to the hilt, reveling in how the gummy walls of your cunt clutches onto his member with an almost suffocating grip, squeezing so tightly it was as if your sleeping body wanted him here in the first place.
"Mmm... holy..." he breathes, the words faltering as they leave his lips, fragile and barely formed. "…'m sorry... I didn't want this... didn't m-mean to..." his confession splinters in the air, equal parts of guilt and lust tumbling out in hoarse murmurs, dissolving into the void with every stuttering thrust of his pelvis. Each stroke feels a perfect contradiction—a prayer answered and a sin committed, tightening his chest and clouding his mind all at once.
And then there’s you—silken, wet, and impossibly tight—wrapping around him like a second skin. Your fleshy insides mold to every pulsating ridge and vein of his cock, sucking him deeper in with the unknowing shifts of your hips. His nerves flare with a sizzling anticipation, the lewd squelch of him violating your cunt eating away at the edges of his crumbling resolve. Still, as futile as it is, he desperately clings onto what’s left of his control behind squeezed eyelids, and it takes everything in him not to spill right there—but the way his dick twitches within the deliciously, spongy muscles of your sex suggests that everything might not be enough.
After all, he's deathly afraid of crossing that final line. But in the hollow, aching pit of his chest, he knows...
He already has.
˚｡⋆୨୧˚ Help You Out ₊ ⊹ .
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...
Pairing: James Wilson (House MD) x Fem!Reader
Tags: 18+ content, fluff, hurt / comfort, fingering, sex, James Wilson's sweet puppy eyes
Word count: ~2,5k
AO3 link: here
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.
And in that moment, you believe him.
One thing about James Wilson? He's going to eat that cat.
House was extra annoying that day? He's diving in to make out with your clit until his frustration is gone and your legs are Jell-O. He had to give too much bad news for one day? He's stuffing his head between your thighs, using them as earmuffs until the noise in his head is drowned out by your moans. He'll spend hours down there. Days, if only it were physically possible.
Enjoy the scene that came to me at 2 AM while I couldn't sleep.
(Female reader. Not proofread.)
You're sitting in the living room, a glass of wine in your hand. Dinner is simmering on the stove and an episode of your favorite "background noise" show is on. The front door opens hard, James comes lumbering through with that usual slump in his shoulders. He tugs at his tie to loosen it, stomping over to the couch.
A pang shoots through your chest and you quickly set your glass down to take him into open arms. He falls in across the couch, head landing heavily in your lap. Your now free hand strokes his hair.
"Wanna talk about it?" You ask softly.
Only a grunt comes in response. It's a no.
"Want dinner?"
He shakes his head, long arms coming to wrap around your waist. You can't help but chuckle at the almost childish way he's acting. Your other hand rubs soothing circles into his back. He huffs, simultaneously melting into you and hugging you more tightly.
His face is pressed into your shirt, long breaths taking in your scent for several seconds. His large hands leave your back to hold your hips. His grip is the kind of tight that he's using the touch of your skin as an anchor. As some grasp at sanity after whatever hellish day he had. His nose nudges more intently into you, brushing your waistband.
"...smell good..." He murmurs, muffled. Thumbs dip below your pants to graze your pantyline. "Feel good..."
A shiver rolls through you, your body heating up at the beginning of this familiar dance. You let your legs widen beneath him, hips shifting more openly for him. A content hum leaves him, his fingers already pulling at the button of your pants.
"Need you." He groans, picking up his head just enough to pull at your clothes.
Feeling heat in your face as well as your gut, you shimmy to help shed the layer. "So excited to get me in bed." You tease, chuckling.
He shakes his head, slowly shifting off the couch to kneel between your legs. "No. No, I mean right now. Here." Lust-darkened eyes flick up to yours as he throws your pants aside. "Yeah?" His gaze falls hungrily to your dampened panties.
"God-" The word escapes your lips before you could stop it. You've never seen him look so... ravenous. He looks at you like a goddess, sure. Always makes it clear just how much he needs you. But this is something different entirely. And it has your entrance aching already.
Swallowing the sudden (excited) lump in your throat, you nod. "Yeah."
A satisfied growl comes from his throat at your consent. Warm hands yank your underwear so hard it nearly makes you gasp. "Beautiful," He whispers before ducking his head down to place one, long swipe of his tongue along the length of your needing core.
"Fucking perfect." He savors the taste of you for only a second before tugging your hips even closer.
Your head falls back at once. Long, tasting drags of his tongue has your legs held wide. And when he moves to tease your clit with quick flicking, content sighs turn to gasps and whines.
He hums happily and shifts your legs onto his shoulders, holding your thighs around his head. His tongue pumps in and out, and you swear you can feel his lips curl into a grin when you moan his name in response. He releases only one of your thighs, his fingers diving into your pulsing heat.
"Oh James!" Your own hands claw into the couch, his hair, anything you can reach really.
You can feel the vibration of words against yourself, but he doesn't move far enough away to be heard. Whatever it is, you're sure it's praise, as comes naturally from him.
His fingers curl, his tongue swirls, and you're starting to see white from the way you're clutching your eyes.
And when that wave of dizzying pleasure crashes through you?
He doesn't stop.
In fact, he drinks every bit of your orgasm like a man seeing a mirage after days of walking in the desert. As well as second.
It's not until you're squirming and pleading that it's too much that he even comes up for air. His hair messed from your fingers and his nose down coated in slick, he dares to pout up at you.
"Sorry," He says, letting your trembling legs slump off his shoulders and back to the floor. He isn't sorry in the slightest though. Not when he rises to kiss you messily. Not when he carries you to bed. And certainly not when you tell him that you're ready for more.
Oh. My. God.
I WANNA TAKE A RIDE ON UR DISCO STICK !
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓂃 𓈒𓏸 df! james wilson x fem! reader ˎˊ˗
SUMMARY⌇ sitting half-naked on your dad’s friend wilson’s lap during a car ride—what could possibly go wrong?
WORDCOUNT⌇ 1.9k
WARNINGS⌇ dad’s friend trope ⊹ dry humping ⊹ car sex sorta?? ⊹ grinding ⊹ public setting ⊹ risk of getting caught ⊹ unspecified age gap ⊹ guilty wilson… again
The car is stuffed to the brim—coolers wedged between legs, beach towels unrolling like lazy tongues over seatbacks, and a chorus of chatter blaring from the front seat. Someone’s yammering about sun protection with evangelical fervor, probably your dad’s coworker who takes SPF as a personal religion.
Wilson hovers by the open door, awkward in his neatly ironed slacks and a pale blue button-down, sleeves rolled up his forearms in a half-hearted stab at blending in. He’s mid-apology, gesturing vaguely toward the chaos, clearly about to martyr himself and wait for the next ride.
Too bad.
With an impish grin and something wicked glinting behind your heart-shaped sunglasses, you snatch his wrist in a middle of an excuse. You couldn’t help it—you’ve been hooked on the soft-spoken oncologist since forever. So with your dad distracted up front, it was officially go-time.
“Lap it is,” you purr, climbing in before he could blink—bikini-clad, bare-legged, unbothered—rear swaying with theatrical ease as you perch atop him, like it was pre-reserved with your name on it. Your skin, tinged with sunscreen and sharp citrus, was still cool from the air-conditioned house, a shock against the burn searing within his bones.
“Wha—-” Wilson choked on the syllable as your weight settles, soft and sun-warmed. His chestnut irises blown impossibly wide open at your boldness, hands flinching upward, frozen in a limbo of decency and doom.
“Uh… shouldn’t you have, I don’t know, changed at the beach?” he asks, pitch spiking as if he’s fifteen and allergic to this exact scenario. “Not that I claim to be an authority on carpool etiquette, but…”
He lets out a shaky laugh—brittle, and oh-so-panicked. “Lap duty was definitely not on my agenda today.”
You wiggle your hips with a satisfied hum, adjusting yourself until your ass is perfectly fitted over the ridge of his zipper. “Why wait?” you giggle, all teeth and honey, shooting him a smirk that could curdle virtue. “Besides… I figured if I’m gonna be sitting on your lap, I might as well dress for the occasion.”
The tie of your bikini top grazes his chin—loose, barely knotted. He could undo it by accident if he breathed too hard.
Wilson shakes his head, warding off all inappropriate thoughts threatening to root in his brain like weeds. It’s just a quick family-friendly car ride. Just a cramped backseat with his friends’s daughter on top. Nothing he couldn’t endure with a dash of self-control, right?
…If only he knew you had no plans to let him survive a much different type of ride.
You stretch to close the car door, arching with feline grace as your breasts lift just enough to threaten full exposure. Wilson sees it, tries not to, but his gaze lingers a second too long.
The engine rumbles to life, and so does the road, a rattling string of potholes and poorly timed stops that turns the backseat into a carnival ride. Each bump jostles you back against his pelvis, eliciting a startled grunt which he tries to disguise as a cough, even as your supple curves ripple over the firm rise swelling beneath you. You pretend not to notice.
Wilson’s breath comes shallow, lips parted around a sound that never quite makes it out. He’s hardening. Fast.
“Dear god,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, a line of sweat beading at his temple as he squirms—futilely, laughably—to keep his raging hard-on from prodding at you. But it’s too late. You’re already molded to him, wedging down with a precise amount of pressure for him to see stars behind those poor, tortured lashes. Your ass cradles him, lush cheeks spreading and nestling onto the growing bulge below.
“Oh?” you chirp, syrup-sweet, sunglasses sliding down the slope of your nose as you glance at him with wide, mock-concerned eyes. “You okay back there? You’re looking a little flushed,” you press down on him for emphasis. “Want me to crank up the AC? Or would that just make things… harder?”
He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The car lurches again, and your tits bounce with the motion, jiggling inside the skimpy triangles of your top. One strap slips, ever so slightly. Enough for a dark flash of nipple to peek out then vanish, like a dare.
You lean back, your shoulder pressing into his clavicle as a whisper feathers the shell of his ear. “Feels like you’re enjoying the ride, Dr. Wilson…”
His hands finally find your hips—not to pull you off, no. Simply to hold you still. As if that’ll stop anything.
His knuckles flexes, tendons knotted under flesh, blanching with dwindling restraint. His grip wasn’t possessive, it’s utterly helpless—the way a man might cling to a ledge with nothing but rocks and open air below. Each shaky huffs stirs the hairs on your nape in staccato bursts, quavering and uneven, fluttering onto your dewy skin with every bump in the road.
Your thighs spread—no pretense of innocence now. Each little wriggle drags your ass across the rigid line of him, his cock now fully erect and caught painfully between your body and the prison of his shorts, swollen tip likely rubbed raw. The fabric must feel like sandpaper. Good. Let him squirm.
“Mmph!- you need to stop. You’re going to get me killed-” he protests weakly, voice thinned to a thread. It reaches for authority and lands somewhere closer to plea dressed up as one.
“I’m serious,” he grits out, low and swift. “Your father is three feet away. Driving. If he so much as glances back and sees this—sees me—he’s swerving us into a guardrail, and frankly? I’d deserve it.”
He risks a peep at the rearview mirror, already bracing for impact—or worse, conversation.
“And just for the record- I’m fairly certain ‘Sorry, sir, I accidentally ejaculated on your daughter’ doesn’t hold up in court.”
Yet despite the full-blown Wilsonian descent into moral panic, he doesn’t push you off. Doesn’t stop you. Because you’re warm, and you’re there, and his cock is practically signing a confession in pre-cum across the front of his slacks.
“Oh calm down,” you wave him off, reaching back to curl your arm around his neck when no one’s looking, fingers threading lazily through a piece of hair behind his ear. “He’s not gonna notice. He never does.”
“Even if he does look back, what do you think he’d see? Me sitting still, perfectly innocent… and you sweating bullets like you’re about to propose.” You snicker, bordering on cruel.
“If anyone’s blowing your cover, Wilson, it’s you.”
You punctuated your words by rolling your hips forward tauntingly, tracing slow, languid figure-eights that stroke his swollen shape through the cotton. It knocked the wind out his lungs, each pass coaxing a fresh tremor from his member. There’s slick warmth oozing from your barely-covered pussy slit, soaking straight through the gusset of your bikini, smearing over his lap in damning streaks. His khakis darken with it. A ruinous little brand. Yours.
Your lips brush close, shy of contact. “…Bet I could make you cum in your pants right now and you’d still smile through dinner like nothing happened.”
He groans, head thumping back against the headrest with a muted, defeated clunk. You hear it—the thick, guilt-laden swallow he tried to suppress, bobbing in his throat like a sob he doesn’t know where to aim.
This is his friend’s daughter. His friend, right there in the driver’s seat, blissfully focused on the road—while his boner was being ground into mush in the backseat by a bikini-clad siren half his age. He felt like every cliche he’d ever pitied—some sad, middle-aged divorcé with a weakness for younger women and no sense of boundaries.
…Well. He was that guy now. Exactly that guy.
His thighs twitch beneath you, muscles jumping involuntarily as his cock kicks, straining against the damp flimsy barrier between you. “This is—god—absurd,” he rasps. “I should be asking for a lawyer, not a… lap dance in the back of a Subaru.” It leaves him in a breathless rush—half-joke, half-defeat. The way his voice frays at the edges on the last word makes it clear: it’s already killing him.
Your pretty lips twists into a pout, one that’s too practiced to be pure. “Where’s the fun in that?” You croon, tone as deadly as silk over blade. “It’s not like your cock’s inside me… yet. So technically?” you trail off as your spine bows deliciously, bikini riding higher between your asscheeks—more string than swimwear now. “No crime. No foul. Just the perfect start to a very dirty little secret.”
You grind again—harder this time—and he hitches, eyes screwed shut and jaw clenched tooth-shatteringly tight as his shaft pulses violently under you, practically ready to burst free at the seams of his pants. His hands fly from your hips to the edge of the seat, clutching the hot vinyl as he’s afraid to touch you again. If he does, he won’t be able to stop.
The hushed noise that escapes Wilson is nothing short of pitiful—a strangled gasp snagged in the well of his chest, right above the frantic thrum of his stallion-quick heart. He’s trembling, every nerve sizzling and wound taut. It’s not from the cold—hell, it’s sweltering in here. But the tension you’ve stoked in him blazes white-hot, melting him down to a shivering wreck, knees jittering with no hope of stillness.
He’s flushed to the roots—neck to scalp lit up in a feverish crimson, the tips of his ears flaring cherry red. His dick throbs in his briefs, as if trying to claw its way inside you on sheer instinct alone. “P-Please,” he stammers, the plea nearly eclipsed by the drone of the highway. “This is a catastrophic idea- I’m about two seconds from losing any shred of self-control here.
“Catastrophic?” You echo. “Wilson, you’ve been gagging for it since I sat down. The only thing I made you do was stop pretending otherwise.”
Spurring him on, you lean in and whisper softly. “Come oooon… ditch the good boy act and cum for me already. I promise not to tell daddy…”
“Our dirty secret, remember?”
And just like that, his hips finally betrays him in the faintest disgraceful thrusts, every ghost of a buck into your clothed cunt an apology he’s too far gone to voice. A soft moan slips out of you, part from the friction, part from an unbearable, blistering ache low in your belly—dying for him to finish inside you next time.
However the rest of it? That’s unadulterated satisfaction—the victory of witnessing your long-time crush unravel under you, undone by an act so simple, so obscene.
“Dammit, wait—-” he hisses, louder than he meant to, the curse a tangled braid of guilt and relief. No one reacts. No one knows. And maybe that’s what makes it worse.
His frame staggers once, twice—then he’s gone, pleasure cresting through him in a silent, shattered surrender. A white, milky essence seeps through his underwear, drenching the space between your thighs and his lap, slathering across his crotch in trails of sticky shame. It’s filthy. It’s humiliating. It’s also easily the hottest thing you’ve ever felt.
He blinks open, but doesn’t move.
“Oopsie,” you smile so wide it aches, turning to catch a fine sheen glistening over the furrowed lines of his careworn features, turmoil etched deep around those sad puppy eyes.
“I think somebody made a mess.” your stare dips, unapologetically. “Hope you brought a spare change of clothes.”
Wilson exhales hard, hands scrubbing over his face as he kneads the bridge of his nose. He crossed a line. In fact—he obliterated it. And the worst part? He knows he’ll do it again.
Especially if you so much as whisper please.
-------☆-------
divider creds: @/cafekitsune
Ok, hear me out. Taking James Wilson somewhere private-ish in the hospital for a quick handjob because he’s been working so hard and you can tell he’s been a bit stressed. Could you add in some praise please?
SYNOPSIS: quick handjob because james is very stressed.
CHARACTER: male reader x james wilson
NOTE: wrote this on a whim >:D
WC: 0,7k
WARNING: light praise,, soft!dom!reader,, semi-public,, handjob,,
princeton‑plainsboro was humming as usual, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, nurses and residents weaving in and out of hallways. You spotted Wilson at the far end of the oncology ward, perched on the edge of a desk, his phone pressed to his ear and his fingers massaging his temple. you didn’t even need to ask to know he was on his third consult in an hour. his tie was loose, his voice tight and low, and the crease between his brows seemed deeper than usual.
when he hung up, you stepped in close. “james,” you murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.
his tired eyes flicked to you. “..yes? i don’t have long—”
“five minutes,” you cut him off softly. your hand brushed over his wrist. “come with me.”
he sighed your name out before he spoke. “..i really—”
“please.” you gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and something in your tone— firm, yet warm— made him exhale heavily and nod. you led him down a side corridor to a rarely used supply closet, slipping inside and closing the door behind you. the space smelled faintly of antiseptic and paper towels. it wasn’t ideal, but it was quiet.
your name left his lips again. “what are we—”
“you’ve been running yourself ragged, james.” your hands moved to his chest, sliding down the soft fabric of his dress shirt. “you don’t stop for even five minutes. you deserve this.”
“deserve what?” he asked faintly, though his breath hitched as you pressed him back against the wall, lips brushing over his jaw.
“deserve to feel good.”
you kissed him softly at first, then deeper as his lips parted under yours. your hand traced down his torso to his belt, tugging at the leather until the buckle gave.
“let me,” you whispered against his mouth, fingers brushing over the growing bulge in his slacks. “you’ve been so good. taking care of everyone else. it’s time someone takes care of you.” he let out a quiet, broken sound as you cupped him through the fabric, feeling the heat of him pulse against your palm.
“fuck,” he whispered.
“you’re so hard already,” you murmured, kissing down his neck as you worked his zipper open. “been holding this in all day, huh?”
his hips bucked slightly as you freed his cock from his briefs, the flushed tip glistening with precum. “god, james,” you breathed, wrapping your hand around him. “you’re beautiful like this.”
“..we shouldn’t— oh fuck—” his words crumbled as you gave him a slow, tight stroke, thumb teasing his slit. “you’re doing so well for me,” you said softly, lips brushing his ear. “letting me take care of you. you don’t know how good you look right now.” he groaned quietly, trying to keep his voice down as your fist began moving faster. his head fell back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, his hand gripping your shoulder for balance. “such a good boy for me,” you praised, twisting your wrist just right. “you’re so perfect, james. always taking care of everyone else. let me be the one to make you feel good for once.”
his hips jerked forward involuntarily, fucking your fist with soft, desperate sounds. “you like that?” you asked, kissing his neck. “you like me stroking you like this?”
“yes— god— don’t stop—” he gasped, biting down on his lip to stifle a groan.
“that’s it, james. give it to me.” you worked him harder, faster now, your thumb pressing into the sensitive spot under the head. “cum for me. let me see how pretty you look when you cum.”
his whole body went tight as he gasped your name, spilling hot and thick over your hand. you stroked him through it, milking every last shudder from his spent cock before slowing. “good boy,” you whispered, kissing his temple as he sagged against you. “you did so well for me.”
he let out a shaky laugh, his face flushed as he buried it in your shoulder, his breathing uneven. you cleaned him up with a tissue from the shelf. he didn’t say a singular word as he panted, tucking himself back into his slacks.
Oh. My. God.
Do Not Show House
Summary: You kissed him until he looked like a walking valentine. He let you. Now Wilson’s covered in lipstick marks, half-laughing in the bathroom mirror—and you’re trying very hard to pretend you won’t show House the photo you just took. (You definitely will.)
Tags: Domestic Fluff, Soft Boyfriend!Wilson, Established Relationship, Kissing, Lipsticks, Gregory House Is a Menace (Mentioned), Lighthearted
Page divider by FireflyGraphics
The bathroom mirror reflects back something that makes you bite your lip to keep from laughing—Wilson, standing there with lipstick kiss marks scattered across his face. Deep red lipstick marks his cheeks, his forehead, and the bridge of his nose. They trail down his jaw and disappear beneath the collar of his shirt, evidence of your attack just moments ago.
"Don't," Wilson says, but he's smiling despite himself, that soft smile he reserves just for you. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he catches your expression in the mirror.
"Don't what?" you ask innocently, even as you're already reaching for your phone.
"Don't even think about it."
"Too late. I'm thinking about it." You hold up your phone, framing him in the camera. "Come on, just one picture. Please?"
Wilson turns to face you fully, and the sight is even better from this angle. There's a particularly perfect kiss mark right on his cheekbone, and another on his chin. His hair is slightly mussed from your fingers, and his shirt collar is askew.
"Why do you need a picture?" he asks, but his resistance is already weakening. You can tell by the way he's not actually moving away.
"Because you look adorable," you say honestly. "And I want it as my homescreen. I want to look at this every time I check my phone."
A flush creeps up Wilson's neck, adding to the artwork you've created. "That's exactly why this is a terrible idea."
"One picture. Just for me." You step closer, tilting your head. "Please? I promise I'll treasure it forever."
Wilson sighs, but it's the sigh of someone who's already lost the argument and knows it. "Fine. One picture. But—" he points at you seriously, though the effect is somewhat diminished by the lipstick kiss on his finger from where he'd touched his own face earlier, "—you absolutely cannot show House."
"Why would I show House?"
"Because you two show each other everything just to torture me," Wilson says, but there's no real heat in it. "And if House sees this, he'll never stop. Never. I'll be hearing about it until I'm ninety."
You can't help but grin because he's absolutely right. House would have a field day with this. You can already imagine the commentary, the jokes, the way he'd bring it up at the most inopportune moments. "I won't show House," you promise.
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying!"
Wilson gives you a look—that particular look that says he knows you better than you know yourself sometimes. "You're going to show him within twenty-four hours."
"I am not—okay, I might accidentally leave my phone where he can see it."
"That's the same thing!"
"It's completely different. That's him snooping, not me showing."
Wilson shakes his head, but he's laughing now, and you take the opportunity to snap a photo. The click of the camera shutter captures him mid-laugh, lipstick marks and all, looking happy and loved and absolutely perfect.
You look down at the photo and your heart does a little flip. "Oh, this is definitely going as my homescreen."
"Let me see," Wilson says, moving to look over your shoulder. You tilt the phone so he can see, and he groans. "I look ridiculous."
"You look like someone loves you very much," you correct, already setting the photo as your wallpaper. "There. Done."
Wilson wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both look at your phone screen. "You're impossible," he murmurs against your ear.
"You love it."
"I do," he admits quietly. Then, after a pause: "Just... really don't show House. He'll make my life miserable."
"Your secret is safe with me," you say, turning in his arms to kiss him properly this time—though it just adds another lipstick mark to his collection.
Your phone buzzes with a text. You both ignore it, but you already know it's probably House, asking where Wilson is, or making some sarcastic comment about something completely unrelated.
Wilson pulls back slightly. "That's House, isn't it?"
"Probably."
"And you're going to show him the picture."
"I'm not going to show him the picture!"
Wilson just looks at you.
"...I'm going to try very hard not to show him the picture."
"That's what I thought." But he's smiling again, pressing a kiss to your forehead that probably leaves a faint lipstick mark there too. "Come on, I should probably wash this off before we go anywhere."
"Or," you suggest, "you could leave it. Make a statement."
"The statement being 'I have completely lost control of my life'?"
"The statement being 'I'm loved.'"
Wilson's expression softens, and he cups your face gently. "I am loved," he agrees. "Even if it means House is going to mock me mercilessly when he inevitably sees that photo."
"If he sees it."
"When."
You don't argue, because you both know he's probably right. But for now, you just pull him close again, adding a few more lipstick marks for good measure. After all, if House is going to tease him anyway, you might as well make it worth it.
Main Masterlist
“𝑳𝑶𝑵𝑮𝑰𝑵𝑮.”
SYNOPSIS: he can’t rid himself of the thoughts about you.
CHARACTER: male reader x james wilson
NOTE: short.. ermm... sorry guys..
kinktober masterlist .
WC: 0,6k
WARNING: masturbation,, he does it in his office,, james is smitten with you,, pervert!james,,
“mmh—mmm..” james had a hand clasped over his mouth, his other hand working on his cock like his life depended on it.
here he was, in his office, with the door locked of course, jerking off because the thought of you was driving him crazy.
he considered himself a pretty composed man, but whenever you were around, he swore his heart was beating out of his chest, his lips tingled, his hands itched to reach out and touch you. anything. any sort of contact with you—he longed for.
god, you were his co-worker. he shouldn’t think of you like that. but decency be damned, you were everything he wanted. he knew he was being lustful, that it wasn’t right, he knew it well.
james wouldn’t and honestly, couldn’t, stop thinking about the way your hand slid from the side of his waist to the small of his back to gently push him out of the way. he couldn’t stop thinking about how damn good you smelled, how you interacted with him, how you subtly flirted with him.
james’ head fell back against the headrest of his office chair, a small groan escaping his throat, muffled by his palm. he kept jerking himself off on the thought of you, his wrist twisting just right. even his hips bucked up into his fist with a barely coherent noise.
eventually he took his hand off of his mouth and looked at his other hand. his mouth was agape, eyebrows furrowed a tiny bit, eyes hooded and glazed over. when he saw the amount of precum leaking, he whimpered softly. james could one hundred percent cum just from hearing your voice. he was sure of it.
he shifted in his seat, his pants sliding down his thighs just a teensy bit more. continuous gasps left his open mouth as he did his best to stay quiet. “g—gghhh..” the sound left him of its own accord through gritted teeth. james squeezed his hand tighter around his cock, jerking himself off faster, his movements getting more stiff as he went on.
his free hand gripped the armrest, knuckles turning white from how hard he was holding onto the chair. perhaps it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
an image of you flashed through james’ mind, when he caught you staring at him. he remembered the way your eyes flickered over his body and fuck, it made his hips buck wildly before stuttering. he cursed quietly under his breath, shutting his eyes tightly as he felt heat coiling tight in his power abdomen.
james knew he should feel ashamed, he knew he should feel guilty. he knew he was a goddamn pervert for this.. for thinking of you in such a way. yet right now? when he was nearing an orgasm? he didn’t give two fucking shits.
james hand was shaking as he moved it faster and faster. his thighs tensed and his feet that were planted on the ground, pushed himself backwards with the chair. he barely registered it as he came, cum spurting out of his cock and down the side of his hand. he kept stroking himself through it, eventually settling down and relaxing in the chair.
his chest was heaving, a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead as he cleaned himself up and tucked his cock back into his pants.
right on time, because just a moment later..
“wilson! why the hell is your door locked?” house said loudly, trying the handle over and over again as if it would help him barge in through the locked door.
TAGS; @cryingdew / @urbexbat / @helluvadog / @oi-oikawa-tooru / @stayruby / @hexenratte / @fedyascoffin / @mitzukiyapping / @meupaunoseuuc / @lemon--shark / @lovely-seaangel / @loverboyisaac / @kermodecritters
