𝓖regory house ੭୧ fem! reader ┇ p in v ⋆ dėgradation ⋆ prone bone ⋆ spānking
GREGORY HOUSE was the worst part of your sex life.
Because he was also the best.
He fucked like he argued, all sharp edges and ruthless timing, always a step ahead and never kind enough to warn you. Cruelty came easy to him because of this, honed on the whetstone of your need, wielded with the same finesse as his cane. And right now, that very cruelty had you reduced to a mess of limbs, utterly soft and cock-dumb beneath him.
“God, you’re loud,” House muttered near your ear, his weight branded down along your spine as he hammered into your sweet cunt, prone boning you like a metronome with a vendetta. His fingers snarled stiff in your hair, knuckles grinding against your scalp as he shoved your cheek down into the rumpled sheets. “Bet your neighbors think I’m carving you open with a steak knife. Or auditioning for CSI: Bedframe Homicide.”
You didn’t even get the whole sentence out.
“F-Fuck off! I’m not—”
He cut you off with a thrust so violent it jarred straight through your bones and rattled the headboard. All air and pride stolen clean out your lungs, driving you flat into the mattress with merciless precision.
“Not what?” House drawled from above you, breath scorching the nape of your neck, every syllable a lash. “Not an attention-starved cumslut who gets wet the second I treat her like trash?”
“Please, you came the first time I called you a waste of potential.”
He punctuated his words by sheathing himself balls-deep into your weeping sex, forcing you to feel the sheer, staggering girth of his fat cock twitching inside you. You writhed beneath him. The heat it sparked between your legs splintered sharp and low, a throb that seemed to beat in time under the brutal onslaught of his pelvis meeting your rear. After all, House never moved fast when he could move mean.
The bed creaked, springs whining in protest as he pinned you down with a hand braced between shoulder blades. The hypnotic plap-plap-plap of his hips colliding with your plush ass bounced off the walls, melding into a chorus of your pretty mewls and his animalistic grunts.
Fuck. You hated how your pussy was drooling nonstop for this limp, spiteful son-of-a-bitch.
You gritted your teeth, fighting for some semblance of pride, even with your face smashed into his pillow. It was threadbare, scratchy, reeking of cheap aftershave and whatever brand of arrogance he sprayed on just to offend people in elevators.
“Agh! You’re such a fucking—-”
“Amazing lay? Genius? Local humanitarian?” He cut in, again—so fast it made your blood boil. There was that familiar curl of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth as he quickened his pace, practically bullying your brain through your cunt at this point. “Come oooon. Say it. You’ve never had trouble using that mouth before.”
And there goes your traitorous insides twisting tight around his cock. Pathetic.
Whatever snark you’d been choking out died somewhere in your throat once he yanked you back onto him, the grip on your waist bruising as he rutted into you faster on a series of vicious snaps and grinds, like a greedy mutt claiming something he didn’t plan on giving back—hellbent on teaching your gummy walls exactly what shape they were supposed to take around him whether you liked it or not.
“Because from where I’m standing—”
Thrust. Your body jerked, sweat sliding down the valley of your back.
“You’re dripping on my sheets—”
Thrust.
“And still trying to argue like you’ve got a leg to stand on.” House leaned in, his tone silk-wrapped blade. “Newsflash: you gave up that moral high ground as soon as you started creaming on a misanthropic drug addict.”
Your fingers curled in the tangle of sheets, knuckles bone-white. God he was insufferable, yet you still rocked helplessly to his rhythm while his cockhead battered that hypersensitive knot in you to a raw pulp again. And again. And again.
Why? Because deep down, House was right. Obnoxiously, inhumanly, always-so-goddamn-right. And worse—he knew you knew it too.
“Look at you,” he chuckled, blue eyes darkening as they drag over where you were joined. Slick shine glistened along the veiny base of his shaft, your arousal clinging in obscene webs every time he pulled back. Smug didn’t even begin to cover what he felt. “Squirming like I just dug up your favorite trauma and fucked it into a coping mechanism.” He smirked, lips ghosting down the arc of your clavicle, the scrape of stubble pricking at your skin.
“Lemme guess, daddy didn’t call you a good girl either?”
You choked on a sound—half sob, half moan, your frame wracked with white-hot sensation, caught between shame and delirious want.
“House—”
“Mmm, there it is,” he crooned mockingly, teeth grazing your pulse point. “That’s the real you, huh? Not the mouthy brat—this one. The one that only comes out when she’s pinned under a miserable bastard with a limp and zero respect for her boundaries.”
He let up just long enough to deliver a smack across your ass—hot, piercing, a crack that lit your flesh on fire—before he rammed back in, fucking you down hard into the mattress, dick jabbing so deep you swore he rearranged something vital.
“Mmmf—- ohmygod!! F-Fuck!” You cried out.
“Keep selling that ice queen act to idiots who buy it,” he rasped, voice laced with a razor-edged venom. “But judging by the mess you’re making on my cock? I know exactly what gets you off.”
His thumbs dug back harder right below the tender spot of your ribcage—almost punitively—enough to leave crescent evidence blooming there and make you wince. It only made the ache worse. Your cunt stretched taut around him, pleasure ricocheting through your core until it felt like your whole body was tuned to the point of shattering.
“And lucky for you, I’ve got the bedside manner of a goddamn saint.”
its literally like midnight and my brain has shut off
— — — — — —
hear me out!! being house’s controversially young gf ?? (aka my fucking dream)
• the first time people found out? TOTAL MASS panic.
• everyone assumed it was some weird fling, a dumb rumor.
. . . until you actually showed up in his office, sitting on his desk, swinging your legs, all casual while house is leaned back in his chair, grinning like a smug bastard.
• cuddy 100% nearly had a STROKE.
“you—you—house—you can’t just—??”
• “I can’t just what, lisa? Have a hot, young girlfriend who’s way too good for me? yeah, I know. tragic.”
• foreman thinks it’s insane and he would totally be the biggest hater. Cameron is lowkey jealous. chase is just fascinated. taub? oh, he’s taking NOTES
• Wilson, bless his soul, literally sits you down like a concerned dad and tries to have The Talk™.
• “you know he’s… house, right?” wilson spoke carefully, leaning his forearms on his desk looking you straight in the eye with a frown.
“I just mean, he’s difficult, he’s complicated, he’s older—”
“You forgot rude and insanely sexy.” we all know house. where did he just come from? who knows. but he’s ALWAYS going to be there to annoy wilson.
“Right. Those too.” and poor wilson is traumatised, exhausted, and fucking confused?? i mean- who wouldnt be??
• everyone assumes you’ll break up with him in a few months, but joke’s on them—you’re just as unhinged, just as stubborn, and you get him in a way no one else does.
For context you work at the hospital. Not with him but like you’re around each other a fair bit.
- I think is a pretty obvious one but he wouldn’t act too affectionate towards you when you’re around the team together. But in private it’s quite different.
- Everyone already knows you’re dating. House makes it obvious sometimes as his eyes can’t seem to leave you, ultimately making it awkward for everyone in the room when he goes silent and gazes at you. It catches him off guard sometimes when you walk past his office window when he is discussing a case.
“The patient seems to have…”
“She’s outside isn’t she?”
- He doesn’t strike me as the affectionate type of boyfriend (or person really) but I see him placing his hand on your lower back a lot, or the middle of your shoulder blades. Mainly for support and reassurance sometimes because he feels comfortable with you.
- He pages you a lot just for fun to see if you’ll come see him. He does this kind of stuff a lot because he gets bored around the hospital, while avoiding Cuddy.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“Nothing. I was bored.”
- When he's working in his office, he lets you sit on the edge of his desk, your legs dangling over the edge. He likes watching you like that, almost submissive in his eyes.
“What are you doing greg?”
“Just sit there and look pretty for me”
umm so this is my first time doing and let alone posting anything like this before so i’m scared. I hope yous like this lmao <3
gregory house, james wilson, lisa cuddy, eric foreman and robert chase
Sfw ish (very suggestive, no sex)
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(ФωФ): NO SEX BUT BORDERLINE NSFW!!
making out at the hospital late at night😝 gn reader, suggestive, groping, established relationship.
its suggestive..yurr..im edging yall ig💔 i could probably make a part2 or sum if yall want it. anyway yes hi hello im back. this time yes cuddy no cameron bc ion wanna
⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･
Sterile Rooms, Dirty Minds
The lights above were dimmed—unusual for Princeton-Plainsboro’s diagnostic department, but not unusual for House’s office at this hour. His cane was leaning crooked against the desk, a half-empty Vicodin bottle sat beside an abandoned file, and the air smelled faintly of takeout and hospital-grade disinfectant. You were sitting on his desk—legs spread just enough to accommodate his body between them, the sharp edge biting into the back of your thighs through your clothes, though you could barely register the discomfort.
House's mouth was on yours, and it was messy. Sloppy. His stubble scraped against your skin, his teeth tugged at your bottom lip in a way that was too practiced to be accidental. One of his hands gripped your jaw, holding you in place, fingers spread over your cheek and under your ear like he was memorizing the shape of your face by touch alone. The other hand had slid under your shirt at some point—fingers splayed wide across your stomach, calloused and hot and shameless.
You could feel the push of his thigh between your legs as he leaned in, chest brushing yours with every breath, his pelvis flush with yours. You were gasping against his mouth now, struggling to keep up, especially with the way his thumb kept stroking upward, inch by inch, toward your nipple, only to stop short. He enjoyed teasing himself more than he enjoyed teasing you. Bastard.
"How many hours do you think we’ve got before Cuddy starts wondering why I haven’t caused a catastrophe today?" he muttered against your lips, words muffled by the way he kept kissing you between phrases. “Two? Three? Long enough for me to disappoint you thoroughly in an on-call room?”
“Long enough,” you breathed, sliding your hands under the back of his shirt and dragging your nails up his spine, just to hear the grunt it pulled from him. “But I think you like the desk more.”
“I do.” He grinned. “It’s sturdy. Handles trauma well. Like me.”
He ground down just slightly, just enough that you could feel him, hard and insistent through his jeans, pressing right where you needed him. You let out something between a sigh and a groan, and he rewarded you by kissing you deeper—tongue parting your lips, hand moving to grab your ass over your clothes, fingers digging in.
You let your head fall back, mouth open as his teeth scraped down your neck. “Fuck, House…”
“Is that a request or just a lament?” His voice was low, rough, edged with amusement and arousal and something else underneath that he never liked to name. “Because if it’s the first one, I can be very accommodating.”
“Not here,” you said, even as your hips rolled up against him. “We shouldn’t.”
House huffed a breath against your throat, pressing a kiss there that lingered just a second too long. “You’re on my desk, legs around me, and I’ve got my hand down your pants. I think we crossed that line twenty minutes ago.”
“Your hand is not down my pants.”
He leaned back slightly, smirking, eyes glinting in the low light. “Would you like it to be?”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. He kissed you again, harder this time. When his fingers returned to your stomach, they dipped lower this time—over the waistband of your pants, tracing the line of your underwear, knuckles brushing where you were hot and needy for him. He didn’t move further. Didn’t need to. Just the hint of it had your whole body tensing.
“You’re not exactly making a case for patience,” he muttered, lips brushing the corner of your jaw. “I could fuck you right here and blame the mess on Foreman.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Say that again when you're not grinding on me.”
He was right. Of course he was. You didn’t care. His name was on the door. The blinds were mostly closed. The hall outside was quiet except for the faint buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant squeak of a janitor’s cart. It was just you and him, and the pressure of his mouth, his hands, his body pressing yours into wood and glass.
House kissed you again, but slower now. Less biting, more tasting. He kept his hand resting low on your belly, thumb dipping just beneath the waistband, teasing—not quite enough, never enough. He pulled back only when you were breathless again, and even then, it was only a few inches. His face was flushed, lips red, pupils wide with want. He looked at you like he was reading you—diagnosing something beneath your skin that had nothing to do with blood or bones. You’d never seen him look at anyone that way before.
“I want to fuck you,” he said, blunt and low and close to your ear, voice cracking just slightly with how tightly he was holding himself back. “Not here. Not rushed. Not with the janitor two doors down and my team probably fucking up a case without me.”
You swallowed hard, nodding, your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt. “Your place?”
“My place,” he echoed, breath warm on your cheek. “My couch. My bed. My kitchen table if you’re good.”
“You are such a piece of shit.”
“Yeah. But you’re coming home with me.”
His hand slid fully under your waistband now, palm cupping you through your underwear, slow and deliberate. You gasped, back arching off the desk, hand flying to his wrist—not to stop him, just to feel. He leaned in and kissed you again, gentle this time. Soft, like an apology for stopping. Or maybe a promise to continue later. Either way, it was the kind of kiss that said you’re mine, and not here, and soon.
When he pulled away, he didn’t step back right away. Just rested his forehead against yours, breath warm and shared, both of you flushed and trembling and way too aware of how wet both your underwear probably were, how hard he was still pressed against you, and how badly this needed to happen somewhere else.
“You still gonna come home with me,” he asked, voice rough and barely above a whisper, “or do I have to kidnap you?”
You laughed softly, tilting your head just enough to brush your nose against his. “Get your coat, House.”
He pulled back finally, hands sliding out from under your clothes, adjusting himself shamelessly while you fixed your shirt and tried to stop trembling.
He winked, already limping toward the door. “Come on, babe. Let’s get the hell out of here before I lose all self-control and fuck you on top of my MRI results.”
You followed him, cheeks still hot, heart still racing, legs just slightly unsteady. And god help you—you couldn’t wait.
Close the Door
The soft clack of the door latching behind you was louder than expected in the quiet of the oncology department. It was nearly midnight—long past when the fluorescent lights should still be on in Wilson’s office, long past when either of you should still be there. But the low hum of the computer screen cast a dull glow over the desk, illuminating his tired eyes as he looked up from a file, pen paused mid-sentence.
“You’re still here,” he said, voice roughened from disuse, tinged with surprise but no disapproval. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loose and crooked, the first two buttons of his shirt undone like he'd tried to breathe for once but couldn’t quite manage it.
You crossed the threshold without answering, let the door close behind you with a soft click. Something about the air between you shifted—subtle, but charged. He watched you approach with careful eyes, the edge of a smile twitching at his mouth. He already knew what was coming, he was just waiting for you to admit to it.
“So are you,” you murmured as you came to stand beside him. Your fingers brushed against the back of his chair. “All your patients asleep. No emergencies. No excuse to still be hiding in this office.”
Wilson leaned back in his chair slowly, pen set down, hands resting on the arms. You stepped closer.
“I didn’t want to go home yet,” he admitted, tone quieter now, more honest. His gaze dropped to your mouth and lingered there. “Not without you.”
The silence pressed tight between you, thick with things left unsaid and all the things already known. You bent down slowly, your hand curling around the edge of the armrest just above his, the fabric of his dress shirt warm against your knuckles. His breath hitched. You could feel the tension coiling up in both of you, the way his thighs stiffened slightly beneath his slacks, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.
“You’re not even pretending to do paperwork anymore.”
“No,” he said, and his voice trembled just faintly. “I was waiting for you.”
The kiss was inevitable. Desperate. Your lips met his hard, mouths pressing together in something that couldn’t be mistaken for a greeting or a thank you or a goodnight. It was hungry. It was impatient. His hands flew to your waist as he stood abruptly, the wheels of his chair skidding behind him. You staggered back a step, but he followed, pressed you against the wall just beside the bookshelves, hands gripping your hips.
He kissed you like a man starved. His mouth opened against yours, tongue sliding in without hesitation, devouring you in ragged, open-mouthed kisses that left both of you gasping. His fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt, pushing it up just enough to feel the heat of your skin, and his groan against your mouth was hoarse, raw, needy.
You arched into his touch as he dragged his palms up your torso, thumbs brushing the sides of your ribs, not quite frantic but close. It was careful for half a second—then it wasn’t. His mouth traveled down to your throat, teeth scraping across your pulse point with a pressure that sent heat racing low in your gut.
“You taste like coffee,” he murmured into your skin, voice low, almost reverent, before his teeth sank into your collarbone. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt.
“And you taste like desperation,” you muttered back, breathless, tilting your head back to let him have more.
His laugh was choked, nearly a groan. One of his hands slid down between your legs, cupping you over your clothes with a firm grip that made you whine before you could stop yourself. He squeezed, slow and deliberate, watching your face with eyes gone dark.
“Fuck,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “You like that?”
You nodded. You were already half undone, pressed hard against the wall with his body between your legs, his hands everywhere—one rubbing you with just enough pressure to make your thighs twitch, the other up under your shirt, fingertips teasing at your chest, grazing your nipples until you gasped into his mouth.
Your own hands finally moved, clumsy with urgency, dragging his shirt up and over his hips, slipping beneath the fabric to trace the trail of soft hair down his stomach. He shivered, cock twitching against your thigh through the layers of fabric still separating you. You reached between you, palmed him through his slacks, felt how hard he already was.
“Jesus,” he hissed. “We’re in the goddamn hospital.”
“So lock the door,” you said, not stopping.
He laughed, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re going to kill me.”
Your fingers dragged down his zipper, slow enough to tease, not slow enough to be patient. He groaned into your mouth again, hand tightening in your shirt. He was trying to decide whether to stop you or fuck you right there on the floor.
His hips jerked forward when you brushed over the outline of his cock, and he bit your bottom lip hard enough to sting. “If you don’t stop now,” he warned hoarsely, “I’m not going to stop either.”
You stilled, lips swollen, chest heaving.
Then, slowly, you leaned up and kissed him again—deep, hot and slow.
“We should go to your place,” you said when you finally pulled back, voice low, rough, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “So we can fuck properly.”
Wilson’s groan was full-bodied and exasperated and turned-on all at once. He rested his forehead against yours for a long moment, both of you breathing hard.
“God,” he muttered. “You’re insufferable.”
“Mm. And you love me for it.”
“Shut up.”
You grinned and kissed him again.
He shut the office lights off on the way out.
Overtime
The blinds were half-shut, casting long slats of shadow across her office walls, broken by the soft golden spill of her desk lamp. Outside, the hospital had gone quiet in the way it only ever did past midnight — the buzz of daytime urgency traded for the occasional distant beep of monitors and the dull roll of a gurney wheel down some far-off corridor. The air smelled faintly of her perfume, sharp and expensive, tinged by the paper scent of hospital files piled high beside her elbow.
Cuddy’s fingers tapped a soft rhythm against her glass desk surface, eyes scanning the page in front of her without really reading it. She could feel your stare. Not overt, not hungry, but insistent. You sat across from her, ankle hooked over your knee, pretending to be focused on the budget projections she’d asked for — or maybe just giving yourself a reason to stay. You always found a reason.
She didn't look up when she spoke. “You’ve been in here a long time.”
“Mm. So have you.”
Her pen paused. She leaned back slowly in her chair, gaze lifting at last to meet yours, eyes flickering with that clinical scrutiny she always wore like armor—until something else softened it. The sharp edge rounded. You could see it in the way her eyes dragged down your face, to your mouth, her thoughts were only half about whatever line item she was supposed to be signing off.
“Still pretending this is about work?” she asked, her voice low, too smooth for how tired she should be.
Your lips twitched. “That depends. Are you?”
Cuddy arched a brow, lips curling at the corners as she stood, drawing herself up from the chair with that deliberate grace that made you ache. She was all authority—pencil skirt taut across her hips, blouse unbuttoned just enough to make your mouth dry, dark waves of hair falling just loose enough to tell you she’d run her hands through it more than once tonight. She stepped around the desk with slow, practiced ease, heels quiet against the floor.
Her hand settled on the back of your chair before you could move. The heat of her so close made your back straighten without thinking. Her perfume was stronger here. Jasmine, clean skin, and something darker underneath. Her thumb traced a line across your shoulder, just once.
“I could write this off as a supervisory meeting,” she murmured, low against your ear. “Late-night strategy session. But then someone might ask why I’ve got you sitting here looking at me like you’re seconds from climbing across the desk.”
You turned your head slightly, enough to see the gleam of amusement — and want — in her eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to lie for you.”
Her smile was sharp. “I don’t pay you enough for that.”
“You don’t pay me enough at all.”
“Then you really have no excuse.”
Before the words had finished leaving her mouth, you’d reached for her waist, fingers hooking just above the curve of her hips, pulling her down onto your lap with one smooth tug. She didn’t resist—didn’t flinch—only let out the faintest hum of approval, her weight settling onto your thighs, one knee slipping to the outside of yours. Her arms went around your neck as naturally as if she’d done it a hundred times, which she had, and still you felt your heartbeat slam harder like it was the first.
“God, you’re smug,” you whispered against her mouth, just before you kissed her.
The first press was slow and lazy. The kind of kiss that asked without begging, that lingered more than it searched. But Cuddy didn’t do soft for long, not when it came to you. Her fingers curled in your hair, dragging your mouth harder against hers, the rhythm of it tipping fast from exploratory to demanding. She’d been waiting hours for this, and was finally done pretending.
You didn’t mind the heat of her breath or the way her hips shifted subtly against your lap. She wasn’t trying to grind down, but couldn’t help herself. Your hands slid down her back, greedy, tracing every inch of her spine like it might ground you, anchor you somewhere in this too-bright, too-quiet office where she smelled like sin and looked like something you should never have been allowed to touch.
But she let you. She always let you.
Your hand found the edge of her blouse and slipped under it, warm palm against bare skin. Her breath hitched. She didn’t stop you. You moved higher, hand flattening just under her ribs, then trailing up—slow, deliberate—until your fingers brushed the swell of her breast. She made a sound against your mouth, low and half-caught, not quite a moan but nothing polite either. Her nails dug into the back of your neck.
“You’re not shy tonight,” she whispered, mouth ghosting your jaw.
“I’ve never been shy with you.”
She laughed, soft and breathless, then caught your bottom lip between her teeth, tugging, just enough to make your fingers twitch where they rested beneath her bra. Her hips rolled again, this time slower, more controlled, and you felt her exhale. She was trying not to lose control too quickly.
“Lock the door,” she murmured, dragging her mouth down your neck. “Do it.”
You didn’t argue. She slid off your lap in a motion as fluid as her entrance, and you stood, heart thudding so loud in your chest it made your hands shake slightly when you twisted the lock. When you turned back, she was leaning against the desk, blouse half-untucked, one leg crossed over the other, lips kissed pink and eyes darker than before.
She crooked a finger at you.
It took you three strides to reach her. Your hands were on her waist again before you could think. You kissed her like the office would dissolve if you didn’t, like the whole hospital might catch fire and you’d still need more. Her hands were under your shirt now, fingers cool against your skin, dragging your hips flush against hers with none of the usual hesitation. It was all friction now — mouths messy, bodies tighter, hungrier, her thigh slotting between your legs.
You palmed her breast fully this time, thumb brushing over the sensitive point through lace. She gasped, the sound raw and real, and didn’t stop you when your other hand slid down, curved over her ass, pulling her tighter to you. She rolled her hips again, breath hot in your ear.
“You make me stupid,” she hissed. “Do you know that? I have meetings at eight. A board call. And you—” she kissed you again, hard, messy “—come in here and make me forget every reason I’m supposed to say no.”
“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Don’t say no.”
She kissed you again instead. You both groaned when you pressed her harder against the desk, her hands fisting in the fabric at your back, dragging your shirt up. She wanted to take it, or tear it, or just feel skin, god, any part of you she didn’t already have.
“Take this off,” she said, tugging at your shirt.
“You first.”
Another smirk, one she didn't bother to hide as she reached for her buttons. One by one, she slipped them open, slow despite everything, watching your face as pale skin was revealed inch by inch. She shrugged the blouse off her body. The sight of her in just her bra, breath shallow and pupils blown wide, made your stomach lurch with something close to worship.
“I should make you beg,” she whispered, pulling you back in. “Make you sit there while I finish my paperwork. Watch me touch myself at my desk. Maybe let you help if you’re good.”
You groaned against her collarbone. “Jesus, Cuddy.”
“No,” she said, cupping your jaw in one hand. “Lisa.”
She kissed you again, rough and open-mouthed, and your hands were everywhere—up her sides, down her hips, one slipping between her thighs and pressing just enough to make her tremble. She pulled you closer, rocked against your hand, and when you felt how wet she already was through her underwear, you cursed under your breath, forehead dropping to her shoulder.
“God, you're unbelievable,” you whispered.
She dragged your mouth back to hers with a hiss of approval. “Then prove it.”
After Rounds
The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a pale glow across the empty diagnostics office. The floor was mostly dark by now—nurses whispering at stations, the odd intern scribbling notes at a computer, but otherwise, the hospital had finally dipped into that rare, late-night quiet that only came when the adrenaline tapered off and the chaos slowed to a crawl.
You stood near the desk, arms crossed, shifting your weight between your feet while trying to look preoccupied. You weren't on call anymore, not technically. You had finished your last rounds over an hour ago, but the idea of going home hadn't really crossed your mind. Not when you knew who else was still here.
The door creaked open behind you. You didn't turn, because you didn’t need to.
“Still here?” Foreman asked, voice low, the kind of tired drawl only twelve hours of diagnostics could draw out of him.
You hummed, grabbing a folder off the desk without looking at it. “So are you.”
He didn’t reply at first. Just stepped farther into the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. You could feel the change in the air before he even crossed the space between you. The shift in tension, the silence too full for two people who weren’t thinking about each other. You turned finally, catching the shadow in his gaze, his usual stern composure looser now that the rest of the team was gone.
“You’re not supposed to still be here,” he said again, quieter this time, though there wasn’t any real protest in his voice.
"I know.”
He stood a foot away now, hands in his coat pockets, brow drawn but soft. You held his gaze, the fluorescent light above flickering once, then holding steady. The silence stretched again, and neither of you broke it. He didn’t move at first, too used to calculating his every step, too careful about what people might say, what someone might see. But his restraint never lasted long when it came to you.
His hand reached up, brushing your jaw first. Not rushed, not overly firm—just a touch meant to anchor. Then his fingers curled, and he leaned forward, lips meeting yours in one long pull, breath steady but heated. You kissed him back instantly, pressing closer, his coat brushing your chest. The folder fell out of your hand to the desk with a soft thump, forgotten.
His other hand came up to your waist, palm warm through the thin fabric of your scrubs. The door was locked—he always checked. Still, there was a thrill that shot down your spine as he pushed you slowly against the edge of the desk, your hips nudging against the wood. You felt him exhale into the kiss, the tension in his jaw melting just slightly, though his grip on you didn’t waver.
Foreman always kissed like he was trying not to. Like there was a part of him still holding back, still worried someone would open the door or catch him slipping. But not tonight. Not after the stress of three consults, two difficult differentials, and a full day under House’s impossible standards. Tonight, he let go.
Your back pressed to the desk now, your hands sliding up under his coat to feel the crisp shirt beneath, fingers curling into the fabric. You could feel the strength in his arms as he leaned into you, tongue brushing against yours in slow, deliberate strokes. His fingers dug slightly into your waist, anchoring you to him as he kissed harder, deeper, tasting the parts of you he had missed all day behind patient charts and professionalism.
He broke the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to yours, his breath hot and uneven.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual, hand slipping down to the curve of your hip. “Couldn’t get anything done with you walking around in those damn scrubs.”
You bit back a smile, tilting your head just enough to kiss him again. This one was messier. Slower but desperate. His hand slid lower, gripping your thigh, fingers flexing through the fabric, the pressure enough to make your breath catch. You let out a soft sound against his mouth, rewarded with a soft groan from him, his fingers dragging up again to tug at the waistband of your scrubs.
He didn’t pull them down—not yet. But the way he touched you, you could tell he was thinking about it. His hand palmed your ass through the fabric, firm and unapologetic, the motion deliberate.
You gripped the back of his neck, nails lightly grazing his skin as his mouth trailed down your jaw, then lower, to the base of your throat. Warm lips, soft drag of teeth—not enough to bruise, but close. He breathed you in, his voice low against your skin. “You’ve got no idea how hard it is, keeping my hands off you all damn day.”
“You could’ve snuck me into the on-call room.”
He laughed under his breath, lifting his head to meet your eyes again. “You would’ve moaned loud enough to get us fired.”
“Would’ve been worth it.”
He kissed you again, faster this time. His tongue pushed into your mouth without hesitation, his hips pressing closer. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt now, fingertips dragging up your side, hot against your skin. You arched slightly under the touch, his body pinning yours more fully to the desk.
His breathing got heavier the longer he touched you, and you could feel the restraint breaking again in the way his hand gripped your waist, tugging you tighter against him. His thigh nudged between yours, his other hand sliding back down to your ass, this time giving a firm squeeze that made your breath hitch and your nails dig into his back through the shirt.
Foreman groaned softly into your mouth, kissing you with the kind of hunger he rarely let show. “You keep making those sounds,” he muttered, “and I’m not stopping.”
“Mmh—don’t. Don't stop."
That broke something in him. His hand slipped past the waistband now, dipping into your underwear just enough to grope you properly. His touch was rougher now, more confident, more impatient, and the way he held you made it impossible to think. You gasped against his mouth, bucking slightly into his hand as he kissed you again, swallowing the sound greedily.
He didn’t let up—kept touching, squeezing, dragging his fingers in just the right way while his other hand held your face, thumb brushing the edge of your lip. His kiss turned feverish again, devouring, mouth wet and hot and open over yours. You could barely hold yourself up with how he was working you over, and he knew it. His thigh shifted to support your weight, hands steady, body locking you in place.
You pulled him closer by the collar, grinding up against him in the heat of it, and he let out a breathy curse, pressing into your movements without hesitation. His hand gripped your ass tighter, guiding the motion, helping you find that friction you both needed so badly.
“I’m not taking you on the desk,” he whispered against your ear. “Not here.”
You groaned in protest, breathless, half out of your mind. “Why not?”
“Because I want more than five minutes with you. I want your legs over my shoulders. I want to take my time.” His voice was gravel now, so full of need and want it made your knees weak. “And I can’t do that here.”
“Then get us out of here.”
He kissed you one more time—long, slow, and deep. Then he stepped back just enough to fix your waistband, the heat of his hands lingering. He smoothed his palms down your sides, breathing heavy, forehead still pressed to yours for a beat longer before finally stepping back fully.
You adjusted your shirt with trembling fingers, heart pounding as you looked at him. His lips were slick with spit, jaw flexing as he stared at you like he wasn’t finished—because he wasn’t.
He ran a hand down his face, then picked his coat off the back of the chair. “My place.”
You nodded, still dazed, following after him when he unlocked the door.
The hallway was quiet again.
But this time, it felt charged.
And you knew you weren’t sleeping tonight.
Sterile Sheets and Quiet Sins
The office was quiet in that muffled kind of way hospitals always managed when it was well past midnight. Phones muted. Voices hushed. No code blues echoing through the halls. Just the sound of tired fluorescent lights humming above and the occasional rustle of papers or nurses’ shoes down the corridor. The diagnostics office was dimly lit, only the soft glow from the desk lamp painting a halo of warmth over reports and files spread across the table, long forgotten in the wake of your arrival.
You stood behind him in the cramped space, close enough that your hips brushed the back of his chair. Robert hadn't turned when you'd entered—he’d glanced up, blinked those tired eyes at you, lips curling faintly—but hadn’t said much, already knowing you weren’t there to talk about patients. He wasn’t stupid. The tension had been brewing for hours.
"You’re not supposed to be in here," he said lowly, voice rough from exhaustion or anticipation—you weren’t sure which, maybe both. He shifted a little in his chair, straightening, but made no real move to stop you when you reached over his shoulder and slowly pushed the folder on his lap off to the side of the desk.
"Then kick me out," you murmured near his ear, letting your hand drift down the front of his chest—his tie loosened, top buttons undone, the rise and fall of his breathing giving away the rest of his restraint. Your fingers paused just above his belt.
He let out a shaky breath. Didn’t move.
"Didn’t think so."
You leaned down and kissed the side of his neck, soft and slow, just enough to make him swallow hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed under your lips. One of his hands came up, slow, a little unsure, to touch your thigh where you’d rested it beside the chair. There was the smallest squeeze, nothing confident, nothing that made you feel like he was in control. It was sweet. Desperate. He just wanted to feel where you were.
"You’re such an ass," he muttered, though it had no real bite to it. If anything, it trembled at the end, he already knew he wasn’t going to win.
"You love it," you whispered against his ear, and then sank your teeth just a little into the soft skin there, making him hiss.
He jolted, knuckles tightening where his hand held your leg now. "Fuck—"
You moved around the chair slowly, stepping between his legs until he was looking up at you. That exhausted, beautiful face flushed with something warmer now, lips parted slightly, his blond hair slightly messy from hours of shift work and now the fingers you threaded into it as you tugged his head back. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, long lashes catching the low light, and then he looked up at you, almost pleading.
"You’re gonna get us caught," he whispered.
"Only if you can’t keep quiet."
You kissed him hard, without patience, you’d been thinking about it since the minute the sun went down. His hands flew up to your hips, gripping hard, and you could feel the way he pressed into you instinctively—he couldn’t help himself—already half-hard beneath those tight, creased slacks. You could’ve laughed at how fast he responded, but it felt too good, too hot, to pull away even for that.
He kissed back like he’d been starving for it all night, tongue sliding against yours in slow, eager strokes. There was no performance in it. No arrogant show. Just raw need.
You dropped into his lap, knees pressing into the cushion on either side of him, your hands on his jaw, his throat, his hair. He groaned into your mouth, a little choked-off sound, hips twitching up against you before he bit down on the sound too late. You didn’t slow down. You just pressed harder, rolled your hips forward, and kissed him deeper. His hands flew to your ass, squeezing tight—needy, grasping, more desperate than he probably realized.
“You’re shameless,” he mumbled breathlessly against your mouth.
“You’re hard,” you shot back.
He flushed deeper, mouth falling open again, and you took advantage of it immediately. Kissed him until he whimpered, until he was shifting underneath you, one hand still gripping your ass. He couldn’t decide if he wanted you closer or if he was trying to hold himself together.
You slid a hand between the two of you and pressed your palm against him through his pants. He jolted, gasping into your mouth as you rubbed slow, firm circles over the bulge in his lap. His breath stuttered against your lips.
“Fuck—ah—don’t—”
“Don’t what?” you whispered, dragging your mouth to his jaw as your hand squeezed a little harder, palm rubbing over the fabric with just enough friction to make his thighs tense beneath you. “Don’t touch you? Don’t make you feel good?”
He shook his head helplessly, breath shuddering. “I’m—fuck—‘m already close.”
You grinned against his skin. “That’s cute.”
He groaned, loud this time, and you reached up to cover his mouth with your hand while your other kept working his lap. You could feel the way he trembled beneath you, the way his hips couldn’t stop bucking up, chasing the pressure, chasing the edge. You were so close to ruining him right there, and he knew it. You could see it in his eyes. That dazed, ruined look. Embarrassed. Completely at your mercy.
But you didn’t give him the satisfaction.
You pulled your hand back suddenly, leaned away just enough to make his head thunk back against the chair in disbelief.
“Wait—wha—” He sounded wrecked, voice wrecked, and he blinked up at you like he couldn’t comprehend why you’d stopped.
You stood slowly, smoothing your clothes as if you hadn’t just had him seconds from falling apart under your hands.
“Get your stuff,” you said, breath still ragged but steadying. You smirked at the disbelief on his face. “We’re going to your place.”
He stared at you like you’d just slapped him, jaw slack, chest heaving. “You’re—are you serious?”
“You want me to make you come in your office?” you asked, arching a brow. “You want House to walk in and find you like that? Humping the air? Whimpering like some desperate intern?”
He looked away quickly, face burning as he adjusted himself with a shaky hand, mouth still parted, lips red and swollen from how hard you’d kissed him.
“…You’re evil,” he said finally, still not meeting your eyes.
You grinned. “You like it.”
“…Yeah.” His voice cracked, almost a whisper. “Yeah. I do.”
The autumn air bites at your skin the moment you step outside, but you need this—just five minutes away from the conference room, away from the endless differential diagnoses and Foreman's increasingly frustrated sighs. The team is taking a break anyway, and you've earned this cigarette after the morning you've had.
You barely got the lighter to your lips when you hear the familiar thump-drag of House's cane against the concrete behind you.
"Well, well. Look who's slowly killing themselves in the great outdoors," comes that distinctive voice, dripping with mock concern. "You know, there are faster ways to commit suicide."
You take a long drag and exhale slowly, watching the smoke dissipate in the air. "Says the man who pops Vicodin like Tic Tacs."
"Touché. But at least my addiction serves a medical purpose. Yours just makes you smell like an ashtray and gives you premature wrinkles." House limps closer, his blue eyes studying you with that calculating look he gets when he's working out a puzzle.
"Your bedside manner really is legendary," you mutter, but you couldn't help the slight smile tugging at your lips. This is just House being House—the insults are practically terms of endearment coming from him.
A particularly sharp gust of wind cuts through you, and you couldn't suppress the shiver that runs through you. You've been in such a hurry to escape the stuffiness of the hospital that you forgotten how much the temperature had dropped since morning.
House notices immediately, of course. He notices everything.
Without a word, he shrugs out of the black leather jacket he's wearing—the one he always wears when he rides his motorcycle to work, the one that makes your pulse quicken every time you see him in it, the black leather hugging his shoulders in a way that was utterly distracting and makes him look dangerously attractive instead of like the sarcastic diagnostician you work with every day.
"Here," he says gruffly, holding it out to you.
You stare at the jacket, then at him. "What?"
"It's called a jacket. People wear them when it's cold. Revolutionary concept, I know."
The leather was still warm from his body heat when you slip it on, and it smells like him—a mixture of his cologne and something indefinably House. It's too big on you, the sleeves hanging past your wrists, but it was perfect.
"This is..." you start, genuinely touched by the gesture. House isn't exactly known for his acts of kindness, and the fact that he'd noticed you were cold and actually done something about it made something warm bloom in your chest. "This is really sweet of you."
House's expression immediately shifts, his jaw tightening as if you'd just accused him of something. "Shut up before I take it back," he snaps, but there was no real heat in it. "I just don't want to deal with the paperwork when you die of pneumonia. Wilson would make me feel guilty about it for weeks."
You bite back a grin, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. "Right. Purely selfish motives."
"Exactly." He's already turning to head back inside, but you catch the way his eyes linger on you for just a moment longer than necessary, taking in how you look wearing his jacket. "And if you get ash on it, you're buying me a new one."
"Noted," you call after him, taking one last drag of your cigarette before stubbing it out.
The leather jacket was still draped around your shoulders when Wilson finds you later that afternoon. You know that look—the one that says he's already pieced together some complicated emotional narrative that you weren't ready to admit existed.
"Nice jacket," he says, his tone deliberately casual. Too casual.
You raise an eyebrow, daring him to say more.
"Something you want to say, Wilson?" You challenge as you finish writing in your charts, fully aware of how transparent you weren't being.
Wilson's smirk widens—that infuriating, knowing smile that means he saw right through you. "Not a word," he smiles, holding up his hands in mock surrender.
You roll your eyes. "It was cold. He had a jacket. End of story."
"Absolutely," Wilson agrees, his tone suggesting anything but agreement. "Purely a practical matter."
House leans against the nurses' station. His attention is entirely on you. You are down the hall talking to Chase about something—probably the cardiac complications in room 314—but House couldn't focus on what you were saying.
All he can see was how his leather jacket looks on you. The way it hangs from your shoulders, still too big but somehow perfect. The way you absently tugg at the sleeves when you are thinking, a gesture that makes something tighten in his chest. You've been wearing it for hours now, and every time he catches sight of you in it, his mind goes places it definitely shouldn't during work hours.
The jacket makes you look... his. Which is ridiculous, because you weren't his anything. You were his employee, his diagnostician, someone who happens to look unfairly good in black leather. But watching you gesture animatedly to Chase while wrapped in something that still smells like his cologne makes his imagination wander to scenarios where you wearing his clothes was a much more regular occurrence. Morning coffee in his kitchen, wearing nothing but his shirt and his boxers. The jacket discarded on his bedroom floor after—
Snap. Snap.
"Earth to House." Taub's voice cuts through his increasingly inappropriate daydream. "The patient? Remember him? Guy who might actually die if we don't figure out what's wrong with him?"
House blinks, refocusing on Taub's expectant face. "Right. The patient." He glances back down the hall, where you were still talking to Chase, then forces himself to look at the file in his hands. "What were we talking about?"
Taub follow his gaze and smirks. "Let me guess—nothing involving differential diagnoses."
House shoots him a look. "Don't you have lab results to analyze or something equally boring?" he grumbles, but his voice lacked its usual venom. Despite his irritation at being caught, his eyes keep wandering back to you, until you and Chase walk further down the hall toward the cafeteria.
"Already pulled them," Taub replies, clearly enjoying himself. "But I'm starting to think our patient isn't the only one with heart palpitations."
"Very funny," House mutters, finally tearing his gaze away from you to glare at the other man. But even as he tries to focus on the case, he could feel Taub's knowing smirk burning into the side of his head.
A few hours later, Cuddy storms into House's office without knocking, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. House doesn't even look up from his GameBoy.
"Could you be any more obvious?" she demands, crossing her arms.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," House replies innocently, not taking his eyes off the tiny screen. "But if this is about the time I diagnosed that patient by throwing differential diagnoses at a dartboard, I maintain that was a legitimate medical technique."
"Your jacket, House. She's been walking around this hospital wearing your leather jacket for the past six hours. Half the nursing staff is gossiping about it."
House finally looks up, feigning confusion. "My jacket? I hadn't noticed." He glances down at his arms as if just realizing he wasn't wearing it. "Huh. Wonder where that went."
Cuddy's jaw tightens. "Are you sleeping with her?"
House pauses his game and lookes up with that infuriating smirk she knew too well. "Not yet."
"House—"
"What? You asked a question, and I gave you an honest answer. That's what you're always telling me to do, right? Be more honest with people?"
Cuddy pinches the bridge of her nose. "This is exactly what I was afraid would happen when I hired her."
"Afraid of what? That I might actually show a human emotion? That someone might look good in leather? The horror."
"Don't be stupid," Cuddy snaps. "You know exactly what I mean. She's a good doctor, House. One of the best diagnosticians we've seen in years. I won't let you mess that up because you can't keep it in your pants."
House finally sets down his GameBoy, giving her his full attention. "You're assuming I'm the one who would mess things up. Maybe she's the corrupting influence here. It was cold. She looked cold. I had a jacket. It's called basic human decency—though I realize that's a foreign concept around here."
Cuddy stares at him for a long moment. "Since when do you care if someone is cold?"
"Since never. Which is why this conversation is pointless."
"House—"
"Look, if you're worried about workplace drama, don't be. We're both adults. We can handle whatever this is or isn't without it affecting patient care." He pauses, then added with a slight smirk, "Though I can't promise the same about Wilson. He's been practically vibrating with curiosity all day."
Cuddy sighs, recognizing the dismissal for what it was. "Just... try not to make this more complicated than it needs to be."
"When have I ever made anything complicated?" House asks innocently.
Cuddy didn't dignify that with a response, turning on her heel and heading for the door, letting it slam closed.
The last few hours of the workday were coming to an end, and you were reviewing lab results at the nurses' station when the newbie from Cardiology approaches you, leaning against the counter with what he probably thought was a charming smile.
"Nice look," he says, his eyes lingering on your outfit. "Very... edgy. I like a woman who's not afraid to take fashion risks."
You look up from the chart, raising an eyebrow. "Fashion risks?"
"The whole leather thing. It's working for you." He moves closer, lowering his voice. "Listen, I was wondering if you'd like to grab dinner sometime. There's this great Italian place downtown—"
"She's busy."
House's voice cuts through the conversation like a scalpel, and you turn to see him approaching. His blue eyes are fixed on the kid.
The kid straightens, clearly trying to maintain his composure. "House. I was just—"
"Hitting on my diagnostician while she's trying to work. Yeah, I noticed." House moves to stand beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. His presence was suddenly overwhelming, possessive in a way that made your pulse quicken. "Don't you have some hearts to restart or something equally life-saving?"
"Actually, I was off duty and thought—"
"Wrong. You thought you could waltz over here and charm your way into her pants with your sparkling personality and devastating good looks." House's tone was conversational, but there was steel underneath. "Here's a news flash: she's out of your league."
The kid's face flushes red. "Look, House, just because you have some kind of... whatever this is... doesn't mean—"
"Whatever this is?" House steps forward, and the guy actually takes a step back. "Let me clarify something for you, Kiddo. See that jacket she's wearing? That's mine. Has been since I bought it. Now, I'm not saying that means anything, but..." He shrugs, letting the implication hang in the air.
You feel heat rise in your cheeks, caught between embarrassment and something that felt dangerously like arousal at House's blatant territorial display.
The kid looks between you and House, clearly realizing he's outmatched. "Right. Well. I'll just..." He backs away, practically fleeing toward the elevators.
House watches him go with satisfaction before turning to you, his expression shifting back to something resembling normalcy. "You're welcome."
"I didn't need rescuing," you say, though you couldn't quite keep the smile out of your voice.
"Of course not. But watching him crash and burn was the most entertaining thing I've had all week." He glances down at his jacket on you and something flickeres in his eyes. "Besides, he was right about one thing. The leather is definitely working for you." The words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication. You stare at each other, the tension so thick you can practically taste it. His blue eyes are darker now, pupils dilated.
Your breath catches as you watch him make his decision.
House props his cane on the nurses' station and steps forward, House's hands find your face, but he doesn't move closer. His eyes keep dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes, as if he is memorizing every detail of this moment. The wanting in his gaze is so intense it makes your knees weak, but still he hesitates.
"You really want to kiss me, don't you?" you whisper, your voice barely audible in the quiet hallway.
His thumb traces along your bottom lip, and his voice was rough when he answers. "I always want to kiss you."
The admission ;eaves you feeling a lot. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you search his face.
"Then what are you waiting for?"
The question seemed to break whatever last thread of restraint he's been clinging to.
House's mouth crashes against yours with a hunger that took your breath away. There was nothing tentative about it. His lips move against yours, one hand sliding into your hair while the other gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him.
You melt into him, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kiss him back. He taste like coffee and something uniquely him, intoxicating in a way that makes your head spin. When his tongue traces along your bottom lip, you open for him without hesitation, earning a low groan that vibrates through his chest.
The sound of footsteps echoing down a distant corridor and you are pulling back with a gasp, your eyes wide as reality crashes back in.
"We're in the hospital," you breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you try to catch your breath, not commenting about how that was the best kiss of your life. "Anyone could walk by and see us."
House's forehead drops against yours, his own breathing unsteady. His hands are still on your waist, as if he can;t quite bring himself to let go. "Right. Bad place for this."
You look up at him, taking in his disheveled hair where your fingers ran through it, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you. The sight makes heat pool low in your stomach, and before you can lose your nerve, the words tumbled out.
"My place. Now." Your voice is steadier than you felt. "I'm taking you home, and I'm going to have my way with you."
House's eyes darken impossibly further at your bold declaration, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "Is that a promise or a threat?"
"Both," you say, already reaching for his hand. "Your cane. Now. We're leaving."
He grabs his cane without argument, letting you pull him toward the elevator. "Bossy. I like this side of you."
"You haven't seen anything yet," you promise, pressing the elevator call button with more force than necessary.
