for now, until i get to all the previous requests:)
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my fandoms/the things i write for:
mystic messenger, obey me, fnaf, arcane, mob psycho, homicipher, most dating sims/visual novels, gravity falls, MHA, AOT, ace attorney, the great ace attorney, TMNT, ROTTMNT, sally face, omori, haikyuu, mashle, mouthwashing, creepypasta, slashers, DC, batboys ughhh, pokemon, undertale, COD, dungeon meshi, the sonic franchise, genshin impact(except natlan & newer characters), HSR, one punch man, house m.d
read: if you want to request, please specify what you want. what is the characters relationship with reader? what is the plot? do you want hcs or a scenario? thank you!
dear anons: 🐶 anon, 🕊 anon,
·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·
i kinda like everything, so dont be shy to send me requests about anything! or even DM me if you just wanna talk! im always open to having new friends/moots<3
my name is hyun(nickname, obv), im 18, persian and very much multifandom! if you ever wanna dicuss certain topics or just..talk, my DMs are always open♡
i write any reader! fem, gn, male, dom, sub, top, bottom..I'll write em all( ´-｀)
sorry for being inactive gang my country was in war im busy as shit with finals rn but i might come back with a fic? maybe? possibly? perhaps? if you wanted to talk, my dms r open(･ω･｀*)
hi! yeah, sure. im just not active because well, the fics take some time to finish😭 after i finish and edit some stuff I'll prob post more but yeah i am!
(ФωФ): established relationship, hurt/comfort, taking care of his wounds, mention of wounds/blood, ..basically worshipping his tits, no mention of any specific genitalia for reader, just a hole🙏 aftercare. its not JUST smut, if you just wanna read you taking care of jason/the aftercare without the sex, go ahead:) i TRIEEEED to keep reader gn, ive never written bottom gn reader before😭 the "mama" part is gn, i have some gendered gender neutral words i use. dude girl bro sister and mama😭😭😭😭😭🙏
YALL OMFG IM BACK!! MY PHONE BROKEEE😭😭😭 IM GONNA CHECK ALL MY ASKS AND GET BACK TO WRITING NOW! new fics coming soon:p probably.
⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･
The front door slammed like it owed the hinges rent. A deep grunt followed, the sound of heavy boots dragging against hardwood, and the distinct clatter of something metal—maybe his helmet, maybe a piece of gear, maybe a rib. Probably a rib.
You didn’t even look up from where you were curled on the couch with a blanket over your legs and a show paused on the TV. You just let out a long, deeply unimpressed sigh.
“Don’t even fucking start,” you called out casually, like you were warning a dog away from the trash. “If you’re leaking blood on the floor again, I swear to god, Jason.”
“I’m not—” He started, and immediately cut off with a pained hiss. “Okay, maybe I am.”
You turned your head. The sight that greeted you was… familiar. Not in a normal way. Not in a “my boyfriend’s home!” way. More like a “Jesus Christ, you’re a walking lawsuit” way.
His hair was matted with sweat, curling around the edges of his forehead where his helmet must’ve pressed down hard. Blood had dried in splatters on his temple, and his lip was split open, one side already swelling. His jacket was torn, chest heaving with breath as he limped his way to the kitchen.
“Jason Peter Todd,” you said slowly, your tone like a knife dragged lovingly over a whetstone.
He froze.
“No middle names,” he muttered. “That’s a middle-name tone. I don’t like that tone.”
“Sit. The fuck. Down.”
Jason grumbled something unintelligible under his breath and kept limping toward the kitchen.
You stood up so fast the blanket fell off your legs in a heap. “Jason. I will tackle your beefy ass to the floor, do not test me.”
He turned to you with a glare that probably worked wonders on criminals and small children. It had zero effect on you.
“I’m fine,” he said, voice gravelly with pain and tiredness.
“Baby, you’re walking like a horse trampled your entire skeletal system.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not the defense you think it is.”
Jason huffed, dropped his helmet onto the kitchen counter with a clunk, and leaned against the edge like he was absolutely not about to pass out, nuh uh, no sir. You marched over and grabbed his arm. He didn’t resist, just let you tug him by the wrist until he plopped down into one of the kitchen chairs like a sulky 200-pound toddler.
“I didn’t wanna worry you,” he said, avoiding your eyes.
“You live to worry me.”
He didn’t argue.
You opened the cabinet above the sink, yanked down the first aid kit, and slammed it on the table beside him. Jason gave it a sideways look, like it might open up and yell at him too.
You bent down, gently prying off what was left of his ruined jacket. He winced, hissing through his teeth. “Could be broken.”
“No shit,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you peeled the fabric back from a long, nasty scrape on his ribs.
Under the torn armor, bruises bloomed like abstract art across his torso, a splash of purple and red and ugly yellow. But you had to pause. Because. Jesus Christ.
“Goddamn,” you muttered.
“What?” he asked, startled. “What, is it worse than it looks?”
“No, I just—Jason.”
You leaned back a little and gestured vaguely at his chest.
“What the hell are you feeding these things? Jesus. These are tits. These aren’t pecs, Jay. They’re full-on, grab-with-two-hands, ‘post this on the internet and someone’s gonna drool’ tits.”
Jason went bright red. “Are you serious?”
“Deadass.”
“They’re not—!” he sputtered.
“They are,” you said firmly. “You’re built like a Greek statue that got cast in a Playboy calendar. Dick’s got the ass, but you? You’ve got the tits.”
Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
You took the opportunity to douse a cotton pad in disinfectant and press it to the worst gash on his side.
“FUCK—!!” he yelled, flinching violently.
“Oh shut up,” you said. “You’ve been shot before. You can live through a little stinging.”
“Doesn’t mean I like it!” he growled, glaring down at you.
You reached up and patted one of his very sore, very large pectorals. “Big boy can handle it. Come on. Let mama clean you up.”
He looked personally offended. “Do not call yourself that right now.”
“You gonna stop me?” you challenged, grinning.
“…No,” he muttered.
“Exactly.”
You continued working, cleaning each wound with steady hands while he hissed and groaned and occasionally tried to argue that something didn’t need stitches. He lost that argument every time, you knew exactly how to handle his stubborn ass. You’d learned all his tells—when the pain was bad enough that his nostrils flared just slightly, or when he clenched his jaw like he could lock the agony in behind his teeth. But he never told you to stop, never pushed you away.
You ran a gentle hand over his curls when you were done, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a damp towel.
“There,” you whispered, voice soft now. “All patched up. You look like you got into a bar fight with a cement mixer, but at least you won.”
Jason let out a low, tired laugh and reached out to wrap a hand around your wrist. “You always do this,” he murmured.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like I’m not a complete fucking disaster.”
You set the towel down and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his bruised mouth. “You are a disaster,” you said sweetly. “You just happen to be my disaster. And I take care of what’s mine.”
Jason didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stared at you like you’d done something unspeakably kind and he didn’t know how to handle it.
“…You make it hard to stay mad,” he finally muttered, pulling you gently into his lap.
“Good. Maybe next time you’ll come home with fewer cracked ribs and less arterial spray.”
“No promises,” he said, pressing his face into your neck. “Crime doesn’t take days off.”
“You better,” you said. “Or I’m gonna tell the whole world how fat your titties are.”
Jason groaned again, muffling it into your skin. “I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“…Unfortunately.”
You smiled, carding your fingers through his hair, cradling him against your chest.
Jason’s head had dropped forward somewhere between the last cleaned wound and your fourth idle brush of his hair. His eyes had gone soft-lidded, his breathing shallow and slow. His big, battle-scarred body slumped in the kitchen chair while you held his face in both hands.
You couldn’t stop staring.
He was so tired, and still so goddamn beautiful. Bruised cheekbone, swollen lip, cut above his brow—and you still wanted to kiss every inch of him like he was made of glass and gold and nothing else.
“Jay,” you murmured softly, thumbs brushing his cheeks.
He hummed in response, eyes fluttering open. They were hazy, sleepy, a little dazed from pain, but focused on you.
“Let’s get you to the couch,” you whispered.
“You just like bossing me around,” he rasped.
You smiled, brushing your nose against his. “Only because you look so pretty when you listen.”
He groaned, but let you guide him up, one arm slung over your shoulders as you helped him to the couch. He collapsed back into the cushions, all the strenght gone from his limbs. You made quick work of peeling off his ruined undershirt, now sticking uncomfortably to his still-slick skin. He grumbled, but raised his arms for you.
And then you sat beside him, legs curled underneath you, and just… looked.
Jason Todd. Shirtless. Beaten up. And still the finest man you’d ever seen.
Thick muscle under bruised skin. Deep lines carved across his abs from years of hell. Collarbones like they were sketched by an artist. But your eyes—your hands—inevitably wandered to his..tits.
And god, what a pair they were.
“Jesus,” you muttered, almost reverently, as your fingers traced the curve of his chest. “You are stacked.”
“I will throw you off this couch,” he grumbled half-heartedly.
“You won’t,” you said smugly. “You like when I talk about your chest.”
“I don’t—”
You leaned in and cupped one, gently. Like it was a holy relic, which..it probably was.
Jason choked on his breath.
“…Oh,” you said, biting your lip. “Sensitive, huh?”
His glare was entirely ruined by the way his cheeks flushed. “Fuck off.”
You didn’t. Of course not.
Instead, you leaned forward and kissed the edge of his jaw. Then his cheek. Then the softest, most reverent kiss to his bruised temple, hands cradling his face. You kissed down the slope of his nose, pressed your lips to his mouth—gentle, slow and deep.
Jason let out the smallest sound.
You smiled against his lips. “There’s my soft boy.”
“I’m not soft,” he whispered.
You kissed the corner of his mouth. “You are. And I love you that way.”
His breath hitched.
And then you shifted downward. Lower. Trailing kisses down his neck, his collarbone, pausing to tongue along the hollow of his throat. His body tensed under you—not from pain. You knew the difference.
You hovered over his chest and raised your brows. “Permission?”
Jason looked like he wanted to say something witty, something snarky—but his pupils were blown wide, and his voice was quiet when he said, “…Yeah. Please.”
You grinned.
And then you kissed his chest.
Not just little pecks—kisses. Long, wet, open-mouthed kisses that left his skin glistening. You licked slow paths up his pecs, suckled gentle marks into the bruised flesh, murmuring soft praises against him.
“So soft,” you breathed. “So full. Baby, you’ve got the best titties in Gotham, I’m sorry.”
Jason let out a strangled moan when you sucked one of his nipples between your lips and tugged gently.
You glanced up at him, eyes mischievous. “That feel good, handsome?”
His mouth opened, but no sound came out—just a shuddery exhale and the twitch of his thighs.
You took that as a yes.
Your tongue circled the little bud slowly, then flicked—teasing, testing—until he gasped and arched under you. You lavished it with attention, then moved to the other, your hand cupping the first and thumbing it gently.
Jason’s hands twitched at his sides, a slient, grasping urge . You slid yours into his and interlaced your fingers. “You’re okay,” you whispered. “Just let me take care of you.”
And he did.
Eventually, you felt him shift—needing more. You pressed one more kiss to his chest, then climbed up, straddling his lap.
“You ready, baby?” you asked, voice low, sweet, already breathless. You straddled his lap now, hands on his shoulders, thumbs brushing over those gorgeous bruised tits with every lazy movement of your hips.
Jason stared up at you, his gaze full of raw reverence. “Fuck—yeah. Please.”
You grinned and reached beside the couch into the little drawer of essentials—every responsible hedonist’s secret weapon—and produced a shiny little square packet of pure, certified protection.
“Say the magic word,” you teased.
Jason groaned, dragging his hands up your thighs, eyes half-lidded and dazed. “You’re gonna make me say it?”
“Yep,” you said smugly, because what’s love if not humiliating your man in the cutest possible way?
He muttered it. “Please.”
“Correct!” you chirped, tearing it open with your teeth. “And now...”
Jason let out a breathy curse as you guided him where you both need him most, slow and easy and gentle, a torturous patience that threatens to unravel him completely. And then, you sink down, making his head tip back as a sound punches out of him, sharp and ragged, all the air leaving his lungs in a rush.
“Fuck—” he groaned, voice raw, hands flying to your hips, digging in, clutching—not to control you, not to guide you, but like he’s afraid he might float off the goddamn earth without you anchoring him.
You shuddered, half-laughing, half-moan, arms wrapping around his shoulders as you buried your face into the crook of his neck.
He’s so big and so warm, every inch of him, under your hands, under your thighs, pressed tight to your chest—those tits brushing your chest as your bodies move together, slick and perfect and so full of love it’s unbearable.
You rock your hips slowly, grinding down, and Jason lets out the prettiest, desperate little sound—half whimper, half praise.
“Fuck,” he hisses again, forehead dropping against yours. “You’re… you’re killing me—fuck—”
You smile, just a little mean, just a little giddy. “You like it.”
“I love you,” he says without thinking, looking up at you with those desperate little eyes that made your breath hitch and your heart race.
You find a rhythm—slow at first, grinding down in lazy, molten circles that pull the deepest, dirtiest groans from his throat. His head falls back against the couch cushion, mouth open, panting, and you take the opportunity to lean down and kiss him again.
And again.
And again.
Sloppy kisses, wet, filthy kisses that leave his lips glistening with spit. Your hands explore him with reverence, smoothing over his bruises, palming his chest again—he jerks and gasps when your thumbs rub slow, lazy circles over his nipples.
“Oh—fuck—baby, don’t—”
But you do.
You lean down, tongue dragging across one slowly, sucking gently, making jason shudder. “Sensitive my ass,” you whisper with a smile, licking up to his collarbone.
He whines. Jason Todd whines.
You pick up your pace, rolling your hips with a little more urgency now, a little more rhythm, and Jason meets your thrusts with desperation. His hands find your waist, your back, your face—like he can’t decide which part of you to hold onto first.
“You’re everything,” he breathes against your jaw. “Fuck—I can’t—I love you—”
You moan loud, high and shaky. And he responds, burying his face in your neck and holding you tighter, fucking up into you now in time with your movements, matching you stroke for stroke.
You're both so close. You can feel it—tightening, spiraling, building up. “I got you,” you whisper, lips to his ear. “Come with me, Jay. Come on.”
He nods like he’s about to cry, like he’s never been so wrecked, so held, so loved.
And then—
Jason comes with a broken moan, clinging to you tightly. You follow, mouth to his shoulder, gasping into his skin as you tremble in his lap, muscles twitching.
Silence.
Just the sound of your breathing. The slow thump of his heart beneath your hand. Sweat cooling on your skin.
He blinks up at you, dazed. Drenched and beautiful.
“You good?” you murmur.
He laughs weakly. “I think you made me see God.”
---
Jason's still inside you when the world starts to pull itself back together.
The first thing you notice is the rise and fall of his chest under yours, heavy and uneven, as if every breath is still trying to climb its way up out of him after you’d pulled him down so deep. Sweat slicks between your bodies, hot and sticky, and the air in the room smells like skin and sex and something even warmer underneath that—something quiet and safe and heartbreakingly intimate.
You stay like that for a while. Not moving. Not talking. Just breathing. Just existing in the weight of the moment.
And Jason?Jason's got his arms wrapped so tightly around you, he seems intent on pressing you into his very bones, on lodging you between his ribs to hold you for the rest of his fucking life. He needs the full length of you stretched over him, your heartbeat thudding softly against his chest.
Eventually, you feel him shift beneath you, the faintest twitch of muscle, a soft grunt as his body remembers it’s technically made of flesh and not invincible. He’s still sore from earlier—bruises blooming purple and green down his ribs, a cut that’s crusted over on his cheekbone, knuckles split and raw—and you can feel the moment he winces.
“Jay,” you whisper, not moving yet, just letting your fingers trace slow, soothing lines along the side of his face. “Hurting?”
He snorts, voice hoarse. “Only in the best way possible.”
You kiss the corner of his mouth. “I meant the stupid bruises you came home with.”
“Oh.” He blinks. “Yeah. Those too.”
You sigh, the kind of long-suffering sigh you always give him when he pretends he’s not five minutes from collapsing after patrol. But there’s no bite to it. You don’t even get off of him yet, because he’s still holding you like letting go would kill him.
“Okay, baby,” you murmur, brushing your lips against the bridge of his nose. “Lemme take care of you now.”
Jason groans, but it’s the indulgent kind—the spoiled man reluctantly letting himself be babied kind. He lets his arms loosen just enough for you to pull away, but not without chasing your lips once, twice, a third time, like he needs another taste to last him the thirty seconds it’ll take for you to grab a warm towel and a glass of water and a clean shirt from the laundry basket.
He’s boneless on the couch when you come back, lounging like some fucking Roman god, legs splayed wide, head tipped back, his hair damp and stuck to his forehead. And the tits? Still glorious. Still ridiculous. Still rising and falling as he pants quietly, trying to recover, like you hadn’t just turned him into a whimpering mess not ten minutes ago.
“You look wrecked,” you say softly, settling beside him with the towel and the water and the gentlest hands in the world.
“I am wrecked,” he mumbles. “You wrecked me. Are you proud of yourself?”
“Very,” you say, and you are. You really, really are.
PLSSS MORE NSFW ABOUT HYUN-JU X MALE READER, I BEG YOU ON MY KNEES. 🙏🙏
LMAOWOQ I'LL TRYYYY i havent watched the new season yet (i spoiled the fuck outta myself.). lemme juggle my uma musume and house hyperfixation and I'll get to it🙏
u can send me your ideas! ..I'll get to it. eventually. save it in my drafts. DOES TUMBLR SEND PEOPLE A NOTIFICATION IF THEIR ASK GETS ANSWERED. I HOPE SO. yeah anyway send me your ideas if u have any:3
(ФωФ): established relationship, angst with smut, reader is posessive, makeup sex, dom reader, sub house, edging, begging, power bottom reader.
OUR POLL WINNER!!!!
HELLOOO EVERYNYANNN TYSMMM FOR 500 FOLLOWERS WHAAA😞😞💞💞💞
how r yall dooinggg im personally bouncing between house m.d, uma musume and twst💔 i lowkey made fun of uma musume first now im busting my ass trying to get my favs. NAHHH.
⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･
The third fight that week had been over Chinese takeout.
House picked sesame chicken instead of your usual kung pao, then mocked you for sulking about it. It was petty. So goddamn small, it should’ve been laughable, but the silence that followed was anything but. You’d shut yourself off, again, pretending it didn’t bother you, and he’d leaned harder into the joke, because that’s what he did—poke until you bled. And you? You didn’t even give him the satisfaction of reacting. You just ate around the chicken. It didn't matter.
This dance was familiar now. You were cold, distant, unreadable. He was spiteful, abrasive, provoking. Somewhere under the surface, it wasn’t about the chicken or the jokes or the forgotten texts—it was about the way your walls had been creeping up, brick by brick, and he’d started testing just how high you’d let them go before you cared enough to knock them down.
He needed a response. He wanted to goad you into saying something sharp, wanted a rise, wanted you to scream or slam the door or throw the food in his face. Anything but this silence you’d been weaponizing lately. You didn’t mean to withhold affection, at least not at first. It started as self-preservation. He could be cruel, and you could be cold. You’d thought if you gave him less, there’d be less to lose.
So when he flirted with the woman at the bar after work—obvious, smirking, that cheap performance of charm he knew never worked on you—you knew it was for you. She touched his arm and laughed too easily. His smile was too wide. He didn’t even look back to see if you were watching, which somehow made it worse.
You said nothing.
Not a single word on the way home. He limped beside you with that smug, defensive air, waiting for the explosion, the jealous accusation. Maybe even a shove or a slap. You gave him none of it. Just silence. You walked into the apartment ahead of him, hung up your coat, toed off your shoes, calm as ever.
He hated it.
God, he hated it.
He followed behind you, locking the door, jaw tightening with each click of the deadbolt.
“Go on,” he said finally, voice a little rougher than usual. “Say it. Whatever angry, self-righteous speech you’ve got cooking in that scary little head of yours.”
You turned slowly, looking at him like he was something fragile pretending to be dangerous.
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Oh, come on,” he snapped, dropping the cane by the wall. “I smiled at some woman and now you’re gonna act like a fucking ghost for the next week? Again? Grow up.”
Still, you were quiet. Walking toward him slowly, footsteps soft on the hardwood. There was something in your eyes that made him falter. He shifted, discomfort prickling up his spine. That look—it wasn’t anger. It was worse. You were looking at him like you’d made a decision. One that left no room for negotiation.
“I’m not mad,” you said, tone gentle. “You wanna flirt? Flirt. Just remember who you come home to.”
His back hit the wall before he could process the way you surged forward. Hands on his chest, firm, controlling, pressing him back as you leaned in close enough to kiss but didn’t. Your breath brushed his lips, and he blinked, confusion flickering there in those stormy blue eyes.
“…What are you doing?” he asked.
You didn’t answer.
You grabbed his wrist, dragged him to the bedroom. He followed on instinct alone—he always did when it came to you, always would—and before he could say another word, you shoved him down onto the bed. He landed with a grunt, propping himself up on his elbows, mouth parting to speak, to bark something cocky, maybe, but you climbed onto his lap and all the air in his lungs disappeared.
Your lips crashed into his.
You weren’t soft. You weren’t careful. You kissed him with hunger, with desperation, as if the weeks of distance and petty fights no longer mattered. The only thing that mattered was his mouth against yours. You kissed him until his mind went blank, until his hips pressed into yours, until his hands gripped your waist, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer.
He sucked in a sharp breath, hands caught in the air before you grabbed them with one hand, holding his wrists with a force that made his pulse stutter.
“You think I don’t care?” you said, voice low, breath against his cheek. “You think I’d let you do all that shit today if you weren’t already mine?”
His pupils were wide. Mouth red and open. He looked drunk. Stunned.
You kissed him again, deeper, slower now, tongue forcing past his lips until he bucked forward without meaning to.
You only stopped when his head tipped back, panting, lips red and wet and so thoroughly used he looked dazed.
“You’re mine,” you murmured, voice low and breathless against his jaw. “You got that?”
His throat bobbed.
Then again, firmer: “Say it.”
“…I’m yours,” he rasped, eyes fluttering. “Jesus.”
You grinned, a flicker of satisfaction twisting in your chest. You reached down and tugged his shirt up, letting your nails scrape his ribs on the way. He hissed at the sensation, and then you were working at his belt, slow, deliberate, drawing this out like punishment.
“You wanna act like you’re not desperate for me?” you asked. “You wanna make me jealous? Fine. You wanna be someone else’s for a minute? Go ahead. But I’ll make sure you remember who you fucking belong to.”
You palmed him through his pants. He twitched. Bucked.
You kept going.
you straddled him with a deliberate slowness that made him grind up into you instinctively. You slapped his hip, once, hard enough to make him groan.
“Stay still.”
He stared up at you, lips swollen, hands gripping the sheets. You reached into the drawer beside the bed, tore open a condom, and rolled it down onto him with practiced efficiency. He twitched under your touch, breathing fast. Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you spoke.
“You don’t get to come until I say,” you whispered.
He whimpered. Actually whimpered.
And then you sank down on him.
He swore, half-choked, hands shooting to your thighs but you pinned them down to the mattress once again. He couldn’t buck, couldn’t move, not unless you let him. You set the pace, grinding down until he was shaking, teeth clenched, whole body straining for more. But every time he got close, every time his breath stuttered and his eyes fluttered, you stopped. Slowed. Pulled away just enough to make him sob out something desperate and broken.
“Please,” he gasped, hips jerking, cock twitching inside of you. “Fuck—please, I can’t—”
You leaned down and bit his neck, hard enough to leave a mark. Then another. Your mouth mapped him in bruises, teeth and tongue leaving proof behind until he was panting, babbling, nearly incoherent.
“I’m yours,” he cried. “I’m yours, I swear—I’m yours, just—please—don’t stop—don’t stop—”
You let him get close again.
Then pulled away.
He whined—whined, like a man unraveling, the smug bastard doctor had been reduced to nothing but a trembling mess beneath your hands.
He sobbed your name. Not out of pain. Out of pure, aching need.
“I’m yours,” he whispered, hoarse now, his voice barely holding together. “I can’t—please—can’t take it.”
“Good,” you said, watching him break apart. “That’s the point.”
“You gonna act like that again?” you asked, words hot and sharp against his throat. “Flirting like some asshole trying to get a reaction out of me?”
“No,” he breathed. “No, I swear—I swear, I just—I just wanted you to care—fuck, I’m sorry—”
That was what broke you.
You kissed him again, slower now. Not gentle, but real. Raw. Your hand threaded through his hair, and he kissed back with that same desperation, moaning into your mouth. You rolled your hips again, finally letting him chase it, finally letting him have you.
This time, you didn’t stop.
He came with a shout, body jerking beneath you, hands clawing at your waist like he might fall through the bed if he didn’t hold on tight enough. His lips were bitten, slick with spit, red as sin. His chest heaved, and his arms wrapped around you tightly.
You collapsed on top of him, still joined, heartbeat pounding against his. He was gasping, lips parted, cheeks flushed red, chest heaving under yours.
He tried to speak. Couldn’t.
“…Still smug?” you asked against his shoulder.
He groaned, face buried in your neck.
You kissed his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “You don’t get to question whether I’m here for you,” you murmured. “But if you need a reminder again, I’ll be happy to fuck it into you.”
He let out a breathless laugh, voice wrecked. “Jesus.”
You pulled the covers over both of you. He curled into you without asking. For once, quiet.
OMG JUST AS I STARTED HYPERFIXATING ON HOUSE MD, I FIND THIS ACCOUNT!!!! A BLESSING!!!!! Anyways your writing is delicious I want to eat it 😋😋😋✨️✨️✨️
HIIII!!! OMG ME TOOOO I LOVE HOUSE😭😭😭 IM OBSESSED. TYSMMM UR SO NICE<333💞💞💞
im hyperfixated on house m.d(house. i only care about. house. mostly house. ninety nine point nine percent house.) but yeah im gonna be posting house content for a while🤭🤭
gregory house, james wilson, lisa cuddy, eric foreman and robert chase
Sfw ish (very suggestive, no sex)
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(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.”
