#house fandom

[orangesonline]

This was going to go in my recent post but I couldn’t figure out how to position it

[m0nt3cr15t0]

House's Head / Wilson's Heart or something

[dollerinna]

I WANNA TAKE A RIDE ON UR DISCO STICK !

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓂃 𓈒𓏸 df! james wilson x fem! reader ˎˊ˗

SUMMARY⌇ sitting half-naked on your dad’s friend wilson’s lap during a car ride—what could possibly go wrong?

WORDCOUNT⌇ 1.9k

WARNINGS⌇ dad’s friend trope ⊹ dry humping ⊹ car sex sorta?? ⊹ grinding ⊹ public setting ⊹ risk of getting caught ⊹ unspecified age gap ⊹ guilty wilson… again

The car is stuffed to the brim—coolers wedged between legs, beach towels unrolling like lazy tongues over seatbacks, and a chorus of chatter blaring from the front seat. Someone’s yammering about sun protection with evangelical fervor, probably your dad’s coworker who takes SPF as a personal religion.

Wilson hovers by the open door, awkward in his neatly ironed slacks and a pale blue button-down, sleeves rolled up his forearms in a half-hearted stab at blending in. He’s mid-apology, gesturing vaguely toward the chaos, clearly about to martyr himself and wait for the next ride.

Too bad.

With an impish grin and something wicked glinting behind your heart-shaped sunglasses, you snatch his wrist in a middle of an excuse. You couldn’t help it—you’ve been hooked on the soft-spoken oncologist since forever. So with your dad distracted up front, it was officially go-time.

“Lap it is,” you purr, climbing in before he could blink—bikini-clad, bare-legged, unbothered—rear swaying with theatrical ease as you perch atop him, like it was pre-reserved with your name on it. Your skin, tinged with sunscreen and sharp citrus, was still cool from the air-conditioned house, a shock against the burn searing within his bones.

“Wha—-” Wilson choked on the syllable as your weight settles, soft and sun-warmed. His chestnut irises blown impossibly wide open at your boldness, hands flinching upward, frozen in a limbo of decency and doom.

“Uh… shouldn’t you have, I don’t know, changed at the beach?” he asks, pitch spiking as if he’s fifteen and allergic to this exact scenario. “Not that I claim to be an authority on carpool etiquette, but…”

He lets out a shaky laugh—brittle, and oh-so-panicked. “Lap duty was definitely not on my agenda today.”

You wiggle your hips with a satisfied hum, adjusting yourself until your ass is perfectly fitted over the ridge of his zipper. “Why wait?” you giggle, all teeth and honey, shooting him a smirk that could curdle virtue. “Besides… I figured if I’m gonna be sitting on your lap, I might as well dress for the occasion.”

The tie of your bikini top grazes his chin—loose, barely knotted. He could undo it by accident if he breathed too hard.

Wilson shakes his head, warding off all inappropriate thoughts threatening to root in his brain like weeds. It’s just a quick family-friendly car ride. Just a cramped backseat with his friends’s daughter on top. Nothing he couldn’t endure with a dash of self-control, right?

…If only he knew you had no plans to let him survive a much different type of ride.

You stretch to close the car door, arching with feline grace as your breasts lift just enough to threaten full exposure. Wilson sees it, tries not to, but his gaze lingers a second too long.

The engine rumbles to life, and so does the road, a rattling string of potholes and poorly timed stops that turns the backseat into a carnival ride. Each bump jostles you back against his pelvis, eliciting a startled grunt which he tries to disguise as a cough, even as your supple curves ripple over the firm rise swelling beneath you. You pretend not to notice.

Wilson’s breath comes shallow, lips parted around a sound that never quite makes it out. He’s hardening. Fast.

“Dear god,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, a line of sweat beading at his temple as he squirms—futilely, laughably—to keep his raging hard-on from prodding at you. But it’s too late. You’re already molded to him, wedging down with a precise amount of pressure for him to see stars behind those poor, tortured lashes. Your ass cradles him, lush cheeks spreading and nestling onto the growing bulge below.

“Oh?” you chirp, syrup-sweet, sunglasses sliding down the slope of your nose as you glance at him with wide, mock-concerned eyes. “You okay back there? You’re looking a little flushed,” you press down on him for emphasis. “Want me to crank up the AC? Or would that just make things… harder?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The car lurches again, and your tits bounce with the motion, jiggling inside the skimpy triangles of your top. One strap slips, ever so slightly. Enough for a dark flash of nipple to peek out then vanish, like a dare.

You lean back, your shoulder pressing into his clavicle as a whisper feathers the shell of his ear. “Feels like you’re enjoying the ride, Dr. Wilson…”

His hands finally find your hips—not to pull you off, no. Simply to hold you still. As if that’ll stop anything.

His knuckles flexes, tendons knotted under flesh, blanching with dwindling restraint. His grip wasn’t possessive, it’s utterly helpless—the way a man might cling to a ledge with nothing but rocks and open air below. Each shaky huffs stirs the hairs on your nape in staccato bursts, quavering and uneven, fluttering onto your dewy skin with every bump in the road.

Your thighs spread—no pretense of innocence now. Each little wriggle drags your ass across the rigid line of him, his cock now fully erect and caught painfully between your body and the prison of his shorts, swollen tip likely rubbed raw. The fabric must feel like sandpaper. Good. Let him squirm.

“Mmph!- you need to stop. You’re going to get me killed-” he protests weakly, voice thinned to a thread. It reaches for authority and lands somewhere closer to plea dressed up as one.

“I’m serious,” he grits out, low and swift. “Your father is three feet away. Driving. If he so much as glances back and sees this—sees me—he’s swerving us into a guardrail, and frankly? I’d deserve it.”

He risks a peep at the rearview mirror, already bracing for impact—or worse, conversation.

“And just for the record- I’m fairly certain ‘Sorry, sir, I accidentally ejaculated on your daughter’ doesn’t hold up in court.”

Yet despite the full-blown Wilsonian descent into moral panic, he doesn’t push you off. Doesn’t stop you. Because you’re warm, and you’re there, and his cock is practically signing a confession in pre-cum across the front of his slacks.

“Oh calm down,” you wave him off, reaching back to curl your arm around his neck when no one’s looking, fingers threading lazily through a piece of hair behind his ear. “He’s not gonna notice. He never does.”

“Even if he does look back, what do you think he’d see? Me sitting still, perfectly innocent… and you sweating bullets like you’re about to propose.” You snicker, bordering on cruel.

“If anyone’s blowing your cover, Wilson, it’s you.”

You punctuated your words by rolling your hips forward tauntingly, tracing slow, languid figure-eights that stroke his swollen shape through the cotton. It knocked the wind out his lungs, each pass coaxing a fresh tremor from his member. There’s slick warmth oozing from your barely-covered pussy slit, soaking straight through the gusset of your bikini, smearing over his lap in damning streaks. His khakis darken with it. A ruinous little brand. Yours.

Your lips brush close, shy of contact. “…Bet I could make you cum in your pants right now and you’d still smile through dinner like nothing happened.”

He groans, head thumping back against the headrest with a muted, defeated clunk. You hear it—the thick, guilt-laden swallow he tried to suppress, bobbing in his throat like a sob he doesn’t know where to aim.

This is his friend’s daughter. His friend, right there in the driver’s seat, blissfully focused on the road—while his boner was being ground into mush in the backseat by a bikini-clad siren half his age. He felt like every cliche he’d ever pitied—some sad, middle-aged divorcé with a weakness for younger women and no sense of boundaries.

…Well. He was that guy now. Exactly that guy.

His thighs twitch beneath you, muscles jumping involuntarily as his cock kicks, straining against the damp flimsy barrier between you. “This is—god—absurd,” he rasps. “I should be asking for a lawyer, not a… lap dance in the back of a Subaru.” It leaves him in a breathless rush—half-joke, half-defeat. The way his voice frays at the edges on the last word makes it clear: it’s already killing him.

Your pretty lips twists into a pout, one that’s too practiced to be pure. “Where’s the fun in that?” You croon, tone as deadly as silk over blade. “It’s not like your cock’s inside me… yet. So technically?” you trail off as your spine bows deliciously, bikini riding higher between your asscheeks—more string than swimwear now. “No crime. No foul. Just the perfect start to a very dirty little secret.”

You grind again—harder this time—and he hitches, eyes screwed shut and jaw clenched tooth-shatteringly tight as his shaft pulses violently under you, practically ready to burst free at the seams of his pants. His hands fly from your hips to the edge of the seat, clutching the hot vinyl as he’s afraid to touch you again. If he does, he won’t be able to stop.

The hushed noise that escapes Wilson is nothing short of pitiful—a strangled gasp snagged in the well of his chest, right above the frantic thrum of his stallion-quick heart. He’s trembling, every nerve sizzling and wound taut. It’s not from the cold—hell, it’s sweltering in here. But the tension you’ve stoked in him blazes white-hot, melting him down to a shivering wreck, knees jittering with no hope of stillness.

He’s flushed to the roots—neck to scalp lit up in a feverish crimson, the tips of his ears flaring cherry red. His dick throbs in his briefs, as if trying to claw its way inside you on sheer instinct alone. “P-Please,” he stammers, the plea nearly eclipsed by the drone of the highway. “This is a catastrophic idea- I’m about two seconds from losing any shred of self-control here.

“Catastrophic?” You echo. “Wilson, you’ve been gagging for it since I sat down. The only thing I made you do was stop pretending otherwise.”

Spurring him on, you lean in and whisper softly. “Come oooon… ditch the good boy act and cum for me already. I promise not to tell daddy…”

“Our dirty secret, remember?”

And just like that, his hips finally betrays him in the faintest disgraceful thrusts, every ghost of a buck into your clothed cunt an apology he’s too far gone to voice. A soft moan slips out of you, part from the friction, part from an unbearable, blistering ache low in your belly—dying for him to finish inside you next time.

However the rest of it? That’s unadulterated satisfaction—the victory of witnessing your long-time crush unravel under you, undone by an act so simple, so obscene.

“Dammit, wait—-” he hisses, louder than he meant to, the curse a tangled braid of guilt and relief. No one reacts. No one knows. And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

His frame staggers once, twice—then he’s gone, pleasure cresting through him in a silent, shattered surrender. A white, milky essence seeps through his underwear, drenching the space between your thighs and his lap, slathering across his crotch in trails of sticky shame. It’s filthy. It’s humiliating. It’s also easily the hottest thing you’ve ever felt.

He blinks open, but doesn’t move.

“Oopsie,” you smile so wide it aches, turning to catch a fine sheen glistening over the furrowed lines of his careworn features, turmoil etched deep around those sad puppy eyes.

“I think somebody made a mess.” your stare dips, unapologetically. “Hope you brought a spare change of clothes.”

Wilson exhales hard, hands scrubbing over his face as he kneads the bridge of his nose. He crossed a line. In fact—he obliterated it. And the worst part? He knows he’ll do it again.

Especially if you so much as whisper please.

-------☆-------

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

[n0atmilk]

House’s head

[cyborgnoodless]

the entire house fandom:

[slowburningechoes]

office hours

Summary: After an unforgettable night, Wilson just can't seem to get his mind off you. It's a good thing you work at the same hospital, but it's too bad House is next door... right? (as promised @chardalton & @the-ultimate-obsessive-fangirl !!!)

Pairing: James Wilson (House, MD) x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: 18+ content (NSFW/NSFM) - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT / semi-secret relationship (only from House), inappropriate workplace behavior, semi-public sex, brief sexting, office sex, thigh riding, fingering, female ejaculation, secret lingerie, desk sex, exhibitionism, unprotected sex (pls wrap it up), breeding

Word Count: 5.4k

Inspired by: this post

Here is a link to ao3 if that is your preferred platform.

It was midday when Wilson’s text came through: Charting is killing me. I could use a break... preferably with you on my lap. My office. Now.

You glance at your phone as you wait by the nurse’s station for your next psych consult. The directness of his request makes your cheeks flush as you shift your phone from the threat of any prying eyes. 

You move to lean against a wall (where you’re sure no one will see) and quickly type your response: You really know how to give orders, don’t you? Good thing I’m not feeling too disobedient today, I’m on my way.

When he calls your name to enter after you knock, you can tell from the strained tone in his voice he’s feeling impatient. As you let yourself into his office, it becomes even more apparent. Wilson’s hands are tapping across his desk and his facial features are even more defined from the tension in his jaw.

“Did you need a consult, Dr. Wilson?” you tease, tilting your head and batting your eyes. 

There had been numerous “consults” between Wilson and you since started secretly seeing each other about three months ago and dating for the last month.  House had only recently begun to get suspicious, but, of course, you’d already covered your bases, informing Cuddy and having a quiet chat with HR, just to stay ahead of things.

“Oh, hush,” he groans, his tone flirtatious but laden with desire. “Come here, darling.” Raising a finger and curling it, he beckons you over.

You obliged without hesitation, happily prancing over to meet him behind his desk.

As your message had said, you really weren’t in a disobedient mood today, though you did like to be bratty on most occasions. All day you’d been daydreaming about last night — how Wilson had devoured your pussy like a man starved before fucking you senseless in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom. Admittedly, you had been wet all day, pressing your legs together desperately, trying your best to focus on clinic duty… but the images always slipped in, corrupting your mind and making you throb with need.

“You’re being awfully cooperative today, aren’t you?” Wilson smirked, caressing his hands over your hips, which were level with his face as he sat in his office chair.

You nod eagerly, biting your lip in an attempt to conceal the depth of desire you’ve been holding onto all day.

“That’s so unlike you,” Wilson hummed, voice coaxing. “Have you been thinking about me, angel?”

He senses your restraint and places a soft kiss on the sensitive spot near the crease of your thigh, the one he knows drives you wild.

A sigh escaped you and your admission slipped out, breathless, “Yes… fuck, yes. It’s been driving me insane all day.”

“I thought so,” Wilson grinned at your confession before adding his own, hands roaming across your torso, but one moving to grip your ass firmly, pulling you closer.  

“I’ve been thinking about you, too. Trying to do all this damn paperwork…,” a small grunt comes from his throat. “It’s so hard to concentrate when all I can think about is this.” His hand runs up the back of your thigh, bunching up your skirt, fingers sliding under the sides of your panties. 

Your skin practically aches under his touch, desperate for any contact it can get. Breathlessly, you moan his name, “J-James…”

“I can’t stop remembering how beautiful you looked last night — my dick buried so deep in you… hair all messy, your mouth gaping open, crying for me…,” Wilson whispers with need, pulling you onto his lap in one fluid motion. You were straddling his thigh, your back flush against his chest, reminiscent of how you were positioned against him as he completely ruined you in front of the mirror last night. “I know it’s only been half a day, but I couldn’t wait anymore…I had to get my hands on my gorgeous girl.”

You rest your head back against his shoulder, the heat between you undeniable as you roll your hips down into his thigh, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his neck. “Then touch me, please,” you whisper, voice thick with need.

Wilson’s groan is low and strained as his hands slide underneath your skirt, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of your underwear. His touch is gentle, savoring every second of this tension between you. As he traces the intricate rose-patterned lace beneath his fingers, he stops suddenly.

“Oh?” His voice cracks slightly, full of surprise and lust, the weight of his discovery heavy in the air. “You’re wearing these… here?”

A rush of heat flooded through you, your body responding to the thrill of the secret you’d been carrying all day. You knew exactly what they would do to him when you chose them this morning. The sultry red lace, a cheeky cut pair of panties he nearly tore off you the first time you wore them.

Wilson's fingers begin to move once again, dancing across the meshed fabric before flattening against you

"You really walked around all day like this?" His voice is thick with disbelief and hunger as he lifts up the back of your skirt to reveal the trail of red trim that perfectly curves against your ass cheeks. Wilson muttered a few unintelligible words to himself before releasing a pained groan, “You sat across from me in this morning’s consultation, acted completely normal, while you had these on underneath? Knowing what they do to me?" His fingers press slightly harder against your still-clothed core, lace straining beneath his touch, applying enough pressure you can’t help but gasp.

You bite your lip, catching your breath before nodding earnestly. "I thought about telling you," you admit teasingly, rolling down into him again, your body aching for more friction. "But it was much more fun wondering if you knew."

He presses his thigh against the motion of your hips, almost as if he were answering your request. You feel his desire grow beneath you, making your throbbing need intensify. Wilson’s lips linger just below your ear, voice low and deep, “God, I should’ve known. You kept shifting in your seat, crossing your legs too tightly… I almost asked if something was wrong.”

You smirk, leaning into him until your neck meets his lips, “And if I had told you?”

He places a desperate kiss against your throat before lightly grazing it with his teeth, his hand finally sliding beneath the waistband of your panties. “I would’ve had you in here with the door locked before my first patient. I can’t believe you’ve been this wet for me all day.”

Wilson’s digits don’t hesitate to find your core, sliding between your folds and making small circles against your bundle of nerves. His touch electrifies your senses, sending shock waves through your body, hardening your nipples and making your clit pulsate, desperate for more contact. As his fingers dip between your labia, teasing your entrance, a pleasurable moan escapes your lips (louder, admittedly, than you had expected) in the heat of the moment.

“Shhhh,” Wilson warned, quickly bringing his free hand to clasp over your parted lips, muffling the sound of your moan. “You better stay quiet, doll,” he purred in your ear, the heat of his breath nearly distracting you from his fingers dipping into your heat, testing your restraint. “We wouldn’t want House hearing next door, now would we?”

You smirk underneath his touch, the threat of House discovering you both this way making you ache with need even more. But you can feel from the way his breath hitches, the way his hands tremble slightly against your mouth, and his twitching bulge beneath you, that the thought excites him too.

“Naughty girl,” he hummed, his smirk evident in his voice as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His teeth scraped lightly over your pulse before he soothing the slight sting with his tongue. “You really get off on it, don’t you? Seeing just how much you can get away with before someone realizes just how bad you really are.”

A pitiful near-whine of “uh huh” is all you can manage as you buck your hips into his hand, his fingers now finding their rhythm pumping in and out of you. The pleasure was already overwhelming, but all you could think about was wanting more. More of his touch. More of that very unprofessional dirty talk flowing from his lips. More of whatever he had to give you.

Wilson obliged without the request even leaving your mind, curling his fingers inside you and mindlessly beginning to press his bulge harder against you, soft grunts falling from his lips  The circular motion of his thumb against your clit made your entire lower half numb with warm pleasure, forcing you to bite down on your lower lip hard to stifle the urge to cry out like you had the night before.

"You sat across from me today, acted so damn composed, knowing full well what you had on underneath," Wilson continues, voice tense and thick with the last bit of his restraint. "Now, you’re on my lap making such a mess, hoping that House will hear on the other side of that wall — aren’t you?” His fingers are still curled inside of you, picking up their pace until you feel pressure grow in your abdomen.

Heat floods your face as Wilson makes clear he knows exactly what you were thinking about.“I - I like that he could hear,” you admit, voice trembling with arousal as your clit and inner thighs begin to flood with heat. As you continue, you are practically babbling, mind consumed with numbing pleasure. Wilson’s fingers had found your most sensitive spot, knocking it over and over with just the right amount of force in his fingertips. “K-knowing that he could hear everything — how badly I need you. How good you make me feel. Him knowing what you do to me, how dirty I am — fuck...”

Your tangent comes to a halt as you feel your orgasm crash into you, one that was more intense than any you had experienced before. The pressure that had built inside of you was heavy and nearly painful, but the relief that washed over you as you released on his fingers was mind numbing. You rode out your climax on his fingers with a recklessness that was unfamiliar to you, driven by a hedonistic bliss that was desperate and raw. The satisfaction you felt made your entire body feel like it was on fire and — for once in your life — your mind was completely blank, drunk on some kind of animalistic ecstasy.

“Jesus Christ,” Wilson groans, his large hands on each of your ass cheeks, pushing you up to the edge of his thigh. “You just squirted all over me. Damn, t-that’s so hot…” He stares at his now-soaked slacks and your swollen pussy with wide-eyed admiration.

His trance is broken when you gasp, your sore clit grazing his knee, sending a shock of pleasurable pain through your upper thighs. Responding tentatively with care, Wilson brings you back to rest flush against his chest, pressing multiple tender kisses to your flushed cheek. “You did such a good job, darling. You were perfect, as always.”

Every part of your body is sensitive as he caresses your body, fingers dancing up and down your torso causing bumps to rise along your skin.

“But I hope you don’t think we’re done here, angel,” Wilson whispers teasingly, still gently caressing his fingers through your hair. “You nearly made me cum in my pants… and now, I want House to hear just how pretty you sound taking my cock.”

You whimper in response as your body melts into his touch, every muscle softening as he moves you to bend over the edge of his desk. It’s as if you’ve forgotten how to hold yourself up, hot cheek pressed against the cool wood as he hikes your skirt up around your hips and spreads your legs open for him. He pulls your panties down your thighs with careless want, the lace scratching against your skin before the fabric catches at your knees.

Wilson groaned at the sight of you laid out before him, completely pliant under his hands. His fingers trailed down the curve of your spine, slow and deliberate, savoring the way you shivered at his touch.

“Look at you,” he hums, voice thick with hungry admiration. His thumbs press into your hips, holding you in place as he leans in, lips ghosting over your ear. “So sensitive… needy… gorgeous...”

Wilson’s fingers are flat against you again, coaxing your body to open until all you can do is surrender under his touch. Your breath hitches as you feel Wilson’s swollen tip line up with your entrance perfectly before gliding through your folds, causing your pussy to instinctually clench around nothing. There is a deep wanting ache inside of you that hated his teasing, but your body numb with pleasure, could find no reason to complain, reacting with small jumps every time he brushed against your clit.

As you process the pleasure you feel as he continues to slide his cock through your slickness, Wilson’s left hand comes down to grip your ass firmly. Before you can process his touch, he releases his hold, only to apply a stinging slap that motivates a breathy cry to escape your lips. You were shocked at first, he had never spanked you before — even when you were being bratty — but the sharp burning made you become even more wet and desperate for him to fill you.

Wilson’s fingers brushed the warm, flushed skin of your backside. “Guess you really weren’t in the mood to be disobedient today,” the tone of approval in his voice made your clit throb harder. “So good for me… letting me take control like this. Letting me do whatever I want.”

You try to form a response, your mind still hazy and body trembling, but the words escape you. All that comes out is a soft, shaky (and admittedly, pitiful) whimper. You can feel Wilson grin from behind you, his confidence thick in the already charged air. 

“Normally, I love that bratty nature of yours,” he chuckles softly, lining himself back up with your entrance. “You’re always so sassy, testing me, ready with some biting comeback. But this…,” Wilson groaned, finally pressing his cock into you at (a still) painfully slow pace, “...seeing you speechless, so fucked out of your mind already… it’s doing something to me.”

As he bottomed out inside of you, you couldn’t help but moan, a sound coming out that was some attempt at his name. You had already come to know how wonderfully Wilson stretched you, but this heat from your first orgasm made you feel as if you were melting around him, perfectly molding against every vein ridge of his dick. 

Wilson began to move, thrusting in and out of you with small breathy grunts accompanying each movement. His hands braced against your hips, fingers digging deep into your soft flesh. You could feel his gaze drinking you in, flickering between your pussy gripping him and the expression on your face — cheeks rosy, lips slightly parted, and eyes heavy-lidded, rolling back every time he sank into you. 

For the first time in your slew of inappropriate work rendezvous, you didn’t (and truly, couldn’t) hold back the noises that escaped your lips, one cry coming out as some semblance of his name. Wilson’s tip hit against your cervix with the perfect amount of pressure, tapping it just firm enough that you nearly felt it in your stomach.

Your sounds made Wilson twitch inside of you, prompting him to pause briefly to keep himself from coming undone entirely. 

With a low groan, he leaned forward, his chest flush against your back and his lips hovering beside your ear. “Think House is sitting in there, pretending he doesn’t hear how wrecked you sound?” Wilson whispered, an almost mocking tone in his voice. His words send a chill of pleasure down your spine, as his hand comes up to wrap around your throat, pulling you from the desk, your back flat against his heaving chest. He continues, words still against your ear,“Or do you think he’s listening… really listening — wondering what I’m doing to make you come apart like this?”

The thought makes you gasp, the sound echoing , His fingers pressed slightly harder against the sides of your throat as you did. You clench around him, responding in absent-minded pleasure. “J-James,” is all you can whimper.

The idea of House, himself, hearing wasn’t what turned you on — it was the delicious anticipation of him discovering that his careful sensitive friend had completely lost control. The idea of Wilson, usually so measured and cautious, now completely undone, taking you raw, right here on his desk in the middle of the day, was intoxicating. It wasn’t just the thrill of it; it was the satisfaction of knowing you were the one who’d made him forget himself, made him lose his usual restraint. The tension between his normally composed, loyal nature and the raw, reckless abandon he was giving you sent a rush of heat through your veins, knowing it was all because of you. He’d never imagined being so reckless, and yet, here you were, the cause of his unraveling once again.

Wilson’s thrusts were becoming increasingly more sloppy, rutting into you at an uneven and needy rhythm. “God — you look so damn gorgeous, Y/N… letting me have you like this in the middle of the day…” his voice was breathy, trembling just like his legs as he fought to hold onto his control. “Y-you’re perfect… shit — you feel so, so good, my little secret… I - I  can’t…” You thought it was so cute — how he always started to ramble when he was close to cumming, every bit of sense escaping him.

A deep, shuddering moan came from his lips, hand dropping down from your throat, fingers digging into your hips, holding you against him like he never wanted to let go. Wilson’s cock delved deeper within you, so deep it was nearly painful as his hardening tip hit against your cervix with relentless fervor.

You whimper at the sound of his voice, the sensation of his touch consuming you. “James,  baby…” You felt close to the edge again, a familiar knot building within the pit of your stomach. “I-I’m about to…”

Wilson cuts you off with agreement,“I know, angel… me too.” His voice is rough, strained as he presses a gentle, reassuring kiss to your neck. “Let go for me,” he murmurs, nearly pleading, lips ghosting over your ear, breaths hot and uneven. “Come on, sweetheart… let me feel you cum on my cock, please.”

The way he says it, the way he’s holding you so tightly but with so much care — it’s all too much. Your body seizes, that coiling heat in your stomach rushing down your shaking thighs. “F-fuck…” A sharp, broken cry spilled from your lips as pleasure crashed over you. You didn’t care who heard at that point - House, Cuddy, anyone. Wilson groaned in response, as if the sound alone was enough to undo him… and it practically did.

His movements stuttered as your walls clenched around him, only to find euphoric relief as you became so soft and open for him. He was following closely behind you, hips thrusting once more until a guttural, shuddering moan tearing from his throat and you felt him release inside of you. He buried his face against your shoulder, forehead beaded with sweat and his whole body weak as he let go, completely and utterly undone.

Neither of you moves for a long moment, lost in the aftershocks of pleasure. Your breath is still coming in shallow gasps as you cling to him, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat slowing against your back. You both rest, regaining some composure in your muscles before breaking apart from one another.

Wilson presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of your neck. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

“Then keep taking me, James,” You hum, leaning into his touch, your fingers finding their way through his soft and, now, thoroughly tousled hair. He continues to place kisses along your neck as you speak. “Keep taking me like this, over and over… take all of me, until you’re completely satisfied… until you’ve had every part of me.”

“Oh, I’ll take all of you, sweetheart,” he assured, voice still rich with lust. His hands roam over your body once more, possessive and gentle at the same time, savoring the feel of your skin beneath his touch. “But I’m not going to let you forget how much you want me to… I’m going to take you until you’re lost in me. Until every part of you is completely mine.” His hands drift lower, his fingertips teasing as they glide across your skin, making your body hum with need. “And you’ll beg for it, every time, won’t you?”

“Mhm,” you reply, feeling the tension build inside of you once more. Just as you begin to beg him to spread you open again, reality creeped back in — the cool air against your heated skin, the quiet ticking of the clock, and the ever-present threat of someone walking in. A frustrated sigh escapes you as your fingers slid over his hand, which was cupping your breast, pressing it there for just a second longer before reluctantly stilling him. The disappointment of having to stop was palpable, a slow, burning ache lingering between you.

Wilson shifted behind you, groaning as he peeled himself away from your warmth. “We should… probably make ourselves look decent.” 

You stifled a giggle, watching him blush at the realization of what had just transpired. “Mmm, you think?”

His lips quirk as he reaches for his crumpled dress shirt. “Unless you want House walking in and figuring out why my tie is missing and my pants are all soaked.”

You adjust your skirt back down over your thighs before blinking quickly, confused. “…Your tie is missing?” When did that happen?

Wilson paused, his brows furrowed, equally as perplexed. His eyes look around the room, groaning when he finds it draped over his desk lamp. “Fantastic.”

Smirking, you remove the fabric and thread it under his collar, hands lingering against his still-heaving chest. Though the tension never left, it was palpable again. Wilson’s heart was thumping so hard in his chest, you could feel it beneath your trembling fingers. His eyes, gentler and warmer now, were still filled with lust and need as they admired you make the first loop of the tie knot.

The pulse of desire within the air, however, was so rudely interrupted by the unmistakable rap of a cane against the doorframe. Your heart skips, the rush of heat between your legs suddenly replaced by a sharp jolt of anxiety.

Wilson’s face falls, hand lingering on the edge of your hip, trying to hold onto the moment before reality rushes back in. You can feel his body tense as a whispered huff escapes him. “Damn it…”

House’s voice filtered through, ladened with an undeniably smug amusement. “Wilson! Open up or I start taking bets on what exactly I just heard…” Two more sharp taps from his cane shook the door. “My money is on ‘reckless desk defilement’, but I’m sure that Cuddy might have more creative ideas.”

A look of exasperation was plastered across Wilson’s face, eyes already rolling in annoyance as he reluctantly removed his hands from your side. As he moved to grasp the knob, he groaned in defeat, turning it until the lock clicked in release.

House didn’t let a second pass, stepping just inside the doorway with his usual aura of casual arrogance. He leaned against his cane, gaze flickering across the scene, taking in Wilson’s still undone tie, your messy hair, typically neatly placed desk accessories along the floor, and the undeniable tension that still electrified the air.

“Well, well,” he began, his lips slowly twisting into a cocky grin, “it seems I should have taken those bets. Could’ve made quite a bit of cash.”

“House —,” Wilson started, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying his best to regather a sense of control.

“Oh, dont ‘House’ me,” came the sing-song reply, teasing thick in House’s voice. “I heard everything… but I’m sure you already knew that.” 

You couldn’t deny that his acknowledgement of your recent activities made your core ache in some sick way. Your muscles stiffened, fingers wrapping tightly around the edge of the desk as you felt your cheeks burn. You were enjoying this more than you thought you would.

“Tsk, tsk, Wilson,” House drawled, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. “I expected better from you. Mid-day debauchery in your office? Highly unprofessional.” He smirked. “And here I thought you were all about romance.”

 “House, please,” Wilson groaned, dragging a hand down his face, blocking his eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not judging,” House interrupted, waving a hand to stop him from continuing. “If anything, I’m impressed.” His gaze slid to you, eyes glittering with mischief. “And you, didn’t take you for an exhibitionist, but judging by that glow…” he gave a slow nod of approval, “you enjoyed this.”

A slow heat crawled up your neck, but you refused to flinch. Instead, you tilted your head, feigning consideration as your cheeks grew flushed. “Maybe.”

House let out a sharp, delighted laugh. “Oh, I like her, Wilson. Try to keep this one?”

“Can we please just skip to why you’re here?” Wilson begged, voice crackly just slightly, painfully embarrassed that his best friend and girlfriend were having such an exchange.

House gave him a pointed look. “Oh, I actually do have a reason other than just confronting your kinky lunchtime rendezvous.” House leaned against his cane, grinning. “Cuddy’s looking for you. Says it’s urgent.”

Panicked questions fell from Wilson’s lips with urgency, “What? Why?”

House’s grin turned wolfish. “Could be about a case… hmmmm, could also be about the very audible display of workplace misconduct that echoed through the halls.” He rubbed his chin. “Really, it’s a toss-up.”

Your boyfriend let out an exasperated sigh, “Fantastic.”

“Wilson,” House said, moving towards the door as he motioned to Wilson’s chest and leg with his cane. “You might want to check a mirror before you go. You still look…” His piercing blue eyes flicked toward you. “Ravished.”

Wilson shot him a murderous glare but didn’t argue, running a hand through his already-messy hair in a feeble attempt at damage control.

House clapped his hands together, proudly pressing them against his lips. “God, this just made my entire week.”

You rolled your eyes, smoothing your skirt. “Try not to enjoy this too much.”

“Oh, don’t worry… I am.” House said teasingly. “The best part is.. it’s our little secret now…”

Wilson’s face grew more red, hot with embarrassment and anger. But with that comment, House strolled out, casually whistling away as if he was innocent to anything that had just occurred.

Wilson exhaled slowly as he fell back into his office chair. “I am going to kill him.”

You grinned sheepishly, stepping closer to him “Later.” Your fingers brushed his collar before continuing to adjust his tie. “Right now, you should probably focus on looking less like a man who just fucked someone senseless.”

“You’re not making that very easy,” he insisted as your lips grazed the skin beside his collar, nibbling lightly on his earlobe.

“That’s too bad,” you whisper against the shell of his ear, “because I’m about to make it even worse.”

“Oh?” Wilson said, suspicion and interest laced in his voice.

You stepped back slightly, letting the moment stretch as he watched you with a mixture of curiosity and hunger, breath becoming uneven once again. 

Slowly, your fingers skimmed along the hem of your skirt, deliberately teasing. Your lips curved into a wicked grin when you saw his gaze darken at the sight. His breath caught as you slid your hands beneath the fabric, fingertips ghosting over your still-sensitive skin. And then, with unhurried precision, you eased your underwear down your thighs. The deep red lace slipped past your knees, pooling at your ankles. 

You stepped out of them with a playful step before gathering the delicate fabric between your fingers and holding them out toward him with a knowing smile.

“Thought you might need a little something to remember me by today,” you murmured, voice rich and teasing.

Wilson’s throat worked as he swallowed, his eyes dark and sharp as they broke from the gift and lifted back to meet yours. He took the lace from your fingers, the brush of skin against skin igniting another spark of anticipation between you. He didn’t say anything at first, rolling the thin material between his fingers before wrapping it in a fist. His expression is nearly unreadable as the silence lingers, jaw tense and lips pressed together tightly.

Then, in a voice low and rough, Wilson spoke, “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Noooo,” you insist sarcastically, smile deepening at his response. “Just trying to make sure you don’t forget me while you’re off being a responsible doctor.”

Wilson exhaled sharply, his free hand gripping the armrest of his chair firmly, visibly struggling to get himself under control. He tucked the lace into the pocket of his dress pants, fingers lingering there for just a moment, as if resisting the urge to bring them to his face, to savor the warmth and scent still lingering on the fabric.

“You do realize what this is going to do to me,” he muttered, warm eyes scanning across your body as you straightened your skirt back down your legs.

His breath hitched as you stepped in even closer, bringing yourself to rest against his still-damp thigh. “That’s the point,” you murmur, voice smooth and sinful. “You’re going to spend the entire day thinking about me. About how I feel when you touch me, about the way I sound when I come undone for you… about the fact that I’m walking around bare beneath my clothes, still full of your cum… and aching for more.”

Wilson groaned deeply, his hand grasping your hip as he attempted to still himself, exhaling hard.

“Jesus, Y/N… you know you’re making it impossible for me to function today, right?” he said, almost like a complaint — but there’s no real protest in his tone, just a quiet, tortured amusement.

Wilson curses under his breath, his hands flexing against his chair again, like he’s a second away from grabbing you again from locking the door and taking you out on the balcony this time. Instead, he tilts his head back slightly, closing his eyes for just a moment, trying to will his restraint back into place.

When he opens them again, his pupils are still blown, voice still rough. “You are so unfair.” 

“I like keeping you on your toes.” You pressed a tender kiss to his cheek before moving to stand.

Wilson huffed a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head as he glanced at the clock. “You better be waiting for me when I get home tonight,” he warns, straightening his tie. 

“Oh, James,” you smiled confidently as you backed toward the door, his gaze following you with a barely concealed hunger. “I’ll be waiting… but I won’t be patient.”

You let your hand hover over the doorknob for just a moment, savoring the tension and truly, not wanting to leave him. With a slow turn of your head, you glanced at him over your shoulder. He was still in shock, sitting so stiffly, like he didn’t trust himself to move… or simply couldn’t.

You smirk, admiring the devastation you’ve left in your wake. “Oh, and James?” you purred, voice cloyingly soft. “Enjoy your meeting with Cuddy.”

Wilson made a strangled noise, somewhere between a groan and a curse, running a hand down his face. “You’re evil.”

You took a slow step towards the door, tracing your finger up your thigh, bunching up the cloth just enough to watch his eyes flick down to your legs, reminding him that there was nothing beneath it.

“Have fun,” your voice dripped with amusement as you finally turned the knob to go, winking playfully at him as you skipped into the hallway.

Wilson let out a long breath, so deep it sounded like he had been holding it the entire time. As you stepped out, just before the door clicked shut, you heard him mutter under his breath – half frustration, half admiration — “She’s going to be the death of me.”

[iheartbeingbasic]

HOUSE RULES

𓂃⋆.˚ i'm not broken, i'm just shallow.

𝒢reg house ੭୧ f! reader ┇ head (f!receiving) ⋆ age-gap ⋆ secret relationship

It was a boring Friday evening with both of your parents sitting with you by your dining table. Your mom, Dr. Samantha Wilson made your favourite dish, yet the only thing you could think about right now was what was waiting for you later on.

If you managed to lie your way through out of the house, of course.

“So how was your day?” Your dad, Dr. James Wilson, oncologist at Princeton-Plainsboro asked with curiosity laced in his tone.

You swallowed your food before opening your mouth to speak, debating on your answer.

“Great, except for the fact that I got traumatised by Dr. White. He made me write a whole essay on how estrogen would work in a male body. And I have to present it, in front of the whole hospital next week.”

“That’s amazing.” Your mom spoke while you gave her a look.

“No, Mom, it’s not. Didn’t you hear the part where I said I have to present it to the whole hospital? And I only have a week.”

“Well, better get to it then. As I heard Dr. White is very cold-hearted. He won't expect any less than perfect from you.”

“Thanks.” You murmured. “I’m not even qualified to become a diagnostician any time soon. I don’t get why I have to study biochemistry when I signed up for a course in psychology.”

“Well why wouldn't you want to be a diagnostician?” Samantha asked.

Wilson pressed his lips together to keep him from smiling, but the subtle twitch of his cheeks and the way his eyes glinted, you could see that your dad had a really hard time keeping his laughter in.

“You want me to work at Plainsboro, right?” You asked.

“Well obviously. Why would you work in a different hospital when your Dad already works in one?” She raised a brow while you dropped your shoulders.

“Well, I don’t think they would need another diagnostician anytime soon. Unless House decides he’d want to die of Hydrocodone-Paracetamol overdose, I’m sure Plainsboro won't need another doctor playing “Who’s the killer?”

Sam smiled before taking another bite out of her food.

“Um…I was thinking since it’s Friday and I practically got an excellent on all of my assignments…maybe I could spend the weekend at Cathy’s place?”

“Catherine just moved out from her parents place, no?” Sam asked while you nodded.

“I thought I could go over, and spend a girly night with her, you know. She needs me. Just as much as I needed her when I was going through recovery.”

“Oh let her go, they don’t even meet anymore that often.” Wilson leaned back in his chair while your mother was still sitting in front of you with raised brows, chewing softly on her food.

Shit.

Did she find Greg’s shirt in my laundry?

“Okay.” Samantha spoke, chugging down her water. “But your father will drive you.” She continued. “Public transportation has been nasty these days. And I don’t want you to get lost in New Jersey. Potential place for serial killers.”

Yeah that’s exactly why she decided to settle down and marry a man from here.

“Actually I can't.” Your dad responded. “Car’s been breaking down since I drove home from the hospital. I’m sorry, Sweetheart. You either go by bus or metro.”

A big rock fell down from your heart. You couldn't even put it into words how grateful you were that the damned Volvo finally broke down. You always had to go from Cathy’s place and take the metro to Baker Street.

“It’s alright, Dad. Don’t worry. Thanks though. Dinner was nice, Mom. I’m going to pack my stuff.”

The walk from the station to Greg’s place wasn’t that far away. The weather was humid, but still warm due to it being only early October.

The fact was that since you got treated for your kidney stones and have been under the care of your dad’s so-called best friend, things have maybe changed a little bit.

Okay.

They changed a whole lot.

In the past few weeks, you tried to seem normal about the fact that every weekend since the first day of your first semester you’ve been spending your time at House’s place.

Anyway, your relationship wasn't much of a Girlfriend and Boyfriend type of bonding. Some would assume that maybe what you two were doing was just the result of some kind of sexual tension that lived in the both of you.

But the thing is with the Forbidden Fruit that the more it’s forbidden, the more you want it.

And that was exactly your case with Greg House.

Except for the fact that it wasn't all that sweet and dovey and lovely as others around your age expected a relationship would feel like.

Sure there were moments where both of you felt vulnerable around each other. You more because well let’s be honest, Greg’s not a man of feelings.

You turned a corner up to Baker Street, looking out for the number 221 as you walked straight by the apartments. Your sneakers creaked slightly on the leaves that fell down on the pavement.

Even though you knew exactly which apartment was he living in and how far was it from the beginning of the street you tried to brace yourself. Your breath hitched whenever you thought about what happened the last time you were at his apartment.

That poor piano…

The door clicked softly behind you as you stepped into the familiar apartment at 221 Baker Street, Apartment B.

It was dim inside, the only real light coming from the flickering TV screen playing some late-night crime documentary, the volume turned down low — almost just a whisper in the background. The place smelled faintly of old books, leather, and a hint of something sharper — antiseptic, maybe. Or him.

Gregory House was exactly where you expected him to be: sprawled out carelessly on the battered brown leather couch, one long leg thrown over the armrest, a thick medical file balanced precariously on his stomach. His reading glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, half-sliding down, but he didn’t bother to fix them. His cane was tossed carelessly on the coffee table, along with a half-eaten container of Chinese food and an open bottle of Vicodin — standard décor for him.

He didn’t look up when you entered. Just turned a page with a lazy flick of his fingers, his voice dry and sharp as ever.

“About time. I was starting to think you got kidnapped by one of those serial killers your mom’s so worried about.”

He finally glanced up at you over the rim of his glasses, the smallest smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Which would’ve been a shame. Finding another emotionally unstable young woman to warm my bed sounds like a lot of paperwork.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed your bag onto the armchair by the door.

“I had to dodge my mom’s twenty questions. Thought she found your shirt in my laundry.”

House barked out a short, sarcastic laugh, returning his attention to the file.

“Well, if she’s smart enough to connect the dots, maybe she deserves the horror of knowing who’s been defiling her little girl.”

You kicked off your sneakers and padded over the worn wooden floors toward him, your fingers brushing your pocket — the small silver key he’d given you a few days ago burning against your fingertips. Your own key. To his place.

He didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t have to. It meant something, even if he’d pretend otherwise.

You stood in front of him for a moment, arms crossed, watching the way his fingers absentmindedly drummed against the folder. The way his body moved, even in stillness — relaxed, confident, like he had the entire world already figured out and it bored him.

The silence stretched between you, taut and electric, until finally you shifted onto the couch beside him.

“You gonna keep pretending I’m not here?” you murmured.

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Depends. Are you going to do something interesting, or just sit there looking needy?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but a smile tugged at your lips. He wanted you to make the first move — smug bastard.

You leaned closer, slow, deliberate, until your knees brushed his thigh. He tilted his head slightly to glance at you, his expression unreadable, except for that slight, infuriating smirk.

Without giving him a warning, you climbed into his lap, straddling him, feeling the roughness of his jeans against your bare thighs where your skirt rode up.

He grunted — not from surprise, but more like mild amusement — letting the file drop carelessly to the floor with a soft thud. His hands immediately settled on your hips like it was second nature, fingers flexing slightly.

“God, you’re needy,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough, low.

You kissed him before he could throw another jab at you — pressed your mouth against his hard, demanding. He kissed you back instantly, no hesitation, no tenderness. House didn’t do soft. He kissed like he argued: messy, fierce, and like he needed to win.

You felt him shift under you, like he was about to stand up with you in his arms.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his mouth, breathless,

“Don’t. You’re not—”

“I’m not what?” he interrupted, raising an eyebrow, voice thick with mockery. “Strong enough? Gonna break my leg in half?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, he rolled his eyes exaggeratedly — and then stood up anyway, effortlessly lifting you into his arms.

You gasped, clutching his shoulders.

“You’re a stubborn ass!” you hissed.

“You’re welcome,” he shot back smugly, carrying you through the short hallway to his bedroom like it was no big deal, no strain in his gait, only the faintest limp — still cocky as ever.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until he tossed you gently onto the bed, the mattress bouncing slightly under you.

He followed immediately, kneeling above you. His eyes pinned you to the bed, sharp, gleaming, and darker now, like a predator ready to devour.

“Clothes. Off. Now.” His voice was rough, commanding, but still dripping with sarcasm. “Or do you need a PowerPoint presentation on how sex works?”

You glared at him, cheeks burning, but the way he was looking at you — with that pure, hungry intensity — made your fingers fumble at your blouse anyway.

He helped, of course. With House, “helping” meant him undoing your buttons at an agonizingly slow pace, his knuckles brushing your skin with every movement, smirking when you shivered under his touch.

The blouse slipped off your shoulders, and he made a low sound in his throat when he saw the white lace of your bra.

“Well, that’s unfair. Bringing weapons to a knife fight,” he muttered, hands reaching behind you with shocking dexterity to snap your bra open in one move.

House stared for a beat longer than he probably meant to, then leaned down, his mouth closing hotly over your breast, worshiping you in a way his words never would.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, moaning softly as he trailed kisses lower, down your stomach, teasing the waistband of your skirt.

In no time, he was pulling down your tights and skirt in one smooth, careless tug, tossing them somewhere onto the floor.

His fingers slid under your thighs, prying them apart, his breath warm against your inner thighs as he kissed along the soft skin, slow and deliberate. You felt his stubble scraping lightly, sensitizing every nerve ending.

Then you felt his fingers stroke the fabric of your panties — slow at first, just barely there, featherlight — before he tugged it aside roughly. The cool air hit you for a second before the warmth of his mouth replaced it.

He spat lightly against you, the wet heat of it making you whimper, your hips jerking upward without thinking.

“Relax, drama queen,” he murmured against you, before licking a slow, firm stripe up your center, making you cry out his name, high and needy.

He sucked your clit into his mouth, humming low in satisfaction at the way you squirmed under him.

His fingers slipped inside you, slow, deep, while he talked you through it, voice low and rough against your skin.

“That’s it. Good girl. Just like that. God, you’re so easy — fall apart the second I touch you…”

Your thighs were trembling, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter, until your orgasm hit you like a freight train, knocking the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping, crying out his name.

He didn’t stop right away — kept working you through it, letting you ride the waves until you collapsed back against the mattress, boneless.

He finally pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking wickedly as he crawled up over you again.

He leaned in close, so close you could feel his breath against your ear as he whispered, voice full of that cocky arrogance that somehow made your heart race faster:

“That was just the warm-up. Hope you’re not planning on walking tomorrow.”