Outside, the wind brushed softly against the stone walls before disappearing into the darkness. The fire has burned low, filling the home with a gentle orange glow that dances across the furs spread throughout the room.
Everything is peaceful.
Until a small cry breaks the silence. It starts quietly.
A soft whimper. Then another.
Within moments, it grows louder. Your son has woken. Kwei opens his eyes immediately.
Years of hunting have taught him to wake at the smallest sound. Before becoming a father, that instinct meant danger.
Now… It meant a hungry baby.
He turns his head. You are still asleep beside him, curled under the heavy furs, your face is half hidden against the pillow, your breathing slow and wonderfully deep.
He watches you for a moment. Dark circles still rest underneath your eyes. Your body is healing, but not as quickly as either of you hoped.
Pregnancy had been difficult, the birth had been harder. Some days you smile and laugh as though nothing happened, but other days, he finds you asleep sitting upright because you tried so hard to stay awake with the baby that your body simply stopped listening. He hates those days. Not because you complain.
Because you never do, you always apologise instead.
“I’m sorry,” you tell him whenever he catches you struggling. “I’ll be alright.”
He wishes you would stop saying that. Because you do not need to apologise for bringing his son into the world. Another cry comes from the small cradle beside the fire.
Kwei glances back toward you.
You do not stir, not even a little.
He has learned the difference. Usually, even before the baby begins crying properly, you wake immediately.
Tonight… Nothing.
You are completely exhausted. His chest tightens. He slips carefully from the nest, making sure not to disturb you as he crosses the room.
The crying grows louder.
“I know.” His voice is low. Calm. “I hear you.”
The tiny bundle kicks impatiently underneath the blankets. Two bright eyes blink up at him, Kwei cannot help the small movement of his mandibles.
His son always looks so serious. Even while crying.
“You have your mother’s lungs,” he mutters quietly. The baby answers by crying louder. “I understand.”
He bends down carefully, one enormous hand sliding under the tiny body with a gentleness that still surprises him.
Months have passed, and he is no longer afraid of holding his son.
The first time, he had barely breathed, convinced he might somehow break him. Now the movements come naturally.
Strong arms. Gentle hands.
The baby settles against his chest, wrapped securely in one arm while Kwei reaches for the bottle you prepared before falling asleep.
“I know what you want.” The crying continues. “So impatient.”
He sits near the fire before offering the bottle. Immediately, the crying stops and Kwei lets out the quietest breath.
“There.”
The tiny hands wrap clumsily around the bottle, more interested in drinking than holding it.
For several moments, the only sound is the crackling fire. Kwei studies the small face before him.
Months old.
Growing, already stronger than he was when he first came home.
“You frightened us.” The words leave him quietly. “So small.”
His thumb brushes carefully across the baby’s soft skin.
“Your mother carried you through every season.”
His eyes drift toward the nest.
You have not moved. Still finally resting.
“I watched her become tired.” His voice grows softer. “I watched her smile anyway.”
The baby blinks sleepily, drinking without understanding a single word.
“She was sick in the mornings and sometimes at night. Sometimes all day. She said she was fine.” He huffs quietly. “She lied.”
The baby makes a tiny noise around the bottle.
“I know.” Kwei smiles to himself. “I told her the same.”
His gaze returns to you. Even asleep, you look tired. There are moments when he still remembers seeing you after the birth.
Pale. Shaking.
Barely able to keep your eyes open. Yet the first thing you asked…
“Is he alright?”
Not whether you were alright. Whether your son was.
Kwei has never forgotten it. He doubts he ever will.
“You have her heart.” He looks back down at the baby. “Kind.”
His thumb brushes gently across the baby’s tiny hand.
“You will learn from her. You will learn patience. You will need it.”
The baby finishes eating, blinking slowly as sleep begins pulling him away once more. Kwei lifts him carefully onto his shoulder. Large fingers begin rubbing slow circles across the baby’s back. The tiny body gives a quiet burp.
“There.”
He cannot help the quiet chuckle that follows.
“A mighty hunter.” Another tiny yawn. “So fierce.”
The baby’s eyes flutter closed. Within minutes, he is asleep again.
Kwei remains where he is.
Holding him, while watching the fire and watching you.
His home.
Years ago, he believed strength was measured by trophies hanging from walls. By scars. By victories.
Now…
Strength looks different. It looks like a woman who gave everything she had to bring new life into the world. It looks like a tiny child sleeping peacefully against his chest. It looks like choosing to stay awake so the person you love can finally rest.
He stands up slowly, walking back toward the cradle, he lays his son back onto the soft furs, adjusting the blanket until only his small face remains visible.
The baby sighs. Kwei watches him for another moment before returning to the nest. You are exactly where he left you.
One hand tucked under your cheek, hair falling across your face, he kneels beside you. Carefully brushing a few loose strands behind your ear. You make the smallest sound.
But you do not wake up. You only lean instinctively toward his touch. He slips back under the furs, wrapping one arm carefully around your sleeping body.
You move closer immediately, almost unconsciously, pressing against his warmth with a quiet sigh that sounds more content than anything he has heard all day. Still asleep, you whisper something he almost misses.
“…thank you…”
His eyes widen slightly. You never opened your eyes. You never woke up. Yet somehow… you knew.
He lowers his head, pressing the gentlest kiss against your forehead.
“So stubborn,” he murmurs. His hand rest over yours. “You carried him. Tonight…” His eyes close. “I will carry both of you.”
Your son sleeps peacefully. You sleep even deeper.
And Kwei stays awake for just a little while longer, listening to the steady breathing of the two people who have become the greatest purpose of his life.
Only when he is certain that both of you are resting peacefully does he finally allow himself to close his eyes, knowing that, for one night at least, you have been given the gift of uninterrupted sleep.
𖥔 ❚❙❘ㅤ 𝐅𝐓. 𝓖regory house ❤︎ 𝓕em! reader ❤︎ 𝓘ames wilson
𖥔 ❚❙❘ㅤ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. house claims scotch gets people naked 83% of the time. so you, wilson, and a bottle of whiskey are about to become data points tonight ❪ wc: 4k ❫
𖥔 ❚❙❘ㅤ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. threesome. unprotected p in v. spītroast. oral (m!receiving). alcohol consumption. groping. implied age gap (18+). lots of house-wilson banter. more goofy than originally planned sorry not sorry
✉️ ⦂ in retrospect this was kinda messy and too silly for a smut fic, I almost considered deleting it but I lowkey have a soft spot for how I wrote the characters. so I hope someone sees the vision at least!
You flopped across the couch like a ragdoll with its strings slashed, one leg hooked over House’s lap, the other dangling toward Wilson. The scotch had already wormed its way deep, a slow burn churning through your veins until your fingertips buzzed and your head floated two inches above your neck. But that was nothing compared to the heat simmering low in your stomach, or the way their twin stares pinned you down—focused, unwavering, and far too aware of the way you breathe, shift, exist, like it was their new favorite sport.
House lounged back, all loose-limbs and cocky sprawl, one hand drumming an erratic beat on the armrest while the other cradled his glass. That trademark mask of couldn’t-give-a-damn sat firm—until you hit his eyes. Those icy blues cut through the alcoholic fog like a surgeon’s scalpel, hungry and coiled, a wolf sizing up its next meal.
“Fun fact,” he began, voice laden with the gravel of too much whiskey and just enough temptation. “Scotch has an eighty-three percent success rate at convincing people their clothes are optional.” He took a slow sip, letting the words marinate before adding, “The other seventeen percent? Already naked and thanking me later.”
You groaned, because of course you did, but still—your lips curled around the bait. “And this scientific study was conducted when, exactly?” Your foot nudged Wilson’s knee, a playful prod to see if he’d back you up
He lifted his glass to the light, swirling the amber liquid with mock academic flair. “Right around the time peat smoke was proven to whisper dirty things in your ear,” He paused. Then, in the worst Scottish accent you’d ever heard—“Och, lassie, off wi’ yer knickers.”
It was part-Scotsman, part-drunk pirate, part… stroke patient.
Wilson, who had thus far maintained the dignified restraint of a man ignoring the fact that your legs were essentially draped across his thigh, promptly choked on his drink. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, struggling to suppress a chuckle.
“That was less Braveheart,” he said between coughs, “and more brain hemorrhage.”
You burst out laughing.
House squinted, looking personally offended. “You think I sound weak? Offensive. That was a mighty Scotsman. A kilted god among men.”
“Mighty,” Wilson deadpanned, nodding with mock gravitas. “Mighty enough to trip over his own tongue and fall crotch-first into a caber.”
He shifted closer to you, casual as anything, chestnut eyes catching the light as they crinkled with an un-Wilson looseness that only showed up three drinks in. “Oh and by ‘whispering’, what House really means is ‘yelling like a drunk rugby fan with a megaphone and unresolved trauma,’” he teased with a laugh. The kind of laugh sober Wilson might’ve swallowed back with a polite cough and a change of subject. “Subtlety is not in his DNA- shocker, I know.”
You snorted into your glass. “That’s generous. I’d go with ‘public disturbance.’”
House raised his glass in mock salute. “Guilty. Though I prefer ‘force of nature’ to ‘traumatized rugby fan.’ Has a little more sex appeal.”
“Only to people with a head injury,” Wilson muttered under his breath.
“You say that like it’s a dealbreaker.”
House’s smirk kicked up a notch as he glanced back to you, head cocked. “Besides, subtlety’s for cowards. And the whole ‘sprawled-out goddess’ look you’ve got going? Wasted on ambiguity.”
Wilson scooted closer again, knee bumping yours. His hand grazed your leg. Not a grab, a mere fleeting touch. “Ignore him,” he said softly, but his tone didn’t quite match his composed veneer, a detail that didn’t escape your notice. “He’s got all the finesse of a sledgehammer, but he’s not wrong.” He paused, and he was close enough that you caught the faint cedar of his cologne and something else you couldn’t name but wanted to bottle. “You’re beautiful like this. Relaxed. Open.”
House didn’t even try to disguise his scoff, tipping his glass your way. “Open? She’s a neon sign screaming ‘ravish me.’ Don’t let Wilson’s choirboy act fool you- he’s already mentally cataloguing where to bite first.”
Wilson, to his credit, didn’t flinch. Just fixed House the kind of glare that said shut your trap in a gazillion different languages. He turned his attention back to you, laced with that careful warmth only he could manage. “He’s an ass. But… yeah. You’re making it real hard to behave.”
A giggle bubbled up from your chest, part-impish, part-menace. “God, you two,” you sighed, flopping back dramatically. “I can’t decide if I’m being seduced or prepped for a veeeery horny team-building exercise.”
“You knew what this was,” House said dryly.
“And you still showed up on time anyways.” Wilson added, less helpfully.
You stretched slowly, catlike, making a show of it just to watch both of them zeroed in as if they’d forgotten how to blink. “If I did want to strip,” you mused, syrupy-sweet. “I’d do it right. Spotlights. Music. Probably glitter.”
“Dear god,” Wilson mumbled, half in prayer.
“But…” you twirled the rim of your glass between your fingers, “I’d need a reason first, wouldn’t I?”You cocked a brow, eyes glittering as they bounced between the two doctors.
You weren’t subtle either.
You didn’t need to be.
House didn’t wait for permission. Of course he didn’t.
Subtlety required restraint, and restraint had been surgically removed from him years ago.
His palm slid beneath your skirt before Wilson could even think of filling the silence, cupping the curve of your ass with a lazy kind of ownership, one that screamed he’d done it a hundred times before and had yet to be reprimanded for it. The touch was almost dismissive… if not for the rough grope that followed, eliciting a small hitch from you. His thumb dragged invisible patterns against your flesh, each one a question: How far would you let this go?
Far enough. He knew that.
Eyes widening, Wilson caught the movement instantly, as if House’s hand might suddenly become a medical emergency. His mouth opened on might’ve been some half-assed moral objection, the kind that would make him feel like a better person for all of five seconds. Though it was short-lived, short circuiting somewhere between his brain and spine (and his hard-on). His hand joined the fray, settling higher up your thigh, skin leaving a line of heat through the flimsy barrier of your skirt.
You squirmed. Just a little. Not a word of protest on your tongue.
“Funny,” House tilted his head, brows knitting together in exaggerated thought. "You said you needed a reason, and now you’re practically writing me one in cursive on your thigh. Either I’m very persuasive, or you’re a liar.”
His blue eyes trailed down your body. “I’m voting liar.”
You huffed out a laugh, more breath than sound. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
But you didn’t move. Not away, at least.
“Maybe I’m bored.”
House’s grin sharpened. “And this is your idea of entertainment? Letting two men twice your age feel you up like it’s amateur hour at a strip club?”
Wilson’s lips pursed into a sulky pout, grumbling inaudibly. “…Well first of all- I’m not twice her age. I’m only thirty-nine.”
House shot him with a flat look. “Wilson, please. You’ve been thirty-nine since the Bush administration.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, but didn’t say a thing.
You swallowed, heat coiling deep. “Ooooor I’m just curious,” you offered, barely above a whisper. “Wondering how far you’ll go before one of you chickens out.”
House barked a cackle, full and unrepentant. “Don’t worry, I only stop until someone’s pushing up daisies.”
And just like that, Wilson’s hand moved again—with purpose now, challenged by your words, by House’s audacity, by the noiseless thrum that had weaved its way through all three of you. His fingers ghosted higher, brushing the edge of your panties—already moist, and not from nerves.
House surveyed with sharp-eyed approval, glass forgotten on the table. “That’s more like it,” a satisfied hum underscored his words. “Though let’s not pretend you wouldn’t look better on your knees.”
You turned toward him, a staccato thump seizing your heart. He wasn’t smirking anymore—just watching you, intense and unblinking, probably replaying every filthy possibility in his head.
He sat up, rising and squaring his shoulders with a lazy grace that verged on smug. “How about this,” he started, the lilt of his tone as causal as ordering coffee. “You get on your knees. I enjoy the show. And Wilson gets to lie to himself about being the one you really wanted. Fair trade, right?”
You raised an eyebrow. “That’s your version of fair?”
“I’m the smoke and mirrors. Wilson’s the mop and bucket. Try to keep up.”
Behind you, Wilson let out a choked laugh. “Jesus, House—”
“Wrong deity,” House cut in. “But keep calling out names if it helps.”
You rolled your eyes, but your hands were already on the button of his jeans, fingers skittering with greedy impulse. House didn’t lift a finger to help. He simply leaned back, legs spread as an unspoken invitation to draw you nearer, observing with open appreciation as you worked.
“Atta girl,” he husked, tone dropping to a low and sandpapery timbre.
When you freed him, you saw it—already thickening fast in your palm, bleeding with heat that you swore had a pulse of its own, the weight of it settling heavy over your digits. Not massive, no, but enough to fuck you up, with that slight upward curve that practically begged to bully the back of your throat in all the right ways and a tip that blushed a deeper shade of red with every second you lingered. Deceptively pretty, almost rude in how it owned the space between his thighs. A grower, definitely. But now? Very much grown.
Wilson’s warm, steady hands curved around your waist. His touch didn’t push—it guided—subtle pressure coaxing you forward, down, into position. The leather of the couch creaked softly beneath you as you sank to your knees between House’s legs, the sound nearly eclipsed by the rabbit-quick beat of your heart.
He crowded in from behind, his slacks doing little to dull the throbbing, insistent press of his erection against the dip of your back. He rocked against you once, unrushed yet teeming with exhilaration, partially terrified that if it felt this good with clothes on, actually being inside you might just ruin him for life.
But then he stilled.
“You sure?” his breath stirred the fine hairs at your nape, barely audible over the blood in your ears.
You nodded. That was all he needed.
Hiking your skirt up with a breathless little scoot, Wilson peeled your panties down as gentlemanly as he could in such a scenario, the damp cotton catching briefly on the soft give of your thighs before pooling where your knees bit into the cushions. His fingers followed instantly—kneading the plush swell of your ass, spreading you wide until your wet folds parted like ripened fruit split under thumb.
Exposed, your cunt fluttered uselessly in empty space, spasming in a mindless pulse that wafted a hot, narcotic wave of scent. Your arousal clung in the air, intoxicatingly so, punching the sanity clean out of Wilson’s skull. He exhaled so sharply it rattled his chest, pupils blown, every last coherent thought fragmenting into a haze of pussy-induced delirium.
“O-Oh wow,” he blurted, hoarse and awestruck. “You are… soaked.”
Amusement flickered across House’s features, his thumb skimming the arc of your cheekbone as your mouth hovered mere inches over the swollen head of his dick. The tickle of your breath drew a feral little tremor from it, precum coating him in a viciously glossy sheen. “Told you,” he said. “She’s been dripping since I made that Scotsman joke.”
You huffed in disbelief, smirking despite the ways your thighs were trembling. “You’re disgusting.”
“And yet, here you are.”
Emboldened, you bent forward and sealed your lips around his fat tip, your tongue teasing delicate kitten licks over the slit—solely to feel him shiver beneath you. Flicking, swirling, savoring the way you wrung hushed, reluctant moans out of him with every pass, you worked with surgical precision.
However, he tasted… well, not exactly gourmet. Bitter, briny, drenched in that unmistakable aftershock of something indecently male, enough to wrinkle your nose on reflex. But you were too shitfaced to give a fuck. If anything, the mess of it egged you on. You ventured on inch by inch, halfway down a single sweep as he fed easy into your mouth, while fists squeezed and twisted at his veiny base in rhythmic circles.
Air whistled harshly through House’s clenched teeth, chest lurching, his hand flexing in restraint at his thigh as he battled the almighty urge to grip your hair and slam you down until your nose was buried in his wiry curls. But he didn’t. Yet.
Behind you, Wilson gave in. You heard it in the clatter of his belt hitting the floor, the hiss of his zipper yanked down too fast to care, the rustle of fabric shoved aside with the grace of a man losing the fight to keep his hands off you.
Then: heat. The soft planes of his body blanketing you, his member nudging your entrance with shameless intent—a tad bit stubbier than House’s (if we’re being petty about it-) but girthy enough to stretch, to quell that blistering ache in your womb in a toe-curling way. He dragged himself through the weeping slit of your vulva, cockhead gliding right over your puffy clit, before lining up and sheathing in you with a stroke so bone-deep, it scrambled your mind into a buffering screen and left your mouth full of static.
A garbled gasp bursted from your lungs and vibrated around House’s cock, spine bowing as you struggled to adjust to the intrusion, momentarily unsure whether to take it or tap the hell out. House jerked, faltering in a sudden unsteady surge, a low bitten off curse slurring out of him.
“Ngh!-… mm… you feel unreal,” Wilson whimpered into your shoulder, quiet desperation creeping up the edges of his voice. “remind me t-to write you a…. Hah… thank-you note after this—formal stationery, maybe a wax seal.”
“Uh-huh…” you answered absentmindedly, too far gone to process his incessant babbling. You were busy trying to survive the way he and House were pummeling your insides from both ends, your body caught in the relentless piston-esque snap and grind that haven’t even hit its stride yet.
Wilson’s hands, once so measured and clinical, were now splayed across your ribcage hard enough to brand you with his fingerprints, knuckles blanching as if he’d been edging himself for hours instead of minutes. He buried himself to the hilt with a gluttonous shove, cock lodged deep that the blunt crest of him prodded nerves you didn’t know had a name. When he retracted his hips, only the tip remained, nestled in your drooling hole. He paused to take a glimpse, unable to help himself—transfixed by how your juices clung to him in translucent webs, adorning his shaft like lacquered silk.
He gulped, crimson crawling up his neck as the sheer volume of it hit him: how fast he (and house) reduced you to such a state.
He snapped forward, pelvis colliding with your tail bone, picking up a pace with a foggy, half-drunk determination—sluggish at first, all clumsy momentum and no finesse, each thrust a feverish motion that rocked you onward in staggered bursts. Your lids drooped, the room careening at the corners of your vision in loops. Nerves alight. Blood whirring. Your senses awash in a whiskey blur and the spectral, shivery fog of it all.
You swallowed around House further, allowing yourself to slump into the metronomic rhythm they built between your holes—blitzed on cock, alcohol, and the brain-dead high of being used just right. Every sturdy push and pull from Wilson drove you farther down, until House’s dick was battering the roof of your mouth, the squishy crown ramming the very back of your soft palate nonstop.
Your mewls resonated along House’s length, drawn out and giddy, the pitch climbing each time Wilson bottomed out. It was pure pornstar-grade debauchery: spit dribbling unchecked down your chin, your sweaty body rocking like a buoy in a storm, anchored only by the cocks working you from front to back.
“Agh—-ah… Fuck… don’t you dare stop. Keep going,” the swear fled House on an airless murmur, pleasure unspooling at the seams of his composure. His jaw clamped shut as your tongue skimmed the underside of his dick, tracing near a particularly sensitive vein before delving lower to lick a filthy stripe onto his testicles, suckling one of them until it slipped free with a lewd pop.
“…Even if you are slobbering like a saint bernard.” He snickered, glassy eyes glazing over your disheveled moving form.
Glowering up at him, you whined a sharp, wounded noise around him, partly from offense, mostly from being too cock-dumb to coordinate a middle finger without choking.
He grinned, all mean affection. “There it is. My favorite sound.”
Meanwhile, Wilson had narrowed his focus to a single, frantic mission: making the absolute most of tonight. He undulated his hips to the tempo of his rapid heaving, jackhammering into your tender g-spot with a kind of dumb, reverent devotion—not so much to you, but to your pussy, which he might never get the honor of visiting again. He was so lost in the moment that a sound tore up from the well in his chest—raw, croaky, and almost humiliating in its sincerity.
He sank deep with a stuttering grind, balls snug against you, and just froze there—as if he was internally bargaining with himself not to bust already.
“Oh my god—-” he wheezed, still unable to believe his dick had landed him here. “She’s—she’s milking me to death!… I almost saw my life flash before my eyes.”
Then, quieter and borderline-delirious: “I think I’m being spiritually harvested…”
You blinked once. Mildly confused. Though kept going.
And House, who had been casually tugging the loose collar of your shirt down to spill your perky tits free, made a noise like a judge scoffing from the bench. “You know, I once had a hooker ask if she could write me off on her taxes. That was less depressing than what just came out of your mouth.”
Wilson gave a ragged laugh, breath catching. “You think she’ll still be able to stand after this?”
“I’m hoping not,” House replied, dragging his thumb along your moist bottom lip as you pulled back, gasping for air. “Dead weight’s hotter when it’s earned.”
You dove right back in, rear jolting backward vigorously, chasing the molten pressure crushing low within the depths of your loins. Your hamstrings had long since liquified, but that didn’t stop you—it couldn’t. One couldn’t say the same for Wilson, who was clearly struggling to rein himself in, and you, ever the conniving brat, clenched down on him the second he tried to pull free. The embrace of your spongy muscles held him hostage, walls all suffocating squish and suction, amplifying the plap-plap-plap of skin meeting skin, a soundtrack so shameless it bordered on illicit just hearing it.
Teetering over the edge, Wilson shut his eyes, clinging to his dwindling resolve behind pinched lids. His hands fumbled blindly up your writhing torso, pawing your breasts with the panicked fervor of a man gripping twin stress balls—palms clutching, fingers knotting, in need to ground himself in the middle of an absolute neurological wipeout.
Calm down, Wilson.
Pace your breathing.
Think about baseball. Or the mountain of charts waiting on your desk. Or—no. That made it worse-
He tried to mentally wrest back focus—the kind he’d rely on mid-panic in an oncology consult, except he’s now balls-deep in a threesome he still wasn’t entirely convinced was real.
Just… focus. If you can tie a suture in a chest cavity, then you can last another minute without losing your goddamn mind.
Don’t screw it up like some—god, some overeager pre-med who’s never seen a real breast before!
House picked up his forgotten glass and took a long, unnecessarily noisy sip—sluuuurp—purely to make sure Wilson knew he was being scrutinized. He leaned back with a shit-eating grin, eyes flicking to Wilson like he was watching a nature documentary: ‘Man Losing Grip in Real Time.’
“I—dammit—think I’m going to…” Wilson grit out, strained and unsteady, as if the admission cost him. His hips quivered, a clumsy twitch that made you arch slightly, pressing back into him as if to say—keep your shit together or else!!
“What, blow your Hippocratic Oath all over the place?” House interjected, likely been waiting to use that line all night. He looked downright gleeful. “God, Wilson. At least try to last long enough for her to gag on it.”
“You’re not even doing anything!” Wilson snapped, grappling to preserve his dignity as your cunt clasped around him like a vice.
“I’m coaching. Like any great man in history.”
Wilson grunted, jaw slackened and too blissed out to argue. His balls tightened, cock pulsating while his thrusts into you grew shallow and sloppy. The world funneled into a brilliant flare—white-hot and crackling—pinpricks of stars jittered behind his eyes, ready to detonate. The tide surged, and he barely managed to yank out in time, his climax overtaking him as white ribbons violently painted your back.
The feeling of him spurting onto you tipped you headfirst into your own high, a muffled moan escaping as the coil in your belly unraveled, erupting trails of goosebumps over your skin.
He collapsed onto you, forehead thunking against your shoulder blade, sweat-matted wisps of his once-neatly styled hair sticking to his temple. His arms went boneless to his sides as he tried to remember how lungs worked.
House let out a breathy chuckle—not quite kind, but not entirely cruel—his hand lazily cradling the back of your head, fingers threaded into your hair like he was petting a pup that did a trick. “Aw. Look at him. Poor thing’s gonna need a juice box and a nap.”
Wilson groaned, not bothering to lift his head. “Screw you.”
House saw how you were still obediently taking him to the root like you hadn’t just been railed senseless. He Idly massaged your scalp as you bobbed your head—a sign of affection, maybe. Or he simply needed something to fidget with while getting head.
“Don’t mind Sleeping Beauty here,” he drawled, his voice thinning as his hips gave a roll against your tongue. “He always finishes the race before the rest of us even put on our running shoes.”
Wilson exhaled a weary huff, cheek still mashed against your back. “Big words from someone who’s spent this entire ordeal horizontal.”
“Delegation of labor,” His tone tightened as the treatment subjected to your poor mouth grew rougher. “Besides- someone’s gotta counterbalance the limp. Be a shame if I went toppling over like bambi on ice.”
Wilson snorted, laughter tangled in a cough. “Right… tragedy of the century. They’d write eulogies.”
House ignored him, his attention locked on you, and the fact he was on the brink of losing control.
One hand clawed into the backrest for leverage, the other cinching your hair with a force shy of brutal. The flow of his thrusts splintered, erratic and uneven, each movement punctuated by wrecked sounds he didn’t bother to bite back. “Look at you,” he panted. “Didn’t even flinch. Even after lover boy back there nearly folded you in half. And you’re still taking me so well…”
He hovered right above his seat, limbs taut, breath sawing between his teeth. He trapped your skull in place, fucking your face with abandon as his cock drilled mercilessly into the confines of your throat. You were stretched to your limit, tears needling at your waterline as you blinked up at him, doe-eyed and so ruinously eager.
He choked on a noise that was a blend of groan and laugh. “Agh-… overachiever...” his head lolled back over shoulder, the last word dissolving into a strangled sound. With a final, forceful pump, he held you close and spilled his seed inside you. You steadied, gullet flexing around the gooey burn of it, swallowing him in practiced pulls while he trembled through the comedown.
House eased you off him with surprising gentleness before sagging back into the sofa. His gaze flickered down to yours again, bleary but bright with the afterglow of post-orgasm satisfaction. “See?” He managed between shallow puffs. “Eighty-three percent success rate. Science bows to me.”
You face-planted into a throw pillow, voice muffled but laced with reluctant amusement. “…Worst… study… ever.”
House gave your bare asscheek a light, celebratory smack, earning a pitiful whine from you.
“Oh come on,” he drawled. “That was a landmark trial. Peer-reviewed by the neighbors.”
From the other end of the couch, Wilson groaned, one arm slung over his eyes like he was warding off the world. “Don’t even start. I think I pulled something.”
“You pulled out. That’s the part I’ll never forgive.”
pssst- likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3
A/N : I tried to tag everyone who commented for this fic! sorry if some of u guys are over it tho as it’s been months. feel free ignore if so. and ye I’m finally back blah blah, yall know the drill, but this time I was dealing with some personal stuff 🫠
oh and I’ll get to answering some asks in the next couple of days!! missed u guys 💗
contents / warnings: cheating (but the guy sucks so it's not that bad), smut (fingering, oral (m!recieving)), teasing, nicknames
word count: 1.5k
a/n: call me mrs house cuz he lives inside me
You lay next to your boyfriend, looking at the ceiling, disappointed once again. He was asleep next to you, exhausted after 10 minutes of mediocre sex.
You nudge him in an attempt to wake him up, and he rolls over to look at you.
"Babe, can we go again? I didn't cum." You pout at him.
He groans and rubs his eyes. "Huh?"
You sigh and sit up against the headboard. "I don't know, maybe it's an issue on my end, but I didn't."
"All my past girlfriends were quicker, I think you should get that checked. Maybe it's like an orgasm disorder or something."
"I think we should just try again, maybe change something about the foreplay–"
He grunts before rolling back over to his side. "It's definitely not me, just go to the doctor, baby."
Dr!Gregory House walks up to the receptionist of the clinic. "4:23PM, Doctor House checks in, write that down." He looks around the waiting room, brows furrowed in annoyance. It's filled with crying babies, people with weird rashes, loud coughs, and other strange issues. But then he notices you.
You look nervous, eyes scanning the other patients. There is a stack of magazines on a stool next to you, but you don't seem to notice them. You're bouncing your leg, an anxious tic, with the other crossed over it.
He walks over to you, the annoyance still clear on his face, but it's combined with something else now. Maybe interest?
"See me in exam room one." His tone is stern, and he immediately walks away. You hurry to catch up with him, which you do quite quickly, and you sit down on the table in the middle of the room.
He leans against a cabinet, and immediately trains his eyes on you.
"What's your issue?" His tone is almost sarcastic.
You stay quiet for a moment, gaze focused on the floor.
"It's clearly not any of the usual problems. There's nothing disgusting coming out of you, and you don't look like you're in pain." When you look up at him, but continue to say nothing, he adds "So what are you, mute?"
You give him an irritated look.
"No."
"Oh, she speaks!" His sarcasm is clear now. You wonder how he still has his job.
"I haven't been having... orgasms." It comes out as a whisper, almost.
"Find a boyfriend, case solved." He turns to walk away, but you speak up.
"I do– I mean, I have one. That's the issue." He stops to look back at you.
"And you're sure it's not his fault?"
"When I asked him about it, he said none of his exes had that kind of issue."
He looks puzzled for a moment, and you're expecting another mean comment. Instead, he says "It could be anorgasmia. We'll run some tests. How scared are you of needles?"
You confirm you aren't, and he wraps an elastic band around your arm. Now that he's so close, you notice the color of his eyes, how the muscles of his jaw tense in concentration, and you realize you find him almost... attractive?
He puts a bandaid around your arm and takes a step back.
"Right, that's it. We'll have the results on Wednesday, you can come in then. Let me know if anything changes." With that, he's gone, and your heart rate is up by just a bit.
Dr!Gregory House walks into the exam room. You'd been waiting for about 10 minutes when you heard the door open. He throws a stack of papers onto a nearby desk.
"Your boyfriend is a piece of shit." He sighs and looks at you.
"What do you mean?" You tilt your head in confusion. "Don't talk about him like that."
"You don't have anorgasmia. In fact, you're perfectly healthy. He, however, is selfish and rude."
"Are you sure? It could be something else–"
He walks over to the table you're sitting on, and looks down at you. Your lips are slightly parted, and your skirt had ridden up your thighs when you were trying to hop onto the table earlier.
"Open your legs."
"What?! No. You're insane, and I have a boyfriend."
"Fine, let him keep leaving you desperate while you do everything for him. Good day." He begins walking away, but you grab his sleeve and turn him back around. It was an impulsive decision, and you kind of regret it now, but it's too late to back out of it, right?
"Fine." You slightly part your legs, and he doesn't waste any time pulling your panties to the side. "And I'm not desperate." Your last word is cut off by a loud moan.
"Yeah, I can see that." He rubs circles on your clit and you can't stop the whines you let out. Finally, he slips two fingers inside you and you feel like you're going to explode.
Pleads and curses fall from your lips as he continues to finger you before you finally have your first orgasm in months.
Your legs shake and your cunt tightens around his fingers. Maybe he was right about you being desperate.
"See? He was the problem." He says as you catch your breath.
"Thank you." You breathe out. He smiles in response, just barely. It looks like he hasn't done it in years.
"There's many ways to show gratitude." He groans out, and you notice the bulge in his pants.
"Oh, I'm so sorry–" You get off the table and take a step closer to him.
"Don't worry, I was joking. You're free to go." His voice comes out strained.
"No, please, I want to." You look up at him and he sighs.
He doesn't have to say another word, you're already on your knees pulling down the zipper of his pants. You stroke his cock through his boxers, and his hips twitch in response.
"Who's desperate now, hm?" You tease, but your laughter is short-lived because he takes his cock out of his underwear and pushes it right past your parted lips.
"Still you, love." He holds your hair back, holding it tightly, and he pushes your head down, his tip touching the back of your throat. He quickly finds a rythm that allows you to catch your breath between thrusts. Your mouth finally accomodates to his size and you put your tongue in action, licking the base of his cock.
He moans loudly, and it encourages you to keep going. The sound of his voice sends shivers down your spine and turns you on all over again.
The pleasant sounds of his groans are suddenly cut off by an unpleasant ringtone which you recognize as yours.
Dr!Gregory House picks up your phone, looks at it for a moment, and averts his gaze back to you.
"Oliver. That's your boyfriend, I assume?" You look up through teary eyes, and his cock leaves your mouth with a pop.
"Yeah." Feelings of guilt and anxiety build in your gut.
"Answer him then." It's not a question. It's not even a request.
"Wait, I can't–"
"Sure you can. Explain that you're leaving him for someone who actually makes you cum. Oh, and make sure you're still sucking me off when you talk to him."
"How am I supposed to do that?" You're cut off once again by the way he pulls your hair, and that's when the phone stops ringing.
"Baby, where are you? I'm getting worried." Your boyfriend's voice is full of concern, but you don't really have it in you to care anymore.
"I'm, uhh, just at the clinic." Your words come out muffled, and it doesn't take long for Oliver to catch on.
"What the fuck!? You're fucking him now? You fucking slut–"
Dr!Gregory House whose moans had previously served as background noise to the phone call, cuts him off before he can keep insulting you.
"I think you have an orgasm-faking ex to get back to. Have a good day, sir." With that, he ends the call.
It doesn't take long before he cums, hard. His moans get louder, and his grip on your hair tightens. The cold-hearted doctor is completely losing his composure, and it's encouragment enough for you to keep going.
"Yes, baby, fuck, just like that–" And he's done. His hips twitch once again as he releases in your mouth.
You swallow and lick your lips before standing up again.
"Fuck, if you keep looking at me like that we'll stay in here all night." You smile in response, seemingly innocent, and he adds "The cleaning staff will hear us. Go home."
Dr!Gregory House zips his pants back up as you collect your things. He looks at you, gaze fixed on your ass when you bend over to look for your purse.
"Maybe you should visit for another check-up next week, anorgasmia can be deadly."
You chuckle and hand him a card with your name and number handwritten in a curly font.
"I'll make sure I do that. Thank you, Doctor."
You wink before leaving the room, and you swear he groans quietly as he watches you leave.
@cinnamongrl2006 my beautiful irl bestie who helped me write this ily lets have a threesome with house <3
I Only Want Sympathy in the Form of You Crawling Into Bed with Me
Dr. Gregory House x Doctor!Reader
Summary: Reader gets all dolled up for a night out on the town with a new date. Until he blows her off last minute. Now, all dressed up and no where to go, House invites her out for drinks with he and Wilson.
CW: implied age gap (not much tho), kinda mutual pining, drinking, drunk!Wilson, bathroom hookup, oral m!receiving, unprotected p in v, some spanking, creampie
a/n: my titles are getting as long as fall out boy titles lmao (ironic since this title is from one of their songs)
title track 🎶🥃
~~~
“I HATE MEN,” you shouted into the phone as your heels clicked against the cold pavement. Soft chill of the night breeze making its way up your dress, freshly shaven legs more sensitive to the cold. Coat draped over your shoulders.
“No, you hate boys,” Lisa Cuddy said with a smirk on the other side of the line, “A real man wouldn’t blow you off ten minutes before a date.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you waved off her logic, wanting to be angry. Taking the turn before facing the hospital. Where you spent your days and some nights. Most people would want to stay away from work, but it was a comfort for you. When nothing else made sense, work did.
“You didn’t even like the guy—“
“THAT MAKES IT WORSE!” a defeated laugh escaped you. Hearing Cuddy snicker at how distraught you were. She knew how you got when things did not go according to plan. Entertained by the way your voice jumped an octave with each sentence.
“Well, I’m sure you look hot. Go out and find a new guy. Just blow some steam off or something,” she encouraged.
You sighed. Stopping directly in the glow of the neon sign. Staring in through the glass doors where people inside never sleep. Always a new problem to solve, always new people to treat. You liked it that way.
“Thank you, Lis,” you smiled. Refusing to admit to her that you would simply waste the night away looking through case files. Better for her to believe you were getting drunk and taking guys home. Clicking your phone off when Cuddy excused herself as someone came into her office.
Smell of sanitizer and medical equipment greeted you. Familiar. Comforting in a way. Making a pit stop by the cafeteria before heading up to your office. Since your dinner plans had been canceled and all. Options limited due to the hours in which you were here. Grabbing some leftover fruits and a pre-wrapped sandwich.
Trying your hardest to ignore the way everyone’s eyes widened when they saw you. Not usually being one to be all dressed up, so the sight of your dress had people in a judgmental frenzy. Eyes narrowing in on you as you passed familiar faces. Barely skirting past Wilson’s office. Throwing an off handed wave at he and House as you hurried to your own office.
“Was that Y/L/N?” Wilson’s brows furrowed.
“I believe so,” House said, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “In a dress… Above the knee.” Big blue eyes looked back to Wilson. Intrigue across his brow.
“She went home at five,” Wilson redirected his attention onto the papers in front of him, “At least she was supposed to.”
House hummed in response. Quickly rising and heading to your office.
You did not even bother clicking on the overhead light. Opting for the soft orange of your lamp. Laying out all the food you had grabbed. Grabbing a green apple first. Barely having sunk your teeth in when your door swung open. Startling you slightly. House stood in the doorway, hand wrapped around his cane and the other leaned against your doorframe. Studying you across the room. Drinking in what little of you he could see. The way your breasts peaked from the low cut collar. How different your hair looked down. And the fact you had a full face of makeup on. Looking ethereal as you basked in the soft glow.
“Aren’t these things supposed to keep people like you away?” you said, tossing the apple into the air and catching it.
“People like… me?” House’s grip on his cane tightened at your insinuation.
“Doctors,” you said simply.
House’s head fell at the realization. Tongue wetting his lip as he chuckled. Brows bouncing before knitting together as he caught your eyes again. “You know,” he entered, closing the door behind him, “You’re one of those too?”
“Not tonight. Tonight, I’m a girl who just got stood up by her date… ten minutes before the date was supposed to start. And now, I have nothing else to do. So here I am. One wasted evening and a shot of vodka later,” you smiled. Hiding the way your shoulders wanted to sag and face droop.
“Thought you were taking a low blow there,” House said as he sat in the chair across from you, motioning towards his bad leg. Feet propping themselves up on the wooden desk. Eliciting a dirty look from you.
“Yeah because I do that so much,” you rolled your eyes.
“Well, you have been spending a lot of time with Cuddy,” House smirked. Jabbing at you. Trying to in his own way to get you in a better mood. Unsure why he cared. Happy he did.
“You could always come with me and Wilson,” House suggested nonchalantly.
“If this is your way of asking me to be your third—“
He laughed. Head thrown back slightly and eyes shut. Pushing his lips together as he looked back at you, “You know Wilson gets jealous when the third is prettier than him.”
You rolled your eyes, returning his look with blushing cheeks. Believing this to be another attempt at making you smile. Hoping, deep down, he meant it. Maybe he did think you were pretty.
You smiled at him. Pulling the same expression across his face. Not acknowledging what he had just said. Sitting forward to get him to continue. Proving your interest.
“We’re going out for drinks,” House sat up, “You should come. Hell, we may even get you laid.”
You scoffed at that. Widening your eyes at him. Seeing his cocky grin curve at the corner of his mouth. Loving how your cheeks glowed.
“Especially with you looking like that,” House’s eyes rested on the exposed bit of cleavage showing from your dress. He stood, bouncing his eyebrows at you with a grin. Liking the way you scrambled to cover your chest. Chuckling to himself as he began out of the room.
“You’re a real charmer, House,” you joked, unable to hide the laugh that had creeped into your throat.
“Anything for you, sweetheart,” House said rather loudly as he exited.
You exhaled with a smile. Looking down at yourself. Confidence boosted from House’s remarks. There was no question that you would go with them. Opting for a night of fun rather than one alone.
Casualty of the pet name had butterflies flapping around your guts. Hating that Dr. Greg House, of all people, had this kind of hold on you. Allowing yourself to develop some deeper feelings for him. Unable to forgive yourself for that.
Abandoning your makeshift dinner, walking over to Wilson’s office. Making sure your hair looked good, dress was patted down, and heels adjusted. Leaning against his doorframe the same way House had done yours. Catching both their attention.
“Wow,” Wilson said, stiffening his back.
“Keep your pants on. I’m crashing your date tonight,” you smiled, walking over and taking the seat beside house. Propping your legs up on his lap so that your dress hiked up a little. Exposing mid-thigh. More skin than either of them had ever seen on you.
House’s eyes cascaded up your body. Taking in the sight of your legs over his own, pretending his dick did not jump at the contact. Eyes meeting the bit of parted dress he could see up, not enough to reveal anything but still a tease. Ending with hooded ones looking into yours. A soft smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. One hand flattening against your leg, gently stroking the soft skin.
House looked over at Wilson in a silent brag.
“I thought you had a date tonight,” Wilson questioned, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head.
“I did,” you gritted your teeth, “No show at the last minute. It’ll be more fun to run around and see you drunk anyway.”
“Did you tell everyone about the date, but me?” House widened his eyes at you, faking being offended. Earning a shrug from you in response.
“Well, nonetheless, I’m happy you’re coming with us,” Wilson rose from his desk. Removing his lab coat, replacing it with his actual coat. Yourself and House following along with his movements. Deciding to all ride together since you had walked anyway. Not like you lived a crazy distance away, but really you had kinda blacked out and began walking to work when you got left high and dry.
The Bar was expectedly crowded. Bodies pressed tightly together along the dance floor. People piled together in each booth. Stench of beer burning your nostrils. A few stools remained at a corner table. A good walk from the bar itself. Perfectly spaced so all three of you could face one another around the round table. Taking the chair closer to House, back to the wall.
“I’ll go grab us something,” Wilson said, hurrying off before you could even hint at what you wanted. Chuckling softly at how eager he was to get some liquor in his system.
“He doesn’t even know what I like,” you sighed, eyeing House beside you.
“Wilson’s got a way of knowing what everyone will like. Some nonsense about being able to ‘read people’,” House said, fidgeting with the napkin holder at the center.
You silently nodded. Watching Wilson across the room, redirecting your attention to House, “So. Tell me, what drink does go well with Vicodin?”
House’s eyes bounced up to read your expression. Noting the smug smirk across your lips, hooded eyes looking at his. “Ooo. Cold,” House chided with a slight grin. Brows pushing together when he straightened his back. Lips puckering as he blew out a breath, “Cuddy teach you that one?”
“Anyone with eyes would know,” you jokingly mocked. Leaning forward to close the gap between you both. Learning the details of his scruff, all the stress and worry lines beautifully decorating his forehead, and how blue his eyes really were. Cheeks suddenly heating up when his eyes met yours so strongly. Pupils dilating as he analyzed your figure.
Being interrupted abruptly by Wilson sliding shots to both of you. You side eyed House, reading right through his bullshit about Wilson ‘knowing’ what people would like. His brows bounced when you eyed him, smirking at your annoyed glance.
“What is this?”
“Just drink!”
You smiled as you clinked your tiny glass with the other two doctors. Throwing back the stout liquor. Burning down your throat. Nostrils suddenly tingling from the potency. Sucking your teeth as you tried to hide a cough. Blinking away the burn when you saw Wilson throw back a second shot.
He was not playing around tonight.
Giggling to yourself at how his cheeks immediately flushed. Continuing to drink as some time passed. Wilson having an obvious affiliation for shots. Losing count as he continued back and forth to the bar. You had ordered yourself a cocktail that you had been nursing for the last bit. House with his whiskey. The two of you trying to hide your shocked and disgusted faces as you watched Wilson’s body wriggle on the dance floor. Your lip arched in pure amazement at the way the oncologist moved to the music. Catching the attention of all the younger women in the bar.
You looked to House, unable to hide your laughter at his expression. Horrified by the way his best friend behaved when drunk. The beat of a song from even before your time sputtered from the speakers laced around the bar. Wilson somehow having a preplanned dance number to it. House tucked his face into his hand in astonishment. Hiding himself from the embarrassment.
Accidentally allowing a snort to escape from how hard you were laughing. Cupping both hands against your mouth as you wide-eyed House. Seeing the gears turning behind his eyes as he planned a cruel joke to make at your expense.
Stopping himself when he saw the twinkle in your eyes. Cheeks glowing as you tried to hide your toothy grin behind your hands. The way your leg grazed against his under the table. How casually you held onto his arm as you both watched your coworker make his moves on the dance floor. Head falling on his shoulder when you would laugh. Tucking your face into him to try and hide it.
He hated how easily you had nestled yourself into his mind.
“Don’t you want to go join him?”
“Hell no,” House laughed, “Cane’s just gonna get in the way.” Spinning the wood at his side.
Apparently you were a giggler when alcohol entered your system. Everything would illicit some form of laughter from you. Smile permanently ripped across your face. Eyes softly hooded from the dark room.
“I’d like to see you out there with him though,” House snickered, taking a quick sip of his drink. Openly flirting with you in a way he never had before. Catching you off guard.
“I’m sure you would,” you laughed, shoving him gently.
“Wilson would too. Probably be happy to take you home with him,” House admitted, tinge of jealousy spitting from his tongue. Vein on his forehead throbbing as his eyes fixated on the ice cube in his glass.
Your nose scrunched up as you looked at your coworker, “Nah.”
“Nah?” House repeated the exact way you said it. Brows contorting in confusion.
“Wilson’s not… not my type,” you admitted, taking a swig of your mixed drink. Leaning closer to House as you finished the liquor. Scooting your chair so that you were face to face with him. House matched your posture. If the music at the bar was not so loud, you could have been whispering.
“You have a type?”
“I do,” your head fell to the side with a smile.
“Ah. The lady who can have anything— is picky,” House spaced out his last words. Cocking a brow at you when you giggled to yourself.
Shaking your head in disagreement, “Not picky. Just have someone else in mind.”
“The boy who blew you off tonight?”
You paused. Having already forgot about your absent suitor. Blinking with furrowed brows. “No,” you said plainly. Eyes now staring at one of the television screens across the bar. Airing some rerun of a soccer game. Seeing the way House’s eyes raked your body from your peripheral. Waiting for more than what you were giving him.
“Miss Mystery—“
“That’s Doctor Mystery, thank you,” you corrected in a playful tone. Raising your eyebrows as you glanced back over to him. He liked that you were not the type to throw it all on the table. Keeping some form of secret from him made him want to dissect you. Understand what makes you tick. Solve the puzzle.
“I know him, don’t I?” House began, wanting to break the truth free.
“Don’t—“
“We have to work with him. When else would you have time to figure out you like someone,” he rubbed his chin as he racked through his memory of everyone you worked with.
“I’m not going to tell you,” you chuckled at his grade school antics. Widening your eyes at him with a smile you could not rid yourself of. He was so handsome. Eyes stuck to you. Loving the attention he was giving you.
“Is it— NO. It can’t be,” House began.
Your heart sank into your stomach. Breath hitching in your throat at the possibility of him figuring you out. Not like you were exactly hiding it from him. In your mind, you basically had been throwing yourself at him.
“You’re into Cuddy?” House’s jaw hung open, clearly he was messing with you.
You exhaled hard. Pulse erratic. Pinching the bridge between your nose as you collapsed onto the table in front of you. Body shaking with laughter. Embarrassment clear by the way your cheeks heated up. “I didn’t know you swung that way,” House continued.
“Jesus Christ, Greg,” you breathed out, teeth shining with a smile.
“Greg? When did we get on a first name basis?” he chuckled, leaning down so that his lips were close to your ear. Heat from his breath tickling your skin. Using every tool in his box to get you a shriveling and babbling mess of embarrassment before him. Goosebumps cascading across your limbs. His hand splayed across your thigh as he leaned into you, smile matching the one you were sporting.
“Since you started prying into my personal life,” you looked up at him, not moving your head from its rested position. You loved seeing him smile so widely. Teeth on display and cheeks bulbing. You wanted to kiss him so bad.
And you would have. If he had not rose suddenly, “I’ll be back, Y/N. I’ve gotta take a piss.” House blatantly said. Walking into the single stall bathroom the bar had to offer. The way he had held his eyes in yours as he said your name made your guts tingle. Trying to understand what had just happened. Flustered and confused.
Making your most rash decision of the night. Following after him. Breath escaping your lungs as you held your fist up to the old door. Meekly, you knocked. Earning a ‘one second’ from House.
“It’s me,” you said.
A pause before the door creaked open. House had a curious expression written along his brow, eyes scaling you before him. “Just because I’m cripple, doesn’t mean I need you to hold it for me,” House smiled cockily.
Giving him an aggressive eye roll. Arms folded over your chest as you stamped your foot down. Shoe sticking to the residue across the floor. Doeing your eyes at him through the crack in the door. Placing your hand on the door so he could not close it.
Curiosity was one of his vices. And your silence was strange. He had to find out why you came knocking. Allowing you to step inside with him, backing himself into the small room.
“If you wanted to see my cock that—“
Your lips were on his. Shutting him up as you pressed his body against the wall. Hands flattening along his stomach, tongue slipping past his lips. Tasting the liquor on him. Making him taste even better than you had imagined. His free hand gripped the back of your head. Keeping his lips firmly to yours, tasting you. Enamored by the way your lips perfectly captured one another. Not taking the time to pull away before you were palming at his groin. Needing him worse than you had ever imagined. Receiving airy grunts and groans in between your lips. Conjuring slick between your legs.
Falling to your knees and you undid his belt, hastily pulling his cock out of his jeans. Member already swollen and hard, tip leaking slowly. Kitten licking at the head, causing House to lean further into the wall. Voice trembling as a satisfied groan escaped him. Stroking him with one of your hands, the other pushing your escaped hairs out of your face. Making sure you could look up at him as you went down. Taking just the tip into your mouth, tongue flat under the head. Curling and massaging the sensitive spot underneath.
House’s throat tightened as his hand braced itself against your scalp. Moaning when your nose met the base of his cock. Brushing against the soft, curly hair that peaked out. Sloppily bobbing your head up and down on him. Salty taste of precum overwhelming your mouth. Smiling when he bumped the back of your throat. Eyes locking into his. Blue orbs awestruck by the sight of you on your knees before him.
“Fuck,” he breathlessly whispered. His hand gripped your hair, using it as a handle so he could fuck into your mouth. Barely rolling his hips to meet your lips. Lost in the way your warm mouth perfectly sucked him in. Knowing if you continued he would be cumming soon.
Loosing your breath and having to pull off for a moment. Replacing your mouth with a hand. Curling around the spit covered member, continuing the same rhythm you had previously had. Heaving as you looked up at him. Lust filled eyes explaining yourself. Giving away any secret you had been hiding before.
“Guess I was wrong about the— ugh— Cuddy thing?” House snarked, mischievously looking at you. You nodded, putting just the tip into your mouth as your hand continued to pump him. Sucking the sensitive head, swirling your tongue around it. Collecting his sticky pre along your tongue with each swipe. His head fell back against the wall once more, jaw hung harshly open as he groaned.
“Yes, Y/N. Just like that,” House mumbled as you took him back into your mouth entirely. Losing himself to pleasure when your teeth would graze his length for a moment. Salty taste overtaking your mouth.
House’s hand urged you off. Sucking off with a soft pop of his cock. Fluttering your lashes up at him in confusion. Wondering if you had done something wrong. “Get up,” he groaned.
Obeying and standing to your feet before him. Burning of your knees overshadowed by how wet you were. Meeting his hooded eyes as you pressed a kiss to his lips. Hand cupping your cheek, snaking around to lace into the hair at the nape of your neck.
“Bend over the sink,” House breathed between kisses.
“You don’t owe me—“
“I want to fuck you,” House’s eyes narrowed. That shot electricity through you. Expecting him to be the type to take whatever he was given. Let you suck him off then return to the table like nothing happened. But this was much better.
You took your place at the sink. Hands grasping the quartz countertop, meeting your own eyes in the mirror. Looking like you had just been face fucked. Liking what you saw. Especially when House’s figure came into frame. The click of his cane echoed against the silent room. Large hands pushed your dress up your back revealing the lacy thong you had wore.
House chuckled to himself at the sight.
“Guess you planned on getting laid tonight?”
“No,” you admitted, “It just makes me feel sexy.”
“It looks sexy,” House’s eyes widened with a smirk. Grabbing a handful of your ass before smacking it. Earning a quick squeak from you. Sneering at him in the mirror which only made him smile wider. His finger looped around the thin fabric band, tugging it down. You spread your legs allowing them to fall down, stepping one foot out.
The air fanned over your slick folds. Sending chills down your body. House held himself by the base, slapping his cock against your entrance a few times. Breath shuttering as he felt how warm and wet you were for him. Blunt tip swirling around your folds, prodding at your entrance.
Finally, he thrusted slowly forward. Cock sinking inside your warmth. His brows furrowed as he watched his member disappear. Lips parted and tongue pressing into his lower one. House groaned when his hips met the swell of your ass. Holding steady as his head fell back in pleasure. Fingers digging little crescents into the flesh of your hip.
You moaned when he pulled back. Mouth hung open, desperate eyes catching his in the mirror. The corner of his mouth instinctively curved with a grin that showcased his teeth. Fleeting as he refocused on the feeling of you wrapped around him. Rolling his hips and finding a rhythm that had you both gasping for air.
“Greg,” you moaned when the curve of his cock prodded at a sensitive spot inside you.
“Where the hell has this been all my life?” he halfheartedly laughed, his mind going blank from how good it felt. Air struggling to regulate inside his lungs. Losing himself to pleasure. Almost forgetting about the sharp pain in his thigh for a moment.
The squelching sound of his repeated pistoning hips filled the space. Drowned out to any outside listeners by the bar’s loud speakers. His cock perfectly filled you. Stretching your walls with every rock of hips. One of your hands reached down to rub tight circles on your clit.
House could not remember the last time he had properly fucked someone. Let alone felt this much satisfaction from another. His entire body was warm. Heartbeat pounding against his eardrums. Veins flowing with pure desire for you.
“Y/N,” he said with a particularly low and sultry voice.
You could feel the coil inside you tightening. Knowing if he continued this way you would be cumming around him shortly. And it felt good. You could swear you had never had sex so good. Never expecting to be here with House.
“That stupid prick has no idea what he missed out on. You know that? Anyone would be lucky to fuck you,” House mindlessly praised. His balls tightening when your walls fluttered for a moment. Preparing for your orgasm to wash over you.
You panted and squirmed on his cock. His words settling perfectly in your core. White hot overwhelmed your body as you lost your grip for a moment. Falling forward as you came unraveled around him. House pressed firmly into you. Loving the feeling of you gripping down on his sensitive length. Barely rutting to fuck you through your high. His name a mixture of moans and babbling from your mouth. Back arched harshly as you came down.
House picked up his speed again. You cried out with each stretch. Louder than you intended, but not caring. The twitch of his cock told you he was close behind. Meeting each of his movements with your own. Coaxing him to his end. Cumming inside you in spurts of hot, sticky ropes. Coating your walls with his seed. Breathy, broken groans fell from his heaving chest.
Both of you tried to catch your breath. Your arms folded over in front of you as you rested your head on them. Sweat sticking to every inch of skin. House’s hand snaked around your front, urging you to stand at your full height once more. You made sure to pull your underwear back up and fix your dress before turning to face him. Small of your back meeting the countertop.
Your faces were flushed. Both of you smiling like lovesick idiots. House tucked himself back into his pants before stepping closer to you. His hand cupping your cheek to kiss you once more. Smiling as you connected lips. Giggling when he pulled away. Resting his forehead to yours, eyes latching onto yours.
“Kinda whorish to let your friend fuck you in the bathroom at some bar, don’t you think?” House snickered, pushing his lips to yours again.
You laughed, nudging him with your palm as you rolled your eyes. There was the House you knew. Arms lacing around his neck as he let his weight fall into you. One hand tightly holding onto your hip. Lips falling against the space between your neck and ear.
“You’re one to talk,” you snickered, “I think cumming in your friend is far more whorish.”
House pulled back to meet your eye, “Fair.”
He kissed you again. Memory of his praising words still fresh in your mind. Wondering if this would become something more. Or if you were overthinking things as you usually did.
“Wilson is probably wondering where we both ran off to,” you said, one of your hands playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
House growled, “Probably hasn’t noticed.”
His big blue eyes stared into you. Wide like he was trying to engrave every memory of you this close to him. Tangled in his arms. Freshly glowing from sensual satisfaction. Cheeks still warm and smile still wide.
You pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose, “You’re cute.”
House rolled his eyes with a scoff. Looking back and smiling at you. Your compliment making his heart pound harder. Accepting his defeat and pulling away from you. Reaching back to take your hand in his and guide you out of the shared bathroom. Harsh blaring of speakers meeting your ears as he led you back to the table. Wilson had snuggled up with some girls on the dance floor.
House gestured towards him, “Told you.”
You laughed. Shrugging in defeat.
House gave you a closed mouth smile before looking back at Wilson. Both of you watching him sexually grab on a stranger who you knew he would not remember by morning. Rocking hips and whispering into her ear.
“You know,” House turned his head to meet your gaze again, “We could always go fool around in Wilson’s car.”
You snorted, hand coming up to cover your mouth. Eyes wide with shock from the suggestion. Two pinched fingers dangled his keys in front of you. Jingling them with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
“Oh. Naughty boy,” you teased with a click of your tongue.
House shrugged, “It’s who I am.”
~~~
[END]
// Thank you for reading! I have had this one in the works since before I finished my first House multi-part fic, so it’s been a long time coming. I just love writing for House bc he’s such an ass. As always, my inbox is always open for requests! Reblogs and Comments are appreciated! //
Despite his sardonic, aloof exterior, Angus cries... often. He has perfectly mastered the art of wearing a stone face, until he gets a moment alone, and then comes the flood.
He only smokes 'cus it makes him look cool. He doesn't ever truly inhale.
His preferred method of flirting is thinly-veiled mockery and sarcasm. You'll never hear the end of some stupid thing you did in front of him, and he'll play it off like he gets some sort of amusement out of your misery, but in reality, he finds you so endearing that he can't help but bring it up constantly, of course, in the form of teasing.
His favorite novel is Catcher in the Rye (because the coding is so insanely obvious, right?)
He plays tennis and runs track into college, but previously participated in badminton, rowing, and chess in school. He was also on the debate team.
He has little to no contact with his mother post-high school. She still calls somewhat frequently, but he only answers half of the time, and keeps his distance emotionally.
His favorite bands are Jefferson Airplane, The Beatles, and Frank Zappa.
Angus will absolutely get just as invested into any drama you're involved in as you are. "She did WHAT!?" and he 100% means it.
Angus also writes you letters every week, regardless of how often you've been able to see one another around tight uni schedules.
He was insanely touch starved when he met you. Once the physical barrier was broken, there was no going back. He is absolutely addicted to your touch. Every so often, when you visit his dorm, he whines and begs for you to leave a new shirt for him to hold onto for when you're away. (And he totally sleeps with it tucked beneath his pillow)
He has a terrible diet. Poor guy is so stressed that any form of hunger reception he had has been fried to nothing and he needs constant reminders to eat meals. He lives off of granola bars and any food you might make for him.
Angus' previous expulsions were both from physical fights with other students. The first, with the son of a primary donator, who relentlessly bullied Angus, and the second, with a small group of other boys who found his private journal.
He did not grow up wealthy. He was admitted to Barton on tuition assistance, and his mother only found wealth after she remarried- which is why his abandonment during the holidays stung so much more.
Angus can do super weird "party tricks" with his body, like popping his shoulders out, bending his thumb down to touch his wrist, touching his nose with his tongue, etc.
He is obsessed with your tits. He can hardly keep his hands (or mouth) to himself around you.
Angus is pretty noisy during sex. Heavy breaths, little winces and groans of pleasure... he does a good job of making sure you know how good he feels.
Despite this, though, he hates dirty talk. It makes him crawl out of his skin.
He has totally stolen a pair of your panties once or twice and used them to jerk off with (loser)
He'd never kissed a girl before he met you, much less had a girlfriend of any kind, so he looooooves it when you lead him and teach him how to make you feel good. This guy would do anything you'd want so long as you asked him to.
As a result of his inexperience, he is pretty submissive. He'd never admit it aloud, but it drives him crazy when you praise him, give him sweet pet names, and treat him in bed.
